March 2023
Cover: “Your Honor, They’re Gal Pals,” an illustration by nroC
This Page: “Cupid’s score on the FitnessGram Pacer Test was 87 in middle school :),” an illustration by Hecate
Page 3:
Ask Aphro & Dite
• rabbit
• weather pains
Verily Vérité
• we love literary magazines
Page 4:
“The Sapphire Star,” an illustration by Child13 “Like A Moth To A Flame,” a poem by Child13
Page 5:
“Blue Flames,” a story by Julianne Elam
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“Blue Flames,” continued “lightning storm,” a haiku by Vérité “blue flame, sour grapes, no celestial: timeline,” a poem by svnmii
Page 7:
“W.I.T.C.H aka Woman In Total Control of Herself,” an illustration by The Wallflower “un,” a poem by svnmii
Page 8:
“Losing Everything,” by Victoria Desrosiers
“perfect storm,” a poem by sophka
“Introverts,” a piece by [REDACTED]
Page 9:
“Oh Suck It Up, Buttercup,” an illustration by Hecate “Up to interpretation,” a story by Eneas
Page 10:
“Grasping. Clinging. Holding.” an illustration by Hecate “The Ghost Of A Man Who Doesn’t Exist- Chapter 1: Blackout,” a story by Dionysus
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Dear Aphro,
So I have this pet rabbit, and I love him dearly. Only problem is that lately, he’s been up to some strange shenanigans. Going down rabbit holes that seem to go on forever, always fixating on the ticking clock--it goes on. I’ve been tempted to follow him lately, to see what he gets up to, but I’m not sure if it’s the best idea. Thoughts?
Sincerely, Hare-iet
Dear Hare-iet,
My dear girl, please do be cautious. The signs you’ve described are of something intriguing, worrying, and frankly more than a bit dangerous. That being said, if you’re feeling brave, there’s nothing to be lost here by chasing the adventure. You might end up with a few scrapes and bruises, narrowly escape being beheaded, as it goes--but when it’s over it’ll hardly feel as if it had been real at all. Do hurry, though, in making up your mind. Your dear rabbit is running late.
Best of luck, Aphro
Dear Dite,
Lately I’ve been struggling with getting my weather powers under control. I’ve been causing a lot of cold spikes, heat waves, and windy days, and believe me, I don’t like it either. Any advice for fixing this?
Gratefully, Weatherboy
Dear Weatherboy,
Huh. So you’re the guy that’s been driving Zeus crazy. Not sure whether to offer you my congratulations or condolence. I mean sure, he’s king of the universe, but pops really needed to be knocked down a peg. I personally think it’s great, but if you’re set on trying to control this stuff, I could put in a good word with the four winds and a couple storm gods. Dad’s gonna FLIP when he sees you summon a lightning bolt!
Grabbing Nectar-Butter Popcorn, Dite
Greetings, one and all! It is March, which means many things--the release of the last of the college decisions, Blast, the dawning of Spring, among other things--but let’s skip past those, shall we? Instead, how about this: we meditate on the cyclical nature of time.
If you’re taking AP Lit this year (depending on the teacher), you’ll know we’ve (finally) wrapped up the dredges of the magical realism unit. For us, we wrapped it up with a viewing of Encanto, which is all well and good until we have to turn in an All-Tasks graded worksheet on it, on paper, the day before Spring Break. Slightly cruel, I’ll say, but we made do. In other news, the Literary Magazine is in progress and production is (hopefully) wrapping up, so do keep an eye out for that in the coming months! The relationship between Lit Mag and Midnight Writers has been, at least in recent years, a friendly and mutualistic one (though I’ve been informed we’ve had some past years of rivalry).
Happy Spring!
Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Cupid, Vérité, viento de levante, svnmii, The Wallflower, and sophka
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À la bientôt, Vérité
issuu.com/midnightwriters wchs.midnightwriters@gmail.com
Like A Moth To A Flame by Child13
Like a moth to a flame, the dying follow the light.
The light, it lures them there.
Unknowingly to their grave.
Ah, but they were rotting from the beginning of their journey.
At the end, they shall be a corpse.
Their bodies feed the flame, like a dried forest to a fire. Their energies are consumed, crystalized, and digested.
