December 2018
Midnight Writers
Table of Contents
Cover: “Snow Angels,” an illustration by Celia Bowen This Page: “I Become the Light,” an illustration by
“Ridley,” an illustration by HEHEHEH I AM A SUPAH STAR WARRIAH “The Mask,” a poem by The Midnight Raven “Winter,” a haiku by The Calico Cat
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HEHEHEH I AM A SUPAH STAR WARRIAH
Ask Aphro & Dite
• Santa Claus asks for some holiday advice • An unhappy receiver asks how to receive gifts politely
Beyond the Gloss
• Eos describes a rude Christmas awakening
Andromeda’s Introspective Odyssey • Andromeda discusses materialism
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“Broken Gears,” a story by The Midnight Raven “Sunset Bridge,” a photograph by Blue Serendipity
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“Broken Gears,” continued “Frozen Temple,” a manga by Aya Hatashima “Over Sheltered,” a story by Wine Merchant
“Look,” a poem by Ithuriel “Pathway,” a haiku by Eos “Sunset,” a photograph by Anonymous “Winter Lights,” a poem by Andromeda “December Silence,” a haiku by Tom Nguyen “Bran Remembers,” an illustration by Idunn
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“The Right Direction,” a poem by Ithuriel “Me vs. My Classmates,” a rant by Même “Winter Wonderland,” a photograph by The Calico Cat “Behind the Monitors,” a story by The Midnight Raven
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“Behind the Monitors,” continued “Skitty,” an illustration by Celia Bowen
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“Over Sheltered,” continued “A Foggy Winter Night,” a photograph by Andromeda “Over Sheltered,” continued “Happy Holidays,” a photograph by Anonymous “Chrismukkah,” a poem by Eos “Skiing,” a photograph by The Calico Cat
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“Background Character,” a poem by Stella “Mystery,” an illustration by Idunn “Squirtle Squad,” a haiku by Tom Nguyen “Peachy Keen,” an illustration by Stella “Princess Peach,” a haiku by Eos “Poor Yoshi,” an illustration by Idunn
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“The Santa Boycott,” a story by Blue Serendipity “Red Christmas,” a photograph by Eos
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“Time,” a poem by Andromeda “Cross my Heart,” a photograph by Eos “Christmas,” a poem by S.B. “Winter Steps,” a photograph by Yellow Seesaw
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“White Box,” a story by Stella
“The Building on 66th Street Part 3,” a story by Andromeda “The Building on 66th Street Part 3,” continued “Earth 45617,” an illustration by Fe
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Ask Aphro & Dite
Beyond the Gloss
Hello Midnight Writers! I hope you all have Dear Aphro, People have stopped believing in me! What do had a wonderful holiday season and a happy New Year. For this month’s column, I figured I do? I would talk about a subject that still haunts Yours, Santa Claus me to this day. (Spoiler alert: It involves the Dear Santa, existence of a certain bearded, cookie-eating Oh honey, people have stopped believing in me holiday figure.) This is about my own personal centuries before they stopped believing in you. discovery that Santa Claus is not real. Being I’m still around though, aren’t I? Don’t worry that I was a rather skeptical kid, I’d always so much about what other people believe and had lurking suspicions about the veracity of an just focus on you. If they can still believe in elderly man that breaks into countless homes, love without believing in the goddess of love, travels via levitating sleigh, and seems to eat then people will still believe in what you stand only cookies for sustenance. However, it only for. Plus, who cares if people believe in you or took one night for these suspicions to become not? You’re a legend and people will always full-fledged disbelief. I was a light sleeper, know who you are. prone to being easily woken by any noise, the With love, Aphro night of Christmas Eve being no exception. I Dear Dite, awoke at approximately 3:00 A.M., and curious I got a present that I don’t like, what do I do? to see what the noise was, I carefully padded down the stairs. For a fleeting, glorious second, Yours, Unhappy Receiver the thought crossed through my mind that it Dear Unhappy Receiver, was Santa Claus, and I was about to see him in Your solution would depend on what type the flesh. When I closed my eyes, I could just of present it is, dearie. It obviously can’t be imagine his towering figure, the distinctive red money because, well, you could buy yourself suit and white beard we all know so well. That something you do want with it. If it’s clothes, a good rule of thumb is to wear it at least once second passed when I walked downstairs to see a rated R movie playing on the television. before hiding it somewhere deep inside your (That night was eye-opening in more than one closet. If it’s something else, I’d hold onto way.) My father was in the process of stuffing a it and give it to someone who would like it. Always be thankful for the present, even if you cookie into his mouth, the cookies I had baked don’t want it. You don’t want to seem stuck-up for Santa. His other hand was stuffed into my stocking, and next to him lay a plastic bag and ungrateful. filled with toys. My reaction was swift and, in With love, Dite my opinion, encapsulated the moment quite well: Running around in circles and screaming. From that moment on, I never mentioned the existence of Santa Claus again, my doubts now wholly confirmed by the events of that night. Looking back on it now, I see that my discovery that Santa isn’t real was probably far more entertaining than the average realization, and it is a disturbing holiday story I someday look forward to telling my grandchildren. And that’s all for this month! Enjoy the issue, and happy holidays to all!
