November 2015
Midnight Writers
Table of Contents
Cover: “Checkmate,” a photograph by The
Page 10:
Owlish Bookworm
“The Seven Deadly Sins,” photographs by Nike
This Page:
“Snow White,” a photograph by
Aceso
Page 3: Ask Aphro & Dite
The Fire Nation needs advice Dragon discrimination isn’t okay
Nyx’s Niche:
Page 11: “Seven,” descriptions by Hypnos
Page 12: “How to Summon the Seven Deadly Sins,” an instructional guide by Janus “Keep Your Heads,” a photograph by The Owlish Bookworm
Page 13:
The Goddess of the Night snoops through Olympian mail “Silhouette,” a photograph by The Technicolor Zebra “Join the Hunt,” a poem by The Owlish Bookworm Cassandra’s Oracle “Canterbury Tales,” a poem by Aradia This month’s horoscopes “My Every Day Life,” an illustration by The Masked Lady
Page 4:
“Sweaters and Snuggles,” a short story by Persephone “Toasty,” a photograph by kokhokat “Sweater Weather,” an illustration by kokhokat “Ode to Sweaters,” a poem by Bandersnatch
Page 5: “Orange,” a photograph by kokhokat “Welcome to the Orangery,” a poem by The Owlish Bookworm “Golden,” a photograph by kokhokkat “In Bloom,” a poem by Andy “Blossom,” a haiku by The Owlish Bookworm
Page 6: “Everything’s Poetic if You Try Hard Enough,” a short story by Persephone “Rainy,” a photograph by kokhokat
Page 7: “Raging Words,” an illustration by Hypnos “Heads or Tails?” a poem by Arasia “Torrid Flames,” a photograph by Cananda “Steaming Swords,” a poem by Vivian Griselda
Page 8: “Mr. Glut,” a poem by Emlyn Wright “Bite Me,” an illustration by Hypnos “Letter from an Envious Fool,” a poem by Winter “Calypso,” an illustration by Selene
Page 9: “Vogue,” an illustration by Andy “Dream Girl,” a poem by Andy “Crush,” a poem by Bellum “Vanity,” an illustration by Calliope “The Scent of a Woman,” a poem by Andy
Page 14: “All was Well...Until the Humans Walked In,” a short story by Persephone “Bleeding Heart,” an illustration by Selene “Celestial,” an illustration by Bluejay
Page 15: “Golden Shores: Chapter II,” a story by A.T. Pacem
Page 16: “Golden Shores” continued
issuu.com/midnightwriters midnightwriters2015@gmail.com
Ask Aphro & Dite
Nyx’s Niche
Cassandra’s Oracle
Dear Aphrodite, I have the power to manipulate fire, but I don’t know how to control my abilities. I can’t find a suitable Fire Teacher anywhere, and it’s getting out of hand. Just last week I may or may not have burned down a friend’s house. My mother is beginning to think I enjoy reckless arson, and that’s just not the case. Help Please, Fired Up and Sad Dearest Fired Up, Oh, darling! Fire powers! How gloriously interesting! Really, love, you must get this under control as soon as possible. I simply cannot tell you how important it is to have fire in your arsenal. Think about the power! Ahem, I digress. Though I ‘m no licensed Fire Teacher, I must say that I’m relatively confident in my abilities in most all things. So let’s see. I believe you should start out with trying to concentrate. Close your eyes and forget about the world around you. Take a deep breath and think about something that makes you wondrously happy. Then open your eyes and Expecto Patr— wait. Wrong one. Sorry there, darling. Okay, so after that deep breath, think about the fire boiling just under your palms—do remember that if you can control fire, you likely have some of it in you! And then BAM! You should be able to be relaxed enough to bend that fire any which way you’d like it to go. The key is to be relaxed, really. Nothing good ever came from being overworked and stressed out...sometimes I feel like I should tell Zeus this with all the work he puts me up to...Ah, well. Try it out, dearie. And if it doesn’t work, try the mortal thing that knows too much: the Goggle? Best of luck, Aphrodite Dear Aphrodite, Recently, a dragon moved in to the mountains close to my village. For now, it seems to be peaceful enough, but my town is afraid. How do we prepare ourselves for a dragon? Yours, Scared of Smaug Dear Scared, Really, I’m quite upset at this. Have you never though that the dragon simply wishes to enjoy a vacation in the mountains? That it would like some peace and quiet for once? Stereotypes are so Titan-age, and both immortals and mortals should know that dragons have their own personalities. They aren’t all intent on killing or burning everything down...most of the time. Just, just think about it. And in the meantime, make safehouses and ready a fireproof bunker with necessary equipment to take down a wild dragon. But don’t judge! Dragons Are People Too, Aphrodite
Hello there, Midnighters! How are we all faring this month? Well, given that I’m really just as scattered and frazzled as usual, I’m not sure how to begin. Let’s see...ah, yes! Yesterday, Hermes was delivering mail around Olympus a little too late at night, so I simply took a few of the letters. Let’s see what they said, shall we? First one, looks to be from Artemis, addressed to...Dionysis? Oh, well then! I wonder what Miss Little Dainty and Pure has to say to the God of All Things Debauched and Drunk. Dear Dionysis, It’s Artemis. Hello! I realize this is somewhat out of the blue, but I was wondering if you would be willing to help me host a party? Y’know, Olympian University goddesses have wonderful bashes, but I’d like to show them that I’m more than just the best huntress, best looking, and most virtuous. Please consider helping? -Artemis Oh ho ho! Looks like she’s not the goody little two shoes we all thought her to be! Well, to be honest, it’s really not that shocking. A controlling brother like Apollo and the constant pressure of having to be the most virtuous of all? Goodness, Zeus knows I’m far too mean for any of that. Poor girl, just trying to fit in. Maybe if she doesn’t wear white all the time and carry around moonlight and an enormous bow? But moving right along! We have another— from Demeter to Thanatos? What has my son been up to? I knew I should have gone to those god and parent conferences… Dear Thanatos, This is your last warning, young god. Stay away from the crops and flora on the mortal world this coming autumn. The humans, no matter how amusing they seem, have worked hard to grow everything and I’ve blessed them in return. Don’t make me tell your mother about what you did in Northern Sicily last season. -Demeter Well! I’ll just be having a little bit of a talk with him, won’t I? Goodness, I’ll have to apologize to Demi at our next bridge meeting. That boy better watch himself...shame on him for making things difficult for her! Just you wait… Thanatos! Well, I’m off to go find my son...so long lovely Midnighters! Hope you enjoyed some godly ogsisip—have a lovely month!
