Blackwater Review 2024

CONTRIBUTORS

Shelby

Ceciley

Rileigh

Jakob

Blackwater Review

Blackwater Review

A Journal of Literature and Art

Volume 22, No. 1 Spring 2024

Niceville, Florida

Blackwater Review aims to encourage student writing, student art, and intellectual and creative life at Northwest Florida State College by providing a showcase for meritorious work.

Managing Editor:

Dr. Jessica Temple

Prose Editor:

Kodi Richardson, MA

Poetry Editor: Kathryn Young-Hunsinger, MFA

Art Direction, Graphic Design, and Photography: Benjamin Gillham, MFA

Additional Photography: Ashan Pridgon, MFA

Editorial Advisory Board:

Dr. Heather Hartness; Dr. Beverly Holmes; April Leake, M. Ed.; Dr. David Simmons; Dr. Christopher Snellgrove; Dr. Anne Southard; Dr. Robyn Strickland; Dr. Jill White

Art Advisory Board:

Bejamin Gillham, MFA; Ashan Pridgon, MFA; Lesha Porché, M. Arch; J. Wren Supak, MFA, MA

LaRoche Poetry and Hunt Prose Contest Judges: Dr. Anne Brinton; Claire Massey, MFA; Dr. Katherine Nelson-Born; Andrea Jones Walker, BA

Blackwater Review is published annually at Northwest Florida State College and is funded by the college. All selections published in this issue are the work of students; they do not necessarily reflect the views of members of the administration, faculty, staff, District Board of Trustees, or Foundation Board of Northwest Florida State College.

Front cover artwork: The Language of Yourself, Neely Brewer Mixed Media

©2024 Northwest Florida State College. All rights are owned by the authors of the selections.

Acknowledgments

The editors and staff extend their sincere appreciation to Northwest Florida State College President Dr. Devin Stephenson, Dr. Henry Mack, Dr. Jenna Sheffield, and Dr. Robyn Strickland for their support of Blackwater Review.

We are grateful to Frederic LaRoche, sponsor of the James and Christian LaRoche Distinguished Endowed Teaching Chair in Poetry and Literature, which funds the annual James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, whose winners are included in this issue.

We appreciate the many contributors to the inaugural Dr. Vickie G. Hunt Memorial Prose Contest, whose winners are in this issue as well.

We also would like to thank the estate of James P. Chitwood for funding the Editors’ Prizes, which the editorial staff awards for excellence in writing and art.

Dedication

This issue is dedicated to three long-time supporters of Blackwater Review who left the college this year: Terry Comeau, Dr. Deidre Price, and Dr. Dana Stephens.

Dr. Dana Bigham Stephens served the college as Dean of Arts and Sciences from May 2020 to September 2023. Though her background is in natural sciences, she equally championed our students’ creative pursuits. We are thankful to have had her oversight through the many ups and downs of the past three years.

Dr. Deidre Price was with the college for over 20 years, starting as a faculty member in English and working her way up to Vice President of Academic Affairs. She served as Managing Editor of Blackwater Review from 2014-2019, building the journal that we have today. We appreciate her advice, insight, and unwavering support.

Terry Comeau began her career at the college in 1988. She retired in 2023 as Copy Services Manager. Terry long served as our go-between with various printing companies to make our publication the best it could be and keep us within budget. Her knowledge and willing assistance will be missed!

To Remembering You

Elizabeth Kelly

Peach-colored sunset with your fingers on the window, The citrus hues like rosé drops on cut glass, I remember that drive and the details, Of the car window rolled down halfway, An old, familiar song playing on the radio, The wind blowing tangles in my hair, And the smell of crisp winter, That stepping over a spider-web line, Into sage-green spring, And the gardenias that smelled like perfume, The day-old rain that cleansed the grass, The purple wildflowers lit by a flaming sun.

I remember the nightingale’s call, How it dreamed in on a winged breeze, On you and your imperfections and your wish, How you put that song on again, déjà vu, And I barely stopped my fingertips from burning, The smell of ginger cookies scintillating, As we danced in the kitchen while dusk waned, Golden beams weeping through the open door. Do you know me still? A stranger now… But once, we fell from Heaven like two angels, And wished the whole world into being, With three simple words, and a bittersweet prayer.

First Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2024

Turn On/Off

Angelina Kouchnir

As kids we often play with the switch, trying to balance it between being on and off, perfectly in the middle.

The Girl Who Would Sit Alone

“And then he was like…”

“Are you going to the Commons later...?”

“And we were in my car…”

The voices were all blurred. They all seemed so loud, and yet I could barely hear what they were saying. In a way, it was painful, painful to listen to them. I was sitting in the school cafeteria. It was moments like this, when I was surrounded by people, that I felt the most alone. All those girls wearing their identical outfits with their gigantic lead-filled cups in hand, all those boys with perms wearing white sweatpants–everyone was practically the same. How I hated them, and yet how I envied them. How I wished to be them, but at the same time, I didn’t want to change. Didn’t want to lose this stalemate I had with myself. To be like everyone else, or not? I wanted to have plans on the weekend; I wanted to not have to lie about having a social life. I wanted to speak, not to fill the awkward silence, but to share my life, or to ask someone else to share theirs, and not to feel like a small dog trying to yap its way into being noticed when I did so. I wanted to not sit in the cafeteria at the worst table, on a scratchy blue chair, eating a sad little sandwich covered in tin foil, all alone. It was the “all alone” part that I wanted to change.

Every single Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday for half an hour, I sat in this hell. It wasn’t the school that I hated, it was the isolation. I hated the loud, high-pitched,

meaningless chatter that drove me crazy. The chatter and the people that rubbed salt in the wound of my loneliness. Every time when I thought of this aspect of my misery, it felt like I was dying a little. My chest would tense up, and what I could only describe as “phantom tears” would form in my eyes. It was then that I wished, I longed, I craved for there to be a way to turn off that part of me that feels. I would catch myself on this thought and feel guilty for praying for the deletion of the part of me that wasn’t tainted by the world. The last part of me that was still capable of experiencing pure joy, happiness. But then I’d think that if I wouldn’t feel loneliness, sadness, then I wouldn’t feel guilt either. And that was tempting. Beguiling. Same as the idea of there being a switch in the back of my mind that could just turn all of it off.

The Guy Who Could Not Cry

There I was, sitting with her. God, I loved her. She was so beautiful, I could just sit there, mesmerized by her, for hours and hours, to the point where waiters would come up to us and say that the restaurant was closing, and we still hadn’t even ordered wine.

“Are you okay? You seem nervous…” I said, looking into her eyes, while she was looking away.

“I…this isn’t working,” she said, looking at me with her sad blue eyes.

“W-why?” was all I could utter.

“You’re not here; you never are. Sometimes I look at you, and I see you. I see you, and you are perfect, and then I look at you a moment later, and you are gone. I try so hard, and you used to too. But lately, it’s not you…”

“What do you mean it’s not me?” Everyone in the restaurant was now looking at us, a silly little couple sitting at a small round table.

“…This isn’t you. When we first met, you were the guy that had a soul. I would look at you, and I could tell that you were feeling whatever I was feeling. Now I look at you, and I see

the guy that came home to me that one night, almost two years ago, dead inside.”

“You know what happened.”

“Do I? I used to trust you. I used to be able to trust you. And you, you used to be able to experience human emotions. Now…I miss you. I genuinely miss you. I miss the guy that you were. I miss the guy that I know would cry if something happened to me or laughed when I laughed. I miss him.” At this point, she was crying. “I miss y…that you.”

She got up from the table.

“If the old you is still inside there somewhere, tell him that I love him.”

And that was it; she stood up and walked away. I wanted to get up, chase her on the cold wet street, and tell her that I love her and that I don’t want her to go. I wanted to be able to sit here right now and cry about the fact that the best thing that ever happened to me was walking out that door right in front of me, and I might never see her again. But I did none of that. I sat there at a small empty table, staring into nothing, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, but wishing that I could just snap back. Just snap back into the guy who could feel. Snap back, like a lightswitch snaps back to “On” and feel, and laugh, and cry, and love. Love her, and not just cling to the memories of how it felt to love her way back, when I could experience what that word meant.

The Mother Who Could Not Hold Her Baby

I went back to the empty house. I walked past the kids’ nurseries, first my daughter’s, then my son’s, and then past hers. I walked in. It was empty except for one small crib. The walls were light green, a shade of which was supposed to be her name. I missed my pregnant belly. I missed imagining what it would be like to hug her. I blamed myself. What did I do wrong? Why was she not breathing? Why? I hate myself for…she was supposed to be okay! She was supposed to start crying. She was supposed to be born alive. Why? Why was she not crying?

I broke down on the floor, gripping the beams on the crib. I hate this room. I hate how it reminds me of her. I hate the green walls and the wallpaper with cartoon-looking birds. I hate that I had to leave her there in a box. I hate that I have to pretend like everything is alright in front of the kids. They’re too young to understand. They’ll be asking though. Asking where their baby sister is. What do I say? What do I say to them? What do I say to him? He probably hates me right now. We’ve been trying for two years. She was a miracle, our miracle. And now she’s dead. I never even got to hold her…

Cars were racing by the window, their headlights shining through the blinds. I imagined this room burning. That’s how I feel right now. Like I wouldn’t even move if this room caught on fire. Probably wouldn’t even be able to. It would be nice, if a fire would burn down this room. It would save me the trouble of having to tear down the wallpaper and repaint the walls. I could just put random useless things in here and call it a storage room. The crib would also burn. That would save me the trouble of deciding what to do with it. I don’t want to give it to someone in case this…this…this hor-horrible th-thing will pass on to them. I don’t want to keep the crib because it will just remind me of her every time I look at it. I don’t know.

I’d imagine my phone is ringing nonstop from people saying how sorry they are, how this shouldn’t have happened, how no one should go through what I’m going through. Or worse, they are unaware of the situation, and their texts and calls and voice messages revolve around asking me if I have given birth yet, what’s her name, when’s the next one. That last one broke me. I wanted this so much. Now, I even regret that. Wanting it. I don’t want anything right now.

I was getting hiccups from the hysterics. And I wanted to throw a rock at every single car that dared shine light into this room. I ran up to the window, opened it, and wanted to hit a car with something so much that I was willing to rip off an arm or a leg just so I could throw it. I screamed bloody murder just out of the frustration. I wanted to turn it off. I wanted to stop feeling. I wanted to scream so loud that something would

pop in my head, and I would suddenly become really calm and stop thinking. I want it to stop. Stop it! Turn it off! Turn my thoughts off! I really wanted to stop, but I can’t. I have two living and breathing kids, and I can’t be so selfish as to take their mother as well as their sister. I wish I could switch it off, but I guess that’s why you can’t. Because the people around you do not deserve to lose you, even if you want to lose yourself.

As kids, we often play with the switch, trying to balance it between being on and off, perfectly in the middle. Little did we know that we would be trying to balance that switch for the rest of our lives, perfectly in the middle, between our emotions being on and our emotions being off.

First Place, Dr. Vickie G. Hunt Memorial Prose Contest, 2024

factory reset

Ren Kirby

a bitter afternoon in broad daylight. and there were two boys crying and understanding one another.

a welcome sunset on the water. and there were two boys seagulls danced while they talked with each other.

a gentle storm in quiet night. and there were two boys running and giggling through puddles their hands together.

adulthood and all its unwelcomings. and there were two men who kept each other boys and they felt young forever. that anxiety it finally went away. because there were two boys who grew and learned together and they knew they’d be okay.

Displaced by Nature

Louis Finch

You, in yourself, have always been lost.

You never did find a place to stay, and through years of tears you convinced yourself that you’d never want it any other way.

And so now you’re damned sure that you’ll always be third, second—maybe even fourth. Just never first.

‘Cause everyone has someone they’d put before you because you haven’t been around long, you know? and you understand that, right?

Just don’t take it personally.

And despite being born like this, you’re not this.

You’re just displaced, by nature. There’s not been a house, home, or hand to grab and hold and squeeze that’d say “It’s okay, I’ll love you no matter what.” Because with family there are always whats, ifs, and buts.

And in two years you’ll be gone again, so it doesn’t really matter who you say shit to. So cuss, scream, and punch the walls; they’re not yours, and no one cares if you break one.

You’ve always been lost, displaced, and in disarray. So, you desperate, destitute little thing I hope you find yourself one day.

There’s a Star Man

Kylee Minus

The first time I met the Star Man, I thought he was part of some forgotten pantheon of gods, dead yet still here, tied to this world by a few strings of mythology. Gods only exist when humans carry belief in them. Throughout the years, I had witnessed the deaths of many gods, and now all that remains of them are the empty holes in my head once filled with their names and titles. Eventually, the Star Man would die out like his name suggested. Like a star.

He did not die out, and with each encounter I shared with him, the more he appeared. A ghost coming out of a shell. A birth of some kind. I had no interest in him back then, before he ripped through the linens of my carefully constructed life. Tonight, he intertwined himself with me with one quick act. A brush of a dagger, a blade in my stomach. He swept through my apartment like a storm of hail. I barely had enough time to reach for my own dagger—a weapon infused with protection against malignant creatures. The scorching hot iron drove him off but not quickly enough.

I never thought anything would hurt more than heartbreak. I carried that heavy pain for years, questioning every second of every day when it would end. Once, I asked a close friend if it would ever leave my heart. As a response, he took me out for drinks. That was his response to everything.

I crawled across my living room, leaving a trail of blood in my wake, thinking of that drunken night of heartbreak. My hand trembled as I pressed it against my lower abdomen, warm blood painting my fingers. I tried not to think about the smell. I groped the table until my fingertips found my cell, my vision blurry. Each breath hurt more than the last. I clicked on the first number in my contacts. And waited. Each ring drove into my ears. I could’ve sworn they were mocking me.

“Hey, man.”

“Neil.” I never started any sentence with his name. It felt too cliché. “Are you busy?”

“It’s nearly four in the morning.” Shuffling. I think he was reaching for something. Maybe typing.

“Are you busy?” My voice hitched, breathy.

“Are you drunk?”

I licked my dry lips. “Star Man came back.”

“Oh, shit.” Even more shuffling. I hoped he wasn’t typing anymore. “I’m on my way. What happened to the traps we set?”

“Dunno, man,” I answered. “I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

I stayed on the phone with him per his request. He rambled about the story he was writing—a boring metaphor of communism or socialism or other. I thought it was pretty stupid and muttered a quiet “George Orwell.” I didn’t know if he heard me or not. Or maybe he just pretended he didn’t hear me.

I nearly hung up by the time he got to anarchism, but then he was rushing through the front door. His face paled upon noticing me on the ground, spilling my blood on the floor like I had plenty to go around. I finally let the phone drop. I later discovered a crack in the side that must’ve been from that morning.

Neil made quick work of the wound. He bandaged it up, gave me painkillers, and even wiped the blood from my carpet. He assisted me to the couch and clicked on the T.V. It was muted. Neither of us bothered to turn on the sound. And then he paced as I nursed my new wound.

“I’m sick of this,” he said. A line appeared in the carpet from his back-and-forth sauntering. I don’t know why it bothered me so much. “He’s going to actually kill one of us someday.”

“What do you suggest we do?”

“An exorcist?”

“I don’t think he’s a ghost.” I lifted my shirt so he could see the wound again. “I’ve met ghosts, and they usually don’t stab.”

“I can’t believe you sucked me into all of this.” Neil pushed

a hand through his hair and pulled as if trying to wake up from a nightmare. “I could’ve been in college or something.”

“You failed high school.”

“Because I spent the whole time trapped in the fairy realm, thanks to you!” He took a deep breath to calm himself. “Can you give any of those old friends of yours a call?”

I considered his question. I could barely remember the last time I gave any of them a call. They would certainly know what to do about our Star Man problem. However, a call always cost more than I liked to give. A stitch of pain reminded me of the night’s occurrences. Perhaps I had already shed enough blood to appease them.

“They don’t like being called at four in the morning. I’ll try tomorrow,” I said. Before Neil could whine, I added, “There’s pizza and beer in the fridge. You can use my computer, too.”

He squinted at me. “You’re one lucky bastard, you know that.”

“Of course I do,” I said with a cheeky grin. But when he disappeared into the kitchen with a huff, the smile quickly faded. I took pity on the poor bastard Neil reckoned unlucky. My breath came out as a collection of hitched gasps and choking gags as I attempted to sleep the rest of the night away. Exhaustion bit at my eyelids, but the adrenaline that kept away the worst of the wound had worn off. Pain flooded like a river through my body. I tried tossing and turning, but each movement sent a groan falling from my lips. Eventually, Neil flicked my forehead and instructed me to stay still.

I recalled the days he used to be younger than me, and when he acted like it too. I was the one with the steady job and loving fiancée. He was still a kid in high school. Then the incident happened, and he got caught up in one of my side jobs, resulting in his entrapment in the realm of the fey. He was gone for five minutes, but that was enough to age him a few years older than I was at the time. After that, he insisted on becoming my apprentice to learn about the supernatural world he had accidentally stumbled into. I always reckoned that secretly he was waiting for me to discover a way to turn back

time so he could enjoy the years he was stripped of. He caught on quickly, but that was to be expected. He spent nearly fifteen years in a separate world by himself. Most experts don’t even make it back alive. He was no longer the high school boy, but I figured he wanted to be.

If I could go back, I would. And if I had a shred of hope, I would also hold onto it.

Deer Pond

Piper Hall

I was looking at my feet, unaware of my surroundings

When I heard a small crack ahead of me

We watched each other from across that little pond

And for a moment our roles were reversed

I stood there wide-eyed while you ran into the wood

You were beautiful and lithe as your coat reflected thin rays of sun

Like an angel’s halo

I walked clumsily after you

Knowing that I could never catch up with your graceful sprint

I would never know it if I saw you again

A natural entity beyond my human mind

But it didn’t make me sad

I just wished I could have watched you a little bit longer

I don’t know what deer are supposed to represent

What metaphor is dumped into the minds of scholars

But in that moment you radiated hope to me

A golden thread in life’s gray quilt

A reason to continue walking clumsily on

And maybe someday I’ll see you again

The deer at the pond

Morning Feed

Casey Ann Drayer

A rooster crows just outside my window, instantly waking me up. I rub my eyes as I roll out of bed; I don’t need to check the time to know it’s still early. Stifling a yawn, I shove on my slippers and slowly head towards my kitchen. The rooster crows louder, and I groan in annoyance; I don’t know how the rest of my family can sleep with that noise.

