October 2015
Midnight Writers
Table of Contents
Cover: “Masquerade,” a photograph by The
Owlish Bookworm
This Page:
Page 11:
“Fireside,” a photograph by The Owlish “The Conniving Clock,” a poem by Vivian Griselda “Natural Beauty is Cliché,” a short story by Persephone “In Which You are the Center of the Universe,” a poem by Bandersnatch Ask Aphrodite “Blue Moon,” an illustration by Double S College advice to beyond the grave Oogie Boogie is misunderstood “Denial,” an illustration by The Masked Lady Nyx’s Niche: “Dead Man Walking,” a short story by Janus The Goddess of the Night introduces herself “Did That Really Happen?” a short story by Elaine Bookworm
Page 3:
Page 12:
Cassandra’s Oracle
Introducing Horoscopes that are most definitely true
Page 4:
“October,” a poem by Sparkle “Catpurrcino,” an illustration by Cananda “Moth Ball,” a photograph by Aceso “The Sunlight on my Cheeks,” a poem by Persephone
Page 5:
“Golden Shores,” a short story by A.T. Pacem “Silven Sand,” a photograph by The Owlish Bookworm
Page 6:
“With Reckless Abandon,” a short story by Emlyn Wright
Page 7:
“With Reckless Abandon,” continued “Deemo,” an illustration by Calliope
Page 8:
“The Babbit House,” a short story by Hypnos “Eye am Rose,” a short story by J. Adler “Eye of the Rose,” an illustration by J. Adler “Pretenders,” a poem by Bellum “Everyday Mask,” a poem by Bellum
Page 9:
“Birdseye View,” a photograph by Aceso “Catch Me if You Can,” a poem by The Tuemessian Fox “Pick and Choose,” a photograph by Aceso “The Back and Forth,” a poem by Bellum “Silent Knight,” a photograph by Bandersnatch “Love Kills,” a poem by Bellum
Page 10:
“Blurberry,” a photograph by Aceso “Spirals,” a poem by Bellum “Changing Tides and Darkened Minds,” a poem by Bluejay “The Daily Nocturne: The Nocturnal City,” a short story by J. Adler
Page 13:
“Dark Intentions,” a diary by Milky Way “Dance to the Pumpkin Song,” an illustration by Hypnos
Page 14:
“Hush,” an illustration by Technicolor Zebra “Blackjack,” a poem by Aradia
Page 15:
“The Golden Compass,” a short story by Aradia
Page 16:
“The Golden Compass,” continued “Autumn Colors,” a photograph by Maia
issuu.com/midnightwriters midnightwriters2015@gmail.com
Ask Aphrodite
Nyx’s Niche
Cassandra’s Oracle
Dear Aphrodite, Recently I've been involved in the college application process. As a ghost, I understand that my time has passed, but I still believe in pursuing any kind of education I can. The trouble is, I can't put down my address or birthday because someone new is living in the house I used to live in (quite literally), and my birthday may freak some admissions officers out—I was born in 1502. The worst part is that everything is so stressful, but nobody will listen to me or help me feel better about the whole thing because I'm already "beyond help." As if being dead prevents me from feeling anxious! Help! Yours, Stressed-Out Spirit Dear Stressed-Out Spirit, Thank you for contacting me with your problems. I am infinitely wise and my advice is infallible. College applications are difficult for everyone, but especially for beings whose hands go through the laptop. Personally, I’d recommend using a ghost writer. They can be a big help if you are feeling stressed. You may feel as though there is a wall blocking your way to success, but you’re a ghost. If you can literally go through walls, you can go through figurative ones too. Also, don’t worry about scaring the admissions officers. I’ve been called on for inspiration for countless essays and let me tell you, there are some weird people out there. I believe in you my little spirit. Lots of love, Aphro Dear Aphrodite, I'm seriously misunderstood by everyone in my town. They think that I'm a terrible person and I enjoy scaring others, but I'm just a normal guy. Everyone in the town loves getting ready for and celebrating Halloween. Even though I love it too, they just don't seem to like my decorations or costumes. I don't try to give their kids nightmares, it's just that most kids don't like worms and bugs and gore, but those are my favorite things. I feel like I have to choose between expressing myself and being happy or being accepted. All I want is to stop feeling sad and alone. Yours, Oogie Boogie Dear Mr. Boogie, Let me just say I am a big fan of your work. I have used you as inspiration many times when dealing with Ares and his ahem “mortal gal pals”. I’m distressed to hear that you’re feeling down. I know you want to help everyone, but have you perhaps tried narrowing your focus? There are some kids who love collecting bugs, and are well on their way to becoming future entomologists. I am sure they would love your creepy crawlies. Also, I have quite a few scorned maidens who want a little revenge. You would have their love and admiration if you used your talents to gross out their evil exes. Believe me when I tell you that you’d be in high demand. You can’t be as perfect as me, so there will always be people who don’t understand you. .
Greetings, my fabulous Midnighters! Welcome, welcome to our cosmic cloud, our club, our Midnight crew. Goodness gracious, I should introduce myself, shouldn’t I? Well, I’m your new President—President Nyx! Has a lovely ring to it, does it not? I feel as though I should give a bit of background. Though I am the goddess of the night and the most powerful goddess of all (the rumour is that Zeus himself is intimidated by me! And he should be—I changed his diapers!), I’m not awfully serious or broody. I leave those up to my teenage children, Hypnos and Thanatos. Other than that, I feel I should tell you all that doing this is so new to me, as I rarely interact with the mortal world. Because of this, I’m going to use this columns as a way to keep you all in the know about god and goddess gossip! How exciting! However, I have yet to decide exactly how to do this. I know, I know! I should have it all figured out, but I get a bit indecisive at times. I believe I’ll be choosing amongst reading out personal mail from the gods, because, yes, I’m just that nosy, doing restaurant reviews and criticisms so that you mortals know the greatest places to eat as a god, and a general humourous and informative column, where I’ll update all of you on happenings and whatnot. The best part is that none of the immortals I heckle can ever confront me, because, well. If I’m feeling up to it, I’ll just obliterate them on the spot. And if not, I’ll just send them to my youngest, Thanatos (also known as Death, dearies), for a little chat. So I’ll just get started, shall I? This month, I think I’ll do a little restaurant review—I hear mortals are absolutely crazy about pumpkin spice flavored nonesuch, so I’ll tell you about Ambrosia Aftertaste, a little dive right outside of the Underworld. After a long night trying to make sure Hades and Thanatos don’t get into too much trouble, it’s absolutely divine! They have a lovely pumpkin spice ambrosia, which all the young goddesses trying to impress their magical friends can’t get enough of. Basic witches, I believe they would be called on the mortal world. But other than that, they have glorious scones and these fascinating teas, Trouble Tea I think. It’s a tea made however you’d like, but with some leftover souls from the Underworld inside! Hades supplies them fresh everyday, and they’re so chewy! Do try it out, dearies, and I’ll see you next time!
Hello, Dearest Midnighters! It is I, your lovely Vice President Cassandra, here to welcome you to my Oracle! I’ll be publishing horoscopes of sorts in this column every month, and hopefully I can give you a glimpse of what might be in your futures… Aries (March 21-April 20): Put your energetic and adventuring spirit to good use and plan an excursion with your friends. You deserve it. Taurus (April 21-May 21): Your persistence will pay off. Remember, accomplishment is an achievement within itself. Gemini (May 22-June 21): Others may rely on you to help them with communication issues, you will be rewarded for doing so. Cancer (June 22-July 22): Your caution is well-warranted, but don’t let it make you afraid of trying new things. Leo (July 23-August 21): Your generosity is appreciated, even if you don’t always notice. Virgo (August 22-September 23): Break out of your shell a little bit. You might discover something you never thought you’d like. Libra (September 24-October 23): Though you may experience indecision, you should go with your gut instinct. It’s more reliable than you think. Scorpio (October 24-November 22): Use your determination to power through adversity and come out stronger. Sagittarius (November 23-December 22): Someone will come to you in need of honesty. Do not be afraid to give it to them. Capricorn (December 23-January 20): Pack your patience this month, a conflict will test you. Aquarius (January 21-February 19): Your loyalty will pay off in a way you may not have expected. Pisces (February 20-March 20): Your imagination will be especially strong this month— take advantage of it.
Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Nyx, Cassandra, Hypnos, Persephone, khokokat, Janus, The Tuemessian Fox, and A.T. Pacem
3
October By Sparkle
The leaves fall and the crisp air bites my skin As I jog through the forest in solitude It is a gorgeous autumn day, There are no cars, roads, or telephone poles in sight, The only sound audible to me is my own, rhythmic, footsteps Bounding onto the narrow dirt trail one step at a time,
“Catpurrcino,” Illustration by Cananda
The Sunlight on My Cheeks By Persephone
The stress and business of my everyday life melts into the ground below me There’s dirt caked under the white of your fingernails from digging me out from under the flower beds, And absorb the tranquility of autumn. where sunlight kissed my face and each breath didn’t burn from your words coated with honey but tasting like the paint dripping from the paneling of this house. You were a wayward prince dressed in your suit of black and shining armor, the sword at your side told stories of your heroism, your lips were the butterflies that brought me to life. When you met me, forget-me-nots and ivy snaked across my skin; now their corpses fall apart beneath thorns and weeds; you blow at my dandelions and promise me I’m still beautiful. The wind whispers that you’re no good for me; its words get caught in the tangles of my hair, but you pull out the soft reminders as you brush your fingers through the tangles and tell me I’m no good for you. You love the bruises on my thighs, they remind you of the flowers that once covered my skin, soft purples and blues with their patterns and yellowing leaves. I ask you if you kiss your knuckles before you show me your fist. You tell me people love me more now that I don’t hide beneath the dirt but I loved me more when you didn’t have a hold of my roots, when the rain on my face wasn’t mine. “Moth Ball,” Photograph by Aceso
4
Golden Shores
By A.T. Pacem
“Please, I beg of you to let me go,” “Don’t even think about it.” “I’m only a student; please, I must get back home to my wife and son-” “Do you have a photograph, Mr…” A scrabble of papers and flipping of a lengthy file. “Zahir ibn Raashid al-Nuri?” “Inspector, my wallet was confiscated upon arrest. You ordered it.” “Precisely. There’s no picture of your family present. What man doesn’t carry a photograph of his family?” Bitter silence and a virulent smile made Zahir particularly interested in the worn state of his shoes. His breath tensed and he felt the urge to squirm against the uncomfortable cold of the handcuff. Anything he did from this point on would just prove his guilt. “That’s what I thought. You coward. I’ll have your face posted all over the West Bank—” A rigid knock on the door made Zahir jolt in his seat. The steel door swung open without second warning, and Zahir was blinded by the sudden invasion of artificial light. An officer stepped in first, followed by a lean, almost colorless man with sandy hair. His eyes matched the color of the unattended tiles on the ground, rustic and frayed. Zahir’s gaze hit the floor and he shuffled his feet beneath his chair. The inspector turned to shout, only to have his voice die out before it had a chance to live. “Mr. Harel! I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware of your coming—” “Mr. Nuri is to be released into my custody at once, Inspector,” Harel’s sharp, throaty voice cut through the inspector’s speech faster than sharpened scissors gliding across wax paper. The interrogator’s brow furrowed and he took a few steps forward, hands perched on his hips. “My questioning is incomplete. Unless you have a warrant from the Chief Inspector himself you are in no way permitted to–”
Harel took a slip of paper from the inside of his coat pocket and unfolded it. He pressed it to the inspector’s chest before fiddling with the locks of the handcuffs. Zahir couldn’t bring himself to look up, even when he was shoved onto his feet by the arm. Something leathery created a slight weight in his jacket pocket; his wallet and crumbling money didn’t make him feel that at all assured. “If that’ll be all, laila tov. Goodnight.” Harel let go of Zahir’s arm and paced out the door, Zahir struggling to catch up with his mentor’s gait. The spring night of Jerusalem hit Zahir as a juggernaut of cold wind, remnants of a winter ghost that still had trouble moving on from her most pleasurable victim. He fastened his jacket and crammed his hands into his pockets as he braced for the verbal whipping he was about to receive. “I am so overwhelmed– no, I won’t do this in front of the police station with a reputation so far up your ass the police are laughing at me, the only lawyer who stuck up for them though everything–” Harel stopped mid sentence and began marching down the darkened 11:34PM street. Zahir had no choice but to catch up and walk next to him in bitter silence. “You need to get out of all this trouble you put yourself in, for your own good, Zahir. I can’t keep bailing you out of arrest and you know that fact well. So why do you-” “You really don’t know how privileged you are, Harel.” Zahir’s own voice surprised him, but he planted his feet into the pavement and stood fast. The lawyer spun around and tilted his upper body forward, hands tucked into his pant pockets. “What are you talking about?” “Do I need to spell it out? You’re an Israeli in Israel and I’m a Palestinian in Israel. The Palestinian is found in an Israeli police station where he’s-” “Stop. Just stop.” Zahir shook his head but his lips couldn’t form the right words anymore. “Come on. It’s late and we have a lot of work to do in the morning.” Harel began to walk again and Zahir could only trail him. The shadow
“Silven Sand,” Photograph by The Owlish Bookworm
that Harel cast dwarfed Zahir. *** The rip in the fence loomed dangerously close to Zahir’s open skin when he passed its jagged edges. He drew his jacket closer to himself and avoided the dry branches and pebbles beneath his feet. A broken sidewalk loomed in front of him, and he pushed through the cold to have his sneakers meet the pavement. He walked the cold streets of the West Bank and kept his head down to avoid creeping eyes. Home veered close ahead, but Zahir made a quick turn towards the 19th century mosque that glimmered in the moonlight. He felt warm and his bones no longer felt the chilled desert wind, even with his shoes off outside the entrance. The faucet leaked slightly after Zahir washed his hands and feet; little bits of dirt still lingered and he did his best to brush them off. He stepped under the arched entrance and into the candlelit mosque, carefully falling to his knees in the method of prayer. His silver necklace that bore the name of his god tingled against his skin as he began his prayers. Who or what he prayed for he never remembered, but being here gave him the softest sense of peace. The clerics gave the troubled stranger his privacy; he was a regular. They watched his clumsy form and trembling lips, and wondered what boy would find himself here this time of night. There was a dark suspicion that ran through their hearts, one they discussed in the shadows. Zahir left with the same cold he had had moments before he entered. His mother was sleeping when he walked in; he could tell by the prayer beads abandoned on the kitchen table and the slippers left by the hallway that held the bedrooms adjacent from each other. He brushed his teeth in the tiny bathroom and observed the dark circles beneath his eyes. He spat. His clothes were thrown onto the floor before he exhaustedly slipped between the covers. He peered past the cotton and into the sea of stars, counting each one until they clouded into a mess of black and white.
5
With Reckless Abandon By Emlyn Wright “St. Anne’s Orphan Home for Young Ladies. How may I help you?” Sister Sophia said. She cupped a bulky, black coneshaped object to her ear and leaned her mouth towards a similar object on a stand—a candlestick telephone, I think is what it’s called. “Oh! Mr. Bunker!-Yes, yes. This is she.” She nodded. There was a pause in the conversation as Sister Sophia pursed her wrinkled lips and sent a sidelong glance in my direction. “Adrienne?” My head shot up at the sound of my name. I was sitting in Sister Sophia’s office which was filled with dusty books she never touched on shelves she never dusted. Around the room were several ornate crosses and detailed depictions of Jesus. On her desk was a pile of files on girls, orphans specifically. Among those papers, was a folder with my name on it. Adrienne; simply Adrienne. My last name changed so often there was no point in writing one. “You want to adopt her?” A small smile spread across my face and Sister Sophia frowned at me. She didn’t like me; not one bit. I didn’t see why. I braided my hair and said my prayers like everyone else, but she despised me. “When will you come for her?Today? Are you sure? That’s very soon.” Today! I thought. Oh good! I was always thrilled to find a home. While I had a reputation for being the ideal child that could charm a family in one visit, I had also had the most homes. Thirty seven so far. I was only twelve years old. Sister Sophia bid the Bunkers farewell before hanging up. She pressed her lips together in a passive aggressive manner. “Congratulations Adrienne. The Bunkers are coming for you.” She said in a most apathetic tone. “Thank you, Sister. When will they be here?” “An hour before supper. I would pack your things now.”
