Erhu Guy

By Katelynne Davis

“It hurts my feet less to be here. I think it may be because this was all marsh, once. Used to be part of the ocean, and it’s still there a little bit. I can hear it, feel it singing to me through the streets. I’m lucky in that respect, I guess.”

She was sitting on the bench provided for tired commuters to wait for their appropriate Green Line train. Her shoes stood together, a faithful pair, just underneath. A drum half shrugged its bag and leaned moodly against the sign depicting a strange cepholopidic creature with red, green, orange and blue appendages.

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The Change (Cambiarse)

By Sara Rich 

Inspired by true events, as reported to AP by Olga R. Rodriguez, January 7, 2013 at 11:50pm ET, from Mexico City.

That first night, Maria took her dog to the park on top the hill. It was a new moon, and the sky to the east was black. To the west, the sun was almost done setting behind a few thick clouds. Maria and Chucho walked up the hill where there was an open field. Families liked to picnic there in the summers, before it got too hot in the afternoons. The young couples liked to come up there late at night and grope each other. That time of night though, the air was cooler and the park was usually empty. Too late for picnics and too early for fooling around.

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The Round Bodies

By Jenni Bisset

My job is not what you’d expect. My name is Poppy Danther and I’ve helped fourteen people lose weight. I wouldn’t call myself an amateur in this profession. So how did I get this job and how does it work? Really, you’d have to ask my diaries that.

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By Sebastian Temlett

In the blackness, a warm glow. It touched his face from time to time, drawing it from the dark. The fire danced in an old barrel causing sparks to jump through the rusted holes. Night seemed to swallow him almost entirely as though the fire was keeping him tethered to existence and he sat and stared into the flame. His solitude drew me to him. Read More


By Hannah Little

Oh for fuck’s sake. I made this cup of tea three hours ago. I genuinely thought I’d drank it. But I haven’t. It’s stone cold. How annoying. I do this all the time. I bet other people do too. I should tweet about it. And people can reply and say “heh, that happens to me all the time!” Yeah, I’ll tweet that.

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The Bohemian Rhapsody of a bike

By Callum Dawson

It’s hard to remember the past, drowning in mud and monstrous memories, but I will try my best.  Some stories need to be told at any cost, and some costs have stories leaking from their patch repairs.  The album Queen: Greatest Hits was playing in the workshop where I was born.  I think that must have been where my love affair with the operatic rock band first started.  Freddie Mercury always knew how to turn the gears within me.  My wheels spin to his sweet, piercing voice:

“Bicycle, bicycle, I want to ride my bicycle…”

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Hidden Treasures

By Anya Pylypchuk

The world is filled with hidden treasures; some go unnoticed by passersby on the street every day. On a late August evening I was exiting Roodebeek metro station in Brussels, about to follow a long, dismally dark-grey tunnel that led outside. Often, during weekdays, its dreariness was diluted by an old man who played Mozart and Bach on his well-worn violin. While ascending the steps, I would immediately recognize his music even before seeing him – it was always so pure, subtle and full of feeling. In these moments, I’d hurriedly dip my hand into my backpack and try to fish from its bottom any spare coins I could give to the old man. He would never let me leave empty-handed either, favoring me with a pile of fruit candy and a smile. Once we had exchanged gifts he would continue his expert playing, which could be as joyful as cracking laughter, or powerful as a sonorous thunderstorm.

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"Between the Trees" by Sara Rich


By Sara Rich

Her walk was brisk as the day was too. The days were so short this time of year, with the shortest of them all only a week away.

Her thoughts were preoccupied elsewhere. As Christmas drew near, and Thanksgiving was over, she felt even more the foreigner, separated by an ocean and three languages from the hot hedge-burning fireplace that kept her family’s ranch house warm during wind-strewn and ice-ridden winters on the Great Plains.

As she walked, the cobblestones closing and counting the distance between her flat and the brick walls of the library, urine-soaked by decades of seven-a.m. drunks, she heard loneliness stumbling along after her, disguised as yellowed leaves whirling toward the backs of her feet.

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