Creative

Two people walk into a bar. It sounds like the start of a bad joke, and it sort of is one. Two people who used to be kids walk…

My lips hurt, like a lot. Not exactly my lip, but the cardinal structure of my face—it feels sore and strained—like tender beef that’s about to fall off the…

Lyrics taken from Henry Moodie’s Drunk Text. Our first words were exchanged at a philosophy lecture, where he sat in the very front and spoke not infrequently about the…

The way she speaks is frantic. “Can’t you see the possibilities? I’m telling you,” her steps echo out in the deserted lab, in the deafening silence, but she continues…

Eyes were always the hardest to face. Crowds of people, strangers, passed me as I waded through their masses, keeping my gaze to their blurring hair, clothes and smiles–…

The religious season began with pilgrims rushing up the slant of the hill with necklaces of flowers and jingling bangles; brushing shoulders, blaring songs, muttering prayers. Sweat dripped down…

Being a proud anti-locker student, I am forever juggling all my textbooks, exercise books, and lunch in my bag – forever, and ever. My mother tells me it causes…

Aside from the fact that you were raised in a landlocked country—and the fact that the only body of water you could easily access was Thunersee, a 53-minute train…

Georgie has always been there for me. Waiting, sitting, lying down. He doesn’t talk much, but it’s a good kind of quiet—the kind that fills the car when it’s…

She finds him on the edge of the cliff.   “I thought you quit.” She says, through a damp haze of smoke. A note of disappointment slips into her…

Conscience   CWs: violence (non-graphic), mentions of death   The boy showed up at my doorstep with exactly one gun.   Not even a machine gun. Just a plain…

Anya sprawls over the patterned seats of the train, and all the tension in her body loosens. A small lamp is all the light she has. She cranes her…

It was an ordinary morning in the still autumn, a cool breeze brushed the denim carapace of a motionless farmer, eyes creaking open at a stray ray of the…

My mother holds me close, her voice like a lullaby, soft and familiar. She whispers something tender as her comfortingly calloused fingers draw the curtains closed, in a slow,…