Fiction

Springtime in the City

By William Pikus

Elliot and Bev, that’s short for Beverly by the way, first met where they lived in the same building, on the upper east side of manhattan.I think it was that building on the corner of 92nd and Madison. You know, the one with the ice cream shop on the first floor.The ice cream shop made their home above it all the nicer as the constant hum of all those freezers was a comfort to them both and gave them added warmth. together, they used to like to watch all the kids stop for ice cream on the way home from school.

Bev was the quiet and studious type, but Elliot was more free-spirited and was always able to draw the laughter out of her. They were very much in love. They spent all of their free time together, often times going out to eat. Their favorite place was an Italian eatery a few blocks away and they took a shortcut down an alley to get to it. They loved the spaghetti with bolognese sauce and ate it every chance they got. When meatballs were available, they loved those too . Elliot and Bev never Ran out of things to do in the city. The best restaurant in the whole city, the crown jewel of New York, was without a doubt Shake Shack. Specifically the one by the museum of natural history.

Everything in the city was entertaining. The possibilities were endless. Elliot and Bev also took every opportunity to see the free concerts in the central park. Their favorite was the opera. Especially when La Boheme was playing . What could be better than sitting beneath a

starry sky listening to beautiful music while nibbling on cheese and bread . Less frequently, but on occasion, they took in a Shakespeare show at the Delacorte theater. The Delacorte is free to all, but Elliot and Bev knew a secret way in and never even had to stand in line to get in the front door. Their favorite show was Hamlet. They saw it at least four times.

Sometimes the happy couple took in a movie. They liked the old theater on 86th street. It was shabby looking with cracks in its plaster but they felt at home there. Sometimes they had popcorn, sometimes they didn’t. They always made their way up to the balcony which was usually empty and they had the whole thing to themselves sometimes.

Elliot and Bev had been together for quite some time now. Elliot knew that Bev was ready to start a family. It’s not that he was completely opposed to the idea, but he knew that beverly came from a very large family. He also knew that each of her siblings had very large families of their own. He pictured Bev giving birth to multiples, and he imagined himself the father of quadruplets and wasn’t sure he was ready for all that. But one day. For now they would enjoy the city and their time together. And they took frequent trips downtown to visit all those siblings, nieces and nephews. They had picnics and holiday parties.

While many are overwhelmed by New York City, Elliot and Bev were both born there and found the familiar sights and sounds a comfort. The taxis whizzing by, the occasional horn blowing, the hustle and bustle that took place all around them. One just had to be mindful of where one went and when and you were safe enough. For instance, if you went to Central Park at the wrong time you could easily meet with danger; everyone knew that. You had to be careful about crossing the street and you had to be quick! You stay far away from midtown, especially

Rockefeller Center during the holidays, when even more people than usual were there and you could get crushed if you were near the tree.

As time went on. Elliot’s love for Bev only grew. And as his love grew, so did his confidence. The thought of a great big family became more and more appealing by the day. On a cold January night on the High Line, Elliot finally ask Bev if she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him Bev was of course ecstatic. She didn’t even need to think about her answer. The words just flowed from her naturally. Bev was now content that she had finally found her soulmate. They headed back up town to go back to their building and celebrate. Once off the subway they were just a few blocks from home. They hurried in all their excitement. Finally, they were at Park Avenue with only one block left to go when it hit them; or rather almost hit them. A car swerved toward them so unexpectedly that it almost crushed them both. It was one of those Ubers, you know, a car that looks just like a regular car but drives people around like a taxi and pulls over suddenly, without the warning of a yellow cab’s color, to let passengers in or out. These Uber cars had been a problem since they started operating in the city. Suddenly the roads were minefields of unmarked cars that seems determined to run them over. In the moment of danger, Bev ran toward the curb. Elliot, who first thought he was hit, was happy to discover that he was still alive, although he was in some pain. He tried to move but felt very stuck in place. His spine seemed to hurt and his whiskers twitched. Then he realized it: the stupid Uber car was sitting on his tail. He was in fact very stuck, and there was a chance the car would run him over further when it took off again. Bev watched in horror from the nearest sewer grate. In a flash, the car lurched forward and Elliot was suddenly free, although with a missing tail. Ouch, did that hurt. Bev ran to Elliot and helped him limp home.

