Mia Lehmkuhl is a writer and student journalist currently pursuing a degree in communication. As the editor-in-chief of TheReflectorand an avid creative writer, she enjoys exploring identity, resilience, and transformation through storytelling. Their work spans multiple genres, from creative nonfiction to poetry and fantasy, showcasing a balance of deeply personal narratives and imaginative world-building.
This anthology reflects their growth as a writer throughout the semester, featuring works like “BlessedBeThoseWhoMourn,”a heartfelt exploration of grief and faith, and “TrialoftheWoodsWitch,”a tale of survival and self-discovery. Themes of transformation weave through her pieces, challenging readers to consider the ways we evolve through adversity.
When not writing, Mia spends time immersed in the gaming or political world, often found striking a conversation about politics or her favorite game.
Creative Nonfiction
A Day with the NRA
I remember sitting in my investigative journalism class where my professor encouraged those involved with campus media to request press passes for the National Rifle Association Convention. Anticipation coursed through me as I navigated to the convention’s media relations page. Names flew by on my screen: Former President Donald Trump, former Vice President Mike Pence, Representative Jim Jordan and the like. I
immediately began to draft an email, bushy-tailed and green, looking back to smile at my friends sitting in the row behind. Me and a friend decided to brave the storm together.
I soon found myself in the belly of the beast. It was a warm April morning, perhaps surprisingly warm for this time of year, and I could not stop fidgeting with my fingers. I was nervous. Thousands of people lined the streets and filed into the convention center donning many flavors of patriotism — those just here to see Trump, those with guns fastened to their waists, those here for the street tacos, those touting some rendition of “If this flag offends you, I’ll help you pack,” on their shirts and hats. It was a red-white-and-blue sea of conservatism, and I was but a baby journalist clutching her camera with overgrown bangs and a bright red “Reflector” tote bag that screamed, “I AM A MEMBER OF THE PRESS,” to anyone that looked.
I relied heavily on what I knew. Growing up in North Carolina with a veteran-turnedconservative father, I knew how to talk to these sorts of people. I knew that the press badges hanging from my neck would be a red flag, as most have subscribed that all media is fake news. This was made clear to me when I entered the open exhibit hall to try and snag photos. A man, tall and stout, loomed over me and eyed my press passes.
“You can’t enter here.”
I decided to hold my ground. I had specifically gotten both colors of the press passes — military green and beige — one for the speakers and one for the exhibit. He hadto let us in, and, frankly, could go screw himself. I had a job to do. So I explained and explained, turned on as much charm as I could, but nothing seemed to resonate with him. I was a hair away from defeat when what I assumed was his supervisor took notice and walked over,
chastising him to let us in. I almost wanted to point my camera and capture what was definitely a bruised ego, in defiance, to say, “Nice try,” but I figured that would not be wise at a convention where the attendees are armed.
Soon enough, I finally set course for the exhibit hall where the speeches would be. The line wrapped around the halls, and Secret Service, Men in Black figures manned the frontline. A small victory was achieved — I walked right past it with the rest of the press. Score.After a brief security check, we were let into the press box. I thought to myself, “Finally, solidarity with my fellow reporters!” I was wrong. I nearly broke the tripod my professor let me borrow trying to get a spot on the platform. Never in my life had I thought some cameraman from ABC News would be barking at me to get off of the spot he supposedly claimed from across the room. I obliged, and soon wished I was in my room playing video games instead of this mess.
As me and my fellow editor settled in, ice cold vents blowing down on us, the speakers began. One by one, the sounds of clapping, cheering, and rallying rattled in my mind. It felt surreal when Trump, in his way, strided on stage, with an orange-tinged smile and golden hair. It felt even more so when he, soon enough, pointed a finger to us, telling the crowd to look at us and boo us. It felt as though he were pointing at every single reporter, at me, at the FOXes and CNNs alike, cursing that the media were liars and cheaters — participating in the witch hunt against him. Soon, my fears faded, and I knew I had chosen the right career. Even if I had found myself caught in political crossfire.
Blessed Be Those Who Mourn
Blessedbethosewhomournfortheyshallbecomforted.Matthew 5:4.
I heard the phrase before — taking a Bible course my sophomore year of college for a religion credit. It was only when I was face-to-face with my grandfather’s casket, with a priest in my ear, that it really stuck with me. I’ve never been a particularly religious person, and I still don’t subscribe much to faith, but I, strangely, couldn’t shake these words. It ended up carrying me through the trenches of grief, of final exam stresses, and of Thanksgiving break without the warmest smile at the table.
My grandpa wasa religious man. Tall and stout, my grandpa was a man you would not expect to be such a teddy bear. It is a running joke in the family that we all have the worst RBFs, and my grandpa was no exception. While I never saw him as mean-looking, I pity the strangers who saw him without actually speaking to him. If they had, they’d hear his soft-spoken voice and kind demeanor. If they talked to him a little more, they’d find out that singing in his orthodox church’s choir brought him the most fulfillment after his retirement from engineering — another thing I did not know much about until he passed.
Loss was something unfamiliar to me until he was gone. I found myself searching for meaning in the tiniest of things. Grief greeted me in these little symbols, little relics of him, and I would often get lost in the meaning I assigned to them. How his patron saint ruled over the stomach — the place where his cancer took root. How he was buried with a Mickey Mouse watch and, across my apartment, lay a Christmas-themed Mickey Mouse doormat weeks after his funeral. How the black flats I wore to his funeral are still stained with the cemetary’s red clay, and how rain clouds parted, just a moment, to let us grandchildren set roses upon his grave. I’ve never believed in God, at least not enough to devote myself to
prayers and church wine, however, I am certain that God was with him, and, by extension, me — the mourner.
After all, it was Matthew who wrote, Blessedarethosewhomournfortheyshallbe comforted.
Poetry
Beneath the Mighty Oak Tree
Seven years old. I slither my way, like I have time and time again, behind a pillar painted to resemble a mighty oak tree, its plastic leaves twisting into a canopy above a small storytime stage. I know this hiding spot well — my secret haven where the flipping of book pages and the smell of coffee fade and a world of my own making begins. Time to raid. I dash around the children’s section toward where Barnes & Noble used to sell knitted dolls and soft plushies. I collect them like charms — a mermaid doll with purple hair, another with strands of blue, an animal of some sort, and an assortment of side characters. Each played a vital role, tucked behind a pillar where my parents or the world could not find me, and I breathed life into cotton stuffing and yarn. In my nook, I rule vast kingdoms, vanquish evil, and ride dragons. I scour the seven seas, marry princes, and live hundreds of happily ever afters. As always, the moment arrives when my mother comes to look for me. Her voice breaks the spell, and, without fail, I plead to stay in my own world a little longer. But, without fail, I return, knowing that a thousand tales await me behind that mighty oak tree. countryroads driving down country roads
johnny cash blasting through your speakers legs crossed in the passenger seat hands clasped in my lap
i bob my head up and down like the tug and pull of a fishing hook staring out the window at the passing countryside i leave you behind and the memories to lay idle on haybales
silverscreen
i find myself in others as odd as that may be i learn less on my own than i do through a screen
i can’t choose if i truly relate or if i aspire to be like them, to complete my own character arc is it odd to relate to fiction more than fact?
