The Swift: Volume Four

Table of Contents

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Welcome readers, to volume 4 of Clark College’s literary journal, The Swift. Not only is this our 4th year in production, but for this year in particular, we received a record-breaking 82 submissions total! Thank you to everyone who has contributed to this edition. Whether you have been published this year or not, know that your stories inspired us and reminded us of how creatively beautiful this community is.
When reading through our selections, we noticed an apparent theme of reflection. We have stories that sail readers through flashbacks, poems that ripple like river waves, and multiple pieces that hold up a mirror and ask, who are we as human beings? We believe it is important that we recognize this, considering the times we are living through right now. Wars boom and roar around the world, our devices ding with notifications of ragebait and cancellations. This may not be news to you, but we are living in the most anxiety-ridden time in history. With storm clouds and thick fog following us around wherever we go, one must ask, why go on?
This journal is a perfect example of that “why”. It acknowledges the terrors of the past, allows us to reminisce in the present, and gives us visions of the future. Volume 4 in particular is a beautiful, human balance of our brightest days and darkest nights. It does not try to censor our truths but it also does not shy away from fantasy. The purpose of literature is to connect us . . . in our realities, our dreams, and through our inner most souls. Our deepest hope is that when you read this journal, you take a moment to drink everything in. Let our words reverberate through your body. When you leave your seat, you will know deep in your heart that we are in this together. Your closest friends, your next-door neighbors, and us editors are all breathing the same air in unison. Let us invite you to the true beauty of the human race.

LilyAnna Babien, Paiten Iverson, Danielle Remsing,
and Judi Ruiz
Editors of The Swift

Monterey

Christopher Chaffin

Steinbeck’s restless ghost whispers to me
as I tiptoe along the rock seawall.

He lures me away from my watery home
to old sandstone churches
built by people who would never pray
in the finished chapels.

We wander through music festivals
and artisan fairs full of mild white cheeses,
dancers twirling about in colorful costumes,
and writers arguing about Henry Miller’s Tropic.

But I quickly tire of his melodramatic musings
and no longer wish to relive these moments;
I want to sink back into the bay,

where kelp quivers in underwater winds
and the only stars I see
are the ones suction-cupped to the rocks below.

Once

Christopher Chaffin

I remember
the two of us lying
under dogwood trees,
pink blossoms falling like snow
onto what I thought was love.

The sun was in my eyes,
that day and every day after.

There is no need
to look back with longing.
I have no desire to wallow
in tears or pink snow

I only wanted to say goodbye to you
once.

Beautiful Blues

Madelyn Kalani Ventura

Come, my darling, and crawl into my arms.
Do not fret, do not be afraid to be sad.
To be able to ache when something hurts,
Is that not a conviction to know there’s something worth it enough to yearn?

How beautiful is it to be, to be so in tune.
To see the droplets of rain on the window,
And to know your tears are simply dribbles on a pane,
To be so natural even with clouded eyes.

My love, can sadness not be a gift in itself?
To prove life is flawed, what a wonderful reminder!
Can you imagine how much worse perfect would hurt?
To make love special through loss, and to love in this short time on Earth.

Come see how special you are, one out of billions,
So unique, but so familiarly human.
To feel, the good and the bad, is a hug from an outer star.
How good it feels to hurt, a reminder of life, a reminder of who you are.

Time Capsule

Madelyn Kalani Ventura

A coffin is buried in the backyard,
Under the dirt that colored my knees,
Under sand from a box built by a man far past his prime,
Next to a shoebox with the bones of man’s best friend.

Inside is a life that is no longer yours nor mine,
A bracelet that forgot who its other half belonged to,
Perhaps a favorite toy that was once loved in the sun,
And a photograph or two of an abandoned kind of love.

There’s no key required to open the lid,
Nothing needed but childish curiosity,
The kind buried deep inside of one’s soul,
Smushed by a corporate ladder and societal weight.

For a second, though, once that box is opened,
The air will smell of a familiar youth,
The world shortly saturated like childhood memories,
Mouths will taste like a muddy creek and skin feel like scraped knees.

When memories are finally found again,
They will not belong to you or I,
But onto another child dodging age,
After all, isn’t to change not but a gift of life?

Dreaming of Another World

Eliana L.

lying around my apartment floor
my friend has passed on
unsaid thoughts cling to my bones like damp forgotten letters or leaves
on the door of a long‑forsaken home
i fell asleep to my tears composing symphonies, harmonizing
with my regrets tinging my conscience
i saw you in a dream
you walked over to my soulless bones
& you were beckoning me
saying i had died inside myself
to come back to life
no matter how wasted in grief i was
you were an angel, a perfect apparition
let me join you,
among the silent bells and flightless birds

Ad Astra Per Tempesta

Fenyx Quinn

Are you lightning,
shooting across the sky?
Are you thunder,
rumbling the heavens asunder?
Is this your alibi?

You were always waiting,
Batman pajamas and arms unfurled.
I was always late into the deep,
your breathing lulling me to sleep,
on a couch doused with lights adventured.

Are you floating,
upon whitecaps of deep blue sea?
Are you crashing waves,
hidden in far off caves?
Is this why you’re slipping from me?

You were chasing birds at the beach,
shovel and pail raking lines behind your hand.
You rebuilt castles pursued by tide,
waves overtaking you, you laughed a war cry;
While my feet were drowning in sinking sand.

Are you flying,
b’twixt birds and stars in the Aether?
Are you conspiring with Einstein,
trying to find the best lines…
in which to forge a better lantern . . .
. . . to formulate a better world?

You were lightning;
In with a babble, out like Georgia thunder.
You were summer rain on my skin.
Out the window, you are falling again;
My soul screams trying to wake you from your quiet slumber.

You are Fleeting,
dripping from my memory.
The loss of you has taken a vengeful toll.
I try to freeze the echoes, but flashes soak through the scroll.
The dots of your last text are still dancing on my screen.

I was on mission chasing tempests.
You were left with fifteen wishes:
That I would be less carefree,
be more about you and me.
But I was living a life with eyes in stitches …

You were the best part of me….
What’s left when the best of me is gone?
You held me together.
You made me a better father.
I should have asked, “What’s your favorite song?”

The Stardance of Dragonflies

Fenyx Quinn

Jasmine. Oh, Jazz of mine.
Inches of petal reaching double-time.
Constellations of pinwheels dancing second line;
Sturdier than jessamine, greener than thyme.

A sweet treat of careless feet—
Echoes, through olfactorial caverns, meet—
Ing synapses of sensations on the downbeat
Of the fingers to a velvet petal, softly to a soul’s weep.

A Dragonfly’s stoop, whimsically aloof
Making off with the pistil’s notes, the only proof
Of an adventure, ravaging nature’s starry-eyed clues;
Tributes to his Damselfly, sunning on the roof.

October Twenty Fourth

Alex Kison

It was subtle at first,
the music grew softer
day by day.

Eventually
it faded without a goodbye.

I had always loved
the way music sounded through a wall,
muffled and mysterious.

There is no wall this time.
Only openness,
the quiet beside me.

Brown Over Blue

Ariyonna Newsome

Smitten
“I’m smitten by you too,” was the first thing he ever said to me.

My 19 year old heart smiled.
I always wanted to be seen not just as cute but as something delicate.
Like I was something you had to speak sweetly to
To get near.

I held on to that word so tightly, smitten.
Like it meant something.
Like if I could hold it in my palm and keep it near,
Maybe I’d finally feel like someone worth loving.

Love wasn’t my testimony.
Love never knocked on my front door.
It preferred back entrances and tinted windows.

So when he said he was smitten
I believed him.
He said it so naturally–maybe he practiced.
He said it effortlessly
Like it made perfect sense to feel that way about me.
But the pit in my stomach wouldn’t let me fully believe it.

Because as a black girl who was I to be smitten by?

My Island

Riane Eshuis

The clear blue sky of my island.
The plump pineapples,
bright as the sun.
I watch the fields;
I hear my brothers and sisters laughing.
In this life, I am still young.

The hazy orange sky of my island.
A cave, darkness,
overtaken.
My father, his rowboat,
like the North Star
guiding me.
I am no longer
young like I once was.

The ever-changing sky of my island.
Wind blows the trees,
as if whispering a secret.
My secret, revealed.
In this life, now he is young.

Petals

S.P. Jones

I blossomed one day
Gleaming pink petals
And a strong-willed stem
I could not be happier

Nor could the strange man
Who inhaled my scent
And picked my freshly grown petals
After my feast with the sun

Twisting and tugging till my roots gave in
Now my pollen on his hands
Forces a bond I could not stand
So, I cannot know me without him

Now my petals wither on strange hands

Dulce Periculum

Hailey Grace Addington

Beauty lies inherent in
how destruction begins.

Glint off blade;
Spark between flint & steel;
Whistle of gleaming bullets;
Cacophony of shattering windows;
Inhale before incoming punch;
Pulse hammering in your ear;
Heat of vivid blood on your hands.

Death of danger only comes
When it stops tasting sweet on your tongue.

A Silent Isolation

Cecelia Janson

While the candle burns bright,
The wind will slip through the cracks,
And force it to catch its breath.

Its sharp tongue will lash out against the window frame,
Bare its animosity against the doors,
And watch unsteady flickering light up the walls.

The cold will seep its way into this house,
Permeate its frame with uncertainty,
And yet,

The candle will remain perched,
If only to bear the cracks,
Of this home beneath its wrists.

The Window to her world

Cecelia Janson

I see that she is made of beauty.
I see the long spindles that curl around her frame so effortlessly.
I see the twin suns that burn ever so brightly in my presence.
I look to those suns, through the window to the woodland of emer ald and green.
It strips me down to my soul, bares me in all of my vulnerability,
And I wonder,
Can she see me in all of my longing,
and does she too hopelessly crave for the window’s latch to come undone?

Solar Nebula’s Collapse

Cecelia Janson

Look at me, so that I may bask in the sun,
And curl up in your features’ warm embrace.

Look at me, my love, so that I may lie in the fire all consuming,
Let it sear my flesh and expose my aching heart.

Look at me, for there is no light like your eyes,
No flame like your soul,
No heat like your fervent touch.

Look at me, and my reality you all encompass,
For you, my love, were born the sun.

Water

Sarah Melton

Dark blue, Dark green
Sun shines through

Light blue, Light green
Sun dances
Colors revealed

Light green, Dark green
Grass waves
Algae holds

Shimmer, Ripple
A movement
A fin
A diamond coat
A slender body

Light blue, White blue
Falling, A voice
Running, Moving

Small, A Dimond
Many
Pure
Drink deep
New life

Ebb, Flow
End of land
Many paths
All reach
Some finish

The Queen’s Ball

Sarah Melton

A battle where smiles are bared fangs and laughter is a war cry. She knows when a bow is a blow and when a word is a wound.
The board is set with white laced fingers, but the pieces are moved by bloodied hands.
She adorns herself in flattery and pins her hair with lies. Her dress glints cold as her smile, her nails as stained as her lips.
She performs the intricate, inescapable dance around the room with the grace of a peacock,
But with the eye of a tigress.

