Generic #5

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E MERS ON COL L EGE’ SGENREF I CTI ON ONL YMAGAZI NE

GENREF I CTI ON S TRI KESAGAI N! Ge ne r i c , Eme r s onCol l e g e ’ sg e nr e f i c t i ononl yl i t e r a r yma g a z i ne , i sba c kf or t hef i f t hi s s ue !

Wi t hne wt a l e sr a ng i ngf r om ma g i c a l r e a l i s mt os upe r v i l l a i n f i c t i ont oL oc hNe s smons t e re r ot i c a , t hi si s s ueha sg oti ta l l .

Comej oi nus ont hi swi l dr ol l e r c oa s t e rr i dea nd g e ts uc k e di nt ot he s es t or i e st ha t c omef r om de e pwi t hi nt he i ma g i na t i ona ndr e s ona t e wi t hi nusa l l .

I NTHI SI S S UE : NUMBER60 J a ne l l aAng e l e s MBTA J a ne l l eCa put o S P ARE Ol i v i aBi l l br oug h THEDUEL S a r a h“ But t e r f l y ”Dompk ows k i HOPE Me r e di t hMa nn BURNI NG THEP AS T As hl e yS ous a NELLAND L OCH Al a nnaWe s t ma n

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Ge ne r ic , I s s ue 5 , S p r ing 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 De s ign by Li z a C o r tr ight C o ve r A r t by Ta lia R o c hm a nn 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

U n de rgraduate Stude n ts f o r P ubli shi ng

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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Nu mbe r 60

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Janella Angeles

MB T A

10

Sp a r e

18

Th e D ue l

23

Ho p e

27

Bu r n i n g t he P a s t

33

Nel l a n d Loc h

41

author biographies

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Janelle Caputo

Olivia Billbrough

Sarah “Butterfly� Dompkowski

Meredith Mann

Ashley Sousa

A l a n n a We s t m a n

Generic Staff Editor-in-Chief: Natalie Hamil Managing Editors: Liza Cortright, Alexandra Kowal Editorial Staff: Julia Domenicucci, Sydney Hermanson, August Lah, Daniel Lyerly, Jacquelyn Marr, TJ Ohler, Joanne Paquin Copyeditors: Janella Angeles, Kaitlyn Coddington, Carl Lavigne Proofreader: Sydney Hermanson

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Dear Readers, It is quite a wonderful feeling to be able to share the fifth issue of Generic with you! We are incredibly thrilled and honored that readers share our love of genre fiction.

While there are many opportunities to study and write literary fiction here at Emerson College, but we were disappointed by how few opportunities students had to write genre fiction.

Generic, Emerson College’s only genre fiction magazine, was founded to give students a place to explore the wide world of genre writing. In an attempt to bridge that gap, we hope to provide a haven for anyone interested in writing and publishing genre fiction.

Every month we hold writing workshops, each dedicated to a specific genre. This semester we focused on fantasy, romance, and noir fiction. In the past, we’ve extend our reach to alternate history, steampunk, paranormal, urban fantasy, Westerns, and much more.

It is incredibly important to us here at Generic that qualities stories are valued as being quality stories, regardless of their genre. Genre fiction should not be seen as lesser art! These a mazing 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 these stories as much as we do! xoxo,

Pub Club

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S c ien c e Fic tio n/ D ys t op i a

Number 60 Janella Angeles

The shattered remains of window glass embedded themselves in my arms from the three-story fall, touching blood so they appeared more like rubies. Only, these ones were far less pretty. Each time I moved, the shards sliced further underneath the surface. On a groan, I lifted myself onto my elbows, head tilted to see the large, steel glass-less frame over thirty feet above in the building I was pushed from.

I’ve died ninety-seven times already, with only three lives left.

I was shocked this one didn’t kill me.

The billowing figure that stepped against the empty windowsill was blackened against the night of the landscape, but even from here I detected his lift of victory slump into rage. He was certain the fall alone would kill me after he threw me off. My coding installed enough endurance for the beating he’d given me before, but I was just as surprised as he was. He jumped from the window ledge, sailing down on a whistle of wind until he hit the ground with an enormous, ear-splitting boom that shook my knees as I stood, threatening all balance in my legs. He called himself Avalanche, not because of the power force that left the wide crater in the gravel behind him, but because he promised to destroy everything in his path. The expression on his face as he walked toward me was fed by the moonlight, showing a teeth-baring, nostril-flaring face that intended to take away one of the three lives I had left as his trophy.

“Guess playtime’s not over yet, Sixty,” he snarled, pounding his fists together until metal slithered over his hands like scales. The iron fists clanked together. “Get ready to see stars. Your life is mine.”

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Energy slid back into my body as if somebody poured it. My arms healed slower than usual, a few pieces of glass still stuck, but it was enough that I could lift my hands and tighten the raw knuckles without wincing. The red healing button across my belt tempted me, but that was reserved for a true emergency. Right now, scratches and cuts would heal on their own.

“Try and take it,” I said, my head lowered between defensive arms, waiting for him to charge. His metal fist matched the titanium boots on his feet, both packed with enough power to pound my head into mush if he focused his energy.

Distraction was the only thing keeping them from destroying me. “You’re just like the other Rogues. You all talk too much, as if I want to know. Is it really that lonely?” I asked. “The experience not what you paid for?”

His eyes went hard. Even underneath the tattered cape and the modified steel armor, rusted and dented like a warrior returning from battle, I imagined a man in a suit lounging comfortably on a recliner, smiling, eyes closed with probes attached to his head.

“Or is it a bet?” I began circling as he did. “You and your buddies seeing who could last the longest in a place that doesn’t have cable or feasts waiting for you at every corner? Wish I could get in on the pool—” The punch he threw smacked me across the jaw with a sharp crack. When it stiffened in place, too painful to move even a little, Avalanche gave the most gleeful grunt. “Actually, it’s who can get out the fastest. If I take you now, I’ll be out with just one day under my belt.”

He grabbed me by the throat, the cool grooves of his hands digging into my neck as he lifted me high enough from the ground to see his roughened teeth gleam like tar. “Life for a life.”

There was too much enjoyment in his beastly face as I flailed in his grasp, breaths coming from my lips in short, labored bursts. He liked this. He looked starved even as he fed his own satisfaction by seeing me crumple like a rag doll beneath his hands. Men like him were the reason programs like this existed in the first place. To make them feel powerful and ruthless without remorse. To satisfy whatever twisted delusions crept inside their heads.

We were expected to act the part as they did theirs. I floundered for his entertainment, gave a whimper for effect so he wouldn’t notice my dangling legs, see my boots click against each other and the blades extending out from the sole to the front. I didn’t have the super powers to make this a fair fight, but at least I had these.

The mighty kick I gave sent the two knives through his armor, the tension

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in his vise grip released as he hissed. With one arm he knocked my shins away and threw me on the ground clutching his abdomen in fury. Blood coated the sharp edgings sticking straight from my boots, glinting and sparse in such a way that I knew the stab hadn’t been deep enough.

My jaw clicked back into place as I crawled away from him. He swung around with his eyes set in fury, clomping over and dragging me underneath him. Sloppy and disorganized, he threw punches and slaps and scratches in my face. My hands blocked them ineffectively. Pain burned in my brain like camera flashes, lingering and singeing the inside the more he delivered each blow. They added up and joined in a wave of brutal pain, growing larger, until only numbness consumed my system and my arms dropped beside me. My eyes closed.

Pleaseletmediepleaseletmediepleaseletmedie.

The thoughts were real enough for me to forget that everything around me wasn’t. It was all purely mental. That used to be my reassurance, the one reminding flag I waved through my mind to keep myself sane, but even those can collapse into doubt. It was what made mind games exceptionally powerful.

I mustered my energy for one last block, one last hit if I could even manage it, but when I opened my eyes, lifted my forearm in preparation for a last defense—it met nothing but air. I sucked in a huge breath when his weight yanked off me in a grating howl of pain. He rolled over away, close enough to see the crooked spear sticking out through his shoulder.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sixty?”

My eyes shot to the voice, a figure stepping up beside me with a tilt to his head as he looked down. His suit revealed only the hints of a few tears and dirt, but he was otherwise clean and uninjured. The glaring opposite of the condition I was in. I glared at him the moment I saw the comparison between my state and his brewing behind his unblinking eyes.

“What does it look like, Ten?” I coughed. “I’m working.”

When he offered his hand, I pushed it away, propping myself upright, sitting as the muscles in my face regained consciousness. I moved my jaw around until the action became smooth, touching my nose and cheeks for any breaks. Ten turned and threw a hand up in signal to the others a good distance away, giving me full view of the pristine white number ten emblazoned on the back of his jacket. The sixty on mine was most likely torn up and weathered by the gravel my back had grown so acquainted with.

“Why are you out here alone?” said Ten as he turned his back, his mouth

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set in a grim line. It was strange to think we were about the same age when he looked so much older than me. Dark hair shaved short, wide forehead, eyes that judged and talked for him. He was the kind that thought too much and took on even more, as though he enjoyed hauling burden on his shoulders.

The game didn’t make him this way; he was always like this since the day he arrived.

“How did you even find me?” I gritted my teeth, wiping the remaining blood on my hands over my thighs. Much of it was dry and sticky.

“Forty-Two’s tracking skills aren’t half bad,” he said. “Plus, it wasn’t all that hard to spot you falling from a building. Your villain’s not exactly subtle.”

“Yeah, well, neither are you.” I remained on the ground, waiting for the slow healing to catch up with my body. The swelling of my right eye reduced until Ten wasn’t just a blurry vision but a clear figure staring down at me with impatience. “Thanks for harpooning armor man over there and all, but I was handling it.”

“Clearly.” His eyebrow rose. I got the impression I looked much worse than I imagined from the way his face drew inward. “Why did you go under by yourself? If you had more hours to log in for this week, you could’ve told me.”

He nodded over his shoulder, far over where a group of people in suits like ours stood. “We would’ve gone in with you.”

“No,” I looked down at my feet, tapping the heels until the blades retracted back inside. “I’ve told you already, I don’t want your help. Or to join your band of suits.”

He scoffed. “Explain to me again why not? Because I’m still not getting it.”

“I guess I’m not a ‘group hug’ sort of person.” I shrugged, not nonchalantly but with deliberate intent to get him to leave. “I work solo.”

“You die solo, you mean.”

“At least I don’t have to worry about a whole pack of people.”

“It’s an alliance, not a pack.”

“That’s a matter of semantics.”

“No, it’s not.”

His expression was neutral, but underneath there was the smugness of someone who still had thirty six lives left. He always believed he was right, that eventually I would go to him pleading for a place in his group. And I hated that. Having numbers on your side substantially lessened the risk of dying, I couldn’t deny that. But what if he was wrong? What if the only way to get out for good was to let the natural course of the game play out? Let the targets do their job by getting smashed by the villains. Maybe then they’ll be released.

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I glared at him in hopes that he would look away first, but Ten wasn’t the sort who faltered. “You really do have a death wish. How many lives do you have left?”

“I call it an aversion to help.” I narrowed my eyes. “And that’s none of your business.”

He exhaled and shook his head. To him, I was wrong, and to him, people who were wrong needed his help. Needed the alliance. But I didn’t want to depend on others or be responsible for a whole group. In games, there were only two options of ending it, and targets weren’t meant to win.

