February 2019
Midnight Writers
Table of Contents
Cover: “Beauty of Music,” a photograph by Andromeda Merchant “A Beam of Light,” an illustration by Andromeda This Page: “Bear with Me,” an illustration by Celia Bowen Page 11: “The Theater,” a story by Eos Page 3: Ask Aphro & Dite
• A dear friend asks for advice on helping a friend to love • Eris asks why she was not invited to Aeneas’s wedding
Beyond the Gloss
• Eos gives her perspective on love and relationships
Andromeda’s Introspective Odyssey
• Andromeda discusses the meaning of love
Page 4:
“Ego,” a story by Blue Serendipity “Snowflake,” a haiku by Eos “Snowy Forest,” a photograph by Andromeda
Page 5:
“Orange Sunrise,” a story by Calliope
Page 6:
“Orange Sunrise,” continued “Paint in the Sky,” a photograph by The Calico Cat
Page 7:
“Orange Sunrise,” continued “Tacenda,” a poem by Andromeda “A Cat in Maryland,” a haiku by Andromeda “Broken Promises,” a haiku by Jojo Queen “So Meow-gical,” a photograph by Andromeda
Page 8:
“JohnLock: A Wonderful Friendship (Only),” an opinion piece by Idunn “Holmes X Watson: Meant to Be,” an opinion piece by Eos
Page 9:
“He Will Be Back,” a story by The Midnight Raven “A Sweet Valentine’s Day,” a photograph by Andromeda
Page 10:
“Night and Day,” a poem by S.B. “Far Far Away,” a poem by Andromeda “A Match Made in the Heavens (Writing),” a story by Wine
Page 12:
“The Theater,” continued “A Match Made in the Heavens (Art),” an illustration by Wine Merchant “Angel,” a manga by Aya Hatashima
Page 13:
“Laurens and Hamilton,” a story by The Midnight Raven
Page 14:
“Laurens and Hamilton,” continued “Moon and Sun,” a poem by Eos “A Sunday Afternoon,” a photograph by Andromeda
Page 15:
“DDLC Fanfiction,” a story by Anon “Moonlit Romance,” an illustration by Andromeda
Page 16:
“24th Century Boy,” a poem by Eos “Puppy Love,” a photograph by Anonymous “Shipping in My Hero Academia,” a haiku by Tom Nguyen “A Beginning,” a poem by Kayden “My Daily Routine,” a haiku by Jojo Queen “Late Nights,” a haiku by Yellow Seesaw “Rain,” an illustration by Mars “Awakening,” a photograph by The Calico Cat
Page 17:
“The Building on 66th Street Part 5,” a story by Andromeda
Page 18:
“The Building on 66th Street Part 5,” continued “Pastries in Pink,” a photograph by Eos
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Ask Aphro & Dite
Dear Aphro, It’s Valentine’s month, but I have a crappy sarcastic friend who isn’t capable of loving. How can I heal her cold, dead heart? Yours, Your very own friend who may or not be writing to you <3 Dear Friend, Love is fickle, honey. No one’s incapable of love, some just choose to love different people or love them differently than others. Anyways, your choice of adjectives to describe this person makes me question that friendship. Hopefully those are being used affectionately or else this person who may or may not be me will be very angry. With love, Aphro Dear Dite, Why was I not informed of Aeneas’s wedding? All the other gods and goddesses were invited! Spitefully, Eris Oh Eris, The last time you found out about a wedding you weren’t invited to, you started up the Trojan War! There’s no way I’d let you even hear about any major wedding until after it had happened! Poor Paris, getting dragged into this mess. If it hadn’t been for you and your jealousy Paris wouldn’t have such a bad rep. After all, he made the only smart choice, choosing me as the best goddess in Olympus. Next time you decide to cause chaos within the gods, go for a competition that isn’t so blatantly obvious. With love, Dite
Beyond the Gloss
Ah, February: A month of love, chocolate, romantic comedies, and potential heartbreak all in one heart-shaped box. Hello Midnight Writers, and welcome to the February issue! To commemorate Valentine’s Day, in this column I’ll be talking about love with all the seasoned expertise of a 17-year old high schooler who has never actually been in a romantic relationship. From a young age, I’ve adored watching romantic comedies: Love Actually, 500 Days of Summer, Hitch, you name it and I’ve most likely seen it at some point in time. Thus, for a regrettably long period of time, I grew up believing that love in real life was like that of a classic romantic comedy; saccharine, perfect, typically involving a meet-cute between two annoyingly attractive young people that blossoms into romance in an abnormally short amount of time. With this utopian vision in an entirely un-utopian world, it is not surprising, then, that I was soon in for a rude awakening. In high school, I came to the striking realization that love in the real world is far from that of my romantic comedies. Now, instead of watching an adorable couple banter on-screen, on my way to math I was forced to walk by a variety of adolescent couples aggressively making out everyday in a public hallway. High school relationships seemed at once fleeting and terminal, a weak, lust-fueled impression of love. Although in high school I did not partake in such romantic escapades, I believe I have found love in an entirely different way: the love of my friends, my family, and even all of you wonderful Midnight Writers. And for now, that’s enough. I’ll keep waiting for the day when I meet the Harry to my Sally, but I don’t expect it to unfold in a perfect movie plot with the aforementioned meet-cute. For life is anything but perfect, and perhaps true beauty lies not in perfection but rather in imperfection, the beautiful flaws that make us human to the core. Enjoy the issue everyone, and see you next month!
Andromeda’s Introspective Odyssey
What is the real definition of love? That is the question I decided to ask myself. So many people have a different idea of what “real love” is. Some say it’s when you want to be with someone forever. When you constantly want to make yourself a better person for them. When you can’t imagine your life without that other person, and to a degree I think these theories are correct. However, I think love is more complicated than that. Because it’s an emotion, it’s hard to describe or quantify love, but most know when they really love someone and when they really don’t. Love can be hard. You can love someone but have no romantic feelings towards them. You can love someone like family, like a friend, and you can love someone and hate them too. Love isn’t always some idealized romantic comedy. Sometimes there’s a thin line between love and hate, and when it breaks you’re only left with pain. That is “real love,” just as much as any fairy tale.
Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Eos, Andromeda, Celia Bowen, Kayden, Aya Hatashima, The Calico Cat, Blue Serendipity and Idunn.
