Midnight Writers
January 2019
Table of Contents
Cover: ”River of Music,” an illustration by Aya Hatashima
This Page: “Reflections,” a photograph by The Cold Hearted Queen
Page 3:
Ask Aphro & Dite • Aya asks for SAT advice • Blue wonders if her friend needs help
The Hues of Blue
• Blue tells a story about a childhood injury
Monthly Otaku Column
• Aya talks about her experience with music
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“Dreams,” a story by Alex Choi “Notice The Airpod,” an illustration by Cupid
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“Dreams,” continued “New Beginnings,” a poem by The Calico Cat “Boxed Light,” a photograph by Blue Serendipity “Reflections In The Glass,” a poem by The Midnight Raven
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“A Modern Day Nighthawk,” a story by S.B. “Elated Love,” a photograph by The Wine Merchant
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“A Modern Day Nighthawk,” continued “Second Semester,” a poem by Calliope “Sunrise,” a poem by Low Effort “Waltz Of The Flowers,” a manga by Aya Hatashima
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“The Lonely Bells,” a story by The Wine Merchant “Sombre,” a photograph by S.B.
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“The Lonely Bells,” continued “Obvious Jojo Reference,” an illustration by DIO “Music,” a poem by S.B.
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“And The Angels Called,” a poem by Aya Hatashima “The Name,” a story by Calliope “Musical Journeys,” a poem by Low Effort “Bouquet,” an illustration by Fe
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“Astral Birth,” an illustration by DIO “I Wish,” a story by Midnight Moon 2
“Sans Vision,” a poem by Blue Man
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“The Competition Part 3: Larkin,” a story by The Midnight Raven “Deep In The Woods,” a photograph by Verovyva
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“The Competition Part 3: Larkin,” continued “Rippling Shores,” a photograph by Blue Serendipity “Crevasse,” a story by Vérité
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“Crevasse,” continued “Birb,” an illustration by Verovyva “Standing Still,” a story by The Midnight Raven “Civilization,” a poem by Slightly Gray
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“Cyan Skies: The Doctor (2),” a story by Blue Serendipity “City Stars,” a photograph by The Cold Hearted Queen
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“Cyan Skies: The Doctor (2),” continued “Ruffled Feathers,” a photograph by Verovyva
Ask Aphro & Dite
Dear Aphro, Dear Aphro, my scores have plateaued, what is the most efficient way to study for the SAT? Yours, Aya Dear Aya, The most important thing is consistency. You are going to want to set up the same environment for yourself every time you take a practice test. I liked to take one section a day, math or reading, in the morning before school. Finally practice your strategies. The best strategy to a good score is a neat 500 dollar bill taped to your scantron. If you take the essay portion, you can leave a nice note explaining your predicament. Practice taping the bill nicely on your exam. The proctors are almost always senile and won’t notice, once (true story) an AP Phyisics proctor wrote on the promethean board with sharpie and the students protested the exam so we started 2 hours late. With love, Aphro Dear Dite, My friend has managed to watch 10 seasons which is roughly 240 episodes (each an hour long) - in a month. Our conversations revolve around this show and I’m beginning to grow concerned that this has become an unhealthy obsession. She watched 144 episodes in about a week! Should I do something about this? Yours, Blue Darling Blue, What the hell does she think she’s doing? Honestly, I think this points to a societal problem with the phones. They’re distracting kids from what’s more important! She watched in a month what she could have watched in five days had she not been so distracted from texting and social media. Honestly I’m disappointed. I’m sorry, but you’re going to need to sit her down and have a chat about priorities. If she ever wants to accomplish anything in life, she’s really going to need to stop talking to you so much, put her head down, and work. With love, Dite
The Hues of Blue
When I was younger, I fought with my younger sister a lot. She’s a year and a half younger than me and was such a mean little kid. We’re pretty close now, but ten years ago you couldn’t put us in the same room together alone. One time, she sent me to the emergency room. We were in the basement and I was trying to build a fort out of couch cushions while she played with stuffed animals and a chaotic collection of plastic toys. Occasionally, she’d toss a plastic toy at me and I would duck under my cushion fort. Now, this wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary for us so I didn’t make a big deal about getting things thrown at me. It was irritating, of course, but I knew that telling her to stop would make her throw more. Therefore, I went about my business and built higher walls as an attempt to protect myself. It didn’t work. While I was placing a cushion on top of another cushion, my sister chucked a large plastic drum at my head. It was pretty painful and it came out of nowhere so I screamed and began crying when it hit me. My sister looked utterly horrified. I slowly made my way up two flights of stairs and dizzily found my mom. My mom saw me and freaked out; she immediately began screaming for my sister to get her shoes on and quickly pressed a fistful of napkins against my forehead. I didn’t understand why she was freaking out so much, I was just going to tell her what my sister had done to try and get her in trouble. As she carried me down the stairs, she pulled the napkins away and they were soaked in blood. My memory from then on became spotty. I don’t remember getting in the car and the only thing I could remember from the car ride was that we had passed by the Staples on the large street by the Bed Bath & Beyond. Afterwards, the next thing I could remember from that day was waking up in a hospital bed with a bandage wrapped around my head. Whatever happened in between, I still don’t know. When I got home, I went down to the basement and noticed the splatters of blood all over the carpet. Realizing that there must’ve been blood just gushing from my head after I got hit, the horror on my sister’s face suddenly made more sense. My sister got in huge trouble of course, and I haven’t let this go, even though it’s been about a decade. Anyways, now we’ve got another little sister and you can be sure we don’t have a single drum in our house.
