2018 Cotton Alley Writers' Review

C MPETITION

COTTON ALLEY COTTON ALLEY COTTON ALLEY COTTON ALLEY COTTON ALLEY COTTON ALLEY WRITERS’ REVIEW COTTON ALLEY COTTON ALLEY COTTON ALLEY COTTON ALLEY OTTON ALLEY OTTON ALLEY OTTON ALLEY OTTON ALLEY OTTON ALLEY OTTON ALLEY OTTON ALLEY OTTON TTON ALLEY TTON ALLEY TTON ALLEY TTON ALLEY TTON ALLEY TTON ALLEY TON ALLEY TON ALLEY TON ALLEY TON ALLEY TON ALLEY TON ALLEY ON ALLEY ON ALLEY ON ALLEY ON ALLEY ON ALLEY ON ALLEY ON ALLEY N ALLEY 2018 N ALLEY 2018 N ALLEY 2018 2018 N ALLEY 2018 2018 N ALLEY 2018 N ALLEY 2018 2018 N ALLEY 2018 NALLEY ALLEY 2018 2018 ALLEY 2018 ALLEY 2018 2018 15th Annual Literary Competitions & 7th Annual Youth Literary Competitions

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AWARDS & CONTENTS 3 Letter from the Executive Director

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1st 2nd 3rd HM HM

5 NI* 10 15 21

ADULT SHORT STORY Unappreciated Valor by Charlie Burnette The Second Chapter by Strauss Moore Shiple The Christmas Angel by Mark A. Stevens Slick Willy and the Fortune Teller by Darryl Lewis The Assignation by Charles Kaska

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NI 25 26 28 29

ADULT POETRY Carolina Wren by Peter Schmitt May (All of Nature Says Yes) by Chandler Lesesne West Turning Over by Carlo Dawson Capsize by Joyce Turner Cotton Picker’s Lament by Alex J. Stokas

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31 36 NI* 40 47

YOUTH SHORT STORY Sherwood’s Forest by Nathan Flachman The Left Behind by Rachel Black Stealing the Life of a Misled Countryman by Rachel Stevens Shapeshifter by Caide Fullerton The Girl in the Library by Harlen Rembert

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NI NI* 54 55 56

YOUTH POETRY The Way I Learned to Pray by Charlotte Pollack First World Oblivion by Rachel Stevens Flavor by Zoe Dubiski The Sun’s Kingdom by Audrey Kmiecik When I Finally Go by Rachel Black

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* Not Included The Arts Council thanks the Perihelion Book Club for underwriting the awards for the 15th Annual Literary Competition.

LETTER FROM THE EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR

In 2018, the Arts Council of York County hosted the 15th Annual Literary Competition; open to artists in the southeast United States, and the 7th Annual Youth Literary Competition, open to students enrolled in a K-12 program in York County, South Carolina. Both competitions accepted entries in two categories: short story and poetry. Local literary professionals and members of the Perihelion Book Club judged the submissions and chose winners in each category. Winners were announced at a public reception in November 2018.

“It’s possible, in a poem or short story, to write about commonplace things and objects using commonplace but precise language, and to endow those things – a chair, a window curtain, a fork, a stone, a woman’s earring – with immense, even startling power.” –Raymond Carver It takes creativity and skill to produce the poetry and short stories. We are very fortunate to live in a community where talent is abundant. The competition is replete with artists on many levels, including those who dedicate their days to crafting engaging tales of mystery, intrigue, and the whirling spin of daily life to those who have incorporated writing into their greater body of artistic work. Many thanks to each author who shared their soul and talent with us and with the community. A special thanks to our staff for organizing the portal to share this talent with others.

For the 5th year, we support the Cotton Alley Writers’ Review, our online publication that highlights the winners of the Arts Council of York County’s annual Literary Competition. We hope you will find the short stories and poetry as engaging as our jurors did.

Please enjoy!

Debra M. Heintz Executive Director, Arts Council of York County

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Adult Short Stories

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Unappreciated Valor

by Charlie Burnette

Heyward Moffatt stood from where he sat, approached the podium, and eyeballed the crowd. The law school auditorium was full. He couldn’t spot an empty chair. He estimated the audience to be 265. A good number. Last week, the throng of people wanting to hear him topped 3,000 in an arena where his stage rotated, so that everyone could visualize his face every couple of minutes. The closeness of this group far more to his liking, he could pull each one in with his eyes. Communication. His honorarium had grown to 50 grand per appearance. He roughly figured 180 bucks a head.

He lifted his chin and spoke. “So, I hear you want to chat about the Elder case. I was quite impressed with this full house until your dean of students reminded me that your alternative was studying for an estate planning exam.”

The crowd laughed nearly uncontrollably. This joke always loosened up the law school crowds, and he saw no reason to change the humor.

“I was two years into my law practice in the small town of Chester, South Carolina when the family of Willy Elder came by my office. I’d already seen the headline…two police officers murdered, both white, their blood spread all over the Corinthian columns of the Chester County Courthouse. Willy Elder was a black man. I, having just rented some office space by that same courthouse, had far too little money to pay my rent due in two days. I quoted the Elder family $18,000 to take the case. They had only $5,000 and said it was all they could or would be able to scrape up. Times being what they were, I took the cash, and Willy became my client.

“It was a circumstantial case.You law students know what that means, right? A dozen people swear up and down that no one crossed the recently snow-covered field.Yet the circumstantial evidence of a set of footprints across the length of the field trumps all the direct evidence of nobody witnessing the crossing. And circumstantial evidence was all they had on Willy Elder. Nobody witnessed the murders, and Willy denied the murders. But fingerprints, hair samples, and clothing fibers, all belonging to Willy, littered the crime scene like snowflakes.

“We went to trial. I fought my guts out for Willy…to no avail, guilty. The second phase of the trial was all about life and death. And a death sentence he got. Hell of a feeling when you know deep in your heart your client’s not guilty. I looked deeply into Willy’s eyes. He was no liar and no killer. But the jury didn’t see it that way. And considering the victims, police officers respected in our town, and the Charles Manson-ish way their blood was splattered on the house of justice where this trial occurred, the death penalty gave the jury a way to pay Willy back. This town needed closure, and Willy caught its wrath.

“I appealed. Lost at the S.C. Supreme Court, fought through post-conviction relief, habeas corpus, even convinced the U. S. Supreme Court to take a look. They did, and I lost again.

Damned appeals went on for some eight years. Then they scheduled Willy to die. South Carolina

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had gotten past the electric chair way of dealing the final blow. The more humane lethal injection would be Willy’s demise.

“After the execution was set, I met with the Governor, begged for clemency. I never had a man hand me English tea in fine china, smile the warmest smile, and tell me Willy dies anyway.

I filed for reconsideration at every court level that would let me file. Nothing.

“So, the day approached for Willy to die. I sat in my office in Chester, sweating, blaming myself, drinking liquor straight from the bottle, and the phone rang. One of the officers who’d testified against Willy at his original trial was calling and wanted me to come over to his house.

Chester’s a small town, and his house wasn’t two blocks away, so I walked over. The officer handed me a sack and told me to take a look. Fingerprints, test tubes of blood, saliva, hair, clothing fibers. I looked up at the officer and shrugged my shoulders. He told me to have a seat, and I did. Then came the statement that rocked my world. Willy didn’t murder those officers; the killers were fellow officers of the same department. The crime scene was altered, stuff cleaned, stuff taken away, stuff added. The killer punch was the police department had a bunch of Willy’s prints, hair, and all the rest stored in an evidence room from an old juvenile case where Willy was actually cleared of any wrongdoing. The cops apparently had some drunken argument gone deadly. Then the cover up. Willy just happened to be the unlucky son of a bitch whose evidence bag was grabbed and spread across the scene to give the state police boys no doubt Willy had done it.

“So, it’s well past midnight by the time the officer finished telling me of the frame-up and how he couldn’t live with himself if Willy died in the morning. Problem was it was already that morning. Columbia and the big jail house where they kill for justice was an hour away. I had no plan, no clear thought. I told the officer to meet me down at the prison in four hours. The execution was at 7:00.

“I showed up, the cop didn’t. I tried everything to contact him but sat all by myself in the parking lot and looked at my watch…6:30. I ran through the front gate and banged on a thick Plexiglas window in front of a guard. He laughed when I told him the story, said I wasn’t on the list to witness the execution, and I had no reason to be there. I found a pay phone outside and called the Governor’s office. The assistant said they’d reviewed the case, denied the clemency request, and the decision was final. The Governor was at Hilton Head, not available to talk to some criminal defense prick who’d already taken his best shot.

“Ever heard of someone breaking into a prison? You’re looking at one. A damned fool I was, looking back on things. But I knew where deliveries went in and stowed myself into a cargo truck. Found myself unguarded in the long hall leading to the execution chamber, sort of melted into the group of invited guests, only they had official name tags. I grabbed an employee badge out of a basket outside the viewing chamber and hung it on my shirt. Moving around to a room I knew to be the injection station, I heard a conversation. ‘That’s the second dose. Give it five minutes. Then push the death dose.’

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Unappreciated Valor | Charlie Burnette

“You see, the lethal injection comes in three parts. One makes you groggy; the second puts you to sleep like anesthesia for an operation. The last one makes you never wake up. My gut knotted as I learned Willy had two and the third was on its way. I moved in front of the open door. White sheets covered all but Willy’s head and arms. Clear tubes leading from clear bags attacked his arms. I screamed. ‘You’re killing the wrong man’ through the door. The medical guy, the one giving the injections, looked shaken, but a guard standing beside him shouted at me to close the door. I moved into the room and rambled through the true story. I told him to stop, that the real killer was not Willy Elder, and, if he continued, he would be committing murder.

“About that time, I was tackled by officers, my hands and feet cuffed. They dragged me off to my own cell. The warden walked up to the bars. ‘Piece of work there, counselor.’ I spent almost a week in that cell, but, apparently, the medical guy doing the injection actually had a heart, got rattled, and refused to finish. Protocol meant the execution process stopped, Willy came out from under the medication, and a new execution date was set. After five days, they let me out, and I went to find the Chester policeman who apparently got cold feet. A bartender in downtown Chester said I’d find him living alone in a cabin down by Rocky Creek.

I drove my aging truck down to the banks of the shallow running water and found the cop sitting on a rock. At first, he was cold, tried to act like his bag of evidence and tidy confession never existed. took a different approach, sat down on a rock in front of him, and cried. I cried for the innocent man about to die, I cried for the lousy job I had done in not knowing the cover up. I cried for the uselessness in trying to do the right thing and how, as a young child, I idolized policemen.

“He cried too as we walked arm-in-arm back to my truck and headed to Columbia with his bag of evidence and willingness to do right. I think his burden of over eight years started to lift off his soul.

“And since all of you law students have read the case of State of South Carolina versus Willy Elder, you know how things ended.”

Heyward looked around the audience. No applause, total silence. Typical of these speeches. All remained in their seats. He looked at his watch. “Guys? I’ve been talking for an hour and 15 minutes. Don’t you law students go to the bathroom?”

The crowd laughed and applauded, then sat perfectly still, mesmerized.

“Do I sense you want to hear about the snake?”

Heads nodded all over the room.

“Well, before I ever went to law school, I attended medical school…that was until I got drafted in the 60s to a place called Vietnam. A sniper they called me. A legal assassin is more accurate. For some reason, the powers ranking over me thought me to be a decent shot, which I mention only because it leads to the snake you want to hear about.

“The sun was setting. I’d been perched in a tree all day, probably killed a half-dozen Cong. Bastards really never knew what hit ‘em. Jake, my ground man who handles my ammo,

Unappreciated Valor | Charlie Burnette

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sends up food, does what I ask most of the time, was loading up our stuff to head back to base camp. From that limb, far up in the tree, I saw it. Damned big cobra, cocked up just behind Jake. I nearly froze, not wanting to alarm Jake into an impulsive move causing that God-awful creature to strike. I eased my pistol out of its case, lowered the bead on the snake. But before I could squeeze off a shot, Jake saw me, whipped around, and the snake struck Jake as my bullet passed through the snake’s body, just below the head. A dead snake, but not soon enough for Jake. I shimmied down the tree, took my friend into my arms, and watched the venom begin to drain the life from his body.

“My one year of med school kicked in, and I sprinted into a village, not caring if the villagers were friendly or hostile. I rummaged through tents and shacks until I found the compounds to make the antidote. When I got back to Jake, his breathing was near stopped. I made a makeshift bowl from some weeds, pressed the ingredients with an animal bone, and pulled a syringe from my pack. Long story short…Jake’s doing well and still a dear friend.”

A loud ovation erupted from the full house. Heyward was tired. He looked around the audience and at his watch again. “Hour forty-five minutes. Time to go?” All stayed seated. “Let me guess…you’ve heard about the waterfall?” Heads nodded rapidly.

