October 2018
Midnight Writers
Table of Contents
Cover: “October Treat,” an illustration by Celia Bowen This Page: “Crow,” an illustration by Stewy Page 3:
“Virtual Reality,” a story by Ithuriel
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Ask Aphro & Dite
“Virtual Reality,” continued “Mechanical Fury,” an illustration by HEHEHEH I AM A SUPAH STAR WARRIAH “Miss Perfect,” a poem by Stella “Scarlet Death,” an illustration by Aya Hatashima
Beyond the Gloss
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• A witch asks for haircare advice • A goblin asks about a ghoul in his attic • Eos introduces herself and gets overly excited
Andromeda’s Introspective Odyssey
• Andromeda discusses books versus movies
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“The Office,” a story by Eos “Welcome to Chili’s,” an illustration by Idunn
“Back to Business,” a haiku by Tom Nguyen “Trick or Treat,” a poem by Seastar “Spooky Bento Lunch,” an illustration by Tess “Spooky,” a poem by Starlight “Red, Yellow, Green,” a photograph by The Calico Cat
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“The Office,” continued “Beneath,” a poem by Andromeda “Resurgam,” an illustration by Wine Merchant “Leaf,” a story by Yellow Seesaw “When in October,” a poem by the Dizzy Penguin “Sunlight,” a haiku by Eos “Through the Leaves,” a photograph by the Calico Cat
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“The Fall,” a story by Stella “Crispy Apples,” a photograph by the Calico Cat “Autumn Night,” a poem by the Calico Cat “Autumn Blue,” a haiku by Tom Nguyen
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“Red Wine,” a story by Blue Serendipity “Broken Toys,” a poem by Stella “Frail,” a haiku by Eos “Spotty Mindset,” an illustration by the Wilted Rose
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“Heat,” a peom by Andromeda “Warmth,” a poem by Eos “Monster King,” an illustration by HEHEHEH I AM A SUPAH STAR WARRIAH
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“Posters on the Wall,” a story by the Midnight Raven “A Pair of Monsters,” an illustration by Black Fox
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“Posters on the Wall,” continued “Halloween Night,” a manga by Aya Hatashima
“Gloucester Wind,” a story by Eos “Grape Magic,” an illustration by Celia Bowen “Seemingly Alone,” an illustration by Melissa E “Space Wars,” a story by Eos “The Building on 66th Street,” a story by Andromeda
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“The Building on 66th Street,” continued “Cycle,” an illustration by Andromeda
issuu.com/midnightwriters midnightwriters2018@gmail.com
Ask Aphro & Dite
Dear Aphro, How do I keep my hair in place under my hat? It keeps coming undone, and it’s such a bother to constantly have to spell it back in place. Yours, Distressed Witch Dear Distressed Witch, Sorry dearie, I wouldn’t know, I don’t experience such things. My hair is naturally perfect, being the goddess of love and beauty and all. Although I do have some suggestions. Try using a couple spells to keep it in place. I’d avoid any sudden movements or wind too. As a witch I’m sure there’s some spell you haven’t used or a potion you haven’t found. Keep at it! With love, Aphro Dear Dite, I have a ghoul living in my attic. It makes strange ghost noises every signle night, and I can’t bear to listen to the haunting sounds. What should I do? Yours, Concerned Goblin Dear Concerned Goblin, How did a ghoul end up in your attic? A bit of fall cleaning is in order, I suppose. Then again, if you’re writing to me that must mean you’re not dead yet. Unless you suddenly find yourself in the Underworld don’t be too concerned. I suggest letting it stay until Halloween ends to give the little kiddies a scare but if you really want it out we could give Hades a call. Good luck! With love, Dite
Beyond the Gloss
Hello lovely Midnight Writers! You can call me Eos (yes like the lip gloss brand...), and I am beyond excited to serve as your President for this school year! For my very first column, I’ve decided to let you all in on a few facts about myself so that you can get to know me a little better. (If you can’t tell, I am very far from the dark and mysterious President image.) Well to start off, my best friend is my black cat named Luna. She partially resembles Toothless the scary dragon from How to Train Your Dragon, except really cute rather than really terrifying. Sometimes when I’m making this magazine, Luna will crawl onto my laptop and stare at it for a while. This is my proof in a conspiracy theory that Luna secretly reads Midnight Writers, a theory which may or may not be wildly inaccurate. (For all I know, she could just be staring at a speck of dust on my computer screen.) Winter is my favorite time of the year, mostly because it gives me an excuse to wear sweaters and slippers almost every day of the week. I used to do ballet at a pre-professional level before resorting to Wii Fit as my main form of exercise, and I have a mildly unhealthy obsession with pasta. Oh yeah, and Midnight Writers! I have been a Midnight Writer since freshman year, and it is my honor to have a role in leading the club. Midnight Writers has always been my outlet to express a part of myself I can’t express anywhere else. By this, I mean Midnight Writers allows me to write or draw about anything I want to, letting my imagination run wild in a metaphorical field of unicorns and glitter. This year, I hope that you guys will feel free to express yourselves within these pages, from haikus to mangas to rants. As Albert Einstein once said, “Creativity is intelligence having fun.” Have fun this year everyone; Carpe Noctem!
