Issuu

SPRING

2026

ST RK VOL.

Stork Magazine is a short story journal published by undergraduate students at Emerson College. Initial submissions are workshopped and discussed, and stories are accepted based on the quality of the author’s revisions. The process is designed to guide writers through rewriting and grant authors and staff members editorial support and an understanding of the publishing process. Stork is founded on the idea of communication between writers and editors, rather than a simple letter of rejection or acceptance. We accept submissions from undergraduate and graduate Emerson students in any department. Work may be submitted at stork.submittable.com during specific submission periods. Stories should be in 12-point type, double-spaced, and must not exceed four pages for the “flash fiction” spring issue. Authors retain all rights upon publication. For questions about submissions, email storkstory@gmail.com. Stork accepts staff applications at the beginning of each semester. We are looking for undergraduate students who are well-read in contemporary fiction and have a good understanding of the short story craft. Copyright ©️2026 Stork Magazine

Cover design and proofing by Gwyneth De Pass Illustrations by Kaz Li, Scarlett Liang, Yuying Guo, and Lauren Wockenfuss Typesetting by Ali Dening Edited by Roni Moser and Sydney Flaherty

Contents They Will Find Our Bones in the Same Dirt By Sadie Lallier Illustration by Lauren Wockenfuss..........................13

Caryatid By Ryn Brierley Illustration by Lauren Wockenfuss..........................23

Green Trial By Joshua Truesdale Illustration by Scarlett Liang...................................27

Porter Square Station By Megan Hemenway Illustration by Kaz Li...............................................33

A Flash and Then It’s Gone By Julia Montgomery Illustration by Kaz Li...............................................43

Pointed By Annie Earnshaw Illustration by Scarlett Liang...................................49

When Moon Falls By Cheyanna Jewel Illustration by Yuying Guo......................................53

Masthead Editors-in-Chief Head Copyeditors Roni Moser

Louise Ineson

Sydney Flaherty

Roni Moser

Managing Editors

Copyeditors

Madison Miller

Elliot Berkley

Amulet Giberti

Evan Martin

Sadie Lallier

Siyu Wu

Kaitlynn Hungate

Emma Carr

Grace Thayer

Prose Editors

Sienna Phillips

Kai Etringer

Proofreaders

Julia Montgomery Declan Ireland Abigail Andrews

Louise Ineson Milla Powell

Staff Readers Addison Brenizer Lily Shafir Lauren Wockenfuss Elliot Berkley

Substantive Editors

Rachel Dickerson Kai Etringer Declan Ireland Nitzan Shafir

Head Designers Ali Dening

Gwyneth De Pass

Illustrators Kaz Li

Scarlett Liang

Lauren Wockenfuss Yuying Guo

Cover Designer Gwyneth De Pass

Social Media Manager

Sienna Phillips

Lily Suckow Ziemer

Sydney Guida

Faculty Advisor

Amulet Giberti

Roy Kamada

Letter from the Editors Hi Storklings! We are thrilled to bring to you the Spring 2026 issue of Stork Magazine! This is the fortieth edition of Stork, which is super exciting. It’s been over twenty years of sharing Emerson’s best fiction with all of you, and we are beyond proud to be a part of this incredible project, which we joined in our freshman year. Twenty years of Stork means 1080 crewnecks, 2880 Insomnia cookies, 40 Thunderdomes, and over 2440 submissions. And even though we haven’t been here since the beginning (can someone fact-check if they ordered Insomnia in 2011?), we love it so much, and we are tremendously happy to have worked with all of you. As editors in chief, we have seen the magazine go through so much. There has been abundant talent circulating through Stork over the years; however, selfishly, we believe our staff is the best. At Stork, we’re dedicated to showcasing the best fiction Emerson students have to offer,

and we’re excited to share this collection of flash fiction with you. We are Emerson’s sole fiction-only literary magazine, publishing short stories in the fall and flash fiction in the spring. Our editorial process is thorough and collaborative—our pieces go through peer-guided workshops, a substantive editing period, and multiple rounds of copyediting— ensuring every narrative receives the attention it deserves. Through Stork, authors and editors prepare for their futures in the literary world; our staff gains valuable knowledge in all areas of the publishing industry. Stork is built off of the effort of our incredible team—designers, managing editors, prose editors, readers, substantive editors, copyeditors, proofreaders, and social media team. We are extremely thankful for you and all of your hard work. Thank you for showing up to meetings, dealing with our endless emails, and creating the best community on campus. Our editorial team deserves special recognition for the care and passion they give each piece. We appreciate you so much! We are also thankful for the support of our faculty advisor, Roy Kamada. Thank you for your guidance. We are especially grateful to everyone who submitted to Stork this semester. We have

