Centennial Literary Magazine Spring 2019

“Untitled” - ANONYMOUS How would I describe someone whose details are so fine, whose pencil marks so thin And yet I have no magnifying glass to see them with?

Give me a magnifying glass so I can record every speck, every freckle, every detail That turns a simple canvas into a masterpiece A painting in every style from every period, Every brush sweeping every color How do I confess a feeling as deep as the rich ecosystem of your eyes, A color and a universe as old as time, speckled with creatures Who have evolved into the glory of the adventure you seek when you enter a room?

You have lived before time, your cheekbones the hands of an ever-winding clock The wrinkles about your smile like canyons formed by the erosion of heartbreak and failure Mountains made from your mistakes and valleys made from your successes Yet you are as young as the light in your laugh You are seconds past your birth, so much to learn and see and touch and wonder about How do I explain how wonderful you are when language comes to me like water out of a tap And yet the words are dry as bones and I taste dust when I try to speak?

You transcend language You are fireworks in my stomach, exploding with enough color to shame an artist’s palette There is enough inspiration in you to fill a museum, Enough to make Michaelangelo weep because he couldn’t fit such an immortal fire on his ceiling It’s so hard to write about a person who you can’t form words out of I become illiterate in your presence Teach me how to read you so I can keep your memories on my bookshelf Put a bookmark in our relationship I haven’t even read the prologue and I don’t think I could ever put you down

“Boxer’s Eulogy” - JYOTI SUNDARAM To our favorite carthorse, Boxer From Squealer and Leader Comrade Napoleon What can be said about our very own Boxer?

To you all, I am sure his death came as a shocker.

But I reassure you that he died in peace at the hospital.

Now listen here as I narrate his inspiring chronicle.

Comrades, it is quite clear that there was only one thought on his mind.

To ensure the well-being of Animal Farm from the harsh mankind And to do his part, he toiled away for days to build the big windmill.

Waking up an hour early to heave boulders up a steep hill.

Frankly, we all need to carry on the same mentality that Boxer had.

To work hard every day for the prosperity of the farm, now wouldn’t that make us glad?

If he were still alive today, he would move forward and trust Napoleon’s wit and knack.

As surely, comrades, we all don’t want Jones to come back.

Now, I advise you for a moment to take a look at Boxer and that traitor Snowball.

The difference between them is that only one longed for our downfall.

Boxer, however, always strived to do more to execute Napoleon’s ingenious plans.

Which only helped the farm progress, showing the world that hooves are better than hands.

The aspect about Boxer that we all admired was his loyalty.

The way he would trust your beloved leader, Comrade Napoleon, to take care of society.

In fact, it is quite stupid to consider that your leader would ever betray your interests at heart.

As this has been what Napoleon and Boxer have expressed from the very start.

As I conclude my speech, comrades, I have one more thing to say.

I, most of all, will remember Boxer fondly because of his attitude and discipline to obey.

I, myself, cried at his beside, holding on to him with all my might As I was mesmerized by his last words: I will work harder and Napoleon is always right.

“Starvation”​ - APOLLO HERNANDEZ Affection is a drug that comes in doses when I brush shoulders with the strangers in my schools hallways It rushes through my veins like race cars about to wreck Fighting to be the first to pass the finish line The track my endorphins race on starts at the base of my spine and twists and turns to my fingertips and back towards the nape of my neck and the top of my head When a friend greets me from behind with a pat on the back A green flag waves as though to taunt a bull And oxytocin races on a full tank of gas from the place my friend’s hand rested all the way around the track until a gasp leaves my lips Not from surprise But from the desperate plea hanging on my tongue for another pat on the back I thrive off of weighted blankets and high water pressure Because social interaction pains me so much That I have to simulate a hug I’m too scared to ask for I turn to stone on my living room couch Wrapped up in a blanket so heavy my fingers scream for circulation My body so hot I might as well have put myself in a crock pot But if I move a single inch, you could compare my tears to a crack in the Hoover Dam I shower to feel the glide of bubbles on my scalp Conditioner soaking into my roots As I mimic the scratch of a friend’s hand I have memorized since she first fixed my hair before a performance The water piercing my skin so hot I might as well melt And so sharp it feels like freshly sharpened pencils writing love letters on my spine I turn up the music in my headphones so loud Not to let everyone know how much I love Queens drummer But to feel the bass drum pounding inside my skull The guitar riffs increasing my heartbeat The lyrics sliding over my skin like lotion My withdrawl manifests itself in high fives every time you get a better grade than you expected Hugs every time we see each other Texting rather than calling because I have fallen in love with the vibration of my phone My symptoms are clothes too baggy to be stylish But comfortable enough to imagine someone else’s body in it Imprinting their hugs on their sleeves and their scent on their collar There is no cure for starvation You can eat until your belt threatens to explode But in a few hours In the middle of the night When food isn’t an option and you have to wait until convenient You will be hungry again

“Black Men, Where are they? A List.” - DARIUS KENNIE Dying from police Behind bars waiting for their freedom Black men killing each other just to prove a point Children being victims of shootings Six feet under STDs, Cancer, Diseases Robbing stores and people because they don’t have anything Getting decline from a job because he’s DaQuan compared to John Hiding from the police scared he’s going to be taken away from his child Selling drugs so he can have shoes on his baby Walking around with a gun doesn’t know when his life is going to be taken Teaching his kids their rights Am I better off not being here ?

“Questions to my white friends” - DARIUS KENNIE Why The Color black ?

Why do black men have to feel this way?

Why can’t the black man feel equal to everyone else?

Why do the black man have to be a monster?

Why do the black man have to feel safe to have a gun or be behind bars?

How come the black girls always have to be ghetto?

Why is black a dangerous color?

“Why Is My Freedom At A 50% Discount?”​ ​- DARIUS KENNIE White men knowing that we should be in a jail cell or 6 feet under Protest after protest and nothing is changing White men getting away with prison time but the black man can’t Showing white folks that we’re animals Black men still in slavery decades later and we call that “Modern Day Slavery“ Black people living in section 8 because that’s the only thing they have The white men taking away food stamps because the black man is making to much money The white folks getting more jobs because the color of their skin The black man not getting a job because he has a felony The black man that can’t walk down the street with his hoodie up Just the color black is a crime to the white man Black men getting judged because the way they dress.

“Negative Suffocation”​ ​- DARIUS KENNIE Black boys going to jail because school isn’t important The Education System made to fail black boys because being an educated Black Man is a threat to the White Man. Black boys seeing guns as toys, as trophies, as respect.

Black boys and men only having war on their mind.

Black boys showing off guns instead of showing off their report cards.

Black boys learning gang symbols instead of learning their multiplication.

Mothers losing their young kings left and right to gun violence and White Supremacy.

Black boys wanting to see who posted a fight instead of reading about their ancestors.

Black boys focusing on getting suspended instead of being student of the month.

Black children seeing nothing but negative.

“S.L.U.T” - KASANDRA KELLER Slut shame, that’s exactly what you do You do it so much, sometimes I feel as if I can’t even move Slut shame, yea that’s it The thing you do even if my clothes fit So yea let’s start from the beginning Let’s talk about the game that I’ll never once be winning Because it’s real funny and cool Yea the word slut makes you feel like you're drowning in a damn pool S, is for sneaking around hoping you’ll end up liking me L, is for lying just so I can be the person you’re wanting to see U, is for the utter despair I feel when I know you don’t love me, so I’ll just sit and grieve.

T, is for the time i spent wishing you wouldn’t leave So yea I guess I’m a slut I guess it’s just a word, I guess it won’t leave a cut But no you know the feeling The one you get when those words make you feel unwilling Unwilling to breathe, or even live right Or maybe the feeling where your stomach gets tight Because you know you’ll never be anything more When the word slut makes you feel like trash floating across the floor.

“999” - KASANDRA KELLER I’m not scared of love I’m just scared to love, ‘Cause my last left me cold like frozen in the snow, But I look at love and have all these questions, I look at you and get all these answers, You know I’m far from perfect, But I want you forever forever you stay on my mind like forever forever, The day your heart became my home, didn’t know what I’d do without you, And I’ll tell you you’re beautiful everyday I remind you, I want this for real, not a faker, I can’t go a day without you, is your love really true, But no you don’t love me, yeah, Why did I fall for you, I gave it all to you, I knew all people are the same Too much on my mind, Every heartbreak worse than the last I frown but I need you in my life, you don’t wanna look me in my eyes Ain't nothing like the feeling of uncertainty, the eeriness and silence You told me it was all my fault, you would have been perfect all alone Long gone, sorrow sadness next to me, you told me you’re in love with the old me I know I have a purpose but I don't see the purpose, I just lost you This is far as it goes, this is the end of the road, save the lucid dreams for another night I don’t know if it’s ‘cause my heart hurts or if I’m insecure I'm sad inside, but I know it's for the best right?

Trust me, Imma be fine.

“A Poem with No Name” - KASANDRA KELLER I remember how cold your hands used to be How your eyes would gaze right through me But I will never get to touch those cold hands again I will never be able to say those three words that meant so much to me Now I sit mute, words don’t exist in this mouth of mine I watch water run down my cheek I miss you, yet it hasn’t even been a week I watched the message send, only for it to not be received I listen as the tone dial slowly goes bleak, You have reached the voicemail of, beep Guess I’ll leave a message, sometimes I wish you left me one I let the phone ring again, pick up I say I’m so sick and tired of these games you play Watching as the pictures we took finally have no meaning Or the linger of your cologne on my hoodie fades away I watch as you finally move on while I’m still stuck waiting I guess that’s it though.

