Montage 2016 by Emmanuel Montage

Dedicated to Mrs. Barbara Goodwin

Table of Contents Saron Bryan....................................................................................................................................................1 Sympathy for the Devil Kyle Garrett.....................................................................................................................................................3 Fw: Poem Revision Julie Loukos....................................................................................................................................................5 The Last Citizen Heretic Sean Williamson.............................................................................................................................................8 Complicated Chanlin McGuire...........................................................................................................................................10 Trick Lovers, Writers, Illness High Ground Teevee Star Anna Kitchens...............................................................................................................................................15 Graphite Drawings Jeremy Burton..............................................................................................................................................18 Charcoal Drawing Carley Guillorn.............................................................................................................................................20 Photography Jeremy Burton..............................................................................................................................................25 Mortal Entropy: Prologue Haley Anderson............................................................................................................................................33 Blue Lights Clarke Sowell.................................................................................................................................................37 Switzerland Kora Addington............................................................................................................................................42 The Envelope All in the Cards Becca James..................................................................................................................................................53 An Artistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Soul Julie Loukos..................................................................................................................................................59 Black and Blue: Exerpt The Truth About Fairy Tales

Poetry

Saron Bryan Saron Bryan is a 22 year old Emmanuel College student. She graduated in 2015 with a BA in psychology and returned to complete post-baccalaureate work to prepare for medical school. Saron has been writing poetry and short stories since middle school, and graduated with a minor in creative writing. She is married to Josh Bryan and they are expecting their first child in September of 2016. This is her second consecutive term serving at the editor of Montage.

Sympathy for the Devil Slither beside me, sly friend. Your scales, once bright, Now glimmer dull gray in this last twilight. Envy clouds your reptilian eyes, for legs, hands, eternity, but I ache for you, Music Master who traded your maestro hands for power. Now, you writhe in Inferno, in the agony of Holy silence. Oh Serpent, your end is near. Your forked tongue labors through your aged lips. Your slither is slow now. Rest awhile by me. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re damned, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re dying. But I am here. You do not have to die alone. 2

Kyle Garrett Kyle Garrett teaches English at EC. He admires the prose stylings of Flannery O’Connor and the poetry stylings of Judson Mitcham. Beyond those two authors, Cormac McCarthy and William Faulkner also inform his work. His poem in this year’s Montage is inspired by Saron Bryan’s poem, Sympathy for the Devil.

Fw: Poem Revision Slide alongside, Sly. Just for a little while. Sure, you might look a dry leaf, but don’t think I don’t remember when your chiseled cheeks shone coral and alive beneath your copper hair. Is it wrong to feel you? If I just stay in this red next to yellow zone, what could be the danger? I know my color wheel, you damned fool. Can I bring it up -do you mind? Those days and nights -- no, just days -when you, o fervent maestro, whipped up holy flock ‘a seraphim with a mere lift of that wispy baton. Forget the singing--don’t even try. You can barely breathe, let alone speak! Tut tut, that’s a good demon. I can’t understand a word you’ve said -- listen, I hate to say it, but the wind that comes through your thin little teeth, nothing but reedy hiss. You. You! You’re a molted scale of yourself-a lost photon with no charge blown out the back of a red dwarf star. Drifting toward starless space. I know, I know -- you’ll like it there. No one feigning to comfort you.

Julie Loukos Julie (McBath) Loukos, an alumni of Emmanuel and Montage, graduated in 2012 with a B.A. in English and Creative Writing. She and her husband, Michael, live in Charlotte, North Carolina where she teaches English at Cabbarus-Kannapolis Early College High School.

The Last Citizen Are we meant to be the Son and not the Father? Is being holy only being selfless? Are we not to protect our children?

Ah, sheep, the church bells ring! Sheep, you are called! And I? My call is from somewhere else. Mistake me not, young liberal, This is not a cry for Socialiam. Or sexism. Or racism. Or any other misinterpeted ideology.

Congratulations on receiving your rights, But where are mine now? Perhaps we are in the art of trade here: A gun for your security, A religion for your certificate, A color for your power.

Instead, I recant my alliance to a country no longer Christian. I remove my name from this scroll. Trump me if you will; Label me “Sanders” if you must, But I see no merit in a country of hypocrisy.

You have tied me up in a package, Labeled me with glittering generalities, Wrapped me in a colored noose, saying, “See? You’re still you!” You have drained me – the last citizen – Of all desire to be in this once great nation. You have traded my value for another’s In the blasphemous use of my Savior’s name.

But forgive me, you are late for church! Your anti-shepherd awaits his fold. The Trinity wrestles within me: I long to keep turning my bruised cheek, to give til I bleed, But the God who smote Sodom – The God who wiped out the Egyptian warriors – Demands that I stand for Him, too. After all, is He not three-in-one? Am I to ignore the Father for the cry of the Son?

You paint my name in the ashes of the unborn, In blood shed from those who serve and protect. You lull me to sleep with cries of the condemned, Whispering, “Sh! You only think you are damned! See, they are a minority!” Meanwhile, A son asks why his badged father doesn’t return. A father cries at the cost of her choice. A mother worries her son will never find a job. A daughter cries because someone called her “that Christian.”

If I am made in His image, I cannot use your mirror, For that is not Jesus looking back at me. Before you call yourself Christian – And American – You need a fresh glass.

Heretic The pen is mightier than the sword, they say. But I say it has lost its sharp edges. It can only poke and prod Ruby red blood now running from tapping fingers rubbed raw A fortress of blue, shielding the hunters from their prey. But the hunters are cowards. Their hearts beat violently with excitement, shielded by nocturnal light, Yet their teeth chatter in fear when they venture past their walls – Logical fallacies fade in the limelight. The noose! The noose! It tightens around my neck with each opposing belief. How dare I not swim downstream, too? I sacrifice myself on a social altar with each objection – Oh, I understand now. Not my rights, but theirs! Turn the other cheek, they say. Turn it again! I have until the blood pools in a bruise, tattooing a rainbow cross on my face – a mockery! My star of David. Perhaps this is what it means to be martyred here. My life is drained, my flesh is burned, and they cry, “Heretic!” The dulled pen clammers to the ground – a useless weapon. I see a light – a light! It beckons me. Spirit, is that You? No. They’ve revived me to burn me again.

Sean Williamson Sean Williamson is an Emmanuel College graduate (class of 2000) and served as Director of Counseling Services from 2008-2015, and currently serves as the Franklin County Schools Social Worker. He has been writing poetry since middle school and has been published in Montage previously. Sean and his wife of 24 years, Lisa (financial aid counselor at Emmanuel College), daughter Saron (EC class of 2015), son-inlaw Josh (EC class of 2014) and son Samuel all live in Royston.

Complicated Complicated Miss created Little known Lass massly mated Regulated Worshipped hated Maybe Miss Communicated Love awaited Love berated Awe full eyes Ahh. Breathless baited Long. Slow. Pauses Overrated Miss regard Dead complicated

Chanlin McGuire Chanlin McGuire has 23 years and lives with her husband of four years in Perry, GA. She is a serial job-haver and thing-tryer who presently enjoys being a 911 Dispatcher in her hometown, Hawkinsville, GA. Chanlin has work published in previous editions of Montage and Middle Georgia State Universityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s former literary magazine, Muse. She graduated with an AA at Emmanuel College in 2014.

Trick Oaks in the sun clearly reach toward the light; up go their limbs and up go my eyes. I want to see what they touch. When a man’s gaze glides over a woman’s body, he finds a safe spot, a rest that suits him maybe in her hair, or eyes, or breasts. Whatever. For me and the tree, that rest is in the branches. The whole of the oak invites, nice. The bark and knots beam warm in the sun, cool in the shade. Roots, rings, the life within, find me. Mother plays hide and seek with her child. But when we sit together or I stand with her to chat, my eyes find the branches. But in the woman’s dark, she’s scary. He remembers she’s lovely, And longs for the rest place, but when she looks distorted, that place goes foreign. Not safe. Silhouetted in dim starlight, the oak hides secrets in her knots. The branches’ outline are all I can see, and in red-black, they and their pointy ends seem to reach for me. I think I took the sun. She’s the same creature, but with all her parts hidden, I’m disarmed. She would glisten if I would do something--bring back her sun— I think I destroyed it by now. And then it rises again, and she shines like the day before and like she will each time her reflective glow surrounds us, gives us back our sight.

Lovers, Writers, Illness What’m I supposed to say? There’s nothing left between your body of work and my wasted nights V’you written every worthy word, leaving nothing for the rest that I manage to mean anything?

High Ground Should you feel that you are wiser, stronger, holy, because you stand on higher ground, consider that it’s the mound that towers over the dells, down which you smirk. You are high because you tread on generous Earth, on whom there is ample room for those whose sea-level you stoop to note, saying, “oh Lord, thank you, that I walk high, not low like them.” Were you not consuming the means those kind hills provide, someone might pray the same over you and enjoy the sun’s light from an angle that strikes his features just so. You’d mutter “that man is a leech on the high ground’s back—if not for its steady stance, he would be down with me,” to which a neighbor of yours would deafly beat his chest and sing a plea for mercy.

Teevee Star Strings play to the tremor ‘bove your cheeks. You fell your little blue secrets. They aren’t well kept on shiny, brown billboards. Drama’s always your game, and well played, my star. You make the fear corporeal, having worn it on your soul. The watchers believe, and this without signs. You use looks and velvet tones, you’ve known just how to quiver. It can’t help but rush out once you’ve filled up vein and skull. Yours is a rhythm can match any other—the whole of an audience you swallow in one line. You engage, they’re pregnant. They’re eager for your mortal copy to break them open. It will grow up, up as far as you push. Let’s hang on your line—flesh on the bone; we can because you spoke from the hardness of your teeth, and you didn’t need those violins to tell us to be scared.

Visual Arts

Anna Kitchens Anna Kitchens is a junior at EC with a Music Major and psychology minor. She has been involved with the visual arts since middle school years, and through high school had a focus on graphite and charcoal drawing. She loves to focus on realistic detailed drawings of faces because she heavily admires the work of God in human beauty. She hopes that in every picture or painting she creates there is a reflection of something much bigger and more beautiful - a reflection of Father God.

Jeremy Burton Jeremy Burton is a Junior at Emmanuel, majoring in Biology with a minor in writing. 2016 is the first year he both submits to and works on the staff of Montage. His submission this year is the prologue of his upcoming novel, Mortal Entropy, a work he began at age fourteen, and continues to write. Jeremy takes inspiration from the works of GRR Martin, JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis and Leo Tolstoy, among others, and one day wishes to publish an expansive work with a rich and creative world on par with the great fiction writers he admires.

Carley Guillorn Carley is a graduate of Emmanuel College with a degree in History. She is currently employed with the Toccoa-Stephens County Public Library. She enjoys photography and is a regular submitter to Montage magazine.

Prose

Mortal Entropy: Prologue When the dark maw of the mine belched dust and vomited stones the size of his head, Halmond Nocious knew that men had died. One moment, the mine shaft had been there, gaping wide into the mountainside with an inky, lantern-lit throat, and the next it was brown and grey, as was everything, and his eyes stung from the dust. A stone the size of a melon skittered past him, nearly taking out his shin, and the shaft rumbled, its hunger never sated with the lives it swallowed. He put the kerchief on his neck over his lower face. It had been a sunny day, but now its rays were scattered throughout the spreading dust, casting everything in a swirling, baleful fog alive with blurred and slow-moving silhouettes and the twinkling of airborne mineral. His ears rang as time began to thaw out of the slow motion of aftershock. There were shouts all around him now, carrying frantic messages nobody else seemed to hear. They all seemed muffled in the wake of the thunderous boom. Men rushed past, into the brown and grey with dampened kerchiefs tucked over their faces and brass goggles over their eyes that made them look like insects. The dust clouds twisted and swallowed them up too, their lantern lights almost useless in the murk. Halmond was not inclined to follow them back into that hell hole of a silver mine, and made his way toward the clear, alongside a dozen other miners who knew the way of these things. Halmond tasted the dust in his mouth, and felt the way it crunched when he clenched his teeth. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t until the air began to clear that the heroes began to emerge, some fifteen minutes later, darting in and out, carrying those few that got caught in the mountainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s craw, rather than its gut. Halmond gathered around with the others on the outskirts of the settling dust, to peer in on the reclaimed victims laid out on the gravel, and see if any of them were friends of his. Five men had been pulled out. At least half a dozen were still unaccounted for. Everything moved so quickly, and nobody around him seemed to stand still. Voices were animated; some were wailing for help in moving someone, binding something, fetching this, pleading for that. Some were calling for the Bloodborn. Halmond glimpsed the bodies for just a moment, laid out side by side on the gravel, the fine grey dust of the mineshafts coating their skin and clothing, transforming them into grim statues to lay over their own tombs. They might have been mistaken for such, if it werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t for the ragged breathing of some, the wailing, and the unnaturally twisted arm of one man, whose blood caked the dust on his torn skin and clothing. The fine dust of the mines had a strange way of turning blood into something like a dark, thick syrup, and coating open wounds with grime. Somehow that almost made the sight of such trauma even more disturbing than if it had been red and bleeding.