is it strange to find solace in an act?
it is said that life imitates art so am i another mime a patchwork of fables that i call mine
i catch myself idolizing the wrong idols empathizing with the wrong emotions begging for the wrong outcome on my journeys to other worlds and after every end credit scene i’m plagued with melancholy thoughts in the sweet silence of a story concluded. whenileftyou
when i left you in the debris of your betrayal surrounded by the ashes of your promises and the shattered fragments of my heart i carried the burden of betrayal in the now hollowed crevice of my breast where my heart only beats but no longer feels burnblue my phoenix we meet again in these waters your flames illuminate me
as i caress your face instead of my skin scorched your flames hold my hand twirl around my heart and wrap itself around my tail
the tides treat you well not like the shipwrecks below it will lift you up when your wings cannot and thrash anything that tries to disrupt us
even when i’m not lurking in the depths fly up above the moonlit waves kiss the stars and feel my light on your feathers again when they speak of our love it will be that of legend of an ocean able to nurture the brightest flame
our names will be sealed in folklore the siren that lured a cinder to her embrace who turned an ear to her birdsong and didn’t tremble from her grace
sailors can only whisper my name in small bouts of bravery
but you, my soul shout it to the sky you understand the language of the tide you flow with its rises and its falls it is almost as if you were always meant to burn blue.
Flash Fiction
Beauty of the Beast
Frills had always been her favorite.
Fleur DuPrix smoothed her hands over the bodice of her gown, peppered with pink and white silks and golden hemstitching. Her sleeves frilled at the ends, cut just above her elbow, and her corset squeezed her in just right. Her golden-brown hair hung in ringlets down her back; she looked beautiful, regal even. Today, many will seek to take her hand in marriage, though, unbeknownst to them, she had already begun scheming ways to knock them off her trail. She had learned a trick or two in her many times perusing her father’s library and had found herself to be fond of the written word. She wished for a carriage to whisk her away to some land, perhaps with so vast a forest that no one would find her --- to read and write freely, perhaps a column under a male pseudonym. She loathed her life, reduced to some pretty thing in her lord father’s estate, despite its gilded halls and many comforts.
A lowly man who hailed from some dot on a map sought to ask for her hand. Gaston of Bourbon, he called himself, large and brutish and pompous as they come. FleurBelle snickered at the way he presented himself, with extravagant doublets dyed a rich red and a golden tooth. His hair was thoroughly combed, his face smooth as a babe, and he wore boots that made him appear taller. His looks left much to be desired, but the novelty of his arrival, of a new face in town, garnered him some attention. She knew, through the grapevine, that his coffers were dryer than a desert. Perhaps, she thought, he might be better off plucking his tooth from his mouth and selling it. This illusion he had crafted did not fool her, as such, and she found herself growing weary of his boasts of strength and how good of a life she would have as his wife. Surely, if it is her father’s gold he is after, then the only additions to her life would be an obligation to bear him children and to be called “Lady Gaston.” Her stomach churned at the thought of pushing out his big-headed, dark-haired, and broad-shouldered child from her womb. Not to mention he was hardly above the peasantry.
Fleur knew he aspired to marble floors, castle spires and maze gardens, to break bread with the very highest of society. She, and their future children, were the key. Once upon a bright summer’s day, when he approached her for the fourth time in her lord father’s courtyard, she knew exactly what was to come.
“Gaston,” Fleur smiled through gritted teeth, “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Ah, yes, full of surprises, am I not?” he replied, “Today, I’d like to make your dreams come true.”
“What do you know of my dreams, Gaston?”
“Plenty. Just imagine,” he threw an arm around her shoulder, getting so close she could smell a hint of ale in his breath, “A quiet estate with food fit for a king roasting on the fire. And my little wife, my beautiful, little wife massaging my feet after a long day while our sons play with the dogs. We’ll have six or seven.”
“Dogs?”
“No, Fleur, boys. Strapping lads, like me!” He puffed out his chest.
“Imagine that,” She weaseled her way out from under him.
“And do you know who that little wife will be?”
“Let me think,” She looked away to conceal her rolling eyes.
“You,Fleur.” He grinned ear to ear, taking her hand in his.
“Gaston, I,” she paused, “I am honored.”
“You should be. Not every lady receives such a request from a man like me.”
“But I cannot marry a man like you,” She pouted, in mocking, “I’d throw myself off the roof of our home in misery before you could so much as get me to our wedding night.”
As she rescinded her hand, she could see the blood boiling beneath his skin. His face turned as red as the sleeves of his doublet, and he almost looked as if he wanted to slap her for saying such a thing. He seemed to control himself, though, for he quickly regained the same, sly grin she loathed. As she was about to turn and walk from him, he grabbed her by the waist in a tight embrace, and it was only when he could hear the chattering of her father’s servants that he let her go.
“You must marry me,” he hissed into her ear, “Now you must, unless you want to be known as a harlot. This pretty life of yours will be over, and you will be mine nonetheless.”
Her own blood ran cold. He was right, she thought, how could she be so foolish. Even entertaining his request would cause scandal, let alone if rumors begin to spread. Rumors, like briars stretching themselves into her life, would lead to her ruin. It did not matter that it was just an embrace. What mattered was the more interesting rendition of the tale, that she had invited him to her bed, a temptress, with hopes of trapping him in marriage, or worse, that she simply surrendered herself to him. Her father would not understand. Her mother was buried in the very courtyard where she stood.
“Let us get this over with,” Gaston grabbed her wrist, “Say yes, and this will be but a fond memory we tell our children.”
“I will not.”
“You foolish, foolish girl,” he loomed over her, “Our wedding will be quick, intimate.”
It was quick indeed when Fleur found herself sliding the dagger that hung from his waist out from its sheath and into his heart. His roars of pain soon dwindled to soft groans and a fear shared only by those on death’s door as he collapsed onto the green gardens of the courtyard. Red soiled her gown. Red soiled her hands. She panted, in realization of the grave act she had committed, and she found herself grateful that his stunt had diverted the attention of the household staff to the grapevine. Though, her stomach did not appreciate the scene before her and the guilt that plagued her conscience. She doubled over and vomited into a patch of roses. The scent of rose petals dampened the stench of murder.
Fleur knew she needed an out, so, in her paranoia, she dashed toward the tree line that bordered the end of the courtyard. She had heard of the strangest tales surrounding these woods, that there were hags and monsters alike who stalked the night. In this moment, she did not care, as she thought the blood on her gown would deter most danger. Though, she was scared of wolves.
She ran so fast in between trees, ducking under branches and dodging thorns, that her dress was a tattered mess when she stopped. It was not long before she saw a lonely hut nestled in the trees, smoke rising from its chimney.
