January 2022
Midnight Writers
Cover:
Table of Contents
“Drum Cuts From paper”, an illustration by flaming elmo
This Page:
“Twin Trees”, a photo by Vérité
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Ask Aphro & Dite • •
The hope for snow Miscommunication
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“winter storms“. a poem by Hamlimede “snowstorms don’t always melt away,” a poem by Hamilede “Snowflakes”, an illustration by Yucheng Shao “on peace”, a poem by Hamilede
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“of hasty reunions”, a story by Vérité “Midnight Walk”, an illustration by flaming elmo
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“Rabbit Hole, Part One: The Divided World”, a story by Mastermind “Blanketed”, a photo by Vérité
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“Rabbit Hole, Part One: The Divided World”, continued “Crystalline”, an illustration by flaming elmo
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“Rabbit Hole, Part One: The Divided World”, continued “Perfectly Procrastinating”, a poem by Vérité “The Nightmare Ends”, a poem by Carl Marks
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“KTxME: Tetanurae: Issue 1: The Giant Southern Lizard (Part 3) ”, a comic by AgonysEmbrace 2
issuu.com/midnightwriters wchs.midnightwriters@gmail.com
Ask Aphro
Ask Dite
A Raven’s Sighting
Dear Aphro, D’you think we’ll get another snow day? We’ve gotten so lucky this year already… Sincerely, Sarah Snowflake
Dear Dite, You know what you did. We have unfinished business, you and I. It’s about time we… resolved things. Sincerely, An Old Friend
Our previous president who wrote this column has since resigned! Come back next month to check out a new column that will take this one’s place.
Dear Sarah Snowflake, Cross my heart and knock on wood so that I don’t jinx it, but I desperately hope so! What good is all this chill and freeze if all it leads to is dry, sunny days? I can’t predict the future that’s Apollo’s job - but know that I’m firmly pro-snow myself. Yes, yes, I’ve heard all the arguments to the contrary before. “Boohoo, if we get too many snow days we’ll have less summer vacation!” “But I like getting blinded with sunshine even when it’s below freezing out!” “Snow is slushy while it melts!”
Aphro My dearest Old Friend, Anonymous threats aren’t your style, darling. What’s the matter, too afraid to speak to me face-to-face? I wouldn’t blame you if that’s the case, love. Fear is healthy and natural; we shouldn’t deny it. And Hades told me all about how you used to complain about me being intimidating.
And to all these baseless, senseless assertions, I say: Shame! Shame on you all! Snow is winter’s greatest gift to us, and you would forsake it so easily?
Ta-ta, darling. You know where to find me if you ever manage to work up the courage!
Kidding, kidding… Mostly. For both our sakes, I hope we get another snow day soon. Or else what reason do we even have to put up with all this cold? With Love, Aphro
In any case, our unfinished business is hardly that. I think you’re misremembering things; you always tended to do that. I’ve moved on since then - the real question is, have you?
With Love, Dite
Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Cupid, AgonysEmbrace and Vérité.
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winter storms by Vérité
i. the icy wind bites howling through the bitter night with no respite come day. ii. flakes fall endlessly coating the hills in powder shimmering all night. iii. snowfall turns to rain and rain turns to mud and sludge beauty falls away.
“Snowflake”, Illustration by Yucheng Shao
snowstorms don’t always melt away by Halimede
snowflakes fall and so do you, easily, hopelessly, tried and true I hold your hands and warn again, desperately, lovingly, to deaf ends. the storm outside continues to blow, terribly, dangerously, no seed unsown. but the ending stays the same, and your path ever unchanged, and we are left at an impasse, with only snowbanks, and heartbreak, to our untouchable, broken names. 4
on peace
by Halimede there is a violence in unyielding peace, a stifling complacency that grows, and grows, and grows, and rots like a red apple cursed with death. peace, for some, is the antithesis of dissent, synonymous with silence and with uniformity, with freedom from conflict and freedom from righteous rage, there is violence in war and there is violence in suppression yet one is called violence and one is called peace and the cycle, unyielding and unbending, never ends. so, at the end of the day, can it really be called peace?