Andromeda’s Introspective Odyssey So I thought this month I would talk about some-
thing that had recently been very much on my mind. The transition from books to movies. How often is it successful? Are the books really always better than the cinematic renditions? Recently I’ve been working my way slowly through the Game of Thrones novels. It should be mentioned that I had watched the show first, so I didn’t have that flippant bias that results in over-analyzing the movie or show for all the insignificant things they missed. However, after working my way through the first book, and most of my way through the second, not even Game of Thrones, possibly the most popular show on American television right now, can break this stereotype that yes, the books are better. You may ask “Why are the books better? ” The simplest answer is that a good book graces us with raw, unfiltered detail. It is important to note, books are not held to the same scrutiny to which TV and movies suffer. It takes millions of dollars to film a movie, it takes only imagination and hard work to write a book.This isn’t just true for American television either, many people agree in the case of anime versus manga, the manga is usually better, even when the art is sometimes superior in the anime do to animation, color, etc. If books have taught us anything, to make a show most successful you need a good plot more than you need a high budget. Are there exceptions to this ‘rule’ that books are better than the movie/show? Yes of course, but those examples are few and far between. That being said a movie or shows success does not depend on how much better they were in comparison to their novels. If anything, those based on novels are highly successful because they chose highly well written and successful works to base themselves off of. In conclusion, the cinematic remakes are not better than their books because they lack something that the great books seems to inherently possess: the simplicity of a good story.
Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Eos, Andromeda, Celia Bowen, Stella, Aya Hatashima,The Calico Cat, Blue Serendipity and Idunn. 3
The Office By Eos
There are only two things I hate in this world: Peanut butter sandwiches with no jelly, and Halloween DressUp Day at the office. Why, you may ask? (The “why” refers to the Halloween Dress-Up Day, not the peanut butter; No human with their taste buds intact would question that one.) Well, picture this. You are at your daily job as an accountant, practical and measured. It is just a normal day at the office. The only abnormality is that today is October 31st. This, for you, is an incredibly unfortunate abnormality. Today, no one is who they normally are. Rather, it’s as if all of their worst, most grating traits are presented to you dressed in a Dracula costume from the dollar store. Your boss is not making important calls and pacing around to facilitate. Now, he is sprinting around the office in a floral sheet and branding himself as “The Ghost of Cubicle’s Past.” Your irritating coworker is not respecting your personal space bubble as she normally does. Today, she has brought her black cat into work, violating numerous office protocols within your state. (And getting cat hair all over your prized keyboard.) Your intern is apparently dressed as one of those Twilight vampires, a terrifying sight in fake blood, black clothes, and for some reason a mohawk even though you can’t seem to recall any Twilight char4
acters who looked like goth rockers. You head to the restroom in an attempt to escape the black and orange nightmare, but then proceed to run into a janitor dressed as Frankenstein, mopping the floor with a chainsaw that is hopefully plastic. On this day, everything and everyone is an unfortunate abnormality. Which is why when a fellow co-worker approached me at my cubicle on this infernal day in what appeared to be regular clothing, I fell out of my chair. She laughed, then came closer. “I assume that Halloween is not your thing.” Grunting, I pulled out my earbuds and righted myself in my chair. “No, I just pretend to be a normal person for the fun of it.” I said this with dripping sarcasm, and resumed work at my desk. In my peripheral vision, I could see her smile fade. This made me feel guilty, which was strange considering I had never met this person. I sighed, and turned back to her. “Sorry if I come across
as irritable,” I said, “It’s just that what you said was right. I do hate Halloween. Why do people think that because they’re dressed as not-themselves, it gives them an excuse to act like idiots?” Just then, a soccer ball punted by the douche dressed as Lionel Messi in Cubicle B flew over my head, almost an affirmation of my previous statement. Co-Worker Girl’s smile returned. I noticed she was wearing a gray cable-knit sweater with brown slacks and flats. Very practical. “It’s alright,” she said with that same curious smile, “You can probably tell that I don’t like Halloween also. But more for the making-a-spectacle reasoning rather than being-an-idiot reasoning. For me, it just seems like a waste to buy all these costumes for one day.” Practical indeed. Now I was the one smiling. The smile didn’t last long though; My co-worker’s cat crawled crawled in front of my computer, blocking my screen entirely. I slapped my hand to my forehead in frustration. Co-Worker
Girl laughed, a light, lovely rattle of a laugh. “Want to get out of here for a bit? No offense, but I don’t think you’ll get much work done with that cat.” This is how we ended up in the Container Store on a Wednesday afternoon. Apparently, Co-Worker Girl needed to buy some Tupperware. Typically, I would have argued against ditching work to buy plastic bowls. However, today was far from typical. “So, Co-Worker Girl,” I said, trailing behind her in Aisle 5 as she searched for her bowls amongst rows of forks, “Who are you? Because I don’t think I’ve seen you in the office before, and I know pretty much everyone there. Are you new? An intern? Please, enlighten me.” Co-Worker Girl paused in front of the knives, her back to me. Her head was turned to the side, and I could see a bemused smile on her face. “Firstly, my name is Catrina Malum, not ‘Co-Worker Girl’ or whatever. Just call me Cat. Secondly, is that really how you begin
