Plain China

Fiction

Nesting Instinct

Lizz Fong · Knox College

They made their nest in the nook of her neck. It was a Tuesday, if she remembers correctly, when she first noticed it.

Every Star in the Sky

Alex Zimay · Knox College

"If you could have any superpower, what would it be?" Mike asks.

Voltage

Kylie Lee Baker · Emory University

Ivy turned the living room lamp off and back on again for the eleventh time when Hal finally looked up from his book. "Should I read somewhere else?" he said.

Robbery Unnoticed

Miriam Shapik · University of Cincinnati

He tripped. His name was Jason and he tripped over his shoes that were too big. His brother had given him shoes when Jason's finally disconnected at the souls.

Salt

Greg Duffy · Notre Dame

Wake up. Freezing. Groggy eyes. Roll over. A fog of ice crystal formed on the window last night. It is wide open. Shiver. Something is wrong.

Haunt

Jackson Burgess · University of Southern California

In those days, I liked watching bus crowds. I liked watching groggy riders, imagining where they were coming from. What they were leaving behind.

The Noon of Thought

Cassandra King · University of Minnesota

It was almost 2:00 a.m., the latest I’d stayed up in years, when I pinched the bridge of my nose and pushed the heels of my hands into my crinkled eyes. I knew I couldn’t yet. It’d been poetry for hours, but I knew I couldn’t. My heart pushed against my bones while the rest of me was still. The seams of myself were straining and tightening. I pressed my lips together in case my lungs came up my throat. Felt like it. Tough.

Unpalatable

Nicole Lopez · Loyola University

Vivienne warns that the red is too dry. You cannot stomach this, she says. He says, that's a risk I'll take.

Secret Meeting Notes

James Trout · Guilford College

Meeting Notes from the Guilford College Secret Council meeting

At the Gas Station With My Mother

Liam Oznowich · Oberlin College

I am sitting outside of my middle school, clutching my phone in my hand. I am feverish.

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Nesting Instinct

Lizz Fong · Knox College

They made their nest in the nook of her neck. It was a Tuesday, if she remembers correctly, when she first noticed it.

Every Star in the Sky

Alex Zimay · Knox College

"If you could have any superpower, what would it be?" Mike asks.

Voltage

Kylie Lee Baker · Emory University

Ivy turned the living room lamp off and back on again for the eleventh time when Hal finally looked up from his book. "Should I read somewhere else?" he said.

Robbery Unnoticed

Miriam Shapik · University of Cincinnati

He tripped. His name was Jason and he tripped over his shoes that were too big. His brother had given him shoes when Jason's finally disconnected at the souls.

Salt

Greg Duffy · Notre Dame

Wake up. Freezing. Groggy eyes. Roll over. A fog of ice crystal formed on the window last night. It is wide open. Shiver. Something is wrong.

Haunt

Jackson Burgess · University of Southern California

In those days, I liked watching bus crowds. I liked watching groggy riders, imagining where they were coming from. What they were leaving behind.

The Noon of Thought

Cassandra King · University of Minnesota

It was almost 2:00 a.m., the latest I’d stayed up in years, when I pinched the bridge of my nose and pushed the heels of my hands into my crinkled eyes. I knew I couldn’t yet. It’d been poetry for hours, but I knew I couldn’t. My heart pushed against my bones while the rest of me was still. The seams of myself were straining and tightening. I pressed my lips together in case my lungs came up my throat. Felt like it. Tough.

Unpalatable

Nicole Lopez · Loyola University

Vivienne warns that the red is too dry. You cannot stomach this, she says. He says, that's a risk I'll take.

Secret Meeting Notes

James Trout · Guilford College

Meeting Notes from the Guilford College Secret Council meeting

At the Gas Station With My Mother

Liam Oznowich · Oberlin College

I am sitting outside of my middle school, clutching my phone in my hand. I am feverish.

Novena

Lucas Garcia · University of Notre Dame

The Zozobra’s limbs are listless, his empty head staring out above the mass of people.

Mimosa Pudica

Michaela Cowgill · American University

This is the good part of the story. Every July we drove to the shore in our creaky white minivan to visit my great Uncle Lee. If there were a sharp turn, the whole van would feel like it was about to tip over like a red flyer wagon. The seats were blue and uncomfortable.