of hasty reunions by Vérité
There’s a knock at the door. It’s three sharp raps; nothing more, nothing less. The sound echoes distinctly across the room in an oddly metallic fashion, startling the woman off of her couch and sending the teacup in her hand clattering to the floor. Taking an exaggerated breath in, she stands and grabs a broom, sweeping at the porcelain shards until not a glint remains. The knocking continues. She ignores it, striding across the room to return the broom and straighten out her skirt. One more knock, and she sighs, tuning to the door and fixing a flyaway strand of hair. “Goodness, gracious,” she says under her breath. “Could you possibly have any less patience?” She opens the door. The man on the other end is well put-together, all things considered. He has a sharp look about him--pressed suit, crisp tie, briefcase by his side and other hand in his pocket. Grey hairs and wrinkles by his eyes bely his age, placing him at just a few years older than the woman in the room, give or take. “Sister,” he says jovially. “It has been far too long.”
“It’s going just fine,” she says sharply. “Your purpose, Joel, or I’ll kick you out right now and be done with it.” Joel sighs. He brings a hand up to his head and settles it there, avoiding her gaze. Finally, under her piercing glare, he speaks. “Pa is dead.” Cynthia’s eyes widen. Whatever she had been expecting, it hadn’t been that. For a moment, silence rests and eases into the space between them. She drops into a chair. Abruptly, she straightens and her expression hardens again. “Good,” she says with finality. “About time that old man kicked the bucket.” “You don’t mean that,” Joel says, surprise coloring his voice. Surprise and no small amount of grief. “Don’t tell me what I do or don’t mean, Joel,” Cynthia snaps. “You didn’t know him like I did, and now you never will. Is that all you were here for?” Joel looks at her for another long moment, then, unsatisfied with what he finds, looks away. “No,” he admits. “It’s about the will.” Cynthia barks a laugh. “So he finally had the guts to officially disown me, is that it?” Joel dons a bitter smile. “No. The opposite, in fact.” “What?”
Joel stands. The bitterness seeps into his expression, now The woman scoffs at that. “Not long enough, if you ask me. that it’s clear, but some small part of him seems satisfied, What do you want, Joel?” too. To have finally caught the unshakeable elder sister off guard. “That’s right, dear sister.” Joel doesn’t look fazed. “You’ve always been so prickly, Cynthia. Are you going to invite me in, or not?” He picks up the suitcase and flicks the latches open. With a roll of her eyes, Cynthia steps aside and beckons him in. He settles onto the couch where she was sitting before, taking in the room with wide eyes and a skittering gaze. He sets the briefcase down by his feet, running his fingers over the handle as he relaxes into his seat. Then, he clears his throat.
“He left every goddamn penny to you.”
Cynthia cuts him off before he gets the chance to begin. “Whatever you’re here for, get to it quick. I don’t have all day.” She twitches in irritation. “Some of us do have jobs, you know.” “Oh, yes,” Joel says, curiosity piqued. “How is that business venture of yours going? Feels like it’s been forever since you set off to start it, isn’t it?” “Midnight Walk”, Illustration by flaming elmo 5
Rabbit Hole
Part One: The Divided World by Mastermind
I
I hear their thumping footsteps outside every time I wake up, chanting their anthem, and I think of ripping them apart. But I know I would be made a Junkboy within a split second and suffer under an electric whip and a grating Rabbot voice. I live in Russia. Once our country was an ally to the American government in an old war. Now we are a country where we all serve under an iron fist called the Rabbot Empire in order to fight against that same government. I head to my work in the mechanic industry. The place is crowded, hot, and smelly as usual. Punching in my time is the calm before the hell here. Recently, work quotas have been increasing by 10% every week. If you don’t fill the quota, you have to work the night shift, and the people who do barely look like humans. I get to my work station filled with people who somehow can manage this place. I hear a few “Hey, Dave’s” and “Always keep your head down, Orzon’s” from my co-workers. Our Rabbot managers say forming work friendships diminishes our productivity so I can’t call them partners or teammates, just assistants.