Andromeda’s Introspective Odyssey In the spirit of Christmas, I thought it would
be interesting to talk about material things. Y’know, like the fifteen different outfits in our closets, or the three different kinds of soap in our bathroom. My point is that we hardly “need” or even “want” any of the stuff we possess. We don’t want the Swell bottle or the Vineyard Vines t-shirts because they are so much more functional than something by a cheaper brand, we want them because they are a status symbol. Similar to how we don’t need a flat screen TV the size of our whole living room wall, but we’re still jealous of the kid next door who has it. So often we are “obsessed” with the newest fad or craze we find ourselves swept up in. But if we really thought about it, we would realize we didn’t really want those things at all. Statistics show that living in a house too large will actually make you less happy than living in a small or moderately sized house, yet everyone envies the person with the mansion. It’s like when you’re not even hungry, but you’re bored, and that slice of chocolate cake just looks so, so good, and next thing you know you’ve eaten it anyways. Not because you’re hungry, but because you’re filling a hole. What I’m trying to get at is next time you are thinking of buying something at the store, question: “Do I really want it? Do I really need it?” You may not just help yourself, but your bank account.
Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Eos, Andromeda, Celia Bowen, Stella, Aya Hatashima, The Calico Cat, Blue Serendipity and Idunn.
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Broken Gears
By The Midnight Raven The girl that stood on the train platform in the inky dark of the night had a single item in her pocket, a shabby watch that hung by a tattered, vermillion thread. But this clock didn’t tell the passing of the hours of the day, it ticked along to the passing of life and age. On certain intervals, the rusted hands of the clock shifted along the glass face, advancing to a new printed number. But they weren’t the numbers stretching from 1-12 as most knew. They started at 0 and went till 72, the age of her death. The tiny ebony tick marks were nearly impossible to separate, but for certain marks there would be a bolded number. These bolded marks displayed the age she was when a significant event happened to her. In tiny, swooping letters, the name Farrah Redfield could be seen. The words bound the watch to her, and no human action could sway the fate that was printed on the clock. Farrah tucked a lock of her dark hair behind her ear that was dotted with assorted piercings, each one a sign of her desire for rebellion, yet also her trepidation of doing anything more than infuriating her mother. She dug her hands into the pockets of her winter coat and traced her fingers along the edge of the clock. Letting out a puff of air and watching the breaths disperse in the air from the cold, Farrah craned her neck forward and scoured the metal tracks for any sign of her late train. She had lived like this for 18 years, counting down the days and months until she arrived at another bolded number on her clock, and not being able to converse with anyone about the strangeness that lay around the clock’s origins except her mother. But most of all, she wanted to escape the feeling of having to pretend like she 4
was completely normal when in truth, she had a watch ticking in her pockets and broken gears in her head that were overworked from unanswered questions. Earlier that evening, she had bought the train ticket heading for the last destination of the night, which happened to be in a small town in Massachusetts. Farrah didn’t think she’d be there for more than a month. She wanted to be free in the breeze, soaring like a crow through the gusts of wind, not tied down by her ankle with spidery roots that attached her to the ground. But the roots weren’t her overbearing family, and they weren’t the unanswered questions she grumbled to herself constantly. It was the watch, and she would be rid of it by the end of the night. When Farrah had been younger, when her cheeks still flushed a pink that came from elation instead of makeup she bought at the dusty department store that always had Christmas lights and plastic sleighs in their windows even in the balmy days of summer, she had adored the ticking clock in her pocket. She would twirl the braids tied with rose-colored bows around her finger as she poured over the words of stories about other girls like her who had some sort of ability to see forward in time. She had cherished the words of the stories,
glowing at the privilege she felt over owning the watch. Only now did she know that it was nothing but a curse. A shining gemstone that had one purpose and that was to lure her in with temptation and distraction. That’s when she heard it. The screech of wheels as the train rumbled down the tracks. This was her one opportunity and she would not waste it. She snapped her head sideways to look towards the upcoming train and grasped the watch within her pockets. For a single moment, doubt rushed through Farrah’s head as she tugged the battered watch from her pocket. Her hazel eyes flashed with uncertainty as she stared down at the tick marks of the clock. But when her eyes focused on the swirling letters of her name, her hesitation dissipated. She was more than a name and bolded numbers on the face of a clock. As the train drew closer to the station, Farrah outstretched her arm and tossed the pocket watch onto the train tracks that were already covered with discarded cups filled with sickeningly sweet soda and fliers for some high school garage band’s concert that was apparently a failure of a show based on the amount that had been discarded. She grimaced as the rush of the train blew wind in her face, brushing back her black hair from her shoulders, and as the small pocket watch
“Sunset Bridge,” Photograph by Blue Serendipity
was crushed beneath the spinning wheels. With the crushing of the glass, Farrah felt like the roots that wrapped around her ankle slowly began to be sliced through and she was finally able
to move again. With a slow breath, Farrah squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to imagine rewinding a film back to the zero second mark, before stepping forward into the opening doors of the train car, the rush of
musty air hitting her face. Rootless and free, without broken gears whirring in her head, without the tick of the clock echoing in her ears.
“Frozen Temple,” Manga by Aya Hatashima (Read from right ro left)
Over Sheltered
By Wine Merchant A little Girl sat in the corner of the house with her feet towards the fire, which burned steadily in the hearth, but the brown curly head was turned towards the window. Her dark eyes wide as she took in the white specks of snow blowing against the muted gray sky, her hands gripping the soft satin of her white dress. Oh, how she longed to go outside. But Mama said no.
