VERITY by Vertigo Magazine

verity 1

verity

Âť

table of contents Âť PROSE Breathe

How to Grow a Camellia

The Hunter

The House

esther kao jenny lu

indu pereira amy huang

Where Dreams Fall

Childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Clearing

Thursday

To Lose and To Find

Rise

La Bella Luna

Snowblind

Rabbit

marian park

nathan kastle

zachary charif

claire li

catherine pugh

tiffany tzeng

jeffrey yang

christina zhu

How to Grow a Camellia yuqing zhu 11

The House jenny xie 24

Dialogue james kao 17

verity

Breathe amy huang 8

Smoke Spot irene hsu

Graffiti emily liu

POETRY La Bella Luna jessica tzeng 51

Child’s Clearing yuqing zhu 33

When Life Gives Her Lemons emily su

The Artist irene hsu

Dialogue kevin chang

Flight aileen lu

Moonlight’s Net christine wang

Winter of a Superpower bobby ma

Echo Eyes kimberly tan

Counting Stars jessica kim

Peaches helen jun

When Life Give Is there a word for when you look in her eyes, and find yourself suffocating, clenched in the wrenching grip of helplessness? The sweet, bright air that you’ve held—resting so sweetly on the tip of your pink tongue— slowly squeezes out of your heart like a lemon exhaling its life, leaving a dull ache, a shriveled up peel, and a sour aftertaste. She clings to you. The tired folds under her eyes shrivel, curl inward, and tuck into themselves like introverted seeds longing for the return to a rich, dark soil, wherethey could sleep until the time for second chances came again.

“Thinking can only serve to measure out the helplessness of thought.” —H. R. Haggard

verity

e es Her Lemons by emily su

You grip her hands fruitlessly back, her skin punctured with small holes—lost opportunities and broken aspirations. She tells you simple words, “When life gives you lemons, why make lemonade? There’s nothing sweet enough to help the taste.” And so all you long for now is to find the magic word to soothe her pain from the bitter slice of a harsh life. Is there a word for that?

One breath is all it takes. She pinches her nose, stares across at the other side—breathes. Staring some more, she takes another breath, slowly. “Don’t go,” a voice whispers from behind her. “Stay with me.” But she only shudders, continues looking forward. She knows that voice. She doesn’t dare turn around, to look back. She doesn’t want to. And she looks out into the horizon. “Don’t go,” says the voice again, a hint of desperation creeping in. “Don’t leave me.” But she only walks forward, to the edge where the water reaches, listening to the ocean sing its soft lullaby. She closes her eyes and opens them again. “Don’t go,” the voice repeats, once more. But she only pauses to look to her side. Don’t look back is written in the sand. She will not look back. She must not look back. She inhales deeply, and then, mouth closed, dives into the sea. * * * “She tried to run away one day,” says the

woman quietly. She bites her lip, and immediately she jerks her gaze to the nurse, then drops it again just as quickly. The nurse scowls. Everyone knows what this woman did, why she’s here. Her daughter lies bruised on the bed next to her mother, eyes closed, face pale. And now that the town has turned on her, she pretends to be sad, sorrowful, watching by her daughter’s bedside. What a fake. The nurse looks at the girl in the bed. Tubes protrude from her nose, and the nurse takes the girl’s arm gently, wincing slightly when she sees the blue and black marks running in disarray along the delicate skin. She gazes at the face, sweet and untroubled now. The girl has been here in Room 403 for a week already, and her mother has been coming in every day, seemingly whiter and paler each time. Sometimes the nurse watches the woman cry. But the girl’s life was not one to be envied by anyone, and the nurse cannot forget that as she looks at those manicured hands. “Ma’am, I’m afraid you’re going to have to

“It is the misfortune of being born when a whole world is dying.” —A. Herzen

verity leave her alone for now,” the nurse says finally. She cannot watch this woman act any longer. The woman straightens. The nurse looks at the glassy eyes and sighs. “She’s fine,” she says at last. “The machine will keep her alive.” The woman looks at her daughter, at the tube protruding from her arm. She kneels down beside her, places a manicured hand on her arm. “Don’t go,” she whispers. “Stay with me.” The nurse cannot feel any sympathy, only sympathy for the girl. If she will only take a breath on her own, then there will be hope. One breath is all it will take. “Don’t go,” the woman breathes again. “Don’t leave me.” And that is when the nurse shakes her head in disbelief. As if this woman has any right to see her daughter live, as if she has the right to pretend to be sad, when she knows full well that it is her own manicured hands that caused her daughter’s fall— She turns to leave, disgust filling her mind. But the woman with the manicured hands turns to face the nurse. A tear trickles down her pale white cheek. “Don’t go,” she says.

Will she sink? A thrill runs through her as she thinks of taking a breath. Don’t look back. She will enter this doorway, then; she will enter the world again. She watches it come closer, closer. Her mouth is closed, and she wants to open it, to take a breath of delight. But one breath is all it takes. And she doesn’t want that. And then a figure steps out from the doorway. The manicured hands are spread wide, and a smile is aimed at her. She gasps and closes her eyes. She is two, she is seeing the hands fly to her throat. She is five, she is watching the red nails curve three lines into her arms. She is ten, and she is jumping into the water, to freedom, only to be pulled out again by manicured hands. Her own hands touch her throat unconsciously. And they tremble when they come across bumpy scars that have never healed. The girl stops where she is. The feet return to the sea, but do not dare to fly up again. The hands stop scooping and rise up to her face. It cannot be possible. Don’t look back. Don’t look ba— She twists her head around, looks at the world she left behind. The bearer of the voice is gone from that place. Her mother stands in front of her, on her new world. She stops, looks, shakes her head in despair. Her arms still hurt, her feet are still numb. She doesn’t want to go any further, but she doesn’t want to go back either. So she breathes in. Water fills her lungs. One breath is all it takes.

She scoops the sea in her palms, only to throw it behind her. Things that are given are so easily discarded.”

* * * She scoops the sea in her palms, only to throw it behind her. Things that are given are so easily discarded. She thinks of the voice behind her. One breath is all it takes. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. So she looks ahead instead. To the door planted in the ground on the other side. To the pale yellow sand that awaits her numb feet. A small frown creases her brow as she studies the door. There are three golden numbers on the door—403. She thinks it is supposed to mean something, but she is not sure what. But it doesn’t matter. Her feet soar to heights and fall down again on the water. She wonders what will happen if she keeps her feet up, if gravity is thwarted.

* * * Somewhere in a hospital room, a mother with broken nails listens to her daughter’s breath stop.

The Artist by irene hsu

Artists are taught to slaughter their babies, those transcendent, just-right strokes of paint or strings of words. At the funeral, some shedding of tears permitted, but not necessary.

Don’t get me wrong, it is a wonder: posture, consciousness, thumbs— but let’s face it. We are the babies Prometheus couldn’t bear to kill, no— refused to kill. It is all irrelevant— the result of one demigod’s want

Prometheus was an artist, chiseled mud into feathers whittled stones into horns, a real Michelangelo, you know.

to be a god. Don’t think Zeus allowed that breach as Prometheus dished out fire in clandestine fatherhood, played make-believe better than anyone.

His real masterpiece though, his baby if you do so incline, was that lump (you and me and them) so pathetically out of line, out-armed.

Wouldn’t you want to be worshipped? This is what arrogance does to you: time marked by incisions, a vulture picking at your liver, as though performing a necessary operation.

“It is the certainty that they possess the truth that makes men cruel.” —A. France

verity

How to Grow a Camellia by jenny lu

The sky is just about to turn into swivels of cotton candy clouds. He did not wish for the serene colors to stop spinning their sugars, but it seemed that his mind stops to this particular moment in time. As if he could not forget already– A peachy smile rises from his pressed plum lips blowing softly on her warm stomach. His arms swiftly lift her up and swing her light body around in circles; her giggles filling his ears, sinking their high notes into the cracks between his heart. He stops twirling around as her grasp on my shoulders tighten, her ballerina slippers settling to the ground. They step on his feet as her arms hug his legs, one hand holding onto a freshly picked dandelion. “Daddy, why isn’t mommy’s belly big anymore?” His mouth hides his teeth as he glances at her eyes, which stare at his feet, possibly comparing them to her own little feet. They would not fit. She could not understand the liabilities she has brought to them by birth, for they were already poor. He gathers his breath and tells her a story. “Catherine, mommy had a watermelon belly, a really big belly, and she tried and tried to make your brother stay in it and see you, but she couldn’t. Your brother was too big to stay, so he had to go somewhere else. Even mommy’s watermelon belly was too small for him to stay in and grow.” He pats her head and parts the hand scratching her hair. He knows that it would be sometime soon when she would understand how selfishly they displaced the white seed that would have blossomed into a figure, just to be able to spare some shades of green for themselves. But it was not yet to be known soon. As the sun faded behind the mountains, the imprinted memory of his wife’s pregnant belly appeared as he patted his daughter’s back until she fell asleep, her hand holding the stem of the dandelion, the white specks and feather fluff having drifted onto the maplewood floor. * * *

Tick, tock, tick, tock—Time just had to click irregularly against each fading heartbeat of hers, with each second hand scarcely touching the frame of the clock. The last “watermelon” they had was a girl. She was ripe unlike the others, because they were able to tend to her this time. His wife, Shannon, worked as a botanist in a modest flower shop and a waitress at a high class restaurant, as he taught piano, violin, and guitar 55 hours per week while taking tests to become a certified accountant. He did not care if Shannon worked or not, because she brought more than just a paycheck home. He still doesn’t care, but he understands it is in her own will to push herself to support their family. Of the best that she has concocted in their small home was coke ribs, and a baby girl. The day Shannon earned her dream job as a botanist was the day she realized the alternate existence inside her. She laughed out words that the baby must be someone special, as special as plants were to her. They gave her reason to be financially independent. Catherine was a common name for girls, but it was not common in where they lived. Her environment was enriched with different minds, but Catherine, with her budding green eyes, was too small for her callow mind to gather in much substance. She had odd ways of doing things, but nonetheless, was accepted in her childhood roots. She earned deep concern by her second grade teacher, for when the class had to list what they wanted and was to send it to Santa Claus, Catherine wrote down “frendshihpe” and drew a picture of swaying grass. The rest of her classmates wrote normal and lengthy lists, while arguing that they would bake more cookies than the others, and ultimately receive the most gifts. One winter, he left both his wife and Catherine with the wishful intent of supporting them better, especially with Catherine’s sudden interest in ballet dancing. He was offered a job in a bustling city with a much more promising pay than a music teacher. While he was

“You can never plan the future by the past.” —E. Burke

verity

away, Catherine continued to grow taller. They telephoned every other day. At 7, she was finally able to cartwheel three times, fly across the room with graceful agility, and smile with two missing front teeth. They emailed every once in awhile. She practiced dancing most of the time, while her mother taught her to write

and read everyday. But it seemed that the less he visited, the more she practiced dancing, and the greater the distance she was from the truth. Soon enough his connection to Catherine was only through Shannonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s emails. * * *

When her fourth grade teacher asked what everyone wanted to be, Catherine was the last to speak. The teacher smiled, waiting for a naive response with all the students– a firefighter, wilderness explorer, fourth grade teacher, and Santa Claus’s helper were a few. Catherine looked at the ceiling and held her eyes to her dream. “I-I would like to be a princess, if that’s okay?” She questioned her teacher. The class bursted into laughter, as two rowdy boys teased her deliberately upon her silly dream. At first, Catherine was silent, wondering why no one would also like happy endings. Raising her brown eyebrows, Catherine forced herself to laugh along. Catherine grew to cherish the remnants of her memories, especially the ones when we had a sign in front of our house that read “FOR SALE.” On the humming screens of her parents, the numbers were red and negative. The keys could not stop clicking. Each phone call ended with one hung up line. One day, when Catherine was skipping on the streets of her home, she stopped to sadly stare at the changed sign. Never did she realize after all the times passing by this dreadful sign, that she would actually leave. She found herself upset with each passing day, and daydreamed of having abnormal muscles that could pull the sign off by its weak impermanent nails and run to her neighbor Jerry to recycle the sign off for him to use as scrap wood. Despite those wishful efforts, she moved to California. In her attempts to find another moment to relish in and look forward to, Catherine searched for things to do. She picked up the flute and decided she liked it. But the feelings she had when she danced around the room, as waves of emotion spilled over bowls and augmented her par-

ents’ fights, were gone. She had a gnawing loneliness as she practiced playing her flute while keeping the windows ajar. Catherine everyone else was absorbed in their own lives, and while her parents were often gamblers by night and apathetic drones by day, checking in on Catherine only to complain about her lack of efficiency in schoolwork and logic in mathematics. Specks of dust appeared in light, as vain attempts for a collectivist to be like others, to be accepted, was made. One evening, when Catherine was blowing softly on her flute, the door knocked. Catherine met Esther, a neighbor who welcomed her to the apartment and claimed to have moved more than the number of her age. Although the open-minded extrovert and Catherine became friends for six months, it was only piece by piece that Catherine began to think so. We were at the park for the first time. I remember begging my dad to take me to parks. It was a nice nostalgia, but my averted eyes awakened to Esther asking me another question. She was swinging herself slowly to touch a bit of the sky. “Cathy, tell me about the silliest dream you’ve had!” I hesitate a little, but decide to tell her. “When I was little, I was so naive that I wanted to be a

As Catherine realized that the flaws of society were greater than the amount of stars in the sky, something inside her stopped growing.”

