November 2014 by The Nerdwriter

November 2014

Midnight Writers

Table of Contents Cover: “Flaming Glare,” a photograph by Nike Page 12: Headless Chick(en) on Ice,” a short story by This Page: “Ready, Set, Go,” a photograph by “Presenting: Hecate Calypso

Page 3: Ask Aphro & Dite  

Solving holiday shopping woes A child from the Capitol seeks the truth

Calypso’s Island: 

A rant on paperwork, pumpkins, and patriarchy

Echo’s Echo 

Our favorite nymph interviews Jill-O-Lantern

Page 4: “Three Little Wishes,” a poem by Buckbeak “Fall Expectations,” an illustration by Angiosperm “Warmth,” an illustration by Yoonju Lee “Happiness,” a poem by Vivian Griselda

Page 5: “Before the Fall,” a photograph by Zenyatta “Crispy Colors,” a poem by Vivian Griselda “Neither Here Nor There,” a poem by Corvus “Holding On,” a photograph by Zenyatta

Page 6: “I am Fire,” a short story by Bluejay “Heartfire,” a photograph by The Owlish Bookworm “Letter to the Arsonist,” a poem by The Owlish Bookworm

Page 7: “Under the Falls,” a photograph by Aries “Unknowing,” a short story by Baalat “Autumn,” a photograph by Japanda3

Page 8: “Innocent Revenge: Chapter Two,” a story by Asteria “Lost in the Dark,” an illustration by Alice Fraser

Page 9: “Natsu the Dominating Fireplace,” a photograph by Senpai “I am Fire,” a poem by The Teumessian Fox “Oathbreaker,” a poem by Hades

Page 10: “Living Paradise,” a short story by Asteria “Good in Goodbye,” a photograph by Senpai

Page 11: “Why Marshmallows Should Never Go Camping,” Illustration by Raven “Love,” by Bravery “I See You,” a poem by Luna Moon Sparkles

“Third Place,” an illustration by Hecate “The Polar Past,” a poem by Vivian Griselda

Page 13: “October 30th,” a poem by A.T. Pacem “Scout’s Honor,” an illustration by Firebird “Autumn Fairy,” an illustration by Pandora’s Box “Guardian,” a photograph by Poseidon “Death Sentinel,” a poem by Zenyatta

Page 14: “The Wall,” a poem by Janus “Antimony,” a poem by A.T. Pacem “Industrial Sky,” a photograph by Calypso

Page 15: “Carnival Tail: Chapter Two,” a story by Calypso

Page 16: “Carnival Tail,” continued “Aurelia,” an illustration by Hecate

issuu.com/midnightwriters midnightwriters2015@gmail.com

Ask Aphro & Dite

Dear Aprodite, How does one go about Christmas shopping? I've got a lot of people to shop for (parents, boyfriend, friends) and very few gift ideas. Yours, Aries Dearest Aries, Sugarbunch, I feel your pain. And you don't even know how easy you have it. On Olympus, if you forget someone or don't get a finicky goddess the perfect flavor of ambrosia tea, you have to deal with it FOREVER! But darling, let's get back to the problem at hand, hmm? First thing is to make a list of all those you deem worthy of your gift. Sort them into categories: perhaps the ones you love most or need to impress go under the "Spend Lots For," the "Spend Not So Lots For," and the "Dear Zeus Why Do I Know This Person." From there, start shopping! I'd suggest something thoughtful and meaningful. Perhaps a gift that relates to an inside joke? And if all else fails, diamonds, darling. Go with the diamonds. Best of Luck, Dite Dear Aphrodite, I've been hearing rumors about a revolution. My parents won't tell me anything, and President Snow has been more confident than ever, but I'm not so sure anymore. I heard that rebels in District 13 hacked into Capitol TV, but that's impossible. Everyone says so. But I'm not sure if I believe everyone, and I'm scared because I don't know who or what to believe, and there's no one here I can talk to. Please help me. Yours, Capitol Child My dear Capitol Child, Oh, my little darling. The mortal world does such terrible things in the name of protecting their young. Child, I fear I must do my duty as a mature adult and tell you that not all is what it seems in the world. Your President Snow sounds a bit like Zeus—though he appears to be doing what's best for you, there may be more to it than that. Darling, it's up to you to investigate as best as you can—know what's going on. This is no time to be prim and proper. Right now your world is on the brink of a full-blown revolution; a weak gale of wind is all it would take to tip your world over. As far as District 13 goes, don't always believe what you hear. I know that may seem obvious, but sometimes those closest to you wont tell you everything you need to know because they want to protect you. Take matters into your own hands, figure out what's right and follow your heart, lovely. And remember, I'm always here to hear what you have to say. May the odds be ever in your favor, Dite

Calypso’s Island

It’s been a rough month in the Underworld. Having to check all the monsters, ghosts, and demons back in was awful, and there were complications that led to hours of paperwork. I always figured I wouldn’t have to do it, seeing as I’m the ruler of the Underworld, but alas, one cannot escape bureaucracy. That’s not even to mention all the plant shenanigans that have been going on. Believe it or not, when plants die, they briefly make an appearance in my gardens. Recently, I’ve been getting a ridiculous number of pumpkins appearing, and residents have been stealing them to make jack-o-lanterns and have pumpkin wars, by which I mean catapulting pumpkins at each other. It’s been fun, but now I’m left with acres upon acres of trampled, rotting pumpkins, and someone needs to clean it up. Ascalaphus took one look at the mess and told me, “I’m gonna need a raise.” I filed the paperwork, but he refuses to work in the meantime. I couldn’t very well leave the rotting mess there—the Underworld has a reputation to uphold—so I started cleaning up by myself. Anyway, the issue at the forefront of my mind for the past few weeks hasn’t been the pumpkins or the paperwork; it’s been the number of complaints from my residents that I’ve received about how I’ve been managing, or rather mismanaging, the Underworld. Most of them blamed the problems in the Underworld on having a queen instead of a king. Needless to say, I was shocked. Gender has had nothing to do with my reign of the Underworld, and it’s quite insulting that there are people out there who don’t believe I’m capable simply because I’m a woman. Even the spirits long dead have no reason to complain. After all, I have yet to meet a goddess or Titaness who isn’t powerful and commanding and completely capable of controlling her sphere of influence. Just because Hades has ruled the Underworld for millennia doesn’t mean that the Underworld requires a male ruler. I can think of plenty occasions wherein Zeus briefly stepped down from his responsibilities and Hera ruled in his place. Did thunderstorms ravage the earth? Did hurricanes and tornados destroy cities and countries? Of course not! Few beings outside those who were told about the transition ever knew that she’d been ruling in his place. The pantheon’s long accepted that goddesses are on equal standing with gods, and it’s high time that humans—alive and dead—catch up.