She approached and knocked on the door. Surprisingly, a woman answered the door. She was thin with ginger hair and a world of freckles upon her face. Wrinkled sat deep within the creases of her face, and she wore a linen robe. Fleur scrunched her nose, for the smell of something surely horrid oozed from the hut. It was when she made eye contact with the old woman that she saw she was without sight, as if storm clouds moved over the woman’s eyes.
“Hello, my dear,” she mused, “I knew you would come.”
“What?”
“I saw you. I saw what you did,” what began as a soft giggle turned into hearty laughter, “You took a life. Even if I did not witness it, I can smell it on you. What sweeter scent than blood that deserved to be spilt?”
“You’re a lunatic,” Fleur backed away, “I did not mean to kill him.”
“How rude,” the woman frowned, “No matter. You have my forgiveness, for you will surely right this wrong when I bestow my gift upon you.”
“Gift? I do not want your gift.”
“But you have no other option, lovely girl. Society does not take kindly to slaughter.”
Fleur thought and thought, her eyes darting between the path to home and the doorstep of the old wretch.
“So, tell me, child,” the witch chirped, “What will it be? Will you brave the storm, or will you accept what I have to offer? You may know it is an honor for a budding witch such as myself to offer her services for free.”
“And what is it you are offering, witch?”
“Freedom, child, truefreedom.”
Fleur turned her back toward the path home, “I accept your gift.”
“Good, now come.”
The woman took her hand and let her inside the hut. Inside was a bubbling cauldron, filled with stinking green liquid. Potion bottles lined creaky old shelves, and it was in this moment the witch approached what looked to be an altar. The witch grabbed an empty glass bottle, crushed various herbs Fleur could not name, poured shimmering liquids and spat into the concoction that resulted.
“Drink, drink,” she urged, bringing the bottle to Fleur’s lips. And drink she did.
As Fleur emptied the bottle’s contents, nausea overtook her. She stumbled about the hut, vision blurred and stomach turning, listening to the witch cackle. She peered down at her hands to see fur sprouting from them and her nails elongating to pitch black claws.
“What have you done to me?” She shouted in a voice more vicious than ever.
Fleur held her head in her hands and, as her bones and flesh snapped and shaped itself into a new form, it was then she was born again. She stood as a beast, tall and ferocious, drunk on bloodlust. With naught to be done to reverse this curse, the young Fleur DuPrix disappeared into the wood, heard about only in legend.
It seemed fur and fangs had become her new favorite.
Little White Devils
Lila frequently thought about the first time she got high.
She was sitting on her best friend’s couch, her best friend since they found themselves in the same homeroom ten years ago, crying on her shoulder about who, then, was the love of her life.
“What a coward,” Nettie had said, stroking her hair, “Doing this over text. It isn’t fair.”
Nettie always had a strong sense of justice. So much so that she would feel a need to take matters into her own hands at times, dumb idea or not. It was not long after this conversation that Nettie paid a visit to her ex’s house and carved “BASTARD” all over his Mustang. Better to ask for forgiveness rather than for permission was something she lived by back then.
"Three years,” Lila cried, “Down the drain just like that?”
“Look on the bright side — our marriage pact is in effect again. Five more years left ‘till 30.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better, Nettie.”
“Here, I’ve got something that will. It’s time.”
Nettie had been trying to get her to smoke pot for ages. It’llhelpyouranxiety,she’d say, itmakeseverythingbetter.Now was the only time Lila had really considered it, and Nettie quickly leaped into action. Before she knew it, Lila’s tears had dried up and the pair became a giggling mess.
Since that night, the two soon grew bored of pot and liquor. Soon, Nettie and Lila were partying until the sun rose after a hard week, snorting snow, stuck in a perpetual cycle of waking up after 5 pm, getting dressed, partying until dawn, and finally passing out.
Finding comfort in numbness through life’s valleys was their new specialty, and soon, there was no substance they had not done at least once.
In time, Nettie’s worst vice became the needle. Dotted along her veins were little, red marks surrounded by bruising, her “mosquito bites,” she called them. Lila was never sure if it was just delusion or a sick joke. Her once-thick, blonde hair lay like frayed thread over her face. She lost what little meat was already on her bones. It was a unique sort of ugliness — decomposition hidden behind 2XL hoodies, divorced-dad-type-band t-shirts, and sweatpants she had found thrifting.
Lila found pills to be prettier, more subtle. For her, the fact one could not spot her addiction outwardly was an enabler in and of itself. That and the fact she could still work
and use her marketing degree for something. No one knew. No one but Nettie. So, when she was forced on an ultimatum by her parents to go to rehab or go to prison after finding her “emergency” stash, it was a little embarrassing. Lila lamented her decision to invite her parents over for dinner sooner than her little brother could mention politics at the table.
Snapping herself out of reflection, Lila approached the front desk she was admitted at. Sitting was the same old receptionist, Nora, dressed in old scrubs. She wore glasses too small for her face and chewed spearmint gum excruciatingly slow, but this time they were meeting under better, more hopeful circumstances. Lila had completed her 12-step program and was bound for the free world.
“Stay out of trouble, alright?” Nora slid a stack of papers toward her to sign. We releaseanyliabilityfordecisionsmadebypatientafterdischarge—the works — when you are releasing addicts, at least.
Lila faced the sliding doors that once bid her welcome and now was to bid her adieu. As she left, she could not recall the last time she pigged out on a big, greasy burger. One with onions and lettuce and mayo and anything else the grill could slap on it. As an all-toofamiliar red sedan pulled up and the passenger window slid down, Lila was met with Nettie’s toothy grin once again.
“Get in, get in, get in!” Nettie squealed.
“Hey, Nettie,” Lila obliged, “I’m hungry — can we stop by a drive thru?”
“Duh. But first,” Nettie pulled into a nearby parking spot, “I’ve got a gift for you.”
Lila’s heart sank as the familiar rattle of the pill bottle came out from Nettie’s purse.
Hydrocodone, her favorite. She could not take her eyes off the damn bottle. Little white devils, those pills, always whispering Iknowyouwantto.
“Jeez, Nettie, we’re in the parking lot,” she frowned.
“I thought you’d be excited. Program gave you cold feet?”
“I guess. I don’t know, Nettie. I’ve been on a streak, and I don’t want to go backwards.”
“Go backwards?” Nettie snickered, “The nurses sure filled up your brain with bullshit. It’s indoctrination, not to mention you went against your will. I care about you, Lila, and I know you. That’s how I know how badly you need this.”
“I’m not that person anymore.”
“What, you think you’re too good for me now since you lied through your stupid program?”
“If you need me to get you some help, I can. But I can’t do this with you anymore.”
“No. Screw this. You’re full of shit. Get out of my car.”
“Nettie, please —”
“Get out!”
“I love you. You’ll always be my best friend,” Lila felt warm tears well up in her eyes, one foot out the car door, “Call me when you want to get sober.”
