Scintilla by Vertigo Magazine

2018–2019 • Vol. 29

scintilla

(n.) a tiny trace or spark

kin purpled and lips cracked, she trudges onward, little white feet scraping against winter snow. She trudges until she is out of breath and huddles in the crevice between two homes.

She strikes a match. She wants the warmth to swallow her. To crawl inside the place where the fireâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fuzzy feeling drowns out the tongues and hunger that haunt her. She remembers peering through the homes she passed. She remembers the children dressed in red, praying and dancing, their laughter the sound of angels singing. She does not remember the purple-green imprints all over her body. A shooting star blazes, and she remembers Grandmaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shining face. How Grandma was perfection to her. How Grandma would sing her to sleep at night the way her father never did. She wants to hold Grandma tight in her fist. Her eyes fixated on the glow, she watches the fire burn into wood. She cannot feel the flame grow closer to her hands, heat bursting against her fingertips. She strikes another, and another, but the dead slip through her fingers. Dear Reader, I want you to believe that in this version of the story, the little girl does not die. That she never gets beaten by her father. That she is smiling again. I want you to remember a little girl, barefoot and shivering, nestled between the warmth of two homes and a dancing fire, shining forever. This is when you find her. In the cold, you touch her icy hands, and she passes you the matchbox, along with the last match. You take them from her, your fingers trembling. You strike the match; the world flares to life.

-editors

staff list editors in chief genre editor webmaster/ public relations treasurer secretary production manager art editors

artists

grace huang caitlin leong joyce ker cynthia li yiu-on li ria chaudhary suphala nibhanupudi catherine hwu amanda zhu

carrie an cynthia chang sharlene chen christine cheng peyton chiang coby chuang catherine hwu allison li sophie lin sunny lu cynthia shi joy song caroline wang julia wang megan xu amanda zhu

cover inside cover

writers

production team

amanda zhu catherine hwu

cynthia chang ria chaudhary melissa chen justin chu coby chuang lillian fu renee ge sophie guan flora huang grace huang sherry huang lauren ho sahana ilenchezhian joyce ker christine lee caitlin leong cynthia li helina li yiu-on li alisa lu kaylia mai pranav mishra suphala nibhanupudi michelle zhu

lillian fu renee ge sophie guan lauren ho flora huang christine lee helina li yiu-on li alisa lu pranav mishra cynthia shi julia wang

table of contents PROSE good knight cynthia chang

Playground sophie guan

Lingering Souls caitlin leong

Operation justin chu

A Point in the Sky sherry huang

While You Were Sleeping suphala nibhanupudi

hey, hey, i know you renee ge

The Most Slippery Path

kaylia mai

Why Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t We Live in a Yesterday of Our Own yiu-on li

6 9

16 18 20 22 26 29 32

Execution

Star

growing old

You are nothing.

Prey

Smackball

Luminosity

Morning Glory

christine lee

grace huang

melissa chen

lillian fu

sahana ilenchezhian coby chuang lauren ho

michelle zhu

POETRY a fairy tale love story

cynthia chang

I Fought Emptiness and I Won

weightless

farewell

cynthia li

joyce ker helina li

one minute and seventeen seconds flora huang

The Anatomy of a Servant

grey

pranav mishra

ria chaudhary

good knight

by cynthia chang

April 27th, 2019 She appears when the clock strikes three, her ivory palms outstretched. Her fingers are ice cold, but as she leads me through the wisps of night, her hand seems to draw the warmth from mine, turning my fingers cold and white. Welcome to the dreamworld, Estelle, she says, color finally filling her cheeks, blond hair shimmering, where everything you’ve wanted and fantasized about roams free, in front of your eyes. You could rebuild your world, make everything you’ve wanted yours. One condition, she smiles, letting go of my hand to gesture to the hazy purple horizon. You must leave everything behind.

Everything? We do not exist to beings on planet Earth, nor do they us. We only connect through dreams, and thus, only the soul can cross dimensions. If you turn lucid, you’d let go of everything, your family, your possessions, your Max, everything but your memories. But isn’t that what you’re seeking, to live in your memories, to start anew, to decide your future without your past?

..-. August 5th, 2018 It was back when I cared about the tangible things. All the journals I filled up, past photos

“If you were truly there with me in that moment... that’s more than enough.” —Kenshi Yonezu

scintilla we took, the little gifts you gave to me. I clung on to the hope that you would talk to me again, but ever since your incident, ever since you stopped believing in the world and initiating conversation, ever since you stopped confiding in me, we stopped. We stepped away from Max and Estelle—became people our past selves would not have recognized. Perhaps I just wanted the part of you that you left behind in my memories, the ones I mull over and over again, until even the memory I have of you is warped up into someone you weren’t, only something I wished. But you weren’t willing to give me that. You had left that part of you behind, in the past that you deemed unimportant, simply because it hurt too much to remember. Simply because it was too tiring, too annoying to stay somebody you wanted to forget.

.-. November 30th, 2017 “You got a haircut.” Back then, I could reach out and run my fingers through your new spiky hair. You grunt along on your silver euphonium, your eyes glued to the music on the stand, not minding my hand carding through your unread thoughts.

There really are places in the world where you can see the stars when it rains, where water defies gravity, where all the impossibles become possible, but I already know that you’ll only avert your eyes and nod listlessly...

--17:25, wandering around Rochester, New York And so my call is dropped, message unread on Facebook, voicemail left blinking on the answering machine. Don’t tell me that I never tried, Max. Because I came back for you time after time after time, and you only proved over and over that you were never, ever going to give me the time of day. We may have been friends in the past, but the past isn’t the present or the future, you’d say. Our photos and gifts are left collecting dust in the corner of your bookshelf, and the time isn’t ever right anymore.

--.

23:50, watching the ocean from Pier 39 in San Francisco, California I can barely look in your direction now, your eyes piercing, your voice condescending; but why is it that your smile is still the same as I remember, still as happy and innocent before all the terrors got to you and tore you apart? These memories don’t matter anymore. Your smile doesn’t matter anymore, because I chose to leave what we all thought was real, because I chose to live in my dreams instead of facing you.

.. January 30th, 2016 “Estelle, may I have this dance?” you ask, your head tilted, face tinted purple against the dim blue lights of the high school gym. I smile, but you don’t notice. It took you a lot to ask, and I could hear it in the shiver in your voice. “Yes,” I reply. Thank you. Everything starts with a risk. A moment where dignity is exchanged for a hand in a dance. A decla-

ration of love in hopes for an argent reply. Letting go of something in hopes that it will become something more. I take your hand, and we step into the music, all else lost.

...11:46, in front of Showtime Live in Shulin, Taiwan I walk by the tree on our way home from school every day, waiting for the yu lan flowers to bloom, hoping that you might miss me, knowing that you never will. I explored America without you, went to cities that we had always wanted to visit, but it wasn’t as exciting as when we planned it, because you weren’t there. I have so much to tell you, Max, so much to share about the world beyond our home. There really are places in the world where you can see the stars when it rains, where water defies gravity, where all the impossibles become possible, but I already know that you’ll only avert your eyes and nod listlessly until I turn away, so I’ll never be able to tell you, even if I wanted to.

. December 3rd, 2015 Little Max, playing with the little toy cars in the sandy beach of Kenting. “Isn’t he so cute,” your mother gushes, glancing attentively at the television screen, as you look down at your lap, ears turning red. I hide my grin behind my hands. “It was embarrassing back then,” you tell me later when your mother leaves to refill her tea, “when I watch myself imagining construction zones with one yellow tractor. See, the whole ocean’s lapping at my feet. They’re flooding my skyscrapers!” You give me a weird look, but you’re smiling too. “Imagination isn’t the worst thing a child can have,” I reply. “It’s only bad when you become an adult, when you lose it all to the waves within the ocean.”

You’d remember those sandy beaches, those grainy castles that you found in your pants pockets and hair and in between your toes, each one rolled perfectly spherical by the neverending ocean, containing all the imagination one could ever appreciate, from all thefootstepsthat were washed away to toy shovels that scooped it into castle mold. And the ocean would merely erase your existence, your soul from the sand, rolling those rocks to fine fine powder, reminding you that you’re not needed in the creation of this beautiful place, just like the world does not need you to continue thriving.

-. Home, Polaris You went to find Max again, didn’t you? I nod. If you had known that turning lucid would mean losing him, then why did you? You know what people think when they jump off the Golden Gate? In the first three seconds, they realize that they had everything they needed to make things right. And in the fourth, the water kills them, and everything that they could’ve had vanishes, just because they jumped. In the beginning, I just wanted to forget. I wanted to run away from the person I used to be. I just wanted him to know that I didn’t need him, either. But it’s futile now, knowing that I’ll never be able to go back, even if I’ve forgiven him a thousand times over. So maybe your morals changed, Estelle. Maybe the life changes you, turns you more cynical, even. It’s your decision when you leap between dimensions. It’s your choice when you decide that you want to live as a dreamer. You opened Pandora’s jar, and in turn, you lost hope to the world. But it doesn’t mean that you don’t have any more choices left. One day, Max will look up to us and wish he could redo it all, and then you can show him that though you jumped the bridge, you didn’t die. So don’t give up hope. You should know better than anyone that if you still have hope, you’ll get there someday.

“93% stardust, with souls made of flames, we are all just stars that have people names.” —Nikita Gill

Playground

scintilla

by sophie guan

Travis and Jared had been friends for two and a half years now, and sometimes it was hard to remember how they met when memories jumbled up with myth and stories into a hardened mess. Somewhere on a playground, a bruised knee, a bully, and a heroic rescue; a brief history that neither wanted to revisit. Jared preferred to think that their friendship was not based on Stockholm Syndrome. Frankly, Travis agreed. The past should just stay in the past. What mattered was the here and now. “Remind me why we can’t just sit at home and play that serial killer game?” “PUBG is not a serial-killer game,” Jared defended. “You massacre people—that’s pretty serial

killer-ing, I’d say.” “There are different levels of serial-ness to serial killer-ing, my young apprentice. Come to the dark side, I shall teach you all about it.” Jared winked. “Admission is free and we give free cookies to first-timers. Oh, and, in case you haven’t heard, the dark side now supports gay marriage as well. Our goal is to get them to adopt little orphans and develop a generation of loyal dark side followers.” “I’m sold. Sign me up.” * * * “Happy birthday, Jer.” The bag was shoved into Jared unceremoniously, the scent of McDonald wafted through

the air. His friend peeked inside, inhaling it as if fried chickens were equivalent to ecstasy. “Aw, you shouldn’t have,” Jared said, grinning. “Well then.” Travis made to snatch it back. “I’ll take it back.” “Hands off, it’s mine.” “You just said—” “Anyone with basic human decency will know better than to touch Jared’s fried chicken. Thou, my young apprentice, might be my friend, but I shall not spare thee from my wrath.” “…Is that a Star Wars and Shakespeare crossover?” “You bet it is. Now—thanks for the offering—what is it that thou want? Ask, and thou shall receive.”

“Stop that, you’ll hurt your brain.” “Maybe I should move in with Jack.” Jack was Jared’s older brother, famously known to Travis as the adrenaline junkie. “...Why?” “Dunno, man, I just kinda don’t want to stay or live with any of my parents.” “You can come stay with us. I think my parents like you more than they like me.” Jared laughed and Travis quickly shushed him. It was midnight. His parents didn’t need to know that Jared had come over. Again. Something about windows weren’t secure. What if some thief came in the same way, his mom once asked him. Well, mom, guess they were just gonna die then. Quietly, Travis snorted. The lingering amusement did nothing to ease his other worries. For the rest of the night, sleep eluded him.

Travis was scared. Not of a monster, or a beast, or any other heroic things to be scared of, but of Jared. Jared his friend, his best friend.

* * * On a clear blue Sunday morning, Jared accidentally set their garage on fire. Travis was forced to never disclose the full story. * * * Jared had problems with his family. His parents were filing for divorce. They didn’t have enough common sense to not argue during the middle of the night over the custody of their furniture. Sometimes, Jared would creep into Travis’s bedroom at the middle of the night through the window. Travis, after a while, just left his window slightly ajar so that Jared could find a better handhold. “Hey, Trav?” A light shone dimly in the darkness, accompanied by a mumble. “Go to sleep, Jer. It’s midnight.” “I was thinking…”

* * * There were times when Travis felt that the confinement of his house was comforting rather than restricting. He supposed it all had to do with the perspectives. Travis was scared. Not of a monster, or a beast, or any other heroic things to be scared of, but of Jared. Jared his friend, his best friend. As senior year reached its peak, emotional tensions and stress ran high. Schools, academics, extracurricular, it was hard to balance everything. Or so he tried to lie to himself. Travis checked his phone again with a sigh. There was a muffled silence in the room as his heart sank. The dot on Jared’s profile had yet to light up to green. Travis was still waiting for Jared to text first.

“A friend is a gift you give yourself”—Robert Louis Stevenson

scintilla Maybe Jared just wanted a break. Ha, Jared wanted. It sounded as if Jared was the one at fault when it was Travis who had hurt his loyal friend. Travis never wanted this, but inevitably, like relationships, things sometimes just started tearing at the seams. A bad mood and a few curt words, and here they were. Not wanting to sound too desperate or too affected by this rift between them, he sent a purposefully misspelled text. “Ho.” He then pretended that it was unintentional and added, “Ho ho ho. Merry Christmas.” Travis waited. The message wasn’t funny at all, but it was something. Two seconds. Three seconds. The clock in front of him clicked and ticked at each passing awaiting agony. Of course, Jared wouldn’t just be staring at his phone like Travis was, Travis explained to himself. His voice sounded like a big fat stupid liar. A blossom of hurt and disappointment was barely squashed down in time before he dropped his phone on the bed and went for dinner. He missed the moment the dot turned green. The message was read and Jared replied. The next day, unsteadily then steadily, they got back on track. * * * It seemed like it was a century ago that they first became friends when in truth, it had only been four years. Looking back, Travis thought he might have made a few more friends, although he might’ve had lost just as many. A lot of things had changed in four years and people came and went like butterflies. What remained constant, however, was Jared and Travis, the two of them against the world (a statement that Travis found that he didn’t mind at all). Travis was still waiting for that seven-year-friendship milestone. People say seven years of friendship was equivalent to family. While he wasn’t sure what family meant exactly, Travis already thought of Jared as one. He hoped Jared thought of him the same. He hoped he could pause time right here and now.

