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

Poetry

mounthopemagazine

May 142 min read

Recent Pieces

Reflections on The Craft

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My Drive Home

I’m stuck in a routine: class, work, drive home, repeat. Most days, I drive with reggaetón blasting, trying to quiet the thoughts that never stop. Sometimes I talk to myself about unfinished work and the next steps ahead. Somehow, my tired body runs on caffeine and a dream. But today’s drive was different. My phone died, and the radio was boring. Silence found me, and in that silence, I began to think. I thought about my life, being a first-gen college student, and

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Szentendre was supposed to be a quiet stop—a charming detour on a long study abroad trip through Central Europe. Sometimes, it’s not the grand landmarks or centuries-old churches that leave their mark. Sometimes it’s something smaller: a flicker of connection, a conversation you didn’t see coming. That moment found me on a crisp winter afternoon, the sky a soft, gray canvas overhead, my breath curling in the cold air as I wandered just a little slower than the rest of the gro

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“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

FICTION

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