“I am a man of faith…positive I’d not be standing before you without the help of a higher being. I was high in the mountains, leading a group of backpackers into an area of wilderness with a huge bridal veil-style waterfall. Contrary to my instructions, one in our group eased over onto wet rock to get a better angle for a picture. Sure enough, his feet flew out from under him, and he began a high-speed slide certain to result in death. With no time to think, I shed my backpack, got a running start, and slid headfirst down the wet slope. Because my fellow hiker had on his pack and struggled against the slide, I was faster, able to reach him, force him at an angle, and push him to safety.

“Yet for all that, the recoil of my body sent my feet headed towards the base of rock below. There was no traction, no way to establish an angle, and all I could do is watch my impending death. But below was a rock ledge with what appeared to be a pool of water created in the space between the ledge and the base of the rock on which I was sliding. I rolled my body over and over in that direction, hoping to hit the water…and I did. But it was not what I expected. I was underwater, trapped between the layers of rock, while water from the fall pounded down upon me, too strong to let me swim out the way I came. I could see daylight through the water, and I swam upward with all my might until my breath gave out. I went limp.

“My body was sucked downward as if in a super-sized toilet. Surreal is not the word.

More like leaving this world. I said a prayer as life drained in a spinning motion. I went blank.

“I coughed. Liquid spewed out of my mouth. I coughed again and felt air coming into my lungs. The sky was bright. When I got my senses, I turned around and could see a large hole with water erupting out like a geyser. Obviously, the rock cave I slid into released its victims and all the water with it out of the hole. Perhaps the jolt of being propelled through the air and

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Unappreciated Valor | Charlie Burnette

upon a hard surface forced the water from my lungs, who knows?”

Heyward smiled at his audience. “Have you ever thought of attending your own funeral?”

Laughter permeated the room. “Well, when I got my butt off the rock, I needed to go back and check on the group I supposed still stood where I started my slide. I climbed over several large croppings of rock, up and up, until I found myself standing above and behind my fellow backpackers. Though the noise of the waterfall was loud, I could see the tears, and hear the eulogies of all who witnessed my death. Now that’s a strange phenomenon.” The law school broke into loud applause and a standing ovation.

Heyward felt a little dizzy as the audience seemed to fade. The smell of antiseptic permeated the room. The cheer of the young crowd morphed into sounds of beeping medical equipment and rubber-soled footsteps. Starched white uniforms moved around him. A warm, wet towel caressed the back of his legs, and he felt water pooling inside his slippers. Then he heard a voice. “Mr. Moffatt, you can sit back down now.You’re all cleaned up. Next time you feel like you’re going to go, push that little red button on your wrist. That’s why we’re here. It’s a whole lot easier to get you on the potty than trying to clean you up while you’re standing.”

Heyward looked at the nurses. They never would understand.

Unappreciated Valor | Charlie Burnette

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The Christmas Angel

by Mark A. Stevens

I don’t know why I did it. I just had to do it. That’s all.

I’m going to get in a heap of trouble for it, but, I tell you, I’m sitting here on the front porch still trying not to laugh about what I done. When I’m 75 years old in 1983, I will still remember what my Momma said to me.

“Amos! Laughing about what you did is worse than what you done,” she said, “and what you done was awful. I would think that a twelve-year-old boy would know better!”

I knew enough to do what I done. Like I said, I just had to do it, and it was funny to me. I laughed while I did it. The sheer act of it brought giggles right out of my belly.

My sister is still inside wailing. She ran upstairs just crying. Salty tears ran down her face and mixed all in where she’d been licking on that sucker – well she called it a lollipop – all day long.

Lick. Lick. Lick.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

I just couldn’t take it any longer. I had to do it. No one can blame a boy for doing what he had to do.You can lock me up in the Hoosegow, if you think I done wrong, but I tell you, I done what I had to do.

I’ve been getting in trouble for as long as I can remember for doing what I had to do at the very moment in time that it had to be done. Maybe if I tell you about those, you’ll have a better under-standing of why I’ve done the things that must be done.

I’m the middle sibling in a family of five. There’s oldest brother Ezekiel. He was born Sept.

17, 1905. He’s 15 years old now. Next came Joseph, born Jan. 21, 1907.

Then came me! It was a special day, I imagine. I was born right here in this very house on July 4, 1908. One would have thought that three was enough and that once I came along, Momma and Daddy would have realized they had really improved on their lot, but, no, my parents didn’t see it that way. They just kept having children. It’s as if they couldn’t stop what they were doing. I don’t understand it.

Pansy was born June 8, 1910, followed almost a year later, on May 23, 1911, by Thaddeus, who made five of us. That was more than 10 years ago now. I once asked Momma how come she only had five children when Zeb and Hattie Honeycutt had a full dozen children, and that wasn’t even counting two half-sisters.

“God must have wanted us to have four boys and one girl,” Momma said, “and He must have wanted you to be right smack dab in the middle.”

I just shrugged.

When I was seven, I left the gate to the cow pasture wide open. I did it to see what would happen, and, sure enough, every one of them cows just walked right out that gate. Daddy

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spent three days trying to wrangle those stupid cows back home where they belong. One of them had gotten lost out in the woods! A cow in a Tennessee forest! Unbelievable! How was I to know that a cow didn’t have enough smarts to find its way home? Our teacher, Mrs. Hyder, said every living thing has a brain, but surely didn’t mean cows.

Daddy told me never ever do that again, and I never did. He said I had a lot to learn. I was eager to learn more. After all, I’m no cow!

A few years ago, when baby brother Thaddeus was only three or so, I was accused of pushing him out of the house on his noggin. That’s not how I seen it, but that’s how everyone else said it happened. And you know how people tend to exaggerate when they tell a story that’s not their own.

There are four doors into our house – two on the front porch, one off the back and one off to the left side of the house. The problem with the side door is there’s a good five-foot drop to the ground as there is no porch there. It’s just a door to nowhere. I don’t know what Daddy put in a door that went nowhere, but that’s what he did once upon a time.

On the day in question, Thaddeus had been told over and over – by Momma, by Daddy,

by Ezekiel and Joseph, even by Pansy – not to go near that door. It was summertime, so we had it open to get a breeze going in the house. It was hot as blazes in that house, and we needed some air.

“Amos,” Momma said, “you watch your baby brother. Make sure he doesn’t fall out that door. He’d break his neck.”

“Yes, Momma.”

But you know and I know what Thaddeus did. He went over to that door, wide open, and he looked out. He defied Momma is what he did. I knew what had to be done, so I pushed him right out that door. All it took was a little shove and down he went.

Naturally, he started crying. Momma heard him crying and let out a screech. She knew just what had happened. Pansy started crying, too, because that’s what Pansy does – cries about every little thing. Momma ran outside and wrapped her apron around baby brother’s head. She looked up at the house, and I was standing in the doorway looking straight down.

I never denied doing it. In fact, I was proud that I did it. I was teaching baby brother a lesson. He never – no, not ever – got near that open door again. As you can see, I did what had to be done.

Momma told me I could have killed my baby brother, but I reminded her that I fell a good fif-teen feet out of our sassafras tree last year and nearly as far out of a sycamore tree the year before that. If I can fall out of two trees and I’m still here, fine as a fiddle and perfectly amenable to do it again, why should I be worried about Thaddeus falling out a door? After I made my argument, Momma started crying again, so Pansy started crying.

Daddy took me outside and wore me out with his belt, but I didn’t cry. Pansy cried, of course, when she found out Daddy had taken his belt to me.

The Christmas Angel | Mark A. Stevens

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This is all to explain to you that just because Pansy is crying today, which happens to be Christmas Day, doesn’t add up to a darn thing. Don't let her tears fool you.

This morning, we all came downstairs to find five of our good socks hung on the mantle.

This happens every Christmas, and Momma and Daddy always make sure we have something special for Christmas. I’ve heard tell that the fourteen over at the Honeycutt place never get anything for Christmas, but I’m guessing they’re poorer than we are – and that’s saying something because Daddy says we ain’t rich.

Daddy was sitting in front of the fireplace reading the Bible. All of us – Ezekiel, Joseph, me, Pansy and Thaddeus – just stood there waiting for Daddy to look up. He knew it, too. I could tell from his grin. But Daddy is like me. He does what needs to be done, and when he’s done, he’ll do the next thing that needs to be done.

He closed the Bible and looked up. “Children,” he said, “today is the day the Lord made.

Today is Jesus’ birthday. Do you know why that is important?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Joseph said, “Jesus was born so we could all be saved.”

“That’s right, my boy!”

“I love the Baby Jesus,” Pansy said.

“I know you do,” Daddy said to her. He patted her on the head.

He walked over to the fireplace and placed his hand on the mantle.

“When Jesus was born, wisemen came from the East and brought Him gifts. That’s why today we offer gifts on Christmas Day. Now what do you see here?”

“Our Christmas gifts!” I called out.

Momma chuckled. Daddy smiled and said, “That’s right, Amos. Anyone want to guess what’s inside these socks?”

“An owange!” Pansy declared.

She meant an orange, but Pansy can’t quite talk right. It’s one of her many faults. Anyone could clearly see that the socks, like every year, held an orange. It’s hard, after all, to hide some-thing large and round at the bottom of a sock.

“Maybe so, maybe so,” Daddy said. “Well there’s no point in making you wait any longer if you already know what’s inside.”

One by one, he handed each of us a sock. We poured the contents out on the floor. It was more than even I could have imagined! There was, as suspected, an orange. We also received 10 walnuts each. But there was something totally unexpected – a BB Bats sucker. I had seen them only once before when Daddy took me to Erwin on the train. At Draper & Darwin’s, an entire counter was full of candy. One section had BB Bats suckers.

“All the flavors you love,” a poster behind the counter said, “BB strawberry taffy, chocolate taffy and vanilla taffy!”

I was in awe. I had never seen so much candy.

A woman, who smelled like flowers, leaned down. “Would you like a lollipop?”

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The Christmas Angel | Mark A. Stevens

I just shook my head and walked away. I knew there was no money for such things, but now we each had a BB Bats sucker!

And today, on Christmas morning, I had my very own BB Bat sucker. I ripped off the wrapper, which read Special Christmas Angel made from vanilla and strawberry taffy. I bit into it with fervor. Between my teeth, the taffy struggled in a futile resistance. I pulled hard and bit the angel’s head clean off. Just four more bites and I had dispatched the Christmas angel. It was the best thing I ever ate.

But, let me tell you, that Christmas angel is what started this whole mess today. By the after-noon, Pansy was still licking that sucker. The outline of the angel’s face and wings had all but dis-appeared, washed away by the constant licking from Pansy’s now-bright pink tongue, but, by and large, the sucker was still there, slowly evaporating with each slide of Pansy’s tongue.

Lick. Lick. Lick.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

The scene had repeated all day. She’d take three licks on each side and then wrap the angel back into its wrapper, only to come back to it a few minutes later and duplicate her unholy ritual with the angel one more time.

Lick. Lick. Lick.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

“Why don’t you just eat it?” I yelled.

“Why don’t you mind your own bidness?”

“You’ve licked that thing all day. Are you trying to make it last until next Christmas?”

“If’n I lick it a hunnerd more times, ain’t no bidness of your’n, Amos Grindstaff.”

Pansy took the sucker from its wrapper again.

Lick. Lick. Lick.

Slurp. Slurrrrrrrrrr

I grabbed the Christmas angel from Pansy’s hand, and, with one big chomp, the angel was in my mouth. The only thing that remained was the sucker’s stick. I threw it back at Pansy. She shrieked.

“That was mine! That was mine!”

Tears poured down her face. She ran – going nowhere. She made circles around the room, alternately sobbing and screaming, “Mine! Mine! Mine!”

I was laughing – and trying not to choke on the big wad of taffy in my mouth.

Momma ran into the room. “What’s the matter?”

“Am-, Am-, Am-, Amos! Amos! Amos! He took my candy! He EAT it all up!”

“Amos!” Momma said, turning to me. “Did you take your sister’s Christmas candy?”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed and opened my mouth, still full of the pink and white taffy. I swallowed hard.

Pansy wailed and ran upstairs, where us five children shared a long room – the three

The Christmas Angel | Mark A. Stevens

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older boys in one bed and Pansy and Thaddeus in a smaller bed.

Momma slapped me on the head.

“Amos! Laughing about what you did is worse than what you done,” she said, “and what you done was awful. I would think that a twelve-year-old boy would know better!”

Momma grabbed me by the shirt collar and pushed me out on the front porch.

“You sit out here in the cold and think about how sad you’ve made your sister. When your Daddy gets back from feeding the cows, he will come and get you!”

Momma slammed the door. I knew what Daddy was going to say: “Amos, you've got a lot to learn.”

Yep. That’s the God’s honest truth.

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The Christmas Angel | Mark A. Stevens

HM

Slick Willy and the Fortune Teller

by Darryl Lewis

In a city any larger than Marshville, William ‘Slick Willy’ Johnson would have been a nobody. Not even a two-bit punk. A one-bit, one-and-a-half punk, tops. But, by virtue of its size Marshville was the proper setting for ‘Slick Willy’ to be a somebody and a full-fledged two-bit punk.