“Alright.” I said as I slid off the chair in her office and smoothed out my skirt. “But mind me,” She began to speak as my back was turned to her. “Good people do not deserve what you do. And the Bunkers are good people.” I turned on my heel, looked Sister Sophia directly in the eyes. “Pardon me, Sister, but I have no idea what you are talking about.” Then I left the office, leaving Sister with a pale aura that gave the impression that she had just seen a ghost. At half past six o’clock, the sun had just set and the bell rang. My new parents, Mr. and Mrs. Bunker; 30-something year olds who had tried to conceive to no avail, were at the door. Sister Sophia and Sister Wright welcomed them inside. They signed some papers in Sister Sophia’s office with the door closed. I attempted to press my ear to the door and decipher their hushed voices but Sister Wright shot me a disapproving look. Finally Mr. Bunker’s voice rose in assurance. “Sister, we understand that you are overwhelmed by your duties here at St. Anne’s. Perhaps that is why you are so concerned. ” He sounded as though he was grinning while speaking. “Yes, everything is alright. Thank you for sharing for your concerns. We will take her home now.” Mrs. Bunker spoke up. I could hear chairs move and footsteps nearing the door. “No, you don’t understand.” Sister Sophia said loudly as the door opened. She was standing at her desk and slowly sank in her seat at the sight of me. I felt a horrible feeling eat at my insides and I sank to the floor. I was so empty, constantly alone. My birth parents were gone and so was everyone else who ever cared for me. I didn’t understand. It was as though people saw something caustic and pitiful in me that they did not have the heart to tolerate. “You’re-you’re not taking me home are you?” I said quietly as my voice broke. “No child, we signed the papers. You have a home.” Mr. Bunker
said and his wife nodded behind him. Sheer joy filled me, causing me to jump up and hug the Bunkers. Adrienne Bunker. That was my name. I had a name again. My stomach growled. The Bunkers chuckled. “Let’s get home and feed you something.” Mrs. Bunker said. “Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Bunker,” I said as I released them from my grasp. “You may call us Hugh and Ruth until you are more comfortable.” Hugh said. The sisters gasped. “How unconventional!” Sister Wright exclaimed, scandalized. “Sod tradition.” Ruth whispered loud enough for me to hear and I grinned. “Anyway we should be on our way.” Hugh nodded and the sisters bid the three of us farewell. As we descended the stairs of the building, the other orphan girls waved from the windows. I waved back before Hugh and Ruth led me to my new home. Their house was quaint. It was like any other middle-class home with a pointed roof and many places to sit. Floral wallpaper and wooden furniture decorated the entire house. It was pretty and my bedroom was my favorite part. There wasn’t much to it but there was bed with a pink quilt. On the nightstand were candles and on the wall was a simple mirror. I’d never had a mirror before. In it I could see my long brown hair in frizzless braids and my pale skin. In it I could see my pearly white smile and my unusually pointed teeth. I could see my glassy blue eyes that scared so many away. My favorite part of the house was the floor. It was wooden and it was clean. Not a splinter, not a stain, nor a knot hole disturbed the floor’s perfection. It was a warm chestnut brown color with lines that showed the aging of what was once alive. It wasn’t as though I’d never seen a wooden floor before. I’d never seen floor so clean. It puzzled me. It’s what drew my attention as Ruth and Hugh attempted to appease my hunger. They offered me stew and mixed vegetables. They offered me
mashed potatoes. They offered me corn bread. They offered to make me beef casserole. They even offered to ask their neighbors for eggs. I declined every offer and I pitied them. They genuinely cared and I was being difficult, very difficult. “If you think of something you’d like, please tell us.” Ruth said sweetly before pulling Hugh into another room. “Hugh!” She whispered loudly. “What?” He replied, not even attempting to be quiet. This was probably because he knew I could hear them. “We can’t afford a picky eater. We simply can’t!” “You worry too much.” “But she won’t eat anything, and it’s apparent that she’s hungry. What will we do?” “Calm down, darling. It’s going to be alright.” “You’re right. You’re right.” Her voice faded, still worried. “Hugh!” She said abruptly. “Yes, darling?” “What if she has what the baker’s girl had? What was her name? Jenny. She never ate. Never. She grew pale and thin. Her eyes sank into her skull. She looked dead long before she was and then one day she fell asleep. She didn’t wake up. What did the doctor call it?” “You’re overreacting, Ruth.” “And if I’m not? What if I’m not? What if Sister Sophia was right?” “Sister Sophia is just a tired, burdened nun who’s gone mad with worry.” “But all the other’s disa-” she began but Hugh cut her off. “It doesn’t help that you keep bringing that up.” Either Ruth nodded or simply stopped talking to him. The two of them wandered back into the kitchen where I sat, hypnotized by the floor. I had the urge to cover it in filth as children occasionally had the impulse to do. However, I resisted the itch.
Continued on next page
WRA cont.
I was broken out of my trance by Hugh forcefully placing a bowl of lukewarm stew before me. I endured the instinct to scrunch up my face in disgust. “Eat.” Ruth commanded. I frowned, picked up a fork and placed a chunk of meat in my mouth. It was too dry, too cooked. I didn’t like beef anyway. I poked at a carrot that had grown soft and tinted brown. It was edible but dull in taste and texture. I needed sustenance. I choked down the dismal meal to attempt to fill the emptiness in my stomach; the ache. I suppose it helped a little. I pretended I was full when they offered me seconds. I told them I was tired and went to bed. I didn’t fall asleep. I couldn’t. The Hunger made me sore and parched. The Bunkers had exactly what I needed but only I knew how to satisfy myself. In the wee hours of the night I climbed out from under my pink quilt. I tiptoed to Hugh’s and Ruth’s bedroom. I stood beside them as they snored. “Hugh.” I whispered. He didn’t stir. I leaned over him and spoke in his ear. “I’m hungry.” He woke with a start and Ruth moaned beside him. “A-adrienne? Why are you up?” “I’m hungry.” I repeated. “It’s too late too eat, sweetheart. It isn’t good for you. Go back to sleep and you can have oatmeal in the morning.” “It is morning.” I said. Hugh groaned. I could tell he was a hard working man, even though I didn’t know what he did for a living. His hands were rough and cracked. His eyes were sunken. They were a sleepy grey color. He sat up, careful not to disturb Ruth. I preferred him to her. He patted my head and began walking to the kitchen. “How ‘bout some warm milk to hold you over.” Hugh said with a gaping yawn. He poured milk from glass bottle and a drop hit the flawless ground. I stared at it. He chuckled at me since he probably thought I was disoriented from lethargy. He
bent down and wiped it up with a rag before continuing to pour milk in a pot on the stove. I watched him mix the milk and make sure it didn’t boil over. Not long after, as my eyes drooped and the emptiness in my stomach ate away at me, Hugh placed a mug of steaming milk before me. “You’ll conk out soon,” he said with a toothy grin. I sipped at the liquid and pulled away. It was disgusting. It was then that I decided that I hate milk, hot or cold. “It’s hot, kid.” Hugh chuckled and hurried to cover his mouth. He glanced at his bedroom door and we could hear Ruth stir in bed. I followed his gaze and glared in that direction. He looked back at me and frowned . “She means well, Adrienne. She just worries.” “I don’t think she likes me.” I shrugged. “What’s not to like?” Hugh asked with a grin. I pitied the man. He seemed to work so hard and he was so kind. One day, all of that would be taken away from him. What was worse was that he didn’t realize how soon that day would be. In a moment, I transformed. Teeth into fangs, nails into claws. Human to beast. Pity really—my demon state is more animal than evil, but there wasn’t really time to split hairs. The Hunger takes us all. It just comes down to whether it takes the predator or the prey. I reached up and grabbed Hugh’s neck, pulled it to my mouth and bit. He screamed and tried to push me off, but I’m much stronger than people give me credit for. “Ruth! Run! She’s a demon!” Hugh yelled. Only the darkness of the night responded. I assumed that Ruth had slept through the yelling because it wasn’t till hours later when she woke up with a sliver of the sun. She was wiping the sleep from her eyes as she left the bedroom. “Hugh? What’s that strange noise?” She walked into the kitchen and froze. Her tan skin went pale and her tiny eyes grew large with shock. Before her was her husband on the
kitchen table, too still to be anything but the unthinkable. Ruth screamed and tried to run towards the door. But I was agile. She was barely even filling. I cleaned up my mess, returned the floor to its previous beauty. Then, I changed out of my nightgown and put on a quaint little dress. I sat on the porch step, calling for them. “Hugh! Ruth! Where are you?” I pretended as though, taking a step off the porch meant sudden death. The old man passed me on his way to work. “What are you doing, demon?” His voice crackled like firewood. It seems, the older the soul the more they can see through my facade. “I’m waiting for my new parents, sir. My mother told me to wait on the porch and not leave the house even for an instant to look for them, so here I sit.” The old man looked at me with sad eyes. “They were good people. Your kind of appetite is not accepted here or anywhere you
wander. Your creation was a mistake. An abomination” “That may be true, but I am just like anyone else struggling for survival. I do what I can.” “Maybe you shouldn’t try so hard. It wouldn’t be much of a pity if you withered away.” “I have a family too, sir.” “Really now, where are they?” “Well I already told you. That’s why I’m sitting here. I’m waiting for them.” “You beast! Take your hunger elsewhere!” I shook my head at the man. “Good day to you, kind sir.” With that I parted ways with the man, easily finding my way back to the orphanage. Sister Sophia opened the door with a frown. Tears fell from her old, tired eyes. “Damn you.” She said. I walked past her, entering the building nonchalantly. “Oh sister. It’s far too late for that.”
