Midnight Writers May 2013 by Midnight Writers

May 2013

Midnight Writers

Table of Contents Cover: “Persephone,” an illustration by Selene This Page: “Generosity,” MLP fan-art by Aradia Page 3: Ask Aphro & Dite: Dungeons in the Shire Musings of Hades: The Dark Lord Rants (about the truth) Athena’s Corner: Book Reviews—The Princess Bride (William Golding) Page 4: “Who Am I?” a musing by Iris “Waltz of the Flowers,” a photograph by The Owlish Bookworm Page 5: “Summer,” a poem by The Owlish Bookworm “Blue Skies,” a poem by Glittercheese “Silhouette,” a photograph by Emcee Page 6: “Sunshine, Daisies, Butter Mellow,” a photograph by The Owlish Bookworm “Sun-filled Days,” a poem by Zenyatta Page 7: “Persephone Arrives,” a photograph by Andromeda “Summer Approaches,” a poem by Soufflé Girl “Soft, Pink Petals,” a musing by Glittercheese Page 8: “Lady Spring,” a photograph by The Owlish Bookworm “Success,” a poem by The Owlish Bookworm Page 9: “A Twilight Walk,” a short story by Iris “Waiting for Artemis,” an illustration by Hecate Page 10: “Helen of Troy,” a poem by Artemis “The Face That Launched a Thousand Ships,” an illustration by Raven Page 11: “Juxtapose,” a poem by Athena “Minerva,” a poem by Echo “A Man in the City,” a photograph by Glittercheese Page 12: “Dr. Who,” a rant by Calypso “The Girl Who Waited,” a Dr. Who fanart by Hebe Page 13: “The Good Doctor,” an illustration by Hebe “Dear Doctor,” a letter by Soufflé Girl Page 14: “Life of Trauma: III,” a short story by Apollo “Elphaba’s Day Off,” a photograph by Eris Page 15: “The Whispering Spark,” a poem by Vivian Griselda “Sunnyside Lane,” a photograph by Andromeda Page 16: “Fifty Years From Now,” a short story by Nemesis “Gaia and Ouranos,” an illustration by Artemis Page 17: “Roads,” a poem by Zenyatta “His House is in the Village Though,” a photograph by The Owlish Bookworm Page 18: “The Visitor,” a short story by Iris “Love Me, Love Me Not,” a photograph by Aphrodite Page 19: “Against All Odds,” a poem by Apollo “Checkmate,” a photograph by Eris Page 20: “Amphitrite,” an illustration by Hecate “Dreamer,” a poem by Raindrop “As You Wish,” a poem by Soufflé Girl Page 21: “Actions speak louder than words,” a poem by Nyctophobia “Pallas,” an illustration by Hecate

Page 22: “Thalassa,” an illustration by Hecate “Beautiful,” a poem by Bernarda Rey Page 23: “Thetis,” an illustration by Hecate “Ocean Storm,” a poem by Queen Shadowblossom Page 24: “Sea Side Picture,” a musing by Nyctophobia “An August Daydream,” a poem by Nyctophobia “Good Morning,” a photograph by Echo Page 25: “Calypso’s Island,” a column by our resident loner “Calypso’s Island,” a photograph by Echo Page 26: “I Wish I May,” a photograph by The Owlish Bookworm “Simple Pleasures,” a musing by Iris Page 27: “The Middle Distance,” a photograph by The Owlish Bookworm “The Race,” a poem by Queen Shadowblossom Page 28: Farewell,” a letter by Papillon “Red Cross,” an illustration by Hecate Page 29: “End of the Year,” a musing by Calypso “Hot! Hot! Hot!” a photograph by Queen Shadowblossom Page 30: “Carpe Noctem,” an illustration by Raven “Ye Who Shalt Retire,” a list of MW seniors Page 31: “A Midnight Writers Alphabet” by Hades “The MWer,” an illustration by Aradia Page 32: “Where Dreams Come True,” a photograph by Queen Shadowblossom “The Last Address,” a farewell by Nana Page 33: “The Trio,” a poem by Queen Shadowblossom “Birth of a Writing,” a poem by Nyctophobia “Internationality,” a photograph by The Owlish Bookworm Page 34: “Vitamin X,” a short story by Hades “A Façade of Normalcy,” an illustration by Hecate Page 35: “Fallen,” an illustration by Raven “Prom,” a musing by Nyctophobia Page 36: “Burn, Baby, Burn,” a photograph by Queen Shadowblossom “The Darkness,” a poem by Queen Shadowblossom Page 37: “Perfection,” a poem by Queen Shadowblossom “A Beautiful Day to Be Alive,” a photograph by The Owlish Bookworm Page 38: “The World is Silent,” an illustration by Selene “Ecstasy,” a poem by Echo

“Ode to Music,” a poem by Athena Page 39: “Press Play,” an illustration by Hades “Can You Hear It?” a poem by Hades Page 40: “White,” a musing by Hades “Capoeira,” an illustration by Hades Page 41: “Wanted: Angel,” an illustration by Raven “Reflections on a Place Called Heaven,” a musing by Nyctophobia Page 42: “Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall,” a short story by GR33D Page 43: MMOW continued “The Boy in the Mirror,” an illustration by Hebe Page 44: “Rewind,” a photograph by Eris “Chronos’ Hourglass,” a poem by Artemis “To My Dear,” a poem by Nyctophobia Page 45: “Fantasy: The Best Genre,” an essay by Athena “Here Be Dragons?” a photograph by Aphrodite Pages 46 & 47: “Blood Brothers,” an illustration by Selene “Don’t Cry, Don’t Cry,” a poem by Hades Page 48: “For Your Good Health,” a poem by Athena “Blank Page,” a poem by Nyctophobia “Make a Wish,” a photograph by Eris Page 49: “His Name Is Blood: VIII,” a conclusion by Hades Page 50: HNIB continued “Imaginations,” an illustration by Chronos

midnightwriters.webs.com midnight.writers2013@gmail.com

Ask Aphro & Dite Dear Dite, How did you and Aphro decide who would get what name? Sincerely, Curious Dear Curious, When it all started, there was only one Aphrodite. Aphrodite became twins. The look-pretty and smile girl, and the darker, serious, awesome guy who replies sarcastically to serious issues. Did I mention he’s incredibly sexy? She kept me in her closet. It was scary. So many shoes. I devised a plan to escape her dungeon. I hid in a shoe then burst out when she took me out. Being locked in a shoe closet for many years has a deteriorating effect on a man’s sanity and emotional stability. SO he developed the twisted sense of humor and tendency towards mind tricks we all know and love him for (don’t forget how amazingly humble I am for a man of my stature.) He became so emotionally dark, he adopted Dite as an anagram of Tide to show how he’s washing the stains out of his past. Or Aphro just “claimed” it first. Personally, I like the first version better. Sincerely, Dite Dear Aphro, What’s it like it the Shire? Sincerely, Dite Dear Dite, The shire is great. There is food EVERYWHERE. You’ll never starve. There aren’t any cars so we get loads of exercise and never get ridiculously fat. People are always friendly and never rude. You should come visit except you probably wouldn’t fit. Six foot tall people can’t fit through my door but you could sleep outside! I promise I’ll set up a tent. It’ll be loads of fun. Like a sleepover but in different houses. Love, APHRO! <3

Musings of Hades It’s time I told the true story of how I met Persephone. You see, it’s all Hestia’s fault. If you’ve been reading my column, you know Demeter is crazy. My darling Seph was a rebellious teen, and she loved Demeter, but she found another (saner) mother figure in Hestia. One day, Seph broke Demeter’s favorite scythe, so she ran to Hestia for protection. Hestia thought the ever-impenetrable Underworld would be a great place to lie low. I allowed Seph to stay. I even went up to escort her, but clearly Seph didn’t let her nymph friends know she’d be leaving, because they started screaming bloody kidnap. We fell in love, etc., the rest is history. Seph’s been gone for two months. This is also the time I must say farewell to you, dear reader. The impossible has occurred. PERSEPHONE IS HAVING A BABY. I’M GOING TO BE A FATHER. Though I love you all dearly, I simply won’t have time to write for and edit this superb magazine, not with a little hellion running amok. But I am leaving you in the good hands of Calypso, Hecate, Chronos, Glittercheese, Echo, and Cookie Girl. It was a pleasure and honor being your president and editor-in-chief these last two years. Without Midnight Writers, I would never have fangirled over Chronos’ creations, spazzed over Hecate’s abilities, realized the all-around awesomeness of Calypso, met and befriended Apollo, read GR33D’s heart wrenching works, been awed by Iris’ talent with words, giggled over Owlish BW’s shoes, admired Zenyatta’s knack for meter and rhyme, sniffled over Vivian Griselda’s poetry, laughed at Papillon’s entries, seen the beauty of short poems thanks to Soufflé Girl and Barnarda Rey, cried over Aradia’s words, marveled over Artemis’ writing, founded the Color Division because of Catrine, squealed over Japanda3 and W1tchHunter64’s images, been inspired by Nemesis, been overwhelmed by Andromeda’s beautiful photos, delighted over of Raven’s abstract pictures, or discovered the hidden skills and secret artistic pursuits of those I always have and will always call my friends. Thank you all for being Midnight Writers.

Athena’s Corner For a long time when people asked what my favorite book was, I had no answer. Then I picked up The Princess Bride by William Goldman. This is the one book out of the thousands I have read that has earned the title of absolute favorite. (Be amazed.) This book has something for everyone: Fighting. Torture. Revenge. Monsters. True love. When one reads it, however, one must remember it is a satire. I spent an embarrassing amount of time hunting down the nonexistent non-abridged version of The Princess Bride by S. Morgenstern. Satire is humor, and this book has humor in spades! I promise a chuckle at least every other page. The introduction to the book is long, to read. I suggest trying it, but skip to the actual book if you become aggravated. I promise the actual story is much better than the introduction might suggest. Buttercup is the daughter of a farmer, and she and farmhand Westley fall in love. He seeks his fortune to earn the right for her hand. Buttercup receives news that Westley is dead, killed by the Dread Pirate Roberts, and Buttercup vows to never love again. When Prince Humperdinck proposes, he won’t take no for an answer, and they are engaged. When Buttercup is kidnapped, Dread Pirate Roberts makes an appearance, and all is not as it seems… I cut out most of the plot to force all you uneducated who have neither read nor watched one of the greatest stories of all time to go home and do so! To all MW members and readers, thank you so much for making this twoyear experience as VP of the club such a great one, and I hope to see all of you still contributing next year!