The Sickness Industry

Jonathan Kunz

Nobody got sick anymore. It started gradually. There were fewer flu cases, hospitals saw fewer patients, and drug companies struggled as they saw their products sit untouched. Within a year, every known illness was cured. Cancer, diabetes, and even the common cold were gone. Scientists had no explanation. Some called it evolution, others whispered of divine intervention. But the truth was simpler and more terrifying: the disease was gone. No explanation. No warning. It was as if sickness itself had been erased overnight. For most, this was a blessing. For the pharmaceutical industry, this was a disaster. For centuries, drug companies had built an empire on illness—pills, treatments, vaccines. They controlled hospitals, insurance, and even policymakers. But as disease vanished, so did their grip. Profits bled, stocks plummeted, and for the first time in history, the industry faced an unthinkable crisis: a world that didn’t need it.
At first, Big Pharma fought it. Misinformation campaigns warned of hidden outbreaks and misdiagnosed conditions. Doctors were urged to push the unnecessary tests. They even released new medications, claiming they could prevent these “silent” illnesses. But even when the most anxious patients stopped believing, panic spread throughout the industry. That’s when the industry made its move. If disease no longer existed, they would manufacture it.
The first artificial illness was simple. They called it the “NeuroFlux Syndrome.” The symptoms? Headaches. Fatigue. Trouble concentrating. Mundane inconveniences. Until they weren’t. Until they became warning signs. The industry knew the trick: reframe the ordinary as ominous, and soon, no one would feel safe. Studies, funded by the industry, linked these common issues to a “newly discovered” neurological disorder. Public figures shared stories of how NeuroFlux had ruined their lives. Celebrities urged people to “listen to their bodies.”
It worked. Millions convinced themselves they had NeuroFlux and demanded treatment. In response, drug companies, ready as ever, introduced Neuropraxol, said to be a “breakthrough” pill. In reality, it was just a mild stimulant, no different from caffeine, but that didn’t matter. Stocks soared, and business was booming. But one disease wasn’t enough.
Next came AquaTox, a “waterborne virus” that supposedly built up over time, and led to organ failure. “Experts” on news panels warned that even small amounts of unfiltered water would lead to silent damage of internal organs. Parents were urged to only give their children bottled or filtered water, creating a demand for industry-backed purification systems. Water filters labeled as “essential” hit the market. Governments, eager to show the public they were dedicated to public health, made these mandatory.
Then came DegenX, a disorder blamed on “genetic deterioration.” The symptoms? Aging. Advertisements played on fears of looking older, saying wrinkles and fatigue are early signs of an irreversible condition. Clinics offered genetic testing, claiming to predict how quickly someone’s “deterioration” would progress, and the predictions would always recommend expensive treatments to slow the inevitable. The solution? An anti-aging cream that wouldn’t do anything more than hydrate your skin. The industry found its new model: not curing disease, but creating it.
This didn’t stop there. With the foundation of these diseases set, new illnesses arose faster than ever. Digital Eye Strain Disorder, said to be caused by excessive screen time, required expensive blue-light blocking procedures. Climate Fatigue Disorder, said to be linked to the worsening climate change, justified a new class of daily medication. Each new condition went through the same cycle; fear, demand, treatment, and profit.
As the market expanded, so did the complexity of illnesses. Social Wellness Deficiency, a fake mental disorder, claims insufficient socialization leads to mental decline. The solution? Mandatory therapy and social stimulation programs are marketed through corporate-sponsored programs. Then came Synthetic Sleep Disorder, in which sleeping naturally was claimed ineffective without industry “sleep stabilizers.” Soon, even basic human functions required oversight.
Not everyone agreed within the industry.
Dr. Jocelyn Park had always been driven by a singular purpose; to heal. Growing up in a small town where her grandma had succumbed to a rare lung disease, Jocelyn vowed to dedicate her life to medical research. She excelled in her studies and was scheduled to graduate the spring of that same year with a PhD in immunology. Days before walking the stage, the final illness had disappeared. She walked the stage, unsure of what would come next, but happy that the diseases that she dedicated her life to were gone. When the diseases reappeared, Dr. Park was quickly recruited to one of the world’s most prominent pharmaceutical industries, NovaVita Pharmaceuticals. The labs were state of the art, funding was limitless, and the promise of groundbreaking discoveries seemed within reach. She believed she was in something good, fighting against human suffering. But, over time, cracks began to show. The company’s priorities shifted subtly. Projects that didn’t promise immediate profit were immediately shelved while other questionable projects were fast-tracked. Jocelyn noticed executives speak less and less about curing diseases and talking more and more about “market potential” and “revenue streams.” She told herself it was normal. That research needed funding, that breakthroughs took time. That the whispers of profit margins and “market expansion” were just business necessities, not red flags. Hope is hard to kill, even when the evidence is right in front of you. That hope died the day she stumbled upon Project PulmoSyth.
The lab was silent except for the hum of the servers. Jocelyn rubbed her eyes, the glow of the monitor the only light in the room. She had stayed late to finish analyzing data for a vaccine trial—a project that had been shelved months ago but still haunted her. As she scrolled through the files, her cursor hovered over a folder labeled ‘PulmoSyth Initiative.’ Restricted access. She shouldn’t have been able to see it.
Her finger twitched over the mouse. She glanced at the door. Then back at the screen. Curiosity burned in her chest, sharper than exhaustion. She clicked.
The documents loaded slowly, each page revealing a new layer of horror. PulmoSyth wasn’t a disease. It was a weapon. A weapon designed to mimic respiratory failure, to create panic, to sell solutions. Her stomach turned as she read the timeline: release the agent, wait for the news reports, roll out the masks and supplements. Profit.
She leaned back in her chair, her breath shallow. This wasn’t medicine. This was madness. Jocelyn knew she couldn’t stay silent. She copied the files onto a flash drive, her hands trembling as she uploaded the documents to the internet. She expected the world to wake up. Instead, people doubted her.
Years of propaganda had caused the public to believe the industry over whistleblowers. “Experts” dismissed her as a “disgruntled former employee.” News networks funded by drug company ads labeled her as unstable. Few still believed, but not enough. Then, she disappeared.
The industry tightened its grip, expanding beyond physical disease to fabricate mental illnesses, allergies, and environmental conditions. Schools mandated “preventative” medications, barring children from activities if their parents refused. Employers dismissed applicants with low Wellness Compliance Scores, prioritizing those who strictly followed treatment plans. Governments shaped policies around industry-funded research, enforcing annual “health optimization” checkups with fines for noncompliance. Insurance only covered those adhering to the latest prescribed regimens. Once optional fitness trackers became mandatory for “early detection,” buzzing with reminders to take pills or adjust posture. Those who questioned diagnoses were labeled reckless, their refusal framed as a threat to public well-being. Social pressure kept people in line. Corporations controlled their habits. Governments enforced the rest. Disobedience wasn’t punished. It was corrected. Health was no longer a choice but a duty.
Over time, a new cultural shift happened. People no longer questioned illness. Being “at risk” was the same as being sick. People lined up for the latest medications, subscribed to health maintenance programs, and avoided anything deemed a potential trigger for the newly emerging conditions.
The industry’s influence reached into all aspects of life. Dating apps added “certified health status” as a requirement for matching. Schools tracked children’s biometric data to ensure they met the wellness standards. Workplaces introduced health-based performance monitoring, docking pay from employees who failed to meet the wellness benchmarks. Even leisure was affected. Vacation resorts required medical approval before allowing guests to book a stay.
Religious groups who were once skeptical, adapted to the new reality, integrating health compliance into doctrine. Those who refused treatment were cast as heretics, and their rejection of medical guidance was seen as a threat to society. Health had become not just an industry, but a belief system.
The industry had found the ultimate condition: life itself. Every breath carried unseen risks, every emotion was a symptom, every thought needed treatment. To live was to be sick, and to be sick was to obey. The perfect system. The perfect prison. And no one even knew they were trapped.

Evergreen Detective Agency (case #13: Spooked Senseless)

Lilyanna Babien

“O-kay!” I announce through gritted teeth as I attempt to pry open the large Victorian door with only my shoulder. “I got your—StarRock order—erk—a Pumpkin Creme—cold brew, oof!” My body stumbles through the entry. “Venti, of course . . . though I feel like I’m going to regret that.” I set down my StarRock “offerings” on the first writing desk of Mrs. Eugenia Carmen’s vast library. Loads of books of fiction and nonfiction span the room, filled with galaxies of knowledge to explore. Two desks stand on either side of the library and a cozy couch set lies in the center, creating the feel of a friendly study. To this day I still can’t believe how generous she was to let us use it as both an office and living space. It was only a short case after all. Guess the old cliché of “what goes around comes around” isn’t far off.
I proudly dust off my hands from carrying the bagged burden. “And, we got two sets of peppered egg bites and some croissants for your afternoon snacks.” I look up and tiredly smile at my not-so-tired co-worker. “Did I miss anything?”
Juniper Greene slows down her rapid chair-spinning to return my gaze. Her alluring, cat-shaped set of emerald eyes meet mine through her (ironically cat-eyed) glasses. A sparkle of playful mischief flashes as she returns the smile. The way those eyes accent her swan-colored skin and coffee-black hair gives her a sort of unnatural beauty. Not plastic, but rather otherworldly.
“Awww . . . you know me so well!” June replies as she scoots her chair up to snatch a croissant. She tears into it furiously but not messily, and follows with a grateful swallow. “Thank you my dear Theodis!” she exclaims gleefully. I nod back. She may be a vampire1 but she isn’t a monster.
But today, this little vampire seems a bit more hyper than usual, which means one of three things: a cute cat video she found on social media, too much caffeine intake (hence my regrets for getting her more espresso), or a new case.
“We got a new case to crack, by the way.” June sing-songs and she spins around once more. “Guess who?”
“If it’s someone on Instatweet or Hutube, I’m not going to know them.”
She scoffs disappointedly, “For a scholar who literally lives in college merch,” She gestures at my collared, magenta, Astoria University sweatshirt. “You really need to broaden your horizons. You can learn just as much from the internet.” June turns her computer screen towards me, showing a professionally-written email from a Barbara Spencer:

