Aspirations Fall 2012

ASPIRATIONS CSN Student Literary & Visual Arts Magazine

Issue Three: Fall 2012

Acknowledgements

Contact Information: Yelena Kajevic Bailey-Kirby Instructor, Department of English College of Southern Nevada 6375 West Charleston Boulevard Sort Code: W 246K Las Vegas, NV 89146-1164

Special Thanks: Wendy Weiner Levia Hayes Lee Barnes Jacob Elison Tina Eliopulos Todd Moffett John Ziebel

Copyright information: Authors and artists retain the copyrights of their original work. The contents of this literary and visual arts magazine may not be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the individual author or artist.

Issue Three: Fall 2012

Table of Contents Forward Yelena K. Bailey-Kirby

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Fiction Candace Caterer: Timothy Day: Abigail Elise Gallop: Dylan Gallop: Brianna Grindland: Jared Hall: Kelsey Jeralds: Melissa Jeralds: Jennifer Joost: Sarah Kelly: Andrew Moore: Janeth Morales Leon: Robert Nobile: Khalilah Shuaid: Katie White:

The Secret Life of Nathaniel Grey Four Hours Before Seven Leaving Missing the Moon Beneath the Stars and Stripes Scavengers My Gift to Barbie Score Three Falls End Room for Rent Mike Darkest of Deaths Justice of the Nutcracker My Angels Mommy, I Love You

Jacqueline Casillas:

August Ode to Stress Relief Wednesday A Toast to the Factory Writers The Republican Games Whatever Happened to Baby Jo? Flame Hipster Goulash The Guitar

14 31 10 1 27 41 38 50 6 69 65 57 87 83 80

Poetry

Philip Cunningham:

Alexis Rodriguez:

78 79 77 25 21 20 49 47 46

Student Bios Students’ Majors, Goals, and Favorite Authors

98

Submission Guidelines Criteria for Fiction, Poetry, and Art Submissions

103

Forward I am thrilled to bring you our latest issue of Aspirations, the literary and visual arts magazine, dedicated to supporting CSN students who are striving to be authors. I have put together another issue of this magazine to acknowledge my students’ talents, dedication, and hard work once again, and I hope that you will enjoy their short stories and poems as well as the artwork.

This issue contains each of the students’ best work from their final portfolio revisions during the fall 2012 semester. These students were in my ENG 205: Introduction to Creative Writing – Fiction and Poetry as well as my ENG 220: Writing Poetry course, and one of the most important lessons included the value of revision, or as Joyce Carol Oates has said, “The pleasure is the rewriting.” Once my students came to terms with the necessity to revise, they saw their work evolve into something they could be proud of sharing with others through this publication.

The less competent the writer, the louder his/her protests were over the editing, but in the end, the students did realize the importance of editing and rewriting several drafts of their work before submitting a final portfolio revision. Good editing has saved bad writing more often than bad editing has harmed good writing, and it is through the process of revision that one can truly grow as a writer as well as discover things about their own writing.

Moreover, through the workshop sessions, questions were addressed, and helpful feedback was provided to prod writers to deepen their approach, understand their strengths and weaknesses, and improve their skills in the craft of fiction or poetry. In these peer workshops, students practiced making constructive comments that were directed at the writing rather than at writers, and as a result, they had a safe environment to share their work, learn how to raise their standard of writing, and reflect on the applicability of the feedback that they received in order to revise appropriately.

Yelena Kajevic Bailey-Kirby Instructor, Department of English College of Southern Nevada E-mail: Yelena.Bailey-Kirby@csn.edu

Thank you and Enjoy! i

Missing the Moon

by Dylan Gallop

Her body swayed lithely as she moved across the kitchen. Her mind seemed lost in the space between the right and left headphones that all but enveloped her head. Soft footsteps, padded by green knee-high socks, lightly stamped the off-white linoleum as she opened the microwave on the counter, flowing through every movement as if it were a step in a dance.

Pull open the microwave door.

Lift the steaming plate.

Execute full twirl as the door is shut.

Slide the plate onto the counter.

He almost expected to see her curtsy to the smiling faces of friends and family that covered the refrigerator.

He propped an elbow against the doorframe connecting the kitchen with the entrywayslash-living-room of the small apartment, not wanting to interrupt her performance. He always loved the way she danced when she thought no one was around to see her.

She was loosely draped in one of his old t-shirts- the most comfortable one he had owned. They had waged a few custody battles over the old rag, which she had inevitably won. He decided he liked it better on her, anyway. It was at least two sizes too large for her slender frame, and hung comfortably just above the hem of her favorite athletic shorts that he couldn’t believe still fit her- and quite nicely, he noted- from high-school volleyball. Her long, dark hair was pulled into a loose ponytail that cascaded over her right collarbone like a waterfall, gently flowing this way and that as she glided to the refrigerator for a glass of red wine. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

1

She finally noticed him as she closed the refrigerator door. Her rhythm was completely thrown off as she let out a startled yelp, nearly tripping over her own feet and dropping her wineglass.

“Brian! Geeze! You scared the crap out of me!” She moved the headphones to the back of her neck with her free hand. “Why didn’t you say something when you came in?”

“Sorry, Babe, I didn’t want to interrupt you.” He flashed a sloppy grin.

She set her glass down next to the plate on the counter, rolling her eyes embarrassedly as she moved to greet him with a hug.

“Creeper,” she muttered affectionately into his chest as he took her into his arms.

“Red wine and hot pockets, huh?” Brian teased back, kissing the top of her head. Her hair smelled like peaches. “Classy lady.”

“It’s a refined taste. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” She sauntered back to the counter, casting a playfully poignant smile over her shoulder before reaching carefully for the steaming pastry.

Those shorts still fit her very nicely, he decided.

“You eat yet?” she managed to maneuver the inquiry past the gooey mass of cheese and bread she had just bitten into.

“Yeah, had lunch with Harold today.” He scratched the back of his head.

“Your boss?” Ashley’s attention was no longer on her meal. Her almond eyes widened slightly.

“Yep.” “Well, how’d it go?”

“It was good, Ash. Real good.”

Ashley leaned forward, into the counter.

“You got the promotion?”

The air was thick with expectation.

“Well…” Brian almost contained his grin.

Almost.

“He made me a full-time editor.” His face split from ear to ear like a dam breaking under the pressure of a backed up river.

Ashley’s eyes looked like they might bulge out of her head. She all but tackled him to the floor of the entry-slash-living room, squealing with delight.

“I’m so proud of you, Brian!” She kissed him hard, despite his scruffy stubble. “You worked really hard for this.”

“Well, the raise is big enough, but it’s not like we’re rich or anything. I will have to put in some more hours here and there, and maybe even bring some work home…”

“Brian, I don’t care.” She crossed her wrists behind his head; her hazel eyes gazed up at him adoringly. “This is what you’ve wanted as long as we’ve been together. I’m happy for you.”

“I’m going to need a home office, Ash.” Brian rested his hands on her hips.

“Yeah, of course. We can move some stuff around in the bedroom to make room for a desk, maybe a bookshelf…”

“Actually, I was thinking maybe it was time to clear out the old room.” He braced himself for her response.

Ashley swallowed. He felt her arms go slack over his shoulders as she broke his gaze, searching the carpet for her words. When she looked back up at him, her eyes were glistening.

“Bri, let’s talk about this later?” He just barely caught the quiver in her lip; the way she pushed the words out as if they were too big for her throat.

2

“Well we’ve got to talk about it sooner or later, and now’s as good a time as any. It’s been almost a year, Ash, and you still won’t even open that door. I really thought we were moving forward.”

He felt her hands ball up into fists on his shoulders before she dropped them to her sides. Her jaw clenched, pushing her lower jawbone forward. He instantly wished he could take it back.

“How could you say that?” Her eyebrows rose so high he thought they would get lost in her hairline. He couldn’t blame them; he would have done anything to escape those glaring fireballs.

“Ashley, I didn’t mean…”

“No, Brian!” Her eyes began to well up, and her voice wavered. She wiped her mouth with the back of her forearm before continuing. “I carried a baby- OUR baby, Brian- for six months. For six months I felt her growing inside me. For six months I spent every waking minute knowing that she was right there. When you would work late, I’d lay in bed telling her how excited I was to bring her into the world, and how her daddy was out making money, so she could live in a nice home and grow up with everything she would ever need. For six months, I got ready for her only to find out she wasn’t coming, and that I’d never even get to hold her. I’d never get to see her smile, or watch as her dad tells her a bedtime story. Brian, Selena was a huge part of our lives, and you want me to just move forward?”

Brian’s chest felt like he had just tried to bench-press a freight train. He swallowed hard at the lump that fought its way up his throat.

“Ash…” He couldn’t bring himself to say anything. How could he even try to tell her he understood when part of him knew he probably didn’t? His chest was tight. His head spun. After a brief silence, Ashley turned away from him.

“I’m going to bed, Brian.”

He didn’t try to stop her as the door slammed shut. Hand running anxiously through the hair on the back of his head, he grabbed a coat from the entryway closet and headed for the front door. ***** The night air was cool on the roof of the six-story apartment building on the west side of Las Vegas. The winter air smelled like cold dirt and a fleeting promise of rain. The soft hum of the street below, and the gentle rustle of the desert breeze added surreal ambiance to Brian’s musings. His eyes were lost in the flashing glow of the strip a few miles away. He thought it was funny that most people who lived in Vegas seemed to view the strip as some distant place, shrouded in a cloud of neon light, cut off from city around it.

Brian’s head felt heavy as he leaned forward in his lawn chair. He always loved to come up here and look out over the stretch of desert- speckled here and there with housing developments and gas stations- that separated him from the heart of the city. He felt like he was on his own little island, looking out at the real world, seeing things nobody else could.

His mind drifted back to the apartment two floors below him. To Ashley, lying awake, hurt and angry. To the room that the two of them had prepared to welcome Selena into when they brought her home from the hospital. The room they had locked up, incomplete and empty; a monument to the gaping hole their unborn daughter had left in their lives only ten months ago.

Brian fell into his chair, throwing his head back and rubbing his face with the butts of his palms as if he could knead all of his emotions out of his pores.

He had been looking forward to bringing Selena home, too. He remembered the day that Ashley told him she was pregnant.

3

Brian had walked in the door of their two-bedroom apartment to find her waiting for him on the couch in the living room. Her face had beamed as she jumped to greet him, wrapping her legs around his waist and kissing him so passionately he had felt as if he might accidentally inhale her.

You’ll never guess what I have to tell you! Her smile had been so wide he had thought she might pull a muscle.

He had playfully guessed that she made him a cheesecake. Her news had been more exciting. On the coffee table had been a pregnancy test; a pink plus sign shining from the stark offwhite strip like a neon sign on a Vegas casino.

They had stayed up until two in the morning talking. He hadn’t been able to keep himself from glancing at the strip on the coffee table, as if the next time he looked, it would be gone.

We could frame it, she had chuckled softly into his shirtsleeve as he had stared off, wide-eyed and speechless.

She had asked him if he wanted a boy or a girl.

He had told her he wanted a daughter.

They had turned on the television after awhile, both too excited to sleep, but too tired to keep talking. The whole time, Brian hadn’t been able to stop thinking about holding his child in his arms as Ashley had fallen asleep like she always did when they watched TV. The scene had flickered in his mind with the light of the television screen dancing on those two intersecting pink lines. They might as well have called him Dada.

A far off siren brought Brian back to the roof. Absently, he reached down and picked up a small pebble from the gravel that lined the ground and threw it up at the pale crescent.

“You missed.”

He turned as Ashley stepped through the access door, wrapped in the comforter from their bed.

“Suppose I never had much of a shot anyway.” He grabbed a small handful of the gravel and flung it half-heartedly over the short guard-wall.

She squatted behind his chair, wrapping her blanket-clad arms around his neck and resting her chin on his shoulder. They sat in silence for a moment, staring into the night.

Finally, Brian spoke.

“I miss her too, you know.”

“I know, Brian. I’m sorry...”

Brian stood up and paced over to the guard wall, leaning back so that he faced her, resting his elbows on the ledge. Ashley took his spot on the lawn chair, wrapping herself tighter in the comforter.

“I used to always come up here and imagine what it was going to be like when she came.” He sighed at the gravel between his feet. “I couldn’t wait to bring her up here, show her the city. I imagined that this would be where I’d bring her, just me and my daughter, to watch the sun set.” He chuckled wryly as Ashley moved to join him on the wall. “I know it sounds cheesy, Ash, but up here, I imagined her first steps, her first word- dada, of course- I saw her all grown up.

Looked just like you, just with my eyes. I imagined her first crush, her first prom, her first heartbreak, the first boy I had to give ‘the talk’ to, on her behalf. I imagined it all, Ash, and I couldn’t wait. When we found out that you had miscarried…” He closed his eyes as a tear slid down his cheek. “Well, it hurt me too is what I’m saying.”

Ashley rested her head on his chest, her soft breath warming his skin through his jacket.

Her shoulders heaved lightly as she let out a muffled sob.

4

“The worst part about it, Babe, was that room. The empty crib and the half-painted walls, it just mirrored how we felt, and I didn’t want to look at it any more than you did. But the problem is we never talked about it after that. We locked it up and tried to forget about it, along with all that was left of our pain, and did everything we could to avoid opening that door, and all that was healthy for a while, but I’m not sure for how much longer. Ash. I know it’s hard, but I think we’ll never be able to move on if we keep that room set up. Selena will always be a part of our lives, and I’ll never forget about her, but it’s time to move forward.”

Ashley pulled back just far enough to look up at him, her eyes red from crying.

“Come to bed, Bri.” She wiped at the corner of her eyes with the back of her hand. “We need to get some sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow” “Ash, tomorrow’s our day off. What could we possibly have to do tomorrow besides sleep?”

“You’ve gotta set up your new office.” Ashley looked up at him; her eyes still glistened with the promise of more tears. She buried her face in his neck with a sigh of exhausted resignation.

“Babe,” Brian wrapped his arms around her small frame.

“It’s okay, Bri. You’re right. It’s time to move on. Now, let’s just go to bed, okay?”

She took his hand and led him toward the door. As he turned to take one last look over the Las Vegas desert, Brian was surprised to notice the dawn breaking over the horizon.

5

Falls End

by Jennifer Joost The sun is beginning to shine through the clouds. It is a bitter cold morning in downtown Chicago. The sun kisses the ground, but the frost doesn’t melt. The wind is in a hurry as it scurries through the brisk air. Tanya Snow is riding in the back of her black stretch limousine on her way home from an international jewelry competition. She takes out a bottle of champagne and pours herself a glass.

“Ivan, take Monroe, a new sculpture being built by Sofia Fitzgerald that I’m just dying to see.” Tanya’s voice is soft and pleasing to the ear. Her skin is very pale and white. Her hair is short and platinum blonde. Her lips are frosty and pink. She has eyes that shine an electric blue and are enhanced with black eyeliner and mascara. Tanya is wearing six inch heels and a cute black and grey dress with jette black crystals placed sporadically throughout the design. As she takes another sip of her bubbly Dom Perignon, she runs her finger along the top of the crystal glass.

“Munrow? Are you sure Ms. Snow?” Ivan Dronitski speaks with a heavy Polish accent.

He has a light brown skin tone with dark brown freckles randomly placed about his body. He is a big man, weighing three hundred twenty-one pounds of mostly muscle. His eyes are hazel with green, orange, and a honey brown color bursting together. His hair is short and black with a widow’s peak. He is wearing a dark pinstripe Versace suit with alligator shoes.

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“Of course, I’m sure! Mrs. Fitzgerald is one of the best in the world. Did you know that she founded the Children’s Art Collection for Aspiring Artists? She is a great role model for our youth.” Tanya takes a deep breath and pauses for a moment. Ivan looks up in the mirror and sees a tear run down Tanya’s soft cheek, leaving a black trail behind as her make-up starts to run.

Monroe is a bitter sweet place for Tanya. Years ago she would pass through without fear. One day her charming fiancé Leonardo Devu was gunned down and killed while he was pumping gas at a local gas station. Tanya believes he was her one true love, and she dreamed of having a family with him. She misses him dearly, but lives by his words: Patience is a virtue that makes us wait. They were both twenty-two years old when he was murdered. The investigation went on for years. To this day, a cold-blooded killer is still on the loose, and Tanya believes it could be anyone. She quickly finishes her drink and pours herself a second round to help ease the pain.

The buildings seem as though they are flying past Tanya in the back seat. Downtown Chicago is full of alleys and underground societies. The towers rise high into the clouds overhead, making the city seem extremely tall. Paper and bottles litter the streets from being tossed out of passing cars. Steam dances on the streets from the warm sewers below.

“How did the competition go today, Ms. Snow?” Ivan is careful as he talks to a sensitive Tanya that could melt down at any moment with one wrong move.

Tanya touches her fur coat sitting on the seat next to her.

“You know Ivan- I really enjoyed competing with the best in the world.” Tanya is excited to be recognized as a world famous jewelry design artist. Her eyes get a little brighter with each word.

“The judges honored me with a trophy for first place on that necklace with all the diamonds I had to bezel on. I even bought a sculpture by Sophia Fitzgerald. It really inspires me.”

Tanya pulls out a small silver sculpture with natural stones sporadically placed. It is beautiful and full of life. It is in the shape of a heart. The silver is embellished with mixes of gold, yellow, and black from the tiny chips of tiger’s eye stone on it. The eyes are made of blue sapphire in the shape of an oval with one sharp corner facing in towards the nose, which is constructed out of a pink rose quartz gem. Tanya loves tigers’ from all over the world. To Tanya, tigers are the ultimate creature. They are fearless beings with precision. There is no doubt in Ivan’s mind how much Ms. Snow adored that sculpture.

“Congratulations,” Ivan says paying more attention to the road, now that he is driving through a congested intersection. The sidewalks are covered with tents, art, and people. It is the semi-annual art festival that the Field Museum puts on twice a year. Children are amazed at all the incredible creations as they walk with their families through the tents. One woman is selling soaps made into different scents, shapes, and sizes. Another tent has a few people standing around looking at photography of urban buildings with quotes written on them in a frame. One photo of a skyscraper read, “It’s all up from Here”. The smell of funnel cakes and barbeque pork is in the air now. Children are laughing, and everyone seems to be having a good time. A band is playing classical music over by a large fountain. The melody is beginning to speed up as the limousine moves through the crowd.

“Just a few more blocks past the construction. It should be on the right side,” Tanya says putting the sculpture back into her handbag. The crowd begins to thin out as Ivan pulls into a small parking lot outside an office building. It is old and worn down. One window has a hole where some punk kids smashed a rock through it. It is silent now. Only the sound of wind whistling as the breeze moves past.

“It’s beautiful!” Tanya is looking at Mrs. Fitzgerald’s street sculpture with a sense of content.

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“Can you believe she spent fifteen hours a day on this?” Tanya begins to touch the cold steel beams at the base of the sculpture and smiles. The sculpture is at least two stories tall with small engravings in the steel beams. It resembles a giant birdcage with small entrances weaving throughout the design in a maze.

“Ivan, do you think Sofia would design something like this for my garden?” Tanya giggles at the thought of such an enormous piece in her backyard.

“I’m sure she will for the right price.” Ivan smiles at Tanya who is looking across the street into an alley.

“Did you hear that?” Tanya turns to the alley.

There is a brief moment where Ms. Snow thinks she sees her past fiancé Leonardo run into the shadows of the alley. Her heart starts beating faster with each step she takes towards him.

Someone is arguing around the corner.

“What do you mean you don’t have any money?” A deep voice says with anger.

“I’m telling you, this is all I have, please!” The other man is scared.

“Please don’t shoot me, I have a family,” his voice shook as he spoke.

Ivan follows Tanya into the alley, but he cannot seem to catch up with her. Garbage is overflowing from the trashcans. It smells of rotten meat and burnt rubber. A cat is searching for his lunch through an old McDonald’s bag. Tanya reaches into her leather handbag and pulls out her warthog 45 with ten rounds and a three inch barrel. It is nickel plated and snug in her hand.

She holds it close to her side pointing down towards the ground.

Tanya thinks about the day she received word that Leonardo had been killed. She feels empty and alone. It is a pain that hurt from the pit of her stomach and aches in the middle of her chest. Tanya’s heart is burning. She would lose herself at night by drinking away the sorrows.

One early morning around two AM, Ivan found Tanya passed out on the curb.

“Yur lucky miss…” Ivan spoke with such a kind gentle heart.

“You don’t know me. – Lucky? He.. eee..” Tanya was in full blown tears. Her voice got a little bit louder, “my fiancé is dead.”

Tanya looked into Ivan’s hazel eyes.

“What did I do wrong?” Tanya fell to the stained carpet of Ivan’s one bedroom apartment. Ivan opened his arms, kneeled down, and hugged Tanya tight.

“I know what you’re going through. Seven years ago my wife Olga was killed in a car accident. I wus shocked. Life has never really been the same, but I know that she would want me to do everything I can do in this life. Who are we if we just give up? I miss her dearly, but she watches me from the heavens and enjoys seeing my smile.”

Tanya interrupts Ivan, “Thank you--- I just needed to listen to know he would have been crushed to see me like this. You know, if you didn’t come along, I might not have lived to see another day.” Tanya smiles as tears poured out of her eyes. The fire never left her broken heart.

“Ms. Snow? Is everything all right?” Ivan calls from a distance. Just as Tanya peeks out of the alley, she sees a tall dark man wearing a black t-shirt and blue jeans with a pair of white Jordan sneakers. He has a 38 special pointing at another man who is wearing a dark blue suit and has two beautiful little girls with him. They are about seven or eight years old. One has on a blue dress with a matching headband in her black hair. Her sister has a matching dress in yellow with her dark hair styled up with the headband to match. His children are in tears as they try to not say anything that will jeopardize their father’s life. Tanya feels the fire burning stronger from losing her fiancé to cold-blooded killers.

The thought of Leonardo leaves Tanya immediately, but his killer comes into plain sight.

8

“Shhh…” Ms. Snow takes a deep breath. She has tunnel vision as she zeros in on the guy threatening the family. Her eyes squint, and her heart pumps faster as she cocks her gun back and points it at the killer. Tanya pulls the trigger.

“BANG! BANG! BANG!” Tanya cannot stop shooting. She is angry that another innocent person could be lost from the scum that walks the earth.

“Ms. Snow!” Ivan is running towards Tanya.

A police officer rushes into the alley when he hears the shots being fired from a block away.

“Stop! Police! Put the gun down!” The officer yells as he aims his Glock 19 at Tanya who is still popping rounds into the killer.

“Bang! Bang!” Her eyes are full of hate and the only thing she can see is her fiancé’s killer looking back at her with his evil eyes.

The street is getting darker, and the lights are becoming more vibrant from nearby buildings and signs. The killer is frozen against the alley wall. Blood drops down the wall behind him. His revolver slips out of his grasp and falls onto the ground in a pool of blood. The man being robbed hugs his little girls, smiles, and looks into Tanya’s heartbroken eyes.

“Thank you for…” Just as he is walking over to her, a shot comes from the alley way where Ivan is standing.

“NOOOO!” Ivan catches Tanya as she falls to the ground like a stiff board. The blood is pouring out of her chest. The ground suddenly doesn’t feel so cold.

“Ms. Snow?” Ivan’s eyes are glossed over, and he feels a knot in his throat.

“Did I get him?” Ms. Snow talks with a soft voice. She is still gripping the trigger of her gun when she looks up at Ivan. Ivan knew he has to stay strong for her.

“Yes, you got him. Everything is going to be all right. Just hang in there. Please stay with me. The doctors can fix this. Just please…. Don’t leave me,” Ivan spoke with short breaths.

Tanya smiles at Ivan one last time.

“I want you to keep this.” Tanya is fading off. Tanya hands him the sculpture she had bought earlier that morning.

“Be fearless…” Tanya’s eyes close, and her chest stops beating. Her hand releases the gun, and she is gone. Sirens are getting louder as two ambulances drive up to the scene. Ivan places his face against hers and gives her a soft kiss.

“Rest in peace Ms. Snow; you will always be the best in the world.” Ivan holds her close in his arms.

The man and little girls are talking to the police about what had just happened between the killer and Tanya. The officer who shot Tanya looks over at her covered body, takes his badge off, and drops it on the blood covered ground. Ivan watches as the medics cover Tanya’s body and move off into the distance.

The bitter wind moves a blanket of clouds over the city, and it begins to snow. Ivan holds out his big, warm hands and catches some snowflakes. He looks up into the sky and whispers, “Thank you, you will never be forgotten.”

9

Leaving

by Abigail Elise Gallop I slid her window open and heaved myself inside, landing on the cold hardwood floor with a resounding thud that I blatantly disregarded as I made a beeline for her bed. It wasn’t like I could possibly wake up her practically death grandpa or anything. “Arthur!” I whisper-shouted as I sat down heavily on the bed next to her, causing the springs to squeal like a small dog. She moaned and rolled towards me, and I lay down with my nose inches from hers. She was still dead asleep.

I sighed and rolled onto my back, taking in the comforting familiarity of Arthur’s bedroom: the Pepto Bismol pink walls that hadn’t been painted since we were six, the evergrowing stack of books in the corner, the poster of Bea Arthur, my dear friend’s namesake and idol, that always seemed to be staring into your soul. This was where I belonged, soul-gazing poster and all; my home away from home. I tucked myself under the tattered fleece throw Arthur used as a blanket and turned back to face her.

“Oh Bea Arthur,” I crooned, bumping my nose against hers, “it’s Christmas time in outer space and your cantina awaits you!” Not quite in my right mind, I guffawed loudly; her eyes flew open and quickly narrowed as she scrutinized me with groggy distaste.

“You smell like a damn cantina, Gracie,” Her voice glared at me more forcefully than her eyes ever could.

“Yep,” I proudly proclaimed, giggling like a schoolgirl. Arthur groaned and rolled away from me, taking the blanket with her. “Oh come on, Bea, don’ do that to me!” I whined, grabbing at her shoulder.

“Go home, Gracie.”

“I am, though.”

She sighed and pushed herself out of the bed, leaving a shivery chasm of empty air where she had been laying. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Nope,” I erupted into more giggles, rolling around on the bed.

“Gracie, I hope you realize you are absolutely smashed and need to sober up before you hurt yourself.

“Aabsholutely.”

“Absolutely you need to sober up, or absolutely you are smashed?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

10

Her eyes frowned at me. “Why the hell are you absolutely smashed in my bedroom at three in the morning?” She stood there with her hands on her hips like a grumpy mother as she stared down at me, somehow perfectly mimicking the soul-gazing expression of everyone’s favorite Golden Girl on the wall.

“I want ya to come with me,” I practically chirped the words, enthralled to remember my purpose for this visit. Arthur didn’t seem to be proud of my accomplishment, so I applauded myself.

She grimaced and rubbed at her eye with the vigor of a ninety-year-old. “Come where?”

“With me.”

“To where?”

“Away.”

“Away to where, Gracie?”

“Does it matter?”

The room fell silent as she glared at me like I had just told her the moon really was made of cheese. I noticed the slump of her shoulders beneath the oversized tee shirt she wore as a nightgown, her long, bony legs that needed a shave, and the way her short hair stood up in absurd and seemingly impossible ways. She was so different than me with my too-long, limp, hay-colored hair and stretched-out boniness.

“You’re pretty,” I mumbled. Damn, I thought, that’s really gay. “Pretty ugly!” I chortled and attempted to snap my fingers, but they just rubbed against each other soundlessly, flopping around like a set of dead fish. I tried again, but failed. “You can do it, little guys,” I whispered to my hand.

Arthur leaned over and grabbed my hand, “you need to stop that.” She dropped my hand to my side, and I let it lay there limply. “I’ll go make you some coffee.” She spun on her heel and began to walk out of the room.

“Won’t you come with me?”

She stopped, hand hovering over the doorknob. “Why?” “’Cause.”

“No, Gracie, I won’t.”

“Will you at least take me to the bus station?”

“No.” With that, I tried to get up and leave, but managed only to fall off the bed. Arthur was a frozen statue of perplexity, hovering above me as I half-crawled, half-dragged myself across the floor to the open window and somehow managed to climb back outside, narrowly avoiding rolling over the rhododendrons outside.

“Be careful!” She called as I stumbled away, rushing to the window to watch me leave.

But I didn’t pay her any mind; I was too busy trying to remember where the bus station was.

A short while later I heard the crunching of tires on the unkempt gravel road as Arthur’s car pulled up beside me.

“Get in,” she commanded.

She was pretty compelling: eyes swimming in dark circles, mouth set in a tight frown.

She’d be even more pissed if I didn’t; that and I didn’t want to walk. “Thanks for the ride.”

She handed me a steaming mug of coffee, “try not to spew in my car.”

I wanted to make a snarky remark about how a spot of vomit might be an improvement to her old rust bucket, but somehow managed to keep quiet as I sipped on the too-strong coffee.

The corners of Arthur’s mouth twitched downward, keeping time with her fingers as they fidgeted on the steering wheel. I noticed she still wasn’t wearing pants, which made me chuckle. “I’m taking you home, Gracie.”

11

“No you’re not, Beatrice,” I growled.

“Tell me where and why you’re going and maybe I’ll consider,” she paused and wagged an accusing finger in my direction; her eyes glued to the road ahead, “consider taking you to the damn bus station when you’re good and sober and can actually think this ridiculous shit through.”

“No.” I was acting like a five-year-old, but was too out of it to be embarrassed. I ought to throw a tantrum and demand fruit snacks. I let out a sort of choked laugh at the thought – how clever I was.