I turn my coffee pot on and wait for it to brew. While I lean against the wooden countertop, I watch as the sun begins to rise outside my window—the bright orange beginning to cover the many acres of farmland. I push myself off the counter and head towards the white-painted cabinet beside my fridge. Opening it, I grab three plastic baby bottles. I fill each of them with water from the sink and shove them in the microwave for three minutes. I ravage the various drawers in search of the nipples for the bottles, and as soon as I find them, I hear the microwave begin beeping. I place the nipples down and grab the large container of powdered milk sitting on the counter. I seize the three very hot bottles and scoop a few tablespoons of powder into each of them. I screw on the nipples and shake them to completely mix in the milk.

Carrying the bottles in my arms, I walk into the mudroom and tug on my old, worn cowboy boots. I open the back door, and the sudden chill of the early morning sends goosebumps across my body. The bottles are radiating heat, so I hold them close to me to keep myself warm. Walking down the stairs of our wooden deck, I start the trek down the path towards a small shed.

Morning dew covers the grass, beginning to soak the toes of my boots. The roosters crow loudly, the many hens clucking about in search of insects to feast on. Multiple ducks quack in the distance, no doubt heading towards the pond. Grunts and snorts erupt from the animals behind the 10-foot-tall chain

link fence. I look towards the noise, but the numerous trees hide whatever is speaking.

Finally reaching the shed, I yank the old wooden door open, and I am immediately greeted with three small, wobbly creatures—whitetail deer fawns. I laugh as they run towards me, already knowing it’s time for milk. They bleat loudly as I kneel on the tough dirt ground, each butting into me, demanding attention. I grab one of the deer, feeling its soft brown and white dotted fur against my skin. I keep the bottles close to my side so the other fawns don’t run off with them, and I grasp one. I quickly squirt a little milk onto my hand, ensuring it’s not too hot. With the deer still in my arm, I begin bottle-feeding it like a baby. The deer sucks on the nipple of the bottle with fierceness, and I use most of my strength to hold the bottle in place.

I repeat this process with the other fawns until they are all fed and satisfied. The babies run around the enclosure, playing with one another. I smile and lean against the wooden wall, listening to them bleat with happiness. Suddenly, the shed door is pushed open, and instead of smelling deer milk, my nose is flushed with the scent of hot coffee.

“Good morning, my love,” my husband says quietly while handing me my cup. He sits on the ground next to me, copying my position.

I lean towards him to kiss him softly, “Good morning.” We both smile as we turn our focus to the fawns, and we spend the rest of the early morning watching them play.

If I Am to Write

The Legacy of an Author and Their Final Wish

Rebekah Walters

If I’m to write, don’t let my words be lost. Even when my eyes seem like they no longer wish to gleam, I wish you to fulfill this dream— Force my pen to glide, filling my paper with unspoken thoughts; Do not let it subside, even if it deems to be all for naught. If this fool is to speak, let it be done so with ink. Let my hand continue to etch with black on white, May these smudges reach the moon even in the darkest of night. When my words are no longer able to form, You must find a way to force this hand. Even when you think there’s no thunder left in this storm, I promise you; my words will find a way to withstand. So, if I am to write, do not let it be in vain; Do not let my words be lost to the rain.

EMBARK (novel excerpt)

Bela Smith

FINN

His slightly scarred eyes would face the window. He stared outside, wondrously. He stayed hushed, his breath fogging up the window as he faced away from the person who kept him.

What would it be like to run?

He placed his hand on the window, progressively imagining more of the city. Click.

The windows were turned off; Finn turned to look at the guard. It was now dark, and the blue lights only displayed their faces. His facial expression changed once again. His lips brought to a line and his face shifted down more. He cleared his thoughts, standing upright as he heard the ding of the elevator. His face glimmered under the brighter lights as he walked past a large window that displayed his side profile. He was huge, his shoulders brought down a bit to make him seem smaller. He looked awkward, though, uncomfortable. His outfit was integrated with the Doctor’s preferences. Branded and labeled. His overwhelming appearance made him cringe as he glanced at the window. His mind was trying to reach a point in his life where he felt normal. Nothing was found. Quite quickly.

He painfully looked once again at himself in the window. His scars on his arms remarked on the history of his experimentation. The blood and scabs bit at him still, his blood branded by the indigo dye dropped into the serums injected into him. His face had a number burned into him by a laser, awarding him with the number “01.” He was the first. The first human

to survive every single test conducted by a human specialist. The thing they strived to carve Finn into was the farthest thing from a human.

They threw everything he felt inside of him out. He didn’t have a mind. Fearless because of the logic left unsolved in his brain, heart ripped out of him, he’d commit acts he’d never forgive himself for later.

It was worse than any knife plunged into him. The reminder that he would never be normal. He would never feel the warmth of sunlight, nor the cold winds at night, nor even the spectacles of the city. He was kept apart from the beautiful world. He was something as well, something that someone was so prideful of. But never shown, only hidden. …

“We’re here, One.”

Finn walked in, meeting eyes with the Doctor. His body towered over the scientist, his gaze staring directly into the pupils of the Doctor. The scientist who built him out of nothing, who bought him and took him into this life. The life that would’ve been better than a normal life for him, being whatever the Doctor reminded him he was to his parents.

The Doctor recalled seeing him as a child, a blank canvas. The only thing that he could even think about when watching it in the isolated cell it was dragged into. A new project he could craft into the One. He needed to be torn away from his humanity, to become the human of a lifetime. The one that would be displayed to the most important labs of the city.

His crazed gaze shook with excitement as he watched the guards leave the lab. Footsteps echoed distantly as they hustled away from the Doctor. The lab’s repetitive halls with its metal and unlivable aesthetic looked stupidly sad. The darkened room in the back with materials flooding from the shelves and tables they dared hold up. Only these shelves could hold up this much equipment with ease. Only these tables could balance all the serum Finn’s taken with this much grace.

Each one Finn eyed was something he recognized. He recalled getting each of these colored liquids plunged into his skin at some point. Each needle’s thick and sharp edge slowly driven into his body. The needles dug in deep, forcefully and slowly shoved in his body. At some point, he stopped reacting, he stopped hurting. He only gave in, now used to each procedure the Doctor performed. All the dirty memories that were given to him were in those bottles, locked away inside that paneled room behind the Doctor.

Once again, Finn would feel his beaten skin, his limbs that had these serums injected into him. His back which had the worst of the worst, digging and digging. Retrying, until the needle went in—granting him only humiliation. A body that was never his. Only he recalls every single moment of the steps he took to become this.

The Doctor’s sharp eyes would align with Finn’s. Sculpting him was the only thing that mattered. He needed him. Human Experimentation was on the footsteps of becoming something necessary to forward humans.

“If the University—the labs of the city accept you, humanity will be changed forever.”

Finn’s eyes were a blurred grey. Little did he know his rise as the One could lead to the demise of many. His face didn’t know how to comprehend the knowledge. The deadly creator eyed the trial with disdain. The Doctor would chuckle, his hand on the chin of the subject, moving his face as he scoffed. Finn is walking this world with rose-filtered glasses, clinging onto the simplicity of the life that gutted him from the inside out.

“A world of humans with no flaws, no disease. Only strength…”

His hollow mind would blur after that statement. Unable to ponder further, he would see the twinkling lights of the city in the night, his eyes drifting to the city he was on the outskirts of.

The Doctor had a slight, tense tone in his voice as he cleared his wet throat, his focus going toward the city.

The city was unnamed to him, but these lights, he was told only once, sounded warm and endearing. He only saw the

city through the windows a few times by accident. He isn’t supposed to imagine the city. It’s the rule; he shouldn’t imagine an escape or fantasize about anything close to escape. He was banned from media—from anything. He was dumbed down to the base of a human, to keep him contained. Contained and easy to manipulate. The perfect human for this world.

“You are the pinnacle of humanity.”

golden hour

Ren Kirby

i try to remember the bittersweet taste, your loving embrace the things we did that day a slow existence, a gentle frolic learning to love, together at last a flock of birds swims through the clouds so i can run across the sea orange sky, a slow goodbye hard to end a perfect day

twist my body with your hands and meld me into new silence all the things within and tell me what to do hold it, crush it, become one all yours until the end new and gentle, sweet and kind an unbroken stare between men

carried home, tucked into bed it’s hard to say goodbye he holds your hand and whispers a stare broken only by tears kisses from the setting sun the rough end of a day i’ll miss you when the night comes an endless love from far away

Since the Accident

Chloe Evans

It’s been a year since the accident.

The rehab staff say I’ve made a great recovery, much faster than expected. After almost a month of being unconscious, I was awake.

Just after three months, I was able to eat all by myself. After five, I could talk in full sentences. By six and a half, I was walking short distances. And by eight, I had gained almost all my abilities back.

Except for memory.

Somehow that is something I lost and never found. My past was stolen from me. “But your future doesn’t have to be,” they said. I don’t even remember what the accident was—maybe a car wreck, or maybe I was in the wrong place at the wrong time?

I don’t remember the secrets my past holds.

I just remember waking up in my hometown’s hospital to see all the kind doctors and nurses. And my loving parents by my bedside, whose faces I didn’t even recognize at first. I may have made outstanding progress, but there was still so much that I had lost. And regardless of losing my memory, I know these people are lying to me. This isn’t my hometown, and those people aren’t actually my parents.

I don’t know where I am, or who brought me here and why.

I also don’t know why these people are pretending to be my parents in this wonderland of ill intentions.

I know the hospital and rehab staff are in on it too.

I know all this because I may have lost my memory, And my ability to eat, And speak, And walk, And see, And smell,

And taste.

I may have even lost my ability to feel while I was in my life’s most vulnerable state. But regardless of all that... Little do they know…I never lost my ability to hear.

The Hole in the Sky

Finn Kornele

I was ten years old when I first noticed it. It was during recess in the fourth grade, and I had been staring up at the greyish-white clouds looming above the playground. My close friend at the time, Stacy, was lying on the rubber tiles with me, making comments about the shapes of the clouds passing by us. I had stopped paying attention to her rambling once I had noticed something peculiar in a small patch of the sky unblocked by the clouds. There, in the middle of the blue, was a tiny black speck. I had thought there was dirt in my eye, and I quickly tried to blink it away, only to find myself staring right back up at that strange, out-of-place dot.

“Do you see that?” I asked, elbowing Stacy in her arm and pointing to the black anomaly.

“See what?” She responded, sitting up as if to get a closer look. “I don’t see anything.”

“That black dot in the sky. Right next to those two clouds; do you see it?”

“Oh. Probably just a plane.” Stacy had shrugged and laid back on the rubber tile once more, seemingly unconcerned about what I thought to be so strange.

“It can’t be a plane,” I argued. “Or a bird. It’s not moving.”

“Huh. Weird. Do you wanna play hopscotch?”

I, wanting to get my mind off the mysterious orb, said yes.

After that day, I was never able to fully tear my eyes away from that spot. It was always floating in the back of my mind, and I was always subconsciously aware of it. I remember trying to point it out to my mom, only to be met with an “Oh, don’t worry about it, Charlotte. It’s probably nothing.” When I asked my dad about it, he only rambled on about the government and chemicals and other things that made my head hurt at the time. I had asked my science teacher, but he had no answer for me either. Eventually, I gave up trying to tell people about that speck in the sky.

I tried to ignore it as my paranoia told me the spot was growing larger. What started off as a dot in the fourth grade became a small circle by the seventh grade, like God had drilled a hole through the heavens. Looking up at it, I felt nothing but dread and uncertainty. I felt like this hole was staring back into me, hungrily. I finally caved at one point, going onto my new phone’s Safari app and searching up “black spot in the sky.” What I saw was hundreds of pictures of that little patch of sky that I had been staring up at for so many years now. I thought the answers would finally put my paranoia at ease—but I was wrong.

The Anti-Electromagnetic Phenomenon is what they called it. Scientists didn’t seem to have a full grasp on what it was, nor could they manage to study it in close proximity. The most widely accepted theory was that it was some sort of material in the Earth’s atmosphere that managed to absorb all light touching it, creating a colorless blob in the sky. The articles said it was nothing to worry about, that it was natural and wouldn’t affect us in any meaningful way. I wish my curiosity had been satiated at that moment, but my gut had told me to keep searching for answers. I scrolled through the first and second pages of Google until I found an article titled “The Black Hole Effect.” A particular group of researchers located in California had a different approach to that hole in the sky. They measured the diameter of the hole every day for a year, noting that it grew in size by two percent. They proposed that whatever this hole was, it wasn’t caused by something in the atmosphere. Instead, it almost seemed to be like some sort of mini black hole, slowly absorbing the light and material around it. Nothing exists where the hole is, one scientist wrote. If it keeps expanding, the planet itself might be completely overtaken by it.

People finally started to take notice. It was no longer something everyone could blindly ignore. Looking up into the sky, there was no missing the lack of blue in that particular spot. The world seemed to finally be acknowledging it instead of brushing it to the side.

As the hole steadily got bigger, the population began to

worry. It was almost half the size of the moon at that point, and government officials began making statements and hosting conferences discussing it. They assured the people that there was nothing to be afraid of.

“If it were any sort of black hole, we’d already be dead. If this hole were truly dangerous, we’d know by this point.”

The hole became a political talking point. Everyone and their uncles began creating theories on what it could be. Some said it was something alien; others said it was put there by the government. Regardless of what they’d been told, the world was anxious. The hole was filling others with the same sense of looming dread that it had given me since the day I spotted it. I wondered if there was anything more we could do other than watch it grow into a behemoth. Despite it all, many remained convinced that it was nothing. Every news channel told me the same thing: “It’s fear-mongering. Our scientists over at NASA have been studying the Anti-Electromagnetic Phenomenon for years and have found absolutely zero evidence of a threat.”

As the hole grew larger, so did the widespread panic. It started to look less and less like some sort of light trick, and more like an actual hole in the sky—a tomb of darkness, ready to encase the entire planet. Multiple drones were sent through it, and all of them disappeared into the hole without a trace. Video footage could not be retrieved. They even sent a team of real people to check out the hole, to get as close as they could and record the data—but the hole expanded and swallowed them like prey, leaving nothing of them or their airship behind. The government still insisted it wasn’t a threat.

“We lost contact with those drones due to the electromagnetic errors it gave our communication systems. While we are unaware of why the hole seems to be expanding, it will naturally stop on its own. In the next few years, it’ll shrink back down, and we’ll all forget we were ever worried about it.”

It didn’t shrink back down. No, of course, it did the opposite. Weeks turned into months, and the hole turned into a gaping maw of uncertainty. Earth’s temperature began to decline as the hole took up more and more of the sky, replacing

sunlight with a hungry void. Small animals began dying off, and plants couldn’t survive the sudden cold temperatures. The government was radio silent. Maybe because they knew they had been wrong, and it was too late to do anything now. Crime rates and even suicide rates increased as everyone began to really fear for their lives. Some started stocking food and building bunkers underground. Some said it was the reckoning—God’s punishment, the end of the world. Whispers on the street said it was the eye of God himself.

The hole soon took up one-half of the sky, and it was only growing by the day. The worst part of it all was the helplessness. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what would happen when the hole in the sky became the sky. The fear had subsided into a frigid depression. People were giving up. There was no way to stop the growth or save our world. There was no hope for us.

On the day the hole took up three-fourths of the sky, my childhood friend, Stacy, took her own life. The fear and uncertainty had been too much for her. Like many others, myself included, she didn’t want to sit around and watch her world come to an end right in front of her eyes. I sure as hell couldn’t blame her. Many years ago, she had told me that tiny hole was probably just a plane. Now she was dead, and that “plane” was the reason for it.

We only have about a week left now. Maybe even just a few days. Daytime has become a concept of the past as the black hole swallowed up the sun and almost all of the blue left in our sky. There are no stars at night nor clouds during what used to be day. Mass deaths in areas that were already colder have begun, as well as mass evacuations into the underground bunkers. There is only enough room for so many people, and, of course, I am not one of them. I will go down with this Earth, and I’m sure those down in the bunkers will, too. As I write this, I still wonder if there’s anything we could have done differently. Maybe, if they had listened when it was still a speck, we could have found a way to stop it.

We’ll never know now. All that’s left now is to wait for the hole in the sky to finally consume us all.

Waterlogged

Gracie West

Monger! Your hair like seaweed. You traded my tears for memories. Sold my shattered heart. You butchered me. You saw my faults as scales you could pry off my writhing body, leaving me bloodied and raw. You assumed me a siren when I sang your name. Accused me of dreadful malice against your broken soul. I never sought to prey upon you.

To My Angel of Darkness

Ty Borschel

The darkness that wanders your mind, the scars that run along your delicate body, the tears that have stained your pale face, Give them all to me. Your constant unease, your encaged rage, your disconsolate childhood memories, Give them all to me. Give me all of your pain. your fear. your anger. your sorrow. Give them all to me. Now, unbind your wings and fly free, just please promise to come back for me.

Drown Your Tears

Eliza Ridge

Maeve starts running the bath. The bathroom countertops had finally been cleaned off after a few months of letting them sit. Maeve couldn’t bring herself to bathe in this room, let alone enter it or, heaven forbid, clean it.

Her roots are starting to grow out. Her knuckles are bruised. She traces the scars of where she had split them time and time again. Traces the ghost of his tender touch where he put antiseptic on the raw skin.

He isn’t here to protest turning the water to the second hottest setting, so Maeve watches as the knob she turned heats up the faucet. Moments pass, and steam wafts around the room.

The warm breath he would playfully blow on her neck to make her shiver mocks her as the steam condenses into droplets onto the mirror, fogging up her reflection. Covering up the girl she couldn’t quite recognize, the girl who had forgotten warmth when her source of it died.

She checks the temperature of the running water, letting the scalding liquid run over the back of her palm. Just to feel something.

She feels the cold prickle under her skin, the way you get chills when your nerves overload from the heat. It takes her a solid minute to snap out of her daze, retracting her hand.

A temporary, angry red mark blooms on the back of her hand. She barely registers it as calloused fingers work on the buttons of her shirt.

Maeve doesn’t even get through two buttons before her fingers start to tremble.

She gives up on the shirt and decides to just slip off her pants before stepping into the scalding water. She rolls up her sleeve and disassembles her prosthetic, discarding it on the bathroom floor. The arm drops onto the tile with a dull thunk.

Ray isn’t here to scrub off the blood from that day anyway.

A good soak would be enough for her to at least look presentable for the next day.