Short Stories
Trial of the Woods Witch
“Thejunglesareunforgiving.Youwillnotsurvive.”
Nimene recalled what Valkash said to her upon her arrival on the shores of Serpent’s Isle. Youwillnotsurvive.The sea serpent’s voice haunted her, seeping into each and every day she withstood on this cursed island. She thought of how the tide soon rose to claw at her throat, piercing her lungs and stealing her breath. The ocean always stirred fear in her heart, let alone one home to serpents the size of a small fortress. She reassured herself that she has since conquered the seas, waves now crashing into cliff faces at her will, with salt and sea now weaved into her being. Valkash bid her farewell to find his younger brother, Orkash, to learn the ways of the earth. Theearthandsoilknowme,she thought, Icanspeak withtreesandwoodlandfolk,makeoceanstremble,andthewindquicken—Icanmaster thisallthesame.
Perhaps her mother, Kyleia, would advise her to breathe deeply and call upon the wood, as she did in times of tribulation. But this was not the wood Nimene once mastered. The wood back home was thicker, warmer, with tinges of brown, white, and gold in its bark and roots. The leaves allowed sunlight through their green folds into the foliage below. Creeks and hiding nooks were sprinkled about, and the scatterings of woodland creatures followed wherever one stepped. Nimene craved it, this constant noise; it let her know that there was life. And where there was life, there was magic. Magic she could surely master. Though, this jungle was much different. The trees here were tall and thin at the base, curtains of leaves drooping down and casting a shadow upon the cluttered grasses. Nimene
quickly learned naught but heavy rain seeped through these treetops. Her only solace was the vines that hung low from their branches, allowing her to quickly get above ground whenever a snake crossed her path. She was deathly afraid of snakes. Just her luck that she would find herself trapped on an island swarming with them. She preferred packs of direwolves and cave bears.
She wished for her old travel companion, Valaine’s, comfort, although her words would certainly be limited. Valaine was an icy, white-haired woman of little speech, a quick arrow to the throat satisfied her well enough, though she developed an odd fondness for the young witch. Many nights indeed did Valaine teach her to wield a longbow and how to fight with only one’s hands, strike fast and true, listen to her woes, and keep a watchful eye at night as she slept. In return, Nimene would tend to her frequent scrapes and cuts, rubbing healing salves into her wounds, and teach her to read in the common tongue. Now, she had no one. That is, except the cruel mistress of this foreign land who would rather strike her than offer any guidance. Or her crueler consort who preferred to strike with steel, not with fists.
“Now who is this?” She heard a voice from the darkened tree line.
“Orkash?” She glanced at her surroundings. No signs of life.
Smoke oozed all around her, obstructing her vision as the air became warmer, sweltering. She smelled soot and sulfur. The voice was much closer now. She noted its lisp, how it dragged its ‘S’ sounds as if it were compelled to.
“Orkash? How insulting!” The voice cackled, “No, sweet one, I am not my brother.”
A hand brushed against her waist, following its curve until the two were face-to-face. When the smoke finally cleared enough to see the figure before her, Nimene was blinded by the blaze in his eyes. Standing before her was a man with ashen, pale skin, smirking ever so delightfully at the sight of such a little thing before him.
“Fire favors you.” He said, longingly, raking strands of her orange hair between fingers, “It’sss a shame you will not live. You are a pretty one.”
Nimene coughed as he blew clouds of smoke that rose from his wooden pipe at her face. She could not quite identify what exactly he was smoking, but whatever herb it was smelled pungent and stung her eyes. She searched her mind for answers, as to who this creature was and, in this moment, she was unsure of her fate. The man could easily push a dagger through her heart, or worse. It seemed he had an affinity for the heat of the moment.
“Something got your tongue?” The man leaned in closer, burnt flesh tainting his breath, “I am not one you want to disappoint.”
“Who are you?”
“Guess,” he mused, “You know. You must.”
Perhaps this was Orkash playing tricks on her. Though, it was strange for a serpent of the earth to exude smoke and fire. She racked her knowledge of the island, of Salem and of the temple. Thethreebrothers,sonsofSalem,Valkash,Orkash,and—
“Aken,” she said with her chin high, “The fire wyrm.”
“Yes!” He boomed, caressing her face, “Good girl.”
“Don’t touch me,” she stepped back, tripping on a cluster of snakes that soon began to swarm around the pair and wrap themselves around her body.
This earned screams from the young witch as she thrashed and plucked cobras, boas and garden snakes alike off her person.. Aken caught a cobra at the neck before it sought to strike her face and soon gnawed away at it, crunching its spine in his teeth and savoring the blood that trickled down his chin. When he was intoxicated enough off of her fear and snakeflesh, he waved a hand, and all the lowly serpents slithered away as quickly as they came.
“A word of caution, sweetling,” he helped her to her feet and pulled her into a tight embrace, speaking lowly into her ear, “This viper hungers for you. You’d do well to make yourself a worthy adversary, for both our sakes.”
His words sent chills down her spine and quickened her heart. Aken smirked, and, as he pressed his head into the crook of her neck, she felt a forked tongue taste her skin before he dissolved into smoke. Suddenly, it was daylight once more, and Nimene traced her fingers over what was certainly his mark — the skin along the side of her neck was reddened and singed. She winced whenever she touched it. For the first time in her life, she swore she would mount the viper’s head on a wall, with its smirk preserved forever in mockery. He had threatened her, violated her, and sought to do so when they met again. He is the final trial, after all. She soon understood the tales of Salem’s daughters disappearing into the treeline in a cloud of smoke — never to be seen again. She shuddered at the thought that the viper had his way with them. She burned with thoughts of vengeance for
all the sweet souls he had brutalized. She would certainly start by knocking that damned pipe out of his mouth.
Nimene could not shake the scent of sulfur in her skin, on her tongue, in her hair — an easy target in a jungle filled with bloodlust. Luckily for her, these tropics offered little else than bodies of freshwater to wash with and to drink. Even in the ponds, water snakes dwell, but the witch found them more agreeable as long as she did not get in their way. It did not take her long to find a small creek hidden between the trees. There was a stillness here, no water snakes dancing across pond ripples, no ribbets or bird calls. Silence was just what she needed, to think after Aken marked her as his new plaything.
As she cupped water in her hands and began splashing water upon her face, a rattling of the earth most unsettling grew louder. And closer. Nimene leapt to her feet and braced herself against the charge. As she felt the earth tremble below her, the color drained from her face. It’sunderme,she thought, head darting, searching for a way out of this. Time was not a luxury she possessed, so she ran. Her leather boots thumped against the soil as she darted through the jungle, swiping vines and foliage from her path. She whimpered as the earth cracked before her, toppling trees that nearly crushed her, their sharp branches ripping tufts from her hair. It was a brush of death at every turn, every pivot; she could not run. Whatever wretched creature this was did not lose sight of her long enough for her to catch her breath. So, against her better judgment, she whipped around and burrowed the soles of her boots into the soil. Her fingers trembled, and the cracked, disturbed earth carved its way closer and closer to her. When she peered closer, she could see hard, dirtcovered scales zipping toward her, a serpent smaller than Valkash but no less fearsome.