She watched as the gray sky transformed into a blinding light at stuttering beats, only acknowledging the smooth glow of the embers that burned next to her briefly. Her small, soft childish fingers clenched the smooth material of her dress in frustration. Oh, how she wanted to see what was going on outside. But, Mama had said no. Suddenly a gust of wind blew into the house, past the flames which stammered at the intrusion, and over to the
corner where the brown-haired Girl sat. Goosebumps trailed her arms as her head whipped away from the windowsill to investigate where the wind had come from. She quietly stood up, her bare feet creaking on the rough wood flooring, as she padded over to the source of the wind. A sliver of light peeped from a door which hadn’t been fully shut, and when the Girl put her hand up against the crack of light, she shivered from the cold it blew in it. Oh, how she wanted to go outside. 5
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Her tiny legs screamed for redemption in the fields of the cool snow. She glanced in reluctance back at the tiny house, to where the fire crackled softly and the corner awaited her. Mama didn’t have to know. A new sense of eagerness filled her as a small smile spread upon the little Girl’s face as she pattered over to a thin, weary coat which laid like a mat on the floor, and she scooped it up, shrugging it over her thin, cap-sleeved shoulders and buttoning it the way Papa taught her too. Turn it sideways, slip the coin into the loop, and turn it back around. Her little fingers shivered in anticipation as she struggled to finish all of her buttons. And when they were all buttoned up, the round black disks running down her coat, she slid her feet into her cracked black Mary Janes and bounded up to the door. Her tiny body wiggled through the crack in the door and with one last squirm, she was pushed into the icy snow. Mama wasn’t going to know. The Girl shoved her hands into the white powder, letting loose a small giggle as she felt the cold nip at her fingers. She dug for a bit, her childish imagination making her believe a world of snow fairies rested under the thick blankets of snow. Then, once she had been convinced they lived over the hill, she dug her Mary Janes into the snow, before pushing herself up the mountain, only pausing briefly to listen to the small voice that echoed in her ear. Mama said never to leave from the entrance of the house. But, the Girl deemed it insignificant as she dreamed of the little fairies who welcomed her and danced around her, sprinkling their sparkling dust everywhere. So, with her curls bouncing with every step, she climbed the hill. It was no small hill, she realized soon enough, and her tiny feet would have trouble sticking to the ground for too long. But her determination was too great as she pushed along, only taking
small breaks to catch her breath. Small puffs of air escaped her small mouth and snowflakes tangled into the curls as she trudged up the hill. Suddenly, when she was about three-fourths up the hill, the Girl caught sight of something crumpled in the snow. Perhaps the fairies gave her a gift, the Girl surmised as she picked it up. But as she took a longer look at it, the jacket nagged a familiar memory in her mind. As her dry and cold-bitten fingers ran over the coarse material of the blue jacket, she could remember snippets and snippets of it. Something to do with a song about birds. Ah. The birds were what fairies rode on, the Girl concluded with finality, which was why she was remembering those things. So, with a shrug she continued to bind up the hill, only to be stopped once more by a smudge of colorful berries she found in the snow. It was a crimson red stain and gave off a strange metallic smell, nothing like any berry the Girl had ever tasted. Definitely not like any berry she’d ever tasted, perhaps they were around here, somewhere. Then, a reminder came into her mind. Mama said not to eat just anything you see. Well, Mama wasn’t here. The Girl huffed to herself as she
continued up the snowy hill, the whiteness glowing more and more by the second until she reached the top. Her eyes opened wide to take in the long trees swaying in the snowfall, their leaves drooping in the center to cover the little groups of fairies huddled under them. Their tiny bodies swathed in enchanted silk, their wings fluttered as they whizzed around to prepare a meal for their new guest. Toadstools of all different colors huddled below them and were lined with cakes and pies galore, topped with the juicy red berries which she could only assume she saw from before. And birds whistled as fairies mounted their blue feathery backs, only to return with their arms laden with fruits. Oh, how the Girl wished that was what she saw. But her tiny clenched hands dropped the jacket noiselessly into the snow as she really stared at the scene before. No berries stained the snow before her, but rather blood as bodies laid in the snow. So many, she couldn’t count, littering the field with their arms or heads lost and their flesh weeping blood. Their clothes slashed or stripped, and their shoes missing, but most importantly, their eyes blank. The bodies stared up at the sky with
“A Foggy Winter Night,” Photograph by Andromeda
glassy eyes, unblinkingly, and their pale lips parted slightly. The pungent smell was smaller and the Girl could only stare at the bodies as the blood crystallized and the snow fell steadily, covering them like a thin shroud. She didn’t know what to do as she glanced at the jacket that laid by her feet. How she wished she had listened to Mama. To Mama. Mama. A darkness enveloped as a soothing voice echoed in her ear. It was Mama! And she was speaking softly to the Girl, telling her to listen to the directions. Oh, but it was so hard to hear with all yelling and fireworks. But what was she telling the Girl? Ah, yes. To not eat anything she just
