The Dazed Starling: Unbound | Spring 2024

Founded in 2021, The Dazed Starling: Unbound is the online literary journal of the Department of Modern Languages & Literature at California Baptist University.

Address correspondence to: Dr. Erika J. Travis, Managing Editor

The Dazed Starling

CBU, Modern Languages & Literature 8432 Magnolia Avenue Riverside, CA 92504 (etravis@calbaptist.edu)

The Department of Modern Languages & Literature offers a Master of Arts degree in English, Bachelor of Arts degrees and minors in English and Spanish, and a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree and minor in creative writing. To learn more about the programs and professors in the Department of Modern Languages & Literature, explore www.calbaptist.edu.

The Managing Editor would like to thank Dr. Chuck Sands, Provost of CBU; Dr. Lisa Hernández, Dean of the College of Arts & Sciences; and all of those who offered their encouragement, guidance, and friendship during this publication process. The Dazed Starling is currently published with funds generously provided by CBU’s Department of Modern Languages & Literature.

©April 2024

Respective Authors

Cover art by Lauren Vincent

A Note from the Editors

Hello Readers,

Welcome to the 2024 issue of California Baptist University’s online creative journal, The Dazed Starling: Unbound. Each year, a team of CBU undergraduate and graduate students assemble an online edition of prose, poetry, and visual art. The Unbound accepts work from students, alumni, and friends of the university to ensure diversity and variety. Given the importance of sharing creative work with a larger community, our journal proudly presents these intricately crafted pieces.

This year’s edition of The Unbound is themed “Night Owls,” showcasing creative work that embodies late nights, dreams, thrillers, and the like. The 2024 Unbound will take readers on a journey through various artistic styles that complement one another and grant a taste of our wonderful community’s artistry.

Thank you to each of our contributors and collaborators who were brave enough to share their refined work and allow us the honor of presenting it to our readers.

This will be a print-friendly version of the online journal. For a more immersive online experience of these enclosed works, scan the QR Code below.

A special thank you to all our readers. The Unbound thrives because of its readership year after year. We implore readers to carefully examine each piece and share favorites with family, friends, and strangers.

Please enjoy the 2024 Dazed Starling: Unbound!

Sincerely, The Dazed Starling: Unbound Editorial Team

Sincerely, TheDazedStarling:Unbound Editorial Team

Alec Teffeteller, David Marshall, Patrocinio Ryan Reyes III, Joesph Young, Joshua Collica, Jonathan Mejia

Isabelle Ray, Amberly Garcia, Alyssa White, Caroline Zamudio, Kaylee Houghton

Jenelle Hekman, Emma Totaro, Mikaela Schmierer, Madison Head, and Miranda Smith

Stars Watch | Abigail Lopez

Do Dreams Have Meaning? | Tirza Bustrum

Swept Away From Hope | Mikaela Schmierer

on Bayside Drive

White

Here, for us, | Andrew Banks somewhere else | Peyton Bell

Audrey Smith

Looking Towards the Stars

Rebecca Harrel

“There’s a meteor shower tonight.” My brother, Noah, appeared in the archway between our dining and family rooms. I lay sprawled across the loveseat, leg hooked over the armrest as I scrolled on my phone. “That’s cool.”

“Do you want to go see it?”

I sat up, my full attention suddenly riveted on him. “Go? Like, go where?”

“It starts at midnight. I want to get food, and then I was thinking we go to Lion’s Peak. It’s one of my rock climbing spots.”

I was tired, but the sky would be beautiful on a cool spring night. Besides, graduation was around the corner, and the appeal of a spontaneous night out with Noah before he left was too great to turn down.

“Let me get a jacket.”

After a pit stop for Jack-in-the-Box curly fries, we made our way to a hill in the middle of nowhere. Technically, it was only thirty minutes down a less-kept road, but with neither a street lamp or Starbucks in sight, it was good enough. Eminem blasted from the speakers as Noah rapped along flawlessly. I stumbled over every third word. By the time we drove off the road and into the dirt surrounding our destination, we were both grinning, pumped up with excitement.

Noah shut off the engine once we parked at the base of the hill.

I stared up at the massive mound of dirt and rock in front of us. “We’re climbing that?”

He rolled his eyes. “We don’t have to go all the way up.” I glanced back at the car. “Will Job be okay just sitting here?”

“Do you see anyone around?”

I gave in and we began the trek up the rocky path. Noah’s car had earned the name Job because, in its long life, it had seen some trials. While I tried to distance myself from news of the car’s repeated breakdowns, I would occasionally hear about a piece falling out, the transmission needing to be replaced, or some work that should probably get done to keep the engine from blowing. The car couldn’t get over a speed bump without scraping the side. However, that issue was mainly caused by the many alterations Noah had made. The car was so low, the bottom nearly touched the ground. The bandaid bumper sticker that covered a massive scratch was just as tacky as it was creative. To say that Job was being held together by prayers and zipties was an accurate statement.

