Phil Harwell

Deni Dyx

Jay Knowles

Jason Moody

Sean King

Sam Becker

English

How I got into this situation, I’ll never know. The last thing I remember was me taking a book off the shelf at the library. There was a loud crash, and gale force winds blowing everything over. A bunch of other stuff happened, then

I found myself staring up at the daytime sky. Wait, the sun? It was 11pm when I entered the library... so what the hell just happened? Thinking about it, it's still kind of blurry. I'll save the thinking for later. But for now, adventure calls for me. And some aspirin, hopefully.

Adventure! I ran down the aisles grabbing every remotely interesting book I could find, and read them all in one sitting. Every flip of the page fed into my imagination, now filled to the brim with adventures to distant lands. I envisioned myself on a journey in a mystical place.

I studied the pile of books on my desk and my eyes were drawn to underneath my desk chair. 
A small, tatty red book. It’s cover was frayed and the pages yellowed like an old fishwifes smile. 
On the cover in faded silver were three words;
‘Let mischief in’
I opened it.

“The Collective Wisdom of Mass Produced Suburban Wall Art: Finding the Pathos in the Banality.” I don’t usually enjoy reading graduate sociology thesis for fun, but I had a feeling I was going to “live, laugh, love” this one.

Little did I know this thesis was destined to become the international bestseller, “Live Laugh Love,” and, eventually, a blockbuster movie of the same name. Had I known, I might have left kinder comments, and avoided being the villain of the story, Professor Kerr Mudge!

Let Mischief In

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Benjamin Chandler

Michael Stiehl

Marta P

Gifts gifts everywhere and not a box for me. I kicked through discarded wrapping paper, bows, and tags, fruitlessly searching. I knew I was unlikely to find what I needed, but I had to look.

It’s not easy being the second-to-youngest of 12, continuously lost in the shuffle. Imagine waking up Christmas morning to find out there weren’t any presents for you under the tree. Had your parents forgot? Or, as per usual, was an older sibling to blame?

I let it go until that May when my brother was tooling around the driveway on a bike he claimed he got for Christmas. As he popped wheelies & endos, I started to notice details about the bike. It had rainbow streamers on the handlebars & the glittery banana seat was hot pink.

"Nice bike," I said in a low voice "where'd you get it?"
"What's your problem weirdo?" he snorted. "I told you, Santa gave it to me."
Somewhere a little girl was crying, I could feel it in my bones, and my brother was responsible. That tore it, something had to give.

Now, with all of the things I knew I could do to him at that moment, every option a burning desire to smack the grin off his stupid face, I had to make do with the moment. With the resolve of that girl in me, I ran and pushed him angrily towards the street "It ain't yours, ass!"

He stumbled toward the street, stopping right before entering traffic, and breathing a sigh of relief as the car whizzed past. He was white as a sheet, with eyes as big as plates. The grin was gone. That’s where his version of the story ended. Mine included the pants-wetting.

Butthead Bonanza

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Sarah Park

Most people don't know this, but the world's greatest cookie is housed in a special gallery in the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna. This is the story of how it got there.

Gunter the baker practiced and perfected his cookies for decades. People would line up for blocks to buy his heavenly snickerdoodles. He was never satisfied, always improving. It wasn’t until his 70th birthday that he considered his recipe perfect.

But alas, that was also his last day alive. The moment Gunter shouted, "Eureka!" he found himself offering his recently perfected cookies to the Grim Reaper instead of his favorite apprentice. "Your time's up, Gunter," the Grim Reaper said, taking a cookie from his tray.

Gunter stared awestruck while the Grim Reaper stuffed the cookie into his mouth, crumbs ricocheting all over the ground beneath him. Abruptly, the Grim Reaper stops munching. With eyes as wide as dinner plates, he bellows, "These are not chocolate chip!"

Gunter thought that Mr. Eat-Ya-Soul-Up would have enough time spent gobbling up all the treats he had put on display to have a 5 minute recap of how to escape a literal hellhole. Can duck, cover, and hold be enough? Not anymore. He didn't want to spend eternity filing devil horns

Gunter backed away from Mr EYSU, standing at the precipice, distracted by the glorious sight of his wicked kingdom full of imps and brimstone. Gunter set his horns on the ground and ran for it. Unfortunately, he turned at the last moment to look at Mr EYSU, and turned to salt.

Snickerdoodle

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Leyre Garcia

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Chris Dodds

You woke up and realised that it wasn't your room and it scared you so much that you were paralysed while the fire was burning everything around you. You came out of there after several minutes frozen by panic. At the end of the corridor there was a person hiding in the flames...

Panicking for your life, you tried to rush down the stairs to escape the house that would crumble down to ashes. You look back at the last step to yell at them. "Run away!" It stuck in your throat. That person was you. With a molten face, it smiled and hid back in the shadows.

If you want to run toward the shadowy molten doppelganger and attack yourself with the wooden shield please turn to page 44. Otherwise please go to page 18:

After a deep breath, you charge your lava-twin. Their molten fingers curl around your wooden shield & it crumbles to ash. But, unbeknownst to the fiery doppelgänger, you are wearing the Ring of Infinite Transformations. Touching its azure sapphire, you wish the lava-man to become

Meringue Man! Sweet, light, and crumbly. His arms break off in a sugary cloud. He opens his mouth to scream in rage, but a soft kittenish mewling comes out instead. All the other supervillains double over in laughter.

They didn’t think much about the cloud of powered sugar leaking out of him until it began to fill their lungs sending the villains into a panic. None of them had considered that Meringue Man’s deadman switch might be a cloyingly sweet cloud of diabetes.

The cabal experienced what could only be described as a lifetime of bad nutritional choices condensed into 15 minutes of terror. One by one they toppled, hallucinating about jelly-filled donuts and carrot cake frosting. In the end, Meringue Man had the final sugar-dusted laugh.

meringue man

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Jonah Baker

Rietje Becker

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

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

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.

Deni Dyx
@wintercoffeee

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