Shivers run up her skin as she stands in the water, slowly sinking down into it. Her muscles relax from the heat, and she sighs, not quite content. The fabric of her shirt clings to her skin as it soaks, becoming sheer.

Maeve can almost hear his voice complaining about the temperature.

“I don’t know how anyone could handle heat like this.” His voice echoes through her skull.

It’s almost torture that the only actual sound in the room is the plip of the faucet dripping droplets into the pool of steaming water every other second and a half.

Maeve slumps against the wall of the tub. She dips deeper until the water is just below her nose. She tilts her head back and lets the water fill her ears to drown the silence and the echoes of laughter ringing through her brain.

The heat stings the sensitive skin of her face as she slips all the way under the water. Bubbles drift from her nose as she barely tries to hold her breath.

Only submerged, where the water chokes her voice and fills her lungs, does she dare say his name.

Rayburn.

She inhales the liquid and shoots upright, tears pricking at her eyes. Whether from her episode or from the water rushing to the back of her throat through her sinus, she doesn’t care to know.

She coughs up the water, gripping the edge of the tub for any purchase on the slippery surface.

Cold tears turn hot from the warmth of her cheeks, rolling and falling into the water uneventfully as her breath comes in ugly hiccups. Her hand covers her mouth, forcing the ugly sounds back down her throat.

Maeve turns over so she faces the floor of the tub. She shoves her face into the water.

And she screams as loud as she’ll let herself. Louder than she’ll ever let anyone hear again.

Because only he got to hear something like that. A scream like that is reserved for only his ears.

But his ears don’t hear anymore.

His heart may have stopped first, but hers froze the second she couldn’t hear the beat of his any longer.

And despite the heat of the water prickling uncomfortably against the sensitive skin of her face and dragging hot coals through her sinus—

Maeve has never felt colder.

I Wish You Were A Boy

Jayruh Miller

Why has my God forsaken me to love you so With a pleasant voice, soft skin, and pretty eyes I’d like to be with you wherever you go

Your hand intertwined with mine is a perfect fit It’s so much better than any boy I’ve held it with

I wish you were a boy, so it would feel right I wish that I could be with you, love you But the thought makes my heart take flight

I feel my desire is nothing but a terrible ordeal With my family’s reputation, just a flaw to conceal

I fear if I admit it, I will be condemned My relationship with my family wouldn’t mend But I long for you to be my girlfriend

Why should I have to marry a man? Is it better to be in denial than it is to be damned?

I wish you were a boy, so I wouldn’t feel wrong But I can’t help to think of your beauty Whenever I see a rose or hear a love song

I feel butterflies when together, my heart starts to strum The night I realized my love, I wished death to come

In a church that is supposed to preach love, tells me To Hell I would go, it isn’t right for a girl to love a girl Even if it is as pure as Adam and Eve did so

Despite being a pure love, it would only destroy Perhaps in another life, or if only you were a boy

How I Didn’t Let My Stutter Control Me

Hayden Dates

Have you ever been anxious to stand before a crowd and publicly speak? Imagine if a stutter was in play, as well as dyslexia. Disabilities like these make speaking—not even in public—a nightmare. Luckily, there were ways for me to overcome this. In my journey to conquer stuttering, I began speaking aloud to my grandma and even found a job where speaking was an everyday task. Through these, I found the confidence to speak clearly—even if I stuttered occasionally.

I dreaded the project I had to read in front of the entire class all day. Why couldn’t I turn it in silently and have the teacher grade it like every other assignment? This experience was daunting; I remember anxiously waiting in my seat for my turn to present. I apprehensively walked up to the front of the class, and my hands became clammy. My eyes couldn’t leave my paper, even though I’d memorized it. When I began talking, it felt as if I was underwater. My words weren’t mine, and I began stuttering on every word. The hollow feeling in my chest felt like it would never end; thankfully, it inevitably did. Immediately afterward, I felt embarrassed and ashamed about the circus act I had just performed. Luckily, my grade didn’t reflect the words I stumbled upon or the ones I mispronounced. This experience took me out of my comfort zone and jump-started my journey to conquer my stutter.

Shortly after that embarrassing incident in middle school, I decided it was time for a change. My family offered to help me on this journey with my newfound courage. After my presentation, I recognized what I needed help with. I would mix up my Q’s with my K’s, my C’s with my S’s, and my R’s with my W’s, as well as my enunciation. For reasons unbeknownst to me, my tongue was glued to my mouth, and it took months to fix. My grandma let me read my assignments and books to her every day. She would endure my stuttering day and night, but, in the end, it truly helped. I’m able to speak coherently today because of her. I would have

to repeat sentences consistently before finally cracking them. The excitement and encouragement I felt from the accomplishment of getting it right, but also from my grandma being proud of me, was enough to keep me pushing through. Like Michael Rosen wrote, “We can’t go over it. We can’t go under it. Oh no! We’ve got to go through it!” (3). Stuttering was an obstacle in my life that felt like a wall that I couldn’t break. I decided to face this challenge head-on instead of cowering away and letting it consume me. In order to succeed, I had to fail.

After my grandma’s passing at the beginning of my sophomore year, I slowly discontinued reading my assignments aloud. I stopped practicing enunciating my words and began to let them consume me again. At the end of my senior year in high school, I worked as a customer service associate. As a result of my lack of speaking practice, my stutter was in full force—regaining control of my life. During this job, which I still have today, I gained meaningful friendships and connections with my managers and associates. These connections drove me to focus on how I speak rather than letting it control me. It felt natural to communicate with my friends at work. I still stutter sometimes, but they don’t make me feel embarrassed about it. At work, I had to create a script for when I answer the phone or when a new customer walks up; the repetitive speech helped me overcome stumbling on my words by exposing me to unfamiliar situations. Even though I still encounter occasional challenges with my speech, I’ve excelled as a dedicated employee and a supportive friend.

My journey with conquering the embarrassment my stutter gave me, which all started with a middle school project, has been transformative. As I reflect on all the hard work I’ve done, I am optimistic about the future. I anticipate continued persistence not to let my stutter regain control. Through the help my supportive grandmother gave me and the meaningful bonds I continue to make at my job, my stutter will no longer hold me back.

Works Cited Rosen, Michael. We’re Going on a Bear Hunt. Margaret K. McElderry Books, 25 Dec. 1989.

Dates • 35

See Me

Matti Stigler

You see me, But not for who I am. You see me for what I once was. Please. I want to be with you. I want to be seen as a girly girl. As a girly friend, Who does girly things, With her girly friends. But you all look at me, I’m sure I can see it in your eyes. You see a pathetic excuse for a trans woman. You see a man.

In Which We Cease to Function

A Poem About Connection

Rebekah Walters

We all wish to spark a connection, In which a gaze seems to make us cease to function.

I seem to cease to function when our gazes meet. Our eyes graze up and down the other.

As our eyes graze up and down the other, I can feel my shoulders hold back a shudder.

My shoulders seem to hold back a shudder, But somehow my mind still begins to wander.

Somehow my mind still appears to wander, Reminding me of memories once buried deep.

Memories that I had buried so deep, Suddenly flooding into my mind.

As they flood in my mind, I remember why We all wish to spark a connection.

I’m a Victim Too

Summer Grace Linton

Sweep her away like a dead roach to a dust pan

Destined to decompose in that old wicker trash can

The foul smell of tears, vomit, and sweat

Sneak out from under the door to your

Seven-by-ten hole of misery and regret

You sound like a broken record when you say,

“It’s just a little red wine, I’ll be fine”

Shame doesn’t let you speak to me

Temptation grabs you by the throat

And threatens all that you love, to choke

Down just one more bottle of poison

Half of it spills down the sides of your mouth

Red splotchy eyes dial back as your glass tips

A giggled spirit emerges

Rueful chuckles roll from her lips

“It’s just a little red wine, I’ll be fine”

I’ve preached and given up my shoulder

It goes in one ear right out the other

You say, “nothing is out there that can make me sober”

I say, “motivation and time…”

“Or possibly the luck of a four-leaf clover”

I cover my ears, but I can still hear you say,

“It’s just a little red wine, I’ll be fine”

Undefined

James Land

Evan.

The name echoes in the small apartment, bouncing off the peeling wallpaper and worn-out furniture. It’s a name that feels warm, comfortable, like the worn-out blanket I wrap around my shoulders as I sit on the couch with homework pages sprawled out before me. The smell of my mother’s cooking floats through the air.

At that age, I began considering the significance of a name. Previously, I never wondered what it meant to be Evan. I just knew that it was the name my mother called when it was time for dinner, and it’s still the name she murmurs when she asks where I’ve been all night.

Evan is a name given to me by her. A name that carries her hopes and dreams for me. Sometimes, I feel like I’m betraying her; I don’t really like the name Evan.

Before Evan, there was James.

James is the muffled echo behind a locked door. Say the name James in my house, and watch it pierce the air like a bullet. It’s the hollow thud of footsteps in an empty “home,” devoid of warmth or comfort. James is not just a name; it’s a gaping hole left behind by an absentee father—shoes too big to fill because there were never any to begin with.

In middle school, I shed Evan like old skin and took on James instead. It was rough and coarse, chafing against my identity like sandpaper against soft wood. But it made me feel mature, grown-up—even if it was just a façade. The previously non-existent shoes had become several sizes too big to be comfortable, but I wore them nonetheless.

James was the name I used when dealing with teachers who didn’t know any better or friends who didn’t care enough to ask why I had changed it. It was a middle schooler’s attempt to prove that he was different from the wide-eyed kid of years ago.

Looking back, I wonder why I wanted to grow up so fast. I wish I’d kept the name Evan for a few years longer. I let it slip away for too long, and now it doesn’t quite feel like mine anymore.

I’ve picked up a few other names throughout my life. I carry them like small pebbles in a little pouch labeled “memories.” I pick one at random and skip it across the water, seeing how many times it can bounce—how many months will that name last before it sinks into my skin like James or floats away like Evan?

Ash is the pebble that I’m still clenching in my fist.

I hold the name Ash close to my heart, like a treasured secret. It’s the name I gave myself when Evan seemed too distant and James too harsh. Ash is who I became in the company of friends who knew nothing about my past, who didn’t care about where I came from or what my real name was. There’s no history to Ash, and, God, that feels liberating.

He is freedom personified. He’s the feeling of wind rushing past your face as you race down an empty street at midnight; the exhilarating fear as you dangle your feet over the edge of a tall building; laughter so intense you feel like your insides might burst. He is the smell of cigarette smoke, shared between friends on a cold winter night—a habit I picked up not because I enjoy it, but because it was something James would never do. Every time someone calls me Ash, I smile. But it’s a bitter smile, tinged with the knowledge that Ash can never be my permanent name. My old names stick to me like the cigarette smoke that Ash would exhale so reluctantly. I knew Ash was a temporary escape, that I’d have to choose eventually.

But the thought of choosing a name, a permanent name, scares me. It feels like a trap, like I’m being forced to pick a cage and lock myself into it. But that’s what growing up is, isn’t it? Making choices. Choosing who you want to be and sticking with it, no matter how much you might regret it later.

I’ve been Evan. I’ve been James. I’ve been Ash. And each name has taught me something about myself. Evan taught me about the comfort of familiarity and the

fear of disappointing those who love you. James showed me the allure of maturity and the pain of an identity that doesn’t fit right. Ash gave me a shot of exhilarating freedom and the bitter aftertaste of impermanent happiness.

For the majority of my life, I’ve resisted change. I’ve always wanted to define things in concrete terms—right and wrong, love and hate, good and bad. I dissociated myself into these names because I would rather feel like I was multiple people than accept that I had changed.

I’m a son trying to live up to his mother’s aspirations; a boy attempting to fill in shoes left by an absent father; a friend seeking freedom in anonymity; a student doodling on his homework while wondering about such a silly concept as his own identity.

A name can mean everything or nothing at all. A name can carry weight, history, expectations, but, ultimately, it doesn’t define you. You are not bound by your name or confined within its syllables. You are more than just a name; you are your experiences, your choices, your dreams and fears.

As for me? Right now, sitting on this worn-out couch with my mother’s cooking filling the air around me, I am content just being myself—undefined and ever-changing.

my ptsd could not bury me

Kat Martin

dust settles in the thick of my lungs choking suffocating

burying me beneath tombstones i swallowed years ago the bones of corpses tracking footsteps in clay stamping wounds in the mud of my flesh as i am buried in their soil

leaving me to be picked apart and dissected by worms

their wicked whispers crawling up this frayed burial shroud of nerves insults carved this pine box that fists and belts beat shut

my own lie still

fragile and decayed useless worthless and wanting for the gentle touch of forgiveness but it is not here it is in the roots that reach down and cradle my early grave ropes to the drowned waiting to be seized and i am the daisies my body pushes up

The Fox and the Winter King

Kylee Minus

As Lyosha pushed against the shrieking snowstorm, he couldn’t get the notion of The Winter King out of his head. More formally known as Morozko, the fabled king of winter stalked him through his trek. He expected to find the spirit waiting just past the blizzard that had swallowed him, ready to claim him.

But before any spirits or winter demons dragged him into the woods, the shadow of his father’s shed emerged. It was a small and dingy thing, barely held together by an abundance of nails and screws. It might’ve once been painted red, but, by now, it was too disheveled to tell.

Lyosha’s teeth chattered as he yanked the squeaky door open. He slipped through and shut the door before too much of winter could enter along with him. Inside, candles covered the floor, doing little to illuminate the space. Lyosha nearly tripped over a dancing flame upon entering.

And sitting along with them, a small girl wrapped in a thick quilt busied herself with a book so big it didn’t even fit in her lap.

“Lubov,” Lyosha breathed out in relief. “What are you doing here? Papa told us not to come here. It’s dangerous.”

The girl in question slowly looked up but didn’t offer an answer.

“And where did you get all of these candles? You’re going to burn this place to the ground.” Lyosha sighed, approaching cautiously. He didn’t want to scare her off now that he finally found her. She was as capricious as a fox, something their father always described as “charming” but Lyosha had always thought of as troublesome. Especially when he was the one who took the blame for it every time she suddenly disappeared.

He knelt down to get a better look at the novel in her lap. “Brothers Grimm, hmm? Haven’t you read this one before?”

“Twice,” Lubov corrected.

“Twice. Of course,” Lyosha said, nodding. “Papa will be back soon. You don’t want to get in trouble again, do you?”

Lubov released a breath through her nose. “No.”

“Besides, aren’t you cold? There’s a blizzard outside, and I don’t think these candles are doing much to keep you warm.” Lyosha offered his hand for her to take, which she did after a moment of hesitation, making sure to tuck the book out of sight.

“I wish you hadn’t scared off my friend,” Lubov said as Lyosha tried to gather the candles. “We were reading his story together.”

“Your friend?” Lyosha mumbled.

“Yes. Roz used to be Mama’s friend, too,” Lubov explained.

“Roz?” Lyosha paused in his tracks. A realization dawned over him. Unsettled, he knelt down to level with her. “Do you mean Morozko?”

She beamed. “Yes, Roz!”

Lyosha could only stare at her, shocked. He shuddered, as if speaking the name somehow made him real. “Lubov, you know that he’s only a story, don’t you? One of Mama’s old stories.”

Just as she opened her mouth to argue, the door burst open. A figure, tall and large, lumbered into the shed. Lyosha grabbed Lubov and pulled her backward to avoid the door crashing into the two of them. Lyosha shivered, but not because of the cold.

It can’t be Morozko…can it?

“Papa!” Lubov exclaimed, and took a running start into the man’s arms.

He scooped her up, cradling her like she was still a baby. Lyosha took a deep breath and scolded himself for actually believing her. Their father grinned back at Lubov, but only Lyosha could see the weariness in the smile.

“You’re cold, Papa.” She giggled, and he pressed her tighter to his chest. “You’re going to make me freeze!”

“I think it’s the blizzard that’s going to make you freeze,”

he responded. “Mikhail, bring her inside.”

The second oldest brother poked out from behind their father’s back, shivering violently. Mikhail nodded and took her by the hand. Lyosha glared as Mikhail grabbed her wrist so tight. He always held on too tightly. He didn’t know how to be gentle with the younger ones at all. The two slipped into the night, Lubov chatting obliviously. Her voice drowned away into the wind the second they stepped outside. Lyosha gulped as he looked up at their father.

“Papa,” he started, but paused as the man lifted his hand.

“Let me guess. She slipped away when you were helping Nickolaus and Pyotr bathe.”

Lyosha hung his head and nodded. Their father scratched his dark, mangy beard and sighed. Slowly, he let out a reluctant laugh.

“She’s so much like her,” he said under his breath. Lyosha didn’t have to ask to know he was talking about their mother. “So carefree. So mischievous.”

“Like a fox,” Lyosha muttered, rolling his eyes.

Their father breathed out a chuckle. “A fox, huh? Well, the fox needs a watchful eye, doesn’t she?”

Lyosha nodded. “Yes, Papa. I won’t let it happen again.”

The man stared down at his son, humming in contentment a second later. He threw an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

“Let’s get back inside before we catch our death.”

The two plunged into the storm together. Lyosha’s father draped his cape around him, shielding him from the ferocious winter whistling. The boy glanced up, searching for signs of anger, but didn’t find any. Perhaps he was too tired to be angry.

“Papa,” he said over the wind, “Can I come hunting with you next time? If Mikhail is old enough to come, aren’t I too?”

Lyosha was met with a sideways glance.

“I didn’t know you were interested in hunting. I thought you were into those silly books.”

“I changed my mind about those,” Lyosha said. “I grew up.”

Lyosha’s father released something that might’ve been a

laugh, but the wind was too loud to really discern it.

“You grew up? Already?” He reached out and ruffled through the boy’s long, dark hair. “Listen here, boy. You’ll be wishing for your childhood back the moment you become a man. My father stole away my childhood years. Your mother never knew what it was like to be a child. Savor these years before they roll past you.”

“But—”

“Enough, Lyosha. Your siblings need you, now more than ever. I wish it didn’t have to be like this, but it’s just the way things are right now.”

Lyosha stared down at his boots, processing his father’s response. His mother had always told him that he was the most responsible out of all of them. What did he want to be?

Later that night, after he had shivered off his wet clothes and thrown on a nightgown, he crawled into bed. Trying his best to ignore the rambling of his four siblings, he reached for the book resting on his bedside. The words went unregistered. The twins, Nickolaus and Pyotr, refused to listen to Mikhail when he asked them to stop playing with his arrows. Lubov was busy carving something into the wooden leg of her bed stand. Lyosha didn’t have the heart to tell her to knock it off, lost in thought about something else.