“Deemo,” Illustration by Calliope
7
The Babbit House By Hypnos
Somewhere down the dusty dirt roads of the Nebraskan valleys, there is a house. It stands alone in a field of yellow and brown and grey. The house is far enough away from it’s neighbors that if you happen to spot it’s slowly creaking sign that reads the Babbit House, you know that you are well and truly alone. Most people can drive by without a second glance, but some people have to stop. You have to stop. There is a sort of presence from the Babbit house. Its chipped and faded paint seems to call to you. You specifically. Like the house has trapped you in its silk and is slowly wrapping you into it and suddenly, you want to see what this little house you think you’ve so cleverly discovered has to offer. Once you climb up the rotten steps, push the heavy door open, you see the little house is crammed from floor to ceiling with tables and lamps and couches and mirrors. So many mirrors it’s like a million of you have walked in at once. An antique shop then. All right. As you wander through the maze of old things, you hear the scuttle of tiny feet. You hear soft scratching against the wood. you hear the whistle of wind coming from somewhere, but you pay it no mind. Instead, you walk back to the doorway and call to your kids. You are unwilling to leave just yet, not even to step outside. Your kids are five and eight and they love discovering new places. They are always clamoring to stop and explore each new place they pass. Yet, for some reason, they’ve decided to stay in the car this time. They don’t come when you call. They just stare at you from the back seat of your dusty sedan. You call again, and then again, but the eldest, Linda, just shakes her head back and forth quickly. No. You get angry. Impatient. This is exactly the sort of behavior you’d expect from anyone who spends the week living with your menace of an ex-wife. Your kids don’t listen. They don’t respect you. As the man of the family, you demand to be respected. You wrench yourself away from the house and march toward the parked car. Throwing open the door, you grab Linda’s arm and pull her out, and then do the same with Ellis, your youngest. They both whine and squirm and kick as you drag them back into that lovely old house. You tell them politely to shut up, a little bit of spittle flying out as you reprimand the
little twerps. Maybe next weekend you’d leave them at their mothers and take a nice relaxing three day trip back here. You’re so glad you took that impromptu detour. Really, really glad. Once inside the Babbit house, you tell them to each look around for a toy they like. It takes a little nudging, but finally they scamper away. You aren’t really looking for anything. No, it’s just the ambiance. The feeling of the house that makes you whole. You don’t really even want to leave. Maybe not ever. You think you could be happy here. Ellis comes scampering back then, holding an old victorian doll. Linda, wanders behind her, holding a small chess set. You lead them around the store until you see a desk in the back with a cash register. You ring the bell once, then twice. You drum your fingers along the old mahogany desk and jump a little as you stand. Finally, A tall man emerges behind the rows of antiques to greet you. Or, perhaps he isn’t a man. He emerges in a tweed jacket, and brown pants, but above the tight red bow tie sits the head of a rabbit. He blinks at you slowly. deep black eyes searching your face for a drawn out moment. He says nothing, just twitches his nose, which makes perfect sense to you because rabbits can’t speak. In fact strangely, this whole thing makes sense to you. Your children don’t even seem to notice anything different either. You just push your dollars and a roll of quarters at Mr. Babbit, whom you presume him to be. Mr. Babbit counts out the change slowly. and presses it into your hand. The second your skins touch, the air begins to shimmer and vibrate violently. The beady black void of his eyes still bore into yours. Throughout the exchange, his eyes have never left your face, Your brain seems to hum. Your vision fuzzy and your thoughts slow. You feel more complete in this house than ever before. More unquestionably compliant. Thats probably why you do not question the pain you feel as the hair follicles on your face spews white downy fur, and your ears stretch out high and tall. Your children still do not notice the change, the difference, but they seem more taken with Mr. Babbit now. Much more then they ever were with you. But hey, you get your wish. You get to stay with the house while Mr. Babbit, who now looks startlingly like you, walks your kids back to the car. They stick close to him. You hear him whisper loving promises of fatherhood and forever. Each one takes a hold of his hand, and there is a skip in their step you haven’t seen in years. As you take your place behind the counter, your thoughts begin to fade. You nose twitches. You are Mr. Babbit and the Babbit house has taken you.
Eye am Rose
Pretenders
By J. Adler
By Bellum
…I now must digress because I have a confession, a rather brutal one, too: I have killed someone, and it was with a knife over a secret that he promised to keep. I get kind of numb, tingles running over my body, whenever I think about it. It was so easy, so quick, those three clean strikes through the heart and skull with which he fell. His eyes glazed over and he never realized that I, his Rose, made them become that way. I can’t breathe. I killed him. I have suddenly become a murderer, a criminal, the hunted. I can already feel my body being dragged down into the land of black dreams, fuzziness clouding my vision and my throat feeling as if I just swallowed a needle. I plead and beg and pray, but the blackness is merciless and just spreads closer. Sometimes at night, I can see him; I see him smiling, his green eyes crinkling in the corners, his black hair mussed, and that bloody hole in his chest, healed and gone like lost memories. And I can see her. She’s also a raven-haired beauty, and she doesn’t tell him any secrets or lies or false proclamations of love, and yet, his eyes light up in delight whenever she is near. I am jealous, and the darkness hugs me even tighter. I need help; I am stuck, suffocating in eternal ebony and my own darkening misery. I have become guiltier as the weather tickles my toes. The fuzziness dims after every passing day and the needle in my throat has multiplied into millions. I am doomed here, my once-husband and his new
Her heart stopped Her lips blue Her friends cried You did too Everyone said She was the best When they never even knew Her You lied We lied Her body was cold
And we were too
Everyday Mask By Bellum I wear a mask daily My mask is the fake smile I wear My mask is the secrets I keep My mask is every time I reply “good” when people ask “how are you” when really I’m falling apart The mask is heavy Constantly slipping off Push it up You tell yourself Push it up up up Hope no one sees the raw flesh underneath Because if they do They’ll leave
8
Catch Me if You Can By The Tuemessian Fox Running, sprinting, and racing, Oh, I love the chasing. Catch me if you can, But, I’ve been ahead since this race began. You supposedly catch all your prey, But not since I joined play. In case you may have forgot, I am destined never to be caught. Mr. Amphitryon thought perhaps, You could catch me, you dog, Laelaps. So we will forever run, Our little game never done. Together in our confraternity, We will be with each other for all of eternity.