read so much excellent flash, which has broadened our horizons and introduced us to powerful narratives and voices. Stork’s magic is in its storytellers, and we are beyond excited to welcome these seven talented authors to our publication. You are joining a remarkable list of authors that have been a part of our family for the past twenty years! Two of the stories in this issue were written by Stork editors (submitted anonymously), and we are happy to see that people can contribute to the magazine in so many ways at the same time. We want to take a moment to thank Stork’s readers. The publication of this magazine wouldn’t be possible without you—thank you for caring about the words we publish and the stories we want to tell. Stork’s fortieth issue includes tyrannosauruses, statues, impassable downtowns, pigeons, snowflakes, ballerinas, and cats. This volume utilizes flash in the best way possible, exploring different genres, voices, and styles. It proves flash is a beautiful storytelling tool—our authors are distinct and unique, yet they create one cohesive text that stands as an example of the genre. At Stork, spring can be bittersweet, and this is my (Co-EIC Sydney) last semester at Stork. Since freshman year, Stork has been

my favorite way to spend a Tuesday evening. Throughout the years it’s been an escape from the chaos of midterms and regular life, where all you need to do is talk about stories. Thanks to everyone on our staff, for talking with me. We are proud of our fortieth edition, and we are so excited you get to experience it with us! Please know—if you’re holding this, this is yours too. Thank you for being a part of Stork; we appreciate you endlessly.

Best, Roni Moser & Sydney Flaherty Editors in Chief

They Will Find Our Bones in the Same Dirt By Sadie Lallier Illustrator: Lauren Wockenfuss

ot long ago, they said that there was a 6 percent chance the asteroid would course correct and hit Earth. An inconsequential number. Nobody was scrambling to make amends with family members long estranged or beg God for one last penance. But as you and I watch a hunk of rock the size of Africa hurtle toward us, painting brilliant streaks of blazing yellow, orange, and white across the midnight sky, I wonder if they just pulled that number out of their asses to make us feel better. “D’you think this is how the dinosaurs felt?” I hear you mutter. You take another 13

drag from the blunt and let the smoke seep slowly from your parted lips. I let my head fall to my shoulder so I can look at you again, and my flimsy lawn chair creaks with the movement. You’re sitting in one that matches mine, white plastic gone beige with years of dirt and drunken escapades, hind legs dangerously close to splintering as you brace your feet on the old wooden table in front of us and tip backward precariously. My blue hoodie, loose on your thin frame and marred by beer stains, makes you appear ghastly pale in the light of the half-moon. Blonde hair striped with fading pink highlights is bunched in a hair tie that is holding on by a single measly thread. You’re impossible not to look at, like a car crash. I sniff, then shrug. “Nah. They didn’t know what was goin’ on.” I extend my hand in question, and you slot the blunt between my fingers in response. Our eyes meet as I take a drag. You’re an illusion through the dark bangs that fall over my eyes, features only visible in incoherent stripes, but I’ve spent the past four years memorizing every pore on your face, so it’s fine. I know your 14

green eyes are dark, sunken in, the yellowed light of my back porch dancing over the ridges of your face. A moth flies overhead, unbothered, unaware. Little pterodactyl. “If you were a dinosaur . . .” You accidentally eat a few loose strands of your hair as you talk. I feel a pang of irritation at the haphazard way you use your whole hand to rip them out of your mouth to continue speaking. “You’d be a triceratops.” A laugh pushes against my chest and emerges short, hoarse, transforming into a rasping cough halfway through. “That’s—” Another bout of coughing interrupts my accusation. “That’s ’cause that’s the only dinosaur you can think of, baby.” You allow your chair to fall forward and sit up sharply, indignant at my judgment of your prehistoric knowledge. “Nuh-uh.” I smile, the gesture liquidy and pliant. “Mhmmmm,” I hum, taking another drag. I allow this one to sit, to linger, to paint my throat until it burns coming back out. “You don’t know a fuckin’—fuckin’ thing about dinosaurs.” 15

You scoff incredulously as you reach out, leaning over so you can properly bridge the gap between us, and snatch the blunt back from my loose hold. “Fuck you,” you snap. “Yeah, alright. Fuck you, you fuckin’— Tyrannosaurus. With your tiny-ass arms.” Your eyes are wide when they meet mine, brows furrowed in offense, but the corner of your lips crease with that expression you make when you’re trying not to laugh. “Whatever. Don’t even talk to me,” you grumble. You turn away, arms crossed, and I watch the latticed back of your chair bow under your slumped weight. “Whatever.” I chuckle, tilting my head toward the sky. The asteroid is bigger now. It’s so bright I’m pretty sure I can feel my face radiating with the heat of it. Or maybe it’s just the humidity of the Louisiana summer. Does it even matter? “You’re my favorite,” I coo into the night, grinning, “my little Tyrannosaurus.” “You’re my favorite.” You don’t turn when you speak. You don’t even look at me. 16