Special thanks to EVERYBODY. But especially Sra. Steele. Thanks for an amazing year! 3

Who Am I? by Iris “I think she’s caught between who she is and who she wants to be.” I don’t know who first thought of the saying, since I saw it on Tumblr, but whoever it was knows both what sounds good and what people can relate with. I like the quote because it’s such an elegant— almost romantic—way of summarizing how a lot of people feel. I think most people have an image of who they would like to be in their minds. It can be a personality trait they wish they had, or some physical feature that they’re insecure about, etc. When I read that quote, however, I interpret it in terms of personality and attitude. Now, not to get all technical about it, but a belief called Transcendentalism is discussed very thoroughly in 11th grade’s AP Lang class and there’s a belief under that attitude that says, “Man is flawed but is always striving for perfection.” I’d like to think this holds true for everybody:

that if they see something they don’t like about themselves, they’ll work to bring themselves closer to that image. And eventually, with one change at a time, they’ll become someone they can be proud of and have traits that they can say they like. This year there were a lot of things that I found out about myself, and most of them are things I’d like to change. Now that exams are almost all done, it’s like a new, fresh start. If there’s something I don’t like about myself, this is the time to tackle it. I might not be even halfway to the person I want to become, but if I keep taking steps, no matter how small, I’ll get there. People have the power to change themselves. It’s just a matter of time and effort. Identifying the problem is one issue. After all, reminding yourself of your resolve to change whenever that unwanted trait surfaces helps slowly alter it. Keep at it and after awhile, you’ll be able to see the difference. “Waltz of the Flowers,” Photograph by The Owlish Bookworm

Summer By The Owlish Bookworm Son. Hey, there, Mr. Sunshine. How’ve you been? We’ve missed you, and your warm smile, And—oh! You’ve brought your children— Ray, Rey, and Rhae Youngest Daughter. Afternoon, Miss Breeze. Don’t you look lovely? Gossamer wings, ruffles Shimmery, shivering, Lovely white dress. Twin Brothers. “Silhouette,” EmceeSky and White Welcome,Photograph MastersbyBlue Cloud. Still inseparable, still joined at the hip? Blue—your suit! It changes colours! Oh, it’s lovely! Watercolor pinks and violets and oranges into A blend of brilliant blues, into Acrylic oranges and dusky indigos… And inky blacks.

Dotty Aunts. White—your suit! It changes shape- now, does it really? Evening, Aunties Thundair aaannd… Oh I see… Litenyng. Thinning, spreading, thickening, fluffing out What kind of mischief now— Have you two ladies been up to lately? That’s simply wonderful! Never more than a few seconds away from Great Uncle. each other, Hullo, Uncle Golden Sand! Where one is, the other is soon to follow. And, oh, dear. Everyone’s been waiting for you! The kids are especially excited… This is where things become a bit hectic. They want to know Let’s hold the introductions for now, shall— If you’ll play with them Hey! No! Put that down! Outside, near the shore. Everyone settle down, please! But please have them wash their feet before Aunties, do NOT start that again! coming back in! Sunshine, Blue, White, come help me here! They always seem to get messiest around Don’t you start throwing a tantrum now, you… Breeze! Eldest Daughter. Uncle! You’re making a mess! G’day, Mrs. Green Leaves. Ladies! Oh, lord. I trust you’ve been well? Everyone, would you please—! Looking lovely—that colour looks fantastic Oh, there she is. on you! Thank God. Rich, vibrant emerald Floral dress, easy smile The colour of life itself. Laughing eyes And your children! And sparkles. Oh, hey, there, little buds! Look at you! She looks beautiful. Hey, there, Momma Summer. You’ve all blossomed!

Blue Skies by Glittercheese Open your eyes Look past the shadows And smell the fresh, open air As crisp as the soft crunch of autumn leaves As welcoming as the soothing summer heat Into the soft, swirly, white clouds Circling the light blue sky And you can grow as high as ever Until you touch the very blue sky

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Sunshine, Daisies, Butter Mellow,â&#x20AC;? Photograph by The Owlish Bookworm

Sun-filled Days By Zenyatta Days of sun will come and go, Bright and sweet year after year. They will come with winter snow, And with summer will appear. But when you wake up and find That the sky and is dark and gray, Sunshine will live in your mind In the yellow flowers of May. 6

“Persephone Arrives,” Photograph by Andromeda

Summer Approaches By Soufflé Girl

Longer days and Later sunsets Herald the inevitable Summer And the days I’ll have to spend

Without you.

Among the Soft, Pink Petals By Glittercheese As I glide along the pebbled roads of my neighborhood, sweet smells of spring embrace and surround me with the gentle breeze. Vast fields of baby-soft grass expand beyond the streets and the blue sky casts shining rays down to the Earth. Pink petals float gracefully, gliding through the winds like a bird. And there was a bird. It was a delicate, light, tree-brown bird that lay peacefully among a sea of soft, pink petals. Its eyes were as clear as marble yet as happy as the sunshine. Its chubby, soft body lay calmly and, with one last glance at the world, it closed its small eyes and dreamed. And I wonder what life it had, what it is like to soar among the vast blue sky. And, I hope that it has lived a peaceful life, a happy and peaceful life, living in the small rooftop of my aging house, sleeping fitfully through the winters in its nest and hopping throughout the bushes in search of the most succulent grasshopper. And slowly, the corners of my cheek rise and the small droplets of salty tears fall onto the soft, pink petals. 7

“Lady Spring,” Photograph by The Owlish Bookwrom

Success By The Owlish Bookworm My cousin graduates today, Doesn’t she look wonderful? That’s her, right there— White robes, colorful sashes, Smiling eyes, grinning face— Doesn’t she look happiest? I saw you, you know, I saw you grow. Not just four years— Our entire lives, Your kid cousin, I saw. Saw the tiredness in your eyes, Heard the grogginess in your voice, As you smiled at me, Coming out of third period AP Chemistry, As you tried and tried and tried again Tried and succeeded To succeed. Your mother sits next to me. She’s seen you, loved you

Read you stories, Driven you to school, Watched you grow up—her baby. Watched you sit at the table Glued to laptops and textbooks And saw you succeed. Your brother was there too. Watched you mature From the little tyke Who would argue with him— Stuck out tongues, Who would try to play Nintendo with him— For older kids. Watched you mature into you. You—a little more cynical, A lot more insightful, Fierce, determined, Wonderful you. He saw the sleepless nights, Cups of coffee, Monster, the caffeine And smiled— He knew. Knew that you’d succeed. Your father saw his little girl Become brilliant and amazing. Watched you figure out

What you wanted to do and be. Watched you ponder and choose And succeed. Your grandma—she saw you. Can you see her, crying now? She watched you laugh and scream and cry, From the time she could pick you up With one arm, To now. Watched you grow taller than her, Patted your head, told you to eat more, sleep more, Knowing you wouldn’t stop working, Knowing that you’d succeed. We watched you. All of us. Watched you become you— Winged eye, orange threads, paper planes, Profound statements, witty one-liners, huge hugs We love you. Smiling eyes, grinning faces, Aren’t we happiest? And isn’t she just wonderful. My cousin graduates today.

Look at the face of success.

A Twilight Walk By Iris The sun is setting and you’re all alone in the middle of a wood. Perhaps you only wanted to take a short walk, lured by the day’s mild temperature and cool breeze. It’s usually much chillier than this, and the affable climate was irresistible. Or maybe you saw a woodland animal and decided to chase it.. Whatever reason you decided to enter the wood, you’ve been in here for quite a time. You aren’t lost. If you could find a way out of the tangle of bushes you’ve gotten yourself into, you’d be able to find a way back. The woods are far too small, with spaces between trees to see the surroundings, and your sense of direction hasn’t been so addled as to lead you wholly astray. But again, you’ve been in here for a while. Other than the occasional squirrel, birds, and bugs, you haven’t seen any other creatures. Even those animals are quieting as the sun sinks. You stare at the shades of red and yellow filter through the leaves above and branches around you, deciding that it really is time to go home. And just as you make the first move towards the perimeter of the wood, you hear a noise. It’s a soft, subtle sound, unlike the crunching, clumsy steps you take through the suburban forest. It’s surprising that you were even able to hear it, and as you turn around, you understand why. A shiver courses down your spine. Your first reaction is probably a feeling that’s a mix of wonder and shock, sprinkled generously with curse words. You are alone with a wolf at dusk.

“Waiting for Artemis,” Illustration by Hecate

Its auburn coat catches the sun, the individual strands almost burning in the dying light. Its piercing eyes meet yours, and you stare at each other. You can hear the sayings in your head: They can smell fear. Wild beasts are dangerous and unpredictable. Instead, it seems to see your fear, rather than smell it. Its gaze is clear, calm, imbued with that natural instinct all animals have, as unbiased as Mother Nature herself. But as soon as it appeared, it turns

and is gone, padding away, You stand for a while, stunned. You’re half surprised and quite relieved the beast didn’t pounce on you. But now you feel different. It had been a beautiful creature. And as soon as it was clear you posed no threat, it left as quietly as it had come. It’s hard to explain how you feel. Maybe there’s no reason to immediately mark something as dangerous. It could’ve been a matter of misunderstandings. There’s

something beautiful about the wild, something that compels people to search for the meaning of truth in its unpredictable and raw power. In the end, you and that wolf share the same earth. In the beginning, you were formed from the same source. In the future, you and it ought to coexist, learning from each other. Reflect and remember that everyone and everything is connected. It’s time to get back to roots.