Dear members of the Evergreen Detective Agency,
My name is Barbara Spencer, the video editor for Lively’s own paranormal investigator, Jay Morales (@spooked_senseless). I expected to receive the video footage from the Astorian Hell-House last Sunday, but got no response. For someone in the younger generation, he’s usually punctual. After three days of no response, I flew to Astoria myself to find that he had mysteriously died from a heart attack. According to the police and hospital services, there is a chance that his vaping habit was to blame. I, on the other hand, suspect there was foul play here. Or perhaps, though I fear to think about it, he got scared to death by an unnatural force. Either way, I would be very grateful if you were to investigate this matter. I have attached below the address, the released police notes, Jay’s Instatweet account, and the video footage captured before the heart attack. Once you report your findings, I will VenPal you my pay.
Sincerely,
Barbara Spencer
bspenc@coldmail.com
503-666-1031
Spencer Editing Services:
23 NE Whimsy Rd., San Francisco, CA, 94102
(4 Attachments)

“Astoria Hell-House . . . I think I did a report of that freshman year. It’s the famous haunted house on Morse Drive. It’s the one with the legend about Pandora’s Box and the family that all died horrific deaths.”
“That’s the one!” June exclaims with a fanged grin (filed canines forced by the cult). “Perfect for the spooky season!”
“Are you sure that it’s actually haunted though?” I inquire with a doubtful smile. “A lot of haunted houses nowadays are just attractions made to scam customers.”
“You’ve been told that vampires aren’t real, and yet . . .” She motions to herself. “Here I am!”
“Hmmm . . . Fair enough.” I glance down at my vitiligo-speckled brown wrist to check my Banana watch. “But I still think we should do whatever research we can today before diving head-first into this possible ghost adventure.”
“Aye-aye cap’n!”
***
After a day of research and waiting to get permission from the police station to enter the scene, Juniper and I drive off to investigate the infamous Astoria Hell-House. Upon reviewing the attachments Ms. Spencer sent, we have learned a few, possibly vital, pieces of evidence:
-Jay had arrived in Astoria on Friday at 6:50 a.m. (from a 5:00 a.m. flight). He entered his hotel at 7:30 a.m., and had spent the rest of the day prepping in his room. The next day, he explored Astoria from 10:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. (all of the places and interactions during this period have been documented), went to a bar called The Sea Shanty until 10:00 p.m., then left to film the house. The police already compiled a list of people he interacted with during his visit there. A few of them witnessed him sitting with a blond woman in a purple trench coat. There was nothing conspicuous about his conversation with the woman, and no one could identify her. She may just be a random fan sharing a meal.
-According to the few video clips we have, he had recorded various bits and pieces up until 3:00 a.m.—when all of a sudden, you can hear distant noises in the background, see a look of shock on his face, and the video cuts out. The time of death was 3:05 a.m.
-His editors, friends, and family all have clean alibis, but according to his messages, he was no stranger to the occasional death threat and over-the-top confession.
We eventually turn onto a private road that crawls into a deserted, misty hillside. We do live in the Pacific Northwest, so the “Tim Burton film aesthetic of our weather” (as June calls it) is not completely unexpected. However, the comfortable autumn chill turns sharper and the atmosphere feels more monochromatic as we ascend higher. Arriving at the house—though it’s less of a house and more of a 19th century plantation mansion—a feeling of slight uncertainty tingles across my spine. Just like the “atmosphere” the exterior is in shades of black-and-white; the oddly-clean paint is silver, and the door is a brown-kissed grey. The only shade of color in this land is the blood-red of the oleander flowers surrounding the perimeter. Through the closed window panes, moth-eaten drapes can be seen shielding the inside of the house from view. This place reeks of dread; its presence reminds me of a vampire (not Juniper’s kind), evil withstanding the test of time. I glance towards my partner in the passenger seat, who looks as concerned as I am until she catches me watching her, to which she quickly changes into a more confident and teasing demeanor.
“Scared, schoolboy?”
I push up my “schoolboy” glasses and shuffle myself up a little straighter. “Well, a little bit surprised by the well-kept condition of a 200 year-old, abandoned house, but no.”
“Uh huh, right.”
“Besides, I brought some useful supplies for the occasion.” We get out of the Supermuse and I reach into the trunk for a school-sized backpack of tools. I unzip the first pocket. “Two flashlights.” I put the flashlights back and start rummaging through the main pocket. “A high quality tape recorder. A temperature data logger . . . a pack of extra batteries . . . gloves and bags, some—erk—waters and snacks, and . . . my brand new Shock-brand taser.”
June crosses her arms into the crevices of her long, black trench coat and tilts her head playfully. The “ears” on her red beanie accompanied by the head-tilt actually reminds me of how my childhood cat would act whenever he wanted attention. “A taser? Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“We’re looking at a possible ghost encounter. Not a group of gang members.”
“You could never be too careful.” I inquire. “Besides, that armed robbery from last week was not too far away from here. They still have yet to catch them.”
“This isn’t an armed robbery though.” She motions her tawny-colored, fingerless gloves towards the mansion. “This is an empty house surrounded by cops. There is no way someone is getting in or out of the place except us.”
“Again, you never know.”
After packing up all of the supplies and donning our trench coat and down jacket, we enter the Hell-House. According to my freshman essay and our recent research, this house used to belong to a wealthy family called the Paxtons. They came to Astoria in 1881 in search of a nice beach home, and with their bundles of cash they built this place. All was well and peaceful, until one day, the young son and daughter went digging in the backyard and found a beautiful jewelry box. The parents were superstitious and told the children not to open it. But, in typical “urban legend fashion”, the young boy let his curiosity get the best of him. The following week, the family got into a terrible automobile accident. The only one who survived was the young boy, Timothy Paxton. His son, Riley Paxton, was the last owner of the house; he died in 1993. Riley’s family does still live in Astoria, but according to records, they weren’t in contact with Riley during his last years of having Alzheimer’s. Nobody has lived—let alone entered—in this place for years. Well, until Jay Morales of course.
Walking through Paxton’s old home is like walking through a time capsule. The sitting room is all kush and lavished with furniture from the late 1800s. Entering the kitchen feels more like entering a home of bountiful feasts than gruesome deaths. Each room looked more welcoming than the next (even with the dimmed lighting . . . surprising that there is any at all) There weren’t any cobwebs, dust, or satanic objects in sight. So why is everyone so afraid of this place?
“This section of the house looks like a dead-end; I can’t even sense anything off.” Juniper notes. I type in my phone: Possible caretaker. Who is that? June then follows up with, “Let’s check upstairs in the children’s rooms.”
I nod and we head towards the stairway.
Here, we start to experience more of that “horror movie feel.” The stairs, unlike the lower floor, look more untidy and rickety. The steps are dusty and the railing looks untrustworthy with its shaky strength. Juniper claims that she could see that the base of the railing had been banged up. I don’t feel so safe as my ears perk up at the cricks of each footstep.
There is a long hallway separating the two bedrooms. Timothy’s room stands on the left and his sister’s, Holly’s, is on the right. Despite my reluctance to do so, the two of us split up to investigate each bedroom. I take Timothy’s— a small playroom highlighted with ugly, stained, yellow wallpaper. Old stuffies are thrown violently across the floor. A small bed with a twisted blanket is stationed on the left side of the room, and a desk with scribbled drawings stationed on the right. A cold chill gently blows around my tight bun of dreadlocks, licking the nape of my neck. I quickly turn in the direction of the wind, and see that the window (which was previously closed) is wide open, with drapes dancing like maiden spirits. I go to shut the window when I suddenly hear a wrenching screech from the rocking horse nearby. I hurriedly jot down notes in my phone, and book it out of there.
When I shut the door, I immediately meet the eyes of my surprised co-worker.
“Just a scam, right?”
“Alright, I admit it,” I surrender. “This place does give off an unwelcoming air. How was your bedroom? As haunted as mine, I suppose?”
“Yup!” She agrees. “Creepy dolls, tears on the walls, the whole shebang. Interestingly enough though, my nose found an empty leftovers box from the Sea Shanty. It was kicked underneath the bed. Even better, there’s a receipt too.”
I grab the gloves and bags from my pack and safely collect the box. I hand the box over to June to see if she can sniff something out. Looking at the receipt, I see the buyer (most likely the fan) paid in with a credit card, though it’s strange that Jay would even have it if he didn’t pay for it. It looks like there was no alcoholic drink ordered. My eyes stop scanning the list to land on a signature. It’s obviously not Jay’s; unfortunately, I can’t make out the name. The first word is an “A” followed by some squiggles. The next word is a “P”, followed by some more squiggles. I can help but notice that for the second word, there’s a line diagonally crossing the illegible letters (like an “X”). Why does that seem familiar?
“Hey Theo! Do burgers usually have floral accents?” June questions as she points at some paper-thin, red crumbs. “I’m catching a light, perfumey-yet-citrusy scent. Kind of apricot-y, tea-like . . .” She snaps her fingers and then points at me. “Like iced peach tea!”
“Yeah,” I pause as another wave of distant familiarity flows over me. “Unless the cooks are expanding their culinary horizons, that’s possibly worth investigating.”
After telling her about the signature and receipt, we finish bagging-up our findings and look up at the looming threat that is the attic. The last room in the house. The last room that Jay ever got to stream from. If any sort of ghost exists in the Hell-House, I’m guessing that this is its sanctuary.
If we thought the stairs were bad, the ladder descending down from the attic looks worse. After I carefully arrive at the top, I look down to my horror to see June attempting to recover from falling through one of the steps. She says that she noticed saw-marks right before the step detached. It takes her 2 minutes to get up with my assistance. The interior is just what you would expect from a spooky, abandoned house in the middle-of-nowhere: dusty antiques, creepy-crawlies skittering across the floorboards, and boxes with some questionable labels.
“Well,” I sigh. “It’s time to put an end to this nightmare. Let’s get digging.”
Both of us nervously gulp and steadily wander around the attic. According to the temperature log, this loft is colder than the rest of the house; that’s not a surprise, but up here it feels like a different kind of cold . . . more “internal” rather than “external”. Looking through the Paxtons’ possibly “touched” items doesn’t make me feel any better. The flickering bulbs, the uneven flooring . . . am I working on a cold case or an episode of Ghost Seekers?
“Do you hear that, Theo?” June suddenly blurts. An eerie squeal breaks through the air, loud enough for non-vampiric ears. It kind of reminds me of the noise heard in Jay’s video. Guess this noise isn’t just in my head.
I turn towards the back of the attic and to my surprise, see the holder of Hell itself: Pandora’s Box. I tap June’s shoulder and point in the direction of the box. The case is engulfed in cherry-velvet and glittery gold. Out of the whole stock, this antique looks . . . alluring. My partner approaches it and unexpectedly starts to open the latch. I panic and start pulling her away, but it’s too late. The cat became too curious. Suddenly, a hellish-looking specter drops down in front of our faces, and we scream. Our yells of terror quiet down as we slowly realize that the specter is made of fabric and paint, not evil energy.
“Wait, if the ghosts don’t exist . . . ” I ask. “Then, what’s in the box?” June clicks open the latch to reveal not horrors, but answers.