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Ego By Blue Serendipity His black hair was slicked back perfectly in his signature ponytail. His blue eyes were reflections of the sapphires embedded on the silver mirror in front of him. After he went and killed the wretched Beast, he’d mount the mirror in his own house and bring the rest of the riches with him. In fact, he should just take the castle for himself. He was certainly the best candidate for King. Who in their little French town could even compare with him? Well, there was Belle. She was almost as beautiful as he was, which meant she would be the only one decent enough for him. If only she wasn’t such an airhead and realized what an honor it was to be chosen as his future wife. Gaston admired himself in the mirror for a few more minutes before stalking up the stairs. After he killed the Beast, he can spend all the time he wanted in front of the mirror. The rest of the village was busy fighting the magical furniture in the Entrance Hall of the castle. He could hear the clattering and shouts from below. Of course, they’d be struggling without him there to save them all. When he walks down the stairs holding the Beast’s head by its unnatural horns, they’d cheer and call him a hero. “What a waste,” mumbled Gaston, kicking a stack of books across the faded carpets. One of the books opened up and revealed Belle’s blue ribbon tucked between the pages. Anger bubbled up inside him and he kicked the book again. It slid into the stair railings and fell down to the Entrance Hall. “Belle won’t need to waste her time with these silly things once she marries me. All she’ll have to do is cook my latest kill and rub my feet.” After all, what more could anyone want? Every woman in town swooned over him and his devastatingly handsome looks. Slowly, he arrived at a large set of double doors in the West Wing of the castle. Pushing the door open, he poked his head in and spotted a large black shadow sitting by the window. It was two times the size of himself and covered in a large mass of curly brown fur. Large horns protruded from the Beast’s head, a tail rested listlessly on the marble floor. Gaston whipped out his bow and strung his arrow. The Beast turned his head and looked at him before turning back to the window. Gaston grinned. Not only was the Beast more hideous than he, but the Beast was also a dimwit! Killing it would be as easy as killing a bear. The arrow pierced through the air with a sharp whistle and embedded itself right in the Beast’s broad back. It let out a ground-shaking roar and Gaston lunged at him, sending him back right through the window. Gaston laughed at the sight of the Beast tumbling onto the balcony. No one was as strong as he was, not even a Beast. It just simply 4
wasn’t possible. Glass crunched and cracked under his boots as he jumped through and kicked the Beast. It rolled down the castle roofs and onto a stone ledge. Something felt missing. The Beast wasn’t fighting back! Pathetic. It wouldn’t do it any good anyway, no one ever won against Gaston. Belle would never love something as hideous and weak as this Beast. Once Gaston killed the Beast, she’d come running toward him. They would get married and he’d be able to say the prettiest girl in town married him. After all, who wouldn’t marry him? Belle was just deluding herself into thinking she could resist him. “Get up!” Gaston yelled, kicking the Beast across the ledge. He laughed at the sight of its tattered red cloak and rain-soaked clothes. “What’s the matter, Beast? Too kind and gentle to fight back?” Gaston cackled and broke off a stone spike. It was time to finish off the Beast once and for all. He couldn’t wait to stake its head and mount it on top of his new mirror.
Snowflake By Eos Suspended above For one beautiful moment It drifts to the ground
“Snowy Forest,” Photograph by Andromeda
Orange Sunrise By Calliope You never know when the words that someone says will be their last to you. “Bye! See you tomorrow?” “I love you.” “I hate you.” Anything. Or nothing. You don’t know, or really care, until it is too late. That’s when you analyze those words, when you wonder what their last thought of you was. Were they mad at you? Were they happy? Heartbroken? Indifferent? I don’t know what she thought of me in the end. She may have hated me, she may have forgiven me. But, I’ll never know. Those answers burned with her in that dark house under a cloudy April sky. You never would have guessed what would happen that night. The air was warm and soft against my skin as I ambled down the street at her side. We laughed as we tripped over our own feet, arms linked, our skirts swishing against each other. I looked up at the slowly darkening clouds and the bright orange light shining through them. It was mesmerizing. The sharp light of the sun burst across the sky at the end of a perfect night. We stopped at a bench near my house and waited
for her to get picked up. I leaned in to her and rested my head on her shoulder. She turned to look at me, the orange light of the dying sun illuminating the wisps of hair that were flying free of her bun. For a short time, a blip of joy in the growing darkness, we were happy. But people judge what they see. They judge it harshly and without remorse. To stay above water, you must learn to hide in plain sight. You can’t give anything away, or you risk bringing your whole world crashing down. But that night, she didn’t want to hide. She was tired of it, she wanted to broadcast to the world that she loved me and I loved her. But I was afraid. Too afraid to show my love the way she showed hers. So when she leaned in to kiss me and I happened to see someone we knew passing by, I turned my face away from her. I didn’t turn quick enough to escape the hurt that flashed across her face. She saw me put my reputation above us. She watched the person walk past us, waving slightly as they did so, not realizing what they had just set off. As the person disappeared down the road, she started to shake, her heartbreak turning to burning rage. The sadness in her eyes rivaled the rising darkness in the evening sky above us and the tears that were threatening to spill from her gray eyes were the clouds, teetering on the edge of a thunderstorm. The words that we screamed and the accusations we hurtled under the
dark and threatening skies never mattered. In fact, I don’t remember most of them. I only remember the anguish in her eyes, and the crushing realization that this was something that I could never fix. As we argued, the clouds finally broke and the rain began to fall, mixing with the tears of anger and despair pouring from our eyes. I wanted it to stop so badly, I wanted to hold her hand and kiss her cheek and I wanted this to be buried from our memories. I was detached from my world as the rain and tears and words tumbled and slashed around us. I was not in this place anymore, I was teetering at the mouth of an unending gorge and I was seconds from falling. The rain fell harder as our words grew sharper and more deadly, feelings that we didn’t even know existed pouring from our mouths in a stream of emotion. We would have stayed, our words chaining us to that spot, for all eternity if not for the bright lights of a car. They broke through our argument and stopped us in our tracks. In an instant, she seemed to give up. Her head dropped, wet hair sticking to her face from the bun that had unraveled without either of us noticing it. She stepped away from me, her tears no longer falling down her face. She told me not to call her until I was ready to love her more than I loved myself. She promised that she would be waiting by the phone for that call. For a second I felt like I wouldn’t fall, like it would all be ok. I told her
