DickinsonScienceMagazine SCIENCE FICTION SPECIAL
CONTENTS 4 December 2015
VISTA BY KAYLEIGH RHATIGAN ’19 Second Place
THE BOX BY KIARRA OSAKUE ’18 Honorable Mention
LIFE BELOW BY SAMUEL PORTELANCE ’18 Honorable Mention
PUNISHMENT BY NADIA TIVVIS ’19 Honorable Mention
Dickinson Science Magazine Vol. 2
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Second Place
VISTA BY KAYLEIGH RHATIGAN ’19 My favorite newscaster was on. She had thin brown hair and a big nose so she didn’t get a primetime spot, but she never offered an opinion. And when she reported tragic events there seemed to be a tinge of irrepressible sadness in her voice. Tonight’s news, however, wasn’t tragic.
with their long, bulbous, caterpillar bodies and eight crooked legs, but the innocence of their flat faces has always touched something tender inside me. And the touch of their hands, as soft as a peach and strangely warm, sends vibrations of joy through me that cannot be described.
“...the From Here to Tomorrow program, the brainchild of Professor Zigawitz of Harvard University and the Bolion wise-elder Kamrig, will begin accepting applications at the end of the month. For more information, visit www.vistaimmigration.com.”
I watched a lot of news after that. I always planned to go to college, but when the time came I didn’t have the grades. So I became a food industry expert. I came home each night with my aching feet, my petty frustrations, and I dreamed about interminable shifts in which the customers piled up and there was no rest.
I first saw a Bolion on the night of the landing, when everyone was crowded around their televisions in their homes, on the phone with their parents, the air crackling with terror and hushed excitement. I was at home, with my parents and my brother and two of our neighbors whose cable was out. One of the newscasters started crying when the first picture came through but she kept straight on with the news, regaling us with facts in her crisp voice while tears rolled down her face. The pulsating blue thing split open, and we saw pair of tiny black eyes, glittering like finely cut diamonds. The smile emerged next, wide and flat on an expanse of mint green, baby smooth skin, and then trembling antenna, roving around to take in the new vibrations of Earth. The Bolions are anything but beautiful, 4
I wouldn’t have looked into the story, but it was my favorite reporter. And Bolions. I dragged my laptop off the desk and pulled up the website. Are you looking for a new start? The Bolions have officially opened their planet, known to humans as Vista, to human immigration. There are many careers available for humans on Vista, from grub care to technology and innovation. Apply now! Spaces will be filled quickly. That’s how I ended up here. I woke up early on the morning of departure and boarded the bus in a daze. I felt tired and
surprisingly calm. The bus drove through the city, already congested with whining solar bikes. We continued into old suburbia. The sight of all the identical houses, fallen into disrepair, grown over by kudzu, gave me a sense of vague nostalgia, but for what I didn’t know. We drove for hours, passing several hydroponic farms and a few NMSs (non-metropolis settlements), small alternative communities composed of a cluster of brick buildings with roof gardens and solar walkways. I glimpsed a man in overalls and a solar jacket trekking out into a garden patch with a laden wheelbarrow. He probably had a Master's degree in ecoculture, to grow a garden. I turned away from the window. What did it matter anymore? I was leaving. Finally, we stopped outside of a dilapidated white building which might have once been a warehouse. Inside there was only a single gigantic room with a concrete floor and fluorescent lights. A shiver ran down my spine. A few of the trainees gasped. It was filled with row upon row of Bolion travel capsules, like seven-foottall eggs. They were pale blue and pulsed with a mesmerizing light. For the first time that morning I began to feel excitement. And fear. Those capsules were constructed with a mixture of Bolion technology and the DNA of a creature native to Vista that had a powerful homing signal. Once activated, the Dickinson Science Magazine Vol. 2
Second Place
