Alisa Dolia Tis the Season of Autumn

At the moment, They are covered with water droplets.

It is now spooky season, With All Hallow’s Eve soon coming. You can invite your friends to demand candy from your neighbors, And watch your neighbors’ plastic skeletons Lounge in their front yards.

‘Tis the season of autumn.

[Autumn]

Anna Liashenko

Autumn, The smell of cold fresh air, And the wind, lightly tickling my face.

At noon it will start to rain, And the earth will be covered by mud and water. The once crunchy leaves, Will get soggy and wet.

More leaves will fall, As the wind and rain come, And the earth will be covered, As though a blanket of leaves is on top.

All trees are green, yellow, orange, red, And sing beautiful songs, As the wind moves through their branches, Letting even more leaves fall for kids to play in.

In the foggy, cloudy sky, Birds chirp goodbye, And fly off, Preparing for the winter.

In homes, People walk around in cozy sweaters, With the smell of cinnamon, pumpkin, apples, sugar, Filling the air along with other great scents.

Cozy autumn, Rain, And the feeling of peace. Autumn.

[The House]

Anonymous

The lanky wooden steps that led down to the beach were reminiscent of the old man that lived there. Full of cracks and uneven cuts, the rail that held them was shaped like a used straw, bending and curving in odd directions. They gleamed and beckoned with a cheap shine from excess wood gloss dumped on by the landowner, but were already hazardous to walk on. They were, in fact, the last project of the landowner. Don’t ask me why he didn’t choose to fix the ramshackle roofing of his tiny cottage or to add a new coat of paint to its faded blue exterior. Or why he didn’t do anything about those molehills. My god, those molehills! From the back porch that led to those tacky stairs all the way to the front lawn and around the cottage, massive dirty mounds scattered around the poorly kept blades of grass. A passerby on the beach might’ve thought that the lawn had been victimized by artillery fire during a particularly explosive battle. But the landowner liked his run-down cottage, molehills and all. And those stupid tawdry stairs stood like a grand viaduct between his two favorite places: his small little abode, and the great misty Pacific. Something about that beach had a way of showing off her bright sun-kissed skin through rain or shine (except on very cloudy days, when it had a purple tint). That beach was the landowner’s muse. He would sit up in his attic of a room on the top floor and stare out at her all day. That room didn’t have much. An old twin-sized bed facing out the window, and the desk in front of it. A small dresser for his elderly sweaters of faded maroons and greens. Painting supplies were strewn about the floor, used for his attempt to capture the ocean’s beauty. Through all the nooks and crannies of his lowly cottage, this room was his favorite. It’s where he spent most of his time secluded from the world, and it’s where he took his

last breath, with one last gaze out at his lover. The landowner didn’t keep much contact with the outside world, but he did send a brief description of his daily activities to his daughter. They were never unique or descriptive, but they were consistent. That’s why Mrs. Mayhew was quick to phone the local sheriff for a wellness check when a letter didn’t come that day. The funeral was small and brief. For a man that hardly ever made any real effort to communicate, it seemed almost inappropriate that Mrs. Mayhew took her husband out on the 2 days drive over to the coast. But they had to do something.

In the rugged backyard, the couple gathered with a few locals for some words about the life of the landowner. Tripping over their words (and over molehills), the informal gathering started with a sermon by the town pastor and some words by the mailman (who had delivered his letters every day for a few decades). After their two guests left the short service, the Mayhews began to unpack for the weekend.

“What a dismal, dismal house,” said Mrs. Mayhew drearily as she pulled the back screen gate. When the door creaked open, she felt around for the light switch and turned it on.

“Why don’t you turn the light on?” said Mr. Mayhew behind her. “I DID. See it in the back?” At the very end of the small living room, a small incandescent light burned with the wattage of a faint candle. The only thing it really shone on was the array of closed windows and bookshelves that blocked the sunny day from getting in. The couple stammered in, using only the creaks of the wooden floor to find their way around. “What’s the point of even having that useless light?” questioned Mr. Mayhew, “It must not have changed since the Cold W-” He tried to finish his sentence but Mrs. May-

hew let out a huge scream. “What is it, honey?” he said shakily. Pulling out his cell phone, he put the flashlight on and saw her stunned face staring out at the other end of the room. He started to rotate it right, passing her outstretched arm pointing in the same direction. As he aimed closer to the source of the scream, a snobby voice called out to him,“Jesus Christ. Will you cut it out?” Two men…no, moles, sat at the kitchen table. They both must’ve been six feet tall, and wearing dark sharp suits that seemed to fit them well…as far as suits can fit moles. They both held their hands over their eyes…well…their non-eyes. On the left, a mole with slicked-back fur held in his paws the butt of a cigarette, and the one on the right held a coffee pot, looking like he had just been pouring a cup of the landowner’s Folgers. “Who…who are you?” asked Mr. Mayhew. The smoker with slick fur stood up. My God. He must’ve been 6’5”. “Relax,” he said, pulling out something from his suit pocket. It was some sort of a badge. “I’m Agent Velvet. Over there is my partner Soil.” “What are you doing in this house?” Mrs. Mayhew

cried.

“Woah, woah, woah,” said Agent Soil, finishing his cup of joe. “What are you doing on collective property?” “Collective property???” scoffed Mr. Mayhew. “This is my late father-in-law’s estate!” Responding to Mr. Mayhew’s claim, Soil stood up and reached into his pocket, presenting not only his badge but a set of yellowed papers. “This is your father’s will, is it not?” he said, shoving it in Mrs. Mayhew’s face. She inspected it, and they seemed to be legitimate. They had the landowner’s name and personal information. They had his dotty signature at the bottom, but the contents of the document were bizarre:

ALL OF MY STUFF GOES TO THE MOLES. “Wh…what is this rubbish?! Let me see some identification again. My dad did NOT give his beachfront property to a bunch of RODENTS!” “Actually ma’am, we are not rodents. We’re mammals just like you, and we have RIGHTS,” said Velvet, reaching back for his badge once again. “Let me see that!” cried Mr. Mayhew. He ripped it from Velvet’s paws and stared at it intently. It showed an official-looking portrait of the mammal, with some numbers and the label “SUBTERRANEAN LABOUR COLLECTIVE.” It looked familiar. He peered back at the will and saw the same phrase stamped over it in red ink. Just then, more humanoid moles started bursting through both doors as the Mayhews stood in horror. Mole doctors, nurses, teachers, children, construction workers, business executives, and musicians poured through any crevice in the home, including the windows. Floorboards started popping up to reveal more moles and more paths. In unison, they start to shout “FOR LABOR! FOR LABOR!” The Mayhews tried creeping to the back porch, only to discover hundreds more of them climbing out of every molehill on the property. As the labor collective agents started to handcuff the Mayhews, Mrs. cried out “I don’t understand! What gives you the right?” “Don’t you know anything? A group of moles is called a labor! This is our HOME!” As the collective swallowed up the Mayhews, the few pieces of furniture that sat in the parlor were knocked over or crushed. An old refrigerator slammed onto the ground, with ravenous mole people immediately snacking on any food that played as its door fell open. Knocked by a huge shoving match in the back of the room, the coffee table’s legs started creaking and crumbling until eventually facing defeat on the ground

below. As it fell, the table released the ancient transistor radio that had sat atop it, which began chiming “Subterranean Homesick Blues” by Bob Dylan.