​How Much Is Waking Up? ​“How much is it?” I say to the lady in my dreams. “How much is what?” says the kind lady. “How much is it for me to open my eyes in the morning?” I say with a soft smile, waiting for a response. ​The lady looks at me and sighs, seeing my lack of knowledge. “Well, young lady, waking up is actually priceless.” “Is it really?” I release a breath of relief. She smiles and says, “Ye...” ​By then, I woke up. I look at where I am: in bed, ready to start the

The bell clanged against the door harshly and discordantly rather than with its usual sweet tinkle. With the abrupt sound also came a jerk of movement from the counter: twenty-something MY NAME IS ___, the primary cashier of Lawson Mini Mart for all of four months. Her stint as the convenience store’s four-to-nine caretaker had, for the most part, been an uneventful one; she kept the back area tidy, she would make her rounds throughout the tiny store to restock or just let

Fingerprints I Try To Wear. I was hollow, so I bent. Let them mold me, let them dent. Every hand that claimed to care Left fingerprints I couldn’t wear. “Too quiet,” they said. So I tore my seams, Unraveled my voice into tangled dreams. Thread by thread, I bled my plea. Soft and silent, “Please love me.” “Too cold,” they hissed. So I burned my grace, Peeled my skin to show my face. Warmth spilled out in crimson lace, They touched the wounds and called it safe. My ches

I didn't know what to draw on the blank page. How can I capture my future on a single sheet of paper? I'm not even a good artist, let alone a fortune teller. The future is the most unpredictable thing in the world, especially for a lass like me in a suburban village and with no grand fortune to back me up or whatsoever. My mind is a pond of ideas but none of my thoughts are the fish I hope to catch. The art teacher will soon finish his stroll, walk back into the class, and

Unseen Daughters death by a million cuts, the words of mothers, bleeding daughters. hearts that are never pure enough, bodies that are...

First stage: Exposure The blue fascinated me. The only time I’d seen them was on television or magazine covers, a tall, blond, and blue...

Abstract Genetically modified mosquitoes (GMMs) represent a promising innovation to combat vector-borne diseases (VBDs) like malaria and...

A Gamble Called New Life Since childhood, there was a home so dear, Where love was certain, and none to fear. A place where whims were...

Some girls are born with a voice that roars, and some are born with a voice that whispers. She was the latter. The kind of girl who...

Hymn to the Dove. Burn your insights, Dim the city’s lights Where puddles reflect my frights. Where the crowd dismisses the stagnant water A pitch consumes me. Flee to frosty woods to die on an unimportant hill. And sing to love to the squirrel in the tree, and write to the dove to ask how she broke free. Live not to be buried on a mountain, But a hill uninhibited. Free spirited. You may have lost all But the woods. Butterflies enthrall, The bird broods. Man broods too, Mena

About the Author: My name is Violet Martin, and I'm in 12th grade. I'm from Pensacola, Florida, and I love to draw realistic portraits of...

88 percent of the human population believe vision to be the most important sense. But what about those who lack most of their vision? How...

A Little Help I’m all grown, now flying free. No parents. soaring with the breeze, my wings are strong. Feathers flurried with hope, I...

SE Decision Street Cover your body in rags made from ripped-up, torn, unwanted thrifted dresses and cover your face in glitter taken from...

Questions for the Grave What do I know of death? do you feel it saturated in the dribble on your chin, caressing your lungs after...

About the Author: Zoe Maseko is a young writer, chef, ballerina and pianist from South Africa.

Fieriest Killer of the Big Kisser The lady with inky piebald frock always gazes at me fervently when I lie on the grass when I wear my...

About the Author: Zara Baig is a junior in high school and amateur photographer in the Philadelphia region. She has competed in...

I am driving, in my hometown of Salt Lake City, up Emigration canyon. It is dry in the valley and the road is lined with tall yellow...

Typography Compass Bench Rush Hour About the Author: Brian Ji is a seventeen-year-old writer and visual artist currently attending Seoul...