It seems fall has finally arrived, Midnighters. This month’s Oracle hopes to find you bundled in sweaters and sipping pumpkin spice lattes (or whatever your preferred hot beverage is, we’re not picky here). Aries: You might be called on to take the lead in a way you may not have expected. Taurus: Your friends will need your reliability this month. Gemini: Adaptability will be key when life throws you a curveball. Cancer: It’s always great to care, but be careful not to be too overprotective. Leo: Conflicts on the horizon will require you to keep an open mind. Virgo: It’s okay to be impractical every now and then. Treat yourself, you deserve it. Libra: You’re going to have to take a diplomatic position between friends. Scorpio: Your enthusiasm will bring interesting people into your life. Sagittarius: Be careful that your optimism doesn’t blind you. Capricorn: Your ambition will soon reward you, don’t give up now. Aquarius: Inspiration will be at its peak this month, be inventive. Pisces: A friend will come to you in need of compassion because they trust you.
Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Nyx, Cassandra, Hypnos, Persephone, kokhokat, Janus, The Teumessian Fox, and A.T. Pacem
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Sweaters and Snuggles By Persephone When snow blankets the world with its purity, it gives no warning of the dangers it possesses. The wind, a forlorn deity in the isolation of an empty world, screams cautionary tales of the ice layering everything in sight. Animals howl stories of their own, advising to stay in the comfort and safety of home. By the warm crackle of a fire, Klaus drowns out the screams with the calm of familiar music playing over the stereo. The biting cold seeps through the cracks beneath the doors but doesn’t reach his skin. Wrapped in the comfort of a fleece blanket layered over a knit beige sweater, he fends off the cold as best he can. A taller boy with warm brown eyes and a mess of auburn hair hands Klaus a steaming mug of hot chocolate. Reluctantly, he reaches out from underneath the cozy blanket into the cold air to take his drink. The heat of the mug against the cold of his hands makes his fingers tingle. “Wait, wait, wait,” Klaus says, “Before you sit down, will you please put another log on the fire? Please, Micah?” he whines when Micah gives him a look. Micah sighs and sets his mug down on the coffee table. Shuffling his bare feet along the carpet, he grabs one of the logs sitting to the
side of the fire and tosses it on top of the dying flame. Prodding the fire with a stoker, he brings the weak flame back to life. “You could do this yourself,” Micah says. “But I’m all comfortable,” Klaus says, smiling. “You were already standing up.” Picking his cup of tea off the table, Micah scoots up close against Klaus and pulls the blanket over himself. Klaus leans against Micah in response, taking advantage of his body heat and natural warmth. “Why are your hands so cold?” Micah asks after taking Klaus’ hand in his. Even when decked out in a thick sweater and warm fuzzy socks, Klaus can’t seem to get warm. “Because I’m secretly a vampire,” Klaus says. He glances up at Micah, “Vampires don’t have any blood circulation, y’know.” He takes a sip of his hot cocoa and the whipped cream layered atop the drink leaves a film of foam on his upper lip. “You’re not a very scary vampire,” Micah laughs, kissing away the foam. Klaus scoffs, “Says you.” He snuggles up closer against Micah, resting his head on his shoulder. The wind continues to shriek beyond the insulated walls, picking up handfuls of snow and throwing them around during its tantrum. The inches of snow ensured isolation, a recipe for cabin fever. If it weren’t for warm sweaters and his best friend with him, Klaus might have been a little tense.
“Toasty,” Photograph by kokhokat
Ode to Sweaters By Bandersnatch
somedays you just need a hug. to insulate what little warmth is left in your chilled bones to hold you tight an d never let go to surround you completely and totally sometimes that hug is not flesh but wool instead it comes in sleeves that hang long over you ice-cold hands. it comes in thick yarn that wraps around your shivering frame. it comes in fraying hemlines worn thin from fidgeting fingers. somedays you just need a hug. “TSweater Weather,” Illustration by kokhokat
Welcome to the Orangery By The Owlish Bookworm Look at them Soldiers in rows Not the fruit of Eden Nor the tang of the Fall But sweet, sweet citrus. Sour twinge, Face cringe. Sweet syrup Lips lift up. Welcome to the Orangery. Home to none Solace and refuge to all For where do the protagonists go When everything seems lost? The oranges listen The trees feel the tears. Welcome to the orangery. The site of Regency plots Conspiracies to kill Oranges mask the copper metal Smell of blood. The secret meeting point For hushed lovers’ trysts For romantic walks Whispered sweet nothings Piecrust promises and loving lies. Welcome to the orangery.