Come to think of it, where had Lubov gotten all of those candles? I know we didn’t have that many lying around the house. Lyosha sat, pondering, but his siblings were making it increasingly harder to think. He was three seconds away from shouting out in anger when their father entered the room. Each child paused what they were doing to glance up at the lumbering man.

“Bedtime,” he said simply.

With an array of grumbling, the boys threw themselves under their covers. The twins shared a bed, and Lyosha was forced to share one with Mikhail—despite being quite old to still be sharing. Lubov, on the other hand, slept in what used to be her crib. Their father had modified it into something more like a bed with some extra wood.

Their father made sure to pinch the twins’ noses as he passed their bed. He kissed Lubov’s cheek and tucked in her covers. Then, he grabbed the book in Lyosha’s lap and set it aside. Lastly, he wiped a streak of dirt from Mikhail’s face.

“Goodnight,” he said, leaning against the doorway. “I’ll be back at the same time tomorrow.”

“Goodnight,” the children chimed.

In regular fashion, their father muttered a prayer before he doused the lanterns and closed the door. The children listened for his footsteps. The moment they heard their father’s door shut, they jumped up from their beds.

Mikhail relit a few lanterns, and they all gathered in Lyosha’s bed. Lubov took her spot in Lyosha’s lap. It used to be her mother’s lap that she sat in, but now it was his. He tugged on her long braids, receiving the quietest giggle.

“Where did we leave off last night?” Lyosha asked his siblings.

“Alyosha Popovich drew his sword, his horse rearing in fear as the mighty dragon appeared from the cave,” Lubov quoted instantly.

“Yes, right.” Lyosha nodded, then paused to think.

“Well, then what happened?” Nickolaus demanded, leaning forward.

Lyosha reached over and grabbed an old cane from his bedside, brandishing it like a sword. When he spoke, his voice dropped a few octaves, rising and falling as he weaved the story to life. His siblings sat, entranced, mouths agape as they listened.

The twins and Lubov gasped as he spun the story of the dragon slayer, Aloysha Popovich. Their eyes shimmered with an impossible excitement it seemed only children could hold. Mikhail, however, had listened to this story countless times, but hearing it again soothed his heart.

“After he slayed the dragon, he brought its head to the king. He was offered the princess’s hand in marriage, but he politely declined and traveled to the next kingdom in need of his help,” Lyosha concluded.

“But he’d be rich,” Pyotr argued, distraught. “Why would he refuse gold, and food, and warmth, and—and a beautiful princess?”

“Think about it this way. What pride would a man like Alyosha receive from getting everything handed to him on a silver platter?” Lyosha answered.

Pyotr clasped his mouth shut, thinking. “Hmm, I guess that makes sense. I’d accept the princess’ hand.”

Lyosha and Mikhail laughed, though the younger ones didn’t understand what was so funny.

“I’d keep being a hero,” Lubov said, smiling.

Lyosha ruffled her hair. “Would you now, little fox? Even if it meant sleeping outside every night?”

Lubov thought about it for a second, but it was enough time to make the others laugh again.

“I want to kill dragons too!” Nickolaus exclaimed, jumping up. All of his siblings hurriedly shushed him. “Oops, sorry.”

Lyosha urged his thumping heart to quiet after watching the door for a few moments. His fantastical story voice escaped his lips when he spoke again.

“Oh yeah? What about Koshchey the Deathless?”

The smaller ones gasped. Lubov smacked her hand against Lyosha’s mouth while the twins cowered underneath the blanket. Mikhail watched with a sort of false amusement in his gaze, but deep in his eyes, fear sparkled.

“Don’t say his name,” Pyotr hissed from underneath the blanket. “Are you trying to kill us? We must hang crosses over our beds before we sleep now.”

Lyosha chuckled and shook his head while Mikhail insulted him for still believing in children’s stories. However, he eyed the silver cross on his bedside like it was worth a thousand gold pieces. Despite how amused it made him to mess with his younger siblings, he couldn’t bring himself to say the name again—or the name of the brother of the Deathless. He shivered thinking about it.

“Tell us another one,” Nickolaus said. “Not one about dragons.”

“That’s not the deal. It’s time for bed. For real this time,” Lyosha responded.

Even more reluctantly than when their father instructed it, each of them returned to their rightful sleeping locations. They bid each other goodnight, doused their lanterns, and wrapped themselves in their blankets. Lyosha lay on his back, staring into the eyes of the dark. He listened to the sound of his siblings’ light breathing. Outside, the wind continued to howl.

“You still awake?” Mikhail whispered sometime during the night, pulling Lyosha from the grasp of slumber.

“Now I am,” he replied.

“Is that really how Mama told it?”

Lyosha didn’t answer right away. “Yes. I don’t change her stories.”

“You know…you tell them almost as well as she did.”

Lyosha smiled sadly to himself in the dark. He was the only one who remembered the nighttime stories. He hadn’t meant it to become a tradition, but it somehow ended up that way.

“Lyosha?”

“Hmm?”

“I miss her.”

“I know. We all do,” Lyosha whispered. “Hey, Mikhail?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you…think that any of these stories are real?” Lyosha felt foolish asking, but he couldn’t stop the question from falling from his lips. “Like, Morozko?”

“Morozko? Was that the one with the spirit who gave that girl the chest of gold and silver?”

“Yeah, that one. Mama always said that he was the king of winter,” Lyosha said.

Mikhail didn’t reply right away, making Lyosha wonder if he had fallen asleep. “The king of winter, huh? Do you think someone made him mad? Maybe that’s why this kingdom is stuck in eternal winter.”

“You think?”

“I don’t know. I’ll make sure to ask him the next time I see

Lyosha scowled at nothing in particular, scoffing. “Nevermind. I’m going to bed.”

He turned over to his side, but his eyelids refused to rest. Could Morozko truly be behind the eternal winter? And if he was, then why?

Lyosha hoped never to meet the winter demon. He wasn’t a dragon-slaying hero like from their mother’s stories. He was just a boy. And a boy he would stay forever.

50 • Blackwater Review him,” Mikhail said tartly.

Matchstick Boy

James Land

Flicker, flame, a matchstick boy, In the world, a broken toy.

Smoke rings rise, and dreams descend, A life begun, too quick to end.

Ashen heart in tinder chest, Burns in silence with no rest. In the dark, a tiny spark, A life too often missed its mark.

Paper skin, inked with sorrow, Borrowed time, no tomorrow.

In the mirror, a ghostly sight, A boy too used to the night.

Cigarette lips, whispering smoke, Burning stake, all things will break. In the glow, a fleeting smile, Happiness felt is lost in a while.

Ember eyes, smoldering fire, Burning with untamed desire. In the ashes, a silent plea, A boy just wants to be free.

Flicker, flame, a matchstick boy, In the world, a broken toy. In the end, a fading light, A boy too tired to fight the night.

Audacity

Ceciley Austin

You don’t know me. I possess power undefined… dominion…

I am of a peculiar distinction; never really “fitting” anywhere. I am crazy because I surpass your comprehension. I am dimensional when all you see is a face. Life is my battlefield.

I am a conqueror. I am the strength my adversaries drink of, never acknowledging the well.

You…don’t know me.

I am not the paint or the brush…nor am I the masterpiece. I am the canvas.

I bathe in rejection just to be dried in the fabric of grief. Yet my awaiting garments are of the finest silkening blend of loyalty, integrity, and resilience.

Shoes…—I wear none. They are ALL too small to fit my faith in. I can take a path, yet I carve one in earth unforgiving, but…, still… Still…

Still I forgive.

I am armed with the Sword of the Spirit. Yet my fiery anger leaves embers of redundancy in its wake. You don’t know me.

I am on the front lines of a war I did not start, A peace I cannot fathom, And a justice expired by the boundaries of my jurisdiction. I am the hope of the New Orleans levies.

I am not the storm surge or the storm…nor am I the wind. I am the eye of the hurricane. Calm.

I am time that you can’t have back, however my home is just up ahead on the banks of the Jordan River.

I am a slave to ambition. Hopes and dreams deferred. I am a descendant of slavery. Neither in the bowels of the ship nor

accessory to the mutiny above deck. I am overboard…

Freedom—one way or the other.

Yet…

And still… YOU DON’T KNOW ME.

Fiery tears have abducted the finish line. The constant fight solidified. Not for me. But for my children that I once was. I am woke.

Unapproachable.

Defiant.

You have no idea who I am.

I am not the earthquake nor the rubble. I am the tsunami from an ocean of pain. I am not the stalker nor the stalked. I am the conversion in between.

I am a gaping wound. Yet, still…

Still…

Still I forgive.

I am everything to my kids… yet nothing to you. Because you don’t know me. Yet you judge me.

I am in a puddle of the quicksand of life Trying to save my children, from the thorny vine that has to save us. Unfair. Determined. You will never know me. You don’t deserve to.

I am a light with a golden touch. I am an artistic mosaic of dysfunction and love. I am here.

I am me.

And YOU… DONT… KNOW… ME.

Devils Flower Mantis

Gracie West

Tears drip from eyes onto my lashes like a black widow’s web catching dew drops in the early dawn light. I wear these jewels with pride.

Can I make you a promise? I’ll be your buggy little baby. Starryeyed and twitching.

I’ll be naive and dance for you. I promise to admire you and steadfastly cling to my meager perspective of the world. When I anger you, I’ll beg for you to squash me under your shoe. Would you like to dissect me? Remove the pieces of my armor tainted by what you deem as fault? After all, I am your specimen.

Shelby Appling

Digital Illustration

Red Rocks

Rileigh Bayne

Photograph Moody Florals

Jay Bevis Clay Gat

Elizabeth Beyer

Clay Kanlaon

B. Bludau

Graphite/Pencil

Open Staircase

Casey Ann Drayer

Photograph Honeybee

Fate

Head in the Clouds

Kylee Hale

Mixed Media

In Stasis

Zeyna Kostur

David Laird Photograph

Prothonotary Warbler

Iguanas of Ecuador

Tara Ness Photograph

Dream Fly

Kris Rae Found Objects

Jakob St Onge

Digital Illustration

Muddy Waters

To Paint a Midnight Sky

Walters

Rebekah

Photograph

Gina Watkins

Graphic Design

Hannah Whitlock

Mixed Media

Baby Wrapped in Plastic

Finn Kornele

a mother weeps, her baby wrapped in plastic half an infant, still stuck under rubble

still stuck under rubble, never to be buried orphaned boy learns violence is an answer

violence is an answer not a solution now people treated like a common currency

our children are a common currency one dead toddler for another dead toddler

another dead toddler rots beneath brother right below where they first learned to walk

we learn hatred before we learn to walk deciding who deserves to live or die

who decided if he deserved to live or die a mother weeps, her baby wrapped in plastic

Second Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2024

The Hedgehog Prince

Ezra C.

There was once a King from a dying kingdom, one that desperately needed an heir. This King evoked the olden laws, so a daughter would not do–only a son could claim this aging King’s throne. He had his servants search the land for anyone with the ability to promise him a son, claiming he would pay any price there was just for the promise that his kingdom would not die with him. The search took weeks, but before long, the servants had found three otherworldly spirits who could promise him a son. They each gained a private audience with the King and waited patiently for their turn to speak.

The first one, with raven hair so long it hid most of their features, showed proper reverence to the King, bowing so low that their bangs brushed the ground. Once they were given clearance to speak their piece, they spoke up in a crumbling voice that sounded like they had let naught a drop of water past their lips for as long as they had lived. “You will have a son,” they began, “but he will be one of the seas. Drawn to it for all his days, he will have gills to breathe with, but once he reaches his golden years, he will join us, leaving behind heirs in your world and ours.”

The King had scarcely heard the conditions before he waved them away. “I will not have a son if he is not here for me to raise properly. Be gone from my sight!” And the first one left, only getting halfway out the door before the second man walked in. He had hair as golden as the sun itself and skin so tan it seemed he had not spent a single day under shade. He bowed enough to show respect, but not as low as the spirit of the sea, and when beckoned to speak, offered his trade. “You will have a son, but he will be one with the heavens. He will spend every day outside, training as a warrior, until he can beat even the gods themselves in combat. Your kingdom will see only wars won, and after he has had his fill of life, he will die keeping his kingdom safe, leaving behind more than just one kingdom to be ruled with your blood.”

Again, the King sent him away. “What worthwhile king stands as though he were a mere footsoldier? Be gone with you and your inane offer!” And so the second man left as well.

The third man was as spectacular as the others, with skin so dark he blended in with the shadows themselves, hair like liquid moonlight, and eyes that shone like stars. He also bowed to the King, but not respectfully, and he did not wait for his turn to speak. He was as wise as the others and knew his offer would be refused, but he still had promised to offer. “You will have a son, yes, but he will belong to the stars. He will take to the shadows much more favorably than the light but will resemble you by all means. He will know the stars by heart and how to navigate by them but will operate in darkness much more comfortably than most until he is killed by his people out of fear of being a nightwalker. But his sons will behave the same as any other man and avoid that fate.”

But the King was waving him away before he could finish. “Why would I have an heir just for him to die? Your offer is the worst by far! Leave before I have you killed for the reason you foretold!” The man couldn’t leave fast enough, but soon taking his place was an unforeseen fourth. A stout one, it was filthy with dirt, its hair as wild as its eyes as it stared down the King, its hooves announcing its entrance as loud as the queen’s heels. “You have rejected the others,” it started, ignoring the King’s orders for it to leave. “So you must accept my offer. Your son will be of the ground, in more ways than one. He will be kindhearted and wise, but he will be half animal.” It raised its voice to be heard over the barked orders for the guards to remove the intruder. “The worse you act now, the worse it will be!” The threat failed to silence the ruler, but the man continued. “He will be a wellloved king, not of your kingdom but someone else’s. If you do not accept a son on our terms, there will be no true heir, and your bloodline will die with you.”

The King thought himself cunning and reasoned that if he simply kept his son locked away, there would be no way for him to leave and rule some other kingdom. He would have to be the ruler of this kingdom, and there would be nothing that could be

done. Although the terms were something no wise man would consider, he was not a wise man, even if he thought himself one. “Fine,” he finally said as the half-goat stood patiently for his response. “Fine, but should you ever show your face in this kingdom again, you will be culled like the billie you are.”

The man only laughed, knowing that karma would come in due time. “Every cruel word you speak, from now until the birth of your son, he will have to bear. Watch your tongue, for his sake, if you know what is good for you!” it cautioned, leaving before the palace guards could capture it and make good on the King’s threat.

Not long after, the queen discovered she was pregnant, and for nine months, she was treated far better than before. But the old King thought nothing of the warning he had been given and acted much the same, if not worse than before. All for the sake of the queen, he had claimed, but the excuse held no water when the son was delivered. Covered in spines nearly from head to toe, the son was a monster; it was impossible to tell if he even resembled his father. The poor queen died from the birth and was buried with all the rites and tears beloved queens receive. The King blamed the child, but everyone who had been there to hear the offerings knew that it was his fault and not the poor child’s. The spined son was given no name, as the King claimed none were befitting such a horrifying beast, and locked him away in a room with only rotted hay to rest on and a partially-barred window so that he could not escape. The shepherds that passed by every day took pity on the wailing child and did what they could to help, offering food and dress if the child helped them in their duties. And the child agreed, knowing that he would see no such kindness from his father, and survival on any terms was better than facing Death so early.

Well, before the two years of mourning were over, the King had taken a new wife, and there was much more luck with this one. Though she was meek and mute, she bore a son a few months after they were wed, and the King was ecstatic. He would have an heir no matter what, now, someone to take over his kingdom. But as his second son grew, it was clear the elder brother was

growing as well—in the evenings, when the livestock was to be brought back from the pasture, the castle filled with an angelic song. Wordless but beautiful, it brought the queen to tears every day and filled the King with nothing but rage. It was surely his eldest making that racket, but the door had been covered over so long ago he never could find it, and the son was smart enough to never linger by the windows and to fall silent when he heard his father searching. Before long, the younger son, who had been named Crispin for hair the same curled texture as his mother’s, began begging his father for an answer to the singing. “If I do not know, I might as well go mad,” he begged, “searching every day for where it is coming from. Please tell me, Father, sir, please!”

After weeks of ceaseless begging, the King confessed that he had an elder son, one who had been locked away for being a monster. Crispin spent every day looking through every window and checking every crack, wanting to know where his brother was hidden, so he could meet him, regardless of what danger the King screamed there was. He promised food, promised anything he could ask for, but the eldest stayed hidden. He was well fed by the shepherds and dressed by them too, although he had no shame to cover in the first place. He was worried about hurting his halfbrother and, to an extent, jealous that his brother was born normal and was attended to like he never was. But it couldn’t last forever, the prince had begged the shepherds to tell him where his brother was, and they had relented for the young heir, showing him to the window while calling for the eldest, the same sharp song they would use to call the cattle. Both were shocked to see each other, but the elder prince felt betrayed. Crispin reached out to try to touch his brother, but the eldest turned away, causing his spines to prick him and draw blood. He went inside to be tended to, and the King knew instantly what must have happened. No amount of logic would reach his ears; he was certain that his vile son had done it intentionally and knew he had to get him out before he ended up slaying his brother. So the King set up to have his eldest married off to someone who did not know his true nature, claiming that his son was too sickly to meet the suitresses as they arrived but promising he was as

kind-hearted and as handsome as his younger son. Few kingdoms were willing to wed their daughter to a man they had never seen—but there were some that showed up. Two with hair like sunlight, two with raven’s hair, and two with hair like moonlight. The six were welcomed with warm accolades and treated as the royalty they were. Each was given their own room, as well as their own space to spend time in when they weren’t proving their worth. They had not been told of that part of it but stayed regardless. That afternoon the siren song began again, and the raven-haired princesses fled, fearing that this was some trick and that their lives were in danger—for in the seas, sirens were the deadliest of predators. The King cursed and went to shout at the shepherds for allowing him to continue using their cry with guests at the palace. The princesses of the heavens and the stars talked amongst themselves, knowing well their lineage and having heard tell of the King so stubborn that he refused every gift offered and put together that the son must be of Earth, since Sea, Heaven, and Stars had all been rejected. The daughters of heaven were convinced that the prince must be a monster, then thinking that by bearing his father’s words, he would be as cruel as his father. The pair planned to kill the betrothed, ridding the palace of the cursed prince, in hopes they would instead get the younger brother’s hand in marriage. The daughters of the stars had gone to bed as soon as they arrived, sleeping hand-in-hand as they often did, and locked the door to their rooms to not be bothered.

