The Weight of Wings

Fiction

Bailey Cunningham


The wings appeared on New Year’s Day. You were in the kitchen, bare feet dancing across icy tile floors, when you felt something fall from your shoulder. You saw a tiny, papery object flutter to the ground through intermittent layers of gravity and air pockets. It was a butterfly forewing, blue-grey with veiny lines traversing its delicate surface, marking a map to something unknown. You licked your fingertip and stuck the wing to the wetness, then blew it out the kitchen window as if making a wish....


Isolation

Fiction

Danika Miller


When Katherine dumped me, it felt like my world was ending. On a related note, the world is ending.
That should have been enough for Kathy to stick around. Procreation is a duty in such desperate times. What if we end up being the last two people on Earth? She said if I really believed that, I would come with her...


Stacked

Fiction

Upstairs in my bedroom after school I practice card tricks with Rusty. The house is pre-dinner quiet, and I like this austere mood for my magic act so I close the shades to dim the room, give it atmosphere. The trick is a new one I’m learning called Acey Deucy. The magic tricks are out of a book I got for my birthday, which I asked for special. The book’s real title is Unmasking Magic, but I call it my Magic Tome because it’s so huge. It’s encyclopedic, an opus, a font of cool stuff like card tricks and coin tricks and scarf tricks and that one with the ball under the cups. Astonish your friends, it promises on the back cover. Your family will be bamboozled.

First, I show Rusty that it’s a regular deck of cards, and then I tell her I’m going to cut the deck until she says to stop. I split and stack the cards, split and stack. Rusty is one hundred percent pedigreed Walker hound and has a tail like a thumb that she thumps....


You Know This House

Fiction

Sierra Spink


Lead me through these rooms. What was it like here before? The frames are empty now, but they had something in them. Little kids in their school uniforms, I’d imagine. The glass in the door is a nice touch, lets the light in so much more easily. Too bad there isn’t an entryway closet. I don’t know what we would do if there wasn’t a mud room. The kitchen is acceptable, but not ideal. I prefer granite countertops, but I can look past it for the wood finish of the cabinets. I would definitely knock down that wall to the living room. That way I can see everything.

Ah the bedrooms are a good size for kids...


Last Stop on the Line

Fiction

Hillary Thalmann


You watch the sun rise from the driver’s seat of the train.

The giraffes stretch their necks skyward as the first pale fingers of light transform them from silhouette into glowing color, nose-tip to neck, neck to dusty sand. They stand completely still until the light reaches the tips of their hooves, and then they swish their tails and nod their heads in rhythm to the zebras’ morning exuberance. From their pen on the other side of the tracks, the lions begin to roar, one lioness first, and then the other three join in, their rough song the first raw rush of noise in the day.

You watch all this from the seat of the train, back bent over the controls, revving the engine with the train kept in park. The air pressure growls to life in the engine and then flits from car to car. You wake with your train, feeling the energy of the coming day...