October 2014
Midnight Writers
Table of Contents Cover: “Skeleton in the Closet,” an illustration by Hecate
“Dark Bloom,” an illustration by Alice Fraser
Page 11:
by Firebird
“Queenbreaker,” a poem by Hades “A Nation on Her Knees,” an illustration by Pandora’s Box “Who Needs Love?” a poem by Luna Moon Sparkles
Page 3:
Page 12:
Ask Aphro & Dite
Rhadamanthus’ Rant: On College Apps and Pretentiousness “Close your Eyes,” an illustration by Angiosperm
This Page: “Little Miss Murder,” an illustration
A ghoul asks for costume advice 1950s hater seeks advice
Musings of Hades:
Our resident Titaness rants about monster etiquette
Echo’s Echo
Our favorite nymph faces her arachnophobia
Page 4: “It’s Not Real,” a poem by Nike “Just a Nightmare,” a photograph by Nike “Girl, Monster,” a poem by Circe
Page 5: “Do You Believe in Monsters,” a short story by Rabid Fairy “Disturbia,” a photograph by The Owlish Bookworm
Page 6: “Bloody Maze,” a poem by Artemis “It’s Only Your Imagination,” an illustration by Khokokat “Sally’s Bones Book Review,” by Amanda Farine “Who Turned Out the Lights?” a poem by The Owlish Bookworm
Page 7: “Ghouls of the Future: A Ghoulish Halloween,” a short story by Amanda Farine “Halloween Memories,” a short story by Janus
Page 8: “Ode to the Seven Deadly Sins,” a poem by The Teurmessian Fox “Welcome to Hell,” an illustration by Raven “Join Us,” a cosplay by Hades
Page 9: “Fatal Frame,” an illustration by Japanda3 “A Study in Darkness,” a poem by Aradia “The Full Moon Watches,” a poem by Zenyatta “The Four Horsemen,” a poem by The Teurmessian Fox “In the Dark of the Night,” an illustration by Senpai
Page 10: “Innocent Revenge: Chapter One,” a story by Isabella Hertz
Page 13: “Nøkken, Nøkken, Hvor er Du,” a short story by A.T. Pacem
Page 14: “Witching Hour,” a short story by Astraea “Queen of the Night,” an illustration by Bluejay “Pure Blood or Not,” a poem by Zenyatta
Page 15: “Carnival Tail: Chapter One,” a story by Calypso
Page 16: “Carnival Tail,” continued “Opaline,” an illustration by Hecate
midnightwriters.webs.com midnightwriters2015@gmail.com
Ask Aphro & Dite
Calypso’s Island
Echo’s Echo
Dear Aphrodite, Coming from a family of ghouls, I normally have no trouble dressing up for Halloween, but this year I want to do something different, only my options are limited by my decaying features. What should I do? Yours, Ghoulina Dearest Ghoulina, Ah, All Hallow’s Eve. Darling, you’ve come to the right place—I’ve spent years trying to be something other than Jessica Rabbit or Marilyn Monroe. Definitely try those latex-makeup things you see on those bloggy thingies. The latex lets you create a whole new skin—your face becomes a canvas. Or forget the hassle and just go wild with makeup. Draw on features, tape things onto your face, or go ahead and wear a mask! It’s all up to you, lovely. But if you want to know, I hear that movie figures are an acceptable form of masquerade—Elsa and Groot sound wonderfully mortal—perfect for the Night of the Dead! Have fun with it, dearie. That’s the most important part. Best of luck, Dite Dear Aphrodite, I hate the 1950s. When I tell people, they give me some positives about the 1950s, but all I see is a lot of negatives. All I have to say is for the people who like the 1950s, good for you. I won’t give you a hard time, just don’t try to make me change my opinion. How can I make peace with people who give me a hard time when I tell them I dislike the 1950s? Yours, 1950s Hater Dear 1950s Hater, There are plenty of reasons to dislike the 50s. Between the baby boomer generation being born and subsequently ruining the economy, the racism, the sexism, and such, the 50s weren't that great. As for coming to peace with these people, the first step is coming to peace with yourself for having opinions that contradict others’. Opinions aren't meant to be uniform. Be prepared to face criticism in this world; the only way to avoid it is to be opinion-less, voice-less, and action-less, and that's no way to live your life. It sounds rough, but be empathetic, keep your mind open to others’ opinions, and welcome discussion and debate about topics. There’s a lot to learn about the world, and there are a lot of things you can share with others. Lots of love, Aphro P.S. I do feel I should mention that the 50s had some rocking dresses, though.
Hello, Midnighters! It’s so lovely to see you all again, and just in time for All Hallow’s Eve, too! Just to be clear, do not come trick-or -treating here unless you want to be trapped in the Underworld forever. But if you do, at least we’ll have each other for company! Speaking of company, I’m sure you’d be far better than some of my recent guests. It seems as though every demon, ghost, and monster has decided to make my palace a pit stop before ascending to your world. As pleasant as some of them are, there are others that are terribly rude. I mean, demons give clear signals when they’re about to arrive: flickering lights, sulfur, black smoke—the works. Plus, if they turn out to be rude, untrustworthy, or belligerent, I can always invalidate their pass to leave the Underworld. Then there’s Bloody Mary, who, despite the stories, is a kind soul and just wants to spend time with you. Granted, the harm caused by the corruption of her spirit is extremely dangerous, and I wouldn’t advise summoning her, but she must be summoned to appear. She’ll never jump out at you or grab your ankle in the dark or anything like that. Others, however, arrive with no warning and take sadistic pleasure in frightening the living daylights out of you. (I’m looking at you, Leviathans.) Their spirits or physical bodies give off no warning signs as to their arrival or presence, and the tricksters take human form, which makes it all the more difficult to tell whether they’re a poor soul who got lost from the Fields of Asphodel or a monster who wishes to get a laugh out of my terror. Then there are those who go one step further and purposefully try to avoid detection. Just the other day, I was settling down with a good book when a djinn snuck up behind me and gave me a quick hallucination without a warning. Rude. Anyway, I revoked his right to visit the mortal world for All Hallow’s Eve, and I hope it sends the message that I won’t put up with any nonsense from anyone who wishes to visit your world. Don’t worry too much, though, my dears. I’m not loosing any deranged or excessively violent creatures on you, so you should be safe. Just avoid summoning anyone or anything, keep salt and something iron on you the entire night, and for goodness sake, do not try contacting any spirits. Stay safe, and have a wonderful All Hallow’s Eve!
Hello, Midnight Writers, and welcome back! It’s been a good five months since I’ve last been here, and I missed you all… though you all may have not missed me… So for those of you not familiar with the format of Echo’s Echo, every month I feature a guest in my column! (Because I’m ECHOing their words! Ba dum tss...no?) This month, in honor of Halloween, I had a perfect guest: Charlotte A. Cavatica, the spider from Charlotte’s Web! I absolutely adored the book, and spiders were perfect for Halloween, so I was delighted to be able to meet her. But when I did, well, it didn’t go as smoothly as I had hoped. Amongst my excitement to meet one of my favorite childhood characters, I had forgotten about my rather severe case of arachnophobia and the fact that Charlotte was, after all, a spider. Basically, it went like this: Me: walks into Charlotte’s barn Charlotte: Hello, Echo! Such a pleasure to mee— Me: AHHHH GET AWAY FROM ME! flails arms and runs far, far away Only after I had sprinted a good block away did it hit me what I had just done in front of my childhood hero. I sprinted back to see an amused Charlotte before blubbering apologies for my behavior. Fortunately, she was very kind and understanding—she’s probably used to all the little girls doing the same thing to her. As intimidating as her eight-leggedness was, she really was as warm and motherly as she was in the story. For someone so small, she sure did have a big heart. She even spun the words “Read Midnight Writers!” on her web for all to see! Hopefully we can get more popular with the animals. Not that humans and gods and goddesses and nymphs are bad, but variety is always a plus. I’m still arachnophobic, but meeting Charlotte really helped settle it down a bit! I hope you all have a fantastic Halloween. Eat lots of candy—I mean lots.
Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Calypso, Echo, Hecate, The Owlish Bookworm, and Bandersnatch. 3
It’s Not Real By Nike I don’t believe, but I know I saw one, I whisper frantically as its yellow eyes Pierce the pitch black. It’s no use. He saw me, and I saw him. Pondering what to do, I turn on my nearest light. The eyes disappear. I am at ease. I feel his presence, but I have no proof or Strength to investigate. My chest begins to rise and fall to a norm As I find comfort in flipping the switch once again. Moans and groans echo below me. Disturbed, as if the poor beast is being tortured. I pity, but I must sleep, Such an animal cannot rob me of what I crave. My thoughts try to drift, but the growls and Screams disrupt my serenity. Why must I dwell on this monster? He means nothing to me. Finally, my mind relaxes, but A rush of cold air tickles my face. A bony finger scrapes the hairs on the back of my neck. I open my eyes to meet his; The yellow has turned to blood red As his mouth opens to reveal glorious fangs. He grabs my skull and violently shakes me from my rest. Sounds cannot escape my suffocation. It’s not real, it’s not real, I say to myself like a never-ending metronome. I sit up, pushing the terrifying figure off of me. There is nothing. So sad to think the monsters lurk only in my head. “Just a Nightmare,” Photograph by Nike
Girl, Monster By Circe It follows me In the guise of a human I’ve tried to confront it But I’ve never made the move The sound of heels clacking on the concrete Chase my run-down converse It watches me Following me into the darkness The darkness of an alley I crouch down The noise stops Silence fills the air I turn to face it It—her She opened her mouth, No words just empty sound Finally I hear her “Why are you following me—you monster.” 4
And then I wonder who the monster is
Today is the day I face it The fear that has been stalking me It appears out of nowhere Hounding at my heels I look down at its run-down converse Only at that nothing else I’m too frightened to look above However I wonder what it looks like But eventually I must, It turns into a dark alley and crouches Delves in the darkness Suddenly silence fills the air I decide to make my move It turns to face me It—her I open my mouth No words just empty sound Finally I ask “Why are you following me—you monster.”
Do You Believe in Monsters By Rabid Fairy
Do you believe in monsters? Ghouls, ghosts, vampires, werewolves, and all the evil beings that go bump in the night? Well, don’t be ridiculous. They aren’t real. The curtains fluttering or the door slamming out of nowhere isn’t because of a vengeful spirit or a ghost. It isn’t the evil dead coming to bring you to the other side for no justifiable reason. It’s just the wind. Everything can be explained by science and logical explanations. There’s just no proof that the supernatural exists, so stop pretending that it does. That being said, the abandoned house at the far end of the neighborhood gave me the creeps. The entire neighborhood consists of suburban houses painted shades of pastel surrounded by white picket fences. It’s a two-pointfive-kids, fund raising, everyparent-is-on-the-PTA kind of neighborhood. So, what’s a crumbling house that looks like it’s been there since colonial days doing at the end of the last dead end street? There’s three blocks of sparse, dead trees, dried grass, and sidewalks with more cracks than an iPhone that’s been dropped too many times. Despite multiple petitions to knock the old thing down and build another three blocks of identical houses, it still stands. Actually it slouches. All sane people would avoid it, but my dweeb of a brother thought it would be a good idea to go into the sketchy old-astime house. Marcie and Freddie agreed with him, and I caved to peer pressure. “I still think this is a terrible idea,” I grumbled, stepping onto the decaying wood that made up the front porch. “You don’t have to come,” my brother Mason said. “Right, and then you’ll get hurt and I’ll be in trouble for not saving your ass,” I sniped. “Then stop complaining,” Freddie said. He patted my shoulder and stepped ahead of me. He turned the knob to the rotted door, but it didn’t open. “Oh well, looks like we’ll have
to go home,” I said. “No hold on.” He raised his left leg, and, with a firm kick, knocked the door open. “Great, now we’re vandalizing, too,” I muttered, stepping over the threshold behind Marcie. Stepping into the house, the air got several degrees colder. I wasn’t sure how that was possible, but there had to be a reasonable explanation. As in: not a ghost. The goose-bumps covering my arms made me regret not bringing a jacket. The house was dingy and smelled of rotting wood and mold. Cobwebs covered every visible corner, some so old they were hanging by just a thread. The floorboards creaked underneath our shoes, giving the feeling that the whole floor would cave underneath us. “Man, this is creepier than I expected,” Freddie said, picking up a yellowing photograph. A thick layer of dust covered its surface. With his sweatshirt sleeve, Freddie rubbed the dust off the picture frame, revealing a woman in late Victorian dress next to a man with a moustache. They wore serious expressions, and their dead eyes bore into my soul. The picture frame tumbled to the ground, shattering on the floor as all of us jumped. Marcie had let out a hysterical shriek, freezing the blood in my veins and making the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “What? What?” Mason asked, grabbing Marcie’s arm. She breathed heavily, clutching her chest. “I saw a rat.” “A rat? You gave us all a heart attack because you saw a freakin’ rat?” Freddie asked. “I thought you saw a ghost or somethin’.” “Don’t be ridiculous. Ghosts aren’t re—” I started to say. Mason interrupted, “Wait, Mads, shut up. Did y’all hear that?” He’d let go of Marcie’s arm and was staring at the lopsided staircase with a bewildered expression. “C’mon, Mason, cut it out. That’s not funny,” Marcie said, following his gaze nervously. I crossed my arms, not amused by his attempts to scare us. Another shriek filled the house, making my blood turn
cold. I looked around, wondering who’d screamed this time, but it was clear by their terrified expressions that the shriek hadn’t come from any of us. “We gotta get out of here!” Mason screamed. We raced toward the door, which was a mere feet from where we stood. The old rotting door that was just barely hanging on its hinges slammed shut with an echoing BANG. Mason rattled the door desperately, trying to pry it open. Another scream erupted from upstairs. Freddie muttered “oh my God” to himself over and over, and Marcie clung to my arm so tightly that I could feel myself losing circulation. “Maybe there’s another way out,” Mason suggested, his voice quivering. He crept to the back of the house, and we followed. Mason clawed and groped the door in the back kitchen, but it didn’t budge. He cursed, and I swear Freddie started crying. He was sniveling and tugging at his sweatshirt. A horrible screeching
noise like nails on a chalkboard came from down the hallway. A figure appeared in the doorway, and my heart stopped when I realized it was the woman from the picture. Her throat was ruptured and bloody, slit open, and her eyes were red and swollen as though she’d been crying. Before I could react, she barreled towards Freddie with a terrible scream, and he dropped to the floor writhing. Marcie screamed, and Mason was too stunned to react. I grabbed their arms, dragging them into another room. I banged at the windows, and my fingers found a lock on one of the windows. I clicked it open. I was pushing the window up when an excruciating pain ran through my whole body. I felt like I was on fire; everything burned and ached, and I wanted to die. I wanted to make it end. And then it did. Like a flip of a switch, the pain ended, and the world went black. Now let me ask you: do you believe in monsters?
“Disturbia,” Photograph by The Owlish Bookworm
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Bloody Maze By Artemis The clock strikes 10 You heave in great gulps of air into your Burning lungs as you run Away from IT, away from the danger Radiating behind you You turn corridor after identical corridor Trying to win the game, to find the exit The clock strikes 11 You’re no closer to the end Your heart feels like it’s
Bursting out of your chest with each step But you keep running, Pushing your trembling legs to the limit The pain is better than what’s behind you The clock strikes 12 Midnight, game over You hear it catching up to you and tears start pouring You feel the fear knot your stomach and Squeeze your throat You try to speed up, but—
It’s too late
Sally’s Bones Book Review By Amanda Farine In Sally’s Bones, by MacKenzie Cadenhead, Sally Simplesmith, a tween girl, meets a friendly skeleton dog named Bones. They meet exactly two months, twenty-eight days, nine hours, and twelve minutes before the little dog’s accusation of the crime of the town of Merryland’s stolen animal bones. Sally tries to defend her friend at the court meeting, but she soon discovers the true criminal of the stolen bones…someone who once knew her long-gone mother, Patty Simplesmith. “It’s Only Your Imagination,” Illustration by Khokokat
Who Turned Out the Lights?
