November 2018
Midnight Writers
Table of Contents
Cover: “Blazing Fighter,” an illustration by Aya Hatashima
“Belial,” an illustration by HEHEHEH I AM A SUPAH STAR WARRIAH “Red,” a poem by Andromeda
This Page: “A Gift of Marigolds,” an illustration by Page 11: Wine Merchant “Turkey,” a story by Eos “Roast,” an illustration by Andromeda Page 3: Ask Aphro & Dite Page 12: • A turkey asks for help on how to survive Thanksgiving • A food-lover asks for some dinner advice
“Turkey,” continued “Sunrise,” a photograph by The Calico Cat
• Eos shares a personal Thanksgiving story
Page 13:
Beyond the Gloss
Andromeda’s Introspective Odyssey
• Andromeda gives thanks to a special Midnight Writer
Page 4:
“The Warmth From Others,” a poem by Blue Serendipity “A Transcendental View,” a photograph by Tom Nguyen “Warmth,” a photograph by Anonymous “Simplicity,” a story by Andromeda
Page 5:
“Evil,” a story by The Midnight Raven “The Trash Can is My Only Friend,” a poem by Stella “Birb Shienne,” an illustration by Momo
Page 6:
“Angel’s Wings,” a manga by Aya Hatashima “Ineffable,” a story by Andromeda “Imagination,” a story by Eos
Page 7:
“The Different Types of Love,” a story by Wine Merchant “Spindly,” a photograph by Eos
Page 8:
“Warm Comfort,” a poem by S.B. “Comfortable Poof,” an illustration by Momo “Warmth,” a photograph by The Calico Cat “Grimalkin,” a poem by Pin “Warmth,” a haiku by The Calico Cat “The Lie of Hope,” a haiku by Calliope
Page 9:
“My Cultural Thanksgiving Meal,” a story by Blue Serendipity “Sweet Tooth,” a photograph by Pusheen “Pie in the Sky,” a photograph by Pusheen
Page 10:
“Free Verse,” a poem by HEHEHEH I AM A SUPAH STAR WARRIAH “Red Canvas,” a poem by Stella
“Turkey,” continued “Bridge to a Third Dimension,” a photograph by Eos “In the Silence,” a poem by Stella “Winter is Coming,” a haiku by Tom Nguyen “Serenity,” an illustration by Celia Bowen
Page 14:
“Gluttony,” a poem by Andromeda “Cocoa Bliss,” a photograph by Pusheen “Strong Roots,” a poem by Andromeda “Sunlight,” a photograph by The Calico Cat
Page 15:
“The Building on 66th Street Part 2,” a story by Andromeda
Page 16:
“The Building on 66th Street,” continued “November Nature,” a photograph by Andromeda
issuu.com/midnightwriters midnightwriters2018@gmail.com
Ask Aphro & Dite
Dear Aphro, I am a turkey and I want to live. Help. Yours, a very Un-Thankful Turkey Dear Un-Thankful Turkey, That’s a pretty distressing situation you’re in. I would stay at home if I were you and not leave until Thanksgiving is over. If you really want to ensure your safety though, you should enter the President’s Pardon of the Thanksgiving Turkey, where the president picks the best turkey to pardon from being used as a main course. All you have to do is look like the turkey version of me! With love, Aphro Dear Dite, How can I eat as much food as possible on Thanksgiving? Yours, a Food-Lover Darling Food-Lover, You’ve got to make a strategy for the entire day, not just dinner. Try avoiding eating too much during lunch and don’t snack in between so you can save your appetite for dinner. After all, Thanksgiving dinner is the best part of the holiday! During dinner you’re going to want to eat slowly or else you’ll feel full faster. Even after you eat until you couldn’t possibly eat any more, you could always save some for the next day. With love, Dite
Beyond the Gloss
Hello Midnight Writers! I’m hoping you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving! Personally, Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays. After all, it is a time of family, friends, and a heck ton of food. What’s not to love? And since this is a food-oriented holiday (and our food themed issue!), I figured I would tell the story of the food served at my family’s Thanksgiving this year. Being that my family contains 6 very different people, I am accustomed to all of us having very different food tastes. As where my mother is vegetarian, my father most likely could not go for 24 hours without meat. As where one of my brothers is on a gluten-free diet, you can find me at any given time on a Saturday night eating a sandwich concoction consisting of at least 2 varieties of bread. And it goes on. So when my mother suggested that we have an entirely vegetarian and gluten-free Thanksgiving this year, my initial reaction was a slow, mountainous dread. I could picture in my mind my sister and father’s looks of defeat, whereas my mom and two brothers would be cheering in the corner, toasting with vegan ginger shots in hand. As for me, I was predominantly saddened over the prospect of no bread. However, in the end it turned out surprisingly...great! To my surprise, my father and sister ended up eating loads of kale salad. Their reaction when my mom brought out some turkey as a surprise was barely perceptible, their plates too full of cabbage for them to notice. Ultimately, I guess this Thanksgiving escapade shows that sometimes, long-held traditions can be broken and it’ll turn out all right, maybe even better than how it was before. And while I’m here, since this is the holiday of gratitude, I wanted to say thanks to my amazing vice/partner-in-crime Andromeda and my lovely officers; Celia Bowen, Aya Hatashima, Blue Serendipity, Calico Cat, Stella, and the honorary grammar-checking goddess Idunn! And thank you to you, loyal writers, artists, and whomever may be reading this. Enjoy this issue, and see you next month!
