April 2013
Midnight Writers
Newficer Edition
Table of Contents Owlish Bookworm Cover: “Burst,” Photograph by Japanda3 This Page: “First Buds,” Photograph by Emcee Page 10: “Calypso’s Island,” our resident loner on value Page 3: “Trust Me,” a photograph by Emcee Ask Aphro & Dite
Forever alone and in dire need of good questions
Musings of Hades:
The Dark Lord Rants (about Spring)
Athena’s Corner: Book Reviews
Laurie Boyle Crompton’s Blaze and J.J. Howard’s That Time I Joined the Circus
Page 4: “Robin Hood,” a poem by Zenyatta “The River Sings,” a photograph by Emcee “My Springtime Music,” a poem by Vivian Griselda
Page 5: “Orbitals,” a short story by Iris “The Walls Have Secrets,” a photo by Andromeda
Page 6: “Orbitals” continued “Shiro,” a photograph by Japanda3 “Moonlit Tragedy,” a poem by Artemis
Page 7: “Things Not Seen,” a poem by Nyctophobia “Sakura,” a photograph by Chronos “Lost Wing,” a poem by Kenpachi
Page 8: “Urban Sprawl,” a short story by Hecate “Glub, Glub,” an illustration by Hecate “Sea of Flowers,” a photograph by Nana “Spring Has Sprung,” a poem by Melody
Page 9: “Leaves,” a poem by Glittercheese “Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know,” a photo by
“Maybe,” a poem by Soufflé Girl
Page 11: “Joke’s On Him,” a poem by Echo “Passing Shadows,” a photograph by Andromeda
Page 12: “Life of Trauma: Part II,” a short story by Apollo “Faceless,” an illustration by Aradia “Savior,” a musing by Glittercheese
Page 13: “Day and Night,” a poem by Kenpachi “Night Lights,” a photograph by Andromeda
Page 14: “Lonely,” a poem by Bernarda Rey “Stars Fall,” a poem by Aradia “Luminance,” an illustration by Chronos
Page 15: “His Name Is Blood: VII,” a short story by Hades
Page 16: “His Name Is Blood,” continued “Separations,” an illustration by Chronos
midnightwriters.webs.com midnight.writers2013@gmail.com
Ask Aphro & Dite
Dear Dite, Why are you forever alone? Sincerely, Dite Dear Dite, Well, when you have to write and answer your own questions...that's kinda your answer in-it-ofitself. Sincerely, Dite This Month we had a special guest answerer: Athena, the Goddess of Wisdom. Dear Aphro, What's a good question to submit to askaphro@gmail.com? Sincerely, Dite Dear Dite, Well, since Aphro has decided to temporarily drop off of the face of the earth, I, Athena, will take up the reins and offer some wisdom! A good question can be pretty much anything, ranging from the absurd (see next question) to the sincere (any tips for promposal methods?) to pretty much anything. You ask it, we answer it, and then we publish it. Ask carefully ;) Sincerely, Athena Dear Aphro, Are we human? or are we dancers? Sincerely, Dite Dear Dite, My sign is vital, my hands are cold And I’m on my knees looking for the answer Are we human or are we dancers? Research has provided the following answer: And when a man is trying to change But only causes further pain You realize that all along Something in us going wrong… You stop dancing. I hope that answers your question, and if/when you figure out that reference, color me impressed XD) Sincerely, Athena
Musings of Hades I’m back! Silly mortals, gods can’t die. At least, not Greek ones. (The Norse, on the other hand…) Besides, I’m Lord of the Underworld. I have the keys to the place. Oh, well, playing dead was fun. In case you didn’t get the memo, it was my splendiferous VP Athena who helped me with this ruse by stealing Hermes’ caduceus (a winged rod with two snakes wound around it) and feigning an attack in the garden. Hermes forgave me after we gave his caduceus back, but Persephone…boy, she was not happy… Anyway…it’s spring now, and Persephone’s back in the Upperworld. She and Demeter can prance about, making flowers grow or whatever they do up there. That’s okay. I’ll be fine down here, all by myself. With Cerberus, a god’s best friend. And Thanatos, my butler and the God of Death. And Charon, my chauffeur. And the Furies, my bodyguards. I mean, I have a pool, you know! It might contain water from the Styx, Lethe, and other rivers, which would cause you unmentionable amounts of pain and wipe your memory should you try to swim in it, but it’s still a pool! And I have gourmet chefs who’ve cooked for kings— granted, medieval kings, so the chefs’ cooking methods are kind of out-of-date, but still gourmet. And I can throw darts at Ixion, this guy in Tartarus who’s eternally chained to a flaming wheel because he hit on Hera one time too many. And…and… and… …PERSEPHONE, COME BACK. I—oh, what’s this? A care package? It’s from Seph! What’s inside it…? Chocolate-covered pomegranate seeds! Oh, Persephone, how do I love thee? Well, let’s look on the upside of things. At least it doesn’t rain down here.