“Orange,” Photograph by kokhokat
In Bloom By Andy Frivolous fickle frolics Are not for the faint heart, Yet the cherry buds quiver Under the debonair’s depraved gaze.
Blossom By The Owlish Bookworm
Look at the blossom Watch it grow, budding beauty Breathe in the sweet life. “Golden,” Photograph by kokhokat
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Everything’s Poetic if You Try Hard Enough By Persephone
Romance is the way the fog swirls around in the yellow tint of headlights at three in the morning in mid-autumn. The way the clouds of her breath draw out over her chapped lips in the brittle cold of winter. The way the last red leaf shakes in the wind but continues to hold onto its bare branch swallowed by a gray sky. Romance is the way a warm blanket encompasses her and swallows her up on a cold, rainy day. The way she presses her cold nose against my cheek and her cold toes against my calves. The way she giggles and holds my cracked and freezing hands against the warmth of her heart. She holds my breath in her lungs because every time I try to, the oxygen gets lost in the flower beds he planted inside me. My insides are a garden that smells like the freshness of spring and the sticky sweetness of honey but the beauty is lost on me in favor of practicality. When her breath fills my lungs, she tastes like orange mango chapstick and the hope of new beginnings. Even when she pulls away, I can breathe easier. Romance was never the way I painted layers of my skin over the permanent purple circles under my eyes. Not the way I would water down my lungs with the tears he gifted to me to keep his precious garden alive inside me. Not the way he kissed the pads of my thumbs and promised he was kissing my problems away. Romance isn’t the way the man in the moon refuses to look at me on lonely nights in the emptiness of winter. Not the way
“Rainy,” Photography by kokhokat
I scream into the softness of my pillow and it swallows my voice and screams it all back. Not the way the world looks sideways when my face melds with the aimless white lines on the asphalt of the school parking lot. I gather up the warmth of her smile to turn into matches to light the kindling in the fireplace. It heats the core of my heart and sets fire to the forest in my lungs. She collects the smoke from my throat and creates a story with the ash. His fingerprints on my skin made me look like a crime scene. Sometimes she messes up and leaves her nail polish in the pores of my skin. When she apologizes and washes away the mess she made, I forgive her because she cares about the consequences of her mistakes. Romance is the way I can’t remember if the gray sweatshirt with the hole in the sleeve and rip in the corner of the pocket is mine or hers. The way she knows she can’t cure the tremors in my hands if we don’t start the morning in the right way. The way the Milky Way pours from the sky and into our veins and star dust collects under our fingernails. Romance is the way I cut the strings away that I tied to my desk to grid in my anxieties and forgotten thoughts because I know she’ll hold my hand when I try to run away from change. It’s the way I allow myself to take small bite-sized pieces of hours without routine because even if I’m terrified, we can do this together. Her tears don’t taste like poetry or beauty. They taste like the disparities of her mind and the scars scratched deep into her wrists. As the sun shines on the gradient of colors in the autumn air, we hold each other and hope for better times. There’s nothing about bloody lips and broken sighs that I want to hold onto like they’re something worth cherishing. We collect our words in paper stars in glass mason jars from the craft store twenty minutes from my house. One of my happy thoughts rips through the middle and pulls at my heart strings. She gives me a sterile needle and shows me how to keep my threads from fraying. The pinching of the metal against my vulnerabilities sends small pings of pain through my nervous system. I remember the way he used to make poetry out of my ailments and the late nights my voice went hoarse from telling him not everything he seems to know could be made into a romantic story. My tongue would bleed words of truth but the insulation in his ears kept out anything too hard to hear. “Everything’s poetic if you try hard enough,” he would whisper as he would push at my bruises. She wraps leashes around the throats of my demons but realizes that neither of us is invincible. There’s something terrifying in admitting we’re only the blood in our veins and the gentleness of our skin. Our breath is worth fighting for even if sometimes our battles are like running straight into the flames of hell wearing a winter coat. “There’s nothing poetic about feeling dead,” she says quietly but firmly. Her words reassure her as much as they reassure me. Our own bodies fight against us even though I’ve never been the virus my brain thinks me to be. We’re scared and broken and covered in the thick soot of defeat. Together we shower in warm water and cleanse our souls, preparing for tomorrow’s fight. We prepare to fight on our own but her lips against my neck promise me I won’t be alone. Romance isn’t beauty in broken bodies and dependency. Romance is the way she looks at me and promises we’ll do our best. Together.
Heads or Tails? By Aradia Flip a coin Flowers grow from empty heads Cotton stuffing in the brain A tumor of the spirit, deceptive All is blood, all is bone Nothing is softer tissue A vagrant turned out on the tail Suspended animation like Sitting in a movie theater all alone Getting cold, wondering where Everyone is Then turn tail and run It rolls into the gutter and is lost forever There goes my chance at redemption “Raging Words,” Illustration by Hypnos
Steaming Swords By Vivian Griselda Two swords connected in the fire Bleeding and screaming Utterly consumed By their unfulfilled desire. From the auburn crunch to the pink petunias, To a scorching summer and the bitter winter. An incision left untouched and deserted. And the whispers wailed, So the storm could sail, Onto a foreign path that was destined to fail. The flood was flourishing, And magically concealed the burning, Somehow pleasantly destructive in mourning. Two swords now diverged in the fire, Now breathing out the smoke from the unspoken desire.