More voices were calling out for the Bloodborn now, which Halmond knew meant that there were dead and dying among them. All Halmond could see were the backs of those in front of him, hunched over the victims or standing right behind, erecting a wall of men his gaze could not penetrate. Many of his brethren in the mines carried an unquenchable thirst for the bloody tragedy. They all wanted their hands in on the mess, to help, to do something, but most of all to see it. Maybe it was just human nature. Halmond supposed that the entrapments of post-tragedy excitement wore off over time, because he was perfectly fine leaving his hands free of that syrupy blood, and moving out of the way of those braver souls that still had fewer nightmares than he. All he could see from where he stood were glimpses of the fallen, amidst everything that was made the same in dust. He wanted to know, but he did not feel as urgent as those that pushed and shouted their way forward. He had lost friends before, and he no doubt would again. The price would have to be paid for those that had died, so he supposed if he could not see their faces now, he would soon enough. The crowds began to part as they realized the Bloodborn had arrived. They were impossible to mistake among the populace of common folk, though no one ever noticed the moment of their arrival, as if they descended from the sky, or perhaps the shadows. In a sea of disheveled dusty miners, the square-shouldered, sharp angled black uniforms of the Bloodborn Clan were like drops of oil in water. They were vultures in top hats, never far from the carrion, awaiting the demise of the next sick animal or mining accident. The Bloodborn Clan ran the town, everyone knew, but they had a particularly omniscient presence when it came to their mine. There were murmurs shared among certain groups that the accidents were not always such. The mine was notoriously dangerous, even among its own kind, and the Bloodborn knew quite well that such precarious conditions might be persuasive to the often desperate men who worked the mine with no other prospects for livelihood to join their ranks. The Bloodborn Clan were always wanting more of everything and they were good at getting it, one way or another. The miners backed away from their fallen. The families were here now, too. The mineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grizzly meals of men always brought out the village inhabitants, and once they were all stirred from their homes and shops, the Bloodborn were efficient at locating those among them that suffered losses. Even before most of their fellow miners knew who had expired, the Bloodborn had learned their identities and were quick to act. The families were trimmed out of the motley crowds and brought forth to witness their dead loved ones. A courtesy service, the Clan would say. A civilized way to go about it. Nobody should have to suffer the confusion of not knowing if it was your loved one who was swallowed up by the mountain. In truth, the Bloodborn wanted it all done quickly; the wound shown, cauterized, cleaned and bandaged up. A choice made, the price paid. And they always paid.

It was then that Halmond saw Sasha’s face among the women brought out of the crowd, and that meant that Gregory Carlson was one of the stone men laid out on the ground. He could not push through the crowds to see his friend lying in the dust, but he knew it to be true. Gregory’s rosy cheeked smile and hearty laugh echoed in his mind. His best friend, dead. Those rosy cheeks were now just gray. He would look so peaceful right now, but he was never a peaceful man, always either furious at someone, or the jolliest sort there could be. By the look on Sasha’s face, Halmond knew she had already paid his price. Death was a funny thing in the mining town of Kerdish. To other folk, from other towns, it was something serious, something final, fatal, end of the line, done and over with. It was something that was avoided, put off or fought off for as long as possible, and whenever it came without warning, it left nothing but pain and sorrow in its wake. It was a trump card that beat every other hand, an unfair force of nature that took what it damn well pleased, like the bully of the school yard, or a cruel king, where all life had to pay its tribute at some point. Death was indeed a very different thing, to most other people. But it was different to the people of Kerdish. Death was something like a hindrance, an inconvenience at its least, but at its worst, it was nothing different than the debt collected for any service of repair. Broken machines, watches, anything that ran, ticked, clicked or hummed could be made to run again with skillful hand and the right tools, and with the Clan, so could broken lives. To the people of Kerdish, death incurred a debt, and that debt was always the same for everyone, and everyone could pay it, down to the poorest man in town. In the beginning, before the Clan were there, there really hadn’t been a mine, or a town, so it was hard for Halmond to pinpoint which came first. All he knew is that the people had always felt this way about death, and with that feeling came a change. There was a certain recklessness built into the town because of it, a disregard for the things that kept other people awake at night. All those worries could be washed away in Ink, swept from their minds like dust washed from the bottom of a boot. But even so, life was not easy. The Bloodborn Clan ruled the town, as they did so many other towns like it. They controlled the money, the businesses, and the politics. Sometimes, people disappeared, and usually those people had rubbed the Bloodborn the wrong way, in some fashion. If a business failed to pay its tithe to the organization, the owner’s hand was smashed by a hammer, and that was if he was lucky. Sometimes, offenders would lose fingers. Sometimes their houses would burn down, or their daughters would be caught in the alleys on the way home by that particular kind of horrid monster. This was the power the Clan had over the people of Kerdish, in exchange for their gift. To the people, the oppressive hand was worth the golden gift of immortality they held in the other.

One day, some weeks after the event, after Halmond had seen the last of his friend Gregory totted off on a stretcher between two black-coated men, he sat weary and alone in the Silver Trinket, a bar the two of them had frequented before Gregory’s health issues cut him off from strong drink. Halmond had just finished a particularly long shift in the dusty hell of the mine, now reinforced, yet again, to assure the accident would not be repeated. He had been a foreman for seven years, and the accidents always came, no matter how careful they were about it. The men could reorganize, reinforce, reassure each other that things would be safer, and Halmond would play his part in that—it was his job to. But they weren’t safe. The accidents would slip through the cracks in their plans like the dust that fell from the ceiling of the mine with every blast and swing of the pickaxe, clinging to every sweaty brow in the mine. He wasn’t sure if it was luck or providence that he had not met a grizzly fate yet. Though, as more time passed, he felt his clock ticking down, and he knew that inevitably, one day he would be caught in an accidental blast, or a mine shaft collapse, or in a deadly cloud of gas. His paranoia sharpened his cunning however, and made him very much aware of his surroundings, and these things had saved his life on multiple occasions. At times, he had to seek a drink, in order to calm his constant nerves. His wife wanted him to quit, to find another job elsewhere, as she always urged him after a horrid accident. “I can’t lose you,” her words rang in his head. “I can’t support John on my own if you go, and I couldn’t stand the sight of you in black.” Maria had lost her father to the Bloodborn. She always believed he had been forced into service for the Clan, and he had resisted until the day he was killed by a Sanctan infantryman during the last revolt. His resentment of his place in life had been transferred to his daughter upon his death, and it later permeated through her marriage to Halmond. But as much as she hated his job, she knew as well as he did that he was trapped in it. Miners that left their jobs for safer work in the town of Kerdish had a difficult time finding it again, as though they were deserters from the army. Ex-miners were shunned and hated in town, seen as cowards that abandoned their brothers, and besides that, nothing paid as well. Halmond was determined to see his growing son leave Kerdish and strike out for a life in a better place, away from the Clan’s influence and reach. He wanted to send his son to Sanctus, to the heartland of the Church, where the Clan’s influence was weaker. He could find a job there, a wife there. The city was sure to have opportunity for his son. One day, Halmond thought, he would be able to secure his son’s future. He just had to be safe, and take as few risks in the mine as possible. It was then, on the other side of his drink, across the bar, that Halmond saw Gregory Carlson again. When their eyes met, Gregory grinned, a big wide grin with rosy cheeks, and strode over with a jolly laugh, arms out wide. Gregory clapped his big hands on Halmond’s shoulders as he stood, and pulled his friend into a hug. “Good to see you chap, you’re as glum as always. Shouldn’t we celebrate? I’m back from the dead.”

Halmond chuckled an empty chuckle, but he could not deny the energy his friend carried now, the vigor that had faded in him as the years went on, smothered under his excess weight and the ache that had begun to develop in his knee recently. “It’s all gone, all of that,” Gregory soon told him over the drinks he insisted upon, sipping on a glass of something strong enough to burn Halmond’s eyes from his seat across the table. “I don’t carry round that big belly no more,” he said with a chuckle, slapping his now flat, trimmed chest. “The missus appreciates the new energy as well, let me tell you. I’m a new man.” Halmond’s thoughts flashed to the look that had been on Sasha’s face the day she paid the price for her husband. Her eyes, which had always twinkled, especially when she laughed with her husband—which was often, were then dull and sunken, and she looked a husk, as lifeless as Gregory’s corpse had been. He looked down over his friend now, and the life in his cheeks and his eyes, but couldn’t help but notice the tattoo emblazoned on the back of his right hand, the hand that held the liquor. The blood willow tree with roots reaching into the verdant earth. The sigil of the Bloodborn. Halmond also noticed the sharp black coat over Gregory’s shoulders. “It’s not that bad, working for them now,” Gregory said, slapping down another shot and jarring Halmond from his thoughts. “They don’t got me out murdering folk, bullying shopkeeps, or any of that other shady business we always heard about. Sure, sure, they’ve got that sort there too, but the sort that does that work was the sort that did it before they took the Ink. The Ink don’t change you all that much, Halmond. It makes you you again. Chips away all that nasty aging, that excess gut, that achy knee, the fear of death. And you know what else? Just how ignorant we all are, before we take the Ink. The Church up in Sanctus says that taking the Ink is the Devil’s work, yeah? Those crudes say its dark magic, evil stuff, and we stood shaking in our boots believing the idea that shadows can be evil, but you know what? I didn’t see a damn single spirit when they revived me. There weren’t no blood sacrifices, no circles of candles. It’s all done with Science, Halmond. Here, look and see.” He pulled up his sleeve, hiking it up a forearm taut with sinewy muscle and curly hair, stained dark from years in the mine. Near his elbow, there was a bump in his flesh, a small dome, like a marble had been embedded in the bone and the skin pulled tight over it. “See that? That’s my port. All I gots to do to keep up my vigor is take a shot of Ink right in that port, and I’m right as rain. We always said that the Ink was addictive, that once you got on the stuff, you didn’t get off it. It hooked ya, we said. But you know what? It ain’t no different than eating or drinking. Your body needs its food, and so does the Ink, the guys told me. It’s a living thing, it feeds of more of itself and in exchange, it keeps you living. They called it…symbiosis, they did. Just gotta feed it, like we ourselves eat. And tell me, Halmond, does the more you have to eat mean the more you want to? Hell no, it doesn’t. Ink’s the same way. Once it has its fill, you don’t need no more, and it don’t even hunger that often.”

Halmond thought back to a time a few years ago when he and Gregory took a venture to the capital city of Sanctus to pay the decade tax like any honest man, and passed by a church. He remembered how white its walls were and how tall its bell tower was, and how it exuded its purity and holiness that seemed so bizarre to him. The same sort of building would be out of place in Kerdish. Nobody around here had room in their hearts for that sort of teary-eyed pious devotion, and neither did Halmond. Still, what he had remembered seeing the most hadn’t been any of that, but rather, the Tainted—that’s what the Church of Sanctus called them, outside the doors of the Mercy Gate. They were four of them, on their knees or laid up against the doors, banging and wailing with the agony that comes from total abandonment of all else. Halmond remembered stopping to watch them, and seeing the dark veins up their arms. Those veins seemed to have them in their grip, like how the roots of a gnarled tree grip the rocks on the side of a mountain, slowly seeping deeper into them, splitting them apart.

Halmond asked what happened when you didn’t feed the Ink. Gregory laughed.

