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For its relatively tiny size, Highland Park hosts a proportionately large number of events and activities for its residents. 5K races, music festivals, baking and eating competitions, marches for social justice and human rights … there’s something for everyone’s talents and passions if you’re willing to step forward, jump in. And the magic of this town is most palpable when we do. This writing contest was designed to create another such opportunity. To make this collection successful, people of all backgrounds had to raise their hands and declare themselves ready and willing. We needed not only writers to write, but people willing to promote the event, artists to design the pages, judges to make selections, hosts and caterers to help us celebrate the accomplishments of all involved, and readers -- YOU! -- to enjoy the stories. It took a community to make this happen. To everyone who shared in this, on behalf of the Highland Park Arts Commission, please accept our heartfelt thanks. Your involvement has brightened our town; you have tied another knot in strengthening our community bonds. And all this in 24 hours, and with just a very small amount of words … THANK YOU.

The honest truth is that the format of this contest is nothing novel. There are ones like it across the globe, hosted by big names in publishing and lile organizations, alike. The rules are simple: Each participant is given a unique set of writing prompts (a genre, an action, and a word) and they have 24 hours to write a story of 250 words or less. That’s it. Sounds simple, no? Of course it’s not. Having no idea what challenges will be sent to you, there is no way to prepare. Practicing your best horror tropes does nothing for you when you are eventually assigned “romantic comedy” instead. The pressure of time, too, weighs on you; every tick of the clock resounds as a reminder that, if you don’t submit in time, you’ll be disqualied. We make our contest even more jarring by starting the clock at 11:59 p.m. on a Saturday night, leaving our contestants to decide: sleep rst and write with a clear, rested mind or jump into it immediately, making use of every possible minute? And the word limit? Two hundred and fty words is a couple paragraphs at best. Can you really craft a full and competitively creative story arc in so few words? The following pages are the 41 residents of this town that responded, “Of course I can.” And they did. Which leads me to say this: Can I tell you a secret? The real reason I organize this contest is so that I don’t have to be a judge. I get the privileged access of reading the stories immediately upon their return, enjoying them through the early morning hours after the 11:59 p.m. Sunday deadline has come and gone, without having any pressure to pick favorites. I simply cannot. The stories in the

pages that follow have provoked a full range of emotions in me. They have made me laugh aloud, made me roll my eyes, and even made me blush. More than once, they made me pull the person closest to me a lile closer to say, “Look! Look how they used this prompt!” All of them have made me feel awe at the feat that was accomplished by these writers. I love this town. I really, really do. Congratulations to all of the writers who participated. Please know how honored I feel to get a peek into your artistry. Warmly, Nikki Gonzalez SOME FACTS • Our youngest participant is 5 years old. • The rst story that was returned was emailed to me at 1:14 a.m. • 17 writers returned to this contest, having competed last year. • 3 of our judges are English teachers. • There was a bit of a ght between artists about who would get the honor of illustrating the story about all of the burping. In the end, we Rock, Paper, Scissored it. Best out of 3. • Not having ever been a night owl of a person, I drank 3 cups of coee on Saturday and set 2 separate alarms to make certain I didn’t sleep through sending out the assignments on time. Seriously.

Historical Fiction going to a fortune teller accent Abernathy C. Furlong rose that morning with a stir, checked his face in the mirror. The beard was long, the eyes sunken, and a tinging yellowed hue hung on his cheeks. He’d been out here in the hills of Alabama alone in his cabin since the winter of ‘58. How long since Annabelle died, hard to say, maybe a decade? But today, Abernathy was headed to town. The sun glinted o the dusting of snow that fell last night. Rare for this part of Alabama, but not unheard of, Abernathy took the old route, enjoying the light as he passed through the sloping landscape, the pine groves, around the lake, and down the valley into Alabaster. Main Street seemed dierent somehow, emptier. Never a large town, but it had been full. Now, fewer goods hung from the general store window, some saloons gone, and he only noted two women pass as he made his way to see Ms. Penny, the fortune teller. Penny welcomed Abernathy softly, and showed him to the Tarot table. Strangely, she didn’t appear much older, but her accent had 1st Artwork by Alice Schuck

changed, maybe softer around the southern edges. She told him about the war, General Lee, the collapse of the Confederate Dollar, and the Night they Drove old Dixie down. Then, she took out the pack of cards, laid them on the table, and drew. Abernathy watched as she pulled one gently from the deck, slowly turned it over, and placed it on the table. It was blank.

Fairy Tale eating cake happy Once upon a time in the Cherry Blossom Woods there was a princess named Evelyn. This year she was turning 16 and her mom said, “Your cake is very special.” Evelyn was going to have a big party. The whole land was invited including all the kings and queens in the land! Evelyn was so happy that she could not feel her ngers! When the day of the party arrived, Evelyn was so happy. The party was going well until her mom called everyone over for cake. Since Evelyn was the birthday girl, she got the rst slice of cake. When she ate the cake, she turned into a goblin! One by one everyone turned into a goblin. This happened because when her mom was younger, she fell in love with a goblin and she used the cake recipe that the goblin gave her. A few decades passed with everyone as a goblin. It was chaotic. Then one day a prince came along. He walked through the Cherry Blossom Woods and he found the castle. He went inside and he opened the castle doors. Then he saw goblin Evelyn and all the other goblins. The goblins started running, trying to get the prince. The prince ran away. Goblin Evelyn caught him. Goblin Evelyn ate the prince. Turns out, being a goblin wasn’t too bad. Goblin Evelyn ruled over her goblin kingdom with kindness and respect for the rest of eternity. She ate so many more princes. Artwork by Angela McCarthy 1st

Artwork by Miri Hahn

Comedyplaying at the playground Band-Aid Once upon a time, there were two kids. Their names were Katie and Jon. They were playing on the monkey bars at a playground. Katie fell o the bars. And she bled. She got a band-aid. She felt hurt and scared. Her friend Jon was a funny kid. He liked to make jokes. Some of his jokes were so funny that people fell out of their chairs from laughter. Jon saw Katie fall and felt sad that she fell. So, he decided to try and make Katie laugh. He told her a joke about two dinosaurs. Katie still wasn’t laughing. Then he tried another joke about 3,000 chickens. And it still wasn’t funny. Finally, Jon told her another joke. This joke was about two babies crawling around, making cooing sounds, and then they both stood up and belly- bumped. Jon was making such funny faces and acting out the lile-baby-belly-bumps that Katie nally started cracking up. They walked home together laughing. Every few minutes they would start cooing and belly- bumping the whole way home. 1st