I’ll just be left here bleeding

“Going Deaf” - DEANNA JANE There’s a few things I know.

Basic arithmetic, How the Krebs Cycle works, And that I’m going deaf.

There’s something magical about losing your hearing over time.

By magical, I mean annoying.

Of course there are the moments when you’re so lost in thought So lost that all you see are the surroundings, not the annoying noises that go along with them.

The cars honking on the road are silenced, The children scream crying on the bus turn to white noise, Talking with your hands is so much more relaxing than with your mouth.

The feeling of resting in perfect silence on a quiet morning, When the birds are supposed to be chirping, When bacon is supposed to be sizzling on the grill, When lawns are supposed to be mowed, All that stands is nothing but silence.

Then, there are the annoying parts.

Where you slowly become less able to hear the important things.

Like the teacher talking to a student on the other side of the room, If it doesn’t pertain to me, then it’s no big deal.

The music you love so much gets quieter and quieter, To the point where it has to be blasting in order to be coherent.

But all of that can be trivial.

Unimportant.

That is, until you begin to forget what your best friend’s voice sounds like, Only focusing on the movements of their hands and lips, Along with any sounds you can muster to understand.

Of course, though, like many important things, My deafness goes undiagnosed.

Despite the fact I beg my parents to get me help for one of the most important senses, They refuse to believe me.

I might be deaf, but it’s not as bad as my friend, who is obviously more deaf than I am.

My coaches don’t believe me, of course, How could a good athlete be going deaf? It’s blasphemy in their eyes.

Of course, it’s a sudden thing for them.

As it was for me.

But they can’t hear through my ears, How the white noise pounds at my head until I can’t take it anymore, How awful it can be to hear a ringing, Or feel a sharp pain, And know that your ability to hear the man you love laughing has just gone down again.

It’s asymptotic, just as many things are.

Hyperbolas, The universe, My eardrums.

There’s always that fear that someday I will only be able to barely comprehend.

A rocket jet will sound like a whisper, An airhorn like a distant whistle, The screams of my coaches as I swim will drown into the water that floods my ears.

There’s a few things I know.

Basic arithmetic, How the Krebs Cycle works, And that I’m going deaf.

With nobody here to believe me.

“Bayara” - BAYARA MACDONALD B​ is for bright, you outshine the sun.

A ​is for achiever, intelligent one.

Y ​is for yielding, a generous soul.

A ​is for appesling, a heart of gold.

R ​is for remarkable, a brilliant mind.

A ​is for angel, so caring and king.

Bayara, so precious and loved.

“Love First” - JAXTON AWARD Love at first sight-- do I believe?

Of course.

Let me tell you what I mean.

First, understand “in love” and simply loving are two entirely different things.

“In love” is what most people think of when they think of love at first sight: it’s seeing someone and knowing they’re the ​one for you, for sure, forever.

That, I’ll tell you, is rather improbable.

But simply loving at first sight is something else, something entirely possible: it’s seeing someone and knowing they’re some​one-- someone with their own mind, their own heart, and their own soul.

Knowing they could become the one, anyone, to you, for you.

The perfect example of this: a mother holding her newly born child, their first glance at one another.

Instant love.

They know nothing of each other-- their past mistakes or future troubles-- yet they immediately love because of what they do know: everything they could be to each other.

The mother sees only the beauty her child could be-- the perfection, the best pieces of her with none of the worst, the bundle of pure joy and the one that will call her “Home”.

The child sees only that home the mother could be-- the protection, the role model they’ll hope to follow, The one that will never judge them and always love them first.

The two do not think of-- do not acknowledge the thought of-- the potential of imperfection.

The risk of the mother’s drinking becoming an addiction greater than the addiction of her child’s laughter.

The risk of the child’s anger becoming easier to turn to than their mother’s embrace.

The mother and the child think only of the potentially great, and so they instantly love.

Our society has forgotten how to do this-- how to see someone and see potential and love first.

Love first what they could be.

Love first what they may be.

Love first everything before hating anything.

“Again” - ELLIE PLEMONS You say “I’m never doing this again.”

“I can’t put myself through this one more time.”

But you will.

You will get back up.

Love again.

Feel again.

Get excited again.

Trust again.

And get hurt again.

But please, Try again, try again, try again. Until you find it.

Find the love you deserve.

Find the love that feels like all the bricks are being lifted off your shoulders one day at a time.

Find the love that is peaceful.

Find the love that is patient.

Find the love that is kind.

Find the love that is unexpected because that is always the best kind.

Find the place that you stand in where loving Isn’t scary anymore. Where love isn’t Unimaginable out out of fear of getting hurt.

Where thinking about love is not a pain in your Stomach or a weight you feel in your chest.

Find the love that is communication and trust.

Find the love that is not giddiness when you hear their name But tough conversations and nights spent arguing but easily making up after.

Find love that is not tiring but makes you Feel weightless when you need it most.

You are going to hurt and hurt and hurt until you find this love.

Place yourself and get placed into situations that could be avoided.

You will try and cry until you get back to square one. Afraid to love again, to feel again, get excited again, trust again, and get hurt again.

But please, from the bottom of my own broken heart, When yours has healed Try again.

“The Power of 3” - LAURA BELLERIEVE First things first I have no idea what I’m doing Second, My sock has fallen down in my shoe And third, I’m obsessed with the number 3.

Three things are always going wrong Acne Socks Hair Three more miles until I can stop the car.

Sixes and Nines don’t do anything for me, Except allow a loophole when I need more or less tabs open on my computer screen I crack three knuckles And scratch my head three times The rule of three Applies to me.

Three things are always going right 93% Red, Yellow, and Blue Three piece suits on Joseph Gordon Levitt JOSEPH GORDON LEVITT Chad Michael Murray Three.

Tricycles are more steady with three wheels, Two blind mice just sounds dumb It’s a three-legged race, To get third place All good things come in threes.

But first things first, I have no idea what I’m doing

“From a Fourth Grader” - RACHEL SCHREIBER So I’m standing in front of my closet I’ve got a robe around my torso and a towel on my head And I’m ready.

Ready to spend the next five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes standing in front of my closet.

Because a fourth grader told me to.

Her words ring in my head, “You don't try very hard when you get dressed for school do you,” I stand and stare at the body that has gotten dressed on its own almost every day of the last twelve years I may not have tried hard all of those days but I tried Because trying, Even on the hardest days, Was honestly better than not trying at all.

So ten minutes later I’m still standing in front of my closet.

The mirror shows the marks and the strawberries and all the peanut butter eaten over time The onion and chive skin is not nearly as appealing when not on an asiago bagel.

Fifteen, twenty minutes later and I need to be out the door.

So no, little fourth grader, I don’t try very hard.

I try too hard.

So I apologize to my strawberry legs as I cover them in black or blue.

Say goodbye to the stretch marks and the scars as I pull on the shirt without definition And tell the peanut butter stomach, and onion and chive skin that I’ll be back tomorrow.

But today I’m just going to try to have a good day.

“Bread” - RACHEL SCHREIBER Kissing him tasted of stale bread Not of passion or of happiness Stale bread Like a bag of chips left out overnight.

Big mistake I knew that 30 minutes away was a boy I cared for Who might have cared for me back But oh how easy it was to forget about him and pretend.

Pretend that I cared about stale bread.

I cared about his issues and his little kid problems But all I really wanted was the boy 30 minutes away To care about mine.

We’d had the passion And the happiness.

But that all went away with a kiss.

Not between him and me, Not between me and stale bread.

Between the boy 30 minutes away and his last girl.

We cried as he told me the truth, I cried as I forgave him.

But it was gone.

The months of happiness and passion, Gone with the trust and the honesty.

So I pretended to care about the stale bread.

To forget about the loss, To pretend that someone actually cared.

Kissing stale bread makes your whole mouth dry.

But so does losing the one you love To the one whom he hated the most.

So I’ll refresh the bread, Or maybe buy some new, To keep from becoming dry, stale bread.

“Forgive Me” - LEIA BARTON

Forgive me for who I am.

Forgive me for I can not breathe Forgive me for I can not speak.

For my body can not move.

Forgive me for needle like swords enter my heart.

Causing an unspeakable pain.

A pain so ruthless... It's unbearable.

So please forgive me.

“Breathe” - LEIA BARTON Breathe Ever wonder how it would feel to be able to breathe?

To not feel like the world is on your chest?

Hard to breathe.

Constant uncertainty?

It's easy to say keep going.

It's easy to say you matter.

But when your mind is at constant war with it's shelf, Well that's just easier said than done.

Especially with all the uncertainty.

“As I Lay” - LEIA BARTON On my back, laying on the tables.

I stare up at the ceiling.

The lights are blinding.

I fade into myself.

Getting a weird sense of calm.

I breathe.

In and out, as if I've never breathed... *takes a breathe*... before.

My mind goes blank.

And In that moment only I exist.

“Beauty of the Grass” - ANUSHA MUTHEKEPALLI The beauty of the grass It lies within its soul The dawn awakens And the sun rises From last night’s storm, The dew drops appear Renewing the world form the devil’s touch The dew drops are the accent of the grass It is as if angels have spoken The breeze blows brightly into the misty fog As the sun fully rises, The dew drops shimmer They are the beauty of the grass As pretty as it may seem, It is soon to be evaporated.

“309” - ANONYMOUS Click.

A run down apartment complex in the slums of New York City. The lights are all out. Some trash flies by with the wind. A newspaper reads 1923.

Click.

A rusty concrete stairwell, leading up into the bowels of the complex. There, strange stains on the floor, a garbage bag clogging up a hole, and a rotten banana peel lies in a corner.

Click.