Chrismukkah
saw. To never move too far from the house. And to never go outside. But there was one more and she wished the fireworks would at least quiet for a second so she could hear her Mama and Papa. But then, they finally quieted and the Girl was able to feel the rough material of Papa’s jacket in the darkness as her Mama and Papa curled around her and sung her quietly to sleep, singing the Girl’s favorite song: Oh how the birds whistle in the trees while they await a fairy, big and strong And that fairy will take them away, and do them no wrong Because fairies are angels for children
and little birds They put them to sleep with kisses and humbled words. After that, there were only two more fireworks and everything was silent. The darkness faded away and the Girl stood in the jacket, now feeling a bit tight on her as she took in the massacre which painted the field in an ugly red. Her face was no longer bright and round, but long and dark as if a shadow had passed over her face. She stooped down to pluck the jacket off the ground, clutching it to her chest, and a single tear ran down her cheek as she realized she stood alone on top of the hill. Ruler of the blood and bodies of her people, of her parents. Not a fairy in sight. “Happy Holidays,” Photograph by Anonymous
By Eos
Stockings lined up by the fireplace A menorah on the kitchen counter, candles aglow Boxes of Christmas cookies artfully stacked by the window sill A completed game of dreidel in the living room, Foil wrappers of gelt left behind Their golden tint illuminated By the lights of a plastic 3-foot tall Christmas tree. Here, both Christmas and Hanukkah are celebrated A Jewish mother and a Christian father, No questions asked or eyebrows raised Within the parameters of their gingerbread home Dotted with jelly-filled sufganiyot. Here, the holidays and their respective cultures meld together Like the chocolate bars stirred in a pot, That as if by way of a magical spell Emerge as steaming mugs of hot chocolate. Here, I am content to celebrate both Christmas and Hanukkah, Knowing that not all gingerbread houses are made the same. Here, is home.
“Skiing,” Photograph by The Calico Cat
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Background Character
“Mystery,” Illustration by Idunn
By Stella
My name is Stella, I’m an NPC, my name is Stella, I’m an NPC I repeat the words again and the protagonist looks away, so I lower my head and observe from the sidelines She glances my way, but turns her face, laughing in the opposite direction Without me. I’m like a paper bag in the wind, blown one way and Tumbles all around, the trash that they don’t look at I tug on his sleeve, but he pulls the burgundy away and I Watch as he disappears into his friends, a glass wall separating us Why am I not allowed to speak my own words but I Sit here asking you to complete the quest programmed for me If the protagonist comes back, I’ll break my chains and say My real quest is for you to free me from this role.
“Peachy Keen,” Illustration by Stella
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Squirtle Squad By Tom Nguyen
Smash Bros Ultimate: Pokemon Trainer is back! Hashtag Squirtle Squad
Princess Peach By Eos Pink gown swirling by I unleash a battle cry The end game is nigh
“Poor Yoshi,” Illustration by Idunn
The Santa Boycott By Blue Serendipity
December was the busiest time of the year in the North Pole. Elves were rushing around with piles of presents and supplies. Elves were busy, tucked inside the workshop creating toys and knick-knacks. Elves were chattering and gossiping as they cut paper and ribbons. The scent of gingerbread and peppermint lulled the reindeer to sleep as the elves prepared Santa’s sleigh. This year, however, things were different. December 1st came and went silently. At first, the elves thought that it was just a slow year, that things would pick up the next day. A week later, however, the North Pole was still silent. Santa lumbered into the workshop, completely bewildered. “Why are there no presents being made?” he asked in his booming, loud voice. All the elves jumped and turned their attention to the old man. Santa towered over all the elves by a good three feet, his white fluffy beard already half the size of one elf. “Sir, there’s been an ah... interesting development lately,” said the elf in charge of the Naughty List. Santa stared at him expectantly. “Well, there’s been a rumor going around and that rumor became a joke and that joke became a meme and-” “A meme?” Santa asked, raising a bushy white eyebrow. “It’s a type of... never mind,” sighed the elf, knowing that they’d be there forever if he explained the point of memes to Santa. “So, the meme caught some attention and that rumor-turned-joke-turned-meme became a movement. They call it the Santa Boycott, sir.” “Santa Boycott?” Santa gasped incredulously. “What? Why?” The elves all looked at each other uncomfortably. “They believe that we, the elves, are not being treated fairly,” said one of the elves nervously. There was a brief moment of silence as Santa processed those words. How could the elves possibly not be treated correctly? “Well, we need to get the message out that you all are treated correctly, right?” Santa asked, stroking his beard. The elves all glanced at each other before an elf spoke up slyly. “I mean, we’d be treated even better if we had more break rooms.” “Or bigger houses!” chimed another, their eyes lighting up. Everyone burst into chatter, each one coming up with more ideas. The poor old man was having trouble keeping track of every request and was quickly overwhelmed. “Oh! What about healthcare? I heard humans love that!” “And— And wifi! Whatever that is.” “What about retirement? Don’t expect us to work until we’re aboutta drop dead!”