Echo’s Echo

Hey, Midnight Writers! Hope you all are adjusting well to the cold. I swear it was 80 degrees last week, and now it feels like -4. What gives? This month’s guest may sound familiar to those who’ve been with us for a while. Her brother featured in October of last year. Hint: her last name is “O-Lantern!” That’s right, today we have another pumpkin with us! Last year, John-OLantern, close relative of Jack-O-Lantern, dropped by and gave a compelling speech about pumpkin abuse. This year, we have his younger sister, Jill-O-Lantern! Me: Nice to meet you Jill! You have such a striking resemblance to your brother. Jill: Oh, thanks! I get that a lot. Me: I bet. So, Jill, how are you doing in this hectic fall season? Jill: Exhausted. Pumpkins are extremely important this time of year, for decorative and food purposes, so I’ve spent these past few weeks on the run from those pesky humans trying to capture us pumpkins. It’s tough seeing all my pumpkin friends who don’t get so lucky. Me: I’m sorry! But don’t you enjoy the attention you get during this season? Jill: Well, sort of. It’s great being the ultimate icon for this season and getting all that recognition. We’re to fall as Christmas trees are to winter. But it comes with a price, which is having many of my friends turned into pumpkin spiced lattes and other shenanigans. Me: Well, good thing I have yet to tried one of those lattes! I would’ve felt terrible knowing I was drinking, well, you know... Jill: Yeah, I get it. Come on guys, that could have been my sister in your drink! I’ll be honest; I do enjoy pumpkin pie. It’s my favorite. But I couldn’t bear saying that to her face. Anyway, our conversation was cut short when some humans spotted Jill, so she had to dart off. Hopefully she made it out alright! Only one month more until Christmas, when pumpkins will be replaced by mistletoe and candy canes. Have a splendid November, Writers!

Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Calypso, Echo, Hecate, The Owlish Bookworm, Bandersnatch 3

Three Little Wishes By Buckbeak The warmth of the fire The chatter of the families surrounding me Talking to each other, and yet not to me Me, the one in the middle of the room, Lonely, cold, and hungry The Only One who is alone in a room filled with people. But I have three wishes, and only to be used tonight. My first wish: to feel warmth one more time The cold has settled into my bones and have stayed, But to feel the warmth of a fire would be a blessing. I see the warmth of a light, and could almost Feel the joy brought from the light Like an cold orphanage standing outside, Watching the joy on others faces Wondering what it would be to be as happy as they are. My second wish: to be with company and not feel lonely For so long, the movement of everyday Life has brought no joy to my empty life Working hard for a home that is as Cold as my heart feels The perfect family is so close, And yet my arms cannot grasp their arms, Pulling me into their intimate holds My third and final wish, Perhaps the most important wish: To feel the joy of eating food once more “Fall Expectations,” Illustration by Angiosperm So often my dreams have been about food What it would be like to fall in Happiness Love with the simplicity of a home-made meal By Vivian Griselda The warm juicy meat, the soft potatoes, The thick and hot gravy, gently falling on the potatoes. I could see myself, sitting at a table, Her dark thick hair flows from her head, Moaning in ecstasy as I put each morsel in my mouth If only she knew what the future could offer. Laughing at my family and becoming She wishes of nothing but to stay sleeping in her bed, Rosy once more in front of the fire I only wish there was something grand I could do to stop her. I finally pull myself into the Emotions were buried deep as the past held a grudge, Perfect picture of a perfect life, It’s more than a shame that she never learned the word love. I see my body falling to the ground, Unmoving in the middle of the street The mirror will scowl and send back complaints that won’t budge, While I float upward into the warmth of the fire. Unaware that she has the sweetness of sugar and subtlety of a dove. Media as a distraction that conveys the negativity, No outlets at hand are what develop all this pain. Her authority forces her to remain in captivity, It’s obvious that she feels trapped in more than one chain. Sincerely believes that no one could ever truly care, She’s living in the past while disregarding the future. An advocate of listening to whispers dwelling in the air, This belief that academics mean the world is one big nasty rumor. But in the end it’s her happiness that she can’t find, Too deep in the autumn leaves for her to reach. Sensitive to the spring and in the summer she’s blind, There’s something I long of teaching her called freedom of speech. So lash out on me with your eye rolls and notorious escapes, Create even more furious feelings deep down to your core. Already aware that this friendship is dancing the shakes, Just know that in the end it’s you that I’m looking out for. 4 “Warmth,” Illustration by Yoonju Lee

Crispy Colors

By Vivian Griselda These flying colors dance at the stroke of midnight, Just as all of the monsters come out to play. No matter what, happens the chemistry feels so right, And the pressure has decided to stray. Words are pouring out of my mouth like blood from our veins, He lacks excitement on the exterior, but he’s thrilled inside. Fate continues to demonstrate the freedom of unlocked chains. I’ve grown up and pushed these silly little fears aside. Passion will flee as the cool air kicks in, Yet return again as if it never fled to the wind. Reunited and disbanded is our typical melody, Especially when the crisp, spiced air finds its way back home. Undecided in my emotions and firm in my independence, I’m not quite sure yet if I’ve really made up my mind. We all know that life is made up of several accidents, Worried that it’s another soul mate that I’ll never find. Because romantic or not, He holds a harmony to my heart. Something special that finds its way, No matter how horrifying the moonlight is in the dark. So caramelize your tricks and hand them out as treats, Because autumn consists of everything from bitter to sweet. These flying colors freeze at the stroke of midnight, Just as all of the monsters come out to say, I’ll try to catch you again some other day. “Before the Fall,” Photograph by Zenyatta

Neither Here Nor There By Corvus I close my eyes and retreat into my mind Where I’m lying beside a creek Head resting on the roots of a tree Maybe one whose flowers are Floating through the air And landing in my lap As the sunlight is beaming down Through the breaks in the trees And the wind brushes its fingers Through the waving grass And kisses the flowers as they bend Towards the light I could spend my forever here Just listening to the brook babbling Just knowing that there’s nowhere to be No one to please Nothing to lose It’s easy to disappear here It’s so much nicer So much better than knowing there’s somewhere to be Someone to be Because I’m comprised of nots And I’m so tired of being all tangled up In a life I don't want to live But don’t want to leave “Holding On,” Photograph by Zenyatta