pods would shoot for Vista with no guidance from the person (or Bolion) inside. I woke once during the journey. The capsule was illuminated by faint pulsing blue light. I could see the soft wall in front of me and nothing else. I felt light-headed, weak, and insubstantial. I pressed my hand against the wall in front of me, and it became transparent. At first I thought it hadn’t cleared correctly-- I saw only blackness, studded with tiny lights. And then I glanced down below me and saw a vast expanse of blue, surrounded by a sheet of fog. I screamed, but heard nothing. I could feel my heart thudding in my veins, feel it pounding in my chest, but I heard nothing. Then I felt a strange pressure on my head, and I drifted back into darkness. We arrived on Vista in the wee hours of their morning. Their distant blue star was peering over a flat, gray horizon studded with purple plants that resembled both slugs and thistles. My legs were like jelly and I stumbled, but did not fall. I was so light it felt I was floating in water. They escorted us across the bare planet and one by one showed us our new homes– holes in the ground that were visible only as slight indentations in the dusty gray earth. Inside, of course, they were lovely. I found myself in a suite with a sort of couch-bed made of the same material as the inside of the capsule, and a human refrigerator that looked very out of place, but was stocked with adequate food. I sank onto the bed. My exhaustion was dreamlike and complete. The moment my head hit the soft foam, I was asleep. Dickinson Science Magazine Vol. 2
I had already selected my top three employment categories: grub care, dwelling construction, and technological advancement. Jobs I knew nothing about, that could be anything. I passed my days in almost feverish cycles of sleeping and waking, barely aware of where I was. I couldn’t seem to focus, or clear my mind. And it was with that, that hope and disorientation, that I ended up here. Restaurants, and, in fact, the entire idea of sustenance as an art, are new here. Bolions began to create small restaurants only a few years ago. They serve Earth cuisine that bears the same relation to actual human food that American Chinese food bears to food from China. Burgers are made of the strange thistle plants that grow on the planet, which have been partially digested and vomited by a Bolion and then reconstituted into a patty placed between two slices of white bread from Earth. Spanakopita is made from graham crackers and the same thistle-vomit that seems to have been the only thing Bolions ever consumed before they came into contact with humans. Strangely, the restaurant has the exact same brand of metal tables as the last place I worked, the burrito place at home. Bolions of course don’t normally use tables, but it’s a fun adventure for them to attempt eating while standing at the edge of a small metal platform. I’m good at my job. I’m faster than any of the Bolion workers, and they assume I’m an expert on the cuisine, despite the fact that it is as foreign and repulsive to me as it is strange and delicious to them.
I go for walks between shifts, usually alone. The dusty earth billows up with each step and coats the hem of my pants. Supposedly the rest of Vista is covered in a vibrant forest stranger than we could ever imagine. Some sort of disaster struck this portion (exactly what, the Bolions are hesitant to say) and life is just beginning to return to it. It is a very fashionable place to live, however, and that is why all of the humans are brought here. One of my Bolion coworkers, Immimimimi, told me that it would be dangerous for us to venture outside of the wasted territory. Out there, anything could happen. There are wild Bolions who have never met a human. There are creatures that from every description I have heard sound like dragons, and plants that emit poisonous gases, and worms the size of a human arm that erupt out of the ground and latch onto living creatures with barbed suction cups. There are trees, too. I have no need to leave the wasted area, and I’m no more homesick than would be expected. I have my job; I have a few human friends; I have strange Bolion parties that involve singing, lots of singing. But strangely, I miss the news. I don’t have the stories, or the reporters, and I don’t have the image of a strange glowing pod, peeling open to reveal a creature unlike anything I’d ever seen, smiling benignly and sending vibrations out onto Earth for the first time.
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Honorable Mentions
THE BOX
BY KIARRA OSAKUE ’18
I like to lie in the middle of the highway, waiting for something to come and end me. I know nothing ever will. I know there are no highways.
I would take out a capsule, cook it, and eat. Now when I go to take out a capsule, I see the bottom of the box whereas before it was always covered.