“But you elves live forever,” pointed out Santa in confusion. They all slowly went quiet and Santa started listing more minor details the elves had overlooked. “You all work only one month a year and are given individual living spaces.” “He’s got a point,” an elf mumbled with a frown. Santa couldn’t blame them for wanting more, however. They did most of the work in the North Pole, and he wanted to make sure that they knew they were appreciated. At the moment, Santa was more focused on making sure they all kept their jobs. “Well, I guess I could grant a couple of your wishes, as Christmas presents,” said Santa thoughtfully. It’d definitely get people to realize the elves were treated well and bring back some good publicity on the North Pole. Plus, he couldn’t run a workshop if his workers were unwilling. The elves cheered, and he quickly realized things could quickly get out of hand. “Wifi!” “Healthcare!” “Bigger houses!” “Better food!” “Excuse me?” asked a female voice from behind Santa. All the elves immediately flinched and looked sheepish. Mrs. Claus walked into sight and eyed all the little workers with hands on her hips. “Did you just insult my cooking?!” No one in the North Pole would be receiving presents that year.
“Red Christmas,” Photograph by Eos
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“Cross my Heart,” Photograph by Eos
Time
By Andromeda I see my curtains closing It’s the eleventh hour And I know, I know There’s things left unfinished Words left unsettled Promises coming undone And if I could I would cry I would rage I would burn Trying to melt the ice Creeping into my weary soul And if I had time Oh, how I wish I had time But I know, I know I will take solace In the sweet clarity Of soundless snow
Christmas By S.B. Old snow turned ice, a mirror. In my reflection, I see a familiar face: It’s concealing fear. Or delight? Reconnected to my past, I look yet deeper. My form becomes slight. Sight, sound, smell, all from a younger me. An effervescent melody rings. Eighth notes, then triplets. Golden decorations on a tree A scintillating sparkle, And the smell of a cooking turkey. And the memory folds around me. It wraps me, a blanket, It emits an emollient warmth As I walk through the snow. 10
“Winter Steps,” Photograph by Yellow Seesaw
“Ridley,” Illustration by HEHEHEH I AM A SUPAH STAR WARRIAH
White Box By Stella
I stopped counting. I’ve been trapped in this endless white world for so long, I’ve forgotten who I am. I’m just a number now, like everyone else here. #0308 to be exact. But today was different. I woke up in a hospital bed, my heart beating faster than before. An IV tube connected my arm to a monitor that gave consistent green waves. I looked around. Where the hell was I? I tore the IV out of my arm and pushed myself off the medical bed. No one was here, no one was coming. I looked around at the empty room. It wasn’t much different from what I had known, excluding the fact that it was bright and lit up with colorful decorations. What was that glass pane? I glanced outside and my jaw dropped with amazement. It was blue outside, with all sorts of other colors. A glowing yellow ball of light was settled high up in the endless blue. After minutes of staring, I tore By The Midnight Raven myself away and wandered out of the room. It was empty, which felt strange. Usually, #0211 was on The mask is made of indigo felt and black lace, the fabric my right and #1017 was on her right. We would walk in a line down the clean white hallways. I stumbled outside the fading from years of use. building and ended up on some green prickly patch next The gray eyes beneath it shine with an emptiness that the to a rough, gray road. Colored things sped by on wheels. mask can’t conceal. They were all different shapes and sizes. There was a sort She’s worn the mask for so long she doesn’t know what of familiar light from each of them. she is without it. It occurred to me that perhaps this wasn’t real. It was way She has hidden behind the role she was meant to play until too colorful. The world I knew was just a myriad of black she wasn’t acting anymore. and white. Mostly white. To have this much color must be The mask conceals who she truly is and allows her to a dream of sorts. morph into the person that society wants her to be. A light. I followed a light here, I remembered. I stepped The mask silences any words of defiance that wish to out onto the asphalt. Maybe if I walked towards the light, disperse from her strawberry-colored lips. I’d find my way out of here. I’d wake up in my plain white The mask makes her into a porcelain doll, prim and perfect, bed again and whisper to #0211 and #1017 before the exwith frilly lace dresses and pale, slowly blinking eyes. periments began again. When she used to take the mask off, she was everything In a daze, I walked out into the street with gray pebbles. she wishes to hide, everything she truly is. The light came closer to me and I closed my eyes. There But the mask has erased her true personality, and when she were noises all around me, but the only thing I could hear takes the mask off she is as empty as her unadorned face. was my heartbeat. Then, the world went white again. So she keeps the mask tied around her head with violet The woman with flowing hair in waves leaned back on ribbons, and lurks behind the image it places on her. her chair, glancing at the girl who laid on the medical bed She keeps dwelling in this haze of pretend and remains beside her. She pushed up her oval glasses and reread the there. results. Sighing in defeat, she pushed the red button labeled She stays until it’s no longer a fantasy, but reality. “Disable” and heard the girl’s breathing slow again. The woman carefully removed the girl’s headset and replaced it on the shelf. She’d let the girl sleep. Winter As she left the room, the pink-haired woman looked over By The Calico Cat the papers again. The same trial repeated a hundred and A blanket of snow, four times all ended in the same result. The woman threw so pristine and delicate down the papers and peeked at the sleeping girl again. By morning it’s gone Maybe she’d never wake up.
The Mask
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Look
Pathway By Eos
By Ithuriel She walks down the street, neck wilted, intently staring at the glare of a screen penetrating her eyes. She thinks, “it’s a sad life.”
Searching for a route In the cold night I see The lights that guide me.