Orkash.As she inhaled what was likely to be her last breath, the beast beneath halted. With a low hum that she could feel in her bones, Orkash rose from piles of mud, rock, and earthworms. Underneath all the brush and the brown, his scales glistened the color of red clay. He peered down at her, and, though he had holes in place of eyes, Nimene sensed his curiosity. This brother, she soon realized, was no different than the beasts she communes with in her homeland.
“Orkash, is it?” She reached a cautious hand out to him, gulping, “My name is Nimene, witch of the wood and wielder of tides. I come before you seeking aid, not battle.”
Orkash looked almost in contemplation, wrapping himself around her and peering closely into her eyes, searching for something intangible. Nimene put on a brave face despite her knees nearly giving out on her, and the serpent relented and seemed satisfied. Almost like a purr, his hums grew louder and resonated in her head and in her heart. She relaxed and closed her eyes, almost as if she were drifting to sleep, and it was as if she could hear the earth speaking to her. She could hear the gentle swaying of leaves, the rush of the creeks and waterfalls, the sound of ocean waves lapping against Valkash’s old, white scales, the inhale of pipesmoke. The world had bloomed with life, so much so that she almost forgot about the gargantuan beast before her. Orkash nuzzled his snout against her palm, starved for attention, and bucked her onto his head as he burrowed into the earth — despite her yelps of protest. With every cavity of her body being filled with dirt, twigs, and grub beetles, she soon realized Orkash was not trying to kill her. He was bringing her to shelter for the night.
Her body rolled off of his head as they reached his den. Deep within the earth, it was pitch black, though, strangely, it was as if her ears gained sight. The rumblings of life granted her light in darkness, and, besides the occasional carcass, it was cooler and calmer down here. Perhaps she was going mad, but Nimene felt comfortable convening with the serpent as if he were an old friend regardless of his inability for speech.
“Your brother paid me a visit. Aken,” She traced all the snakes and jungle creatures she had seen into the soft dirt of Orkash’s den, “I fear I will not be able to survive this place. I wish I could bury myself underground, like you.”
Orkash shifted, causing small tremors in the den, and lowered his head closer to her. She could feel his breath, a warm, earthy exhale. He understood her without words, and, for a moment, the only sound shared among them were the subtle sound of the underground and the echoes of life above. It was then that Orkash pressed his head against hers.
“Perhaps you are stronger than you know,” a voice, not unlike a whisper in her mind, seemed to echo in the den.
Nimene peered around, startled, but there was no one else. It was him, his thoughts intertwining with hers, giving him a voice, deep and resonant like a distant rumble. He understood her fear, her longing for home, and her self-doubt.
“You cannot hide here forever,” he continued, “But I can teach you to be still, to listen. This jungle will not bend to you, but it will whisper its secrets willingly if you learn to hear them. You are a child of the wood, yes? Now, you must learn the language of the earth, of root and stone, of the deep places where even fire dares not tread.”
The thought of accepting the jungle, its dangers, and its creatures frightened her, but it also made her feel strangely hopeful. She had conquered the seas by flowing with their currents, not against them. Maybe the jungle was no different.
“Yes,” she said, her voice wavering yet with a newfound determination, “I’m ready.”
Lament of the Pale Hawk
TW:Graphicviolencementioned.
LamentofthePaleHawk
In the tall spires that twisted their way above clouds of frost and wind, a princeling stood gazing out the long, narrow windows of Mirok Keep, not yet hardened by time. He donned red, a color he thought reserved for youth and fire. Perhaps desire, which he had never felt in the same capacity as other men boasted. He desired only a saddle—days of riding and adventure. He wanted to bask in the sun, in the light, but this cursed keep did not permit even a glimpse of daylight. The hems of his doublet were grey, which Asnarok regarded as a color of death and nothingness. The dead he had seen had grey and blue faces, hollowed out and still. Nothingness. How he craved the follies of mortality — to one day fade to nothingness. For a man of warm blood and flesh, a boy became a man on his fourteenth name day. But Asnarok was a runt, still far behind his siblings who had long surpassed the age of ninety with not so much as a wrinkle creeping across their foreheads. Even his lord father chastised him; it seemed every day the wretched old man spat vitriol at his face—cursing his disdain of tradition.
Traditionkeepsyouinyourprecioussilksandwithsilverspoonsinyourmouth, boy,he’d say, Dismissingitwilltaintwhatourforefatherssoughtsolongtobuild.
His father had a knack for bringing everything back to their ancestors. The prince lived in a time before there was ever a king in Willow, or when there was a Willow at all. Back when the whisperings of Albion’s ascension were but a trickle across the realm. Here, his father was king. Here, men kissed his ring and his feet, or perhaps, if truly unfortunate, were made to offer their lifeblood to his lot. It always left a sour taste in his mouth, contrary to his six brothers and five sisters who regarded it sweet as wine.
Whatausetheywere,Asnarok would reply, hidingawayintheircupsofsweetred aswedo.Theyreignedbutdidnotrule.Theydidnotknowanythingbeyondthiskeepbut snowanddarkness,and,ofcourse,thatamealwasnevertoofaraway.Whatuseisthereto playkingwithcattle?
He knew such words would earn him a beating from one of his lord father’s guard. The sides of his pale, long face had adapted, shaped and cut by the steel gauntlets of whoever disciplined him. It did not sting as much as it once did. It used to be by his father’s hand he would be beaten, but he was nearing the end of his miserable existence—what a joy to live through era after era, surrendering only when your frail bones cannot hold you up any longer and the sweet red mends them no more. Rorok Mirok aged until his emaciated body creaked and moaned with movement and his once full head of brown hair fell in strings in front of his face. His red eyes had dulled, and his jewels hung from his spindled fingers. Asnarok caught himself staring at times. Wasthistobehisfate?
The prince shook his head, snapping himself out of the sanctuary of his thoughts.
Today was a big day for him—a chance to perhaps prove himself worthy to his disintegrating king or, perhaps more importantly, his eldest brother, Erik, who was positioned to hold up his lord father’s mantle. Although he and Erik had their differences, they shared sympathies that two children beaten by the same hand would inevitably share. There was a silent solidarity among the Mirok litter, though tainted by competition and envy, that persisted even in the darkest of times and the heat of rivalry. It was this that Asnarok always looked back to, how his sisters poured sweet red to mend his bruises as a boy, cradling and coaxing him in their arms. How his brothers taught him to wield a blade proper and wiped his tears from his cheeks when he was bested and laid flat on his rear. It reminded him that there were some remnants of light in this dark place.
