October 2012
Midnight Writers
Table of Contents Cover: “La Maschera Magnifica” by Hades This Page: “Creation of Man” by Selene Page 3:
Page 10:
Ask Aphro & Dite:
Page 11:
An introduction of our monthly advice column
Calypso’s Island:
An editorial about cursive by our newest columnist
Musings of Hades:
The Dark Lord Rants (About Trick-or-Treating)
Athena’s Corner: Book Reviews
“Season of the Warrior,” an illustration by Gaia “Mine,” a musing by GR33D “The Imp’s Kingdom,” an illustration by Japanda3 “La Mascherata,” a poem by Hades “Bloodthirsty,” an illustration by Nyx “Venezia,” an illustration by Hebe “The Uncommon Enemy,” a poem by Kenpachi
Page 12:
Marisa Doyle’s Courtship and Curses and Gina Rosati’s “The Hidden Wizard,” a poem by Melody Auracle
Page 4: “Birth of Chaos,” an illustration by Raven “Welcome,” a poem by Kenpachi “The Sea,” a musing by Raindrop “Squash Army,” an illustration by Alexandria “Gently Down the Stream,” an illustration by listentomysunrise13
“My Dear, Mary Madeline,” a poem by Kenpachi “A Princess’ Surprise,” an illustration by Catrine “Moonlight,” an illustration by Calypso “Sweetness: the Definition,” a poem by Athena
Page 5: “Legendary,” an illustration by Hecate “Ode to the Discworld,” a poem by Athena “Ghosts,” a poem by Zenyatta “Boo,” an illustration by Dr. Doodles, PhD
Page 6: “Who is Jack? Chapter One,” by Cookie—the first in a serial supernatural murder mystery Page 13: “Portrait of a Vegetarian,” an illustration by Chaos “Why I Hate Homecoming,” an editorial by Apollo “Hello, My Dear,” an illustration by Icarus Page 7: “Masquerade,” a photograph by Calypso “The Passing of a Cloud,” a poem by Nyctophobia “The Earth Goddess,” an illustration by Hecate Page 14: “Heaven-Bound,” a photograph by Eris “I Love You...Forever,” an illustration by Selene “One Bittersweet Hallow’s Eve,” a poem by Vivian Page 8: Griselda “The Death Lullaby,” a poem by Kenpachi “Chiaroscuro,” an illustration by Selene Page 15:“His Name is Blood: One,” by Hades— the first chapter of a serial suspenseful romance Page 9: “Apparition,” a photograph by Persephone “It Starts at Dawn,” a poem by Kenpachi “Slender, Slendy a.k.a. Slenderman,” by Papillon—a Page 16: warning to readers about the faceless urban legend “His Name is Blood” continued “Slenderman,” an illustration by Tayto “Libations,” an illustration by Chronos
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Ask Aphro & Dite
Musings of Hades
We’re an advice column for serious and not-so-serious questions. Completely anonymous and awesome. Email questions to askaphro@gmail.com. Everyone can send questions. Get all your friends! Love, Dr. Dite and Ms. Aphro
It’s been way too long, my minions. We can never allow this “summer vacation” nonsense to occur again. No. Just kidding. Normal life sucks almost as much as crash-landing on Earth and forming a crater with my body. (Yes. That did happen once. I blame Zeus. He’s the bane of my existence.) It really makes me wish I was back on my private Greek island. My servants can’t bother me there unless they slather on SPF 10,000. Ghosts sunburn very easily. So once again, All Hallow’s Eve, or Celtic New Year, is coming around. I always help Persephone prepare the Halloween candy for the little ghostling trick-or-treaters. We usually give out homemade chocolate-covered pomegranate seeds. (Zeus nearly ate some a few years ago and I was almost stuck with the prick for eternity. The horror.) Anyhow, I think trick-or-treating is overrated. I’d rather stay home and have Persephone’s triple-fudge brownies instead of tromping around in the cold for stale candy corn. But, hey, it keeps Hermes and all the other little kiddos happy (and out of my hair). Now back to planning my Underworldian Halloween Bash. You’re all invited if you can find a way down here. (And I don’t recommend dying. All shades must put in a hundred years of service before they get privileges.) But if you insist on trick-or-treating, remember: safety in numbers, don’t let any vampires/zombies/werewolves bite you, and watch out for chainsaws. Anyway, have fun! Halloween is the one day of the year it’s okay to take candy from strangers.