Like a moth to a flame, the light consumes them.
But do not mistake their deaths for cruelty.
For those who journey to the light, are dying and old.
Looking for a place to stay forever. Unmoving.
Like a moth to a flame, their bodies are burned.
Ashes are the waste product of the feeding.
Like a moth.
The young burst from their shell.
Free and fresh.
Like a flame.
It explodes. Burns. And brightens.
The newborn glows with the blue flame of those who have journeyed and died.
Clumsy and stubborn, is how it starts its life.
But, as a newborn.
It still has yet to grow.
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“The Sapphire Star,” Illustration by Child13
Blue Flames
by Julianne Elam
“STOP!!!” Rose yells, “What happened!?”
I look around in shock as Rose hastily extinguishes her own red flames. She runs over, blond curls bouncing against her neck as she examines the table in horror. Arabella quickly extinguishes her own green flames. There’s a “woosh” sound, as the rest of the class does the same to their own flames.
I look around for the source of panic. Scratching my hand, it’s a bit warm. Rosie reaches my row of tables quickly. No one says anything and I assume she is talking to someone near me. I have no idea what happened.
“Okay,” Rose says, staring clearly at me, “Look at me. It’s going to be okay.”
I look around in panic. What is she talking about? Who is she talking to? Me? I look down at my own hands, wondering precisely what she is yelling about. Oh.
My glowing hands are precisely what she is yelling about.
My hands- yes, my hands- my supposedly non-magic hands are oozing, emanating flame. The flame is dark blue and reminds me of the school’s colors.
But everyone said it would never come. That I was too late. Even Arabella, the last of the group, got her flame moons ago.
I shake my hands, trying to blow away the flame, but the flame spreads even more. It jumps off of my hands onto the legs of the table.
Panic spreads through my toes to my legs, my fingers, my head. It’s an ocean, a loud rushing, pounding ocean, covering me. Suppressing me.
Arabella firmly assures, “You are okay, just breathe.”
But I can’t breathe. How am I meant to breathe while I am setting the whole class on fire? It’s going to spread everywhere.
I am not okay.
“Deep breaths,” Rose says gently.
The flame licks Arabella’s shoe and she steps back. The flame spreads onto the enchanted flameproof and stops. Phew, I think.
But the legs of the table still burn. I’ve caused a fire. A hungry fire that wants more. Birthed from a flame, birthed from me.
And I can’t control it.
“Well, that’s brilliant,” one of my classmates says. Rose and Arabella both turn over to her and shout: “be quiet!”
Everything seems to blur as the flame spreads even further up the table and other students rush to the edges of the classroom. The table tilts. In the midst of it all, I stand frozen. Arabella gently touches my shoulder and I look over at her.
Suddenly, I am not near the burning table. I’m not in the classroom at all, or even in the academy.
“It’s okay,” she says and I concentrate on the brown in her eyes. She smiles and wipes at her eye, smudging a bit of her powdery, blue eye makeup. It’s blue, just like the plant she made it from. It’s blue eye makeup; it’s blue like my flame.
I search her face.
“Do you know what to do?”
Arabella looks at me, “It happens to everyone.”
“But where are we?” I ask. This room is nothing like the classroom. In fact, it’s not even a room. It’s more like a mind-space. Light blues fading into darker blues all around me.
“Everyone enters their own mind space once we are first able to use our flame,” Arabella explains, “Sometimes people need help and others come with them. Like some people go with Rose, since she’s our instructor.”
“Interesting that you picked me,” Arabella continues with a shrug, “I guess it’s because we’re gal pals.”
She looks around quickly, as if feeling scrutiny even though there’s no one around. I repress a laugh, resisting my own urge to check to make sure we are alone.
“Sorry,” she says, noting I haven’t spoken this past minute, “Perhaps that was improper.”
“BAHAHAHAHA!” I laugh and the tension and stress from my body leaves. Arabella starts laughing too, worry slowly draining from her face.
We both sink to the ground in laughter. Gal pals. Yes, gal pals, for sure.
“No, no, Arabella,” I say in between peaks of laughter, “Thank you for telling me.” I stand up and help her back onto her feet.
“Really,” I say, “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Arabella says.