“Welcome to Chili’s,” Illustration by Idunn
conversations with someone you’ve never met? I really thought we were alike, Co-Worker Guy. Common-sense people.” I sighed, seeing that she had won the verbal duel. “Cat, I’m Dwight. I work at your office. I don’t like Halloween, and somehow that led me to a Container Store in the knives section. Is that an acceptable introduction?” Cat smiled that amused smile, like she knew something that I didn’t. But why? I side-stepped her so that we were facing each other, butter knives at our backs. “And why the heck are you smiling like that!?” Suddenly, a voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “Customers, the Container Store is closing now. Please buy your last products and have
a Happy Halloween. Peace out.” The overhead fluorescent lights began to shut off one by one, each with an echoing boom. At the last boom, Cat dropped her shopping basket. I reached over to pick it up, bending down. Before I could get up, a foot pushed me onto the ground. Cat’s foot. “For a practical guy, you sure make some unnecessary decisions.” I stared down at the blue-specked tile, unable to look up from my position on the ground. “May I just...ask...WHAT IS GOING ON?” Cat kicked my side so that I rolled onto my back, now fully able to see her. Her sweater was still there, just black rather than dull gray. As a matter of fact, everything she wore was black now, as if she had
Beneath
transformed into one of those dreaded goth rocker vampires. Just a far more life-threatening version. “So,” I said, trying to carry on despite the quiver in my voice, “Let me guess. You’re a vampire, and you’re going to suck my blood now just like in the movies. Except I never recalled the movies occuring in a Container Store at 9:00 PM.” Cat smiled. Again. At this point, her smiles were infuriating. “You said you hated Halloween because it gives everyone an excuse to be their worst selves,” she said as she plucked a knife from a shelf. “But when you really think about it, isn’t that the best part? Maybe we all wear our costumes 364 days of the year, and Halloween is the day when
we don’t have to be hidden for any longer.” I stared at her in total confusion. She sighed, twirling the knife in her hands. “It figures that you don’t understand. I used to be like you.” “May I ask what happened to cause you to go from hard-working citizen to knife-twirling serial killer?” Her eyes narrowed. “People like you. People who see nothing more than copies and files, hours and weeks, computers and keyboards. And I’m not a serial killer-As a matter of fact, I’m not alive.” There are only two things I hate in this world. One is the day I met a ghost dressed in slacks.
“Resurgam,” Illustration by Wine Merchant
By Andromeda Beneath our quaking waking flesh, Underneath that smooth fragile skin, Past our wheezing heaving lungs Beyond our raw thumping heart, Inside our aching breaking bones, Down to the red squishy marrow, Runs our deepest darkest secrets, So no amount of mighty iron tendons, Or breaching reaching ligaments, Can connect your skeleton to mine.
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Leaf
By Yellow Seesaw The warm summer sun touched the edges of the large oak tree’s leaves. With every bit of carbon, sunlight, and water from the roots of the tree, each leaf grew bigger and bigger. There was one leaf, at the tallest point of the giant tree. It enjoyed its place, soaking in as much sun as possible and receiving all the necessary nutrients from the photosynthesis process and giving out oxygen through cellular respiration. That leaf wanted to spend its entirety right there at the tallest point. It thought summer was going to last forever and was never going to end. It spent its days being blown gently through the wind but always remaining with a tight grip on the branch it came from. Too afraid to fall off. Soon enough the wind grew fiercer, it got darker earlier, kids slowly stopped spending all hours of the day outside. That poor leaf struggled to get the necessary sunlight. It wasn’t the first to go through changes, it watched as other leaves went from the simplest form of green to a sickly yellow, to a pumpkin orange, and finally to a dirty brown. The poor leaf really started to panic when it saw leaves on other trees start to fall. The realization of what was go-
ing to happen struck the little leaf; he only wanted to remain on the branch. As the weeks continued, more leaves from the same tree started to say their goodbyes. The strong winds took them away for good and left them on the ground to be stepped on by innocent children walking home from school. As fall started to end and the weather got chilly, there were only a few leaves left on the tree. The majority of them were all on the bottom branches while the tallest leaf remained. The state of fear never left the tallest leaf. The leaf didn’t want to fall. It was too afraid to let go, holding on with all its might, even at the smallest gust of wind. Although rotting, it was still too scared to fall. Soon, it remained the last leaf on the tree. There was no strength within the leaf anymore, even with its fear of falling. It couldn’t stay on the tree any longer. A small breeze made its way to the tree, taking the leaf with it. As the small leaf floated in the wind, it realized that falling wasn’t so bad after all. It swayed down until it softly hit the ground. It was no longer afraid. It gave up and let nature take its course, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as it thought it was going to be. It stayed on the ground, listening to the children’s laughter and the sound of footsteps approaching. The last thing that leaf saw was the bottom of a kid’s shoe. And then it went black.
When in October
By the Dizzy Penguin When in October Run through the streets framed by falling leaves Wear the black and orange tights your mother frowns upon Dash into the Halloween store and try on masks you’ll never buy Drink hot apple cider That burns as it travels down your throat Hurtle yourself into the fall wind singing a love song as you go.
