Volume 3 Issue 1 - The Truth or Dare Issue by Free Lit Magazine

CONTENTS 4

Fool’s Fortune KYLE CLIMANS

She Descends MEENA CHOPRA

My Skin Holds Space (ForYou) KELSEY NEWMAN-REED

The Truth is Your Own VINCENT ANDERSON

A Brief Interaction at a Party NICHOLAS NACS

Mended KELSEY NEWMAN-REED

Moonlight is a Lover’s Embrace JESSIE READ

Innocent KYLE CLIMANS

Truths BRUCE KAUFFMAN

Jealous Games ALYSSA COOPER

Untitled (WhatYou Don’t Know) BOB MACKENZIE

Untitled (Snow Clings to the Shadows) BOB MACKENZIE

Several Truths and a Dare JOSHUA HOWE

The Truth of Hard Paths BRUCE KAUFFMAN

Winter Soup ALYSSA COOPER

The Cool Kids SAMMI COX

Selfish JESSIE READ

Origami JESSIE READ

Dare to Go Out AIKO M.

Why Not Both ADRIANA GREEN

Front Cover

1 SIGFRIDSSON

Back Cover

1 SIGFRIDSSON

Inside Back Cover 1 SIGFRIDSSON

FREE LIT MAGAZINE Editor-in-Chief Ashley Newton aenewton91@gmail.com

Staff Writers

Kyle Climans, Alyssa Cooper, Adriana Green, Bruce Kauffman

Contributors

Vincent Anderson, Meena Chopra, Sammi Cox, Meg Freer, Joshua Howe, Aiko M., Bob McKenzie, Nicholas Nacs, Jessie Read, 1 SIGFRIDSSON

Colophon Free Lit Magazine is a digital literary magazine committed to the accessibility of literature for readers and the enrichment of writing for writers. Its mission is to form an online creative community by encouraging writers, artists, and photographers to practice their passion in a medium that anyone can access and appreciate.

Truth or Dare

Most of us have that memory of sitting with friends and playing Truth or Dare. It was more fun and adventurous to show off your fearlessness by picking “dare.” We also didn’t want anyone to know what we were really thinking or how we really felt, so we’d never pick “truth.” Without noticing, that fear followed us into adulthood. As children, we picked “dare” because it was appealing. We wanted to show off. As adults, we pick that same option in our everyday lives because it’s easier than admitting what’s inside our hearts. We’re afraid to say what no one wants to hear. You’d risk your life to avoid admitting the truth. In turn, you still risk your life when you finally do pick “truth” over “dare” and realize they were equally dangerous all along. Don’t be too hasty in choosing your poison. For two different concepts the outcomes sure look pretty similar. You have to live with the consequences of either path - and that’s the truth. Dare to believe it. Ashley Newton Editor-in-Chief

Contact freelitmag@gmail.com

Next Issue The Time Issue March 2017

Fool’s Fortune KYLE CLIMANS

“Do you dare to know the truth?” The question made me stop in my tracks, and I turned around to face the fortuneteller. Something told me that this woman wasn’t quite as old as she looked. The way that life or bad habits can carve deep lines into a face which would otherwise still glow with youth. At first, it had been her husky voice that made me stop. Some people have voices that capture your attention more than others. When you hear them, you find that they lull you into a strange trance, and all you can think is to keep listening. And so her tone and inflections had slipped into my ear and made the hairs on the back of my neck curl, and I forgot what my prior intention had been.

“You seem lost. I feel that you are searching for something.”

Her cryptic words, so stupidly cliché for someone in her profession – and the term “profession” is a generous one for the likes of her – still managed to sound convincing from her. “What makes you say that?” I asked. The fortune-teller smiled, “I’ve watched you pass my booth almost ten times now. There are many people offering food, drink, services, and goods to be purchased; yet you take nothing. You stalk this park like a restless bear, grumbling to yourself and looking nobody in the eye.” She was right. The festival was an annual tradition here, apparently. Every year on the first weekend of August, the city park would fill with tents and booths and stalls, but when I arrived I was surprised that nothing interested me whatsoever. I wasn’t hungry for any kind of food or snack, and the various memorabilia and trinkets seemed far too pointless to even spend an iota of my attention upon, let alone my money. But now, an old charlatan wearing culturally insensitive clothes that would have gotten her tarred and feathered on Twitter was chatting me up. But despite that, I didn’t turn around and leave. The thought didn’t even cross my mind. Though if I had known what I was about to get into, I would have spat in her face and run home as fast as I could. 4

Instead, when she repeated her question, and beckoned me into her booth, I sighed

and followed her in. What was the worst that could happen? The inside of her booth was plainly decorated. Almost lazily decorated.The streamers and pseudo-Oriental symbols were so obviously phony that I was offended to even be looking at them. So instead I focused on her. And it was there, in the dimly lit booth with dark red walls, that I suddenly took complete notice of her eyes. They were a shade of bright green, shining more brightly than one would expect eyes to shine. They contrasted with the dark red hue that so dominated my field of vision. After a moment of settling herself into her chair, she leaned under the small table and took out a crystal ball. Unlike most that I’d seen, it wasn’t one solid colour. It reminded me more of the swirly designs that I’d seen on marbles in variety stores.The two contrasting shades of white and black went round and round the ball in no consistent form. It was difficult to ascertain where the black began and the white ended.

“Welcome, my friend. But before I begin, I must ask you one final time if you are certain.”

“Certain of what?” I asked.

The fortune-teller gave me a smile that I couldn’t decide was intended to be comforting but was accidentally horrifying, or whether she had meant it to be horrifying all along.

“Certain that you wish to know the truth. Do you truly dare to know it?”

This was irritating me now. Her hypnotic voice was losing its power against the sheer irrationality of her words and her pitiful surroundings.

“Yes I’m certain! Now stop wasting my time!”

The smile faded from her face. For a second I thought I had offended her, until I realized that the look upon her face was pity.

“Very well, friend. Let’s begin.”

She clasped her hands onto her side of the crystal ball, and then turned her glowing eyes upward to stare into my own.

“Place your hands on the ball, just like I’ve done. And don’t remove them.”

I obeyed, perhaps with more care and attention than either I ought to give or what she expected of me.

She closed her eyes and snapped her head backwards so hard that I thought she 5

was possessed. A low hum came from deep inside her throat, and I felt a strange electrical spark licking the tips of my fingers.

She suddenly looked at me again.

“Why did you wait so long before you confessed that you were being bullied?”

I felt my throat go dry. When I was twelve years old, Kent Crouse would find times to make my life a living hell. Whether it was to spit on the back of my neck in the hall, or steal things from my desk, it was all to bait me into a fight he knew he would win. So I did nothing. I tried to swallow my emotions and deaden myself to the effects. Two years later, when we graduated middle school, I found out that he was going to another high school than I was. As relieved as I was then, I always wished that I’d found a chance to pay him back for all the torment he put me through. For a second, I was speechless as I wondered how she had known about this. But then the effect went away, and I remembered what I’d been taught about these charlatans who went around trying to fool people.

“This is a sham.”

The fortune-teller cocked her head, “A sham?”

“How many of us have been bullied when we were kids? And anyone would keep quiet about it. You just say a general statement and then I fill in the details myself! You didn’t know the truth, you just made me think you knew!” The fortune-teller gave me a gentle smile, the same sort she’d give a sick child who was wrongly convinced of his perfect health.

“Young man, I do know the truth.”

I leaned forward, “Then prove it!”

“I will. But first, I’m sorry that your mother is still sick with the flu.”