Fin

Helen of Troy

by Artemis Helen was not always a princess of Troy Until her love was promised to a Trojan boy Fault of the goddess Aphrodite She could not control the powers that were It all started with a goddess competition Who was the prettiest? They all had ambition A mortal chosen to be the judge A man named Paris, that mortal was Athena, Hera, and Aphrodite

Who was the prettiest out of the three? The boy Paris could not decide The goddesses had to let go of their pride “I’ll give you ultimate wisdom,”

Athena said

Hera argued, “I’ll make you King of the world instead!” “I’ll give you Helen’s love, most beautiful in the world,” Aphrodite promised while her fingers twirled Paris hemmed and he hawed, he was deep in thought He did not care for wisdom or power a lot So he turned to Aphrodite and remarked “You are the fairest,” and for once, Paris was harked

So Paris had the love of Helen So he went to Sparta, feeling like heaven When he arrived Helen was already in love Paris thanked the gods above When Helen and Paris eloped, Greeks clamored The King of Sparta was with whom she should be enamored! Outraged Mycenae and Sparta both They muttered this fearsome oath “We will bring back Helen no matter what” They started making a cut To food rations, and luxuries, preparing for war There was no end to the Greek’s fervor They sailed to Troy in a thousand ships The Greeks had settled their inner conflicts United as one, they were good and ready The thrill of battle was fierce and heady Day passed and passed with nothing to show Until came many hero Hector of Troy, a prince and a fighter Killed many of the Greeks, a blighter Achilles came and ended his life After desecrating his body, returned him to his wife Paris in anguish called out to the gods Apollo helped him even the odds A poisoned arrow to Achilles’s heel Even in death he would not kneel The men were tiring fast When Athena visited Odysseus at last Pretend to retreat, she advised Then build a horse to hide men inside Say that this is a war gift from me And that refusing would be blasphemy So build the did and come morning, thinking a win The Trojans brought the horse in Little did they know, they had been tricked Bring in Odysseus and his men, handpicked They sneaked out of the horse To burn down Troy, of course The Greeks had won the war Helen was brought back to her lord Years later, it was thought a happy ending Helen disagrees, but continues pretending She fakes a smile, but still she mourns Feeling sad, empty, and worn

“The Face That Launched a Thousand Ships,” Illustration by Raven

So goes on the rest of her era Forced to be the Queen of Sparta That is the story of a girl and a boy The gods interfering with Paris and Helen of Troy

“A Man in the City,” Photograph by Glitercheese

Juxtapose By Athena The ancient statue The modern city Exclusive ideas Yet here they are Contrasting Reminding To build the future You must learn From the past A symbiotic Relationship Perhaps Not exclusive After all But complementary.

Minerva By Echo Wiser thAn an owl Claiming iTs prey And watcHing it shiver From undEr her gaze While wiNking her eye Before sAying “goodbye” 11

Doctor Who by Calypso

Warning: Spoilers! The 50th Anniversary special isn’t until November 23, but I wanted to fangirl and speculate on what Moffat might do. We already know David Tennant (let’s face it, he makes up 70% of why I’m watching the special) and Billie Piper are returning, which originally made me think: Meta-Crisis Doctor! But I fear we won’t find out how MetaCrisis Tenth and Rose are doing because John Hurt is supposed to portray the real Ninth Doctor. Apparently we missed a regeneration cycle? Or maybe it’s something similar to “The Next Doctor” except he only gained Nine’s memories? If he really is the true Ninth, then our beloved Doctor is one regeneration closer to his regeneration limit than we thought. On the other hand, I heard Moffat might come up with a way around the twelve regeneration rule. The Doctor might be given a new cycle of regenerations by the High Council, but that seems unlikely, seeing as Gallifrey is in a time lock, and I doubt Moffat’s going to release the Master and Rassilon. Going back to multiple Doctors coming together at the same time, it could be a Time Scoop as a throwback to “The Five Doctors,” but I doubt Moffat would piggyback on that, so we’ll have to wait and see. Was anyone else disappointed to find out the Ponds wouldn’t be returning? I’m still angry at Moffat for the time distortions that prevent the T.A.R.D.I.S. from landing in Manhattan. I see no reason he couldn’t land in New Jersey or New York one year before. Speaking of lost companions, is Jenny from the “Doctor’s Daughter” ever coming back? Maybe Moffat will tie her loose end up with Clara’s by making Clara a regeneration of Jenny, but I’d rather Moffat wait to bring Jenny back. I’m also waiting for River Song/Melody Pond to return. Still, I’m ecstatic to know Billie Piper will return as Rose. I mean, that’s just fantastic! (Nine reference, anybody?) Rose is my favorite companion, and she complements the Doctor (well, Ten) perfectly. I hope Moffat clears up Clara’s mystery by the 50th, but if he doesn’t, I would like to know how Moffat will deal with the original question that must never be asked: “Doctor who?” That said, of course, I really, really, really don’t want to know the Doctor’s name. It would just make him too…human. And recently he’s become more and more human (or at least more “domestic,” especially when you compare Nine’s not doing “domestic” to

Eleven’s accepting Rory on the T.A.R.D.I.S. or Ten’s falling in love with Rose because even though we were denied the actual words, we all know that’s what Meta-Crisis Ten told Rose at Bad Wolf Bay), but he’s a Time Lord! He’s the Doctor! He can’t have a real name like the rest of us! And even if Moffat reveals the Doctor’s true name, the name will seem so mundane and unworthy of the Doctor. Also, I have an issue of Clara reading the Doctor’s name in “Journey to the Centre of the T.A.R.D.I.S.” Why on Gallifrey would the Doctor leave a book on the history of the Time War lying around with his name printed in ENGLISH. And why would that book be in English? It should be in Gallifreyan, and the T.A.R.D.I.S. doesn’t translate Gallifreyan! Either way, I’m extremely excited for the Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Special, and I can’t wait for the end of the original question arc. And though I might not want to know the Doctor’s true name, I think we’ve all wondered at one point….Doctor who? “The Girl Who Waited,” Illustration by Hebe

“The Good Doctor,” Illustration by Hebe

Dear Doctor,

This is the best way I could think of to contact you, as I have it on good authority that you don’t answer your phone. I’ve heard so much about you, the wonderful things you’ve done, and the people you’ve saved. You sound like an incredible man. You save people right? It’s what you do. Do you think you could save me? Take me with you to see the universe, travel all of time and space together. That would be amazing. Please?

Wants to Travel and Be Free Soufflé Girl 13

Life of Trauma: III by Apollo “Because…I’m pregnant,” Miranda said. “And I think you’re the father.” The phone slipped out and hit the ground with a loud BANG. I couldn’t believe it. As if my life couldn’t possibly get any more traumatic, I was going to be a father. How was this possible? Miranda and I did have a one-night stand two months ago, but I didn’t think one incident would have such a lasting effect. I’M GOING TO BE A FATHER! I could barely take care of myself, not to mention taking care of a child that I would almost certainly have to raise entirely on my own, since the baby’s mother was likely to remain in jail for as long as she lived. And that’s when I broke down. I facepalmed on my kitchen floor in tears. I stayed there for a half hour before I suddenly started screaming to a point where

my mom heard me and came into the kitchen. “Nicholas? What on Earth is going on?” “Mom,” I said, still choked up, “that was Miranda.” “And…” “She’s not going to be executed after all, at least for the time being. Because…” “Because, what?” “I got her pregnant.” Then I broke down again. That’s when I expected my mom to lash out and rip my head off. But surprisingly, she didn’t. “Shhhhhhhh. It’s okay. Calm down. Everything’s going to be okay.” “How do you know? And how come you’re not all angry with me?.” “Now, Nicholas,” she began. “Pregnancy is a part of natural life, no matter if it was accidental or not. And you’re a grown man now. You’re twenty-two years old and a college graduate. You’re in

the real world and it’s up to you to make decisions for yourself. This is completely different from a 16-year-old high school power couple having a kid and dropping out of school. It’s part of your purpose in life to get a job and support a family. The supporting a family part came a little earlier than expected, but I’m 100% in favor of you raising this child. And your father and I will both be there with you to help you out as the proud grandparents.” “Seriously?” I asked. “You guys are okay with helping me raise a kid?” “If I raised you to be half decent, I have no doubt I can help you raise this child.” We looked at each other and laughed. This would be okay, after all.

Miranda’s prison hospital room. “Everything’s going to be okay, and your father and I are here with you.” “Mr. Pennington,” said the nurse who came out of Miranda’s room. “The grotesque part is over. You’re welcome to come inside now.” “Mom, Dad, let’s go see that baby!” We followed the nurse to the hospital bed, where Miranda was with two mean prison guards at each side of the bed. And in Miranda’s lap was a very handsome baby boy. “There you go, champ,” said my dad. “Go get your baby.” I approached the be. Miranda placed the baby in my arms. I looked at the baby and he looked back at me. Just like that, an instant father-son connection was established. Seven months later... This was the beginning of a “Just remember what I told beautiful new family. you that day,” my mom said, To be continued during the 2013standing next to me outside 2014 school year...

“Elphaba’s Day Off,” Photograph by Eris

“Sunnyside Lane,” Photograph by Andromeda

The Whispering Spark By Vivian Griselda

A sweet sound dwelling in my mind, My world is escaping back to the dimming lights. Eyes tracing me without a sound, Dressed up in white and black and newly found. His soul can see me even in the dark, No matter where our troubles may go. As we discovered a way to recreate the spark, I’m beginning to realize why I love you so. Your soft, determined will and sweet dictation, Rap music loudly playing in the still air.

Suddenly the two of us returning from translation, Because in this moment all you do is stare. Whispers traveling through the sky, But the summer sun is not too far. You suddenly send me a letter resulting in a cry, If only you didn’t have to be the one that holds my heart. So I’ll pack my bags and leave the memories behind, And run away to a town I once called home. Unfortunately something so beautiful here is difficult to find, This here is a land where the intelligent shall roam. Every place has an up and down, That passion is something I’ll never let go. Just because my zip code proves I switched a town, The way I feel about you is something I wish you’d know.