Athena’s Corner Blaze By Laurie Boyle Crompton February 2013 Blaze is a super geek desperate to gain the attention of her little brother’s hot soccer coach, and when she finally does she couldn’t be happier. But then it goes sour and Blaze is determined to get revenge. A fun read written to resonate with geeks everywhere, full of quirky humor and a heroine who will stick with readers for a long time.
That Time I Joined the Circus By J.J. Howard April 2013 Lexi didn’t mean to join the circus, but when she did, she made the most of it. Escaping from her troubles in New York and finding love are great benefits, but then her exbest friend shows up. Lexi doesn’t know it, but her world is about to change all over again – and not just for the better. Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Calypso, Hecate, Echo, Glittercheese, Chronos, and Cookie Girl. 3
“The River Sings,” Photograph by Emcee
Robin Hood by Zenyatta Under the boughs of dark brown wood, Walked through the forest Robin Hood. He carried low his great long bow And a quiver of feathers, too. Where Robin Hood has long now roamed, His merry bowmen made their home. They shot at deer throughout the year, With their long bows made out of yew. When times were bad and times were tough, Then Robin Hood helped out enough. He stole some gold for the poor and the old, And helped them all without ado. Thus Robin Hood lived life with truth, And justice served, despite his youth. And all of men throughout the land Should follow his example too.
My Springtime Music By Vivian Griselda They say the storm will heal the wound, But I’m always loosing things in all the right places. His casually cruel smile is not a game of April fools, It’s time we’ve lost hope in winning all these races. My one to confront when the weather hits hard, You’re the devil beside me slowly breaking my heart. Clocks ticking gently with a settle beat, True love has a curious eye that shall follow us. Letters secretly passed ever so sweet, Staring into the future doesn’t quite make me blush. Air so still and colors so bright, Miles don’t adjust the feelings that were created.
Something so real is what I will fight, Our souls continuously lain these years we waited. Lost in time longing to go back, Before the hurricane came to our doom. The ones around us two haven’t got a clue, What the music is trying to say. Innocent pain and delusional flew, Keep me warm from the grey. My mind is running, But my legs won’t move. A playful scheme on writing, Will hopefully reveal the truth. Don’t sing along unless you know the words, Otherwise you’ll find yourself trapped in a world of
Hurt.
Orbitals by Iris “Thank you… Yes, thank you ever so much… Ah, we’re ever so pleased to see that you could make it…” The bride and groom stood in front of the thrones they were to inherit, both dressed in the finest of clothing. He stood proud and happy, his bright and handsome smile beaming down at those who lined up to present their congratulations to the new noble couple. She waited next to him, her radiance a gentle light that seemed to float in tendrils of serene beauty and wrapped the guests. Her happiness, a quiet yet palpable one, complimented that of her husband’s. They were the perfect couple, a match made in heaven, the kingdom’s pride and joy. And they were content. The two had always been together, as childhood friends, who saw each other whenever their fathers met. Despite the long periods of time that stretched between each visit, those rare occasions were anticipated with eager excitement and letters exclaiming over what fun they would have together. They had learned of their betrothal to one another when they were sixteen years of age, and though surprised, both accepted it will-
ingly, calling themselves fortunate to be tied to one another. They would never be separated or forced to marry one they knew only briefly before marriage. The ball was about to begin. The line of guests to greet and thank was thinning out, and the newlyweds found themselves almost alone, with only one man left to greet. As he approached, the festive mood seemed to change into something inexplicable. The town’s young blacksmith stopped a few paces away, his hat held to his chest as he bowed respectfully. “Prince and Princess… Congratulations on your wedding day. The entire kingdom celebrates this joyous occasion.” He raised his head as they thanked him, and lifted the two swords in his other hand, one heavy and strong, the other slender and elegant. “These are the wedding gifts that my humble blacksmith shop offers. It would honor those of us working there if they were to be accepted.” The young man took one step forward and dropped to one knee, abasing his head as he lifted both hands towards the nobles, the two swords balanced between them. The couple each took his and her own, admiring the blacksmith’s handiwork.