that she did not need to wait, that she was the only one I loved, the only one that I would ever love. I told her that I would die for her, live for her, that she was my everything. At my declaration, she turned back to face me for the first time since her mom’s car had shown up. She looked so small, so tired of life as she spoke the last words I ever heard her say. “I don’t know if I can believe you anymore.” Then she stepped into that car and softly closed the door. As she drove away, I didn’t move a muscle, my eyes were fixed on the lights until they were too far away to see. Only then did I let myself fall apart. Her words were the edge of the cliff, and my heart was plummeting to the nothingness below. I fell to the ground, my skirt falling around me as I lay sobbing on the asphalt. The best thing in my life and I had just shoved it away, maybe forever. I clutched my stomach and bowed my head to the ground as the weight of what had happened crashed over me. After an eternity of lying on the cold pavement, I peeled myself up and began the trek home. It was dark and the rain had stopped by the time I stepped into my house. My clothes were plastered against my skin and my hair was slick against my face. My mascara was running from a combination of tears and rain, and my shoes had long since found their way off my feet and into my hand. I trudged up the steps 5
and into my bedroom. The house was sleeping, so there was nobody to talk to or any explanations necessary. I stripped my ruined clothing off and threw it into a corner while I blindly reached for my pajamas. I pulled on a pair of shorts and an old shirt and then I curled up in my bed. I reached for Lola, the stuffed bear that she had given me the previous Valentine’s Day, and switched off the light. Before I went to sleep I decided to try, just once, to get through to her. I turned my phone on, momentarily blinded by the light from the bright orange and gold background. “I still love you,” I texted her before lying back and sinking into a fitful sleep. I’ll never know if she read the text. A few hours later I was woken by faint but growing sirens and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Like a zombie, I got out of bed and walked down the stairs to the front door. As I saw yet another fire engine pass by my house, I knew that something was horribly wrong. Silently, I grabbed a set of keys and slipped out into the night. I drove to her house as fast as I could, hoping and praying that I was wrong. My prayers went unanswered as I drove up to her house and saw the leaping flames that were engulfing it. I mindlessly parked the car and stepped out towards the house. Even from that far away, sparks were still flying all around. I put a hand out as if to catch one, to preserve it, as I took another step towards the 6house. A fireman told me
to step back, that it wasn’t safe. I looked up at the rising flames, as mesmerized now by the colors as I had been in the sunset earlier that night. The words that the firemen spoke sounded far away and unimportant as I stood, stock still in the front yard of the house of the only girl I had ever loved. Someone said something about shock as I stood there, but it didn’t register. “Where is she?” I asked sleepily, my eyes unfocused as I started to truly take in the scene around me. I barely noticed the firemen looking at each other uncomfortably until one of them finally said, “There were no survivors.” I replied that that was impossible, she must have survived. Not surviving was never an option for us. We were going to finish high school and go to college together. We would get our degrees and then settle down with a nice house and a puppy and then get married. We were going to have a sunset wedding, on the beach. We had it all planned out. We would adopt a child and grow old together. We were going to sit side by side in our rocking chairs at age 90 and watch the sun go down. Watch the blue skies turn brilliant orange as we had so many evenings throughout the years. That was what would happen. There was no other option, there was no me without her, just like there was no her without me. Who would I sit with and watch the sunset with? I couldn’t do it without her. For the second time that
day, I wanted to crumple to the ground. But I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t fall, not this time. I stood, removed from the flames and the chaos, unthinking and unfeeling. The orange light of the leaping flames was a sick parody of the beautiful sunsets we had shared. A thousand memories flashed through my mind. The day we met, on my first day at school. She volunteered to show me around. The school was so much bigger than my old one and I was so lost. She took my hand and dragged me with her to all of our classes, a huge smile on her 7-year old face. Slowly, throughout that day, I began to smile as well. Our first class trip, we went to go see a movie outside in the evening. I saw her in the dying light
for the first time. There was a childish joy in her eyes and a halo of orange light around her as we skipped to our spots for the movie. All our firsts together, our first horrible grade, our first time driving, our first break ups, our realizations of who we loved. The first time we walked home from school by ourselves. Our first sleepover and our first fight. Our first kiss. We were in our freshman year of high school and she had come over to study. We ended up in the backyard sitting on the patio steps, our shoulders pressed against each other. She was going on about a book that she had recently read and all I could do was stare at her. The glow of the sun was dancing in her intelligent eyes and her auburn hair was
“Paint in the Sky,” Photograph by The Calico Cat
floating around her shoulders. She noticed me staring and she trailed off, smiling shyly. Then, like a scene from a movie, we both leaned forward, pressing our lips together tenderly. We leaned back after a second and I felt like a million pounds had been lifted from my shoulders. Our hands intertwined and I placed my head on her shoulder as we watched the sun set. Every memory and every moment of joy flashed before my eyes, the gold of the joy of the moment being replaced by a dark misery of loss and the smell of
smoke. Phrases like “horrible accident” and “such a tragedy” flew across the lawn in front of the now-smoldering wreckage. The paramedics pulled her body from the remains of her room and the first of many tears forced its way down my cheek. Her charred hand was gripping something, I noticed as I forced my way through the crowd to her. I knelt by her body and pried her lifeless hand open to see what she was holding. The first tear dripped from my eye as I realized that it was the gold necklace that I had gotten
Tacenda
By Andromeda “Tacenda” (n.) things to be left unsaid. Matters to be passed over in silence. I feel a constant need. A need to be near to them, dear to them, real to them. But more than anything, I feel a need to know they’re happy. And yet, I also need for their heart to ache, tears to break, and their hands to shake, at the fear of losing me. I feel a crushing need to be needed. But these needs must be left unfulfilled. These thoughts left unsaid. So my heart won’t ache, my tears won’t break, and my hands won’t shake, at the fear of losing them.
her for her birthday. It had a small sun pendant on it with a piece of orange crystal in the center because it reminded me of her. I took the necklace and held it against my heart as my shoulders shook with unshed tears. I brushed a bit of hair from her face as the paramedics began to pull me from her side. I fought back weakly, but soon they had me sitting away from her with a blanket pulled around my body and somebody there to block my line of vision so that I didn’t have to see her body. I realized how many hours had passed as I saw
the sun begin to come up. I didn’t want to think of a world where I had to watch a sunrise or a sunset knowing that she wasn’t doing the same. I winced with pain at the thought of her, a feeling that I would have to get used to and I reached up and clasped the necklace around my neck while swearing that I would never take it off. The morning sunrise was a bright orange and yellow, and I hated it. How could the day rise and fall without her in it. A world without her deserved only darkness.