“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” —O. Wilde

verity princess. Literally.” I laugh a little too loudly, and start swaying my legs as well. “What’s wrong with that?” “Oh... It was just really... naive. Tell me about yours?” “Ahaha, an astronaut. Hey, what do you want to be now?” “Not a computer engineer.” “Let’s pick up an interesting habit this weekend and work on it to see if we like it. I think it’s better to work for something you love, rather than something you’re good at. So let’s find something we like, okay?” With Esther by her side, always telling hopeful stories, Catherine was enlightened of something she never knew before. She began to write about the stories she hears, and the people, blinded by capitalism, that she wished she could change. They had insightful, meaningful, substantial conversations, and they did not include the shallow distractions of modern society. They whispered to each other, whenever Esther came for sleepovers, of why the water flows, and why there are four seasons, and why people wish on weeds and not flowers, and what kind of plants they could be based on their personalities. Once, Esther said, “Maybe you are a kerria— having been in the wild when you were little, growing as you would like. Then, you were

pulled out of your homeland roots and placed upon a competitive climate, and it changed you so.” And Catherine asked with interest and doubt, “Are kerrias really like that?” “No, I just made that up.” They were the epitome of friendship, always searching for pieces of their identities in their worlds. But as Catherine realized that the flaws of society were greater than the amount of stars in the sky, something inside her stopped growing. Perhaps it was similar to what she was trying to figure in the sky, something inside her stopped growing. Perhaps it was similar to what she was trying to figure out about herself, and the oxygen around her. There was that very first moment her eyes sprouted open and the warm summer air surrounded her limbs. The smog obfuscated the sky, so all she could see were vast buildings of many geometrical shapes, with neon lights flashing every now and then. She was carried in a light yellow suit, gazing at the dark background speckled with a few faint lights. The parents who carried her were consistent beings. Time was important, they said. Everything needs to be exact. Everything needs to be quick and critical. Catherine had to finish things efficiently, but what they really expected was a quick and concise process of production. There

were things she was expected to do, and they forced her mentality into an abysmal darkness. Emotions were no excuse for the application of being perfect. Catherine’s emotional state seemed completely ignored by her parents as she labored over her to-do lists. It was the coldest autumn in human history. The sunshine could not be absorbed in her leaves; happiness and hope could not catch her this time. plastic hearts and metal parts have done no good, absolutely no good. Catherine, a particular ingenue perhaps, but a warm soul who acknowledged Esther as a friend, was numbed to the degree of being frozen. She was bored by the sameness of the people surrounding her, frustrated by her inability to express herself. She desired to write until the ink bled dry, with the continuing uncertainty resting in her mind. Her hair flies against her face, her eyes cannot close quickly to stop the tears, her ears vibrate of the natural abuse that flows out of people’s mouths— a living doubt. It was ironic for the man to think his new job would support his family. He began to attach himself to his business trips and formal negotiations, with numbers being the only factor keeping him awake. When her parents celebrated the man’s job promotion and his lucky opportunity with the stock market by releasing fireworks and holding a huge party, Catherine only thought of how such huge explosions in the sky could form such emptiness. If Catherine were a plant, she should have grown more by now, despite the parents with fading aluminum eyes. Perhaps there was too much sunshine chasing after Catherine, so much joy that it absorbed all her vitality and thus made her feel at home to the raindrops greeting the roof. Before, Catherine could not

thrive well in the soil provided, the soil that all others had seemed to prosper in. It was not until she was 15 when she adapted to the environ mental conditions and anchored her vulnerable heart. With her changing dark blonde hair, Catherine finally blossomed when she found her real passion. After all the dreams she wandered through, it was her ability to write that gave her air to breathe. She eagerly told her parents about what she held dearly onto, but only to get rushed responses and an irrelevant question about her priorities. A petal was carelessly plucked, and left to wrinkle on the pavement. Catherine came to the conclusion that the gardener of her own planted soul, is herself. Although her parents were not as poor anymore, they became quite sensitive to the future they calculated for her. Catherine did what she had to do. She adapted to them, to their harmful carbon dioxide, and hinted characteristics of the two adults through her writing. Although they provided no emotional support for her, Catherine was able to harvest their ignorance as her own oxygen. But as of now, Catherine was filling in scantron circles in a room with closed windows, and outside was a wind whispering furiously and the sky sobbing tempestuously. Even professional botanists like Shannon could not determine the nonlinear growth of a plant (moreover, a human being), as both Shannon and her husband could not invest in an emotional manner, ever since the beginning with their decision to abort her brother. Inside the cold room, time was clicking irregularly against each fading heartbeat of hers, with the second hand scarcely touching the frame of the clock. Here is another cycle of water, another day of Earth’s rotation, and yet another period of time to broaden one’s horizon.

Catherine came to the conclusion that the gardener of her own planted soul, is herself... She adapted to them, their harmful carbon dioxide”

“We have to dare to be ourselves, however frightening or strange that self may prove to be.” —M. Sarton

verity

Dialogue by kevin chang

“There’s a certain color of intimacy reserved for you and the road, when you’re making the trip of a thousand miles down that endlessly long stretch, and there’s nothing to do but to hold down the gas and appreciate the lack of scenery.”

A tired, browned van lies on withered road. The road lengthens. The exhaust is palpable, and its exhaust is broken by the weight of its mighty body. That is someone's end. There is a place in the expanse where the streets have all become one, where the greens and reds gasp for meaning, and the STOP!s bother no more. There is a place in the expanse where there is only a brown, a quiet that is only ever broken to humor necessity. Then that moment passes, and it all returns to earth. The expanse beckons, grimly. But you can make that trip. Your van is different; you are different. Leave the loud lights behind. Listen to me, and trade urban sights for nothingness. I know you can drive halfway, because I'll be helping. I know you can go on tired, because I’ll be watching. Do not to lose to the lethargy, because I'm waiting. Eventually, you will come to the place where I stopped on that road. When you pass this wayward van, wave! There may not be civil red or green in this loneliness, but with the company of one, there will be a lighter shade of brown.

“Nothing has an unlikely quality. It is heavy.” —J. Winterson

verity

The Hunter by indu pereira

“Could you sit up on this bench for me? I’ll just check your reflexes...Very nice, very nice. Lovely weather outside huh?” There was no response. The nurse continued her routine, talking to no one. She navigated through a very stereotypical hospital room, with all of the iconic medicinal smells and sterility. The nurse didn’t fit the stereotypes however, with her slender figure and raven black hair setting her apart from the other matronly women. “It seems like the perfect day to fly a kite or go boating, not that you get to do that sort of thing anymore, of course.” the nurse said. There was a bitter streak behind the words. Like always, Hunter 9 didn’t say a word. The nurse sighed and looked at the clock. Only ten more minutes till 1:27, and then just three minutes till Hunter 11 arrived. Her heart skipped a beat. The nurse moved on to the next item on her list. “Now let’s check your blood pressure,” the nurse said, “Perfect.” She barely noticed the fact that the numbers would be alarming for any normal human being. The consistent numbers were also unnatural, and the Hunters never seemed to have any ill health, even with their rumored line of work. It was all normal to the nurse, after thirteen long weeks with the filthy operation. Why they even needed their weekly check-ups was a mystery to the nurse, as the Hunters were never anything but perfect. The nurse went on to examine his eyes and ears, unwillingly resigned to no response. Her resolve, her determination - it had all been slipping away as the weeks slipped by. She glanced

at her silent patient, who was staring at the opposite wall, back perfectly straight, and eyes focused but unseeing. Though she was now used to her emotionless companions, every reminder of their theft of humanity was like an old wound that kept on being reopened. “Did you see the article in the paper? The one about the murder of Mr. Rosewood?” the nurse asked, shining a thin beam of light down patient 9’s throat. “It was quite interesting.” Just another thing you were probably responsible for. The nurse picked up the day’s newspaper. On the cover of the Naion Times was a story discussing the murder of Patrick Rosewood. The murder had happened just days after the politician had voiced his outrage at the new laws restricting parenthood. These laws had been passed because supposedly, scientists had found links between certain genetic combinations and the Demise. Of course, the general public wasn’t satisfied with such an ambiguous explanation. They wanted facts, and as no one was giving it to them, they wanted the President impeached. Plenty of young politicians had taken up the protest, one being Mr. Rosewood. The Naion Times had spent plenty of time exploring the convenient timing of Patrick Rosewood’s death, with the author even stating at that if he himself disappeared, their suspicions were just confirmed. The nurse tossed the paper at Hunter 9. It hit his arm and slipped onto the bed. Nothing was working. She was just so frustrated! After weeks of trying to get her patients to respond to her, after long hours spent working out how to save them, the nurse had nothing. Throwing a news-

paper was how desperate the nurse had gotten. The nurse walked back over, took his temperature and looked at the clock. It was 1:27 and Hunter 9 left, with three minutes for the nurse to relax before Hunter 11 arrived. Exhausted, the nurse sat down on the bed. Lying next to her was the newspaper she had thrown at patient 9, in a desperate attempt to wake him up. She glanced at it and noticed that it had fallen down open to a page filled with advertisements. The headlines blended together, with only one jumping out at her: “Possible Foul Play involved in the Double Suicide of Madeline and Sadie Acosta”. Madeline felt her knees buckle and the room spun around her. Suddenly, she could hear herself on that horrible day, screaming as the Hunters dragged an unconscious and bloodied Gavin away. She could still hear the snarky voice of Gavin’s sister, Sadie, explaining to Madeline why she had reported him. She remembered exactly what Sadie had said - “Gavin was thinking dangerous thoughts. It’s people like him that need to be stopped.” She remembered slapping Sadie and having to be dragged away herself. She still remembered escaping, and being approached by a nameless organization who wanted exactly what she did: revenge. Everything in the past didn’t matter now though. They knew. They were coming for her.

know if it can be repeated. So what’s the point in trying to prevent it?” Madeline squeezed his hand. “Well maybe they’re just trying. They need to look like they know something.” She looked up into his stormy eyes. Hers drifted to the cute birthmark on his shoulder, and she tiptoed up to kiss it. “Maddie, whatever they’re trying to do, all they really are doing is taking away our rights. If you and I want kids, we have to be tested now! Naion has been fine for nearly sixty years.” Gavin stated flatly, shrugging her away. “All the government really wants is control.” “Gavin! Don’t say that.” Madeline exclaimed. “It was hard for our parents’ generation, because they had nothing! — No memories, nothing. The world was in ruins. If the President hadn’t been able to organize everyone the way he did, no one would’ve survived.” Gavin sighed and said “Maddie don’t let them brainwash you too.” Madeline just looked at him, torn between the truth in what he was saying and the fear in what its consequences could be. The day was still and there wasn’t a person in sight, but Madeline still wanted some privacy before they discussed all this. Taking him by the hand, she pulled him to the bench below the big oak tree, where barely anyone could see them. “What exactly do you mean Gavin?” Madeline asked quietly. Gavin pursed his lips and said, “Maddie, we really don’t know anything. At work today, I got hold of an old book. It was a beautiful copy, in amazing condition. The words were clear and the inking was precise. In the book was the very pledge that our country was named after. The only difference? Instead of ‘One naion, under God...’ this copy stated ‘One nation, under God...’. No one on our team knew about this,

She remembered exactly what Sadie had said “Gavin was thinking dangerous thoughts. It’s people like him that need to be stopped.”

* * * “But it’s not okay Maddie!” Gavin said, angrily. “The very nature of the Demise means that no one has a clue what life was like before. How the hell do scientists think they can find the cause of it? For all we know, it wasn’t a disease, it was a war, or a weapon, or a different species. We don’t know anything. We don’t

“When seeking revenge, dig two graves - one for yourself.” —D. Horton

verity

so our boss contacted the President,” Gavin paused and took a deep breath. “Then, he contacted the President’s office and told him the news. And do you know what the president

said? Burn the book.” Gavin stopped speaking again, too angry to continue. “But why?” Madeline whispered, almost to

herself. Gavin answered anyways. “It’s not like it matters at all. So what if we’re called Nation or Naion? No one really cares,” Gavin stood up and faced Madeline. “The only person that would care would be the President, and I’ve got it all figured out.” Madeline started to speak, stopped, and then started again. “Gavin, why would he care at all?” She looked up and saw that Gavin’s stormy eyes were unusually shiny. She touched the birthmark on his shoulder, and looked up with worried eyes. “Why does he care?” “Because it shows how clueless he is!” Gavin exploded. “Our president doesn’t know anything more about this world and the Demise than any of us. Sure he helped us figure out how to rise from the disaster, but after that, the power got to his head. Maddie, I can’t say it any other way. He’s blind and only wants control.” With the books collected from some of the wreckages outside of town being the most valuable things Naion had, what the President had ordered was an unspeakable act. These old books were the only way they were able to learn anything about life before the Demise. The books were their only way to learn about their past. They sat in silence. Gavin started to speak again. “And guess what I did Maddie? I burnt the book.” Gavin’s voice broke as he said it. After some time, they both got up and started to walk back home, hand in hand. Neither spoke, for both were lost in their own thoughts. They should’ve said something, because it would be the last time of peace they would have for a long time. * * * Madeline quickly stood up. It was 1:30, and there was Hunter 11 walking through the door. Still caught up in her memories, she could hardly stifle the overwhelming sense of loss that washed over her as she saw him. Hunter 11 didn’t recognize the nurse that he

had had for nearly thirteen weeks, as long as he had been a Hunter. He just sat up on top of the bed and stared at the wall, waiting for his checkup to begin. Madeline began to walk towards him, ready to check his reflexes, when she froze. From this angle, she could see the little birthmark on his left shoulder that she had always kissed before he went to bed. Madeline ran out and collapsed inside a supply closet, sobbing. It had been fourteen weeks and she hadn’t been able to save Gavin. The memories were washing over her, replaying over and over in her mind. Once the officials had dragged Gavin away for his treasonous talk, it had changed something in her. Gone was the sweet Maddie, who always believed in the good of everybody. Here was the Madeline that the world, especially the President was going to get to know very, very soon. Another memory immersed her. An uncontrollable sobbing took over her as she remembered how she had killed Sadie for turning Gavin in. The two Madeline’s weren’t agreeing on her part in this. When she had accidentallyon-purpose killed Sadie, for part of her, it had been the sweetest revenge, yet a part of Maddie had been horrified at the idea that she could ever do such a thing. She had thought she’d covered it up perfectly, but evidently not, as the article said that the police thought that there had been foul play. Madeline remembered Sadie’s dying words, “I loved my brother,” and knew their eerie, twisted meaning would haunt her forever. She had killed a human being, yet she had done so for her love. Madeline got up and tried to rationalize her options, yet her emotions, her wants and needs to stay near Gavin were clouding this reasoning. Jeopardizing any chance of saving him was too much of a risk, so Madeline knew her only option. She loved him. Madeline stood up, feeling out of tears. She walked out of the supply closet and back into her exam room. She let her substitute nurse go and started to check up on her husband, for the last time in what she knew would be a long time. Tomorrow, she’d leave the Hunters.

“He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear.” —G. Orwell

verity

Flight by aileen lu

I used to rest my chin on top of my teddy bear’s head. Back then, life moved slow, like sweet molasses and I saw everything with indifference, through thick glasses. I was told that life was a fragile thing, like a bluebird’s egg, a warm soft soul whose little shell splintered into snowflakes. I thought them funny and a bit dumb, because the only way for the little bluebird to fly was for its pale oval shell to shatter and die.

I used to sit on the swings and turn myself upside down just as I hit the very top and almost flew around the bar. My heart would jump to my throat and my ears would pound, and even though I screamed, I could not hear the sound. My mother scolded me afterwards, and told me not to do such stupid things. I nodded and she patted me on the head, but I could not shake the feeling that fright had somehow changed my life. I used to get a rush, exhilarated by the suspense at the top, of that split second where time slowed to a near halt, motivated me to innovate, into the air like a bird that threw itself out of its egg that splintered into bits of shell, there was no suspense, no descent to safety, just tears and scraped knees That pushed me up onto wobbling legs, and my eyes were wide, my mind plagued so shaken by the fear of failure I forgot how to walk I used to swing up and down with confidence, But the world beyond the swings didn’t supported me with chains, but I no longer trusted those either due to nightmares of the seemingly strong iron snapping and dropping me. And like Humpty Dumpty, my splintered confidence couldn’t be put together again, and I had nothing to return to. I spent days in the library amongst the dust and books, that smelled of must. And though my body stood in those narrow aisles, my mind drifted elsewhere. I used to rest my chin on top of my teddy bear’s head. Back then, life moved slow, like sweet molasses and I saw everything with indifference, through thick glasses. I was told that life was a fragile thing, like a bluebird’s egg, a warm soft soul whose little shell splintered into snowflakes. Thrown into a world of unfamiliarity, it seeks to go back to its safe shelter that is but a pile of dust. The bluebird flew in despair, and lived in fear; its song a cry for a semblance of the warmth of peace and safety as I did.