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Monthly Otaku Column
Since one of the themes is music, I decided to draw about something I experienced over the past few years of playing instruments in the school band. Musically, I was inspired mostly from the Disney movie, Fantasia, and the Japanese movie, Nodame Cantabile. Both movies focus on music and conducting, and I believe they are my top rewatched movies. This month I wrote my first poem; it is based on the first band piece I played in All County, “And the Angels Called”. It is a piece that was commissioned to a high school, in memory of three high school students who tragically lost their lives. This month’s manga is based half on my experience and there’s a model for the conductor I drew. I’m pretty sure many of the Midnight members will know who it is (especially my president and my officers). I was very inspired by this conductor when I first saw an orchestra group play “The Nutcracker Suite” two years ago. I clearly remembered his unique conducting style; he danced with the music. He shuffled his feet on the small podium, and his arms reached to the musicians. In the 3/4 waltz like “Waltz of the Flowers,” his footwork was as if he was dancing a waltz. The cymbal crashed like fireworks; the strings bowed like they were creating winds; flutes chirped like birds... It was magnificent! I could tell that he really enjoyed conducting and that he really had the magic to make the audience and the musicians enjoy music. I worked with this conductor many times and he is definitely the adult I respect and admire.
Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Blue Serendipity, Aya Hatashima, The Calico Cat, Calliope, DIO, The Midnight Raven, and S.B. 3
Dreams
By Alex Choi Papa gently nudged my shoulder to awaken me from my slumber. It was around 6 in the morning, and the moon still glimmered in the velvety night sky. Wearily, I got out of bed. A savory aroma from the kitchen lingered in my lungs and kicked me awake. Mama was cooking me a special meal today. The table was splattered with dishes of huevos rancheros - hot, mouth-watering eggs with yellow yolk running down like a river. The eggs were blanketed with a tangy chili sauce that stung my nose. A breakfast like this was rare in my family and only used for special occasions. In fact, I was incredulous that Papa had the courage to go out to the market and get the ingredients. He always felt paranoid about going out of the house. Howev- er today, my parents had finally saved enough for school supplies and a backpack so I could start the 4th grade. My parents expected me to take over the farm, but my true ambition was to become an engineer. I gobbled down my breakfast and waved at my parents as I zoomed out the door. The tranquil night embraced me, and the cool September air swept through my hair as I scurried along the dirt path. In the distance, I could see the shimmering lights of Los Angeles dancing vivaciously in the distance. The lights twinkled and winked at me and provided the sole source of illumination besides the moon, a glistening light bulb in itself. A swoop of emotions filled my mind with every stride I took. Excitement conquered my body but was soon overtaken by fear. Would the other students accept me for who I was, or would they jeer at me? I tried to shake off these negative thoughts and soon, the sun began to peek over the horizon, blazing and emit- ting an orange - pink aura. I arrived at school at around 7 AM. The sun’s rays were shining upon me now. Students began pouring out of school buses and cars. Nervously, I scampered among the crowd towards the front entrance. Once inside, everyone seemed to know where they were going, but I was lost. The commotion caused my head to spin. My palms began sweating. My stomach began churning like when Mama cooked her tortilla chick- en soup. I spotted a teacher, but my feet felt like jelly. I put my energy into my steps and trudged awkwardly towards her. She gazed upon me with a calming smile that eased me up slightly. “Hi. Can I help you?” she asked in a sweet voice as sweet and smooth as honey. I did not speak much English and tried to utter my words. “My name is Javier. I don’t know...where to...go,” I replied nervously with my broken English. She kept smiling 4
and told me to follow her. I obeyed and after walking for what seemed to be an eternity, she showed me to my class: Room 207. The woman introduced me to the class. Immediately, I could hear snickers and whispers from the other students. A tall man with dark, beady eyes and slick-black hair was scribbling math problems on the white board. “Hi Javier! My name is Mr. Seltzer. I will be your teacher,” he greeted me with that same warm smile as the woman. She, in turn, cast me a final glance and left, closing the door quietly behind her. “We are working on fractions today. Are you familiar with this topic Javier?” Mr. Selzter asked. I had absolutely no clue what fractions were, but I murmured softly, “Yes.” “Great. Since you are new, would you like to solve the first problem on the board?” Mr. Seltzer asked. Immediately, my throat began to grow bone dry. It was a redolent feeling, withered and parched like crops in a drought back in Mexico. I tried to mumble some words, but my lungs had collapsed, as if all the air was seized from me. The room was revolving around me. I could feel the whispers coming from the other students and their glances piercing through my skin. I could feel my face growing warmer by the second, blood rushing to my head. My heart seemed to be pounding out of my chest, with every heartbeat reverberating throughout my body. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Mr. Seltzer moved on and called on a different student. After that, the class became a blur to me. I was feeling light-headed with two boulders slumping on my shoulders. knew it, the bell “Notice The Airpod,” Illustration by Cupid
rang and lunch began. The room ignited with chatter and laughter, as students got up from their desks and leisured towards the cafeteria. I remained in my seat and managed to gather the courage to tell Mr. Seltzer that I didn’t understand fractions. Mr. Seltzer smiled and assured that it was fine and asserted that I would master the concept in three weeks. His promise warmed my body. His sweet tone soothed me, and the boulders on my shoulders were lifted. This happened for three months. Every lunch, while the other students headed towards the cafeteria, I would let Mr. Seltzer tutor me. One day, Mr. Seltzer told me that he would like to invite me to the Math Team. My eyes lit up. I was exhilarated, and a flush of emotions ran through me. Words could not express my gratitude. My dream of becoming an engineer felt suddenly possible. When I came home that day, excited to spill the news to my parents, I saw a large black van that contained the words “USBP” on its sides. I was confused and then, I saw several police officers arresting Papa. Tears were pouring from my mother’s eyes. An officer marched towards me and commanded that I wait in the van temporarily. That day, I sat on a bus heading to my hometown, Puebla, Mexico, contemplating about the dreams and aspirations I had.
New Beginnings By The Calico Cat A new beginning, but will it pave the way for a painful ending?