I gasped. I’d given my mother a call that day, the first in months. She’d sounded husky, and I’d inquired about it to make conversation. The fortune-teller looked up and sighed at my reaction, “You dared, did you not? I have the truth, of the past and present. Now for the future.” She stared back at the ball. I waited, the sensation of electricity coursing through my hands, even as fear sent prickles up and down my back. 6

While this happened, some small insect of a thought burrowed its way deeper and I could not find a way to kill it. Before I knew it, the words were spilling out of my mouth.

“If you tell me my future, what’s to stop me from changing it?”

The fortune-teller paused, and looked me in the eye.

“Your future is unavoidable, friend. The details may change, but I have seen your heart, and it is not long for this life.”

I almost felt my blood freeze in my veins.

“What will happen?” I asked.

The fortune-teller sighed. Not out of boredom or irritation, but in the vein of one whose bad news is too much to bear. Then, without warning, she leaned forward and put her lips as close to my ear as could be done without her touching my skin. Her voice sounded almost reptilian as she whispered the future into my ear. And with every word she spoke, the urge to scream grew more and more powerful inside of me. But whether it was through my last bit of calmness, or through sheer terror, I was utterly silent. She spoke to me of my mother’s death in the hospital today, an upcoming beautiful romance, but with a wedding marred by the death of my father of cancer. She spoke of ten years of happiness, only for arguments and distancing emotions leading to infidelity destroying my marriage. She spoke of small triumphs, of good times with friends. She also spoke of those friends’ deaths, or their simple distancing from me due to life getting in the way. She spoke of failed relationships, other marriages that would also fail, each one taking another chunk out of my desire to be with people. When I even considered simply avoiding one fate, she predicted another that brought its own flavour of misery to the table. My jobs would dry up, and my legacies would blend in with all the other mediocre people of the world. But she told me that the manner of my death was a despairing, depressed suicide, and there was no variance in that part of my fortune. When she finished, she sat back down in her seat, regarding me with a guarded expression. Did she expect me to scream and attack her? Is that what others had done when she’d told them their fate? I was such a fool to have accepted this offer. But then again, it was as she said. My fate was sealed. And as I reflected on the various tragedies that faced me across the next forty years, I knew then that it was inevitable. The crystal ball was turned off, and I finally removed my hands. I felt tears pricking at my eyes, and I knew then what had to be done.

I looked at her one last time though. 7

“How much do I owe you?”

But then, before she could answer, I stopped her with a wave of my hand. I took all the money I had left in my wallet and dropped it onto the table. The fortune-teller frowned at first, but understood everything immediately. After a moment, she looked upon me with a sad look in her eye.

“The future is not completely bad, friend. You can find joy in it still.”

I glared at her in response, “You said it yourself. I will take my own life in a fit of despair. You just didn’t tell me when exactly I would do so because it doesn’t matter when I do it. It’s inevitable no matter what!”

The fortune-teller sighed, “As you wish.”

She stood up and pulled aside one of the decorative curtains so I could leave.

As I staggered out of the booth, I stopped for a moment and turned back to glance at her over my shoulder.

“How many people have you sent to their deaths?” I snapped spitefully.

The fortune-teller shuddered, “Too many.”

For another moment, I beheld this small woman. What dark power had given her this ability to ruin men’s lives so casually? What right did she have to do this to us?

But it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.

With nothing left to say, I deserted the booth, never looking back, for I was too busy thinking of what desolation lay before me. And I thought of how I would cheat the fortuneteller of her futures. Why should I be her puppet and play out my part until the strings holding me would form a noose around my neck? And that was when I saw the car speeding down the road toward me, desperately seeking to break through the yellow light… another unfortunate fool.

My Skin Holds Space (For You) KELSEY NEWMAN-REED

I. Some people believe that their skin is not a part of them, But a layer of protection. As if you touch me, without really touching me. II. Your hand makes circles on my skin and I feel you touching me, As my body shrinks inwards on itself as my way of protecting; Of holding still everything that moves too fast. III. You touch me, and I curl into you. The protection layer slips away as my skin forms around you. This is not the process of shedding, But one of growing.

A Brief Interaction at a Party NICHOLAS NACS

Dedicated to Delia Johnston A party is where we lay the scene An anxious host! His first party is a dream But he’s not half as concerned with the dancers swaying back and forth He’s looking for a girl who stands from him just north She’s the cool girl, the new girl, who surely wouldn’t come Yet she did and now our host has come undone Finally he sees her in the dead of the night Standing beneath the stars she was a stunning sight She held a cigarette in between her tips The host’s heart sank as she brought it to her lips With a subtle kiss she blew a dark cloud Keeping her distance from the rest of the crowd The host couldn’t stand it; he had to get close Hoping this party and this house would make him seem grandiose Like a salmon upstream he swam to his mate Hoping that she’d say yes to a date He started towards her with chest puffed proud But once he got close all he did was wow’d The corner of the girl’s mouth had a slight perk As the host’s heart shot off like a firework “Pretty sweet place” The host stuttered now face to face The girl agreed with the voice of a Madonna And the host slipped into further nirvana But just as the host started to relax It would seem a disaster was slipping through the cracks The host apologized and bid the girl a sweet Adieu He dare not say, “I’m into you!” By the time the fire was doused the girl had gone away But the host took comfort knowing that he’d see her some other day

Moonlight is a Lover’s Embrace JESSIE READ

our bodies bend together like metronomes your heart beat like tender roofs beat from rain like our tongues clank tougher all music dancing tongues all wet and hard and awkward like you, i want you to undress me like the sun undresses the fresh morning dew on the grass proving that everything is reborn like our cells regenerate every seven years because the moonlight is a lovers embrace there are nights when i pray it never lets go because the sun kicks me into starting, and lord knows there’s nothing scarier than colour i’ve been told i have a colourful heart, that it beats like brick walls closing in on tender bodies like a bundle of bullets stroking skin, i wanna move in i love so hard i wanna say how i feel but how do i say i’d move mountains so i could hold your hand without scaring you away i wanna say hold onto me like jesus enjoyed crucifixion like achilles never had a heel i found salvation in your lips, found the moon in your mouth with your crooked smile eclipse my heart, clip my wings they’re proof that i can fly too close to the sun but what’s the sun if not a beam of light, if you’re my sun and i want to melt into you like lovebirds do like heat is just proof that i burn well under pressure like diamonds tell me if we are created in god’s image then you are living proof that god doesn’t wear protection and by that i mean i want to vacuum your ex girlfriend’s name out of your mouth till you’re screaming hallijlia 11

i mean i want our heart beats to do the limbo in perfect synchronicity i mean unfold my spine like it’s a book, and you’re the only one who can decipher the braille lodged between the corners of my back i want you to read biblical scripture from the way my body curls towards you like an 8th grade dance but instead of telling you i’ll just pull your hazy eyed smile into mine because saying how i feel will never be this easy

MEG FREER

Truths

BRUCE KAUFFMAN of course in time we learn more we lose discard old ideas along the way but somewhere inside our core beliefs they ride within us fully through our lives timeless they as true to us as our pulse and hand and bone how far have we carried them and from where from when perhaps somewhere something simply heard in the softness the warmth of womb something inborn and woven as much into our flesh then as skin and organ and each truth alone then all together combined as unique as fingerprints 13

Untitled (What You Don’t Know) BOB MACKENZIE

this is what you don’t know we’re all very afraid this is what you do know we’re all very afraid we block out the terrors but lock the fear inside This is what I do know There are walls here they are your walls

