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Dead Air by Molly Howard

His kiosk is just outside the cheap jewelry store, a lone island dividing the tireless stream of people marching by. It is packed with blinking LED lights and mechanical whirring, a beacon in the gloom of the mall’s creeping motel scent. He demonstrates his wares—flying a remote control helicopter over the heads of the passing…

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Two Flash by Ron Riekki

The Beard, The Psychopomp It’s pretty simple—my brother’s beard is the Grim Reaper. Some people get confused when I explain this, but his beard is Death. It’s not too hard to figure out. His beard = Death. When someone dies, his beard has to go there, escort the person across the river Styx. Although it’s…

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The Water by Anna Lea Jancewicz

When it started to rain, we didn’t know that it wouldn’t stop. We didn’t know that the sunflowers would bow under the weight of the water and kiss each other goodbye, that the horses would swim until they sank in surrender, that eventually even the wood of our crude boats would rot from underneath us.…

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CC Made It Two Years, Wha?

Loyal CC readers, Yes, you read the above correctly. Our silly little e-mag made it two years, and we’re as shocked and pleasantly surprised as you are. We thought that, surely, our irreverent nature and plain old weirdness would not be received well, or at least not for long. We are so pleased that we (are…

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The Contents of Her Stomach by Chelsea Laine Wells

In tenth grade you say to your friend Katie, “Let’s be anorexic.” You are joking, but not really, and she’s looking straight at you and she says, “Okay.” Katie takes to it like a house on fire, but you are weak. You break and eat after dark with shaking fingers in the cold light of the refrigerator. Katie…

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Today I Will Be by Liam Lambert

At closing time, when the moving stairs stop and the moving people go, it is quiet. I prefer it, though, to the opening times, when the moving people will not stop wailing and slurping their thick liquids through their thick straws. I think I remember being like that once. Nigel Store Manager will be here…

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Castor or Pollux? by Dan Reiter

I was rewriting the first sentence for the eighty-seventh time when I smelled it. Hot, rancid tang. Funk of Virunga. “Olfactory hallucination,” I told myself. Deleted a word. Added another. A deep graw. Padded thunk of flesh upon wood. Blood thrilled into my legs. I turned around. The cut of the beard, the curl of…