As he finally gathered the motivation, Asnarok made his way to stand before his father—awaiting the new moon to rise on a long winter’s night. Upon entering the great hall in which Rorok often used to fulfill his role as king of cattle and swine, his lord father’s throne peered down at him. The back of the chair reached high into the air, looming down on those who stood before it. The throne seemed almost welded into the very ground it was built upon, unmoving, with a tinge of red creeping through its black stone base. The throne was alone in a great hall devoid of life—it was only on formal occasion that Asnarok or his siblings paid it any mind. Otherwise, its stone was left to crack and wedge itself deeper into the keep as centuries passed by. He could have sworn, at times when he was alone with this symbol of his family’s power, he felt it call to him—yearning for fresh blood to claim it. Perhaps the old thing had tired of indulging men who sought nothing with the power it gifted them.
All his brothers and sisters soon arrived in tandem, positioning themselves behind the princeling—drenched in their finery.
“You look nice, for once, brother.” His eldest sister Arabella was the first to break the silence among the brood, “I fear you picked the wrong outfit for the occasion.” She tugged and picked at the puffed sleeves of his doublet.
The pack began to nip at their runt brother, feeding off one another’s slights and bitterness. Arabella’s twin brother, Kvorok, gripped Asnarok’s shoulders from behind.
“Why, yes, sister, we too polished our young bodies when we stood before father a near century ago,” he cooed.
“He shall fail,” Saverok, the second youngest, chirped, “Dare I say the crows will feast on his cold flesh by dawn after he has starved himself dry.”
“Enough folly.” Erik arrived and stood next to their lord father’s throne. He donned his best suit of silver armor and wielded a blade he had named Bloodletter, “Let us wish our dear brother luck. The moon has been cast out of the sky tonight. He will hunt.”
Asnarok shook Kvorok’s hands off of him, stepping forward just in time for their father to swing open the large metal doors behind them. His guard, as of late, had to aid him in his pursuit to sit the throne. His children grew silent and scurried back into position, holding their hands clasped in front of them and their heads bowed—all their snideness faded to the unease the brood knew all too well. All but Erik, who dutifully lowered Rorok into his seat. Asnarok could hear his old knees creak like rotted wood. Nonetheless, Erik had somewhat prepared him for this ritual of their family’s.
“My king,” Asnarok bent a knee, “Father.”
“Rise!” Rorok’s voice boomed, then croaked, and the man was sent into a coughing fit, “My handkerchief, you fools!”
One of his guard rushed to his side, holding a white cloth to his cracked lips. A few moments later the fit subsided, leaving Rorok out of breath and the cloth wet with black blood. Asnarok did as he was told and stood straight, holding his chin high as Erik had trained him.
“You will hunt tonight, my son, for the moon has turned away its captious gaze.”
Rorok soon recited, as he had for all of his children, “Feast on the fallen until morning light, and you shall return a man grown, worthy of our name!”
“In darkness, we prevail.” Asnarok nodded. His brothers and sisters repeated the phrase after him in unison.
“Do make us proud, Asnarok,” Erik offered him a soft smile, “I will await your return.”
The prince walked away from the throne and the metal doors that led to their many bedchambers and lifeless banquet halls. He made his way through the grand corridors that hosted the guests that once graced these stone walls. The Miroks maintained their grandeur while the rest of what was once a vast society of immortal men fell from war and drought. Asnarok had never met others who shared in his family’s proclivities, but the tomes in their library suggested that, in times of old, his ancestors sired children in tens and lived for millennia. Perhaps once this keep hosted extravagant balls and weddings, but, now and forevermore, there was naught but scorn left.
Asnarok faced the dark oak doors that led out of the keep. He always considered it a good thing mortal men were not able to walk through their liege’s doors. A lord might break bread with a visitor, treating them to a meal or wine, but not here. The king in this keep was keen to treat them to a blade in their bellies. They would meet a slow, draining death—no matter the intention of their visit.
Two guardsmen lifted the steel beam that kept them all sealed in darkness. In darkness,weprevail.An old saying. The prince found the dark to be particularly lonely. I cannotprevail, he thought, for he wished for light. He had lived a life knowing only the warmth of fire and the sweet red that seeped from once-warm flesh. He lamented that he had never felt the sun, rain that did not ice over one’s skin or ever swam in unfrozen waters. He yearned to live as men do—to experience pain and joy, or the triumph of a hard-fought battle. He desired their resilience, their adaptable bodies, and hope that ever-persisted in dark times. To grieve, to love—the prince often thought of love. The tales of princes he had read as a boy spoke of men who pledged themselves to their beloveds, braving armies of thousands to preserve their union. Men who fought for the hearth instead of gold or glory. He cared not for this cold existence he had been given—this kingdom of death.
When he only barely took his first step out of the keep, to just a night alone with his thoughts, two sets of clattering armor caught up to him, standing at either side of him.
“My prince.” One of the men grunted. Old and thick of skull and skin, he was not too keen to usher yet another spawn of his liege to his first hunt. Henrik the Bear, the litter called him as small children, for he was tall, hairy, and prone to strike if one poked him too many times. Even their royal blood did not stop them all from meeting the cut of his blade,
always deep enough to bleed but not to scar—a line in the sand that said, Stop,ordie,quite clearly. Asnarok never gave him too much trouble and was allotted a shard of kindness. The old soldier let him ride on his shoulders when he was but a boy. Only once, but the two had reached a mutual understanding after the gesture.
The other, a middle-aged man who grew only as tall as Asnarok’s shoulders, followed suit. His armor was ill-fitted, a smidge too tight, and he wore no helm. As he drew near, the prince recognized him immediately.
“Brennan.” Asnarok sighed and rubbed his temples. Surely his father sent him to make sure the hunt would be bloody and brutal.
“Prince Asnarok! I am honored to accompany you tonight.” Brennan’s eyes could hardly hide his excitement and anticipation, “I look forward to witnessing your coming of age firsthand.”
“Yes, let us go then.” This was all Asnarok could manage before turning away from the man whose breath smelled of ale and garlic. If Asnarok was faced with a choice to kill or be killed, he was not so certain he would not choose the latter.
The trio stepped out from the keep and descended its steps into the frost-ridden winds of the north. The air nipped at Asnarok’s uncovered face despite his cold flesh, and he soon found himself tying a cloth to conceal the lower half of his face from the elements. This night cast a deep, penetrating darkness in which even moonlight could not reach upon the land. The world before the prince was black and blue and coated in ice. He could feel his balance slip with every step, the ground was frozen over and barren. Over the horizon to his right was a lake that never flowed that stretched as far as Asnarok could see. He saw the
distant figures of men carving into its thick layer of ice, lowering hooks tied to string for a taste of meat. As Asnarok spotted the dim torchlight of a humble village beyond, he remembered that it was he who would need to make a catch tonight. Soon, the prince noticed Henrik and Brennan waiting for him to take the lead.
“I wish to be alone,” Asnarok eyed the frozen fields and picket fences of a farm. “I know where I am to go.”
