The Intercollegiate Literary Magazine

Short Stories

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, waiting to eat. You remark that it won’t be much longer, that I must learn how to be patient.
We take up space without acknowledging ever having done so—embarrassed to be spotted in the fray. So finding myself on this gray bus on this gray day should be the grandest torture I have in store.  It should be.
WHEN THE WHITE FACES arrived on the shores of The River, beaching their longboats on the sand, and staring to the deep thickets of woods where they knew not that we were hiding, we were not surprised. Had the great Okeus not foretold us of their coming? Did we not make offerings of blood, deer suet, and tobacco to protect us from this tide? 
I sit in the corner of the coffee shop. My legs crossed. Today I am wearing my platform Mary Jane’s. They’re maroon, perhaps burgundy, but nonetheless outstanding shoes.