Midnight Writers February 2021

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February 2021

Midnight Writers


Table of Contents

Cover: “Rose,” a photograph by The Calico Cat This Page: “The Night I Miss,” a photograph by Aya Hatashima

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Ask Aphro & Dite

• Someone needs help getting out of the friend-zone • Someone asks for archery advice

The Hues of Blue

• Blue reflects on her breakup

Monthly Otaku Column

• Aya discusses Eastern and Western comic styles

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“The Letters of a Forgotten Summer,” a story by The Midnight Raven “Written Hearts,” a photograph by The Calico Cat

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“The Letters Of A Forgotten Summer,” continued “Mask of Petals,” a photograph by Anonymous “Breathtaking,” a poem by Aradia “Torture,” a poem by Luna

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“Imposter,” a story by Vérité “I Wish It Was Summer,” an illustration by Cupid

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“Imposter,” continued “Summer Evening,” a photograph by Aya Hatashima

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“Sad Gay Hours (That Feeling When You Had To Hack One Of Your Favorite Pieces To Bits For A Lit Mag Submission But Then Decided You Liked The New Version A Little Too Much So You Decided To Make It Annie’s Problem),” a story by Calliope “Up Toward the Sun,” a photograph by Verovyva

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“The Broken And The Mended,” a story by The Midnight Raven “Pink Starbursts,” a photograph by Verovyva “I Spend Too Much Time Reading Fanfic It Is Such A Problem I Have Like 85 Tabs Open On My Phone And Haven’t Paid Attention In A Single Class In Like Three 2

Months,” a poem by Calliope

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“The Mask,” a story by Vérité “End Of The World,” an illustration by Bleach Lord

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“The Mask,” continued “Festive,” an illustration by Aya Hatashima

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“Haunted,” a story by Lola “Valentine Ball,” a manga by Aya Hatashima

Page13:

“Adelaide (5),” a story by Blue Serendipity “Chaos Incarnate,” an illustration by Bleach Lord

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“Adelaide (5),” continued “Post Heartbreak,” an illustration by Cupid


Ask Aphro & Dite

Dear Aphro, I like someone I’ve been friends with for a while, but I’m not sure how to tell them. Yours, Friend-Zoned Dear Friend-Zoned I think you should tell them! Be direct about it to make sure they fully understand. You’re their friend, so you should know their likes and dislikes well. You have nothing to lose by asking them out - if they’re truly your friend then a rejection will not ruin the relationship between you two. Don’t close the opportunity to be with this person and just go for it! Good luck! With love, Aphro

The Hues of Blue

I think this month’s theme of heartbreak is a bit fitting for how my month is going. That’s… a little dramatic, but recently the guy I dated for a year broke up with me. Ok ok, this all sounds horrible, but it’s actually been a good experience. After all, breakups happen and I’m glad that I got to experience a mutual breakup and remain friends with this person. It’s really helped set my expectations for partners in the future and I’m pretty grateful for that. Heartbreak is something that everyone goes through in their lives, and it’s painful but it helps you grow. This breakup has helped me realize how strong I am on my own, and the sheer will-power I have inside me to accept and be content with the outcome. From the Dear Dite, very beginning, I had to gather courage, be I’ve been learning archery but I haven’t been confident in myself, and learn to deal with able to hit the target once! How do I get better difficult situations. I think I’ve come out of at this? this relationship with really valuable skills. Yours, It’s also really highlighted how many people Aim I surround myself with that love and support Darling Aim, me. And… highlighted the people that didn’t. Do I look like Artemis or Apollo? You should But there’s always going to be a hater no be writing to them for archery help, not me. matter who you are. Heartbreak is a pain that I’m sure they’d be glad to help an archery causes you to feel like you’re physically going enthusiast, although their advice would prob- to die, but the people around me have helped ably only be “practice, practice, and practice”. me heal. I’d like to insert a special shout-out Now, if the archery you had in mind had to do here to my friend who brought me cookies with Cupid... immediately after finding out: you’re honestly With love, Dite the best person ever ilysm!

Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Blue Serendipity, Aya Hatashima, The Calico Cat, Calliope, Bleach Lord, The Midnight Raven, Cupid, and Vérité.

issuu.com/midnightwriters wchs.midnightwriters@gmail.com

Monthly Otaku Column

This month, one of the themes was Ribbons so I decided to stick with that. The overall style was inspired by a graphic novel, The Prince and the Dressmaker. It is about Prince Sebastian who crossdresses as Lady Crystallia, and a seamstress, Francis. I borrowed this graphic novel at the school library 2 years ago and I loved it. I bought it soon after and it is definitely one of my favorite graphic novels I’ve ever read so far (set aside for the fact that I haven’t read as many comics and graphic novels as manga). I like how the majority of western comics are colored, giving a different aesthetic to the story. I also like the comic series, NewsPrints. I fell in love with her bright, appealing colors. The cityscape in this series is amazing and the character development of Blue, an orphan girl who disguises her gender to work as a newsboy, is very heartwarming. I definitely recommend reading these two graphic novels. However, I personally find it hard to find graphic novels and comics that I would be interested in mainly because of the art style. I am too used to the Asian, anime art style and I find it difficult to focus on stories when I am reading comics with western realism. The Prince and the Dressmaker has a western comic style similar to Disney, but NewsPrints is a hybrid of western comic style and Asian anime style (webtoon style?). Old wit tells us to not judge the book by its cover, but I often find myself willingly choosing comics that have the art style that I am most familiar with. It is interesting that I prefer eastern art when I habitually consume somewhat “western medium” in any other genres. I am really interested in the world of comics too, so if anyone has any favorite comics, PLEASE recommend them to me!

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The Letters Of A Forgotten Summer

By The Midnight Raven August, 1936 My dearest Dorothea, Summer has come and gone and took our time together with it. Mornings do not feel the same now that you have left. I wake up to the warm Pennsylvania air and for a single second, I begin to think about seeing you in a few short hours with the afternoon sun. But then I remember, that summers are always fleeting and ours has left as well. I do hope you are settling in well. Yours, Betty My dearest Betty, I am so glad you wrote. As I rode the train home from my Grandmother’s, all I could think about was this nagging worry that you would not. But deep down, I knew that you would. I am settling in well, though I do miss Tionesta so very much. The air in the city is so thick and hot, I miss the freshness of it in the countryside. I miss how open the sky was, open so you could see the sun, the clouds, the stars. But most of all, I miss you, my Betty. Although this summer has gone, just remember that there are countless summers to come. Yours, Dorothea September, 1936 My dearest Dorothea,

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September has arrived which means it is nearly time for the corn harvest. Everything seems to have been swept up in this hurricane of preparations; I hardly even have time to write. But I finished my chores early today, so I came outside to sit on the front porch steps to write you a letter, away from all the raucous. Whenever I sit here, on the wood of these steps, I remember the day we met, when I saw you down the road, looking for your Grandmother’s house when in fact, it was over two miles away. It is strange to think about, what if I had not gone up and asked you if you needed help, or I had not been outside so I would not have seen you at all, what would have happened then? Would we have known each other at all? I do hope so. My sister asked about you a few days ago, she said

“Where is your friend? The girl with the hair like the sun and eyes like lily pads in the river?” She is quite the young poet, isn’t she? I told her that you had gone back home and she looked up at me with these dreadfully sad eyes and said that she wished you would come back. I told her that I did too but you would next summer. Every day seems like just time in the way before June, that I am always just simply moving towards next summer. Thinking of you always, Betty My dearest Betty, Your sister has a way with words and at such a young age! Please tell her that I can hardly wait to see her again as well. It has been so difficult to be away from you, Betty, I miss you so very much. Every day, I cannot keep my mind from wandering away, to Tionesta, to the farm, to you. Sometimes, I just want to climb up to the roof of the tenements and shout of how much I want to go back and how much I do love you, my Betty. I think my mother worries though, of how much I speak of Tionesta and how much I write to you. So for now, I may have to keep these thoughts within my own head. I often think back to the night by the river, when we sat at the edge of the bank, with the water up to our ankles. I had never seen the stars shine so brightly before in my life, they are fainter here, and I was so distracted with looking up, I did not even notice you reach out to take my hand. I will remember that night forever. Forever yours, Dorothea My dearest Dorothea, I will always remember that night as well, I do not think I could ever forget, it was the most nervous I have ever been. But once the nervousness passed, I believe that it is one of “Written Hearts,” Photograph by The Calico Cat


the happiest of my memories. I think my favorite memory of our summer however was when we went to the sunflower fields. Nearly an hour’s worth of walking just to bask in the sunlight and run through the rows. But that hour was worth it and I would repeat it again and again just to go back to that day. Do you remember the flower we picked then? The one that grew taller than all the rest? I have kept it with me all this time. Although the passing months have caused its petals to wilt and it doesn’t hold that same yellow brightness of the sun, I still believe that it is as beautiful as ever. Always yours, Betty

