Generic 6

It's a bIrd, It's a Plane, IT'S...

GENRE FICTION! Generic, Emerson College’s only genre fiction literary magazine, strikes again with its sixth issue! With a variety of new tales ranging from retold fairy tales and settlers on the moon to killer bees and cloud spirits, this issue is packed with excitement. We hope you’ll join us on this action-packed foray into genre fiction!

IN THIS ISSUE BIRTHDAY PRESENTS Julia Domenicucci ALL IN A DAY ’S WORK Tess Clark

THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER TONGUE Alexandra Kowal CUMULUS Sarah Dolan THE LONELY MERMAID OF BRIGHT HARBOR Jen Gheller THE SAVAGE Julian Tahyar CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR Alexandra Kowal YEAH, WE’ RE DEAD TJ Ohler

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Ge ne r ic , I s s ue 6 , Fa l l 2 0 1 4 Co py righ t f o r a ll s to r ie s be lo ngs to the i r cre a t o rs Ge ne r ic i s c o p yr ight o f Undergradua te S tude nts f o r P ubl is hi ng, Em e rs o n Co l l e g e D e s i gn by Ha nna K a tz a nd K e ls e y A i j a l a C o ve r A r t by Mic he lle A jo dah This is s ue is se t in Gi ll S a ns , S tylo gr a p h, a nd Pa l a t i n o L i n o t y p e

Ele ctr o nic e di ti o n p ublis he d a t is s u u . co m P r i nt e diti o n p r inte d a t the Emers o n C o l le ge P r i nt a nd C o p y C e nte r , B o s t o n M A

table of contents foreword

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Birthday Presents

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Julia Domenicucci

All in a Day’s Work

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Te s s C l a r k

The Girl with the Silver Tongue

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Alexandra Kowal

Cumulus

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Sarah Dolan

The Lonely Mermaid of Bright Harbor

28

Jen Gheller

The Savage

33

J u l i a n Ta h y a r

Careful What You Wish For

37

Alexandra Kowal

Yeah, We’re Dead

44

TJ Ohler

author biographies

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Generic Staff Editor-in-Chief: Natalie Hamil Readers: Kelsey Aijala, Rachel Cantor, Camila Cornejo, Sammi Curran, Diana DiLoreto, Hayley Gundlach, Laura Sabater, and Julian Tahyar Editorial Staff: Rachel Cantor and Hayley Gundlach Copyeditors: Ariana Colozzo, Kaitlyn Johnson, Carl Lavigne, and Sara Zatopek Proofreaders: Julia Domenicucci and Katie Zepf Interior Designer: Hanna Katz Assistant Interior Designer: Kelsey Aijala Marketing Manager: Kaitlyn Coddington Assistant Marketer: Diana DiLoreto Cover Artist: Michelle Ajodah

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Dear Readers, Thank you for picking up the sixth issue of Generic! We are thrilled and honored that you wonderful readers have embraced our mission to showcase genre fiction, and we are delighted to share these stories with you.

While there are many opportunities to study and write literary fiction here at Emerson College, the founders of Generic were disappointed by how few opportunities students were presented with to write genre fiction. Thus, Generic was born: Emerson College’s only genre fiction magazine.

We hope to provide a haven for anyone interested in writing and publishing genre fiction. In addition to this magazine, we hold writing workshops each month, each dedicated to a specific genre. This semester we focused on horror and comic books, which involved some amazing collaborations from other organizations on campus. We hope to create a space where our workshop guests can exercise their creativity in a constructive (and fun!) environment.

On the magazine side of things, we are very excited to announce that we expanded our staff this semester! Our new reading and marketing staffs, and larger copyediting and design departments have allowed us to grow in so many exciting ways. We can’t wait to see what the future will bring for this magazine!

In short, it is incredibly important to us here at Generic that quality stories are valued as quality stories, regardless of their genre. Genre fiction is not a lesser art! These amazing stories are crafted by incredible imaginations, with characters that are just as relatable, plots that are just as original, and quality that is equal to that of literary fiction.

We hope that you enjoy this issue, and we can’t wait to see what amazing stories that you, dear reader, will write for us next! xoxo,

Pub Club

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S c ien c e Fic tio n

Birthday Presents "

Julia Domenicucci

On my eleventh birthday, the United Nations released the moon for purchase.

Eligible families could buy parcels of land, and the UN’s construction crew would build a house big enough for each of them, complete with a small indoor garden.

Through his job as an assistant to a minor UN administrator, Dad made our family eligible. “It’s a birthday present from the Earth to you!” he exclaimed, picking me up and twirling me around even though we both knew I was too big for that. Even Mom, usually so quiet and deferential, chimed in: “She’s allowing you to grow up in a clean place. What a lovely gift!” The moon, everyone knew, was not polluted by overpopulation and the chemicals that scientists had said would break down but hadn’t. On the news they said the moon would have an atmosphere within ten years, but there would be oxygen helmets in the meantime. The UN was building the generators as the newscasters made their reports.

Exactly one year later, the morning of my twelfth birthday, we moved to our new house on the moon. So many people had wanted to get off of the planet that most eligible families had accepted, creating a waitlist of lesser world officials and the wealthy. The high demand also meant that our little titanium and aluminum house was not ready for some months. But we were the lucky ones—or so Dad said—and flew out on one of the first rockets full of settlers.

Boxes of our belongings sat stacked in the cargo bay. Our cat, Pepper, meowed in her crate under my feet. The ride was the most uncomfortable

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hour of my life. My seat was cold and my safety strap bit into my hip, but my parents said space travel used to be terrible, and terribly long. You had to get special training to go in any rocket, and they lacked gravity generators so everything—people, food, vomit—floated around, unrestrained. The custard that came with my dinner was so grounded it was almost rock-like. Mom sensed my disappointment. “I promise,” she whispered to me, “we will have a birthday cake once we’re there.”

But my parents, excited about our new “planet,” insisted we explore the neighborhood. Each house, though a different size, consisted of the same prefabricated shapes: cubes, mostly, and some cylinders, and a few things that looked like bay windows from back home. They were all arranged in a square around the central complex, which housed supply distribution and health services. A solitary road stretched from the complex into the overwhelmingly bland moonscape.

My eyes blurred as pure oxygen pumped across my face, my peripheral view further warped by the curve of my oversized helmet. They were onesize-fits-all. In my shaking vision my parents appeared to be skipping ahead, down the road. Dad picked up a lumpy grey rock about the size of his fist, holding it out to Mom. She peered at it carefully, as she used to inspect her favorite purple crocuses in our garden each spring. Turning to me, she smiled and tossed the rock in my direction. I reached, missed, and it fell near my foot with a dull thud, camouflaged against the other loose stones of the same color.

I nudged one with a toe, looking up to give her a short smile. Appeased, Mom made a comment about how perfect the gravity generators were. I looked up at the dark sky, wishing they would fail.

“There aren’t any oceans,” I said. Even though I knew little about the moon, it wasn’t a question. I looked back from the sky and along the surface, watching it fade into darkness miles away. The rocks would continue, bumpy and monochrome, without any waves or shores to break them up.

I finally managed to steer my parents back to our house—three cubes, two cylinders. But, exhausted, my parents fell asleep as soon as we had passed through the air lock into our living room. I avoided the kitchen that lacked the promised cake. Instead, I sat in my window, where I had a view of the Earth, far away and beckoning. The blues of the ocean were my favorite; I remembered swimming in them during a beach vacation the year before. Wisps of smoky clouds and cloudy smoke agitated the view, and the memory.

When I turned thirteen, Dad surprised me with a cake. It was about an inch tall, made with baking supplies he had scraped and saved from our weekly

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Ju lia D o me n ic u cci

rations. There was even a candle. I suspected Mom had brought it with us that first day. We lit it for a moment, enough time for me to blow it out and make a wish. I just want to go home. Mom wrapped the candle in a scarf and tucked it away for next year.

That afternoon, my parents and I went to the docks to meet some of the new settlers. I met a girl who reminded me of home—sunset pink cheeks and ocean blue eyes and chocolate brown curls. When she moved I believed I could smell low tide drifting from her hair.

Every year, on my birthday, I made a wish on my cake. The candle shrunk a millimeter and was tucked away. The news reports from Earth said scientists had invented ways of clearing Earth’s immediate atmosphere, of moving the excess heat and chemicals into space, making the planet truly livable again.

But I had school, and the moon still had a better atmosphere than Earth did.

And flights to Earth were extremely expensive, an exponential cost that Dad’s salary as a moonrock gatherer could not cover. With the UN defining rules and protocols for us from Earth and few officials on the moon, they didn’t need Dad to do what he used to. Only those who came wealthy, with a stockpile of cash, could travel home. And they usually did.

The day I turned twenty-four, the little white radio on the kitchen counter crackled to life. Communication between Earth and the moon was slower by then, but we still got announcements from Earth every few weeks, updating us on new global laws and new scientific achievements and how many new people would be allowed to move to the moon this year. But this day, the reporter explained that the scientists had done something wrong, and all of the heat and toxins and chemicals they had been forcing into space were actually trapped in the upper levels of the atmosphere. The scientists could keep them there, away from the overcrowded Earth, but it was extremely dangerous to attempt travel to or from our home planet. “That’s fine,” Mom said. “The moon is mostly self-sustaining now.” Dad agreed, adding with a smile, “Now, the moon won’t ever get too full.” The girl with the ocean blue eyes, who had come over to celebrate my birthday, gave my hand a squeeze. My sigh blew out the candle, now a thumb tall, that Mom had wedged in the rocklike cake.

As I watched the Earth that evening, I saw a burst of light in the atmosphere.

It was far away from the land itself, most likely an unmanned supply rocket carrying medical equipment or materials for houses. The next day I was scheduled to be at the docks at nine in the morning to unload a new shipment.

I flopped into bed, planning on sleeping in on my day off.