As her husband exclaimed over his own gift, the princess lifted her green eyes on the blacksmith, and their gazes met. It was a moment before she spoke. “It is beautiful. I feel as though my skills with a rapier are hardly worthy of handling such a masterpiece.” “You are too kind to me, Your Highness,” He answered, bowing once again. “No,” She demurred quietly. “I do not seek to flatter you. Only to convey my true sentiments.” There was a silence when all three could hear the cheerful chattering of guests in the distant ballroom. The prince coughed. “Will you not join us in the ballroom? The festivities will run long into the night, and it promises to be an enjoyable evening.” “I am honored, Your Highness, but I’m afraid I cannot,” The other declined, stepping back. “I must return to my shop, for I have other engagements this evening. But,” His eyes moved between them before resting on the princess. “You have done me enough kindness by accepting my work. I truly wish for your happiness.” “And I am certain that you yourself shall find a wonderful bride worthy of your talents,” She said in response. The blacksmith looked as though
he might say something more, but only nodded and bowed one last time before stepping away. She had met him by pure chance. Outsiders were rarely allowed in the castle, as their questions and complaints were dealt with in the audience hall. So she had been surprised when, sitting in the gardens on a sunny afternoon, she had glanced up to see a commoner standing before her. His clothes were sooty and his cheeks had smudges of coal smeared across, but the princess had been more amused than shocked as the blacksmith stepped back, averting his eyes and stammering an apology, his cheeks tingeing pink beneath the black ash. They had continued to meet afterwards, sporadically. She never knew when he would appear in the castle’s armory, but would check almost everyday, hoping to see him surveying the racks of armor and weaponry. He was kind, sympathetic, and understanding of a princess who found joy in swordplay, a “curious” hobby for the daughter of a king. She showed true interest in his work, told him stories of the royal court, held a magnificent and enigmatic air of kindness about her.
Continued on next page
“The Walls Have Secrets,” Photograph by Andromeda
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Orbitals cont. The most thrilling day of her life had been the day she dressed as a pauper and sneaked out to meet him. She had been born into a world of high society, rich tapestries, and golden tiaras. But she had been enchanted by how much more there was outside the castle walls. Where townspeople greeted each other as casually and warmly as if they were family, where children played in the dirt, but seemed truly carefree. Almost the epitome of this world’s vibrancy, he had been new and exciting, and the girl who rose to the surface of the glassy, calm princess was someone completely different but accepted wholeheartedly. Until she realized that, she was in love with him, and stepped back. Together, they had been happy. They showed one another that not all people of the same
class were identical. They weren’t permitted to be with one another, but that was half the thrill. This was their story of the princess and the pauper, playing out the roles as they wished. But in the end, when she turned 21 and began to participate in plans for her wedding, she was forced to come up for air, to allow the truth to sink in. They could never be together. Because she was the only heir to the throne, because her people needed her. They could live without each other. She already had a prospective candidate who had been beside her entire life. A stable, neat future, just the way it was meant to be. She regretted their meeting in the garden. To have led him on a wild goose chase, deceived him. It was not she who showed him kindness, but the other way around. That smiling youth who had shown a wayward princess
the things that floated just beyond the bars of a cage she sat in, carrying her with him like a bird on his shoulder. In reality, they never should have met, destined to orbit around each other but never touch, a silver moon and brown planet. The prince watched him walk away, expression slightly bemused, before glancing to the side and catching sight of his wife’s own countenance. His eyes widened and he reached to gently turn her face to his. “Why, whatever is the matter?” “Whatever do you mean?” “You look as though you will burst into tears.” The princess stared at him before her eyes softened and smiled, cupping his cheek in her hand. “Tears on my wedding day? Never have I heard of such a thing. Come. They shall grow impatient of waiting for our arrival. Would it not be a pity if our
own wedding celebration began without us?” She took his arm, and they turned to walk through the doors of the ballroom amid tumultuous applause and cheers. Far behind them, the blacksmith exited the castle, his boots carrying him down into the heart of the town below, to the place where he had been born, and where he would spend the rest of his life, far from the life of royalty, far from the princess. And so both returned to their respective realms, where they belonged. He would never rule a country, she would never have the freedom to fly from the cage within which she was perched. He would never leave his work behind, she would never turn her back on her kingdom. The doors of the ballroom shut, and their worlds separated once again.
