BAA's Literary & Arts Magazine: November/December 2022

THECARDINAL

Bishop Allen's Literary and Arts Magazine

A Note from the Editors

Happy New Year, Bishop Allen! We are excited to be sharing the November/December 2022 issue with you. This year, we welcome the newest member of our Executive Team, Erica Phelps! We would also like to thank our teacher moderator, Ms. Conroy, for her continuous help and support.

We hope this year will be filled with love and joy for the entire Bishop Allen community. As always, our lovely contributors and editorial team have been working hard to create this issue, so happy reading!

-Jenna Kim, Nina Popovic, Sophia Lezhanska, Erica Phelps Executive Team

Table of Contents

Poetry

Facade by Anonymous (page 1)

A Winter's Night by Anonymous (page 12)

Letter Addressed to the Fire by Anonymous (page 14) Sketches by Alondra B. (page 19)

Hold On by Olivia Dalglish (page 22)

Writing by Marlene Martinez Bello (page 27)

Written Pieces and Special Features

Snow on the Beach by Angela Francesca Pablo (page 3) Malevolence by Anonymous (page 8)

Grandma’s Gingerbread Cake - A Holiday Recipe by Pietra Melo (page 15)

Movie Review: Black Adam by Jake Morgan (page 17)

Time to Regret by Anonymous (page 20)

Movie Review: It’s A Wonderful Life by Pietra Melo (page 23)

A Strange Story by Anonymous (page 28)

Artwork

Stars Above by Kira Christie (Cover Art)

Figure I by Angela Budz (page 2)

Flames of Misery by William Litwin (page 7)

Jan Kasprowicz by Angela Budz (page 29) Arthur Schopenhauer by Angela Budz (page 13)

Kazimierz Przerwa-Tetmajer by Angela Budz (page 18)

Sweet Tooth by Kira Christie (page 21)

Charles Baudelaire by Angela Budz (page 26)

Facade

The reflective looking glass shows me an apparition, and I cannot understand what I see: Femininity the crafted, the illusion. Pink ribbons, roses, and endless confusion. My lungs are compressed and my smile has descended. All but who I am is what is presented. My childhood locked in a box taped up so tight. Constricted and confined: my waist and my insight.

O to oppose and appear as I am. O to live my life not as a scam. But to beguile a smile just for a while, might be worth hiding myself in denial.

When my youth falls like the petals of a rose, I will unlock the box once treasured, I suppose. My wit, my creativity, my confidence I will restore. But for now, I’ll look into the mirror once more. The reflective looking glass shows me an apparition, and now I can understand what I see: A facade, a deception, and all that is not me.

by Angela Budz

Snow on the Beach

By Angela Francesca Pablo

Living in the Philippines, I was surrounded by many beautiful beaches. This is where my happiest memories were made. It was my place of retreat to escape the busy city life. It served as a place of serenity and peace for me and my family. Out of all the beaches in the Philippines, the charming beach of Calatagan Batangas was my favourite. My family had the tradition of going here during the Christmas holidays. When we were there, we stayed at the Stilts resort, which got its name from its unique villas that stand over the water. The season was special to us as it was the only time we would be a complete family since my mom and aunt worked overseas. The addition of my grandfather’s birthday being the next day just gave us more to celebrate. Our limited time together made our celebration of the holidays special and our celebration of the holidays made Calatagan beach our treasure.

The year 2015 was the most memorable one yet. Like every year, we left our house at seven o’clock am, and our car was filled with luggage and laughter. However, during the drive there, our car engine started smoking. We remained stranded at a random restaurant for four hours waiting for someone to help us fix the car. For an impatient eight year old, this was torture. Luckily, I had my five year old cousin, Zuleyka, to play with. With her, four hours flew by. We played games such as hide and seek and ‘ nanay tatay’ (a traditional Filipino game), but eventually we got tired and took a nap while the adults worked out a solution. They called a car mechanic to come help us but instead, my grandfather came. Usually my grandfather would go on these trips with us, but this year he had to stay back due to his dialysis treatments. He started his treatments for kidney failure, and would go two or three days a week. He came to the rescue right after he had finished his treatment for the day, accompanied by his driver, my great aunt and great grandmother. I felt like the happiest girl in the world when my mom turned to me and my cousin told us that he was coming. I immediately replied by saying “Lolo is like superman” . When he arrived I immediately gave him a hug, but also allowed him to start working on the car as soon as possible. My grandma, however, was not as thrilled as I was. Although thankful for his arrival, she worried for his health and would not allow him to work on the car himself so he told my uncle and his driver what to do. After he saved the day, we had dinner at the restaurant and continued our drive.