I know that you feel no need to. “Hope you get blasted first so I can laugh at your ashes though, you fuckin’ loser.” They’re placeholders for words we were never quite sure enough to say, but we don’t care. They’re just words, after all. Noises and morphemes, as fleeting as smoke. “You think this is some sort of . . . punishment?” The question slips from my mouth before I can even think about forming the words. The barest bit of your eye gleams over your shoulder. “For—for what? Bein’ gay?” “Yeah.” Your resulting laugh is more of a bark, like those little white rat dogs. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” You clear your throat, and then point toward the rotting wooden fence at the other end of the yard, head lifted, haughty. When you speak, your voice is pitched low. “Yeah, you see those two? The dykes? Yeah. Fuckin’ nuke ’em.” You lose the voice as you begin to giggle. “Yeah. I want ’em in a bunch of 17

little lesbian pieces, just, fuckin’ everywhere. That’ll teach ’em.” My ribs ache as I gasp for breath, laugh soundless, mouth unhinged. Through my tears, I see you, bent over your knees, shoulders heaving. The blunt lies forgotten, mostly smoked, on the grass by your feet, embers fading. I don’t know how long passes as we let our laughter subside. We stay in those positions for a while—you, slumped forward, fingers tracing shapes in the drying grass, me, starfished in my chair, head tilted toward the shifting, ever-brightening sky. My phone buzzes on the table. I reach forward and flip it over. I am blasted with the blinding light of my wallpaper—a picture of us, from that trip to California two years ago. Censoring our faces is an emergency alert. I flip the phone back over and collapse into my chair. I hear you muttering something, something about this is how the world ends, but I stare at the blunt beside your feet. We probably 18

could have gotten one or two more drags outta the thing. Somewhere down the street, someone is crying. A dog is barking. The world is spinning, and I wonder if it’s on its last rotation. I jump when you sit up suddenly and declare, “We’re just sinful dinosaurs.” Your words flow in one ear and out the other, and I try to make sense of them in my head, but I can’t. “Huh?” You turn to me, hands outstretched, eyes bright as if you’ve come to a revelation. “We’re just the dinosaurs if they were terrible. If they fucked up etsp- emsp-” You pause and inhale deeply, rearranging your letters. “Exponentially. God is sending the flood. We’ve eaten too much box and smoked too much weed and killed—killed too many fuckin’ people. We’re just so full of hate. Never learned to love each other. At least not to God’s standards . . .” You gesture wildly to the sky. “Clearly.” I nod, only half hearing what you’re saying. You get all animated when you talk. I like it. 19

You melt back into your chair again, resigned. “We’re the dinosaurs if they deserved it. That’s why this isn’t how the dinosaurs felt. Because they didn’t deserve it. But we do.” I tear my eyes away from you and find the asteroid. It lights up half the sky now. The stars are fading into the raging white heat like bullet holes in the walls that have been painted over. God is loading the gun again. The blood of the dinosaurs has not yet dried on the muzzle. “Well,” I sigh, “love might not have saved us either, but . . . probably wouldn’t hurt to give it another shot next time around.” I turn to you, my eyes bright as the sky. “Right?” It’s just a word, really. We’re just organisms on a rock. This is just another restart. Plants will grow back, and so will we. The sun will rise again.

Caryatid By Ryn Brierley Illustrator: Lauren Wockenfuss

t’s painfully quiet in the night, without you. When the dregs of children and tourists have been forcibly filtered out the front doors, when at last no eyes are staring, when no hands and fingers are touching, I feel the most at peace and the most alone. They shut off the fluorescents, but I can still make out the room by the gleam of moonlight on the waxed, wooden floorboards, bringing shape to the marble figures and porcelain. Mute or reserved, I cannot reach them. I have tried before, but they will not speak to me. Hours into the dark, the cleaner slinks in. He sweeps up crumbs of sediment below my perch. I’ve taken to leaving pieces of myself behind for him, a semblance of a message, dripping bits of rock by wringing myself out, inchmeal, as it takes me longer than a week to shift any more than a centimeter. He collects 23

the grains in a black bag and then passes me by. They believe I’m eroding, I think, as I wake in the morning to find a preservationist pawing with a coarse brush the ridges of my peplos, up the stiff skin of my neck, traversing the severed insides of my arms. Every day, I’m becoming more of a statue. The weight of my capital is paralyzing, without you. It surmounts the crown of my head. It imbalances, it contorts. What can I support in your absence? I’m a fence post in an empty field, my wood rotting, a pillar standing solitary amidst the wreckage of her sisters and her temple. If I hope, in time, that I might join you, I can only hope in equal measure that what remains of my limbs may crumble, my neck may snap, and my head may dash against the plaque below. At sunrise, these dreams disappear, and again I’m descended upon. I’m watching the day’s visitors shuffle past when a young girl spots my platform from the rabble and draws near. She sees the broken ends of my feet and sighs. Her eyes sweep steeply up the ripples of my form and then, at once, they meet mine. We see each other, 24

she and I; we recognize the distance. Suddenly, the distance is nothing at all, and she’s pressing her palm to my robed leg, grazing the ripples. She’s not meant to touch me, I think, but her eyes are still peering into mine like a question, an apology, like she knows I’m incomplete. She understands. An older woman takes her by the shoulders, and the hand retracts, and I want to scream out for her not to leave. The woman shares a word with her, and I find, for the first time, I understand what they’re saying. They speak my mother tongue. I’m familiar to them, and they to me, and that is when I learn that you are alive. “Ékti.” The sixth. You are alive, and I am here.