She walks past an old man. He walks down the street, back hunched, overworked, too poor to afford a phone. But he looks up through kind, twinkling eyes and sees glowing candles in windows and trees blinking brilliantly. He says to himself, “how lucky i am to be alive right now.”
“Sunset,” Photograph by Anonymouss
Winter Lights By Andromeda
When I was a child I watched the stars Amongst the fields of snow As my father and mother Burnt the midnight oil In the place I once loved
December Silence By Tom Nguyen The eerie silence Of snowfall in December The North remembers
I see it still As I lay down to sleep In the window In my dreams In all the city lights Painted on the skyline I’m getting tired So let’s retrace this path Like the back of our hands And begin again Amongst the stars Basking in the winter starlight 12
“Bran Remembers,” Illustration by Idunn
The Right Direction By Ithuriel 8 steps till I’m there 7 snowflakes in my hair 6 breath puffs linger 5 frozen fingers 4 feet in clomping boots 3 seconds before BOOM 2 blinking eyes 1 hug that tells no lies
“Winter Wonderland,” Photograph by The Calico Cat
Behind The Monitors
By The Midnight Raven Elias Vermillion’s entire existence was spent behind his computer monitor. Hour after hour, the sound of dripping water from a small leak in the ceiling and the constant rhythm of a tapping pencil over and over again filled his mind. But then, she made her first poster. Then, he had something else to live for that wasn’t just behind the fuzzy light of his screen. Elias Vermillion had never wanted this job, but his father worked in the monitoring office and had told Elias since he was young that this job would be his when he turned 16. Elias had always assumed he had been lying. God, he really
wished he had been lying. The day Elias had first seen the girl, only a year younger than him, with her short black hair with electric purple tips and her confident, passionate eyes, Elias had become completely enthralled. Instead of staring blankly at the monitors in front of him, he began to immerse himself in the girl’s life. Addelyn was her name, and Elias pored over her actions like it was a story where each chapter ended with a cliffhanger and he needed to see what happened next. But each poster Addelyn made, the more disgusted Elias became with himself. He stopped taking notes on what happened to the other people he was assigned to watch, and he turned off all the monitors but hers. It was his own protest, a protest against himself. No one else who
Me vs. My Classmates By Même
Alright, let’s say you go to a regular high school. Somewhere other than Churchill because we all know that is most definitely NOT a normal school. You’re living your high school life peacefully, and then that one person decides to show everyone in the grade up. Not that I’m blaming anyone for anything, but for that one overachiever: WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS? I’m over here stuffing fries into my mouth while they are designing NASA’s next rocket. Okay, that may be an over-exaggeration, but still. They do sports, volunteering, are a student leader for clubs and organizations inside and outside of school, and get straight A’s. And on top of all of that, they get 8 hours of sleep. Like what the hell? I’m over here not doing any sports, student leader of one club, not getting straight A’s, and I never get eight hours of sleep. What kind of alien does a million different things and still has the time to sleep? Because of them, I have to act like my life isn’t falling apart. It’s wistful thinking, but maybe, just maybe, those overachieving students are hot messes just like the rest of us. worked behind the wall noticed Elias’s lack of work, and if they did, they would never mention it; his father would wipe their desk of all its contents if they did. He had done worse in the past. Elias always nudged himself to turn off Addelyn’s monitor too, she deserved as much. But Elias never did. Each day before he had laid eyes on her had been a faded blur of insignificance. No one he had ever met or seen before was anything like the girl who lay before him on the computer screens. He couldn’t bear to tear himself away. His father, his monster of a father, had destroyed her. Destroyed the last songbird that still cascaded on feathered wings through the sky. He had taken her spirit, her memories, her personality and stomped on them with
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the heel of his boot. Elias felt his heart crack within his chest as he watched his beastly father take an unconscious Addelyn back to the city. Leaving the ripped pieces of the poster and the girl he had once known behind him, taking the altered version of her that was pleasing to his standards with him. Elias raked his pale fingers through his uncombed hazel hair, his emerald eyes flashing to different projections of the monitor. He was nothing without the hope that Addelyn had caused to bloom within his heart. He had to save her, he had to save himself. With a lurch, Elias bolted upwards and sprinted towards the door of his tiny, windowless office, but then he paused. Elias slowly turned back to look at the wall of computer monitors, 14 in total, only one of them turned on. Elias inched towards them and rested his hand on the screens. Then with a flash of motion, Elias Vermillion ripped all of the wires of the screen from the single socket they all connected to, severing his connection to Addelyn. This activism was a small thread in a massive quilt that was forming around his eyes, and the next stitch lay just outside his office door. On the other side of the wall. As Elias sprinted towards the city, Elias reminisced about when he was younger, when he was content with himself. He used to believe that working for the monitoring department was a privilege, and he was lucky to even have had the chance at that opportunity. But Addelyn had opened the blinds to the reality of the world, and what lay beyond the window pane was fogged, murky and silent. The way his father had always wanted it to be. As Elias’s legs pumped up and down and sweat lined his brow from exerting himself, a thought brushed through his mind. He imagined Addelyn hanging up her posters, and he was there to help her tape them to the stone of the wall. But when he noticed what was depicted on the posters, he froze, his hand that had a piece of electric blue