By The Owlish Bookworm Please leave the lights on, I’m afraid Of the dark.
Eyes red, Possessed glare. Slithers into my dreams. Turns them into terrors. Check again, Mummy. Please!
Before you go— Check the closet, Under the bed, Between the curtains, Behind my head.
Mummy, can’t you see it? See it trying to eat me? Can’t you hear it? Someone, help me please!
For the monsters, Mummy.
The closet, now. There’s one there, I’m sure.
They want me to go with them. Away from here, Away from Teddy, Away from you.
Legs creeping, Feelers crawling, Teeth flashing, Me falling.
One likes to slither Up my lamp, Scales shiny,
Can’t you see the Slime on the wall? The scratches from its legs?
Why don’t you hear its Jaw snapping? Hear the way it makes me beg? Please, Mummy—don’t leave! Look out the window— Look, please! Enormous, hulking, Glowing scarlet eyes. Wants to take me away, Won’t let me say my goodbyes. The lights are flickering— Mummy left them on. Help, please! Under the bed, it’s there It’s waiting. Don’t let it get me. Too many legs, I’ve only got two.
Too many fangs. I’m going to lose. Mummy, please don’t leave me! Door shuts, Mummy gone. Wind howling, Haunt’s begun. Serpent slithering, Gliding there, Pincers clacking, Red eyes Everywhere. Fear Terror Monsters in sight, Time to go, darling, Time to eat, little one. Time to know, child. Who turned out the lights
Ghouls of the Future: kindergarten in the ghoul world. By er, and Julianne and Snitches went fifth grade, Mandy was a bright and in the third. Yaphat and Mandy A Ghoulish Halloween outgoing ten-year-old girl. While went off to see the old legends exstill attending school in the ghoul world, Mandy ended up making six new friends: Yaphat the warlock, Julianne the vampire, Snitches the baby dragon and class pet, Sam the ghost guy, William the fix-it kid, and Candy-land the slime hamster. During Mandy’s tenth year, I felt like she was living similarly to me when I was her age. But there was one Halloween that stuck out from all of her other fifth-grade memories. Mandy had just met her six new friends, and they were attending the Halloween Extravaganza’s tenth-year celebration. Mandy dressed up as a glow-in-the-dark skeleton while the rest of her friends went as themselves since they were already ghouls. Their first stop during their fun night was the Green Witch Castle. “What are we doing here again?” Julianne asked in a snippy tone. “My mom and her friends used to come here all the time when she was my age,” Mandy explained to her friends. “Oh.” Julianne shrugged. Yaphat smiled at Mandy. “So, what are we going to do here?” “Well, we’re allowed to tour the place and see all of the cool exhibits,” Mandy replied. “Then we can go to one of the festival booths for a snack.” “How about we split up?” Sam suggested. “That way, we’ll have different adventures to talk about.” “Great idea,” Mandy told him with a grin. Soon, the kids split up into three groups. Mandy and Yaphat went to together in one group, Sam, William, and Candy-land went in anoth-
hibits together. There were mostly statues of phantoms and other creatures that used to live there. It was supposed to be creepy, but Mandy and Yaphat didn’t think so. “This seems kind of dull compared to what the brochures said,” Mandy said finally. Yaphat shrugged. “Yeah, they’re okay, but I’ve seen nicer ones—or at least more ancient ones.” “Want to do something else?” Mandy asked him. Yaphat looked at his wrist watch. “Well, we don’t have to meet up with the gang for another half hour, so what do you want to do?” “Why don’t we check out some of the souvenir booths here?” Mandy suggested. Yaphat shrugged. “Sure.” Back at the main room, Sam, William, and Candy-land still couldn’t decide on where to go. There wasn’t much to see. Everything seemed too boring to them. “We could check out the brochure display,” William suggested shyly. Sam shrugged. “Beats just standing around,” he figured. The three of them looked through the brochures, but they found nothing exciting. It seemed hopeless to find some fun, so William suggested that they go to one of the souvenir booths. Sam and Candy-land thought that sounded nice. “Look at all this stuff,” Mandy said, picking up a little green, lightup model of the Green Witch Castle. “I think I’m going to buy this.” Yaphat nodded and scanned the booth for anything he might like.
Suddenly, something caught his eye. It was a picture book on the legendary history of the Green Witch Castle. He flipped through a few pages and smiled. “I think I’ll get this,” he said. “How much is it?” Mandy asked. Yaphat looked at the back cover. “Only ten dollars. I can afford that,” he said. Mandy grinned. “Cool.” After they purchased their souvenirs, Mandy and Yaphat decided to meet up with the others. Before they got far, they saw Sam, William, and Candy-land in another shop. “Hey, guys,” Mandy said. Sam turned around. “Oh, hey, Mandy,” he said. Then he gestured for her and Yaphat to look at one of the photos. “This one’s from the Green Witch Castle’s big feast,” Sam told them, pointing to a photo of a fancy dining room table with lots of homecooked food on it. Just then, Snitches came scurrying over to everyone and gestured for them to follow him to a glasseddisplay where Julianne was standing. She seemed to be gazing right through it. “Julianne?” Mandy asked. Julianne turned her head. “Guys, take a look at this.” Everyone walked over to the display and gasped. Right in the center of the display floor stood a framedphoto on an easel of two girls. Their names were listed on a little card on a small table next to the easel: Samantha Heinz and Vanita. It was the very same Vanita whom I and my old friend, Amy, had summoned out of the journal. Seeing one of Amy’s ghoul creations as a kid with a human friend was definitely a spooktacular Halloween surprise!