With an inordinate amount of luck, which Willy believed in wholeheartedly, with a host of other superstitions, this weasel like little character straight out of a badly done, low budget gangster movie, had attained a certain prominence in the less than respectable circles of Marshville society.

His interests were, for the most part, confined to parley cards, baseball tickets, tip boards and loansharking. With these varied interests, enough income was derived and payoffs distributed to local authorities to give Marshville its very own “organized crime.”

Slick Willy was superstitious to an extreme. Each day began with reading his horoscope in the Marshville Gazette. Willy was a Leo. His lucky rabbit’s foot went into his pants pocket right along with his lucky silver dollar and his lucky ‘buckeye’. He never stepped on cracks, walked beneath ladders or ventured beyond his doorstep on Friday the 13th.

“Willleee,” Blanche’s voice cut through the interior of Willy’s Continental like a cross between fingernails on a chalkboard and a laryngitic goose. With her blond hair, round curves and that certain grating, nasal quality in her voice, Willy always felt Blanche would have made a great country singer. The only thing she lacked was talent.

“What now Blanche?” Willy asked.

“Willy, why do we have to go to this carnival? You haven’t taken me out in over two weeks and now you take me to a cheap, dirty old carnival. Huh? Willy?” Blanche was intent on synchronize her chewing of a huge wad of gum with her filing of a chipped fingernail. It wasn’t easy for her.

“It’ll be fun, Blanche baby. The rides, the games, the sideshows. I’ll even try to win ya’ a big old stuffed bear. Okay? Will that make Willy’s little girl smile? Huh?” Willy reached over and patted Blanche’s plump knee.

“You promise?”

“Sure. I promise,” Willy said

“Okay then. I guess it’ll be alright,” Blanche said and then added the additional task of putting her best little girl pout. This was easy for her.

The carnival had been all Willy had promised Blanche it would be. She screamed on the rides. She screamed in the ghost house. She screamed when Willy handed her the huge pink stuffed bear. In her excitement she hadn’t noticed that Willy’s nickel hadn’t fallen into the plate,

15

or that he had slipped a twenty into the pocket of the carny operator of the pitch game.

It was on their way out the side gate (Blanche had gotten a little queasy after her sixth corndog and the fourth ride on something called the Whip) that Willy spotted the fortune teller’s tent.

“Hey Blanche! Wait a minute. Let’s go in here.” Already Willy was pulling at the arm that didn’t hold the pink teddy bear.

“Willleee, noooo,” Blanche whined. “Let’s go. I’m about to throw up. I want to go hooommme.”

“Come on Blanche baby. It won’t take but a minute.” Before she could protest Willy had her through the partially opened tent flap. It took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust to the dim interior of Madam Begonda’s tent. Soon, they could make out a small table in the center of the tent and on this table two unlit candles, one on either side of a gleaming crystal ball. The smell of incense filled the air. There was a curtain that divided the front and rear of the tent and from behind the curtain came a voice, low and mysterious.

“Yes? Who is it that seeks the future with Madam Begonda? SPEAK!”

Blanche drew nearer to Willy. “We do. Out here,” Willy called out.

The curtain slowly parted, and a heavyset woman draped in a black and gold robe glided forward.

“Yes? May I help you?” The dark woman looked at the couple through heavily mascaraed eyes. Her ears were weighted down with large, heavy gold hoops and there was what appeared to be a diamond stud piercing the right side of her nose.

“Yeah, we …” Willy began.

“STOP! You have come here seeking your future. Is this not correct?” She raised her hands and spread her arms like she was either going to fly or hug them both to her ample bosom.

“Yeah, that’s it. I …,” Willy said eagerly.

“Please, be seated.” She indicated two well-worn folding metal chairs in front of the small table holding the crystal ball. Willy and Blanche both sat.

Madam Begonda lit the two candles. The flickering light cast an eerie glow up into her face. “Who is its fortune do you wish told? We have specials today and today only; $10 for one or $15 for two. Group rates are available. Madam Begonda is here to serve.”

Blanche lean over to whisper to Willy, “Begonda? Ain’t that some kinda flower, Willy?”

“Yeah, Madam Begonda. Just me,” Willy said sliding her a ten-dollar bill across the table.

“Very well.You must be silent,” she whispered as she gazed intently into the crystal.

A light began to glow at its center. Blanche thought she heard a switch click. “Ahhhhhh!

OOOOhhhhhHHHHH! I see… I see money.You are a man of means.You are a man who greatly believes in the power of the spirits. Is this correct?”

“Why yeah! That’s me. How… ?”

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Slick Willy and the Fortune Teller | Darryl Lewis

“SILENCE! Ooooooooooohhhhhhh. Ahhhhhhhhh! I see… I see fortune. I see good fortune and… I see not so hot fortune ahead for you.”

“Yeah? What’s the good fortune?” Willy asked as he leaned forward excitedly.

“Money! Your… Businesses, you have several, will do well for 3 months.You will reap great profits!”

Blanche pressed Willy’s arm and whispered, “Willy I am going to puke in 2 minutes.

Unless you want corndog all over you and that gypsy, let’s go now!”

“MORE SILENCE!” said Madame Begonda. Blanche jumped in her chair at the coarse voice and bolted upright. “May I continue with the spirits now?”

Ignoring Blanche, Willy said, “Yeah, yeah. Now you said something about ‘not so hot’ fortune?”

“Yes. But alas the light from the spirits is growing dimmer.”

Willy quickly pulled out a large roll of bills and slid another ten across to the spiritualist.

“Ah! The spirits are returning just for you.Yes, brighter and brighter! It’s…

Aaaaaiiieeeeeee!!!” Madame Begonda screamed loudly. Blanche was halfway to the tent opening when her heel caught on something and she fell face first into the sawdust. Willy sat, frozen, in his chair. It was half-a-minute before anyone spoke.

Willy stammered, “What … what is it Madame Begonda? What do you see?”

She slowly raised her darkened face to look at Willy. After a moment her head sank back to her chest and shook her head side to side. After another moment she said softly, “It… It’s nothing. I’m sure I’m wrong.

Willy’s pale face simply stared before he found the strength to say, “Look it. You let me know what’s what here. I paid you. Double. I want to know, NOW, what’s going on.” He even pulled another 10 from his roll but to his amazement the fortune teller refused it.

Madame Begonda, weakly said, “Yes. I tell you but this… this one’s on the house. No charge for bad news. OK?” Willy nodded slowly. “I saw… I saw fire.”

“Fire?” Willy asked.

“Yes. Fire and… death!” she slumped as if exhausted.

Willy just stared at her. Then, after licking his dry lips, he asked, “Who … who’s death?”

Without bothering to look up, the gypsy slowly raised a many ringed hand and pointed at Willy. In the background, nearly forgotten Blanche began to sob or throw up. Willy didn’t bother to look around to see. He then said, “Me? How? When?”

“I only have the feeling and I only see just numbers. Numbers in a sequence.”

“What numbers?” asked Willy.

“The numbers nine, zero, nine, a one and a five,” weakly called out and then slumped further in her chair.

Willy repeated the numbers, then again and then again. He stared trying to make some sense of the mysterious revelation. Suddenly he loudly snapped is fingers, making both the

Slick Willy and the Fortune Teller | Darryl Lewis

17

women jumping. “I got it!” Willy nearly shouted. “I got it.” He quickly remembered Blanche seeing her still sitting in the sawdust, her makeup streaked from tears, the plump girl shivering.

“Blanche! What you doing down there? Let’s go baby!” he said taken her by an arm helping her to her feet. Then he turned back to the gypsy.

Madame Begonda drew back not knowing what Willy intended. When Willy peeled a fifty- dollar bill from his roll she simply stared as he threw it on the table and then made his way from the tent with his girlfriend by the arm.

They made their way to the parking lot and the car, the whole time Willy whistling.

He opened the door for Blanche and then tapped dance around to his side sliding under the steering wheels, a huge smile on his face.

After a bit Blanche interrupted Willy. “Willy! How the hell are you acting so happy? That crazy gypsy just told you that you are gonna die…soon!” Her tears started again.

He finally focused on Blanche since helping up since the tent. “I’m sorry baby. I should have paid more attention to. Now please calm down and I’ll tell you why I ain’t worried. Its’s simple – the date Blanche. The date! Got it?”

“No, I ain’t got it. What date?”

“The numbers, baby. Nine, zero, nine, two, one, five. Don’t you recognize them?”

“Are you crazy? Recognize what?” she sniffled while she stared at her boyfriend relaxed behind the wheel of the luxury car.

“It’s the date, baby. See? Nine, zero, nine, two, one five. It’s the ninth month, the ninth day and this year. September ninth, two thousand and fifteen!”

“And?” she said staring at him.

“Baby, Madame Begonda told me that I’m gonna die in a fire and when - September ninth, this year – 15.”

“And?” she said startled.

“Honey, baby sweet cheeks. How many people get to know when they’re gonna get bumped off. Not many. I’ve got the edge. Just like I always do. Slick Willy, the odds maker and I’m gonna beat ‘em. Trust me. All I’ve gotta do now is lay low on September the ninth. From midnight on the 8th until midnight on the 9th. I’ll stay away from anything that might start a fire. That way I’ll beat fate at its own game.”

“I don’t know Willy,” Blanche said shaking her head.

“I said trust me. Its in the bag.” Blanche just hugged the pink bear and said no more.

They had been to the carnival in late May. In June, the first part of Madame Begonda’s prediction began to come true. Willy made more money off the baseball games than he ever had. Everyone seemed to wager everything they could get their hands on and practically no one collected. In turn this improved the loan business and Willy simply sat back and counted the money. The baseball playoffs started and profits went through the roof.

On August 1st, Blanched was roused from a deep sleep by the sound of heavy machinery.

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Slick Willy and the Fortune Teller | Darryl Lewis

Looking out the second story window, she saw the entire backyard being unearthed. Willy was already up and stood nearby. Blanche threw on a robe and hurried downstairs.

“Willy! Willlleee!” Blanche shouted to be heard over the roar of the machinery. Willy turned and waved and started toward the deck where Blanche was waving to get his attention.

“What do you think, hon?” he asked obviously of the work in progress.

“About what? What on earth is going on Willy?” she asked as one of the large oaks fell to the snarling chainsaws.

“Getting ready for the 9th,” Willy shouted.

“The 9th? Ohhh. The 9th,” Blanche had almost forgotten. “But what are…?”

“A swimming pool! The biggest in Marshville. Olympic sized,” said Willy stretching his hands far apart.

“But Willy, how…?” asked Blanche.

“That’s my plan. From midnight on the 8th until midnight on the 9th I’m gonna float out in the middle of the pool. I’ll have a floating cooler stocked up with beer and food, the works.

That way I don’t have no worries about a fire. I’ll have some of the boys standing around just in case with garden hoses and fire extinguishers,” Willy said, clapping his hands together, smiling about his on ingenuity.

The pool was filled by the 7th. The non-flammable floating chair, complete with cooler, holding drinks and food and its own mini-fire extinguisher was in place.

At fifteen minutes until midnight, Willy climbed aboard the ‘life raft’ and paddled out to the center of the pool, dropping two separate anchors. With a triumphant smile and a wave Willy promptly fell asleep. Blanche and the boys kept an around the clock vigil.

The next day was clear and bright. Not a cloud in the sky. Willy worked on his tan and listened to the playoffs on the stereo placed by the pool. The day passed uneventfully. At the stroke of midnight on the 9th Willy let out a whoop and swam the length of the pool twice. He had won.

The next few weeks passed quickly. Willy threw himself into the business with renewed vigor and with the World Series coming up the money flooded in. Blanche told Willy he looked tired. Willy agreed for once that he was tired. Blanche suggested to at least get away for a quick picnic at the state park. Reluctantly, Willy agreed.

The park was nice. Picnic table, grills, everything you might need for an enjoyable outing.

“Ahhh! This is great baby. Great idea,” Willy said taking in great gulps of the fresh air between puffs on his cigar.

“Thanks, Willy,” Blanche giggled. “You ready to start the burgers? I’m hungry.”

“Sure, Sugar Dumplin’,” agreed Willy. He filled the grill with the square black briquets, soaked them with fluid and tossed a match into the grill. This was not the new type of slow igniting fluid. It was some old fluid Willy had grabbed off a shelf in the garage. Suddenly the flames burst outward and ignited the still dripping can, causing him to drop it immediately.

Slick Willy and the Fortune Teller | Darryl Lewis

19

The late, dry summer grass caught and began to burn briskly. Willy knocked over Blanche, hamburgers and anything else that stood in his way as he ran for his car. Ignoring Blanche’s cries to come back, he started the engine and when it roared to life Willy floored it and threw a cloud of dust and spray of gravel speeding away from the par. Blanche, with a string of oaths directed at Willy and the help of an alert park ranger close by quickly put out the small patches of flame.

Willy, breathing hard and gripping the wheel of the Continental was doing a flat 100 miles per hour heading down the secondary road. After a bit, his breathing began to slow and he began to think a little more clearly, he began to laugh at himself.

