Volume XIV: Breaking Point by GSMSTLitMag

POINT BREAKING

INFINITAS VOLUME 14

Infinitas Breaking Point Volume XIV Spring 2021

Gwinnett School of Mathematics, Science, and Technology 970 McElvaney Lane Lawrenceville GA, 30043

Cover Art by Cade West

“I felt something break open in my chest. I don’t know what it was. I’ll never know. But it was real, I know that much, it was a physical rupture—a cracking-leaking-popping feeling.” —Tim O’Brien

Letter from the Editor: Welcome to Volume XIV of Infinitas! The inspiration for Breaking Point arose from the editorial team’s desire to explore the idea of fracture. This past year with its unique adversities both new and old has given us a crash course on social, interpersonal, moral, and psychological division and it is the truths we learn through this process of fracturing that our writers and artists will share with you through this volume. The pieces in Breaking Point are arranged based on tone and intensity so as our creators delve deeper and deeper into the complexities of falling apart, our readers will gradually transition from the aspects of fracture that they are familiar with towards its more unsettling or intense realities and unrealities. With a selection of pieces that range from embracing tradition to experimenting with the fundamentals of storytelling, our creators have pushed themselves to the brink and back and their words have transformed the idea of one’s breaking point into a nearly tangible place. We hope that this volume will shatter not only your expectations but also your concept of what it means to fracture. Though the pandemic has made the process difficult, our creators and editors have persevered and their dedication is evident in the art they have made. Thank you to all of the talented student writers, artists, photographers, and designers who contributed to Volume XIV of Infinitas!

Bhavana Kunnath, 2021

Table of Contents

To All the Missed Opportunities — Chuhan Huang Looking In—Adaeze Uzoije One Day in Anatomy —Victoria Severiche HUH?!—Victoria Severiche Schrödinger’s Student—Victoria Severiche Snowfall—Lauren Bae Tea Party—Quinn Watkins Rest—Rachel Kim Untitled Image—Genesis Langdi Collapse—Karyn Huang Collapse (art)—Karyn Huang Pawn Store Passerby—Bhavana Kunnath Broken Through Want— Shirley Huang Fracture—Anonymous Fracture (art)—MaiAnh Doan Dead Dreams—Sean Lynch Goodbye I Guess—Adaeze Uzoije Brkn Things—Celestine Mettu Mood Swings—Joanlis Martinez Descendant—Antonio Scott Untitled Image—Isabel George “Midnight”: A Stor of the Unknown and Humanity—Alethia Cocar Falling Apart—Joanlis Martinez Here and Now—Adaeze Uzoije How Do I Fix This—Adaeze Uzoije

1 1 3 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 9 11 14 19 20 21 21 23 24 25 26 27 28 32 31

Broken Dancer—Itohan Ologbosere Theatrics—Cade West Milk in Martyrdom—Micah Xu Protected byWealth—Shirley Huang Untitled Art—Adaeze Uzoije Probably Not—Theodora Alese A Dog with a World Inside— Itohan Ologbosere Hellish Consequences—Shivani Trivedi Lit—Genesis Langdi Ferti(lie)zer—Lillie Olliver Pretty, Painful Lies— Tabitha Lee Fragmented Reflection—Lauren Shinn Reflection in My Eyes—Diana Ciocan Just Some Thoughts—Anonymous Untitled Image—Vernice Le I am All You Don’t Know—Kendra Haley Octolion—Joanlis Martinez

33 33 35 36 39 39 41 42 43 44 45 46 49 50 52 51

We Are Alone—Literary Magazine Editors Why Would You Treat Me Like a Stranger—Joanlis Martinez I Met Myself on a Train—Bhavana Kunnath Broken Through Want—Joanlis Martinez The Pottery in the Kitchen— Adaeze Uzoije Busy Worker—Joanlis Martinez True Vision—Moska Aryan Multi-Tasking—Joanlis Martinez Hollow—Avyesh Kapadia A Flawless Mind—Jaylin Gonzalez Brainwashed—Rachel Kim What is Actually Wrong With You—Itohan Ologbosere Untitled Art—Isabel George Lure—Alethia Cocar Cracked Galazy—Itohan Ologbosere Untitled Ecologue—Aryan Ashraf Girl with Ewe—Aryan Ashraf Radio Silence—Darshana Sharma Cleaved—Cade West A Broken Murderer—Amah Mancho Drip—Jaylin Locklin Lord of the Pit—Aryan Ashraf Utopia—Joanlis Martinez Untitled Art—Joanlis Martinez

53 54 61 63 65 65 71 72 73 77 79 81 81 85 85 89 92 93 94 97 98 99 107 117

To all the miss

Chuha

To all the missed opportunities, I think about you every day. I think about you when I’m sad or lonely. Oh! How I wish you’d go away. What if I had chosen to take ballet? Would I have chosen to stay or would my mind lead me astray? What if I had taken harder classes? Would the colleges pay me a mind of day? Like an overplayed song, you’re stuck in my head Tormenting me, as I lie in bed. What if I could go back and change the wrong paths I took, Then maybe my future would have a different outlook. But I realize, there I lay, That the opportunities I chose have made me who I am today. And to all the future opportunities, I think about you every day. As for the past, it no longer affects me. I will make my own future, and go my own way.

Looking In, Adaeze Uzoije, 2022

sed opportunities

an Huang, 2022

One Day In Anatomy Victoria Severiche, 2021 She hastily scribbles onto the page Diagrams of diaphragms And how they connect to the lungs. She adds an extra set of ribs And misaligns her spine, But bad notes can be edited as long as they’re done. She manages to finish the slide before her teacher moves on to the next. A callus forms on her finger. Her wrist starts to ache. Her eyes slowly lower, Curtaining her vision.

SNAP!

Huh?!, Victoria Severiche, 2021 3

She’s awake. Her page is smudged with graphite And almost tears. The pencil drops onto the floor; She neglects to pick it up. She slows her breathing and, With a sigh, Closes her eyes. She’ll finish her notes tomorrow.

Schrödinger’s Student, Victoria Severiche, 2021 4

Snowfall Lauren Bae, 2021 I felt it. The disoriented feeling of sensing the morning arrive. Birds chirping, sun hiding, and cars periodically passing by on their way to work. I glanced outside my window to see the same boring view as any other monotonous winter day. The dull grey of the sky and endless patches of dried, shriveled up grasses. Dead leaves, ripped down from their homes by an unforgiving surge of wind, settling down upon frozen splashes of mud and their fallen predecessors. I turned my gaze back to the screen. Rain, it said. And rain indeed. Pouring in unfathomable quantities as the dry grey of the pavement below was overwhelmed by a deeper, almost midnight, tone, interrupted solely by the occasional splash of metallic grey from the tall unsurmountable walls. “How boring,” came the voice beside me, voicing my inner thoughts and shocking me from my stupor. I turned my head, missing my chestnut stands as my bare head met the chilly winter air as I settled my gaze upon the man. “How’d you get in here?” I asked. It was unusual for visitors to be allowed this early in the morning. “But I’m not. Not really.” He replied in a mischievous tone as he walked up and sat down on the chair beside my bed. “Merry Christmas Maria.” He said with a slight smile gracing his lips. “Merry Christmas to you too!” I repeated back to him as he looked outside the window with sparkling eyes, perhaps seeing something I had missed. I turned my head to follow his gaze, only to be met

with the same scene I had viewed just seconds before. We sat in silence for longer than I would have liked to admit. This would not do. Not for me. The instincts kicked in before I knew what I was doing. “Would you like something to drink? I could whip up some hot chocolate.” I offered as a bright smile took over my face as if the thought of tasting the sweet chocolatey goodness would make my day. “Thanks, but I’m good.” He replied in an even tone. “Juice, then?” “How about coffee?” He asked with a knowing smile on his face. My face scrunched up as the bitter drink brushed by the peripherals of my mind from the depths of my memories. I would never understand the illogical voluntary ingestion of such a blatant attempt to torture one’s tastebuds. “I don’t have coffee., but I do have tea.” I said in an attempt to thwart his attention to a more acceptable alternative. He smiled as he responded with a small laugh and a nod of thanks, following me out the door. I busied myself as a thought flew by my head that something was off. But nothing was wrong. Everything was normal. I poured two cups of tea and turned towards the lounge, setting one cup before him as he took a seat on the old sofa. “So, what brings you here this Christmas?” I asked in an overly bright tone, eyes falling to my drink as I took a seat beside him. “Well, I had a question to ask you.” My eyes flew up to meet the small

Tea Party, Quinn Watkins, 2021

smile on his face. The same smile from before. A hint of amusement mixed with a dab of sadness. “Oh? What would you like to ask me?” “Well, since I forgot to bring a gift along with me, I thought I should ask you for your Christmas wish.” His smile brightening as if the thought of knowing my wish would make his day. I smiled briefly as I considered my options. “Then~,” I dragged the ending with a teasing lilt in my voice. “I want snow!” I burst out as soon as the impossible wish flew into my mind. He looked at me with the same smile, with a smidge of happiness overriding the sadness. “Okay.” He replied, as if what I had requested was just an everyday request for a simple object, but his smile gave away his sheer elation at hearing my request, as if hearing what I wanted had made his day. I sported a look of confusion as he gave me one last smile before I felt my eyes drooping down. My cup left my grasp as I slumped against the couch. “Merry Christmas Maria.” I felt the final whisper of his words as I slipped to unconsciousness. *Beep* *Beep* *Beep* My alarm went off as my eyes flew open, to find that I was lying on my bed. My eyes glanced to the screen. Rain, it said. I looked out the window, expecting the same drab darkness of a rainy day. To my surprise, a blinding whiteness greeted me as fluffy blobs of snow fell daintily from the sky, adding to the white dust on the pavement. The astonishment faded as the memories, like a dream, whisked by my mind. “It really came true.”

_________________________________,___________________________________

Rest Rachel Kim, 2021 Forced to come to a halt and take a rest, She lay on the bed to relieve her wounds. Pausing from her distressing restless days, She, at last, took a look outside her room And realized that spring had already bloomed. Dismounting from the fast, unstopping train, She noticed that her heart was under pain. Giving herself a rest from overuse, Her once neglected bruise began to fade; Her wounds had healed her unattended bruise.

_________________________________,___________________________________

Lit, Genesis Landi, 2023

Colla

Karyn Huan

Say, if everything can

Would I be able to sm

Say, if everything ca

Would life be easier with

Because I have had tr Yet nothing has

Please don’t sa

Darkness engul

Winding roads co

Where shou

I’m los

Could someone please s

So that I could run

Collapse (art), Kary

apse

ng, 2021

n be thrown away

mile more natural

an be forgotten

hout these thoughts

ried many things been better

ay anything

lfs my mind

overs my path

uld I go?

ost

shed me some light

n and forth be

yn Huang, 2021

Pawn Store Passerby Bhavana Kunnath, 2021 The headlights of a passing car shone through the display windows at the store front illuminating Louis’ graying hair and the small god perched on his shoulder. Instinctively, the little entity used its wings (two lungs with a series of arteries running down them like veins on a dragonfly wing) to shield itself from the glare of the light. How the god could even detect the light, Louis didn’t know. It had no eyes—no discernable body parts of any kind, really (aside from its lung-wings). Its abdomen consisted entirely of a meaty organ shaped like a human heart and a number of veins and arteries extended from its abdomen to form limbs and a pulsing bulb of a head. It was vaguely humanoid in shape with its veins narrowing into capillaries that tapered like feathers or dragging limbs. Louis could only wonder how many millennia had slipped away beneath its watchful wings. Detecting the impending arrival of more headlights the small god formed a cocoon around itself with its wings and hunkered down on Louis’ shoulder. Louis looked over the edge of his newspaper at the procession of limos cruising down the street. Here and there a stray paparazzo straggled, cameras flashing as they tried to catch glimpses of the people within but for the most part the streets were empty. The gala was over, the museum had sold—auctioned—off its share of history and now its wealthiest patrons were spilling into the streets in their caravan of metallic blackness. He wondered for a moment how small he must have seemed to the people in those cars. The washed out “Carrados

Pawn Store” sign hanging at the entrance must have been just another blur of discolored wood. The dimly lit store must have appeared utterly vacant through their tinted windows, if they could make it out at all. The entirety of his life was an immemorable fragment of the background for gloved hands holding documents of authenticity up to the light of streetlamps or masked faces skimming letters thanking them for their million-dollar donations. The door to the store swung open. John Higgins walked in, fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He was wearing a worn tweed coat that might have fit him well enough in younger days but was clearly oversized on his ancient, gaunt frame. Louis caught the cigarette John tossed him and lit it as they watched the parade of cars glide down the street in silence for a few moments before Louis spoke up. “How are classes down at Howell’s going?” “You know...same old, same old. Beating stale thoughts into tired heads…it never gets interesting. Nothing worth waking up for but nothing worth retiring over.” John exhaled and tilted his head towards the little god curled up on Louis’ shoulder. “You sure it’s a good idea letting that thing in here?” “This little guy? Oh, I don’t know. It seems pretty harmless, but I guess gods always do. There were some kids picking on the poor thing, tugging at its wings and I thought it might as well come inside. It won’t do any harm.” “Well if you say so.” John’s eyes lin-

gered on it a moment more before landing on a partially rusted contraption on the shelf behind them. “Hey is that—is that what I think it is?” “This?” Louis placed the hunk of metal on the display case between them. “Yeah, it’s one of those old mining—” “You don’t say!” John marveled at the would-be scrap metal. “Y’know, my dad used to work in the mines. He used this kind of stuff all the time down there. Yeah. I remember him coming home, uniform covered in soot and sweat and dropping this thing on the coffee table and just… collapsing in front of the TV. I might buy this piece myself. The grandkids ought to know something about what kind of life their great grandfather lived, right? Maybe your old friend John could even get a discount…?” “John, there isn’t an item that’s walked through those doors that’s worth enough to warrant a discount. I mean this infernal machine is hardly worth the metal it’s made out of. If you want it, it’s yours but there’s no use in groveling for half off when there’s hardly a digit on the tag. Oh, don’t make that face! Oh, I’ll see what I can do alright? Maybe—” Tires screeched on the pavement outside. A convertible in one of the deepest shades of red Louis had ever seen had stopped outside the store. When the convertible door swung open, two young men in suits, one laughing and the other clearly straining to avoid starting an argument, exited. “I guess I’m just riding that sweet, sweet bidding war high. I don’t know. What matters is that I’ve got money to blow and I’m bored, Hare!” one of them exclaimed, still chuckling, as he pushed open the pawn store door. “I mean we might as well.” His dark hair was slicked back and when he slapped his friend’s shoulder his black suit sleeve slid down revealing a gold watch. A solid gold watch.

“If you want to go dumpster diving, you can. You don’t have to drag me along.” The blonde one leaned away from the door as it swung closed and dug his hands into his velvet pockets as though they were too pure to be tainted by actually touching the handle. “But I do need to! What use would I be without my favorite historian? For all I know I could be walking by a Veromingian treasure trove right now and not even realize it. Besides, it can’t be that bad. Clearly this place is still running, they’re making money somehow, right? There has to be something worth our time.” “I promise you, there is no Veromingian treasure trove here. What else could you possibly need? Just this night you’ve gotten your hands on the gems of an Inque queen, the hull of an ancient Phyllian ship —for god’s sakes you outbid the president’s daughter for the golden shield of the warrior from Kush. The warrior’s shield. One of mankind’s greatest lost treasures is on the way to your personal archives right now. There’s nothing in this pile of junk that could even compare. If you want a real piece of history we could go back to the museum. Look, I didn’t mention it at the auction, but last week one of our archaeologists sent in—” “No, no! I’ve had enough of the museum! Just let me have my fun, Hare. … You know the papers get on my dad’s case all the time for ‘killing small businesses’ and ‘gentrifying historic neighborhoods’ and BS like that, so just think of this little escapade as ‘Nigel Cox Supporting a Local Business.’ ” He ran his hand through his hair before turning back to disinterestedly peruse through the store. Louis’ eyes widened and locked on John’s. Nigel Cox? The name alone felt too large to fit in Louis’ cramped store and the idea that the man himself was standing in front of him was simply unfathomable. The cologne on Cox’s wrist alone was

probably worth more than the Louis could make if he sold his organs piecemeal on the black market. Louis knew it was a ridiculous thing to think but he surmised that if the gods really did bless humans, then Cox’s presence could be Louis’ one-way ticket to deliverance. John leaned over the glass counter to whisper to Louis. “Now, Nigel Cox… is that… isn’t he the son of that Cox fellow who owns the big factory on 15th?” “That and every other Cox Corp. factory in this country!” Louis whispered back, still awe-struck. “Huh. So who’s his friend there?” “Hell, if I know, John!” John turned to Nigel’s moody friend in the burgundy suit and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt you gentlemen, but have we met before? I think I’ve seen you somewhere.” The two well-dressed men paused mid-conversation to look at John and Louis. They stared really hard, as if they were noticing their older counterparts for the first time since they walked in. It was as though their eyes weren’t really looking at John and Louis at all, as if their eyes naturally glided right over the men and it took effort for them to focus on their forms, to separate them from the blur of the background. They seemed surprised at the interruption, as though they hadn’t really believed Louis and John could speak or as if they had never suffered the ordeal of being interrupted in their lives before. Under their gaze the two old men in their ill-fitting clothes squirmed like bugs under the harsh light of a lab lamp. Louis’ face flushed red and he silently cursed John for attracting their attention in the first place. The small god on Louis’ shoulder stirred reminding Louis of its existence. Embarrassed at his social transgression he used his hand to sweep it off his shoulder. The divine creature used its vein-hands to hang onto his sleeve but he

quickly shook it off and brushed it behind the counter with his shoe. Nigel and “Hare” glanced at each other for a moment before Nigel laughed jovially. “You probably recognize me from the papers. I’m Nigel Cox, son of Bill Cox.” “Right, right. ... Y’know May Chu’s daughter, Maggie Chu, actually works at your father’s factory. You wouldn’t happen to know her?” “A lot of people work at my father’s factory. If she’s one of them, she’s not one that I’ve met, sorry.” Nigel promptly ceased all efforts to strain his eyes in order to actually see John and returned to his survey of the store’s meager offerings. “No, no of course not.” John nodded awkwardly. He turned back to the blonde man in the burgundy suit, narrowing his eyes. “And you? I know I’ve met you before, I just can’t place you. Do I know you?” The man in question drew back seeming to take offense at the question. He shot John a look of disgust but quickly turned as if to hide his face. “I doubt it.” “Excuse him, he is not in the mood for good manners tonight. That’s Dr. Carlyle, he’s a curator at the Edwardian Museum. You may have read one of his papers on the museum’s recent findings,” Nigel said dismissing John’s concerns and locking eyes with Louis. “No. I’ve read a lot of papers in my day—I’m a Sociology professor down at Howell’s Community College so that’s pretty much all I do. I don’t remember reading a paper by a Dr. Carlyle. No…” Louis’ face turned a shade of red almost as deep as the red of Nigel’s convertible. He stood still hoping that, despite his friend’s embarrassing attempt at socializing with the wealthiest man on this half of the continent, he could avoid attracting any more attention and simply blend back into Nigel’s peripheral vision. Perhaps if the little lung god had forgotten its rude

The Road We Take, Joanlis Martinez, 2021

treatment, it would even grant him the blessing of invisibility. He had no such luck. Nigel walked up to the counter. “You run this establishment, don’t you?” Louis nodded. “Well, you tell me—since Hare here doesn’t want to—do you have anything interesting in here?” Louis’ fingers trembled as his hands worked on the lock to the glass display case between them. “Well I—I have some jewelry here that’s worth a pretty penny.” He took out a display box with rings of all kinds lined up in neat rows. Among them were a number of engagement rings, custom rings with rhodium plating, and even one made with the ashes of someone’s

grandfather. All of them were left by people who hadn’t paid back their loans in time. He held up the one with the biggest diamond to the light. It had ‘With love, Radhika’ engraved along the inside. “This one here is 6 karats and—” “Isn’t that Janani’s ring? She used to bring my wife cookies when she was in the hospital. Janani was just days away from opening her bakery when Radhika passed. Car accident. She must’ve pawned the ring to pay for the funeral. God, I wonder how’s she’s held up after all these years,” John interrupted. Nigel and Louis ignored him. “—and it has custom silver roses—” “No, no! I could have a million rings like that one if I wanted, show me some-

thing else. Something more important, something worth my time, something unique. The best thing your store has to offer! I can pay for it, whatever it is. Now show me something good.” Louis ran through the store’s inventory in his mind trying to think of something someone like Nigel would want to buy, something worthy of sitting on the mantle of a mansion. An item at the top of the shelf behind him sprung to mind. He reached up but reconsidered and pulled a wooden box from one of the middle shelves instead. “This is an engraved smoke set. It comes with a gold pipe and a golden comet cigarette case. It was made in the 1920’s and—” “Is that Tom Wilson’s? Oh, I remember Tom Wilson. He was the kind of guy who’d stop and help you change a flat tire when you’re stuck on the side of the road or pitch in a good fifty bucks when someone was in the hospital even though he had hardly a penny to his name. He used to talk about that old pipe all the time, he said it was the only thing he’d ever inherited from his grandfather—other than the debt of course. He’d never let anyone touch the pipe! Did he sell it to you when he left town? He must’ve needed the money when the house… well y’know…” John trailed off. Again, they ignored him. “Not bad.” Nigel picked up the pipe and scanned it for a second. “But it’s not good enough. Come on! You must be sitting on something big! I just bought a shield used by the warrior of Kush. The warrior. I mean that’s the stuff you read about in books as a kid. Give me something like that! Show me the hair of a Veromingian priest or the diaries of an assassinated politician.” “I told you, you’re not going to find anything here.” Dr. “Hare” Carlyle rolled his eyes at the sight of the pipe. “What you want is for someone to sell you a story,