The elder heaven-daughter was chosen to be his bride, and they set off in a covered carriage with a sheet between them. The son tried to talk to her, wanting to learn her name or anything about her, but she refused to answer. Not even on suspicion he was a fey—as he asked what her name was, not for it—but the careful will be careful. Halfway out of the town, she turned on him, trying to stab him through the sheet. His spines protected him somewhat, but several were cracked in the struggle, so the sword did meet his skin. He fought back as anyone would, trying to save his own hide while harming her as little as possible— attacked or not, she was still a princess, and being known to be

violent would only make his treatment worse. But the princess did shed blood, and the elder prince managed to escape back home as night fell, licking his wounds once he had found his way back to his hidden room. He had never ventured out of it before, but he had paid attention when he was led away.

He started to sing again once he had returned to his room, a nightly wail in attempts to lift his spirit, but the daughters of the stars were awake by then. The younger one saw the trail of blood and went to get bandages and herbs while the elder one followed the singing, leaving a trail of star seeds as she went, so her sibling would be able to follow her to the secret room. As accustomed to the night as they might be, it did not make the forgotten hallways any less dark, and star seeds shone as the fully grown thing, making it easy to see. She knocked on the door softly, waiting for an answer, although she got none. “I am not of the heavens,” she called through the stone-brick door, “I am of the stars. I will not hurt you. My sister is getting bandages for us to help.” The sister returned and backed up the story, and with nothing to lose, the young man opened the door.

The pair were taken aback by what they were faced with: a boy with more quills than an adult has hair but still recognizable as a boy. Despite being princesses themselves, they both bowed, and he returned the favor. “May we come in?”

“Yes, princesses, you may,” he responded, moving aside to let them in, having been taught proper manners by the shepherds, despite his isolation. They were both appalled at the state of the room—the heaven princesses would have been, too, had they seen. They bid him to sit and tended to his wounds in tandem, no word spoken as they made sure his injuries were tended to, so there would be no infection or bleeding. Once done, he thanked them both and bid them farewell, but they stayed.

“Talk to us,” they asked. “Let us know more about you. We are most awake at night and would have nothing more to do.” He agreed, and the three talked until the break of dawn when the roosters crowed to announce for the heaven-born to awake and the star-born to rest. The sisters bid him farewell and left to their rooms, greeting the one heaven-born left as they passed with the

proper curtsies and nods.

The heaven-born princess noticed the bandages and herbs in their pockets and was appalled. “Why are you helping a monster? Surely, he is as cruel as his father!”

“His room has nothing in it,” the eldest replied, “besides some moldy hay and a barred window.”

The youngest added, “The earth-spirit would never curse someone to be cruel. The spines are what he bears; he does not share his father’s temperament. He was even kind when we asked to enter.” The heaven-daughter was appalled and begged to be told where he was, so she could apologize herself, but the two refused to tell her. “Even if you are earnest, he would not open the door for you. Bring these herbs to your sister; if she is hurt, tend to her well. You made a mistake, but you can make up for it by leaving for now. We can pass along the message.” The sisters handed over the herbs and bandages, and went to go rest, as the heaven-born daughter went to go help her sister.

The King was enraged, naturally. While he hadn’t planned for the heaven sisters to try to kill his son, it hadn’t been unwelcome, and he had been celebrating the fact that his son might not return. But the kulning started again that afternoon, and he knew that the plan had failed. Desperate at this point, he demanded that his servants wake the two remaining princesses, so he could hand off his son to them and would no longer have to deal with him. Neither was happy to be woken in the middle of the day, but they agreed, ready to be away from such a rude king and to make sure the son could leave as well. The servants went to gather the son, who was weary, despite the help the pair had shown earlier. The trio left in a silver carriage with a canopy on the sides so that the sisters could get some rest. It was a long trip for the spined prince, who had only left his room one other time, and it hadn’t gone well that time. But by nightfall, they had gotten back to the kingdom of the stars, where they were all greeted like any royals would be, even the prince, although most were taken aback at first. For the first time in his life, he was given the proper attention of any royal child, although they held off on giving him a proper suit for the time being. He had

requested it, knowing that if he wore it now, it would be torn to shreds, but it was appreciated nonetheless.

For a month, he lived with the princesses, being given the proper education he had lacked over the years and getting to know the two. He was given anything he could ask for and was treated like the prince he was. He adjusted to sleeping during the day, like the royal family, and got to know the princesses very well. He was closer to the eldest one, and on the day that marked twenty years of his life, he had a request for her. “Please help rid me of my spines,” he begged, “not all but most of them. The ones on my head, I don’t mind, but the ones on my body, I can’t stand. Break them off with your hands, I won’t prick you, I swear.”

Astra, the eldest star-princess, agreed without hesitation. “I know you won’t hurt me,” she promised and started to break off the spines one by one. It took almost all night, with how many there were, but come day, he looked normal. He resembled his father some, much more than Crispin did, and while he still had spines in place of hair, he was practically beaming. He was given proper princely clothes, and he had finally chosen a name for himself—Acacius. More months passed as he adjusted to no longer having spines and continued the education he had lacked for most of his life, and after nearly a year, he started to court Astra.

As for the ailing King, he was in for a shock. As Crispin got older and older, it was clear that he didn’t resemble the King one bit—and the new queen admitted that he wasn’t his, that she had been pregnant when they were wed. Because the child was not of the bloodline, the King had no heirs, and after the queen was cast out for having lied about her child, he died alone, and his kingdom fell into ruin.

Second Place, Dr. Vickie G. Hunt Memorial Prose Contest, 2024

Tick Tock Tick Tock

Heart beats bimp bop

Lungs breathe, in stops

Hands hold, pen drops

Reach. Move. Get up.

Time goes Tick Tock

I freeze, Tick Tock

Words swarm, hear lots

Words dull, mind rots

Heart beats, Tick Tock

Time, stop. “Tick Tock”

“My laws” it mocks

Tick Tock Tick Tock

Ears bleed, it talks

Can’t find this clock

Burned hands find rock

Glass breaks, Gears stop

Still hear “Tick Tock”

Tick Tock

A. M. Romano

Winter’s First Breath

Kylee Minus

Snow dusted the tower hovering above the frozen ocean, coating the pointed top with a sparkling white. The song of the wind blew through the mountains and icy trees like a whistle, reaching the ears of a small boy curled up tight in a cocoon of blankets. The bed creaked as he stirred awake. He painfully sucked in the air of the harsh winter breath. A cloud puffed from his lips with each exhale.

So, the boy thought, winter still hasn’t forgiven me.

He wrapped himself in his wool blankets and slipped from his small, creaky bed, a shock shooting up his back as his bare feet hit the wooden floorboards. He lumbered over to the door and rubbed the frost from the handle before he opened it. The door shrieked in protest as it swung open, almost as if telling the boy to go back to bed. But now that he was awake, he wasn’t going to fall asleep again.

Winter had always woken Talvi first. Perhaps it was because winter held a mighty grudge against him, but he could never get winter to forgive him for his misgivings. He found himself awake every winter while everyone else in the tower slept soundly for another three months.

What have I done to make winter so angry with me? As Talvi wandered down the spiraling staircase, he pondered this question, catching his chin between his fingers while he thought. It had happened so long ago that he couldn’t remember when it even occurred.

Only one person would know: his friend, Jiro, who always visited when everyone in the tower awoke.

Talvi reached the bottom of the staircase, reminding himself that he still had three months to wait before Jiro would make his appearance at the tower.

When spring came to the mountainside of The Place With No Name, so did Jiro. And when he left, the snow would return

and the ocean would freeze over again. The song of winter would descend upon the mountains and lull everyone into a deep sleep that lingered for an unknown time. Nobody knew how long they slept for, and nobody was really interested in knowing. As long as spring returned to wake them, they had no need for the answer.

Everyone waited for spring to return, but Talvi waited for his old friend Jiro. He liked spring, of course, but spring wasn’t really spring without Jiro. Without the smoke of Jiro’s pipe encircling the kitchen in the morning, without his mandolin strumming, without his adventures and games that lasted until he had to leave again. That was spring.

Sometimes, Talvi wished Jiro wouldn’t leave every winter, but he knew Jiro couldn’t stay. Though no one who lived in The Place With No Name questioned the length of their slumber every winter, Jiro, for whatever reason, was strangely bothered by it. He left long before the song of winter soothed everyone to sleep, safely across the frozen ocean, awake all winter somewhere yonder.

The first time Talvi asked him to stay, Jiro had paused in his tracks, and Talvi stumbled to keep from crashing into him.

“I…can’t,” Jiro whispered in the faintest breath. “I don’t have time to sleep, not like you do.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” Jiro answered dismissively. “Race you to the bridge.” Then, he sped off.

His strange behavior puzzled Talvi, and when he asked again, Jiro would somehow escape the conversation. He was good at escaping. One second he was there, and the next, he was gone. Just like winter.

Crossing into the kitchen, Talvi stumbled through the darkness. He found his way over to the cupboards and pried them open, groping for his mug. The glass cup nipped at his hands with cold as he pulled it out and shut the cupboard.

He searched for the kettle, longing for a cup of hot tea to soothe his frozen lungs, smiling as his frosty hands wrapped around the handle of an old metal kettle still sitting atop the

hearth. He ventured to the faucet and turned it on, kettle in hand. With the kettle filled, he stoked a fire and set the kettle to boil. He reached his hands out and let the warmth lick his fingers, pretending the heat belonged to the rays of the sun. He sighed at the spring memory, feeling a pang of sadness hit his chest full-force. Oh, how he missed spring and all that entailed. He shook his head and sniffed, rubbing his hands rapidly before he turned to the pantry. He riffled through, pushing cans of beans and frozen loaves of bread away, but as for the tea, he couldn’t find it.

“Oh, where is that tea?” Talvi said aloud, huffing in annoyance as the pantry practically swallowed him up.

“You mean this tea?”

Talvi gasped and whirled around so quickly, he hit his head on the pantry shelf. Sitting with his legs propped up on the table, a boy in a long coat puffed smoke from his lips, his hand wrapped around a pipe, unruly hair protruding from his big hat.

“Jiro!” Talvi exclaimed. “You—you’re here!”

“Of course I’m here. Where else would I be?” Jiro smiled, his lips kissing the pipe. He blew a cloud of smoke into the frosty air. “Hurry, now. There’s an adventure waiting for us at the bridge. Let’s go.” The boy jumped to his feet and disappeared from the kitchen.

Talvi ran after him. Though he wanted to question Jiro’s sudden appearance, he couldn’t quite get one other question out of his mind. He eventually caught up with him and stood at his side.

“Jiro, I have a question.”

“Of course.”

Talvi swiped a hand through his hair. “What was it that caused winter to hate me so?”

Jiro chuckled. “Now, that’s a long story.”

“We have all spring,” Talvi said.

“Yes, I suppose we do. Alright, I’ll tell you, but stop me if you come to remember. It happened around two thousand years ago, and I had just arrived at No-Name Place for the spring.”

Silence:

Louis Finch

You really ought to hate the voice that’d spell those foolish unsaid words into your ear; for upon those sweet songs I dare not sing remains a harsher truth than you could bear.

These sweet nothings don’t mean a thing at all, though you to me are heaven unto earth. And quiet curtains kiss my lips to close, if you, my silent director, say so.

It could not e’er be, despite thy heart’s cries, door slammed shut, though, for you, I would ne’er leave. And so I stay, and do as you say, love, because for you, I gladly would abstain.

It pains me so, and though it hurts I know; for only you, I would remain silent.

Ren Kirby

two boys young, naive, innocent existing within the comfort of each other they’re the same in all the important aspects but their shadows are cast differently unprotected, like boys can be unfamiliar, like lovers often are a kiss a hug an exploration of the human condition feeling, living, communicating no words between them taboo, fears, crying whispers of apologies with no grounds the solace of false consolation a moment together bare-chested silence as they understand each other and revel in what it means to love

Be Careful What You Wish For

Isabella Grzebieluch

At a local carnival, a massive blue tent stood, and the smoky scent of incense tempted me to go inside to meet the shadowy figure slumped over a crystal ball. As I entered, I could make out the features of a crooked smile that belonged to a middle-aged lady with a magenta headscarf and hoop earrings. In a raspy whisper, the oracle began her schtick and told me that I could ask for anything I wanted. Out of curiosity, I asked her how I was going to die and watched as she flailed her arms around the translucent sphere and opened her mouth to answer.

The fortune teller’s face was deep in concentration as I heard her mumble that my cause of death would be a stroke. I looked at her disfigured face in disbelief but quickly regained a skeptical perspective. I believed that psychics were a scam, so I was expecting her to spew broad statements. I was doubtful of her prediction because I was the most sports-oriented person I knew, and no one in my family had ever suffered from a stroke. I sighed heavily and couldn’t believe I was swindled out of twenty dollars. Before I left the tent, I placed the cash on the table and watched as she happily snatched the money between her long, cat-like nails. As I walked away, I heard her mutter, “Sucker,” under her breath. However, despite my distrust, I couldn’t help but spend the rest of the day wondering if the fortune teller was right.

After a few years passed, I thought about what the oracle had said and how wrong she was. I became more active ever since that interaction at the carnival, and she’s the reason why I’m so healthy. I signed up for the town’s local marathon, and I ran seven miles a day without breaking a sweat. I waited in sterile hospital rooms for my doctors to check for signs of cardiovascular disease and high blood pressure. I desperately tried to not have a stroke and did everything I could do to prevent

it. Sometimes, I think it’s because I wanted to show her that her prediction was wrong and that I would overcome it. After a while, I began to believe I had, and that feeling made me feel unbeatable.

While on my daily run, I came across a sharp corner that intersected with the road. I made sure not to stay too close to the corner to avoid bumping into someone who was coming from the other side. However, that decision made me veer closer to the street than I would’ve wanted. I could hear horns honking, and as I turned my head, I could see a car racing through a red light. The Honda Civic was like a shiny, silver bullet aiming for my chest, and I could hear the loud revving of its engine. As that same car was speeding towards me, I saw the features of an old man slouched over the steering wheel. The force of the collision knocked the oxygen out of my lungs, and I could barely see a red-headed nurse wearing blue scrubs racing over to the crash. The last thing I could recall was her mentioning that the man had suffered from a stroke.

Gerascophobia

Tara Ness

My face

Pale and smooth

Has barely seen life

10,000 sunrises

Love and loss

The knowledge of the world

The older faces

With lines like roadmaps

Showing the routes of their life

Wearing them with pride

Their age

A testament of strength And time

With the higher numbers Comes wisdom And intelligence

The beauty of life

Experience

But I can’t help but be scared I don’t want to grow old

Unable to care for myself

Diminishing into a shell

Of who I was I won’t be me I want to jump

And dance

Throw my head up

And scream into the night

I want to be young

And beautiful

Carefree

And full of life

So what happens when I slow down And death speeds up

Is it worth it to run

Or should I lay down I don’t want

To be helpless I don’t want

To fall apart

Like sand in water

Drifting

Until I settle uselessly In a pile

On the floor

Trapped in ice, frozen

Strawberry

Zeyna Kostur

No thoughts, no anything

Am I in an illusion

Or is this reality?

It can’t be real

Because that makes melancholia

So did it happen?

Did my eyes and ears deceive me?

Drowning is said to make colors more vivid

So this bottomless lake

Should make the colors of life more vivid

But all I receive is gray

Why is it so much to

Exchange a few more words?

Why is it so much to

See their smiling face?

Why is it so much to Feel multicolored?

Why is it so much to ask for?

The Mimic

Inaria Maciel

“Castiel, I need you to cooperate with me. What happened? The sooner we figure this out, the sooner my team and the government can clear this up and get rid of that ‘mimic.’”

“I’ll tell you what I saw, but promise me you won’t tell this to Ares yet.”

Usually, I’d argue and voice the importance of letting the team know about this matter, especially with everything that’s been occurring. But he’s the only survivor, and “Ares,” his partner, is one of the many people who are missing. We have yet to inform him about this because it could delay our expedition to find and learn more about this creature.

The first sighting was reported in the tundra of Alaska about two months ago. At first, it was just rumored to be a bear and then a person in a costume. That was before people went missing, to be found again five days later but without their faces. That is what all the victims had in common—that is, until we got another report of a person (we now know to be Ares) who has been missing for over five days.

After a moment of silence, he began to narrate his story:

The storm raged on as my feet dragged through the dense layers of snow. There was no sense of direction, no way of knowing if I was getting closer or farther from my destination, if I even had one to begin with. I can hardly remember. My only goal right then was to find somewhere to camp safely for the night, but my body was becoming lethargic, and every breath made me want to claw at my aching throat. There was nothing to be seen in miles—not a sign of life other than the gnarled trees and endless white of the snow.

All I could do was look down at my hands and let out a heavy and exhausted sigh, my body sinking in tune with it. The hypothermia was getting to me. Before another thought could plague my mind, something wisped past me at a speed that was unimaginable, knocking me down straight into the snow and completely disorienting me.

I pushed myself up with a grunt while looking around at my surroundings and froze. Before me was an amalgamation of a creature, something even God couldn’t take pity upon. It was white, blending in almost too perfectly with its surroundings. Pale and lifeless eyes like those of a serpent. It was trying to look human. The creature’s shrill voice suddenly broke the silence—the voice of a woman, a child, and a young man who sounded more solemn than all the other faces this creature had collected.

I sat there, paralyzed in horror. When, suddenly, it tried to speak, the voices all toppled over each other as they tried to speak at once, but everything was muffled out by a low hiss and quiet clicking that seemed to rumble from the back of its throat. The faces all joined together at once to reveal…masks? The body soon came into view— the upper body of a frail and very malnourished “human” and the torso of a snake—but instead of scales, everything seemed to be made up of “tar” and human remains.

I jumped back, quickly pulled out a gun, and tried to steady myself and control my shaking.

“What do you want from me!?” I shouted.

The creature made a soft cooing sound before wrapping itself around the trees, circling around me as it chirped like a bird, as if antagonizing me. One of the masks began to contort and change into the silhouette of a familiar face. It was Ares’ face.

“WhY dId You LEaVe meE? I trUsteD yOu. YoU pRoMiSsSsSed yooUu’d come baCk...WHy didN’T YOu coMe bAck?” Its voice was cracking and hissing as it mimicked Ares’ voice.

I tried to cover my ears, shaking my head vigorously, and felt tears sting my eyes. “You’re not real. You’re not fucking real!”