When they got to their building they crawled through the space around the basement windows. They got to the safe feeling place between the walls and slowly made their way upstairs above the ice cream shop. Their cozy little beds made of cotton found at the Duane Reade nearby were a happy sight. The crawled into their nest and closed their eyes and tried to forgot the whole terrible episode. But the trouble was, the whole ordeal was unforgettable. His missing tail was a constant reminder to Elliot of the trauma. He started to grow fond of the idea of leaving the city.

He pictured himself leaving the city for the first time in his life. He saw himself going out to the Connecticut suburbs to raise his family. New Canaan or Greenwich seemed like it would be a very suitable place for his children to grow up. Although this seemed like paradise to Elliot, he could foresee one small issue. He had to ask himself if Bev would ever want to leave the comforts of New York City . Would she ever leave the vibrant streets that intrigued her so? Would she ever leave the intellectuals of the city? Would she even consider leaving the building where they lived on 92nd and Madison. Elliot knew that the answer would probably be no. But the city had changed a lot from when he was young. He just couldn’t stand the thought of raising little ones in all the hustle and Bustle of New York’s Uber cars. But if Bev wanted to stay, what choice did he have? He decided that he would just have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

In the meantime, friends, family and neighbors heard about the accident and brought food. Bev’s sister and brother in law brought almost a half of an entire bagel which the dragged all the way from Manhattan bagel. Even pizza rat sent over a good size piece of crust. A friend brought a good piece of chocolate from Godiva a few block away; it is amazing what you can find in their trash at the end of the week.

The next day, Elliot got the news that would change his life forever. He was about to become a father. Surely to a large amount of pups. This news caused feelings of excitement that surprised even him. Suddenly, he felt happy and light. Even his flattened tail felt a bit less burdensome. Elliot and Bev settled in to wait out the rest of winter, and the arrival of their litter.

Finally the day came. Seven babies were born, more than twice what Elliot imagined. But he couldn’t help himself, he was happy. So happy that he couldn’t imagine changing a thing. Spring was underway and the trees had blossomed. Food was more abundant and the feeling of joy was in the air for people and mice alike. For Bev was happy. She wanted her kids to grow up with all the sophistication the city had to offer. I guess there was only one thing to do: Elliot and Bev had to teach the kids how to avoid those darn Ubers!

William Pikus is currently a student at St. Peter’s Prep in Jersey City. He is enrolled in a creative writing course for which this story was written.

The Music Box

By Prisha Mehta

Tick.

Painted eyes flutter open. She’s standing upright, balancing on the tips of her toes, one arm raised over her head and the other extended. Her left arm is caked with something—dirt? Dust?

Where is she?

Tick. Tick.

A box. Round and wooden, dim and empty, save for the dust and the two lonesome shafts of moonlight that pry through the gap under the wooden lid. She hears the murmuring of voices from somewhere above her.

Tick.

That sound. She knows that sound. But what-

Tick.

The scarce light skitters across the crack in her watch face.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

But no, the watch is broken; the hands have long ago ceased their spinning dance.

The silver light alights on the bridge of her nose. She tries to bring her arms down to her sides, but—she can’t. Why can’t she?

Tick.

She can’t feel her limbs, she realizes. Something tells her that she should be horrified, but her mind feels clouded, wooden; all she can think to do is laugh.

I can’t do that, either. I can’t feel my face.