lowed front door and be the first to ring the doorbell. By Janus Parents trailed behind, attempting to catch up with them and chatting As it got dark on Halloween night, with fellow child-wranglers. Meanchildren poured out of their houses while, teenagers went to costume parties and watched Supernatural and into the streets. They sweated under their rubbery masks, and the and gory horror movies in their pachill in the air seeped into their tat- jamas, sullenly handing out candy tered costumes. Smeared face paint when children shrieked, “TRICK OR TREAT!” had been applied and promptly It was a continuous contest no one rubbed off by grimy hands. could win: who had the best candy, Plastic pumpkins and jack-olanterns smiled toothily from steps who rang the doorbell first, who had and doorways, and witches cackled been to the most houses. The adults watched the pandemonium with from speakers. Plastic gravestones littered yards, toppling not from age absentminded smiles, remembering the times when they were young and but from flimsiness. The children ran down the streets wore silly costumes with pride. The children would always say in packs, their candy-filled pillowcases thumping against the ground. thank you, but when the door closed, they carefully examined They raced across mowed lawns their loot. People who handed out and springy grass to get to the halpretzels or apples were silently
scorned, and those who gave heaping piles of treats or whole candy bars were praised extensively. Their bags grew swollen and pregnant with candy as the night went on, and it was handed to parents when it grew too heavy. The children were generals, plotting the route they would take carefully, which houses were to be avoided and which neighborhoods must be visited. They wore a uniform of store-bought costumes, and their weapons were plastic and made in China. They marched down the streets, forgetting who they were for a few short hours. They didn’t think about their problems, but instead how much candy they had. Halloween was a celebration of childhood, and kids embraced it. When it got late, the parents herded their offspring home, despite
pleas of “ten more minutes!”. The fun wasn’t over yet, though. Children exchanged candy with each other, spreading their treasure across the floor and sorting it into tidy piles based on type. Reese’s traded for Snickers, Butterfinger’s traded for Hershey’s, strange candy thrown away—an important custom. One of the many rituals of Halloween, children whittled down their stash to their favorites and would munch happily on cavity-inducing candy until bedtime. When it was time for bed, the weary children would strip off their sweaty and wrinkled costume and snuggle under their blanket, still on a sugar high. They drifted off to sleep happily. The streets emptied, and the shouts of children diminished, and the neighborhood would be quiet once more. 7
By Amanda Farine
As the years went by, I eventually had to be separated from Amy. She had to go off and help her ghoul creations since some of them had grown very weak. They lived far away from our original home, so it was going to have to be a solo mission. Just before we said our final good-bye, Amy gave me two very gifts: her glowing stone necklace and her childhood ghoul journal. I actually didn’t get much use out of those things, though. It just wasn’t the same as my time with Amy. But when I grew up, I got married to my college boyfriend, John Canes, and had kids of my own to show the ghoul magic to. When my first daughter, Marie, turned seven, I took her into the ghoul journal’s world for the first time. After fixing up the dreary area together, Marie loved it. She made friends with a witch named Tammy, and when Halloween came around, she had a big feast in the Green Witch Castle and even went to the Halloween Extravaganza. A couple of years later, just a few months after Marie’s ninth birthday, I had my second daughter, Mandy, who shared a passion for the ghoul world as well. After Marie reached her last year of middle school, she began to connect more with the human world and spend less time in the ghoul world. Mandy attended pre-school in the human world but hated it immediately. The kids didn’t understand her the way I did, and I homeschooled her for the rest of the year. For kindergarten, I got a unique idea. I decided to have her go to
Halloween Memories
Ode to the Seven Deadly Sins By The Teurmessian Fox Greed, Pride, Lust, Envy All leaving my soul empty Wrath, Sloth, and lastly Gluttony Thank the Devil for the way you treat me With your clever words You are my Lords First there is Greed Upon his noble steed Next is Pride Oh, how I am in for a ride Thanks to the infamous Lust Who didn’t let me leave them in the dust Envy, oh Envy You make me want to be ready My special friend Wrath, Helped me down this dangerous path But Sloth, He has given me some pause I’ve given up my real life Instead I am stuck with all this strife With the Gluttony I forgot the agony Thank you all for the way I act It is all a part of my silly pact I got out of Hell What a great spell I paid the price Now I’m off to great nights. “Welcome to Hell,” Illustration by Raven “Join Us,” Cosplay by Hades
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A Study in Darkness By Aradia
Perhaps one finds a darkness Too deep someday Something that shouldn't exist A darkness sliced by the full moon The full moon that reflects on a god That we can't be certain Will save us
“Fatal Frame,” Illustration by Japanda3
The Full Moon Watches By Zenyatta The lone wolf howls at the full moon in the sky, He lets his sorrow free to rise and fly. Then he turns back into the dark, dark woods, And disappears with no more than a sigh.
That was a long, long time ago. The ceiling of the church has sunken low, The steps are in decay and overgrown, The pulpits still stand though, row upon row.
A church stands empty on a hill, alone. It saw the wolf howl at the moon and moan. It is no longer filled with laughs and tears, For people left it as they all went home.
And now, the moon is only present Whether it's full or merely just a crescent, To see the church all lonely on the hill And watch as time can slowly, slowly kill.
The Four Horsemen By The Teurmessian Fox War and Pestilence Neither famous for gentleness Famine and Death They will all leave you out of breath All upon their noble steeds They won’t listen to your constant pleas They will leave you crying on the floor, Whether on a white, red, black or pale horse You can run, but never hide They always have their sin of pride The Apocalypse is coming, and so are these four They are waiting at Hell’s door
“In the Dark of the Night,” Illustration by Senpai
Innocent Revenge By Isabel Hertz
Chapter 1 Saint Moritz Academy for the Privileged was the boarding school for the insanely rich. Sons and daughters of kings, sultans, and corporate tycoons resided within its grey, weathered walls. Once a Scottish fortress, the school sat atop a high mountain, engulfed by dense evergreens and an ever present fog. Perched on the mountaintop, the academy stood imposing from the outside, but inside, the halls were filled with bustling crowds of selfcentered children. The kids themselves stayed at the school for years on end, most without seeing parents beyond the pictures in newspapers, magazines, and, of course, Facebook. Every holiday they would get the traditional apologetic note explaining that due to unforeseen commitments, they would not be able to spend the holidays with their children. Alongside the monogrammed envelope would lay the impeccably wrapped gift and crisp bill to bid the little darlings a happy holiday. Unsurprisingly, the students of St. Moritz were mean and selfish. That is, all but one—Emily Allaway, the only orphan at the school. When Emily’s great uncle passed away, he had left her his inheritance and a full scholarship into the academy. Little Emily was not over eight when she entered the school, and, given her humble background, she was subjected to the constant teasing and bullying of her well-to-do classmates. Whatever it was that they did, she dealt with it. No word would escape her lips, and no tear would roll down her cheek. Although it was hard for her to continue amid the constant insults and jeering, she had promised herself that she wouldn’t show weakness and would continue on. Emily was no more than five feet—normal for an eleven year old. She had long brown hair that cascaded to the small of her back. Her eyes were as silver as the moon and shined against her pale, milky face. She was the type of person who always found the best in everyone, even if they didn’t accept her. As the holiday season approached, tensions among the kids seemed to rise, as if knowing that, yet again, they would be left to spend the holidays within the cold, damp walls of St. Moritz. The shoving and teasing increased day by day. It was on one especially crisp December day that tensions seemed to rise to a peak, and attention focused on Emily. She was eating her sandwich alone against a small stone wall in front of the school. It was lunchtime, and the
only thing that accompanied her was the melodic singing of the birds above. The bees buzzed around the scarce flowers left from Autumn, taking their time on each one. The sight soothed Emily, and a smile crawled sweetly onto her pure face. From a distance, a group of boys came her way. She knew too well what was to come. There were four of them, five years older than her if she guessed right. She lowered her head and stared at her sandwich as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. As her heart pounded against her chest, she knew that there was no where to run. They would run after her. No place to hide. They’d find her. So she sat there, resigned to what was to come. A cloud rolled over the sun, blocking the comforting light. The boys got closer and closer until all that was left between Emily and them was just a meter’s length. “Get up,” the tallest boy, Victor, demanded. His stature and gruff voice intimidated her, but she didn’t dare show fear. “I said, get up!” As Victor swooped down to administer his first blow, the small birds scattered, seeking refuge from the horrible scene. The boys circled around her like hungry vultures ready for their prey. Finally, Emily looked up at her attacker’s eyes. Victor’s dark brown eyes were clear of any expression other than anger. “You think you can disobey me, huh?” the boy yelled once again before throwing a punch to Emily’s jaw. The other three boys cawed and jeered as they continued to circle around her. Emily’s hand went up to feel the burning bruise which was no doubt turning blue. “You’re a wimp. You’re a filthy, low-class wimp,” he growled, followed by another punch, this time to Emily’s stomach. Emily buckled down to her knees as each of the boys joined in to deliver his dose of kicks and punches. Emily curled up into a defensive ball, which only resulted in a roar of laughter from the bullies. Profanities rose to the trees, now bare of birds and leaves, but no response came from her lips. Exhausted from their savage exertion, the boys retreated, satisfied to leave Emily to lay in the small puddle of crimson blood. Bruises and cuts lined her jaws. Her pearl white cheeks were red from endless gashes. No one came to help her up. Instead, she had to muster up the energy to push herself into a standing position. Emily closed her eyes painfully and moved her hands underneath her chest. Slowly, she heaved herself up onto her feet. A thin thread of blood slowly streamed down from her chin onto the already red stone pavement. Emily leaned against the
small stone wall and tried to concentrate on the sandwich still lying on the ground. Her vision blurred then focused, and the pattern repeated for another minute or so. She tried not to flinch from the sharp pains that raged through her face. The shrill bell echoing through the academy signaled the end of lunch. Emily dragged her feet into the school building and walked sluggishly to her class. The teacher turned around in his chair and looked her over. “Again, Emily? Don’t you remember what I said about trying to make friends?” Emily nodded and went to her seat at the back of the room. She scoped the room to see if any of the bullies were there, and her eyes met Victor’s. There he sat, three desks across from her. He leaned over his desk to look at Emily and smirked. She continued to look straight ahead, increasingly angry at herself for not being able to control the tear that rolled down her cheek. One of the lights in the class flickered off. The teacher stared at it for a long while but then went back to writing what appeared like hieroglyphics to Emily onto the chalkboard. The bulb flashed back on. “Darn light. I’ll need to call that good for nothing janitor later today,” the teacher murmured to himself. Another light, this one at the back of the classroom, started to flicker as well. Both bulbs flashed on and off simultaneously.