Despite my relentless teasing of the car’s condition, I always opted to drive with Noah when given the opportunity. We had our favorite songs that we would turn on, featuring “Shut up and Dance,” “Despacito,” and plenty of rap. There was something charming about the process of cranking down the manual windows, jiggling the cigarette lighter auxiliary into place, and bumping down the road in beat with the music. In the car, I could talk to Noah about the stupid things I did with my friends or school drama. Then he’d regale me with tales from his last late night out with “the boys.”

I couldn’t count the nights that Noah and Job had been my saviors, driving me around when I was stuck home alone. When my mom was gone, taking care of her best friend in hospice,or when my Dad was in the hospital after his first two heart attacks, Noah would drive me to class, activities, and friends’ houses. Those twenty to thirty-minute trips were the moments of peace I needed when my world was falling apart.

And this cool spring night was no different. We made stupid

jokes as we climbed, staring at the sky as the city lights faded and hundreds of stars popped into view. The cold air stung as I forced air through my asthmatic lungs. About halfway up, we located a relatively smooth rock to lay across. With the bag of fries between us, we stared at the endless abyss of glittering stars overhead. For more than an hour, we lay, searching for a meteor to strike across the sky. All we found was the still beauty of the galaxy.

Over the past year Noah and I had shared countless nights out and just as many meals. We would pick up Mexican food and chill while our parents were out. Our go-to was the mediocre carne asada fries from the corner with a random show playing on the TV. We didn’t watch the same things, so I always just let him pick. Those days it was easy to forget the arguments we had, the way he pushed my buttons till I tearfully screamed in response, but when it was just us and some food, there didn’t seem to be anything to fight about.

I had a lot of reasons to be mad at my brother, to complain about or ignore him, but I had just as many reasons to love him. My overly spontaneous brother who forced me to go on 10pm In-N-Out runs and random stargazing trips.

“Is that one?” Noah pointed to the sky, where something appeared to move.

“I think that’s a plane.” I laughed. “You sure there’s a meteor shower?”

“According to google.” He rustled through one of the bags and pulled out a fry. “If we wait I’m sure we’ll see something.”

“You excited for prom?” The thought of a homeschool prom was still weird to me, but if he wanted to go, that was what mattered.

“Yeah. I’m thinking about asking that girl to go with me. You know, the one I was texting. But I can’t figure out if she’s dating the other guy in our friend group, or if she even likes me.”

I laughed. “If she’s dating someone else, it’s probably a no. ”

“But I don’t know if she actually is.”

“I wouldn’t risk it.”

He shrugged. “Her sister is single, maybe I’ll ask her.”

“Umm, that’s weird.”

“Eh, we’ll see. ”

I tried to stay in the loop with his dating endeavors. Unfortunately, he’d had little luck so far. Occasionally he would try to ask me for girl advice, but as someone horribly oblivious to social cues with no concept of romance, I was of little help. Still, I appreciated him coming to me at all. The thought that he valued anything I had to say brought me a warm sense of pride. But soon he would be leaving.

I sighed, my eyes tracing the constellations above. “Everything’s going to be different when you’re gone. ”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Mom won’t be. You’re totally her favorite.”

“Pfft.” He pulled another fry from the bag. “No way, you’re the girl.”

“But you’re more like her.” I was excited that he was going. He constantly talked about wanting to be on his own, but I knew when he finally left for college he wouldn’t be coming back. He wasn’t just leaving home, he was abandoning me. “Even now, when Mom thinks about you going to college, she freaks.”

“She’s fine.”

“No, she’s not. You would see that if you weren’t gone all the time.”

“It’s not like I’ll be gone forever. Plus, I already promised I’d call.”

“Yeah, well, it’ll be boring at home by myself.”

He laughed. “Just wait. Once you have your license, you’ll be busy all the time.”

“I doubt that, but sure.” I crossed my arms. “You have to

like, text me and stuff, okay? I don’t want to be those siblings that leave home and never talk anymore.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not like I’ll leave and cut ties, alright? Besides, I’ll only be an hour away, so I think we’ll be fine.”

A star suddenly dropped from the sky. Appearing and vanishing in the span of a second, I barely caught sight of it before it was gone.

“Did you see that? That was definitely a meteor.” He pointed to where the speck seemed to appear.

It was there and gone so fast I couldn’t be sure if it was anything more than a star flickering through a cloud, but in that moment, after an hour of nothing, I believed him. I had to. “Yeah. Yeah I think so, too.”