With a sigh, he bent as though he were going to hold out his hand to me again, until the sound of a gun shot exploded from the distance.

Then another. Another.

Ten swung around in a lowered crouch. “What the—” Another shot. Nothing else followed after, except for the screaming. Ten began to set off to the group and I roused to follow after him, but something wrenched me back until I felt the grooves of hard armor back against my body.

“I thought we were playing, Sixty,” Avalanche spoke in my ear. The spear still jutted from his shoulder. He cradled my face with both of his hands, lips at the shell of my ear. “Weren’t you having fun?”

My glance went to Ten when he stopped short like a wolf alert to danger.

He swung around abruptly so that when our eyes met, his widened in instant terror. He abandoned the shots and ran back to us at full speed, arm out as if he could just reach me, mouth hanging as the roar desperately sprang out. “No—” Crack.

It was last thing I heard before my vision went black.

Two lives left.

•••• The light flickered over my eyelids, blurry and muted like bright shapeless shadows. One eye dared to peek open, and I saw the small beam dart in my face, doubling and coiling in my vision like I was spinning in place. Or maybe the place was spinning me. The thin mattress and starchy sheets beneath me felt solid and still to my fingers, but my mind was still rolling, riding itself out like a whirlpool of sensations that melted my skin to my bones and turn my bones into mush. Readjustment was the worst part about waking up in Rogues headquarters. Every bit of pain I received in each session was like a thrown boomerang; when I surfaced, it returned, stabbing me in the head like a series of burning knives. But that was hardly anything compared to the effects of dying.

“Bin.” I croaked, the taste of blood dry in my throat as I slumped and

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vomited. Luckily someone had pushed the plastic container in my lap just in time to catch the waste. The doctor tore the bin from my grasp when he was sure I had stopped, handing me a small cup of water and a mint candy that erased the taste of blood. Blood that wasn’t even mine, or real for that matter.

The man returned to writing his notes, face half covered in a surgical mask that blocked the mouth he never, in my whole life here, ever used. The doctor didn’t talk. The doctor didn’t even have a name. He simply looked at the small screen beside me that flickered with flashing numbers that only he could translate as he noted the information. The mint helped, but then the tremors started, shuddering beneath my thin gown. Over the mask, his eyes didn’t seem that alarmed. He wasn’t ever really surprised whenever I surfaced after death, which didn’t answer any question as to what would happen when there were no more lives to die from.

A few times I tried stealing his notes, following him after his routine check ups, even attempted to kill him once or twice. But that only landed me in more restraints or closely guarded escorts. It took almost a year of good behavior to be able to leave my bed again.

“Any news for me, doc?” I asked, crossing my arms beneath my chest. It kept my body’s shivering from appearing too violent. “Am I going to live?”

The doctor glanced up with a look that could have passed for boredom. But even boredom had a degree of expression. His brown ones possessed none as they brushed back down to his notes, ignoring me as all the doctors did with their patients. I wasn’t that much of a special case.

I glanced down at my plastic ID tag around my wrist, not even realizing there was a knock at the doorway. Ten stood out of breath, his eyes scouring my face as he gave a ragged sigh of relief. “You’re awake.”

“Thanks for checking,” I said, frowning as he strode inside. The doctor looked between us, either unsure or irritated by the situation. I went with irritated. “Now get out of here, Joe.” “I’m sorry, Sixty.” He towered over my bed in a standard white t-shirt and blue scrub pants. Our typical uniform. “I really am. I should’ve finished him off the instant I was there. I shouldn’t have run off and given him the chance.”

“Given him the chance? Really?” My words were edged. “I don’t want your sorries. I was dead with or without your assistance.”

“No you weren’t,” His head lowered. “I could’ve stopped it.”

“Maybe I didn’t want you to.” I thought before glaring at him. “No wait, scratch that, I actually didn’t want you to. You came charging in like some damn parade I never ordered.”

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“You were getting the lights knocked out of you—what was I supposed to do?”

“Leave me alone, that’s what.” My fingers clenched over the blanket. “You don’t see me interfering on your sessions. Just stay out of mine.”

“We’re all in the same landscape, I can’t stay out. Inevitably, we bump into each other one way or another. And when I see that someone is being beaten so badly that they could easily be mistaken for butcher meat, I can’t ignore it.”

“Then practice. Really, it’s not that hard.”

The room turned silent, but he wasn’t done. His whole face clenched, and he kept glancing at the doctor still writing away, whose presence I couldn’t have been more appreciative about. At that exact moment, the bastard clicked his pen and decided it was time to leave. I watched his back go out the door with black fire in my eyes, turning back to Joe who still appeared just as livid.

Surprisingly, not at me.

“You have one less life because of me.” he said, head bowed with what looked like shame. “And you don’t have that many left to spare, do you?”

I raised my eyebrow at him. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me, Joe?” “No,” he shrugged. “Just a wild guess.”

When he crossed his arms, the position made the standardized plastic bracelet tight around his left wrist easy to see. Number 10—J. Argyros. They had his name on file and a contact to match, somebody on the outside who was wired the money he earned. I wasn’t close enough to him to know who he was, but he came here with a purpose and had a reason to be here. My eyes fell to my own wrist. Number 60. Just the number, nothing else.

I turned my attention back to Joe and noticed his head leaning over to view the screen kept out of my sights. I’ve walked over to see it enough times that although the lines and random flashing series of letters are entirely unintelligible to me, it always kept an accurate life count in the right corner.

When Joe’s eyes flickered to mine, I didn’t even try to hide my accusatory stare.

And he didn’t try to hide his.

“Look, I know you don’t want to hear this again.” He began with, leaning against the bed without permission. “But at least be willing to consider it. Join my team.”

“Why? You’ve seen me fight and I’m not that great.”

“That’s just it. We’re not a band of fighters, Sixty. We band together so that we can survive,” said Joe. “If anybody knows how to do that, it’s you.”

“I’m hanging on two lives, Joe. There’s hardly anything left to survive on.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

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I stared at him, hard. He’d only first arrived at Rogues headquarters a few years back, already well into his teenage years with the readiness to fight. Rogues marked the cut-off age for targets way before he and half the players in the facility arrived to contribute their services. Unlike me, they’d been protected by that. I was dropped off at headquarters when I was six, well over a decade ago. It was the same age they put me to work as the first kid to become Rogue’s walking target. And by some strange miracle, I was still here.

No. Not just some strange miracle.

“And then what?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “We fight like this for the rest of our lives? Have our brains mentally vacuumed so that crazy, twisted people can get off at tearing us apart? More lives means more time in this place, don’t you understand that?”

“Absolutely.” His voice sounded determined. “And we’re going to need it.”

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" D ar k Fan tas y /S u p e r n a t u r a l

MBTA Janelle Caputo

Boston was a sauna the day Teddy Giambra learned about the demons living on the T. It was mid-June, so the heat was inescapable. It warped the pavement, invaded alleyways, pooled in the shade of the Common and settled into the tunnels on the Green Line. Teddy had lived in the city his entire life but he hadn’t been on the subway for eight years, since he was ten, and he thought it was unnatural the way the deeper underground the tunnels were, the hotter they became. Heat travelled up, he’d learned that in pre-K, but Boston seemed to think it was above even the simplest laws of physics.

Teddy wouldn’t have minded the heat, might have even craved it after the long and tedious winter, but he was wearing a black suit and in this weather it felt like he was wrapped in tinfoil. He stood on an inbound train, headed for Boylston, for his first real job interview, ever, and tried to stand as directly under the single A/C vent at the foot of the stairs as he could without seeming too desperate. He tugged his tie, checked his watch—there were fifteen minutes and twenty-nine seconds until he would be late—and looked up as the train slid into Copley Station. Two more stops, Teddy reminded himself, just two more bloody stops.

He tried to calm his nerves by observing the other passengers. His carriage had two levels separated by four filthy stairs. In an isolated seat at the bottom of the stairs was an old man sleeping; drool dripped from his open mouth. A mother was trying to coax her three children into sitting in the flat seats in the center of the carriage. A boy a few years older than him with long ratty hair

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and bloodshot eyes was leaning against a pole at the top of the stairs. A couple of young girls were giggling over an iPhone at the front of the carriage, and beside them a tall guy with dreadlocks was bobbing his head in time to the bass spilling from his Beats.

Unlike most other trains, theirs was a single carriage, probably due to how slow it was at ten in the morning on a Tuesday when most kids were in school and adults were at work. When he’d boarded, the stout, dark woman who was driving hadn’t even spared him a glance.

Twelve minutes and fifty-seven seconds until he was late, he observed as he tilted his head down to let the A/C drift across the back of his sweaty neck.

He’d sucked up to the secretary of this company for weeks back in January, gotten the interview a month ago, graduated high school a week ago, moved into a tiny bedroom in Allston two days ago, and ran out of money last night when he bought some General Tsao’s chicken for dinner. He needed this job.

He checked his watch again.

The train lurched to a stop.

If he had more experience on the subway Teddy would have been prepared.

As it was, he didn’t and he wasn’t. When the train stopped moving Teddy started, he tripped backwards and up the steps before pin wheeling toward the dirt smeared floor.

Before he could even try to catch himself a single arm wrapped around his middle and hoisted him to his feet.

“Easy there,” a chipper voice said.

Teddy wrapped a hand around his rescuer’s shoulder and righted himself.

Still inches from the boy’s face he could see that it was the dude with the bloodshot eyes.

The boy had his hair pulled into a messy ponytail at the base of his neck with only one long pink strip interrupting his frizzy black tufts, and he was wearing an assortment of baggy, worn clothing that made him seem smaller than he was. Although he was pretty darn small. He was shorter than Teddy— but most people were shorter than Teddy.

Up close, Teddy could see that that the pink haze over the boy’s eyes was one he’d seen many times before. It was definitely pot, and if the eyes were no indication the smell was.

Teddy realized he was staring and let go of the boy before saying thanks.

“No problem,” the boy said. He was all smiles. His already small eyes wrinkled into slits as he beamed at Teddy.

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The intercom fizzed overhead and the driver began rattling off a list of instructions to the passengers so quickly that Teddy had a hard time understanding what she was saying. All he caught was, “five minute delay,” and, “please stay seated.”

“Is she serious?” Teddy said, looking down at his watch. Nine minutes and three seconds until he was late.

“I hope so,” the boy, still standing beside him, answered with another smile.

Teddy hadn’t realized he was listening and watched the boy with suspicion.

Even a normal commuter used to delays like this would grumble at the news.

Teddy wondered if the boy had anywhere to be or if he was just riding the lines, high as a jetliner, observing people.

Before Teddy could say anything the boy’s cellphone chirped a familiar ringtone.

“Is that from Men in Black?” Teddy said before he could stop himself.

The boy pulled his phone from his pocket and peered at the screen for a long moment. Then, like he had only just heard Teddy’s question, he looked up and smiled. “Yes! Yes of course. It fits, don’t you think?”

Teddy looked up and down the train. The old man dozing nearby snorted in his sleep.

“How?” Teddy asked, but the boy had used Teddy’s pause as an opportunity to slip away.

He was standing at the back of the car now, staring at the ceiling like he was waiting for something.