“What, are you thinking about those poor saps you see in Sanctus? Aye, I’ve seen them too. You think you’d be any different if you were deprived of food for weeks on end? If the Church banned food like they do Ink, don’t you think we’d all be out there, pawing at those Mercy Gates, begging for it?” They hadn’t been begging for Ink, it seemed to Halmond, they had been begging for death. “It’s a second chance at life, Halmond. Hell, it’s better than that. It’s a clean slate, and you’re given the brush to keep it clean with.” Gregory glanced over his old friend like a puzzle he couldn’t solve, his red lips pursed. “Well, I can see I haven’t exactly convinced you of much,” he admitted, turning up his chin with his conclusion. “I know I’m not about to change how you think, old friend. If I were still in your boots—on the outside, that is, I’d still feel the same way. I say that most folk wouldn’t take the Ink voluntarily. If it weren’t for Sasha’s choice, I wouldn’t be here. I’m grateful for that.” He leaned in and smiled, like he used to, when they were younger. “Here, I know you’ve got to go, but let me buy you one last drink, friend.” Before Halmond could object, Gregory lifted a hand, hailing the serving girl. “Get us two Pale Tears, would you?” Halmond hadn’t heard of that one before. “It’s a drink the boys showed me,” Gregory explained, “sort of a signature favorite. They down the stuff all the time. Strong stuff, puts a fire in your belly that’s perfect for cold snowy nights like these. Oh, don’t give me that look, it’s just one old drink.” When the girl—a spry young thing with wide, wary eyes whose gaze lingered on Halmond, brought the drinks over, he recognized the powerful presence of the clear liquid under his nose from earlier. His eyes watered, but Gregory

smiled and offered a toast to friendship and to life, and Halmond obliged him the gesture. The entire conversation with his old friend made new had left him feeling uneasy, he realized as their glasses clinked. Maybe it was the almost painted pink flush in the cheeks, or the quickness in the voice that Halmond hadn’t heard in so long. Maybe it was the smile, or the eyes. Halmond could almost see the black strings tugging on his limbs, making him jump and smile. He was glad the uncanny show was almost at an end. The two friends clanked their empty glasses on the table. The drink was cold going down, like an icicle in his chest. It was after dark when Halmond left the bar and started homeward. It was unusually dark, and so cold that the snow reached the ground. Normally, the low elevation of the village within the rocky valley made it warm enough that the snow turned to rain before it hit the ground, slurring the dirt roads into a muddy soup, cold and crusted with dirty ice. Tonight, a light smattering of white coated the streets, giving a smooth canvas for the streetlights to cast their yellow lights upon. Halmond saw his breath at his lips, and he pulled the collar up on his overcoat. He was between two buildings, down an alley that he passed through every night for a decade, when the nausea began. At first it was mild, only a twinge in his gut and a pressure behind his eyes, but the alleyway never seemed to end, and soon his hand was on the wall and he was heaving into the snow. His boots crunched awkwardly toward the streetlight before him, when he saw a man at the other end, dressed in black and in contrast to the falling white all around them. He tensed up, his breath drew short. He clutched the dagger he kept in his pocket.

Then he saw the man’s grin.

“Sorry Halmond, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said with a chuckle as he approached. Halmond was still wary, startled by his friend’s uneasy darkness, and the sharp shouldered black cloak that seemed so uncanny on the shoulders of his old friend. Gregory slapped his arms, then held him tightly. “Feeling a bit woozy, I know. You’re dying, old friend.”

Halmond blinked, his eyes dizzy. “What?”

He pulled away. “I’m sorry, Halmond. It’ll be better now.”

“My…f-family. Why?”

“They’ll be taken care of, old friend, just like mine is. All you got to do is take the Ink.”

Pay the price, Halmond thought. All you have to do is pay the price.

“I’m sorry, Halmond. You know I am. I didn’t want to trick you like this, you know me better than that. But everyone’s got to get their hands a little dirty in the Clan. It was this, or they put me with the rest of the thugs used to shake up business owners. I ain’t got that in

me. I’d rather be a recruiter. It’s good pay, they take care of my family, and I get the chance to help others out, too. Give them the gift.” Halmond heard every word, but he still could not understand. Gregory was pleading with him now, but his voice seemed distant from his face, like it was all a memory, or a dream. “You got a smart boy, Halmond. Wants to go to university, yeah? The Bloodborn can get him there. You take the Ink, your boy is set. He’ll be successful. He don’t have to take the Ink himself, you know. He can go off, get the hell out of this town, make something of himself. The Bloodborn don’t give two licks. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want your boy to leave this place?” Breathing was hard. He coughed, right in Gregory’s face, and shivered, feeling like every movement of his body sprung another leak, letting the cold rush in and flood his limbs, starting with his fingertips and creeping up his forearms and legs. His appendages felt weighted with the cold that flooded him, like bags of sand tied to his spirit. His friend’s face was lit with concern. “Come on, take the Ink. Don’t make me drag your body home and ask Maria. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to put your decision on her. Listen to me, Halmond. You got to say yes. You got to.” Halmond’s head swirled. His vision, just a tunnel, eyes fixed to Gregory’s. His breath felt like a chilled wind, and the cold choked at his throat. “You…”

“Hate me later, Friend. You’re dying. Say yes. Just say yes.”

His bottom lip quivered. He could see the panic in his friend’s eyes now. Gregory clutched his arms tight and pulled him in close. It felt like he was pulling Halmond out of his body. Then, Halmond said a word. It may have just been a senseless sound, a dying man’s gibberish, or perhaps a curse on the friend that had betrayed him to this fate. It may have been a yes. A moment later, it didn’t matter, because the cold swallowed up Halmond Nocious, and he fell away into the inky night.

Haley Anderson Haley Anderson attended Hart County High School and was dual-enrolled at Emmanuel College. This is her first submission to Montage magazine.

Blue Lights “We recommend inpatient treatment.” I heard the words, but I wasn’t listening. I knew what they were going to say long before I even went to the doctor. My mother started squirming in her seat. Her makeup, which was perfectly done only a few hours before, began to melt off from the heat that was rising to her cheeks. “My child is not sick.” They went back and forth, arguing over the existence of mental illness. I looked around at the room; the bookshelves stacked with psychology textbooks immediately caught my interest. I had been in Dr. O’s office so much, it was a second home to me now. I walked over and plopped down in my usual spot in the floor and opened a dark purple psychology textbook. Dr.O kept looking over at me, searching my face for any signs of distress. I remained calm. I had already gotten myself okay with the idea of inpatient treatment a long time ago. I actually wanted to go. When I got comfortable in my spot, I got lost in the words. I drowned them out. I was pretending I was the only person in my room. A little while later there was a jerk on the arm of my winter coat. “Come on Haley, we are leaving. Now!” I put the textbook back on the shelf and scurried after my mother, but not before looking back at Dr.O. His eyes told me all I had to know, my idea of getting my doctor and mother to get together and talk, had failed. We walked outside the office into the crisp winter air. It was December 27th and the thin layer of ice on the pavement was making it difficult to walk. I would giggle every time mom or I slipped on the ice, earning a scowl from her each time. The car ride home was silent until we pulled into the driveway. “You are not to go back there ever again.” She went in and threw my medication in the trash, except the Xanax. She put those in her room. I went to my room in the basement, and fell asleep. I wanted desperately to call my only friend, but I hadn’t had phone or internet privileges in two years. I had a secret phone, but with only ten minutes left on it. I felt desperately alone. I woke up to my mother in my face yelling. “You thought you were to get away with it? Huh?” I was terrified. I thought she had found the phone. Instead of the phone, she was waving a party invitation in my face. The cold feeling in my stomach was replaced by a sense of relief. I apologized at least one hundred times, but that did not calm her down any. She wanted me to cry, but I hadn’t done that in a year. My sister, fresh out of jail, was in my bathroom a few feet away from where my mother was standing. As my mother turned to leave, she said “Be creative when you kill yourself.” She had the meanest look on her face; it reminded me of an animal mid-hunt. At that moment my sister opened the door, making it slam into the wall, leaving a hole where the door knob hit. My mother froze just long enough for my sister to punch her in the nose. They both froze, looking

at each other. I thought I saw a tear in my mom’s eyes, but instead of staying to yell at us, she turned around and left. My sister walked towards me and sat on the bed. “You want to go for a walk or something?” Her smile was infectious, I smiled back. “Sure.” She tossed me a pack of cigarettes before we even got out of the driveway. I knew Mom didn’t care, so did she. “Here. You need them worse than I do.” She snickered, we both knew she would never give me her last pack. We walked in silence for a bit. She looked over at me, knowing I wanted to say something. I broke the silence. “Pam, why can’t I live with you again? She paused mid stride and flashed that goofy smile of hers at me. “Well, that’s actually what I got you out of the house for. I found an apartment today, I was going to ask if you would want to come to my new pla-” I jumped on her and gave her the biggest hug, nearly burning her with the my newly lit cigarette. We both laughed. It began to snow, my sister, a thirty-two year old woman, and I played in it until eleven o’clock. I fell asleep with the biggest smile on my face. The next week went by in a blur. My mother had been informed that I was leaving. She was actually being fairly agreeable. She even took me shopping for new winter clothes. The day before I was set to move to Atlanta and start over, I went to visit my grandmother. I was ecstatic. When I got to her house there was a gift sitting on the table, it was a brand new Nook! I was so excited I hardly noticed the tension that was slowly filling the room. It didn’t take me long to realize something was terribly wrong when my aunt walked in. Aunt Debbie is a tall over nourished woman who generally stayed away from the family. While she was a large woman, the first thing you noticed about her wasn’t her size. It was the long sleeves, the skirts that always swept across the floor, and the traditional head covering of her religion. My sister and I glanced at each other as our mother greeted Aunt Debbie with a huge smile. Pam seemed utterly uncomfortable with the developing situation. “I think me and Haley are going to go, we have a lot of packing to do.” My loud, boisterous sister had turned into a shy child. Her words were mumbled, not really spoken. Aunt Debbie flashed us the best fake smile she could. “No, stay! I haven’t seen you girls in such a long time!” We sat down at the large dining room table highly uncomfortable.

“Haley, do you know why I’m here?” I felt dread building up inside me. I was terrified she was going to try, once again, to shove Jesus down my throat. “No ma’am.” I replied respectfully. I looked over at my mother who was opening a bottle of pills, my Xanax, she popped two in her mouth. “You’re coming home with me today.” The room felt like it was spinning. My sister had her hand covering her face trying to hide the tears that were steadily flowing down her face. “We will get this demon out of you, honey. Don’t worry.” I gritted my teeth at my mother, stood up and asked. “Did you do this?” My words were dripping with disdain. She took me outside to talk to me alone. I made sure to grab my purse. I knew what I had to do. My sister did too apparently, because she quietly grabbed her keys and came outside as well. Before my mother spoke the first word, I tackled her to the ground. I let all my anger out on her. I remembered every time she hit me, every mean word she had ever said. My hands slipped around her throat and my sister pulled me off. I ran into her car and slammed the door. She got there before I did; the car was already started. We sped off onto the icy highway towards Atlanta. After my heart had quit pounding, I grabbed a cigarette from her pack. I looked at her and asked “What’s next?”

She shook her head sadly. “I don’t know Haley. I was hoping you knew.” I turned around just in time to see the blue lights flash.

Clarke Sowell Clarke Sowell is a student at Emmanuel College studying Christian Ministries. This is his first submission to Montage magazine.

Switzerland The streets were shaking as the feet of thousands were all headed to the massive gathering place at the center of town. The sound systems were beginning to crackle and pop as they were warming up for the night’s speaker. His oration could wrap anyone up, taking them wherever and causing them to do whatever he wanted. He was a mad man with words. He owned his people. In one hours’ time he would once again be confronting the ears of his listeners with his diabolical plans. Only one hundred yards away in the third story of a tightly knit apartment were Peter and Sela.

“I wonder what he is speaking on tonight” Sela said.

“We both know what he is going to say” Peter said.

“You can’t mean..”

“Yes, that. I don’t understand how he can convince people of this evil, but everyone keeps joining him.” They huddled together there at the window to see the progression that was happening below them. Several men were carrying towering flags. Most of the people that were following behind had a narrowed focus. The immense river of dark green uniforms was a ghastly sight to the both of them. Peter had been expecting this day for quite some time. He looked at his wife and said, “Does your aunt still have that house in Switzerland?”

“I am pretty sure she does, but I haven’t been able to talk to her in months.”

“Do you remember how to get there?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Come on Sela.”

“You cannot be serious Peter.”

The trip was speaking of was no easy ride. It was through some of the most frequently traveled areas of town, if they were to leave, it would have to be when they could avoid being seen. It wasn’t easy for anyone to go that way, especially not a family like them. They would have to find some kind of way out. Some form of transportation that would be willing to depart with them; with no hope of returning.

“I met a man named Hans at work. He has a truck that would be perfect for the ride.” “You can’t possibly be serious!” “I am tired of going off every day knowing that at any given time I can come back and you may be gone. Do you know what would happen?”

“I’ve tried not to think about that Peter.”

“Maybe you have had more success than me, but I love you too much for you to keep having to go through this.” Outside the window they could hear the continual shouting that was so common to these events. Peter looked out intently in their direction hating the words that he heard. He despised their source, yet he knew that they would be tempting for anyone that wasn’t as prepared to turn them away. At that moment Francine, their youngest daughter walked their way from the kids’ room just across the hall. Peter wasted no time.

Wrapping her up in his arms he said, “Hey Baby! Are you guys having fun?”

“We are daddy. Hey. What is that man talking about outside?”