I am Fire

pletely enveloping me in its suffocating exhaustion. This never should have happened. By Bluejay They should have warned us, but it was too late. The alarm never went off. The only I stayed, huddled in utter despair, undersounds I heard were the agonizing screams neath the small desk in my office. I could and the sound of crackling, burning, conhear distant screams, and I felt hot, burning suming flames. I tried to get out of my oftears slipping down my cheeks. I was going fice, but the door was blocked by debris. I to die in there, in that pathetic, cramped was on the ninth floor, high above the streets room amongst the hellish flames. Smoke and safety. poured into my lungs, and I coughed into The flames grew more intense, roaring and my soot-covered shirt. My eyes stung; it felt cackling at how utterly weak I was. It was like a million daggers were stabbing me. almost as if they were taunting me. I couldI couldn’t stay underneath the desk for n’t move. I lay on the floor, closing my eyes much longer. I had to find a way out, but I and accepting my fate. It was inevitable; I was so weak that I could barely move. My would forever be reduced to nothingness leg, which had been crippled since birth, and oblivion. We all would at some point. sprawled out behind me. I cried out in agony I sat up straight, suppressing the tears that as I attempted to drag myself out; without fell from my swollen eyes. I would become my wheelchair to support my weight, I the fire. I would be a part of it, and I would couldn’t move. It sat, taunting me, on the not feel this misery anymore. I would be other side of the room, crushed and shatmagnificent, bright, and strong. I would not tered over the wood floor. I collapsed to the be limited to a wheelchair. I would be free; I ground in hopelessness. My arms lay out to would spread my flames throughout the my sides; fingers grasped around the final night without any limits, without any renote from my lover. He told me that he straints. I would finally live. The only way I missed me and would see me soon. I almost could live now was to cause my own selflaughed at the thought. destruction. With a final, teary glance at the More heat flooded into the room, comcrumpled note in my hands, I tossed it into “Heartfire,” Photograph by The Owlish Bookworm

the roaring flames. I looked into the fire, a final tear falling before I knew what had to be done. I was magnificent. I was bright. And I was strong. I didn’t need validation from destruction. My demise would bring horrors to everyone I loved, and I could not willingly cast myself into the flames knowing that this would tear apart the hearts of those who cared so much. That was not my fate. I would not be reduced to destroying all that I had lived through, all that I would live through, and most certainly not the people I loved so deeply. That was not the answer. I dragged myself to the window, wincing as small flames lapped at my bare skin and splinters scraped my palms. I came to the windowsill, staring over the edge. The city was so far below me, almost as if it were a different world. But I had no option. I would not disappear into oblivion, devoured by the raging flames. That would not be my legacy. I knew that for sure now. And with one final, shaky breath of courage, I pulled myself over the edge of the window. I am brave. I am strong. I am fire.

Letter to the Arsonist By The Owlish Bookworm Dance with me, Slowly if you dare. Can you feel the heat? I’m willing to share. Come closer, darling. Feel your blood Crackle and smolder, Live off the rush, I make you bolder. Or flee. Doesn’t matter. I will have you. And you will know me. I will find you, And you will like What you see. I am the destructor. But darling, Aren’t you one as well? You can’t help it, How tempting Look the depths of Hell. Darling, guess who I am, Your passion, your ire, Oh, you still don’t understand, And sparks fly higher and higher.

Just look, How gorgeously Deadly. Snapping, popping, Sizzling, fizzling Out. Ash. How glorious. Play with matches, Darling, they’re such fun. With that glint in your eyes, No one left when we’re done. Try to resist. Try to stay away, Darling, you’ll fail, Despite what they say. Refuse to give in, Don’t do what you crave Darling, as if. There’s nothing left to save. It’s an addiction, Ignore the yearning Or better yet— Love the life, Cherish the burning. Who am I? The one you desire. Who am I? I am the fire.

“Under the Falls,” Photograph by Aries

Unknowing

dark shadow crept over the girl’s face. Her eyes widened. By Baalat “Jack, look.” Jack looked at the piano keys I set up the altar as usual for and his eyes broadened into fearnightly liturgical practices. I lit the ful moons. As quickly as his fear candles on the ledges and set a had arisen, he changed his expresbouquet of blood red roses in a sion to appear nonchalant. rusty vase. I hauled a ladder from “I bet Marcus is playing with us. a hidden closet. Climbing it, I lit That...” each candle on the chandelier and He was interrupted by my intenblew out the matches. The temple tional slamming of the piano lid to filled with an eerie glow, brighten- get their attention. ing the autumn night. The moon “Lena,” whispered Jack. “We shone through the stained glass, gotta get out of here.” but a layer of clouds crept upon it. I ran to the door and slammed it, For reasons unknown to me, I interrupting him once again. Fear had not seen the other sisters for ran through my veins as I yearned days. I finished setting up and to know why these strangers wereheard distant voices outside. To n’t noticing me. prepare for company, I began I walked in front of them and playing some entrance hymns. shouted progressively louder. “Hey, Jack, I think I hear some- They remained oblivious, watchthing,” said a young woman’s ing the door in confusion. voice. “God, Lena, Marcus told us this “Let’s check it out.” A young man and woman pushed open the doors. The two were dressed in a fashion I had never seen before. The girl wore trousers, a man’s jacket, and working boots. The boy wore a shirt of more combined colors than I had ever seen of a fabric. His trousers were identical to the woman’s, just looser. They were most positively not dressed for mass, nor for any occasion I could ponder upon. The boy held a box smaller than his hand, and it emanated with light. The two scanned the room with wide, alert eyes. My excitement for company died down as I wondered why they were here, if not for mass. My gut told me that whatever it was, they were here to hurt me. As they looked upon the piano, their eyes trailed over me and went straight to the keys. A

place was haunted. Why didn’t you just listen to me?” Wanting to get Lena’s attention, I gripped her shoulders. That’s when she noticed. Tears of pure fear slid down her cheeks. She stood paralyzed. “Lena. Lena, what is it?” “Something… something grabbed…” she said shaking with terror. I didn’t mean to scare her. I didn’t know nuns could be frightening. After a moment of silence, Jack took his little box and threw it forcefully through a stained glass window. The impact caused countless tiny cracks like branches growing outward from the trunk of a tree. The glass scattered onto the floor, and Jack and Lena sprinted until they disappeared over the horizon. Even though they were the ones who fled in fear, I was left in terror of what I had done

and what I had become. I neither remember dying nor how it had happened. All I remember was my fight with Sister Catherine. She was always the ruthless one, known for her mischief and rebelliousness. She’d always complained about wanting to leave the ministry. Something about being here drove her insane, and one day she confided in me that she had decided to leave. When I revealed this secret to my fellow sisters to help me stop her, I lost Catherine’s trust. Her desperation to leave had worried me and had left me wondering what she was capable of. I didn’t remember anything afterward. I realized I was dead, but I didn’t know for how long. Instead of serving God, I was now serving the innermost part of human fear: life after death, the unknown.

