Category: Prose

free dreams about dunya

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by Easter Mukora

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one a.m: i am looking at quotes from the Waking Life and ran into ‘dream is destiny.’ it’s one of those things i never thought i would remember to associate with you, which might be weird because it’s literally written on you. it’s so late into the night that it’s morning and i am better off waking up than sleeping. so i am writing. i still don’t understand what dream is destiny means. i will rewatch it again next week. or some week when it comes up and i want to watch more than i want to write. or if you waltz into my life again when you app finally works. teknolojia! how does anybody know when they’re telling the truth

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Courtesy Never Dies

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by P. A. Farrell

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No one told me I would be using a walker, hunched over those curved aluminum handles and hoping the brakes on the wheels would hold, but that’s life. You never know what it’s going to throw at you, and you’ve got to be ready to catch it with both hands and draw it toward your chest so it doesn’t fall to the floor. But today, the bus jostled, slamming me into a pole. A man sneered at me, “They shouldn’t let people like you on the bus!” Yeah, people like me, with walkers.

A slow slog from the bus stop sends stabs of pain to my ankle, but I push on. Good thing my folding friend has wheels. I don’t think I could pick it up. Each slab of the sidewalk is daring me forward. The beast is waiting, and I’ve got to gather my strength, so I take it slow to save my breath and prepare. 

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Catching Cars

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by Stacia Laroche

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Back when I was a 12-year old living in the warm rays of my youthful golden days, I used to sit on my rickety front porch steps with a disposable camera in hand taking pictures of every classic car that drove down our suburban street. The first car I ever captured was a 1957 Buick Roadmaster. 

I was captivated by that car because driving it in a time period that it didn’t belong in meant you were taking a risk. It was a deep green, the same shade that belonged to leaves in the forest after returning from the winter. The kind you don’t remember seeing blossom. All of a sudden they’re just there again. 

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My Lily

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by Chase Wootton

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As I looked over the bridge, hundreds of feet above the waters, I couldn’t decide which was more beautiful: her, or the sunset. It unfolded in front of me — a splash of red, gold, and orange across the sky, as if a godly chef had sprinkled oranges, pineapples, and cherries across the heavens. The wind was cool and peaceful, the sky clear of rain, snow, or dreary weather. In front of me, there was only beauty, only color, only depth of goodness.

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April in Summer

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by Hachi Chuku

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April Elizabeth Randall was the kind of girl that you just couldn’t help yourself being endeared to. Her delicate saccharine features complemented her sanguine personality so that you couldn’t frown at her for longer than a few seconds. When she turned to walk away, you dreamt of the moment in which your paths might cross again. I met her at the library in my hometown of Manhattan, Kansas when the leaves were still a brilliant green; not yet blushing from the promise of winter. I had a job working at the library on the campus of Kansas State, a work study position that allowed me to have my nose in a book when I wasn’t manning the shelves or doing sudoku puzzles.

She walked up to me carefully, wearing an orange tube top and high waisted flared jeans and asked me gently where she could find books on houseplant keeping.

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Legacy

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by Huina Zheng

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‏During the turbulent years of the Cultural Revolution, Grandma would close the worn wooden door when night fell.

Lying in bed, Grandma and Mom were gently wrapped in darkness. In a soft voice, Grandma told my young mother ancient folktales and historical stories, all of which her own mother had told her: the story of Nuwa, who made humans out of yellow earth and water; the tale of Meng Jiangnu, who wept for her husband, who had died while building the Great Wall. Her tears moved Heaven and Earth, causing a section of the Wall to collapse, revealing her husband’s remains; and the story of Jingwei, who drowned in the Eastern Sea and transformed into a bird, tirelessly bringing stones and twigs to fill the sea, vowing to avenge her drowning.

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Drummer

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by Dane Erbach

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“Harder!” Joe shouts from his podium, yells over violin bows stuck in the air like an unruly haircut. “Hit that bass drum as hard as you can!”

The orchestra spins toward me—rows of smarmy teenage smiles, annoyed; of middle schoolers wild with amusement, squirming their chairs.

“Have you ever heard Jurassic Park’s soundtrack?” Joe asks, his bald head shining in the fluorescent light. “The big BOOM at the beginning?”

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Immortality

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by Matias Travieso-Diaz

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I want to live for immortality, and I will accept no compromise.
– Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

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Iry-Hor was feeling the weight of his years.  

He had been for decades the head of a growing empire that controlled much of Egypt and had extended northward towards the delta of the sacred river Nile. In the process of his conquests, he and his armies had slain thousands of men loyal to the local chieftains who opposed him. He was known and feared throughout the land, which was adorned with temples erected in his honor and countless statutes that proclaimed him as the hegemonic ruler of the greatest empire the world had known. Yet, he found himself increasingly dissatisfied. Would posterity grant him the recognition and acclaim his deeds warranted? Would his name inspire veneration, or at least awe, in generation after generation to come?

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Notes on the Life of a Mayfly

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by Matias Travieso-Diaz

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Compared to a star, we are like mayflies, fleeting ephemeral creatures who live out their lives in the course of a single day.

– Carl Sagan

1. Egg

The round, whitish egg that was to become Dolania[1], the heroine of our story, was among a thousand-plus identical ones deposited by their mother as she dipped her abdomen into the river’s water during flight, releasing a small batch of eggs each time. As their mother died and floated away, the eggs sank to the murky river bottom.

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Depth of Field

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by Celso Antonio de Almeida

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Marcel’s cloth moved in small, precise circles, coaxing a shine from the leather beneath his hands. The morning bustle of the Boulevard du Temple swirled around him, a chaotic dance of horses, carriages, and hurried Parisians that contrasted sharply with his own stillness.

“You’re quiet today, Marcel,” Henri observed, peering down at the bootblack. “Troubles at home?”

Marcel’s hands paused for a moment before resuming their work. “Nothing out of the ordinary, Monsieur Beaumont. Just thinking about changes.”

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