“Gracie, just tell me why you’re going.”

I stared out the car window at our sleepy little town of Hemet, California: the elephant graveyard of America. If Palm Springs was where everyone went to life up their last few years, Hemet was where they went to settle down and die. We had more funeral homes than restaurants. Everything smelled like death – you couldn’t escape it. Every day spent here was another nail in your coffin, every moment a step closer to the Great Unknown. And not just for the old folks.

There was no such thing as a future here.

“Do ya e’er feel trapped, Arthur? All in a cage n’ miserable and shit?” She opened her mouth to answer, but I cut her off. “This town is a cage, a trap. ‘S a shoebox with no holes poked in the top, and I’m the sorry ol’ lizard that got shut in.”

“You need to shut up, Gracie.”

“You,” I poked an accusatory finger at her, suddenly livid, “ya love this shithole, don’t you? But you’re suffocatin’ more than everyone else! Lil’ Beatrice with the four-point-o’ and the fancy college letters, driving her shitty car and wasting away in this hellhole like yer wantin’ to sit down an’ die like everyone else here – and you love it! Wha’s wrong with you?”

“I said shut the hell up!” her palm pounded against the steering wheel like a gavel.

She pulled over on the side of the road and washed me in a boiling glare. I went ahead and shut up, but I didn’t open the door, didn’t get out of the car – though I knew she would have just let me go. The thing was, I didn’t want her to. I wanted her to take me home, to hold onto me and never let me go through with this. Yeah I was trapped, but Stockholm syndrome was setting in.

“How is it, Gracie, that we’ve known each other our whole lives, and you still don’t know anything?” Her hands gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing in the world as she stared ahead. “You don’t know anything!”

“How could ya say that? After all we’ve been through together, how could you dare-” “Because it’s true! Gracie, it’s true. So just shut up.”

“But-” “Shut up!” She turned towards me, eyes wide, lips quivering. “Don’t say another damn word.”

We sat there in silence on the side of the road until dawn, a wall of anger between us. I must’ve fallen asleep at some point because the next thing I knew, Arthur was shaking me awake and shoving a lukewarm energy drink into my hand. The dashboard clock read six thirty.

“We have class in an hour and a half. Do you want me to swing by your house so you can get ready?”

I sighed and rested my throbbing head in the hand not currently occupied by an aluminum can. “I’m skipping town, Arthur.”

Her face remained placid as she reached into the back seat and pulled out her wallet.

She took out a wad of cash and shoved it into my hand, letting out a long sigh. “There. Now get the hell out of my car.” Her eyes flashed with some unrecognizable emotion but quickly turned furious.

12

“Won’t you come with me, Arthur?”

“No.” The word fell from her mouth like the last words of a condemned man.

My eyes begged for her to reconsider, but of course, she wouldn’t. I got out of the car and slammed the door. After a moment’s hesitation and another pleading glance at my closest friend in the world I walked away, not looking back as I slipped Arthur’s money into my back pocket and popped the tab on the energy drink. As I took a swig, all I could taste was hangover and guilt.

13

The Secret Life of Nathaniel Grey

by Candace Caterer Nathaniel purposefully widened his blue eyes in what he hoped was an “adorable” look.

He allowed a little drool to coat his pursed lips, just enough to make them shiny. He didn’t want to risk a dose of Anbesol. Nathaniel bobbed his head vigorously, causing his white-blond hair to reflect the florescent lighting in his attempt to get the MaMa’s attention. Nathaniel studied the “cuteness” display in the shiny surface of the stainless steel refrigerator door. The kitchen was not the best backdrop for Nathaniel’s exhibition. There were too many things to distract the MaMa in the kitchen. The refrigerator always had little fingerprints for her to wipe off. The sink usually had at least a dish or two. The cabinet doors seemed to always be a source of interest to the MaMa; she was forever checking to make sure they were latched properly. Unfortunately, the kitchen is where the cookies were located. Finally! The MaMa handed him one with a smile.

“Say thank you, Natty.” Her long fingers gripped the cookie tightly, refusing to release the hold until the magic phrase was uttered. The retriever, Goldie, shuffled over from where she had been lying to stand next to Nathaniel. Her tongue lolled, and she looked at the MaMa as if waiting for her turn at the cookie. Nathaniel glared at the dog. Given half a chance, he knew Goldie would snatch the cookie from his hand. The MaMa would scold the dog, and then Nathaniel would be forced to spend fifteen cookie-less minutes being scrubbed free of dog saliva before he would have another shot at the cookie. Nathaniel pulled at the cookie in desperation.

“Say thaank youuuu.” The MaMa made exaggerated movements with her mouth as if Nathaniel’s reluctance to speak could be cured by proper enunciation. Nathaniel hated this part.

Forced to perform like a trained animal, he knew that these little exercises would mean the end of him, eventually. Thirty months was the most he had heard of anyone getting. He had been warned before he was born. All babies are given a period of grace in which they knew everything.

Some children get only six months; others retain some of the knowledge for two years or more.

But, little by little, it would all be forgotten. It had already begun for Nathaniel. He was already at

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twenty-two months. Some spoke of this time of life as the pinnacle; the place where he could move his body well enough to put his knowledge to physical use. It was a bittersweet time, to be sure.

Nathaniel had never felt so powerful. Sure, at times he forgot little things – little used scientific formulas, dead language dialects, and the like. But his physical skills were developing at a fast clip, allowing Nathaniel to put his superior brain to practical applications. Who else in this house could apply the perfect amount of pressure on the dog’s tail? He could apply just enough to cause discomfort, but not enough to induce a violent response.

Speaking of discomfort, Nathaniel had noticed that his body had been less tolerant as he aged. No longer could he sit in quiet contentment when the contents of his diaper pressed his skin. When he tired, his eyelids would simply shut down. Even crying did not help keep him awake as it once had. Truly, twenty four months was the best and the worst time of anyone’s life. The cookies helped. They helped a lot, in fact. The rush of sugar through his blood energized him so that he could focus. But the MaMa was not generous with those.

Nathaniel often wondered if she knew, or at least suspected. Perhaps her goal was to keep him just this side of sanity until she had gained power over his mind. When he was younger, she would answer back his queries in his native tongue. Her knowledge of Goo was rudimentary, at best. And at times, she made no sense at all. But at least she made the attempt. Now, she insisted they use her language. ‘Say thank you, Natty.’ Initially, Nathaniel resisted. He would bat his big-blue eyes, or reach his plump hands up in a grasping motion, but he would not say it. When the grasping motion - a perfect ten on the adorable scale - ceased to work, Nathaniel knew it was over. He grudging spoke in the primitive tongue she preferred.

Nathaniel grunted almost unintelligibly, but it worked. With a wide smile, the MaMa released her hold on the cookie. Greedily, Nathaniel shoved the cookie into his mouth. It was gone too soon and his singing blood demanded another. He reached out his hands, stretching them as high as his physical limitations would allow. She ignored him. The MaMa had already turned to the sink and was engaged in sanitizing the brightly patterned plates. Nathaniel grunted.

She continued to hum some forgettable tune as she wiped her hands on a dishtowel. Nathaniel became desperate.

“More,” he demanded in the crude language. The MaMa spun around to look at him.

Her brown ponytail swished as she shook her head and her own blue eyes fixed on Nathaniel.

“No, Natty. It’s too close to dinner.”

Nathaniel’s mind raced. He thought about his options. The Tantrum had been his “goto” move for some time. But he could tell by the firm set of the MaMa’s lips that it was a gamble.

Sometimes, if the MaMa was very tired, the Tantrum was very effective. Other times, the move would only cause her to put him in the cage of his crib. Nathaniel looked out the window in an attempt to determine the time of day. There was truly a “magic hour” when planning a Tantrum for a cookie. When the sun was starting to sink lower in the sky, the MaMa was usually more pliable. It was too early in the evening for her to make him eat a meal, but too late in the afternoon for her to demand he take a nap. The sun was still pretty high, but Nathaniel decided to risk it.

In grand form, Nathaniel threw himself to the floor with a screech. He allowed the drool to flow freely now and little flecks of cookie remains dribbled down his chin. He closed his eyes tightly to concentrate on hitting just the right pitch. He could easily be ignored if the pitch was too low. If he aimed too high, he could not sustain the note long enough to make the Tantrum effective. Nathaniel was masterful at the move, but as he aged, it required more of his concentration. For good measure, he banged his tiny fists against the floor and thrashed his head to and fro. He had learned the hard way that lying on his back and banging his head against the

15

floor would only earn him a trip to the pediatrician. As he stomped his feet, he opened one eyelid slightly to gage the reaction. Nathaniel was pleased by what he saw.

The MaMa almost trembled in discomfort as the piercing wail assaulted her ears. The look in her eyes betrayed her thoughts. She was wavering. The MaMa, too, looked at the clock.

You could almost see her attempting to convince herself that it was a long time until dinner.

Nathaniel took advantage of the moment and howled even louder. Fat tears began to roll down his cheeks to mix with the mucous pooling on his upper lip. And then, he saw it. It was as if someone poured molten steel down the MaMa’s back. She stiffened, straightened and locked her jaw in a firm line. Nathaniel had gambled and lost. He was about to be sent to bed. Too late, he clamped his lips shut in an attempt to sway her. The MaMa scooped him easily from the floor and began the determined walk down the hall.

Nathaniel sniffled a bit as the dreaded crib came into view. Solitude, desperate and empty, loomed. He vainly tried to wriggle free, but the MaMa’s hold was ironclad. As they approached the crib, Nathaniel let out a screech of frustration. His eyes widened in surprise when she suddenly plunked him on the floor. Startled, Nathaniel went silent and looked up at the MaMa with the question on his reddened face. What was her game? Without a word, she turned on her heel and left the room. The solid thunk of the door echoed lightly as Nathaniel sat in stunned silence. That was it?

Nathaniel didn’t know quite what to do. This was a new, and unexpected, reaction to the Tantrum. He looked around the muted blue and white room. The white bars of the crib towered over him, flanked by the matching changing table. The white rocker in the corner sat as a motionless witness to the strange events. Toys stacked neatly on high shelves looked on as Nathaniel wobbled to his feet. The Bear! Where was the Bear? The idea came to him suddenly. He hadn’t used the technology in months. Perhaps that was a testament to his growing power or perhaps a sad reminder of all of the things that would soon be lost. But, if he could just find the Bear, there might be hope.

Crumpled in the corner, the off-white clump of fake fur beckoned. As quickly as his chubby legs would allow, Nathaniel raced over to the Bear. Now, who should he call? Franklin, his cousin, was older than Nathaniel. As such, he had lost too much information to be helpful.

Perhaps the next door neighbor; what was her name? Without ceremony, he picked up the toy. A pull of the ear and a careful poke in the left eye caused the Bear to faintly hum. Nathaniel waited expectantly as the barely discernible red light began to flicker in the torso. Telepathy the first gift of birth and the last thing a baby forgot. Thank goodness for the Bear Network to channel all of the voices. Unheard outside of Nathaniel’s own mind, a faint voice whispered, “Nathaniel? Is that really you? It’s been ages!”

Nathaniel didn’t know why Tabitha whispered when she used telepathy. It annoyed him.

Back in the early days, he would answer her with a yell just to make the point that no one could hear them. The point seemed to sail right past Tabitha. Eventually, Nathaniel gave up. There was certainly nothing to be gained by bringing it up now. As Nathaniel’s life continued ticking away, he had no time to waste. But a small part of his mind had to refrain from yelling back, “Tabby!” He knew she hated that name as much as he hated being called Natty. The MaMas could be so degrading.

“Hello, Tabitha. Yes, it has been a while. But I need your assistance.” Nathaniel played a brief memory of the afternoon’s events in his mind for Tabitha to see. The playback feature was helpful, but at times could be embarrassing. Nathaniel suppressed a wince as Tabitha viewed his unsuccessful Tantrum without comment.

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“What did you have in mind? I assume your goal is escape.” Tabitha knew about confinement. Her own MaMa had been a fierce proponent of the “Time Out” and had begun using it when Tabitha was only twelve months old.

“Escape,” Nathaniel confirmed. “But, perhaps something further.” Nathaniel could feel an almost imperceptible perk in Tabitha’s interest level. “How are you at spitting up?”

Tabitha chuckled in amusement. “Nathaniel, two year olds do not ‘spit up.’ They ‘throw up.’ I haven’t been ill for months.”

“Perfect!” Nathaniel exclaimed excitedly. “If you haven’t been ill and you suddenly throw up, your MaMa will most certainly call my MaMa in alarm!” Nathaniel played a brief preview of what he hoped to accomplish. Tabitha was skeptical, but intrigued. “I need about five minutes,” Nathaniel continued.

The little glowing light on the torso of the Bear flickered and then died signally Tabitha’s disconnect. Hurriedly, Nathaniel pulled roughly on the right leg of the Bear. Nothing happened. He pulled again, only bending the leg slightly forward. He was relieved when the little light sputtered and then glowed with solid blue. Animals communicated in a more subtle language of feelings rather than words. However, they insisted that pleasantries be exchanged at the onset of each conversation. Nathaniel tried not to allow his impatience to bleed through as he envisioned the warmth of the sun; the smell of bacon cooking in a frying pan; and the pleasure overload of being scratched just behind the ear. Finally, he was rewarded with a greeting from Goldie. Lazily, the retriever “listened” while Nathaniel explained his plan. Goldie was dubious. Although dogs were not selfish by nature, Goldie knew that her part in the plan would almost definitely result in a scolding. What was in it for her? Satisfied by Nathaniel’s promise to end tail-pulling, Goldie agreed.

Nathaniel disconnected his thoughts from the Bear and tossed it back in the corner. He strained to hear the sounds of his plan unfolding in the other room. Crossing his fingers that the timing would work, he focused on the faint click-click of Goldie’s nails across the kitchen floor.

Goldie was moving slowly so as not to attract attention. The phone rang twice before the MaMa finally silenced the noise by answering the call. Her voice was muffled, and he couldn’t make out the words, but Nathaniel could sense the alarm in Mama’s tone. The clatter of a tin can to the floor was faint; not enough to draw the MaMa’s notice, but enough to convince Nathaniel that Goldie was playing her part. That was the signal.

Nathaniel ran over to the closed door of his room and began to beat at it with his tiny fists. He yelled from deep in his stomach and kicked the door loudly with his WeeBoks. His heart sank a little as he didn’t hear the MaMa’s voice coming closer to the door. Louder now, he screamed until his throat stung. He sat down on the floor and began to violently kick it with both feet. Nathaniel’s efforts paid off, and he heard the MaMa’s footsteps echo in the hall.

“Is she running a fever at all?” Absently, the MaMa opened the door, and Nathaniel quickly skirted between her legs and into the kitchen. She followed at a slower pace not really paying attention to him at all. And then they reached the kitchen.

“GOLDIE!” The MaMa’s voice shook the walls of the room. Goldie froze in horror amidst the pile of garbage that littered the floor. Goldie began to nervously chew on the paper towel with jelly stuck to it that was still hanging from her mouth. Nathaniel sprang into action. For some reason, the MaMa was terrified of the idea of Nathaniel touching anything at all that had been in the trash can. From the refrigerator to the back door, the trash was ankle deep for the child.

Sharp tin cans, paper towels soaked with cleaning supplies and spoiled food was lain out like a disgusting buffet for a curious child. Nathaniel dove right in. He knew that the only way to pull the MaMa’s attention to him rather than the horrific mess in front of her was to touch the trash. A

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more observant being would have seen the smirk on Nathaniel’s face as he enticed the MaMa to distract him with a cookie.

The MaMa tried vainly to hold the phone in the crook of her neck, put the dog outside, and restrain Nathaniel from wading into the frightening mess. “Hold on, Linda. The dog tore up the trash.” Nathaniel was growing concerned that she hadn’t noticed him yet. Instead, the MaMa opened the back door, and Goldie bolted out without encouragement. Nathaniel screeched as he tossed wadded paper towels into the air and then grabbed a metal circle from the floor. The choreography was flawless and had the desired effect. The MaMa whirled to face him. “No, Natty!

Put that down!” She hurriedly swiped the dangerous tin can lid from Nathaniel’s grasped. He opened his mouth as if to screech in protest. Before he could utter a sound, the MaMa reached for the cookie jar. Nathaniel held his breath.

Did it work? He was afraid to utter a sound. The three seconds it took the MaMa to retrieve the cookie were the longest of his life. And suddenly it was there; it was right in front of him. The chocolate chips seemed to wink at Nathaniel as if they were in on the whole thing. Afraid that the gift would be rescinded, Nathaniel snatched the cookie from the MaMa’s outstretched hand. He savored the sugary goodness on his tongue and almost wept in the beauty of the moment. He had done it. In spite of his age, regardless of the continued deterioration of his skills, he had pulled it off. Between the rush of sugar and the glow of satisfaction of a well executed plan, Nathaniel’s blood was singing. He was positively heady. Later Nathaniel would blame his next action on this overwhelming sensory overload. In gratitude, and in spite of himself, Nathaniel spoke.

“Tank oo.”

The MaMa smiled warmly. It was if in that moment, the dog, the trash, the sick child next door, and even the failed Tantrum ceased to exist. Nathaniel allowed the MaMa to continue to lock eyes with him. And then, almost disgusted by the naked love he saw on the MaMa’s face, Nathaniel turned away. He toddled into the other room with his prize and left the MaMa to clean up.

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19

Whatever Happened to Baby Jo?

by Philip Cunningham

She wanders around with no direction.

Smoking whatever cigarettes she can.

I just hope she doesn't find rejection.

At fourteen, she only knows rejection, but by getting high when shit hits the fan, she wanders around with no direction.

Only liquor can help with her tension.

Living life without any kind of plan, I just hope she doesn't find rejection.

Every day, she gets thrown in detention, fighting with girls like Joanne and Roxanne.

She wanders around with no direction.

It all goes beyond my comprehension.

I can't even say how this all began.

I just hope she doesn't find rejection.

Is there any room left for redemption?

It's as if there's no answer other than, she wanders around with no direction.

I just hope she doesn't find rejection.

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The Republican Games

by Philip Cunningham It is my pleasure to announce, the three-hundredth and something round, of the semi-annual Republican Games!

Each time we hold the games, several subjects from every district of the United Empire of America, are selected for battle.

The subjects are selected by charisma, popularity, and their ability to twist around facts.

A compelling argument is always a sure way, to win over our audience of tea drinkers and mavericks.

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Tell us how you'll solve the issue of unemployment by giving away jobs, that the commies and welfare bums want to have, to places like China and India!

Try to get abortion banned, by claiming that a woman cannot get pregnant by rape, as long as she is raped properly!

Remember, you can only convince people that same-sex marriage is wrong, if you explain a homoerotic porn film you've watched!

In intricate and graphic detail obviously!

Another important thing you'll need, to compete in the Republican games, are the supplies of course!

You'll need to round up a herd of sheep.

A most gullible bunch of sheep, who will blindly follow your every move, all along your campaign trail!

Then, you'll need to find some pigs that will fund your effort in the games.

Don't forget, you'll always win them over, when you give them tax cuts that they don't even need!

Another thing you'll need is a single elephant.

We're not sure why you'll need one,

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but just get one anyway!

Lastly, you'll need some publicity agents.

Always there to save the day, whenever it's clear that you don't know what you're talking about!

Well, those are the rules for the games, my potential subjects.

Good luck with your campaign!

In closing, as we always say: May the votes be ever in your favor!

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24

A Toast to the Factory Writers

by Philip Cunningham

All you need to do, is take a look around any bookstore or library.

Placed among the shelves of books that are actually worth reading (Or in some cases, even overshadowing them), are the books from the assembly lines.

All made in America, by authors who are better at nothing more, than the art of manufacturing.

I just love a good mystery, don't you?

No bother!

Just pick up the newest novel, from the Patterson factory!

They just released the 167

th

book

in the Alex Cross series actually!

Much better than Sherlock Holmes, is it not?

Maybe you want something a little more romantic, but Romeo & Juliet is just too much work?

That's not a problem!

The Danielle Steel book mill cranks out at least thirty new books of the romantic persuasion a year!

Why, we haven't even scratched the surface here!

Upset that J.K. Rowling stopped writing Harry Potter, after only seven books?

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Well, the Evanovich factory has eighteen books

about Stephanie Plum!

Even better, are the twenty-five books, in the exclusive Stone Barrington collection, all made by Woods Incorporated!

Maybe horror is more up your alley?

No need to fear!

King Co. never fails to bring the screams and wet pants.

Their two thousand book collection, is so much more convenient, than trying to track down those so-called classics, like Dracula or Frankenstein.

Who would have known, that such a diverse range of easy-to-read literature, could be so easy to find?

If that is not enough of a reason, to raise my glass of Arbor Mist wine, then I have no idea what is!

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Beneath the Stars and Stripes

by Brianna Grindland

Rainy days like these are rare in San Diego; the dark sky, nearly purple in its hue, tints everything to the same shade. The smell of the impending storm fills the air, salty and warm off the ocean. Heavy clouds hang low, ready to release the downpour as thunder rumbles in the distance. Most of the town is hiding away in hopes to keep dry; blinds closed, shades pulled tight, San Diego looks like a ghost town. As lightning flashes, it briefly illuminates anything it can touch.

Reaching through the crack between curtains, it brightens my room, where the only light is coming from the open laptop. I see myself in the screen; I look ghostly in its blue light. I look sick.

My eyes are glossed over, and if that’s not bad enough, my makeup is dried and caked on, and I really should brush my hair. I look like a zombie. Suddenly everything feels colder, inside and out; I pull my knees to my chest. My room is coldest in the house; something in the ventilation system forces most of the AC to my side, which my sister hates, so I can almost always get away with wearing sweats or cozying up beneath thick blankets. My favorite is this knitted, rainbow afghan that I’ve had for years. It’s a scraggly, itchy old thing that smells like mothballs, but I have never been able to get rid of it. Usually, like today, it just lays across the edge of my bed, always half hanging off, waiting for one quick tug to bring it to the floor.

Beneath the blanket, my phone beeps for the twentieth time. I reach up to turn it off, but quickly glance at the screen. The message reads, “Olivia, please call if you need anything. I am so sorry for your loss.” Without responding, I shut the phone off and toss it back onto the bed. I’ve run out of patience for the calls, voicemails, and texts, because they all say the same thing. I am so tired of listening to and reading about how sorry everyone is for me; I don’t want sympathy, because I don’t feel like I deserve it. Parker’s parents and brother deserve it more than I do, so I feel guilty about the attention. Plus, it wasn’t genuine; people that I hadn’t spoken to in years were suddenly calling all the time, offering condolences, as if they were my longtime friends. And if that wasn’t bad enough, my real friends are no different; everyone looks at me, talks to me, and

27

acts the same way towards me. They’re like robots; mechanical bits and pieces, all programmed to respond in the exact same way. Part of me feels bad, but I just can’t handle it, so I’ve been hiding away from them all ever since the funeral. For two days now, I have been self-quarantined in my room; I haven’t eaten, haven’t slept much, and I haven’t spoken to anyone, not even my family. I feel useless, but all I can do is cry and think; the memories don’t stop, I can’t turn them off, can’t make them go away. As I think, I absent-mindedly run my hands over the carpet, like out of nervous habit. The static fibers are stubbly, something my mom was always complaining about.

“Why couldn’t we afford the shaggier, nicer carpet? I wish we’d upgraded when we bought the house,” she’d say. But I don’t mind, because it reminds me of Parker whenever he’d forget to shave. I used to mock-grimace whenever I’d run my fingertips across his face, only to feel the sandpapery layer over his skin; in a way, I loved it, and I loved that I missed the little things the most. The way he answered the phone, the way one of his shoelaces was always coming untied, his determination, his dedication to his duty, his kindness, his bravery… The last few qualities were evident and spoken of by many at the funeral; I’ll never forget the Pastor Charlie’s words.

With a catch in his voice, he quietly gave the eulogy. “Parker was one of the most fine young men I’ve had the privilege of knowing. He was driven, he was motivated, and he always did what was best for the benefit of others. Since he was a young boy, his dream was to be in the military, and I know we were all so proud of him when he graduated boot camp as a U.S. Marine, his parents especially. Parker never feared anything, not even death. He lived life to the fullest, never letting anything hold him back, and he loved to the best of his abilities. He is survived by his loving parents, Tom and Denise, his younger brother Evan, his fiancée Olivia, and countless numbers of other family and friends. As we leave here today, we should be strong, because it’s what Parker would have wanted. You all know how he hated seeing people sad, so let’s honor him and rejoice that he’s in a better place now, and we have hope that someday we will see him again…”

As Pastor Charlie’s words faded, a few Marine’s played Taps, and I glanced around. I had never seen so many people in the cemetery before, but I shouldn’t have been surprised; everybody loved Parker. Once the music stopped, there was a moment of silence, but I swear, it was the longest moment of my life. I wanted to scream. I couldn’t look at the people who had come in uniform, or at the picture up near Pastor Charlie. Parker always looked so handsome in his dress uniform, and that picture had always been one of my favorites until now. The dark blue color of the jacket contrasted so wonderfully against his olive skin tone, and the white cap was striking against his dark hair and eyes; he was so proud of that uniform and was going to wear it at our wedding. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t look at anything except for the casket.

Stepping towards the box, I had to place my hands on top of it to stop myself from falling; I couldn’t feel my legs. The flag draped delicately across the top was thicker than I imagined; it felt protective, and that brought me comfort. Parker’s parents had asked earlier if I wanted to see him, but I declined. It wouldn’t be fair to let him see me like this; like Pastor Charlie said, Parker hated seeing people upset, and now that he couldn’t do anything about it, it would just be cruel.

Ignoring the lump in my throat, I whispered, “I love you”, before stepping back with the crowd.

Amazing Grace started playing, and I watched them remove the flag. After folding it, two Marines handed it to Parker’s mother as the box was lowered into the ground. As soon as the last bit of the casket was out of sight, my stomach dropped, like when someone tells you horrible news, and suddenly I wished I had seen him one last time. I still couldn’t feel my legs, and I fell to the ground.

I couldn’t help it. I felt Parker’s mother kneel down to comfort me, and I could feel the stares of everyone around us, but it didn’t do any good. When they buried that casket, they buried me with it; everything I’d known, everything I was; every part of me had just been sealed six feet under, leaving me empty. When I finally picked myself up off of the ground, I brushed the damp grass off

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my clothes, and made my way home; I just wanted to be alone. From that moment on, there was nothing left for me, and I’ve been closed off since then.

People have wondered where I’ve been since that day; my phone records are evident of that, and I know they’re worried. Even my parents are worried about me; today was the first day they’ve left me alone so they could go to the store, and I know they took precautions. They took both cars out today, “finished up” or “threw out” most of the contents of the medicine cabinets, and even re-hid my father’s gun. My parents aren’t stupid, and it took a lot for them, especially my mother, to leave me alone today, even though it’s just for a few hours. They had seen my face when Parker’s parents came to tell us the news; at first I just sat there, because their words didn’t quite register in my brain. Then I began to cry; I knew something terrible would happen when he joined the Marine Corps, but he was always so reassuring. After boot camp, he was deployed to Iraq; two months into his five month tour, and now this? How could he be dead? I was angry, and I felt betrayed; he promised he would come back, and then his parents were basically telling me that he lied. My mother tried to console me over the next two weeks, but after the funeral, I acknowledged no one. Before they left today, my mom came into my room. If she was shocked by my appearance, she hid it well.

“I know you’re hurting,” she said, “and that’s alright. No one is telling you, or expecting you, to pull yourself together this soon. All I ask is that you think about us, the ones who love you, too, before you do anything. I love you, Olivia.”

I can’t look at her. I know it’s horrible, but she is asking me for something I can’t promise her. I hear myself saying, “I love you, too, Mom.” My voice is cracked and faint; this is the first time I’ve spoken aloud since the funeral, but still, I keep my eyes on the screen in front of me.

Pictures scroll by; pictures of Parker and me. He was so handsome, and he made me smile, which is something I don’t think I remember how to do now. There’s a long pause, and I can feel my mom staring at me as I brush my fingers over the images. As she leaves, the sound of the door closing echoes through me.

Closing my eyes, I turn away from the screen, and listen to the rain. Nothing hurts more than knowing I can’t be with Parker; all the open-ended promises that can never be fulfilled, the family we will never get to start, his voice never greeting me on the other end of the line, and never again having the wonderful feeling of just knowing he is there; a feeling I now realize I took for granted. I know everyone is afraid that I’ll hurt myself somehow; it’s the classic scenario, and I know it’s a selfish thing to do, but it’s so tempting. The easiness of taking all the feeling away; I want it, the numbness, the nothingness. I don’t want to feel anymore.

I know it’s not Parker’s fault, it’s not either of our parents’ faults, it’s not the U.S. Marine Corps’ fault, and like Pastor Charlie has told me numerous times, it’s not God’s fault or my fault.

But despite the lack of blame, there is still the feeling of overwhelming hopeless and emptiness that I just can’t fight. And for once in my life, I want to be selfish. I was selfless when Parker asked my opinion on joining the military; I was so afraid of something happening, something like this, but I wanted him to be happy, so I was supportive. I was selfless the first two weeks after everyone heard the news; I answered phone calls and texts, accepting sympathies, holding back my tears, even though it killed me to hear everyone talk about him. I was selfless when my mother brought me to Pastor Charlie for grief counseling, where he told me everything I already knew; how it’s okay to grieve for Parker and to mourn, and that all wounds heal with time. But I don’t want to heal; I don’t want to get over it. I am afraid to let go, because I don’t want to betray Parker’s memory, and I’m afraid that if I get better, I’ll only be hurt again. Being selfless has only caused more pain. After everything that’s happened, I think I deserve to be selfish; my best friend, the man I was going to share my life with, has been taken away from me without any warning.