Ghost Story proposing marriage antique Mary Ellico had a headache. It was June 26th, 2015, the third day of The Afterlife Explorers and Mediumship Convention, and the antique hotel was crammed with ghosts tagging along with their mediums— and they Would. Not. Shut. Up. “It’s a blessing,” her mother liked to say, about Mary’s gift, but her mother didn’t have to deal with migraines or with spirits trying to communicate in languages as dead as they were. Mary tried hard to help all her spirits, she really did, but she had her limits. Jedidiah, a Confederate soldier with a gaping bayonet wound, had been with her as long as she could remember. He’d sworn an oath in his lifetime to never rest until the South seceded, and he—along with Mary—was stuck with the unfortunate reality of a united country. On the bright side, Mary had aced her middle school Civil War class without studying. “Jonathan!” Mary heard Steven call, his voice trilling. 2nd

Mary practiced her deep breathing, in through her nose. She’d only picked up those two recently, but couples were the worst. Nonstop chaer. “Jonathan, did you hear the news? They nally did it! Gay marriage is legal!” “Steven! My love! Will you marry me?” “Of course! Yes!” With those words, the ghosts of Steven and Jonathan disappeared: pop! pop! Their unnished business was nished. Around the lobby, a cacophony of proposals and pop!s. And then— blessed silence. “Now you just need to get the South to secede,” Jedidiah said gloomily.

Drama breaking a window hurt I can feel the sharp pain in my hand as I break the window. Glass shaers, scaering on the floor. I rush inside the house. It's dark and empty. I hear a faint sound coming from upstairs. I immediately know something is wrong. I rush up the stairs. The noise grows louder. As I approach the sound, I see my sister lying on the bed, covered in blood. I try to talk with her, but she won’t stop yelling and screaming. 2nd

“Oh my god.” A knife is lodged in her chest. She is hurt. I wasn't there when she needed me. I could have protected her. I shouldn't have left her alone. “Did you do this to yourself?” She whispers in pain, “Please don't tell anyone” I nod, but we both know she isn't going to make it anyways. “Whatever you need from me, I don't have it.” I begin to leave. “Don't go, not again, please don't leave me.” She begs me to stay, but I can’t grieve again. I drive away as fast as I can. When it felt safe to breathe again, a voice from the back seat said, “leaving so soon?” I turn around but no one’s there. I panic, and then I remember my sister's pain. I drive back to the house to save her, but it's too late. She’s gone. I left the house that day and never came back, haunted by the pain that she left behind. The pain that I caused.

Historical Fiction smelling something burning envy “If you hadn’t stayed up so late listening to your music and putzing around again, we wouldn’t have overslept this morning,” Rachel yelled at her sister. “Now they’re going to dock our pay and make us work late, and that’s if they even let us back in the building.” “How is that my fault?” Leah snapped back. “You could have goen us up in time just as easily as I could have. I’m the one who found us this job in the rst place, so don’t give me a hard time.” “Yeah, well, sewing pockets and sleeves for twelve hours a day isn’t exactly my idea of a dream job,” responded Rachel. “You said we’d nd something decent, a job where we could actually earn something.” “Enough,” Leah said. “I went to eight factories before I found one that would even consider us, so I don’t want to hear it. It’s not like I wanted this, either. Now grab your lunch and pick up the pace. They’re going to lock the doors any minute now.” The girls continued in silence as they raced through Washington Square Park, watching the picnickers with envy. Oh, to have nothing to do but play games and relax in the warmth of the sun. . . Rounding the corner and approaching the factory at nine minutes after the rst bell, Rachel halted to a stop and looked up, grabbing Leah’s arm. “What’s that smell? Is that smoke?” 3rd (tie)

Fablewinning an award neighbor The crude translation of this Italian proverb is: it is invaluable to have a home with a vineyard. With this in mind, I recount the story of a plucky lile town in a central New Jersey, called Highland Park. The town had seen its ups and downs, with its main street cycling through prosperity and blight. Highland Parkers were dismayed when their lone grocery store - a small backwater location of the chain Stop-and-Shop, announced it was closing. Neighbors spoke in worried tones - “Will another grocery store open here?” “Who would ever want to open a store in town again?” One day, soon after the closing announcement, two friends had an idea. Why not buy the old Stop-and-Shop site and plant a vineyard! After all, Highland Park is where the Band Aid was invented, and two Nobel Prizes were won, anything is possible here! So they forged ahead. A whirlwind year passed geing a loan, purchasing the property, and sourcing grapevines for the red shale blus of the tidal Raritan River. Vines were planted, and tended. Four years later Highland Park celebrated its rst boles of home-grown wine. The wine won accolades and awards and lush vineyards sprung up along the Raritan River banks. The area became known as the Tuscany of the Mid-Atlantic. New businesses followed, and the Avenue bustled once again. Trader Joe’s followed suit and opened a store at the site of an abandoned Sunoco station, selling groceries and of course boles of the famous Raritan Red. 3rd (tie)

Mystery / Thrillergoing camping bone “Mom, we should go camping today,” I said one summer afternoon. No answer. I decided that I was probably old enough to go by myself. I ate my breakfast and left. I walked all the way to the famous spruce forest campsite. I signed myself in and set up my tent. Before I could explore, the sun set. I set up a sleeping bag in the tent. I was about to fall asleep when my tent started shaking. I couldn’t see anything at rst. I heard some rustling and the snap of breaking sticks. The sound got so loud I couldn’t stand it, so I took my flashlight and went outside. The tent flipped over all by itself. I xed it and nally got to sleep. The next morning, there was a paper sign outside on a tree that said, “I have a bone to pick with you!” I ran out of the campsite, deciding that I was only going to camp when I had a grown-up with me. My mom said, “Hey honey, do you want to go camping?” I decided I would go with her since it was a dierent campsite. We were about to go to bed, but suddenly the tent raled, and I told my mom about everything that had happened last night. We ran away, leaving all of our things behind. We decided that we would just sleep at home and do our exploring during the day and that’s what we did from then on. 3 3rd (tie) Artwork by Winnie Zhao

Drama lending something to someone sweat Ding dong! “Um, hi Gladys, could I borrow a cup of sugar?” “Sure, I’ll be happy to lend you some. But please, come into the kitchen. It’s time to take some loaves out of the oven.” “Why, I thought I smelled bread! And it’s so hot in here, have you been baking all day? Um, actually Gladys, you’re not overheating, are you?” “Oh, please, it’s just a lile sweat. I love the heat!” “So many loaves again! Is this your top-secret recipe all the ladies on the block are so curious about?” “Top-secret? I’ve been sharing my recipe for years with anyone who asks!” “Um, Gladys, there’s no secret ingredient, is there? None of us comes close to making bread like yours! Your texture is amazing, and your crust! And that nuanced flavor… to die for!” “What could be more basic than bread? Flour, water, yeast, and salt. Oh, some people add a bit of sugar, or an egg, but I would never…!” She shudders. “Now, where’s my sugar? ” “Um, so, you do use sugar?” “No! I would never! But I do have some here somewhere. Didn’t you want to borrow a cup of sugar?” “Um, right, ok, thanks! Bye…” Gladys wipes her brow and starts kneading the next batch.