I live in a box. The box has four plush white walls, a mostly springy white floor, and an undecorated white ceiling. In the box is a smaller box, a rolled up cot, a small tub, a toilet, a stove, and a control panel. (This last thing is how I can lie in the middle of a highway when my box has no doors.) Within the smaller box is food. The large box I am in is roughly fifteen steps by nineteen—I say roughly because there was a time when I was convinced it was eighteen by twenty-two, but that may just be evidence that I have grown larger.
I don’t know what I should do about this change. I can’t stop eating because then I would be hungry. I eat twice a day. First Meal and Second Meal. I thought about taking out all of the capsules and setting them in groups of two so that I would know how many more days I had, but I had never taken out a capsule except for eating and I did not want to see what would happen if I did. Then, not too long ago, during second Movement, the stars around me disappeared, leaving me in darkness for thirty-two steps. I screamed, very loudly, until the box went white and then back to the stars.
Back to the control panel. With this tool, I can transform my white box into anything. The white becomes a forest, or deep space, or a highway. There are twenty-seven settings saved within the panel. It even produces wind and sound. When I do lie on the highway, though, it is never not the safe, springy surface of the box, no matter how real the highway otherwise seems. The floor does have its uses. It tracks my days. For a segment of the day, half of the floor—the non-springy half—moves. It is a sort of conveyor belt that moves at varying speeds. Sometimes I walk on it, other times I jog, still other times I run or sprint. I call this point of the day Movement. Before Movement, I sleep, after Movement, I eat. The second Movement comes when I am tired and is much slower than the first. For second Movement I only ever walk, usually on the stars which makes me feel as though the world is never ending. But of course I know better. The world is roughly fifteen steps by nineteen. After second Movement, I unroll my cot and lie upon it until my eyes close and I am asleep. That is my day. I use my voice frequently, some words remembered from nowhere but just always there, while other I have learned from the panel which, on occasion, will talk to me. Lately, there has been a slight change in my routine. My smaller box of food has been growing less and less full and more and more empty. It used to be that the level of its contents never changed. I would wake up and, after first Movement, 6
I also have not heard from the panel in a very long time. It used to speak to me, if not often, then frequently enough that I would be able to remember how long it had been since the last time. I cannot remember how long it has been. It has beeped at me, but no words. Except for right now. It has just started talking. It is First Meal and I smile at the voice. It is a familiar one.
“How do I work this thing?” It asks. I answer. “I don’t know.”
“Okay. We’re good.” Pause. “Just keep going straight and….alright.” “Alright,” I repeat. I know the words “all” and “right” but it says it almost like they were one word. The panel crackles and stops talking for a while. I am finished eating by the time it starts again. “This is going to take forever.” “It might.” I rest my chin on my knees in my chair and close my eyes. The panel is on the wall right next to me so I don’t have to work hard to hear. “Shouldn’t have gone this way. I don’t know if I’ll make it.”
“You will.” It says this often. Dickinson Science Magazine Vol. 2
Honorable Mentions
“What’s tha—?”
There is silence. I wait to see if it will speak again, but when it does not, I answer. “I don’t know.”
then I breathe heavily until I think I can scream again.
I touch the panel with my hand. I stand up and make my box a highway so I can lie down in the middle of it.
After a long while, I am tired. But I cannot sleep because my body is throbbing and my eyes refuse to relax from their wide open state. I can no longer scream, so I am sitting on the floor with my arms wrapped around my legs—curled up as tight as I can to make myself small and safe.
After five days, the panel talks again. It is a different voice this time, one far less familiar. I am standing next to the small box. I am hungry but it is empty. I have been standing by it for a long time but I am still hungry.
I hear something. The panel is making a banging sound. I am confused because if the panel can make sounds, it should be able to make White. The banging gets louder and louder until I am sure I can feel it inside of me.
Suddenly, White returns and the banging stops. I stand up and the panel talks again.
“Be quiet.”
“Alright.” My middle makes a rumble sound and I scold it. “Be quiet.” The panel crackles and I am quiet. After a moment, second Movement begins but I am still hungry.