A Cat in Maryland By Andromeda It is rainy out And there are no mice in sight What a dreary day
Broken Promises By Jojo Queen Why did you do this I put all my faith in you Now I trust no one 7 “So Meow-gical,” Photograph by Andromeda
JohnLock: A Wonderful Friendship (Only). By Idunn
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Too often in movies and television shows do the main characters get together. Now, I’m not talking about romantic ones (because those can be great). I mean literally anything else--horror, mystery, comedy, drama, thrillers, action, science fiction--name it, and there are countless movies and shows where the two leads end up together. These two start off not liking each other, but overtime their relationship grows into friendship into mutual love that is replaced by romantic tension for up to 10 seasons because ratings. Take Friends: Ross had loved Rachel since high school, eventually got together for about a season until Ross screwed up because they were “on a break”, and then never truly got back together until the last episode of the last season. If Friends did it, at the very least, every other show has done it. Which brings me to my point: Sherlock and Watson should not be together. We have seen it countless times in too many iterations that an iconic duo like these two being together would undermine their story and their relationship. I don’t think my point may be getting across very well, so let’s start from the birth of Sherlock Holmes. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle actually first wrote the series in a serialized magazine in 1887, which was published as a novel under the title A Study in Scarlet in 1888. Fast forward more than 100 years, it is still widely read and watched as movies and television shows. Now, if such a widely praised series were to be changed, would it really be for the best or would it just be fan service? Don’t get me wrong, fan service (which is exactly what it sounds like) can be great, but it can also be awful and ruin an entire series. Just look at Riverdale (I hope I don’t have to explain myself on that one). Of course there have been changes over the years, as such a long-running series would expect to have, however such a drastic change would not be healthy. Holmes and Watson also have such a strong relationship without being romantically involved. Holmes is the witty, intelligent, Benedict Cumberbatch-looking one and Watson is the student and tension-relieving partner-in-crime. They have solved so many cases together because they work well together. If they were to get into a relationship, it would probably be very distracting for them, as they would probably catch less murderers because they spend too much time making googly eyes at each other, and for us, because we have to watch that. To us, every move and every decision they make will seem to be influenced by their relationship. The entire story would revolve around them being romantically involved rather than solving mysteries and just being best friends. That part, for me at least, is the best part of the series. Besides, not everyone can be like Ross and Rachel.
Holmes X Watson: Meant to Be By Eos
“It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right.”-Sherlock Holmes Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: Legendary best friends and crime-solving duo, or something more? In BBC’s Sherlock, a popular contemporary take on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s classic detective stories, there certainly seems to be ample evidence to prove that in this story, John and Sherlock (otherwise known as JohnLock) are not only partners in the detective sense, but as one of the most beloved television ships to date. In need of some clues to prove the case? Well, that’s rather elementary. Firstly, any avid Sherlock fan knows that Holmes and Watson easily have the best rapport on the show: their constant bickering is both adorable and perfectly balanced. Holmes’ big ego and Watson’s dry wit complement each other in a way no other pairing can, and their comebacks only age like fine wine as the seasons go on. Secondly, there is so much Johnlock subtext within the show itself, it’s almost like the scriptwriters ship it themselves. For instance, over and over people around Sherlock and Watson assume they are in a relationship, only for Watson to correct them in an embarrassed manner while Sherlock seems to...not care. (You decide which reaction is more telling.) At inns, bars, restaurants, everyone seems to put the pieces together that JohnLock’s chemistry is just too strong to deny. As reporter Kitty Riley says in Series 2, Episode 3 to Sherlock, “You and John Watson, just platonic? I’ll put you down for a ‘no’ there.” Read between the very not-sostraight lines, people! The game is afoot indeed. Finally, the ultimate JohnLock proof can be summed up in their undeniable chemistry. From their meaningful stares into each other’s eyes that could last for hours uninterrupted to Watson’s immense anguish upon Holmes’ (spoiler alert so do not keep reading if you do not want this iconic plot twist to be spoiled) fake death, Watson and Holmes simply complete each other. Factor in Holmes’ suspiciously excellent gaydar (Holmes, upon being introduced to Molly’s new boyfriend in Series 1 Episode 1: “Gay...Nothing, ehm, hey.”) and the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, assuming by default Watson married Holmes instead of Mary Morstan (Who is clearly the third wheel in this scenario), and you have yourself more than enough evidence to believe JohnLock is real. As Sherlock Holmes himself once said, “Eliminate all other factors, and the one that remains must be the truth.” Throughout everything they’ve been through, Watson has been by Holmes’ side no matter what. For Holmes, Watson is the one that remains his truth.
He Will Be Back
By The Midnight Raven The doorbell sounded throughout the silent house, its shrill tone echoing like a scream throughout the darkened halls. He was here. He was coming for her. Carys, her name a symbol of the devotion her parents held for each other and directly translated to the word love, slinked towards the door and glanced out of the small peephole. She grimaced when she saw his sand-colored hair that swept across his forehead and piercing emerald eyes that the skin always crinkled around when he smiled. But what truly alarmed her was the single rose he grasped in his hand, and the small box of chocolates in a heart box that was tucked under his arm. Carys’ stomach dropped as she scrambled away from the door, her heart pounding like a drum within her chest. Will used to be a person that Carys enjoyed spending time with; their conversations filled with sarcastic comments and stories about bizarre things that had happened to them were always enjoyable. But then, he had confessed his true feelings towards her. Then he had become a monster. The boy she used to think fondly of as a friend had become her pursuer. He was trying to trap her within his mangled, clawed hands, and keep her there, gasping for breath, scouring for an escape. He wanted to confine her with his horrifying love. She placed her hand on her racing heart as Will rang the doorbell again. She slumped to the ground and brought her knees up to her chest and began to rock back and forth. He was restricting her to one exit from this tortuous ringing, and it was directly into his arms. He had to give up soon. He needed to give up. Carys couldn’t take it any longer. Her legs shaking with trepidation, she stood and inched towards the door. With a deep breath, she placed her hand on the cool, metal doorknob and turned it slowly. She pulled the door open and squinted through the sunlight that now flooded into her hazel eyes. Will flashed his glistening white teeth and greeted Carys joyfully. “Hey, Carys! I was beginning to think you weren’t home, but I’m really glad you were because I have something for you.” He outstretched his hands to give her a single, vermillion rose and a heart-shaped box that the scent of chocolate wafted from. Will’s grin began to waver as Carys wrung her hands vigorously instead of accepting the offerings. “What’s wrong? Do you not like it? I’m sorry, I thought you mentioned that you liked chocolate.” He said tentatively. Carys did like chocolate, and the fact that he knew that made her even more terrified. “No, I do,” Carys replied bluntly. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to respond to this villain. Will’s smile reappeared and he thrust the chocolate forward until she had to accept it.
“Well, it was nice seeing you! I’ll text you later, maybe we can set up a time to go get coffee or lunch sometime,” he cheerfully responded. Then, to Carys’ horror, he stepped towards her, brushed her platinum hair away from her face and kissed her softly on the cheek. She froze. The remanence of the kiss felt like it was burning a hole straight through her skin that grew a ghostly pale. Her vision blurred with tears as she began to cry in terror. This was it, this was how he was going to ensnare her into his control. She turned and sprinted into her house and slammed the door behind her, tears pricking her eyes. Will was shocked as she did, and began to knock on the door and ask her what was wrong. She was trapped, a songbird in a gilded, barred cage. She had no escape. He was her capture. Tears streamed down her face as she dashed towards her bathroom sink and began to scrub at the place he had kissed her. When she felt the warmth of the skin of her cheek, she let out a scream of pure frustration and terror She wouldn’t let him control her. She wouldn’t let him keep her within the palm of his hand. She wouldn’t stop until he took back his foolish love. She washed her face until she deemed it clean and then she slowly began to creep towards the door. Silently, she looked out of the peephole and sighed in relief as she saw no sign of Will. She leaned against the door and slid to the ground, her eyes closed the whole time. He was gone for now, but he would be back. Her pursuer. He would be back.