“Miss Agnes Paxton? May we speak to you for a moment?” I knock at House 201, a few streets down from the Astoria Hell-House.
A woman of about 50 (wrapped in a purple bathrobe) reluctantly opens the door. I can see her hiding a look of confusion with a pleasant smile. “Yes, what can I do for you two?”
“Would you care to come out for a stroll with the police department?” Juniper cooly says. “Have a little chat about how you stole a large sum of money from the bank and murdered a Lively Star. In the same week, no less?”
“Wha—I don’t understand.”
“You’re one of the grandchildren of Riley Paxton. Correct?” I ask.
“Well, yes, but I still don’t see how this crime concerns me.”
“Despite the family disconnecting from him because of Alzheimer’s, you still were close to him, weren’t you? You visited him during the last days of his life. You cared for him so much that even after his death, you took care of his old mansion from time to time.”
“The Astoria Hell-House is a pretty well-known ghost story,” Juniper added. “Everyone tries to steer clear of the house. But you knew the house wasn’t cursed! The car crash was caused by a drunk driver after all! Regardless, you decided to take advantage of that.”
“Not only do you have free access to your family legacy, but a perfect hiding spot for some stolen goods. What you didn’t expect though was a budding social media star to come check out the place. So, you stalked his account, “ran into him” on the street, and bought him a nice, delicious burger spiked with oleander.”
“The toxicology reports confirm it. Plus, I had a closer look at the bushes out front, and some of the petals were cut-off.” Juniper sarcastically holds her hand up to her face and gasps. “Huh, wonder where they went?”
“After ingesting the toxins from the oleander, his heart was weakened. All you had to do was hurriedly set up the house with Halloween tricks. The white noise machine, a window mechanism . . . some mood-setting to set the stage for the grand finale. Ironic how the death of him was just a cheap ghost prop and some flowers.”
“This all sounds like a nice little story,” Agnes sing-songs. “But where’s the proof? If I was the one who met up with him in the bar, then why am I only being identified now? Also, I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m not blonde.”
“How did you know the hair color of the woman who dined with him?” I smoothly say.
Funny how one word can make all of the difference. Her face fades into a ghostly-pale hue as she realizes what she’d done.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Jay Morales and the robbery of Astoria Bank,” a policeman breaks in. He hauls her out from the doorway, cuffing her hands and reading her her rights as they depart into the squad car.
“A wig and some clothes would do the trick.” answered Juniper over her shoulder. As the police and Agnes walk away, she yells, “FYI, if you hadn’t left the takeout box with a receipt that just happens to have your signature written across it, YOU COULD HAVE GOTTEN AWAY WITH IT!”
Disappointed that Agnes might have missed her message, she turns to me and tsks. “I can’t believe she didn’t pay attention when she wrote a signature. Such a calculated crime to be foiled just like that.”
“Well,” I say, “People don’t really pay attention to that sort of thing. It’s a mindless task.”
I cock my eyebrows as I tease my partner, “Guess what friend? No, ghosts. No evil box. Just. A. Scam.”
“Okay, brave soldier.” June replies. “In that case, you wouldn’t be opposed to watching Awakened tonight?” She nudges me playfully.
“Not a chance.”

1When Juniper was a young student at the New England Art College, she was in search of a cure. For what problem? I can’t tell. June then came upon a secret health society promising solutions to all who seek it. Unfortunately, she realized it was a scam too late when they injected her with Formula 713, known as the Vampiric Enzyme. Luckily she had escaped on the first train to the West Coast, and got the chance to start off fresh, but not without sacrifices. She has to eat twice as much as a regular individual to make up for increased metabolism. This fortunately gives her heightened senses and increased agility when needed. With her vampiric abilities and sense of creativity and my specialty for research and puzzle-solving, we have created The Evergreen Detective Agency, an Astorian investigative group for those in need.

Paradiso

Dawson Sprinkle

The warm scirocco blew in from the south. The chimes in its path sang, and the water lapped like a dog against the side of the house. It was always the warm wind that woke him in the early morning. The wind came directly from the sun, that was his theory, for certainly the wind couldn’t come from anywhere else. There was nowhere else, just the house and the sea. This was made abundantly clear to him by his father and his mother who, as far as he could tell or cared to know, had lived in the house forever. He didn’t question why he was here, and he certainly didn’t speculate the day his parents disappeared. Died perhaps? The books on his shelf spoke of death and he understood it as a concept, but he didn’t feel grief or sadness or rage.
He didn’t feel any of these things. Much like everything else in his life, it simply happened and moved on. For a few years now, he had lived alone. He tended to the house, when need be, the shingles on the roof had a tendency to fall off due to the violent winds of the winter months; he picked the ripe fruit from the tree growing out of the east wall in the courtyard; fished when he felt like it; studied endlessly by reading great novels and poems as if he were to be tested, though by whom he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t seen another person since his parents went away.
This day, like any other day, he went about his morning routing, plucking a ripe orange from the tree. Tomorrow, he would pluck another. They were always ripe, something else he didn’t think too hard about. After eating the orange, he sat at the front gate of the house and stared into the endless sea in front of him. The warm water beckoned him in, but he would not go. Suddenly, movement in the water. A small fish no bigger than his forearm. He picked up the large sharp wooden pole he kept near the gate, and stabbed quickly down into the water. The fish writhed on the tip of his makeshift spear, but not for very long. He returned to the house with his catch and prepared the fish which he ate along with some peppers, cheese, and bread from the pantry. He ate the food slowly, savoring the rich flavors of the cheese especially. These things all made him content, as did most of everything in the house.
His days went on like this: rising with the sun and its wind, eating his meals, reading and writing, and enjoying paradise. Paradiso, his parents would call it sometimes; they explained to him that it meant “paradise” but wouldn’t (or couldn’t) explain why the concept of paradise had two words that both sounded similar and had the same meaning. They simply told him not to dwell on it, and he had done his best ever since. Today would be no different. Perhaps he would prune the tree, though it really didn’t need it. Perhaps he would wash and dry his clothes, but they really didn’t need it either. They were always soft and fresh as if he had never worn them. Sometimes he did these basic tasks just because. Hanging his flowy tunics on the line, jarring the peaches that sometimes were in the pantry or jarring the oranges that were never in the pantry but always on the tree outside. The simple tasks brought him joy.
He stood in the courtyard, admiring the garden when he spotted something. He saw it out of a window through a nearby doorway. His favorite window, incidentally: he always thought it had a better view than the other windows, not that the view was really any different. It was a boat, or at least what was left of one. He had heard about boats in his books, even seen illustrations in some of them like Gulliver’s Travels, but he had certainly never seen one. It was wooden and painted white and blue. A man was on the deck; he couldn’t make out much about the man at this distance, but the boat was rapidly approaching.
He ran to fetch a rope and stake from the cellar as the boat floated towards him. The rope was meant for mooring a boat; he knew this, though how he wasn’t quite sure. When he finally returned from the cellar, the ship was nearly banging against the walls of the house, so he tied one end of the rope to the stake and tossed the other to the stranger standing on the deck.
Finally disembarked, the stranger approached wearily, his sea legs still bobbing, not used to the land, and asked, “What is your name?”
Names, what a funny concept! he thought. All the characters in his books had names of course, but his father and mother simply called him Son, and Son isn’t a name. Quickly, he wracked his brain for a name that he could give the stranger, perhaps an object? A character from a book? An author? The silence had stretched for too long, and the stranger was looking at him with a suspicious expression.
Finally, after waiting a half second longer, “Florian” tumbled out, which wasn’t a name he particularly liked, but he felt it suited him.
“Florian?” The stranger repeated with a slow tilt of the head. He corrected his neck and stuck out his hand. “Gino,” He said with a nod.
Florian wasn’t quite sure what to do with Gino’s hand, which now lingered in the air between them. His skin was deeply tanned, and his hands were quite leathery, Likely, Florian thought, because of long hours in the sun out at sea.
Gino wore a strange, green sweater, and large, wide, brown pants cuffed at the bottom with leather sandals. Florian felt that his outfit was indeed very strange. Gino had thought to himself that Florian’s outfit was also strange, straight from a museum really, with the patterned red and blue tunic and sandals. It wasn’t just Florian who looked rather historic; Gino had noticed the style of the building, which somehow sat miraculously atop the water, was like a small Tuscan villa which wouldn’t be out of place in the countryside but was distinctly out of place in the middle of the Mediterranean.
Gino finally dropped his hand after Florian stared at it for what felt like a year.
“Are you hungry?” Florian finally asked.
Gino nodded quite vigorously. Florian led him through red halls with vibrant frescoes on the walls and into the kitchen where he pulled an assortment of cheese, wine, and meat from the cupboard.
“Where is all that from?” Gino asked. He certainly hadn’t noticed any goats or grapes in the courtyard.
“The cupboard.” Florian felt this was rather obvious.
“Well yes, obviously you got them from the cupboard, but how did they get there?”
Florian had to think about that question. He wasn’t quite sure. Every morning there was simply more food in the cupboard. It never spoilt and it was always fresh.
“I’m not sure actually. I’ve never really given it much thought,” Florian replied. Gino found this surprising. If his fishing boat magically filled with fish every morning, his life would be considerably better.
“Tell me Gino, how did you get out here?” Florian was dying with curiosity. Nothing, not even so much as a speck, had ever appeared on the horizon, and now a real, actual person was standing in front of him.
Gino thought back to the previous day. Flashes of a terrible storm, horrible wind and rain that battered and carried him far out to sea. “I was blown off course quite a ways while fishing out at sea. I was trying to beat the storm.” He added the last part with a chuckle.
Gino explained his home as well after being asked. He lived in a small town in a place called Sicily, his grandfather and father were both fishermen, Gino was a fisherman too but was taken by the Fascisti to fight in their war for a time. Florian knew of war from his books, but this word, Fascisti, was completely foreign to him. Gino had spat the word out like it tasted foul. Florian exchanged stories of his own, of his mother and father, but his stories were far fewer and less interesting than Gino’s stories of war and the sea.
That night, Florian dreamt of the house and his parents, just as he did every night. When the sun rose and the wind came, Gino was already up and surveying the damage to his vessel, having dragged it out of the water and into the courtyard.
“Some of the boards are snapped or damaged, it’s got more than a few leaks, and the engine is totally shot. I don’t suppose you’ve got spare parts laying around, eh?”
Florian inspected the ship closer. The hull of the boat could be repaired with the supplies he used to repair the house, the holes could easily be sealed, but whatever this engine device was seemed entirely foreign.
“I have plenty of supplies to repair your boat Gino, but without a mast or a sail you won’t be going anywhere.”
“Oh, this old girl hasn’t had a mast or sail in years. Me and my father tore it out and retrofitted it with that motor.” He pointed at a large metal block at the back of the boat. Another object Florian had never seen. This motor fascinated him. Was the world Gino came from full of things like this? The prospect of this worked to just increase Florian’s curiosity.
“How does this motor work?” He stumbled over the word, motor. It rolled around in his mouth like a heavy stone, unfamiliar and clunky.
“Well, you put fuel in the tank and turn the key, then the motor burns the fuel into exhaust, which comes out of that pipe there, and turns the propeller which moves the boat. That’s the gist, anyway.” His explanation made sense to Florian, and he sounded very confident, which he quite liked. He was so used to learning things only from silent books after his parents left, he had forgotten how cathartic it was to learn from another person.
After breakfast, which at this point was happening at nearly midday, something Gino lovingly called brunch, another unfamiliar yet charming word to Florian the two men began working on the boat. Florian fetched spackling paste, rope, nails, and some wood from storage. By the time he had emerged from the house, a new strange noise was coming from the boat. He could swear he heard another person, and this person was singing?
“Gino? Is that you singing?”
“No! Just the radio!”
By this point, he had reached the boat, and he could see this radio. It was another metal box, but this one had a large metal wire sticking out of the top of it. The radio was singing. Florian quite liked the song it was playing. He liked music and could play a bit on the flute, but this was something else entirely. Multiple instruments and musicians played in one beautiful harmony. He didn’t know music could sound like that. It was entirely unlike anything he had ever felt before. The music reminded him of the sun as it dipped below the horizon, and the last breath of warmth before the moon arose and brought its cold winds.
“Does this music play where you are from?”
Gino looked at him and smiled. “Oh yes! This music and lots of others. These days, you can even pick up some American stations if you’re lucky.”
He spun a dial on the front, and the music became garbled before coming back playing something else entirely. Florian realized the man talking in the radio was speaking a language he had never heard before. He was in awe.
They continued working on the boat, patching holes and replacing boards until the sun set. They ate dinner together, Florian listened intently to Gino’s stories of his time abroad, and of his cousins that now lived in America. He asked all sorts of questions, and each answer was more interesting than the last, even if the topic was rather dull. That night, after they had said goodnight, Florian snuck out of his room and turned on the radio. He felt like a small child, like he was doing something he wasn’t supposed to after bedtime. He turned the dials and listened to all sorts of music: songs with vocals, songs that were upbeat, songs that had a slower tempo. He fell asleep there, with the songs intruding on his brief dreams of the world beyond the walls of the house. Florian had never struggled with sleep; it always came easy to him. But tonight, with the boat nearly sea worthy again he found himself tossing and turning, skin prickly with anxiety and anticipation. Tomorrow, he decided, I am going to ask to accompany Gino on the voyage back to his home.