I choked on my own words and muffled out a sob before aiming my gun at “Ares’” face. The creature cooed more, and the clicking became louder.

“IT’s AlL yOUr FAulT. It’S aLL YouR faULt. IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT—” it shrieked.

And it kept mocking me as I held on to the gun reluctantly. It lunged forward with a high-pitched scream, the masks now all broken apart, and the middle of it opened up like some kind of torn-up ribcage full of teeth. I spun on my heel and slammed my back into a tree while raising the gun and aiming into its stomach. The bang of the shotgun

echoed before that creature began screaming. So I took it upon myself to keep shooting until it went limp and the snow was painted in a deep crimson.

I pushed myself off the tree slowly, gazing down at the mimic. Its eyes were glued to me as it tried to piece together Ares’ face in a last attempt at tormenting me.

It croaked out a small, “I lOoOOoOOOOooVe yOu.”

I shot the face, and the body finally went still, the only sound remaining my own beating heart.

At this point, I think I was in shock. I placed the shotgun on my back and continued to walk deeper into the woods. I don’t know why, but I decided to look back, and the body of the creature was gone. I didn’t care anymore; I was too tired to care.

“After that, I passed out, and you guys found me. That’s it,” Castiel stated to me. I continued to frantically write down notes and nod along at everything he said.

“I’ll be sure to put this report in immediately for the others. Thank you. But we will be keeping you here for now, Castiel. We can’t let any more information get out about this.”

“I thought you said you wanted to stop this thing; why isn’t this information being publicized?” Castiel got out of his seat, looming over me.

“We don’t want to cause more panic; it’s easier for us and the government to just do this our way and keep it under wraps.” While stating this, I had gotten up as well and taken a few steps away from Cas.

“Are you fucking kidding me? There are people dying, and some abomination is on the loose, and you just want to stay quiet about it?” Castiel then quickly tried to make it past the doors before I cut him off.

“I can’t let you leave, Cas.”

“Move.”

Sighing dejectedly, I moved out of the way before striking Castiel in the back with a Taser. He was down in seconds, and security was called up in no time. I kneeled down next to Cas and whispered, “Like I said, we have this under control, so just rest for now.”

the rambling love notes of a noisy brain

Ren Kirby

do you remember when there was nobody home, and you carried me inside? i do.

and i felt something i thought it was that deep, sick, hungry feeling. but it was good.

and i wanted more but not the touch, the thrill, the passion. it was just you.

there’s something about the way my stomach flutters and spins inside out when you hold me and kiss me as gently as you can.

and i am reminded that we are human, and i deserve this. and i love you.

and between all the love and the gifts, you are still my favorite. the greatest i could ask for.

Momentum

Kitty June Tobia

“Are you sure we’re not lost?”

“I thought I told you; we’re not lost, we’ve only lost the trail. It might be a bit before we find it again. If worse comes to worst, we can go back to where we lost it and spread out again. Though, hopefully it doesn’t come to that. I don’t want the terrain to get any more trampled by us.”

Four mechs stood in a clearing in the jungle. Light from the twin moons shone brightly overhead, helping to illuminate the space. The jungle was full of noise. Countless smaller animals croaked and cawed in the underbrush and treetops. Clouds of bugs swarmed around the mechs’ headlights. Behind them was the trail they had left, three pairs of footprints, and one set of tank treads. The prey they were following was just as big, but much more subtle. Only scant footprints, claw indentations marking territory in the trees, and the occasional pile of scat. Doing wide scans for life signs was impossible in a jungle with this many animals, unless they were very close. Their best clue was a trail of blood, possibly from an accident or a rival of the same species fighting over territory. Unfortunately, it seemed the bleeding had stopped. That meant thorough scanning of the surrounding area to try to find the trail again, spread out to increase the chance of finding it. That put everyone on edge—no one wanted to be alone with a predator the size of a school bus.

Ariel sighed. “Right, right, just a bit worried. Are you sure we couldn’t do this during the day?”

Sunny bent over to inspect a root, switching to blacklight. “No chance of that, I’m afraid. Nights here are twice as long, and we got here just after sunset. The trail will be too cold by then.”

“Eugh!” said Raine, the one in the stout robot carrying a minigun. “I think I just stepped in a trail marker. Looks fresh.”

“Awesome! Think you can take a sample home with us?”

said Sunny.

“Sure, scrape it off the underside of my mech’s foot and you can have it.”

“Deal.”

“Wait, Sunny, I was jok-”

Sunny didn’t hear her. “Jos, place a GPS marker on our location and up the intensity on our scanner. It must be close.”

A shaky voice piped up from a chicken-legged mech sporting a large, spinning radar dish and heavy artillery. “Hehe, sure thing!” The clacking of a keyboard could be heard through the radio. The dish was now spinning twice as fast.

The group continued through the brush, weapons up, with Sunny up front and the others close behind—Ariel behind Sunny, Jos behind Ariel, and Raine bringing up the rear. The plan was simple. Ariel would fly around the beast to distract it long enough for Sunny to immobilize it with fired tow cables. Once it was grabbed, the group would lay into it long enough for it to stop moving.

After a few minutes of following the trail Raine had discovered, they came to another clearing, this time full of jagged boulders, gravel, and spires of solid rock, some pointing straight into the air and others fallen over, broken at the base. In the center of the clearing stood a small hill, covered in what looked to be overgrowth. Jos suddenly exclaimed and pointed with the lights of her mech. “There it is!”

The rest followed her gaze to the hill. The hill suddenly growled, and charged straight at them. Just before it made contact, the group scattered to avoid being bowled over like pins. The beast charged past them, stopped, and turned about face, scraping the ground before another charge. Looking closer, the beast was covered almost completely face to hoof in a thick, brown, hairy coat, which clung tightly to it, with the only way to tell the back from the front being the gigantic shining tusks and jet black eyes. It glowered at them as they got back on balance after the evasive action.

Sunny shouted into the mic, “Alright, you know the plan! Ariel, run interference! Everyone else hit it with small arms

fire. Go!”

The group sprang into action. Ariel boosted right up to the hog’s face and leapt away at the last second before she was gored by it. Ariel was likely the only one able to keep up this frantic dodging pace, rocket boosters firing rapidly back and forth to duck and weave from the car-sized tusks. Once Sunny was in position, she waited for an opportunity. There! The boarlike creature had overshot, and its front-right leg skidded in the gravel. It was all she needed.

“Ariel, move!” Ariel fired thrusters to full straight into the air as Sunny slammed her fist on the fire button. Explosive charges all over the mech propelled a dozen sharp projectiles connected to high-strength cable into the beast. The beast roared, twisting around, only further ensnaring itself in the cables, like a dog twisted in its own leash. “Remember, aim for the face and extremities. That wool is like Kevlar! Ready…fire!”

All at once, the jungle was bathed in light as the group fired every gun they had. Autocannons, lasers, miniguns, missiles; roars turned into squeals as the animal realized how much danger it was in. Holding the creature was difficult. The cables groaned and whined as the beast tore around the clearing. Tension from holding the raging beast and stress from the oncoming fire caused some cables to snap, breaking and whipping around with enough force to cut a man clean in half. The beast was beginning to hemorrhage and stagger, when it locked eyes with Sunny. Whether through some realization at what was holding it, or blind madness, the beast charged straight at her. She was only able to pull up the titanium shield in her arm a moment before 40 tons of rampaging animal slammed into her, jostling her so hard it felt like it shook loose a few teeth fillings. Lights and display in the cockpit staggered, replaced with red and flashing warning signals.

*Warning: shearing in torso section 3-E. Damage to left shoulder. Servos in left wrist unresponsive. Coolant leak in section A-8. Sealing…done. Redirecting…done.*

She hit the accelerator as many more flashed in front of her. All at once the gunfire had stopped, for fear of hitting

Sunny’s mech. If she relented her push, she would be knocked over defenseless, easy killing for even the wounded boar. She looked back and forth for options. None of her group were near enough to close into melee range in time. She couldn’t retaliate with her beam sword, as her hands were occupied with straining against the shield. Suddenly, she found the solution in her rear-view camera. Behind her was a spire, knocked over who knows how long ago. It looked like a lance posed ready to spear whatever charged into it. It was perfect. She just needed to…

Left tread full reverse. Rotate torso left. Balance shifted as the boar scraped past the shield, shedding sparks and scoring the solid titanium. It was too late to stop. The beast saw its doom a moment before it was impaled. Its coat may be tough, but physics was not on the beast’s side. Its weight and momentum worked against it, the spire stabbing through the hide and straight into the hellpig’s heart. It shuddered once, and was dead.

Silence rang through the jungle, the only sound being the panting of the pilots through their microphones.

“Everyone—gasp—ok?—gasp ”

Sounds of affirmation in between pants.

“Nobody—gasp—hurt?”

“Us?” Ariel wheezed. “What about you? You were nearly turned into a shish kebab!”

Ariel was right. Sunny had completely forgotten to take inventory of herself. Now that she said it, she realized she had a pounding headache, bruises all over, and a cut in her left arm where it had scraped against a particularly sharp button. Her mech was faring even worse. She could move most of her joints and treads, but with a harsh grinding which didn’t sound healthy. She lifted her right hand to emote something along the lines of “ehhhhhh…” which made a noise like two battleships scraping against each other. Everyone flinched at the sound.

Millie Maggot

Gracie West

She entered the world by clawing her way out of her mother. Malting from the amniotic fluid and entrails. And her mother named her Millie, a title with family history. Millie wailed, guttural and ear-piercing, each new cry creating a pain that oscillated through her mother’s head. She was not a peaceful child. When Millie was three, she scraped her knee. Pale skin hung from the wound that glowed a bright vermillion and seeped blood hurriedly down her shin. Curiously, she picked at her wound to bring a bounty of flesh and ichor to her lips. It was acrid and smelled foul. Millie was not fond of mortality.

When Millie was nine, she would take the trash from her house to the county-issued bin to be retrieved in the morning. Not long before it was taken, spells of maggots and flies would invade the bin, writhing back and forth, dancing to the sick sound of buzzing and crunching. Millie was fascinated by this. Each morning before school, she would bring an offering of fruit or toast to the bugs, then return after she got home to find the congregate mass of ochre bodies had devoured her widow’s mite.

Millie didn’t know if she pitied the maggots or envied them. After she began to menstruate, her used sanitary pads became sustenance for the squirming creatures. Maggots were her favorite. The way they creeped across her arms when she scooped them from their tomb, the clicking of their skin as they trampled over each other; it filled her with such satisfaction. She felt a part of a thriving organism, more complex than herself.

Millie did not live a long or happy life. Her mother found her a burden, her father absent. She had no friends or hobbies. She loved her maggots, and her maggots loved her. When she was sixteen, Millie met a boy on the internet. He was thoughtful, if a bit odd, but she didn’t mind. Short-tempered and twenty-something. They agreed to meet one evening

outside a 24-hour gas station. As she approached in her car, she saw a lanky man with angular features and deep-set eyes outlined by a neon fuschia halo. As she pulled into park, he approached her car, and she rolled down the window.

“Millie?” he asked.

“Yeah, are you Sam?” She responded hesitantly.

His face broke into a toothy grin with beady eyes; Millie had never seen his features before, but she recognized the sound of his voice, nasal-bound and wet.

“What a beautiful creature,” he said.

Wasting no time, he reached into his back pocket and retrieved a cloth handkerchief emitting a poignant odor. Still smiling, he placed it over her mouth and nose. Millie struggled to place the keys back in the ignition of her car, but before she could fully turn them, the vignette of her vision faded…

Through the milky film that began to cloud Millie’s eyes, she witnessed shadows of trees rustling with the incoming breeze. She shut them. The sound of maggots malting in the crook of her ears marched its way across each groove of her dying brain. Relief in her spine allowed her hefty body to breathe freely, and she stretched her limbs across the forest floor, clutching at the withered leaves and moist soil. As her consciousness waivered, she opened her mouth to receive her final taste of the air. The sweetest taste that would ever grace her tongue, the soft tissue of larvae inching their way down her esophagus. And in her concluding moments, Millie would now be one with the maggots.

100 • Blackwater Review

Vivid Reflections

Josephine Squires

There is nobody exactly like another. In science, that is. In emotion, many of us are the same. Intense, human experiences draw us together as people. The enchanting book series by Rupi Kaur, Milk and Honey and The Sun and Her Flowers, encapsulates the vivid emotions humans have through their experiences. They are so vivid that they force you into a reflective version of yourself, a version that is as reflective as a mirror. This not only conjoins me with others, but it draws me in to better understand my forever vessel, myself. Wilting. Falling. Rooting. Rising. Blooming.

Even the chapter names amazed me as I leafed through the various word portals of Kuar’s book, The Sun and Her Flowers. I remember exclaiming to my mother, a teacher of the arts also fascinated by the stories generated through poems, “Who knew a life’s journey could be interpreted in terms of a flower’s lifeline.” It was so extraordinary, I thought. The similarity humans have to nature that roots themselves in our world. I am a human, and I wilt when life gets hard; and I root myself; and I rise once I find the courage; and I bloom as I become a new version of myself, better than before. Rupi Kaur can explore the most minimal, complex, and intricate details of my life and replicate them through the intimacy of her work. The particular flower that resonates with my birth month, August, is known as the Gladiolus. The Gladiolus is a sword-shaped flower and is associated with the human characteristics of strength and faithfulness. The most memorable lessons I have grasped while indulging in the work of Rupi Kaur are how to attain strength in the darkest times, how to have faith in yourself, and how to grow as a person. How to bloom.

Squires • 101

Accept that you deserve more than painful love life is moving the healthiest thing for your heart is to move with it.

The poems of Rupi Kaur create an open-armed opportunity for me to morph into a version of myself that is more aware and understanding of who I am and influences me to feel less alone. I, for one, while relishing in the words of Kaur, have experienced feeling inspired and heard. The sympathy and relatability of the poems emphasize that I do not struggle alone. Many others are brawling in silent battles within themselves. We all wilt; we must find each other in order to bloom. The word hurricane, the tropical storm we know as Rupi Kuar, creates and embodies the endless sensations of love. This establishes the tone of how I might design my future friendships and relationships. Her words are not rules, only guidelines or ideas that can set us up for success.

I can recall when I initially decided to pluck the set of books off my shelf. The dust gathered on the peak of the books reflected the lack of energy I had to read them. Now that I am able to look back, I can gather that instead of my lack of energy, it was my fear of what the words of Kaur might criticize me for. The intricate details of my mistakes and experiences were enclosed inside the spine of the book. Blindly, I thought, “Might as well see if the rumors of the books are true.” Reviews of the poems in the books were circulating the media as many young girls claimed they resonated with the energy extracted from Kaur’s words. These reviews were confirmed as I opened the book. The crisp pages and unbroken spine called to my eager hands as I leafed through the introduction pages.

how is it so easy for you to be kind to people he asked milk and honey dripped from my lips as I answered cause people have not been kind to me

This is the first poem I read as I cracked open the book. Immediately, I understood the high expectations and reviews that had been shared by young girls all over the internet. Rupi Kaur has the unique ability to write out the emotions that I once believed did not have the words to be described. She created a new language. A language that is read differently by everyone. A language that is mine to understand and yours to read. On the contrary, sometimes I find myself, as I peruse Kaur’s poems, unable to relate to her words on a personal level. Kaur has the unique ability to write about the effects and feelings of abuse in a mature, emotional, and compassionate way.

I may not have the unfortunate, thorough understanding of the mental hardship that comes along with the aftermath of experiencing something traumatic, but through Kaur’s words, I can conjure up a new sense of empathy and understanding for the emotions commemorated in recovery. This way, with any peers I am familiar with, I can sit down, have deep conversations, understand the utter agony of recovery, and provide a level of comfort to others. That was my epiphany. As I set down the books for the first time since opening the door to a world of emotion, I understood the lengths Kaur went through to pass on these stories. I set down the book and ran my fingers through my hair as if I had just run to the peak of the world’s tallest mountain. Victory, understanding, enlightenment. This is what I felt, and this is my epiphany.

I can contact and empathize with others who may be the most similar emotionally to me or the furthest from my understanding through Rupi Kaur’s cathartic words. A literature friend who I understand and who understands my emotions on an enhanced, psychological level. A friend who happens to have the words to make me feel heard. Rupi Kaur reproduces spirited, human, vivid emotions through her poems that make me feel heard, comforted, and inspired. My literature friend is out there. I might just have to look through the pages of books or on the shelves of libraries.

A Message to My Children

Tara Ness

The day I lose you Will be the day I lose myself

The day you leave this Earth Will be the day I depart as well

From the day

You opened your eyes I was there And I have remained And will forever

I’ve grown you

Not in the normal sense

As a mother does From within herself

But in the way An outside force

Changes and shapes A child

As if they’re their own

And I claim you As my own

As long as I Am lucky enough

To be blessed with you

My life is perfect

With you, Nothing can be wrong

Our love polishing

Every blemish

In our cracked and rusted world

Life’s not always fair But if I can help it Me before you

You were the first thing I ever saw For my eyes Were never truly open Before you And all I wish, Is when they finally close

It is you I see So my life will begin And end

With perfection

The Fool

James Land

“Atwood,” Jack’s voice broke the silence.

“Sure,” Magician replied absently, not looking up.

“No, not ‘sure’—that’s your name. Atwood. You had a last name once, before….” Jack trailed off in frustration.

Jack had never been gifted his own last name. But Magician did have one, once upon a time. Jack would try daily to make his friend remember, but that damn Magician Card had hollowed his friend out, leaving only a blank-faced boy where his friend had once sat.

Magician let out a weary sigh and turned to look out the room’s only window, gazing at the lively marketplace below. He flipped his pebble into the air, and, at the apex of its arc, the dull stone momentarily transformed into a shiny gold coin, instantly reverting as it fell into Magician’s outstretched palm.

“We need to go to the market. Supplies are low,” Magician muttered, pocketing the coin that wasn’t, and then gestured for Jack to follow him down the stairs.

The two navigated through the labyrinthine marketplace, shoulder to shoulder. Stalls crammed with exotic spices, vibrant textiles, and peculiar trinkets lined the narrow cobblestone streets. The air was thick with the chatter of haggling vendors and customers, mixed with an orchestra of clanging pots and sizzling food. Jack’s eyes darted around like a hawk scanning for prey. Each beat from the Card nestled within his chest sent ripples of energy coursing through him invisible threads weaving into reality itself, subtly manipulating probabilities to grab that spare rolling apple or catch a flying coin out of the air. As a street urchin, Jack was used to getting by unnoticed, slinking in and out like a careful shadow.

