Three empty office chairs sit in a white room.

Broken chair: A short story

A slam. Claire never thinks to shut the door slowly. It’s just me, you and the sound of your rapid typing permeating the silence. I’m not sure why it feels colder in here. I try to focus on my own work. Painting serenity is harder than you’d think. Serenity? It
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Fig Season: A short story

July. The doctor finds a tumor. Sylvia finds the first ripe fig of the season. October. Her father is dead. Sylvia is holding a wicker basket of sweet figs between her thighs, sweating and sitting cross-legged on her tiled kitchen floor. She is smoking with her right hand, plucking figs
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A woman holding a glass of wine and a card that says "love you"

Fatal Reveries: A short story

Content warning: The following short story contains mentions of depression and suicide.  Mae Franklin planned on killing herself today. She was now determined with the idea, though for so long it remained a distant promise — like when she planned on moving to Aruba or pursuing a PhD in literature.
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A person with gold dripping out of their mouth

The Light Bleeder: A short story

Last Tuesday, I met a woman who spills glowing clouds of breath from between her lips with every word she speaks, like she begs me to match her gleam. And if I showed her, “Yes, I glow too” and slid a blade along my finger, let the light drip out
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A line of people walking uphill with a girl carrying a backpack running among them

Home all along: A short story

Dedicated to my mother. Felíz cumpleaños mamí, te amo mucho. Brown paper bag secured under her arm, oversized backpack bouncing on her back and hair in a bun, Claudia made her way up the hill to take the bus to school. Today was the first day of class, but it
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Silhouette of a desert tree in front of sunset as city lights can be seen in the distance.

It Keeps Going: A short story

It had become routine by now. I was hardly shocked when the sound of shattered glass woke me. Through half-open eyes, I made out a figure: Simon, at the foot of my bed. His hand lay wearily on the corner of my shelf where a framed photo of me and
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Portuguese daydreams

Work in Progress

I was sitting in Portuguese 103 one dreary winter day last semester when it occurred to me — and this thought was not in English, but in the Portuguese-Spanish cocktail pseudo-dialect known as “Portunhol” — that I was, in that moment, a visitor to the Portuguese language.
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I read it on the internet

Work in Progress

On my computer, I wrote troves of poetry and metaphorical stories, burdening Microsoft Word documents with lamentations about the depression I had been dealing with since fourth grade, and about my parents divorcing. Alone in my room, symbolic pen in my hand, I began, in earnest, to cement my career as a writer.
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