Andromeda’s Introspective Odyssey
It has not been long since I’ve been VP of Midnight Writers, but it has been over three years that I have participated in the club. I’ve seen members come and go, and I’ve seen members join and stay. But I think the most memorable person would be its last president: Alice Fraser. Alice stepped up at a time when it seemed like the club was going to die, and saved it from shutting down. She was dedicated to Midnight Writers and getting it back on track. Last year was definitely one of the best for Midnight Writers, and that can be attributed in large part to her hard work (and of course the work of all my fellow officers). Since I have become VP, I have also grown a new appreciation for how difficult it is running a literary magazine club. Especially for a literary magazine, a lot of work goes into being President. As a result, I have gained even more respect for her. Gathering submissions, scheduling, and compiling the magazine is no easy task, but it’s certainly a fun one (You can ask our lovely current President). As a result of all the hard work put into Midnight Writers these past couple years, the Magazine is doing great. I’m sure if you speak to any other member who has been here for a while, they will tell you the same thing: That Alice Fraser was an amazing President. So, Alice, if you’re reading this, know that you are sincerely appreciated. I hope that in the future the club continues to flourish, and I have complete faith that all its members will keep creating awesome. So thank you to everyone who has participated in Midnight Writers as well, know that you are also sincerely appreciated.
Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Eos, Andromeda, Celia Bowen, Stella, Aya Hatashima,The Calico Cat, Blue Serendipity and Idunn. 3
The Warmth from Others By Blue Serendipity
There’s warmth of fire And its constant crackling Or large blankets The sheets of comfort wrapping Around you in security There’s the food right off the stove With steam spiraling up in wisps Like a roll of clouds being unwove As you bring it closer to your lips There’s a winter coat Trapping in your heat Matched with a pair of gloves Or boots for your feet For a day that’s snowy But I prefer another Something constant Like the warmth from a lover Because they’ll never be absent There’s the constant knowledge Of knowing they support Everything you do And the people hardest to thwart? Family Whatever you say No matter what you do They’ll be there every day Because they warm you It starts from the heart And warms you inside out Their ability to always be there Trusting you without a doubt Faithfully and lovingly Warm.
“Warmth,” Photograph by Anonymous
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“A Transcendental View,” Photograph by Tom Nguyen
Simplicity By Andromeda At least in my opinion, art is possibly the most subjective medium. This is because true art, real art, has to move you, or it was never worth experiencing to begin with. At first I wanted to put down some deep, complex Shakespearean sonnet or play, that would make me seem like some amazing intellectual. But no, it’s simple. Art doesn’t have to be some incomprehensible poem, it just has to have a moment. I have watched B-movies that have been utter garbage, but I keep coming back to them. Why? Because it takes just one good scene to think that movie was worth it. When I read this poem, it helped me realize the beauty in simple things. I can be a competitive person and an overwhelming over-thinker, yet something like this really taught me to bring myself back down to earth. So, perhaps this artist is not as well-known as Frost or Dickinson, but yet his words are meaningful, and his theme is powerful. It’s about hope, freedom, insecurity, and joy. Yes, it’s a little cheesy, but it moved me, and made me think, simple as it may be. So I carry these words with me because: “There is freedom waiting for you on the breezes of the sky, and you ask ‘what if I fall?’ Oh darling, what if you fly?” e.h.
Evil
By The Midnight Raven Whispers echoed in Elodie’s ears throughout every moment of her existence. Villain. Monster. Over and over again, an elderly man’s voice, a small girl with a highpitched voice, and the loudest of all, her. The girl she once knew that Elodie now couldn’t even bear to utter her name. A voice with a tinge of weakness as she spat out those words. Elodie had tried to conceal the truth behind a mask of faulty angelicness, and the mask had cracked all around her. Now, she was lying in its broken pieces. Elodie Adder was her name, and Adder wasn’t given to her at birth. She was as sly and nefarious as an attacking snake; the name was for that purpose alone. She was nothing but her wicked plots and heartless schemes, but deep within her was a sliver of a heart that had been ripped apart by a girl that she had pined after for years. Elodie awaited the attention she felt that she deserved, but bright light doesn’t give the darkness any mind, and burnt ashes don’t combine with glistening water. But being heartless didn’t leave her with a reminder of the love she once had. Instead, it left her with the memory of rejection, a shattering pain that wells deep inside of her. She was a villain before, and she was a villain now. Love was her distraction, her mistake, and she wouldn’t make it again. Elodie glanced out her window at the gloomy clouds that stretched across the rainy sky. Today was a time of misery, and that’s when Elodie excelled. Her plan was simple enough to come up with, but much more difficult to execute. She extended the palm of her hand and sent up a flicker of black dust. When used properly,
this ink-colored dust turned into a pure darkness that filled the sky. And when she was done, the only thing that the people around her would experience would be the late hours of the moon. She felt no remorse for what she was about to do. All she felt was the desire for revenge. She hadn’t been born this way; the world had made her like this, morphed her and changed her until she was the monster that glanced back in the reflection of the mirror. Pale, ghostly skin, flaxen-colored hair, gray eyes that were dull and emulated the emptiness within her. Once she was done, she would never have to look in the mirror again. Everything would be covered in an unchangeable darkness. Elodie walked slowly to the window and took one more glance at the sun’s beams that filtered in through the clouds. It was for the best. The world needed a villain, so it created her. The world needed a change, so they implanted the scheme within her mind. Elodie sucked in her cheeks with a deep breath as she shut her eyes and pushed open the window. She extended her hand out into the open air and sent a long pulse of black dust. Villain. Monster. Whisper after whisper. She would
never try to prove them wrong. Villain. Monster. Darkness began to fill her eyes as she let out a shrill laugh that echoed over the whispers. But they were still there. Evil.