Sunlight By Eos
Sunlight peeking through A curtained stained glass window The warmth protects me. 6
“Through the Leaves,” Photograph by The Calico Cat
The Fall By Stella
My name is Autumn. That’s about as common as it gets when you live in little old Maplevale. Well, it’s not little. But it is old, being the capital city of Autumn and all. Just as you would expect, Maplevale is filled with cute little orange leaves, potted jars of maple syrup, and knitted sweaters that don’t exactly keep you warm. Cliche, boring, and absolutely pointless. But there’s one thing holding me back from leaving. And that’s whatever’s inside the pride and joy of Maplevale. Rumor has it, the ever-growing maple tree in the middle of the town square is actually hollow. Why? There’s some sort of magical magic that transports you to a different world. One that’s not just made up of Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. I don’t really buy it per se, but it’s my only escape. Rumors of some kid in Snowden who tried it with the Christmas tree there and disappeared. And there’s no way to get inside that tall, fat Christmas tree, trust me. So the rumors spread. And kept spreading until they reached Maplevale. A girl from way back tried it, and she fractured her spine. I guess that’s why they call it the Fall. Midnight comes pretty quickly. It’s the Mid-Autumn festival, and the same routine plays out again. I sit out, bored and waiting for the time to strike. Mayor Leaff comes out with the huge orange banner and brown scissors. As usual, they slice the poor ribbon to pieces and unveil the tree in all its glory. Not like we see it everyday on the way to school. The crowd parts and enjoys the festival as Mayor Leaff and his pals stroll on over to the elementary schoolers’ maple display. I seize the moment and jump the only obstacle left between me and that glorious portal to freedom. But unfortunately, my clumsiness gets the best of me and I trip right over the white fence. To my horror, the theme song to Maplevale plays. I mean, come on, if you’re going to put a security alarm in place, at least let it blare out something decent. The security guard on the right of Mayor Leaff turns around like a flash of lightning. Ah, shoot. Might as well make a run for it. I squeeze myself through the fence and reach for the first branch. And heck, I start climbing like there’s no tomorrow. Mr. Right Side Security Guard has caught up and is reaching through the fence. I dodge his arm and kick myself up. Freedom is in sight as I reach for the top. But before I make it, a hand grabs my leg. I glance below, it’s Mr. Right–wait, Left Side Security Guard. I try to twist myself free to no avail. As a last resort, I twist my ankle and kick off my shoe. It doesn’t hit Mr. Left Side Security Guard in the face as I had hoped, but it surprises him enough that he lets go of my leg. I push myself up, and touch the last branch of the tree.
As I do, a voice echoes in my head. Golden light envelops me, and I descend back towards the ground. But not the way I should. The town is gone, the maple tree the only thing that remains. It opens up and reveals its hollow core. And then, begins the Fall. “Crispy Apples,” Photograph by The Calico Cat
Autumn Night
By The Calico Cat Listen To the wind whistling in your ear. To the rustling of leaves. To the crunch as you step on them. To the hoot of an owl that pierces the silence of the night. To the sounds of fall.
Autumn Blues
By Tom Nguyen Autumn has arrived It is time for leaves to fall And my grades to drop 7
Red Wine
By Blue Serendipity A pair of darkly colored eyes examined my appearance as I examined his. He had pitch black hair gelled up sophisticatedly and neatly. His white shirt was crisp, and his sleeves were cuffed. In general, the man was very neat and formal-looking. I could tell he was thinking the same about me. I had long straight ebony hair and even darker colored eyes. My skin was deathly pale; I was surprised he hadn’t asked if I was ill or something. Then again, he himself was the same shade I was. “May I take your orders?” a young waitress asked with a bright smile. My date and I exchanged glances. I always had a habit of analyzing people based on their decisions, so I picked up my menu and gazed at all the different choices. “A steak, please,” he said after realizing I was waiting for him to order. “How would you like it cooked?” Her hair was a blinding shade of yellow. Mixed in with her overly bright smile, she could’ve passed as the sun. I grimaced behind my menu and pushed the thought away. He paused for a moment before answering. “Rare, please.” I raised an eyebrow and he returned my curious gaze with a steely one. What an interesting man. It was obvious he was waiting for my reaction. A smirk replaced my grimace and I handed my menu to the sunny young lady. “I’d like the same thing,” I said. The waitress seemed surprised by the orders. “Two rare steaks?” she questioned, emphasizing on the ‘rare’ part. “Yes, rare. Blue-rare, even,” I responded amusedly. The waitress nodded and scurried off. My date suddenly seemed much more intrigued about me than before. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at me, and I just gave him 8
a careless smile. “Do you often eat your steaks rare?” he asked, trying to be casual. I’d spent a long time learning how to read people. He was actually pretty difficult to read, meaning he had plenty of practice being subtle. “Yes, but normally I have something better to drink,” I answered, sipping at the red wine. It was a fine wine, but it didn’t exactly fall into my tastes. During the twenty minutes we had spent together so far, I could tell he wasn’t a fan of it either. “Do you prefer white wine?” “No, I prefer red. Wine, however, isn’t my favorite,” I said with a small shrug. That intrigued him even more, and he slowly turned his wine glass. It wasn’t the first time he did that. I noticed he did that every time I said something vague or when I asked something about his childhood. I already had suspicions just by looking at his appearances. Now, I was quite positive about my theory. “What is your favorite?” he finally asked. The smirk on my face grew and I leaned forwards a bit. “I think it’s your favorite too,” I answered lowly. His eyes widened before returning back to normal. They narrowed again, and he stopped turning his wine glass. Instead, he tensed and stared at me. Should I wait and let him die of curiosity? Then again, he wouldn’t really die. Our chances of dying were limited to dehydration and stakes. “We’ve only talked once before this.