“Autumn,” Photograph by Japanda3

Innocent Revenge By Asteria

Chapter 2 Only one sound was heard: the clatter of Victor’s pencil rolling off his desk and falling onto the floor. “Call Nurse McAfee, and get Headmaster Alistair over here immediately,” whispered Mr. Manson nervously. No one dared to move. All eyes were glued on teacher and student, who faced each other, both motionless, one by sheer fear and disbelief, the other in a motionless pose. No one noticed as Emily mustered up the strength to walk to the phone on the teacher’s desk and place the call. Not knowing either Nurse McAfee or Headmaster Alistair’s number, she decided to dial “0.” After two exasperatingly long rings, the dreaded headmaster answered the call. “What’s wrong, Manson?” barked the voice on the other side. Emily didn’t know how to respond. The headmaster was a small, obese man with a red face and a greasy rim of black, curly hair that ran across the back of his head. He always wore a black jacket, grey pants, and a look of disgust. Everyone feared his imposing figure. “I said, what’s wrong, Manson? Are you deaf in addition to being dumb?” “Headmaster Alistair,” squeaked Emily, “we have an emergency. Victor…one of the boys in class isn’t moving. He looks dead. Please bring Nurse McAfee!” Two minutes later, the classroom door bust open. Emily turned to see the headmaster and the nurse at the door. Nurse McAfee hurried in front of the waddling headmaster, pushing herself in front of the statue-like form of Victor Salazar III, son of the Duke and Duchess of Salazar. “Everyone get out!” bellowed the headmaster, beads of sweat streaming down his forehead and collecting on his bushy unibrow. “I said, get out! Leave your cellphones, iPads and whatever other gadgets and go to your quarters!” Headmaster Alistair spun around to face the teacher. “Manson, order that goodfor-nothing groundskeeper to get over here! Oh, and order him to disconnect all cable and Wifi, too!” The headmaster continued to heave out orders as the nurse took Victor’s pulse and Mr. Manson scurried the students out. Before closing the door, the noticeably shaken teacher looked at the pale faces of his students. Presenting the best poker face he could, Mr. Manson smiled painfully and said, “I’m sure it’s just a prank. Tomorrow morning Master Victor will be laughing at all of us for falling for his hoax.” The students’ gazes lightened up as they scurried off to enjoy the unexpected end of the school day. Emily hardly heard the laughter of

her classmates as they stampeded out of the building and spilled onto the garden. All she knew was that there was no logical explanation for the pencil just rolling off of the desk, and no kid was capable of holding their breath for so long. Emily relived the events of the day as she walked to her dorm in the imperial mansion. While walking through the pathway, she came to the stone quad where she had sat earlier, eating her sandwich and watching the birds flutter among the large birch trees, before Victor and his three goons had beaten her. The birds that had escaped the savage scene earlier had returned, but this time, they seemed to reserve their singing as if out of respect for what they had witnessed earlier. Emily sat against the wall again and saw the puddle of blood that she had left earlier. The white collar of her blouse, now brown with dry blood, was glued to her blue cardigan, and her white stockings were torn and likewise stuck to her skinned knees. Emily cringed at the thought of the pain that awaited her when she would be forced to dislodge the stockings from her raw knees. “That’s going to hurt,” she murmured to her silent companions as they ruffled their feathers and continued to watch over her. As Emily painfully pulled herself back onto her wobbly legs, a bright eyed squirrel scuttled to the tree to unearth a buried nut, and as she slowly made her way back to her dorm, she was met with the rustle of leaves. Emily stopped to gaze at an apricot colored deer looking straight at her with its velvet eyes. Both child and doe looked on as if drawn to each other, but as unexpectedly as the animal had presented itself, the yearling shook its majestic head and made off into the woods. Drained from the events of the day, Emily tended to her wounds, curled up in bed, and fell into a heavy sleep. The boy was tall and slim, with sun-kissed blond hair hanging carelessly over his steel-blue eyes. His skin the color of honey, he smelled of ocean breezes. He wore a crèmecolored cardigan and the same color pants and nautical shoes. The boy smiled as he pointed to a sailboat. In his right hand, he had a rope, and in the left, a life saver. Sun glistening on his hair he asked, “How about it, Em, wanna take her out for a sail?” As she moved to take his outreached hand, she felt cold, clammy hands pull her into darkness. Emily tried to back away, but the strength of multiple hands dragged her into the inescapable darkness. Numerous voices began to jeer. “You belong on the ground, you filthy insect!” shouted one voice. “We should all take turns trampling you!” spat another. Emily felt a blow to her head and

one to her stomach as her legs gave way and she fell to the ground. The moon chipped away at the blanket of darkness, and she could make out the tops of trees overhead as she was dragged by her feet by a group of kids—four boys and two girls. She could make out the faces of the gang of kids. They were often referred to as the “St. Mortitz Lifers,” children of the wealthiest families in the world. They’d been left to the care of the academy at first sight of a baby tooth. These kids had made it a point to make Emily’s life a living hell since she had joined the school. The Lifers dragged Emily while chanting, “Drag her out, throw her in, no one’ll care, she’s got no kin!” until they reached an ancient well. Twelve silver hands glistened in the moonlight as Emily felt her body lifted over the well. Although she wanted to kick and scream for help, her exhausted limbs would not respond, and no sound escaped her lips as she was hurled into the well, head first amid the savage chants and laughter of the Lifers. As Emily fell, she could hear her heart beat faster and faster, smell the centuries old moss cling to the stone walls of the well, and hear the inescapable thud of her skull hitting the bottom of the well. At the bottom sat the blue-eyed boy, with an outstretched hand and his glistening smile, asking, “So, how about it, Em, huh?” Emily woke up with tears streaming down her face and Headmaster Alistair’s barking voice streaming through the intercom. “I want every student to report to the auditorium in ten minutes!” After a quick shower, Emily jumped into her uniform and ran to the auditorium to find a sea of wea-

ry-eyed students frantically comparing their recollections of their experiences the night before. Afraid to ask anyone and tempt a quick beating, Emily weaved in and out of small groups of students to get a gist of what had happened. Piecing the stories together, Emily was horrified to learn that throughout the evening, neither students nor the staff had been able to sleep. All buildings had fallen prey to electrical malfunctions followed by unexplainable clattering and shattering of personal items. Finally, there was the loss of more victims to what the staff was referring to as “Paralysis Nervosa” and what the students called “Zombie State.” Finally, Headmaster Alistair waddled to the podium, the centuriesold wood floors creaking under his enormous weight. The headmaster wiped the sweat from his brow, mustache, and colossal double chin, cleared his throat, and said, “Last night, nine more students were diagnosed with what we are referring to as ‘Paralysis Nervosa.’ We have consulted the medical journals and cannot find any disease that fits the symptoms presented by these students, so it is my firm belief that this is a prank, and any student who is found to be part of it will be seriously reprimanded. I therefore encourage anyone who has information that will lead to bringing these juvenile delinquents to justice to step forth! So far the names of the students involved in this prank are…” Emily gasped in horror as, one by one, the names of Victor and the three boys who had beaten her were read aloud, followed by the names of the six St. Moritz Lifers.

