Short Stories
A Study in Sadness
Anonymous Part I It was in his sophomore year of high school that Christopher began to realize he had absolutely no defining characteristics. He had no interests, no passions, he hadn’t formed any strong emotional bonds or found his place in the world. Socializing made him uneasy, people tended only to annoy him, and while interacting jaded him, pushing people away caused his heart to race with guilt. He’d felt like this for years: empty. Sometimes it felt to him like his whole life had been this dull and cold, but then there were times he could barely differentiate one day from the next as if someone had smudged his timeline and let all the days bleed together. Christopher spent his lunches alone in the corner of his school’s large football field, shaded in a ring of solitude by the extensive willow tree that everyone seemed to avoid. He spent his time watching his classmates, clumped into their hordes and cliques. He noted the people who always sat in the same place, the ones that flitted around between groups like noncommittal fireflies. He sat and watched and brooded in their human inconsistencies, their infatuating habits and relationships. He drifted through school days in a fog of apathy interrupted only by vague pinpricks of sorrow and the occasional burst of hatred. Then he went home and sealed this oppressive fog in with him. In his room, stark white with no decorations or personalizations, there was nowhere for this thing to hide away. So Christopher just sat there in solitude, shedding away hours of his life at a time in quiet discontent. And all the while it hung there, glaring at him from behind, never deigning to look him in the eyes, only remaining a faint cloud of unease just out of sight. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, and that was sometimes more unsettling. This horrible unfeeling entity that squeezed at his heart and his throat and infected him all over with a bitter new state of unfeeling. When his parents came in to check on him it squeezed its way deep into his ears and distorted their voices, causing each caring word that left his mother’s mouth to slither into his ear as a grating jab. Each time, he felt his heart begin to tighten a bit all on its own, learning how to twist anger into apathy unaided, without the help or force of the caustic fog. Soon he was left with no feeling. No more anger, sadness, happiness could make a home in a heart that had been so twisted or nestle into ears turned soundproof. All he was left with was the ache of emptiness that followed him day after day. The roughened cavity once home to a plethora of feeling. He didn’t remember how he had gotten there, he was too numb to care, or to think to dig a way back to his memories. He eventually found a name for the unfeeling that hung like cobwebs across his mind amongst the silent insults that he watched drip like acid down every school hallway he walked. The wordless accusations glared at him by every passerby: psychopath. Unfeeling, uncaring, psychopath. He clung tightly to the self-analysis, to the semblance of rational logic that came along with the label. It made sense to him, the disinterest, the apathy, the solitude, it all added up. And in some way, it was a relief to have something to blame all of his insecurities on. The next time someone tried to connect with him and ended up walking away, disappointed with the brick wall they were met with, Christopher just smiled off the spot of guilt that pulsed in his mind, and reminded himself that he had an excuse, a diagnosis. Years later, when he was nearly thirty years old and living on his own, a small fragment of Christopher’s childhood bubbled to the surface of his mind. It was a small voice hidden far back in his memories that spoke up only to remind him of a promise he’d made years ago, a promise to save -though for what reason he couldn’t quite remember- everyone he could from a very specific, somber fate. The voice fused together in some sick way with the fog that was still lodged at the back of his skull and brought Christopher to an unusual solution. “Save them from dying as She did,” said the voice. “Kill them before they can,” said the fog. And because he couldn’t feel, and because he had decided anyways that he was, in fact, a psychopath, Christopher decided that this was a perfectly sensible and appropriate solution. Every day of Christopher’s life was the same loop, the same rigid cycle he had always maintained, just with one small addition. On his way back from work, if he saw someone with the telltale blackened veins and ashen fingertips that signified the Sickness, he’d put on the big fake smile he practiced in his mirror - the one he knew hadn’t been genuine since he was seven years old, though what had wiped it away he couldn’t recall- and recite the story that always managed to attract them back to his home. Then he’d kill them, like he’d promised-- before the sickness could. It was hard at first, which he would have found to be odd if he hadn’t lost the ability to analyze anything internal long ago. The blood and the bodies made him tremble, threatened to tear apart the very seems of the identity he had sewn for himself so long ago, the unfeeling, the uncaring, the psychopath. But he kept it up. Every time he was able to push down the sickening feeling in his stomach before it could burst out in one way or another it was bitter proof of his apathy. Sometimes, when Christopher saw the darkened fingertips or the inky circles beneath the eyes of the people he was “saving,” snippets of life played in his mind; quickly like video montages -or really more like memories, only he was certain they weren’t his memories. Often times images flashed across his mind of the same grey veins and dark circles on a young girl with a serene smile and a mess of black hair that stood out starkly against sterile white hospital bed sheets. And sure, he was interested in these snippets, but he didn’t think they were worth considering, so he mostly pushed them out of his mind and continued with the saving he’d begun to build his shallow life around. Each night, as Christopher went to sleep, the binding fog from his childhood would settle beside him like an old friend, thriving off of the apathetic acquiescence that now dominated his life, making sure to keep a tight grip on his mind before it could think to remember. Christopher drifted, one night, into his usual routine of dreamless sleep, but for once the fog had forgotten to do its job and block out feeling, it lay fast asleep beside him as his mind, for the first time in years, began to roam freely. Part II Chris awoke to the smell of coconut oatmeal drifting through the air, accompanied by a gentle humming tune and soft sizzling. For a moment he was groggy with sleep and confusion, this was his house, he thought to himself, but who was in it? He got up and made his way to the kitchen, feet padding lightly on the carpeted floor that surely had been wooden just yesterday. When he got to the kitchen he saw where the sounds were coming from: a girl with curly black hair with her back to him, humming as she paced around the kitchen, fine-tuning different parts of a big, traditional looking breakfast. As soon as she turned around and saw Christopher a grin spread across her face, and all the confusion in his mind was swept away. How funny that he would forget his own wife, if even for a moment. “Cesilia,” he breathed out, shuffling fully into the kitchen, “what’re you doing up so early?” “Chris,” she muttered, mimicking his tired breathiness, before falling back into her humming “I’m making breakfast of course.” She slid up to him and stuck a wooden spoon full of semi-cooked potatoes and bell peppers under his nose. “It is your birthday, you know.” He laughed with her before furrowing his eyebrows, trying to think of the last time he had celebrated such an occasion, “wait,” he mumbled, “that can’t be right.” But then Cesilia was popping the spoonful of potatoes into his open mouth and laughing, and her hand was covering her mouth and her eyes were shining and he decided it really didn’t matter all that much, and besides he’d been forgetting normal things like this all morning, it didn’t mean anything. The morning ended with the pair dancing together in the kitchen to a song they’d loved as teenagers. Chris’s arms felt stiff and awkward, like he’d never danced before, but he knew this very thing had happened plenty of times before in this very kitchen with this very girl, so he just laughed it off and allowed himself to sink into the joy of his life; it had always been there but all of the sudden it felt very novel, something rare and precious and utterly circumstantial, utterly left up to chance. Suddenly it felt crucial. Every day of the next few months passed much the same as that one, just as they always had. Filled with contentment and delight, ideal and incredibly devoid of any little inconveniences that were meant to mar reality. Chris knew that they were lucky, that really they had a perfect life together: best friends since before they could read or write, high school sweethearts, married young, no divorce, no distance, no death. But even so, when Cesilia started showing the telltale signs of sickness, the patches of hair losing color and drying out, the graying eyes and fingertips, he couldn’t help but feel he was the most unlucky and cursed man alive. They’d been nervously skirting the topic for days, hoping it was all in their heads and would go away without a problem. But that night, Cesilia had burst into a coughing fit that ended with her coughing up blood on the bathroom mirror. The deep red slash across her reflection had set Chris into hysterics. He’d let his legs give out and sunk to the floor in sobs. Bitter jolts of laughter all that broke up the tears as Cesilia came to sit by him on the floor, placing a comforting arm around his shaking shoulders. “Isn’t this a funny sight?” his voice came out acrid and mocking, he hardly noticed the splinter of pain in his head as he slammed it back against the bathroom cabinet doors, “you- the sick girl with blood still on her lips - all calm and composed and comforting me - the sobbing mess of a healthy husband. Funny,” he said again, but his shaking voice and eyes screwed shut showed that it was anything but. “Hey, don’t do that. Look, I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere, okay?” “Cesi-” “No, I’m serious. Look, they’ve been making advancements in treatments constantly, people are getting longer and longer estimated life spans all the time! And besides, there’s no use wasting our time with sadness.” Her eyes showed no fear, despite the bleak odds she’d just been handed. She looked at Chris with a determination and certainty that he just couldn’t understand. “It’s just-” he gazed at her with desperation, selfishly wishing she would burst into tears and mourn with him, “it’s just such an awful way to die.” To his surprise, Cesilia broke into laughter at that, “No it’s not, don’t be ridiculous,” she was still giggling to herself as she looked him straight in the eyes. “You know what’s a bad way to die? Murder. Murder’s a bad way to die. Suicide. That’s much worse. We know it’s coming, don’t we? We know that it’s coming and we can choose how to spend the rest of our lives, we can choose what we do with our last moments, don’t you see how good that is?” These were the ideas they kept stuck in their minds as the time wore on and Cesilia’s condition worsened. As it began to seem more and more hopeless. They held onto these thoughts; and their life together, although more precious and fragile than before, felt just as beautiful, just as full. Chris was amazed that his entire outlook on life was able to change through just a few words from someone he loved, but he was happy about it. Cesi was right, there really was no use wasting time mourning someone that was still alive. What they had now was a more somber version of happiness, but still, it was happiness. Life continued even as it threatened to fall apart. One year. That was how long it took for the threat to be realized, for everything to finally fall apart. The day started off as any other, Chris and Cesi ate breakfast together, they made plans for the day, they went to work feeling optimistic, happy even. Chris came home early that day, he’d been feeling lightheaded and strangely off since he’d gotten to work, he really just wanted to see Cesilia, but he knew he’d have to wait until she got home. The house felt different without her in it, like the walls would start peeling away and the furniture would sink into the floorboards and the whole thing would reveal itself as an elaborate illusion. Had he really never been in his own home without Cesilia there? Chris found that he couldn’t quite remember, probably just the headache, he thought to himself. He was in the kitchen, getting himself a glass of water for his headache when he heard a shuffling noise right out front. How odd, he thought, Cesi shouldn’t be home for at least another half an hour. But when the door swung open it wasn’t only Cesilia that walked through it, he was with her. Chris nearly dropped his glass when he saw that, how on earth could he be over there when he was clearly right here, watching himself over there? It made no sense, and it seemed unlikely that he could reason this one away as headache induced. Chris watched himself show Cesilia to a chair, she didn’t seem to notice that the man with her was her husband, or that he wasn’t, or that the real Chris was there standing behind her at all. He tried to call out some sort of a question or to reach out to her, but he found that all of the sudden he was rooted to the floor, he could move, but only just, as if he was surrounded in thick sand and all of his movements were stunted. Everything felt wrong. When this other-Chris walked up behind Cesilia with a knife, just out of her line of sight, it was as if the sand he was trapped in all crashed down on him at once, stopping his breath, plummeting to the pit of his stomach. The scene felt far too familiar, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how or why. When the Other Chris plunged the knife into Cesilia’s back through the chair, her eyes widened but seemingly just to the physical shock, the knowing look she always seemed to have remained on her face. Tears began to stream down her cheeks just as the blood began to trail down and soak through the back of her shirt. All the sudden, and far too late, Chris was able to move again. He ran forward and pulled Cesilia into his arms just as she began to slouch forward off the chair, collapsing with her onto the floor, back against the kitchen island, one hand held against her back already beginning to stain crimson. With his other hand, Chris held her head to his chest. He barely noticed that the Wrong Christopher seemed to have disappeared. Cesilia touched a bloodied hand lightly to his tear coated cheek, a knowing smile sat easily on her shockingly unpained face. If one were to look in on the scene they would have thought Chris was the one dying, the way his face was stiff and tight with pain, the way hers showed only a sad sort of peace. They were so tangled up in sadness that it was hard to tell where the blood was coming from anymore. “You see now, don’t you? Cesilia whispered to him, rushing words through grimaces as her body began to shut down, movements already becoming sluggish and slow. He didn’t see, not at all, but clearly she found it to be important, so he listened. “You haven’t felt for so, so long, you’ve numbed yourself, trained your mind and body to look past pain so much that you saw no reason not to inflict it.” “Cesi what do you mean? I feel. I feel plenty! Please let me just-we have to get you to a hospital.” “No, no, listen to me. Not here, but in the place where it matters, the place that’s real, not here, so deep back in your own mind you don’t even remember what’s real. No, listen,” she said again as he tried to interrupt her, “it doesn’t matter. They know about the pain that’s coming to them. If they’re still living, they’ve come to terms with it, just as I have, remember?” She spoke quickly, pouring the words out in a slurred stream as if worried her life would slip away before the words could reach his ears. “Please, please try to remember this. It’s only humans that have to die, not humanity.” Chris didn’t understand, not at all. But he was too distraught to think about it, he squeezed his eyes shut with a sob as he felt Cesilia go limp in his arms. Part III When he opened his eyes, Chris found himself staring at the blank wall of his bedroom. There was no dying woman in his arms, no blood on his hands. He looked around, wiping away the tears that still coated his cheeks with the palms of his hands, and began to realize what had happened. He had gone to sleep an unfeeling murderer and dreamed up half a lifetime of love and feeling. He could still feel the memories in his mind, both from his real world and the one he’d seen as his. Chris pulled his knees to his chest and closed his eyes, trying desperately to picture Cesilia again, to prove to himself that everything had not been fake, how could it have been a dream, he thought, when he still had all of those memories, when it still felt like years had passed, yet he had years worth of memories from this world too. The moment he pictured Cesi in his mind, something within his mind popped back into place, real memories began to grab hold of this dream image, to piece everything together, to explain it. Suddenly those memory fragments, the ones with the small black haired girl in the hospital, were given context. That was Cesilia, Cesilia as she actually was, Cesilia in what he supposed he had to call the real world-despite his vivid memories of another. That was her as she was when she was young and sick, in the early days of the illness. That was her as his best friend, that was her as she was before she died. Because he could remember clearly now that she had died, she had died of the Sickness at only seven years old, when he was only eight, too young to know how to deal with death but old enough to be hurt by it, to understand what it meant, that she was never coming back. These were memories his still-forming child brain had shoved out a long time ago, memories that seemed to have been destroyed when the unfeeling fog swept through. Chris’s heart began to beat faster as he remembered the grim, tight-lipped doctor who had pulled him aside to tell him that Cesilia had died. Specifically, he remembered the speech that had come with it, the warning. The “people are dying and we don’t know why and it’s really not very good but we don’t want to cause a panic so please keep this to yourself,” warning that had left the confused and sad seven year old to process the suddenly very real inevitability of death all on his own. Left struggling with no best friend to turn to because the person who should’ve been helping him mourn was the one he was mourning. That was when it had come for him, he suddenly realized, the fog. He thought about how he had been overflowing with emotion, how his eyes had sputtered sadness and his nose had leaked guilt and when the fog came and whispered in his tiny ear ideas of calm, of an end to the feeling, he’d desperately agreed. He’d given the shadowy monster free reign over his heart, his mind, his life. He’d let it erode his connections and gnaw away at his emotions. Life became pointless. The only strong conviction he had held onto subconsciously, the only one that managed to hide from the apathetic tidal wave that swept through his mind was the need to save everyone else from the fate of his friend, from what he saw as the worst death. This conviction stuck in his mind as a promise to himself, to save everyone he could from dying as she had. But he had been wrong, he thought now. Wrong to promise that, wrong to push away emotion. Cesi had taught him that in the dream. You can’t push away emotion, you just continue on despite it, through it, you use the negative to feel the positive all the more. Even more than this he had been wrong to make the decision of life or death for other people, to force them out of reality in an attempt to shield them from pain. He’d realized this too late. That was all he could think now, how many people he had ruined in an attempt to save them from life. The image of himself plunging a knife into the back of the love of his life was etched into his mind, and although it hadn’t been real, so much else was. And it was far, far too late. At the edges of his mind, he could feel the fog poking around, trying to find a way back in, it sensed his despair, his weakness. But he wouldn’t let it back in. He had to fix what he’d done. In whatever way he could. For Cesilia, and for humanity. Part IV Chris took a week of his life to live, to enjoy life as he had in his dream, as he hadn’t really in years. There was a constant sadness and guilt in the back of his mind, he didn’t let it leave, he needed it there. But he lived through it, he walked around and enjoyed the sounds of the world around him that he had never seen as important. He collected the small daily joys and stored them away in his mind, for when he needed them, and he knew that soon he would. In this week more memories came back to him. One day he heard a little girl laugh and saw Cesilia, a tiny child sitting beside him and laughing so hard her whole body shook. The next he passed by roses and saw the willow tree in the schoolyard, surrounded by flowers and pictures of Cesi, a memorial, he remembered. The more he remembered the more at ease he felt. Each sliver of forgotten memory returned to him was a new lesson in how to feel. He’d given himself one week, and when that week was up, he walked to the police station, to turn himself in. He had hoped by the end of the week he would be able to face this with the same calm assurance that Cesilia had always managed, but that wasn’t who he was, not now that he could feel again. He walked up to the front desk with his hands shaking in his pockets, his mouth gone dry, but he presented himself with the same cold, unfeeling demeanor of the psychopath he’d seen himself as. No need to confuse people, he thought, they need someone to hate, not someone to pity. He handed the nearest uniformed person within the station a stack of missing peoples posters he’d collected throughout the week, the people he’d save- the people he’d killed. “This was me.” He said it as uncaringly as he could, despite the terror clawing at him from within. “This and more. I’m turning myself in,” he added at the officer’s confused look, “I can give you my address there’s plenty of evidence to be found there.” Finally, the man seemed to understand, he led him back to a holding cell and hustled over to his coworkers, presumably to gather a group of police officers to investigate the claim. Chris was left alone in the cell, he rested his head against the cold wall, staring straight up at the cool grey ceiling, and let the tears run down his face. He felt a smile forming despite the bleak situation, finally, he knew he was doing the right thing. This was the end, but he wouldn’t let himself forget, forget the pain or the love, forget to remember, forget to feel. Matthew Mallory at a Halloween Party by Mina Abassi Even after all the work he’d gone through to get himself on the guest list, Mallory still surprised himself when he showed the invitation to a bouncer and got waved inside. Halloween had never been a partying occasion for him; the French hadn’t started celebrating it until long after he’d left, and trick-or-treaters hadn’t knocked on his door in all 80 years of him being in the United States. Halloween was a work day, more like. A day to use the distractions to get things done-- “Would you care for some marinated fingers?” Mallory blinked and turned to the man who’d spoken. A Captain America costume, of course. Nobody understood what true entertainment was anymore. Nonetheless, Mallory offered a smile. “I might--Are they real?” The man frowned. “Of course not! What kind of party dishes out real body parts to a crowd full of humans?” Mallory laughed it off. “I’m only messing with you--I’ll take one.” Before the man could gauge this response Mallory scooped up a roll and moved off with the rest of the crowd. He sunk his teeth into the dough and chewed. Luckily for him, the place was already hectic enough that nobody saw him spit into a trashcan a few feet away. Jam, of course--the worst of the blood substitutes. Mallory scraped his tongue against his teeth and spit into a nearby plant. By the time he reached the main room it was halfway full and already smelled of Mary Jane. The first thing that caught Mallory’s eye, however, was the mass of sharply-dressed men and women being briefed a few yards away. Secret Service, most likely. Even from the distance he could rank them by seniority, based on the stillness of their bodies and the rushing of their blood through their systems. One particularly new agent caught Mallory’s eye, and when Mallory flashed a good-natured smile, the agent’s cheeks flushed and he turned away. “Attention, attention!” Mallory and about a quarter of the party-goers turned towards the booming voice, located on a floating stage on the opposite side of the huge room. A tiny man with wings instead of arms clutched some notes in his hands as he went to speak again. “Your host would like to thank all of those who have arrived so far for attending.” The harpie’s accent was so thick that Mallory noticed others tuning him out. “I regret to inform you that he will be arriving late as a result of emergency diplomatic affairs, and that he apologizes. In the meantime, please enjoy the complimentary drink bar, paid for by Secretary Green and his family.” That was all Mallory needed to hear. Within seconds, however, he was surrounded in a sea of cosplayers and stiffs alike. As he weaved through the crowds he was occasionally whacked in the face by a wing wire or an inflated mount, without receiving any sort of apology. Naturally, these were all teenagers. Nobody had any accountability anymore. He was about halfway to the bar when a sudden hum of synthetic notes beamed over the speakers. A bunch of middle-aged women squealed as Michael Jackson’s voice, in all its falsetto glory, belted out the lyrics to Thriller. It was the 19,012th time Mallory had heard the song since its release--or, was it the 19,013th? He couldn’t remember. In all honesty, it could have been only the 500th. He bit his lip and suffered through the song as he made it to the bar, cursing half-vampirism and Jackson’s gay Russian glory-- “Tchaikovsky,” he muttered aloud. Damn it. He rubbed his head and meandered towards the bar. “Just a shot of Grey Goose,” he told the bartender. “What?” she yelled over the music. “GREY. GOOSE. SHOT,” Mallory yelled back. The bartender’s orange eyes glowed brighter as she prepared the drink. The bar area was dimly lit, but what little warm light there was glistened over her scales. The next thing he knew he was glancing over them, noting how their limish-green hue complimented her rich, earthy flesh-- “Eyes up here, bud.” Mallory flushed. “Sorry, I... “ He stopped as she glared him down, a hand on her hip. She wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t frowning--the only twitch her face made was an occasional flick of her thin tongue. “Erm… Are all parties this loud?” He sat down at a stool across from her. The bartender passed him the shot with little more than a blink. “Guess so. Would explain these.” She gestured to a near-invisible wire extending from her right ear canal. “But yeah, they’re loud. What--You never been to a party before?” Mallory shook his head. “Oh, far from it. I’ve been to so many, they’re all getting blurred in my head.” The bartender raised a brow ridge and blinked. Mallory drained the shot and set it back down. Before he could recall the announcement, he asked, “How much?” She shook her head a bit irritably. “Green’s paying for it. At least, that’s the story…” She glared at him knowingly. Mallory only nodded. Sean Green. He ought to… thank him. “Do you know when he’ll get here?” “You don’t pay goddamn attention, do you? He’s backed up or something.” “Oh. Right. Forgot.” The bartender went back to mixing drinks. No sooner had that conversation ended than a roar of cheers erupted from a distant stage. The entertainment had arrived: a group of pretty-boy Asians with bleached hair and pudding bowl haircuts. A few of them let their hands glow with bright blue energy while the tallest merely snapped his fingers and sent a smoke phoenix out at the crowd. And then came the music.Mallory’s ears took in the synthetic beats and electronic melody with some irritation, but his neighbor seemed to be in agony. The man groaned as he plugged his ears and slumped at the bar. He couldn’t have been more than thirty, yet the music seemed to cause him physical pain. “Shut it up,” he mumbled on repeat, in an accent Mallory recognized but couldn’t pinpoint. Mallory blinked as his mind settled on a possibility. “It’s Italian. Good guess, though.” Mallory turned to the man, “Erm, what?” The man glared at him for a few seconds. “You… Didn’t say anything, did you.” “No, sorry--” “Cazzo!” he swore, ignoring Mallory’s jolt as he jumped to his feet. “Just--Pretend I said nothing, yes?” The man pushed on the bar and lost himself in the crowd. The Secretary of the Department of Cryptid Affairs showed up an hour later to his party. To be honest, Mallory would never have known he’d arrived at all if Green’s little girl hadn’t stumbled into him on his way out of the restroom area. Alone, he noted with disdain. Even with the white dots scattered all over her face, Mallory recognized her on the spot. She’d been in so many publicity photos in the last few months that it was more difficult not to. The girl jumped back and glowered at him like a frightened squirrel.He smiled at her. “Oh, excuse me. Sorry about that. Are you lost, sweetheart?” She turned tail and ran. Her parents were raising her right after all. Mallory gave her a three-second head start, then meandered off in her direction. He would have lost her in the darkness if it weren’t for the flashing lights on her plastic gauntlets, which hovered near the ground and away from the glow stick halos others wore. He didn’t have to trail for long before she led him to her father, who stood near the bar accompanied only by his wife and teenage son.He noted Green’s position and stood, waiting. “You went alone?” he was saying to the girl, who was now cradled in his arms. She squirmed. “Yeah, Bub!” “Baby, you can’t do that. There are lots of nasty strangers in a place like that.” “But Bub, I’m Shuri. I’ll blast them with these!” She showed off her gauntlets, beaming. Green wasn’t smiling, however. He locked eyes with her until her grin faded.“Don’t do that again. You need to have Momma with you, or Agent Linden. You hear me?” He waited for her to respond. “Do you hear me?” Once she nodded, he said, “Okay. Good. Good. I’m glad. Okay, I’m putting you down now.” He did so, and the girl stayed sulking for a while afterwards. She still was when Mallory finally strolled towards the bar again and ordered another shot of Grey Goose. The girl eyed him from between her mother’s legs, and he smiled again. “I like your costume,” he told her. “Did you like… that movie?” She nodded a little bit, easing up. He nodded back. “It was a good movie. You look just like Shuri, did you know that?” The girl smiled. Her mother shot a glance backwards at Mallory, sizing him up. He smiled at her as well, but she didn’t return it. “I’m sorry,” he said, putting an apologetic look on his face. “I was only telling your daughter how great her costume was. It’s, well, it’s nicely done--Handmade?” She glared for a few moments longer, then seemed to collect herself. The woman nodded and petted her daughter’s head. “It is, yes. Destiny helped, didn’t you?” Destiny nodded her head vigorously. “Yeah. I holded the fabric while Momma cut it out.” “That’s so nice. I remember my mom used to make my sisters and I costumes. We never got to help, though--That’s sweet that your mom lets you.” He almost mentioned how his mother, in fact, had made all his clothes during her comparatively short life, but at that moment Green returned with his bored son in tow. “Enjoying yourselves?” he said, a grin as fake as the singers’ voices glued to his face. Mallory could sense the fatigue wafting off him from where he sat, could hear it in the man’s voice as he looked at Mallory and asked, “Who’s this?” His wife smiled. “Oh, he was talking to us about Destiny’s costume.” Sensing the distancing, Mallory chose now to ask, “I don’t see him wearing a costume.” He pointed to the son, who scowled. “I didn’t have time,” he grumbled under his breath, saying the words carefully as though they were rehearsed. Mallory shrugged. “I understand--neither did I. What would you have gone as?” As a fat woman in a pinstripe suit distracted his parents, the son leaned in closer. “Okay, so I was dead ass going to be Lil’ Pump, but my dad was all like, ‘No! We have a reputation to keep’ and shit.” Upon seeing Mallory nod in false-understanding, the son sat at the stool next to him. “It was sick, too. My girlfriend was going to be Cardi B. and everything. I think she still is doing it, which is what really sucks ass--” “What did you say?” The son shriveled under his father’s glare. Mallory gave the boy a side glance, then flashed Green a warm smile. “He’s telling me about his girlfriend--” “I thought I heard him swearing.” Green paused for a moment to give another man a friendly pat on the back, then turned back to them. “I don’t want him talking like all those kids that think it’s funny to be ghetto.” “I didn’t say--” Mallory cut in. “You’re right, actually. Kids don’t seem to have any respect anymore, for others or themselves.” He watched Green nod along, then continued. “That’s why I was just complimenting your son on not being so. It seems someone taught him right.” It wasn’t the best job, but Green nodded anyway. “Yes, yes, we worked hard on that. It’s important to have graces.” He glanced to his son. “You hear me? Darnell, you hear me?” The son sat up straighter. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you.” “Good. Good.” Green turned towards the crowds. “Now, get up. Go socialize.” The son pulled himself to his feet, not acknowledging Mallory any further. Mallory stayed right where he was, watching the family retreat away. It was only after the family disappeared within the masses of people that Mallory remembered his original plans, but when he finally stood up they were nowhere to be found. End The Harp by Kaylien Ownby 1 So it’s true, he thought, it’s really true. And it was true - all of the legends, the stories that Eddie had told him - it had to be; how else could such a magnificent harp have ended up in the forest in Elkins, West Virginia, the smallest and least magnificent town that Thomas had ever lived in? The harp stood in front of him, shining, its gleaming and golden body reflecting his own face back at him. Thomas felt the sudden urge to touch it; to reach out and stroke his fingers down the glimmering strings, the ornate head and the thick column it stood on, the delicate gilded leaves and vines wrapping up the sides and the little motionless bugs crawling between them, their movements forever frozen in metal and gold. 3 miles away, in a small green house, Mrs. Wilson was asking her oldest son where his brother had run off to. “How should I know?” Eddie said, idly flipping a page in his copy of Neuromancer. “You know Tommy. Always running off somewhere.” And slowly, reverently, in a quiet, quiet forest, 11-year-old Thomas Wilson plucked a single string on a golden harp. 2 It was Wednesday in August, and Steve was wearing his green shirt. It could be argued that, had Steve not worn his green shirt, there would be no beginning and thus no ending - there would have been no story at all - and Thomas Wilson would have stayed missing and mysterious. The forest was dense and towering, a dark green blanket wrapped haphazardly around Elkins and sprawling north towards Lindenburg. Steve stood at one of its many entrances, in his green shirt, staring into the shadowy wood and wondering if he had enough time to venture inward before it got dark out; it was pushing 6:30 and he had to Be home by 7 PM, please, Steve? And don’t go too far, you know how I worry. At this very moment Roger Gallagher was, on shaky legs, standing approximately 15 feet behind him, staring very intently at Steve’s back. Steve, though he didn’t know it, looked almost exactly like Thomas Wilson from behind. Their hair curled the same way, and Steve had a large, dark freckle on the back of his left arm - the left arm whose fingers were tapping rhythmically on Steve’s thigh, the same nervous habit that Thomas used to have - just like Thomas. It can’t be him, Roger thought. Tommy - he’s gone. Dead. Declared dead. Roger had to remind himself of this sometimes. The first week, when there were still dogs roaming through the forest, when he was still being questioned in his living room, his mother’s hand gripping his shoulder protectively like she thought they might accuse Roger of something…during that first week, he had seen Tommy standing outside his bedroom window. The moon made his face look smooth and pale, and he was in his favorite green t-shirt. Tommy leaned forward and exhaled soundlessly, his breath fogging up the window, and then he’d raised a finger and written ROGER THAT in shaky lettering. It was an inside joke - the word “yes” had been replaced by “Roger that” when they met in first grade. It drove Mrs. Wilson nuts. Roger could almost hear him saying it, him grinning at Roger and poking his cheek teasingly. Roger, still in his pajamas, sprinted out of his room, down the hall, through the living room, and out the front door into the silent, dead night. He ran around the side of the house to where Tommy had been; to where he should’ve been - but there were no footprints, no sign of him anywhere except on Roger’s window. There was a small patch of condensation, slowly being eaten away by the cold. It could be him, Roger decided. Couldn’t it? I saw him. I know I saw him. The posters were still up despite the investigation being over. They were faded by now; Tommy’s solemn, inky face smudged and the edges of the paper curling inward from being rained on and sun-dried all year. Declared dead. Thomas Wilson, 11, missing and declared dead. Roger stepped forward hesitantly, once, twice, three times before setting a hand on Steve’s shoulder with a soft, “Tommy?” Not-Tommy whipped around, startled, and batted Roger’s hand away. Roger stumbled backwards, arm falling to his side, staring at Steve with a mixture of relief and disappointment. “Sorry, I thought you were-” “Tommy.” Steve finished the sentence for him. Roger was silent. It wasn’t Tommy, of course it wasn’t Tommy. “Well,” Steve said, sticking his hand out, “I’m sure I’m no Tommy, but I think I make a pretty good Steve.” “Huh?” “Steve. My name is Steve.” he said impatiently. Roger was still staring at him, his gaze uncomfortable and intense. “Right. Steve. I’m Roger.” Roger shook his hand, lingering for a moment before letting go. He saw so much of Tommy in him - the hair, the straight nose, the dark green t-shirt that Steve was wearing so nonchalantly, like he had no idea what green meant to Roger. Tommy was green; it was his house, his clothes, the leaves he’d pick off of trees as they walked home together. “I gotta go.” Steve said suddenly, narrowing his eyes up at the sky. “My mom’s probably waitin’ for me.” He walked past Roger, giving him a wide berth as though he was some sort of skittish animal, and made it halfway across the damp, dewy meadow before Roger turned and called out after him. “Can I see you again?” Steve looked back at him, wary. “What’d’ya mean?” Roger felt his face get a little hot, realizing how strange that had sounded. He just couldn’t stop thinking of Tommy, of how Steve’s hand was soft like Tommy’s had been. “I mean, you were gonna go in, right? The forest? I’ve never seen you around before. Did you just move?” “Yeah.” Steve said, gripping the straps of his backpack tensely. “Well, I can show you around. We could - you could meet me here. Tomorrow.” “Alright,” Steve nodded, “tomorrow.” And he left, taking Tommy’s green shirt with him. 3 Roger tossed and turned in his bed later that night, Tommy and Steve chasing each other through his mind, laughing and mirroring each other’s movements. Tommy raises his right hand, Steve raises his, Tommy steps, Steve steps. Tommy reaches out for Roger, fingers stretching and straining, and Steve is right beside him, arm raised. “Roger?” Tommy and Other-Tommy said, voices lilting pleadingly, tones identical. “Roger, I miss you. Why couldn’t you find me?” “I don’t know.” Roger whispered desperately, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I looked, I promise I looked, Tommy. You know I looked.” Their hands dropped in tandem. Tommy - his Tommy - stepped forward, face twisted unpleasantly, eyes cold. “You didn’t look hard enough.” Roger’s Tommy said lowly, threateningly. “Did you even fucking try, Roger? Did you want me gone? Did you? Did I make you uncomfortable? Are you glad that I’m gone? Are you-” Roger was crying now, making ugly, choked-off sounds and scrubbing at his eyes furiously. Did you even f****** try, Roger? 4 They were walking through the forest side-by-side, Roger occasionally pointing out a native bird or plant species, when Steve finally asked, “So, who’s Tommy?” Roger looked away uncomfortably for a moment. “Tommy is - was my friend. He’s not, uh, he’s not here anymore.” “Where is he?” “He went missing about a year ago,” Roger said quietly. “They thought he might’ve gotten lost in the woods but they never…they never even found a body.” “And what do you think?” Steve asked. The sluggish flow of the nearby river and the soft rustling of leaves filled the silence for a moment. And then, Roger spoke. He told Steve about how he saw Tommy a week after he went missing, how Tommy had been standing right outside his window. He told Steve about the month he had spent skipping school, after the police stopped looking, to search the woods, going for miles in every direction. He told Steve that sometimes it felt like Tommy wasn’t gone - like Tommy was out there, waiting to be found. He told Steve that he thought, he thought something awful had happened to Tommy, and that he knew he was probably dead, but that sometimes when he walked past the Wilson house he couldn’t shake the feeling that Tommy was going to open the front door any second and come running down the steps to meet him, his favorite green shirt parachuting out behind him. “Jesus,” Steve said. “I’m…” he stopped for a moment, contemplative, before finishing. “I’m sorry about Tommy. It sounds like you really cared about him.” “Yeah,” Roger said, voice cracking slightly. “Yeah, I do. I did.” 5 November leaves Roger chilled to the bone. He sees Tommy everywhere - ducking into the corner store 2 blocks from the school, disappearing into the crowd at an assembly, slipping behind a bookshelf at the public library - and also nowhere. Roger trails after the scent of Thomas’s ghost like a long-abandoned dog; he goes into the store, he chases after him in the crowd, he follows him into the towering stacks of books only to be met with empty aisles, unfamiliar faces, columns of books he’s never read. Steve shakes him awake from nightmares sometimes, when he sleeps over on Friday nights and they share Roger’s creaky bed. He grips a trembling Roger firmly and pulls him out of the shadowy forest, away from Tommy’s body, lying in the underbrush, being devoured by animals and insects and rot. “I’m just so glad you’re making friends again, Roger,” Ms. Gallagher says one Saturday morning, after Steve had left. Roger stews in this later, wondering if Tommy would be angry with him for spending so much time with Steve, for letting Steve take Tommy’s place in his bed and for letting Steve sleep over like Tommy always used to on Friday nights. He learns a lot of things about Steve in the months after they meet, like that Steve’s favorite color is blue - not green. “A dusty type of blue, though,” Steve explains. “Like on a blue jay's head, where the color starts to fade into that white bit.” His family doesn’t go to church because his dad says it’s a scam. “I don’t care, though,” Steve tells him. “Just means I don’t gotta sit in a stuffy room on Sundays with a buncha buzzkills.” He loves science fiction, but he thinks supernatural stuff is nonsense; there has to be an explanation. “Things don’t just happen to happen.” he says. “There’s gotta be a why and a how.” 6 “-oger! Roger! Wake up!” Steve shook him insistently, reedy fingers digging into his shoulder. Roger groaned, propping himself up on an elbow, bleary-eyed and squinting. “Steve? What’s-” “Look out the window.” Steve whispered, voice trembling. Roger turned slowly, eyes sliding over his dresser and his desk to his window, where the curtains were gaping apart like an open mouth, dark and empty. Roger? Tommy stood there, hand pressed to the glass, face smudged with dirt and green t-shirt torn. Roger, I miss you. “T-Tommy?” Roger said softly, fearfully. Steve still gripped his upper arm, eyes wide, jaw slack. Roger got up and walked towards the window carefully, steps measured and shaky. He raised his hand, resting it on the glass over Tommy’s dirty, scratched one, and suddenly - without warning - Tommy dropped his hand and backed away, fading slowly into the night. “He’s alive,” Roger whispered. “He’s -” he cut himself off, and turned to Steve, still sitting on the bed in shocked silence. “He’s still alive.” Roger said. “I knew it, I knew he would come back, Steve, I knew it. We’ve - I’ve gotta…” Roger trailed off. It was silent for a moment. Then he started pulling his shoes on, lacing the canvas sneakers up tight and with purpose. “Roger, I don’t know if -” “You don’t have to come, Steve.” he said, suddenly angry. “You can stay right here. But I’m going.” “You can’t go alone. It’s not - you can’t go alone.” Steve was looking at him, eyes wide. Roger stood up, shoes laced, and pulled his jacket on calmly. He grabbed his flashlight, flicked the little switch on the side, and shined it at Steve. “Then put your shoes on.” 7 Tommy led them deep into the woods, through thickets and bushes and brambles, clearings with little streams that ran black in the moonlight. They couldn’t seem to catch up to him; they walked, Tommy walked faster, they ran, Tommy ran faster as Roger screamed after him, desperate and strained.Finally he slipped through a little opening between the dense trees, green shirt fluttering loosely behind him. They burst through moments later to see Tommy already standing on the opposite bank of a still and silent river, a large, glimmering golden harp sitting on a slab of rock that sloped gently into the water like an invitation. Come on in, it said, the water’s fine. Roger had dropped his flashlight and was already stepping into the river, the cool, shallow wetness lapping at his canvas shoes when Tommy suddenly turned to face them, staring intently across the water. His eyes were horrible and black, flashing unnaturally in the dim moonlight. “Roger.” Steve whispered. Roger ignored him, slowly wading further into the river.“Roger, I don’t think that’s Tommy.” Steve said, voice trembling. Tommy stared, unblinking, unwavering, and raised his left arm slowly, curling two of his fingers in a smooth, mechanical beckoning motion. “Roger!” Steve said again, louder this time, more forcefully. “Roger, get back here!” Roger was waist-deep in the river now, his movements sluggish and dragging. Steve took a deep breath, and stepped into the water after him. It was cold and biting around his ankles, the chill growing worse the further in he got. Steve’s teeth chattered loudly as he moved through the water as quickly as he could, forcing his shaking legs to push against the gentle current and the oppressive weight of the river. When he reached Roger he grabbed him by the upper arm, pulling him back in quick, panicked tugging motions. “Quit it,” Roger snarled, yanking his arm away. “Go home. I gotta get him, he’s right there, Steve, he’s right there.” “That’s not him, Roger.” Steve hissed, grip tightening. “I don’t know what the fuck it is but it’s not Tommy. I know you want him back, but that ain’t him, look at his eyes.” “It is him.” Roger insisted, voice cracking. “I know it is, it’s gotta be.” But Roger’s efforts became feeble, half-hearted; he had stopped pulling away from Steve and was letting himself be drug back to shore, out of the water, and then - and then Tommy spoke. “You gonna let him take you away from me, Roger?” Tommy said quietly, staring right into him, his lower lip quivering. Roger turned around slowly; disbelievingly. Missing and declared dead. Tommy stepped forward, the cool and dark river just barely lapping at the tips of his worn blue sneakers. They never even found a body. “Please, Roger, I miss you.” “Don’t listen to him,” Steve pleaded, pulling Roger harder. “It ain’t him, Roger, don’t listen.” “Gonna let him take you away? Gonna let him tear us apart? You said we’d be best friends forever! You promised! You promised!” he screamed shrilly. “Roger, come on!” Steve shouted, pulling even harder, even more insistently. “YOU F****** PROMISED ME, ROGER!” Roger stood, paralyzed, mouth hanging open, chest heaving. “You shut up! Shut up!” Steve suddenly snarled, jerking Roger backwards yet again and stepping in front of him this time, arm flung out protectively. “Roger,” Tommy said, voice suddenly sweet; gentle. “Let’s go home, huh? Please, Roger? I just wanna go home, I wanna see Mom and Eddie, I wanna walk home together like we used to.” Tommy’s black eyes shifted for a moment, turning soft and green and watery. “I’m so scared, Roger. I’ve been lost out here for ages. I wanna go home, Roger!” He began to cry, whimpering and choking pitifully. Roger was torn, one arm held tight by Steve and the other rising out of the water to reach out to Tommy shakily, hesitantly. “Roger,” Steve whispered, leaning in close, “come on.” “Tommy, come with us,” Roger said, voice wavering. “Let’s go home, come with us.” “Okay,” Tommy said, face smoothing and tears drying. He stepped forward again, now ankle-deep in the water. “But you gotta do somethin’ for me first.” “Roger, no-” Steve hissed, but Roger was already nodding, his head feeling fuzzy and muddled as he stared into Tommy’s green eyes - eyes that used to peer over his shoulder on Saturday mornings, a finger poking him, a whispered wake up, I smell pancakes. “You gotta play it.” Tommy said, pointing towards the glittering golden harp, illuminated by the moonlight, sitting on a large shelf of rock down the dead, unmoving river. “Just once. Just one string, huh, Roger? And I’ll come home and we can all be friends, you, me, and Steve.” “You better not move a f*****’ muscle I swear to god,” Steve whispered, eyes fixed on the strange, shadowy version of Tommy that beckoned Roger so eagerly. “This is some kinda trap, use your goddamn head, why the fuck would you have to convince the real Tommy to come home? The real Tommy would be desperate to come home. The real Tommy wouldn’t have even survived. The real Tommy would be dead.” Steve was growing more and more agitated, his nails digging into Roger’s shivering arm. “Just one string,” Tommy whispered excitedly. “We can be together forever, Roger. I’ll never leave again. Never.” Roger began to wade further across the river, staring up at Tommy with glassy, trusting eyes. He felt so suddenly as though Tommy couldn’t possibly be lying to him, as though Tommy would never lie to him. Steve shook his head furiously, his grip unrelenting. “Lemme go,” Roger whispered. “Please, Steve, lemme go, come on.” They never even found a body, Steve thought, frantic, they won’t find our bodies, they won’t find us we’ll rot out here - and then, startlingly, Roger kicked his shin, the swish of his foot underwater making a strange gurgling sound. Steve yelped, his grip on Roger’s arm faltering and his shoulder dipping beneath the water as he fell sideways, clutching his leg in pain. Roger dove forward into the icy water, pushing against the soft current with broad and determined strokes. Behind him, Steve shot upwards, panting, and slid under after him, trembling legs kicking and arms cutting through the water clumsily. Roger dragged himself onto the river bank, wheezing and coughing at Tommy’s feet. He got those two years ago, Roger recalled, staring at Tommy’s damp blue tennis shoes, the laces dirty and untied. Eddie helped him pick out a good pair. I remember. Tommy yanked him up harshly, staring into Roger’s eyes for a moment before pointing at the glowing, ethereal golden harp. “Go on.” Tommy ordered softly. I miss you, Roger. “And - and then you can come home?” Roger’s eyes gleamed with desperation and sickness. “And then I can come home.” Tommy said, brushing Roger’s dark, dripping hair out of his eyes before giving him a soft shove down the shore, towards the harp. As Roger stumbled down the dim and uneven riverbank Steve pulled himself ashore with frantic gasps, clutching at his chest and swearing furiously. He rifled through the rocks, pushing through them desperately for a few moments before settling on a broken-off chunk of boulder, still with its sharp and jagged edge, and pushing himself to his feet. Steve held it high and ran at Tommy, screaming wildly and swinging the rock at his head - his head that was so much like Steve’s own - praying it would hit its mark, but Tommy snapped his fingers loudly and Steve’s weapon disintegrated in his hands, the fine, gritty sand falling through his fingers mockingly. “ROGER!” Steve screamed, voice echoing and carrying down the shore, “ROGER, PLEASE!” He couldn’t stop seeing the posters that would be tacked up over Tommy’s - Steve and Roger 12 missing and declared dead - seeing his dad’s watery eyes and his mom sobbing I told you we never should have moved here and we did and look what happened. Roger stopped short of the harp’s rock and turned to look back at him. “Go home, Steve.” He said it so hollowly, the moon casting deep and dark shadows across his narrow face. And then Roger turned to the harp, stepped up onto a stage made of granite and stone, his back to the audience, raised a single finger, and plucked a string. Tommy’s eyes rolled back into his head and his body dropped onto the grainy shore with an awful thud, his head slamming into the ground as he fell - and the harp disappeared, a light and glimmering golden mist the only indication that it had ever been there at all. Roger raised a hand to his throat, his face twisted unpleasantly and his breaths coming short and panicked. “Steve I can’t breathe,” he gasped. “I can’t -” Steve stared at him, eyes wide and horrified - Roger fell backwards onto the rock, twitching and convulsing violently, back arched and head thrown back - it was the most horrible thing Steve had ever seen. He squeezed his eyes shut, terrified, unable to bear the sight of Roger thrashing so awfully and unnaturally. “Steve I can’t,” Roger sobbed, forcing the words out, “Steve -” And then it was silent. Roger’s body went limp, his limbs lying flat on the wide rock and his eyes closed. Steve opened his eyes tentatively and inched closer to the rock, his feet dragging reluctantly on the ground and his hands trembling. He stood a few feet from where Roger lay, cautious. “Roger?” he tried. Roger’s body was still. Steve crouched down and slowly reached his hand out, prodding Roger’s shoulder with a sharp finger. He jerked up with a gasp and Steve scrambled backwards - heart pounding out Ro-ger Ro-ger Ro-ger, thumping against his ribcage like it wanted out of Steve’s body - and Roger leaned forward onto his scraped and dirty knees, palms pressed into the wet ground. “I fought him off,” Roger breathed, “he tried to - like Tommy, but I didn’t let him, I fought him off.” Steve nodded, eyes still wide and scared, shoulders hunched tensely. Roger reached forward and pulled him into a hesitant hug - like they had just met, like Roger was standing behind him as he stood at one of the forest’s many entrances, lost in thoughts of dinnertime and his mother’s worry and the scolding that would be waiting for him if he came home too late - his eyes darkening just barely, just enough. Steve and Roger. 