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tape stopping in its awkward position. There he was, sitting in front of the glistening screen of his monitor, his viridescent eyes filled with a crazed hunger as he examined what lay on the screens. Elias blinked and shook away the thoughts. He wasn’t a villain, he was someone who had been thrust into a life of villainy, kicking and screaming the entire time. But he had broken away, and he prayed that made him more a hero than the monster he believed himself to be. Elias grew closer to the city and when he finally reached the pavement streets, he slowed his pace. Elias looked sideways into the glass window of a store and grimaced at his flushed cheeks and mussed hair. But Elias kept moving forward. He trailed the streets, marveling at the fact that he was here, a place where Addelyn had once walked, a place where he could finally meet her in person. He could imagine the extent the violet color of the tips of her hair reached and what it was truly like to hear her confident voice that echoed in his ears constantly. When Elias looked to the side, he noticed that he stood next to the coffee shop that Addelyn came to nearly every day. Elias had always wondered what the flowery tea she often ordered tasted like. Elias closed his eyes for a moment and just breathed in the fresh air that wasn’t musty from the aged carpeting of his office floor, and let beams of sunlight trace over his back. He hadn’t felt this free in his entire life, and he never wanted to let that feeling go. But when Elias allowed his eyes to flicker open, he sucked in his cheeks in shock and stared ahead, his eyes frantic as he saw her. Addelyn, his final hope, sitting at a back table of the coffee shop, scribbling on a poster. But the words weren’t to protest the wall, in fact, they were the opposite. “Come support our fundraiser to give back to the workers within the wall!” it stated in large, swooping letters. But what truly
crushed him was the sentence that lay at the bottom of the page. “We owe them our gratitude for creating a perfect life for the wall’s inhabitants!” All the color drained from Elias’s face. Instead of erasing her past memories of her activism, his father had altered her entire personality for his own gain. Elias’s heart raced within his chest, the rhythm resembling that of a small child banging on the drums for the first time. Sporadic and uneven. He needed to fix this. Elias stepped forward into the coffee shop, and a small bell jingled as the door swung open. Addelyn looked upwards at the sound and squinted in confusion as Elias stepped towards her and glued his gaze onto the poster on the table. “Um...do I know you?” Addelyn asked slowly as Elias meandered his way right in front of her chair. Elias jerked his eyes away from the poster and met her sparkling, brown ones. Elias noticed that she had washed away the amethyst color from her hair. “No, but you will. I’m going to save you, alright? Save you from this haze he’s created. I promise you,” Elias whispered in response. In his mind, his thoughts whirred back to the times when he had stood by and watched his father tear her posters into dozens of shredded, decimated pieces. Elias wished he could go back and snatch Addelyn’s work back from his father’s hands. But more than anything, he wished he could’ve gone back and smashed every shard of glass that he looked through when he was behind the monitors. “Skitty,” Illustration by Celia Bowen
The Building on 66th Street Part 3 By Andromeda
Ariana The day we found out my father died had been a day like any other. I had just gotten back from cheerleading practice. My mother was in the living room, comparing prints for the new carpet, when suddenly the phone rang. She picked it up, nodded a few times. “Yes… yes…I understand,” she said, her expression frozen, unreadable. Then she calmly put the phone down and said, “Something has happened to your father.” On the way to the hospital she was silent. I asked her, “What was happening? Was Dad okay? Was he hurt?” She never spoke a word. When we got to the hospital, I had begun to panic. Why wasn’t she saying anything? What had happened?! Then the doctor came out, and told me my father had died. It appeared to be suicide. And he hadn’t been alone when it happened. The following weeks were chaos. Phone call after phone call came in offering condolences and apologies. Neighbors arrived with cakes and pies at our doorstep muttering, “Oh what a terrible, terrible tragedy.” My mother was ever the dutiful widow, heartbroken yet kind. She smiled when they asked how she was do-
ing, and accepted the gifts with warm thank-you’s and other caring words. No one knew about the other woman of course. If she had ever existed, it was unbeknownst to me. Her face was wiped from all the news stories, and if you asked where my father’s body was found, it was not at some woman’s apartment, it was in his office. A sudden heart attack. How tragic. I stare at the reflection in my bedroom mirror. I’m wearing a fashionable black dress, and my hair is pulled into a neat bun atop my head. My makeup is flawless, and there is a careful smile painted on my face, just like my mother’s. However, if I stare at my eyes long enough I realize they are hollow, empty inside, two lifeless orbs peering back at me. I pull my hair out of its neat bun. Downstairs the funeral reception is in swing, and chattering voices carry themselves all the way up to my room. No one will notice I’m missing. I hold up the pair of scissors to my hair. Snip. When I think of my father, I don’t remember someone who was ever very active in my life. In fact, I’d say he ignored me most of it, always too busy to play, to come to my piano recitals, to check my report cards, to tuck me in at night. Snip, snip. I tried so, so hard to please him. To do the right thing. I got straight A’s, was captain of the cheerleading squad, ran track, ran for student body president. Not that he ever noticed. But I