A final tick, then a resounding groan, and, slowly, the air around her swells with the steady breath of a simple tune, tinged with dust and infused with moonlight. It weaves in and out of her consciousness, ancient and strangely familiar, a long-lost remnant of a forgotten lifetime. Each lonesome note seems to tempt the darkness, lingering only to pass on the melody before fading into oblivion. Swirling dips, twisting breaths, all infused with a life of their own.

And somehow, all of this — the tune, the moonlight, the musty smell – seems achingly familiar. She struggles to place it, but she can’t; parts of her memory feel blurred, others entirely unreachable. Another groan, and she can feel the platform beneath her tremble, then begin to turn. Ever so gently, it spins her around and around in time to the swirling tune, her partner in eternal dance.

And then it begins to rise. Does the music have wings? Or do I? As it carries her higher and higher, she finds herself wondering. The voices whisper above her, growing louder as she ascends, but she can’t quite make out their words. And yet, she feels as if she’s heard them before…

The lid creaks as it slides to the side, into the wall of the box, and moonlight filters through, shimmering against her skin. The music seems to carry her up, higher and higher, enveloping her in its protective embrace, and through the opening, she can see two blurred, spinning faces peering down at her.

But it’s she that spins, not them, and as she rises through the top of the box, the moonlight traces the sloping curve of her body, casting a soft halo of light on the wood around her. She seems to glow, angelic, yet somehow reminiscent of a demon rising from hell.

The voices. She can hear them more clearly now, a woman and a man, but she can’t see their faces. She’s turned away from them, towards an open window, her small frame drowning in the moonlight.

“My god, is that made of wood, too?”

The lid clicks into place beneath her, and still, still she turns.

“Yes, can you believe the craftsmanship? The hands are so-”

She can almost see them now; still blurry, but she can make out wisps of silvery hair and the edge of a puzzled frown. This, too, feels vaguely familiar…

“That’s funny; I don’t remember there being a watch.”

A watch. Her watch, and the woman, and…the music box. The music box.

A buried memory swells to the front of her mind, a rolling wave of thought, and she has no choice but to let it swallow her.

Her eighth birthday, and a beam of sunlight slips through the window, landing on two unwrapped presents on the carpet, both from her grandmother. The first is a watch, ticking gently, the sunlight dancing with its golden hands and tracing shimmering patterns across its white letter band. The second, a music box.

She puts the watch on first, pausing for a moment to admire it before the box steals her attention. She picks it up. It’s cool and smooth against her palm, and the musty smell of old wood weaves through the air. Round and covered in a thin layer of dust, the wood underneath polished to perfection.

She turns the key in the bottom of the box.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

And then, suddenly, the music begins to play. She gasps and stares down at the box, transfixed, as something within it seems to shift, as the lid slides away. She catches a glimpse of the wooden interior, but a platform begins to rise up from the center, blocking her sight. She frowns; no spinning dancer stands on the platform.

And suddenly, it’s as if the music speaks to her soul, and she reaches out to touch the wood. She closes her eyes and has the distinct feeling that the room is growing larger, that she, herself, is spinning. Tries to open them, but she can’t, she can’t…it’s as if her body is made of wood—she moves nothing, feels nothing.

Then, darkness.

And she’s back to reality; the music has stopped now, and she finds herself descending back into the box.

“I hate to part with it; it used to belong to my granddaughter, you know. She went missing four years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.”

And, slowly, as she spirals out of the reach of the moonlight, she feels her mind hardening, gently solidifying in wood.

Her painted eyes flutter closed.

Tick.

Prisha Mehta is a student at Millburn High School in New Jersey, and she is very passionate about her writing. She aspires to be a successful author one day, and has won many writing awards, including a Scholastic National Gold Medal. Her work has been published in “Spaceports and Spidersilk” and is forthcoming in “Riggwelter” and “Body Without Organs”. When she isn’t writing, she can often be found scrolling through psychology articles, sketching in her notebook, or of course, reading. You can find out more about her at prishamehta.com

A Second Chance

By Frank Yang

Wilson stared out through the large, expansive window. Having a window was a privilege, but the view from the 34th floor was depressing. Most of the other buildings were old, dating back to the days when they were meant to shelter people from snow and cold. Now the year-round tropical heat and humidity made mold grow over the city and concrete crumble like wet sand. A gray sea mist was coming in, making the buildings look even sadder. Only the new State buildings, all crystal and steel, stood out in the grayness.