“Alright. Which one of you is playing a prank?” the teacher asked. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at each of them. As he looked at Victor, all of the lights started to flicker chaotically. They were no longer in sync, and a few seconds later, all of the lights went off. A shiver ran down Emily’s spine as she heard footsteps in the front of the classroom. She heard the flick of a switch, and all the lights went back on. All of the students looked around the room and tried to figure out what had happened. “Calm down, calm down. One of the kids just pulled a prank,” the teacher reassured. He walked to the back of the classroom and put his hand on Victor’s desk. “And I’m pretty sure it was you.” No reply came from the boy. “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” the teacher ordered. “Victor!” Still, Victor didn’t respond. The teacher stepped away and examined the boy from a distance. Emily leaned over her desk to look at her bully. He was motionless, almost lifeless. His eyes were focused on something beyond reach. Victor’s expression was blank, but that wasn’t unusual. What drew everyone’s eyes to him was the stillness of his chest and the bluish hue of his lips. His breathing had stopped.
To be continued...
“Dark Bloom,” Illustration by Alice Fraser
Queenbreaker By Hades You can sit on your throne of lies, And you can wear your crown of greed. You can hoard your ill-gotten prize; You have nothing I need.
You can offer me precious stones, Or name me Beauty incarnate, Or conquer for me all lands known, But I’ll have none of it.
You covet your ev’ry treasure, And you claim to rule all you see. You’d have all that’d give you pleasure, But you shall ne’er have me.
You can have your castle of bones And count your heaps of blood money, Feast your halls when you’re all alone.. It matters naught to me.
You can hang me up in a cage, And you can smash me on your walls. You can scream and thunder and rage, But I care not at all.
You destroy what you cannot own, Lest it escape to liberty. You would burn all just to atone; Why, you’d break even me.
But I will not pay you homage, And I refuse to bend the knee. I will ne’er worship your image, For you are not my king.
I care not for your golden bribes Or bittersweet serenading. I care not for your diatribes, For you are not my king.
I would endure this gruesome hell Just so I could escape from thee— My heart, my eyes, my soul I’d sell. No, you are not my king.
Damn the ballads of you they sing, To hell with your scepters and rings. What in God’s name was I thinking? O! You are not my king.
Damn the awful vengeance you bring, To hell with the axe that you swing. You will ne’er let me stop bleeding. O! You are not my king.
Damn you, damn your everything, To hell with your black angel’s wings. You are the reason I’m falling. O! You are not my king.
I blaspheme your sermonizing, And I spit upon your blessings. My sacrilege may be damning, But you are not my king.
I blaspheme your false peacemaking, And I spit upon your warring. I may lie here, crushed and dying, But you are not my king.
I blaspheme your white hands, unclean, I spit upon your noble mien. With ev’ry breath, I am sinning, But at least I am no longer your queen.
Who Needs Love? By Luna Moon Sparkles Eternal love? As far as I'm concerned it doesn't really exist. Nothing is permanent. Not our beauty, not our health, certainly not our love. We should all become vampires. You are so much better and stronger, Than falling for some sappy trap. Lovers will only use you and play you. Wait, isn't this the 50th time I've told you? Love lies and tricks. I would know, From loving someone who would never see me. He would never want me. That's OK, cause I should've known love doesn't exist. “A Nation on Her Knees,” Illustration by Charybdis Pandora’s Box
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Rhadamanthus’s Rant One of the greatest things about going to a school like Churchill is that we get to meet so many different people from so many different backgrounds. Every day we meet hundreds of unique individuals who have traveled here from around the globe and, most of the time, we don’t even notice. With the great wealth of diversity that we have here at Churchill, you would think that students would be naturally open-minded to different cultures, habits, and ideas. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. Well, at least not for everyone. Despite the diversity that we’ve been exposed to, ignorance is still the name of the game for many students at Churchill. While I could go on and on about different ways that some Churchill students are ignorant and often offensive towards others, this month’s rant is about ignorance in the college application process. If you’re a senior or if you’ve been around any seniors in the last couple of months, then you probably know how stressful the college application process can get this time of the year. From transcripts, to essays, to deadlines, and more, seniors have a million different things to keep track of at once to ensure that their application is sent in correctly. Not only that, but seniors also have to maintain good grades in hard classes and participate in extracurricular activities, all while trying to stave off mental breakdowns and maintaining some kind of social life.
As if all of that wasn’t enough, seniors have to deal with blatant ignorance from their peers, and that may be the most stressful part of the entire process. It’s no secret that Churchill is an extremely competitive school. From getting good grades to making sports teams, everything is a competition. Unfortunately, the college application process is no different. For many Churchill students, the application process is simply an opportunity to gloat about all the great schools that they think they’ll be attending next fall. If you eavesdrop on any college-related conversation, you’re likely to hear the names of prestigious institutions flying all over the place. Stanford, Duke, Harvard, Princeton, UNC Chapel Hill—the list goes on and on. Before I go any further, I should say that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with applying to these schools or sharing the fact that you’re applying. After all, those are great schools and if you’re applying to them, then you’ve probably worked really hard your entire high school life and deserve credit for that. The issue is not that people share the colleges they’re applying to, but rather the way they respond to the colleges that other students are applying to. Often times, if someone asks you what schools you're applying to and your list doesn’t meet their “prestigious” standards, then you’ll likely get an ignorant and offensive response. For example, earlier this month I overheard someone in the hallway saying that they would like to attend a university in Maryland. The student’s friend mockingly responded, “Wow you’re staying in state? That sucks. Why don’t you apply to a decent out-of-
state or private school?” Yes, someone actually said that. And believe it or not, comments like this are fairly common. The unwavering pretentiousness of some Churchill students is so apparent that it almost looks like they don’t care that they’re offending their peers. What some people at this school don’t seem to understand is that there are hundreds of fantastic colleges to choose from. Public, private, four year, or two-year— the options for college applicants are nearly limitless, and the ultimate goal of receiving a quality education is the same no matter what college route students decide to take. So, just because you’re applying to 10 Ivy’s, it doesn’t mean everyone else has to do the same. Your dream school might be Stanford, but your best friend’s dream school could easily be a tiny 100-student college in a small American town hundreds of miles away. The worst thing you can say to a senior is that they’re applying to bad schools. Why? Because as much
as you like to think you’re a genius, you don’t really know anything. You don’t know if a school is good or bad because college is different for every person and, in the end, it is what you make of it. You also don’t know anything about the student. Maybe they can’t afford to go to any other school. Maybe that “mediocre” school that you’ve never heard of is actually a great school that they’ve been dreaming of attending since before they could walk. The college application process is stressful enough as it is; don’t make it worse for others by letting your arrogance get in the way of other peoples’ joy. By all means, apply to great schools. Getting accepted into college is a monumental step in a person’s life and should be celebrated as such. You should be ecstatic about getting in to Yale, Princeton, Stanford, UMD or any other institution. But if you feel the need to use your happiness to strip away that of others, then you probably aren’t mature enough to go to college anyway. “Close Your Eyes,” Illustration by Angiosperm
Nøkken, Nøkken, Hvor er Du By A.T. Pacem “Anna! Hurry up! You know what Mother said about staying out past sunset!” Anna brushes her silken strands of blonde hair behind her small ear before snatching her basket of hemp from the ground. “Come on,” Erik urges, grabbing his little sister’s hand as they run through the forest. The branches sway with a steady breeze, and the siblings breathe in nature’s gentle aroma. They laugh, unaware that they’ve been heard. When they reach their humble home of stone, wood, and straw, Anna pulls the door open with all her six year old strength and lets Erik through first. “Thanks,” he chuckles, hastily stepping in to avoid overstraining his sister. Anna locks the door behind her, prancing over to meet her mother with a smile that’s missing a front tooth. Her mother smiles and gratefully takes the hemp from her daughter, as always placing a loving kiss on her forehead. Erik throws down the firewood next to the fireplace and turns to find Father, all crimson beard and icy eyes standing behind him. Erik grins and runs over to his father, who is more than happy to swing his son around in the air. “You’re home!” Erik exclaims. “I am, yes,” his father teases, gently placing him down to give his sister the same roundabout in the air. She squeals and hugs him tightly, hanging from his neck until he puts her down. Erik feeds the fire and jumps into his father's lap the first chance he gets. Anna frowns but makes do in Mother's arms as they all sit around the fireplace. Father begins his tale of meeting all the unique creatures he saw on his Viking pilgrimage, and Erik intently listens. “But make no mistake children. One of the strangest beings I ever saw, is actually here in Sweden—” Mother slaps his arm and gives a pointed look. Father grunts and clears his throat. “—is far away. The Nøkken,” “What’s a Nøkken?” Anna inquires, her bright icy eyes glimmering with curiosity. “The Nøkken, my child, is a monster that looks like a human. A handsome bugger at that, too. He lives by lakes, rivers, calm streams—anywhere his white lilies