I smile. Even if my blue flame goes awry, I have Rose and Arabella to support me. Just like they did today.
“I think,” I say aloud, “I think I’m ready.”
Arabella smiles, “You know when you are.” I open my arms to hug her as we magically spin back and return to the room. My stress, my suppressing fear is gone. Well, partially.
5
I extend my arms and push. Suddenly, the fire retreats. “It’s a part of you,” Rose explains with a smile, “Well done.”
“Ready to sign the book?” Rose says.
I nod.
She leads me to the front of the room, to an old worn book. It’s brown with tarred edges and smells like it’s been around for centuries. It’s an old smell, like it’s been passed through the hands of many.
Rose smiles at me as I open the book.
I find Arabella’s name right above an empty spot on the left column. The right columns have little notes, some written by friends, others by family or lovers.
Arabella and I keep each other in check. We balance each other when we need help. We make it a game to learn everything about each other.
I write my name beneath Arabella’s and motion her over. Next to our names on the left column I write “historians say, they.”
Arabella finishes, nudging me with a laugh. “We’re gal pals,” she writes with a smile.
We link pinkies and sit back down in our seats.
blue flame, sour grapes, no
celestial: timeline by svnmii
fairies anticipated, descended from the stage above one girl swiftly hidden (they say she might be back later) second day of may unfeared pearls and motorcycles the youth of rebellion
6 girls
2 from before
2 with talents
2 are young twentieth day of july second youngest faded off
seventeenth day of october the quintet made the world shake fire chains lions
they all adored candy belt frozen aquamarine i aint an angel (or goddess)
little maknae adored more noticed later on
someone wants to change the industry already singing on her own
we wondered why a ballerina dropped everything yet she belonged
lightning storm by Vérité
the blue flames shimmer reaching ever higher up, splitting through the sky.
we knew the girl we used to see now matured and changed nose upright pink diamond
we wait the girls will come back to the stage despite all they have been through everyone will be inspired the one day when they fly up again
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un-
by svnmii
the sun no longer shone the clouds ceased to exist
the moon was of no more there was no such thing as rain and nothing fell from the sky
it was dreary oh dearie the world is ending so you see-rie? there will be no such wonderful things to enjoy we can no longer smile and accept it
for the earth we nourished cared destroyed forgotten was crumbling in the core
and then there was a gust of wind whirling all around the world the once lush planet spinning off orbit into abyss
the seas turned monstrous
the animals rebelled against us
alas we shall die stripped away into poverty as the sky finally broke glass shards killing millions
there is lava churning underground plates shifting too roughly as you may the trees giving away
but the electricity goes out and gravity is no longer a thing
the mountains crumbling and so are the Poles
the land is tearing into islands and islands buildings disappearing the air is no longer breathable
simply our hearts dreams wishes Everything that we had ever done
it was of no matter anymore
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“W.I.T.C.H aka Woman In Total Control of Herself,” Illustration by The Wallflower
Losing Everything by Victoria Desrosiers
Harold stared at the deep grooves in the ebony table. It had taken twenty men to carry it into one of the three dining rooms within the house when he had first purchased it. The wood alone had cost a fortune, not to mention the beautiful custom engravings. But soon enough this table, along with everything else in Harold’s name, would be gone.
That included his wife, who sat tearfully across from him at the table. Her well-manicured hands covered her face. She choked out sob after sob, each one felt like a sting to Harold.
“Jeanne, I’m so sorry things had to be this way,” he said numbly. “You’ll be okay- you still have your acting career.”
“I told you I never wanted to go back to that!” Jeanne sniffled, her mascara had run down her face and smeared onto her hands. In their three years of marriage, he had never seen her like this; it deeply unsettled him.
“I’m sorry.”
“How could you be so horribly selfish?” she yelled, voice raising. “I left my whole life behind for you!”
A knock sounded at the door. Jeanne stormed off, presumably to collect her things and leave. Harold heard the clack of the maid’s hard-soled shoes as she went to answer the door. He solemnly walked to the door as well.
There stood Robert, his previous business partner. Robert had a deep tan and smile lines, stretching when seeing Harold. His eyes lit up with what Harold knew was greed.