“Oh don’t worry about him sweetheart. He will be done soon; you just go back and play, me and mommy need to keep talking.” “Peter what about them? What would we do if something happened to them when we are trying to get out of here?” “Do you honestly think I haven’t thought about my own kids? What if something happens to us and they are left alone? I know that this is not going to be easy Sela, but letting this continue to happen is the worst thing we could do.” “I talked to Hans just yesterday. He said that he has room for four people in his truck.”

“Peter there is five of us.”

“I know that sweetheart.”

“So we have to do something else!”

“I knew that four spots would be enough Sela.”

“What are you talking about Peter!?”

“We don’t need five spots. I have more in mind than just getting you out of here.”

“What are you going to do Peter? You cannot possibly think about staying here without us.” “I won’t be here long at all Sela. I will actually be leaving soon after you depart. I have to take care of something. Come look down on the corner right below us. That’s Hans’ truck there. He is ready to take you and the kids to your Aunt’s house in Switzerland.” At that Peter left his spot at the window and walked over to the kids’ room right across the way. He bent down to where they were and said, “Hey kids. I want you to know that I love you. You and mommy are about to go for a ride. Everything is going to be okay.”

“Daddy, why aren’t you going with us?”

“I would if I could, but I have to stay here. Tommy, you’re going to be the man when I’m gone right?”

“What does that mean Dad?”

Holding his son as tight to his chest as he could, with a stifled voice he said, “It means that you love these girls’ lives more than your own buddy.”

“Okay daddy.”

He wrapped all of them in his arms one last time before he left to go back to his wife who had not left her place at the window.

“I can’t believe you Peter.” She had heard his footsteps as he was approaching her.

“I can’t believe me either Sela. Maybe I’m just as mad as he is.”

“You are pretty out there, but you are nothing like him. He will stop at nothing to see this corrupt nation conquer the world. I can’t believe I’m allowing you to convince me to do this.”

“We know that you and the kids have to be out of here Sela.”

They both knew at that point that they had to get down to the truck. The speech that was going on outside did not have much time left, and Hans had already been waiting for quite a while. As Sela was quickly gathering her children’s things, Peter ran to his closet to grab something for himself. As quickly as he got what he was after and got back to the kitchen, he, along with his wife and three kids took as much as they could carry in their small bags on their backs and headed down to Hans’ truck as secretively and as quietly as possible. Peter knew what this moment would mean to all of them. He could already feel his heart pounding in his chest as he got closer to the stadium that was filled to max capacity. “Sela--”

“I love you.”

When he could feel tears beginning to flow from his eyes he intently stared in his hers and said, “Upon great love have I built my life. Don’t be afraid to do so yourself.” He knew that he couldn’t scream or else he would let out a cry of grief as he watched them ride away. All of Peter’s preparation for what the next few minutes would contain was finally before him. He crouched beside a wall in the nearest alley, and took out the p38 he had strapped to his leg. With all possible finesse, he made his way to the rusty staircase just a few buildings over to find Erwin who had been expecting him. “I was starting to think I would to have to pull this off myself” Erwin said as he began preparing his rifle.

Kora Addington Kora is a sophomore English Major from Kennesaw, GA. She has always loved stories in their various forms and she has always been working on some kind of story since she was little. Since 2008 she has been working on her own historical fantasy series, but she enjoys writing short stories like these too. When she is on campus she is either in her classes, working with the cool people in the ARC, or at shooting practice for EC’s Archery Team. Once she graduates from Emmanuel she aspires to go on to complete a Master’s Degree in Professional or Dramatic Writing. She hopes you enjoy her stories in this year’s edition of Montage!

The Envelope Carlie sat down on the park bench, resting the crisp envelope clenched in her hands on her tensed lap. She glanced about her. There was no sign of him amid the pleasantly swaying trees and the leaves and flower petals being swept across the pathways that ran to and fro across the park. His outline didn’t appear against the bright sky or the green grass or the undulating waters of the pond. But she didn’t have to see him to know that he was there.

“Carlie. Oh, my sweet Carlie, there you are.”

She looked over her shoulder to see him standing there behind the bench.

“Hello,” she said, staring back at the envelope in her lap.

“You’re not even going to smile?” the man, the wrinkles much more prominent on his face now, his hair whiter, his eyes bluer, said as he sat down on the other side of the bench. Seeing Carlie shift her weight as far as she could away from him, he added, “Not so much as a ‘Dad’?”

“I would never call you ‘Dad’,” she said.

“But you did once.”

“I brought what you asked for.”

“I see that,” he said, glancing down to see the envelope, creased at the edges from where she’d been gripping it. She looked as if she were ready to throw it at him and sprint away. “But I’d love to catch up first. It’s been so long. You’ve gotten so old. And so beautiful. My sweet Carlie, it’s been too long.” Carlie relaxed her shoulders a bit, but clearly still didn’t fancy looking him in the face.

“What do you want to talk about?” she said.

“How’s Annie?”

“Annie’s fine. Finished with 10th grade now. She’s fine.”

“And you, all graduated from high school and everything. I’m so proud.” He beamed. “I’m sure you’ve done so well. I can remember when you were little, saying how when you went to “big-kid school” that one day you’d be a “Victorian.” You meant Valedictorian. And I’m not sure you even knew what that meant at the time. But I loved to hear about your dreams.” She kept staring ahead, looking like she hadn’t registered what he said. Then she gave a heavy sigh, cracking a strange smile.

“Yep. 18 now. So do you want it or not?”

“You know I really do want to see you. Why don’t you girls come to see me anymore? Why doesn’t Annie ever want to talk to me?”

“Why do you think?”

She finally looked at him, her eyes biting, her mouth tensed.

“Besides that, we’ve been busy,” she said. “We’ve been in school. It takes a lot of work to get all A’s, to do well in every class, to build a transcript that colleges actually want to see. And I’ve had to work jobs to keep us… going.”

“Why, can’t she pay for things? And let’s not forget all I pay-”

“She’s been sick. That kind of happens to people who hardly eat or sleep for working so hard, raising two kids all alone for over a decade.” “She wouldn’t have needed to do that had she let me stay in your lives. And besides that, every month I pay my share.” “Well, now you don’t have to, do you?” Carlie said, shoving the envelope into his hands. “Now you can go run to the state and tell them you don’t have to pay to support me anymore. You can go and tell them that you never wanted to anyway, you show them that and you never have to think about it or me another day of your life!”

He stared at her, lost for words.

“Go ahead, open it!” she hissed. “See what it is that you’re so proud of.”

“Carlie, you know I love you. I have always loved you and your sister. But you understand why I’m doing this, don’t you? I have-”

“Oh, yes, I’m fully aware. You have another family to take care of.”

He didn’t respond to that. They sat there for a few moments, her staring uncomfortably at her knees, him turning the envelope over in his hands.

“How is Natasha?” Carlie asked at length. “You’re married now, aren’t you?”

“She is good. Pregnant with Nicolai’s little sister. Yes.”

“And how is Nicolai? I guess he’s… 11 now, yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s brilliant. Can speak Russian and English. I mean, I guess it helps to have a mother who speaks Russian and a dad who speaks English. And he’s not nearly as smart as you or Annie were, even at half his age. But still. A good boy.” “I… I remember when he was born,” Carlie said, her face blankly reminiscent. “Well, not so much when he was born. But I remember that night when you told us you had a friend you wanted us to meet.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“God, I can’t believe I termed it like that.”

“I was 7 years old. Annie was only 5. How else were you supposed to term it?”

“Huh. I don’t even remember saying that.”

“You don’t remember a lot. You never did.”

“I tried.”

“I do remember it, though. I remember coming over to you guys’ apartment. And seeing her. And the baby. I remember thinking Natasha looked like Mom. An uglier version, clearly. But I was so confused.”

“What do you mean, confused?”

“I thought, for maybe 5 minutes that night, that Mom wasn’t my mom. That Natasha was supposed to be my mom. It was weird.”

“You what? Carlie, that’s insane.”

“Not to a 7 year old it isn’t. I remember coming back home to mom and asking her about it.”

“You did?”

“I did. She cried. I felt bad. I shouldn’t have had to feel bad.”

“Carlie… I’m sorry for making you-”

“You know, I only cried once.”

“I’m-” “It was the night, after weeks of visits, that I realized you didn’t actually live with us anymore. After my birthday coming and going and you only being there for maybe 5 minutes to give me my present. After you stopped coming home for dinners. After I had to start calling you at work to talk to you. One night, I broke down. I realized that we had been your family once. But we had been replaced. Now you had another family, and you loved them more.”

“Carlie, please please please don’t say that.”

“Say what you want about what you did, but you can never ignore that it changed us forever. Annie and I grew up differently because of you.”

“I know.”

“Don’t pretend that you know. Don’t pretend that your little mandatory monthly payment was enough. You left us with nothing.” “Carlie-” “We had hungry days because of you. We had nights spent sleeping in the car because of you. We had weeks without rest for fear of living paycheck to paycheck not being enough because of you. We grew up too fast. None of our friends understand us. Because of you.”

“Carlie, sweetheart.”

“And let’s not even start with my personal problems. You never showed us how boys are supposed to treat us, only how they’re not. So you can imagine how that’s gone for me. And for Annie. I’m starting to think every man on earth always does the same thing, he-” “If I could do things differently, if I could go back in time, you know I would. You know I would.”Carlie rose, still looking away from him. She clenched and unclenched her fists, opened and shut her eyes. Then resolutely, she lifted her head. There were no tears. No more sadness. No more anger. She turned to him, and the blue eyes that she had inherited from him looked into his.

“I know that you care about them.”

“I do. With all my heart.”

“So don’t do to them what you did to us.”

“You know I regret what I did.”

“I’m serious. No child deserves what you’ve put on us. No woman does either, but you don’t seem to care about them too much. So. Just think about that growing baby you have. That was me 18 years ago. I didn’t ask to be made. Neither did she. So. Think about us the next time you see somebody prettier or younger. Think about what you’ve destined them for. Don’t do that to them. Don’t do it again. Ever.” All he could see in his mind’s eye as she walked away was how those eyes, once so lively and childish, had pierced him so coldly. He watched her walk along the path of the park, until she finally receded beyond a grove of trees. What once was a little girl was now a grown woman. When had that happened?

He finally broke the seal on the envelope and pulled out its contents.

His eyes, taking on a tiredness that hadn’t been there before, poured over the words on the document: High School Diploma – Waverly High School. Class of 2015 – May 8th. He allowed his gaze to scroll down to the bottom on the page, his eyes tearing up as he spotted a word in lacing filigree stamped there: Valedictorian.

All in the Cards

I didn’t send her something for her birthday this year.

Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. I did send back all the cards she’d ever found. She’d given them to me on special days over the years. Rare ones, shiny ones, ones with mystery and spunk and quirk. That had been her way of showing that she cared. But I never used them when I played. She was a nice girl, patient in my times of brooding, beautiful in my times of boastfulness, receptive in my times of desire; but she knew nothing about playing SpellMaster games. She admired the cards she gave me for their beauty or imagery: The Tome of the Adventurer had a picture of a wonderfully leather-bound journal filled with sketches and maps, Trinkets of the Seafarer depicted a pile of obscure, mysterious brass tools and measuring devices engraved with runes and intriguing signs. Elaborate figures dressed in all hues of purples, reds, oranges, and greens danced about on Robes for the Ball. The last one she’d sent me when I moved into my dorm was a particularly exotic one with multicolored vague and hazy shapes dancing across it: the Incarnate Gem card. I really didn’t know what it was even supposed to be used for until after I gave it back. She chose each card as a gift for me, but in the end, they just weren’t my choice of style, not for real playing, and certainly not for tournaments. So after I made that fateful phone-call to her, the one that ended it all, I didn’t regret packing them away in a little box and sending them to her at her university that very night. It did tug at my card-collecting instincts, to be sending away such an investment, but I felt that in light of all the work she had done to give them, it was only right of me to send them back. The following months were lonelier than I imagined they would be. There’s always a quiet melody playing in your heart to fill the silence when you have a deep connection with someone, even when you’re far away. Now that silence was back. I resolved to fill it with other voices, with other choices, and most of all, playing with our friends, who were now just my friends. I took to SpellMaster as never before, feeling freer than I had in a long time to be able to play with reckless abandon, with no girlfriend or attachment lingering. As time went on, I heard less and less about her. At first, my friends wanted to talk about it all the time, to ask if I was alright or what really happened. Sometimes I wonder what made me turn so quickly from care to indifference. She herself even asked me the night I broke things off. I guess I can understand all their confusion. I myself didn’t really know.