Transhuman Microfiction

Emily Mesev · Grinnell College

Transhumanism the belief or theory that the human race can evolve beyond its current physical and mental limitations, especially by means of science and technology

Seven Minutes of Heaven

Kellianne King · Susquehanna University · Honorable Mention in Fiction

We were sitting in the back of his older brother’s car, and it smelled a little bit like a McDonald’s double cheeseburger and a little bit like a new car and a little bit like a Christmas tree all at once. Charlie told me the Christmas tree smell was because of a thousand air fresheners his mother had stored in the trunk, those hanging tree ones with fancy names like "Evening Sea" and "Meadow Fresh." My nostrils burned and my lungs gasped, but I stayed in my seat. Charlie and I had been double-dog dared to spend seven minutes of heaven together, and I wanted, if not to actually spend those minutes as they were intended, to at least be able to step out of the car giggling softly, perhaps tripping a little into his arms, whispering things no one could hear in his ear, and know Maureen Biggert was watching from the window.

Burrows

Molly Zimetbaum · Tufts University

Jimmy calls me on Friday night. "If you’re not busy," he begins, "would you like to play some tennis with me?" Even through my shitty phone, I can hear the pitch of his voice rising. He always calls, never texts. He’s one of those "old soul" types. I don’t particularly like to play, but I accept, because I want to get out of the room. Weekend nights here have been uneventful. Mostly I’ve just stayed in my dorm, taking bong hits and blowing them out the window. My roommate’s getting ready to go out, standing naked in front of the mirror.

Kismet

Sarah Christensen · Brown University

On the first Wednesday of May it rained with such ferocity that Washington Avenue was closed, and the school bus was forced to travel the long way around.

House of Boone

Benjamin Vadnal · Boston College

Boone’s house is square and plumb. Spruce but not immaculate, kind but not religious, tucked into the depths of Picket Ridge, Tennessee. Boone harvested the trees, breaking the canopy to let in light; milled the trunks and dovetailed the logs, painted the door and cut holes for windows. At the end of his laboring, he opened the door and came home.

Everything That Is Happening Has Happened a Hundred Times Before

Megan Lent · UCLA

You don’t know who’s going to be important in your life when you meet them. This is a fact. I don’t remember meeting Emma. She says she remembers meeting me, that we were in a group together at a screening of short art films at the Hammer, and that we spent the whole time laughing at this boy in the group who kept insisting that we were witnessing genius. But I don’t remember that.

Way-Station

Shira Hereld · Mary Baldwin College · Honorable Mention in Fiction

CHARACTERS LUISA Mid-60s. Dressed like a homeless woman. Owns several blankets and a large purse with a seemingly endless supply of knitting. LEW Mid-late 60s. Stationmaster. Wears a name tag with “Lew” on it. JEANIE Late 20s/early 30s. Sensible. MAX Late 20s/early 30s. Jeanie’s husband. A man to whom you telll your secrets.

Counting

Megan Ross Rodriguez · Susquehanna University

Two days late. Then seven. Ten when Colleen went into labor. She counted them off on her fingers. Grade school math. Third grade she’d learned a trick. That was after addition went from fingers to minds. The teachers didn’t want finger-counting for addition or multiplication, but Colleen learned. Fingers held the secret to any multiple of nine. All ten fingers held out straight, bend down the multiple for a product. Two times nine needed a bent-down ring finger. A pinky. Eight fingers. Two and nine was eighteen.

A Sunny Place for Shady People

Lindsey Skillen · University of Florida

The house where Bradford grew up has been turned into a sex colony and he doesn’t feel too good about it, so now we have to go check things out. The only reason I’m going is because I’ve been in love with him for the past three years but we’re about to break up. And I’m a little bit curious about the whole thing, honestly.

Like Prayer

Reegan Breedan · Susquehanna University

We’re sitting with our backs pressed against the hard wood of the church’s white-picket fence, sucking Slurpees through thick straws and comparing tongue colors in between sips. Mr. Tenant paid for our ices with change he dug out of his coat pockets. He made us each get a different color. The ice machine’s new, a next-generation machine, Mr. Tenant says, with a metallic shine that glows against the cracked wooden shelves of the penny candy wall in the back corner of the Shop ‘N’ Go.