Breathtaking By Aradia Sometimes I wonder if I’m okay But usually I don’t I just dust my body off And set out once more There are so many sad stories And there is so much pain on Earth I don’t feel selfish carving out my space

November, 1936 My dearest Dorothea, I have been trying my best not to worry, I truly have, but it has been two months since I have heard from you. Did I say something that upset you? Did something happen? Please write me back, my Dorothea. I miss you deeply.

From the ruins of what was supposed to be I am not the broken wreck I’d believed I was Each day is a new breath Each light is a new chance And every new sun wishes you well

With all the love in my heart, Betty

I am happy with the place I am

January, 1936 My dearest Dorothea,

This long, winding journey

I do not know what has happened, but at this time, all I can do is respect your silence and give you the space you need. I do hope that one day soon, we can see each other again, but if you do not wish that, then I understand. Just know my Dorothea, that I will never forget our summer together. And that I will always love you, my girl with the hair like the sun and eyes like lily pads in the river.

And I drink each moment like rainwater

Love, Betty

On my bare skin, not my sleeve

And the people I surround myself with Takes me to the stars and back

The world can be romantic if you choose Or it can be mundane, humdrum I choose life, I choose love And the chance to wear my heart

Torture By Luna

Please don’t twist the knife If we must break into two Then go quietly

“Mask of Petals,” Photograph by Anonymous

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Imposter By Vérité

The day I get accepted into the writing program is simultaneously the best and worst day of my life. Best, because when I receive the news everything disappears in a haze of joy. I’m jumping, screaming, laughing, practically crying. I’ve been waiting on news for this for so long. And it’s finally here--it’s everything I hoped for. I made it into one of the school’s best programs, I’ll be learning from some of the most talented teachers--this is amazing. This is incredible. Worst, because it only takes two hours for the illusion to shatter.

“Amelia,” the reflection says, heaving a long-suffering sigh, “Amelia. This program is for the best of the best. You know that.” “Yeah, so?” My writing’s good, good enough for this program to take me on, clearly. Sure, it’s not perfect; it has its fair array of issues, and maybe I’ve been more and more dissatisfied with it of late, but this doesn’t--this can’t change anything. “They accepted me, in case you don’t remember.” My reflection huffs and rolls her eyes. “I do remember. I also remember the last two competitions you entered since.” The last two competitions. . . “Well. I can’t win everything. And judging. . . judging is subjective, it doesn’t necessarily mean I’ve gotten worse.”

I’m in the bathroom running warm water over my hands, “Amelia, be honest with yourself.” she snaps, voice still lost in my hazy dream world, when the reflection in the cracking through the air like a whip. “When did you write mirror blinks up at me and begins to speak. the piece? The one that got you into the program?” I’m hardly surprised; it’s far from the first time we’ve done this. She’s been my confidante, my voice of reason, every time I’ve needed to be reminded of the truth and keep myself in check. Still, an inexplicable sense of dread rises within me.

“Half--Half a year ago,” I stammer, hands beginning to tremble slightly. The water’s still flowing. I can’t bring

“You got the letter, then?” she says neutrally. I don’t know what I’d expect a reflection’s voice to sound like, but hers always seems to be so. . . cold. Critical. It’s my voice but flipped inside out, with all inflections and tones lost somewhere in the in-between void. It’s the sound of glass shattering and the sound of wind howling, hammered together and tangled up in a voice that resembles something human. But only just. I nod mutely. “Let me guess,” she says flatly. “You were accepted.” “Yes,” I say, letting the water continue to run, wondering what she’s getting at. “I was.” “And you don’t see a problem with this?” I open my mouth then close it. A problem. . . what? This is good, all the arrangements have already been made--is there something I’m missing?

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“What do you mean?” The question comes out hesitant and smaller than I’d like.