When we arrived later than expected, the first thing my cousin and I did was go for a night swim. It was a short swim but after that, I walked with my cousin and grandfather on the beach and drew pictures on the sand. By the end of the night my cousin and I passed out in our room. The next few days were spent with family on the beach or by the poolside. I preferred the poolside. During breakfast, my cousin and I would learn how to play ‘sungka’ (a Filipino board game similar to mancala). On most nights, we would go to dinner with a live show of traditional Filipino dances. One night, they called up an audience member to dance with them my grandmother! Coincidentally, my grandmother is a talented dancer. She performed the traditional ‘tinikling’ dance and stole the show. When we arrived at our villa to end the night, my cousin and I would watch movies. Our favourite was High School Musical, and from the number of times we have watched it, we know every song and dance without missing a beat. During the trip, my mother would capture special moments through her camera. She took photos of everything, from little details of the villa to the whole family sitting around the dinner table. Luckily for her, I loved being her muse. Anytime she reached for her camera, I would break out my best poses and flash her my biggest smile. As I got ready and put on my blue bikini, I told her to take a picture of me by the hammock. It was my favourite spot for talking, eating and watching the sun rise and set. I loved it so much, I even proposed the idea of sleeping there. Our memories remain still in the photos we took. In these photos the drawings in the sand never washed away and the trip never ended. But in reality, for me, it did.

The end of this trip was also the end of tradition. Like every year I left that beach excited to come back the next, but ever since then I had not set foot on the sand. From then on Christmas has been incomplete. The holidays lost its magic. Every celebration since feels insignificant and meaningless. The beach is no longer my place of serenity and peace but a mere myth. If you told my younger self that our tradition of going to the beach stopped, I would have assumed we found a different beach visit. Instead I spend Christmas making footprints in the snow instead of the sand.

Flames of Misery by William Litwin

Malevolence

By Anonymous

I cannot shake the feeling that someone is watching me

It is half past midnight, and my window is open, letting a chilled waft of air, saturated with the nostalgic scent of fall, gradually fill my room. I am lying under the heavy blankets of my bed, growing increasingly aware of how hot my body is compared to the frozen tips of my nose and ears. I do not seek relief from this state of discomfort, for I cannot move.

I am paralyzed Silent tears leak from my eyes as I attempt to suck air into my lungs with short wheezes

There is someone watching me.

There is someone outside my window. There is someone under my bed.

There is someone in my closet, behind my door, piled with my laundry waiting downstairs to kill me, or claw me, or stab me, or stuff me I am merely sitting prey waiting with my last bits of life for my killer to commence their act. My thoughts, scattered and frantic, make lists in my mind of everything I wish I could have done and would do differently if I were given the chance. I am not ready It is too soon Help me Help me

Help

My door opens, and my sister enters I'm late The illusion breaks, and my room turns back into being simply my room no vengeful villains concealed. I whine, and pull my trembling legs to my chest. Behind my back, I watch myself from my mirror.

My sister and I work in an antique furniture store. It is an old, creepy place that I’m not particularly fond of Full of hiding places and reflective surfaces, my paranoia runs itself to exhaustion.

Paranoia: the only malicious sign of the potential existence of the sixth sense. Who are we to doubt the wisdom of our intuition? When our hearts and our blood scream that something is wrong but our minds cannot find any rationality to explain it, should we ignore the warning of the organ that works tirelessly to keep us alive? Perhaps there is more to what we see, smell, hear, touch, and taste Our bodies experience more, though we cannot explain what, or why, or how. There is someone, though I cannot say what, or why, or how, watching me.

It is noon, and I am crouched in the corner of the shop, my back pressed against the wall behind me I am studying the shadow of a wardrobe across the room–one that looks like a large lady with an eloquent hairdo I could almost convince myself that she is real, and the wardrobe her shadow, if it weren’t for the door handle creating an inhuman lump in her torso. Nonetheless, I cannot be certain that the lady is not the silly coincidence that casts doubt over the true cases of paranormality.

Incessantly, I scratch at the skin just below the hollow of my neck I scratch and I carve until my fingers come back wet and red with the warning of my blood.