Fin
Moonlit Tragedy By Artemis A sword rests on the ground on a moonlit night Eerie silence settles in a blanket around the abandoned battlefield A stalemate with no one left standing Tears dry on still cheeks A sword rests on the ground on a moonlit night Villagers leave it alone as they lock up for the night Crying is heard at night Dead knights sobbing for their loved ones A sword rests on the ground on moonlit night Its blade is rusted It is all that is left of a fateful battle A testimony to the massacre
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“Shiro,” Photograph by Japanda3
A sword rests on the ground on a moonlit night A forgotten memory to the modern world But people still leave it be And one can still hear the crying of dead knights at night
“Sakura,” Photograph by Chronos
Things not Seen By Nyctophobia I knew from the start My love would not last With this impending end An everlasting goodbye It will fade forever Like the cherry blossoms Cause I knew for sure That when the blossoms fell We shall be out of time It will be time to move on To new exciting places To new things in our lives But I hoped and prayed For a chance to show you How I feel about you How I want to hold you Own you and belong to you To show you the beauty Of the blossoming cherries If only for a minute But instead of that The blossoms of love They never blossomed They fall from the tree Descend to the earth Smash into the ground Still in infancy and naivety Still just an innocent bud Nipped as a bud A dream discarded A loss of a beautiful sight Driving down your street Pink flowers on both sides Never to be seen by us The buds are all that’s seen The flowers lie dormant The cherries unblossomed But I’m afraid right now Even the speedy collapse Of a cherry blossom romance Falls much too fast for us
Lost Wing By Kenpachi Not yet known To become imitation The results of building A virtual village
Arcadia Life of: Pandora Endless cycle of death And rebirth simulation Paranoia of my sky Disappearing Symphony The collapse of the melody myth Plug the ear to get inside the pulsation The drowning sensation is precious, momentary, resounding.
To you, to me. A baby’s first cry, a bouquet Sorrow, joy Goodbye for eternity Limited time, ‘til the end of the world Hold you all tightly Begin walking Interval of space-time I now sing Goodbye Eden Goodbye Eden Landing Goodbye Eden Farewell, be told Goodbye Eden You’ve been told
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Urban Sprawl By Hecate The man turned out of town, driving instinctively despite the many years. He stopped at the T-section before turning into a neighborhood. Here the new houses each nestled in uniformly ordered lots. Lawns were perfectly trimmed and cut in clean, sharp angles, just like the new roads; systematic, perfunctory and precise. The boy stood at the back of the pickup, grinning at the wind tickling his face and ruffling his hair as his father drove up the mountain path. It was a warm day with and crisp air that had the syrupy taste of late summer sun filtering through green leaves starting to turn. The canopy of the heavily wooded forest shaded the path and, when the wind blew, created a moving patchwork of dappled light as the dirt road looped its way up and around. Straight roads and hard right angles gave way to more rows of perfect regimented houses and rigid lines. Finally spotting a familiar road name, he released a breath of relief and eased onto that street. He couldn’t help the small smile
that flickered over his face; the Appalachian Trail would be just at the end of the road. Squeals of delight sounded as the brothers burst off the trail and splashed into the creek while their father followed behind leisurely. Sparkles of sunlight caught the vibrant flashes of red on the belly of brook trouts as the boys oohed and aahed over them. In the crystalline water of the creek, even tiny flecks of yellow and spots of crimson in halos of blue could be seen on the sleek, green flanks. Late summer and fall were the boys’ favorite time of year; the days shorter and the brook trout gathering to spawn. The females would clear away silt and gravel with their side fins to make shallow depressions called redds, where males gather to compete for position by nipping and displaying their vibrant colors. It was the same trail, but…different; the undergrowth beneath his boots was damp with rain and smelled slightly…sulfur? He frowned; the woods felt thinner. After finally
arriving at the creek, he nearly passed right over it; it moved sluggishly, shrunken with an overgrowth of algae and murky with silt. Its banks were eroded from runoff, and soil erosion muddied the once crystalline waters. Acid rain from heavy industrialization changed the pH levels. Polluted, dammed, or silted up streams often became too warm for brook trout, and fertilizer runoff would have caused the overgrowth of algae and poorly oxygenated water. A flash of fin caught the man’s eye, and he looked
up sharply. Could it be? No. It was a brown trout. There was barely any sign of fish, but he did spy one smallmouth bass, and perch; invasive species better suited for warmer, polluted water. But the trademark yellow speckled red and green he had looked forward to was conspicuously absent, probably retreated to the higher headwaters of Appalachian streams and creeks. Small hands tugged insistently on his shirt. He looked down. “Daddy, what were you gonna show me?”