The door to room 309 opens slowly. Only the light from the hall illuminates the sorry sight. The carpet, once a pristine white, is a moldy yellow. The plaster on the walls is peeling. The door to the closet can’t close all the way. The closet is full of old suits and ratty ties. A pair of once nice shoes sits in a box in the back.

Click.

In the bed lies a man. The man had been asleep for 6 hours. There’s no worry of waking him now though. The sheets are red and a terrible smell still hangs in the air. Not for much longer now.

Splish.

Click.

“Three Poems” - ANONYMOUS #1 Walking home is a crime.

Champaign is down the drain - everyone is brainwashed by guns.

Why fight when you’re living life?

Why give up when you have to cry, why stop living when you have success, - will you stop breathing any less?

How many more have death?

Open your eyes.

Why do we have to fight to survive?

We all have to hide ¨BOOM BOOM¨ #2 Walking in Centennial is a threat Smiling, laughing, being you is never enough Words hurt words hurt , let's try to be enough Straight A´ś not enough ,giving up always a choice Walking out never be proud, how would you go Stating facts is a threat, being you is less. #3 Mom be proud be happy Mommy I miss you Why you not here when I need you?

I'm drowning thinking of you. I'm afraid to keep loving you Deep down I keep bugging you Come back, Mom, come back Crying and crying Still not here So much fear I feel nothing isn't it clear, come back I need you

PROLOGUE - ELIZABETH MERRIFEILD My entire body shakes, darkness seeping in through my eyes and into my blood, as if fighting to take control of my motions. Even my jaw trembles, making my teeth chatter in spite of the suffocating heat. I don’t know where I am or what I’m doing, only that my name is Raven Claudette Grey and it is my 15th birthday.

My left pinky is numb, and my hands are slick with a liquid too drippy and hot to be sweat.

I pray that it’s not blood, but my hopes are not high.

A tough rope digs into my wrists, binding them behind my back firmly, but the skin underneath the rope is wet enough for me to rotate my hands in their restraints.

My ankles are in a similar predicament, the small splinters from the rope poking into my skin. Again, the ropes are snug but not suffocatingly so.

My entire body aches, intense soreness penetrating every muscle in my being, making me feel weak.

Helpless.

Soreness in one place always felt like progress to me, making the pain easy to cope with.

But this sensation is something else entirely. It’s a plea, deeper than my muscles, screaming for me to surrender. It isn’t empowering, and it doesn’t inspire me. It beats me down.

Standing hurts, but any movement I make hurts infinitely worse so I don’t dare shift positions.

Instead, I let exactly 3 tears of sheer terror and desperation ooze from my eyes, scurrying down to my neck where they rest, my hands in no position to wipe them away.

Then I summon my inner Big Girl Voice, and tell myself to pull it together. ​What do I know?

I know that it’s hot and stuffy here, and it’s the middle of January so i can’t be in a breeze way. The central hallways connecting our bunkers always have extraordinarily strong winds. In the summer it’s not terrible but in the winter the biting cold has people going out of their way to avoid them.

I also know that it’s pitch dark, which means that however I got here is either also dark or sealed shut. There are no windows.

I hum a note, in the middle of my range. The sound is absorbed almost immediately, choked by the walls. That must mean I’m in a small space, and the walls are made of something that absorbs sound, so should I accidentally run into one I have a higher chance of surviving.

I take a deep breath, in through my nose. I smell moldy, stale air, as well a cold, metallic whiff. I breathe again. There’s also a scent that would remind me of a barbeque if something weren’t so incredibly disturbing about it. The smell itself is not a bad smell, but it resonates in my achy bones, as if to shout ​get as far away as you can!

I blink, just to make sure my eyes are open. They are. The silence is almost as oppressive as the darkness, triggering some primal instinct in me to ​get the hell out.

I reassess my ankle bond situation, desperation egging my heart to beat faster and faster and faster. Sweat slicks my hairline, my tongue going completely dry. My eyes open wider and wider, searching, ​begging, ​for any sign of light.

All I can see is a void, tugging at my sanity playfully, as if to taunt me.

It only makes me more determined to escape.

I start to get light headed, probably because my lungs are only capable of taking short, staccato fragments of breaths at the moment. I hadn’t realized just how panicky my breathing had gotten.

My inner Big Girl Voice comes back to force them to function properly. This is not the time for a

meltdown.

What do I know? ​The question comes back, helping me understand my situation. It never fails to give me somewhere to start, whether the situation is studying for a test, or making a huge decision. Or escaping from a void dungeon of death. Because those situations have so much in common.

It does raise the question, though, of how ​did I​ get down here? Where did I come from? It’s like my short term memory has been stolen, muddled and murky. It’s not missing time, necessarily, because the section I’m missing isn’t a clean cut. I have no idea what the last thing I remember is, meaning I don’t know the last place I was or the people I was with.

I have no idea who is responsible.

This thought spikes terror in my heart, pumping more adrenalin into my veins. Reminding me of how little I truly know about my situation.

My ankles sting with all the fury of hellfire bottled as I wiggle them in their restraints. I grit my teeth, refusing to let that stop me from finding a way out. After much tugging, swearing, chafing and bleeding, I manage to maneuver one of my heels out.

My feet are bare and the ground offers little traction, especially because I appear to be standing in a miniature lake of my own blood. My foot slides on the ground, glossing over the surface and flinging me off balance.

I’m airborne.

And I’ve left my stomach behind. In its place is hot, hot heat spurring me to ​get out! Get out! Get out! Run as far as you can!

Seconds pass like hours as I go down, down, down.

It’s like a dream as I watch my body float towards the ground. I can see my shoulders strain, and hear the wet ​pop ​of a dislocation. I watch my feet flutter up into the air, before drifting back down to the ground. I hear the blood splash on the impact.

I see my elbows bent behind my back, resting on the floor. I feel the warm wetness soak into my clothes, staining not only the scratchy cotton fabric but my memories.

The most impactful sight, though, is my head as it touches down on the concrete after a long and dangerous flight. The landing is rough, bouncy, and involves far too much blood.

My eyes bulge in their sockets.

My breaths shorten, shallowing, like the tide rolling out at the beach.

I’m so peaceful as I lay there, breaking, slipping, in a pool of my own blood.

The last sound to grace my ears is my own haggard breathing, and slow, dragging footsteps drawing nearer and nearer to my final resting place.

“Alex and the House and the People that Live in It” - ISABEL SCOTT On the days that the house was especially wild, which was many, Alex silently gave thanks that her mother had decided to get with a dark mage. Being a dark mage’s daughter had its perks. No one ever noticed her, which was nice. She’d been born with the ability to use dark magic, which she’d only found out about after shattering nine windows during a screaming match with one of her sisters.

After that incident, there were only four completely intact windows. And of course, like anything with the house, that number was subject to change. It was better to just assume that all the windows were broken -- they would be at some point, so what was the use in trying to keep track?

No point in trying to patch them up, though Caesar (the oldest) did try, bless him, but they broke almost as soon as he turned his back. But he was the son of a paladin, so of course he had to try.

It was the noble thing to do.

Eventually, he was going to give up. Give up trying to fix the shattered windows, the sagging ceilings, the rotting walls, the dented door, the lopsided furniture, and the add-ons that kept getting tacked onto the house with every new arrival.

Her “parents” had to give up eventually, right? There were only so many illegitimate kids you could have. There were only so many nobles and paladins and clerics and shopkeepers and villagers and soldiers and officers and generals you could hook up with before someone caught on to you.

And yet, she was proven wrong and wrong again as new children came in droves to the weary house. Window shutters hanging off their hinges, half of the upstairs nearly completely collapsed, kids sleeping on floors and couches with half the stuffing pulled out of them, roof tiles missing in large patches -- and yet, with every knock on the door, the house heaved a sigh and opened its doors to the next bastard that would live within its walls.

She didn’t bother keeping track of the new arrivals. She’d given up a long, long time ago, much later than she should’ve. She stopped after Romilly, the son of a minor noble. That was almost ten years ago, and since then, the amount of kids in the house had almost doubled.

And sure, she might’ve been a bastard like the rest of them, but at least she’d been born in the house and didn’t have to come asking for room like some sort of chump. She had her room, a tiny closet on the semi-stable second floor that went unnoticed, much like her. She’d curl up in there almost every night, nestled between a broom and two boxes stacked on top of each other, and listen to the sounds of kids yelling, the house creaking, the roof tiles above her head shifting precariously.

She’d close her eyes and shuffle her deck of cards, tried to guess which card she’d pick off the top, even though she was usually wrong. She’d take the sewing she’d been working on off the top box and thread the needle in and out of the fabric to the rhythm of the footsteps below until she eventually drifted off to sleep, right in the middle of a stitch.

On the quiet nights, which were few, she’d lay in her closet and wish that her mother hadn’t gotten with anyone, but there wasn’t much she could do about it now.

So she didn’t bother.

There was one thing that made life in the house at least bearable. Her younger sister Alouette, the daughter of a local shopkeeper’s wife. Nothing special, no magical powers or insane physical strength -- she’d shown up at the house without a name, just a ratty little girl with black hair, wearing an apron over a dress, looking for her father.

He was supposed to be here, she said. That’s what her mother had said, go to the big house, crumbly house, and you’ll find your father. I can’t keep you here anymore. You’ll ruin my marriage.

She was four and had been living in a small shed, had stumbled her way to the house in three days, sleeping in bushes when night fell. Knocked on the door, and with a sigh, the house let in the plain little shed girl with no name, the unfortunate product of her father’s latest conquest. She chose the name “Alouette” after hearing a song in town with the name in the lyrics, thought it was the most beautiful word she’d ever heard.