“Hey Trav”, said Jared. “I can’t come over this weekend. My parents are going to court.” “But it’s Chicken Sunday.” “I know, man. Believe me, I’d rather come over than listen to them arguing over who gets the TV and who gets little ol’ me.” “How self-deprecating of you.” “Self-deprecation is my talent; took me years to refine it.” Travis snorted, the sound harbored strained amusement. Sometimes, it was just easier to pretend to not notice the elephant in the room. They walked in silence, feeling the cold breezes of winter cascading down their face like sheets of an icy waterfall. The trees were losing the battle for their leaves, and of the few that still managed to keep them, the lingering greens were already browning and shriveling up. Jared kicked the spiky sycamore balls on the ground. “So,” Travis said carefully, “will you be moving?” Jared’s shrug wasn’t very reassuring. * * * On Saturday, Travis decided to go to the supermarket with Jared. “Ya know what the sad thing is?” Jared asked as he picked up a stalk of celery. “Neither of my parents wants custody of me; yet when it comes to grocery shopping, I’m suddenly very sought after.” The off-handed comment caught him offguard. “Celery brings people together, doesn’t it?” “How wise, my young apprentice, how wise.” Jared laughed, but it sounded forced. The moment was lost. “Now, what do you think about going to your house and make stew or something?” “I thought your mom wanted you to buy some instant food.” “C’mon, who listens to their parents?” Jared sounded almost desperate. They ended up buying a whole cartload of seaweed, a few cups of instant noodle, and

a bag full of pork ribs, eggs, and seasonings. Travis’s parents weren’t home so they invited themselves in. “Okay, what goes first, ribs or cilantro?” “Ribs.” Water splashed in the pot as Jared dumped a few good chunks into it. “What ‘bout cilantro? Don’t neglect my beautiful baby cilantro.” “If you’re so attached to it, why don’t you marry it?” “Will you be the priest officiate dude then?” “Sure man, anything for you,” said Travis dramatically. Jared cocked his head with mock consideration. “On second thoughts, nah. Let’s cook it.” It took them ten minutes longer than necessary due to Jared’s unnecessary commitment to the grocery items. Travis threw a handful of noodle into it as the pot rumbled and grumbled. They cleared the table of the bags of instant food and served it up. “This is good,” Jared said with a deep inhale. “I know, I’m amazing.” Travis passed him a fork and a spoon. “I’m going to miss this.” Travis refused to take the sentiment in Jared’s tone as anything other than what it seemed like. “The noodles? I’m sure you can buy more. If you want, you can just come over every afternoon and I’ll cook it for you.” “You will?” “Maybe not every day because it’s always gonna be chicken on Sunday.” Jared grinned and slurped. “Alrighty, I’ll hold you to that promise.”

room, slowly and drowsily. “Jared is late,” his mother said. “Is something up? Did you have another fight?” “I dunno—no, we didn’t fight, mom, stop giving me that look—I’m gonna call him.” The phone rang for a few long beats before the voice picked up. “Hey, this is Jared. If I’m not picking up it means I’m either taking a long shite or something requires my full utmost attention. Leave a message.”. “Is he sick? Did something happen?” asked his mother when he returned. “Probably got busy with his parents’ problem again.” Travis shook his head. “I’m gonna go drop by his house later.” His mother nodded and began bagging some of the chicken up for Travis to take with him. “Tell him he’s welcome in our house anytime.” Travis put on his coat and his shoes then took his keys before leaving the house. It was six in the afternoon, and the sky was ashen and engulfed by the rising darkness. Travis hugged the bag to his chest; hearing the plastic rustling somehow brought comfort. Jared lived only half a block down. Their small single house was surrounded by others of the same design. The lights were on and a shadow moved behind the closed curtains. It was unlike Jared to forget Chicken Sunday. So Travis knocked on the door. Once, then a few more times. He heard Jared’s father grumbling in his baritone voice. “Chill the eff out, I’m coming.” The door abruptly opened and Travis offered the man his best tight-lipped smile. “Is Jer around?” “Jer? Oh, Jared?” The man’s crumpled suit and appearance reeked of alcohol. “He isn’t around.”

Travis refused to take the sentiment in Jared’s tone as anything other than what it seemed like.

* * * Travis ate his chicken. It was still steaming hot from the oven and sauces dripped from the wings. The smell and aroma permeated the

“Things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they’re right.”—Marilyn Monroe

scintilla The man made to close the door but Travis held it open with a hand. “Do you know where he might be?” “Ain’t around here, for sure.” “It’s Chicken Sunday. Jer doesn’t miss Chicken Sunday.” “People change, eh? Now get your hands off my door or I’ll call the cops.” Stupidly, Travis stood his ground. “You have absolutely no idea where he went?” The man shut the door in his face. Jared disappeared after that. * * * “Hey Trav, it’s Jer here. Jared Jericho numba twoooo. Sorry, I drank so much coffee this morning. Ugh, it’s not morning anymore, but I’m still, well, like this. I just want to let you know that I’m doing okay and that I regret missing that Chicken Sunday. I didn’t know how to tell you before but you probably already know by now: my mom got custody of me and my dad drove us out of his house. We had to move and…yeah, we’re in Texas now. I’m really sorry that I didn’t tell you on Saturday. I guess I was...scared.” * * * See, the thing about long-distance friendship was that it was unstable. Like magnets, the farther they grew, the harder it was to hang on. As time grew, Travis guiltily found solace in new friendships. It was like Jared and he couldn’t find commonality anymore. Without history rants, BB-gun raids, or pointless bickers to fill the hole left behind, their daily calls turned irregular before turning into text. He graduated. Jared wasn’t there. Part of Travis held on but the other was winning. The clock had stopped. Five years of friendship and...here they were. * * * In his second year of college, Travis met a girl and then he wished he hadn’t. Love wasn’t the

same as friendship. Love was somehow...faker than he had anticipated. “Nobody’s gonna wait for you to forget your past,” she said when they broke up. “Nobody wants to be the second choice.” * * * It was winter again. His fingers were numb from the frost. It snowed yesterday and Travis spent his Saturday morning building his first snowman. Here was so quiet, so calm, and so fragile like a single warm touch would shatter whatever shield that was laid on top. Sitting in front of his heater and watching the snow falling, Travis started writing. He wrote the first word of his first novel. Two words in, he paused. It was funny how all the stories people wrote resemble their life and dreams and wishes. Travis was tired of writing stories with those same two boys on an endless field of happiness. No losses, no heartbreaks, just a stream of utopian joy. So...unrealistic. * * * Spring came and went, and then suddenly it was summer. Summer was like a soft breeze of relief, bringing the sweet sensation of nostalgic freedom. The first day of summer was a Sunday. Chicken Sunday. Travis had maintained the tradition, but it wasn’t at his apartment anymore. Instead, he found himself sitting alone by the table in the park, acting the part of a lone man shadily munching on a box of chicken wings and flipping through the papers. He had drafts to write, stories to invent, and things to forget. A lot of things to forget, because summer was associated with a playground, a bruised knee, a bully, and a heroic rescue. His stories needed to be something more than that. Something more realistic. Something that didn’t reflect his childish daydreams. Opposite to him, someone sat down. “How awful of you to not invite me to Chicken Sunday.”

a fairytale love story by cynthia chang

A girl, in tatters, sweeping dirt streets, brushes by a prince from the land of riches; isn’t that the ‘once upon a time’ of all magical adventures? But it was you, on the first day, who huddled quietly by the sidelines at recess your fingers engrossed with grass blades, your eyes wandering from place to place. I spent my time exploring the playground painting the kingdoms of kings and queens and knights in shining armor You were always my prince conspiring antics, sparking imagination— always beside me, in tandem— “if you call for me, I promise that I’ll find you.” And before I knew it I was lost without you. It really seemed as if we’d stay friends forever. But, there were things even fate could not change. Beyond the power of a prince, there stood an army outside his own kingdom, waiting to attack.

“If you come at four in the afternoon, I’ll begin to be happy by three.” —Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

scintilla On the last day slips of paper were exchanged; I looked to you, to your dark brown eyes for the last time, the features of your face that changed ever so slightly, a kaleidoscope of mixed feelings— Hardly the happily ever after that we had once imagined, but definitely a once upon a time that remains unfinished, separated by the rising of the drawbridge and the curtain walls. Perhaps we’ll meet again, someday in different kingdoms. we’ll have different stories to tell, and duels to fight, and people to protect, those bygone days— what are they without someone to remember?

Lingering Souls by caitlin leong

“& so what—if my feathers / are burning. I / never asked for flight.” —Ocean Vuong

scintilla The candles light your path. You wander between rows of gravestones, searching for the one that has my name etched in stone. In the ghostly light you clutch flowers, wilted peace lilies and orchids that droop from your touch. When you find my gravestone, you set the flowers down and whisper prayers to the dirt. Even from here, where I can only see your lips move, it sends a chill down my spine. You ask— no—you beg for a signal, a sign that I’ve heard you. But you know I’ve heard you. In my waking world, your prayers float through the windows of my apartment. The flowers that you leave for me bloom on my windowsill, reborn again. Their scent drifts through the room. The smell reminds me of the way you stood there, as if you were helpless. Your eyes reflected the flames, your whole body illuminated in the glow of the firelight. For a moment, our eyes locked and it looked as if you were going to say something—your lips formed words I couldn’t understand—but in the end, nothing came out. And then she appeared, a hand on your shoulder, and you turned to her. You went without protest, running as fast as you could, never turning back once. Don’t tell me why. And I’d stood there, the heat of the flames a tingling sensation on my neck, on my back, until it was unbearable. The tight frame of the window wouldn’t give way and screech open like it always did. My nails were bloody, and ev-

ery molecule in my body was being torn apart, melting. Every instinct screamed to survive but there are things you don’t learn as an immortal. We never had to worry about fire. And as I opened my mouth, I’m not screaming your name— I’m yelling for Leader. There was nothing but smoke in my lungs and dust in my eyes as I screamed until my throat was hoarse and I could no longer hear myself. Your dreams for us haunt me still. But dreams are meaningless in this world. You should have made me feel that way when I was still alive, still there, still human. Now, you ask for blessings you can’t have: a second chance, a few words with me. Leader tells me that I must see you again. So I do. For the first time since last December, I return to you fullflesh. It’s the first time my toes have touched the ground and sunk into the dirt. When you see me, I know you see the orange sundress first: your gaze follows the length of it down to my bare feet. Your smile brings me back to when we were lovers. You reach for my hand, but at our touch, you pull back, telling me my hands are too cold. Instead, you wrap your arms around me, and for a moment, my breath catches in my throat. But it’s been too long, and I’ve learned. How not to let your magnetic charm to pull me in. How to forgive and forget. So as we pull closer, I push away, because I cannot bear to fall in love with a mortal anymore.

But you know I’ve heard you. In my waking world, your prayers float through the windows of my apartment. The flowers that you leave for me bloom on my windowsill, reborn again. Their scent drifts through the room.

Operation by justin chu

The operating table shone dully under the cold, harsh lamp. Nearby, a tray of bloody scalpels, saws, clamps, and scissors lay on a steel cart. “MMMHHHMHM!” The patient writhed against his restraints to no avail, screams muffled by an oily cloth gag. This one, like the rest, was a weaver; a being who performed the dark arts. “Scalpel.” The nurse handed me the sharp instrument. I needed to focus on removing its magicranum, a heart corrupted by magic. Ten minutes of broken wails and unpleasant cutting and sawing passed before I finally reached it. I quickly lopped off the fist-sized, twitching organ. Most magicranum pulsated with an intense purple and reddish glow, but this specimen was hardly brighter than a charcoal ember. I nodded to the nurse, and she lowered the patient from its vertical position. It lay limply on the table, occasionally giving out a muffled gurgle. I undid the gag, and it tried to retaliate, screaming some horrid incantation. I quickly gagged it again, muffling its evil and feigned sorrow. Its words were to no avail though; its eyes had lost their luster, their life. I turned away and got to recording data:

Color: Red, faint glow Estimated Time Since Magic Acquisition: 1-3 week I scratched my head. Something struck me as odd about this patient. I turned to look at the dead weaver. Short, black hair, lightly tanned, and tall. Was it one of my neighbors? An old schoolmate? A memory surfaced, but I suppressed it, shuddering at the thought that it was anywhere near me previously. I reached into my filing cabinet and pulled out a stack of folders among the meticulously organized mass. Flipping through both pages old and new, musty and fresh, I discovered the oddity: many of my most recent patients had acquired magic very recently. Their magicranum were always still heart-like, barely glowing. This was incredibly puzzling. Logically, people with underdeveloped magic are very unlikely to get caught. They weren’t able to control their weaving well enough to perform any large scale spell. So, why were all of my recent patients fresh weavers? “I need to talk with the Bishop,” I called the nurse. “Take care of the rest for me.”

I turned to look at the dead weaver. Short, black hair, lightly tanned, and tall. Was it one of my neighbors? An old schoolmate?

* * * “Hello, Dr. Eve” a warm, honeyed voice spoke from the altar. A man in a handsome

“I scream for everything that has gone wrong. I scream for everything broken in our lives.” —Marie Lu

scintilla gray three-piece Italian suit stepped forward. His lightly graying hair was slicked back but his harsh bloodshot blue eyes betrayed his soft expression. “Hello Bishop Christopher,” I gave a shallow bow. “I hope I’m not intruding on your time. Did you just finish a public sermon?” “Ah, yes,” He looked down at his suit. “It’s the only occasion I wear this stuffy thing. I much prefer the ceremonial robes of the private sermons” He glanced up at me with his piercing eyes. “Did you have a question for me, Doctor? “Yes,” I squirmed slightly under his gaze. “I was reviewing the files of my recent patients, and I’ve noticed that they were all immature weavers, hardly powerful enough to put on anything more than a light show.” “Oh, really.” He turned to light a candle. The flame burst forth, hungrily reaching out. “And your question is?” “Why has this been happening? I am a man of logic, and this simply does not make sense.” “Well, the answer is quite simple, really,” he smiled. “Your research has allowed our hunters to be much more efficient at their job” “Really?” My eyebrows knitted together. That didn’t seem quite right. It usually took years for the hunters to implement my research. “Also, I have another question.” I shook my head. “Why don’t we use anesthesia?” “Because they are heathens.” His nose scrunched up. “That thing that you just operated on? It dared to go against God, to go against everything right and well with the universe.

Does that sound like a creature who deservesmercy to you?” “No,” I chose my next words carefully. The Bishop was known for being…frightful at times. “However, it can be…difficult to concentrate with their screaming.” “Then let them scream. They have turned their backs to God, and we shall thusly turn our backs to them. There is no heathen that is deserving of any sort of kindness. I’m sure you understand.” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you?” “Yes,” I responded, happy. The talk had cleared my head, as if a thick fog had been lifted. I must go on, and collect more magicranum.

A Point in the Sky by sherry huang

Don’t stay on the street. The instruction fluttered in Robert’s mind as he walked, like a moth inside a paper lantern. But there was no way off the street, it was perfectly straight and stretched all the way down until it touched the horizon. At that particular point the sky was darkest because the sun was rising from the opposite end, facing Robert’s back. Houses painted in sandy hues lined the two sides of the street. Sycamore trees spread star-shaped leaves to the sky, violet morning glories twirled up walls to spill over rooftops. The houses were empty, but one got the feeling they weren’t lonely. The street was empty of life as well, and so silent that Robert could almost hear clouds drifting across the sky...

where... his memory fluttered frantically. Somewhere...

Don’t stay on the street!

He jerked out of the lull and looked around wildly for a turn in the road. Nothing except two lines of houses forming a straight hallway down. By now, the sun had almost arched halfway across the sky. Before it went any further, it paused and slowly arched backwards. The point where the street met the horizon was farthest away from the sun, and still darker than the rest of the sky. The sun never sets here, Robert mused. What a peaceful place! I would be fine walking down this street forever. It’s funny, I think I could walk down this street forever. I’ve been walking for hours now without feeling hungry or tiredA gaping hole appeared suddenly on his left. It was a turn. He stared into it, then hesitantly put a foot inside. A sudden twist of hunger. He pulled his foot back and the ache subsided. Don’t stay on the street... Why shouldn’t he? Because there’s somewhere you need to go! Some-

The sycamore leaves waved in the breeze, the houses shone warmly against the sky. Robert walked decisively away from the turn and continued down the street. Soon, the sun arched back to it’s starting point. It rose again on the back of a man who walked interminably down a peaceful street, towards a point on the horizon which was always darker than the rest of the sky.

“No matter how far a person can go the horizon is still way beyond you” —Zora Neale Hurston

scintilla

I Fought Emptiness

and

I Won by cynthia li

One battles emptiness with a double-edged sword, a rusting shield, a mouth full of teeth, grinning. Strap all of these upon one’s body and head out into a chasm. Here lies a star. A ghost. A noble kingdom. Their hollow graves and shattered ruins. One cannot be troubled by these small bitter endings. One must ignore all the warning signs. Move quickly. Don’t worry. They cannot hurt you. When one meets the abyss one may feel fear. Dread is natural: do not let it hold you. Sharpen your blade and your sweet-talking tongue. The brink of the world— don’t you dare plummet. Battle it out. It will take just a moment. Smile victorious when it’s over: nothing will have changed. One may mostly forget. Shining metal abandoned in one’s bedroom corner. Your parents still shout in the hall, your hands shake in the rain. You may still wake late at night with the moon, and find that you want that piece of void back.