“Torrid Flames,” Photograph by Cananda
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Mr. Glut by Emlyn Wright This is the tale of Mr. Glut, A quite gross, unforgettable smut, Who knew from the day that he began, That he was written into God’s plan, For he was destined to be something great, Something big— Yes, he was fated to be a pig, But the fool Mr. Glut wore himself thin, For he thought hunger was a fight he could win, So he bound himself to the kitchen chair, And told his dear wife to leave him there, But after days of starving she grew afraid, Thus she untied the man, And from his sweetheart he ran. Mr. Glut ate the food they were saving for winter, After gobbling up his bride’s fresh, warm dinner, He ran to the barn and devoured all the cow’s hay, But was hungry for more and ate the horse mid-neigh, So he became what he dreaded all along, He turned into swine, And finally learned one can’t escape time, Yet Mr. Glut hadn't yet had his full, He went to his neighbor’s and ate their prized bull, And as he wandered back home, A new craving took hold, So as he gazed upon the figure in his doorway, He reached out for his love, And ate everything but her single white glove, But this Mr. Glut hadn’t had enough, With each passing bite he grew even less stuffed, So he went to the baker’s to eat him and the bread, He ransacked the butcher’s for he craved all things dead, He ate the whole town before the day was through, Then he swallowed the north, west, south and east, And that is how Mr. Glut went from man to beast.
“Bite Me,” Illustration by Hypnos
Letter from an Envious Fool By Winter My friend, Perhaps we cannot make amends, With my jaded eyes, Filled with lies, I have much to confess, While unraveled and a mess. All this time, Worth nothing more than a dime, Yet you shine like gold, One so striking and bold. I have since glared with contempt, All your achievements I resent, I splattered myself with green, With no care of being seen. I put on a disguise, A mask of lies, Plaster on a grudging smile, Maybe you should put me on trial. I've glanced at you with scorn, Yet you never looked this forlorn, This apology is long overdue, Maybe it is me you should sue,
“Calypso,” Illustration by Selene
This is a message I cannot resend, For it is the end, Goodbye my friend.
Dream Girl By Andy Her scent lingering Along my extended fingertips Instinctively spun around Confused as a civil savage Desperately grasping for her fleeing silhouette Only to touch The fading warmth Of her disappearing figure.
Crush By Bellum Can he see me Can he see that I wish my heart would explode when I see him Can he see me looking from across the room Can he see me holding my breath Can he see that all I want is for him to hug me I want him to know how I’m feeling But at the same time want to keep this a secret forever “Vogue,” Illustration by Andy
The Scent of a Woman By Andy Milky parfume skin Stirs the hot blooded Every wave Reveals slender yet sensuous Pale wrists Every dip A glimpse of the curved nape Escapes the sleek black curtain Yet blind to the thoughts of men She remains posed in faux security Behind the one-way mirror Set in her doe eyes.
9 “Vanity,” Illustration by Calliope
Greed
“Six things the Lord hateth...
Sloth
The Seven Deadly Sins Glu
Lust
TH A R
W
Pride ...and seven that are an abomination unto Him.” (Psalms 6:16)
“The Seven Deadly Sins,” Photographs by Nike
tto
ny
Env
y
The Seven By Hypnos
Greed
Sloth
A little greener and a little meaner Quick fingers in every pot Trying to take what doesn’t belong to them Waves after waves of unending want.
Melting from one place to another in a lethargic slither. Drool tinkles out of those slack-jawed lips Goals, dreams, the TV remote All too far away to try
Lust
Gluttony
Perhaps the most innocent of all. It’s just love turned physical and yet it is censored, suppressed, denied. But simmers in veins nonetheless
Seven arms at once Squeezing the life out of your red strawberries Shoving them and everything else down your gullet Into the concave valley of an ever empty gut.
Pride The square chin of superiority nods As those Italian leather shoes scuff up And destroy all the things you decided were broken They weren’t.
Wrath Red. so much red. A violent haze that buzzes in the ear and spreads to the brain at the slightest provocation. senseless enjoyment of what is justified as revenge.
Envy Side eyed glances at the bigger and better Your skin tinted green Not of clovers and lime and forest But of bubbling acid and resentment.
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How to Summon the Seven Deadly Sins By Janus
Have you ever wanted power, wealth, or delicious food so badly that you’d be willing to pledge your soul to the Underworld? Do you want to skip past all the low-level imps that are bound to show up and heckle you when you were aiming to summon a demon prince? Should you give up on your dreams of becoming a summoner and get a real job? Worry no more, young occultist. I have some handy tips on how to conjure the Seven Deadly Sins, the most evil demons in all of the universe! If you follow these steps, fame, fortune and the destruction of your enemies will be yours!
food, all provided by Gluttony! However, if you don’t satisfy your hunger, you may find yourself robbing a McDonalds because of your longing for a Big Mac.
and deadly weapons. If you make a deal with Wrath, you’ll need a lot of soldiers. Also, helping her escape will threaten all of your other deals with the Sins. There was a reason Wrath was imprisoned, and the demon lords won’t be happy about this. Wrath is extremely unstable from her years of confinement. There’s a large chance she will vaporize you. She’s furious, and looking for revenge against her captors. Nothing can stop her fury, so expect a lot of chaos. Her selfishness and anger comes before reason. She is skilled in the art of war and is a worthy companion to go on bloody rampages with. Her power is only matched by Pride, another vanquished Sin. She can easily destroy your opponents, so she is your greatest weapon, if you can control her.