The Trash Can is My Only Friend By Stella
Some girls lay waste to lands, redstained makeup and caked foundation But, I rest my head next to the gray and charcoal, the ugly plastic bag Becomes my comfort. Fake, plastic, stretching over as a cover, and I want to cut my gray skin with scissor-like knives, into little pieces that You kick aside with contempt. When do burning tears turn to years, and A cut turns to scar? The peach on your skin a mark of despair, But I too am a dead corpse upon the fruitful land, a cover of makeup, a plastic bag So scrape me with a needle, tear my plastic skin apart and throw me away Right where I belong, next to my only friend.
5 “Birb Shienne,” Illustration by Momo
“Angel’s Wings,” Manga by Aya Hatashima
Ineffable
Imagination
Ineffable: /in’ef?b(?)l/ adjective. Too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words. That’s the definition, at least according to Google. As someone who reads books religiously and has a passion for English, it’s a tad ironic, I suppose, to choose a word that is the summation of the phrase “there are no words.” But I have never found one that holds more true to how I feel. It sums up the feeling of when I think of all the most influential things that have happened in my life, from the day my little brother and sister were brought home from the hospital to the day my Great Grandmother died. The feelings I have felt, the emotions, the sorrow and the joy, could never be summed up in a few words, nor a thousand. In the end, those feelings are mine, and we as humans, as hard as we try, were never good at sharing. The feelings when I think of all the things in my life that are yet to come, all the good and the bad, from graduation, to rejection, to exploration, and age. When I think of all the experiences I will have in college, and when I ponder all my future possibilities. What I feel, truly, there are no words.
Imagination. /iˌmajəˈnāSH(ə)n/ noun. The faculty or action of forming new ideas, or images or concepts of external objects not present to the senses. From the beginning, this word has always been with me, whether I knew it or not. Glimpses of a childhood spent daydreaming because the real world was too blackand-white flash before my eyes like a high-speed movie montage. If I stare into the blur hard enough, I can almost hear the strained, anxious voice of my first grade teacher: Stop zoning out, Maya. Pay attention, Maya. Your imagination is too big for your own good, Maya. I pondered that sentiment; It wasn’t my fault that my mind took ideas and ran with them, created storylines from inanimate objects. I was watching a movie beyond my conscious control. So, I decided to channel my rampant thoughts into writing. Words gave my imagination a space through which to express the most bizzare depths of my internal story. Today, I wholly disagree with the sentiment that an imagination can be too big; If anything, imagination is the paint with which we color our world.
By Andromeda
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By Eos
The Different Types of Love
By Wine Merchant The average human lives seventy-nine years. Within those seventy-nine years, their hearts beat different rhythms. A steady beat mirroring the fall of the rain on a drizzling Saturday. An erratic beat echoing the fast footsteps of a life-changing game. A stuttering beat when facing another glowing heart. I loved each and every one of them. I looked up at the muddled gray sky, inspecting each of the clouds individually as I mused to myself, my breath creating soft clouds of its own as I exhaled. Each cloud was different and never lasting. A laugh caught in my throat as I watched a particularly dark cloud, which I had decided to give a name and adopt for a brief second as my own, move steadily with the other clouds, away from me. As the last of its dark gray ends unfurled out of my sight, I turned on my heels and walked away. “You didn’t last as long as the others,” I muttered under my breath, a bit annoyed. Especially after I had gone through the pain of naming it too. But that wasn’t the only pain I had to deal with today, and I had to confront it right now. My destination was a small courtyard in front of the town’s insignificant high
school. The cold rustled through my bones as I anticipated and listened to the creaking of the swings. One creak. Two creaks. Three creaks. Then she was there. I met the eyes of a girl, no more than sixteen, skidding to the school’s courtyard in her black-strapped boots. Her eyes were brown and warm, and her cheeks flushed as I watched her close the distance little by little. Twenty feet. Ten feet. Five feet. Then she stopped. Silence prevailed for a few minutes until she spoke, her voice seeming to be punched by each breath. “Did you get my message?” she managed. Her hopeful brown eyes stared into mine and I tilted my head. Was her heart the steady beat of the stoic rain, or was it the glowing, frantic beats of a red one? If it was the rain, there was nothing I could do or say to stop it, but I could only smother the glow of the red one. So I looked her straight in the eyes and replied the only word I knew. “Sorry.” The girl left, and I never knew what her heartbeat was, leaving me to only remember the last one I held in my arms. She was beautiful and bright, like a star that had fallen from the sky. Her hair shimmered of spun gold, and those soft tulip-pink lips breathed life into your very soul. One day, I captured her lips and refused to let go, claiming her soul as mine. And I kept them there until her light shimmered away and her golden hair