Outside, dark clouds obscure the sun until the weak light that shines through the small, foggy windows grows weaker still. The shadows grow and overcome. Everything and nothing becomes a shadow, including myself

There is someone watching me

Footsteps start out faint and grow louder as they come closer. I sob through a silent scream and scratch myself harder still. This is it. This is the end. I knew I wouldn’t last this long. It’s come for me. It’s come. Help me. Help.

My sister rounds the corner, feather duster in hand I exhale with relief She does not see me, and hums quietly to herself as she dusts off an ornate mirror She leaves, and I force myself to return to my deskwork, not noticing as I watch myself from within the old and blurred mirror.

The day passes by and I refuse to move my sight from the desk on which I work If I cannot see them, perhaps they cannot see me Perhaps my childish beliefs will keep me safe Perhaps, but no. My relentless fear settles itself into me like a droplet of water landing on my neck, rolling down my spine and then engulfing me in a roaring sea of terror. The long hand of the antique clock slides to twelve, and the six chimes that sound send me to my knees once more.

I am frozen My body is shaking against my will I stare into the ornate mirror before me and watch my fearful face as it trembles and quivers

There is someone watching me.

There is someone watching me, and I have never been so sure.

I look into my own green eyes, pupils whitened by tiny, forgotten specks of dust I watch in horror as my reflection’s expression slightly changes, her lips curving upward in a subtle smile

I breathe in silent gasps, filling my lungs to completion with every inhale. Still, I feel lightheaded and devoid of oxygen. My chest rises and falls violently, yet the chest of my reflection is utterly still I scratch and dig at my stinging neck I am bleeding, but my reflection is clean and whole. I want to scream, but my voice is held hostage by an invisible force. Then, with a sudden finality, the mirror topples forward and shatters into a million pieces in a high-pitched crash.

My sister runs in to find me sitting amid the remnants of the disaster, my face white in shock I hardly notice as she angrily sweeps the mess around my legs and attempts to force me to my feet. Finally, in a fit of frustration, she directs me to go home early. She stalks away, and I realize that I haven’t moved.

The sun in the sky sinks lower still, and a tiny glare of light in my eyes brings my attention to a missed shard of glass I reach out and pick it up, bringing it close to my face so that I can see my image within it

The eyes that look back at me are different. They are my own, but they are shallow and cold. They ask me a question the way that intimate friends do: with a simple look.

Do you know what you did?

I wonder what and when was my first sin The tiny, possibly thoughtless action that turned me from entirely innocent to partially evil. The first lie told, first harm inflicted, or first hateful intention carried out.

Do you know what you did?

It depends, I suppose, on what specifically you are asking. I know that I have lied, and I have hurt, and I have hated But I have done so often enough that I cannot exact what you are referring to.

I toss the shard of glass across the room. I lie back on the dusty floor. I try to forget. I try to shake this feeling that someone is watching me.

I spend my evening drowning my consciousness in a book. My mind floats with imagery of fairies, and magic, and inherent goodness that always wins in the end One by one, the members of my family say their goodnights and retreat upstairs. The room grows desolate and dark soundless but for the rhythmic ticking of the clock above the mirror.

I try to stay focused on my book, but the ticking seems to grow louder with every second that passes I find that I can no longer ignore the shadows that ominously lurk and plot in every corner When the clock strikes twelve, I set my book down.

There is someone watching me, but I know I can’t hide from her anymore.

I look up at the mirror that hangs on the wall directly in front of me My reflection is there again, but she no longer wears the guise of my appearance She is me, but she is small and scared, her face softer and her hair thinner. She is me before I saw the world as anything more complex than light and dark, happy and sad, good and evil.

She is covered in blood, and regarding me with hatred. Her pure green eyes water with tears that fight not to spill

“You killed me ” She says in a strained voice so quiet it is barely more than a whisper.

“I know.” I say back.

A teardrop rolls down her cheek, and then she vanishes. The mirror is overcome by my face, eyes dulled by purple crescents, and neck red and raw I sit at the mirror and wait, until the moon is forced down by the sun, and outside trees rustle, and wind blows, and apples fall as the world is illuminated in beautiful death.

I never see my reflection again.

