Story

“Gah!” barked Saera as she shot upward in bed. Bright white sunlight streamed into her windows. She sweated and she shuddered and she sighed and she… Felt better. Her silver eyes went wide. She breathed, and though some soreness lingered from the coughing she had done for days, the cough itself was completely gone. Her fever, her chills, her nausea and the urge to vomit—gone. She felt well, and healthy, and a surge of joy ran up her chest at the idea. But… something else. H

When on poetic venture one begins, When to a great endeavor one aspires; When to the earth a great new thing is born, When something mighty is in the attempt; When wielding water, fire, air, and earth, When knitting flesh and steel, circuit and bone; When dreaming plots, and vast conspiracy, When naming faction, tumult, strife, and war; When of heroes and villains one would speak; When speaking, too, of those who blur such lines; When dealing of great things, and small things

Marin was sitting on the couch, thumbs flicking idly over her phone screen. The doorbell rang, and her blue eyes glimmered in mirth. “I’ll get it!” she yelled. Vaulting from the couch, she ran through the halls to the front door, and threw it open. “Hey, guys!” “Yo,” said Ardo. “Hello!” said Saera. “Hey, Marin,” said Terry. “Oh, man, come in!” said Marin, throwing wide the door. She was wearing a wool dress in a dark green color. Saera was wearing corduroy pants and a blo

It was a cold December day, early December. Ardo turned to look at Saera. She smiled at him. He smiled at her. It was not so cold when they looked at each other. Ardo pointed. Saera looked. A glance, again, passed between them, and they moved, down into the concrete deeping that formed the drainage ditch. They were downtown. They had taken the bus; Saera had helped Ardo with the precise route. Slowly they wended their way down the heavy, dark gray slope of concrete. It was c

Marin plotted and schemed. It was a few days after Ardo’s beating. As Tyler had predicted, the attack could not be pinned on him or his group due to the lack of cameras around the sewage treatment facility. Mr. Gideon had his suspicions, of course, but without firm proof he could pass no judgment, and merely put out a very stern warning to the student body about fighting on school grounds. So a few days later, Marin sat, sipping gently on a juice box, listening to Becky, Ki

Marin was annoyed. “And so she just stood there, like the stupid fat cow she is, and she wasn’t even moving,” said Kimberley. “So, like, she didn’t even say anything?” said Becky. “No, it was so dumb,” said Kimberley. “She just started crying. So of course I kept making fun of her. It was fun! She just crumpled.” Lindsey snorted in laughter. “Good. Dumb bitch and her fat nerd friends made me late for Pre-Calc with their bullshit. Make her pay.” “I made David Whitaker pa

Saera stood there, in the sunshine, pale skin and platinum blond hair almost glinting, like metal. Her hands were behind her back. She turned her head over her shoulder. “What do you suppose brings us together?” Terry arched brown eyebrows. His skin, pale but not as pale as Saera’s, was also bright in the sun. He brushed a tranche of his brown hair out of his eyes. “You mean, all four of us.” “Yes.” “You could ask yourself. You and Marin have known each other the longest o

Terry blinked, worrying he’d missed something. There had been a moment… just a moment, when he’d felt zoned out. It happened sometimes. He tuned in to the teacher’s statements. “So we find that Azeria’s short story therefore speaks to us about inclusion and exclusion. Ingroups and outgroups. And it asks the fundamental question: how do you know who to trust?”Terry hastily wrote notes down on his desk. A sharp, bright breath issued from off to his right. He glanced over. Ard

“Again.” Taking in a deep breath, Marin rose up on her toes. She vaulted forward, first on one foot, then the next, turned, spun with her arms in the air, twisted gracefully in a pirouette. She leapt again and bowed on one foot, the other sticking far out behind her, only for her to bring it in and bend it and spin again on her single foot. She crossed a foot before her other foot and twirled and spun and leapt and flew, sweat beading in her black hair, knit carefully in a b

Saera tapped her stylus idly on the screen that was her desk. Her silver white eyes drifted absently over the blank canvas, dotted here and there by the black digital ink that the tip of her stylus produced. Her eyes grew half-lidded, and she sifted through the mostly-empty miasma of her current thoughts. A flicker came across her mind, then, and she began to write. A turning In and out, Over, over, Drifting, gazing But then her thoughts went dead, and the little inspiration