Benjamin Chandler

Sean King

Pennywise  

Jacob Sherman

Sam Becker

English

At first glance, there was nothing suspicious about the waffle laying in the middle of the road that Thursday morning, butter side down. Around 5:30 am, the air still heavy with fog, a pair of crows flew down from the wire and pecked at the waffle, investigating it.

"Looks like someone already pecked this pancake," said Crow 1. "You goofus," said Crow 2, "this is a waffle. They're made this way." Crow 1 stopped pecking. "You mean to tell me that humans make the pancake with holes in it on purpose?" Crow 2 nodded. "Dunno why," it said, "Maybe

they lay their eggs in the holes, and their chicks eat the waffle once they hatch?" Crow 1 cawed in confusion. A starling alighted nearby and twittered "Humans don't lay eggs you silly crows!" Then flew off, laughing at the crows.

"Jenny?" My brother tugged at my pocket. "I think those crows are talking!" He pointed up with a tiny finger. Upon a twisting branch of a dried-up tree, a family of mangy, sulking birds. "Come along, Ben." Those aren't crows, they're vultures. And a rotten stench pierced my nose.

“Alright, who took a proper dump on the floor, because it stinks!” “Uh, Jenny…” my little brother motioned to the birds. A dead body splayed on the floor. Who did this?

“That’s no dump, that’s my mother in law!” Jenny exclaimed. “Is she a super model? No. Is she lumpy? Maybe. But she’s kind and deserves dignity.” Jenny lifted the old lady, pulled up her pants, picked up the TV Guide, and carried her downstairs. The birds wept at the spectacle.

Breakfast for Dinner

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Rachel A

Myke Vision

Jack Hollowell

Rietje Becker

The crater trembled and six magnificent wings unfurled, each extending higher than the tallest tree in the forest. Above their rising head—a halo—shimmering like a shooting star. As the light dimmed, the celestial light became impossible to distinguish from that of the moonlight.

“Be not afraid,” the six-winged creature of legend called out, “For it is I, a messenger of the Lord.” A man trembled at the fear-inducing sight, and collapsed before it. “What will you have me do?” the man stammered. “Go now, and spread the Word. The Lord hath returned.” He then

totally screwed up. He thought the messenger meant Lorde, the New Zealand singer. He printed posters that read "ROYALTY COMES!" & posted them all over town. He thought the words were a clever allusion to her stage name & 1st single. There was only one thing he did not anticipate.

That was how insanely catchy her song Solar Power is. It just builds up and up then ends leaving you wanting more. This song about the beach has ended marriages and toppled governments, all part of Lorde’s plan.

As it played in my earbuds, my heart lifted at the silence before the final chorus. My hands tightened around the splintered axe handle. I spun to the beat. Red on the walls. Red dripping down my cheek. Pure bliss. I love Lorde, she’s my idol. But screams reigned in on the music.

I had perfectly and intentionally matched the shade of my blush to the wallpaper of the axe throwing silent nightclub, and the harder I danced, the more it coagulated inside the droplets of sweat falling from my brow.

I knew I was playing a dangerous game, but I also knew that the prize was worth it, for the first time in my life, I was going to hit it big, I knew it so much I could taste it

Most people say that roulette is the end of the line for gamblers, the last resort for desperate losers. Whatever. I closed my eyes and pressed the Return key on my Macbook. And that was it. 450 dollars charged to my mother's credit card on Black 14. Whirr went the animated wheel

then my computer froze. The rainbow ball spinning as my nerves twisted into an anxiety-filled pretzel. Did it go through? Is this really the way I want to spend my mother’s hard earned bingo winnings? Then I heard the door open “Honey?? Ya home? I brought ya dinnah.”

"Carl," I called to my dumb yet understanding ex-husband. "I have something to confess: I bet my mother's life savings in an online auction of an original oil painting of two yaks mating. It will mask my trauma." Carl looked down at his rotisserie chicken. "Ok my dear."

Heavenly Intervention Fiasco

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"Well? Don't you want to know how the story ends?" He wipes my wet cheek with his glove & I turn away. Despite my unwilling participation in this clowns performance, he jerks my chin back. And his red painted smile contorts into something far more menacing.

The clown frowns, and the whole audience gasps. His red painted smile now looks like a bloody grimace. He stares at me for a good long while. Then he says, "I'll turn that frown upsidedown". The crowd starts laughing, he positions his hands above and below my head.

My acrobatic training took over. I did a standing backflip over the freaky clown, landing on my feet behind him. Then I kicked him firmly in the seat of his clown pants, and ran the other direction.

With the honk of his rubber nose, the clown called his posse. "Get her!" he cried. They hounded me like rabid dogs. I used every trick to hold them back—the squirting flower, a bucket full of confetti, seltzer water down the pants—but still they came. Then I saw it: a clown car!

There was only one thing left to do: break out the chainsaw. I reached into my pocket and whipped it out, revving its’ engine. I turned around slowly and stared dead into the eyes of the boss clown. But then to my horror, he honked his nose again, and turned his frown upsidedown.