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Today is my eighty-fifth birthday. We don’t hear from Earth anymore. The moon is getting overcrowded with babies and complexes, and sometimes the atmosphere generators overheat. We have to carry around masks just in case the oxygen cuts out.

I spend the days sitting by my window. My parents were buried in the graveyard long ago. There is talk now of moving the graves to build more houses. No one has said what will be done with the bodies, but I cannot help imagining dust and bones unceremoniously dumped into the sky, a macabre display of our progress. Besides, so few rockets make it to the moon anymore; there is nothing to build houses with. Most houses are bursting at the seams with people as families grow but lack a new, appropriately-sized house to claim.

We are lucky, I suppose. Our house is too large for my family. My childhood bedroom is my study now, and I share my parents’ old room with my wife. We have no cats—they stopped allowing them with the third wave of settlers. We don’t have children. I didn’t want any; she did.

After dinner, she presented a flat rock from behind her back. On it “Happy Birthday” was penned in dark ink. The candle burned out a decade ago; cake supplies had been missing long before that.

In the darkness, the Earth sits. I know it must be spinning, but it’s too slow to see. Even though it is clouded with pollution, the blue oceans shine through, and I can see myself swimming in them.

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" A n imal Fan tas y

All in a Day’s Work "

Tess Clark

The Forager Bee The hive hung from the highest branch in the oak tree and was bigger and darker in color than any hive had ever been. The buzzing that erupted from inside could be heard from hundreds of feet away. Honey bee predators steered clear of it, for they took the noise as an ominous warning. They heard rumors that any animal stung by one of these honey bees would experience a torturous death. The only living beings that dared to approach the hive were the strangely tall purple flowers that surrounded the tree.

The hive had housed the Queen Bee for two years and new worker bees were being produced every day to keep up with the seasonal demands for honey. Summer was the busiest time in the hive. Even with 40,000 worker bees slaving after the queen, all of her subjects were expected to work for their six week life span until they died of exhaustion.

Worker Bee #10,674 was already five weeks old and she could feel her days being numbered. She was born from the Queen Bee to collect nectar from nearby plants. She would visit around 2,000 flowers in a day, but she could only carry the nectar from 50 at a time. She would zip in and out of the hive to release her nectar and go out in search for more. Her body was sticky with pollen and she wished it would rain so that she could rinse off.

She sat on one of the purple flowers surrounding the tree and looked up at the sky. The sun shone through the treetops and pierced her eyes. The forest floor was covered with dirt and rocks, but there were plenty of flowers to collect nectar from. They collected in purple bunches and filled the dark

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ground with color. Worker Bee #10,674 liked to rest on flower petals when she was away from the hive. She feared death by over working, so she rubbed her furry abdomen on the silky and delicate petal as she drank. Her golden body was smooth and shiny with five ridges that were each painted black. It carried much of her weight and was heavy on her small, translucent wings, so she relished the times when she could slowly collect nectar into her stomach as she relaxed on the flower’s deep orange center.

She dreamed of a day that the sun would stop shining and the flowers all died. She dreamed of a day when her work would be over. She knew she would never reach that day, so she drank the flower’s nectar, stored it in her stomach, and flew to the next flower. Her only purpose in her short life was to salvage nectar, and so she did.

The Processor Bee Worker Bee #30,539 was assigned the job of making honey. This was the stickiest job of all, but she was happy that she could remain inside the hive and avoid the harmful sun. The hive became very warm when the shade left and exposed the honey bees’ home to the summer light. Worker Bee #30,539 was still very young, only one week old, and did not know how tired her small wings would feel if she kept working at this rate.

Inside the hive were thousands of hexagons that sheltered the honey as it ripened. There were layers and layers of honeycomb and Worker Bee #30,539 was assigned to the hexagons that were in the early stages of the honey making process. Worker bees covered the honeycomb everywhere she looked and there were bees constantly whizzing in and out of the hive. Worker Bee #30,539 felt overwhelmed and tried to regain her focus. Her job was to make honey, and so she did.

Worker Bee #10,674 flew into the hive and approached her. She regurgitated the nectar directly into Worker Bee #30,539’s stomach and quickly buzzed away to continue her work. Worker Bee #30,539 neared an empty hexagon and regurgitated the nectar that she had just ingested into the honeycomb. It tasted sweet, very much like sugar, but not yet like honey. It was much too watery and had yet to develop the smooth and thick texture of honey. It was time to begin the ripening process.

Worker Bee #30,539 began fanning her wings in front of the honeycomb.

She was attempting to create airflow, allowing the water in the nectar to evaporate. She felt silly with her small wings making so little impact. But she kept fanning, because this was her job.

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Tes s Clar k

The Queen Bee The Queen Bee lived deep inside the hive. She was twice the size of the worker bees and her wings were twice as strong. She was responsible for all of the worker bees that made her honey. She was their mother and they were her slaves. The Queen Bee’s only job was to make new bees. She would live for three years, and at the rate all of her worker bees were dying, she needed to produce eggs nonstop. Beyond the usual amount of bees she had to birth, it was the summer, and bees were dying faster from the high heat and the increased amount of work. Each day, the Queen Bee laid about 2,500 eggs.

She was bothered by how tired the other bees always seemed because she was working just as hard.

The Queen Bee was only two years old, so she had a long way to go. She remembered when she first reached full size. There were fifteen drone bees assigned to fill her with sperm. She would use this sperm for the rest of her life to create close to one million female worker bees. After the drone bees released their sperm, they died, having no other purpose but to mate. The Queen Bee had yet to produce a male bee. They would only be needed before her passing so that they could fill the new queen with sperm.

There were bees that worked specifically for the Queen Bee and did not help make any honey. Their job was to feed her this honey while she produced eggs and to clean up her waste. There were others who collected the eggs and stored them away so that they could grow. These worker bees found their job degrading and they were surprised by how much waste one bee could produce, even if she was the queen.

The Bees Worker Bee #10,674 collected nectar from the sixtieth plant and her stomach began to feel heavy. She knew that she had gone too far and she should have deposited the nectar ten flowers ago, but she thought she could save time and energy by collecting extra nectar and not having to return to the hive so early.

Now, as she made her way back home, it became difficult to fly and her body weight pulled her toward the ground. She tried to zoom up towards the tree tops but the harder she tried, the weaker she felt. As she batted her wings rapidly and aimed for the sky, she lost all of her strength and dropped to the ground. She landed on the dirt and rock-ridden forest floor.

The sun had set and the forest was very dark. She looked around and could only see the bottom of tree trunks. So far from the hive, she began to panic. She

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was breathing heavily and her eyes darted around, wishing there was a fellow bee nearby to help her. She was only five weeks old! Her time wasn’t up! She threw up all of the nectar that she spent so much time and energy collecting.

Worker Bee #10,674 looked at the puddle of nectar sitting before her limp and furry body. It shone, though there was no light to illuminate it. She couldn’t carry on and redo the work that she had just rejected from her stomach. She felt lighter now, but this was no solace.

Her life purpose was deadly. She must work and work until she couldn’t do it any longer. Her presence in the hive would be replaced by another worker bee, by another number. Her contribution didn’t matter in the long run. As the nectar’s shine lit up her face, she felt defeated by the triviality of her life.

Worker Bee #10,674 would not be missed. The only bee in the hive with any impact was the Queen Bee, the mother of all bees, the master of all slaves.

Worker Bee #10,674 lifted her sore body off the ground and slowly returned to the hive with no nectar to regurgitate.

As she entered the hive, Worker Bee #30,539 approached her, prepared to accept her deposit. Worker Bee #10,674 whizzed past her after looking her directly in the eye. Intrigued, Worker Bee #30,539 followed. They zipped through the layers and layers of honeycomb. They dodged worker bees who were desperately trying to fill their quota of work. They bustled their way to the center of the hive, where Queen Bee was producing eggs.

It reeked of pheromones. The buzzing erupted in the small area filled with worker bees that slaved after Queen Bee’s every need. It was chaotic, with bees smashing into each other to collect her excretion and to pour honey down her throat. Eggs were dropping from Queen Bee so quickly that the worker bees could hardly collect them in time to carry them off to their warm cells to grow.

Worker Bee #10,674 approached Queen Bee, and the other worker bees watched as they continued with their work. It was unusual for a worker bee who wasn’t assigned to this job to enter the Queen Bee’s lair. Worker Bee #10,674 came up behind the queen, but she didn’t even notice. The rapid buzzing of wings flapping was a common sound to her.

Worker Bee #30,539 hovered in place at the entrance of the lair. She tried to not let her presence be known. Worker Bee #10,674 did not think about her visibility. She thought about revenge and that was her last thought as she turned her back on the queen and submerged her stinger in the Queen Bee’s abdomen.

The worker bees in the room stopped. They stopped working, they stopped moving, they might have even stopped breathing. Most shocked of all was

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Tes s Clar k

Worker Bee #30,539. She watched as Queen Bee writhed around in pain. Eggs stopped falling from her and her body flopped on the hive’s floor. Worker Bee #10,674 was lying next to the queen, but in less pain. She accepted her fate of death, even if it was an early one. She used her stinger and it cost her her life, but it was all for the others. There was no reason for them to die from the Queen Bee’s demands.

Worker Bee #30,539 was inspired. She flitted towards her hero and looked into her fading eyes. They were watching the Queen Bee, wishing for her death, though it was not coming soon enough. Worker Bee #30,539 wanted to help. She darted to the Queen Bee and sacrificed her stinger and her life as well. This time, the stinger hit the queen’s heart and she died instantly. Her writhing ceased and so did the flapping of her sturdy wings. Her large body lay motionless on the hive’s sticky floor, covered in waste, honey, and a drop of blood.

Worker Bee #30,539 lay next to her new hero and together they accepted their fate. She could see Worker Bee #10,674’s eyes light up at the success of revenge, just before they fell dark with death. Worker Bee #30,539 reveled in her triumph as she took her last breath.