“Lost in the Dark,” Illustration by Alice Fraser

I Am Fire By The Teumessian Fox

“Natsu the Dominating Fireplace,” Photograph by Senpai

Oathbreaker By Hades They say that Hell below is hot With the ashes of sinners past. To pray for mercy is for naught— The time for God has passed. They say th’ inferno’s not for me, For such an angel from above. So stands my mask of purity, Though I am stained with love. Angels don’t speak the lies I lie, Nor dream as I do so darkly. I know what will come should I die: The fire burns for me. I swore to remain in shadow, I swore to only watch, not be. But into light I dared to go: A fire burned in me. I swore that I’d stand firm on land, To never succumb to the sea. But I could not stay in the sand: A fire burns in me.

They say that I can do no wrong And my word is as good as gold. But life is not so sweet a song— ‘Tis bitter, dark, and cold. They say I’m a constant presence, A harbor in the midst of storm. How shocked they’ll be in my absence! My sins will keep me warm. I’ll cast off my own chains I’ve placed And laugh as I seize liberty, If for a moment, just one taste: The fire burns for me. I swore to crouch in my own cage, I swore to smile brokenly. But I’ll not stay another age: A fire burns in me.

Everyone runs Everyone hides Shutting me out Even as I scream and shout They never let me in And mourn where I’ve been I just want a friend In this heat without end They run from my flames And when there is no one else to blame They all say that I am the destroyer, But my feelings aren’t their toys I will become what they say Then they will all obey The world is my stage And I am bubbling with rage Because I am fire In my yellow, red, and orange attire They will all scream When I set off my brightest beam Then they will bawl Because I am fire, The destroyer of all They say I am above the rest, They say that I will never fall. Those fools know not I’m not so blessed— They don’t know me at all. They say I alone have no pride, They say I am the judge most fair. But now I’m taking my own side, For no one else would dare. I’d be stoned for this desire, This desire to be happy. But I’ll ne’er fear any pyre: The fires burn for me. I swore I would love you always, I swore to love you tenderly, In candlelight or in a blaze: A fire burns in me.

I swore tides wouldn’t drag me down To the black depths where none can see, I swore that I’d hold you like this, And whisper in your ear like thus, But I’ve gladly let myself drown: Stay forever in utter bliss: A fire burned in me. The fire burns for us. 9

Living Paradise By Asteria

Clara pushed the last letter of “good” onto the Scrabble board with her nimble fingers. “Mommy?” she peeped quietly. Clara’s mother lifted her gaze to look at the small figure sitting before her. “Yes, sweetie?” she asked while looking into Clara’s captivating sea green eyes. “May I please play in the new yard?” The little girl looked hopefully at her mom. Clara’s mom grinned and nodded. “Be back by dinner, and be careful.” Clara almost fell off of her chair from the excitement that surged through her veins. “Careful.” “Sorry. I love you.” Clara gave her mom a quick peck on the cheek before prancing into the freshly cut lawn. Clara and her mother had recently moved into the new house, and the unpacking had left Clara no time to play in her beautiful backyard. Outside, trees and bushes of all kinds scattered themselves “Good in Goodbye,” Photograph by Senpai

around the five acre land. Flowers sprung up everywhere and filled Clara’s nose with overwhelming pleasure. The sun shone through the clouds, and its comforting rays gave the land a honeyed glow. The little girl played in her backyard with endless joy. Sticks and leaves intertwined themselves into the radiant river of curls that flowed over her floral dress. Clara giggled and jumped back to her feet before brushing the dirt and grass off of her clothing. Suddenly, her wide smile was replaced with a frown as she looked around her. She had somehow gotten lost in her own backyard. “Mommy!” she cried out. Clara’s lips quivered from fright and her immediate instinct was to run. Clara’s small feet only brought her deeper into the dark forest. The only thing that stopped her was a huge stone blocking her way. It loomed ten meters higher than her, and it was approximately fifteen meters wide. A part of her was eager to explore the colossal rock, but she also

felt she needed to continue searching for her home. After a few minutes of contemplating the rock, she made her final decision. Clara took a step towards the stone and walked around it with utter awe. At the back, a gaping entrance beckoned her in. Fright no longer possessed her; instead, curiosity took over. She was so shocked, that she didn’t even see the hole a few meters in front of her. Seconds passed, and still she didn’t see the pit that yawned open. Her stomach lurched, and everything went black. *** “Hello? Wake up,” a male voice urged. Clara opened one eye and looked around tentatively. She was still in the cave right where she had fallen, but, oddly enough, she felt no pain. “Clara!” the man exclaimed happily. “I didn’t think you would be joining me this soon.” “Who are you?” Clara whispered while backing away from the odd man. “Come with me, and I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Clara knew she shouldn’t talk to strangers, much less follow

them places. She looked the man over. His eyes were like two identical emerald orbs. He had curly short blond hair and a built frame. His sculpted face made way for his almost perfectly chiseled jaw. In all, he looked like a decent gentleman, and for some reason, Clara felt that the stranger rule didn’t apply to this man. Both the man and Clara walked together out of the cave. A memory of the man itched at the back of her mind, but didn’t present itself. As they stepped out into the warm air, she realized she was no longer in the woods, but in some sort of paradise. Mythological creatures of all sorts roamed peacefully, paying no attention to the two humans. “This can’t be real life,” Clara told the man. “It must be a dream,” she continued. “Who are you?” “Don’t you remember me?” he asked, his expression pained and crestfallen. Clara stepped in front of the man and looked at him for a long while. A tear rolled down her cheek as she recognized who was standing before her. “Daddy!” she exclaimed and jumped into her father’s arms. He smiled and allowed a tear to brim over the edge of his eye. “I missed you Daddy,” Clara sobbed into his spotless shirt. “I missed you too, sweetheart.” “Daddy, I need to go back for dinner,” Clara whispered. “I can take you home, but unfortunately, your mother won’t see us,” he replied sadly. Together they walked back into the cave. At the far end, Clara’s dad carved weirdly shaped letters into the wall while muttering words from a language Clara had never heard of. Clara opened her eyes to see her mom looking at her watch worriedly. “Mommy!” Clara cried. She rushed over to her mother and attempted to jump onto her, only to fall painlessly on the cold tiles. The girl pouted, but didn’t dare give up. She rushed over to the Scrabble board and added the three letters of “bye” to the “good” she had written earlier, followed by “for now.” Underneath, she put “I love you. From Daddy and Clara.”

“Why Marshmallows Should Never Go Camping,” Illustration by Raven

Love

Nor an illusion of some sort. You’re a spark of flame By Bravery That ignites from my chest, The flower that Your eyes bring me Helps me blossom into Back to earth, A thriving garden. When my mind is spinning and You surround me Making me trip over my own feet. And my thoughts tend to wander Your arms are always To the memories I have of you. There to catch me, My heart flutters at the simple And your melodious giggle Mention of your name. Fills the air like wind chimes My breath hitches, and my lips Twinkling on a gentle Form meaningless words Breezy morning. When I remember the first time When we snuggle together You whispered “I love you” Under a simple blanket, Underneath the night sky. Your heat keeps me warm You always were a romantic. And makes me feel at home. Your laugh inspires me to Your lips are smooth and sweet, Keep on breathing, Gliding over mine like glazed honey And it gets hard sometimes, And your smile, No doubt, So breathtaking that I need a moment With the world watching To pinch myself out of this Our every move, Beautiful dream. But I know we’ll be all right, But you’re not a shadow With you right here with me.