Everyone should understand that I just want to be with him, no matter what; that’s how it’s

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always been, since the very beginning.

A new photo appears on my screen; one taken the day Parker left for his deployment. He seemed so different when he wore his combat uniform; so strong, so serious, and so proud. It was such a drastic contrast from his typically laid-back, goofy style. He tried not to grin so much that day, but you could tell he was excited; he beamed in this photo; his eyes sparkled, especially compared to my own mascara-stained ones. Right before he left, he promised he’d come back and that we’d always be together. He never broke promises, and he isn’t about to start now. I kiss my fingertips and press them to the photo, and for the first time, I actually feel myself start to smile. If he can’t come to me, I will just have to go to him. Come to think of it, my parents are terrible at hiding things. Hang on, Parker; I’m coming home.

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Four Hours Before Seven

by Timothy Day The barrel of my gun clicks while I am loading a case of bullets and adding an extra case th in my right pocket of my dark grey jeans. It is Saturday, December 6 in the year 2025 at 0300 hours in Las Vegas, Nevada. I look outside and see the scenery of the brightest city in the country from the hotel window with the fresh smell of clean navy blue curtains that is a mixture of vanilla and lavender. I’m staying the night at The Mysterious Bahamas Casino and Hotel near the Stratosphere where the Nascar Café used to be on Sahara and South Las Vegas Boulevard. I wait for my phone call while I see that the streets are wide open and empty at around this hour when most of the residents and vacationers are asleep.

The white coated mint telephone rings the first two times on the night stand near the left side of the unused dark blue king size bed. I approach the phone on the third ring while the red light on the buttons flashes rapidly. I answer the call in a tone of deep concern and the urge to kill, “Where is Sheryl?”

“Jace, Jace, I’m glad you answered the call. Our boss needs you to do something for him.”

“Pete, I’ve told you that I am not a part of this anymore. Tell me where she is, and I will be far away from here.”

“You can’t leave until you do Mr. Benito a favor first.”

“Then tell me why Sheryl is being kidnapped! She is not involved in this!”

“I don’t know Jace, but I suggest that you speak to him at The Top of the World.”

“Dammit Pete! You were like a brother to me, why are doing this to me? Why don’t you help me?” I shout clenching the phone against my ear while I could hear the plastic being squeezed.

“Sorry… brother,” then he hangs up the phone, and I begin to cuss, slamming the white minted phone on the night stand as if it could shatter. Then I throw it across the room when it

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lands near the restroom while the light turns on automatically, brightening up the colors of white and blue. I sit on the bed putting both of my hands on my buzzed black hair as if I am clawing my own head, trying to get myself together.

“What the hell does Benito want?” I ask myself, “Why is Sheryl being kidnapped?” I never intended this to happen after I’ve told Mr. Benito that I would leave when I’m done with my job for him. I zip up my black leather motorcycle jacket with bright blood red double lines from my shoulder blades down to my wrists; and blood red lines on the top of my breast pockets and zipper. I slide my hands through my black leather, fingerless gloves with a red and white Pegasus symbol on the top left side of my hand. I tighten my dark grey military boots and then grab my keys and black GPS helmet with a portable pair of silver goggles that are left inside my glove compartment. I head down to the parking garage that is beneath the hotel and search for my motorcycle that is called a Yamaha R1 Pegasus 250. It is painted in black with the lights that would bright up in red when I turn on the ignition. It travels in 300 mph with a 250 horsepower engine; this is pretty much an upgraded version of a 2013 Yamaha YZF-R1.

I find my Pegasus and turn on the engine with the red lights coming to life, and the engine almost sounds like an actual horse neighing behind the roar. I begin driving down north through Las Vegas Boulevard which is half a mile to reach near West Baltimore Avenue. Then I park and secure my Pegasus and leave my weapon locked inside the glove compartment; so that Benito’s guards don’t take it away from me. I enter inside the Stratosphere with the look of dark gold on the walls and ceilings with the brown carpet on the floors. The lights inside aren’t so welcoming for the visitors or customers who would want to see the view from up above the city. I press the button with a ping noise of the elevator doors opening.

Then in less than thirty seconds I’m at The Top of the World restaurant which is under construction for rebuilding. There are two guards dressed up in black near the doorway, searching my pockets to see if I am armed, and then they escort me inside the unfinished restaurant. The room is covered in plastic, hung on the walls and over the furniture except for the windows and the table that I see Mr. Benito sitting in. I smell the honey mixed cigar puffing from Benito’s breath. I take a seat while his two guards follow me to my chair.

Mr. Benito scowls at me as his face clays up like a pit-bull; he is bald and in his midforties with no hair showing on top and has dark blue eyes with brown facial hair. He is dressed up in a dark gray suit with a blue handkerchief sticking out of his left breast pocket. “You may leave us alone,” he says shooing his guards away with a half burnt cigar and exhaling the smoke before putting it out. “So Jace, it seems to me that you didn’t hear the favor from Pete I wanted you to do for me. Is there a problem?”

“I’m here to get Sheryl back, and I don’t work for you anymore.”

He leans forward from his seat, slides the ashtray off the table, and puts his platinum plated pistol facing sideways on the table aiming it at me. “You can only leave and get your lover back if you give me back twenty five percent of that money you’ve stolen from me. If I don’t get it by the time the sun rises, then your lover’s life gets paid and that includes yours too.”

I lean forward halfway getting up and grabbing the white table cloth at his end of the table, “I don’t have the money.” I can feel him wanting to pull the trigger while our eyes are flaring at each other.

He brings his pistol near my left cheek slightly pointing the barrel upward and says, “If you don’t have the money, then go out and find it by seven-o-clock, which is almost four hours from now.” Then he brings up his left hand flashing his silver watch and tapping it with the barrel of his gun.

I get up from my seat, and as the chair slides back, I ask, “Where is Pete at?”

“He’s at the desert near the Red Rock Canyon. You sure you’ll make it on time?” I walk up

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to the doors to exit to the elevators until I hear a thudding sound. I turn around while Benito looks at me from across the room and says, “Better hurry back.” Then I head out passing through the guards and press the button to go to the ground level.

While I wait to reach the ground level, I begin to remember my moments with Sheryl; remembering the one time when I met her at the Red Rock Casino. Being a waitress, she wore her red uniform with white lines at the edge of her sleeves. And I remember seeing her beautiful smile with her blonde hair cut short while she took my order. I used to come to her every weekend at a small restaurant called The 80’s Diner until we started to get to know each other. th This was about two years ago on December 5 of 2023, and I would have had another anniversary celebration set up for her and propose to her yesterday.

I assumed that Pete stole a quarter of ten million dollars from Benito while we were both stealing from The Red Rock Casino about two days ago. Sheryl has a father who is the owner of the casino, and she helped give me directions to where the money was being held. She helped me because she wanted to prove to her father that he shouldn’t be a selfish pain in the ass when he does not help her and the family with their needs. She was abused by him when she was a child at the age of ten; and her sister Evelyn who was two years older almost died in an accident with him. They both have forgiven him for his drunken behavior, but Sheryl will never forgive him for the abuse and abandoning the family by the time she was eleven. So this was her getting back at him ten years later ever since he was not a good father to her.

During that day when Pete and I broke in the vault, I was filling up five duffle bags, and he was doing the same. And then during our escape from the casino, we split when I gave him five of my bags full of cash, and he drove off to deliver it to Mr. Benito. We were paid five hundred grand each to do this job, and I didn’t receive my paycheck on that day. I thought I would receive it the next day until I found out that Sheryl was missing at home over twelve hours ago. That was when I received a note on the kitchen counter telling me to wait at the Mysterious Bahamas Hotel for a telephone call.

The elevator reaches the ground level with a ping sound while it distracts me from remembering, and I go to my Pegasus turning on the ignition again. I put on my GPS helmet when the screen brightens up, and I say, “Locate me to license plate 529-7FK.” It is Pete’s vehicle, and the green screen shows me where to go to reach him and tells me, ‘Go right on Las Vegas Boulevard and then west on Sahara.’ I make my motorcycle roar and screech and drive down onto west Sahara.

It is around 0400 hours and the early morning air is freezing cold while I am searching for Pete’s Ford 2012 Cobra Shelby GT-500 through the desert. When the GPS tells me that I am near him, I scan through the field with my helmet zooming in as if I am using night-vision binoculars. I continue driving down the road and then onto the dirt when I am to turn left. I slow down on my speed as I hear a low growl and snort from my engine. After a few minutes of trying to find him, I locate his parked Cobra, and I turn off my Pegasus and park it on the gravel. I take off my helmet and hang it on the side and grab my gun and goggles; I put on my goggles, and it goes back to night vision like it does on my helmet, except I can’t talk to it. I check my gun to see if I am still loaded and then click it back while I press a button for it to turn on a flashlight. I search around his vehicle that is painted in white and added with blue stripes on the sides that are lined up in horizontal, including the middle top of the car; also there are four shiny silver symbols of cobras on each side of the vehicle. At the same time, I look inside through his window with my flashlight gun, but there’s no sign of him inside.

“Jace…” I hear him say from behind me, and I slowly turn around aiming the light at him.

“What are you doing here?” He asks since he is also aiming at me with his six-shooter that is designed in Clint Eastwood style. I pull my goggles up and wear them like a headband while I try to

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get a clear look at him. He has messy spiked bright blonde dyed hair that suits him quite well; he has hazel eyes that would match any cactus that I would see in the desert if it is going to be daylight by now. He is wearing his rusted red leather jacket with a dark gray wool sweater that peaks at the collar. He is also wearing navy blue denim jeans with brown sneakers. I still see him wearing his shiny silver skull ring with no jaw bone on his right finger between his pinkie and middle fingers on the handle of his six-shooter; he has been wearing that ring since our high school years.

“Pete,” I say lighting down to his knees. “We need to talk about something.” I begin to take a step closer.

“Go ahead and talk, but do not come any closer,” he says while he begins to hiss like a rattle snake, and I could see his veins tensing up a little on his neck and hands.

“Alright,” I hold up my left hand to signal that I am not going to shoot. “I had a talk with Mr. Benito at The Top of the World.”

“Yeah, so what is it you’re telling me?”

“I assume that you have a quarter of ten million dollars you didn’t deliver to him.”

“What?! So now you told him that I have the money?” he points to himself on the chest with his left hand.

“No, I told him that I don’t have the money,” I aim at him with both of my hands lighting back up to his chest and to his face. “But I do know that you have it.”

“Oh-ho-ho! So now you’re blaming it on me?”

“Yes, because you told our boss that I have the money! And now Sheryl is missing because of you. So give me Benito’s money so that I can get Sheryl back and away from this job.”

“Why do you care and love her so much? She is just in love with you because of your money.”

“That’s not true! You don’t know her the way I do for two years… Damn Pete! I was going to make you become my best man.”

“Best man?... Are you fucking kidding me?! Since when was I your best man? You’ve spent way too much time with that bitch of yours. You hardly know me anymore.”

“What do you mean I hardly know you anymore?”

“I mean that we don’t act like brothers like the way we used to six years ago in our senior year of high school and when we later started working together for Benito.”

“Pete… You are still-“ “Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!” he points his shooter in the air at me as if he is physically jabbing me with it. “You are right about the money, but if you want it so bad to marry her, then I have a game for you to play.” He pulls out a silver device from his pocket jacket, which is the size of a harmonica case and throws it between us while the dirt slowly smokes up in the air.

“You are to go on a treasure hunt and there are six holes; one of them will be waiting for you.”

“What did you bury?” I ask glancing at the device and back at him.

“That’s a surprise for you to find out. Time’s a wasting,” then he walks into his vehicle.

“Wait! Tell me what you buried!” I shout at him while he turns on his Cobra and drives away with a snake-like hissing sound before it roars away, nearly almost running into my Pegasus.

I pick up the silver device and slide it open like a Chinese fan when the blue screen brightens up like a GPS, except where each of the holes are. Then there is a note on the right side of the screen that says ‘press play to listen,’ and I touch the play button on the screen.

Pete’s voice is recorded as he says, “Jace, I have a little game for you, since you can see that there are six holes for you to find; you must choose carefully and decide which one is the treasure you’re looking for. If you find the wrong hole, then the hole that you didn’t find will begin to flood up. Since now you’ve opened this map device and listened to my message, your timer will

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begin on the top left of your screen…” I look at the timer, and it begins to countdown, “You have fifteen minutes to play,” and then I hear him lightly laughing with playful insanity when the message ends. I move away the message and begin following the holes on the map, taking a left turn. After two minutes of running and reaching to the first hole, there is nothing in there, and on the map when it shows that I reach to one of the six holes, another timer on the bottom of the screen begins to measure up as a loading bar. That means that the water is filling up, and another message pings and plays automatically. Pete says, “Here’s a clue, figure out what this says… 18, 9, 7, 8, 20.” Then he hums a few notes to the well-known children’s ABC song that we would learn in elementary while the message ends.

I take a couple minutes to think what he is humming, so I write the alphabet on the dirt while there is about ten minutes left on the timer and the bar is almost half full. Then I write down the numbers below the alphabet and remember which numbers he said in the message. After figuring out what the message is, I wrote the word ‘right.’ Then I realize that he was telling me to look at the right side of the screen, since there are only two holes. I begin to run, following the map, and after five minutes, I got to my second hole, and it’s the wrong one again. The bar begins to speed up a little faster which has about one-third left to fill. There is five more minutes left running on the timer, and I sprint up to the next hole on the right side of the screen. While I am getting closer to my third hole, I begin to recognize a voice screaming for help. It’s Sheryl screaming inside the hole, and she seems to be surrounded in water. “Sheryl!” I scream back, “Hold on honey, I’m coming for you!”

“Jace!” She yells and coughs, “Help!” she coughs again. I arrive at the third hole and toss the map device to my right side and try reaching her hands. The water rises over her head, and it seems like she is being tied to the bottom. I jump inside the hole and reach the bottom of the ten foot hole. I can’t see inside the water, so I begin touching for what is tying her down which feels like a rope is connected to a heavy object. I take out my keys and use the razor sharp pocket knife on the key chain to cut through the rope. After a few seconds of rapidly cutting the rope, I set her free and follow her up out of the hole which is now over flooding. We both gasp for air while I pull her out onto the muddy surface. I hold her in my arms trying to warm her up from being soaked.

She shivers and looks up at me with her crystal blue eyes while I brush back her wet shoulder length hair that she decided to let grow about two years ago. She takes a deep breath and tries to speak clearly, “M-my sis-sister Evelyn is missing.”

“What?” I ask while I get her up off the ground and wrap her with my soaked jacket since she is only wearing her wet, dark violet hoodie that she is covering over her uniform since she still works at the 80s Diner. “What did you say about your sister?”

“Evelyn was kidnapped by Benito while I was getting off work.” The snow begins to fall lightly, coating the dirt when I grab her along with me to my Pegasus, and she gets onto it behind me while I give her my helmet to wear. I turn on the heater from the seat of my motorcycle and drive back to the Stratosphere since that is where it said that Pete is heading from my GPS goggles.

It is now past 0540 hours, almost reaching up to 0600 hours, and the sun isn’t completely up yet. It is now snowing in the city as if it has followed us from the desert since now the sky is covered in gray, making the scenery completely blue in the cold air. I park my Pegasus again near the building of The Stratosphere and right next to Pete’s Cobra. Sheryl and I get off, and I pull out a crowbar that I keep inside my seat. I use it to open the trunk of his vehicle.

Scraping off his paint and denting the metal just to ram it open, I finally open it after a few minutes, and Sheryl and I see that Pete has a duffle bag full of cash in the trunk; the quarter of the ten million is neatly sitting inside it with his suit case as if he is getting ready to go on vacation. I snatch the duffle bag and swing it around my right shoulder, and I find a shotgun that is loaded

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and toss it to Sheryl. Then we both head inside the building of the Stratosphere with Sheryl following me.

We head inside the elevators going back up to The Top of the World; “Sheryl,” I begin to say and resting the shoulder strap back up on my shoulder. “When we get to the floor where Benito is chilling out, I want you to keep an eye out on this floor and be sure nobody comes in this elevator. I will deactivate the power on this elevator, and when these doors open, we will begin to find Evelyn.”

“Sounds like a decent plan,” she says while the sound pings to open the doors, and she double clicks her shotgun, “Let’s go shoot this bastard’s ass down.” Then we give each other a kiss for a second for good luck before the doors open, and we charge out of the elevators taking out the two guards that stand there in shock. They both fall to the ground with one clean shot with my gun in the head of the first one, and Sheryl shoots the second guard in the chest while blood splatters on the ceiling, walls, and gold doors.

Then I tell Sheryl to hide back, and I kick in the doors while Benito and Pete stare at me as I intrude on their conversation. “Toss away your shooter Pete!” I shout, and while he is fiddling with his weapon, I smack it off his hand and let it slide across the room. Then I set the duffle bag on the table where Benito is sitting with eyes glancing at me and the bag.

“What is this?” Benito asks getting up off his seat and looks inside and finds out that it’s his missing cash. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it inside Pete’s vehicle,” I respond while I continue to aim at him.

“Is this true, Pete?” he looks at Pete like an upset pit-bull walking up to him.

“I-I-I… Yeah, I kept it… as a Christmas surprise for you, sir,” Pete says smiling nervously pointing at the duffle bag and at Benito.

“I’m sorry Pete, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to terminate you from this job.” Then he picks him up and sends him crashing out the window of The Stratosphere. The cry of his voice echoes in my head while he falls and Benito watches Pete disappear into the street.

He turns around to look at me as if he is about to say something while I am now aiming at him, “Where is Sheryl’s sister?”

“What? I have no clue what you are talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me, where is Evelyn?”

“Who?” I shoot him in his left arm, “Ah! What the… I don’t know where she is!” He says grinding his teeth.

“I don’t have time for this… Evelyn!” Then I hear a mumbling and thudding sound like she is a floor up from the restaurant. I run up the stairs while Sheryl follows me with her shotgun.

We barge inside the room and see that Evelyn is tied up to a device where she would be dropped from the top of the tower; being tied onto the Big Shot Ride that is being repaired. I grab her leg by tugging onto her black jeans from inside the building and slide her back from outside while the timer on the ride is running and ready to let her fall. Evelyn looks to be Sheryl’s twin sister, except she is a couple years older and dyes her hair brown. Then Benito marches in holding his wounded arm while he fails to aim straight at me. “I did my job Benito. You need to end this now.”

“No, Jace. The rule is that if you leave this job I offer you, then you disappear by me ending your life and your lover’s. And…” he glances at Evelyn, “And she goes, too.”

“Well, you got your money, and I did what you’ve told me. Now please move aside.”

“No!” He barks, “You listen to me Jace. You don’t get to leave, but you get to not exist.”

“Sure. And maybe you don’t get to live.” And Sheryl shoots Benito, and he falls out of the window, sending him in the snow. Sheryl, Evelyn, and I walk out of the Stratosphere and escape th the city to lay low at a cabin on Mount Charleston for about ten days until December 16 . Then th later on the 20 , Sheryl and I take a vacation to New York City during the holiday. And when we

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head back to Las Vegas on time for a New Year’s Eve celebration, I decide to propose to her while we watch the fireworks flashing in the night sky.

37

My Gift to Barbie

by Kelsey Jeralds

I spend most summer nights out here on the patio of our old Victorian, although I can barely stand the memories that flood my head when I do. The floral patterns on the cushion of the porch swing remind me of the dress Barbie wore on our first date; the wind chimes dangling above remind me of the tinkling sound of her voice; the riot of pink flowers surrounding our deck remind me of the ribbons she used to wear in her hair. She was all colors when we first met, but now she would only wear black or white. She hardly left the bedroom anymore.

It’s nearing midnight already and even in summer, Seattle nights are chilly. With a sigh, I leave the comfort of the porch swing. Barb’s been asleep for almost two hours, but I want to be near her whether she’s awake or not. The first time I saw her house, I was nearly disgusted by the bright pink paint plastered across her walls. Barb chose green and white to compliment such a horrid color, making the whole entire house look like a spring catalogue. Her furniture was once covered in plastic, but my bitching eventually got her to take it off. Just like the porch swing, her couch cushions were floral, pink and green being the most prominent colors. Everything else was white and placed so perfectly that it almost resembled a doll house. I still hate it, but I refuse to tell her. I quietly move through the living room and up the stairs to the last bedroom on the left. I see her sitting in the dark, basking in the moonlight breaking through the window. She’s hiding her beautiful face in her hands, and I can hear her as she chokes back tears.

“I can’t sleep.” I hear that a lot from her. I walk towards the bed and sit down beside her without word. I know she’ll tell me what’s on her mind whether I ask or not. I bring my arm across her shoulders and pull her just a bit closer. Her beautiful, chocolate locks are held up in a messy bun and tears stain her chiseled features. Her name is Barbie, but I never think of the doll when I see her—I think of a Greek Goddess. I used to call her ‘Aphrodite’ because of that.

“I can still hear his voice, Nick…It’s driving me crazy.” She flashes me a look. Her eyes

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shine like glass, catching the light from the window. “He was only ten years old…” I haven’t seen this look since the day she got the call about her son’s death. It was all over the news. ‘Young boy involved in fatal accident.’ I remember seeing the aftermath of the accident on television and catching a glimpse of the small body under a sheet. To this day, Barbie refuses to get in a car.

“I know.” I look away as she raises her head. I’ve run out of things to say on the matter. I know she loved this child, and I miss him too, but there isn’t anything I can do at this point to bring life to her again. She told me the kid’s dad walked out when the kid turned two. She never mentions why; I can’t imagine why. I know it is pointless, but I ask anyway, “Barb, what can I do?

I’ll do anything.” I tighten my grip on her shoulder without meaning to and feel her muscles tense.

“Leave me,” Her quiet voice hangs between us. I can’t meet her eyes even though I feel her gaze on my face. “I can’t go so you have to.”

Here we go again down the same path we’ve been down many times since Kevin’s death; she begs me to leave her, so she can live out the rest of her days in this miserable state. “Oh, Jesus Christ, Barb…” I roll my eyes, pulling away from her. She gasps at my choice of words and abruptly stands to her feet.

“Don’t you take His name in vain Nick—don’t do it,” She snaps at me, waving a disapproving finger in my direction. I always forget how uptight Barb is when it comes to her faith.

“Well, I’m real fuckin’ sorry, Barb, but you piss me off when you say stuff like that.” I throw my arms in the air, but my actions are cut short by a firm palm across my cheek. It doesn’t hurt that much, but it gets a rise out of me. I stand and grab hold of her shoulders, so nothing can steal her attention. “I am the ONLY one who is there for you, Barb. I’m the only one, and this is how you’re gonna treat me?”

“You’re not there for me! You can’t even begin to understand what I’m going through!”

She grabs onto my arms, and her entire body starts to tremble. She rips herself from my grasp and moves closer to the wall. “YOU have never felt pain before in your entire life—YOU never even HAD kids! You who had both parents growing up, and everything you could have ever wanted!”

She’s crying again, this time allowing it to strain her voice. I want to remind her that I know pain better than she thinks I do, but I stay quiet. I’m pretty sure she’s grown tired of hearing stories – my stories about being the ‘freak in the back of the classroom,’ anyway.

“I can’t do this anymore…” Barb groans as she slowly drops to her knees. She brings her arms around her chest and lowers her head as if she’s trying to hide from me now. Watching her collapse like that—hearing her as she chokes on her own emotions, it just breaks my heart. I never realized until this very moment just how much her loss had destroyed her. Guilt-ridden, I sit beside her, wrapping my arms around her to show her that I am here for her no matter what she says to me.

“I’d do anything to see you smile again, Barbie…”I don’t even think she can hear me over her own sobs. She lays her head against my shoulder which lets me know the fight is over. She pushes the fabric of her white gown off of her forearm, and raises it to the moonlight. She’s revealing a field of scars laid out across her arm—something I’ve never seen before. Seeing the pain she’s put herself through sends my heart straight down into my stomach. The woman I once shared so much with was now lost, and I couldn’t save her no matter what I did.

“Y-you tried to kill yourself, Barbie…?” I ask her.

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself I was—trying to—I don’t know…It makes me feel better,” she explains, which just sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me. How could she feel better after driving God-knows-what through her skin? “If it wasn’t a sin, I would have done it—taken my own life just to be with him…” Her voice cracks, and she covers her face once more.

For the next hour, I listen to her as she attempts to compose herself, but I don’t say a thing. After a while, we move onto the bed, and the crying doesn’t stop until she’s asleep. She

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looks so peaceful when she’s sleeps, but I know that will all change once she wakes. I don’t want to watch her push through this Hell, and I know she doesn’t even want to try pushing anymore.

Her words keep replaying in my head; ‘If it wasn’t a sin, I would do it.’ If it weren’t for the things she had been taught as a child by her overly religious parents, she’d be gone. I just want her to be happy—I want her to be able to see her son even if it means I have to lose her.

With her resting in my arms, I grab the pillow beside me and press it over her face. I’d rather go to jail for the rest of my life for murder than watch as Barbie suffers through one more day. As we lay there, her slowly slipping away next to me, I remember what we used to be; I remember the way she used to run her fingers through my hair as we lay in bed together and how she made comments about how ‘beautifully red’ it was; I remember the nights we spent on her patio, talking about whatever the hell we wanted to; I remember the Sunday mornings we spent both trying to get Kevin out of bed and dressed for church; I remember tasting her lips every night before we went to bed and feeling her silky skin when I woke up with her right up next to me.

I start to feel the subtle rise and fall of her chest. It slows until it’s eventually nonexistent.

I put the pillow aside and lean in to give her one last kiss. Our lips meet for a moment then I find myself whispering to her as if she could hear me.

“I love you, Barb. I hope you’re finally happy.”

40

Scavengers

by Jared Hall The wind is the first thing she notices. It's cool, and smells of winter. The last of the autumn leaves dance along the street as it blows, painting the world a flurry of red and yellow.

She stands in the doorway for a moment, her red hair blowing across her face, catching on her nose and lips. She used to enjoy days like this.

She pulls her scarf up to her cheeks, and steps out into the cold. The hinges of the door behind her give a squeak as it is blown shut, and then the world falls silent. The people that once populated this street are replaced by leaves. She can almost still see them there, leaving the warmth of their homes for the chill of the morning. She can almost hear their voices lingering in the wind, whispering her name, "Rouge". It's an eerie feeling, such an empty street, and such a talkative wind. She still hasn’t gotten used to it.

It's been seven months since the outbreak and since the world came to a standstill. The CDC called it a Plague - urged people to stay indoors, to be careful of the water. None of the precautions made any difference. People started dying; most of them gone within a week. A few thousand survived - immune to the Plague - but the world they inherited was in ruins. Most of them died of starvation, or thirst, and eventually started killing each other. Rouge spends her mornings wandering the streets, pouring over every run-down building for food or supplies. She knew these streets once, these buildings, but they're strangers now. Nature has taken back the city, and crept its way up the tall concrete buildings and through cracks in the ground. The street lights are gone, windows smashed in, shops and apartments stripped of provisions. These streets have nothing left to offer her but their whispers.

She's careful of her feet – careful not to make any noise with a misplaced step, or a crushed leaf underfoot. They should be safe from Raiders, these looted streets. Most of them have moved their camps to other parts of the city where resources are less scarce. But she doesn't take any chances. She quietly tiptoes her way through morning, gathering provisions as she goes.

She finally stops late in the afternoon to take inventory of what she's found. She sits on the curb at the corner of an unfamiliar street and empties her pack. Some batteries, three battered cans of Cream of Chicken soup, a zip-lock bag with some crackers in it, a tattered grey shirt, and an empty soda bottle. "Not much," she sighs, opening the bag of crackers to get a better

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look at them. It's stale, but seems to be safe enough to eat. She takes a bite as she heads back home.

It's evening when she finally arrives, and the last of the sun has been swallowed up by a grey blanket of sky that seems to have crept up on it out of nowhere. The hinges squeal as the door opens, and Rouge trudges through into the warmth and sprawls out across a thick flannel blanket spread on the floor. The small room is lit by fire, a wooden chair which burns openly in the middle of the room. The carpet has been stripped away to prevent the fire from catching, revealing the concrete foundation beneath. This building was a restaurant once, a sandwich shop.

Now it’s just a ghost of its former self. Electrical wires are exposed, the ceiling cracked, and all the windows are smashed except for the barred window in the back which faces the alley.

They've been here for three months now, Rouge and the others. There are five of them in total - Rouge, Liam, Penny, Carl, and Lee. They only have one gun between them, a pistol with a single bullet left in the clip. It's kept holstered on the side of the scavenger's pack. They scavenge in shifts, trading the gun between them. It's not much, but Rouge feels safer with it.

Almost as soon as Rouge gets herself comfortable on the floor, she sees Liam towering over her, and she reaches out to hand him her pack. Liam is a tall, well-built man who always wears the same orange hat over his silver hair. He owned a cattle ranch out in the country with his wife Barbara, and his daughters Bree and Lindsey. Barbara and Lindsey died of Plague. Liam and Bree tried to keep the ranch going, but their cattle ended up dying a few days later. Raiders had gotten to them. Eventually the two made their way to the city and started scavenging. Bree died a few months ago, shot by Raiders in the alleyway behind the restaurant.