I did try to figure it out there for a while, I really did. Whenever I went to sleep at night, my mind would always wander back to the same scene. We had gone on a weekend date in the historic down-town district. She had been humming a tune sweetly, as if on the verge of singing the words but she was just shy enough to refrain from it there in the openness of the square. It was a wet breezy day. We didn’t talk about much at all that day. Normally when we were together, we talked. We talked all the time! But a conversation – never. That’s why this day stood out so clearly in my memory, for though we hardly exchanged words, this was the closest we ever came to such a strange thing as a conversation. As we were walking along, her eyes suddenly seemed to light up. She grabbed my hand and flitted with me in tow toward a wooden gazebo in the center of the square. It was large and rectangular and looked like bands had held concerts there before. “Dance with me,” she said in that small voice that ever made my heart bounce. Her mouth curled up into an unsure, but painfully cute grin and I knew I could refuse. So I started to dance with her there under the gazebo as a slow lazy rain pelted the roof. I smiled at her. She radiated happiness. It didn’t matter that I didn’t like dancing too much. She loved it, and the fact that I would do it with her made her love me, I guess. I felt something then. At the time I didn’t know what it was. I thought it was an upwelling of emotion, that I felt so much for her I couldn’t place it. But as, night after night, I replayed the scene in my mind, I realized it wasn’t that at all. It was the fact that I lied to her about the dancing. And the fact that, honestly, I lied about everything. I was even a lie, a big one, and the only one that ever managed to dupe her. She was smart. She could do a million assignments at once and still pull top grades. She learned things a lot better than I did. So I wondered how she didn’t figure me out before I did. For me, I always think back to the cards. She seemed to know me well enough to always know what piqued my interest, what resonated with me. She learned who I was like she learned in class, thoroughly and expertly. Whenever she gave me one of those cards to mark a special occasion, I loved them for what they were, even if I didn’t intend on using them. But when it came to giving to her what she loved, I hadn’t a clue. All I knew was what interested me. She asked me once how to play that SpellMaster game that she’d given me the cards for. I told her there was no way she’d really like it. But, then again, what did I know about her? I’m now certain, absolutely nothing. It took a while, but after half a year, she was only a specter of the past for me, an afterthought that I only occasionally experienced as a background character in my dreams and nightmares. In seemingly no time at all, life blended on into new days, a new outlook, a new girlfriend – well, several - and varying new hairstyles. I was always out to try something new.It followed that when my friends told me about a regional SpellMaster conference and tournament that I jumped aboard. I’d never gone to play the game in such a grand setting before, and the new me embraced the idea wildly.

The day they told me about it, we must have talked for hours about what it would be like and how excited we were. One discussion turned into a several month long effort, with lengthy arguments on which decks to take to the tournament, what cards to change out, and what strategies to use. We must have played against each other more in those three months than we ever had before. I loved it. Sometimes my friends would be more distracted than I would have liked. I would catch them texting while I was trying to explain my latest idea or I would spy them messaging over the computer and researching facts about the game we hadn’t even remotely talked about. I would overhear some of them telling someone on the phone whom they “hadn’t talked to for a while” that they would be glad to meet up some time to play a match for fun. Not that this struck me as terribly unusual; naturally we each tried to get ahead of the others. We all wanted to make it far in the tournament. We all had those daydreams of winning and nightmares of floundering horribly. Trumpeting to life, the week of the conference arrived that summer. We all piled into my car and made the road trip in a day, flush with cash from our summer jobs and ready to spend it on cards and memorabilia. It turned out to be a grand event, with players from all around the region. We met so many interesting people from all walks, all joined together by this seemingly trivial game. In the lead up to the tournament, we got beaten several times, but we learned from each of these games, and won a few of our own as well. The night before the beginning of the tournament, we sat up in our hotel room, talking last minute strategy, getting to know the new cards we had bought inside and out, and discussing what each of us would do with the prize money. After a few hours, the guys left to go practice with somebody who was apparently really good. I let them go on, and went to sleep myself. I didn’t need any more practice. The following morning was a strange blur, made strange, I guess, by the fact that I simply kept winning. I breezed through my first match, careened through my second, smashed the third, and on and on. The day seemed to last an eternity, but it was a blessed one, packed with glorious battles and thrilling fights. There were moments when I feared I would not last, but that made the victory all the sweeter. By 2, I was in the quarter-finals, by 5, the semifinals. Dinnertime came and I knew I had made it to the final match. Going into this battle, I felt invincible, that nothing and no one could stop me or my deck. This match was to be unlike all the others. In all the ones that had lead up to this, I could see my opponent. We had been seated at the same table, playing on the same mats, seeing eye-to-eye. But this final match was to be a grand display of theatrics, a display everyone who had come to the conference would be excited to watch. Here, a wall divided the two booths meant for the opponents, so that neither would know who the other was. All they would each be able to see were the other player’s field of play and their hands, as there was a slit in the wall for this purpose. The room was full of brightly colored, flashing lights and monitors. This would be my stage of final victory.

I found myself standing on one side of the wall, knowing that my opponent stood on the other. The announcer came out onto the stage, followed by roaring applause. “Welcome to the final match of the 2015 SpellMaster Regional Championships!” he screamed through his microphone. My buddies whooped and hollered. I felt the excitement and that sick pre-match feeling swell up within me. Then I heard him announce my game name. “On the left side of the match table, we have the Martian Mage!” He paused and I waved to the audience on my side. “And on the right side, we have the Mailled Enchanter!” The crowd on the other side seemed to shake the building with their applause. This was it. I seated myself and shortly after my opponent did the same. The hands were somewhat small, but I couldn’t tell much else by the shadow the person cast. Whoever it was, he didn’t say a word, but I could hear everything the announcer said, and could see every card the guy laid down. So the game began, with loud energetic music, with wild cheers from the audience, with my friends yelling as I made my moves, with the announcer shouting in concentration or surprise or confusion as we each made move after move. The game seemed tedious for some time. I played well and was making progress toward my vision of how I would end the game, while my opponent seemed to be moving in small spurts and in random ways, never enough to take me down, but just enough to protect himself and spurn away my efforts at winning. It was more frustrating than anything else, the game inexplicably dragging on. No one seemed to really know who would win. Then, it was all too obvious. It was like watching a building and seeing all the individual bricks move just so, as if an invisible finger pushed them only enough to set it all falling apart. Everything I had built crumbled. That was what watching the end of this game and the beginning of my own defeat was like. My opponent had arranged it so perfectly. Just the right cards, for some reason in a sequence that seemed vaguely and eerily familiar, small and insignificant on their own, had been laid down in just the right position, that once he had drawn the final card that seemed minor on its own, it all crumbled, because together, these cards created an impenetrable, inescapable game-ending blow that wiped me out.

And what had been that final card?

Incarnate Gem.

It was truly a work of exquisite art, a thing of beauty, something that awed me completely and left me, though defeated, smiling. I stood, ready to rush around and congratulate the victor, to ask how on earth he did it, with what training, with what mindset it could have been done. In that little spurt of time, a strange excitement within me rose, anticipating meeting this mastermind and learning from him, maybe even becoming friends with

with him and coming back to beat him one day. The announcers led us both out onto the main stage and that’s when I saw my opponent for the first time. I looked into that face and froze. My eyes drifted down to the hands I had just been staring at during the entire game, the small ones that had laid out each card against me in the match. One of them held a handful of cards, and my mind rushed back to the game, to each play and each of the seemingly insignificant cards that had built themselves up to take me down in a mighty wave. They were flashed in my direction with a cold, knowing smile as the announcer held up my opponent’s other fist and shouted out the name of this night’s victor, “The Mailled Enchanter, everyone!” The cards were splayed out so I could see each one side by side: there was The Tome of the Adventurer, the one I had received for my 16th birthday. And the one in celebration of my first job, The Goddess Watercolor. The one for our 1st anniversary, Trinkets of the Seafarer. And the one for my 17th birthday, the one for our 2nd anniversary, the one for my 18th birthday, the one for my graduation and on they seemed to go. They were all there, and right in front, the crowning card, Incarnate Gem. Apparently I stood there more frozen then I realized, because the only thing that snapped me from my reverie was the announcer’s voice.

“Shake hands, now!” he bellowed. “What an incredible match, two amazing players!”

I reached out to shake my opponent’s hand, looking straight into those eyes. The soft grip of that handshake radiated a familiar warmth, a chilling feeling up my arm.

“Someone finally taught me how to play,” she said. “I knew I’d like it.”

Becca James Becca is an English major at Emmanuel College. She enjoys creative writing and regularly submits to Montage magazine.

An Artist’s Soul My eyes remain closed, yet they shift back and forth rapidly. People must often think that I am reading a novel on the back of my lids, but really I am just seeing. Seeing. It’s both a blessing and a curse. It started when I was about seven. Fourteen years later, I’m still having seeing spells. My mind will start feeling fuzzy; something will poke at my consciousness. Whatever is nearby will start blurring together. All of the vivid reds, greens, and blues usually blend into a black abyss, and I’ll just sort of pass out, if you will, for a minute or two. Then, it comes to me. The vision, the seeing. Normally, it’s to warn me someone is in trouble or to prompt me to give someone important information. And normally, I am far from attached to whatever the situation, though I often feel the repercussions of it: pain, elation, sadness, surprise, confusion, fear, you name it.

But this time – this time was different.

I could make out a petite figure with short, scraggly hair. He jumped around his yard, shooting his basketball for two-pointers and working hard to slam-dunk. His shoelaces danced around him, untied and free. His face glowed, and I could tell that he was content with his small world. As soon as I settled in to observe this adorable creature, the picture transitioned into a middle-school setting. Kids raced up and down hallways trying to make it before the bell rang for a second time. There he was, strolling his way through the crowd, eyes wide as he surveyed those around him. He was observant from what I gathered. All too quickly, the scene changed again. He was standing among the football fans who were in an uproar because their team had just scored. He smiled at the touchdown, and I felt a pang go through my heart.

That smile, I thought. Wait, what? No, stay focused on the picture.

No sooner did I think that, everything kaleidoscoped into the image of a college. He was bent over at his desk in his dorm room. His hair swooped across his eyes, obscuring them, and I couldn’t exactly tell what he was thinking, but I sure knew what he was feeling. Anger, I noted. Something has pushed him to become frustrated. Something – “Yara!” I heard a shriek. I jolted upright and squinted up at the bright light of my kitchen.

“Wh-wh-what?” I shouted.

“It happened, didn’t it?” My best friend was sitting on her legs, rocking back and

forth with a pained expression.

“Nova, what do you mean? It’s only been, like, five minutes…”

“Ha, five minutes. Five minutes would have made a whole lot more sense. Wouldn’t have been normal, but definitely would have made more sense. Two hours is more like it. Two. Hours!” She frantically wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed her elbows, something she always did to calm her nerves. The room swirled; an excruciating headache crept up behind my left eye. I replayed his smile in my head, and then his anger welled up inside my chest. I wanted to fight or kill or scream at whatever was causing his anger. I wanted to push it away for him. “Two hours is – that’s – I don’t know.” My thoughts were scattered, and collecting them took strength that I didn’t have. After a moment of silence, Nova gathered herself and got up to fetch a glass of water which she so kindly brought back to me. “Your headache is worse than the other times.” Nova had knowing. She could assess a situation or an atmosphere as quick as lightning. It was similar to seeing but less complicated and intricate. She didn’t have visions. She had a type of discernment or decoding. “Yes. I may vomit.” I disclosed. She pulled my head into her lap and stroked my long, chestnut-colored hair. This was another one of her talents. Touching. People with this ability could soothe away night terrors, sicknesses, aches, and wounds. “Tell me. What all did you see?” We went through this process after every vision. We fed off of each other’s gifts like we were taught to do in our special seminary. She would decipher this vision for sure. She had to. “There was this boy,” I started, “I saw snippets of his life: places where he looked happy, scared, angry.” I choked on the last word because it stung the tip of my tongue. I shifted uncomfortably in her lap. I felt the bile make its way up my esophagus, and I wasn’t sure I would make it to the trash can or sink. Immediately, Nova leaned over my stomach and placed her hands in the center. “Breathe in slowly through your nose, then breathe out slowly through your mouth,” she ordered. I didn’t hesitate to follow instructions, and I felt my nausea being drawn into her hands. She suddenly pulled herself from me and raced to the trashcan before releasing vomit into it. Backlash. That’s what we call our gifts’ consequences. We don’t choose our gifts – they choose us, and we feel special and unique. But like everything else in the world, there are consequences to them. Just like with my visions’ repercussions, everyone has to deal with a downside. Sadly, for Nova, when she takes away someone’s terrors, sicknesses,

aches, or wounds, she is left with them. There is a reprieve, however, and that is the fact that she doesn’t have to carry them for long. Her longest-endured hell was only about thirty-four hours. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. She quieted my apologies and urged me to continue with the story of the vision. “He was pale. His face symmetrical with dimples. He had a strong build, and he was rather tall. I’d say at least six-one if I set him beside my five-four frame, and he had some scruffy dark brown hair. He looked a tad preppy. There wasn’t any kind of urgency in any of the images. The only red flag was his anger at the end of it before you scared me half to death and purged me from seeing any more.”

