Author name: Jenny Ng

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

Part 1 – The Key on the Casket “Tell the ushers to stop him at the gate if he shows up in that leather jacket,” I told the church coordinator, tapping the glossy guest list with my polished nail. “This is my father’s funeral, not a parade.” My name is Nora Hale. I argue for

The sanctuary doors slammed wide in the middle of the hymn, and two dozen men in scuffed leather came down the aisle in a tight, silent line—one of them carrying a child-sized helmet plastered with rainbow stickers. Mothers pulled little ones close. A dad stepped sideways, shoulder first, to make himself a wall. The choir

Part 1 — The Oil-Slick Photograph The first crash wasn’t a punch—it was the clatter of an aluminum walker snapping backward on concrete, followed by a small white square spinning through a rainbow sheen of spilled gas. The phone kept recording. The whole parking lot held its breath. I was in the back room of