Marisa Thoman - University of Cincinnati

We had been hearing things in the walls for months now. Usually after the sun went down, when we were covered in the damp quiet of the white-walled rooms. At first, it sounded like the ticking of a clock. Slow. Then fast. Slow. Then fast. The girl with the deep purple bags under her eyes was the first to ask if anyone else heard it—that dreadful noise that kept us up at night. We all had. Everyone, except Clarice.

Jeniya Mard - Central Michigan University

Dozens, if not what felt like hundreds of people would cram into our little shop for flowers; taking armfuls of chrysanthemums and roses alike. They would fawn over their look, the aroma they gave off, and compliment how well my Mama and Baba took care of their blooms. My parents would say that all of the customers were like family to them, but one woman, in particular, held a special spot in Mama’s heart.

Sydney Moon - James Madison University

I could see the pancake and coffee being pushed around her mouth by her tongue. Her face hung low with exhaustion and her nose was dripping with snot. She sucked it back into her brain, “Mark”—a burp—“you better not leave me like your brother did . . .”

Katy Drabek - Baylor University

I stopped being afraid of cops years ago. Lade Braes, Georgia, didn’t exactly boast a police force that couldn’t be reckoned with. It was hard to blame the officers. We had had a mere two murders in the last couple decades, and robberies didn’t occur too often when everyone knew everyone else is broke. If you were stuck behind a desk all day anyway, why not get fat and lazy?

Madison Ellingsworth - University of Southern Maine

Marky had one eye open and the other swollen shut with blood and bruising. His face was splotchy—blue and purple—and his cast swung back and forth as we walked. When I had opened the screen door that morning to find him standing on my porch, he had said a quick, “You should see the other guy.”

Athena Lambert - Arizona State University

I have buried myself at the shore of the lake a thousand times, each time leaving behind a part of myself. The lake behind my mother’s home is littered with my death and is where I continue to be reborn. My first death is my first memory, that of my older brother, Miles, burying me in the sand. My body so small that not even my breathing disturbed the smooth surface of the sand covering; he had tucked me in, then decorated my impromptu tomb with swirls and stars and little boy stories.

S. E. Archer - University of North Carolina Wilmington

As two burly men dressed in black carry the dead body away, all I’m aware of is a thick drop of sweat sliding down the side of my face. I watch the crowd around me part to let them through, and someone else comes out to take away the gun laid out on the ground.