Hannah Zellers

“Dad, I think we should install a fireplace in our living room.” I sat on the edge of the rocking chair—elbows on my knees, sales pitch ready. Dad sat in his green

We were enemies to begin with. I stood on the edge of the porch—front row to the show—bare feet rubbing against smooth planks. I gripped a pink plastic cup with both

A line of cars wraps around the brick building with green awnings and spills into the street, clogging traffic. Each car follows the next like train cars joined by invisible links. Customers chuck

Afternoon sunlight slanted through the window, warming the stainless steel counter and filling the kitchen with the sleepy warmth of a weighted blanket. Returning to work in the ranch kitchen after an afternoon

Winner of the English Language and Literature Division Creative Writing Competition - Creative Nonfiction The wind had been gusty yesterday when my kite nearly dived into a woman walking the beach. Little puffs

We sat in the middle of the floor like three points in a triangle. String lights gave the room a soft glow. We ate ice cream straight out of the carton with plastic

The turtle tank gurgled softly in the corner of the classroom. I watched the turtle heads poke up for air before ducking back under the water. My seven-year-old self wanted to go swimming.

“Sara is so nice. I just love that about her.” “I like Lauren because she’s sweet.”   “I’ve never heard Chloe say a mean thing to anyone.” I sat in the middle

Check-in day at BJU dawned cloudy with a chance of tears—for me anyway. I pushed the door open to leave the girls’ dorm and blinked at daylight like a groundhog coming out

Food. Good food. Very good food. I could smell the aroma wafting down the carpeted stairway. The smell grew stronger as I followed my nose down the hallway like a hound dog on

I noticed the turquoise streak in her hair first, a streak of blue falling through blond hair like inverted lightning. She wore a choker made out of hemp. Silver rings cluttered her fingers—

“Coming, Hannah?”     A friend poked her head into the bunkhouse, letting yellow light spill through the door and into the night. I stuffed a few extra snacks into my backpack and pulled my

My boots scuffed the red dirt road lightly as I walked, armed with a water bottle, a book, and a mission. Allured by a rumor of fresh berries, I had decided to exchange

“Rusty, where does this spatula go?” I held up a heat-weathered and browning object of undetermined age, perfect for flipping ham in a skillet. Rusty, a heat-weathered and browning object himself, unbent himself