“This isn’t the 9th anymore! What the heck am I thinking? What am I running from?

How stupid can I be? I beat that thing. I won! I’m me, Slick Willy… the winner!” He threw his head back and laughed loudly and that’s why he ignored the stop sign at the intersection ahead and didn’t see it soon enough.

When he did he stomped the brakes. The car went off the right side of the road and into the ditch hitting the culvert and becoming airborne and flipping over, taking stop signs, highway signs and all with him. Finally, the car came to a thud, rocking just to the side of the middle of the intersection.

As the haze lifted from Willy’s vision he realized he was pinned sideways. The steering wheel was pressed against his chest and the roof against his head. Something was sticking through the windshield a highway sign post. Willy turned his head trying to shout for help.

When he did he could then read the black and white metal signs attached to the post. The top one had ‘JCT’ for junction. The next read ‘909” for the road he had just raced down. The next was ‘15’ the crossing highway. He understood. He was pinned after wrecking his car at the intersection of Hwy.909 and Hwy. 15. It was about this time that Willy heard the trickle and smelled the gasoline from the car’s crushed fuel tank slowly winding its way to the hot engine and twisted wiring.

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Slick Willy and the Fortune Teller | Darryl Lewis

HM

The Assignation

by Dr. Charles Kaska

The lion picked up the wart hog’s scent among the prints the kudus left when they scattered from the waterhole at first sight of him. The wart hog was not his first choice because of the bristly hair on its hide. But its scent was fresh and the kudus were now on a distant rise.

He began his pursuit.

Paul and Cynthia Martin were the first to exit the van that had carried them, for the last three hours, from the Durban airport to the Phinda Reserve lodge. Cynthia was unsure of her footing because of a low grade fever. Paul steadied her on the step between the van’s floor and the ground.

Rachel Carstairs exited without help and alone among the two other couples that comprised the van’s passengers. The Martins were visiting the reserve to celebrate their wedding anniversary. Rachel had come to distance herself from the emotions of a recent civil but no less painful divorce.

The wart hog sniffed the ground frequently and the air occasionally but knew where she was going by sight. The Phinda cottages and the restaurant that fed their residents were less than two kilometers ahead. The trail was unfamiliar to the lion but it did not matter because the scent of the wart hog was like a series of guide posts and was getting stronger every minute.

The lion padded on at a leisurely pace covering the same ground three times as fast as its quarry.

The Martins were worried about Cynthia’s condition and were relieved when the resident physician assured them it was nothing more than a cold complicated by jet lag following the 12 hour flight from London. Nevertheless she wanted Mrs. Martin to stay in the infirmary overnight in case the fever spiked. After a brief discussion they agreed and Paul left to fetch Cynthia’s overnight bag.

The wart hog entered the compound from the Southeast unobserved. She skirted the rearmost cottages and slipped under the wire fence that enclosed the garbage cans by shimmying on her belly. She walked to the nearest can and pushed off its lid with her snout. It hit the ground with a metallic sound that went unheard because of the noise in the kitchen.

She sniffed and knew the contents would not be to her liking – too much curry. The second container held real promise: spoiled vegetables mixed with rancid meat. She tipped the can with her front hooves. It landed on its side with a dull thud and she began to dine. The lion arrived at the perimeter of the compound about the time the wart hog had eaten itself half way into the can.

Paul Martin and Rachel Carstairs had been shown to their respective cottages later than the other guests and by different attendants because they were at opposite sides of the compound. He had been delayed by the visit to the infirmary; she because she had stopped for

21

a double Scotch on the rocks at the Safari Club bar. They both showered. Rachel changed into fresh clothes, examined her accommodations which were spacious and luxurious and walked to the dining room. Paul dozed for 20 minutes then dressed and did the same.

Rachel was already seated at a table set for four when he arrived. When she saw him scanning the room for a seat she motioned him over: “The dining room is crowded at this hour.

You and your wife can join me if you like; I’m not expecting anyone.” “Thank you,” replied Paul, “I saw you on the flight and we came in together on the van, didn’t we?” Rachel confirmed his observations and motioned to the waiter. Paul ordered a Chardonnay, one of the South African varietals, like hers. “Delightful!” exclaimed Rachel, “Does your wife drink Chardonnay ? If she does we can order a magnum.” “She does,” replied Paul, “but she won’t be joining us. She’s in the infirmary overnight.”

Rachel’s face darkened ever so slightly, “Nothing serious I hope.”

“No. Just a cold and jet lag. But she’s got a fever so they want to keep an eye on her.”

“Oh I see. They’re very attentive here. It makes you feel safe even if we are ‘out in the ‘bush’ as they say.”

“ I’m Paul Martin, by the way. I guess we should introduce ourselves, don’t you think?”

“I’m Rachel Carstairs. Pleased to know you.”

She extended her hand. He took it and noted with admiration the carefully polished, perfectly manicured nails. Rachel saw his approval and was glad she had taken the opportunity to have them done at the Johannesburg Airport while waiting for the connecting flight to Durban.

They interrupted their conversation long enough to order dinner – beef for him, fish for her – then reengaged immediately. After they exchanged the usual biographical information Rachel disclosed that she was divorced.

That news excited Paul and the excitement confused him. The beautiful woman sitting across from him was dressed casually but elegantly. Her hair style was relaxed and brushed against her bare shoulders, her makeup subtle. She knew how to converse and smiled beautifully.

She knew how to attract and to engage men.

Paul’s ten year marriage to Cynthia had not been unpleasant but nor did it have the excitement their courtship promised. That brief period was one of strong attraction and powerful sex. After the honeymoon they “settled in,” as the expression goes, to a conjugal relationship and sex became routine. Cynthia no longer encouraged it and when Paul approached her she cooperated but without enthusiasm. They talked about having children but the time never seemed right given the demands of their respective careers.

By the time they finished dessert, a raspberry sorbet, an arrangement had been made: Paul would return to his cottage now while it was still light. Rachel would linger in the lounge for 15-20 minutes then walk down to cottage 34 – his cottage. It was starting to get dark when she left.

The scent trail was undisturbed. In less than two minutes the lion’s quarry was in view.

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The Assignation | Dr. Charles Kaska

His tail moved back and forth at the sight of it. He crouched so low that his belly was touching the ground and approached with short rapid steps. He took up position on the far side of the path that wound among the bushes that screened the kitchen from the cottages and waited.

The wart hog finished slurping its exquisite repast and waddled slowly to the exit. She found it difficult to belly under the fence and scratched away some of the eroded earth. She was in the open now satisfied and a little sleepy. She ignored the impulse to settle under one of the bushes. Her burrow was the only safe place to spend the night. The lion observed it all from his vantage point.

Rachel stood on the elevated patio of the club house and looked out into the evening.

She felt it would be awkward to ask an attendant to escort her to a cottage which was not hers’. She could still see in the fading light and the lanterns along the pathway illuminated it sufficiently to make her way. She walked down. In a minute the path divided: hers’ to the right, his to the left. She removed her heels and padded along in her nylon clad feet making no audible sound. In another minute, perhaps two, she could make out the lights of cottage 34. She was relieved and realized that she had felt exposed and just a little intimidated in the unfamiliar surroundings. She walked on slowly but confidently.

The lion was up wind of the wart hog and downwind of Rachel. He did not hear her coming. She appeared from around a blind corner as he was about to start his ambush. He was startled and enraged that another creature would dare come between him and his pray. His hind legs unleashed their power and he was airborne. The wart hog screamed and was gone in an instant.

Paul Martin poured himself a double Scotch, drank it too quickly, lain on his bed and fell asleep. He awoke in the wee hours to use the bath room and realized Rachel was not there, had never been there. He experienced a mixture of disappointment and relief. Sober and with a slight hangover he thought it was probably for the best. He drifted back to sleep.

In the morning he dressed and went to look in on his wife before breakfast. That’s when he saw the notice tacked on the right side of the infirmary’s entryway: “It is with profound sorrow and deep regret…” He read the rest mechanically without full comprehension. The final sentence refocused him: “Our guests are again respectfully reminded that under no circumstances should they move about after sun set without an armed escort.”

Paul walked through the infirmary in a daze. Cynthia was sitting up in bed and smiling: “The fever broke about 2:00 a.m. I was able to get a good night’s sleep and I feel great this morning. Did you miss me?” Paul forced a smile, leaned over the bed, took her in his arms and whispered, “You know I did.”

The wart hog made it back to her den without incident. Being the last one home she backed in as is the habit of her kind: Someone must keep an eye out for danger.

The Assignation | Dr. Charles Kaska

23

Adult Poetry

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2

nd

May (All of Nature Says Yes)

by Chandler Lesesne West

In your backyard we watch koi circling soundlessly in their pond.

Their scales glimmer with sunlight as they glide against one another with no consequence.

It takes everything inside of me to keep my arm from pressing against yours.

I channel the restraint of the spider, patient in his web woven between fence posts.

Summer is breathing down my neck.

We watch two dragonflies dip into the pond and one alights on my fingertip for a moment before they merge together.

Her perch is light and I think she buries words beneath my fingernail before she leaves.

In a language all of nature speaks, “Love,” she tells my skin, “is in the water and the air.

The spider and the koi and the fence posts approve. Go.” And so I dive in (love with you or perhaps the pond) and have not resurfaced since.

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3

rd

Turning Over

by Carlo Dawson

rising at the break of day, she in her field turns soil corn, collards greens, and cabbage returning the deed pulling rebellious weeds squashing pushy wearisome worms sweeping her yard of gravel, grit, and dirt Grandma Turning her lined face 90 years wrapped up in a checkered scarf underneath un-straightened hair saved for Sunday’s best day in and day out Turning In a cloak of flowers and plaid, she cooks biscuits and gravy, macaroni and cheese, and collard greens for the chil’ren hers, not hers, a sister’s, a daughter’s Loving them kids Beating those kids Washing these kids in one metal basin greasing and brushing their unruly hair so the naps will behave like good little slick waves. lathering gobs of Vaseline on their cracked elbows and ashy knees making sure all the tar is gone.

“No where to put um” their mammas say “Bunk beds” two to a bed, Bible beside bed in that small back room Chicken pox, influenza, and diarrhea take turns, but doctors won’t pay that bill like wisdom will “You’ll live. Baby, drink some cod liver oil.”

Turning in the summer sun the house heats like that switch to your hide when you done sassed Miss Amy knowing bottled coke, sweet and chilled, will ease the pain then winter comes and the house ices like Grandma’s puckered brow when you know you

26

know better but the stove heater, warm and fuming, sways even the vigorous ones to sleep Turning over the years, chil’ren are gone but the TV’s talking The Young and the Restless and the Pine Sol tenderly massages the kitchen floor with wrinkled feet and weathered hands gummy mouth once full of sturdy teeth she in her field turns soil rebellious wearisome and pushy sweeping her yard of gravel, grit, and dirt 90 years wrapped up in a checkered scarf underneath un-straightened hair saved for Sunday’s best the lines over Grandma’s face Turn years visible in this day

Turning Over | Carlo Dawson

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HM

Capsize

by Joyce Turner

In a regatta the vessel on port tack must give way unless being overtaken in which case it becomes the privileged vessel. The design of the planing hull is such that the boat goes faster when it heels, hence gunwhaleperched crew sport PFDs and maintain firm purchase On the lines. Even a trailing painter is drag.

On a windward-leeward-windward course tension reigns until the straining boats pass the final mark. Sailors cheat, you know.

A sudden gust Scudding across the steely swells before a summer squall tests the seamanship of the starboard vessel’s crew. They do not let out the mainsheet or jam the tiller to port. Instead they remain close-hauled. The rare south wind capsizes the little dingy and two sailors find themselves swimming in the cold water, kicking their bare legs, tugging on the centerboard, laugh ing. How dare they tried.

Defeat is a mouthful of Lake MacBri de.

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HM

Cotton Picker’s Lament

by Alex J. Stokas

Feet burn soul blends with the earth, the heat, the picking season Hands, hard calloused leather punctuated by picking scars Drag that long sack behind me across black bottom earth— Cottonseed tucked into its sprouting place, waiting for the sun to make it spring White from its deflowered purple-black boll Exploding like my brain in the heat-That old river floods into my fields cooling’ Leathered hot feet in muddied delta earth Leaving part of Memphis between my toes— I go into those off beat juke joints at night to drink my pain Away and listen to the blues reach deep into my soul Crying for me and for all of us, those Delta Blues!

Toothless, grinning, strumming cigarette smoking, whisky breath fools breaking sounds across early morning light lamenting love, lost times, freedom.

Freedom? Man is never free, just gets new masters-Straggle home- dawn breaks Sunday- Church Calls, songs of belief echo across Delta flats White shingled churches hold the promise of another freedom-Jesus where are you when I call from those fields Cotton boll hard, painful against my moving hands Must be like you felt, thorns pressed into your head.