Fifty Years From Now: III By Nemesis The door opens and people stream in. There are at least fifty and they look like mercenaries. The stranger goes to the leader of the group. “Salazar, you promised me a reward!” the stranger whines. “I promised you nothing, now be silent.” “If you don’t give me the money…I’ll tell.” Wordlessly, Salazar slips his gun out and shoots the fool in the center of his forehead. The stranger collapses in a bloody puddle on the

ground. “Burn the body,” Salazar says, “we can’t risk infection.” I duck behind the building and steel myself. The feeling of nausea subsides. I must warn everyone. I run to the bell tower, where all the announcements are made. I ring the bell. The townspeople come, confused. They see me. “Is this a prank, Shana?” “There are bandits inside the barrier. The stranger let them in!” They look doubtful. “Then let’s go see.” I sneak away and run to my room. I gather supplies and place them in a knapsack. I must go to my secret

hideout. I dash past numerous buildings, and I soon arrive at the town square. Most of the townspeople are gathered. I see Salazar with his bandits. I sneak around the block and run to my hideout and sleep there until the morning. I jerk awake then leave my cave. The whole town is covered in carnage. I walk around the town and see Matthew running away from bandits. One catches him by the back of his shirt. Matthew bites him and gets backhanded across the face. The bandit takes out his gun and shoots him in the head. I freeze, and the world turns red. “No!” I scream, and that’s the last thing I remem-

ber before I charge them. I pick up a rock and smash it into one’s head. His partner punches me, and I pass out. I wake up and hear voices. “The girl killed Marcus!” “You should have been more careful. It’s time to leave. The girl will die soon, anyway. We have plundered enough, and we should make a lot of dough from all the slaves.” I try to stagger up. “Hey, the girl is waking up!” Someone shoots me in the stomach. I fall. Remember, girl, the world is a dark place, not a happy place…not at all. The strong conquer the weak, and the weak die out.

The End

“Gaia and Ouranos,” Illustration by Artemis

Roads

By Zenyatta A small beginning has many ends And many paths to take. The road has many turns and bends, It weaves and splits and snakes. You never know where you’ll end up; There’s lots of ways to go. But watch that you just don’t mess up And never reach your goal. Your life’s an ever-winding road With lots of different views. But keep on walking and you’ll find What matters most to you.

“His House is in the Village Though,” Photograph by The Owlish Bookworm

The Visitor By Iris One winter’s afternoon, the woods received a visitor. Not a “visitor” who traversed only the common roads that snaked from town to town, but a visitor who stepped into the heart of the woods to see the mystic waterfall that flowed into a brook, the deer at the water’s edge, the chattering squirrels in trees. The woodland had not much to offer, save for the pure white snow and the captivating stillness that often invoked inexplicable wonder. Even so barren, the land welcomed the cloaked woman. Yet perhaps that was due to whom she was, rather than where she was. The animals not yet asleep came to peek at her. A pair of sparrows twirled in the air above her hooded head. A deer made its way through the snow to stand near. The wind whispered stories as it twined through the branches of the trees, and the woman listened. It told stories of the shining castle ahead, whose beautiful walls housed a cold, loveless heart. A prince. But such a

selfish, unsympathetic heart… What sort of future lay in store for the kingdom? What sort of reign would the prince produce, ruling over the people like a beast? How would he gain the love of his subjects? The woman halted beside the waterfall, gazing at it, which tumbled magnificently into the stream. The deer, too, came to the water’s edge, bending its majestic head to the water’s surface. She brushed the hood of her cloak back. It seemed as though a window had opened in the sky. Sunlight showered down on golden curls, and the wind blew about to comb the shining locks behind her. A beautiful enchantress. A bird sang as the sorceress turned to approach a rosebush, thorny branches naked and bare. She pulled a thin wand from the green sleeve of her dress before tapping the bush. A spark of light and the rosebush shivered, sparkled. Its branches trembled and verdant leaves sprang from its tips. Buds swelled, nestled among the newborn leaves before bursting into vivid pink roses. The enchantress bent over the bush, gently pushing clusters of leaves and

roses out of the way until she beheld a single closed bud. She lifted her hand over the unborn flower, closed her fingers into a fist. The woman’s fingers unfurled, and as they did, the lips of the bud opened, and the most beautiful rose blossomed. Lights trickled from its open petals before they sparkled and died. She smiled at the flower before plucking it from its bush. She lifted drew in a breath of its perfumed fragrance. Satisfied with her work, the enchantress turned her lovely face skyward, where the steeple of that radiant castle was just visible. With a whirl of her cloak, the lady transformed into a hunchbacked hag. Rose in hand, she trudged off toward the palace, the wind her whispering companion. The deer followed her footsteps, the birds sang in the branches. The story had not yet begun. They would see what internal transformation would settle in the prince, what sort of light could be awakened within him. They would see whether or not a beast could bring love into his heart.

Fin

“Love Me, Love Me Not,” Photograph by Aphrodite

Against All Odds by Apollo Here I am Again at this time of year Wow, time flew so quickly And yet now it’s beginning to hit me How many times I use that phrase Wow, time flew so quickly How many more times will I say that? How much quicker will time fly? How many more days do I have? It seems like just yesterday Was my first day of high school Back then I was just A scared little freshman

Who had no idea what to expect In the dreaded high school Yet as the days grew I began to master a routine And had cracked the code

To figure out the art of high school And time flew yet again As before I knew it, Sophomore year had begun One year older One year smarter One year...stronger And the days flew by again Day after Day Week after Week Month after Month Year after Year And before I knew it, I’d reached this point Half way done Upperclassman Vocabulary that is so unfamiliar to me But what is clear to me now Is that I’d reached that point in life And I can say I’ve done it,

Against All Odds

“Checkmate,” Photograph by Eris

“Amphitrite,” Illustration by Hecate

Dreamer by Raindrop She wanted to be free, so she ran across the desert and fled toward the sea. Behind her chased the leopard that she could never see.

As You Wish By Soufflé Girl

Three little words All he ever said I realized too late That he meant Something else

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Pallas,â&#x20AC;? Illustration by Hecate Coloring by Aradia

Actions speak louder than words By Nyctophobia

so often we humans forget (how easy we forget) that I forget my words are not actions and all the conversations in this earth mean naught without a lick of action an attempt at your heart 21

“Thalassa,” Illustration by Hecate

Beautiful by Bernarda Rey

Skin as dark as the night A waist as wide as the sea Little red dots climb every crevice of her face. Eyebrows that intertwine like They’re the leaves of the night. A chest so flat like the destiny of a lost girl. Every corner, she turns, boys stare Like she’s the most beautiful thing That they have ever seen.

“Thetis,” Illustration by Hecate Coloring by Aradia

Ocean Storm By Queen Shadowblossom Loving you is a whirlwind of infuriating passion You can take me to new heights with a casual touch, or a flashing grin. You turn, avoiding my eyes and another part of my heart breaks in two You make me want to hurt you but then again I just want to kiss you You have no idea you make me cry, when I picture what I could have had with you What could I have done differently? What could I have done more? It doesn’t matter, it’s too late anyways. Another great love lost into a sea of broken hearts.

Sea Side Picture

by Nyctophobia

The wind is blowing a strong sea breeze. I can smell the unmistakable scent of decaying ocean life, salty water and a distant island fragrance. The waves are crashing against the side of the ship. I am bounced up and down, but it is a pleasant, exciting bounce, not like on a bus. Some of the water is splashing over the edge onto my leg; it is a pleasant relaxing sensation, yet also exhilarating. The boat is slowly approaching a far-off coast. I lick my lips and taste the salt left by the spray. I see clouds in the distance, but where we are it’s a

clear blue sky

with the sun blazing down warming our skin. I look down at my shadow and see my hair. Most people would say atrocious, but if they knew how I got it, they’d be so jealous. My clothes are plastered to my skin by the wind, a light Hawaiian shirt and white shorts. Barefoot. Relaxed. Although my exterior is tense as I labor to keep the ship sailing, my interior is calm. The ocean is dangerous, but once you get it in your blood, it becomes a lover as well. You need that sea water splashing on your face or the sand crunching between your toes or that ocean breeze flowing through your hair.

An August Daydream By Nyctophobia The teacher circulates the room, passing back our tests mine is thoroughly marked, fail I need an escape, an out I leave the dry, stuffy class with all its critique and criticism I arrive in the confines of my head I try to force art, How to never comes easy But still I must try As I unfurl a canvas in my mind every crevice, blemish, and ridge I note I feel it with hand, caressing it I probe it for every default and defect Even in my head far from perfect But

It is perfect for its purpose For who needs something flawless when the only witness is oneself 24

“Good Morning,” Photograph by Echo

Calypso’s Island So, Persephone’s back from the Underworld, and Hades has been moodier than ever. Honestly, you’d think he’d get over it by now, seeing as it’s almost summer, but I guess old wounds run deep. Still, it’s almost summer! It’s almost time for school to be out, for Apollo to sleep in, and for Persephone to run free with her mother before she has to return to the Underworld. (I resent that!—Hades) Apollo and Persephone aren’t the only ones celebrating, though. Aphrodite is enjoying her time with Adonis, Artemis is out hunting, Dionysus is out partying, and all the dryads are off flirting and playing. I’m even inviting some of the gods and goddesses to Ogygia for a summer solstice celebration, and I can’t wait! Hopefully Hera and Zeus will have put aside their differences over the latest nymph affair by then, but as you all know, gods and goddesses are particularly good at holding grudges. Luckily for us all, Artemis and Apollo are on good terms right now besides from the typical sibling shenanigans and spats. Well, I’d better go. Hermes is coming by later to help with party planning, and I need to fix up some of the gardens to make them more presentable. Have a great summer, all!

