By Elisha Wagman

Once, there was a woman who posted photographs online of every outfit she wore. She put up pictures of pencil skirts paired with sheer, silk blouses, high-waisted jeans with cropped sweaters, and ponchos pulled over patterned leggings.
Quirky captions accompanied every photo.
“Watch out Mrs. Florrick!”
“Urban turban chic.”
“I’m a homey in my hoodie.” Continue Reading This Story

By Jennifer Spencer

Elsa had always wanted a flying lesson, not to become a pilot or anything, just for the experience. It was the idea of being up in the air with her own hands on the controls, the steering wheel thing, gliding through the clouds. She doesn’t know anything about planes and she has no idea how it might feel, or what sensations she will experience when she gets up there, she just knows that she has to find out.
She drives through the outback with the jeep’s windows wide open with the wind in her hair and imagines, for some reason, that it would be like this up in the air. Until now she hasn’t thought much about what type of plane she will have her flying lesson in. She reaches into the dash and feels for her flying lesson coupon for the 10th time since she left Melbourne. Continue Reading This Story

By Jason Gibbs

Tree Justice
“With the magnitude and sheer viciousness of your crimes I have no choice but to sentence you to twenty years as a tree.”
The judge’s voice echoed around the court room, followed by a gasp. My lawyer turned to me with a look of pity. Even the prosecutor seemed taken aback. In fact the only person not showing some reaction was me, and that’s because I was trying to stop myself from laughing!
A tree? What kind of punishment was that? I’d worried about death, or time down the mines. These people were ridiculous. To avoid them changing their minds I made sure to keep my face sombre as I was walked out, limping.
My lawyer sat down heavily.
“I’m so sorry. Really, I tried everything…”
I cut him off. “Dude, it is no problem. A tree? It’s a joke. This is going to be easy.”
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By Daniel Lind

“I’m a poor lonesome cowboy, I’m a long long way from home,” sang the musical doorbell Dad had installed last summer.

I swung the door open, and my mouth dropped. A tall cowboy stood before me, wearing a black Stetson and spurred muddy boots, with a grey revolver holstered by his side. A gold star attached to his chest read “B. Reeves”.

“Pardon me ma’am,” he said, “You don’t know me, but I need your help.” His breathing was quick.
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