Teddy didn’t have time to wonder at his behavior, however, because as he followed the boy’s gaze to the ceiling he realized there was a fine mist drifting from the A/C vents. It filled the car before settling over the seats and the passengers like a fog. Nobody else seemed to notice it. If anything, after the fog dissipated, the other passengers seemed more relaxed.

The girls who had been giggling before were staring at their phones in silence. The man with the Beats had stopped bobbing his head. The kids who had been evading their mother’s attempts to corral them had settled in their seats were currently staring at their hands like they’d never seen their own fingers before.

Teddy felt his eyes glazing over, like he’d spent the last four hours reading the same paragraph again and again and again. His head drooped but he shook the murk away.

At the back of the car the boy with the ratty hair was still standing as if he was waiting.

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Teddy almost said something, had his lips parted and everything, but just then, an aggravated shout echoed from the front of the train.

“For the love of God, Charlie!” the driver yelled, as she emerged from the cab. She plodded the length of the car, straight past Teddy, to clamp her small, meaty hand around Charlie’s upper arm. She pulled a lever on the wall and the closed doors flopped open. “Go!” she said, pointing into the black tunnel and giving Charlie a firm push.

“I know! I know! I just—is there any way you could—you know?” Charlie asked, hands fluttering as he tried to form a coherent sentence.

Teddy was speechless. He knew he hadn’t taken the T in a good long while, but he was almost positive it wasn’t standard to force passengers off the train while they were in the middle of the tunnel.

He leaned closer as if to stop this, somehow, but he had no idea what to say or how express that he thought this entire situation was really, really strange.

He took a step towards the two just as a deep, rumbling mewl echoed from somewhere behind their car, somewhere in the tunnel, in the dark. It sounded like a giant, hungry cat.

The driver sighed.

“Charlie Phan, you will be the death of me,” she said before following Charlie down the steps, out of the car, towards that awful, grating noise.

After a moment the mewling got louder.

Teddy’s knees trembled.

Every other passenger was ignoring what was happening.

Maybe, Teddy tried to convince himself, maybe this is just the way things are on the T. Maybe its a normal occurrence that drivers sacrifice passengers to giant, tunnel-dwelling felines.

Finally convincing his legs to move, Teddy edged toward the open door and peered into the tunnel.

It wasn’t as dark out there as he’d imagined it might be. The tunnel curved for miles underneath the city and dim lights lined the ceiling, highlighting every arch, every column, every shadow. The air smelled like decay, like the very tracks were rotting, and echoes of other trains whizzing up and down the tunnels bounced off every surface.

None of that mattered to Teddy though, because outlined in the train’s blood red brake lights was a creature that was very definitely not a cat. Its eyes were solid gold orbs and on all fours it would have resembled an emaciated horse, except that its nose tapered to a sharp point and long teeth were clenched over its lips. Which, okay, if that was all, it could have just been a mutated cow or

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something, maybe, except its skin looked as if it had been dumped in a vat of tar, all shiny and slithery as it writhed on the third rail. And that wasn’t even the freaky part. The freaky part was that it didn’t appear that the third rail was electrocuting the creature, because even as it slid to the center of the tracks it still thrashed and mewled like it was being prodded with a livewire.

No, the thing it was bothered by, the only thing that made sense, was whatever Charlie was chanting.

Charlie stood, just behind the car, hands clasped together, with a rosary hanging over his thumbs, eyes closed as he recited a long, unending string of words in a language Teddy just barely recognized as Latin.

Teddy remembered with unease several times during his childhood when one aunt or another had dragged him to the North End for the Feast and made him sit through hours of Mass. And they didn’t speak English during the Feast, all the sermons were in the word of the people: Latin. And the more Charlie spoke the more Teddy recognized the smooth cadence of the dead language.

It was an easy lilt on Charlie’s tongue. And from what Teddy could tell he was reciting several passages, whole chapters of the Bible, from memory.

And the driver stood, arms crossed, just behind Charlie, like this was the most common thing in the world. She seemed a little uneasy, glanced around the tracks as if she was keeping guard, but seemed otherwise disgruntled over how long the whole affair was taking.

Teddy, who had seen his fair share of crazy in his eighteen years living in the city, had never seen anything like this. He was frozen where he stood in the doors of the train, and not even with fear, which is what he’d expected to feel at the sight of a large, violent creature with lots of sharp teeth. Nope, he felt curious more than anything else. The thing that froze him was how badass this whole situation was. It was like something out of a movie, something he’d read comics about, something he’d never imagined could actually happen outside the pages of a book.

And then he remembered he had eight minutes until his interview.

And then the creature stilled.

Charlie kept reciting whatever it was he was reciting, the driver kept glancing everywhere but right in front of her, and the creature on the tracks was still, silent, waiting. And Teddy didn’t need to have watched an entire marathon of Man vs. Wild to know it was going to attack.

And Teddy had no idea what was going on, literally not a clue besides the fact he was going to be late for his interview if this ratty dude praying in the middle of the tracks was mauled by that giant, evil thing. So he did what

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any sane, well-meaning, Boston-born commuter would do. He waited until the creature summoned the last of its strength and attempted to throw itself teeth first at Charlie, hurled himself from the train and tackled the creature back to the ground.

“Holy Mackerel!” The driver yelled.

Charlie paused his chanting to stare at Teddy. His pink-rimmed eyes were wide, his lips parted.

“Finish it!” Teddy said.

He had the creature in a sort of a headlock, his arm around what served as the things neck, and he was doing his best to keep it buckled to the tracks, but it was squirming and its skin felt weird – warm, then hot, like it was trying very hard to burn him. He didn’t notice the soft tendrils of smoke coming from the front of his suit jacket. “Hurry up, I have an interview in six minutes!”

Charlie, no doubt spurred into action by Teddy’s impending interview, began chanting even faster than he had before.

The creature scrambled to get out from under Teddy. Its claws were sharp pinpricks sliding down his arms as they ripped through his suit jacket, and it arched its back over and over, trying to buck him off. It nearly succeeded but the louder and faster Charlie chanted, the weaker the creature became. Soon, it was barely pawing at Teddy’s arms, its red eyes wide and dazed.

When Charlie finished his chant, he spit two final syllables at the thing and it took it upon itself to burst into flames.

The driver lurched forward, grabbed Teddy’s shoulder, pulled him back toward the train, but the damage was done. If his suit hadn’t been ruined by whatever icky substance had been slathered on that creature’s skin and its claws digging to into the fabric, it was done for now that it was singed. Teddy’s soot covered face wasn’t helping things either.

He watched as the creature was reduced to a small pile of ashes in a matter of seconds, and sighed as he tried to wipe the worst of the ashes off his clothes.

When half his right sleeve fell off, Teddy just added it to the junk littered along the tracks.

“Who are you?” Charlie asked, his voice cutting through Teddy’s internal soliloquy about how he was going to remain jobless and poor forever.

When Teddy looked down at him, Charlie’s face resembled a kid’s in how unguardedly happy he was.

“Teddy. People call me Teddy,” Teddy said as he pointed toward the train car. “So. You gonna explain this?”

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The driver was standing at the bottom of the stairs ushering the two of them inside.

Teddy hesitated to get back in. He couldn’t imagine wordlessly following a junior exorcist and his train driver babysitter after what he’d just witnessed, but worse than that would be staying in the tunnels, alone, with the possibility of a thousand strange and terrifying creatures hiding in the black. So he followed without question.

Once they were in, the driver pressed a button on her belt and the lights inside the car dimmed before turning back on brighter than before. In unison, the other passengers each sucked in a sharp breath and began looking around in a daze as if they’d all just woken from a nap.

“I’m Charlie Phan,” Charlie said, offering Teddy his hand.

Teddy didn’t shake it, just wiped his greasy hands on his pants and repeated, “Are you gonna explain or what?”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Charlie said, taking his hand back. He was smiling again, all teeth and dimples like this was the most fun he’d had in a long time. “There’ll be plenty of time for that.”

“Not really,” Teddy said, looking up at the display in the center of the aisle.

In the time it had taken for their brief exchange, the driver had taken control of the train. Teddy hadn’t even realized they were moving but he figured that was a side-effect of all the weird crap he’d just experienced. Now, they were entering Boylston station. “This is my stop.”

“Great! It can be mine too!” Charlie said, skipping toward the doors. He called, “Bye, Judy!” in the direction of the cab, and then waited for Teddy on the platform.

Teddy tried to ignore him but it was really, really hard to ignore the guy.

He was just too cheerful.

Teddy approached the stairs that would lead him up to the corner of Boylston and Tremont with no small amount of trepidation. He was aware he was now late, charred and underdressed for the interview he’d spent weeks preparing for, but he didn’t know what else to do but show up.

He went to leave, completely willing to forget whatever had just happened in the tunnels, to simply never take the T ever again, invest in a bike with the money he didn’t have, and pray he never ran into Charlie Phan for the rest of his undoubtedly short life. Hell, he’d done it before. Maybe not in this exact context, but he’d forgotten things more important than tarred creatures living under Boston in the past, he could forget this, but before he could even begin to enact this plan, Charlie grabbed his elbow.

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“Hey! Where are you—I have an interview,” Teddy said and, granted, his protests were weak but it still wasn’t cool of Charlie to start laughing at him.

“Yeah, you did, you passed by the way. Congratulations!”

“What? What are you—” Teddy began to ask but then he realized that Charlie was walking them past the platform, into the tunnels, to a door right underneath the stairs. It was solid metal, embossed with the letters MBTA. Charlie pulled out a keycard and held it out, the door beeped twice and then swung open. It led down a clean, white hallway, lit by a dozen fluorescent lights.

“You work for the MBTA?” Teddy asked.

Charlie tugged on his arm, trying to pull him into the doorway but Teddy wouldn’t budge. He may have been a little rattled over everything that had just gone down in the tunnels, but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t following a stranger through a mysterious doorway no matter how cute and smiley that stranger was.

“Yes. Well, no, not the MBTA you’re thinking of,” Charlie said. “I work for the Massachusetts Bay Teranormal Administration.”

“Tera?” Teddy asked.

“It means monster,” Charlie said, “in Greek,” “Ah,” Teddy said, just before he slid his arm from Charlie’s hand and turned to run back into the station, because clearly somewhere between Allston and Boylston he’d lost his mind.

“You’re not crazy!” Charlie said, lurching after him. “I’m not crazy. No one’s crazy here.”

Teddy stopped, halfway between the station and the doorway. He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? And what’s supposed to convince me of that?”

“You need a job right?” Charlie said, waving his hand toward the doorway.

“We’re hiring.”

And Teddy thought about it. For about a minute. Which was as long as it took him to determine if it was crazy or not. First of all he really needed a job, second of all he hadn’t really wanted to wear a suit to work every day anyway, and, in conclusion (and vicious creatures aside), the T really wasn’t a half bad place to work.

He chucked the charred remains of his suit jacket onto the tracks and followed Charlie into the white hall.

The door slammed shut behind them.

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" D y s to pia

Spare Olivia Billbrough

The hallways were dark. Ariadne’s eyes widened and she watched the soft dust float past her nose. Through the silence she heard soft sobbing coming from Kora’s room. She stood in the hallway in between two thoughts. The first was that her mother would want comfort, an arm around her small, shaking shoulders. Her first baby was gone.