As head of recruitment, Wilson had an office all to himself. On the wall adjacent to the window were framed posters featuring the slogan, “A Second Chance.” Sitting at his desk, Wilson reflected on his success. The Ministry of Life’s space program was about to launch yet another colony ship, the Falcon, on the long journey to GY129. The spaceship would lift off in three days, and Wilson just needed one more recruit to fill the ship with 5,000 qualified colonists.

There was a respectful tap on the door, then a pause before it opened and James Wong entered. Fresh out of National Training, the unremarkable-looking young Junior wore the standard black overalls with the insignia of the State.

“James,” Wilson said. “Come in. I presume you know why you’re here.”

“Yes, sir,” was James’s reply. “At least I think I do. I’ve been told I have a chance of being on the Falcon.”

“A great professional opportunity,” Wilson reminded him. “Are you aware that this is quite an honor for a Junior?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” James replied eagerly.

Wilson gave James his usual talk, finishing up with the Falcon’s mission and how lucky James was to be assigned to the colony ship. He was pleased by how humbly and attentively James listened. He was a perfect Junior, Wilson thought. If he stayed on Earth, he would probably rise to become a high-level official in the Ministry. But he was going to the colonies instead, which was a sign of devotion to the State. Still, he would probably do just as well in the colonies and become a high official there.

“Congratulations,” Wilson said as he logged into System and changed James’s status from Junior to Senior. Then he pulled out a set of dark burgundy Senior overalls, wrapped in plastic. They were identical to the Juniors’ uniforms except for the color. He handed it to James and shook the young man’s hand, surprised at himself for feeling a little bit envious. “Now,” Wilson said. “Let’s get you to the spaceport.” That was where James would receive his final training before boarding the Falcon and departing for the colonies.

They were whisked down in a Ministry lifter, one of the few existing in New Ocean City, then took the elevated hyper loop reserved for ministry officials. The hyper loop was a local, stopping at every station. As they passed Central Supermarket, James gasped at its size. “Back home in New Waterline, the State sent food out to us directly,” James explained. “There was no way for us to get any more than the ration.”

New Waterline, Wilson knew, was a much smaller coastal city. Actually, he mentally corrected himself, it had been a coastal city in the province of Pennsylvania until the waters of the Atlantic finally washed over it ten years ago. He did not tell James that most of the shelves in the Central Supermarket were empty. It was probably just a temporary shortage, Wilson reminded himself optimistically… though less land above water meant less food for rations and almost no luxuries. The State’s official position was that rising sea levels were not an issue that people needed to worry about, but the Ministry’s generous funding of the colonization program suggested otherwise. At least half of what had been State land was now covered by water.

“We used to own a two-bedroom house on the beach,” James reminisced. “It was me and two older brothers and our aunt. My parents left when I was only two. They were chosen to go to the colonies, back when they still had conscriptions.” Wilson nodded. When the first colony ships were being launched, fear of the unknown made voluntary recruitment next to impossible. But as the oceans covered more land and life became harsher, more people signed up voluntarily. Wilson had even turned a few away, though they would undoubtedly make it onto the next ship.

James looked hopeful. “That’s one of the reasons why I signed up. To reunite with my brother, up in the stars. He went to the colonies last year. My other brother died in the New Waterline flood, so I have no one else.”

The sadness on James’s face was quickly replaced with excitement as they approached the Spaceport. They passed through security and into the soaring entrance hall, several stories high with magnificent chandeliers dangling down. It was intended to make prospective colonists feel awed, and it worked.