Several Truths and a Dare JOSHUA HOWE

Ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris. —Horace, Ars Poetica November is not a great time of year for parties. It’s drizzly and bleak, and it often switches between springlike cool and biting cold as if Mother Nature is trying to decide which of the two she likes the least. November is also not a great time of year for parties because students are the ones who throw them the most. And students, at this time, are gearing up for the exams to come in December. Or, at least, they’re supposed to be. Danny Boyd didn’t care about exams. But he did care about parties. And because he didn’t care about exams and he did care about parties, he decided to throw an enormous one and invite all of the kids from our high school. Now, when I say all of them, I mean all of them. This includes the jocks, the cheerleaders, the stoners, the mathletes, the nerds, the geeks, the goths, the locker-leaners, and me. I didn’t really fit into any of those categories. I had my own. I was the new kid who had just moved to Toronto from a small, beachside town called Kincardine. It didn’t help that I was quiet and shy, or that I wasn’t sure I even liked Toronto or my new high school. For the few weeks I had been attending Leaside High, I had kept a low profile, and so I had yet to be properly categorized. This was fine for me. I didn’t even know what category I wanted to be put in, or if I really fit into any of them. What did I know about myself back then? That I wanted to be a writer, and that I was writing but that I wasn’t sure if I was very good. That sounds about right. Most of my time I spent daydreaming instead of paying attention in class, or reading the latest Neil Gaiman story instead of socializing. It was a world that I knew must be incredibly boring to witness from the outside, but I didn’t care. I was happy. Happy, that was, except for my writing situation. When you’re seventeen, you often feel a bizarre need to discover what and who you truly are before you’re actually ready to know the answers. And that was me. I thought I was ready, and I was willing to do anything I could to figure myself out. This, then, meant that I had to deduce whether or not I was a writer, and so I began a book.

I gave myself to that book. So much so that I began writing it in class instead of doing 15

assignments. It was glorious and torturous, in a way. I had to know what happened next, and the only way to do that was by writing and writing and writing.

Until I couldn’t.

One day in English class—of course—while one of my peers was reading Hamlet aloud and not at all understanding that Shakespeare had meant hours to be a homonym for whores, I got stuck. I didn’t know where my story went next. And suddenly, in a million flashing lights and a small pain at the back of my head, I realized that perhaps my story was awful. Perhaps it was, indeed, a seven thousand word steaming pile of shit. Perhaps I wasn’t a writer after all. It was in that same class, while I was still reeling at the disappearance of the creative part of my brain, that Danny Boyd stood up when the final bell rang and announced that he was having an enormous party at his place, and that everyone was invited. Whispers broke out amongst a group of girls who sat behind me. One of them said: “Danny says his place is haunted.” Another said: “No way, that can’t be true!” A third: “It is! It is! Georgia was there a ton while she was dating him, obviously, and she said weird shit happened all the time. There was this story about a bag of chips opening by itself—” I got up and left. I wasn’t interested in parties at haunted houses or bags of selfopening chips.

Unfortunately, my mother was. And she seemed to think I should be, too.

I told her that I couldn’t possibly focus on going to a party when my life for the past several days had been obliterated in one fell writer’s block swoop. That was a part of my soul that had been splayed out on paper, ink as my blood, and it had betrayed me. She said I was being overdramatic and that I should be excited at the opportunity to make new friends. And so, that weekend, I walked up Willow Street, toward the house at the end of the subdivision which belonged to Danny Boyd. I hadn’t gone without a fight. Initially, I had refused to go. My mother couldn’t just make me go to a party. Where was the logic in that? But she had responded by stealing away my unfinished manuscript and hiding it in that place where mothers hide things when they don’t want their kids to find them. It’s the same place where they hide Christmas presents before Christmas. I always pictured it as a secret drawer under my mother and father’s bed, where once you opened it all you could see was an endless pulsing void, full of things stolen away as a result of bad behaviour or simply forgotten after their time had passed. 16

Danny Boyd’s house didn’t look like a haunted house. In fact, it looked exactly like all of the other houses that lined and littered the subdivision: red brick, two stories—two picture-frame windows on the floor level, two picture-frame windows on the second level— and a tiny little deck that looked nice but could serve no real purpose due to its size. It was barely big enough for the old rocker that sat beside the door. It was a quarter-past-nine, and all of the street lamps were lit, as well as most of the houses. They cast a soft, warm glow on the wet pavement—it had rained a few hours earlier— and, in effect, everything about the little subdivision looked quite charming. I stopped just in front of Danny Boyd’s house. All of the windows were lit and moving shapes could be seen behind the curtains, and it occurred to me that I had never felt more detached from the rest of my peers than in that moment, seeing their shadow selves pass by the windows as if trapped in an alternate reality located within a suburban house in Toronto. I sighed, shuffled my feet, walked up to the door. I raised my fist to knock, then lowered it and bit my lip. I shook my head to clear it, telling myself I was being silly, and then raised my fist again.

I knocked.

The door rattled and a lock clicked, and the face of the man himself appeared in the bright light of the doorway. “Oh, hey! You’re the new kid, right?” His pale face was already flushed, his chestnut hair a mess, and the Budweiser in his hand was half empty. It certainly wasn’t his first.

I said I was, and he ushered me into the house.

The house was as ordinary as anything, except for the massive amount of teenagers that had been crammed into it. I stood in a small foyer, with an open doorway leading to the kitchen on my right and the living room wide open on my left. People stood shoulder to shoulder, joking, laughing, and talking amongst themselves. Alcohol bottles were lined on the coffee table in the living room and had even found their way onto some bookshelves and a stack of DVDs. The sound was deafening. Aside from the noise caused purely by the people, there was music blaring—I think it was Bon Jovi—from somewhere I couldn’t ascertain. A futuristiclooking disco ball hung from the ceiling in the living room, fastened there by what looked to be a wad of duct tape. The lights were low and the disco ball sent tiny beams of light spattering around the room, making everyone look like they were wearing ghostly galaxies on their clothes. Someone handed me a Budweiser and I pushed my way carefully through the crowd towards the living room. There was nowhere to sit, so I leaned back against the wall and people-watched.

The television was on but no one was watching it. In front of it, people were dancing around the coffee table, flailing and undulating their body parts like some sort of strange underwater creatures. One guy had his arms around a girl’s waist, and he was pressed right up against her from behind. She had her rear end stuck out almost as if she was doubled over in pain. But she didn’t look like she was in pain. They were swaying slowly. My eyes shifted to the couch. There were two couples there. The first, closest to me, consisted of a glazed-eyed girl listening dutifully to an animated guy yammer on about something I couldn’t quite make out. I tried to read his lips. Politics. Behind them sat the other couple, looking like conjoined twins, making out in such elegant drunken fashion as to put labrador retriever kisses to shame. I sipped my Budweiser and wrinkled my nose. I didn’t like the taste of beer. It tasted musty and bitter, as if someone had discovered the most devastatingly boring juice in the world and had decided to spice it up by letting a dead thing soak in it for several hundred years. My mind returned to my story, locked up though it was, and I wondered if it was even worth saving from the ethereal drawer under my parents’ bed.

A tap on my shoulder, and I tore my eyes from the grotesqueries I had been watching.