Back bent never straight from years of bending Shoulders strong from hauling that sack Cotton sack breaks my back-Sunup - misty Monday morning in the Delta Mississippi fields where cotton is King and I, its slave Old muddy river runs faster then I do-- at least going somewhere…

Bend my back, twist that boll, never can straighten up and walk like a man!

29

Youth Short Stories

30

1

st

Sherwood’s Forest

by Nathan Flachman

It was a most violently windy night, with rain cascading down in thick sheets as Mr. Sherwood Sycamore reflected upon his previous adventures, as well as the comings and goings of the various creatures that had taken up residence in his leafy boughs. His roots were cracking and his limbs tossed their leafy heads. His time had come. Many a day he had thought that he would tumble, but this was the one, he was sure of it. It was the storm to end all storms; branches fell, and water rushed from the skies. The earth was churning as his roots tore at it.

The ground was over-saturated and it was susceptible to crumbling. He was beginning to tip, moving closer to the ground with every gust, and he knew that this was the end. The time had come, and oddly enough, he felt ready. It was his turn at last to fall and become one with earth again. As he began his final descent, he reminisced about days past.

About 150 Years prior.

Sherwood poked his head out of the ground, it was a bleak December morning. Cold and unforgiving, the view was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. However, since it was the first thing he had ever seen, it did not possess a lot of competition. He found himself in a marginally sized clearing. It was filled with trees, bushes, and other undergrowth at various stages of growth. Finally, his restless gaze fell upon his mother, a giant, full-grown Sycamore looming above the forest floor. Creatures of all shapes and sizes gathered around and lived in her colossal branches. It was in that moment that it became his sincerest desire to be exactly like her. Although the chances of his survival to become that magnificent were very slim, he was determined to become the grandest tree of them all. Over the years he developed more and more, every year he had less and less siblings as they slowly died out. Many more seedlings were dropped from his mother’s matronly boughs, but very few made it past the sapling stage. He was proud of himself for making it as far as he had, but he still had very far to go.Year by year, he continued in his upward passage.

Gradually, but markedly he outpaced the others. On one extraordinary day, as he gazed upon the wildlife and desperately wished that the animals would come make a home in his strengthening branches, a curious event occurred. A new type of animal family came traipsing through his domain. “This looks like a nice spot,” one declared. The rest heartily agreed.

Sherwood desperately wanted to know exactly what they intended. His curiosity would have to wait. As they moved right along through the forest. He waited for days and weeks to satisfy his insatiable want for information. On a beautiful clear morning, such a splendid morning when all one desires to do is to be out of doors, the strange creatures returned; there appeared to be many more of them than there had been previously. They approached Sherwood, who at this

31

time considered himself to be a prodigiously large tree, and inspected him. “No,” one said, “This one is too small.” The others agreed. Sherwood had no inkling as to what they were talking about, but he found himself sorely disappointed. He also noted how readily these creatures agreed with one another. Next they swaggered across to Sherwood’s mother, the great behemoth of the forest, Sylvia Sycamore. “Yes,” they said with flourish, “This one will do just fine.” Suddenly the creatures pulled out long sticks with metal on the top. Sherwood had heard of these implements before, but he had never imagined how terrifying they would be. They swung, thudding incessantly, voluminous racket flooded his ears. His mind was filled with the beating, “Thud, thud, thud.” Wood chips flew in every conceivable direction. From early morning till late at night, they hacked.

Late in the evening of the second day, as the sun went to bed in the west, Sylvia Sycamore, mother of Sherwood, fell with a crash. Wood chips were scattered all around. With his mother lying on the ground in a pile of splintered timber, the odd creatures departed.

Sherwood was dumbfounded, the matriarch of the forest (in his eyes) had fallen. He wept and wept, two nights and a day he sobbed, until slowly a beautiful clear, crystal-blue lake formed with a small river originating from it’s eastern side. At last, in the morn of the second day, the sun peeked her head above the horizon, and Sherwood’s mourning was done. It was time to move on; besides, even though they were not his favorite at that point in time, he was dreadfully curious to know what the odd new creatures would do next.

The workers came bright and early, ready to start construction, but to their disbelief, a lake had formed with a lovely little brook flowing forth from it. At first they could not decide how to proceed, but they finally got their wits back about them and decided that they had lost their minds. So they went back to the village, a small little hamlet, with not much more than a mill, and a general store. They asked a local hunter, who knew the land better than anyone, to tell them if there were any lakes in that region. “No,” he told them, “not a drop, not a pond nor a stream for miles.” At this, they were well and truly convinced that they had gone mad. They told the hunter their mystical tale, and he said that he did not believe them. Finally convincing him to take a look, they took him to the place. He promptly told them that they had all gone insane.

With this fact well and truly proven, they decided to move on with construction, since the lake must simply be a figment of their imagination.

Sherwood was continually surprised at the new creatures’ behavior. But as the house started to come together, he saw why they had chopped down his mother. Within a matter of weeks the structure was complete--a simple white two-story home. It was beautifully symmetrical, with three windows spanning across the top floor, and two below. This was, of course, because betwixt the two windows on the lower floor was a splendid crimson red door.

Surrounding the whole of the complex, was a tasteful white picket fence. Shortly afterwards, different specimens of the new species Sherwood had discovered arrived. He did not expect them to stay long, since the others had not.

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But as the weeks and months wore tiresomely on, with no apparent clue as to when they would bail out, Sherwood decided that they were not departing. One advantage to this arrangement, however, was Robin. Robin was a curious little specimen who lived in the house.

He loved to come and swing in Sherwood’s leafy boughs. He was smaller than the other creatures, thus Sherwood deduced that he must be a sapling. As much as Robin loved to play in Sherwood’s branches, Sherwood loved Robin playing in them. One day Robin uttered to himself, when he was rested with his back to Sherwood, “I would like to have a boat.” Sherwood thought about this for a moment, reasoning what he could do to aid Robin in this venture. Sherwood then dumped a branch, far from Robin, so as not to injure him. Robin glanced at it, and was not quite positive what to do with it. Sherwood then said: “mmmbbbbbbooooaaaatttt.” Robin tripped over himself in fright, quickly crawling away. Sherwood did not catch a glimpse of him for several days. When he did once again emerge, he retrieved the limb, retreating tentatively back into the house. Robin stumbled back up to Sherwood a few days later, carrying a little, hand-carved toy boat which he had fashioned from the branch. He sailed it all about the lake, shouting with glee, “Thank you tree.” He then furrowed his eyebrows and murmured to himself, “Hampton, no. Weston, no. Gerrard, no. Geoff, no.” He sighed, and said, “Oh, it’s no use I’ll never come up with an adequate name. Lancelot, no. John, no. Shelton, no.” he thought for a minute, lips pursed and brows furrowed. All of a sudden his face brightened up, and he exclaimed, “That’s just it, I shall call you Sherwood.”

Sherwood was very proud of his new name. Once Robin discovered Sherwood could speak, he confided in him regularly, though the conversation was mostly one-sided as Sherwood did not like to talk much. Those were the happiest years of Sherwood’s arboreous life. Robin made bows and arrows out of Sherwood’s branches, and practiced shooting them at Sherwood.

The arrows stung slightly, but the tree did not mind. Robin carved into Sherwood’s bark which hurt slightly, but again the tree did not mind. Robin played in Sherwood’s lake, splashing and swimming. Those days were bliss.

Some years later, when Robin was older, he left home for what was supposedly a day trip.

However, when he did not return home for many days, Sherwood began to become worried.

When he finally returned, it was under the cover of darkness, and only for the night. As time progressed, Robin came home less and less. Sherwood missed him greatly. Occasionally, several full-grown Hoo-Mons frequented the house (“Hoo-Mons” was the name Sherwood had ascribed to the baffling beings, as a result of an encounter in which he had once heard the peculiar creatures reference one another as “Hoo-Mons”). Sherwood still could not understand their bizarre behavior.

The only consolation for his loneliness were the birds, squirrels, and countless other creatures that had begun to roost in his now vast, and ever growing array of branches. Call it instinct or whatever else you want, but you see, the most satisfying thing for a tree is to house

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other creatures.

Thus you must understand how greatly fulfilled Sherwood felt. He was very proud.

He had even begun to put down seeds for other trees to grow. Thus the years passed by for Sherwood. One remarkable day, some seven years after Robin’s withdrawal, he returned to the wooded wonderland.

Sherwood was thrilled; perhaps more excited than he had ever been before to see his faithful companion. Robin was home! However, his enthusiasm proved premature. Robin was grown, no longer one taken to playing about in trees. He rationalized his conversations with Sherwood as having been a figment of his imagination. Sherwood at first was puzzled, not understanding that this state of mind which Robin seemed to be taken to, could possibly be permanent. By the time he finally understood, Robin was long gone.

This rejection caused Sherwood to grow excessively angry and vindictive against all Hoo-Mons. For a time he would cast down branches that he might crush them, or pull up roots in order to trip them. In short, he became a very nasty old tree--as happens to some trees, when old age hits. However, he did all this only out of pain; indeed it was a very lonely time for Sherwood.

It was in these years that he increased in size the most. He had no other distractions to attend to, so he focused solely on growing as large as possible. He expanded in stature until he rivalled even his mother when she was in her glory days. However, it was an astonishingly empty victory for Sherwood, as he was not able to share it with his friend.

He became more and more grumpy; obsessed with finding perfection in every little thing, always searching for something to fill the void of Robin. Nothing else was good enough, and indeed even if it had been, he would not have been ready to accept it. Thus, in misery, he wasted the next fifty years of his life.

One day when he was feeling especially cantankerous, he glimpsed an old Hoo-Mon shuffling along the path to the house. Sherwood pushed up one of his colossal roots, just as the Hoo-Mon was walking past. Sherwood wrapped the serpentine root around his foot, and tripped him. The elderly Hoo-Mon tumbled violently to the forest floor. In his nasty manner, it was all terrifically humorous to Sherwood. The pitiful old Hoo-Mon gazed up at Sherwood, floundering about while attempting to rise. He was unable to pull himself up, however, and thus crawled over to Sherwood’s trunk. He pointed at the carving Robin had done when he was a child, then to himself. It was at that moment that Sherwood realized the aged Hoo-Mon was indeed Robin. Sherwood had mixed feelings in the first moment, but as Robin leaned against Sherwood with his back to his enormous trunk. Sherwood Sycamore suddenly found himself no longer the nasty old tree that had sought to injure Robin. He was resistant to this feeling for a moment, but the feeling passed like a fleeting shadow. He was content. His friend was home.

Robin sat outside on a little bench by Sherwood every day, reminiscing about all of his adventures and tales, and the fun he had with Sherwood. Through these days, Sherwood and

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Robin reconciled, becoming friends once again. Robin eventually had to be carried out to the tree. Ultimately he couldn’t go sit on the bench at all, but rather Robin had his bed placed by the window, so that he could watch the majestic tree. Through all this, Sherwood became tender once again, as he had been long ago. After a few months, he no longer saw Robin peering out the window; even so, he was content. He spent the next fifty years of his life with the creatures of the forest. The family of Hoo-Mons hung a swing on his branches, and climbed him often.

Through all this, Sherwood was content.

One day he noticed that his branches were dwindling, snapping and falling. New leaves no longer formed on his billowing boughs. From that point on he knew his time was limited. He decayed and regularly lost branches for close to a year. One day, he felt the wind gusting, and the air slowly becoming more humid. He knew a terrible storm was brewing.

It was the storm of the decade, leaves were blowing everywhere, tree branches were dashing into his side, lightning cracking, splitting the sky. He realized that this was it, the storm that would take him with it. There were streams of water breaking up the ground, making channels and ditches in every direction. Mud splattered everywhere. His roots began cracking.

This was it. He knew his time had come. He heard his roots creak and snap. He tore up the sodden ground. Falling. Hitting the mud. The earth was soft, and the impact made almost no noise, merely a horrible “splat.” The snapping of his branches was the main cause of the din. He, the patriarch of the forest (also, in his eyes) was now only useful for firewood.

The forest that Sherwood Sycamore had inhabited up to this point had a shocking absence of a formal name. Robin, however, always called it Sherwood’s forest. As did his family. As a matter of fact, all who knew him and where he dwelt, called the forest Sherwood’s Forest. Few know the intriguing story of why it is named what it is. Though the ages have changed it slightly, and other names have arisen, only one has ever endured and been widely accepted: Sherwood Forest.

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2

nd

The Left Behind

by Rachel Black

The old piano store seemed to hide in plain sight. The building was deteriorating from the outside in, and for years I assumed it was closed, silenced by time, with maybe a lone dusty old piano no one could afford still sitting in the abandoned shop, waiting for someone to bring it back to life. The lettering on the front was peeling off so that what formerly read as “Hartley Brothers Pianos” was now “hart thers anos.” The one in the window seemed to whisper reminders of times past, when the dust hadn’t settled and the music was shiny and loud. Now the silence and darkness, testaments to the effects of time, eerily stared at me until I had no choice to confront it.