Rouge can still remember that night, the warm summer breeze, and the clouds on fire as the sun set behind them. It was calm and peaceful. If there were any more beautiful nights left in the world, that was one of them. Bree had been scavenging that day, traveling through the alleyways. She thought they were safer than the streets, less open. She was turning the corner around the back of the restaurant when it happened; the gunshot. Liam had been watching for her through the barred up window facing the alley. He saw her fall. He saw the Raiders empty her pockets and her pack, and abandon her in the alley. He never made a move for the door, or an attempt to help her. Rouge thinks he was in shock, too afraid to help, or maybe knew there was nothing he could do. The Raiders would have killed him too if he had tried. They would have killed all of them if they knew they were in the restaurant. Rouge wonders if he wishes they had. He broke that day, gave up on living. He's tried to take his life a few times, and had even tried to overdose on a bottle of unmarked pills a few weeks ago. Turned out to be just vitamins though and he was only sick for a few days. He has taken to refusing food now, but he's not very good at starving himself. Rouge catches him slipping things into his pocket from her pack from time to time. She doesn't say anything though, as long as he's eating. Liam spends most of his time now helping with rations and visiting Bree's grave. She's buried in the small six-by-six plot of grass across the street. The others won't let him scavenge anymore - they don't trust him with the gun in the pack.

Rouge strips her layer of winter clothes - jacket, gloves, scarf, and boots - and sits upright on the floor watching the fire. The flames crackle and pop, spreading their warmth like a blanket over her body.

Liam and Penny open Rouge's pack and spread its contents on the table. She watches as Penny catalogues the supplies, making a note of each item on the table before putting it into one of the cardboard boxes on the table. Liam sneaks something into his jacket pocket when Penny isn't looking. Rouge can't see what it is.

"Is this all there was...?" Penny asks.

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"There's not much left out there anymore," Rouge says "We're gonna have to relocate, find a place that hasn't been picked clean yet. I was thinking we could--" "I ain't goin' nowhere," Liam says "We been over this, Red." "Liam you can't--" Rouge says.

"I ain't leavin' her," Liam says, walking towards the door to indicate he's done with the conversation. They've all tried to talk to him about Bree at one point or another, but he won't listen. Says he'd be abandoning her if he left. He won't even consider it. He buttons his coat, grabs a tattered pair of gloves from one of the pockets, and heads out the door. It swings open, releasing a burst of cold air into the room. The fire flickers. "You people can do whatever the hell you want," he says. The door shuts behind him.

Rouge considers going out to talk to him, but leaves him to think. She feels guilty for not going. Rouge had lost her younger sister Jaune just a few days after the Plague hit, and wished more than anything that someone had been there for her. The two had been driving through the city on their way to Savannah. The top was down, and Jaune’s long, golden hair was floating on the wind. Rouge had been driving for days, and was struggling to keep her head up. She knew she needed to pull over to rest for a while, but she was too anxious to get home. She fell asleep at the wheel, and woke up a few hours later, covered in blood. The front of the car had smashed into a concrete barrier. Jaune had been thrown from the car, and laid motionless on the ground a few feet in front of it. She never regained consciousness.

Rouge wraps herself tightly in her flannel blanket and tries to forget her thoughts. The fire starts to grow dimmer, slowly giving in to the cold. She watches as it dies out, draining the light with it.

Lee walks to the center of the room and tries to revive the fire. He’s short compared to the others in the group, but carries himself confidently. He begins ripping pieces from the cardboard boxes on the table, and feeds them to the fire. The light illuminates his face as it returns to the room. Lee is a middle-aged man, around 40 years old, but his appearance is much older. He has a dark weathered face, with wrinkles defining his features. He reminds Rouge of her father – his calm demeanor despite the circumstances. She respects him for that. "…Maybe someone should go talk to Liam," Penny says. "He seems pretty upset-- " "Then, fucking do it yourself, Penny!" Carl says from across the room, not even lifting his head as he does.

"Leave him be," Lee says. "He'll come around soon enough."

"Well, that's not soon enough," Carl says, rising to his feet. "I mean, we're running out of food here. Face it guys; time's not really on our side here. We're gonna have to find a place to go whether he comes or not. Leave him behind if he can't get his shit together."

"We're not leaving anybody behind, Carl," Lee says. "We'll give him a few minutes to get his head straight. In the meantime, we need to come up with a plan. He's been shooting us down all this time; we haven't even had a chance to discuss where we’d go if we did leave."

"I was thinking...we could head to the river," Penny says. "The water's fresh...and there's fish. Me and my dad used to--" "That's fucking stupid, Penny," Carl says. "I mean what kind of an idea is that? There's only about, I don’t know, a hundred Raiders camped out along the river. We'd be dead as soon as we got there. Are you trying to get us all killed?"

"The river runs through the whole city, Carl. Raiders can't guard the length of it. We just find the right spot, and lay low. Maybe we can even follow it out of here," Lee says.

"We could clean ourselves up a bit, too. I bet you can't even remember the last time you had a shower, huh Carl?" Rouge says.

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Carl doesn't appreciate the comment, or everyone agreeing with Penny. They were engaged when Rouge first met them, he and Penny. They made a cute couple too, the same brown hair and hazel eyes, both young and full of life. They were always holding hands and kissing. But that was a long time ago. Penny has been looking sickly over the past few weeks. She has been eating, but she’s gradually getting thinner, and her once tan skin has wilted to a pale shade of pink, contrasted in the dark bruising around her eyes. She’s been less and less able to pull her weight in the group. Carl says if she’s not going to help they might as well leave her. One less mouth to feed. He’s constantly grabbing and pulling at her while she’s trying to rest - telling her what she needs to be doing and making sure she does it. He even threw her into the table a few days ago. She still has the bruises. Carl is by no means a weak man. Even with the meager rations the group has been living on, he’s still managed to maintain his burly stature. He used to play football in college, and almost became a professional. Penny was proud of him for it. But the end of the world brought out the worst in Carl.

"Well, someone's still gotta tell that old man," Carl says, motioning towards the door and Liam.

"I will," Rouge says. "You guys start getting things together."

She laces her winter boots, wraps herself in a coat and scarf, and takes in one last breath of warmth before heading out into the cold. The wind whistles past her face as the door swings open. It's night now, and the dark sky is illuminated by a sea of grey clouds. Rouge steps out onto the street. She crosses her arms over her chest as she walks, and tries to rub the goose bumps out of her arms. It's starting to snow, and the small flakes melt into her body, stealing whatever warmth she brought with her from the fire.

"We're gonna be going to the river," she says, walking up beside Liam, standing in front of Bree's grave.

"River'll be freezin' over soon. Y'all know anythin' 'bout ice fishin'?" He says.

"We were hoping you'd be able to teach us."

He takes in a deep breath through his nose. "And Penny?” he says. “Doubt she’ll be able to manage any kinda trip. Doubt she’ll even make it through the winter. " "She’s strong," Rouge says. "She’ll pull through."

He lifts his head, removes his eyes from the ground and fixes them on her's. He's silent for a while, and then asks, "Why're we here, Red?" She hesitates. "I don't know. I guess we thought the city would be safe; that it would have supplies at least--" "No not here." He holds his hands out in front of him. "Here. Weren't we supposed to be stayin' alive, survivors? I thought that was the point of the word, that we were supposed to go on livin' for all them dead people? But them fuckin' Raiders...why am I standing over my daughter's grave?" He pulls the gun from his pocket, the pistol Rouge and the others bring with them while scavenging, holstered on the back of their pack. She remembers seeing him slip something into his pocket earlier. She had assumed it was food.

"I watched her die through a window, Red. Through a fuckin' window! I couldn't even hold my girl when she died. I left her in that alley. I shoulda gone out to her. I shoulda been right there with her. Do you have any fuckin' idea what that’s like, Red? It’s my fault. It’s all my fuckin' fault!" He lifts the gun to his chin, his hands shaking. Rouge considers trying to take the gun from him, trying to console him, but she doesn't. She knows she can’t change his mind. She knows what it’s like to feel responsible for a loved one’s death. How the guilt tears apart everything else. How hard it is to live with.

"Give us a few minutes," she says. "Raiders will come as soon as they hear the gunshot.

Give us a few minutes to get out of here before they do."

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Rouge turns back towards the restaurant. The doorknob is icy, and her frozen fingers can barely grip it. She opens the door, and the warmth of the room stings her face as it attempts to restore color to her features. The hinges squeak as the door shuts behind her, and all eyes turn to her, frozen in the doorway, silently asking the same question. She shakes her head. That's when the gun goes off.

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The Guitar

by Alexis Rodriguez The epitome of androgyny, wanton assassin curves meet an amorphous body bridge.

Six shining strings hover over dotted frets, begging you to stroke them.

Slick and unfriendly, the long handle grasp is anything but.

Allowing even the novice to feel at home with hand in basic G- formation.

In the company of baking hands, the hollow wooden base transforms.

With the whip of a pick, the mortal turns into an onyx panther.

While striking, flaws can be found all over its jet-black faรงade.

Cavities and grazes blemish its skin, war scars from each track played.

Repeatedly, viciously, the creature fights against the ones who try to domesticate it.

Once again, a hand glides over the animal, a rumble ensues, and a refined hiss spits.

Tasting of Clapton and Johnson, Zeppelin shrieks, and a deep rebellious roar grinds to a halt.

And in the eighteen-year-olds inexperienced hands, Still, a feral feline stares.

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Hipster Goulash

by Alexis Rodriguez *Please note: Results will vary depending on what brands are used.

While it is common to find like-products at the super-conglomerate empire grocery cult across the street, it is recommended to use products that are not only environmentally and ethically friendly, but also vegan and not so mainstream.

Don’t hesitate to add your own twist.

ORIGINALITY IS WHAT WE’RE GOING FOR. Ingredients: Anything that smells, tastes, or looks vintage.

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Step 1: Remember in ’76 when you got that super trendy Pink Floyd-tee at their Earls Court concert?

Of course you don’t!

Find one in a local thrift shop: we will use it as our apron.

Step 2: Add 4oz of deluded political awareness to plastic bowl.

Step 3: Blend 4 Tbs of fanatical whines about the oppression of living in an upper-class white suburban household.

Step 4: In a blender, throw in one pair of heavy-framed non-prescription glasses, an entire wardrobe from Urban Outfitters, and the novel “Catcher in the Rye”.

Blend on high until condensed to a semi-gelatinous mixture.

Pour into plastic bowl.

Step 5: Casually stir in 3 chilli peppers, 4 cranberries, and 3 tablespoons of grade-A pearl jam into the plastic bowl.

For holiday recipes, add a hint of smashed pumpkins.

Note: When your guests ask what you added to make your recipe taste so unusual, assure them they wouldn’t know what they are anyway.

Step 6: Heat on a stove for three hours, letting the blend simmer. Mix occasionally.

Step 7: Give ample time for the flavors to mature.

And most importantly! serve cool

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Flame

by Alexis Rodriguez Just recently, I lit a candle.

I saw all the stages flick, hover, ignite, burn; my eyes reflected as auburn glazes.

I sat for a while, feeling the heat, two spheres within my eyes contracting, expanding, basking, dancing like lovers rejoicing upon first meeting.

The flame rose higher, as I stared into the essence, she twisted angry, ecstatic, crazy, manic.

None of this, I had seen before not once had I ever noticed.

I pondered again at the flame coiling, passionate and eager to assail.

Overwhelmed, I let out a tiny shriek, liquid wax, a tear being shed.

The flame gone in that lonely exhale.

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Score Three

by Melissa Jeralds When I opened my eyes, I hadn't expected to see the foggy, fish-eye image of my brother in front of me. He was easy to identify with his rigid posture, a clean black suit and chocolate brown eyes with a gaze uninterrupted by smoothed-back locks of hair. The florescent lighting above was unforgiving against his face. It made him look older and weary, but I supposed I didn't look much better. Contrary to firm belief, I was in fact his younger brother. The years just hit me more roughly than they did him, though people often told me I had a charming face. I disagreed. While Jack seemed to fall into place in this business, killing for a living left me with sunken, bloodshot eyes and caved cheeks. We contrasted each other in just about every way. Jack looked like our mother. He had a smooth, clean face with lines so soft you'd think he wasn't a monster; I had cheekbones created with precision – capable of cutting stone. I was my father’s kid, no doubt. He had dark brown, almond-shaped eyes, hard and angular; I had blue eyes, too big and expressive for a killer - too pleading for a supposedly hardened man. His lips were shapely and nearly matched the color of his face, and he had an artificial-looking tan in contrast to my sun-deprived skin and thin, wearing almost-smirk. His hair was slick with gel and kissed blonde by the sun while mine was dark, curly and unruly when I didn't attempt to fix it which was a rarity. I was always the more laid-back one. I was damp with sweat; it glossed my whole body and the light blue dress shirt I was wearing stuck to my back. The room was too warm for me, but the man tied up to a metal chair should never complain. Though I had seen the white room - which reeked of old cigars, so much so that I felt nauseous - before, I never witnessed them from this point of view. The walls were stained from smoke, and the lights were dim but somehow bright enough to bother me. I squinted when I looked up at him. I could feel the rope around me squeeze against my chest; it was difficult to breath, but again I couldn't complain.

"Where is it, Alex?" my brother demanded in a harsh tone; though with our matching dialect, he somehow remained elegant. We were both born in London. It wasn’t until we were seventeen and fourteen that we came to the states and settled in New Jersey.

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"Where's what?" I suppose I earned the immediate blow to the side of my face, directly underneath my right eye. As my head jerked to the side, I breathed heavy through teeth grit tightly together. I called it pain management.

"The drive, Alex! I'm serious!" he was the only one, besides our father, who still called me by my real name or at least something close. For three years, Alexander, the quirky receptionist who was overly polite and always seemed to smile, had been in hiding. He made room for my alias, Nick Trevino, who was a trained killer and hit man for hire. I never wanted to be Nick; I never wanted to become a nervous wreck unable to sleep at night because of the blood on my hands, but before I knew it, the identity consumed me. It was so bad that I even had separate files in my phone – Alexander’s contacts and Nick’s contacts; Alexander’s photos and Nick’s photos; Alexander’s voicemails and Nick’s voicemails.

I had this recurring dream. I never knew how I got there, but I would find myself on a dark, eerily silent street in the center of New Jersey. The street was familiar. It was a three minute walk from the law firm I used to work at, but in my dream, all the old-style buildings were nearly burned to the ground. Debris littered the sidewalk where I stood, but somehow I didn’t trip over anything. It was like I hovered over it. Subconsciously, I knew I was dreaming. I kept telling myself that, but I was still afraid. My heart still pounded, and I still tried to jerk myself awake, but to no avail. There was an old corner store I used to go to where all the cashiers knew me by name – my real name, not my alias; it had been burned down too and this was where I stopped. I stood in the middle of six gas pumps that had been knocked down and mangled. The metal was charred, and when the dream was particularly vivid, I could smell burning gas. I looked down at them, then the blackened walls of the tiny store behind me. It no longer had a roof, and the windows were shattered on the asphalt of the parking lot. The sign was on the ground and unreadable, but it normally read “Kenny’s.” All the paint was either faded or had melted off. After getting a good look at these surroundings, which I already sort of knew, I would turn around - Why did I always turn? - and see the faces of everyone I'd killed staring me down. They didn't speak, and they were covered in blood. Sometimes I could even smell it. That coppery, earthy stench haunted me even in my sleep. They all had milky white, almost green faces, and their swollen eyes bulged grotesquely from the sockets. Some of them had fingers cut off – no finger prints – and teeth missing. Others were covered in burn marks and their flesh barely clung to their bones. Nearly all of them had bullet holes in the middle of their foreheads. I never hit directly in the middle, but this was a dream. They carried dirty white cloths in their hands, stained with blood and what I assumed was dirt from the burned city. The cloths were familiar to me – sentimental even. I used them because I never liked to see the faces of my victims. Covering their faces helped. I woke up before anything happened, but some days, I wished it were real. I wished they could get their revenge.

"I don't have it..." I lied. My voice was shrill and worn; my throat felt dry.

"They're searching your apartment, you know," he threatened, and I shrugged, perhaps more casually than I should have. My lack of compassion was really a shield. It hid the fear; it concealed my heart that was pounding so ferociously I was almost concerned about it bursting through my chest.

"Let them. They won't find it," I said. Jack scoffed and shook his head. I hated the look on his face – that smug ghost of a grin like he was telling me just how wrong I was. I instantly felt disgusted. He seemed accomplished. Only half of his mouth curved upward, and his eyes rolled briefly to the back of his head as he began to pace around before me. This man, once a professional couch-surfer – on my couch to be exact - now stood before me a murderer who obscenely bragged about his crimes, cherishing them like some barbarian. I wondered if he felt as guilty as me. I wondered if his hands shook like mine when he recalled our first kill. I wondered if

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it took him three days to finally fall asleep, or three days to stop crying. I grieved for that woman as if she were family.

“Everything about us is on that drive, Alexander – everything. You think they’ll just let you off if you turned it in?” Truth be told, I didn’t care what happened to me anymore. I didn’t care if they had my name, and everything about me. I didn’t care if they knew who I’d killed. I was past saving, and I knew I was.

“I mean it. All of our names, where we live, how many people we’ve killed. Do you get that? Giuseppe literally has files on everyone here, and now they’re gone. Where are they?” his last three words were deliberate; they were slow, but he wasn’t getting anything from me.

Giuseppe kept files on his computer – tracking us down so he could make sure we were trustworthy, or continued to follow orders, I suppose. He never suspected me of finding his backup, but when it turned up missing, all Hell broke loose.

“This is wrong, Jack, all of it.” I said.

“You’re a twit, you know that?” That surprised me; while my eyebrows curved slightly in confusion, he threw his arm in a burst of rage and leaned towards me. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to jail because of you. What about Elise? What about our family?” he grew louder by the second.

His voice was wreaking havoc on my ears.

“What about her? If we’re all locked away, then she’s safe.”

Score one.

“What about dad? You’re going to let him lose us too?” Jack was reaching now; he was desperate, and I found it in myself to smile.

“Dad’s lost us. When’s the last time you saw him? He’s in a mental ward, Jack; he has been for two years.”

Score two.

Jack’s lips pursed together, and he leaned back again, composing himself by crossing his arms. It was like he was forging a barrier between himself and my words. I heard him take a deep breath just before he turned to face the door. He touched his fingertips to his lips like he always did when he was angry or perplexed. My brother never had it easy. His couch-surfing career stemmed from the rebellion of every responsibility he was forced to carry in his younger days.

Being the oldest, he was in charge of making sure Elise and I were taken care of while our father withered away, giving his soul to a bottle of vodka. Our mother was a doctor. She didn’t have all day to care for us, or all night. He was the strong one.

When he got in with Giuseppe, he claimed it was debt. I believed him considering he was always a gambler. He seemed attracted to bad crowds. I didn’t ask questions because he never answered them. I only knew that our service was keeping us alive until Jack could pay off whatever it was he owed. I asked him how much, but he never told me that either. I didn’t even know if he was telling the truth, but I couldn’t exactly refuse knowing my entire family would be killed. Killing was a bit easier when you had a bullet to your own temple, though I wished I had thought things through back then. I agreed so blindly to help my brother out of whatever debt he claimed he was in, and now I was stuck.

“Giuseppe’s never going to let you walk out of this. Whether you give me that drive or not, you’re dead, Alexander. I can’t save you.” I didn’t care, but I wanted to test his morals. I wanted to remind him that he dragged me into this or that I never wanted to kill and steal. I wanted to move to California and open up an art gallery; I yearned for a normal life and marriage and a family. A month before this all started, I had been sealing up a deal for a condo in Hermosa.

I was newly divorced. I guess it was my retaliation prize, though I never got to show her how good I was doing without her. In fact, I’m sure she would laugh if she saw me now. The house was right on the beach too; I didn’t have the money for it, but I didn’t mind making payments. I backed

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down when our mother got sick, but if I’d known what my life would become, I would have gone through with it. Better a life in debt than a closet full of skeletons.

“You’ll really let him do that, will you? After I walked into this mess with you?”

Score three. Or maybe strike three?

He hit me again, this time in the mouth. His knuckles collided against my teeth and I could already taste the blood. My jaw buckled, and locked into place and as he backed away from me, I spit it out on the floor and watched it slap against the concrete near his feet. I’ll help him, I thought I heard Jack say, but I was dazed by pain. I squirmed in my chair.

I was too weak for this. I always had been.

Though I knew the ropes were too tight to break through, my body was getting restless.

I wondered how long I’d been sitting there before Jack woke me up. I didn’t remember much before that; I had clouded visions of sitting in the bar beside Jack – who invited me, supposedly to talk – and then I was gone. Jack started untying the rope around my chest. I stupidly believed it was a truce, but he slammed my back against the wall so hard it knocked the wind out of me. I was dizzy for a second while my body adjusted to the sudden motion of standing. The first three hits, I felt; one cracked against my cheek, the other right on my eye, and the third to my jaw.

Score one, two and three right in a row. We were evenly matched. I could feel my face swelling up and trying to push him away wasn’t working. We were both so desperate. Jack was desperate to save himself, and I was desperate to get away from him. He hit me a few more times, and I was on the verge of breaking. Jack knew, when every other method failed, that I responded to pain.

I latched onto his wrists in desperation, barely able to breathe, “I’m your brother!” I growled in a voice I didn’t recognize. Jack’s teeth were grit together. I saw his jaw tighten with restraint. His hands were trembling, but it wasn’t fear. “I’m your brother, Jack! Are you really on his side?”

This yelling was new to me, but Jack pushed me over the edge. My heart was still pounding, and the side of my face was painted with blood. It trickled down my face and dripped off my chin. I stared at my brother with wide eyes as he pushed me back and then walked out of the room. I swore that look he was giving me was concern. Was that a twinge of pain, or guilt?

Was it remorse that I saw when his eye twitched and began watering just before he turned away?

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I hoped it was a sign that he remembered we were related somehow.

I slid down the wall, my shirt occasionally catching the ripples of the brick. I wanted a cigarette, but stepping out that door seemed like a death wish. I sat there and watched it for a minute before I leaned my head back and shut my eyes. My face throbbed, and my body was shaking from stress. Whoever turned the handle next did so roughly and intently. I thought it was Giuseppe, but it was Ryan tapping my cheek. Ryan was like me. He was too nice for this job, but Giuseppe had leverage over all of us; he kept his employees around.

It wouldn’t have surprised me if Ryan ever said he was a hippy back in his day. He was a natural blonde and always kept his hair at shoulder length, no shorter. When all of us wore dress shirts – and in my brother’s case, a suit – he had on t-shirts and ripped up jeans. He was a good friend. He was my best friend, and the closest thing I ever truly had to a brother.

“Nick, come on,” he whispered. He was born in New Jersey, but he managed to rid himself of the accent. If he ever had one, I didn’t know about it. I opened my eyes to look at him.

“You have to get out of here. Go get that drive and turn it in,” he whispered. His eyes took a quick spin around the room like someone was taping him.

“What about –“ “Don’t worry about me; I can hold ‘em off. They don’t know I’m part of this.”

“You’ll get locked up.”

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Ryan lowered his gaze and bit his lip. His wheels were turning, I could tell. He didn’t know how to respond. He hesitated, but soon I heard a response. “I know I will, but this has to stop. We both know that…”

Ryan placed a hardy hand on my shoulder. He was bigger than me. Not fat – just muscular the same way all fitness nuts are. “You always tried to convince me to get out of this business, to get these people put where they belong. I’m on your side now. I’m listening, so don’t argue with me.” There was a smile on his face, but it was a bitter, worried one, almost like he hoped I would smile back. He helped me up off the ground and looked me over. My breaths wavered as I tried to keep my footing, using both the wall and Ryan’s shoulder. I was disoriented, but determined. I knew where that drive was, and I had to get to it before them. I looked at Ryan directly.

“You run,” I said. My voice was firm, though I could barely manage anything more than a whisper. “You run away, okay? Get out of here, please.”

With that, Ryan pat me on the back and encouraged – rather, challenged – me to walk on my own. I could by then. He hurried me out the door and down the hallway, stopping at his own office to avoid being caught. Giuseppe maintained the office, and he should have with that much money. I was enclosed between white walls that always looked freshly painted – much different from the unkempt brick in the other room – and the floor below me was made of polished marble with black and brown mingled within it.

The cold air hit me like a block of steel when I got outside, but I didn’t have time to shut out the cold. I didn’t have time to complain. They could search my apartment, but unless they recalled the mailbox downstairs, they would never find that drive. I’d been hiding it there for three days while Giuseppe and his men frantically searched for it. I didn’t know when they caught on that it was me who took it, or how long they had been planning to drug me, tie me up and try to beat information out of me. I didn’t care. My face was numb to the cold winds that pushed against me as I ran down the sidewalk. The sky was dark. Most of the building lights were turned out save for a few on the upper floors of the apartments to the right of me, and the ones coming from the Marino office building. There were few people outside – or maybe I just wasn’t in a position to notice them. I could only smell smog, the collection of blood underneath my nose and the thick smell of rain from earlier; it was no longer raining, but the air was still heavy and the clouds built up like it might rain again.

The Marino office building wasn’t far from my apartment. Some might call it convenient to live so close to work, but to me it was always a curse. My heart raced, and my hands shook with anticipation as I ran inside. Anita stood at the counter. She normally smiled and greeted me every night, but stared at me with wide eyes as I busted into the lobby. She gasped and took a small step back.

“Honey, what happened to you?” she was an older woman with red hair and too much pink in her make-up palette but she was kind. She had known me for years.

I stopped and bent over, my hands firmly planted on my knees while I caught my breath.

I stared at her and shook my head. She didn’t want to know what happened, I knew for sure. I just shook my head and moved toward the row of mail boxes. The apartment complex was old, but it had been well-maintained. The crème-colored walls in the lobby were clean and so was the wooden floor. It was always fresh with a clean, lemon smell. The mailboxes were lined along one wall, five down and ten across. I pulled my keys out of my pocket, fumbling with them before I finally circled in on the right one. The tiny envelope holding the drive was nestled in the very back where I left it when I started to plan this. I wouldn’t say it was a getaway. I knew for sure I was in trouble, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t go on killing.

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I shoved the tiny envelope back in my pocket and ventured out in the cold without a word to Anita. She would know in time; when it was on the news or in the paper, she would realize why I came back and what I was looking for. She would know who dealt me the mess of bruises and cuts on my face. I was out on the sidewalk again, feeling the rush of cold sweeping by.

The air was still thick and suffocating, but the threatening rain had yet to fall. My body was coated with sweat even though I felt freezing, and though I was sure death was coming, I never felt so alive.

From behind me, I heard a second pair of footsteps thumping on the damp sidewalk below. I knew who it was when I heard a familiar bang, so loud it made my ear drums ring. My body shuddered in reaction to it. The bullet whizzed by me, narrowly missing my shoulder. I was unarmed. All I could do was run. The second one grazed my shoulder and made me stumble.

Score one.

The third cut into the side of my leg. I yelled as I grabbed it, but limped a little further.

Score two. Giuseppe was better at this than Jack was.

The third shot took me down. It blasted through my right side, and I could feel it dig into me. I didn’t know what it hit, but I tasted blood. That earthy, copper taste I was just getting rid of.

I collapsed onto my knees and coughed a few times, gripping my side with the palm of my hand.

Score three.

Even on my hands and knees, I was desperate to get a little further. The police station was another block away. I could have reached it if the pain subsided. In my blindness, I swore I could. Giuseppe caught up and kicked me onto my back. My stomach burned. I felt sick. I laid flat on the ground and clenched my teeth together, taking in a deep breath that only seemed to make it worse. I had an arm over my side, and it was drenched in blood. He looked tall up there, though if I were standing I’d be the taller one. His salt-and-pepper colored hair under the street light was all I could really make out through my blurred vision; that, and the blocky silhouette that suit gave him. It wasn’t until he knelt beside me and leaned in close that I could make out some of his wrinkles and his almost-black eyes. He stuck his handgun back into the holster on his belt, not yet focused on me. He wasted no time searching my pockets for that envelope, quickly locating it on the inside pocket of my jacket and calmly gave it shelter into his own.

I expected a bullet to the head. I shut my eyes and braced myself for it, but it never came. I felt cold, skinny fingers grab onto my face, sparking my consciousness for awhile longer.

Giuseppe leaned into me and narrowed his eyes, gripping my cheeks a little tighter.

“Your brother saved your life, kid… I could kill you right now, but I’m not going to.

Instead, I’m gonna take this and you can rot in your own guilt.” So that was the look. It was concern in Jack’s eyes. I wondered in the back of my mind what strings he had to pull to save me.

Giuseppe leaned even closer. Our faces were just an inch or two apart, and he leered at me with a look so strong, I knew it would haunt me forever if I lived.

“I want you to remember all the pain you caused; I want you to stay alive and think about all those people every single day. And I want you to get out of town.” His voice was low, and so quiet it sent a chill down my spine. I arched my back to ease the pain I was feeling and turned my head away only to have it jerked back into place. My eyes were half open, and I gazed at him, but I could barely hear anything. It felt like being under water; suffocated, unable to use any of your senses aside from touch, unable to breath. I thought I was already dying. Giuseppe shoved me back and then stood up. “You get out of town, Pearce, and you stay quiet.

Understand? Your brother won’t be able to save you next time.” He kicked me in the side one last time, right where the bullet pierced my skin. I yelled out in pain and rolled onto my side, but couldn’t get up. I heard his footsteps drift further and further, and suddenly a new, dark world closed in around me.