The House by amy huang

He had been here ever since he could remember, though he wasn’t sure where he was. The landscape was barren, with a few blackened trees here and there, and a house in the middle of it all. He was sure there were others that were

like him; his table was littered with pictures of him with others. He didn’t recall ever meeting them, though. He never had met anyone, really. Perhaps they were family, for he seemed quite familiar with them in the pictures, but

“Falling is horrible, but being caught is even worse.” —B. Corder

verity

how come he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember them? He had tried to leave this place to search for them. However, no matter how long he ran away from the house, it seemed to follow right behind him, stalking him, its door creaking.

He looked out the window at the stormy clouds, rumbling at a steady pace towards his house. He sighed, and closed the windows, careful not to scratch the crusty scar on his left forearm. The scar stretched from his wrist to his elbow. Dark dried blood had caked around it, as if he had not bothered to clean the wound while it was still fresh. Stepping outside, he opened a box filled with papers. He stood there, holding the box, waiting, waiting, for the clouds and wind to arrive. The wind tossed up the papers into the air. The papers frolicked and somersaulted in midair, as if they were happy to leave this desolate place. He gazed longingly out at the emptiness, in hopes that his papers would come back to him, brought to him by someone, anyone. The raindrops started to fall. His yard was filled with large pieces of scrap metal, twisted and scorched black. As he walked through his yard, he paused, sensing malaise. He began shuffling forward, when a piece of metal burst into flame. He felt a sudden splitting pain in his head, and he fell onto the concrete, clutching his head. The scar on his left arm throbbed. Blurred images rushed through his mind. He could only make out fire from the images before his painful hallucinations stopped; at the same time, the rain doused the fire, putting it to an end. He rolled over and staggered into the house. This was the nineteenth time that the headaches have occurred this month; the fire and his headaches seemed to be always synchronized, no matter where he was. He struggled over to his battered couch and collapsed, breathing heavily. His papers were never returned, no signals ever arrived from the outside. The thunder outside reverberated through the house, and he curled up into a tight ball. The house enveloped him, and its luminous windows stared at his limp body. The floorboards creaked, as if they were laughing at his current state. Unable to endure his incarceration anymore, he dropped onto the ground and hobbled out of he house, away from the house. His ungainly

gait became a hopeful canter, then back to a despairing shuffle, as he looked back and saw that the house still stood close by, mocking him. Despondent, he fell on his knees. His head throbbed with pain from the hallucinations, his scar pulsated feverishly, as if it had its own heartbeat. He grasped at his forearm, to stop the spasms, but only a deep scarlet oozed through his fingers. He glanced back, and the house was still there. Desperation was the only thing that kept him going as he rushed into the house. His legs and arm ached, his mind clouded. His muscles felt heavier and heavier with each step. He grasped for an old pack of matches on a cabinet, and struck a match on the box. The match burst into flame. The splitting pain came back, and he fell onto his back, his muscles convulsing. The match, not taken care of, dropped onto the ground, and a crimson, torrid flower bloomed from where it had fallen. As the scorching blossom grew, so did the vividness of the hallucinations. His eyes unfocused as he tried to make sense of the images. Cars, street, anger, the people in the pictures. They were laughing with him, somewhere lush and green. Family? Strange thought. He didn’t recall ever meeting anyone. He didn’t seem to fit in with the others. Didn’t look like he belonged there. Darkness. His eyes returned to the interior of house, now enveloped in flames. Sparks flew. The furniture around him collapsed, charred. The house groaned as bits of it broke off, crashing down on to the floorboards. The fire had already consumed the pictures on the table, the pictures of his family. The rain, the wind, seemed to try to put out the fire, the images. A hideous wail erupted from the house. The flames were lapping at his clothes. The twisted metal sheets, coated with flames, were the only thing he could see now. He smiled faintly. At last, he was free. A wooden beam fell on him. Then he blacked out.

* * * “James?” His hand twitched, his eyelids were heavy. “James...James?” He saw a blurry haze of shifting shapes, his dilated pupils unaccustomed to the light . “James!” His eyesight slowly came into focus, and to his surprise, there were people around him. To his greater surprise, they were all from the pictures on his table, the pictures of his family, now reduced to ashes. They crowded around him as if he were a newborn child, fragile and delicate. James stared at them. “James! You’re awake!” James shifted uncomfortably and said nothing. “Do you remember us?” He paused, and stared at their faces, not knowing how to respond. He pulled his blanket closer to his body. After another wave of silence, he tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. Their eager, hopeful gaze lingered, waiting. Family, perhaps. The intimacy, the feeling of being with others was too sudden for him. He switched his gaze to the ceiling; the white emptiness swallowed him whole. His eyes rolled over, and he felt a familiar pain in his head that he thought he had left, left back in that desolate place. * * * Perhaps he was angry about his friends, or his family, but he wasn’t sure. He was walking, inebriated, alongside the highway. Feeling nauseous, he crumpled into a heap onto the lane next to him. He feebly tried to get up. Panic arose within him, and he couldn’t move. The cars distorted, and his eyes unfocused. Bright headlights. The ground rumbling. Tires squealing. The car hit him, hard. He felt something sharp tear into the flesh of his left arm. The last thing he saw was deformed metal sheets, coated in burning flames. Then he blacked out.

“The one happiness is to shut one’s door … to create life in that isolation from life.” —E. Duse

verity

Where Dreams Fall by marian park A streak of blue against the white plastered wall. Alvin continues to move his paintbrush back and forth, coloring in the abyss of emptiness with life as I move a chair around the room to stick glow-in-the-dark star stickers onto the ceiling. After using up only half-a-sheet of stickers, I start feeling dizzy so I sit down on the chair and watch Alvin paint some clouds instead. He was so tenacious about decorating Laurie’s room himself, and it was the first thing he did when we moved into our new home. We haven’t even opened the boxes yet. I carefully walk towards the living room, leaning against the wall for a while until the dizziness fades away a bit. Even though Alvin doesn’t want me to do anything and just rest, I really don’t like

feeling useless. After all, Laurie isn’t due until six months. I start picking up boxes and carry them a little closer to the living room to clear out the space in front of the doorway. Alvin peeks out from Laurie’s room, and his eyes widen when he sees me putting down a box. He makes me sit down and watch him do all the work again. “Alvin, the boxes aren’t that heavy though,” I protest. “It’s okay, I can do the rest.” “I’ll start opening the boxes then.” As I open a dusty box of souvenirs from a trip we took to Paris several years ago, Alvin picks up a book and flips through the pages. “Remember this? Les Misérables in French.

I remember we bought it because we thought it was in English.” I chuckle at the memory. “Maybe Laurie can learn French and be the first one to read it.” “Maybe.” I take out a few other items. “Are you done painting the room?” “Yeah, do you want to go see it right now?” Alvin helps me get up. Even though it was dark, I can see a glow stretching out from under the door. I turn the handle and stare around the room in wonder –

at the ceiling light cover that dimly shines in the dark, at the star stickers. It’s a sky accented with stars, a moon that traces the skyline with silver in the darkness. “Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars,” Alvin quotes from a book of proverbs he picked up last week. * * * Winter lacks the balmy days of spring, the pours of brassy summer sunlight, the syrupy nostalgia of autumn. It’s just cold and soporific

“It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.” —J. Steinbeck

verity with spreads of monochromatic elegancy. All I can hear is the snow under my feet, and the integrity of that sound, that crackle, so isolate and lonely, leaves an imprint in the snow, on folded shadows as I walk towards the hospital. It’s my fifth trip to the doctor in a week. Something’s wrong. The doctor said there was a problem with my back at first, and a few days ago, he said something might be wrong with the baby…with Laurie. “Did you physically strain yourself in any way during the past few weeks?” he asked a couple days ago. I hesitated. The boxes. Planting rosebushes. Gardening. Packing, unpacking. Decorating. Work. “Not really,” I said slowly. The doctor sent a couple letters home about the problems, but I hid them. I didn’t want Alvin to know. When I came home from work or from a trip to the hospital, I felt happy watching Alvin put the crib together and shopping for blankets and baby clothes with him. It was as if nothing was wrong, as if Laurie was perfectly fine. It wouldn’t be like that if Alvin found out something wasn’t right with Laurie. I enter the hospital and wait in front of the elevator when I see the doctor coming down the stairs. “Hello, Mrs. Hanson.” He rubs his finger against the folder he’s holding. “Since you won’t be doing a test today, I thought it might be better if we talked in my office.” I follow him to the room, and he offers me a seat. He sits down in front of me and looks at the folder. “Is something wrong?” I ask. He opens his folder and takes out a chart and a couple other papers. “The test results from the last check-up showed us that…” He stops. I stare at him, confused.

“Mrs. Hanson, the machine we used at the last check-up was a CTG machine, and as your caregiver must have told you, it’s used to detect a baby’s heartbeat.” I think my heart stops beating. “We…we couldn’t detect your baby’s heartbeat. I’m sorry.” “No, no. Are you sure?” My heart races. Everything was floating. I grasp the arms of the chair. “Yes. I’m sorry. Three caregivers already confirmed this. There was an ultrasound that followed…” He continues talking, and I hear him say something about suffocation and something about another chance in the future, but the words just don’t make sense. The words swirl around me, out of my reach, wiping out the colors in the room. White. Everywhere. White. From the white walls of the doctor office to the white sheets of the hospital beds, everything is white. White like the snow. White like the walls in Laurie’s room before Alvin started painting them. And the words fall into this abyss of emptiness, of this whiteness. Suffocation. I murdered my own baby. It isn’t possible. I must be dreaming. It just isn’t possible. I stare at his nametag. Dr. Chevalier. French. I remember Alvin suggesting that Laurie learns French a few weeks ago, and I hear the doctor say something about physical strain and stress. Dr.Chevalier. Laurie. Suffocation. Another chance. Future. I’m sorry. Murderer. Suffocation. The words spin around me as I walk out of the doctor’s office, out of the hospital. The words don’t make sense. I’m drowning. I don’t understand. But I do.

I hear him say something about suffocation and something about another chance in the future, but the words just don’t make sense.”

I sit down on the ground and lower my head to my knees and cry. * * * I slowly get up, still feeling dizzy. I start walking home, stiffly forcing my feet to move, and something gets into my eyes as I walk by a group of trees. I blink once, twice, and then I shut my eyes tightly, counting to ten before opening them again. A little better, but I can only see an undefined blur of rufous attached to the tree next to me. I clench my phone tightly in my pocket. How can I tell Alvin? I open my eyes and peer at the trees around me through unsettled contact lenses. It was a night captured in crisp strokes of the winter moon, and I make out the figure of a leaf falling before my lenses fall out. Suffocation. Did it hurt? Unable to breath, trying to breath…I bite my lips at the thought. What was I doing when Laurie was struggling to breath? Carrying boxes? I squint my eyes, hoping I’ll be able to read the driveway sign. I think that’s an “E.” I tiptoe and lean closer, but before I can make out the next letter, the ice layering the ground slips beneath my feet and I tumble down the slope, snow pouring down my back, into my shoes, into my gloves...This is getting out of hand. My fingers feel around my pocket. It’s empty. I take off my gloves, and my bare hands freeze as they make contact with the snow in my pocket. No phone. The street must be deserted. The only sounds I can hear are my uneven breathing and the sounds of the tree branches tapping softly against each other. I slowly get up, biting my lips at the pain in my lower back and brush off the snow on my pants. I stick my hands into my pockets and walk cautiously, placing one foot in front of the other. I was used to the raindrops of California, not the burning flakes of Colorado snow. Unable to see anything now that it was even darker, I feel around the ground around me, trying to find a way to avoid the ice. I could feel ice all around me. I sit down and slide myself carefully across

the street. A loud rumbling noise. A flash of light. Lightning? Was there even lightning here when it snowed? That’s weird though, I thought the speed of light was faster than the speed of sound. Or was it the other way around. I don’t get a chance to think about it any longer as the snow flies upward and the strident, highpitched sounds of skidding tires and shattering glass screech and echo in my ears. Please look after Laurie. I end up slipping again, and as I fall and tumble down a hill of rose bushes, I wonder if Laurie is doing this to me. * * * I open my eyes and find myself in a hospital bed. White. Alvin is sitting on a chair next to my bed, folding and unfolding the corner of a sheet of paper. He opens his mouth to speak when he sees me looking at him but closes it. He clears his throat softly and stares at the paper. “Are.. are you feeling okay?” Was I feeling okay? The words start to swirl around me again and the whiteness of the room sucks them in, out of my reach. Was I feeling okay? The words were meaningless...like the white frosting on cupcakes. I don’t know. I don’t understand. Inverted world. Spinning. Empty. “I…I talked with the doctor, and he thought I already knew about the problems.” He folds the paper in half. “Why…why didn’t you tell me?” I turn away and focus my eyes outside, at the sky, where there is color. The clouds wrap part of the sky in a clammy shroud but where there aren’t any clouds, there is a deep blue. A streak of blue in the midst of gray clouds. And it seems so near, so close. But there’s a window between me and the sky. And I stare at that streak of deep blue, and I notice that…that it’s actually deep and empty as well. Dreams fall into the reality of fiction.

“Things which you do not hope happen more frequently than things which you do hope.” —T. M. Plautus

verity

Moonlightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Net by christine wang

Her heart — barely beating — shatters on the shore, a thousand shards of broken glass a feeling so real for a nightmare. She had walked on the same beach once, when she was in the waking world her father had loved and pointed out every gull claiming that their bright eyes reminded him of her and her mother but now the gulls did not seem to stare inquisitively at her as they did before they tore off their glass hats, yellow legs bent in hostility yellow beaks pecking at the air a furious balance of anger and fragility. The shore of stained glass dreams washed up old memories clenched fists swollen eyes broken dreams and though none of this existed truly as she still remained asleep on her bed she still choked out a bitter wail that resonated distortedly from the abyss of her delusion. From the heart -- or lack of heart of the frothy ocean waves fears claw their way out of the fabric Ghosts of her deceased mother call out eerily too late to prevent the girl’s father from leaving so suddenly leaving so definitively

leaving the girl so broken, a barely beating heart cast out onto the shore Yet it had been too long too much time wasted being lost in this nightmare day and night she knew she had to continue It was her best friend who led her through life barely there but still present crucial — like moonlight an eternal net of comfort and with her help the girl waded precariously through the heartless and distorted images with her help, once more the blue of the waves wrapped soundly around the red stains and the intelligent, white birds flew in circles once more around a clear, blue sky the gulls replaced their glass hats, legs bending in a gentle greeting beaks pecking with curiosity Their yellow feet, their warm, yellow beaks presenting a new shade of hope a newborn dawn crying out, a memory to carry her through, to help her survive and live another day in reality Without a single glance back, she boldly kissed the now soothing tide farewell daring to forget its entirety and without a single regret, she silently surfaced, rising above the moonlight’s net and into the glimmer of dawn a fading, yellow silhouette in the sand

“I dream. Sometimes I think that’s the only right thing to do.” —H. Murakami

verity

The Childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Clearing by nathan kastle Two young kids played in the clearing of a forest. They had found this wonderful grass bubble all on their own--somehow it had been left carelessly in the middle of a cluster of dark trees, among dastardly food chain dynamics that the gesticulating boy would dramatize to sort of sweep the heart of the girl...or something like that, challenge her... scare her... trick her... The boy couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t put a name to his tactics, but he knew that he liked to see her hair bounce and her mouth be stuck with anticipation. The girl approached grass as the boy might have approached a machine, with timidness;

She spun and saw the clouds whirling in a blanketing white circle, as the boy watched--her, that is. He watched her and she danced. She would sniff the ground like a hound, chasing after little collectibles: pink rocks, spotted feathers, fulfilling views of the mountain peaks standing alone; the girl was a tea kettle of excitement, brewing with something unseen that the boy thought may be hot to the touch. So he preferred to watch, to guess, and to enjoy. She was beautiful, so he loved her. Whenever the girl seemed upset, it was exactly when her parents would make sounds that

Jack could feel through a trembling in his desk. The young girl would burst through the boy’s back gate with a freshly wiped face and red eyes and command that he come away to play. Her idea, that she admitted to him one slab midnight, was that in order to extinguish the red in her face, she would need something without color. That, for her, was the clearing of the wood. And the boy would always consent to come, for after all, he loved her. *

The ruckus of the thatch-roofed town was mostly drunken parents, happily hollering and tapping at the cobblestone rocks in singing pairs; It all tugged at jack with a curiously distant glowing rope, but it was exactly what the girl needed to be away from to find her peace. Yanking herself away from the town with Jack heading into the quieter woods, she would look back over her shoulder with vengeful eyes and always mutter something about messiness and originality. The two ideas never seemed to make much sense to Jack, but he always held fast that his heart knew better than his mind.