“Forgive me, my prince, but your lord father the king insisted I stay by your side,”
Brennan smiled with yellowed teeth. “But do be assured that I will not get in your way.”
Asnarok looked up to the sky, “Tonight, I will hunger like no other night. I cannot predict where my tastes will lead us. Both of you will stay and await me here.”
Asnarok recalled a trick his sisters would pull on him when he had not yet learned the twisting halls of the keep. In the shadows, they would position themselves behind a wall, a pillar, or whatever they could find to conceal them. And as he drew nearer, they would leap out in front of him, fanged mouths agape and their sinister red eyes gleaming as if fed from suffering. He never gave them the satisfaction of a scream, but he never failed to flinch and cower. When enough fear was drawn out from him, they would walk away cackling and mocking him.
“A king’s crown is heavier than a prince’s, no?” Brennan leered at him. “He would have my head if I followed your orders.”
“Do not insult me.” Asnarok turned his head to face him. He could see the crimson gleam his eyes cast upon the poor fighter’s face. Surely his eyes showed pure malice, but the prince
was not in his element. A seasoned warrior could see through to the uncertainty behind his gaze, how the gleam that emitted from it was dimmed, “Stay here, or bleed dry before the sun rises. It is your choice.”
“You’d do well to mind the boy, Brennan,” Henrik said.
Brennan nodded, his speech taken by terror.
“I will return when I am sated.” The gleam of the prince’s eyes waned as he and Henrik exchanged glances. “Good day, Henrik.”
“For us men, Asnarok, it is good night. We do not dwell in the shadows,” said the Bear, and the prince found himself rather fond of his informality. It felt as though the old man had seen him true.
Asnarok left the two men for the barren farmland he had spotted before. He had learned from stories of his sibling’s first hunts that it was wise to pluck one from the edges of town, away from prying eyes for a simple, easy kill. His sister Isobel had boasted that she lost two tokens of innocence the morning after her hunt, for she rode the man she had seduced and slaughtered in the cover of wood. That detail, of course, did not make it to the ears of Isobel’s father or brothers, but Arabella was livid enough that her dear sister surpassed the infamous tale of her own coming-of-age that she gossiped to her twin brother. In Arabella’s time, she drank through a tavern, returning drunk from adrenaline and the ale in their bodies. Her father was proud enough to kiss her forehead, which was as good as gold to her, and her siblings regarded her as a true mistress of the hunt.
Kvorok, in turn, shared the tale with Asnarok and their brothers Orok and Saverok, who told Erik. Once word finally got to the king, Isobel was made to kneel before him, for Rorok feared she might have been harboring mortal spawn in her womb. The king plunged a dagger into her gut, and, as her screams rattled through the halls, Asnarok could feel Arabella smirk beside him. When the king was sure there was indeed no babe and she pleaded for his mercy, Isobel was taken away to be put back together again. Arabella visited her bedchamber the next night, sweet red in tow, and comforted her at her bedside— insisting that it was so unfortunate that their lord father learned of her blood treachery. Their father cut so deep that the sweet red could mend flesh but not skin, and Isobel mournfully held her hand over the scar on her abdomen when she walked from that day on.
Asnarok walked through what could have been a cornfield back when perhaps this world had not frozen. Although not much life thrived in these lands, he spotted shoots of green climbing their way through the iced surface of the soil—supplying carrots, greens, and onions to the masses. Indigo flowers sprouted the closer to the tree line one went, decorating the white grasses of the north with color. It was beautiful in a way, Asnarok thought, and assured him that some life could still be lived here.
He imagined gathering a bouquet of flowers in green fields rather than stalking prey to give to a sweet lady—a mother, a maiden. Asnarok never knew his mother. But, according to Erik, their mother was a meek woman of quiet luxury. She did not boast as her spawn did. She simply coated herself in glamor and reaped the rewards of her lifestyle without so much as speaking a word of it to anyone. She instead devoted herself to her king, opening her womb to him twelve times over. When Asnarok was born, after days and days of
laboring, he was taken from her arms and she was left to stain her bedsheets crimson and black. Rorok believed it was the end of her time, as she was unable to bear any more of his seed, so he left her there to dry and crumble—her decadent Emei silks and jewels rotting away. Asnarok went into the queen’s chambers, one day, and found that her finery had been stolen and distributed among the sisters once she ceased breathing. Asnarok cried alone in his lady mother’s room that day, for he hoped there would be something left of her that was not blood or bone.
Vultures,allofthem,he thought, Theydidnotevenburyher.
The princeling took it upon himself to wrap his mother’s crumbling bones in cloth, and he took her remains and buried her in a clearing next to the grandest tree he could find in the cover of night. When he visited a fortnight later, he saw a crystalized flower had grown to mark her grave, icy blue petals hanging down to kiss the soil she lay under. This earned a melancholy grin from the boy, the boy he was then, and he wished bitterly for a mother to guide his gentle hand. Now, he must commit savagery to become a man grown.
As he approached the snow-capped farm, he concealed himself behind the backend of a barn and watched for signs of life. Soon enough, an older man with deep-set wrinkles on his face walked down a path toward what seemed to be livestock pens—a bucket of slop in hand.
There was no skill involved in the hunting of an old man’s mulled red, and Asnarok knew that if he returned home covered in old blood he would not be deemed worthy. The killwillbeeasyandwillendquickerthanitbegins,the prince thought, perhapsthisisthe way.Or, perhaps, if he could fool his father and trust in the age of his senses, there would be
no need to hunt a man at all. This soothed the princeling, and he waited for the man to return from the fields and vanish behind the barn door.
He sifted through fields, and, for a moment, he thought there was naught here but ice. It was the smell of animal waste that pointed him toward what he thought was salvation. He leaned against an old wood fence, peering at a pig, thin and with sunken eyes, on its side with what was left of her babes sucking at her teats. Because of the cold, she did not feed as much as she should, could not make enough milk for all her young, and, as such, some of her babes lay idly dead by her still-swollen belly.
Amercy,forcertain,he thought, Shehasnaughtbutboneonheranyway.
Asnarok entered the pen and crouched in front of her, carefully removing her young from her body. He took a dagger hanging from his hip and quickly sliced through the mother’s throat, and, with barely a squeal, pig’s blood stained the snow crimson beneath her. The prince cupped the red in his hands and sipped and, while this was no sweet red, it did satiate his hunger for a time. To be safe, he coated his palms in it and made it seem like something— someone —had put up a fight. As he stood, a familiar sneer came from behind him.
“Surely you do not think, my prince, that your father would let you live when you return having committed such an offense,” Brennan said, hand on hilt, grinning yellow.
“I told you to stay and await me back there. You forget, scum, that no crown graces your brow. You disobey your prince,” Asnarok replied, facing him.
“When your father learns of this treachery, I’m certain he will melt your worthless crown to compensate me for my good service. You insult his name, and you will pay the blood price for it. I look forward to witnessing your fall, you spoiled, wasteful boy. You do not realize the power you could wield.”