Calypso’s Island I took the PSATs and was surprised to have to write a statement in cursive before signing my name. But I wasn’t nearly as surprised as my peers, who called out, “Wait, how do you write in cursive?” As I wrote the statement on the line, I listened to the teacher try to explain cursive to my classmates, hoping their memories would be jogged so we could carry on with the pre-test requirements. It was not to be. The teacher took five minutes answering questions about how to write certain letters. Is cursive really as obsolete as it appears to be, or is the population in my testing room simply biased? As the Goddess of Silence, it saddens me that such a beautiful form of nonauditory communication might slowly be withering away, doomed to spend the rest of its days with Ancient Greek and Latin in the retirement home for dead languages. In this modern world of fancy computer fonts and laser printers, many people no longer need to know cursive; they just have to choose a flowing font to give their words an elegant façade. Cursive was meant to make writing quicker and neater, but with a phone or laptop always within reach, the need for a it has become obsolete. Despite cursive’s simple elegance, I’m afraid it is no longer appreciated by this new generation.
Athena’s Corner Courtship and Curses By Marissa Doyle, Aug. 2012 Sophie is about to be presented to London Society, but two things stand in her way: her obvious crippled leg, and her not-so-obvious magic. Sophie feels that she isn’t worthy of being accepted, but a new friend and a new crush may be the perfect solution. But when magic seems to be involved in trying to kill important war advisors (including her father), Sophie must decide whether to save the ministers with her magic or to keep her magic hidden.
Auracle By Gina Rosati, Aug. 2012 Anna and her best friend Rei live peaceful lives, the tedium broken only by Anna’s ability to astrally project. But when her body gets taken over by a dead girl’s soul, Anna and Rei have to work together to persuade her to move on, with Anna living as a spirit and unable to communicate with anyone but Rei. The two have an adventure full of humor, suspense, and a budding romance. Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Hades, Athena, Hippolyta, Hermes, Raindrop, and Aphro. 3
Welcome by Kenpachi
“Birth of Chaos,” Illustration by Raven
Magnificent Images Drive Natural Inspiration Goals Harmonious Thoughts
By Raindrop
Welcome Readers Important Tasks Eat Rest Sleep “Squash Army,” Illustration by Alexandria
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The Sea
“Gently Down the Stream,” Illustration by listentomysunrise13
Lost at sea, he sighs. Relaxing his grip on the oars, he tilts his head back and angles his face toward the heavens. He is exhausted. Around him, a liquid blanket of sky shimmers as a gentle breeze flits past his little boat. The blazing sun beats down unobstructed upon his already darkened skin; spots dance across the insides of closed eyelids. With a soft exhale he releases the oars. They slip soundlessly into the water, and then they are sinking, sinking, sinking. He seems to deflate, and is suddenly engulfed by the vastness of his surroundings. The oars send up a billowing cloud of sand before settling back onto the ocean floor.
All is still.