grow. He plays a violin, or a harp, I’ve seen, and draws any weak and poor human to him. They get in the water, and he follows, and then he drowns them…just like that.” The fire seems to snap with emphasis. Anna stares with wild eyes. “Is there a way to make him good?” she asks, playing with the braids in Father’s beard. He thinks for a moment, taking her little hand in his as he thinks. Erik’s breath seems to catch in his throat as he also waits for an answer. “Yes, but it something you children shouldn’t get yourselves into,” “But Papa! Please?” Anna whines, pulling a pouty face and tugging again at her Father’s whiskers. He sighs and reluctantly answers. “They say you have to either give the man a cup of brandy, three drops of blood from your finger, or stolen meat. Then he'll do whatever you ask.” There's a pause. “Alright, children! Bedtime!" Father scoops Anna up into his arms and she squeals, somehow already forgetting what she had begged for. Erik almost falls to the stone floor. “Goodnight, Mom,” Erik says, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek before shuffling down the hallway to bed. He yawns, his twelve year old body exhausted by today’s events. With his shoes off and his coat thrown aside, Erik crawls into bed and pulls the blanket over his shoulders before falling asleep. *** The trees hold their breath, and the rain begins to dance down from the sky. The lilies skim the water’s surface before bobbing and drowning almost completely. The trees begin to wail, and the rain teeters to the side. Grey-blue eyes roam for shelter from the brisk rain, and slow steps take the owner beneath a closed crevice. Pale lips blow across violin strings, instantly tuning the sharp and flat notes, and a bow is placed on top. There’s a mundane drone of strings before a haunting aria of sound is played. Erik wakes with a start. He tumbles to the floor, swearing under his breath and rising to throw himself back into bed only to be stopped. A mournful serenade floats from the woods. It’s grieving, broken, but strung together so beautifully Erik finds himself leaving his bedroom with only his blanket draped over his shoulders to protect against the autumn wind. He opens the door and gently leans on the outside for it to click shut without much noise. He begins to follow the music, his feet blindly aware of where he’s going. He retraces the steps he took earlier in the evening and sees the
pond. Leaves twirl to its surface, skimming and breaking the calm. Erik spins slowly to find where the beautiful music was coming from, looking up at a lonely crevice to see two stark, icy eyes glaring back from the darkness. He drags himself forward, climbing and stepping over sharp, jagged rocks. The Nokken smiles, pointed teeth dazzling in the darkness of midnight. He plays until the boy’s eyes glow the same color as his own. He stops playing and sets his violin down across the rocks, falling to a knee to become shorter than his prey. He whispers, and the wind whimpers a warning. “Little boy, little boy, goodbye and goodbye…” *** Anna wakes up to her mother’s shouts and her father’s pleas of forgiveness. “If you hadn’t bloody dragged us here, next to the lake—” “Please, I didn’t know—” “My son is dead and all you have are excuses! What if he comes after Anna next? We need to leave.” “Where?” “Oh, my husband’s a Viking, I’m sure he’ll find out!” Anna watches her mother storm down the hallway with slippery cheeks and bloodshot eyes. Her father stays in his place and drops his head into his hands. Erik? Dead? Anna feels her lip tremble and her throat release a sob. She walks up to her father and grabs his hand, knuckles white as she pries his hand off his face. “Teach me how to kill the Nøkken.” *** Fifteen Years Later The water lies still again, and the breeze makes the lilies sail across the surface. Birds chirp soft goodbyes and goodnights, and nature begins to put herself to sleep. Footsteps glide over the forest floor, and the flapping of a skirt reminds the forest of a huntress on the prowl. She steps from the fir trees and draws her dagger, tucking it into the back of her belt. She throws a blond braid over her shoulder and kneels at the edge of the pond. A lily floats closer. “Where are you, my friend? I have a gift for you. Come, strong being. Please let me show you.” Anna slinks back as the surface of the water breaks. There he stands, looking just as he did fifteen years ago. His eyes glow like they did before, fierce and calculating.
He smirks. “To what do I owe the honor?” “I bring a gift, like I said,” Anna smiles and retrieves her handheld harp from where she hid it behind the trees. “My harp's been terribly out of tune lately, and I'm now the laughingstock of my tribe,” The Nøkken pouts. “That's never any good, is it, little one? Well, you know my request.” Anna nods and draws a little bottle of brandy from her purse, along with stolen veal meat. She knows she only needs one or the other, but two never hurt. The Nøkken snatches them from her hands and analyzes them, testing the brandy and biting from the strip of veal. He seems impressed and beckons for the harp. Anna turns it over and waits. The creature plucks at the strings with pale fingers and blows across the screws, drawing and exhaling to turn the knobs in whichever direction he desires. His concentration is unparalleled, and he fine tunes each and every string to perfection. “What a gift you bring,” he chuckles. “You know, girl, you look a lot like someone I've seen before.” “Oh?” “Yes, perhaps… I may be mistaken, love. Ignore the old man,” he says as he finishes. Anna giggles and retrieves the harp. She tests it, filling every gap of silence with gentle notes and powerful ringing. “It's lovely!” she exclaims, taking a bow of gratitude. In a quick, fluid motion, the harp falls to the ground, a lily is stolen from the pond, and the dagger is drawn. The Nøkken stands isolated, teeth bared and eyes burning with rage. Anna's demeanor of innocence is swiftly replaced with her rage. “I know you,” the Nøkken rasps. “You're his sister.” It's Anna's turn to smirk. “Shame how you can die so easily…” “You wouldn't.” “You don't know me, Nøkken.” She flings the knife and watches it penetrate his chest. He gapes as blood trickles down his white blouse, plaguing the water. Shaking, he collapses forward to the shore. “Your name is your death, my steel your executor.” Anna kneels by his side and draws the dripping dagger from his chest. He gasps for breath and begins to shrivel up; flawless skin turns black, leathery. Hands and joints curl inward, like leaves in a burning fire. He lets out a final scream before his dust is carried away by the wind. “Farewell, Nøkken.” 13
Witching Hour By Astraea
The minute hand of the rustic clock ticked by in a periodic, rhythmic jolt. From her seat—her favorite chair, a French Antique Winged Confessional Bergere, recently reupholstered with a satin off-white fabric—the thin metal of the minute hand could not move fast enough. October thirtieth, eleven thirty-four at night. On the arm of the chair, her red wine-tipped fingers tapped against the wood. It was hard to find time to herself in her line of work. She wouldn’t wish running a coven of witches on her worst enemy. Twenty-six minutes. The entire day had been filled with her sitting at the desk of her office, mindlessly writing checks to various companies for bills that weren’t due for another week or two. At the bottom of each check, she signed her full name in swirly cursive. Twenty-one minutes. The embers in her fireplace gave the white walls a soft orange glow. The red headed woman thought about adding another log of wood but then decided there was no need for it. In New Orleans, it was still warm around this time of year— perfect for trick-or-treaters. All night that echoing doorbell had been ringing, but about an hour ago, the ringing
ceased as the trickle of children died down. She had left the responsibility of passing out candy to the housemaid, who begrudgingly agreed. Sixteen minutes. This night was a special night. For months, she had the unfortunate responsibility of babysitting bratty teens in their quest to gain power over the coven. She had to watch the dark magic, catfights, bloody wounds, and tears while the girls fought tooth and nail to gain the power to succeed the current leader—the Supreme. Fourteen minutes. The soft light from the fireplace continued to die down, and she began fiddle with the large, antique ring adorned with small diamonds that encircled an emerald while her anticipation grew to fill the room with an uneasy air. Ten minutes. She stood up, heels clicking on the wood floor as she walked to the fireplace. She rested her perfectly manicured hands on the sticky mantel. Normally, she would have recoiled in disgust. Now, she couldn’t bother to worry about a petty thing. As the minute hand grew closer to that XII adorning the top of her old grandfather clock, she rocked back and forth on her black, red soled heels. The wait was killing her. Five minutes. As the minutes went down to seconds,
the room grew eerily still. The embers extinguished. She paused her rocking, ending perfectly on the heel of her stiletto, eyelids slowly closing to an eyelash-brimmed shut. The only sound in the room was the echo of the second hand finally reaching the top of the clock’s face. Midnight. With a turn on her heel, she outstretched her arms, the sheer, loose material rippling in a sudden breeze that filled the closed off room. Her eyes flew open, searching the room for something she couldn’t find. Her body overflowed with something she didn’t recognize. Power? Confidence? Self -awareness? She didn’t know. But she did know that tonight, she could do more than she ever could before. With a flick of her small, freckled hand, windows flew open, the fire roared to life, and she found herself floating several inches above the floor of the room. Her small, petite figure was buzzing with the new yet familiar feel of real magic. The red hot feeling traveled through her body, all the way to the tips of her fingers, making them tingle and itch for more. She was filled with enlightenment and power. That’s when she knew. Those girls were too silly and petty to have even dreamt of being capable of what she was. The title of Supreme is hers. There’s a reason why it’s called the witching hour.