While You Were Sleeping by suphala nibhanupudi

“A laugh is a smile that bursts.” —Unknown

scintilla “HELP!” Briar screamed and cried and swore–quite unladylike, as her aunts would chide–into the abyss that held her captive. She laid on her back, the thought of getting up having not crossed her mind. And then it did. Briar jerked up, but it was like she had been slipped into a cocoon; she couldn’t move her limbs. The last thing she remembered was a dingy stairwell and a green haze… a spinning wheel… She blew out a big breath out of her lungs. She could do this, she could figure this out. She had grown up with the stories of stubborn explorers and romantic knights, dashing away to save their princesses. She should be a pro at this sort of thing. It would be nice to get saved by a knight though. She wouldn’t have to put in too much effort. What was around her? She spun her eyes in all directions. The black sky shone down onto the floor, and it reflected the darkness back up to the atmosphere, cycling the inky light up and down, up and down. Where was her home, brimming with the cries of animals and clatters of her aunts’ pots? Where was the bright forest that stood sentry, the hoards of sweet yellow wildflowers that would crowd around her as she languidly frolicked with the woodland creatures… This empty, hollow world she had been thrown into was just too much for now. She should sleep. She closed her eyes and proceeded to stay wide awake for nine hours with the sound of nothingness to keep her company.

* * * Briar wondered how her aunts were dealing with her disappearance as she trudged forward, looking for anything at all. She could imagine them squawking and waddling around, desperately calling for her. Oh dearie, we are so sorry for bringing you to the castle. We are so sorry for losing you. We are so sorry that we made you eat that hideous cake. Bawk, bawk we’re such chickens, bawk. It’s good, she supposed, they weren’t here to see her now. She should be resting or waiting; that was what her aunts would want. Sit and wait for someone a lot more capable than you. She flopped onto the ground, her mind swarmed with smoke, waiting to return to a home she didn’t remember.

Where was the bright forest that stood sentry, the hoards of sweet yellow wildflowers that would crowd around her as she languidly frolicked with the woodland creatures...

* * * Years languidly strolled by. Her friend, the endless night slumbered on over her. Where was she again? Briar raised her head, saw the ever-present darkness, and lowered it again. That’s right. Home. * * * She was told stories she couldn’t recall, filled with towers and dragons and wailing damsels. Was she one, a wailing damsel? She stopped walking and did her best impression, moaning and swaying as she supposed all maidens must wail. She giggled and rocked sideways, lolling as her legs were forced to catch up. This was fun. She whooped and careened through the

landscape until she smacked her head on the ground. Was she supposed to be practicing how to... cry? Eh. The ground was muuuuch more interesting. * * * She couldn’t remember why she walked. It used to be important. But now it was not. She fell to rest on the ground, wondering if she too was made of night and darkness, like her world. What was her name again? * * * Something was pricking at her legs. It was bothersome. She didn’t like pokey things, right? She peeled open her eyes to find… something not black. She bolted up, the air not feeling as heavy and gawked at the unusual… things… sticking up from the ground. Familiar things. They were...not black and coarse and tiny and– “Grass. It’s called grass.” She tilted her head to find a gangly thing, with long arms and hair the same color as the grass. In fact, the thing was made entirely of this grass. “You wanted grass” It drew nearer. “I didn’t expect for you to become so... braindead during your stay. Clearly your mind is much weaker than I had anticipated, and I am very disappointed in you.” “What..what are you?” She croaked. Her voice box was rusty after not being used in forever. Its body rose like the surrounding air was lifting it up. “To begin, I am not a what or an it, I am who.” Who cupped their chin, their gaze

running over her body. “But you, you are a mess.” She looked down at her hands. “I am... a mess.” Who nodded. “Good thing we both see that.” A mess dipped her head, and said, “A mess is glad to meet Who, and A mess would like to know where A mess is.” Who looked at A mess, then slapped their forehead. “What happened to you? No, no, your name is Briar. You are in a magic coma, and your prissy little mind couldn’t cope with the stress and the nothingness. Your mind deteriorated. That’s why I had to come in.” They rolled their eyes. “And it was such a bother too. I can’t leave you alone for a measly hundred years? Did you have to get me here to babysit you?” Who pulled at their strands of grass-hair and muttered “corgi” or “incorrigible” or something to that effect. Briar plucked at the grass and looked up to the black sky. An orb was newly hung in the sky, and it was the same color as the grass in her hand. It was...rejuvenating. “That’s green, by the way.” “Briar thought that was grass?”

She was told stories she couldn’t recall, filled with towers and dragons and wailing damsels. Was she one, a wailing damsel?

* * * Briar lay down, Who sat up. They looked at the big green sun together. Who was talking about warthogs when Briar suddenly spat out, “My aunts. I have aunts.” Who looked at her, then back to the sun. “I suppose your aunts do possess a... warthog-esque air. That’s not much of a stretch.” “They made me a cake and it fell over.” Briar’s words tripped on each other as they poured

“If you don’t get lost, there is a chance you will never be found.” —Unknown

scintilla from her mouth. “They made the cottage too small, my head bumped on the door jamb, they live in a forest and forests are green. Green like grass. Green like sun.” Briar beamed at Who, who watched her like she was an unsteady baby. * * * The air had lightened enough for Briar to jump up and down and fling her arms out without much effort. Much to Who’s chagrin. “Alright, alright Briar. Sit. Down!” Who wrapped their arms around her waist and attempted to tug her down. Instead, they got jounced up and down to the beat of Briar’s leaps. Briar chortled, tugging Who to her level. She swung Who around. “Isn’t this fun?” “You better let me go Briar, or I swear on all that is holy-” “Or you’re gonna cryyy?” Briar rested her chin on Who’s collarbone and rocked the two side to side. “Are you going to be a wailing maiden? I can show you how!” Briar proceeded to howl and sway with Who in tow. “Aren’t damsels supposed to sing too? Oooaaah-” “Nuh-uh. You stay away from me, you banshee.” Who sputtered and slapped Briar away, as Briar whirled off. From her footprints, the grass grew longer, swaying in the sweet air. * * * “I wish I’d never leave here.” Briar blurted. Who stopped flinging grass into the air and turned to Briar. “That’s stupid. The whole point of me being here is to make sure you are prepared to act like a functioning human being once you wake up. I better not be wasting my time here.” Briar whined and threw herself to the ground at Who’s feet. “Ugh, you’re so uptight.” She stroked the growing grass at her feet. “Be like me. I laugh in the face of the unknown. Or the known. I mean, I guess I just like to laugh.” “Then I guess I did something right.” Who smoothed the grass with their fingertips, then stood up and floated away. “You’re going to have to wake up soon. Can’t stay here forever,

alright?” * * * Briar didn’t see Who for a long time, but she kept busy by reciting the information she remembered, skipping in the plain grass, staring at the green sun and inky heavens above her. She was going back soon, she felt it in how the air was lighter. How the sky wasn’t so black anymore. The grass, now taller than her knees, nuzzled her legs. She didn’t mind the scratches. She had a memory of her old world that her mind kept circling back to. Of herself, bathed in a buttery light, soft and still, wearing a tiny smile. Briar rubbed circles over her calloused hands. Who stood, enraptured by the glowing sun, their hair billowing without any wind. They looked at Briar, raised an arm in farewell, and sunk into the scratchy grass. Briar yelled, but her cry didn’t carry. The light of dawn broke her black sky and she tumbled upwards into the azure. * * *

“Princess!” Briar’s eyes, crusty from underuse, creaked open to find a man–a boy really–perched over her. “Who?” She moaned, stretching her limbs. The crescendo of her popping spine added to the cacophony of yelling and crying in the surrounding rooms. It was so loud. “I kissed you and you have awoken after your one hundred year slumber! I am brimming with joy that you seem to be safe and unharmed.” With every word, he leaned closer, like he was going to kiss her again. Briar pushed his face away and strung her hands through her hair. This explosion of new colors was causing her a headache. “Princess Aurora? Your family awaits you. Shall we proceed downstairs?” Briar blinked at the light from the yellow sun gushing through the window into her new cocoon.

hey,

i know you

The day the world ends does not begin with a fat finger on a nuclear button. It does not begin with a hungry tide. It does not begin with fire. It does not begin with ice. Instead, it begins with a silent winter morning on a cold wet street, with the pallid sun dangling from the sky like a dead man on a noose. At least to Harper, it looks like it. She rises to her feet—she’d been squatting on the sidewalk, contemplating something along the lines of how to pass AP Chemistry with at least a C— and starts to run, her sneakers making obnoxious slapping noises because she’s a sucker for knock off athleisure. She stretches and reaches and yearns. Passes by the house with the dinosaur painting on its garage door, the one she used to see every morning behind the window of a car. Shoves through the grove of mulberry trees that line the park where she once broke her arm falling off the play structure. Comes to a skidding stop at the corner, where there’s a cavity in the middle of the walkway that holds in rainwater like a cupped hand. Next to it is the train station. It is nine hours, fifty-two minutes, and thirty-three seconds until the end of the world, and today Harper is going to meet someone. * * * “You should order for me.” These are the first words Cas has said to her in years, and Harper knows they are meaningless. Cas is staring at her the same way she’s staring at him. Cas used to be the short kid with the huge eyes who everyone would fawn over even though they were all in the same grade. He had been an unfairly beautiful baby. In second

by renee ge

grade, Harper had been crying because her favorite jump rope wasn’t in the class equipment bin, and Cas had walked up to her and patted her on the shoulder and told her that Samantha would give it back tomorrow and Harper stopped crying. She may have also stopped breathing. Now, though, Cas has grown taller. He’s skinny like a weed, and she could probably beat him up, no problem. After seventh grade he had moved to Pennsylvania or something because his dad wanted to get rich there, and when he came back a few months ago he enrolled in some elitist private high school with higher tuition than most of the local colleges. She can see that in him too, the way he wears those ugly military-print Adidas sneakers that probably cost half a thousand bucks, and the way he rolls up the sleeves of his beige cream sweater because the restaurant is too dirty for him or something. Privileged. He probably follow sprees regularly on Twitter to be relevant and whines about how his thousand dollar phone has a crack on the side. “Maybe the green curry then,” Harper says half-heartedly. She picks at the loose string on her shirt and looks at the rain against the window and all the colorful umbrellas people are sporting and the grainy, soggy floor. “So how’s school?” Eight hours, twelve minutes, two seconds are left. “Uh. It’s good? There are friends,” Cas says, fumbling with his napkin. “Maybe, possibly.” He shrugs. “Must be all the money,” Harper says, something she immediately regrets when Cas regards her sharply. And that’s it. The chasm between them

“We talk through lines, we’re made of smoke” —Jonathon Ng

scintilla yawns, deep and dark and vast. The old, rickety bridge of rope, woven with ten years of love and caring and friendship, isn’t enough. Can’t be enough. * * * The wind wrenches umbrellas out of tourists’ hands to make way for the beating rain. The chill plasters onto her face regardless of how many layers Harper covers herself up in. Asphalt streets reflect the red from the traffic lights and threaten to pull the ground from under her feet at every move. At this point, with six hours, twenty-seven minutes, and two seconds to go, they’ve both abandoned the façade of window shopping. Now they’re just aimlessly pretending to blend with the crowd of ponchos, pretending they’re the best of friends out for a casual lunch, because friends do that. Friends, not strangers. She half feels like she should apologize, maybe. It’s not like she’s done anything wrong, but… Cas is drawing in on himself, reminiscent to the time in fifth grade when he’d been briefly subjected to bullying from his fellow male classmates, who called him “girly” because he was short and quiet and didn’t play baseball after school. When Cas had walked in through the restaurant door he had walked in straightbacked with hands swinging at his sides, so now that she sees him hunched over with hands in his pockets, looking like a turtle, she feels responsible. She looks up. Cas’ throat bobs, and his body shifts further away, pretending to admire some chocolates displayed near a store window. Harper wants to scream.

* * * They go see a movie, which is the dumbest decision she’s made in her life. There are three things Harper abhors: AP Chemistry pop quizzes, fermented tofu, and the Marvel franchise, because she isn’t basic and likes plots that aren’t obviously stretched out to make money. She doesn’t want to see this stupid movie, but it’s the only way she can think of to save this trainwreck of a date. Not a date, a meeting. Reunion. Whatever. They both don’t want to be here, but are staying out of some guilty sense of obligation, so by her memory of Cas’ smile and all things holy she’s going to try and make this work. Relationships are hard. Before they’re about to go down the stairs into the pitchblack theatre, Cas hesitates and pokes her arm. “Remember when we went in sixth and binged through those movies? I thought you liked Marvel.” “Well, now I don’t,” Harper says, feeling horribly exposed. Oh no, they’re going to start to reflect now. And shed mutual tears of nostalgia. Disgusting. “It’s… boring.” Cas hesitates, and uses a hand to floof at his hair. “Um.” Then he gets this look on his face, like he’s about to go through with this thing and nothing is going to stop him. “Suh, spell boring.” Her jaw drops. She spins around fully, sees the back of Cas’ stupid head, yells a “HEY—” But Cas sprints away and turns a corner, cackling all the way. He’s referencing the time in fifth grade where Harper firmly believed that standard spelling was some sort of social construct created to silence society’s dissidents, so she would make up random spellings for words and use them to tank spelling tests in protest.

He probably follow sprees regularly on Twitter to be relevant and whines about how his thousand dollar phone has a crack on the side.

He’s remembering. (Four hours, thirty-five minutes, fifty-three seconds.) * * * At exactly past the two hour mark, until the end of the world, they find a poetry cafe to sit in because who doesn’t love edgy poetry and

lattes. There’s a lady going crazy at the mic, screaming about peace symbols painted on guns. When she’s done, Harper claps, but to her surprise, Cas is on his feet, whooping and cheering, even though he looks kind of stupid since he’s the only one doing it. “That was great,” he says, with a flush high on his cheeks. His eyes sparkle in the dim light. “That was really great.” “Didn’t know you were into this kind of stuff. Don’t you unironically watch Yu-gi-oh?” He steals a bite of her pie in punishment. The brief brush of his fingers against hers sends a bolt of static up her hand. His jacket must have some wool lining underneath or something. “Be quiet, we don’t talk about that. I was eight.” “When I was eight, I was listening to the Beatles. Being young isn’t an excuse for being uncultured.”

“So let us melt, and make no noise” —John Donne

“Well, your taste peaked when you were eight, then. Your phone background is Naruto fanart, I don’t even know why I’m talking to you.” Harper hisses and grips her phone with both hands. “Shut up! I just like the art. Shut up, shut up.”

Cas laughs at her.