Alouette, she declared on the third day she was there.

My name is Alouette.

This was all when Alex was still keeping track of the kids that showed up to the house. She’d watched Alouette walk up the dirt path to the house, knock on the door with all the confidence a four-year-old could hold inside them, heard over the daily buzzing of kids that this particular girl was looking for her father.

No one wanted to tell her the truth.

So Alex did. Alex did, when Alouette found her and cornered her on the stairwell and demanded, pointing a finger at Alex to tell her where her father was. Alex did, when she shrugged and said that he wouldn’t be back for another year at the least, that he didn’t really care that she was alive.

That he didn’t even know. That she shouldn’t waste time worrying about it.

Alouette stared in silence, then laughed at her and stormed off.

She didn’t see much of Alouette after that, not until Alouette found Alex’s bedroom closet on the second floor and started swinging open the door every night. Swung open the door, scaring Alex into dropping her playing cards or pricking herself with a sewing needle. Swung open the door and proclaimed that Alex was wrong, Alex was a liar, she’d find her father. She’d find her father without any help at all.

Good for you, Alex always said.

But I’m not wrong.

And Alouette would huff and stamp her feet and slam the door and storm off down the hall and

down the stairs, until her footsteps were lost in the sound of the first floor. And Alex would shrug and sigh and keep shuffling, keep sewing, the sound of a slamming door ringing in her ears for the rest of the night.

One night, Alouette didn’t slam the door. One night, Alouette climbed into the closet and sat on one of the boxes. One night, Alouette asked Alex to teach her how to shuffle cards, how to sew a stitch, how to lie through her teeth with a winning smile on her face. How to slip things out of people’s pockets when they weren’t looking. How to tell a fortune that you’d get paid good money for.

Why do you think I know how to do this? Alex asked that night.

Because I’ve followed you into town, Alouette said that night. I’ve seen you trick and lie and scam people and get away without a scratch. I’ve seen you steal food from our siblings from right under their noses and cause a couple to break up because of a fortune you gave them.

One night, Alex sighed and turned herself towards the boxes. One night, Alex sat up straight and rested her elbows on the boxes. One night, Alex told Alouette to keep her hands loose and thumbs tight, to go in and out and in and out through a scrap of fabric, to not twitch or fidget or break eye contact. One night, Alex told Alouette to go fast, go for something light, something that won’t be missed in the moment, go for distraction. One night, Alex told Alouette to be confident, believe in what she was saying, because if you didn’t, no one else would.

One night, Alouette fell asleep on top of a box.

Each night, Alouette would open the door. Each night, Alouette would shuffle cards, stitch fabric, tell Alex she was fine with a winning smile on her face. Each night, Alouette would make off with a scrap of thread or a playing card she returned the next day. Each night, Alouette told Alex that she was going to find her father.

Each night, Alex said good for you.

But I’m not wrong.

One night, Alouette didn’t show up. One night, Alex shuffled her cards alone, sewed alone, assured herself Alouette would come back the next night with a winning smile on her face. One night, Alex made sure that she had all of her cards -- and she did, all except the queen of hearts.

One night, Alex didn’t say anything. One night, Alex made a small tally mark on the wall of the closet, a little line of white chalk she’d stolen from a store in town.

One night, Alex looked around and saw the white tallies that littered the walls. One night, Alex had no chalk left to make another tally.

One night, Alex realized that Alouette was gone.

Maybe it was time for her to leave, too.

“Comfortable Suspicion” - TAYLOR HALE

The scene plays out with a steady rhythm as she walks towards the grey van that has just pulled up out front. Fading pink hair clearly visible in the night, trailing a long, shiny, black bag behind her. My mom’s boyfriend and I watch this transaction for the fourth time this month through our living room window. Silent.

Laboring our breath just in case they could hear us. After moving into our new house on the corner of happiness and suspicion, all of our new neighbors seem to make us anxious. We’ve become cautious of our surroundings all of a sudden, so invested in the lives of others because they keep to themselves. We were used to very open neighborhoods, where people wear their lives on their shingles and siding, in their front yard, in their driveway.

All an open display. But after our recent “relocation” we’ve noticed the lack of openness that our neighbors have.

To us, this neighborhood, this house, it was all an upgrade, going from a one story to two, one to one and a half bath, three bedrooms and several spare rooms (which we saw fit to use as bedrooms as well so that my sister and I could relive the then distant memory of having our own rooms). In the past we’ve always had a close knit community, everyone knew each other well, and no one had a bad vibe. But this shift to a new lifestyle, slightly wealthier than we once were, has caused us to distrust our new peers.

“They’re obviously hiding something...” my mom’s boyfriend states, still spying on ‘sweet ol’ Lynn’ across the street.

“Yeah, obviously.” I replied. Within the first few months we had created bizarre scenarios regarding those who lived around us. Lynn (who happens to be an avid day drinker) and her silent roommate, both perhaps in their seventies, showed signs of cannibalism. Joe and his wife, parents of one, might be involved in a mafia or at least some form of secret gang. Leo along with his sweet cocker spaniel Maggie, are perhaps the local druggies. Everyone was suspicious of something terrible.

At first, I too was on board with all of the conspiracy theories. We were in foreign territory, and therefore it seemed clear to me that something had to be wrong with it. But as we settled in, further and further to the comfort level of our home, the term ‘new’ slowly being stripped away from the description, I began to see that our neighbors weren’t the outliers, we were. We had never lived in a place so dear to us. Everything around us was a symbol of moving up a rung on the social ladder, after plateauing our whole lives. The distress of our status within our family was almost like a pet, everyone’s responsibility and fed everyday. A working mother, capabilities constantly undermined due to her age and status. An ex-military, stand-in of a father on permanent medical leave. Two biracial teenagers struggling to get a job because of a society with lingering racism. We lived everyday in stress, whether it was acknowledged or not. So of course a new house and neighborhood made us happy, but apparently we were too happy.

So much effort was put into the invasion of the neighborhood’s personal lives. Half hours spent in front of the living room window, devoted to analyzing our neighbors. Molding these false personalities in our minds and sharing them among ourselves. Our comfort of being in a lower class was taken away as we moved up and out, so we longed for something to make us uneasy again. To keep that hold on the familiar, we villainized our surroundings. An old woman taking out her garbage was transformed into a cannibal. A classic suburban father and his wife were given this mask of violence and mystery. And a seemingly energetic middle-aged man was thought to be on drugs 24/7. What we thought to be strange and unusual, wasn’t.

Quickly twisted into a scary bedtime story we told ourselves to help us sleep at night.

“Untitled” - FOX Lucky had just arrived on the campus of his dream college. He looked at the entrance in awe. The gate had the school emblem on it, and the pillars that connected to the gate had statues on top of them. On the left pillar, a statue of a swordswoman pointed her sword towards the sky. On the right pillar, a statue of a bulky man with a shield raised skyward. Lucky grabbed his stuff from the taxi’s trunk and ran up to the gate. A robotic voice came from the pillar on the right. “​Please present your student ID Card,”​ the voice demanded. A slot opened up beneath the speaker, and he put his ID card into the slot. Lucky heard a buzz as the gate opens. Lucky, excited for his new college, goes through the gate gleefully, almost skipping. Lucky had been going down the path until he accidentally tripped and dropped his belongings, including his wallet. His wallet had opened and Lucky saw that his ID wasn’t in its place.

“Shoot! I must’ve left it at the entrance!” Lucky hurries back to the gate. When Lucky arrives at the gate, he notices an elven young adult at the ID insert slot, holding Lucky’s ID Card. The young man seemed to be studying the card.

“Oh hey uh… Excuse me, but that’s my ID your holding, could I get that back?” Lucky asks, coming up to the young man. The Elven man was the same height as Lucky, though he was much thinner. He also seemed to be a bit younger than Lucky. The elven man also had very unkempt long hair, as if he had just gotten out of bed.

He also had a lot more luggage than Lucky.

“Hm? Oh sure thing…” He checks the ID card. “Logan.” The elven man then tosses Lucky his ID card.

“So, you’re a freshman, huh?” The man asks, collecting some of his luggage. “It just so happens that I am also a Freshman. I hope to meet you again soon. You fascinate me. Anyway, I must go. Goodbye, Logan.” He then pushes a button on his watch and his luggage starts to float. He walks past Lucky, with his mountain of luggage following behind, giving Lucky a nonchalant wave, then disappears into a ball of light and heads down the path.

Lucky, a little shocked from the display he just witnessed, tries to break down what he just saw. Once Lucky gives up on trying to dismantle that scene, he decides to head down the path to get to the campus square, thinking about what that elven man said, how Lucky fascinates him.

Eventually, Lucky arrives at the campus square, where a ton of people have collected. There were guides for people new to the college and who needed a tour of the place. Then there were a bunch of tables that had a club at each table. Then there was the dean of the college talking with many students, something about the incoming freshmen and how they had a job to help them. Lucky decided to jump in a tour group to learn about this place.

“Hello everyone. I am Liz, and I will be showing you around the campus. Please, if at any point you have a question, ask and I will try to the best of my abilities to answer it.” Liz, a human with dragon bits and features, tells the group. After a couple of joke questions, Liz takes the group of people to the college’s most prized feature, their battle arena. This college isn’t a traditional college, this college teaches their students how to be mercenaries. “This here is our famous battle arena. This battle arena will be your most important location because everyone’s class will be going here multiple times per quarter. No questions will be taken about the arena currently. Your professors will explain everything.” Lucky looked at the huge stadium with awe. Liz then takes the group to the next location. While walking to the next location, Lucky starts a conversation with the orc next to him.