“Legendary,” Illustration by Hecate
Ode to the Discworld
To trigger a smile Even on the worst of days. By Athena Terry Pratchett, you are O universe An author whose praises Whose tales are vastly many, Cannot be sung too highly. Whose adventures are glorious, Thank you for brightening my day I appreciate all the time and effort That you must have poured With peals of laughter Into all of these books. At your somber wit, I cannot thank you enough And subtle criticisms of society For your sarcastic wit That not only amuse, And sly sense of humor But provoke thought. That can always bring me Your multitude of footnotes To a happier state of mind. Are always informative And droll enough
Ghosts by Zenyatta Creepy crawlies down your back, Quiet footsteps from above. Ghosts from olden days came back To remind of long lost love. They came back to haunt and gloat, Get revenge or visit friends. Ghosts are spirits. They can float. They've come back to make amends. “Boo,” Illustration by Dr. Doodles, PhD
Who is Jack? Ch. One
dreary day passed. On my way home, I lost By Cookie consciousness for a second A strange letter with my time. When I woke up, I saw name on it sat on the coffee RED RED RED RED RED table when I woke up. It was A sea of crimson red. a black envelope with a scarand in my hands…a hatchet, let red border design and wax -sealed with a crow imprint. dripping with blood. A few severed limbs dotAs I opened the letter, I felt ted the now lifeless alleyway. nauseous, and I passed out. A hazy and dark dream. I screamed but muffled it imI don’t remember the contents mediately after realizing other of the letter. Only the phrase, people might find me at this repulsive scene. I tossed the “Do you accept?” I woke up on the floor. hatchet into a nearby trashcan Looking at the clock, I real- after making sure there were ized I was late. I gathered my no fingerprints left on it. Borthings and headed out for an- rowing a nearby hose, I rinsed other tedious day. Every day myself of that vile color and was the same: lifeless and ran home, soaked. When I dull. And like that, another tried to recall what had happened, only images of ago“Portrait of a Vegetarian,” Illustration by Chaos
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nized faces came to mind, and I threw up. When I tried to think of what may have caused me to…kill, I remembered that strange letter. I went to the coffee table, but it wasn’t there. I searched all around, in case I dropped it when I passed out, but the letter was simply gone. On that night’s news, there was a story of a serial killer who murdered six people in an alleyway. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t me, I wasn’t responsible, I don’t remember doing any of that. I decided to get some sleep, but I couldn’t. Whenever I started to, the faces of the victims I didn’t know would appear and haunt me. I didn’t leave the house the next day. I didn’t even leave the day after that. I was terrified of that “incident” happening again. But my fears were realized when another black letter with my name on it appeared on the coffee table. I avoided that thing like the plague, but it would appear anywhere I was when I wasn’t looking. On the nightstand, on the kitchen counter, on the living room table. Wherever I went, it appeared as if out of thin air. I tried to burn it when I couldn’t avoid it, but the fire didn’t even singe the letter. Eventually I gave up and opened it, but this time I didn’t pass out. It said: Dear ******, I’m glad you decided to accept my offer. That was a
splendid job for a first-timer. Keep up the good work and I’ll fulfill my end of the bargain, though you don’t really have a choice. We’ll meet again soon. –Jack What offer? Who is Jack? I don’t have a choice? We’ll meet again? As my mind raced with questions, I didn’t notice the letter had disappeared. I thought I dropped it in my confusion, so I searched for it. But it had vanished, just like the first letter. I went to wake myself up by splashing some water on my face. As I looked up into the mirror, for a brief second, instead of myself, I saw…a man. A man with a halfburned face and strangely colored eyes. Scared out of my mind, I smashed the mirror and ran out of the bathroom. I told myself I was just seeing things, that it couldn’t possibly have happened. As I was calming myself down, I noticed a strange odor coming from somewhere. It was very pungent and musky. I found myself walking to the entrance of the house. Once I got there, I found an ominous black box waiting for me. It was the same shade of black as the letters, radiating an unearthly darkness. On the side of the box, scribbled in the same handwriting as the letters, was We Meet Again. I prepared myself and opened the box. As soon as I did, a sharp stench filled my lungs, and my heart stopped. Inside were the remains of all too familiar people. The limbs, the blood of the six people from that alleyway were in there, even the hatchet. That night, the news said the bodies at the crime scene had disappeared. To Be Continued...
The Passing of a Cloud
“The Earth Goddess,” Illustration by Hecate
By Nyctophobia It hurt when I realized, It’ll never happen. All my dreams and hopes All I’ve wanted All those aspirations up in the clouds… Well, the clouds blew away. All that’s left is this night sky, Stars all around, It is beautiful, but… It is not the clouds, My precious clouds, Our clouds. All that I had envisioned, All that I could foresee, All my best-laid plans… All suddenly gone. Torn away, Like the passing of today. From the morning to night. This night sky is beautiful, But it isn’t you.