Fin
“Glub, Glub,” Illustration by Hecate
Spring Has Sprung By Melody I smell the breeze, Fresh and pure. I nearly sneeze. From pollen, I’m sure. The weather is nice, Cool yet warm. Sounds like peace, Much better than a storm. The sun on my back Sends rays of warmth through. Spring has a knack Of making the sky blue. 8
“Sea of Flowers,” Photograph by Nana
“Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know,” Photograph by the Owlish Bookworm
Leaves by Glittercheese There once was a place… A sunny, golden place A meadow full of blooming flowers, Petals dancing with the wind A space of open fields The endless possibilities that awaited Flying through the air Like a budding leaf in spring Like a golden green leaf in summer To a red leaf in fall To a brown leaf in winter To walls and rocks, darkness and shadows A place of no end, no conclusion, no finish A foreboding forest, bare of leaves 9
Calypso’s Island I just watched the most recent Doctor Who episode (which, by the time you read this, will be Cold War, but I’m referring to The Rings of Akhaten), where the currency on a planet was value, which had led me to wonder—what is value? Of course, there’s the monetary value of an item, which is the price you pay, but then there’s personal value. In some cases, you could place significant personal value on something you want to buy, but if it’s too expensive, you might end up not buying it. Does that mean that the personal value went down, or is that just common sense not to buy something out of your budget? Or perhaps the two are related? But what about items that you already own? Items that you’ve treasured for years have a tremendous amount of personal value, but aren’t necessarily expensive. Yet, despite that, you treasure them and value them. There are memories attached to those items, full of relationships and emotions, good days and bad days, and when an item reaches that level of personal
value to someone, how could you possibly put a price on it? It may seem a little ridiculous, but if you take a moment to think about it, how would you respond if someone asked you how much you’d be willing to sell your most beloved stuffed animal or doll or book for? It’s difficult, isn’t it? Because at that point, you’re trying to put a monetary value on memories, and how can you possibly create an exchange rate for memories? So I suppose there’s a third type of value: sentimental value (there are probably many more that I haven’t thought about, but this is the third I’ve come up with thus far). I guess it’s similar to personal value, but personal value is more along the lines of the reason why you want to have something while sentimental value is the value that comes from the memories that item can invoke later on. I realize this month I’ve asked more questions than I’ve answered, but I hope this makes you think a little bit. And, if, in your thinking, you are hit with an epiphany about all of this, by all means type it up and submit it to the magazine next month! I’d love to read it.
Maybe By Soufflé Girl Maybe Maybe, just maybe I made the mistake Of loving you When not caring Is so much easier
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“Trust Me,” Photograph by Emcee
“Passing Shadows,” Photograph by Andromeda
Joke’s On Him
By Echo The jester’s bells jingling a cheery song Showed no indication of anything wrong His lips spreading into a goofy grin Hid what was going on within His jokes that evoked boisterous guffaws Only dug deeper his inner flaws He made his name by being a fool But his jabs and jeers were a bit too cruel Jabs and jeers? One may ask, To humor others is his task! But the Queen thinks otherwise, so to speak His sneers have driven her over the peak His candid opinion what his claim to fame Yet his insolence was what he forgot to tame In anger she points her finger at him And demands an end to his lively whim And so the laughter from his mouth she steals With no regard to his pleas and appeals Alas the head on his body, the body on his head Were the next day to be gone and dead
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Life of Trauma: II By Apollo the tables on me. It was a casual A few seconds later, we could hear footsteps headed back toward the kitchen. “Quick, that must be her!” my mom said. “Do something!” “Thanks so much for letting me use your bathroom!” Miranda said from the opposite side of the kitchen. My mom pulled our toaster oven out of its outlet. As Miranda approached the dining section of our kitchen, my mom popped out in surprise, slamming our toaster oven directly into Miranda's face. Miranda was out cold. “Where'd you learn to do that?” I asked. “I took self-defense when I was in college. Now we don't have any time to lose. I think she'll be out long enough for us to call the cops.” And sure enough, just minutes later, a police car came by and dragged Miranda away. “Thank goodness that's over,” my mom said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Now she's their problem, not ours.” Two months later... Not only has Miranda been in a Maryland state-mandated prison for the past two months, but she has been sentenced to execution for letting loose some of the most dangerous criminals in the DMV. I had just graduated from Northwestern last week. Life was good until one event turned
Sunday morning in late May when the phone suddenly rang. “You've received a phone call from a criminal in a Maryland state-mandated prison,” went the automated voice. I knew it had to be Miranda. I considered hanging up, but since I knew it was only a matter of weeks before she was executed, it wasn’t like one angry phone call could hurt, could it? I proceeded to press one. “One moment please,” continued the automated voice as a connection was established. “Nicholas?” Miranda asked. “Yep, that's me,” “Listen, I am so sorry I dragged you into this mess in the first place,” she continued, “It was wrong for me to play you like that. You and your mother had every right to knock me out and turn me in to the police. Anyways, I mainly called to share some great news. I'm not going to be executed after all!” “You're not?! That's great,” I said, nervously. “Isn't it?” she said, suddenly sounding very excited. “But why not?” I asked, “Just out of curiosity.” “Because, well um, it's because I'm pregnant,” she said, suddenly much quieter than before, “And I think you may be the baby's father.”