How would you know what my favorite drink is?” “Because,” I said, leaning in even more, “I know who— sorry, what you are.” My red lips curled upwards to reveal two sharp fangs.
Broken Toys By Stella
Outside of this box is a world I don’t really know, a void An uncontrolled lab experiment built for the white-tailed lies The mirrors here run with red, a reflection of the dead corpse I have become Black rimmed eyes and shaking hands on a small device, and I said The ghosts of yesterday come back tomorrow, they come back everyday A finger to the lips and eyes shining with hope that no one could believe, and I Stand here waiting for someone who will never come for me, because they said No one wants a broken toy.
Frail
By Eos
Taunted for my bones Jutting out of me They don’t know they are wings.
“Spotty Mindset,” Illustration by the Wilted Rose
Heat
“Monster King,� Illustration by HEHEHEH I AM A SUPAH STAR WARRIAH
By Andromeda I had a lover Whose eyes were blue flames That set fire to the air around her Crumbling words to ash in my mouth I had a lover Whose laugh lit up darkest midnights And jealous stars gazed down in wonder At the woman who loved like no other I had a lover Whose hands whipped hot coals against my cheek So blistering burns would fester And red blood was sent pumping, pumping in my wounds I had a lover Whose mouth curled in flaring snarls Her words flung like spitting embers Lashing scars on my charred heart I had a lover Whose eyes and laugh and love Were no match to the wounds we suffered And her flame ate it, ate it alive I had a lover Till ash fell like white snow And in the ruin a shivering soul Cried out to die
Warmth By Eos
Sitting next to an open fire On a chilly fall day Hot chocolate in my hands A stranger approaches And together we sit Amongst the raging fire 9
Posters on the Wall
By The Midnight Raven
It’s been so long that no one knew why the walls were built. Nobody wanted to leave. They didn’t know the wonders of what was beyond. Their standards were set to an unresearched level. We didn’t know if the wall was built as an experiment, a societal test, a test of architectural integrity, or if they had just inhabited it after finding it. But the wall was there, and they were there too. I was on the outside of the cracked stone wall. I used electric blue tape to stick posters on the stones. Drawings depicting the brainwashed inhabitants of the city surrounded the walls, people who didn’t know that constant monitoring and strict rules wasn’t a normal way to live. No one taught them it was wrong, they’d only been taught that it was necessary, done for their protection, so it was right. I wiped my brow as I stretched out another piece of tape and attached it to the paper and then the wall. “Maybe this time they’ll stay up for more than 10 minutes,” I said bitterly. Memories flooded back to me of the times I had been here before, like the time I had watched a gruff man tear down my posters and let the pieces fly in the wind. Only once had I seen someone take down my posters, but I had been here six times now. These posters have no purpose to anyone but me. No one dared to go towards the walls from the city. No citizens from within the walls have ever seen them. But I do, and so do the people who destroy them. When I was younger, before I knew too much, before furious and mournful thoughts whirled through my head like ink through water, I used to walk through the streets of the city, linking arms with my friends. We walked past grocery stores that only sold ingredi-
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ents grown in the city and a separate one for outside goods. I glanced at the dress shop that always had the same frilly, blue dress in the window but was never open. Back then, my hair was always done up in smooth braids and tied with pink bows. I wondered if the pink-cheeked little girls within the wall got ribbons in their hair as well. Before, I would pay attention in school and raise my hand even when I didn’t know the answer. I would grimace at the lunch that the school cafeteria served and would end up throwing most of it away. But then, I learned about the wall, and the people within it and everything changed. I stopped braiding my hair and threw my ribbons in the back of my closet, hoping they would never see the light of day. I stopped going to school most days, instead opting to sneak to the little coffee shop down the street from the school and work on my posters, ordering chamomile teas and sniffing the flowery steam that lifted from it. I wasn’t proud of ditching school, but nothing could keep me from wanting to help the innocents that live behind the wall. Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I tore off one last piece of tape and pressed the final poster onto the stones of the wall. I stepped back so I could see every poster that was hung up. I smiled softly and whispered hopefully, “Maybe this time, one person will see them, and my work won’t be for nothing.” I stepped forward towards the wall and placed my cheek to the cold stones and strained my ears to hear anything behind it. But it was silent. There’s not much to talk about when you’re being held under someone else’s thumb and you don’t even know it. “I thought you would’ve learned your lesson by now. Maybe ripping down your childish artwork six times wasn’t quite enough for you, was it?” A voice growled. I whipped around, scraping my cheek on the rough stone, the sharp pain stinging. I narrowed my eyes as I saw the man who took down
my posters, his limp brown hair receding each time blinked, his grey eyes becoming more and more bloodshot. He stepped towards me and I scrambled away, my back hitting the wall. “You can’t keep those people in there! They deserve to live their lives the way they should be lived,” I replied confidently. “Unaltered!” The man shook his head at my words and began to stare at me with a pitiful look at my supposed stupidity. “When will you finally get it, little girl?” he asked. I growled at his mockery, thinking I was anything but oblivious and certainly not a little girl. “The people behind the wall that you keep protesting? They aren’t real! They’re made up, just like the belief you have that anyone actually cares about your little posters.” My eyes widened in shock as I tried to process the new information. “How do I know that you’re telling the truth? How do I know you aren’t making all this up just to make sure I never come back?” I fired back, the blood surging to my face. “Because, little Addelyn,” I shrank as he said my name, questions filling my head at how he knew me or my name. “The simulation isn’t held behind the walls. It’s what lays beyond the walls that are truly being watched. That’s right, you and all the people you know are all just a part of a bigger plan, and you’ve spent your whole life thinking you were privileged and normal when in truth, it’s the opposite.