“Heaven-Bound,” Photograph by Eris
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The Death Lullaby by Kenpachi It’s time to die Just a little ‘til we fly So let’s sing The Death Lullaby
Many names are given But only few are praised Joy and peace were taken With nothing to stay
Hear the wind Hear the years as they grind As death’s hand Overcomes your feeble little mind
Though there was one Who born of doom and gloom From the womb, tore his way Into the world
You scream, you whimper You’re just a little beggar No one cares, you’re just a whisper Now cry, as all life becomes all a lie
Open the door, See the darkness forcing the toil For it is due, now grieve for That long lost hope You can only dream of the Light shining rays
A story told, to tell a time Where we sing this Death Lullaby Listen to the grass’ whispers The morning dew-like glimmer Its wise words tell the wonders Take heed of the silent wind
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Grab that rope and Climb up to the rim And count every star For each will feed A thousand dreams
Many names of death Few are ever said Come, we’ll make it a fright. We’ll give you even the sky What can be done is in our mind Will you see, will you try To find what you had in mind Now we’ll take this as goodbye To end this lullaby, we will sing This song Never ending, happiness But look, but see, but where Could it be Not here, not there, not anywhere Look up, look down, look in The face of despair Take note, take care, take Your chance It may be the Very last you ever get
“Chiaroscuro,” Illustration by Selene
It Starts At Dawn By Kenpachi
Madness strikes at the count of twelve The homes of those cold Will die at dawn No screams of pain No blood paints the lawn He stares and yawns at all Never sleep, the dark hunts young
The dead are hung to show the weak That madness leads them all He laughs as you run He mocks as you’re gone, gone, gone. Can you escape the maddening break of dawn? “Slenderman,” Illustration by Tayto
Slender, Slendy a.k.a. Slenderman Slender is a being that you cannot escape. No matter how hard you try, you cannot evade him. As the name suggests, Mr. Slendy (as I shall refer to him), is a very tall and stalky being, depicted by many as wearing a black suit strikingly similar to the visage of the notorious Men in Black. The extremely unusual aspect to Mr. Slendy is that he has no face. He has that he uses to ensnare his prey. Many say that once you see him, even if it is just a mere glimpse, you cannot escape. You will not be able to sleep at night because he will be creeping around your home. He can also stretch his arms and legs to inhuman lengths to catch his prey. Once outstretched, he hypnotizes his prey into a sort of a trance, and they are utterly hopeless as they unconsciously walk towards Mr. Slendy and fall victim to his sinister web of terror
and torment. Some victims have been seen bound to trees in forests with stakes of some sort driven straight through their chests. He is usually seen just before the kidnappings of children. That is not to say he does not prey on adults and teens. He seems to prefer fog enshrouded streets and wooded areas as a way to conceal himself from being noticed by his unsuspecting victims. According to the speculation of many, the more you know about Mr. Slendy, the more you are at risk of encountering him. This may be the last you hear from me, for he has been stalking me for days on end for the past month...and now that you know basically all there is to know about Mr. Slendy, I just hope for your sake, you will not become his next victim.
Best Regards, Papillon
“Season of the Warrior,” Illustration by Gaia
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Mine
reflection. You’re fixated on the notion of more. You just by GR33D can’t help it. Generation after “You breakable mass- generation spent driving endes of flesh, sinew, and less corpses into forever exbone seem to forget: you panding soils in the name of were mine from the wealth, status, and power…it start. Did you really think primes you. Intensifies that bototherwise? I’m the one tomless dark pit of your desires that sustained you when and entices you to fill it, any you sat in your mother’s way you possibly can. Aching golden womb, fresh from continuously for the gratificaHis glorious image. I tion awarded by it until you made you into the filthy, become nothing but a shell for indiscernible parasites your own wants: selfish, desyou were, sucking away picable, and mine. There is no hiding from me, at her rich life force, always hungry, always darling, I’m everywhere. Lying growing. You’d devour beneath every dark crevice, so much from her that every ulterior motive, every her body would force you insatiable desire. Gazing upon out….no longer willing you behind glamorous promoto share her essence with tions, green-stained profiles, this carnivorous, rotten and suited figures. Your venal sack of undeveloped or- societies thrive off of my very gans. And that’s the mir- nature…and I’m all too willing acle, oh so pious soul, to take you under my faithful that’s how you were wing. So just give in, sweet child. born—as mine. Just take a look at Give in to me. Give it all to me. your realm, at the state of I’ll take it. I’ll take it all. I’ll your civilization, at your take everything. For I am the breath “The Imp’s Kingdom,” Illustration by Japanda3 that wakes you, the force that drives you, the plague that kills you— and I will never be satisfied. Not until your wretched skeletons build at my feet, kneel down before your new savior. Because from the very beginning… You were mine.”