Envy This Sin is very busy, so the only way you can entice her to this mortal plane is to offer something she doesn’t have. Whether that’s the newest fashion, an innovative idea, or a famous painting, she might make a deal with you. Envy seems shallow, but she is smarter than you think. Successful deals made with her rarely occur because of her shrewdness. Settling on a deal can take several hours. This part of the summoning can either fail or go very wrong, so it helps when you have past experience as a lawyer. After a harrowing deal, she will offer her ultimate power to you: the ability for people to be incredibly Pride Sloth jealous of you. This has great benefits in all So you’ve created a nuclear wasteland out This lazy demon is the easiest of the Sins aspects of your life! You gain respect from of Earth, goaded Wrath into destroying the to summon. In order to draw her to this diyour peers, get the best job opportunities Sins, and are now sitting atop your throne as mension, you must prepare a cozy warm bed and much more! But be careful with your leader of the world. But there’s one more with at least five pillows and silk sheets. new popularity. There is bound to be some- Sin to make a deal with. Draw her sigils (painted symbols with magi- one out there that is jealous and will negotiPride has been inactive for a long time but cal powers) on the sheets, and the demon ate with a certain demon. the destruction of the world should probably won’t be able to get out. You also must prodraw him out from wherever he was hiding vide a laptop for her browsing pleasure. Say Greed for the last few millennia. Pride is the king her name three times and she should show With some persuading, Greed may carve of all demons, so prepare to be terrified. up, snoring away in the bed! Sloth’s only some time out of his schedule to meet with Don’t even try to ignore his inky shadow power is the ability to send you into a deep you. Don’t think of his summoning as ocand golden eyes. Just listen to his soothing sleep. If you wake up, you will be very alert cult, but more like a business meeting. You voice… After all, he used to be the most and well-rested. Unfortunately, once you must be a highly influential and wealthy beautiful angel in Heaven. Why wouldn’t invite Sloth into your home, she doesn’t like individual if you expect him to show up. you trust him? After all of these years, the to leave, so be prepared for a roommate! Bonus points if you’re the leader of a coun- only thing Pride wants is a body. You try! You probably already know him from wouldn’t mind giving up control for a little Lust your previous shady endeavors, so just call while, right? I don’t know what happens Lust is slightly harder to summon. She his people and make an appointment. after Pride possesses a person, but I’m sure requires an expensive gift for each time she They’ll let you know if he wants to see you. it’ll be interesting! visits, so stock up on your Gucci and Prada Be prepared! Greed expects you to meet accessories! You also need to create her sig- him in a five-star restaurant. Negotiating That’s where my summoning knowledge ils using red lipstick. This demon will apwith him takes a long time, and the only ends. With these steps, you’ll find great pear only after midnight, so stay alert! She is price he will accept is souls. Most people power and influence. Maybe one day you skilled at making summoners so beautiful give up their own soul and are forced to pro- may rule the universe! Happy conjuring! that they will have a throng of admirers fol- cure a set amount of others spirits every low them around. However, looking like an year. This deal is binding, and it will last Adonis comes with a steep price. After a your entire life. When you make a deal, all few months, your gorgeous face will start of the doors in the world will be opened. If melting and a hospital visit will probably be you thought you had power before, you will needed. be amazed by the secrets lurking beneath the surface of society. You will gain all sorts of Gluttony privileges and even meet with other demons Gluttony has more power than the previto make deals with. If you weren’t rich alous two demons, so his summoning won’t ready, this will raise you to billionaire terribe easy. You’ll need a room that you don’t tory. Nothing can stop you after making a mind destroying, a strong stomach, and no deal with Greed. shame. This repulsive devil loves garbage, so empty out several trash cans into your Wrath summoning room. Next, open up your win- So, you’ve made deals with all of these dedows so all sorts of creepy-crawlies can get mons, gaining riches, supernatural powers, in. Finally, a plate of raw steak must be etc. But you still long for more. If you truly placed in the middle of Gluttony’s sigils. want to become the most feared person on You will know when he comes, so don’t be Earth, Wrath can help you. First, you need afraid of the swarm of insects that invaded to get her from the fiery depths of the Pit of the room. Bugs are Gluttony’s friends, and if Fire. You can also wait for Judgement Day you kill any of them, he’ll destroy you when she gets out on her own, but that can When he appears, don’t be frightened! His take a thousand years. Not even Wrath’s bulbous fly-like eyes may look into your most devoted occultists have managed to soul, but he won’t eat you if all of the previ- unlock her burning prison, so summoning ous directions have been followed. Gluttony her will be a challenge. Once again, your offers a range of powers to occultists. One power as a president or prime minister will of the most popular is an endless supply of be important. Amass a giant military force “The Seven,” Photograph by The Owlish Bookworm
Come and Join the Hunt By The Owlish Bookworm
‘Twas just a normal night One like any other With shadows a’playing And us some dragons a’slaying Come and join the hunt. Thare be beasts, my lad. Slice through the dark Pray for a mark, And for your sake, Come and join the hunt.
“Silhouette,” Photograph by Technicolor Zebra
A dance of light on every wall Lanterns whisper down to none Beware the Devil Ones Rid us of them, their fire,
Stomp out the embers That spark their ire. Pick up yer bow and arrow And come and join the hunt. No time to waste, To look behind Or make a tear. Only time to aim to kill Breathe in the thrill And bring the dragons down. Do what you will, And do what you won’t, But for heaven’s sake, Join the hunt.