Ariadne saw it in her mind: she would find her mom sitting hunched over on Kora’s dark lavender bedspread, maybe a trophy in her hands. Ariadne would walk in, maybe timidly, and her mom would look up, tired eyes red and watering, her face and lips parched as all the water in her body poured onto her dead daughter’s bed. She would hold out her pruned fingers, pull Ariadne close, and they would cry together.

She took a step closer to the door and looked back; the other option was to run to her room and hide. She was sixteen and too old to be afraid of ghosts, but in the dark she felt her sister’s presence. Kora liked to hide in the dark and jump out, laughing and yelling, “Got you, you goose!”

Ariadne shivered, wishing she’d brought her shawl. She took another step closer and another until she was standing in the doorway.

Her mother was sitting hunched over on Kora’s bedspread, her thin fingers covering her leaking eyes, Lucy’s long arms around her shoulder, her head resting on her their mother’s head. Ariadne stood in the doorway, unsure of what to do. Lucy looked up, makeup running down her face. Another long night spent studying; she’d forgotten to clean it off. Lucy was a broken record, coming home every night from school and her internship to study and read

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and call her “boyfriend.” Tonight, however, her tired eyes looked out from between their mother’s black hair instead of through pages of the books she usually scoured.

When she saw Ariadne, she rubbed her eyes and disentangled an arm, reaching out. Ariadne was frozen. Lucy was crying, and Ariadne knew that it was mostly for Kora, but knew that she was also crying for herself. Ariadne thought back to the night they learned of Lucy’s fate and felt a shiver run through her. It was also the night they learned their father’s secret.

•••• The night after Kora died, Ariadne and Lucy stood like tall pale pillars on either side of the door to their father’s study. A thin slice of light escaped through the crack in the door. They knew they were too old to be spying, but the mayor was visiting and every now and again they liked to know what was happening. This was not something new. Madam Mayor visited frequently to discuss the cities budgets, or the weapons their father had bought years ago and his plans for them. Would he open the wing of his great house to the public to view his new collection? The good people of Wroth deserved to see the weapons that served in the war between the north and south. The stories of the soldiers that fought overseas when the world tore itself apart were imprinted in each gun. Don’t you agree, Councilman Bellona?

She was over so often that Ariadne and Lucy made friends with her bodyguards, as they found them much nicer than their own. Ariadne and Lucy did not speak to the mayor’s son, Reagan, who was older and who had lost his father to the northern rebels several years back. He was a junior councilor and had spoken at their school a few weeks ago about the rebels in the city. But when he came for dinner with his mother, they found him cold and distant.

Tonight the mayor was here to give condolences to the Bellona family. She was also here with a proposition.

“Roland, I know the contract your family made 85 years ago has since been upheld by tradition…but I think that with the recent rebel attacks and our city’s increasing need of hired guns, we need to uphold the contract’s legality,” she said.

Ariadne peeked into the room. The Mayor was a tall woman with beautiful red hair. It was pinned into tight curls on the side of her head and framed her angular face. Ariadne always loved to stare at her hair. It was even brighter than Lucy’s.

Now she was standing by the tall rounded window, watching the rain outside. It was natural rain, or “spontaneous precipitation” as the weather-

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men called it. The mayor opened the window and Ariadne felt a breeze ruffle her nightgown.

“Technically the contract has not been broken. Kora—” “Koralia never made it to the war, Roland. Technically the contract will be broken unless…”

“Victoria, I’ve already lost one daughter,” their father said getting out of his chair. It creaked as it rolled backwards.

“Yes, and I’m very sorry. But Roland, they’re getting stronger. I don’t know where they’re coming from. They believe…they believe we’re starting the population control programs up again,” She said, her voice lowering to a whisper with the last words.

Ariadne and Lucy exchanged confused glances. They knew there had been a war. But they had not heard of this.

“Well, are you?” their father asked. The mayor sighed and dropped her arms. She walked back to the desk and sat at the edge.

“It’s not something we can discuss,” She said.

“Which means ‘yes.’ Victoria, you promised you wouldn’t lie to me,” he walked around to face her.

“This has nothing to do with us, Roland. It’s bigger than me. It’s the whole city and it’s dying and we need to do something. But there won’t be a city to save if we don’t get all the support we need. If the people think that the Bellona family is out…”

“People will lose hope,” he finished for her. He fell back into his chair and ran a hand through his hair.

“They look very much like you,” The mayor said, swinging her legs around to tap lightly against his chair. Ariadne frowned. She had never seen the mayor act so…relaxed.

“What’s happening?” Lucy breathed from the other side of the door. Ariadne flapped her fingers and thumb together to pantomime talking. Lucy shot her a confused look and dropped silently to the floor to see under the crack.

“They do. But I fear they are more like their mother. Not fighters,” their father said. He took the mayor’s hand in both of his and sat for a moment patting it, distracted.

“It…she won’t agree,” he said finally.

“Who?” “Lucia.”

“Lucia? Why Lucia and not Ariadne?”

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“She’s older, by almost a day,” he said. When he saw her confused look he continued. “Sophie…wanted a natural birth after Koralia, and we didn’t know we were having twins. It was difficult for her when we realized there was another baby. It was so strange. We had perfect copies of ourselves: Koralia after Sophia, and Lucia after me. But God saw fit to give us another miracle,” Roland said.

“And you will still have her when Lucia leaves,” The mayor said lifting his chin with her fingers.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

In the hallway Lucy sat up and stared at the floor, her shoulders shaking.

Ariadne stared into the room, unable to look away, unable to un-hear their words. The spell broke when Lucy jumped up and ran down the hallway. Ariadne panicked and ran in the opposite direction. She ran into a storage closet and put a hand to her chest trying to breath, trying to process. A few moments later she saw through the crack in the closet door, the light from her father’s study widening. He and the mayor exited. Ariadne crept back from the opening a little further so they wouldn’t see her. She watched them walk by discussing budgets and the weapons. The mayor’s bright red locks were visible even in the dim light of the hallway, as she re-pinned her uncurled hair.

•••• Ariadne was pulled out of the memory by a sudden intake of breath from her mother. She stared at the outstretched hand before her and knew that Lucy had resigned herself to her fate. Their father had called her into his study the day before and, judging by the amount of mascara running down her face, he had told her what her life would be. Now she shook with the fear that Kora had not felt when she left for military academy. It was not the kind of academy Lucy was used to, where she learned about the delicate strands of DNA that could be spliced together to create something new. Instead she would learn how to sever those strands for good. Nothing new, only an end.

But why? Ariadne thought. Why her? Why not someone else? Why not...

Ariadne stepped gingerly into the room and took her sister’s hand. She hadn’t meant to cry, but as she sat down next to her mother and sister she felt the warm tears fall down her cheeks.

Ever since they were small, Ariadne had followed Lucy. She followed her through the house, and through the woods. She would have followed her to Lucy’s prestigious school if she could have. Ariadne had been her sister’s shadow, the gray cast off of the brilliant light that seemed to surround Lucy. But she had never wanted anything more. Nothing more than to be like her twin.

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Why not me? She thought. She cried for Kora and she cried for her mother and her sister, but now she also cried for herself. She wouldn’t let her sister sever her own life, full of so much more potential than hers would ever have.

She wiped her face with the back of her free hand and patted her mother’s hair, wet with Lucy’s tears. There was only one solution Ariadne could see, and she saw it more clearly than she had seen anything before. If Lucy went, she would not come back. But if Ariadne left, if she stepped into her older sister’s shoes and the old army jacket that been their father’s, then maybe there was a chance. Maybe, she thought, it was a good thing she was born, so that her family had an extra to spare.

“It’s okay, mom,” she said. “It’ll be okay. It’s all going to be fine.”

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The Duel Sarah “Butterfly” Dompkowski

“You can do this, Golt,” I said softly, so the others could not hear. “You can kill him.”

Golt said nothing. He grunted, which was enough of an answer. Golt spoke less and less now that he was of age, and his tusks had grown past his chin. He did not wish to slur his words and draw attention to his youth, as his mouth was still unaccustomed to dealing with his adult tusks. He was a good warrior, strong and bold, but he had few battle scars and his shoulders were still skinny like a boy’s.

Marrik, Golt’s opponent, had been born in the same year as us, but he would not fall easily to Golt’s blade. He had seen six raids to Golt’s three, and had an impressive array of welts and burns along one flank to show for it.

Golt had to kill him, of course. His only other option was to leave the tribe, in shame, and no orc would do that, not with the winter season so close.

Wandering orcs had to prove themselves on a raid before being adopted by a new tribe. There was no time for Golt to prove himself to any tribe, near or far, before the snows came. Death by cold was no way for a warrior to die; we had all been taught that on our mother’s laps. Still, I did not want to see Golt fight for his life in a duel with an uncertain outcome. Golt believed in fighting regardless of the odds; I preferred to fight only when certain of victory.

“Press his left flank, the wound still stings him,” I whispered, leaning down and pretending to help Golt adjust the pauldron over his shoulder.

“I know, Krath,” Golt grumbled.

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We had only been joined last winter, and already we spoke as those mated for a score of seasons.

I could not stop myself from giving more advice. “You can win this, if you–” “Does he cling to his mate in fear?” Marrik bellowed from the other side of the center of camp. “I have been challenged! Fight, or turn your back on this tribe!”

Some of Marrik’s friends roared with laughter, jeering at Golt.

“Die in the snows!” cried Talg, a male who had set his hands on another’s mate. The mate fought him off, and together the couple had cut Talg’s tusks, so that he would forever wear his shame. No orc woman would have him now, and it was the mate’s mercy that had kept him from banishment.

“You are too weak to lead this tribe!” Marrik accused.

Golt’s face set in determination. He laid a hand on my shoulder, squeezing briefly. “Soon, we will dance in his blood,” he promised.

Words stuck in my throat. I nodded, and he turned and headed for Marrik.

The entire tribe had gathered around the rough circle, crowded around nearby tents and craning their necks to see the two combatants. With our chief lost in battle for nearly a full month, our tribe had faltered, desperate for a leader. Marrik had tried to seize power, and in response, Golt had challenged him. Marrik was a good warrior, but he was no leader. Golt had the makings of a chief in him, if he could survive this first test.

Seeva, Marrik’s mate, found me before the duel began. She was one of the few humans in our tribe, a tiny thing wrapped in a faded blue robe, with green eyes and skinny arms. I saw no point in a mate who could not carry a weapon in battle. It reeked of desperation, a warrior like Marrik using a weak human woman to prove himself as strong in bed as he was on the battlefield. I had seen bruises on Seeva’s arms often enough to think of Marrik as a coward at heart.

Our tribe was considered strange on the plains: we did not enslave humans, as other tribes did; we welcomed them. They strengthened our ranks, bolstered our numbers against our foes, and bore us strong halfblooded children.

There were five or six orcs to every human, but the humans could vote in clan matters and shared equally of the spoils from raids. First, other tribes had called us soft-headed for doing this. After a string of successful raids, deeper into the kingdom of Cervensia than any orc tribe had gone in three generations, they no longer called us soft.

“Do you pray, Krath?” Seeva asked me, staring up at me with wide eyes.

“Not enough,” I shrugged as we watched Marrik and Golt circling each other around the dead fire pit.

