Ava Mitchell

The first leaf falls almost without anyone noticing. It flutters down in a lazy spiral, landing on the lawn like a quiet suggestion that summer is over. A week later, the suggestion becomes a command. The yard is suddenly mottled with amber and copper and the smoky brown of aging maple leaves. Somewhere down the … Read more

The laser arrived in a nondescript gray case, the kind you might expect to hold a set of wrenches or a stack of old documents. It clicked open with a soft, airtight sigh. Inside, nestled in dark foam, lay a device about the size of a thermos. Matte black, no dramatic fins or blinking lights. … Read more

The first time you notice it, you almost doubt your own eyes. Last summer, your patio stones were a gentle, warm grey; the garden path glowed in the evening light, a clean trail through the beds. Now, after a few months of rain and fallen leaves, everything looks…tired. The paving is blotched with black and … Read more

The young bird opens his beak, but nothing comes out that sounds quite right. Around him, the eucalyptus woodland hums with life – cicadas buzz, leaves whisper, a distant kookaburra cackles – yet the song inside his chest is a jumble of borrowed notes that don’t belong to his kind. He tries again, stringing together … Read more