turned the color of the gray clouds in the sky. Only in her last breath was her soul snatched from my hands. But sometimes, I swear I can feel the ghost of those magical lips pressed against mine. She was the only one who made my heart stutter, fail, and restart; with her, I died and lived all over again. I looked accusingly at the sky again, seeing those ever traitorous clouds roll away languidly, and felt something warm and wet slide down my cold-flushed cheek. “I named you, how could you leave me like that?” I blamed the old cloud angrily, not feeling the warm, wet feeling on my cheek recede, “I followed you! I loved you! How could you, Lucy!” But I knew Lucy couldn’t
help it, she and everyone else kept moving because their hearts beat for only so long. The only problem was that while they hurried along, I couldn’t follow them no matter how much I wanted to. Taking a deep breath, I wiped the water from my face with my chapped hands before stuffing them back into my jacket. Well, that went better than I thought, I said silently to myself, this one didn’t cry as much. But it didn’t matter because she would find another love soon enough. Life is too short to dwell on unrequited love. Not for me though, my life is too long for love. Most humans live to an average of seventy-nine years. I live forever. “Spindly,” Photograph by Eos
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“Comfortable Poof,” Illustration by Momo
Warm Comfort By S.B.
I sit in this simple place: Serene, by the fire I created, New ideas would arise Before the fire abated. Atmosphere a honeyed calm. And the white noise sounded soft and sweet. The comfort of a woman’s palm, I sunk in my leather seat. Foot tapping on a hearthstone, I sit by the gently crackling fire, Quite soon, out the flame has blown, And to sleep I soon retire. I dreamt that I was a child, So vividly it seemed I was there. Life was like my fire, tranquil and mild, Being too young and dumb to care.
Grimalkin By Pin Warmth is a blanket Covering them while they sleep Resting peacefully They ignore the frost Fearing cold and the icy winds They snuggle closer Heat-loving and shy Snoring lightly; soft rumbling The dim sound of peace
Warmth
By The Calico Cat Running in the cold I step into the sun’s rays Embracing the warmth
8 “Warmth,” Photograph by The Calico Cat
The Lie of Hope By Calliope
The warmth of the sun Is a false hope of the mind For warmth is a lie
eat rock candy. Funnily enough, dinner hadn’t even started. Lunch started to merge right into dinner until there was no differentiating the two. There was a non-stop By Blue Serendipity supply of food getting churned out of the kitchen. The moment I walked into my greatThe dining room table was eventualaunt’s house I immediately racked my ly cleared and used as a place to play mind for the different titles I’d need to cards. The table in the living room, remember. Every aunt was called somehowever, grew even more cluttered. thing different, my dad’s older sister was One of my aunts brought an actual Gu Ma, my dad’s younger sister - Aunt turkey which was more for the sake of Michelle - was Gu Je. I couldn’t rememhaving one. The main dish was the Siu ber all of them so I ended up politely Yuk which was home cooked instead saying hello and waving. Everyone’s of being bought. As for the vegetables, shoes were clustered messily in a pile at one of my favorites was the spicy the base of the staircase. cucumber salad. It was slightly sour “Come in! There’s food here!” exand the spice stung, but the refreshing claimed my great-aunt, walking over taste of the cucumber made you keep with a wide, welcoming smile. “You’ve getting more. Next to the salad were grown so much!” three different noodle options. There I hadn’t grown at all, but I still smiled was cellophane stir fry, Cantonese and nodded. My relatives all insisted that fried noodles, and Ho Fun, which my sisters and I ate some food before were thick rice noodles cooked with going off and playing with the other an assortment of things such as beef, kids. The dining room table was covered broccoli, spinach, and more. with trays and platters of food. There One of my uncles brought snow crab were three different arrays of rice, two which had surprised everyone. It was steamed fish, a couple boxes of Char Siu a family favorite, but we didn’t get it and roasted duck, a large dish of bok much. It was expensive, and getting choy served on a china platter, and more. enough for over forty people was Everyone arrived with a hot steaming ridiculous. Everyone’s eyes lit up in dish of their own and added to the evdelight and the turkey was immediateer-growing collection. ly forgotten (In full honesty, no one In the living room, a table was set up paid it much attention anyways). with hotpot. One side of the pot was As for dessert, large china plates spicy while the other was mild, perfect were put out filled with oranges, tanfor everyone in the house. Vietnamese gerines, apples, Asian pears, golden meatballs bobbled in the boiling water, kiwis, and bunches of grapes. Coinand the long, white enoki mushrooms cidentally, two of my cousins had a were being ladled out with a perforated birthday around Thanksgiving. We ladle. Next to the hotpot were two-foot brought out two traditional Chinese diameter sushi platters. I ended up eating cakes. While American cakes were most of it for lunch. overly sweet and slathered with sugary The kitchen was never empty. My frosting, Chinese cakes were spongy aunts and uncles were going in and out and covered in a cream frosting. with more food, more supplies, more They were topped with colorful fruits requests. Packets of water bottles were too. Before we could start with the stacked up in a small tower next to the birthday song however, the adults all counter and were accompanied by a started taking photos. colorful rainbow of sodas. On top of “The candles are going to melt!” my the counter was a constant brewing of cousin cried in distress. I agreed with tea, whether it be Chinese tea, black tea, her and started singing. I wanted to jasmine, or even chrysanthemum for the eat a cake that didn’t have a bunch of kids. We loved using it as an excuse to