Ny. You’re not going to find good stories in this dump. Now can we please leave?” “I—I might have something.” Louis wiped the sweat on his forehead across the back of his hand. Before he could even process what he was doing he had already grabbed the box on the top shelf and was setting it down on the counter. He slowly unearthed a small jade box from the womb of the dusty cardboard. His fingers began sliding its various slots open and closed revealing dozens of tools and metal plates with symbols carved into them. “It’s a star mapping set used by ancient astronomers to track astrological movements. It is said that members of the Sahan court used a set like this one to set the date of their assassination plot. Of course, this particular one was probably just used by a village priest to set marriage dates and track harvest seasons. The writing is some kind of ancient Sahan script and it was pawned by a young historian only a few weeks ago.” “Well, that’s hardly an authentic Saha—” Dr. Carlyle started. “I have a certificate of authenticity from the Edwardian Museum itself, actually. It came with the item.” Louis’ voice was firm for the first time that night. The redness in his cheeks faded slightly. Dr. Carlyle couldn’t argue against a certificate from his own institution. He pursed his venomous lips but couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow upon taking a closer look at the astrology set. The writing was indeed Sahan and the script was a rare local one, not the kind that could be forged easily. The slight lift in Hare Carlyle’s brow was all the confirmation Nigel needed. “Assassination attempt? Perfect. Perfect! Now here’s some real history! How much for it? 5,000?” The small sense of triumph bubbling in Louis’ heart evaporated. He nervously twiddled the tag attached to the jade box’s

hinge. “Oh no. The redemption period for the loan isn’t up yet. I— I can’t sell it.” Nigel Cox was not a man who was used to hearing “no” and Louis’ reluctance only made his lips curl into smile. “Okay, okay I hear you. 5,000 is too low. Let’s double it. 10,000?” “No, I—The redemption period isn’t up yet. Tony Azad has a few more days left on his loan payment. It’s not that I don’t want to, I can’t sell it to you.” Even the words seemed hesitant to stagger out of his mouth. Louis was on the verge of making what could be the biggest sale of his life and he was letting a technicality get in the way? “Tony Azad! Oh my god! Tony found that?” John perked up at the sound of a familiar name. “Oh I knew he would. He was one of the brightest kids I ever taught in all my 50 years of teaching. He was always the most passionate. He really dug into things y’know? Give him a textbook and he’d breeze through it in a week and come to class asking questions even I couldn’t answer. He was too smart for Howell’s! I told him that too, but what could he do? His mom could hardly pay for his textbooks let alone a seat at some fancy university up north. He was such a bright kid! I knew he would make a great archaeologist. It’s a bit of an uphill battle considering he doesn’t have a single friend in the field or a dollar to his name but if anyone can fight it, it would be Tony. Louis, do you remember when your kid got sick, Tony would come by and drop off the homework and go over the lessons he missed? You remember? That’s the kind of kid Tony is. He’d just go out of his way to do what little good he could do for someone.” “So what?” Nigel pressed on. “Say this Tony comes back tomorrow asking for his item, just say you lost the paperwork and that he got the date wrong. Say the redemption period was up last week! In a small place like this with only one em-

ployee paperwork goes missing all the time. It’ll be our secret. Now, 20,000? Yes or no? Name your price and I’ll pay it.” “Well, it’s … it’s a very rare piece. I’ve never had anything like it walk through my doors. B—But it wouldn’t be fair to Tony...” John wiped his eyes on his sleeve and leaned closer to get a good look at the jade box. “Tony found that! Brilliant kid! He told me he would y’know? He came by a few weeks ago and said he was onto the discovery of a lifetime—said he’d found the artifact that’d make his career, but then, y’know, the accident happened and he’s been with his mom in the hospital all week and I’ve hardly had a chance to ask him what happened and—oh! Oh god! Oh Louis, don’t tell me he pawned it to you. Don’t tell me he pawned his career for—for medical bills! Oh god. What can you do? His heart’s in the right place but he—oh Tony!” John shook his head, mumbling soft lamentations for a career choked before it had even begun, a star imploding before it had shone its first rays. This time Louis listened. “Y’know Louis, Tony’s just the sweetest boy. He really is. He’s been tutoring kids down at Howell for free for years now. Good intentions are in his blood. That display case in the back? His father built it for your grandfather back in ‘02. His grandmother used to watch me and my brother when we were kids while our parents were at work. There isn’t a person on this side of town that Tony hasn’t helped at one time or another. That kid, that kid’s family, has the whole neighborhood’s story written in the scars on their hands, Louis. Tell me you’re not selling the one good thing he’s got to his name to some fool who wants to throw money at display cases when he can’t even pay Maggie Chu down the street a fair wage for her work! Tell me you’re not letting him pawn his future, Louis!” “Okay, okay. You drive a hard bargain.

How about a trade?” Nigel only grew more excited at the sight of the tension in Louis’ eyes. He dug into his pockets and pulled out a jewelry case with a museum seal on it. “This is a Maruan scroll ring—the kind soldiers would use to decode messages and such. Hare can tell you a lot more about it than I could. I bid 100,000 on this tonight and I’m willing to trade it for that box right there.” The muscles of Dr. Carlyle’s face twitched with barely contained rage and his voice dripped with jealous indignation. “You can’t be serious! Nigel, I helped you win that in the auction! It’s worth twice as much as whatever relic this dump has to offer. Are you insane?” Nigel held the scroll ring up to the light. “100,000! I bet you’ve never seen that much money in your life.” It was true. Louis had never seen that much money in his life. But he had to admit that Dr. Carlyle was right: whatever the jade astrology set was worth, it wasn’t worth even half as much as that scroll ring. Nigel knew it too of course but what was money to a titan? Louis’ fingers wrapped around the box, its stone face cool to the touch. He could see his reflection in the polished surface but his eyes seemed to look past it and focus on an image projected by his mind. Tony’s hands. He recalled how calloused they were when they set the jade box down on his counter. Louis began stitching together the life of a boy he’d only ever known as a fleeting face in the periphery through faint memories. Tony came back in pieces—a smiling face who appeared by his son’s side on Saturday evenings; a friendly nod when Louis came by the Azad family store for bolts; a decisive kick in the kids’ soccer games in Logwood Park; a confident voice addressing a crowd at a mutual friend’s daughter’s wedding; a quick mind when it came to identifying the age of the pieces in the pawn store; a burned finger when

he tried to fix the engine of Louis’ moped when it broke down and stranded him on the side of the road. Louis tried to recall a single community event, just one, where he couldn’t find Tony’s face in the crowd. He drew a blank. He recalled the way Tony’s voice wavered when he rushed into the Pawn store that night, begging for whatever Louis could loan him on such short notice, and he remembered the way Tony’s eyes locked on his own when he made Louis promise to be extra careful with this piece. He looked up from jade box at Nigel Cox. The emptiness of his eyes and the hollowness of his smile. For Nigel this was just another game, the prize hardly mattered—the pressure he was placing on others, the search for their breaking point, the thrill of the chase was all that mattered to him. It wasn’t an artifact or a good story he was after, he wanted to watch Louis squirm, he wanted to end his night with a shot of power, he wanted a drop of Louis’ soul. “Sorry Mr. Cox, not today.” “I’ll admit you’re a lot harder to negotiate with than I expected. … Okay, I’ll trade you this and—and I’ll give you another 5,000. How does that sound? You can’t smudge the ink on the paperwork a little for 105,000?” Nigel grinned. Dr. Carlyle grabbed his arm and began tugging him towards the door insisting that it was no use, that his money would be wasted on such a piece anyway since there was no market for Sahan artifacts, but Nigel was adamant. “Harold Carlyle you are not my chaperone! Take a walk. Your services aren’t needed anymore. This is between me and Mr. Carrados.” He laughed harshly and freed his arm from Dr. Carlyle. On hearing Dr. Carlyle’s full name, John’s head snapped up. The fog of the moment’s misery dissipated as the elusive past collided with the present. “Harold? Harold Carlyle? I do know you! You went to

that prep school a few blocks over didn’t you? Primrose Academy? Tony brought you by my class once. Yes, I think you were one of the students he tutored! I remember walking by the library and seeing you in your little school uniform and a few other kids from around town gathered around Tony. Y’know he even asked if he could leave my class early once to go pick you up from school and help you prepare for some big test, civics was your weakness wasn’t it? Well I guess you turned out alright, kid.” Scarlet blotches blossomed across Dr. Harold Carlyle’s neck. His cheeks flushed and his hands were practically shaking with rage and … shame. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man! I’ve had enough of this, Nigel. I won’t take another moment of being degraded like this and I’m not letting you make a fool of yourself any longer!” He tightened his grip on Nigel’s arm and began pulling him towards the door. Louis began packing the jade box back into its cardboard holding cell. He could feel the small god he had tossed aside curling around his shoe. Recalling and regretting his abandonment of it, he crouched down and extended his arm towards the creature. The god obliged, its wings flapping and carrying it up to his shoulder, its capillary-feet hardly grazing the hairs on his arm. Nigel, still grinning, grabbed the door frame to stop himself from being pulled out of the store and held the door open with his other hand. “You’re a fascinating piece of work, you know that? I’ll make one final offer before my friend here drags me off—the scroll ring and another 20,000. How does that sound?” Nigel stood up straight, one foot in the store and one foot out. Possibility teetered on the threshold of Carrados Pawn Store

Louis stood up straight, the god perched on his shoulder, and met Nigel’s eyes. He shook his head. “It’s not for sale.” The door swung shut. Nigel Cox walked out and history walked out with him, but the history that walked out in his shoes, his pockets, his shadows was hardly even half the story. What good was glory, what good was the history that filled the pages in books, if it had hardly a steady hand to vouch for it? What good was it if the only eyes that saw it were made wicked by wealth and if the only hands that knew their touch were gloved? Did the warrior of Kush help Louis’ son pass calculus? Did the hull of a Phillian ship mine ore to feed his friend? Did an Inque Queen love her fiancee so much she pawned her memory to entomb her? Did a Maruan scribe pay for Miriam Azad’s life support? No. No, Louis didn’t need a story too big to fit in his store, he didn’t need a sum too large to fit in his pockets, and he definitely didn’t need a tainted artifact. He was perfectly content with a pawn that wasn’t marred by guts or gold seals, the kind of story that fit snugly in his glass cabinet and put food on his neighbor’s table. He was perfectly fine with the history that found its way to his cabinets because this was the history only he could collect. Perhaps it was the only history worth collecting at all. When Nigel walked out, lines, timelines, and truths split in two. The grand, the gladiators, and the glorious walked one way, evaporating like the scent of his unaffordable cologne, and the gloomy, the generous, the genuine idled. They sat on the chair, collected dust on the shelves of Carrados Pawn Store, they echoed in the discussions of the elderly, they wore thin in the hands of workers awake in hours that they should not have been awake to count, and they dripped down the IV tubes in a silent hospital room.

Frac tur e

Anonymous

What does it take to break a person?

II. My sister is made of tempered glass.

I. My mother is made of sea glass. Almost as soon as she was born, she was broken, never to be whole. But she became something new.

Like all of us, she was born fragile, but she is different from me. To protect herself, she mirrors, letting harshness and criticism bounce back.. “Okay, and?” “Not my problem.” “It’s not my

Every experience has shaped her. And now she is something new. She is smooth, stately, beautiful

fault.” Or she lets it pass right through her. Like she’s not even there at all.

She shines in the sun.

How do you break sea glass? How do you catch something that is not rough? What do you do?

You go for what is close to her heart. When the glass first broke, she was separated from other parts of her. Her relationships with others are her way to get that back. Her friends and family are her closest thing. Hurt those, and she will fracture inside out.

She has made herself strong, to resist the pains of life. But she is not invincible.

How do you break tempered glass?

It is stronger than it once was, but is still delicate. Enough stress makes it seem as flimsy as paper. Enough chastisement, and she cannot reflect it all. She will fracture.

IV. I am made of crystal.

I am forged, bit by bit, by what goes into me. When things happen, I internalize them.

If you shined a light, you could right through me. Every experience, every hurt, everything. You could see it all.

How do you break crystal?

Fracture, MaiAnh Doan, 2024

It’s easier than you think.

You could dissolve it, drown it in too much, too fast, too soon III. My best friend is made of clay.

She is reliable and solid, beautiful and elegant. Like the vessel of Aquarius, she is dotted with stars.

How do you break something like that?

You could weigh her down. She is an open bowl, almost everything falls in. Some things are heavier than others, some things add more in. If someone is not there to stop her from sinking, she is doomed to fracture under pressure.

You could strike it, hit it so the ions break their careful alignment. And even something small brings the whole thing crashing down.

Or you could try to remove the impurities that lie within. I am more fragile than you may think. Looking within, at all the clouds in my clear heart, is painful.

You cannot go inside a crystal without breaking it. You cannot fix the inside without the whole thing shattering. So no matter how necessary it may be If you pick me apart, I will fracture

Dead Dreams Sean Lynch, 2022 My dreams are dead They were killed that one night Where I saw the corrupt, the foul, the inhuman All assemble in the hall of greats And tear all that was good to shreds

My dreams are dead The day she died And no one came To see the dead Upon her wooden bed

My dreams are dead When I cried them away In the sea of solutitue In the garden of night With no end in sight

My dreams are dead But not my hope I still see light but in shades of gray Because only crazy people Dream the day away

Goodbye, I Guess, Adaeze Uzoije, 2022

Brkn Things Celestine Mettu, 2023 Broken children like fixing broken things And listen to pretty boys full of pretty words Broken children like to fight any battle but their own With heads lost in fantasies far away Broken children have a habit of playing with fire Learning to plant flowers in the ashes Broken children sometimes try to fly on makeshift wings But have a tendency of getting too close to the sun Broken children attempt to fill the void inside But every piece never seems to fit Broken children hide the never-ending battle in their mind Covering up the war paint with forced smiles Broke children were once bright-eyed dreamers Until the wolf arrived dressed as a sheep And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men Couldn’t put us back together again

Mood Swings, Joanlis Martinez, 2021

Descendant Antonio Scott, 2021 Delicate tree, Embodying life, but having no leaves, Searching for other trees to Create branches and bonds, similarly. Envoy of tradition diluted through each limb, New techniques, stories and hymns, Different, yet better with each synonym. All the paths that were taken have lead up to me, Now I must contribute my traditions to the Tree.

Isabel George, 2022 26

“MIDNIGHT”: A TALE OF HUMANITY Aletheia Cocar, 2022 What makes an episode of television good? Art, as television is a form of, is subjective, and critics often differ from the common public in opinion. What’s more is that an episode of television is not a single piece of media; it is only one component of a larger form of art. An episode is a single slice of a whole being, a creation meant to flow together with other episodes. Often, brilliant episodes are the ones that meld seamlessly with the rest of the show, pushing forward the plot and character development. But, on occasion, there comes an episode of television that works well both in the context of the show and on its own. These episodes tend to be regarded as masterpieces by both critics and common audiences alike, and one such episode is Doctor Who’s “Midnight.” “Midnight” is an episode in the fourth season of the revived series Doctor Who. It aired back in 2008, and has a 9.1/10 rating on IMDb. Those who watch it generally regard it as a fantastic episode, and for good reason. It creates a sense of horror and tension in a fascinatingly unique way: it never once actually presents a tangible monster. Unlike so many other Doctor Who episodes, there is no present alien or visible horror, not even invisible. The company simply never sees it. But they don’t need to, and neither does the viewer, in order to be terrified. See, the alien being is not the actual monster in this story. Rather, it is humanity, and the mob mentality. This episode sets up on an alien planet called Midnight, following the Doctor as he gets on a bus to go sightseeing. The majority of this episode takes place on this

bus, with a limited cast present. During the ride, they are stopped due to malfunctions on the bus, and since they are on an alien planet with a thin atmosphere, they cannot step outside. Thus, they are trapped in the bus for multiple hours. During the first part of the episode showcases the people on the bus beginning to interact with each other, introducing the characters, from the stereotypical suburban couple with their emo child, to the arrogant professor and his intelligent yet overlooked assistant, to the quiet lady in the front reading her book. There is also the attendant present, as well as the drivers and the Doctor himself. During this first part, one of the drivers mentions to the Doctor and the other driver that he sees something up on a ridge, a moving shadow. The problem is, the outside is supposed to be completely uninhabitable. As in, the second a living thing goes on the surface uncovered, they will be turned to dust in a singular moment. The problem is, the outside is supposed to be completely uninhabitable. As in, the second a living thing goes on the surface uncovered, they will be turned to dust in a singular moment. The second part of this episode gets started when the front of the bus gets destroyed by some mysterious force, and they are left stranded. A banging sound can be heard pounding on the exterior of the bus, and the lights go off for a moment. When the lights come back on, there is no sign of entry, no more banging, and it seems as though it has left.

Falling Apart (Joanlis Martinez, 2021) 29

The problem is that one of the passengers, Sky, starts acting strange. Beside her, the chairs are torn up, and there is a dent in the wall, and she is crouched in the corner. The Doctor goes to comfort her, but she remains curled up. As the episode progresses, Sky begins to mimic the Doctor with increasing accuracy, until the Doctor is on the floor, acting like he is mimicking her. While this happens, the rest of the group begins to panic more and more, throwing out accusations and arguing with each other and even going after the Doctor, saying perhaps he is the danger. Factions form and fighting ensues. In the middle of the episode, when Sky is still on the ground curled up and still poorly mimicking the Doctor, the group begins discussing throwing her out of the bus just to get the danger away. The Doctor and a few others stand resilient that they should not throw her out, even if she presents a danger to them, as she is still a living being. The conversation switches when the Doctor suddenly becomes crouched on the ground, and it seems like he is mimicking everything Sky is saying. They have reversed positions, almost as if Sky has stolen the Doctor’s voice. And now, the group on the bus begins to talk of throwing the Doctor out of the bus. Even the friends the Doctor had made on the bus, the ones he had bonded with just a little while ago, are yelling that they should throw him out. They shout, out of fear, to get the danger away from them, and begin to think irrationally, as Sky urges them on, urging the split in the group, urging the growing fracture between them, urging their frantic thoughts. We never quite learn what was going on with Sky, but the episode comes to a close when the attendant takes a stand and tackles Sky out of the bus, sacrificing herself to get the danger (Sky) away from the group. And yet, one of the most chilling moments in the episode comes after the danger has passed, when the Doctor

emptily asks, “Did anyone know [the attendant’s] name?” And the group simply looks around at each other in hollow horror. “Midnight” is a psychological horror story compressed into just 45 minutes that somehow manages to show humanity’s worst side in one of the most effective ways I’ve witnessed in any media. The moment where they realize they never even learned the attendant’s name is so utterly gut-wrenching, even more so because not even the Doctor, the supposed hero, knew her name. The episode combines a fear of the unknown and a fear of our worst selves all into one short storyline.

How Do I Fix This, Adaeze Uzoije, 2022

Here and Now Adaeze Uzoije, 2022 I hold you close, the chiming in my ears, They ring so loud I cannot stop this here. My Here and Now, my Ever and my All, My Love, my Life, my Morning’s Waking Call Dream on, sir, dream on and hold me close As the bells ring loud and brash and bold. Dream on, Cosmo, dream and hold me dear. I let you go, the humming in my ears, It hurts, it burns straight through me, night sky clear, It’s now or never, running to the moon. My pains, my pangs, they’ll come back to me soon, Fly on, please, fly on and don’t look back, I can’t imagine what you’re thinking of. Fly on, Astro, remember me dear. As I see the empty space, Your long-lost place, Your abandoned base, I only have one thing to ask: Please Don’t Disappear.