A Winter's night By Anonymous

It’s the cream in my coffee, The cocoa in my mug, It’s the thing I most adore, And for that, I’ll always wait It’s the Christmas to my eve, The apple to my pie, And with that, I’ll always know That it’s a Winter’s night It’s the ginger to my bread, It’s the snow to my flake, It’s the thing I most adore, And for that, I’ll always wait It’s the fire to my wood, The fullness of my moon, And with that, I’ll always know That it’s a Winter’s night

ArthurSchopenhauer -AngelaBudz

Letter Addressedto theFire -Anonymous

Life is a Shakespearean play: it flows like pieces of paper as it is blown by the wind until it meets its tragic end in the sparks of fire. All that remains is ash which surfs through the air into the deep blue sea. It is a doomed poem, as its stanzas remind you of how miserable you are; now your only friend is the bottle which is held in your hand. As you pour your drink, you observe how gray the skies can be, all that chaos just beneath your feet. How did you ever drive here? While trying to grasp the moment, a force pushes you into a void; this place from which I write has become an inescapable home. At least disaster finally has surrounded me and I have no other option but to give in. Hopefully one day you can accompany me and swim in this melancholy sea.

1.

1.

Method of Preparation:

In a small bowl, combine the brown sugar, white sugar, and butter. Mix well.

In a separate bowl, combine the maple syrup and egg. Mix well.

1. 1. 1. 1.

In a large bowl, sift the flour, add the salt, ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, and the baking soda. Mix well.

Combine the three separate mixtures together. Mix well, and then begin to knead with your hands. It will be a little sticky, but continue to knead. Once the dough/batter is well mixed and kneaded through, place the dough/batter into a buttered/greased cake pan. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 hours. Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F. Remove the dough/batter from the fridge and place in the oven. Bake for 15 minutes.

Enjoy your Gingerbread Cake plain, frosted, or decorated. Merry Christmas!

Movie Review: Black Adam

By Jake Morgan

Before watching Black Adam, I didn’t have much prior knowledge about this superhero in the DC Universe. From the trailer, I understood that the protagonist was similar to the lightning-themed superhero, Shazam, a kid that was gifted powers by a council of wizards. Based on the quality of most recent superhero films, I wasn’t too sure if Black Adam would meet my expectations. In fact, the film exceeded them. Black Adam's VFX, which included several impressive slow-motion shots, was astonishing.. Dwayne Johnson was cast as the incredible Black Adam. The Rock typically plays the same archetypal character in the movies, but I don’t complain. The iconic actor gave Black Adam the humour it needed. I rated the movie only 7.5/10 because unfortunately, there were a few essential elements of the movie that were missing. To me, action is a crucial component of any superhero movie, but Black Adam focused on the visuals too much. A movie doesn’t necessarily need an abundance of special effects and music to qualify as successful. For example, Back to the Future is a phenomenal movie because of its unique story, and the character dialogue. Black Adam did not thrive in this department. I did not feel that the writers took the time to write all of the characters properly, and on top of that, there was a severe lack of character development. Black Adam is a movie that cannot be rewatched repeatedly without losing interest. The movie itself remains entertaining, but the story needed more work. Nevertheless, I think Black Adam is a promising addition to the DC universe.

Kazimierz Przerwa-Tetmajer by Angela Budz

Sketches

By Alondra B.

Made up of sketches, made up of lines. Drawing and carving the lost puzzle pieces as best as I can. There was an aching that I felt inside, as a pillar of me had crumbled to the ground. The sincere yet cruel touch of an epiphany; realization dawned upon me. I witnessed a part of me wither. Gloomier skies…did I even know who I was? An organism made up of flesh and bones. Pain was born for all the things I couldn’t become. Living with this weight forevermore. Because I’ve grown up in a world where marks are tattooed on my skin. Worries I should not fear, a pair of numbers on a sheet, opening up paths for law degrees and medical school entries; all of it is quite useless when I’m a stranger to myself. I could read, write and paint, but the screams in my head would be echoing so loudly, as wasted potential flowed out of my veins: bleeding myself dry till inner death. I had abandoned the wheel in a treacherous path, having no destination or sense of direction this was the way to a perfect car wreck. I thought: “My crumbled bones shall finally provide shade for my inconsolable soul.”