“Birdseye View,” Photograph by Aceso
The Back and Forth By Bellum Heart Beats Tears Fall Constant questioning My heart is torn apart My arms are pulled back and forth in a tug-o-war Spinning Spinning Spinning They are spinning me My feelings are destroying me I feel like a dead body Decaying flesh Decaying feelings
“Pick and Choose,” Photograph by Aceso
Love Kills By Bellum That fox stole and ate her heart But she lived Despite wishing she wasn’t alive, she lived Wanting more than anything to get her heart back And steal that cunning fox’s heart She searched for the fox and heart The fox gave her a rose But the thorns blinded her She couldn’t see and couldn’t feel Thinking this was the end She began to heal Her body decayed and she was never real
“Silent Knight,” Photograph by Bandersnatch
9
Changing Tides and Darkened Minds By bluejay
Spirals By Bellum Whispers turn to screams Slapping turns to punching Scratches turn to cuts The rain that once calmed you Turns to violent storm Spiraling You’re spiraling
Out with the tide, Dragging me with you Into the darkness Of your mind. I'm broken And I can't escape your pull. In with the waves, Breathless, I try to climb to shore. But I am unable to Escape the raging currents, Suffocating, Drowning in you.
“Blurberry,” Photograph by Aceso
The Daily Nocturne: The Nocturnal City By J. Adler When the clouds become heavy and the owl hoots in the nearby oak. When the stores turn cold and empty and the streets bare and white. When the lights in the neighborhoods click off one by one and the honk of cars' horns trail off into the evening mist; when the sound of children's laughter and their parents' whispers turn into hushed nightmares. When the wind starts to howl and the moon starts to shine, the city emerges. They call it the nocturnal city, the city that lives in darkness. No humans have ever roamed the streets of the nocturnal city because it is indefinite blackness to their eyes. But for the Nocturnians, they see everything. From the tall, rectangular buildings made of glass scintillating in the moonlight, to the small dark-haired girls smiling from their porches, Nocturnians progress through their lives with the silent admiration and humble mystery that is so rare in their diurnal companions. The nocturnal city only exists for seven hours each night, but has a lifetime of its own. Businessmen and women, in their gray and black suits, wake up and
leave their homes at the stroke of midnight, hugging their spouses and blowing kisses at their children. Adolescent boys peddle along the dark sidewalks, The Daily Nocturnal weighing down their backs and the balance of their ride. Girls, arm-in-arm, skip along the sidewalks, laughing and occasionally sneaking glances at the boys who, unsuccessfully, try not to notice. Yells of hello's and how-do-you-do's can be heard across the street as cars’ engines rumble to life and jocund, middle-aged proprietors open their stores, the metal ping of the doors signifying the start of the new day. The moon usually shines high and bright at this time, its golden rays casting shadows throughout the city. While its citizens bustle about and cars honk at rebellious passersby, it is within these shadows of the nocturnal city that things really happen. Good things, like a game of hide-and-seek, and bad things, like murder. There are no police and since it is too dark to see, the high-pitched screams, the triumphant yells, and the quiet lies transferred from pierced ear to pierced ear are all lost to the other nocturnians as they make their way to work, the sickly smell of the black roses and the cool waft of the night air tickling their senses.
Despite its name, it's sometimes possible to see the nocturnal city and its nocturnians. It's possible to see the glint of their doe-like eyes or the shape of their plump lips as they stare out from school windows; to feel the footprints leading through the soft mud and into the wide expanse of hard, gray land; to smell the sweetness and the nostalgia of the black roses that line the ebony houses; to hear the whisper of laughter and the murmurs of dark secrets carried through the breeze. You've probably heard of this city and maybe even ventured out at night to see it and failed at doing so; it is only those who are curious enough who are successful in seeing and entering this unknown, black land. Only those who have a penchant for a life of shadows and silence and crime can become Nocturnians because, like many of you who have tried to see the nocturnal city, you only shook your head and dismissed the doll-like figures as mere hallucinations. You can't come to terms that there is another city living alongside you and your diurnal peers and it is because of your ignorance and stupidity that the existence of the nocturnal city—my city— is pushed further into oblivion.
10
The Conniving Clock By Vivian Griselda
Natural Beauty is Cliché By Persephone
The soft whir of a sewing machine laces together the frayed ends of cobwebs into The clock ticked too quickly the fragile wisps of a smile. The Mother fastens the smile to the darkened skin of Right before my eyes, her daughter with rusty safety pins. It And now all I’ve ever wanted is slipping away. pinches at her skin and draws blood from her cheeks. Took so long to find this ride The frost of late autumn collects on the Condone my failures, attempts, and many tries. quivering grasses that crumble under the weight of winter’s threat. Her daughter collects the frost in a chipped mason jar, You taught me how to swim, her fingers raw and cracking like the cold Through the rough sand and the dirty air, snap that screams against the windows. The Mother pushes the icy frost into the No other epiphanies shape of buttons and places them over her daughter’s irises. Blue eyes are so much Could even begin to compare. prettier than brown. Even in the academic avarice Birds sing in the crisp, dark mornings of bleeding lips and bruised eyes. The MothAnd the boiling bubble, er bottles their songs in old milk cartons and boils them over the flame of her black I was brought to a sincere fork in the road. stove. Her daughter drinks the beaten words out of Waterford Crystal. In secret Faced new fears and found new trouble, she gathers the squeaking of the back Unearthed my peace and learned how to unload. swinging door in her throat. Her daughter’s tongue is coated with the Some sour souls left but betters were given, pain that clots in her chest. She wears her mask with delicacy; the type of softness I now know who is worth the trip. that nobody seems to see through. But A beautiful world where myself is forgiven, when she sits alone in the choking musk of her room, she sews a new mask. The Despite the occasional and discrete slip. blood from her cheeks coats her lips. The
spiders that scuttle across the sewing machine give her a blackness to fill her irises. Her voice screams like the swinging door. When The Mother sees her daughter’s new mask, her claws force off her polished acrylic nails and her lipstick cracks to reveal rows of pointed teeth. The blue of her eyes freezes over like the cold dead of winter. The sugar that coats her voice falls apart into a sticky mess on the floor and the grating of an unoiled wagon wheel out back crawls from her throat. With her spiders and broken and beaten words, the young daughter staves off The Mother that hides behind the mask. Fingers caked with the bite of winter, she fights through the faded paisley curtains and the lies of lemon cakes in late October. The howling wind forces open the swinging door with a chilling clatter to set her free. The frost coating the dead grasses like damaged armor crackles under the weight of her boots. The birds howl the anthem of the beaten and the bruised. The cold of crisp autumn air wraps around her burgundy sweater with the protection of a soft blanket. A wolf the color of the ashes in the old fireplace flanks to her left. They shriek to the trembling red leaves on the tarnished trees. With the strength of a survivor painted with the scars of her tribulations, The Daughter tears off her dishonest mask.
It flies, it soars, it deceives your mind, It heals wounds and helps the stars align. The clock ticked too ordinarily Right before my eyes, Maybe all I’ve ever wanted Is still to come later in life.