Broken Dancer Itohan Ologbosere, 2022

Beneath his facade, his actor’s mask – Which has a deep crack – Is his hidden sorrow. He can no longer dance like there is no tomorrow. He has no tomorrow – how grim! His skull has split wide open. Like snow, the white hospital sheets bury him. He is a performer, so we throw roses in devotion. My friend, the dancer, is broken. This talented freelancer, Who just beat Cancer? Yes, that is who death has chosen. He told me I should not worry, He said I would see him thrive. Too bad his mother drove in a hurry: Otherwise, he might still be alive.

Theatrics Final Cade West, 2021

Milk in Martyrdom Micah Xu, 2023 Once, there was a land known as Reinsia, a kingdom founded on blood, steel, and magic. Truthfully, the kingdom was once frail and weak, and its neighbors would tap its borders for natural resources, forcing it into a small, confined area between giants. The king, Dairyus, craved the soft, green pastures of his neighbors, and he coveted the idea that he could one day rise and conquer them. He wanted nothing more than to rule over all the lands, and lay in the soft pastures of his enemies. Then, from the darkness, HE came. A demon, clad in strange green armor, approached the king of Reinsia and whispered in his ear. A deal was struck, and a bond was formed. Reinsia gained powerful demonic soldiers, with great metal machines that bore wings and rained strange balls that produced great firestorms, matched only by the greatest of pyromancers. The foolish king laughed as he watched his old neighbors cower and kneel before him, but forgot one crucial part about dealing with demons. They always have a cost. The cost incurred at first was feeble. The demon asked for a monthly tribute of milk from a creature. When questioned on why he demanded such a request, the demon merely laughed and explained that he simply enjoyed it as a beverage, and that he enjoyed starving the children of the cattle. (Truthfully, the demon simply wanted to waste the king’s time with a ridiculous request, but none save for the most dedicated of scholars would know.) Simple enough, and a small price to pay for victory and conquest, or so it seemed. The foul demon never specified how much milk he wanted, and so he asked for more and more. A gallon in January, two in February, six in March. Soon it became a race against time itself, trying to conquer more and more lands to gain their supply of cattle to milk, and soon the king began to panic. The demonic war machine was powerful, and the king could not afford to lose it. So

the king devised a solution, commissioning his scholars and mages to create a cow that would never run out of milk. Such a creature would be difficult to make, as it would require the manipulation of life itself, and such powerful magic could not be incurred without great cost. The mages of the king planned for five days and five nights before coming up with a solution. Animancy, the manipulation of the souls and experiences of people. Soon enough, the creature was made, dubbed a Moonstronsity, and the bodies were burned. Nobody knew a thing, except for the mages and King Dairyus himself. The creature was disgusting on all accounts, looking more like a mass of flesh with tumors that jutted from its sides, producing the coveted white gold. Below it was a giant maw that it used to consume fodder, which it used to fuel its constant production of milk. For a time, all was calm, and the king continued his conquest, turning his army on other races, elves, orcs, and dwarves. This would not last. Soon, the creature died, and another was made, this time using stronger humans, mostly criminals. This cycle would repeat itself, and the kingdom could not be kept ignorant any longer. Dairyus may have been a fool, but he could manipulate his people like any good king. It was considered an honor to die for the Cause of the Cow, as it was called. To die for king and country, in a literal sense. A girl sat in filth and grime in an alleyway. Her skin was covered in dirt mixed with blood, and her hair was matted and unkempt. She was clothed with rags that barely covered her and kept her from freezing to death, and her body was marred with cuts and bite marks from cruel animals and crueler people. She kept a small blade by her side, rusted and dull with a rotting handle, and more likely to break in half than to cut anything harder than bread. She was disgusted with herself and what her situation was, but she kept a smile on her face. She knew what

Protected by Wealth, Shirley Huang, 2021

she would be called to do, and did not mind at all, because from her point of view, her life was not much more than living death. She became a glorious knightess and with her newfound position came newfound responsibilities and a new name, Kiala. She was put with a team, and forced to interact with the other soldiers under Dairyus, although she mostly kept to herself. She had no idea that she would have to actually interact with the other members of the army, and she would often come off as harsh or cold towards others. She would often keep her helmet on at all times, and she would opt not to go to whatever group activity the other soldiers participated in. Her general, a large, older man named Alaratt noticed her odd behavior, as well as her young age, and approached her about it. “Knightess Kiala, why do you shy from your duty? A knight must be able to communicate with their fellow knights, and you seem to shy away from even showing your face to them.” The gruff man spoke, his voice low and tired sounding like a great drum, and his stature relaxed and loose. The knightess turned her covered face towards him and tilted her head. “With all due respect General Alaratt, I do not care to interact with those whose lives are meaningless and who I will not see soon. After all, I am to become a sacrifice, and that’s all I care to be. The day is not mine to have.” She spoke coldly. The general cracked a smile and chuckled to himself slightly. “Your reputation defines you well, but let me ask you. You are so young, so much left to experience, are you certain you wish to be nothing more than a sacrifice?

Life is more than just that.” He spoke, his voice becoming more toned and sarcastic. The knightess made a low growling sound. “You say that, but you know as well as I do that this is our duty and fate. In fact, I am surprised you haven’t been harvested yourself.” She spoke, her voice a bit strained and annoyed. Alaratt merely laughed a loud, boisterous laugh. “Look, I will make you a deal. A bet, really. If you truly wish to die so soon, I will sign you up for it in a year, but before then, I order you to at least try and interact with your fellow soldiers.” He spoke. “Normally it would take a few years to even be considered for harvesting.” He added, his face being dominated by a huge smirk that reached his slightly wrinkled eyes. Kiala sighed, the first sign of humanity since the beginning of the conversation, and agreed. She doubted that any of her companions would even care to interact with her, after all, she knew she had a poor reputation, and she knew her fellow knights would not respect her at all except for in combat. She spent the rest of the day watching the other men and women of the army do their duties, and not actually talking to any of them. This continued for a few days, until one day while she was training her own skills, having spent the whole morning and afternoon hacking away at a training dummy. While she was honing her skills, a woman slightly older than her called her name. Kiala looked up from her training to see a woman dressed in black and red robes, along with a pointed hat holding a tray of food. The knightess tilted her head, seemingly her favorite way of expression confusion. “What is it?” She asked. The woman set the tray down and looked towards Kiala again. “I saw you hacking away here ever since this morning. You missed breakfast and lunch, are you not hungry?” The older woman asked. Kiala scoffed, turning towards the dummy. “I’ll get the scraps, I am not picky and I would rather train and improve my chances of becoming a sacrifice than waste my time in lines. After all, the day is not mine to have.” She replied. The older woman frowned, putting her hand on her hips. “Come on, do you really want to just get sacrificed? Really? That’s all you want?” She asked. She then looked down at Kiala with an annoyed expression. “No, no this won’t do. I

am not going to get partnered with some self-absorbed suicide bomb.” She hissed. Kiala looked up. “What did you just say?” She asked. The older woman stared back and pointed her finger at the knightess. “I said, I am not going to get partnered with some self-absorbed suicide bomb.” She repeated. Kiala shook her head. “No, not that, what is this about partners?” The knightess spoke, stabbing her sword into the ground and leaning on it before staring at the robed woman. The robed woman let out a sigh. “Y’know, if you had been at the briefing and actually showed up to meetings maybe you would have known that every knight and knightess is getting paired with a mage.” She hissed. “Orders straight from the big general-man himself. I suppose I have to introduce myself now since you evidently do not know who I am. My name is Aurora, and I am going to be your partner from now on.” She spoke. Kiala simply sighed and kept on hacking away at the dummy without concern for the new information. Aurora would let out a sigh of her own and sit at the edge of the training grounds, waiting for Kiala to finish. “I figure I should mention, we have a job to do soonish. We need to ensure that wolves don’t ruin our food supply again, so we are supposed to cull their numbers.” Aurora spoke, grabbing Kiala’s attention again. After a good amount of passive-aggressive bickering between the two women, they eventually made their way out of the camp they were staying at and into the surrounding woods. Strangely enough, Kiala was rather pleasant in the forest, staying quiet as usual but without the usual sass and disinterest that usually accompanied her voice. She also stayed rather close to Aurora, unusually close. Aurora would eventually confront her about her strange behavior. “Why are you sticking so close? Do you want something?” She asked. Kiala looked back at her and shook her head. “No. Nothing at all.” She replied. The two would simply walk around the camp and kill any wolves that passed a certain threshold, a clean and simple job. They would keep doing this together for about four months where they slowly became acquainted with each other, albeit sparingly and with Aurora essentially forcing small talk for a while. Eventually Kiala decided to ask Aurora something for once.

“Hey, mage, why did you decide to become a soldier?” She asked. Aurora raised an eyebrow at her and shrugged. “Because I wanted to keep up with my family.” Aurora replied. Kiala looked at her. “What? Thats a stupid reason, couldn’t you have done that in any other way?” Kiala asked. Aurora shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. I am here not because I want to be, but more because I want to keep an eye on my family and make sure they don’t do anything drastic, and just to spend time with them. I don’t really have to kill anybody if I just stay in the back for the most part. A lot of them give themselves up to the Moonstrosity’s creation if I don’t remind them what they are losing.” She added. Aurora then let out a small chuckle. “I suppose you wouldn’t understand, since you are like that as well.” She added, before becoming quiet again. Kiala looked at the mage and tilted her head. “Well, thing is, I never really lost anything, I suppose, so I do not mind as much.” She spoke. “I was on the streets before I came here, so sacrificing myself is about as much good as I can do.” She added. Aurora stared at her, her eyes widened and her jaw slack. “What? You are kidding right?” She spoke. “You realize that you are one of the stronger soldiers here, and you could easily get away with not being fodder for the king, right?” She asked. Kiala shook her head. “I did not know I was regarded so highly, but regardless, I still want to do it for the good of everyone. Like I said, the day is not my own..” She spoke. Aurora narrowed her eyes and stared at the knightess. “Out of curiosity, what is your ultimate goal here? What do you want to do?” She asked. Kiala stared back at Aurora, before replying. “I want to use my useless life to make life good for everyone else.” She explained. Aurora shook her head. “No, you lie, if you wanted to do that, you would want to remain alive to help those in need.” She spoke. “Truly, I think with the right heart you would be a great inspiration to the rest of the knights and knightesses.” She added. Kiala remained silent for the remainder of the guard, save for one word near the end. “Fine.” Kiala woke up, not with tiredness and drowsiness, but instead with nervous excitement. Perhaps the day was her’s after all.

Untitled, Adaeze Uzoije, 2022

Probably Not Theodora Alese, 2021

The earth beneath them seemed to sway-- no, no it wasn’t the earth... They looked down, shocked to see their world collapsing, decaying, fracturing. The pain, the screams as they were ripped in two-- father flung from mother and sister from brother. Their hundred-year-old cities decimated in the blink of an eye, leaving nothing but rubble in their wake. They ran and hid, afraid to be the next ones dead. A father and child sat hiding together under some rubble, hoping against all hope that they would be spared. “Why is this happening, daddy?” the tiny girl gasped, tears streaming down her face. The father simply hugged her and begged her to be quiet so that they would escape the god’s wrath.

A Dog with a World Inside, Itohan Ologbosere, 2022

The god, seeing all, brushed aside the carnage like nothing, and pulled the girl from her father’s grasp. Screaming in fear and anguish, the girl had one last glimpse of her father before being taken. Soon, he too, was extracted from the life he had known, pulled from his home, his livelihood, his everything. At last, there was deafening silence. “Your dog had so many fleas, but I think I got all of them,” the vet said, smiling. She put down the tweezer and took off her gloves. I spied the bodies of dead fleas on the paper towel next to her. I wonder if those fleas felt anything as they were taken off of Fido. Probably not.

Hellish Consequences Shivani Trivedi, 2025

Ah, gravity, that good ol’ force. Nothing beats it, huh. Everything succumbs to it, just like my grandmother’s antique vase filled with her prize-winning roses fresh from her garden, falling in slow motion. Three.. two...one...crash. Whether or not water is wet, it sure does make other things damp. Evidence: my shoes. They’re now soaked. Soon following: my socks. Unfortunately, my shoes will have to be kept on, though I’d love to step on small shards of ceramic just to make my day better. Oh, what’s this? A second, also shattered, pot? In the shape of a skull? With blue ashes laying in and around its wreckage?! Grandma made an interesting choice in putting ashes in a vase within another vase. Interesting choice

or not, this mess isn’t cleaning itself up. Mops are searched for and used, floors are cleaned, doors are opened, and roses are put away. Wait, Doors? A deep sigh indicates that yes, indeed, a door has opened and someone has come through. I see my grandmother standing there, hand resting on her hip and her head shaking. Before I can assure her that I can spend the next 10 years paying out of pocket for the no doubt pricey vase, she interrupts me. “Did you… spill the ashes…?”

“Uhhhh...maybe? I broke the vase first though, and I didn’t know that the skullvase was in there and I definitely didn’t know about the ashes, and the whole thing was an accident… but yeah, I guess,” I ramble.

“Get the chocolate in the pantry, go to the basement, and unlock the cellar door with this key. If the shrine doesn’t accept your offer, prepare for hell. Literally.”

My grandmother narrows her eyes at me, then takes a deep, calming, breath. She searches in her pocket for something, then quickly places it into my hand. It’s a key.

Rachel Kim, 2021

Untitled Art, Joanlis Martinez, 2021

Ferti(lie)zer Lillie Olliver, 2021

You cultivate your lies like flowers And wear them on your brow. You lay the soil with falsities And wait for them to sprout. Your lies are pretty, petaled beauties That glisten in the sun. Your lies they spread infectious pollen And soon you’re overrun. You raise your scythe to cut away The cancer that you’ve sown. You swing the blade and so shall fade The guise we all have known. You hold your lies upon your palm And watch them as they bleed. You cast away and burn the trace Of that first infectious seed.

Pretty, Painful Lies, Tabitha Lee, 2022

Fragmented Reflection Lauren Shinn, 2022 November 8th, 8:43 p.m. I ripped open the passenger door, breathless. Maya, still warm, laid limp as I pulled her in my arms. The overwhelming scent of rust invaded the car; it clung to the dashboard, the windshield, the linoleum seat covers... it clung to my hands. Deafened my senses. I couldn’t hear anything, although I could feel the sensation of screams rising from my throat between my gasps for air. I don’t really know how long I stayed there, kneeling on the crumbled asphalt and cradling her broken body. They moved past me in an endless blur, somehow drawn out, yet too quick to comprehend. They told me to move away from her. Why? No, you don’t understand. She’s my best friend, I need to stay with her. Please let me stay with her! I watched as they took photographs of her body. For evidence, they told me, as I sat with a blanket over my shoulders. Who gave me this blanket? I couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. “What happened? Can you tell me what you saw?” I heard over and over. I tried to answer, but no words escaped my mouth.

November 9th, 1:56 a.m. My parents had arrived soon after, and when I was finally allowed to leave, we drove back in silence. When we got home, I silently went into my room. I felt numb. I gingerly sat on the stool that stood in front of my vanity. It had been a gift for one of my birthdays, years ago. Carved details of wood painted over with a cheap white paint delicately framed a large mirror that I used every day to get ready for school. I stared at my reflection. Oh god, I hadn’t even realized that during those hours, I must’ve gotten her blood smeared on my cheeks. I frantically pulled on my sleeves and tried rubbing it off my face in a panic. No no no no no, I thought, I can’t think about her right now, I need to get this off, oh god, oh god, oh gSuddenly, a loud CRACK! brought me back to the reality of my dark bedroom. I gasped and shot up, backing away towards the wall behind me. After a few seconds of silence, I slowly approached my mirror. Somehow, a few inches of the glass had fractured in an outwards-branching crack, just in its upper-right corner.

Reflection in My Eyes, Diana Ciocan, 2024

November 12th, 2:14 p.m. “It’s not your fault, dear,” they said. The whole morning I had heard such condolences meant to bring me some kind of comfort. How could I feel better as I watched Maya lowered into the ground? The sun had shone brilliantly, but I felt insulted that the day could be so beautiful with her death clouding my mind. Inside her home, the dull aching in my chest

became a throbbing pain as the framed pictures of her childhood seemed to loom above my head and crush me into the ground. Oh, god… this was too much. I had to leave. I had to get out. I hastily bid her parents goodbye, who paused their mourning to give me a hug, and ran down her street for a few minutes until I reached my own house and collapsed in my bedroom.

The sound of my crying overwhelmed me. Gnawing pain swelled in my chest and ate away at me in waves. This was never supposed to happen. We were supposed to see each other graduate. Help each other through the maze-like transition from adolescence to adulthood. Grow up with each other. Fragments of our shared memories rose in my mind— Maya comforting me, explaining how to do our calculus homework, and being on the receiving end of hour-long phone calls about the most trivial things. She was always there for me… but I wasn’t there for her. All of the sudden, another loud CRACK! resonated from my vanity mirror. I could now see my distorted reflection staring up at it from the floor, my image fully consumed by the splintered glass. Then, I saw the blood on my face. Maya’s blood? How? No! No, no, no, not again, please not again. I cried out and ran to my broken mirror, prepared to scrub off her blood when I halted. My face was already bare. I stared at my fragmented reflection, confusion wrecking my head as my heart began racing with fright. I wanted to run, but I knew that I couldn’t escape this hell. I choked on the last of my sobs and tried to sleep in silence. November 16th, 12:19 a.m. I haven’t left my room since her funeral. The days pass by in an endless haze. I ache to hear Maya’s voice sometimes. Often, I’ll wake up thinking that she’s calling my name, when in reality, I’m alone. I spend most of my hours sitting on my stool, gazing at my reflection. Sometimes, I don’t recognize myself anymore. The girl on the other side seems to lag— as if she merely imitates my expressions in a game of copy-cat. I sat there once more and buried my head in my hands as I remembered what happened.

November 8th, 8:32 p.m. We had just finished eating dinner after a day of hanging out. I was driving with the windows down, the wind tangling our hair while we entertained each other with jokes and laughed. “Let’s stop at a gas station quickly,” I suggested. She frowned. “It’s already dark, can’t we just go home? We have our Calc test tomorrow, you know, and we both need to study for it.” We did, but I didn’t really care. I hated the reminder of school. The thought of spending the next few hours alone in my room and studying integrals with frustration felt like a slow suffocation. If mindless procrastination was the solution, I would gladly oblige, and Maya knew that.“It won’t be that long, I promise. I’ll look around for some snacks and be right back,” I reassured her. I could tell she wanted to protest, but instead, she pursed her lips and looked away. She never objected to me. I resented myself. Why was I so selfish? We pulled into the parking lot and I jumped out of my car without bothering to lock the doors or to say good-bye. Minutes passed as I roamed the aisles of processed snacks, occasionally passing a tall man doing the same, but glancing at the parking lot every now and then. I thought nothing of it. He soon left without purchasing anything, but all I was thinking was that there would be no long line in an otherwise empty convenience store. Just as I was about to pay the bored teen waiting behind the checkout counter, a scream resounded throughout the store. Whipping my head towards the source, I saw the man who left without paying in the parking lot, trying to pull open my car door while Maya screamed and desperately pulled on the handle from the inside. He had a gun in his hand. He was shouting open, he pulled the trigger. For a moment, everything was still. He suddenly looked up at me with a look of horror on his

face, then fled. I couldn’t breathe as I saw her body crumple against the car seats. I flung open the car door and could only hold her silently in shock as the police arrived. November 16th, 12:20 a.m. The sound of tentative cracking brought me back to the present. I lifted my head back to my reflection, who stared back into my eyes. Oh my god, this is my fault. My fault. It’s my fault that she’s dead. It’s my fault. I began gasping with guilt but stopped as I noticed something peculiar. The cracks on the mirror were slowly spreading, branching out further and further, until the entire surface was covered in jagged fragments. My broken reflection stared at me again, except this time she faced me with an expression of betrayal on her face. “Yes. Your fault,” she hissed. The mirror finally burst into a million pieces and shattered, leaving behind an empty frame and an empty girl.

Just Some Thoughts Anonymous, 2024

Bye as I walk away trying to stop feeling stop thinking. I thought I got better. Why am I here again? I’m “better”, then why do these thoughts linger? It was hard to smile again. I’m just tired. People ask if I am okay. It warms my heart but only long enough to utter the usual. “Of course” I’ve never told anyone so why start now? Not here. Not now. Not ever. That’s how it must be. It’s not their problem. It’s okay. Your demons will console you. Reside in the darkness. It’s safe in the pitch black. No one will see your tears. The shadows don’t judge nor talk. The darkness would never hurt me. They would never say poisonous words Never rub salt in my wounds until pain is a friend. He’s back. Hello

Untitled, Vernice Le, 2022

Octolion, Joanlis Martinez, 2021

I am All You don’t Know Kendra Haley, 2022 This office feels so Small to them. Whether it’s that thing’s(?) fault Or their own stress, they can’t care enough. Because Dr. One traversed 3 deadly months In 0.3 seconds By looking at its eyes(?). Because they could not remember A time when Dr. Three Had less than 5 arms Even though such a time Surely existed. Because it could do anything, Really. Without doing anything at all. They sat in that tiny desk, Flared nostrils and cramped hands Writing and writing and— Faster and faster and slower and faster. It did something, they remember It did something and then Said something, words(?) that Didn’t make sense. It made a week a month, It made red five seconds, And made the color black a type of metal.