“A Pair of Monsters,” Illustration by Black Fox
That answer your question?” No. No, he was lying! It wasn’t true! It couldn’t be. I opened my mouth to deny his lies when he stepped forward and whispered in my ear. “Don’t worry, your questions won’t be answered. In fact, you won’t remember you had questions at all.” I began to scream at the top of my lungs, my voice aching. Suddenly, ev-
erything went dark. It surrounded me and encased me before I shook away from it and opened my eyes. It was morning out, and the sun filtered in through a crack beneath my blinds. I yawned, stretched and hopped out of bed when my eyes landed on a pile of posters and tape on my desk. I glanced at them quickly and laughed
softly. “What silly little drawings! I wonder how they got here.” I picked them up and tossed them in the trash bin, not giving them a second thought. Not remembering a single poster on the wall.
“Halloween Night,”Manga by Aya Hatashima
Virtual Reality By Ithuriel
“Bedtime!” Mommy hollered. I put down my crayons and markers, pausing the creation of the colorful masterpiece that I planned on giving my mommy. I smile down, looking at the picture of my mommy and me holding hands. Quickly, I run to the bathroom to brush my teeth and change into my jammies. They were
nice, soft garments that could heat or cool you depending on what they sensed you needed. “Here, Honey,” Mommy says sweetly, handing me a brightly colored pink sphere, “Here’s a piece of candy for sweet dreams.” “Thanks, Mommy,” I chirp, popping the candy in my mouth. Ever since I started on this candy, the bad dreams went away. The only problem is that the doctor said that I would still have
problems determining what is real and what is not. Grabbing my best friend, Oscar the bear, I crawl into my levitating rocket ship bed, jumping up to reach the edge, almost slipping off the levitated bed. As Mommy kisses my forehead, she reaches over to my nightstand where my goggles lay, putting them on my eyes, and turns off the light. I fall into the consuming blackness. Blinking my eyes open, I wake up in a pristine, blank room. My own 11
personal canvas, on which I can paint even my wildest whims. Anything that I want appears at my will; my dreamscape is only restricted by my imagination. Rivers made of silky chocolate flowing in both directions, pillowy cotton candy floating in the lilac sky, and rolling hills made of ice cream appear at my command. It’s a perfect world, one where your dreams become a reality. I hear a thump behind me and turn around. I spin into something big, white, and fluffy. For a split second, I think I see a monster. One with jagged teeth, red eyes, and big claws. I blink again, seeing my best friend. It was probably my imagination, I think to myself. “Oscar!” I shriek in delight as he hugs my little five-year-old body. He smells like a strawberry milkshake and his fur feels like the fluffiest marshmallow imaginable. When I try to take a bite, he tastes like the freshly baked snickerdoodles that my mommy makes. “Hey! That tickles!” he giggles. “I’ve been waiting for you all day and this is how to treat me?” I laugh in response and grab his paw, running towards the hills of sugary goodness. Throughout the night, we gobble down mountains, quickly moving onto another after finishing one. As we finish filling our tummies with the sickly sweet confectioneries, I lead “Scarlet Death,” Illustration by Aya Hatashima
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Oscar to a gumdrop clearing, sighing in content. “Hey Oscar,” I begin as I plop down onto a red gumdrop, “I have to tell you a secret. I really really love my mo-” Suddenly, without warning, his face begins to blur, contorting his facial features. My eyes widen as I see, once again, the serrated jagged teeth, glowing red eyes, and sharp growing claws. I keep blinking, hoping that it will transform back into my comforting friend, but it doesn’t. “Child,” he thunders, “I know you’re scared. You reek of fear.” I try to run away, but everywhere I turn, he appears in front of me. He continues. “To escape your dreamscape, you must accomplish one thing for me.” Without even giving me time to process what is going on, he says, “Kill her.” My mommy materializes immediately, her eyes focused into nothingness. I whimper. I look over at Oscar with fear and remember that this is all just a meaningless dream. Sighing in relief, I take the shard of candy knife that Oscar handed to me, and without hesitation, stab her in the neck. She smiles back at me and drops to the floor without resistance, but in the background, I hear a distant scream along with the clattering of objects dropping on the wooden floor. I awaken, startled. I am standing over some-
thing. Something that has dark red jello seeping out of it. Something that has fairy floss on the top of it. Next to it are the bright pink candies shaped like pills. “Mommy?”
