It was him all right. Who else could it possibly be? It was Death himself, the Grim Reaper, cloaked all in black. He stood larger than life.

There was always something magical about the last day of school before the summer holidays. I am sure you remember the sensation yourself.

On April 3rd, 2019, I embarked on the longest walk known to the human race. This walk wasn’t measured by miles or steps, but by psychological trauma.

Why was he still Pilt the Scrummie and not Pilt the Bosun? Most days, he would have settled for just being Pilt the Sailor.

He was The Mouse. He wasn’t Mouse. That would have been a kind nickname. The Mouse was named in one of his many foster homes by one of his many not so nice foster brothers.

It was Zach's idea to start a Beatles cover band in high school. Zach, you see, was a dead ringer for Paul McCartney.

He had won tickets in a radio contest. A contest he didn’t apply to, on a station that apparently didn’t exist.

We made sure we both got Ms. Meyer’s homeroom class in fourth grade, because according to my older brother, she was the best teacher of the few you could choose.

When Max was killed and buried and a shallow grave, he thought his troubles would be over. He was wrong. He’s just realized he’s a vampire, and he sucks at it.

A comedy about an unlikely correspondence.

Oscar watched his housemate Philippa’s fingers move in staccato beats over the keys, each note prodded from the piano like a confession. All the same, he sang along.

“What is it?” Ernest asked. It looked like a mad professor’s salad bar. “It’s my latest and greatest invention!” cried Mr. Oberon. “Watch.”

Albert peered out across the way. Snow stretched for miles. The earth remained silent. Albert was alone. As he had been for the past decade.

My first great love was Seraina Gadient, the flower girl, as we called her then. I had just turned fifteen when I realized with horror that I had a massive crush on her.