I See You By Luna Moon Sparkles I see the way people look at you. I'm disgusted. They think you’re descended from Zeus. Perfect and invincible. So intelligent ’cause you Work with the big guys. But we both know the truth. Let's be real you'll never be a man. Hating against minorities, you’re A man who is one of a kind. Those pearls in your eyes will die fast, darling. So will the respect for you. You'll never see me. But I see you for who really are. A small man with no soul. 11

Presenting: Headless Chick(en) on Ice By Hecate

Beneath the vermillion of my performance dress, bruises lingered from long hours of cold and lonely practice before school, from doing that axel just right, one more time. I got Bronze in the 2009 WFSC Junior division ice-skating finals. Everybody congratulated me. Third is wonderful...unless you’re third out of three. When the music started, I felt my blood burn with every heart palpitation and the cold weight of the judges’ stares on my shoulders. I launched into my program, eager to show what I could do. Ice blurred beneath twizzles and complicated footwork. The glare of rapt attention from the audience eased as faces blended, a riot mass of color around the rink. Leading into the climax, I could feel the violent swish of air as I turned, cutting into backwards crossovers. I grinned at the vicious satisfac-

tion of ice grinding beneath my blades as I picked up momentum for a double lutz-loop. Breaths came sharp and cold as I lowered my center of gravity to prepare for the jump. Muscles, taut, shook from restraining between explosion and build-up, I was ready to takeoff! To...crash into the wall and fall flat on my face. At somewhere between twenty and thirty miles per hour. Backwards. I popped back up, face flushed hot and bright tomato red, sniffing as hard as I could to keep my bloody nose from leaking. I hollered a hysterical “I’M OK! IT’S COOL!” The judges, who were previously leaning over the guardrail to see if I was alright, recoiled at my spasmodic reassurance. Leaping violently back into the rest of my program, I sped through in panic, even as a detached part of me distantly recalled someone once commenting that if I had a spirit animal, it’d be a headless chicken. All the while I had to hold my head up as high as possible, sniffing frantically because it just wouldn’t do to be spraying

blood out my nose while executing a spin. If there were suspicious splatters of red on the ice afterwards...well...I’m sure the zamboni can handle it. I was beyond mortified, especially since I knew how cocky I was to start. However, as I look back on that event five years later, I cannot help but smile. Despite how winning a farce of a medal grated against what little pride I had at the time, I finished with my head, quite literally, held high. Moreover, there is nothing quite as entertaining as seeing the bewildered expressions on the judges at my whacka-mole impression, nothing quite as gratifying as hearing the unexpected thunder of applause when I bowed. As much as that bronze medal makes me cringe at my bloated confidence and anticlimactic jump combo, it is not a reminder of doing worse than others, but a token of my tenacity. When I think back on that competition, I cannot help but believe that the most graceful part of my performance was the getting up, not the staying up.

Sticking the standing, not the landing. The blood on the ice, not in my veins. Neither can I help but think that there are worse things to be compared to than a headless chicken. Miracle Mike survived eighteen months without a head before choking on a corn kernel. Certainly the comparison is rather apt, if not for their resilience, then at least for their lack of fear for failure (a.k.a., missing amygdala). As a daily reminder, I keep a quote on my school notebook: “Do not pray for an easy life, pray for the strength to endure a difficult one.” I tackle everything new and different with vigor. I’m the Step team captain now, but a year ago I had no idea what Step was before showing up on a whim to the third day of tryouts. Despite my own fantastic ineptitude with ball-related sports, I played beach volleyball last summer with strangers. The side I joined lost spectacularly, but I gained some new friends. My only deterrent to ever learning or doing something new and different would be a lack of time, not a fear of failure.

The Polar Past By Vivian Griselda Being buried alive in the snow was the coldest part, The ripped bandage that cancelled out any remaining flames. Years of patience when I believed was creating an art, Words can walk on but I’ll never understand your claims. A single line of truth dismissed into the frozen air, T’was the bitter moment I realized I was driven to despair. A white Christmas was anticipated for those far and near, But snow was nowhere to be seen in sight. Eventually these feelings did nothing but fill me with fear, The moon above me foreshadowed this silent night. Drowning, screaming, and everlasting cries, He was a rollercoaster that twisted around, In never ending tumultuous torture. You were my daisy in this cloudless sky, Now I look ahead to December days that will feel warmer. These eyes have witnessed more than one can tell, Multiple addresses and identities remain the culprits. The faults in the ground were revealed when my heart fell, A perfect glass shattered due to the mask of a puppet. After all this time I’ve learned that you’re a work of art, Burying you alive in the snow was the hardest part. 12

“Third Place,” Illustration by Hecate

October 30th

“Autumn Fairy,” Illustration by Pandora’s Box

By A.T. Pacem Good morning my sweet sun, come and take the spring days with you to the other side of the world where they've been missed and longed for take my summer happiness and replace it with cold's content.

“Scout’s Honor.” Illustration by Firebird

Death Sentinel By Zenyatta A solemn sentinel of death, He perches on a poplar's limb. All set to fly with the wind's soft breath, To sail through currents on a whim. He surfs the waterways of air But nevertheless keeps his wits about. For when he spots a mouse or hare, He will dive forth without a doubt. He will dive down to take his prey, Then he will soar back to his tree. And settles there to live the day, Death's watch—a shadow—fast and free. “Guardian,” Photograph by Poseidon

The Wall By Janus August 13, 1961 The Wall, hideous, grotesque Separating neighborhoods, lives, families Berlin, devastated and burnt by war, now split A crack in a yellowing skull Ugly and jagged Friends and loved ones torn from each other In a cruel Cold War where nothing is safe The city mourns as an Iron Curtain kills Berlin November 9, 1989 Generations of children grow up without half of the city In West Berlin, colorful graffiti, art, revolution Cover its dirty gray concrete In East Berlin The Wall is bare The only sound is the metallic spit of bullets A boy shrivels under the cold shadow of the Wall Longing to play with his cousins On the other side Stasi stalk his life Neighbors, family, friends Possibly spies No trust allowed

A girl blossoms and thrives But her stomach twists when she sees the Wall And a deep fear grows The Cold War simmers and boils Revolutions and blood and tears Europe’s pot is ready to burst People flood to the wall, no longer stopped by guards Clambering on top, they finally see the world A boy climbs up and dances with a girl A girl twirls around a boy and hugs him tight Dancing, singing, screaming, kissing, music, life Berlin’s heart began to pump once more Demolished bit by bit, The hateful Wall is slain November 9, 2014 People crowd where the Wall once was, Now marked by white balloons. For nine miles these balloons trace the path of the Wall Where the scar has healed A man and a woman hold their children’s hands Never letting go People cheer, waving their phones, Balloons are released from their weights And soar up into the sky Flying, flying, gone