La Mascherata by Hades
“Bloodthirsty,” Illustration by Nyx
White stars spill ‘cross the inky sky, Mirrored in rivers winding by. Splash go the poles of hatted men, Singing of times ne’er be again. One gondola seats a young girl, Who gasps as sights pass in a whirl. Eyes filled with innocent desire, Her mask gleams gold by light of fire. Black music notes trail on her cheek, And o’er her nose a raven’s beak. Small roses dot her top of brow, Frame eyes that think of only now. The deep canals the lanterns light, As music fills this wild night. A man in blue helps her step out, Smiling as if he has no doubt. She looks up with a dazzling grin, They dance and twirl and laugh and spin. Gray shadows flicker on the walls, Their owners lost among the thralls. Dark ballads sound above the crowd, And lovers meet in evening’s shroud. This night no one possesses names, But only riddles, whispered games. The city on tempestuous seas, A maze of watery alleys. ‘Tis only a grand old charade, This gilded, ancient masquerade. “Venezia,” Illustration by Hebe
The Uncommon Enemy by Kenpachi
All is in our grasp Every last whisper As a blade we stand To march through blood We make our stance
We’re an army of Beasts Wild are our ways Feast on souls To complete our manes To kill in the end Is to reap our gains A cycle is our war To reach our dream to sleep The impossible need To be fulfilled in all end For Peace to come To our great conquering king 11
The Hidden Wizard by Melody The wind blew effortlessly Across the sea of pumpkins My eyes fell toward the biggest of all, Just sitting there, all alone. As I walked near it, everyone stared. “Could she be the one?” they all whispered. Oddly, the pumpkin began to glow And excitement filled me up As I touched it, it changed into a staff. As I held the staff in my hand, I felt the power of magic flow through me, And I looked towards the people. Now I could teach them. Tricks, magic, everything related to fantasy and fiction.
Where are you, where am I Am I near, are you here Were you there, can you fear? Your fear unfolds as you dream
Now I appear with a sneer As the gears of mine say cheers, The night is clear And I’m wandering along So let’s bring
“A Princess’ Surprise,” Illustration by Catrine
“Moonlight,” Illustration by Calypso
Sweetness: The Definition By Athena The explosion of sunlight on a summer day, as the taste frolics on my tongue. That exclamatory interjection, expressing utter joy at victory.
A warm, fuzzy feeling when someone thoughtful makes my day. On the other side, being that thoughtful person brings a buzz of anticipation as you await their reaction— when it goes over well,
the relief and excitement launch you into the sky and you spend the rest of the day floating above the clouds. To me, sweetness is multi-faceted but always brings a smile to my face.
October in Review: Why I Hate Homecoming By Apollo As the month of October comes to a close, I take this time to reflect on one of the worst parts of this month: homecoming. It was definitely homecoming. I HATE HOMECOMING!!! First off, homecoming is way over-publicized. It seems every year, when you walk through the doors of the Bulldog Lobby, by the second or third full week of September, all the chatter is, “So, who are you going to homecoming with?” Seriously, folks, it isn't that big of a deal. It's just a dance; you shouldn't feel the need to make plans until a week or two before. Secondly, the proposals. It seems this year, proposals included everything from treasure hunts across the school, to a chalk message on someone's driveway, to a song or a poem. This isn't prom! For a dance in the middle of the year for the entire school, the proposal doesn't need to be more than a simple, “Will you go to homecoming with me?” My next point is the pep rally. Now everyone is probably going to argue with me that at least there are shortened class periods that day. Yes, I'll admit that is quite pleasant. But honestly, when you think about what a large majority of the school actually does during the pep rally, it boils down to absolutely nothing. When you think about it, how many students out of 2100 are on a sports team/ SGA/ Show Stoppers, etc.? Another thing that annoys me is costs. Homecoming tickets are $30. THIRTY DOLLARS! If you ask me,
for a school dance, that price is a little ridiculous. I'm pretty sure part of the reason tickets are so expensive is because the school wastes large amounts of money printing these very “professional” looking tickets when they could just use those “Admit One” movie tickets. Finally, homecoming takes a ridiculous amount of time out of your day. First you
