Featured Story

Maggie Levins

Nov 308 min read

When Love Became a Cage

He said love was trust, and I wanted to believe it— so I handed him the key to every soft part of me. At first, his words were warmth, a sun I stood beneath just to feel seen. But slowly, the light burned. What I thought were arms, became walls, what I thought was safety, became silence pressed against my breath. He called control “care,” called my trembling “love.” And I— I called it normal, because I didn’t yet know love shouldn’t make you small. When I fi

Paige Williams

Nov 301 min read

Two Poems

"I Do Not Love You" I will say I do not love you until my mouth forgets your taste, until I can wipe my hands clean from our sins and my blood can stain a new soul. I will write I do not love you until my fingers forget how your hands feel, wrapped in mine, and my poems no longer reek of sadness and desperation. I will believe I do not love you until it becomes impossible, or until I begin to love someone new. “The Way I Love” I do not love you the way I once

Killian Finn Paris

Nov 301 min read

The Garden

Over the hill, Jack’s home sits quiet and still, the garden kept away in the back. The peppers grow fruitful, and tomatoes abundant. Jack heads to the backyard with coffee in hand to see his yield. The garden kept him and his wife Mary sustained. He sees a tomato as red as her lips once were, and kneels down to pluck it off the vine. He admires the seemingly perfect fruit and rubs the dirt off on his shirt. As he gets up, Jack notices the plant below has the tiniest bite take

Allison M. Bumpus

Nov 305 min read

Cowboy Hustle

“Fan, fan, fan,” she tells you; you watch her feet carefully. “Then point, point, tap, tap.” Her boots hit the ground with a satisfying click. Your dirty tennis shoes squeak. “A little quicker. Next is point, tap.” You are practicing in the hallway to the bathrooms, someone walks by, and you stop. Your eyes stay locked on the floor. “Point, tap,” she repeats, unfazed by the man who looks at you, confused. You do what she says. “Step.” You try to remember why you agreed to t

Abigail Lebowitz

Nov 305 min read

(Author) and the Fish

In 2020, at the height of isolation, my days were spent in my bedroom, on my laptop, alone. In the morning and through the afternoon, I had school: a time when my teachers would greet us as best they could, staring at their computer cameras. The more “classes” we had, the more we could see the despair, hopelessness in their eyes, but no student was brave enough to make their face or voice known—what was the point?—our meetings remained silent as ever. Between meetings, I’d

Laura Wong

Nov 304 min read

"40 min in 8x8 pan"

Our recipe was the Great Depression cake that my mother found in the newspaper and clipped out for you and I. It doesn’t use eggs, or milk, or butter, which was perfect for us, because we were poor in college. The ingredients it did call for—flour, sugar, cocoa powder, salt, baking soda, vanilla extract, white vinegar, canola oil, water—we could afford those, for the most part. Usually, we’d nab some vanilla off of one of our neighbors, like Sam Gorman a couple doors down, ro

Hannah DeFeo

Nov 305 min read

Bright Ocean Sun

Through the persistent rain of Washington State, the Sun shines bright on the Salish Sea. Cormorants move silently through the air, while gulls laugh and dive under the chilled cover of water. Ferries bus commuters and sightseers along the evergreen coast. A small section just off of the unfathomable expanse of the Pacific Ocean, these waters house seals, salmon, and majesty. Underneath the shroud of liquid, large shadows speed by, choosing when they want to be seen—when they

Alexa DoVale

Nov 307 min read

Auerlia Aurita

Be gentle with me as I lose myself in the crashing tides. Landing at your door, guide me away from shore where I can find my way back home. Let me be a visitor from a distant, salty world. MJ Sangster Dorchester, MA MJ Sangster is a sophomore marine biology and aquarium science double major. She is passionate about marine conservation and aims to connect both science and art through her work. She would like to thank her high school english teacher Mr. John Hopkins for inspiri

MJ Sangster

Nov 301 min read

Pomegranate

Sweet pomegranate of six seeds, whatever will it be? Taken for granted, they say, in the holiest books of land, with a masculine, phrased hand allowing nectar of self-image to drip, drip, drip until the pomegranate has been deprived of precious, selfless life. But what shall be done now since she is left with no sweetness? No originality? No morals? Not a thought of her own? Just bitterness and spite. Obedience and strife for a man’s word. The seeds being th

Alexis Terzioski

Nov 301 min read

My Drive Home

I’m stuck in a routine: class, work, drive home, repeat. Most days, I drive with reggaetón blasting, trying to quiet the thoughts that never stop. Sometimes I talk to myself about unfinished work and the next steps ahead. Somehow, my tired body runs on caffeine and a dream. But today’s drive was different. My phone died, and the radio was boring. Silence found me, and in that silence, I began to think. I thought about my life, being a first-gen college student, and

Coralee Garcia

Nov 302 min read

Blind Buck

David Buck did not want to be a gym teacher. He never quite understood the appeal of sports. Too loud, too smelly, and overall too dangerous for his tastes. He preferred the quiet of the school's art studio with a cup of iced tea in one hand and a pencil in the other. Principal Juno knew this. She also knew that Ms. Warren could not teach gym class after being mauled by wild animals, no matter how much Ms. Warren insisted she could. So now David Buck was a gym teacher,

Lauren Von Elm

Nov 304 min read

The Man In The Gallery

Szentendre was supposed to be a quiet stop—a charming detour on a long study abroad trip through Central Europe. Sometimes, it’s not the grand landmarks or centuries-old churches that leave their mark. Sometimes it’s something smaller: a flicker of connection, a conversation you didn’t see coming. That moment found me on a crisp winter afternoon, the sky a soft, gray canvas overhead, my breath curling in the cold air as I wandered just a little slower than the rest of the gro

Triniti W. Brown

Nov 309 min read

Something Unfinished

“This shouldn’t be so hard!” I said aloud to myself, my voice teeming with frustration, and then immediately laughed at myself, because of course it should. Of course it should be so hard. I looked around myself at the mess I’d made. There was flour on every surface—the counter, the floor, my clothing, somehow even the ceiling. There was a pile of gloopy, disgusting looking, room-temperature butter on my cutting board. “God damn it,” I whispered. The pie was my therapis