Green Trial By Joshua Truesdale Illustrator: Scarlett Liang

ot long after a great sickness cleared the way for nature’s freedom, it assumed the duty of reclaiming what humankind had stolen from it. It began at the outskirts, the forested borders of towns and cities that no longer had a line of defense. It reached out, and it made first contact with these lost places, and nostalgia pulsed through its verdant veins. It wanted more than a touch, it decided, so it took the roads, the streetlights, and then the houses closest to the trees. Billboards on freeways became towers of ivy, their adverts transformed into something more earthly. Vehicles left behind by forgotten owners turned into greenhouses for plants that learned to coexist with the rust. Then it wanted more. Green tendrils crawled across asphalt lots and up brick buildings, through shattered windows and across fields of unmarked 27

graves. It tackled mailboxes, cars, and bodies in the yards. It grappled the furniture inside the buildings it penetrated and choked every chandelier that dangled above onceloved dining room tables. It rooted itself in carpets and blankets and conceived families of saplings in vacant homes. It swarmed empty bedrooms covered completely in dust; it usurped every photograph. Above these rooms were sagging roofs, now condominiums for dominant mosses that shone evergreen through winter. It reached for all these things—as far as it could—until it could not possibly reach any farther. So it waited impatiently, swelling and roaring against impassable downtowns. With time the pavement cracked, then these places, too, returned to the forest. Plants and shrubs shot up from the fissures in humanity, then obscured it all. They had cursed it, begged it, and prayed for it not to overtake them, but it was too late from the start. The sickness was indiscriminate. To most it appeared from nothing—a product of the might, or the mercy, of a god—but nature does not give 28

birth in such ways. It arrived with all other cells, in the violent oceans of the Archean, then spent eons mutating in some unknown, secluded aquifer until it was bold enough to break free and strong enough to be a weapon. A cough passed the bug between coworkers, then a kiss between lovers, and it jumped from every person until too few were left to plead. The whole species, one that had assumed itself indestructible, and perhaps had overstayed its welcome, was brought to its knees by something as invisible as a molecule, and as voracious as a flame. The most resilient few crawled from their homes, stretched their weak arms toward the canopies, and asked for it to end. Then, for them, it did. The sickness faded away right alongside them, gone like it was never born at all. But nature still had work to do. It consumed the symbols of these many lost lives, beings that once possessed names, identities, loved ones, dreams, fears, and intricate stories told by all kinds of voices. Their abandoned belongings rested in piles, waiting to be devoured. The most optimistic of those no longer living had assumed nature would mourn its own children, as destructive 29

and violent as they were. But nature was not born with the capacity for remorse. No, it did not grieve nor hate the oil barons, or the politicians, or the corporations who mutilated it. It could not feel anything for the butchers of ancient rainforests, or the diamond-hungry drillers who bored deep into the surface, or the boy who picked one of its beautiful tulips from his garden. It spared no mind to the architecture it decayed or the vast museums of art it erased. It didn’t notice rare books or sheet music or bronze statues or winding paths of historic cobblestone or plaques or palaces or hovels. Such artifacts were realities that were, until they weren’t—just as the virus that destroyed them one day, too, stopped existing. The towns themselves didn’t want to vanish, but they were lost without their people. They had long been protected with weed trimmers and chemicals, while the enemy was restricted to neat lawns and lindens along Main Street. Now, those tools were weapons of the past, and nature tore apart the remnants of civilization without a whisper of opposition. The towns, silent as they 30

were, could not protest. They could not fight back. If they could appeal to their mother, what would they say? Perhaps part of them might’ve accepted their grim fate; perhaps they would have greeted the inexorable forest with open arms. Each year took more than the last. Desperate places drowned in the overgrowth, and eventually they could be seen no longer. Their aspects, below the canopy and brush, were eaten away until all that remained was a fleeting memory; then that, too, disappeared. The only survivor for a while was a chunk of foundation, somewhere in a place with no name, rotting slowly beneath strangling vines. This place never existed, the forest said. Look elsewhere! I have been here all along.

Porter Square Station By Megan Hemenway Illustrator: Kaz Li

“S

o, this is how it went down. I used to have this nice spot behind the basketball courts. I’d get all tucked up in the parking lot where I wouldn’t bother nobody. But since school started the kids are playing sports over there now, and the cops hustled me out. It’s getting colder anyway, so I decided to set up at Porter Square Station till I could find a new place. “Now, I want to get this straight for you. I don’t like staying in Porter. There’s bad people there. Like those druggies that hole up in the station. They form a little commune right by the door, making everyone feel unsafe, leaving their needles everywhere. It’s people like Jimmy G, Hacksaw, Bethany and her little crew. They’re always calling out, ‘Hey, Pigeon Man, you got any 33