“Faceless,” Illustration by Aradia
To Be Continued...
Savior By Glittercheese Bombs have devastated the earth, leaving it shivering, fire roaring throughout villages, and panic setting in as heavy as steel. Winds as loud as freight trains screech windows, and lightning strikes penetrate the earth like daggers. Dark raging clouds suck the sky, showering and scattering tears throughout the entire village.
And… today is the day. Her kimono, as smooth as cream, wraps gently around her delicate white skin like a gentle cool breeze cooling off the hot, summer heat. The dark blue layered silk cuddles around her small waist, like the hug that never ends. Her soft, brown hair flows like a waterfall behind her back. She is to be the dove of peace, the mark of a new era, a new beginning. She is to bring the smooth flow of nature, to bring back the days of glory and happiness that now evoked nostalgia. Yet, she cannot do it. She never
could. It is far too much, far too soon for her. Her brown bangs hang deliberately over her eyes, her contour indistinguishable. And, her heart, once as strong as metal and as powerful as fire, now extinguished with wisps of the remnants of the strength that she once could endure. But the village cannot risk another defeat, another devastation, another mistake. The whole world is on her shoulder and she is to care for all, for the whole village. She is to be the new mother of the new world. Fin
Day and Night by Kenpachi Where is the love
Where is the love in every left Daylight in your eyes down heartbeat Daylight in your smile Darkness, when I’m not with Glamour and fall is what I’m thinking of you Where is the love how could Moonlight in the skies you say it’s over Moonlight feels so nice Darkness, what am I without Where is the love Daylight in your eyes you? Let me just hold you so love Daylight in blue eyes Darkness, holding on to me can’t escape Moonlight, midnight sun Don’t worry I just want to Moonlight, here it come know Where is the love in every fad- Darkness, that’s what I’m without you ing rainbow I wanna love you but I better High above trees below the not touch moon and sun I wanna hold you, makes Where is the love in every sense to my cries black-eyed ocean I wanna kiss you, will you tell
me why? Where is the love in every fading rainbow High above trees below the moon and sun Where is the love in every black-eyed ocean Where is the love Where is the love in every left down heartbeat Glamour and fall is what I’m thinking of Where is the love how could you say it’s over Where is the love Worse that you pray, turn the night into day The beauty of passion brakes through Where is the love in every
fading rainbow High above trees below the moon and sun Where is the love in every black-eyed ocean Where is the love Where is the love in every left down heartbeat Glamour and fall is what I’m thinking of Where is the love how could you say it’s over Where is the love Where is the love in every fading rainbow High above trees below the moon and sun Where is the love in every black-eyed ocean Where is the love
“Night Lights,” Photograph by Andromeda
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Lonely By Bernarda Rey The silence irks me. The night kisses me. Society dismisses me But I fight those ways. Night I let it all out. No longer scared about doubt. Here I am. No longer lonely. No longer lonely.
