Fiction

   Let me tell you a story. Once there was this girl—an ordinary girl. Never stood out much, never stood up for herself. No best friend or nemisis, no troubled family, no talent. Bland, bland, bland. There was nothing for her to long for and yet that is how she spent her time—pining for an earlier time, remembering each brief connection or small success and searching for one defining moment in her life. Then she died.

   And now, even though this is a story where nothing ever happened, your mind will wander back to the girl. Strangely, you will long for her because she is part of something you read between moments. Because as inconsequential as she was, she stirred something in you. But missing her is easier than pining for yourself.

  Contributors