Recognizing it hurts. They knew that, they knew that. They knew. But one more note. Their writings change at once. Scrawls and scratches with no Real meaning. They are suddenly Suffering. (It’s that thing’s fault, They know.) Bodily functions working like Clockwork, Though mind crumbled, A small electric spark Reaching out to nothing. But they remember. And they have to record it. Just one more note. Just

Don’t even think about it, The ones higher up say Don’t even think about Thinking about it.

We Are Alone Infinitas Volume 14 Editors The following is a collaborative poem written by the Infinitas Volume 14 editors. Each editor contributed a stanza on the theme of loneliness.

I had never seen her before. She sat there in a crowd of her peers. Her fixed frown was faced toward the floor. Everybody just steered clear and sneered, Yet she still made no attempt to leave. Surrounded by a crowd With people I know Even so close Yet I’m unseen. Standing stiff, scratching her arm, Picking her arm, pulling her arm, The pain gave her company.

She gripped the back of the seat beside hers. Drowned in the noises of engagement around her, she realized just how dry her throat was. Looking from side to side, she saw no one amongst the crowd of faces. No one. Not a single pair of eyes a hue she recognized. The couples waltzed by her, an endless parade of perfect pairs, Oblivious to the soft tears of the youngest girl there. It was not the sight of their opulent fabrics or elegant lockets dipped in gold that painted her so. No, for her it was the fact that there was not a single pair of eyes locked on her own. She ached for his touch, whisper, or smile With his laugh in her head all the while. Her eyes stared through the wall between her and her peers. Despite being made of air, it was a wall no one ever crossed. She sighed at her lack of conversation; she never knew the drama of that year. Her eyes dart along the cracks in the walls feeling the encroaching wave of solitude crawl from her stomach and make residence in her chest. Oh, how pitiful it was knowing how birds felt when outsiders saw them fall from their nest but refusing to help.

All these days would toil by with little happenstance, While she passes the time in her room with the curtains drawn. Where’s the friend? Where’s the world? Outside her room. With curtains drawn, as these days toil by With little happenstance. She sat at her desk Restlessly scrolling through her phone As if her phone would check That she was not alone. Her room was so silent, To the point where she began to claw at the wallpaper, For she thought the deafening quiet Was something screaming in the walls.

She looked around the vacated street Hoping for someone to meet, But only silence visited her. She stood in the dark clearing, Empty air’s whistle filling The cool, silent evening. She lifted her head Searching aimlessly Then turned to bed Because there was no one to see. They reflect on the past presence of others, Wishing for that presence, possibly, In this space where the air was now only theirs to breathe, Where nothing but their own breath was heard. And, that day, I watched her panic across from me, Alone in that crowd, Before telling her in my head, with a smile, That it’s not just her.

Why Would You Treat Me Like a Stranger, Joanlis Martinez, 2021

I met myself on a train going East. Bhavana Kunnath, 2021 ... And it wasn’t like the movies with both of us stuttering out phrases at the same time and jinxing each other. It wasn’t like the movies with evil clones and crooked smiles and sci-fi magic explanations. I met myself on a train going East. And at first, I didn’t recognize me. I mean obviously I recognized me but I didn’t recognize me—I mean—okay. I looked up from my seat and right across from me next to a cold railing I saw her—I saw me. I recognized me instantly but I looked a way I’d never seen myself before. I looked at the me who was her and that me seemed like the kind of person I could not have been. My mouth hung open and I almost said something, but I looked at me and my dark blazer and modern blouse and my hair long and out with its waves dyed burgundy towards the ends and my eyelids marked with one swish of neat liner and my files chock-full of cosmopolitan sophistication with success scrawled in perfect cursive across the tabs and a soft face projecting a kind disposition and arms that rippled beneath their sleeves and neat brows that could kill a man with one swift movementand eyes glittering a rich brown and brimming with determination and a rose gold watch slipping down to a hand defined by decisive motion and lips flanked by smile lines at both ends but poised to strike, and— And I looked back down at my grey sweats and messy braid and greasy face and blue hoodie growing fuzzy from overuse and the worn backpack knocking against my legs and I wound my jaw shut and fell back against the cold

steel subway seat. But my staring had already attracted her—my—attention and she—I—glanced up looking into the face of myself without even a whisper of recognition. I saw my eyes fall back to my phone, saw my hair fall back into my face, and saw my shadow swim beneath the dim orange lights of the tunnel. The glaring white light of the station flooded the car again. Between the graying strangers, swaying children, and saucy youths disembarking I caught glimpses of me. I was nearly statuesque in the angle my wrist bent and my head tilted down towards my phone. I was the face of an ambition even Caesar didn’t dream of, but I was something else too. ... I looked as though I was the kind of person who had the sun dipped into them, who had a coppery golden glow flowing out from within them like watercolors swirling endlessly outward. Dark. Orange. Light. I looked like a watercolor person with a life full of stories bleeding out into the air around me, weeping into the people surrounding me. Station. I watched myself get up, my full height balanced in soft flats—sometime between my now and her then I must’ve learned how to match shoes to clothes. I watched the doors shut behind myself. and when I glanced up at the orange words scrolling on the door above my head I realized I had missed my stop. I met myself on a train going East. But for the longest

time, I refused to meet myself. Instead, I studied myself zealously, scanning smiles for signs of what’s to come, noting the slightest shifts in my mood, and searching for premonitions in my own body language as though the act alone would be rewarded with some nonverbal revelation. If potential could be exposed and exalted through the obsessive, astute study of an all-too-familiar stranger on a subway then I am sure I must’ve defined my potential with scientific certainty. It wasn’t stalkerish—it was far more loving, far more furtive. I told myself I was just doing my civic duty, playing guardian angel for my better self, counting the minutes till her present and mine collided in a cosmic explosion. Dark. Orange. Light. But I knew, even then in my naive infatuation, that the other-me was not the kind of person that needed guarding. Watching other-me drum her fingers against the binder in her lap with the impatience of a person of importance, I couldn’t help but think that other-me was not a delicacy but instead that I was packaged deli meat waiting for something—delivery or deliverance? As I looked from the recently scrawled cursive on the crumpled sticky note in my pocket, the lines of my T’s teetering on the continental shelves and the dots of its I’s on the other side of the pacific across to the nearly perfect faux calligraphy on the decorative binder on other-me’s lap I realized bit by bit what I was doing through all this obsessive monitoring, but I couldn’t find the words for it yet. Station. I got up swinging the sack of textbooks over my shoulder. I no longer missed my stop watching my other self; most days I got off without so much as a glance from her. Every morning, I got off and I was still me, dark puffy bags brewing under toffee eyelids and an underwhelming rat tail of tangled blackness spilling from my hoodie. I was a whole lot of something on paper

who had a whole lot of nowhere to go. Every morning, I got off, leaving a piece of myself on the subway, and every morning, blurring past me, there was a me who had a whole of somewhere to go. Every morning, I had half a mind to stay in that train and miss my stop watching myself get off and go somewhere where I was someone, but I was sure if I met myself that I would have nothing to do with me. So I put on my armor of delicate apathy and let myself slip away. I met myself on a train going East. But it was a long time before I relented to meet myself, and it was an even longer time before I understood what I was doing watching myself every morning. I was falling in love with myself and documenting every step of the romance. Or maybe I wasn’t. I suppose I’ll never really know... One of those days when I knew me but before I had met me, was the end of an everything for me. It was one of those liminal spaces in life that comes between the end of one phase and the beginning of another; it was the kind of uncertainty-tinted dissociation that mixes the teary drooping of a thousand fastly blurring memories with the excitement of a sunny day tucked into a city you’ve never seen before; it was the kind of moment in life that leaves you feeling like a tadpole in butterfly’s cocoon or the yawning possibility and the ever-significant meaninglessness of an airport at 1 a.m. The ending of an everything is no small thing for me and other-me’s like myself who immerse themselves in a phase of life, drowning in what feels quicksand only to find out it was in the shallow end of the pool all along. The ending of an everything is a vast emptiness, and as I sat there watching myself, the one who’d gone through a thousand shimmering everythings and embodied all of the everythings to come, I had to know—I had to ask me. Dark. Orange. Light. Where

Broken Through Want, Shirley Huang, 2022 does it all go? The five-hour facetime calls, the late nights in isolation, the jokes I thought I would always remember and the laughter that I know I won’t, the oily faces, the make-up fails, the brutal roasts, the petty arguments, the songs, the parodies, and the rhapsodies—where does it all go? The hours I spent slaving over group projects, the spilled coffee, and all the cups of coffee I never went with them to drink, the satisfaction of an edited essay, the security of arbitrary walls, the curses whispered through giggling lips in bathroom stalls, the all-important questions somebody never had the guts to ask someone else, the thousand photos that didn’t make the cut for the ‘gram, the memories that weren’t on snap stories—where do they

go? The intimate knowledge of a friend’s psychological pressure points, the hours they’ve spent learning the intricacies of my history between dropped calls and “poor connection”’s, the odd noises that won’t be found in the comments of any google docs, and the soft advice of pumice-stone mentors—where does it all go? What was the point of all those hours spent if they were not meant to have or to hold? What was the point of the effort, the love, the people, the lost connections? What happens to them at the end of an everything? Station. What happens to them when an everything ends and the days drip by and seep into a new everything and I look back on the something that once was my everythin-

g and realize it was really nothing—what happens to them then? Do they implode softly scattering their whimpers into the wind? Do they tumble out of the frame like checkbooks balanced at a number just below zero? Do they melt into a buttery brunch of small talk and awkward lacks of recognition decades from now? Do they turn into elevator music in buildings somewhere in Norway or Morocco that I’ll never get to see? Do they dissipate into the air beneath the noon sun—into the egg whites of the wind? Dark. Orange. Light. I wanted to grab myself—the one the answers to every essay question I hadn’t had hurled at me yet—and shake me and scream desperately “Tell me! Do they dissipate into the air? God, do they dissipate?” Station. As I saw myself get up amid the people in their various shades of gray and colorful geometries, I realized I had missed my station, but I didn’t feel any particular way about that. It was just another lost thing. Before I realized what I was doing I saw the blueish gray sleeves of my hoodie rising before me and I tapped myself lightly on the arm. I turned and locked eyes with myself and still the light of recognition was not reflected in them.

I tried to speak, to ask the other me where they went, but the question was all-consuming and it dried my throat. As I turned away thinking I had hit me by mistake, I reached out grasping my hand trying to stop myself from leaving. Other-me was startled but recognized there was something more so I leaned down straining to hear the words I was trying to push past my lips as people slid by. “Where does it all go?” the words slithered out too softly and were easily swallowed the noise of the subway. An everything was ending and the numbness of that 1 a.m. airport was settling into my heart. I knew that other me had not heard my question so I released my hand and dropped my eyes to the empty seat ahead. I forced a smile and waved at other me as she disembarked. Another lost thing. “Where do they go?” I whispered to the doors sliding shut. Perhaps, they did dissipate. Perhaps, they did not. Perhaps, they were just the undetected tints in the watercolors swirling through subway doors. As I watched myself leave, I pretended to content myself with knowing that perhaps that was where all of the everythings went.

“Do they disappate?”

The Pottery in the Kitchen Adaeze Uzoije, 2022 Noticing the small fracture along the rim of the vase, she instinctively smashed the delicate pottery onto the ground. In fact, there were cracks on all of the pottery in the kitchen. Every single piece. And she knew exactly why. _________________________________________ Simon never had to hide himself. Born with Treks, he was doomed to have lost one of his senses at birth; though it was always a gamble as to which one it would be for any family expecting a trekker. More so, it would be a gamble as to how that lost sense would show itself. Some children would be traded the gift of racing through the cosmos for their hearing or their sense of smell--if you were really unlucky, you would be born without skin. Simon was the average case of a trekker, but he wasn’t just blind: he had no eyes. It was a shame, as he would be quite handsome were it not for the sinkholes in his face. His gaping stare peered deep into everyone who came close, but they never looked away because of the holes themselves. No, Simon didn’t have an invasive look to him, and even his lack of eyes wasn’t too unnerving to the townsfolk unless you were a newcomer. It was the way that he would lean into someone’s chest, attentive to each and every word, every single aspect of them as if he could see. He could see too much. It was always too much. No, Simon didn’t have an invasive look to him, but he would pry into anyone he wanted just because he wanted to. Velma would only come to meet Simon through a friend of a friend by the name of Martin, visiting town to consider moving into an apartment just down the street from the main plaza. She was familiar with moving from place to place, and something else would lead her to Banks County, a popular area with high rent and

high expectations. As she approached the main group of friends, Simon’s anomaly was in full focus: his craters had a glare that could cut clean through concrete. Even so, Velma continued to walk towards him in particular, looking at him head-on and reaching out her hand in comradery. “Nice to meet you! I’m Velma, and you?” The group paused for a moment, exchanging glances as if something was wrong, but Simon promptly ignored it and reached back, hearing her in front of him. “I’m Simon. Pleased to meet you.” And as soon as their hands touched, Velma’s world turned to technicolor. Her vision was fuzzy, showing her something that she would have guessed to be different types of cotton candy. She blinked and found herself on a pastel cloud, surrounded by hundreds more for miles with Simon at the center of it. Now totally flushed, Velma took her hand away in a panic. She stood in the plaza again, surrounded again by the sound of crowds of people and busy traffic. “I’m so sorry!” She bowed so as to not show her face. “T-that must have been private! I didn’t mean to--I know that trekkers don’t like people seeing their mindspaces! I apologize” Simon’s expressionless face shifted slightly in confusion. Martin looked down to his left. “You could see it?”

_________________________________________ After the meetup, Velma headed for the apartment that she would be staying in with luggage in hand, Martin leading the way. She set her suitcase in her room, only removing the essentials from the front zipper. She wasn’t planning on staying in that apartment for long--maybe a month before she would move into a cozy condo. She headed back to the main room, where she saw Martin in the kitchen. She was planning on initiating some small-talk until Martin promptly interrupted her inner thoughts.

“Simon’s mindspace...was it too bright for you?” “Oh, no! It was, uh, pretty okay? Still sorry about that, by the way. I really didn’t me--” “No, no, that’s not the problem here.” “...problem?” Martin sighed and pulled out a chair from the kitchen table. “Simon’s mindspace isn’t necessarily a good place to end up. He has trouble forgetting anything that goes inside it. Especially people.” Martin paused, sighed again, and tilted his head back to Velma. “I just need to know how long you felt like you were there for.” “I’d say maybe a couple of seconds? Is that bad?” “I’m...it’s not necessarily bad, just...watch out. For Simon, I mean.” Martin put the chair back in place before heading out the door, leaving Velma alone with her thoughts on whatever the hell he meant by that. She decided not to push it, but it made no sense to her. Simon seemed like a nice-enough person, mindspace and all, and there was no real reason for her to watch out for him. What happened with Simon? Was his mindspace dangerous, or is he just kind of weird? “Whatever.” She went to her room to forget about everything. __________________________________________ Simon wasn’t too bad. In fact, Simon wasn’t bad at all. He reached out to Velma after the whole group had shared

their contacts with her so she could ask them for help whenever she needed it. Simon had asked her if she needed help with anything the next morning—something that she found to be kind of sweet of him—and she said yes. She wanted a keepsake from Banks, and she felt like a local would know better than her where to find good souvenirs. That afternoon, they were walking through the plaza nearby—loud and boisterous like it was the day before. “Is it like this every day?” “Of course it is! It’s the main plaza, after all.” “Doesn’t it...bother you? You know, because you can’t…” “Oh! Hah, not at all. I hate having accommodations for anything, so I just learned to see with my ears. If I hear well enough, I generally know where things are. That’s enough for me.” Velma slowed in the plaza in surprise. “But how? That’s incredible.” “Well, trekking definitely helped.” He turned towards her and reached out his hand. “Do you want to see?” “No, no, I’m good.” As much as she didn’t want to remember what Martin said, she could shake it out of her head. “I’d rather not go back into your mindspace again.” “Oh...of course. I understand.” Simon lowered his hand, and Velma continued to follow him from behind in silence. Ever since that day, Simon was always somewhere nearby. Velma would leave her apartment building only to meet Simon outside, ready for another adventure that he planned out for her. Souvenirs, keepsakes, anything they could find was something for Simon to show her. It eventually came to doing more than just shopping--Simon’s favorite hobby was pottery, and he introduced it to Velma as a way for her to have something in her kitchen. It was completely bare, with only two containers of tupperware and a container of utensils for her to use. Velma was used to moving, so she never really needed anything too nice. Even with that explanation, Simon was adamant about it.

“Just take whatever I give you! It’s not like this stuff isn’t biodegradable.” It wasn’t long before the pottery moved from the cabinets to the cupboards to the tables to the island. It would have almost been uncomfortable had Velma not been familiar with things that would make most people uncomfortable, but she recognized that something strange was amiss nonetheless. It was easier to tell too, as each and every piece of pottery has a crack in the corner. As he was dropping off another mug one day, Velma decided to ask. “Oh, it’s just a thing I do! The first time I tried I cracked the end by accident because I wasn’t paying attention, so I just kept doing it.” She looked back at the mug. “But why keep doing it? Doesn’t it remind you of your eyes? And of how you can’t see?” “Well of course it does, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” He directed a pair of imaginary eyes towards the mug, his stare drowning out everything else in the room. “It’s...it’s nice to know that when I try, I can do most things. But if I was really good at everything, then it wouldn’t look like I tried. It’s nice to know that I’m not good at things.” He looked Velma in the eyes. “It’s nice to know that I have to try.” Velma smiled back at him. “It’s nice to know that you try, Simon.” They looked at each other for another minute before Simon closed the door, leaving Velma to sit in the kitchen looking at her mug. “He’s really good at this.” __________________________________________

That night, Velma dreamt of Simon’s mindspace. It was a dream of silence and clouds and sweet, soft smells. There was only her, and there was only Simon. She never felt such a calm before in her other dreams, with caramel whispers and silk sighs. She heard everything she felt, and everything she felt she felt too much for it to not be real. Simon would then make her way to her slowly, the air embracing his body as if he belonged to it, and he would fly, only to take her hand and speak first. “I love you, Velma.” Velma sank. “What?” “I love you dearly, and I want you to be mine.” Everything around her became heavier, the clouds turning to cement along with a crater forming around her. “Please, Simon, what is this? What do you mean?” “Velma, I sincerely mean it.” “Simon, you don’t even know me--” “I know enough about you to love you.” The ground beneath her cracked further as Velma tried to let go of Simon. She would rather fall than confront him. She needed to leave. “Velma, please stay.” “No, you will let me go.” She needed to leave, but Simon held her even tighter. “I said let me GO--” The ground beneath her shattered with the sound of glass and the sight of a sinkhole, a mirror image of Simon’s eye. Velma elbowed him and she fell into the pit, jolting her awake with tears in her eyes. She paced around her room, too nervous to call Simon herself for fear of what could be. He never came by her apartment. __________________________________________ “I love you, Velma.” Velma found herself in the same nightmare with Simon, after 16 days of little to no sleep. It was aching at her, gnawing at her, and she . “Please, stop this. I don’t love you. I don’t even really know you—“ “That’s what you think, but if you give me a

cha—“ Velma jolted awake, shaking and hyperventilating. Hearing a knock, she hurried towards the door and jerked it open; there was Simon, his eye sockets almost seeming deeper than usual. “There you are, Velma! I wante--” “Where the hell have you been.” Simon fell silent, focusing on hearing past her as to not look her in the eye. “You’ve been entering my dreams, haven’t you.” “...I have, but only because I love being with you!” Velma’s face contorted as she looked down. “You don’t love me. Anyone who loved me wouldn’t make me so upset.” She finally faced him. “Why are you here? What do you want now?” Simon started up again, pretending nothing had happened. “Would you go on a date with me?” “No--” He continued. “I’m performing on Wednesday in the plaza nearby. We’d be able to hang out afterwards. I really want you to see me perform.” He hurriedly took both of her hands into his, desperation leaking through his teeth as he faced towards her. “Please?” “Simon, I don’t like you like that.” “What don’t I have that whoever else doe--” “I don’t like anyone like that!” She tore her hands away. “Simon, leave me alone!” Silence fell onto the doorway. Simon was no longer looking past her, but at the floor. Velma was too, as if someone had superglued her atlas and axis to bend to a specific position. Nothing would make her look him in the eye at that moment. He didn’t deserve it then. “....I’m sorry, Velma.” Simon finally raised his head. “I’m really sorry. I should have bee-” “Just give me the tickets and leave. I’ll think about it.” “Please, let me explain.” “What is there to explain? You stalked me, and you’re sorry. You won’t get an award for being a terrible person and doing the bare minimum to repair it.”