ZIN FULL

McKenna Horner

What would’ve been my first steps on the Apex Ring, after years of straining my neck looking up, instead ended with me experiencing my first time in a cell. There was still what I had assumed was dried mud on my cargo pants, flaking off each time I went to stretch my legs. Even with plenty of light creeping in from the outside, shaping my uniform’s silhouette as I paced from wall to wall, my cell was much smaller than the dorm room I got used to over the years. At least there, we didn’t have a toilet in the corner of our room.
Back on Earth I always waited till it was night out to go look at the Apex. Only then could you really see it for what it was—privilege. Power for some, but survival for all. Earth was dying, everyone knew it. Most noticeably, it was after fungi started attaching itself to our neighbors and the raindrops stung rather than replenished. When we first caught wind of this “irreversible stage of destruction” is when the Apex Ring started becoming a reality. The whole idea started off as a drunk after thought, created by an engineer named Kelvin Smith. Even in his intoxicated state, he knew it was a plausible solution to the dying planet, but his friend sitting right next to him, Davis Thumble, was the reason Kelvin even remembered the idea come morning. That was the start of the Apex … a drunk, slurred after thought, not fully realizing the consequences that would come with it.
When the Apex was being built, every nation made sure to get their dried, cracked hands on it, ensuring their placement once it was finished; they knew there wasn’t going to be much Earth left for them afterwards, anyway.
Today, however, only those who were given what is known as the “Zenith Inheritance Network”—ZIN for short—are aboard the Apex. Dion Malwear, a mad scientist, created what he believed was the solution to humanity’s flaws. He saw our limited intellectual and evolutionary capabilities, and decided to change that. Fascinated with the concept and usage of AI, he grew his own—feeding it constant information for years in his lab before he started his first trials of ZIN. One of his experiments involved him feeding his AI into his blood stream through nanobots, hoping to make himself part AI. Needless to say: it worked—sort of.
Due to what he later realized was because of his A negative blood type, Dion gained certain … abilities relating to electrokinesis. Creating and manipulating electricity was not the initial hypothesis Dion had, but his new abilities did give him additional motivation to continue.
His next experiment was his wife, unbeknownst to the child in her womb, to which they both gained special abilities upon his daughter’s arrival. But it was his daughter, Thalia, that had shaken up any hypothesis he could’ve created. With her O negative blood type, she had the power to (what we now call) memory sync: Through physical touch only, Thalia could upload memories from people or machines, granting her a skill temporarily if she chooses, as well as being able to see someone’s last moments before their death. Due to this ability, Thalia became just as clever as her father before the age of 12.
With Dion’s specialized family, they were able to be one of the first families to take a round trip up to the Apex Ring. But little did everyone else know, Dion and his childhood best friend, Kelvin, initiated a plan that would curse more than half of the future human species.
I, on the other hand, was lucky enough to be born with ZIN, being able to escape the doomed planet and go to a place called Nyx Academy. This is where all children with ZIN ended up before being allowed proper citizenship on the Apex. Nyx Academy is for what normal people call the “modded” kids. Well, us “mods” shortened the nickname—feels less like a personal attack this way. Anyway, this academy sits in between Earth’s orbit and the Apex, acting as a one way bridge that every person aboard the Apex had to go through. It allowed for everyone to master their abilities before living in the artificial utopia. And it’s where I had spent countless hours training, forming my ability to be one of the greatest.
At the academy, I fell under the B- model: focusing on manipulating a person’s bioelectric coding, including my own. This would come in handy if I got injured during physics class, or when an A- kid, who can control electricity, ended up shocking another too much to the point of cardiac arrest. After some time, I thought they’d be smart enough to stop—alas, I still rushed to the cafeteria every day after my classes, barely avoiding the hallways they deemed their battlefield.
My uniform shoes would beat against the sheet flooring as I entered, my nose guiding me to the food line in hopes of it being my favorite meal: spaghetti and space-balls. They were always cold at the center, but I never minded. It reminded me of a home I never knew, but one I frequently dreamed about. My friends, on the other hand, would crinkle their noses in disgust, never failing to remind me that we had our specialized classes afterwards and wouldn’t want my fellow classmates to end up smelling my breath throughout our training. Eva, the closest person I could call my family, would laugh. She always tried to say in between gasps, “You have to stop getting it every time it’s offered.” She’d sit there, laughing, every time.
Whenever I finished my lukewarm meals, I would briskly walk past what we called “The Wolf Den”: a scuffed-up table sat right in front of the main area, where every student would go to put their tray away. However, occupying that table would be Juno and his pack, habitually waiting for me to walk past, giving reason for them to bark. Somehow in my first week at Nyx Academy, I had been given Juno’s favoring attention, earning myself teasing remarks and the occasional shove from his pack, though at times I did worry if more would follow. I thought it would ease up throughout our time there, seeing as I hadn’t done anything against him … But I was on a whole new level of wrong.
By the time I would be done trying to sneak past Juno, I’d start walking to class with the others, Eva eventually branching off into the AB- sector—where students distort and utilize magnetic fields for various occasions, including walking on the ceiling. Every time I asked if Eva ever did such a thing, she’d shake her head no, despite failing to contain a grin. Although we weren’t tied by blood, she felt like a sister to me. One that couldn’t lie for shit, that is.
Despite having the least amount of students in their sector, I had made one other close friend at the academy: Arthur. He fell under the O- model. It was rumored that bad luck followed those who got close to an O- mod. It was never like that with him, though. I met Arthur my first week at Nyx Academy—I had been so nervous, yet excited, about being there because it reminded me of what school on Earth was like. To put it short … It was nothing like Nyx Academy, in the best of ways. But I hadn’t been paying attention to where I was going, so I hit shoulders with him before stumbling to the ground. Arthur, who only told me a couple months before graduating, said that he had memory-synced to what my previous experience at school was like and felt an obligation to make sure my first week went well. At the time, however, he made the excuse of feeling sorry about how he “knocked me to the ground”. The only honest thing about that statement was him proving how big of a heart he had.
Ever since then, Arthur, Eva, and I have become a popular trio among the mods. It wasn’t out of the ordinary to make friends with those outside of our sectors, but growing so close as we had, was. Every meal we shared together, and in every sector-crossed project, we found a way around the rules to be grouped up.
It was especially nice to have them every time Juno and his wolves came around sniffing, because then I didn’t even have to look behind to see if my back was guarded. We each had this unspoken trust and love for one another, even to the point of death. That last part of our declaration became very clear just two weeks before graduation.
It was exactly two weeks prior to us graduating and stepping foot onto the Apex. The three of us had agreed to meet up in the main hallway, where all the sectors connected to just before the cafeteria. I was the first to get out of class, my body depleted of energy due to over using my ability. We had finally made our way to learning how to speed up the healing process within one’s body. It’s deemed one of the hardest things a B- mod can do, so of course it’s one of the last things we learned. I had made progress in manipulating the artificial body’s cells’ regeneration, but hadn’t quite mastered the intensity and quickness of it. As my brain ran through what could’ve been improved for the next class, I heard Arthur making his way from his sector. You could always tell what type of student was heading your way at Nyx Academy, or who, if you heard them a lot, by how they walked. Arthur’s was a silent sort of rhythm, begging to be unheard. Eva’s tended to sound like skipping without actually doing so.
Not too long after, Eva rounded the corner, a slight tilt to her smile as she greeted us. “Hey, sorry, Professor Wilder wanted to lecture the class about people wandering about too close to the main control rooms … again,” She said. As we went to turn around, an A- mod almost electrocuted Arthur, the mod’s aim being a gnarly thing to see alone. The intended AB- target had escaped by forcing a shield around himself while running on the wall. It wasn’t uncommon to see A- and AB- mods fighting, especially each other. They either became buddies, or were at each others’ throats—no in between. That’s also what singled us out against the other mods. The three of us didn’t fight, and even if we had, it didn’t last longer than a day. We always came back to each other, like magnets.
I replied, “These people are going to be in for a shock when they realize the Apex doesn’t tolerate breaking rules. I mean, seriously, have you heard the rumors? People get sent back down to Earth just for stealing someone’s watch.” With what students did in the hallways … we didn’t have to worry about seeing them out and about on the Apex. Arthur continued on, muttering, “One small, almost dismissable act, and boom. You’re back where you started,” as we entered the cafeteria. We stopped in front of the vending machine alone in the corner, glancing at all of the desserts trapped inside. Arthur had asked, “Would you guys feel bad if that happened to someone from our class? Like, if they were sent back down for, I don’t know, pushing someone?”
“I think it depends on why they did it,” Eva chirped.
I, on the other hand, had been too busy to answer Arthur’s question, debating on whether I wanted a cosmic cake slice or a nebbie-brownie to mark our two-week out destination.
Later on, when the station’s lights were dimming and everyone was heading back to their dorms, Eva pulled me aside for a moment to ask what my answer was. The strict side of me that got me to Nyx Academy in the first place and away from all the monsters on Earth wanted me to say, “No, I wouldn’t feel bad for their actions and their consequences.” But the way she asked and the hopeful look in her eyes is what kept me from saying such a thing. Instead, the only thing I could reply with was, “I agree with you.”
She then pivoted and walked to her dorm, leaving me to watch her disappear around the corner. I had sat there for a solid minute before strolling towards my own dorm, briefly hearing what would’ve been wolves’ paws scraping against the floor in the direction Eva went. The dim lighting, the sugar crash my blood pressure was feeling, and the exhaustion weighing down my eyelids was what kept me from checking to see if my ears were right, my only thought being to make it to my bed.
I struggled to fall asleep that night. If it was ever quiet enough during the daytime, I figured everyone would be able to hear the station’s pulse, the humming of the academy that kept it alive. Most nights, the humming would lull me to sleep faster than any of my professors’ lectures could, but something about it that night was angry—sharp in its sound. I turned and turned in my bed, unable to block it out.
The following morning, I was able to ask Arthur if he had heard it too. “Sorry, no. I was trying to finish working on an assignment. I hadn’t completed it in my last class,” he replied, avoiding my eyes. At first it shocked me to hear him bring up anything relating to his specialized class. Whenever me or Eva asked him about his progress or classes, he shut down. Which then led to me wondering where she was, as Arthur and I had been waiting in the hallway longer than usual. I joked around that she must’ve slept in, but when I turned to look at Arthur’s expression, we both knew that wasn’t possible—Eva was a lot of things, but being late was never one of them.
We paraded our way to her dorm, noticing how the wolves swaggered past us towards the cafeteria. Once their grinning faces were out of sight, I knocked on Eva’s door politely. After what I deemed was a minute, it became less polite. Finally, I announced in hopes she would hear, “You are either sick or dead—either way, we’re coming in.”
I pushed open the door to a recently made empty dorm. All of Evas’ few belongings they allowed us to take with us to Nyx Academy were gone, along with her uniforms that would’ve hung in her empty closet. If Arthur and I didn’t know any better, we would’ve thought we walked into someone else’s room. We left, silently, wondering what exactly happened.
The rest of the day was filled with questions left unanswered, whether the professors knew why or refused to tell us, we didn’t know. That didn’t stop us from trying to find out.