The worker bees in the room were stunned. Did Worker Bees #10,674 and #30,539 not know what they just did? Sure, the bees could take some of the new eggs and fill them with royal jelly to make a new queen, but there were no drone bees. There was no hope for new life. No queen bee could be fertilized if there were no male bees to do it.

The worker bees began to panic and zoomed in circles around the Queen Bee’s lair. They smacked into one another. They crashed into the walls. The buzzing was so loud and so fast that a few of the other worker bees dropped their work and came to investigate the commotion. When they saw the Queen Bee lying dead, they followed suit, adding to the frenzy.

The hive erupted in mania. Bees hurtled into one another and knocked each other down. A few worker bees even rammed into another’s stinger accidentally, killing both. The hive shook as bees banged into the walls in horror of the crime and in fear of the unknown. The shaking became stronger and stronger until the hive fell from the highest branch on the oak tree. It tumbled through the tree’s leaves, pulling twigs down as it descended through the layers of branches. It bounced and bounced until it bounced from the final branch and landed with a splat on top of the bunch of purple flowers.

The once round hive broke in half and flattened on impact. Honey oozed out of the hexagons and soaked the dirty ground with a thick and sugary slime.

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Thousands of worker bees emerged from the hive and continued their hectic buzzing. They crashed into tree trunks and into the dirt ground. They tore apart bunches of purple flowers in their crazed haste.

This continued for only two days. The number of worker bees dwindled and, eventually, all 40,000 died of exhaustion. They were destined to die this way, and so they did.

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" High Fan tas y

The Girl with the Silver Tongue "

Alexandra Kowal

“It’s time, Wren.”

Wren stood up from her bed and walked to the door where Matron Mizaea was waiting. The woman gave her a small smile and stroked her hair. Wren tried to smile back, but her muscles betrayed her. She’d always known she’d have to leave her brother and sister Scribes, but she’d never believed it would be so soon. Although she’d been consigned to the selling track, most Scribes were at least twenty before they were sold. She’d heard of a few shameful ones who couldn’t be unloaded until the age of twenty-five, but had never feared that fate for herself. Wren mastered every language she encountered. She was the youngest Scribe to be sold from her Academy.

Despite the honor, Wren gladly would have spent four more years there.

Matron Mizaea sensed her distress and embraced her.

“You will be a fine Scribe, child. Just remember all we’ve taught you.”

She let Wren go and blinked rapidly, trying to hide the tears threatening to leak out. Wren nodded and followed the matron into the hall. The girl had been dressed in purple silks for the occasion and walked slowly so as not to tear them. They were a change from the normal brown tunics and breeches of Scribes-in-Training. It was all about presentation. Scribes were always dressed finely on the day they were to be sold. And today she was finished. Today she was the prize.

Wren tried to remember that as she followed Matron Mizaea downstairs to the negotiating room. When they arrived at the entrance, the matron kissed her on the cheek and left. Wren peered into the room, careful to remain concealed.

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She was allowed to present herself only when summoned. If what she’d heard of other purchases was true, she’d have to wait outside the door, ready at a moment’s notice, for a few minutes.

Her Scholar, Landon, was in the room with a round-bellied, bearded man.

The stranger was dressed head to toe in black leather. His bushy hair matched his attire, but there were some flecks of grey amid the raven locks. Wren studied his face. Though he was smiling, there was something sinister about his eyes.

He sat at the negotiating table while the Scholar paced near him, bragging about Wren’s worth.

“I assure you sir, she is a highly valuable specimen,” Landon was saying.

“And only fourteen!”

Wren smiled, noting the extra two years he’d shaved off. Of course Landon would lie about her age. If there were any way he could get away with it, he would have been swearing she was a five-year-old prodigy.

“She’s extremely gifted,” he continued. “This child knows more tongues than all the men of the Ruby Isles.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the man said in a gravelly voice. “Where is the girl?”

Wren hesitated for a split second, but then shuffled into the room. The man sized her up. She averted her eyes, feeling naked before his gaze.

“Your Scholar here believes that you can speak better than all the men of the Ruby Isles. Is it true?”

Wren forced herself to look up again. “Whatever Master Landon says must be true,” she said obediently.

“Oh, you’ve trained this one well,” he said to Landon. Addressing himself to Wren again, he continued, “Well, there’s only one man of the Ruby Isles you have to prove yourself to, child. Me.” Wren shuddered when she heard that statement. The Ruby Isles, known as the Cannibal Isles by everyone but the islanders themselves, were not a land she ever wanted to see. A large man of the mainland was usually harmless, but large men of the Isles were dangerous. They had eaten the most human flesh.

“Girl, tell me how to order three pints of ale in Terinese,” the man said, interrupting her thoughts.

Wren told him what he wanted to know without hesitation or a trace of accent.

“And how many dialects are there in Western Agonia?”

“Forty-three,” Wren replied.

“What is the difference between a Verebian and a Haloneien accent?”

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A lex an dr a K ow a l

“They’re the same accent, referred to by different names depending on which part of the kingdom you’re from.”

The man grinned.

“Enture hass viergo, ensai malay to’n amay?” he asked.

“Maiyay viergo, allat puasai ten inergo ellet to’n ensene, sol,” she responded right when he finished.

At this, the man laughed outright.

“Do you teach all your Scribes to oversell themselves, Landon? When I ask her how much she’s worth, she says no price is too high because purchasing her would be the best money I’d ever spent.”

Landon cleared his throat as if he were about to build upon that statement, but the man didn’t give him a chance.

“Well, I must concede she has a pretty tongue. Pity her face isn’t as lovely.”

Wren’s face, lovely or not, betrayed no emotion as he insulted her. She wasn’t really bothered by the accusation. With her light brown hair, hazel eyes, and long face she thought of herself as an average girl. Her lips were a little thin and her nose a bit large, but on the whole she deemed herself completely ordinary.

“Her face is perfect for a Scribe’s face, sir,” Landon argued, defending his merchandise. “A beautiful Scribe is a distracting Scribe. However, a Scribe like Wren here is perfect because she can fade into the background. You’ll have all the languages of the kingdom at your disposal without even betraying the fact that there’s assistance. We’re not selling you her face, sir. We’re selling you her tongue.”

“We’d gladly sell her tongue too, Scholar. Except it’d be on a silver platter and sautéed in butter.”

Wren’s hand involuntarily flew to her throat, but she let it fall almost immediately. She gulped, wondering how the sensation would feel if she didn’t have a tongue. Had the man noticed her little slip-up? Unfortunately, he had, and he proceeded to laugh loudly.

“Don’t look so frightened, child,” he told her. “We’d never truly let your tongue be eaten. It’s too useful.”

He smiled and Wren noticed how all of his teeth were a bit pointed. This made her feel even more uncomfortable under his stare. She’d had people look at her with hunger when the Scholars brought customers to tour the Academy, but she’d never dreamed an actual man-eater might appraise her someday. In her reverie, she almost missed what the man said next.

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“If I will be taking you, there will be no fear, child. Do I make myself clear?”

The man’s eyes twinkled mockingly as if they enjoyed the sight of her discomfort. She gritted her teeth. If he wanted no fear, she would give him no fear. Her training had not prepared her to be brave, but he obviously required proof that she would not flee at the first sign of trouble. If there were any hope for this transaction, she would have to show him she wasn’t merely some frightened child with a gifted tongue. One thing Wren understood well: satisfy the customer.

“It is understood,” she said. Then, she took a deep breath and forced out her next words. “And my name is not ‘child.’ It is Wren.”

Landon’s eyes bulged. His skin started to turn the color of milk. Wren saw him begin to sweat as the man stood up and moved toward her. In seconds he had crossed the room to tower over her. Wren forced herself not to shrink back, but wondered if she’d gone too far. She craned her head back slightly to stare him in the face.

“I am Draig Blackblood, but you can call me Master from now on,” he said, smiling wickedly. Turning to Landon, he said, “The price is paid,” and dropped a satchel of rubies on the table. The Scholar scooped them up greedily, barely looking at Wren as she followed her new master to the door. Draig paused and turned to face her.

“And if you’re ever that insolent again, I will personally remove your hand and feed it to you. I need your tongue, but I don’t need the rest of you.”

With that, he pushed open the door and took off at a fast pace. Wren watched his retreating form for a moment before glancing inside, surprised to find she was unable to move. Her feet were so used to returning up the Scribes’ staircase, back into the world of lessons and classmates. She would never again sit with the others in their large classroom, listening to every accent imaginable and trying to recreate it. No longer would she eat at the long dining table with the entire Academy or walk the grounds, practicing dialects while strolling.

Wren would miss the nights when she and her dormitory mates would talk to each other from their respective beds only to be shushed by Matron Mizaea for being disruptive after quiet hours. She looked over at Landon, but he was preoccupied with counting the rubies. Strange as it was, she would even miss him.

Wren turned her attention back outside and could see her unpleasant purchaser had almost reached the gate that opened to the only path leading off the Academy grounds. Draig Blackblood had not looked back. Wren knew

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there was no doubt in his mind that she would be behind him. He had paid his fee. She was his now. Knowing that any delay would only cause her trouble, she spurred her muscles to action and took one step out the door. Wren gazed at the negotiating room one more time, with its vaulted ceiling and giant table where men sold their fellows without a second thought.

Then, she did the only thing she knew and followed her new master.

C on t e mp o r ar y Fantas y

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Cumulus "

Sarah Dolan

The absolute worst thing about living on a cloud was how much it fogged up her glasses, Cumulus decided. Yes, the constant cold was horrendous, the lack of solid ground was awful, and the interminable wetness was downright terrible—but the fog was the worst of it all. She’d had it with wading around, her boots sinking in up to her knees, fumbling blindly because she simply couldn’t see. She’d tried using a cloth to clean her glasses, but it eventually got wet and just made everything worse. After a while she’d dropped it off the side of her cloud by accident, and that had been the end of that.

