Jonah Baker

Sam Becker

Deni Dyx

Benjamin Chandler

Sean King

Rietje Becker

English

In the jungle, a lazy panther was on the prowl for spectacles. Not wanting to admit his issue, he pretended to be hunting for elephants, the only animal he could still recognize at a distance.

Gerald, often quick to make excuses, was unusually honest in that moment. “I need better eye care,” the panther said. “I’m over here!” said his best friend, a lemur named Watkins. Gerald looked down. “What do I do?” “Come with me,” the lemur said. “First, let’s get you fed.”

With a playful look in his eyes, Gerald began growling and licking his teeth. "Hey, Watkins, you're looking good today. Tasty even. Like a five star dish." The lemur raised both of his hands. "Watch it, kiddo. Bite me and I swear I'll make you see those 5 stars." They laughed.

"What're you guys laughing at?" It was Bingo the Flamingo, the most annoying animal Gerald & Watkins knew. Gerald sighed, rolling his yellow eyes, "Nothing, Bingo. Inside joke." The bird strode over, breath reeking. He'd obviously been hunting for shrimp in the walrus pool again.

Watkins sighed almost inaudible my, then burst into a fake grin. “Bingo, is there anything you’d like to tell our viewers about? Anything about fish or anything?” Bingo belched, then looked at the camera. “Yeah, I guess. Um shrimp are delicious?”

Bingo realized he was out of options. He finally told his story, about his years on a fish farm and eventual capture by pirates. “And that’s why they are called bonefish” he said hours later. Watkins turned off the camera with frustration, no one would ever believe this nonsense.

The Bingo Blazooie Hour

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You awoke to the smell of burning. Ugh. Early morning and it felt like hell was making an appearance. Slowly, the smoke was getting unbearable. When you opened your eyes, the fire encircled your bedroom, its flames towering high above the ceiling.

“Not again”, you mumble. Then you climb out of bed into your fire suit and magma boots. You aim your Kelvin gun at the base of the flames, methodically dousing them. You extinguish the bedroom first, then work room by room to secure the house.

This is the third time this month the Torchies have started fires in your house. The little gremlins used to stay in the furnace where they were born, but now that your grandma stopped feeding them, they're out, roaming the house, licking wood, chewing doorframes, starting fires.

It was too much. Arson from Torchies was to be expected. We had methods for handling it. But once the gremlins were loosed we were simply overrun. They ate most of the lumber, even a child or two. It had been an uneasy peace but it had held—no more. This was gremlin country now.

Gremlins From Hell

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Emily J

Leyre Garcia

Oh it's happening. It's definitely here. You look around outside at what would be your first shop. Fluffy, warm pastries paired best with a steaming cup of coffee. The thought had kept you smiling down to this very moment. For now, somethin to eat. Some donuts.

“Raspberry Vinaigrette doughnut? Smoked scallion bear claw? We have a nice cilantro mushroom cruller special today.” You scowl. The server says “Oh, sorry, maybe you’re not aware that Spice Holes only serves savory pastries. A lot of newbies like the leek croissants?”

"Y'know," you confess, "I totally thought a place named Spice Holes would be serving something more—uh—lascivious." The server nods. "I see. Maybe you'd prefer the shop next door, Piquant Pits. There's also Zesty Gapes on 7th and National." Appetite waning, you leave the shop and

head down the street, walking aimlessly. None of those places really were what you’re looking for. You notice a light shimmering down an alleyway. Drawn to it inexplicably, you find yourself in front of a grimy window and a single wooden door. Before you can think, you knock.

After waiting 10 minutes, a person appears at the door. "Hello," you say, with a trembling voice. The person doesn't answer, but allows you to enter his house. You notice that the house was messy and full of stuff, there was so much stuff that you couldn't even take a single step

The scent is hard to place but perfectly diffused. You follow your host with dread. “Where are we?” you ask. “Welcome to the hoard!” you hear, the walls begin to topple. You dive through newspaper particulate, gasping, nearly free when someone grips your ankle and pulls you back.

When Hunger Leads to Adventure

Breathe. That's what everyone tells you when you start to panic and self-destruct. God knew I wanted to take the air in as much as I could but with the water rising steadily, was there any point? Breathe, Cassandra. Because it might as well be your last.

She was trying to keep her head above the rising waters and conserve her energy. Then she heard a voice, high, soft, and bubbly. “Join us, Cassandra. Live under the waves. Trust me.” She looked into the water, eyes wide.

Curious shapes swam in the dark water below her treading feet. At first Cassandra thought they were mermaids, but looking closer she saw that instead of fish tails they had starfish bodies—five knobby arms fluttered under their waists. They waved at her. "Come!" Cassie closed her

eyes and dove. The prophesy always made reference to a 4-limbed land rover making contact with 5-limbed wet worlders. The moment felt inevitable. Cassandra lost herself in the mesh of arms, rough as carpet. Before losing consciousness she felt her toes web and her soul moisten.

Those That Move Below

Callum Wootton

Diana Tobey

Seven thousand tonnes of snow. Bitter frost. I had to trek miles forwards for even a glimpse of light in this frozen over, barren wasteland.

It was very cold, I was tired of walking and seeing more darkness than light. While I was walking, a tree branch fell on my head and I fall down on the snowy ground.

"As if the night couldn't get any worse..", you try to say to no one in particular. You rub the sore spot on your head and feel a bit of blood running down your fingers and onto the snow. Overall, fine. Just some blood. Better be on my way before the weather eats me up whole.

That’s when the murder of crows appears. Circling just above your reach, cawing and occasionally diving at you. You can shoo away individual birds, but you can’t stop them all. Your break into a trot with your arms over your head. “It can’t get worse” you whisper.

Just then, the murder of crows swarm together above you, blotting out the sun. A sudden shower pelts at you from above. What’s this? A thunderstorm? No, a literal sh*tstorm. “I must have been a traitor in my past life, I can’t believe I have to deal with this sh*t.”

Your jacket, trousers, head & neck become polka-dotted with white & black crow droppings. Glimpsing your reflection in a window you think, "I look like a doo-doo leopard." Inspiration hits & you rush home to write "Poo Cats", the 1st in a series of heart-warming children's books.

The Night of the Doodoo Leopard

Zoe Becker

Jerry glanced down at the photograph in his hand, then back up again at the woman sitting alone at the back of the cafe.

The air was sucked out of his lungs at the similarities present between the person in the photo and the woman in front of him.

All at once a blinding light coursed through the space. Jerry and the woman froze. And then a creature appeared, seemingly from the air itself.

Get down. Someone hissed behind him. The woman, probably. Although Jerry's feet were urging him to run like hell, he obeyed her. He dropped on the ground and laid flat.

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