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My body was frozen with pain, and my jaw was locked in place. I breathed out a few times with a groan that barely sounded human, but I felt a little better. The threatening rain slapped down in big drops on my cheek, and then, I heard it pattering against the concrete. I rolled over a little further so that I could try to push myself up; the dirt from the sidewalk was caked against my face but I had other concerns. My hand slipped the first time I tried to get up, and I took a few long breaths before I would try again. This time, I was up, but my knees felt weak.

I was lightheaded from the loss of blood, and it showed little sign of slowing down.

I moved my right arm over the wound and then willed myself to run, my motions jagged with a lack of grace that would have had me embarrassed any other night.

I had a plan. I didn’t have my one piece of leverage over Giuseppe anymore, but I knew any cop would have to listen to someone who ran to them bleeding. I just had to trust them to believe what I told them. I didn’t want to do that to my brother, or to Ryan, but I was at my end. I was done. I wanted the killing to stop, and I wanted Giuseppe gone. I was more than ready to close this chapter of my life; I didn’t care what it meant for my future.

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Darkest of Deaths

by Janeth Morales Leon In the frigid emptiness of space, there was one star that stood unique in providing the last sunset to a little purple planet. No longer will the rays of this star burn to sustain the small solar system that it kept, so constant for the last four billion years. It would come to pass, that this galaxy would become the example for all those that would choose to look back in history and reflect on the individual's that had gone so far as to end the very meaning of existence through war.

Civil war erupted so regularly in the little purple planet. Deep scars had been rendered irreparable for two proud clans that saw no way to mend their differences. For the last 130 solar cycles, the Aristocratic kin commanded the rule and enslavement of all those who were not linked to nobility. Retaliation was the only solution to envision freedom for the clan that was written off as a lesser class and destined to exist only to serve. The rebels sought to change this by fighting back, to death if it came to that. It was better to die a warrior’s death for freedom than to exhaust their lives under a rule of pompous and unworthy nobles.

Ravaged by destruction, both aristocrats and rebels witnessed the bitter end the demise of two proud clans. One too selfish and the other too hasty were the whispers of the universe when remembering the downfall of planet Violeta. That the life that once upon a time had flourished in the planet could not even be resurrected with the wonder of space travel.

Progression of these beings was only fueled with the constant need from each side to build more effective deadly and ruthless weapons. It would be from this great ignorance of these sentient beings that they did not learn to love their home and prevent the near destruction of their civilization. Now the fate of this planet, whose atmosphere reflected deep shades of purple, would be destroyed by the very beings that it had once provided for.

Three mother ships floated still, aligned next to one another, as they waited for the Queen’s shuttle to return from the surface of the planet. All of those on board had made their

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peace with the total obliteration of their home and their people, which were left behind. For the lucky few, who were chosen to continue the species, had taken the liberty to watch how their planet would be ripped apart by their greatest humiliating mistake. As their convictions had brought about the creation of a deadly weapon that unexpectedly would elevate it to the most destructive force in the universe. Too weak in its construction, the Defense Freedom Laser Devise had lamentably imploded shortly after its launch. Creating an ominous famine of a black hole that gripped itself just above Violeta’s atmosphere. Everything in its gravity field would be pulled into its event horizon and trapped to be sentenced with the darkest of deaths.

The weapon was launched, to be used, to push out the aristocratic collective out from the planet. The rebels had seen victory at their claw tips, to win over the planet and end their suppression of their own clan, and to rid the chains around their necks from those who thought themselves righteous to enslave. With an unfortunate turn of events, the weapon had malfunctioned and imploded causing the mass ejection of energy, triggering a tear in time and space. However, the black hole’s appetite claimed their moon first. Feminine in her oval shape; the moon had represented both sides deity. As they had watched in horror at the despair of the moon as it had begun to break apart. Down to the tiniest of dust particles as it formed a gigantic swirl that drained into the abyss of their makeshift hell in the sky. The moon was their link to their goddess, and with it shattered and gone, the Lizard Kin from planet Violeta were left alone in the universe to pray to nothing.

It was the last day for hope for planet Violeta. Most of her surviving inhabitants had accepted death alongside their mother world. Others had gone mad in finding no way to save their lives; they found it easier to end it by their own hand. For those few wealthy enough to acquire a space ship were able to escape to different corners of the universe. Only a handful had decided to stay behind to bear witness, to their made up fanciful privilege, of toasting their once lovely planet farewell.

Moments away from the last time the sun would set in the planet, the dusk too had casted its deep shadows to hide the movements of two hurried souls for the last time. A young female in traditional warrior’s attire scurried through the open air corridors. These corridors once belonged to the powerful that catered to royalty and the privileged. They connected from the palace to the entrance of the garden of statues that were located at the back end of the palace’s fortress. The corridors were long and narrow but the only way to get to the secluded garden that was only meant for the Queen and her court. However, taking a breath was becoming more and more difficult, as the atmosphere had already begun to thin out and get colder. The female tried to push this nausea from her mind, as she literary raced against time in hope of saving her child.

In her hand, she pulled alongside of her a hatchling, who with his smaller legs could only try to keep up with his mother’s pace Getting closer to the other side of the castle grounds, both mother and child had felt the rumble at their feet. A quake sever enough so that all the fixtures in the corridor shook as one by one had fallen over and crumbled into pieces. In a frustrated instant, the hatchling fell forward to his knees, making his mother unbalance her own step. Her reflexes faster than that of her hatchling, she composed herself quicker. She took a couple of shallow breaths as she addressed her son.

"Get up Yantto," Gouta said to her young hatchling without turning to help her son off the cold, brick, ash colored floor.

Yantto had tried to stand up, but all of his weight had fallen on his right ankle, and he stumbled over once again.

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“Mommy, I can’t. My foot is hurt, and I can't walk anymore," Yantto said to his mother.

But he kept his position, kneeled down, and his face fixed and slanted, staring at the rock debris that had tripped his fall.

Gouta turned around, breathed in a deep huff of air. She let her nostrils and mouth contract the inhale and exhale of the thin air. She purposely knelt down in front of her son, as her reptilian green scales flared a deep tint of red. At the middle of her yellow translucent eyes was the dark slits that readjusted a fierce glare back at Yantto.

Yantto was always scared of his mother’s glare because he did not like the reflection that he saw in them. Yantto did not like the thought that his mother would look at him with the same glare that she would confront her opponents with.

"What did I tell you about speaking lies, Yantto?! Do not look away! Speak to me directly. You should always speak directly to anyone who is addressing you. Do you understand when someone is lying or speaking the truth? You stand your ground, and you will never be ignored," Gouta said, as her scales slowly had regained their mossy green shade.

Gouta's voice had softened on her last words, as she let the tip of her scaly tail come around her waist to caress her son's thin jaw bone. Little Yantto could only nod his head in agreement. Gouta smiled at her son and revealed her set of sharp teeth, she bobbed her head, and her two webbed claws took both sides of her son’s cheeks. She had tried to coerce her son’s little snout to do the same and make him reveal, his own small prickly teeth. She tried to hope, that when her spirit is called back to her goddess, that she would not be punished to lose the memory of her boy's smooth skin. That her spirit would always hold the memory of his not yet hardened reptilian texture of their people’s scales. She brought his head up high as both stood up, and Gouta hugged her son.

Then the moment had been broken too suddenly, as Gouta and Yantto turned to face the direction in which they had felt the rumble come from. They had almost reached the end of the corridor, and Gouta could now make out the familiar sound of a ship’s engine start up. Gouta knew she was not too late; she heard the distinguished sounds of an engine powering up, as it stabilized its propellers for ascension. She had hoped for that, she knew there was still time to make it to the ship, before its departure.

"Mommy, please, I don't want to go without you," Yantto said. As he turned back to his mother making sure that his hazel translucent and blue slit eyes never broke eye contact, with his mother’s dark slit eyes.

"I am ready to die by your side Mommy, I don't want to leave you alone, we can play our game of making shapes of the stars in the sky, and we can die together," Yantto said.

Gouta had been selfish enough to let this choice cross her mind. She also cursed herself for thinking of such a stupid option.

"You are my son, Yantto. You carry the strength of blood from me and your mighty father in your veins," Gouta said. She lowered her head to look back down at her son.

"The call of adventure and experiencing life runs through these veins inside your little claws." Gouta turned as she took hold of her son’s tiny, barely sharp claws. She felt his little webbed fingers and kept a strong hold on his scaly claws that had already begun to harden with various patches of smooth and hard scales.

“One day when you are old and lived, the Goddess will guide your soul to me. Then you will tell me every golden tale that you found worth living for. But now it is not your time; you don't get to pay for the sins of your people,” Gouta said.

"I do not want to do any of that, Mommy. I just want to stay with you like this," Yantto replied.

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Gouta towered over her son as she stood still, and her two hearts in her chest began to break. Still, she had begun to say the last words that she would ever say to her son. Hurtful words, but she had hoped that one day Yantto would understand that they just were meant to save his life.

"Yantto, I was a soldier before you were hatched to me, and by giving up so easily for your chance to live, then you dishonor me, and I am ashamed of you," Gouta said as cold as her slithering tongue could speak the words.

"I don't care; I would rather stay with you!" Yantto said.

"No! If I allow you to stay here, then I will not share the grace of the afterlife with you, and I will let your spirit dwell in the circle of cowardly souls, who did nothing to value their lives, and we will never be together again," Gouta said.

In the silence of her son after this scolding, Gouta knew she had hurt him just enough, so that he had no other choice than to want to stay alive. So she grabbed him just under his arms and flung him on top of her back. She doubled her steps to the end of the courtyard where she knew the last shuttle would be located, counting down for its take off.

Yantto will remember this, his last unconventional hug to his mother as he held on tight.

Gouta sprinted across the ruined grounds of the castle, shattered statues of lords that were carved to portray the royal family ancestry. Yantto remembered that His mother had once showed him this place before, taking him to one of the tallest and most frightening of all the statues. His mother told him that the statue was the carved image of his father. His name was Kitto, a warrior prince that had turned rebel to the cause that his mother had fought for.

"Never forget this fact; Yantto your nesting was one of admiration of two Lizards and not one of convenience for anyone's power." These were the words of his mother, which he would draw from in picturing a father he had never met.

The statue of his father was gone now. In its place stood one of the biggest flying space craft that Yantto had ever seen. He had to dig his face into his mother’s shoulder, so that the light from the craft did not glare so intensely into his sensitive eyes. His mother had stopped just at the edge of a group of Lizard’s that stood in front of the shuttle's entrance. Heat and the exhaust from the engines had made the surrounding area incredibly warmer from the ever growing ice cold air from the diminishing atmosphere. Every breath Yantto took made his throat sting from the gas exchange from the ventilation that was released from under each side of the ship’s panels.

He carefully slid down from his mother’s shoulders, as he had let his tail feel for the floor first before he let his legs touch the ground.

The group was made up of the notable royal court. Lizards with wealth, in their fancy jeweled fashions stood in front of the ship’s entrance. They waited to be called on board, as they were in the middle of a toast with their glasses half emptied of wine. One by one, the aristocrats had taken notice of Gouta and Yantto.

“All passengers need to board immediately,” the voice said, but the royals had no interest in the speaker system’s booming words.

Having enough excitement from the earlier festivities, the royal court had prepared their departure from the main stage. They were eager to stand back with the audience that waited for them in the mother ships just on the other side of the planet’s atmosphere.

Gouta stood in front of this group of Lizard royalty, and declared an audience with Lord Armeth.

"Lord Armeth I am here to request the rightful seat on board for my hatchling, Yantto. I besiege you, your grace, for this one and only Valor that you alone can show an innocent hatchling," Gouta said.

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The group rustled to divide from where they stood, as a very tall figure walked forward, in a very intimidating stature. Lord Armeth took one step forward, with only his eyes and not his head as he looked down at the female and hatchling. Never once did he flinch, the Lizard male stood stiff in an elongated posture. He walked down toward the two creatures beneath him.

Only once he adjusted his tail, which wrapped around his waist. This was customary for any aristocratic male, to show their higher sentience from the lesser individuals of his kind. To prove that in his royal blood lineage, he no longer needed the inconvenience of a tail, to balance out the primitive posture that it once was used for.

"Lord Armeth, I am here to request..." Gouta had begun to say again.

Gouta did not finish speaking. Lord Armeth had stopped just at arm’s length from where Gouta had stood. He raised his right hand across his torso and cold-bloodedly let it swat across her face. His deep green shade of scaly skin had fluttered for a split second into a deep red color.

As his green scales had regained their calm green color in an instant, Gouta was left humiliated as her green took longer to change back.

"How dare you show your scaly presences here? And bringing this little mud crawler was even more of a mistake. I have half a mind to spear you where you stand," Lord Armeth said.

"Lord Armeth. I am here to request the rightful seat on board for my son Yantto; I besiege you your grace, for this one and only Valor, that you alone can show an innocent hatchling," Gouta said once more.

Her face forward now, she waited for a response, as she tried to hold back the rage that she could only leash within her gut.

Armeth was an older Lizard, with an even older sense of social class interpretation in his composure. But Gouta was relying on this for her plan to unfold and save her child.

"Quiet your tongue, Female!" his voice cold and over-casting. Purposefully he did this so that his slithering tongue could be heard by his audience, who still stood at the back as they whispered to one another.

"You think you can escape your fate?" Lord Armeth said. He took a step to his right and began to circle around Gouta and Yantto. The little lizard turned his head, wide-eyed, following the giant that taunted them.

"You dare ask for my assistance. Now! All of this devastation is your entire band of rebels fault?"

Lord Armeth threw his accusations at Gouta. Every word flung fault and found her guilty, and her character was degraded, to amuse the royal audience. She stood straight and composed, as the soldier she once was, never letting her head drop. The other aristocratic Lizards whispered, drinking a sip of their toast and giving Armeth their approval.

"Tell me. Are you happy with your victory? Are you overjoyed that you got what you wanted? To see us go, the last of the great royal family, ruined and outcast from their own home?" Armeth continued to circle and bait Gouta.

"Stop it. Stop it!" Yantto screamed out in his feeble attempt to quiet the giant from yelling at his mother.

Armeth stopped and stepped forward to Yantto. Armeth raised his bent arms above them and clawed the air, while hissing at the hatchling who dared to interrupt his speech. Not noticing that in his reflex, he had extended his tail outward, curving it back and forth as his scales once again flared red.

Gouta shifted from her position and put herself in front of her son. She was ready for combat if it had to come to that.

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"Compose yourself, Lord Armeth; it is not noble to confront another in such a vulgar primitive stance. Your guests are whispering, and do not forget that the little one is but a hatchling and not yet a worthy adversary," Gouta said.

Yantto realized that this was the moment that his mother was waiting for. He saw the giant lizard catch a glimpse of his crowd, as he stood up. As straight as it was possible for Lord Armeth, he wrapped his tail around his waist once more. Yantto looked up to his mother, knowing that she wasn't really letting herself be put down, but she needed just to play along to exploit one weak moment from her opponent.

"It would be best, if you leave and find yourself a nice rock to crawl under and d...."

Armeth was saying. However, the lord was cut off by one of the members in the crowd.

"Really Lord Armeth, it is the end of the world, and you are beginning to bore us with your spectacle. You promised a show, and all we see is you scolding a hatchling. The ship is ready to go, and my glass is empty, so if the female is nothing to you, then let us leave."

Gouta flinched at this. She couldn’t let them leave, not without Yantto. Thoughts raced in her head, as she thought of something to say to stop them. The crowd was dispersing, and one by one, they turned their head in the direction of the ship. Gouta took one step forward, as she grabbed Yantto by his shoulder to push him along. She opened her mouth to say something, but feared she didn’t know what to say. It was too late, and her last resort would be to fall on her knees and beg them to take her baby with them. She realized that Yantto was the only important thing to fight for. Gouta was prepared to fight for her hatchling’s future. Gouta pulled out her blade, and charged at Lord Armeth.

“Armeth, you coward you know perfectly well that Yantto deserved a seat on board that ship,” Gouta said. She sprung forward with a leap, and offered the first blow at the lord’s face.

She raised her second arm to gash him with the blade.

Armeth narrowed his gaze as his tail tightened around his waist still surprised by the attack from Gouta as he took one step forward to ground his primary fighting stance. He did not think that Gouta was so unwise to charge an elite war soldier, but Armeth was certain that she knew perfectly well that he was no stranger to hand-to-hand combat. This fight meant suicide for the female, and Armeth was only too happy to be the one to oblige a death blow to the nuisance that she had constantly been in his life. However, that would only give her what she wanted, to probably die before the fires of the dying planet got to her. Armeth made up his sadistic mind to make sure to leave her alive, but just barely as he slipped a blade out from his strapped weapon holder that wrapped around his waist.

Armeth rose his blade in front of him in defense mode as Gouta had jumped in midair to strike first against her adversary. Armeth managed to deflect the strike with his blade, but as the force of both blades struck with a resonating cling, the impact broke both weapons at the handle.

They both released the useless remains of their blades on ground, as Gouta once again was the first to throw a menacing slash with her right arm using an open sharp claw that only graced against Armeth’s face. He was quick and even maneuvered his body too smoothly away from her left upper cut blow, which could have pierced his ribs with her left arm. This left Gouta defenseless with no protection on her left side above her shoulders, and Armeth took the opening as a way to grab Gouta by the neck and squeeze tight at her wind pipe. But she knew to push against his torso with both her feet, and twist herself out of the choke hold. She moved to his right and around his back to grab a piece of a broken blade, as she once again tried to slash at him from behind with full force not caring that by holding on to the blade so tightly she too cut deep on her hand. Armeth felt the tear of his scales and skin, on his right shoulder blade as slash after slash was taken with a combination of claw gashes to deepen the wounds on his back. His scales burned in full fiery red tone, as he managed to turn and lunge at her with his full body weight.

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Gouta anticipated the move, and lowered her body as she spun her tail in full circle, successfully tripping the lord on his back.

“You will let my son on the ship,” Gouta said. She composed herself into another fighting stance as her scales flared erratically in different red tones.

“No!” Armeth screamed while rolling over on his side and standing up.

But astonishingly another voice in the crowd stepped forward. This time the voice was one that could not be ignored at any rate. This time it was the Queen herself, Lady ViLyth.

"Well, I still have one more sip of my wine, and I wish to take it knowing why this mother feels that her son deserves a seat on my vessel!" Queen ViLyth said.

Everyone once again had taken interest to the mysterious female that had addressed the lord too familiar by name and him to her as well. They waited, too eagerly to hear from Gouta and what excuse she had for their Queen.

"Your majesty please, would you really allow yourself to listen to explanations from a group leader that has brought the end of your reign in Violeta?" Lord Armeth said.

"You certainly are right, Lord Armeth; the female warrior has no redemption. But the hatchling clearly has some valor, if he dares to stand up for his mother's virtue. And it baffles me, Lord Armeth, how can this little mud crawler be hatched with such vigor in his voice like yourself, my Lord?" Queen ViLyth said.

The queen turned from facing Yantto, to his mother Gouta.

"Now tell me warrior, if the lord does not wish to save your hatchling, why would I?" The Queen asked.

The crowed whispered once more, agreeing with their Queen’s valid point. But, with the raise of their majesty’s hand, they were ordered to silence their fork tongues.

"Queen, it is true that I fought against your reign, and the last retaliation caused the black hole to bring about the end of Violeta. I do not ask for pity for myself; I know my last breath will be taken on this planet. But I demand a seat for my son on your vessel, because it rightly belongs to Yantto," Gouta said.

"Yes, well how do you back up such a request, warrior," the Queen said.

"My son Yantto is the rightful heir to lord Armeth’s wealth," Gouta said.

"Are you saying that the Lord is this hatchling’s father?" the Queen said.

"No, he is not the father, but he is the grandfather to my child, and even though his father is on an expedition on the other edge of the galaxy, my Yantto cannot be denied his rightful place," Gouta said.

"Tell me is this true Lord Armeth, and I do warn you if you dare lie to me, I have little patience in this ever diluting thin atmosphere," Queen ViLyth said, turning to the Lord.

"Yes, it is true! The hatchling comes from my son's inconsiderate conception with the female, but it does not mean that thing they spawned is a legitimate offspring," Lord Armeth said.

“My people are dead or crazed in the streets of this city, my planet is literary falling apart, and our species face instigation. And you would let this hatchling with royal Inheritance simply die here? I will not let my royal court dwindle in size anymore!" the Queen said.

“Let the records show that on this day, I Queen ViLyth, on the last day off recorded history for planet Violeta, in the act of superiority against my foes, will render that I Queen ViLyth, shall take under Lizard law this hatchling, Yantto, and show my last compassion for my enemy, his mother Rebel leader Gouta," Queen Vilyth said.

"Now come here hatchling, by my side, and we shall leave and prosper among the stars to find a home and that my reign shall never be questioned ever again," the Queen ordered.

Gouta walked toward Yantto and took him by the hand to the Queen’s side. The court clapped, to their Queen’s show of compassion, and solidified their witness to her recognition of

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the young hatchling. The queen stepped into the shuttle first, as Yantto walked alongside her looking back at her mother. His memory of her would always be the strongest Lizard he would ever know. Lord Armeth followed into the shuttle entrance never once taking a second look back. Then the rest of the court followed suit. Gouta was the only one who stood there alone and left behind, on the ground floor watching the shuttle doors close. She watched the landing stand configured within the ship. The gas exhausted one last time, as the ship hovered for a moment, and then the propellers directed the ship to fly off, into the vastness of space.

Gouta in her loneliness could finally fall to her knees, truly hoping for her son’s prosperity, as she let her webbed claws feel the grass on the earth. She was happy that everything went according to plan, and prayed that her son did not make the same mistakes that she had fooled herself in doing. Gouta clawed deep in the dirt bellow and growled out one last frustrating cry as the earth beneath her rumbled and had begun to fall apart.

Yantto sat next to the Queen on the deck of one of the mother ships, getting a front row window view. The planet had seemed so big, round and with different shades of purple that had begun to fade away. Abstracting the planet’s form was a giant pink swirl in the left side of the big planet.

"That my dear hatchling is a black hole. Your mother shot up a weapon against me, to take away my power, but her plan failed, and now she will die in retribution for her ill advised mistakes," the Queen whispered to Yantto, so that he could only hear and no one else.

"After it’s over, we will see if we can contact your father; he told me that there was a chance that I might find you today. He promised his absolute loyalty to me if I were to save you.

But now that I have you here by my side, I might just take up his offer," the Queen said.

Yantto stood there, coiled with his legs to his chest, not caring if he met his father or not. He looked out to see the planet as it continued to fall apart. The purple of the atmosphere had condensed to shades of ash pink and smoke grey. Chunks of terrain had already been outlined with a webbed cracked pattern that smoldered intensely with the lava that had begun to burst from the core within the planet.

"Beautiful, is it not hatchling," the Queen said, as she leaned forward from her seat.

"Yes," Yantto answered and took a reflective pause, as he looked forward to the deck window and out to the magnificent silent motion of doom that played out its dance in the vacuum of space. Yantto sat up straight from his coiled position and turned and angled his head up to the Queen making sure his eyes looked straight at her.

Queen ViLyth felt the cold stare of the hatchling, with enough uneasiness that made her scales glimmer orange at the back of her neck and she hesitantly turned to see what Yantto had to say.

“I wonder if I grow up and have my own planet to rule, that I too have enough courage and love like in my mother’s two hearts to not enjoy to see it burn.” Yantto takes two steps forward and continues to say the words that his mother once told him that came from an old prayer to the moon. He had never really understood what they meant till now as he watched everyone at the cabin deck, excited of being the spectators of their planet’s bitter end.

“Maturity fails on those who smile at the lunacy of destruction and will never find grace in life or death,” Yantto recited. When he was done, he took the last few steps toward the window and placed his right hand over the icy cold glass. He smiled at the silence that came from the words that he said as no Lizard on the Queen’s deck continued another joyful whisper or smugly rustled to fill their empty glasses of wine.

The black hole crumpled the planet to pieces, as it slowly twisted the rubble into a giant swirl of multi-color dust that began to be swallowed. Every particle being so greedily caught in the gravity field of the black hole and the planet Violeta would now be gone forever.

64

Mike

by Andrew Moore Mike ran his fingers through his jet black hair as he remembered. He could still hear every word as if the cop was speaking right into his ear. They had all been killed. His mother, his father, and even his kid sister had been knifed down in cold blood. He didn't remember collapsing or sobbing uncontrollably. What was strangest to him was that he didn't react much at all.

He stared again at the tattoo on his forearm. Each one of their faces was there. They seemed to talk to him sometimes. They seemed to want to tell him something. Dave made his way over to the bar as Mike was staring at his tattoo.

“Mikey,” said Dave, “you're a weird one, you know that?”

Mike let out a small chuckle.

“It serves a purpose,” he replied after a moment.

Dave had jolted him back into reality.

“Well, a bartender who doesn't drink...that's a little odd, don't you think?” he asked.

Mike slammed his hands on the bar. With an unfamiliar sternness in his voice, he answered, “I told you, not a drop until I find out who did it.”

Now Dave jolted, taking a step back from the bar and wringing his hands around his dish rag. His long brown hair fell a little bit over his face as he shook slightly with unease.

“Okay, Mikey...” he said as he walked away. Mike knew he'd been a bit harsh, but now wasn't the time to apologize. He wiped down the bar and tried avoiding Dave's gaze the rest of his shift.

"Quittin' time!" Mike heard Dave yell. Mike checked his watch, loosening his apron as he made his way to the back to punch out. He stepped out to meet Dave who was headed for the bus stop.

"You should have seen this chick at table four," Dave said. "I mean wow."

"What about her?" asked Mike as the two strolled through the cold. "Biggest knockers I've EVER seen," answered Dave. Mike was paying more attention to the way the moisture on the ground splashed under his shoes, so Dave changed the subject and asked. "Anyway Mikey, what are you even gonna do if you find this guy? You gonna kill him?"

"Dunno," said Mike, "I guess we'll see."

Dave shuffled slightly "It ain't good for you man. Holding onto it like that."

Mike turned his head to see Dave's expression. Dave's pale green eyes were full of concern. "We've talked about this, Dave. It is what it is," he said.

"Just keep your head clear, man, They'd want you to move on."

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Mike stopped and stood frozen in place, his hands shaking. Stopping and watching uneasily, Dave started to open his mouth, but Mike pounded on the bus stop wall, silencing him.

Mike rubbed his temples with his right hand and let out some shallow breaths.

"I'm gonna walk home," he said to Dave. "I need to think about what you're saying."

Dave seemed to perk up, probably thinking he'd made an impression. His instincts were wrong, as usual. "Well take good care of yourself, buddy. I'm pulling for you,” Dave said.

Mike thought more about Dave and less about what he had said. Why was he so concerned with him? He barely knew the guy. He sets me off one more time, and I'll wring his neck, thought Mike. Where was that even coming from? Why the sudden urge to hurt?

Mike strolled on, making his way home through his favorite section of town. Out here, the houses were old, so close that they were almost stacked on each other. A lot of people found the place to be creepy, but Mike liked it. He liked the fences that ran around the front yards of each home, the old rotting wood on their doors and the peeling paint. What Mike really enjoyed were the lamp posts. They were gas lights. They burned dimly in the moonlight. Mike felt like the only time he wouldn't stare at his tattoo was when he was near the lights. He'd slow his pace watching them burn as he passed. They seemed inviting, familiar.

Something caught his eye. A note stuck with gum to one of the lamp posts. Mike unfolded it and read. "You're closer than you think." He muttered the words as he read. Mike could feel his chest heaving, the way it did the day he got the news on that Saturday. His hands seemed to wither as they shook. He checked frantically for anyone else. He was alone. When Mike got home, he was out of breath. His pulse was beating in his neck as he tried to gather his thoughts. He tore the note from his pocket and read it a thousand more times. Question after question began to creep in. Who wrote the note? Why not leave an easier clue? It all drove Mike crazy the more he thought about it. ***** "You look like hell, Mikey," said Dave as Mike walked into the bar.

“I feel about the same,” said Mike and Dave laughed. The two had begun to work at sweeping away the cigarette butts and empty cans of beer from off the floor. Mike wiped down each of the oak tables of the bar. The smell of lemon shine slowly overpowered the odor of spilled drinks from the night before.

"I thought you looked better when you used to come in hung over," Dave teased. Mike felt like he drifted through his shift that day. He just stared at the faces on his arm. "You're closer than you think,” they seemed to be saying.

Mike went home by himself that night. The cold air of the night was flushed out by the burning in his face. The thought of another clue caused his face to tingle in anticipation. Rushing down the block towards that same lamp post, Mike tripped over his own feet and fell to the ground. He stared up at the lamp post but saw nothing.

"What are you looking for?" said a voice through the darkness, coming from beyond the post. “You look rushed.” Mike knew that voice. It sounded like...no it couldn't be. Mike rose to his feet, unsure of what to say. The voice, a man's, went on, "I saw you yesterday,” he said. “I know what you’re looking for.”

"Then give it to me!" screamed Mike "Is there another note?! Do you know who killed my family?!" His mind was racing with everything he wanted to know. The reply came: "Son, if anyone knows, it's me." Mike's father stepped out of the darkness. Impossible. Mike was paralyzed. He tried to speak but could say nothing. His father seemed to be able to read his thoughts. "I'm not actually here, Michael," he said. "This is all in your head, but that doesn't mean I can't help you."

