By Sarah Cullen

The crowd of people looked like a huddle of penguins greeting their mates after a long day of fishing. Wails of connection raised amongst them: fathers hugged mothers; mothers hugged children; children hugged each other. I walked through the huddle, head down, watching my feet meander through the labyrinth of legs with polished shoes and pointed heels. I was careful in the path I made; I did not want to be stopped. Yet, I was found soon enough.

“Beanie, there you are. Come here.”

Continue to Fiction

Image by Marlow Amick

By Calla Quinn

in my Father’s house it is cold.
i crawled under the pews last time.
when my stepmother sings, i hear
a voice inside, distant; off key. on
wednesdays there are booms. quieter
are the sundays when i am
allowed to be small.

how naïve are the children.

Continue to Poetry

Image by Rachel Van Doren

By Mele Girma

1. You realize you’re still the same twelve year old, walking around inside of this looser skin. Shying into a crowded room at the party, shoulder first, edging along the wall and entering with the smallest amount of yourself. You scan the room for a familiar face and dread all of the eyes looking back.

It’s the first day of middle school all of the time. Carpool lane, mom drops you off into the foreign smell: linoleum and gymnasium and the sticky sweet fog of Axe Body Spray: Chocolate Temptation. Why are eighth graders so tall? Why is your stomach always dropping? Fingers stained red from hot Cheeto bartering. The jolting bang of slamming lockers. The jittery fear of being called on in class. It’s all still in you. You will always feel a little in the way.

2. Things that no one notices — the way shadows get all soft along the edges, almost indistinguishable where light ends and dark begins. The growing mold.

Continue to Creative Non-Fiction

Image by Chance Jarvis