Stars Fall By Aradia If the glowing stars all fell to this earth And laughed and giggled and danced as they came Would we all be forced to question our worth? Would we be forced to find out our true name? Would planets waltz slowly along the sky? Would our sun shake with rumbling laughter? Would comets sing lullabies as they fly? Would stardust rain down upon us after? Would I look inside and find only me? Would my eyes twinkle bright as a star? Would I look around here quite wondrously? Would I see the moon, which isn’t that far? For now, no one listens because I am small. I look to the laughing stars as they fall. 14
“Luminance,” Illustration by Chronos
His Name is Blood: Seven once a foolish young man, but I made him greater. Then By Hades you came along, and now he “Morgana, right?” acts the fool again.” The redhead inclines her I sputter in disbelief. head in response. I haven’t “Made him greater? He murlearned everyone’s names ders people every month!” yet, despite being here for “A necessary task for us months. I only retain the both to survive. He came to names of people who talk to me a hundred years ago, askor nag me on a regular basis. ing for immortality. I did as I’ve been so caught up he bade—but life must pay with Eleanor that I’ve forgotfor life. He slew his own parten about the third redhead, ents and almost every servant like she probably intended. in this house in his frenzy.” The memory of Morgana My breath catches in my helping me find my way throat as I take a step back. through the woods rises to the He killed his parents? I recall forefront. A ploy to gain my the pretty face of the woman trust? Well, it didn’t work. I in the portrait, the laugh lines trust no one except Rem, around the older man’s eyes. and… It couldn’t have been long “So you’re the one Blood after the portrait was done hates.” that Blood became…Blood. “And fears.” Morgana Morgana rolls her eyes. drains her glass and sets it “Oh, he was horrified when aside. “He can hate me all he he was back in his right mind, wants. But he needs me as but he got what he wanted.” much as I need him.” “Did you even bother to “What do you mean?” tell him what he would have She rolls her shoulders, to do if he became immorstretching. “Have you seen tal?” I ask, voice strangled. the album I left your father?” “Life must pay for life. I gape. “That was you?” That’s what I told him, and “You didn’t really think he agreed. Now, he simply he just happened to find it in has to restore his immortality the attic, did you?” She every full moon in order to chuckles. “I assume you’ve endure eternity.” figured out by now that He only kidnaps because Blood is quite old. His youth he has to, Rem told me once. is clearly unnatural. Who do Blood only kills because he you think gave it to him?” has to. He sacrifices the Blood’s books about townspeople so he doesn’t spells and potions, they’re not have to die. Because he’s all his. Eleanor’s books on afraid of dying and going to magic, they’re not about her hell for everything he’s done. but… “You’re a witch.” I was right. He is a cow“If that makes you sleep ard. But better cowardly than better at night.” Morgana soulless, like the true monster stands and gazes into the that’s facing me right now. empty stone tub. Her violet “That doesn’t explain why eyes harden. “I don’t like you bathe in their blood,” I you, Lorelei. You’ve changed say lowly. Blood and undone decades of Morgana runs her fingers hard work in mere months.” around the rim of the tub. She glares at me. “He was
“That’s what keeps me alive. I absorb the life that was in their blood—but because it’s diluted with water, I must bathe monthly, more frequently than if it was pure blood.” “And the girls?” I hiss. “What about them?” “Their blood renews my beauty, once each year. As you can see, it’s a beneficial deal for both Blood and me. But enough stalling.” Morgana circles me. “What to do with you?” she wonders. I snarl, “Weren’t you going to kill me? Use me to replace Eleanor?” My fingers curl into a fist. Blood at least shows some semblance of remorse for his actions. Morgana, though? Morgana pats my cheek. “Oh, my dear, you overestimate your beauty. Now, you’re right. I was going to kill you. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that Blood thinks of you as a pet of sorts. If he found out I killed you, he might do something we’d both regret. So I’ll give you an option, dear. “For the next twenty-four hours, the kitchen door will be unlocked. Once you enter the forest, a path will clear for you, directly to the town border. You, and only you, will be able to cross the border and start a new life.” Several months ago, I would’ve eagerly accepted this deal. But now, I know— this is the real deal with the devil. I narrow my eyes. “What’s the catch?” “Clever dear,” Morgana coos. “You’ll lose your memory. Completely. You won’t even remember your name. But it’s better than staying. If, after a day, I find