Reflections In The Glass By The Midnight Raven When I look in the mirror, I don’t see the girl I used to be. With her dark curls wild and her eyes bright and shining, Looking at the world like it contained secrets that were meant for soley her to discover. The girl that was so carefree, And soared through life like she was a sparrow, Catching on to the rushing wind. I am a ghost of who that girl was. An outline. I look in the mirror, Put my hand up to the cool glass and see only tiny glimpses of that girl. Time had grasped its hands upon me and molded me like rough clay, Shaping, Creating who I was now. Changes had been thrown upon me and slowly, Slowly, Those changes had melted away the true essence of my former self, And I was formed into who I was now. I had been broken, and I had healed. I had been betrayed, and I had learned to trust again. I had been lost, and I had found my place once again. When I gaze at the reflection of myself in the glass, I see a life formed from that of a ghost. I see a girl who has scars, Who has known pain, And I see the girl who has come out stronger because of it.
“Boxed Light,” Photograph by Blue Serendipity
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A Modern Day Nighthawk By S.B.
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It was dark and raining, It might have been cold, it was impossible for him to determine. A man in a gray suit and black tie strode down the sidewalk. He had an eternal youth about him, his messy hair flowed deliquescentally down his face, an ink spreading its black branches, consuming his head. In his arm was a dark hat, the mask which he had intended to wear for his audition. He had forgotten his lines, stumbled, and flopped. They told him that paralegals need some more experience. The city had consumed him, the meat grinder that it was. And he walked further and further into its belly looking for refuge on a cold Saturday night. He walked past gyms and self-help advertisements, past promises that it was never too late to live the American dream. All these dreams seemed endless: to dream in any world is to climb a mountain with no summit. To dream is to never reach your finish line. Dreamers are only satisfied when they can look down and see others climbing up. The gentle white light of the street lamps juxtaposed the utter darkness of a moonless, starless, carless night in the city. They illuminated every raindrop in a mystical cone of light. They revealed every transitory dart, every ephemeral dodge the droplets took, dancing with the spirit of youth until they hit the ground. He stepped in puddles as he walked. Endless apartment buildings towered over his head, hiding the horizon. The gray of his suit, the gray of the buildings, the black of the night, the white of the streetlamps. The world, in one surreal moment, had forgotten its color. His body was nothing more than a lonely pencil sketch that an artist had drawn to make us feel the ethereal pitter-patter of the rain. The man had nowhere to go. His phone was dead and the subway did
not run at this hour of the night. His bones felt iced and his wet suit-coat sod him down. He came across a Starbucks, as anyone does should they walk 100 feet in any given direction. The green sign shone like a beacon in the night so bright that moon paled in comparison. He walked in. He was hit by a comforting rush of warm air as he entered the shop. The whole place was filled with the rich aroma of strong, American black coffee. Nobody here drank it with cream It didn’t seem to be a Starbucks at all. In fact, it seemed to be somewhere entirely new to him, and yet from an older world: a coffee-shop from the ‘60s. It had a classic diner feel with red lines on the counter and neon signs illuminating the walls. There was a record player dedicated solely to the stylings of Miles Davis. The sweet sound of his trumpet reverberated through the shop, giving dull meaning to the faces he saw inside. All of the customers were men dressed in trenchcoats with matching gray fedoras. One man with a particularly pronounced nose and chin could be seen in the corner with a lit cigar. Others sat with their noses in the paper, filled with glossy ads for wonderful devices like the “All new wash-o-matic!”. “Hey son, why the long face?” interjected a tall man from a table nearby. He had a dark complexion, with a strong jaw covered in stubble. His face was weathered and rugged, and his eyes wrinkled at the corners under dark, heavy brows. “Come on, sit down.” He did as he was told. The figure had a mysterious, timeless air to him. “It’s a long story.” “We have nothing but time here. Could you tell? Name’s Jim by the way.” The trench coat reached out for his hand. “I’m nobody,” responded the man. He gave Jim a limp handshake. “Well nobody, you’ve hardly said a word to me and I know why you’re here.” Nobody looked up at Jim as he paused, waiting for an interruption.
There was a long pause. “This is a dream,” said nobody suddenly. He had the utter conviction of a defeated man. The conviction that one has when they feel they have lost, conviction that giving up is the only remaining option. “Ok, but there’s just one problem with that. How did you just touch me?” asked Jim quizzically. Nobody gaped at him. “This coffee shop isn’t a dream. That doesn’t make it real though, it’s something liminal, a sort of intersection between the land of dreams and the real.” The man just looked at Jim dumbfounded. Something powerful in him told him to listen. The other men in the shop didn’t mind their conversation, despite the volume. Surprisingly, some men even disappeared out the door. Others just read the morning paper, as if they had forgotten what time was supposed to be. Jim spoke powerfully yet gracefully. “Anyways, I think I know why you’re here. This is the everywhen. A place that doesn’t intersect time, but instead lies parallel to it. That might seem daunting to you, but everything would seem daunting to someone who has a limited amount of time. Everything you do on the world has a lim“Elated Love,” Photograph by The Wine Merchant
ited clock. You might not have gotten accepted, but that doesn’t really mean anything in the end. You can’t be worried about achieving things. Really, there is no good way to live your life. Everyone ends up disappointed if they spend too long thinking about what success looks like. There is no way to win at life. Once you hit the end, it’s over. There’s no time to go back and reflect on what you’ve done. The only way to be happy is to be happy with yourself now for what you do.” Jim got up from his chair and po-
litely left a few coins in the tip jar. He tipped his hat to nobody as he walked out the door. This whole experience had been strange. Nobody went up to the counter and ordered a coffee. “That will be 25 cents,” said a bright faced youth. The boy looked like him as a child. He felt as though he was looking in a mirror. “Thank you.” What was this strange place? It certainly did not seem to be from his time. What had Jim meant when he
Second Semester
said that this was the everywhen? The intersection of reality and dreams? The one thing that the man knew for certain was that he should not mill about too long here. It had come into his life for a reason and it had served its purpose. I walked out and it was morning again. I saw the sun rise over the city, and for once in my life I felt like somebody.