“Leo,” Nova interrupted my scorning. Leo. Leo…. His name. My mind reeled.

“Okay? What’s the significance?”

“Well, I…” A bewildered look crossed her face and she shied away behind her blond bangs. I had never experienced this reaction from her before in all of our ten years of friendship. She knew everything. It was in her nature to know. “I’m sorry, Yara. I can’t,” she paused and furrowed her brows, “There’s nothing to latch onto. I’m not drawing any conclusions.” Panic ensued, and heaviness buried itself into my heart. The fuzziness was returning. All of the sudden, I felt the wave crashing over me once more, and I had no alternative to letting it take me under. He was in an alley late at night. The only light I could make out was the pink neon sign in a nearby diner window that read: Closed. Leo, what are you doing? I wanted to ask him so badly. I felt a sense of danger with him out here all alone, but I couldn’t put a finger on why. I didn’t even know the guy, but I felt so eerily connected to him, to his heart and soul, as if I had known him all my life. I just wanted to protect him, I guess. I hadn’t noticed that he was moving toward me. Adrenaline pulsated through my veins when his eyes locked with mine. Can you see me? I questioned internally. Yes. Leo’s whisper echoed in the corners of my mind in reply, and I felt my breath catch.

How is this possible?

Easy. I came to find you, Yara. I’ve been searching for you.

Why? What is it? What’s the matter? I genuinely cared and wanted to do anything in my power to be the answer to his questions.

You have seeing. You’re the key to my freedom. I thought you’d never come.

I don’t know what you’re getting at, Leo. None of this is registering. I can say that I feel as though you have been a part of me, but I can’t explain why. As I rambled on, he drew closer and stood over me. I craned my neck to look up at him, and he grasped for my hand. But there was nothing. I couldn’t feel him. In fact, I couldn’t touch him at all because of the barricade. What felt like fire surged through my arm, and I yelped in pain. He, in turn, cried out at the burning sensation. I’m so sorry, Yara. Are you okay? You look hurt. I thought this would be less complicated. No, I’ll be fine. I promise. You thought what would be less complicated? You’re still speaking in riddles! I waved my arms at him, trying harder to emphasize my point. They said it wasn’t possible, that it’d never work. Even after centuries, I have gotten you though. I need you, Yara. I’m stuck in this realm. I’m not living nor dead, rather I am a creature of visions. Who is they? How and why are you trapped? I’ve not even been alive for centuries, Leo. I need you to be more specific. I need you to be clear. Tell me what I’m to do. I know nothing. I’m just as lost as you are trapped. You’re my rescuer. Only you can complete this task. I need you. It was useless. He continued like a broken record with no progress. Tears streamed down my face, and, more than frustrated, I decided I just wanted to wake up. At that, his voice faded away, and I was sucked out of my vision. I felt tissues blot my face. “You were wailing while you were out,” Nova stated. “I did my best to soothe away what I could, but whatever it is you’re seeing is the most intense and powerful thing yet.” “But it’s pointless. You were right; there’s nothing to latch onto. I’m not getting anywhere with him. None of what he is saying has relevance. I’m better off trying to talk to a wall at this rate. But, God, do I want to help him!” I burst out. I kicked my foot into the kitchen cabinet with as much force as I could muster, leaving a gigantic hole. I had never been so distraught in my life. I picked myself up and started pacing to relieve my stress. Nova joined in, and we circled around each other for what seemed like ages. “I HAVE IT!” Nova blared at the top of her lungs, startling my deep thoughts. “Do you remember in seminary when the professors taught us that sometimes certain people’s gifts are even more extraordinary than others?” I nodded and pretended I knew

where she was going with her thought. “Well,” she beamed, “maybe you’re one of those people. You are going through something that is extreme compared to all other visions you, and well, pretty much all of our kinds’ history, has ever known. There must be another aspect of your gift.” If there’s nothing else I can count on Nova for, it’s her wisdom and her trustworthiness. She had to be right. There was no other way. “I think I have a plan,” I assured her in response. After mulling it over, I figured it was worth a shot. “Nova, lie down beside me,” I initiated as I made my way back down to the kitchen floor. She did as she was told with no questions or retort. “Grab my hand now,” I said. I felt her fingers wrap around mine. “Close your eyes and do some concentrated breathing.” She didn’t hesitate. “You’re able to take other people’s obstacles through touching, but maybe you can also take a part of my gift to go with me into my vision. Maybe you yourself have some secret talent stored up, another facet to your gift” I explained as I closed my eyes, too. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she breathed.

Within a split second, I was back inside my vision with Leo, except this time I felt Nova’s hand in mine. I could touch her even though fire separated Leo and me from making contact. Who is she? What is she doing here? Is she one of them? Leo’s voice boomed in my brain, and I flinched. Leo, calm down. Relax. She is a friend. Her name is Nova, and she’s here to assist me. She also wants to help you.

“What’s he saying?” Nova inquired.

“He was scared of you. He thought you were one of the people who put him here.” I let go of her hand and motioned for Leo to come closer once more.

Do you trust me? I pleaded softly.

Always, Yara. I’ve never doubted you.

Simultaneously to Leo and Nova, I described what needed to transpire. “He needs to grab my hand, but right as he does, you have to focus all your energy on taking the burn away. If you can’t remove the flame, we will never be able to connect. It’ll be on the count of three.” Understood. Leo was ready.

“Roger that,” Nova got into position.

I began the countdown. “One…

Two…” Three…” I extended my arms to Leo, and he met me halfway, placing his hands against mine and gritting his teeth to bear the agony. On cue, Nova stretched her hands up, grabbed our arms, and with every fiber of her being, extracted the fire and the burn from us. Leo and I clasped each other’s hands fully, and in a fraction of a second, we were all back inside my tiny apartment’s kitchen. Leo collapsed to the floor beside Nova and me. He was unconscious and his chest was not falling and rising. I cried in fear. “No, no, Leo. Please,” I implored. Nova brushed me aside gently and placed her hands on his chest. She pulled away his discomfort and whatever was blocking his air passages, and he coughed back to life. I threw my arms around him in acknowledgment of everything that had reformed in my memory the moment we were back in reality. My Leo. My husband. The one I have traveled through time and space with. The one that has been my soulmate in every life we have lived since the beginning of time. Every lifetime, we get the memories of our gifts, and pieces of our past lives. But every lifetime, we get a new goal. No one knows what our missions are until after we have achieved our objectives, and then it races back to us as if we had never missed a beat. “I missed you so much.” My voice quaked, and I bit my lip to hold back the flow of tears that was pinching my throat. “I knew you’d be able to reach me again. I knew your love for me was unbreakable and unwavering.” He caressed my cheek and wiped away the escaped tear. “Yara,” Nova politely interjected. “You’ve done it. The professors of our seminary and I are so proud of you! Not only have you proven to us that love can transcend centuries and probably millennia , but you have proven that not even the gifts can keep what is meant to be from being. The professors dug very well and deeply into the seeing dimensions to hide Leo, but even when you weren’t looking for him directly, you knew where he was, you found him, and you saved him.” It’s true. It’s amazing and beautiful. What I know and what I feel are inevitable, and when your heart ties itself to one person, and one person only, there is no going back. It’s all or nothing, forever…and ever….and ever. No matter how many times he would be pulled away from me in this lifetime or the next, he would never cease to be my always and forever.

Black and Blue: Exerpt Darius We had to move out of the apartment. It was right after Dad left; Mom came rushing into my room, yelling at me to pack a bag, that we had to leave right away. She was crying a lot, kind of blubbery and hysterical. I was scared, but she said, “Darius, Dad’s gone. I need you to be strong.” Her lips quivered, and she closed her eyes, forcing back tears as she allowed herself a moment of weakness. “For me.” And I did. Right there, in that split second, I took over being man of the house. I grabbed just my favorite things and as many clothes as I could, and I started helping Mom. She only brought a few clothes, almost all of Dad’s clothes, and the album of their wedding. Then we started throwing as much food as we could into bags. I moved quickly, focusing on trying not be scared even though I heard screaming downstairs and some kind of chant, an eerie chant that started quietly and slowly got stronger and stronger. I heard shots fired and one particular shriek that made my blood run cold; I never understood that saying when I read it until that moment. I saw Mom’s blood run cold, too; her face drooped and her eyes went wide and the color ran from her flushed cheeks. Then she stopped for just a second and whispered: “Darius, you must not say a word. Grab your bags and follow me.” I grabbed everything I could, but then I remembered: the picture of Dad holding me as a baby. If Dad was really gone, that was all I had of him! I hollered, “Wait, Mom!” She shuddered and whirled around, her index finger against her lips. I didn’t hear what she whispered because I tore out of there to my room, grabbing the picture and heading back to the main room. By the big window next to my wide open door, I froze. Mom was on her knees with a gun pointed at her head, a dark black man dressed in baggy jeans and an oversized shirt with something red wrapped tight around his head. His nose was crooked and his eyes were jet black and swollen, like he’d been hit a whole lot. No one else was there. “You’re his wife, right,” the man growled. Mom didn’t move. My muscles started to shake as I noticed drops of sweat trickle down her ebony skin. Her eyes drifted toward me then closed, a tear running down her cheek.

“Bitch,” he screamed, “I’m talkin’ to you! Are you his wife?”

Mom didn’t say a word, and the man pulled back and clobbered her in the face with the gun. She fell to the floor, the bags scattering all around her and blood spatter-

ing from her split lip, and then the man saw me. “I’ll bet we can make this guy talk,” he said, pulling on his gun until it made a clicking noise. I stepped backwards slowly, my eyes wildly surveying the situation. Mom started begging him to come back to her, but he just swaggered over to me. I was thinking fast, my mind racing on repeat, “What would Dad do? What would Dad do?” Mom kept begging, and the man whirled around and gave her a swift kick to the gut. She started sputtering just as this beast feeling rose up in my chest;I felt like an animal. I got so angry that I could hardly see straight. I suddenly felt my hand burning and looked down. I had grabbed a handful of ashes from the small, makeshift fireplace Dad had built last week. The next thing I knew, I was screaming, “Leave my Mom alone!” I blindly flung the ashes at the man, who yowled in pain and frustration as he grabbed at his eyes. Mom struggled up and grabbed his ankle, yanking him to the ground. His head hit the wall sharply, and his howls suddenly subsided. My sight returned to normal almost instantaneously as I processed what just happened, but Mom was already struggling to her feet, restuffing the bags and snapping her fingers at me, “Darius, come on! We have to go out the window!” I grabbed my bags, followed Mom to the window, looked down, then grabbed her arm. “I’ll go first; you’re hurt.” She nodded appreciatively. The fire escape landing was about four stories high from the ground. Taking the groceries to the ground first, I had determined to free up my hands so I could help Mom better. She was hurt, but she could still climb. We got to the ground, and she looked around sadly. I could tell she didn’t know what to do now. I tugged on her arm. “Mom, the police station is two blocks down and there’s a cut through in the park,” I panted. “We have to hurry.” Just as I filled my arms with bags, something grazed my arm and the groceries and clothes spilled across the street. Mom looked up and screamed, throwing herself over me as she again restuffed the bags. I tried to look over her shoulder and saw the same black man leering over us, a pistol pointed at us and his finger slowly pulling the trigger back, taunting us with imminent death. I closed my eyes, imagining seeing Dad again any second now, when I heard a distinct click. Click. Click. Click. Opening my eyes again, I saw the black man’s sneering change quickly to frustration as he tried to shoot the empty gun. Taking that second, I grabbed as many bags as I could and used my knee to shove Mom forward as gently yet as urgently as possible. She reached back, desperate to have as many of Dad’s clothes as possible, but, looking up, I realized this was no time to allow her to be nostalgic. Sliding the bags up my arm, I pulled on Mom’s elbow, dragging her down the street, screaming at her to run to the edge of the building, to shelter. She turned to me, tears in her eyes, just as the man located a second magazine, that evil, excited grin creeping across his lips again. I kept pulling Mom, our movements so fast and jagged that cans spilled out of the grocery bags and clothes began to hang over the edges, threatening to