Cumulus pushed her glasses up onto her head and squinted. Her neighbor Stratus was on her own cloud a ways above her. She figured that she should probably go visit. Stratus was the only spirit who would really talk to her these days. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have more neighbors—she was hardly the only cloud spirit around. There was Cirrus, who spent most of his time weaving lazy stripes of mist a few layers above them. Nimbus, the thunder cloud who yelled no matter what kind of mood he was in. The Alto sisters, who were always moping around and speaking cryptically of coming storms. Fractus, who never seemed to stay in one place for any amount of time. It was just that they were all so predictable. None of them had changed in centuries. Once they’d all caught on that Cumulus was getting fed up with them, they’d stopped talking to her bit by bit—first Fractus, then all the way down to Nimbus at the end.

(The fact that she didn’t have to talk to Nimbus much anymore came as a relief.

His yelling drove her mad.) Stratus simply didn’t have opinions one way or

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the other about much of anything, so she was the only one who still welcomed Cumulus over anytime.

Stratus offered a lazy wave when Cumulus landed on her cloud. “Hello, Cumulus!” She smiled from where she was stretched out on the puffy surface. “The sky looks so nice, doesn’t it? Cirrus did such a nice job weaving this morning.”

Cumulus looked up. Cirrus was the spirit in the layer above them, farther from Earth’s surface. Stratus had been mooning over him for ages. All of his clouds were wispy and thin. Cumulus, who always made hers rounder and thicker, thought his aesthetic was terrible. “There’s only like, four of them, and those took him nearly all morning. They’re too thin.”

Stratus laughed in a way that confirmed she hadn’t been listening.

Cumulus took a few steps toward where Stratus was lying, but stopped.

Her boots had filled with water again. She sat, sinking a bit in the wispy fog of Stratus’s cloud, and tugged them off. She dumped the water over the edge.

It hit the ground in the middle of a high school basketball court with a splat.

“Why’s it so darn wet up here? It’s not even raining,” Cumulus complained as she pulled her boots back on.

“You wouldn’t have this problem if you didn’t insist on wearing human clothing,” Stratus said as she sat up and drifted over. “Why do you insist on doing that? It’s not natural.”

“You’re the one that isn’t natural,” Cumulus muttered. “You know what humans call people like you? Nudists. And they’re weird, they live in their own little communities and—” “Oh, again with the humans,” Stratus interrupted with a dismissive wave of her hand. “When are you going to stop with that? They’re such a bad influence on you.”

“They are not,” Cumulus said. “They’re fascinating. When’s the last time that you went to the surface?”

Stratus paused to think for a very long time. “Oh, it was ages ago. They were still building these fantastic temples of marble. But it was all so much.

They’re so…” She moved her hands around as she searched for a word. “Busy.”

“At least they aren’t boring like we are,” Cumulus said. “They’re always doing stuff, interesting stuff. Lots of it.”

Stratus shrugged. They sat in silence for a few moments, watching Cirrus’s clouds drift above. Soon enough, Stratus broke the silence. “I’ve been meaning to ask—why do you have those plastic frames on your face?” Stratus mimicked Cumulus’s glasses with her fingers.

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“They’re called glasses. Humans use them to see better.”

“But you can see perfectly fine, you don’t need those!”

“So? They look cool.”

Stratus gave Cumulus that look—that “you’re being a total idiot but I don’t want a confrontation so I’m not going to say anything” kind of look—and Cumulus took it as her cue to leave. “Okay yeah, I have to go work on my weaving. Bye.” Stratus waved and lay back down. “Goodbye, see you later.”

Cumulus tried her best to keep busy, but found it difficult. It was a rather dry day. She had only enough water in the air to weave a few puffy clouds before running out. She took care to make sure her clouds were nice and full in all the right places. Once she released a cloud, it would stay in the sky for as long as the winds allowed—months, sometimes up to a year. She spent some extra time trying her hand at making shapes. She made one cloud to look like a dog, another to look like a raindrop, and another that was supposed to look like Stratus but which turned out to look more like a blob.

A few years ago Cumulus would have been disappointed to be done so early. But now, having fewer clouds to weave meant that she had more free time to do what she wanted.

“Stratus!” Cumulus shouted upward, cupping both hands around her mouth. “I’m going out!”

Stratus didn’t reply; she was probably napping. Cumulus didn’t really care.

Excited, Cumulus focused on the clouds around her. She concentrated on bending them to her will and forcing them into a solid shape. Within a few minutes she had a misty staircase leading down to the surface. She jumped down the steps as quickly as her legs would carry her.

The staircase touched down, forming a large patch of wetness in the parking lot of a Target. Target was a store that had everything. There was always something new at Target. Stepping onto solid ground, Cumulus took only two steps before bumping into a human.

She bounced back. The human was soaked all down the front from where she’d bumped into him. Good, she thought, serves him right for not looking where he’s going!

“Uh, excuse me,” the human said. “Did you just walk off of that cloud?”

“Yeah,” Cumulus said, looking past the human toward the Target. She really wanted to go inside. There was probably a ton of interesting stuff in there, like animal-shaped crackers and Hula-Hoops and candles. If only this guy would get out of the way.

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“That’s amazing! How did you do that? Are you a magician?”

“Um, no. I’m a spirit. I live up there.” She gestured up toward the sky and then moved to try to walk around him. He stepped in the way again, forcing her finally to look up at him.

It was a teenage boy. He was wearing one of those shirts with buttons on it, and weird straps that went from his pants up over his shoulders. He had thickframed glasses that circled his eyes.

“I like your glasses,” he said.

“Thanks, I guess,” Cumulus replied.

“I also like your raincoat, it’s very... yellow,” he said haltingly.

“What are you trying to accomplish, here?” Cumulus asked, trying to inch around him and failing.

The guy stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Drew.”

Cumulus had read enough books (before they had gotten soggy from the mist and she’d had to throw them out) to know that she was supposed to take his hand in hers and shake it up and down. So she did. He was uncomfortably warm.

“And you are?” Drew asked.

“Cumulus.”

“Like the cloud?”

“Yeah. I am a cloud.”

Drew laughed. “You’re funny.”

“Okay.” Cumulus tried to sidestep him again and failed. She really wanted to get to Target.

Drew was still talking. “This is so cool, I’ve never met any kind of spirit before! What do you do?”

“Uh. I make clouds. Look, I’m busy, would you please go away?”

Unfortunately, Drew did not take the hint. “Can I come with you?”

Cumulus had had enough. She deliberately walked around Drew and toward the store. “I really don’t care what you do, just don’t get in my way.”

Drew seemed entirely content with that, and proceeded to follow her through the automatic doors and into the store.

Once in Target, Cumulus purchased a watering can, a garden hose, two plastic Slinkys, a pair of pool goggles, three waterproof flashlights, and a lawn flamingo. She paid with damp change that she’d picked up off street corners in her spare time. As a sentient being made of mist with no real basic necessities, Cumulus didn’t have much need for money. She had a sizable savings stored in a jar back on one of her clouds.

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Unfortunately, Drew was still following her after she left the Target, and hadn’t shut his mouth for more than three seconds the entire time. At one point amid the endless stream of chatter he asked if she would like to go to the Denny’s next door.

Denny’s, Cumulus knew, was a place where humans went to eat fine food and enjoy each other’s company. She never really needed to eat, seeing as she was basically a bit of cloud, but she was ready for an adventure, so she said sure.

While they were being seated and were ordering, Drew continued to talk nonstop. Cumulus wondered if he ever paused to breathe, or if he had died of asphyxiation an hour ago and was running off muscle memory.

“Drew,” Cumulus nearly shouted over him to get his attention, “if you don’t stop talking, I am going to throw myself off a building and explode into the tiniest droplets of water you can imagine.”

“You’re so funny,” Drew laughed as he looked at Cumulus over his soda.

“I’m not lying. I’ve met a lot of spirits in my life, but not a single one of them has talked as much as you,” Cumulus said. Drew stopped talking, and she nearly sighed in relief.

Reveling in the silence, she took a sip of her soda. It was some seriously weird stuff. It fizzed, and she could feel the air molecules bubbling up and popping in the back of her throat. She wondered how humans could drink it.

While she was mulling over her soda, she looked out the window at the front of the restaurant. The parking lot hadn’t changed at all since she’d last looked at it, which she found to be strange yet exhilarating. Clouds changed all the time, so she wasn’t used to things just staying put for hours at a time. Past the parking lot she could see a few scraggly trees and the sparse clouds that she’d woven that morning, as well as— “Drew, what’s that?” Cumulus asked, standing abruptly.

“What’s what?” Drew muttered, gaze locked sullenly on his drink.

“That cloud,” Cumulus said, abandoning her drink in favor of walking closer to the window. “It hasn’t got a spirit.”

The bell over the door chimed as Cumulus left the diner. She heard Drew scrambling to catch up. “No spirit? What are you talking about?” he asked, following her through the parking lot.

Cumulus was hardly listening as she walked toward the source of the cloud.

“All clouds have spirits, spirits give them life and make it so they can exist and reform over time. A cloud with no spirit is dead, so—what made that one?”

Drew finally managed to catch up with Cumulus at a crosswalk, grabbing

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her wrist before she walked into oncoming traffic. “Are you talking about the smoke from the factory?” he asked, wiping his wet hand on his shirt.

Cumulus vaguely remembered what a factory was—it was some place that humans went to make things. “You mean that’s a human-made cloud?”

“Uh, yeah? What’s wrong?”

It’s dead, Cumulus thought. The cloud was sad and grey and it vanished after a few scant moments. It was then replaced by another sadder, greyer cloud, and Cumulus watched as that cloud also was torn apart by the wind.

“Why? Why are you making clouds? Are you trying to replace us spirits?”

Drew scratched his head with his free hand. “No? None of us really know you exist. And we’re not making clouds, we’re making plastics.”

“Plastics?” Cumulus asked, watching as another cloud vanished and was replaced. “Like my glasses?”