Pure Blood or Not By Zenyatta A drop of blood—bright red upon the cloth, The dress is white, yet just like grass so soft. The blood seeps through without a haste or hurry, For anyway the body will be buried. Pure blood or not, the victim was a girl. War had come like a crow to pick her land. No longer in the meadows will she twirl, And never will her eyes see sky again. Pure blood or not, her name meant "life forever", She will not ever run again through heather, She will not pick wild flowers from the hills, For war has come and war will always kill. Pure blood or not, the war was for the people. A flag was run up on the church's steeple. Pure blood is gentry—dirty blood, the serfs are, An arrow slices air, its aim so perfect. 14
“Queen of the Night,” Illustration by Bluejay
Carnival Tail By Calypso Maybe things would have been different if I hadn’t surfaced for air. I’d only intended to stay above the surface for a moment, but they must’ve been waiting for me. My eyes were still closed when the harpoon dug into my tail. I screamed, my shrieks piercing the still air around the lake my sisters and I called home. Screaming for help, I writhed beneath the water, trying to break free but only forcing the pointed barb deeper into the muscles in my tail. Three of my sisters heard my calls and swam to me, biting the rope the harpoon was attached to, but to no avail. Four figures stood on the other end , pulling me closer to the boulders they were standing on. Two of them raised another harpoon gun, and I screamed for my sisters to flee. Seeing the outline of the gun from below the water, they darted away, leaving only bubbles behind. One of the figures cursed, but the others set to work lifting me from the water. I was drawn out of the water slowly, an inch or two at a time. Once they had me on the boulder, three of them held me down as the fourth removed the harpoon. Men. I should’ve known. I snarled, baring my sharpened teeth and biting at the one holding my left arm down, but he slapped me across the cheek. “Are you sure we can’t throw her back in and get a different one?” the one holding my right arm down asked. His accent was as coarse as the hairs on his arm that rubbed against my wet skin, and I jerked against him. He let out a barking laugh. “This one’ll break any tank we put her in.” “Let the ringmaster deal with that,” the one holding the harpoon said. “We just had to catch her. She’ll bring us a pretty penny, too. Look at her eyes. Like opals—just what the ringmaster said wanted in a mermaid.” I hissed, but the one with the harpoon just patted my head. “Don’t worry, little beauty. We’ll get you to the carnival safely.” To the other men, he said, “Tie her down and tend to her tail. We can’t have her escaping like the last one.” *** They brought me to their campsite, a small affair with two tents nestled amongst the ancient conifers and maples of the forest that surrounded my home. The harpoon man set me down on the damp forest floor, pinning my hands
above my head and wrapping them with a thick rope. He knotted it several times before tying the other end to a branch several feet above his head. I tugged at the branch, but it barely bent. He chuckled, squatting down in front of me and tilting my chin up to examine me. “You’re just like the legends said you’d be,” he said, his breath muggy on my face. I bared my teeth, but he clucked his tongue. “Don’t be like that, pretty thing. What’s your name?” I jerked my head to the side, freeing myself from his grasp. His eyes hardened, and he said, “Fine. The other one didn’t talk either. Think you’re too good for us, do you?” He left me to join the others around the fire, and I stared up at the rope that held me. They’d cleaned my wound with a salve and bound it with white cloth, but moving my tail threatened to make the bleeding start once more. As the sun set, the last of the water dried from my hair. A splitting pain ran down my tail, and I screamed, throwing my head back against the tree as my tail cleaved into two. Warm water spilled down my cheeks, but it wasn’t enough to stop the transformation. My body shook as I sobbed, pounding the rough bark with my fists. The searing pain ran from the tips of my tail to my waist, tearing each fiber apart as my lower half remade itself. Then it was over. My chest still heaving, I dared to look down. What I saw nearly made me vomit. Legs and feet. Covered in skin and tiny hairs, they disgusted me. I turned away, the water on my face cooling. Thicker fluid filled my nose, and I snorted only to expel it onto my legs. The men laughed, and I snarled, but my sharpened teeth were gone, replaced with man-teeth. Dull, flat, useless things. That night, my sisters’ song filled the forest. Their voices blended to create a chilling melody that made flowers shrivel and the trees turn their branches. The men threw rocks at the lake to make them stop, but they only sang louder. I opened my mouth to call to them, but my voice caught in my throat when I realized what they were singing. A death song. I released a single, wavering note, and the singing stopped. The warm water began running down my cheeks again, and my voice broke as I closed my eyes, hoping that sleep would take away the tightness in my chest. The next morning, the harpoon man spread the salve on the edges of my wounds, changing the cloth
and saying, “It’s looking better. You should be able to walk today.” I frowned, tilting my head in confusion. He untied the rope from the branch, letting my arms falls limply into my lap. Heat flooded through them, but just as feeling returned to them, the man yanked at the rope, pulling me forward. “Come on. Up on your feet,” he commanded. When I didn’t move, he grabbed me by my arm and lifted me up. I lurched forward as soon as he released me, unused to balancing on two feet. He caught me, keeping hold of my hair with one hand and the rope with the other as he walked me to where the other men were striking their tents. “Ready?” “Nearly,” one of them said, rolling up the cloth of the tent and tying it with rope. Another man extinguished the last embers of the campfire with a bucket of water, and my heart ached as I watched the ground greedily consume the excess. Once they were done, the men led me to a strange device. It had a rectangular, flat, open body with a small ledge in front, and it was raised above the ground by four large wheels. Two horses were tethered to it, and they nickered as the men loaded their tents into the body of the contraption. The harpoon man picked me up, slinging me over his shoulder as though I was one of the tents. He set me down in a corner and tied his end of the rope to a ring that stuck out the floor. The other men climbed in, but one sat on the ledge. He picked up two ropes that attached to the horses and gave them a quick snap. The horses raised their heads, whinnying and stomping the ground before they started moving. The contraption jerked forward, and I slid against the grainy wood, my forehead growing damp and my stomach growing nauseous as I watched the ground move beneath me. “Never been in a cart before, little beauty?” the harpoon man asked. I didn’t respond, but he nodded. “You’ll be seeing a lot of new things, I reckon.” I remained silent, so he continued, “It won’t be too bad at the carnival. There aren’t any more of your kind, but there are other fairy-folk.” “Oi, don’t tell her too much,” one of the other men protested, but the harpoon man waved him off. “Have you ever left the water before?” he asked. After several moments of silence, he shook his head. “Still not talking? Won’t you at least tell us your name?” Silence, except for the creaking of the wooden cart as it moved over