“Will I at least see you there?” Velma didn’t raise her head. More silence. Simon turned away from her. Velma closed her door, raised her head, and went to her room to forget everything again. The pottery was overcoming the tables. The kitchen had no space anymore. __________________________________________ The applause teetered on the edge of compulsion, died down, rose tremendously, and then stopped altogether. To the average observer this experience may have been out of the ordinary, but Simon followed his routine and turned his back from the crowd. Blind and all-seeing, simultaneously familiar with and ignorant of the infinite faces of possibility, he searched—or tried to search—the endless sea for a moment, and then found her with an unmistakable flush on his cheeks.

“She came after all.” Past the boundless beyond, from the sunshine to the moonlight creating a streaking passage across the clearing sky, with the two reaching far for the love in their hearts and souls all gathered up with a desire made of non-tactile rings. He found them just for her. She deserved them, after all, considering that she was the only one who understood. The only one who would ever understand. Velma stood in silence as the audience slowed to a still around her; he was doing it, just for her. But it didn’t matter. It never mattered if he wouldn’t be who she needed. Because of this, he had inevitably shown to her that the grandiose importance behind this bridge was now broken forever. She hesitated being angered by his clumsy, selfish lovingness—she had never actually seen him trek before. Her intrigue peaked as she saw glass-like bridges in the sky shatter from the middle on that Wednesday afternoon—and even then, she repeated to herself that Simon’s chance at forgiveness was gone. Velma would never be more unsure than when she stared woeful eyes into his reaching hand or when he caressed the end of her hair tenderly. She had reached a point where she wondered if painless affection was the type of love that was only for fairytales, if everything she was experiencing was normal and she just needed to get over herself. Even so, when Simon floated towards her then for what felt like the millionth time in the past month and showed the obsession of his love along the grand walls he built of obsidian and chalk, Velma’s wariness of him began to be justified to an imperfect end. She moved his hand away in the stillness of everything. “Velma?” “This isn’t going to work, Simon. Not while you’re like this. Not when you think…” She took advantage of the time they had together, as to not make any in-the-moment decisions. “Not when you think that you can make me love you the way you want to. I don’t love you like that. I never will, Simon; and I hope you can come to terms with this later, if not now.” Simon started descending from the air. “Velma, please--”

“I don’t even know if I like you.” “Velma--” Simon, having reached the floor, reached out to her to touch her shoulder until Velma slapped him away. Velma turned back, tears in her eyes, trying to make her face translate into her voice as best as possible. “Simon, I don’t like you anymore!” Eyebrows scrunching, she turned her head down and hiccuped through her words, Simon’s hand still reaching out in disbelief. “I hate people like you. I can’t stay here. Not anymore.” She continued her way out of the crowd before calling out the final words she’d ever tell him. “Don’t come after me.” Simon stood alone in the frozen crowd as Velma hurried out of the plaza, and time began to move again. _________________________________________ She stood in front of the shattered pot on the ground, heavy and helpless. He always had to be everywhere, even if it hurt him to stretch every vein he had to trap her in his sphere of influence. She looked at the kitchen again for more things to destroy, more molds to shatter before she could ever remember him again. But it was too late, his memory had slipped into her mind, just like when they

first met. She couldn’t forget just how inconsiderate, how insolent, the man-child that was Simon could be. Grabbing another plate and looking into it, she admired the craftsmanship before screaming and smashing it against the table and letting the pieces fall to the tile. Velma decided that if she couldn’t forget him, then she would make sure that she would never have another reason to remember him. And so the breaking continued. Every single thing with his signature crack in the corner was to be bashed against the nearest surface. Velma took everything he ever made her and turned the pottery, along with him, to dust. Pots, plates, bowls, vases, everything in pieces on the floor. Electrified with anger, Velma took one last look at her kitchen: empty shelves and messy floor, a danger to anyone who wasn’t wearing

shoes and a spectacle of broken clay for any person to behold. As her brain began to catch up with her body, she released the tension from her shoulders and headed to the bedroom of her apartment to pack her things. Velma moved quite frequently, so it was only a matter of time before she would leave Banks County. She followed her usual procedure of packing--clothes, toiletries, keepsakes--and headed out the door, leaving money on the table of the messy floor. It only took her a month. The moon came, twilight fell over, and the day was quiet again. _________________________________________

Busy Worker, Joanlis Martinez, 2021

True Vision Moska Arsalan, 2021 She laid there motionless. Still. A single twitch of her finger being the only indication that she was still alive. A furrowed brow, and the slightest raise of the corner of her mouth as she regained consciousness. The strong scent of Hydrogen Peroxide stung the tip of her nose, as she opened her eyes to a black screen and a white curtain. Raising her hand to her right eye, she could feel a patch taped flush against her eye socket. She snapped her head to the right and to the left, as panic started to swell up her throat. Hurrying onto her feet, she put on her shoes that were neatly placed under the hospital bed. She grabbed her backpack and rose to her feet. As the world spun around her, she quickly shut her eye and took a deep breath. She snapped the IV out of her arm and pulled back the curtain. Consumed in the chaos of the emergency room, she snuck her way past the nurses and headed for the exit. Ignoring the snow that bit at her skin, she grabbed a taxi and headed towards home. Sitting there in the taxi, she replayed the past few memories she had. The snow started to melt and dripped down her arms and neck as she failed to recall how she ended up at a hospital two towns away. Her mind was in a frenzy as the sharp buzz of her phone caught a gasp in her throat. She ripped through her bag looking for the origin of the sound. In large words that spread across the screen of her phone, read Haden. Haden. She received the call as a hushed voice rang through the speakers. “Jade, where are you?” “What happened?” “I couldn’t reach you for two

days?” Her husband’s voice soothed her mind as she was relieved to hear that he was alright. She licked her lips and tried her voice. “I am alright.” Her voice rang hoarse against the cold air in the car. “I woke up in a hospital room. I grabbed a taxi home. I will be home in 40 minutes.” She checked the watch in her hand, an old anniversary gift. Broken. There was a large crack against the glass, but the hands were still moving behind it. She squinted in order to see the numbers behind the fractured screen. “How is Pearl? Is she alright?” “Yes, she is sleeping beside me right now.” Relieved, Jade unclenched her hand that had started to leave an imprint of her nails in her palm. She reassured Haden and hung up. Arriving at the door of her two-story house, she paid for the taxi and left. She rushed to the door and was surprised to find Haden waiting behind. He pulled her into a warm embrace that reminded her of how cold her own skin was, completely exposed to the snow. “What happened to you?” “You left for work and never came back.” “I tried to call you, but you never answered, and no one at work knew where you were at either,” Haden spoke in a soft tone as he cupped her face and rotated it from side to side. He had a pained expression drawn on his face as he examined the patch over her eye and the large cut on her lip and arms. He pulled her into another hug and kissed the eye that was completely covered by cotton and surgical tape. As confused as Haden, Jade replied

Multi-Tasking, Joanlis Martinez, 2021

with a tone that matched his. “I have no idea what happened. I was driving home when it suddenly got hard. Next thing I know I woke up in the hospital.” She took his hands into her own. “I cannot believe I have been out for two days. With this level of injury, I shouldn’t have been out that long. What did they give me to knock me out for two days?” “Where is Pearl?” “Is she alright?” Not waiting for his reply, she headed up the stairs towards their room. She opened the door to find a small frame laying gently on the covers of her bed. She ran to the side of the bed and grasped the small head of the child in her hands as she placed gentle

kisses across her face. Only after the baby stirred that she ceased her rain of kisses and pulled away. She sat there for a bit staring at the sleeping child. Haden came up beside her and ushered her to take a shower before she got cold. She headed for the bathroom. Entering the white-tiled bathroom, she closed the door behind her and switched the lights on. As light poured into her vision, she turned to the mirror to examine the extent of her injuries. “What happened to me?” She leaned in closer to the mirror, as she started to pick at the edges of the surgical tape at her eye. She pulled the bandage off and was shocked to see her reflection. There was

Hollow, Avyesh Kapadia, 2021 nothing wrong with her eye. Not a scratch, rip, tear to be seen. She struggled to open her right eye and could see nothing but black as her pupils started to adjust to the sudden change in setting. She stared at her reflection for a while. Was it a mistake? Was her eye still adjusting? She leaned in even closer to reveal the actual damage to her eye. It was fractured. Shattered. The Cornea of her right eye was fractured into pieces. There was a large gap in the middle as it strayed into her pupil and her iris rang red. Like glass, her right eye was shattered. Her former jaded eye took a hue of red as it looked back at itself in the mirror. Her voice caught in her throat as a sharp gasp slammed her against the wall behind her. She snatched at the door handle and was caught by Haden who had heard the

loud thump and came to check up on her. She looked up at his face and was horrified by what she saw. Half her vision saw a charming brunette man staring back at her with burning blue eyes, the other failed to see the beauty in him. From his eyes, she could see him. More than his light skin and the soft touches of red around his cheeks, she saw into him. She hurled herself from his arms and shut her eyes. A soft whimper escaped her cracked lips as she tried to grasp herself. She opened her eyes and saw the truth. She could see him for all he was and all he wasn’t. Haden creepy closer to her with a panic in his eyes, but Jade couldn’t find a trace of panic in them. She saw his truth through his eyes. Haden grabbed at her arms. “Honey, what’s wrong?” “What happe-

ned?” He leaned into her and from the light shining through the open door of the bathroom, he saw her eye. He gasped at his discovery and pulled away. In her, he saw a fractured eye, and from the eye, a single stream of red drew down her cheek. Jade too felt the wetness at her cheek and swiped her hand against it. She peered down at her hand to see a smear of blood against her fingers. She gasped and shoved herself deeper into the folds of the wall. Her breathing was so rushed to the point that a small whimper escaped past her lips. She stumbled to the bathroom and once again faced her reflection. She was correct, a smear of blood on her right cheek. Haden rushed into the bathroom after her and turned her to him. Frighted, Jade closed her eyes and pulled away. “Jade, what happened?” “Your eye! Why? What? How?” His voice started to rise. “Look at me! What happened to your eye? Why is it shattered? Can you still see me? Why is it red?” Confused by her silence, he tightened his hold on her shoulders and nudged her to face him. “Look at me! Why are you not looking at me? Jade?!” Jade slowly turned towards him and opened her eyes. She was staring at the large printed words stretched across his shirt. Too afraid to look at him, she kept her gaze low. Haden put his hand under her chin and forced her eyes up. Giving up under his command, Jade looked him in the eyes. She could see it. All of the darkness, the purity of his thoughts and intentions. She looked deeper into his eyes and could see everything. She saw it all, the greed, the lust, the anger, the pain, the guilt. She could see it all. Everything. Disgusted by the him she saw through his eyes, she pushed him off. “I need you to leave.” “Jade look at me!!” “Why won’t you look at me?” “Leave Haden. Just Leave.” “What? How? Jade!”

She pushed him out of the door and shut it behind her. What is happening? How did my eye...Why can I see? What did I just see? Why was he...how did I see all of that? A thousand thoughts flashed through her mind as her heartbeat struck loud against her ears. She ran to the tub and drenched herself in scalding water. She sat there under that tub, shivering and whimpering in her clothes. After spending 40 minutes in the bathroom, she finally opened the door to the bathroom. She stepped out into her bedroom, leaving a puddle of water under her feet. Haden ran to her with a towel in hand and wrapped her in his arms. She pried his hands off herself and walked to her closet. Throwing the wet clothes into a hamper, she changed into a pair of jeans, a hoodie, and a thick coat. Upon seeing her, Haden rushed to her. “Where are you going?” “It’s 4 am.” “Why are you leaving?” Pushing past him, Jade headed to the bed. She peered into the face of her sleeping Wrapped her arms around her. She lifted Pearl off the bed and headed for the door. Haden ran in front of her. “Jade! Where are you going at this time?” “Why are you taking Pearl?” “Jade!!” Ignoring his questions, Jade pulled a blanket over Pearl and took her keys off the table that stood tall against the living room wall. Haden snapped at her arm and turned her around. He once again fastened his hands around her arms tight and shook her. “Jade! Snap out of it. What is happening to you?” “Where are you going at this time, and with the baby?” Looking up at his voice, Jade winced when she looked into his eyes. Disgusted she looked away. “I am going to stay at my mom’s house for a few days.” “I will call you tomorrow.” “But why?” “What did I do?” “Why are

you leaving when you’re in that state?” Pulling away, Jade left the house without another word. As she set her destination to her mother’s house, Jade was lost in a frenzy of questions. She couldn’t stop repeating the past few events over and over again behind her lids. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. Not Haden, but him. The man she saw through his eyes. The man that had the same milky skin and blue eyes as Haden. She couldn’t stop shaking from her fear and horror of seeing him. Such a disgusting man she saw when she looked at him. He wasn’t the man she married. He couldn’t have been. Arriving at her parent’s house, Jade pulled up to their driveway and snapped the car seat out of the back seat of her 2018 Pathfinder. Pearl was still asleep under the blanket that was wrapped around her small figure. Ringing the doorbell of her former home, she was slightly comforted by the soft tune of the bell. Waiting under the heavy snow of the December night, she could see the lights inside the house glisten as a trail of her parent’s presence lit the house. A soft thump and the door was opened. “Jade?!” “Darling, what’s wrong?” “Oh Lord, it is freezing outside. Get inside.” Jade’s mother pulled her into the house and locked the door shut behind her. “Oh god. How could you bring Pearl out into this weather?” Jade’s father questioned with his low voice that resonated his sleep moments before. Gently laying down the car seat on the floor, Jade pulled in her mother for a hug. She tucked her nose in between her mother’s neck and shoulder and remained there silent. She pulled away only when she heard the soft whimpering of Pearl. Her parents stood there silent, waiting for her. Jade took a step to the wall and switched on the lights that hung in a huge chandelier above the entryway. As light poured into the room, Jade’s previous fear was back. She cried out a soft gasp as she looked into her mother’s eyes. Jade sudde-

nly stepped back and crashed against the vase that stood beside the door. The red vase shattered as it hit the tiled floor. Jade’s mother gasped and stepped towards her, completely disregarding the glass under her feet. She grabbed Jade’s face and cried out. “Lord Jade! My dear, what happened?” What happened to your eye?!” “Are you ok?” “Oh, God! Jade your tear!!” “Oh, Dear your bleeding!” Her mother wiped the tear off her face, and indeed, a red smear of blood-stained her fingers. Jade looked deep into her mother’s eyes. The pair of green eyes that once looked at her so lovingly was now disfigured. For the first time, Jade saw her mother for all she was, and all she wasn’t. She saw everything past those green hues. Jade winced and snapped away. She looks up to her father and saw it all over again, with a single red tear falling from her right eye. Snapping between green eyes and brown eyes, and saw so much. She saw too much. She could no longer see her parents but only saw the heinous within. Disgusted, she pulled away from her mother and crouched over. Hugging her stomach, Jade was once again shaking with fear and terror. As tears fell down her eyes, both clear and red, and started to whimper. “Mom? What happened?” “Jade?! Is that you?” A soft voice came out from behind the stairs and in a few seconds, a small pair of arms were wrapped around her. Jade’s younger brother was woken from the sound. As Jade looked down into the small child that was wrapped around her waist, she peered into his bright brown eyes. Brown. Nothing. Jade saw a pair of bright brown eyes and nothing more to them. There was nothing past the bright brown hues. Relief washed over Jade as she bent down and wrapped her arms around her brother. Why couldn’t I see him? Is there anything to even see? He is only 8. Shocked by the sudden realization, Jade ran to Pearl’s car seat and pulled do-

wn the blanket. Behind the white material of the blanket were a pair of green eyes that resemble those of Jade’s. Deep green eyes stared at Jade as a small hand peeked out from under the covers. Grasping her hand, Jade burst into a frenzy of tears. As the tears keep falling down her left eye and soaking her left cheek, Jade’s mother laid a hand on her shoulder. Without much thought, and with a lack of words between Jade and her parents, she went upstairs to her old bedroom, with Pearl cooing peacefully in her arms. She opened the door to her room and entered the familiar setting. Despite everything she saw, being in her old room gave her a sense of comfort and safety that she was really in need of. Upon entering her room, she took off her shoes and wrapped herself and her baby in the sheets as they both dozed off to sleep.

A Flawless Mind Jaylin Gonzalez, 2022

Norm cracked open the crates with a crowbar, and rows of bottles of Flawless nested inside stared up at him, all waiting to be mixed, stirred, poured, and downed by many a soul. He was tempted to snatch a bottle for himself—or two bottles, or three, or four—but the business had to come first. There were always leftover Flawless even after three full nights’ worth of parties anyway. Of course, parties on the South End weren’t as lavish as the ones at the White Crown and the like, where the rich folk binged on Flawless like it was the end of the world, without a care for the ones below. That angered Norm and other like-minded souls to no end. After all, Flawless was for everyone. Everyone deserved to forget. After all, it was the year of 1927 in the joint Republic of America and Mexico. The decade of vibrant, bubbly jazz, hours of dancing, bright smiles, and bottles and bottles of Flawless everywhere. It was the age of blissful forgetfulness. Who in the world wanted to remember the tragedy that came before? “Now there’s a shipment if I ever saw one.” Norm jerked back, his bad leg nearly causing him to trip, his cane in one hand and the crowbar raised in the other. When he saw Elvita enter the warehouse in her loose-fitting blue dress and high heels, he relaxed immediately. “Jeezus, ya nearly sent me to an early grave.” “You and the gang sure outdid yourselves. I don’t think I’ve seen this many big boxes of Flawless in the past six months.” Norm thought Elvita sounded less enthusiastic than usual, but he chalked that up to her long hours performing at the South End Club. He went back to examining

the contents of the crate. “I’ll say. Freddie, though—you know Freddie the Ace? Darn fool nearly botched the heist when we were tryna intercept the shipment to the White Crown.” He waited for Elvita to take a jab at poor Freddie, but he heard absolutely nothing. He turned and noticed Elvita with her arms crossed, staring at the bottles of Flawless with a look he can’t quite name. He tilted his head curiously. “Ochoa? Ochoa, you in there?” “You remember the War?” Elvita asked suddenly. Norm froze. He was conscious of his bad leg all of a sudden, the way it throbbed with a hurt he could never forget, no matter how many pints of Flawless he downed. “Heya, Norm. You remember the War or not?” “War?” Norm laughed nervously. “What war?” “Stop pullin’ my leg. The Flawless can’t make ya forget the whole Great War completely even if y’all like to pretend it does. You sure do remember the war, Norm, even if the Flawless scatters your brain when it comes to remembering how it ended. Ya fought in it!” Of course he fought in the War. The Great War the whole world waged everywhere, from the Republic of America and Mexico, to the Franco-Spanish empire, to the Germanic countries, to the Pan-African kingdoms, to the Russo-Korean States. Where else could he have damaged his right leg like that, beyond repair? Of course, he can’t remember how he hurt his leg during the war—And who would want to anyway? Who in their right minds would ever want to remember the war?