II The way Rabbots see it, we can be only two things once we graduate from college: a Mechanic or a Technician. I decided to earn good grades in engineering in order to become a mechanic because being a technician in the Rabbot Empire is the most demanding and soul-crushing job, besides Junkboy. My friend Simon Farz should have done the same because now that he’s part of the technician industry I can’t talk to him. It’s illegal for those in a lower position to interact with those in a higher position, even though all people like me do is work to build machines of war every day. As I eat dinner without any company like I have for the last 20 years, my thoughts are towards Simon knowing something sinister is going on. Like how along with the increased quotas, mechanics and scientists are being plucked from their work to who knows where. All I know is that nowadays mechanics have to assemble the most unusual and complex pieces of machinery until late every night. I think that what I built is being sent to the lair of the diabolical Dr. Hare. A man who was born with rabbit ears, but now wears a special suit to keep him alive due to an accident before he was the top council member for the Rabbot Empire. It was given to him by the mysterious supreme leader of the Rabbots. I want to talk to Simon but Rabbots are patrolling the streets day and night. Then I remember something I found in my childhood. I grin then say, “I think it’s about time the Junkboys have some power for a change.”
My monitor plays a recording of a Rabbot saying, “Remember, hard work saves jobs and ends wars.” I groan and mutter, “And turns people into idiots.” My manager glares at me so I put on a smile and say, “Nothing’s more fun than a job well done!” so he leaves. Our jobs may be hell, but unlike the Junkboys, at least we have houses. If you ask any Rabbot if they respect humans at all they’ll say yes, but all they respect is what we can do for them. They may say they win battles to ease our minds, but one battle they can never help us win is the battle against insanity.
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“Blanketed”, Photo by Vérité
III Back when I was ten, I used to wander around a lot hoping to find something interesting but to no avail. Then one day, as I was running down the sidewalk, I bumped into a rabbot holding some odd-looking briefcase. “I hope you become a junkboy!” he screamed at me then hit me to the pavement laughing, but something small fell out of the briefcase and I felt like keeping it in order to get back at that rabbot. In college, I learned that what I had taken was a plug-in override stick that turns off all the junkboys’ electric chains. I wake up the next morning making and eating some breakfast while getting ready for work, but as I head outside I spot a garbage truck and I seize the opportunity to execute my plan as I hop on from behind. When I enter the junkyard, I am greeted by the agonizing moans of the junkboys. I jump off and head for the command office building staying out of sight. There are no guards at the command office because people here are forced to stay away. I unhinge the powerbox on the right of the building with a rusty crowbar and turn the light in there off with the push of a button. The rabbots inside come out and are greeted to me slashing them in their weak spots with the crowbar, glad that I’m a mechanic. I head into the office once the lights are back on and find the spot for the override stick to be plugged into under the desk, but I am doubtful if this model is still used and worry that I just set myself up for failure. I start thinking about the tortured groans of the junkboys and plug it in for their sake. I wait a minute, then two, then five, and at ten I feel like I failed but hear a distant electrical cracking sound so I walk outside to figure out what’s going on. I see junkboys fighting rabbots with rusty weapons, garbage on fire, and wires to the alarm system cut. All I can say is, “There’s some scrap they’ll actually want to destroy” and run to where Simon works. “Crystalline”, Illustration by flaming elmo