“Plastics are in most everything, really,” Drew replied. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Cumulus didn’t know what to say to that. “I think I want to go home.” She didn’t wait for a response from Drew before walking back across the parking lot. A sizable crowd had gathered around the base of her staircase. Cumulus pushed her way through the crowd of confused shoppers and started up, dissolving the steps behind her.

Drew stood in the crowd below her and shouted up. “Cumulus, what’s wrong?”

Cumulus sighed and turned around. “You’re all crazy. Stay away from me.”

“But I thought we had something!” Drew shouted up at her.

“What?”

“I mean, I thought we had something going, you know?” He moved his hands in a way that was just plain confusing. His face was turning a weird pinkish color. Cumulus had no idea what to do. “It’s just—I’ve been dreaming about meeting someone like you my whole life, you’re so interesting! Will I ever see you again?”

Cumulus didn’t know how to respond to that, either. She turned around again and stomped up the rest of her staircase, leaving Drew standing in the middle of a parking lot and shouting up at a cloud.

“How was the rest of your day?” Stratus asked lazily when Cumulus thundered back home. “Oh wow, what’s wrong?”

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Cumulus sat with a huff. “Humans are so weird, Stratus.” Seething, she raised her arms and started violently weaving, undoing her work from the morning and making one big, angry, grey blob.

“Well, I feel that we already knew that, you know?” Stratus said, grasping Cumulus’s arms and lowering them to her sides. “Now calm down, we don’t need you weaving big angry clouds just because you’re upset. You’ll mess up everyone else’s work.”

Cumulus sighed, long and hard. Stratus was right. Losing her temper now and writing something like “HUMANS ARE DUMB” in big letters across the sky wouldn’t do anyone any good. She’d throw off Cirrus’s and Nimbus’s work, and an angry Nimbus was the last thing anyone wanted to see.

“People suck.”

Stratus just laughed a little bit. “Oh well. What’s in the bag?”

Cumulus glanced at the bag of purchases. None of the items seemed as grand as they had earlier. When she thought about it, they were all just hunks of plastics—the same plastics that made dead clouds. “It’s nothing important,” Cumulus sighed. “Just some stuff from the surface that I don’t really need.”

Stratus looked over at her. “Don’t worry about the surface, Cumulus.

There’s nothing really important down there. Everything’s so much better up here.”

“I guess,” Cumulus said. She wasn’t sure if she agreed with Stratus or not, but she did realize one thing: her glasses were plastics, and they had to go.

The absolute best thing about taking off her glasses wasn’t pitching them off the side of Stratus’s cloud and watching them fall to the surface, Cumulus decided. Yes, the sudden clarity of her vision was wonderful, the lack of frames pinching her nose was a relief, and the smile that Stratus gave her was amazing—but seeing with full clarity the look on Drew’s face as they bounced off his head was the best of all.

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The Lonely Mermaid of Bright Harbor "

Jen Gheller

Sadie squinted through the sun shining off the mild waves and could just make out the lighthouse. She hadn’t seen it in a year, and after being away for her first year of college, the familiar sight was comforting. She couldn’t wait to get back on the small island where she had spent so much of her time.

“I’m glad you’re back,” her father said from his place at the wheel of their boat. “It’s going to be a busy summer. A lot more tourists have been showing up ever since the rocks got a new resident.”

“What resident?” There usually wasn’t anything exciting to see on the rock cluster a short distance away from the lighthouse island, aside from seagulls and the occasional seal. Sadie’s dad raised his brow at her.

“You haven’t heard the news?” Sadie shook her head. “They call it the ‘Lonely Mermaid.’ Showed up not too long after you left for school. Used to come right up to the island, too, but now…well, you’ll see for yourself. The harbor’s gotten a lot of publicity from it. What’s that look for?”

“A mermaid? You’re sure it’s a mermaid?” Sadie asked, trying to keep the alarm out of her voice.

“Positive. It’s been out on those rocks for a year, Sade. If it was something else we’d know by now.”

“But mermaids… they’re rarely spotted in areas with heavy boat traffic, and never for more than a month! Does it ever get close to the island? Do the tourists bother it? Have there been any boats trying to get—” “Whoa, kid, easy!” her dad interrupted. “No one bothers it, it’s just something interesting that people want to see. Been great for business at the

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gift shop, though.” He went on about all the work that needed doing and how it would be a lot easier on him now that Sadie was back, but she didn’t hear a word of it. Her thoughts were on the mermaid. Their boat was closer to the lighthouse now, but the rocks were still out of view. Sadie’s stomach lurched, though the waves lapping at the side of the boat were docile. She had never been seasick a day in her life. She wished, like a coward, that she were back on shore.

After reaching the lighthouse and securing the boat to the dock, Sadie turned her head in the direction of the rocks. Eyes straining, she searched for a sign of gleaming scales or long brown hair, but all she could see were a few lazing gulls.

“Huh, that’s weird,” her dad said, following Sadie’s gaze. “It’s usually there when the keeper shows up for the day. Maybe it’s hunting. You can check again later when we’re done. Then you can go fishing if you want, yeah?” Sadie nodded and followed him to the lighthouse. She ran up the flags, cleaned the staircase and visitors’ center, and did whatever maintenance tasks her dad instructed her to do. Then they headed over to the gift shop to set up for the day.

As soon as the door to the shop opened, Sadie felt like she had been sent back to last summer. Posters, mugs, T-shirts, buttons—all of it and more were plastered with the Lonely Mermaid’s image. A few items for the lighthouse and Bright Harbor were for sale, but Sadie couldn’t imagine anyone being interested in them anymore. She picked up a mermaid figurine and ran her fingers over the dorsal fin, almost expecting it to feel as rough and scaly as the real thing. But, of course, this one was just made of plastic. She wanted to snap it in half; she wanted to break everything with the mermaid’s likeness so no one could buy a souvenir of a creature they would never care about.

“I’m all set here,” her dad said, eyeing her curiously. “Thanks for the help.

You can take the rowboat out of the shed if you want to do some fishing.”

Sadie thanked him and bolted from the gift shop. Instead of getting the boat out, she went back to the dock. Sure enough, she could see sunlight glinting off silver scales out on the rock cluster. The mermaid was draped over the rocks with its head pillowed in its arms, and its long tail swished languidly in the water. A few seagulls sat near it. One even perched on the mermaid’s dorsal fin, but the mermaid took no action to chase it away. Sadie’s heart quickened, and her mouth wasn’t sure if it wanted to smile or frown. Minutes passed, and then the mermaid sat up. Sadie couldn’t make out its face from where she stood, but she knew it was looking right at her with its deep, black eyes. Before

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Sadie could stop it, her arm lifted in a wave. The mermaid waved back, then rolled off the rock into the ocean. Another few minutes went by before the top of its head poked out of the water before her. Sadie opened her mouth to say something, but only a wheeze came out. The mermaid stared.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” Sadie finally whispered, sitting down hard.

The mermaid swam closer and reached for her. She clenched her fists once, then got onto her stomach and grabbed the mermaid’s hand. She expected it to pull her into the water, but they just stayed like that, holding hands. The mermaid smiled, showing off its rows of sharp teeth, and placed its free hand over its heart. Sadie tugged her hand out of the familiar scaly grip.

“What are you so happy about?” she yelled, standing up. The mermaid flinched a bit. “You waited here for me, didn’t you? I told you I was leaving, but you didn’t understand a word of it. You let yourself become a cheesy tourist attraction, and for what? What if I never came back? You still don’t even know what I’m saying, do you?” She took a step back, and the mermaid cried out.

With a deep breath, it launched itself out of the water and pulled itself onto the dock, reaching for her again.

Lying before her like this, the mermaid was a ghost of the magnificent creature Sadie had known last summer. Ribs stuck out beneath heaving gills, previously grey skin was now deeply tanned, and there were large, splotchy moles covering its torso. It spoke to her in its grating language, but Sadie shook her head; they never could communicate well, but Sadie still wished she could understand. The mermaid sighed, then thumped its hand several times on its chest before closing it in a tight fist. It looked at her with a desperate expression and repeated the motion, pointing to itself and the moles on its body.

“You’re… dying?” The mermaid cocked its head. “Um. You,” Sadie pointed to the mermaid, took a few exaggerated breaths, and said, “no?” At this, the mermaid frowned and nodded. “I can’t believe this,” Sadie muttered. “You killed yourself over me. Why would you do that?” Tears stabbed at her eyes as she thought of the mermaid waiting for her day after day, letting its skin be scorched by the sun that it wasn’t supposed to see for long stretches of time. She wondered if it had a family, if it missed them. She had done her best to tell the mermaid she was leaving, but Sadie still felt that this was all her fault. There was nothing she could do now, except try to give the mermaid what it had been waiting for. With gentle hands, she helped the mermaid back into the water, then ran for the shed to get her old row boat and fishing supplies. When she got back to the dock, the mermaid was swimming back and forth agitatedly.

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“Ready to fish?” she exclaimed, setting the boat in the water and jumping in. The mermaid perked up immediately and smiled, holding its arms out wide. Sadie laughed. “That’s right. The one who catches the biggest fish is the winner.” She rowed away from the island a bit before casting her line. The mermaid dove beneath the waves, and it almost felt like last summer again.

Sadie remembered how she had almost capsized when she first saw those black eyes staring at her from the side of her boat. Then she really did capsize when the mermaid had tried to climb in. It grabbed her in the water, and with its scales scraping against her skin and long tail swirling around her, Sadie had been sure the mermaid was going to drown her. Instead it had pulled her back to the surface and swam around her while she righted her boat and climbed back in. To her surprise, it had come back the next day, and the day after that, following her boat like a puppy. Sometimes she jumped in and swam with it, but mostly they had fishing competitions that the mermaid usually won. The mermaid had always made Sadie happy. The least she could do now was try to do the same.

A thud rocked the boat as the mermaid slapped a two-foot cod onto the deck. It smiled and flexed its arms as Sadie groaned, pulling her empty reel back in.