“A Sweet Valentine’s Day,” Photograph by Andromeda
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Night and Day By S.B.
A misty day, looking up I see Sublimity, a blank shroud, Scattering the light. Pale, subtle, and sparkling. Misty nights make more coating darkness. Completely wrapping all things, Making it harder to breathe, Even suffocating all the stars. On a rainy day, The sun hides behind a cloud Leaving behind a gloom, and a marsh for us to tread. On a rainy night, Sanctuary, from the crowd As I go out to run alone The world to myself. On a breezy day, Kissed by the sun and the wind, I let myself drift away, Time moves faster now. On a windy night, It becomes unforgiving, Cold no clothing can amend, Deadly, far too often. A sunny day, The heat becomes too immense. It drives sense from one’s mind As they try to become cool. A clear night cools down, stars come out. Magnificent, twinkling, Night and day, the difference.
Far Far Away By Andromeda In a land far far away Beneath the summer sunlight Sandy sheet linens kiss Frothy sea foam Fingers and figures entwine Mine touches yours Yours touches mine We move down the lily-white altar To the flapping of lily-white doves 10
“A Beam of Light,” Illustration by Andromeda
A Match Made in the Heavens By Wine Merchant Once upon a time, there was a sun. The Sun was a brave strong warrior who, through her power, everything in her path blazed. The Moon was a quiet, intelligent scholar with a cold touch and a gentle gaze. Their paths were meant to cross, it was written in the stars, but it wasn’t until the Sun’s warmth become scorching heat that Moon played his part. The Sun, as powerful as she was, had been riddled with jealous remarks that then had been artfully crafted into her own. I am a brute. I am not pretty and beautiful. People fear me, not love me. I can never be loved. And true to her words, the Sun become meaner and meaner, her light become harsher, and she truly never was loved. Only because she never thought to love. But one day an admirer of hers sought to become a savior. With his
determination and his mind, he became the advisor for the love of his life. Then slowly, he inched his way into her heart. Whether it was during a weary day or a joyful one, with his bright words, he carried the Sun out of her self-inflicted darkness. And slowly, when time allowed it, with his touches, he cooled the anger burning within the Sun. Then those touches turned into embraces. And those embraces turned into caresses. Until one day, that caress turned into a kiss. And what a kiss it was, as the heavens applauded and the celestial beings rejoiced. The Sun had found someone to be the ice to her fire. To comfort her and to be by her side. To love her and be loved. As for the Moon, he got what he had wanted. He had found someone to warm the cold part of him, to warm the cold part of his bed. And that someone just so happened to be the very being he dreamed of loving since the start. From every fiber of him, the Moon vowed to always serve by her side.
The Theater By Eos It was Valentine’s Day, and Audrey wanted to see a movie. Not just any movie, but a film she had seen for the first time on February 13th of last year. She grabbed a green corduroy jacket off the otherwise barren coat rack of her apartment and took off into the streets, blending seamlessly into the crowd and lights and city she once loved. At every store she passed, Mischa would be there with her infuriatingly joyful grin and lavender-colored hair. Each store now served as a terrible, perpetual reminder of what once was. The bookstore where they had met after Mischa had called out Audrey’s (debatably) mediocre taste in literature. The Starbucks two doors down where they met nearly every day, where minutes would stretch into hours. The ice rink where Mischa took Audrey’s hand, perfectly oblivious to the spinning world around them in their motionless galaxy. The record store where they had fought and the galaxy had imploded. “What, are you embarrassed of me?” “No, Mischa, it’s not that...I just don’t want everyone to-” “Well, I’m sorry I don’t give a crap about what everyone else thinks. I think I really, really like you-Isn’t that all that matters?” Audrey now remembered her words with a shudder and pulled her green coat closer to her. Perhaps all strangers wander the streets plagued by the ghosts of their pasts. Perhaps she was really no different, one amongst the thousands plagued by a single constant in mankind: Grief. Keeping her head down, she walked on and ignored the memories that threatened to consume her whole. By February of last year, Mischa was very sick. Audrey always found
it odd how even the doctors phrased Mischa’s illness in this way, as if the blatant avoidance of precise medical terms could somehow prevent the inevitable. Mischa did not know when she would die, yet Mischa and Audrey were bound together by its imminence, an invisible thread onto which they held on and refused to let go. The thread wrapped tighter around their hearts, making it impossible to breathe as the illness increasingly overwhelmed their lives with each passing day. What seemed like years they had together under the false impression of youth turned to days, and so the future crumbled around them and the little time they had left. Mischa’s illness spread rapidly through her body, rendering her sickly thin and unable to get out bed, a terrifying figure in striped pajamas that with each passing day looked more and more like a prison uniform. She hated the hospital, insisting on staying at Audrey’s apartment instead. “I want to die in a place that feels like home,” she would say. Audrey would simply nod in response, unable to say the unspeakable; that for her, home was a person, an ephemeral purple-haired girl disappearing right before her eyes. And so, in those last few months Mischa became a fixture in the apartment, the harbinger of death in striped pajamas. On the evening of February 13th, Audrey came into the apartment from shopping, arms filled with groceries, only to see Mischa standing at the entrance, dressed and ready to go out. After weeks of witnessing Mischa’s pain, her strength drained from her body almost entirely, Audrey was stunned to see the flushed and smiling vision before her. “Mischa!” Audrey exclaimed, immediately dropping the grocery bags to the ground and rushing over to sit her
down, take her temperature, perform the various other learned caretaking gestures that as of late had become the only gestures she knew how to make. But then, with a strange flutter in her heart, she understood. She stopped in her tracks abruptly, coming face to face with this vibrant and nearly unrecognizable figure in a green corduroy jacket. “If we leave now, we’ll just make it,” said Mischa, “the next show is at eight.” Standing in the heat of the theater, Mischa’s hand gripped hers for the first time in months. Audrey was on the verge of tears, happier than she had been in so, so long. She knew that an unexpected burst of energy had roused Mischa out of bed, compelled her to fulfill a simple pleasure one last time. She knew, too, that this was a sign there was not much time before the end, a miracle before the inexorable. But that did not matter to Audrey. What mattered was Mischa’s warm hand in hers, the last beautiful memory salvaged from the ruins of illness. Leaning back in their seats, together they watched the film of their last embrace. In retrospect, Audrey would come to think that Mischa had died right after the film. Though her body left two weeks after that, her mind had departed as soon as the end credits rolled on screen. She knew that this was what Mischa intended, that she knew it was better that way, to say goodbye in the dark theater that they had loved. There were no regrets, as Mischa had placed a final simple favor in Audrey’s hands. To remember them, the good and the bad, and know that there was no need for words to describe what once was. Instead, they simply watched as a story was told on the screen above. Now, Audrey had finally arrived at 11
the theater where she and Mischa said their last goodbyes. As snow began to gently fall, she watched as snowflakes mingled with the evening lamplight, eventually drifting to the sidewalk.