Ella DuPree

Stars Watch

Abigail Lopez

Stars watch bleak space.

Where darkness has no golden light.

Stars watch bleak space.

Where there is nothing to embrace. There is darkness richer than night. For here, there is never moonlight.

Stars watch bleak space.

Do Dreams Have Meaning?

Tirza Bustrum

Dreams have meaning

Until I dream of home-invading dinosaurs

Who wear my jewelry and lipstick

A glammed-up T-rex marches into war

Against turtles who carry bricks

I talk strategy with a manatee

And watch the devastation through a monocle

As we sip shrimp-flavored tea

Dreams have meaning

When I dream of walking down the chip aisle

With a Coke in hand

And an odd man shoots me a smile

As he carries a jar of sand

And that morning, I crave a soda pop

And I’m out of chips in my house

So I see the man with sand in my local shop

Dreams have meaning

Until I dream of finding you

Your dark eyes and half-blurred face

And I wish the dream were true

Because you made my heart race

And you brought me coffee and a kiss

When I told you I needed caffeine

But I woke up before I could drink in bliss

Dreams have meaning

Until I dream of finding you

Your dark eyes and half-blurred face

And I wish the dream were true

Because you made my heart race

And you brought me coffee and a kiss

When I told you I needed caffeine

But I woke up before I could drink in bliss

Mackenzie Head

Swept away from hope

Mikaela Schmierer

Maybe I’m just a dandelion, loved until I’m nothing but flickers of future plans, blown away in the breeze caught in a never ending cycle of failed hopes & dreams.

Audrey Smith

Lighthouse on Bayside Drive

Alyssa White

At the lighthouse where the blackened waves crush into rocks shaped like spears, where the seagulls morph into vultures and search for an evening sea-side meal, a bloated body floats on the water’s surface.

Ships alight with booze and good cheer dock for the evening, and don’t notice the mystery in the water beneath.

The island’s myths say the killer is a Siren, those ancient witches with songs of lust and taunting and temptation.

Others fear the spirit of a young girl torments the sea she drowned in, hungry to claim anyone who enters.

At the lighthouse, the waves conceal the truth and bury proof Under their weight, she waits for another.

Night Owl

Kaci Rigney

Up past midnight, Devouring books. Just five more minutes. . .

Tho’ school calls in the morning. Slapping, she hits the snooze.

Just five more minutes. . .

Racing to class, Tho’ sluggish inside. Just five more minutes!

Heading to the ladies’ dorms, Yawning, she takes a nap. Just five more minutes.

School books piled high. Homework almost done.

Just five more minutes.

Up past midnight, Devouring books.

Just five more minutes. . .

Night Guard

Hannah Noel

The bones of the old house shift and settle, its groans mingling with the wind’s high-pitched screams. Underneath my hand, the kitchen window is ice cold. The sky is black and moonless, and I see nothing but the vague shapes of thrashing trees in the backyard. The great, terrifying expanse of night looms over me.

I close my eyes and press my forehead to the glass. The chill soothes the heat of my overworked brain. I take a deep breath and look outside again nothing out of the ordinary. Still, discomfort creeps down my spine when I turn my back to the window. The decorative handle of the fire poker will surely leave dents in my hand, but I grip it tighter anyway.

In the hallway, I pause outside my baby brother’s room, my ear to the door. The wind is still too loud. Careful not to rattle the bell on the handle, I let myself in. My eyes adjust to the darkness until I can make out his chest softly rise and fall. Some tension leaves me. I continue on, shutting the door silently behind me.

I pause again outside my parents' room.

“...worried she’s getting worse,” Mom says. Immediately, I turn away. In a feat of perfectly timed misfortune, my foot lands on a squeaky floorboard. Mom’s voice quiets. Footsteps. I’m frozen.

Mom looks tired when she opens the door. She regards me: my guilty expression, the school uniform I never changed out of, and the fire poker hanging from my hand. I should have grabbed the hammer instead; it would have been easier to hide behind my back.

“Cass,” she whispers, exasperated, “It’s two in the morning.”

“I thought I heard someone,” I lie.

Worry briefly flashes across her face before she sighs and shakes her head. “Three nights in a row?”

I look at her sheepishly. “I tried to be quiet.”

“That’s not the issue, Cass!” She lowers her voice. “Look, everybody’s fine. If you’re really concerned, your dad or I will check it out.”

“I needed to make sure everyone was okay. I couldn’t sleep.”

Her eyes soften, but her tone is firm. “You need rest, too. Go to bed. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

She shuts the door, and I am once again alone with the shrieking wind and the ghosts of the creaking house. I reluctantly return the poker to its stand by the fireplace and gather my homework from the kitchen table. On the way back to my bedroom, I check the locks. I recheck them. I don’t look at the pictures hanging in the hallway, and I don’t stop in front of my little sister’s empty room. I hold my breath when I pass it, just like I do when we drive past the graveyard.