“Hey! Are you excited to go into that arena?” Lucky excitedly asked the orc. The orc looked a little uncomfortable.

“Uh… yeah, sure thing.” The orc said, then walking a bit distant from Lucky, avoiding the conversation.

Lucky felt a little hurt about that interaction but then quickly shook it off when the group arrived at the next location.

“This is where you all will have your classes.” Liz says, flying up into the air to grab people's attention.

“Tomorrow, please come straight here in the morning. The dean would like to give you all a talk about this place.” Liz then descends and leads to the group to a bunch of lesser places, such as the Library, cafeteria and other activities and places. Liz then finishes the tour by leading everyone to the dorms. “This is where we will register where you will be living while you are here. So now, I will leave you to registering for your dorms. All you have to do is step here and it will give you a room.” Liz then leaves and the group disperses to go do their own things. Lucky decides that he wants to drop off his stuff in his room so he steps on the panel and two tiny robots come from the ceiling and scan him. Once their done scanning Lucky, they click together and speak.

“Logan Wolfhelm, Age: 22, Species: Half Lycanthrope Half Human, Your dorm room is number 753, North West Building. It is on the 5th floor.” ​ The robot says. “​ Please insert your ID Card.” ​ Lucky puts his card into the Robot and in a couple of seconds it pops it back out. The card now has a ring and a key attached to it. Lucky takes the card and heads to the North west building and heads up to his room. When Lucky enters the room he’s greeted by… the young elven man from before.

“Hey there! I guess we’re roommates.” Lucky said, entering the room and dropping his stuff on the couch.

“Hm? Oh, you’re the husky man from before. Logan, was it?” the man asked as he came up to Lucky.

“Well that’s my actual name, I go by Lucky.” Lucky offered his hand for a hand shake, a little embarrassed about the young man describing him as husky.

“Ah, Lucky. I’ll remember that. My name is Levin.” Levin looks Lucky up and down and then returns Lucky’s hand shake. “I have already claimed my room and unpacked, so would you like me to help you unpack?” Levin asks.

“Oh yeah, that would be great!” Lucky and Levin start unpacking Lucky’s stuff. “So what was up with the floating luggage and ball of light stuff back at the gate earlier?”

“Hm? Oh right. Those were my inventions. I invent machines that help people in a variety of situations.” Levin said, using one of those inventions to float Lucky’s hygiene items to the bathroom.

“Really? You made those? That’s very impressive! By the way, how old are you?” Lucky is surprised that Levin made those items himself.

“19. Surprising I know. Anyway, let me just…” Levin snaps his fingers and all of Lucky’s belongings go to where they’re supposed to go.

“Woah. That was awesome! How’d you do that?” Lucky asks with a look of pure wonder on what Levin just did.

“Oh just used my invention to finish this up. So, Lucky, wanna go-” Before Levin could finish his sentence, his phone was ringing. Levin lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s my parents. This is gonna be a bit.”

“Oh dang, should I give you some alone time?”

“Yeah, please do.”

“No problem! I’ll see you later!” With that, Lucky leaves the dorm and goes back to the campus square to check out the clubs. When Lucky got to the tables, it was getting close to sunset so there were fewer people in the square. Lucky then started to look at the clubs. There were the basic ones such as Art Club, Chess Club, and lots of other basic ones. Suddenly, Someone had jumped onto Lucky’s back. Lucky looked on his back to see a human female clinging onto him.

“Sup Lucky. Missed me, big guy?”

“Jax!” Jax got off of Lucky and then got a big bear hug from Lucky “Gods, is it great to see you!”

“Lucky, Can’t breath.” Jax said, gasping for air.

“Oh! Sorry Jax!” Lucky loosened his hug enough to let Jax breath. After Jax caught her breath, Lucky set Jax down. “What are you doing here? I thought you decided to go into the medical field?”

“Well I did and I already graduated, and being a normal doctor is hella boring. I decided to be a battle medic, so here I am.”

“Well that’s great!” Lucky was so happy to see Jax. You see, Lucky and Jax have been each other’s best friends ever since freshman year of high school. When they graduated, Jax went on to college while Lucky stayed home to help out with taking care of his mom.

“So big guy, wanna go grab a bite and catch up?”

“Hell yeah! I wanna know about everything that you’ve been up to! Also, I gotta know how the transition has been.” Lucky and Jax both head off campus and head downtown.

“The Girl Who Swallowed Her Jewels” - MAXWELL BENNETT

Once when the girl was very young, her Bubbe, her father’s mother, told her how her great grandmother swallowed all her jewelry as the Nazis came for her. How it was better to hide her treasures in her body rather than let them be stolen along with her humanity.

The girl listened with fascination, though she never truly understood stories like these, and asked about it again hours later, running to Bubbe in her chair.

“Did she get the jewels back again after she swallowed them?” She asked, her four-year-old mind unable to find an answer. “Did they stay in her tummy forever?”

Bubbe smiled the way that Bubbe's everywhere smile at questions like this. She held the girl's cheek in her hand and said, “Don't you worry about that, Julian.”​ A ​ nd that was that.

Julian​.

A boy's name.

She w ​ as​ a boy, after all.

Everyone said so, so it must have been true.

And boys did not wear dresses, and boys did not play with dolls, and boys did not cry so much, even when they were very tired, even when the scrape on their knee was the worst they'd ever felt, so sometimes she thought she would rather not be a boy at all, but that would never be allowed. All she could do was imagine.

Only when she visited her cousin, the daughter of her mother's sister, whose name was Young-Hee but who everyone called Angela and who knew nothing of swallowing jewels, could the girl touch girlhood. When Angela brought out all her toys, her dress-up clothes and play makeup, and made the girl into a doll of her own, her J​ ulia, i​ n sparkled fabric and blue eyeshadow.

And Mommy would come to get her in the evening and laugh and laugh, “Julian, what did she do to you?” And wipe all the pretty colors from her face.

Once she stole a necklace from Angela's room.

She didn't mean to take it, but she put it in her pocket when no one was looking, and when she got home she found it was still there, so she supposed it was hers now.

It was a locket, actually, designed like something out of ​Sailor Moon, a​ nd she sat on the floor and played with the latch, open and closed and open and closed, and the TV was on, and Mommy was cooking in the kitchen, telling a story, speaking big words the girl did not understand.

Something about a woman who looked like a man.

And a boy in the cartoons wore a dress to vicious laughter.

“What do you have?” Mommy asked suddenly from the doorway, soup simmering still in the pot behind her.

The girl closed her hands tight around the locket, hoping it couldn't be seen.

“Is it something of Angela's?” Mommy went on, stepping closer and holding out her hand. “We don't need you playing with that.”

The girl shook her head and didn't know why.

“Julian, please,” Mommy said, impatient as she always was, one more step.

And before she could touch her the girl stuffed the locket into her mouth, and swallowed.

“The Lost Boys” - KASSANDRA KELLER It was 12 am when Wendy was first startled by the noise. The sickening, horrid noise. Now it’s 4 am, and Wendy remains in the same position. Not moving, trying as hard as she can to not breathe or make any relative noises. All she can hear is the noise. ​Something, something was there, she thought. No, she didn’t think something was there, she ​knew something was there. She could feel it watch her, whatever it was. She could feel the goosebumps that covered her body, and the hair that stood up on the back of her neck. She couldn’t make any noise, or it would get her. Who would believe her anyways? This had been the 338th night that the...the...cre-she didn’t really know what, had watched over her. Looking, preying on her, waiting for the perfect time to poun... at least that’s what she thought. Maybe she was just going crazy, maybe it’s all in her head. No, it couldn’t be.

“It’s just the wind,” her mother would tell her.

“Go back to sleep,” her father would groan. “You’re too old to believe in the supernatural,” they both complained.

Even Wendy’s younger siblings didn’t believe her. “Wendy, stop believing in fairytales, fairytales are for babies,” they said. Then they would laugh. Only it wasn’t funny, Wendy was scared out of her mind, hoping, praying, whatever it was wouldn’t kill her. ​Ring, ring, ring, CRASH. Wendy sits up. Her alarm has been thrown on the wall, smashed to pieces. She looks at it, horrified, before sprinting out of the room.

“Momma, Pappa!” she yells. “Somethings in my room and it threw my clock!” she yells. The door to her parents bedroom is thrown open.

“Wendy!” her father shouts. “How dare you run through the whole house yelling!” He stands in front of her, looking down to her face.

“But Papa!”

He then takes Wendy’s hand, leading her back to her bedroom. “But nothing Wendy, this has gone on long enough! Look what you did to your clock!”

“But Pappa, it wasn’t me, I swear.”

Wendy’s father then lets go of her wrist. “I’ve heard enough, get ready for school. Rest assured you’ll be paying for a new clock, and until you learn your lesson about talking nonsense about monsters and fairies, you’re grounded.” Wendy’s father then turns around slamming the door behind him. Wendy falls back on her bed and begins to cry.

“No one believes me.” she cries. “Maybe I am going crazy.” Wendy gets up, rubbing her eyes, as she grabs her uniform. Today was going to be a long day, she just knew it.

-------- As Wendy arrives to school, she notices the dirty looks as she walks in, she even notices the laughs and snickers. Wendy reaches her locker, she notices people crowding it. She pushes through the crowd. ​Freak is written with black paint across her locker. Wendy tries to hurry and open it, but as she does, a large paper mache snake pops out. She screams, while others around her laugh and point. Wendy keeps her head down and walks to class. Wendy sees her only friend, Sara, whose real name is Tiger Lily, walking down towards her.

“Hey, I heard, you ok?” she asks.

“Yeah, sometimes people are such pains in my as-” “Good Morning, Sara. Good Morning, Wendy.” says the school counselor, cutting Wendy off.