“A Match Made in Heaven,” Illustration by Wine Merchant
Perhaps she was no different, one amongst the thousands plagued by grief and yet satiated by love, by joy, by gripping their lover’s hand one last time in a dark theater. To remember was to accept the paradox of human nature, the grief that will always remain beneath the joy that makes everything worth it. So, Audrey chose to remember. As she entered the theater, Audrey could have sworn she saw a flash of pale purple and a mischievous grin, daring her to come closer.
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“Angel,” Manga by Aya Hatashima (Read from right to left)
Laurens and Hamilton By The Midnight Raven 1776. New York City. Fraunces Tavern usually cleared out around 2 in the morning, the sound of drunkards singing off-key and boisterous laughter filling the air as the tavern closed its doors. The moon hung high as the empty bottles of alcohol were tossed out into the garbage bins that lined the grimy alleyways. But on this night, it was well past the closing time and two men still remained at one of the chipped wooden tables, their heads bowed low in quiet conversation. America was in the midst of the Revolutionary War, and emotions ran high at this time. Whether they were a passion for change or the desperate desire for things to stay the same, they brimmed in the hearts of nearly every American. These two men were no exception. John Laurens. A man who came from a rich household who had joined the revolutionary effort in hopes of igniting a rebellion against the bondage of slavery. Alexander Hamilton. An immigrant who had come from a small island in the Caribbean, the death of nearly all his family weighed down on his shoulders, but the desire for a legacy and to make a difference burned brightly in his heart. Nearly a month ago, John Laurens had stumbled into Fraunces Tavern for a drink with two of his friends, Lafayette, and Hercules Mulligan, but was met instead with the always stern Aaron Burr and a slightly flustered man by his side. Laurens, Lafayette, and Mulligan spent the rest of the night exchanging stories with the man, who was called Hamilton, and they quickly formed a strong bond of friendship. But Lauren would never have guessed what had come next; It seemed nearly impossible, in fact, it was by most people’s standards. It was wrong and
immoral and the farthest from pious a person could be. Yet, it happened. One of the hardest parts of falling in love is the judgment. The morality of love is a tipping scale that doesn’t have a middle-ground. It merely tilts to an extent in each direction back and forth constantly. Your love is immoral if you show too much emotion in the company of others, but if you show no affection at all, you are accused of being bitter. Even if you get the center between those two things at a perfect mark, the most important factor has not been accounted for yet. Who you give your heart to. Their love was a perfect storybook array of soft glances and the hidden blush that crept up John’s face every time Alexander flashed a smile his way. It was the stolen kisses with only the moon as their light and the way their hands fit perfectly together like two puzzle pieces connecting. But even more than that, it was that their friendship was the foundation of it all. Like the groundworks of the brick houses that dotted the streets of New York, the greatest city in the world. John Laurens and Alexander Hamilton, friends facing the dawning of the revolution with a terrible secret hidden in the backs of their minds. Because no matter how perfect their story was, the world would always view them as immoral. Something that should cause mothers to cover their children’s eyes instead of something beautiful and envious. But that’s just what love is. Wondrous, until someone tells you differently. The owner of Fraunces Tavern had finally tired of the two men lingering in the dim candlelight and had pushed them to leave, throwing open the creaking doors of the bar and giving a sharp call of, “Everyone out!” John scrambled up from the table and gave a sheepish smile as he apologized to the tavern owner for keeping him so long. Alexander echoed John’s apologizes as the two of them rushed onto the cobblestone streets, the oil lamps illuminating the road with their
soft orange glow. As the doors of the tavern creaked shut behind them, Alexander reached forward and grasped John’s hand in his as they began to walk down the road. John smiled slightly as he glanced sideways at Alexander and his shining violet-blue eyes. “So, that was nice. Thanks for planning that for tonight.” Alexander said in reference to the raging party filled with downing burning shots of alcohol and throwing money down on the table for games of cards. John shrugged slightly and replied, “Of course. I thought it would be nice to plan something for your last night as an unmarried man.” With those words, both of the men’s smiles began to dissipate. Looming, thunderous clouds seemed to move in over their heads as they began to remember what the rush of the night had caused them to forget. Alexander’s marriage. Maybe the hardest part of their relationship wasn’t the judgment at all, it was the fact that there was none whatsoever. For the most difficult part was hiding it. Because if anyone found out, it could lead to their death. The idea of acceptance for them was so unbelievable, it didn’t seem to be an option. John and Alexander had to conceal every part of their relationship from the public eye and the easiest way to do that was to shield their true feelings with the normal expectations of society. By getting married. It had seemed like the easiest option before, their relationship would continue on the way it always had but the possibility of speculation would disappear entirely. But as time went on, John wished more and more that they had never made that plan. As the days flipped by in a whirlwind of wedding preparations and arriving guests, John could see more and more that their dream of reality seemed almost as impossible as all the Patriots dropping their grievances. His happiness seemed to flit away on the rushing wind as he tried desperately to catch it, but he always missed. He tried to plaster a smile on his face, and 13
act like a best man who was simply happy for the marriage of his friend, but each day was just another test that he seemed to just barely pass. But today was the last day of this game, and despite his growing hatred of the role he played, he wished the days had dragged on slower and there were more of them to count. Because today was when Alexander and Eliza Schuyler’s story began, and when Alexander and John’s came to a bitter end. When John returned home, he lit a candle surrounded by a hurricane glass and took a sheet of parchment and a quill out of his desk drawer. He placed the tip of the quill to the paper and began to flood all of his frantic thoughts and anxiousness about their future onto the blank sheet, hoping that if he revealed his feelings it may comfort him in some way. But it didn’t. Only once the parchment had been filled with his words did John realize the stupidity and jealous nature that was emulating from him at this moment. No matter what John wanted, even no matter what Alexander himself wanted, the wedding would take place. It was what must be done. John glanced down at the paper before flicking his gaze to the window and the slowly rising sun. He took in his reflection from the dusty glass and scolded himself for the dark circles surrounding his blue eyes and the flushed redness of his cheeks. John glanced back down at the words he had written and bit his lip in contemplation of what to do. With a single motion, John tore up the page into small, ripped fragments that fluttered to the ground, and exhaled deeply as he took in the parchment that littered the floor. The action had pleased himself for a moment but after the rush of it had left him, he felt just as empty as before. John rubbed at his eyes in exhaustion and willed himself to go to sleep, but troubled thoughts still filled his head. As he often did when he felt distraught, John meandered his way to his dresser and pulled open his drawer that contained his shirts, and began to rifle through the fabric until he came 14