“I Wish It Was Summer,” Illustration by Cupid


myself to shut it off. “Half a year ago,” she scoffs. “And how’s your writing been since?”

“You’ve stolen this opportunity,” she continues, every word a jagged tug at my spine that I can’t help but flinch at, “from someone who’s good enough for it. From someone who deserves to be there.”

“What,” I say disbelievingly. “You think my writing was. . . a fluke?”

She looks over me, expression utterly devoid of any sympathy. Her eyes meet mine.

“I know it was a fluke,” says the mirror, eyes boring into my skull. “Tell me, Amelia. Have you ever written anything halfway decent as that piece since?”

“Face it, Amelia. You got lucky. But you can’t survive a three month program on luck, can you?”

Words catch in my throat. She has a point. It’s been months and trying to get words down on paper has been like trying to squeeze water from a drained sponge. It’s like there’s nothing there. “Yeah,” she says, “that’s what I thought.”

No. I mouth but don’t say aloud. I can’t. The water has run cold by now, pouring over my fingers. My hands are icy- almost as icy as the reflection’s tone of voice. “Well,” I say numbly, “well, I can’t exactly back out now. I’ve committed to this.” The words taste ashy and bitter; it sounds like I’m dooming myself with every word I speak.

I look down, avoiding her eyes. I think of all the frustration, the late nights, throwing words at a page but nothing seeming to stick. None of the words have any poetry to “No,” sighs my reflection, bringing a hand up to her forethem, none of the stories any weight. It’s nothing but empty head and rubbing tiredly, “I don’t suppose you can.” attempts after empty attempts. I might as well be throwing words into a void. “What am I going to do?” “Hope someone doesn’t catch on to you.” she says pitilessly. “Next time, you really should think these things through.” She’s right, I think numbly. I can’t keep doing this.

I flick the tap with cold fingers, and, after a couple of tries, the water shuts off. The reflection gives me one last expectant look before dissolving into nothingness, replaced by a hollow copy of my face and movements. I exit, slowly closing the door behind me. My hands are still trembling, and so, so cold. When I get the first assignment back, it’s with an A circled at the top and no notes in the margins. The teachers thought it satisfactory, then. I swallow dryly and think back to the reflection’s words, to the hours I spent on the assignment itself, trying to make it perfect but knowing, even as I wrote, that it fell flat with every word. Somehow I’ve managed to convince them that I knew what I was doing with it, that it had some sort of merit. Somehow I’ve managed to trick them into believing I’m worthwhile. But how long will I be able to keep this up? How long until I slip? How long will it be until my luck runs out? “Summer Evening,” Photograph by Aya Hatashima

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Sad Gay Hours (That Feeling When You Had To Hack One Of Your Favorite Pieces To Bits For A Lit Mag Submission But Then Decided You Liked The New Version A Little Too Much So You Decided To Make It Annie’s Problem)

“Up Toward the Sun,” Photograph by Verovyva

By Calliope

You never know if the words that someone says will be their last to you. “I love you” “I hate you” Anything. Nothing. You don’t know, or really care, until it is too late. That’s when you analyze those words, when you wonder what their last thought of you was. Were they mad at you? Happy? Heartbroken? Indifferent? I don’t know what she thought of me in the end. She may have hated me, she may have forgiven me. But, I’ll never know. Those answers burned with her in that dark house under a cloudy April sky. You’d never have guessed what would happen that night. The air was warm and soft against my skin as I ambled down the street at her side. We laughed as we tripped over our own feet, arms linked, our skirts swishing against each other. I looked up at the slowly darkening clouds and the bright orange light that was shining through them. It was mesmerizing. The sharp light of the sun burst across the sky at the end of a perfect night. But people judge what they see, harshly and without remorse. To stay above water, you must learn to hide in plain sight. You can’t give anything away, or you risk bringing your whole world crashing down.

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That night, she didn’t want to hide. She was tired of it, she wanted to broadcast to the world that she loved me and I loved her.

