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
Look at that tremble: your fingers Clutching your coffee cup like a mast, Like a slice of Still amid the Turning— The knife scratch, the child’s cackle Of those playing the “them”
My friends played in the church stairwell To let the time go by. I would have gone if I was brave, But fear left me standby. I wanted to go up the stairs,
In 2018, my dad, mom, brother, and I moved from the United States to France. It was a hard transition. I had made other transcontinental moves before, but France…was different. It was
“Alrighty. We’re here.” Eloise’s mom shifted the car into park and looked at her daughter in the passenger seat. Eloise’s eyes stayed glued to the window, which framed a large
To read the past two parts of “Pirate Hunters,” check out Volume 2, Issues 2 and 3 in Inkwell Literary Magazine’s online archive. Once we had docked in A Coruña, Captain Deney
What a glorious day, Nod thought, as he inhaled the sweet scent of the early afternoon. He closed his eyes and felt the warm breath of raspberries and cinnamon swirl past the threshold
It’s been seven years since the darkness started killing people. Wade had listened to the whispers this morning as he’d trudged along the busy sidewalks. People huddled in groups, talking in
In a tiny, dusty store with strange operational hours, a young woman with a plant’s name was cradling a wire duck and her dreams, both crushed. While a store packed with old
You can’t finish something you never start. Shocking, I know. Procrastination isn’t just something we do with homework. Instead, it haunts every area of our lives. Conversations can happen tomorrow. Coffee
No darkness covered my own eyes; the darkness was within. A bitter, cold, unwavering mass that was my covered sin. Every crevice filled with black, each thought perfused with ebony, These thoughts collecting
On the Sunday when my father’s grandfather died, Father got up early and went to the house, yellowed With age and perched on a wishy-washy foundation. When he returned late that night,
I miss the birdcalls. Now through my window flashing seeps The siren-gusts hurtling around my apartment building. I miss green leaves. Through the curtains, The metallic sky stares at me From the other