Amtrak Viewliner Roomette

David Kunkel · Boston College

Type into Google, “Can you have sex in an Amtrak Viewliner Roomette,” and Yahoo Answers will either tell you yes, just don’t forget to close the curtains, or yes, just don’t forget to leave the curtains open when you pass my apartment by the tracks. Add that it’s for your honeymoon and responders will even give friendly encouragement, applause.

One White Shoe

Erin Butler · Brown University

Coins in the slot. Coins, pooled in a little pile at the bottom of the fare box because, somehow, the bus still only takes quarters. If you want to get somewhere, you had better have a roll of quarters. Coins in the slot will get you wherever you need to go. Natalie never put coins in the slot. She always got where she needed to go.

When I Die

Darcy Anderson · Tufts University

When I die, don’t have a funeral. That’s what my mama used to say. Don’t have a funeral. Wait until the height of summer, when you think the weather’s going to be fine, and get up early. Get up early before the sunrise, and bake yourself a pie. But don’t just bake yourself a pie, really do it right. Get your fingers smeared in butter. Cover your wrists in pastry flour. Go out back and scramble through the thorns for berries. And when it finally comes out of the oven, still warm, wrap it up in newspaper and carry it to the top of the hill.

Get Lucky

Sophia Valesca Görgens · Boston College · Honorable Mention in Fiction

When he runs his finger down my spine, I don’t feel like bamboo. He doesn’t whisper ankylosing spondylitis in my ear, and I don’t find the name between the bed sheets, tangled up between our legs. But it’s started slipping out more now. Just the way he holds me at night, the way he’s so careful that his bones won’t grate against mine.

The Dentist

Drew Ohringer · Grinnell College

He was: five feet nine inches tall, of northern European ancestry, a dental student. He had hazel eyes, like my mother. I mean: he is five feet nine inches tall and of northern European ancestry. He has hazel eyes, just like my mother. He was a dental student sometime before March 1991.

The Practical Applications of Calculus

Catherine Mosier-Mills · Pomona College

In the mornings, Té Melicha sits on the porch and holds the honey jar nearly horizontal, angling. When the honey reaches its ribbed cusp, her amber voice seeps into the morning air, counting the drops that land on the porch: one, two, three. Oyasin and I joke that her brown arms are sinusoidal curves draped over a tangent line held deftly in space, a line repeated in the ancient rocking chair she occupies in her nightdress as she rocks the honey awake. Bug-feeder of the Black Hills, you’d think she was crazy if you didn’t hear her speak in Sioux.

Hair

John Saavedra · Susquehanna University

My sister likes men who have their hair a certain way—greased back and parted at the sides. If she’s out on a date and he doesn’t have it done up the way she likes, my sister reaches over and fixes it for him. No one in his right mind loves my sister.

Flash Flood

Rucy Cui · Rice University · Fiction Prize Winner

It starts with rain misting the silhouettes of the trees outside. Within half an hour, the downpour has begun, tearing the sky open like it’s something negligible, gusting to and fro until entire branches are swaying in the wind and lengthening to caress the street. The houses in our neighborhood are so dignified that I prepare myself for the utter loss of dignity, for uprooted flower gardens, splintered rafters, and rusty debris embedded in front lawns like wet newspaper into sidewalk cracks.

Venero

Ryan MacLennan · Harvard University

We’d been living in Madero for months of silent siege when I got a toothache on the right side of my mouth. It hurt like hell. I chewed only with the left side of my mouth for ten days while I tried to find a dentist who would take the insurance that Katherine got through the school. Most places didn’t take it because it was cut-rate. You’d think they’d give teachers better benefits. I started to worry that the right side of my face would become sallow and emaciated from lack of use. I knew it probably wouldn’t, but I grew out a beard just in case.

The Story We Tell People

Rebecca James · Susquehanna University

My baby sister came out with half a left arm, cut off just below her elbow. She was three weeks premature, and the hospital hallways were lined with color-coded paw prints. I sat on the opposite side of the curtain, dust-blue and cottony and pilled, and read a chapter book, a mystery, pretending I couldn’t hear my mother scream. I was eleven and knew how it worked.

Old Indian Road

Will Fenstermaker · University of Miami

I was the last to see him. I was only nine, but I remember the snow fell early that year. The storms came eastward across Lake Erie and over the foothills where pines shaved flakes over low-hanging clouds, leaving solemn gray piles higher than my chest. Before and long after Mr. Ehrlich disappeared, I would stand at the edge of where the lowest boughs in the forest reached, thrashing, supplicant to the harsh and windy sky.