Time to Regret

By Anonymous

When I was fourteen my grandmother died, and when I was fifteen I saw where she was buried. Two moments in time. Had I been born in the same time as her I'd be gone by now too, and there's nothing obvious about it either. It's hard to take a breather and recognize your own failure sometimes your own failure to recognize the brevity in which you live This brevity, this life, this time is so finite. Precious. And, if you ever even begin to consider what might be possible to experience if you weren't so finite yourself, you'd feel like I did. You might feel like I do when I think about my grandmother. Buried, not gone: a difficult reality to face It is ironic how many living words we use to describe death: 'up above', 'passed away', 'in a better place'. What a beautiful error, that we are friends with this time that ages us. I think on this a lot, because to me it's as significant as anything else. So hopeless to experience life and wonder, "how will all this be when I'm gone?" This regret is so shamelessly unaware.

This passing day, the life of your flesh, present nor past tangible Making up a great colony of dreamers, believers, hopers, betters.

Ever wishing to God or the universe or no one in particular that tomorrow will be better than yesterday While it is true that we are moving forward and that we are building towards something, what that 'something' is has become an unfortunate inside joke At this point, we have only humor. I gather you here to reflect on your pain. Even if you are hopeful, consider your sorrows If there is something in your life that you wish had gone differently, I invite you to share so that the thought can be let go. For those of you who would turn back time to rethink a conversation, or to be more honest, or to enjoy one last lucid moment with a loved one, I'm sorry. Loss is a terrible thing, and in a more proper manner condolences are in order Yet, as we are now, regret won't help anymore There never was any time to regret

Having nothing besides time, Being time is Time moving on.

Sweet Tooth by Kira Christie

Hold On

By Olivia Dalglish

hold on, because there are sunsets you haven’t watched and best friends you haven't hugged and food you haven't tasted and SO MANY beautiful, amazing moments that you haven't experienced yet. so many moments that will make it all feel worth it. i know it might be bad right now, but if you give into the bad, you'll never get to the good. hold on, and you'll get to meet all the lovers you're yet to love, all the movies you're yet to watch, all the dogs you’re yet to pat. hold on, and you'll get to swim in the oceans you're yet to swim in and sing the songs you're yet to sing and live through the best days of your life that you're yet to have. don't let the bad take away your good. hold on. <3

It's a wonderful life

Movie

Review

by Pietra Melo

Of every wholesome Christmas movie out there, Frank Capra’s 1946 classic It’s A Wonderful Life will always remain one of the best. Originally adapted from Philip Van Doren Stern’s 1943 book The Greatest Gift, this film was not very popular at the time of its release but eventually became very successful, nominated for five Academy Awards and considered one of the best films ever made. Today, it’s beloved by all audiences. The story follows a man named George Bailey (played by James Stewart), who has always been there for the people in his community Ever since he was a kid, George always found a way to put his own wishes second and worry about those around him. After his father unexpectedly dies, George puts aside his dreams of traveling and exploring the world to stay behind in his town of Bedford Falls, New York, to take over the family business Having married the love of his life, Mary Hatch (played by Donna Reed), and having had four children, George considers himself a lucky man. When all seems to be going well during the holiday season, a tremendous amount of money belonging to his mortgage business goes missing George, feeling desperate, thinks that this crisis means the world’s end. After fighting with his workers, friends, and wife, George finds that there is no way he will ever be able to redeem himself after such a financial loss and horrible disputes So, George decides to drive down to the town bridge on snowy Christmas Eve and jump off As he’s about to end it all, another man falls off the bridge and into the cold, rushing water of the river beneath. Seeing and hearing the panic of the man, George dives in to rescue him.

After drying off in the bridge keeper’s shack, George asks the man how he fell into the river. Casually, the man reveals to George that he jumped into the river in order to save him. “It’s against the law to commit suicide around here,” the bridge keeper tells them “It’s against the law where I come from too,” the man responds. “Where are you from?” the bridge keeper asks. “Heaven” the man coolly replies. George, like any other person, refuses to believe that whatever the man says is anything less than nonsense. The man, however, reminds George that he didn’t have the courage to end his life, but instead he jumped in to save a stranger “Very funny,” George coldly replies. After revealing more about himself, the man tells George that he was “sent down” to save him. “What are you, a mind reader?” George asks, when the man begins to tell him things about his life The man then introduces himself as Clarence Odbody, a second-class angel George, still refusing to believe any of this is true, asks the man why he’d want to save someone like him; the man then reveals himself as George’s guardian angel, whose final task is to save him before receiving his wings Clarence decides that telling George about his importance in life is not enough, for George believes that everyone else would be a lot better off without him ever being born. Similar to the Charles Dickens novel A Christmas Carol, Clarence has a fantastic idea: he would show George what life would be like without him ever having existed “All right,” Clarence tells George, “You got your wish. You’ve never been born.”