across an envelope. John opened the already broken, blood-red seal of the letter and scanned the page. He had received it from Alexander just a few weeks ago, but he had memorized every word on that page since then as if it were a song that needed to be performed rather than a letter he simply needed to read. But he had, and he would never forget those words because even in the darkest of times, they reminded him that things would get better. That there was a light at the end of a tunnel, a revolution in the times of discontentment, and most of all, a burning hope within him. And no matter what twists life was taking down the dusty cobbled stone streets of New York, John knew that despite that, he would always have the memories they had shared, and the words they had written to each other. “I wish, my Dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by action rather than words, to convince you that I love you.” (Excerpted from a letter written by Alexander Hamilton addressed to John Laurens)
Moon and Sun By Eos You’ve completed me since the day we met, The laughter to my sarcastic comments, The constant smile to my frown, The day to my unchanging night. I still remember When we were younger The world was simpler And you were the sun Around which my universe revolved, Two pairs of flip flops dangling from a swingset As the sun went down When simple days turned into long nights You were still my light, A fixture in my solar system when I couldn’t see the sun anymore “You’re shining, can’t you see?” I know that I’ll never rid myself of the darkness That I am a moon, not a sun But with you I can see the sun coming up And together we shine
“A Sunday Afternoon,” Photograph by Andromeda
DDLC Fanfiction By Anon “That’s why I decided the world wants to torture me. Every path leads to nothing but hurt.” Sayori pauses and sets her blue eyes on nothing in particular. She looks as serene as ever, with a slight smile on her face even as she silently begins to weep. The dissonance between her smile and tears seems potent, and her emotions seem sanguine. I look around at the various stuffed toys, empty dishes, and discarded clothes in her messy room before finally deciding to try and meet her gaze. “You wouldn’t understand,” she impressed, seeing a subtle supplication in my expression. Her air conditioning comes to life as we look at each other, providing a subtle hum of white noise to the ambient surroundings. “I can see my reflection in your eyes,” I told her, returning her smile. Sayori fell silent again, dropping her hands in her lap. For a moment, all that could be heard was the passing of a car as we looked into each other’s eyes. “It really is like looking into a mirror with you. It’s no wonder that we became friends.” Tears form in my eyes as I speak, and I bat them away. Sayori places her hands in her own sweater pockets and looks up into my eyes. She is thinking about something that only seems present in her own world. I continue. “We even have the same secret. I’ve been depressed my whole life too,” I say as I break our mutual gaze for one brief moment, trying to control my own intensity. “Do you ever wonder why I spend so little time with friends except you? Why I wear long sleeve shirts even in warm weather? It’s because I feel worthless too. The idea that you could feel like that seems impossible to me, because I always felt worthless in comparison to you.” As I speak her tears flow unassuaged, but her smile is gone. She waits ever patiently for me to continue. “I actually thought I didn’t deserve to be friends someone like you. You were always so pretty, so social, and all I ever could hope to be was me. I was friends with girls because the other guys weren’t nice to me, and I thought even you might just be taking pity on me. A couple girls being interested in me did nothing for my confidence. It’s always been really hard not to become infatuated with you. All I know about my feelings is that you make me happy. It can feel like a deep breath of fresh air after I’ve been drowning to talk to you. I don’t want to screw up being able to see you. The thought of opening up to you terrified me, because I thought you would realize I’m right, that I really am completely, irredeemably worthless.” I notice how heavily I’m breathing as I blush. It makes me feel so simple, so artless to tell her what I had been so furtive about my whole life. Sometimes, losing a tightly held secret can feel like losing a part of your soul. I look up
blearily to see her begin to hug me, and I try to return her embrace. “Why were we so stupid,” she says, falling into sobs. Time seems to stretch as we hug, sweater against sweater, as we become encompassed in each other’s warmth. Being slightly taller than her, I can feel the hair on the top of her head brushing up against my still blushing cheek. I finally begin to feel the happiness I had been waiting to feel for so, so long. When she lets go I don’t know what to say. She sits down on her bed. “Come on, sit,” she says as she adjusts her body to make more room on her bed. “There really is a lot more we need to talk about.” I sit down and she sidles slightly closer to me again. This time we both look around her room, examining the various messes and decorations. “You kept all the decorations the same after all these years,” I point out with genuine interest as she sighs and again tries to adjust herself on the bed without getting up. “Yeah. I still have that big stuffed cow you won me. I guess all my stuffed toys are still here,” she says, looking around at all of her decorations as if seeing them in a new light. “Will you help me clean it?” “Sure,” I say unthinkingly. “Actually, I need to cancel with Yuri first.” “Moonlit Romance,” Illustration by Andromeda
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24th Century Boy
“Puppy Love,” Photograph by Anonymous
By Eos
Beyond this disheveled dimension The time that separates us I can see in the mirror that we’re sparkling Can’t you? And I want to run, To leap into your arms As the universe holds its breath And time stands still. If I close my eyes, I can see a distant reflection You and I at the end of this road I’ll open the door a little And I will run In this same time we’ll be forever
Shipping in My Hero Academia By Tom Nguyen Deku and Kacchan Class 1A’s greatest heroes And cutest couple “Rain,” Illustration by Mars
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A Beginning By Kayden Soundly standing from my childhood The gray-tipped object that they gave us Said they were for writing, and that’s it, but I made a circle, and then another, and more My first love was with these strokes The long yellow object moving back and forth A scratching sound on blank white, and A spread of gray stretched out on the table Yes, it was when I touched the sleek paper The lines that wobbled forth from my fingers So I dropped the hexagonal stick and grabbed the wax Vibrant red with a chipped point and dirty tail Rounder and rounder, I made my lines go Staining the once white canvas in front of me That was you, the shaky lines upon the wall The first strokes that called me out I fell in love with your color and immense beauty.
