THE CABIN by Meg Favreau

But today there was a cabin. A small, rough thing. Caked in leaves. Inside, they found old cans and an old bed and an old table. Inside, they found a calendar stuck on July 1992.

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JOHN LEAVES HIS HOME by Alex Juffer

John tracked their interactions and gauged the hierarchy. A redhead with no shirt and a flashbang sunburn ordered the youngest ones around. They worked in shifts now.

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BLADE OF GRASS by Mason Koa

Almost breathlessly, he raved to me that he had done it: He had separated himself from nature once and for all. I pointed out that we ate from nature before a light flickered in his eyes and I cupped my hand over my mouth.

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JOHN JACOBS by Conor Truax

To the conscious Cartwrights, the deer warnings were novelties. The yellow on the signs was not invented. The deer recognized it as the sun.

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