I parked my bicycle in front of the building’s small parking lot and strode up to the double doors of the side entrance, hoping for unlocked doors despite the gloom of what I was able to see inside the store. I pulled the doors and entered as a bell tinkled over my head, its chime shockingly loud in comparison to the ghost town’s silence before me. I wandered around the store, gazing at the pianos--not a single one, but dozens. I was suddenly strangely aware of this place’s history, the fingers that touched the keys ten, fifty, a hundred years ago, the potential for music wasting away when people needed to hear it.

Suddenly a short, elderly man popped up from somewhere in the back of the store.

“Hello, miss!”

I nodded and gave him a small smile in greeting. The man had short white hair and glasses, and he looked about seventy years old. A subtle excited smile was plastered on his wrinkled face as he followed me around, watching me look at the pianos as if I were the first person to come inside all year. He watched me run my hands over the gorgeous grand piano, as overwhelming as its hefty price tag.

Eager to break the silence, I asked him some basic questions about the pianos, hoping he could play for me but too shy to ask him to directly. To my luck, he took a seat at the bench and began to play in an effort to answer me. I felt a twinge of pain as I remembered Ben, my brother, the piano prodigy. He would have loved to see this. The melody the piano man played was exquisite, a twinkling of notes as beautiful and captivating as the night sky, leaving me starryeyed. For once, I couldn’t hold my smile back as music flowed from his fingertips. Classical music is a wordless language. It has its own grammar and syntax. Its beauty lies in the generation of emotion without words. Maybe that’s why Ben loved it so much. He was never much of a talker. I told the man how beautiful his music was, and he accepted the compliment kindly put impatiently, like he had been told that his entire life. I walked around the store once more, thanked the old man for his time and his music, and rode home. I thought about my brother, how excited he would have been to see that the piano store was actually open. Most of all, though, I was plagued by the guilt of my brother’s death.

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Three years ago, my brother had been on his way to perform at one of his many piano concerts. I was driving there, late as usual. We were at the same intersection. I hydroplaned on a strip of black ice, ran a red light, and in a matter of seconds my brother was no more. He was twenty years old. It sounds so simple, but in those few seconds everything as I knew it changed.

My parents never told me directly that I killed their child, but I know that’s what they think about every second of every day and through their many sleepless nights. The worst part is that I can’t deny it. For some unknown reason, I walked away with a few scratches and soreness, nothing more. But this only intensified my guilt. I swore I would never lay my hands on a steering wheel again.

If it wasn’t for me, my brother might still be here, pursuing his passion, maybe married now. He was loved and praised by everyone he met. He had been selected to travel to New York City when he was sixteen to play at a prestigious recital. It was practically a different continent. He was destined for greatness; everyone said so. Why him? one of his friends wailed at the funeral. Now he would forever remain on my mother’s mantel. My mother, who sits in front of the television, numb to everything. When I tried to shake her out of it, she only felt the bloody hands of the one responsible for her son’s death.

Mom and Dad were always preoccupied with my brother and his next big recital, his academia, his good manners and impeccable track record and inevitable success. I wasn’t any of that. And I can’t pretend I ever will be, either. But before that cold, gloomy day I was at least myself. Not even I could see myself the same way, much less anyone else. In a small town like that, it was impossible.

Ben and I were always inseparable, a brother-sister duo, and now that we’re separated I’ve tried everything to feel closer to him. I went to church, revisited his grave countless times, sat in his room--I even subjected myself to severe car anxiety while my best friend drove us up to the places of my family’s fondest old memories together. The guilt only resurfaced stronger, choking me until I was paralyzed, unable to escape the grip of memory.

But inside the piano store, the place my brother’s affinity for classical music began, I was at ease. I pondered this on the way home, the absurdity of it. I entered the driveway and parked my bike at its end, anticipating the stifling environment I was soon to enter.

The bitter smell of burnt toast greeted me warmly as I entered the small house. Today must have been one of Mom’s better days--she actually got out of bed. I opened the windows and took care of the blackened mess she left in the toaster, then toasted some fresh bread and brought it to her bedroom. I knocked softly on her door.

“Mom?” I called out gently. She only grunted in response.

“I brought you some toast.You need to eat something,” I told her. No answer. She was too busy gazing off into space.

“They say it’s finally supposed to warm up some tomorrow, you know,” she informed me, her eyes focusing a bit on the television’s weather report.

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The sunlight, a glimmer of hope after a long winter, caught something on top of her dresser--a picture frame, protecting a memory from what seemed like forever ago. We were all so different. We were a tall family, a mess of long limbs. Ben was a basketball player turned musician. His constant growth always put him at an awkward height compared to his classmates.

In the photo, he was crying, my mom’s face was blurry as she tried to make me look at the camera, and Dad was actually smiling despite the chaos that surrounded him. I remember our frustration in that moment, but I also remember more clearly our laughter when the photo was developed. Its imperfections were what made it so special to us. Now a quarter of that photo is gone. Mom was practically in a trance. She was dead, too. My brother’s death killed her. It killed us all, and we were merely a broken family of ghosts, a cautionary tale.

Before I could distract myself, the one memory I wanted to forget came creeping in again. I could almost feel the sprinkling of glass and hear the shatter of the windshield as the frosty air escaped into the now open vehicle. I relived the horrifying recognition of the crushed car and the bleeding mass inside. I recounted the blue and red lights, the only colors that dreary day. The gray wails of my mother and bitter taste of my vomit as the reality set in. The final prayers of hope, of desperation, before the inevitable realization. The acceptance, because what else could we do?

I left her toast on the bedside table and tiptoed out. I heated up leftovers and ate in silence, as usual. I forced the food down my throat. Chew, swallow, repeat, until Dad got home.

He floated around the house like a phantom, and his melancholy presence put me into a deeper gloom. By the end of the day there was nothing left in me except guilt, gnawing away at the linings of my stomach. I mulled over the day’s events. Hartley Brothers Pianos. Where was the brother? What was his story? Was this anonymous brother merely another sad story added to an ocean of grief? I wrestled with the hypotheticals until sleep brought a few hours of relief.

Mounting my bike once again the next morning, desperate for escape, I pedaled as fast as I could, back towards life, where people laughed and smiled and sang. I needed reassurance that people still did that. I rode past the ever high school and college, local eateries halfway lit at closing-time, and the rows of quaint little houses, trying to escape the judgments of the people inside them. I found myself back at the piano store, the last place I had a glimpse of beauty, a snippet of what the world still held despite tragedy.

I wrestled my long limbs from the bicycle and set up the kickstand underneath it. As I stepped closer to the store, I thought I heard a familiar tune...I recognized it as Debussy’s Clair de Lune, one of Ben’s all time favorites. That old man must be at the piano again, I thought. It seemed rather early for that, though, and I paused for a moment outside the doors, wondering if interrupting his impromptu concert was the best idea. I would have been fine to stay outside and listen, denying myself the indulgence of my curiosity. I would have been fine to leave the past undisturbed, to force myself to be satisfied with the day before’s connection to my brother. I would have been fine. But it would have been very lonely. So with a hard shove, the door swung

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open, and I stepped into the light.

But the music stopped as soon as I entered. The store was a ghost town, just as before.

The man was nowhere to be seen. I figured he walked back to his little office or a storage room and would return soon. I sat at a bench in front of one of the old upright pianos and began to play what little I knew. Ben had taught me a bit of what he knew, but I was always more interested in other things. I sighed and looked out the window to my right. It was still slightly dark out; the world was not yet awake. The thick Oregon clouds had, for once, subsided enough for me to see the full moon watching me in perfect silence. I wanted to cry, but I was numb. The sky in this small town cried enough for me.

I turned back to the piano, a book of Debussy’s songs mounted on the top of it, and I leafed through until I found Clair de Lune. I poked at the keys, struggling to remember the few things I was taught. On the out-of-tune piano, it sounded haunting, each note lasting longer than it should have, the strangely pleasing cacophony and my terrible playing rendering the song almost unrecognizable. Eventually I stopped, the feeling in my stomach heavier than ever. I felt paralyzed, frozen in time as the events of that icy December night flashed before my eyes once again.

Coming to this place was a mistake, I concluded. The past should stay in the past. I headed towards the door, but I was stopped by the old man, who appeared seemingly out of thin air. I jumped when I saw him.

His trustworthy pale blue eyes seemed to read my innermost thoughts, and although I had only even known of the man’s existence for a day, I felt like I had known him forever. He looked at me with the strangest understanding, and with a sad, gentle smile, he told me, “You must learn to live again.”

Those words cracked open something inside me, and I surprised myself: I cried. I allowed myself to feel. I hadn’t realized I had known his words all along, but I was waiting for permission.

From something. From someone. And I had only ever needed it from myself.

So out I went, for the first time in an eternity feeling the warmth of forgiveness.

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HM

Shapeshifter

by Caide Fullerton

Chapter 1 The Merchants Winter, 5625. Golem's Quarry, Stoneton.

"Hey, Alli! Have you loaded the cargo yet?" Aaron shouted across the yard to a young woman loading crates into a covered horse-drawn wagon.

"You can see I'm still in the middle of it, can't you!?"

"Well, hurry up! We have a deadline to meet!"

Aaron was a young man with a lanky build and short curly brown hair. He wore a mud brown shirt and matching trousers under a dark green cloak, which he used more like a cape than what it actually was. Alli, full name Allichon (al-i-SHÓ™n), was a lean woman around Aaron's age, with long yellow hair she kept in pigtails. She had on a basic fur coat over a white shirt, and a light blue scarf.

"Both of you, stop your bickering. We don't have time to waste. The Queen needs these supplies as soon as possible for the war."

"Well, why aren't you helping,Valem? What do you think we're paying you for!?"

"Right, right. I'll come give you a hand, Allichon."

Valem was a very large man. He stood 6'11�, towering over the two young merchants.

He had a burly build, dark hair kept in a buzz cut, and wore a very large coat over a simple tunic.

His belt was full of assorted weaponry, most of which neither of the other two could identify.

Valem makes his way over to the wagon to help Alli load it up. Aaron heads inside.

"Hey, Mr. Dalleg! We're about to head out!"

"Oh, good, good." Mr. Dalleg stood to see Aaron. He was a portly man, with greying hair and a fabulous mustache. "Do keep my little Allichon safe, will you?"

"Yeah, of course I will."

Mr. Dalleg's tone became serious, something rather unlike his usual careless self. "There have been reports that many travelers have recently gone missing on that road. Keep an eye out."

"Right, right, I will."

"Aaron!" Alli calls from outside, "The wagon's loaded!"

"Well, we'll be off now, Mr. Dalleg. See you around."

"Have a safe trip, Aaron."

"I told you, we will. Try and save a drink for me when we get back!" He joked as he walked out the door.

"Aaron! Hurry up, or we'll leave without you!" Alli shouted.

40

"Now you're telling me to hurry up?"

Aaron climbed onto the front of the wagon, and with a whip of his crop it started forward.

Chapter 2 The Girl

The wagon moved along quietly through the night, along the forested road from Stoneton to the northern city of Archeville. Alli and Aaron were bickering as usual, while Valem sat in the back of the wagon silently.

"Shut up, Aaron! There aren't any spiders along this path, and I know it."

"Oh, no, there are huuuge spiders, as big as the wagon!" Aaron teased.

"No there aren't! You're just trying to scare me."

"Nah, why would I want to–OH GOD, THERE'S ONE RIGHT THERE!" Aaron shouts and points dramatically to a patch of trees.

Alli screams and hides inside the wagon while Aaron laughs.

"Hey, th-that isn't funny, you idiot..."

"Well, you might not think it is, but I find it hilarious."

"Both of you, quiet." Valem suddenly speaks up.

"Huh? What's wrong,Valem?" Alli asks.

"I heard something."

"Oh, it must be the spider!" Aaron teased.

"I'm serious, Aaron. It sounded like a person."

The three of them are silent for a few moments, listening. They forest is quiet, until they hear a faint voice from deep in the forest, almost like a woman screaming.

"You two heard that, yes?" Valem asks.

"...Yes, I did."

"So did I."

"Aaron, stop the wagon." Valem orders.

"Valem, are you sure about thi–"

"Someone is hurt. We are going to help them. Understood?"

"...Yeah, yeah, understood." Aaron stops the wagon, and the three dismount.

The trio venture forth into the forest. It is eerily silent, and completely still. Many of the trees were toppled or sliced in half. The ground was uneven and covered in various small pits and marks, most of the grass and other ground plants were dead.

"What happened here?" Aaron wondered out loud.

"Quiet. Listen." In the distance, another scream can be heard. It is noticeably closer. "Let's

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41

hurry. Pick up the pace, you two."

Valem began to run forward into the forest, and the two merchants had no choice but to follow him. They soon find themselves in a small clearing, the ground of which was covered in blood.

"Valem, we need to get out of here! This is way too dangerous!" Alli exclaims.

Before Valem has a chance to respond, a tree falls into the clearing, almost crushing the three. The falling is quickly followed by a bloodcurdling scream, the source very close by.