My Cultural Thanksgiving Meal
blue melted wax all over it. Everyone eventually got the message and we sang in a scrambled mix of Cantonese, Mandarin, and English. After all, that was what everything with us was like. There were parts of us that were Chinese, and parts of us American. I didn’t have the typical turkey-gravy-stuffing and pumpkin pie meal, but I had the foods I grew up with and loved. My family and our culture is what I’m thankful for. “Sweet Tooth,” Photograph by Pusheen
9 “Pie in the Sky,” Photograph by Pusheen
Free Verse
Red Canvas
I’m not myself, I am a shell, different, corrupted, I am lost, I cannot see the light, Betrayed by my own comrades, Don’t talk like you understand, What I’m going through, But no. I’m not going to kill you, Stand for all eternity in the gaze of your fallen people, Farewell.
Painted walls If I peel them away, I’m face to face with an eye. And then another And another Bloodshot red eyes dripping against the faded white. Empty room Despair Because the lingering smell in the air is judgement. It hurts like Knives in my skin If I take them out one by one, they’ll keep bleeding. And I’ll just be A mess Sobbing on the crimson stained ground. I lift my eyes to the Broken window Shattered dreams. Embers of hope are doused in cycles Five minute bursts I’m in his shoes again, the fictional half ghoul Count backwards And the world goes an ugly shade of dark red.
By HEHEHEH I AM A SUPAH STAR WARRIAH
“Belial,” Illustration by HEHEHEH I AM A SUPAH STAR WARRIAH
By Stella
Red
By Andromeda I love red
Red rubies and red cherries Red hair and red berries Red lipstick and red clothes Red wine and red rose But red is Red hearts and red eyes Red fury and red thighs Red knives and red cries
Beyond By Calliope Wonder of what’s next Mystery beyond the dark I see nothing there. 10
And red, red, red, blood All over my kitchen floor.
Turkey By Eos
“Why did the turkey cross the road?” I groaned, stretching my sore limbs. “Jorge, to be honest I do not know, and I genuinely do not want to know so do not bother telling me.” Jorge told me anyway, because if there’s anything Jorge is good at, it’s being excessively irritating. In the 72 hours I have spent with him in the back of this freight train, that trait has become increasingly apparent. He sucked in a seemingly-gigantic breath of air, as he always did before he was about to land the mediocre punchline. “It was Thanksgiving Day, and he wanted people to think he was a chicken!” I stared at him as he proceeded to hysterically laugh at his own joke. “Brilliant, Jorge. Because a joke about turkeys nearly being slaughtered is really the pick-me-up I needed right now.” After wiping his teary eyes with a clawed hand, Jorge looked up at me, slow realization dawning on his round face. “Oh...Sorry, Paul...I-I just thought you’d relate to the joke, because y’know, you’re a turkey, and you avoided being eaten on Thanksgiving Day, and you kind of looked like you needed a joke because you always have the same facial expression like you hate the world-” “Stop. If there’s anything I need, it’s the cold embrace of silence and to not be
pestered by a jesterly pigeon every 4 minutes.” Jorge blinked several times then huddled up into a corner, his neck almost completely disappearing into his round pigeon body. “Fine,” he spat, “Be that way! Not my fault you can’t take a joke!” Now that that was dealt with, I walked to the railing at the very edge of the freight train, where you could watch the land whiz by, the train tracks disappearing into a blur that seemed to never end. I inhaled slowly, trying to think of how precisely I landed myself into this mess, a turkey hitchhiker on a path to nowhere. When I exhaled, only one thought remained: Dimplebutter. From birth, turkeys almost inherently learn to accept our eventual doomed fate. As toddlers, we hear the word “Thanksgiving” whispered amongst the adults, uttered as if its very mentioning will bring about the zombie apocalypse (Which may actually be a better outcome for the turkeys as a species). Every November, we watch as our fellow turkeys are plucked from the masses to face a fate we all know too well, the rumors confirmed long ago. Every turkey must know this. Every turkey must see the eventual transformation of “Thanksgiving,” from whispers to shouts to an inescapable reality. Every turkey except me. It all began at Dimplebutter Farms. To be more exact, Steven Dimplebutter’s living room. I was just a chick back then, a state of being which made everything I
did seem adorable. However, on the inside, I was far from cute; I was desperate for a way out of the barn confining thousands of us turkeys. Being an unusually small turkey, one day I was able to slip out via a crack in the aluminum sheets that covered the barn’s interior, slipping quietly into the estate owned by the Dimplebutters next door. Their living room, though small, contained the largest amount of books I had ever laid eyes upon. Using a tiny claw, I reached for the first book that was within reach, and began to read. After a while, I heard footsteps and suddenly saw a pair of brown work boots appear before me, caked with dirt and blades of grass. I prepared to make a run for it.