Sunrise
By Calliope
By Low Effort
New Classes, New Friends. How Different Can It Be? Same Bullshit, New Times
The sun rises again High tide descends on the sky Yet another day “Waltz Of The Flowers,” Manga by Aya Hatashima (Read Right To Left)
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The Lonely Bells
By The Wine Merchant
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There is a shop just around the bend and past the crumbled bridge on 4th avenue. By just standing in front of its clover green door, an identity can be formed about it. A small display window showcases an array of hand painted music boxes, each of them twinkling under the glare of the spotlight, and on timely intervals the faint sound of chimes can be heard from inside. Yet the most peculiar thing about this shop is that whoever enters it never sets foot in it again, but only for the reason that the Orchestrator never gifts two boxes to one person. It was white frozen day in January when a girl stepped inside the shop. Her shoulders were squared and she unabashedly shook her head to expel any stray flecks of snow, but the way her eyes flitted around the room hinted at her hesitation. The girl was no different from the others, for she had come to seek the Orchestrator. The Orchestrator watched as the girl came up to the counter with flushed cheeks and eyes set ablaze with fervor, trembling from a lack of words. So he spoke in her stead. “Quite cold out there. Most don’t leave the comfort of the fire, so what brings this fair maiden into this ordinary place.” The girl still shivered, but she had regained more of her certainty so that the passion that filled her voice rivaled a lover’s. “I wish,” she started, her voice alluring and sweet, “I wish for a music box.” The Orchestrator flashed a daring grin, “Well you are in luck,” he goaded, exaggerating with a sweep of his arm, “I have plenty. Take your pick.” The girl, undeterred from her mission, shook her head and rustled her hair. The Orchestrator watched as the golden waves thinly veiled her face as she insisted on the music box. He didn’t know whether it was daring way she carried herself or the captivating gaze of her eyes, but he was enchanted to hear the story of maiden that sat in his shop. Her voice was soft but steady as she spoke. “Mother said fate was written in the stars, spun into the deep blue night sky from the moment you were born and intertwined with the others. I always saw passion, love and excitement ingrained into my stars, but I supposed that was simply the fault of my childhood.” Sorrow filled the pools of her eyes as she continued with the same vehemence, like a prayer. “A week ago my fate came to me. It arrived in glamourous emerald carriage, dressed in the finest threads and with a strong jaw and a bewitching laugh.” Her words stopped there as the girl steadied herself, trying to see how to proceed with this tale of despair. The Orchestrator chuckled to himself. She was like a pearl: a beautiful thing merely shielded and guarded from
the world. Naïve, a fool. “So, what? You want is this earl to love you?” he drawled. Tipping his head back, he muttered, “that will be easy.” Yet again, this pearl-maiden shook her head. “I need something to make me love him,” she pleaded, “for it is my fate.” Silence filled the room and the Orchestrator hurried the girl back onto the cold streets, asking her to come back some other day. Music is never heard the same by any two people; simple melody knocks at different doors and plucks different heartstrings. It is the Orchestrator’s job to understand the delicacy of this phenomenon and to spin measures into tools of seduction and ensnarement, but the Pearl Maiden was a predicament. Despite seeing his father and forefathers work since a young child, the commission she gave was foreign to him. All of his previous prospects had always wanted him to change someone else, like a carpenter fixing something as insignificant as a cracked door. For the first time did he meet someone who wanted to change themselves. In the span of those cold months, the Orchestrator scrutinized and picked apart the Pearl Maiden. He took note of her sugar-sweet words that dripped from her lips and the light that radiated around her. He photographed her laughter and her tears, gleaming under the weak light of his shop. He listened to her stories and found himself falling into them, like a lullaby sung sweetly. For those cold months, all the Orchestrator saw was the shining gleaming beauty of the Pearl Maiden. One day, when the frost was clearing up to make way for the first rays of spring, the Orchestrator approached the girl differently than before. “I can now make what you need,” he told her; all the jaunts and grins had disappeared from his face. The girl noticed it too and leaned in, her breath fanning across the Orchestrators face as she looked questioningly at him. “What does this mean?” “I need you no more.” So the Pearl Maiden left the Orchestrator to work, but he
“Sombre,” Photograph by S.B.
found that he could not accomplish the task he was given. It was an easy feat writing out harmonies of love and passion for her heart, for he felt as if he knew it as well as his own. Yet, as his fingers glided over the keys and he listened to the music, he heard a different character in her song. Himself. In the sweet rolling melody of the music, the Orchestrator could hear the love that would emerge from the depths of her soul for him, but he knew that was not was she asked for. He instead tucked it into the pocket of his worn pants, unable to let it go, and composed another song for the Pearl Maiden. The final day the Orchestrator saw her was during the first week of spring, when all the flowers had bloomed and the sun beamed. She came in dressed in ivory silks and leather shoes with soles that clacked on the ground, and he knew it was time. The Orchestrator brought out a dainty chartreuse box with a buttercup yellow trim and a top that was adorned with painted flowers. The Pearl Maiden glided her fingers across the flaking coat of paint, and then to the hollow keyhole on the side. “Thank you,” she murmured with watering eyes, “you have saved me.” Whether it was damnation or a blessing, the Orchestrator did not know what he’d given in that little green box. “I have another one for you,” the Orchestrator gasped out. This one he clutched tightly in his hands, holding it close to him, and the Pearl Maiden patiently waited with her hands splayed out across her dress. He brought out a larger box and this one was quite different for it was iridescent and reflected hues of blue and pink: covered in the remains of broken pearls. The inside held a little detailed statue of a fairy with tumbling golden hair and a heartbroken expression. Her long pale arm was extended outward as she desperately reached for the stars. The Pearl Maiden stared at him with an ashen face, her hands clutching the box tightly. “Why?” she asked. “Not once have I ever made two songs for one person,” he replied with a hushed tone, as if the moment was as fragile as glass, “But I was compelled to write more than just two for you. I wrote many: some about love and others about eternity. It took me days to write myself out of the song of your soul, and yet you insist on another name to be etched into your heart.” Guilt crossed her eyes as she stared at him. “So that pearl box is my redemption,” he laughed humorlessly, “and your freedom. If the fears and mirages that plague you are gone, bring this box to me and I will give you the courage to find who your soul truly wants.” He holds out an arm with long chain dangling from it. At the end of it was a copper key. “Until then, consider this as a gift for the newlywed lords.” So that day the Pearl Maiden vanished from the shop, taking her brilliant eyes and veiled face with her. In an act of mourning, the only music that could be heard in the town were the distant chimes of the church bells.