cigarettes? You got any grub?’ We were friends once, but I don’t like being used. I try not to associate with them anymore. But you gotta do what you gotta do sometimes. Last winter, I lost half of this finger to frostbite. So, I went to Porter. “On that day, I guess it was yesterday or two days ago, I ponied up enough quarters to actually get into the place. Like I said, I don’t want to be around those other guys in the lobby, and I was hauling cardboard boxes that I had no interest in sharing. I was lucky because the MBTA guy that day, Chuckie, didn’t even care. Sometimes there are cops down there, mean fuckers on a power trip who won’t let you in, even when you have the money. But old Chuckie just looked the other way. It’s because he knows me. He trusts me not to cause any trouble. A lot of people do. Did you know the cops call me Sunshine because I’m always smiling, even when they’re dragging me downtown? Mostly, I’m known as Pigeon Man, though, because I like to feed the pigeons when I can. “OK, OK, so I get into the station, and I take that long fucking escalator down, 34

like I’m going into the pits of hell. I guess it must’ve been nighttime because all of those screaming college girls were there in their tiny little tops, going to some party or whatever. Other guys I know love the college girls, but I hate them. You give them a glance, and they stare at you like you’re Satan. It makes a man self-conscious, thinking like, ‘how dirty do I look and how bad do I smell?’ I try to keep in good shape, but it’s hard. I’ve got this beard because razors are too expensive, but I hate how gray it is. I washed my clothes, what, a couple weeks ago? And it doesn’t help that I’m a big guy. My mother always used to tell me that broad shoulders would make women go crazy, but nowadays, they just get them nervous. That’s the worst part. The fear in their eyes, like I’m going to do something to them. It kinda pisses me off because what would I do with a squirmy little college girl? They’re too skinny, and they seem mean. And anyway, even if I wanted to do something to them, that’s just a one-way ticket to the big house. I’ve always said trying to commit a crime ain’t worth it. Did you know, I tried to rob a bank in the ’90s? Went to prison for six years. 35

But, yeah, that’s a story for another day. “Right, so I’m down in the station, and I decide to go to the Alewife track because it’s more secluded. I set up shop down at the end, right up against the wall so I wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. “Now, I’m not one of those homeless guys who carries all his stuff around in trash bags or shopping carts. I’ve tried it, and it’s too much work. Way more attention than I like. So, I’ve come up with this system where I only carry what I absolutely need in a single backpack. “That night, I had my usual crap, plus my boxes, which I nicked from the dumpster behind Target. I like to tear them up and make a little fort for myself. They’re nicer on the ass than the Red Line floor. I love the pigeons, but they shit everywhere. Anyway, I was using a box cutter to rip through them. “I want to clarify that I only use the box cutter for this purpose. Sure, I could protect myself with it if I had to, but I never have. These old fists are enough. And if the cops ask for my weapons, I give the box cutter immediately. I know the rules. 36

“So, I’m down by the track, making up my space, and who do I see but Reggie, this lady I used to be close with. I don’t even know the last time I saw her, so I was all smiles, but she didn’t look too good. She was strung out, all itchy and scabby. She couldn’t keep anything straight. She kept calling me honey—I’m pretty sure because she couldn’t remember my actual name, which made me sort of offended. “But I’m making the most of it, asking her how she’s been. I won’t give you all of the details, but it didn’t sound very nice. Lots of drama about who’s staying in Davis Square versus Porter versus Union. I guess her man left her because he thought she stole his stuff. “‘Well, did you?’ I asked her. Big mistake. She started screaming for all to hear. She was all like, ‘Fuck you, man, you don’t know me. You betrayed me just like everyone else. You’re fucked up.’ Blah, blah, blah. None of it was true. She couldn’t even remember my goddamn name! So, I just took it, embarrassed and everything. “Now, I have to tell you, because I think it’s important to the story, all of the other 37

people were far away from me by then. Reggie scared them off because people don’t like to be near crazy. I would’ve walked away if I could. “Finally, Reggie stumbles away, and everyone’s got their head down, looking at their little phones, and I’m feeling pretty shitty. There’s a lot of . . . shame. It’s this heavy burning feeling, like I swallowed a bunch of rocks. I don’t like being looked at, really, and I try to keep to myself, you know? What Reggie said isn’t true, but there are things about me, about my life, that I’m not so happy about. Being dirty. Not having a home or a job. And if I tried to explain it all, how I got here, I don’t think anyone would listen. I try not to let it get to me, but it does sometimes. I can’t avoid who I am, I guess. “Anyway, I’m tearing up my boxes with the box cutter, thinking about Reggie and my shit life. Not thinking that the boxes are her or anything, just getting out my frustrations. And because I’m worked up, I get stupid and start cutting toward myself instead of away. I know I shouldn’t be doing that, but I don’t think anything’s going to happen. 38

“Then, all of a sudden, the cutter gets stuck, and I yank, and the blade goes right into my gut. It must’ve hurt, but all I really remember is this feeling of warmth in my belly. And the blood. That shit went everywhere, like a water balloon. “I didn’t want to die, you know? I was scared. And I was already on edge from Reggie. So, I started yelling. I was asking people for help, saying I stabbed myself. The cops seem to think this is some admission of guilt or whatever, but what was I supposed to say? ‘I stabbed myself but don’t worry it was only an accident’? I thought I was done for. Excuse me for not being clear enough, you know? Of course, I didn’t mean to stab myself in front of all those people. “Not that they were much help. Everyone started running away, looking in the opposite direction like they couldn’t even hear me. No one was helping me, and I didn’t understand why. I thought I was gonna die, right there in Porter Station. “Sorry, man, maybe I need more pain meds. I don’t know why I’m crying.” 39

