Sam Heller

Sean King

Jacob Sherman

Benjamin Chandler

Sam Becker

English

Writing down her thoughts about what happened last year wasn’t as easy as she had hoped. She couldn’t hold back the tears when she wrote about Luka — the way he smiled and laughed at silly things.

They’d fall to her page, blurring the ink from her pen. Something she would have cared about before, but she couldn’t stop thinking about how he never really cared about things like that, his handwriting looking like a cross between a doctor’s and a werewolf’s

A little-known fact: werewolves are known for their surprisingly beautiful handwriting. No one is quite sure why, but the full moon rises and the fountain pens come out.

The werewolf picked a fountain pen off the tree, and wrote some lovely poetry. A vampire came across the werewolf and thought to himself, a lunch for free. His fangs watered at the thought.

The vampire pounced, but the werewolf, having spied the blood-sucker out of the corner of his eye, was ready for the attack. The two rolled on the forest floor, snapping, clawing, snarling. Suddenly they stopped, each had the other's arm in their own jaws. "Uh oh," they moaned.

They'd have to break free before dawn or risk certain death. They lay there, growling softly. As sun rays pierced the stalemate, they let go at the same time. "This isn't over," vampire snarled. "I know," said werewolf. Both knew that in one lunar cycle this would all end.

Transylvanian Standoff

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Lauren Coles

Jay Knowles

Yolanda W

Adia Reynolds

Emma wiped the dust off her pants. I was just going to go through some things up in the attic. Grandma was a pack rat. I know that she was your mother but I bet you are happy that she is gone

off to the retirement community in Florida. She can play golf, or bingo, or swim in the pool if she likes. But she left all this junk for us to deal with. There are a few treasures in this attic, so we’ll have to go through the boxes carefully.

This box is filled with 13 different air fryer cookbooks. Does she even have an air fryer? Here are my old toys. Snuffles, my old stuffed elephant! She told me she threw him away! A broken lamp...toss that. But what's this? A crate full of books with her name. She wrote a novel?

“The Little Air Fryer”, “I Believe I Can Fry”, and many other novels. All about air fryers! She dedicated her whole life to air fryers ever since the day of its invention, truly the best invention, since sliced bread! If you don’t get it, well… Clearly you don’t own an air fryer.

But who needs an air fryer when you have a deep fryer? What does an air fryer fry? Air? And what do toasters toast? Toast? As an Italian plumber once said, “All toasters toast toast.” Miss that guy. But I digress. Speaking of novels on air fryers, the writer now released a book —

‘Air Fryer’s 101’. To which I scoffed to myself. See the thing is, gadgets have become far too complex nowadays. What’s wrong with normally frying something. God forbid if I ever showed a youth a frying pan, they’d probably ask me “Where’s the on button?”. But anyway I continued

"How hard could it be?" I chuck the instructions to the counter. It slides off and into the trash, and I couldn't care less. I crack my knuckles, "Home made french fries here I come."

The first step was arguably the easiest. I gathered all the ingredients: Potatoes, oil, salt, and ketchup for later. Next I began peeling the skin off the potatoes, I had seen my father to this plenty of times. Of course, he was a three star chef.

The following step was where things got substantially more difficult—the start of the ritual. I placed the skinned, oiled, and salted potatoes in a circle around the dog, then drizzled the ketchup across them. The dog whimpered longingly at the potatoes surrounding her.

I chanted the ancient words that would bind the dog's soul to mine. Her snout elongated, her fur receded, then, miraculously, standing before me was my long lost sister. It made so much sense—tater tots were her favorite food. We hugged and cried amidst the smell of fried spuds.

A puppy with brown fur greeted the woman and jerry. The puppy licked their face. The dog name was lucky

Night Owls

Night Owls: Part II

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Leyre g

When I arrived in a park, the streetlights turned off, everything was dark. I walked towards the exit to search light, but a foot blocked my way and I fall. I wanted to get up, but a hands grabbed me by the neck

and tried to strangle me. I grabbed the hands and moved it away, then ran through the park in the dark trying to escape the madman.

He was fast, but no match for me. I made it back home, a mere 600 yards from where the hands grabbed me in the park. Locked the doors and threw myself onto the couch in disbelief as to what just happened. Then came a knock at my door. I froze in fear and remained silent.

I recoiled back to my youth. Those days where I pretended to be home alone. I didn’t dare make a sound for fear of my life. I wouldn’t have budged if my curiousity didn’t get the best of me. I crept silently to the windows and peeked out of the curtains.

I saw them right outside my house. Clanking, strumming, bashing, and wheezing. 5 people, each wearing the equipment for a one-man band. What do you even call that? Not “pleasant” or “musical”, for sure.

But I must have been alone in my opinion for dozens of my neighbors emerged from their homes & cheered the cacophonous band. Soon the 5 were carried on their shoulders, still clanging & banging away on their junk. They were named heroes! So I moved to distant, quiet Niue Island.

panic

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Rietje Becker

Miriam sat at the train station clutching her purse. She was dressed formally, wearing sunglasses despite the fact that it was raining.

She took a sip from her flask, placed it to the side of her on the bench and proceeded to get up and walk to the edge of the platform. Before reaching the very edge Miriam stopped, looked up at the grey clouds above, let out a sigh, and then slowly closed her eyes. This was it.

She felt a strong breeze on her face, and her hair was swept to the side. Miriam opened her eyes again. The train whistle rang. It was time. She put one feet through the door, and looked back at the station. Goodbye, she thought, I’ll never forget this place. She finally entered.

Nothing would hold her back now. Not her family, not her past, not the hand reaching out to grab her by the shoulder.

Consequences didn’t mean a thing to her anymore. If she wanted to set everything right, back to how it was, she would have no choice. She held her head high and walked firmly into the portal. What lies ahead? Nightmares. Her nightmares.

Her nightmares involve clowns and claustrophobia. She thought she was prepared, but she wasn’t ready. She spent a seeming eternity running down tunnels being chased by screaming Bozos. Until she finally awoke, drenched in cold sweat, to the light of a new day.

The Platform's Edge

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Zoe Becker

Jerry glanced down at the photograph in his hand, then back up again at the woman sitting alone at the back of the cafe.

It was her. After many years, Jerry had finally found her. Juliana Bowen. His daughter he gave up. Jerry slipped the photo back in his pocket.

All at once a blinding light coursed through the space. Jerry and the woman froze. And then a creature appeared, seemingly from the air itself.

A humongous grotesque being fell from the sky. With its webbed feet it landed and crushed two neighboring cars. Jerry terrified out of his mine began to scream. Juliana shushed him, turning her back and approaching the creature.

“He’s a friend, Papa.”

Sam Heller
@samheller

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