By J.B. Heaton

It was nearly midnight as I drove to her house after a delayed flight and a long line at the rental car counter. I put down the driver’s side window in hopes that the December air might keep me alert. California had legalized marijuana the month before, and the smell of weed was in the air as I drove slowly up her street looking for house numbers. Then I saw a porch light on a few houses ahead. I was tired; it was nearly 2:00 a.m. back home. My contact lenses were dry after the flight, and my vision was getting bad. It was a good thing that I was finally here.  

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By Alex Dermody

I sat on the Colonel’s couch with my mouth wide open, watching a documentary on tropical birds to pass the time. I remember feeling smart. Like a scientist, or a used car salesman. My plan, it was working. I was so close to cool I could taste it. 

A familiar voice shouted from inside my mouth: “Bruce!” shouted the voice. “Yo, Bruce!” 

I grabbed the magnifying glass and walked to the bathroom. Once in front of the mirror, I fish-hooked my index finger, pulled open my right cheek, and held the magnifying glass to my mouth. The fifteen tiny skateboarders skating my back right molar like an empty swimming pool immediately came into view. A few sat around the rim of my molar, legs dangling, laughing, smoking cigarettes. But most were skating. Grinding. Nailing nose stalls, aerial grabs, tail whips. 

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By Gabrielle Griffis

Willow held the lifeless screech owl close to her chest. Moonlight filtered through trees as she stepped over fallen apples, the air scented with their fermentation. The owl had gotten stuck in the orchard barn. The building towered over the dirt parking lot, hay scattered on the ground. Willow’s colleague had attempted to help the owl escape on her own terms, but her leg was snared in a piece of twine in the rafters. 

Noah had climbed the barn ladder to remove the string, but the shock of his touch and being trapped had killed her. 

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By Rachel Shapiro

I knocked louder and louder on the door, but no one answered. I’d been knocking for two minutes straight, and my knuckles were starting to feel like when I punched Bobby on the playground back in sixth grade. He had fallen onto the slide, bashing his face into the sizzling metal. For a moment, he lay still, fragmented versions of his blond head reflected on the shining slide. 

Then, Bobby opened his eyes and laughed. His teeth were as red as my hand. I laughed too and held out my hand. From that moment on, we were friends.

“Come on, Bobby, I know you’re in there!” I shouted, my voice echoing against the apartment complex’s thin plaster walls.

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By Vicki Berger Erwin

It’s a fact that women outnumber men by a hefty margin in retirement communities. Reason being, women live longer than men on average, and though nobody asked me, men only live as long as they do because women take care of them. 

Of course, sometimes they die earlier because women take care of them. 

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By Bryan Jansing

The first time we saw the apartment on Via Dante my mother thought it too small, so we returned to our hotel disappointed. August was nearly ending, and school was about to begin. Even though my father became more and more frustrated with my mother’s indecisiveness, we continued to look at other places. Eventually, we had exhausted our options. With no other places available, we moved to the apartment on Via Dante.

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