Canterbury Tales By Aradia
Whan that Aprille, with its shoures soote The witch raises her wand and speaks The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote May none match the green in her cheeks And bathed every veyne in swich licour Though the world was stranger, the time was good Of which vertu engendred is the flour; The magyk and nonmagyk lived as they should Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth The knights were bold, the maidens fair Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The kings waged war and feasted without care The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne The lords were rich, the peasants poor Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, And the world was bounded by the nearest shore And smale fowles maken melodye, Yes life was pristine, life was simple That slepen al the night with open ye; The world's cares amounted to a maiden's dimple So priketh hem nature in hir corages: What deception lies beneath this, you ask? Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, Come now, a masked ball's no fun with no mask And palmers for to seken straunge strondes, Dance in dizzying circles until you see double To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londes; Or turn to bump into the knight with the stubble And specially, from every shires ende And sing until your throat is no more Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, For what good story is absent of whores? The holy blisful martir for to seke, These are their stories, long may they reign That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke. We hope you will join us in Canterbury again. “My Every Day Life,” Illustration by The Masked Lady
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All Was Well…Until the Human Walked in By Persephone
Toward the entrance of the ruins of long abandoned stone city, a pile of Daarakiol’s hoard shifted. The assortment of coins made a tinkling noise as they rolled down softy onto the stone walkways of the city. Curious as to what made the disturbance, Daarakiol shifted from underneath his blanket of broken contraptions and twisted trinkets. A young woman, somewhere between the age of seventeen and twenty-eight (Daarakiol could never get human’s ages right; their lives were so short) was kicking the scattering coins away from her. Her dress brushed against the ground, a beautiful garment made of silk died a deep shade of indigo stitched with gold thread. The little bit of skin that wasn’t covered by her clothing was dark brown and devoid of any blemishes. Her thick black hair was tied up in an intricate braid, with two curls pulled free to frame her face. When Daarakiol moved to get a better look, the girl’s gaze met his. Her eyes were a fierce blue, warning that her arrival meant nothing good. “Who dare trespasses?” Daarakiol hissed, raising his head out from under his collection. Smoke puffed from his nostrils, curling into ribbons in the chilled autumn air. The girl sighed, wearing an expression of complete boredom, “I am Princess Iis’qua, daughter of Coar, son of Cyraad, the great conqueror of the lands of Nalanquaar.” “Why does the Princess Iis’qua, daughter of Coar, son o-” “Just call me Iis’qua, okay? Princess Iis’qua if you’re feeling fancy. The rest is just a bunch of diplomatic ridiculousness,” Iis’qua said, picking up an old goblet. She turned it over, examining it, before she tossed it aside. Daarakiol had heard a lot about princesses. They were prim, proper, and poised, the epitome of the perfect way to be a lady. With her poor posture and perpetually annoyed expression, Iis’qua didn’t seem like any princess about which he knew. “This is the part where you take me captive and we wait for a noble prince to come slay you and save me.” Iis’qua said. Daarakiol blinked his large golden eyes, “Why?” “That’s how it works,” Iis’qua said, taking a seat on an old throne lined with gold and precious jewels. “I will not be slain over a trespassing princess,” Daarakiol said, puffing out thick plumes of smoke. All he’d done for the past hundred years was collect treasures and trinkets from abandoned cities and castles. The hardly seemed to warrant his death. “Yeah and I’m not going to marry the man who slays you,” the princess said, kicking her legs over the arm of the throne. Daarakiol narrowed his eyes, “Then why are you here?”
“Celestial,” Illustration by Bluejay
“Bleeding Heart,” Illustration by Selene
Iis’qua threw her head back dramatically and sighed loudly, “Because I screwed up. I ‘made a fool of my family and brought dishonor on my kingdom,’” she quoted. “And now the only way to get the kingdom to like me is to do something drastic like get captured by a dragon. And then they’ll miss me or something.” “That does not sound like a well thought out plan,” Daarakiol commented, resting his head on a pile of golden treasure. “My dad explained it better,” Iis’qua said. The two lapsed into silence. Daarakiol watched the princess carefully as she rubbed her oily human fingers all over his possessions. She’d run her fingertips over the edge of gold coins and peer into the cracked glass of old mirrors. The sight of human messing with his things made his scales crawl. “What did you do?” Daarakiol asked, his voice rumbling, causing his treasure to vibrate beneath him. “To get tossed to a dragon like fresh meat?” Iis’qua asked. “I may have accidentally given a thief access to the kingdom’s vaults. He and his men made our rich kingdom poor in a night.” “Why would you do that?” Daarakiol asked. Humans sure weren’t bright. “He would have killed me if I hadn’t,” Iis’qua said. “Not that my dad seemed to care. What use is a sixth daughter anyway?” Daarakiol growled as Iis’qua picked up an amulet. Immediately, she dropped it. “How do I get you to leave?” Daarakiol hissed. “Couldn’t you just kill me?” Iis’qua asked. “Don’t actually do that. But, you are a dragon after all.” “Humans are so obsessed with death,” Daarakiol muttered, rolling over onto his side. A tower of his treasures poured down into smaller piles on the floor as he pressed his weight against it. Iis’qua was looking at him with those startling blue eyes and a wicked grin, “Or, we could find the man and force him to give all the gold back. Who’s going to say no to a dragon?” Daarakiol eyed her carefully. If it would get her to leave and quit touching all of his things, he was willing to try it. “Alright,” he grumbled, shaking off coins and trinkets that had imbedded themselves underneath his scales. At his full height, he was twice the size of a house. Gazing up at him, Iis’qua seemed to have lost her confidence. “C’mon then,” he said, kneeling low enough that she could get on his back. “Really?” she asked. “Wicked.” She scrambled up his back, using his scales as footholds. Her fingers digging into his scales was just as uncomfortable as his scales rubbing against her legs. As soon as his enormous wings began to flap, she lurched forward, grabbing the scales on his neck. After several minutes in the air, her tight grasp loosened and she pulled back to watch the world below her. Daarakiol could hear her laughter. “This guy isn’t going to know what hit him!” Iis’qua yelled into the wind.