My family won’t be caught off guard again. I’ll make sure of it.

Natalie Tanaka

Nightingale

Sydney Aguas

Framed in moonshine Feathers folded against the cold

Nightingale--my only companion

In the agony of my soul

Only you, nightingale, will With undimmed fervor and heart

Throw your voice into night so still

Singing as you shatter apart

I deny the canary, thrush, and lark Whose spirits only thrive in light

I’d rather break my spirit in the dark

As I sit with you here in the night

My pain is greater than words will allow

And the night stretches on everlong

Give voice to my sorrows now

Remembering them forever in your song

Kaylie Garcia

Enchanted Slumber in the Midnight Room

Emma Totaro

Emerald stars stuck on the ceiling glow green when it’s time for bed. Lack of lamplight allows moonbeams to peek through the shades, awakening the stickers’ powers. The midnight room’s shooting stars put the young boy to sleep under the pale nightlight. With no telescope, these celestial beings hover close, finding an orbit that surrounds him for nighttime comfort. The stars eternally catch his dreams, their green glow burning forever.

Night Feedings

Sandra Hughes

I hear her cry, that piercing screech, And sigh and curl up in my sheets, Willing her to tuck her head

Beneath her wings and go to bed.

But no. She is a night owl.

I follow her screeches to her hollow, A tight and protective nest with pillow.

She stops her cries when she sees my face

Her dimples light the midnight space.

My wide-awake night owl.

I dry her skin, so feather-soft, Exchange her diaper for one that’s washed.

I wrap and swaddle in light of moon, She flies on my shoulder throughout the rooms.

My cheerful, sweet night owl

We rock in the chair by the woodstove’s glare, Her eyes begin to blink and stare, Her eyelids droop as I nurse her to sleep. Her claws go soft and breath turns deep.

I burp my milk-drunk owl.

I place her back into her hollow, Hoping if I tuck her pillow, She will shut her bright and blue round eyes To wake in sunlight, calm and wise. Stay asleep, my sweet night owl.

I curl again in downy sheets, Drifting out my thoughts to sleep. Just in time to hear her screech.

And I reach again to lift my sheets.

My wide-awake night owl.

Imposter Syndrome

Lisa Hernandez

In every group of friends, there is one who thinks he is the funniest. He speaks loudly. He laughs at his own jokes. He demands all the attention. He knows he is not funny.

In every car, there is one who knows the way. She says turn left, now right. She says one more mile. She says go there. She is lost.

In every gym, there is one who acts the strongest. He plays all the sports. He masters all the machines. He loves leg day. He feels weak.

In every class, there is one who believes she is the smartest. She raises her hand. She answers the questions. She earns the highest score, a 95. She thinks she has failed.

In every job, there is one who insists they are in charge. They make the schedules. They give the raises. They set the agenda. They worry they will be fired.

In every crowd, There is one who claims she belongs. She is always included. She is always invited. She is always surrounded. She is alone.

Makenna Yu

a sip of last night’s soda

Quinn Coli

a sip of last night’s soda: flat and sweet tastes like sucrose and cherry and cola leather and laughter and cards games favorite, familiar faces the simultaneous joy and anger of sisterhood. then the lonely darkness settling back in for the night as I retreat up the stairs.

I will set down my can as I stare at my face in the mirror, ugly light flowing in from the window, wondering why I cannot be like them.

Mackenzie Head

The Beauty of the Night

Natalie Tanaka

The moon is bright

The stars are light

Is anyone else

Looking upon them tonight?

Or am I just a lonely soul

Gazing upon the void

Looking for meaning

Or for something to fill this hole

My body shivers

But my heart is still

Though the darkness is quiet

It does not kill

The voice inside my head

A loud silence

A trail of empty thoughts

That seek to be said

Though my mind wanders

My eyes remained fixed

Upon the wonders of the sky

That captivate me so

I see the answer now

It lies up above the clouds

In Him who rules the night

Who crafted the starry lights

My heart is at peace

As I fixate on the universe

He who made tonight

Sees me and my plight

I no longer need to fear

But trust in Him

The Author of The beauty of the night

3 a.m. Thirst

Emma Totaro

Throat grating thirst steals sound sleep.

Lungs about to burst, blankets in a heap. The glass beside my bed lies empty, not even a d r o p to ease anguish away.

I need the dryness to stop.

Frigid floorboards groan as I tiptoe down the hall. The distance left to water unknown, darkness, my only pitfall.

The screech of the sink shivers down my spine, but this holy drink introduces me to the divine.