the forest floor and the horses’ hooves clopping with a steady rhythm. “Call her Jamille. That’s what that merchant said meant beautiful, right?” one said. “She don’t look like a Jamille,” the one sitting on the ledge said, glancing back. “Besides, the merchant said ‘Jamilla,’ not ‘Jamille.’ Call her Lily.” I shook my head, and the harpoon man laughed. “She don’t like that one. It’s too plain a name for her, anyway. Who ever heard of a mermaid named Lily?” he asked. He studied me, his beetle black eyes fixed on me as though they could penetrate my dehydrated skin and peer directly into my soul. With decisive finality, he stated, “Opaline.” “If you were just gonna name her after her eyes, we should’ve gotten one with blue eyes. Then we could’ve called her Sapphire. Would’ve looked better on the posters,” the man on the ledge said. “If you don’t like it, take it up with the ringmaster,” the harpoon man snapped. Every few hours, the harpoon man spread more of the salve on my leg and tied it with a different cloth. By nightfall, the hole from the harpoon was nearly closed, and the area around it was navy blue. The man stopped the cart at the edge of the forest. The harpoon man saw me staring at the vast expanse of grass and the concentration of yellow lights in the distance. The wind ruffled the grass, making it sway in waves and whisper soft comforts. Straining my ears, I fancied that I could hear my sisters singing in the distance, calling me back home. “That’s a town. Do you know what a town is, Opaline?” the harpoon man asked me, untying the rope from the ring. I snarled in contempt. Of course I knew what a town was. How did he think mermaids lived? Holed up in caves, like trolls? “I guess so. The carnival visited that town a few months ago. We’re not too far, now, but bandits like to roam these roads at night, and we can’t afford to lose you.” He picked me up again, this time holding me in his arms like a child as he descended from the cart. Setting me down against a tree, he asked, “Are you cold?”
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I turned away, but he took off his coat, wrapping it around my shoulders like a blanket. It was so long that it covered most of my legs with its time-worn cloth, and it smelled of dirt and man, which to me was nearly the same smell. One of the other men produced a metal stake, which he pounded into the ground several feet from me. The harpoon man tied the other end of the rope around it before pulling a rope and length of cloth out of the cart. He bound my ankles—an unnecessary action considering that I could barely walk, let alone run—and gagged me before helping the other men set up their camp. They didn’t light a fire this time. Instead, three of them went to sleep. The harpoon man came and sat by me with a crossbow and a cloth sack he’d taken from the cart. “Are you hungry?” he asked, producing a spongy, brown, rectangular stone and a yellowish wedge. My brow furrowed, and he broke off a piece of each, holding up the bit of brown stone to my lips. “It’s called bread. It’s good, and it’ll fill your stomach. Try it.” I shook my head, so he held up the piece of yellow wedge. “This is cheese. It’s a little salty, but it’ll go good with the bread. Just take a bite. Come on, now.” After several more attempts, he gave up, putting the remaining bread and cheese into his pouch and tying it again. As the moon traveled across the sky, he changed places with one of the other men, who didn’t speak a word to me. By the morning, each of them had spent several hours sitting with me. They set out again with me tied to their cart, and within hours, I saw striped tents in the distance. Vibrant reds and garish yellows filled that small portion of the horizon, and as we drew closer, greens and purples joined them. When we reached the outskirts of the carnival, I saw a band of centaurs, their manes matted with dried mud and their powerful legs shackled to posts. “Brothers!” I called to them in our tongue. Their ears perked up at the sound, but when they saw me, their faces fell. “How’d they catch you, sister? Did they fish you out of your pond with pearls and jewels?” one jeered, and the others snorted, pawing the ground with their hooves. “What is this place?” I asked, but they’d all turned away. “It’s a prison,” one said over her shoulder. The cart slowed to a halt, and the men jumped out. The harpoon man
untied me and carried me to the edge of the cart. He sat me down there, still holding the other end of the rope as he said to one of the others, “Go get the ringmaster.” Men milled about, weaving between the tents, some carrying cages with fairies and pixies inside. The fairies’ wings barely fluttered, and the pixies sat still, none of them making a sound. Except for occasional growl or roar, the air was filled with man-tongue. It grated against my ears, and I pulled my knees to my chest and rested my forehead against them in an attempt to block it out. My stomach growled, and the harpoon man offered, “I can get you food. What do mermaids eat? Meat? Fish?” I looked at him, my mouth falling open in disgust. I might as well be a cannibal if I were to eat fish. “Well, if you’d just talk, I might be able to—” “Aidan, is this the mermaid?” a man asked, and I looked up to see another one. This one wore a red coat as garish as the tents, long pants that might’ve once been white, and sturdy black boots. He held a coiled whip in his hand, and he stroked the dark stubble on his chin as he sized me up. “Opal eyes, just like I asked. Can she sing?” “Yessir,” the harpoon man said, nodding. “We heard her singing two nights ago, but she won’t talk.” “People aren’t going to pay to hear her talk. They’ll pay to hear her sing,” the red-coated man said, step-
ping closer and lifting my chin. He smiled, baring his stained teeth. “Oh, yes, you’ll do very well indeed. You’re the first of your kind we’ve managed to keep.” He lifted several strands of my ebony hair, rubbing it between his fingers and sighing, “Fine as silk, just as the legends say.” Running his index finger along my cheekbone, he clucked his tongue and said, “Sharper than in the pictures, but the people will want to see something exotic. Otherwise they might not believe you’re real.” I bit at his finger, but he grabbed my throat, forcing me to look at him. The greasy smile gone from his lips, he snarled, “Don’t you try none of that. I won’t tolerate any nonsense from the beasts, and you’re no exception. Misbehaving will only get you the whip.” Yanking me off the edge of the cart, he led me into the maze of tents to the enormous red and yellow one. Metal structures lined the tent walls, and in the center was an enormous tank filled with water. The glass edges reached at least eighteen feet high, and the bottom of the tank was littered with sparkling gems and jewels. A boulder sat in the middle of the tank, and a chest filled with gold lay at its base. The harpoon man and his men filed into the test after us. The ringmaster gestured at the ladder leaning against the side of the tank and said, “One of you put her in.” The harpoon man stepped for-
ward, picking me up and slinging me over his shoulder. “Should I untie her?” he asked, stepping onto the first rung of the ladder and knocking my legs against the tank. “Don’t bother,” the ringmaster replied as two of the others moved to hold the base. The harpoon man carried me to the top and dropped me in with a large splash. As the water rushed against my skin, my legs began to spasm, and I kicked furiously against the stiffening of my legs as the transformation drew them together. I screamed, bubbles erupting from my mouth as I twisted in the water, feeling the skin over my hips and lower back split open as my fins began to grow. Pounding at the glass walls around me, I wailed louder, but it was soon over. Looking at the walls around me, I swam to the surface, bursting out of the water and grabbing the sides to pull myself out. Crying out, I released them and fell back into the water as blue lines appeared across my palms. Blood flowed out of the wounds, disappearing into the water as I turned to face the ringmaster. He smirked, and my stomach sank to the bottom of the tank. I was trapped.
To Be Concluded...
“Opaline,” Illustration by Hecate