“I knew nothing but shadows and I thought them to be real.” —Oscar Wilde

verity And because he loved her, he followed her. * * * She would pick stones from the twig-filled ground. She would search the pond for colorful bugs to catch. She would scan the sky for stars, search the air for birds, look past trees for cuddly creatures. * * * Jack himself didn’t mind much just to breathe the air, feel the blue in the sky and the trees, stand on the soil; but clearly that was foolish due to just how beautiful the girl seemed when she built her collection. She was brave, and so he loved her. * * * Now, though, the boy stands in the cold alone with his back to beauty, on the border of the wooded forest and the paved-over town. He is angry. When he begins to think why the girl would leave him at the entrance, on the threshold, he becomes angry and stops. She was the same girl who seemed to so much enjoy playing with him earlier in time, catching specs of sun and picking stones off of the trail. But as the girl started to become a woman, she would come to his gate with a darker red in her face and a more wet visage.

ing peace in the universe but now only hot white balls of gas, dirty twigs on the ground, frightfully boring silence everywhere, the creaking tree Jack snapped. Trudging through the woods and past dark trees, snapping over brush and twigs, the boy halted and wondered if the girl had become bored of him. That made him more mad than anything. Growing to a sprint, snarling at the stars and treating the forest as a narrow smooth tunnel who’s only end was only the girl and only the clearing, Jack stopped. He sunk his tight shoulders and let on a smile. He had reached her. There he stood, ready for his permission to join in play. The girl was still beautiful and at that he was at once reassured and relieved. He smiled at her. The stones and stars and fish seemed to all finally re-inhale their vital sense of life. Then she turned. Her face was red like her hair that he so admired. Her eyes were wet like the thin brook, but her face was filled with bright teeth! She was happy. And she passed the boy. “Do you see this? Don’t you think they’ll envy this? My parents?” She giggled. Her playfulness filled his heart. “Yes, it’s beautiful.” He saw only her fiery hair. “But they’ll never see it, or touch it. This is my prize, my toy that no one else has ever touched!” She ran laughing into the stone town. All he could come close to thinking was to chase after her beauty and join in the play. He laughed as he went. She was dragging the carcass of an animal; a beautifully long, bloodied white bird.

She was the same girl who seemed to so much enjoy playing with him earlier in time, catching specs of sun and picking stones off of the trail.”

* * * And now he had more assumed the duty of watchman. And he was angry. * * * Now creaking with the trees, no longer find-

Thursday by zachary charif

It was rather dark that evening at the bar. Despite the sun’s best efforts, that fall sunset prematurely ended a day deprived of color or warmth, as a tree outside greyed in the romance-less light that leaked outside. Only a few silvery beards persisted here past the average curfew, for yet another bronzed beer. A bell timidly tinkled. The floorboards creaked a little under the weight of the old priest. His priestly garments had followed him into the small bar, and as he rested into the stool the smell of dust and sweat rose. He addressed the slim figure behind the counter with a polite “darling” and asked for a drink. A finger pointing at the daunting rack of choices helped to clarify which. A large smile met a modest, and she turned to find his poison. She was a slight woman. Not a single bit of weight showed on her, and her toned look implied weeks of work put into hiding any

suggestion otherwise. She effortlessly floated around the small paper labels that all tried to hide the deep mahogany of the rack. The plaque that clung from this forboding hulk declared, “Something new every week! We special a unique cocktail every Thursday! Come on Thursday to try a new flavor tax free!” This message had remained here for years, yet it seemed good tonight. I ordered it, and tried to watch my hands, the clock, and not the bubbly spirit as she prepared it. They shook a little, yet it did not feel so cold inside. “How old was she?” the aged priest suddenly asked. He had put on something of a worried face, but the edges sagged under wrinkles and eyelids. “Eighty something,” I replied. Her life was stretched, death prolonged, funeral endless. It took her three eternities to reach the last. This

“Nothing is perfect. Life is messy. People are irrational.” —H. Mackay

verity was the man who had given a prayer at the end. The slight woman poured the last of the spirit into the glass with practiced skill. Her left knee stood out stubbornly from the natural forward parallel most legs obey. A pretentious heel attempted to raise her midgety height to no avail. From my perspective the thing looked as if she’d topple over herself. “Was it a hard funeral for you?” I silently suspected that he was watching my gaze, so I simply shifted sight and replied that it was, because long speeches are so. The papery hulk seemed to have a bend in the back, the way it was stocked with aged beverages. He tried a look of good intentions. He offered to pick up the tab for a minute or to with him. Curious to see what his intentions really were, I consented. “What is your job?” “Doctor at a Blue Cross Clinic, Middleton.” “Do they pay well?” “Yes.” “Well, do you work weekends?” “Yes, but I always get Sundays off.” He smiled a little. I despised a little. Perhaps a lot or none would have been more tolerable, because modesty is arrogant arrogance. “Well that’s good.” Before he could ask the hanging question, the slight lady had returned. “So you’re in medicine?” I stared at the deep bronze of the cocktail. One could see his reflection in an unflattering stretched fatness. I said the obvious. “Anything fix you faster than a hard drink?”

She obviously shouldn’t make jokes being this late and this tired, but I wishing not to appear annoyed agreed that nothing does. The priest chuckled a little. “Drink in moderation though-“ “-Or never drink at all,” I offered. “At least when not in peace.” * * * The evening wound on in a fashion as such. There were infrequent intervals of silence between her feverish exclamations, the priest’s smiles, and my contributions. The wind picked up outside, and the leaves threatened to depart from the tree at once. Some surrendered themselves to the storm outside. I had only finished that first round throughout the course of two hours. For the whole time I could not help but to stare at that montrous rack of choices that all appeared the same. Hoping to break the silence again, I inquired the means that the weekly flavor was invented. Somewhere between the question and my forced smile afterwards it was revealed that they weren’t so new, and recycled every year. “Which makes sense,” I offered. “Of course. You know, between you and me, I really don’t see much difference between most drinks. Just alcohol content really.” The priest objected, “I’d say there’s a difference. In integrity and quality of each.” I begged to differ. “No son. Invest in lousy and it comes back out lousy. And there’s no way you can go for a second after a first lousy one.” “Then tell me what’s good.” And on and on the lecture went. Each life of each bottle was described in painstaking detail. The creaking floorboards groaned as he moved on to the next. I found myself staring into my emtpy glass as he spoke. Two ice cubes sat there cold and lifeless. I could only help but to think of the funeral. Somewhere in between his desciptions I found the same pointing, assurances and set face that had accompanied the black clothed crowd.

What had gone into this casket was no longer anything but a point of study. A mockery, replete with clothes and makeup, of the temporal existence the watchers lived. Only appreciated by those who would join her. Somehow the walls of the bar became a prison. The clock’s gusts swirled about the room and exited out the door, threatening to carry away. Temporal only I could understand. The unflattering light made grey the edges of that slight lady’s hair. She had worked here her whole life. “Father,” I asked. “Yes?” “Have you been a priest for life?” And then I knew the answer. * * * The ice cubes came to life as he forced a particularly stubborn bottle open and filled the glass full. He had full faith that I would come to appreciate the fullness of this brew’s flavor. “It has had a long story behind it, this one,” he said. He did too. I did too. The ice cubes tinkled to life as the powerful liquid flooded over them. “A story from long ago,” he repeated, as the ice cubes were reinvigorated. I did too. I watched that bloated reflection of myself again.

* * * Somehow I could see myself washed over in that loamy, foamy brown as I struggled to see the top. I was swimming in a bronze sea, floating to the foam above. Life began again as I sought to find at the top what one can find at the bottom. I watched myself break through the surface, and there I was. Like a fish, I was gasping, choking, on a cold and substanceless medium that meant freedom to those above but was nothing to my species. * * * I had choked on my drink. Its potency had robbed me of the air for a minute. I stopped in time to see that giant rack totter as the slight lady had rushed to my aid. She barely had got herself out of the way when that mess occurred on the floor. A blue bottle (a Handyman’s Cure, no less) had dashed itself to pieces upon the floor and was forever unsalable. The rack had assumed its original state emotionlessly. I apologized for the bottle, and left the sum for the old man’s drinks, mine’s, and the floor’s. And for that drink the priest gave, it sat on the counter half drank, because I didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“The future is no more uncertain than the present.” —W. Whitman

verity

Winter of a Superpower It is Winter in the Giant’s land, it is a dark world whiter than snow. There is nothing left, absolutely nothing, except the Giant.

by bobby ma

Before, the land was the most prosperous of them all. The trees had a wealth of green dangling top to bottom. Life teemed in the forest, and the animals were as plentiful as the sands of a beach. At the heart of the land was the Giant. He sweated in the fields for the life of his land and also built the myriad of roads and bridges that joined everything under him. Seeing how much the Giant’s land had flourished, the jealous Midgets of the neighboring lands grew fearful. They knew, however, that the Giant was too powerful to stand up against so unwillingly submitted under the Giant’s authority. But in time, the Giant became a sloth and squandered all his wealth. He just sat there like a rock on the ground and neglected to build protection from the winter for his land. Then the snow started to fall and the land became a cold hell for the temperature had plummeted and all life in his land said goodbye or died a cold death. Having seen the turmoil, the jealous Midgets of the neighboring lands saw the opportunity and came and stole what was left from the Giant. The once mighty trees were cut down for lumber, the grand rivers emptied, and the bold Midgets went directly to the Giant’s palace and tore it down to the ground. Now, there is nothing left, absolutely nothing, except the Giant. But one day, it will be Spring, and a new Giant will rise. Winter, however, will surely come again. It always does.

To Lose and to Find by claire li The wind is the only sound for miles around, whistling a melancholy tune across the frosty ocean. He stands on the deck where the battle had been fought, taking in the scattered bodies that seem to have fallen asleep on crimson rugs. Although he knows that most of those who lie here aren’t his men, there are still those who will not be celebrating this victory with the rest of their comrades tonight. He lets out a silent breath that freezes in the arctic air, and takes in another that tastes of iron and the salty breeze. “Captain Rowan, I think you need to see this.” Rowan turns towards the sound of his lieutenant’s voice from inside the ship. The urgency in her voice prompts him to hurry after her down the corridor, matching her short hasty steps with his long strides. “What is it?” he demands. She turns to him, as if about to speak, then furrows her eyebrows and shakes her head, her auburn braid swaying as well. She stops suddenly, and he watches as

she slams her weight into a section of the wall. It gives in and swings open, revealing a narrow stairwell going deeper into the ship. He follows her down, and the door behind them swings shut, trapping them in darkness. They continue to wind downwards, lower than what he had estimated the ship’s depth to be, until they stop at a door framed with the flickering light of torches. She pushes it in, and then steps aside to let her captain through. What hits him first is the smell, a rancid concoction of bile, blood, and rot that makes the upper deck seem fragrant in comparison. His eyes adjust to the brightness of the torches, and he begins to make out the faces of his men, some terrified, some only disgusted. “We’ve checked all of them, and they seem to still be alive,” his lieutenant says behind him, “but just barely. They’re all Colonials.” He turns to face her, and she echoes his thoughts. “This ship was meant to transport prisoners. It isn’t a battle

What hits him first is the smell, a rancid concoction of bile, blood and rot that makes the upper deck seem fragrant in comparison.

“Nothing is more necessary or stronger in us than rebellion.” —Georges Bataille

verity

ship like our intel suggested.” When she speaks, he realizes what it was that made his skin prickle with unease. There is no sound; no demands to be released or even groans of pain. Rowan looks at the limp figures shackled to the walls behind the bars. Some seem long since dead, with tendrils of greasy hair covering their face, while others stare at him with glazed eyes. He tears gaze away from them, and turns around to face the group of people who await his orders. “Right then. The king has made it clear that there are to be no prisoners this time. You know what to do.” An uneasy murmur sweeps through the room as hesitant glances are exchanged. Futara stares at him with a look of disbelief tinting her face the auburn of her hair. “Captain, I think that’s—” “Futara, after we are through, we will be

sinking this ship, and then the ocean will drown or freeze them, which I’m sure will be a more painful death than one from our swords. Killing them now is an act of mercy.” He meets each of his men’s eyes, cerulean to grays, greens, and browns, and sees the reluctance crumble as each person shifts their gaze away. “Any more objections?” Rowan sees the muscles in her jaw twitch once before she turns away towards the door. The shrieks of rusted metal fill the room as she pulls down lever after lever, raising the cell gates. A dozen eyes follow her until she disappears behind the wall of one, sword in hand. They hear the sound of metal piercing through flesh, then a quiet thump. No screams, not even a whimper. As the rest of his men soundlessly follow her lead, Rowan steels himself and faces the prisoner behind him, a woman, who looks up at him with a quiet pride. Her lips part,

trembling, as if she’s about to speak. He draws his sword and lunges. * * *

“Sir, I believe that was the last one.” Rowan takes in their scarlet-splattered armor and haggard faces, and knows without looking that he is no different. The day has left both their bodies and spirits ragged and tired, despite their victory. He musters up a smile. “Then I think it’s time to start rounding everyone up and get back to our ship.” A sigh of relief fills the air as they file out, casual c o n ve r s a t i o n already replacing the grim silence. Futara closes the door behind them. “Is there a n y t h i n g else?” he asks, looking up as he stuffs the blood-soaked polishing rag into his boot. Her eyes are trained on the ground, her lips pressed in a hard line. He lets out an airy groan. “Whatever it is, spit it out so we can get out of this bloody place.” She gives him a look