In Which You Are the Center of the Universe By Bandersnatch isn’t it weird that when you lie on your back in the late-summer grass that tickles the base of your neck and stare up, up, up into the darkness that swallows treetops and rooftops, searching for pinprick stars in the black sheet of night, you’re really looking downward, into the cosmic abyss, held in place only by the force of your own weight and in that moment you are a fixed point in time and space, the axis around which the universe has chosen to rotate, if just for a minute, a significant speck in the darkness that swallows planets and galaxies suspended by only the force of your own being
“Blue Moon,” Illustration by Double S
11
Dead Man Walking By Janus I am filth, born from decay and rot. I roam the world endlessly but never find what I am looking for. Behind me is the devastation I have wrought, and ahead is the path to salvation. The bloody mark carved into my forehead warns of my coming, the deadly curse that has haunted me for millennia. Everything I touch dies. Meat fills with maggots and fresh fruit withers into dust. Streams grow barren and the fish within perish, gasping for water that will never return. Each step I take leaves yellowed spots in the grass. Cities collapse as I walk through them. When men try to kill me, their bodies putrefy until bones remain. My only love screamed as her body rotted from the inside out. There is never any rest, only countless steps towards an unknown destiny. I don’t eat or drink, and my stomach has been hollow for so long that I hardly remember the pangs of hunger. Even among the forsaken of the world, I am an outcast, feared because of my poisonous curse. Long ago, I cultivated the earth. I watched with delight as plants grew, tiny green sprouts reaching towards the sun. I brought life to the world, now I only bring death. I didn’t mean to kill my brother. Ever since I saw his blood spill out onto my fields, as he crumpled to the ground, I’ve regretted it. My sin will never be forgotten. Please forgive me, Abel. I am forever wandering, searching for redemption and embracing a death that will never come. I am filth, and this is my punishment. “Denial,” Illustration by The Masked Lady “No, actually I was the one who saw the accounts.” “You are insane!” I backed away, pointing my finger at her. “Stop looking at me like I’m crazy.” With that, I was out cold. I woke up, sitting on the floor, next to him. How did he even get here? I thought… “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” “Maybe, we could start with a little story,” she was standing in front of “I’m sorry!” me with a knife in her hand, a look on her face I had never seen before. “It “No you’re not. Why would you be? If you were my real friends, you started years ago, at the beginning of 2nd grade. It was the first day at a wouldn’t have kept this a secret from me.” new school, and I was so excited. The first thing I did when I arrived was “Look-“ run to the first kid I saw. It was, of course, just a stuffed animal,” she “Nope. I do not have to listen to this. Goodbye!” With that I walked turned her head and was looking at me. “You told me that it was not a kid, away from my lying, backstabbing friends forever. But forever is a long but I told you I already knew that.” time. How could I survive without them forever? We were going to spend “What do you want?” I was trembling as I said it. I stood up, but he was our whole lives together. Now that is all gone and I all I have are three still unconscious. plane tickets to Portugal. What am I going to do? “A friend. Everyone else has left me, and I did the only thing I could I tried to comprehend the future when I arrived inside. The gym was think of. But now, you both are going to leave me. Just what everyone has crowded people jumping up and down to the music. I made my way to my ever done to me! With no goodbye, no sympathy, no regrets!” other friends, who were by the punch. I took a cup, only to see him in the “Why would you think I would leave you? You need help, and I want to crowd. I dropped the punch I was nursing and ran for an exit. I stopped at give you that help!” the fountain in the courtyard, and I looked back to see him coming to“I don’t want help! But you are going to leave me now, after everything wards me with her behind him. I turned away and started to run again. I I did to you! So, you are going to come to the party with me, act like my stopped at the end of the courtyard, and hid behind the wall. The two friend, and never every leave my side again! Do you understand?” stopped at end and looked for me. When they couldn’t find me, they “Yes, but why? Why would I do that?” turned away and started to run in the opposite direction. “That is not a question that I will answer!” she held up the knife, but I I finally took a breath, relived they didn’t find me. I turned around to see saw there was something on it. her in front of me. “What is on that knife?” “Hello. How are you? I have something to say to and since you are right “Come with me. Now!” she turned away, and I snatched the knife from in front of me, I’m going to say it.” her hand and held it to her. “What do you have to say?” I was bewildered to see her there. “What is on this knife?” we were both terrified, her more than I was. “That I am sorry.” “Look at our friend on the ground,” she said, and I did. I dropped the “OK,” I said hesitantly. knife in shock. The last thing I remember is a scream. “That our friend was a jerk. I can’t believe he would betray us like that. I am telling you, I did not know he was capable of doing what he did.” 12 “That was not just him, you helped him!”
Did That Really Happen? By Elaine
Dark Intentions By Milky Way
This is my diary. You don’t have to believe my story, but I need to show this to someone. Out of guilt? Maybe. It’s all I can seem to feel these days. It’s suffocating. I guess I should be used to darkness by now. I’ve been blind ever since I was a very little kid, and I developed it after my parents died. I found them one morning with their heads severed clean off, and the next thing I knew I was blind. According to the doctors, it was caused by the trauma. They said in time I would get my vision back, but I never did. This darkness is different though. No matter how long I continue to exist, I can’t seem to be able to survive under its crushing weight. When you hear my story, please don’t judge me too harshly, I can’t hate myself any more than you can. Entry 1 Day 1 Clack. Clack. Clack. My left hand moves my cane across the side walk, as I run my right hand along the rigid brick wall of the bakery off 24 th street. I can smell Cherry blossoms, gasoline, and Aunt Rose’s croissants swirling in the moist, humid air. I hear the sound of footsteps and gossip swarming at me from every direction. Horns blast as cars whoosh buy. It’s a busy day. As I’m about to turn a corner, suddenly I see a burst of something. Colors? Light? I can make out what I assume is a man in a pinstriped suit flash in my peripheral vision. Wait, vision? But I can’t….? What on earths going on? I trip over my own feet and crash into someone in front of me. I can tell they are wearing a suit and tie, and I can feel the leather of a large brief case. My hands shake as my mind whirs with possibility, stunned by the sudden image. “Watch it boy!” says a deep, male voice. “What are you blind?” Everything gets fuzzy after that. Entry 2 Day 2 It’s been a whole day since yesterday’s incident, and nothing unusual has happened since. I’ve determined that what I thought I saw must have been a fluke. An image that I conjured up from the recesses of my mind. After all, according to my Aunt, my Uncle dons a pinstriped suit daily for work. I know because when I was little, I used to ask her what he looked like every day, everything down to the color of his shoes. Then after he came home from work, I would give him a big hug and breathe in a huge waft of his cologne. It was a fluke. It must have been. But if it was a fluke, why did it feel so real? I collapse onto my bed with a sigh. The pillows sag under my weight like their just as worn as I am. I turn to the side and feel around for the radio on top of my night stand. I reach for the knob and dial it up. *Crackle……… a man found dead this morning…… Crackle*………. head cut clean off………Crackle*………The victim is ………. Crackle*……….. a pinstriped suit and carrying a large brown brief case…. Crackle*
stairs to the basement, my room, and rested her hand on my forehead. She said I was burning up and probably had a fever. It was probably a cold, and I should be right as rain in a day or so. My Uncle told me, “Cheer up kiddo there’s worse things in life than a cold,” and he laughed.