“Calypso’s Island,” Photograph by Echo

“I Wish I May,” Photograph by The Owlish Bookworm

Simple Pleasures By Iris

I love hammocks. They’re like swinging beds. The idea of them is so comfortable. My family doesn’t have room in our house, but one day I will get a hammock of my own. Of course, if I get a hammock of my own, that would mean that I would have a house or apartment of my own, too. And that means I need to be able to pay, which requires a stable job, which in turn requires a good education, etc., etc. But I think about the latter so much that I’d rather not address that here, now that AP exams are pretty much over, anyways. Instead, it’s fun just to think of the sort of things that I would like to have in my own life. It’s nice to imagine what a bright future could have. Most are simple, silly things. For example, a flip clock. I’d like to have a flip clock on a shelf in my own house. We will also have beanbags and one of those seats that are really just couches in front of the window, like a nice little niche. Other things aren’t quite as simple. I do want

to have a happy family when I grow older, one that I can support and care for. Change can happen fast and slow, but I hope that things won’t be too different when I have my own kids. I’d like them to play outside more in a nice little yard. But at the same time I’m going to get them to like Disney movies. And listen to a wide variety of music. And also play video games with me. …Maybe there are too many requirements? But that’s what I hope for: a warm, happy future with a close family. An everyday atmosphere that reads “peaceful and cozy.” I think that would be my personal happiness. Try it out! Imagining what you’d like to achieve is good motivation, and just fun in general. We’re all growing up so fast, but it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. There’s a whole lot more to do in life, and it’s just like what parents say when you ask them for things they won’t give you—like a horse—or a trip to some expensive place they don’t want to pay for.

“You can get it yourself when you’re older.”

â&#x20AC;&#x153;The Middle Distance,â&#x20AC;? Photograph by The Owlish Bookworm

The Race By Queen Shadowblossom Why do expectations run so high Parents, college, prom, life? Some people have it down to a science. Life is a marathon not a sprint High school is not the culmination Getting into an Ivy, Having the perfect prom None of it matters. I feel as if I have succeeded I have friends I can count on People I care about More than anything in the world And a future I am excited about What more could I want? In the end, I have won the race. 27

“Red Cross,” Illustration by Hecate

Farewell Well…the school year is almost out, and many students are taking their AP exams. HSAs are also just around the corner. I wish everyone good luck on their exams. I believe that I vouch for everyone when I say that Midnight Writers is the most fun club I have been a part of. The officers are super nice and fun to be around. We all have had our share of crazy antics. It was a lot of fun coming up with and voting for all of the bonus themes this year! As much fun as I’ve had being a part of this club, it is too bittersweet to think that our beloved officers will no longer be with us next year… I am very proud to be able to call them our officers and to me, they’re not only our officers, but very good friends whom I hold very near and dear to my heart. I can’t imagine what Midnight Writers will be like next year without them. I will miss them very much and hope that they enjoy themselves in college and succeed in all of their future endeavors. As for the Newficers, I know that you all will do a fantastic job next year, just as our current (soon to be gone) officers have. It will be difficult to cope with this transition, but it cannot be helped. It is the way things must be. It just won’t be the same without our officers at the meetings anymore. It’s hard for me to believe that this is their last year with us. I wish that they could stay with us forever, but that is just something that cannot be accomplished no matter how much and how hard we try. All we can do is hope for the best and carry on, for we will always have them close to our hearts and have great memories that we will be able to look back upon in the future.

Best Regards, Papillon

End of the Year By Calypso In the midst of the testing crunch, it’s easy to forget that we only have five weeks left of school and even less time to spend with our soon departing seniors. This year has been stressful and wonderful, exhausting and exhilarating, and most importantly, quite memorable. Unfortunately, quite a lot of memories blur into a general feeling of good or bad, but there are always those special moments that stand out. Every year there are spectacular moments that remain in our memories, and I

thought I would share some of those moments that came from Midnight Writers: “President Hades is no longer with us.” ~Athena “We’re Midnight Writers. We run on sugar and caffeine.” ~Hades “Submit to Aphro!” ~Aphro and Dite “Thank you, minions.” ~Hades It’s funny, in retrospect, how the littlest things can end up being the things we remember, but I just thought I’d share. It’s been a long year, but I find that it’s those little moments that help us get by.

“Hot! Hot! Hot!” Photograph by Queen Shadowblossom

“Carpe Noctem,” Illustration by Raven

Senior Section

Midnight Writers: Ye Who Shalt Retire Aphrodite: Kaeshini Thiran Ariadne: Lida Kaffi Athena: Erica Roberts Chaos: Jonathan Lee Chiron: Sonia Shekar Dite: Ben Moore Dr. Doodles: Meredith Newman Eris: Sidney Hahm Gr33d: Lida Kaffi Hades: Jessica Lee Hebe: Angela Kuo

Hermes: Neil Shekar Hippolyta: Maeve Tobin Hunny-Senpai: Alexandra Cid Kenpachi: Nathan Ma Nana: Tracey Zhai Nyctophobia: Ben Moore Persephone: Joanna Chen Q.Shadowblossom: Kaeshini Thiran Raindrop: Sara Wang Selene: Chloe Song Tink: Lida Kaffi

it a secret, don’t tell the VP. ;) A Midnight Writers Alphabet keep Q is for Quests. Once upon a time, we slew the

By Hades

evil Literary Magazine Just kidding. ^__^

A is for Adrenaline. What do you mean I have R is for Rev to go to sleep? It’s only midnight!

(a.k.a. VP Athena’s cat). She makes the final decision on extension requests.

in the morning.

in a soft, chewy morsel…

ting through the night.

certain people to get things done. Ahem.

B is for Bed. Hate it in the evening. Love it S is for Snickerdoodles. Cinnamony heaven C is for Caffeine. If you don’t got it, ain’t get- T is for Threats. They’re necessary if you want D is for Deadline. Your most honorable presi- U is for the Usual Reminder. dent has a love-hate relationship with this day.

After 1.5 years, we’re finally titling our weekly emails.

la presidente publishes a new issue.

Writers font. ISN’T IT BEAUTIFUL?

E is for Ego. That’s what swells up whenever V is for Vivaldi. It’s the official Midnight Thank Microsoft W is for Weekend. The third of every month drives la presidente nuts. In a good way. Publisher! We’d be goners without it. G is for Goodies. It’s so nice to see everyone X is for Xerox. The Media Center color printing costs = a real bargain. Really. stuffing their faces. Seriously. It is.

F is for Formatting.

H is for Hades. Hades is going to miss Y is for Yawn. Starting to crash…

Z is for Zzzz. Insert British exclamation here,

you guys next year. :(

I is for Insomnia. We might as well

it’s that late already? G’night, then.

make it a prerequisite to membership.

J is for Juggling.

Email and Facebook and commissions and meetings and hosting—oh, my!

K is for Kooky. We’re all a little bit crazy here. Insanity is good for you in small doses.

L is for Logic. If it doesn’t agree with our reality, it doesn’t exist.

M is for Mythology.

Your most honorable president is addicted to it. No need for therapy.

N is for NaNoWriMo.

You guys should do it. Cross it off the bucket list. It’s fun! :)

O is for Otaku.

Whether it’s Avatar/ Korra or Shonen Jump or Shoujo, we’ve got fans.

P is for Pseudonym.

If you want to

“The MWer,” Illustration by Aradia

“Where Dreams Come True,” Photograph by Queen Shadowblossom

The Final Address Hey, all you Midnight Artists! (It seems the midnight writers have transformed into a crew of painters, photographers, sketchers, animators for this last issue, but pictures are worth a thousand words, so I guess you just satisfied the requirements for both professions with one stone. It’s truly a pleasure to be surrounded by all you blossoming virtuosos!) This will be my last address to all of you, and I’d just like to congratulate our gorgeous, talented, baking-fanatic of a Lord of the Underworld, Hades, who is deceptively disguised as a young, energetic, Asian goddess…and the rest of the officers. You’ve all worked very hard in making all of this possible. This club has really given many students the chance to let their talents burgeon and show the world what they are capable of doing with their ten fingers and creative machine hidden behind a sexy forehead and waterfall of lush hair. It’s been a long ride for all of you, and CONGRATS to all of the seniors for making it through four years of high school, which adds up to many, many, many midnights of furious cramming, writing, and sketching. I wish on a big, fat, four-leaf clover and shooting star that all of you will explore and enjoy yourselves to the fullest of full as you go through the exciting adventure that is the next four years of your life. It is the next stage, the next level, the next step you will take towards discovering the unique path within a sea of possibilities that has your name carved,

chalked, and painted all over it, leading you to what you are meant to be. It’s not a perfect path; it has its share of cracks, holes, dandelions, creepy spiders with hairy legs, and rocky parts, but it is your path, and therefore the right path. No Google maps or GPS necessary, the map with your path highlighted in red and greatest guide is already perfectly snug behind your sternum and within the cages of your ribs. Well, that’s my contribution of mushy gooeyness for the year. Kudos to all of you underclassmen as well! Each and every one of you, and half of you, and a fourth of you, is fabulous. Pat yourself on the head; give yourself two thumbs up and a Hershey’s kiss for me because I still haven’t figured out how to make words grow arms. I’ll work on it, I promise. You guys and gals are the backbone, the lifejacket, the AC on a hot summer day, the moms and dads and leaders of this club now, and I hope you’ll let this night world thrive and prosper and continue to attract many other attractive, blossoming young poets, writers, and artists just like the 2013 graduating class. ;) I jest, of course, especially to the multitude of you across all class years. Farewell! Adieu! Don’t let the bed bugs bite! Make sure to wash behind your ears! Yahoo! Break a leg! Keep it classy, Midnighters.

Forget-Me-Not, Nana

The Trio By Queen Shadowblossom Six years ago I came to know you For six years we have never parted.

Three best friends As different as can be But in reality just the same We may be going to college All going our separate ways But no matter what We will always stay connected A short car ride away And know that no matter the reason You can call me any day.