“When I need to identify rebels, I look for men with principles.” —Frank Herbert

verity that lasts a moment of a moment, the kind of pleading, begging look that he used to know so well, before brushing past him and walking towards the back of the prison. He follows her, irritation and anxiety snapping more viciously at his chest with every taciturn second that passes. She stops at the last cell and steps aside. “I found him back here at the beginning, and told the other soldiers to stay away.” Her voice shakes with each word. “It…he’s still alive.” Barely visible behind a pile of rusted weapons is the curled form of a young boy, no more than six or seven. A gruesome slash runs down from behind his hair to where it’s hidden again by a torn jacket, stained black from dried blood. The flesh has begun to fester, and dried pus has collected alongside the wound. It was nothing short of a miracle that there is still the slightest shift in his chest as he breathes. “Is there a reason why you didn’t get rid of him?” he inquires, facing his lieutenant with growing annoyance. Futara’s eyes widen in shock. “He’s only a boy! And not a criminal either, there aren’t any shackles in this cell.” She looks at the wounds on his body. “What kind of savage could do this to a child?” Her voice still trembles, but this time with rage. Rowan sighs. “What will you have me do? Train him to serve on our ship? Futara, he’s one of them.” “He’s the same age Alton was!” she blurts out. Rowan stares at her as if she just drew her sword and leveled it at his neck. He sees the tears pricking at her eyes for a split moment before she looks away. “He’s the same age Joss was,” she says in a softer voice. A shadow of pain and doubt darkens his ce-

rulean eyes to gray, but it goes just as quickly as it came. He turns his back to the silent tears that roll down her cheeks. “I’ve told you ever since the beginning that you weren’t cut out for war. You’re too soft.” He hears her armor clink as she tenses at his words. “Leave if you don’t want to watch.” Firm fingers dig into his arm and turn him around to face her. “I’m fighting in this war to rid this world of those people,” she breathes, “not become one of them.” His arm falls as she lets go and steps back. “And if you do this, then you’re no better than those monsters that killed your son and my brother.” The cell is silent and still for a few moments before she walks away, leaving her look of hurt betrayal imprinted on his sight. Footsteps echo throughout the chamber, and then the slamming of the door is the only voice that he hears. Rowan takes in a shuddering breath as he turns around and unsheathes one of the daggers that hangs from his waist. Torchlight dances off the metal blade, enlivening the deadly instrument and illuminating the boy’s face. The townspeople huddled together in the safety of the hill’s forest, watching in dread as the black ships of the Colonies docked at the shoreline and rows of soldiers, clad in brilliant crimson armor, filed out like fire ants. Ellard ducked through the crowd, his cerulean eyes scanning desperately for the hulking form of— “Lisanna!” he called to the young woman with auburn pigtails. “Where’s your father?” She smiled and waved him towards a tall man in the front, who turned at the sound of his daughter’s name, and raised his hand to greet his old friend. The man dropped it, frowning, as Ellard pushed towards him

A shadow of pain and doubt darkens his cerulean eyes to gray, but it goes just as quickly as it came... “I’ve told you ever since the beginning that you weren’t cut out for war. You’re too soft.”

with eyes wide with panic. “Robert! Where’re Alton and Joss?” Rowan grips the handle tighter as the memory suddenly floods through him. He takes a step forward and grits his teeth, trying to expel the thoughts from his head. Robert’s expression twists to match his. “I thought they were with you and Sarah.” Ellard felt his heart constrict at those words, and shook his head. The people around them suddenly grew silent, and they both turned their heads towards the village. Rippling flames spread from the rows of soldiers throughout their streets and buildings, growing faster even as they watched, horrified, as everything went up in smoke. Beads of sweat trickle down his skin, his breath rings in his ears, and the slight tremors in his hands begin crawling up his arms. The silence surrounding him right now is so unlike the fierce crackle of that fire, and just like the harsh stillness in the night that had consumed them afterwards. When he finally found the burnt remains of a shack on the far side of town, it was the odor that made his insides plummet. Masking the smell of burnt wood was a smell like the leg of deer he tried to cook the night Sarah was out of town. Two charred figures in the back of the room lay slumped over each other as if asleep. What remained of their leathery skin had already peeled off, revealing pieces of bone that stuck out at the strangest angles. Their heads were ebon skulls, eyes screwed shut and mouths stretched taut. Cracks spiderwebbed out from a hole in the center of each forehead. Bullets; the beasts had given them quick and cold deaths. Not out of mercy he knew, but because a burning building this small was too easy to escape from. His eyes soaked in the scene, forcing himself to remember every last detail despite his rolling stomach screaming at him to back away. Sarah must have seen something on his face as he walked towards her that made her cry out and try to

rush past him, but he pulled her into a loose embrace, taking care not to harm their unborn child. The sun had already began to cast its bashful light over the broken town before he heard a strangled cry behind him, and knew that Robert had found them as well. When he stepped back out, one of his arms wrapped itself around his wife and Lisanna, and the other reached out towards them. Ellard gratefully accepted his friend’s gesture, and for that small moment, he let his cares disappear. He didn’t care that Lisanna’s eyes were as hollow and dry as his own. He didn’t care that the aching pit in his chest was gone, and left him feeling absolutely nothing. He didn’t care about anything at all. No better than those monsters. Again and again, the words echo through his mind in his Lieutenant’s— no, Lisanna’s voice. Lisanna who had called him Uncle despite having no blood relations to him. Lisanna who had cried and begged them to stop the first and only time they had taken her on a hunting trip. Lisanna, the precious little girl everyone in the village knew and loved. But now that person has been swallowed whole by someone else, someone who could run her enemy through with a sword without hesitation. Yet, maybe not. The person who tried to protect this boy is reminiscent of the girl he knew a lifetime ago. No better than those monsters. Wrong. This is nothing like what they did back then. No family would mourn the death of a child they’ve already lost, or perhaps thrown away. No better than those monsters. He would have died anyways. There is no place for him in a world divided in two where neither side wants another orphan. And nothing he could do about it. No better than those monsters. Absolutely nothing. No better than those monsters that killed your son

But now that person has been swallowed whole by someone else, someone who could run her enemy through with a sword without hesitation.”

“Murder’s out of tune, / And sweet revenge grows harsh.” —W. Shakespeare

verity and my brother. A savage scream rips itself out of his throat as he slams the dagger into the floor, where it quivers for a few long moments before stilling. * * * Soft candlelight illuminates the room, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Outside is the sound of drunken laughter and chatter, but inside it is quiet, save for the scratching of an ink pen. The cabin itself is sparsely furnished, with nothing but a desk in one corner, and a mattress pushed against the other, both of which are occupied. A quiet cough draws his attention away from the papers on his desk. “I’ve done all I can for the boy. Whether or not he lives is up to him now.” Rowan slips off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Thank you, Kayson. I apologize for troubling you with this.” Kayson gives him a weary smile. “Not at all. After all, what kind of doctor would I be if I left someone who could possibly be saved to die?” His eyebrows furrow together and his smile vanishes. “But what will you do if he does survive? The king wouldn’t be pleased with you. A child of the Colonies won’t be accepted by anyone in the Eight Nations, let alone the Capital.” Rowan hesitates briefly, choosing his next words carefully. “However, my village will not be quite so… judgmental. Especially if I am together with him.” For several seconds, Kayson stares at his captain in obvious confusion. Rowan watches in amusement as his expression changes from bewilderment to disbelief, and finally becomes a comprehending smile. Kayson chuckles softly and shakes his head. “The king will not be pleased with that either.” Rowan lets out a short, coughing laugh. “On His Majesty’s list of things he does not find pleasing, I’m sure my resignation ranks quite low. A replacement will be found in no time.” “In that case,” Kayson says with a deep bow, “let me be the first of many to say that it has been a pleasure serving you these past years.”

He grabs his medicine box and excuses himself, exchanging one more smile with his friend before he goes. For a brief moment as the door opens, the discordant harmony of a song sung by soldiers brushes in along the tiny cracks in the walls, sinking into the floor and the bed and the desk. He catches a glimpse of Lisanna leaning over with a sheepish grin on her face to plant a sloppy kiss on one of his men. Then the door swings back shut, cutting off the sound of intertwining music and voices. He grabs another piece of parchment from the drawer and re-inks his pen.

Dear Sarah, It’s been too long, too long since I’d left you and Rickon all those years ago. I don’t know how you’ll forgive me, I don’t know if you will, and I don’t ask you to. How can I ever make up the time we had lost? How can I ever make it up to Rickon, who’s grown up without a father? I don’t know. But I’m coming home, and I’ll start somewhere, and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to if that’s what it takes. There is a boy who is coming back with me, and I hope he can live with us, if God be kind. He is another casualty of this war, as Alton was. He is the reason why I fight, but he also reminds me why I must return. This war is someone else’s battle now. I belong next to you. Love, Ellard

Echo Eyes by kimberly tan

She was the girl with charcoal lashes, pastel skin and acrylic eyes, who peered into a still-life world that was deaf to her silent lies. She painted with the passion of a Da Vinci or Cezanne, but never once completed a painting without discarding it at dawn. The sketches on her homework lay captive in sky blue cells,

breathing and stirring behind locked doors, though she had no one to warn or tell. I caught her flinted gaze just once, glimpsed the rainbow drops and stain – before she wiped her hands with haste, hid the scarlet brush in vain. And with no one to entrust the worlds she built in colored black and whites, she instead let a sculpted scowl on porcelain skin shield her echo eyes.

“A penny will hide the biggest star in the universe if you hold it close enough to your eye.” —S. Grafton

verity

I think someone told me a long time ago not to run up the stairs. I think she might have even been important to me, and so it almost bothers me that I am breaking that rule now. Almost. My sneakers are sodden with water, but I pant for breath and drag my exhausted legs up yet another broad, shallow step. The water rushes around my ankles as it pours down the staircase in a long tumbling spiral towards lower ground. When I turn my gaze to the steps before me, the light off the water and white marble is too much; I shade my eyes, gasping. I swallow against a dry throat, realizing how thirsty I am. Yet I still stagger upward, rubber soles slipping on the slick marble and splashing through the layer of water falling, ever falling, down each step from above. My hair drips in my face â&#x20AC;&#x201C; I have fallen once or twice, and I am shivering despite the heat stabbing through my legs and calves, despite my ever-increasing burning thirst. But I cannot stop, I cannot rest,

by catherine pugh I cannot wait. Lurching up another few steps, I lose my balance and teeter for a second on the stair, arms flailing. My haste might mean broken ribs, a shattered skull, a fractured spine, but I sense I am fleeing something too terrible to name. I regain my balance, adrenaline searing through my veins, and force myself forward again, leaning to the right in an attempt to see further up the enormous spiral staircase. There is nothing, only the smooth white wall a dozen feet to my right and the central column of the staircase the same distance to my left. And the eternal river pouring, pouring down. My next step sends water splashing up into my face and I gag, choking, nearly swallowing reflexively. My heart freezing in sudden fright, I cough, expelling the water so violently my stomach muscles spike with pain. The water is cold and pure, but I know this out of all my possible actions is the worst. I cannot stop, but even less can I drink from the liquid flowing down these

steps. Temptation, I think, though I do not know where the thought has come from or why that word in particular has sprung to my mind. It is irrelevant. I continue upward. Time has no meaning here, but I can tell after a while that I have slowed, legs leaden and weak. Gritting my teeth, I press my hands down on my thighs and use them to push me up another step. Then another. And another. But I know I am failing, my movements growing more and more sluggish. I am in perfect physical shape, but this climb is too much for me.

Half-delirious, another thought springs to mind I wonder if that same, half-remembered person ever told me to never run when it was wet? It seems likely. I smile giddily through my fatigue, though the idea is not particularly funny. Pushing it out of my head, I fight upwards towards my goal, considering for a single glorious second the concept of resting, just for a bit. Then my pounding heart reminds me that I need to keep going, that if I slow down I might… I cannot quite remember what it is I fear. I just need to keep climbing…

“To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.” —Nietzsche

verity Each breath sears my parched throat, every step sends pain shooting up my legs. I stumble and fall before I can catch myself, sending out my hand at the last minute in an instinctive attempt to lessen the impact. It collides with the stair hard and I hear a crack, my wrist giving way as I crash onto the stairs, water spraying as it rushes over my head and shoulders. I struggle to my feet despite the pain, coughing, cradling my wrist, spitting out any water I may have swallowed. I am doomed if I have drunk too much, and panic drives me to scramble up another few steps before I have even cleared my throat. My legs are still lancing with pain, but it is my wrist that swallows my mind with its deep, agonizing throb. I whimper, still climbing mechanically with my arm to my chest, knowing that the next time I trip will be my last. The water around my feet seems to part less easily now, catching at the hem of my pants and tugging me insistently. It is almost malicious, as if it is determined I will never reach the top. I am starting to believe this in my own mind as well. The light seems too bright now, even as black spots start to encroach at the edge of my sight. Things are getting hazy and I curl into myself, sobbing though I am too dehydrated to even tear up. There is something behind meâ&#x20AC;Ś On my next step my ankle twists and I fall, landing hard on my side, the marble driving into my ribs unforgivingly. My breath stops in my chest and I fight to inhale, unable to even cry out. When the air comes it is accompanied by ripping pain that sends bright lights to flash in front of my face. I wheeze, realizing I have

probably cracked my ribs. Lying there helplessly, the water closes in, seeming to almost rise up my face against gravity. I close my eyes as it smothers me, crying now, as the water trickles down my throat. I no longer care if I drown. In the darkness behind my lids, I almost catch something. A flash of memory, a face. I remember more pain, a scarlet flower of blood. Someone screaming. It is gone as quickly as it comes. Yet that moment has impressed on me again the urgency of what I am doing. With an effort I force my eyes open, then, spluttering and gagging, I sit up, broken wrist tucked close to my stomach. I will keep going. Rising to my feet proves to be too much; I sink limply back with a moan. But that desire is back in my blood, so I shift onto my stomach and scrabble my arms and legs, dragging myself over the hard edges of the stairs. I am crawling now, slowly, and with only one hand, but I am making my way upward any way I can. The water is cold on my hand and elbow and legs. My saturated clothes weigh me down. Time splinters into fragments. Eyes to the stair. Forearm on the next step. Pull. My ribs piercing through my chest with pain. Upward. Climb. Just one more step. When my arms and legs give way I only despair for a few seconds, because weariness is pouring its gray bittersweetness through the marrow of my bones. I lie there, content to justâ&#x20AC;Ś close my eyes. Something is pounding at the back of my head, a ghost of my former perseverance, but I am done. I am ready to give up and drift away. My heartbeat is thudding in my ears, and I can hear its pulse slowing. The sound of water rushing is fading. Then the staircase thrums. I feel the vibrating all through my battered body, shattering the cocoon of calm that has woven its warm thickness around me. I crack open my eyes, gritty reality shoving its way in, but all I can see is white. The light has intensified, and I have the sense that something else has changed. There is a sound my dazed mind cannot identify. Squinting, I shift my head ever so slightly,

trying to look up the steps, and somehow the water parts enough that I can see upwards using just my peripheral vision. Someone or something is standing on the staircase above me. I cannot make out anything but its silhouette, edges glowing, but I can see as it inclines its head toward me, hands pressed together near its midsection. The water around me warms. Welcome, the figure says, voice reverberating and echoing from the marble, everywhere at once and yet swelling through my mind directly. Fear not, for you have ascended. My mouth slips open, the closest I can come to expressing my astonishment. Is my torturous struggle up this stair over? The hours have blurred together, and I no longer know how long I have been climbing, how far up I have come. Is it possible I have made it? Hope trickles through me, numbing some of my bruises and pains with a glow of heat. I suddenly realize I am lying on a dry step. Twisting my head so I can look down, I see the marble shining pristinely, with not a single indication that only moments before it had a torrent tumbling down it. I have only my soaking clothes to remind me I was not imagining the deluge. Arise, says the figure, and I do. It takes me a

moment to realize the oddness, but the agony in my torso and legs is gone, replaced with an persistent but manageable ache. My wrist too is only sore, and though I feel drained, I am healthy and essentially whole as I turn upward, a smile spreading over my face. The light has dimmed just enough for me to see the figure above spread its wings. They unfold from its back majestically, shimmering in the same white light that burns everywhere around me. For only a second the memory flickers back: the face, the blood, the scream. My death. But as the angel reaches its hands toward me, I begin to run up the steps, pain forgotten. I know that after all this time, after all my ordeals, after all my anguish… I am home.