For the next week, Arthur and I talked to all of Eva’s professors, asking what their last encounter with her was like. After meeting the same conclusion every time—being told nothing or that she was fine when they last talked, it then turned into asking her classmates if they’ve seen her, or if they knew whether or not she got into trouble. Every time we asked them these questions, I hoped none would confirm the heartbreaking thought that crowded my mind. That for whatever reason, she got sent back down to Earth—somehow got into trouble that night, and how I could’ve been able to do something about it if I had just been with her.
Every night since we found her voided room, the pulsing of the station was louder. Sometimes it would beat irregularly, other times like clockwork. The humming behind it would cover the pulsing if I tried hard enough to focus on it.
It was the third night out from becoming a citizen aboard the Apex when it became unbearable, to the point that I decided to find the source of the sound, even if that meant ripping apart the station piece by piece.
I had snatched my jacket from the bedside and marched out into the hallway. Since no one had complained about the pulsing, I figured it was due to the source coming from a neighboring room. On either side of my dorm were other students’. However, I knew that if I went above, it would lead me to a testing room that locked everyone out when the station was getting ready for nighttime. Below me, on the other hand, sat one of the main control rooms.
Us, mods, weren’t allowed to go into those rooms. And due to some sort of reverse psychology, they refused to tell us the whole level was ruled out. Instead, they only “advised” us against going down there. The whole lower level was for those that knew how to keep up the academy and its never ending astronomical needs.
Due to my lack of answers concerning where Eva had gone (and why), along with a minor case of sleep deprivation, I decided then I didn’t care what it took. I was going to figure out what the sound was.
The first problem I overcame was how to get down there without getting caught. Thankfully, I had a vent in my room that enabled me to crawl down a level, but I realized it wouldn’t go into the targeted room. With a good kick to the hallway vent cover, it got sent across the narrow, dark space. I was barely able to see where I was, much less what room I was trying to get into. While I felt along the wall for some sort of keycard, I brainstormed how I would override it. Although it wasn’t my best idea at the time, I figured jamming my elbow into it until it broke off the wall and manipulating the wires to open the door would be the quickest. And that’s exactly what I did.
When the door slid open, I scanned over the scene, realizing it was a computer room. The heat that washed over my face instantly made sweat appear on the back of my neck. I remember thinking, looking around, what could’ve been making the pulsing sound. I moved around, occasionally tugging on some wires that crossed the floor or flexing tubes that climbed the walls to make sure they weren’t the culprits. However, when I reached the back end of the room, I started hearing it, much quieter than I have been when trying to fall asleep. My head peered over a couple “Out of Order” signs before pushing them aside. Back here, it was pitch black except for the occasional blinking light from a nearby computer.
Following the sound, I finally neared whatever was making it. A smile had grown on my face, relishing the fact I was able to solve at least this recent mystery.
I reached inside my jacket pocket, realizing the jabbing in my side I felt while in the vent was because of the flashlight I used in an earlier chemistry class—something to deal with reactives? After hitting the back of the flashlight, I shined it directly at the sound.
Unable to move or make a sound, I simply stared. I watched as Eva’s limp hand twitched against the split electrical wire, watched as I saw a spark of energy come back into her being just for it to leave right after. I watched her hand hit the inside of the worn down wall, echoing up. And when the room started to spin and my eyes started to tear up did I realize I wasn’t breathing.
I took three deep breaths before I hastily crawled back into the vent and went up.
Exiting the vent, I stripped off my jacket, placing my flashlight in my pants pocket and sprinted to Arthur’s room. I pounded against the door, even hoping to knock it down if it meant he’d wake up quicker. When he eventually opened it, he must’ve seen the look in my eyes to not question me when I ordered, “Follow me.”
I led him through the vents, not bothering to check if he was right behind or not. My breath became ragged as we crept closer to the lower level’s hallway. “Eva,” I whispered to myself, as if I needed a reminder that she was in there, actually in there. That I needed to know what happened, no matter how violent or saddening it was.
When we walked into the computer room, I grabbed Arthur’s hand, guiding him to Eva’s body. It was only when I shone that light on her did he realize what I wanted him to see. It took him a solid five minutes before settling his sobs. “Why … why am I here?” He asked. I looked him in the eye, unable to truly ask him what I needed. But I guess that’s all it took, because he wiped his snot on his sleeve, brushed the remaining tears on his cheeks away, and plopped down on the ground next to Eva. I saw the hesitation in his hand when he went to grab her lifeless wrist.
I didn’t bother asking how long it would take or if he could do what I was asking of him. I simply stood behind, my flashlight unwavering. In that moment, I began to reminisce every moment I shared with Eva. No matter how many times we shared laughter or we grew closer to one another—the beginning of our friendship would always be my favorite moment.
Everyone aboard the space shuttle to Nyx Academy was in their seat, ready to blast into the stars and grow into masters of ZIN. I had been one of the last to sit down. Going from Earth to orbiting Earth seemed awesome in thought, but terrifying in reality. Without realizing, I was snapping my feet back and forth, unable to reach the ground in my seat. But sat right next to me, Eva, took notice. Her first words to me were, “You know, my brother always told me: ‘If you’re nervous, tell yourself no one is watching. And if you can’t do that—just tell everyone you’re watching them. At least that way they’ll be the ones nervous, not you.’” The fact a random girl said that to me, and the serious look on her face when doing so, is what made me laugh into a puddle. Seriously, I laughed the whole way up the academy, despite being told to quiet down halfway into our journey.
I almost laughed then, with Arthur searching in her memory for her last moments, but bit down on it.
When we had arrived at the academy’s port, I had finally simmered down into a smiling mess. Eva basically took my likeliness towards her personality as acceptance toward friendship, which meant we were next to each other the whole orientation.
At some point, though, I got separated from her due to going to different sectors, so I patiently waited with everyone else in the cafeteria. I figured standing next to the main area would be my best bet to find her, but it also meant a bunch of narrowed eyes landed on me. Remembering what Eva had said, I dug my nails into my palm before saying to the eyeing mod coming to put his tray away, “I’m watching you.” He raised his lip in a snarl before backing away, going to sit back down. After that, I stood next to the dessert vending machine for the rest of lunch.
I shook my head out of thought when Arthur started trembling, with what I learned was anger, when he turned to look at me. “What, Arthur? What happened?” I asked.
“Those monsters … they don’t deserve to be here. They don’t deserve to be alive while she isn’t!” He shouted.
“Who did this? Tell me who!”
“Juno! That sadist and his group.” His expression was stuck between fighting tears and fighting the urge to get up and kill Juno with his bare hands right then and there. Not that I would’ve stopped him.
I clicked off the flashlight in thought. My mind began to run through options, ways to go about getting revenge on Juno.
If she wasn’t here to take her own revenge, my method would have to suffice.
Arthur and I waited till our graduation day. We went to our classes, our minds occupied only on our plan, not caring for our final projects and assessments. When we went to the cafeteria, we kept it short, not wanting to provoke our rage towards the howling table in the room. All we did for the remaining time at Nyx Academy was tell ourselves to wait. Just, wait.
And we did just that.
When it was our class’s time to group in the common area, we knew it was about time that our space shuttle would be arriving to take us to the Apex. Occasionally hearing words of wisdom throughout the ceremony, I bit back my grin, thinking about what was going to happen when we boarded the shuttle. With Arthur standing next to me, I saw him flexing and unflexing his fists, also unable to wait.
What had felt like years eventually ended with us all lining up at the port. Me and Arthur made sure to be able to sit near each other—still able to let the other know we’re ready. When everyone got seated and the overhead comms were telling us to stay where we remained, that’s when we unbuckled and got up. We knew we had about ten minutes before we landed on the Apex and we still needed to figure out where every one of Juno’s pack was seated, including himself. We split up, looking in every row and level, thankfully being just another mod that didn’t listen to the overhead comms. Arthur and I knew what to do once we found them, and when we had to meet up where Juno was sitting—of course, at the front.
It had taken me a full minute to see where one of them was sitting, next to one of the window seats with an AB- girl on the other side of him. I quickly went up to her, and whispered, “I heard someone back there asking for you,” fake confusion all over my face. At that, she stood tall and said, “Of course, he is …” She left, and a perfect opportunity came to take her seat. Before the piece of trash turned his head to see who was now sat in his neighboring seat, I reached up and placed my hands over his eyes, using his eye’s optic nerves to build pressure to the point of combustion. But before I could relish the feeling of his demise, I had to make sure it ended quickly. I then sent that overloading pressure throughout his entire body, seeing the moment his life ended. Although I had to be quick about it didn’t mean I couldn’t make it hurt.
I stood up again, not caring if those in front of him saw what was left of him. I started to track down my next wolf. This time, he was sat closer to the front—kicking the guy’s chair in front of him. I looked up at the ETA, written in big digital numbers: 5:00. At this point, I didn’t care about being cautious. I went into the empty seat behind him and grabbed onto his shoulders. By hacking his body, I speed up the process of decaying. Sooner than later, I heard his yelps of pain and fear turn into grunts, then nothing.
The mods around him had heard and were already backed away in horror.
My footsteps quickened when I saw barely four minutes left till we docked. I made my way towards where we knew Juno to be sitting, seeing Arthur behind him by a couple of rows just seconds after I entered the level.
This was it. This was the time we had been waiting for.
Unlike Arthur, I marched up to Juno straight on. Before he knew better, I grabbed ahold of his shirt and shoved him to the ground, silently grateful his seat wasn’t buckled. “And what the hell do you think you’re doing?!” He yelled up at me. I forced him down on the ground, well aware of the gasps and rumors already spreading as I landed on his back while reaching for my pocket. Arthur came down and took hold of his head, which spooked Juno out even more, surprisingly.
As I grabbed hold of the split wire hidden in my jacket, I wrapped it around Juno’s neck, slowly applying more pressure by the second. I glanced up to meet Arthur’s eyes, him nodding and confirming he was making sure Juno was reliving Eva’s last moments, again and again as he felt his own life slipping away.
I bent my head down and simply stated, “I’m just watching.” Like you did to Eva.
When the shuttle finally docked at the Apex, the last bits of light in Juno’s eyes faded away. A part of me wanted to laugh at the perfect timing. Instead, I still kept my hold tight around the wire.
The shuttle doors opened in front of me, a series of people realizing what was going on and running to get help. Only then did I chuckle, leaving Arthur to back away with shaking hands. I didn’t bother with looking his way, nor when multiple officers shoved their way into the shuttle. Various hands grabbed onto my sleeves, waist, even my hair as I failed to get off of Juno. One finally got smart though, and looped his arm around my neck and yanked back. I finally saw their stares and agape mouths, aimed at the scene in front of them.
When the one who got me off of Juno realized I wasn’t fighting him, he dragged me up and off of the shuttle, leaving all the mods to talk until they dropped dead. It was while being dragged through the artificial dirt and gravel that provoked the smallest bit of regret, knowing that I was going to be sent back to Earth as punishment. That, because I got justice for someone’s wrongdoing, I would be punished by never getting the chance to live a normal life—one filled with community, food, and fresh air. But as we headed towards what I believed to be a jail, was when I looked at the people there. Smiling … living.
As they shoved me inside a cell, I grinned, realizing that as long as Eva didn’t get to experience the Apex Ring, neither should any wolf.