LRT forever~

Birth of a Writing By Nyctophobia

When one starts something new It is a tough, difficult challenge Most so in creativity As one cannot force it One must be fully connected Available to intertwine one’s self And one’s creation into a single being To be disconnected is to fail The writer is the mother, The experience the father, The writing is, naturally, the baby But equally significant is the connection It is the umbilical cord linking artist and art It anchors and nourishes the baby When the baby is fully grown, And released into the world One must sever this cord There remains an intangible bond, But the writing is no longer exclusive, one’s own It becomes shared, Available to be influenced by the world As every new baby, my writing is beautiful. “Internationality,” Photograph by The Owlish Bookworm

Vitamin X By Hades

They call it Vitamin X. It’s not really a vitamin, and no one knows why they picked “X.” Regardless, Vitamin X is the latest thing in diet pills, and for all the fake, Photoshopped Sensa and Nutrisystem ads you’ve seen, Vitamin X actually works. Only Vitamin X isn’t a diet pill. It’s a diet powder. It comes in a pepper shaker bottle. Just sprinkle it over your food, any food, be it Mom’s meatloaf or a Big Mac, and presto! Not only did you neglect to gain weight from your hedonistic consumption, but “A Façade of Normalcy,” Illustration by Hecate

you lost some. It has no flavor, either. The Vitamin X particles are white, but they’re quickly absorbed into your food, and it’s like they were never there in the first place. It all started with some senior girls at a local high school. A dozen friends were desperate to drop a few pounds to look svelte in their prom dresses. One got her hands on some Vitamin X, even though you’re supposed to be eighteen or older to buy it, and they all tested it out over a pan of brownies. On average, those dozen girls each dropped about five pounds in one week. More senior girls hopped on the bandwagon, then the

juniors, then sophomores, then freshmen. Soon belts were tightened drastically, and females chowed down on fries and nachos with no fear of gaining weight. It wasn’t long before all the women in town realized it actually works, and stores began to rapidly restock Vitamin X in order to keep up with demand. Then the next town over heard about it…the next city… entire county…state… all of America was talking about this miracle pill. Vitamin X! X for X-ercise-free! Hollywood Starlets actually began to eat carbs and sugar! But there’s no such thing as miracles. You see, the original dozen senior girls, long after they were down to size two, never stopped taking Vitamin X. It became perfunctory behavior to buy lunch, sit down, shake some Vitamin X, and devour. If someone forgot to add Vitamin X, she would freak out the entire day until she could grab a snack somewhere and get her dose of Vitamin X through a chocolate bar or some Doritos. Those girls’ waists grew tinier and tinier, but they never stopped. Eventually, they stopped bothering to add Vitamin X to food and spooned Vitamin X

directly into their mouths. Near the end of the school year, one of those girls collapsed in the hallway. She weighed seventy-three pounds. The hospital put her on IV’s, and once she woke up, they tried to feed her, but she refused to eat a bit until someone added Vitamin X on top. One nurse took the saltshaker and pretended it was Vitamin X, but the instant the girl tasted the roast beef, she spat it out and demanded they give her the real thing. The doctors had no choice but to add a little Vitamin X to her meals in order to get her to eat. She was smiling when they found her with a flat-lining heart monitor, clutching a bottle of Vitamin X like a teddy bear. Word spread, and the FDA shut down Vitamin X factories and tried to recall Vitamin X. But in the towns and cities that first began using it, the people protested and raided pharmacies before the government could take their Vitamin X away. A black market rose for the now-illegal drug, and restaurant and grocery chain stocks plummeted. After several months, the world ran out of Vitamin X. Many, mostly women, had wasted away from excessive consumption, and many more were psychologically dependent on the nonexistent substance. Soon, Hollywood began promoting a healthier, more-rounded figure as the ideal body, and slowly but surely, society returned to normal, and Vitamin X became a thing of the past. One year later, Vitamin Y appeared on the market. The company claims it’s nonaddicting.

Fin

Prom by Nyctophobia

“Fallen,” Illustration by Raven

wings melted long before he reached his goal. So I know. My dreams. They will be pulled. By gravity. Forces beyond my control. I feel time slipping away. Every moment of indecision is a loss many fold of a resource most precious. These few critical seconds to stabilize. I do everything right and I still fall. An angel’s heart descending. I will plummet thorough the atmosphere. Through the sky. Into the sea. Into the deep dark ground. Through the surface. Pain. It will rush through my body. I will cry. weep. shed a tear and like the phoenix use it to heal my wounds. set my bones and graft my skin. Then stand. rise. Brush off my dust and set off once again. To gather feathers. Make stronger glue. To once again aspire. For you. A new you. A new heart, a new lust, a new

So…prom? What a joke. As if you would go with me, you hardly even know me. What was I thinking? Hoping for? Wishing for a miracle that I know will never come. I work at it, though you’re a Gordian knot with no start and no end. They say anything’s possible. I know anything is. But. What must I do? I need some sort of clairvoyance to show me the way. To know what to do. What I should do. I know what I want. I feel it’s possible. I think there’s a way. But whatever it is. It eludes my grasp. I live in this delusional world. I’m a dreamer. I try not to. Get my hopes up. Let them fly. My dreams and aspirations. They rise and rise, but the higher they love. All new but all the same. Love. What a joke. go. The harder they fall. They approach the sun, but Icarus’

“Burn, Baby, Burn,” Photograph by Queen Shadowblossom

The Darkness By Queen Shadowblossom Most people fear the dark I embrace it The dark brings Secrecy and Serenity I embrace my dark side It is what makes people different and interesting What makes us unique. The light is a facade put on for the public The dark is what’s inside. Our true feelings. Learn to understand and forgive it 36

Perfection By Queen Shadowblossom The sun shines warmly down A breeze blows through Ah. What a perfect day Birds chirp happily Hidden in the trees A volleyball lies on a table next to me I lean back Enjoying the perfection of the moment And think, “Only a few more weeks until summer.”

“A Beautiful Day to Be Alive,” Photograph by The Owlish Bookwomr

“The World Is Silent,” Illustration by Selene

Ecstasy by Echo A melody rushes through your veins You lose control as it takes the reins Head spins into a natural high An ecstasy none can deny And it just takes one single song To take you back where you belong

Ode to Music by Athena Oh music, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways: Relieving the tedium of doing any unpleasant task, Providing a chance to just dance it all out. A source of pride, my ability to memorize, A source of annoyance, a song stuck in my head. Always there to inspire new creativity, Always there to endlessly support me. Through thick and thin, Through good and bad, Through happy and sad, Through listless and mad, All the emotions I’ve had You’ve helped me weather them. For all the above and more, Thanks. Love you. 38

“Press Play,” Illustration by Hades

Can You Hear It? by Hades The world was silent when my brother asked me, “What is music?” Well…it’s sound. Pleasing, harmonious sou—well, not always, I’ll admit. I know what music is. I just can’t explain it. Music is the trill of my clarinet as I noodle in band. Music is the hum of my iPod, pulsating in my ears. Music is the questionable karaoke of my parents’ friends. Music is the memory of my mother’s lullabies as a frightened child drifts off to sleep. Music is the laughter of gods, echoing in the valleys of our mundane Earth. Music is the whistle of Artemis and Apollo’s arrows as they pierce a fortnight’s children. Music is the beat of Kore’s footsteps as she flees from destroying the light. Music is the hymn of Atropos’ scissor, snipping my thread of life, just like that.

the babble of my baby cousins as I watch them onscreen, thousands of miles away. Music is the whisper of the turning pages of a book that’s captured me in its spell. Music is the rhythm of my keyboard, creating people and universes out of white nothingness. Music is utter silence—no electronics humming, airplanes, wind—a silence I have never known. Day by day, I walk down endless halls, listening to the soundtrack of my life. The jazz band brays when I grin after I ace a test. Violins mourn when opportunities slip through my fingers like ghosts. An angelic choir lifts me in the air when I am awed by my mother’s strength. Berimbaus egg me on when I kick and spin and defeat invisible enemies. Shhh. Do you hear it? It’s quiet, but it’s there. Take a moment. Don’t just hear—listen. Music is

…Can you hear the music?

White by Hades My car is white. I park it between a minivan, filled with mewling children and their harassed parental unit, and a station wagon, whose driver smokes and speaks so quickly on his phone, I can’t understand his English. I finish listening to the song playing on 94.7 before turning off the engine and stepping out. My jacket is white. I burrow myself in it as I brave the biting cold. Grass crunches beneath my feet as I take a shortcut across the strip mall. I dash up a set of metal stairs. My hat is white. People lounging in the waiting room see it before they see me through the windows as I come up the steps. I tug on the heavy door, heave it open, and walk inside. My uniform is white. T-shirt and workout pants. After entering the studio, I kick off my shoes and put my hair into a ponytail I know I’ll have to redo later.

I walk over to my classmates to say hi. My teacher appears, and she greets me with her usual “Hello, Pirilampa.” My classmates’ uniforms are white, too. We get into position. One of the upper-level students leads the warm-up, and all the tension of school, college, and drama flies away as I stretch. It’s not long before I feel the familiar ache in my arms, legs, and lower back, but that just means I’m doing it right. The lights are white. They beam down as we practice the new moves. My progress is slow, but typically everyone is understanding and waits for me to get it, or helps me if I’m really struggling. The mirrors are white. Or they look like it, when we all gather in a big circle of white-garbed men and women, adults and teens, beginners and graduados. The teacher raises what looks like a longbow, but it’s a musical instrument. She plays, and the drummer follows her tempo. We clap. She sings. We sing. Two students

begin to play a game—a game of kicks, spins, cartwheels, escapes. My belt is white. Only it’s really grayish-tannish, and we call it “naturalcolor.” And half of it is now macaroni yellow, evidence of a year’s hard work. It’s also evidence of how far I still have left to go before I can be the one confidently joining a game, shifting fluidly from spectator to player, effortlessly becoming my classmate’s new opponent, wowing the beginners with my heartstopping skills. For now, I still buy the games, become the new opponent, demonstrate my own kicks and escapes, but they’re like a baby’s first faltering steps to the casual, natural-seeming strides of my seniors. Yellow, green, natural, orange, blue, brown. These are the colors of all the belts in our circle of white. Everyone was once natural, natural-yellow, like me. Everyone was once as hesitating and unsure as I am. Everyone was once new to capoeira as I recently was—and still am, depending on one’s perspective. Everyone is at a different skill level, everyone in this room loves capoeira, and everyone has room to improve. Even the teacher hasn’t yet reached the highest colored belt we can achieve.