Two nights ago, Harold had agreed to go out with Robert, for old times sake. Harold knew he had a problem controlling himself, and when Robert offered him drink after drink, he simply couldn’t refuse. When Harold began slurring his words and knocking over glasses, Robert had taken him to a casino. Somehow, he had convinced Harold to make a bet and sign a contract giving away everything he had.
When Harold woke the next morning in a hotel, Robert was there with a glass of water and an aspirin. Harold couldn’t remember any of what had happened the previous night and had felt touched by Robert’s thoughtfulness.
That was until Robert, with a twinkle in his eye, pulled out the contract.
“Time to hit the road, buster!” Robert had said as he stood in the doorway, grinning malevolently.
perfect
storm
by sophka
i'm sorry that it took so long to say, but you stay on my mind. you were thunder, i was lightning, we were the perfect, september storm except the timing's never right. so, perhaps, when the weather gets colder, the air gets crisper, the leaves fall from the trees, and the feeling of late october returns, you'll come back to me and we can try again.
Introverts by [REDACTED]
When you're at a party, music is playing, people are having fun and there's literally nowhere else that could be worse than this as the floor begins to swim and the beat hammers in your throat and the temperature rises several degrees and the sweat creeps up your forehead and you slide down on the floor and get trampled by the crowd and it's too much and it's too much and it's too much and it's too much and it's too much and it's too much and it's too much and it's too much and… . . I wanna go home.
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“Oh Suck It Up, Buttercup,” Illustration by Hecate
Up to interpretation
by Eneas
The office had been quiet for a long time, as it was now, despite the still-burning lights blinking less-than-merrily on the tables. The office was sparsely decorated or furnished, simply with two tables with desk lamps and a board on the wall with countless papers, clippings, and annotations attached to it. Despite the scarce furniture, the office was very cluttered, not helped by the small area it occupied. Boxes of files, and papers covered in all colors of pen markings were piled beside the desks and on the tables. It looked almost like an investigation had taken place. The walls themselves were simple wood, along with the floor and ceiling. The building they created was no more than a small shack in the woods, though close to a larger building just a short walk away, but still through a forest. A path marked the way to be traveled.
The cluttered desks, though covered, were not messy, instead being very organized, separated into neat stacks of no more than a few papers each. The board on the wall had many newspaper clippings attached to the bottom, more recent ones arranged farther to the right. All of them had the same headline: “MISS-
ING,” with various subtitles written beneath, describing a damaged forest, correlations with field trips from local facilities, and the same theme of completely baffled authorities. Above each clipping was a list of names, ranging from as little as one to no more than four. The names were varied, with varied numbers being listed beside each one. A pen-drawn line connected two names on two separate lists. The first was a part of a group of four while the second was alone. Their last names were the same, and the second’s allocated number was higher than the first’s.
Above the papers on the board was a large map depicting a forest, with two buildings located generally in the center. A red pin was on the smaller building, only a short way away from the other. Despite the attention given to it, it had not been interfered with as the papers had. On the desk itself were many other papers, also newspaper clippings. These ones were clippings of the articles that had headlines above. Quotes and statements from the authorities and investigations as well as some from other parties. One read: “It’s almost like bigfoot materialized, slashed some trees, and ran with the people.” Many of these papers had been wrinkled, as if someone had examined them closely.
Beside the desk were boxes of shotgun bullets, with one on the floor with the cover opened and several rounds missing, with more littered around. However, there was no shotgun in sight. . The boxes immediately to their right had been knocked over, as if someone had grabbed the expected shotgun in a hurry. The fallen boxes were next to some ranger tools on the floor, with a beacon and radio among them. Beside them lay some scattered glass shards paired with a crushed up metal wire, half of a glasses lens recognizable. On the floor were many scuff marks and bits of dried mud, expected for a shed in a forest. A couple markings seemed recent, as if someone had left in a hurry. The scuff marks led outside, where they were continued by some normal-sized footprints leading at a rushed pace to the path outside. There were littered branches around, varied in size. The trees around the path were slashed down, as if a giant scythe had been wielded.
The next morning, a new story appeared in the newspaper, quoting that “authorities had been stumped yet again.”
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The Ghost Of A Man Who Doesn’t Exist- Chapter 1: Blackout
by Dionysus
Ann woke up suddenly.
