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Cinders

by Noemi Szadeczky-Kardoss

It was Sunday evening again, and on every Sunday evening, I wanted to die.

“Cindy! Where are you?” I heard my mother’s voice calling me.

I was in the living room watching an episode of my favorite TV show that I had recorded on the Friday before. I knew my mother wanted to say that it was already eleven, and that I had school the following day, but that was something I didn’t want to hear. On Sunday evenings, I just wanted to bury myself somewhere and not come out until Friday, or drink some kind of magical medicine like Juliet, so that I could sleep deeply for days and wouldn’t have to do anything.

“So here you are hiding!”

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How We Met

by Greg Van Belle

He followed the stairs that curled down, around, and under themselves into a part of the building he had never seen. Depressed blue lockers lined the walls. Her office was two doors down, the only one open and occupied.

“I’m lost,” he admitted.

“I’ve been lost before,” she replied.

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Posted on

Old Friend

by Mark A. Johnson

I remember when
you used my records as a scratching post.
Jimi Hendrix had gashes across his face
and holes in his guitar.
And you woke me at three that morning
to tell me you were cold,
and I let you under the covers, forgiven.

Continue reading → Old Friend