“Roast,” Illustration by Andromeda
“Honey,” a large voice boomed, “An adorable turkey chick is in the living room reading Hamlet!” Suddenly, hands scooped me up and plopped me into the lap of the owner of the muddy work boots. I looked up, for the first time seeing a face of affection rather than one consumed by doubt and fear. I glanced at the name tag on this otherworldly person’s collared shirt. Dimplebutter. “Go on,” Steven Dimplebutter said gently, nudging my claw toward the page, “Keep reading. I think I’ll name you...Paul.” Eyes wide with disbelief, I stared down at the page. Had I just averted my own fate? To be or not to be… After what seemed like an eternity, I arose to find
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myself staring into beady, black eyes. I immediately rolled to my side and jerked myself awake, prepared to unleash some of the karate I had learned from...Dimplebutter. Just thinking of him left a bitter taste in my mouth; however, that was besides the point. As I was preparing my flying kick, I realized it was Jorge who had been staring at me. Of course. He was now cowering in a corner of our cramped freight car, wings wrapped around his shaking stomach. “Is it really necessary to be the creepiest pigeon in existence and watch me sleep?” Jorge glared at me, beak snapping open and closed. “Is it really necessary to go full-on Jackie Chan on me? And anyways bro, it’s not my fault you were whimpering ‘Dipstick Butter’ all night long-What even is that, a messed-up infomercial for lard?” I recoiled at the mention of Dimplebutter, and slumped down into a seated position. Or at least as much a seated position as a full-grown turkey can manage. “Dimplebutter. A who, not a what. In any case, I would rather throw myself off this train than tell you anything personal. No offense, Jorge.” Jorge sat a few inches away from me in a balllike position, too defeated to speak, almost pathetic-looking. I sighed. If I was going to be on this train for a while, I suppose I could entertain us with my dysfunctional past for a bit. 12
“Fine,” I said, and immediately I could see Jorge perk up, sit up a little straighter in his blob position, “If you really want to know what happened...I suppose you could say I was betrayed.” Ever since I waddled into the Dimplebutters’ living room, Steven and his wife, Marcia, raised me as one of their own. I was given everything an unrealistically human-like turkey could ever desire: books, karate lessons, bird-safe bubble gum, you name it. “Paul,” Dimplebutter would always say with warmth and affection, “is like the son we never had.” Every time I glanced up at him, I almost believed it. In my adolescence, things changed. I grew about 5 inches, my feathers expanded, my beak stretched, no longer possessing the same adorable charm that made everything okay. Now, I
perfectly resembled the thousands upon thousands of turkeys slaughtered at Dimplebutter Farms each year, no longer the unusually small chick who perused Shakespeare. Each night, I could see Steven and Marcia standing in the doorframe, their whispered conversations becoming increasingly tense and anxious. One night as I was sleeping, I suddenly felt a hand clap over my beak. Before I could scream, a wave of darkness washed over my vision. It felt as if I was falling, collapsing into spirals that threatened to suffocate me entirely. Apparently, I was not supposed to wake up. I know this because when I did, finding myself on the same cold marble countertop Marcia and I would play cards on, I heard Steven cry out. And that was how I knew I had been betrayed. The
“Sunrise,” Photograph by The Calico Catt
son I never had. Tears swelled to my eyes as my childhood flashed before my eyes, right back to the very moment I had laid eyes on those dirty work boots. Had I averted my own fate of predetermined pain and suffering? Heck no, but maybe I could stave it off for a little while longer. In a sudden burst of rage, I spread my overgrown wings, breaking free from the makeshift ropes Steven and Marcia had bounded me in. Ignoring the shouts and frantic footsteps, I pushed my way out of the house that turned out to be short of a home, running toward a hopeless destination. Tears blurred my eyes as I ran, my legs taking over for my paralyzed mind. I ran to the railroad, and hopped on to the first train I saw, my body in auto-pilot. When I could finally regain my breath, I glanced down at my foot, noticing a ripped-out page
from Hamlet that must have attached to my claw when I was running. To thine own self be true. Once a turkey, always a turkey. When I finished my story, Jorge’s beak was completely agape, eyes wide. “Okay...now I get why you’re all dark and edgy all the time. Like dude, your
own FATHER betrayed you-okay not really biological because that would be messed up, but your adopted father tried to kill you and then you went and unleashed your rage andThat’s deep, man.” I glanced at Jorge. “Thanks. I guess.” Jorge still looked to be in state of shock.