The doctor, who’s been taking notes this entire time, puts his pen down. He hands Pigeon Man a tissue, which he honks into. Pigeon Man’s eyes are a watery plea as he sits at the edge of his thin emergency room bed. He has stitches in his side that will dissolve in a few weeks, but right now they make his skin feel hot and tight. The doctor looks at him and says: “OK, sir. If you didn’t intend to hurt yourself, and still don’t intend to, then you’re free to leave. We can send some pain medication to your local pharmacy, get you a change of clothes, and set up a follow-up appointment . . .” Pigeon Man isn’t sure what he was hoping for, but it was more than a pat on the back and some discharge papers. He doesn’t have a pharmacy. He could try to make the next appointment, but only if he remembers and can find the right bus. He doesn’t want to hurt himself. But part of him wonders if things would be better for him if he did. 40

A Flash and Then It’s Gone By Julia Montgomery Illustrator: Kaz Li

rthur remembers his life in fragments; it is the little things, the tiny insignificant breaths, that often hold his thoughts. The rest simply melts away. His first memory goes something like this: he is sitting on the carpet next to a radio, pulling out stringy threads of fabric by the fistful. He isn’t sure how old he was or what he might have been wearing, but he can still feel the scratch of carpet under his skin, see the sunlight peeking through gray curtains. He hears laughter and recognizes it as a frequent sound. Someone lifts him from under his arms. On instinct, Arthur curls himself into the woman’s chest and wraps his little legs around her torso. He remembers her scent—honey and roses—as he buries his face in her hair. 43

That moment in his mother’s arms is the most vivid memory Arthur has. The rest of it—the years between young and old, then and now—appear to him more like a faded dream. Occasionally, he’ll find himself standing frozen in the middle of his bedroom, balancing on that edge between the known and unknown. The color is faded, the timeline hazy, but he swears he can almost grasp whatever it is he’s forgetting: a diploma, a packed sedan, hands permanently stained with grease. He closes his eyes and sees waves of auburn hair against satin sheets, hands sticky with paint spelling “Daddy” on a page in crooked letters. The idea that he must have lived this life alongside someone else plagues his thoughts for as long as he can hold them there, sitting in that moment of clarity. But as soon as he reaches for them—tries to make anything concrete out of smoke— they are gone. So he chooses to focus on what he can recall, as insignificant as it might be. He doesn’t have a single memory from the day his little brother was born, but he can still picture the first time the baby threw up on 44

his favorite blanket. It was red and blue, Spiderman, and sort of scratchy. But Arthur recalls liking that about it. Or there was his father, who had torn the whole house apart before walking out on them. Arthur had no idea where he’d been when that happened; even so, his blood still runs cold at the image of a half-empty glass of scotch, which sat next to his father’s chair for no shorter than six months afterward. It was a strange sensation. He’d be living a moment, fully immersed in it, and suddenly think to himself, I’m going to forget this soon. Any attempt at prevention was a wasted effort; the lucidity with which he regarded his condition was not enough to change it. All he has in the wake of his memories are questions: Was I happy? Was I loved? Am I fulfilled? These questions are what plague him in his final moments. He lies flat on the asphalt, staring up and sprawled out like a wingless angel. The cold bites at his cheeks, his nose, the sliver of exposed skin at his ankle; it is the type of chill that one cannot remedy with all the layers in the world. And yet, 45

Arthur does not quiver or shake. His open arms embrace the numbness. Where am I? How did I get here? From above, he sees snowflakes swirling in the wind. They dust his eyelashes and graying hair, bathe him in a glowing, white blur. He focuses on one and watches it make its way directly to the tip of his nose. One touch of his fevered skin melts it in an instant, and the droplet slips achingly down his chin and into the crevice of his neck. He would’ve wiped it away, but his body is no longer his own. Is there anyone looking for me? Somewhere near his lower back, he feels another droplet. Arthur isn’t sure if the sensation is from the blood or another melted snowflake. But the pain, so visceral and sudden, is enough to shock his mind awake. I want to go home. That’s what Arthur remembers thinking. He saw his mother, heard the radio, felt the scratch of the Spiderman blanket, and decided he wanted 46

to go home. He wasn’t sure where that was anymore; even so, he got in the car and drove. It was the snow and the sudden arch in the road that caused him to crash the car. It was his lack of seatbelt, his own thoughtlessness not to put one on, that sent him careening through the windshield. It was the chunk of glass in his spine that left him winded. Arthur remembers it all so clearly now and knows, somewhere deep down, that it will never fade from his mind. There are no sirens in the distance, no one there to remember the accident for him. It is only him: Arthur, the snow, and the subtle scent of honey and roses. As the snowflakes flutter down and prick at his frozen limbs, it is the memory of a warm and welcome embrace that has Arthur closing his eyes.

Pointed By Annie Earnshaw

Illustrator: Scarlett Liang

was the last to see June alive; Mari was the first to see her dead.