A loud wind and sudden change in weather causes George to question the situation and drive down to the local bar for a drink Having arrived at the busy, crowded bar, filled with people from town, George begins to realize that not one person there recognizes him. Even funnier, George notices that some people, including the friendly bartender, begin to develop a different attitude. Clarence, still being doubted by George, tells him that anytime he hears a bell ring, it means an angel has just received their wings. Still skeptical, George is taken through town by Clarence, to be shown what all would have looked like had he never existed

Many parks and buildings he opened to help the community were never constructed, several neighbours and friends who once took help and advice from George now live homeless and disgraced, his family business has been lost, and all in the town seems to have fallen to shame. However, nothing seems to shake George more than the sight of his wife, Mary, now a lonely librarian. When George meets her and attempts to talk to her, and remind her of who he is, she yells for help and runs away. After being chased by the police, George finds himself back at the town bridge. Now desperate, George pleads to be alive again and begs to have his life back When his prayers are answered, George returns home on Christmas Eve to his wife and kids, with a newfound sense of gratitude and respect for life. Neighbours, friends, and townspeople from all over come to George’s house with donations to save the family business. Finally, to overflow George with joy - a bell rings

It’s A Wonderful Life will forever remain an emotional holiday classic, which is to this day remembered as a true work of art. This story, put together so greatly by screenplay writers and director/producer Frank Capra, along with an incredible cast, truly reminds us what Christmas is all about, as well as the purpose we serve in life which we should never take for granted. It’s A Wonderful Life is a tale of sadness, hope, and prosperity, which teaches us to treat our lives with the utmost respect and remember that though we may undergo struggles and disappointments every once in a while, we must not lose sight of what’s truly important, and should cherish the little things. We often overlook the fact that each of our actions affects someone, in some way, and makes a vital difference in each of our lives This film resides with all audiences today due to its timeless message: remembering that the life within you is just as important as the life around you. To conclude, this film is one that all viewers will highly recommend after watching because of its powerful story filled with meaning, warmth, emotion, wisdom, Christmas spirit, and significance It’s A Wonderful Life is a film we will never forget!

BY ANGELA BUDZ

Writing

By marlene martinez bello

She always found comfort in writing; it is the best drug for melancholy. It keeps her awake and washes over her like the tides of the sea She feels so immensely understood by it Thus, as she lies in bed, she thinks of how she dreams too much and doesn’t write enough; how she’ll exhaust her fingers till they fall apart even if she knows her poem will never be struck by daylight. Her ultimate goal was to unleash those words that were suppressed inside, for them to burst out like a rocket ship and with that, liberate every piece of emotion within her. The concept of writing, of giving your heart a pencil and spelling out the beats, of writing what you feel and feeling what you write this was the process that gave voice to her most profound and impermissible emotions, her sacred mode of expression and communication with her ghosts.

A STRANGE STORY

B Y A N A N O N Y M O U S G R O U P

I am sitting on a cloud. My legs are dangling in the sky below me, my feet twiddling, and my knees knocking I am supported by my elbows, my head tilted back and hair blowing. The day is sweet and blue. I am bliss. Then lightning strikes and it begins to storm.

Then, there is thunder. Everyone fears for their lives. They run to find shelter but the boy slips and falls into a puddle of mud. He is alone. He calls out but no one can hear him over the storm Suddenly he hears something that does not belong to the storm nor his own desperate whimpers He turns around slowly

There. In front of him, stood his parents! But they didn’t look like themselves There was a vacant, hollow look in their eyes and they had wide, fake smiles plastered on. It seemed like they were staring right through Max’s soul. “Um…hi guys!”

Suddenly, a car crashed through the wall, taking Max with it. The world went quiet. Max had died. His pet alpaca was the only one to attend the funeral Max was a glimmer of hope in a sea of darkness And now he was gone. Tim couldn’t believe it.

Then, the camera zoomed out from Max’s tombstone and the credits rolled over the screen.

The End

*The literary magazine hosts Writing Cafés: join us to write creative short stories

Jan Kasprowicz

By angela budz