“So...what now? Where are you headed? Can we get revenge on Dipstick Butter?” I stared out into the vast lands behind us, the sun finally starting to peek up over the mountains. Although my past was rife with disappointment and betrayal, maybe now I could start a new life. The
open mountains, the setting sun, perhaps even a dose of revenge, anything seemed possible. I looked at Jorge, filled with hope, and saw the beginning of a new destiny. “Jorge, let’s get some revenge.”
In the Silence By Stella
In the silence, the car bumps along, down the road I would have reached for your hand, and held it in the cold But that was left in the past of last year A time when I was a bit more innocent, and you You stayed the same distantly loving boy from back then The boy who held my hand when I was scared, the one who stayed up late with my problems In the quiet, lonely night, I remember a song from years ago Memories of before, they follow me like a cloud I laugh about it, bad times, I joke But I wonder how it would have been if it was still you, just you Someone else has me now, the red string tied with care You’re still next to me, in a different position, a changed role Still, you and I are always connected, not as butterflies in the rain But as a bridge that leads to the sky above. “Bridge to a Third Dimension,” Photograph by Eos
Winter is Coming By Tom Nguyen
Winter is coming And my grades are still dropping At least there’s Christmas
13 “Serenity,” Illustration by Celia Bowen
“Cocoa Bliss,” Photograph by Pusheen
Gluttony
By Andromeda You feel incomplete Without succulent red meats Candy, cakes, and sweets So you eat and eat and eat And yet, Your feet swell And your teeth smell While your eyes well But you ring the dinner bell And so, You grew and grew and grew With the stew and the fondue The food you chew But really it’s eating at you.
Strong Roots By Andromeda midday
we sprawl in our backyard to the chirping of eager birds to the whirring of lawnmowers and delighted screams of kids next door we wait diligently for the seed to take root for its vines to stretch defiantly into the soil sinking thick fingers deep deep into the earth through the passage of time and back back again tracing itself to my father
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and my father’s father to my grandfather and his forefather they raised their seeds into tall proud trees to the breeze dancing in the wheat to the mooing of grazing cows
beating beating back against the waves of time arms spread wide Our Tree stands proud
to the cawing of roosters in the morn “Sunlight,” Photograph by The Calico Cat
The Building on 66th Street Part 2
purple curtains behind the counter. The woman that emerges is small and old. He immediately notices her crazy white hair, and the colorful By Andromeda mismatched clothes she adorns on her body. She How pedestrian, thinks looks like a cheesy fortune Bill Walston as he opens teller, decked out in too the red door. The first thing much jewelry and eyeshadhe notices is the smell of ow. moldy wood and musty carHe narrows his eyes pets. He adjusts the silver skeptically at her and sighs. watch beneath his tailored “I’m looking for a gift. For suit as he sniffs and looks a woman. Do you think you around, bored at the old an- can help?” tique shop. His shiny black The old woman smiles, shoes carry him around the her mouth a gaping hole shop as his gaze travels over of no teeth, and Bill’s eyes the various mismatched widen, “I think I may be items scattered about, able to help.” nothing catching his interest “Tell me what kind of long enough to make him woman this person you’re pause. shopping for is. Your daughI’ll never understand her ter, niece, mother….” fascination in places like “We’re not related,” he this. says sharply. He finally stops at a tea She looks at him slyly. set. Its porcelain is clean “So not your wife then.” and pearly white, and its His jaws ticks in anger floral designs are set off by when he realizes what she a subtle gold band wrapped did. around the bottom of the “That’s none of your concups and pot. It reminds him cern,” he says. of his daughter, and how “Well, you can surely tell she used to dress up as a lit- me her interests, what is she tle girl. All her dolls set up like?” around an elaborate pink tea Beautiful, special, pasparty. One empty chair was sionate, different. always left at the table. “Eccentric, she likes items “Won’t you please, please, that have some sort of odd please, come play with me backstory.” this time, Daddy?” “I see. Considering the He frowns at the memory nature of our shop, it should and moves away from the be obvious that that is no tea set. great feat. And you won’t be Ring, goes the bell at the needing anything for yourfront of the counter, and self? We have some lovely-” nothing happens. He taps “No, that would be quite the bell harder this time. enough, thanks,” he says, RING RING RING. his voice dripping with “Hello?” he shouts into repulsion. the silence. Nonplussed, the woman “Yes, yes, coming,” says smiles eerily at him and a scratchy voice from the
gestures a hand behind her towards the curtain. “If you will come right this way, I can show you the catalog. I think I know just what you’re looking for.” “Why can’t you bring the catalog here?” “Oh, I’m afraid it’s quite heavy, and you wouldn’t want an old woman straining her back, would you?” He frowns and looks at his watch. I’ve still got some time before lunch with corporate. He sighs, exasperated. “Fine, but let’s make this quick.” Bill takes a seat across from the woman on a small round table. Decorated on the walls are grotesque demon masks posed in various expressions of horror. He shudders under their gaze. The woman drops a large book atop the table. On the front cover is the title “GRIMOIRE” in large, intricate letters. The book is beautiful, he admits reluctantly, but for some reason, it fills him with a feeling of dread. He shakes it off. Bill Walston should not be fazed by bizarre objects, and bizarre women, in a ridiculous shop such as this. The woman opens the book and flips through pages speedily until she stops at one in particular. “This is your page,” she says, and turns the book to face towards him. He looks at the page and then glares back up at her. “Is this some sort of joke? It’s blank.” She puts her finger on the paper. Tap tap tap. “Look closer.” Scowling, he looks back,
