Thomasina squinted at the crisp autumn leaves blowing in through the broken window, scattering about the room. She’d never had any friends thanks the condition that gifted her with translucent white skin and pink eyes. But somehow, on this night, she found herself sitting on the floor of an abandoned hunting shack, with three girls she’d encountered earlier while walking through the woods. She jumped when one of them, the one named Helen, leaned forward, and spat, “Truth or Dare?!”

It’s me, reporting from the edge…the very edge.

Heels planted, toes curling over the side, eyes straight forward and fixed on the next step.

Step back? Step forward? Either choice could mean the end…or possibly the beginning.

People in the village were whispering about her, but she didn't care. Every day, she lugged her saw, a bucket, a homemade fishing pole, and bait across the frozen lake. Once there, she sat shivering while waiting for the telltale tug from a creature below the surface. This torturous task wasn't for the fairer sex but what choice did she have? On that particular day, as clouds and a north wind rolled in from the mountains, she was deep in thought about how she got to this point, so much so that she almost didn’t notice two little girls at the edge of the lake, shouting and pointing...

The air pressure changed suddenly as the wind started to howl. Yawning to pop her ears, Harriet glanced out the cabin window, and saw dark storm clouds racing over the hill. It looked like a bad one.

Dinah lit a candle in the carved turnip, and placed it by the window, casting the image of a ghoulish face out into the dark forest.  She squinted through the glass but could only see the autumn leaves dancing across the stone path in front of her cabin. 

When she was a little girl, Irene dreamed of a future that included a life as a starving artist in New York City.  And thanks to the wildly inaccurate portrayals of 20-somethings living in Manhattan on TV, her dream also included a loft apartment complete with funny, eccentric neighbors.

It was Sunday, my second favorite day of the week next to Monday.  Monday meant school, my absolute favorite place in the world.  In school I was smart, which meant I was important.  I always had the right answers, I volunteered to help after school, I was polite and well behaved, and teachers absolutely loved me for it.  Sunday meant Cream of Wheat, “Steampipe Alley,” the large colored section of the comics and most importantly Monday was just a night’s sleep away.

Every Friday evening, the Bell family could be found sitting at their dining room table looking like a scene out of a Norman Rockwell painting.  There was often a pot roast, or meatloaf or some other stereotypical All-American meal spread before them.  And the conversation didn’t deviate much from three main topics: work, charity and football. 

Patrick came home early from work for the first time in years.  He had good news that couldn’t wait for his normal 10pm clock out time.

Ariel remembered the last time she saw Lizzie as if it were yesterday. 

Cara sat on a park bench drinking her lemonade, the only reprieve from the blistering heat.  Across the street, the phenomenon continued, just as it had every summer afternoon for as long as she could remember. The gift shop had always attracted a steady stream of tourists in the warmer seasons. They would file in, one after another, but no one would ever came out.