by Chase Wootton
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.
Read More »From 3. 3. 2025 to 5. 5. 2025, we received 283 submitted pieces from 129 authors/artists, with the acceptance rate of 50% for contributors and 32% for their pieces.
Stat we love? The number of those, submitting for a second (or more) time: over 25! We’re extremely touched by your trust ❤
And the precise numbers per genre?
Read More »by Hachi Chuku
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.
Read More »A Short Play
by Ben Macnair
SETTING: A train platform early morning. Two benches sit parallel to the tracks. The sound of distant trains and occasional station announcements fills the air.
CHARACTERS:
BARRY – 55, wearing a slightly wrinkled business suit, briefcase at his feet
IRIS – 80, elegantly dressed in dated clothing, holding a small bouquet of flowers
by Huina Zheng
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.
Read More »by Dane Erbach
“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?”
Read More »by Matias Travieso-Diaz
I want to live for immortality, and I will accept no compromise.
– Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
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?
Read More »Submissions to our webzine are officially open again!
We invite you to send us your contribution to wonder in the form of writing or visual art or basically anything up until May 5 2025.
Find the guidelines here.
In need of more inspiration? Check out our past prompts below:
Read More »From September 2 to December 2 2024, we received 237 pieces from 103 different authors/artists with the acceptance rate of 48% for contributors and 32% for their pieces.
More precisely?
Read More »by Diana L. Gustafson
“What’s death got to do with it?” Our museum tour guide grins as she makes the irreverent reference to Tina Turner’s best-selling hit. Patty knows how to grab the attention of Gen X tourists clustered around her in the grand centre block of Toronto’s Royal Ontario Museum. In a former life, she was probably everyone’s favourite high school music teacher.
Patty leans in. “Death simultaneously intrigues and repels us.” I know she’s speaking to me. I signed up for the afternoon tour because I was curious about burial rituals practised in ancient times. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Easier than facing tough questions haunting my messy life. I soon discover that each pause on the tour unearths relics of my struggles to make sense of love and death.
Read More »
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