was a Walston, regardless it was expected of me. Snip, snip, snip. And no matter what my problems were with my father, we were family. My mother may have liked to pretend otherwise, but it was true. You can’t just sweep family under the rug, pretend what happened never happened, and play the grieving widow only when it’s convenient. Snip, snip, snip. My brother didn’t even show up to the funeral. Snip. I take a shaky breath and smooth my hand over my shorn hair. Parts of it are uneven and chunky, but it feels like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. With the first, somewhat, real smile I’ve had in a long time, I make my way downstairs. Aaron and Kate are standing next to the fruitcake, laughing when I make my way over to them. Aaron has been my boyfriend since freshman year, and friends since we were kids. Kate, I’ve known even longer than Aaron. “Hey...” Both of them look over at me, their faces shocked. “Whoa,” exclaims Aaron, “what happened to your hair??” “Oh my god, you’ve cut off so much of it!” “I just needed a change,” I explain, and tug on one uneven lock in front of my face, “I just really needed it.” Aaron wraps an arm around my shoulder, and pulls me towards him. “Well, you still look great either way babe, even
though you also look like you just got out of a life or death fight with a weed wacker,” he laughs. “Yeah, it’s certainly… a look,” says Kate, eyeing me up and down, “but what will your mom say?” I snort. “Like it matters.” Just as I say that, my mother enters the room. Her gaze finds me and her expression contorts into an equal amount of anger and shock. She quickly smooths her face over, but her hard eyes betray her true feelings. “Ariana, dear,” she says, her voice icey, “won’t you please come with me. Now.” I paint a smile across my face. “Of course, mother.” She drags me into one of the many empty rooms of the house, and glares at me. “What the hell did you do to your hair, you look like an absolute moron, are you trying to embarass me?” “Of course not, but you know how much this funeral has affected me, it’s just been so hard….” “Cut the act,” she snaps. “What am I going to do with you, why do you insist on doing these things?” The smile on my face sours. “Well, maybe if some of us could actually grieve and stop pretending to be okay with everything, we wouldn’t feel the need to ‘embarrass you,’ as you put it.” Her lips purse, and she folds her slender arms Continued on Next Page
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across her chest. “Get out, out of the house and don’t come back until you’ve done something about that rat’s nest on your head.” I walk outside my house for what feels like hours, not sure where I’m going, or where my feet may be taking me. Inside my chest the beating of my heart feels numb, and I don’t even notice when it starts to rain until I’m cold and shivering. When I finally look up to see where I am, I’m standing in front of a single red door. The bells jingle when I enter. I look around the room curiously, my wet feet leaving tracks on the dusty floor. I find myself shivering even harder in the cold shop, but steel myself and straighten my back when I see someone behind the counter. The woman is old, with wrinkles covering seemingly every inch of her skin, and she is wearing long, colorful clothes. “What can I do for you, girl?” she asks in a raspy voice. “What kind of shop is this?” The woman’s smile is toothless, and my eyes narrow. “A shop of odds and ends…” My gaze travels about the shop, and there’s this odd feeling in my stomach, like there’s something sinister here, something not quite right. The feeling interests me. “Who are you? Can you help me?” “Maybe,” she says, “and I think you can help me as well.” Suddenly she disappears 16
behind the curtains of the counter and returns with a large book, the title on the cover reading GRIMOIRE in intricate gold lettering. As I stare at the book, I can’t help but feel hopelessly drawn to it. My hands trace over the cover in fascination. “This, my dear, is a book of spells, witchcraft. All you have to do is have someone open the book, or write down their name with a piece of them attached, and they will receive the punishment most fitting for their sins.” “How much do I owe you?” I ask, unable to tear my eyes away from the book. The woman rustles beneath the counter. “Pick a card.” The card I chose has the portrait of an upside down king, holding a staff and wearing a crown. “The emperor card,” I say. She smiles. “Yes, it is….” I smile back. “May I have a bag for the book? It’s raining so hard outside….” “Of course. Oh, and girl, remember there are no refunds.” I look back at her. “I know.” When I return home, at first my mother won’t let me back in the house, but once she sees I refuse to leave the porch, eventually she lets me in. She doesn’t want the neighbors to see her daughter standing outside her house looking like a drowned rat. I wash all the runny makeup off my face and change into a warm pair of clothes. I then walk over
to my mother’s room, and knock on the door. Knock, knock, knock. “Come in.” My mother is sitting at the vanity in her evening robe, her long, dark hair in a pool behind her head as she stares at her reflection and takes off her earrings. I pick up the brush on the vanity and sit behind her, beginning to brush her hair like I did when I was a girl. “Ariana, what am I going to do with you?” she sighs. “Are you in some sort of rebellious phase? Is that what this is?” “I’m sorry if what I did offended you.” She hmphs and opens one of the boxes around her. “I received this from one of my old boyfriends today. Isn’t it beautiful?” she says, holding up a pair of elegant white pearls. “I haven’t spoken to him in so long… these are all the way from Africa, you know?” “They’re gorgeous,” I say, then I brush her hair for a few more minutes and leave the room. I take one of my mother’s hair strands and tape it
down in the book, signing her name in black ink. I take a deep breath, and then there’s silence. In the other room there’s a sudden scream, and I rush out to find my mother’s body convulsing on the floor, her hands around her neck. Her face turns purple and then suddenly she goes perfectly still, hands going lax. On her is the pearl necklace, gleaming by the light of the chandeliers, pulled tightly against her bruised throat. I stare down at her body and I can’t help but feel a smile tug at the corners of my mouth. I wonder what else I could do.
To Be Concluded...
“Earth 45617,” Illustration by Fe