Eyes , drifting fast. My bed tells me to hurry.

Catching up on dreams passed, the empty glass no longer a worry.

Mackenzie Head

The Tunnel

Jack Brown

I found myself staring into a rocky clearing, surrounded by a curtain of verdant sycamore trees. At its center lay the entrance to an old railway tunnel. Its weathered grey bricks were overgrown with moss. Gnarled tree roots had burrowed through the ancient mortar. If not for the gaping maw leading into its inky black interior, the tunnel would have been perfectly hidden by the lush greenery. Normally, I would be ecstatic. Carrie and I explored every abandoned place we could find. This time was different. Icy pinpricks traced their way down my spine. I wanted to look away, but my eyes remained glued to the empty void before me. It felt like there were hundreds of eyes watching me from the shadows. A tug on my arm jolted me back to reality.

“Hey, you alright?” Carrie appeared beside me, brow knit with concern.

“Yeah, yeah. Just spaced out.”

We spread the picnic blanket over a dirt patch at the mouth, close enough to hear our own voices reverberating back to us whenever we spoke. Carrie tore into the ham sandwiches we had prepared for the day, paying no mind to the haunting echoes that tugged at my stomach. I chewed mine until the mixture of bread and meat was a viscid glob seeping through my teeth, but I couldn’t bring myself to swallow. Any appetite I had built from the three-hour hike through the woods had vanished under the tunnel’s invisible gaze. If Carrie noticed, she didn’t mention it. I was about to attempt another bite when a small voice emanated from the entrance behind us.

“Hello…?”

It was barely audible, but more than enough to catch our

attention. Carrie and I exchanged stunned expressions for a moment before turning to the tunnel. We cautiously rose and faced the blackness. Carrie cupped her hands around her mouth.

“Hello? Is someone there?” she called.

“Help….”

My stomach tied in knots at the childlike whimper. The voice felt wrong, but I couldn’t understand why. Still, we couldn’t just sit and ignore it.

Our phone flashlights did little to puncture the oppressive darkness of the tunnel. The cool breeze drifting in from outside dissipated the further we walked, gradually becoming an unnatural humidity. My only comfort was the crunch of Carrie’s boots against the gravel floor.

We found a pair of moldy sneakers strewn across the tracks. Figuring some homeless person had left them there, we moved on, but the deeper we followed the winding passage, the more we found. Hiking boots, torn backpacks, designer watches, and wedding rings littered the floor. A gnawing dread that we weren’t alone in the tunnel surfaced at the back of my mind. I wanted to turn back, but Carrie’s steely gaze told me she wouldn’t be running out with me.

After what felt like hours, we hit a wall. It was grey, much like the bricks surrounding us, but its smooth surface pulsated as our lights swept its length. It filled the tunnel from floor to ceiling. Thick veins throbbed under the skin as it undulated in the humid air.

“Help… us…. ” a voice near my ear wheezed. It was the same voice we heard at the entrance, only more guttural. I jerked my light up to find a mouth jutting from the mound, an oily black tongue surrounded by yellowing teeth. Several more lipless mouths emerged from the mass, each repeating the words over and over. Every breach added a new voice to the rising cacophony. Hundreds of gaunt arms and legs erupted

where the body met the walls. The limbs dragged the squirming hulk forward with erratic movements. I grabbed Carrie’s hand and sprinted back the way we’d come. We weren’t fast enough.

Andrew Banks

Here, for us, Streetlamps hover over concrete, lighting the way for the clacks of skateboards gliding over the pavement perfections.

White light bulbs radiate through black branches of landscaped trees with overgrown roots bulging through sidewalks stamped 1952.

Green kentucky bluegrass turns purple in the astral glow, painting houses with crawl spaces in shades only moonlight can make.

Freeway overpasses, some miles away, twinkle with headlights, fireflies, thousands upon thousands, gridlocked to the horizon.

Here, for us, far from earth’s womb, the mating calls of birds are the car horns of angry drivers; the whistles of a breeze through pine needles are the hums of tires gripping asphalt; and a city park, the closest thing we have to freedom.

Mak Henry

Peyton Bell somewhere else

somewhere else we lay close together and talk about stars. we converse about philosophy and children, about hometowns and school and dancing, and all along is this glimmering hope that the two of us, here, are going to matter somehow in the great, unwinding structure of this world.

we do not belong to that place but I want you to know I have lived a dream with you in these few short weeks and if I could make it a lifetime, I would.