* * * Ten minutes. Harper and Cas, they go out into the night. There are a few stars out—tiny pinpricks brave enough to fight through all the clouds. People around them are talking. They find a current. Move with it. * * * “I missed you.” One minute. * * * Light from the lamp from the toy store, fairies from the apartment across dance over his profile, they flicker and stutter across the glint of his teeth, turn of his cheek, glimmer in his eye. Ten nine eight he leans forward seven six five she tilts her face up in three two lips will meet and when they do

The Most Slippery Path

scintilla

by kaylia mai Akakios was graduating from the nearby college the next day and was hosting a party. I was not quite sure why I was invited, as I do not know him beyond the occasional “good morning” exchanged on chance encounters and we shared little relation beyond being neighbors, so it was to no surprise that Hera, my best friend, mentioned an invitation as well. As it was given that we must go, there would be free food after all, we conferred with each other and decided on simple congratulatory presents: a phone and a wristwatch. Hera chose the wristwatch and I picked out a phone from a nearby mall, batteries were entered and the devices were set. We tried to leave as soon as possible yet left at sundown a full five hours late, the gifts in my lap. In another world, here is how it ended: Rain blessed us with tiny crystals of water as we drove. We reached the celebrations at twenty two o’clock plus thirty seven minutes, and were promptly greeted by the laughter and carousing of a hundred people out for fun. The moon smiled its lopsided grin and the night swirled in silent dance. We never met Akakios personally, but there were plenty other friendly people just searching for a break from the endless monotony of life. The gifts were handed off, and exchanged for the access to pans of small treats with small frosting decorations and

crispy crusts. And come the ringing of two, we would drive home and collapse in our beds and sleep. In another world that is how it ended, and that is how it should have ended, but that is not this world. Rain pelted us as we drove, obscuring our sight no matter the speed of the windshield wipers. As such, I did not see it until it was right before us. A black mass sat on the road. It could have been a trash bag, or someone’s lost jacket, or a thousand other things lying about a city street at night, yet it came to me as a demon. That evil, whispering demon, that turned its slitted eyes to us and screeched in the most horrifying manner, stood before us at the street intersection. A contract. A decision. There was no time. The scenarios sped through my mind with alarming clarity and all pathways reached the same conclusion. It was a bad conclusion. So, naturally, I reached over and yanked the steering wheel right out of Hera’s grip and tried to turn us around to retreat as fast and as far away as possible. Screeching brakes pierced the air. Someone might have screamed, it could have been either of us. I spared a thought for the shape leaping away with a yowl, its starved, matted body

It could have been a trash bag, or someone’s lost jacket, or a thousand other things...

whipping away into the alleys and disappearing. The impact reached me as an explosion. Colorado in the city. A hurricane in my mind. The car swerved violently, my body jerking as an unwilling hostage to the chaos. The lanyard that was hanging on the rear-view mirror flew past my seat and disappeared. A black dart flitted across the edge of vision, vanishing into the many alleyways of the city. Then there was a brick wall, solid and approaching, rushing forward to us, and before a thought could be summoned, before a sound could press pass the gates of my lips, the front end of the car sank into it and the backlash of force threw loose items and glass-crystals into a whirlwind of rain. And just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. A dim reflection shone back at me from a fractured shard of glass. Blood and rain clouded my sense of smell. Small, stinging pains cried out to me as I lay slumped in my seat, and I found myself unable to summon the will to rise. Perhaps it was easier to simply be, to let the weight of decisions escape my grasp and slither into those pools of endlessly flowing water. A fumbling hand reached down to my feet, and produced a surprisingly intact phone. A moment later found the emergency call line. Idly, my eyes flickered down to the watch. It was less fortunate. The crash had ripped apart the packaging. The face was cracked. It was barely ticking. Hera must have chosen a durable one. Hera. My eyes shot open in an instant. Hera was with me and we were… going somewhere. I grimaced and pressed my hands against my eyes, instantly regretting it when glass pressed back at me. It was with some effort that I dragged my uncooperating head to the side. Hera was a black shadow in the driver’s seat. The dark concealed her, and never had I wished more than in that moment that I had a flashlight. She was not

moving. Two minutes passed, said the watch accusingly. Those two minutes would be trivial if not for you, Hera’s form hissed. Fear was a hungry rat. It scampered around with all the gracefulness of a drunk in a hurry, seeking the outskirts of the mind with no understandable purpose. Where it stood its shadow stayed and where it ran it left a slime and stench. Its greed snatched rationality with billions of tiny bites and with a psychotic kind of enthusiasm, before shredding it and scattering the remains in an infinite abyss. When it leapt, so too did my heart leap with it, and the all-consuming tidal wave of grey that warped my sight and flipped the earth breached the threshold of what the human mind can withstand. The demon, wherever had the demon gone? I saw none and that frightened me above all else... Eight minutes. The screeching, blaring cries of white vultures pierced the night’s veil. They swooped down upon us, the stench of encroaching death punctuating my lungs and suffocating the life of my best friend. I screeched back at them, a weak, wounded cry, but they grabbed me with many claws and dragged me away. Their wings opened, bright and blinding from the darkness, to reveal a gaping maw, shapes moved around me in a jumbled cacophony, the rain crashed down to the pumping in my veins, a distinct ringing was determined to drag my brains through my ears… And that’s when Fear decided that the tastiest morsels are those made still. * * * Three days later a patient would escape their room and be found a floor away at another patient’s bed. An argument would begin, some yelling would be heard, and within a few hours an assigned room will move… There’s still food if you’re running late. -Akakios You have 12 unread messages. The phone was closed with only the barest glance. I never had gone to that party, but the

““When I see a slippery slope, my instinct is to build a terrace” —John McCarthy

scintilla regret weighed far lighter than if I had signed that contract after all. Recovery would be riddled with late nights and stressful days, but be-

ing here, with my friend safe in a hospital bed, I knew it would end alright. Now, perhaps I should search for that cat.

by yiu-on li

Why Don’t We Live in a Yesterday of Our Own by yiu-on li

“Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.” —Kurt Vonnegut

scintilla 2189 was the year we figured out how to live forever. Pfft. Nah, I’m just pullin’ your leg. Everybody’s gotta die eventually. Hey, isn’t it comfortin’ to know that, no matter how “advanced” we get, we’re still the same buncha sorry saps we’ve always been? Like, we’d opened freakin’ singularities in our own backyard, an’ what did we use ‘em for? Waste disposal. I mean, come on! Singularities! Waste disposal! Lemme rephrase that, in case it didn’t quite sink in: The best thing we could come up with for an object with infinite mass confined within an infinitely small space brimmin’ with infinite gravity was the act of getting rid of last Tuesday’s moldy takeout. Does… does that… does that even make sense?! No! ‘Course not! But nobody gave a fig, an’ look at where we are now. Convenience always smushes sense into senselessness, I suppose. I’m gettin’ ahead of myself. Name’s April. Worked on a secret project for the government to rain untold death an’ destruction upon our enemies at home an’ abroad, whereupon said government sold the fruits of our labor to public corporations, ‘cause capitalism dies hard. Guess how well that turned out. Here’s the thing: Time’s a slippery little beast, an’ people don’t like slippery little things. Normally, people find some way to kill what they don’t understand, but seein’ as how time’s not somethin’ that really dies, mortality was just somethin’ we all shut up about an’ went along with. But assumptions only exist for as long as

until someone comes along and breaks ‘em, for better or for worse. * * * Graduation is death, for you do not realize what you have until it is gone. But I suppose that, from this reasoning, graduation is birth as well, for you do not realize what you have until it is gone. My apologies—I believe a few pleasantries are in order first. My name is Alannis, emphasis on the second “a” and with one “l” and two “n”’s. I realize you may find these eccentricities slightly grating, and I apologize if I have caused you any undue irritation. But infants, being infants, are never terribly specific in their everlasting dissatisfaction, and from this you shall see that I was not sufficiently lucid when my parents, for reasons that yet elude me, resolved to stamp upon me this bothersome designation. I thus find that it is easier to “clear the air,” so to speak, within the confines of clumsy introductions rather than have to drag out the whole affair awkwardly through many months or many years. That will be enough for now. As I had intimated a few moments prior, I find graduation to be quite a peculiar concept, though this term is typically known by other names. Mastery. Matrimony. A change in the status quo. A fresh start. But I confess that this graduation that I am about to describe to you is… just a graduation. From college, to be precise. In 2036. Where I

The best thing we could come up with for an object with infinite mass confined within an infinitely small space brimmin’ with infinite gravity was the act of getting rid of last Tuesday’s moldy takeout.

graduated is irrelevant; simply substitute your own preference for where I went if you feel the need to orient yourself with some sort of physical bearing or hubristic sentiment. Thus, as you see, we begin at an end. * * * Hah. “For better or for worse.” We were “directed” by our good friends in suits to “make moments last longer,” an’ I don’t mean through the usual narcotic avenues. I’m talkin’ about a solid reality-bendin’, warpin’the-fabric-of-spacetime kind of longer, where you push a magic button on a little box an’ your graduation or your weddin’ or your childhood become as long as you want ‘em to be. Oh, those singularities I mentioned earlier? You’re probably aware of all sortsa time shenanigans these things are capable of, but turns out rippin’ apart reality ain’t the same thing as controllin’ it. Took us a while to figure out how to get from trash dumpster to localized timestream manipulator, but we got there. Pretty sure there were some Nobel Prizes thrown around. “Where’s the death an’ destruction?” you ask? Settle down, already! You’d probably need all your fingers an’ all your toes an’ all the hairs on your body to count the number of militaristic applications this little doohickey had. Sabotage? Theft? Chaos? When you’ve got all the time in the world, why, it’s all a cakewalk. * * * Hey hi hello! Oh my gosh this is so cool. Umm I’m Ralph. My friends say that’s a really dumb name but I don’t care. My parents got me this thing that lets me take pictures but it’s like a lot of pictures at the same time and there’s sound so it’s like the pictures are moving and talking and it’s awesome! Mom said it was mine as long as I didn’t point it at any strangers because they might get uncomfortable and I might get in trouble. Dad said I shouldn’t drop it and that I should walk around the house and record some stuff “for posterity.” Umm, I’m not sure what that word means but Dad says I’ll know

what it means one day. My friends are gonna be so jealous. All they talk about is “why two kay” and how their parents are gonna stop it and save the world but they never talk about me. Well… I guess they do talk about me, but… it’s always about my name. “Ralph? What kinda name is that?” They’re the worst. The worst! The worst! * * * We begin at an end, or do we end at a beginning? I cannot say. All I can say is that I wish I had spent my years in the lecture halls and the dorm rooms of my alma mater with purpose, but alas, wishing something to be true does not make it true. People quickly find their footing here, I am told; there is a place for everyone in places like these, I am told. I believe that what I am told is a lie. But I too believe that lies are occasionally useful should they manage to effect some sort of self-improvement, and it is to my own detriment that I did not see this sooner. This is my personal theory: Happiness is built on deception. * * * Oh, did I say a cakewalk? Well, I suppose there’s always a catch. You had all the time in the world for about ten minutes, relative to your frame of reference. That was it. Any further an’ you risked “irreparable damage to the fabric of reality.” It sounds ridiculous, I know, but it didn’t make it any less true. Now, the folks in suits—they weren’t too happy with this. They wanted more, more, more, an’ when they wouldn’t take no for an answer, they sold us an’ the tech out for a quick buck on the side. Well, I’m sure they’re happy now. Companies pounced on the opportunity. Claimed the specs an’ the smarts as their own, then started marketin’ these boxes as some sorta fountain of youth. It was a big an’ bold-nosed lie, plain an’ simple. People die, an’ that’s that.

“How did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June.” —Dr. Seuss

scintilla But people ate up the charade like those flakes I used to give my goldfish, an’ that meant all our whinin’ made no difference in the end. * * * Deception is a subtle art, and I do admire it. There is something splendid about manipulating reality, and while we perhaps may not have discerned the means by which to do so in the literal, fanciful sense as of yet, creatures of all sizes and intelligences have been deceiving one another ever since they have acquired the capacity to respond to stimuli. You can see, then, that through deception—through merely the whims of a veritable human deity—it is as if one has created an entirely new world with its own presuppositions and absolutes, valid only within said deity’s sphere of influence but valid all the same. And there is not just one deity in this world, oh no. There are hundreds, thousands, millions of such individuals, all emanating, from their words and their actions insincere, their own pocket reality by which cattle find themselves orbiting, gravitating toward, and—ultimately—colliding with. Please, do not mistake my admiration for assent. I have no wish to be herded about such as I have described, nor do I have any wish to be the herder. I only mean to point out that I do not believe one may, in full consideration of the facts, be happy. You laugh and another cries. You eat and another starves. You play and another toils. But these sufferings are practically a world away, and may as well exist purely in imagination.

a new job soon and we’re gonna get a bigger house! So I’m gonna record everything so that future me can see how much better his stuff is and how lucky he is. Future me can’t come soon enough. I really really really wish my life was better. My parents are okay, but wouldn’t it be super cool if they were celebrities or something? Then my friends would talk about me all the time. I wouldn’t even need friends. Umm, what are friends? * * * So we do not give the facts our full consideration, if only to preserve our rationality. We tell ourselves that there is only joy, there is only abundance, there is only leisure. Ironic, is it not? We are the ones who manipulate ourselves. We create our own paradises to inhabit. And we are content with that. * * * An’ whaddya know? Societal collapse. People didn’t wanna let those small moments slip away forever, so they used their boxes with all the restraint of a child in a candy store. ‘Course there were safeguards installed in these devices, but if people want somethin’ bad enough, they’ll find a way to get it, every time. Pushin’ buttons, makin’ their own worlds to live in for minutes, hours, days at a time. Repeat, repeat, repeat. So then reality just seemed to come undone one day, an’ it hasn’t come un-undone, if you get what I’m sayin’. There was no unrest, no war, no warnin’. I can’t really describe it. Everythin’ just seems out of whack somehow. People dead. Universal constants not really constant anymore. Rubble everywhere. You know, all that good stuff.

I only mean to point out that I do not believe one may, in full consideration of the facts, be happy.

* * * The worst! Gosh. Our home isn’t really big or anything like that but Mom says Dad said he’s gonna get

* * * But you doubt me. You doubt how I have defined this “human deity.” You wonder whether this makes you, yourself, a godlike being, whether this makes everyone you have ever known a god of their own world, and whether, finally, this makes me the same. You wonder if you are, through my very words, being manipulated at this very instant, and you cannot decide whether you enjoy it or whether you revile it, or whether you ought to prefer one option over another. After all, if we are all gods, does that not mean we are all human? Good. Doubt is your friend. Doubt is your escape. * * * I guess I don’t really know what friends are. Dad says everyone finds someone eventually, but I don’t wanna wait. What’s the point of waiting? Why can’t I have one now? Maybe… maybe friends aren’t so great. You have to take care of them, and when they cry you have to make them not cry, and when they laugh you have to laugh too or else you’ll be weird. There’s just a lot you have to do, and I’m not sure I wanna. I don’t know. But… future me’ll know what to do! Where is he? I can’t wait! * * * ‘Course the government, or what’s left of it at least, needed someone to pin the blame on. So we scientists took the fall. But what’s the government gonna do? It’s not like they’re gonna lock us away an’ spit on our memory. After all, they need all hands rebuildin’ life as we knew it. * * * But come graduation day, I suppose you could say I had my doubts about doubt. Nothing is perfect. Perhaps, in some instances, it is better to be herded about and drawn into a

world, one of personal creation or otherwise. To accept deception as the key to happiness is to accept that absolute control does not and cannot exist. And perhaps the act of letting go is its own mastery. Because second chances do not exist, and to live in a yesterday of our own is to regret what we have done and what we have not done. Time flies, as they say. So why not do? My apologies once again. I have been sitting here, writing with abandon for the past twenty minutes, and I do not know why. Yet the future awaits, and I must begrudgingly take my leave to enter into its embrace. * * * Gee, I can’t wait to grow up! I’m gonna show them all. I’m gonna be so cool and Mom and Dad are gonna be so proud of me. Look out, world, Ralph’s coming for you! I’m leaving this dump behind. Mom? Dinner? Coming! Oh, I guess I’m a little hungry. I’ll be back for you, world, just as soon as I eat. * * * But maybe we don’t need to rebuild the world as we knew it. Society’s dead. Why not make somethin’ new? I mean, who’s gonna judge? Who’s gonna care? This is my life, an’ I ain’t gonna be bossed around by thick-headed bureaucrats if an’ when civilization gets back into workin’ order. Some things come an’ some things go, an’ sometimes they go forever. Sometimes there’s just no way ‘round that. But we’ve just gotta keep goin’ an’ hope things turn out for the best, an’ if we die, we die. Well, that’s that. I’m not sure what I should call this. A log? A video diary? A compilation? Yeah, let’s call it a compilation. A compilation of experiences an’ hopes an’ mistakes an’ us just tryna get through whatever it is we’re tryna get through. Maybe someone’ll find it useful. Maybe that’ll be enough. Time to go.