Mari and I sat outside the artistic director’s office, waiting for our turn with the detective. I retraced last night, tracked the movements and shifts, crescendos and denouements. A series of steps, like a slow, elongated adagio that ground at my hips, gnawed on the delicate muscles of my feet. June showed up at Mari’s and my dorm just before midnight. I told her Mari wasn’t there, that she’d snuck out again. She pressed me, and I said something about Mari and a bar downtown and one of the level eight boys. June’s expression fell, then she asked for a cigarette. This was a detail I didn’t know how to broach with the artistic director. We weren’t supposed to smoke, but the stench wafted 49

from the studio walls like a Tchaikovsky suite, lacing the steamy bathroom air as we soaked our mangled feet in Epsom salt. We were at the Hillier School of Ballet to do a difficult thing: to stretch our limbs and contort our bones, to pound our bodies into shape. The type of destruction that made cigarettes feel paltry. June, I called as she started to scamper down the hall. I motioned for her to come inside, out of the security camera’s glare. I shut the door, and she leaned against it, sagging like her bones were softening. As a consolation prize for my lack of cigarettes, I gave her a single Adderall from my nightstand. She rolled it against her thumb and tucked it into the breast of her leotard. She was so flat-chested, the pill’s silhouette protruded like a nipple. She thanked me and left. I didn’t see which way she went. This was what I was going to say to the officer, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. What I hated most about Mari and June was their feet. They had amazing bone structure, of course, the kind that could arc itself gracefully 50

over the toe box of a pointe shoe. They articulated against their shoes with nearprofessional accuracy. They never sputtered against a loose crumble of concrete or stubbed themselves against a subway grate. They didn’t even put toe pads or lamb’s wool or moleskin in their shoes. They held themselves upright, raw against their own body weight, just skin and gnawed-off toenails against darned satin and stiff wood pulp. They could withstand the pressure, and I hated them both for it. A blind, bloodied hate. Mari and I did not make eye contact as we waited. I think we were both afraid of what we would see if our gazes met. We didn’t want to be complicit—just in case. “Her feet were flexed,” Mari said in a small, resigned voice, as if the image of June’s body was a parasite she needed to expel. “That’s awful,” I said, my voice flat. “She would’ve called them grotesque if she’d seen them,” Mari said. “And the blood was all over her leotard. The pink one, her favorite.” “That’s awful.” What else was there to say? 51

When Moon Falls By Cheyanna Jewel Illustrator: Yuying Guo

hirteen days later, you return.

This time she carries you at her chest, swaddled in her scent. This time the light is drained from the sky. The world tickles at your cheeks. The craters have grown upon you. Your skeleton aches. It creeps within your skull— unrelenting and vicious. Your stomach is empty, but you can never bear to eat anymore. You try only for her. It is January, as it often is. Rattling is around you. The shadows outside the vehicle leave your eyes wide, but you don’t tremble, despite the fever. You don’t know when it started. You don’t know when it will stop. 53

She holds you. Your little limbs are wrapped in her arms as she cradles your frame through the layers. The world around you bounces, but she keeps you still, keeps you close. You have been loving. Sixteen years of chirping conversations, sweet kisses, nights pressed humming against her chest, between her limbs, by her side. There have been few nights without her. You’re such a talker—when you’re hungry, when you’re in the car, eager greetings when she returns after a long day. You say nothing as the winter wind blows and she shuts the car door behind you. Out here, it smells of nothing you have known. You prefer to watch the trees from within the walls, your bushy tail draping off the windowsill. Inside it is bright, the insistent kind of brightness. You have been here before. Never have you liked the sharp sounds, though you hear the same kind of talk at home. They always make you run for the stairs, sniffing and grunting at your heels whenever you retreat to your room. 54

There is nowhere to run now. Here, it smells of nothing and everything all at once. She carries you against her, the rims of her glasses dragging against the top of your head. You have always taken up a small place in this world, but now, you are frail. Others enter, filling the room with hushed voices. Your limbs are swollen. Fat. Stiff. You don’t try to hold yourself up as she lays you down on the silvery table at the center. A man stands over you—you have met with him briefly throughout this life. You face the darkness that waits, pressing against the big window. It is nothing like the big window at home. She kisses you and caresses your face. Her touch doesn’t rest. She doesn’t leave your side. 4 Thirteen days before, you lay on this same table. She stands farther from you here. The man comes into the room. You have never been one to accept his touch. He prods at you anyway. When it’s all over, 55

she staggers through the wind and back to the car. There is where she drags you from your crate and weeps into your spine. She has wept beside you every day since. 4 Thirteen days later, he touches it again. The crater. The center of your beckoning night. She just wants to be sure. He is sure. She spends a lot of time kissing you. Pressing her forehead against yours and leaving it damp. Your head lies in her hands, though they are not the only ones on you. She blinks at you from behind her glasses. The smallest windows you have ever seen. Splattered with rain. The pain had been everywhere, but now, there is just a pinch. Night travels through that big glass window, swirling closer. Silence beckons. Her touch drifts far, though the feeling remains. 56