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“I pray to my mother’s gods,” Seeva said, fingers toying with a collection of carved idols on strings tethered to her belt. “I prayed for them to stop Marrik from this.”

“It seems that they did not heed your prayers,” I said, eyes narrowing in concentration as Marrik drew his sword with much posturing.

“No,” Seeva’s knuckles were white from clutching the idols. “They never have.”

I hoped she would not babble through the whole fight. I admired her for not shrinking from me, as other human women had, but Seeva’s attempts at friendly conversation baffled me. Did she think we could become sisters after this duel, after one of our mates lay dead on the ground? The ghost of the dead mate would haunt our tents, drive us apart before a friendship could be forged.

So it had been with Lyra and Iog, when Lyra’s mate had slain Iog’s in a dispute over the spoils of a raid. Iog had burned Lrya’s tent, with Lyra and her mate still inside, and left them with scars they still bore to this day. Iog had been banished. Months later we found her dead in the frozen plains as we hunted for deer.

Fortunately, Seeva fell silent when the weapons clanged together in the first strike of the duel. I did not think I could have borne the distraction of her twittering speech during such an important moment.

Marrik began furiously, roaring and slamming into Golt’s chest, knocking him backwards. Golt recovered quickly, dodging and lashing out with his sword. He did not draw first blood, but it was a near thing. Golt’s arm twisted as he tried for a quick jab.

Marrik lunged, driving his shoulder against Golt’s side and sending him sprawling. His sword darted down, lighting fast, and Golt struggled to block it as he scrambled on the earth.

Golt’s leg lashed out, causing Marrik to stagger. Golt hurried to his feet, hefting his sword, but it was too late. Marrik recovered faster, and knocked Golt’s blade out of his hands.

My breathing ceased for an instant.

An instant was all it took for Marrik to drive his sword into Golt’s belly.

Golt fell to his knees clutching pointlessly at the wound. His guts spilled past his shaking fingers. He raised his eyes and kept his mouth firmly closed, letting no cries of pain or pleas for mercy escape his lips.

Marrik laughed, loud and mocking, and slammed his blade against Golt’s neck. Golt’s skin and sinews broke, but the bone of his spine was not severed.

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Seeva shrieked into her hands as if she had been so wounded. She clutched at my arm, in fear, I thought at first. I moved to shake her off but she pulled tight, standing up on her toes to reach my ear: “He does not guard his back.”

She let go of me, and returned to fiddling with the idols in her hands, murmuring prayers, the picture of a dutiful, weak mate. That was the Seeva everyone saw, and ignored. I had been fooled by that soft mask.

With a roar, Marrik severed Golt’s head from his body entirely.

I ran before Marrik’s arm fell. I ran, drawing my own sword, biting back a war cry, as blood fountained from Golt’s neck and his head sailed over the fire pit.

It was not until Marrik looked down and saw my blade protruding from his chest that he realized I was upon him. He staggered, knees buckling, and fell.

I withdrew my blade and stabbed it into him again, and again, until the blade was slick with his blood and I was splattered by it. Marrik flailed helplessly, clawing at my legs, and then fell still, gurgling, on the earth.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. I turned, locking eyes with Talg and the rest of Marrik’s supporters, spinning in a circle, sword outstretched, dripping with Marrik’s hot blood. No one else gave challenge.

The cheers began, roars of approval from the rest of the tribe reaching a deafening din. I panted, the exhaustion from a battle’s aftermath catching up to me at last.

I looked down to see Seeva kneeling beside Marrik’s body, her idols rattling between her fingers, her lips contorting with prayers. She raised her hooded head and let me see the small smile on her lips. I realized that I had never seen her look so happy before. Perhaps I would never know how truly poisonous the match had been, but Seeva had freed herself from it, and in such a way that no one would ever know the truth. Perhaps the gods had answered her prayers after all.

“Hail, Krath, War Chief of the Bloodsong Tribe!” Seeva raised her fist in salute.

I stabbed my bloody sword into the air, threw back my head, and bellowed a battle cry of my own.

M a g i ca l R e alis m/Ho r ro r

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Hope Meredith Mann

As Carina bolted through the forest, the trees sailed by as if they were moving past her at the same speed she ran by them. A figure weaved through the trees ahead of her. It kept pace with her but was always ahead. She couldn’t tell if her throat burned and her eyes watered from running or from fear, but she only knew it got stronger when she saw the dog-like shadow out of the corner of her eye. It seemed to look back at her every once in a while, but Carina wasn’t sure what it wanted or where it came from. She had the urge to both catch up and to steer clear of it, figuring it could be just as dangerous as the man chasing her.

A fleeting thought told her it could be a stray dog the man trained—there were always starving dogs living near the starving people—who was leading Carina to a place where the man would corner and kill her. But the dog was large, waist-height, and muscular. There was no sign it was suffering.

The giant black dog disappeared to the left, straying from the approaching river. Carina considered following it but thought she might be able to lose her pursuer by crossing the river. The encroaching pounding told her the man she was fleeing from was catching up.

A sudden cry, from neither the man nor herself, stopped Carina dead.

Goosebumps crawled across her skin at the hideous shriek, and Carina’s heart seized in her chest, attempted to hide itself further inside her. It was a cannonball of a scream, deafening and long, as high-pitched as a train whistle. An unearthly note underscored the wail, the ragged rasping of the dead clutching out at the living. It usurped all of Carina’s senses until she felt like an extension of fear itself—cold and leaden. At the sound, Carina turned, horrified. She

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spared a glance at the man. It seemed she had heard it, but he had not. In the moment it took for Carina’s attacker to pounce, Carina locked eyes with the banshee and spotted the hound padding up to the woman in white. The solemn pair stood erect behind the man, staring straight through Carina just as she stared at them. A sad resignation clung to the ashen wraith’s frame. Thinness traveled down her entire body until her slight ankles and feet wisped away altogether. Despite her size, her presence dominated the surrounding forest.

Equally matched in its authority, the coal-black hound reeked of hot earth and cold rot, its body appearing as solid as iron. Side by side, these two stole away everything else in her line of sight.

“Cadejo,” she whispered. The last syllable of the word turned to a guttural choke as the man’s hands slithered around her neck, constricting the little airflow she still had left. Her eyes, round with terror and intrigue, never left the woman and the hound.

•••• Guillermo found his sister’s body face-up in the river, blooming violet bruises around her neck. The water swished her hair back and forth, a gesture of comfort from something living, meaningless to something dead. The infinite void in her eyes bore through Guillermo’s stomach, the hawk talons of finite blame clawing at his shoulders. He closed her eyes and carried her home, the water dropping from her wet hair matching the tears dripping from his eyelashes.

The funeral took place at dusk so the family could bury Carina without having to pay for a casket. Guillermo ripped up grass beside his dead sister’s head to keep from crying as the adults moaned and sobbed. His gangly shadow seemed endless in the setting sun, like something he could never reach the end of. Carina had blossomed through puberty effortlessly, soft features giving way to fuller curves. Guillermo had a tougher time of it, but he grew into his long, flat planes within a few years, building enough muscle to satisfy him by the time he was seventeen.

The sunset cast a warm glow over Carina’s smooth face, and the array of flowers clasped in her thin fingers mirrored the sky’s vivid hues. Guillermo smiled when he noticed this, but when night came, his face hardened like the nearly immovable earth in which Carina was buried. His grandmother clutched his hand when the last pile of dirt covered Carina.

“A pure spirit never leaves the earth without saying goodbye first,” she said. Guillermo nodded.

He could have taken the fact that the murderer, Mauricio, his sister’s exboyfriend, was killed by a truck as a sign of his sister saying goodbye. Or the

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fact that the family’s chickens laid more eggs than normal the week of her death. Or the fact that they had rain, complete with a rainbow, two days after her funeral after three months of drought. But Guillermo refused to take these as signs. He went to the spot in the woods each night, waiting for his sister to appear to him. She owed him that at least.

So, like each night since Carina’s death, Guillermo, careful not to wake his family, slipped from his bed into the night. His shoes waited by the door, but he abandoned them and continued barefoot. Silence surrounded Guillermo on his journey into the forest. His own breathing hurt his ears, too loud in the still night. As he approached the spot his sister’s body took its last breath, Guillermo’s chest squeezed. A memory flashed across his vision—the image of her corpse in the water—and tears battered at the back of his eyelids. He clenched his jaw and willed them away, taking a seat on the ground instead.

Another memory popped up—Carina, eyes lit up from the bonfire beside her, telling a ghost story.

“There is always a stillness,” she had said, “when ghosts are near. It’s the door between worlds opening, and, in that moment, all must be quiet so that the spirit can pass onto this plane. After that silence,” here, she had stopped, turned her whole body to face a tense Guillermo, “the spirit is through the door and attacks you”—she jumped at her brother, tackled him to the dirt with a happy shout—“until you die of fright.” Guillermo had screamed and nearly wet himself, although he would deny it, and slapped at his sister as she cackled at his fear.

Brought back to the present by a slight breeze, Guillermo smiled to himself.

The stillness had passed, and now he felt that tonight he would finally see his sister. Anger had built up over the weeks he had been coming to find her and saw nothing but trees, but this memory, Guillermo thought, was her greeting him before she appeared. He scanned the horizon, foot twitching against dead leaves, and quickly grew impatient. He spied nothing unfamiliar.

As the wind picked up, Guillermo shuddered, scrubbing at his bare toes to warm them up. The slack cotton of his t-shirt rippled in the breeze, and the pungent scent of campfire smoke settled in his nostrils. Inhaling more, he gagged. Not campfire smoke, but something stronger, more raw.

The forest breathed around him, trees shifting, crickets shrieking, worms writhing, beetles scurrying. The heady smell of Hell crowded close, bringing the dark night’s aura with it. Whatever this presence was, Guillermo knew it wasn’t Carina. His heart already pounding in anticipation, Guillermo stiffened and choked on his fear when the banshee and her hound wafted toward him

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from behind a tree in front of him. There was no smoke or mist or warning.

They made no sound, and Guillermo thought they were a trick of his eyes in the night until a few blinks did not whisk them away.

In the direct moonlight, they appeared transparent, the lunar glow illuminating them while still softly touching the ground behind them. But when the clouds drifted past, their forms were as solid and real as the peeling bark against his back. His tongue was too thick to swallow the sour taste in his mouth.

“Cadejo,” his voice cracked. The dog blinked up at him, and the woman scratched behind its ear.

“His name is Murr,” she whispered. Guillermo gasped and scrambled to his feet, scaring himself by bumping into a branch he hadn’t seen in the dark. The three stared at each other in the resulting silence.

The woman was pale and wore a loose white dress. Her limbs were waifish, and her nail beds were dirty, but not as dirty as the soles of Guillermo’s feet.

Her nose and lips were thin, and her hair draped in folds like her dress. The dog beside her came up to her waist, its fur darker than Guillermo’s eyes and hair. Darker even than nighttime in the woods, for the surrounding sky seemed blue next to the animal. Its paws sunk into the earth, pressing into the dirt as easily as if it stood on sand. Guillermo wondered how a ghost could be heavy. Its fur glistened like it was wet, but it didn’t clump together. He knew the stories, but Guillermo had already looked once, so he chanced to meet the hound’s eyes again. They were not red but dewy amber. They were soft, as was the set of the animal’s jaw. For all Guillermo could tell, it was docile. And neither it nor the woman had made a move toward him.

