Traveler in the Dark  The glow of the setting sun entrenched the peaceful Italian countryside in a blazing red haze. The small rural highway was surrounded by rich forests currently going through the enchanting transformation of autumn. The picturesque landscape was unfortunately lost on the highways sole traveler Chiara Gallo. She sat behind the wheel of her car with a complete lack of interest in the stunning world around her. Her family reunion had gone exactly how she expected it would. It was 2 days straight of “Chiara when are you getting married?” “You aren’t getting any younger so you might want to start thinking about children.” She let out a frustrated sigh. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried to start a family however her dating life was in shambles and when it came to children she didn’t know where to start. “I just don’t understand them.” Chiara said out loud to the crisp country air. Speaking her thoughts out loud was something of a bad habit she had picked up over the year

  That Is Not a Fire Alarm  Congratulations on your admission to Oak and Ash Academy, one of the most exclusive private academies in North America. You are part of the largest incoming class since our founding in 1763. Although this is a unique opportunity—consider that in any ordinary year, three out of four of you would not have been admitted—it does mean that you will need to learn all the important rules and traditions of our alma mater without the model of older classmates. That is why I was asked, as the sole graduating student last year, to write you this introduction. I owe my success in large measure to hard work, resourcefulness under pressure, and strict observance of all the particular rules of Oak and Ash. Some of them may sound obvious, some frivolous and silly. All I can say is, many of my classmates did not take them seriously. I am graduating. They are not. #1: If anyone is absent, do not ask why. #2: Do not investigate any cries for help. Many people object to this ru

  Midnight ice cream truck  It was late one evening, and I was sat at my kitchen table, just typing away on my laptop, working on my latest screenplay. You see, I am a horror writer. I write stories of the dark and macabre, with the express purpose of selling them to major studios with the hopes of getting them turned into major motion picture. At least, that’s how it would ideally go. It’s been especially tough recently, because for the last two weeks I have had the most serious case of writer’s block I have ever had. Like, all the pieces are there, but I just can’t seem to put it all together. It’s frustrating, really. Anyway, back to that evening. I was sitting at my table, staring blankly at my computer screen, at a total loss, when suddenly I got a spark of inspiration in the most peculiar way. As I was mulling over what to name the main antagonist of my story, off in the distance, I could have sworn I heard an ice cream truck. How weird? It was approaching midnight. What would an

  The Path  They walked the path because they had always walked the path. This year there were nine children, swallowed in coats of gray, slogging through drifts of soft, powdered snow as the bald trees stood sentinel. They had come a long way, almost halfway up the mountain, yet still the path twisted forward into the distance as far as they could see. They weren’t permitted to speak, but the same thoughts were stirring in every one of their minds. At least, Michael hoped this was so; he couldn’t possibly be the only one with questions about where they were going, and why they needed to be silent, and why a tear had slipped from the corner of his mother’s eye as she carefully tied his red scarf tightly around his neck. Those were the forbidden questions, questions that were met with frantic gestures to be quiet and fearful glances out the window. Those questions were draped in black. But Michael thought them all the same, as he walked the path, his footsteps swallowed by the snow. His

I Am Lonely For what seemed like hours, Harper Tully stared out the narrow rectangular window as she chewed on her bottom lip. The focus of her attention was a small brown box sitting on the stoop a few feet away from her apartment’s front door. It was an awkward angle, but she could just make out the top of the bag that was sitting inside of it. It was well within reach if she simply opened the door to claim it. She wouldn’t even have to step outside. She noticed that she was nervously running her fingers across the thick curtain. Frowning slightly, she stepped away from the window. This was ridiculous. She was acting like a scared child. Harper unlocked the front door and placed her hand on the doorknob. She curled her fingers around it with every intention of turning it, but instead she simply stood still and continued to chew on her lip. On the other side of the door was the food that she had ordered an hour earlier. The friendly-looking delivery driver had left it on the stoop

  The Mirror  I’ve been writing stories for as long as I can remember. Ever since I first learned to write, I would always have a notebook and a pencil by my side. It still surprises me nowadays when I walk past a bookstore and I see my own novel in the window. I always knew I had a talent for telling stories, but I never thought other people would appreciate it. Lately, I’ve been feeling very uninspired. The ideas for a new book are lost somewhere behind a powerful case of writer’s block. I always thought the whole thing was a myth, because I always have some idea of what I could write next. But not this time. No, I have nothing. My mind is a blank slate, identical to the empty computer document in front of me. It was my friend Thea’s idea that I should get away from the city for the weekend, and rent an isolated cabin in the woods. For some this might sound scary, but I’ve never been afraid of much and some solitude sounded amazing. I packed my bags on a Friday morning and headed out