I was afraid. So when she leaned in to kiss me and I happened to see someone we knew passing by, I turned my face away from her. As the person disappeared down the road, she started to shake, her heartbreak turning to burning rage. The sadness in her eyes rivaled the rising darkness in the evening sky above us and the tears that were threatening to spill from her gray eyes were the clouds, the edge of a thunderstorm. Then I was teetering at the mouth of an unending gorge, seconds from falling. The rain fell harder as our words grew sharper and more deadly, feelings that we didn’t even know existed pouring from our mouths in a stream of emotion. We would have stayed, our words chaining us to that spot, for all eternity if not for the bright lights of a car. As she drove away, I didn’t move a muscle, my eyes were fixed on the lights until they were too far away to see. Only then did I let myself fall apart. Her words were the edge of the cliff and my heart was plummeting to the nothingness below. Forever she stays that way in my mind, all fury and love to the point of destruction. Anger burning in her eyes the same way that the fire would consume her in a dark house with old wiring later that night. She burned that night, burned from the lives of everyone she ever knew. But for me, she burned a few hours sooner.


The Broken And The Mended By The Midnight Raven

The mirror was spiderwebbed with cracks and fissures all along the dusted glass. It lay cast aside on the ground, a few sharp, serrated shards were scattered around where the mirror had fallen. The room was covered in a blanket of darkness, but the tiny beams of light that seemed to seep through the curtains caught on the glass of the mirror and sent tiny, broken, kaleidoscope patterns across the walls. The girl walked slowly into the room, her calloused hands shaking as she looked around in the space that echoed with the memory of life, but now only seemed to scream with the silence and emptiness. Her eyes caught on the small glint that came from the shattered mirror and she inched forward towards it. She knelt to the dusty ground in front of it, carefully dropping to her knees in a place that avoided any shattered glass. She reached her hand out and grasped on to the engraved handle of the mirror and lifted it up so she was face to face with her reflection. The mirror had four pieces missing from it, most from the outer edge but one lay right in the center, covering her left eye and the dark, thick eyelashes above it. But when she looked past the broken pieces, looked past the cracks and the fractures, she gazed at the face staring back at her.

And once she had learned to look past the breakage to see herself, the mirror started to rebuild. Stitching itself back up like it was a needle and thread connecting with cloth, smooth and simple. The shards from the ground seemed to slip through the air and place themselves back in their places, until the broken state of it was only that of a whisper of a memory. She held up the mirror, now fully restored, and took another look at her reflection. As she stared at the glass, those nagging voices in her head and that tug in her heart kept the girl from noticing anything but her faults. The girl’s deep, searching eyes and tumbles of dark, curly hair went unrecognized as she engulfed herself in the thickness of her eyebrows, the blemished skin of her forehead and the dark circles underneath her eyes. It was like her head had trained her to see her faults and the rest was nothing but the rush of air through that empty room. Disapproval, anger bubbled inside of her and the girl shot upwards and turned on her heels and stalked out of the room. Just before she opened the door and let that emptiness disappear behind her, she turned and flung the mirror towards the ground. The girl closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the glass shattering. Then, she left. Left that dark, empty room and the mirror spiderwebbed with cracks, only to return again soon, return to that fissured glass and watch it mend itself. Before breaking it all again.

I Spend Too Much Time Reading Fanfic It Is Such A Problem I Have Like 85 Tabs Open On My Phone And Haven’t Paid Attention In A Single Class In Like Three Months By Calliope

The thing I’ve done most

In the last few months is not “Pink Starburts,” Photograph by Verovyva

Classwork, but fanfic 9


The Mask

“End Of The World,” Illustration by Bleach Lord

By Vérité i.

She doesn’t remember quite where or when she found the mask. It could have been lying innocently on her nightstand, one ribbon resting delicately off the edge; or maybe it had tumbled to her closet floor, in one of her mad rushes to find a suitable outfit for the day. Maybe it’d never been in the house to begin with, and had just suddenly turned up in her purse pockets one day. It’s an elegant little thing. There are no holes for the eyes, or holes for the mouth--just a small uptick where the nose should be. The surface is smooth and blemishless, free of any flaws or any color. She picks it up. It’s heavier than she’d expected. Either way, it only takes a few minutes for her to realize that this is the solution to her problems. She’s crossing over to the bedroom mirror now, holding it up to her face and twisting side to side. Part of her whispers to try the mask on, to see if it will fit. It’d be nice, she thinks, to not have to see her face anymore. She lifts it up. And puts it on. The mask, for its part, is soft like gel and molds easily to her face. Miraculously, she can still see, breathe, speak, all that, with ease. When she turns to face her reflection, it’s almost like the mask isn’t there at all. But her eyes, now, look bright and lively, her cheeks rosy, and her brows unburdened by misery and exhaustion, and she can tell that the mask has clearly had an effect. Behind the mask, she can still feel the circles under her eyes, the permanent frown on her lips, the sunken cheeks. But the mask. . . well, it hides them. Hides them well. This realization is accompanied by a crushing wave of relief. She’s tired of feeling like the outside world can see right through her, down to her achingly empty insides. She’s tired of stares, of raised eyebrows, of inquisitive and pitying looks. Maybe this. . . this is her salvation. For the first time in months, the beginnings of a genuine 10