Antimony By A.T. Pacem i. they are more than the people you sit with at lunchtime they let time tick past uselessly but you don't care because you want to stay stay with them and laugh and smile because the world breaks when you don't ii. if platinum is better than gold and gold is better than silver, than… you don't know where to go with this comparison because they are incomparable one in a million like antimony that goes from silver to black they exist in rare forms that chemistry similes can't do well on iii. when you cry they like to hold you and ruffle your hair in the way that makes you smile because their hearts hurt when you cry it's a chasm in their chest that can only be filled with your happiness they don't want to leave You “Industrial Sky,” Photograph by Calypso

Carnival Tail By Calypso They refused to feed me for the first week. After my first attempt to climb out of the tank, the ringmaster had a net placed across the top. I tried pulling the net down, but they’d tied the corners to the thick wooden posts supporting the tent, and pushing the net up only resulted in becoming entangled. My only accomplishment was gnawing through the knots around my wrists, but freed hands were of little use without anything to grab. The rock sitting at the bottom of the tank was glued down, and the chest was a prop—it broke after a single smash against the glass of the tank. The water itself wasn’t terrible, but the confines of the tank drove me mad. Within minutes, I’d swum through every drop of water, and I barely had room to change directions without slamming into a wall. Gliding through the water was no longer an option, and I could barely float without meeting the wall, the rock, or the surface of the water. At first, the trappings of my cage made every muscle tighten, made me slam myself against the tank walls in a desperate attempt to break free, hoping to find a weak point in the glass. There was none. After the second day of trying, the bruises covering my skin, blotching it violent purples and darker blues, prevented me from continuing. It wasn’t until the eighth day that the ringmaster returned. Still adorned in his hideous coat and stained pants, he strutted about my cage, taking in the bruises, the ruined chest, the remains of the rope. I bared my teeth, clawing at the tank and pounding against the glass— first with my fists, then, mustering the last of my strength to do so, with my body—but to no avail. After several circuits around, he stopped and turned his body to face mine, his stance wide and his hands hidden behind his back. “You’re a feisty little beast, aren’t you?” he asked, a smirk spreading across his lips and lighting up his eyes. “I thought a week without food would settle you down. I’d sell you as an underwater warrior, but I already promised the people a singing princess. What d’ya say, Opaline? Won’t you sing for me?” I snarled, pressing myself against the glass and letting myself float a

few inches above him. He stepped forward, meeting my gaze with surprising intensity, his hands coming out from behind his back to rest on the other side of the glass. He leaned in, his rank breath creating small circles of steam on the walls as he lowered his voice to say, “Now, listen here, Opaline. You’re gonna break, and you’re gonna sing. Just you wait.” Slamming his fists against the glass, he narrowed his eyes when I didn’t flinch. Taking my turn to smirk, I drifted away from the glass, turning my back only to hear a snort of laughter. “Where are you going, Opaline?” he asked. “There’s nothing but walls here.” Growling, I clenched my fists, the length of my back tense. He chuckled, and I listened as the cheap fabrics he wore shifted and his mudcovered boots bore him away. Later that day, as I was lying on the bottom of the tank, the harpoon man crept into the tent. He clutched a brown cloth bag in his hands, and as he neared the tank, he whispered, “I brought you food.” My ears perked up, but I narrowed my eyes, wondering if this was some new ploy of the ringmaster’s. Leaving the bag on the ground before the tank, the harpoon man disappeared momentarily, returning with the ladder. Propping it up against the tank, he grabbed the bag and began to climb. I watched him, refusing to move from my place. “Sorry I wasn’t able to come till now,” he said as he opened the bag and tossed down pieces of cheese and bread through the net. “I have meat—pigeon, I think—if you want any. I know you don’t eat fish… Won’t you come up?” I stared at the bits of food bobbing at the surface before turning away. He hurried down the ladder and stood before me, his hands pressed against the glass. “Opaline, please,” he said, glancing behind him. “I can’t stay for long. Won’t you at least say something? Anything?” I turned away. Frustration seeping into his voice, he snapped, “Fine. Starve for all I care. See if the ringmaster’ll treat you any better.” He returned the ladder and left without another word. Once I was sure he was gone, I swam to the surface, nibbling the soggy bread. Wrinkling my nose, I finished it before scarfing down the cheese.

The saltiness bit at my tongue and dried my throat, and I snarled, making a note not to eat it again while I lacked water to drink. It would’ve been one thing if I’d been at home, but in a tank filled with motionless water, I felt disgusted to even be swimming in the filth. As I sank back down to the bottom of the tank, I stared at the metal contraptions lining the tent, realizing how disgusting the water had become. A thin film had collected on the sides of the tank, and the water had turned cloudy. Gritting my teeth and drumming my fingers against the rock, I exhaled through my nose, bubbles trickling my nose as they escaped to the surface. The next time the harpoon man came with food, I was determined to hurl it back at him. I’d eat him before I ate anything else of his. The next day, the rehearsals began. Bright white lights flooded the tent before the sun rose, and if that wasn’t enough to jolt me awake, it was the centaurs’ turn to practice their routine. They thundered in, their hooves pounding against the dirt and making the metal contraptions rattle and the tank vibrate, water splashing against the sides. They ran in circles around me, juggling, tossing rings and flaming torches, and leaping over gates in a choreographed routine. Their coats were still muddied and matted with dirt, but the manacles around their hooves were gone. As they practiced, the ringmaster watched them, whip in hand, ready to punish any centaur who fell behind. The routine only lasted five minutes, after which the centaurs set down their props and extinguished the torches. Two of them rearranged the gates, and the others went to rest by the stands, where the ringmaster tossed them a sack of food. As they ate, the ringmaster came up to me, his hands behind his back and his whip trailing behind him like a poisonous tail. Smirking, he asked, “What d’ya think? They’ll be opening for you. After that little performance, you’ll sing.” I turned from him, resting my chin on the rock and watching the centaurs eat, their grimy fingers tearing apart loaves of bread. Dull red spheres and orange conical pieces were passed around, and I listened to the sharp crunches as they bit into them. My stomach growled, and I only hoped that the sound of the centaurs eating was loud enough to