“Obvious Jojo Refrence,” Illustration by DIO
Music
By S.B. Sometimes, the world blackens, those surly swirls in my head the cause. Numbed by a gnarly smell, Surely burning rubber, and others fluttering about the mist. Suddenly color fades, A shady, murky, lurking, stingy world. I see in grayscale. I subsist on other scales. I hum a tune. Take me away from this gray world! You’re beautiful, black and white, And more colorful than a rainbow. Notes flood the staff, I feel every one, like the first droplet of rain. The bass bleeds scarlet sound, And the piano cries blue tears. The guitarist tears up reality, extemporizing, he rips a gateway to the stars. I pass through and forget the tiny planet, With its gray star. In this baleful world music protects me. It keeps me warm and cool, it tastes like water, I listen again. 9
And The Angels Called By Aya Hatashima
Tragedy struck Lowering its head, it blew its horn They heard the voice ‘Come on to me and rest’ ‘Behold I freely give’
Musical Journeys By Low Effort
I fly my rocket, And the cosmos are revealed. Introspectively
And the angels called Note: this poem is based on a band piece called “And The Angels Called”
The Name By Calliope
When I was 15, the string became a noose. It wrapped ever tighter around me, eventually it would choke me and envelope me until it was all that existed. The first knot was tied in an ice cream shop on a hot day in July. I finally had my first job at the ice cream parlor right outside the park a few miles from my house. Each morning I would bike from my house, past my school, and through the park and open up the shop for the kids who spent the summer running wild across the town. My best friend from school, Allison, worked there with me and we spent our days serving ice cream and eating it during our breaks. After lunch, I would have the afternoon off and would wander through the park most days, or I would go to the movie theater nearby with Allison. Then, in the evenings, as our shadows pulled long across the pavement, we would go back to the shop and work until it was time to close. Every day, for weeks, we followed the same pattern. Get up, go to work, go have fun on break, and then go back to work. It was an endless loop, but it was a fun one. Then one Sunday afternoon, the owner of the store called me. Apparently she had a family emergency and needed me to work during the afternoons for the next few days. Of course I agreed, although privately I mourned the loss of my free time. The first afternoon was rather uneventful, although it was strange to be working without Allison for the first time. About 20 minutes before the end of my shift, I was cleaning the tables in the shop when I saw a girl walking by the window. I froze, the washcloth I had been using falling limp onto the table. She looked just like that girl, the party girl, the one with the hot cocoa, my Cinderella from all those years ago. She glanced up, green once more meeting brown. Her feet stumbled over each other for a moment as she did a double take. We looked at each other for a moment before she ducked her head and hurried away, leaving me alone with just my washcloth for company.
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I tried to get her out of my mind, those damn green eyes, always those eyes. Then, a few days later, I saw her again. I was working the counter at the shop, turned from the front door as I counted out change for a customer. Turning back to the front, I was once again rooted to the spot, one hand clutching the side of my apron, by a pair of emeralds. She smiled lightly, her freckles dancing across her face, as I stumbled over my words and tried to pull myself together. Her smile stayed in place, burning a hole through my chest, as she ordered a scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream. My eyes couldn’t help but to fix on her hand as she twisted a stray lock of hair around her finger while she waited. Once I had handed over her ice cream, I could feel my heart drop as my lips refused to ask the question my brain was screaming. Her name: what was her name, damn it? Try as I might, I couldn’t get the words out. And I just watched as she turned to leave. The noose around my heart drew tight, threatening to pull itself from my chest. Then, she stopped, as if feeling the same pull, and turned back towards me. The shop was quiet, barricaded from the sounds of summer by the glass front doors. She studied me for a moment, seeming to struggle with herself before finally making a decision. “By the way,” she said with a smile, “I’m Meave”.
“Bouquet,” Illustration by Fe
“Astral Birth,” Illustration by DIO
I see in my blinded eyes, staring into my cracking soul? Whose hands do I feel upon my wounded neck, suffocating me, drowning me, pushing me down as I desperately cling on to the edge of a cliff? The cliff which I am about to fall off, stuck in this bottomless pit, stuck with myself, stuck with all of my fears and doubts. Stuck with the laughter, stuck with the glares, stuck with the tears about to fall out of my red, demented eyes. Stuck with the darkness, stuck with the silence, stuck with the pain of which now defines my life. Stuck with everything.
I Wish
By Midnight Moon All I see is darkness. All I see is pitch black, enveloping me, squeezing me, constricting me into my tiny box of loneliness. What is this blindfold upon my pale white face? What is this empty void of nothingness, crumbling apart, its echoes ringing across the oblivion of a world I now live in? What is this? All I hear is silence. All I hear are my shattered thoughts, rushing in and out of my head, crying for help, screaming, pleading… yet not a word can be heard from my frozen mouth. What is this nonsensical dullness of a soundless existence? What is this eeriness, this calm, ominous peace that never once defined my life? What is this? All I feel is pain. All I feel are the hands of everyone around me, pushing me, shoving me. All I feel are the blows, continuously kicking my bruised, bloody shins. All I feel are the tears running down my sooty face as all I do is scream the silent rubbish that no one understands. What is this aching feeling in my fractured heart? What is this solemn, pitiful boy I have now become, unable to defend himself, unable to fend off the predators of which feed upon his agony? What is this? And so through all that, I ask myself, why me? Why am I like this? Why am I so weak? Why can’t I do anything? Why, I ask? Why? Laughter. Whose laughter do I hear in my broken ears, cackling at my pitiful existence? Whose tainted glare do
This vision of a perfect world I imagined. This vision… shattering apart. Eternally tumbling into the void my mind created. Forgotten. Just like me. Help me. Save me from these demons in my heart, tearing apart my sanity at the very second. Save me from these infinite tears falling down my face at every minute of the day. Save me from the laughter, cackles, the screaming ringing eerily in my soundless world, haunting me until the day I leave this world. Who am I? Having never seen a single thing. Having never heard a single thing. Wondering what it’s like to live a life without pain, live a life full of people who are there for you, live a life full of happiness, full of adventure, curiosity, full of... Full of life. I give up. I shall be stuck in this eternal void, spending my time with the mirthless laughter of my demonic companions. I wish. I wish.