“Good morning, Ms. Hook.” They reply in unison. They quickly scurry off down the hall, leaving Ms. Hook in front of the choir room.

“Ugh, I hate her.” Wendy says rolling her eyes.

“Me too.” Sara says.

“All she does is say kids are either faking their problems or they need to be sent away and locked up.”

Wendy replies.

“Total bs if you ask me.” Sara says. “So, how's your monster situation?” she laughs.

“It’s not a monster. Actually, I’m not sure what it is if I’m being honest with you. But it’s real! Last night it even threw my alarm clock on the wall.” Wendy explains.

“Don’t let Ms. Hook hear you, or you’ll be sent away for sure!” Sara laughs.

“It’s not funny.” Wendy groans as she walks away. “Wait, I’m sorry, Wendy!” But it was too late, Wendy was already down the hall.

The rest of the day was pretty boring. By the time Wendy made it back to her locker, it had been cleaned by the janitor, Mr. Smee. He was a nice fellow. But the bad thing was, he had a soft spot for the widow, Ms. Hook. Yuck. Wendy made sure to write down to remember to thank him. Wendy walked out the front door.

It was chilly, the wind was blowing hard. Wendy watched the leaves pass her. She began to walk her normal route home. As she was walking she heard a voice. She looked around, but no one was there. She continued to walk, this time she heard 6 voices. She looked around again. She continued to walk. Now it was hundreds of voices surrounding her. The screams of tens, hundreds,thousands, millions of people, hitting her ear drums.

Help us Wendy, ​they scream. ​Help us. Wendy puts her hands to her ears. A horn breaks the voices.

Wendy looks up to see she’s in the middle of the road. She runs to the sidewalk. Her pace quickens. She starts to jog, then goes into a full out sprint. In no time Wendy reaches her house, she swings the door open. Wendy runs up the steps and collapses onto her bed. She buries her head under her pillows, hoping to drown the world out.

-------- It’s about an hour later when Wendy goes to sit up from her nap. She tries to reach her hand to her face, but fails. Her arm is stuck to her side. She tries to open her eyes, but they are so heavy. All she can see is little dots of color and light. Wendy realizes that she no longer is in her bed anymore. She goes to scream, but a sticky layer of duct tape covers her mouth. Her eyes begin to water. She can feel the blindfold that covers her eyes start to get wet with tears. She tries to wiggle her limbs. But the chains she’s attached to prohibit her from moving. She cries out. At least the best she can. Wendy tries to move her body. She realizes she's face down on a mattress. She begins to panic. Wendy starts to thrash her body. She pulls and moves so much she can hear the mattress creak. She continues before she realizes there's no choice. She lays still as she begins to cry again.

-------- Footsteps. Wendy sits still, making sure not to move. She can hear the sound of footsteps approach the bed. ​Step, tap, step, tap, step, tap, step, stop. Wendy can feel someone looking at her. She feels the heat of the gaze of the thing looking down at her. Wendy gasps. A sinister laughs emerges through the cold silent room.

A waft of air covers Wendy, before someone, something is on her. She screams out. The tape only allows Wendy to be so loud. The muffled screams don’t seem to drown out the laughing. The evil, horrid laughing. The laughing finally stops as ​it​ gets off of Wendy. Wendy begins to cry again.

A soft voices begins to coo to Wendy as it sings. ​“Hush little Wendy, don’t say a word, mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.” ​A hand reaches up to Wendy’s face. She flinches as the hand slowly strokes the side of her cheek. The hand is pulled away before she feels a sharp pain. Whoever it was had hit her. She gasps out in pain wanting to reach and grab her face. She sits in silence as a tear runs down her cheek. She can feel the tear drop from her chin. The ​thing laughs. “Don’t cry,” it coos. It laughs again before the hand returns to her face, the hand slowly pulls the blind fold covering her eyes. She winces, hoping she wouldn’t be hit again.

As her eyes adjust to the light she see the figure standing in front of her. She knows exactly who it is.

“Heya, Wendy” he says. It was Peter, Peter Pan. The owner of the only club in town. “I know you hear the voices,” he laughs. “They told me you hear them.” Wendy looks at Peter as she blinks her eyes, he ​couldn’t have known that she heard the voices. “And I know you feel the monster too.” Peter steps closer to Wendy.

“You thought he was in your room. Those,” he whispers “those are the lost boys.They were trying warning you.”

He says in a sing-ly voice. Wendy tries to stay calm as she looks at Peter.

A figure slowly starts to appear behind him. “Hey Wendy,” the figure says.

“Wendy, this is Tink.” Peter smiles. “He works at the club, fixing things up. You know, what normal handymen do.” Tink grins as he walks towards Wendy. As he bends over to get in her face Tink laughs. Wendy

winces as the back of his hand brushes her cheek. He slowly pulls the tape from her mouth.

“Help!” Wendy screams.

Peter and Tink both laugh. “No one can hear you.” Peter grins.

“Let me go!” Wendy pleads, “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” Tink laughs again. Wendy notices the sound of a small bell ringing this time. The harder Tink laughed, the louder the ringing got. Peter looked to Wendy. She could see the tears start to cloud her eyes. She could feel them start to sting.

“It’s ok Wendy, the voices will stop soon.” Peter says softly. “They always do.”

-------- All Wendy could do was sit there and watch the two sinister men sit and drink. They sat at a table across the room from her. She decided to keep her mouth shut and not say anything. It had been hours of just sitting in the same spot. She was getting thirsty, but more importantly she was hungry. She watched as Peter walked to a cabinet. “Little Wendy here,” he laughs, “must be starving. Don’t you think, Tink?”

Tink nods, Wendy can hear the quiet ringing of the bell again. Peter walks towards Wendy carrying a glass of water and a bowl, of well, she wasn’t too sure of what it was. She was suspicious, but she was so hungry.

“Open wide Wendy dear.” Peter says. He put the spoon to her lips. “Come on now,” he laughs. Wendy opened her mouth as she tried to not think of what the bowl contained. She swallowed the substance as Peter laughs.

He continued to shovel huge spoonfuls into her mouth. As she finishes he holds the glass to her mouth. She takes wealthy sips of water.

She looks Peter up and down before looking at the floor. She couldn’t get the taste of whatever the heck was in the bowl out of her mouth. Peter finally steps away and walks towards the sink. He throws the bowl in as he walks back to Tink. Wendy closes her eyes. At first it’s dark, but then it is so bright. Like the sun was right in front of her.

A wave of voices overcame her. “Help us Wendy,” they said. “Help us! Get out and help us,” they pleaded. Wendy screamed out in pain, it was like a million little drums were beating in her head so loud. She squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to hold her ears, but couldn’t. She opened her eyes and the voices were gone.

“Funny, huh?” Peter said.

“They take advantages of the darkness.” Tink laughs. “Never trust the darkness.” Tink whispered.

Wendy sighed, she was so out of breath. It was like the voices took the air from her lungs. “Tell me more about the Lost Boys.” Wendy whispered.

Peter laughed sinisterly. Wendy had no idea what she had gotten herself into.

“I Love You, Too” - ANONYMOUS “I love you, too,” I whispered, my hands running through the grass around me. It was the most truthful thing I had ever uttered.

It was a late November day. The trees were bare, but it wasn't all that cold yet. Not a single cloud could be seen in the sky, leaving the sun to shine proudly. The day shouldn't have been that beautiful, not with what had happened. It seemed way too soon to be a beautiful day. Would there be the time for a beautiful day again?

Tears formed in my eyes, blurring my vision. My heart felt like it was glass that had been thrown against a brick wall. My head was overflowing with thoughts. I didn't want to think about what happened. I didn't want to think about what happened.

I didn't want to think about what happened…

Matthew Shepard was found tied to a fence. He had been beaten and lit on fire. He was murdered - because he was gay. His death took America by storm.

And made every gay or lesbian individual more scared for their existence than they already were.

It was October 30th, 1998, not even a month after Matthew Shepard’s death.

The pink lava lamp she kept on top of her bookshelf cast a rose-like haze over the otherwise dark room. The beginning of “Creep” by Radiohead played through her radio. I laid with her next to me on her bed.

It was terrifying, being there so close to her. My heart raced from anxiety. What if someone walked in and saw us like this? It took all of my power to push those thoughts to the back of my mind.

“Laine… you are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.” I whispered so that she was the only soul who heard.

And she was. She was the most amazing, most kind, beautiful, loving thing in existence. I pushed a lock of her long honey-colored hair behind her ear and stared into her light green eyes. They appeared dark in the light from the lava lamp. That girl had galaxies in her eyes. Entire universes.

She giggled softly, a smile spreading across her slightly tanned face. I pulled her close to me so that I could whisper in her ear.

“You're just like an angel, your skin makes me cry… You float like a feather, in a beautiful world…” I sang softly along with the song.

Being there, with her next to me, was perfection. It was as if we were disconnected from the rest of the world. It felt like nothing could touch us.

“Gemma, I love you.” Laine’s voice was soft, but not the whisper that we had been using before. It was as if she was testing the limits. Neither of us were sure what would happen if her parents caught us, but we both knew that it wouldn't be good.

I pulled her closer to me. My eyes scanning hers for a second before I tested the limits myself: I pressed my lips against her soft, pink ones. It was the first time I had ever kissed her and it felt like fireworks had gone off in my head. She kissed me back. She ran her hands through my brunette hair.

She… she…

That's where my memory goes black, choppy A door had flown open. There were screams.

Sounds of fists hitting skin.

“Don't touch her!” My voice.

“Do you want to end up like that boy from Colorado? Like that.. that...” Laine’s mother.