Outside, the ladies gather around. “Anything new?” “She said again, no eggs or sugar.” “Sigh. Well, who’s next?” Ding dong! “Oh, for crying out loud, why is everyone always out of sugar when I’m baking bread?” Artwork by Vanessa DeJesus

Fable making soup friend The monkey, girae and zebra were an inseparable group of friends. The monkey often made meals where they would share tales, laughter, and food. The monkey came down with the blues one o day and the girae oered to make a pot of special soup. The recipe was handed down from many generations of giraes and always made when anyone was not feeling well. The monkey was thrilled to have a special soup and cherished the gift the girae shared. One day the zebra had come down with the blues and the monkey, using the recipe from the giraes’ soup, made a pot for the zebra. When the girae found out, she was very hurt the monkey shared the special soup with someone else. The monkey tried to explain how much joy the soup brought when they felt bad. The monkey was only trying to make another friend feel happy. The girae contemplated not being friends anymore with the monkey, after all, it was the girae’s family soup that the monkey shared. While the monkey was visiting family, the girae came down with a case of the blues. Without the monkey to make soup, the girae was sadder. Then, from out of nowhere, the zebra showed up carrying a pot of soup that the monkey had showed her how to make. Spreading the love around does not lessen the love, just brings more.

Comedy posing for an art class crazy Charlie sat uncomfortably on her stool, dgeting with her pencil and wishing she was home watching RuPaul’s Drag Race with her cat. She glanced around the room at the other artists. Sighing, she shifted her gaze to the blank paper in front of her. She wondered why the model wasn’t here yet. Maybe they had decided to stay home and watch RuPaul’s Drag Race with their cat, she thought. Suddenly the sound of breaking glass lled Charlie’s ears. She turned to see a small dark gure darting toward the corner of the room. ‘Am I going crazy?’ she thought as she focused on the small beady eyes staring back at her. “Pssss pssss”, she whispered instinctually. To her surprise, the creature emerged from the darkness and waddled toward her. Gazing at tiny paws, a fluy striped tail, and a pointy nose, Charlie is mesmerized by the presence of this magnicent being. Abruptly, a woman screams “RACCOON!” and runs out the door, losing her scarf as she flees. Several people gasp as the raccoon darts toward the scarf and grabs it with his tiny hands. He scurries toward the platform, the scarf twirling around his pudgy body as he gracefully leaps through the air. As he lands, he strikes Artwork by Diego Gonzalez

Artwork by Wesley Stanley the ercest pose Charlie has ever witnessed. Her eyes begin to well with tears of joy at this beautiful sight. Hand shaking, Charlie picks up her pencil and begins to draw. ‘A masterpiece’, she whispers, and she’s not talking about her art.

Fairy Tale starting a war thunder There once was a soldier who served his lord through many campaigns. He had fought in the East and West. He had fought in the North and South. He survived many bales, growing from a young man to an old one. In all this time, he felt neither fatigue nor hubris. One day, after years of ghting, with the last bale won, and the gathered hosts of the lord gorged on honeyed wine and meat, the soldier found himself alone outside a small coage. Suddenly, the sky grew dark and thunder heralded a mighty storm. The soldier, not wanting to be drenched, dashed inside the coage. There, he found an old woman preparing a soup for dinner. The woman startled at his entrance, but only a moment before returning to work. “Come sit while the storm passes,” she said, indicating a table and chairs by her cookre. And so the soldier sat. After a time, the rain unrelenting, the soldier grew bored. “Can I help you?” he asked the old woman. “Can you cut potatoes?” she asked, and though the soldier had cut down many men on the baleeld, he had to shake his head. “Can you clean the rabbit?” she asked, and again the soldier said no. “Can you season the broth?” she asked.

The soldier heaved with sobs. The woman’s words pierced his breast, reminding him of all he didn’t know. “No,” he said nally. “Then no,” she said, and left him to war with himself.

Mystery / Thriller assassination aempt mix-up “Order! Order! There will be time for public comment at the end. Councilman, please continue.” “Thank you, Mayor. As I was saying, in the middle of our Wednesday planning meeting, a herd of local Deer ambled in and demanded to be heard, no pun intended. The leader, a doe named Doerothy, reported that she had recently survived an assassination aempt and demanded justice. I calmly explained that there must be a mix-up as our town does not believe in culling. An elderly stag enquired if perhaps there was a rouge element within the town who did not agree with the ocial policy. I insisted that could not be possible for we are a diverse community and therefore, we all agree that hate has no home here and we do not harm deer. Many of our residents go out of their way to feed and care for the deer going as far as moving out of their homes to let the deer move in. And we put up pro-deer lawn signs. They were here rst after all.” “Those were wise words.” “Thank you, Mayor. My thoughts exactly. I kept to my principles during this particular cannabis trip. Therefore, I move that we proceed with granting a permit to ‘The Pothole’. For the next meeting I will report on my sampling of the products from the proposed ‘Stop and Pot’ megastore.” “Thank you, Councilman, for your report and good work.” “My pleasure Mayor. Truly my pleasure.”

Fable geing plastic surgery dangerous The signs were all there. I needed to make a serious life change. When I walked into my sister’s house yesterday, her dog, Gru, looked at me and ran the other way. I could swear I heard it saying “Rough, rough!” as it fled. I looked at my niece’s aquarium and the goldsh promptly swam to the back. I thought I saw it blow bubbles of disdain at me as it glided away. Today, I went to feed a piece of my sandwich to a squirrel and it ran back up the tree. OK, so I did aim the oering at its head but still, it was a generous serving. The biggest sign? My boss, Theresa, told me on Friday: “You’re not much of a team player. You should think of making a serious life change.” What to do? Get plastic surgery? Nah - too costly. Join the circus? Naw - too dangerous. (Especially those clowns. Yike!) Join a monastery? Naw - I hear the food is awful. I went to my go-to guide on life. I Googled, “make a big change.” Yet the Wi-Fi in my local grocery store was spoy. No service. Frustrated, I put away my phone and looked around the checkout aisle. I noticed a chocolate bar which oered sound advice. It’s name - Kinder. I could try to be kinder! I think I’ll start, by complimenting the checkout clerk. And I think I’ll do it … tomorrow.