The Saint of Midnight and The Punk Scene

Angelina Cisneros

Sweet Saint Tecolote sets a scene within the bounds of dreamless horror: Midnight solstice, Supernatural, Clairvoyance, She'll bring death with each click of her boots Dressed in black and mystical elegance

I remember the reflection of my face in a puddle near high school

I remember the look on my face as I started to fade I had a place in the sun, but now only the moon speaks my name

I only exist between the space of oblivion and the highest form of Justice

When I come back down to the sound of vinyls, And the dullness of life hits

And I need something stronger than my reflection to get off the ground

To thrash around and Be holy again

Midnight is the time when I and the divine can coexist.

The sounds and smells of a fresh movement

The feeling of freedom and wisdom in every lyric on display

Screech like owls as “The man” presses his boot in your face

Thrashing around in the Moshpit

Her blasphemest form of Worship

The familiar, comforting taste of blood and pavement

Getting jiggy with danger

Paling around and grooving with jeopardy

Like the moon, The punks only know my name

Sweet Tecolote, Saint of Midnight, and The Punk Scene

Patron of Rebellion and child of Nyx, Steal me away!

And when the moon starts to set, promise me you’ll chase the day away.

Because she commands, “The highest form of existence is in between the night and day.”

A Cry from Magdala

Josh Fullman

Are these the feet that I have bathed, these drenched with hair and tears and scent, stood in between my sin and stones, held firm when his eyes met my own, saw past my past, my errors waived?

Are these the feet that I have chased across the mountains, lake towns, storms, and deserts, caked with family soil who silenced demons, handled boils, passed supper plates, with angels raced?

Are these the feet that I have kissed, now torn by gravel, birch, and stake? No matter: I would kiss again, taste blood and dust, reclaim my sin just not to part as souls dismissed.

Are those the feet of him made whole brought peace to all but not for me? You gave mother, son, your dear Beholds. Have you no words that I might hold? “Don’t cling too close” still wraiths my soul.

Makenna Yu

The Brownie’s New Home

Clarissa McLaughlin

A hush fell over the tiny flat as night descended. Moonlight cascaded in through locked windows. Crickets chirped on the sidewalk below, occasionally drowned out by a passing car. The air in the flat was cool, perfect for snuggling under thick blankets, which the residents did happily as they tottered off to bed to dream of wonders.

The brownie emerged from the folds of shadows to begin his work.

He appraised the living room under the dim moonlight shining in through an open sliver between the curtains. Amy, the woman of the house, had managed to clean up the bulk of the mess, but there was still much to be done. Crumbs littered the laminate floor from their chicken nugget dinner. Pillows had been tossed across the room. A few of the children’s toys had wandered far from their toy bins.

The kitchenette wasn’t looking much better. The young boy, Evan, had thrown a fit during dinner and Amy had to spend most of the evening trying to soothe, bathe him, and put him to bed, and thus hadn’t the time to take care of the dishes.

The brownie rolled up his tiny sleeves and pulled out a miniature handmade broom from the darkness. He set about sweeping up the crumbs of breading, consolidating them to a center point in the living room. The flat was just as much his own pride and joy as it was to Amy and her children, and he would not permit his home to be dirtied by crumbs. Though the apartment often felt cramped to Amy and her children, to

the brownie it was a vast endeavor; but despite his small size, it still posed no match for him.

He’d cleaned much larger houses than this before. When Amy was a young girl, he’d cleaned her parents’ home out in the country a modest but endearing abode that had been in the family for centuries, much like the brownie. He’d kept a silent, watchful eye on the family as they were born, grew old, and died and their descendants raised families of their own.

When Amy, an only child, had moved out on her own, the brownie had been faced with a hard decision. Did he stay with the house or with the family? Children had moved out before, but usually one stayed or came back to live with the parents their spouse and children moving in to support the aging grandparents. At first, the brownie remained with Amy’s parents, looking after them as they became empty nesters. Amy’s mother, a retired nurse, had busied herself in the garden to cope while Amy’s father was kept busy with his work as a salesman.

But when Amy returned home for a visit and told her parents, weeping, that her husband had just left her and she was pregnant with their second child, the brownie knew he could not remain. He packed up his broom and belongings, stowed away in Amy’s purse, and moved into her flat.

He’d been able to see right away that he’d made the right decision. Amy’s parents benefited from living in an age where they had many more available accommodations to help them maintain their house. Gone were the days of washboards and fire coals. They had machines now: a washer and dryer, a dishwasher. The hoover had nearly taken the brownie’s job and he’d had half a mind to tear apart the house and leave the family in a rage at the insult. But they’d left him a small honey cake, one of his favorites, and he’d forgiven them.

But Amy, with a toddler, a lack of free time as the sole breadwinner, and pregnancy fatigue was in far worse shape

than her empty-nester parents had been. Her flat was a disaster. The brownie had set to work right away that evening. The next night, Amy must have realized what had happened, because he’d found a bowl of porridge left out for him.