It was a boy I recognized from English class; he always sat across the room from me, and never paid attention. His name was Thomas and he was popular with girls, and that was all I knew. He gave me a cooky sort of grin and motioned for me to follow him. His sandy hair was dull in the strobe lighting of the disco ball, and his face was pale enough to make his freckles striking. Around his neck hung a chain that ended in a golden lion’s head, staring out at the world defiantly. It looked expensive. He led me into an almost empty hallway. It was almost empty because there was a single boy leaning against the wall a little ways down from us. The music was more of a throbbing hum now, coming from behind us, and the single bulb that lit the hall flickered every few heartbeats. “Hoo boy,” said Thomas. “Can finally hear myself think again. Bit too lively out there, isn’t it?” He smiled that cooky smile. “C’mon, we’re all waiting in the guest room.”

“Who’s we? And waiting for what?” I asked.

But Thomas said nothing. He continued on down the hallway, towards the door at the very end. There was light escaping from the crack at the bottom. As I walked past the boy leaning against the wall, I glanced at him. His jacket looked as if it had been woven from cobwebs, as did his fedora, which was tilted low over his face. 18

He must have noticed my staring, because he raised his head and gave me a wink with a large dark eye. Even if I try my hardest, I cannot remember what his face looked like. At the time I could take in every feature, but as soon as I looked away there became a gap in my memory replaced with the image of a stretched ivory grin, laughing and laughing and laughing. But there was no sound, and there had been no joy in that winking eye. So how could that be? Thomas paid no mind to the boy in the cobweb jacket, as if he wasn’t even there. He opened the door at the end of the hall and ushered me inside. The guest room was lit only by candles, which had been placed in the very center of the room. Other than a bed, the room was bare; even the walls were a pathetic white. A dusty ceiling fan hung above, and a lone window to the outside world revealed nothing but inky darkness on the wall opposite the door. In a circle around the candles sat four people—two guys and two girls. Their faces were lit by the candlelight, and around the room dancing shadows were cast upon the naked walls. They all looked up to see Thomas and me, and I realized with a start that one of the girls was Hope Dawson, one of the most beautiful girls in school.

“Sit with us,” Thomas said with his cooky grin.

A couple people scooted over and I sat down. Thomas moved to the other side of the circle, opposite me. I took a quick look around. Hope was to my left, her aqua eyes glittering in the candlelight. Her wavy blond hair fell in waterfalls down her shoulders, and her cheeks were tinted perfect pink. There was a small flower—a daisy, I think—nestled behind her left ear. I noticed, then, that she was looking at me, with a soft smile on her lips, and I moved my gaze to the person beside her. I could feel my ears burning. To her left was a guy who looked very uncomfortable, even more so than me. He had a pallid mousy face and pallid mousy hair. His beady grey eyes were on the candles, and his jaw was set as if he couldn’t look away lest he explode. I didn’t know his name. To his left sat Thomas, and then another boy I knew. His name was Eric, and he wasn’t a nice guy. He was the kind of person who could take anything out of context, who would blow up at a single careless word fired his way, even if it had meant to be harmless. He was cradling a bag of nacho Doritos in his thick lap, one finger tapping it gently. His red hair looked like flames, and his blue eyes were roving the room impatiently. On his wrist he wore a shiny watch that appeared to be in the shape of a snarling dog head. He seemed rather out of place, I thought.

Finally, to my immediate right sat a girl I didn’t know. She was very pretty, though, 19

and I marveled at how I had never noticed her before. Her hair was dark and smooth, and her skin caramel and glowing. Her hands were laced together in front of her, and she looked as if she had never spoken a word in her life. I don’t know what made me think that, but I did. She looked like the kind of girl who had no idea how beautiful she really was. In front of her sat four or five empty Budweisers, glowing amber in the candlelight. I added my own half-finished bottle to the group.

I looked back at Thomas. He was staring at me and smiling expectantly.

A moment of silence.

I cleared my throat. “Did you guys, uh, did you notice that guy in the fedora in the hallway? What’s up with him? Should we invite him in, too?”

I could feel Hope’s eyes lingering me. No one else reacted, except Thomas.

“Funny guy,” he laughed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but fedoras are kind of out of style, aren’t they? Besides, we’re pretty full in here now.”

“I guess so,” I said stupidly. “What are we doing again?”

Thomas grinned his cooky grin. “I’m so glad you asked! I stole you away from your ever-so-fun activity of watching people make out in the living room to come play a game with us. We needed one more person.”

“And what game might that be?” I asked warily.

Thomas raised and spread his arms as if he were making a grand announcement, or expecting a giant hug, or welcoming Jesus back from the dead.

“Truth or dare,” he said with slow gravitas, savouring the words.

“Oh. I dunno about th—”

“Don’t chicken out! It’s gonna be fun! C’mon,” Thomas pleaded.

I opened my mouth to protest some more but was cut off by a glare from Eric so cold that my blood froze. I closed my mouth again. “Let’s go already,” Eric complained. “I’ve been sitting here for ages, and I’ve had nothing to do but watch Nigel stare at candles. Do you know how stupid that is?” The nervous-looking boy beside him cringed a little at the mention of his name, but said nothing and kept on staring at the candles. 20

“Be nice, Eric,” Hope said, shooting him a sharp look.

“I’ll be what I wanna be, girlie,” Eric growled.

“Guys, please.” Thomas raised his brows, but the confident smile never left his lips. “Now, Eric’s right. We have been waiting long enough. So let’s kick this off, shall we? I’ll go first.” He looked around the circle. “And I’ll ask ... Hope.”

Hope smiled and pushed a lock of hair behind her right ear. “Do your worst.”

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” Thomas tapped his lips for a moment and stared at the ceiling in thought. While he was thinking, Eric ripped open his bag of Doritos. I did a double take. For an instant, a trick of the light, it had looked as though the bag of chips had opened itself.

“Got it,” Thomas said. “Who was the last person you kissed?”

Hope blushed, and I instantly felt bad for her.

“Well,” she said, “I haven’t actually kissed anyone yet.”

“Bullshit,” said Eric.

Thomas smiled. “You know you have to tell the truth, right? That’s the whole point of this.”

Hope bristled a little. “But it is true. I haven’t.”

I smiled at her sympathetically. I hadn’t either.

“All right, then,” said Thomas. “Your turn to ask, Hope.”

Hope scanned the room and smiled. Her eyes stopped on the caramel-skinned girl to my right. “Nancy, truth or dare?”

In a voice so soft and gentle that I could barely hear it, Nancy said, “Truth.”

“Have you ever cheated or been cheated on?”

I could feel Nancy shift uncomfortably. She shook her dark head. “No. I’ve never 21

been with anyone, not really, so I couldn’t have had that happen. I sure hope it never does. Oh, do you think it will, Hope?” Hope smiled, but her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Of course not, Nancy! Why would anyone do that to you? You’re wonderful.” “Always someone else more wonderful,” Eric interjected gruffly, stuffing Doritos in his mouth as he spoke. “And hotter.” I glared at Eric. I didn’t know Nancy at all, but I felt as though she deserved a hug. She was almost shaking beside me—out of anger or shame I knew not which.

Then she said in a firmer voice than I had expected: “Eric.”

Eric wiped cheese dust on his jeans. “Troof,” he said through a full mouth.

“What is the most expensive thing you have ever stolen?” Nancy asked.

Eric’s lips twitched, but he did not get angry. Instead, he swallowed and grinned coldly. “Y’all really believe that I’ve stolen something, huh?” A couple murmurs, a couple shrugs. I looked at the gleaming dog head watch on his wrist again. Perhaps he had stolen that? “Dunno if it was the most expensive,” Eric said after a moment, “but I once stole a Captain Canuck action figure from Wal-Mart.” I froze. It was impossible. I had stolen a Captain Canuck figure from a Wal-Mart. I had been seven, and didn’t exactly understand why a store would leave such things out in the open if not to be played with and taken home. I had wanted it so badly. But before I could question Eric on this strange coincidence, he jabbed Nigel in the ribs and spat, “Who do you have a crush on?” Nigel didn’t move his eyes from the candles. He only winced when Eric’s fat elbow hit him. “You didn’t even ask me whether I wanted truth or dare.”