Artwork by Anjuli Sukhdeo

Sci-Fi harvesting organs tedium The machine operated on billionaire Austin Irving, whose coding perfected the articial intelligence that many robots use today worldwide. Ironically, that same coding was used for the surgical bot poking through his skull right now, determined to extract the tumor lodged in his brain. It's like he knew the only way to make it was if the tumor was removed surgically. What do you do when you’re a rich and egotistical moneybags of a man who trusts nobody, absolutely nobody but yourself? Build your own savior so that an imperfect and unworthy human surgeon, such as myself, doesn’t have to go anywhere near you. I was one of the lucky, or unlucky, few to have watched. I must admit it was spectacular. The pace and precision in which metal arms, like the probing of a stringless puppet, worked around the operation, otherwise lled by fourteen hours of tedium, lled my brain with various possibilities of what this means for people like me. I imagined those same arachnid arms harvesting organs all throughout the body, not just the brain, replacing surgeons of every class and every eld. So I did what I had to. I saw the re ax embedded in the wall put there to save a life when the time was needed, and the time was needed. The next thing I knew, woken up by the ring of the heart monitor, those same metal arms were now metal duds on the floor broken into tiny lile pieces.

Artwork by Diego Gonzalez

Romance / Rom-Com doing laundry sneeze Steve pulled open the door with diculty as the wind pushed against it. With a loud bang, the door slammed shut once he was able to push the bag of dirty laundry in. Rows of washers and dryers stood empty yet he heard one dryer pounding away with each spin. His eyes widened when he saw the beauty next to the machine. Short pixie blue hair, ed black t-shirt and matching black jeans. Bright blue eyes and a lip ring. He dropped his bag of clothes on the floor two machines away. He didn’t want to be stalkerish the moment he walked in. “How you doin’?” he smiled as he asked with his best Joey Tribiani voice.

She looked up from her iPhone. “Friends, cute,” she said with a slight smile. “I know,” he smiled back. “Empire Strikes back,” she winks. “Ex-cell-ent,” he nods. “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure,” she replied back. “I can do this all day,” Steve says. She laughs. “First Avenger, Civil War, and Endgame!” she shoots back. He waves his nger, “You, you, you’re very good,” in a horrible De Niro accent. “Analyze this!” she counters. With a wide smile, Steve says, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” She takes a step forward and breathes out “Casablanca.” Steve takes a step forward and suddenly, “ACHOO” he sneezed right in her face. As she wipes her face with her hand, she says “I don’t know that one. . .” and then they both laugh.

Comedy fainting pothole Thud! Crunch! The unmistakable sound of my car slamming into the South Sixth Street pothole, so big it could have its own zip code, caused all 206 bones in my body to rale like a symphony of maracas. "Rut Road," I muered angrily. While I tried in vain to use the "Boston Straddle" to escape the deep crater, the undercarriage of my car disappeared into the abyss faster than the Edmund Fitzgerald into Lake Superior. It was ing there was a place of worship on the corner, as it was a holy road. Stepping out light-footed and light-headed, I nearly fainted as I observed how my auto explored the depths of this pothole. To make maers worse, my toothbrush dropped out of my pocket into the hole! The wheel of my car was wedged tighter than a walrus in a Speedo. Steaming with fury, my muscles tightened as my brain began ruminating on the fact that numerous complaints to the boro went unlled. Road crew after road crew disappeared and failed to resurface. The powers that be denied responsibility, claiming it was the asphalt. With the now-legalization of weed and the issuance of ve licenses to open marijuana dispensaries, the federal government dopes should build back Highland Park and use the greens to repair streets, calling it Operation Pothole. Climbing back in the car, injuring my foot in the process, I knew I needed to call a tow truck.

Artwork by Elah Israel

Comedy geing a taoo POW! “I’m doing it. It will be cool. Unique.” That’s me talking to you and my reflection, trying to convince you both that I want this. “Don’t be an idiot. No one will remember them in 30 years. Everyone has them.” That’s you giving me and my reflection a game day reality check. Since 1991, it was our regular discussion/argument every time I saw Calvin and Hobbs, the Tiger that everyone but Calvin sees? It called to me; That’s it. That’s my taoo. Today was the day. I was in the chair. You came to talk me out of it…again. The taoo guy came highly recommended, even though he was in a dingy strip mall half-way to Tijuana. “Look it’s easier if I only have to convince one of you.” That was the taoo dude. He looked more like an accountant than a taoo dude, but he was highly recommended. “Do it” I said. Fronting that I was a taoo dude and not the accountant that I was. “POW, CRASH, BAM, AHHH, WHAT, HELP!!!” That’s the sound of the car smashing between the frozen yogurt and liquor mart right next to the highly recommended accountant looking taoo guy. “Hey… yeah… you ok? Wow… look out that… ummm you know… I can’t do a taoo right now… hand’s shaking a bunch.” That’s accountant taoo dude. Yeah … Umm… Probably for the best. That’s me. And that is why you were right (darn it) and why I still don’t have a taoo.

Artwork by Alice Schuck

Drama winning a loery newspaper I worked at a convenience store the summer before I left for college. A job I pretended to hate. The shelves had items on the brink of expiration and the air conditioner leaked water. Ah, but we sold loery tickets. And, we had our regulars: the scratch o seniors and the folks with numbers carefully scrawled on paper, the ones they were sure were going to hit. We’d debate the perfect color for Joe’s sports car, which European cities Carmen should visit, the best Jersey Shore town for the Parker’s vacation home, and which private University was most prestigious. On Thursday, July 2nd , we actually had a winner. Pick 6, a big one: $300,000, which in 1981 was huge. We posted the numbers, excited for the winner to arrive and validate their ticket. Days went by. We placed a notice in the newspaper, hung a sign on the window. Still, no winner came. 12, 15, 19, 22, 23, 26: Who played these?

We sold tons of tickets that humid, hot summer. Our shop was lucky- we had a mystery winner! The store owner’s wife asked the local tellers if anyone had opened a big account, we scanned the parking lots for fancy cars with temporary plates. Nothing. On my last day, the owner lled my backpack with canned meats, crackers and chips. Essentials. He handed me an envelope with my last paycheck and asked if I would be back next summer. I assured him I would, I needed the money.

Ghost Story drowning chicken nuggets The vegetable oil splaered violently from the pan, prompting an immediate and unnecessary expletive that Julian reserved only for rush hour coupled with a Jersey salute. The stakes were high, but not that high. Julian wondered how his frustrations reached this fevered pitch. “For goddamn chicken nuggets? Why am I killing myself for this?” Julian’s exasperation was met only by his determination. The rising smoke kicked on the automatic vent, adding to the chaos of an unplanned midnight snack. Julian’s body was determined to complete the task; his mind, now wandering from fatigue and frustration, had other plans. Julian very carefully drowned the nuggets in the vegetable oil. The breading bubbled like lava as the juicy, raw chicken underneath cooked. Three to four minutes is all it takes, Julian muered to himself, wishing he were still sleeping. “This is what happens when you try to be industrious,” he oered to no one, hoping someone would be sympathetic to his culinary plight. “Make enough for two,” said no one. Julian choked on his discontent. “What?” Make enough for both of us, someone said again. Julian assumed he was dreaming. He’d had it with ghosts trying to come in and get a meal on his dime, completely unsolicited. “Look,” Julian said assuredly. “If you can get these tender, I’ll share.”