“You talk,” Guillermo finally said, surprised.

“So do you,” the woman replied. She didn’t look much older than Guillermo himself, maybe early twenties. If she weren’t a banshee, Guillermo might’ve thought it was a joke, flirting even. In a split second, his mind circled from flirting, to women, to how the banshee was quite pretty, to wondering if she had ever been alive or had a lover, to wondering how she died, and then back to the thought of banshee.

“Am I going to die?” He looked at the dog again, and his eyes widened. “Am I going to Hell?”

“Why are you here?” she asked, uninterested in his questions but not unkindly. Guillermo jolted, unsure of which “here” she meant—in the woods or on Earth.

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“In the forest,” she answered his unspoken inquiry. Her airy tone sent a chill through Guillermo, and he shifted from foot to foot. The combination of her voice and the way she said “forest” caused a creeping, uneasy feeling to rise in Guillermo, like his idea of the world meant nothing compared to hers.

“I’m waiting,” he stated. If she could hold back information, then so could he. The words hung in the air, and the melody of the night played between them. The stars tittered, laughing at Guillermo’s idea of waiting. An eternity passed in the woman’s blink, Guillermo seeing the depth of time in her eyes.

But, when her eyelids drew back up, her eyes appeared impossibly deeper, full of the infinite emptiness he’d seen in his sister’s dead eyes. The hound huffed, bringing Guillermo’s attention to the gray whiskers lining his muzzle.

“For whom?” She didn’t mock the teen. Guillermo wanted to laugh as she cocked her head to the side at the same time as Murr.

“My sister. My older sister. She…went missing a few weeks ago.” His humor fled, replaced with bitterness—the tang of the word “died” still coiling around in his mouth.

The banshee stared at him, and the hound sniffed at the breeze as it brought Guillermo’s scent toward the dog.

“You aren’t telling the whole truth,” the woman said. “Murr can smell it.”

Guillermo gasped and shifted his weight.

“He can smell what I know?” He side-eyed the hound.

“He can smell everything,” she confirmed. Murr hummed his agreement, plopping his nose into the banshee’s hand.

“She’s dead.” Guillermo blurted out as he stared at the hound, not expecting such an earthly reaction from it. “I found her body in the river. Her boyfriend…she might’ve been pregnant.”

“The woman by the river?” The banshee’s eyes peaked with recognition.

“I called out to her.” Murr’s ears perked up at the mention, but he cast his gaze downward.

“As you call out to all of the dying?” Guillermo whispered.

“Yes. It is my duty to warn them. When they are on the brink of death, I must wail. Your sister…she strayed from the path Murr set for her. She might’ve lived, if she’d followed.”

“She died because she ran from the black cadejo, a hell hound?” Guillermo would’ve guffawed if he’d been speaking to anyone else.

The banshee’s eyes narrowed, shooting an icy spike through Guillermo.

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“Murr is not an evil hound. He does not drag people to Hell. He leads them from it.”

“And you are not an evil spirit?” Guillermo, placated and curious, scratched his cheek, daring to meet her eyes again from under his lashes. But the banshee stroked the animal. Guillermo couldn’t tell if she was unaware he was looking at her or just unable to meet his glance.

“No. Murr tries to save humans, and I wail to mourn their coming loss of life,” She looked at Guillermo again and kept her stare steady. “But you humans fear us, and perhaps that is why you die. If you were to follow Murr, to run toward what you fear, then you would stray from danger, and I would not have to wail. But Murr and I grow old waiting for that day.”

“Do you have a name?” Guillermo burst out. He immediately curled his lips under his teeth in embarrassment.

“If I do,” the woman said, “I don’t remember it.”

“Why is it that you can talk to me without my death being near?”

Guillermo asked.

“Because you are waiting, and we are waiting, it is here that we meet. You are waiting for your sister. Hoping to see a ghost face-to-face, something most people would fear. And we are waiting for someone who is not afraid of fear.”

Guillermo blinked and noticed that his toes were numb. He watched the banshee and hound’s figures fade from solid to ethereal as the clouds curled past the moon.

“Does that mean you’ve found who you’re looking for?”

The banshee watched as Murr shuffled up to Guillermo and plopped down next to the teen’s legs, covering Guillermo’s feet with his head. She moved to sit beside the dog, motioning for Guillermo to sit as well.

“At the very least, it means we can wait together,” she breathed with a hint of a smile.

Guillermo returned the gesture, sitting by the two entities, even daring to pet the hound. Murr’s coat radiated midday heat in the deep night, keeping Guillermo warm. As the three of them stared into the forest, waiting, hoping, for a ghost who might not even appear, Guillermo thought that maybe this company was the sign his sister chose to send him.

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Burning the Past Ashley Sousa

“Andrew?” a terrified voice whispered. “Is that really you?” Standing in front of her, he paused, sighing. He hated it when people recognized him. How was he supposed to have a secret identity, he thought, if people remembered his face? He held up his hand in her direction, and she was enveloped in flame, screaming as her flesh started to melt. Watching people slowly burn to death was one of his favorite pastimes. He loved guessing how long they would keep moving around while on fire.

Putting out the flames, so as to not destroy his creation, he pondered her words.

“You were incorrect,” he said to her corpse, “I have not been ‘Andrew’ for a long time.” Even though no one was around, he regretted his words. He may be a villain, but did he really have to be so damn dramatic? It was far too cliché.

He made a mental note to work on it and left his latest atrocity behind.

•••• As a child, Andrew had an obsession with superheroes. He watched all of the cartoons, he owned all of the t-shirts. He acquired a comic book collection that rivaled nerds near and far. At first, his parents didn’t think anything of it. It was perfectly normal for a young boy to like superheroes. But as he got older, they started to get concerned. Was it still normal for a thirteenyear-old to recreate battle sequences in his bedroom? Should they be worried that he never talked about having any friends at school? They did their best to encourage other activities, the only successful one of which was paying for weekly mixed martial arts lessons.

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Then, one day, they got a phone call from his middle school principal: Andrew had gotten in a fight with Stephen Greenburg.

Andrew was sitting at his desk that night. His mother was crying, and his father was shouting.

“Is this what you learned in all of those lessons? Do you realize how serious this is? You nearly killed that kid, Andrew!”

“But you do not know him! He lacks academic integrity; he ridicules everyone that he doesn’t deem worthy. He had stolen money from Vinny Goldberg. I was compelled to act, as no one else would!” Andrew’s parents had gotten used to his unusual dialect, and his words neither fazed them nor cooled their anger.

“It was Vinny’s problem, and Stephen is the principal’s nephew. It is not up to you to save the world! You aren’t a superhero, Andrew!” He paused.

“You are grounded for two months. And you’re done with martial arts.”

Andrew’s dad left the room. Still crying, his mom followed without saying a word.

After that, Andrew’s reputation as the awkward, quiet kid was gone. If someone was being picked on, they only had to threaten to call Andrew, and the bullying would stop. No one wanted to get on his bad side. Unfortunately, no one wanted to get on his good side either. The way he talked made them uneasy.

It wasn’t like he’d had an excess of friends before, but now the only time anyone talked to him was when they were forced to in class. There were rumors of anger issues, and people said he threatened his parents so that they would buy him alcohol, that he threatened teachers so he would get good grades, that he did drugs and got into fights every weekend. No matter how hard he tried to be friendly, the rumors persisted. Eventually, he gave in and resolved himself to silence.

His comics had become more of a solace than ever. His best friends became Spiderman and the Hulk, and Mystique was the closest thing to a girlfriend he could get. His parents were frustrated by his lack of social skills. They would argue with him almost daily, trying to convince him yet again to go out for sports or join a club or something that would get him out of the house once in a while, but Andrew resisted. He knew no one wanted to be around him.

This continued throughout high school. He would stay quiet, people would avoid him, and rumors would continue. For the first few days, he held a faint hope that someone he hadn’t met would want to talk to him. No one ever did.

One day, while he was walking home, he came upon Stephen Greenburg at an overpass. Stephen had stopped his bullying in the years since the fight and

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was generally a nicer person. Today, however, he didn’t look happy. Andrew knew Stephen had been dumped by Maggie Brownson earlier that week. Even outcasts heard the big gossip.

“Stephen,” Andrew said. “I am aware that you are not fond of me, but I must assure you that, with time, you will not feel so unhappy. If I can offer any solace…” He trailed off. Stephen was climbing onto the railing. He looked at Andrew.

“You know what Maggie said when she dumped me?” Andrew didn’t answer. “She said she wanted someone tougher. Someone more exciting and strong. That she wanted a real man.” There were tears in his eyes. “I used to be tough!” he screamed. “I used to be strong and exciting, and I can’t do anything anymore!”

Andrew reached out to grab him just as he jumped. He watched and within seconds, Stephen’s body smashed onto the highway below and was instantly struck by a Prius. Andrew stood there, unable to comprehend what had just happened. He’d had his first chance to really save someone, and he failed.

Cars on the overpass behind him stopped, the occupants got out. Someone yelled at Andrew, asking why he pushed him. Others joined in, and Andrew tried to explain that he was trying to grab him, but their accusations got worse and worse. There was talk of restraining him until the cops could show up. He ran.

At home, his mother had already gotten a phone call, and two police officers were waiting for him. There were witnesses, they said, and there was nothing they could do about it. They booked him for questioning.

Luckily, Stephen had written a note. His mother had found it minutes before he had jumped, and it was verified as his handwriting. The police let Andrew go.

School became unbearable. Despite the police department’s conclusions, everyone seemed to think that Andrew had killed Stephen. Maggie was distraught, saying she never should have left him and that Stephen had always known Andrew wanted to kill him. Everyone ignored the letter. When Andrew tried to attend Stephen’s funeral, they didn’t let him in. His father was fired from his job, and his mother’s friends stopped calling. The comic book store that Andrew has so often visited to find sanctuary refused to give him service.

The entire town—all six thousand people—had turned against him.

One night, Andrew’s mother came into his room. She hadn’t talked to him at all in weeks, but it had been years since she really talked to him. She asked him what had actually happened with Stephen that day, despite the fact that

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she had already heard his story. She said that she wouldn’t be angry at him, just that she needed to know the truth.

“Mother, I was attempting to save him! How could you make such accusations? I was attempting to save him and I could not. Has no one considered inquiring as to what it is like to experience witnessing someone’s suicide? To have blame thrust upon you? And it is as if it was my fault because I could not save him, mom! I was unable to! I’ve always believed I was more than that, that if people needed me I could be there, that I could help someone, and I tried to be of assistance to him, yet he proceeded to jump!” Andrew’s dad walked in.

“You were trying to save him?” he said. There was alcohol on his breath. “You were trying to talk to him? You’re not a fucking superhero!

They don’t exist and I’m sick of it! I’m sick of Thor coming up in dinner conversations and I don’t give a damn about Doctor Doom! You are done with this comic book shit! You are going to play sports and fuck girls and cut your hair short like a normal teenage boy! I’m done with all of this fantasy bullshit!” He grabbed the nearest pile of comic books and started tearing them in half. Andrew’s mother started crying and ran out of the room. Andrew started yelling.