“Did you hear that?”
wet.
“No,” I answer, my eyes make my cheeks
“Right over there.”
My eyes feel dry which is silly because they are so wet. My middle makes a louder sound and I curl around it.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Stop. Stop now.”
“Alright.” I close the box and walk over to second Movement but it is hard to do with the pain in my middle.
“Ready? Here we—”
The panel goes silent again and the box goes dark. Movement continues and I scream loudly, counting my steps. Then, Movement ends after ten steps— much sooner than usual—and I scream even louder, standing in the blackness. I scream and I scream until my throat hurts along with my middle and Dickinson Science Magazine Vol. 2
“Impossible.” “Impossible,” I repeat. I have heard it before but still do not understand it. Against my control, my body shakes and bumps appear on my arms. I rub my arms and walk to the panel. I put my hand on it. The sound is different. The voice familiar, but different.
“Someone get…something. Now.”
Suddenly my back is prickling and I have to turn around. I can scream, so I do. There are new things in the box. But—but the box is wrong. It is not a box. I can see the woods but only in one part of the box. The rest is White. And in the woods—walking to me—are things. They have arms and legs and a middle only they are strange colors and larger than me and have not quite round things on top with hair. I am still screaming and they are in the box. One of them has a blanket but it is not from my cot and it wraps it around me even though I am not in my cot. Against my control my arms flings out and hits it—not the blanket, the thing—and it is rough and hard and so unfamiliar. “Shh, shhh. It’s alright. We aren’t going to hurt you.” This makes me be quiet. The voice is the very familiar voice but it is all wrong. The sound is different and I am not alright. But I do not scream anymore.
“Shh, shhh,” I say because it is new word, 7
Honorable Mentions
and it is very comforting. “That’s right,” it says as it covers my body with the blanket. “You’re okay.” “No,” I say, my eyes still open very wide and my body still throbbing, but I hold the blanket close to me because it is comforting too. “At least she understands us,” the second thing says.
“At least.” I back against the White of my box, they should not be here. This is wrong. But out of the box! A world! Maybe highways? “Or else she’s just repeating,” says the same voice from the beginning which said “impossible.” I think I understand it now. Impossible is that the world is only roughly fifteen steps by nineteen.
LIFE BELOW BY SAMUEL PORTELANCE ’18
Sundays are always the worst day of the week. There’s not really all that much that sets them apart from any of the other days, but whenever I get up on a Sunday I always feel terrible and I can only assume it’s because of the day. I think so anyways, I’m not totally sure, but when I woke up this morning (this Sunday morning) I had a definite case of the Sundays, as I call them. My head was ringing, my body ached, and the wall facing my bed was marked with an overall sense of blah. It was also covered in a good bit of mildew. Everything smelled strangely, too. It was a smell like old dandelions, which I knew well from my trips to the greenery. It had smelled like that for a while, but it seemed to be getting stronger. I rolled out of bed, but I forgot to put my arms out to block my fall and hit my head on the floor. I had a good bit of time to think while down there, my body was still waking up and the collision set it back in its recuperation process, so I had some time before I was able to move again. While lying there, I began to wonder what it was that I had meant to do last night. I had a very clear memory of meaning to do something, but couldn’t remember what it was. I tried to think as hard as I could, but the sunlight coming from the window bounced around the stained off-white floors, the stained off-white walls, and the stained off-white ceiling, lighting everything perfectly and making it pretty hard to think. It was all just very nice to look at. After a bit, I gave up trying to think. By that time I was ready to start moving again, so I picked myself up and got on my feet. What I needed was a burger, some good old fashioned fuel to get my motor running, but before I could leave the 8
apartment, I’d need to be awake. I went over and got my morning pill and placed it into its glass container. The crystal glistened beautifully in the late morning light, so I kept my eye on that as I fumbled with my lighter and lit the pill. I inhaled deeply. You always need something nice to look at, you know? You always need something nice to look at. I put my pill container into my pocket, feeling much better. I really have to appreciate how wonderful a time this is to live in, where you can take a pill for just about anything and it works so wonderfully. I smiled widely, really widely, spreading my lips and letting my off-white teeth take in the sun. I opened the door and peeked outside into the hallway. No one was there. The morning light shone from the wall and ceiling, lighting everything very pleasantly as I walked briskly down the hallway, smiling all the way. I got into the elevator and looked up. It’s always a crowded sight, the other elevators lining the wall across and behind with the sun shining from the floor and the ceiling, bouncing off everything every which way and making the glass look grey. I looked up, I don’t live too far down so I could see people walking on the glass at the surface, moving briskly with the sun shining overhead. I hit the button for floor 22 down. I’ve never been up, but I’ve also never felt the need. There are too many people all the time. Down here people just mostly stay in their rooms. I like that.