Sans Vision By Blue Man
What if I was blind? Could I make a new color? I’d try every day... 11
The Competition Part 3: Larkin By The Midnight Raven Larkin, 2
The first episode of “The Competition” went on the air at 8 o’clock on a Sunday. People at home watched introductions of each competitor and stared intently as each pair trekked through the twists of the maze. The viewer saw what we could not: the chalk-white walls and empty hallways that made up the maze and each competitor’s reaction to a fear that they themselves could not see. Then, the polls went up. A poll to vote on your favorite competitors, allowing the winner of the most votes to receive an advantage in next week’s challenge. The polls were announced to us before our 2nd challenge. I could feel everyone holding their breath. “With the fourth most votes, Larkin.” My breath got caught in my throat. I had gotten fourth? People in the audience had seen me, in all my unpreventable timidness and had chosen me over all the others regardless? My heart swelled within my chest; I had gone unnoticed, a passing drop of water in the expanse of the ocean all my life, and I was finally getting some eyes turned towards me. Fourth. A 4 named Will came in third, a 3 named Thea in second and first, was Alina. A 1. Alina and I had been in a pair together in the first challenge and I immediately noticed her smooth charisma and quick wit. It came as no surprise to me that she would have taken first. Maybe one week,
12“Deep In The Woods,” Photograph by Verovyva
it would be me and I could finally understand what the warmth of the spotlight felt like. What the cool taste of victory was truly like. When I got the letter, I was in the middle of calming down my four-year-old sister, Laney, as hot tears streamed down her cheeks. Her shouts rang out as my brother, Levi, walked into the room, one hand covering his ear, the other holding out the envelope to me. I had three siblings, one fifteen-year-old brother, and two sisters, one four and the other nine, making us four children in total. I could never fathom how my mother dealt with all that came from the four of us. I took the letter from Levi and shushed a sobbing Laney and stroked her hair, pulling her into a hug as I tore open the envelope. My shouts of joy rang throughout our two-bedroom apartment. Maybe, our luck would finally turn around. Maybe, I could become a 5 and use the money that I would earn to buy us a house: one large enough that Mother wouldn’t have to sleep on the living room couch. Levi and I wouldn’t have to share a room, and Laney and Lena wouldn’t either. We could live in extravagance and finally experience the space we had always dreamed of. That life, the perfect one we had always imagined, had always felt so far, but now, it was so close it felt like if I just reached out my hand far enough, I could grab it. And it would be ours. I blinked my attention back from my thoughts as our instructions were given. This week’s simulation was said to test us on our problem solving and quick reaction skills. Since Alina had won the polls, she got the advantage of picking her team and she had chosen me, Ezra, Thea and Will. The competitors were instructed to close their eyes and when we reopened them, the light of the room melted away and I found myself on the deck of a ship. Rain poured down from the sky and I could feel the cold water touching my skin as the simulation tapped into more of my senses than just sight. A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky and the rain began to fall harder, collecting in giant puddles on the deck of the ship. Then I realized that we all stood at an awkward tilt, almost slanting. “Guys, this ship is sinking,” I said, my voice quiet against the claps of thunder. The rest of the team turned to me. Ezra, a 4, ran his fingers through his sun-bleached hair and responded, “Well, there’s gotta be a lifeboat somewhere, then we can get off, and quickly, before the other team!” Thea turned and scanned the perimeter of the ship, before glancing back to us, her brown eyes glinting with the reflection of the lightning. “Great idea, except, there isn’t a lifeboat. We have to figure this out another way,” Thea replied, it was like I could see the gears turning within her head. A silence hung over the group for a moment, the distant sound of crashing waves and the clap of thunder echoing, before my eyes caught on to Alina. She had put a finger to her chin and a grin began to appear on her face.
“What if, the point is not to get off the boat, but to stop it from sinking? If there is water coming in, it must be from somewhere! We have to find that point and block it. Larkin and Will, take the upper deck. Ezra and Thea, the lower deck. I’ll take the cargo hold, let’s go!” Alina said, her voice strong and leader-like. We split from the circle we had created, Thea, Ezra and Alina disappearing down the entrance to the stairs, Will and I moving to opposite sides of the deck. I quickly moved around the deck, taking the time to scan over each plank that I stood over. It was only after a few moments that I noticed Will staring off, his dark brown hair lifted by the wind as he looked out at the dark expanse of sea. I quietly stepped towards him and leaned against the railing of the ship, staying silent. Throughout my time in such an uproarious household, I often noticed that when a person truly wanted to talk, it was simply best to wait and let them begin. “The other ship is just out there, only a little way out there. I can still see them on the deck,” Will said airily, his voice carrying on the stormy breeze. I nodded and followed his eyes to the other group and noticed how they caught on one person in particular. “I’m worried. About him, I mean. Archer,” he said, clearing his throat. “The last challenge, I don’t know, it just really...” He paused, his mind scanning for words, then continued. “Affected him. I mean, everyone got scared, but for him, it was different.” I nodded again and said softly, “Well, everyone has something they carry. Maybe his is just something more difficult to overcome.” Will blinked and turned so that he faced me. He seemed to shake away his thoughts and turn his attention back to the slowly sinking ship under us. “Oh, I’ve been wasting all this time when I should’ve been helping you. Come on, let’s-” With that, Thea, Ezra, and Alina burst onto the deck, their whooping cheers echoing in the air. “Alina found the leak! It was in the cargo hold, almost the full floor had been submerged but we were able to use some nails and boards to block up the leaks, at least temporarily,” Ezra announced, his eyes shining with pride. “Let’s start captaining this thing before the leaks burst again. This challenge is ours!” Thea exclaimed. Thea and Alina quickly moved to the ship’s wheel, but just as we all decided on which way to head, the simulation disappeared right before our eyes. Our team had won. A 2 and a 3 from the other team had been sent home and 8 of us now remained. Alina and I shared quick smiles as we noticed that we were the only competitors under 3. Our team left with smiles shining on our faces as we left the brightness of the room, every competitor’s mind whirring with thoughts of what could possibly come next.
