Turn Back

by Claire Schultz

He’d followed her down that same long, dark path, crushed under the waves past the center of the earth, and he hadn’t died. Maybe he was lucky. Maybe their love was fated, cosmic, too strong to be broken by something as mundane as death. Maybe the shadows down here had known.

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Sofie Harsha
The Boy and the Flowerpot

by Samuel Clark

I know that I’m in an inside-outside place because that’s where the boy comes from. The real inside. He splits the doors down the middle and steps out with his watering can, a dusty blue, and pours water into the dirt packed inside me for the flower inside me. He holds one of our leaves and says, “You’re my favorite,” and I don’t hear him say it to any of the other pots or any of their flowers, so I know that he’s telling the truth.

“You’re my favorite too,” I say, which is also the truth, but the boy says nothing back. This is the tragedy of our relationship—that he cannot hear me, but that I can hear him.


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Sofie Harsha