Norm waved his hand like he was brush“For heaven’s sake, Norm! You’ve gotta ing off a fly and said, “Oh, that was a long remember the darn War!” time ago. It’s all, y’know, hazy.” “Why on God’s green earth would I “That was nine years ago, it ain’t that wanna do that?” long ago!” Elvita’s red lips twisted with an “Because I’m tryna save you.” agitation Norm didn’t understand. “Even She might as well have thrown a brick with the Flawless in your system, your at his face. “Wha—But—I am saved,” Norm memory ain’t that fractured.” sputtered, and suddenly he couldn’t keep Norm sighed and decided to be blunt the next words from escaping from his about the matter. “Well, I don’t care. I don’t mouth. “I know I did something wrong wanna talk ‘bout it.” during the Great War! We all did something! “Norman Gatz-Cisneros, you’ve gotta But I can’t remember, all ‘cause of Flawless. remember how it ended.” Ain’t that a good thing, Ochoa?” He set the crowbar against the crate, Why don’t she understand, she understood and with one hand he pulled out one of so perfectly before, she was all smiles and song the bottles of Flawless, holding it up to the for the past years— light, moving it around a bit and watching “Bombs, Norm.” the liquid slosh inside. “How what ended?” “What?” Elvita put her gloved hands to her hips. “We dropped bombs everywhere. Not “What’re we talkin’ about, Norm?” them typical bombs either. These were “We was talkin’ ‘bout how Freddie monsters, and whole cities were… annihialmost ruined the lated.” heist—” Norm stumbled back. “...he can’t remember His bad leg trembled and “The War, Norm, how he hurt his leg the War.” he clutched his cane, gripduring the war—And ping it like a vice. “Wha— “And what about who would want to, any- Who—Who did? Oh god, it?” Norm asked innoway? Who in their right was I one of—” cently. mind would ever want to Elvita looked ready “What? No, not you remember the war?” to snatch up the crowor regular soldiers, of bar and whack Norm course. Only the governupside the head. There ments could ever do such were several seconds of nerve-racking sia thing.” lence in which Norm considered booking it But Norm couldn’t remember. What Elout of the warehouse, but then Elvita spoke vita said was impossible to imagine. Surely again, softer this time. “You have to remem- there hadn’t been so much destruction in ber the War.” the Great War—But of course, how should Norm blanched, his face suddenly red. anyone know? Flawless makes you forget. The bottle slipped out of his hands and Wait. shattered on the floor, glass scattering in “How—How do you know that?” all directions as liquid Flawless splashed Elvita lowered her voice, stepping against the crate and Norm’s shoes. He around the broken bottle on the floor as she cursed loudly, looking down at the mess be- walked closer to Norm. “I’ve been told. I’ve fore glaring at Elvita. “Lookit what ya made been told by a friend of mine that I haven’t me do, Ochoa!” seen for a long time.” “Remember the War, Norm.” “And how the hell did they know that?” His head grew dizzy. His bad leg She wagged a log, stern finger at him. wouldn’t stop hurting. “Would you shut “Ya gonna break the cane of yours if ya up?” keeps holdin’ it like that. And she didn’t say

how she knew ‘bout the bombs.” “But—But that means she could be lyin—” Elvita grabbed his shoulder. “She had this huge album and there was a photo of you with a bunch of soldier boys during the War.” She nodded down at his cane. “Before your leg got busted.” If Elvita wasn’t holding him by the shoulder, Norm would’ve fallen backwards. All the breath in his lungs fled and several moments passed before he could manage a quiet, “What d’you mean?” “You was standing tall in that photo like the rest of them soldier boys with your soldier uniform, both legs straight as flagpoles.” Norm swallowed hard. “I thought—I thought everyone got rid of photos from the War. Or most people anyways.” “She didn’t. She just hid hers.” “So… so your friend knew me during— or I guess before the War? Or what?” Elvita shook her head. “Outta all them soldier boys in that photo she only knew one but didn’t say who. But she did say that he knew you and pointed it out for her. And you know what? I bet he was the fella who told her about the bombs.” Norm staggered away from Elvita, his head swimming. He turned his head towards the open crate until he realized that he suddenly couldn’t bear to look at the bottles of Flawless. He looked back at Elvita and said, “I wanna see your friend and I wanna see that fella of hers.” “She’ll tell you. She told me to tell you ‘bout the War.” She paused, rubbing her chin with her finger pensively. “Matter of fact,” she said slowly, “I bet that friend of hers and yours wants to talk to you as much as you wanna talk to him. He knows somethin’, he knows a lot more.” “Fine,” Norm said wearily. “‘Cause the thing ‘bout the bombs is—” Norm let out a despairing sound and Elvita shot him a pointed glare as she went on. “Ya ever noticed how there’s some folks who get sick? Like really sick?”

Norm blinked. “I—” Elvita cut him off with a roll of her eyes. “Of course ya don’t. They gets really sick and they either move outta their house for a pricey trip to the hospital or a cheaper trip to the morgue. And ya know what caused that? The bombs. The stuff inside ‘em. Ya listenin’, Norm?” “I’d like to sit down. On my bed. I wanna go to sleep.” “Norman Gatz-Cisneros, I swear by all things holy—” “Yeah, I’m listenin’! I don’t want to, but yeah! I’m listenin’.” “The bombs were dropped, people died, and even years later, people still dyin’. The air’s still poisoned even if we can’t smell what’s wrong. Those places close to them cities that got bombed, that’s where more people get sick and die.” Norm felt a sour taste in his mouth. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna guess. We’re near a city that got…” “Yeah.” Norm looked at Elvita in her blue dress and high heels, white gloves pulled up to her forearms, her dark hair done in bouncy curls. “You—You sick, Ochoa?” “I sure hope not.” The warehouse grew silent, with only the sound of cicadas buzzing outside. Norm fiddled with his cane. He still couldn’t look at the bottles of Flawless in the crate or the one in pieces on the floor. None of what Elvita had said had to be real, right? At the end of the day, after downing as much Flawless as you need, it’s all proven to be a bad dream already fading from your mind. But this was not a bad dream. Even when the bottles had the word Flawless on them in fancy lettering, all they did was fracture the mind even more. All because no

Brainwashed, Rachel Kim, 2021

one wanted to remember. Norm didn’t want to remember. But oh, God, he couldn’t try to make himself forget anymore, could he? He couldn’t look at Flawless anymore, he couldn’t force himself to drink it, and that would probably cause problems for him at the club and pretty much everywhere. People died, people were still dying, even if no one noticed a thing from all the euphoric forgetfulness they ingulged in. Hell, Norm could probably end up sick himself and die. Or Elvita, or Freddie, or anyone who worked at Norm’s club, anyone Norm knew. “Maybe,” Elvita spoke again, with hope in her voice and cynicism in her downcast eyes, “Maybe someone’s got some answer to this. Solution to the problem. But first we gotta act like nothin’s wrong. Put on our happy faces, go back to South End, and pretend it’s all in good shape, least for tonight. But we can’t drink Flawless anymore, else you are gonna forget everything I just told you.” “Fine,” Norm said, kicking at the glass shards on the floor. “Fine, fine, fine.” He felt more awake as he gathered himself and left the warehouse with Elvita, towards the club, his mind much clearer than he remembered. He wasn’t sure if he liked it, if he would be able to choose that horrible lucidity over what Flawless offered. That beautiful void of nothingness where there were once bad things...

What is Actually Wrong With You? Itohan Ologbosere, 2022

Untitled Image, Isabel George, 2022

I think we are a normal family, don’t you? The three of us wake up from our metal cage (much like a bedroom). We brush our teeth with leaf juice (much like toothpaste). Like any other family, we eat simple meals together. We even have a pet. The old lady still hasn’t gotten used to our new living arrangements like we have. She says she still misses her palace. I forgot the name of the country, but I’m guessing she was an important foreigner before she got captured. She says it’s strange that our toothpaste comes from mint plants that grow from cracks on the ground. “And I’m tired of eating crusty hot crossed buns and salty tomato soup from a rusty can all day.” She muttered. Frankly, I don’t see a problem. Living in this tower’s basement isn’t so bad. Sure, there isn’t a single window, nor is there internet, but I have a family now! Much better than living alone in the streets. What if we get a new family member? I think we have enough space down here, don’t you? Good, you agree! I find it interesting that we weren’t taken here at the same time. You were here first, then me, and finally the old lady. I guess you know more than us. You showed us where the food is stored, and you warned us about our big, scary pet. Now that I think about it, maybe our lives are weird. I mean, our pet is a mighty golem. A 15-foot-tall anthropomorphic beast made of cracked earth. It knuckle-walks like a gorilla, yet articulates its thoughts like a college professor. Wielding its large golf club, it guards the only set of stairs in the whole tower. Every. Single. Day. Before, the fact that it can run, hear, and even talk made me marvel at technology. Now I wonder if this thing brought us here. Maybe its creator commanded it to

catch us and force us to finish the food. To finish the salty tomato soup and the hole-filled hot cross buns. Or perhaps this golem is some sort of primordial being who has always roamed the Earth. Are you sure it was a human, not a humanoid, who brought us here? “I’m positive.” You said. I sure hoped you were right. The thought of testing the already tainted waters of nature makes me uneasy. “Oh, there it is now!” The old lady slowly backed away from the creature and bumped into you. “Do you see what’s strapped on his back?” Wait, why is she wailing now? “Curses - it’s tomato soup and buns again!” The golem rolled its clay eyes while it dropped the load. The motion is rather distracting since they rotate in a way only possible with a diagonal axis. “Would it kill you to maintain a dignified silence, Miss?” “Maybe.” She shrugged. “It gets so quiet here and there’s hardly anything to do.” “I assure you, Miss: none of you humans will cease to be as long as you eat this food.” “How do you know that?” She asked. “The soup is ridiculously salty and the buns are extremely sweet. Won’t that kill us?” The golem grinned at you as if you understood. “It may seem counterproductive in regards to keeping you alive...but you are unaware of the ingredients.” Was it ever going to disclose that information or…? The old lady shook her head at me. “There’s no point arguing with it.” And on that note, the golem leaped on the stairs to disappear at the first floor. Maybe we are the pets. Neglected ones, anyway. After all, the golem simply feeds us and hardly stays long enough to humor us. You know, I’ve noticed you don’t talk very much. Are you thinking about some-

thing? Something serious? Huh, what an interesting face you just made. “I have a plan.” You do? “To escape?” The old lady looked at you incredulously. I guess I forgot to mention that she doesn’t like you. Maybe she has trust issues or something after being captured but she’s completely fine with me. She told me not to tell you, but she finds you a bit scary. I don’t find you scary. We’re family now. We can still be a family if we escape right? “Of course we can be a family back in civilization.” You shrugged but it seems like the old lady isn’t too keen on the idea. “Plus, it just so happens that my phone doesn’t need wifi.” Why are we just hearing about this? “You have a phone.” The old lady’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets and rolled into one of the soup cans. “Why didn’t you use it? Is it dead?” “No, I have my wireless charger right here.” What was the problem then? “The problem is where my phone is.” You admitted while shoving the charger back into your pocket. The old lady frowned. “Don’t tell me it’s upsta-” “It’s upstairs.” Then it’s hopeless, right? We can’t escape. We can’t get up there without the golem noticing. “Don’t worry.” You reassured us. “Remember what time it is?” I exchanged a look with the old lady and looked at the battery-powered clock that hung on the wall behind you. You are right: we do have a chance. The golem sleeps every evening at 6 pm. It reanimates at 6:30 pm. That means we have half an hour to walk up the spiral stairs and look for your

phone. Now we have a task: trek up the tower’s seemingly endless spiral of stairs. Did I mention that they are very steep? In fact, these stairs are ridiculously steep. And slim. “Who’s coming with me?” You asked impatiently. I wanted to accompany you but the old lady is scowling at me as if I said something to leave the salty taste of our tomato soup on her tongue. I am doing this for her! Why would I tell an elderly person to lug themselves up flights of stairs that I, a more suitable candidate, find daunting? She glared. “Now is not the time for jokes.” Why are you holding back a laugh? “It seems like she wants you to keep her company,” You joked. That is most likely not the reason why she doesn’t want me to join you. If she wanted me to keep her company, then she would have either offered to join us or simply asked me to stay. Instead, she insulted my ability to climb as if I am the elderly one. Why shouldn’t I climb up the stairs? I tried to reassure her that I can do it but she just stared at me. Why does she seem so sad? Has she simply lost all hope for escape? I should talk to her after we get the phone. Without a warning, you grabbed my arm and dragged me with you to the stairs. I guessed you want to leave as much as the old lady does despite not showing it. Perhaps the old lady and I are holding you back. Or maybe you’re just a caring leader. Now I wonder who you were before we got captured. I won’t ask you that though since you’ve been mean-mugging since the old lady protested against me joining you. I’ll try small talk instead. How many times have you climbed up these stairs? You must have done it quite a bit before I got here. Your blank stare makes this pretty

awkward. “Zero.” You answered bluntly. “What makes you think I’ve trekked up these ridiculously windy stairs?” Are you serious? If you’ve never tried climbing, then how did your phone get all the way to the first floor? You maintain your nonchalant attitude while answering. “When I woke up, I saw the person walking into a room on the first floor. There was a glowing screen in his hand.” I kept pressing. Person? As in the person who trapped us here? “No. The golem.” How unfortunate. The golem must know that your device enables you to contact people. We should make sure we swipe it back before he regains his consciousness. “Wow,” You smile. “That took a while.” I look down the stairs. What took a while? Oh. We are on the top floor? Granted, the lengthy spiral only constructs one flight of stairs but still. How did we get up here so fast? For all I know, it was the soup and buns kicking in. I only believe we climbed so much because my muscles are mulling over the fact that I hadn’t stayed with the old lady. Now I’ll have to force my body to trudge along with yours and find the phone in this room. What color should we be looking for? Is it a conspicuous color like neon green? “Uh, look for a black phone.” Just our luck. Black. Out of all the colors: black. Are you forgetting that it is evening and that this tower does not have windows? That would not be a problem if the captor paid the light bill. How many

matches do you even have left? “Enough.” “…” I felt around for the device, but you didn’t seem to be motivated to find it. Why? Wait, why so silent. Oh, no. Did you accidentally run into the golem? “I found the phone.” You whispered Wait, really? How did you find it so quickly? Whatever just try turning it on and call someone. Anyone. We can charge it if it’s dead. The old lady is going to be so happy once we get back down! You know, you’ve been staring at me for a bit too long. Then I heard it. I heard the most earth-shattering sound I could ever process in my head. I hear it but I am too stunned to see. I am too scared to look at the cracks, the dents, or the pieces. You broke it. What is wrong with you? You...broke it. I couldn’t stop stammering. The one thing we needed. You had one job! I don’t even care if the golem wakes up and barges into this room. You only frowned and started walking down the stairs. Sadly enough, I just walked back down with you. Even sadder, the old lady is weeping with joy because I have returned safely. So the old lady didn’t want company: she was trying to warn me. Warn me about going anywhere with you: the only one who could have brought us here, the one who had a phone the whole time. The one who makes us stuff our faces with over-seasoned tomato soup and hot cross buns with cavities. But after all this, I only have one question for you. “What is actually wrong with you?”

Aletheia C body text indent:: 0.25 No space between paragraphs Start all new stories on the lefy

The anglerfish is a fascinating creature. It lives in the deep, dark sea, and it has a lure dangling above its head, filled with luminous bacteria which lures prey towards itself. The prey swims at the lure, right above the anglerfish’s gaping maw. Several miles away, high above water yet deep in the ground, sprawled a cave system, stretching around deep in the ground beneath a small village. It was in that cave system, in the darkness, where It prowled, moving amongst the rocks ever so slowly, inching towards Its target. The caves echoed every sound emanated in them, and yet, it made no sound as It approached. Nothing ever saw Its eyes, the great hollow things, only ever Its shadow, merely passing by on those rare occasions and miraculously leaving the observer alone. In the darkness, It hunted. But the cave system was large and full of cool old rocks that made great souvenirs and therefore a great spot for local tourism. Sure, on occasion, one or two people would go missing, but that was just the way it had always been. They always forgot about them afterwards, anyways, so it never bore down hard on anyone’s conscious. Sam, a local guide in the caves, like many of the locals, knew which caves were safe, and which ones never to go near, lest you be drawn into the darkness and never seen again. The problem lay with the fact that brazen and idiotic tourists didn’t know where to avoid. “Maybe we should investigate?” suggested a young man, practically a teenager, to the left of Jade

ure

Cocar, 2022 “We aren’t supposed to leave the group,” reminded a professor, Jade having forgotten his name. The small group in the back went back and forth, always in hushed tones, always when the guide couldn’t hear them. It felt wrong, somehow, to even know about the smell. That horrible smell… They decided to follow it. They followed the stench for nearly a quarter of a mile down a tunnel after breaking away from the group, until they had stumbled into a large, empty cavern. The reek had only grown exponentially, as they now stood at the epicenter of it, letting it fill every possible nook and cranny. Nothing could escape that smell. The young man spotted an object in the center, pointing at it as the group walked towards it. Walking felt like an eternity, and yet they suddenly crossed the span of the cavern in mere moments. The group looked onto the object with hesitation, but after a breath, Jade stepped forward. She inched closer to the object, bending down to get a closer look. The stench was awful, and even worse from up close. It smelled… it smelled like something wrong - old shoes, rotten milk, lies, and long-past-ripe fruit. The stench permeated the air and clung to Jade’s skin like a humid heat on a damp Southern summer evening. A faint buzzing sounded to the left of Jade’s ear-- the flies were coming. She faintly wondered how they could reach this deep in the caves, and yet... She shook her head to focus. The object, the strange thing they had found in the cave. She needed to focus…

But gods above, that stench… everything was a little… fuzzy.... as if the smell itself had formed a fog in her mind... ...Jade studied the thing. A massive bone sat on the ground innocently, almost mocking the group. Jade felt a tug at her chest, welling up in her eyes. She breathed in a deep sigh, regretting it immediately as the reek hit her in a full-frontal assault, and continued to look at the object. The bone was cracked in half, jagged spikes almost kissing in the middle, a thin fracture running upwards to the endof the bone. And from that fracture oozed a horrible slime, a luminescent lime color, its hue so intense it seemed to fill the room with light. Jade reached out, as if in a trance, to touch it. Her mind was blank, and only came back online when someone-- the professor -- grabbed her arm. “Best not to touch it, we don’t know how toxic that is.” He forced a smile, but a tear ran down his right cheek. He quickly swiped at the offender on his face and stood. “There’s nobody down here, so we best head back.” “Obviously someone was, I mean, that’s a human bone, right?” The young man looked around at the others. “Maybe it’s from an animal,” David piped up. The professor shook his head, which was illuminated with green light emanating from the slime. “Too big. No animal of that size would be in these caves.”

A woman to the side of the group shivered. “I don’t think we should be down here.” “I agree,” Jade quickly backed up, eager to leave. She was thinking of very strange things, and she didn’t like it. Memories, old, older than she remembered, so very old… “Yes...” The professor nodded his head absently, turning back to stare at the bone. “We should head back. I’ll be just a moment.” His head nodded again, but it was in that moment preoccupied by his daughter… young again… and his wife… and their old house… all together… so very long ago… and yet, right there… in that instant, it was his present… The group nodded and quickly went back down the tunnel, clinging to each other as they walked. Not a word was uttered. Jade’s feet turned on the rock beneath her, faster and faster as the group sped away from the odd bone and its weird pus and the strange, same feeling they all had but refused to speak about. They all near-sprinted back, trying to leave that off-the-path cavern behind. When showing pictures from her trip, Jade remembered with fondness her trip to the cave systems. The details were a bit fuzzy, but the tour had been nice, and the caves had been interesting. She never thought of the professor again.

Cracked Galaxy, Itohan Ologbosere, 2022

Untitled Eclogue Aryan Ashraf, 2021 Don’t you think twice about all that you see? Lately, these past few days all seem a lie. Ewes have come trotting and running from blue skies that now house more than one single Sun. And it wasn’t like that before, was it? Oh, you just had to have seen all my ewes, Damsels in pain would be what you’d assume To be responsible for all those cries Sounding so purely of anguish and strife. It sounded so human, writhing and alive. Pastures that sway in the winds blowing through Atmospheres that are both foreign and new Do not compare to the fields at my feet. Why then, my friend, do I still feel so bleak?

You’re right to feel off. Something’s not right. Used to feel nothing but love for my ewes. Some sort of pestilence seems to have brewed. Deep in their eyes, what I look straight into, Things that are dark with a deep tinge of blue… Yes, I know what I’ll say will sound insane Those deep blue things seem to stare past their brain Staring at me like my pupils to they I cannot bear to look more to this day. Pray tell, another strange thing has occurred One of my ewes gave a new one to herd Though, as I took the small sheep in my hands, I found it’s skull had been fractured in half.

Odd that you say so, for my ewe did too Gave birth to one with its skull split in two Did your small sheep walk just fine like mine, too? Oh, it did! Oh, it did! Walked just like new! What an odd occurrence. It was definitely a pitiful plight. Honestly, I’m not that scared by the sight The rest of the sheep seem to pay it no mind And, though the big rift in its head seems to bite, I can, as well, work and pay it no mind. That’s the most beautiful thing about love Could have shown nothing but fear and disgust Though we did not and showed it love instead We ended it’s suffering ‘fore it began. We could end its suffering? Thinking that we could have been such grand saints By doing nothing but what we do best! Loving our sheep and caressing their hearts Makes my own swell up with more to go far! That’s the best thing about loving the low It grows and divides and lets you give to more! Surely then, we can fight evil and end it! The love in our hearts will be strong and can do it! We won’t even have to try! We won’t even give it the mercy of trying.