“Rippling Shores,” Photograph by Blue Serendipity
Crevasse Vérité
At last, the broken tablet’s screen goes out with an electric crackle. It is predictable. The tablet is outdated and hasn’t been in use for decades. But with the screen out, the only light in the alley flickers from the mandatory holo-screen, silently exhibiting colorful advertisements and public announcements. It isn’t nearly enough to illuminate the surroundings, now looking shadowy and sinister. The usually vibrant red brick walls are an eerie blue-grey, reflecting the projection’s glow. The wires and other mechanical junk that litter the ground now vaguely resemble an army of spiders, all interlocking messily. And the haphazard shack off to the side seems utterly menacing with all the shadows dancing around it. Then a much brighter light shines from the left as a figure enters the alley carrying a flashlight. She hums to herself tonelessly, strutting a strut, not unlike that of a businessperson coming home after a successful day. She is neither tall nor short, with cropped brown hair and a prosthetic metal leg, which sports some rather unconventional adjustments. She yanks off her canvas bag and drops it, jumping at the loud metallic clank it makes. Then her gaze focuses intently on the projection hovering on the walls. The holo-projection continues showing government propaganda and ads for products absurdly expensive, especially for the district she lives in. She waits impatiently for it to start displaying her recent successes, as it usually does at this time of day. Whether they are petty robberies or grand public demonstrations, rewatching her escapades always lifts her spirits, although they’re meant to keep the public on the lookout. But the broadcast seems to have different ideas tonight. The mayor has decided to make an appearance. Her usual confidence ebbs watching him address the crowd and promises that they have ‘a good idea of the criminal’s whereabouts’ and that she ‘won’t escape this time’. It is gradually replaced by a prickling sense of
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worry. Could they really know? Surely he was bluffing, she thinks. They can’t find me here. His assurance worries her more then she would admit, and she decides to shut off the feed for the night. She’s always known that it comes from a control panel hidden in the walls on every street, which is how she’s managed to mute it and wipe her personal alley off the map. She gets up, with a growing unease, to turn it off. As if on cue, all the broken screens and tablets light up, mysteriously repaired, showing one thing. Her face, on a Wanted poster. 1,500 coins as a reward. She’s never felt terror before, but now all the shadows are practically bounty hunters. She takes two seconds to gaze at the space above her, trying to mask her fear, before jumping for her bag. Then there’s a wire. An electric shock runs through it from all the other metal conductors, interlocked in a way no longer seeming accidental. She convulses and her metal leg sags, a dead weight making it all the more difficult to move. No leg. No gadgets. No bag. Her worst nightmare in every way possible. She’s helpless, blind, and immobile, with no tricks up her sleeve to save her, no careful planning to guarantee escape. The next shadow to move isn’t a figment of her imagination.
Civilization
By Slightly Gray Concrete and watching eyes, a great gray cage, Gouged away was the countryside, Where the leaves would sway In the wind, where spirit resides, They poured liquid rock over the sublime, Oozing slowly was the gray cloud of death, Rolling over the virgin earth, Over nests and dens, Ending its million year story, Machines cry like banshees, its soul is stripped. And we slipped past the point of no return. Never will the buildings be torn To their foundation, And never will it recover The innocence that was shattered before. Innocence, like glass, is never repaired. The city is a broken thing, Like shattered glass it Never decomposes away. It is permanent as a great mountain. From every high window, each passing car, I will be forever observed, seen Like an animal In a zoo. My spirit rustling leaves in the wind.
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“Birb,” Illustration by Verovyva
Standing Still
By The Midnight Raven
I waited silently for the train to come, standing by the edge of the tracks, listening to the sound of the wind whistling through the subway tunnels. I placed my headphones in my ears and flipped through my phone until I found a song, then I closed my eyes and let the landscape fade away as I listened to the music. The sound of an incoming train roared above the music and I flickered my eyes open to see a swarm of people being let out from the sliding doors. Everyone rushed out so quickly that when I scanned my eyes across the scene, everything seemed to fade together into a hazed blur. All around me there was so much movement and change, that you could blink and miss what seemed to be like that of a lifetime, and yet, I felt like I was always standing still. The change that seemed to come and hit people when they least expected it, that wave that crashed into you and could change your life in a moment, never seemed to happen to me. I was constantly surrounded by the movement of people, and time, and I watched as others raced on with their lives, while mine just seemed to stand still. I breathed deeply, the sound almost echoing in my ears, as my eyes swept across the moving crowd. Some people despised change, other’s lived for it, but all I wanted was to just feel that movement, that rush, that I had seemed to lose my grip on. I heard the sound of an approaching train and I glanced forward as it came to a halt. I began to walk forward, under the glow of the fluorescent lights, and stepped past the sliding doors onto the subway car. Everything moved in a blur around me, and I took in a deep breath as I stood perfectly still.
Cyan Skies:
The Doctor (2)
By Blue Serendipity When Arlo left the small room, the first thing he noticed were the four soldiers carrying large rifles positioned to kill. They followed him and Valleé all the way down the dark hallway and up a flight of stairs. At the very top, was a set of metal double doors. Valleé knocked on it four times and two men on the other side opened the door. “Welcome to the Council Complex,” said Valleé as Arlo took in the sudden burst of light and sound.
They were in a much larger octagonal room with what seemed like a hundred people bustling around.The ceiling was covered with bright light fixtures and each wall had a door on it. People entered the room and exited through the other doors. Others paused in the middle and searched for the one they were looking for. Many paused to stare at Arlo as they walked by. Their faces were wary but curious, Arlo knew they wanted to know what a govie or a scavenger was doing in their rebel base. “Hey Elaine,” said a young man enthusiastically as he walked up to them.