“Oh, come off it,” Eric said. “You know you’re picking truth.”

“Fine,” mumbled the boy.

“Who do you have a crush on?” Eric repeated.

If it had been possible for lazers to shoot out of someone’s eyes, they would’ve fired out of Nigel’s at that moment. He was staring at the candles so hard it was as if he expected 22

them to explode or levitate or something. When he finally forced his jaw open to speak, I could hear the defeat in his voice: “Hope.” It wasn’t a surprise at all, really. Not to me, or anyone else in the circle not named Hope. Like I said, she was the most beautiful girl in school.

Hope herself, however, seemed taken aback.

“Me?” she asked. She was blushing again.

Nigel said nothing, and Eric was grinning.

“Your turn to ask, Nigel,” Thomas said. He smiled his cooky smile, as if what had just happened was a question he was asked every day. Raising his beady grey eyes, Nigel looked directly at me. I felt a chill run down my spine, although I couldn’t tell you why. There was something in those eyes, something unnerving. They looked as if there was nothing behind them, as if Nigel were but a hollow shell, empty and cold.

He asked, “What’s your greatest fear?”

I thought about it, just glad that I hadn’t been asked a sexual question, and said, “I guess dying. Or being forgotten, maybe. Or both. I dunno. Those two things, they’re really scary to me.”

Eric snorted and I glared at him. Nigel looked back down at the candles.

“I don’t think you have to worry too much about dying,” Thomas said with a smile. “It’s only scary because it’s an unknown. Once you’ve been through it, I’m sure it’s not so bad.”

“Unless you go to hell,” I replied.

Thomas frowned, then. “Your turn. Ask me, I’m the last one.”

I said, “When did you start drinking? Really?”

The cooky smile returned. “Tonight.”

I glanced at my half-finished Budweiser. “Me too,” I said.

“Really? Well, isn’t that random,” Thomas chuckled. “Now, who’s up for round two? Last round! Let’s just go in the same order again, that makes things easy.” 23

No one protested immediately, so Thomas gestured at Hope. “Go again, then, beautiful.”

“Truth,” she said.

The golden lion head on Thomas’ chest shimmered in the candlelight. “Will it be good?” Hope smiled. “Oh, yes. I think so. I mean, it’s difficult to tell right now, of course. But the idea is there.” I blinked. It was as if the two of them had an inside joke going on. But neither Thomas nor Hope were laughing. Instead, they merely looked pleased.

“Truth,” said Nancy, before Hope could ask.

“Who are you doing it for?”

Nancy shifted again, and her voice quavered a bit when she answered. “Myself.” I became conscious of my brows furrowing. Confusion was seeping into my mind and beginning to give me a headache.

Nancy shot a look at Eric.

“Truth,” he said. He suddenly looked more serious now than he had before.

“Is it worth it?”

“It fucking better be,” he growled. His voice was harsh, but I could hear the uncertainty in it.

I was about to ask what the hell they were talking about when another flicker, similar to the one that had happened earlier with the bag of chips, sent a pang through my chest. All at once, Eric’s face—and all of the others’ faces from what I could tell—vanished into nothingness. Or, no, that wasn’t quite right. They vanished, but were replaced by a face I had seen many times before: the stubby nose, the hazel eyes, the high cheekbones.

My face.

And yet something was wrong. It was like looking into a distorted mirror at a funhouse. They were all wearing my face, but beneath that they still wore their own, see-through and ghostly. The features of their own faces blended with the masks of my own, fitting together like awkward puzzle pieces. I blinked, and when I looked again they appeared as normal as ever. I could feel cold sweat running down my sides from my armpits, and I swallowed the lump that had lodged itself in my throat. 24

No one else had seemed to have noticed.

“Truth,” Nigel said.

“What’s the worst part about it?” Eric asked.

Nigel scoffed at the question and shook his mousy head. “That I’m probably not good at all. That no one will actually like it. That I’m wasting my time. There’s a million of them, take your pick.” And suddenly I found my voice, raw and shaky. “W-what the hell are you guys going on about? What is this conversation? Is there a joke or something I don’t know about?”

Thomas said, “No jokes. These are truths.”

“Truth or dare?” Nigel asked, without raising his eyes to meet mine.

I shook my head. “No, I don’t know what you guys are saying. I’m done with this. Are you trying to freak me out, with the whole face thing?”

The others all looked at each other.

Then Thomas said, “Truth or dare. Last one.”

Despite how sincere his murky brown eyes were, I was ready to get up and leave. This was all too strange. Perhaps this was what alcohol did to you. Just as I was about to get to my feet, I realized something else bizarre: no one had asked for a dare.

I turned my attention back to Thomas. “Dare,” I ventured.

Instantaneously, I felt five sets of eyes upon me. I waited.

The silly, whimsical nature Thomas had sported all night was gone. Now his face was solemn and his gaze was direct, unwavering. His sandy brows were knitted together in focus, and no one in the room moved a muscle.

“I dare you,” Thomas began, “to go finish it.”

“What?”

“Finish the manuscript.”

I felt my eyes widen, my mouth drop open. Someone had opened the floodgates: 25

realization came crashing through my body in tidal waves and I suddenly felt lighter, freer.

But before I could say anything, there came a knock at the door.

I turned, the closest to it, and tremulously got to my feet. I pulled it open and saw Danny Boyd’s red face staring right into mine. He didn’t look pleased. “Someone at tha door fer you,” he said. He was clearly drunk. “What’re you doin’ in here all ‘lone, anyhow?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I’m not alone.”

But when I turned around, the guest room was empty. Even Nancy’s empty Budweisers were gone. Danny Boyd gave me a funny look, then he led me back out into the hallway—the boy in the cobweb jacket and fedora was gone now, too—and through the pulsing living room to the foyer.

“He’s outside,” Danny Boyd said, pulling the door open for me.

I stepped outside into the damp night, and Danny Boyd closed the door behind me. I swore I heard him utter the word “weirdo” just before shutting me out.

But I forgot almost instantly.

Down the steps and standing on the pavement beneath the warm glow of a streetlamp stood Thomas and Hope and Nigel and Eric and Nancy. I could see all of them standing there separately, each one of them smiling. But when I tried to focus on just one of them, I couldn’t. They were a mass, smushed together into one big murky thing that I knew I would never be able to describe afterwards. It would be a lie to say that I hadn’t expected them there. And so when they smiled and offered their grey-green distorted hand, I wasn’t surprised. But that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t scared. I was. I stood at the top of the steps for what seemed like an eternity, weighing it all in my head. And then, in a move so confident that I knew I couldn’t look back, and that I didn’t want to, I descended to the street and took the outstretched hand in mine, and I grasped it firmly.

1 SIGFRIDSSON

Winter Soup

ALYSSA COOPER In winter, I make soup; stand at the counter, and chop vegetables with a heavy silver knife; misjudge a stick of celery; slice into my finger, and send a rivulet of red dashing across the cutting board. When I was young, we sat in the snow in our snowsuits, and in sing-song voices those red-cheeked girls chanted; “I dare you, I dare you, I dare you,” and with my hummingbird heart stutter-stepping in my chest, I crossed a snow-dusted field and I stole my first kiss

from a flustered, startled, and wind-chapped boy, who wore a second-hand jacket and ice in his hair, and the stinging wind and my blood in my ears drowned the sound of their laughter. In my warm winter kitchen, I dump a cutting board of celery and blood into the trash; find a stained and wrinkled take-out menu; order Thai food, delivered, straight to my door. The truth of the matter is, I never should have taken that dare. The truth of the matter is, I don’t like soup anyways.