Girl with Ewe, Aryan Ashraf, 2021

Radio Silence Darshana Sharma, 2023 Day 1: Finally, peace. After years of constant change and movement and exhaustion, I had finally gotten the guts to pack my things and leave. I didn’t hate the city, not at all, but always having to keep up and be on edge differed from the small town where I had been raised. But gone were the days of high efforts and buzzing around, I had finally bought a remote cabin to live in. It wasn’t by any means a refurbished one, but it has hot water and decent flooring, so there’s nothing to complain about. The realtor thought I was strange when I requested that all of the phones and mail be disconnected. She just doesn’t understand what it feels like to be constantly burdened with having to reply to others. Finally, in this cabin, I feel alone. Day 4: Keeping up with this cabin is difficult. In the spirit of total isolation, I vowed to fix everything myself and not bother with calling anybody, not that I could, but it’s proving to be easier said than done. My little knowledge of plumbing and basic electricity got me pretty far in these 4 days, but really all I can thank is the tool box I thought to bring along. In other news I started a garden. It isn’t the biggest so far, but my pre bought roses are still alive, which has got to mean something. Day 9:

I finally fixed the plumbing and electricity! Now that my house is finally working, I can enjoy the quiet. My garden is doing well. Some of the roses are cut off, so I think i’m going to install a fence so the deer can’t get in. I started growing some tomatoes as well. Everything is finally going into place. I don’t think anyone has tried to contact me, which is great. I would hate if someone were to come here and disturb me. Day 18: My power is out again. It’s a good thing I had the idea to bring tons of candles, or else I wouldn’t be writing to you right now! Thankfully my plumbing is still working so I can still have hot water. I’m trying to figure out why my electricity went down, but so far I can’t figure anything out. More of my roses are gone. I had assumed it was the deer eating my roses, but yesterday afternoon I saw a bunny amongst my garden. Thankfully I dealt with the problem fast and had braised rabbit for dinner. I don’t think my roses will be harmed again. Day 19: I went down to the basement to my power box, and it looks like some of the wires are cut. It must have been insects chewing through them. The fix doesn’t look too difficult, so I think I’m good. I can’t leave. My garden is too defenseless, and if I leave, who will care for it. Weeds and animals post a constant

Day 25: I fixed the wires a couple days ago, and everything’s been fine since then. My biggest concern is my roses. I find their petals littered around my garden and through the woods. I thought I had dealt with the rabbit, but looks like there are more pesky intruders invading my peace. I am now watching my garden like a hawk.

ed to talk to them. They never respond back, but it’s nice thinking that my roses appreciate me in the same way I appreciate them. Day 32: I think I regret cutting my phone lines. The isolation has me on edge, and I feel like I’m being watched. To combat this, I talk to myself a lot more. But the other day, I heard a cough. I’m the only

Day 30: As much as I like the silence, it feels too intrusive. I came here to get rid of deafening sounds, but this is worse. Its volume chokes me, then settles at the bottom of my lungs preventing me from taking a full breath. I wanted to play some music around the house, but I didn’t bring anything. I’m still continuing my rose watch to find what animal is ruining the beauty of my garden, but nothing has shown up so far. I’ve start-

cabin in this area, so now I stay inside a lot more. I hope there isn’t anyone there, and if there is, I hope they have good intentions. Day 33: I’m scared. I went to see my garden, and I saw orange tulips. I hate tulips. This confirms that someone has been around my house. Everything makes sense now. My plucked flowers. My cut power lines. I’m scared. I don’t have anyone to talk to.

“Cleaved” by Cade West, 2021

threat, and this garden is too precious. Too important. I need to care for it, nurture it. It is the only thing that matters. Day 35: I finally found the intruder. It was a man coming from the woods. He was too eager to take my roses and plant tulips, I could see it in his eyes. The way he had his arms outstretched with gardening scissors. He looked around, to see if anyone could see him. Pathetic. I saw the whole entire thing. The way he trampled over my tomatoes, the way he delicately touched the petals. What a vile man to think he was deserving to even touch my flowers. His eyes weren’t as eager when he saw me come from my house. I probably didn’t look threatening, a 5’5 woman slowly advancing, but I like to think I scared him enough. He still didn’t look scared when I pulled out my gardening shears.

went out again. Its clear the electricity isn’t reliable, but at least I know how to fix it now. Everything is peaceful again, and today I found an old bird bath in my backyard. I think my next project will be to fix it up. The silence isn’t as loud again now that I have things to do.

Day 40: Even though the problem was taken care of, I continued my rose watching. If there was one bad man, then there had to be many. I didn’t mind it at all.

In the end he didn’t look like anything at all. Thankfully nothing soiled my roses. I would hate for that to happen.

In other news, my power-

A Broken Murderer Amah Mancho, 2023

Vision seeing but at the same time not Innocence ruined and virtues rot Fractured mind and fractured heart Broken man tearing others apart Murder is commited like a simple task Hurting others to hide his own pain with a mask Fractured life and fractured soul Broken man with an appalling goal With this person is there time to fix He was broken since the age of six Fractured family and fractured bonds Broken man is broken in the way he responds Soon locked up and put in jail Putting an end to his murder trail Fractured mind and fractured heart Broken man lost himself to too many parts

Drip, Jaya Locklin, 2024

Aryan Ashraf, 2021 Malaika Body, Atlanta HQ - Department of Mental Health Outreach and Human Resources 7/26/2023, 9:10 AM When I took my seat in the conference room, a random middle seat in a random middle row of black plastic chairs, I could not help but notice how stuffy I felt. I took a look to my left, then my right: surrounding me was a sea of white coats, all science-minded people intent on exploding the human psyche into predictable causeand-effect chains of reasoning, either experienced psychiatrists or psycho-analysts discussing their latest landmark achievements or fresh college graduates riding off the high of turning their long, arduous internships into (finally) paying jobs. I was not on the same level as these other people in the room. Unlike a lot of them, I was new to the MB, for I had been recruited in a secretive hiring spree in the past few weeks. From what I was able to gather, all of the departments of their Atlanta HQ were short on employees, since the upper management underestimated the amount of work the MB had ahead of them. Furthermore, I was not as supremely educated in psychology as these other people. I had simply worked in a senior daycare, specifically for those with dementia, these past ten years or so. Thus, I gained experience in the very particular illnesses that the MB is claiming to be dealing with. Push came to shove, and I found myself here, a newly hired interviewer for those supposedly afflicted with said illness. I did not mind, though. This was exciting! A new experience for me after almost a decade of working with seniors

who would, for the most part, forget my name or that I was born here or that I spoke English well because I was born here, despite my tan complexion. I did feel bad to look back on my career with the resentment that I did. It was not that I hated repeating conversations or reintroducing myself every few minutes. Frankly, my absentmindedness prevents me from focusing too much on what I repeated and what I did not. No, the resentment seemed to stem more from the repeated experiences of staring my mortality in the eyes vicariously through those of the seniors I cared for. The fact that the one thing that defined so much of us and who we are, our memory, our mind, our cognition, seemed to have abandoned them when they needed it most — I could not help but think of it as a death of some kind, even if it was not physical. The door of the conference room opened, pulling me away from my wandering thoughts. We all looked up to see a woman, dressed in the same white coat as so many in the room. The difference was the elaborate gold necklace she wore, which signified her administrative superiority. It was a simple gold chain attached to the MB’s insignia, a yellow ring enclosing a serifed M and B with the words “Malaika Body,” “UNEARA,” and the phrase “We forget” in Arabic. The rest of us had the same insignia on our person, but it was on the backsides of our plastic lanyards, which definitely was well below her gold.

Malaika B

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••• UNEARA •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• ‫••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• انيسن‬

Lord of the Pit

ody ••••

••••••••••••••••••• Malaika Body •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• UNEARA •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• ‫•••••••••••• انيسن‬

Malaika Body •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• UNEARA •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• ‫سن‬

•••••••••••••••••••••••••• UNEARA •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• ‫••••••••••••• انيسن‬

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••• UNEARA •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• ‫•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• انيسن‬

Body ••••

“Hello, fellow scholars,” she said with a dry smile as she made her way to the podium, “I hope you all had a… a good commute this morning. Sorry, I thought I forgot the briefing for this meeting in this stack of papers I have here. I mean, could you blame me?” She dropped the huge stack of papers onto the podium. It produced a deep thud, which caused a few of my peers in the conference room to chuckle. She cleared her throat. “Alright, now to business. I’m sure you got the gist of why you all are here from the email I sent out on Monday. Basically, we’ve gotten some more cases of… ‘Capgras syndrome’ in the city of Atlanta. We have already given these individuals their ‘diagnoses,’ if you will, so all of them, for all intents and purposes, believe they have Capgras syndrome. For the older ones, we have also insinuated that this may be an early symptom of a neurodegenerative disease like Alzheimer’s.” My mouth fell open in exasperation, and I had a look of disgust at this news. She may have noticed. “Some of you may be a little unnerved by that, but I assure you: making these people lose trust in their own memories is better for the whole of society. It also makes our job easier!” The more experienced around me began to chuckle again, though her comments did not alleviate my distaste one bit. “You all will be given a folder with the details of one of our newly diagnosed. Your job will be to interview them as to why they think one of their loved ones have been replaced with an imposter.

Some of the more mentally fortified will continue to believe that only one person in their life has been replaced. Some of the… less strongly-willed may have begun suspecting everyone in their life after their diagnosis. However, all these individuals grew suspicious due to one individual in their life. You are to question them, strong willed or not, about how their suspicions about this particular person, the first one they thought was an imposter, came about. I do not want to patronize you all, I’m sure you’re all well-aware of the rules, but, as per protocol, let me remind you once more. You are to talk to them as though you are actually treating someone with Capgras syndrome. However, you are NOT to disregard what they are saying because they may be telling the truth. The individual that started their ‘spiral’ may very well be an imposter.” Silence filled the room as she flipped some pages before speaking again. “After interviewing your assigned patient, you will then be transferred to a room with the individual they were suspicious of. You are to then interview this individual in order to accomplish two things: 1) corroborate the stories of the patient you interviewed and/or 2) identify any gaps in this individual’s knowledge of history, etc. that could be… a red flag. Now! Are there any questions?” A man behind me raised his hand. “Yes?” the woman called. The man stood up. “Hello, Dr. Shein. Uh… what if this individual, the second one who may or may not be an imposter… what if they get violent, anytime during our interview?”

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• ‫ ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• انيسن‬Malaika Body •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• UNEARA

‫ ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• انيس‬Malaika Body •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• UNEARA

Malaika

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• ‫ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• انيسن‬Malaika Body •••••

“Yes, of course. We have essentially given them the impression that they have been detained. We have screened them for any weapons, and we will be observing your interview through security cameras we installed in the corner of the room right in front of the door. You can keep an eye out and see the camera for yourself on your way in, if it will give you any peace. Should anything go wrong, which, if anything, should not really go beyond a fist fight if we’re being practical, we assure you that we’ll know, that we’ll come, and that you’ll survive. There will even be guards stationed in front of the door.” The man uttered a quiet “Thank you” before sitting back down. After a period of silence and murmuring, the woman happily dismissed herself and told us to wait until our name was called before leaving so that we could collect our assignment. Anticipation and nervousness began to well up in my soul before my name was called out once two or three other people were left in the room after me. I gladly jumped up and received my folder, almost running out of the room altogether. I quickly opened it and looked at the papers inside. There was a small passport photo of an older woman clipped to the front. Her name was Nevaeh Jackson, she was 62, and she was from Buckhead. She grew suspicious that her husband, Anthony, was replaced by an exact copy. She was also one of the older ones that was told that she could be suffering from dementia. I sighed but prepared myself nonetheless. Our interview would be at 10.

101

102

OFFICIAL MALAIKA BODY DOCUMENTATION Recovered Audio Log - Recorded 1/16/2023, 3:50 PM - Collected 4/26/2023 (Sounds of rustling could be heard for a few seconds over muffled voices. The audio clears out after, transcribed as follows.) PETER: Ok, ok, ok! It should be ready now. ANGELO: How does your phone still work?! PETER: I don’t know. I think it has something to do with these caves. You know, my charge has been fluctuating between 12% and 74% the entire time I’ve been here! ANGELO: That’s… odd. PETER: Yeah! So, since my phone is probably never gonna die, I thought I should, you know, record a couple logs so that the possible humans of the future can discover my phone and immortalize me as an anthropological landmark from the end of the world! I already recorded a few on my way here. ANGELO: Sounds completely reasonable. PETER: Now! Would you like to state your name for the record? ANGELO: (laughs) Okay. Hello, possible humans of the future. I’m Angelo Wilkins. PETER: And I am, as you know, your wonderful apocalypse radio host, Peter Xu. ANGELO: Yeah, I saved your apocalypse radio host from his literal death yesterday. PETER: Spoilers, Angelo, spoilers! Well, now that you’ve brought it up, I guess we have no choice but to talk about it. I was making my way towards Atlanta, as I’ve said before, but, this time, one of those bubbles popped up beside me, those bub-

103

bles that turned the Earth into the sphere of pumice that it is right now. ANGELO: I would say it’s more like swiss cheese. PETER: Anyways, I thought it was the usual affair: a flash of light, a spherical expansion of white, and then a spherical hole left behind as it disappeared, with everything that used to be in that hole deleted from existence. I mean, that’s how all these caves appeared in the first place, so I thought it was more of the same. But it didn’t disappear. Almost as though whatever deity was making us suffer by deleting several orbs of the Earth at a time wasn’t satisfied with just biting off another chunk of granite, the white condensed into an orb. It was… it was a color I never saw before, but, if I were to describe it, it’s kinda… ANGELO: Purple? PETER: Yeah! Purple. Anyways, the white condensed into this orb instead of disappearing, and then it started chasing me! I ran like crazy! Eventually, I tripped, and it grazed my arm and ate a chunk of it! Last thing I knew, I was pressed up against a wall with this thing creeping closer to me, seemingly to take me with it to wherever those white flashes go to after deleting everything that it encompasses. ANGELO: Then I come in! PETER: Angelo was on a ledge above us. He pushed a large rock onto the orb, and, once the orb swallowed it, it shrunk and disappeared. I was conscious long enough to see that, but I fainted not long after because WHOO! The chunk of flesh that was just cauterized out of existence from my arm hurt!

CLASSIFIED --- ACCESS FOR AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

ANGELO: Join the club, ya big baby. PETER: How big is this metaphorical club, exactly? ANGELO: Assuming that the others hadn’t killed themselves already at this point, I’d say pretty small. PETER: A tight-knit community of people with missing flesh pieces, huh? ANGELO: That’s one way to put it! (Both can be heard laughing.) PETER: Well, I woke up here, after that whole debacle. Angelo was kind enough to mend my wound. As I said, it’s cauterized, so it should… heal, right? ANGELO: The bit that one of those _______ took from my thigh seems to be growing back, so, yes, I think it should heal. PETER: Alright then! No use worrying about that anymore! I’m not even really recording this to talk about my experience, anyways! I’m here to talk to you! That’s right, possible humans from the future, Angelo here worked firsthand with the split! ANGELO: Yes sir. The split, the fracture,

the pit, the ravine, whatever you lot in the future refer to it. PETER: I was hoping… I was hoping you could provide an explanation. ANGELO: For the future? PETER: I mean, yeah. But, honestly… I want to know. I’m tired of being so confused. I want an explanation. Why did the world end? (What is assumed to be Angelo seems to chuckle lightly.) ANGELO: I can’t make any promises. I don’t even have a proper explanation for everything. But, I’m sure that whatever I’ll have to say will be useful, regardless. It’ll be more information than what any other hobo you come across might have to say about… this. PETER: Thank you. Anything will help. ANGELO: Well, before I start rambling, what do you know about what happened? How long has it been? A week? PETER: About that long. ANGELO: Sheesh. Felt like an eternity. Anyways, yeah. What do you think happened?

UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS IS PUNISHABLE IN FEDERAL COURT

104

OFFICIAL MALAIKA BODY DOCUMENTATION PETER: I think… I think it started with those Creators. A year ago, about a year ago I think, when the United Nations introduced those Creators, and every nation started using them to produce an infinite supply of… well, everything, I think something shifted. We might have angered God or god or something, and I wouldn’t put it past us because it seemed that we were breaking the law of conservation of mass on a daily basis. But, I didn’t mind it, at first anyways. Every nation, including the US, had duplicated silver and gold and money and everything else that was supplied and demanded to the point where money was useless and unnecessary and everything was free. We cried tears of joy, my parents and I, when my dream college told me within a few months of accepting me that I wouldn’t have to pay anything! If that hadn’t happened, we would’ve had to take out a really hefty loan. I was so happy for all of my fellow students who didn’t have to pay the ridiculous tuition fees, though, at that point, we didn’t really need to go to college. We went for the same reason that people still went to work: it was better than doing nothing, even if we didn’t have to do it. All paid jobs became, essentially, volunteer work, and all schooling became, in the same vein, outlets for fun for the genuinely curious rather than the hypothetical pipeline to success it used to be. Earth became the socialist utopia of our dreams. ANGELO: Hoo boy, I sure do remember how exciting that all was. I remember my mortgage company telling me that I could stop paying them because money became worthless. My wife and I were elated! PETER: Yeah, it was… it was really something. But, then, of course, in July, six months after the Creators were introduced, the split formed. I remember being confused at everyone’s reaction to it: it was met with the same awe that one would

105

meet the Grand Canyon or Mt. Everest with. People just saw it as another natural wonder. I remember being suspicious of it, though. A random split in the Earth that was not in the Atlantic Ocean before just… appearing? Overnight? I wasn’t buying it. But no matter how hard I searched for more information, I just couldn’t find any. There may have been some censorship involved. However, the censors began to fall as people began to demand to know more, protested to know more, for the split just grew and grew until the darkness, the shadow it cast onto the surface of the ocean could be seen from the Chesapeake Bay. By the time I came back from winter break from my home here in Georgia to my college in Philly, my entire social media feed was just filled with anger, people pressing every government for more information. ANGELO: By the time you came back for winter break? PETER: Yep, about a week ago. That day was the day. I went down to the Creator my college put in the lobby of my dorm building. It dispensed coffee. It was supposed to dispense coffee. When I went to it, it disappeared. Everyone around me was confused. Then, I think the road beneath one side of our building was swallowed, deleted by one of those… things. The building fell into the ground, into the newly formed caves below. (A few seconds of silence follows.) PETER: The Sun was so small and white. (A few seconds of silence follows.) PETER: My friends were crushed. I don’t know how I survived. ANGELO: I guess it was just luck.

CLASSIFIED --- ACCESS FOR AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

CLASSIFIED --- ACCESS FOR AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY PETER: I guess so.

came from underground?

ANGELO: If… if you don’t mind me asking… I’m assuming you came back here all the way from Philly to find your…

ANGELO: From what I know, they were collected from underground. Where they came from was up for debate and still is. Anyways, I think my experience related to that expedition was what led me to fall under the radar of the big global kahunas when it came time to investigate the split. I was recruited to represent the United States’ endeavors in the matter.

PETER: My parents. I found them under what used to be our house. ANGELO: … I’m sorry. PETER: It’s okay. I expected as much. But yeah. That’s how I remember the sequence of events. ANGELO: Yeah, that’s… about what happened. Creators were introduced, the split formed, the split grew, then, a year after the Creators were introduced, they all stopped working and were replaced by… “Destroyers,” if you will. PETER: No, I don’t think I will. ANGELO: Heh. Well, my side of the story won’t lead to too much insight into those things. Not even the Creators. After all this time, I still don’t know where either came from. You see, I was a director of a mining expedition at one of the quarries here in Georgia. Think a peg below the mastermind of the whole operation but a peg above the actual miners. I was directing my men as usual, and we were mining in a particular direction until one of them called out. They had found an opening, which was unusual since none of the preliminary work we had done had indicated the existence of any sort of caves underneath the spot. In that cave were Creators, Peter. Large, amber spheres. We were another mining expedition after dozens that had discovered what would be the Creators in unregistered caves, and it wasn’t long before the government occupied our operations. PETER: Wait, wait, wait. The Creators

PETER: And? ANGELO: Only one thing came from all of the tests and experiments and explorations that everyone tried to do: the split swallowed everything. Any submarines sent into the split were seemingly erased, with all communication being lost the moment the submarine went too deep and could not be seen from above the surface. My work involved directing mining expeditions into the floor beside the split in order to try to mine down and sideways into it. All those efforts were fruitless, too. However, the split grew, so everyone was reluctant to quit. (A few seconds of silence follows.) ANGELO: You had to see it. Staring into the split… it felt like it was swallowing my mind, too. My ability to perceive. My identity. Even when it was in my peripheral, it felt as though everything that made me me turned into liquid that was draining from my body through every pore on my face. It was a good thing I was dismissed as soon as I was. I can only pray for whoever was at the split when the Sun turned white. (A few seconds of silence follows.) ANGELO: Look. I know you said you were going to Atlanta for supplies and shelter, but can I ask you a favor?

UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS IS PUNISHABLE IN FEDERAL COURT

106

107

CLASSIFIED --- ACCESS FOR AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

PETER: Sure, as long as it’s not too hard. ANGELO: I don’t know about that. Do you remember the think tank that opened here in Atlanta? PETER: The one with all of those weird economists? ANGELO: Yeah. In the face of infinite supply, limitless demand, and no money, scholars whose fields seemingly became irrelevant overnight started coming together, making new theories and trying to save all the years they spent studying what they did. One of the places where they did so was here in Atlanta. “Utopian Images” was what they called it. I wondered what had happened to them, so I took a trip down there to see how our local pretentious echo chamber was holding up in the face of the actual apocalypse. PETER: Were they not… dead?