“You wanna know how I got these scars?” the clown laughed maniacally. “Oh hell-“ my chainsaw slashed across his face. But that left him with an even bigger smile. “Suck it up, buttercup!” Before I had time to react a custard pie flew into my face.

This is the weirdest date I have ever been on. Sure, Clown Camp seemed like a good idea. I always loved performing and costumes, but this was crossing a line. I put the plastic chainsaw down. “Derek I don’t think this is going to work out.” I left the tent and blocked his number.

Clowntastrophe

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Sam Heller

Writing down her thoughts about what happened last year wasn’t as easy as she had hoped. She couldn’t hold back the tears when she wrote about Luka — the way he smiled and laughed at silly things.

They’d fall to her page, blurring the ink from her pen. Something she would have cared about before, but she couldn’t stop thinking about how he never really cared about things like that, his handwriting looking like a cross between a doctor’s and a werewolf’s

A little-known fact: werewolves are known for their surprisingly beautiful handwriting. No one is quite sure why, but the full moon rises and the fountain pens come out.

The werewolf picked a fountain pen off the tree, and wrote some lovely poetry. A vampire came across the werewolf and thought to himself, a lunch for free. His fangs watered at the thought.

The vampire pounced, but the werewolf, having spied the blood-sucker out of the corner of his eye, was ready for the attack. The two rolled on the forest floor, snapping, clawing, snarling. Suddenly they stopped, each had the other's arm in their own jaws. "Uh oh," they moaned.

They'd have to break free before dawn or risk certain death. They lay there, growling softly. As sun rays pierced the stalemate, they let go at the same time. "This isn't over," vampire snarled. "I know," said werewolf. Both knew that in one lunar cycle this would all end.

Transylvanian Standoff

Imogen Jackson

I know there's blood. I can feel it trickling down my leg. Don't look. Keep your eyes up. But naturally, my gaze starts to wander down my leg. A hole the size of a quarter and a fountain of glistening red is there to meet me. In shock, I begin to choke on my breaths.

My vision starts to fade.

I wake up in an unfamiliar room, my head pounding. There’s a single dim lamp, and a window with the blinds shut. I’m laying in a cot, my head on a throw pillow and a red blanket laying over me. I try to sit up but can’t.

My leg! I suddenly remember-

“Hey you, you’re finally awake,” a man greeted me, “Do you know why you’re here?” “No, I don’t quite remember… but my leg, why can’t I move my leg?” “It’s gone,” he replied, “Your leg is gone. Now, what is 9 + 10?” “Twenty on-“ “Wrong! The answer is nineteen eighty four.”

"I don't understand, I have—" I was cut off, both metaphorically and literally with my leg, by this man, or at least I think he was a man. His face was torn and shredded like a cat's scratching post. There was something resembling a beard underneath coats of grease and oil.

“Ssssssilenccce, human! I demand sssilence! You must be quiet now!” The greasy man hissed. “OK I am”, I said. “You jussst ssspoke!”, he said. “Just to say that I’m being quiet, though”, I said. “Then you’re not sssilent! I DEMAND SSSSILENCCCE!”

I nodded vigorously, hoping he couldn't hear my head shake or my heart slamming against my ribs in fear. Slowly the greasy man's skin split from forehead to chin. From it slithered the largest python anyone had ever seen. "Better," the snake said, uncoiling with a satisfied sigh.

I pulled a dagger from the discarded man's robe just as the snake encircled my waist. I thought I was done for until I remembered the copious grease. I used it—and all my strength—to slip from its grip. The wet serpent crashed to the ground, moments before I fatally struck.

Slithering the Light Fantastic

“Apples to apples”, he said, “apples to oranges, whatever, it’s all fruit”. He shrugged as if to convey a sense of nonchalance, but I knew him. Of course he cared. He had shed a single tear the day it happened, but I’d never seen him cry before that, every single day for nine

months, while deployed at sea, he sent letters back home. Me and the boys always gave him a hard time. But he loved his wife–still does, even after returning home to another man sleeping in his wife's bed. It's the worst thing for a man to return and find out he'd been replaced.

“Who’s gonna tell him?” I asked. We all shrugged. No one wanted to break the bad news. Until someone did. “Listen man,” one spoke up, “you, are a simp. How can you let yourself be disrespected like that? Your wife slept around while you were deployed abroad! Divorce her already!”

“You pronounced ‘shrimp’ wrong, you big primate! I wasn’t away at sea, I come from the sea. The antenna and shell should have given it away. And we have an open marriage, since you’re so interested in our exoskeletal affairs.”

That was the beginning of the end. They tried to rekindle their love, but something between them had broken, cracked like a shell under a mallet. It was the puns that hurt most. The two drifted, the woman back to Akron, the shrimp to the Atlantic, where he was eaten by a herring.

Oceans to Shores

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OK, OK, Iisten to me. It's not that complex. The oldest movie is Episode 4. Then Episodes 5 and 6 came out. Then a couple decades later we got the first 3 Episodes, which are also the prequels. What? They just are. Now we have 3 sequels: Episodes 7-9. No, really, it makes sense.