Liminality

Ava Hanna

Nothing here is right. It’s the first thing I noticed. It sure looks like my hallway, but it’s just slightly too long. The doorways are a few inches off of where they were supposed to be. The lights cast a sickly white glow on everything, as opposed to the bright, warm lights we usually use. The shadows are too long; they bleed into one another in places they shouldn’t. And, of course, the first thing I truly noticed: the hallway didn’t end.
It didn’t matter how far I walked in either direction. The doors, each slightly offset, repeated. Shadows seemed to stretch for miles; I couldn’t find what was casting a lot of them. Some things changed as I walked; a light would flicker out, a door would be missing, or the carpet would change its texture.
Each step made my skin crawl. I had no idea what this place was, or even how I got here. All I did was leave my room, and this infinite mess of a hallway stood here in place of my house. I tried to go back, of course, but the door I’d left from no longer led to my room. Just a shifting void. It seemed smart not to step into the scary, empty space where my room used to sit, so instead I started walking. I checked doors here and there as I walked, but for the most part, I tried to ignore them. I couldn’t be sure, but I swear I heard something coming from behind them. Just like I swear the shadows moved.
My thoughts swarmed with images of monsters crawling from the shadows, breaking down the doors. It seemed silly at first; monsters don’t exist after all. But then again, neither should this hall. I started hearing footsteps behind me. They couldn’t have been mine, the carpet masked them. The walls didn’t echo. I paused and turned, but nothing was there. I could feel it, though. I could feel its eyes on the back of my neck.
The scenery almost seemed to change as I walked. The doors seemed a slightly different color, the carpet was just a bit shorter, the lights a bit brighter. Was that a pattern forming in the carpet? The walls looked a different color. I tried not to think about it too hard and kept walking. The dim lights were probably just playing tricks on me. I was more concerned about whatever was following me, I swore its footsteps were getting louder. I fought the urge to start running. Maybe if I ignored the thing, it would go away. I kept my pace steady, kept my eyes forward. I fought every instinct in my body on some stupid theory that it would only attack if I acknowledged its existence, like some weird cryptid.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I bit the bullet and opened a random door. As soon as I saw the faint outline of furniture, a promise that it was an actual room and not an endless void, I darted in and slammed the door behind me. Locking out the monster, my fears, the space that I could’ve sworn looked different when I started walking. I sighed in relief and waited for my eyes to adjust. This room was darker; the few lights that dotted it were so dim they may as well be off. It took a moment for me to realize what this room was. Desks lined it in perfect rows, and a whiteboard sat across the far wall. A classroom. There were still math equations on the board, though nothing else indicated that there were people here. No backpacks, no books, no supplies. Just perfectly aligned desks and chairs, everything laid out as if it were a movie set instead of an actual classroom. I turned back and eased the door open, checking for any sign of the thing that had been following me. Instead of the flickering light of the hallway, however, all that stood behind the door was a closet. I knew that was the door I came out of; I hadn’t moved. I clicked the door shut once more. My hands were shaking. This place couldn’t be real, I mean, infinite hallways, rooms turning to closets, a perfect movie-ready classroom? I shook my head and made my way to the door at the other end of the room, careful not to disturb the perfection of it all. I couldn’t go back, so the only way out had to be through, right?
For once in this place, a door led exactly where I expected. A school hallway stretched before me, fading into darkness in either direction, much like the last hallway. The hallway itself was split down the middle, the side I’d stepped onto checkered in black and white, with the other being solid gray. Windows into desolate classrooms lined the blue wall of the checkered half, each one exactly the same as the last. The perfect duplication sent chills down my spine. White tiles covered the wall opposite the classrooms in a stark contrast. A clock hung on one of the walls between the classroom doors. I checked it more so out of curiosity than anything, but I froze when I saw the time. 12:22, the time I’d left my room. It didn’t make sense, I’d been walking for what had felt like hours. At the very least, it was more than a minute. I stood and watched it, waiting for it to change. Waiting for it to move, to do anything. It took a bit to realize it didn’t have a second hand. I tried to ignore it. It must be broken, it’s a coincidence that it’s stuck on that same time. Another thing it’d be better for me to ignore if I had any hopes of getting out of this place.
I stayed there for a moment, in that odd space between two clashing aesthetics, wondering which direction I should go. Did it even matter? If I had gone the other way in the last hall, would I be home? I would never know, really. It’s not like I could go back and test that theory, and even if I could, I didn’t want to risk running into whatever was following me. I picked a direction at random. It was better than standing around doing nothing. I started walking, looking into each classroom window to see if any offered a way out. They never changed. They all stayed the same, repeated perfection. Sometimes, it looked like things were moving in the shadows at the edges of the rooms. I stopped looking after that. I walked for a while without thinking much. Occasionally, I became convinced I was being followed again; I swore I heard footsteps again, or saw something move in the corner of my eye. Knowing that creature couldn’t get to me now that there wasn’t a way back did alleviate my fears a bit though. And then I noticed it. The room had changed. The black tiles had become a dark red, and the gray floor now had a thin layer of carpet that seemed to crawl its way over the previously established boundary. The classroom doors had vanished, as had the tiles on the wall. The windows had been replaced with empty sheets of paper, and oddest of all, the hallway had widened significantly without me realizing. I looked behind me to check, but the hall faded to darkness too quickly for me to be able to tell.
I took a deep breath and kept moving forward, this time focusing on the room and its changes. Sure enough, I watched as patterns slowly formed in the tiles, and the carpet overtook them. The paper gained colors that slowly turned into words and shapes, forming posters and advertisements for games and “special deals”, and the hall widened more and more. Even the lights started to change, they lengthened and started to glow with faint colored lights. They became brighter the further I walked, forming curling strips of colored LED lights that weren’t much better than having no light at all. Finally, when the tiles were fully covered by the carpet that took on the patterns they’d developed and the shadows had been lengthened by the red and blue lights, the hall had become wide enough to be a fairly sizable room. It held thousands of arcade machines, and while most of them had been turned off or simply didn’t function anymore, a few were still on. The bright glow of the few that worked broke through the eerie gloom of this place, the music and sound effects of games waiting to be played drifted through the still air. I slowed my step, watching and listening. Looking for any movement through the ever-changing lights, any sound underneath the soundtracks.
I started to hear a clicking underneath the noise. It grew louder the closer I got. I ducked around arcade cabinets, looking for the source of the noise. It sounded like someone— or something —was playing on an old cabinet. The clacking grew louder and more intense. I crouched behind a broken cabinet underneath its control panel and peeked down the rows. Sure enough, a person stood at a machine, maybe six rows down. They seemed so focused on the game. So oblivious to all the monsters that seemed to crawl through the shadows of this place. Oblivious even of me.
“DAMMIT,” They shouted. I jumped, banging my head into the corner of the cabinet.
“Shit,” I hissed, falling back onto the carpet. I held a hand against the back of my head. I could already feel the headache starting to spread.
They turned towards me, looking for the source of the noise. They took a few hesitant steps in my direction, though oddly, they seemed to be looking over me. Maybe they couldn’t see me from where they were standing. I tried to stay in the shadows, but I bumped into the cabinet behind me. It sputtered to life, blasting another melody into the chorus that haunted the room.
“. . . Hello? Is someone there?” They took another step forward.
I froze, clasping a hand over my mouth, trying to cover up my breathing. My heart was pounding so hard I was scared they could hear it. I squeezed my eyes shut until it started to battle with the throbbing headache. When I opened my eyes again, they were standing over me. I squeaked and scrambled back into the cabinet again. I could feel myself shaking, and my breath came in ragged gasps.
“Are you alright darlin’? Look like you’ve seen a ghost,” They crouched down, and for the first time, I got a good look at them. They were human, in every sense of the word. They had that kind of face where you could just see the humanity behind their eyes. They held a hand out to me with a grin. “Didn’t mean to startle ya.”
I took it, and they helped me up. Carefully, this time, away from the cabinets so I couldn’t smack my head again. The pain started to fade, though I was still worried I’d cracked my skull open despite the lack of blood. I wobbled as I stood, but they held on until I could get my feet under me. I muttered a thank you through the embarrassment.
“Aw, it’s not a problem, dear! Mind if I ask your name?” They were so … genuine. It was so nice to see after being alone for so long.
I opened my mouth to respond when a gut-wrenching realization hit. I couldn’t remember my name. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember anything from before I got here. All I could remember was the vague impression of my room before I stepped into that first hallway. Everything before that was just … gone. They seemed to understand, they watched my panic with a sad smile.
“Ah, should’ve figured it wasn’t just me then. Guessin’ ya can’t remember anythin’?” I shook my head in response. “Yeah, was like that for me, too. We’ll find ya one. For now, you can call me Pixel. Fittin’ for where I’ve spent most o’ my time.”
Pixel and I hung out in the arcade for a while, just talking. Turns out all the games that were running still were because of them. They’d been here a while and had gone through and fixed up some of the cabinets they’d wanted to play. They told me about how they got here; it was a very similar story to my own, though they seemed to know they used to be a mechanic. When I asked how they knew, they just shrugged and said, “Well, I musta been. I mean, I fixed up all these cabinets, so I got some skill in it.”
It was a fair point. They asked what I thought I was before this place, and I was honest. “I don’t know. I’m not really good at anything. Maybe I was like, an office worker or something.”
They made a face at the job idea, and we both laughed. We talked for what felt like hours, as if we were old friends reconnecting after years of being apart. Unfortunately, just like all good things, the levity in our conversation soon soured. I could hear it again. Footsteps in the same cadence as earlier. I stared down that dark hallway, watching, waiting.
“We gotta get out of here,” My voice was hushed and shaky as I listened to the footsteps getting closer, “Now.”
“You’re scarin’ me a bit, doll. Everythin’ all right?” They followed my gaze down the hall.
“There was something following me earlier. It’s back. We have to go.”
Pixel looked between me and the dark hallway, a mix of fear and confusion painting their features. Finally, after what felt like ages, they nodded.
“Alright. Let’s go.”
I turned and booked it down the hall, trying to make up for lost time. I just hoped Pixel was matching my speed, I couldn’t bring myself to look back. We ran through rows and rows of arcade games, the lights passing in a blur of flashy colors. I hadn’t noticed the gradual change this time, not until one of my steps landed with a splash to accompany it. I skidded to a stop and looked down at the pool of water I stood in, trying to process where we were.
“This is an odd place now, ain’t it? Looks like a waterpark I went to as a kid with my family,” Pixel stood a bit behind me, looking around in wonder.
I had run into the splash pad by accident. I stepped out of the water and paused to listen. The footsteps were gone. We were safe, for now. I took a moment to take stock of where the maze had put us. Colorful waterslides and piping crisscrossed along the ceiling and walls, with large pools lining the ground beneath. It was a wonder I hadn’t run right into one of those. There were a few lights dotting the ceiling, but overall, it was fairly dark.
“Dunno about you, but these things always gave me the creeps.”
I turned to where Pixel was standing, looking up at one of the statues that decorated the kiddie pool area. It was an octopus, it looked like water was supposed to come out of it. There were a few others that decorated the park, axolotls, dolphins and various other sea life. Some functional, some decorative.
“Hey, Pixel, any idea how long this park has been inactive?” I looked down at the bright blue water. Something about it seemed … wrong. The rest of this place looked abandoned, but the water, despite being still, looked unnaturally clean.
“I’d guess ‘bout … twenty-some years? Dunno if this style was popular back then but the wear sure looks old. Why?”
I gestured to the water, “It’s still as a statue. Doesn’t still water like … go bad?”
Pixel didn’t respond. I looked up after a second, about to ask if something was wrong, when I saw where they were looking. Right back down that dark hall we’d come from. We hadn’t run far enough. It took me until that moment, but I realized I could still hear it. It’s slow, dragging footsteps. Pixel took a step back, then another and another. They finally heard what I had in the arcade. Everything happened so fast after that. I went to grab their arm, to pull them with me so we could keep running, but something funny happened.