“The world is full of suffering. It is also full of overcoming.” —Helen Keller

verity

La Bella Luna

by tiffany tzeng

Silence. That was my first thought upon approaching the place where I once called home. No signs of any living creature; not even a bird in the sky or an ant on the stones. All I saw were the shattered concrete and twisted metal bones of my beloved city. My city. Once known as the most technologically advanced city in the United States, as well as the safest. Ha, safest. No one left to protect here. I understood now why they had a law preventing citizens from leaving. Inside the city, the roads in the sky and the buildings once blocked the worst of the sun. There were still patches of sunlight, but somehow the temperature stayed a pleasant constant throughout the seasons. Outside, an angry red fireball in the hard blue sky burns. Every second Outside made me wonder if my clothes would melt or if my hair would burst into flame. The largest shadow I had seen in a long time was my own, and no matter how hard I tried, there was no way to take shelter in it. I made my way back to my little camp in an old, crumbling town not far away from the great stone bones. My few belongings sat in a

tiny bit of shade against the old foundations of a building. I slumped down next to my bag and reached inside for a water bottle. Savoring a mouthful of tepid water, I settle down into a more comfortable position to wait for nightfall. * * * I traveled under the black blanket; guarded by the sad silver man and his pet stars. No one believed me when I told them about the Moon and stars ten years ago. My friends laughed and called me a lunatic. “Don’t believe in what you can’t see, smell, taste, feel, or hear,” they always said. My teachers had several conferences with my grandmother; they were concerned that I would try to go Outside. Year after year. New teachers, more conferences, more concern. Eventually, I quit trying to be a “lunatic” and they stopped worrying. That doesn’t mean I forgot what Grandma taught me, though. It only made me want to learn more... * * * “Imagine a soft cloth thick enough to block out the sun. A huge black blanket with tiny little holes to let bits of sunlight through,” said

UNTOUCHABLE//

“Nobody ever did, or ever will, escape the consequences of his choices.” — A. MontapertJESSICA ZHENG

verity Grandma, gesturing with her hands to the orange-gray night sky. “Why does the blanket have holes?” I asked, reaching my own tiny hands above my head. “When the Sun goes to sleep, there’s no light for the animals to see by. So the sky, being kind, lets some of the Sun’s gentler rays shine all night. Those rays are called stars. There’s also another light. You already know what the sky’s daytime face is called.” “Sun,” I said, trying to imagine Grandma’s facial features on the ball of light. I giggled. She smiled as though she guessed what I was thinking. “Yes, the Sun. But the sky also had a nicer side, a face that only shows itself at night. Moon.” “Moon,” I repeated, fascinated. The word sounded foreign, yet familiar at the same time; its presence was as natural to me as the Sun. “What’s it look like?” “Silver and round, like one of those old fashioned coins. If you look carefully, you can see a man’s sad face on it,” Grandma murmured, her eyes out of focus. “Why is he sad, Grandma?” I asked, tugging on her sleeve. “He’s sad because he knows people will eventually forget about him and his stars. He’s still sad now, but no one can see his face at night because of our city lights.” I bit my lip thoughtfully. My six-year old head was filled with a wonderful black canvas bright with dots of silver light. “I want to see Moon and his stars,” I declared. Grandma looked down at me, her eyes smiling. “Not now. When you’re older, you can see Moon and his stars.”

me that night, after Grandma’s funeral. To explore the rocky terrain and take pictures as proof of our adventures. To chase the little mice and lizards that come out from their burrows at night. To see Moon and stars. Anything that could have saved them from the night the buildings collapsed. Instead, I hiked alone, away from the bright lights and orange sky. I only wanted to walk far enough away to get a glimpse of silver Moon or even a glitter of Stars. I had only just realized how many miles I would have to walk before the light polluted heavens faded to its intended blackness when my home crumbled, trapping everyone inside. For the first time in my life, the world was dark. Slowly, though, a soft circle of light appeared, a dim spotlight on a wall of shadowy mist. When the clouds finally cleared, my heart nearly exploded from my chest. It was Grandma. A huge orb so white, it looked iridescent. Darker silver marks suggested a long nose, a mouth with its corners turned down slightly, wise eyes that have seen dark times. Gentle light edged every stone on the ground, giving the wasteland an ethereal appearance. How could I have ever thought Grandma was like the Sun? She was the most important part of my life, just like how the Sun is important for life on Earth. Yet, now I know its cruel rules of survival, forcing me to travel in its shadow. A new arrival, a silver deity, rushed in to comfort me with her gentle glow. Just like how Grandma used to do when I fall and scrape my knee. The Moon is not like Grandma. They are one and the same. I looked up at the Moon. Grandma smiled.

I traveled under the black blanket; guarded by the sad silver man and his pet stars. No one believed me when I told them about the Moon and stars ten years ago.”

* * * I wish I asked my friends to go Outside with

Snowblind Through the clumps of snow of the windshield, Dustin could see nothing but the few feet of road ahead that were illuminated by the weak, yellow headlights. The dark silhouettes of conifers and snowdrifts along the sides of the road whisked by, their nebulous shadows sweeping across the road as the car passed them. Craning his head to see past the shimmering flurry of snow that fell across his headlights, Dustin made out the brown-metal glint of a mailbox on the left of the road. This had to be the place. Stopping the car, Dustin pulled his hood over his head and grabbed the bags lying on the passenger seat. He stepped out of the car, jamming his hands into his coat pockets as the icy wind blew over him, its chilling breath entering every chink in his clothes. Following the remnants of a path, he trudged into the darkness, his legs sinking knee-deep with each step, until he came across a dark, snow-covered shape in his path. Slowly climbing the icy steps that rose out of the snow, Dustin reached in his bag for a key. Grasping the cold metal knob, he opened the door and stepped inside, slamming the door behind him. In the absence of the wind he heaved a sigh, breathing in the smell of old furniture and dust. It was a relief to hear his own voice. Turning on a couple lamps, he surveyed the room. An empty fireplace, wooden floors, stiff couches, a television set. “It’ll do,” Dustin said. His voice was quickly absorbed by the empty space. Getting the heater started, he fell on the couch and picked up the cold remote. As a football game flickered onto

the screen, he laid his head on the couch. His eyelids falling, falteringly, his head began to swim with the fuzzy noises of the commentators’ voices in the background. For a moment, he remembered the argument, the anguished voices, the clock smashing to the ground. But it felt so distant, drifting further away with each passing moment as his mind resigned itself to sleep. A warbled scream opened Dustin’s eyes. He blinked at the darkness. He kept his breath still. Silence. He told himself it was a dream and closed his eyes. He heard it again, a high pitched wail. It came from one of the rooms downstairs. Slowly walking past the pale light of the television, sputtering static, Dustin made his way down the old wooden stairs, shivering as he groped for the frigid hand-rail. The sound came again, louder, from the door to his right. He took a step towards the door, his arms tingling as a draft blew past. He thrust open the door. He found himself in an empty bedroom, lit by a soft stream of pale moonlight from an open window. Through it he could see the snow whirl-

“You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today.” —A. Lincoln

verity ing violently out in the darkness. He shut the window, cutting the wail short. Then he noticed something, the faint outline of a white shape, moving against by jeffrey yang the swirling snow. It was large enough to be a person. Squinting, Dustin watched as it moved across his view. It disappeared. Struggling for a few moments to discern the shape from the snowfall, Dustin found it again. It no longer moved. He watched it until the blizzard smothered the glass, blanketing the window in black. Dustin shivered. Noticing the frost forming in the room, he went back upstairs to the warmth of his couch. It was only when his mind began fading into sleep that a dim thought occurred to him. He had shivered, but not because of the cold. There was something about the shape’s posture, the way it had stopped. It was staring back at him, and he had felt its gaze through the cold glass of the window. Dustin woke in a cold sweat. Gasping for breath, he sat up from the couch, staring at the television screen for five whole seconds before

he realized that it showed nothing but static. He went to the sink and turned the faucet, freezing to the touch. Nothing came out. He rubbed his dry eyes. Heaving a coat over his shoulders, he opened the door and stepped outside. He carefully stepped down the mound of snow that had formed over the front, each step leaving a brown indentation in the whiteness. Walking past the car, he followed the sleet-covered road to the convenience store he had passed on the way to the cabin. He looked at the stark whiteness that surrounded him, the empty color that covered everything around him, rendering all shapes indistinguishable, broken only by the clear sky. He remembered hearing stories of people who went blind in the snow, and quickened his pace. A gray object came into view, growing larger with each step. Soon dirty orange lettering became visible. Dustin walked into the Go-Mart convenience store, greeted by the odor of stale coffee. The man at the counter gave him a gruff nod. Searching through the barren, dingy shelves, Dustin examined a bottle of water, the ice bursting out of the top. “Rough night, wasn’t it?” he asked. The man at the counter grunted. “Lucky we

PARLOUR//

MICHELLE CHANG

verity didn’t get snowed in.” Dustin piled his goods on the counter. A question was festering inside him, gnawing at his insides. He had to get it out. “Did you see anyone out last night? The man glanced up quickly from the cash register. “You know anyone out there would be buried three feet under.” Dustin chuckled, the weak sound dying out as he saw the hard look the man gave him as he handed him the bags, ushering him out of the store without a word. Back in the dim confines of his cabin, Dustin could not forget the grim face of the man at the counter, his narrowed eyes. But Dustin knew there was something else. It was fear. Staring out the window at the rolling clouds blotting out the weak afternoon sun, Dustin realized that the man at the counter had wanted him gone. The wind battered the walls of the cabin, struggling to find an opening, a way in. The skies had gone dark hours early. Dustin turned on the television. Buzzing static pierced the silence of the room. He turned it off, and the emptiness once again consumed the cabin. Gazing at the hunting trophies adorning the opposite wall, Dustin began to lose control of his eyelids as they slowly covered his vision. A faint buzzing filled Dustin was standing in a street, one he had seen many times. He walked down the row of houses to his right, each the same as he remembered, until he found himself looking at a familiar squat, gray-roofed house. His house. But there was something different about the neighborhood. Snow danced silently in the air, covering his surroundings in a layer of white. It never snowed back there. Dustin walked across the lawn to his house, sinking with each step. Then his foot hit something hard, and the snow in his path thawed away, revealing what lay underneath. It was the body of a woman, her eyes closed. Her stiff arms held three children. He could name every one of them. He stared at her face, the hard lines on her cheeks relaxed, serene. As his gaze traveled up her sleeping features to her

eyes, they opened. Dustin looked away. He kicked snow over the bodies, covering them up, restoring the perfect white surface. It was as though nothing were wrong. Dustin woke up with a throbbing headache. A cold draft blew through the room, sending shivers up his body. He reached to pull the blankets back over himself when he realized they were already covering him. A fine layer of frost was forming on the red wool. Pulling the blanket over his numbed shoulders, he got up and walked to the heater. Checking that it was turned on, he put his hand on it. The hard metal was as cold as the surrounding air. As he pulled on his jacket, shivering, he began to realize what it might feel like to freeze to death. Flipping through the phonebook, he found the local repair shop. He had picked up the phone when he remembered that the lines were still down. He checked the page again for the address. It wasn’t a long walk. fhristinaOpening the door, Dustin was once again greeted by a fresh layer of snow over the front steps. Walking down the road, he gazed at the white that encompassed him, blending perfectly into the gray sky. He tried to imagine what had existed before the snow, but the white surface was so timeless, so untouched, that he could easily have been convinced that it had always been there. A grim smile came to his face at the thought. Maybe he could also bury those memories so deep that they too might cease to exist. A slight breeze of cold wind brought him back to his senses. He looked behind him. His cabin had grown so small that is was indistinguishable from its surroundings. There was still a long way to go. Then he noticed the sky. The gray clouds had begun swirling, darkening with each passing second. The conifers shook in the breeze, chunks of snow falling from their branches. Dustin’s heart stopped cold. There was nothing but empty forest for as far as his eye could

see. He started running down the road, each breath expelling steam that hung in the air. The snow began falling, dead silent among the howling wind. It fell faster and faster, picked up by the violent gales. The throbbing pain in his head returning, Dustin forced his legs to move faster, ignoring the pain in his chest from the cold air in his lungs. A gust of wind slammed into his side, stinging pellets of snow spraying against his face, and suddenly the ground was at the side of his face. As he forced his dazed body to rise, Dustin felt the snow crawling down the back of his shirt. Plunging his hands into stinging snow, he pushed himself upright, fighting to move forward. He had lost his way. He could see nothing in front of him but the thick snow. He looked frantically for black asphalt on the ground, but the snow had already covered all signs of the road. But through the dense wind he caught a flash of yellow. It was light, somewhere off in the distance. He began limping towards it, wrenching each leg out of the knee-deep snow to take the next step. He could no longer feel his feet, the burning sensation of ice in his shoes strangely removed. As he struggled on, he realized that the snow was getting deeper, now almost to his thighs. He became aware of dark, blurry shapes around him, growing denser with each moment. He was deep in the forest. He forced his feet to move through the thick snow. He knew he should have reached the source of the light by now. He shouted and screamed for help, but he couldn’t even hear his own voice in the wind. Then his foot hit something hard, buried in the snow. At first he thought it was a tree, but it was too flat, too angular. He extended his hand, pressing his palm against a flat surface. He

could feel the wooden planks brushing against his skin. He followed the surface, keeping one hand on it, until he found himself at the front porch of an old cabin. He knocked on the door, stiff fingers against hard wood. The door slowly opened, revealing a wizened man. The man seemed alarmed, and for a moment Dustin thought he would slam the door shut. But the tension in his face broke into a weak smile. He motioned for Dustin to step inside, shutting the door behind him. “I thought I heard someone shouting outside,” he said as soon as the howling wind was cut short. “You’re lucky that you found your way here.” He threw more sticks in the fireplace and drew a seat up for Dustin, motioning for him to sit. The roaring fire warmed Dustin to his bones. “I can’t thank you enough,” he said. The man chuckled. “No need thanking me. It’s nice having company once in a while. I don’t get many visitors.” Dustin stared silently at the fire for a few moments. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” “Yeah,” Dustin said. The man nodded. “There can’t be a hundred souls from here to the foothills. I’ll be ashamed if I can’t name them all.” “But how about Top Rock? It’s only an hour drive.” The man shook his head. “The city-folk never come up here. They almost seem to avoid us. Fine by me, I suppose.” “Why?” Dustin asked. He shifted uncomfortably. “There are rumors about this place. It’s all superstition, of course,” he said, waving his arm. “But you can’t help but

“They call it the whiteness. They say there’s something about this place during snow season, some kind of sickness....it drives people crazy. Insane.”