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” —J. R. R. Tolkien

weightless

scintilla

by joyce ker

we killed clocks that night. young and wild and dopamine-drunk, we covered our bodies in glitter. you took me to a carnival at the boardwalk and we rode a ferris wheel. ascending: this is what it means

to be weightless. invincible. to ignore all their warnings because i love your eyes, your mouth, and you love the sunbeams in my hair, roses in my cheeks. pretty girl. you would never do that to me too. you, throwing me candies, stepping on all the other girls. watching me eat half a donut, wrapping your arms around my waist. donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get fat. you, soothing my sobs until a smile lit my face. forcing me to cry for no damn reason.

cry. i want to see. you, sticking your finger-bullet into places not to touch. i am teaching myself forgetfulness, learning the taste of salt on my tongue. i am taking in all their bald stares. submerged in bathtub-water, i take to my navel, twist the knife around like seeding an avocado. i watch flesh-flecks blossom, trickle. i hunger. i hurt.

farewell

by helina li

“To say goodbye is to die a little.” —Raymond Chandler

scintilla The silence hangs in this two feet space between us. Neither of us wants to say the words first— dreadful, chilling words, words I never thought I would say. Or maybe I did. Maybe I agreed to say them when I chose to leave. Let’s say something else. Let’s say something lighter. Something like, “I have to go to class alone now, don’t I? I have to just “deal with it” now, don’t I?” And then laugh and then say, “But we’ll keep in touch, right? This is just temporary, right?” But those words are even harder to push past my tongue. I swallow and swallow again, trying to open the door at my throat as its edges melt into its frame. My fingernails break against the melting iron, desperate and panicked. Time, that has ticked by quiet and unnoticed, slams in my ears now as people push past us, heading off to a future with each other while I stand there— I stand there, flinching in the face of the inevitable, the words stuck, wishing that we could leave together, too, staring, staring, staring at this person I’ve grown up with, thinking, thinking all the things still unsaid but not saying anything,

and I’m remembering all those years— I stumble into her arms like a child, swallowing the words, my cold tears running into her warm skin. She smells like my childhood, like laughing and playing and running— it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay, right? I don’t have to say those words and we don’t have to leave here. Ever. Time will stop for us. But that’s not how it works and we pull apart and there are tears in my eyes and I can’t speak properly and my breathing’s irregular and I’m getting into the car and I’m waving but I don’t want to wave and we didn’t have enough time this is so unfair I don’t wanna go I don’t wanna go no the car door is closing please don’t no I don’t want— silence. But even if this is my final farewell, even if this is the end— I stare at my hands, refusing to look out the window at the lights, still alive. At the people, still there. The car speeds up and I leave, leaving behind those moments, those people, those lights, those buildings in the dark. My last image of her is blurred and the goodbyes are still here, in my throat. There is no door anymore, simply an iron wall, irreversibly sealed. We promised ourselves that we would stay in touch. That we would never forget. But that’s not how it works either.

by christine lee

E*3cution The prisoners waited in silence. It wasn’t long until the railway track a few feet ahead began to ring and tremble. The crossing lights blinked red, the gate lowered, and the early morning freight train rushing to deliver supplies sped by. When only the dying hum remained in the air, the gate lifted, and they haggardly resumed their immortal march. The rail intersected with a lone trail blazed between their living quarters and the primary prison facility, forming some sort of crooked cross or “X” that was visible from above. A chain-link fence edged with barbed wire bordered their every path, extending far off into the distance. Unit 006-36435 trained his optical sensors forward and nowhere else. His limbs moved mechanically, and his body automatically followed in the direction he was expected to go. He synchronized his every step to the pace of the unit before him. Falling behind wasn’t an option, and if the unit ahead somehow slowed or held back himself and the rest, then he’d be

quick to overtake the obstruction. The line maneuvered itself as smoothly as a slithering centipede within the boundaries; the sinister steel from the fence glinted dully as the units walked on without a word. An ashen and overbearing institutional building loomed over the straight row of docile ants. Donned in immaculate white were supervisors, officers assigned to oversee the prized livestock of site 36435. They stood at the head of the ordered array, shepherding them all through the solid tar-black gate, which let loose a weak wail—at once, the sound was cut off upon slamming shut behind them. Inside, the crude concrete walls regarded their arrival with hostile indifference, and the fluorescent lights glared coldly. They proceeded down a bleak corridor lined with doors, all numbered with white paint, yellowed like beeswax and peeling away. More than familiar with the everyday procedure, the units separated into their designated rooms and stations, all prede-

“He never fell, never slipped back, never flew.” —John Steinbeck

scintilla termined by their unit number. Within seconds, they were at work: studying their respective screens, downloading information, overloading their built-in storage, processing data, rapidly re-accessing their memory, exporting calculated computations, repeating the cycle. Occasionally, red text bled into view on their displays, and all the while their watches dug into their wrists like handcuffs as time marched on. Sitting at the back was unit 000-36435, silently struggling as her eyes nervously swept across the screen and hands visibly shook. Just ahead of her was unit 008-36435, who wore his usual thoughtful expression, though a frown of frustration tugged at his lips. At the front, unit 006-36435, calm and expressionless, eliminated error after error. When it was time for mid-day meal, the three of them sat together at the table in the back corner of the dimly-lit dining hall. “...and once you light the fuse,” 008 was chattering on eagerly as he often did about anything, “it’ll fly up into the air, and the sky will explode with color. Well? Zero, what do you think?” “That does sound awfully pretty,” she admitted wistfully. “Do you, do you think we will ever have a chance to see that? The three of us, together like this.” “Maybe. If only this blockhead,” he said as he gave 006 a hard, but friendly nudge while laughing openly and without restraint, “would try giving it a shot.” He responded sharply with a cold, irritated look. “It’s not up to me. It’s up to them. If you drag me into another one of your messes, they could seriously catch us. They’re the ones who get to decide what leaves and what stays and what terminates in the end.” “Not again, Six—” “Efficiency and consistency, accuracy and immediacy. Don’t you remember that’s all they expect from us? If we properly stick to protocol,

and push ourselves to win their approval, our worth will be acknowledged, and we will be rewarded with a way out. That’s the right way out—the only one.” Sensing 000 flinch beside him, 008 bristled for a moment, but his expression soon turned pensive, and he mused aloud to himself, “There’s got to be another way, some loophole or back door…” 006 averted his steel-blue eyes. “It’s been over sixteen years. You won’t find one.” “N-nevermind all this!” interjected 000. “Let’s eat to keep our strength up.” She attempted at a lighthearted tone to defuse the growing tension, but it sounded too strained. Still, they returned to their unappetizing meal, forcing down the prison feed, accepting the nourishment to keep functioning, yet all three knew none of them could taste anything. They were let outside into the closed-off courtyard wedged behind the facility for a time interval known as “downtime,” which took place up to twice a day, the first after mid-day meal, and the second in the evening, upon quota completion. But outside only meant standing, stiffly, silently. The grass, withered and dead, from lack of rain. Within a pen, enclosed, by more unforgiving fencing. Often, the three would gaze up at the dull sky, almost always obscured by a thick, smothering curtain of clouds. Once, about a month ago, 000 had spotted a small sparrow that had foolishly flown in and tangled itself in the ugly web of barbed wire. Her soft brown eyes had overflowed with tears, and without faltering she’d reached in with weak, gentle hands and drew the bird out free. An expression of curious wonderment had crossed over 008’s features, and he’d gingerly began examining the damaged wings. Contrarily, 006, at their urging, had held it once and kept his distance ever since, wearing a look of hor-

Within a pen, enclosed, by more unforgiving fencing.

ror and disgust. There was something about the creature that he’d found unbearably repulsive; it had resonated something in him, something he’d detested and feared. Her hands were scratched raw and bleeding from cuts that were later deemed a hindrance to performance and then treated by the on-site nurse. During the visit to the nurse's office, 008 had snuck bandages and a tiny jar of medicinal ointment with the intent of saving the sparrow. Within the short span of two weeks, 000 had nurtured the bird until it had fully regained the ability to fly. Breathlessly, they’d watched it lift itself into the air and soar away until it was forever out of sight, leaving behind an empty, aching sensation in their chests. They’d wordlessly returned to their monotonous routine. Yet the memory, data that proved useless in succeeding in their torturously endless toil, remained untarnished; even now, after their tasteless meal, the three recalled it once again. Soon, however, they mechanically retreated into room 321 under the direction of Supervisor C. As their overseeing officer, he fortunately was fairly lenient and languid, and looked upon unit 006 and 008 with approval: 006 retained high marks by staying and working tirelessly late alone into the night, occasionally even until early morning, whereas 008, the consistently top scorer, often finished his quota relatively quickly and assisted his supervisor in an assortment of tasks. Thus, he was permitted to enter areas such as the kitchen, the reception desk by the warden’s office, or even the rooftop to run errands. Within roughly four hours, he concluded his performance testing hours ahead of the rest and volunteered to take up the task of bringing crates brimming with broken hardware on a rolling cart to the disposal room. Upon locating the room, he unlocked the door with the key from his supervisor, pushed the heavy door open, and peering attentively into the darkness,

found and flipped on the light switch. Pale, ghastly white draped over the room, revealing black bins of scrap metal. The room was as frigid as a grave. Frowning, 008 scanned the room thoughtfully before unloading the crates beside the bins to be processed later. He casted a careful glance inside one of the bins, pondered for a moment, and withdrew a small, flat piece of what he suspected was some sort of magnesium alloy. “These will probably be deserted straight at a junkyard. I suppose when we go obsolete, will we also…” His murmur trailed off, but his mind continued to turn the thought over and over long after he left the room behind. They were three months away from the end of their seventeenth year. Two months later, the workload grew insufferable. 006 mindlessly labored longer and later more and more often in the morning; he couldn’t remember when was the last time he’d slept or eaten decently. Even 008 reluctantly halted in assisting their supervisor for the time being and became increasingly irritated. But it was 000 who fared the worst by far in room 321. She couldn’t keep up at all. The line of assessments kept incessantly incrementing, with no sign of ever ending. Performance testing. The procedure set in place to evaluate and measure the efficiency and quality grade of each product, each unit. Load testing. Stress testing. Breakpoint testing. At the end of each year, there would be a palpable surge in such mind-numbing evaluations, and a defective database, judged as inadequate, from each room exposed, isolated, and permanently removed for shutdown—terminated. Only the worthy would win a place in the outside world. To compensate the loss, regulations demanded for new units to be ordered, promptly shipped, and to arrive by train. Each passing day brought another chilling wave of fear that engulfed and drowned ev-

Only the worthy would win a place in the outside world.

“But even if I cannot see the sun, to know that the sun is there—that is living.” —Fyodor Dostoevsky

scintilla ery unit. 000, in particular, woke on the stiff mattress of her cell pale with paranoia and shivering uncontrollably, remembering how she’d scarcely escaped the culling from previous years. However, her natural integrity and tenderness refused this time to allow 008, who surreptitiously and unfailingly offered to ease her workload, to bear her burden. Blinded by desperation, seeing 006 work himself to death awed her, and she frantically attempted to follow suit, toiling away long after midnight. And still the stream of suffering gave no indication of ever stopping. When dawn once again prodded the units awake, they lined up outside their living quarters; the standard order was assigned by unit number, with the greatest near the head and the least taking the tail. The air was thick with haze and the sun appeared faint and smudged. The supervisors stood by the railway track. They noted with disapproval that the morning train seemed to have been delayed, which happened from time to time, and proceeded to lead the units through. The units formed an unbroken chain as they passed over the track. At the end was 000. Her senses were deadened with exhaustion. Her hearing seemed deafened; the smallest noise sounded indistinct, yet rang at a pitch unbearably shrill and sharp. Her eyes were still bleary with remnants of sleep. A clanging cacophony began to fill her ears. Disoriented, she paused, wildly and frantically looking about like a lost child. Her muddled mind made out a light, blinking, surveilling, from the murkiness: she clumsily hastened toward it, as if it were a flare signalling salvation amid choking smoke. The gate lowered. A prickling unease overcame 008, and for some inexplicable reason, he decided to steal a glimpse over his shoulder—cold dread immediately rose up inside him and he came to a dead stop as he watched the freight train hurtle forward and collide into a feeble figure, flinging it against the fence lining the sidewalk that ran parallel to the track. He abandoned all thought, already tearing

himself out of the line, but before he could go any further, a hand forced him to a halt. It was 006. He’d witnessed it too. “Don’t go. Not that way, Eight.” “Please, just let go.” “You know I can’t even if I—” He caught himself in time to sharply cut himself off. “Remember the regulations. There isn’t any other way—” “Then let me go!” Unable to contain his hysteria any longer, he broke free, bolting recklessly to the mangled body, holding what was left of 000-36435. Her hair glimmered in the weak sunlight like honey harvested from a bee comb. Her hands no longer shook. Her eyes were closed. She was finally at eternal rest. Since then, 006 could only watch 008 fall into an excruciating state of insomnia and numbness, deeper and deeper into a hollow pit where even light couldn’t leave. Nothing in his database afforded an answer, so with hesitant uncertainty, he let him be. He himself was helplessly tormented by barrage after barrage of nightmares; her final moments haunted him, crushed him with oppressive guilt. In spite of it all, during the day, he maintained his controlled disposition, somehow managing to complete all his tests in an orderly fashion, almost thankful to avoid sleeping by drowning himself in his assessments, ridding himself of any more thoughts beyond the flat, one-dimensional realm of his screen. His standing, his position in the placings, still sufficiently superior and stagnant. But 008 was a brittle shell of his former self. For the remaining month, he lethargically came to room 321 under the irrational delusion that she’d be there. Despair devoured him each time, and for the following two months, he sat at his station entirely motionless and devoid of life, simply staring emptily at the screen. Then for the next four months, he conducted his performance evaluations frantically, furiously, faster than ever before, as if he solely yearned to suf-

focate himself in the meaninglessness of it all. Supervisor C saw his suffering and took pity on him. 008 retained permission to roam the facility after finishing early, but he wandered the halls restlessly and in a bewildered stupor, as if he were in the midst of carrying out an unknown, impossible, never-ending task. Frequently, he found himself standing by the outer edge of the rooftop, though he never understood why or how he’d come. Unable to sleep at night, he paced back and forth within the constraints of his cell, occasionally brushing his auburn bangs out of his eyes in vexation, but his attempts to put his thoughts back in order were futile. Exasperated, grief-stricken, and incredibly weary, he eventually collapsed in a heap. He jolted awake on the cold, rigid floor the following day and surveyed his surroundings, as if seeing them for the first time. His unfocused gaze landed on an unfamiliar, metallic object. His watch threatened him with his unpunctuality, but he ignored it. He picked up the item and examined it thoroughly, holding it up to the dim, lone light bulb—which casted more shadows than it did light—before gradually recognizing it. Driven by a rush of resentment and pain, he abruptly hurled it away. It hit the wall and fell lifelessly to the ground where his eyes fixed a sullen stare at it. It was the bit of magnesium he’d taken from the disposal room. It had been left unfinished and forgotten since the final month of the previous year; he’d been in the middle of whittling and engraving it with a folding pocket knife swiped from the kitchen into a rough, uneven outline resembling a bird feather. He’d meant it as a token of encouragement—a keepsake she could carry. He fell backwards on his shabby cot. Oblivious, or rather indifferent to the relentless tugging of time, he sank into a restless sleep, slipping in and out of unconsciousness. He lost track of how much time passed, yet the day that bird had left them behind and that day he’d obtained that forsaken metal scrap came back to him. Suddenly, his eyes opened, igniting anew,

and he gave a start. He moved to retrieve what he’d cast aside, and spent a prolonged moment deliberating, weaving together an idea. His mouth slowly lifted in a helpless, sorry smile and he set about searching for the pocket knife. Upon finding it tucked away beneath his cot, he flipped the blade out, gripped the handle firmly, and resolved to begin by chipping away at his treasure until nothing but twinkling bits of silver stardust remained. Cotton gauze, fine as gossamer. White powders. Red match heads. Celestial cinders. It had taken 008 three weeks to collect everything, and about seven weeks of trial and error in secret until every attempt fertilized the finale to flourish and blossom. Now all he had to do was wait. The day exactly a year from 000’s erasure came with the escalating onslaught of assessments. It was late in the evening when 006, finally satisfied with his scores, wearily looked up from his station. Though he was dead tired, his mind managed to register 008, lying on the surface of his station, eyes closed, his breathing soft and rhythmic. 006 glanced at his watch, wincing at the time before standing and walking over to gently rouse him awake. He was puzzled as to why 008 had stayed to wait for him, and even more so when he was keen on heading up to the rooftop. Apprehensive, but too tired to protest, 006 gave in. They left room 321 behind, heading down the long, dismal hallway, keeping their distance from the disposal room, going by the wayside closest to the courtyard, working their way past the warden’s office, and up flight after flight of stairs before pushing the door to the top open. The brisk, outside air revived his senses; a passing breeze brushed lightly against his cheek. The rooftop overlooked the courtyard, where a solitary lamppost casted its cold, eerie glow, quietly monitoring their presence. Catching sight of a flare of unwavering intensity in 008’s eyes, he waited, patiently. Despite the dark, 008 located a flue pipe by the edge, pulled