spill as well. My arm was dripping blood like oil running down my dark skin, but the graze was not enough to gush too much and the adrenaline of my fight or flight reaction completely blinded me to the pain. Rounding the corner of the building, I skidded to a halt, yanking Mom to rest against the corner, her weeping causing her whole body to shake as she hit the ground. The click of the magazine in the pistol echoed down the alley, and my mind raced to try to remember how to get to the station, to shelter, to safety. “Mom,” I said, kneeling in front of her. “Mom,” I finally screamed, shaking her violently to her senses. “We have to keep moving. Get up. We’re going to stay as close to the building as possible and run back to Main Street until we hit the park. There, we can travel through the trees next to the creek until we get to the station. Maybe someone will call the cops before we get there, too.” A bullet crashed into the concrete about a yard away from us. Mom and I jumped, both of us thinking the same thing: will we be dead soon? Slaughtered by people who call us their own? I refused to die like an animal, and if Dad was dead and not just gone, I would not die myself lying down. His disappearance, nor his death, could be in vain. Mom stood up, her tears subsiding in lieu of fear, driving her to find safety for her and her son. “I’ll follow you,” she said, her knuckles lightening as she tightly gripped the bags. I nodded, moving closer to the wall and running against it, my eyes narrowed onto the Main Street sign ahead. I heard screams in the apartment building next to us, but I spurred on, even when I heard the rumbling of heavy feet slamming down the stairwell. I kept on, my mom close on my heels, both of us focused heavily on Main Street. Main Street. Main Street. It was like tunnel vision; it seemed to be getting farther away no matter how fast we moved toward it, so much so that I slid to a stop when I finally stood under the sign at the section of Main and 4th. Mom slammed into my back, reeling a little from the impact. I hastily looked around, not daring to look behind me, until I saw the sign from the park. We continued, running as fast as we could with all of our baggage, jumping low fences, crawling under high ones, barreling through what used to be beautiful gardens and now were knee high weeds with various trampled paths running through them. Other than the occasional shouts and shots trailing us, it was eerily silent. There were no lights in the buildings, no noises descending from residents, not even the bark of a dog in the street. No one dared to expose their presence while the gangs ran rampant and thirsty for blood. Finally, the low hanging branches of the trees in the park beckoned us in, the overgrown paths finally falling under our feet. We hunched down lower, nearly crawling through the kudzu and weed growth. Suddenly, Mom tapped my shoulder, her index finger again pushed against her lips, her eyes rolling into her head, indicating a noise coming

from behind us. We froze, anxiously listening. Footsteps came closer, thundering with the weight of numbers. Voices shouted amongst each other, threats and commands to find us bouncing around. I have no idea how long we stood frozen; it seemed as though we had to actually dethaw our limbs before moving on we stayed crouched so long, but eventually the voices moved back toward Main, away from us. I waited until they were nearly silent, then gestured Mom on. We trekked through the overgrowth again, following the creek until it ended in a bridge with a sign pointing toward a hospital and the police station. Looking all around before continuing, we broke out into the open street in a full sprint, our eyes locked desperately on the buildings looming before us. I didn’t realize I’d been biting my lip the whole time until I finally began to taste leaden blood circling around my tongue. Jake Lavon’s kid and wife came today. I don’t quite know how to handle the reality of him being gone yet, and I don’t know really which is harder: the fact that one of my best friends was probably slaughtered like cattle or the fact that the same thing could happen to me in an instant. I’m surprised and disappointed in Lavon, too. He had never explained anything to his son; in fact, he’s kept him in the dark about everything going on, his only education of any kind coming from within the home and from the kid’s mother. Not that that’s bad, I just….I don’t know, I guess I would have been more prepared. Nina had no idea where to go or what to do when he was gone. At least I prepared Catherine, for all the good it did. I guess there’s really no way to prepare today for anything; all the preparation I did, and she still didn’t survive. Darius looks just like Lavon: he’s tall with the same deep brown skin, so very different from his mother’s dark ebony complexion. His eyes have the same dark tint with a slight golden hue; his build is chiseled, like those days he spent poring over books were actually spent rolling giant stones. No wonder Nina can hardly bring herself to get out of bed and look at her son; every time she sees him, she sees Lavon. Darius carries few of Nina’s qualities; he is courageous where she is nervous. He towers over her not only physically but in strength of character; Nina is quietly strong when it comes to intellect and the ability to convey the importance of mental preparation, but Darius has the ability to make quick decisions for survival. Watch is on me tonight for the first six hours, so I’m pondering all this as I stare out at the wreckage of the last days before the world fell apart. Well, not the world; the world as we know it. The America as we know it.

I wonder if Lavon taught Darius how to wield a weapon and be a guard; we can induct him as an officer later. I hope no one tells him the truth about his dad, or he’ll probably leave us to be an agent. I don’t wish that on him.

Two thirty. Half an hour left until MacArthur relieves me, and I can finally…

Is that a light over by the back pile of cars? It’s flashing, like it’s a signal or something. I prop my binoculars against my eyes, intently looking for the flash of white. It’s gone now, but something is definitely moving over there. I grab my radio, calling for MacArthur and the Lieutenant, then anxiously wait several minutes, trying to keep my eye on the movement. It’s like something flowing gently in the wind, almost like a river reed. My eyes start to water from the strain of maintaining my focus, and I can feel my eyelid begin to twitch. I know I can’t blink; I’ve seen it now, called for a second set of eyes, plus we have no idea what or who it is. MacArthur comes barreling through the door first, his huge shoulders shoving the metal paneling aside as he practically leaps to my side. “Lieutenant’s on his way. They out late again?” “I don’t know,” I respond slowly, my eyes having never left their mission. “Something’s been moving, almost flashing, but I can’t quite figure it out. It might be too far, but then it also might just be someone trying to hide.” MacArthur spits on the ground before squinting determinedly in the direction where my binoculars are pointing. Several seconds pass before he spits again, murmuring, “Shit, I don’t see nothin’.” “You don’t,” stated a deep, authoritative voice from behind me and MacArthur, arising so suddenly that we both jumped. Looking over my shoulder as MacArthur spun around to stand at attention, both of our eyes landed on the short, squat, and yet remarkably chiseled frame of the lieutenant. I notice his eyes are fixed on MacArthur, waiting for confirmation, but it won’t be long before he is interrogating me.

He asks again. “You don’t see what Harrison sees, MacArthur?”

“No sir,” MacArthur replies mechanically, almost nervously. Old army habits die hard. Lieutenant nods slowly before looking toward me. I can feel his eyes boring into my back as my own eyes desperately search for the flash of white.

“Harrison? Let me have a look.”

I sigh, aware that I may have created a highly unbelievable situation for myself. Inside, I am chastising myself for my trigger happy mind. Lieutenant steadily takes the binoculars and methodically raises them to his face. MacArthur step to stand behind him, waiting to hear his diagnosis of the situation. After several minutes of silence other than an occasional “Hmmm,” he lowers the binoculars but does not turn around. “Harrison,” he says flatly. I step forward. “Sir?”

“What exactly was it that you saw?” The verb tense is not lost on me; he saw nothing.

“Sir, I thought I saw some sort of a flash of white, like a light or flash of bright clothing or…sir, I know it’s crazy, but something was out there just a few minutes ago.” Lieutenant pursed his lips and looked up, his already slightly wrinkled forehead developing deeper crinkles. “Harrison, I believe you, but I need to know if you thought whatever you saw was a plea for help or anything dangerous. Our man power is low, and you already know Deschampes’s murder or disappearance or what have you has any free officers terrified to leave.” “I understand, sir. Whatever it was was so brief and slight in it’s presence that likely it presents no threat. Its inconsistency leads me to believe it was not a cry for help.” “So, what would you propose to deal with the potential of a threat, since there is some level of uncertainty which you feel.” MacArthur stares at me, silently pleading with me not to leave such an uncertain responsibility on his shoulders. I chuckle in my mind; to be such a large man whose build is so intimidating, he really is easily intimidated. Damn it. I feel bad leaving this burden on him alone. “Lieutenant, I recommend that the watch continues as scheduled tonight, but that I remain out here as well. I can sleep in intervals and check the exact spot to ensure that if it is a cry for help, I see it, and if it is something dangerous, we become aware of it.” Lieutenant considers it briefly, his lips still pursed and his forehead still wrinkled. “10-4. See you in the morning, boys.” I turned a halfstep away from him, allowing him to pass back through the door. MacArthur visibly shrunk once the door shut, his shoulders slouching and his head hanging in relaxation, shaking back and forth. “Gah,” he said, rub-

-bing the back of his neck. “I have been cussed at and threatened by some really intimidating men, but Lieutenant scares the shit out of me with just a look!” We share a laugh, and I nod agreeably. “You can go on, man, I can stay until next watch is here.” MacArthur steps up and slaps me on the back, grabbing my shoulder and squeezing it. “Nah, I’m next watch, and I can start now. Why don’t you lay down in the corner and grab some sleep? You’ve got a long night. I’ll wake you up in half an hour.” I do as he says, making a pillow out of my Kevlar and curling into a ball in the corner. I dream of a starkly white face, completely circular and with large black eyes, as if painted by a child. It’s body is bright red and flowing like a loose curtain. All I hear is laughter like that of a child, shattered by the ringing of gunshots and the breaking of glass. The face seems to have a hand gripping a candle, waving it desperately as if trying to catch my attention. I reach out to grab the bodiless face, but it keeps evading my fingers. A final gunshot rings, silencing the laughter, and the eyes on the face seem to close as the white spreads over the black and the red spreads upward, trickling like blood through the puddling eyes. Jonathan I’d been hiding in the old grocery store off the main street in the south part of the city for weeks, since they left me. Damn bum leg. No one can afford to have an injury nowadays. The Bloods…ha! Family, if you can keep up. The swelling had gone down the day the cops found me; I remember because I limped away from them a lot easier than I’d limped after the gang when they left me. I’d been lying by my makeshift fire, shivering under old clerk aprons I’d dug out of a closet. They were green, much like the mold that made them smell rotten from rain seeping through the holes in the roof over the years. They reeked, but what else was I to use to keep out the cold? I’d lost so much weight that staying warm had gotten difficult and my once thick, blonde hair was now thin and stringy. Between the aprons and the fire concocted from old newspapers and a handful of dry matches, I had comfortably found myself in a sleeping stupor, entirely wiped out by pain and warmth, nostalgia and despair. The clang of the doors didn’t wake me up, neither did the thumping of boots down the store aisles. I didn’t even budge when that guy pushed open the office door, the hinges screeching against the work. All that noise, and what finally made my eyes fly open was the cop leaning over me to look at my face.

“What the hell,” I screamed, throwing off the aprons and trying to kick away from him, my bad leg shaking nimbly with the effort but not putting up a fight. I groped my hands around behind me, my eyes locked tightly on his, until I found a pile of dust and dirt. I wrapped my fingers around a handful and flung it forward, watching as it hit the guy square in the face. He cried out and crumpled into a ball, wiping his eyes frantically while I took the chance to make way for the door. Just as I had army crawled my way to the edge and had curled my fingers around the outer corner to pull the door open, I felt the warmth of a hand on my shoulder, and I found myself slammed back into the ground. “You go out that door on your own and you’re likely to get shot,” he hissed, his nose inches from my own, his eyes wide and commanding. Not one to take orders, I huffed my dissent at such an order and tried desperately to push past him until my desire to stay alive overcame my frustration. My breathing slowed as I jerked my shoulder from his grip, rubbing it as though he had somehow dirtied it with his touch. He let me scoot away from him until my back hit the side wall of the office where I’d made a temporary home; he didn’t follow me, but instead looked at me warily and yet with concern.

Several silent seconds passed.

“What do you think,” I spat viciously, despising this man for invading my home.

“Just you then?”

“Parents,” he finally asked, looking around the office.

I waved my arms around the office. “Naw, man, I got a whole family living in here,” I said sarcastically. He nodded, still looking around until his eyes landed on my leg, which had fallen at an awkward angle in the scuffling and now throbbed painfully.

“What happened,” he asked, jerking his chin towards my leg.

I shrug. “What’s it to you?”

He lowered from his crouch to a seated position, clasping his hands around his knees.

“Okay, then, want to at least tell me why you’re alone?”

I shook my head; he nodded his in response.

“How about this? For me to leave this office, you have to answer three questions. Deal?” I look him up and down, taking in his blue uniform, the single pistol dangling from his belt next to a set of handcuffs, the thickness of a bullet-proof vest bulging at his chest. Having sized him up, I consented with a single nod. “Alright,” he said, standing back up and resting his hands on his pistol. “How old are you?” “Fourteen.”

“Parents: dead or alive?”

“Dead.”

“Gang member?”

“Was.”

The guy froze, his eyes curiously looking into mine. “Was,” he repeated.

“Was,” I said again. I waved my arms around me. “See anybody else here, man? Ain’t got no weapons, ain’t got no bed, ain’t got shit. So, yeah, I was a gang member.” The guy looked around my office, probably taking in my soiled newspapers, the crushed cans of food, the holes gouged out in the ceiling for light, and the makeshift cigarette butts littering the ground.

“So, you’re just living here…by yourself….,” he asked.