The elevator was like a giant pneumatic Dickinson Science Magazine Vol. 2
Honorable Mentions
tube, so my legs bucked as it squeezed to a sudden stop. I stepped out into the food court. The door closed and the elevator was blown back up towards the surface behind me. I glided down the narrow space, passing by taco stations, sandwich stands, and potato booths before finding my way to the five foot by five foot wall panel that was the burger shop. “Good morning!” I said cheerily, smiling at my reflection in the blank black screen. It jumpily sprang to life, fuzzing a bit as the images on the screen popped into being. On the screen, in front of a farmhouse, was a cartoon robot in a red and white striped jacket and yellow straw hat holding a burger to his mouth. The image was a bit faded, it had been getting worse for some time now, but it was still recognizable as the Burger Stand™ logo. “Hello,” said the machine in a female voice that was noticeably muffled and distorted with scratches of electronic wear and tear. “Welcome to Burger Stand™, how may I take your order?” A list of options popped up on the screen, mirroring the menu that stood unchanging above, but I already knew what I wanted. “One big boy birthday slam, please.” I extended my smile a little larger and chuckled at my cunning. A lone air horn burst forward from the machine in a distorted, lilting whine. The machine materialized a brand new big boy birthday slam burger behind the glass case. “Congratulations, big boy,” said the woman. “Please input valid identification to receive your burger.” I smiled again, pleased with my cunning. I opened my wallet and took out Mrs. Collins’ ID card. You see, while it was not my birthday, it was Mrs. Collins’ birthday and Mrs. Collins had died three weeks ago. The police generally take a while to respond to calls on the lower levels, so she had been left to rot in her room. In fact, it was her rotting that had tipped me off about her death– she started to smell very bad after a couple of days, a smell like old dandelions. So, I had walked down the hallway to her room. Thankfully, Mrs. Collins had always left her door unlocked, so I had gone in and grabbed her ID card. This was not without its downsides, however, as she had been shot in the head and her room had been ransacked, but the robber had forgotten to Dickinson Science Magazine Vol. 2
check her body for her ID card. Whoever it was that had killed her had surely realized his mistake by now and was undoubtedly searching for me, but it was all going to be worth it now that I was getting her birthday burger. I put the card in the slot and rubbed my hands excitedly, I could not wait for this free burger. The machine spit the card back out. “Invalid identification,” it blurted in a much more robotic and cruel voice than earlier. I was a bit taken aback by this, but I had planned for such an event. When I was in Mrs. Collins’ apartment, I had taken a picture of her face. The hole in her head took up the right side of her face, so I took the picture of the left. It was rotting, grey, and flecked with blood and brain, but it was still definitely Mrs. Collins, which was all that really mattered. I put the phone up to my face like a mask and put the card back in. The machine whirred for a second before spitting the card back out and shouting “Invalid identification,” at me once more. I huffed, dropping my arm from my face and angrily grabbing the card from the machine. The machine must be defective. I contemplated going and getting Mrs. Collins, but it would be much easier for the thief to figure out who took Mrs. Collins’ ID card if he saw me dragging her body about. I tried relaxing my mind to think of a new plan. I took a few deep breaths but even after counting to 27 I was still angry and not in a good think space at all. I took my pill container out of my pocket, took the glass jar out of my other pocket and took out another pill. I put it in the container, set it on fire and inhaled deeply. I could feel my mind calm. I looked down the hallway, saw the space filled only by food stands for as far as I could see. Then, in that space of calm, I noticed something and thought of a brilliant plan. These machines think they’re so smart but they didn’t count on one thing: the other machines. I went into the bathroom and over to the soap machine. “Soap please,” I demanded, staring intently at it. Nothing happened. “Soap please,” I said again, a little frustrated. Still nothing happened. Frustrated, I hit the protrusion on the machine and to my surprise, it compressed and soap came out. “Oh right, that’s how that works!” I said aloud, 9
Honorable Mentions
remembering. I punched the soap machine again and again, letting the soap pile up below. Once I had a satisfying amount, I scooped it up and left the bathroom. I walked over to the burger stand and smeared soap on the camera. I smiled a big, wide smile, for the next part of my plan was really very clever. I reached up my foot and kicked through the glass that separated me from my burger. I reached in through the broken glass and grabbed my meal, smiling triumphantly at the machine, for it was no match for my wit.
