Short Story


Short Stories

Like every morning since sometime in seventh grade, I woke up that morning five feet, one-and-three-quarters inches tall, and I will likely continue to do so for the rest of my life.


Ghost Stories of Harvard Yard

You check your phone. The shuttle is late again. It’s always late—by exactly eight minutes every time. You wonder why that is, but your thoughts are soon interrupted by the rattling of a geriatric bus, painted crimson, which comes squealing to a stop in front of Widener gate.


The Road to Maine

The road to Maine has no rest stops and I need to pee. I’ve been downing juice boxes in the ...


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