Golden Shores By A.T. Pacem “Zahir, habbibi, please wake up. You’re going to be late for school.” The sunlight painted his face orange and his body rocked from the freckled hands of his mother. He gave a soft groan and pushed himself off of the mattress, rubbing his eyes against the light of the sun. The clock above his bed marked 7:13 AM. When he swiveled his head back around the ends of his mother’s hair were just disappearing from the doorframe. He jerked from under the covers and stumbled toward the bathroom, the aroma of black tea sailing through the home. As he washed his face he thought about last night, scrubbing his face raw to remove the impurity of his lies. He hated lying. Yet lies seemed to slip past his lips as quickly as the rain that intermingled with tears. Breakfast lingered on the table when Zahir walked in. His mother sat next to a kettle of steaming tea that drenched the kitchen with the scent of mint. “Sobeh el-kheyr, omi,” Zahir greeted as he sat down in front of her. “Good morning to you too, my love,” she replied, snatching a kind glance over the top of the newspaper she was reading. Zahir smiled and began to eat quietly. His mother sighed and set down the paper, sipping the tea before clearing her throat. “You’ve been out very late for the past week. What do you do? Has Harel been keeping you longer than usual?” Zahir winced when he bit his tongue. “Yeah, something like that,” “What do you mean?” “Mom, it’s nothing, please just drop it.” She sighed and opened her mouth to protest, only to have Zahir get up to dispose of his plate in the sink. He washed it and strode towards his bed-
room. He dressed in his wrinkled button-up and worn jeans, picked up his backpack, and pulled on his shoes at the door. His lunch was sitting by the door when he stuffed it into his bag. He boarded the bus like always, scrambling around to find a viable seat before it was taken. The roads were dusty and bumpy up until the Palestine-Israel border, where Zahir surrendered his identification cards and student visa. The border patrol looked at him strangely. He knew why: it wasn’t everyday a Palestinian boy showed up with eyes more jade than dark brown and skin a bit lighter than usual. He settled back in his seat once his cards checked out after stuffing them into his backpack. He stared outside at the urbanity of Israeli life, pondering if the opposite people could both find peace together. On the Israeli side of Jerusalem, the roads didn’t jolt the bus once. Zahir stepped off in front of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, already feeling finicky in his suit. His mother had it tailored for him and he loved it. He just wished it didn’t pale so comparably to the suits of his classmates, all future lawyers and judges. Out of the two hundred Palestinians that applied, Zahir was one of the select twenty who was accepted into the prestigious law program. Today was the beginning of a long week of mock trials on various cases. Each professor would handpick his or her choice of students to guide them through a mock trial. The “case” Zahir and his team caught was a robbery that led to a fatal shooting, but there was a lack of substantial witness evidence. He walked through the doors of the university and ascending upstairs, greeting fellow students and professors politely but quietly. There were still looks of scorn that made their way
towards his line of vision. He adjusted his tie for the fifth time and tried not to care. He entered his conference room and signed himself in at the door. Harel was there, facing the window that overlooked the vast city. “Morning,” Zahir greeted, tossing his backpack on the long table before unpacking his case notes. “As usual,” Harel took a gulp from his mug of coffee. He set it down on the conference table and looked at his student, knuckles pressed against the English oak. “You’re the first one here. Do you have your notes?” A thump of files on the table and the zipping shut of Zahir’s backpack served as an answer. “Good. Tell me what we’ve got so far,” Harel pulled out a chair with a skid and made a vague hand motion for Zahir to summarize. “The plaintiff is forty seven year old Jacob Levy of Tel Aviv. At 3:24 AM on the 14th of September, 2015, he claimed he was assaulted with a gun while reporting a burglary of his home. He was given a non-fatal shot to the shoulder and was incapacitated until emergency services came. He claims some gold heirlooms—” “No, not just ‘heirlooms’. What are they? Are they heirlooms of sentimental value or something Levy just kept out of guilt or obligation? Do they represent something for Levy? Lack of specifics will give your opponent the upper hand, Zahir. Pay attention.” Harel’s voice broke the monotonous stream of information with a vague motion of his hand. Zahir had a faint moment to collect what confidence he had when Amram walked in. “Good morning, Professor,” A crisp and sable tie walk in perched on a body of peach skin, black eyes, and a freakishly combed layer of black hair. There was a gentle slip
of a suitcase onto the table partnered two cups of coffee in its respectable holder. “Coffee, Professor?” Michael asked, his shoulder barely grazing the top of Zahir’s head. He wasn’t short. Michael was just meters upon meters of height. Harel shook his head to reject the coffee. Michael sighed and took a cup before throwing out the other. “Zahir, I really would’ve offered but the coffee’s cold,” he explained. Zahir chuckled bitterly to himself before taking a seat. “I didn’t know you liked cold coffee,” he replied. Michael’s face darkened and Zahir smirked as he reorganized his case notes and leaned back in his seat. Harel sighed, exasperated, and took out his own notes for reference. “Start again. This case goes live in a week and I will not have my students fail, understood?” *** The hands on Zahir’s watch strained to point at five twenty-nine P.M. He downed the last of his whiskey and slapped a few bills on the bar counter. He collected his briefcase and coat before a warm hand on his shoulder stopped him. “It’s not even six and you’re leaving already?” The voice crooned, and Zahir really had no choice but to face it. “Abigail, look, I really have to go. My mother’s going to panic if I’m not home.” Brown lashes fluttered low enough to touch cheeks of glittered rouge. Roseate lips pulled back into a challenging expression that soon evolved into a pout. “Is that why I had to kick you out at two in the morning yesterday?” “No, but—” “But?” Zahir rubbed his eyes and sat back on the barstool. Continued on next page 15