rang at six, Aunt Rose would leave my breakfast outside my door, and each day she would try to coax me out of my room. Of course, I refused to come out until she left. This time though, she was prepared for me. As soon as I opened the door, she ran back up the stairs. I remember it clear as day. I had always wanted to see Aunt Rose. Not just feel her, smell her, or hear her, but Entry 4 to see her. I used to pray to god every night that Day 6 he would give me the ability to see, but he never I take a shaky breath in and force a shaky breath did. Until now. Once again, there is a sudden out. My trembling right hand skims the edges of burst of colors and light, and all the blood seems a large stone building along the corner of 6th to rush to my head. Then I see her clear as day. I street, while my left hand clutches my cane mov- could finally get a glimpse of my Aunt. Her ing it cautiously along the empty sidewalk. My warm smile, her brown hair streaked with gray, legs shiver under the bite of the frigid dry wind. and her big round glasses framing her large kind It’s late, and I sense no one on the road except eyes. I wish I could take back every prayer. Evefor the occasional driver flying by in a flurry of rything gets fuzzy after that. blasting music, laughter, and cigarette smoke. I hate going out at night because there are never many people around so anything could happen. Entry 10 The fact I can’t see just makes it all the more Day 13: Midnight terrifying. As every second passes by, my hand A flash of colors and my mind spins. I find myshakes a little harder and my breath comes out a self standing in our family’s kitchen. I know it’s little more uneven. Just as I’m about to turn the our kitchen, because it’s just how my Aunt decorner, there’s a sudden burst of colors and my scribed it. A modest stove in the back right corhead gets suddenly dizzy. In my vision, I can see ner by the door, a large, round, wooden table in a young woman standing under a bright white the center, and a small light fixture on the ceilstreet lamp in a green dress, and red scarf. Her ing. There is a window on the left side of the raven hair billows in the wind, and it hides her room, decorated by curtains patterned with tiny eyes as she stares up at the eerie full moon in the grey birds. It’s different though. I always thought starless sky. Everything gets fuzzy after that. our kitchen would be full of reds, oranges, and yellows and other bright colors. Those are the colors I think of when I think of Aunt Rose. Red Entry 5 for her pastries filled with strawberry jam, that Day 7 always smell like fresh baked bread. Orange for *Crackle…….another victim is the smell of pumpkin spice perfume, and the found……….similar……… sound of her cheery, boisterous laugh. Yellow decapitation…………..Crackle*………..woman for all the fond memories we shared as a family. wearing a red scarf, green dress………… It was nothing like how I pictured it. It was dark Crackle*…….black hair……..Crackle* and dank, with shades of black, white, and grey. I feel something cool and hard in my left hand, Entry 6 my palms get sweaty as I’m overwhelmed with Day 8 shock and horror. In it, covered in blood, lies a I lock myself in my room, refusing to come out silver butcher knife. I stare at the reflection in the for anyone. My Aunt and Uncle pound on the surface of the metal. Bile rises in my throat and I door to my room. They say things like ‘Why are let loose a terrified scream. In it stands a boy you doing this Louie? Did something happen? with messy white hair, splattered with red. On What’s wrong? We’re so worried, please come his face are wild blue eyes and a cold toothy out.’ But I don’t come out. I can’t risk them get- smile. In his right hand, he grasps the head of a ting hurt like all the others. I don’t know what’s woman with brown hair, streaked with gray. The going on, but there’s no doubt in my mind, vacancy of her eyes reflects the glow of the eerie somehow it’s connected to me. I can’t let them full moon. Laughing, he moves his knife towards get hurt, not now, not ever. There all I have left his own neck. Everything goes fuzzy after that. in this world. Entry 7 Day 10 I roll under my covers, comforted by the warmth enveloping me. It doesn’t make much sense, because when most people hide under their covers, it’s to take solace in the darkness. For me, it’s always dark. Always. Or at least, it used to be. Nothing makes sense any more. Not the man in the pinstriped suit, and not the woman with the red scarf. I pull the blankets tighter around me.
Entry 8 Day 12 It’s been four days since I locked myself in my room and refused to come out. Every day my Aunt leaves me my meals outside my door, and only when she walks away do I peak outside and Entry 3 grab my food. It’s stressful being cooped up in Day 5 For the next two days I’m unable to come out of this room day in and day out. All I can do is listen to the radio and run my hands alongside the my room. Too nauseated and scared to even walls, pondering how I can get out of this situaclimb out of bed. I knew that the man’s murder tion. Every day I hit a dead end. Somehow, each was probably just a coincidence. Nothing else made sense, but I couldn’t shake this feeling that day seems longer and more hopeless than the last. somehow I was wrong. That somehow, I really was connected to the murder. I could feel it deep Entry 9 down, and it sickened me. My Aunt and Uncle got worried about me. On the first day that I did- Day 13: Morning n’t come up for breakfast, my Aunt came down- It was like clockwork. Every day when my alarm “Dance to the Pumpkin Song,” Illustration by Hypnos
Blackjack By Aradia Life is a deck of cards in hand The hearts strung together in The diamonds in the rough The spades with which we sow our gardens The clubs like three leaf clovers, one short of lucky There are no bad hands, no bad players Just different people playing different games All at once and all in the same room "Do you have any sevens?" She asks from beside you But you're playing poker You lay down your cards and fold All jokers What a piece of work is man
“Hush,� Illustration by Technicolor Zebra
The Golden Compass By aradia It's the rare (and arguably nonexistent) person who lives a whole and fulfilled life without an occasional bout of sadness. It's no curable sickness in the body, no removable thorn in the side, no mortal weed in the garden. It simply is. Some say it's explainable as a clinical chemical imbalance. A passing case of the medical blues, if you will. Completely curable if you let time kiss and bandage your wounds. Dearest reader, I pray with hands folded in sincerity that this may one day come to pass for whatever shadows you hold in your own heart. But when you're scrubbing the stains of the stardust in your veins off the cold bathroom floor, none of these kinder thoughts come to you. They hover about like spirits to a medium, useless and possessive. You're left looking at the dirty glitter left in the suds on your sponge and wondering when this happened. Time, that ageless mistress, where has she slunk off to now? No kisses for your wounds fall from her pink lips. Not a word is spared on the child left in the corner of the garden. You're left to grow among the weeds alone. Beloved, you won't be swallowing the thorns at her feet forever. Time may be uncaring, but she is not cruel. Each day she takes 24 hours of herself and distributes it to each of us on this earth. Is that not a kindness? In fact, others say that Time has no obligation to you at all. It’s you who dries your tears when you cry and you who feeds, clothes, and takes care of your body. Time herself is a blameless scapegoat; how can you expect a cosmic entity to take responsibility for you if you don’t know what responsibility she is supposed to take? Perhaps Time herself is, in fact, faultless. Who, then, is the villain of your story? Let me tell you a story. *** There once was a princess trapped in a tall stone tower. The tower was, of course, guarded by a ferocious dragon. What story would this be without a dragon? Each day it circled the tower at daybreak and roared into the sky, daring any knight in hearing distance to try to enter the tower and rescue the damsel inside. In hushed whispers some circles said that its scales matched the princess’s hair. The princess felt nothing towards the dragon. No fear, pain, or sadness tinged her vision when she saw its form. It was a reality she had grown up with and something she had known all her life. What if the outside world was a wasteland corrupted by humanity and the dragon was only protecting her? The princess had no idea. In the beginning, many knights had, of course, attempted to come to her rescue. Not one had left without serious injury—or worse. Many left in wooden caskets. Others didn’t leave at all because there wasn’t enough left of them to bury. The princess had felt nothing for the knights, she told herself. She shed no tears for the townspeople who picked up their remains or the families who screamed and cried as they dragged the
knights’ remains away. (This was, of course, a lie, but the princess preferred to think she was better off with the dragon than without—and that the knights were foolish to try to save her. Try as she might, however, she could not be so heartless.) The knights had, however, long stopped coming. Perhaps the people were too afraid to face the dragon now. Perhaps the people had simply forgotten about the princess. It was on a knightless day like this that a very strange thing happened. The dragon was taking a nap behind the tower on a fine winter’s evening. The snowflakes were coming down like sighing kisses from the angels. Truly, winter was her favorite season. The princess was looking out the window wistfully when she heard a voice call out to her. “Princess…I know you’re in there.” The voice was soft but familiar somehow, making the princess curious. She looked out the window to see not a knight but a girl with a hood over her face. She stared at the girl in silence for a long moment, not being able to connect the form to anyone she had seen before. Perhaps she was one of the forgettable townspeople? Her eyes darted to the dragon’s sleeping form before she gestured at the girl to get lost. “You should go home. This is no place for you to be playing.” She whispered just loudly enough for the girl to hear. The girl shook her head. “No, princess. You called me here to save you.” The princess stared at her, nonplussed. Did this girl not realize where she was? And what was she talking about, “calling her”? She looked so small and fragile; she wouldn’t last a moment against the beast. A loud noise behind her pulled her out of her thoughts. You see, the dragon had very sensitive hearing. “Run! The dragon is here!” She whispered hoarsely to the girl, nearly shouting. The girl shook her head and reached into her cloak. Out came a deep red bow and a silver quiver of arrows, which the girl readied. When she moved her cloak slightly, the princess saw that she was wearing heavy armor. The dragon had hardly come into view when the girl let the arrow fly. It bounced off the dragon’s hide with a quiet ring. The dragon roared with displeasure. Not that a measly arrow would pierce the dragon’s hide, of course. But wouldn’t you be annoyed if an ant threw a toothpick at you? The girl fired arrow after useless arrow at it. The princess grew steadily more worried as the girl seemed intent on not retreating in the face of the nearing beast. She shouted down to the girl. “Hey, give it up. Many before you have failed with better weapons.” A growing note of discomfort had crept into her voice. The girl smiled back at her. “I’m here to save you. I’m not going to back down.” Something stirred in the princess at seeing the girl’s smile. Perhaps the princess’s conscience