“Let me go!” Laine.

Somehow I had ended up at home after that. The next day, Halloween, Laine went missing. I searched everywhere for her. All of our hangout spots. Her parents did nothing to find her.

She was found a week later, too many pills in her stomach. A simple “I’m sorry.” scribbled on a piece of paper in her pocket. The bruises on her body from that night had started to fade before she died, but they were still there.

I… I had found out from a newspaper. Her parents didn’t even give her a funeral, but they gave her a grave. They were so ashamed of their daughter, all for who she loved. Learning that their daughter was gay tore them up inside, but losing Laine killed me inside. I stayed inside my room for months, nearly refusing to eat. I refused to go to school. I didn’t want to live if she wasn’t alive.

But I slowly left my room, more and more. I tried to live again. It took too long, but I’m trying to heal.

And now it’s been over a year, but I’ve finally brought myself to visit her.

“I love you, too,” I whispered, my hands running through the grass around her grave. It was the most truthful thing I had ever uttered.

And the most heartbreaking, too.

“A Poor Gay Boy With Nothing in His Closet Except for Him” -COLBY CHANTHAVONG Up until high school, I never really cared about material goods. For most of my life, money was an issue for my family. Even to this day it still is, albeit to a lesser scale. I never worried about what phone I had, or what car I was going to get, because the bigger concern for me was what to eat and how to complete a project for school without any materials. I know my family was poor, but as a kid that doesn’t matter as much when you’re roaming freely without a care in the world. That ignorance eventually fades, quickly for some people. Middle school was a new experience: a new school, a new city, a new state. I had no one, and I had nothing. I wasn’t bullied, thankfully. But I lacked self esteem, lacked self assurance, lacked confidence. This lasted two years. Not a lot of time in the long run, but for a middle schooler that was going through puberty, it felt like my whole life. I was a poor gay boy in a less than adequate neighborhood with nothing in my closet except for me.

That all changed in eighth grade. I had gotten into the best school in Columbus, another new environment. But, this atmosphere was different. I met people that helped me come to terms with my sexuality, and from there the rest of me grew. My financial situation was still very much Pauper instead of Prince, but I was free again. I found someone to help me get a taste of Treating Myself. I finally remembered to take care of myself after two long years.

And then I moved to Champaign. But this time I was ready. I adapted, I made something of myself. As I adjusted here, I figured out what I wanted to be. My step family helped me learn about the culture that I had ignored for years out of teenage rebellion and angst. Once I got started, it only escalated from there.

Sophomore year saw my confidence exponentially grow because of Speech. I wanted to win, and you need confidence when you’re speaking in order to do so. So, I faked it until I made it. This carried over into junior year, when I began to express my newfound confidence. Although it took me some time, I eventually learned what style was. That brings me to the current time, my senior year. I’ve been working at Custard Cup for a year now, and I am proud to say that 50% of my paychecks go to my wardrobe. Superficial, I know. But I worked hard to get where I am, and I will express that no matter what. Some call me “entitled”, maybe I appear that way. I do not expect special treatment, nor do I have a lot of privileges. The way I walk is out of confidence and sass. The way I talk is out of eloquence and sarcasm. The way I dress is out of extravagance and glamor. My clothes reflect the opportunity I never had, until now. I never appeared as anything special until I realized that I was.

It may be a material good, but my clothes are more than fine silk goods. They are proof of what I accomplished, and they are what separate me from the crowd.

Chapter 1: “How it always ends” - ANONYMOUS It is March 19, 1988, and the ringing of his alarm clock is the first thing that greets him as soon as his eyes open. It's a Monday morning, and like always, the sun is out, the birds are singing, and his mother's old records ring like static noise in the silence of his house. The sound sends an instant wave of familiarity down his spine in the same way the smell of her homemade chocolate chip pancakes always do. He smiles half-heartedly at the idea of yet again awakening to his mother leaning over the yellow stove of their small kitchen. As soon as he's up, his feet instinctively let him wander into the threshold of their kitchen where he is greeted with the sight of his mother, a small woman, hair redder than fire, eyes warm, with a permanent smile painted on her freckled face, always unchanging. This morning, her eyes are yet again fixated on the perfect pancake in the pan, her hair a mess of red curls wrapped tightly on top her head, cheeks red and warm from the constant laughter that bubbles out her mouth as she sings off-key to the song humming quietly from the vinyl player. Standing there in the middle of their faded kitchen, she is the most vibrant person in existence, the epitome of happiness. She always will be. The thought, although somehow comforting, sends a wave of uneasiness down his throat, and for a second, just one, he allows the worries to flood his mind. He doesn't mean to, he never does, but the second the thoughts start, they don't stop. Instantly, his shoulders slump in defeat, mind racing, heart in his mouth, and still he drags himself to his mother and hugs her tightly. She squeaks in surprise at the sudden contact, but the next second, her arms wrap around him in a way that makes him feel like he's three and everything will be okay. A mother's touch is compelling that way.

“I love you, Mom,” he mumbles into her hair. He tries hard to maintain the steadiness of his voice, but it waivers enough for her to begin rubbing soothing circles in his back.

He can practically feel her concern, and it’s quiet for a moment before she pulls away “What's the matter with you?” she questions softly, hand resting on his arm. He smiles softly at her knowing there is no way he could ever say anything, so he shakes his head shrugging his shoulders almost mindlessly “Can’t a son tell his mother how much he loves her?” He makes sure to use his best teasing tone, and when she rolls her eyes at his antics, he knows he's successfully avoided a crushing talk.

“Not if he never does,” she replies back, tone just as teasing. The words are light, and they carry no reproach or venom and still they lodge themselves in his throat like a sour taste he can't swallow down.

The overwhelming guilt floods his stomach almost instantaneously. He doesn't have much time to think about it before she's setting down three perfect chocolate chip pancakes before him. Right on time.

He makes an effort to ask her about her plans for the day, the way he never used to. He compliments her cooking, savoring the taste he has long since committed to memory. He makes sure his words are gentle and despite what he knows, he assures her today will go on just fine. And just like always, his mother’s face creases with worry as she mulls over her thoughts. He watches silently, realizing the signs of age on her face, in the almost unnoticeable weight that her stare carries, the laugh lines have engraved themselves onto her skin like a permanent reminder of all the joy she's lived through, and in that moment as the sun hits the flower vase in front of him he thinks of how once his biggest fear was that she wouldn't be around forever. Today, the thought is almost comical to him. Can you keep someone forever if you can only do so in one frozen moment in time? The question is one that runs though his mind at all hours of the day, every unchanging day.

It is 3 pm when the first alarm goes off. Instantly, the TV in his living room begins playing an automated message: he's heard the warning so many times he can recite it from memory. He chooses not to, his eyes focused on the driveway of his house anticipating his mom’s little blue minivan in the next 5 minutes. Just like clockwork, her car pulls in hurriedly just as the TV begins screeching in a frequency that makes his head spin. She's bursting through the door in the next second, and he makes sure to step into the hallway to meet her. He smiles at her despite the panic in her eyes. He can feel the uncertainty and fear rolling off her in waves. He watches her mouth move but doesn't hear the words.

“It's going to be ok,” he reassures, his tone as even and as comforting as he can make it. He grips her shoulders gently as she begins to shake. He knows nothing he can say will stop the fear, but it is the only thing he can do. There is such little time. The next second, the lights go out. His mother's hand grip his own through the darkness, and he feels his heart drop as her hands shake in his own. He swallows the heartbreak, aware that he only has 5 minutes to make anything matter.

“I don't understand. What's happening, Jake?” There is an edge of hysteria in her voice, and for a moment, he is thankful he can't see her face in the dark because her voice is enough to send him into a cycle of heartbreak all over again. He takes a deep breath. 4 minutes.

“Must be a power outage, you know how those can be.” He holds his breath “There were so many alerts, and-” his mother's voice cuts off just as a clap of thunder rings out. 3 minutes.

The sky burst into a red color that temporarily illuminates everything, and if not for the horror of its after effects, he could have maybe praised its vibrancy. Just as quickly as the sky lights up, it burns out but not before her eyes meet his one last time.

“Mom,” he tries gently. “Mom, everything's going to be okay. I promise you. Just hang on 2 more minutes, and everything will be okay,” he promises 1 minute. The screams ring out all at once. He doesn't have to step outside to know about all the blood, so instead, he screws his eyes shut trying to make his mother feel all his love through one last hug, in a way, it is as much of a goodbye as it is a new start.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into her shoulder as one final boom sends everything into chaos.

It is March 19,1988, and the ringing of his alarm clock is the first thing that greets him as soon as his eyes open. It's a Monday morning, and like always, the sun is out, the birds are singing, and his mother's old records ring like static noise in the silence of his house. His mother is in the kitchen making perfect chocolate chip pancakes and humming along to the songs playing. It is March 19, 1988, and today is the day the world ends. It is always March 19, 1988.

“You” - AWARD “I’m surprised,” Carter said after a pause. He spoke softly and without looking at the princess.

“Surprised?”

“That you trusted me with this.” He clutched the blanket tightly, wishing he never had to let go.

“It’s only a blanket,” Lilith said, but she saw that that wasn’t the truth. She saw, in the way he was now cradling the blanket, holding it to his chest, that it was more than a blanket. Lilith couldn’t say that she understood, but she could see his emotions written in his closed eyes. Perhaps that was the reason she opened her mouth to say something else.

“Carter, I do trust you.”

That caused his eyes to spring open and dart to hers. He was more than surprised now; it was shock running through him. Shock and something else--not quite excitement, but a little more than relief.

“You do?” he asked, something keeping his voice very low.

