Tag: writers

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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Winter’s Eye

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by Caitlin Stratton

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The doe’s ears stood out, illuminated by an orange glow. Further ahead, in the middle of a clearing, sat an uneven log cabin. Smoke rose from its chimney, and the origin of the orange seeped from a frosted window, showing off a burning fire inside. A small hand pulled the window curtains to one side, letting the light dance into the clearing, and a child’s eyes investigated the deer with a twinkle. The doe stilled, matching the child’s gaze.

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French Press

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by Megan Nicholson

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I asked for this reality of living on my own, alone. Being alone means you are solely responsible for your quality of life, with no one else to rely on. And goddamn, I really need to clean these dishes. They’ve been sitting there for a week, and god knows there’s plenty more around this damn apartment that needs to be washed. I did the first half of the dishes yesterday; now I need this second half done so I can clean out Pepper’s litter tray. The poor thing’s open bathroom is filled with interwoven fur and hay and pellets. There’s so much to get done, and there’s still four hours before I need to get to bed and wake up for work tomorrow.

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Not the Last Catch

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by Ibrahim Azam

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O’Neill watched the sun peek over the horizon. The first of its rays had bled through the sky. Brady looked back at the village, shrinking out of sight as they pushed the johnboat further into the water.

It was a cold morning. The wind was callous, hitting both men in the face, spattering pockets of seawater with each strike. Unruffled, O’Neill began preparing the fishing rods. Three decades parading this ocean, he thought. And I ain’t letting some rookie slow me down.

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The Letter Contract of the “Civilised”

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by Roukia Ali

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“The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.” – George Orwell, “1984”

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Before you are to be welcomed into the ranks of us Civilised people, we ask that you review the criteria of your adherence below. Failure to abide by and/or blatant infractions committed in regards to these articles will not go unpunished. Know that in either case we are just, good, peaceful people. We weigh all matters impartially, as is the responsibility of our faculty as the supreme holders of power. Yet to ensure the order by which these operations are made possible, we hold you in writing and in action to the same regard of compliance and critical thought.

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A fire to be kindled

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by Celso Antonio de Almeida

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“And that, class, is why time passes more slowly if you travel at speed, though you need to start approaching the speed of light for the effect to be significant,” Ezra Nolan stated flatly, his eyes drifting to the clock above the whiteboard, wishing with all his strength that time, through some unlikely relativistic effect, would pass faster. Fifteen minutes left. Fifteen minutes until the end of the day, the end of the week, and one day closer to the end of his career. Thirty years of teaching high school physics, and for what? He surveyed the classroom of blank faces illuminated by cell phone screens under their desks. They probably wouldn’t remember this lesson tomorrow, let alone ten, twenty or thirty years from now.

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My Beard Has Three Hairs

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by Matias Travieso-Diaz

Mi barba tiene tres pelos

tres pelos tiene mi barba

si no tuviera tres pelos

yo no tendría una barba

– Gabriel Aragón (“Gaby”), Alfonso Aragón (“Fofó”) and Emilio Aragón (“Miliki”)

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It was sometime in 1951. I was a timid eight-year-old who largely kept to himself and was more interested in reading comic books or adventure novels than playing marbles or throwing balls around in the backyard. I used to think there was something wrong with me, because I did not socialize much with other kids and felt no great urge to do so.

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