"Valem! We're going, now!" Aaron yells, grabbing Alli's arm and starting to sprint back towards the wagon. They hear another scream to their left, and suddenly, a figure hurtles out from the cover of the trees, slamming head-first into the trunk of a tree right in front of them.

It's a young girl, with long white hair, and wearing a ripped and tattered white dress. She is covered in blood and bruises, and seems to be crying.

Aaron and Alli stumble back, staring at the girl before them.

Aaron pushes Alli behind him, and places his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

"Hey, you... are you alright?" He asked, slowly taking a step forward.

The strange girl sobs and curls up on the ground.

"Hey! C'mon, get up! There's no time to sit around and cry!" He moves forward and puts a hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Aaron, get away from her!" Valem yells, behind them.

The girl suddenly jolts up, staring at Aaron with piercing red, hungry eyes, and twisting her blood caked fangs into a devilish smile. She slowly lifted a clawed hand.

This was no normal girl. It was...

Chapter 3 The Monster

The girl began to swipe her claws at Aaron's face, but she is suddenly stopped by a curved and jagged blade being flung into her side, causing her to stumble sideways onto the ground.

Aaron and Alli step back, away from the girl.Valem rushes out in front of them.

"Both of you, get back to the wagon and leave. I was foolish, and led you into her trap. I shall hold her back while you run."

"Valem, what're you–"

"I TOLD TOU TO RUN, NOW RUN!" Valem bellows, drawing two of his strangely shaped weapons from his belt.

Alli and Aaron jolt back in surprise.

"But Valem," Alli argues, "what if–"

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"Alli, let's go." Aaron says, taking her arm and starting to lead her away.

"Aaron–!"

"Alli, I promised to keep you safe! Let's go!" He then turned to Valem. "Don't die on us."

With that, he takes Alli away.

"Tch. Unfortunately, I doubt the chances of that, Aaron." Valem turns to focus his attention back on the girl. "Unless I'm mistaken, I know what you are, Shapeshifter. I guess that makes me even more of a fool, huh?"

The girl stumbles to her feet, staring past Valem.

"Don't even think about it.Your fight is with me."

She turns to Valem and tilts her head, stepping forward. As she approached, her right hand suddenly ripped in half. This rip continued down her forearm, blood spilling over the ground and her exposed bones disintegrating. The flesh on what remained of her arm started to grow, twisting forward and melding together horrifically into the shape of a large, sharpened scythe where the girl's arm just was. She quickly lunged forward, slicing vertically down at Valem with her scythe arm. He raises his weapons in an 'X' shape and catches her blade. However, her left arm twists unnaturally around Valem, grabbing his head, and she flings him away into a tree, before sprinting off after the other two.

"Dang it!" Valem yells, quickly getting to his feet and charging into the woods after the girl.

"Aaron! Aaron, what are you thinking!?" Alli yells as Aaron sprints through the forest, towing Alli behind him.

Aaron doesn't respond.

"Aaron!" She pulls away from him and forces him to stop running. "Aaron, we can't just leave Valem behind!"

Aaron hesitates. "Alli, look... I promised your father I would get you home safely. I'm going to, no matter what."

Alli is about to respond when Aaron yanks her down, out of the way as the girl leaps through the air right over them and crashes into a tree.

"Crap! Alli, c'mon!" He pulls Alli back to her feet and runs through the woods, him and Alli diving out of the brush and back onto the path where their wagon is waiting as the girl chases after them.

"Alli, get in the wagon!" Aaron yells, pushing her behind him and facing the girl.

"Aaron–"

"Just do it! Get in the wagon and leave, now!"

"Aaron, I can't just leave you and Valem here!"

"You don't have a choice!" Aaron scoops Alli up and tosses her into the wagon, then slaps one of the horses on the side, causing it to whinny and start running forward.

The girl stares at the moving wagon, and starts to walk after, but Aaron steps into her way,

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drawing a sword from his belt.

"I won't let you go after her."

The girl snarls and leaps forward at Aaron, raising a clawed hand. Aaron slices at her with his sword, and she makes no attempt to dodge, getting hit in the side and simply continuing forward. She grabs Aaron's face, still moving forward, and slams him down onto the ground, running over him and after the wagon.

"Gah–! No!"

As the girl runs, the skin on her back starts to raise up. Suddenly, two spikes burst out through her skin, and form into insect-like wings. She lifts off and flies after the wagon, quickly catching up. As she prepares to dive inside, a crate is suddenly thrown out at her, smashing into her and knocking her out of the air. She tumbles for a few moments before ripping the crate to shreds with a single swipe and launching herself at the wagon again. This time, she lands on top, and crawls to the front of the wagon, swinging down onto the driver's seat. As she steps forward to enter, she is pelted with small metal objects, and gets knocked off balance, falling off the front of the wagon. This spooks the horses, and they rear up and stop before the tumbling girl.

The girl stands again, snarling in anger at the wagon. She steps forward again, but a throwing knife is suddenly thrown into her shoulder, almost knocking her over again. She roars angrily, and turns to her attacker:Valem, stepping out from the brush.

Spooked by the girl's roar, the horses turn and start to run the opposite direction, right past Aaron, who is running towards Valem and the girl. The girl notices the wagon moving, and her left arm suddenly splits off at the elbow, spilling blood. Her flesh curls and grows into a long sort of tentacle, which latches onto the side of the moving wagon, with the girl now being dragged about thirty feet behind it.

"Aaron! Cut her off, now!" Valem shouts.

Aaron raises his sword and slices down, cutting the tentacle in half. The girl stumbles over, and Valem runs up behind her, attempting to grab her by the neck. She retracts her tentacle arm and whips it at Valem, knocking him back. The tentacle begins to reform, and grows a sharp blade at its end. The girl lashes the tentacle whip at Valem, forcing him back away from her.

As she is about to go for a lunge, Aaron slices into her shoulder from behind with his sword, knocking her to the ground. She somersaults and lands back on her feet, snarling at Aaron.

She leaps forward and slices at him with her scythe arm, but Aaron ducks beneath the attack, plunging his sword into her chest and running her through the heart.

All is still for a long moment. Just as Aaron is about to relax, just as he thinks he's won, the girl steps forward, running Aaron's blade further into her. She stares at him hungrily, not even a hint of pain in her expression, as if she was completely unaffected. She raises her scythe arm, but Valem delivers a powerful punch to her head, flinging her away from Aaron, his sword still struck through her body. Aaron steps back, standing with Valem.

"Aaron. I'm going to blow it up."

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Shepeshifter | Caide Fullerton

"What!? Blow it up!?"

Valem raises his hand, and a small ball of fire forms in his palm. "I'm not much of a mage, but I bet I could blow this thing to bits. Just stand back."

"Wait,Valem, are you–!?"

Valem steps forward, making his way towards the girl before Aaron can finish. The girl snarls and rips Aaron's sword out of her chest, flinging it away, before lunging at Valem. She stabs her scythe arm into his shoulder, and Valem grabs her by the neck. Confused, the girl raises her scythe and stabs him again, and again, but Valem is unmoving. He grabs her other arm with his free hand, and wounds suddenly open themselves around his body. His hands go alight, and his blood starts to dissolve into blue flames. With a sudden burst of strength, he clenches his fists and lets out a yell, and his entire body lights aflame for a short moment before he and the girl are enveloped in a large explosion. Aaron is blown back as the bang goes off, and he stumbles off the path into the brush.

After a few moments, he stands. The smoke slowly clears, revealing two bloody and charred bodies. Aaron falls to his knees and clenches his fist, staring at the ground. As he looks up–

Shick. The girl, not just alive but also completely healed, stabbed her scythe arm through Aaron's chest. He stared at her in complete shock, before his vision faded away and he lost all sense from his body.

Chapter 4 The Survivor Golem's Quarry, 2 days later...

Alli sits in her home, blankly staring outside at the larger caravan prepared to head out.

"Allichon, are you sure you don't need anything?" Mr. Darreg asks.

Alli is silent.

"...I'm sorry, Allichon, for what happened, but you can't just sit at that window forever."

Alli glances back at her father for a moment. "I want a drink."

"Of course, I'll get one for you–"

"I'll get it." Alli lifts herself up out of her chair for the first time today, and slowly trudges to the counter to grab a drink. She reaches for one which was left out, but her father stops her.

"Not that one. It's his, that I promised him."

The new, larger caravan set out later that day, in order to safely deliver the original load of supplies, as well as serving as a search party.

At the supposed site of the ambush, nothing but a bloody sword was discovered.

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Allichon claims that they were ambushed by some sort of cannibal girl, but the townsfolk doubt whether that is true, and so the true circumstances of the deaths of Aaron Hilliem and Valem Allsbury remained a mystery.

Her best friends had been killed, and the townsfolk thought she was insane. And so, Allichon swore revenge on the cruel world which had taken everything from her.

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The flames of true hatred are the kind that never burn out.

Shepeshifter | Caide Fullerton

HM

The Girl in the Library

by Harlan Rembert

The library was on a slight hill, with a tree-shrouded path leading to the main door. The trees, with their brown, orange, and red leaves, did nothing to block the wind that blew dreary gray autumn clouds across the sky. Irma pulled her worn pink jacket tightly over her front as a leaf smacked her leg. She tugged the door open and entered the library, her journal tucked under her arm.

Mrs. Gregerson was at the desk, checking in returned books. Irma smiled, a small trace of happiness beneath her chilled and windswept exterior, as she walked over to the librarian.

“Good afternoon, Miss Irma. Glad you’re not out there in that gale,” Mrs. Gregerson said, looking up at the girl, who was still drawn tight from the wind.

Irma opened the journal, flipping to the page where she had written the description. “Hi Mrs. Gregerson. I need a book for a school assignment and was wondering if you could point me in the right direction. It needs to deal with two people resolving a conflict of emotions. I have to analyze the conflict and write a paper on it.”

The woman nodded, her sweet eyes sparkling. “I know just the book. It’s called Better Off Friends by Elizabeth Eulberg. It’s quite an interesting one, you’ll enjoy it. The E’s are a few windows down from the computers.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Gregerson,” Irma said, walking away, no longer drawn up, but with a trace of a dismal fog over her face, as there always was when she was away from someone she trusted.

Irma located the E’s, but couldn’t find Better Off Friends. As she came around to the next aisle, she saw a boy, probably her own age, sitting at the desk between the bookshelves, reading the most bizarre newspaper Irma had ever seen. No, it wasn’t a boy, it was a Girl, with boyish hair and a gray and lime green basketball jersey on.

The jersey, or whatever it was, looked as though it had been hand painted, and was probably five sizes too large for the Girl. It reached to her ankles, and had a silver inscription across the chest that said, “QUAZAR.” Underneath, it said “Dangerous! Do Not Observe.”

Irma thought it was meant to say “Disturb” instead of “Observe,” since you wouldn’t be able to know not to observe unless you observed the jersey the Girl was wearing.

The newspaper was something you definitely couldn’t help observing. It was written in scribbles, but looked to be printed like any other newspaper. Irma then noticed that there were scribbles like these across the Girl’s forehead, on her jaw, and seemingly all down her neck and arms. Most alarmingly, there were many of the same scribble, almost unnoticeable, on her blue eyes. On the actual eyeball.

Irma figured, her heart beginning to race, that this Girl was probably a member of a cult that covered all of their bodies in meaningless symbols, perhaps runes of a prayer to a

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demon god. Irma hadn’t thought much about possibilities such as that in a while, she just hid in the shadows, not thinking about things the way she used to, staying as far away from Nathaniel Barberton, her ruthless, cruel, and obnoxious nemesis, as she could. Although at the library, anything was possible.

Irma wondered if when the Girl spoke, her voice would be cold, like a steel chain, like how she imagined a dark lord’s voice would sound. She decided that she would ask the Girl if she had seen Better Off Friends.

Looking around on the shelves, so as not to arouse the Girl’s suspicion, she asked in as nonchalant a voice as she could manage, “Have you seen a book called-”

“Better Off Friends?” the Girl finished, in a perfectly normal early-teens girl voice. She took something from her lap. It was the book.

“Oh, yes, that,” Irma feebly answered. “If you’re not busy with it, I was wondering, if, maybe I could use it for a school project?”

“Please, sit down,” the Girl said, indicating the seat in front of her.

Irma slowly advanced towards the desk, but stopped as her hand went out to the chair.

Her mind was considering how the Girl could have known she had the book Irma needed before Irma mentioned it herself. “Hey, how did you know I was going to ask for that book?” she said to the Girl, her suspicion growing quickly, as well as a strange sensation she had never before felt, like an electric current pulsing through her.

The Girl just grinned slightly, and replied, “How else was I going to get you to speak to me? I couldn’t have asked you anything, you think I’m a devil worshipper with creepy tattoos. I would never, by the way, get the branding on my eyeballs willingly. It hurts. Not a little, it hurts like you’re dying.”

Irma would have run right then, had she not seen through the window behind the Girl her least favorite person, Nathaniel Barberton himself, running by on the sidewalk in the chilly drizzle that had joined the winds, with his gang of detention thugs. Instead, she said to the Girl, in a voice that tasted in her mouth like lemon candy, “Stop it! Stop it, whatever you’re doing!

