The ghosts gather on the burnt trees like a murder of crows, hungry-eyed and conspiratorial. Black feathery wisps dance around them, while talon-like hands grip to charred branches. They can see me, but they don’t yet know I can see them…
She smelled oil. She smelled blood. She forced her eyes open, squinting against the bright beams of light in the darkness. Broken branches littered a path of wreckage leading to the road…
Mariah was busy flipping between her account and the trending page, searching for the magic formula for fame. Her mind flooded with analytics, calculating if she was growing or shrinking in popularity…
“The last one.” The ship’s console lit up emerald green and the deepest of blue, colors that used to trigger an odd sort of nostalgia in Son, but lately only made him feel resentful. In the middle of the screen, a minuscule dot was steadily growing. Father’s voice soon followed from the speakers…
Artists thought they’d be the last ones laughed out of their professions by technology, yet they were amongst the first. What started as an amusing revolution of AI capabilities for content creators and web perusers was optimized to gain the attention of art critics and galleries…
I was born on a conveyor belt. I remember rough hands, rap music blasting, and being shoved into a box. It isn’t a memory so much as a story, told to me so many times it feels like my own. But I was too busy screaming inside, my brain too busy growing, to truly know what was going on…
Every millennia or so, this terrifying global catastrophe brings forth a season that zombie hunters everywhere simultaneously hold dear and dread. It is as much a time of creativity and perseverance as it is the worst fucking thing we do to ourselves…
Every November, this popular global writing challenge brings forth a season that writers everywhere simultaneously hold dear and dread. It is as much a time of creativity and perseverance as it is the worst fucking thing we do to ourselves each year…
Mira was in a hospital gown looking at her phone. The girl with the bleach-blonde pixie cut had been tantalizing in her OKCupid photo, but when they met last week, she noticed the deep-pitted acne scars peppering her jawline and the glaring red spots on her cheeks and between her thick brows…
El resented her father for calling her home. She stood in the backyard, arms folded across her faded t-shirt, staring out at the rows and rows of dry, brown cornstalks against an empty blue sky…
The bike seat pressed against my thighs, the wooden housing of the camera banging against my deformed spine. I was grateful for the misty shroud over my face. Were the neighbors to see me, they would whisper…
A bleeding sun rears its angry head over the hills surrounding your childhood holler. You smudge a bit of dirt into your hairline and hurl your suitcase into the open trunk of your mother’s silver van, Mark glaring at you between the headrests…