Allow me to simplify even further: Episodes 4-6 were the OGs, with Episode 5 being hands down the best one. Episodes 1-3 used to suck, but not so much now with memes compared to the trainwreck dumpster fire that is Episodes 7-9. What were they thinking when they made the sequels?

They weren't thinking, that's what. Seat of the pants, plot-hole-laden storytelling garbled with illogical character motivations and apologetic retconning. What a mess. What a potential wasted. And now that she's passed away, we'll never get to see it done right.

"Ma'am." The walls fall out of color. "Ma'am?" 
My eyes find a face. He looks familiar. "Yes? Do I know you?" 
He grunts and itches his mustache. The other smirks at me across the table. I don't like it. I pick at my nails, though the nurses told me not to. 
"Let's try again..."

“Who were you with last Thursday night?”

“I… I don’t remember”. I really didn’t remember. I tugged at a hangnail on my left thumb, pinching it between my right thumb and pointer finger nails. The nurses standing on both sides of me grabbed my wrists and held them down.

Little did they know the hangnail had been a diversion to distract them while I pressed the button on my wrist watch-alerting the swat unit to enter the premises. Before long the nurses were detained, and there was no need answers any more questions. On my part, at least.

A New Dope

Adia Reynolds

Yolanda W

Davi Razuj

Nonexistent. Not around. A figment of my imagination. My best friend does not exist, no, nor do my regular friends.

Do I even exist? We’re all just spinning on this big ass rock through space. But what even is space?! Can anything really be proven or justified? Anyway, that’s enough philosophical contemplation for today, I’m heading off to bed.

“Wait, Professor?” A student asked from the back row. “Yes?” “What’s an ass-rock, and how big is big when it comes to ass-rocks?” Suppressed giggles through the room. “That’s an intentional hyphen misplacement and you know it!” He yelled back.

But ever since that day he was plagued with the thought of ass-rocks. As much as he’d tried to suppress it, forced his whole life into the role of academic, he could no longer hold himself back: the time had come for him to leave the classroom and become a sculptor.

So then he tried making a sculpture he made it and tried to sell it… it was the ugliest thing people ever seen

The sculpture's ugliness was so intense that a 3rd world dictator tried to buy it. She wanted to use it as a form of punishment. All criminals against the state would be forced to sit in a room with this ugly statue & stare at it. She was willing to pay the artist $2 million.

"Not for sale." The artist knew this woman only wanted to buy the sculpture for its profound ugliness. "$10 million," she countered, imagining the torture she could inflict. "$100 million," the artist said, offended, but weary. Under the shadow of the grotesque form, they shook.

Butt Ugly

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Lauren Coles

Jay Knowles

Emma wiped the dust off her pants. I was just going to go through some things up in the attic. Grandma was a pack rat. I know that she was your mother but I bet you are happy that she is gone

off to the retirement community in Florida. She can play golf, or bingo, or swim in the pool if she likes. But she left all this junk for us to deal with. There are a few treasures in this attic, so we’ll have to go through the boxes carefully.

This box is filled with 13 different air fryer cookbooks. Does she even have an air fryer? Here are my old toys. Snuffles, my old stuffed elephant! She told me she threw him away! A broken lamp...toss that. But what's this? A crate full of books with her name. She wrote a novel?

“The Little Air Fryer”, “I Believe I Can Fry”, and many other novels. All about air fryers! She dedicated her whole life to air fryers ever since the day of its invention, truly the best invention, since sliced bread! If you don’t get it, well… Clearly you don’t own an air fryer.

But who needs an air fryer when you have a deep fryer? What does an air fryer fry? Air? And what do toasters toast? Toast? As an Italian plumber once said, “All toasters toast toast.” Miss that guy. But I digress. Speaking of novels on air fryers, the writer now released a book —

‘Air Fryer’s 101’. To which I scoffed to myself. See the thing is, gadgets have become far too complex nowadays. What’s wrong with normally frying something. God forbid if I ever showed a youth a frying pan, they’d probably ask me “Where’s the on button?”. But anyway I continued

"How hard could it be?" I chuck the instructions to the counter. It slides off and into the trash, and I couldn't care less. I crack my knuckles, "Home made french fries here I come."

The first step was arguably the easiest. I gathered all the ingredients: Potatoes, oil, salt, and ketchup for later. Next I began peeling the skin off the potatoes, I had seen my father to this plenty of times. Of course, he was a three star chef.

The following step was where things got substantially more difficult—the start of the ritual. I placed the skinned, oiled, and salted potatoes in a circle around the dog, then drizzled the ketchup across them. The dog whimpered longingly at the potatoes surrounding her.

I chanted the ancient words that would bind the dog's soul to mine. Her snout elongated, her fur receded, then, miraculously, standing before me was my long lost sister. It made so much sense—tater tots were her favorite food. We hugged and cried amidst the smell of fried spuds.

A puppy with brown fur greeted the woman and jerry. The puppy licked their face. The dog name was lucky

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