“You said three questions and you’d leave,” I snapped. He threw his hands up in friendly surrender. “You’re right,” he said, backing up. Then he saw my leg, which I had stupidly allowed to lay at an awkward angle, making the injury that much more obvious. He pointed to it questioningly. “Three questions, man, you reached your limit,” I growled, shuffling up on my elbows and trying to scoot away, but he decided to help me. He wrapped his fingers around my bicep and tried to help me lift. I jerked my arm away but ended up falling backwards clumsily, which threw my knee into a painful position, and I cried out. He immediately

let go in shock, and I shoved him with my shoulder as best I could, making him fall onto my toes, which only made me scream even more. He rolled off and yelled for some people to come quickly. Others dressed like this guy showed up, looking confused and curious then on edge when their eyes hit me. The guy looked up at them, barking out commands. I was too busy trying to scuffle away to catch much more than, “He’s a kid…nobody with him…needs help…we have to!” I had made my way to the wall and helped myself up to standing, my breath coming in painful droves. “I’m…not…going…anywhere….,” I huffed. The guy waved my words away, returning to standing. “You have no one here and you’re hurt. You don’t have much choice.” He walked over to me and grabbed my shoulder and squeezed, trying to be reassuring, but I was absolutely not going; I said as much when I pushed off the wall and slammed into him. The full weight of my body knocked him over, and I landed on top of him. He was coughing, trying to catch his breath, as his peers reached out to grab me. I started swinging, my pale and skinny arms flailing madly at any spot they could hit. The men must have been expecting it because they ducked and weaved, trying desperately to avoid my juvenile hits. The guy below me finally pushed me off, and as I hit the ground, he wrapped his arms around me, trying to keep me in one place. I threw my head back and crushed my skull into his cheekbone. He cried out in pain and dropped me. I turned around on my elbow and punched him again for good measure. He howled again, and I felt hands grab both of my shoulder and jerk me to standing, which made me scream again as all of my weight hit my injured legs. The pig I roasted stood up and slammed his finger against my chest. “Look here, you little asshole, I don’t care how bad you beat my ass; you’re a kid. You need help. I’m here to help. So the best thing you can do right now is give in, sit still, and let us dress up your leg.” I surveyed my situation and saw there’s no way out. I watched a bead of blood trickle down the cop’s face and felt pride swelling up in my chest. Maybe if this gets out, the gang will want me back. Spurred on by this hope, I surrendered.

The Truth About Fairy Tales SETTING is a very girly office, which must include a bulletin board with various princess pictures, a rocking chair, a shelf with a big book entitled “Princess Records” and accompanied by a quill, and a second chair facing rocking chair. CHARACTERS are Fairy Godmother, Cinderella, Rapunzel, and Aerial. FAIRY GODMOTHER is an older woman who is well-dressed and very girly; she looks very grandmotherly and cheerful. Her wardrobe can be stereotypical fairy tale garb or something like a pink and frilly business suit. CINDERELLA is a princess who is dressed very fancy upon arrival as she was planning to attend a mask ball at the monarchs’ castle; when she enters, she is wearing one clear shoe and is visibly flustered and looks as though she has pushed through a storm. Her character very much has the typical “diva” personality. RAPUNZEL is another princess whose dress can either be very fancy (considering she anticipated a prince) or very simple (considering she anticipated traveling with her prince); either will work. Her hair is very short and choppy, specifically looking as though she hastily cut it off. However she dresses, it should look like she has crawled down the side of a tower; for example, there should be towers and some mud. Her character is a little “ditzy.” AERIAL is an underwater mermaid princess; ideally, her hair should be wet or at least very messy and wet-looking. It should look like she swam a great distance and then army crawled through a storm to the Fairy Godmother’s door. Aerial’s character exhibits a tough personality, much like a character with “street smarts.” (LIGHTS UP on FAIRY GODMOTHER entering the stage with a picture in hand, looking very satisfied with herself) FAIRY GODMOTHER: Ah, my work is finished! (Walks over to bulletin board and attaches a picture of a very pretty girl to it proudly, obviously creating a brag board of sorts; walks over to her rocking chair and settles into a seat, beginning to rock and close her eyes to rest). What a successful evening! Aurora has been awakened by her prince, Snow White has been freed, and Cinderella has been….

(Enter CINDERELLA, looking very frazzled – drenched, if possible – and covered in sticks and brush as though trumping through a forest in a storm) CINDERELLA: (to FAIRY GODMOTHER) I’ve got a bone to pick with you! (Storms over to FAIRY GODMOTHER, yanking the shocked lady from her chair and grabbing her collar to look her full in the face, shaking her slightly) FAIRY GODMOTHER (nervously): Cinderella….um, d-d-d-dear….aren’t you supposed to be at the mask ball…. CINDERELLA: (pulling FAIRY GODMOTHER closer, looking more and more crazed and speaking slowly and quietly, emphasizing the end of the phrase) …does it look like I’m at the ball?! (Cinderella throws FAIRY GODMOTHER backwards, causing FAIRY GODMOTHER to stumble a little, but then she recuperates, smoothing out her dress and regaining her composure and seat; FAIRY GODMOTHER gestures toward opposite chair for Cinderella to sit) CINDERELLA: (taking the seat) You said the shoe would fit! You said the glass slipper would be perfect, and the Prince would know it was me, and then I’d be whisked away to his mask ball and on into happily ever after! FAIRY GODMOTHER: And something went wrong? CINDERELLA: (angrily) Yes, something went wrong! What did you think happened?! The shoe fit my stepsister! My stepsister! Can you imagine the horror of having to watch her snide, arrogant face break into the most satisfied of grins as the slipper glided onto her foot just as I finally broke free to come downstairs?! FAIRY GODMOTHER: Oh dear….that can’t be right… CINDERELLA: Please stop stating the obvious and just fix this! My Prince Charming is off dancing the night away with my stepsister, and he has no idea what’s under that mask! It is not a pretty picture…believe me! FAIRY GODMOTHER: Okay, okay. (Stands to retrieve book and quill from the bulletin board area and brings it back to her chair, opening it) Let’s see….Carlotta, Cecilia….ah, here it is. Cinderella! (looks up) Alright, let’s just make some revisions to the story, and it should all be fixed by midnight. (CINDERELLA nods emphatically and leans closer as FAIRY GODMOTHER begins to write with the quill) Once upon a time…

(A thunder noise claps offstage and the lights flicker on and off to signify lightning just as RAPUNZEL steps in, looking scared rather than angry) RAPUNZEL: Fairy Godmother, you’ve got to help me! You’ve simply got to help me! (Rushes over to FAIRY GODMOTHER, trying to push Cinderella out of her chair; Cinderella doesn’t budge and the girls struggle for a second before FAIRY GODMOTHER coughs politely to get their attention) FAIRY GODMOTHER: Rapunzel, dear. You need my help? RAPUNZEL: (recovering) Oh, oh yes! (Falls to her knees at FAIRY GODMOTHER’S feet, grasping her hands as though begging) Fairy Godmother….(tearing up)….he’s dead! (Falls on FAIRY GODMOTHER’S knees, weeping) FAIRY GODMOTHER: (looking incredulous) Dead? Who’s dead? RAPUNZEL: (still crying) My prince! My prince! FAIRY GODMOTHER: How could he be dead, though? Didn’t you do as I said? RAPUNZEL: Yes, yes I did! (Acts it out dramatically as she speaks) I – I – heard him call my name…. “Rapunzel! Rapunzel! Let down your hair!” I did, Fairy Godmother. I let my hair down! FAIRY GODMOTHER:….and….? RAPUNZEL: (Drops her hands to her side dejectedly and turns toward audience, throwing her head back in defeat) The weight of my hair killed him! (CINDERELLA bursts into a fit of giggles as FAIRY GODMOTHER nearly falls from her chair and RAPUNZEL begins to wail) FAIRY GODMOTHER: How did that happen?! Didn’t you look to see where he was? RAPUNZEL: I – I thought I did! I thought I aimed it right, but I… CINDERELLA: How do you kill your prince with your hair?! (Laughs as she uses her hand to shoo RAPUNZEL away) Go away now. My prince is still alive, and I intend to get my happy ending. RAPUNZEL: But, but what about my happy ending….?

(CINDERELLA and RAPUNZEL begin to argue about whose case is more important) FAIRY GODMOTHER: Girls, girls, please! I can fix both of these! Rapunzel, have a seat. I’m sorry to offer the floor, but, you see, I wasn’t expecting company. (Holds her thumb in the book where Cinderella’s name would be and flips toward the back of the book) Let’s see… Rachel, Ramona…ah, here we go. Rapunzel. (Uses quill again) Once upon a time… (Another thunder clap and lightning flash as AERIAL appears on stage, army crawling and with her hair completely covering her face. At her appearance, all three already on stage jump and shriek slightly. AERIAL very audibly tries to blow her hair out of her face but eventually gives up and uses her arm to flip it out of her face. She looks around until she sees FAIRY GODMOTHER and then points very angrily). AERIAL: YOU! (Begins army crawling across the stage, her mermaid tail finally in view; all three on stage cower together and slowly back up. It takes a second before FAIRY GODMOTHER recognizes her). FAIRY GODMOTHER: Aerial? AERIAL: (Pausing in her crawl only to look angrily at FG) Who else do you know has a tail? FAIRY GODMOTHER: Oh my! Rapunzel, Cinderella, quick! Help her to the chair! (RAPUNZEL and CINDERELLA rush over to AERIAL and help her to the chair, her tail dragging the ground. Once seated, RAPUNZEL adjusts AERIAL’s hair and CINDERELLA adjusts her tail. FAIRY GODMOTHER crouches in front of her, taking her hands) My darling, what happened? AERIAL: You happened! You told me all I had to do was get my voice back, it would break the sea witch’s spell, and my prince would fall in love with me! Well guess what, lady? FAIRY GODMOTHER: (shyly)…well, um, it sounds like you got your voice back… AERIAL: (sarcastically) Oh yeah! I got my voice back alright, but the spell didn’t work! Imagine my surprise when I crashed my prince’s wedding to the sea witch only to have my tail begin to appear again…while I’m in front of two hundred people! RAPUNZEL: How humiliating!

AERIAL: (looks coldly at RAPUNZEL) Thank you, Princess Obvious. FAIRY GODMOTHER: Well, dear, it appears you are not alone. There have been some… um…complications tonight, and I was just about to fix them. (Opens book again…speaks and giggles nervously) Oh, look there, you’re the very first in the book. (AERIAL is clearly not amused; FAIRY GODMOTHER coughs nervously and gets quill again) Okay, let’s try again. Once upon a time… CINDERELLA: Hold on. I got here first! Her prince is already married, so she can’t be as much in a hurry as me! And the hair killer over here (points with thumb at RAPUNZEL) has already snuffed out her man, so my story needs to be fixed first! RAPUNZEL: How dare you! I didn’t intentionally kill him! CINDERELLA: How do you not aim your hair? It didn’t occur to you that you had an awful lot and that it might be kind of heavy? RAPUNZEL: Well, I… I… AERIAL: Look, ladies, I understand your situations, but mine is actually the most pressing. (Puts on an obviously for-show sad face) After all, I am part fish, and I can only be out of the water for so long… CINDERELLA: Give me a break, Aerial, I’ve seen you sit on rocks for hours flirting it up with the local sailors… AERIAL: I plead the fifth! RAPUNZEL: You can both stop. Mine is the most important! My prince is dead, so he has to be resurrected soon or it’ll be too late! Have you never read the zombie stories? (looks genuinely concerned) I am entirely too pretty to wed someone whose skin is falling off! CINDERELLA: Sure, but your handsome prince can marry someone who did a hack job on her own hair? RAPUNZEL: I didn’t have many options! You try being imprisoned in a tower for twenty years! AERIAL: Well that explains the lack of common sense… RAPUNZEL: (rounding on AERIAL) Says the fish who can’t sing!

AERIAL: No you didn’t! (Tries to stand, but immediately falls back into the chair) CINDERELLA: (motioning as though to an animal) Down, girl, down. AERIAL: Hey, I might have a tail, but I am as much a princess as either of you! RAPUNZEL: (as though trying to mutter under her breath) Sure…and half animal, too. AERIAL: (half-rising from her chair again) Oh, why don’t you say that to my face…arguing vehemently (RAPUNZEL and CINDERELLA both gather around AERIAL and the girls begin the importance of their cases and why they should get theirs fixed first; FAIRY GODMOTHER ducks around them to center stage, opens the book, and begins writing hastily) FAIRY GODMOTHER: Perhaps I should have started the stories with, “It was a dark and stormy night….” (Lights go down as FAIRY GODMOTHER writes and princesses argue) END SCENE

Montage Staff

Editor

Saron Bryan

Staff

Carley Guillorn Jeremy Burton Haley Larson Tyler Lowther

Designer Saron Bryan

Faculty Sponsors Dr. Nathan Gilmour Mr. Kyle Garrett