Marian-ette

     The speed limit is somewhere around fifty-five—I’m going at least eighty. As the mountains fly through my peripherals in streaks of red, brown, and burnt-orange, my breath catches, and I find that I can’t bring myself to step on the brake. Cool autumn air blasts through the open windows, whipping my hair around my ears and eyes. I glance to the left at the river that runs alongside the road, taking hazardously long to stare as the afternoon light skips across its surface.     What a day to be alive, I tell myself, and for a brief moment I feel good. But the feeling doesn’t last, because at th

    The syringe was enormous, pistol-shaped and well-padded in its metal holder. Jane’s heart stopped at the sight of it. There was no way—no way that thing was meant for them.    Jeremy removed his phone from his back pocket. It was vibrating. His eyes met Jane’s as he flipped it open and switched the sound to speaker mode.    A woman’s voice, crisp and calculating: “Load the vile into the syringe and inject yourself.”     “W-wait, what’s in it?”    “The syringe contains an experimental hard drug. The cargo hold is not pressu

Jane stole a glance behind her, clambered up the stairs. Below, sharp nails. Dark hair. Wide, bloodshot eyes. Her. Jane wailed, dug her tiny fingers into the rough carpet. With all her strength, pulled herself forward, fighting through air that felt thicker than water. One step, two . . . just three steps more! “Mom! Dad!” Reached for the railing. Pulled herself up. “MOM!” Her parents’ bedroom, right there. If she could just get up the stairs— Suddenly, Jane knew. Could feel it. If she looked back, she would be there, gaping at her with those wide, hungry eyes. Jane couldn’t think. Terrified.

     I was too tired to do anything. That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I sat in front of the television, splayed out across the couch like a beached starfish. I’d given up. Anxiety had won for the day, which meant that nothing less than a fire or a severe case of peckishness could have made me move from that spot.     Meanwhile, my poor main character, a thirteen-year-old girl by the name of Quinn, had been totally abandoned in the over-revised, underdeveloped first few paragraphs of Chapter One. I glanced over at my computer screen. I could almost see her there, frozen in place, waiting impatiently for m

     Iris stepped out onto the stone balcony. With a delicate sigh, she ran her silk-gloved hands along the ivory railing and looked out across the moonlit grounds, her colossal dress trailing out behind her. This was it. The stage was set, she knew her lines. This was her moment.     So why didn't it feel right?     She just couldn't put her finger on it. After all, it was she who’d dreamed up this world in the first place, she who’d created its vast landscapes, the bustling cities beyond them, and the people that existed in and in between. The moment literally couldn't have been more perfect if

     Once upon a potato farm, there lived a boy named Jack. Jack was a handsome, good-humored fella, tall and strong and well-liked by everyone—especially by Annabelle, the neighbor farmer’s daughter. She had eyes like a robin’s egg and hair as gold as the corn she and her father grew. Jack and Annabelle had played together as kids, but as the years passed Jack came to realize that Annabelle was without question the smartest, prettiest girl he’d ever met, and that he’d do just about anything to make her happy.     One day, while they were watching the sun set, Jack asked, “What do you wanna do? When we&rs

12:40 AM     I wrap my arms around my stomach. There’s a sharp acidic pain deep in my gut, wrenching and wringing my insides in all the wrong directions. But I can’t cry; I might throw up if I do. So instead I curl up beneath my blanket and pray for the pain to subside. The meds I’ve taken begin to seep in. My head weighs deep into my mattress. I moan, painfully torn for the next hour between a deep, deep sleep and the agony that keeps me from slipping into it. 7:00 AM     My alarm goes off. I slowly blink awake and reach for my phone. It’s been going off for ten minutes.     What I wouldn’t give to just r

Smiles. "Goodbye." Shuts door. Smile fades.

     My name is Karen and I’m the neighborhood babysitter.     Oh, yes, the position’s an official one. I’ve got a mile-long résumé to prove it. Or you could just ask anyone with kids under ten from here to New York. They’ll tell you: I’m everyone’s go-to gal when Embassy parties and PTA luncheons come around.     But that’s not the point. The point is that tonight I have one kid to watch. Just one—a certain Will Bunker (age: less-than-one; favorite past times: drooling, giggling, and watching “The Wiggles”), and it’s not going to be a big deal. Believe me, I&

When friends of mine get themselves hitched, I can’t help but feel kinda ditched. I guess I’m happy for their luck, But without them, I’m feeling stuck! For ne’er again shall we devour Chocolate cake in those late hours. No more will “You’ve Got Mail” create A sobbing fest in hours late. We’ve lost for good that “girl’s night out”, They’re too in love to just hang out! So when those wedding days come ‘round, And my friends are eternally bound, I shrug and sigh and head for home. Watch me not care that I’m alone! Mine’s not a case of jealousy, But