Utopia, Joanlis Martinez, 2021

ANGELO: No. That’s the thing. They built a walled fortress around their building. They collected rubble and broken cars and gutters from the chaos around them and turned their administrative building into a castle. And around their fortress were people dressed in rags, emaciated from hunger and thirst, clawing at the trash and chanting, over and over, “We love the Lord, the Lord of the Pit.”

PETER: The Lord of the Pit? ANGELO: Those heady economic wimps made a doomsday church, worshipping something called the Lord of the Pit. Honestly, the last thing we need in this hellscape is more religion, let along a Pagan one, but who am I to judge. But… and this is gonna sound insane… I think they really are worshipping something. I don’t know if it really is a god, but there’s something they’re hiding. Why else would they work so hard to build a fortress? The fact that none of those deletionary bubbles attacked their defenses yet was also something that drew my suspicion. I tried to go in, but they denounced me when I told them I was a mining director before “the Fall.” They told me off for being a laborer and pushed me away. PETER: What can I do? ANGELO: You were a college student. You were the closest to them, a scholar. I want you to invade their fortress and learn about what they’re worshipping. They’re hiding something valuable. When you find out what it is, come back to me, and we’ll work together to rip it from their greedy hands. (The audio recording ends.)

UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS IS PUNISHABLE IN FEDERAL COURT

108

Malaika Body, Atlanta HQ - Department of Mental Health Outreach and Human Resources 7/26/2023, 10:35 AM “Mrs. Jackson, please listen. You will be fine,” I said in an attempt to pacify my interviewee. “But Ms. Lang, I’m so scared. I know you all told me that there’s something wrong with me, I’ve been told so over and over on the way here! But I’m still so scared because, no matter how many times you all tell me that what I’m feeling is abnormal, I can’t help but look at my husband and see nothing but a stranger! What if… what if I really am losing my mind? What if I really do have dementia?” she spat out in a panicked response. It was like this for the past twenty minutes. Our interview started late due to Mrs. Jackson’s panic, and, when they realized they could not calm her themselves, they let me in to deal with their mess. I quickly gave a scowl to the camera hung up in the corner of the room in front of the door to remind them of my disapproval of their methods. I knew that they could not care less of my evaluation of their methods, but I hoped that my angry eyes would place judgement on anyone who was involved in this woman’s torment. I sighed and looked back at Mrs. Jackson in the eyes. “Listen, I need you to take a few breaths with me. Can you do that?” Mrs. Jackson nodded and followed my lead as I did a few square breaths to help calm her down. When she seemed to have stopped hyperventilating, I tried to get our interview back on course. “Mrs. Jackson, I understand that this may all be… unconventional, to say the least. I understand that it may be intimidating. I would first like to say that, despite what others may have told you on your way here, it is more likely than not that you do NOT have dementia. Capgras is more of a later symptom than an early indication, so, please, I promise you don’t

109

have to worry about that. As for your husband… Capgras is a very unique condition, but I need you to talk to me, to explain things to me. Once again, it’s more likely than not that your husband is actually the man you married and not some imposter, right? I mean, how would an imposter even take his place?” Mrs. Jackson muttered a shy “Yeah” with a weak smile and a nervous nod. “Yeah. So, please, help us help you feel better about your situation by telling me how this all started, okay?” I leaned back and gripped my pen and clipboard, opening the floor for her to speak and for me to listen. I could see Mrs. Jackson’s eyes darted around the room as she tried to find the words or the strength to begin her story. She eventually took a deep breath and spoke. “It was something he did. Something consistent. Something that repeated after a few days that made me suspicious. You see, like everyone else after that thing back in April, the earthquake,” she seemed to cringe at her use of the word earthquake to describe what had happened but continued nonetheless, “Anthony and I were in the hospital. When we were discharged, we were so relieved to be back together again. But… something was off. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it just yet. Until… you see, I have an extremely severe peanut allergy. Had it my entire life. Had it when I married him. He had to transform a lot of his diet to accommodate me because, if I was exposed to even a smidge of peanut, I would go into an anaphylactic shock that could very well be fatal. But… when we left the hospital… it seemed like he forgot. He even tried to go to Chick-fil-A, even though the entire time we’ve been married, we have purposely avoided the place just to be safe since they use peanut oil.”

“What did he say when you reminded him?” “He looked surprised. That was the first thing that… made me wonder, you know? Because his doctor said he didn’t have any head trauma from the… earthquake, so why would he forget? The worst part was that this wasn’t a one time thing. He kept forgetting, almost like eating peanuts with me was a habit for him. A habit in what world?! It all reached a peak when I came home from work and saw him in the kitchen with a whole jar of peanut butter. I screamed and told him to throw it away… but he laughed and said to stop

kidding with him. That I loved peanut butter. If I didn’t run out of the house, I thought he was gonna force-feed it to me. When I came back, he apologized, but… nothing was the same. He wasn’t the same. I couldn’t help but look at him and see a lie. And his eyes… If I stared too long at his pupils, I would see a color, a color that I never saw before.” I lowered my pen and looked at my interviewee once more. “A color… you never saw before?” She nodded. “If I had to describe it… it was almost purple.”

110

OFFICIAL MALAIKA BODY DOCUMENTATION Recovered Audio Log - Recorded 1/21/2023, 6:45 PM - Collected 4/26/2023 (The sound of an off-tune organ can be heard in the middle of playing a chord before promptly cutting off. Multiple voices can be heard beginning to recite a chant.)

BAILEY: And they reduced tuition to zero, yes?

MULTIPLE VOICES: Restrict who can eat. Restrict what we eat. The only virtue worth keeping is greed. We love the Lord, the Lord of the Pit!

BAILEY: What was your reaction? Were you angry at the equalization?

(People can be heard shuffling around. The audio is muffled for a few minutes before it clears up again.) PETER: Excuse me… Pastor Bailey? BAILEY: Hmm? Oh! Hello, child. What is it that you seek? PETER: Um, well — BAILEY: Say, I haven’t seen you around. Sorry, we’re a small congregation, you see. I have come to memorize the faces of much of my faithful. Are you a new entry? PETER: Yes! I arrived just this morning. I managed to catch the end of your sermon just now but no more. This would be my first time here, at this Church. BAILEY: Well, all are welcome. Say, on what grounds did they allow you in here? PETER: Pardon? Oh, well… before… “the Fall”... I was a college student, a freshman. BAILEY: Which college? PETER: _______________ College, in Philadelphia. BAILEY: Hmph. Respectable. You said you were a freshman, yes? PETER: Yes.

111

PETER: Yes.

PETER: … Yes. I was. BAILEY: Because you could have afforded it? The same education that was now made available to those below you? PETER: … Yes. (What is assumed to be Bailey claps his hands together.) BAILEY: Excellent! You truly are worthy of being here. Sorry, incessant questioning of newcomers is a requirement to ensure that none of those ugly, smelly poors come into our organization. PETER: Well… that’s definitely one way to go about it. BAILEY: Now, tell me! What are your questions? PETER: Yes! If you don’t mind me asking… BAILEY: Be my guest. PETER: This Lord of the Pit you all worship… is he… it… real? Is there really a Lord? (What is assumed to be Bailey laughs.) BAILEY: Of course. The Lord of the Pit is as real as the air we breathe in. The Lord of the Pit is as real as the Sun is white! The Lord of the Pit resides behind the grand doors that we stand in front of right now.

CLASSIFIED --- ACCESS FOR AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

CLASSIFIED --- ACCESS FOR AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY PETER: What. The Lord of the Pit is behind those doors? BAILEY: Yes. Your next question may be about what exactly the Lord is, yes? PETER: Naturally. BAILEY: Wonderful. Listen closely, young one. Were you attacked by one of the Destroyers on your way here? In the process of swallowing up more stone to make another blessed cave, did one of them condense into a color you had never seen before and tried to chase you? PETER: Yes, one of them did! BAILEY: That’s because they’re alive. PETER: … What. BAILEY: They’re alive, son. The things that have been eating away at the Earth this past month. Just as you can perceive them consuming anything in its path, they can perceive you, staring at them. They know you’re staring at them. And they want to wipe that mug off the face of this planet. (A few seconds of silence follows.) BAILEY: But do not be afraid, for all the Destroyers that now plague this Earth are nothing more than angels, messengers of their Father, their Mother, their Origin, the Lord that sits behind these doors. Didn’t it seem impossible that those Creators produced as much as they did, as infinitely as they did? Where do you think all that extra coal, all that extra food, all that extra water came from? Well, let me ask you this: where do you think all the granite that used to be in these caves, all the roads that used to pepper the surface, all the people that used to walk this planet go after they are swallowed up by the mercy of deletion? We were eating another universe, son.

Now, we are the ones on the silver platter of another hungry universe, and the Lord is keeping watch and making sure that this Earth gets consumed in its entirety. PETER: Then… then why do you all worship it? BAILEY: Because we have joined it, son. People in my line of work were called monsters before the Fall. We were monsters for being money hungry, talking about how a higher minimum wage would be useless, maintaining class lines. They would blame some system, some history, and then blame us for “perpetuating” it. So, we played along at first. We tried to make new theories of infinite supply, limitless demand, and a world economy with no price on anything in an attempt to save our image and to save all the years we studied our subject. But, look at the world now. What was the point? There was no point. There’s no use in equality. There’s no use in kindness or breaking the chains of whatever systemic “-ism” we want to call out. No, not anymore. So, we gatekeep our city, only letting the ones who were of modern nobility, of wealth and power before the Fall into our fortress, making the uneducated and the so-called “unfortunate” our audience when this Earth has been consumed completely and the Lord takes us all as its new batch of messengers to the next planetary feast. They call us unfair. They call us ruthless. Well, we very well may be, but, at the end of the day, we have some semblance of salvation. They don’t. So, we’ll continue to restrict who can eat, son. We’ll continue to restrict what we eat. The only virtue worth keeping is greed. We love the Lord… PETER: … the Lord of the Pit. (The audio recording ends.)

UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS IS PUNISHABLE IN FEDERAL COURT

112

Malaika Body, Atlanta HQ - Department of Media and Disinformation - 7/26/2023, 11:10 AM When I took my seat in the conference room, a random middle seat in a random middle row of black plastic chairs, I could not help but notice how stuffy I felt. I took a look to my left, then my right: surrounding me was a sea of eccentric fashion, all creative-minded people intent on using their skills to get their work out in the public to be observed by thousands, either experienced video producers discussing their latest landmark achievements or fresh college graduates riding off the high of turning their long, arduous internships into (finally) paying jobs. I was not on the same level as these other people in the room. Unlike a lot of them, I was new to the MB, for I had been recruited in a secretive hiring spree in the past few weeks. From what I was able to gather, all of the departments of their Atlanta HQ were short on employees, since the upper management underestimated the amount of work the MB had ahead of them. Furthermore, I was not as supremely educated in the arts, graphic design, or media as these other people. I had simply been posting my art on social media forums these past ten years or so. I managed to gain an audience through my work, and, eventually, push came to shove, I was noticed by the MB, and I found myself here, a newly hired artist for the MB’s next few media campaigns. The door of the conference room opened, pulling me away from my wandering thoughts. We all looked up to see a woman, dressed in a white coat that was a stark contrast to the colorful attire that seemed to be the norm in the room. The only similar eccentricity was the elaborate gold necklace she wore, which signified her administrative superiority. It was a simple gold chain attached to the MB’s insignia, a yellow ring enclosing a serifed M and B with the words “Malaika Body,” “UNEARA,” and the phrase “We forget” in Ara-

113

bic. The rest of us had the same insignia on our person, but it was on the backsides of our plastic lanyards, which definitely was well below her gold. “Hello, creatives,” she said with a dry smile as she made her way to the podium, “I hope you all had a… a good commute this morning. Sorry, I thought I forgot the briefing for this meeting in this stack of papers I have here. I mean, could you blame me?” She dropped the huge stack of papers onto the podium. It produced a deep thud, which caused a few of my peers in the conference room to chuckle, but she did it with an enthusiasm that indicated that she may have said the same joke to another conference room like us earlier in the morning. She cleared her throat. “Alright, now to business. I’m sure you got the gist of why you all are here from the email I sent out on Monday. Basically, we’ve gotten some more cases of… ‘Capgras syndrome’ in the city of Atlanta. Because of this surge in the prevalence of the syndrome, we want to produce a few advertisements and media campaigns to help encourage people to seek mental health treatment. Some of you will even be working directly with the CDC to do so.” I smiled widely at this news. It was nice to be working on such a positive campaign. Having had my own struggles with mental health, this could be a chance to make some art that is meaningful, stemming from personal experiences. The woman at the podium may have noticed my reaction, but her eyes grew wide in shock when she came across my face. “Some of you… uh, some of you,” she began to stammer, stumbling on her words. Was it wrong for me to react the way I did? Eventually, she regained her strength and went back on track.

“You all will be given a random assignment on your way out. You are to go to the room where all of the others assigned to your project will be. You will then spend today brainstorming with your partners. The managers expect rough storyboards by Friday, so make sure you’re all productive and complete your work. Understood? Good.” The woman quickly stepped aside as the people around began to (confusedly) stand up and head to the door, where they were handed their assignment. I was near the back of the line, in front of two or three other people, and was about to receive my assignment before the woman called out my name. “Jennifer Lang? That is your name, yes?” she exclaimed. “Yes?” “Could you step aside for a moment?” Before I could react, she grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the line. She stopped next to the podium and turned to me with furrowed brows.

“What are you doing here?” she said angrily. “What… what do you mean? This is where the interviewer told me the orientation would be. Was I... mistaken? Did I not get hired?” “No, you were hired! Just not to this department! And I saw you this morning already! It’s 11! You’re supposed to be interviewing Mrs. Jackson’s husband right now!” “What? No, there has to have been a mistake! I was hired to be an artist for the Media Department!” She was about to say something else before she stepped back in awe. She looked at me up and down with an incredulous expression. “What was your last job?” she asked quietly. “I was a freelancer, just making art to post online and taking commissions now and then.” “Not at a senior daycare?” “No.”

114

OFFICIAL MALAIKA BODY DOCUMENTATION Recovered Audio Log - Recorded 4/26/2023, 10:00 PM - Collected 4/26/2023 PETER: It invaded my mind. It’s all I can think about. I finally managed to break through those ____ doors, though it took a few fistfights to do so. The Lord, the Lord, the Lord! All anyone of these selfish pricks talk about is the Lord! Good to know that even in the face of the literal apocalypse that people will still find a way to be as racist, classist, and sexist as they can. Sick! (Sounds of metal scraping and wind can be heard increasing in volume. Peter’s voice gets harder to hear.) PETER: The Lord isn’t a god. No, no, no, calling the Lord a god was just an excuse for these trust fund kids to continue to be as ______ as possible, even while the world was ending. No, the Lord is not a god. It’s a target. It’s a mark on our universe, a mark indicating that our universe must come to an end and be consumed, the same way that infected cells in our body are marked by our immune systems for destruction. We consumed all we could with the Creators, and we will be consumed in every sense of the word by the Destroyers. A simple ouroboric concept. The serpent eating its own tail. (The sounds of screams can be heard. Peter’s voice gets harder to hear.) PETER: But the next universe, the universe to be consumed after us… [unintelligible]... they discovered the Creators like us, but they stopped using them… [unintelligible]... who do they think they are? Do they think they can escape our fate? Are they mocking us for our fatal gluttony? What makes them… [unintelligible]... I see. So that’s how it… [unintelligible]... this, the mark becomes a door. If they won’t meet their end like us, I’ll make them — (The audio recording ends.)

115

CLASSIFIED --- ACCESS FOR AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

Malaika Body, Atlanta HQ - Department of Mental Health Outreach and Human Resources 7/26/2023, 11:20 AM “What’s your wife’s favorite food?” I asked in a monotonous voice. In front of me was Anthony Jackson, Mrs. Jackson’s husband. In between us was a black microphone, standing almost defiantly atop the slate-colored metal table we were seated at. I could see his eyes dart between it and me as he tried to think of a response. “Ms. Lang,” he started, “I don’t really see how this is relevant to my arrest.” “It is.” “What law did I break to make my wife’s favorite food relevant?” I rolled my eyes. “Your wife claimed you physically assaulted her,” I lied. “What? Why —” “I’m just trying to corroborate her story. Now. What is her favorite food?” “Well, I,” he began to stammer and sweat, looking more often at the microphone between us, seemingly with the nervous knowledge that even his anxiety was being recorded, “you see, um, if I think about it, I would say… peanut butter is one of her favorite things. She would eat whole jars at a time!” I sighed. Mrs. Jackson was telling the truth. I noted as such and looked back up at the man in front of me. A morbid curiosity came across me, and, before I could stop myself, I asked a final question. “You’re not from here, are you?” Mr. Jackson looked at me like a deer caught in the headlights. His eyes were wide, red from the drops of sweat

dripping from his forehead and into his tear ducts. A nervous smile grew across his face. He began tugging at his collar and stammering again, but, soon, his nervous smile became a mischievous grin, and his stammers turned into a giggle, then a hearty laugh. Before I could get a grasp of the situation, he lunged forward and grabbed the microphone, throwing it to the camera in the corner in front of the door. I fell back and looked towards the door where two guards were stationed in front of. I expected it to open, I expected help to come, but I was met with the sound of a gunshot instead. I looked back at Mr. Jackson, who was now standing above me with an aura of sick power. “One of the guards,” he said in a pant, “was just like me.” “What… What’s your goal? What’s the point of all this?” Mr. Jackson seemed to find great humor in my question, dissolving into a belly laugh before staring at me again with those wily eyes. “There’s no point telling you why. Your story comes to an end here and now. But don’t worry! You won’t miss too much. Your entire world will end just like you soon.” With that, the door finally opened, and guards came in, pointing guns at Mr. Anthony and… me. The woman from the conference room was there as well, but, beside her… I was beside her. I stared at myself.

So that’s what she meant by a color she had never seen before.

116

117

Joanlis Martinez, 2021

CLASSIFIED --- ACCESS FOR AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY Official EVENT AAA Introductory Documentation

AZRAEL AND ABADDON (a.k.a EVENT AAA) is to be kept secret at all times. As per United Nations Emergency Event AAA Response Assembly (UNEARA) Resolution 5555 and UNEARA Resolution 1414, any and all memories, traces, and indications of EVENT AAA in modern society are to be suppressed, if not completely eliminated, at all costs. This can be accomplished in various ways, including but not limited to: • public campaigns disguised as aggressively paranoid conspiracy theories to promote distrust in one’s own and/or others’ memories of EVENT AAA • immediately treating anyone who insists on the veracity of their memories of EVENT AAA as extremely mentally ill and a threat to themselves and/or others, leading to their immediate detainment in a mental institution until they can be convinced that their memories are false or until they can be sedated to the point of heavy amnesia (if neither of these conditions are met, they are to stay at the institution indefinitely) • termination of anyone who escapes other measures of suppression and continues to insist on the veracity of their memories of EVENT AAA, especially those that do so publicly (e.g. on television, on a popular social media forum, etc.)

As per UNEARA Resolution 3773, all nations have willingly waived a portion of their sovereignty to the Malaika Body (MB), which has been tasked with suppressing indications of EVENT AAA in the public through the means above around the globe, as well as researching EVENT AAA, its effects, and its implications on current society. The following are iPhone audio recordings from one directly involved with and impacted by EVENT AAA as it occurred. When ________________________, the owner of the iPhone from which the following recordings came from, later identified as Peter Xu, was _____________ ____________________________________ ____________________________________ _____________________________________ ____________________________________, but he was immediately shot down by an Atlanta SWAT team. Similar occurrences happened at Bangkok, Moscow, Dhaka, and Canberra. They are all to be discredited as severe earthquakes. No pictures, videos, or audio from these incidents are to be dispersed to the public. The citizens of these cities are to be monitored to ensure that they are in fact humans from our world, designated World A, and not from World B. Therapists in these cities are to be told to be on high alert for cases of Capgras Syndrome and to report such cases to the MB as soon as possible. All impostors must be terminated.

UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS IS PUNISHABLE IN FEDERAL COURT

118

Credits Editor-in-Chief: Bhavana Kunnath Editors: Adaeze Uzoije Alethia Cocar Antonio Scott Aryan Ashraf Darshana Sharma Itohan Ologbosere Jaylin Gonzalez Karyn Huang Kendra Haley Lauren Bae Lauren Shinn Rachel Kim Victoria Severiche

Special Thanks to: Lillie Olliver, Co-Vice President of the Lirerary magazine Cade West, Our Loyal and Creative Cover Designer and The Literary Magazine Club