Another lifter ferried them up to the 22nd floor, the Department of Colonial Training. There, Wilson greeted Leo, the training director, and handed James over to him. “Good luck,” he told James. He nodded to Leo and left.

Just as he was about to get back on the lifter, Wilson heard the sound of laughter echoing sharply in the gleaming hallway. It came from a nearby conference room. The door was slightly ajar, and now Wilson could hear pieces of the conversation taking place inside. He recognized one of the voices: it was Ross, head of Colonization. Thinking he should say hello, Wilson started for the door but then stopped, not wanting to interrupt a meeting in progress. Then he heard Ross speak:

“People are desperate enough to believe anything, I guess. Even if we detected a habitable planet in another system, we don’t even have the technology or resources to go any farther than Mars.” Ross sighed. “Sometimes I feel bad for those people, with their dreams of a Second Chance.”

“Maybe they do get a Second Chance,” the other voice said. “I mean, if there’s an afterlife.” There was more laughter. Wilson almost gasped, but he caught himself. He needed to hear more.

“Besides,” continued the other voice, “it’s not like either of us could do anything about it. Step out of line and the Controllers will find you and throw you into one of the maximum-security prisons. Or worse.”

“I know,” Ross said. “Plus, we’re reducing the population, and that means more resources for the lucky ones who survive.”

“Like us,” said the other voice.

“Like us,” agreed Ross.

Wilson felt his blood turn into ice. He could not believe the State was behind this. All that he had been told, and all he had told others was a lie. How much blood did he have on his hands? How many people had he, as Head of Recruitment, sent off to the “Colonies” that didn’t even exist? No wonder the launch site was so heavily guarded. They weren’t sending anybody into space. They were just murdering people. Now he understood why the State didn’t address the issue of rising sea levels. It was because they didn’t need to. Instead, they chose to reduce the population to allow the decreasing amount of resources to be shared among fewer people.

Then he thought of James. James, who thought he was going to reunite with his brother in the stars. At that moment, Wilson knew he had to get James out of there. He charged back towards the Department of Colonial Training and snatched James right out of the room before Leo’s eyes.

“Just trust me. It’s for your own good,” Wilson said as they entered the lifter. Wilson told James all that he had heard. James almost fainted. Wilson thought they had made it out, but when the doors opened on the first floor, they were met by a squadron of Controllers, armed with laser guns and tasers. Wilson swallowed. “The lifter,” he whispered. “It must be monitored by security.” He felt a second of terror before everything went black.

When Wilson woke up, he was in a small barred cell, alone. James was nowhere to be found. His body ached all over and his mind was frantically trying not to think of what would happen next. Would they torture him before killing him? He knew what the State did to people accused of treason, and he did not see how he could talk his way out of the charge.

When the door opened a bit, he scrambled up, hoping to get some information, at least about James. But it was just a hand sliding in a tray with food and water. For two days, Wilson saw nobody, just that hand sliding in the tray.

On the third day, the door finally opened and two silent guards came in. From their gray uniforms with the State’s insignia, Wilson knew immediately that they were Controllers. They would not speak to him, but just handcuffed him and dragged out of the building and into a prison transport elevated hyper loop with neither windows nor a clear destination.

When the transport finally stopped, he was pulled out again. When his silent guards turned him around, Wilson immediately knew what his fate was.

He had only ever seen pictures of the top-secret launch site, but he knew he was looking at the Falcon; the ship that he now knew would never take off. It looked just like all the ships in the posters. “They must paint a new name on it every time,” he thought. “For the publicity pictures.”

The Falcon was waiting for him, its last passenger. This was his Second Chance.

Frank Yang is a high school student in New York City whose passions range from reading and writing to science and technology.