“Mechanical Fury,” Illustration by HEHEHEH I AM A SUPAH STAR WARRIAH
Miss Perfect By Stella
She puts an image on the board for everyone to see, but they just Laugh at her words, her fragile pink lips and big shining eyes Because she’s something that they’re not, so they’ll leave her in the pasty white dust Of the chalkboard that writes hate against her When she changes her clothes to gray checkered, and her hair To sea blue, they point and they call her names Label her a Japanese wannabe, they say she copied Miss Perfect She seeks comfort in the girls with wavy brown hair, but Effort pays nothing when the other stars shine brighter So she ties up her hair and tries to move on, but She’s still so imperfect, the knives move slowly into her heart And she bleeds into the circle around her.
Back to Business
Trick or Treat
Back to school again Sleepwalking through the hallways When’s last day of school?
Little children pounding on doors With tiny fistfuls of candy in their palms Witches, Frankensteins and Draculas galore Running through the neighborhood streets With a reckless abandon I now envy Shouts of excitement echo Through the windows of my room Where I now sit With a bar of Twix And my black cat Listening to the ringing joy Wondering how this same joy Is now a relic of my childhood Tentatively, I open the door.
By Tom Nguyen
By Seastar
“Red, Yellow, Green,” Photograph by The Calico Cat
Spooky
By Starlight I never thought I’d be seen as scary A monster, almost. Until the night of my operation In a dark lab with a mysterious doctor Stitches, bolts, and nails And I was done Sent out a changed man, Alive. They would call me Frankenstein. “Spooky Bento Lunch,” Illustration by Tess
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Gloucester Wind By Eos
“A big, noisy family.” That’s how most people describe all six members of the Simon clan once you get to know us. And to be honest, they are not entirely wrong. At all. I have grown up as one of the middle children, with 2 older brothers ages 22 and 20, and a younger sister who is 12 years old. Although the age gap is unusually large, us children are extremely close to the point of constant teasing and jokes about one another (The teasing part is usually propagated by my little sister and 20 year old brother, who are seen as the Tom-and-Jerry duo in our family). However, I take my place in the siblings hierarchy as the lone introvert surrounded by rambunctious extroverts. Growing up with siblings who will gladly brawl over leftovers has taught me to be a mediator, defender, and the alleged “wise one” all in one. Each summer, my family makes a 10-hour road trip up to my grandmother’s home in Gloucester, Massachusetts, a trip that tests my ability to withstand both sitting in a cramped SUV and the verbal jousting amongst my siblings. Upon arriving in Gloucester, it is a long-held tradition for all of us to jump off a bridge that looms over the dock, a ritual that only we are truly crazy enough to put into practice. However, each summer when I hurl myself over the bridge, it is not fear that I feel before inevitably hitting the ice-cold water. Instead, I feel the tight grip of my siblings’ hands that promises to never let go.
Space Wars
“Seemingly Alone,” Illustration by Melissa E
By Eos
The first time I saw Star Wars, I was a 12-year old begrudgingly watching it per my older brothers’ request. “It’s amazing,” they said as we flopped down on the couch with a tub of popcorn. “Yeah right,” I said while the infamous opening text rolled down the TV screen. However, slowly I found myself falling for this alternate space universe, to the point where we ended up bingeing the whole series. Perhaps this was because I was amazed by the pure imagination and creativity that went into creating Star Wars. As a girl who loved to write, I was inspired by how purely original the concept of an intergalactic world filled with wookies, jedis, and padawans was. Like George Lucas, I hope to someday create something unique that touches the hearts of people everywhere. Whether that involves an otherworldly realm beyond our current grasp, time will tell.
“Grape 14 Magic,” Illustration by Celia Bowen
The Building on 66th Street Part 1 By Andromeda
A girl walks into a shop one day. The door to it is tall and red, and when she opens it, a cold breeze rushes through and jingles the hanging bells. She enters, her steps creaking along the old wooden floorboards. To the right of the entrance is a bookshelf filled to the brim with dusty pages, and to the left, a redwood table covered in antique mirrors and globes. Piles of musty carpets and intricately carved figurines lay sprawled across the floor, and on the walls hang animal heads and portraits of sullen Victorian women. Yet despite the clutter on the ground, on the ceiling, there are no lamps or light fixtures of any kind. The sole brightness comes pooling in from the windows at the front of the shop. She walks around, looking over all the scattered objects around the room. It’s a cold fall day, and the lack of heating in the room makes her pull her jacket tighter around her. She finds the room fascinating as well as equally eerie. Some of the items look like they came straight out of a museum. Surely they must be expensive, she thinks, but finds no price tags on anything. She focuses on one particular painting in the corner, an old family portrait with a couple and their two small kids.