Artwork by Naya Israel

Romance / Rom-Com sending the wrong text lemons In my very sexy dress. "I wish you were here"... like a Pink Floyd song. My breasts are not "lemon" shape anymore, I worked on them for you. Like the fresh and humid “Purple rain" . I am waiting for you! I pressed send to this text... to the wrong person! My heart stops for a second...A cold chill works its way up my body. I sent the text to my ex-husband instead of my boyfriend while I am still waiting for my divorce to get nal. I can't pull the message back. Drama, he texted me back: You turned me on. You know I still love you! I will be right there for you! Sorry, wrong message! It was my best friend's message telling me about her new boyfriend... by mistake I sent it to you!

Feeling afraid again, mistakes, the past, insanity, cruelty, toxic relationship again in this psycho hands! But with all my fears, "I will survive", like my favorite song. more lies, you and your indelity! I won't sign the divorce! you got stuck with me longer! He replied:

Comedyentering a pie-eating contest burp After two minutes I went to a pie-eating contest. After the pie-eating contest, I burped. Because I ate too much pie. If I had too much pie, I would burp. Then, I went to a carousel and fell splat on my face. And then, I burped again. And then, I went to get some candy! After I got candy, I fell asleep in my backyard. Then I realized that, “Oh! I’m in my backyard.” Then I found out that I wasn’t home. And then after I wasn’t home, I fell asleep in my backyard because I thought it was, again! And even though I thought it was, it wasn’t! And, I went into my house, and it wasn’t actually my house. It was something else. So, I needed a break. After I had a break, I fell. Then, I burped. Because of all the candy, and the pie. Then, I went to my house. This time it was my house! So, I went in. I climbed into my bed. I fell asleep. It was the night. Dark and quiet. Buuurrrppp. The End

Dramatelling a lie birthday Clementine and Jessica arrive home. Jessica: “OMG! What ON EARTH happened? Our house is a mess! I swear it was clean when we left for school.” Clementine: “There are clothes and crumbs everywhere! Let’s investigate!” WHOOOSH! Jessica: “Wow! One moment we’re opening the door to your room, and the next thing we know we’re in some sort of… space world.” Clementine: “Why is everyone floating and wearing spacesuits?” Jessica: “The real question is: Where are we, and how to get home?” Clementine: “Let’s ask someone.” Jessica: “Hi, what’s your name and can you help us get home?” Luna: “Sure! I’m Luna. Where do you live?” Clementine: “I’m Clementine…this is Jessica. We live in Highland Park, NJ.” Luna: “Where’s that? I only know Pieland Hark, JN (Jupiter North). That’s where I live!” Jessica and Clementine: “Check WAZE!” They tell Luna what happened. Luna: “Sounds like the Hoolaboos. They’re always wreaking havoc in dierent worlds and leaving their portals behind. Go see Mr. Greeneld. It’s his birthday, so don’t forget to bring him Kaplooshy-Kakes!” Jessica: “Great! Ummm….where do we even get those?” (muering: “Whatever they are.”) Carrying a basket of Kaplooshy-Kakes, they meet Mr. Greeneld.

Clementine: “The Hoolaboos trashed our house and we fell into their portal. Can you get us home?” Mr. Greeneld: “Absolutely! Just take this map, hold it upside down and say: ‘Bloobaballopa-take-me-home’. Ta-Ta, girls! Thanks for the Kaplooshies!” That night, their mom asks about their day: “Yeah…uh…it was boring, mom. We…ummm…hung out. No space portals or anything.” Artwork by Sarina Waite

Mystery traveling out of the country alias “Who’s at the door?” asked Angela, irritably. “You can nd out by answering it,” her husband, Bob, replied helpfully. “Fine,” she sighed, opening the door. “Hello,” said Angela, staring at a young woman. “Hello,” she replied. “May I come in? I have something important to share.” “What? We’re busy,” Angela said. “It might be shocking,” the woman said. “Go ahead,” said Bob, standing beside Angela. “I’m your granddaughter,” she declared. Angela gasped. “Come in,” Bob said weakly. “Please explain,” said Angela, as they sat down. “Your daughter, Gretchen, had a baby, me, who she gave up for adoption,” the woman explained. “I think we would have known that,” said Angela, flashing on long stretches of time that had passed with lile communication from Gretchen. “She wanted to keep it a secret,” said the woman. “Why are you here?” asked Bob. “I need money,” she said. “I asked Gretchen, but she didn’t want to acknowledge me.” “I’m going to call Gretchen and conrm this story,” stated Bob suspiciously.

“She’s traveling outside the country. I doubt you’ll reach her,” said Angela. “What’s your name?” “Madeleine Moore.” “Please show me I.D. so I can look it up,” said Angela. Madeleine reached into her purse nervously. “You might not nd it – I use an alias.” Suddenly, their dog bounded in, barking. He lunged at Madeleine, knocking her purse to the floor. An I.D. fell out. Bob picked it up, reading aloud, “Gretchen Martin.” Quivering, he asked, “Why do you have our daughter’s I.D.?”

Comedy giving a speech mustache Sarah Johnson looked over at her mom, “I can’t do it! You can’t make me!” Mrs. Johnson paed her tenderly, “It’s the rst day of school, dear. Everyone’s nervous.” “I know, but I’m going to have to stand up in front of the whole class and give a speech about me. What if they laugh at me?” Sweat was collecting on Sarah’s forehead. “Listen, you’ll do ne! If you get anxious, picture everyone in front of you with the most ridiculous mustache. The craziest you can think of. Now go on, get in there.” Mrs. Johnson reached across Sarah to open the door and gently push her out of the car. Sarah, shoulders slumped and head down, made her way slowly to her new classroom. Her hands were shaking, her heart was pounding, and as she got to the door, she couldn’t bring herself to go inside. “Sarah,” she jumped as Principal Hayes came up behind her. “The bell is about to ring and you’re dawdling in the hallway. You beer get in there, young lady.” Principal Hayes pushed the door open and ushered her inside. As Sarah set her lunchbox down by her desk, she stole a look around the room. “Well, no help for it,” she thought and stood up taller. “Good morning class. I’m Miss Johnson,” her voice cracked as she looked at the cherub faces of all the kindergarteners, complete with magnicent handlebar mustaches, “and I’d like to tell you a bit about myself.”