“They who dream by day are cognizant of things which escape those who dream only by night.” —E. Poe

verity believe, sometimes...” The crackling of flames filled the silent room. “They call it the whiteness. They say there’s something about this place during snow season, some kind of sickness...it drives people crazy. Insane. I guess it has to do with being shut in all the time, but they say that once the whiteness starts to take hold of you, you start to see things, strange things, moving in the snow. Then you lose your mind, like a rabid dog.” He stared thoughtfully out the window for a moment. “See, that’s why I panicked when I saw you at the door, all covered in white... I thought it was happening to me.” Then he laughed. “Now I’m just making a fool out of myself. I honestly don’t think anyone here believes it, but one mention of it and they all go crazy. Maybe we’re just the crazy ones.” Dustin laughed with the man, but what the man said reverberated in his mind. “Maybe we’re just the crazy ones...” he muttered to himself. The man rose, throwing more sticks into the fire. “It’s getting late,” he said. “Give me a shout if you need anything. Make yourself at home.” As the man left the room, Dustin remained in his seat, staring into the fire, afraid of what he might see if he looked out the window into the snow outside. “It’s just a myth, a superstition,” he told himself. The blizzard howling outside drowned his voice. Dustin wondered when the sickness would take hold of him, or if it already had. He remembered the face of the man at the Go-Mart counter. Fear. The man was scared for his life, scared of him. Dustin stared at the bedroom door. What if he hurt the man, what if he had already hurt him? He had to leave. He wasn’t safe. He pulled on his jacket, taking a flashlight from the table, walked out the door into the howling darkness. The flashlight threw a feeble light against the wailing blizzard, illuminating the flurry of snow around him, casting long shadows of the looming trees. He didn’t know where he was going,

he only knew he had to get out, to leave. He felt as if he were in his car again, the flashlight in his hand like a single dim headlight, traveling up the lonely road. Just two days ago, he had thought this place would be his sanctuary. He remembered the angry voice of his wife, the children cowering silently behind her as they spat words at each other over something he couldn’t recall. As he trudged through the snow, pain shot up his foot with each step. He remembered how he had kicked the wall after his wife had left, sending the clock off its perch, crashing to the ground, glass and small springs scattering across the floor. He was back on the snow-buried road, no longer able to notice the cold, unable to feel the stinging snow against his face. Was this a sign of madness? He found himself in front of the familiar cabin, the inside lights still on. Scraping the snow off his car, he wrenched the door open and got in, placing his raw hands behind the wheel. He felt the familiar rumble of the engine, growing into a roar as the car accelerated down the road, chained tires crunching into the snow. As he pressed his foot into the accelerator, he saw the faces of the children, the fear in their eyes as they watched him walk out of the house. All the memories he had tried to forget, the memories he had buried so deep under the snow, came spilling out like a creek in early spring. As the car left the tree-line behind, exposing the vast valley, Dustin saw the squat buildings below, blue smoke rising into air. He realized where he was headed. He could picture the familiar house, the gears of the clock still rolling on the floor. The car remained on its course. He wondered where his wife was now, and tried to think of what he would say. He saw now how hopeless it was to hide from the truth, to bury it under the snow. It didn’t matter how deep he pushed it, how many layers covered it up. Staring into the trackless white, he knew that there was no escaping it. After all, even if he tried to hide it in the snow, he could not stop the thaw.

Rabbit “Where do you want to go?” “Right here.” “Right now?” “Yes.” “Are you sure? What if you get hurt? Are you going to be okay?”

by christina zhu

“I will be okay.” Her knees drop onto the dry grass as she releases him from her arms. Her light fingers automatically go to the back of his ears, where she scratches him absentmindedly. “You’ll be okay, right?”

“Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.” — C. S. Lewis

verity “Of course I will be.” The bottom of the dress swishes on the grass, which crackles and snaps in response. She pauses, makes a small twitching movement, as if unsure of herself; then, she bends down and scoops him back into her milk-white arms, cradling him. “Are you sure? What if you get hurt?” “Come on, there’s no need to worry!” “Yes, silly of me, isn’t it? Silly of me to worry.” She twirls a loose strand of hair and attempts to put it back into the bun. It doesn’t fit. “I have always said that you worry far too much.” He taps her nose, and she wrinkles it in response. He squirms out of her arms and sits, contemplating her. A laugh is carved out of her throat, pegs the atmosphere, assaults the air. “Either way, I’ll die in the end, right? If I worry a lot, I’ll die, and if I don’t worry a lot, I’ll die. But I just can’t help worrying about you. I worry about you a lot. If you get hurt or sad or dead, I worry.” He doesn’t reply, only looks burningly at her. “You should not worry about me. I will be fine.” “Well, there’s nothing to do now, but wait, right?” “Yes.” “You don’t have to lie to me, you know,” the girl says while twirling her dress such that it opens and closes like a many-lipped oyster. “You can just tell me what’s going to happen to you. I really don’t like liars.” The sun beats down on her neck, causing small beads of sweat to form. She debates on whether or not to continue the conversation. A hot, heavy silence coalesces. After spinning aimlessly for a second of eternity, she stops and peers down at him. He twitches a few times under her bright stare, and then returns the favor. The back of his eyes are dark and unreadable, his expres-

sion blank. “Okay then, be that way. Don’t tell me anything.” She pouts. “There’s nothing to worry about, you know. I will be perfectly fine. Just go back and this will all just be a dream. I will be back before you know it.” He bats his ear playfully, and she smiles, offsetting the pressing matters at hand. Her smile fades as the loud gong of thunder signals the start of the end. He stops, glances up, and takes a few steps towards the thunderstorm brewing miles away. “This is it?” “Yes.” There is a strained silence as they acknowledge each other. “Good-bye, mister rabbit.” She steps back from the asphalt, into the cool shade. “Good-bye.” She turns and walks away, pauses, and fighting a great internal battle, stops. Eyes wide, breathing quickly, she turns around and sprints back to where he was. There’s a sense of absence instilled in the air. The atmosphere, just as hot and humid as before, holds no electricity – instead, there is a heavy, marbled heartbeat in its wake. In his emptiness there is a sense of nothingness. She runs. Rain begins falling a few miles away onto the parched ground with surprisingly little sound. The wind begins riling the tufts of grass into a frenzy of activity; the air mutters of an impending finality. She slows down and glances up to where he is, wherever he is, a resonant promise lodged in her ears – they will meet again.

A laugh is carved out of her throat, pegs the atmosphere, assaults the air. “Either way, I’ll die in the end, right? If I worry a lot, I’ll die, and if I don’t worry a lot, I’ll die.”

Counting Stars by jessica kim

“Live by love though the stars walk backward.” — E.E. Cummings

verity

Sometimes you liked to talk about sunflowers and how they seemed to capture all the bits and rays of time in one botched bloom. It’s days like this when I remember how you liked to bite the corners off of your paper, and how you always hand-delivered every parcel and letter sometimes filled to the brim with chattering bits of yes’s and no’s. We would sit at the top of the hill and you would count each cloud resembling the back of a child’s hand mixed with the residue of a drizzle and with each finger you’d name each little ray of light as if it were your own, and what does it matter about those stars when your light is more numerous than the sands and the seas from here and there, and out to wherever you may now be.

Smoke Spot by irene hsu

LAURA I don’t know what to do about my son Maurice. He is too old for God, my advice, and curfews, though my sister the psychic said otherwise over the phone. I called her last week for three free sentences of personal guidance. “Maurice may be in grave danger if he doesn’t watch out for curfews,” were her words, not mine. “That’s a load of bull,” said Maurice last week. “You’re just making a big stink out of it because you don’t want me out.” “That’s not true,” I said. “I just want you to be safe.” “I’m seventeen,” he said, and slammed his door. And last night, he comes home after dark and scoots into his room like nothing happened. I opened the door to tell him it’s Sunday, why wasn’t he at church, and why was he home after sunset? He said, “Mom, if I tell you something, will you call the police?” I knew it. He had murdered someone. “I witnessed a murder,” he said. He had found a dead body in a car. Is that what I was hearing? And had seen the murderer running over the hill without shoes on?

Maybe I could say that it was okay. But it wasn’t. And he would tell me it wasn’t, and that I was crazy. Or I could say that everything will be okay. But he would tell me I was crazy too. What could be done? What could I say? “I told you,” were the words that came out of my mouth. Because I really had told him. “If you hadn’t been out, this wouldn’t have happened.” He stared at me. “If you had listened to me, nothing would’ve happened,” I heard myself saying again. “You’re crazy,” he shouted, pushing me away. “Leave me alone.” He pushed me out of his room and banged the door shut. Then he told me he didn’t want to talk to me, and I tried to open the door again, but it was locked. He just doesn’t get that this is serious, and that he brought it upon himself, and I told him that. He deserved it. But I realized it wasn’t entirely his fault. Maurice is a good kid. If my psychic sister had told me exactly what would happen, I know Maurice wouldn’t have been out after sunset. I called her again. “Laura, don’t worry about it,” she said. “It’s not what you think. Get some sleep.”

I tried to open the door again, but it was locked. He just doesn’t get that this is serious, and that he brought it upon himself, and I told him that.”

“We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” —A. Nin

verity I asked her why she didn’t tell me about the goddamn murder, but then she laughed at me and hung up because I didn’t want to pay for a fourth sentence. Then, I called her again to tell her I’ve hated her guts ever since I was ten, but she told me to calm down. Calm down! She sure didn’t calm down when I got an A in Calculus and when her ex-boyfriend asked me out and when Mom gave grandma’s necklace to me, not her. I bet I’d even make a better psychic. MAURICE I saw a murder. Well, Christopher saw it, but I was at the scene of the crime. I haven’t been at school for a week. And Christopher doesn’t even care. I said to him, “We’re witnesses.” “Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” he said, smashing his clay pipe. “We need to tell the police,” I said. He laughed. Sometimes I don’t even know why I put up with him. He always swings his legs up on my dashboard. I say, “Hey Christopher, mind taking your stinkin’ feet off my dashboard?” And he looks at me like I’m crazy. There are permanent shoe prints on my dashboard. It’s my car. Although now it’s my mom’s car, after we traded, in case. I have to tape up her license plate every night in case the murderer finds her and thinks it’s me. He’s definitely out to get me—we did almost run him over. So I need to be on the move. I’d take Christopher, but he doesn’t seem to care. I don’t understand. He used to skip school liberally, too. He wanted to go everywhere with me, even to find Dom’s smoke spot. But then again, he probably just wanted to smoke. The first time we hung out, I had a smoke with him—out of courtesy. Now it’s the only thing we do.

So I’ve been on the move by myself. Safety first. I’ve been everywhere. I’ve been to the grocery store, the elementary school, the aquarium—anywhere with a crowd. If my mom finds out that I haven’t been at school, she’d kill me. I’ve ruined my perfect attendance, but I have to get my priorities straight. My mom—she doesn’t get the magnitude of this. She storms into my room, cries about how I’ve caught a cold, and when I explain, tells me I’m crazy and cries some more. She even tries to bring in my psychic aunt, until I want to scream, “If she’s so goddamn psychic, why doesn’t she rip out the phone line before you call?” But I’ve started wondering if I’m making something out of nothing? Mom and Christopher wouldn’t actually be this nonchalant unless there really were nothing to worry about, would they? I mean, even my aunt is telling me to calm down. But the way I see it is this: if the murderer isn’t coming after me, then I’m just wasting

some time. If he’s coming and I don’t do anything, I’m dead. Better safe than sorry. That means I’m doing the right thing, and Mom’s a psycho. Christopher’s definitely a psycho. My psychic aunt is a psycho. And if I don’t get some peace of mind soon, I may end up as one, too. LUCY My friends always say I’m a prude because I like scrapbooks and picnics. Now look—water is up to my neck and I am cold and it is night and I have no idea where my clothes are. They also took my keys, even the shoes. And Dom got those for me. I know it doesn’t sound like a big deal, but Dom used to be a wild guy— the kind my parents would flip out about. He even used to drink and smoke. But I think he quit for me. I wish I could call him now. Or that I had my socks. As it is, if I ran up that hill in my bare feet and got into my car, imagine the mud. The dead insects. It’s a new car. The worst part is, I can see my car up the path. Someone even walked up to it, but I couldn’t shout—because I’m naked. I told my parents I’d be back before dark, so they’ll know something went wrong. I don’t understand. Why couldn’t we have just had dinner? I hate when people change

plans, and now, my parents will think I lied to them, like I planned this. God, I hate practical jokes. CHRISTOPHER Maurice and I wanted to find a new smoke spot since the city council busted our old one. I didn’t like our old spot anyway. It smelled like rotting rain in the summer, and once, we found a dead rat split in two at the base of the wall. The thing is, Maurice heard that Dom had a place up in the hills, so he wanted to root it out, just to piss him off. I didn’t want to. Dom’s tough like beef; if you’ve got a beef with beef, you’re as good as dead. But Maurice, he’s had it in for Dom ever since he was five, but Dom doesn’t know, so that’s why Maurice isn’t dead. We should have been carving out our own spot, but instead, we spent the whole damn afternoon looking for Dom’s, which was probably just a decoy so geeks like Maurice wouldn’t trash it. Maurice must’ve wasted a gallon of gas driving up and down that damn hill. “Forget it,” I said. “Let’s smoke.” “I want to find the stinkin’ spot.” That’s Maurice for you, dogged as hell, perfect attendance for all of high school. It was getting late and we were driving up the hill for the eleventh time. “Was that here the last time we were up this hill?” said Maurice.

“No object is mysterious. The mystery is your eye.” —E. Bowen

verity A red BMW Z4 sDrive35i perched on the slope. Maurice rolled his crushed can of a car to a stop. We whistled at the retractable hardtop roof. “Look at that,” said Maurice. “300 horsepower.” As if I didn’t know. The glint flitted off her curves. It glided off her silver trim, Nappa leather upholstery, the rims. She was a beauty. Maurice squashed his nose against his car window. He looked down. I looked down. “What’s that?” I asked. That was a pair of Oxfords, said Maurice, who knew not because he was gay, but because his mother paid him minimum wage to shop online for women’s shoes. They were tan, with patterns cut along the shoe like lace, Maurice narrated. They were the size of two toilet paper squares. They were sitting on the slope by the backseat of the Z4, waiting for someone to step back into them. We stared in silence. “Whose are they?” I wondered. “How should I know,” said Maurice. “Check in the car.” “You look. You’re closer.” “I’m driving.” That’s his damn excuse for everything. He made me get out to look. So I looked. And it was empty. I could feel Maurice staring. I counted to three. Then I dove into his backseat, slammed the door, and screamed, “There’s a woman lying facedown!” “What?” I almost laughed at his expression, but instead I yelled, “Drive!” The car lurched forward. Maurice screamed at me and I screamed back, interjecting curses every so often to maintain my act. “Slow down!” I screamed. “What?” “You’re about to hit something,” I screamed. He screamed. We swerved. “What was that?”