“Stop, Dad! You can’t, Dad, STOP!!” But his dad ignored him. He was ripping apart comic after comic, destroying the only comfort Andrew had left.

That’s when it happened. Andrew clenched his fist, screamed, and flames burst out of his arm, engulfing his father. Screaming, his father started to burn. He ran out of Andrew’s room, stumbled down the hallway, falling after only a few steps, withering, his face contorted and his chest blackened. Around his body, the carpet had ignited. His mother ran into the hall and screamed, flinging herself onto the flames, trying to save her husband, but it was already too late.

Within seconds, she had caught fire as well.

Andrew was still for a moment. Then, once again, he ran.

The newspapers would say that the house caught on fire from “electrical problems,” and that is was a “tragedy” that the family had perished. No one really mourned.

Andrew was walking, still trying to comprehend what he had done. He needed to find somewhere that he could try it again, because he wasn’t fully convinced that he had really caused the fire. He just couldn’t believe he had done it.

He was also thinking about his parents. He didn’t feel happy, exactly, but he wasn’t broken up over it either. He was almost relieved. His parents had

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taken care of him well enough, but they didn’t make an effort beyond what was necessary. They never told him they loved him. They never took him to Comic-Con. He wound up at an old factory by the wharf. It the only empty place he could think of staying. The air was calm, and he stood out on a dock, looking around. There was no sign that anyone else was there. He clenched his fist and, feeling only slightly ridiculous, tried to shoot fire. Nothing happened.

He thought about it. There had to be something more to it. He had to really feel what he was about to do. He had to have the emotion behind it. Thinking about Stephen, about the town, about everyone who didn’t believe him despite trying his entire life to be the good guy, he clenched his fist again and yelled. A stream of fire shot out over the water, and he found he didn’t need to be angry to sustain it. Looking down, he saw that his arm was propelling the flame forward like a hose, the fire itself surrounding his forearm and hand. He tried to touch it with his left hand, but he burned himself.

Cursing, he stopped the flames.

He knew what would happen now. It would be just like in his comic books. Some strange government agency would find him, help him learn how to use his powers and control the gift he was given. He would meet other people like him, people that would understand. He would leave his town.

He would go into the world. He would save people and be seen as a hero.

Thinking with a hopefulness he hadn’t felt in years, he fell asleep behind the factory.

Six days later, however, he was still alone. He had been going into grocery stores in hats and sunglasses, buying food with the money he had left, but he was close to running out. Deciding to take action for himself, Andrew formed a plan: he would use his powers in front of a stoplight video camera or near a government building. Surely someone would come for him once they knew about what he could do.

He had been practicing his flames during the day inside the warehouse. It was empty, and as long as he didn’t reach towards the wooden rafters nothing large would catch on fire. He was slowly gaining control, finding just how to hold himself to aim closer, how to exert more pressure to make the flames go further. He used rats as moving targets and was really starting to get the hang of it. He had always known, somehow, that he had a potential for more, and this was finally his chance.

On that morning, he walked to the alleyway near the DMV. Looking into the camera, he smiled, knowing that things were finally going to start

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getting better. He showed his hand, clearly not containing anything else, and shot flames through the air, careful to avoid the buildings on either side. He then left an envelope on a nearby windowsill, with a note inside it reading, “Midnight. The Docks.” He left.

He waited at midnight and, sure enough, a car showed up. A tall man stepped out and walked towards him. He was wearing a dark suit with a plain tie and a long overcoat. He made Andrew feel a bit uneasy, but he reassured himself. This man was going to take him away from everything that had happened, give him a chance to redeem himself and become everything he had ever dreamed about. He was going to become a hero. The man stopped a few feet away.

“What’s your name, son?” he asked.

“I am Andrew Hahn,” he replied. He wasn’t sure if he should say anything else, but asked, “What are you addressed as?”

“Thomson Florentino,” he said, taking out a notebook. “It was your parents that burned in the local fire, I take it? Jon and Addy Hahn? Was that the first time you used your abilities?”

“Indeed,” Andrew said, a bit nervous. “I hadn’t intended, that is to say, my parents–” “We understand that newly discovered abilities are difficult to control. How often have you used them since the incident?” Florentino looked at him.

“Well,” said Andrew, “I have, of course, been partaking in my own training, in order to be of more use. I am able to determine duration and power of the fire, and my aim has become vastly more accurate.” Florentino wrote this down then asked Andrew to demonstrate. He obliged, putting his all into everything he had practiced. Florentino took notes.

“Very impressive, Mr. Hahn,” said Florentino, putting his notebook away. “You are very powerful. It could be dangerous. You’ll have to be careful.” He gave him a pointed look.

“May I inquire as to our next step for my future?” Andrew asked. “There is so much I desire to understand. Are there others–” “All in due time, son. Come.” He started walking towards the car, and Andrew followed. Florentino opened the door, letting Andrew in one side. He closed the door behind him. Andrew was feeling elated. This was the first time in years that someone hadn’t treated him like the bad guy. He was getting the escape he had always dreamed of, he was just like the heroes he had always pretended to be. He was going to make a difference in the world.

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Florentino never got back in the car.

Andrew tried to open the door, but it was locked and wouldn’t open. He started to panic. He pounded on the windows, and he noticed a green gas slowly seeping out of the vents. Holding his breath, he clenched his fist, pushing it against the lock of the door. He shot out a flame, but it had no effect on the door. The car was getting foggy and he couldn’t hold his breath for much longer. He persisted with his flame, growing stronger with every minute as he felt more and more angry that every person who he had ever tried to help only made his life worse. The fire grew and grew, until with a scream of frustration, the lock melted away in the flames and Andrew could open the door. He ran out, breathing deeply, the cool of the night against his skin.

Florentino was nowhere to be found.

For Andrew, that night was the last straw. His last hope had abandoned him. If everything was going to turn against him, he was going to turn against them right back. That night, he burned his old schools to the ground.

•••• Murdering Hallie had been pleasurable, he thought, sipping tea. He had been going after Florentino’s family for years. He had long since eradicated most of his hometown, but Hallie had moved away after freshman year. She was much prettier now, he thought, than when she was a teenager.

She was Florentino’s daughter-in-law. He had gone after his son. His displays had been notorious, being sure to burn only the bodies of these specialized victims. Attacking mere hours before Florentino was scheduled to arrive at one of their houses, he would walk in to discover their bodies, time after time.

Andrew was surprised Florentino had yet to go mad.

He looked over his plans for his last real victims, Florentino and his wife Melissa. Melissa had been admitted into a nursing home months ago, when the murders started. She was nearing death simply from the heartache. He almost hoped these last two would really do the job. Causing someone to die of a broken heart was a pleasure he was eager to feel.

Either way, he planned on taking Melissa out of the picture before handling Florentino at last. Over the years, he had perfected the skill of burning individual body parts at a time, drawing out the fiery death as long as possible. He always took care to avoid the hair, however. He would never get used to the smell of burning hair.

Once the two of them were taken care of, he wasn’t sure what he would do. Vengeance was sweet, but murder for the sake of doing so had never been

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his style. Perhaps he would travel, seeing a bit more of the world than his current vengeful ways would allow. He had always wanted to visit Russia.

Perhaps he would simply settle down, live in solitude until age took him. He thought he would make an excellent recluse. Perhaps he would finally go to Comic-Con.

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Nell and Loch Alanna Westman

The water pulsed with unseen desire, pounding against Nell’s boat like the memory of a once-forgotten lover. She could barely breathe. Her hair whipped around in the wind as she reefed the sail, trying to stabilize the boat. She then tightened her jacket to keep out the chill. Her skin was warm, sweating even in the cold. All she could remember was the night before and the feeling she had had watching him under the waves. Still, she wasn’t sure if the long, wispy shadow had been him at all. She had not seen his face or a smile, only his outline. Their eyes had only met once before, three years prior, and she’d been looking ever since then, searching but never finding, and she was ready.

This was his home and he did not stray from it, no matter how much she wished he had searched for her in turn.

Casper, her sister’s husband, had taught her how to sail in a storm, to adjust the sails so it reduced the amount of wind. The night sky gave nothing away as rain began hitting the boat with a newfound energy.

Nell went to the port side of the ship. Earlier she had tied a rope around her waist to keep her connected to the boat. The portable spotlight in her hand searched the sea before her. She was slow to move, her eyes focusing intently on the semi-brightened blue-green waves.

It was a full moon tonight, but clouds seemed to block out most of the light that it would provide. Casper would be furious she’d taken the boat out in this storm, but she didn’t care, even though he was the reason she could afford to be there in the first place. Ever since her parents had died when she was eleven, she and Celine had scavenged around Western Pennsylvania, trying to

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find stability. It came in the form of a Scottish doctor, with red-brown hair and generosity unlike anything the girls had known. He and Celine’s wedding in Scotland had been right before Nell’s first year of college.

After the newlyweds had left for their little road trip, she found herself by the water, thinking about Hector and the pain he took out on her. Her toes dipped into the water near shore, remembering the way he often whispered the flaws he saw within her. Everyone thought he was telling her how beautiful she was, how special. Her fingers would tighten around the metal of her locker.

She looked high, he might have said, like her eyes were too small to open right, or she seemed mousy because her too small nose got lost next to her elephant ears. He pinched her side, feeling the extra skin that everyone has, and saying hers was somehow wrong. She’d laugh, and kiss him anyways. She told herself he was only kidding.

And as she thought about Hector by the shore, her sister gone and in love, leaving her alone, she dived and swam out. She wanted to get lost. The wedding had been beautiful. They had place settings with light blue lace draped over the guests’ names. She had torn hers off and tucked it away. She played with it underwater, only able feel the texture and no longer able to see the blue. The lace slipped from her hand and drifted into the waves as one of her “awake dreams” hit her.

She’d been having them for months and each time they ended she always felt a deep pull to sleep and run and stop, never knowing which she should choose. Words echoed in her mind. Her nails were stubs, her calves red from scratching at them over and over again. The water seemed to yank at her arms and legs, pulling her into four different directions as she let it take her.

When she awoke, he was staring down at her with those eyes, a line of scales running like tears down to his shoulders. They seemed to shimmer, no one color at once. She coughed up water onto his chiseled chest, and breathed him in, salt and rain. He caressed her cheek, and she knew she’d never felt anything that soft, but then he was gone.

Nell had no idea what she’d stumbled upon in the Scottish waters, and that for three years she’d switch her major twice before landing on marine biology, remembering his soft skin and the mysteries he held. She kept wondering what else lay beneath the water’s surface.

Part of her believed she’d fabricated him, that she had saved herself from dying in Scotland waters, but she told herself no. Some how she knew he’d lived there his whole life, underwater, and loving it. She knew he would never leave the confines of his home made of water.

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•••• She now slipped to the opposite side of the boat and did another survey of the water beneath. The rain was coming down harder now, but she no longer noticed. It seemed like she was finally finding solid footing when she heard the deep grating of stone on wood. The front of the boat jolted up in the air for a moment, and tilted to the right. She thought for sure that her search was all over then, but more waves helped push the boat into more “stable” realms and she continued onward, alone.

But the rock had created a puncture in the ship. She felt the tilt of the boat as the storm picked up further. She reached up to tie her hair, as its whipping seemed to want to poke out her eyes. It was as she was reaching with one hand and holding the spotlight in the other that the biggest wave yet hit the boat.