Artwork by Anjuli Sukhdeo

Horror cloning nausea I awoke to eye pain, nausea, and wrists tied to a chair. “Look who’s back,” said a voice. My voice. But not from me. Thunder rumbled outside. His hair was longer, blonder, his beard fuller. But still me. He held a knife in one hand. The other hand slapped my face. “You stole my life -- clone!” He spat. “I was on the edge of breakthrough! My sweet Charline was eight months pregnant! You took it all from me!” His eyes shone with rage. I had to get that knife… “She’s ne.” I groaned. “The baby’s ne. I can show you.” I pointed him to an album on the table. I always kept it out. He grabbed it like an addict. An hour later, he returned, and cut my arms free. “These photos are real? She’s ok?” “Yes,” I said. “She’s alive. Baby Garret is 6 years old.” “I’m… I’m the clone?” His voice – my voice – dropped. “I thought I...” “You were supposed to think that. You all were.” “All?” He said, his voice gurgling as the knife drove into his neck. I held him as he fell. “All of you,” I said to his lifeless body. My body. But also my mind. My goals. My ego. My clones are me. And they made clones too. I stood up and looked out the window. Lightning lit the night. I could see shadows by the trees. Shadows shaped like me. I put the album back on the table.

Comedy hearing a scream mullet I was eating dinner alone downstairs while my 16-year-old sister was upstairs geing ready to sneak out of the house and her baby-siing me while our parents were on a date. My sister had told me she was going to a friend’s party, and I wasn’t to say a word to our parents or else! My sister gave her dinner to the dog because she was going to gobble delicious junk food snacks at the party. My parents forbade us to eat anything except plant-based, unprocessed whole foods so my sister was playing with lots of re tonight. My sister assured me I would be ok by myself if I spent the night nishing the jigsaw puzzle and going to bed when I was done. I was planning on watching TV until she came at 11pm. Why should I not explore the o-limits hidden world of prime TV? This would be a rst and I was looking forward to it. As I nished dinner and washed the dishes, I could hear my sister showering and primping. Suddenly, I heard her let out a caterwaul so erce it made me think she was a banshee. She howled in horror. I raced up the stairs and there she stood in the bathroom, hair wet, wrapped in a towel. In her right hand was scissors. She looked at me in horror saying, “I just wanted to trim a bit o the sides!” I grinned envying her new stylish mullet. Artwork by Winnie Zhao

Historical Fictionsmelling something burning envy “Janet! Your boyfriend Michael is outside the door.” I yelled from the downstairs kitchen. “Coming… Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone. The last thing I need is to save my lile sister and her friend in front of my boyfriend.” Janet lectured. “Sorry, Jennifer.” I apologized to my friend. “No, it's ok. Anyways, let's go back to your room.” “Look, Janet just got the new “Envy” Perfume. Let's test this bad boy out!” I said in an excited tone. We sprayed a lot of perfume all over each other. “Oh god, we used too much! Janet is going to kill me if she nds out I used it! How do we cover the smell up?!” I panicked. “Ummm... Here! Light this candle!” Jennifer said. I lit the candle quickly and ensured it was helping the smell disappear. “Perfect, It worked,” I said. “Good. Wanna go read a magazine?” Jennifer asked. “I have a beer idea. Follow me.” I said to Jennifer in a mischievous tone. I led Jennifer to my parents' bedroom window, which overlooked the backyard. “Watch,” I said. “Eww, they're KISSING!!!” Jennifer said in disgust.

“Ugh. Gag me with a spoon.” I said jokingly. We watched and laughed for a while. And then we smelled something… “Oh no. The candle.” Jennifer told me with a worried look on her face. I peeked into my room and saw a re and the candle on the floor. “FIREEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!”

Ghost Story looking through a photo album twin It was the third time a tub of ice cream went spontaneously missing from our kitchen that I realized my twin sister might still be with us. Ice cream was her favorite thing, and although none of the rest of us really liked it, we kept stocking the freezer with Rocky Road. My parents blamed me, but after a tub disappeared from right in front of me, I knew she was trying to tell me something. Although I searched through our old photo albums for clues, desserts continued to vanish. A blueberry pie cooling on the counter, a coconut cake half iced, and a tray of warm golden sugar cookies completely disappeared before I nally lost my temper. “If there is something you want to show me, then just do it,” I cried as I whisked the ingredients for a chocolate mousse. The only response was the sound of squirting whipped cream, and suddenly my mousse was covered in a white fluy topping. Years went by and with almost every dessert we prepared something suspicious happened. A tray of brownies went missing at my high school graduation party, a slice vanished out of my wedding cake, and the rst time I left milk and cookies out for Santa with my own children, we woke up to nd them completely gone. It became expected to have every dessert tampered with, but the only time I felt truly haunted was at our mother’s wake when every single dessert remained untouched.

Fairy Tale swimming in a lake music Once upon a time (maybe around 2:30), there was a girl who lived in a magical forest that surrounded a magical lake. Every day at 2:30 the lake would play music (more specically the chicken dance). But this peculiar day, it didn't. So the lile fairy papaya (yes, they were a literal papaya) set out to the lake in order to nd what was wrong. They swam to the boom of the lake and found the creature that always sang the chicken dance didn't eat their chicken Nuggies! (Gasp! The horror!) It turned out McDonalds had shut down! Papaya had an idea though. They went to a place you've probably never heard of. A place you can't search on Google. A place called (brace yourself) Walmart. They went to Walmart and bought dino nuggies. THE END.

Artwork by Sarina Waite

Comedy selling lemonade bug After lunch Hi. I’m Jack Tiller. I’m watching Diary Of A Wimpy Kid for the 100th time with my brother Nate. We're watching the part where Greg’s at the play. Nate stands up on the couch and yells “BUBBY!!!” right when Manny does. Manny is practically Nate's role model. 3 PM I'm outside selling lemonade. I'm trying to make money to get real lemonade at the store. Nate comes up with the “Lemonade”, it's actually lemon juice with some water in it and no sugar. He drops the glass. “Nathan!” I yell. I shouldn't be mad though. That's because the “lemonade” isn't going to sell -- even bugs won't eat it.” I’m only thwee” he says just like Manny. Purim I wake up. It's Purim! I’m Jewish but I don’t go to temple. Mom says we're “Homeschooled Jews”. I think that should be its own religion. I walk into the kitchen with Nate. “Clean the kitchen then you can watch TV,” she says. Mom and Dad always change up the schedule on Purim. Dinner I’m just nishing breakfast. “Well Purim ended,” Mom says. I go into my bed. “Good Morning,” Mom says. The End

Fairy Tale stealing something farm The lile fox smelled something delicious in the air. Following his nose, he tiptoed across the farm, past elds shimmering with wheat and fruit trees gliering green. He heard birdsong and the gentle hum of bees. There: a basket of eggs, nestled at the base of a tree. Their delicate shells shone like lab-grown diamonds in the sun. The fox knew that stealing was wrong, and that a dozen eggs cost roughly as much as a down payment on a modest den. He also knew these eggs would make a most excellent feast. Siing down under the tree, he pondered what to do. Suddenly, a bat fairy appeared, displaying her fangs in a charming lile smile as she swung from a branch overhead. "Hello, lile fox," said the bat fairy. "What troubles you?" The fox explained his dilemma, and the fairy listened carefully. She smiled and said, "My dear fox, there is always another way. Perhaps you could oer to help the farmer in exchange for some eggs." The fox thanked the fairy and set o to nd the farmer, who welcomed the help; his farmhands had all recently been quietly quiing. The fox worked hard, tending the farm and helping with the chores. In return, the farmer gave him eggs, as well as friendship and gratitude.