every second. I managed to light it, then winced as I inhaled, but the pain dissipated almost immediately after. I smiled– I really have to appreciate the technology I have.
The words “contacting police” appeared on the machine’s display, but that only made me smile all the wider. Then I remembered something, I had forgotten to wear shoes. I looked down at my foot and saw that it was covered in blood and shards of glass and all of a sudden I felt pain. I reached into my pocket, grabbed my pill container and a pain pill, for the pain was getting stronger with
I was happy after that, save for a moment when the elevator opened and I imagined the thief in the hallway, waiting for me, but he wasn’t. No one was. It seemed like no one ever was. I smiled and the sunlight and the smell of old dandelions, which seemed to come from more than just Mrs. Collins’ room, followed me all the way as I walked down the hallway and back to my room.
When I stepped into the elevator, I remembered another thing. Last night I had been meaning to go and get that burger today, that’s what I had been trying to remember this morning! I looked down at my burger and took a bite. I smiled as I chewed. I had done it.
PUNISHMENT BY NADIA TIVVIS ’19
Planetary Library Number 3, colloquially known as The Robust, was not the ideal home for an assassin. It was, however, the ideal prison for one. Rimes watched with satisfaction as Gring Steinwald, notorious killer of the 58th President, paced the gleaming, ticking floors of the Main Reading Room, where the largest permanent diorama of the solar system spun endlessly overhead. Honestly, the planets alone were enough to drive a man mad, let alone the sun, which was so ridiculously large its construction had been delayed for years over concerns about the enormous destruction that would occur were it to ever fall from the 10
heights of the dome that towered over the city. A color-popping sign proclaimed the dangers of believing oneself important when one is so, so small compared to everything in existence, but it was hardly necessary with that sun hanging just overhead. And then there was the security. Already Gring growled at every ting of the motion sensors under his feet, tracking his every move, and he veered away each time his pacing brought him near to one of the guards, each of whom had gone through an extensive education on astronomy and was ready at a moment’s notice to reel off a spiel on any
aspect of known space desired. A particular favorite of theirs appeared to be black holes. Every time Gring neared one of the pink-hatted men standing stiff on the outer edge of the room, he’d launch into an explanation about how nothing can escape a black hole. Not even a man who’d killed the President. Rimes had always thought Gring was too big for his britches. After the assassination of the President, he’d barely put up a passable effort to avoid capture, and in fact seemed to almost bask in the media spotlight once he was in custody. He’d enjoyed jail too much. As Gring’s Dickinson Science Magazine Vol. 2
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personal Punishment Officer, Rimes had come to the repeated conclusion that the prison environment would never, could never, be true justice when a man as attention-seeking and ego-inflated as Gring was involved. Too many peons around to be impressed by his infamy and slip him a free cigarette out of pure respect. And he was accustomed to the conditions. He’d grown up in rat-infested motels, and city streets when even those were too much of a luxury to afford. But extravagance! That made him squirm. That made him feel the dirt in his clothes scratching up against his skin, that made him taste the rotted-out teeth in his gums, that made him lower his wispy-haired head and scuffle his feet. In prison, he was King of the world. Here, with a representation of a miniscule corner of the universe towering overhead-well, he could hardly live with himself. But he had to. Because he had no one here to fawn over him or gaze with curious respect, only the mechanical guards with their callous, humbling facts and Rimes himself, perched on top of a bookshelf with a tome on Mars he ostensibly read while his eyes darted again and again to Gring’s flexing muscles, his twitching eyebrows, his jittery knees. Rimes waited. It wouldn’t be long now. He’d planned everything about this punishment perfectly, laid out the anticipated time until justice, and set about to wait and observe. He was, after all, an expert in Dickinson Science Magazine Vol. 2