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Mike found his own voice and asked, "But how? If what you say is true, you can't know anymore than I already do." The illusion smirked, just the same way Mike's father used to. "You know more than you realize. You're so close." The phantom seemed to be fading away. "Just follow your instincts, son,” it said, disappearing before Mike could ask it to stay.

Mike stood immobile for what seemed like hours. Follow his instincts? What did that even mean? Mike could only walk down the street, staring at the gas lights along the way, the same way he did every night. Then it hit him: the same way. Every night he took the same route home, did the same thing. Why did he do that? Maybe it was instinct.

Day after day, Mike combed through every detail of his route home. As he scoured the same familiar streets each night, his frustration grew. He began to lash out at the objects he passed by each night. He'd kick the lamp posts and push over the trash cans. His lunacy only grew as he remembered that he was taking orders from a hallucination. After a few weeks, he'd lost hope.

One night, long after Mike had given up searching, something caught his eye. Glancing into the sewer grate along the road, he saw what looked like a knife handle wrapped up in a bloody newspaper. Mike paused and examined the scene, bending down to his knees to get a better look.

"MOVE, DAMN YOU!" Mike roared as he tried to lift the grate away. He felt the rough metal tearing into his hands but didn't care. After awhile, the grate began to budge. Finally, Mike got the thing to move. He jumped into the sewer and fetched the knife, forgetting to climb out before he inspected it.

It was a buck knife with a wood-grain handle and gold plated finish on the hilt. Mike admired the quality of the thing until it sank in: "This is the weapon that killed your family,” he realized.

Mike shuffled home through the soft glow of the gaslights. He couldn't look at the knife, nor did he want to think about it. Mike lay in bed all night thinking about what to do. He finally had something to go on. He could tell the police, and they could find the guy. It would be done.

At the end of his shift the next evening, Mike pushed past the usual latecomers who were entering the bar. He wanted to catch up with Dave. He had to tell someone the news. Mike quickened his pace, making his way toward where he knew Dave would be.

Mike caught up with Dave at the bus stop and took a second to catch his breath before speaking to him. “I know you told me to drop it,” said Mike “but I think I'm on to something here.”

Dave lit a cigarette, looking puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

Mike pulled the knife from his coat pocket and showed it to Dave. "This has got to be it," said Mike. "See the blood?" Dave stopped in his tracks and examined the knife. "Ahh hell, Mikey," he breathed, "Ain't that the knife you told me you lost? Ain't that your knife, Mikey?" Dave backed away a step or two.

Mike didn't know what to say. He looked at the knife once more. It was his. It was also the knife that had killed his parents. He knew it, and Dave seemed to as well. "Dave," Mike gasped, "you can't be thinking it was me." Wild eyed, he shook the knife and said, "My knife, Dave. My knife, but not me!" David looked frightened. His eyes were filled with tears. The bus arrived, and Dave climbed on without turning to face it. "I knew you should have let it go," he said.

Mike's head was spinning. He ran down the path home. He couldn't look at anything.

Not the lamp posts, not his tattoo, just the ground. Shit! he thought as he watched his feet move underneath him. Even seeing his feet on that sidewalk seemed familiar. It couldn't be him. It just couldn't. He was going to catch the bastard. Teach him a lesson with that knife.

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Mike kicked a beer bottle as he stumbled home. It was as if he'd kicked open a door in his mind. His knife, his note, him. He remembered. He remembered the night it happened – the night he ran by those same lamp posts and hid the weapon.

He thought about what Dave had said just days before: a bartender who doesn't drink.

Crazy. Not a drop, not a drop until he found the man who killed them. Crazy. The word played over and over in his head. Everyone seemed to think that about him. His father had called him a “crazy drunk” the night he stormed in. His mother was always talking about his “crazy” lifestyle.

Maybe I am crazy, thought Mike to himself. Who the hell cares?

It was so clear now, even though he had been drinking that night. “I want you to find a real job,” said his father. “Bar-tending isn't a respectable profession. You need to take more pride in who you are.”

“We expect you to honor this family by what you do. Don't you care what people say about us?” said his mother. “We expect better from you.” Mike's anger flared again. Just like the night he'd had that talk. Wasn't that always it? It was always about what everyone else wanted and never about Mike. Did anyone ever care what Mike wanted? No. But that night, all Mike wanted was for them, everyone, to shut up. So he shut them up: first Dad, then Mom, and his sister, too. She saw everything, so he knew she would tell.

Mike's mind returned to the morning he received the call. He no longer wondered why he was able to take in the cop's funny accent over the phone. He stared at the tattoos of his deceased family on his arm. All quiet now. Mike was free to do what he wanted. And right now, Mike wanted a drink.

68

Room for Rent

by Sarah Kelly

Sitting quietly on the floor of my room, my bloodshot eyes skim the pages of Molecular Biology by Robert F. Weaver, my most hated text book. With my highlighter gently resting between my fingertips, I make small dashes across the page with practiced precision. After a lifetime of highlighting text, the neon marker has become like a natural extension of my own body. It wraps the black words in a fluorescent banner as my eyes continuously search for more important information from the book.

Suddenly, I hear a loud crash from the kitchen, jolting me out of my studying trance. A wave of cursing floats up through the vents, all uttered with considerable force by my roommate, Crystal. After a minute or two, the cursing subsides into unintelligible muttering from the floor below as she evidently finds her footing. I sigh and slide my fingers under my glasses and give my strained eyes a quick rub. I adjust my glasses again, glancing at my watch. It reads 4:30 pm. Crystal was out till nearly 6 a.m., so I’m really not surprised that she slept so late.

Crystal tends bar on weekday nights at McKinnon’s, which is just down the street from our apartment. Her shift usually ends by 3 a.m., but she will often hang around the pub after her shift is over to try and pick up guys. Some nights she succeeds, and brings them back here and sleeps with them on the pullout couch that is her bed. But the last few nights, I have been woken up from a deep sleep to the sound of her crying alone downstairs.

Sighing again, I stretch my legs, get up off the floor of my bedroom, and venture to the living room.

I try to do so quietly, because if I’m too loud it will undoubtedly upset the hung-over beast, my roommate. I reach the bottom of the narrow stairs, which deposit me into the living room. I cast a disgusted look around the room that also serves at Crystal’s bedroom. Her clothes are scattered across the floor and piled up on the back of the couch like some kind of sleeping monster. I can’t tell which clothes are clean and which are dirty, and I doubt she can either. Empty bottles of various cheap liquors stand guard like tiny soldiers around the edges and in every corner of the room. Crumpled packs of cigarettes of every imaginable brand overflow from the rim of the small trash can next to the side table, and spill out on to the cream-turned-grey stained carpet. A

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chest of drawers is pushed into the corner with an old tube TV on it. I shake my head and think I’m glad I don’t have any friends, because I would be way too embarrassed to invite them over here.

Looking towards the kitchen table, I see Crystal sitting on one of the miss-matched plastic chairs, her forehead resting on the placemat in front of her. She is wearing a black tube top that barely contains her large breasts, and a red skirt- the same clothing she wore out last night. She isn’t a small girl by any means, but she dresses in a way that accentuates her good features, and does a good job hiding her weight.

“Hey… Rough night?” I offer as I ease past her towards the fridge.

She only groans in response, not lifting her head off the table.

I carefully open the fridge door and remove the leftovers I came down here for. I pop the top off the Tupperware lid, and look down at the chicken fried rice it contains. Pushing my dinner into the microwave, I slam the little door a bit too loud, causing Crystal to let out a hiss.

“Dude, that was loud. Do you have any aspirin or anything? My head is killing me,” she says as she slowly lifts her head off the table. Her eyes are glassy, and the placemat has left an imprint on her forehead. I smile a bit at how pathetic she looks, taking some misplaced pity on her. I nod and walk back up the stairs while my food spins in the microwave.

In the small bathroom we share, Crystal’s long brown hair covers every surface of the tiny room. It even sticks to my socks as I walk towards the medicine cabinet. I open it, pushing Crystal’s many half-full containers of weight loss pills around, and find the aspirin.

I return to the ground floor, pill bottle in hand. I again pick my way through the jungle of the living room and round the corner into the kitchen. My eyes widen as they meet Crystal, who is shoveling my chicken fried rice into her mouth. I gasp and she looks up at me, totally unaware of my horror.

“May, this stuff is bomb; you should make this all the time,” she says through a mouthful of food.

My jaw opens to let out a yell, but only a small squeak comes out. I stare at her as she tips the bowl over her open mouth, scraping the last of the rice in. With a satisfied belch, she puts the spoon and Tupperware down. She stands up, walks towards me, takes the pill bottle out of my hand and pops three in her mouth. Walking into the living room, she picks up a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey off the floor and uses a swig of it to wash the pills down. She plops herself on the fold-out couch and flicks on the TV. I stand frozen in the kitchen as my anger starts to rise. I look down at the empty Tupperware and spoon, snatch them off the table and throw them with force into the empty sink. The clatter makes Crystal glance over, and my gaze meets her. She gives me a small eye roll. My breath comes in short and ragged, and my hands ball up into fists. Stomping past her, I shove a few piles of her crap out of the way and head towards the stairs. I continue my stomping as I ascend to my room.

Pushing my door open, I slam it behind me. I throw myself down on my bed and grip a pillow in my arms, giving it a tight squeeze.

Why are you such a pansy, May-Lin? I scold myself in my own mind.

I am not good with confrontation and try to avoid it at any cost. It makes me really uneasy. And I think a part of me is also afraid of Crystal. She out-weighs me by at least a hundred pounds. Of course, I’m all of 98 pounds soaking wet, but it’s enough to make me frightened. I don’t mean to be the timid little Asian girl who’s scared of the big bad white woman, but I guess I am in a way.

Mulling this over, I release my grip on the pillow and slide off the twin bed and on to the rug that covers most of my room. My eyes get lost in its muted colors and geometric pattern. I run my fingers over its soft textures, and find a long blonde hair stuck in the fabric. Working it out of the carpet, I start to feel homesick. It’s probably from one of the many roommates Crystal has had this year. I envy the blonde girl, and wish I had the ability to move out as well. After a few moments, my anger subsides. But I realize I am still hungry. Using the edge of my small dresser as support, I hoist myself off the rug. Shrugging on my green pea coat in preparation for the cold weather I am about to face, I leave the room. Halting at the bottom of the stairs, I look out into the living room and give a sharp look to Crystal’s sleeping form under the blankets on the couch. Walking over to the TV, I punch the power button and head out the front door. I lock it behind me and start my walk towards the shuttle bus pick-up.

The sun slips below the horizon as I reach the bus stop. I take a seat on the cold metal bench amongst the discarded fast-food wrappers and cast my gaze up towards the sky. It’s lit with oranges and reds

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that illuminate the sparse clouds that float by. I look down at my watch, mentally running through the list of pick-up times that I know by heart. The shuttle is one of the reasons I chose to live in this apartment complex.

It’s off campus, but the university runs a bus to and from the surrounding areas for students who, like me, don’t have cars. That coupled with the cheap rent and the chance at freedom was enough to jettison any second guesses I felt about sharing a one bedroom apartment with a stranger. Looking back on Crystal’s Craigslist housing ad now, I wish I would have re-considered. It seemed a little too good to be true, and it turned out that my suspicions were correct. I watch the clouds some more as the oranges and reds turned to pinks and purples. The street lights above me flicker uncertainly, not knowing if it is quite dark enough to shine.

Just as the shuttle rounds the corner, I feel my cell phone vibrate in my pocket. I fumble for it, clicking the answer button.

“Hang on a second,” I say to whoever was on the other end of the line.

The doors to the bus slide open, and the bus driver smiles at me as I climb the stairs. Giving him a shy wave, I walk to the back of the bus, and sit down. I push the phone back up to my ear again. I can hear a TV playing a Chinese soap opera in the background of whoever is on the line.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hello May-Lin, it’s your mother.”

“Oh, hey Mom, what’s going on?”

“I have not heard from you in the last few days, so I wanted to make sure you are alright.”

“I’m fine Mom, thanks for asking. I mean, stuff with Crystal is still terrible, but other than that.”

“Are your grades still good?”

“Yeah, they haven’t changed from when I talked to you three days ago. Relax.”

“That is good to hear. What’s wrong with Crystal this time?”

“Same old stuff, except she’s been really loud at night lately. Last night when she left the house, I woke up and the faucet in the bathroom was running. It was kind of weird. She was probably late for work and left it on, but I still have to split the bills with her every month! It’s not fair. She’s such a terrible roommate; I don’t know what to do about it. I never say anything to her; I can be so spineless sometimes…”

“You should move back in with your father and me, May-Lin. It will be better that way. We miss you. You are our only child. We just worry so much about you. We want you to succeed in life!”

“I know, mom. But it’s okay, I need to know how to live on my own without your help. I really like this school, and I think the independence is good for me.”

“Independence. Who ever heard of such a thing? You know in China, young women stay at home when they start university and help take care of their family till they find a husband of their own. Then they have babies, and the parents go to live with the daughter’s family.”

“Well, thank goodness we aren’t in China, right mom?”

My mom laughed. “Yes, thank goodness for that. Oh, May-Lin, you are such a rebel. But I know that is just how you are. You are such a strong woman; you sometimes inspire me. Is that a silly thing to say?”

“No, I think it’s funny. You raised me right I guess. But I gotta go; the bus is almost to my stop.

Love you, say hi to dad for me.”

“Alright, daughter. Keep up your grades! Bye-bye.”

I feel homesick as I hang up my phone, and the bus rolls to a stop in front of the college. Picking up my purse and slinging it over my shoulder, I give the bus driver another timid wave as I exit the shuttle. There are only a few people walking around campus- students just getting out of their evening classes. Most of them wear tired expressions; finals are next week, and everyone is feeling the pressure.

They look like a bunch of extras in some low-budget zombie flick I think to myself.

Reaching the Student Union, I shuffle over to the deserted convenience store. I decide on a lumpy tuna sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a Coke for dinner. I stride over to the cashier, one hand rummaging in my purse for money. My hand connects with something unexpected, and I pull out a small paperback book.

My brow furrows with confusion as I look at the unfamiliar title. I flip it open quickly, thinking I must have put it in my purse when I left the library that day. But there’s no library stamp on the inside cover, just a name jotted

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in the bottom corner of the inside cover: Kimberly Raye.

Oh, crap, I stole someone’s book! I think to myself.

The woman is still watching me expectantly, so I hand her a wrinkled five dollar bill. I shove the paperback into my purse again, and rake my food in after it. Walking out through the double doors, I head into the chilly night, turning up my collar against the biting wind.

By the time I reach the apartment, the streets are void of all life. Everyone has hunkered down for the night as the cold front muscles its way into this small college town. Tree branches lash at the starry sky as the wind becomes violent. I reach my front door and hurry inside, sighing with relief on being greeted with an empty house. Crystal must have left for work a little early. I head upstairs to my room, already thinking about what I need to study tonight.

Unwrapping myself from my coat, I place my keys on the hook on my bedroom door. I drop my purse onto my bed and a thud resounds as the paper-back book inside connects with the rest of the purse’s contents. I extract the mysterious book. Again, worry washes over me as I wrack my brain to try and remember whose book I must have taken. I thumb through the pages for a moment. Pausing on a page, I gather that it’s a cheap romance novel. Its scandalous words seem to jump off the page at me, and I quickly shut the book. Blushing, I shove it in my bag and reach for my biology text book instead. I’m eager to get those steamy images out of my head. Within minutes, I’m lost in a sea of yellow highlighter and black words on white glossy paper as I munch on my sandwich.

Hours of flash cards and potato chips go by till I break. I rub my eyelids under my glasses, trying to force my eyes to focus on my watch. It reads 2:47 a.m. Rolling my neck from side to side, I try to work out the kinks. Deciding that’s enough studying for one night, my jaw shudders under a powerful yawn. I stand up and go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face for the night.

Standing in front of the mirror, I groan at my face, thinking about how I am starting to look like a zombie myself. I slide off my glasses and hook them into the front of my shirt, not wanting to put them down on the disgusting bathroom counter. Turning on the faucet, I lower my face, my sore neck protesting. I smooth water onto my cheeks, rubbing at my wind-chapped skin.

“May…?”

I pull my head upright and turn off the faucet, looking towards the open bathroom door.

“Yeah?” I answer into the dark hallway.

I listen for Crystal’s voice, but hear nothing but the slow drip of the faucet into the waiting sink.

“Crystal?” I ask as I slide my glasses back on and turn on the hall light. I walk down the stairs and look into the living room. The downstairs light is on, but I don’t see Crystal. She must have just come by to grab her makeup.

God forbid she sleeps over at some strange guy’s house, and her eyeliner gets smudged...

I march over to the light switch and give it a sharp flick, my annoyance from her earlier antic resurfacing, then head back upstairs.

After I finish washing my face and brushing my teeth, I return to my bedroom and shut off the light.

Crawling into bed, my tired body melts into the sheets that still vaguely smell like the incense my mother burns back at home. I snuggle down, and almost instantly drift off to a restless sleep. ********** At 6:00 a.m., the buzz of my alarm clock jolts me from my sleep. I fumble for the button to silence it, but my hand collides with the romance novel. I crack an eye to give it an incredulous look, sure that I hadn’t left it there before. My fingers finally find their prize, and I give the button a quick stab. The room is still dark, and the cold makes getting out of bed even harder. After a few minutes of rustling around, I finally throw off the blankets, and the chilly air greets my body.

I quickly get ready for the day, grab my peach-colored backpack, and pull my pea coat firmly around myself. My hand reaches instinctually around the back of my door for my keys, but grasps nothing but air. Puzzled, I poke my head around the side of the door and stare at the empty hook. I look all around the floor of my room, and then start to panic. I start to shovel things around in my room, and even sprint down the short hall to search the bathroom. Deciding to wake up Crystal to use her keys, I grab the paper-back off my nightstand and run. My footsteps thunder down the stairs, but I halt at the bottom. I remember that Crystal

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didn’t stay more than a minute last night, and my fears are confirmed when I round the corner and see her fold-out couch empty. I look at my watch and am horrified that it’s already 7:03. Casting one last glance around the room for my keys, I sprint into the kitchen in search of a solution. As it comes into view, I notice that some of the cabinets and drawers are wide open, their contents spilled all over the grimy tile floor.

Looks like I’m not the only one who misplaced something.

I quickly push some of the junk out of the way with my foot, and my eyes fall on my keys, sitting on the kitchen stove. I let out a small cry of relief, grab them, and sprint out the door.

I’m only two minutes late to work, so the head librarian doesn’t even notice. I scurry behind the desk, head down, and take my seat at circulation. I think back to the scene in the kitchen, and then something pops into my head. Crystal must have snuck in my room last night and taken my keys when she couldn’t find her own.

That’s why she said my name and then ran out the door so fast last night.

Then she left the keys on the kitchen counter, probably too drunk to remember that she stole them in the first place. I shake my head, thinking about how selfish Crystal is. It should have been a red flag when she told me that none of the other roommates she’s ever had ‘worked out’. I swallow hard and try not to think about my mom’s egg drop soup at home or my dad’s hearty laugh…

It is close to 8:30 p.m. when I finally stagger on to the shuttle bus for the ride home. The bus driver greets me in his usual friendly manner, but I just give him a tired nod and sit down. The ride is short, and so is the walk back up to my apartment, but it seems to take an eternity.

When I reach my front door, I am again delighted with the sight of an empty house. I smile wearily and trudge up the stairs, put my keys on their hook, then crumple as I lay down on my bed. I fall asleep almost instantly, on top of the blankets, still in my clothing.

I am woken by the signature squeak of my bedroom door, and slowly drift back into consciousness.

When I roll over to look, my neck screams in pain. My hand shoots up to it and gives it a quick rub, feeling a crick start to form. I finally sit up, still massaging my neck, and I look around the room, only illuminated by the sickly yellow light of the street lamp that filters through my curtains. I blink a few times, and adjust my glasses.

I stare at the door for a few moments, and then finally see Crystal’s shadow as it passes the gap under it.

Abruptly, my door knob starts to jiggle as my roommate, probably drunk, struggles to enter my room.

“Are you serious? It’s unlocked, Crystal,” I say to the shuddering door.

It stops and I hear her footsteps drag drunkenly down the stairs. I look at the hook on the back of my door and notice my keys are gone from their spot. I stand up sharply from my bed, ready to confront Crystal, and burst from my bedroom right behind her.

I feel strong as I enter the kitchen, hoping that I can finally stand up to her. But when I do, I am met with an empty room. I look around, and then go back into the living room, but Crystal is nowhere to be found. I sit down at the kitchen table and wonder if I should text her or call her so I can yell at her. My stomach knots from the way confrontations always make me feel, and I stare down at the screen of my phone. I sigh loudly and release it from my hands, letting it thud onto the placemat.

I’ll wait till I see her face-to-face; she’s probably too drunk right now to even understand me.

My thoughts turn to my biology text book, which is waiting patiently for me in my back pack. I groan, grab a granola bar from my cabinet, and head back upstairs to start studying.

After an hour of sitting on my floor, surrounded by books, I finally give my tired eyes a rest. I sit listening to the classical music I play in the background when I study, massaging the pulled muscle in my neck gingerly. It’s really starting to become painful. I pull my purse down off the bed and try to find the aspirin I always keep with me.

Ah, crap. The book… I cringe to myself as I pull the small paper-back from my bag.

I forgot to try and find its owner while I was at work today. I open up the cover again, reading Kimberly’s name and wonder if she would even admit to owning such a humiliating novel if I was ever able to find her. I bend the book and let the pages flutter against my fingertips, till they catch on something stuck in between them. It’s a picture. The faces of two young girls smile up at me, and I realize that one of them is Crystal - only she is about eighty pounds lighter. The date in the bottom corner puts this picture back only two years, and I am stunned by how beautiful she looks. This Crystal looks happy and sober and full of life.

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I don’t recognize the other girl in the picture, though. I study the other girl’s face and long blonde hair, and then place the picture back inside the book. I toss it on top of my open biology text book and concentrate on finding the aspirin. After a moment, I hear the sound of Crystal crying downstairs. She must have snuck in while I was studying. I reach over and turn down my music, listening curiously. The crying stops, and there is a moment of silence, followed by a blood-curdling scream.

My eyes widen and I jump up off the floor, unsure of what to do. I listen for a moment longer, but all I hear is the faint ringing of my own ears. I crack my door open and poke my head into the dark of the hallway.

“C-Crystal?” I yell down the stairs. “Are you okay?”

But I hear nothing, but the pounding of my heart as I ease out of my room and into the hall. My hands shake as I grip the banister and make my way down the stairs. I reach the bottom of the dark stairs and run a quaking hand along the wall, fumbling for the light. My terror mounts each second, my fingers unable to find the switch. I stare with wide eyes into the darkness of the living room, trying to make out any familiar shapes. Crystal lets out a small sob, and the front door is thrown open abruptly. Cold wind rushes into the apartment. I scream and jerk back, causing my neck to twinge. I finally find the switch and flick it on, but Crystal has already run out of the open front door. Still shaking, I make my way across the room and close the front door tightly. I look around the living room and then sit on the very edge of the couch. Rubbing my neck again, I start to actually worry about Crystal’s sanity. I know she hasn’t been doing very well in school the last few weeks, and I fear the stress of finals may have pushed her over the edge. I head to bed quickly, trying to push that thought out of my already worried mind. ********** When morning rolls around, I wake up slowly, glad that it is Sunday. Between work and school, this is my only true free day each week. I lay in bed for a while, making mental lists of all the things I aim to accomplish. I push my glasses onto my face, stand up and stretch, then feel a sudden pressure on my strained neck. I roll my shoulder, trying to make it stop. The pressure increases, making me cough. I feel like I can’t get enough air in through my throat. My chest constricts, and I let out a choked cry of pain as I grip my neck firmly, rubbing it furiously. After a moment, the pain reduces to a low throb. I roll my head from side-toside.

I should call mom, she’s always has good advice for muscle pain and stuff. I think to myself, still rubbing my neck thoughtfully.

I walk quietly down the stairs, unsure if I’m going to be greeted with a hung-over Crystal this morning. When I reach the living room, I gasp and my hand flies up to cover my mouth. The entire room is trashed. The couch is turned on its side and pushed up against the wall. Crystal’s clothes are thrown around, even hanging from the ceiling fan. The TV is face-down on the carpet, a halo of broken glass around it. There are holes punched in the walls and spilled liquor is soaking into the carpet.

My fists ball up in rage. I must have slept really hard last night; I didn’t hear Crystal and her apparent meltdown. I let out a sharp grunt of frustration and stomp into the living room, kicking things as I go.

My heart is pounding, and the pain in my neck has returned. I take my phone out of my pocket and start writing a text message to Crystal, my fingers seeming to have a mind of their own.

“What the hell is your problem? Come home now. We need to talk.”

I press send and stare at the phone screen for a second. It lights up as Crystal responds almost immediately.

“Chill out, I’m on campus right now. I’ll be there soon.”

I start running through the mental list of all the terrible things she’s ever done to me as a roommate. I count on my fingers how many times she woke me up in the middle of night with her drunken antics. I think about what a terrible person she is, and how she always treats me like I’m worthless. She can’t keep running the show, and I’m going to tell her so.

I crouch down in the kitchen and start to collect up some of the mess. It’s mostly junk- drawer stuff, bottle caps, match books from McKinnon’s… But then I find a fat envelope, stuffed with all kinds of papers. I open it and angrily dump it out on the kitchen table. Letters, photos, road maps, and birthday cards spill out. I un-fold one of the hand-written letters, addressed at the top to “BFF aka Crystal”. I flip the letter over to see

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who it’s from: Kimberly Rae. My eyebrows perk up in surprise, and I snatch up one of the pictures from the envelope. The unfamiliar blonde girl from the paper-back novel is there with her arm slung around Crystal’s shoulder as they clutch their brightly colored drinks. I skim over some more of the letters and cards, bewildered. They are all from Kimberly. Then I find a letter that is in a small separate envelope. Crystal’s name is scrawled on the outside, and the words on the page within are written in Kimberly’s handwriting: I can’t believe you could be so selfish. You laughed at me and told me to get a life. I thought you were my best friend, but now I see that I don’t have any friends. No one cares. No one listens. I hope you remember that you did this to me. It’s all your fault. IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!!!!

My stomach turns at the angry words, and I start to feel nauseous, unable to read any more. I burst up from the chair at the kitchen table, and rake all the papers back into the envelope. I throw it back in the drawer in the kitchen along with the rest of the junk and slam it closed, heart pounding.

The front door’s knob jiggles as Crystal unlocks it and enters the apartment. She looks tired, like she hasn’t slept in a few days. Her eyes get wide as she looks around the trashed room.

“Uh… okay. Look, May-Lin, can we please talk about whatever it is tomorrow?”

“No, we need to hash this out now,” I bark at her, my new-found confidence boiling in my blood.

“This has been going on far too long. I’ve sat here and kept quiet, but I’m done with that now. I don’t know what you problem is, but if you have one with me, you need to say so. I don’t appreciate you coming into my room in the middle of the night, stealing my keys. I don’t like you leaving your crap down and never cleaning anything. I didn’t appreciate you disturbing my studying with your crying and screaming last night, and I really don’t understand why you felt the need to trash our apartment!”

“What the hell are you talking about, dude? I haven’t been here in three days.”

I feel my heart skip a beat, and I stand frozen, struck dumb. My eyes widen and my breath catches in my throat. Crystal looks at my suspiciously, but I am unable to speak.

“Last time I was home you gave me that aspirin and I left right after that. I’ve been staying with my friend on campus to crunch for finals…. Oh my god…”

Crystal’s face goes from pale to green as she studies me closely.

“Kimberly. October 28th. It’s been a year. S-she killed herself, May. She hung herself in the upstairs closet with an extension cord. I found her. I found her swinging there, shoes thumping against the wall,” she says in a low, barely audible voice. Tears begin to well up in her eyes as she looks around the messy room. I put the pieces together, but I’m still frozen in terror, locked in place.

I watch her expression change into a horrified stare as she looks past me and into the kitchen.

Spinning around, we both watch the kitchen junk drawer open slowly by itself. The contents burst from the drawer, flying into the air. They come crashing down around us, and the envelope thuds as it comes to rest right on Crystal’s lap. She screams and swats the package away like it’s a poisonous spider. I finally unfreeze, and sprint towards the front door. I hear a repetitive thudding sound coming from my room that makes me sick to my stomach. Crystal lets out another scream and scrambles to follow me towards the door. The pain in my neck flares up, and the whole apartment begins to shake. Stumbling over the piles of clothing, my bare feet slip in the puddles on the carpet. A loud thud sounds as Crystal goes crashing down to the floor. I feel her hand clench around my ankle, stopping me from reaching the door. Whirling my head around, I look down at her, shaking my leg to try and get free.

“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me with her! She can take you instead!” She shrieks at me, face contorted in a horrible snarl.

She gives my ankle a sharp tug, and I fall. My head collides with the dresser, and I bounce off it and slide to the floor, my vision starting to swirl. Crystal’s scream pierce the air. My world fades to black just as I catch a glimpse of long blonde hair. ********** The first thing I notice as my mind pulls itself up from the darkness is that I can taste blood in my mouth. My eyes fly open, but I see nothing but white. I sit up sharply and start to scream.

“May-Lin! It’s okay! It’s okay, honey, I’m here.”

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My screaming stops and I feel a firm weight on my shoulders press down on me. I recognize my mother’s voice. My eyes adjust to the bright light and I see the faces of my parents looming over me.

