Author name: Jenny Ng

Porch Lights & Chrome — Part 1 The third siren hit that thin, high note that makes the neighborhood dogs answer, and that’s when the stroller slipped. One loose wheel bumped off Tasha’s porch step, rolled down her short walkway, and started picking up speed toward Maple Ridge Road, where morning commuters were already easing […]

Part 1: Headlights in a Hallway At 3:07 a.m., forty beams of light slid across the hospital tile like a ribbon of highway come to life. No engines. No rumble. Just the slow drift of headlight lanterns—chrome-trimmed, battery-safe, cleaned and tagged—carried by riders in dark jackets now covered with disposable white gowns and blue shoe

He walked his motorcycle into floodwater like a bridge, lifted a stranger’s kid onto the seat, and kept her breathing—while his own shoulder was out of place. The rain had been hammering the valley since dawn, that strange new kind of storm the weather folks call an atmospheric river. By early afternoon, the creek behind

They said the biker had no pulse.The boy didn’t believe them. Morning mist clung to the crosswalk outside Franklin Elementary. A delivery van fishtailed when a stray coffee cup rolled under its tire. Brakes squealed. Parents shouted. A motorcycle slid low and clean, steel kissing asphalt in a controlled fall that turned the bike into

Part 1 — Oxygen at 88 The number slips from 92 to 88 just as my palm hits the glass. A soft alarm chirps. A nurse glances up. The door to the isolation room stays locked. A sign at eye level reads: NO VISITORS AFTER 10 PM. NO BULKY OUTERWEAR OR LARGE INSIGNIA IN CLINICAL

Part 1 – When the Road Fell into the River By the time the water climbed to the bottom of the street signs, the yellow school bus was already tilting like a cradle about to turn. On the bridge above, phones lifted and blinked like a row of tiny lighthouses. Down below, the only people

Part 1- The Eight Seconds That Ruined My Father’s Name The night I got engaged, I raised a glass in front of two hundred people and said, “My father passed away years ago.” The next morning, all of America was cursing an old biker in a viral clip blocking an ambulance and I knew it

Part 1 — The Fall at the Fair She folded at the waist like someone had yanked the plug on daylight. One second the Ferris wheel threw lazy stripes of shadow across the midway; the next, an older woman in a worn leather vest hit the asphalt, her face the color of ash. “AED!” I

“Grandpa?” the little girl said, standing in the doorway of the highway diner, cheeks pink from the cold. “Mom says you’re a stranger—but why is the secret photo box full of you?” My fork stopped halfway to my mouth. Christmas morning went silent, like somebody hit pause. Coffee steamed from my chipped mug. The cook

Part 1: The Taillight That Ended My Career I was ordered to tow his bike and call it a night. Instead, I bought gas, taped a paper star, and broke protocol. Rain needles the windshield hard enough to blur the streetlights into smeared halos. It’s 11:57 p.m. on Christmas Eve, and my radio is a metronome