Late Nights
By Yellow Seesaw Hours spent talking late Smiling incoherently Never wanting to end
My Daily Routine By Jojo Queen Bedtime at midnight The vicious cycle repeats To then face morning
“Awakening,” Photograph by The Calico Cat
The Building on 66th Street Part 5 By Andromeda
Aaron Aaron feels damn great. He is damn great. Most people think that to say that about yourself you obviously have to be a jerk. But Aaron knows that not to be true, only weak people think like that, people with no confidence. This is because at the end of the day they don’t realize that contrary to how the saying goes, the meek don’t and won’t inherit crap. That was what his dad had always told him. Because if you want to be someone, you have to already believe that you are a someone. Aaron is thinking this as he takes his position behind the center on the football field. He crouches down as he eyes the enemy team. The light from the lamps beams down like the hot sun, and a bead of sweat nearly falls in his eye. However, he doesn’t let it distract him. The center passes the ball and he searches for an opening. McCaulsky is his usual goto when he passes. As a wide receiver, he always manages to follow through. However the enemy is prepared, and the defense already has him heavily covered. That leaves only James and Richards as his best bet. Aaron takes a
deep breath as the defensive linemen prepare to stop his throw, so he brings backs his shoulders, raises his arms, and launches the ball. Richards jumps up and catches it from the left side. He starts sprinting for the end zone as the crowd is cheering. The defense are on his back, but he shakes them off and… Touch down! Aaron jumps up with the rest of the team, celebrating the winning goal. The crowd cheers wildly. The rest of the team all rush over to Richards to clap him on the back, giddy off the hype and the overwhelming positive energy, after they won the semifinals for the championship game. Aaron breaths a heavy sigh of relief and he rests his hands on his knees. A few of his team mates clap him on the back. “Great job man.” When he looks up he sees the enemy team staring defeatedly at the ground, and a smile breaks across his face. This. This is what it feels like to be a winner. The after party at Aaron’s house is in full swing. Well, it is more like a mansion than a house.With a pool in the backyard, five bedrooms and six bathrooms, a garden and a tennis court, Aaron’s home sits on top of one of the richest areas in town. Yet somehow despite the size, it is still flooded with people. There is food and
drinks everywhere, partiers are bouncing off the walls, feeding off the hype from the big win. Music booms in the background as girls laugh and guys cheer. Aaron smiles as people congratulate him as he walks by, and some girls giggle and smile back. He recognizes one particular blonde talking to one of his friends. He walks up to her and taps her on the shoulder. “Hey, Kate.” She turns around and gives him a smile. “Hey! Great job out there! Although, I’m sure you’ve heard it a million times now.” He grins, “Yeah, I have, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love hearing it.” Kate puts a hand on his arm, and says, “So, what did you need to talk to me about?” Aaron glances at his arm and raises an eyebrow. If he could describe Kate, it would be pretty in a basic way. Although she had a good smile and a nice body there was nothing interesting about her. More than that, Aaron knows better than to mess around with his girlfriend’s best friend. So he shrugs off her arm and asks, “Where’s Ariana?” Her smile wavers slightly and her eyes dart the other direction. “I don’t know. She hasn’t spoken to me since the funeral. I assume she’s on lock down or something after her mom freaked out on her.” She gives him a look and says, “I would figure you would
know something since you’re the one in a relationship with her, not me.” Aaron frowns, and glares at Kate, “So a friendship isn’t a relationship to you?” Kate opens her mouth to retort, but just clicks her tongue. “Whatever,” she says, and walks away. You’re the one in a relationship with her, not me. Aaron’s frown deepens. It certainly doesn’t seem like he is anymore. He picks up one of the red cups off the kitchen table and glares into it. Ariana hadn’t spoken to him since the funeral either, after she broke down and ran off. Although he understands she is going through a lot, he still can’t help but feel upset about her not showing up to the game. He downs what’s left of his drink and walks out of the room. Aaron puts his arms around some girl’s waist. What was her name? Melissa? Jordyn? Something with a J? He can’t remember. But what he does know is that she has a nice smell and a pretty laugh. He brushes some of the hair away from her face and notices it’s dark like Ari’s. However it’s not as soft, her waist is also a lot wider, and her cheeks are round and chubby. She looks fat. All of a sudden he feels faintly sick, as the memories Continued on Next Page
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come rushing in. Memories of fat little Aaron Holder running to the whirring beat of the treadmill. Sweat rolling down his back, skin sagging, arms flopping. Fat, fat, fat, fat, fat. “Are you alright?” The girl asks, looking up at him. He breaks himself out of his self-induced haze, and smiles down at her, nodding. Then he leans his head down to kisses her. When Aaron was a kid he was large. He always struggled in PE, played too many video games, and loved food more than anything. It was his vice. It didn’t matter what kind of food it was, as long as it was sugary or loaded with fat and carbs. When he was home, he would just eat and eat and eat. However it was not until he became a middle schooler that he began to get bullied. He had very few friends growing up, and the ones he did have became distant. Even Ariana, who had been his long time friend and crush, began hanging out with other people. Popular people. All that Aaron was left with was his food, and the kids who taunted him daily. So he swore to better himself. With his dad’s encouragement and sheer willpower, he got thinner, and stronger. He built muscle, got taller, did better in school and eventually became his high school’s quarterback. He even got the girl. He wasn’t weak anymore. 18
“What are you doing?” Aaron spins his head around to find Ariana standing behind him, a sour look on her face. “You- Ari... When did you get here?” She doesn’t say anything. The girl behind him turns red when she sees who it is, and shoves Aaron out of the way as she runs by. “What are you gonna say next?” she drawls, “‘This isn’t what it looks like?’” “I-I can explain.” She snorts. “Don’t even try,” she says, looking him up and down, a look of repulsion on her face, “You’re just a disgusting pig.” Aaron feels a stab in his chest at the familiar nickname. “And you know what pigs
should go do?” she sneers, grabbing him by the back of his head so she can lean in close. “Eat crap.” Aaron sits in his empty house alone. It’s probably three in the morning now, and his head feels numb and his heart feels heavy. He stares down at the plate in front of him. After what happened with Ariana he felt so strangely lethargic, and depressed. Like he felt before he lost weight. Next thing he knew, he had gone to the nearest McDonald’s, and had a huge pile of fast food in front of him. His hands shake as he stares down at it. And you know what pigs should go do? Eat crap.
“Pastries in Pink,” Photograph by Eos
Sweat beads on his forehead. Unable to hold himself back, he takes the first burger, and stuffs it into his mouth. It tastes heavenly. Then he puts in another, and another, and another, until he can barely breathe, and tears begin to stream down his face. Yet he just keeps chewing until his breathes are coming out in short gasps, and all the food in his mouth doesn’t taste like anything anymore. His eyes roll back in his head, and it all goes dark.
To Be Concluded...