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  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    The room is too hot. Avery has finally cried himself to sleep on my lap, there is blood splashed across the white wall of the hallway outside our room like a distorted Jackson Pollock, there is a man with a gun standing just outside the open door, and all I can think about is the heat, pressing d...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    My brother walked these streets This was his city These were his secrets When he roamed here with his friends And they knew That they were just nineteen And the night was young And the world was theirs The city was theirs And they were the city’s They knew you, my city And now So do I ...
  • Fiction > All Fiction
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    What I remember most about that summer are those disorderly rows of white and gray slabs, placed to guard those who slumber deep beneath them. What I remember most are the birds that poked through the short grass, searching for clover and those tiny yellow flowers. What I remember most is the warm...
  • Fiction > Sci-fi/Fantasy
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    I knocked on the wrong door. It wasn't my fault – it was late and dark, and the apartment building was annoyingly built so that each floor was a replica of the others. And whoever heard of not counting the ground floor as a level? Anyway, it turned out that I'd knocked on 3B instead of 4B...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    He says: I hate him. She says: It’s not really his fault. He asks: Whose side are you on, anyway? She says: Nobody’s side. I’m not on anybody’s side. He states: You’re on his side. You always are. She says: Just say you’re sorry. He says: No. She asks: What did he even do to mak...

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