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Featured Story
Reflections on The Craft
By Connor Huffman There are times I wonder if I’ll succeed. I question my definition of success. Will I be known? Remembered? Will I fade? Perish the thought, yes—still, It troubles me. I question my definition of success. Does it exist simply in the making? Perish the thought, yes—still, It troubles me, the thought my name will not be relevant. Does it simply exist in the making? I lie awake—await reassurance. The thought my name will have no relevance, a dreadful tormentor
mounthopemagazine
May 142 min read
Recent Pieces
Tomorrow
By Georgia Olson It needs some red. In the corner, maybe, like the sun is setting just out of sight. I’m writing it instead of painting, though, because I’m not sure. Blue might be better. Tomorrow I’ll add the cemetery. I can see it from the window, just beneath the lighthouse. They say it’s so you can always find your way home again, if you want to. I hope you want to. I went to the market today, for the first time since the funeral. They asked about you, and I re
mounthopemagazine
May 142 min read
Fifteen Minutes
By Lex Terzoiski ONE “Have we got a deal?” Mr. B extended his hand. It was visibly aged and slick with sweat. I sat in my seat, which I felt like I had been in for hours, and stared at his extended hand. The cigar betwixt his thin lips was still lit, and the ash droppings were hitting the top of the glass surface of the table. The smell alone that came from the fat cigar was making my head feel fogged and dazed. Am I worth this? Will I make it? What potential do they
mounthopemagazine
May 1417 min read
DNR
By Georgia Olson Look, this is the way it happened to me: The first thing I noticed was the pain in my neck. “Flex your fingers,” said the doctor, but they wouldn’t move. “And again.” By the third try, I got them to twitch. She said that was normal. It was also, apparently, normal that I had to learn to walk again. I was confused, mostly. I felt weird. And everything looked different. But I couldn’t ask any questions—I mean, I tried. I really tried. But I couldn’t. You
mounthopemagazine
May 145 min read
Interview with Mr. Freddy Hindley
Lorelei Ricci’s first impression of the murderer across from her was Christ, he got fucked up. The giant, red-haired man was handcuffed to his metal chair, staring blankly across the interview table. His face was covered in dark, purple bruises, and his nose was horribly crooked. Looking closer, Lorelei thought she could see the start of a black eye. She wondered if, during their struggle, the victims had inflicted these wounds on him in self-defense. To say that Lorelei
Maggie Levins
Nov 30, 20258 min read
The Garden
Over the hill, Jack’s home sits quiet and still, the garden kept away in the back. The peppers grow fruitful, and tomatoes abundant. Jack heads to the backyard with coffee in hand to see his yield. The garden kept him and his wife Mary sustained. He sees a tomato as red as her lips once were, and kneels down to pluck it off the vine. He admires the seemingly perfect fruit and rubs the dirt off on his shirt. As he gets up, Jack notices the plant below has the tiniest bite take
Allison M. Bumpus
Nov 30, 20255 min read
Blind Buck
David Buck did not want to be a gym teacher. He never quite understood the appeal of sports. Too loud, too smelly, and overall too dangerous for his tastes. He preferred the quiet of the school's art studio with a cup of iced tea in one hand and a pencil in the other. Principal Juno knew this. She also knew that Ms. Warren could not teach gym class after being mauled by wild animals, no matter how much Ms. Warren insisted she could. So now David Buck was a gym teacher,
Lauren Von Elm
Nov 30, 20254 min read
Something Unfinished
“This shouldn’t be so hard!” I said aloud to myself, my voice teeming with frustration, and then immediately laughed at myself, because of course it should. Of course it should be so hard. I looked around myself at the mess I’d made. There was flour on every surface—the counter, the floor, my clothing, somehow even the ceiling. There was a pile of gloopy, disgusting looking, room-temperature butter on my cutting board. “God damn it,” I whispered. The pie was my therapis
Darby Wilson
Nov 30, 20257 min read
Where Saints Do Not Speak
The blonde woman crept among the ruins of the war as soldiers slept fitfully in their trenches. With lithe, quick steps, she bobbed and...
mounthopemagazine
Dec 10, 202410 min read
The Boy In The Bathroom Stall
“How many myths do you come across on a daily basis?” The professor’s question lingered in the air, under the tiled ceiling, but still...
mounthopemagazine
Dec 10, 20249 min read
Nine Minutes Late
My hands are covered in blood, police sirens are closing in, and it’s all Ezekiel Bower’s fault. This wasn’t the way my morning was...
mounthopemagazine
Dec 10, 202412 min read
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