By Todd Mercer

January 10, 1546

Dear Luther,

I was writing a sermon concerning the Israelites’ faith when they were in bondage, in Egypt. It stressed suffering of the laborers who built the great pyramids. A superior sermon.

Luther, have you pondered the pyramid’s perfect geometry? From the pinnacle, four sides slope down tiers to the stout base. Pyramids can only be built with leadership and the coordinated efforts of many hands.

You asked about our relations with the local powers. Geneva has sometimes been an Eden spot that’s a pleasure to do God’s work in. Lately, however, the council badgers me endlessly. Some seek to usurp my authority. Frankly, Luther, there is temptation to resign this struggle and let them rule how they will.

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By Amber Read

S 21 Aug 97.9°
Gin and tonic on the menu for tonight then. #chinup

M 22 Aug 97.7°
Really, why did I expect anything else?

T 23 Aug 97.8°
I miss Andy.

W 24 Aug 97.8°
I am a mature, intelligent, successful woman. Buying tampons should not throw me into a tailspin.

T 25 Aug 97.7°
Andy’s back tomorrow night. #justkeepswimming

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By Lorrie Hartshorn

I find you in Paris—you’re sick yellow and the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The métro spits me out at the top of the street that is home for now, and you’re there waiting, heavy, deafening and exhilarating. I pretend to shelter from you in the doorway of the Monoprix, laughing with the others standing there, gurgling like a child with my belly pushed out as you soak through my shoes and make my toes squeak in the cheap rubber. The air is thick with electricity that combs my hair like fingers, the sky ochre and low above our heads. I feel like you see me.

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By Deborah Lee Singer

Forever stretches out before me, as I stare across hill after hill, mountain after mountain. Deep browns blend into dark greens and steely greys in a sea of nature. Leaves hang heavy with thick droplets, and the earth is soft underfoot. The sun is on the cusp of the horizon and lights up the cloud-streaked sky with vibrant pinks and deep purples. Nothing stirs except for the grass and trees in the gentle wind. I stand, minute against the vast expanse of nature.

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By Rishav Koirala

Rhea hurried towards the bus stop. The place was drowned in an eerie silence. Somewhere, she could hear the distant ringing of a bell, but for that, nothing made a sound in the stillness. The street lamps flickered and made a crackling noise. She looked up to search for the moon but instead was rewarded with a cold lashing to the eyes. The rain splashed her curly hair and pale face, but it had been wet long before the rain touched it. She had been crying and was mopping her tears when a gloved hand rested on her shoulder.

Rhea flinched and looked behind her. Under a pitch black umbrella was a tall, lean figure in a grey suit and a red shirt. He looked oddly familiar.

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By Amanda White

We’d been in the car together for fifteen hours. The last three had been in stony silence. I kept imagining he’d stop the car, drag me out by my hair, and toss me over the bridge railing into the gaping, waiting maws of the crocodiles.

“They’re alligators, darling,” he’d correct me out of habit, even as he pried my fingers loose, while I screamed and clung to him, saying, “Be merciful, don’t feed me to them, whatever they are!”

But he didn’t stop. And the silence went on.

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