Young Author
JANUARY 2020
THE TWO
LYDIA LEE
In the city, stars are a myth. Clouds of fumes, smoke, and grime dull their shine; there, stars are mere airplanes standing still.
It was spring and they were coming back from camping, stopping at a cabin for the night. She unfolded her pint-sized body across the backseat of the Subaru and stared up at them, framed by the sunroof. The world shrunk as the stars drowned her, and she let them, her head bumping against the car door to the rhythm of tires rolling across gravel.
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THE TWO
LYDIA LEE
In the city, stars are a myth. Clouds of fumes, smoke, and grime dull their shine; there, stars are mere airplanes standing still.
It was spring and they were coming back from camping, stopping at a cabin for the night. She unfolded her pint-sized body across the backseat of the Subaru and stared up at them, framed by the sunroof. The world shrunk as the stars drowned her, and she let them, her head bumping against the car door to the rhythm of tires rolling across gravel.
Continue reading.
JANUARY 2018
CASTLING
SHREYAS KARKI
Grandpa died while playing chess.
We were sat on a park bench that day. His soft ivory hair fluttered in the chill breeze that made its rounds like a scout plane sweeping into lowlands, and he was two moves from a checkmate. He looked at me with his reticent, butterscotch eyes - not judging, but simply tracing the curl of my lips and the jaunt of my jaw. He liked watching me think. I stared, with furrowed eyebrows and a palm on the masonite, at the little sculpted knights and pawns. My grandfather hid a patient smirk behind a translucent, mottled brown hand.
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