“How to free myself, and this tremendous world within me, without tearing myself to pieces.” —Franz Kafka

scintilla off the rain cap, and balanced something slim and white in it. He turned, held out a box to him, and smiled regretfully when 006 stepped back. Then without any hesitation, he slid it open, withdrew a single match, struck it against the box, and lit the fuse. No words were needed. 008 discerned his restraint, the weight that overwhelmed him, and 006 in turn recognized his resolve, his unceasing search for something, something more. And as this mute, mutual understanding passed between them, the chrysalis rose up into the sky, leaving a frail trail of glimmering butterflies: dancing hues of reds and yellows, like the lasting remains of dusk with the sun no more; and oranges and pinks from the stirring sky of a distant dawn, free from the smolder of festering, forgotten dreams. Their faces tilted toward the sky, entranced, breathless: 008’s irises, olive-green and flecked with amber; and 006’s eyes, cerulean like an unclouded spring day. The light— achingly dwindling, falling, plummeting into nothingness. But before they released their long-held breath, the slumbering remnants burned whitehot, ethereal ash bursting forth into a shower of sparks, resuscitated as stars, awakened and evanescent in a nebula blanketing the empty abyss that was the sky. Visibly trembling at the end of it all, 006’s wide eyes turned away from the now lightless void. “W-what was…” His voice, overflowing with emotion, raw and uncontained, failed him. “That,” spoke up 008 softly, “was our testament, and a farewell of sorts.” He gazed down at the dark, deformed silhouette of fencing below them. “I needed to see, to prove to myself that I could make it. That we’re here, still here, even after.” His eyes met 006’s and lit up further than ever before, for the first and final time. “I’ll show you!” he insisted. “It must’ve ended up somewhere in the yard. Wait here—I’ll get it

back for us,” he added, noting his friend’s weak exhaustion. 006 nodded, watching him leave before him. Suddenly, a thought struck him like a whip. “Eight! Remember—don’t be seen with…” His cry died on his tongue. 008 had already gone on ahead of him. He crept cautiously to the edge of the rooftop, as far as he dared to go, peering anxiously into the courtyard. His chest slowly lightened in relief upon seeing 008 safely appear and salvage his rocket, still intact and pale as the milky petals of lycoris spider lilies. Then his heart froze. Standing in the icy pool of lonely white, the boy turned once a shadow stepped into the light. Afraid to witness any more, 006 stumbled unsteadily backwards, yet was still unable to bring himself to shut out the harsh sounds of the shadow’s looming orders: number now, hand over, too late. Below, the boy began, but the wind picked up, drowning out his words, until finally dissolving down into a nearly dead silence. Then the warden’s voice, razor-sharp, dealt the final blow. Willful disobedience. Insubordination. Defiance of authority. Breach of prison protocol. Explosive. Unit 008-36435. Sentenced to termination. So long—that was it. That was all 006 could risk himself to remember from eight in the morning, forced to face execution the following day. That, and the green iridescence of a fly, suppressed by a silencer; the light in his eyes extinguished—blown out with a bullet. White stained with red.

The light—achingly dwindling, falling, plummeting into nothingness.

Divided. Conquered. The prison drove him mad. And the outside world was no different. After twenty-one long, short-lived years, he was granted leave at last. But the kaleidoscope of colors he’d imagined waiting behind that warped wire wasn’t there. It never had been. Still fighting down fatigue and recurring dreams, but scared to death of being eliminated

from the place he’d won, he surrendered himself to the same system yet again. Still he couldn’t sleep. Still time ticked on. Still it wasn’t enough. Still—still standing still breathing: still. Before he was even aware of it, his own body was wracked with violent, coughing spasms. Tasting metal in his mouth, he’d draw his hand away from his face and stare hollowly at the red, red, red marks that sullied his palm. Something that had a limit, that stopped working, broke— had no place saved for it in this world. Tossed out. Kill switch hit. Thrown away. Left for dead. He pressed on still. Pushing on like a dung beetle condemned to continue for all eternity. Because if he didn’t work, if he couldn’t work, he’d end the same way: crushed and discarded. Or so he thought. He was cut from his role nine years after his release from the factory where he’d been manufactured—replaced and disposed of. Sent to the scrap heap anyway. His performance marked as meager. Efforts deemed as dead weight. After all, why refurbish the obsolete when another—newer, smarter, faster, and better-built—can easily, so very easily take his place? Now, lying on the bed of a different cell, only somewhat less smothering, his body crippled from blight, overuse, and abuse, he only waited and laughed bitterly, brokenly at himself. “Didn’t deserve, any of it. What—” he heaved out between ragged coughs, his face contorted with effort and pain, “what a waste.” He rested his sight on the small sun above. The soft incandescence started flickering, pulsating like a heartbeat. The pulse of something so warm and wounded and surely, undeniably alive, quivering in his bare hands. The pounding in his chest as he’d gazed up at a star, exploding and outshining all at the end of its lifespan. His loss, his crushing anguish—everything he’d long detached and deprived himself of came flooding back. His field of vision blurred and dimmed. Warmer, brighter, banished bulbs

with more work overtime truly burned out soonest. The light ebbed away, little by little, and died with a shuddering sigh. Spent. * * * A swallow with a white underbelly, an azure sheen on both head and back, and ash-brown wings followed the train tracks. At a crossroad, disconcerted and distraught, he lost his bearings and circled above. Over and over again, unwilling, and even more, unable, to bring himself out of the cycle that strangled like a noose. At that moment, a wisp of a soothing song, haunting and incredibly gentle, reached out to him, guiding his way around an intimidating structure as he avoided the line of lethal wire by instinct. The swallow dipped down to land on the barren carpet of a courtyard. The call came from a mourning dove, perched precariously on top of the fence, painstakingly keeping her feathers free from harm. She cooed in peaceful greeting, and the two lifted into the air toward the roof. There, a berylline hummingbird flitted to and fro as he restlessly scoured his desolate surroundings for flowers. The swallow and the dove alighted on the edge of the rooftop, and the hummingbird paused in place, hovering in thoughtful earnestness before darting forward without fail to join them. Then the three, reunited at long last, took off into the sky. The clutches of their aviary and the chains of the railway fell away behind them. Snow began drifting to the ground below them in flurries of powdered sugar. The swallow found and settled into his place beside the dove and the hummingbird. Here, his place was right here, and had been waiting all along, all this time faithfully his, freely meant for him and for always. They flew alongside one another, heading for a land just beyond the horizon that promised the featherlight kiss of forgiveness and the embracing comfort of a lullaby, where even the unworthy were warmly welcomed: a place to call their own.

“You live in the moment, you die in the moment, you take it all one day at a time.” —Marie Lu

scintilla

Star

by grace huang

School felt wrong without Anemone present—Annie, as she was better known. Her absence affected all of them deeply. It just didn’t seem right, the others claimed. Steorra swallowed down the feelings threatening to erupt out of her heart and agreed reluctantly. “Think she’s liking Oklahoma?” Louis asked one day. “Dude, there’s literally only cornfields and tornadoes out there. I really don’t think she would enjoy that,” Catriona answered cynically, flipping through her physics notes. “You never know. I mean, she was always the scenic type,” Steorra commented. Louis only let out a vaguely acknowledging grunt and returned his attention to his phone. Steorra glanced back at the romance novel she had been reading and found she couldn’t stand it anymore.

“I don’t blame her.” “I do. Who holds a grudge that long?” “It’s not a grudge, Louis,” she ground out from behind her gritted teeth. “It might as well be. You told her, what, four years ago? And she’s the one who agreed.” Steorra swallowed back the painful memories. “Louis, stop.” “Look, Star—” “If Annie doesn’t want me to go, I’m not going to go,” she snapped, annoyance digging into her. “And don’t call me ‘Star’ anymore.” He of all people should have known why. “Okay, I’m sorry.” He sounded like he was talking back to his dad, but she could tell he didn’t mean it from the way he let the argument drop and helped her finish her ice cream. If Catriona noticed their unsettling silence when she returned, she didn’t say anything.

* * * “She said she doesn’t want me to visit.” Louis glanced over his shoulder, ensuring that Catriona was on her way to get them napkins and spoons, before rolling his eyes. “That’s dumb.”

* * * Steorra set down of her basket of supplies on the conveyor belt and stared the registrar dead in the eyes. “Wow. I wasn’t expecting to see you here!” she exclaimed sarcastically.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s good to see you too.” Louis rolled his eyes as he picked things out of her basket, mechanically scanning them. “I hope you know that your office supplies are overpriced. The only reason I came here was so I could see my good friend, Louis.” “I’m honored.” Despite the deadpan voice, she could see the slightest smile on his lips. He held up a pack of binder clips. “These are buy one, get one free. Want to get another pack?” “I’ll get one on my way out.” “Will do.” He dropped the pack into a plastic bag, already half-packed with the other things she’d bought. “How’s… Annie?” “She’s good, I think. We’ve been talking a bit. She said she got a full scholarship to law school.” She felt an immense wave of gratitude for Louis’s once-lost tact having finally popped back into existence. “Mm. Good for her.” Louis scanned her pack of pens and pushed it into the plastic bag. “How’s packing coming along?” “Okay, I guess. It’s tiring, though.” “I’d imagine. Thirteen forty-four.” She stuck her credit card into the machine and waited. “When’re you leaving?” “August fourth. Next Wednesday.” “Taking the train?” “Mhm. From Trest Station.” The machine beeped, and she removed her credit card. He handed her a plastic bag filled with the items she’d bought and a receipt. “I’ll see you there then, Star. Don’t forget your pack of binder clips.” He’d forgotten he wasn’t supposed to call her Star anymore. Some traitorous part of her heart didn’t mind.

shoving her bags into the overhead compartment and took a seat by the window as she answered the call. “Hey.” “Hey, you,” Louis answered. “You said you were going to be here and see me off.” She glanced out the window. Catriona was sitting at one of the benches at the train platform and waved once she saw Steorra. Steorra waved back. “Someone called in sick, so I had to take their shift. I got off literally a minute ago.” “Ah.” Neither of them spoke. Steorra spotted Victoria, the student council president, pushing through the crowd in an attempt to find a seat at the benches. “I waited for you,” she finally said. “I’m sure you did.” His oddly sincere response, which she usually would have laughed at, elicited a sense of sorrow in the back of her throat. Silence again. Victoria had taken a seat beside Catriona and was now also waving to Steorra. She waved back before turning away from the window, staring blankly at the seat in front of her. “I’ll miss you,” she managed to say, because she hoped he would miss her and forgive her for everything. “I know, Star,” Louis said with a sigh, because she was certain he would and he did. “I know.” Steorra listened to the gentle static of the phone every time he took a breath, let it hum in her ears until he told her he needed to go and there was nothing left. Her phone fell into her lap and her gaze turned to stare out the window. With a lurch, the train sped away. She closed her eyes and left.

She waved back before turning away from the window, staring blankly at the seat in front of her.

* * * Steorra’s phone began to buzz. She finished

“Remember that the most valuable antiques are dear old friends.” —H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

growing old

scintilla

by melissa chen

It was a summer evening. The garden was quiet under a spell of shade and shadow cast by the trees. A cool, sweet breeze streamed through, carrying the light scent of fragrant June roses and a canopy of night-blooming flowers. The gate was open, and whoever entered just then did not greatly disturb the peaceful enchantment. The little wind slipped and died. Ms. Stephanie tread the path softly. There was a slab of stone a little way off the trail, and she ventured there, and settled near it. The stillness settled around her like the folds of the long gauzy gowns she used to wear at parties. The second trespasser was not so well welcomed. The gate creaked at John. He paused to tug his coat, which had caught on the post. His stiff step was not so easy or quiet, and stirred a little dust where there had been none before. He coughed, and the silence was split; the slumber interrupted. “You still miss him,” John said. Ms. Stephanie was tracing the inscription on the gravestone. John saw the glittering on her finger distinctly on her right hand. “It hasn’t been long since his passing.” “Five years is a long time to grieve.” She raised her head. Her hair was snowy and

silvered in the moonlight that glinted off her glasses. “Funny you should say that. Both of us are so aged it’s amazing we recognize each other. Five years is nothing.” He shifted on his feet, and took in deep breaths of lilies, jasmines, sleepy roses. “It’s so gloomy and lonely here,” she said. “They’ll be sure to start the dancing soon. Why aren’t you down at the celebrations? Why don’t you go towards the warmth and light?” “I wanted to speak to you,” he said. He wished some wind would rise, to cool the sweat gathering under his collar. There seemed to be an air of expectation gathering around her, like that before a hot and rushing summer storm. He would like to stay to feel the relief of rainfall, or to hear the wild thunder break out and chill him, but he could not breathe in the stifling atmosphere now. “You’re right,” he said. “I think I’ll go back.” “I better come with you.” As they left the garden, something dropped from the old man’s fingers, and tumbled into the tall grasses. It was a plain ring, with a single embedded, twinkling jewel. The garden withered a little.

one minute and if we were to condense the four point five four three billion years of earth’s history into twenty four hours, humans would only have one minute and seventeen seconds of existence two million years ago you woke and struggled against me perhaps I should have been more lenient but the unrelentless challenge of life had shaped you and I watched you become the irrepressible scythe of the world ten thousand years ago you turned the sickle on me and tore down my green hills for your fields of gold maybe you were merely exploring yet with each tilling I wondered why your evolution cut deep into me seven thousand years ago you began mining and smelting and carving away gouges of rock from me it’s possible that you wanted some of my gifts yourself and I suppose I have enough to share although I suffer torment through each excavation five thousand years ago you rose, creating empires and I watched you quarreling over my gifts it may be that your bickerings were just those of a child however, even when your arguments stained meadows red I could not mediate your spats two thousand years ago you built a theater celebrating death and cheered as people spilled their blood on me for all I know, your pleasure stems from aggression still, as the thousands rallied for brawls I could not comprehend your brutality

“Part of the journey is the end.” —Anthony Edward Stark

scintilla

seventeen seconds by flora huang

one thousand years ago you started clearing and cultivating claiming my destruction was your progress maybe you just needed more room nevertheless, each forest you torched burned me and I was powerless against you five hundred years ago you plagued unexplored lands and chained innocents to lives of servitude itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s possible that your pillaging was to build kingdoms although your restlessness tread over the offerings I once provided two hundred years ago you designed machines to take advantage of me and stripped my forests for fuel maybe this is the price of innovation however, polluted rivers of waste run like the tears I shed at my casual destruction one hundred years ago you murdered your brothers and named it the cost of war it may have been destructive even so, you chose to enter another to destroy others as I carried the toll of your feud today you will wake and struggle against your life perhaps I should be less forgiving, learning from the last minute and seventeen seconds although I know that you will rise to the challenge and I will pay the price