his field-- he’d creatively served justice eighty-seven times already in his career, and the past dozen had all been high profile cases in which the day to day Justice Log was published in the papers to keep the public updated on his progress. “How are you doing down there, Gring?” Rimes called. Gring looked up with haunted eyes. His shoulders made a feeble attempt at straightening, and he stopped his pacing directly underneath the sun. “Brilliant,” he croaked, and folded himself into a crouched ball on the floor. “Would you like to leave this place?” Rimes asked. Gring didn’t even perk up. He knew this game well.
“No, sir.”
“Of course you wouldn’t, Grimes. There are so many excellent books to read here in the library. I recommend this one to you. It talks all about how the universe is so vast there is very little chance at all that there is no alien life out there.” The only acknowledgement from Gring was one sharp nod. Rimes sighed as though thoroughly disappointed in him. “I do wish you’d have a greater appreciation for the majesty of the display around you, all the knowledge humans have collected for centuries about space. It’s just fascinating how
very much there is to know about it all, don’t you think? This entire building stuffed with information and we’ve barely cracked the surface of everything there is to discover about the universe.” Gring rocked back and forth on the marble floor, his huge hands gripping the thighs he’d crouched over as he fired the bullet that killed the President. His lips moved, but he wasn’t speaking loudly enough for Rimes to hear. “What’s that you’re saying?” “I am nothing.” Gring rocked forward, tipping over his toes, his back arched so that the knobs in his spine jutted out of his shirt. “I am no one,” he finished, and his body flung backwards in the second desperate movement, so that gravity yearned for his head to tip just a bit further and crack in the hard floor beneath him. His rocking increased in speed, and his whisper rapidly became unintelligible babble. His screams echoed back from the tall dome, and Rimes added one last note to the day’s entry, closed the file, and exited Planetary Library Number 3 after the first of many visits to check up on the highest profile job he’d yet completed. The camera flashes nearly blinded him on the way out the two tall entrance doors, and his smile grew as he waltzed down the marble steps to his car. 11
The large box I am in is roughly fifteen steps by nineteen—I say roughly because there was a time when I was convinced it was eighteen by twenty-two, but that may just be evidence that I have grown larger. -Kiarra Osakue ’18
The crystal glistened beautifully in the late morning light, so I kept my eye on that as I fumbled with my lighter and lit the pill. I inhaled deeply. You always need something nice to look at, you know? You always need something nice to look at. -Samuel Portelance ’18
The Bolions are anything but beautiful, with their long, bulbous, caterpillar bodies and eight crooked legs, but the innocence of their flat faces has always touched something tender inside me. And the touch of their hands, as soft as a peach and strangely warm, sends vibrations of joy through me that can not be described. -Kayleigh Rhatigan ’19 Rimes watched with satisfaction as Gring Steinwald, notorious killer of the 58th President, paced the gleaming, ticking floors of the Main Reading Room, where the largest permanent diorama of the solar system spun endlessly overhead. -Nadia Tivvis ’19
Illustrations by: Nidhi Charan ’17