That was the shape of a man kneeling on the ground. As we whizzed by, I could hear his voice trailing, “Oh, God!” “He’s praying,” I decided. “Are you crazy?” Maurice screamed. “Why is he praying?” We were out of the hills. Maurice was still shaking by the time he pulled into my driveway. “What are we going to do?” he said.

“Just forget about it,” I said. “That man just murdered that woman,” he screamed. “Yeah,” I said. I didn’t feel like telling him there was nothing in the car. I figured I’d throw it in like a punch line someday. That’s what you get when you pull me into your secret beef with Dom that I really, truly don’t take stock in. Especially when I just need a smoke. JONATHAN I’ve told my nephew that his hamster ran away. I’ve also been telling myself that it’s time to move out. I mean, Martha and I are pretty thoughtful people, even for siblings. I even thought about getting her leather shoes recently. I saw them and thought, Wow, she’d really like these. I didn’t get them, but it shows I’m thoughtful. It wasn’t even about the money. They just weren’t in her size. But now, she just wants to kick me out of her house, like that night I lost her kids’ hamster. That fateful night, I took the hamster, cage and all, and went to the grocery store, which has been like a second home to me since my roommate of six years moved out and stuck me with a lease. My roommate was the only one who ever understood me. He always remembered to turn to channel twelve so I could scroll through the guide. Now he’s married, and she isn’t even cute. So I moved to my sister’s, because how the hell would I pay rent? Making macchiatos doesn’t get me my own one-bedroom apartment. The hamster and I walked up and down the aisles, and I asked it what my sister would want. I felt bad. Martha was right, I couldn’t be a bum forever. The hamster pawed at the wall and stared at me. So we got some beer. “Want some?” I asked when we reached the parking lot. “Don’t be shy.” I finished a can.

“Do you think she’ll have us back?” I asked. The hamster wriggled into the bedding and I turned the cage upside-down. “Don’t ignore me like that. You’re not Martha.” I finished another can. “No, you’re right,” I said. “We don’t need her.” Just then, someone interrupted. “Sir, you’re in my way. That’s my car.” “I need a ride,” I said. “My sister threw us out and my roommate got married.” He stared. “I can’t drive,” I repeated. “I’m drunk.” I clutched my hamster as he drove. He played piano music and I tried to sing along. “Keep it down,” he said. I felt like crying. No one appreciated me. “Turn left here,” I said. “Here?” He swerved left into a dirt road. “Go up that hill.” He gave me a look but did as he was told. It felt good to be taken seriously. “Keep going,” I said. I saw a metal glint on the next hill. “Actually, stop here.” “Here?” He stopped the car. We were on a hill. “You sure?” “Yes, yes.” As I stood up, the earth almost tipped me over. “Hey, thanks.” “Don’t forget your hamster,” he said and drove away. His car disappeared into a tiny dot. Then, it was quiet. I stood at the top of the hill. That asshole had dropped me off in the middle of nowhere, not even close to the glint. What did he expect me to do now? My hamster and I, we talked about life. We discussed the economical difference between tall and

“What is true by lamplight is not always true by sunlight.” —J. Joubert

verity venti, how some hotshots just don’t leave tips. We reached the glint. “Hey,” I said. “Nice car.” It was red. And shiny. I tripped over something. “Hey,” I said. “Nice shoes.” They were leather shoes, sitting outside the car. And no one was around. “I should get them for my sister,” I said. “They look girly. How much time do you think that would buy me? A year?” My hamster turned its bum to me. “You’re right,” I said. “They look small. Martha has big feet.” Probably to trample all over my life.

“Screw her!” I concluded. I looked my hamster in the eyes. “Hey,” I said. “Don’t you ever get tired of this ratty old cage?” One of us had to live the good life. I left the shoes and hiked up another hill. At the peak, I dropped to my knees to scoop the hamster out. “Run free,” I said. “Eat some nuts.” It crawled away. I heard a rumbling in the distance. “Rain’s coming,” I said and started digging. “I’ll make you a home.” The rumbling got louder. Louder, then brighter. It came hurtling closer. I couldn’t get up. My knees were glued to the dirt. My body was so heavy, I was dying. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Oh God,” I shouted, as a gust of wind hit me. When I opened my eyes, it was quiet. “That was close,” I said to my hamster. There was a bloody pancake off to the side. I couldn’t believe it. Life was so short. I cried and promised I would live a full life, not one moping over my roommate’s marriage, or mooching off Martha, or making upsidedown lattes at Starbucks. I was a new man. I would turn over a new leaf. No more groveling for a place to stay. I scooped up the pancake and cried some more. I moved it into the burrow I made. I prayed, “Hamster, you have not died in vain.” The tears stopped coming, and I knew it was time to rise. It was time to go back to my sister’s home and apologize and promise to move out. After all, we were family I got up to find the shoes. They were at the top of the other hill. But it didn’t matter—I owed this to Martha. I took a deep breath and started moving towards the shoes, when suddenly, I felt sick. I threw up. It was a sign. Clearly, nature didn’t want me to move in that direction, and I was sure my sister could understand. And plus, my knees hurt.

The shoes probably didn’t even fit her anyway, her and her big feet. DOMINIC Yesterday at lunch this guy Christopher sat himself down next to me, peered at me with these glazed eyes and asked whether I really had a smoke spot up in the hills. “Why do you want to know,” I said. “My friend Maurice is obsessed,” he said. I didn’t even know a Maurice. Maybe he was the nerd in my history class who always asked questions—sometimes questions that even teachers couldn’t answer. That guy—he seemed like someone my girlfriend Lucy would like. I wondered if he’d be good for my initiative. The first time I saw Lucy, I walked up to her and asked her out. She told me I had initiative. So that’s what I’ve wanted my life to be about. “I don’t know a Maurice,” I said, “and I don’t have a smoke spot.” I quit smoking almost a year ago. It’s part of my initiative, too. Lucy doesn’t like the smell, and I’m going to marry her, really. In a month, we’re celebrating our anniversary. It’s hard, not smoking, but she got me a lot of gum. I pop in a few pieces and the feeling goes away. People keep asking if I want a smoke, but they don’t realize that that part of me has melted away. Lucy’s happy about it too. She said she loved me. Christopher, though. He’s one of those guys who was born needing a smoke. And lately, I’ve been thinking about my life. Lucy and I, we go to Starbucks when she’s home from college. This guy, Jonathan, mans the cash register and makes Frappuccinos all day. No matter the hour, he’s there. He is Starbucks. And he’s thirty. Always gripes about living at his sister’s and drunk-dialing his flaky ex-roommate. I don’t want to be that guy. I don’t want to be the old guy at Starbucks making minimum wage. If I’m thirty and I’m working at Starbucks, I want to at least be manager. But Jonathan, he’s not even a shift leader. “Too much work,” he had said.

I’ve decided that people like Christopher and Jonathan aren’t good influences in the long run, only going to keep me back one more year in school. So I’ve just been eating alone. It’s nice, except when people try to talk to me or sit with me because they think I’m lonely. “Well, we spent all of Sunday driving up and down the hills for your spot,” Christopher continued. I told him again I didn’t have one. “What kind of lighter do you have?” he asked. This kid, he smelled like smoke and couldn’t take a hint. “Excuse me,” I said. I was having dinner with Lucy’s parents. They’re high-class people, and parents don’t like me very much, even when I don’t smell like smoke. “Why don’t you tell them about quitting smoking?” Lucy had said. “My dad used to smoke, he’d understand.” Dinner with parents? I’d need a smoke every minute. It’d ruin my initiative. “They’ll like you,” said Lucy. “I tell them good things about you.” Maybe she told them about the shoes. Once, she told me she had been looking for Oxfords for ages, and I had never heard of those before, so I looked them up on the Internet. Then last weekend, like magic, they popped up in a store display. That’s the great thing about quitting smoking—having money to spend on things that last more than a joint. Maybe she mentioned my A in business. Her dad was a businessman—we could talk business. We could talk about Lucy’s Oxfords, and we could talk about my initiative. Then one day, we could talk about my job, a real job, like a P.E. coach or life coach or a pilot. And after that, we can talk about me marrying Lucy, and if it all works out, it’ll be me and Lucy doing all the talking. Making breakfast, tucking in the kids at night—it’ll be us, and no one else.

“Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” —A. Einstein

verity

Peaches by helen jun

drunk, on the breeze that carries peachesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; your breath lingers, a fingertip of fuzz on my skin I close my eyes. I hear a strum of guitar, Gentility punctuated by the plink of wire strings: adulterated paradise. you, the wave of a waning leaf tossed by every capricious turn of the wind, whirled by restless desires. and yetâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; if you left, I would stay. beside the river that flows by the bank of Life I will be the tree with deep roots smelling ever so faintly of peaches

Graffiti by emily liu

The first time you see him, he’s standing in front of the administration building, west entrance, moving his arm in sweeping strokes as sprays of paint fan out across the weathered brick. First bright blue, quickly followed up with glossy black and a fluorescent shade of scarlet that easily shrouds the dull red of the stone beneath, coming together to shape distorted-looking words: markings that mean nothing to you, perhaps, but are not meaningless. It’s a cold, bitter night. You’re bundled as far into your broad winter jacket as you can be, the material still new and stiff, but he’s dressed in a thin, cropped sweater that hangs off of his frame, long limbs and long torso. Skinny like the wind blows right through his bones. He’s not even trying to be subtle: there’s a bright yellow beanie on his head, his sweater is a soft cream, and his skin is washed out in the low lighting of a neighboring streetlight. Nothing like the tan, languid boys you know from home, the ones you grew up with and worked alongside for whatever chores that needed to be done; you recall how all of you went from lean to muscular together, eventually standing taller than your fathers, and realize how different this boy is. You’ve never seen him around - graffiti artists are rare enough on your college campus, as with anything taboo - but you’d know it if you had, in the confident way he carries himself, or

“A quiet conscience makes one strong.” —A. Frank

reaches up to put a few finishing touches on the design. He’s quick; you’ve only been lingering in the walkway for a few minutes, and his cheeks aren’t even flushed with cold yet. His back is to you, but when he turns to rummage through his bag for another can of paint, you catch glimpses of his face. Pale. Delicate and angular. When he finishes, he doesn’t even sneak off, just strides away from the scene with his bag slung over his shoulder and the paint still fresh, bleeding down lingering drops of black, blue, red. You don’t think he notices you. You don’t think he would care. * * * The first time you see him in daylight, it’s at the bus stop, on your way back home; fare for public transport throughout the city is free for students at your university. You’ve flashed your photo identification card at the bus driver numerous times but you still feel that same rush, like you can handle things. You, the quietest son with the least accolades and the most fears, finding your own unsteady footing in the urban world beyond your doorstep. He’s there, four paint cans tucked into his bag and two lips chapped, two feet in red Converse. They are small. Everything about him is small, like his shoulders and his facial features and his knees. His waist as well, but you avert your eyes from that, flushing with shame. But

verity

everything looks strong, too. When your eyes meet his, you realize they’re sharp like razor blades. His smile is sweet. His eyes linger on yours for far too long to be polite, heavy with interest, and you look away. You do not speak to him. If you did, you think he would ask for your name first. Maybe he’d ask for directions, even though he goes out of his way to get lost. Maybe he’d ask you for a cigarette, for a light, for your heart. (On the way home, you imagine this: He gets caught in the act, black and blue and red-handed. A professor demands why he’s defacing school property. He says he wants to leave his mark on a place where he’s been.) * * * You walk out of your morning lecture, and

DRIP//

JIA GAO

he happens to be there, leaning against the door frame of the lecture hall, eyes intent and lips curled in a smile. You stop by the vending machine before lunch because you need something to hold you for that last hour, and he is the one that picks up the quarter you drop, fumbling on the discs of metal. When he returns the coin to you, a soft “No problem” to your surprised “Thank you,” his eyes make it mischievous. Like it means something. Does it? Little incidents later, you two fall into step and go from you and me to youandme. How do these kinds of relationships work, anyways?

All you know is that there is a point when you move to open doors for him, he laughs into your shoulder and pulls one open for you. At first, you’re not sure whether he’s just being contrary, or whether it’s because the two of you have been taught the same manners, like gentlemen. Whenever you accidentally collide with him, he laughs more and smoothes out the awkward atmosphere. It turns out he knows three languages. You know two. He teaches you the last one quickly enough, and teases you when you get the tones all wrong. When he kisses you, his mouth is warm and very sweet, just like you expected. He says he keeps you around for your solemn eyes and rare smile. You’re so pretty, he tells you one day, almost wistfully, and you wonder why your first reaction was to be offended at such a genuine compliment. Maybe it’s just the way he says it, like it should hurt. * * * “Here,” he says, handing you a red marker. “What’s this for?” When he starts taking off his jacket, you sit up in alarm, but can’t help but watch. Smooth skin, peeking out from under his shirt collar, along the ridges of his hipbones. “I saw this online,” he says. “An art project where lovers write their least favorite quality on their most favorite body part. We’re lovers, aren’t we?” You stay silent as he pulls his shirt over his head, but you obey when he gestures for you to do the same. “Yeah,” you say at last. “I guess we are.” “Write,” he insists, and uncaps the marker for you. After a long, thoughtful pause, you write too rebellious for this world on his collarbones, splitting the phrase between the two bones and shuddering when you feel his slow breath ruffling your short hair. Across your flat stomach, between the ridges of muscle you’ve so painstakingly earned, he writes ashamed. He likes to talk about conflict. All conflict, any conflict. Goes out of his way to do it. But you don’t want to talk about it, about how your

“And you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy.” —R. Siken

theme body and his body can’t possibly fit together the right way even when they do. How this kind of blind happiness is only for the people who know how to love right. And for once, he is silent. * * * Eventually, youandme fall apart, almost effortlessly. Crossing paths without meeting. There were gaps between the times you saw him, and then there were the things that filled those gaps; eventually, there were more other things than not. He tells you about the handsome pianist he met the other day, with the phenomenal hands and sleepy eyes, and you just nod. There’s no use saying it anymore, but if you could go back to the first few days, that day by the bus stop, you wish you’d said something like, I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. But that’s not like you, and maybe it’s best that you just kept quiet. He graduates that year. You go to the ceremony and remember what it was like to find out he was years older than you, and you don’t go to congratulate him when the process is over. And one day you walk past that same administration building, west entrance, and realize ev-

ery word is gone, washed away to expose that same dull red. That every single mark he made was useless, and he probably knew that, locked in the cycle of returning every night to leave his graffiti only to have it erased by the next morning. A war of paint waging across the bricks. You stop and stare at the solemn, cold wall. Hey may have lost there, you think to yourself, but the phantom letters of ashamed, scrawled in his defiant handwriting, still linger on your body.