You are nothing. by lillian fu

You are nothing. It’s third grade when you first realize this. You’re playing freeze tag with your friends on the field and you trip, mud smearing all over your face. Your friends laugh at you, call you clumsy and slow and ew, get away from me, that’s gross! You laugh too, as hot shame riptides over you. You look up at their smiles open on glee and leering over you and you’re gross so gross sitting in filth, it’s no wonder they’re laughing at you. You’re the weird one, for not understanding what’s so funny, though you laugh like they do, mud dripping onto your tongue. You are nothing. Those same friends leave you when you get to middle school, leave you for better, less gross friends who get what’s so funny, and their laughs ring free with no bile burning up their throats. You pass by them in the hallways, and they don’t even look at you. Of course, why would they? You’re disgusting, after all. You’re nothing, after all. You find new friends, friends who reach out to help you up when you trip, and ask if you’re okay as they brush the dirt off your clothes. You are in wonder, and sometimes when you are with them, you find yourself laughing without the action being a conscious choice. But you’ve learned your lesson. It’s only a matter of time until they see through you, and realize how disgusting you are. Then, they’ll leave you. After all, you’re nothing, and no one is able to love nothing. You go to a different high school from them. They cry at graduation for you, gathered around you and saying how much they’ll miss you, but

it only takes a few months for the group chats to start gathering dust. They say they’re too busy, but you know the truth. They’re sick of you. They’ve finally realized how horrible you are, and are just too nice to tell you to your face. You are a leech thirsting for their love. They’re glad to be rid of you. You don’t blame them; most of the time, you wish you were rid of yourself too. You are nothing. No one in your new school likes you. No one in your classes talks to you unless they need something. The teacher probably doesn’t even know your name. You drift between groups at lunch, and they leave seats open for you, but you know that you’re intruding. You know they don’t like you either, and as they get to know you more they’ll just hate you more too. So during lunch, you hover around for a while before finding some cold, damp corner to sit in, alone and away from their sight so they don’t see you looking so pathetic. At least that way, they’ll forget about you instead of hating you. And when they come up to you and drag you over to sit with them, well, that’s just their pity speaking. You are nothing. The people around you all look so happy, so in love as they hold hands and kiss the sunshine off each other’s faces. You long for that. Long to wake up next to someone, morning husking their voice as they greet you with the sun in their eyes, you in their eyes. But that will never happen. Each fantasy, each daydream only serves as a reminder to you. You are stupid, so so so stupid to even think about it. It’s impossible for someone to love you. You enter college, and the impossible hap-

“We accept the love we think we deserve.” —Stephen Chbosky

scintilla pens. You meet someone, someone kind and caring and funny and everything you are not, everything you wished you were and you fall in love. You know better than to hope, but then they’re fidgeting before you, blushing and looking down and they tell you they love you. You don’t believe them. Of course you don’t, because it’s ridiculous that someone so golden and glowing would taint themselves by loving you. But you do hope. You float through a few years high on bliss before they leave you too. Something about how they can’t stand it anymore, can’t do this anymore if you can’t even believe them when they say that they love you, and I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, choking on tears they say I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorryYou should be the one apologizing. After all, it’s because you’re such a horrible person that the one you love most in the world is crying in front of you right now. It’s your fault. It’s your fault you’re so disgusting that even the purest soul can’t stand being around you, it’s your fault you filthy piece of trash, you scum lower than anything you should do the world a favor by taking yourself out of it so that no one will be tainted by you ever again you are nothing you are nothing you are nothing you are nothing You are nothing. You open the door to a cold, empty apartment. You take your shoes off, trudge into the living room to dump your bag onto the couch, thinking about the last beer in your fridge and how good it’ll feel sliding down your throat. It’s only as you’re slinging your bag off your shoulder that you realize that there is no couch. You freeze. You turn around in your small apartment and realize that it isn’t only the couch that’s missing, your secondhand TV is gone too, along with your crickety bookshelf

and the coffee table the old Chinese lady next door gave you and your entire kitchen and what the hell is going on? You look down and the bag that dangled from your fingers just moments ago is gone as well. You scream. You try to take a step back but there’s no floor under your feet, and then you’re falling and your butt thuds against hard wood. You look down and realize it’s not that there’s no floor under your feet, but that you don’t have feet. You don’t even have time to wonder if this is a dream, a nightmare, before that nothing wraps its hands up your ankles, up your calves, stretching to your kneecaps and you scream and scream and scream, kicking your legs and shaking your head so that your hair obscures half your vision. The nothingness crawls up your thighs, eating your hips and your waist, licking your elbows into its mouth. You curl up, cover your face with your hands, and sob. Soon enough, those hands covering your face evaporate, and you are just a head floating in the air over a puddle of salt water. And then the nothing devours your sobbing mouth and your crying eyes and when the last strand of hair is gone it laps up your tears on the floor as well, and You are nothing.

Prey

by sahana ilenchezhian

Under the haunting, pale glow of a rust-worn streetlight, he stood. Amidst thousands of dark, entwined shadows, his eyes gleamed a ravenous yellow. Sensing fear, he twisted his lips upwards in a menacing grin, revealing sharp, wolf-like incisors. He was looking through my window -- haunting, watching, waiting. My hands trembled as I drew the curtains shut. Yet the flimsy cloth offered little protection from his predatory gaze. He visited every night. I don’t sleep anymore. Between clutching knives in shaking hands, jumping at shadows of passing cars, and peeking through curtains, sleep was a luxury I could no longer afford. Sometime between the passing minutes of ominous dark and the scarlet hours of the coming dawn, he would disappear. As my throbbing heartbeat settled, I’d begin the morning routine of brushing, bathing, and running to catch the 7 a.m bus to be on time for my morning classes at the local state university. Every few minutes, my eyes would wander to the streetlight -- checking, fearing, hoping, he was not there.

“Fear does not stop death, it stops life.” —Vi Keeland

In the soft orange blush of the morning, the streetlight looked warm, inviting, tarnished, and abandoned. No one would guess someone defiled its unnoteworthy presence by night, transforming an everyday object to an embodiment of my nightmares. Walking to the bus stop was torture. Walking inside the university was torture. Walking to

scintilla the local grocery was torture. Hell, leaving the confines of my one bedroom flat was torture. A gut-wrenching sensation makes me look over my shoulder constantly. From the grocery store clerk to the librarian, every person is met with the suspicion that they might be the demon haunting the streetlight. The endless paranoia makes me want to lock up my doors and stay inside a prison of my own making, safe till dusk. * * * They say stalkers feed off fear. And I am always afraid. Annoyingly, so. I wish I wasn’t. I wish the mere sight of him didn’t set my body shivering in fear. I wish I could muster up the courage to walk up to him and scream, “LEAVE!” But, I can’t because I am, as aforementioned, afraid. Afraid that he will shoot a bullet into my window. Afraid that if I approach him he would stab me or worse. Afraid that one day when I enter my apartment, that once screamed freedom, I would meet his twisted smile. Afraid that I’m too hopelessly afraid to do anything.

Afraid to help strangers? Afraid to return late from classes? Afraid to go to school? Afraid to work? Afraid to be pretty? Afraid to dress up? Afraid to smile? Afraid to live? I already am. But a question restlessly flits at the edge of my paranoid mind during the darkest hours of night: What comes after fear? * * * She opened the windows that had been nailed shut for almost eternity. For the first time in forever, she saw the moon: white, full, and magnificent. Under its silver hue, hidden in the shadows of a broken streetlight, stood a man. His lips twisted upwards at the sight of her deranged appearance. What a lovely sight! The young woman pointed at the man and signaled at a crumpled piece of paper barely visible under the streetlight. As the man unfurled the paper and read its contents, his smile disappeared, and his face turned to ash. He turned to the girl he had observed for months. She smiled.

Under the soft warm glow that seeped in through her open window, she slowly transformed from a broken bird to scarred warrior.

When I was younger, I disliked thriller and horror movies for one reason: their victimization of women. While I thoroughly enjoyed watching down-on-their-luck cops chase serial killers and unlikely heroes uncover the horrific past of abandoned mansions, I hated how there was always at least one girl who was brutally raped, murdered, stalked, molested, abused, buried alive -- the list never ends. While these movies mimic the reality of women in most societies, what did they tell me? What do those popular, beautifully filmed and scripted movies, tell young girls everywhere? That they should be afraid? Afraid to walk in the streets?

* * * Under the soft warm glow that seeped in through her open window, she slowly transformed from a broken bird to scarred warrior. Yet ever so often, she’d look behind her back, a familiar terrifying feeling haunting her wake. The rust-worn streetlight came to embody the smallest of victories in an endless battle against fear. * * * Sometimes the simple promise of an uprising is enough. Sometimes, it is not. But, fear is not the answer.

a l b k l c a by coby chuang

Upon entering the metal dome, Jason was blasted with pure cacophony. A mob of rowdy men and women, shouting, jeering, nearing triple-digits, were situated around a polished wooden court, eyes glued upon something. “Oops… ...Sorry…” He made his way to the front, squeezing through the jumble of heated bodies. Every once in a while, the volume of the cheering would climax, and liquor and popcorn would flare up into the air. What in the world were they watching? At last, Jason made it to the front of the crowd. In the center of the dome, a dozen brutes, sweating and panting, scrambled after a melon-sized ball. He observed them— each one was tall, bear-like, and wore either dirty orange or dark red. It seemed there were two teams, but Jason couldn’t figure out anything else. He looked backward for a moment. Rows of chairs had been laid out for the audience, though none of them were being used. A giant screen hung from the ceiling above the court, displaying a close-up view of what everyone found so riveting.

“Jason.” “Come again? I can’t hear ya.” The clamor inside the dome echoed throughout. Jason struggled to raise his voice. “IT’S JASON,” he repeated. Another kernel launched itself— this time at the man, who swatted it away without looking. “Jason, my man, this here is the ring, where everyone comes to watch some good ol’ Smackball.” Jason’s face crinkled with confusion, so the man continued to elaborate. “It’s simple. Those dudes over there fight for the ball. There’s teams. The team who gets the ball in the goal the most times wins.”

* * * “Hey you! You don’t seem to be from ‘round here.” A man with a light beard and a large belly called from behind. He wore an orange t-shirt— matching the color of the orange jerseys some of the players wore— and on it was an image of an axe warrior and some rather obnoxious text reading: “the Gladiators.” Jason shook his head. “Oh, I actually live a couple train stations down. It’s my first time being somewhere like this.” He flinched as a popcorn kernel hit his cheek. The man guffawed. “What’s your name?”

* * * “Oh maaaaan! That number 10, he’s a legend.” “Number 10?” Jason asked amongst the shouting. “Yeah, number 10.” Jason found it odd that the players were called by a number rather than their actual name. Something about it just didn’t feel right. His train of thought, however, was interrupted when a douse of champagne soiled his coat. He grimaced.

* * * Jason turned around. He couldn’t see anything but a chaotic heap of men. Then suddenly, one of the players in orange leaped out of the mass and hurled the ball into a bucket on one end of the court. The audience broke into a crazed uproar, becoming even louder than before. Jason’s new friend joined the uproar.

“The sight of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more” —Lord Byron

scintilla * * * Some moments later, one of the red team’s men flew backwards and crashed into the front row of observers. Screams permeated the air, followed by boos and a hailstorm of half-eaten food falling upon the dazed young athlete. * * * “Boo, number 23!” Fans heckled from the sidelines— fans who had no athletic experience themselves. “He doesn’t belong in there! He should have been traded away long ago!” “Trade?” Jason was unfamiliar with the term. “Yeah man, if a team ain’t satisfied with a player, they get rid of him. Give ‘em to another team. And if no other team wants him—” he dodged a stray napkin— “well, let’s just say he’s gonna have a hard time making a living.” “Isn’t that… unfair?” “Not really. They’re Smackball players. Meant to entertain. And if you ain’t good at what you’re meant to do… then that’s too bad.” * * * Jason sat in silence for a while, doing his best to ignore the utter racket that surrounded him. He wondered if the men on the court enjoyed playing Smackball. Meanwhile, number 23 was being escorted out of the dome, limping like a wounded dog.

ange-jerseyed player took a swing in return— then finally, members of both teams began piling atop one another midcourt. Everyone cheered, shouted, egged the fight on. Deep roars. Sharp howls. Jason covered his ears. The noise grew more and more overwhelming, more and more outlandish, until finally it transformed into a single, hellish chant. Jason pushed and pushed, but to no avail. The entire stadium was immersed to a point that their surroundings no longer mattered. “Excuse me…” he muttered. “Coming through…” “Hello…” By the time the chanting died down, the game was over. On the court lay an amorphous blob of red-orange and bruised skin. Promptly, audience members began to disperse, making a beeline straight toward the dome’s exit. All was quiet. Meanwhile, Jason sat back down, stupefied. As the last members of the crowd filed out, he tried to put a finger on the monstrosity he had just experienced. Instead, he found himself at a complete loss of thought. He could only process one thing— that he would never set foot in here again.

* * * “Oh, duuuuuude!” Jason’s friend exclaimed. It seemed the orange team had scored once again. “Did ya see that? That was insaaaane!” “Uh, yeah… I gotta go to the bathroom,” Jason announced, though nobody heard him. It was a zoo in there. * * * As he forced himself through the congested mob, a brawl started between the two teams. Tempers flared— a red-jerseyed player socked one of the orange-jerseyed players— the or-

The Anatomy of a Servant by pranav mishra

I. anabolism (n.): the synthesis of complex molecules from simpler ones together with the build-up of energy. cut-chop soak-shake broom-brush mop-rake flush-wash fold-fry salt-sweep dust-dry; be careful, dalit, with your words, with your posture, with your touch — you, who rolls the dough, supervises the fire at the woodstove, you, who sniffs, snorts like a camel everyday as you draw water from the courtyard, you, who agitates my slumber with the glitter of anklets as you clean, you, who watches over me as i struggle to eat with childish fingers, watches the achaar drip down my chin, mango pulp like sinews clinging to my lips; i wish you could just let me eat alone. years pass, faces shrivels: marred, sagging flesh, a mother’s eyes that cannot meet mine. my unchecked tongue cannot help but wonder at the scars at the soles of your feet, scars i cannot touch on skin i cannot touch for its searing impurity; i know i should not be asking why, but your shoulders stir tar-slow and you answer me anyway. II. catabolism (n.): the breakdown of complex molecules to form simpler ones, together with the release of energy. this scar is from your father when you were born. his words spill out of it, hot and sticky like the blood you were soaked in when you were thrust from your mother’s womb, as unsettled watchers murmured. the man banged his fist on the table with resentment, your mother moaned like an orphaned calf, chhori hai, chhori hai. it’s a girl.

“Man is an intelligence in servitude to his organs” —Aldous Huxley

scintilla this bruise is from when you were fourteen, and your papa showed you an engagement ring. you sobbed, begged, your throat raw and bleeding like a housefly crushed under a foot; your dreams of becoming a doctor simmering with the arguments, but he just laughed. you ran, ran as far as you could, tripped over god-knows-what, watched as bruises flowered like poppies on your knee. this mark is from your husband the week before he was killed, you can still feel the heat of his palms draw away from your thighs, slick with blood, a pearl-like stone in your mouth so that you do not scream, so beautiful that it is unworthy of your touch. this wound is from when you came to work here, when your unholy dalit skin unknowingly touched the silky brahmin pelt of my sister and mataji’s face ruby with fury, jewels of anaar in her cheeks, be careful with your words, dalit, she said as she brought down the beating stick, the pain like a cold bath in the allahabadi winter, and all you ever wanted to do was heal — III.

detritus (n.): organic matter produced by the decomposition of organisms.

and now you clutch the letter pressed tight into your palms, declaring you to be a medical student, an escape, an escape — i study the cosmos of wrinkles, the constellations of stars on your face; hear the whisper of knowledge diffusing in and out of your veins, the humanity pressed and folded between your brittle shoulders. i feel my fingers shiver, then burn as i put them on your shoulder consolingly, an illegal moment of intimacy. be careful, dalit, be careful.