He didn’t know where he was or why he was here. His mind was hollow and fuzzy. Opening his eyes revealed a hollow black void, his hand outstretched into the black. Waking up to that, he shot up to his feet sloppily, as he saw the black expand farther and farther, to gray, till it was to a small wavering city in the distance. Why was he so far out? Why was he even here?
“Hey, you woke up from your lil nap Annie boy!” a voice chimed suddenly, spiking an instinctive reaction out of Ann. He whipped out A.G.E in an instant, turning around to see the figure. Stocky and square in shape, it mimicked the shape of a phone, but bigger, and also displaying a face. It dawned a hat in a coat, all in an angular style, with no round edges except in the eyes. And those were eyes he recognized too well, vibrant green slowly melting into a golden yellow.
“Who are you?” he questioned bluntly toward the unknown smiling man.
“Oh c’mon, Ann. You know who I am.”
“...You really think I’m smart enough to know who you are? I would rather not bother to remember you if you're even half as b***** as you sound, ” Ann remarked, noting the angular figure’s lack of amusement to his response.
“...Oh whatever, I’d think you’d picked up on it by now, but I guess it wasn’t obvious enough for you,” he sighed before continuing. “I assume Mr. Clock Face hasn’t suddenly vanished from your memory after your little drop in here, no?”
“Yeah, no he hasn’t. Why is that relevant?”
“I’ve kinda been controlling the guy, had my fun with him, but I wanna freshen up the feel a bit, I guess.”
“... What.” Ann questioned, staring blankly at the guy. For all this time, he had thought that the guy was just another version of himself, who
was somehow just an omnipotent version that happened to be full of himself. But it turned out Ann was just a flesh suit for this guy, and that pissed Ann right the hell off.
“Eh, it's not too big of a deal, I’ve done it before. But let’s do names first- I’m Sam, Sam the Screen. Now, I know your next question. ‘Why am I here’- along with calling me some heinous names - but whatever, it’s besides the fact.”
Sam pressed on, not giving Ann a chance to say anything. “Well, I want to spice up this story a little. Between your pathetic moping through life and hollowly controlling the guy, it loses its charm real quick to watch you both. So I’d spice it up with a little crossover!”
“...Are you one of those ‘fanfic writers’ Flex was talking about?”
“...I mean people write about real people so I guess. I prefer being a god playing with mortals but sure I guess.”
“But either way, that doesn’t matter. I’m getting outta here.” Ann stated, turning around and putting his hands up and out, trying to make a portal like he usually did.
It didn’t work. Sometimes these things wouldn’t open anyway, so he wasn’t initially fazed. And so he tried.
And tried.
And tried.
And tried, and tried, and tried as he may, the portal refused to open. “Y’know from here you look like an idiot-”
“ARGH, I KNOW I DO, SMART GUY! SHUT UP CAUSE I AIN’T PLAYING IN YER STUPID MIND GAMES LIKE YOU’VE DONE BEFORE, OK?!” Ann hollered. Sam was unimpressed.
“...My guy, having that living flesh puppet you bickered with was just my way of having fun. You’re not gonna leave whether you like it or not.”
“That tells me nothing.”
“...Your silly little magic portals aren’t gonna work buddy. Again, you’re playing this my way,” Sam sneered. Ann stared at him, his face locking into an expression of resentment and anger. Sam didn’t flinch.
“I don’t care what you say, I’m getting outta here and back to doing what I want. I don’t care what your whiny a** says, I’m getting outta here.”
“...Well… again your portals are fair… Ah well, It’d make it interesting either way. You have to be a part of this, but you’ll leave after a month, understand?”
“That ain’t a fair deal to me.”
“And I don’t care, that’s the only one you get,” Sam stated, and with a quick snap of his fingers, Ann froze in place, conscious but unable to move.
“Enjoy your stay Ann. I think you’ll have fun here,” Sam said, unaffected by the freezing.
The world began flashing through event after event, like someone rewinding a tape. It hurt Ann’s eyes, so he jammed them shut. And not a moment later, he heard honking, people talking and walking, so he opened his eyes. To find himself in the alley of an unknown city.
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“Grasping. Clinging. Holding.” Illustration by Hecate