Mass Production of Flames

By Marriya Schwarz

For the third time in my eight-hour shift, the needle pricks the scabbed and clotted skin outlining my fingernails. Grimacing slightly, I lift my fingers from the soft cotton blouse and watch the crimson liquid pool over my cuticles. Bringing my hands to my cream white apron, I add to the decorations of scarlet scattered around the cloth. I have to be careful. Mr. Blanck and Mr. Harris don’t like it when blood gets on the shirtwaists. I don’t want to explain to my family why we won’t be eating this week. Usually, the bosses don’t spend their time in the lower levels; the salty stenches of blood and sweat tend to turn people away. Sponging the sweat off my forehead with my wrist, I try to stay focused on the task at hand.

Still, my mind continues to wander. It doesn’t help that people are hollering, enjoying their Saturday afternoons eight floors below. I can imagine myself wearing one of these shirtwaists and strolling through the streets. My sister is always going on and on about getting one of those lavish hats to balance on the top of her head, feathers and flowers spilling from it. Shaking the fantasy from my head, I glance over at the big clock hoisted above the door. Only twenty minutes left and no mistakes now. That’s what Mr. Blanck is always telling us. As the uniformed men brought in the new electric machines, he told us specifically, wagging his finger in our faces, “Three thousand stitches a minute. No mistakes.”

I count to six thousand before I glance at the clock again. Only a minute and a half has gone by. My pride tugs at the corner of my lips as I realize that I have beaten the average already. Feeling my mind start to wander yet again, I shift in my seat. The bosses make us pay for our own electricity, so I need to keep focused. There can be no wasting it. No matter how bad the working conditions are, everyone who quits always comes back within the next week, like a boomerang. With the current economy, we need to take any job we can get.

The sweat trickles down past my ear, overflowing like a crashing waterfall, as I try to focus on my stitches. However, my sewing machine neighbor constantly shifting in her seat is distracting me. She’s just a child of ten years old. I can tell that she needs to use the bathroom but with the foremen watching, there are no bathroom breaks. Their silent rubber heels always catch people and send them back to their stations, pursed lips hidden beneath their groomed moustaches.

I count to 15,096 when the smell of smoke wafts into my nostrils. My mind tries to play it off as exhaustion-induced hallucination. However, when I glance back over to my neighbor, I see her own nose scrunched up at the odor. Everyone is so attached to their work and the money it brings in that they don’t even bother to look for the source. The foreman is too busy scolding a young German girl about her needles that he doesn’t even look up. Seeing as I am ahead on my stitches, I risk a glance behind me. A wisp of smoke is exiting from the tips of a rag bin. Before my eyes, I watch that same wisp turn to red and yellow as the flames leap upward.

“Fire!” I shout, the word ripping from my throat before I even realize that the noise is coming from me. The other English-speaking girls’ heads whip upwards, leaping from their machines.

“Fuoco!” An older Italian woman nearby shouts. Soon, every translation of the word is springing up along the eighth floor. By now, the flames are leaping across the room, licking at our ankles.

With the recent union protests in our building, Mr. Harris took it upon himself to lock all of the exits except for the Greene Street stairway. There, he would force us to undergo bag checks to make sure we weren’t stealing extra thread or needles in our purses. Only he has the keys to the other exits that he carries on a large brass ring.

As we press closer to the other side of the room, I watch as the foreman tries to use the hose to dampen the fire. However, the valve is rusted shut from lack of use. The doorway to the Greene Street stairway isn’t even visible anymore. The smoke completely covers it, blanketing over our only escape from top to bottom. Wicker baskets are scattered around the room in chaos. The fire just continues to eat them up, its hunger still not satisfied.

Blindly, I look around for my little sister, trying to catch a glimpse of her red braids somewhere in the crowd. I’m still calling out her name frantically when a small hand grips ahold of my dress. Quickly, I turn around to see my Ann staring back at me. Her cheeks are red; tears flowing freely down the sides of her face. The bottoms of her dress are singed, like she barely made it out before the flames took hold of what they thought they were entitled to. Her breath escapes her lips raggedly as her smaller hand tangles with mine. I give it a short squeeze and we push toward the elevator shaft. Already, girls are piling in, trying to cram as many bodies as they can into one car.