Selfish

JESSIE READ some tonic and gin, fifteen clamazopans in my mind is steel toed boots into carcus my mind is blood shot eyes turning back into sauciets my mind is weighted down by gravitational pull, gravitational pulling me underground when you say suicide is selfish you need to ask yourself if you’ve been there before, that maybe their reality is different than yours that saying suicide is selfish is like telling an artist they cannot paint that they have to colour in between the lines to only see things as black and white when the only colour that fits on their canvas is grey their reality is ankles chained to the floor, pulling down squeezing so tight jackknife flesh, cracked out and torn do you know how many survivors are sitting around you? do you know that suicide is never a choice? do you know how many times I’ve shrunk myself so other people could feel bigger? Robin Williams, hid behind the tears of a clown felt the world so heavy like Altas on his shoulders he let his world fall down some people can’t hold themselves together because they’ve been split in half too many times because staying alive, is not a measure of strength sometimes the stitches break because gravity has weighted down on them too many times i have learned the nights when I am hanging on a star i’m seeing things clearer than in the light because some say the moonlight is what keeps them alive knowing the sun will forever fall and the moon will forever rise i feel like the sun trying to rise after it has fallen, because I have fallen so many times, 29

stumbling on my toes, we all owe it to ourselves to make sure others don’t direct us where to go i got in a fist fight with the moon last night telling it that it falls too soon because on the nights when I need a break When I’m not ready to face the next day those are the nights that teach me living, living is okay and I want to live, because all this breaking has made me more whole i wanna be stretched out like a quasar the biggest star in the galaxy continuously growing stronger let’s burn into oblivion, create a meteor shower let’s get bigger and brighter because we have every right to be here because on the nights you don’t feel like you have the strength to stay the milky way is continuously shouting in your ear there is a future and living, living is okay

Dare to go Out AIKO M.

Grandma used to tell me to never walk out alone outside when the sky was pitch black or else I will become one of them. I didn’t know what them was, except that you wouldn’t be human, and would become a carnivorous being that would wreck humankind as told by the stories granny told me. She told me that it was highly unladylike, and I would need a security guard to be with me, to protect me from the wild creatures out there. I, Luna Waters, shall give you a tale about a dare, and the consequences when you venture out in the dark night. It all started when there was a young lady, who was brave on the outside, but not brave by heart. She boasted, and pretended to be the shining princess who could shove a sword into a dragon if she ever met one, but in reality, she would cry, and leave her comrades behind. She was this little dark sheep, but she was pretty meek too. When her friends told her to do something she didn’t want to, she would comply and follow what her friends said because she felt it showed that she was strong. Little did she know, she was being made fun of, just not in front of her face, but people would talk bad of her behind her back. One day, her “group of friends” started to talk about sneaking out in the middle of the night as a group. This girl quickly accepted because she didn’t want to be shunned from the group, so they decided to meet up the next night together. The very next night, the girl went out to meet her friends. Upon arrival, the group of friends put a bag over her head, and tied her hands up. They ridiculed her, and pinched her arms and feet for being a dummy in believing them. A sudden whoosh of wind went by her, silencing the people around her. Whatever came to her aid had silenced the people and released her. She looks around, and only sees darkness. She tries to walk, but trips, and falls into a pool of darkness. It swallows her whole, and her world changed. Well that is what became of me, and my reckless behaviour in following dares. I am now one of them. Creatures of the night that seek the helpless, and help them become much greater than anything mankind could do for us. So children, if anytime you are bullied, or have been dared to do something, come out at night, and I will help you.

“Come out, come out, my little children. I dare you to come out.”

She De s c e n ds MEENA CHOPRA

Crisp autumn air Splendid bronze, marinated gold, silver and copper quilted the entire landscape She descends the deepest splendor the palette for she has swallowed all the colours the fire the skyline the setting sun the formidable sea the gold and the orange burnt earth the molten core the cool clouds bright and royal purple sky. Mystified! She is the queen brilliant royalty spreading the wings of life. beginning a limitless enigmatic imperceptible flight till it grays down the cold dry winter. till the glaring reality, life will cease to be! Till the lack of mystery Engulfs the reasons A quest for disguised. For she as swallowed her desire of life.

The Truth is Your Own VINCENT ANDERSON World full of narcissist Supplied by pharmacist “Please” Keep my ignorance a bliss “Marvelous” These feelings Take away my demons my own treason while everyone is leaving For the chase of their future Which never existed And if it did, they already missed it Left with crickets Lost, golden tickets “Friendships” What of it, Put everything above it Living in the moment Going thru the motions no true oppenents Not voicing our truths Trapped inside confession booths Daring to be different all the same while waiting for things to change should of stayed in my own lane

RAMOLEN LARUAN

Mended

KELSEY NEWMAN-REED Like fractured bones my heart pauses, Like commas, inside of Fractured sentences. My words displaced between more Pauses of indecision, of a Fear of losing My heart, which chokes on The fractured spaces between me; In my defense, I plead for you Before others tongues, in their Fractured dialogue I choose to ignore. In my defense, I plead that you Mend the pieces inside of me; that you, Stitch the pieces together to form Correct sentences with proper pauses made With commas. I no longer pause at random. I no longer choke on the fractures Because you are complete; you Have made me whole.

Innocent

KYLE CLIMANS

I focus on the single drop of sweat making its way down the suspect’s forehead.

He shivers so hard that I find myself wondering if he might break his wrists against the handcuffs that secure them behind his back. The metal chair scrapes and screeches against the stone floor. “Who is your contact with the organization?” I ask him for the seventh time. Or maybe the fifth. I have already lost count. The suspect doesn’t answer. He simply sobs. It was a nice improvement from the furious demand for a lawyer that he had spat across the table when I first walked into the room. I cannot help it, though. He was a very beautiful young man. If his body was a temple, then I do not doubt that he was a very faithful worshipper. He grew his hair into a finely trimmed beard. It was almost a pity to slash it apart with my razor. Then again, maybe not. If only his friends could see this bastard now. Sobbing, mewling, naked and shivering. Hardly the same man who had stood in the street yelling incoherent drivel through a megaphone.

“How many other people does your organization hire?” I ask him.

He doesn’t even notice that a new question has been asked.

A bit of defiance again. Good.

I stand up and flatten his already broken nose just a little bit more.

Wiping the blood off my hand, I ask him to stop screaming.

Before I can punish him for disobeying me, there is a knock at the door.

“I don’t have a contact! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Yes?”

“Open this door.”

“Just a moment, Captain!” The captain strolls in, viewing the suspect with a cold disdain. She turns to me. “Has he confessed?” 36

“Not yet, Captain. He has proved a most loyal shill for his handlers, whomever they are.”

The captain stops and gives me a long look.

“I don’t care for your attitude, sergeant! A government official was killed. This man may know who did it. And if he does not, there are at least twenty other prisoners being held that might deserve your attention more. So do your job and be done with it!” Oh Captain, how I’d love to tie you down to a chair next to the suspect. How it would make me feel to see you sob as electric shocks tickle your fingers and toes, and cold water plaster your hair flat onto your pretty skull. Sadly, though I might be able to rip that badge and uniform into rags with my bare hands, those things have a meaning and authority that defeat me. So instead I shall smile at you with all my teeth and nod in humble agreement at your wise judgment.