that you’re still in New Hamelin, you’ll…disappear.” Translation: I’ll kill you, consequences be damned. “You’re oddly merciful,” I sneer. “If you leave willingly, it benefits us all,” she responds blithely. “You get to live, and Blood is free from your corruption.” “My corruption?” I tremble with anger. “My corruption is making him better! He’s becoming human again!” She’s the one who’s been corrupting him for the last hundred years! “That is worse, not better,” Morgana snaps. “I’ve had enough. You have twenty -four hours before I nail your head to Blood’s door, whether or not he throws a tantrum.” With a swish of her skirt, she vanishes up the stairs. I remain where I stand, trying not to scream. That heinous… That damned… That awful… There are no words to describe how much I hate her. At the same time, I hate myself. Why didn’t I just say yes to her offer? Why would I want to stay here? My father is dead. My friends have forgotten me. Why not start over? I could forget the entire last few months. No more fear, terror, Morgana… Rem…Roxie…Blood… Would Blood revert to the cold, heartless thing I met when I first arrived? It’s not my problem. I won’t even remember Blood, anyway. I have nothing to lose by leaving. Even if Morgana is lying and intends on killing me, regardless, it’s no different than my fate if I try to stay here. HNIB cont. on next page
HNIB cont. The album nearly slips from my hands. I catch the book in time and right it. The pages have opened up to Blood’s family portrait, which is peeling away from the sticky sheet. I spy writing on the back. Puzzled, I peel it completely away and read the letters in elegant calligraphy. “Mr. and Mrs. John Sirens,” I mutter to myself, “and their son…” I trail off, gazing at the seven letters that comprise of Blood’s true name. No, it’s not Lucifer. I continue to stare at the words before I sigh and climb up the stairs. Morgana isn’t in the study. Neither is Blood. I hide the album under my blankets and take a moment to compose myself. Then I calculate the odds of running into anyone at this time of “night,” decide they’re close to zero, and walk out the door. I tiptoe down to the kitchen, which is empty, as I expected. Rem usually goes to bed by now. Silently, I take ingredients from the pantry. Milk and “Separations,” Illustration by Chronos
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raspberries and so forth from the fridge. I start on the batter, mixing and folding. Then, after a few seconds’ thought, I remove the vial from my pocket and tip a few drops in. The smoky white liquid vanishes into the mixture. I sit in the kitchen the entire time it rises. Finally, I slip it into the oven—then resume sitting around and waiting. Blood still isn’t back when I return to the study, so I wait some more, determined to see him when he comes back. Of course, I doze off. When I awake an hour later, he’s sitting at his desk, looking resignedly at the raspberry bread slices laid out on a china dish. “I expected you to leave the room sooner or later,” he muses. “I suppose you chose ‘sooner.’” “I cleaned up after myself in the kitchen.” I sit up. “It’s for you,” I add. “That was kind of you.” He picks up a slice and, not the least bit suspicious, bites. I try not to flinch and quickly mask my face. He continues to chew, unnotic-
ing. “Blood?” “Yes?” “If I figured out your name…would you still fulfill your bargain and let me go?” Blood’s eyes are sad. “No,” he whispers. “It’s not safe for you in town. She would find you. And…” He looks at me. “I’m selfish.” “Selfish?” His eyelids start to droop. He attempts a tired smile. “I don’t want you to go.” The Breath of Hypnos kicks in, and he drops the crust of bread on the floor before his head falls onto the desk. He’s fast asleep. I know what I must do, before I flee from this town. Flee like a coward—like what I accused Blood of being. I return to the secret room. Recalling my previous explorations, I pull out a book and flip until I see what I want. Destruction spells. I peruse the list and find one that works to my specifications. No collateral damage. Just think about the thing or things you want to destroy. Down the stone steps I go,
and once again I’m in the chamber where so many have been slaughtered. Where Morgana shows her true self every month. I simply speak one word. “Excidio.” The room shakes, and I race out. I reach the top step just as a great crash rumbles from below, and then the secret room shudders, too. The study, however, is fine. Blood will be safe. I shut the door behind me and listen as the two rooms self-destruct. Someone will come to investigate. I need to leave. Now. I’m about to do so when I turn back and gaze at him. He looks helpless as he sleeps. Angelic, almost. How will he react when he wakes up? Furious that I destroyed part of his house, or relieved his sacrificial altar is gone? I backtrack and brush his hair from his face. “Sorry,” I whisper before pressing a kiss to his forehead. I want to burn the image of his face, worry-free, into my memory, but there’s no point. I’ll forget it in the end. “Goodbye, Gabriel,” I murmur. And I leave the study for the last time. The kitchen door swings open for me. The trees part as I walk. All too soon, I reach the town border, where life as I know it will end. I have nothing. No money, maps, or contacts. Soon even my memory will abandon me. The nearest neighboring town is an hour’s drive away and who knows how long on foot. I turn around. I can see all of New Hamelin. I’ll never come back here again. I blow the town a kiss, and then I turn again, resolutely stepping towards the border. Three…two…one… To be concluded…