Get out of my head!”

“It’s too late for that, you shouldn’t have ever been born if you want me out of your mind,” the Girl retorted, folding down the newspaper and looking as though she might roll her eyes.

“Who do you think you are? You dress like a maniac, your eyes are ‘branded,’ and you sink into people’s brains?” Irma was on the verge of yelling, yet inside of her, some part of her conscience was rejoicing at the fact that an insane demon child was sitting in front of her at a library desk.

“Ok, I’m not crazy on the level of ‘insane,’ only as crazy as you are.”

Again, Irma felt that peculiar electrifying sensation.

“Correct, you’re only crazy enough to have me inside of your head. Now please sit

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before you throw the atlases at me,” the Girl said, and kicked the chair in front of her out with her bare feet.

“Tell me what sort of nutcase you are first,” Irma demanded, but nevertheless she sat.

“I’m not a nutcase, just a- well, I guess you could call me a secret agent. Basically, that’s what I’m doing.”

A secret agent sounded too whacko, or too good, to be true for Irma. She tensed, ready to run from the Girl, but was distracted by the return of the odd pulsing sensation.

“STAY, you haven’t even heard the gist of what I’m trying to tell you yet,” the Girl said, clearly still reading Irma’s thoughts.

Irma was still resisting the urge to run, if only to the bathrooms, but the Girl carried on.

“You’ve read all of the classic great stories, right, like Chronicles of Narnia, Hans Christian Andersen or the Grimm Brothers’ fairy tales, A Christmas Carol, Alice in Wonderland, the Lord of the Rings books, Harry Potter, Charlotte’s Web, Dr. Seuss stories, Jules Verne, H. G. Wells, A Wrinkle in Time, the Hunger Games series- good, I agree with all of those remarks except for the last one, green ham is actually pretty tasty. No, I’ve told you already, I am not a nut!”

Irma hadn’t said anything, and continued to do this, as it seemed unnecessary to do so around the Girl, who still went on with her ridiculous rant. The sensation would flicker back and forth, and Irma decided it coincided with the Girl reading her mind.

“So, those are all fantastic results of imagination- no, you’re right, that’s all they are, imagination. But what if I told you that they actually happened- quit considering it- that C.S. Lewis really went through a wardrobe into Narnia, Tolkien travelled through Middle Earth, Carrol went through a mirror, and so on and so on. Hang on, hang on, I’m getting to the explanations. So, you’ve definitely known what it’s like to daydream. From what I gather you used to be a master daydreamer, until that bloke out there, Nathaniel, teased you-”

Here the Girl abruptly broke off, intensely staring, with a sorrowful glimmer in her scarred eyes, at the despondent expression on Irma’s face. So much pain- so many tears- grief crashing into Irma’s mind, ripping at her like a scythe. All of which was so familiar to the Girl.

At last she spoke again, reaching over the table to hold Irma’s shaking shoulders. “I know exactly how you feel. But listen to me. Whatever happens, you can always think of something far worse than Nathaniel Barberton, or anyone else who tears at you. Please, believe me. Don’t let anyone get to you more than a little bit. I wouldn’t be able to stand it if I ever found another person who... ended up... like me,” she said quietly. Irma was silent, while her mind began to churn at what the Girl had said.

The Girl shook her head as Irma subconsciously formed a question, and the electrifying sensation buzzed over her.

“No.You don’t need to know that. Where was I? Oh yeah, so, all of the great authors had wild imaginations. They formed surreal places like Wonderland, Middle Earth, Panem, Camazotz, Hogwarts, Narnia, etcetera. Here’s the part I really need you to trust me on, but before we

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get into it I want to give you a notice. People can think up great stories without doing these ‘wild’ things, but some of the stories that feel real, almost magical, feel that way for a reason.

The authors who created these stories liked their imagined lands and people, but couldn’t get enough of what they needed just by conjuring up the sights, sounds and smells of their worlds in their normal imaginations. They needed the unimaginable. So, they got just that. When they imagined their fantasy worlds after realizing this, their minds were hijacked in a way. They saw and experienced things they hadn’t imagined before. It wasn’t really just in their heads anymore.

Their imagination had gotten a ‘mind’ of its own, so to speak. The people had gone inside their fantasy, but they hadn’t exactly left the ‘real’ world.You see, it was still imagined, but they hadn’t done the imagining. Their imaginations were working on their own. They had the source of their Unimaginable stories.”

To Irma, this was either the greatest thing she’d ever heard, or the silliest. She was coming up with questions faster than she ever had before.

With another pulse of the sensation, the Girl spoke. “Oh, I’m glad you brought that up.

Most authors, or others who experience this don’t tell anyone, some even convince themselves that it didn’t actually happen, because it takes so little time to happen, like a ‘regular’ daydream.

Some did, though. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis met and later revealed to each other their similar experiences in secret. They later became a famous pair of writer-friends. I should mention that it is not just authors of books that entered their imaginations.Yes, as you were thinking, playwrights such as Shakespeare in particular, as well as poets, Poe, Frost, and Dickinson.Visual artists can visit the worlds in their paintings or the subjects of sculptures,Van Gogh, Picasso, Michelangelo, Raphael, O’Keefe, Monet, Pollock, and Da Vinci are some notable ones. Speaking of Da Vinci, he was an inventor, which is another type prone to experiencing an Unimaginable imagination. Tesla, George Washington Carver, Einstein, Galileo, Bell, and a bunch of Greek people. Musicians, too, Beethoven, Mozart, the Beatles. There is a dark side to imagination, though. Hitler would constantly visit his daydreamt pure-Aryan world where he ruled as an immortal emperor. Napoleon had a very similar vision, as well as Genghis Khan.

“Well- yes, you are correct on that, there are normal people who do it, who didn’t gain worldwide recognition afterwards. Lots. No, you haven’t yet.You’ve been too downtrodden and depressed recently to do it, but you could create a free-willed, unimagined fantasy if your mind recovers.”

Irma was waiting on the Girl to answer the question she had just thought, about whether or not the Girl could enter a fantasy of her own, but she was strangely silent, with an uneasy look on her face. The sensation, however, persisted.

She began again, “Ok, moving on.You’ve wondered why this concerns you, and part of it is what I just told you.You have potential. Here’s the rest. So, the many different imaginations of different people, whether self-operating Unimaginables or not, exist outside of this “real” existence in a sort of bubble-cluster of the billions of imaginations. Each average person

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normally has a few thousand different imaginative fantasies by the time they die, most of them are unnoticed and not self-conscious, though. Even before birth, babies imagine many things, most of it incomprehensible to anyone older than two years, but fascinating nonetheless. After the body fades from the physical world, and the brain with it, imaginations don’t linger in the fantasy realm either. Like the question of what happens to souls after death, there also is the question of what happens to imaginations after death. There are theories, like a proposed ‘cemetery of fantasies,’ but no one knows for sure what becomes of the imagined after the source dies. Sometimes they can live on, in the form of ‘collective fantasies,’ if the basic imagined place or person is continuously imagined by lots of people. For example, there is the Collective Middle Earth Fantasy, which still exists after Tolkien’s death because people love Middle Earth. It is the basic Middle Earth universe, not the original Unimaginable fantasy of Tolkien, but the sum of the thoughts of all people who have read his work. Oh, yes, I forgot that. I mentioned that the Beatles entered an Unimaginable world of their music.Yes, it is possible for multiple people to enter an Unimaginable universe, which is sort of what you and I will do.”

“I’m getting distracted. Ok, so, people have a ton of imaginative fantasies, some independent, but most not. So, it isn’t theoretically possible to enter another person’s imagination, unless you share an imagination, like the Beatles. But I can travel across different imaginations, even the regular ones.Yes, that is part of how I’m inside of your mind. Anyway, I have entered some remarkable minds, and I’ve seen something terribly wrong. People are being ripped apart, from the mind out, and I think it might be because of someone who can also travel through imaginations. The problem with the victims is that a crucial space of their imagination has been ‘ripped out.’ It is missing. Gone. Poof. It drives them insane. I’ve looked for the missing parts, but they seem to have been taken out of the realms of fantasy. That’s what scares me. As I said earlier, there’s a dark side to thinking. Great people can think up terrible things, which if real, could destroy the reality you and everyone else lives in.”

Irma’s eyes had grown wide, and her brain, frozen in sadness for so long, had thawed entirely into a clever, curious, imagining assembly of gears. She was thinking at hundreds of miles a moment, and as she realized this, she realized something else as well. There were many questions that had raced through her head unanswered, such as “Have you met the Lorax?” but one reigned above all the others. She concentrated on it, hoping to convince the Girl to fill in the blank in her head, and the sensation came, but the Girl just sat there. Looking nervous, as though she were hiding something, which was a look Irma knew by heart, for she wore that look all the time.

The Girl stood. “I- I can’t tell you that. I just need your help. Please, stop asking that.

Please. Stop, stop it, you’re burning it into me-”

Now Irma stood, her face showing what it had lacked most in times it had been needed: courage. Raising her voice more than she should have for the library, she asked, with determination, “What happened to you that you won’t tell me about?”

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The Girl stood, her back turned to Irma, still as a statue, looking out into the dreadful weather. In a voice almost too small to hear, she answered.

“I was worse off than you. Bullied beyond the point of tears. I thought I was being destroyed by those menaces, but what I was really being destroyed by was myself. I convinced myself that I couldn’t exist, not the way I was, and I ceased to. I created an Unimaginable world, but it wasn’t really just a fantasy, it wasn’t a fiction of my mind. It was real. I became a figment of my imagination. I was now part of the surreal world of possibility, where the unimaginable occurred. That is how I can do it. Meandering through the thoughts of the universe, I saw many things, and joined many fantasies. I learned what it was to imagine. I became an expert on imagination. Me, who never imagined anything except a world where I didn’t exist to endure the wrath of life.”

Dawning on Irma was everything that had happened in the last few minutes. Why the Girl wanted to protect her from her sorrow. Why the Girl knew what Leonardo da Vinci had experienced. How the Girl could read her mind.

“You’re in my imagination, aren’t you?”

The Girl gave a small nod. “Yes. I only wish that I could reimagine myself to look different, less of a whacko. Living people who enter Unimaginable places can be shrunk, stabbed, or killed multiple times, such as Tolkien and Collins, but they will reemerge perfectly unharmed. But not people who exist in imagination. I entered the imagination of a guy who had a dystopia all planned out, detail by detail. It went very bad. The lunatic government of the dystopia captured me, and branded me with the markings. I was their prisoner. That’s what this ‘jersey’ is. A prisoner’s garment. While I was their prisoner, something from the man’s imagination, a weapon of the dystopian leaders I think, was stolen from his thoughts. That’s when I knew I had to find help, to get to you. I escaped and brought that with me,” she said, indicating the newspaper on the library desk.

Irma spoke. “So, we’ve got to get a dystopian weapon and other stolen ideas back, from someone or something that hides imagined things outside of imagination?”

“Yep, that’s pretty much it. I need your help, I really do. Irma, trust me. I promise that I can make you come back safe, walking over to the E’s from the front desk, without ever dying in the worlds of imagination, or being mentally scarred by the sight of... things. If we succeed, it will not be easy.You will have to go through real trouble. Although if we don’t, all could be over.

That’s all I know. So, are you with me?”

Irma held out her hand to the Girl. “Yes I am, Girl.”

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The Girl in the Library | Harlan Rambert

Youth Poetry

3

rd

Flavor

by Zoe Dubiski

Words roll in my mouth And dance across my tongue And although I feel the weight of them They’ve yet to make it past my lips And I can’t quite find the words To describe your new flavor Because it always Seems to be changing But I think it might be chocolate One day it was raspberry sorbet Another it was salt and chlorine Yet the flavor of milk chocolate Melts from the words I hold I opened this can of worms So I lie in it I am laden down with words A moth with wet wings Struggling to fly Against the things I’ve yet to say

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HM

The Sun’s Kingdom

by Audrey Kmeicik

Lilies dance and violets skate As dandelion seeds gracefully drift A tree bows down, branches in awe All hailing the Mighty Sun above Chameleons raise their eyes to the skies As a lion sings, leading his pride A bird hurries and marsupials scurry To worship the Mighty Sun above All through the earth with bustle and noise Animals wait for the morning to rise Vegetation thrives, hearts all beating as one They hail the Mighty Sun above

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HM

When I Finally Go

by Rachel Black

More than anything, I long to see the world.

To pack up and leave when I least expect it and to not return until my eyes are so full of love I could cure a broken heart just by looking at the person and my body radiates so much warmth that a fireplace in December is unheard of.

I want to travel and be so enriched by it that my hands are gold-stained from the treasures of the world and my mind contains maps of faraway places.

I need my head to be so full of stories that I can scarcely keep a pen from paper or keep creativity from spilling over. And still, I will yearn for just another taste of that rare freedom that comes with baggage.

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