“Very good, Captain. I’ll report back to you when I’m ready for another suspect.”

She nods and leaves the room, continuing to posture, even as she goes off to worship at that child’s faith that she calls Justice. And even if justice exists, it will not help this young man in my possession.This handsome boy with ragged, misshapen hair, and a face that will never be whole again. I sit down and observe him. He was silent when the captain had arrived. He must have known that she would not help him when his guilt or innocence was still in doubt. For all she knew, he was the one who pulled the trigger. The thought makes me laugh. Of course he didn’t pull the trigger. He might very well not even know who did. Maybe it was someone he stood alongside in a protest once but was too busy spouting his pathetic beliefs to even take into account the fellow human beings lined up at his side. Humans really are counter-productive sometimes in that way. The suspect is staring at me with loathing and fear. I feel a desire to pluck those eyes out one by one, and then feeding them to him in a meal that he would never be able to identify until I whispered it into his ear. Instead, I lean forward and strike him across the face again, opening old cuts and scabs so that blood trickles down his neck. Would his lover wail to see this face? Would his shrivelled mother and father cry out when they see that the beautiful little doll that they carefully crafted together has been smashed asunder with impunity? How I’d love to bring them all here and show them what I’ve done. 37

What I’m capable of doing. But that would be my downfall. I do know that. Such a damned pity that this work, while quietly permitted, cannot yet be made public.

Another knock on my door.

I turn around, but this time the visitor is welcome.

The constable is a good friend. He is also the kind of person who shares my views and ideas.

“Sergeant! Good news!”

I frown, “What is it?”

“We have a lead! One of the suspects confessed that she knew of a plan to murder government officials!”

I can almost feel my blood run cold. Is the fun already over?

“What are you saying?”

The constable leans forward, “I’m saying you should tie up loose ends here.”

Slowly, I nod. So be it.

“Thank you, constable. I’ll arrange for this young man to go once I finish my round of questions.”

“Very good.” With that, he leaves. And he knows not to come back until the signal is given.

Slowly, I turn back to my handsome young suspect who will never be handsome again. I sit down beside him.

“Do you believe in justice, boy?” I ask my prisoner.

He looks at me with pure fear in his eyes now. Does he think I’m mad?

“I thought not. Just as well. It’s a lesson you’ve learned too late.”

The impact of my words sinks in, and he starts to sob. He continues to sob, even as I take out my gun and stick the barrel into his mouth. My colleagues will swear that I passed their offices on my way to the bathroom before the gunshot went off. He will be an accomplice who preferred suicide to confession. Some voices might cry out in protest, but they will fall on deaf ears. 38

Maybe I’ll kill the next government official next time, just so this gets to happen all over again.

Jealous Games ALYSSA COOPER

“Truth or dare,” she whispers, her lips as soft as petals, pressed against my ear, her breath a warm breeze falling into my brain. And when I say “Truth,” she flattens her palm over the staggered beat of my heart, and she says, “Whose arms does this hollow pump call home?” Swallowing the jealousy that Drips like honey from her lips, I slide her warm hand from heart to stomach. “Okay,” I whisper; “Dare.”

Untitled (Snow Clings to the Shadows) BOB MACKENZIE

snow clings to the shadows avoids this dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bright sun waits in silent ambush we fail to see the risk

The Truth of Hard Paths BRUCE KAUFFMAN in our journeys through life away from the smooth and ongoing paths to then carving our way over the always rocky trails between each rock only a stumbling block or a stepping stone

MEENA CHOPRA

The Cool Kids SAMMI COX

As I climbed out of my bedroom window, desperate not to make a sound, I couldn’t help but feel a spark of trepidation deep within me. But that was to be expected, wasn’t it? I glanced at the bottom of the driveway and saw a lone figure in silhouette, waiting.

Waiting for me.

Again nerves tickled my insides, a mix of excitement and fear.

I got the note that morning in English class. I couldn’t believe my luck. All it said was, “We will collect you from outside your house at midnight. Be there or find another school to go to.” If you didn’t know what it was about, you would think it sounded threatening. Dangerous. The note wasn’t signed, but then that wasn’t necessary. Everyone knew who the notes came from: the cool kids, the most popular kids at school, the ones everyone wanted to be or at least be friends with. And, if you got the note, it meant you were being given a chance to be one of them, but it wouldn’t be easy. Entry was via invitation only, but before that you had to pass an initiation. What was involved, one could only speculate, as those summoned were sworn to secrecy. Not that I, nor anyone else, cared. I would do whatever it took to be one of them... I dropped down from the porch roof, and landed quietly on the front lawn. I chanced a look at the house, just to see if my sneaking out had caught my parents’ attention, but the house remained silent and shrouded in darkness. Keeping to the grass to muffle the sound of my footsteps, I jogged down to the lane and the shadowed figure. But, before I knew it, I was grabbed from behind, a smelly sack thrown over my head. I went to scream, but a voice whispered in my ear.

“I wouldn’t do that, Kelly.You wouldn’t want to start your initiation in the red now, would you?”

Determined to steady my breathing, I tried to focus on what was coming. I had been waiting for my shot at the initiation for nearly two years. I wasn’t about to mess it up now by acting like a stupid kid. A car door opened and I was bundled into the back to the sound of laughter. Then the car sped off into the night. I had no idea where we were going, or even how many people were in the car. The hood disoriented me and smelt of old socks and cabbage, which, along with the erratic skills of the driver, made me feel queasy. 43

When the car finally stopped, I was pulled out the back, more than a little dizzy. Someone took my arm to guide me as we walked. I could just about smell damp soil, bark and leaves through the sacking. We were in the woods. After a little way, I was told to sit down and the hood was removed. Gratefully, I took in deep lungfuls of clean air as I tried to get rid of the lingering stink of the material. It wasn’t until someone got a small fire burning inside a circle of stones that I could see around me. There were about a dozen kids from school talking and joking around; I recognised them all but they paid me no attention. It was as if I was invisible.

Suddenly, everyone fell silent.

“We have a new one amongst us,” Paula declared solemnly, and all eyes turned to face me. Paula was the most popular girl in school, the queen bee. She was also the meanest. “You all know what that means.”

“Truth or dare! Truth or dare! Truth or dare!” the group chanted in response.

My stomach started doing somersaults. I had expected the initiation to be something else, something more than a simple game of truth or dare. Surely there had to be more to this... When the chanting died down, Paula, no doubt thoroughly enjoying herself and the attention she was getting, continued to explain. “All new recruits must pass an initiation. You must choose to truthfully answer questions posed by each one of us - whatever they are; no one gives a shit whether they make you embarrassed or whatever - or take up a dare, a challenge, one whose difficultly must be the equal to all those hard questions you didn’t want to face.” She smiled at me. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was one that said, either way, you’re not going to enjoy tonight but I’m about to have a whole lot of fun at your expense. A cold shiver ran up my spine.

“So, what will it be, Kelly? Truth or dare?”

Silence descended over the group. The only noise to be heard was the fire crackling. My mouth was dry and I felt a little light-headed.

“Umm...I’m not sure...” I finally spluttered, and the small crowd burst out laughing.

“Well, you better hurry up and decide, before we take a vote and decide for you,” Paula snapped with her typical venom. “I know what I’m gonna ask her,” I heard someone whisper on the other side of the fire. I looked up to see one of the boys whispering something in his mate’s ear and then they started to roar with laughter. 44

“Yeah, man, you gotta ask her that.”