“You’re in the hospital,” my father says to me as I relax slightly and take in the white room around me.

“The doctor said that you might not remember what happened. You went downstairs at your apartment this morning and must have passed out from the shock of what you saw. You hit your head. I don’t know how to tell you this, honey… But Crystal took her own life. They found her hanging from the ceiling fan in the living room by an extension cord.”

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Wednesday

by Jacqueline Casillas It’s another Wednesday, the sun is shining, and the people of Las Vegas race and rush in their complicated and over stimulated lives.

I feel like stone, a still, heavy object with no momentum.

I watch the people buzzing by And frantically scrambling to finish their errands and expensive lunches that they barely have time to sit and enjoy.

I am an instrument, and the small range of my reality that I can detect is not all that there is.

The air itself is filled with fallible clouds.

I stand still, and realize everything around me is an ongoing orbit of recycled actions, by people in constant movement like a well-oiled machine, but without real purpose.

I am surrounded by energies, and although I may not be able to sense them all, I know that they’re there, but like a still, heavy object with no momentum, I remain a stone.

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August

by Jacqueline Casillas It’s late August.

California seems to be boiling.

It will make you lazy and get you high.

For the past few days, my hair has lived up in a ponytail.

I blame the awful humidity.

I keep wiping the sweat off my face every five seconds, hoping this car ride will be over soon.

I begin to hear the pitiful whines coming from him.

“Please move back; I’ll take care of you.”

I make an effort to pay attention, but the mixture of sweat running down my face, my body glued to the seats of the two door leather mustang, and humidity are making me delirious.

All I want is a gush of air to hit my face, to cool me off.

We finally come to a complete stop.

He’s just sitting there in silence, staring at me.

He continues to spill his heart out.

I think he might cry.

His voice is starting to break and stutter.

And all I can think about are my sunglasses.

I have no idea where I left them.

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Ode to Stress Relief

by Jacqueline Casillas

My ode to the flower So pungent while in bloom Luckier than a four leaf clover More relaxing than the moon I carefully break each leaf up And place it in a clear vase Smells so sweet and sour I can’t wait to consume it The fumes, once ingested Reach deep inside my chest Slowly vibrating through my lungs Floating up to my mind Leaving me in complete relief It’s the best method for a stress intervention

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Mommy, I Love You

by Katie White

This story is not like any other. This story is about me, Robert Nelson Villegas, but you th can just call me Robbie. I am a nine year old boy in 4 grade who loves to play baseball. Brandon McCarthy is my favorite baseball player. He plays for the Oakland Athletics. Everyone always said I looked like my dad, but I don't know him. I guess he has blond hair and blue eyes because that's what I have. My mommy, Linda, is very pretty and really tall. She did everything she could for me and even worked two jobs. We live in an apartment in Oakland, California, a few blocks from the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum Stadium. I love my mommy with all my heart, but sometimes she can be mean to me, but I know it’s just because she is busy. This is me a day before my accident.

“Robbie dinner is done!” mommy yells. But I'm doing homework just to make mommy happy. “Robbie! I do not want to repeat myself!” I can tell my mommy had a bad day.

“Coming mom!” I run down the hall from my bedroom with my Brandon McCarthy baseball card. I can smell dinner; it’s mac & cheese, my favorite. I slide my baseball card into my pocket; mommy doesn't like it when I bring it to the dinner table. I get to the kitchen, and mommy grabs me. She grabs my shoulders really hard and shakes me.

“Robbie what did I tell you about listening?”

“I’m sorry mommy; I won’t do it again.” I wanted to cry, but I know I have to stay strong for mommy. When I finish my dinner, I see that mommy is sleeping. She always sleeps after getting her special drink that I am not allowed to touch. In the meantime, I do the dishes so mommy can sleep. Mommy always sleeps on the couch. I think she just gets too tired to make it to her bed, or it just reminds her so much of my dad.

I finish the dishes and take my Brandon McCarthy baseball card out of my pocket and look at it. I like to just look at it because I dream that one day I will be on a card just like this one. I want to become a pitcher just like Brandon.

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***** The next morning mommy wakes me up by yelling, “Robbie!”

I try to remember if I did something wrong. I flip my green and blue striped sheets off of me and run down the hall in my basketball shorts. I see mommy holding the plastic, blue cup I used last night with dinner.

“Why is it that you cannot do all of the dishes?” she says waving the cup at me.

“Mommy...” She throws the cup at me. I didn't move, and the cup hits my leg. I love you mommy.

“Robbie, you are lucky that I did not just throw it at your head.”

“Yes mommy, I will make sure not to do it again.” I wash the cup and walk back to my room. As I sit on my bed, I can't help but think about wanting mommy to be happy. She cries a lot.

I can’t help to think it is because of me. Sometimes it’s just better to get out of mommy's way. It's Saturday, so I think I will just go outside and be out of mommy's way.

“Mommy do you mind if I go outside?” I ask not wanting her to get mad at me. I see mom take a drink of her special drink. Normally she only drinks it at night.

“Robbie do whatever you want. It seems like that’s all you do anyway,” she shrieked, taking off her flip-flop to throw it at me.

“Mommy, if it will upset you, I won't,” I said as she threw her flip-flop at me. I love you mommy, and I know you love me, too.

“Robert Nelson Villegas, I said just go!” she yelled my whole name. She never does that unless she is really mad. When she yells, I know it is time from me to go. I grab my Brandon McCarthy baseball card and went on my way.

I walk outside my apartment door, and I can smell the freshly mowed grass from the field across the street. There are a bunch of other apartment kids heading out to the baseball field across the street. I run back inside, and I see mommy take another drink. I’m quiet when I grab my baseball bat, glove and ball, so that way, mommy won’t get mad. Every time we play at the field, we always lose a bunch of balls. I catch up to my best friend Adam.

“Hey Adam! Why didn't you tell me that you were headed to the field today?”

“We didn't want to get you in trouble,” he says, “...like last time.”

He means last time when my mommy went to the field and grabbed me by my ear and pulled me all the way home because I left the juice out. I thank Adam for looking out for me, but everything is fine now. We both run to catch up with the rest of the group.

Once we cross the street, we all run to our normal positions. There are sixteen of us by the time we get to the field, just enough for a fair game. I’m always the pitcher for both teams.

Brian, one of the older kids from the apartments, comes out with his sister, Andrea, because she loves to watch the game. Brian’s the umpire. Tony and Chris, brothers, rush to the outfield. J.J and Vincent go to the dugout because they play the same positions as Tony and Chris.

They also like to write about who gets to bat first. Emma, the tomboy, heads toward centerfield. Tashanna, the princess of all the girls, always fights to be the first baseman or women as she likes to say. Gabe, Gage and Zoie, all siblings, love and are good at their positions, but Gabe is the best catcher any of us have seen. Gage sprints to second base and Zoie, the youngest of the girls, darts to third base. Cecilia, DJ, Zachary, Mikel and Aaron, also siblings, spill into the dugout.

DJ is the catcher while Zachary plays first base and Mikel plays short stop. Aaron plays second base. But Cecilia just likes to watch with Andrea, Brian's sister. And as usual, Alexis, Vincent, and J.J go to the dugout together because they are all siblings. It’s like we are all one big family when we are on the field together. Everyone gets along really well too! Unless someone gets hurt, then the hurt person’s always mad. But not this time.

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There are two different teams, the White Socks and the Blue Jays. The first team to the field is always the White Socks. The White Sock’s team includes: Emma, Tony, Chris, Tashanna, Gabe, Gage, Zoie and me. We are all in positions as Laurel is the first up to bat. I throw the first ball, and she misses.

“STRIKE ONE!” Brian yells, throwing his hand up with his pointer finger out.

This time I look at the ball, and I really get into it. I want to be sure she hits it because she is a girl and I don't want to be mean. That was something my mommy taught me. Before I grasp the ball and smash my foot into the red dirt of the baseball field, I whip the ball across the pocket where I have my Brandon McCarthy card, for good luck.

I take a deep breath of the fresh air, and I throw it harder than I planned. The next thing I know, I hear the crack of a bat hitting the ball. I fall to the ground. I don’t know what’s happening. But I think I just got hit. All I knew is that I hear screams from the girls maybe even some of the guys. I even hear Brian shout, “Go get Ms. Villegas, NOW!” over all of the screams.

I’m getting a really bad headache. I can't help but want my mommy, right now. I can hear her flip flops running across the field’s dirt. She is crying. I don't know why because I feel fine except for the headache.

“SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE!” Mommy yells.

I hear Brian on the phone explaining where we are. I’m not sure why, but I can’t move, and I have a really bad headache. Mommy is crying. Mommy, please stop crying. Mommy? Why can't I talk to you? Why is everything getting dark? I don't know what’s going on. I hear sirens like the ones on my toy truck that’s in my room. Mommy? Can we go home? I'm tired. Mommy, everything is going to be okay, I promise. The sirens are getting closer. I don't know what’s happening, mommy. I thought I was a good boy. I'm sorry mommy! I didn't mean to be a bad boy last night. Mommy can you hear me? Please mommy, make the pain go away. Mommy, why can’t I hear you? Mommy, I won't leave you. I'm just going to take a nap.

The smell of the freshly cut grass fades, and the smell of old people is now all around me. I hear a beeping sound near my head and mommy’s' sniffles. As I wake up from my nap, I open my eyes, and mommy rushes over to my side.

“Robbie,” Mommy says with a soft voice.

I try to tell her that I love her, but my mouth isn't moving. So I just blink my watering eyes at her.

“Robbie, I love you. I'm sorry for everything that I have done. I love you my son. My dear, dear boy.” Her voice sounds like she has been crying really badly.

I try to wipe her tears, but I can’t move my arms. Mommy what’s wrong with me?

Mommy? Mommy, I'm going to take a nap again. I'm still so tired. When I wake up, everything will be better for us. I can't keep my eyes open any longer! As my eyes close and the beeping gets faster, I hear mommy.

“Robbie! NO! ROBBIE!” She takes a deep breath and yells, “NURSE! HELP! HELP! My Robbie!” Mommy is crying I can’t help, but I want to sleep even though I can see a bright light. I feel my body shaking and then the beeping is just a long beep sound.

I can only see mommy if I visit her. But I’ve gotten to meet my daddy. I’m so happy that I get to be with my daddy now. He was a baseball player! And I do look like him! I only wish I could see mommy more, but when I do visit her, she is drinking her special drink. It seems like she is drinking her special drink more these days. Mommy cries a lot more, too. She keeps saying, “Why me? Why again?” She says that a lot, so I wish I could make mommy happy. Maybe one day she will finally find someone that will make her happy.

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My Angels

by Khalilah Shuaid Unique wakes up in a cloud-like place where it is so bright that she has to adjust her newly awakened eyes. She sees these beautiful white clouds. Everything is so bright, but she can still see the golden gates as well as a golden castle in the distance. Out of nowhere, there pops up this angelic like child. He is dressed in a white gown. Over his head sits an extremely bright halo.

His skin is that of milk chocolate, and his eyes are the color of honey.

“Hello there, my name is JaQuan. And before you ask, you are in heaven for children.”

Unique stops to think about her last memory, the one where she is just in a warm place.

The sound she remembers is the steady heartbeat of her mother Stephanie and that is it. She lightly shakes her head, and then asks, “What happened to me? All I remember is being with my mommy. Now where is she?”

JaQuan glides over to Unique and touches her shoulder. “She is on earth. I can show you your mother if you would like, but know if you speak, she can’t hear you.”

Unique takes a deep breath. “Yes I would like to still see my mommy.” With the wave of his hand, the clouds twist and turn until they form into a golden mirror. Unique is stuck in place when she sees her mom.

“It’s okay Stephanie. Please calm down, you didn’t do anything wrong, God just wanted her there with Him.” Michelle replies as she hugs her best friend very tightly. “It’s going to be okay.” Stephanie takes a deep breath.

Before Unique even realizes what she’s doing, she touches the mirror to wipe her mother’s tears away. All of a sudden her mother is relaxed and is no longer crying.

“What happened?” Unique yells excitedly. “You told me that she couldn’t hear me, so why did she stop crying when I wiped her tears away?” In an angelic tone, he answers, “The reason why she stopped crying is because she felt your presence, and it calmed her soul.”

She blinks her eyes as though she doesn’t believe it. “So you’re saying I can see my mother, I can hear her, I can touch her, but I just can’t speak to her?”

“Well not directly speak to her. Anytime you want to speak to her, you can just visit her in her dreams. When she needs you, you can be there.”

Unique turns away from the mirror to look directly at JaQuan. “So if you don’t mind me asking, how did you get here?”

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“No, your question is reasonable. I was killed by my father one day when my mother was at school. He was watching me for my mother, but he didn’t have much interest in doing that.

My dad was playing with my god-brother and sisters, and I wouldn’t stop crying. He shook me until there was no more breath in me. Before I could figure out what happened to me, I was here where you are now.”

Unique puts her hands over her mouth in disbelief. “That’s such a sad story. I’m really sorry that you had your life ended like that.” He motions her to follow, “It’s okay. I’ve had time to deal with it. There was nothing I could do or anyone else who could do something for that matter.

I keep an eye on my mother like you did just now, and I have forgiven my father already. Are you ready to know how you got here Unique?” She takes a deep breath, and then says “Yes I’m ready to know how I got here” “Unique, your mother had a miscarriage. She wanted you dearly, but it just happened.”

While Unique is listening, silent tears fall down her face. She wipes her eyes.

“I’m glad to know that she wanted me even if I didn’t make it.”

JaQuan stops. “It seems that we have another joining us. Please follow me this way; we must greet the newly arrived angel.”

They glide down the golden path towards the pearly golden gates. Outside the gates stands a beautiful baby boy. He is the color of copper when it’s new, and his eyes are the color of deep chocolate brown. I see the same look in his eyes that I once held in mine when I first arrived here a few hours ago. I learn that when you are in heaven time stops so to speak. It’s not like the time on earth. I follow JaQuan to the gate to welcome the new child.

“No need to be shy, young one. My name is JaQuan, and this is Unique. What might your name be?”

He looks around in disbelief, walks up to us, and says, “My name is James Jaylin Haines.”

“James Jaylin Haines you say; I think that I know you. I mean my mom knows your dad.”

James looks puzzled.

“Where am I?” “You are in heaven for children,” JaQuan explains.

James looks sad like he wants to cry.

“What do you mean that I’m in heaven? I can’t be here; I’m supposed to be born on January 9th. I have four months left.”

Unique rushes to hug James before he starts crying.

“I know how you are feeling.” She says while she rubs his back. “I just got here myself. I do know something that will make you happy though. You can see your parents in a golden mirror.” James sniffles and then asks, “Can you please show me my dad?”

JaQuan looks at the two new angels with pity in his eyes. He pauses for a minute to think back to when he was a new angel himself. He sees the hurt, confusion and disbelief in their eyes are similar to his own feelings long ago. Shaking his head, he waves his hand, and the golden mirror starts to appear. James sees his dad in the golden mirror crying over him.

“How could this bitch do this to me? If she didn’t want my son, then she could have just signed him over! Damn it!”

James wants to cry again, but something inside of him will not allow it, so instead he reaches for his dad inside of the mirror. James actually goes through the mirror; he is there with his dad. Unique can’t believe it. She sees James hovering over his dad and then he disappears inside of him. All of a sudden, James Sr. passes out and hits the floor. In a dreamlike state, James is able to speak to his father. Running to his son, he grabs James Jr. and hugs him tightly, and then kisses him on the forehead.

“My son I wanted you so bad. I just wish your mother wanted you as much as I did.”

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“What do you mean dad?”

“I mean that your mother carried you for five months, but she was just not ready to be a parent and stop being young. She didn’t stop partying, drinking, and smoking. That’s how I lost you son. At one point, I wanted to kill her for what she did to you, but I forgave her and walked away.”

James hugs his dad and starts crying again.

“Dad, it’s okay. I’m in heaven safe and sound. You will see me again one day. If you ever want to see me sooner just to talk or anything I’m just one dream away. So you don’t have to worry anymore.”

James Sr. wakes up trying to remember how he ended up on the floor. He no longer feels hurt or bitterness towards Nakita, his boy’s mother. James Jr. came out of the mirror happy knowing that his dad was okay.

“How did you do that James Jr.?” Unique asks.

“I don’t know. All I knew was that my father needed me, so I went to him.” He takes a deep breath and continues, “I also know what happened and how I ended up here” “Would you like to tell me? I saw what happened in the golden mirror, but if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”

“No, Unique it’s cool if you want to talk about it. My mother just wasn’t ready to be a parent. She wanted to be young, so she continued to party, drink, and smoke. That’s how I ended up here.”

“It’s okay, James Jr. I’m here because something happened while my mom was pregnant. But, at least, we are here together.”

“Yeah, Unique, I guess you’re right.”

JaQuan just stands there watching the new angels talk. He thinks about his first time seeing his mother and father in heaven, and then he asks, “James Jr. are you ready to see your mother?”

“No, I think I’m going to need sometime before I can see her. I’m just not ready to see the woman who did not want me.”

“I understand James Jr. I know it’s going to take some time before you can see her. I had to go through the same thing with my father.”

James Jr. moves closer to JaQuan to shake his hand. “Thank you.”

“For what James Jr.?”

“For letting me see my dad and allowing me to speak to him.”

“It’s no problem, and by the way, James Jr., you are the one who reached out to your father when he needed you the most, so you don’t have to thank me for that.”

Unique and James Jr. go back to talking about their parents and their memories, playing and laughing. JaQuan just stands back and watches the new angels. Smiling, he thinks, they’re going to make great guardians one day.

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JUSTICE OF THE NUTCRACKER

by Robert Nobile “Here son, I want you to have this because it’s been in my family for generations to protect us on Christmas.”

The boy nervously waited to open it, but when his father said it was ok to unwrap it early, he tore it open and looked inside for the gift. It appeared to be a nutcracker, and the boy loved it and added it to the shelf where he could see it.

“Son, I just want you to know that I will always be there for you no matter what happens because this nutcracker is to remember my spiritual presence within your nutcracker. You will use the nutcracker as a symbol; use it to protect others and yourself on the holy night. Can you do that for me?”

The son replied with innocence and a soft comforting voice, “Yeah dad.” *** On Christmas morning, at the Amadeus’s mansion, resembling a miniature version of the president’s white house at the end, inside a gated high class community, Samuel excitedly approached his Christmas presents while his tall and slim dad in his business attire yelled to Samuel, “Samuel time to come down.”

Samuel’s Mom in her Christmas tree sweater with colored glass buttons as the ornaments shouted the same message at her son minutes later. Samuel came down the white marble spiral stairs decorated with Christmas tree branches and ribbons with a homemade nutcracker costume and wooden sword swashbuckling all over the living room where there was a dark green but glaring Christmas tree surrounded with gifts and a glass table in the middle of a snowy-white carpet floor. He then went into dining room part of the house full of Christmas treats and roast beef cooking in the oven as his mom addressed him: “Hey, settle down and open your presents, dear.”

But Samuel quickly noticed his father’s absence.

“Where is dad, mom?”

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“He went out to talk with his boss; he will be back soon.”

“What boss?” Samuel questioned with a suspicious tone.

“A boss that is glad to have your dad as his most loyal employee, and he also serves as a personal friend that we hardly know him. Plus he lends extra money to your dad for us sometimes; that’s all, Hun.” “Is that why we are rich mom?”

“No, dear, me and your father earned that money because we worked hard for it, ok?”

“Ok.” *** Meanwhile Samuel’s father was meeting with his boss, named Theodore Rat, an overweight blimp-shaped man in a heavy, black fur coat over his black business suit. He carried his signature cane, custom-made with the head piece of a rat’s skull on top of the cane. Theodore also had an odd, disfigured, rough and scarred face and a long, round nose, and small, ghoulish eyes with heavy, black lashes. His black hair was in the same style of Hitler’s hair, and he had buck teeth surrounded by black, needle-like whiskers for a beard and a lot of it was coming out of his ears like a growing black cactus, but his most disgusting and inhuman like feature was his uncut and rotted, long fingernails like they were full of infection. Theodore Rat was a local crime boss who was on the rise to gain full political power and whom Samuel’s father worked for. His father Ernst intended to have one last meeting with his boss Theodore at a gloomy dock that evening.

Ernst was a mob enforcer secretly working for the most notorious mob known as the Marching Rats since his early 20s and now a reformed man, who was happily married in fact, he was announcing his retirement.

“This is it, Theodore Rat! I no longer work for you and your men. I just want to live in peace with my family and with all the retirement money from being your right hand man and what my wife’s employment in your night club earned as well. I think it’s time.”

Theodore responded with such a crooked face gesture.

“So I guess this is a farewell, Ernst boy, because, you’re right, I don’t need you anymore.

Your time is up, right?”

“Uh…right,” Ernst said with uncertainty.

Theodore implied with instant frustration and no dignity: “Just remember it’s not easy getting off the hook just like that, you know, and we will take good care of your family so that they can join you and don’t have to worry about them coming after me.”

“What the hell do you mean Theodore?” Ernst asked with confusion and stress.

Theodore Rat revealed his true intentions and sinister acts upon Ernst and the rest of his family’s lives.

“It is Theodore Rat to you; now take him!”

“No wait, no!”

Ernst shouted to quickly stop Theodore’s men preparing to fire, but Theodore’s men fired their machine guns with no regret and no emotion but with killer instinct.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! After the vicious shooting rounds of bullets going through the body of his most loyal soldier, Theodore Rat showed his dark sarcasm.

“Why so full of pouting, Ernst? At least it’s nice to die on Christmas than any other time of the year, huh Ernst? All right boys, we’re done here, and since its Christmas, let’s pay a visit to his beloved family, should we boys?”

In the meantime, Samuel and his mother, Teresa Amadeus, desperately waited for the father to come back home for the rest of the Christmas morning,g but instead, a group of well-

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dressed black suited men with dark hats came to visit the household to inform them about Ernst’s long absence.

“Hello,” the mother answered at the door after they knocked.

“May we come in to tell you about your husband whom you’ve been waiting for?”

“Um, sure, come in, please.”

Samuel’s mother for a second pondered their true purpose for their presence and invited them into her home since she was desperate to know about the whereabouts of her lost husband.

Theodore Rat explained to the wife about Ernst.

“You know, Mrs. Amadeus, I don’t think your husband has ever been completely honest with you about what his involvement is with me in all these years since you’ve been together.”

“Your husband worked for me as my well…best associate, he he,” he chuckled.

Teresa asserted, “What the hell exactly do mean associate?” What kind of damn associate was he?”

Theodore replied after a ten second silence as soon as Teresa noticed more about the real life of her husband as she observed Theodore and his men having machine guns as they were ready to go off.

“Don’t you remember me, Mrs. Amadeus? Because I remember you working at my first nightclub that I opened here in Chicago. This very same Christmas date, no?”

Teresa responded in shock after she realized she worked for Theodore Rat like Samuel’s father did, but she used to work at Theodore’s famous nightclub the Sugar Plum where she was well-known as the Sugar Plum Fairy in the past. Theodore named her for her purple sparkling one piece with purple sparking glass high heels and purple wings added. Teresa used to be a dancer that Theodore favored before he eventually took too much control over her and mistreated Teresa financially, emotionally, and almost physically that led her to desperately quit her job at the club.

“Theodore! Theodore Rat! No, it can’t be. I thought you were arrested after I quit working for you after your sexual abuse towards me and stole my payment money by keeping it for yourself.”

“Ha, well my dear, when someone such as me has power over the police and this town, I just had too much fun and why leave when I have established myself or in other words corrupted this city.”

Teresa raised her voice at the top of her lungs, screaming with agony, “What the hell did you do with my husband, you rotten bastard?”

Theodore Rat questioned the wife of Ernest about what he did to him and then tells her the dreadful truth: “What did I do to your beloved husband?! Your damn husband and my most trusted enforcer was crying to call it quits because simply he did not want me involved or being around you and your son Samuel all because he did not want to have bad things to happen or feared that he would betray me since he thinks he is reformed just because he married a good woman who was nothing but a whore who was owned by who….me! But your dearest husband did betray me by giving up on me as I saw deep in his eyes, so I left him off the hook because it’s not that easy for a man like him to have guts to refuse us, and no one ever quits the Marching Rats until I say or until I end their miserable lives because once they join it’s like I forever own their pathetic flesh and soul, but I did not need him anymore, so I killed him!”

As soon as Theodore’s men prepared their machine guns, Theodore said final goodbyes to the widow Teresa who screamed while feeling great anguish.

“Your money goes back to us and you die as well as simple as that. Bam! Bam! Bam!”

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Theodore’s men released two rounds at the depressed mother as blood painted the Christmas tree and bloody bullets shined bright more than the Christmas lights had ever shined.

Theodore declared his rule with an iron fist as Teresa tumbled down like a lifeless object.

“Oh I forgot to mention my full name; it’s king, Theodore King Rat, and I make the rules in this town bitch. And who is this little brat in his little nutcracker outfit?”

Theodore witnessed the son in costume watching them way in the back by the stairs since the beginning and desperately screamed. “Mom! Oh no, mom!”

The boy was in shock witnessing the murder of his parents from a ruthless crime family known as the Marching Rats, imbedded in tears of such strong sorrow. The boy fought back with his wooden sword but got knocked around by one of Theodore’s men. Theodore Rat talked to the boy that Samuel had no chance of stopping them and couldn’t bring back his deceased parents.

“No damn nutcracker is going to stop me; I’ll teach you a little lesson in manners boy!“ As soon as Theodore was about to beat upon the helpless child, neighbors next door might have heard the gun shots and screaming, so they possibly dialed 911, sending the police right over instantly, and now the sounds of sirens bellowed from miles away. One of Theodore’s goons warned Theodore to leave before they came to the house.

“It’s the god damn police sir,” the aware mobster shouted to his crime boss with anxiety. Theodore not satisfied without finishing his situation with the boy, so he has no choice but to flee out the back door of the house.

“Shit! Ok, we’re out of here boys. Just leave this boy alone; he’s worthless and can’t stop us. Let’s go!” Theodore and his men hurried to get out, leaving the child in the middle of a very tragic moment with nothing left but his life and the nutcracker that his father gave him as his last gift. Samuel stood dead still in the middle of the dining room with a blood drenched body, defenseless and waiting, as the detectives approached him inside the house. One detective entered the house with no intention of thought for what he was about to witness.

“Good god, “The detective said as he observed the house intensely and then the detective started looking at the scene of the crime which was a dark grim room of murder and tragedy that was once a joyful Christmas living room with only one survivor left to suffer in loss and despair. The detective felt compassion and sorrow for the boy by addressing the boy with an apology.

“Hey there, young man, my name is detective Hoffman, and I am so sorry for this kid. I am really am, but you’re very fortunate to have survived what appears to be a mob hit from the Marching Rats, and I am going to have one of my officers take you downtown away from this. Do you understand child?”

Samuel did not respond, and the cop took Samuel by the hand, leading him out of the house, outside into the police car on their way to the police station where there was a hospital about a mile away from it.

“Come with me son. Let’s take you somewhere much safer now.”

Samuel left his house forever looking back one last time before the police sent Samuel off to a hospital after they stopped at the police station for an evaluation that the police could gather from Samuel, but it was no use. Hours later, the staff took Samuel to the hospital; it was his first night staying at the hospital because Samuel suffered too much psychological trauma that he snapped into a rage of violence. Samuel began to rapidly swing his sword to attack people that were strangers to him, such as the nurses and doctors, including the remaining police officers, watching over Samuel’s room. One of the nurses who were attacked did not understand this outburst, questioning one of the police officers.

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“What the hell is wrong with him, officer?” Then, the officer took an educated guess about Samuel’s violent response.

“It has to be the trauma from his parent’s death, I guess; I don’t know.”

The boy then settled down, not taking off his nutcracker costume ever. The boy returned to his violent ways, so the police officers decided to send him to a mental institution for a psychological evaluation instead and finally gather information describing the boy’s mental state which revealed symptoms of developing a multi-personality disorder, plus intense mood swings, and a depression so deep he could barely talk or think straight.

“Officers, our diagnosis came back, and it appeared that the boy was developing multiple psychological and sociological intensities, leading to depression, mood disorders or multiple personality disorder which also is why he is keeping a nutcracker outfit on. It’s like he is creating an ego for himself attacking possibly those who tried to hurt him.”

The officers responded with satisfaction and solution. “Thanks doctor! It looks like this kid is becoming a freak of nature; what a shame for happened to his parents. Well doctor, he is yours to keep, I am afraid, before he becomes a menace to society.”

Right you are officers because I am sorry to say that the boy will be safe here from now on as my new personal patient if that is also alright with you officers?”

The police officers accepted with gratitude, “Yes doctor, good luck with your new patient and Merry Christmas.”

The good doctor implied his wishes as well, “Merry Christmas officers and good luck in catching the men responsible for this awful tragedy.”

Christmas had longed passed, and days had turned into weeks, and weeks had turned into months as the next Christmas approached, and the doctor had bonded with his youngest patient, trying to solve his new nature while young Samuel remained unnaturally mute to every single person he saw or encountered, especially his doctor and warden, Dr. Kreisler, who spent every day to understand Samuel and his actions. He was a bald-headed man with a glass monocle for one eye and a white mustache resembling the monopoly mascot.

“Good morning Samuel! It’s Dr. Kreisler; how are you today? I know you don’t speak, but I just want you recognize my kindness towards you since we are always working together.

Now Samuel, tell me what is coming to mind today, huh?’