“No fair!” she whined, as she always did. “Round two?” She stuck up two fingers, but the mermaid shook its head and flopped itself into the boat. Its gills flared, and Sadie realized how tired it must be. It really was a lot thinner than last year; their competition must have taken a lot out of it. Sadie lay next to it and, even though she knew the mermaid couldn’t understand, she talked about her first year of college. She talked about her roommate who had caused a bug infestation by always leaving out food, the professor who was always exactly fourteen minutes late to class, the big spring concert held on campus, and the delicious cookies her R.A. left out in the common room every month.

Then the mermaid talked in rasps and whispers. Sadie did not understand but, if she had, she would have known that the mermaid talked about what the lighthouse looked like in the snow, how the tourists stood at the very edge of the island trying to get a good look at the mermaid, the refreshing coldness of the water on its skin after lying in the sun all day, the chattering seagulls, the puttering boats, and the horrible exhaustion that came with missing her and forcing itself to swim back to the rocks every day, just in case Sadie came back.

When they had talked themselves out, Sadie reached for the mermaid’s hand and squeezed; the mermaid squeezed back. They lay hand in hand, staring at

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the sky and being rocked by the waves, until Sadie felt the mermaid’s hand go limp.

She sat up and shook the mermaid, but it didn’t respond. With a shuddering breath, Sadie let go of its hand, stroked its hair once, and pushed it into the water. It floated for a moment before slowly disappearing into the depths, leaving one last flash of scales in its wake. Sadie rowed back to the island, put her boat away, and went back to the gift shop. There were only a few tourists who were complaining about the mermaid’s absence on the rocks.

“It’s supposed to be here every day,” one elderly woman stated.

“Well, it’s just our luck to be here on the one day it ain’t,” a balding man said. Sadie wanted to snap at them, but kept her mouth shut. Business would probably go down, but it would be better for people to think the mermaid had left as mysteriously as it had come.

“Oh, Sadie!” her dad called from the register. “You think you could hold down the fort here for me? I think another tour group just pulled in.” Sadie nodded and took his place, ringing up the last of the first group so they could leave. Once she was alone, she sighed and plunged her hands into her pockets.

Her right hand hit something sharp. She pulled whatever it was out and gasped. It was one of the mermaid’s teeth. The mermaid must have slipped it in at some point in the day. She put it back in her pocket, glad to know it was there as she dealt with whiny tourists for the rest of the day.

Once the tours had ended and they finished closing up for the day, Sadie and her dad got back on their boat to head home. “So,” her dad said, “the mermaid’s dead, then?”

“What?” Her voice was louder than she intended, and she blushed. “You knew this whole time?”

“Sade, you think I didn’t see that thing doing flips over your boat all last summer? Yeah, I knew!”

She took the tooth out of her pocket and rubbed her thumb over it, noticing that it, too, glinted in the sun. “It just sucks!” Sadie yelled. “I didn’t even know anything about it, and now I never will.”

“Well, at least we know that it had just as much of an adventure as you did.

Why don’t we put that on some string? It would make a pretty cool necklace.

Would you like that?”

“Yeah,” Sadie said, looking back at the lighthouse, and the rocks in the distance. “I think I would.”

High Fantas y

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The Savage "

Julian Tahyar

The man stalked through the woods with his spear at the ready. His hair was messy and filled with dead leaves, and most of his body was coated with dirt.

He could feel the slight rustle of the leaves and the snorting of a wild pig. His spear thrust forward, and he heard the pig squeal in pain before it went silent.

He rushed forward to claim his prize. It was a mistake.

There were five men in light metal armor in front of him. They carried no weapons. They were obviously exhausted but, nonetheless, seemed ready to fight him. The first, his armor more intricate than the other four, held up his hand and pointed it at him.

“Identify yourself.”

The hunter, crouching, motioned towards the corpse of the pig and said, in a raspy voice, “I will share.”

“Identify yourself,” the captain repeated stubbornly.

“I will share.”

One of the other soldiers turned towards the leader. “Captain, the men are starving. We need food. Who cares if the Savage won’t identify himself? He’s willing to share.”

The Captain looked at the faces of his men, downtrodden and weak. He turned towards the man. “Fine, we will share. But let us carry it. Take us to your tribe.”

“I have no tribe. I am alone.”

“Then let us take the pig back to our camp. We will provide you with security for this night.”

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The Savage nodded his agreement, slinging the pig over his shoulder and, still crouched, followed the soldiers.

The pig was not big enough to truly satisfy six starving men, but nobody complained as they ate. They simply ate by the fire as the darkness of the forest swam around them. The man at the periphery of the camp looked at the soldiers around him warily. He ate with his meal clutched in one hand and his spear in the other. It was only when the men finished off what remained of the pig that they became more curious about their new companion.

The Captain finally gave voice to what all his men were thinking. “So tell us, Savage, what are you exactly?” The man looked at him without responding.

“If it makes you feel more comfortable, I am Captain Andrioni Tellinius. We are Warriors of the Animus, rulers of the Odrofian People and their Mountains, the Brindali People and their Deserts, and the Trolls and their Swamps. One day, the Animus shall rule these lands, too.”

“Never.”

There was a roar of laughter among the soldiers.

“Once, the Animus was just another tribe in the Odrofian Mountains. But we could do something that nobody else could do,” the Captain said. He thrust his hand forward and energy began to pool out before it, forming a sword.

With a slight flick of his wrist, the sword dissipated. “With this ability, we rose above the other tribes, and then we conquered the Brindali and the Trolls. It is only a matter of time before these forests become part of our lands.”

“There are too many tribes and too many dangers for you to ever conquer these lands.”

“Savage, these things are beyond your comprehension.”

“If you are so confident, then why are there so few of you?”

The Captain and his men looked uneasy, “I will confess that taming the forest has been a little more difficult than anticipated. There are many of your kind in this forest and, even with our dreamcrafting, the woods are a dark and dangerous place. However, as long as some of us live to tell the tale, we will return and prosper.”

“You do not know the forest. If the various tribes do not kill you, then the wild animals will tear you to pieces.”

“No, we do not know the forest,” admitted the Captain before smiling, “but you do. You could guide us out of here safely.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because the Animus punishes her enemies without mercy, but rewards her allies immensely. You could be a very powerful man.”

T he Savage

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The Savage looked around, still nervous, before finally returning his gaze toward the captain. He rose up for the first time. “I want something else. You will give it to me when we are finished.”

“What is that exactly?” one of the men piped up. “We can’t make a deal without knowledge of what we’re getting ourselves into here. Do you understand that, Savage?”

“When we are finished, you will give what I want.”

“Calm down, Estroiani. There is no price that the Animus cannot pay.

Surely, the Allmother will be grateful for our return, and she will give this man what he desires. You have a deal, Savage.” The captain held out his hand, and the man grabbed it. The Savage returned to his crouching position and spoke.

“You must leave your armor here. It is too clunky. Everything in the forest will know you’re coming. Then, we must leave as soon as possible.”

There was a storm of complaints from the men, but the Captain spoke calmly. “Leave the armor behind. If you can’t dreamcraft yourself armor when we’ll need it, you don’t deserve to call yourself a Warrior of the Animus. We go within the hour.”

Soon enough, the soldiers were ready to leave. The Savage led them through the embracing darkness of the forest. Every whisper of the wind frightened them: every tree shrouded in night, every leaf that touched their ankles. They were terrified but, to their credit, they kept going on quietly, even when the sun rose above them.

Suddenly, an arrow was flung from far above, hitting one of the soldiers right in the heart. The survivors immediately dreamcrafted themselves some armor and large shields. The Savage took a knife from his pouch and threw it into the trees. A corpse came falling down from the branches. He ducked behind the trees as a wave of arrows hit the shields of the soldiers.

“Fire back!” shouted the Captain as the soldiers dreamcrafted arrows to shoot back, but even among them there were only so many who could dreamcraft. Tribe warriors began to emerge from the woods and run towards the soldiers. Their guide rushed forward with a sudden inspiration of courage.

He thrust his only spear into some person’s body. He began to pull it out but, as he did, it splintered in half. He was without weapons.

He breathed in deep. He could feel his nerves come alive as energy began to pool from out of his hands. Sparks of thought and consciousness danced from his mind to his fingertips before coming out, but he focused on it. He felt like his fingertips were on fire. It had been so long since he had done this, but it was muscle memory; one never truly forgets. He dreamcrafted himself another

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J u lian Tahyar

spear. He began to fight more ferociously than ever. Two warriors came at him, but he simply used his spear to block their hatchets before twisting it and poking right through the both of them. An arrow hit his shoulder. He ignored it. Another warrior came towards him. He tried to thrust his spear into him, but the warrior hit him with his axe before he could. The man went down before he saw a dreamcrafted arrow hit his would-be killer.

It was only later, when the warriors of the Animus crowded around him, that he realized he was still alive. He was feverish and pale.

“Who are you?” the Captain asked.

“I am Ignatius Domos of the Warriors of Animus. Twenty years ago, I was part of another expedition from the Animus to come here, to try and tame the forest. We failed. I fled from fear.”

“Why did you not come home?”

“I was too ashamed,” he said, tears running down his face. “How would I be able to present myself before the Allmother and call myself a true soldier of the Animus? Please, I just want to come home. I just want a chance at redemption. Please.”

Fair ytale

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37

Careful What You Wish For "

Alexandra Kowal

Lily’s eyes bulged as she watched the golden-haired girl lean down and place a hesitant kiss on Henry’s lips. Though it lasted for barely a second, she felt her insides tighten as if someone were packing her intestines into a ball. Henry didn’t notice—he was a bit preoccupied—but Lily could see too clearly how the girl’s nose scrunched up in revulsion afterwards. The insincere beauty wiped her lips when she thought no one was looking.

How dare she! Lily thought. The spoiled brat!

Lily would have given almost anything for Henry to kiss her like that. She’d thought she was close once, thought she’d had a chance.

Looking back, she should have realized. For as long as they’d known each other, Lily could barely remember a time when Henry wasn’t going on about something or other from his past. He had always talked about going back to the life he had before—a life of luxury that she couldn’t provide for him.