12. Missing and declared dead. He let himself be pulled into Roger’s cold chest, both of their shirts damp and clinging; and Steve allowed himself this moment, his face buried in Roger’s shoulder and his eyes watering. “It’s okay, Steve.” Roger said softly. And Steve - Steve, thinking of the dark ravine they had been led to, thinking of the loathsome and sinister golden harp, thinking of the way Tommy’s body lay limp, thinking of how Roger’s eyes had darkened just a little too much, a little too strangely - Steve picked up a rock. The Room by Jacquelyn Opalach 1994 It is minimalistic. Mint colored wallpaper, no landline. On the dresser, there’s a closed jar of water, resting on a rumpled vintage-esque quilt. A portfolio filled with figure drawings is resting against the closet door. A dried rose hangs in the window. The girl who lived here left two years ago, and now her whereabouts are unknown. Her belongings have remained undisturbed, apart from the layer of dust that has blanketed every surface. No one remembers Eliza Warwinsky, but fragments of her life remain in this room. Born a lie The quilt 1967 It was hand tailored by a local artist to commemorate Eliza’s birth in September 1967. The quilter's name was John Nathan Warwinsky, a lively, alternative 26 year-old living his best life. He was in love with a woman, but she was married. This quilt was the last of many he sewed before being drafted for the Vietnam War. John gave himself a lot of time to make it, because it wasn’t for any old lady or any new baby - it was for his daughter. He left two months before Eliza’s birth, and he never came back home. The quilt awaited his daughter in the new nursery, tucked into the cradle, and little Eliza instantly bonded with it. When she heard the news, that John was dead, the new mother fell into a heartbroken state of grief and guilt. Over the years, she drifted from her husband and from her daughter. Eventually, in the heat of an argument with her husband, she revealed the affair and the truth about Eliza’s heritage. He was enraged, but the two remained in unhappy marriage, and the child grew with a dismal perception of love and companionship. Her stepfather drank excessively. Her mother’s mental and physical health collapsed; she overate on some days and refused to get out of bed on others. This was the bleak reality that raised Eliza Warwinsky. And so however pathetic, cruel, and heartbreaking the backstory of this extraordinary quilt may be, it had come from her father, and it was, therefore, innumerably valuable. For Tybalt The ocean water jam jar 1984 It was a versatile jam jar. For a long time, it served as a piggy bank. After a while, it held her sewing scraps and thread spools, loose needles at the bottom. As her sewing phase came to a close, the jar became a home for all things random, like yo-yos or earrings or pens or hairpins. She briefly used it to hold loose leaf tea in high school. Then unsent letters, and then when Liza started going to the beach every day to walk her dog, Tybalt, it became seashells. The jar evolved as she did; it’s contents changed to mirror her hobbies, and it was always with her. On one foggy Sunday afternoon, a short 9 years after she stole the jar from her aunt’s jam cabinet in 1975, Eliza was tending to her daily routine of seashell collection at the beach. Tybalt wandered nearby, and Liza walked barefoot through the sand. She had just turned 17. The ocean was wild that day. Untamed, natural, enraged. Liza was scanning the sand in search for shells and agates, as usual, and the rising tide grazed her ankles as she bent to pick up new treasures. When Liza came upon a stick, she picked it up, figuring she should pay more attention to Tybalt. She threw, he fetched; the usual. After a while, Liza stowed her jam jar and jacket on a log and sprinted across the beach with Tybalt at her side, the crisp air stinging their cheeks. Her energy hyped up the dog, who jumped up on her legs when Liza stopped running to bend down and catch a breath, brandishing the stick in his teeth. She sighed and threw it for him, not paying much attention to the direction. When Liza looked up, Tybalt was already sprinting into the water. The ocean was wild that day. He didn’t hear her calls over the sound of crashing waves. Liza sprinted after him, into the ocean, but cut her leg on a tide pool concealed by the waves. In a bloody mess, she limped back to the sand and frantically called his name, but after an hour, she fell silent. Tybalt never came back. Liza sunk into the sand, head down, and sobbed for Tybalt. For hours, a string of phrases rang in her mind, on repeat. You killed him. It’s your fault. Guilt ate her thoughts. As she grieved her dog’s short life, Liza dragged herself back up the beach to retrieve her jacket and jar. In a haze she unscrewed the lid and poured out its contents, then limped down to the waves and filled it with water. She came home after dark. Her dad yelled at her but didn’t notice that the dog was gone. He never noticed, and neither did her mom. Eliza carefully placed her jar of seawater on her dresser. A tribute. She wrapped her baby quilt around the jar, to keep it safe. After that it wasn’t the versatile jam jar anymore. It wasn’t really anything; it was just For Tybalt. Nudist Saturdays The portfolio 1985 It was a Saturday night when the tradition started. Ruth Waters, Eliza’s best friend, was sitting on her bed, legs folded beneath her and hands lazily twirling her hair. Eliza was laying on the floor, trying to spin a tilted footstool around with her feet, unsuccessfully. They were bored. Eliza didn’t really seem to mind, but Ruth was really bothered by it. “Weeeee could watch Casablanca,” she said, desperate for an activity. “You literally always want to watch Casablanca,” Eliza said, flatly. “Well, do you have any better suggestions?” A pause. “No, I don’t, but doing nothing is better than watching CasaStupid.” “Well, aren’t you hilarious. We’ve got to do something. It’s Saturday.” “Okay. Do something,” Eliza said. Ruth loudly exhaled through her nose in frustration and then stood up with purpose and marched across the room. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll draw you.” So Ruth drew her. And then she asked Eliza to sit up, and she drew her again. And then she asked Eliza to stand up and pose “majestically”, and she drew her again. And then Ruth was bored, again. “The best portraits are nude portraits,” Ruth said. “Well that was rather forward.” Ruth was already attached to her whimsical and dramatic idea. “I’m serious - will you model for me?” The thing is, there wasn’t much body positivity going for an 18-year-old girl in the 1980s. Liza hated her body exponentially with each passing year. She spent minutes in front of her full-length mirror each day, tilting her head back and forth, ritually criticizing every inch of it. She obsessed over new weight loss techniques on the covers of tabloid magazines, but they never worked (surprise surprise). Eliza was awkward. “I dunno. What if your parents come in here?” “They wouldn’t care. It’s professional - drawing naked people. They want me to be professional. How about just in your underwear?” “I guess. Sure. Just draw me skinnier than I actually am, okay? And don’t draw my scar.” Ruth laughed. “Shut up,” she clapped her hands together productively. “Let’s go! Strip.” So Eliza pulled off her shirt, shimmied out of her skirt, wiggled out of her tights, and stood before Ruth, arms crossed over her stomach. “Well that’s not a very empowering pose,” Ruth said. “Geez Ruth, just let it be, okay? Just draw.” Eliza’s face was red. Ruth didn’t care. “Yeah yeah, okay. Relax, sunshine. You’re beautiful.” And she drew, and they stopped talking. Over the weeks, Ruth’s sketches got better and Eliza got more comfortable. Before long she went full nude for the sessions. She stopped caring about her cellulite and back acne. She grew to understand that the jagged scar on her leg from the day Tybalt died was a permanent part of her, whether or not she tried to hide what happened. Ruth gave Liza the best drawings. She kept them in a portfolio in her closet. The poses built her confidence, and after a while, she stopped looking in the mirror so much and started looking at the drawings instead. That’s me, she thought to herself. It was liberating. Everyone I love is dead The rose 1992 It was a spontaneous decision. Shortly after learning from the friend of a friend (at a party of all places) that her estranged childhood companion, Ruth Waters, had died in a freak accident, Eliza boarded a bus after work on a Tuesday in April 1992. She went to the airport and boarded the next available domestic flight, which happened to be Washington DC. She hadn’t been there before. When Eliza landed after the red eye, she called in sick for the day at the paper company in San Francisco where she worked and bussed to a downtown hotel where she booked a room for the night. She needed a getaway. After a nap, she left the hotel and walked toward the National Mall. Eliza believed that everything happens for a reason, and so she walked with confidence and purpose in an unfamiliar and intimidating environment. She only stopped to buy two roses from a florist on the street. She floated down the mall with a river of other tourists, mildly interested. She gazed at Lincoln, paid respects to Washington, and briefly acknowledged everything in between, until she arrived at a large, black wall: the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. She stared at it intensely. This must be why I’m here, she thought to herself. While this could statistically be deemed a miracle, considering there are 57,939 names chiseled on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, it came as no surprise to Eliza when his name was the first her eyes fell upon. JOHN NATHAN WARWINSKY. She gingerly touched the name, just as she had traced the same name embroidered on her baby quilt so many times before. Liza crouched to the ground to leave a single rose for her father. And then her business there was done, and she walked away from the monument with no intention to come back, and later that night she flew away from the city with no intention to come back. The next day, Eliza went back to work. In the break room at 10 AM, a coworker sat down next to her as she drank a cup of coffee and read the news. “Good morning Miss Eliza Warwinsky. You know, you should smile more. You have a mighty pretty smile.” He grinned at her. Eliza glanced up from her paper. Something was different, not about work or her disgusting coworkers. Something was different about her. “Everyone I love is dead,” she said. “My dad, my dog, my mother, my best friend.” He looked taken aback, and he didn’t say anything. After watching him cringing in discomfort for a moment, she continued, “I don’t need you to remind me when to smile.” Eliza left the break room without further comment and quit her job the same day. At home, not sure what to do with herself, she began to unpack. The second rose, which was severely damaged by now, was still at the top of her suitcase. She hung it upside down in the window to dry and then laid down on her bed to do some math in her head. After a couple of loose calculations, Eliza decided that she would get by just fine without a job for at least a couple months. She began to repack her suitcase and took a bus back to the airport. Screw San Francisco. The Harp by Jack Angles It’s a Saturday afternoon. The clouds are near non-existent, only a few strings stretching along the bright blue sky. The wind is faint, but strong enough to sway the brush, and the sun produces a soothing warmth. “Not a bad day for a walk.” says 14 year-old Matthew Dalton, standing out on his front porch, admiring the scenery. His house is right in the middle of a forest stretching 90 acres. It is rarely ever cloudy, and only rains once every few weeks. Matthew has gotten used to the beauty of his property, but there are days even he can appreciate what he has. He calls out into the house, “Ma! I’m going for a walk!”. Almost a second later, he hears the quick footsteps on the wood floor sprinting toward him. Out from the house comes a grey wolf. He waits right beside Matthew and looks at him with anticipation. “Oh I forgot you can hear everything, Sag.” says Matthew bending down and petting his wolf. His mom comes out from upstairs. “What?” She asks. “I’m going for a walk! And I’m taking Sagittarius with me!” His mom gives him an approving smile. “Alright.” she replies. He waves goodbye, but is interrupted by his older brother, Malcolm, who comes out from the bathroom and notices Matthew is about to go somewhere. “Where you off to?” He asks “A walk” replies Matthew, “Did you not just hear me a second ago?” “Nah. Your voice was drowned out by the pound of beans I ate being flushed back into the earth. In other words, I was taking a fat dookie.” “Yeah” says Matthew irritated, “I figured that out.” As Matthew’s about to leave, Malcolm stops him. “You aren’t gonna look for that harp you keep spitting about, are you? You know it ain’t real.” “You don’t know that.” Matthew responds quickly “Also even if it were real,” says Malcolm, ignoring Matthew’s response. “there is no way it would be in this country, let alone our PROPERTY.” Matthew was about to respond, but their mother cuts in, “Oh quit it, Malcolm. Let him believe what he wants.” She then looks at Matthew with a nice smile and waves, “Have a nice walk, sweetheart! Be back before dinner! And don’t go too far!” Matthew nods, glares at his brother, and walks out onto the porch. He picks up his walking stick resting on the wall beside the door. He looks at his companion, waiting with patience and angst. “C’mon, Sag!” Matthew commands. Sagittarius does a little skip and runs past Matthew onto the grass. He turns around, waiting for Matthew to catch up, and barks. Matthew walks off the front porch and onto the main trail. “I’m gonna find it.” As they walk on the usual trail, narrow and worn in, with tall brush on either side, Sagittarius searches and explores the forest, while Matthew is keeping on the trail looking around and hoping he finds something significant. He notices Sagittarius stray off into the forest and tries to call him back. “Sag c’mon! Stay on the trail!” he shouts. He doesn’t see him come back, so he decides to go off the trail and search. “C’mon, Sagittarius! We can’t go too far from the trail! I don’t want us to get lost!” He looks around, trying to spot him. He sees nothing for a short time, and then the brush several yards from the trail start towards him. He then sees the grey fluffy tail peaking above the grass, and then the rest of the wolf, who looks quite happy. Matthew can tell when something is different with his pet, especially when he discovers something. His ears stay up and his tail wags vigorously. “Find something, boy? Did you find the harp?” calls Matthew jokingly. Sagittarius barks and runs back the way he came. Matthew sighs, “Alright, fine, we can go the way you want, but it better be good! And you better find our way back!” He follows Sagittarius through the brush. As he runs, he sees the environment change a little. He notices there are more boulders and gravel around. “There must be a river pretty close.” he says to himself. He continues to run until he finds another trail, except this one is quite wide and has more rocks surrounding it. He can hear running water in the distance. “Sag!” he calls out. A moment later, Sagittarius comes out from the trail, Matthew runs up to him, “this is quite a bit far from the trail isn’t it, boy?” Sagittarius then walks back on the trail the way he was going. Matthew follows. He looks around at the different scenery, “I wonder why I’ve never seen this trail before.” he thinks to himself. The both of them walk the trail a little while longer, until the trail ends with a stream cutting it off. This trail is near the end of the stream, for it can be seen spilling into a lake a few yards away. Matthew is fascinated by the stream, but then sees a shimmer on the other side of it. He looks at it, trying to make out what it is. He moves in closer to get away from the light, and it becomes visible. It’s a golden harp, sitting on a boulder right on the stream. It’s as if it had only been there for a few minutes. It is perfectly intact, and has no marks or dents. It looks brand new. Matthew looks at it in awe. “So it’s true”, he thought, “It’s really true.” Matthew runs through the stream, jumping on every stone to avoid water. Sagittarius follows, but doesn’t bother getting wet and runs through the stream. They make it to the other side, and Matthew sprints to the harp, having to push through brush to get to it. Once he’s there, with his wolf close behind him, he examines the harp in amazement. It’s about four feet tall, and is completely gold, with the only exception being the strings. “I can’t believe it.” says Matthew. “This is it. This is really it. It has to be.” He looks down at Sagittarius, who is already looking up at him, curious about the importance of the instrument. “Sag! This is the harp I’ve been going on about! This is the Harp of Kronos’ Wrath!” says Matthew. He doesn’t know what to do. He walks around it, afraid to touch it, “Everyone told me it didn’t exist, that it was just a myth. But I knew it was out there. I just didn’t really think it would be in my backyard!” He looks at the harp closely, examining the strings, they appear to be made out of copper. “In the books I’ve read about it, this harp has complete control over time, and if even one string is plucked, unimaginable things happen.” He sticks out his hand to play it, but hesitates. “Oh I shouldn’t. If this really is the harp then I don’t want to cause something catastrophic.” He looks to Sagittarius for affirmation, but gets back a look of curiosity, implying that his companion wants to know what would happen just as much as he does. “Oh well you’re no help.” says Matthew. He looks back at the harp, contemplating. “Alright, alright.” says Matthew to himself, “I probably won’t ever be able to sleep again if I just leave without doing anything with it, so what can go wrong?” Matthew gets close to the harp and stretches his arm out to the strings. He gets about two inches from them before he turns around and looks back at Sagittarius, who is right behind him, waiting eagerly. He whimpers, implying he wants Matthew to get on with it. Matthew looks back at the harp and takes a deep breath. “On the count of three.” he says. “One.” a couple seconds go by, “Two,” he wipes his forehead. “Three.” He closes his eyes and plucks the middle string. He keeps his eyes closed, afraid of what he might see if he opens them. After a minute of nothingness, he opens his eyes. He looks around, searching for anything different. He sees nothing has changed. He looks at his wolf, who is laying on the ground with his paws over his eyes, doing the same thing Matthew did. Matthew looks back at the harp, with no changes, except maybe a slightly brighter shimmer. “Huh.” says Matthew, “I guess it’s just a lost harp or something.” Right after he speaks his last word, he hears a voice coming from the trail he came from. It’s faint and recognizable. “Sag!” Matthew gets a little panicked. “Uh oh, I think Malcolm is looking for us.” he says. He looks around for somewhere to hide, he then looks at the lake, and gets into it quietly. “C’mon, Sag! We can go around to the other side of the forest through this lake! I don’t want mom to know we went far off the trail, and we’re already late for dinner.” Sagittarius follows Matthew into the lake, and they both swim low and out of sight. A few moments later, someone else appears from the trail leading to the stream, only it isn’t someone else. It’s Matthew, and Sagittarius beside him. They look around the stream, until Matthew sees the harp. “So it’s true”, he thought “it’s really true. The Strategist of the Tempest by Marguerite Disanzo-Graham Chapter 1: “Hello there your faces look all very familiar but not at the same time hmm…. No matter. Well then all you curious fellows gather around, gather around and let me tell you a story far less know in your world today *chuckles* or maybe a few. Now lets begin with the one of the curious little boy and his friend and how they incite the one of the greatest tragedies in their lives. And how one only lives to tell the tale. Yes! Let me tell you first, the story of the godly Strategist of the Tempest!! HEH HAHAHAHA!!!” “Quiet, you.” *SHINK* “Yup so, we’re lost” , a young voice complains in a deadpan manner. “Shut it! I know where we’re going, we’re just taking the long route so no one tracks us. Another voice snaps at the other. “Wait what!?” “I’m pretty sure it’s just some travelers I hope, but I want to be cautious. Anyway it’s just a bit farther, alright!” “Wait why do you want to be cautious?” “You can see the storehouse clearly from the area we’re going to go.” A little while passes before either one speaks. “OK you can use the rune now.” Soon light filled the children's sight and were both blinded for a bit. “Oh hey! Ceanis watch out.” Ceanis had taken a step back when the light and begun shining and was about to have tripped on a fallen branch. “Woah thanks, Ventis” Ceanis, now clearly visible had a couple twigs caught in normally flat and swishy hair, has now become a tangled mass of black. The soft moist soil indented and caked the bottom of his boots as he spun around to both avoid and look at what he was about to trip on. He was dressed simply and not practically for he had never expected to get invited on a late night hike by one of his first few friends at the academia, and the local class eccentric. Just a simple white shirt, simple loose brown pants, simple black boots and a light jacket he flung on as he decided to go on an unexplained adventure by pure whim. “Anyway the thing is this way” Ventis was pointing his thumb south-west as he waited for Ceanis to get his bearings, his dark green eyes glowing with slight impatience and muted excitement. There was a leaf sticking on his hair though otherwise it looks normal, messy and brown with it’s ends miraculously sticking up no matter how much you try and flatten it and he did try every once in awhile. He was wearing a cloak that was almost always dragging on the ground, yet somehow not at the same time. He had a green sweater over a long sleeved black shirt which he tended to wear alot when the weather allowed it, skinny black pants, and black boots with wide openings for which he said was “better to run away from teachers with and also looked cool”. “Why can’t you just say what we’re going to, instead of trying to be mysterious,Ceanis muttered under his breath know that it would only bring on a whole spiel about how he should try and enjoy the mysteries in life or something along those lines if he actually said that to Ventis’s face. The two continued on before coming face to face with a somewhat deep cliff. “There!” Ventis pointed towards an almost stark white circle in the middle of a field of dark grass and the occasional wildflower and in the even farther distance you could see a big dark building pose mysteriously as though it held some secret long hidden from the outside world for centuries. “You really can see the thing from here, the hell!?” “Told you, but the thing I wanted to show you was that white circle it kinda looks like a ritual circle or maybe a sacrificial altar, though sadly I haven’t found a way to get down there, but don’t worry. Here! I got a tele….scope.” Ventis started frantically started patting down his body looking for said telescope but to no avail. “Did I forget it at home!?” as this scene was going on the background Ceanis started looking around with a tired and knowing expression as though this isn’t the first and last time this is going to happen. “Oh damn it, I’m so sorry Ceanis….” “I found a way down.” “What?” Just as Ceanis said hidden underneath a bush was the beginnings a steep staircase carved out of the cliff leading down onto the field below. “What?” Ventis’s eyes and mouth were agape with shock. “How did I not notice this!?” “You’d miss a cockatrice in a pile of snakes, that’s why,” Ceanis announced with a stoic face ending the conversation and started down the stairs leaving a flustered and irritated Ventis in his wake. After getting to the bottom of the cliff, the two quickly jogged towards their destination only stopping when Ventis decided to tripped on nothing. The structure was made of some sort of white smooth mineral that neither kid was familiar with, the flooring also had a clear misty rock embedded inside creating a symbol upon the floor that sadly neither boy could see from their limited view. “If only I had some paper I could maybe recreate the symbol on the floor and look for it later.” “You probably would have forgotten your pencil then” Ceanis rebutted. Ventis made a sour face at the bold statement, which Ceanis meet with a smug smile. Each boy then went to a different area of the structure to explore Ventis went around searching each inch, nook, and cranny, while Ceanis followed the lines around the structure and then decided to go to the center, and search around there for a while. There he was met with the remnants of what might have been a podium or some kind of stand. After checking it out for a small bit he went to steps of the structure and sat down. Ventis on the other hand was looking at the decaying pillars that lined the circumference of the floor. They were covered with the vines of a flower that Ventis concluded that can’t naturally live in the area. “How did these even get here?” he pondered outloud to himself. He stuck that to the back of his mind and moved the vines out of the way to look at the column underneath, all that could be found were scratches and slight traces of something that carved there before. After his investigation of the seven pillars concluded he set his sights on the centerpiece nothing useful could be gleaned except for maybe some theories about the stump could have been. “Alright, maybe you can still be used,” Ventis pondered towards the decaying structure. The ruins didn’t bother to answer. But he still persisted, Vantis stood towards the centaur and raised his arms and then boomed “LUX!!”. Even then the structure was indifferent to the human standing upon its center. “Hmmmm” the young one had conceded, understanding the ancient being would not give its secrets up in a single night. He then turned away from the centerpiece and saw his friend there sitting and staring into space, his heart sank down a meter realizing he left him alone. “Oh, um sorry this couldn’t be more exciting or interesting for you.” “I don’t mind actually, after all I got to see this view.” He waved his hand to indicate the field in front of him, and low and behold was a sight either kid ever saw before except in maybe books. Thousand of fireflies dancing around the field landing delicately on wild flowers and blades of grass flying around each other or accidentally bumping into one another. Soon after the two finished exploring the structure, the moonlight finally come out from behind the clouds and the began to become less frequent, the flowers on the wild vines had begun to bloom and glow which startled the two unsuspecting visitors. The flowers were a mix between morning glories and lilies, which had white petals with a blue spot on each, and the center glowed like an enthusiastic blue light bug was trapped inside the middle of the strange flower. The stars were especially bright that evening even being able to be seen through any solitary cloud that happen to pass through. And every once in a while a strong yet not unpleasant breeze passed by the two human, causing a wave to appear in grass as it waved about. After a while of admiring this sight and listening to the distant crickets chirp, the two decided to head back home to their village. The two walked back through the forest in a calm silence only disrupting it when Ventis told Ceanis to turn off the rune’s light, and when he tripped again but this time not on nothing. “Ack” Ventis grunted as he fell with a thud. “Again!?” Ceanis smacked his forehead in exasperation. “Oh, shut it! This is only the second time this has happened today, and I think I tripped on a book.” “A book?” Ceanis repeated confused how could someone randomly forget a book in a forest? “Hey, can you turn on the rune, we’re pretty far away from the storehouse and their camp so it should be fine now. “If you say so,” Ceanis turned back on the light source. “It’s pretty heavy” Ventis was turning the thing he tripped on around in his hands studying it’s binding with great curiosity and want. And the latter of which Ceanis noticed instantly. “Oh No, you put that back, what if the owner comes back looking for it.” “What!? Like they could find it again in a forest this big, and besides this things heavy enough that if fell out of someone's bag that they would surely notice immediately and come looking for it.” “How do you know they weren’t distracted and aren’t going to notice soon anyways, they could be look for it now for all we know,” Ceanis argued with an exasperated tone. “Because there’s dry mud caked on the cover, this could only have come from getting splashed with wet mud and the last time it rained here was ten days ago, and I don’t know ten days is a pretty long time to go not looking something like this,” The gleam in his eyes grew brighter with each word. “And besides if the book was so important wouldn’t they have tried to secure it better.” Ceanis knew he couldn’t convince Ventis other wise and the argument only made his want stronger. “FINE! But if the guy tracks that book down and wants it back, I had no part in this.” “What are you talking about Ceanis I had this book the whole time, how the heck did you not notice something this obvious before?” Ventis claimed with a smug grin and mocking tone. Ceanis looked up to sky in disbelief as Ventis chuckled and opened the book and flipped through it, but the chuckling soon stopped. “Why is the inside so dry and pristine.” Ceanis didn’t hear that and was instead more preoccupied with what was happening in the sky. “Um, Ventis,” “Yeah, what’s wrong?” Ventis looked up from the book and then stood up from the ground. “The moons are nearly at their peak” “WHAT!?” sure enough when Ventis rushed over to the clearing in the trees the four moons where nearly at the highest point in the sky. The two kids look at each other and got ready to run, Ceanis ready himself mentally while Ventis picked up the hem of his robe and made sure to have the book securely in his grip. And soon they were jogging through the forest, only stopping to help the other if they tripped and fell down. And when they soon found themselves back on a familiar dirt road they began to sprint towards the lights of their home village in the mountains. They soon made it edge of town and then, while still sprinting they both shouted their names towards the safety of their village. “VENTIS DRACO!!” “CEANIS STELLA!!” and jumped over the line dividing the outside world and the familiar and safe hometown, with a vwoossh ringing their ears and blue particles wisp by and around as their first greeting back into the village. The two young ones where now coughing and wheezing to get their breath back in the now quiet and dark plaza. And when they both got their breath back they, started heading in opposite directions towards their respective homes but Ceanis decided to stop for second and shout towards the back of his friend. “Ventis!” Ventis quickly turned around towards the origin of the familiar voice. “Thank you for tonight I had a lot of fun!!!” Ventis eyes gleamed happily and smiled as he called back. “Your Welcome!! Thank you for coming!!” And then the two truly went their separate ways, Ceanis going toward the bright quiet bustle of the village nightlife, while Ventis headed towards the outer limits of the village passing by a small wooden cottage on his way and waving at the old man in the window, who he isn’t completely convinced isn’t a ghost. And was soon in front of the iron fence of the academia, which he quietly opened with his spare key and went on the school grounds and made his ways to towards the second largest building in the back. There he tried to open the door as quietly as he could and was meet with the loud barking of the dorm’s big shiny black guard dog, Lupus. Ventis quickly shushed him and threw him a treat to quiet him down, which Lupus was anticipating for this was a bit of common occurrence. And luckily no one decided to come down because of how common Lupus’s small fits of barking were, that none of the residents cared unless it went on for an unprecedented amount of time. “Good boy, now git!” Ventis hissed in a hushed tone. Then Ventis swiped one of matches off of the fireplace and then noticed his telescope sitting there on the couch right by the door waiting for him. Ventis then quickly picked it up while making a sour face. Soon after getting into his room, he changed into more comfortable clothes, and then quickly lit a candle, wiped all the mud off of the book cover was then met with a dark green cover with golden markings depicting a dragon, a storm, and some sort of magic circle. Soon Ventis was in bed studying and devouring every word of a book that is one of key factors of making Ventis into one of the legendary heroes of one of this world’s greatest epics. The Wrong Bus Ride by Damien Sheldon It started off as a very good day. My friend Paul and I had spent just about the whole day at Snazzy Land, the local amusement park. I had even purchased a pretty decently sized balloon as a souvenir. It was a challenge getting it into the bus through the narrow door and proved to be a nuisance as I smacked the bus driver with it several times while I reached for my wallet to pay for the toll. After almost a long minute of me looking for my wallet and asking Paul if he had any spare change, which he did not, he angrily let me on for free. On the bus, Paul and I showed each other all of the other little souvenirs we had gotten that day. I had purchased a nifty flashlight and he had some mittens for his mitten action figure. We shared some laughs then Paul asks me, “Scott, did that sign just say ‘Leaving Manhattan’?” We started to panic as it became clear that we were on a bus going somewhere else. Where? We didn’t know. What we did know is that there was no way to stop the bus until it reached its next destination. What I remember next is dramatic and not very detailed. Maybe it was because of the fact that I was panicking but I’m not entirely sure. We went down a hill that felt like a complete 90 degree hill heading straight for the bottom of a deep cavern. It felt like we were plummeting for hours and at unimaginable speeds.We were going so fast that I was beginning to think my clothes were going to get ripped off of me. As soon as I thought it was never going to end, the road flatten out and I felt myself get thrown about as I fell out of my seat. My balloon hit the driver yet again. He kicked me and Paul out of the bus. “But sir,” I said, “we need to get back to Manhattan.” “Oh well” he replied in a short aggressive tone. The doors closed and the bus sped on without us in it. A sign said “You are now in Detroit.” The name fit the location. It was a dark and spooky place that was almost a ghost town with just about nobody to be seen. We surveyed the nearby stores and shops. “It sure is weird around here. Kind of different,” I said to Paul. “I don’t like it here Scott! I wanna go home. You can't even tell the bathrooms apart!¨ He pointed to the bathrooms and they only had a regular question mark and an upside down question mark to differentiate the two. ¨Okay, Paul, you wait here and call me if another bus comes and I´ll go look for a bus schedule.¨ Since there weren't any schedules at the bus stop I started venturing the nearby area, determined to find one. ¨Okay, Scott, but hurry up please¨ I started walking around seeing if I could find a busy schedule or anything when I noticed that I was talking to myself, ¨it really is scary down here.¨ Just then I heard Paul shouting. ¨Scott! The bus is here!¨ Right as the bus got into my view the door closed and it started to drive away slowly yet surely. I started sprinting towards it, hoping that if I could get the drivers attention that he would stop the bus and let me on. As I ran harder, I noticed I was getting significantly closer. As I really thought I had a chance, it started speeding away at an increasing speed. ¨Scoootttttttttt!!,¨ said Paul, with his head sticking out the window looking back at me. It had started going up the massive hill back to Manhattan, but I was still determined. Only a few steps into the hill, I had to give up because I knew that it would be impossible for me to catch up with it. I lay on the ground breathing hard and I remembered something that my grandma had told me ¨Never run for a bus.¨ I remember how at the time that was the weirdest thing I had ever heard but it seemed to make sense now. I trekked the short distance back to the bus stop and waited for the next bus ride home. I checked my watch and started to worry about all of the responsibilities that I had at home awaiting for me. For example, my cat Simon, whom I had to get home and feed. While spacing off I noticed my shoe was untied. Naturally, I bent over to tie it. Now I’m not sure how or why, but I missed the bus again. Maybe I was hidden behind the bench or maybe it was the same driver from earlier that had quickly come to dislike me. Several long minutes later, as I continued to wait, a quick wind came out of nowhere and blew my hat off. I quickly adjusted it. As I did so, the balloon which I had somehow managed to keep throughout the whole day, began to float with the breeze. It didn’t quite float up, just away from me and constantly out of my reach. During the course of me running around trying to get my balloon back, another bus had came and gone with me nowhere in sight. I walked back over to the bus stop and threw my hat at the ground in frustration almost hitting someone that had just gotten off the bus. “Oh i'm sorry sir.” There was a short pause after I asked where we just looked at each other. “Excuse me sir, you wouldn’t happen to know when the next bus is, would you?” He just looked at me with a blank stare then darted off towards my balloon that was still floating away. “Okay that’s it, I am not leaving this spot until the next bus comes.” I felt like I was waiting forever. Maybe it was a few minutes maybe it was a few hours. I heard a rumble and for a second thought it was some kind of monster only to realize that it was actually my stomach and that I was starving. I thought about my last meal way earlier in the day and then I remembered the candy that I had bought at Snazzy Land and pulled it out of my pocket. I put a few pieces of the tiny candy in my mouth, but quickly spat them out because it was grape flavored. My least favorite flavor. I started scanning the nearby area for somewhere where I could quickly get some food. I saw a vending machine across the street that said “Kandy.” My mouth started to water when I made out what was inside. I looked both ways just to make sure that there was not a bus in sight. The only thing I saw was a tumbleweed blowing through the street. I sprinted across the road and the twenty or so feet to the machine. I put my money in and ordered my favorite candy. I slowly watch as the coil starts to release my candy but it doesn’t. I try rattling the machine and in my frustration I didn’t see the next bus arrive at first. I start quickly jogging over but yet again, the bus just drove on without me. I decide that I want to go to the nearby station to figure out what is going on. As soon as I walk in, I see a massive line stretching across the whole building. I waited in the line for what felt like days but in reality it was probably only an hour. It was finally my turn in line to talk to the man. “Hello. When is the next bus to Manhattan?” He then points to a bus that had left maybe 20 seconds before. “I’m afraid that’s the last bus until the morning.” I hung my head in defeat knowing I had to wait till morning. I walked outside and it was pitch black out. There were no streetlights or anything. Just total and complete darkness. I could barely see where I was walking when I noticed a strange figure following me. I started to walk faster and faster but the figure was constantly right behind me. Eventually I was running and ended up tripping over a large rock. The figure got close to me and I realized it was the man that chased my balloon down when we had first arrived. “Oh I remember you. What do you want?” I asked him but he didn’t answer. Without saying a word he tied the balloon to my wrist and started to blow into it. “Sir the balloon has enough air, what are you doing?” I still got no response. I was beginning to think that the man didn’t speak English and I didn’t notice that I had started to float. “Thank you,” I shouted, forgetting that he couldn’t understand me. “Gracias!” I tried to say thank you in as many languages as I could hoping I would find the one he spoke. When I finally lost sight of the man, I heard him say “You’re welcome” and that was it. I was struck with surprise as I continued to quickly float up and away. After a while of floating, I started to notice that I was almost at my house. The balloon ended up taking me right above the open skylight above my room. The balloon suddenly popped and I started to plummet into my room through the skylight. Right as I landed on my bed I jolted up with sweat covering my face and body. I take the covers off and look at the clock. 3:37 am. I lay down, still breathing heavily as I realized that all of that craziness was only just a dream. The Ballad of Oliver Tuft by Dakota Kalvaitis-Heffernan “Have you tried turning it off and on again?” Oliver Tuft stammered at the pretty girl sitting at her desk. “Uh, no, I haven’t.” She stammered back at Oliver. “Well try that, and if it doesn’t work, uh, give me another call, and I will be right back up.” “Oh, okay.” A moment of silence fell upon the cubicle. A voice rang out inside of Oliver’s head. Come on Oliver, think of something sharp to say! “Right then.” Oliver forced out, continuing to awkwardly stand in the small white cubical. That’s what you decided to say?! The voice shouted into his head. The girl smiled weakly and obviously forcibly up at Oliver. It’s awkward now, just leave, said the voice with a sense of urgency. Oliver did not budge though. He remained glued to the floor in the corner of the cubical. He remained with a slight nodding of his head, just looking at the pretty girl. “Well, um, I’ve got-ta get back to work,” the girl said. “Oh, yes, sorry.” Oliver turned to the exit. That was awful, positively awful, the voice rung out in his head. As Oliver turned to leave, the girl said something, but he didn’t catch it. He was busy listening to the voice in his head. “Sorry, what?” Oliver said, whirling around. “Oh, nothing,” she said and quickly turned back to her monitor screen. “Yes, uh, alright.” Oliver said as he stepped out of her cubicle. Oliver Tuft mentally kicked himself in the nuts as he walked away from her cubicle. You blew it. You’ve gone and blown it Oliver Tuft, the voice rang out inside of his head. I know, I know. He said back, in his head.Oliver, dejected, walked down the grey hallway, through the rows of white cubicles, to the end of the hallway, where the elevator resided in the wall. As he pushed the down button, someone walked up and stood next to Oliver. Someone walking up and standing next to Oliver whilst he is waiting for the elevator is a perfectly common occurrence. Oliver usually just bobs his head slightly and doesn’t acknowledge their presence. They usually don’t acknowledge Oliver either. On this occurrence, Oliver bobbed his head slightly and stared straight ahead at the silver elevator doors, as if he was at a urinal. The person who walked up stood for a second next to Oliver, then turned to Oliver and spoke. Seeing this turn and open of the mouth, out of the corner of his eye, Oliver’s heart sunk. “Hi-ah there.” Oliver slowly turned his face toward the guy. He had a great big smile on his mouth, and Oliver was immediately annoyed. His plaid short sleeve button up shirt tucked into his tan khaki pants just made oliver seethe, internally. “I like your plaid shirt,” the guy said to Oliver. “And your khaki pants. You look like a rip off of me,” he said with a big smile. “I’m Gabe.” Dear god, I hope he doesn’t want to shake my hand. He reached out his hand. Good lord. “Oliver.” Oliver said curtly as he gingerly gripped Gabe’s hand. Ding! The elevator doors slip open. “Looks like our ride is here, after you sire,” Gabe said. He emphasized the word sire in an old english accent and accompanied it with a sweeping gesture toward the open elevator. Oliver stood still for a moment, frantically trying to think of a way out of riding the elevator with this man. “Uh, actually I was planning on using the stairs,” Oliver spouted quickly. “Well what were you standing around here for, silly?” “Just to see if I had options.” Oliver quickly turned and strode off toward the stairs. Disaster narrowly avoided Oliver, good thinking.Oliver had never taken the stairs. In fact, nobody had ever taken the stairs, so Oliver didn’t know what he was about to open the door into. Oliver opened the door. Cold, dry air rushed out from the concrete stairwell, and there, upon the wall was a great big red Floor 52. Huh, the voice in his head softly said. I’ll just take the next lift down. Oliver walked back to the elevator and took the next lift down. Oliver’s office was located in the basement of the building. It was usually filled with a mess of dead or unused monitors and computers and tangled cords. As he walked down the dimly lit hallway he was feeling relief that he would soon be back in his comfortingly dim office. He had a stressful 10 minutes. He hadn’t worked up the courage to ask the girl her name, and the man he met, Gabe, had really irked him, for some reason. Well Oliver, that was one of the worst trips upstairs you've ever had, the voice inside his head said solemnly. Yeah, it was. I am glad it’s over. Oliver opened the door into his office and was greeted by an unfamiliar sight. Another person was there. In the far corner there was a desk that had been unburied from the piles and piles of cords, dead monitors, old monitors, and dead computers, and this person was busy unpacking a box of stupid little office items onto the desk (like a little stapler and a little hole puncher). This person had not heard Oliver slip inside. I wonder what this is all about. “Uh, hello there,” Oliver called out. The man slowly turned around, like a slow ticking of a time bomb. “Hi-ah again, friend!” Oliver died inside. It was Gabe, the man from the elevator. “Hello,” Oliver said. His mouth crunched up into a tight little circle. “I’m the new IT guy, what are you doing down in this dark little hole? Seems like whoever was here last could’ve cleaned up a bit, don’t ya think?” Oliver’s jaw clenched shut. “This is my office. I’m the IT guy.” “Really? Huh, when they hired me they told me I was filling an empty position.” Oliver’s face started turning red. “Well, you are not filling an empty position, I’m the IT guy.” Oliver’s voice was thin and cold. Gabe let on a huge smile. “We’re just gonna have to figure it out. Relax buddy, I’m sure there was just some miscommunication.” At that moment the phone rang on Oliver’s desk. Oliver took a stride over to pick it up, but Gabe was there before he got the chance. “IT department, how can I help you?” Gabe said in an upbeat voice. He listened for a moment, then said, “Sure will, I’ll be up in a moment.” Oliver stared daggers at Gabe, who just smiled and said, “Sorry buddy, I’ve got to go.” He strolled out of the room.Oliver slumped down into his chair. Gosh, this is a real headache. I better call upstairs and figure out what’s going on. Oliver reached for his phone, but before he picked it up, it rang. Startled, he paused for a moment, then picked up the phone. “Hello?” He said flatly. A soft voice emerged from the phone. “Um, is this the IT department?” Oliver perked up immediately. He recognized the voice. It was the girl from upstairs. “Yes, I am the IT department, I mean, uh, I am the IT guy.” He stumbled over his words. “My computer isn’t, um, working.” “Have you tried turning it off and on again?” “Uh, well no, see, it wont turn on.” “Huh, I see.” Now’s your chance, Oliver. Find out her name, slyly, the voice in his head whispered in his ear. “I’m sorry, who is this again?” Oliver stammered out. “Oh yes, sorry, I’m on floor 52, cubicle 35,” “Oh I know, I was up just a minute ago.” “Right, oh yeah, you were, sorry I forgot.” “Well I’ll be right up then.” Shuckers.Oliver stood up, jumped up and down a couple times, and ran out, en route to floor 52. At cubicle 35, Oliver was talking to the pretty girl. “So, um, there was an IT guy up here a little while ago, and he told me to turn it off and back on again, but when I tried that, it, uh, it wouldn’t turn back on,” the girls said. “Yes, well, that was me that was up here earlier.” “Oh, I’m sorry, I guess I thought it was another IT guy.” “Well, I’m actually the only IT guy.” “Oh.” There was a moment of silence. “Can I take a look at your computer?” “Oh, yes, sorry,” the girl said timidly, sliding away from her desk. Oliver squatted down in front of the desk, then stuck his head under it for a moment, then popped back out. “Well I’ve found your problem. The computer wasn’t plugged in. You must have accidentally kicked the cord out.” “Oh, that’s really stupid of me.” Her face began to flush. Now’s your chance Oliver, say something witty and ask for her name! The voice shouted in his head. “Right then,” Oliver stammered out. YOU GODDAMING IDIOT! CAN’T YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT!? Shouted the voice. “Well thank you for your help, what’s your name?” YES! OLIVER, CAPITALIZE ON THIS MOMENT, DON’T SCREW UP THIS TIME! “It’s Oliver.” And then there was silence. The girl just looked up at Oliver, smiling weakly. Oliver just stood there, nodding his head, looking at her. Another moment passed. The girl dropped her gaze. “Well, I’ve got-ta get back to work.” She said softly. “Oh yes, sorry. Uh, feel free to call again. If your computer has a problem again, that is.” “Okay.” Oliver stepped out. He stood outside, out of sight of her door for a moment, ready for the mental barrage he was about to be subjected to. But there was nothing. The voice in his head had gone silent. Oliver made his way back down to his office. “How goes it?” Gabe said jovially as Oliver stepped through the doorway back into his office. Gabe was sitting at Oliver’s desk, his feet propped up on the tabletop, browsing through Oliver’s computer. “That’s my desk,” Oliver said flatly. “Oh, I’m sorry, it just makes such a good foot rest. You know, it’s really remarkable, I’ve never seen more outdated software than what’s on the computer network here.” Oliver’s face began to turn red again. He opened his mouth to say something, but the phone rang before he had the chance. “This is the IT guy, the one and only, how may I help you?” He looked at Oliver as he said it. “Oh yes, absolutely, I’ll be right up.” He put the phone down and said, “Hey by the way Oliver, I talked to McGriggs, he wants you to call him.” “Who’s Mcgriggs?” “Your boss. I’ve got to go.” Gabe strolled out. Geeezus, I’ve got to figure this out. I’ll call McGriggs now. Oliver sat down at his desk and picked up his phone. He realized he did not know McGriggs’ extension. He also realized he didn’t know who McGriggs was, but upon thinking even more, he realized he didn’t even know who his boss was, so he may as well call McGriggs. He called the front desk. “Hi, could you put me through to McGriggs?” Oliver said. “Who is this?” A shrill, high receptionist’s voice whined back. “Uh, this is Oliver Tuft, the IT guy.” “IT what? What’s that?” “I manage the computer system, can I please just talk to McGriggs?” “Oh sure.” A moment later a gruff voice came on the line. “McGriggs, who is this.” “Um, hi. This is Oliver Tuft.” “Oliver who?” “Oliver Tuft.” “Never heard of them. What do they want?” “I’m Oliver Tuft!” “Oh, well what do you do you want?” “Well, I suppose you’re my boss, and there's a bit of confusion down here in the IT department.” “Well what does Oliver Tuft have to do with it?” “I’m Oliver Tuft!” “Oh, well what do you want?” “There’s a guy down here named Gabe and he’s saying that he was hired to fill an empty position as the IT guy, but I’m the IT guy, so I don’t know what is going on.” “Uh, hang on for a second.” Oliver leaned back in his chair, exasperated. He heard indistinct voices through the phone, then McGriggs came back on. “Yeah, uh listen uh... Timothy, turns out you were fired a week ago. You can get your things and leave.” “Fired?” Oliver said softly. “Yeah, fired.” “But why?” “I don’t know, talk to your boss.” “But you are my boss!” The call was cut. Oliver put down the phone and sat quietly for a moment, then Gabe strolled casually back in. “Oliver my friend, it looks as if you’ve just had to amputate your own leg,” Gabe said, mockingly upbeat. “Yeah,” Oliver flatly said. Gabe strolled over to a desk and sat upon it. “I was just up on floor 52, cubicle 35,” He said, in an overly effeminate voice. “That poor girl is having such troubles with her computer. She’s mighty cute, but I’m afraid she might be terribly stupid. It seems she doesn’t know how electricity works,” Gabe said as he examined his nails. “Maybe her outlet is just loose,” Oliver quietly said. “What was that?” Gabe shouted over, but before Oliver had a chance to respond, Gabe cut in again. “Hey did you call McGriggs?” “Yeah. I got fired.” Oliver’s voice was passive aggressively monotone. “Oh shoot. I’m so sorry.” Gabe was still examining his nails. “But we’re pretty overstaffed down here anyway, cuts were inevitable.” Gabe stood up and walked over to Oliver. “I know, it hurts, but I don’t think you’re meant for the IT department anyway.” Before Oliver had the chance to say anything, the phone rang and Gabe snatched it up. “This is the IT department, home to the one and only IT guy, how may I help you?” Oliver stood up and began putting his things in a box. “Of course, I’ll be right up.” Gabe made for the door. Before he exited, he turned, looked at Oliver, smiled, and went. Oliver Tuft left the building around the time that everyone else did. He had slowly, slowly found and packed up all of his possessions that were scattered around his office. He had ignored Gabe popping in and out, and Gabe had ignored him. Right before Oliver was about to exit the building, he caught sight of the girl through the crowd of sad looking, overweight people. I’ve got one more chance, Oliver said to himself. Make it count. Executing a series of acrobatic maneuvers through the crowd, he quickly made his way over and caught up to her. “Excuse me.” He said and tapped her on the shoulder. She whirled around, surprised, then confused. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” She said to him. Oliver paused for a moment, then said, “I guess not. Sorry.” She walked away. Oliver stood still for a moment, then walked away as well. The Queen of Pirates by Zane Taylor Part One To start a story, one must begin at the beginning. However the beginning is not always when a story starts. Our story, in fact begins in the middle with a brown haired girl dressed in a burgundy leather jacket over a flowing white shirt. Salt sticks to her brow as the cool ocean breeze ruffles her hair. Standing atop a tower, she stares out at the raging sea. The sky is dark, as if a giant squid released an inky cloud upon the world. A small smile plays her lips as she peers down towards the rocky cliffs that hold the tower from the sea. Movement catches her eye, caused by the shape of a massive creature rolling in the water around the tower. A sight most would fear but one she saw as humorous. The girl looks out into the horizon, seeing the tops of sails in the distance. Surrounding her in the open ocean are similar sails, too far away, and dipping into the curvature of Earth to clearly make out the boats themselves. Her hand instinctively reaches to the cutlass at her waist. Heavy and leaden it feels, like it always does before a fight. She lays the blade upon the stone railing of the tower. “I’m ready,” she thinks “Let those bastards come and eat steal…” Georgina Felicity Leonor was born into wealth. Her parents were traders and their legacy was the West Empire Trading Company. Their seal was marked on every keg of gunpowder in the nation of Pelagus. Their influence and wealth was comparable to royalty, the kings and queens of the nation hid in the shadow that was cast by the Leonor family. Their bloodline ran thick with silver and Magik, a hidden spark that gathered in each one of them. With power came enemies, and the Leonor family had many. Georgina should have lived a life of luxury and riches, but fate had other plans. The ship rocked gently on the dark blue swells of the ocean. In fancy letters, the ship’s broadside read The Sea Breeze. A sailor sat on the side of the ship, an oil lantern hung above him, lighting the strings of a mandolin in his lap. Sweet cords filled the cold night with warmth as he plucked the twangy strings with long spindly fingers. For a moment the night felt like day and the darkness surrounding the ship was forgotten. “Hey! Hush that thing before I break it.” The music stopped with a jolt, ending on a dissonant chord. “We’re supposed ta’ be on watch, you might wake the Leonors”. The man speaking walked up to the musician with a limp. He clutched a crutch in one arm and a dangling lamp in the other. “Ya can’t just blow a man down if he’s playing a little jig, it just aint fair”. The musician stood and approached the other man. Instrument clutched like a club, his other hand balled up, ready to strike. “I can tell who eva’ I want on this boat to shut up if they’re squawking like a seagull with their tongue thrown to the fishes!” The arguing men were too engrossed in their fight to notice the slight shift in the wind, the whisper of sails, and hush of swords being drawn. They were to busy to notice the slight ripples in the water or the hiss of a fuse being lit…BANG!!! Cannon balls flew through the air, one smashing through the musicians instrument and landing in his gut. Others cracked the mast and embedded themselves into the hull of the ship. The man with the clutch fell to his knees bracing for another volley. “PORT SIDE, PORT SIDE, WE ARE BEING ATTACKED.” BANG!!! The second wave of iron blackened the night sky. Like angry wasps they bit and blew the ship to pieces, the sails, the rudder, the deck, all was destroyed. Men rushed onto the deck of the ravaged boat, muskets and swords in their hands. Their eyes wild, adrenaline wiping away the grogginess of sleep. They shot blindly towards port, into the thick layer of fog that now surrounded the boat. The other side responded with an answer of lead and fire. Screams and explosions filled the air, whipping the night into a hellish nightmare. The battle was over before dawn, the attacker, Captain Lucius of the Black Swallow stood at the prow of his boat and watched over the now burning wreckage of the Sea Breeze. “Aye lads, I think we showed them the power of the Black Swallow, now search the debris before I make ye walk the plank, remember no more Leonor's!”The Black Swallow dropped anchor and men jumped aboard the Sea Breeze. Captain Lucius watched as his men looted his enemies ship. Chests of gold were thrown onto the main deck and survivors were tied together and shoved into line. A nervous sailor came up to the captain. “Sir, Captain Lucius, sir, we have a problem.” “Spit it out boy, we don’t have time the gossip like little ladies.” The sailor held his hand behind his back and awkwardly reported. “Sir, uh, we have found a child on board.” “Tie em’ up, n’ take em as a slave.” “S’not any slave, it's “the” child.” A look passed over the captain’s face, a mixture of shock and fear. The first thought was to kill the child, leave it and let it burn on the ship. The second thought that entered his head was to sell it into slavery. But the third and riskiest thought took over, to take and raise the child as his own, under the flag of the Black Swallow... Part Two Georgina hung from the mast, one hand holding an eyeglass the other clutching to a hempen line. Gulls flew around the ship squawking for more food scraps from the boat. Georgina's face lit up with a toothy smile as she saw a green dot in the distance. “Land ho! We made it you salty dogs.” Georgina slid down the mast like a giant fire pole, nimbly leaping down from the crows-nest. The deck was busy, sailors lifted and arranged crates onto the deck. All had large smiles on their faces, it was almost payday. They had spent three weeks raiding various merchant ships who dared travel into the territory of the Resistance. Now they were heading to the tropical islands of Mangelanga where the pirates would trade their plunder. Georgina walked proudly up the stairs to the quarter deck. She dragged her hand along the salty railing and slapped a sailor in the back. Her father stood at the helm, dressed in a black leather overcoat and a grey captain’s hat with an orange feather. His black beard was peppered grey with the age of time. He rose a hand from the helm in a greeting and belted at Georgina in his distinctive accent. “AHHH, Georgina my girl, how far till we reach land?” Georgina shifted to lean on the railing of the ship. She stuck her hand out over the side of the ship, feeling the cool breeze and spray of the sea. “Just a couple of more kilometers, with this strong wind to our back, we will reach land by sunrise.” “Very well, help the lads with the cargo, even the first mate must work.” The sailors worked throughout the day and soon they approached Mangelanga. Bright lights shone through the mangroves, cutting through the dusk. Captain Lucius ordered his sailors to pull in the main sheet and to switch to oars. The boat moved gently and rhythmically through the water. In the trees, lanterns lighted a pathway for their ship. Insects hummed and swarmed the lamps like ships to a lighthouse. Captain Lucius signaled the sailors to stop rowing. In front of them was a makeshift wall. It had a grate on the bottom to allow for water flow. A seam in the middle marked the openings of a gate. Imperial arm bands hung from the gate, acting as trophies and a warning. A figure emerged from the undergrowth, they wore the distinctive garb of the people of Mangelanga; an open dark robe with a headband of palm fronds. The figure held a long staff, topped with an elastic loop about a foot in length, a Mangelangian Spear whip. On his back was a quiver of short thin spears, sure to be poisoned. “You, travelers on boat. What business bring you to Mangelanga? Answer or you shall not pass.”Captain Lucius walked to the bow of the ship, he held out staff wrapped with pieces of cloth, all Imperial arm bands. “Laddie, I am Captain Lucius of the Black Sparrow. We come to your “humble” island to trade pirated goods straight from the Empire themselves.” Captain Lucius threw the the staff to the man on shore. With a quick movement of his wrist the man caught the staff with his Spear whip and swung it into his open hand. “Sailors of the Black Sparrow, YOU SHALL PASS!” The Mangelanian pulled a conch shell out of his robes and blew. A clear bright tone disrupted the peace of the mangroves. The water started to rumble, torches in front of the gate suddenly lit, and with a screech the makeshift gates sunk into the black muddy swamp. Georgina eyed the Mangelanian suspiciously and addressed her father. “ Lucius, I thought that they were expecting us?” He replied with a look of steel as he stared deep into the murky water. “Aye, something fishy is going on here, I can feel it in the winds.” With a signal of his hand, Captain Lucius motioned the rowers to continue. Sending the crew of the Black Sparrow deep into the mysterious Mangelainan jungle. “Fill em’ to the brim, tonight we celebrate Captain Lucius and his fine lass Georgina!” Various traders and captains sat around the large rectangular table that sloped down on a creaky leg. After a long evening of counting goods and plunder, the Mangelainan king, Dal Sheik had thrown a celebration in honor of the sailors with the most loot. Georgina sat in the corner of the pavilion watching the others with a calculating stare. Including her father, the four pirate kings rested at the table. Each one of them were rivals to her father. All shared the same occupation but also shared the same ambitions, to rule the sea. On her father’s right sat Johnny Locket, king of the east, he was younger than the other three pirate kings, with a chiseled jaw and a mop of messy sun bleached hair. It was rumored that he had taken the position rather forcefully from his father, leaving him a speck in the distance as Locket sailed away with his father's boat. Directly across from Captain Lucius was Gretta, Queen of the North. She sat leaning away from the table, her legs rested against it’s to. From behind her blonde-white hair and fur coat she stared at the other captains with cold blue eyes, reminding each person who made eye contact with her of her frigid homeland. To left of Captain Lucius sat the King of the West, Bruno Zeppelin. Bruno was the lord of the dragon men, a race brought up in warfare and the ocean. From the day that they were born, dragon men recorded their life history on their skin. Bruno Zeppelin was covered from head to toe with tattoos. Whales and sharks marked his arms, a teardrop marked a life taken, and the wreath of thorns around his bald head marked him as king. Like most dragon men Bruno Zeplin stood a head higher than the other captains and had a mouth full of sharp pointed teeth and a slotted tongue. Another toast was made, this time from Johnny Locket. “I give my sincere regards to Captain Lucius, a man who we all hold as a close friend and who has united us together.”Drinks were passed around and mugs drained. It was Zeppelin's turn to speak. “Lucius, I've fought besides you in combat and I know that you will keep on fighting in the sea of the sky.” Georginas ear pricked, “this isn’t a funeral” she thought. Her hand instinctively reached down to her left sleeve and pulled it slightly up to reveal a purple serpent tattoo. Gretta, Queen of the north stood up, a look of disgust on her face. “I told them that ve’ should hav’ done it like real nords, vith steel, but no. Great leaders varly die in combat, only by poison.” For a moment everybody look shocked and puzzled. Captain Lucius tried to stand but stumbled against an invisible force. He glanced at the mug in his hand and then started past the other captains at Georgina. “Geor..gina- run...” His body convulsed and the mug of poison fell from his hand onto the floor. Rum splattered under the table and the once great Pirate king of the south lay dead in a pool of alcohol. Georgina jumped from her chair wiping her left arm out to fully reveal her purple snake tattoo. In an instant the ink on her skin started to move, is swirled and wrapped around her wrist, peeling from her body as if it were shedding its own skin. The snake uncoiled onto the floor, a five foot long purple anaconda. For a second the pirates around the table were too shocked to react. Their disbelief was shattered by Johnny Locket. “Whatcha’ doing sitting there boys, kill the girl.” Swords unsheathed and Georgina was surrounded, ten to one. Georgina looked behind her assailants as the other pirate kings left sauvely out of the pavilion. In her left hand she held the purple snake like a whip, in her right hand she held her cutlass, it’s tip pointed at the heart of the privateer in front of her. “You may try to bring me down to Davy Jones's locker but it is not my time to reunite with my father. So fight, if you must but know that you will all be dead in thirty seconds.” The first sailor charged. Georgina dogged his blow and drew her blade along his abdomen. She wheeled around, a blade missing her by an inch. The snake whipped out and sunk its fangs into the neck of the attacker, injecting him with deadly toxins. “Twenty five.” Georgina now faced the last eight, her back away from the wall. She parried and dogged but was pushed back to the middle of the room. With a feat of agility she summer-salted through the air onto the center table. A kick sent a bottle of rum into a pirate’s face and a quick bite of the snake sent one man convulsing on the floor. “Twenty.” Crack! A pirate smashed into the table breaking it in two. Georgina, now on solid floor paired and swung her snake around a sailors neck directing a sword strike into his chest. Shocked that he had killed his comrade Georgina spent no time before she cut the unlucky sailor down. “Fifteen.” The last four swordsmen fought Georgina with the fury of men about to die. She held them back, her sword glinting in the dim candle light and her snake a purple blur as it delivered venomous bites. Georgina felt something hot against her cheek and saw blood drip from her face. “Those bastards, they cut me.” With a battle cry Georgina threw herself against her attackers. She was a wild tornado of steel and snake, cutting down three with ease. “Ten.” Georgina and the surviving pirate stood facing each other. A look of fear passed along his face turning the hardened sailor into a little boy. She stared into the man's eyes and respected both his fear and honor. There they paused their battle. “Five.” Georgina stood tall, her sword down at her side, her snake wrapped around her neck like a feather boa. The man crossed his chest, hoping for the blessing of a god he had abandoned. It didn't help him. “Done.” Georgina wiped her blade on her blood stained tunic. She sheathed it and summoned the snake back into her arm. It constricted around her forearm before melting away, leaving a faint tingling sensation. The room was a mess. Furniture was smashed apart and men groaned on the floor holding decapitated limbs. Georgina rushed over to her father's body, holding his limp head. “Father…” A tear rolled down her cheek, carving a line of white in her grimy and gory face. She reached down to close her father's eyes and placed a doubloon on his tongue, an offering to Davy Jones for safe passage to the underworld. Georgina knelt over her father, pondering her surroundings. The wind had died down and now the candle lit room stood still. Shadows took away the gore of the night, turning the events black and white. Georgina stood, and loosened her father's sword from his belt. It’s sharp edge caught in the candle light, sending reflections across the room. It was clean, not a speck of blood desecrated its blade but Georgina knew that soon she would have to soak it into three bodies. Three bodies belonging to the captains who killed her father! To be continued… Peter the Destroyer of Worlds by Zane Taylor Peter knew what he was doing. He knew that the choices he made the next day would decide the fate of the world, the fate of the universe! He never wanted to be in this position. The herald of apocalypse, the prophet of doomsday, the soothsayer of Ragnarok. He may of been the chosen one but he didn’t feel like it. All he wanted to do was live his life independent from destiny away from the bloodshed and murder which he would soon have to carry out. He remembered it like it was yesterday. It was a summer day, he was alone, laying down on the couch. Half awake in a food coma and trying to ignore the annoying cry of the rumba. Bzzzzzzzz BUMP. Every time the machine hit a wall was like a slap in the face, jolting him awake every time. Finally the machine turned off leaving the house quiet and warm. That was when he had the dream. When Peter woke up, the first thing he noticed was the heat, then the crackle of flames, and finally the fiery red skies. He closed his eyes before getting off the couch. I knew it, I’m in hell. Peter was only slightly annoyed. He never really tried to be extra nice only enough so that people liked him. He may have been an ass but he never thought his level was enough to send him down to the devil himself. With a shrug he leaped off his napping niche and followed the black gravel path. Around him were blinding white sand dunes. Coming up on a hill peter could now see his surrounding landscape. In front of him towered a giant white fortress. Spare for a few dead shrubs it was the only sign of life in the bright wasteland. The fortress composed of one massive tower, a mile high, taller than any skyscraper on earth. Peter could barely open his eyes, just looking at his surrounding fried his retina. Blind and stumbling down the black gravel path. Peter continued on until he was in front of a large, black metal door. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Nobody answered. I thought people in hell were supposed to be nice. Peter waited for a minute. Screw this. He pushed against the door, opening it into a white lobby. Peter peeked his head around the door. Nobody was there, the room was empty. In the middle of the room stood a spiral staircase circling up into the ceiling. Peter awkwardly stood looking up at the staircase. Damn, that's pretty high. Nonchalantly Peter started on the stairs climbing up and up. Finally he reached the top floor. He was confronted by a pink door. In white stickers the name LUCIFER was spelled out. A voice from behind the door called out to Peter. “Oh Peter, I need you for a little task. Come in here please.” Peter stepped in. On a queen bed sat a teenage girl. She wore a red rolling stones crop top. Her hair was cut in a messy black bob. “You see, every one million years or so, God and I have a competition to see who is the most powerful entity. I send out a herald of destruction to ravage Earth and God picks some fool to be the defender of his holy creations.” Peter stared at her blankly. I thought the devil was a dude. “Last time God totally cheated, she sent a giant meteor, my dinosaurs had no chance.” What? God is a chick too? “My point is, your my herald of doom. In one week you will burn the oceans, destroy every city, and paint the land in my favorite color, RED!” Peter didn’t remember much after that. Once finished with the devil, Peter blindly followed the black path back to his couch. He laid down and fell back to sleep, only to wake up back in his cozy living room. That had happened about a week ago. Peter was ready to destroy the world. So far he was having a shitty day. He had stubbed his toe and was woken up from a really good dream. The day passed and nothing happened. He decided to go to bed early. I must be going crazy, I’m nothing, I’m no bringer of apocalypse. He laid there watching his electric alarm clock. Peter gazed in awe as he saw the clock change into digits he thought was impossible, 6:66? As soon as his clock stuck the cursed hour Peter felt himself growing. He grew and grew, bursting through the roof. Soon he was so tall that his head was in the clouds. Buildings were like matchboxes, people were microscopic ants. One step set fire to the city, demolishing a whole city block. He rose above the city, darkness spreading from his body. “I AM THE APOCALYPSE, BOW BEFORE ME.” One swipe of his arm set thousands of explosions across the city. With a snap of his fingers he turned the roads into swirling pits of naked mole rats. With a blink he called down a rain of rotting oysters, coating the land with smelling shellfish. In the distance he saw a flash of light. A white figure made of pure energy shot from the sky landing in a super hero pose. Aww crap that must be God’s warrior. Peter could barely see the figure but he could tell it was moving towards him. Peter stood his ground, ready for the incoming assault. The white figure crashed into him, sending him skidding across the ground. In retaliation Peter squinted his eyes, shooting fiery laser beams at his enemy. The figure dodged to the side sending a fist into his face. Peter flew into the air, the wind knocked out of him. He caught himself and hovered above his arch nemesis. This guy is good. I wouldn’t want to let the Devil down and lose this fight. God’s warrior shot up towards Peter. This time he was ready. With his teeth he grabbed the scruff of the white figure’s neck. Flying straight through the ground into the magma core of the Earth. Right before reaching the center Peter kicked his enemy into the boiling magma, leaving only ashes and the smell of burnt hair. Peter spent the last of his days ruling over hell on Earth. The Devil created dinosaurs again and sent God a ton of passive aggressive text messages. The lesson of this story is to believe in yourself. Peter never believed that he could successfully pull off the apocalypse, but he did. So if you find yourself in Peter’s shoes take a deep breath and know that at least you are not a cat. Whiskey World by Eva Villamor His internal instinct did not match his external. His head stayed still, motionless and statue-esque. The sun gleamed down on him, appearing to whisper and taunt him with mean jokes such as, “You are below me,” (implying literally and figuratively), and “you deserve this,” referring to him being blinded by the now harsh shining. “No,” he told himself, letting the stinging ache imprison his eyes, deciding that his mind would not give in to the bullying. Even from the “almighty” sun. “But the bullying shall commence,” the sun seemed to now scream down at him, in order to convey utter cruelty and donkey-like stubbornness. He let the rays sink the imaginary words deeper into the depths of his mind and eyes, hot wiring his brain to corrupt his thoughts. He didn’t want to be the sun’s puppet to control and maneuver through all of life's pains. “Man, am I tired,” said Stan, finally arriving home after a beyond long day at his not-so-beloved work. “Screw this t-shirt factory s***!” He then awkwardly (yet intensely) threw his denim work jacket down to the burning rug floor (the heater had been left on all day, warming up the rug to the point of potential danger; could have burnt the house down…but all appeared well). He had been (for lack of a better term) fired up all day from the residue of him and his ex-wife's anniversary eating him alive. Stan felt that the whole world (and even the sun) was out to get him. It didn’t help either than his beat-up little shit of a worn-out-faded-green-gray Mercedes car stopped running and was rotting away in his now not-so-meaningless (more meaningful than him, he felt) garage that made him claustrophobic. Lately he had to walk all the way to and from work, adding to the overworked job stress and pent up anger. He could feel the beat of his heart, gradually getting louder and louder, the intensity growing and expanding, like a magnifying glass of uncontrollable sound. “F***,” said Stan, pushing back his grown out, greasy, dark hair behind his sun burnt sweat covered ears. He began to think about the good memories of him and his ex-wife, Em, skipping over all the bad, replaying on a loop. Pondering the “what if’s” like an unsuccessful dieter taking a doughnut break. “Those were the days,” he seemed to think and say. Stan and Em were together for seven, maybe eight years. Around there. Em had a miscarriage at one melancholy point, then Stan decided to cheat on her with a one-night-stand 11 agonizing slow-motion and depression filled months later. S***. Way to f*** up, Stan. Not cool. He had picked up a bad drinking habit to accompany his depression and self loathing (they all came after the miscarriage and divorce). Guess drinking (in particular whiskey) and depression go hand-in-hand. Stan’s life was now a permanent system split between gray, musky, cloudy, fog always following him above his head, blocking the sun and hope out of his vision, while other times it was so goddamn bright out, the sun would be everywhere, burning down on him like he was trapped in a sauna, hardly being able to breathe, and wearing down his very being. Guess today was one of those days for Stan. “I’m so f****** sorry, Em,” Stan said out loud, just to himself, as a half empty whiskey bottle began to drip to the floor from his clumsy hands. His mind was wandering along like waves in the distant far out ocean, the whiskey created miniature tsunamis on the spiral carpet, the carpet’s colors contrasted with the whiskeys; they had different tinges of the same colors; the earth’s elements of water and fire clashing to formulate sparks, looking like little dangerous stars. The room began to shake rather abruptly, and the walls were closing in and shattering all around Stan--the clocks exploded from the timezone caving in and speeding up so fast that time no longer existed. Lighting began to strike down everywhere. There was no escaping anything--hope was out of sight. Stan could feel the glorifying death of his soul start to take over his body. “B-b-b-but I’m not prepared,” he told himself, his drunk voice shaking, as the choice between life and inescapable death was no longer clear, for he had no choice now. He could not apologize to Em for the umpteenth time, he couldn’t bring back his unborn son, he couldn’t take back that one night stand. He couldn’t take back anything or do anything or say anything or be anything. His surroundings became blank--all gray. He was becoming dust specs in a dying world. The planet, collapsing in on him, leaving him to fade away from his drunken despair. The only thing that was staying in its form was the whisky bottle, still pouring out the orange-red-brown-cancer colored whiskey to invisible drinkers and irrelevant problems. As death (and whiskey) seemed to stare Stan in the face, the sorrow was felt in the air. You could literally breathe in molecules of sadness. As even the what felt like inexplicable, undeniable, and permanent sadness seemed to fade, for nothing ever truly lingers, the things that once were humans and life were blobs and death disintegrating into dust which then became nothingness. Stan was gone, the whiskey gone too, and along with evidence of the human race--and everything for that matter. Earth no longer was earth, but a blank creation consisting of no creations. And as the nothingness dissolved into oblivion, and the morning sun rose up like a blooming rosebud in May, the beams of sunlight oozed about, spreading all throughout the whole world it seemed. Faint yawns were heard in the small bedroom apartment, with the edges of the front yard cherry blossom tree swishing and swaying in the early day, a twig connected to one of the trees gentle limbs scratched softly against the window sill. The scent of strong black coffee lingered in the air, the wall-paperless bare white walls began facing the coffee’s contrasting steam. “Maaaaaan,” said the sleepy Stan, waking up. His ever-so-slightly grown out dark hair faced up in all directions--oh, the bed head. “Morning, babe,” said a pretty young lady of about 27, with matching dark hair, and softly touching her partner on the bed. “Mornin,” responded Stan, rather groggily, gently and lovingly kissing his love next to him. The morning started out right, already pure with love and simplicity. “Gotta go satisfy the cravings,” said Em, patting her stomach, leaving Stan peacefully half asleep in bed. Her pregnant body got up, determined to retrieve the mint chocolate chip ice cream. Stan felt different suddenly, almost reborn in another dimension. “I had the oddest dream,” said Stan, still not completely awake. “Oh, yeah, babe? What was it about?” “Oh…things.” “Tell me about it.” “Okay, well, it was almost the polar opposite of what my life has become.” “Well, is that a good thing?” “Oh, yeah. I mean, I love my life, so of course that’s good. But this damn dream was a fucking nightmare. It felt so real.” “I’m so sorry.” “Don’t be. Not your fault.” “I know. But, you know I love you, I don’t want you to have nightmares.” “Don’t worry about me, go take care of yourself, you’re eating for two now.” “Oh, boy do I know it.” “And don’t eat all that ice cream.” “Oh, shut up.” “I love you.” “I love you too.” Life was simple and good and far different from any nightmare. But a few weeks later, after that one night, Em felt the painful piercing contractions early; it was a complete shock to say the least. The baby still had months to go until the birth date, their welcome to the world. But Em’s body had had it.The world was taking her baby away from her--her and Stan’s baby, representing them both in one little bean of a human. The young, happy couple were parents for a mere instant before their baby’s life was taken from them. The molecules of sadness had come back--this time in the real world. The baby died before birth--the miscarriage had happened. Stan’s horrific dream became a reality, predicting the unavoidable unfortunate things to come to the once hopeful and happy. The baby’s name would have been Daniel--was Daniel. The House on the Island by Lucas Homan No one knows how the house got there. One night the little island was empty, and the next morning, when the villagers of Little Nottingham woke up, the house was perched on the rock. The villagers looked on mystified scratching their heads wondering in amazement how it happened. The island was extremely hard to reach due to the intense currents and bringing all the lumber and tools over would be next to impossible, not to mention building the house in one night in the dark. But inexplicably there it stood. It was two stories tall, but the second story was considerably larger than the first, and part of it leaned over the water below. When the local authorities went out to investigate the house was empty. Everyone was perplexed as to the origin of the house, and it became something of a legend among the town. For many years the people of Little Nottingham spoke of the house that had appeared in the middle of the night, and it was often associated with ghosts and evil spirits due to the eerie flashes that were often emitted from its windows. As time went on, the older inhabitants of the village liked to tell stories to the younger kids the story of how one night during a storm there was a flash of lightning and the house appeared out of the darkness and how it was haunted by the most vicious ghosts and ghouls. Everyone in the village knew that it was off limits and that no one ever go anywhere near it. But of course as generations moved on people got less and less frightened of the house as it had become regarded as little more than a fable. One day, three teenagers were sitting in the shade of a huge pine tree on a hot summer's day trying to decide how they could pass the time. They were regarded as the town pranksters, and were often caught in places that they should not of been doing things they should not of done, on one evening they were caught lighting fireworks off of the town hall at two in the morning. They always tried to find ways to cause people to laugh, but made sure never to cross the line and get into serious trouble. “What if we tee-peed the church,” asked Jonathan, a slightly overweight kid who had a goofy grin. “Man that's messed up,” said Issac, a tall lanky boy who despite being extremely smart never applied himself to school which gave him the reputation of being rather dumb. “We could tepee the school, but a church is like a hospital you just don’t mess with it.” “Yeah that’s pretty messed up,” chimed the third and final boy, “and didn’t we already get the school last summer?” The third boy, George was not the type of person you’d expect to be pulling pranks on people. He was the type of person you’d expect to be top of the class and also on the water polo team or some fancy sport similar to that. He was extremely good looking and was the last person you’d expect to be hanging out with his present company. “Anyways,” he said staring off into the distance, “I want to do something that we’ve never done before something that no one's ever done.” “Like what?” asked Jonathan “I don’t know,” replied George staring off into space and eventually finding the little house on the island. “Let’s sail to the house on the river,” he said with excitement. “That’s lame, no one lives there and there’s nothing we can do,” said Issac “No one’s ever been out there before,” said George “come on I have a good feeling about this. What do you say Jonathan?” Jonathan waited a moment before responding. “I guess it could be kinda cool,” he responded. “It’s settled, we’re going,” said George. That night, they made a plan to all sneak out and meet at the dock at 11 to sail to the island. By the time 11 came around George and Jonathan were waiting at the dock, but Issac had yet to show up. “I don’t think he’s gonna come,” said Jonathan “Yeah part of me didn’t think he would come either,” replied George, “looks like it’s just you and me then.” Jonathan didn’t speak but then after a minute he said, “I don’t know if I want to go either it’s pretty late lets just go home and go some other time.” “You can go back if you’d like, but I’m going whether you come or not.” “I don’t think you should go alone,” said Jonathan, “let’s just go another day.” George stood for a moment staring out across the dark water. “You can go back, but I’m going.” “Alright, suit yourself,” said Jonathan and he then turned around and walked up the path away from the waters edge. George watched him walk up the trail and then turned to the little boat he would be taking to the island. He untied it from the dock and in minutes he was sailing toward the island. He sailed for about 20 minutes aiming slightly ahead of the island to account for the current, and pretty soon the bottom of his boat scraped against the rock at the edge of the island. He sat in silence in the boat, staring up at the house for a couple minutes, and finally got out of the boat. The house looked eerie in the moonlight and he thought he heard sounds coming from inside. He stood contemplating whether he should go back or not, but eventually figured that it was just his imagination and turned the handle and opened the door. When he looked inside his jaw dropped in shock. Hundreds of white mice were covering every square inch of ground all walking on their hind legs having what appeared to be a large party. There was a large DJ’s booth in the the middle and two huge kegs off to one corner. Bottles were surrounding the walls. Most of the mice appeared to be holding minuscule red solo cups and wearing the oddest assortment of clothes, some wore modern clothes, but others were wearing bonnets and suits that looked like they were in style hundreds of years ago. At first they didn’t notice the large arrival who was standing in the doorway, but the music stopped and they all turned to face him. “Holy s***!” squeaked one of the mice. George’s shock doubled when he heard the mouse speak. “Intruder! Intruder!” squeaked another mouse, “get him.” Before George knew what was happening all the mice had started running towards him, he turned to leave but tripped on the stairs to the house and fell back on the rocky ground below. The next thing he knew he was being swarmed with little mice, and they all hoisted him up and dragged him into the house. He was then quickly bound in tight ropes and propped up in the corner of the room. All the mice crowded around to stare up at him squeaking in tiny voices to each other. The crowd parted, and a mouse wearing neon shades and many beaded necklaces stepped forward and spoke to George in a slurred voice. “Who are you human.” George stared in disbelief at the tiny mouse and it took him a couple of seconds to process the question. “I came here to explore.” he replied in a timid voice. The mice all started squeaking and it took a couple of minutes for the chatter to die down. “Who else knows you’re here?” demanded the mouse that appeared to be in charge.” “Just a couple of my friends,” replied George. The mice broke out into chatter again, and it seemed as if they were arguing something very drunkenly causing many fights to break out between the mice. Eventually, the mice appeared to reach an agreement and they all turned to face George once more. Slowly they started advancing closer to him. All drunkenness they previously showed was gone and they had an almost evil gleam in their eyes. They were soon completely surrounding him and he shut his eyes trying to curl into a ball as best as he could, he felt as if he was being smothered by the white mice. Then they all backed away from him. When he opened his eyes he found himself surrounded not by small mice, but by mice his size. He yelled in horror but his voice seemed much higher than normal he looked down at his hands but saw only white fur and paws.He stood up backing towards the wall, yelling when saw his reflection in one of the glass bottles that was lining the wall. Instead of his normal face, all he saw was a furry snout covered in white fur. One of the mice walked towards him carrying a red solo cup with him. “What did you do to me!” demanded George. “Here drink this,” said the mouse offering the red cup, “you’ll feel amazing,” and he turned away walking through the crowd. George looked at the solo cup and slowly took a sip, he instantly felt better as if all his fears were vanishing. The DJ started the music again, and the mice started dancing as though nothing had happened. George vaguely remembered that something was wrong, but he took another sip of his drink and the thought vanished from his head, he walked toward the crowd joining the dancing mass of mice. How the World Came to Be by Alex Corgiat-Raymond The Creator used to sit in nothingness, but one day he decided to make Earth. Earth was created with only plants. The Earth wasn’t exciting enough, so deer were created to eat plants and run around. This entertained the Creator for a bit, but he quickly became bored and created mountain lions. Mountain lions ate deer while stalking them like a game and this was very interesting to the Creator. He created small animals like squirrels, rabbits, and other animals like that. He wanted an animal that would hunt these small animals, like the relationship of the deer and the mountain lion. He had two ideas on how to solve that problem. He created foxes so they could hunt them on the ground.The Creator loved the sky but thought it might be lonely, so he created birds that would eat the small animals. He made hawks for the sky. He thought the night was too boring, so he made owls that would hunt in the night. He then created bears because he needed an animal that every other animal would be scared of. One day he accidentally created bobcats, wolves, polar bears, leopards, lions, and tigers. These predators didn’t fit in this ecosystem but, the Creator grew fond of them. The Creator held a meeting with all the apex predators to discuss what to do. The bear suggested getting rid of the ones that didn’t fit. The lion suggested the Creator make different environments and different animals for the ones that didn’t fit. No other animals could come up with different ideas. The Creator gave the animals one more day to decide. The next day all the animals decided lion’s idea was best. The Creator made all different environments and could only make it work if he split the land up. That way animals wouldn’t go to war. These environments were made to be way different because these animals were so different. If Earth was together and had one environment, life wouldn’t be as interesting. We wouldn’t have different ideas and entities to discuss or share. The Creator decided that humans were responsible enough that they could collect in countries. It did not matter that they were different, they could celebrate and accept these differences. These differences made humans evolve into a more wise species. Nothing Happened Here by Sophia Escudero The old man looked peaceful in death. His thin grey hair was combed back, he was dressed in his finest dark suit, and his shoes were as clean as if they’d never been worn. On his lips was the faintest suggestion of a smile. His frail hands, veins bluish just beneath papery skin, were folded across his chest. Looking at his face, serene as if he were asleep, Elliot could imagine that he was in a better place. Unfortunately, Elliot knew that he was currently stuffed in his freezer with a pair of gardening shears sticking out of his eye socket. It was still a nice sentiment. He prodded a foot back into the box and slammed the lid closed. Helen looked down at the kitchen tile. “I promise you, this isn’t as bad as it looks.” “Helen! My boss is dead in our refrigerator! This doesn’t look good!” Elliot opened the freezer a crack, saw the man again, and immediately closed it. He suppressed a heave and ran to the nearest trash can. “Don’t you want to know why Mr. Fitzgerald is in our refrigerator?” Helen asked innocently, suddenly standing over him. Elliot straightened and backed away. “Helen, please-” “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She followed, slowly, pausing near the knife block. Her slim fingers tightened around the handle of a chef’s knife, drawing it ever so slightly out. Elliot’s back was against the wall now. His hand fumbled for a phone cord. “Then who did? Helen fully removed the knife. “Dmitri. “No it wasn’t,” said a voice from the cabinet next to the sink. Elliot turned to face it. “Dmitri?” he asked. The door slowly swung open and he saw his brother-in-law, knees to his chin, wedged in between boxes of shredded wheat and cans of Campbell’s soup. Dmitri stared at him in silence. He tried to reach for the door, only for his elbow to catch between his body and the side of the cabinet. Elliot watched him, dumbfounded, as he laboriously worked his arm free from his position. None of them spoke. The only sound was the occasional clanking of cans and the rustle of clothing as he continued his shameful task. After an excruciating period of time, Dmitri pried his arm from the cabinet and scrabbled uselessly at the lack of an interior handle. Helen leaned forward and gently pushed it closed. Elliot at last tore his eyes from the sight above his counter-tops and looked to her. “What did you do?” Helen spread her arms wide, knife still in hand. “I’m telling you, I didn’t kill him!” “Neither did I,” came the slightly muffled voice in the cabinet. “There is a corpse in my freezer!” Elliot shouted. “And I would very much like to know how it got there!” Helen opened her mouth, as if to speak, but immediately closed it again. The cabinet, too, remained mum. “Well?!” Elliot yelled. “Neither of you have a decent excuse?” Before either could say a word, there was a sudden knock at the door. Elliot, Helen, and presumably Dmitri turned to face the direction of the sound. The knock came again. “Hello?” Helen called cautiously. “Mrs. Krakowski-Berkowitz?” a woman’s voice responded. Elliot recognized it with a sickening sense of dread. “Is your husband there?” “I’ll get that! I’ll get that.” Elliot sidestepped Helen on the way to the door, motioning as he passed to put the knife back. He pulled aside the curtain and confirmed what he already knew. Now he wanted to vomit for a second reason besides the first. “Margaret! What a pleasure to see you!” Elliot said warmly, opening the door. “What are you doing here?” Helen developed a look in her eyes that reminded Elliot of a Spanish Inquisitor. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” Elliot turned his face away from the open door and to his wife. He made an effort to keep his voice light. “It’s just Margaret, from work.” He paused. “Margaret Fitzgerald.” Helen’s voice went up by half an octave. “Isn’t that your boss’s daughter?” Elliot nodded quickly. She switched her smile back on. “Margaret Fitzgerald! It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Helen.” She walked to the doorway and clasped Margaret’s hands in her own. “Nice to meet you too,” Margaret responded. “Mr. Krakowski-Berkowitz, may I speak to you privately?” Elliot nodded, somewhat too fervently. “Certainly, certainly. Come in.” He stepped aside, unblocking the doorway. Helen glared at him as the young woman entered. Elliot walked through the kitchen as quickly as possible and sat down on a sofa in the den, motioning for Margaret to take the seat across from him. “Could we get you anything to drink?” Margaret sat down, her skirt spreading out around her, and straightened out a sheaf of papers on her lap. “An iced tea would be perfect.” Helen stepped on Elliot’s foot with the heel of her shoe as she settled next to him. “I’m so sorry, but we’re all out of ice. What did you need to speak to Elliot about?” “Oh, just work things,” Margaret said. “I noticed that Mr. Krakowski-Berkowitz left some reports on his desk, and I couldn’t help but fix a few errors. I have some suggestions, if you’d like.” “Thank you, Margaret, you’re too kind,” Elliot replied. He stood up too fast, blacking out for a moment. “The thing is, this is not a very good time for me. Perhaps we can go over it tomorrow?” “I’m sure-” Margaret paused mid-sentence and assumed a look of confusion. “I could have sworn I heard a cough. Is someone here?” “Yes,” said Elliot at the same moment Helen said, “No.” They looked at each other briefly. “I mean, no,” Elliot backtracked. Margaret tilted her head slightly to one side. Helen took Margaret by the elbow, pulling her to her feet. “It’s only the cat. This really isn’t the best time for us. Why don’t you leave those in Elliot’s study? Down the hall, last door on the left, can’t miss it.” She piloted her in the correct direction and gave the guest a light shove. Margaret hurried in the indicated direction. As soon as she had gone, Elliot turned to Helen. “Tell me what happened.” “I can’t.” “Helen, I- I won’t be mad, okay? I love you. We can fix this.” There was a plaintive air to his voice. She looked to the floor. Elliot opened his mouth to speak again, but stopped himself as he saw Margaret return. Margaret gave them a bewildered sort of half-smile. “Sorry to drop in on you.” “It’s no trouble,” Elliot hastily assured her. He motioned for her to continue to the kitchen. Margaret remained planted to her spot. “I really do apologize. If I had known that it-” “It’s alright. You were only trying to help, and I completely understand. I will see you on Monday.” Elliot crossed the room and held the front door open. “Goodbye.” “It’s not alright,” Margaret said firmly. She stepped into the kitchen, lingering by the counters. “It was impolite of me to bring your work home without calling ahead. I shouldn’t have assumed that we had the sort of relationship where I drop by your house. We are only work friends. It was inappropriate to think that we were real friends, I see that now. I-” She was cut off by the sound of a dull rattling, followed by muffled swearing, followed by a thump and many smaller clanks as the cabinet door fell open and Dmitri tumbled face-first to the tile below. Margaret emitted a startled yelp and backed up against the refrigerator. With a sickening sense of comedic timing, the freezer door swung open upon impact. “Margaret,” Helen began slowly. “Please step away from there.” Margaret stared at the contents in horror, her mouth fallen open like a mummy. Dmitri got to his feet and attempted to hide behind Helen. Elliot slowly closed the door, positioning himself in front of it. Margaret screamed. Here, four different things happened at roughly the same time. Firstly, Margaret continued to scream. At the same time, Helen darted towards her to clap her hands over her mouth. Amid all of this, Dmitri clambered back onto the countertop and reached for the cabinet, trying too late to remove the cause of the problems. The final, and perhaps most important occurrence, was what Elliot did. Elliot did not think. He was not thinking as he pulled the phone free from the wall, leaving ragged scratches in the floral wallpaper, nor as he rushed forward, or even as he brought it down on Margaret’s skull. In fact, he did not think at all until the body had crumpled to the floor and he noticed the splatters of blood and what he realized must be brain on Helen’s formerly white apron. She stared at him with her round, red-speckled face with some emotion he could not discern. He let the phone fall to the floor. Dmitri leaned out from the cabinet. “Should I come out now?” “Not yet, Dmitri!” Helen shouted. The door closed itself. Elliot stood, shoulders heaving, feeling suddenly very exposed. His mind was at once racing and completely blank. The room felt tighter around him. Helen took a deep breath and ran her hands along her face. “Shit.” She stepped back from where Margaret lay. She stood there in silence for a few seconds before speaking again. “Elliot, get me the paper towels.” Elliot searched for his voice. “I-” “The paper towels, Elliot!” Helen repeated. He stumbled towards the cabinet, reached around Dmitri, and closed the door. He extended his arm to her. Helen took the roll of towels, huffed abruptly, and crouched down to begin cleaning the mess. “I didn’t mean to,” Elliot said softly. Helen did not respond, simply removing the cloth from the kitchen table and setting it on the freshly cleaned floor. With an almost professional hand, she began to wrap the body. There was no visible stain on the red fabric. “I think you just made things worse,” came Dmitri’s voice from the cabinet. “I know that,” Elliot responded. He watched Helen wipe up the last spots of blood from the tile. The thought crossed his mind that this may not have been the first time she had been in this situation. “I don’t think you can fit both of them in the freezer,” Dmitri mused. Elliot heard a faint crinkling noise and the sound of crunching within the cabinet. “You wouldn’t happen to have salt and vinegar flavored, would you?” “We don’t.” “Ah.” Elliot returned his attention to Helen, who had removed the old man from the freezer and was now shoving Margaret’s limp form into its place. Elliot approached her cautiously. “Need any help with that?” Helen stepped aside slightly, gesturing towards the shrouded body dangling halfway out of the freezer. “Fit that in there best you can.” Elliot put his shoulder against it and attempted to wedge the corpse into his freezer. As he struggled with the ex-receptionist, he watched Helen snap Mr. Fitzgerald’s arm over her knee and set the pieces on the countertop. “Why did you do it?” Elliot asked, trying his best to fold the legs against the torso. Helen was phlegmatic. “Who’s to say I did it?” “I still don’t know why there was a dead man in my freezer in the first place.” Elliot gave one final push and slammed the door shut. “You don’t need to.” She removed the shoes and placed them on the counter before setting to work on the legs. “Could you bring me the boning knife? It’s on the top left corner of the knife block.” Elliot handed it to her. “What are we going to do?” “Our best,” Helen responded, cleanly stripping the flesh with a steady hand. She could have been a butcher, Elliot thought. The cabinet door creaked open and an empty chip bag fluttered out. The door pulled itself shut. “Do you need more paper towels for the counter?” Elliot asked. Helen nodded. “After I’m done.” “What about the cops? They must have heard something. They’ll get suspicious when Margaret and Mr. Fitzgerald don’t come back to work.” Elliot leaned against the wall, crossing his arms in front of him. He noted the stains on his shirtsleeves. “What do we do?” “Strangest thing,” Helen replied. “His mother out of state suffered a horrible stroke. They had to leave to take care of her. Very sudden. No time to leave a note.” She took a cleaver from a drawer and and began to further break down the torso. “Margaret ran into you as you were on your way back from the office. Just barely managed to tell you before she left.” She scraped some meat out from between the ribs. “Find me some wax paper.” Elliot crossed to a closet and moved aside a container of AJAX. He carefully removed the roll from the back of the shelf. “They’ll be suspicious. Is his mother even alive?” Having cleaned everything but the head, Helen started to divide the remains into small piles. “The average employee wouldn’t know.” “The police would,” Elliot argued. Helen took the paper and carefully wrapped up a bundle of flesh. She sealed it with a strip of tape before continuing to the next one. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Would you take out the bones for Teddy?” She gestured at the pile accumulating in the sink. “And change your shirt. It’s filthy.” Elliot silently gathered the bones and carried them out of the room. He could still hear the sounds of Helen’s work as he made his way out to the backyard. The yellow lab lying under the shade of the rhododendron bush perked up as he approached, wagging excitedly. Elliot heaved pieces of his employer in its general direction before returning inside. He changed his shirt in front of the bathroom mirror. It was impossible to avoid noting the places where blood had soaked through. He washed his face and hands before pulling on a collared shirt and a black cardigan. His eyes lingered on his reflection for a minute. Elliot washed his face and hands again. Helen looked up at him when he entered. The counter was spotless. If it were not for the splatters of red on her apron, Elliot could convince himself that there never was a body. She walked up to him and kissed his cheek. “Are you done?” Elliot nodded slowly. “Where’s- ? Helen smiled blithely. “Where’s what?” “The body.” Helen’s face displayed no recognition. Elliot pressed the point. “Mr. Fitzgerald.” “I am sure I don’t know what you mean,” Helen said firmly, untying the apron strings from around her waist. “Neither do I,” said a voice from the cabinet. It went unacknowledged. “Two people are dead,” Elliot reiterated. He reached out towards the freezer handle. “And there could be three.” There was something sharp in Helen’s words. “Nothing happened here. This is an all-American suburban home. I went shopping, you came home with news from the office, I made you dinner, and we watched I Love Lucy in silence. When you talk about your weekend, that is all that happened today. That is all that ever happens. Are we understood?” “Of course,” Elliot said quietly. Helen assumed a brighter expression and removed her apron. “Perfect. Why don’t you go read the paper? Dinner should be ready in an hour.” She set the bundle of bloodied cloth in the trash can and pulled a second apron from a hook on the wall. Elliot walked with heavy feet to the den and dropped into his spot on the sofa, opening the newspaper that rested on the coffee table. He stared into it without comprehending a word. Helen called his name an hour later. They ate canned peas and an aspic with Spam in it. After dinner, they retired to the den and watched an episode of I Love Lucy he was certain he had seen before. Nothing else happened. Nothing else ever happened. Under the Rug by Isabel Terra Henry awoke with a start. The walls seemed to creep in on him, the dim light from his bedside lamp still glowing. He figured he must have left it on, but he couldn’t seem to remember falling asleep. The last thing he could recall was the static oozing from his receiver as he scanned for police signals. Henry liked to hear the choppy snippets of the criminal world around him. It made him feel secure somehow. He thought that maybe he would know in advance if he were in trouble. Not that Henry was ever in trouble. He rarely left the house. He made an awful lot of tea, sat in an awful lot of silence, and read an awful lot of science fiction. He also felt a genuine sense of paranoia on a daily basis, but found it entirely justified given the horrific state of the world. “Henry!” an irritated voice called. “Velma, I’m sleeping!” Henry called back in an impatient tone. Velma, it is important to note, did not exist. That is, for all intents and purposes, she was completely fictional. Henry was not bothered by this fact, but that may have had something to do with the fact that he did not know it. “Henry, it’s happened again!” Velma called. “For god’s sake, Velma!” Henry rose from his stiff bed, turned off the lamp, and left the small dark room. In the kitchen sat Velma, sipping a cup of nonexistent coffee and smoking a completely imaginary cigarette. Henry glared at her. “What’s happened again?” he asked incredulously. “The thing under the rug. I told you yesterday, remember?” Henry did not remember. He was having a hard time remembering much of anything lately. “I told you, Henry Bartholomew,” she raised her eyebrows and her pink slippered foot emerged from her robe in a somehow accusatory way. She sipped her coffee, something Henry never drank but still bought for her. He wasn’t entirely sure why he did this. Henry sighed a heavy sigh. The kettle at the stove began to scream and he paced the yellow linoleum tile to turn it off. His feet were cold and pale against the floor. “Did you put the kettle on?” he asked absolutely no one. “Well of course, you’ve been asleep dummy,” Velma shook her head. “Now will ya take care of that thing? I'm tired of askin’.” Henry poured himself a cup of hot water and threw in a black tea bag from the cupboard. He straightened his glasses. He checked the fridge for milk, found none, sighed heavily, sipped his tea and immediately burned his tongue. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, squinting at the pain. “I want it done by this evenin’,” Velma pressed. “I've got company for dinner.” Of course, Velma did not have company. No one had entered the poorly lit residence of Henry Bartholomew Watts in years. The last guest he had had was an electrician about the incessant lamp problem. The electrician had found nothing unusual besides the man who persistently tried to offer him tea and introduce him to a woman that did not exist. This woman seemed to annoy the man, and the electrician had wondered why if he could invent a person in his mind he would invent one that drove him up the wall. “Who’s coming over?” Henry was displeased. He did not like being intruded upon, especially by Velma’s guests. They were always far too loud and asked far too many questions about his reading. “Don’t worry yourself about it, I’m cooking. Now go!” Velma put out her cigarette on the table, grinding it into the shabby wood grain. Henry hated when she did that, and let out a flustered sigh in protest. Henry set down his tea and trudged into the living room. He saw nothing. There sat in complete stillness the small three-legged table given to him by his late mother, the bookcase Henry liked to spend hours reorganizing on Sunday mornings, the chair with the faded green striped upholstery. Henry didn’t see anything under the rug, no movement, nothing. He turned to leave, to tell Velma she had finally lost it, when he heard a shuffling from behind him. He stopped. He breathed in sharply through his nose. He looked down to his left, and there it was. A lump the size of a bowling ball was very clearly residing under the old beige rug. “Velma?” he called. He didn’t know what he would say, but he knew he wanted to make very clear how much he did for her, all the frightening chores she was apparently too busy for. No response. Henry bent down to the mass. It scooted closer to him. He did not like this. He was far too used to all forms of life avoiding him, even those that may or may not be real. “Velma!” Silence. Henry’s breath began to shake. The thing was moving closer. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want any of this. He didn’t want Velma in his house anymore, always bringing disarray into his quiet life. He had tired of her dinner guests and her sentient masses hidden beneath hideous carpeting. In fact, from the very beginning she had been nothing but trouble. “Velma!” Yet again she did not answer. Henry closed his eyes and gulped. This was it, he thought. This was how he either died or finally went off the deep end. A few moments passed and he seemed not to have died, so he cautiously opened one eye. He glanced down. No lump, no impending doom. He opened the other eye, and the two seemed to be in agreement. There was absolutely nothing there besides the shabby beige and the one stain he could never get out of it. The stain had arose when he had spilled a scalding cup of tea on his copy of The Island of Dr. Moreau. He had been sitting down to what he had thought would be a morning of relaxing reading when there, just beyond the spine of the book in his hands, had stood a woman. She was slight but had seemed to take up the whole room. Her hair was short and dark. She had been wearing an emerald green dress, pink shoes, and a bright red smirk. Her eyes had flicked expectantly. “Aren’t you going to show me around?” she had asked. And of course Henry had said yes. What else could he do? Thereafter, the stain had stayed and so had Velma. Velma, sipping her morning coffee, peering over her cat-eye glasses and lecturing Henry about the news. Velma, making Henry’s grocery lists and telling him to put on something nice for once, they were going out. The stain had sat and done relatively nothing, yet Henry never could bring himself to scrub it off. As much as he wanted it gone, he felt an almost sentimental attachment to that unsightly spot. He figured he felt similarly towards Velma. So there Henry stood, suddenly finding himself alone again in his living room. After a pause he returned to the kitchen, eyeing the walls on his way. The kitchen was empty, no Velma. He thought that perhaps she had finally tired of him enough to leave. He hadn’t really meant for her to go, just for her to show an ounce of gratitude for once. He wandered into his bedroom. The light was on again. “Damn electrician,” he muttered. He checked his bathroom, but Velma was not to be found. He called her name a few more times. Nothing. He returned again to the kitchen and sat down at the faded table. It looked so drab without Velma there in her usual pink slippers and robe. Henry sighed. Beside him on the tabletop was an ashy cigarette butt, a faint rim of cherry colored lipstick round the end. He stared at it, sadly, twisted it between his fingers. Just then he looked up and realized he had left his tea at the counter. He stood and walked across the room, his feet still cold against the linoleum. He lifted his cup and took a large gulp, only to spit it out in urgent disgust. Coffee. The Fish, the Cat, and the Ex Wife by Isabel Terra Adlai did not consider himself a particularly refined person; in fact, he did not consider himself much at all. He did not wear a tie. He had never had his shoes shined, not even the wingtips he kept in the special box at the back of his closet. His wedding suit had not had apocket square, for Adlai had never heard of such a thing. Tonight, however, Adlai had a date. He had spent a whole twenty minutes getting ready, far more time than he had ever spent before a date with his ex wife. This time was different, he thought to himself in the mirror. This time he would get it right. He straightened his tie, fairly sure he had tied it correctly. Adlai crossed his small carpeted bedroom and fed his plecostomus. His name was Lary. He was the only fish Adlai had kept in the divorce. Susan had kept the cichlids and the bettas, a combination Adlai had warned her against when they bought the fish two years prior. Susan had not listened, drawn in by the shimmering blue and silver tendrils behind the glass. They took the fish home and the natural order of things had soon played out in the aquarium. Adlai often wondered if he and his wife might still be together if not for those gnarled betta fins serving as an incessant reminder of their shared resentment. His cat scratchedat the door. “You can’t go out yet, Henry. I have a date.” Adlai repeated this curious statement, “I have a date.” He grinned boyishly at his reflection across the room. He liked the way those words felt in his mouth. They were reminiscent of a time when Adlai had a girlfriend and no cat, a time he had nearly forgotten about. Henry mewed impatiently to be let out. Adlai turned to his bedside radio and switched it off, the sound of Bowie’s “Win” fading out into the barren room. Adlai liked the song, but mostly he was grateful that WDAI had stopped playing “Fame” on repeat. He didn’t know what was so special about “Fame,” after all there was a whole new album to pick from. Adlai sighed, grabbed his thick tweed coat, and stepped out into the cold. Clark street. Twinkling lights hung high above the roadway, strung between crowded apartment roofs and swaying slightly in the winter air. Only then did it occur to Adlai that it was nearly Christmas time. He hadn’t felt a sense of Christmas joy since childhood, and even then it had always seemed contrived. He had never believed in Santa Claus. Adlai crossed the street and stepped into 2809. He didn’t see the logic in naming a restaurant after its address but he guessed it must be a sophisticated matter of which he knew nothing. The restaurant was unassuming from the outside, but once inside Adlai began to sweat. The patrons all seemed to chatter in unison and several eyes had looked up when Adlai entered the place. Who was this foreign intruder in such a worn out tweed coat? The eyes scoffed at him. The waiters seemed to be holding their collective breath, waiting for Adlai to knock over some delicate piece of decor. “Sir?” the host asked with a mix of irritation and disinterest. “Sir?” “Oh, yes, sorry,” Adlai replied nervously. “I have a reservation.” “Name?” “Morrison?” Adlai replied, more a question than anything else. “Yes, this way sir.” The host gestured for Adlai to follow him without looking at all in his direction. Adlai was shown to a dimly lit corner table. It was illuminated by a slender red candle with delicate golden engravings round the top. Adlai swallowed. Before him were far too many forks. He spent several minutes perfectly aligning each fork, equal space between them. The bases all fell two inches from the edge of the table. Adlai was pleased with his work and he felt a sigh of relief pass through him; he was in control. Just then he saw her. He lost his breath for a moment, fairly certain it was not a result of his prior hyperventilation. She was in the entryway speaking to the host, smiling. She held herself like a woman about to dive backwards off a research vessel in full SCUBA gear. He could almost see her ankles poised to jump into the unknown. She caught Adlai’s eye and smiled a sweet smile. The left side of her mouth curved up more than her right, just as Adlai remembered. Images of her long skirts flitting in an autumn breeze flashed through his memory. They had been wool plaid, red and brown and moving with her every step. Her dark red hair had framed a kind face and that smile that Adlai recalled with such fondness. Adlai felt something stir inside him, a creature he thought had died years ago. She reached the corner table, her long tan corduroy skirt swaying just as the old ones had. She sat down across from Adlai. He laughed nervously. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Caterina” he smiled hesitantly. She smiled back, her great big brown eyes crinkling at the edges. “It’s good to see you again too, Adlai. I’ve missed you.” Adlai began to open his mouth but before anything could come out a waiter was at his elbow, menus in hand. He handed them two menus bound in deep red leather and asked if they would like to see the wine selection. Adlai did, skimmed it briefly, found nothing he could pronounce, gulped. “What do you recommend?” Adlai asked. “Any favorites at the moment?” The waiter poorly hid his distaste at Adlai’s incompetence, recommending something that Adlai had never heard of but that Caterina assured him was a good choice. The waiter drifted away and the couple was left to themselves again. “So, how have you been all these years?” There was a playfulness to Caterina’s voice as she crossed her legs and bounced her right foot in bobbing circles. “Oh, you know, had a few fish, a cat. A wife. Had a wife, that is,” Adlai repeated quickly, making sure to remind her that he was in fact, quite single. “Fish, you said?” she asked, grinning. “What type, if you don’t mind me asking?” “Bettas,” he said. “And a couple cichlids. But they never got along. Tore each other to shreds, actually.” Caterina gave him a knowing look. “You always were a fan of ichthyology.” There was a pause in which the couple looked over the deep red menus, discussing fish and other marine species as one is wont to do on a first date. The menu flaunted numerous extravagant seafood dishes, many of which came from shelled creatures with callous exoskeletons. Adlai had only ever eaten crab, and he had a suspicion it had been imitation, likely some homogeneous mixture of white fish and starch. He studied the prices on the menu skeptically. “Anything catch your eye?” Adlai asked. “The scallops look delicious,” Caterina said, eyes sparkling. “What about you?” “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the halibut,” Adlai responded, studying her face as if looking for a clue. He felt somehow that whatever he chose would greatly impact the outcome of the evening. He wanted to be the kind of man who ordered with conviction, a man Caterina could see herself dining beside for years to come. No price could hinder the great joy he would feel if he picked a sophisticated dish, a dish worth a second date. “Actually,” he paused, “I think I’ll get the four course shellfish dinner.” Caterina checked the price and her eyes grew. She gave him a look as if to say “Well alright then, big spender.” “The clams look delightful,” he said. “And of course the lobster. I’ve never exactly been one for fancy dining, but, well,” he paused, thinking of how he could come across the least presumptuous, “It’s a special night.” He reached across the table, moved the flickering candle, and took her hand. She squeezed it and smiled, the left side of her mouth curling up in that familiar way. Her eyes told him she knew exactly what he meant. “Well, it’s good to see you acting yourself again, Adlai. I know it’s been ages but I remember when you used to impress me like this all the time.” “You mean the aquarium?” Adlai grinned with a childlike delight. “Oh, of course!” Caterina laughed, throwing her head back slightly. “We snuck in that night and you showed me all the fish, didn’t you? I remember the sharks nearly gave me a heart attack in the dark.” “And that was before that movie got the whole world believing sharks are cold-blooded killers,” Adlai added, rolling his eyes and smiling across the table. He sunk into his chair with ease. “You mean Jaws?” Caterina asked. “I haven’t seen it yet, but I hear it gives all those creatures you love a bad name, doesn’t it?” “Oh, it’s all deception in the name of entertainment,” Adlai said, raising his eyebrows. “My nephew dragged me to the theater and then refused to go to the beach all summer.” “I’ll stick to aquariums, personally,” Caterina snickered. “I remember them much more fondly anyway.” Adlai chuckled and nodded. He was beginning to feel frightfully comfortable. The waiter returned with the wine and poured each of them a glass. The candle before them cast long shadows of the glass stems across the tablecloth. Adlai agreed that the wine was a steller choice. The two ordered, Adlai feeling quite pleased with himself. “So, what about you?” Adlai asked. “What have you been up to since Anderson High?” “No wives,” Caterina smirked, “lots of traveling though. I went to Toronto for school and then worked in Alaska for a few years.” “Oh, what’d you do there?” Adlai asked, leaning forward on an elbow. “Studied the migration patterns of caribou. They want to drill for oil in the nature reserves, you know. It’s terrible, really.” Adlai’s brow furrowed and he paused for a time. “I bet it was cold,” he said, unsure of how to respond to this news. He did not know about the oil drilling in Alaska. Adlai often worried that he knew far too little about far too much. “Oh, well, yes, but you learn to live with the cold,” she said. “I’m quite familiar,” Adlai said quietly. Caterina did not have to ask whether he had done caribou research in Alaska. The two sat in silence for a time, not uncomfortably, just taking in the room around them. Now and again they listened to the conversations that floated up above the chatter. A large man complained about his flight to Chicago, a small child nervously asked a waiter for a spoon, the wait staff rolled their eyes collectively. A couple on the far side of the room had just gotten engaged. The woman cried with delight and a waiter brought them a chocolate souffle. “How long were you married?” Caterina asked hesitantly. “Oh, nearly nine years. Too long I guess.” Caterina gave him a somber look just as the food arrived. Adlai was overwhelmed with the beauty and aroma of the meal. Red and white shells curved out of glistening bowls, sprigs of herbs lined plates of fresh pasta, sauces steamed and hissed, releasing rich fragrances into the candlelight. The two toasted and began to eat, commenting between bites on the fantastic subtlety of flavor and the pitiful state of Adlai’s former marriage. Adlai found himself smiling, laughing even. The great cavernous gap within him that he had felt since the divorce seemed so insignificant now. This was his future, the life he had always longed for. He didn’t want to appear too eager, but he somehow felt that any move he made was the right one. He could feel his heart begin to race with this new sense of elation. “You’ve no idea how many times I’ve wanted to call you over the years,” Adlai said, feeling his throat suddenly protest at the words. He shifted in his rigid leather-seated chair. The comfort he had felt just a moment ago was slowly being encroached upon by an uneasiness under his skin. “I have too,” Caterina said sweetly. She squinted at him then. “Adlai, do you feel alright? You don’t look well.” Adlai wanted to be offended but was distracted by the growing pressure in his chest. His skin felt too tight and his eyes had begun to burn. “You know, now that you mention it...” the rest of his words faded into a fit of wheezing. Caterina looked on with concern, eyes widening. “I’m alright, really,” Adlai tried to continue but was cut short by the drowning feeling in his lungs. “Just give me a moment...” another fit of wheezing as Adlai felt his windpipe stifle his urgent breaths. “Adlai? Adlai?” Caterina’s voice rose in pitch as she reached out her hands to Adlai’s. His hands slipped from hers as he felt his vision close in on itself. His eyes struggled to open and the pain in his chest had grown so severe it was all he could do to stay conscious. He vaguely felt his head hit the floor, his view of the ceiling eclipsed by his shuddering eyelids. Then she began to slip away from him, her big brown beautiful eyes torn with horror, her voice shouting his name and crying out for help, her hands clutching at his face as he lay sprawled on the thinly carpeted floor. The sounds of the restaurant blurred in his mind and became one droning hum, Caterina’s panicked voice fading into the murmur of the room. His whole life began to slip away, fish and cat and ex wife and all. The aquarium, the calls never made, the voyages never taken. Adlai had never had shellfish before. He hadn’t known of the cataclysmic allergy pent up inside of him, this invisible disease awaiting a moment of perfect ironic tragedy to burst forth into anaphylaxis. Only now did he realize that he hadn’t needed to impress Caterina, hadn’t needed the lavish order or the coat or even the restaurant. She had loved him from the beginning. Choice by Jenna Lauren Elizabeth Furtado It wasn’t because she was alone, but rather what had caused her to be alone, to make the sun’s light go cold against her bare shoulders. The words that had stabbed at her hours before still needled at her thoughts, making her rethink every choice she had ever made. If only she could go back, maybe everything would be different. She lifted her eyes, staring at the crowd of people surging past her table, watching each and every one with a curious hunger. She wondered if they had ever wanted to turn back time, go back to something that would no longer exist. The barely touched coffee left unattended at the table as she stood up, ready to disappear in the mass of people. She couldn’t go back. It was her choices that had led her here, and she wouldn’t let those choices lead her to a dead end. So she let herself be pulled by the crowd, feeling their urgency at the brush of fabric against her skin, the hardness of breath against her neck. She pushed forward, slipping from the crowd down an alleyway, untouched by human activity. There she turned from the crowd, and instead walked until she found an open path, where she headed the opposite direction. They were fleeing, fearful of the shell that had become their city. Screams, which had been quiet in the safety of the coffee shop, now rang loud and clear in the ears of the girl. Nevertheless, she persisted, ignoring the calls that cried for her attention. She would help no one if she stopped. She would give up if she even thought for a minute about the impact of what she was going to do. She reached into the pocket of her jeans, fingered the device that she hoped would stop this madness. Chaos had dissolved her city into dust, and only chaos could save the crumbling lives of millions. Lost in her thoughts, it took the shrill sound of a child’s cry to pierce the fog she had been left in. Before her stood the Tragedy. A gaping crater, left behind by the war of men who cared little for those beneath them, was marred with bodies. Some alive and writhing, but most limp with the shock of death. They had families, people that loved them. They had no idea that this would be the end. The Wars had destroyed this world. The Wars sapped life from cities, stole hope from the people, and created hundreds of Tragedies in their wake. The Wars were unforgiving, lifeless beasts controlled by men of greed in power. The girl had lived a life impacted by the Wars, always taught to be cautious and never take risks. To live in fear and hiding, practically waiting for inevitable death. Well, she was done hiding. Done wasting what little time she had to live, watching as her family and friends dropped like flies by the same device she kept stowed away in her pocket, safely hidden from those in power. was small, made of metal so rough that it felt like stone against her palm. It was engraved, simply, with a cross. As if the Wars were in the name of God, and not in the name of floating green pieces of paper. When she needed it, she would press the center of cross, aim, and release. Destruction would follow. But it would be destruction of a regime of slaughter. Hatred. Despair. The girl set her jaw in a tight line, averting her eyes from the awful picture in front of her, and took a deep breath. She skirted around the edge of the crater, avoiding the sight of any authority figures hovering about, attempting to look like they actually cared about the Tragedy. Filthy pieces of garbage. She too, avoided the fires, tiny yet full of heat, neglected and left to burn out. It was slow going, and she couldn’t help the tears that dripped from her eyes, leftovers of the emotion that used to coat her everyday existence. Living in a war zone deadened any feeling she may have had, but it was her determination that kept her going. These people deserved justice on their own terms. Time meandered by, each second seeming like an hour, until the girl had no idea how long she had been walking. She finally cleared the crater, and dipped below the yards and yellows of neon yellow tape, warning her not to cross. It wasn’t only tape keeping her from this part of the city, she knew, but she was brave and just a tad reckless. Safety was no longer a primary concern with an early death being a given. After what seemed to be an eternity of walking through ash and ebbing lives, she had reached her destination. Anger boiled within her. The city on the other side of the tape was pristine, untouched by Tragedy or War. Although the streets were empty, the towering skyscrapers practically hummed with the activity of a million little business drones, destroying the world with every little clack of their keys. Her fingers curled tighter around the device, ready to hurl the anger of the millions dead at these inhuman bugs. She kept herself from doing so, telling herself that if she wanted to help these people, those that deserved more than just smoke and darkness, she would have to destroy the source of the misery. The Capitol Building. Not quite stupid enough to keep their precious building in the center of their city, the businessmen had hidden it in the maze of grey. Their arrogance made it easy to spot, the only white building for miles. Eager to get rid of why she had lived her whole life hiding from invisible explosions, the girl marched straight towards the Capitol Building, her vision so blinded by her anger that she failed to notice the tail that she acquired. It wasn’t long before the girl reached the building, her anger now so hot inside of her that it was its own kind of fire. “I’ve got you now, you megalomaniac freaks.” She muttered, at last taking the device from her pocket and winding her arm back, prepared to launch. With a gentle touch to the center of the cross, she hurled the bomb straight into one of the windows of the Capitol Building, relishing the sound of the shattering glass. Seconds later, the blast of heat that came storming out, along with a cloud so thick with smoke that she was blinded temporarily, dampened her joy. She coughed relentlessly, and forced her body to turn and run from the mutilated building, unable to see just what damage the people had caused. It was her recklessness and the blinding smoke that got her captured, her freedom ripped away by the corded muscles of the police officer that had been tailing her. She struggled vainly, but was quickly overpowered, her hands forced behind her back and tied with para-cord that cut into her wrists, tightening at any sign of struggle. The officer forced her forward, ignoring the squeals of protest from her blackening lungs. Her breath came in short gasps, and at times, her vision swam. The grey buildings melted together into a vision of nothingness. Making sure she stayed awake, the officer’s shiny black shoes bit at her heels, causing needles of pain to shoot up her spine. She cursed her stupidity, though she could not help the satisfaction that curled off the tips of fingers. She had done her job, and if she was to die here, she would die knowing she brought hope to the voiceless. The walk was endless, but the ache of danger at her back kept her strong. Eventually, she was thrown to her knees, head rolling back with the force of the fall. The officer grabbed the tight fabric of her shirt, his grubby hands making her skin crawl. “Who do you work for?” He hissed, his voice low to keep outside listeners to know of her defiance, her betrayal to her government. “The people,” she retorted, raising her head to meet his glare. “I asked you a question. I expect you to give me a real answer pipsqueak,” he demanded, his scarred face coming in closer to her bruised one, and the scent of decay wafting from his open mouth. “I’m on a mission, and I don’t have time to be arrested!” she declared, her dark brown eyes blazing. Though her mission was finished, she refused to let herself give up, or give away anything that he might be able to use against her people. “You just blew a massive hole in the Capitol Building. Whatever mission you claim to be on no longer matters,” the policeman told her, letting go of her shirt to stand up and brush himself off. He beckoned for her to stand up, and when she refused, he yanked her to her feet, ignoring the cry of pain that shot out of her. Forced to move forwards again, now feeling the jab of his baton in her back, she frantically thought of ways to keep him distracted. Maybe he would forget, these robots barely had brains anyways. “Why is a member of law enforcement watching an empty street anyways?” She asked casually, “Seems to me like you’re trying to hide something.” The ignoramus shifted behind her, his baton digging tighter into her back, “That’s none of your business pipsqueak. What the law does or does not do is not your right to know.” Wincing from the pain, the girl pressed on, “So it’s not the public’s right to know what’s going on in our city? You already took away our city from us, now you’re taking away our information too?” With a rough push, the girl tumbled to the ground again, flinching at the officer’s raised voice, “I am a senior member of law enforcement, and I protect the people. Sometimes that means protecting the people from the truth.” “Protect the...You think what you’re doing is protecting the people?” she asked incredulously, dragging her body upwards to a standing position. Long gone was her determination to free herself from the ropes that bound her. She again was being blinded by anger, the people’s suffering burning a picture in her mind. Shaking from the pain of her injuries, she forced herself to lift her head and stare at the officer, meeting his intense glare with one of petulance. “I think that you are too young and reckless to understand what protecting the people really means,” he stated, glaring down at the girl, his pale silver eyes shooting daggers at her. “I’m too young to understand that having to watch my people get murdered by your lack of action is protection? That just today, I witnessed another Tragedy. Protecting the people seems an awful lot like leaving them to be casualties of war.” She spit out, her anger having risen well past its boiling point. Before she could even blink, the girl felt herself being lifted into the air, dark brown eyes meeting silver ones, “Listen here, pipsqueak. If you think you can run this government, why don’t you ask your people what happened when they were in charge? Trust me little girl, we are protecting you.” He spoke slowly, his voice low and dark, anger slashing out like a whip. For a minute, there was silence. She gritted her teeth, feeling the anger slip away from just as quickly as it had come, leaving only the liquidy fear she knew well. It turned her insides to jello, causing her teeth and to chatter and shake. The officer sneered at her pathetic shape, the derision he felt clear in his face. All of a sudden, the officer dropped her on the ground, not even bothering to help her up. “I’ve decided to be merciful today and forgive your offense for your young idiocy, and the fact,” he added, a cruel smile twisting at his lips, “That the Capitol Building was empty today.” He again brought her to stand up, and turned her to wear she could see the bright yellow tape waving at her, deceivingly happy. “Leave this city, girl. If I ever see you here again, I will not be so kind.” Turning his back on her, he marched away. The girl stared after the giant figure, her fear melting into nothingness. The adrenaline left, too, so that she felt only pain and a feeling that this encounter had lasted days, not hours. Not wanting to be caught again, she limped back to the tape, the crushing feeling of defeat washing over her as ducked back under the yellow tape. The Tragedy awaited her, the scent of blood and rotting flesh singing the edges of her nostrils. She ignored it this time, too wrapped up in the thought of her own failure. That night, sitting alone in her barracks, she thought again about the choices that had led her here. Had she chose wrong? Captain Tory by Antares Lucas He swung his Lantern lantern three times, and slowly the schooner appeared. I could barely even see it due to the excessive amount of fog, but I could still make it out as it moved closer. I could see the lights from inside the ship shining brighter as it moved closer, I looked up at my father who was standing next to me, he stared blankly out into the harbor as the ship pulled next to the dock. His hand tightened around my wrist as he pulled me forward, we started to walk down to the dock and came to the outside of the ship, it was rather large standing right next to it, and had a very musty smell that met its look. As we stood there waiting, I could feel my heart racing faster and faster as time went by, I wasn't feeling well, my stomach felt as if it was being cooked over a fire, and my head was pounding. Finally a large man appeared from inside, I couldn't see his face at all due to all the shadows and fog surrounding us. The man motioned for us to come on board as he walked across the deck and disappeared into the cabin of the ship, my father pulled me on board and brought me onto the deck. We began to make our way towards the cabin, and the man came outside with a lantern lighting up his face. I looked up at the man who stood about 4 feet above me, he had a large black beard that covered his face and beady brown eyes that stared down at me. “Follow me lad” he said as he began to walk down the side of the boat, my father loosened his grip around my wrist, I looked up at him and saw him nod, I began to follow the man down to the stern of the boat where he led me into a small room, “This here is where you will be staying” he said as he opened the door. I walked inside, and looked around. I noticed that there wasn't much there, just a small bed that looked like it had already been slept in, the sheets were messed up and had a few small stains on them and I could see dust building up everywhere around the room. I looked up to see an old cabinet that also seemed to be some type of desk, and then there were some dim lights as well that gave the small room a very shadowy feel. “Thank you” I said, as I walked in and sat down on a chair that rested in front of the desk. The man mumbled something that I couldn't quite hear and left the room closing the door behind him. Journal entry 1: My name is John Green, I am 10 years old and today, I have begun my new life at sea, I am on a ship named the Halve Maen, which is captained by a strange man named Tory, so far he has been the only man I have seen on this ship so far, but I expect to see many more tomorrow morning. I wish not to be here but my father made his final decision and I had no other choice, This ship depresses me and.. Well, I miss home, a lot, I miss mom, and I miss my brother Tim most of all, we would go on tons of adventures and get into tons of trouble, and eventually It went too far, I wouldn't even have to be on this damn ship in the first place if I hadn't been so stupid, but, that's all the past. And now, I can only look ahead. I woke up to the sound of men yelling, and loud noises coming from every direction, I sat up in my bed and looked up, there was a small window that was right above my bed from which I looked out, it was just starting to get light out, barely after dawn, I sighed and lay back down. My back ached a little from the bed I had slept on, the mattress was old and had lost pretty much all its comfort. I heard a loud banging sound on my door, followed by a deep voice that shouted “rise and shine lad!”, my door swung open and in walked captain Tory, he stood there for a second and looked down at me, I noticed a large scar on the upper part of his lip and one on his neck as well, “I got a load of tasks for you to do today boy, so you had better get started” he said as he handed me a large piece of paper with all of the tasks written on it. “Thank you sir” I said, He left the room and closed the door behind him. I got out of bed and went to the cabinet, I opened a few drawers to find clothes inside, they weren't mine but they all seemed to be in my size, I got dressed and headed out. I stepped out onto the deck to see at least a dozen men working and walking around, I looked up to inspect the ship and saw it was way larger than what I had saw of it last night. I pulled out the list of tasks from inside my pocket, I read them over in my head, and then I headed on my way. Journal entry 2: Today was rather rough, I had begun my day off doing multiple tasks such as wiping down the deck, and cleaning shelves, and serving food to all of the crew, which I must say that they are all very strange, they all seem distant and all have blank stares which make them all seem like zombies. Anyways, after I finished all of my tasks, Captain Tory gave me a tour of the ship, I learned where all the rooms were, and where the life rafts were just in case of emergencies. The ship overall wasn't that bad, I mean it would be nice if I didn't have to spend an entire 3 months here but I guess it could be worse. And after all of that I got to rest, I still have plenty of things that I have to do tomorrow, but I'm not in any rush at the moment so I'm feeling pretty good about this whole thing. Noises, they always distract me, even just the smallest things can keep me from going to sleep or just focusing on something. I woke up to the sound of thunder shaking me to the bone, I lifted my head to look out the window to see that it was still dark outside, I had been on the Halve Maen for about a week now, doing task after task after task, they never seemed to end, and whenever I seemed to complete one, Captain Tory just came up with 5 more. I saw the waves crashing up against the side of the boat, shaking me with every crash. I looked up at the sky to see thick dark clouds covering the sky, rain poured down heavily to the point where I thought it was hail. I sat up as more thunder came down, I shivered. I got out of bed, my mouth felt as dry as sand, I smacked my lips a few times, and walked to the door. I knew I needed to get some water so I decided to head down to the kitchen to grab some. I opened the door and looked out, it was freezing, i stuck out my hand to feel the rain drops hitting it, It felt nice, I walked out onto the deck as the rain just fell down on me, I looked up at the sky and opened my mouth, rain filled it with in seconds. I swallowed the water and sighed with relief. I opened my mouth again to catch more more rain when I head a my name called. I turned around, nothing. “Hello?” I said, I started to shiver, mostly because it was really cold out, but that was just a bit creepy, I heard it again, except this time it seemed louder, John! I looked around to still see nothing. I began to back up to go back into my room when a hand clasped around my mouth and spun me around. It was my brother, “Were getting out of here” he said. “Wait what the.. How the hell are you here??” I stammered. “No time to explain” he said, “but we're getting out of here right now.” He pulled out a harp out of a backpack he was wearing and played some weird type of melody, and then.. black. My head whirled, and all I saw was black, I guess this is it I thought, and it was. What He Left Behind by Shaely Sulivan It had been a long time since Oliver had been home. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to get on a plane and go home. Oliver knew that he would have to face what he left behind. Oliver had been running trying to forget the past, but every time he closed his eyes all the memories of what he left behind comes rushing back, like he relieved it again. In the last seven years Oliver has been to so many different places, to the point of not being able to count. Then he realizes that it has been too long. “Sir, Sir!” The women almost yelled in a Chinese accent. “Oh sorry, what did you say?” He didn't realize that she was even talking. The woman rolls her eyes at him as if she is tired of her job. “Your destination is for Faa'a International Airport in Tahiti. She waited for an answer, but the man was just staring at the wall behind her in a completely different world. “Sir sir, excuse me sir”. “Actually, no, make that Montana, yeah?” He was not sure about this, but he thought that it is time to go home. “Ah here is your ticket sir,” the women sighs. “Isn't your job to help people? You could be a little bit nicer!” He grabs his ticket from the woman's hand and picks up his backpack and his surfboard. He started walking with his big, worn hiking boots, old green shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt. The woman mutters something in chinese. “I heard that, just because I'm American doesn’t mean I can't speak Chinese.