Samuel’s response started as gestures, but Dr. Kreisler couldn’t tell. Then Samuel began to draw and write some words to what Samuel had planned for himself in the future. “What are you drawing and writing Samuel? Is this your way of responding to me? Well then, let me take a look after you’re done, so I can analyze your communication, ok?”

As soon as Samuel was done, he gently gave Dr. Kreisler his drawing and words, and Dr. Kreisler immediately sent it to be evaluated by other head doctors, and after hours of analysis, Dr. Kreisler and the other doctors figured out that the writing first is a message to Dr. Kreisler saying, th “I will be home for Christmas on my 20 birthday with a sword and blood, and mark my words Dr. Kreisler, the Rat King shall be dethroned by my steel, the nutcracker’s steel.”

“Ha nonsense” Dr. Kreisler replied. “This is part of his ego in some kind of role play.”

Then the doctor looked upon the drawing and saw that it was some kind of escape plan, through figures of an adult Samuel and mapping of objects he could come in contact with and locations showing the many possibilities that he can find, manipulate, create and move coordination at the right position and at the right time. Dr. Kreisler returned to Samuel to go over the drawings and message.

“Samuel, son all this is showing me is that your ego is getting the best of you and why do you want to escape? I take great care of you. Don’t you see because you’re safe here, and besides

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you can’t escape, these chances that you pointed out are impossible for you in your condition. Let us heal you Samuel.”

Samuel wrote to the doctor one last time and then turned his head in the other direction to ignore the doctor, and the doctor read the last message carefully, saying a brief mission statement. “It is my mission, my father’s mission, and the nutcracker’s mission to watch over these cold blooded streets that are infested.”

During his years growing up in a mental institution, Samuel slowly watched his hometown Chicago become a corrupted plague from the diseased Rat family as the political power of the Marching Rats grew stronger every year with having the police secretly working behind the scenes and recruiting anybody on the streets to become spies on anyone coming into town and out of town or to watch on each other to make sure no one dared keep secrets and think of rebellion against the Marching Rats. Due to Theodore’s criminal expansion, his full ownership of Chicago created the great depression at its midst as the cities middle class, high class and even the poor belonged to the Marching Rats controlling over every breath. The whole city took damage heavily in the economic system since all the money came from him and went to him.

Every year Samuel watched the city view from his cell in preparation for his future escape plan which must be performed correctly once and with a lot of natural energy and thinking to push the limits of his probability of escaping. Samuel worked out every day pushing his body to the highest limit and meditated, dreaming of his tragic past only to make him prepare for the worst when he was going to meet the Rat King face-to-face.

Twenty years later, the year was 1950 on Christmas Eve, and Samuel was hoping to make his lifelong mission happen and fulfill his only wish: to avenge his parent’s death, taking justice into his own hands as an oath. Samuel sensed the time drawing closer than ever before by taking his last meditation and full position to coordinate physical and mental escape tactics before taking one last glance into his nutcracker that his father gave him long ago, while a couple of security guards passing by his cell started to comment on his behavior.

“Ever since he came to the institution, it is said by both other patients and the medical team that he has been looking at his nutcracker like it’s been telling him something,” the guard on the right side observed The other tired guard on the left talked back to his partner.

“I don’t know and I don’t care so just keep an eye on this mental case anyway, you hear?”

“Yes sir.”

One of the assistant doctors came in to say hello to the two year old Samuel and then right away after many years of silence, Samuel said, “Merry Christmas Doctor.”

Then, the assistant doctor kindly responded back but eventually ended up in shock as the assistant doctor realized Samuel was no longer mute and very well in shape and more stable mentally than any doctor could have imagined.

“Merry Christmas to you, too…Wait what? You talk now! Are you feeling better in the mind Samuel?”

Samuel answered the assistant, “Better than ever doctor because I have been waiting for this season to come all my life.”

The assistant doctor was puzzled and questioned Samuel to explain what he exactly meant by what he just said.

“What do you mean?”

Samuel gladly answered back.

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“To embody a symbol of justice as the nutcracker and avenge against those damn Rats who stole the life that I once had as a normal young man and now it’s time to bring justice to who deserves it.”

Samuel said with a well-balanced intention and righteousness, and then the doctor asked another question.

“How are you going to do that Samuel? You are just as crazy as the rest of the crazies, so now sit the hell back down, so I can give you a shot to put your crazed ass to sleep.”

As the assistant doctor started leaning towards Samuel to put the needle in his neck, Samuel quickly grabbed the assistant doctor’s two arms and pulled them back forcibly, causing his whole upper body to bend back trying to insert the needle by using the assistant doctor’s own arm to do it, but the assistant doctor was also pushing the needle to Samuel’s neck again.

Samuel’s frustration increased and so did his strength, making his muscles tighten and veins more visible, and allowing Samuel to successfully inject the needle into the assistant doctor’s neck. The assistant doctor shouted, “You son of a bitch; now you’re going to be lobotomized or given sock therapy. You choose psycho.”

While the sleep drug took its time, the doctor was willing to fight off Samuel from escaping from the bed cell, but Samuel kept a distance, knocking punches to the gut and front face of the assistant doctor, and making him more tired and weaker quicker. Then Samuel let the assistant doctor try to attack him but his cunning to dodge him and his agility made it difficult for the assistant doctor to hit Samuel. Plus it was wearing him out, allowing the drug to kick in faster than ever. Samuel still in combat mode witnessed the assistant doctor losing consciousness and dropping down to the floor; so Samuel changed into the assistant doctor’s clothes to make out that he was part of the staff. He then looked out the door, observing the halls and setting his eyes on the alarm to create a diversion for the staff as he hid in a deep, shadowy corner. So far, it was a success, and he just wandered into one of the offices, pressing the release button to free all the inmates and creating a riot next. Samuel watched the riot from the office as he spotted a nurse and quickly grabbed her from the riot into the office, holding her hands behind her. She started to scream, but Samuel covered his hand over her mouth and then started to speak to her.

“It’s ok; I am not going to hurt you. I just want to get out of here, so I am going to gently hold you hostage in case one of the guards catches me, and recognizes me. Do you understand?”

Samuel restated the plan with the nurse.

“Well, so like I said, first I am using you to get out of here as my shield to hide behind as we start to walk to the nearest exit.”

Samuel was pointing at the nurse’s right eye with a needle loaded with liquid that he found and grabbed from the office cabinet to make sure the nurse did not slip from his tight muscular arms while they both snuck outside and then Samuel instructed the nurse one more time.

“Ok I am going to let you go, but you will be unconscious and then eventually wake up in this very same area I have you right now unless someone finds you, but no matter what you will be no longer in harm’s way.”

Samuel knocked the nurse out, and then finished his escape outside before the entrance door to the facility shuts completely, but he knew he was not going to make it just by running, so he threw his body into the icy wet ground, allowing his body to slide through the door. Hours later, at around midnight after wondering along abandoned alleyways and streets belonging to most of the homeless and where he heard of an urban legend about a vigilante group called the Merry Toy Box living underneath the city near the catacombs. This sparked an interest in Samuel as he began heading to the nearest sewer entrance, so it could his shelter him and possibly help him come in contact with one of the Merry Toy Box members if they even existed. Samuel found

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himself walking as a free man along dark sewer tunnels of Chicago looking for shelter and the truth about this legend since there was a rough snow storm taking place outside. As Samuel got deeper into the sewers, a mysterious figure grabbed Samuel to an extra small sewer system where there was a wooden door, leading to a water passage way and a man-made wooden platform with a paddle that went to the catacombs. Samuel woke up after being unconscious in the catacombs and after arriving from a half hour journey.

“Where am I? Who are you people?” Samuel asked quietly to the group of strangers.

One of the strangers responded. “We are what’s left of the city’s original citizens my good, sir, but we are also a group of special individuals with unique talents of our own; one of us used to be an acrobatic jester, the other a solider during World War II, a doll maker that worked in a factory before it got closed down by the corruption caused by the Marching Rats, and lastly, my name is Lord Drosselmeyer and I am the group’s leader, I am also a former nutcracker maker and costume designer as well as a modern blacksmith. We have nicknamed our little clan the Merry Toy Box, sir, so do you have a resemblance of our kind?”

Samuel responded with awareness. “Do you just mention the Marching Rats?”

“Yes, they are the reason why we ended up like this living down here secretly, and everyone else has been in this status since the great depression, but really it’s more like the great corruption to us, thanks to the Marching Rats.” Samuel got up with his eyes filled with tension.

“I have to stop him, I have to stop Theodore Rat also known as the Right King, and I need your help to do it, and by using your skills to forge me a sword, a well-crafted nutcracker suit with full mask, I will show my significance to not just you and your clan but the benefit of the whole city. My name is Samuel by the way, but soon I am going to become the nutcracker to put a stop to the corruption once and for all; I promise all of you. Do we have a deal?”

Meanwhile, after months had passed from the escape riot from the mental facility, the doctor, who worked with Samuel since the tragedy took his childhood, knew Samuel had th orchestrated the riot just like it was shown to him long ago as an escape plan for his 20 birthday on Christmas Eve. Now, Dr. Kreisler desired him to be returned, but to do that, he had to call upon his childhood friend and colleague, Detective Hoffman, who brought Samuel to the mental hospital from his home that Christmas when his parents were murdered. At the police station, the doctor called Detective Hoffman’s office.

“Detective Hoffman here! Oh Doctor Kreisler, how are you doing dear old friend and what can I do for you?” “What do you mean to tell me you lost your best patient out of all those other patients that got recaptured from the riot? So now what do want from me to do? Track him down for you? Well, I guess it should not be a problem anyway; I will let you know when I find him. Thanks for calling, doctor.”

“Alright boys, we have one escaped mental patient on the loose, so if anyone finds him before I do, send him back to the nuthouse.”

Back at the underground catacombs, home to the Merry Toy Box, Samuel was just about ready with his sword, and the nutcracker mantle was ready to be worn. Samuel said thanks and good bye to the Merry Toy Box, but their leader welcomed him to the catacombs as his new home whenever he wanted to return.

“Well this is it, Samuel; show us what you’re made of and to put you in the right direction since we do venture from time to time above ground, so we can spy on the Marching Rats where they usually meet to discuss their goals, meetings and drug dealing, but the most heard rumors lately on the Marching Rats and the Rat King himself are going to be at the Sugar Plum Nightclub next week at seven on Saturday night, which is Christmas Eve, so that will be your first confrontation if you get in their safely and especially close to him enough, so are you ready

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Samuel?” Samuel put on his nutcracker mask, becoming the nutcracker ready to march against the Rat King in his Sugar Plum Nightclub next Christmas Eve. The Nutcracker Samuel said his last words to the mysterious leader of the Merry Toy Box before finding his way out of the catacombs.

“If I make it out alive from that nightclub which is no guarantee that I will because this may turn out to be either a sacrifice or an execution, but either way, the Rat King will be oozing his cold and dirty rat blood, and I will return as soon as possible to share my victory.”

The Merry Toy Box looked closely at the Nutcracker Samuel as he faded away into the darkness of the catacombs hoping for his success and return.

As the Christmas Eve event at the Sugarplum Night Club drew nearer, the Merry Toy Box leader discussed his concern and possible outcome of Samuel’s duel.

“What a brave man he is, Samuel really is, and he is braver than all of this combined. He has shown people like us to stand up to our enemies face-to-face. After all these years since we formed under here, I always had the feeling that we needed someone like him to make such a noble move. I always had the sense of waiting for this kind of hero like him to show up at our doorstep and take our ranks to unite us all.”

“Well it’s time to do just that my fellow brothers and sisters.”

“To do exactly what?”

Jester questioned his leader.

“To aid the nutcracker in his battle because he needs us, and we need him because we’re not complete without him, and our true duty is now upon since we found our new leader.”

On Christmas Eve, about a quarter to seven, the dazzling Sugarplum Nightclub opened and all of Chicago’s high society approached as expected by invitation. Ten miles away from the Sugarplum was the Nutcracker Samuel on top of the chimney in the gloomy, snowy night, watching all who entered the club as he waited patiently for one special arrival and that was the arrival of Theodore Rat. A long black limo slowly drew near the entrance of the club, and then as soon as it came to a stop, two black fur-suited men stepped out of the front of the limo and opened up the back door. The infamous man of the hour, the Rat King, came out.

“Theodore Rat!” The Nutcracker Samuel shouted to himself. Now the Nutcracker prepared to make his move against Theodore and his Marching Rats within the club.

It was half-past the hour and everyone was situated in their purple tables and booths covered with glittery little diamonds capturing the essence of the delicious sugar that’s found on a real plum with menus and service. Theodore Rat was sitting in the middle of the bottom dining floor of the club with some of his men and two girlfriends ready to watch the Sugarplum’s musical guest singer of the night Sherrill von Dakota and her smooth jazz band. Just before musical performance was about to begin, Theodore Rat happened to look up and see a shadow through the club’s ceiling window, and then it carved its way through the glass, breaking in, and the figure dropped down on Theodore’s booth table, using a rope to climb safely. Theodore Rat witnessed before his eyes a man in a nutcracker’s multi colored uniform of red, white, and blue. He also wore a hard wood mask with a well-designed hungry nutcracker expression with a black Victorian cape, a belt holding a set of daggers, and a long sword next to his belt, including a shot gun.

“Who the hell are you? What do you want? Don’t you know who I am? And why would you mess with me?” Theodore the Rat King of Chicago yelled at the top of his lungs, threatening the nutcracker vigilante standing straight on his purple glittery table.

The Nutcracker Samuel responded in a deep angry voice from the hard deep wooden mask. “I know who exactly you are, a fat but very dirty little mouse that poses like a real gentlemen, but I am about to carve the insides of your flesh to show these people what you’re really made of, and I am the nutcracker, your humble executioner.”

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The Rat King Theodore replied. “You remind me of someone long ago that I was supposed to kill, but it would have been a waste of time, so I did not bother with him. I just let him die in his own misery.”

The Nutcracker Samuel spoke back quietly. “I know because I was that little boy, and now we meet again in the same disguise of our very own nature now. Shall I have your permission to duel to the death your majesty?”

Theodore Rat answered in disbelief and rage, “What? I can’t believe it! Well that just means I will get to finish the job that I started a long time ago, so Nutcracker, you have my permission to die, shoot him!”

Swish swish swish swish.

Instead of bullets flying, there were daggers flying like bladed Frisbees going right into the hearts of his men, sitting next him as they were too slow in taking their guns out to fire at will.

“Now, now, your majesty, are you going to fight like a real king or are you going sit on your fat bastard ass commanding your rodents to just shit out bullets all night.”

The Rat King was in extreme frustration and suddenly started to use his cane to hit the nutcracker’s legs in order to make him to fall down on the table.

“Damn you!” Swish, as his cane swung towards the nutcracker’s legs, he was too late, and the nutcracker jumped up and then landed back down on the cane no longer allowing Theodore Rat to use his cane.

Theodore Rat looked at his cane with the nutcracker standing on top of it, and the nutcracker then talked back to his helpless nemesis.

“Well, your majesty looked like you have no prepared steel to match mine in a fair duel, and your average cane would be chopped into tiny pieces.”

The Rat King devilishly smiled as he looked down at his cane that was in submission, and then he crept up slowly, facing up at the nutcracker’s face.

“Who told you it was just an average cane? On guard!” Whoop-swash!

The Rat King pulled out a long sword from his cane that was really a sword cover.

“Well, Nutcracker, if it’s a duel you want, a duel you will get because I was just waiting for a worthy swordsman to have one hell of sword fight with.” Swish, swash, swish, swash, swish as there concentrated swords clashed with each other all over the bright glittery purple nightclub up and down until more of the Rat King’s men arrived at the duel stopping to watch them possibly finish.

“What the hell are you guys waiting for? Shoot him already! I got him right here where you guys can fire a clear shot boys.”

As the Rat King tried to conclude the duel unfairly and his men started to load their machine guns ready for the King’s signal to fire at the nutcracker, a massive mind bomb explosion happened on the first floor underneath the entire Rat King’s men as they tried to aim at the nutcracker while the Rat King and the nutcracker dueled upstairs.

Boom! The floor exploded sinking the Marching Rats into a black hole, and some were flying across the club from the force of the explosion. The Merry Toy Box climbed out of the hole to join in and finish what was left of the Rat King’s men as the nutcracker finished the duel. The Rat King spoke out to his adversary.

“I assume Samuel if that is your name, that you’re going to kill me, but it’s in the name of justice. It’s really for vengeance, believe it or not, and that isn’t what your father would have wanted, would he now boy? A very righteousness man he was, a man of honor and justice that is what your father was all about and that is what the nutcracker was also about.”

The nutcracker then spoke to the Rat King one last time: “You’re right your majesty, you belong in a deep black rat hole only made just for you and your pals.”

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The Nutcracker Samuel quickly took out his shot gun and aimed it at the Rat King.

“Now march! I am taking you in now.”

Theodore the Rat King turned around with his long decayed claws attempting to lethally scratch through the nutcracker’s uniform to reach his skin, but the nutcracker backed up and then shot Theodore’s hand for self-defense. He screamed in agony as he held it tight and kept backing up, falling over the ledge and into the floor’s hole. Moments later, after Samuel witnessed the fall of the Rat King, police sirens started to draw closer that Samuel and the Merry Toy Box sensed.

The leader of the Merry Toy Box warned and invited him to run with them back in the catacombs.

“The police seem to be on their way. We need to go; come with us, would you?”

The Nutcracker Samuel agreed with them and found his way to the hole along with the Merry Toy Box as they safely climbed into the hole, and the police arrived inside the Sugar Plum Club.

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Student Bios

Candace Caterer

Jacqueline Casillas

About Me: I am a paralegal studies major, and after completing this degree, I will be transferring to Nevada State College to purse a B.A. in History with a Pre-Law concentration. My end goal is to attend Law School. As for favorite books and authors, I adore Anne Rice and Gregory Maquire. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: Prof. Bailey-Kirby devised brilliant “pre-writing” exercises designed to overcome even the most stubborn writer’s block. The most important exercise for me would have to be the character development work. Overall, she is a strong advocate for each student’s success, and she is committed to my educational experience as much as I am.

About Me: My major is Anthropology, but I also study Business Marketing. One of my favorite authors is Jack Kerouac, and one of my favorite books is Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom. My goal in life is to travel to as many places in the world, so I can learn about people’s cultures and different ways of living life. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: I learned from taking this course is to be an honest writer and to show more instead of telling. Also, I would say that the peer and teacher critiques have helped me strengthen my writing over all. I love hearing the feedback whether it be good or bad; I think constructive criticism is one of the best ways to improve in anything.

About Me: My major is Creative Writing and Communication, and for my future goals, I hope to one day write for a magazine as well as have several novellas and poetry collections published. Langston Hughes and Maya Angelou are my favorite poets. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: Professor Bailey-Kirby is the best. Period. Her pre-writing exercises helped me create so many ideas for poetry and writing both in and out of the class. I also really enjoyed the “Bad Poetry” exercises with poems by Leonard Nimoy because those examples really did effectively show me what not to do when writing poetry.

Philip Cunningham

Timothy Day

About Me: I’m a Creative Writing major and the Treasurer of CSN’s Creative Writing Club while my future plans include publishing a few novels. My favorite authors to read include Stieg Larson, Cassandra Claire, Chuck Palahniuk, and many others. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: If a student wants to become a published author, this course helps improve your writing skills. For instance, the setting exercise with listening to music, the character imaging exercise, and the generating ideas for a nature poem helped me plan out what to write about and improve my imagery skills as a writer. In the end, I have enhanced my skill to show more than just tell in my stories and poetry.

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Student Bios

Dylan Gallop

About Me: I have just finished my AA degree at CSN, and I am continuing onto a BA degree in Theology from the Moody Bible Institute. Some of my favorite authors include, but are not limited to the following: Markus Zusak, Victor Hugo, Alan Michael Parker, and Mark Twain. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: The class stretches your comfort zones by forcing you to write stories you never would have written before, or to explore corners of poetry you’ve left dusty and ignored in the proverbial corners of the page. I know that I would never have finished a story were it not for this class. Subsequently, I’ve found that I enjoy writing prose as much, if not more, than I enjoy writing poetry, but one piece of advice I’d give to any writer is this: never settle for “okay”.

About Me: My major is Linguistics, and my future goals include becoming multilingual and eventually getting a novel published. My favorite authors are Markus Zusak, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Garth Nix, and Libba Bray. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: Professor Bailey-Kirby goes above and beyond for her students in providing detailed, concise, and ultimately helpful constructive criticism for all your work and encourages you to grow as a writer. She can be a bit tough sometimes, but if you are serious about improving your skills, you will get a lot from this class.

Abigail Elise Gallop

Brianna Grindland

About Me: My major is Creative Writing, and my future goals are to graduate with a Creative Writing degree, get married, and raise a family; family is the most important thing in the world to me. My favorite author is F. Scott Fitzgerald, but Tennessee William’s A Streetcar Named Desire is my favorite book. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: I learned a lot of pre-writing skills that can help develop different areas of your stories and poems, so now I can almost always write my way out of a rut. Also, Prof. Bailey-Kirby gets straight to the point, and shows you your strengths and what you need to work on. You make amazing friends with creative people in this class, too.

About Me: I’m a music major, and ideally, I’d like to write film scores, but realistically, I’ll end up becoming a music teacher as I already teach a piano class and enjoy doing that. I’m honestly not much of a reader, but I read the Hunger Games, and that was pretty cool. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: I really enjoyed the group aspect of the class. I think being able to collaborate in every class really helped to create a more friendly and comfortable atmosphere, so no one really felt uneasy about sharing their work or ideas. I also really enjoyed the workshops on each others’ work.

Jared Hall

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Student Bios

Kelsey Jeralds

About Me: I am a theater major, and for the future, I plan on getting my Associates in Performing Arts, but I will never, ever stop writing. My favorite author is Neil Gaiman while my favorite book is Coraline. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: I struggled with telling rather than showing, but by the end of this course, I got better at showing. For instance, the song exercise helped because it caused me to look at all of the senses to build a convincing setting. Another thing that helped me was our workshops, especially with poetry. When we had everyone’s poems up on the screen, it was great to hear feedback from the students and Prof. Bailey-Kirby. That helped me A LOT. About Me: I am an art major, and I would like to do more writing, but my main goal right now is to get a tattoo apprenticeship while my favorite books and authors include Before and After by Rosellen Brown and Angels Crest by Leslie Schwartz. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: Our professor is really good at giving clear explanations when it comes to challenging concepts. For example, I had a really hard time with writing poetry. I couldn’t get the rhythm, and I didn’t know anything about how to punctuate a poem, but Prof. Bailey-Kirby spent no less than two minutes talking about it and I understood.

Melissa Jeralds

Jennifer Joost

Sarah Kelly

About Me: I am getting my Associates in Graphic Design, and I also want to own a successful design firm for a collection of custom jewelry from my start-up site: joostdesigns.com. I enjoy reading books that teach me something hands-on like metal-smithing or jewelry beading. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: The professor challenged students to become better writers, and I enjoyed her sarcasm. For example, before I took this course, I did not know the arc of writing a short story, but I wanted to be able to sit down at home and write my own story to illustrate in a graphic novel. This class helped me develop the skills it takes to begin writing my story and to be able to get every detail just right through revision.

Revision is the best tool for a writer and time.

About Me: My major is currently undeclared, but I am leaning toward the Vet Tech Program. I don’t really have a favorite author or book because there are too many to choose from, but I do enjoy Stephen King and E.A. Poe. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: I felt that my writing at the start of the course was not very strong, and I was unsure as to how to improve. But honestly, at the end of the course, I felt that my writing and grammar had improved tremendously, and I was more interested in writing prose outside of the class. One of the best tips I could give to a beginning writer is to proofread your work. Over and over and over again, and then, when you think your story is perfect, read it a few more times! So many good stories will never come to light because the writer did not spend enough time reviewing or editing!

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Student Bios

Andrew Moore

About Me: I am a creative writing major who enjoys writing science fiction and poetry. My favorite books include The Ambler Warning by Robert Ludlum and Something Wicked This Way Comes as well as Farhenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. My ultimate goal is to become a novelist and write books of this caliber. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: I learned the importance of making writing a daily ritual, and I refined my skills as a poet by being taught the effect of focusing on imagery/metaphors in order to “show” and not just “tell” in writing. Also, Prof.

Bailey-Kirby is very good at maintaining a friendly classroom environment, being open-minded, offering a wealth of knowledge, and being a good coach when one is seeking to improve their skills.

About Me: I am working on getting a degree for Graphic Design, and my future goals are to become a good artist as well as photographer and do as much traveling as I can. I also enjoy reading fiction, and I’ve grown up reading Darren Shan books. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: Prof. Bailey-Kirby is enthusiastic for her students to achieve even when they themselves don’t think they have something worthwhile to offer. It doesn’t matter if you are or are not an avid reader, writer, or poet, her class will bring out the best author in you. What I’ve learned from this class is that it is worth to show and not tell in the stories and poetry that we write.

Janeth Morales Leon

Robert Nobile

Alexis Rodriguez

About Me: I am working on completing my Associates of Arts degree, and my future goal is to finish Community College while my favorite authors and books include Edgar Rice Burrough’s A Princess of Mars, H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds, and Robert E. Howards’ Almuric. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: Prof. Kirby wants her students to succeed because she is always there for the student and will extend as much time to meet with the student and go over work personally and go over what exactly needs to be done. I also learned more about how to organize the structure of a poem and writing fiction. I would give aspiring writers the advice to never give up on proofreading, grammar checking, and always be involved in the workshops.

About Me: I am working towards an Associate’s Degree in English: Creative Writing, and my future plans include becoming an English professor and hopefully traveling the world. Also, my favorite authors include Oscar Wilde and J.D. Salinger while my favorite poets include Charles Bukowski, Ronald Koertge, and Margaret Atwood.

Why I would recommend this course/instructor: Professor Kirby responds to each student’s work individually and, hence, allows for each one to grow immensely in their own way. She is patient yet clear and stern on her requirements from her students. She also showed us examples and allowed us time to replicate what we had been taught. Then she would evaluate our work and give us very helpful feedback.

She is a very understanding, and I think her overall attitude in the classroom was so positive that it managed to make the entire class a really wonderful experience.

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Student Bios About Me: My major is photography with a commercial photography emphasis. My future goals are to graduate with an A.A. in photography and maybe become a photo-journalist or just do studio work. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: The class is very hands-on, and everything is gone over thoroughly. There are no questions to how to do something in fiction or poetry, and I discovered anything can become something great. Just stay confident in yourself and let your ideas flow. I found that once I was confident in myself, I could actually write something I was really proud of.

Katie White About Me: I am currently an English/Psychology major, and I want to become a college professor. My favorite books are called 1984 by George Orwell, The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, The Giver by Lois Lowry, Anthem by Ayn Rand, and Nana by Emile Zola. Why I would recommend this course/instructor: The professor is an exciting teacher, one who actually gets animated, and that’s always fun to have around, and I learned that regardless of how great of a writer you are, you can always be better. So much goes into making a good story or poem, and if you don’t like something about your story, change it and revise it until you do like it.

Khalilah Shuaid

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SUBMISSION GUIDELINES Aspirations is a literary and visual arts magazine at the College of Southern Nevada that is produced by Professor Yelena K. Bailey-Kirby for her students. Original and engaging fiction, poetry, and art are accepted during the fall and spring semesters with two deadlines: December th 15th and May 15 . The magazine is published twice each academic year, and students are invited to send their best poetry or fiction from their coursework with her by e-mailing an attachment of their work to yelena.bailey-kirby@csn.edu. The requirements for submitting your work include the following: Fiction Criteria:

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• • •

Submissions must be formatted as follows: 12 point legible font (i.e. Calibri or Times New Roman), double spaced with 1-inch margins, and align left (do not use justified). In the upper left hand corner of the document leave your FULL NAME and beneath it the title of your piece in BOLD. As the above criteria states, please be sure to title your submission. “Untitled” will only be accepted as a title if it relates to the piece.

You are limited to TWO submissions of fiction and should send the document as a Rich Text File.

Submissions should be no more than 30 pages with the above formatting implemented.

Failure to adhere to this limit will result in the submission being discarded, and most importantly, your work needs to be proofread carefully before submission.

Poetry Criteria:

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• • •

Submissions must be formatted as follows: 12 point legible font (i.e. Calibri or Times New Roman), double spaced with 1-inch margins, and align left (do not use justified). In the upper left hand corner of the document leave your FULL NAME and beneath it the title of your piece in BOLD. As the above guideline states, please be sure to title your submission. “Untitled” will only be accepted as a title if it relates to the piece.

You are limited to SIX submissions of poetry and should send the document as a Rich Text File Submissions should be no more than 90 lines (or three pages). Failure to adhere to this limit will result in the submission being discarded, and most importantly, your work needs to be proofread carefully before submission.

Art Criteria:

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Submissions may include any type as long as it can be sent as a photograph: pencil, oil, acrylic, charcoal, mixed media, photography, and so forth are welcome in black/white or color. Provide your FULL NAME with each JPEG file submitted.

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As the above guideline states, please be sure to title your submission. “Untitled” was accepted in the past, but you should be providing a title for each piece if you want to be considered for the magazine.

You are limited to TWELVE submissions of artwork and should send your work as a JPEG file.

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E-mail: yelena.bailey-kirby@csn.edu Phone: 702-651-5617 College of Southern Nevada 6375 West Charleston Boulevard Sort Code: W 246K Las Vegas, NV 89146-1164