Anaadar

Aditi Roy · Grinnell College · Honorable Mention in Fiction

When I sit down with my first cup of tea in the morning, the city is still asleep. I hear the same sounds every day: my wife’s gentle snores as she lies asleep on our bed, the neighbor’s air-conditioner working hard, gurgling water as it breathes out air, the bristles of a sweeper’s broom against the concrete of the street outside. At six in the morning, I hear the large clock at St. Joseph’s School ring six times. That’s when I leave the house for work.

Goat Sucker

Mark Putterman · New York University

Isabella has a black eye. Jay tells me el chupacabra did it and not to tell Mom because it’d scare her. That’s stupid, I tell him—the goat sucker doesn’t do that. Don’t you remember Dad’s stories? I ask. The goat sucker has matted, grey-brown fur that gathers in gnarled points along the notches in its spine, ivory teeth that wink in dim light. The goat sucker lives in the shadows and strikes only in the night; he kills every time. The goat sucker—Hermanito, Jay interrupts me, baby brother. Shut up and mind your own business.

Digging

Eleanor Kriseman · New York University

The gas station bathrooms were always open, but if it wasn’t the middle of the night and we had a choice, I liked Dunkin’ Donuts better. The bathrooms there were cleaner and, if I crossed my legs and sort of hopped around, the people behind the counter would usually let me use it even if we didn’t buy anything. If we stopped for the night, we looked for a 24-hour Wal-Mart or someplace else that was always open, because it was safer to park there. My mom would only sleep at night if she thought it was safe.

The Beach

Lily Fishman · Barnard College

“Well?” says Betty, fingers of her left hand drumming in her palm. “Will you come?” Alma throws a handful of veined carrot skins into the sink. They lie curled and graying across the drain. It is early in the afternoon, August; the heat in the kitchen is like custard. It never occurs to Alma that her sister will expect kindness from her. She finds herself presented with the abrupt impossibility of failing to offer her sister anything she asks.

The Bro

R.P. Munda · Princeton University

I can fit four other people in my car. Sometimes Jack fights Ellen for shotgun but Ellen usually wins. Steph and Louis always sit in the back because they’re juniors. The juniors have check-in at ten on weekends, because boarding school is stupid.

Homecoming

Francesca Thompson · Columbia College Chicago · Honorable Mention in Fiction

When my brother Manny got home from prison, I was giving our mother her daily bath. She reclined, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. I knelt near her head and dunked a large blue sponge in and out of the warm water. Bubbles floated on top of the surface, their liquid surfaces spinning with rainbows. They touched her brown chin and hung there like a tiny beard. She had started to snore softly, these terrible, wheezing gasps. When she was disconnected from her oxygen, baths had to be quick.

River Mammals

Zachary Frank · Boston College · Fiction Prize Winner

We get back before dusk. I’d laid down a sheet of plywood in the front yard when I woke and now we head over to it. Cheyenne’s fur catches and holds the sun while we tramp through burnt grass and wilted sedges. Horseflies swarm overhead and shade my face. They’ve taken a liking to me since I’ve started growing antlers. When we reach the plywood, Cheyenne gets to a long end and I stand across from him.

Ceelie

Bryce Bortree · Susquehanna University

Ceelie is seven when they find out Jim’s been touching her. The first thing I ask is when it started and Dad says hush, which is his way of making up for my not having a grandma if you ask me. I want to know, though. My seventh-grade health class just edged into sexual education and I curl tight around my desk while everyone chortles at our penises. I don’t find the thing very amusing at all. That’s not something a little cousin says out loud, that other people are being cruel.

Spider-web

Brian Smith · Guilford College

A spider-web pattern, they call it, when tempered glass cracks this way, not breaking all the way through but broken just the same, useless now. A spider spends—how long? an hour, a lifetime?—literally hanging its life on a thread. A broom handle in the hand of a bored schoolboy brings it down in no time; broken, lifeless now. Residual matter. Sticky.

Her Remembrance

Clayton Wortmann · Oberlin College

After Emma transcended, I spent a lot of time alone. I ate straight from cans, sat naked on stones, spat when I didn’t want to swallow my saliva. I felt my skin grow gray and then flake away like dead bark. The calluses on my hands cracked and healed over, again and again. I forgot about the stock market. I forgot about global warming and endangered species. I slept when I was tired, ate when I was hungry, and cried when I could no longer keep silent.