¨ People around him gave the look. As the plane flew higher and higher, he watches the Beijing Airport get smaller and smaller. He knew that he just made a big mistake. He could have been in Tahiti surfing and eating the most outstanding food. But, no he thought, I have to go to home to Montana. It is where he grew up with his family in a small little town. Oh great, now I’m going to have to see my father. He didn't like his father. His father was not a nice man, and his father didn't like his son very much either; especially after the accident. The accident. He has thought about that for a long time. That memory was always at the back of his mind, like a fly that you can never get out the house. Every time he thought about it his eyes would become glassy and watery. He remembers it as if it was yesterday. He closes his eyes and drifts back to that night. “Olie c’mon I'm begging you, please can I go?” asked his younger sister. She was wearing a short red dress with black high heels and lots of makeup. “No you can’t go, stop asking me.” His sister had been asking for weeks now. He had just about had it. “Why not? Please, Olie. I really want to go.” Now she was whining. “Get out, I gotta get ready.” He threw one of the pillows off his bed at her. “Stop, I’m not leaving until you let me go,” she insisted. He ran for the door and tried to push her out of his room, but it was a failed attempt. She screamed so loud, it pierced his ears. The next thing he knew they were falling on the ground and she was sitting on top of him. “You let me go or you’re not getting up off this floor.” He saw the twinkle in her eyes. He knew that he would just have to give in to her like all the times before. “Fine, you can go to Luke’s party.” He was not sure about her going to his best friend’s party. He knew what would be at his friend’s party, and he didn't want her around that. Plus, most people would be at least three or four years older than her. He just did not want her to get hurt, but he knew that he had to let her grow up. She was 14, not a young girl anymore. “Thank you, thank you so much,” she screamed again. She was so excited she gave her older brother a hug. “What is all that noise about and what are the two of you doing upstairs?” a man said in an aggravated voice. “Dad, everything's all good,” he said. “Be quieter, I’m watching the game here,” he said in bitter voice. His dad was always like that when watching football. No one would bother or talk to him. “You ready to go? Dylan is here; he’s waiting. Sophia, hurry up!” “Okay, okay I’m ready.” She came running down the hall and grabbed her brother’s arm and pulled him downstairs to the front door. She opened the door. “Where are you two going?” “Out. Is that a problem dad?” His dad never responded; he was lost in the game again. He was glad his mom wasn’t home. He knew that his sister would not be going tonight if mom was home. He shut the door behind and stepped into the cold, crispy night. He saw his friend’s black truck at the end of the driveway. He and his sister walked towards the truck and got in. “Yeah, what's up man? You coming too, Sophie? Awesome,” his friend Dylan said. “Lets go, man!” His friend turned the key in the ignition, and put his foot on the gas. The truck sped off. The truck pulled into the driveway of Luke’s mansion of a house. They all got out of the car and walked up to the huge double wooden doors. When she walked through the doors she saw that there was already beer and drugs out. She knew that her brother was going to get drunk. Now she understood why her brother didn't want her to come. She had never really been around that kind of thing before. On this night, she knew that she was going to meet a completely different side of her brother. As people started to arrive, she watched her brother take multiple shots and become someone she didn't know. She did not think this was fun, even though her good friend was there. She wanted to go home, but her brother was nowhere to be found. She made her way through the crowd of people. She didn't understand why people thought this was fun. She found him outside by the pool with some girl, and he was smoking. “Olie, I want to go home.” He didn’t even turn his head. “Olie, please, I don’t like it here.” “Do I know you? Go away.” He knew it was his sister. He was at this party to have fun, not to take care of his sister. She wanted to cry. She didn’t understand why he was treating her this way. She did not recognize her brother when she looked into his eyes. He wasn’t the sweet and kind brother she had known her whole life. She went to her friend and sat in the corner for the rest of the night, wishing that she had never come. She made a promise to herself that she would never go to a party ever again. Oliver woke to someone shaking him awake. “Sir, the plane has landed, wake up,” said the flight attendant. “ What? Where am I?” he said, still yawning from his sleep. “Montana. Sir, you must get off this plane,” the flight attendant answered. “I think you’re mistaken. I am going back to sleep.” “Sir, if you don't get off this plane, I will call security.” “Okay, okay. You don’t have to be so dramatic. I’m leaving,” Oliver said with great emphasis. When Oliver walks off the plane he recognized the airport. He remembers one year when he was about eight-years-old, his family took a trip to Hawaii. His sister was a afraid of getting on the plane. He remembers chasing her about calling “scaredy cat”. Oliver smiles while looking at a waiting place. He is lost in that place in time when all was good and happy. Someone ran into to him, since he was just standing in the middle of the aisle. Oliver feels the jolt back into reality. He feels the pain, the grief and the gashing hole in his heart that never seems to close. He would it take all back if he could. Oliver got on the bus when it was almost dark. In the morning, Oliver would arrive at the town he left seven years ago when he was just 17-years-old. Oliver never finished high school. He dropped out half way through the second semester of his junior year. Oliver lost everything after that night. It tore his family apart. Oliver’s father blamed him for what happened, and his father took all of his anger out on him. Soon Oliver started to believe that it was all his fault. That is when he fell down the rabbit hole into the great abyss of misery. When he sat down in his seat on the bus, he fell asleep minutes after his departing the airport. His dreams brought him back to the night of the party. He was having so much fun with all his friends that he lost track of time. It was 1:00 a.m. He been there since 9:00 p.m. He knew that he had to be home before his mom got up. “Dylan, time to go, it’s getting really late.” He watched his friend take one last drink before walking slow and unsteady.” I think I should drive, Dill.” “No way, just got that truck. You’re not driving. Go get your sister.” “Sister?” he forgot that he brought his sister. “Man, I think we had way too much fun tonight.” Dylan said with the biggest smile on his face. By the time he found his sister and got in the car and started driving it was almost 2:00 a.m. He could tell that his sister was mad at him, but he couldn't remember why. Dylan’s driving was bad. He couldn't stay in his lane. They were driving on a two lane highway with a forest on the right side, and a lake on the left. “Pull over, Dylan, pullover!” he yelled “Olie, I’m scared,” his sister whimpered in the backseat. Oliver grabbed the wheel. Trying to keep the car in the right line and straight. “Ow, what are you doing? I am driving! Get your hands off the wheel” Now Dylan was yelling too. “You’re swerving. Pull over, Dylan!” Dylan tried to pull his friend’s hands off the steering wheel, but in that process the wheel got yanked hard to the right. The truck went off the road, hit a tree and rolled into the ditch, turned over where the wheels of the truck were reaching towards the clear starry sky. The engine was smoking, and most of the windows were shattered. The truck sat there for at least half an hour before the ambulance got there. When Oliver got off the bus in the morning, the town that he remembered was no longer. The small town by the lake was extremely built up, but still all the memories of his still existed. As Oliver walks down streets, he remembers that park where his mom would take him and his sister to play when they were young. Oliver remembers his dad teaching him how to swim in the lake. Oliver was almost sad that he ever left this beautiful town. As Oliver turns the corner, he can see the old iron gates and the pine trees. Oliver walks through the gate and aisles of granite. He stops and kneels down on the grass. “I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to,” he said in tears while touching the name on the gravestone. He sat there in silence where his sister lay. As soon as the ambulance had come to the scene of the accident, the three of them were rushed to hospital. Sadly, Dylan died from impact of going through the windshield. Oliver suffered from a broken leg and a concussion, but nothing too serious. Sophia died in surgery from severe internal bleeding. Oliver remembered waking up in the hospital a few days after the accident. He awoke to his father storming in the room and yelling. “How could you be so irresponsible? How you could her take to that damn party? Answer me!” his father growled. “What, dad?” he was still groggy from being out for a few days. “Will, stop,” his mother said in weak and airy voice, then broken down in tears. His father glanced at her, but continued to yell at his son. “It's all your fault,” his father grabbed Oliver with a firm grip on his shoulders and starting violently shaking him. “You killed her. You Killed her! You killed them both.” He slapped his son across the face and left the room. Oliver was broken after that. From that day forward, the situation with his father only got worse. He yelled and blamed Oliver day after day, to the point of where Oliver didn't want to come home anymore. Plus, his father was drinking, and that was the end of Oliver’s relationship with him. He began to hate his father and himself. His grades dropped in school, and his life was just miserable. Everywhere he went reminded him of Dylan or of Sophia. Dylan was his closest friend and he had known him since they were in kindergarten together. There were no words for his little sister’s death, only overwhelming emotion of which he could not control. In this time of grief and mourning, Oliver had no one. He felt so alone and forgotten. His mother was never really there. She just laid in bed all day with blank eyes. His father had so much resentment towards him that he couldn’t even bear to look at his own son. As Oliver walk closer to his old house memories kept flashing through his mind. Oliver stood on the at the beginning of his driveway, fidgeting. He didn't know if coming back was all a mistake. He didn't want to walk in the house only to have his dad yell at him, or cast him away again like so many times before. He gathered up his courage and put one foot in front of the other. When he reached the the porch, everything looked all the same as he remembered. His dog was even still laying on the porch like everyday when him and sister would come home from school everyday. “Marley come here.” The dog looks up and runs towards Oliver. The dog licks him and begins to bark in a playful way as Oliver walks up to the porch and knocks on the door. No answer at first, but then Oliver could hear footsteps coming up to the door. The door opens and his father was standing to the doorway. He didn't look like the same man that Oliver left. His father appeared much older and harder. His father had a sad and lonely look upon his face. “Dad.” His father stared blankly at Oliver for awhile. Until his father’s face became stricken with lines and his eyes squinted in anger. “I told you that I never wanted to see you again. Get off my porch.” “I’m your son. I’m sorry. I was young. We were all too young,” Oliver was trying so hard not to explode with anger. “You are no son of mine. Now get off my porch.” His father slams the door in Oliver’s face. As soon as the door shuts, Will breaks down in tears. Seeing his son again brought back so many memories. He wants so badly to welcome his son back in his life, but every time he looks into his eyes, he sees his daughter’s face. He’s lonely and sad. He has driven everyone away and become a mean, old, grumpy man. His wife died six years after Oliver left. Since then, Will has been hoping that his son would come back. Every time he hears a knock at the door, he runs to the door hoping it is Oliver, but it never is. Will has played out in his head what he would say to his son over and over again, if Oliver ever were to ever come back. Today is the day that Will has been waiting for so long, and he knows he is blowing his chance. Will is so mad at himself. He knows that Oliver is the only family he has left, and realizes that he must make it right with Oliver. “Oliver wait.” He said while opening the door again Oliver is half way up the driveway when he hears the broken voice of his father. He stops walking, but doesn’t turn around. At this point Oliver wants nothing to do with his father, but he knows that his father is the only family he has left. Oliver has felt alone and lost for far too long. “It's gonna take more than an apology,” Oliver says. “Just come inside, please son,” Will begged. “Or what? You’re gonna yell at me?” He doesn’t want to let his father back into his life. Oliver is terrified that his father might break his trust again, but he realizes that this his last chance to put his life back together, to heal the hole in his heart and to left go of the past. He doesn't want to run anymore. Oliver wants to settle down and move on with his life. Oliver turns around to see his father with teary eyes. He walks back up the wooden steps to were his father was standing on the porch. Will stands face to face with his son. Will looks into his son’s eyes and sees a boy with a man’s face. Will knows that Oliver lost most of his childhood. Will feels guilty because he know that it was partly his fault. He didn't allow his son to have a happy life after what happened. Will feels as though he needs to make up for lost time, but he knows that he doesn’t have all that much time left. Will was dying, he had maybe two years left, if he was lucky. Oliver was now crying too. He embraces his father for the first time in years. His father is surprised, but returns the embrace. They both walked inside together, side by side as father and son. Two years later, Will died of heart failure. Oliver let go of the past and was able to move on with life. He forgave his father in the end. Will and Oliver became close over their last two years together, like when Oliver was young. The hole in Oliver healed as much as it could by remembering the good memories of his sister and Dylan. More importantly, Oliver forgave himself. He was able to let go of all the anger and hatred because he knew that is what Sophia and Dylan would want. He no longer feels alone and he has a family of own his now. He has a daughter, whom he named Sophia, and has another baby on the way. If it’s a boy, he is sure to be named Dylan. Oliver was at peace for the first time in years. He felt as though he had his whole life in front of him. He was free. He put his past behind him and his future in front. He Drives up the long dirt road to where is father taught him how to fish. That was their the favorite stop on the lake. He gets out of the car and takes the old boat onto the lake. “You will always be in my heart and always with me every step of the day. You are apart of me as I am apart of you,” he said as he spread his father’s ashes over their spot on lake. He sits and watches the sunset as he did many times over with his father. Untitled by Jazmine Fielder As he walked into the lobby of the apartment building where he was visiting his therapist, his eyes darted to the little yellow tinted buttons beside the elevator to see if it was in use. He was already running late for his 1:00 appointment and Laurie didn’t approve of reverse punctuality. When he arrived at the elevator, he noticed it was on it’s way down. Good. But it still had three floors to go. Standing there, Theodore let out an exasperated sigh and started popping his knuckles. Ding! Thank god. Theo walked into the odd elevator. It looked like your average metal box from the outside but the inside was covered in every colored checker you could think of. A prominent red checker, twice the size of the others, on the right wall, matched perfectly with Theo’s bright shoes he’d matched with his hat that morning. The coincidence made him smile as he walked in and turned around to push button number seven with his left pinkie finger. Theo always used his pinky finger when pushing buttons in elevators. When he was a mere child his mother had told him if he did not, the elevator door may never open for him again after the big doors came slowly together, blinking to enclose Theo, the pupil, inside forever. The elevator came to an abrupt stop at floor three. Theo’s immediate reaction was panic. He knew he’d not been locked inside long enough to be at level seven but as the giant eyeball blinked open, he calmed himself. A woman, in her mid 60’s he’d assume came rushing in, all in a huff as she quickly lugged her excessive baggage into the elevator, squeezing Theo into a small compartment all for himself. She pressed button number two and for a split second, Theo noticed it turn a different color from the others. He’d never seen the color before. It was a strange iridescent but he couldn't place it. Theo began to feel uneasy. And even more so when he felt the elevator start descending. The woman then looked at Theo, straight into his eyes, and began to hiss at him. Harris Burdick Short Story by Mira O´barr The tiny voice asked, “Is he the one?” “Yes, you’ll be residing in and through this boy all of next week” another tinier voice answered. “Great! I think my wife will be happy with that, she’s very nurturing. You know, she’s always wanted a kid, a son.” “Well, that is our hope. To please you. Now, remember that the- that once you enter his body it will be different from your current state. You will have arms and legs, for instance” the agent explained. “I’m excited for that more than anything, I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to hug, if I’m being honest. Instead of just blending orbes, you know?” the buyer thought and shared. “Yes, it’s very nice. I’ve only tried it once but I enjoyed it a fair amount. Now can I have you sign, here, here, and also initial right here” the agent said while turning his outer shell. “So, you’ve done this? Could you give me any advice in advance or... I don’t know, like tell me what it’s like?” the buyer begged. “My best advice is to not ask for advice. I’m sure you’ll like it” the agent said, paired with a glare. “Now sign please?” “This whole process is so quick! I expected, oh I don’t know, some more preparation and pazazz.” “No, we try to make the process as smooth and painless as possible” the agent clarified while turning for the buyer to sign the north, now east side of his orb. The buyer, who we can now identify from his slightly-legible signature as Larry Jauw-- something or other, started to mentally prep himself. He muttered a prayer and began towards the boy. The buyer watched and grinned as much as a sentient-orb can, bobbing up and down. “When can I bring my wife?” asked Larry (the buyer). “Right away! You’ll be able to call her normal number with a phone, there is one in the kitchen on the wall.” After a long pause the agent added, “er… the place is all set up for you, you can go right ahead.” Larry nodded and then inched closer to the boy, inspecting for the expected furnishings of a good living space. Warm, quiet, and it has a nice savory odor for when he would inevitably get hungry. With a jolt of light, the orb disintegrated and fell like dust into the boy’s ear. Eyes opened. Toes wiggled. A smile grew and the boy giggled. He looked up, very entertained in his new world. Even despite the bland ceiling he stared into. Around him were mountains of cotton with feathers making their grand exits here or there. Human Boy Larry lifted his arm and saw his hand stretch into the great emptiness above. Larry was dazed. Could this be life in a human body? Were those his fingers reaching through the humid air? Was that his giggle he had heard? He felt himself let out a loud whoop, a hollar. Then, the sound of heels clicking down the hall. And a woman’s voice; “Archie? Is everythin’ alright? Are ya-” “Aaa!” yelled Larry, feeling the noise in the throat of his new being. “Umm, yes! All good!” Larry stumbled to speak. “So,” he thought to himself “I’m Archie…I better get out there and try to fit in. I wonder what Archie is like.” Larry moved his Archie body around the room. Using his now-brighter eyes he looked to the south wall and studied the trinkets and memories held on the shelf. Pictures of Archie with friends in a field, all wearing purple, a signed baseball and the signature said “papa”, some weird strings, and many more random and dusty things that must have made Boy Archie feel something sentimental. Larry concentrated on his steps and felt the shag carpeting catch on the hangnail Archie apparently had on his right almost-pinky toe. With more care in his next few steps Larry looked into a mirror on Archie’s desk, sat down, and stared. He focused on the faint freckles over the simple nose with no bridge at all. He gazed into his very own wide eyes and lifted his pale hand to feel his ear. He heard a woman singing somewhere nearby. Larry concentrated on moving Archie out of the room and towards the voice. He was very glad to find the door cracked, he had no idea how to use the handle. He stood in the hall. Now, on wood floor and with the smell of a baked chicken (roasted with plenty of oregano) in his nose, he turned to the right. With a jolt, he started down the hall. The almost angelic voice stopped as he neared the edge of the hallway. “Archie Smith, “Boy Wonder!” is what I’ve been tellin my friends, “that boy wonders too much!” Yer always in that bed just dreamin’ away, aren’t you? Are you ready for dinner yet munch-kin-o-mine?” Larry lost control of Archie’s jaw as he saw his now mother. Her full blond hair bounded over her ears and her blue eyes squinted with her rosy smirk and she looked down at her son. She pulled her apron’s bow and lifted the strap over her head and hung it on the cabinet handle above her. She looked back down and crouched to grab Archie’s shirt. Larry felt her wipe at his human mouth and he smiled. “You’ve got jam all over hunny!” She stood up scratched his freshly cut hair, “I always thought I’d want a daughter more, but seein’ how much Meg’s got ta brush her girl’s hair, I’m happy with yer short little hairs” she said as she smiled down into Archie’s eyes and through to Larry’s heart. Larry hadn’t felt this fine since he was a young orb. This woman, his mother for the next week, had made Larry feel better than ever before. Cared for, loved, missed, and teased. He loved this brand new world of Archie’s. Larry smiled traced the room. He noticed a white and well-used phone hanging on the wall ahead of him. He wondered what his wife was thinking now; was she curious as to if he’d call? Or did she even care? “Maybe I won’t call my wife about this” Larry pondered. Cereal by Mira O'Bar She hadn’t fed me in a day. She usually wasn’t forgetful about that sort of stuff, except for when she would enter a phase of hibernation. I would assume that when a person spends their entire day in bed doing absolutely nothing, not even sleeping, they would remember to feed their cat. That morning I had managed to kill and eat a moth, but it wasn’t helping with my hunger so I decided to pester the girl. I went up the red carpeted stairs, burning all the calories I had gained from the moth, and took a left into the girl’s hallway. The door was cracked just enough for me to get through with a little push. When it was open enough for my head to fit, I crawled in. I crept through empty and unopened bottles, spilled cups that covered the floor, and an unfathomable amount of dirty socks and underwear. I made it to the bed where the girl’s feet poked out of the covers. I reached up to them and rubbed the side of my face against her nails. It failed to cause her to budge. As soon as I leapt onto her filthy bed, which was coated in old clothes and cereal bowls, she groaned and turned over. She offered a hand for me to nudge my head against then hid it in her covers again. I curled up next to her head and purred. It was cozy in there, but it smelt of breath and mildew, and I remembered why I didn’t cuddle with her often. So I got back on track and began to meow. “What do you want baby? I thought I fed you already.” How could she think that? She hadn’t fed me for days. I meowed and purred at her until she started to sit up. With my last meow I ran to the door, trying to get her to get out of her bed by seducing her with my tail. She gave into my convincing and followed me back down the red staircase. I lead her through the dirty living room to the laundry room where my bowl sat. I brushed up against her bare dark and prickly legs as she stretched up to get my food out of the cabinet. She knelt down and scooped me more food than I’d ever seen, then got me three more bowls and filled those as well. “That should last you long enough.” she said as she fixed her XXL grey shirt back below her thighs. She got herself a glass of water from the faucet that hovered over the few dishes she had managed to collect there a week ago. She looked for another box of cereal and then she turned around and looked down at me. “Looks like we’re out of cereal babes, I’m gonna go the the gas station, okay? Wanna follow? I’m walking…” I followed her to the couch where she found her stiffened jeans with a 10 dollar bill in the pocket, and then to the door where her flip-flops were. She put on her light blue hoodie and let me out of the front door. I raced ahead of her, wanting to get out of the rain as soon as I could. Down the block I went, past the blue house and yellow house to the Shell gas station that we went to almost once a week. As soon as I got under the awning, I sat and watched her follow me and walk past into the gas station. I wondered when type of cereal she’d get this time. Maybe that stuff that looks like cat food, or maybe the one with the dog on it. She came out of the gas station with a new red lighter and a teal pack of American Spirits. I hadn’t seen those for almost four months now, but I liked it when she’d smoke. She’d come outside with me and have nothing better to do with her left hand than pet me. Once we got back to the house she dug into the pile of supplies on the front of our porch. She got out a rope then headed inside and sat on the couch. I followed her inside and sat next to the heater vent and watched her stare at her phone. She watched videos and tried to tie the rope into a loop over and over again. She finally seemed satisfied with her knot and she went over to our stereo. She cleared the old soda bottles off of the CD player and put in the disk she listens to the most. It has people sitting on a couch that looks like ours and the girl singing sounds like a yodeler who’s sad. I ran into the kitchen as she played the music as loud as it could go. I hopped up beside the sink and started to drink from the leaking faucet. The girl followed me and attached the rope she’d tied to the pipe she hung pots and pans in the center of our kitchen. She got out our old, peeling, purple, three-legged stool from the garage and got up on it. She put the rope around her neck. She fumbled to get the cigarettes out of her pocket and she lit one as she stood there on the stool. I sat on the counter and watched as she sang along to the song and smoked her shaking cigarette on top of that wobbly stool with a rope around her neck. I jumped down to the floor to sit closer to her. A tear fell on my lip as soon as she started lifting one foot off of the stool and tensed her calves. I lifted my paws onto the stool by her feet. She looked down at me and smiled, genuinely, which didn’t happen much. She kept smiling at me, usually when she did that she wanted me to come to her so I hopped onto the stool. Under my weight the stool started to wobble so I sunk my claws into the girl’s calves. She kicked me off and I fell, bringing the stool down with me. I ran away so that she wouldn’t land on me, but she didn’t come down. Only her lit cigarette and lighter fell. It sat smoking on the tiles. Slowly releasing grey ribbons into the air along with the scent of sharp musk. Her feet shivered and eventually stopped moving. Her flip flops slipped off of her feet. I sat under her next to the smoking cigarette. I meowed periodically until the CD stopped playing. I went into the laundry room and ate from my endless supply of cat food. I’ve just finished eating now. I wonder when she’s going to go out and get more cereal. Memory by Evelyn Wilhelm ~Winter's End~ Grå. With the colossal expanse of the glacial mountain towering over the valley, the sharp curling hand of the gods was reaching toward the great dome of icy sky. The snow formed a white blanket over the valley, leaving the village houses lightly dusted with frost. Smoke swirled above the thatched roofs, and the serpentine hiss and crackle of moisture as the villagers fed the central bonfire in the great hearth in the village’s communal hall filled the air. The water laden logs split by Grå’s occasional collections of lost wanderers coughed and sputtered, sending sporadic shadows dancing over the frozen ground. Winter was close to turning, but the frost giants were fighting to retain their grip on the frozen, silent world. The first few leaves of the elms had emerged into the fresh air a couple of weeks earlier but were burnt away by a waiting cold snap. Everyone’s houses needed cleaning and re-thatching, but the stormy weather of winter would not abate. The village’s hofgothi, Itsekeskeinen, had been complaining for weeks that the communal hall was falling into disorder and decay. Unfortunately, no one could help him, as spring was late in coming, and everyone had at least one leaky spot in the ceiling. Grå was especially resistant to the idea of helping the selfish chief and grumbled constantly that leaders were meant to help the people, not the people help the leader. She had her own house to worry about, and with no relatives to assist her, the eighty-seven-year-old crone had to rely absolutely on the steady stream of adventuring heroes and wanderers that stayed at the Frostbitter Inn. Or on the kindness of the villagers, but she didn’t ask for their help, and they didn’t offer to give it. She fed the adventurers, and took in payment, whatever they could offer in food, money, or labor. This recent batch had been as poor as snails, but alas, they did not carry their homes on their backs. This was lucky for them, but a huge disappointment to Grå, who would have insisted on them turning over their extra cloth to her, so she could make new garments for them. Of course, she would conveniently lose the fabric until the day after the wanderers left the valley. She wasn’t a bad person, she just provided for herself first, and would at times provide for others in the village. Adventuring heroes with plenty of extra supplies were clearly rich and could afford the loss of their socks and cloaks so that she could have enough material to trade in the spring, when the peddlers from the cities came up to the valley. She could also trade with the herders in the village, but they had none of the state-of-the-art knicknacks the city traders had, and the nomads rarely had any great quantities of metals when they came north when the snow melted enough to allow the eastern pass to thaw and become accessible. Grå wished that Itsekeskeinen had been able to convince the last few wanderers to stay for just one more day. Not only was another storm blowing in, but she had no company anymore, and the villagers would only tolerate her solitary presence at the community campfire for a few more days before they would complain to Itsekeskeinen that she was not contributing to the prosperity of the village. The Frostbitter Inn. The lantern swung on its pole in the street. The wind had picked up while Grå had been settling the stranger into his accommodations behind the kitchen. He had retired with many heartfelt thanks for her kindness in giving him shelter for the night. She had waved the grateful man off, explaining that the whole reason she kept the Inn was for lost wanderers and adventuring heroes. The man was horrified. “I am not a hero!” he exclaimed. “Eh, you are in this valley. Anyone who comes through in the winter would be lucky just to make it to the valley," explained Grå. He had shut the door after thanking her again, and Grå had gone to the front window to watch the rain. It had started late in the afternoon and had gotten steadily worse over the past couple hours. As the sun set, Itsekeskeinen had come banging on her door. She had opened it with a disgruntled, “Are you trying to break my door down, or just dent it?” The chief had turned the stranger over to her and left. Grå’s attention was suddenly caught by a swinging light coming up the path. She peered through the driving rain, trying to identify who was idiotic enough to venture out on a night like this. It was only Lampi, carefully removing the hanging lanterns off the poles. The wind was strong enough now to send one flying into someone’s thatch, and even with the rain, the flame was liable to light the decomposing braken and dead wood that covered the streets. It wouldn’t burn for long, but the smoke could cause many sore throats and lungs, and Grå had no medicine to treat them until more of the plants started leafing out. The sun never came out of the dense cloud that filled the valley the next morning. The rain poured down, melting the snow on the houses and streets, until water gushed down the paths and into the storm gutters. The villagers spent over an hour each day cleaning the ditches and ponds of dead branches and straw. The rain-swollen river plunged through the valley, carving out chunks of the bank, dragging trees and boulders into the rushing water. Chunks of ice from ponds and lakes up in the mountains came crashing down the river. The stranger introduced himself as Snavs, which did not bode well. He ate more than his share of breakfast, and then left to “ask for some directions” at the communal hall. Grå didn’t bother to tell him that there wouldn’t be anybody willing to tell him anything at the hall, especially knowing his name. Who calls himself “dirt”? She finished cleaning up the kitchen and then grabbed her woolen cloak from its place by the fire. Pulling the hood up to her face, she headed out of the house to help the villagers clean and decorate the hall for spring. The rain whipped around her, and her boots sent up little furies of muddy water with every step. As she hung up her cloak in the entryway of the hall, Glänta waved her over to the corner where the crones worked and minded the youngsters. “Did Snavs tell you the story he just finished telling Itsekeskeinen?” asked Glänta. Grå shook her head and sat down on a stool near the fire to warm up. “Apparently, he saw someone on the path behind him before it started raining. He tried to go back to help her, but then it started raining, and he was afraid of losing the path himself," said Glänta. Glen, Glänta’s sister, harrumphed and muttered, “Of course, his own neck was more important than a young girl’s.” Grå was puzzled. “Young girl? How do you know that?” “A couple of the menfolk went out about an hour ago and found her on the path. Sweet little thing, but no one knows her, and the hofgothi thinks she has some sort of power. He can’t know that for sure. Kunnskapsrik will be able to tell, but he is not due for another month," Glänta explained, looking annoyed. “Itsekeskeinen wants to put her up with one of us, but we already have full households.” “Eh, so you want me to take her, don’t you?" grouched Grå. “They were waiting for you to arrive so they could give her to you," offered Vente helpfully. “Lovely," Grå marched over to where the men sat in the front of the hall. “Give her to me, you idiotic male lizards. This solution will be temporary, nothing more. Don’t get your hopes up.” The Fire Dies. Three weeks later, the rain stopped. In mid-afternoon, the sun rose out from behind the dispersing clouds, and the torrential river lowered. The community let the great bonfire in the center of the hall burn out. The villagers knew the weather and the earth, and spring was now within touching distance of their doors. The village turned out of their homes, coming into the streets and paths, singing and laughing. The men clambered up onto the roofs to find rotting or missing thatch. The women let the chickens and ducks out. The boys yelled to the dogs and let sheep out of the sheds. Glänta, Glen, Vente, and Grå organized the children into teams, and the groups raced through the village, cleaning the paths, gathering wood, and painting one another with mud. Families brought treats out of the cupboards and chests where they had been hiding all winter. Minnesmärke hurtled toward Grå at full tilt, barely managing to avoid spilling her armful of wood. She dumped it on the growing pile in the center of the village and turned toward Grå, asking, “Can I get the butter in the cupboard? No one else has any," she looked around, and then whispered, “Glänta told me that you never brought out anything to share last year. Is that true?” “Yes, my child. Nor the year before that. I didn’t use to participate in the community celebrations.” “Why not? This is fun. Can I please get the butter?” “I don’t know why I didn’t. Fear of loss, I suppose. Yes, you may share the butter. There is also a jar of salted horsemeat under the sink. Bring that out too," she smiled, watching Minnesmärke tear off toward the Frostbitter Inn. “She has a good heart, that one," commented Glen from behind her. Grå jumped, and then grinned. “Far better than mine was three weeks ago. That child has done wonders for me," Grå considered. “She has been accepted by the youngsters and the adults. We will do fine together.” Glen smiled. “You know, you did contribute something to the celebrations last year, but you just didn’t know about it. I had one of Ord’s youngsters borrow some of the squash from your cellar.” Grå laughed. “Was it Kanin?” Glen nodded. “He is a good grandchild. Respectful of his elders," The two old women started laughing, remembering the days of stolen squash and lonely holidays. ~Spring~ Morning. Grå woke that morning to laughter. There was no hearty guffaws that the borders at the Frostbitter Inn would make. There was no noise from her neighbor’s home except peals of ringing laughter. And no rain. Spring had come. Grå pulled on her boots and woke up Minnesmärke. Together, the old crone and the young girl pulled furniture, food, clothing, everything, out of the cottage. They piled belonging after belonging in front of their house. All through the village the womenfolk cleaned out their homes. The boys left with their sheep or with instructions to gather wood or stone for repairing the village. The men and older boys pulled the thatching off of the cottages, spreading it in the paths and streets to cover the mud. Mus and Kanin, Ord’s sons, came over to the Frostbitter Inn at Glen’s insistence, to remove the thatch from the roof and to help. Minnesmärke ran over to Glen’s cottage with several skeins of yarn as a gift, in thanks for the help from her grandsons. Glen waved it off, saying that she had meant to do it last year, but there hadn’t been enough people. Lese and Ord had both been working on the great hall at Itsekeskeinen’s insistence. The spaces between buildings that had been muddy streams a week earlier were now covered with straw. Starting at the north end of the village, the boys were laying river rocks down over the straw, packing it tightly into the mud. The younger children ran through the streets, packing in the rock and straw. By the end of the day, more than a third of the houses were un-thatched, and a fifth of the paths had been packed down. The next day the work continued. They only had a month or so to clean the village before the traders came through the eastern pass. The elm trees, the rowan trees, the ash trees, all the plants were leafing out. The forests began to glow with green warmth. The village cats stretched themselves out on the rock ledges and walls in the village. The woolen tarps were pulled out of storage and strung over the roofs in place of thatching. The sheep filled out, and the first few lambs were frisking about on the hill side. Rauta, the blacksmith, started the fire in his forge. The villagers brought bowls, cups, knives, spades, any metal that was old or falling apart they brought to him, to be made into new tools. The old men brought in carved handles for knives, and Rauta fixed new blades to them, and they were placed in a basket to trade for rare metals or cotton cloth. The women gathered together all of the yarn that had been spun over the winter, when it was too dark to go outside. Grå brought out all the cloth she had collected that year from rich wayfarers. The villagers had a good laugh over what she had got the wanderers to give up. Snavs had left her his cloak when he went, as well as three extra pairs of socks. “Are they dumb enough to think they won’t need it, or are they forgetful?” asked Glänta. “Some trickery, such as fake forgetfulness on my part, may be involved," admitted Grå, looking slightly regretful. “I only trick when it’s the end of the winter, never at the beginning,” she explained. Soon the village’s winter efforts were all arrayed in the great hall. Itsekeskeinen was pleased, the villagers were pleased, and most importantly, they had completed spring cleaning with several days to spare. There was rarely any time in the village when it wasn’t raining, but all the folk had free time now. Over the next few days, stories were told, performances acted, games played, and camaraderie established after five months of winter chill. Gothi. Two days after the villagers finished cleaning the village, Kunnskapsrik arrived. Everyone had eagerly been anticipating his arrival. They wanted to hear his stories and make sure he was safe. Itsekeskeinen believed that Minnesmärke had some sort of ancient power and was hopeful that the gothi would agree with him. The villagers were anxious to hear the news from the other valleys, as any sort of mail sent in the winter stayed at the village until a mail rider came through after the passes cleared. Rik, as he was called affectionately by the crones, was good natured and friendly. He often spent several months with them, as he had been born in this valley, and it was here that he had a home. He normally arrived a week or two ahead of the traders, as he traveled on foot and did not have any wagons to bring over the pass. He smiled and laughed with the men as they worked on fences or houses in the morning. He gossiped with the old men as they watched the sheep with younger boys. But as the afternoon wore on, he became more and more withdrawn, as he learned of Minnesmärke coming to the village, the story in bits and pieces from each villager. In late afternoon he headed to the Frostbitter Inn to have a chat with Grå and perhaps see the girl for himself. Itsekeskeinen had already told him his suspicions about Minnesmärke, that she had some sort of ancient power. Normally, Rik wouldn’t credit the chief on ancient matters, but what he had been hearing from the villagers about the girl made him curious and wary enough to approach her before Itsekeskeinen introduced them. The Inn was looking better than it had last year, and he wondered if having a child around had made Grå more sociable and had prompted the villagers to help her with repairing her home. He was just raising his hand to knock when the door opened. Grå looked at him, a wooden spoon in her hand, then smiled. “Ah, Gothi, I am glad you made it. Welcome back," she said. “Come on in.” “Thank you, Grå. I am glad to be home," he nodded and stepped into the entryway. Next to Grå’s boots were a smaller pair that looked as if they had belonged to one of Glen’s grandchildren several years ago. Grå moved into the kitchen, where the smell of steaming soup was almost visible in the air. Many different herbs hung from the ceiling. The healer had been collecting the first few buds and leaves of the earlier plants and drying them. “You’re starting early," he said, motioning up at the bundles hanging from the rafters. “I know. I just worry that someone will catch something, and I won’t have anything to treat it with," she grimaced. “I feel bad for taking the plants this early, but if it means that no one will get sick and spread it through the village, I’ll do it.” Kunnskapsrik looked at her. “Through the village, or to your new youngster?” Grå winced. “The chain of gossip spreads fast in here, doesn’t it? Itsekeskeinen told you about the ancient power?” he nodded. “And now you’re worried that he’s right, so you had to come and check?” “Well, no, not exactly. I just want to know what’s going on. If she does have a power, then she will need to go study with a sage, probably Kennari,” he sighed. “I can’t just ignore it, Grå. If she does have it, then she needs to know." “Oh, she knows, all right," Grå shook her head. “I think she can feel something, something that the other children don’t feel. It worries her and makes her shy.” “Can I meet her?” Rik asked. “I would rather we get over the worry as soon as possible, preferably before Itsekeskeinen tries to introduce me to her.” “I understand," said Grå. Turning, she called up the ladder into the loft, “Märke, come down, please. I need you to meet somebody.” Several seconds later, a soft voice replied, “Do I have to?” The sound was barely audible through the loft floor. “Yes, dear, you do. I know you don’t want to, but he might be able to help you," coaxed Grå. Without bothering to use the ladder, a tall girl who looked to be about thirteen dropped out of the trapdoor and landed gently on the wooden plank floor. She was dressed in light blue, and her silver hair shone in the light from the setting sun. She stared at the floor and didn’t move. Grå sighed, put down her wooden spoon, and walked over to the girl, standing behind her and placing her hands on Märke’s shoulders. Rik stepped closer, peering at her. “Can you look at me?” he asked softly, kneeling down in front of her. Slowly, Minnesmärke raised her head. Deep blue eyes stared at him, widening slightly at the robes that designated him as a gothi. He gently reached out and placed a hand on either side of her face. Only her eyes moved, watching him. Rik jerked back as if shocked. She blinked at him, then up at Grå. “Did I do something to make him fall over?” She asked softly, horrified. “No. No, you didn’t. That’s quite a burden you have there, youngster. It just surprised me. It’s not your fault," Rik reassured her, climbing slowly to his feet. He turned to Grå. “I will talk to Kennari when I leave the valley in a few days. She needs someone to learn from.” Grå nodded. “She will be fine with me until then. Märke, dear, run and ask Vente if she has any extra potatoes, will you?” Märke nodded and bounded out the the door, grabbing her boots and cloak as she went. Avalanche. The next day dawned bright and clear. Minnesmärke woke Grå as the sun rose, and the two of them pulled on boots and headed out, toward the great hall, where Kunnskapsrik had said he would tell a story. The other villagers were closing doors and walking down the path as well. Grå and Minnesmärke joined Glen and her sons, Lese and Ord, and her daughter, Elli, and all of their children. The great hall was filled to bursting with eager people. Kunnskapsrik arrived soon after they did and settled himself down in the front of the hall with his back to the fire. Everyone in the room quieted down, and closed their eyes as they waited for Rik to begin. “The story I am going to tell you took place long, long ago, when the animals and the plants were first deciding what they wanted to look like. The story is called, ‘Why Fox has Black Ears and a Black Tail.’ In the beginning, Fox and Blackbird were best friends. They did everything together. Blackbird was an ebony black, Fox a beautiful rusty red. Fox liked to slink around quietly, Blackbird liked to caw loudly and be noticed. Fox was known to be very sly and clever. They normally got along. One day, they went walking together in the woods. Fox slunk sneakily and stealthily down the path in his irregular way. Blackbird cawed loudly, hopping down the path, voicing his every thought. Fox becomes annoyed at Blackbird’s constant noise and shouts at Blackbird to be quiet. Blackbird stares at Fox, not believing his ears. Blackbird gets mad at Fox and warns him:‘You will regret this unfairness.’ Fox just laughs and disregards Blackbird’s wise words. That night, Blackbird stays awake by the fire. When Fox falls asleep, Blackbird rolls in the ashes of the fire. He takes the soot and his black color from under his wings and rubs the black onto Fox’s tail and paws. The rusty red of Fox is moved to Blackbird’s wings. Fox wakes up. ‘What did you do to me!?’ he cries. ‘I was so beautiful, and now look what you did!’ Blackbird shakes his wise head. ‘You were being unfair about me talking. This is what happens when you act unfairly.’ With that, Blackbird raises his wings, and, as he flies away, and the red rust under his wings flashes in the sun. The light brightens the color into what we know today. And that is why Fox has black paws and tail, and Blackbird has bright red patches on his wings. Fox has never forgiven Blackbird for what he did. So now, whenever Fox sees Blackbird, he chases him into the reeds.” As Rik finishes, silence reigns in the hall. Not a sound can be heard. The Gothi trills one last, mocking note, and the echoes of the cry can be heard in the valley beyond. The villagers could picture the fox waking, as the tone of Rik’s voice rose and fell with the mood and the character. Kunnskapsrik thanked the villagers for listening, and the villagers, as was the custom, remain silent, eyes closed, holding onto the story. Then, as one, they thank him for the story. The day continued like every other day, but the work was done lightheartedly. Everyone talked and joked with each other, and the work went by quickly. Kunnskapsrik left the next morning for Visdomens Grotta. The glacier collapsed that afternoon. Jorden’s Hånd, towering above the valley, lost several tons of snow as a few boulders were released by the thawing ice and tumbled down the mountain, dislodging rock off the glacial face. The northern pass was blocked by the avalanche. Kunnskapsrik stayed in the Earth’s Hand, and he died in the valley he was born in. Kennari, the wisewoman, came down the mountain two days later, scrambling over the boulders, snow, and wood that filled the pass. She didn’t waste any time. Without knocking, Kennari opened the door to the Frostbitter Inn. Grå looked up in surprise, and then turned away, her shoulders shuddering. “She’s upstairs," she whispered. Kennari climbed the ladder into the loft. Looking around, she saw blankets and furs stacked in untidy piles, plants of all shapes and sizes hung from the ceiling. In one corner, huddled beneath a blanket, was Minnesmärke. Kennari knelt before her and held out her hands. The girl slowly unwound herself from the blanket and peered up at Kennari. The old Sage’s silver hair and deep blue eyes were nearly perfect mirrors of Märke’s own. The youngster reached out, grasped Kennari’s hands, and arose. ~Summer’s Journey~ Northeast. The sage led Minnesmärke east, toward Trader’s Pass. The damp earth of the road stuck to their boots, and there were many trees and boulders in the way. Near the village, the street was paved with river stone, but once the twisting path started to climb out of the valley, it fell into disrepair. The traders would clear it as they came along, but it would never be as smooth and easy to travel upon as the roads near the larger cities. When they came to a particularly large log laying across the path, too big to go around, Minnesmärke asked, “Can we move it? It looks untidy, and the traders will have enough to do without clearing big things off the path.” “No. We wouldn’t be able to move it if we tried. The traders come prepared to do it, and they make enough money in the village to afford the occasional risk," Kennari replied, glancing up at the darkening sky. “Oh. Why are we going east? I thought Visdomens Grotta was north of the village." “It is. The Jättes Näve has closed the path. We will go through the eastern pass, then along the Elm Träd Bergskedja and down from Jökull to Visdomens Grotta." It took Kennari and Minnesmärke seven days to cross the mountains, and then three more to travel along the ridgeline of Elm Träd Bergskedja. When they reached Jökull, a tiny settlement tucked in between the peaks of the Elm Tree Mountains, Märke had become homesick. She missed Grå, and Glen, and the village. Kennari insisted they leave Jökull before sunrise, saying, “You need to see Visdomens Grotta as the sun sets. It is the most beautiful thing you can imagine.” Märke protested, and explained calmly that the most beautiful thing she could imagine was the Frostbitter Inn, when Glen and Elli would come to help Grå with the cleaning or drying of various herbs. Kennari nodded. “Never forget home. It is the most precious place on earth to you because it can never be replaced. It can be damaged, but the memory of it will always be there.” “I have a lot of memories, but I don’t think they’re all mine. They are beautiful, though,” murmured Märke. Kennari froze. “What do you mean, they aren’t all yours? You have other people’s memories?” Märke nodded. “I have lots of them. I have all of the Gothi’s memories. I don’t have any of the villager’s memories, but I have their ancestor’s. I have the memories of people I don’t know. I have a lot of those.” Kennari breathed out slowly. “Who named you, little one?” “Glen did. She said it meant memory-keeper or memorial. I like it, because it’s true. I have forgotten memories.” “Well, then. You are quite a bit more understanding of the situation than I thought you would be." she grinned. “Well, that means less time explaining and more teaching. Good.” At that moment, they came over the hill and saw the gaping mouth of Visdomens Grotta, glowing with golden light as the sun set in a glorious display of fire and sparks. Gift. The next four months were lonely for Minnesmärke. Kennari taught her about her power. She learned that she was a memory keeper. She was the culmination of every forgotten person in Scandinavia. Kennari showed her how to organize the memories. As Minnesmärke grew, the amount of memories grew, as people in the mountains and islands were forgotten by their descendents. Knowledge that surprised even Kennari was found. One evening, as Märke was weaving a story from the memories, Kennari’s messengers, the songbirds of the mountain, began to scream a warning from the slope outside the cave. Märke stopped her story and stared at Kennari, wide-eyed. Kennari pulled herself to her feet with the help of her cane. Hobbling over, the ancient sage motioned for Märke to join her. The two women stood side by side, one as old as the mountain itself, and one as young as the leaves of the ash trees. Wisdom and Memory walked together to the entrance of Visdomens Grotta and looked out. A single man was toiling up the steep slope through the glade, panting. He looked exhausted, but Märke, who collected herbs and wood from the forest often, didn’t pity him. He was clearly a wealthy city man, out to seek Wisdom. As he raised his head to look at them, Märke started. It was Snavs, the fellow whose careless mumblings had led Ord to gather a party to find her and bring her to Grå. She supposed she should thank him, but what Grå had taught remained firm. Men like Snavs want something, and they are willing to do horrible things to get it. Of course, she would be polite, but wary. Märke decided to play the shy girl who had first come to the village, although that girl was long gone. She stared at the floor. “Ottaa Vastaan,” Kennari murmured. “Thanks, but I need to talk to the sage," he said. “I am in quite a hurry, actually, so if you could call her, that would be great.” Kennari raised her eyebrows. “I am the sage. Is there something you wish to ask me that your Gothi could not answer?” “No, no. It isn’t about ancient lore. I just wanted to ask a question. Where is the sage?” he demanded, looking around as if he expected a spry, young woman to leap out of the cave. Kennari, normally a very patient person, was on the verge of losing her temper. She breathed out slowly and said, “Sir, I am the sage. I am Kennari, the Wisdom of Visdomens Grotta. If you expected someone else, you should leave. Please ask your question, and then leave me in peace.” It finally seemed to occur to Snavs that the sage could make things very unpleasant for him if she so wished. “In late winter, I happened across a village someway south of here. I told them I had seen someone behind me on the path but could not get to her to offer assistance. They ran me out of the village with the claim that I only cared for my own skin. I can’t go back there without risking my life, and I was hoping that you would be able to tell me what happened to the person on the path," he hurriedly explained. Kennari scowled. “You need to ask the people who helped the child, especially as that is one of your fears. You did not come here with a worthwhile question. You are instead avoiding telling the truth. If what you have said is a lie, which it most certainly is, then I don’t want to hear the truth. Leave this valley, and consider what you have done.” Snavs protested, but a wild wind swept him up and tumbled him down the mountainside, and his screams could be heard for quite a while. Kennari turned and went back into the cave, followed by Märke. The old sage lay down and patted the floor next to her. “Come here, little one, and finish your story," she whispered, closing her eyes. Minne Viskunnar. Märke began to inscribe the forgotten thoughts onto the grey stone wall of Visdomens Grotta. She added hundreds of memories a month, until the wall of the cavern glittered with thousands of inscriptions. Kennari watched from her bed, growing weaker and weaker. Märke told story after story, using her voice to paint a picture for Kennari. Lying on her pallet, covered in blankets, Kennari wrote down the stories as Märke told them, adding images and decorations to each slate. As Märke’s forgotten memories were written down, Kennari grew weaker and weaker. With concern, Minnesmärke cared for her teacher, brewing teas and infusions to sooth Kennari’s swollen throat. As summer wore on, Minnesmärke became more and more worried for Kennari, for as the names on the cavern wall increased, the sage’s mind slipped farther and farther away. Kennari explained, her voice hoarse with coughing, “I am losing the energy of the Visdomens Grotta. The memories aren’t leaving enough room for wisdom.” Horrified, Märke decided to end the inscriptions on the stone walls, but Kennari protested, saying, “I am old. Wisdom will stay in your memory, and in the memories of the people who have sought me out. Memory is eternal. It only needs someone to remember.” The next day, Kennari could no longer speak. Märke told story after story, her voice transporting the old woman to ancient places, times, and people. The sounds of the birds outside the cavern filtered in through the open entrance, the walls glittering with names. Early the next morning, Märke ended a story to look over at Kennari’s motionless body. As the old sage died, Wisdom’s memory slowly began to inscribe itself on the ceiling of Visdomens Grotta. From her birth and realization of her power to her death and transfer of her power to Minnesmärke, Kennari’s memory recorded itself for all the world to see. Visdomens Grotta would still hold the ancient wisdom that it had always held. Minnesmärke cleaned the cave. She buried Kennari as she had requested: above Visdomens Grotta. Märke planted an ash tree above her. That tree would grow above the mountain and would protect the cavern from the fiercer winds. On the ceiling of the cavern, surrounded by the thoughts of forgotten minds, Kennari’s story glittered in the reflecting light. The title of the memory was two words. “Minne Viskunnar” glowed blue as the crystaline stone behind the cavern walls shimmered with fire. Memory’s Wisdom would remain there, as would all the memories Minnesmärke had carved. ~Fall’s End~ Lost. In the days that followed, Minnesmärke collected the stories she had told that Kennari had inscribed, and inscribed the ones she hadn’t been able to tell. Märke made copies of the stories, many, many copies. It took her over three months to write down all the memories. She sorted the thousands of slates into regions. The memories would go to each area of Scandinavia, and the villages would keep the memories. The forgotten people of the Nordic communities would be remembered again by their descendents, relatives, and friends. Minnesmärke was sharing the memories. She was spreading them out, relieving her burden and gifting the people with their own forgotten history. She worked her way across the mountains, giving the Gothis and Hofgothis she met the slates. Each village got stories. As villagers read the stories, and remembered them, Märke began to forget the memories. As one after another were remembered, the more Märke forgot. The villages began to expect her, this fifteen-year-old girl. Thousands of memories left her, until the only one that remained was Kennari’s. Hers remained strong, and was the only one she didn’t share with the people. Kennari’s wisdom remained on the walls of Visdomens Grotta and would only be visited by the people who had the perseverance to climb the mountain to learn from Wisdom. Since Kennari had passed, Minnesmärke felt more and more lonely. She started moving northward again, slowly, so as to reach Visdomens Grotta before the first snows fell. She arrived at sunset and watched the cavern mouth come ablaze with blue fire as the sun finally set from the rocky outcrop that Kennari had insisted they wait at over six months ago. It seemed like eternity to Märke since she had last stood here, looking down at the valley. The ash tree planted overthe old sage’s grave had grown while she had been gone and now was up to Märke’s waist. Minnesmärke cleaned the cavern of any belongings still there. Most of Kennari’s possessions had been buried with her, but all the dried plants that the two of them had collected over the past two seasons remained hanging in the cave. Märke collected them and crushed them on the stone grinder, turning leaves, berries, bark, and flowers into powders. She wrapped the medicines in individual bags, then packed them into the bag that she had first brought with her in the spring. She would give them to Grå, as she was getting too old to gather them herself. Some of the medicines she left in the cavern, tucking them in the cracks in the walls to save for true emergencies. She packed her bag and walked out of the cavern, pausing just once to read the inscription on the ceiling, Kennari’s memory. Her story. Minnesmärke started down the mountainside, working her way back toward the overlook that stretched out over the valley like a deer’s antler. As she crested the last hill before the valley evened out, she looked back, and distantly, so faint she could she wasn’t sure if it was real, she heard the sound of the wind whistling through Visdomens Grotta. It sounded like music, the beautiful trills and warbles that echoed through the valley. With a sorrowful smile, Märke set off for the only village home she had ever known, southwest, toward the little town of Jökull. Southwest. The townspeople of Jökull welcomed Minnesmärke as she entered the village. She had been through the town about a month ago to give them their memories. The children ran toward her laughing, and Märke smiled and shrugged down her pack. She nodded to the adults watching from their doorsteps as the youngsters pleaded with her to play with them. She folded her cloak, placed it on her pack, and turned to face the children. After several hours of gleeful play, Minnesmärke reluctantly shouldered her bag, pulling her cloak over her shoulders. The villagers pleaded with her to stay with them for the night, but politely, Märke refused, saying that she needed to get over the Elm Träd Bergskedja before the first snows blew in. The villagers worried at her for pushing it so close. “You’ll get snow in a couple days, and you won’t be able to get far enough down the Elvens Dal before winter catches up with you," badgered the villagers. “You should stay with us this winter, and return in the spring.” But Minnesmärke would not be swayed. Something had been bothering her, an unstoppable need to get the village and Grå before something went wrong. She feared it already had. She put on a bright smile for the townsfolk and joked, “I’ll just have to race it home then." Her face became serious, and she said, “Don’t worry about me. I will see you in the spring when the first pass opens, even if I have to go west and south to reach you. I will come.” She bounded out of the village, driven on by that deep, worrying instinct that she would be too late. For what, she didn’t know; she just knew that she could not be late. She worked her way along the ridgeline path that wound its way between the great peaks of vast, ancient stone, reaching through air, reaching up to the sky as if hoping they could reach the moon. The winding trail looked like a snake, stretched out along its favourite sunning spot that was now frozen over with ice and snow. The streams that crossed the snaking path periodically were icy cold, so cold that Märke could feel the chill through her thick boots as she picked her way across them. Hoof marks and wagon ruts filed the path, hardened into the earth by the growing cold like the boot prints of a giant. The traders had left a while ago, but a month or two is nothing in the cold upper reaches of the godlike heights of the glacial mountains. Märke raced across the path, pausing as infrequently as possible. She was racing the frost giants, and however hard and swift she might run, they would catch up eventually. She would rather be at home when they caught up, and she had only a few days head start. More importantly, she wanted to see Grå. She had left with Kennari quickly last spring and regretted not having spent more time with Grå before she had left. She missed Glen, who had always been kind to her and helped her and Grå when they needed it. As she crested the slope before the valley walls began to tilt downward, and icy wind swirled around her. Minnesmärke looked up only to have a small whirlwind of snow flung in her face. Märke knelt, breathing in deeply of the freezing air, and, with her hands brushing the path, she started forward, not trusting her eyes. The snowstorm got steadily worse as she descended the mountain, sending snow and ice whipping through the air, biting into Märke’s cheeks as she hurried over boulders and around logs. She couldn’t see the ground in front of her, and was guiding herself by her hand and feet, feeling for dips and rises in the trail. Snow. Glen peered through the doorway of the Frostbitter Inn, searching for shapes in the growing darkness. As the wind picked up, she turned away from the cold night and went back inside to where Grå was lying, exhausted and frail. Minnesmärke hadn’t come back. They had heard of Kennari’s death, and Grå had been so confident that her child would return. Glen watched Grå’s chest rise and fall under the thick woolen blankets. Glen hoped with all her heart that Märke was alive... and was coming home. But as the night wore on, the weather grew steadily worse, until the snow began to pile in the streets. Winter had come. Minnesmärke would not reach the village before the passes closed, if they weren’t already. In the great hall Itsekeskeinan looked out as well. In each of the houses, villagers looked out at the storm, first with excited hope, and then with mounting anxiety. Slowly, one by one, they closed their windows and turned away. Glen fell asleep in her chair, exhausted from watching Grå. The fire hissed and sputtered in the grate, and the wind hissed and screamed outside. The sound of thumping woke Glen, and she started awake, peering through the gloom of the poorly lit room. The sound came again, and a voice cried, “It’s me, Grå! Märke! Are you there? I am here!” Glen pulled herself to her feet and stumbled across the freezing floorboards toward the door. She yanked it open with a crash, and a snow covered figure fell into the home. The dark blue cloak was covered with snow, but deep blue eyes glowed from beneath the hood. Glen’s shoulders drooped in relief, as she craned her neck to look up at the girl who had left less than a year before. “Märke! You made it! Come in, hurry," Glen smiled, ushering Minnesmärke into the room where Grå lay asleep. “Glen! Where is Grå?” than Märke’s eyes landed on the bed. “No. Is she…?” “No. She is just tired. She has gotten quite a bit older the past few months. Ah, youngster, I am so glad you’re here," “I am too. Have you heard about Kennari?” Märke’s eyes glimmered with sorrow. “Yes, dear. We know. I am sorry," Glen sighed. “She was a wonderful person.” “Her memory in on the cave ceiling. People can still consult wisdom, even when wisdom has passed," Minnesmärke sighed and turned to Grå. “Thank you for taking care of her," she murmured. “Of course, child. Grå has done a lot for me. I can do the same for her," Glen said quietly. Märke smiled and knelt in front of Grå. She suddenly turned and dug in her pack, pulling out a few bags. The cloth pouches were filled with herbs gathered by Kennari and her, and they were unusual anywhere but in the valley of Visdomens Grotta. Märke stepped out of the house for a moment to fill a pot with snow. She placed it on the fire and waited for it to boil. She added the medicines and let the tea steep, filling the room with the pungent aroma of the Visdomens Dal. She knelt beside Grå and gently placed a mug of warm tea into her hand. Grå struggled to sit up, and Märke gently supported her as Grå drank. Glen dipped a mug into the pot and drank. The heat traveled down her body, spreading warmth throughout the room. Grå finished the tea and lay back down. Glen settled in her chair, and Märke, sitting cross-legged on the ground, began to tell a story. ~Winter’s Beginning~ Silence. In the great hall, Itsekeskeinan stood at the front and listened to the wind. The hall stood firm against the wind, and the fire in the hearth burned bright, sending shadows flickering across the wooden boards. The street lamps had been blown out, and darkness had settled over the village. The hiss and crackling of the fire whispered against the howling and screaming of the wind. He would leave on his journey to become a gothi when spring came. Seeing Kunnskapsrik, understanding his knowledge and kindness, had hurt the hofgothi. Itsekeskeinan had never had children. No one had ever depended upon him until he became the hofgothi, and even then people went to Kunnskapsrik or Grå if they had an question. He had announced his departure three days ago and had been surprised and touched by the sorrow in the villagers faces. When he left, the villagers had decided to form a council instead of having one chief. Ord, Lese, Glen, Glänta, Talvi, Villa, and Kylling would form the council for this year, and new members would replace them at the beginning of winter next year. Itsekeskeinan was pleased with the system and felt assured that the village would maintain and increase its pleasant manner, as well as prosper under the new leadership. Minnesmärke was leaving with him as well, leaving to visit Visdomens Grotta and Jökull. Märke was going to travel. She would return each winter, but she wanted to share her stories with people in other villages in the mountains. She had been telling stories every night in the great hall, and she would always tell another if someone asked her to. Märke had taken over Grå’s healing work and stayed in the Frostbitter Inn with the elderly crone. Grå was now almost ninety and had become very frail. The villagers were staying in now, rarely venturing out except to the hall for a story. The stormy weather and chill grew as winter progressed, until the river was frozen over and snow blanketed everything. The cold, cruel hand of the earth rose above the valley, casting an immense shadow across the village. Icicles were forming on the eaves, and the gnarled branches of the trees creaked and groaned in the wind. Bare of leaves, the limbs looked pale and scarred, standing bent and broken against the storms. The rushing sound of the river was silenced against the ice, and the only sound was the wind. It whistled through the valley, sending up miniature storms of ice and snow. Silence fell as the birds stopped singing, as the bears and mountain cats settled into their dens to wait. The mountains of Scandinavia fell into winter, and the deafening silence of the valley asleep was the final shuttering of the door of fall. The herds were gone. Outside, the valley appeared dead, without a sound or soul visible. Inside, it was bustling with life. Winter. Inside the communal hall the central fire blazed in the great hearth. The steady whirr of the spinning wheels sounded as the crones spun the wool the herders had brought in. The rattle of dice as the old men played at the table above the fire provided a rickety rhythm to the hum of the spinning wheels. The young children played in the corner past the fire, organizing the stacks of firewood into neat rows. Glen and Grå sat together in front of the fire, watching Minnesmärke help some of the older children tie up the bundles of herbs and spices they had helped Grå gather in the fall. Elli was teaching her two daughters how to pound the grains into flour. As the villagers fell into the busy, crafting time of winter, they chatted easily about this and that. Glen was complaining about the traders that had come two months earlier. “They just talked and talked, and when they finally did bring out their goods, it was all fancy pottery that is no use to us here. We make lovely bowls and cups and sculptures, and we can sell them for a tidy amount to Keramiikka, but they should have better goods than that from the cities.” “Yes," said Vente. “But most traders won’t take pottery over the mountains. They say it’s too breakable. It was extremely lucky that we found Keramiikka. She gives us a good bargain.” “I know," grumbled Glen. “I just wish we weren’t the only valley that makes pottery. The clay deposits on the other side of the river will soon run dry, and even with Talvi’s new plan of using other people’s clay for their ceramics, we could still run out.” “We have several decades before that will happen, and if we are careful with it, it will last forever," pointed out Glänta. With a sigh, Glen pulled herself to her feet. “We need to go start on dinner. The men will be clamoring for it soon enough.” Glänta grimaced. “I hate cooking in the winter. The meals are always exactly the same, and it gets really boring.” “I know," Glen smiled. “We can still have a fall meal today, though. We don’t want any of the food to go bad, of course.” Laughing, the old women, their daughters and their granddaughters headed out to the storage shed to collect the ingredients for the winter meal. Wanderer. As winter continued, Minnesmärke prepared for her journey. As soon as the pass cleared, Itsekeskeinan was heading west, and she was heading south. She planned to stop for several weeks at Visdomens Grotta to organize the cavern and to stay with Kennari for a while. She also wanted to stay in Jökull, as she had promised the townsfolk she would stay with them when the passes thawed. She was planning to request their help in clearing the northern pass of the Elvens Dal, so all the entries to Visdomens Dal would be open. The villagers all brought in fabric and yarn for a new cloak. Her old one barely fit and was getting thin. She gathered up old bits and pieces that Grå had lying around, and both Glänta and Glen brought their scraps, and together the three old women worked on a quilt to send with her. The villagers were collecting old scraps of clay, fabric, and metal to leave at Visdomens Grotta for travelers that came through in bad weather. Itsekeskeinan was preparing to leave as well. The villagers helped him, but he was going closer to civilization then Märke, and he was older. Since he was journeying to become a gothi, he needed to be as independent as possible. As winter continued, Märke began to say goodbye to the villagers. She became withdrawn, sorrowful. Some of these people she would never see again, but they had all contributed in some way to her childhood. Glen and Glänta had both helped Grå take care of her when Snavs had first alerted the village to her presence. Ord and Lese had found her on the path when she would have died. She owed a lot to the village and the people in it, and she wished she wasn’t leaving them. Grå wouldn’t be in this world for much longer and Märke didn’t want to be gone when the old crone passed. Glen sooned learned of this fear of Minnesmärke’s, and, horrified, told her, “You are never to worry about leaving us behind. We are old, Märke. We are old. We don’t care if you aren’t there when we die, because there is nothing we would want to tell you that hasn’t already been told. We trust our friends, our neighbors, our descendents, to pass on what they heard. It would be lovely if you were there. But I don’t want you risking everything you hold dear, unless it would help you let go," she sighed. Turning to Grå, she asked, “Grå, if Minnesmärke wasn’t there when you died, how would you feel?” “I would would feel sorrow, because I know that she will hold that burden, what seems like a burden, forever. That is what would cause me sorrow. Märke, dear, it won’t matter what I think when I am dead. Don’t change your course of action, your purpose, for me. You are young. Don’t throw away your future for me. You don’t need to worry. I will not be alone.” “I know. I know you won’t be alone, and yet, I will carry your memory with me, all the way to the end of the path." Märke murmured. “I will be here when you pass, Grå. I will know. I will be here. I have decades to do what I want and need to do. I can postpone that for you. You are worth it. You are worth it to me.” The End ~ Short Story Archive 2017-2018 ~
Purity in Darkness
by Allyson Boltzen Content with my work, I shoved a still-bloody hand in my pocket, grabbed an apple on my way out, and left. I couldn’t help but smile as I walked down the street. The usual busy roads seemed deserted, almost as if especially for me. The moonlight glinted off a drop of blood that had stained my cheek as the world became washed over with blue. The night was calm and somber, almost as if the earth itself was weeping for the death of the poor boy. “Davon, stop sleeping in class.” I peeked up at Moro from my comfortable place beneath my desk. “I’m not sleeping, I’m just closing my eyes,” I retorted. He grunted and rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say.” The loud ringing of the bell bounced off every wall in the hall. The sound tore its way into my brain through my ears and tortured my consciousness. The sound faded after awhile. It was no longer needed. What a horrendous thing the bell was. Just ringing and ringing at the time it’s supposed to--no concern for the feelings of others. It was just doing what it was told. I slowly arose from my seat and found my way out of class, grabbing my bag on my way out. Many people gathered in the study areas--clusters of horror and curiosity--frantically discussing the events of last night, and the tragedy that had struck our peaceful neighborhood. ¨Davon, keep your head up,¨ laughed a man behind me. A heavy hand landed atop my head, messing with my hair. ¨My head is up,¨ I argued half-heartedly. Moro casually walked in front of me, preventing me from moving forward. ¨You know, maybe the girls would be more interested in you if you smiled more.¨ “Yeah, and maybe you’d get good grades if you didn’t focus on them so much,” I grunted. I grabbed his shoulder and gently moved him out of the way. He was surprisingly light for such a largely built man. We’d been friends a long while, but we weren’t without our fair share of fights and annoyances. First off, Moro has alwa- Explosions. That's all there was. No room for sound or thought, just huge, bright monsters emerging from the earth and raining destruction upon our small town. I found myself on the ground, clouds of black swirling around me. The hallway had just collapsed...with all the students inside. ¨For Christ's sake, what’s happening?¨ screamed Moro. He was on his knees, staring at the rubble that was the school. ¨Moro, calm down. It´s ok-¨ ¨No! It's not okay Davon! Jesus, do you feel anything?¨ A man appeared behind Moro, grabbing him and throwing him into the arms of another. Both had badges with two slits of color on them. Another pair of strong arms yanked me up and kept a tight hold on my arms. Looking down at his sleeve, it looked like the same badge, only with three strips of red. ¨Do not resist. It will only bring you more pain,¨ warned another man. The man had a stern expression that was shared among all the men, as if their uniforms came with a specific face they had to wear. Something that drew my attention to this final man in particular, was his long scar down his cheek, forcing one of his eyes to shut part of the way. Moro and I were then taken into an old army vehicle. The man with the scar took to the wheel and wasted no time leaving the school behind. There didn't seem to be any other men in uniforms. Moro was resisting every chance he got, cursing and screaming at the men who ¨were so stupid, they couldn't differentiate between a pretty penny and a dirty dime¨. We arrived at a crumbling building, still smoking from explosions that had devastated it minutes ago. There was one room that was, for the most part, intact. The inside was nothing extravagant: plain brick walls, the sealant between every block clearly visible. The ceiling caved in slightly and the evening light slithered in through holes in the walls that could have been windows at a point. The ground was dirty and damp. Puddles of off-colored liquid were common around the room. Rainbows were hidden within these small collections of fluid, adding a drop of happiness that quickly faded into the walls surrounding it. The men with two stripes shoved us onto the floor, my face slamming into the pavement and leaving rocks embedded into my cheeks. “What the hell is your guys’ problem with us?” Moro demanded. His question was met with gazes of pure hatred and disgust. “The commander’s son was murdered, and we’ve got reasons to suspect one of you.” The three-striped man moved forward as he spoke, adding weight to his words. “I think you monkeys have the wrong info,” insulted Moro. “My friend or I would never do something like that! First off, the only thing my buddy over here is good for is being nominated for the world’s laziest student.” I refocused my attention from the floor to the four men in the room. They had a way of bringing the already dead atmosphere down even more. One of the two-striped men, a little shorter than the rest, seemed a little uncomfortable, but the other three looked like statues. “Moro, calm down. It’s just a misunderstanding,” I assured him. He twisted his head towards me. He was on the verge of tears. I could hear it in the way his voice cracked at the end of each argument and in the way his eyes shined like polished marbles. It seemed as if the men had finally had enough and were ready to get to the point. They began by grabbing our arms and forcing us onto our knees. Then the beatings began. One after another their fists came down upon my face, blood trailing down my chin and neck to pool on the ground between my legs. The man with the scar simply stood in the corner, head down, cringing as Moro cried. After neither of us confessed, their masks began to come off and anger and irritation showed clear on their faces. The tips of their steel-toed boots found their ways into my organs and ribs. I was baring it, clenching my jaw and biting my own tongue. Moro was slumped over and eventually discarded into the corner after his spirit was completely broken. “Just say it already!” screamed the man with three stripes. “We know it was you, you monster!” A knee made contact with my stomach and I nearly threw up last night’s meal. “Those rebel friends of yours claim to have had nothing to do with it,” began the taller, two-striped man. “But you’re their hidden dagger, aren’t you? The one who does all the dirty work,” finished the man with three stripes. “You have no clue what you’re talking about,” I chuckled. A fist rammed into the side of my head and threw me into the floor. “You’re sick,” finally spoke the scarred man. “Says the man who would torture an innocent person,” I argued. “You’re about as innocent as the devil himself.” One of them pulled me back up to my knees and forced my eyes to Moro. He was pleading with me, begging me to help him in some way. “Davon, I don’t want to die here,” Moro cried. The man with three stripes on his badge held a military knife to his throat, right up and cozy against his flesh. It hurt my own neck to watch him swallow while the knife pushed out a little from his adam’s apple. “Confess! Say how you killed the little boy. Explain how you snuck into his room and sliced the boy’s neck. How you watched as he tried desperately to stop the bleeding but-” the man choked on his emotions. “Death was not meant to come for him until his life was lived!” The boy’s calm expression as he watched the television became prevalent. War, bombs, and destruction lay waste to the screen. Death flooded into its dark pixels. His eyes were smiling, playing with his expensive toy soldiers. I wondered if the boy understood that when each fiery burst from the earth erupted, there also came an irreparable destruction. I spat onto the floor. “First of all, he didn’t suffer,” I began. “Oh, so the demon admits his crime,” snickered the scarred man. “He was too young to know what was happening, and too stupid to think to stop the bleeding. He just watched as his clothes turned red. It was fairly quick.” “Liar!” yelled the shorter, two-striped man. I sighed, “Life isn’t fair. Not all people get as much time to live as they should.” Moro stared at me, terrified. Then his gaze fell to the floor, tears dropping onto his lap. “Is it true?” he asked as he stood up. “It was a greater good. That commander kept the money given to him by the government to help the soldiers. He used it to buy fancy toys and fill his own pockets. Hundreds of men died because of his selfishness,” I stated calmly. My actions were just. Moro looked at me with tears still running down his face. “He was still a boy. No matter how horrible his father, that boy had nothing to do with it!” I did the right thing. He grabbed the knife that had once been held against him and turned it on me. The three men looked to the scar and took no action against my friend. Moro took one step towards me, then another. He was at a full sprint, knife held in front, sharp end forward, screaming with rage. Screaming with confusion, sorrow, and hate. Hate for the friend who he thought he knew. My arms were grasped tightly by one of them; I could only watch as he got closer. I could have freed myself somehow. I could have moved enough to prevent a fatal wound. I could have pulled down the man that held me to take the blade for me, but for some reason I didn’t. I knew I had done nothing wrong, but my stomach still twisted at the thought. Before I could give myself a chance to argue with myself, Moro’s head rested on my shoulder and his tears fell heavy on my school uniform. It was a shock, to speak honestly. I didn’t expect myself to not react at all. I was truly surprised. He slid the blade out of my abdomen and set it beside me. Part of me wanted to reach for it, but another part screamed not to. Moro wrapped his arms tightly around me and cried. “I’m sorry,” he choked. I closed my eyes and laughed. “It’s okay,” I said, struggling to keep conscious. “You’re my best buddy you know that?” I laughed. “You’ve always been such a softy, you know that?” “ I already regret it. Do you think we could fix you up and be better by tomorrow?” Moro asked pleadingly. “Idiot,” I uttered quietly. Then the overwhelming need to close my eyes took over and my vision became less and less clear. It was like someone was slowly closing the blinds on the world, and I had no control. “That monster deserved it,” spat the three-striped man. I smiled to myself. Though, maybe I didn’t move my mouth at all. Yes. I am a monster. A monster that society needed. The Journal by Donovan Young There once was an old man with a journal. He would often be seen writing in that journal. It was a small journal, with a green cover that felt like smooth leather, with a fancy decoration of lines that swim and dance on the cover. Then one day, the old man disappeared. Of course there was an investigation, but it turned up nothing. It was as if the old man had decided to take a sudden trip. But as the years passed they realized that the old man was not coming back. No one wanted to enter the old man's house and sell off all of his stuff. It was a classic two story Victorian house that looked ancient, and the years did nothing to improve the air of the place. Finally someone went in, and what they found astonished them. So much so that they refuse to speak of it, other than to say that no one should ever go in there again. Eventually, two children moved into town. They were twins named Michael and Mary. They were 12 and still very curious about everything. They were always together, even when sleeping. There were many stories they had heard about the town but none intrigued them more than the story of the old man and his journal. So they decided to enter the house to find the journal. This was their first mistake. But first they would need to get supplies and to get supplies they would need money, and to get money they would need to convince their mom. Fortunately their mom was a very happy person and was willing to give them money for exploring supplies. However, they had to promise to stay out of trouble, which they were happy to do and already planning on doing. So when night fell, they went to the house from the story. This was their second mistake. They brought all the standard explorer gear: flashlight, snacks, rope, bug net. This was their third mistake. Feeling prepared for what they thought was to come, they walked up the path, up the stairs and opened the door. They were not prepared for what they saw, for while the outside of the house had deteriorated so much, the inside looked as though it was still inhabited. They stepped in, and the door shut behind them. That was the last time they were ever seen and are still counted as missing to this day. But, the story is not over. When the door shut behind them they jumped and spun to look at the door, but it was gone. So in classic explorer fashion they decided to split up and search for clues. As they wandered the house they noticed that it looked pristine and perfect. A little bit too perfect, except for one thing, on some of the walls of the perfect house were written the words, “it all started when someone left the window open,” “who left the window open,” “it wasn’t me,””why,” “who,” “how,” “I'm not getting out of here am I.” Each message was worse than the one before. The last was the worst of them all. “Don’t look under the rug.” When the met up, they shared what they had found. And when the last message was shared, they realized that they were in the room with the rug. And in the center of the rug was a bulge, like there was something trapped under it. And being as young as they were, their curiosity got the better of them. They got out their net and prepared to lift the rug, warning forgotten. They counted down from 3 and lifted the rug as quickly as they could. This was their final mistake. To Bring Flight by Cassandra Guy We had just moved into the Victorian house up on the hill beside the forest; it was quiet, yet noisy with wind. I was helping my mother carry in the boxes of our belongings, while my father, bit by bit, unloaded the furniture from the truck. Stepping inside, we placed the boxes on top of the kitchen’s island. “Isn’t it beautiful Markus?” my mother said to me as I looked to her, then looked with her around the room. “Yeah, real old wall paper though,” I responded, walking to the wall, lightly pressing my fingertips to it. “Hey Mars, Help out ya old man will ya?” “Oh yeah, sorry pops.” I ran to my father, excusing myself from the kitchen, where my mother proceeded to gaze off at the room. Stepping into the entrance, I saw my father pushing the dresser through the doorway; furthering my father’s request, I grabbed onto the other side of the dresser, lifting and pulling it into the house. My father and I rested it down as I leaned forward, holding myself up with my hands to my knees, catching my breath. “Hang in there Mars,” my father said, as he sighed and took a deep breath. “This thing’s heading to the third floor.” My eyes widened, tracing the path up the stairway as my father continued speaking... “Or I guess you could say your new room, heh”. I pulled myself up and grabbed back onto the dresser once again, then slowly backed my way up the stairs. We finally reached the top, the third floor, where we placed the dresser down with the intent of resting it down lightly, but accidentally due to exhaustion, caused a heavy landing. My father flung upward, tossing his sweat forward, pulling his arm to his forehead to wipe it away. He looked to me as we both stood there winded. He opened his mouth to say something, but then was interrupted by my mother’s call. “ Erick?! Don't you need the key for that room?!” she shouted from two stories below us. My father began to pat all his pockets down, seemingly all at once, then looked down with a sigh to follow. “Shoot,” he said quietly to himself, but loud enough for me to make out. “I’ll be right down honey!” My father turned around to make his way down the steps then paused in mid-direction. “You stay here Mars, I’ll be back with that key.” He turned back around grabbing onto the railing and he continued to make his way back down the steps. I watched him till I could no longer see his form, my eyes slowly rolling away from where he was heading to around the loft like entrance to the room. My eyes made their way down to my dresser, which I've had for quite some time. I began to trace my fingers along the top of it, walking in the same direction my finger flowed. Suddenly, I tripped on the back of my own foot, launching myself forward. In an attempt to catch myself, I grabbed the door knob thrashing into the door itself, causing it to swing open; resulting in me falling to my stomach. I tried to grasp for air, but seem to been winded by the fall. Slowly but steadily regaining my ability to breathe, I looked up to the window. A light blazed through it affecting my eyesight, bringing me to shut my eyes with force. I raised my hand above my eyes blocking the blinding light dashing through the window. As my eyes adjusted, I began to make out the room around me. There was a bed, a twin to be exact, held up by metal bars with the design of twisted vines. It reflected the light off of its pale and fading white color. I looked under me to find that I had fallen on a small oval shaped rug, with the colors of green that have faded into more of an olive green, and felt as if it was covered in forgotten dust. I quickly brought myself up from the ground, one step at a time. When I reached my feet, I dusted myself off rapidly. Not even minutes had passed by when I began to hear heavy running footsteps racing up the stairs. “Mars?!? You alright?!?” My father shouted on his way up, his sentence ending at the beginning of his entrance into the doorway. He grabbed onto both sides of the doorway with his hands, his right holding the key. He held himself up against it as he caught his breath. “Heh..” my father exhaled, “looks like I didn't need the key after all.” He chuckled a bit sarcastically with slight expressed embarrassment. My father lifted his head up, looking to me with a smile, reassured that I was alright. Then suddenly his smile fell and his eyes widened. He pulled himself up, looking around the room. I looked to him with confusion then to the direction in which he stared, and then I too, saw the reason for such a reaction. Birds, hundreds of them, on moss green vines, all rested upon the navy blue. My father whistled, “Well ain't that somethin’?” I nod in response with my mouth hanging open just a bit. I had not seen it at first, how could I have not seen..this?? After staring off for some time, my father pulled away his eyes as if they had gotten stuck and began to shake his head. “Well, this dresser ain't gunna place itself.” He tapped the side of the doorway twice with his left hand as to bring attention, then turned around and grabbed the dresser. He pulled it in, dragging it across the floor leaving marks that were created from moved dust. He bumped into me unexpectedly and paused his movement. “Mars, you’re in my way son.” There came no response, I continued to stand there. These birds, the colors, something had my eyes glued in admiration. “Mars?” My father waited a few seconds for a reply “MARS!” I jumped up in shock, turning myself to my father. “What’s gotten into you boy? Get outta the way.” “Oh yes, s-sorry dad.” I backed up, spacing out my arms to feel the room. My father sighed and continued pulling the dresser back into place. I watched him drag that block of wood over into the corner, removing himself away from the window and getting onto the other side of the dresser to adjust the placement. He backed up a bit, standing beside me, then placed his hands on his hips. “Well,” he says looking around the room, then over to my direction “Whatcha think?” “I-” pausing in the middle of my speech I gazed around the room my eyes being drawn back to the wallpaper, with the feeling that they have grown heavy, as if they are being pulled from my own socket. “I love it,” I responded without a thought, my father smiles to me and looks around once again. “Well I'll uh, i'll leave ya to it then.” He turns around and makes his way out of the room. Due to a sudden unpleasant instinct I pull my eyes away, feeling a release from my eyes right after. I blinked them, seeing if they were still there. After that it felt that I was hit with awareness, something here wasn't right. The room had pulled me into some form of love struck, but all that lingers now, was erry. Making my way out of the room, I pause, looking back to the room with a shiver, then, closed the door. “Dinner time,” my mother shouted with a full of life beam, then placed down the plate of steamed rolls. My father with starving excitement almost leapt out of his chair and grabbed a ton of food from different plates laid across the table. After filling his mouth with cooked goods he mumbled in high approval. “Honey,” my father said with his mouth full, “You’ve really outdone yourself.” “Well, it's a special night,” my mother pauses and looks over to me, her smile growing even wider, “It’s our first night, in our new home.” Dinner went by so quickly, I found myself helping my mother collect the dishes. “Oh, you’re so helpful, Markus,” my mother tilted her head with a smile in my direction, “Go get some rest, it's been a long day.” I feel a bit shocked, reminded of the feeling from earlier. “Well there's lots of dishe-” “I insist,” her eyes widen a bit and her eyebrows raise, yet her smile still holds. I look to her with disappointment, for my lack of excuses “Um, alright then,” I say gloomily “Well, good night mom.” “Goodnight sweetheart.” I make my way up to my room, feeling that the higher I make my way up the stairs, the darker it gets. Reaching the door to my room, I grab the knob. I turn it to enter, then suddenly hear a noise. I freeze in shock, as the shock slowly dissipates I rest my ear against the door. Nothing, no sound, nothing but silence in the air. I open my door in fear to find something inside, but all I come to see is the drapes flinging up slowly from the breeze that enters into the room. “Oh, heh.. Just the window,” I say to myself as I then fall onto my bed. I sigh in relief, releasing the tension that was built by the uncertainty, just to have it crawling back to my chest. I hear a flap, no, I hear paper flinging fiercely in the wind. I jump up and look at all that stands alongside the window. I see nothing but I hear it again, I squint my eyes and there I see a tiny little strip of paper hanging from the wall being swung around by the wind. I sigh and shake my head in a heavy disapproval to my reaction. “It's fine, everything's fine,” I get up and shut the window, causing the drapes to fall slowly and lightly down and leaving the strip of paper hanging off the wall. I stare at the strip for a while before approaching it. I lightly placed my hand against it, and pressed it back to the wall. After taking my hand away, it fell back into its dangle. Looking at it hanging I notice there is no rip, no tear of paper, the blue still stood against the wall. I feel my chest become hot and cold all at once, feeling a heavy pull down as if my heart had fallen. The confusion was so overwhelming that it had turned to fear. There wasn't anything to think of it, reality is where I lie but I feared this does not lie with it. I slowly back up and turn to the box with my belongings beside my bed. After rustling through it, I grab my pack of glue and slowly re- approach the strip. Quickly, I place glue to my finger then toss the container to the floor. Using my other hand to grab the strip, I rub my glue covered finger onto the wall then press the strip against it. I back up again, as if there were to be some kind of reaction from the wall, but nothing. “M-maybe they just painted the wall the same color, so I can't see any tear, yeah- yeah that makes sense,” I say, convincing myself back into peace. I wipe my hand against my pants, then jump under the covers. I close my eyes tightly, hoping it would put me to sleep faster, or maybe in hopes that what had just happen was a dream itself. I hear a mumble, a quiet whisper that feels as if it’s right beside my ear. “It all began when someone left the window open.” “W-what?” The whisper grew louder “It all began, began, began, began, began, began, began-” It became glitched, like a broken record. “Quiet you” a different voice spoke, soft and high pitched. “Hello?, W-who’s there?” I sway my head left and right, but can see nothing but pitch black floating in the air. I hear a tiny giggle in the distance. “Where are you, I can’t see anything.” “Right… here,” a bright light appears in the black, slowly filling the room with light. I am blinded at first, but then my eyes adjust. My blood becomes cold at the sight of where I find myself standing. The room was like a square box, covered in the wall paper, not just the walls, it was on the floor, and the roof above me. “The wallpaper, its- its everywhere, w-wheres the door,” I look all around me searching for a way out. I hear a flutter. I turn around and become flushed in a swarm of white birds. “Fly with us Markus.” “Yes, fly with us.” “Fly, fly, fly!” A bunch of soft voices call out as I walk backwards swaying my arms around to free myself of this white coated storm. I feel myself fall into a gap, grabbing onto the sides of the wall, I find myself caught in the seams of the window. The white birds fly out, I begin to feel tiny tugs on my shirt. “G-GET OFF ME!” I move my body to the side, crushing a bird against the window sill. More of the birds approach, nipping at me, leaving scars that stung of paper cuts. I look beyond them to see the walls steadily closing in. I gasp in fear, pressing my feet to the walls in attempt to push it back. Even with all my strength I could no longer hold myself in.“S- SOMEONE!! ANYONE!! HELP..!!” One of the white birds fly before my eye, giggling softly. “Fly time.” “AAAHHH!!” I gasp, my upper half swinging upward. I’m covered in sweat, my heart pounding fiercely. I jump out of my bed falling to the floor. Catching my breath I look up around the room with a fast pace. My eyes reach the wall and a sickening dread falls over me, I become nauseous and my head feels pressured. I jump off the floor flinging my head out the window, vomiting outside my room. My eyes widen when I realise my place in that moment and I jump back slamming the window closed. That wasn't open, I closed it last night, h-how was that open? I practically run out of my room in panic, my heart pounding with a spiking fear. I ran out of the doorway slamming the door behind me then rested my back to it, breathing heavily. I put my hand to my chest, grabbing tightly to my shirt, it was too much, I’d never felt such a feeling like this in my life ever before. I felt that I had lost it, that my mind has gone haywire, I felt like a mad man; but it's all so real, I know it is, it can’t not be, nothing like this, it couldn't just be me..r-right? I rush my way down the stairs calling for both my mother and father, but was left with no response. Almost down to the first floor, I trip over myself and tumble the rest of the way down. “Agh, ..ow.” I hold myself up off the floor shaking, either from fear or pain. I hear a voice outside the house, and another voice speaking back to it. I pull myself up and go to open the door, but before grabbing the knob I make out one of the voices. Mom? “Sir, I know, you've told me before” “Yes, but I just feel the need to inform you how important this really is, I told you my concerns but I didn't tell you what happened.” I lean my ear closer to the door pressing my ear against it with hard force. “This man’s lil’ girl, he.. He lost her-” “Yes I know she had a fatal fall from the third floor,I'm aware of this house’s history.” “But ma’am the father, he went insane.” My eyes widened at the same pace that my jaw dropped. I looked down, then faced my eyes to the door and pushed myself tighter against it. “He kept, (sighs) he kept saying it was the birds, somethin’ like that. The thing is- is people in this area find this house to be.. unholy.” “Again, Mr.Warns, I know the history of this house, now can I please have that duplicate key now?” “Y-yes, but please.. Take this as well.. For your safety.” “Have a good day Mr. Warns.” I hear footsteps on the patio, I move myself quickly into the kitchen. The door opens and my mother walks in with a key and a wooden cross in one hand, her other on the door knob.