and his mouth drops open as words being to crawl their way down the paper. The language is indecipherable, and at the bottom of the page appears the picture of a ruby-red apple. “I don’t understand. Why would I want an apple of all things? I can get that at any damn market.” “This is not just any apple, Mr. Walston.” His eyes widen. “How did you know my-” “Do you know why Adam chose to eat the apple from the tree of knowledge? It represented freedom. He had anything he could ever want in Eden. It was a perfect life; paradise. Yet he still ate the apple, knowing what would happen if he did. I think you and him are not so different, Mr. Walston. At a young age, you were always expected to be the responsible, dependable one of your family. So you went to school, got your degree, and traded in your Chevy for a Cadillac. You married a rich young lady, had a lovely daughter, and purchased a big house. By all accounts, you have a perfect life. Yet it was never enough. You didn’t choose it, it was expected of you. Going to work every day, living mundanely, you do what you’re told, like a vegetable. So you cheated, and that was the first real taste of freedom you’d ever had. The affair continued, and Continued on Next Page
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you continued to fall harder and harder for her, while still keeping up the facade.” “How- How could you possibly-” “It doesn’t matter how I know, Mr. Walston. The point is, what are you going to do about it? Will you continue to play pretend? Pretend you care about your family? Your daughter? Your wife?” The woman ducks beneath the table and pulls out the beautiful, red apple. “Or will you give in to temptation, and eat the apple?” “I...I…” This didn’t make any sense. What was happening? How could she know so many details about his life? His gut was telling him this was bad news. Bad, bad news. Yet…. I can’t say no. “I’ll buy it. What is the cost?” The woman smiles with satisfaction and pulls out a deck of cards. “Pick a card.” Reluctantly, Bill pulls a card from the deck. On the cover in the upright form of a skeleton, wielding a sickle. “The price is determined,” the woman says, snatching back the card and putting it back in the deck. She hands the apple to Bill, who stares at it, mesmerized. “Split the apple in half. You eat one half, and your partner the other. Then, you will both finally get the freedom you so desire. A wonderful gift, no?” Bill tears his eyes away from the apple to look at her suspiciously. “How much do I owe 16
you?” “All in good time. Oh, but one more thing, there are no refunds.” Bill stands at the entrance to the apartment kitchen. In his hand is a square box wrapped in gold wrapping paper and topped with a bow. He takes a deep breath, and enters. A beautiful young woman sits at the counter, engrossed in chopping vegetables. Her red hair is swept back in a ponytail, and her slender hands move the knife expertly. “Nikita, I’ve got something for you.” Her eyes move up to meet his, and then shift to the object in his sweaty palms. A warm smile smooths across her face. “What is that? Is that for me?” she says, moving to take the box from his outstretched hand. “Yes, I saw it at a shop, and I immediately thought of you.” “Oh how nice.” She tears apart the paper and opens the box. Looking down confusedly, she remarks, “It’s an apple? Don’t get me wrong, I love fruits as much as anyone,” she chuckles and picks it up,
“and it’s a beautiful apple at that, but that’s a bit of an odd gift.” “That apple has a very interesting story, I’ll tell you all about it as we eat it.” “Interesting,” she says, seeing the apple in a new light, “I’ll chop it up.” “Please, allow me,” he replies, and takes it from her hand. She smiles. “Such a gentleman,” she says. Nikita holds one half in her hand, Bill holds his in the other. He smooths his silver hair behind his head and glances at the apple. She laughs when she sees the nervous gesture. “What are you so worried about? You’d think it was poisoned when you’re looking at it like that!” He laughs with her. “Wouldn’t that be something.” They both take a bite, and she notices words scrawled across the inside of the apple. “Odd, there seems to be words engraved here. Libertas non vicit, per mortem…? What does that mean, it looks like Latin?” Abruptly, he gets up from his seat and kisses her.
“I love you,” he says. She looks at him suspiciously, saying “Are you okay? Is-” Her eyes widen, and her mouth gapes open like a fish. She grasps at her throat as it turns purple and her eyes roll back in her head. They both collapse to the floor at the same time. Bill’s eyes begin to blur as his throat closes and he is overwhelmed with pain. The last thing he sees is her outstretched hand grasping for his. Ariana Walston stands over the casket at her father’s funeral. Her dark hair, so much like her father’s, is swept back in a neat bun. She looks down at his still, pale form emotionlessly. His hands are folded neatly over a single white rose, his eyes closed, face blank, as if in perpetual sleep. Suddenly, the sunlight pooling in from the church windows catches the surface of his watch, and she could have sworn she saw the reflection of his ghostly figure behind her, holding the hand of a young woman.
To Be Concluded...
“November Nature,” Photograph by Andromeda