“No more!” A girl barks at the rest of us, closing the gate quickly behind her. The last thing I see of her is the soot draped beneath her cheekbones as the shaft descends downward.

“We didn’t get on that one.” Ann murmurs, her bottom lip quivering.

“Next one, Annie, next one,” I whisper back, tugging on her hand. I can tell she’s terrified, her tears dropping onto the floor next to her feet. “Remember our plans? We are going to become rich and wear fancy evening gowns—”

“Can I get a fancy hat?” she asks me, suddenly.

“The fanciest,” I assure her.

“A purple hat?” she asks again, her voice trembling.

“The brightest, biggest purple hat we can find.” I nod to her. The next car never arrives. People start to become frantic, pushing forward and trying to see what the holdup is. The people up in front are whispering to the back that the elevator has crashed and there will be no more. Screams flood my ears as people jump down the shaft to escape the fire that is drifting even closer to our bodies that are shivering even though we aren’t at all cold.

“Come on.” Ann tugs on my hand and urges me closer to the shaft.

“We aren’t jumping, Annie,” I tell her, urgency etched in my voice.

“Everyone else is doing it.”

“We’ll die on impact,” I try to convince her, but she is having none of it. Instead, she pushes to the front of the group. I get caught in the back, angry girls in scorched dresses covering up her trail. I try to yank a girl backwards to get back to my sister and she kicks me straight in the knees. Hobbling for a few seconds, I at last get to the front of the group. Ann is standing at the very edge of the shaft. I try to pull her back, but I only get the back of her necklace that we made together when we were children. Beads fly down with her as I clench my eyes closed, as if that will block out her scream. For a second, I can’t breathe. My sister is gone and I don’t wait to hear the crash landing. I took this job to keep my family alive and I failed. Without her, it just seems all over. With my knees aching, I limp to the back of the crowd.

My vision is foggy from my own tears, but I run back toward the fire escape. Girls are standing around the window, watching the fire trucks pull in outside. They are screaming, their words overlapping so it sounds like a foreign tongue I’ve never heard before. I watch as the ladders fall short and the flames grow taller. Taking a deep breath, I think of my other family members. With our mother sick, they still need me to help provide a somewhat steady source of income. With their survival on my mind, I push my way to the front.

My first steps on the fire escape are wobbly. I don’t feel completely safe on the thing, but then again, I don’t feel at all safe in the building either. Other girls are screaming at me for running past them, but in the moment, I don’t care. Beneath my feet, I can feel the rumble of the girls in front of me, scrambling down. Quickening my pace, I throw my shoes off, figuring I can do this quicker barefoot. The metal is hot beneath my skin, which gives me an incentive to run faster. I’m just at the second floor when the fire escape releases a fatal creak. Clenching my teeth together, I run faster before the metal caves out from beneath me. Clattering to the ground, I’m lucky that I’m at a short enough distance that the net the firefighters have set up catches my fall. Others are not so fortunate.

As I’m rolled off of the net, I try not to pay attention to the falling figures or the disheveled tangles of hair. But I can’t do anything to block the screams.

A week later, I am called back to collect my paycheck from that terrible day. My heart is still in pieces, the remnants of my sister’s necklace coiled around my wrist. They place both of our paychecks in my hands. As soon as I get the money, I turn back around and walk toward a store that Ann and I only dreamed of entering. And I buy a hat. Not just any hat. The fanciest purple hat that they have.

Marriya Schwarz is a junior at the College of William & Mary, with roots in the Northern Virginia region. She was a recipient of two gold keys and one silver medal in the 2016 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and the third-place winner of the College of William & Mary’s Howard Scammon Drama Prize in 2018. Her writing has been featured in Writopia Lab’s From Your Friendly Neighborhood Feminist and Women’s eNews: Teen Voices. In her free time, she is a historic tour guide, a tap dance teacher, and a web series producer.