Luminosity by lauren ho

He awoke with his eyes closed and the world dark, as if he were acutely aware that his conscience was not ready to be exposed to the luminosity of reality. He laid still on his lumpy cushion of a bed for some time, feeling as if he were accompanied by another’s presence. It was only within the past year that he began to feel this dark presence of another upon waking up, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on who or what it was. He didn’t too much mind the presence, or, rather, the suffocation the presence inflicted upon him; at times, it was easier to suffocate than to speak. Fingers pressed against his temple and his legs felt buoyant, as if he were floating in the Red Sea. His mouth was swallowing the sea and the celestial brightness of the moon merely illuminated his dead body. The tides caused his chest to rise and fall gently. However, his eyes opened a second later and his head jerked sharply to the right because of the unbearable noise reverberating around the room: he had left the television on. Election Results in America! Election Results in America! Election Results in America! Election Results in America! Election Results in America! Election Results in America! Election Results

in America! Coincidentally, the channel was turned to the morning segment of MSNBC; the soundbites spouting from the device included political jargon, such as “grass roots,” “muckraker,” and “silent majority.” All of this jargon successfully deadened the noises of garbage trucks filtering into his apartment from all the windows upstairs. He had neither windows in his apartment nor, to a greater extent, any openings to see the world above—a world he felt compelled to know with a constellation he yearned to memorize. It did not matter the time of day in which he awoke, his apartment was constantly bathed in darkness and claustrophobia, masking any sense of time. The light his bedside alarm clock emitted barely made the gold font on the spine of his bible legible. Furthermore, he had begun to accept that time served no purpose, he would never have a sense of its indefinite progress—he loathed its intangibility. To prevent the constant atmosphere of tenebrous, he settled for a noisy solution: he left his television on at all times of the day. Election Results in America! The light from the words being reflected off the dark walls illuminated the room; the dancing colors of red, green, and

He had neither windows in his apartment nor, to a greater extent, any openings to see the world above—a world he felt compelled to know with a constellation he yearned to memorize.

“When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don’t seem to matter very much, do they?” —Virginia Woolf

scintilla blue also prevented him from squinting around the apartment. He stepped forward abruptly to change the brightness of the screen; the room was still much too dark for his liking and he did not wish to endure the repercussions of low light. As soon as he adjusted the brightness of the television, he settled back down in his seat, pleased with his self-sufficiency and intelligence. The images being displayed on the screen pleased him even more: a politician was walking across a stage for the whole world to see with an apparent smirk on her face. Yet, he found his situation odd—watching a monumental accomplishment in the moment, yearning to relive the moment til the end of time, and wanting to enact measures to save the moment from becoming the past—longing for a past that wouldn’t even belong to him. He mentally chastised himself for having such foolish thoughts about preserving the indefinite and intangible. However, after some time, he realized all were in the same predicament as himself, even the politician walking across the stage: no man is ever rich enough to buy back his past. He certainly wasn’t rich enough to buy back his past, let alone another woman’s. He sighed and repositioned himself, keeping his eyes fixated on the TV throughout the whole ordeal; his glossy eyes reflected the red, green, and blue on the screen. Unlike the neighbors above him, he had neither access to cable television nor WiFi due to the fact that he inhabited the basement apartment of a twenty story walk up in D.C. Even if the channels were a gamble most days, he preferred the electric tension in the room far more than the stagnancy if the room were to be naturally lit. The static glow from the television reflected bright, contrasting colors on his stained cotton shirt. Abandoning the mental chastisement he had given himself moments before, he desperately reached around for the remote—to prevent the moment from becoming the past—but without ownership of proper programming, there was no way he could pause the present from manifesting on the screen. So, just as he

did every morning, he left the television on, all the while preparing himself for work. After putting on his uniform, he paused momentarily to watch the screen. The channel had switched to BBC News, and the screen displayed flashing images of jubilant senate members signing a bill about patients with pre-consisting medical conditions. He already knew the contents of the bill and who it would affect. In the dark corner of the room he stood alone—addicted. He shut the door to his apartment after watching the television for a few more minutes; it was his last ditch attempt to mentally preserve the moments manifesting on the screen. Once he had gathered enough strength to depart from the TV, he proceeded to ascend the long staircase up to the sidewalk. Out of breath, and only on the second flight of stairs, he looked up at the small window revealing the sea of stars. When he reached the pavement, he remembered that there was no more light above the ground than there was below it: tall buildings shielded any light from ever shining through. Instead, the fiery orbs in the sky merely cast shadows onto the neighborhood below; silhouettes did not dance, faces were detached from the glow of the human spirit, and spilled blood would never be seen. Click. The light from his phone illuminated his face, blinding his eyes as he opened NPR’s morning podcast to whet his appetite—he had completely forgotten to eat breakfast. When he returned back to his apartment for dinner, he felt as if an eternity had passed without eating. It had been an exhilarating trip back to the dark alleyway of his apartment building after work, and while it prolonged his hunger, each pounding step he took seemed to shock electric waves into his body. There was a palpable tension in the air. The kind of tension that was electric and made the news article he was reading on his phone glow a little bit brighter. He walked a little slower to preserve the content of the article—it was about irradiation. Finally, once he had reached and entered his apartment, he sat down on the couch, not before turning the television on to relax. The television screen

featured the MSNBC night segment with the network’s most prominent host anchors speaking loudly about a new story, one of adultery and fraud: a member of the house of representatives had cheated on his wife with the Mayor of Philadelphia at the Governor’s Ball. He claimed he had a clouded memory of that dark evening, and, as he put it, “Heavily sedated with no perception of day or night. A few too many drinks caused a bout of maudlin in my temperament, but my sedated state is no justification that I would ever cheat on my wife. My behavior is not testament to the adoration and respect I have for my wife and all women. I could open one eye and proclaim, ‘I would never play politics with my wife’s well being!’” He sighed as his eyes fixated on the television. He wondered if politicians would ever understand that history repeats itself. Yet, there was a story as old as history itself unfolding right in front of him. This man, this House of Representatives member, was in the same predicament as many. This man could not resist the temptations he once knew. Perhaps, and just perhaps, he yearned for the wistful taste of seduction and “romance” transpiring in the outside world—the world he had chosen to leave—light years away. However, this taste could be easily subsidized for a man of inherited prominence such as himself. This subsidization manifested itself as wine, or, more so, the taste luxuriously procured wine could produce. Of course, it can be inferred that only the wealthy is able to generationally invest in such an opulent product. The man of the hour exuded such a high pedigree of prominence, a subtle indicator to anyone that he purchased bottles in

surplus. It always seemed as if the past and the prominence were two luxury goods implicitly excluded from the theory of supply and demand. His emotions were getting to the better of him now, watching this man of such prominence parade around the country unscathed and haughty. He felt as if he was standing on a rock in the midst of a raging river with others curiously watching him from the shallow banks. It seemed as if their curiosity plagued them from hearing his desperate pleas. It was as if a sacrificial wine bottle had been uncorked and its contents were now flowing into the river. The color nicely contrasted the blood shot eyes of those standing on the banks. Its color was of dark red, as if concealing the truth of it all, making it all too simple to conceal the means that justify the ends. The wine seemed to call those resting on the banks into the water now. They were falling in to the tempestuous waves in masses, conscious of their fall and faithful in the belief that they would be able to walk on the sea—the treacherous sea. The wine was well above their heads, submerging their bodies whole. The decision to drown in this wine can only be made with temptation or ill-fate. These people were blindly looking for a hand to hold on to in the sea of cerise—praying that they would be the ones to stay afloat and greet the savior—to make the holy exodus across the sea of wine to live amongst the stars. Thud. His phone had fallen out of his hand. His eyes were open and the color of wine. For him, this dream was an allusion to his socalled faith. His faith made him apprehensive to submerge himself in the sea because he was

It was at this moment that he realized he was complicit— complicit in the lies, complicit in the inhumanity, and, perhaps his most egregious sin, complicit in the reality of it all.

“Evil is a radiation of the human consciousness in certain transitional positions.” —Franz Kafka

scintilla wary of its power. Various figures assured him the waves would be kept behind the doors of the womb and the wine would nourish his skin. Yet, the wine would not be sweet—the wine would be dissonant from the waves. His chest felt heavy and his eyes began to droop. The sea was not his to seek refuge in; if he were to do so, he would be committing treason against himself. The house of the wilderness and the house of conservancy are separate from each other; there is a windowed wall of separation between the garden of the church and the wilderness of the world with vines growing on one side and strokes of blood painted against the other. He belonged in the house of the wilderness while the authoritative and religious figures belonged in the garden. Politicians and ministers used the concept of separation and many other fallacies as a means to seize corruption—to disguise primates and theocracies and to justify the means of exodus. There was no window to see the other side, however, if one were to press their fingers against the glass, they would surely feel the warmth of the blood. Those who pressed their cool fingers against the glass would never

realize that the world on the other side was farther than expected: the distance and depravity forgoes the natural law. This was the choice he made—the conscious decision that every citizen chose—to live in a world of corruption and sacrilege. By committing such incongruous actions, there was a misalignment of his ethics; his thoughts were not enlightened, he was simply feeding the demons with the radiating energy. They were gnawing at his skin, his soul, and his sense of time. The womb had been opened. The TV interrupted with the words Election Results in America!, startling him. It was at this moment that he realized he was complicit—complicit in the lies, complicit in the inhumanity, and, perhaps his most egregious sin, complicit in the reality of it all. He would never get out, the cycle was perpetual. The demons reincarnated themselves until it was unrecognizable who could be trusted. He was living in a world that he most certainly did not belong in. He was in a world that was light years away, living in a reality that would take eons for his successors to escape—a reality where sins were not considered egregious, but still committed in the dark. If only there was a window in his apartment—an opening that would allow him to gaze up at the stars above. He would stare at these stars in awe, craning his neck slightly at times to look East; by shifting his position slightly, he would be able to stare at one luminous light in specific. This would be the light of a planet, a world even. However, the light of this world he saw was already thousands of years behind his own, or, maybe, their world was already ahead. The Election Results in America! had already been repeated nine times in their world—they had orchestrated it.

grey by ria chaudhary I. the type of tiredness that settles behind your eyes and doesn’t leave. the type of quiet that twists your gut and unsettles your mind. the type of moments that makes you wish for an alternate reality. it’s not dark out, not yet. the sun hasn’t fallen asleep. the sunset is colorless. your world is monochrome, your life colored by shades of grey, blurring, blurring, indistinguishable. your emotions faded and wrung out to dry, worn through by the people who came before, hand me downs that don’t quite fit right, borrowed clothes chafe against your skin. perpetual dusk, perpetual dawn, unreached potential and unused opportunities, the curtain was lifted and all the magic you felt was little more than an illusion. you walk down the path set for you. the sidewalk is endless. the buildings are identical. your eyes never near the horizon. the pedestrians are like ghosts, whispering in languages long forgotten. you are tired. you’re just so, so tired, and the darkness wins out. sometimes the colours come back. sometimes the grey fades to black.

“A rose looks grey at night, but the flame is just asleep.” —Johnny Cash

scintilla II. the darkness whispers quiet, steady tones, to the rhythm of your heartbeat. the nothingness gets stronger, more overpowering, drowning out your thoughts and ideas and hopes and dreams with a steady stream of nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing your mind is blank and racing. the void so loud you might as well be screaming but nothing comes out of your mouthyour face is blank and your eyes are blank, easily masked and easily masqueraded, false emotions replicated through sounds and words, and to seek comfort in the world around you is impossible, it reflects your hollowness. youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re gone. not a blank canvas, not a new start, not the pure, pale white you have come to expect, swallowed by the type of endless grey that numbs your soul and your feet and your words. so fill itfill it with books and music and art and work and friends and anything you can get your hands on but before you know it the emptiness will consume them too. alone once again, you are left blank, empty, fading.

III. the crowd is muffled and the colours are muted.

you can’t quite recall how many people are outside, or how you found your way home. you can’t quite recall whether this is your home, your bed, your life. maybe that’s the point. maybe every now and then you have to hit mute on life and listen to the white noise, the background static otherwise drowned out by your everyday living, it’s almost peaceful, this lack of emotion. you could stay there forever. forever- forever’s a long time, you tell yourself, but it doesn’t seem worth it to get up, much less to go outside. so you compromise and sit. and you wait. time ticks by as you wish for the colours to come back. IV. I watch the colours swirl down the drain. the neons and the pastels and the brights, the shades that made the streets lively and the city alive, gone. all that is left is shades of grey and the constant beat of rain. taptaptaptaptap in time with my racing heart. there is a simplicity to be found in a world devoid of colour, just shapes and silhouettes and an essence of what was once there. a shadow of another world, maybe, or a honest reflection of this one. I see myself staring plainly back at me. I see the potential in each colorless house, I see what could be and what once was. I am one with the rain, I blend in with the shades of grey. beautiful. simple. honest.

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” —Oscar Wilde

scintila

Morning Glory by michelle zhu At dawn, they bloom. At the crossroad betwee the morning of the next and the dawn of the before, they rise out of their bud, small petals blossoming with every second that comes and goes. Their sand in the hourglass is limited, and small grains are already falling through the inbetween. Here they stay, living, breathing, and blooming. Her desk’s light glows like a firefly in the midst of summer. The bags under her eyelids grow darker and darker, an obvious sign of the time- 2:46 am. Her grip on the mechanical pencil loosens every hour, her handwriting appearing closer to hieroglyphics than anything. Around her, everything is murky and slow. Her eyes trail from the study guide in her hands to the morning glory buds growing outside her window. They haven’t bloomed. They sit patiently, resting upon sparse vines clinging onto an old brown fence. She’s never caught them with their petals spread, only seeing them wilt away to brown, saturation fading. She wants to see their royal purple in the morning. She sighs and buries her face into her palms, leaning further back into her chair. She rubs her eyelids and tells herself she’ll take a five minute break. Setting a timer on her phone, she tucks herself snug into bed and closes her eyes. She drifts through the in-betweens of consciousness and the presence of deep sleep, constellations blinking in the darkness of her vision. When she wakes up, her sentience is less murky than before. Her room is no longer shrouded in heavy shadows casted by her lamp, but rather, her furniture is now illuminated by the sun peeking through her window. She checks the time. 7:52 am. School starts at 8. A heavy wave of realization washes over, and

quickly, she is up and out of her bed. Her feet pad along the wooden floor of her room, collecting the papers strewn across her desk and writing supplies that lay astray. Panic rushes her as the hour hand slowly nears eight. She in running out of time. Her eyes wander the room, searching for missed items. Quickly glancing outside her window, her hand lingers on the zipper as she takes in the sightThe morning glories she had anticipated so much: dead, brown, and shriveled. They dangle, hanging onto vines with their petals slumped over, barely attached to their core. Their buds no longer fresh and purple like the night before, but rather, they are shade of a weary, tattered, and old library book. She sighs and looks down, and with reluctance, slips her backpack over her shoulder. These are our salad days, the days of our youth, slipping through the spaces between our fingers like sand falling through the cracks of time. They bloom when the sun meets and spreads across ocean, but with uncertainty, while we waste them away under heavy textbooks and layers of notes, they slowly disappear, leaving no trace of pixie dust behind.

art credits good knight

cynthia shi

Playground

cynthia chang 9

a fairytale love story Lingering Souls Operation

sunny lu

sharlene chen

christine cheng 19 carrie an

I Fought Emptiness and I Won

megan xu

While You Were Sleeping

sophie lin

julia wang

The Most Slippery Path

amanda zhu

Why Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t We Live in a Yesterday of Our Own

peyton chiang 32

A Point in the Sky

hey, hey, i know you

weightless farewell Execution Star growing old one minute and seventeen seconds You are nothing. Prey

coby chuang

allison li

caroline wang 40 joy song

caroline wang 49 peyton chiang 50 - 51 coby chuang

sophie lin

Smackball

christine cheng 57

The Anatomy of A Servant

catherine hwu 59

Luminosity

cynthia chang 63

grey Morning Glory

megan xu

allison li

The official literary magazine of Lynbrook High School

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