smile grace her lips. ii. Her days are easier, now. She dons the mask in daytime and removes it at night, placing it delicately by the nightstand where it returns to its unmolded state. The first day she wears it, the ripple effect can be felt. Her peers seem to relax around her. One even gives her an effusive congratulations on her last project, accompanied by a, “You ought to smile more. It suits you.” She isn’t smiling, of course. But her friend doesn’t need to know that. The mask, for its part, feels heavier by the hour. But it’s a small price to pay. She can endure it. If it hides her failures, if it makes it harder for them to realize she doesn’t belong here, doesn’t belong with them, then she can endure it. When the teachers call on her, now, there’s a lighter air to it. When she speaks up in classes or amongst groups, the mask hides the tremble in her voice. No one, it seems, is in danger of discovering her fraudulent nature. Sometimes, she worries all the same. When her eyes throb and head aches with a determined vigor, she brings


her fingers up to her face and presses into her cheeks, trying to feel if the mask is still there. That time she gets a sideways look in the halls, her fingers fly to her face so quickly she gets whiplash. But it’s a false alarm. The mask plays its role. So she plays hers. For all that, her nights are still more and more. . . difficult. At first, she removes the mask slowly and painstakingly, careful not to damage it before placing it in its predetermined spot by the bed. But each night as it grows more unbearable by day, she can’t help but try and tear it off a little more quickly. A few weeks in, and she sometimes can’t stand its clinging weight a second longer then she absolutely has to. The mask drains her in other ways too. It’s protecting her, she knows. Without it she doesn’t know what she’d do. But it’s also erected a wall between her and the rest of the outside world. She tries, one morning, to go a day without it. Surely it

won’t be too difficult, she tells herself. She just needs a little break. But halfway down the stairs, she sees herself in the hallway mirror. Without the mask, she looks. . . she looks dead. Her eyes are sunken into her skull, pale and lifeless. Her cheekbones are thin and brittle-looking. Her skin is cracking and sunken in. The circles under her eyes are so deep they might as well be bruises. She scrambles back up the stairs before her mother can see her. iii. During the nights, she finds herself stifling silent sobs with her pillow. During the days, she finds herself struggling to get through even a few more minutes at a time. It’s pathetic, she thinks. Pathetic. Maybe everyone knew all along about her little charade. Maybe her facade has never fooled anyone at all. She wakes up one morning and shoves on the mask, with far less grace than normal. Her movements are forced; more habitual than anything. It’s extraordinarily heavy, which is ordinary at this point, and extraordinarily tight and nauseating, which is. . . decidedly less ordinary. She barely makes it through the first class of the day. She’s dizzy, she realizes. So, so dizzy. And tired. The mask. . . the mask is suffocating her. She can’t breathe. She can’t do this any longer. She tears it off. Only seconds later, she drops to her knees in the hallway, taking in enormous, gasping mouthfuls of air. She hears footsteps rounding the corner and staggers to her feet. “Oh--” The gasp comes from a girl she knows from classes and lunch tables. She thinks they were friends, once. She’s not sure anymore. “Hey. . . “ says the girl hesitantly, wandering over to where she stands. “You okay?” There’s a silence. “Yeah,” she says, swiftly moving the mask out of view and forcing a smile. “Yeah.”