Bones

By Temima Levy

The I’s stuck up out of the letter like broken bones.

I miss you. I like it here. I want you to come.

The hand that hit my face wrote this.

Flesh incarnadined.

I shan’t forget the wounds.

Temima is an avid reader, writer, poet, and artist who enjoys the moments right after sunset when it’s not quite night. She can be found anywhere within the vicinity of a book.

Glimpses

By Audrey Rabick

I skid down Main Street, cursing Bill’s name. He promised to put the snow tires on yesterday, but I suppose I shouldn’t have expected him to develop a sudden sense of responsibility overnight. The kids shout and kick in the backseat, fractioning my attention into sharp and shiny thoughts, utterly disconnected. Up ahead a red light glows like a beacon. I need to work on my sleep schedule, I feel like my brain’s imploding on itself. Ok, go through the motions, drive the kids to school, go home to start dinner and do the laundry, just like any other day. I break for the red light and my heart thunks as the engine grinds. “Please, please, please.” My toes curl as I press down on the brake. Skid, skid, skid: the grinding sound from the engine combines with the kids’ shouts. I close my eyes as the red light passes overhead.

…

I scowl at the falling snowflakes. My eyes dart between the road and the clock. 8:59, 9:00, 9:01, each minute that ticks by increases my anxiety. I can’t be late again. She won’t like it, and I can’t take her anger twice in the same week. I accelerate into the snowstorm. I thank God for each green light. I flip off the slow truck drivers. Brake lights ahead, despite another green light. What the hell? I check the clock, 9:05. I pass the car in front of me and race forward, only then noticing the blue minivan drifting into the middle of the intersection from the side. I start to brake, but I know it’s too late. Too late, too late: instinctually, I glance at the clock: 9:07.

…

I grip the steering wheel, transfixed by the view. Two cars, only a couple meters in front of me, a blue minivan and a silver car. It plays out like a movie, the faster car speeding into the minivan, sending it spinning around and around with a splay of car parts flinging off, until coming to a crooked halt. The car careens into a ditch, tilting and landing on its side. Just looking, I can imagine that any moment now the cops show up to arrest the bad guys crawling out of the cars, ending an epic car chase. My sister made me watch an action movie with that exact ending just yesterday, for my sixteenth birthday. The illusion of fantasy shatters in the still silence after the collision. My breathe comes faster, “oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh.” That could have been me. If I’d been going a little faster…The thought of it makes me want to flee, get out of the car and never enter a vehicle again. I turn, expecting my parents to somehow appear in the passenger side, to comfort me and help me get home. They aren’t there. I’m all alone, all alone, all alone. No bad guys are getting out of the wrecked cars, nobody’s getting out. Right, right, I need to call 911, breathe in and breathe out, then I dial the numbers.

…

I sigh as the ambulance pulls into the hospital, snowy days are always hectic. I scratch on the clean blue scrubs that were getting tighter with each passing month. They pull a stretcher out and I grit my teeth: juveniles. I’m reminded that I have to call Riley and make sure he knows it’s my turn watch his kids this weekend. I direct the paramedics to room 8b, simultaneously jotting down the notes and observations they call out. Boy, nine years old, head injury, unconscious. Girl, six years old, broken arm, severe cuts, conscious and talking. Next comes the driver, wide-eyed and pale, but walking, trailing the kids down the hallway. Victor comes in last, closing the doors behind him, I raise an eyebrow, “Is that everyone?” He winces, nods, and I sigh again. Victor is one of the new paramedics, unaccustomed to failure, unlike some of us. I wave him through the hallway, then turn to stare at the thick snow coming down, finishing the notes to send on to the doctors.

Audrey Rabick is a junior at Comstock Public High School; writing has been her passion for many years now and has helped her through the ups and downs of high school life. This is the first time she’s flung herself into the abyss that is publishing. She lives a charmingly boring life in Kalamazoo, MI.