Magician, on the other hand, acted with a studied nonchalance, his gaze distant. He picked up pebbles as he walked, tossing them into the air where they transformed into glinting

gold coins before reverting back. He could get small things right a coin here, a loaf of bread there but larger transmutations still eluded him. Evidently, he had forgotten all the dangers of the streets. The streets that he and Jack grew up on.

Jack watched him for a long moment, a knot of unease in his stomach. He knew Magician’s actions were dangerous; he could feel it in the shift of energies around him, like an ominous knock echoing from afar. “Stop showing off,” Jack snapped suddenly, berating Magician for his latest bit of flashy alchemy. “We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile.”

Magician shrugged nonchalantly. “It keeps us fed.”

“And I’m supposed to be the Fool,” Jack mumbled under his breath.

That gave Magician pause a memory flickered in his mind’s eye: a building…a card glowing expectantly…fear… confusion…pain. Jack saw this but brushed it off. His friend acting weird had become an everyday occurrence.

Magician shook his head, dismissing the image quickly. “Just stick close,” he ordered Jack tersely as he kept walking.

A pang of guilt gnawed at Jack these Cards were supposed to be something wondrous. They’d found them abandoned in an old building one day; Zee was drawn to them like a moth to light, especially the Fool Card. But before he could reach it, Jack had picked the Magician. It had rejected him, burning his hands. Zee grabbed it in a panic, and that’s when everything changed.

Zee lost his memories but gained incredible powers. In desperation, Jack picked up the Fool card, hoping for similar abilities as Zee’s Magician Card powers that allowed Zee to transform objects temporarily or manipulate the elements to his will. Instead, Jack was left with a pale imitation of what should have been his. A constant reminder of his mistake.

“Let’s just get back,” Jack said quietly as they gathered their spoils.

Zee nodded in agreement, piling together his misbegotten scraps, before pausing suddenly. A slight smirk spread across his usually apathetic face as he transmuted yet another golden

Land • 107

coin out of a pebble in his pocket.

“Heads or tails?” Magician inquired playfully.

“You know I’ll guess right no matter what…right?” Jack looked at him incredulously, pointing at his own chest as if to say, Are you the fool, or am I? Sure, Jack’s Card may not have been as useful as Magician’s, but his luck manipulation easily allowed for party tricks to lean in his favor.

“Then you’ve got nothing to fear,” Magician provoked him further.

“Heads!” Jack harrumphed finally, letting his intuition guide him. His Card tingled affirmatively, signaling that he had made the right choice. Jack turned away in advance, keeping his hands in his pockets, already knowing what the outcome would be even as he heard Zee flip the coin behind him.

“Tails,” Magician snickered suddenly.

Jack turned on his heel quickly, inspecting the coin for himself. “Wha you cheated! You used your Card and transmuted right after it landed to show the other side, didn’t you?”

Magician put his hands up placatingly, the coin vanishing in an instant. “Absolutely not! Maybe you’re just not as lucky as you think, eh?” He grinned boyishly.

Jack continued chewing him out all the way home.

They returned to their humble abode nestled in the city’s tallest spire. The attic room was cramped but cozy, filled with mismatched furniture scavenged from the streets below. A single window offered a panoramic view of the sprawling cityscape, twinkling under the velvet blanket of night, gas lamps casting long shadows across cobblestone streets. Zee busied himself with his pebbles, his gaze distant and thoughts clearly elsewhere. Jack watched him for a long moment, a knot of unease in his stomach. He knew something was coming he could feel it in the shift of energies around him, in the tingling sensation at the back of his neck.

“Zee,” Jack said finally, breaking the silence that filled their small space.

“Magician,” Zee corrected absently once more.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jack continued carefully, ignoring

• Blackwater Review

his friend’s correction. “About us. About these Cards.’

That got Zee’s attention. He turned to look at Jack, surprise flashing across his face before being quickly replaced by curiosity. “What about them?”

“Why us? What makes two random orphans who used to pickpocket for chump change so special?” Jack asked softly.

Zee was silent for a moment, considering Jack’s words. Eventually, he gave up and turned away again. “I don’t know if we are special,” he admitted flippantly, his usual dreaminess turning into quiet muttering.

“But we must be,” Jack insisted stubbornly. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t have these. There has to be something that separates us from others.”

Again, Zee didn’t respond immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and thoughtful. “Maybe it’s not about being special,” he offered slowly. “Maybe it’s about what you do with what you have. Isn’t that what being a Magician means? Being resourceful?”

Jack frowned at that, trying to decipher what Zee meant by it. But before he could ask further questions, Zee stood up abruptly and announced that they should get some sleep.

When the knock came at their door hours later, it was like a physical blow. Jack felt his breath catch in his throat as he turned to look at Zee, a sense of resigned terror gripping him. This was it the moment he had felt in his premonition. His Fool Card wasn’t very powerful, but he could vividly picture the symbol on the other side of their mottled door: a man hanging from an upside-down cross and a blade with Jack’s name on it.

Fate was the cruelest mistress. Jack was supposed to be the Fool, the defier of fate, but, looking over at Zee, his determination slowly died down. The terror in him gradually simmered into acceptance. He remembered Magician’s words: maybe it was about what you did with what you had.

For the past few years, all they had was each other. Jack would be gone soon, he knew inevitably, but he could still gift something to Zee. Or... was it really a gift if he was never meant to have it in the first place?

Land • 109

A knock echoed through the room, pulling Jack from his thoughts. He turned to Zee, calm as the still wind in the middle of a hurricane. He met Zee’s eyes one more time, grabbed the Fool Card out of his shirt pocket, and let it sink into Zee’s chest like a pebble in water.

Pain exploded in Zee’s mind as memories flooded back laughter, warmth, friendship the essence of being not just Magician, but Zee Atwood. Tears welled up in Jack’s eyes as he saw the flicker of recognition pass across his friend’s face, but The Hanged Man had already quietly entered the room.

There was no grand spectacle. No epic battle. It happened in an instant. A flash of steel, and then Jack crumpled down. Dead.

Zee could only watch as reality fell apart around him. He couldn’t even catch a glimpse of the attacker; his eyes were locked on Jack’s.

“J-Jack?” He stammered helplessly, only to be blown through the wall behind him with a deafening boom. The attack hit him with all the force of a freight train, shot back helplessly a dozen meters before entering freefall.

The Magician woke up inside of him, desperately controlling the wind to slow him down. The Fool Card inside of his chest pulsed and shivered, manipulating subtle probabilities to stop a branch from impaling his back by mere inches as he crashed into a tree.

Time caught up with the orphan boy. He had been reunited with his memories but left alone again. He had the urge to curl up on the ground and die, but Jack’s Fool Card sounded in his chest like a second heartbeat. A piece of Jack.

In that moment, The Fool and The Magician simmered down in the recesses of Zee’s mind, giving him a moment of reprieve to sink into the tough bark of the tree and disappear.

Climate Drain

Kara Crowther

The bristly, dead grass pricks my feet as I stumble through the plateau. The piercing light stings my eyes, causing them to water.

My sun-bleached and blistered skin aches with each step I take.

We should have cared about the diminishing cover. Who would shield us from his demanding gaze?

We paid for our actions. The clouds, once fluffy and light, no longer shaded our barren butchered land.

I miss the protective hands that guide me, I yearn for the motherly affection I once felt.

My brother’s and sister’s faces, cemented in my memory, fade as the sun blinds my brain and bind me to the purgatory we created.

Crowther

Reality Caving In

Kylee Minus

“Where are you?”

I pulled my phone away from my blistering ear, wincing as Jamie’s voice thundered through. I knew I couldn’t get anywhere without it, but part of me wished I had simply left my phone with her. I checked to make sure I wasn’t being tracked before I answered, my voice raspy from a few nights spent awake.

“I just stepped outside. I—” I cut myself off. There wasn’t much else that I wanted to say.

Jamie scoffed. “You can’t just ‘step outside’ every time we go somewhere. You said you’d wait for me this time.”

“And you said we’d only be there for an hour. Then you disappeared on me.” Irritation broke through my voice without my permission. It was one thing I couldn’t control, no matter how hard I tried. “I told you that I didn’t want to go. I told you I’d complain. And I told you that I would leave if I wanted.”

“What are you going to do? Wander around campus the rest of the night?” The blaring music and chatter in the background interfered with her question. “You can’t run away every time you’re in a situation you don’t like.”

“I know,” I insisted. Deep breath. Calm down. “This was more than that. This was…more.”

I slipped my scarf from my arm and wrapped it around my neck as I walked. My heels clacked against the stone sidewalks, maneuvering around stray patches of snow and ice. I wiped cold sweat from my forehead before shoving my hat on.

Jamie sighed. “Do you want me to come get you?”

Yes, please. “No. I’m fine. I can get back to the dorm myself.”

“Are you sure?”

I thought about it for a second. No, definitely not.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Be careful coming back. There’s ice,” I said.

“Don’t wait up for me.”

I ended the call before I could say something stupid. She

didn’t really have to tell me. On nights like these, it was a given that she would be staying out. She never should’ve tried to convince me to join her.

How did it get to this? I remembered meeting her for the first time. She was already in the dorm when I got there, arranging a surplus of overly expensive college textbooks on a small desk in the corner of the room. The first thing that struck me was how tall she was. I had to bite the comment from my tongue. Most girls didn’t think being called tall was a compliment. She probably honestly wasn’t that tall. I was just short. And she was wearing heels.

“Oh,” I said. I always said that when I didn’t know what to start my sentence with. “Hi.”

She smiled like it cost her nothing. “Heya.”

I had never heard a “heya” before. I wished I had started with something as eccentric. Introductions were everything, and I had already screwed mine up.

“I hope it’s ok that I took this side.” She gestured to the bed she was currently leaning against.

“Oh, you’re fine,” I said, and quickly cleared my throat when I realized that my answer was barely audible. “You’re fine. I don’t mind at all.”

“You have a cold?”

“No, I—” I cleared my throat, forcing out a laugh.

“Good, ‘cause I heard a bunch of freshies already caught the flu, and I’m not getting sick this semester.” Somehow, she sounded snippy and friendly at the same time. I was almost impressed but was too busy feeling intimidated to realize it. “I’m Jamie, by the way.”

Is she going to shake my hand? Reach for a hug? Fist bump? I took a step back to ensure she didn’t have the chance to do any of those things.

“Ruth,” I said, cheeks burning. “I’m Ruth.”

Luckily, she wasn’t middle-aged, so she just nodded and continued with her arranging, asking if I needed help bringing in boxes and such. I immediately declined. No way did I want a stranger looking through my things.

Minus • 113

It was foolish to be embarrassed of my name—at least it wasn’t Marjorie or Susan, or, God forbid, Karen—but there was always that one person who had to gape at such an old-fashioned name.

I honestly never fit in with people my own age. My sister would tell me how I walked the playground alone in kindergarten, playing with wood chips. Then came high school. Four years of desperately scraping for someone to talk to. I joined the crosscountry team, the school play, the art club, the book club, and the track team, but, at the end of the day, I was still alone.

Maybe a part of me liked it that way. Maybe a part of me wanted to be alone. But when I saw a group of girls together, my heart dropped every time—like I was missing out on something magical.

It was like there was an invisible line. When I was a kid, I could see it and easily play hopscotch over it, but as soon as my teens hit, the line disappeared. But everyone else could still see it, and they knew which side to be on. I tried, over and over, to find it again. Or at least to clean my eyes so I could catch a glimpse of it.

Somewhere in my search, I must’ve turned around and started walking the other way because I was a desert away from that line now.

I snapped back to reality, blowing warm air into my trembling hands. The tight knot in my stomach had begun to fade, but it wasn’t gone. I had yet to figure out why being around crowds made me feel sick. Parties. Classes. Study groups, even. They all ended in me running away.

I checked the time on my phone, unsure if I should’ve grinned or frowned when I read the three on my screen.

The witching hour.

I didn’t actually believe in all that superstitious stuff, but kid Ruth did. The thoughts were like muscle memory by now.

“You do know it’s the witching hour, right?” A voice slipped through my ear like warm silver.

I tried to ignore him, but when he burst from the dead bushes, I had to give him a little indication that I noticed him.

His face was twisted with precision and determination as he posed beside me.

“Hurry, get back to the secret base. We might have time if we’re lucky,” he whispered theatrically. He pulled a stick from his belt, brandishing it like a sword—his legs spread, knees bent, back arched. The perfect fighting stance.

I kept walking, but my twitching lips urged me to stop and humor the boy.

“Come in, Ruthie, come in. Reality is caving in.”

I bit the side of my cheek, increasing my pace. Too old. I was too old for these types of games.

These types of daydreams.

Oliver pressed himself against my side, pretending to speak into a walkie-talkie. “Pshh. Getting tired of holding this pose. Over. Pshh.”

I finally smiled, shoving him off. “Ruthie in. Reality unraveled. Trying to return to the secret base undetected by witches.”

“You’re going the wrong way. Pshh. You took that sidewalk when you came here. Pshh.”

I made a beeline for the sidewalk he was pointing to. “Thanks, Ollie. Over.” “You forgot the pshh.”

“Pshh.”

“Well, now it’s too late. You can’t say it after you—oh, never mind.” Oliver straightened himself up, shoving his stick back into his belt. He brushed nonexistent dust from his brown trousers and readjusted his cap. “You always get lost like this. Remember the time at Disney World?”

“Don’t remind me,” I groaned, my face heating up despite the cold. “And I’m not lost. I’m just not used to this place at night.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say. Take a turn here.”

I turned, unsure if I recognized the path I was taking. “You know, you’re worse at directions than I am. Why am I even listening to you?”

Oliver shrugged. The suspender hanging from his left

Minus • 115

shoulder slipped off, hanging sadly. “Cause you listen? I’m here for as long as you need me.”

I frowned. And that was the problem. I shouldn’t need a constant daydream. A daydream of a boy I had conjured in middle school. It certainly wasn’t healthy; surely there were other coping mechanisms, but I just had to get stuck with the most ambiguous of all.

I didn’t even know exactly where he came from. I never had an imaginary friend as a kid. I played pretend back then, maybe a bit more than normal, but this was on another level. It was something I couldn’t tell anyone about. And frankly, I was too embarrassed to go to a therapist about it.

He’d go away, eventually. I couldn’t live my whole life with a 1930’s newspaper boy yapping in my ear, I knew that much. Yet, he was still there through junior high and high school. And now it seemed he’d followed me to college.

Was he really just a daydream, though? By now, he’s more like a hallucination.

“I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” I said.

“I’m actually hungry,” he groaned. “I could go for some witching hour coffee right about now. How about you?”

I thought about the wave of nausea that had hit me at the party, my hand instinctively reaching up to hold my stomach. The flash of heat had left my throat dry, which made me feel even worse.

“Dunkin’ is open, you know.”

“I’ve spent like thirty dollars on coffee this month,” I argued as Oliver turned the opposite way. “I’m going to go broke.”

“Witch detected. Make a run for it!” He shouted and fell into a dead sprint.

“Oliver!” I couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t Oliver who caused me to sprint across campus at three in the morning. It wasn’t the cold or the fear of running into a creep. And it certainly wasn’t witches. I was just that desperate for some coffee.

The Covenant of the Closet:

Louis Finch

Make these broken, unholy hands into God. Make me worship something other than the man strapped to the cross bleeding, and beating the terms “love and devotion” into every gay youth I’ve ever known.

Make me kiss the floorboards of this hallowed ground while on my hands and knees, whispering the lord’s name over and over; not in vain, but in a desperate sort of prayer, to you. I say it while trapped inside this place that longs to change and “fix” us but it can’t, because there isn’t anything to fix.

Make me into the person my parents would beat without a second thought, if they happened to ever see me like this. They’d be throwing fists and slurs like it was “the right thing to do” because it was what their preacher said, and they would always listen to him rather than the words of their own scripture.

Make me into something worthy of love because I can’t think of loving myself, anymore. Make this sacrilegious scene into our own religion and pray we find safety here, even if only for these sheepish touches and stolen moments.

Tiny Dancer

Allie R. Saunders

She stands at the back of a line of tiny dancers, all dressed in vibrant pink, sequined tutus, with matching bows atop their bobby-pinned buns. All potential flyaways have been tamed with generous amounts of gel. Her posture is impeccable, her shoulder blades pulled back and down, her head held high, just like she practiced, countless times. Shadows and light dance around her, highlighting and contrasting her skin, illuminating the stage that they all file towards. Her back is turned, hiding any of the nervousness— or excitement, or both—that she feels. I certainly don’t possess the same courage she does. I could never perform in front of a crowd, with everyone staring and sending chills down my spine. But not her. Confidence flows through her veins, makes her stand with a regal posture, never afraid of the things to come. These motions are ingrained in her muscle memory; she could perform them in front of a sea of people or an empty theater. The dance is the only thing that matters to her, not the crowds or the bow that refuses to stay in her hair, or even our mother, quickly snapping photographs of her fleeting childhood. I can still recall the hum of the conversations of the other frantic mothers around me and the stage whispers of the dancers preparing to enter the stage. All the dancers, except one. The little girl with her back turned, shoulders poised, and head held high, ready to take on the world, one recital at a time.

Recipe For Disaster

A Found Narrative.

Josephine Squires

1. Preheat oven to 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit, and set timer for nine months.

2. To create a product add 5 variations of broken bones, one almost surgery-threatening.

3. Add 16 cups of religious questioning, and don’t forget to add the “Pastor’s Daughter” seasoning.

4. ½ cup of type 2 bipolar father, and ½ cup of ADD mother.

5. Mix.

6. Split the current mixture into three sections.

7. Label one Massachusetts, the next Illinois, and the next Florida.

8. Add two teaspoons of “excitement for gymnastics” in the “Illinois” bowl, then add 2 teaspoons of “physical and mental strain from gymnastics” into the “Florida” bowl.

9. Add 2 tablespoons of “peace” in the “Florida” bowl, but only do this after adding in the “ballet” seasoning.

10. Place in the heated oven for 16 years, or 5844 days, or 140256 hours.

11. Once the timer goes off, spread the “new friends” frosting on top. You can find this in any grocery store near you.

12. Let this cool off for about an hour, especially after arguments.

13. Enjoy the many flavors of “Disaster.”

*Disclaimer: This dish may not be for everyone; use it with care, and do not miss any steps.

