Alex Liang: Irreplaceable

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When my brother returned from the dead, his footsteps echoed fatefully in the house. He arrived in an oversized white hoodie and slightly scuffed black jeans even though it was at least 80 degrees outside. According to the doctors, he had to be covered in clothes or else “risk sunburn or even skin cancer on his vulnerable skin.”

My mother guided him to a clear plastic chair, behind which hung a black-and-white photo of the first Andrew. After telling him to sit down, she pried off his shoes. Around us, the living room was bare, minus one long sofa, the plastic chair, and the massive black pig statue standing in the corner, which everyone passed when they entered our house.

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Rachel Krumholtz: Seagulls

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The seagulls circle the city, swooping over its glistening turrets and boxy edifices. Their wings glitter ominously, coated in a thick, viscous layer of oil. Rising above the murky fumes produced from the steeples below, they instinctively gaze at the water, subconsciously yearning for clear blue waves, for fish.  But the fish were long gone; they had disappeared nearly twenty-five years ago. Submerged beneath years’ worth of tattered clothing, discarded boxes, and unused plastic dumped unceremoniously into the once-transparent waters, the sparkle of their scales began to dim, and one by one their lifeless bodies floated to the surface of the water, limp and vulnerable.  The seagulls continued spiraling, their bright and inquisitive eyes looking, searching for a place to land.

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Phillip Chao: The Blue Bridge in Benford

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was driving to the Blue Bridge in Benford in my 1969 Ford Capri. 

Sunlight in the heartland of the country has always been ample, shedding through the distorted leaves on the olive trees and blinding my sight. A sudden stream of warmth was injected into my body, and I shivered. 

I stopped at the side of the road and pulled out a map marked all over by numerous dots of red and lines of blue. 

All roads here led to Benford. All rivers ran to the Blue Bridge. 

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Kristen Li: My Nights with the Worm

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I first read about the tapeworm diet online. Just like every other diet plan, it featured transformative before-and-after pictures. I skimmed through the menu, learned that the diet was illegal, not FDA approved, and could have devastating side effects. I glossed over the statistics and the numbers, and my eyes landed on the guarantee: you will put off pounds, you will lose weight. That was all I wanted, all it took.

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Alex Liang: The Shadow & Mahjong Table

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Mahjong Table

When I arrived at your 34th-floor apartment for dinner, as I usually do on Fridays, I felt as if the last step of the stair had vanished and I was about to fall face-first onto the floor. Being a counselor, I often became dizzy and nauseated after a long day of listening to spouses arguing; attempting to reconcile broken relationships was a nightmare.  

The Shadow

From my grandfather’s pale yellow house, I trudge to the little local market down a road that winds through terraced fields that look like overlapping green-onion pancakes. The smell of cooking smoke rises from the hay rooftops of my new neighbors. I pass the local dust-colored three-story school, where I see my would-be peers in classrooms remaining quiet, furiously taking notes. Standing outside windows crusted on the edges with falling plaster and watching failing students who couldn’t leave before they finished or before they gave up on their tests, I wanted to laugh. I hadn’t come here to take more tests; I had come for cheap candies and cheaper entertainment. No more Saturday classes or online tutors. No more final exams or midterm grade reports. I had left all of that behind.

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A Map of the World

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Lights flicker.

It’s time to wake up.

My eyes open. I reach for the button next to my bed. The voice silences. My bed begins to adjust to a seating position.

I look around. The same sight I see every morning greets me. White, unfurnished walls. Soft light filtering through the blinds in the windows. The door in front of me opens, beckoning me outside the safe haven of my room.

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The Son of Fire

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A murmur ran through the huddled mass, leather soles slid and skidded on the dirt floor.

“Quiet now, quiet,” The priest urged. “Don’t disturb his rest.”

It was barely visible to the onlookers in the doorway, but the slight glow and faint hiss emanating from the sleeping infant’s chest spoke what was yet unspoken. The worst had come, the boy was marked.

His father buried his face into his hands, the tips of his fingers pushing the felt farmer’s hat off the top of his head. His mother remained silent, blinking infrequently -- she was too physically and mentally exhausted from the thirty-hour labor to cry.

The priest turned to the midwives and farmers clogging the doorway to the hut. “Go. Leave us.” Some hesitated. “Please.”

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The Man Inside the Box

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The Man in the Box

There is a man, and the man lives inside the box. He is comfortable enough. When he reaches his feet, he can wiggle his toes, and if he curls a little, the man can sleep.

Sheep

At night, the man dreams of a sheep. When he wakes up, he draws the sheep, tracing his finger along the side of the box. He can never get the nose right. It was thinner, no, rounder, no, bigger, or maybe just a different color. Sometimes, he draws it with his pinky finger, but his nail is too thin, so he uses his thumb. Every night, the man dreams of the sheep, and every morning, the nose is wrong.

Noises

Sometimes, the man hears noises from outside the box. The man does not like these noises. He curls into himself, jamming his palms over his ears.

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Creator

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Leaning against the window, I wait quietly as the snow falls outside. Each year it snows like this and each year I wonder what would happen if there was too much snow, so much that the roof caved in. Where would we go? We don’t have neighbors for miles. Right now it’s piled up so high that only a small sliver of light can poke through at the top. In the other room my mother sits by the fire in the near darkness of this house. She says that she’s waiting for our father to come home, but she performs each of her actions slowly as if preparing for the end.

“Simon,” she says. It is the first time she’s called for me since the day before. I walk towards her my eyes drawn to her silhouette in front of the golden fire. When I reach her I stand in front of her as she sits. I look into her eyes and I see the same fire and warmth reflected in them. But she blinks and the fire becomes more harsh. It roars with a certain fury. She takes my face in her hands. I kneel to make it easier for her to hold me. She lets go. And leans back in her chair with the same stoic expression she always wears. “There is much on your mind child,” she says. “Tell me what it is.”

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