Curly black hair peeked out of his grey flat cap and brown suspenders held up his high-waisted pinstripe pants. It was a strange choice of clothing and Arlo noticed how the man’s cream-colored shirt had its sleeves rolled up to his elbow. “Shira wants an update tonight. Uh, make sure you’ve got something to tell her, ok?” “I’ve got a lot to tell her,” sighed Valleé. Arlo sensed exasperation in her voice and watched the two curiously. “Don’t you have a conference to hold, Jaz?” “Yeah, yeah, is this him?” the man asked, gesturing at Arlo. Valleé’s lips pressed into a thin line as the man stepped around her and held a hand out. “Name’s Jasper Jones. Elaine giving you the grand tour?” “Arlo Dunn. I’m pretty sure she was about to,” said Arlo shaking his hand. Jasper chuckled and patted Valleé on her shoulder. “You know what Shira wants,” mumbled Jasper quietly. Arlo had a feeling he wasn’t supposed to hear it but it definitely spiked his interest. Valleé just hummed and began walking towards a door to the left of them. “Hey, should I be worried? Elaine? Elaine!” “Who’s Shira?” Arlo asked as he rushed after her. “The leader of the Rebellion. You’ll meet her later,” said Valleé dismissively. The doors she was heading towards opened automat-
“City Stars,” Photograph by The Cold Hearted Queen
ically when she got close enough and they stayed open until the last of the soldiers walked through. They shut quickly but without a sound. “In a world where everyone’s trying to kill everyone else, the rebellion has made safety one of its most prominent focuses. Therefore, you’ll be staying in the barracks with the rebel soldiers. After a few weeks or so you should be cleared to stay within the city as a refugee like many of our other rebellion members.” “Rebel soldiers?” he deadpanned. If this was some tactic she was trying to pull in order to turn him into a rebel soldier, it definitely wasn’t going to work. All he wanted to do was live a normal life until all the chaos was over and the world warmed up again. Ahead of them was an even larger room where people were dressed in dark greens and browns. They walked around quickly and with purpose. A couple people turned to look at them but none stopped for more than a second. Valleé opened another door to the left and walked into a long wide hallway. There were a couple people jogging up and down the halls casually. “It’s just a safety precaution. You’ll be staying with squadron D-2.” Valleé stopped in front of a wooden door with a metal sign stating D-2 above it. She eyed the four soldiers that Continued on Next Page
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had been following them the entire time and pursed her “I’ll let you settle in,” lips. “Thank you for your she said before walking help today. You four are out. Arlo turned his gaze relieved from your posts.” back at the five other men in the room uncomfortably. “Yes ma’am,” chorused He was completely out of the four. They all relaxed his comfort-zone, he never from their stiff stances and had to interact with peowalked back to the main ple other than scavengers room. Valleé opened the before. Even then, he knew door and walked in first. that most scavengers he’d meet wouldn’t stick around “Hey doc, what’s up?” for long. Here, however, asked a man standing up he’d be around these peofrom his bed. He looked ple more often. He was like he had just gotten out no longer a soldier, nor a of a fist fight. His right eye scavenger. No matter what was purple, his left cheek anyone told him, he knew bruised, and the corner of he was just a prisoner of the his mouth was bloody. “Is Rebellion. this the Burrey soldier?” “This isn’t gonna end “Rough day?” Valleé well,” mumbled Sarah as asked pointedly. The man they walked down the long grinned and shrugged. line of abandoned box cars. “Boys, this is Arlo Dunn. They had been disconnectHe’ll be staying with you ed from one another and lot until further notice. It’s moved off the old train your job to look after him.” tracks. “Yes ma’am,” said a dark man jumping off on his top bunk. “Can’t promise he’ll remain in one piece.” Arlo’s mouth pressed into a frown but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to cause any trouble, but he wasn’t going to let himself get hurt either. The man noticed his expression and laughed. “I was joking.” “Joking or not, he’s under the protection of the Council. Make sure any idiot who wants to rough him up knows that,” said Valleé humourlessly. “You got it doc,” said the first man with an enthusiastic nod. Valleé turned to look at Arlo. 16
“Don’t say that,” said Frida nervously. She flinched every time there was a sudden sound and did her best to stay in the middle of them all. Her twin brother Vinnie was just as jumpy as she was, but he led the group as their navigator.
shelter. When faced with a large group of wandering scavangers such as Arlo’s they tend to get anxious. Therefore, all seven of them were on high alert. “What about that one?” asked Eddie pointing towards a box car with the door slightly open. The metal walls were beginning to rust away and Arlo was sure there was mold grown all throughout the box car floor but it’d do against the wind. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s there.” “Doesn’t look like anyone wants it,” said Sarah peering into box car, “and for good reason.” The bottom of the box car was flooded with water and frozen over. Fred stomped his foot down to see just how frozen it was and sighed when nothing happened. “I guess we should keep looking then,” said Fred
wearily. He and Eddie were both exhausted. The two of them were in charge of taking night watches which meant being awake throughout the day lost them hours of sleep. They continued walking down the train tracks and found numerous other box cars that were empty but inhabitable. Of course, they could always try and force someone out of their box car. Many scavangers tried to travel in groups however, which would make it risky to start a conflict. Vinnie, Jackie, and Frida would only get in the way as well. Should they be attacked, they would be unable to defend themselves as well as the others could. “Hey!” whispered a voice. They all tensed and whirled around to see who had spoken. A teenaged boy had slid open the door to his box car by a couple inches. “Do you all need a place to stay?” To Be Continued...
“Be a little quieter,” whispered Jackie. She eyed an open box car door suspciously. “We’re not here to get ambushed.” Abandoned train box cars were a favorite of scavengers to shelter in. They blocked out the wind, were spacious, and there were many. Scavangers were territorial however, they couldn’t afford to lose their “Ruffled Feathers,” Photograph by Verovyva