White.

“Capoeira,” Illustration by Hades

Capoeira is an AfroBrazilian martial art, sport, dance, game, and overall physical art. It originated with Brazilian slaves, who taught themselves to fight but disguised it as dancing, accompanying it with music, so their overseers wouldn’t realize what they were really doing. After decades of being stigmatized and nearly becoming lost, today, capoeira is a worldwide art. Besides teaching students the actual art of capoeira, it also encourages people to treat all with respect and promotes equality, both within and without the classroom.

“Wanted: Angel,” Illustration by Raven

Reflections on a Place Called Heaven there playing with whoever they want. Perhaps whom they wanted in life. Who By Nyctophobia knows, the point is, I can take solace in Heaven is one’s own mental contrap- the fact that they are now happy, and in tion. The fact that one chooses to believe a better place, simply because I conin it or not is merely a concept. I choose vinced myself to believe in this place to believe in it. I am not Christian. Eve- called Heaven. Someone else might have ryone has their own ideals of a paradise. their own misconceived perceptions of I pray that all those who have died, all of my heaven, the truth is, everyone’s heaven them, go somewhere better. But mostly I is unique if they choose to make one. It feel for those who commit suicide. In a is meant to be unique. One can edit Christian world they’d be damned to one’s own Heaven as that is all it is. hell. But in my mental heaven, they’re up One’s own Heaven. I can change my

Heaven,

I can choose to tell you about it, I can choose to tell you I didn’t change it, or I can even choose not to bring it up at all. My Heaven is very...white colored, not necessarily exuberant, but calm, peaceful, tranquil. I can’t even say it fits the conventional meanings of happy. However, it is not torturing their souls, and as long as I think not of their probable boredom, they are not bored. For the only time my Heaven truly exists is when I think of it. For all it is all I said. A mental contraption.

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall By GR33D

He can’t sleep at night. His sister noticed. She hears it from the thin walls of their aligned bedrooms, the sound of tired feet padding down the hall. She sees it from the small space underneath the bedroom door, the flicker of the bathroom lights turning on. It happens three or four times a night now. And every time, she pulls up her blankets just a little higher, curls into herself just a little tighter. She lent him her teddy bear once in the morning, gnawing on her bottom lip worriedly as she held out the stuffed toy to him with the tiny whisper of, “Please sleep more, bubby.” And the hushed words ring in his mind every night when he lays his head on the pillow and hugs the teddy bear close. But he can’t. Sleep doesn’t come to him anymore, when he closes his eyes all that greets him is the darkness that lurks beneath his eyelids, and he can’t stay there for very much long. So he lifts himself from bed with shaky knees and drags his hand across the wall to his way to the bathroom, his hand shaking when he turns the doorknob. The light doesn’t even hurt his eyes anymore, and he has this passing thought that he’d rather go blind anyways, it would be better than having to look at the face that’s staring back at him from the mirror. Ashes, that’s what he thinks. Skin like ashes, faded and burnt, the bruises staining the fragile skin around his eyes so deep and dark that it reminds him of smudged ink. His cheeks seem more hollow to him, his bones more pronounced--like a breathing corpse. He opens the mirror cabinet, rustling through the orange bottles with trembling fingers till he pops open his sleeping pills and swallows them dry. Three this time, for the third time he’s woken tonight, though it wouldn’t make any difference. All there will be in the end is darkness, darkness, darkness and the sound of heavy feet and the sight of a lone light streaking down the hall from the bathroom. He closes the cabinet and he swears he sees something flicker in the mirror. ۞ He’s paranoid. Mirrors, mirrors, mirrors, there’s too many goddamn mirrors. And he doesn’t know if it’s the bitter exhaustion or his imagination gone mad but at this point neither makes much of a difference when twelve days and counting he’s lived on four hours or less of sleep a day. And he supposes—on those fleeting moments of clarity when the burden of prostration isn’t weighing down on his shoulders—that if he were to voice his paranoia aloud he’d definitely be in need of a much heavier prescription than half a dozen sleeping pills a night, but he doesn’t and he won’t. The words have threatened to leave his cold bloodless lips once or twice, yet he refuses to expose them to the sharp bite of reality. Something about this feels too personal, like a piece of him he can’t part with.

Not yet, at least. He sees it though. Every time the glare of his reflection catches in the corner of his eye. A sinful curve of the lips, a dark glimmer of the eyes, a slow swipe of the tongue. But soon the ends of paranoia twist and turn into dark fascination which burns into intense obsession, and he no longer can keep himself from staring. Sometimes--on the mirror, on the window, on any possible casting surface--he’ll see the flicker of someone like him, without the ink smudged eyes and the skeleton face, sneering back at him. All smoldering dark eyes and overwhelming haughtiness. Then the image will vanish, and so will parts of his sanity. ۞ The red glow of his alarm clock shows him it’s three am now. The pathway to the bathroom is automatic now, he doesn’t even realize he’s walking till the cold tiles register underneath his feet. His hand moves to open the mirror cabinet, but his fingers freeze just over the surface of his reflection. There’s already a palm pressed onto the mirror. A malicious smirk laces over identical lips, and they move, forming mute words that fog the surface of the mirror. He’s paralyzed. ‘See you soon.’ The mirror cracks. ۞ He doesn’t use his bed anymore. He sits on the bathroom floor, eyes unblinking, fixated on the visual of the split mirror before him. The shards jagged and crushed, glinting harshly under the artificial light of the bathroom bulbs. Reflecting everything but him. He can’t see himself. He has no reflection. ۞ He can’t sleep at night. His skin is chilling and his muscles are trembling and his bones are aching, but he can’t sleep at night. The bathroom lights flicker, and he nearly disregards it, the bulbs left on for days on end. But he’s wrong. He’s wrong. Because the shadow that extends from the door to the tip of his toes is not his, and when he lifts his gaze he finds his own self looking back with no mirror in sight. His eyes grow wide and he scoots back, back flush against the cold shower wall, his chest heaving with panicked gasps as his reflection just stands there, a smug smile playing on the ends of its lips, dark eyes glowering down at him, arms crossed over a still chest. “You know why I’m here, don’t you?” The reflection sneers, tone ominous and full of things dark, voice almost too smooth and hollow at once to be real. He’s paralyzed again as his reflection moves in front of him, so close he can feel the heat from its body tingling his cold skin--like something artificial. Its fingers gently ghost a path from his cheeks to his lips--as if it was fascinated by the feel of his skin under its fingertips--till they curled around his chin in a sudden searing grip and forces his eyes to meet its.

“I bet you know why you can’t sleep anymore...” A low rating his features. “But I’m done watching.” It snarls, and chuckle falls from its lips, as it tilts its head forward, breath the white of its eyes grow consumed with darkness. “It’s time for you to go to sleep.” tracing over his ear in a purr, “Not while I was so near...watching you.” ۞ There’s another hand tenderly slipping through the strands His sister can’t sleep at night. on his nape before curling into a fist and yanking his head back harshly, a broken sob emitting from his lips, panic deco-

Fin

“The Boy in the Mirror,” Illustration by Hebe

“Rewind,” Photograph by Eris

To My Dear I’m afraid, m’ dear we just ran out of time and now it’s time for us to part

Chronos’ Hourglass by Artemis The hourglass sits on a table A lonely thing It misses its master Chronos, the God of Time A long time ago When the gods were revered The hourglass sat by its master Chronos, the God of Time

there was so much left for us to do so much left to discover to uncover and unfold within us and each other I wish I knew how things how they would have went would have played out and became given another year a day, a month, a minute always seeking more

Then it happened People moved on And gods started disappearing Like Chronos, the God of Time

could you and I have become more? us? greater than you or me more than you and me

It was a sad day for this hourglass Heartbroken and forgotten The hourglass wanted to see Chronos, the God of Time

two souls intertwined through time a memory frozen in place just a memory encased by history

Then it had an idea To turn back time When the hourglass could see Chronos, the God of Time Sand started flowing up Time started to rewind To where the hourglass had last seen Chronos, the God of Time

our threads have crossed paths irrevocably tying us binding us to one another yet as time passes we grow apart we met, now we separate diverging strands in different ways paths split, strands strain unbreaking we have left our marks and knots upon one another the good and bad we’ve weathered perhaps someday they’ll tie again meet again another time another place another life our souls can never be untangled now tied for all eternity ‘til our souls do fade from memory and existence as our souls weave through the infinite cloth of time and space ‘til we meet again, m’ dear

Yours Truly, Nyctophobia 44

Fantasy: The Best Genre By Athena Often people ask, when they find out I’m a reader, what do you read? I inform them I read various genres, whatever strikes my fancy. Historical, mystery, classic, chick lit, even a little nonfiction now and then. But when pressed to choose a favorite, I must say that fantasy is number one. Some of you agree wholeheartedly, but others shake their heads in exasperation. What’s so great about fantasy? Well, since you asked (albeit not politely), I shall tell you. First of all, the creative energy that goes into creating a fantasy world is enormous, and the author deserves respect for their ability to imagine such a complicated and interesting universe. Once the world begins to take shape, the author can go wherever they

wish—and the limitless possibilities are another one of my favorite aspects of fantasy. Fantasy settings mean the world extends far beyond the scope of the story, leaving plenty of space for readers to insert their own stories and ideas. This world is a fine place to escape from one’s own reality, which is often the case when I pick up a book—I wish to leave my life behind and live someone else’s for a while (whether because I am bored or because I need to escape the noise around me). Of course, if these reasons (of which there are more that will not occur to me until after publication) do not sway your opinion that another genre is better, please explain. Write your own rant expressing your position—I would love to hear your thoughts.