As the brownie collected the last of the crumbs and tossed them into the waste bin, he noticed a bowl of cream on the counter. He licked his lips and set his broom to the side as he took a moment to enjoy Amy’s continued gratitude.

After he’d finished his treat, the brownie set about tidying up the kitchenette. He hefted up the dish soap and squirted some into the dirty dishes left in the sink. Then he briefly turned on the water to lather the soap before scrubbing away with a sponge that was nearly as large as he was. Luckily, as a fae, the brownie was not restricted by the laws of physics the same way humans were, and he was able to lift each washed dish from the sink onto the drying rack.

Next was the kids’ room. The brownie hopped down from the sink and crept across the flat with the silence of shadows and wriggled under the door like a cat.

A dimly glowing night light illuminated the many toys scattered across the room. He set about putting the dolls back in the dollhouse, the books back on the bookcase, and the stuffed animals in bins at the foot of each child’s bed. He’d had to pay close attention to keep track of which toy belonged to which child. It had taken some time, but after a few years of observation he knew the stuffed horse belonged to Evan, the youngest, the stuffed elephant belonged to Caitlyn, the eldest, and the stuffed snake which he wrapped around the base of the lamp—belonged to them both.

Evan had almost caught him once. The boy had refused to go to sleep one night and the brownie had been halfway into the room when he realized the child’s eyes remained wide open. He’d slunk back into the shadows and crept up the side of the crib. Evan had been almost too big for it then. Then the

brownie had taken a pinch of fairy dust and sprinkled it over the watchful child until his eyes drooped into a peaceful slumber.

The girl, meanwhile, currently appeared to be playing with fire. The brownie noticed a makeshift trap on her desk made of a paper box propped open by a toothpick with a cracker underneath, surely to tempt him.

The brownie rolled his eyes and easily reached under to retrieve the treat. He ought to mess up her toys for trying to catch him. Her mother would need to have a word with her about the proper way in which the fae were to be treated if they wanted to continue to benefit from their live-in housekeeper. But the girl was still young and merely curious, he supposed there was no need for a fit just yet. Instead, he slipped into her closet and swiped her shoes. When she would be unable to find them the next morning, her mother would surely notice and know that her daughter had upset the brownie somehow. Upon questioning, the daughter would confess, and her mother would set her straight and instruct her to apologize to the invisible brownie, who would be lying in wait to miraculously return her shoes.

With the children’s room tidied, the brownie slipped into Amy’s room which was much tidier than her childrens, Amy knew better than to take advantage of the fae and merely accepted any additional assistance the brownie provided. The brownie spotted her makeup wipes which had been left out on the counter and set them back on the shelf where they belonged. A few hair ties sat on her dresser, which the brownie scaled and looped the hair ties over his arm to deposit them around her ring stand. He fished a few bobby bins out from under her bed and tossed them in the little dish Amy kept on her bathroom counter.

The brownie climbed up the bedpost and gave a satisfactory nod to the room. Then he looked down at Amy. Her king-sized

bed seemed to swallow her up beneath a pile of blankets and pillows. He marveled at how much she’d grown and how far she’d come in all the years he’d known her. She, who’d inspired him to leave his centuries-long home had fostered this space of love and endurance. For a human to inspire the fae was a rare occurrence. They were ancient and humans only lived for such a short while.

But the brownie could ill afford to stand around mourning a human who was nowhere yet near death. He needed his rest if he was to tidy the house again the following night. With a wink and a nod witnessed only by the stars twinkling in the sky outside Amy’s bedroom window, the gnome took a step back and disappeared into the shadows.

Mak Henry

Song of a Quiet Humanity

Andrew Banks

What’s the sound of the middle of nowhere?

It’s not just the wind through the branches of creosote bushes, pine needles whirling to the soil, or the screeches and wing-flaps of a hawk, the squawks of a murder of crows pecking at a hare’s carcass; It’s the grinding of a backyard bandsaw, chuckling between two old men, the coffee slurps and pencil scratches of a high school history teacher,

whirs of the neighbor’s car up the street, the warnings of parents to their firstborn two acres over.

Music, voices, glass clinks, and footsteps in the dirt and gravel: the song of a quiet Humanity.

Wishes

Sydney Aguas

Ten bottles wash up on the shore. The waves cradle them and tuck them safely in the soft pink sand of an island. For a time, it seems that the bottles are all alone, with only an occasional baby turtle--the bravest little pilgrim--making his maiden voyage to the sea. Then, a girl appears on the beach and carefully plucks each bottle from the shore. She gathers them all in a net she’s tied around her waist. The girl is not stranded or lost; this is her island. It lies far beyond every other land, where no other foot has tread. It is unknown to sailor, explorer, pirate, and conqueror, but it is her home.