She is stroking your back, kissing your face, pressing her forehead against yours as your world shrinks. She doesn’t pull her hand away once you have rolled into the night, becoming something among the stars. 4 Sixteen years earlier, you meet her. You first see her through the window they are always tapping on, faces pressing close amidst your slumber. You are so weak— so groggy, so empty, and the world is blurry and large and always loud—but she takes you into her arms, tucking you into her sweater. You don’t resist, not that you can. There it is knit, it is green, and it is warm, hidden from the lights. She holds you against her chest. The world is muffled here, your scents melting together. Just when you think she might release you back into the noise and the glare, she does not. Instead, she cries. There is light commotion, and then there are papers, but she keeps you sheltered from it all. 57

You never see those lights and the little windows again. 4 In the days after, mornings come. You are tired, always tired, but she feeds you and wipes you clean with a damp towel. At times there is chatter from the loudmouths you live alongside, but the noise is always fleeting. You learn. The hunger leaves you. The windows are big and full of trees and life—squirrels and birds and bees and leaves. You awaken.The world grows larger, as do you. You are there every day, and though she goes, she always comes home. At the end of the night, you always find yourself in her arms. She loves you. And you love her. There is nothing like it. She is a sister and a mother and a lover and a daughter and a friend. She is longer than you, larger than you, brown-eyed, bare-skinned, and every shape that you are not. And you are small and gray and snub-nosed, hirsute and green-eyed—but to her, you are everything and the moon. 58

About the Authors Sadie Lallier (She/They) is a

sophomore at Emerson College pursuing a BFA in Creative Writing. Originally from Pawtucket, Rhode Island, she came to Boston in pursuit of a career as an author. Along with short stories, nonfiction pieces, and poems, she is working on her debut fantasy novel. Her published works can also be found in Emerson College’s Generic Magazine and Page Turner Magazine. Discover more about Sadie and her writing on her Instagram, @sadielallier.

Ryn Brierley (He/Him) is a multi-

genre fiction writer from Peabody, Massachusetts. He is currently working toward a BFA in Creative Writing, with a Minor in Dramatic Writing. His work can be found outside of Stork in Concrete Literary Magazine and Page Turner Magazine. Besides writing, he loves to play story-based video games and spoil his tortico cat, Kira.

Joshua Truesdale (He/Him) is a fiction

writer from New Hampshire and a senior at Emerson College, where he is completing his BFA in Creative Writing. This spring, he will also be published in Emerson’s Gauge Magazine, for which he serves as a staff writer. Joshua is passionate about psychological fiction; his work, both long and short, searches for humanity in unusual places. Beyond writing, he can often be found baking, enjoying nature, or exploring Boston.

Megan Hemenway (She/Her) is a

2nd year creative writing graduate student. She has previously been published in The Somerville Times, Muddy River Poetry Review, MUD Magazine, and Redivider.

Julia Montgomery (She/Her) is a third

year creative writing major at Emerson College. She is an aspiring author whose speciality is character-driven narratives. Julia enjoys playing around with form, structure, and style to create the truest depiction of the human condition. Most of her college career has been dedicated to the publishing side of this industry, having worked for Stork as a reader, and now prose editor, since her first semester at Emerson. But she is very excited to be a part of this Spring 2026 edition in more than one way!

Annie Earnshaw (She/Her) is a

writer and teacher from Huntersville, North Carolina. Annie’s fiction and poetry explore family dynamics, identity, and the female experience. She also writes in the lifestyle and wellness spaces, covering lifestyle trends, mental wellness, and body neutrality. Annie holds a BA in English from Elon University and is an MFA candidate at Emerson College.

Cheyanna Jewel (She/Her) is a

first year MFA student in the Creative Writing program at Emerson College studying fiction. Born and raised in New York, she’s spent the majority of her life in the Hudson Valley, where she obtained her AA in Liberal Arts with a focus in English from SUNY Orange, and her BA in English with a concentration in Writing from Marist University. While she prefers her writing in the fantasy genre, she enjoys writing in various genres of fiction. When she’s not writing, she works as a reader and copyeditor for Page Turner Magazine, and as a reader for Ploughshares at Emerson College. Outside of writing, she enjoys exploring the world of storytelling through dance and film.

About the Type The running text for this issue is set in Adobe Caslon Pro, designed by Carol Twombly for Adobe Systems. The typeface is based on original specimen pages created by William Caslon between 1734 and 1770. Adobe Caslon Pro is widely recognized for its elegance, readability, and strong association with literary publishing, making it especially suitable for long-form fiction. The display type for this issue is set in Yu Gothic PR6N, designed by Morisawa Inc. Yu Gothic PR6N is a modern sans-serif typeface characterized by its clarity, simplicity, and contemporary tone. Its clean structure provides a visual contrast to Adobe Caslon Pro and is used for titles, headings, and navigational elements throughout the magazine. This combination of serif and sans-serif typefaces establishes a balanced typographic system that supports both readability and visual hierarchy, reinforcing the editorial identity of Stork Magazine.

Back cover here Sadie Lallier Ryn Brierley Joshua Truesdale Megan Hemenway Julia Montgomery Annie Earnshaw Cheyanna Jewel