The clever lile fox learned that creative bartering is always beer than stealing, and that hard work and kindness are worth more than a Costco-sized package of eggs (which is really saying something).

Mystery / Thriller embezzling famous An email had come from the company’s founder yesterday, announcing the oce’s closure to all employees today. This made it a perfect day for Mirabelle to do some snooping. Overlooking the company’s famous well of divine power—whose glow seemed dimmer than Mirabelle remembered—sat the HR oce. There, Mirabelle began searching through nancial records for some answers. How had they missed the two million dollars of ‘project funding’ that she, half-asleep, had forgoen to launder before transferring into her bank last year? The question burned at her more the longer she remained uncaught. And there the transfer was, right in the records. It had been automatically marked as suspicious, even. So why had there been no investigation? She ran another search, this time for all suspicious transfers. Mirabelle apparently hadn’t been the only one doing ‘side business’. Someone had even been bold enough to embezzle shards of divine power, far rarer and more tightly controlled than mere money. …wait. That ‘someone’ was the founder. …and, if orders from above were to deprioritize investigating suspicious transfers, that would certainly explain the lack of auditors at Mirabelle’s doorstep. …and the founder had made forty-three transfers over the last three years, totaling enough shards for an ascension to godhood. Her last transfer had cleared just yesterday. …and then she’d emptied the whole oce on short notice without explanation. Mirabelle exited the building in a hurry, leaving the evidence behind. News of the oce’s destruction by an unidentied god came just a few hours later.

Romance / Rom-Com falling in a mud puddle Instagram A fluer you say, sir? Time was that Badger Falls was the most sporting town in the state. But even before Instagram made people lose interest in their own home, Olive Ogilvey killed our sporting spirit. A temperance worker? No, sir. Mrs. Ogilvey liked a tipple as well as anyone, and she always won at the tenth grade pool. We used to lay bets on whom the tenth graders would marry, and how long it takes them to make up their minds. Olive would collect a small fortune every graduation, at marriage season. It was Tommy Tradkins and Lisa Muldoon who were her downfall. Now they have ve kids, but in those days, Lisa would burst into tears any time she got some mud on her clothes, and Tommy would run o the football eld at half time to change his uniform. We gured they were too nicky to get married, but Olive Ogilvy bet her shirt on them geing hitched the summer after they graduated. Well, sir, spring of their senior year Tommy and Lisa went out walking. They never came too close, afraid of wrinkling their clothes and mussing their hair, but they did talk a mile a minute when they were together. But when they came back, they were walking arm in arm and muddy through and through. Yes, sir, Mrs. Ogilvey had shot them into a mud puddle with her b-b-gun. And that was the end of being in Badger Falls.

Artwork by Wesley Stanley

Sci-Ficreating a secret formula mold For years, Evan Lockwood had been trying to develop a formula to eradicate black mold. Working as a contractor meant coming into contact with it frequently, and he craved a quicker and easier solution. One evening, Evan came bursting through the door of his lab, face aglow with exhilaration. He’d been struck with an idea so great he couldn’t wait to try it out. He shued through drawers and cabinets in a flurry, emptying jars and tubes into the bubbling vat he’d been puzzling over for months. Finally, he boled it and gingerly sprayed it onto one of his mold samples. As he watched, the mold began to shift and change and slowly but surely started to clear. Disbelief quickly made way for joy. Early the next morning, Evan arrived at the house he was working on, vial in hand. He sprayed his formula over a particularly nasty patch of mold and in a maer of moments it disappeared, just as it had the night before. Delighting in his success, he ran the length of the house, dousing every moldy corner and crevice. Then, as though on a mission, Evan scoured the neighborhood, spraying as many houses as he could. At last, he made his way back home and, thrilling at the opportunities that lay before him, went to bed for the night. Had he only looked to the right, he would have noticed the pulsating mass of black now eating its way through the walls.

Artwork by Angela McCarthy

Fabletaking a sele wind There once lived a peacock with beautiful feathers, admired by all his friends. Throughout the day he’d strut and spread his plumage, delighting others with his colors and shine. One day, he thought, I wish I could preserve my beauty for my friends to enjoy all the time! He began painting himself on a large rock, but the chewed grass and crushed berries just did not do his colors justice. He tried taking a sele, but could not manage without hands. He arranged a plume of molten feathers, but with no strut, they simply flopped instead of glimmered. Finally, walking past a quiet pond, he saw his image in the water. “Why that’s me!” he gasped, and rushed to tell his friends that they could nd him, whenever they pleased, by gazing into the water. Evening came and they returned, dejected. “Peacock,” they said, “we looked for you at the pond, but no one was there!” Frustrated, the peacock took to the air to speak to the Wind. “Wind,” he said, “how do I bring lasting joy to others if they can’t see me all the time?” The wind replied “Look below at the hills, the green grass and wildflowers. Who moved this dirt and carried seeds for all these plants? Who is supporting you right now? Perhaps you cannot see me, but the things I do leave a breath of me behind, even when I’ve blown away!” Lasting friendship grows from actions, not glimmering feathers or a colorful exterior.

Artwork by Winnie Zhao

Mystery / Thrillerstalking someone camera Jess never left home without her camera. At least now she didn’t. It was as much a part of her as her own name, her singular tether to this world growing increasingly distant and detached from her. Ever since the incident, it became an integral facet of her identity, choosing to look at humanity through varying shuer speeds than her own two naked eyes. Life was less painful this way. Its beauty could be captured in permanence, no longer ckle and fleeting, but invariable. It wasn’t her fault what happened, even though everyone blamed her for it. “You mean to tell me she wasn’t asking for it the way she looked and dressed?” An accident, they labeled it as, but this was anything but. Intent was every bit tangible. Stalking someone is never a crime of opportunity; it takes dedication, practice, and substantial time on target to determine paerns of behavior. Her routines, after all, were hard to get a handle on. Regarding it as an accident lessened the signicance of it all to her because this was a well-thought-out plan of action. One foiled, ever so insignicantly that day, by a random passerby, conscious of one individual following another just a lile too closely. Never again, Jess mused, will she let something like this happen again. There are measures to take in addition to having your guard up and being aware of your surroundings. With the right lens and at the right distance, Jess’ll never get caught again.