“You’ve proven you’re taking this journey seriously and putting my better health first despite your opinions are about me or royals,” Lilith said, now the one looking at the fire. “So, yes, I’d say I trust you.”

Carter remained silent, as he often did, not knowing what to say. He wanted to reach out, touch her, know she wasn’t lying. His hand twitched, yet he didn’t move it towards the princess because he knew it would be stepping out of line. It was not his place to touch her, only to make sure nothing dangerous did touch her.

Lilith couldn’t read Carter’s silence, but she felt the need to say more. As dangerous as the forest had already proven to be, something about it at sunrise seemed peaceful. It let tension leave her shoulders and words escape her lips without permission.

“I trust all of you. My father was correct in saying you are all the best. You’re better than any fighters or guards I’ve ever seen--not that I’ve seen many. I can just tell, in the way you work together, in the flawlessness in your fighting techniques even while thinking on your feet.”

Carter found that a small smile was forming on his face. “You’ve only seen us fight those fairies.

We were all hurt from that.”

“But you and Ad took them down with hardly any communication, and none of you were hurt anywhere near lethally. I think the way you guys live life is also very…” Lilith searched for the word and ended up choosing a simple one. “Cool.”

“You think we’re cool?” Carter could’ve laughed, but the weight of this moment was too heavy. He wanted to be serious.

Lilith shrugged. “Your life seems so interesting in comparison to mine.”

“What, being a princess isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?”

She snorted, rolling her eyes. “Do you mean is it pressuring? Limiting? Boring? Because it is all of those things.”

Carter looked up from the dirt, meeting her eyes. “Do you not want to be a princess?” When Lilith didn’t answer, he went on, “You’re not bad at life out here. You could do this, too, you know?”

That lead to more silence. Finally, the princess said, “I cannot. I must be queen one day.”

Taking a deep breath, Carter debated on what to say. He understood she wouldn’t change her mind, but he didn’t like the fact that she was trapped in a life she wasn’t completely happy in. Suddenly, they didn’t feel so different.

“You can at least live like this while you’re out here.”

Lilith looked at him. “What?”

He gestured around to the forest. “You’re out here now, not under anyone. If anything, you’re the one in charge with no expectations for the time being. You like the life we live, so live it. Just for the next few days.”

Shifting uncomfortably, she began taking her hair out of the braid it had been in. Whenever she began feeling anxious, this is what she did. Most of her memories of her mom involved Lilith running her hands through her mother’s hair and feeling it across her fingers and then her cheeks. “I don’t know.”

“We don’t have to be enemies out here,” Carter said softly, tracing shapes into the dirt. He felt the princess’s gaze settle on him. “I know we’re naturally enemies anywhere else--outcasts and royals--but out here we’re equal. Out here, it’s about survival, not comfort or entertainment. When you think about that root purpose, nothing like rank really matters.”

Lilith was starting to see that perspective, but she also realized something he perhaps didn’t in this moment. “Carter, we’re not ‘enemies’ because of rank. You don’t hate royals because you’re lower in society; you hate them because they hurt your kind. They hurt ​you​.” Though she knew nothing about him or his past, she knew it was true even as she said it. He’d been deeply scarred...by ​her ​people. The thought sent chills down her spine.

Cater, meanwhile, didn’t like the way he felt the walls around his heart being chipped away at. He ignored her last sentence and said, “They hurt my kind. All I’ve ever seen is royalty ruining people’s lives, trying to better themselves no matter what innocence they need to destroy in the process. I never thought I’d think anything but badly about them.” He was looking into the fire again, so deeply as if he saw something inside of it. “Maybe you can change that, Lilith.”

Her breath hitched at the heaviness of his words. “You really think I can change your opinion on royals?”

“Maybe not on all royals,” he said, and he was finally looking at her again, looking into her eyes the same way he’d been looking into the fire. It made her feel as though he could see incredibly deep into her.

It made her chest feel hot. “But maybe on you.”

He didn’t know what he was doing until his hand was on her cheek, brushing a lock of hair away.

Her skin was soft, as he’d known it would be. The contact shocked him as much as it shocked her; he wasn’t used to physical touch at all. As he rested his fingers on her jaw, he whispered to her.

“Is it okay that a half-blood is touching you?”

Lilith swallowed, feeling shaky but not in a bad way. “It’s okay that you’re touching me, Carter.”

His heart felt like it stopped for a moment, and he felt something growing in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time: hope. He allowed his hand to drop slowly even though he didn’t really want to.

“The Mind of a Runner” - KALEB JOHNSON My coach has put me in the varsity 4 by 200 meter relay. I see this as a huge opportunity for me to prove to my coach how capable I am. In the following pictures, I have received the baton from my teammate Parth Abani. Within these few second in these pictures, there is a lot going on through my mind while I am running. During this relay, my number one goal was to not let the opposing team beat me. The same things repeatedly circle my mind while I am running. When I see him running towards me, I immediately tune everything out, all screaming, all cheering, all yelling. My number one focus is to get from point A to point B. Not only getting from point A to point B, but not making any mistakes whatsoever.

“I have to make sure that I do not let the team down at all. I have to make sure I give 110% while I am running. I have to get past this guy. I have to break a personal record at this meet. I have to prove to coach that I can have more opportunities like this. Track is something I love so I have to show that I love it. COME ON KALEB! YOU CAN DO IT! REACH PERFECTION. ​My form, speed, and strides all have to fall into place.”

For me as a runner, all of these things consistently circle through-out my mind while I am running. All of these things that filled up my head space during this specific timing tie into my personal life. I always want to be perfect at every little thing. Every little detail has to be perfect. I can’t make mistakes or I am going to get overwhelmed. I tend to push myself and over-work myself until I get to the breaking point. I don’t take into the realization that every little thing is going to be perfect. I don’t take into the realization that I can’t over work myself. Every little thing must be perfect. My grades must be perfect, my life has to be perfect, and to reach my goals and aspirations, the road must be straight. It takes time and effort for me to realize that……….

“My form, speed and strides will not always fall into place”. ​-The Mind Of A Runner

Jason Drake and the Assassins: The Legend of Kings -​ JEREMIAH LEE This is a small excerpt from my book, ​Jason Drake and the Assassins: The Legend of Kings​. Jason, is a seventeen year old Assassin, a member of the special forces of King Frederick Medeis, in the kingdom of Medeis. He is an orphan, parents assassinated by the Marksmen, the Assassin’s rival. He teams up with a group of kids trained to be like him, including Vanessa Delmonico, the lost princess who was trained by Sir Ozen Blackwood, head of the Assassins when he found her as a child in the forest. Lance, an Assassin, hands Jason and Vanessa a map to a location that will offer information on their mission and that leads us to where we are now We walked down the path and ended up in front of a beaten up bar, The Fractured Skull, and Vanessa looked at the map, narrowing her eyes. She brushed her hair behind her ear, and looked at the sign again.

“It says this is the place,” she said tentatively.

“Then let’s go in,” I suggested.

We were about to walk in when I put my arm out to stop Vanessa.

“Wait here,” I said. “A pretty girl like you could attract unwanted attention.”

“I find that comment humorous,” Vanessa said, crossing her arms. “Don’t worry, I can handle myself.”

I put my hands up in surrender and followed her inside. Once we got inside, Vanessa looked around.

“Nice place…” She said sarcastically.

The image of a stereotypical medieval bar could describe this place best: dim lighting, multiple wooden tables and stools, a bartender sliding drinks down to customers, and a ton of dangerous looking men with scars drinking from wooden mugs. The only thing that was ruining the image was the fact there was upbeat country music with a banjo playing in the background. There were more people starting a hoedown in the middle of the bar.

“Well, that’s odd…” I mumbled.

Vanessa looked like she was trying not to smile. “C’mon, let’s get the information and get out of here.”

We kept walking, and there was an older looking man sitting at the table in the corner, reading the newspaper. He took a sip from his mug and looked at us over the paper.

He has thinning grey hair, spectacles, and wore a sweater and black pants with boots. On his spectacles was a small picture of a blue compass rose without the lettering with a white circle around it: The symbol of the Assassins.

“That’s Sir Andrews,” Vanessa whispered.

I nodded and we walked over to him. He put down his paper and smiled at us.

“Well, hello there,” He said. “Can I help you with anything?”

Vanessa sat down across from him. “Hello, Sir Andrews. I’m Vanessa Delmonico, and that’s Jason Drake. We were sent here to ask you about the Legend of Kings.”

Sir Andrews nodded. “Ozen told me that he was sending kids from his top chamber to talk to me about it. Alright, here’s what I know. The Legend of Kings is referring to the treasure left behind by King Herman Medeis around a thousand years ago. Whenever the topic comes up, the king changes the subject almost immediately.”

We nodded.

“So, you’re saying that the Legend of Kings is real?” Vanessa asked.

“Essentially,” Sir Andrews answered. “I can neither confirm nor deny the stories. However, I will give you this for your search.”

He wrote something down on parchment, and folded it once.

“Do not open this until you get back to your chamber,” He said.

We nodded and Vanessa took the parchment, standing up.

“Thank you,” Vanessa said politely.

Sir Andrews nodded. “Of course.”

We walked towards the door, when one of the drunks stood up and looked at us.

“Where do you think you’re going, boy?!” He demanded.

I turned around calmly. “Me?” He rolled his eyes. “No, the other twig wearing a hood,” He responded sarcastically.

“Well, uh, I ​was ​leaving,” I said.

“And now?” The drunk demanded.

“Well, now I’m gonna knock out your teeth,” I answered calmly.

“Yeah, and you thought I was going to attract unwanted attention?” Vanessa muttered.