She shivers beneath their smile-less gazes and quickly moves on. Making her way to the counter, she taps the small bell. “Hello?” she calls, her soft voice echoing. The purple curtains behind the counter flutter and move to the side as a small figure emerges. The girl notices she is a woman, with thinning wisps of white hair strewn crazily across her head, her eyes peering beadily at the girl beneath wrinkled, pale sockets of skin. “What can I do for you, Miss?” “I’m just browsing. I quite like antique shops so….I don’t know.” The girl looks down and then up again. “Is everything here really for sale?” “They are indeed, although I assure you we are like no other antique shop you have visited before. All our items are quite unique.” She studies the girl up and down, and the girl shifts shyly under her gaze. I don’t know about this place, maybe I should leave…. she thinks, but something keeps her rooted to the spot. “I think I have an idea of what you may be looking for. Right this way, Miss,” the woman says in a raspy voice.The girl hesitates, and the woman’s mouth breaks into a toothless smile. “This way,” she says and gestures behind the curtain. The girl follows warily
behind her, and as they pass through the curtains. Inside is a lone wooden table set. “Come, sit,” she says, and pulls up a chair on the opposite side of the table. The girl takes a seat and folds her hands neatly on her lap. “Tell me,” says the woman, “what is it you are looking for? “I- I don’t know.” “Trust me, girl,” she says, pulling out a deck of cards from beneath the table, “if you did not have a very specific desire, you would not have entered my shop.” “Are you a fortune teller?” the girl asks. The woman laughs, and it is high and piercing. “No, I may deal in fortunes, but not in fortune telling. These are for predicting the price.” She then reaches beneath the table again and pulls out a huge musty book, dropping it in front of them. “If you feel like you don’t know what you truly want, this may just help.” The girl’s eyes widen as they trace over the cover. The book, although worn and brown, has borders that shine with intricate gold markings. In the center is an image that looks like it came straight off the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, with beautifully painted angels in the sky, and grotesque devils down below. In fact, the mark making is so detailed, it looks like someone had
spent hours upon hours just carving the borders. Finally, at the top of the cover is a single, large word: “GRIMOIRE.” The woman opens the book, and the cover thumps onto the table, sending a cloud of dust flying, making the girl cough. “Now, let’s see, let’s see,” says the woman, fingers flipping paper quickly one side to another. “Where is your page….” “Aha!” she says with a grin, “This is your page.” She turns the book in the other direction, so it is in front of the girl. “What do you see?” The girl looks down at the page and frowns, her hands twisting nervously. “I don’t see anything, I-it’s just blank paper.” The woman stares at the girl. “Look closer.” Continuing to keep her eyes on the paper, she bites her lip confusedly. Suddenly, she gasps.Words begin to take shape at the top, and move downward as if they were being speedily typed to form a paragraph. The words are indecipherable. In some other language that appears like Latin, in the middle of the page is an illustration of two mirrors, one wrapped in vines of gold, the other in vines of Continued on Next Page
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black. “What do you see in the mirror?” asks the woman. “I-I see...” she pauses. Inside the black mirror is a portrait of a chubby girl with glasses too large for her face, and pimples all along her forehead. Under her nervous, mud-brown eyes are dark circles, and atop her head is dark mousy hair. The girl had never felt more aware of her flaws as she did when she looked inside that mirror. “I see myself,” she says sadly. “And?” In the other mirror, another form takes shape. Inside is the face of a beautiful woman with long, dark locks and eyes like warm chocolate. Her skin is dark like ebony, and her smile is cool and pearly white. “I don’t know…” she squints and looks closer at the image. “Is, is that me?” she asks. “Perhaps it can be,” says the woman coyly, “but for a price.” She grabs the deck of cards and shuffles them in her hands. “Pick a card.” The girl reaches out her hand but hesitates. “How do I know this is real?” The woman’s smile is toothless. “The book should be proof enough,”she nods, 16
and grabs a card, flipping it over. On the other side is the upside-down picture of a woman holding a sword and scales.
silver surface sparkle.
“What does this me-” The woman snatches the card back.
The girl looks down at the mirror, confused. Ever since she had received it two days ago, nothing has happened yet. Perhaps she got scammed, but was it even possible to be scammed getting something for free?
“Well girl, it’s time we finished up here isn’t it?” Lifting the curtains away, they make their way back to the front of the shop. The woman grabs a small pocket mirror and sets it in front of the girl. “Return this to me in three days time, and that will be your price.” Taking the mirror confusedly, the girl asks,“That’s it? No money?” With a chuckle, the woman says,“Yes, that’s it.” The girl walks to the door, staring at the mirror in wonder and curiosity. The light from the window makes its
“Oh, and girl,” says the woman, “there are no refunds.”
Would it even matter if she returned it? The woman would hardly try to chase her down for it, she thinks. Her hands smooth over the surface of the silver mirror, its shine almost mesmerizing. Eventually her fingers begin to trace over what felt like a rough surface. Confused, she brings the silver underneath the lamp on her bedside table. It looks like words. “Nam pulchritudo animae meae…?” she questions. Suddenly, a strong wind
rushes in the room and wraps her in an uncontrollable whirlwind. The girl screams as she gets sucked, sucked into the mirror… A woman walks down the street, her heels clicking along the pavement as people turn and stare at her in awe. Her long dark hair flows effortlessly down her back as she moves, and her dress wraps gracefully around her thin, tall figure. She continues walking until she stops in front of a red door on an empty street. From her bag, she pulls a small silver mirror. On the surface is the reflection of a chubby girl with glasses beating against the surface of the mirror, soundlessly crying to be let out. The woman’s soulless black eyes stare at the girl, her mouth smiling down coolly, and she opens the door to the shop.
To Be Concluded...
“Cycle,” Illustration by Andromeda