If only she had golden hair and ruby lips and a father with a kingdom at his disposal. Or perhaps she should have been crueler to Henry. Perhaps she should have been like this woman who lied to him and taunted him and rejected him repeatedly.

This is all wrong. *** The first time Lily met Henry she thought he was crazy. She had been lounging by the pond, sunbathing, eyes closed and legs stretched out. As soon as Lily began to relax, she could hear it—a chaotic muttering.

“Can you please be quiet? Some of us are trying to appreciate the day,” she said.

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“What?”

The voice was hesitant, almost hopeful. Lily lazily opened one eye to glance at her disrupter.

“I’m sure whatever you were babbling about was very important, but it’s hard to sunbathe listening to all that chatter.”

“You? You understand me?” he spluttered.

“I understand you’re still talking.”

“No, I mean, you understand me. As in, you know what I’m saying.”

“Well of course I do,” she answered, “Why wouldn’t I?” The look of surprise on his face was breathtaking. After a moment of stunned silence, he continued in all seriousness.

“Well, I suppose it only makes sense. You’re a frog.”

Lily gave a throaty chuckle.

“And what does that make you?”

“Well, I’m a prince of course,” he said with absolute certainty, causing Lily to laugh again. This seemed to disturb him as he rushed on.

“I’m not a frog. Really. Not a real one, not…” In his distress, his throat puffed up to twice its natural size, and he let forth an aggravated “ribbit.” Lily surveyed him again. He was definitely a frog–green bumpy skin and all.

“Calm down, would you?” she asked, hopping a little away from him, “No need to get crazy now.”

He stared at her with a look on his face that was a confusing mixture of defiance and supplication.

“I’m not crazy. I’m cursed.”

Lily searched his face for any signs of deception but could fine none. She was intrigued. She allowed the crazy frog to hop over and plant himself right next to her. Comforted by her willingness to listen, he continued.

“It’s true. A witch put a curse on me. She turned me into a frog.”

“Why?” Lily asked.

He shifted uncomfortably.

“Well, I’m not exactly the best at keeping my mouth shut…”

Lily thought that was an understatement.

“And I insulted her. I was a bit entitled,” he said, “Though I suppose anyone would be with my sort of upbringing. She thought it’d be funny to teach me humility or something like that, I suppose.”

“If you were turned into a frog, then what were you before?” Lily asked.

He leaned in like they were in together on a conspiracy plot. Lily was surprised to find she didn’t mind the proximity.

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“A prince,” he whispered.

Lily stifled another laugh, in order to not upset him further. Her head bobbed as if in agreement. He moved even closer to her, one webbed foot touching her own. She was never sure if that was intentional or not, but she didn’t have much of a chance to think on it because this frog “prince” just kept babbling on.

“I’m Henry,” he said, “Prince Henry, to be exact. What’s your name?”

“Lily.”

“So… is that short for Lily Pad?” Frog Prince Henry gave a hearty laugh at his own joke. Once he had calmed down a little, Lily decided it was safe to answer.

“No, Your Highness, just Lily,” she replied.

“Well, ‘just Lily’…you don’t know how wonderful it is to meet you,” he said.

She was smitten ever since.

And then he’d told her about the most wonderful things—far off lands, famous artists, festivals that lasted for weeks. Lily and Henry were soon inseparable and stayed that way for a long time. She taught him how to be a frog, and he taught her how to be human. Lily wished she had seen half the things Henry had seen in his life. He described the luscious taste of chocolate, the way good pieces just melted on your tongue and made you feel warm inside.

She wanted to taste chocolate. It sounded so much better than flies. She wanted to read books and visit a painting gallery and listen to an orchestra instead of just the chorus of crickets that visited the pond each night. Once Henry recited a sonnet to her by the famous poet, Wolfram Oldrich, and it nearly brought her to tears. No conversation with the other frogs had ever done that.

And then he spun tales about the most fantastic castles imaginable, with courts full of intrigue and romance. He told her about his old home and of all the other castles he’d visited on this business or that. She’d never found the palace fascinating before, but nowadays she couldn’t help staring at it, dreaming of what might lay within.

When Henry had mentioned the decadent balls from his former life, Lily couldn’t help chiming in, “Oh yes, I know of those. The princess loses her golden one in the pond every once in a while.”

“What?”

“Her golden ball. It’s this beautiful golden sphere. A bit heavy, so she always has a servant wade in and fetch it back for her.”

Henry laughed.

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“No, that’s not what I mean. A different kind of ball. What I’m talking about is a wonderful party with dancing.”

Then he went on to explain the different dances and told her about the one time the servants had waxed the ballroom so vigorously that he fell and had to pretend it was part of the dance. Lily laughed so hard she could barely breathe the first time he told her that story. Henry told her so many wonderful stories.

But he didn’t tell her that a kiss from the princess might break the spell until months later, just days before he left the pond for the palace.

For all the tales he’d told, Lily had always thought he was just making things up. Maybe he really liked telling stories. Maybe he’d seen a prince once and was a bit delusional. Maybe he was a little bit crazy, but she loved him anyway.

She’d never believed he could really be human. *** It was two weeks after the fateful kiss that Lily first saw Henry and his princess again. They were just walking around the grounds, not too close to the pond, but close enough for Lily to be able to catch their every move. Lily marveled at how handsome he still looked. Even though he was pale and his eyes were too small, he was tall and had a pleasant smile. She didn’t normally like hair, but his was a deep chestnut brown and looked soft as a down feather.

Henry and the princess strolled past with linked arms. Lily’s eyes focused in on Henry only to find that the corners of his mouth were slightly turned down.

She noticed that he kept running one hand through his hair as he walked with the princess, who chatted the whole time, oblivious to his disinterest.

Lily couldn’t really hear them, but she imagined the girl was droning on about dresses and jewelry, not poetry and theater. She hopped closer to try to hear, but it was useless. With every step, the two royals drifted further and further away from the pond until they were only little specks in the distance.

Lily had never felt more alone. She couldn’t be with Henry, but she didn’t know how to survive without him anymore. No longer were her amphibious family members a source of comfort; every time they complained about water birds or the quantity of flies they’d eaten that day, she felt more and more irritated by their company. Lily wanted to talk about art and adventure and travel—all the things she’d learned from Henry. The one time she had worked up the courage to mention the great painter, Martin Arnau, the rest of the frogs stared at her until she slipped back into the water and hid among the reeds. She kept wishing that Henry would visit her or that somebody—anyone really— would come sit by the pond. Lily wouldn’t even have minded if the princess

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dropped her ball into the water again. She missed human company. The edges of the pond hadn’t moved, but it seemed smaller than ever.

Lily had lost the love of her life and her link to the outside world all in the same day.

But that didn’t mean she had to let it stay that way. *** Lily looked down at her hands, her new human hands. The skin was smooth and dry, nothing like the beautiful moist skin she used to have. She fumbled with the ends of her hair as she walked towards the palace.

When the witch had asked her why she wanted to be cursed, Lily had answered, “For love.” She thought the crone would laugh in her face, but surprisingly the old woman’s features had softened. Before Lily knew what was happening, the witch had snapped her fingers and transformed her from a frog into a young woman. Lily looked at the mirror in the witch’s room to see a maiden with long brown hair, a waspish waist, and a marvelous dress of green silks.

She smoothed those silks as she continued forward, hoping that love would be enough. Will he even recognize me? she wondered.

Lily had to believe he would. She forced herself to just keep putting one foot in front of the other, which actually took quite a bit of concentration for someone who was used to hopping or swimming to get from place to place.

Before she knew it, she was at the palace doors. She looked around, but nothing stirred. It was now or never. Lily took her new hands and gave three sharp raps on the door.

After what seemed like an eternity, it swung open.

She was standing face to face with the golden-haired princess. She hadn’t prepared for this. Didn’t princesses have servants or something?

“What do you want?” the girl asked in a bored drawl.

Lily had to force herself to speak and when she did, it came out in a soft squeak.

“Um, sorry, is Henry here?” she asked.

“Oh, him.” The princess’ face contorted in displeasure. “He decided he’d made a mistake, God knows why. Henry got himself turned back into a disgusting little toad.”

Lily sucked in a sharp breath. Why? Why would he do that? She suppressed the little sliver of hope that burrowed its way into her heart; she didn’t think she could bear if this new transformation wasn’t for her.

“So no, he’s not here,” the girl continued.

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Lily stood stupefied on the doorstep, unable to form a single word.

“If that’ll be all,” the golden-haired girl said in frustration, “I must be going.”

As she was closing the door, Lily realized she was losing her last chance.

“Do you know where he might have gone?” she piped up.

The princess didn’t even turn to look at her.

“I don’t know. Probably back with the pond scum he came from.”

And with that pronouncement, the door slammed shut in Lily’s face. She stood there for a moment, once again shocked into stillness, before hiking up her skirts and making a mad dash to the pond.

Upon reaching it, Lily knelt by the water’s edge.

“Henry! Henry!” she called frantically, searching the pond’s surface for any frogs. She couldn’t see any. But then…

“Lily? Lily, is that you?” she heard the croaking voice call out from the reeds.

And then there he was, green warty skin and lanky legs, every bump exactly as she remembered. She’d lovingly memorized all of them. When he drew near, she held out her hand for him to jump into, which he happily did.

“You’re human,” he said, shocked.

“I am.”

They stared at each other for a moment, taking it all in.

“Why would you…how could you change back?” Lily asked. “Being human again was your dream.”

He sighed, a soft “ribbit” sound escaping from his mouth. Then, he fixed his bulbous eyes directly onto her new, no-longer-bulging ones.

“Would you believe it if I said I missed you?”

Lily laughed in relief, stroking his bumpy back tenderly.

“But what about the princess?”

“She never really cared about me. I didn’t realize it at first. I was just so happy to be human again.”