“Festive,” Illustration by Aya Hatashima

“I’m fine.” 11


Haunted By Lola

Every time I brought up the idea of being able to see Great-Grandma celebrating birthdays with us, I was given confused laughs and strange looks. On my ninth birthday, I stopped mentioning it and everyone believed that I just had a vivid imagination. But I saw more than just Great-Grandma. I saw Grandpa who died of lung cancer, Aunt Irene who was in an accident, and so many other people who I didn’t recognize. And to be able to see them was great, except I was unable to hear them. Sometimes I could tell they wanted me to deliver a message to someone, but I wouldn’t be able to understand what. In the end, the ghosts all settled on trying to use their wisdom to help me make the best decisions possible. More often than not, I see them screaming at me, urgently trying to communicate that I was making a bad idea. If I ignored them, they would attempt to shake me, their ghostly hands passing right through my shoulders. There weren’t as many ghosts as most people would think. I rarely saw any from centuries ago, as they had

no interest in the daily lives of descendants they had no emotional ties to. But occasionally, I would see civil war soldiers, 1930s women in tattered dresses, and thin malnourished men following people around. The ghosts didn’t try to somehow advise them or communicate, instead they just watched them go about their lives with a proud look on their face. The people with such ghosts always intrigued me the most. After all, how incredible was it that the world aligned just right and allowed this person to be born? If one little thing had been changed in the past, if one stray bullet had found its way into the heart of that soldier, these ghosts would not exist. My own ghosts looked quite ordinary. Great-Grandma had lived a comfortable life and had been able to provide the same for her children. But Great-Grandpa, who rarely made an appearance and never chose to follow me around, would walk around with a limp. He was in a car accident when he was young, said Grandma when I asked. It was a small crisis in the grand scale of things, yet the common concept of an ‘accident’ struck me. I suddenly realized how incredible it was that I too existed. For we are all the descendants of survivors and our ghosts reveal an untold story.

“Valentine Ball,” Manga by Aya Hatashima (Read from Right to Left)

12“Candle in the Dark,” Illustration by Andromeda


Adelaide (5) By Blue Serendipity “So… you just found her? In an empty grocery store?” Jane asked bewildered. She and her husband sat in front of the camera, watching incredulously as I fed Adelaide cereal. Laura had checked her temperature earlier, and it seemed like her temperature was going back to normal. “Don’t you think calling 911 right there and then would’ve been a better idea?” “Well I mean, it was beginning to blizzard,” I said. Although, thinking about it, perhaps it would’ve been the smarter choice. Or at least the most rational non-baby-stealer choice. “The police wouldn’t have been able to reach me anyways.” “I guess as long as the baby’s alive it doesn’t really matter,” said Matthew shrugging. “But you with a baby? I’m surprised you haven’t tossed her in the trash yet.” “Hey,” I huffed. “Adelaide’s just more well-mannered than Andrew.” “What?” Matthew gasped. “Or Adelaide just doesn’t realize she’s in the care of a child-hater yet.” “Ok chill,” said Laura rolling her eyes. “We don’t need to have an argument about this.” “Yeah so when is CPS supposed to arrive?” Jane asked, quickly changing the topic. “When the roads clear up,” I said, taking out my phone to check the weather

forecast. “It’s supposed to stop snowing either tonight or tomorrow, but I don’t think they’ll have the roads cleared up that fast.” “And there’s been no word of a missing baby?” Matthew asked with a frown. “Do you think… maybe she was abandoned on purpose?” “At a grocery store?” Laura asked incredulously. “I mean, I guess there’s a lot of people that could find her, but wouldn’t it have been better to put her up for adoption?” “And when there’s about to be a blizzard too,” I added. None of it made sense at all. If the parent wanted the baby to be found, yes a grocery store would work, but it had been empty when I arrived. Thinking about how eerie the store was raised goosebumps on my arms. The more I thought about it the more wrong everything felt. “That’s a good point, but odder things have happened,” said Matthew shrugging. It didn’t ease the churning feeling in my stomach. “We’ll probably figure out the reason why soon. Or… we won’t, but Adelaide will have a loving home. Hopefully.” Jane elbowed her husband on the side with a quick glare. I never really thought about what would happen to Adelaide once CPS came to collect her. For the most part, I assumed that they would just find her family and return her. But after all this… if she truly had been abandoned, where would she go? I’d heard how awful the foster system could be, and the thought of Adelaide

