By By Jess Sawang
0.1%
By Ivan Shen Recently, having found myself washing my hands more frequently than I otherwise would, I took a chance to actually read the labelling on my soap. Of course, we are all familiar with the common phrase “It kills 99.9% of germs”. It is always that number 99.9%, never
By Myself
By Brian Feng Enjoy listening to this while you read: I wake up And stare at the ceiling,Phone alarm beeping,I feel tired.Don’t feel like doing anything.I lay in bed,In its warm embraceAs I scroll through TikToks. Swipe,Laugh,Comment,Smile,Double tap for a heart.I forward them to my friendsHoping they will laugh too. Earphones
The Certainty of This Uncertainty
By Shaddy Hanna What is it about our current situation that leaves us so unnerved, so disturbed, and so perturbed? Is it our lack of control? Is it the overwhelming sense of insecurity and instability? Or is it the fear of the unknown? I’m sure it’s many of the above,
Water Clock
By Sandra Goria “Dreams and Disillusionment in Medicine” Writing Competition Winner “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” – John Keats, Ode to a Grecian Urn Two days before the start of my first day of Medical School. We sat on the
Blameless
By Jonathan Cheng “Dreams and Disillusionment in Medicine” Writing CompetitionRunner-up Present In an almost autonomic fashion, Stefanos stared down the bottom of his glass pensively before draining its contents. He delicately lay down the glass next to empty bottles of Penfold Grange of various years in the 1950s. The whiteness
Thinking about Mum
“Through your life you have distilled the virtues of this world and poured it out onto me. You always told me they would be endless. For so long – even still – I have acted unmoved. But those words fed a generous stream over stone. Only now do the cracks begin to show beneath a smooth polish.”
A Short Story: Bone Records
“The sounds echoing – outside the alleyway. Steady footsteps. The odd snatch of laughter, syncopating the beat. The x-rays rustling beneath the girl’s worn shirt, like white noise, like an insatiable itch, like a sputtering lighter on the last of its oil that, despite the silent Moscow snow, refused to go out.”