“Now I can see why,” Lily said, looking down at her own transformed body. “It’s wonderful.”

“Yes, it is.”

He sighed. Suddenly, Lily’s body heaved as she began to cry fat, ugly tears.

They slid off her cheeks and plopped onto Henry’s back. She could see his amphibious skin greedily soak the water up.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

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“I thought I could transform into a human and that would fix everything.

But it didn’t. It never even occurred to me you might change back into a frog. I didn’t think you would ever give up being human again.”

“Pretty unbelievable, huh?” he agreed.

“Yes. Henry, you are absolutely crazy.”

That’s when his froggy lips unexpectedly turned up into the semblance of a smile.

“I’m not crazy,” he said. “I’m cursed.” She stared at him for a moment, wondering if this meant what she thought it did.

“Well, let’s see if we can fix that,” Lily finally said with her own smile.

And she leaned down to kiss him.

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Yeah, We’re Dead A Collection of Scenes Under 250 Words

"

TJ Ohler

Three Friends on a Ledge “We’re all dead, so who gives a fuck?” Tia leans into the gargoyle that looms over the edge the library roof, her arms wrapped around one of its wings. Her feet dangle in the air, but even if she let go and fell to the ground she would be fine. She doesn’t feel the wind smacking her cheeks or snow beginning to fall, but, clinging to old Chester, she feels like they are all still together.

“You do know that we technically still have souls. We are alive. We just aren’t present in their realm anymore,” says Jules, pointing to the person pacing outside the library. Caution tape wraps around most of the building.

The pacing person stops moving and stares up at them, through them.

Auggie waves solemnly, stays quiet. Stares at the other two.

“We know,” Jules says. She watches Auggie’s movements, hearing the words underneath. “It’ll all work out. He’s always been angsty.”

“But we’re gone,” Tia says. “He has a reason to be.” She moves her legs against the gargoyle, releases her grip and pushes off, free falling over the ledge.

Auggie presses his forehead on Chester the Gargoyle. Traces his fingers along the wings. Smiles. Then steps off the ledge. Floats downward like he’s been doing this his whole life and has mastered the skill of levitation.

“I hate you guys.” Jules reaches out, grimaces at the cold concrete below, and begins to climb down the wall. Too afraid to jump like the others.

Ye ah, We ’re De ad

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The Pacing Person Is intoxicated and underage.

He used to work at this library. Yeah, he hated it. He just got fired three days ago.

The caution tape along the walls reminds him of the liquor store outside his mother’s apartment complex. So, that sucks. But He stares up at the gargoyle on the roof. Tia used to call him Chester. For some reason, they all did.

Something doesn’t seem quite right around Chester, but he writes it off as being a drunken idiot. He stumbles up the stairs and checks the door.

It’s locked.

He knows the back is only blocked off by a cheap piece of wood the director put in after the incident. It doesn’t even cover the gaping hole in the building.

He sighs.

Pulls the hammer from his hoodie pocket.

And walks to the back.

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Halloween.

No. It is not my favorite holiday. If I were to choose one, it would be autumn.

Oh, wait.

Tia touches my shoulder. She wants to make Jules and me feel better.

She pulls out MareBear, the demented cat plush. We were burning it before we died.

Symbolism.

Maybe irony.

You think we can help him, Tia says. Hey, Augs.

I wish we could give him leaves, I say through my mind.

He speaks. Jules turns to us. She watches Rhett through the window.

Yes. I blink. I’m next to her. Staring at him. He is not crying.

The books around him are still charred. Some gone, incinerated.

He could die here. He may fall through the fire-weakened floor.

Like leaves.

It will snow tomorrow morning. 4:47 A.M. We should scare him on Halloween. Just appear in front of him. Say boo.

Jules grimaces. Stop. Please. You make this so morbid.

It is morbid. Tia argues.

They want me to settle it, but I shrug. I float through the walls.

Leaves can’t do this. I stare at him. Rhett. I want to say.

I caress his forehead.

Tia and Jules are there.

I wish he could see us, Jules says.

Tia says nothing.

Rhett lays down. We lay with him.

I’m yellow-green.

Tia is all red, like love.

Jules is orange-brown.

I stare into Rhett’s eyes.

He doesn’t see.

He’s green.

He reaches.

Does he see?

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Dying in a Fire you think that happened but it didn’t. augs and tia died in the explosion. the smoke killed me later. screw you for imagining our skin slowly crinkling, our screams for help. i hate that they look at me and see this timid person. i’m confident beautiful. they don’t see me. it isn’t fair that this happened. we should be living our lives right now. i should be reading articles on random things like oysters or clams or some seafood i’ll hate ten years from now. you think you know me. you read the articles of interviews with my parents. they didn’t know me. i fucked my journalism teacher on his office couch. who has an office couch when you can’t even fit a desk? why do i keep thinking of him now that i’m here. augs cries without knowing it. he loves rhett. they made a horrible couple, but that didn’t stop them from loving each other. or trying. fuck my professor. he sent flowers. my favorite, and my mother didn’t know they were. she said they were ugly. she hid them behind a bunch of yellow roses. what is this prom? admittedly, prom was better than my funeral. my mom was here this afternoon. she kept pacing around like rhett has been. she always used to whisper to herself. she still does. it’s still complaints about my father. fuck my parents. and my professor. augs, tia, can you feel my anger?

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Candles Don’t Make Sense It was partly Rhett’s fault we died, but it was all our fault. And no one’s at all. That’s what sucks. Rhett went outside to take a piss. The library toilet was broken.

If I could place blame, would it even matter? I’ve spent so long being angry with stupid-ass people. I can’t keep pushing those thoughts anymore.

“Hey, T,” Jules says. “Can I see MareBear?”

I toss the fake cat her way. I wish it had come to life. But I guess inanimate objects stay motionless after being burned up in a trash bin.

Jules meows to the cat. She throws him up in the air. She laughs. I want to hit her. Where the fuck is that bright light?

There’s so many candles, Auggie says. He’s the only one able to communicate without speaking. Sometimes his random thoughts hit me. I want that skill.

Stop dwelling on this boy, I want to say. He’s staring at Rhett and referring to the candles lit outside.

Why the hell would you light candles for people that died in a fiery explosion?

I shall ponder this.

“Let’s play catch the demonic cat,” I yell.

Jules throws MareBear. I watch her fly through the sky, over Rhett and into my arms.

Ye ah, We ’re De ad

Rhett

I miss you guys.

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Before Four friends walk into a library. All laughing. Wearing homemade Halloween costumes. Wednesday from the Addam’s Family. A Pokémon in the form of a garbage bag. A tree. Lindsay Lohan.

They go out back to the trash. Burn a stuffed cat and head back inside.

There’s a busted gas line underneath the building. And a hole in the trash bin. Enough for the flames to slip through.

Auggie and Rhett kiss by the romance section. It was Rhett’s idea. Auggie rolled his eyes.

Tia reads poetry. She turns on some music. Jams out. Jules pulls her up to dance.

“I want to get fired,” Rhett says.

“Quit,” Auggie says.

“But then I’d be broke,” Rhett whispers into Auggie’s ear.

“Then you really don’t want to get fired.”

“Fuck off.

Jules leans on Tia. “I wish I could be like you.”

“Lies.”

“No, really.”

“I would rather be more like you.”

“Happy middle.” Jules holds up her arms.

They dance.

Rhett and Auggie join. A hand-painted leaf falls off of Auggie’s shoulder and lands on the ground. Rhett picks it up. He pushes the leaf into his wig.

Auggie pokes him in the stomach. Silly boy.

The four friends smile. This is their moment. Their time.

Life is short.

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Author Biographies Tess Clark

is a junior Writing, Literature, and Publishing major. She is

from a small beach town in the south shore of Massachusetts, but she has never enjoyed the sun, sand, or fish that a beach life entails. Living in Boston now, she enjoys spending her time reading, going to local restaurants, and playing with her psychotic cat.

Sarah Dolan

is a Writing, Literature, and Publishing major who plays

a little bit too much Nintendo. She is often affectionately referred to as “Meme Queen” or “SwagMaster 3000.” She likes to write all kinds of stories, mostly about real life with fantastic twists. Her favorite pastime is watching the sky for cool clouds and signs of extraterrestrial life.

Julia

Domenicucci

is a senior Writing, Literature, and Publishing

major who believes she was a cat in a former life. Since she spends most of her time focused on publishing things, this is her first attempt at creative writing while at Emerson—and she is very happy that it will be in the pages of Generic.

Outside of school and work, Julia spends her time reading, hiking, and selecting which tea to drink next.

"

Jen Gheller

53

is a senior Writing, Literature, and Publishing major who

watches cartoons, consumes copious amounts of food, and does little else. She doesn’t care for peppers, watermelon, snow, or literary snobs. Although she isn’t necessarily fond of New Jersey, her home state, she looks forward to the four hour bus ride home because the Wi-Fi sucks, therefore there’s no need to feel guilty for spending the whole ride staring out the window and watching the East Coast roll by.

Alexandra Kowal

is a senior Writing, Literature, and Publishing ma-

jor at Emerson College. She is excited (and scared) to be graduating a semester early to go try her luck in the great, wide world. She loves watching obscene amounts of television, studying mythology, and of course, anything to do with Generic. If she ever met Tom Hiddleston, she would literally die of happiness, so it’s actually lucky that she hasn’t met him yet.

TJ Ohler

is finishing up his time at Emerson this semester. He will miss

it, but more than that he will miss all the great, complicated people he’s met over the past three and a half years. He wishes all of them luck. Thanks for being there.

Julian Tahyar

is a freshman Writing, Literature, and Publishing major

who is passionate about the fantasy and sci-fi genres. He was born in New York but has lived in various places and comes from a multicultural and multiracial background. He believes this has contributed to his love of different culture, which in turn has also led to his love of fantasy. He is a big lover of creating new worlds and populating them with strange people and cultures. In his spare time, you can probably find him reading, writing, watching television or cooking and baking various treats.