had finally started to nip at her in the daylight hours; it usually was quiet until dark, leaving the princess tossing and turning in bed for hours. An image of the girl’s body, broken in many places as she had seen happen to so many knights, crept up on her. She was suddenly desperate to leave the tower. A door seemed to materialize behind the princess, one that she had never seen before (she had, in her many years of captivity, scoured every inch of the nondescript room at least twenty times). She didn’t stop to think about it but threw the door open and ran down the stairs behind it, suddenly coming upon the grass outside the tower. She could see the dragon’s immense back and the girl’s frame. Somehow the girl seemed bigger than she really was, as though she was immensely confident she wasn’t going to lose. The dragon, however, had other ideas as it took a chunk out of the ground the girl was standing on. The sight of the girl wobbling sent the princess running between them. “Stop!” She cried, putting a hand out to impede the dragon’s jagged bite. There was a blast of light and suddenly the princess and the girl were sprawled on the floor. The princess groaned and looked to the girl. The cloak had come away from her face in the blast, exposing a visage that was an exact copy of the princess’s. The princess stared at her for a long moment until the girl’s eyes fluttered open. The princess stood up and gave the girl a hand. “Who are you? Why do you look just like me?” The princess asked. The girl said nothing and pointed behind the princess. The princess searched her face for a moment before following her finger. Curled up on the ground was the dragon’s enormous body, with one of the girl’s tiny arrows sticking out of its side. The princess gasped and stepped back. “It’s crying.” The girl said sadly. The princess looked to its sharp face and saw that indeed, tears were falling like crystals from the dragon’s eyes. Every so often it exhaled sharply as though it were sobbing, giving off a small puff of smoke. The princess felt the girl push her from behind. “Go on. It’s in pain.” The princess stared at her incredulously. Her eyes darted to the bow and arrows that the girl had retrieved. “You want me to kill it?” The girl said nothing—but didn’t give up the weapons. She smiled politely at the princess and continued to point to the downed beast. The princess swallowed and turned back to the dragon. It was crying in earnest now, and the princess realized that actual diamonds were falling from its eyes, which she noticed for the first time were the same color as her own. She walked to its side and put a hand on its heaving body. The dragon shuddered and let out a long wail, little flames pushing out of its nose. She felt a sharp sadness in her chest seeing it in so much pain. It had only tried to protect her, she realized, remembering in hindsight that it had never
harmed her once. The princess threw her around around the dragon’s neck in an embrace. Its body was warm, almost comfortingly so. Its large teary eyes turned to her in silence. It had suffered so much for her. The dragon sniffled a few times then was silent. Still the princess didn’t move. She could feel the girl’s gaze on her back. She heard a fluttering around her, like leaves blowing in the wind. The princess was completely still until she felt something move beneath her. In her arms was another girl, sobbing quietly. She looked up at the princess with tears in her eyes and the princess noted with discomfort that this girl also looked exactly like her. The girl threw herself out of the princess’s arms and fell to her knees sobbing. The princess turned to look back at the cloaked girl in confusion, who walked over to the princess and put a hand on her shoulder with a smile. “You are the hero of this story, princess, even if you don’t know it yet.” The sobbing girl looked up at the princess. “Won’t you get hurt without me? I was just trying to protect you from all the scary stuff out here!” The cloaked girl gazed at the princess gently. “The only thing keeping you in that tower was your fear, Princess. There are no villains in your story.” She gestured at the open forest around them. “It’s not so scary once you’re out here, is it? Out here you have friends, family, and people who care about you. Up there in the tower—” she pointed to the offending object “—you have no one.” The last statement had an unmistakably bitter ring to it. The princess stared at her in silence. The girl laughed. “You asked earlier who I am, right? Let me tell you, Princess, I am your Courage. I am your inner strength and bravery. I am the liquid fire that pounds in your veins when you stand up for what’s right. And that—“ She paused to point at the other girl, who had stopped sobbing and was now standing hesitantly “—is your Fear. She is an integral part of being human, but she’s what’s kept you in that tower so long because she is everything I’m not. Somewhere down the line you had an experience that was very scary, and your courage left you. Without Courage, your wisdom is tainted by fear. You listened to her for so long that she became just that. A little fear is normal, but when you gave up your bravery to you were truly trapped.” She smiled as though she was telling a quaint story. “You trapped yourself in that tower because you were afraid, Princess. You left your courage behind—you left me behind—because you were scared.” The princess struggled to apologize. Courage just laughed. “Don’t be sorry, Princess. We’re all on our hero’s journey, but no one’s path is easy. Fear is natural.” She placed a firm hand on the princess’s shoul-
der. “Courage is the hero’s candle in the darkness. It is what saves you when you’re groping about for a reason to continue living.” She shifted in place, suddenly uncomfortable. “You would have been there forever if you hadn’t called for me.” The princess blinked. “What? I didn’t call for you. You came on your own.” Courage tapped the princess’s collarbone. “Your heart called me. You were ready.” “Ready for what?” “To pick up your bow and arrows again and venture off into the world.” “But…you’re the one with the bow and arrows. I’ve never touched a weapon in my life.” Courage opened her mouth to speak, but the princess cut her off. “Besides, I’m not brave at all. I spent all that time in the tower watching knight after knight die because I was a coward.” “I wasn’t that scary!” They both turned to face Fear, who had both hands on her hips. They had nearly forgotten that she was there, considering she only gained her human form a few moments ago. “And by the way, Courage, I’m not just Fear. I’m also Restraint and Logic. You’re not just Courage; you can also be Recklessness and Capriciousness.” Courage smiled. “That is true.” The princess stared at both of them. “You mean…neither of you is good or evil?” Fear—or was she Logic?—seemed to pause. “Yes, princess, neither of us is really good or bad. It’s when we’re taken to extremes that we become a hindrance. I became Fear when my Logic didn’t have a healthy dose of creativity, which is a risk only Courage is willing to take. If you took Courage to the extreme without Restraint she would become Recklessness.” Courage hefted the quiver on her back. “Regardless, princess, you did call me. I could not have stopped the dragon—Fear at the time— on my own. You saw that and faced the dragon yourself, did you not?” The princess looked down at her hands. They seemed a bit stronger somehow. She clenched them hard, feeling a little braver. A moment of silence passed over them. Finally, Logic sighed. “Well, princess, this is goodbye.” She reached behind her and seemed to pull a book out of thin air. It crinkled slightly as she held it out to the princess. “This tells you all about the medicinal plants in this area. For you to heal and help others.” The princess, after staring at the rolled up paper for a moment, took it. She moved to thank Logic, but Logic had faded away. The princess looked back at Courage, who smiled. “That Logic, always in a rush.” She slid the bow and arrows off her back and held them out. “So that you protect what you hold dear. Fare thee well, princess." By the time the princess had pulled the weap-
ons onto her back, Courage had also faded away. As she paused, something seemed to float slowly from the sky. The princess caught it gently, curious. A golden compass. She could hear Courage’s and Logic’s voices around her. “So that you never lose your way.” *** Who was the villain? Was it the dragon, the princess’s Fear? Pray, is it evil to be afraid? Was it Courage, who left the princess in her time of need? Have we not all experienced moments of doubt? Was it the princess? Nay, are people evil for having emotions? As preposterous as it may sound, perhaps we all have a bit of the princess in us. We’re all in our respective towers, waiting for someone to save us. Perhaps, dearest reader, Courage was right. We are the main characters of our own stories; it is not so strange to think we might be our own heroes. In that case, what are you waiting for?
“Autumn Colors,” Photograph by Maia
16