There was something about the way he said “that” that told me I never wanted to hear what they said, let alone answer whatever it was. “Give her a minute, Paula,” a voice then broke out above the others. My heart skipped a beat. It was Jack, the guy I’d had a crush on since starting high school. Was he rescuing me? My hopes rose but were quickly dashed. “After all, this is probably the hardest decision she will ever have to make. We all know, she fucks this up, she won’t be able to show her face in school again.” A chorus of mean laughter met this once more. My eyes started to well-up, but there was no way I was going to cry, not in front of these people. I would never live down the humiliation and I hadn’t even started the initiation yet. I had been waiting for this night for so long, but it wasn’t going the way I had anticipated. I swallowed hard. Being one of the cool kids didn’t seem so cool now. I thought outside of school they would be different, cool to hang with, and maybe they would be after I passed the initiation, but what if they weren’t? What if they were just the same nasty kids? An unsettling feeling came over me as I realised just how stupid I had been. Why had it taken me so long to see it? I wanted to go home. I wanted to get away from these people, but there was nothing I could do. I was somewhere in the woods. I had no idea where, thanks to the sack that had covered my head the whole way from my house to here, so I couldn’t just leave. Besides, there was a rumour that a girl had tried to do that last summer and in punishment they tied her to a tree and left her there, alone, all night. So I had to choose. Truth or dare? I didn’t want to answer any of their questions, so there was only one option.

“Dare,” I whispered.

“Sorry, can’t hear you, mouse,” Paula taunted. “Speak up.”

“I choose dare,” I said, praying my voice wouldn’t waver.

The circle went quiet. They weren’t expecting that.

“All right, then, little mouse. A dare you shall have.”

Paula put on a show of thinking up suitable ideas while everyone called out their own suggestions. Not that she was listening. I knew she already had an idea, you could see it on her face, but she was just soaking up all the attention. 45

“I have it!” she decreed. “Let’s make use of our wonderful natural surroundings. I think Kelly should climb a tree, but not just any old tree. This is an initiation. No. There’s only one tree suitable... and it’s not too far away from here...”

Silence fell once more but it was quickly broken.

“You want her to climb the spike? In the dark? She’ll break her neck,” Jack said, his voice laced with incredulity. “No, she wants to climb the spike, in the dark, don’t you, Kelly? She chose dare. Of course, she could always change her mind.” Paula did her evil smile again. But I was rather happy with her suggestion. I was an ok climber, though the spike would be like nothing I had climbed before. I was more used to scrambling over rock-faces, or up apple trees rather than big, old, dead trees that were more than half rotten. *** The fire was doused and the group slowly made their way through the trees. There was none of the earlier excitement, but rather a hushed undercurrent of anticipation. It appeared that I wasn’t the only one nervous now; apart from Paula, who seemed pretty excited about the prospect of me climbing the tree - or falling from it - the others looked unsure and anxious. However, they remained silent; no one wanted to argue with the most popular girl in school. They weren’t about to risk their own popularity for a nobody like me. I was on my own. The cool kids were cowards and not people I wanted to be friends with. I knew that now. When we reached the clearing, a surprising calm settled over me. In the centre of the open space, lit up by the full moon and a night sky full of stars, stood the spike. I headed straight to it. There was no point in putting it off; it wasn’t going to get any easier. Walking around it in the half-light, I tried to gauge the best route to take, while the others encircled the tree. “Go on, little mouse, start climbing,” Paula called out. This time there was no laughter, no comments; just the sound of her voice. I took a deep breath, and then made a start under the intense watchful gaze of everyone (apart from Paula, naturally). The beginning of the climb was easy. There were a number of hand and footholds that seemed sturdy enough. The lower part of the trunk was very wide and solid, but it narrowed to what looked like a taper from ground level, hence the name. The only problem was the top half of it was hollow. I was three quarters of the way up, when things got tricky. First, my hand slipped and I cut open my palm. That, in itself, wasn’t too bad. There was so much adrenaline going through me, I didn’t feel a thing. It was when I reached for what appeared to be a stout branch with my good hand immediately after gashing the bad one that I knew I was in real trouble. 46

The sound of cracking confirmed my suspicions as the branch broke away from the trunk of the tree, and I was falling... falling... falling... Deep down I think I knew I was never going to pass the initiation. Climbing up the spike might have been doable. It was climbing back down it that would have been nearly impossible. This sobering thought sunk in about half way up. And so, when I finally realised just how difficult my predicament was, I did the only thing I could do: try to ensure that when I hit the ground with a thud, Paula was underneath me.

I might not have passed the initiation, but I counted that as a win.

MEG FREER 47

Origami

JESSIE READ i felt the most powerful when i wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t eating folding my body into origami, trying to fit smaller like a paper crane, wasting away it was the only time i had a silloet synonymous with beautiful i try to tell myself my stretch marks are stitched up together illustrating my lineage, raw broken flesh a glistening sunset on skin wanting to wake these heavy, sleepy bones that smell of longing to be skinny because skinny is pretty, right? my survival felt like cremation because what is cremation if not shriveling up into powder paint me pretty lips puffed, porsolin, pretty into a masterpiece unravel this ivory sack of sorrow i want to wear something i can be proud of when my weight was the only thing i could control it gave me power in my fragility, because the sky may wrap its arms around me like hot chocolate mornings hold me in a bear hug, screaming words too holy for my ears kissing my creaking hollow bones every night singing me to sleep its so easy to mistake control for shakes my weight used to fluctuate based on how much i hated myself i would binge into nirvana, then ignore any morsel of glowing salvation, of floating pearly gates food too eloquent for sinners pining for scrub, heavy felt like dying prying i am crying, crackling submissive women, bread to be small bread to be nothing wanting nothing more to have wrists like ribbons tying this body into something it can be proud of because real women donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t take up space were just rust, and bone and shrivelling, shrink into ash after kindling has run out 48

my crackling spine knows my sorrows when bone taste like longing and after recovery how beautiful it is knowing that eating doesn’t feel like a landmine anymore every calorie an explosive how beautiful it is to know showers now don’t feel a morgue, waiting to be put into the ground like water snaps my spine, feels like claws ripping me open my body has seen bloodshed wearing myself like broken porsolin, wanting so desperately to be what’s expected of me and what is expectations if not something you were taught fuck what we’ve been taught i am unlearning what i’ve been taught because i am done being at war with this body

Why Not Both ADRIANA GREEN

Where does your intention lie? I’m being caressed by subtleties, But the meaning isn’t becoming me Give me something to sink my teeth into! The truth? – all “truth,” being plastered on a screen, By a charismatic yeller that just wants us to believe. In him, in ourselves – oh Lord, we must believe in ourselves. But not too much, just enough, To know when to wake up, or be polite and shut the hell up. And can you dare to think of a time better than this? I dare you to think of a time much better than this. We don’t just have celebrities for entertainment, Now they’re inside our institutions. Moulding the narrative to streamline their bullshit into something you just got to believe. Do you want to pick truth? Then tell it like it is, kid. And if you just got to dare to dream – then give them hell.

OUR CONTRIBUTORS... Without the submissions from writers, artists, and photographers, Free Lit Magazine would not be possible! Please take the time to visit other websites linked to projects our contributors have been involved in, as well as the websites/social media platforms run by some of this issueâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s contributors: 1 SIGFRIDSSON - Website MEENA CHOPRA - Website, Twitter and Facebook KYLE CLIMANS - Twitter ALYSSA COOPER - Website, Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook SAMMI COX - Website and Facebook ADRIANA GREEN - Website and Instagram ASHLEY NEWTON - Website, Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook

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