Heisright, Asnarok thought to himself for a moment, Mylordfatherissuretokill me.
“How dare you,” Asnarok’s face went paler than ever as he choked on fear, “You serve a king who regards you no higher than a meal. You should be loyal to me—who sees you as more than a vessel, one with sentience. As a man, you fool.”
“You are the fool. I care not for men or being seen as such. Perhaps I will be able to convince your lord father to give me your dark gift,” Brennan licked his lips as if he already had a sanguine hunger about him, and bowed his head to his lord prince, “Your hours are numbered, my prince, live them well.”
Brennan turned his back to the princeling and began his way back to inform the king, awaiting for him to render his youngest son to viscera. Blood satisfied him differently than it did the Miroks, and Brennan would have loved nothing more than to gain the privilege to hunt alongside royals—allowed to pillage as he pleased. In his role guarding the Mirok children, he was made to watch, and now he was teased with the faintest possibility of ascending over mortal men. He did not care for the monsters he served, let alone the last in line. This was no more than an opportunity, a transaction.
Asnarok knew this, as he was used to being treated lesser than those closest to the throne, and he despised it. He soon realized he had hated Brennan for years—his yellowed teeth
and ale-driven rants throughout the keep’s halls only tempered by Henrik’s steel hand. He could not stand the thought that he, of all, would be the one to lead him to his end. Wrath brewed inside of him, and the prince was suddenly more aware of his own body. He felt his heart pound, the red that rushed through his veins, and he could smell Brennan’s rotten blood with new fervor. It was in this state that he found it increasingly hard to control his impulses—fueled by the scent of life and the hunt.
Before Brennan could turn back to face him, he felt nails as sharp as a blade grip his shoulder. Asnarok’s eyes cast that same crimson gleam upon his face, but, instead of terror, Brennan nearly smiled.
“You have not the courage. You do not think yourself even entitled to swine flesh.”
The two shared a moment, immortal to mortal, and, when Brennan met the princeling’s gaze for the last time, he was a changed creature. Once Asnarok saw the blood trail down his arm, it was in seconds that he lunged at him and tore him apart with such ferocity that piglets crowded around and feasted on his innards. He plucked Brennan’s veins from his wrist like thread and savored the bitter red that spewed from them. Led by instinct, Asnarok drank him dry. Tears swelled in his eyes as his rage dwindled and rational thought returned to him, realizing the atrocity he had committed.
The prince remained there for a while contemplating what to do. How he was to explain to his lord father why he left with two and returned with one. What to tell the Bear was another issue in and of itself—Asnarok was certain Henrik would not take too kindly to one of his already scarce number of men dying in such a manner. But, at the same time, Asnarok wondered if such things had happened before. Perhaps he could hold his chin high
and tell others Brennan strayed too close when the prince was starved—bested by fangs and bloodthirst.
Nonetheless, despite his hatred for the pile of flesh left before him, he held his head in his hands and sobbed.
Rough Drafts
Rough drafts are included in the order they appear earlier in this anthology.
Reflection Essay
Throughout this semester, I have explored storytelling across multiple genres, delving headfirst into themes of identity, resilience, and transformation. From exploring my grief after the passing of my grandfather in “Blessed Be Those Who Mourn” to telling the story of a young prince struggling with identity and the dread of the fantasy world he lives in, each piece in this anthology represents a step in my long journey as a writer.
Initially, I approached my work with hesitation — I am usually the first one to say I hate creative writing courses. I am someone who struggles with structural creative writing, meaning creative writing that is driven by deadlines and prompts given to writers through the instructor. In high school, I took creative writing classes and loved my teacher, but I still face challenges with writing within the confines of a course. Yet, as I navigated through genres like poetry, flash fiction, and creative nonfiction — genres normally astray from my genre of choice, I discovered one can construct a meaningful narrative or story beyond the realm of fantasy fiction writing. This anthology serves as a window into my growth as a writer — exploring the choices I made to shape each story, prose, or poem.
At the beginning of the semester, my approach to writing was largely sporadic, driven by bursts of inspiration rather than sitting down to plan pieces out. For example, “A Day with the NRA” details my experience, as a student journalist, attending an annual NRA convention in Indianapolis. There, I saw Donald Trump, Mike Braun, Mike Pence, and Vivek Ramaswamy speak among other high profile conservative voices. I also experienced hostility toward the press, weaving these experiences into a creative nonfiction piece that is driven by my raw emotions and observations without much consideration for format or clarity.
Feedback from my peers and my professor encouraged me to tweak the piece’s flow and I edited the piece for conciseness and clarity — almost similar to a news story. Additionally, I decided to include more moments of tension to bring home the climax of the piece. What began as a chaotic, emotionally driven account of events became a deliberate, balanced piece depicting how I navigated through a hostile space as a journalist.
Arranging my anthology was an equally deliberate process. I chose to group genres together, as genre is what I explored this semester. This arrangement mirrors my growth, spanning from deeply personal, vulnerable pieces to dark fantasy. At the end of this term, I have come to realize that writing is about embracing revision and organizing what message I want to communicate through my works.
A theme that echoes through most of my work is transformation — whether through grief, self-discovery, or resilience. In “Blessed Be Those Who Mourn,” I explored how my grandfather’s religious funeral service redefined my relationship with faith. Contrastingly, “Beauty of the Beast” takes on a fantastical, feminist lens, subverting traditional fairytale
tropes. My goal was to challenge societal expectations placed on women through Fleur’s act of defiance, or, rather, violenceagainst Gaston’s domination. Later, Fleur quite literally transforms into a beast and, instead of it holding her back, it frees her.
In “Trial of the Woods Witch,” my protagonist undergoes massive selftransformation in order to survive through the navigation of a vast, unforgiving jungle — operating solely off of her hope for a better tomorrow and trusting in her inner strength. “Lament of the Pale Hawk,” though macabre, peers into protagonist Asnarok’s inner thoughts, describing his struggles with his family’s identity and his wish to live a more wholesome, humane life. This cohesion in theme reflects my ultimate message throughout my writing in this course: to explore the human capacity to evolve in even the darkest of times.
This semester was also a playground for my literary experimentation. For example, in “burnblue,”I crafted a metaphorical love story between a phoenix and a siren, blending myth and emotion to evoke both wonder and longing. The poetic form allowed me to express abstract emotions with a freedom I had not previously embraced, and it brought back memories of writing poetry as a coping mechanism when life got a little bit too intense.
This anthology is a reflection of the writer I have become — and where I still want to improve. Writing each piece was an act of vulnerability, experimentation, and persistence. As someone who has always loved writing but struggled within the constraints of structured creative writing courses, I have gained a deeper appreciation for the craft. Each work in this collection represents my journey, from navigating grief and resilience to
experimenting with form and storytelling across genres. I would not call this anthology a conclusion to my growth as a writer but rather a step forward, with so many more stories to tell and endless new things to try.