“Chaos Incarnate,” Illustration by Bleach Lord

being adopted into an unloving family was horrific. “It’ll all be ok in the end,” said Jane reassuringly. For a moment I thought she noticed the look on my face. “We’ll be just a dial away the entire time. If Adelaide’s temperature comes back up we can try to help. And if you guys have any questions we could probably answer them.” Jane then went down a list of basics we needed to know, with Matthew occasionally inputting his own advice. There were a lot of different things to remember. Laura began making a note sheet once she realized how much there was. Our home suddenly seemed so much more dangerous, with sharp corners and loose items Adelaide could easily injure herself

on. I listened attentively as Jane began talking about what meals should look like, and how we should schedule nap times. Since Adelaide wasn’t potty-trained, we had used old pieces of cloth as makeshift diapers. It wasn’t ideal, but it was all we could do. Jane explained how changing diapers were supposed to work, and we would have to base things off of that. Matthew provided tips on teaching her how to walk, what to do if she got fussy, and how to watch over her while getting work done. It was… a lot.

Continued on Next Page

13


I was suddenly reminded of why I didn’t like kids in the first place. Not only were they loud and annoying, but they were so dependent. The list of things to know and remember only seemed to get longer and longer. I was sure that they were probably forgetting a few things too. While I seemed to be drowning in their words, Laura took everything in eagerly. I didn’t understand how Jane and Matthew were able to raise Andrew so well with so few trips to the hospital. The thought of accidentally harming a baby was terrifying. But Adelaide was in my care anyways, and I needed to get over my fears and take care of her. The worst I could do was leave her all alone in the middle of a blizzard. I hadn’t, so that was a start. Taking a deep breath, I focused on what Jane and Matthew were saying. I’d probably missed a good chunk of it, but I could always review Laura’s notes. “This doesn’t seem too difficult,” said Laura optimistically once they hung up. I stared at her incredulously. Sometimes I forgot how much more experience Laura had with kids than I did. “Uh, that’s good because I already forgot most of it.” She laughed and handed me the notes, silently telling me that I’d probably need it more than her. Adelaide had been finished with her cereal for a while now, so Laura scooped her up and brought her to the guest room for a diaper change. She was much calmer than yester14

day, there was no fussing or throwing cereal on the floor. For a moment I wondered if Adelaide still had a fever. But we had checked her temperature earlier, I decided not to think about it too much. I stood up and examined the kitchen. Handles. There were too many pot handles sticking outwards that could easily get knocked over. In some of the drawers near the floor, there were forks and knives that Adelaide could easily access. I quickly put those somewhere else. Next was the living room. The corners of the coffee table was what stood out to me the most. It was low enough that Adelaide could easily hurt herself while stumbling around. We didn’t have any “safety corners” that Jane and Matthew had shown us, but we did have styrofoam from packages we received. That would have to do. “What are you doing?” Laura asked, walking into the living room with Adelaide in her arms. I was in the middle of cutting up a block of styrofoam into little cubes. It must’ve been quite the sight to see. “I’m baby-proofing,” I answered simply. The cube of styrofoam fit snugly onto the corner, and with a bit of tape, it held up against a few swats of my hand. “See? Now Adelaide can play around the living room as much as she wants.” She laughed and put Adelaide down. “Creative. I don’t think I’ve seen you put this much

brain power in anything other than work before.” “That’s not true,” I huffed defensively. The wires under the TV were hanging out and suddenly looks extremely dangerous. If Adelaide went over there, should could trip and call or accidently get them tangled around her neck. The thought of her accidentally strangling herself sent a shudder through my body. “We wouldn’t be able to go to the hospital if she got injured, so we need to make sure there’s absolutely nothing she can injure herself on.” “Mh hm,” hummed Laura unconvinced. I stuffed all the wires into the TV cabinet before moving onto the next thing I declared dangerous. Laura didn’t say

anything else, however the look on her face was deafening. You’re getting attatched. I must’ve spent all day trying to rid the place of any potential dangers. But once I deemed the entire house baby-proofed, a satisfying feeling of relief washed over me. Adelaide, who was playing with a few stress balls, had bumped into the corner of the table while chasing after one. Even though she fell backwards and started crying, she was alright and uninjured. I had done something right. The list of things to do had gotten shorter, and now Adelaide was a little safer. To Be Continued...

“Post Heartbreak,” Illustration by Cupid


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