IV Technician buildings have this symbol in the middle that looks like a straight crystal-clear blue lake with white barriers on the left and right. Simon once told me it represented a straight flow of ideas that is not allowed to go beyond the rules that are set. It’s colors are also on the Rabbot Empire’s flag, as they program the rabbots that fight, defend, and tourtue us. I enter a deserted blue and white lobby which greets me with a lemony fresh scent that wafts into my sweat drenched nose. I hop on an elevator without interference-- my sabotage must have gotten more attention than I thought-- and go to the floor where the leading technicians work to see Simon. I hope they didn’t send him away already, I think to myself. Right before I step out I see Simon-- his body pale from the drugs used to keep him awake, but his hair still perfect somehow-- standing by the elevator door, and he says to me in disgust, “So, you are so desperate to see me that you are putting your job at risk?” “Oh don’t tell me you actually like everything they do!” I reply thinking I sound like Olivia Lakerman, a major rabbot hater who I always believed to be an agent born within one of those governments that work with the Americans. “Those people in the junkyard need to be free. They need to be treated like humans.” Simon sighs, “You should have thought about eyes from above, because rabbot air scouts saw everything you did. The only reason you aren’t arrested right now is my position and compulsive need to know why you are doing this.” I feel the anger inside me boiling and blurt out, “Because I want to know what the hell these increasing quotas are for!” Simon then freezes like a popsicle and I know now’s the time to make my move. “I have been breaking my hands to the point of paralyzation for over 20 years, and all I get as thanks is my quota increasing every goddamn week?!” I can see the fear in his eyes and try to execute my next sentence perfectly. “You are one of the most important technicians in the rabbot empire! All I’m asking is for you to tell me what my work and your work are going to be used for. Okay?”I ask. Simon hesitates then says, “Something the Grand Admiral Dr. Hare is desperate to finish to end the war. I’m sorry. I can’t lose my job by telling you more.” He takes out a E11FI-defense rifle setting it to stun and shoots me. My only thought before I hit the ground is “I’m a junkboy now thanks to my only friend.” Then all goes black. 7
V I wake in a cell with black-colored metal walls and a plain gray bed. I then realize that I’m in prison. “I should have known that Simon’s job would change him,” I mutter feeling both anger and remorse at the same time. A rabbot in blue armor comes and opens the glass door of my cell. “Mr. Orzon, come out of your cell and follow me,” he says as monotonously as any rabbot would, and as I walk with him I know what will happen to me next. In the past, there were “interrogations” where a (human) police officer would ask questions to a witness of a crime or the criminal even. This happened to prisoners of old wars as well. Nowadays, the rabbots use a machine that extracts your deepest, darkest secrets and puts them on a screen as a recording. I reach my destination soon enough and am ordered to put on the helmet I see dangling in the middle of the gray room. As the blue armored rabbot straps the helmet on, I look through the two-way glass in front of me and see some rabbots running computers. I am afraid they will consider me to be Olivia Lakerman’s counterpart. A rabbot picks up a microphone and through the speakers in this room I hear him say, “You have been accused of the following crimes listed as, entering a junkyard without authorization, disabling junkboy chains, responsible for the deaths and damage of a dozen rabbots, and being in possession of an override stick that disappeared over 42 years ago. Will you tell us what drove you to this?” Into the mic in front of me I reply, “Go get a mute button.” I can tell that he’s pissed off when he says, “Activate the machine” and my brain is cracked open for them. Only the thoughts I had today are being targeted so I hear things like, “I guess this is the time for revenge” and “Let’s hope Simon won’t leave his post with this mess going on” play out on the computers. The final thought to play out on the screen is “If anyone knows why these increased quotas are a thing, it’s Simon.” Thatś when I hear the words, “You start a new career tomorrow” and my blood goes cold.
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Perfectly Procrastinating by Vérité
What is there for a procrastinator to do If you just can’t get it through You just keep making excuses and excuses So you don’t have to do it And at last minute you realize you totally blew it I wish I could focus and finish right away But I can’t, my resolve doesn’t have enough sway This just keeps getting greater and greater Ugh… can’t focus, I’ll finish this later
The Nightmare Ends by Carl Marks
Good morning sunshine It’s been so long since you last Felt spring in your blood
KTxME: Tetanurae: Issue 1: The Giant Southern Lizard (Part 3) by AgonysEmbrace
“Candle in the Dark,” Illustration by Andromeda
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