The rope around her waist slipped under her clothes ripping at her stomach, burning the skin red. She did not scream. She grabbed out, reached for stability, but then another wave came. It was filled with fury, almost red with its anger, and the boat turned so far to the left that she knew she could no longer hold on. She slipped the knife from her boot in one swift motion and sliced at the rope with as much force as she could muster. It tore free, her stomach still burning, and then she was submerged.

•••• Nell had fallen in love with Hector in high school because she thought he would keep her safe. She believed he was meant to be that person who makes you see something you never saw in yourself. Before him, she’d always look at herself, see the imperfections and complain. She’d eat healthy, work out, even wore more make-up, but none of it seemed to help her. She still felt like everyone looked at her and saw to her core, saw the ugliness she felt inside.

She always felt like one of the dented apples at the grocery store where her older sister worked, the ones she’d throw in the trash at the end of the night because it might somehow taint the healthy ones.

Her pet turtle, Alfalfa, and older sister seemed to be the only people keeping her at bay. She was something, they’d say. Alfalfa was the one she turned to when everything seemed to fall apart. She imagined Hector was some winter dream, where snow would fall when she didn’t want it and disappear when she did. It was when the breeze hit her cheeks that she’d see the whispers of spring through the snowy air, unable to stop chill.

Hector said his father was violent, that he’d learned to be like him. He begged her forgiveness, gave her things that she could never afford, that

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her sister would never be able to give her. He made her feel sane, and his touch was more comfort than talking to Alfafa’s shell could ever provide. She forgave his words, his hate, and replaced them with his sad, watery eyes. But the insults only grew worse with each accepted apology.

And that’s what the water felt like now, slamming into her with such force that she felt like she’d lose the deep breath of air she’d taken right before going under. No, she would not die. Not before finding him. She’d made the promise to herself three years ago that one day she would return here, and she had.

She did not fight the water, fighting at this moment would mean death. She went with the push and the pull of it, joining in one. For one moment, she wondered if he was there watching her. If he wanted to know if she could survive on her own.

She saw the soft glow of yellow eyes, but then she blinked and she realized it was probably just the floodlight she’d been holding to see the shadows under the waves. Then there was less pull and a harsh push upwards with the water, and she forgot about her search. Her feet kicked out beneath her. She let a small pinch of air out of her mouth and allowed that to motivate her forward. Those lips were the ones the boy had called hideous, tainted.

Slut lips.

She imagined her mouth filled with energy, enough to push her up, and she knew she’d make it even if her boat was lost and gone. She would be there, still fighting.

And that’s when he arrived.

She blinked through the chaos of the water as she swam up. He swam with her, a mile long creature of gigantic proportions. The forged pictures online could not capture this magnitude. It frightened her.

She broke the surface of the water, gasping. She coughed up water. Then she was being pulled along, felt her legs land on those of the creature beneath her. The rain was still pouring.

Everything

will

be

alright,

she

convinced

herself.

She

felt

the

gentleness of the creature, and, even with his size, a new calm overcame her.

The storm was much more frightening than he could ever be. They paused near the shore.

He lifted his long neck up, revealing gentle eyes that observed her with curiosity. His body pulled up and she slipped down his neck onto land with a few steps. She nearly collapsed, not used to solid ground. She turned

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around immediately, but the creature was already gone. Was he even there to begin with?

Maybe Scotland’s legend was in fact just a legend.

She sat on the ground, which was mossy and soft. The rain slowed down to a drizzle. The water still waged war with itself. She rubbed at her legs.

All of it was for nothing. She’d ruined Casper’s boat and now there was nothing to show for it. She wanted to cry, but couldn’t. She was exhausted, worn.

Someone coughed behind her. She stood.

And though he was no longer a mile long, she knew it was him. Though brown, or what she thought to be brown, in full form, he was now tinged with blue-green. He stood there. Scales running down his legs and arms.

His tan chest was the only spot that had no scales. His muscles rippled as he moved closer.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she said.

He only smiled but she felt his words in her chest. I know.

Before she could even ask if he could leave the area, he shook his head in answer.

Cursed. Family.

She felt his pain, even ten feet away. They each began moving closer.

I hoped you’d come back, he seems to say. She saw his tail then, long and wide behind him. She couldn’t tell where it ended. Mist covered it.

“I’m Nell,” she said.

Loch.

I know, their bodies seemed to say in unison.

She was the first to reach out, brushed the hair from his piercing eyes. It was curly and black, tinged with green. She didn’t realize she was playing with it until he laughed quietly into her forearm.

He kissed her wrist gently and then her lips.

She thought it was like stars giving birth to new stars, if that happens, which she didn’t think it did. She shivered from his touch. She wanted to lose all her clothes and be bare in the moonlight with him.

As if knowing her thoughts, he brushed his hand along her back and her jacket and shirt transformed into water and splashed at her feet. At his touch, her pants followed. All that was left were her bra and panties. She was enamored by how familiar this seemed, like she’d foreseen this moment with him all along. There was so much depth in his gaze than she could have ever created

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in her mind. The look was genuine and caring. She kissed the blue-green of his neck, which seemed to hum at her touch.

The storm had ended, and a new one was forming between them.

She nodded her head to her last pieces of clothing. He got down onto his knees kissing the white cotton fabric. She wished they were lace, but in seconds his lips turned them into water anyways. His tongue reached out, circled around her. She moaned.

Nell yanked him up to her for another kiss. His hands felt soft against her back even with the scales. He went to kiss her bra.

The last burst of water.

He did not try to fondle her like other guys had, cupping her chest in their hands like they were searching for their manhood. No, he took her in his mouth, soft blue-green lips against the brown skin of her nipples. He nibbled lightly. It felt like he had four tongues kissing her along the inner part of her thighs.

His energy made her weak and as her legs gave out, she felt herself float to the ground. She realized his tail had held her and swayed her there. His tail swept down her back and disappeared in mist and pleasure.

“Bring it back,” Nell whispered into his hair as he came to kiss her lips. “It’s okay. I love all of you.”

He said no words. He did not need to speak. She felt his feelings, his fear.

She knew that his parents had told him never to leave the water, never interact, never love. They had left him there, alone. She felt this sadness deep within him, so similar to her own.

She brought their lips together, pink against blue-green. She saw a vision of herself, dressed in a hoodie and shorts, scratching at her legs and drawing blood. She saw the tears that she didn’t know she’d cried.

He cried then, water dripping between their connected lips. It was salty, but somehow hydrating. She brought her tongue down over his multi-colored skin. Her tongue sparkled in the moonlight. His skin glowed in unison. His slick tail caressed her scarred legs, layering them in soft gel. She could feel the wounded skin repairing itself.

Everywhere was in movement, everything was in motion. She blinked and they were there, but not.

His tail was longer than both of them combined. It wrapped around them like a blanket and hummed against their skin. She’d never known that her whole body could vibrate and feel pleasure.

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Vibrators are so overrated. He smiled at her, knowing her thoughts now too.

He learned for the first time what sex toys were, what fast food places were like. He lived all her moments. Felt all her fears, her pain. He took some of it for his own, lifting the burden.

You like? he thought So soft. Right there.

She gently caressed him. Then grabbed him harder. He moaned in her mind and she smiled.

No, no. Just you. You’re beautiful, like the emerald jewelry of forgotten queens.

But you, she thought. You should be happy, too.

She traced her tongue along the scales of his leg. She could feel his insecurities, his sickness within his own skin. He would give all his hundreds of years of life to have one year in skin like hers.

He cried again when she thought of him killing her for her skin. She kissed them away, told him thoughts were finicky. He kissed her back as she cried as well. She could feel the buzz of this encounter reaching the new plane she’d hoped it would.

She convinced him to let go. She took him in her mouth, looked into his eyes as they went under. Water surrounded them. Touching him, she could breathe and see clearly underwater.

They got lost in the depths of the sea.

•••• In the morning, she woke up alone, her most vulnerable areas covered by seaweed and the emeralds of forgotten queens. She sat up and glanced around. He was nowhere to be seen, but the seaweed stuck to her skin like clothes, and the inner parts of her wrists had sapphire blue scales on them.

She knew he’d left these for her. She glanced at the water and saw his mile-long shadow.

She reached out with her mind for his thoughts.

One last swim, she felt. I can leave now. You changed something.

She let out a breath. In the distance, she heard Casper and Celine yelling her name.

Loch emerged from the water, slightly more human than before, but still half-sea creature. He was still Loch Ness, but he was never a monster.

His blue green lips pressed against her forehead gently.

Will they see you? she thought.

He nodded and smiled.

But not all of me. Not like you.

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She looked into his eyes, deep green like no other man could possibly have.

She ran her hand down the side of his cheek. No more words were needed.

Beside them, the water winked.

Gen er ic Magazin e S pr in g 2014

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Author Biographies Janella Angeles

is a Writing, Literature, and Publishing major who

enjoys all forms of genre fiction. A diehard Harry Potter fan and a Disney fanatic, she credits her strange imagination to the wealth of different worlds, characters and fandoms that have all launched her love for storytelling. In her spare time, when she isn’t reading or writing, you can find her playing piano or admiring graffiti street art.

Janelle Caputo

is a WLP major. She likes to procrastinate, take naps

and buy owl paraphernalia. She’d like to thank the Green Line for constantly making her late for class, without which this story never would have come to be.

Olivia Billbrough

Olivia Billbrough is a senior Writing, Literature and

Publishing major. This is her second appearance in Generic. This work was part of a larger novella and was the first time that she had ever written dystopian. She has also published two comic stories in Artful Comics and one day hopes to write a trilogy that gets adapted into a feature length film. She is a proud Philadelphian and knows all the lyrics to R. Kelly’s “Remix to Ignition.”

"

Sarah (Butterfly) Dompkowski

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is a Film Production Major at

Emerson College, with a Fiction minor. Butterfly mostly writes fanfiction for a variety of fandoms, and “The Duel” is her first original content story in some time. She is excited to finally be taking part in some creative writing classes, and is very pleased that her story about orcs fighting to the death has gotten so much attention. Butterfly wishes that she had more time to read during the school year, as she fears a crushing death via the towering stack of unread books over her bed. Recently she had her spine ripped out on camera by her boyfriend for a scene in the film she wrote and directed, How The Camp Southpaw Killer Spent Valentine’s Day.

Meredith Mann

is a senior Writing, Literature, and Publishing major

with a Psychology and Philosophy double minor. She loves three things in this world: writing, elephants, and Dylan O’Brien.

Ashley Sousa

is a sophomore Writing, Literature & Publishing and

Marketing Communications major. Born and raised in California, she spent her fall semester interning at Simon & Schuster UK and living her dream of exploring London. She’s a little too interested in NBC’s Hannibal, and in her spare time she buys Harry Potter books, despite the fact that she already owns 273 copies. Her close friends and family are concerned.

Alanna Westman

volunteers at a local aquarium, learning the mating

habits of fish and other aquatic life. Her passion lies in exploring the unknown, and she’s loved her two years of writing at Emerson. She’s currently working on a collection of stories called “23 Shades of Aquamarine” about various people who find love with the help of a mysterious dolphin, and though she’s never ridden one before, she hopes one day she’ll get the chance.