by Zary Fekete

“Every few blocks a mosque appears, immaculate and bright against the waking streets. Someone is sweeping the courtyard with slow deliberate strokes. The gates are open. They seem to remain open always, as if the building itself is quietly reminding the city that prayer is never very far away.”

by Dyre Copenhale

“Along the way, we collect moments, memories that made us feel alive, to remember that this is all temporary. Life is only transition.”

by Tafara Gava

“The ease in my step wasn’t stoicism. It was acute cluelessness.”

by Lorette C. Luzajic

“In that moment, he had vowed to become the greatest artist who ever lived. Picasso, as epic and brutal as God.”

by Ari Cordovero

“The cabbage on the cutting board. My grandmother’s knife. My father’s son. Every room where men startled at the sound of a girl wanting something.”

by Zary Fekete

“I think about how much of my life has been engineered for ease. How many ramps I’ve taken without noticing. How often I’ve mistaken friction for failure instead of proof of contact.”

by Daniel Bailey

“I finished the coffee even though it tasted terrible. The app still wanted data. I put the phone face down. For a second nothing happened. No lesson. No insight. Just me in the kitchen breathing like it still belonged to me.”

by Lillian Taylor and Richard Leise

“Principal Morgan would be retired by the time their offspring were old enough for secondary school.  So, Tucker was it.  No more Nolans.  No more Nolans, he said, melodically.”

by A. L. Smith

“The library book says you need a candle, a personal item from your target, and the incantation— then, BAM! Hexed!”

by L.F. Graubard

“Ronald Pelton. Pale, soft voice, face like the uncle who teaches you chess and guilt. Not dangerous at first glance, but glowing underneath.”

by Uma Jagwani

“In the elevator, I look at my sweaty, meaningless face and feel disappointed. Not white! As if one day, I’ll step into this elevator and exit on the seventh floor as a part of the ruling class.”

by Ari Cordovero

“I thought of Saint Joseph’s hands — the way they were carved, cupped, as if holding something fragile he hadn’t asked for. My body was already doing the same.”

by Nora L.S.

“Red solo cups and a single cigarette are passed around by people who, more sober than they’d like to be, seem to like the idea of partying more than this party itself.”

by Sonali Kolhatkar

“My childhood memories of Dubai were marred by Baba’s whiskey and words. He liked his drink served in a cut crystal glass with exactly two cubes of ice, topped off with water. He would go through an entire bottle a week. By himself.”

by Uma Jagwani

“My body has a shelf where all the memories of my dead aunt are stored.”

by Christie Goodman

“Blood sprayed from the wound in her head, like a fire hydrant, soaking my face and chest in deep, hot red.”

by Billie J Daniel

“My girlfriend thinks when I drink, I’m chasing a memory, a certain feeling from my childhood that doesn’t exist anymore.”

by Audrey Hollenbaugh

“I used to have this idea in my head that healing from my past would mean I could suddenly do all the things I want to do and feel perfectly fine…I’ve realized that it isn’t quite like that.”

by L.F. Graubard

“Months blurred. Death moved on little cat feet—alarms, gurgles, a gasp at 3 a.m. I pushed wheelchairs and watched bodies fail in slow motion.”

by Catherine Lutz

“Winter has had its way with the bush on which the berry hangs, denuding it of its leaves and stripping the fruit of any seeming life.”