Thirty-nine years old 1519 Master’s dead. Master’s dead! I still can’t believe it’s true. My stomach knots and coils while I drag myself along the winding, hidden passageways leading to his workshop within the bowels of the monastery. I steady myself before opening the door, thinking about the way I’d left him. Regret tugs at my heart. Once inside, I slowly walk around the room. Everything is still as I remembered, yet it...

At eighteen years young, I’ve learned something difficult to accept: if you love someone, at some point, you will feel pain. And I don’t mean a temporary pain like stubbing your toe; I’m talking about a pain that breaks you. “For Heaven’s sake, child, if you’re going to break, break with your beauty intact. You’re a mess, and we have somewhere to be.” That voice belonged to Mother. Mere hours ago, she poked her nose in my...

My mother collects photographs. She has more than I could ever count stored in antiquated albums and now in a nebulous electronic cloud somewhere in the sky. She says they remind her of people long gone or perhaps just far away. Memories that she holds dear. Flies in amber, frozen in that precise moment when the button is triggered and the lens opens, turning life into hundreds of little pixels. I once asked her if she kn...

In a remote part of a kingdom, Jarek lived alone with his mother Elara in a small cottage, just outside a village. The whole area used to be occupied by orcs, but the armies of the kingdom had driven them out. It had been many years since an orc was sighted, and people had begun to forget about them, mentioning them only in fairy tales for their children. Elara's husband had turned into a worthless drunk shortly after the...

June 1938 Papio Creek’s crystal clear water moved steadily under the Nebraska midday sun, a gentle wind skimming the surface. The Roma’s brightly painted wagons rolled along the trail and settled into the soft prairie grass near the banks. Buckets and spare harnesses clanked against the wagons’ heavy wooden sides. They stopped in a line along the creek bank. The Roma had made this stretch of land near the Papio their summ...

I’m Sacha, a Producer on The Love Show and I would be on the crew the whole time with them. Being a producer is a double-edged sword: obviously, I am invested in the couple’s relationship as the aim of the show is to create couples that will last the distance. The other edge is I want hours of good, viewable footage. But viewable means enthralling and capturing footage and seeing people mooching about their normal busines...

Consciousness. The slow creep of feeling returned to my body. The fog of sleep clung to the edge of my mind, refusing to clear. I opened my eyes. I squinted my right eye against the sudden flood of bright light. With a whir and a click, my left eye corrected for the light levels, enabling me to receive a clear view of the room from at least one eye. I sat up and looked down at my synthetic limbs. No longer frightened by t...

They gather in the grooves, soft and unseen, A chorus of echoes where thoughts have been. A flicker, a murmur, a doubtful refrain, A whisper of truth, beneath the strain. One hums of longing, of futures untold, Another recalls the missteps of growing old. Change the world!—Or get back on track! Feed your ambition!—Or maybe have a snack? You're a genius!—You haven't a clue! Everything's fine!—You're doomed, you're through!...

It’s funny how some memories stay with you during your lifetime—things you did as a kid or a young adult that still shape who you are today. The older I get, the more I look back and think I didn’t appreciate how much simpler life was or how few responsibilities I had. Lately, one memory has been on my mind, prompted by a search through my iTunes library while looking for uplifting music to listen to while I walked the be...

The fog rolls in, obscuring the horizon The muted colors blend into one hue Melancholy looms within my being Is it the lack of sun? Or is it missing you? The waves lap at my feet along the shoreline I wish that you were here to hold my hand My heart is heavy, denser than the air As time moves like a million grains of sand My thoughts, they flit like hummingbirds that hover The distance in between and time apart Have let t...

We had a good thing going—the Indigenous people and me. They left no footprints. Then the loud ones came, sticking stakes in me, upturning, trampling, and spoiling me. The worst was when weighty boots dug in their heels, and the rhythmic dance of bare feet turned to thundering thumps of war. As the blood of my people seeped into my soil, I knew I would be forever stained. Sadly, the songs of the Indigenous grew faint, dis...

"You're not gonna believe what I just saw," Tim, the night shift intern at the observatory, exclaimed as he burst into the break room. His eyes were wide with excitement, and a hint of fear. Marla, the veteran astronomer who had seen it all, took a sip of her coffee before looking up from her book. "Tim, you say that every night. Did you finally spot your alien spacecraft?" "I'm not kidding," he said with a trembling voic...

You owe it to yourself. You have limited time, and everyone in your position has contemplated the same blank page and how to fill it. Trust me, it’s easier than you realise. Everything we do is temporal: we live in the present, but are driven by the past and shaped by its experiences. So think back to first memories, which are the most uncomplicated, at least to begin with. Use them as a broad brush to paint a background...

Fourteenth of February, 270 AD Something unidentifiable scurried across the cold floor made of stones as the cell door creaked, and a soft glow spilled into the room, highlighting the diminished form of the man huddled in a corner. A pitiful sight. His face was unshaven and blood crusted in spots from the torture. Gone was his usual long white tunic and sandals, replaced by tattered rags meant to steal his dignity. How th...

At 5 a.m., the bakery is silent, except for the scratch of Madame Thorne’s pen. She believed fortunes should be handwritten. Typed words felt hollow, devoid of the weight true destiny deserved. She shaped each cookie with practiced precision, leaving just enough space to slide in a tiny slip of paper. Each cookie was a secret wrapped in dough, each personal, each burdened by fate. Then came a sharp knock. It was not polit...