The Fork

Darlene P. Campos · University of Houston

We went to Rapid City for a concert and a weekend trip for my 22nd birthday. John David Gutierrez wanted to get sodas so we stopped at a gas station near the venue. He said he’d wait outside for me since he needed a smoke. I went in and looked around the aisles. As I stood in the register line, I saw three guys holding John David down on the pavement, punching his face and kicking his body. I dropped the drinks on the floor and ran out, but by then the guys had taken off in their car. John David was on the ground with his pants pulled down and a carving fork lodged in his butt. He was bleeding all over, especially from a gash on his lower back. I didn’t see the guys too well, but I knew they were from the rez. You can’t tell John David is gay just by looking at him.

Too Small Yet

Elizabeth Martin · Princeton University · Honorable Mention in Fiction

The new volunteer, Anna, came while we were at school. We could see from the bus that the window of the fourth-floor guest room was open, and as we ran through the gate, we saw her face there, pale as a ghost’s. She had the kind of yellow hair that all the volunteers did, especially the German ones.

Where We Built Our House

Max Seifert · University of Iowa

The contractor came and told us the house was sinking. See, where we live used to be an ocean and where we built our house was on top of a bed of limestone, which is, essentially, the crushed up and calcified bones of the all the things that ever lived in that ocean. Limestone has a tendency to crumble and collapse and just generally move around a lot, as if all the fish skeletons were still alive and swimming through the clay beneath our floorboards.

Shark Season in Kanawha Country

Nina Sabak · University of Pittsburgh · Honorable Mention in Fiction

Lilliana starving is what we’re used to. She says her bones don’t fit right. What kind of bones does a sister need? She wants low hips, paper ribs, big square hands for dancing with the state fair girls. She spends all morning on her belly in her whitewashed bedroom; she watches herself move. The room smells like the pennies we’ve been saving for a candle. (There are prayers, there are ways.)

Two Years' Difference at a Roadside Stand

Dantell Wynn · Florida State University

The girls are lounging on the side of the road at a wooden stand piled high with Valencias. No one has stopped all morning and it is getting close to two. Laura is lying in the grass watching the slow-moving clouds and Grace-Ann is watching Laura. “I’m tired of oranges,” Laura sighs. Grace-Ann remains silent and rearranges the oranges into rows, then columns, upon the stand. Every summer the two cousins visit their grandparents’ orange grove in Indian River County, and everything is always orange. They drink orange tea with the delicate, white blooms still floating on top and eat warm slices of sourdough bread spread thick with orange marmalade

A Place Without Floors

Dana Diehl · Susquehanna University

Nalin wakes to rain drumming on the roof, against the chimney, through the cracks in the walls. She sits up, feeling her bones crack, and breathes. She wonders, briefly, if she’s floated out to sea. There’s a dark, yellowing patch on the ceiling above the bed that makes it look like the house has wet itself, and the river out back is swollen.

Wake

Daniel Grammer · Louisiana State University

Pa says the ducks are still here because I’ve been feeding them all our bread. But the truth is they took refuge under our dock during the storm that dripped rain down our walls. He’s tried throwing sticks and rocks, and at one point he even sent me after them with his patch-job net. Seems that no matter how bad he wants them gone, he’ll never be able to scare them off for good.

This Mustang, Who Speaks For Her

William "Jared" Parmer · Florida State University

They made this Mustang in 1968 and called it a 1969 Fastback. It had none of the special options packaged with it—it was not a Boss, not a Mach I. It was meant to go to a man of humble means, someone who knew how to have fun but didn’t need the whole town noticing, so it had a 302 engine that hummed with a two-barrel carb and was painted in understated Lime Gold. By the end of the year it was tearing down country roads in south Alabama, gravel banging up its rock deflector and blasting away little chips of paint so that the car looked still-photographed, forever sparkling in the hot humid sun.

Boys' Weekend

Henry Russell · Dartmouth College

When I discovered the tent in the back corner of my grandparent’s A-frame, I never expected my dad would let me sleep in it for the boys’ weekend, but when I asked, he said, “Sure, champ,” and we took it to the backyard and put it up together. “Boys should always work hard,” he said, as he hammered the last stake into the ground, “but a boys’ weekend is a time for fun. Got it, champ?”