GS cont. His body ached and his mind was ready to implode. He just needed some tea, khabeesa, and sleep. A quiet night in sounded like true heaven but he couldn’t understand why he was in a gay bar, one that was bound to attract a huge crowd tonight. It was Friday, after all. “I don’t know,” He admitted, his voice finding no traction in the context of the situation. Abigail’s blonde hair extensions slipped over her shoulder as she glanced behind her. “C’mon, I want you to meet someone,” she said, tugging at Zahir’s cuffed white sleeve. “No, Abigail, please. Do you not remember what happened last time you set me up with someone?” Zahir griped as his feet blindly shuffled after Abigail’s elegant stride. She giggled as they ascended a hidden stairway behind the bar’s kitchen. “I know, I know, but if you’ll remember,I wasn’t the one who chose the guy,” “Then who was it?” “Uri.” “Is there some sort of assembly going on to help my lonely and pathetic soul?” “Maybe,” “Yeah, okay— wait, what do you mean maybe?” The setting sun’s breeze graced over Zahir’s face as his eyes adjusted to the dusky rays of lavender and crimson. He raised a hand over his curved brows to shield his eyes and freckled cheeks. Warm-lighted lanterns wrapped around a crisscross of thin wooden posts that stood over a nostalgic array of chromatic Persian carpets, hospitable Afghans, and silk throw pillows. Color and warmth were the dominant motifs of the peculiar Friday night. Zahir saw only a handful of people he knew; good, close friends paired with several others he didn’t know. He found himself cushioned
between Abigail and Amram, a kind boy not much younger than Zahir himself. They’d met briefly on this rooftop before, but Zahir knew that Amram wasn’t the one he was supposed to meet. A beer found itself in his hand and he leaned over Abigail’s arm to face a boy. The sun swelled in Zahir’s chest as the stars and moon rooted themselves in his eyes. He blinked before he realized he was staring and politely dropped his gaze. “Zahir, I’d like you to meet Emanuel,” Abigail’s voice didn’t quite meet Zahir’s ears as Emanuel smiled at him and extended a hand. Zahir was taken captive the second their palms touched and he couldn’t withstand the grin on his face. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Emanuel said, letting go of their hands to sit directly in front him. Zahir watched him sip his beer as he turned his own around in his hand. “Really,” he replied cautiously, his teeth digging into his lower lip. There was a titanium Star of David on the greying t-shirt that Emanuel wore and Zahir became extremely self-conscious about the God on his chest. Emanuel hadn’t said anything yet and Zahir prayed it wouldn’t cause any business he had no desire to be in. He felt as if he had a chance and he didn’t want to let it go. Zahir studied a hard, clean, square jaw; rosy, fleshy lips, a stark nose, and transfixing brown eyes that gazed out from beneath arched black eyebrows. The skin was cultivated by the sun, free from blemishes and impurities. There was a beauty mark on the left hand bottom corner of the lips. The hair was of shocking blonde, boyish curls, the stark opposite of Zahir’s slicked, straight, and loose black hair. The body was lean and strong, capable of pulling a person’s will out of the darkness and
into Heaven. There were fading scrapes on the perfect knuckles of his perfect hands—Zahir was looking at a living, breathing angel. “What do you do for a living?” Emanuel asked. Zahir blinked and rapidly refocused, smiling shyly as he spoke. “I’m a law student,” he replied, his cheeks turning crimson and his skin melting like sun-scorched pavement on a Saharan day. “Smart and sexy, huh?” Emanuel grinned and Zahir couldn’t stop the laugh that rose to his throat as he covered his blushing face with a loose hand. “I’m not so sure about the sexy part, to be honest,” the beer bottle made a full rotation. “What about you?” “What about me?” Emanuel retorted despite the faint outlines of a smile between his cheeks. Zahir rolled his eyes but the smile on his own face refused to fade. “You know what I mean,” “Nothing much, I’m your generic primary school teacher,” Emanuel continued, dropping his knee against Zahir’s propped one. Zahir didn’t move. “My best friends are four and five year olds who’ve got no other worry in the world aside from naptime and who gets the newest box of crayons.”
“Lava,” photograph by kokhokat
“Those kids make you miss the good old days, huh?” Emanuel shrugged and took another sip of his drink. “They really do… but these kids are a lot older than they seem; they’ve seen so much, more than their parents and it’s crazy how much they know about all this going on,” he continued, motioning between the space between them. Zahir knew what he was alluded to—the war that was most of his adolescence and adult life, the war that was all those children had ever known. He leaned further back on the stone wall on his back after propping a pillow behind him. He sighed and looked down for a moment. The Allah on his chest began to burn again as he contemplated what more to say. “There’s never really been peace here, has there?” He mumbled, more to himself than anyone else but when Emanuel touched his face and brought his gaze back up, he knew the statement radiated past himself. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to be the start of it,”