spend the afternoon perfecting your looks and getting dressed up for the occasion, then you meet at someone's house for pictures, then you go out to dinner and then finally you get to the homecoming dance. That's probably 5+ hours you're spending getting ready for the dance when the dance itself is only about three hours. Don't you people have any better way to
spend your time? All you really need to do, in my opinion, is show up to the dance at eight. There doesn't need to be much more than that. To conclude, in case I haven't made it clear, I HATE HOMECOMING!!! In my view, homecoming is just a monumental waste of time and money. Fin “Hello, My Dear,” Illustration by Icarus
“Masquerade,” Photograph by Calypso
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One Bittersweet Hallow’s Eve By Vivian Griselda The day is growing darker, And midnight life comes into play. I wish it was the world we’d conquer, Instead of keeping these feelings Buried with nothing to say. Killed me with words of kindness, The chance of a sweet moment slim. He took off his scary mask, Why was I unable to see the real him? Our eyes meet no matter the distance, My admiration hidden ‘neath my fear. His devil personality never consistent, Fate has brought the two of us here. Caused me pain from afar, It’ll never matter where we are. Around us the owls sing, The laughter of children fills the air. Hearing the doorbells ring, Giving candy here and there. He offered me a piece, But I knew the consequences. Never trust a terrifying person, No matter the circumstances. I shake my head no, Even face to face. Because this is no night, Of happiness or grace. The cold, thin air, And I can hear you whisper. Happy Halloween, my dear, Can you feel my heart getting crisper? This world is too bittersweet, So I can’t help but wonder if this is a trick
Or treat. 14
“I Love You...Forever,” Illustration by Selene
His Name is Blood: One By Hades “I feel so bad for Roxie’s poor parents. I think they finally accepted she’s gone.” The usual old ladies chatter loudly over their morning coffee and crumpets in my father’s bakery. I slide cookies off of a tray and onto the display, tongue in cheek as I listen to today’s gossip. “Well, it’s been several months,” the other lady says, stirring in sugar. “They know just as well as the rest of us that once Blood takes someone, he keeps them forever.” The first lady giggles nervously. “Do you think Blood is…keeping Roxie, or, um…?” “Keeping,” the second states. “Roxie was a pretty thing. It’s the men and old or ugly ones he…well, you know.” She draws her finger across her throat, and they
“Apparition,” Photograph by Persephone
stare into their cups. For as long as anyone alive can remember, our little town of New Hamelin has lived in fear of a man known only as Blood. The few who are brave enough to venture farther away from the main part of town tell of a great mansion deep in the woods – cursed, just like the rest of this godforsaken place. It is a truth universally acknowledged that those born in New Hamelin can never leave it. Everyone knows this, from the smallest child to the oldest great-grandparent. After all, if we could leave, this place would be a ghost town in a heartbeat. Every month at the full moon, someone vanishes. It could be anyone. This is why far before dusk on those days twelve times a year, everyone rushes home and boards up their houses. Mothers lock their children in their rooms. Fathers stay up all night with
shotguns at the ready. And once a year, a young, lovely girl – always eighteen years old – disappears. Roxie Bloom was the last one, a few months ago. When I was a child, I remember the town council hired someone – we called him the Hunter – to infiltrate Blood’s mansion and put an end to him. He laughed loudly and boasted that he would bring us his head and whatever riches he possessed. Several weeks later, some boys found him wandering the woods, stark raving mad. Blood, the Hunter whispered. He smells like…blood. He vanished soon after. There’s the sound of chairs scraping. I stick my head up in time to call out, “Thank you, have a nice day!” before the old ladies leave, the bell on the door tinkling overhead. Wiping my hands on a strawberry-print towel, I hurry out to their table to collect the