Artwork by Winnie Zhao

Historical Fictionhaving hallucinations yellow Note: This story takes place during the Yellow Fever epidemic of 1793. Cold ngers pried his eyes open, and the nurse tut-tued at whatever she saw. “Yellow,” she murmured. “William, sit up and drink this. It’s wine.” He shivered at the cool glass she put to his lips. His stomach lurched at the horribly bier taste of the liquid, but he was helpless to her grip holding his jaw wide. When William opened his eyes again, he couldn’t remember having closed them. “You know why they call it the malignant fever?” William’s eyes snapped to the man in the bed beside him. “Ecclesiam malignantum: followers of the Antichrist,” the man continued. William faltered, but then there were no words to say. The man in front of him was morphing, the strands of his hair sharpening into arrows, his teeth stretching to ll his newly gaping mouth, his ngers curling into claws, his eyes blazing like the morning star. The world warped at the edges of the monster’s silhouee. A tearing scream contorted William’s face. The glinting eyes across from him bore deeper into his soul, ripping his body with erce tremors. William’s throat burned with the taste of copper, and he thrashed in his bloodstained bed with re his body did not have to burn. As if the creature’s talons had gripped it, William’s heart shuddered erratically in his chest. It struggled to keep its rhythm until its beating ceased entirely. “More Jesuit's bark next time,” the nurse noted to herself minutes later. She pulled the sheet over William’s head.

Dramawrapping a present jealous There were three BFF’s, Alice, CiCi, and Gabby. It was Alice’s birthday and they were all hyped. “I can’t believe it's my birthday” says Alice, “Us too,” CiCi and Gabby exclaim!!! They were preparing for Alice’s party. There was going to be music, games, and cake! Everything was almost ready but then, Gaby and CiCi remembered they forgot to get gifts for Alice?! So they said, “We are going to have to go get ready for the party” but really, they were secretly geing her gifts. She replies “Ok, see you!” So they go to the mall, the best place to get presents, of course. CiCi says, “I’m going to get the best present for Alice, don’t be jealous" then Gabby says, “You mean I am going to get the best present.” And they argued like this for like forever. Until, Gabby says, “Fine, then let's make it a competition, whoever gets the best present wins,” “Deal” replies CiCi and they go nd their gifts for Alice. After some time, they found their gifts, and started to head back to their houses to wrap them. In each girl's mind they knew that they found the best gift for Alice. They both added a bow to the packaging. And it was time to go to the party…. It was going great. But then, it was time for presents. Alice opened both Gabby and CiCi’s gifts and said, “OMG, I love them!!!” But then they screamed, “Who’s beer!!!!”

Mystery / Thrillerlosing a tooth favorite “Gangstaaaaaas” the older woman shouted. That was my Grandma, thinking she was back in 1920’s Brooklyn. Maybe this time there would be a beer explanation for her degree of angst. “So nice to see you,” I said. She replied “Huh, again the gangstaaaas took my things' '. I was used to this since other residents sometimes wandered and helped themselves to available items. “What is missing?” She smiled… and it was then I noticed - no teeth. I got right into Sherlock mode-went through all her drawers, closet, went to check at the laundry and the kitchen dish-wash. No pearly whites. Hmmmm, this was odd since I had seen her last night and her smile was fantastic. Always was when I brought her chocolate. Checked out the space under her bed, donned gloves and went through the wastebasket. No teeth. How could this happen since I even had them labeled? Grandma still enjoyed wearing her dentures, which was not the case with many other residents. Other residents, hmmmm. Artwork by Scott Brustein

Grandma’s roommate was quiet tonight. Usually I got a “vus machsta”, what’s happening, in Yiddish. She could not say a word but looked at me and mumbled. I smiled at her, and then a thunderbolt hit when she smiled back. There were the teeth! I ran to her aide, who said, “I helped her with her teeth this morning, and it sure was hard geing them in.” Grandma’s chiclets were wedged into the petite oral space of her roommate. Mystery solved. Artwork by Sebastian Gonzalez

Horrorordering take-out whisper It began with a small paper bag. Turning it gingerly, she spoed grease stains and the famous yellow arches. Maybe intended for house #221 instead of #212. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten fast food. Then more appeared, every month, every week, every day. Brown paper bags, white plastic bags, the occasional cardboard box. Presumably all containing food, though she didn’t dare open them. Accumulating on her porch throughout the week, they disappeared each Monday with the neighborhood garbage pickup. Where were they coming from? When she called the numbers on the receipts, they all said the same thing. Yes, that’s the address and phone number we were given. I don’t know, ma’am. Someone else in your house must have ordered it. But she lived alone. She started shivering, and couldn’t stop. Her home grew cold, and she didn’t know why. Nor could she explain the occasional unlocked door, shaered glass, or bloodstain. In her periphery, images flickered; shadows slipped and darted. She considered calling her son, but didn’t want to be a burden. He didn’t visit anymore. None of them did. Some days, she felt like a ghost, unmoored, drifting through a house that held more memories than objects. Other days, she was sure someone or something else was the ghost, playing cruel tricks. The memories carried voices and echoes. She found herself whispering along. Cheeseburger with fries. General Tso’s chicken. Tacos al pastor. And, inexplicably, the small, high voice of her beloved son: Grandma?

Romance / Rom-Comtaking a train ride snore "Standing room only!" hollered the conductor, or I think that's what he said. The speakers emied loud feedback and his faint voice. Then the power went out. It was a steamy August night, and we were on the NJ Transit ride from New York to Trenton, where we'd (maybe) catch a Septa to Philly and from there go down the shore the next morning. But the confluence of sports event and concert packed the train, and now we hovered somewhere around Newark Penn, feeling hoer and hoer but not in a good way. "It wasn't supposed to be like this!" she wailed after an hour of knees aching, packed in a car of intoxication. "We should have taken Metro North!” "First rescue train," yelled another conductor, "People with disabilities, older adults, and people with children only!" My children weren't with me, and besides, we were at the wrong end of the train. "Can we just make out in the aisle?" I whispered. "It's hot enough in here." "We should have picked the Hudson Valley. They even have beer seats for couples!" We’d imagined what we’d do in those seats, but Atlantic City had free beaches. And so, three rescue trains later, when we nally sat shivering in too-strong air conditioning, I wasn’t surprised to hear her snoring, along with half the train, our fantasies of touches and innuendoes thwarted. I wiped sweat from her forehead so she wouldn’t feel colder, wondering if we’d ever see each other again.

Artwork by Elah Israel

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