cover it. Apparently it wasn’t, and the ringmaster laughed. “Hungry, Opaline? You could always sing for me,” he said, pulling another bag out from behind him. I turned to look behind me as saw that the bottom dripped with water, and I narrowed my eyes as he pulled out a handful of water lilies, showing them to me before returning them to the bag and pulling out a raw slab of meat. Unable to resist, I ran my tongue against the sharp tips of my teeth, relishing the mere thought of sinking them into the meat and tearing it apart. Watching me, a perverse smile crept across his lips. “Ready to sing?” Staring at the meat in his hand, I realized that the tent had gone silent. The centaurs watched me, their food set down and their faces turned towards me. My stomach begged and pleaded, but I turned away from the ringmaster again, stretching lazily before laying my head against my forearms. The tent was still, broken moments later by a centaur whinnying. Several others joined, and the ringmaster grit his teeth, lashing at them where he could. Most stood, trotting out of the way, and the ringmaster turned on his heel to face me, his features contorted in a snarl. “You will sing or you will starve in your own filth,” he said, his voice lowering in threat. I shifted my back just enough to let him know I’d heard him, and he growled. Just as he began a new threat, a man ran him, grabbing him by the arm. “Sir, sir! Three pixies broke out of their cage!” “Not my concern. Go catch them and lock them up tight this time,” the ringmaster commanded, trying to shake himself free of the man. “No, sir, you don’t understand,” the man begged. “They freed the chimera.” “What?” the ringmaster asked, his voice lowering dangerously as he turned to meet the man’s eyes. The man shook as he stammered, “The ch-chimera…they f-freed it.” The ringmaster paused, but after a moment, he shoved the whip into the man’s hands and said, “Whip any of them if they misbehave.” “What about her?” he asked, looking at my tank. “Let her starve,” the ringmaster snapped, already halfway out of the tent. Continued on Next Page 15

CT cont. The man turned to the centaurs, his face paling as they stood, looking over him by at least a foot each. The whip shook in his trembling hands, and although he gripped the handle of the whip, it was clear from his rigid, straightened arm that he hadn’t the faintest idea how to wield it. “What say you, sister? Or will you hold your vow of silence against us as well?” asked one of the centaurs, a male with a dappled grey coat and a long scar running down the length of his right bicep. “Never against you, my brethren,” I called, resisting making a face at the unpleasant water that entered my mouth as I spoke. “How long have you been here?” “We were not brought in together,” a female said, stepping towards me. Her chestnut coat was spattered with mud, and scar tissue laced her back and flanks. Unlike her male counterparts, she wore a leather vest that had been patched and re-sewn more times than could be discerned. Her dark hair was plaited back, and her olive skin was smudged with dirt. She circled my tank, taking in my emaciated form with her dark, brooding eyes. I watched her carefully, matching her gaze and holding it when her eyes turned to my face. “Lake,” she finally said, and I frowned in bemusement. “You come from a lake.” “How do you know?” “The undertones of red and yellow in your tail. If you were from a larger body of water, they’d be green and blue, maybe purple.” “Yes, but how…” “I was a scholar before I came here. It was once my job to know,” she said, her tail flicking in agitation. Her shoulders tightened, and her powerful muscles rippled under the dirty skin. “How long has it been?” “Two years. I was one of the first,” she said. “And I remain the only female. Humans prefer male centaurs, apparently, just as they prefer female merfolk.” “Have you ever tried to escape?” I asked, and she chuckled, her laughter turning into a soft whinny as she pawed the ground with her left front hoof. “I didn’t receive these scars for forgetting choreography. There’s no way out. Even now, if we were to run, they’d only catch us and bring

us back. Men create tools to hurt others, and they’re more than happy to use them.” “Aurelia,” said the centaur who had called out to me first. Trotting up to me and casting a quick, scornful glance in my direction, he turned to her and said, “Don’t waste air on her kind. They’re thieves enough as it is, and time is too valuable to lose.” “Watch that you do not judge too soon, Cispen,” Aurelia warned, her eyes flicking back towards me. “Swallow your pride, little one of the sea. We all have.” Before I could respond, she trotted off with Cispen, leaving me to mull in my own thoughts. Outside, the shouts of workers and the frightful shrieks of the chimera mixed, and I watched shadows dart across the tent walls. The centaurs lounged about, most chatting or resting. I counted twelve, although I was sure I’d seen more when I’d first entered the carnival. I tried to spot Aurelia, but she was surrounded by a cluster of four others, all of whom seemed to be engaged in an important conversation. Unable to hear their lowered voices, I crossed my arm and leaned against the rock, trying to find a comfortable position for my tail. Sleep came quickly, and by the time I awoke, the tent was empty. The lights had been extinguished, and the props and gates stored away. The only proof of the rehearsal were the hoof prints in the dirt. I blinked several times, rubbing my eyes as I caught sight of a darker shadow in a corner by a post. Frowning, I watched as it moved forward, and as it neared the small amount of light that filtered in from the openings in the top of the tent, I saw that it was the harpoon man. He carried a bag, but he let it drop to his feet as he neared me, pressing his hands upon the glass as he said, “I missed you, Opaline. I shouldn’t have been so cross with you before. You’re just so…beautiful…” I recoiled, hitting the far side of the tank as I swam away from him. He pressed his palms against the glass, leaning as he whispered hurriedly, “No, no! Please, Opaline, don’t turn away again. Here, I brought food again. See? Please take it.” He disappeared briefly to fetch the ladder, and when he returned, he climbed to the top of the tank and pulled out a slab of meat. Swimming to the surface, I motioned for

him to throw it down to me, and he complied. Biting into it, I closed my eyes in ecstasy as the hearty flavor touched my tongue. Tearing strips off with my teeth, I chewed and swallowed, savoring each bite until it was gone. Looking up at him expectantly, I frowned when I saw his horrified face. Frowning, I wiped the blood off my face before I looked around and realized that the blood had further clouded the water. The harpoon man glanced around before saying, “Be careful with this one!” He threw down another piece, and I ate, unable to identify the taste but not caring much beyond it being edible. He continued to feed me until his supply ran out, and he descended the ladder, returning it to its original spot before coming to stand before me again. “I’ll try to come whenever I can, Opaline,” he promised. “The ringmaster’s been sending me on more missions recently. I don’t know if he knows that I’m helping you, but if he doesn’t already, don’t let him find out. Please, I can’t lose this job. You wouldn’t want me to lose my job, would you? Not when I’ve been so kind to you?” I swam forward, pressing my “Aurelia,” Illustration by Hecate

palms against the glass. His eyes widening, he pressed his palms to the equivalent place on the other side of the glass, and he asked, “Yes, Opaline?” Licking my lips, I took a deep breath before I crooned in the best man-tongue I could manage, “Help me.” “Of course,” he said hurriedly, leaning in towards me and fogging the glass with his breath. He wiped it away with his sleeve before promising, “Anything. I swear. What is it? What do you need?” Trying to recall the words I’d heard, I began slowly, the syllables foreign and thick on my tongue, “Help me…es…cape…” “Escape?” he asked, and I nodded. His face fell, and I left myself drift back. Immediately, he promised, “Yes, yes, I’ll help! I just…it’ll be…I don’t know…I’ll figure something out. I promise, I’ll save you from this place.” I smiled, swimming back to him and pressing my palms against the glass again, indulging him with a sickeningly adoring smile. “And then you’ll be my queen.” My smile dropped.

To Be Concluded...