tip, bus the dishes, and wipe down the tabletop. Humming tunelessly, I load the dirty plates and cups into the sink to wash later. I take the broom from the corner and sweep the floor free of crumbs. “Good morning, Lorelei.” My father tromps downstairs from our apartment over the bakery. Normally, he would be up at the crack of dawn, but he hasn’t been feeling well lately. The bags under his eyes are a strong indicator of his less than perfect health. “Edna and Pam come in already?” “Yeah. Nice tip as always.” Dad nods, his face screwing up. He pulls out a grayish handkerchief and coughs violently into it. “I better stay out of the kitchen. I’ll run the errands today.” He ruffles my hair, causing me to stick my tongue out at him. He laughs weakly and ducks outside. The oven timer rings. I grin and rush over, picking up the mitts. The aroma of raspberries engulfs the bakery. I take the hot loaves of raspberry bread out and place them on the cooling rack. My mouth waters, and I sneak a tiny morsel, but that’s as much as I’ll risk. We can’t eat our own wares, after all. The bell over the door jingles again. I look up. It’s not my father. The man is wearing a brimmed hat and dark coat, suitable for the cool, gray morning. His black hair just touches his shoulders, tinged a strange shade of red. His skin is pale like snow, his eyes fathomless and the color of night. He’s tall, taller than anyone I’ve ever seen in this town, and quite lanky. His movement is catlike as he glides over to the counter. Cont. on Next Page
HNIB continued I swallow and keep my gaze averted over his shoulder. “Can I help you?” For a few seconds, he’s silent. Then he nods, so small a movement that it’s almost unnoticeable. When he speaks, his voice is like rich, crimson wine bleeding onto white cloth. “What is that?” He’s indicating the trays I just took out of the oven. “Raspberry bread.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, stiller than stone. “May I ask where the recipe came from?” I blink – he hasn’t even tasted it yet – but reply, “A family recipe. My mother’s, from her grandfather.” “I see. I shall take one.” “They’re very hot –” “No matter.” “O-O-Okay.” I take out parchment paper and carefully upend one of the loaves onto it then wrap it up. I place the bundle in a paper bag that reads “Coreman Family Bakery.” We’re the only bakery in town and don’t need the advertisement, but my father still insists on printing the logo. I hand the man the bag. He reaches into his pocket, thrusts a wad of money at me, and vanishes out the door. Bewildered, I look down at the cash and count it. It’s enough for twenty loaves of raspberry bread. An hour later, after the remaining loaves have been cut into thick slices that are displayed in the case, my father returns with the groceries, a dark look on his face. “Old Greg just reminded me that tonight is a full moon.” “We’ll stay inside as always.” Dad looks down and sighs. “The worst day of the month,” he murmurs.
Later, hordes of people crowd in the bakery, hurrying in and out, hastily buying bread and rolls for their supper before it becomes dark. No one wants to be the last person outside when the sun sets. When the sky begins to turn orange, I flip the bakery sign “CLOSED” and lock up. Dad closes the blinds, and we head up to our apartment. Dinner is a quiet affair, even more so than usual. Neither of us is a big talker. My mother was the chattiest and happiest of us before she passed away several years ago. I turn in early, deciding that morning will come faster after I fall asleep. My father follows suit. I change into the warm cotton pants and shirt that make up my pajamas and turn out the lights. As I roll over in my bed, drawing the covers over my-
self, I smell the faintest hint of raspberry. My eyes droop shut. The full moon shines bright and round, flooding my room with ghostly light. My feet touch the cold hardwood floor and carry me out of my room. Down the stairs I go and out the bakery door, mysteriously unlocked. The street is abandoned, but that is not my path. I turn instead to the forest. Grass bends underneath my bare feet as an unearthly song fills my ears. The trees sway in time to the melody, and my heart thrums in my chest as I approach a high, barred, spiked metal fence. The gate swings open at my approach, and I enter a breezy, almost tropical garden. Roses surround me on all sides, red and white and pink. I run my hands over the stems, and the thorns prick
my fingers, causing droplets of blood to swell from my pale skin. I stare blankly at the spots of scarlet as I drift into a grand and ancient house. Something tugs at my body and leads me down a dim hallway, lit only by what seems to be torches on the walls. A set of heavy double doors lies at the end of the hall, and they slowly creak open, too. Inside the study, behind a large and ornate desk, is a tall, lanky man with colorless skin and black hair tinged red. He swirls a glass of wine in his hand, sipping luxuriously from it as he motions for me to sit. My body sits. “Hello, Lorelei.” His lips curl into a smile. “My name is Blood.” To be continued... “Libations,” Illustration by Chronos
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