“N-now if you ever need anything im alwa-” “Goodbye Mr.Warns” my mother says aggressively, slamming the door closed on him. She walks into the kitchen, walking right past me, not seeing me against the wall. I place myself quietly at the table as she lays a key onto the counter, then stares at the wooden cross with a heavy look of disgust and throws it into the trash can. “Nice shot,” I say to her, making my presence in the room known. “Oh my,” she says with a shock “I didn't know you were awake yet dear,” my mother replies softly, laughing with a smile. In response to my compliment she says “Why thank you Markus,” and she grabs the sides of her dress, lifting them up and bowing, expressing some sign of endearing appreciation. She then turns around to the counter, grabbing things from the cupboards. I stir my fingers alongside each other. “So.. Uh, who was at the door?” My mother becomes still, as if frozen in time, then jumps back into a perky body language. “Oh, just some town folk coming to welcome us in.” I felt a coldness run through me, did she.. Did she just lie to me? No, that's my mom she wouldn't do that, maybe she didn't understand what I meant. “Oh, was the cross a welcoming gift?” She laughs and shakes her head, “No that’s, that’s just good ol’ Christians, ya know, force feeding” “Oh uh, w-what about the key?” “ Hah, your father lost the first key to your room so I asked the neighbor to bring the copy” “Ah” I respond, then look out the window for my father's car only to find it out of place. “Is dad out on work?” I looked off, uncontrollably swirling my fingers together at a faster speed. “Mhm, he's out doing his hard work as usual.” There comes a uneasy silence in the air, still lingering even after I speak. “S-speaking of my room, I uh… I think there's something….wrong..with….it.” My mother freezes again and slowly turns her head to the side. “What do you mean,” she turns to face me, her smile oddly wide “Sweetheart.” I feel locked in her friendly stare, my hands freeze in their movements, my throat becomes tight. I clear my throat. “Well uh, the wall paper seems to be coming undone, a-and I had a bad dream, and the windo-” “Oh honey,” she walks towards me and sits beside me “Sounds like you’re just struggling with the sudden change.” “No I-” “It's perfectly normal, I bet you'll get settled in in no time!” “But mom it-” “In fact, speaking of your room, I haven't seen it yet. Why don't we go take a look? I bet it's just wonderful!” She grabs my hand and pulls me up out of my seat, holding a tight grip. I pull myself back and harshly take my hand back. We stare at eachother, her smile no longer present, a sweated chill flows through me. Her face filled with offence quickly fell back into a soft gleam of happiness. “I see, well I'll just go take a look alright?” she says to me then makes her way up the stairs. A guilt falls onto my chest, weighing heavy on my heart. I can't let her go alone, what if something happens? That’s my mom. “Wait,” I shout to her stopping her in mid-direction “I-I’m sorry, I'll go with you.” She smiles very brightly, as if I had rewarded her with a holy light. She grabs my hand once again and we make our way up the steps. “Ohh it's quite dark up here,” my mother says as we reach the top. “Yeah, but it's a really cozy space” She looks around and crosses her arms “I can see that,” she looks over to the door “Well, shall I do the unveiling?” she says with a giggle in her speech. I smile and shake my head “Don't worry, I’ll get it.” I grab the knob and open the door, the bright light blazing through the door along with a breeze. I walk in and instantly feel the shivering fear that this room has given me. I turn around to speak to my mother, starting my sentence away from her direction. “Well this is it, whatcha thin-” turning to her, I see eyes full of anger and hate for a split second then “Bash, kkrrlk.” The door was shut closed, and locked. I run to the door and grab the knob trying with all my strength to open it. “Mom?!? Mom what are you doing, d-did you lock the door??” With a familiar voice and an unfamiliar tone I hear a response “I’m not your mother.” My heart freezes in shock. “This could have gone nice and simple, I had it all planned out, I gave you days to live, but you just had to go and figure it out.” My eyes start to water, I feel so hurt and so confused, my mind couldn’t process what was happening in that moment, and I believe it didn't want to. “W-what? M-mom..” “DO NOT CALL ME THAT!” There's a silence, tears fall down my face. “You're too young to remember, but I’m not your mother. Your real mother died giving birth to you, your father remarried, I wanted him.” My eyes fall to the floor, tears falling off my face. “But not you.” My chest becomes filled with a painful heat, I feel that I have fallen into grief. “Now it's time for me to do what I should have done years ago” I back away from the door, my body shaking harshly in fear, as I cry I look around the room and hold myself. I felt so hopeless, alone, and terrified.. I knew nothing good could come of this. The window was open once again, I run to it and try to slam it shut, with all my effort no result came. I hear a familiar sound, a flutter. I look to the wall and see a tiny ripped hole that stood out in a different color to the navy blue. The white bird was no long there. I looked around the room dashing my eyes all around me. With a light breeze from behind, I hear the sound of a dove’s call. I turn around and see the white bird, flapping its wings, one of them with the piece of the wallpaper attached. It soars at me, pinching onto my lower eyelid. “GAAHH!” I scream in pain and grab the bird throwing it to the wall. I hear another flutter, looking to the wall I see a bird slowly coming off of it. Breathing heavy, heart pounding, a fear-fueling rush drives through me as I grab the window, once more giving it all my might to shut it. I pull it down with all my strength, using my body weight to weigh it down. The white bird picks itself up and flies to the other, grabbing its wing and pulling it back, ripping it off the wall. They fly at me, one pinching onto my hair and pulling it, the other nipping at my fingers that are gripped to the window. I let go to swipe them away from me, the one at my fingers latches onto my wrist and pulls back, taking a chunk of my skin with it.”AAAHH!!” I grab onto my wrist falling back, my back hitting the wall then slipping down it in a seated position. My wrist begins to bleed down my hand dripping all over the floor. Hearing more flutter I look up at the wall where my back is rested. Tons, if not all the birds wings’ are slowly coming off the wall. Tears are running down my face and mixing in with my blood. I slam my head back, I had lost all hope, I layed there awaiting my fate. Then from outside the window I hear a motor. “DAD” I pull myself up, pressing my wrist to my shirt, I stick my head out, holding the side of the sill with my hand and scream out. “DAD!! DAD HELP!!” He continued driving towards his parking spot on the other side of the house. I took a deep breath and screamed for him “DDAAAADDDD!!” The car came to a sudden stop, I smiled, crying in joy that I was heard. “A little late, friend.” “So prepare your wings.” “For your ending date.” I looked behind me and became pushed by tons of birds, I flip outside the window and grab onto the bottom sill holding myself up. “AAUGHH!” I scream in pain as I feel the skin on my wrist being torn. Hearing the car door shut from below I call out to my father again. I hear no response for a few seconds then a cry back “MARS, OH GOD, I’M COMING SON!” I try to look back to see him, just to see how high up I am. I look back to the window, grabbing even tighter. The white birds fly out, grabbing different parts of me, pulling me down. Other birds from inside pinch at my hands. My hands shake in weakness, and my best efforts go to waste. Involuntarily letting go, I feel the weight of gravity bringing me to my fate. In that moment, it was as if everything slowed down, I was able to look at it all and soak it in. Who would have known my life would have such a bitter end? My eyes shut tightly expecting any moment to be hitting the ground, I feel hands and tumble on top of something. ”I… got you,” my father says, underneath me. I try to get up as fast as possible, but due to my weak condition I accidently fall back on top of him before I get up. My father slowly gets up after me, then holds me tightly. I look behind him with the warmth of safety, it instantly washing away when I make eye contact with her. Seeing the situation, she runs towards us with an acted concern. “Oh my goodness, what happened??” she yells on her way to us. I back away from her, pushing my father out of his grasp, he turns around to see what has startled me. Before my father could say anything to her I yell out “YOU MONSTER, YOU PLANNED THIS!” My father looks to me in concern while she tries to ignore my cry, giving me false affection. I push her off of me and yell to my father “SHE TRIED TO KILL ME!” My father, with the look of heartbreak, looks to me “Your mother would neve-” “SHE'S NOT MY MOM, SHE TOLD ME HERSELF!” My father, taking pause of what has happened, looks down sighs. “You’re right,” my father says, she then tries to comfort him. He shrugs her off and walks over to me, standing by my side. “I miss her so much..” My father sighs to himself, then grabs my arms to looks at the damage in attempt to change the topic. She stares at him, then to me, her face begins to boil with rage. She screams, pulling her hair “YOU LITTLE BASTARD!!” she looks down beside her and picks up a pitchfork, charging at me with it. My father, in immediate action, grabs it from her and knocks her to the ground. She rolls, spreading a cloud of dust. The dust clears, revealing her at her most vulnerable. My father places the pitchfork towards her. Her eyes fall back into their welcoming shine as she calls out to him “Erick… I love you, you could hurt me”. My father holding the pitchfork in her direction lifts it back. She shuts her eyes, expecting the worst, then hears a thud. “Get out of here,” my father says, with a deep voice filled with genuine rage. “But, Erick I-” “GET OUT.” Her eyes filled with fear, she picks herself up, standing there for a moment looking to him, then to me. She runs into the forest, leaving stepped hazes of grass behind her. Hours pass as my father and I pack our things into the car, finally loading what we can we get inside. I put my seat belt on, then looking to my patched wrist poking at the bandage. “I always knew she was the jealous type, but I never thought she’d be capable of this,” my father says, then looking up to me with tears in his eyes, “I'm so sorry Mars.” I rub his shoulder and smile, “Don't be, there's no way you could have known.” My father nods and rubs his eyes, then turns on the ignition. Before we head off, I look up to the house, staring at the third floor window. Nothing was really explained, but what had happened was certain. Watching the window as we head off, it suddenly hit me what that whisper had said before. “It all began when someone left the window open.” Chapter 1: Introduction by Wolfgang Robinson “My name doesn’t matter. I don’t care what people will think. Write down what I’m dying for…”-unknown When I was young I was told that those who thought poorly of you would only remember what you did right before you died. People who never really knew you would always tend to associate your passing with what kind of person you were, of course that’s just the kind of world we live in I guess. But those who loved you, those who knew you personally would remember you for what you did when you were young, what trials and tests you passed and failed in order to become who you were. Honestly….Contemplating all this life-deciding-choices-and-becoming-mature stuff goes over my head. I’ve learned to just roll with the punches and blows of life but in retrospect it seems true enough to me. This why I’d like to take this time to explain to a few things. Okay a lot of things. I know that there are people that will hate me for what I’ve done recently. Truthfully, they have every right to be angry. Or sad or discoregned but I want to try and make things clear, I want there to be closure its the least I can offer at this time. I’ve made mistakes and I’ve let people down. I’ve taken lives I shouldn’t have and I said things that I should have kept to myself. The choices I’ve made effects countless others I’m sure so it only seems right I make amends while I can. And if what I was told as a child is true then I should start at the beginning so that others may reflect on my passing with insight instead of assumption. I was born 24 years after the kingdom of Paragon fell. While some people had risen from the ash of the war to create a form of a stable society there was still a lot of chaos going on at the time. Well, there still a lot of chaos these days….the point is I never knew my mother but I can only imagine that she wanted what was best for seeing as she left me in the care of a secluded village deep in the forest. The enclave village of the forest known as Three Trees. It was there that my blood mother left me in the care of my “uncle” before disappearing off the face of the planet. While he may not have been related by blood was definitely family and the closet thing I ever had to a parent. He was a good man and I loved him, but wasn’t the brightest or most open minded individual in the village. And speaking of the village... First thing you need to know about Three Trees(and yes that is the name of the village, it comes from the three large trees in the center of town that the founder of the village planted more than 100 years ago) is that it is a very agrarian place. The people of the village live in balance with nature and consider themselves not just human, but spiritual beings meant to be devout to the land. You can probably understand why they are an enclave… Growing up there wasn’t a whole lot of fun. From the moment of birth every child of the village was supposed to become acquainted with the soil that they are to tend to and grow from(and eventually be buried in). Part of this included mastering a specific plant to grow. Memorizing its nutritional requirements, seasons of harvest, germination time, and other specific details. Most kids picked a plant and over the course of a year would have a garden full of their chosen plant. I started with carrots but somehow ended up with shriveled black tendrils instead of bright orange roots like others kids. So I tried my hand at lemons next but the plant was dead before is bore a single fruit. I remember it being a small shrub with sickly looking leaves. I moved on to apples, daisies, roses, celery, it seemed as though everything I touched died. In order to try and help me with this problem and high sages of the village tried to teach me about magic. They thought that maybe I had latent magic abilities that merely needed to be properly channeled. This also proved to be false. My lessons in magic and bio enhancement charms didn’t seem much results. A spell to clean water? The liquid didn’t change for me. The spell to increase the size of fruit? My wisps of magic made the fruit smaller if I remember correctly. Or maybe a spell to clear a plant of harmful fungus and bugs? Even my most concentrated efforts merely produced sparks of arcane energy. The only good thing I learned was my ability to read arcane runes but even that proved to be a mostly useless skill. So as you can imagine I didn't really fit into the usual standards of the village. It wasn’t that great when you also considered that I wasn’t even born into the village, I was an orphan from a far away land that had entered their ranks and couldn’t even help in the most basic of village life. So no, my childhood wasn’t peachy(no pun intended) it was full of days sitting by myself feeling like an outcast as the kids planted and grew amazings crops and mastered spells to enhance the harvest and amaze their friends. I didn’t fit in anywhere in the community really but I was still loved my uncle and tolerated by the village because every member of the community was valued. Even if that member had strange interests… Another thing about Three Trees, they weren’t big fans of technology, which was unfortunate seeing how at a young age I was heavily interested in technology. Some members of the village tried to keep me away from the few machines in the village but the fact is that the world we live in is awash with technology from past and present. We live on the graves of the worlds greatest builders. So it wasn’t too hard for me to get my hands on bits and pieces of old robots. I can still remember the look on my Uncle’s face, Horizon bless his soul, when he walked into the living room of our house to see me, sitting in a pile of sharp rusty metal, trying to rewire the engine of an old android. Not only was it nearly a blasphemous scene it was nearly a blast scene. I probably would have blown up myself and the house if my uncle hadn’t have intervened. That’s how I got my name by the way. Wait. F***. I haven’t even introduced myself. My name is Haywire. Yeah I know its not the most amazing name but its really grown on me over the years and now I don't think I could change my name now if I wanted to, not that I’ll probably have the chance. At the time however it merely earned me chuckles from the elders and mocking jests by my peers. Actually that still happens to me...But that doesn’t matter because the friends I have now are the kind I laugh alongside with. It is funny how things like that work out in the end, no? Anyhow a name is a name(and I bet you’re pretty glad about your own name now right?) but how about I tell about my journey. The story that you’ve probably been waiting to hear. It began one day almost a year ago... Uninvited Guests by Scout Buendia His heart was pounding. He was sure he had seen the doorknob turn. The Brooks family had just moved into the open house on the block. It was the two parents and their two sons, Sam who was 14 and Jason who was 9 years old. They were in the process of moving their stuff into the house. “Hey, Sam can you put this box of books into the basement? Please.” “Yea sure.” Sam grabbed the box of books and started to walk through the house. He first couldn't find the door that led to the basement stairs. After looking into many closets he found the door and opened it. When he opened the door a big cloud of dust flew into his face revealing the dusty and cobwebby stairs that led into the basement. As he looked down the stairs, his phobia of basements came back to him. When he was younger his older sister, who is now in college, would force him to watch horror movies with her. She was too scared to watch them by herself, so she would have him watch them with her. One day, when his older sister was making him watch a horror movie called Milo, he became terrified of basements until he grew out of the fear when he was 10. He finally snapped out of it and told himself that the movie wasn't real, and he kept walking down the stairs. When he made it into the basement, he noticed that the old owners of the house had left some of their belongings. There were old paint cans, a stack of old newspapers, a box of junk and a really cool old radio. Sam put the box down. He noticed something strange in the corner of his eye. He got up and turned toward it, and it was a little door that was about a foot tall. He started to walk closer to it to get a better look at it. “SAMM!!” His mom yelled “Coming Mom!”He ran up the stairs and shut the door behind him, so no one else would discover the little door. “What were you doing?!” “I'm sorry I got distracted because the old owners left somethings in the basement.” “Okay well, we have a lot of stuff and I still need your help.” “Okay, I'm sorry.” Sam didn't tell his mom about the little door because he didn't want her to get rid of it before he could find out what was behind it. After that, Sam went to the basement and moved the box full of junk in front of the door so that it wouldn't be noticeable. Whenever someone needed something in the basement, Sam insisted that he be the one to get whatever they wanted so they wouldn't move that box. Every day before his parents and his little brother came home, he would go into the basement and think about opening the door and would reach for the doorknob and doubt and freak himself out forcing him to walk back up the stairs but this time he forgot to put the box back. The next day was different from the any of the others he got home from school and dropped his backpack on the floor and went to the basement stairs. He opened the door and started to walk down the stair when his heart started pounding. He was sure that he had seen the doorknob turn. He sat down on the stair very slowly making no sound while watching this little door slowly open. When the little door opened a little man appeared. Sam gasped really loud. The little man looked at him and started yelling. “Who are you?!! And why are you in MY house?!” Sam got confused after being terrified of this little man who was yelling at him. “What do you mean your house? I live here.” “No, you don’t the people who live here are Mr. and Mrs. Lopez.” Sam thought to himself that must be the previous owners. He then turns to the little man and asks him “They don’t live here anymore sir,” Sam continued “ My name is Sam Brooks and I live here now with my mom, dad, and my little brother.” “This is preposterous! Where are Mr. and Mrs. Lopez?! What have you done with them?!” “Sir I promise I haven't done anything to Mr. and Mrs. Lopez. They must've moved.” “ But they would've told me if they moved or at least gave me a heads up, I was super confused of why I couldn't open my door.” “ Oh I'm sorry, That's my fault I put a box there so that my mom, dad or brother wouldn't find your door.” Sam is still Muddled by the little man that was now sitting in front of him on that old radio Sam had seen when going into the basement for the first time. He was looking at his hands like he had lost someone important to him. “ Are you okay sir?” “Stop calling me sir my name is Earl, and no I'm not, Mr. and Mrs. Lopez were keeping me safe. Mr. Lopez was a Paleontologist and Mrs. Lopez always stayed at home. One day when Mr. Lopez was working in his backyard, I was just running out of the bushes because this horse sized rat was chasing me, I ran right into Mr. Lopez. He kicked the rat so I wouldn't be attacked and he looked down at me and asked my name. After that day he made me a little house out of the crawlspace with my own door. He kept me here and kept me safe so no one would find me and do tests on me.” “Oh I'm sorry and if you're wondering I'm not gonna tell anyone about you I pinky promise.” Sam took pinky promises very seriously, He has never broken a pinky promise ever because he's been lied to and he doesn't want to make someone feel the way he had. “Are you sure I can trust you? Because my life depends on that ‘pinky promise’.” “Yes, I promise I've never broken a pinky promise and I don't ever plan too. So tell me about yourself, Earl.” Sam and Earl talked for a long time until all of a sudden the front door opened and he told Earl to go into his house so that his parents wouldn't see him. Earl jumped off of the Little radio and ran into his house and Sam closed the door. “ Earl I'm gonna put the box back so they don't find your door but I'll bring food to you tomorrow and I'll skip my last period so we can talk and we can find out where Mr. and Mrs. Lopez went.” “ Okay and thank you, Sam I'm starting to like you and trust you.” “ My pleasure Earl.” Sam closed the door and moved the box in front of Earls door. He then grabbed the closest book he could see and ran up the stairs. His mom got frightened after seeing Sam bolt out of the Basement door and shut it. Sam's mom walked to Sam. “ Are you okay Sam? What were you doing in the basement?” “ yea I'm okay I just need to grab a book for a project and the basement creeps me out so I run up the stairs.” Sam's mom looked at the basement door with confusion. “Oh okay, well how was your day at school?” “It was good but I’m gonna go upstairs and start on this project I'll come down for dinner.” “Oh okay.” Sam ran up the stairs to his room. When Sam got into his room he got onto his laptop and searched up Emilio Lopez Paleontologist. Earl said that Emilio was the first name of Mr. Lopez so he searched up his full name to see if he can find anything that would explain why the Lopez’ would have just got up and left. Sam had been looking thing up for hours while he was doing that his mom had opened the basement door to see what he had been running from or what he'd been hiding down there. She walked down the stairs slowly so that they wouldn't creek and have sam hear her. She made it to the basement when she looked around and looked into boxes thinking he was hiding something down there and noticed on the ground by the wall that the dirt looks like it's been drugged so she moved the Junk box and found the little door. She stood up and looked at it with a quite confused but frightened face. She stood there for quite a while. Then she heard someone whisper. “Sam is that you?” She jumped in fright and moved the box back and ran up the stairs and slammed the basement door. Sam came running down the stairs and saw his mom who looked lost. “Mom are you okay!?” “I saw the little door in the basement and I heard a voice coming from it. Sam, what the hell is down there?” “Okay so please don't get freaked out but…” Sam told his mom everything, he told her about Earl and how Earl got there and about the Lopez’, Everything. “Would you like to meet him? He needs all the help he can get and he needs to be able to trust more people than just me.” “Sure but Sam what are we gonna do with him? Like we need to take him somewhere.” “We can’t take him anywhere mom Or he’ll be tested on, He can live he's been living here for a long time and we can feed him and act like he's family we can't like take him to the pound like he's an animal he's still human just on a smaller scale. I’ll take care of him if that makes you happier.” “Okay, he can stay.” “YES! Thank you, mom. Now let's have you meet him.” Sam took his mom down the stairs and moved the box and knocked on Earls door. “Hey, Earl I have someone I want you to meet.” “Is it safe out there? Are you sure I can come out?” “Yes, you’re safe I promise.” Earl slowly opened his door and poked his head out slowly. He got frightened by Sam and his mom. “Earl I would like you to meet my mom.” Earl slowly walked out of the door to officially meet Sam’s mom. He walked very slowly still unsure if it was a safe situation. He put his hand out and greeted Sam’s mom. “Hello, my name is Earl and I've been living here ever since the Lopez’ have been living here.” “Hello Earl, My name is Amanda Sam’s mom.” “Wait since you’re the grown up here and bought the house, do you know what had happened to the Lopez’? They left me with no message or anything.” “ I might know something, when we moved in the realtors said that the past owners Wife passed away and that the husband moved into a Senior center.” “That’s why they were constantly out.” Earl sits on the old radio with his head in his palm. “Mr. Lopez told me that this was gonna happen but I never thought much about it. I should’ve paid more attention to this and tried to help.” Sam’s mom saw how sad Earl was about this news and so she thought of an idea. “What if I take you to go see Mr. Lopez the senior center that he went to I believe is just a few miles away.” “Wait actually!? That would mean so much to me.” “Yes, How about we go now before I have to start dinner.” “Oh my gosh, thank you. Lets go!” They went to the senior center, Sam’s mom had to put Earl into a baby sling so that they could take him into the center. Sam’s mom went to the front desk and asked if they had a Emilio Lopez in there center. Believe it or not they actually did so they said that they were family member and they were let in to see him. They found Mr. Lopez and they told him not to worry that they have someone who wanted to see him and she brought out Earl. They both got super excited and hugged for a long time, Once they let go they started to talk and we gave them their own space and walked around the center. We went back to the room after 30 minutes to pick up Earl because Sam’s mom had to make dinner. They went into the room to see Earl and Mr. Lopez crying and saying their goodbyes. “I’ll bring you back Earl so you guys can still stay in contact and I’ll get the address of this place so you can write letters to him whenever you want.” Mr. Lopez and Earl said their goodbyes and before leaving Mr. Lopez told Sam. “Thank you Sam for finding Earl and bringing him here to see me, It means a lot and thank you.” “You’re welcome, Sir.” They went home and right as they got out of the car Earl ran inside and started to write his first letter to Mr. Lopez. Sam and his mom after that day made a pact that they would help Earl stay in touch with Mr. Lopez, keep him safe and act like hes a part of the family and not left out. Later that day Sam went to his mom with a question. “How are we gonna tell dad and Jason?” The Angel on 15th by Skaidra Pulley Christian never got drunk in the afternoon. That was reserved for nights after work, sherry straight out of the bottle and legs propped up in front of Saturday Night Live. Today was different. He’d called in sick. His face was already numb by the time he stepped into the Opal Bar. After too many drinks to count, his steps were unsteady and his voice slurred. It was evening now, the clouds growing steadily dimmer as he continued up 15th. His path was lit by the glow of the streetlights. They attracted men like moths, constantly surrounded by rasping voices and dark coats, stories and songs curling upwards with the smoke from thick cigars. It was under one of these street lights that he stopped, interrupting the tale of a beach side brawl by shouldering himself into the circle, out of place but somehow at home, united with them all in the quest for warmth. He found himself singing along, taking drags from the cigarettes of a girl next to him. Their bodies pressed together and over and over again he could feel her fingers brush his as they passed the Chesterfields back and forth. Perhaps it was that he wasn’t completely in control of his senses at the moment but he could feel a kind of connection to her. Perhaps it was the way she moved, swaying slightly with every breath, or the way she sighed, lilting and quiet, under-toning every moment of silence in between the uproar. Whatever it was, when he turned to go, something made him grab her hand. And for some unknown reason, she followed him. They made their way down the street, neither one speaking to the other. The cigarettes had been tucked away. He had no idea how much time had elapsed when they finally reached his building, the stairs to his apartment door looking more daunting than they ever had before. She seemed to know the way instinctively, as, he realized, she had the whole walk here. He sped up a little, realizing that as familiar as she seemed, only he actually had a key to the apartment. Her hair brushed his face as he bypassed her, taking another step up the stairs, and lavender flooded his mind. A lavender patch in a garden, stalks snapping off with every flick of her wrist. Purple flowers braided back in long blonde hair. He was ten again and his mother filled the house with her music, Elton John, The Jackson Five, Diana Ross, The Beatles. Masks were his father’s passion and their grotesque faces leered at him, jumping from the walls and covering the worktable in the defunct garage. He could hear the singing, his parents’ voices floating on the air in perfect harmony, and the screaming, when the records came to a screeching halt and masks were smashed underfoot. Lavender. He was fifteen and the scent permeated every inch of the room. He hated it, wanted every stalk gone from its vase and every satchel torn out from in between the sheets. Mama loved lavender. Dried petals dusted the windowsill. Her funeral too. Everyone knew her favorite flower and everyone, everyone brought it, perhaps to try and console the son leaving the gardens forever. In the city, they told him, in the city there will be no lavender. All he knew was that his dad was in the city and his empty house wasn’t and that was all that mattered. A gust of wind whipped across his ankles and awoke him from his reverie. She still stood a couple steps ahead of him, lingering in front of his apartment door, though he had not told her which one it was. He strode to catch up and unlocked it, wishing now he’d thought to clean before leaving that morning. She didn’t seem to mind though, not flinching when she had to sidestep a crumpled shirt and a week-old Cadbury wrapper. Her skin was luminescent in the light that filtered through the curtains, her hands’ reflections in the discarded bottles seeming to fill the room. His back was turned as he poured himself another drink and the sound of her approaching footsteps made him shiver. A hand on his arm. Fingernails pressed in a curve like the moon, and he was as cold as he’d ever been. The moon. The first time he’d snuck out. It’d been just this cold. It was just him and his dad now, them and the cockroaches. The carpet was coated in sherry bottles and the apartment itself was hung with the smell of them. There weren’t any masks on the walls here. No eyes watched him as he eased the door open. He held his breath as the door clicked shut and then he was off, converse slapping the floor as he made his way to the front of the building. In the wash of the streetlights the moon was made invisible. The sky was the color of his father’s work pants after too many wash cycles on high, a dull gray no matter what the starting color. Coins rattled in his pocket. Pressure filled his chest. There’s no point in sneaking out if there’s nothing to sneak out to. He kept walking though, attracted by the otherness of the city at night. The people who passed him had their hair spiked straight up and dyed bright green, or else they swayed as they walked and muttered curses under their breath. He walked until his feet hurt, in parts of the city he’d never seen. He returned home only when the cold got too unbearable. Nothing stirred as he made his way back inside. She removed her hand from his arm. Again, he’d managed to forget she was there, forget why she was here. When she walked her movements were so smooth as to be almost otherworldly, her toes touching the ground only slightly as though a force struggled to pull her upwards. He found himself lost in every quick movement, in every slight tilt of her head or turn of her hips. He rested his hand on her waist. Her lips were cold. The kiss grew deeper and deeper and her lips began to warm and as they stood her hair turned brown and he lost his gray. Dust floated through the air, lit by the golden afternoon sun. The apartment was hastily cleaned, the leg of a pair of pants just visible from under the bed. The bottles were tucked away. His dad wasn’t home, gone on some sort of trip, and finally he had a free moment. A school project is what she’d told her parents. A sleepover. Alice and Liv will be there. He kissed her harder. Her body pressed against his and his hands grabbed at her sides, pulled her closer. His hands were everywhere she was everywhere his mind was everywhere. His eyes opened. The light was gone. He moved away from her. He was far too old for light-hearted hookups now, for school projects and sleepovers. He met her stare. It was the first time that he’d met her eyes directly. He rebelled against the force of her, laying down in the bed rather than staying standing. She settled into the armchair. His eyes closed. He was 16 and throwing up, bent over the toilet in his empty apartment. His own empty bottles joined his father’s on the floor. He was 18 and taking shots, laughing too loud and casting glances at the girls in the next room. He was 20 and filling his room with smoke, uncaring of the coughing from the other bed. He was 22 and blackout drunk, collapsing on the sidewalk between the club and the cab. He was 24 and his friends were growing up. He was 26 and no one else joined him to drink anymore. He was 28 when his liver failed. He was 30, 32, 34, 36 and he woke up, chest heaving. He was 36 and his room was coated in Sherry bottles, his apartment looked just like his dad’s. He always said he’d never end up like that. She was gone like she’d never been. He couldn’t tell how long he’d slept. The Third Floor Bedroom by Serrenna Abrey She couldn’t bear to part with it, so the room, the empty room, sat in solitude. The green wallpaper shrank the room and aged every inch of decor to seem as if it’d been there forever. It had been 5 years since her son had passed, and somehow the pain didn’t lessen in any form. Jamela needed her son, and couldn’t comprehend any other greater purpose the world would try and show her. Over the years her loss only lead to more losses and her emptiness caused her sanity to wonder. Jamela’s husband had divorced her 2 years after the death of their only child, Vaughn. Jamela, unable to cope with her pain in the right ways, made irrational assumptions toward her husband Lawrence and one bash after the next became too much for him too handle. Lawrence was ready to find meaning and move on, which in Jamela’s eyes was forbidden and showed lack of caring. This broke Jamela, he was the one permanent thing she always had to fall back on. They had met during her sophomore year in high school, it was the first day of her job, and Lawrence was training her; he’d worked there for a few years already. There wasn’t a doubt in Lawrence's mind they’d end up together but he tried to fake it for the sake of the vast age difference but some things can’t be hidden for long. Jamela was unsure of Lawrence, but once he set his mind on something he was gonna have it. Struggling to get Jamela in one place for more than a few seconds talking about something that wasn’t about work was hard, but a few minutes accidently “stuck” in the walk in fridge he got his point across and she agreed to a date. Lawrence was just out of high school and making plans for his future adulthood while Jamela had just begun her high school career. She was so focused on her studies and had everything planned out, down to the street she would live on. But somehow she made time for Lawrence and it was one of the better impulsive decisions she’d ever made. Soon after they became inseparable, always together working or not and always had a feeling when one needed the other no matter how far physically apart they just always knew. She was different now Lawrence had thought, he felt her insanity, it gave him this anxious feeling that something wasn’t right, constantly., she was different now. Different than the girl he fell in love with the first hand shake. Different than the women he watched grow their child and slowly make all their plans come true. She was a stranger to him, and he ached for his love back but she was far gone. Gone covering the darkened green wallpaper with a dove each day Vaughan didn’t come back. Countless hours Jamelia spent brushing back in forth in small strokes a white body only to form a dove. The window in which always remained open, dried the doves and gave her angel son an easy return route. Days, weeks, months, and years had gone by she thought he’d come back. “Sons need their mamas,” she would say and each tear more genuine than the last. One tear after the next she couldn’t take it, instead of painting a dove she grabbed a match, usually used to light the candles around her homemade alter and lit it. Jamela watched the flame flicker, tilting her head to see each shade of orangey colors the fire produced, she directed the flame right to the first dove she ever painted, she watched as the wallpaper curled from all sides and each dove cried in hot flames. The flames grew, gripping every inch of wood surrounding the house and eating it up as if it were a vicious monster. The windows shattered not able to fight the heat. Slowly the home dissipated in aggressive flame, taking away the good and bad memories it bared. Jamela sat on the bed in which was, a nursery years ago, but evolved to a big kid room, then teenage cave, then an alter, too consumed in white doves, representing the days holding too much darkness. As the flames robbed her air she laid back ready to greet her after life and reunite with her son. But something caught her attention, she heard something from the open window and it wasn’t the raging flames. It was one of the most familiar faces Jamela could have ever seen, “what are you doing here I can’t do this anymore im ready im ready” she said coughing out smoke with her close to breathless lungs. Lawrence grabbed her and quickly fled back through the window almost getting caught in the falling of the overhang but made it out, only to look behind and see the home built from nothing years ago morphing into piles of ash and black beams. Lawrence held Jamela’s near dead body and whispered to her, “I’ll always know when something has happened to you Jamela, I can feel it, every time, no matter how far away we may be.” The next thing Lawrence remembered was waking up in the hospital bed with the first instinct of finding Jamela. He wandered the halls with a lightness in his feet something was different. He found Jamela’s room after seeking help, and as he walked in she was just walking up. “Good Morning Jamela” he said with tired enthusiasm. “Good morning” she responded with a smile he hadn’t seen in awhile. “I feel different” she said..” I feel, more myself.” “I know I can feel it,” the anxious pit in his stomach went away telling him she was gonna be okay, they both were. The 5 years feeling ill knowing she was, was the best relief imagined. The future would still hold challenges and the loss wouldn’t go away but they had each other again and that was enough. Rain Catcher by M.M. Clothespins strung upon a line billow gently with the bucolic wind. Stalks of corn bend in elegance at the tassel. A pinwheel, erected almighty above the stead, revolves with a shrill. Motor-vehicles lie bound by rust and unkempt foliage after years of neglect. A panoply of diverse vessels strew about an arid field lie empty. “Rain catchers, they catch rain.” claims the farmer. “Good thinking, we have gone far too long without proper rainfall” replies the sheriff with a sympathetic smile. “I’d be content with a drizzle if it would help sustain the crop.” the farmer says in a crestfallen tone. “We are due for some, eventually,” the sheriff reassures averting his eyes skyward to the pale above, “for now, all we can do is hope and wait.” The two meet eyes again and share contrived smiles whilst standing in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, until the farmer speaks his mind, “Listen, sheriff, I’d love to assist this investigation in any and every way I possibly can, but at this time there simply isn’t anything I have for you.” The sheriff acknowledges him with a nod of his head, “I know, I know. I am just leaving no stone left upturned. I never figured something like this would happen in our community, not here of all places.” “I know, such a young boy, It is a shame,” the farmer responds, “but just like the rain, he is bound to come.” The sheriff gets on his haunches and runs his hands through the arid blades of grass beneath, “You are right.” “The Mrs. is preparing supper, if you would be inclined to sit in, it would be our pleasure,” announces the farmer. “No, thank you, that is too kind of you, but I should be heading out,” responds the sheriff looking at his inexpensive wristwatch for the time and returning to his feet. “I see, just know, if ever you need any help, you know where to come,” the farmer puts out his hand toward the sheriff and the sheriff obliges, the farmer turns to walk back to his home, but stops in the middle of his stride and turns back. “Do you want to hear a joke that my father used to tell that I find relative at this moment?” asks the farmer. “Sure” responds the sheriff. The farmer smiles, “A man is driving on the highway late at night, it is pitch black, and he’s only able to see that that is within his headlights. He’s being real cautious, but eventually on this dark road in his headlights he sees something in the middle of the road. He has no more than a moment to register this and slams on the brakes, swerving and narrowly avoiding colliding. Frightened and winded he gets out of his vehicle to assess the situation. Standing in the middle of the road is a man and he is dragging a metal chain behind him. Now, furious at the absurdity of the situation, the man screams at the chain man, ‘What are you doing in the middle of the highway in the dead of night pulling chains?!’ The chain man looks the man over and calmly says, ‘because it is easier to pull them than to push them.’” The farmer pats the sheriff on the back soft heartedly before walking to his conservative home with hands in pocket, the sheriff stands solemn in thought. Above, layers of ashen clouds on the threshold of rain crawl across the dimming evening sky. Rhythmically, beads of rain fall onto the brim of the sheriff's hat and into the barren rims of those dozens of rain catchers. The Harp by Hariie Yang -So it’s true he thought, it’s really true. Once upon a time, on the mountainous land, laid a small and hidden valley. There was a boy, who grew up with no family except for his dog. They’d been together for so long that the boy had forgotten how they met. The boy called himself Eirrah, and his dog was Allebasi. Actually, it was Allebasi who contributed to their naming: It was the day he went out safariing while the dog followed by his side. When he dug out some muddy bottles from one end of a log, the dog barked out loud on the other end; he was pounding vigorously on the rotten wood. The boy was reluctant to pause his work, but still, he turned toward the excited pounding. With his axe, he slowly drew a cross-like tattoo over the messy bowl of dirt—he began moving his lips silently. In a few seconds the dirt formed several randomly sized cubes, then swiftly floated aside; Something appeared—a seeming cuboid, of a relatively unreasonable size. It was huge, with spoiled edges.It seemed that strange object could be opened up from one side, and it was comprised of hundreds of thousands of pieces. They were fine, well weaved fibers, with a thin and smooth texture—nailed together. The dog was sniffing and staring. “Een-te-ga-lak-tek En-cye-klow-pe-dee-a,” the boy spelled out the print carefully. Then he thought for a moment,“What’s an Encyclopedia?” he asked? The dog pondered for a second, and raised his eyebrows,“That’s what ancient humans used for look up things that they didn’t know,”;“And ancient means long, long ago,” he added. The boy nodded. He actually did not quite understand the concept—anyway.“I remember you said you wanted a name,” the dog chuckled, “might be a good idea to choose from there.” He bent forward and pawed. The thing flipped open to a random page, on which printed a strip of semi-faded bold capital letters in row on the side edge--EARTH. “I know Earth’s a planet,” the boy quickly blinked at his friend, smirking. The latter snapped, “It was, but not anymore.” He sighed softly. “How do you know that?” “I’m from there.” “Hmm…”They both slid into silence; The boy began to examine the neatly lined up, tiny writing on the page. “By the way,” the dog said, “I believe that they read their prints from the right side to the left side.” “I wanna be Eirrah then,”After a while the boy excitedly told his fellow,“And you can be Allebasi.” The dog smiled, turned his head, staring at the dimming twilight afar. “Sun’s going down, my friend,” he whispered. The planet, on which they lived, was special; It orbited around two stars with a circuit, that shaped like the twisted circle of ‘infinity’. When gliding through the void between the two illuminating, nights became almost as ephemeral as an instance. White nights era was about to be over. After the gorgeous and continuous daylight, the long darkness was apt to follow. The two lonely hunters planned to end the safari season and return to their homebase for hibernation throughout the desperate winter time. They had collected a good amount of ‘nutrient bottles’, which should hopefully keep the hibernation caskets operating, so that they wouldn’t freeze to death. The home base was not yet close. Since they had been traveling for a while, as passing through a creek, they decided to camp for a little break—the main engine of their vehicle needed cooling down. Allebasi suggested going on a walk. They gallivanted around the woods. Trees and grasses were still green. “Such a pity,” Eirrah sighed, “these beautiful livings are about to disappear.” “Well, the stars will resurrect them all after a long night,” Allebasi said, “and till then they are sure to wake us up as well.” They chatted and laughed, and even started playing hide-and-seek. The hills made the camp a great game place. Running until not catching up their breaths, the laid down on the soft and soothing ground. As Eirrah began to fade away into his never land, he heard a distant, melodic voice flowing into his mind, like a gentle hand caressing his consciousness. He had never felt that before. Growing up creating and repairing spacecrafts or all kinds of other machines, he had heard thousands of different noises from different engines. Yet he could find no memories of encountering a sort of engine that produce such a comforting sound. How wonderful, he thought. He was growing eager to meet the great engineer who might be operating the machine. He grabbed his ax and called Allebasi. The two fellows ran up the hill, towards where the voice was coming from. The voice became even clearer and more euphonious as they approached. Eirrah dashed out from a thick bush, and yelled, “hey! I love the sound of your engine, would you please…” The tune disappeared immediately. It was empty; no one was there. But, something was there. Eirrah halted his steps. Allebasi caught up after a few seconds. “That’s… a harp,” Allebasi inhaled, with his paw pointing. “That’s the engine that has that beautiful noise?” “It’s not an engine, my boy, not for operating” Allebasi was shaking. His eyes were filled with tears, “and that was not noise.” Eirrah paused. He mastered the bulk of skills in building and fixing crafts, yet he did not have further knowledge beyond that field. “How long… how long was that since I last listened to music from Earth…” Allebasi uttered the words quietly. So it’s true he thought, it’s really true. Eirrah was about to question: what is music? Or what is harp? But instead he pledged, “Please, Allebasi, tell me your stories… ”
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A New World
by Cody Hayes
Vinland, the New World. It was something Kölla had always dreamed of, and now it was within her grasp. In fact, all she had to do was order her sailors to set sail. It was liberating. Vinland was going to be a world completely contrast to her vanilla Viking world, where war and strife made themselves so prevalent.
