Robin J. Harrison

  There was this legend about the red well in the butterfly garden. It stated that if their heart were free of impurities, anyone who threw a coin in it would have their wish come true.  So far, it seemed like the legend was just that; a legend. No one who had come to wish from the well had gotten what they wanted. At least it made a good tourist trap. Poor suckers who didn’t know better would throw in their coins asking for riches, and significant others, some even tried wishing for selfless things like world peace, ending world hunger, you know, the usual. I guess you can call me one of those suckers. I walked up the well, my quarter in hand, thinking about what I wanted to wish for. Honestly, I just wanted to finally get an agent so I could publish my book. So, when it was my turn, I looked up to the clouds, breathed out, chuckled- unable to believe I was doing this- and finally threw in my quarter, my wish on my mind. As I stepped aside to let my best friend make his wish,...

  Kevin hadn’t seen his old man since last Christmas, but today was Father’s Day, and his mother had hounded him to meet him since it’s been so long. Kevin hated seeing his father, truly he did. He never knew what to say to the man, and there were always awkward silences.  He sighed and fiddled with the model train he was going to give his dad. He hoped his dad would like it.  His mom had assured him it would be a perfectly fine gift for him, seeing as he had always loved making models in his spare time.  Kevin hopped off the bus about a block away from where his father was, mainly because he wanted some amount of fresh air before being in that suffocating building, but also partially because he wanted to go into this with a clear head, and walking would help with that. His phone blasted The Score through his earphones as he walked. The closer he got to his destination, the worse he felt.  Unfortunately, he arrived at his destination, not at all readied for this...

       The pen hadn’t been worth keeping, it was just a regular ballpoint pen with chew marks all over it from years of chewy thinking between note-taking. Yet here he was, looking under his desk and in his bag for the billionth time for the only pen he owned. Or, as it seemed to be getting clearer and clearer to him as the minutes ticked by, the only pen he used to own.  He groaned and dug in his bag until he found a mechanical pencil. This would have to do. As he put pencil to paper, he heard a soft, almost bell-like giggle over his left shoulder. He looked, only to find the person behind him asleep, and behind her, a window, where a small puff from a dandelion flew by outside in the wind. He shook his head, shrugging it off, and went back to his test- half marked in pen, half in pencil. After the day was over and he was home, he dumped his bag onto the floor and rifled through the contents. Where was his pen? He had dropped it halfway through the test and had...