A Good Thing is the third-place winner for SNHU’s 2016 Fall Fiction Short Story Competition. by Megan Parker “Montgomery, Juneau, Phoenix—” Ricky slipped through the opening in the chain link fence, waving his flashlight for Meadow to follow. He had brought wire cutters just in case the vandalized links had…
As Good as Gone is the first-place winner in SNHU’s 2016 Fall Fiction Short Story Competition. by Joe Skonie It was said that Saturn ruled civility. When Saturn fell from the sky, it was as if the world came softly out of focus. The trees outside my window lost their…
by Casey Dare I see you across the street, waving; So I try; The cars zoom past and the trucks roar by, But I try. I reach the middle, not sure if I should continue; I look to you for guidance and see you waving, So I try. The cars…
Machine is the second-place winner in SNHU’s 2016 Fall Fiction Short Story Competition. by Taylor Lea Hicks In a cave in the mountains, there is a machine. A machine with no buttons, switches, slots, or screens. Only a lever. It’s said that this machine can give you a new life; a…
by Grace C. Bennett What would it sound like, parted to sound? This is a dim bar in the gut of London. The moon is wrinkled on the water. Your striped red socks don’t match this boring atmosphere, I think it said Come sit across the table and tell…
by Amy Craton This quiet island, Skies pure and clear, Peacefully changing, Cycles through the year. Renewing in Fall; Not by escaping Bitter cold Winter For warm days of Spring. Cooling Fall breezes, Defeat hectic days. Soft and embracing, The air seems to play. Night falling today Reflects the season,…
by Tyler Townsend A memoir of Jordan. I The vast majority of the area located around Queen Alia International Airport consists of rolling sand hills and sparse trees, which give next to no shade. The sun in mid-June is a murderous fiend. The locals, who are obviously acclimated to the…
by Cheryl Sola I was born. Damn. Can’t anything go right? That was thirty years ago and nothing’s changed. Today’s my birthday, June 6th. Pa said my birthday numbers add up to 6–6–6. And because that number means the devil, my Pa called me the devil’s child, and got an…
by Grace C. Bennett To walk Parisian streets is to Sail with Vitus Bering, Rum casks loosed atop boards Stained with salt within vicious Blows of sick and yellowed sea, Pacific to Arctic an ill to poisoned freedom; If only memory In this case Were an exaggeration. The undulant expanse…
by Jason Spicer A man was shot, in the alley behind my grungy apartment last night, again. His bald pate bounced a stream of pleated light through the blinds on my second story window. No sirens or news crews, just muddy boots and forlorn faces—men who needed sleep, in uniforms…