But there was a storm.
A nightmare; whatever this was, it was a nightmare. The wreckage, the dead, and the odd, calm sway of the ocean waves quietly crashing upon the shore. The blue sky, the bright sun, it contrasted what one would think to be Hell, except for the great heat that vibrated the air. However, Hell was the only thing Kölla could contribute as an adjective to what she saw on this shore.
Dozens of lifeless, limp men, some of the strongest she'd ever met, who lost everything because of a bit too much water in their lungs. The lack of blood confused Kölla; her vital understanding of death usually included a red outline; red found itself absent from this scene.
It was a mistake to come out, Kölla thought to herself, taking a glance over her shoulder into the bowels of the ship that once gave her passage across the great sea. Only, her eyes met not the wooden scraps of a broken dream, but rather the wooden scraps of a plank that broke under pressure and dug itself into her shoulder. The grain of the dark wood split itself around a knot, and then presumably sharpened to a point; presumably because it was veiled by her bloody clothes and the meat it had tore into.
When Kölla noticed the red she wanted to see upon the beaches she felt the pain of the foreign object dug into her left collarbone. She fell to her knees at this new information, holding in the vile scream that begged for release. Ultimately, a whimper snuck through her lips and while she writhed against the sand below her; that whimper raised to a violent yell that cut itself short.
Then, it all fell dark, and for two hours her consciousness nodded between the decision of being awake and being asleep. Death himself seemed to have her life and her death in two different hands; like he was weighing the pros and cons of the two, before he finally choose life.
The bright, yellow sand that permeated the shore stuck to her bloody neck, but freely fell from her face as her journey to shade began; the tree-line was her goal, and later it would be water, but that was not important for now. With great trouble, she took strength on her knee shakily, using it to push herself up. With that, her seemingly broken body ricketed itself to that scarce shade under the green, thriving plant-life, and sat itself down on a hot grey rock. A cicada screamed its mating call, and Kölla began looking at her options.
It was either die, or rip that piece of wood out and somehow keep it from letting loose the flood of cruor behind it. Kölla meandered around the subject of grasping the broken plank with her hand, but it wasn't something she was ready to just do. It gave her goosebumps even thinking about slightly moving the thing. After ten minutes of failing to simply grab the wood, she gave up.
“Dei store fiskane eta dei små — dei liger under som minst förmå,” she whispered, watching the waves repeat their tide. With a final, heavy breath, she spited Death’s decision, and closed her eyes.
Imprisonment
by Cody Hayes
A painter is confined to a canvas,
a poet is barred with words,
a musician is trapped by the keys of which he attunes,
but what of the warrior?
A warrior is without paint, alphabet, and strings. He is made to submit, held still by a barbaric purpose; he is stricken with the ability to fight. One warrior was brought into the world with the creative spirit, but he was ambushed by the conflicts of the universe. His innate understanding of the arts were never cultivated, and as such he became a prisoner to his ability.
Emotions are an important part of who he is, but he rarely allows them to influence his actions. They must be logical for him to acknowledge them; they must be cogent and coherent. He does his best to encourage friendship and comradery among him and his as well, but sometimes this contradicts his rational, left-brain.
While he is a warrior, he thinks that he shouldn't be something so simple. Every time he thinks about war and battle, he comes to the conclusion that it is ultimately immoral and wrong. Thus, he finds himself searching for something greater. Something other than fighting.
There is nothing else in his cell though. In every dark corner, every crack in the wall, he finds nothing. So he desperately scans over every inch; the places that he had already checked before, until...
"There must be something else," he lamented, gripping onto the loose sleeves orange jumpsuit like a junkie who had never had his fix.
Skinwalker
by Malea Vaughan-Fowler
Maybe it was how the dew fell on the pine needles. Or how the twigs snapped under the feet of a doe. Or how the mist and fog rolled over the canyon. Sand dug itself between Alegras toes, creating a soft, harsh burn. But something about the outing seemed off, something about the way the coyote yelped and the birds screamed.
Clouds conjured up a storm and washed away the footprints Alegra left. Boulders tumbled from the thin rock wall that formed itself around the primitive trail. Nearly 23 miles had passed. The rock wall that outlined the path begin to fade and finally the concealed glue gave up and the rock wall crumpled altogether. Although no visible trail ley ahead, the woman decided to tread on.
A small creek flowed across the canyon floor. A small patch of shrubs hid under a boulder. Alegra bent down and crouched near a carcass that had been crushed by, what it seemed, a rock of some size. Her coarse black hair tumbled from behind her ear and covered her deep rooted eyes. Her nose searched the air and only found a rancid forbidden small lingering above the corpse. She pulled back her hair and created a makeshift bun that lay loosely on her head.
The body resembled something much like a forest rabbit. If Alegra had not been a forest ranger many years back, it would have been nearly impossible to identify the species in which her eyes gazed upon. Skin and fur lay scattered around the body but no pent was left visible.Cut marks from an angled knife had slit the muscles in various angles and designs. No visible blood was left by the creature, its eyes were nowhere to be seen and the ears had been dismembered and left in a knot a few feet away. Twigs, rocks and a single black flower lay around the remains in a circle. The flower rested on the ground, twisting and turning,almost as if to escape the harsh rays of the sun. The twigs and branches used to create the circle around both the flower and the rabbit, was made to be so precise it deemed impossible for nature to create such a delicate specimen. This was man made.
Alegra took out a little black book and a pencil, made of charcoal. She frantically took notes and tried to hide her concern with quick, rushed scribbles. Several yards away, a shallow cave cut between the rocks and opened up against the canyon wall.. Grabbing branches and twigs she made a fire several feet away from the creek that streamed down the bolder to her left. Rolling out her sleeping bag, she made camp and fell asleep hesitantly.
...A sharp pain struck her head, and Alegra jolted forward covering her ears. High pitched echoes could be heard all around her followed by a distinct cry. Stepping out of her sleeping bag she gazed over to the corpse that had occupied the inside of the barrier that had been set. The rabbit was alive, walking around on four feet, ears perked, but as still as could be. Its eyes flashed of black velvet, a single drop of blood carried itself down the corner of the rabbits eyes. Dropping like a raindrop off the starless flower that, now grew peacefully on the inside of the twig mass that surrounded it. Alegra felt her body drift and sink back into the ground in which she came...
Waking to the sound of a black bird song, she sat up and thought. The dream in which she had the night prior sunk into her head like a branded story. Each detail more vivid than the one previous. Packing up her things she looked over to the flattened rabbit that she had observed earlier. Nothing lay in front of her, grass grew peacefully around her and no sign of her dream remained. Maybe it was a dream.
Maybe she hadn't seen the crushed rabbit and the ring of witchery around it. The theory was convincing. She finished packing her things and was about to proceed along her way. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a single black flower that grew from the sparse surrounding. The singe black flower she had noticed yesterday afternoon. It was not a dream.
She found herself traveling up hill, passing the valley down below. Fog surrounded the sparse pine trees that slept upright, in a dead, expired state. In several occasions crows flew over head. Talking and whispering the birds schemed and then disappeared only to come back hours later with twice the flock.
Alegra looked up, covering her eyes, and saw something grasped between the talons of one of the fowl. Six black lace-like flowers strung up with black ribbon. She stopped, blinked her eyes and proceeded to sare. This time her eyes told her something else- instead of the flowers she now saw a mouse, limp and lifeless. Its tail hung behind its body. Its fur had been ripped from its corpse. And swayed in the bird's beak. The bird sensed Alegra taking notice, it circled the woman,and soured low, close to the ground, dropping its prey. One after another, the fowl dropped animals from high in the air.
Dead fish, mice, snakes lay motionless on the soil. Alegra gasped and held her mouth in fear of what might come out. Within twenty or so feet away from where she stood, hundreds of dead scavengers covered the ground. But only one stood out, the one with no skin. This mouse has visible cut wounds much like the rabbit observed earlier. Its flesh ripped and torn from its bones. Circles engraved deep in the skull and backbone.
Hours passed and still Alegra thought about the disaster she had encountered earlier that day. It seemed to be but a blur, a vague memory left from the remains of prey caught by its predator. Setting up camp, her body felt like a zombie, full of remorse and confused by her third eyes vision left in her mind. Had the dehydration left her eyes to create things not actually in physical form, a hallucination? Sleeping was a struggle for every noise that was made, created a concept of absolute horror. Every time her eyelids met, they jolted back open almost as if waiting for a series of unfortunate events, waiting to occur. She just lay there, still as the night and listened to the dark figures that surrounded her.
Unable to strain her mind further more, Alegra sat up and gathered up sticks and twigs of several sizes. A light sprinkle rained down on the small fire that was just starting to catch ablaze. Twigs snapped behind Alegra. She flashed her flashlight to the canyon wall noticing an animal of some degree dart out of the way of the beam of light. The creature seemed to be no larger than the size of a human. She got up and circled the giant rock that beamed above her. Stepping out of the protection of the stone that held her, she found a pile of pelts scattered about ground in front of her. In the distance she heard a hiss, and frightened of what it might be she shined her light. a long, thick, black snake wrapped itself around the tree trunk of a dead shrub. In its mouth lay a crushed black bird, a raven. The birds feathers scattered about the ground, drowning in a pool of dark, rich blood. The snake stared at her and then slithered down the coarse bark of the tree. The reptiles long, bony body carried itself towards Alegra.
In one quick dart she ran back from the direction in which she came. Circling the boulder she did not find a lit fire, but rather a pile of her own items torn apart and burnt. The clothes had been burnt within the last hour for a smoldering smoke lay hovering above them. Her backpack, in ruins, found fifteen or so paces away from the place in which her sleeping bag was supposed to lay.
Behind her she heard the thin howl of a coyote. A faint growl. Her eyes strained but only saw a crouched figure in the darkness. Its outline somewhat resembled that of a raven. Its spine shingled up with dark wilted feathers. The stench of this creature made Alegra cover her nose with both hands. The smell carried itself across the stagnant air between them. This human, if being as it displayed, was wearing a mask made of rodent bones and rotten fur and skin. With a cape made of various animal pelts, the figure stood motionless, Studying, observing thinking. In seconds the cape dropped to the floor and the body occupying it disappeared. In its place a coyote emerged from under the skins of animals, torn from their hosts. It stood growling and hissing to protect the thoughts within. Its head bent below and its eyes stared forward. It faded into the darkness and only its beady eyes remained. Red stained the crests and nearly covered the dark circles of its eyes. Crimson rivers poured down its high-raised cheekbones. The blood that came from the corners of the eyes shimmered in the darkness and spoiled, smelt of death filled its skin.She had sean those eyes before, but where?
Had it been the rabbit? The crow in her dreams? Those eyes stayed with her... Imprinted in her head. Stumbling back her heel caught the corner of log and her knees gave out,she tripped and fell to the earth. The ground swallowed her whole and she could only feel the eyes of the beast that watched her. Teeth fell from her mouth, her hands frantically gathered the bone that fell from her. She felt darkness fall over her body. Her hands felt cold, and her eyes finally got the rest her body needed. She fell into a deep sleep, a velvet coat of fog surrounded her. A spell was cast over her.
Her eyes opened and she felt a single tear drop from within her eye. It felt warm, like thick tar melting her skin. Alegra raised her hand and wiped the tear that fell, but felt it wasn't a tear that cascaded from her cheek but rather a single drop of thick, glossy blood.
~ Short Story Archive 2015-2016 ~
Untitled
by Alex Selway
Well, I guess this is the end. Who knows, maybe we'll live another couple of decades or so, but accidents happen, and they can't be fixed anymore. I'm not the only one writing this story, I'm sure, but we are writing these words with the hope that someone will still be alive once we are all gone. I don't think anyone will be left though, for our Judgement is upon us, and no one is meant to survive. It is not how our ancestors from thousands of years ago predicted it to be, but it is the end of human rule all the same. But I suppose it makes no sense if I start at the end, so let me start at the beginning.
There came a time in our species' evolution when we were I longer satisfied with one lifetime. I don't remember the year exactly, but it was in what would have been known as the early 2100s. Life expectancy was at an all-time high, nearly 120, but people complained that it wasn't long enough to accomplish their dreams. At the same time, technological advances allowed computers to have a nearly infinite life, which I suppose could have been the root of our problems.
It wasn't long until complaints turned into protests, and those became riots. Our mostly peaceful planet began a quick descent into chaos. People demanded that scientists find a way to extend their lives, no matter how much they had to pay or what the risks were. It didn't matter how many times the scientists told the angry citizens that they were doing everything they could; the riots continued.
I was five years old when they installed the first wires. That much I do remember. They were put into a 102 year-old man who was suffering from some kind of heart disease. Before the surgery, he was only expected to live a few more days. What exactly the nearly invisible wires surgically implanted into around his heart did was a mystery, but three weeks later, the old man was out of the hospital, as active as he would have been in his 60s. When news of the man's recovery reached the public, the violent riots ceased, temporarily reverting back to simple protests. And so the first of billions of surgeries began.
Everyone believed that if they got the surgery, they were likely to live much longer, and so everyone that could afford it at the time went out and got wires put on their hearts. It may have sounded like a good idea, which I understand, but no one could have expected what actually ended up happening. The original man that had received the surgery had survived the process, and seemed to have no further problems, leading everyone to believe that they too would be perfectly fine. They were wrong.
It soon became clear that the old man had been fairly lucky. In the first two weeks, 30,000 had gotten the surgery. 10,000 remained. But people continued to pour into the hospitals. Over the next year, the success rate rose steadily, until 9 out of every 10 people that walked in walked out again.
Even with this great medical advance, people were not satisfied with it. Sure, they were safe from many heart problems, but what about the innumerable other health problems that could endanger their life? Scientists did not immediately have an answer, and it would take another 10 years before what people were subconsciously suggesting became a reality.
Of course, during those 10 years, many advances were made, including both updated versions of the current technology and new discoveries that would have been unheard of 20 years prior. Also during this time, any riots still happening and nearly every protest ended, leaving the world mostly peaceful once again. However a sense of unrest and discomfort still loomed overhead.
Within the first two years of this “new discovery” period, over 20 new procedures were approved by every country of the world. These eliminated almost all chances of dying from organ failure, and life expectancy skyrocketed. After the first few months of “testing” each new surgery, working out kinks and raising the success rate, it would be available to the public for free. Most people, especially ones from the more “civilized” countries of the world, immediately took advantage of the opportunity and received every surgery as they could. It may seem like a good thing, that we were able to improve our world, even if it was only a little, but there is a price you must pay for any good deed. So while 6.5 billion people walked out of hospitals around the world a little bit healthier, 1.5 billion never got a chance to enjoy the benefits.
Although many of us were lost in our efforts to improve the world, people still were not satisfied with the improvements. Still they demanded longer lives, and soon enough, after a few years of no ground-breaking discoveries, the riots started up again.
By the seventh year of this 10 year period, 153 surgeries, major and minor, had been approved and were available to the public. These procedures not only made it possible to fix almost any physical disorder, but also prevented every form of organ failure not involving the brain. And even that was beginning to change, with the first wires and chips for correcting minor forms of autism and brain injuries being tested.
“It’s for a better world” they said. Very few people were against what was happening, and no one questioned the morality of filling our bodies with various wires, batteries and computer chips. It seems that for the most part, we were right. People were expected to live longer, and the world was truly becoming a better place. All seemed well on the planet, but something was still missing for many people. It was never directly spoken about, but you could see it in their eyes, in the way they spoke. The tense atmosphere around everyone remained until finally, the day came when someone asked the people the question they were all asking themselves.
“We’ve already come this far, so why not go all the way?”
Those were his exact words. Even without saying the one word that we were all subconsciously thinking, he got the point across. Simply living ten or fifteen more years than you would have before was not enough. We wanted something more. Something that should have been impossible. Something that never should have been discovered or even existed to begin with. The experiments, surgeries, and deaths continued.
Soon enough, or perhaps not soon enough, minor mental disorders were being fixed with wires, and more complex chips were being implanted to replace larger portions of damaged brain. Still, very few questioned the morality of it all. But looking back on it, maybe we should have. Maybe if a few more people had been a little bit louder, we wouldn’t be in the situation we are in now.
In the ninth year, the very first completely inorganic organ was implanted. The woman receiving the new stomach didn’t need it, of course, but that marked the point at which there was no going back on our word. It was truly the beginning of the end. It marked the point where people became more robot than human. All organs were soon replaced, blood changed out for some unknown mix of metals and biochemical goop. All of the planet’s energy and resources were pumped into turning people into android-hybrid creatures, and by the time people began realizing the full implication of what they were doing to themselves, it was too late. The riots once again began, the people now fighting for the complete opposite cause that they had asked for only a decade ago.
And so it went on and on and on for an entire year, which now meant almost nothing to the long-lived citizens, but everything for the impossibly fast-paced world of technology. What had begun as a people’s movement became a government order, forcing anyone and everyone to receive every single procedure, willing or not.
It was chaos. People went into operating rooms kicking and screaming, cursing the government for something that had originally been their idea. People started trying to commit suicide, but the complexity of their new bodies left most lying on the floor in simulated agony until they managed to helplessly crawl to a “repair” facility to be pieced back together. People praised whatever god they believed in that at least their brains were still intact for the most part, at least they still had their own thoughts. However there was one more discovery that was to be made at the end of those 10 years. I’m sure you can guess what it is.
By this time half of the world’s population was dead, and much of the other half wished they were, but it wouldn’t last. After nearly 100 failures and endless complications, the first of us was created. Luckily the recipient had been a volunteer, someone who still believed that what was going on was okay, because I can’t imagine the horror someone would feel if they had been forced to be the first of us. The first fully robotic human, if you could still call us that. All of the work that had been put into carefully replacing each organ individually was almost literally thrown out the window. They were all removed from the body and melted down to make the batteries, wires, chips, and hard drives that would replace them. Memories were electronically loaded onto a computer located where the brain used to be, everything else was filled with wires with unknown functions. And the whole thing was covered in a thick layer of synthetic skin and hair, because although ugly things were happening inside of our “bodies”, it’s still important to look good on the outside. Apparently.
Whatever state of chaos and disorder the world may have been in before would be considered peaceful compared to what happened next. People gave up on rioting and did the only thing they could think to do. They ran. Since so many people had died, many cities around the world were abandoned in order for people to continue living an urban life (and also so that we could be kept under control). The only problem with this is that by running away, you were refusing surgery. By refusing surgery, you allow yourself to be hunted down.
People quickly realized this, and stopped running, but for some it was too late. They had run, and surgery was their punishment. Because the runners were prioritized over the “behaved” citizens, it bought some time for those of us who had stayed behind, but not much. Those of us that were under 20 years old were kept in separate communities until our 20th birthday, after which we would promptly be taken to receive our new bodies.
For the next five years it went on like this, until nearly everyone besides the minors had been converted. It wasn’t exactly peaceful, but no one could protest or riot, because there was no way to go back on our commitment. I watched hundreds, thousands of teens dragged away one after the other until finally it was my turn. I went in kicking and screaming just like everyone else, even though I knew just as well as they did that my struggle meant nothing,and before I knew it, I had become the creature I am today.
Over time, most of us simply accepted our fate, accepted that we had been too greedy and hadn’t really thought through our decision as a species to become these… these monsters.
Now that I’ve told the story of how we became this way, you probably want to know what happened. Sure people were forced to become cyborg-robot things, but why does that mean the end of humanity? Well I’ll tell you.
You see, while the technology on our interiors was nearly perfect, and anything that may have stopped working or gotten broken could easily be fixed and replaced, there was one flaw that had been overlooked simply because the chance of the situation arising was nearly nonexistent. What is it, you ask? Well because we are no longer really “alive” per se, we cannot be sustained by organic forms of food. Instead, when someone received the “conversion procedure” as it was called, a small slot was placed on the bottom of their wrist. This slot fit together with a long cord that could be plugged into the wall. Basically, we were rechargeable beings. If fully charged, one would expect to have energy for anywhere from 10-15 years. I know it seems like a long time, but our best estimates say that the first successful conversion took place about 4000 years ago. I suppose that that small group of protesters that started this thing however many years ago finally got what they truly wanted. But all of them have been dead for thousands of years.
But I guess that still doesn’t really explain much, so I’ll just say it. About three months ago, the electricity went out. Forever. We tried everything we could think of to bring it back, but nothing works. We have burned every last bit of usable coal and oil, and the smog formed by all that burning now covers the Earth in a layer just thick enough to rule out solar energy as an option. There is almost no wind, and the oceans are clogged with worthless islands of plastic and scrap metal. The only thing we are left with is the knowledge that within the next 20 years, our own greed will have brought us down and led us to all become nothing but rusting, eternally sleeping monsters.
by Alex Selway
Well, I guess this is the end. Who knows, maybe we'll live another couple of decades or so, but accidents happen, and they can't be fixed anymore. I'm not the only one writing this story, I'm sure, but we are writing these words with the hope that someone will still be alive once we are all gone. I don't think anyone will be left though, for our Judgement is upon us, and no one is meant to survive. It is not how our ancestors from thousands of years ago predicted it to be, but it is the end of human rule all the same. But I suppose it makes no sense if I start at the end, so let me start at the beginning.
There came a time in our species' evolution when we were I longer satisfied with one lifetime. I don't remember the year exactly, but it was in what would have been known as the early 2100s. Life expectancy was at an all-time high, nearly 120, but people complained that it wasn't long enough to accomplish their dreams. At the same time, technological advances allowed computers to have a nearly infinite life, which I suppose could have been the root of our problems.
It wasn't long until complaints turned into protests, and those became riots. Our mostly peaceful planet began a quick descent into chaos. People demanded that scientists find a way to extend their lives, no matter how much they had to pay or what the risks were. It didn't matter how many times the scientists told the angry citizens that they were doing everything they could; the riots continued.
I was five years old when they installed the first wires. That much I do remember. They were put into a 102 year-old man who was suffering from some kind of heart disease. Before the surgery, he was only expected to live a few more days. What exactly the nearly invisible wires surgically implanted into around his heart did was a mystery, but three weeks later, the old man was out of the hospital, as active as he would have been in his 60s. When news of the man's recovery reached the public, the violent riots ceased, temporarily reverting back to simple protests. And so the first of billions of surgeries began.
Everyone believed that if they got the surgery, they were likely to live much longer, and so everyone that could afford it at the time went out and got wires put on their hearts. It may have sounded like a good idea, which I understand, but no one could have expected what actually ended up happening. The original man that had received the surgery had survived the process, and seemed to have no further problems, leading everyone to believe that they too would be perfectly fine. They were wrong.
It soon became clear that the old man had been fairly lucky. In the first two weeks, 30,000 had gotten the surgery. 10,000 remained. But people continued to pour into the hospitals. Over the next year, the success rate rose steadily, until 9 out of every 10 people that walked in walked out again.
Even with this great medical advance, people were not satisfied with it. Sure, they were safe from many heart problems, but what about the innumerable other health problems that could endanger their life? Scientists did not immediately have an answer, and it would take another 10 years before what people were subconsciously suggesting became a reality.
Of course, during those 10 years, many advances were made, including both updated versions of the current technology and new discoveries that would have been unheard of 20 years prior. Also during this time, any riots still happening and nearly every protest ended, leaving the world mostly peaceful once again. However a sense of unrest and discomfort still loomed overhead.
Within the first two years of this “new discovery” period, over 20 new procedures were approved by every country of the world. These eliminated almost all chances of dying from organ failure, and life expectancy skyrocketed. After the first few months of “testing” each new surgery, working out kinks and raising the success rate, it would be available to the public for free. Most people, especially ones from the more “civilized” countries of the world, immediately took advantage of the opportunity and received every surgery as they could. It may seem like a good thing, that we were able to improve our world, even if it was only a little, but there is a price you must pay for any good deed. So while 6.5 billion people walked out of hospitals around the world a little bit healthier, 1.5 billion never got a chance to enjoy the benefits.
Although many of us were lost in our efforts to improve the world, people still were not satisfied with the improvements. Still they demanded longer lives, and soon enough, after a few years of no ground-breaking discoveries, the riots started up again.
By the seventh year of this 10 year period, 153 surgeries, major and minor, had been approved and were available to the public. These procedures not only made it possible to fix almost any physical disorder, but also prevented every form of organ failure not involving the brain. And even that was beginning to change, with the first wires and chips for correcting minor forms of autism and brain injuries being tested.
“It’s for a better world” they said. Very few people were against what was happening, and no one questioned the morality of filling our bodies with various wires, batteries and computer chips. It seems that for the most part, we were right. People were expected to live longer, and the world was truly becoming a better place. All seemed well on the planet, but something was still missing for many people. It was never directly spoken about, but you could see it in their eyes, in the way they spoke. The tense atmosphere around everyone remained until finally, the day came when someone asked the people the question they were all asking themselves.
“We’ve already come this far, so why not go all the way?”
Those were his exact words. Even without saying the one word that we were all subconsciously thinking, he got the point across. Simply living ten or fifteen more years than you would have before was not enough. We wanted something more. Something that should have been impossible. Something that never should have been discovered or even existed to begin with. The experiments, surgeries, and deaths continued.
Soon enough, or perhaps not soon enough, minor mental disorders were being fixed with wires, and more complex chips were being implanted to replace larger portions of damaged brain. Still, very few questioned the morality of it all. But looking back on it, maybe we should have. Maybe if a few more people had been a little bit louder, we wouldn’t be in the situation we are in now.
In the ninth year, the very first completely inorganic organ was implanted. The woman receiving the new stomach didn’t need it, of course, but that marked the point at which there was no going back on our word. It was truly the beginning of the end. It marked the point where people became more robot than human. All organs were soon replaced, blood changed out for some unknown mix of metals and biochemical goop. All of the planet’s energy and resources were pumped into turning people into android-hybrid creatures, and by the time people began realizing the full implication of what they were doing to themselves, it was too late. The riots once again began, the people now fighting for the complete opposite cause that they had asked for only a decade ago.
And so it went on and on and on for an entire year, which now meant almost nothing to the long-lived citizens, but everything for the impossibly fast-paced world of technology. What had begun as a people’s movement became a government order, forcing anyone and everyone to receive every single procedure, willing or not.
It was chaos. People went into operating rooms kicking and screaming, cursing the government for something that had originally been their idea. People started trying to commit suicide, but the complexity of their new bodies left most lying on the floor in simulated agony until they managed to helplessly crawl to a “repair” facility to be pieced back together. People praised whatever god they believed in that at least their brains were still intact for the most part, at least they still had their own thoughts. However there was one more discovery that was to be made at the end of those 10 years. I’m sure you can guess what it is.
By this time half of the world’s population was dead, and much of the other half wished they were, but it wouldn’t last. After nearly 100 failures and endless complications, the first of us was created. Luckily the recipient had been a volunteer, someone who still believed that what was going on was okay, because I can’t imagine the horror someone would feel if they had been forced to be the first of us. The first fully robotic human, if you could still call us that. All of the work that had been put into carefully replacing each organ individually was almost literally thrown out the window. They were all removed from the body and melted down to make the batteries, wires, chips, and hard drives that would replace them. Memories were electronically loaded onto a computer located where the brain used to be, everything else was filled with wires with unknown functions. And the whole thing was covered in a thick layer of synthetic skin and hair, because although ugly things were happening inside of our “bodies”, it’s still important to look good on the outside. Apparently.
Whatever state of chaos and disorder the world may have been in before would be considered peaceful compared to what happened next. People gave up on rioting and did the only thing they could think to do. They ran. Since so many people had died, many cities around the world were abandoned in order for people to continue living an urban life (and also so that we could be kept under control). The only problem with this is that by running away, you were refusing surgery. By refusing surgery, you allow yourself to be hunted down.
People quickly realized this, and stopped running, but for some it was too late. They had run, and surgery was their punishment. Because the runners were prioritized over the “behaved” citizens, it bought some time for those of us who had stayed behind, but not much. Those of us that were under 20 years old were kept in separate communities until our 20th birthday, after which we would promptly be taken to receive our new bodies.
For the next five years it went on like this, until nearly everyone besides the minors had been converted. It wasn’t exactly peaceful, but no one could protest or riot, because there was no way to go back on our commitment. I watched hundreds, thousands of teens dragged away one after the other until finally it was my turn. I went in kicking and screaming just like everyone else, even though I knew just as well as they did that my struggle meant nothing,and before I knew it, I had become the creature I am today.
Over time, most of us simply accepted our fate, accepted that we had been too greedy and hadn’t really thought through our decision as a species to become these… these monsters.
Now that I’ve told the story of how we became this way, you probably want to know what happened. Sure people were forced to become cyborg-robot things, but why does that mean the end of humanity? Well I’ll tell you.
You see, while the technology on our interiors was nearly perfect, and anything that may have stopped working or gotten broken could easily be fixed and replaced, there was one flaw that had been overlooked simply because the chance of the situation arising was nearly nonexistent. What is it, you ask? Well because we are no longer really “alive” per se, we cannot be sustained by organic forms of food. Instead, when someone received the “conversion procedure” as it was called, a small slot was placed on the bottom of their wrist. This slot fit together with a long cord that could be plugged into the wall. Basically, we were rechargeable beings. If fully charged, one would expect to have energy for anywhere from 10-15 years. I know it seems like a long time, but our best estimates say that the first successful conversion took place about 4000 years ago. I suppose that that small group of protesters that started this thing however many years ago finally got what they truly wanted. But all of them have been dead for thousands of years.
But I guess that still doesn’t really explain much, so I’ll just say it. About three months ago, the electricity went out. Forever. We tried everything we could think of to bring it back, but nothing works. We have burned every last bit of usable coal and oil, and the smog formed by all that burning now covers the Earth in a layer just thick enough to rule out solar energy as an option. There is almost no wind, and the oceans are clogged with worthless islands of plastic and scrap metal. The only thing we are left with is the knowledge that within the next 20 years, our own greed will have brought us down and led us to all become nothing but rusting, eternally sleeping monsters.
~ Short Stories/Flash Fiction 2014-2015 Archive ~
Jump
by Sam Mattocks
The ground was cold under my bare feet. The blinding gray light stung against the back of my eyes, and I couldn't move. The sight before me was so beautiful, so foreign, that I didn't want to disturb the image before me. There were people. A whole crowd of them, milling about, a hum of chatter grasping at my ears.
They were walking like a herd toward the near horizon. Then, they fell silent as one, parting until a single being stood alone. The person then fell, and was gone. A low buzz rose as slowly, person by person, they all jumped. I didn't want them to leave, so I run to the depleting crowd and stumble my way through until I got to the very edge of the jumpers. There was nothing. I tripped in shock and tumbled over the cliff.
When I awoke, I couldn't see for a moment. Then, there was gray. I was confused, and looked around to see others, the jumpers I hoped, laying around me. I clambered to my feet and saw... I couldn't believe what my eyes were telling me. It was black, and people, no, not people, creatures of soaring heights stood before me, all deathly pale, only their eyes were of bright color. They spoke in a strange tongue and were stock still. I made a gasping cry of a noise and the rainbow of eyes turned to me.
I couldn't think to move.
They were walking like a herd toward the near horizon. Then, they fell silent as one, parting until a single being stood alone. The person then fell, and was gone. A low buzz rose as slowly, person by person, they all jumped. I didn't want them to leave, so I run to the depleting crowd and stumble my way through until I got to the very edge of the jumpers. There was nothing. I tripped in shock and tumbled over the cliff.
When I awoke, I couldn't see for a moment. Then, there was gray. I was confused, and looked around to see others, the jumpers I hoped, laying around me. I clambered to my feet and saw... I couldn't believe what my eyes were telling me. It was black, and people, no, not people, creatures of soaring heights stood before me, all deathly pale, only their eyes were of bright color. They spoke in a strange tongue and were stock still. I made a gasping cry of a noise and the rainbow of eyes turned to me.
I couldn't think to move.
Julia
by Madeleine Easthouse
The palm trees stretched out their long necks toward the wisps of clouds. Catalina Island rose out of the ocean like a looming submarine.
Shiny cars, silver, white, flashed by quickly, sleek and lithe - everyone rushing to do last minute Christmas shopping.
My family – all seven six of us – stand on the corner of Park and Forest. My grandfather has his hands shoved the pockets of his jeans. He holds the butt of a cigar between his knuckles. My aunt scans the shops for a restaurant, with quick paces up and down the sidewalk. Her shoulders are thin and browned, her black hair loosely tied back.
We decide on a small In-n-Out, squashed between a record store and a curio store that sells seashell lamps.
It’s crowded, full of teenagers in bikinis, even in winter, and families out for a quick bite between destinations.
I felt wrung out. I felt like I had been tossed into a washing machine, darks only, and been hung out to dry on a clothesline.
My family and I, we were an archipelago, except out biggest island was missing. I said her name in my head as I took my milkshake from the cashier.
Julia, Julia, Julia.
I’d been doing that a lot lately.
I went to sit by my grandfather, alone at a grey booth. I caught the expression in his eyes that I’d seen a lot of lately. He looked like a satellite that had lost its center of gravity.
My whole family – Renelde, Genevieve, John, Keith, Avran – we were all there, around the table, everyone else in their LA glory swimming around us. But not –
Julia, Julia, Julia –
- because she was gone.
We were all separate.
She had been the glue.
Shiny cars, silver, white, flashed by quickly, sleek and lithe - everyone rushing to do last minute Christmas shopping.
My family – all seven six of us – stand on the corner of Park and Forest. My grandfather has his hands shoved the pockets of his jeans. He holds the butt of a cigar between his knuckles. My aunt scans the shops for a restaurant, with quick paces up and down the sidewalk. Her shoulders are thin and browned, her black hair loosely tied back.
We decide on a small In-n-Out, squashed between a record store and a curio store that sells seashell lamps.
It’s crowded, full of teenagers in bikinis, even in winter, and families out for a quick bite between destinations.
I felt wrung out. I felt like I had been tossed into a washing machine, darks only, and been hung out to dry on a clothesline.
My family and I, we were an archipelago, except out biggest island was missing. I said her name in my head as I took my milkshake from the cashier.
Julia, Julia, Julia.
I’d been doing that a lot lately.
I went to sit by my grandfather, alone at a grey booth. I caught the expression in his eyes that I’d seen a lot of lately. He looked like a satellite that had lost its center of gravity.
My whole family – Renelde, Genevieve, John, Keith, Avran – we were all there, around the table, everyone else in their LA glory swimming around us. But not –
Julia, Julia, Julia –
- because she was gone.
We were all separate.
She had been the glue.
Hard Rain
by Allyson Boltzen
Both of us thought that we could be together forever.
We had always been close, no matter that one of us was a girl and the other a guy. To us, it didn’t seem that way. We were just two human beings who understood each other more than ourselves.
I met him in the hospital that day, like I always did. I remember the rain hitting the window like a heartbeat, matching the sound of the monitor beside his bed. I remember the smell of the lilies on his bedside table, and the way his face stared forward at the empty wall.
“Beautiful morning, huh?” he had asked.
I looked out the window at the grey sky and endless, dark clouds that covered it.
“Yeah, bright and sunny with a light rain.”
I walked to his bed and sat down. His eyes were washed over with a dark haze, but that did nothing to mask the radiant shine of his smile. I turned and held his hand in mine.
We passed the afternoon away like that. Neither of us said a word or moved from our habitual places. The rain worsened and everything out the window was blurred, like paint washing down the world.
“It seems the rain has worsened,” I stated simply.
But in response, came only an unceasing, dismal beep.
A flood of doctors entered the room.
We had always been close, no matter that one of us was a girl and the other a guy. To us, it didn’t seem that way. We were just two human beings who understood each other more than ourselves.
I met him in the hospital that day, like I always did. I remember the rain hitting the window like a heartbeat, matching the sound of the monitor beside his bed. I remember the smell of the lilies on his bedside table, and the way his face stared forward at the empty wall.
“Beautiful morning, huh?” he had asked.
I looked out the window at the grey sky and endless, dark clouds that covered it.
“Yeah, bright and sunny with a light rain.”
I walked to his bed and sat down. His eyes were washed over with a dark haze, but that did nothing to mask the radiant shine of his smile. I turned and held his hand in mine.
We passed the afternoon away like that. Neither of us said a word or moved from our habitual places. The rain worsened and everything out the window was blurred, like paint washing down the world.
“It seems the rain has worsened,” I stated simply.
But in response, came only an unceasing, dismal beep.
A flood of doctors entered the room.