Monday, Between Four and Five PM

Margaret Sweeney · Bennington College

We are through the door—the side door, the door to the mudroom where the family’s shoes rest in crowded rows—and Claudia doesn’t bother to greet us as we pass the kitchen table, where she sits in a sea of ungraded papers. She knows that by the time she lifts her head from her work we will already be at the bottom of the stairs, climbing the stairs to your room, our shoes and coats lying limp and dripping where we kicked them off on the linoleum floor. The door to the mudroom is still cracked open, swaying on its hinges and letting the cold in, so she will stand to close it, like a good mother.

Most Days We're Not Going Anywhere

Cody Greene · SUNY Rockland

We’re late getting back to the orchard, sure, but this doe with the broken neck is just too damn good to pass up. The way it’s smelling up the road, open and cooking, has got Denny fixed and immobile. He’s keeping back some, just saying, “Son of a bitch, Waylon. Son of a bitch,” and tries kicking at her back leg, but misses. I edge my boots as close as I can to the dried-up patch of blood on the pavement and wonder how long ago she was hit.

Buffalo

Conner McDonough · University of Tampa

A friend of mine, a long time ago, was buried alive in a snowdrift in the Old First Ward. The way he told it to me was that he was at the bar after a long day at the plant and had been drinking boilermakers. When the bar closed, he went outside and passed out in a snowdrift. “And along comes this big fuckin’ snowplow, big motherfucker, like a tank coming down the street, and just pushes snow over me.”

Mrs. Xia

Kevin Hong · Harvard · Honorable Mention in Fiction

The lesson ends when Mrs. Xia writes in the little notebook. She has given one to each of her students. Martin’s is light blue. The pages are crinkled from the impressions of her writing, the black and blue ink, as if someone spilled water on them and let them dry.

Alone on a New York Bound Train

Amanda Bondi · Emerson College

On the road that connects my part of town to yours, I waited for the nine o’clock night train to Penn Station. Octobers in Massachusetts smell wet, with the lingering humidity of summer and the imminent promise of snow. The train pulled onto the platform late, at 9:07, with a rumbling gray cloud of exhaust and the noise and fire of friction. I sat in the dining car, storing my leather coat and rolling briefcase under the table. I ordered an over-priced mini-bottle of cabernet, took off my shoes and settled into the ache of missing you.

Montanus

Aida Curtis · University of Georgia

Montanus always had the best pot. He would show up, broad-shouldered, looking hefty and plaid clad beneath those Greek letters—not one of the brothers but not needing to be, with that Ziploc bag and the bigmouth laugh. Those nights were always the same, stickyhot after days of neck sweat coating our collars, when heat glued cotton to our backs and we smelled like earth.

Tear-Jerker Monodrama

Milo Cramer · Bard College · Honorable Mention in Fiction

My mom is dying. We are in her hospital room. It is 2 am or 4 am. It smells like hand sanitizer. There are watercolors of cows on the walls. Mom was in a terrifying car accident and has cancer. She is wrapped in hospital plastic and damp rags that cling to her pale skin. She is fat and beautiful. She is covered in pus. She shrieks or makes small gurgling noises.

The Mackenzie Walrus

Toshi Casey · American River College

Brian’s snore raked through Eleanor’s ears. His nasal strip and her earplugs had failed her again and she was up, smothering a pillow over her face. No remedy ever worked a permanent miracle. No food after seven p.m. only kept their cholesterol down, but throwing out the cigarettes had its benefits. Their sleep-by-number mattress cost more than his month-long expedition to the Sea of Cortez, yet he remained a bullhorn.

Family Values

Emily Sinclair · Emerson College

My oldest brother is named Levi, but he goes by “Tray” when he’s selling drugs. The alias occurred to him when he was high on meth and our brother Silas, in a similar state, put a cigarette out on his arm. Levi’s only response was to laugh and say, “you can call me Tray, Ash Tray,” and for whatever reason, the name stuck. I like to think his pseudonym is fitting; he’s always burning holes in his shirts when he gets too fucked up to keep his cigarette steady between two fingers.

I Was 5'4" and Seventeen

Scott Griffin · University of South Florida

But I shrank two inches about a month ago. It was the day my mother’s fiancé and his son moved in, and since that day I shrink like it’s a nervous habit. Like biting my nails except nothing like biting my nails. Or maybe it’s less like a nervous habit and more like self-loathing.