The girl has been on the island all of her life. Her hair is golden hair and falls down her back like the flowing kelp that dances on the ocean floor. Her skin is as white as seafoam and her lips are as pink as the inside of a conch. Her mother is the sea and her father is the sky. They love one another deeply for they meet together, in perfect union at the horizon. She knows how much they love her as well. When a new day comes, her father hovers over her, the warmth of his bright eye always upon her. And every night her mother sings her an ancient lullaby, with the surf lapping tenderly on the shore. The girl is happy with her mother and father on her island. She loves this place and the wild and beautiful creatures it holds, from the timid white tern to the regal leatherback turtle. They all live together in harmony with her, the sky, and the sea.

The bottles are the only newcomers, and a mystery to the girl. Every day, her mother brings her the strange glass vessels, bobbing up and down in her waters. She thanks her mother for the gifts as she collects them. She counts the newest bottles

as she puts the tenth one into her net. Then she brings them to the center of the beach, and plops down on the sand with her gifts beside her. This is her favorite part. For as intriguing as the little bottles are, the true treasure is what they hold inside. Wishes. It is her special task to read every wish that comes across the sea because this is the place where all wishes eventually go.

Her father flushes with excitement, sending a mixture of coral shades across the afternoon sky, as the girl pops the lid off the first bottle and pulls out the wish. She reads it, and then another and another. The girl is fascinated by the little messages. Each one is unique, written in its own language of letters. Some make her want to smile and laugh, like the one that reads:

I wish I could fly with the birds. Or

I wish my new puppy would never grow up. Others bewilder her, such as:

I wish rain tasted like chocolate milk.

But there are some that fill her with impossible sadness... I wish I could bring my baby back.

I wish I had gotten to say goodbye.

I wish I wasn’t so lonely.

I wish someone loved me.

The girl has learned that though wishes are different, they are all equally valuable, and she stores each one deep in her heart. But she also knows that she must read them quickly; she still has one more important job to do. She scoops up the ten wishes in her arms and races to the highest point on her island,

the top of dormant volcano, now crowned with lush vegetation and exoctic flowers. She must get there before the sun dips beneath the horizon. When the girl reaches the volcano’s summit, she stands in a bed of flowers and lifts the wishes up to the open sky.

She holds her breath in anticipation. At twilight, as day and night melt together and the sea and sky join in a special embrace, something miraculous begins. The first wish--a small slip of paper tied with a red ribbon--floats away from the girl’s outstretched hands. The light ocean breeze carries it higher and higher until it is no more than a speck in her sight. Suddenly, the wish vanishes with a brilliant flash. The girl shields her eyes for a moment, but when she is able to look up again, she smiles. In the place of the wish, a gem of light appears, sparkling in the purple expanse--the first star in the night sky. The other wishes follow after, soaring upward until ten stars twinkle above her.

As the girl watches with delight, she asks her mother why this miracle occurs. In the whispers of the tide, she hears the answer. “Every wish, no matter what it is, is precious. Do you know why, darling? It is because wishes embody hope...in its faintest form. When a little boy wishes to fly, he has sparked his hope for flight. It is a small flame, and there is no possibility to feed it yet, but it still burns. It is the same for the mother who wishes her baby back to life; she’s convinced it is impossible, but her heart still hopes for it.”

“This is why you must collect the wishes and give them a voice. Sometimes, it is a burden to know so many people’s hopes, and not be able to fulfill them. It is true that we are powerless to grant wishes...but they deserve to be known and remembered. So, the sky and I chose long ago to honor each one by transforming it into a star. Now, every wish that finds its way to our island rises above the earth in eternal memory as night falls. And the hope that they keep is everlasting.”

The girl lifts her gaze to her father once more. He has turned indigo with the night, and his eye still shines down on her with a pale, pure glow. His face is now freckled with billions of tiny lights as the wishes of millenia blink into view, joining their newest companions in the sky. The girl looks on in wonder at the magnificent sight as she listens to her mother’s soothing waves rock gently around her dear island.

Consuming Fire

CBU Alumni Creative Writing Contest 2024 Winner

Sydney Aguas

I was taught terror

In the shadow of cathedral spires

Under the glowering gaze of immortal saints Of the judgement impending Wrath--bright, brazen, burning Reserved for the doubting, debauched, depraved Destined for a lake that flames

Body, mind, and soul--in the end, consumed.

I was shown truth

In the light of sacred presence

From the wondrous words of a gentle, ancient voice Of forgiveness unending Love--bold, brilliant, blazing Offered to the hurting, hungry, hopeless Pursued with a devotion that flames

Body, mind, and soul--in the end, consumed.