On the day the story went global, it had been five years and one day since any human being had died.
“You deserve this,” I say, as we crest a hill and plunge into a valley. “You deserve worse.”
If he had had his choice of fairies, he wouldn’t have picked an apple fairy.
She would always be a “friend,” a girl I could only half-love and never fully forget.
‘If we hadn’t gone to the funeral,’ Sarah said, ‘we wouldn’t be stuck here, trying to get home.’
“Boy, why have you been brought here?”
Dear Mom and Dad: I want so very much to live. Not just endure. Live.
by Oren Hammerquist
Ten thousand years of superstition, religion, and science finally created the ultimate generation of humankind. Five full years passed before the media dared report on the subject. In the halls of universities, the scientists, sociologists, and statisticians only dared to whisper. By fear and unspoken agreement, they held their silence with almost monastic devotion.
by Branden Johnson
David presses his stubby nose against the passenger window, fascinated, like a dog, by the passing trees. He turns to look at me. Snot runs around his upper lip, into the corner of his mouth.
“You’re disgusting,” I say.
by Tory Brannigan
Apples skittered across the kitchen floor and more were still dropping. From the ceiling it looked like. They were beautiful Golden Delicious apples. Only one could fit in Ash’s palm, and they were tinged with a blush of pink. There were no worm holes or bruises visible although they had hit the floor with enough velocity. Thunk, thunk, thunk.
by Kyle Hemmings
THE LEAVES WERE CHANGING COLORS—or as Pinky liked to put it—losing their old selves. We were in the middle of autumn, 1971. In country. We were floundering. We were messed up. But we were gifted. We could change. We wanted to believe that we could believe. Our heads were full of other voices that said “We will die soon. Can you carry on?”
by Judith Field
Somewhere between Carrbridge and Aviemore, forty minutes into an eight-hour journey, the train stopped again. Jane looked out of the carriage at the rocky, heather-sprigged landscape. Conifers stood in clumps, like bristles on a balding toothbrush. The snow-capped Cairngorms loomed on the cloudy horizon.
by Noeleen Kavanagh
Glas could see his breath on the air as he exhaled. It was among the shortest, darkest days of the year, and the cold was constant. The skin on his fingers was tight and itchy with chilblains.
Abajee Mont talked on at the head of the class, the red robes of his priesthood dragging on the wooden floor.
by Leland Thoburn
Dear Mom and Dad:
I want so very much to live.
Not just endure. Live. Not just eat and breathe. Live.
I want you, mother, to nurture me, and you, father, to teach me to play. I want you to love me just because I’m yours, for a little while at least.