I’m Lying, I’m Lying

with lyrics from glaive’s “the prom”

James Land

why do i still remember every shade of red that tasted your lips last night? “shut up.” i’m speaking when i shouldn’t, asking these things i shouldn’t, even ask, were you ever in love, alright?

his touch, not mine, and his lips, not ours, i pretended i wasn’t crying, wasn’t dying, pretended i wasn’t there james, drunk, dead, dumb, and with a corpse’s stare. y’all shared secrets like spit. didn’t you say that you care?

now i’m left here to wait for your apology text wait out the hangover or wait for you to call and wait out dialtones or wait for one word, anything to make me believe in you, in us, in the so-called “relationship” in the slightest i told you that i don’t mind it

Hangry.

Kara Crowther

My dusty blue Jeep crawls towards the sidewalk, where I see Ava standing. I see her arms slowly cross, a clear sign of her current mood. While pushing the clutch in, I shift the gear into park, indicating that I’m ready for her to hop in my car.

I unlock the car doors and wait for her to buckle up.

“Hey,” I mutter.

“Hey,” she whispers.

“Do you have any food? I forgot to eat breakfast,” she admits after a few minutes of quiet.

“No, sorry.” Not another word was said until we reached the school.

My morning classes are always so mundane: First period, AP Bio. Second period, U.S. history, gross (no one wants to learn about Abraham Lincoln for the hundredth time). Third period, band, my only relaxing period. Fourth period, AP Language. Fifth period, lunch. She and I plan to skip the beginning of sixth period to take more time to eat; twenty minutes is barely enough time for her to take one bite.

After my AP Language exam—which I totally failed—I found her in the hall and did my best to grab her attention.

“Hey,” I yell.

“Hey,” she replies.

“Are ya’ hungry?”

“Kind of.”

“Where do you want to eat? I’m down to drive you anywhere you’re craving. I might have to stop to get gas, but I’ll take you anywhere, even over the bridge,” I say as we slip out the front doors of the school, beelining toward my car.

Silence. I guess she’s thinking hard about this. She’s so indecisive.

“I don’t know. You decide,” she finally spits out, throwing her arms up in frustration.

“Dude. Just make a choice. The world’s your oyster,” I say as I smile to myself. My cousin always used to say that to me when I couldn’t decide.

“I don’t care; you just figure it out.”

“You’re the picky one; just tell me what ’cha want.”

“Fine. Okay. Let’s just get McDonald’s.”

“Sure. That’s fine with me.”

I hand her the aux cord, and she plays her smooth jazz music. Given her gruff appearance, shaggy mullet, and facial piercings, I would never have guessed that she religiously listens to Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole. Five minutes into the drive, absolutely nothing had been said, sung, or screamed.

“You sure are talkative today,” I joke, glancing at the passenger seat to see her face.

Weird, not even a smile. She keeps staring forward, watching the road. I notice her frail shoulders are tense; she’s grabbing her slight wrist and moving her thumb over her palm, a nervous habit of hers.

“Are you okay, Ava? You seem off. Did you eat anything this morning? At all?”

“What are you, my mom? I’m fine. Relax. I’m just tired and having a rough day. Can you back off? Of course I’ve eaten,” she barks back at me.

“Okay. Wow. Chill out. I’m just worried about you. Is that not what I’m supposed to do? Geez, Ava.”

She sighs and turns her head towards the window to distance herself from me. I’ve loved her for over half my life and still can’t read her. She never lets me in; she never lets me help.

“You still want food?” I suggest to her as a peace offering. “I’m not hungry anymore. Just get yourself something. I don’t care.”

“Fine, whatever. I’ll drive back to school, and you can figure it out from there.”

“Sure. Yeah.”

His Dead Daisy

Summer Grace Linton

Buried beneath the sycamore trees

Drying up with each passing breeze

Sobbing to God, to breathe life

Back to its petals and leaves

A rose grows where roses don’t grow

Soft red petals peak through the snow

He takes the offer of the pretty red rose

But the corpse of his daisy

Lies just down below

Tears fade his new flower’s hue

Roses are red, but this one is blue

His daisy is dead and

He killed the rose too

Mistakes on You and I

Tara Ness

I definitely messed up But so did you

The blame I’ve held Over the last decade Has been unwarranted

Unnecessary

I have punished myself More than you ever could And have suffered More than you could imagine

I deserve some of what I’ve gotten But so did you

So though this is a horrible tragedy I’m releasing your hold on me I leave you here In this moment

To rest in peace And leave me In peace

I will move forward And this is where you will remain In my past And out of my head I beg you to let me go As I finally am ready To do the same

The Changeling Child

Ezra C.

Back when names showed your livelihood, a middling millworker decided it was about time for him to raise a child. He had no partner nor any interest in one, and as there was no unloved child in his town, he would have to find some way to have his own. So he prayed to his gods day and night until, finally, when he slept, he met with four people. Each of them was so very strange but comforting at the same time, as if they meant no harm. The four of them were idly conversing before noticing the man who stood before them.

The tallest one had golden hair and well-tanned skin, and he seemed to emit sunlight. The man was awed by his stature and by how well-defined he was, though not in the sense of being overly muscular; he was clearly the fittest of the gang. He gave the man a warm smile when they noticed him there, but there was something tired in his face, too.

The next tallest looked as if they were in the ocean. Their inky hair floated around them like a halo, the marks on their face glowing faintly despite the radiant man next to them. Their skin was nearly translucent in the light from the tallest, but they still had a regal air about them.

The third tallest seemed to take after the night itself, with twinkling freckles on his face and silver hair that gleamed like the stars. His complexion was that of night, the skin tone blending in too well with his brother’s hair. He looked the most awake of the quartet, regarding the man with a small nod and getting a bow from the Miller in return.

The shortest one had the bottom half of a goat and looked the wisest of them. Although short, it was clear that it had seen plenty of this world, and when no true identity came to the Miller’s mind as he looked at it, he realized that it must have lost plenty to the fae.

The four approached him, and he realized, wordlessly,

that whomever he approached and showed reverence towards would enable him to have a child. He thought long and hard before approaching the Billie-man, kneeled before him, and begged, “Please, kind spirit, let me have a child of my own.”

The man woke up before he got any answer from the spirits and went about his day as normal, and when he came back from the mill, there was a swaddled baby on his doorstep. He brought it inside and tended to it as if he had birthed the child himself, naming her Moira, since it was fate that had brought her to him. But before long, she began to grow ill— the man did everything he could to keep her safe and healthy, but she only got worse. He stayed awake every night to care for her, and on the third night, he found himself too tired to keep watching. But come morning, she was as healthy as normal! He rejoiced and cared for her as normal but noticed something off. She wasn’t as playful as before, she was favoring different toys, and it was only a week later when he realized that it was not his child. He again set to praying every night and soon had a dream of the Billie-man once again.

No words were spoken, but he could understand the spirit regardless. It told the Miller of how the fae had taken his Moira, had brought her to their realm to heal her, but he would have to prove himself worthy to get her back. It apologized for that part, saying that it had never intended for this to be a quest of any sort; it knew the Miller had wanted a child badly enough to approach someone who could give no gifts alongside, besides a promise to be cared for. It told him what to do, as well—to take the changeling and nurse it as if he were a wet nurse, to cause it to laugh.

Then he would have Moira returned to him.

The man awoke in the morning, eager to put this into action. He lifted the shirt and brought the child to his chest, and it burst out laughing instantly. He let his shirt fall but continued to hold the changeling and turned to the door when he heard a knock. “You may come in,” he said, and stood tall as an elegant creature entered. It had no visible wings, but had a long, pointed face, as well as pointed ears. It approached him

and reached out a hand for the child, but, after a moment, the Miller stepped back.

“I’ll care for the changeling as well, if that’s okay. But I still wish my Moira back,” he said. The fae was startled, clearly not expecting this, but after some pause, nodded—for the fae king was wise to the fact that the Miller wouldn’t understand Sylvian, even if he could understand common. The fae king held out the child, who began giggling in excitement upon seeing her father again. He held both children lovingly and gave the fae a bow as it left, and from that point, it was known that the Miller had two twin daughters, Moira and Aldora, and both were well-loved, even if Aldora could seem strange at times.

And past that, it was spoken in whispers, well away from the woods and mushrooms, that anyone wanting multiple children could ask to keep the changeling child who attempts to replace their child, and there was a sudden boom in twins and triplets born after the Miller’s time. If the fae have any problem with the arrangement, nothing has been heard, but the Billieman has begun to question how many children those who ask it for some want, and if they care if those children are more… peculiar than others.

yellow minibus

Ren Kirby

stumbling from his overgrown house weeds festered in his front lawn sunflowers crowding in his wake vines bursting from his walls littered with natural beauty the ironic fate of a man with nothing his house of cards was ready to fall he refused to give up those memories trapping two lives in a picture frame youth suspended in those things the objects he holds dear but he cannot hold onto them any longer

cassettes burned with his childhood mixtapes love notes passed around in the halls an old dvd with a kiss from their wedding photo albums from decades of life two lovers trapped in artifacts worthless to anyone else

The Things I Carry Today:

Joey Paravate

Hairbrush tangled in wired headphones

A worn ticket to Six Flags

Necessary glasses in need of being cleaned

Keys marked with faded stickers

Yellow mechanical pencils with no lead

Old leather wallet given in the 7th grade, and— Ultimately, a reminder.

A notebook, with this page torn out Best of luck to you too

Contributors

Shelby Appling never thought she would make it to college. She tried to drop out of high school when her life took a crazy turn, but because her family is amazing, they kept her strong and made her a better person. She started drawing digitally about four years ago, and if you can’t find her, she’s probably in a corner drawing a picture of a dog or a horse on her iPad.

Ceciley Austin writes from the box in her mind that holds all her emotions. One of seven children born to a single mother and very much a “daddy’s girl,” she learned to express herself through writing at eight years old. She has children of her own, in her family and community, and her writing is one of the many gifts that she uses to give back.

Rileigh Bayne is a student at NWFSC currently studying design and digital marketing. She enjoys floral design and taking photos.

Jay Bevis has been in the ceramics program for three semesters. Their family has lived in Niceville since 2015. Outside of ceramics, they spend their free time growing plants. The name “Gat” comes from the combination of goat and cat.

During her first semester at NWFSC, Elizabeth Beyer’s creativity and passion for art were reignited. With each project, she challenged herself past the bounds of what she was capable of and found a love of sculpting. Combining this with her interest in the fantastical led to her creating mythological creatures through clay.

B. Bludau is a dual-enrolled high school senior. They have found their passion in the arts, ranging from music to drawing. Whenever they lose motivation, they remind themself that they need to keep moving forward to make a life for their one hundred future cats.

Ty Borschel, your local Frank Gallagher, has cats.

Neely Brewer is a junior at NWFSC and will be finishing up her A.A. in the spring. Her love of art has traveled with her from the start of elementary school and now into college. She likes to explore her creativity through different types of mixed media to give a message through 3D form.

Ezra C. has written various things over his time writing. Although it is almost all fiction, he’s recently become fond of rewriting classic fairy tales, usually adhering to the same basic plot but changing details and adding his own spin on it.

Kara Crowther, a senior at Collegiate High School, expresses herself through her writing. She loves using nature and the environment as inspiration for her works. Her biggest wish for her writing is that it is emotional to some and relatable to all.

Hayden Dates is a student at NWFSC, hoping to pursue her A.A. degree. Her passion is interior design, and she hopes to help the elderly and disabled one day with her creative solutions for accommodation. She couldn’t have made

it this far in her college journey without the motivation from Dr. McArthur’s fun and engaging teaching techniques!

Casey Ann Drayer is a student who is unsure of what the future holds, but she knows she will forever love reading novels, creating stories, and photographing the beautiful world around her. She hopes to one day pursue a career in writing or photography and show the world her artistic abilities.

Chloe Evans, also known as Clover, is an actress and college student who loves to write. She usually writes short stories and poems in both English and Italian!

Louis Finch is the pen name of an NWFSC student who graduated in the Spring of 2023. They have a current interest in photography and poetry and are excited to see what surprises might lay ahead in the next few years.

Funquii is a local artist who enjoys studying human forms and anatomy, which is evident in their art. They have a fondness for poetry and incorporate it into their work often. Funquii currently pursues art as a hobby and hopes to eventually earn degrees in both fine arts and behavioral psychology.

Isabella Grzebieluch is an aspiring writer and dual-enrolled pre-med student who likes writing short works of fiction in her free time.

Kylee Hale is an artist who tries to see the beauty in everything. She has a mind for art and loves to put random objects together to create beautiful, cohesive artworks.

Piper Hall is a senior at Collegiate High School and president of the NWFSC Raider Writers creative writing club. She’s currently finishing her time at NWFSC before pursuing a career in ASL interpreting at the University of North Florida.

Elizabeth Kelly is currently in her final semester at NWFSC. She will be transferring to a university in the fall to pursue a major in astrophysics. In her spare time she loves to read voraciously, is working on her fourth novel, and loves to write poetry.

Ren Kirby is a mysterious poet who lives in the cheese drawer of your refrigerator. He specializes in writing romantic poetry about feelings that cannot be explained with words. He really likes shredded cheese.

Finn Kornele is an aspiring journalist with a love for creative writing. They hope to someday change the world with their works.

Zeyna Kostur has three cats: Mushy, Nimbus, and Coco. She started drawing in August and writing poems around the same time. This is her first publication.

Angelina Kouchnir relocated from Ukraine and immediately started dual enrollment when she was 14 years old. She hopes to become a professional writer in the future, writing both books and scripts. One of her dreams for the future is to have her literary works taught in schools and be thought of along the lines of the classics and greats.

David Laird is an avid nature enthusiast with a fascination for avian life. He spends hours observing and photographing birds in their natural

Contributors • 131

habitats, capturing their intricate behaviors and vibrant plumage through his lens. This specific bird has a unique song that makes finding them easier; however, they do not stay in one place for long. This photo was taken at Turkey Creek in Niceville, Florida.

James Land is a Collegiate High School senior who specializes in short fiction writing. The late Dr. Vickie Hunt was James’ primary motivation to pursue creative writing as a hobby.

Summer Grace Linton is a 21-year-old college sophomore who took a year off with no intentions of returning. She did return and will soon be attending Florida State University in the Fall of 2024. She enjoys writing poetry and forcing everyone she knows to listen to it.

Inaria Maciel is a girl driven by her ambition to make her mother proud and a means to create, whether that be through art or writing. Her goal is to publish a novel that she’s been putting off for far too long and, perhaps, even publish some of her artwork to go along with her writing.

Kat Martin is a 33-year-old aspiring author who likes to explore themes of the macabre in their work. They love urban fantasy in particular, and they’re determined to one day be as popular a name as some of their favorite authors. Nothing motivates them more than a good cup of tea, a rainy day, and their forever-cheerleader/beloved cat, Maddie.

Jayruh Miller is currently a 19-year-old student at NWFSC. She is working to get her A.A. degree and then transfer to the University of Florida to major in Wildlife Ecology and Conservation. She loves writing fantasy stories, worldbuilding for stories, writing poetry, going on walks with her dog, and taking pictures of animals and plants.

Kylee Minus is the author of a self-published fantasy novel. She aims to be a bestselling author one day.

Tara Ness is an 18-year-old freshman at NWFSC. She discovered her passion for poetry through a beloved high school English teacher her senior year, and since then, she has been pursuing her goal of publishing her book for the world to read.

Joey Paravate completed his A.A. degree at NWFSC. After taking a break during the pandemic, he decided to take Dr. Temple’s Creative Writing I and II classes and later discovered the Raider Writers, a club he would join for his remaining semesters on campus.

Kris Rae lives in Niceville and does graphic design as a hobby. She unintentionally signed up for a 3D art class, and this project was her favorite from that class. This frog is dreaming about all of the delicious insects to eat in the world.

Eliza Ridge is an elusive creature rarely caught on camera. She would like it to be known that all allegations deeming her a vampire are false, slanderous, and most definitely incorrect.

A. M. Romano is a senior in high school dual enrolling at NWFSC. She wants to go to UF to major in economics, go to law school, and become a lawyer. She likes to write poetry and to draw and color.

Allie R. Saunders lives in rural North Walton County on a quaint hobby farm filled with cows, a donkey, three chickens, six cats, and a golden retriever. She enjoys reading any book she can find, but her favorite genres are legal thrillers, memoirs, and fantasy novels. She aspires to attend a major university to further her education and become a physican to better serve her community.

Bela Smith is an aspiring writer. She is working on her first book right now, a project she’s been working on for years. She’s always doubted herself when it came to writing, but she may have finally touched up her writing enough to turn her imaginative world into a reality.

Josephine Squires is a dual-enrolled student at NWFSC through Seacoast Collegiate High School. She loves expressing her inner feelings and challenges through her work.

Jakob St Onge, a student of photography, videography, and editing, also delves into classic film and television. He seeks to venture into directing and writing across different media, aspiring to create art that resonates widely while exploring life’s interconnectedness. The title of this is a reference to one of the greatest blues artists known to man, Muddy Waters.

Matti Stigler loves to write poetry and horror stories. She loves to draw, read, and play video games with her friends and plans to become a radiologist and YouTuber. She is obsessed with Lady Gaga, Chucky, Venom, SpiderMan, Star Wars, and Lego.

Kitty June Tobia is a student at NWFSC. She loves writing, sketching, video games, and her two cats, Holly and Cookie.

Rebekah Walters is an honors student at NWFSC who has fallen in love again with learning and has reignited her passion for writing in doing so. She’s currently pursuing her B.A. in English with hopes of becoming a published author, a dream of hers since she was little. Besides writing, she loves her four cats and three dogs and is a proud owner of a chameleon! Of course, she couldn’t have gotten this far without her most loving mother, proud father, and ever-supportive partner.

Gina Watkins is a firm believer in pursuing any interest at any age. Life is meant to be captured, expressed, and enjoyed. Fear not the challenges but learn and grow from them.

Gracie West has a deep appreciation for the fine arts and hopes to someday be a curator of women’s art. She will be transferring to UWF in the fall and will earn her degree in Interdisciplinary Women’s Studies.

One of the significant factors that led to Hannah Whitlock’s love for art was the way she could communicate through it. While she knows not everyone will understand the emotions she feels while creating her artwork, her emotions during the process are more than enough to acknowledge it as worthwhile. She uses multiple media, including clay, ink, and graphite but finds comfort in using charcoal. She has appreciated art throughout her life as a mode of escapism and as a creative outlet.

Contributors • 133