Let the genre war begin! “Here Be Dragons?” Photograph by Aphrodite

“Blood Brothers,” Illustration by Selene

Don’t Cry, Don’t Cry

By Hades The sun’s come too early I’m not ready to go It’s too bright, I can’t see Why cannot this dawn slow? The curtains can’t be drawn The daylight is too strong No man can stop the dawn Though they’ve tried to prolong The shadows, one by one They slowly crawl away None can withstand the sun All bow to might of day Don’t cry, Don’t cry I cannot lie But I’m afraid If I had stayed Then this pipe dream Would make us scream Reality Must simply be Or we are lost And such a cost To find our way Back to the fray I have lingered too long In yesterday’s twilight Now my darkness is gone Someone’s stealing my night When morning comes, I’ll leave But for now I will sleep Let’s not be so naïve This Eden cannot keep How can I say goodbye? Making you weep’s a crime Take a breath, hold that sigh I’ll kiss you one last time

Don’t cry, Don’t cry We will get by There will be pain And hail and rain A hole inside A storm to ride But you’re okay Here you will stay I wish you peace Joy that won’t cease Words that will flow Love that will show Shout from ev’ry tower Tomorrow I don’t fear They’ll ne’er make me cower I’ll never shed a tear Someday you’ll walk my road But for now you are home I’ve said all that is owed Now I am free to roam Facedown with the sunrise All I do for your sake Stay there and close your eyes I’m gone before you wake Don’t cry, Don’t cry You have to try You took my hand Now alone stand I won’t pretend It’s not the end I don’t know when We’ll meet again Have no regret Do not forget Be safe for me As you fly free.

For Your Good Health By Athena

Intricate shapes Dazzling colors Pooling together To fulfill a wish Healing and health For one who is ill A labor of love

To hand make One thousand Paper cranes

Each imbued with A wish for recovery

Blank Page by Nyctophobia I feel so empty There seems nothing to fill the void perhaps I do feel nothing Perhaps I never could but truly…can I never? For deep down I do feel I want to feel more than just hurt or pain from this hollow I want to love to respect and be respected I want someone to hold that I do care about but I haven’t found them no, not yet so I must keep searching or die trying for what else is there?

“Make a Wish,” Photograph by Eris

His Name is Blood: Eight By Hades “I feel so bad for Elle. She’s in here, day and night, trying to make ends meet.” The usual old ladies chatter loudly over their morning coffee and crumpets in Cake Trail Bakery. “The poor dear is all alone, too. No family to speak of, no history, no memory…” Six months ago, I showed up in Corona City, with no memory from before I woke up in the woods. As I searched for help, I smelled baking bread from Cake Trail. My stomach rumbled, I entered, and the owner, Mrs. Piper, fed me. The police haven’t turned up any missing person records matching my description, and I’ve been working for Mrs. Piper since. The two old ladies get up to leave, and I call out a thank you. As I wipe the tabletop, the bell over the front door chimes. I look up and smile. “Welcome to Cake Trail!” The man looks thirty, with mousy hair and laugh lines. He stares at me before relaxing. “Good morning. What do you recommend for brunch?” “The blueberry scones are popular. If you want something more lunch-y, we have ham croissant sandwiches.” The man orders two of the ham croissants. “Thank you, L…Elle.” He blinks at my name tag. “I’m Rem,.” “Nice to meet you. Is this your first time here?” “Yes. My wife and I arrived a few days ago. We’ve been looking for the best bakery. We’re food lovers.” My smile is genuine when I hand him his bag. “Me, too. I hope you come again.” “I will. It’s lovely in here. I wish my wife could see it, she likes—Eleanor, in here!”

A redhead enters, smiling. “Hello. Is he bothering you?” I shake my head while Rem whines playfully. “He’s been very kind.” “Good.” Eleanor places her hand on her husband’s arm. “Do you by any chance make deliveries…Elle?” “I…suppose I could.” Do we deliver? I’m not sure. “We have a friend who’s working all day. Can you deliver him something in the Babylonian Botanical Gardens at seven? We’ll pay the delivery fee.” “That’s not a problem.” Eleanor pulls out a large bill from her purse. “One loaf of raspberry bread should do it. Keep the change.” She and Rem are gone before I can protest she’s overpaid. Mrs. Piper has no problem with making deliveries. When she’s ready to close the shop, she sends me to the Gardens. The Babylonian Botanical Gardens are an easy walk from the bakery. They were a local landscaper’s attempt to recreate the appearance of one of the Ancient Wonder, and he was successful to a degree. The Gardens are Corona’s most popular local attraction. The vivid colors of irises, hyacinth, daisies, orchids, tulips are so bright, they’re almost unreal. It’s nearing autumn, and most of the blossoms are in their last bloom cycle. The sun is also setting earlier and earlier, so I can see the fairy lights glowing. But…where is this friend? I wonder if I’ll have to search the entire place for him. I’m about to give up when I hear it. Music. I can’t tell if it’s singing, pipes, violins, but it floats into my ears and both excites and relaxes me. It’s barely audible yet deafening, and I turn toward the source. The scent of roses fills my

nose as I tiptoe over. A man sits on a bench by the rose bushes. I still can’t tell where the music is coming from. His black hair is tousled, and his fair skin has a healthy glow. He’s handsome, with aristocratic features, and he appears to be murmuring to himself. He turns his dark brown eyes toward me. ۞ He’s never believed in haunted cemeteries. If a soul chooses to remain on Earth instead of going on to the afterlife, why would she linger for eternity in a graveyard? Haunted houses, perhaps. Mother loved her garden. That garden is gone now, but he believes her spirit lingers wherever nature is beloved. She would have loved the Botanical Gardens. “I haven’t spoke with you in a while, Mother. Too long, to be honest.” When he was a boy, he clung to her skirts. She sang to him at night, when dreams of screams under the full moon and baths made of blood frightened him. “How is Father? Is he up there with you, or…?” When he was seven, Father separated him from Mother. He was becoming “too soft.” So he was thrust from his haven of bedtime stories and picnics to finances, meetings, and becoming his father’s clone. “I know you loved each other, so for your sake, I hope he is with you. And I hope he has learned to heed your counsel, because so much would be different if he had listened… If I had listened…” When he turned eighteen, Mother didn’t want him to go to university yet. But he was eager, and Father was firm. “Because you were right. I wasn’t ready. I should have

listened to you.” Gambling, drinking, debauchery. It wasn’t long before Father ordered him to shape up or be disowned. He didn’t believe him, and one day he found his pocket money cut off. Furious, he left school to confront Father, who laughed in his face. When you are the master of this family, you may spend our fortune however you please. But until I am cold and buried in the ground,, I decide how you will spend your allowance. “…And I should have listened to him, too.” Mother and Father married young. It would be many years before Father died. And when Father did, how long would he have his inheritance before he, too, passed? He sought out a woman who had once been their servant, until Father kicked her out for witchcraft rumors. Morgana. “You thought it wasn’t fair for Morgana to lose her job because of gossip. What would’ve changed? I wouldn’t have sought her out, I wouldn’t have…have…” Though Morgana denied being magical, he persisted. In truth, it didn’t take much convincing. She wanted vengeance. He stupidly followed her instructions to attain immortality, and…the rest is history. “I’m sorry.” Morgana became a leech on his energy. His anger faded until it was a mere flicker, suppressed by his hopelessness of ever escaping damnation. Then Lorelei came. “This girl moved in a while months ago. She’s a superb baker. I only wanted her as a pastry chef at first. Her raspberry bread tastes just like Cook’s. She hated me. Cont. on next page

HNIB cont. But even before I got somewhat into her good graces, she was helping me.” Lorelei. That stubborn, foolhardy, brave, clever, caring, brilliant girl. Every time he exchanged barbs with her, the flame inside grew. By the time of the events six months ago, he felt like himself again. Determined. Eager. Alive. “She saved me.” If Lorelei hadn’t done what she did he would’ve challenged Morgana himself. He began by hiding Eleanor in town. Morgana was contemplating taking out Lorelei’s friends, so he helped Eleanor, and Roxie would’ve been whisked off next, if… “She saved us all. By slipping me a sleeping potion, so she could destroy the secret room. Destroy Morgana.” Morgana invested most of her magic into the secret chamber. Her life was linked to those stone walls. When he

woke up, he realized Morgana was weakened by the destruction. She snarled at him to help, and he saw his chance. “Morgana is gone now, and it’s all thanks to her.” He noted, with mild interest, that even Morgana bled when stabbed in the heart. He also noted, with far more interest, the sheer amount of pain that erupted in his soul once she was dead. His soul purged all remnants of her. The cleansing took a week, and when he emerged, he was no longer the undead, bloodscented thing that haunted the mansion for many decades. “For a time, I feared she was gone, too. No one could find her. I would have searched the world, but…I had other responsibilities.” He got down on his knees to apologize to every single girl in his home, offering his fortune as recompense. Only Venus and Roxie took him up. Everyone returned to their

overjoyed families. Morgana’s border vanished, and many townsfolk quickly left. “Eleanor and Rem stayed with me when I started searching. We began looking around nearby towns and cities. We only arrived in Corona City a few weeks ago.” Eleanor and Rem convinced him to let them approach her first, since she might still be angry with him. They told him she remembered nothing. Not even her name. Least of all him. “Rem and Eleanor said she’ll be here soon. They asked her to make a delivery. They told me not to get my hopes up, but it’s hard not to. Maybe I’m different. Maybe I can make her remember.” But if she does remember him, would it be in a good way? Or will she— “…Blood?” His head snaps up. She stands thirty feet away, paper sack in hand. Her sky blue

eyes clear, as if lost in a fog until now. He rises. “Gabriel,” she murmurs. The bag falls, and she’s running toward him, arms around his neck, face reaching up— “Excuse me…are you Rem and Eleanor’s friend?” Thirty feet away, she stands, holding a paper sack. Her eyes are clear. No spark of recognition flickers within. His heart sinks. He nods. As she hesitantly approaches, he turns his eyes to one of the roses on the bush, the largest and loveliest of them all. “I hope you like her.” A sweet breeze causes the bloom to tremble, petals rustling indignantly. For a moment, he swears he can hear Mother’s eager voice, insisting he answer her unspoken question. He still understands. Gabriel Sirens smiles for the first time in many, many years. “Her name is Lorelei.”

Fin

“Imaginations,” Illustration by Chronos