My hand passed right through them.

I froze, tried to convince myself I’d seen things, that I hadn’t reached far enough, any logical explanation. They took another step back. I hadn’t noticed where they were. I was too focused on finding an explanation. I didn’t notice when their foot caught on the edge of a pool. I only noticed as they fell. I tried. I really did. To grab them. To pull them back up. To save them.
It happened again. There was no doubt in my mind that I had reached far enough. That I should’ve at least felt their arm slip through my grasp. Instead, my hand closed around empty air. I watched helplessly as they splashed into the pool, disrupting the formerly still water as it jumped and formed into ringlets around where they’d fallen in.
I watched as they sank into the water, as the fall stirred up years of muck and grime, clouding up the water, making it look like an endless pit. I watched as they stared up at me, gasping for air, trying to reach out to me, trying to swim back up. I watched as their body started to glitch … glitch? Sure enough, they started flickering in and out of view, colors splitting and sparking like a TV during a power outage. I watched as the life faded from their eyes between sparks and jolts. Whether they disappeared from existence or got covered by the clouds in the water, I could never be sure.
I fell to my knees in front of that pool they’d fallen into. The realization of my situation hit me harder than their death. They weren’t real. I’d made them up. I stayed where I was as the footsteps got closer, my body felt like lead. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. How had I been so desperate to imagine an entire person? To grow so attached to them. I closed my eyes and let darkness swallow me whole, let the monster catch up. I was worthless. There wasn’t a point in running.
When I opened my eyes, I sat in a void, a single door in front of me. The void was familiar. It almost made me forget what had happened. It was warm, inviting. I sat there until the grief faded, until I felt almost at peace. Until I felt hungry. I stood up and walked over to the door, opening it and stepping through.
Nothing here is right. It’s the first thing I noticed. It sure looks like my hallway, but it’s just slightly too long. The doorways are a few inches off of where they were supposed to be. The lights cast a sickly white glow on everything, as opposed to the bright, warm lights we usually use. The shadows are too long, they bleed into one another in places they shouldn’t. And, of course, the first thing I truly noticed: the hallway didn’t end.

If

Danica Wyenberg

The unfortunate death of seventeen-year-old Noah Rodriguez shadows the lives of the people of Brooklyn, New York.

If my life was a newspaper article, it would be one long column of all my failures. You missed a patch of the lawn over there. That happened because you turned too quickly. Cut yourself shaving, did you? Dad’s words. You didn’t carry the one in that equation. When you pray, make sure to bow your head. But not that much; you look ridiculous. Mom’s words. You chickened out again, didn’t you? Seriously, I think she likes you back. You’re just embarrassing yourself. My sister’s words.
If my life was a newspaper article, it would be a list of all my failures. Front to back; then people would see how much of a hot mess I really am. Top of that list, in big, bold, permanent-marker font? Never telling Jane Aubrey that I liked her.
Should we take a step back?

His mother and father say, “A boy that had so much to offer the world, if he just had the chance to grow up.”

I fell in love with her when I was eleven. Now, parents call it a “crush,” or even an “infatuation.” All I know is that I’d make an absolute fool of myself to get her to smile, because I’d die a thousand times to see that crooked-toothed grin. Of course, that was back when I hadn’t been pressured into teenage conformity, and when she didn’t care how hard she laughed at me.
Our dads had been friends since high school, and they had reunited when her family joined my church. I don’t believe in fate, but I would have been willing to change my mind for Jane Aubrey.
Unfortunately, middle school and high school tends to change people. Jane Aubrey got braces for her perfectly crooked teeth, and I got stuck with the awkward weight of gangly limbs, acne, and self-consciousness. I saw less and less of her. In between rare sightings in the church hallways on Sundays, I heard what she’d filled her time with. Public school stresses (a fantasy for a homeschooled kid like myself), band performances, dance competitions, AP classes, and internships for professional choreography. The girl was a genius.
Meanwhile, I filled my time with barely passing math, failing to mow the lawn of our tiny backyard, and cutting myself shaving. On the better days, my friends and I would sit on the driveway in lawn chairs, sipping Coke and watching cars drive past, like we were old men. If she knew my entire article-worth of failures, I don’t think that she would even take a second look at me.

The church Noah Rodriguez attended described him as truly one of a kind. “It’s a shame the rest of the world had to miss out on him,” the pastor says. “I think we all could have taken a second look and learned something from Noah.” The entirety of the church community joins in comforting and grieving with the Rodriguez family.

Just my luck, halfway through March of my junior year she surprised me by walking through the double doors of my Wednesday night youth group.
“Jane.” The name flew from my mouth before I had comprehended her making her way over to my friend circle. I couldn’t bring myself to look at her straight on, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my gaze off her straight-toothed smile. Her hair had grown longer since her awful bowl cut, and she had slimmed since we were kids, but her laugh was still contagious.
“Hey,” she said easily. “I haven’t gotten to talk to you since summer camp. What have you been up to?”
Speaking was suddenly an issue, and not just because I couldn’t possibly tell her that I had been doing absolutely nothing apart from failing geometry. It felt like there was something the size of a baseball jammed in my throat. “Uh, stuff, I guess,” I managed, scuffing my shoe against the floor. “You?”
“Lots,” she admitted. “Just finished the dance season though, so that’ll help. Katie, how’s your theater production coming?”
And just like that, the brief moment between us was over. I like you! I wanted to burst out. But that was completely and utterly embarrassing, and my face was already red enough.
If my life was an article, it would be a column of all my failures. Top of the list? Jane Aubrey.

“We’ll all miss him,” Jane Aubrey says. “I’ve known him since we were ten. I only wish that I could have gotten to know him better.”

The rest of the night was a blur. I don’t recall most of the lesson, or the small group discussion, but I think that was mostly because I couldn’t stop staring at the back of Jane Aubrey’s head. I wanted to come up with something that would make her laugh. I just had to see her smile again.
“Jane,” I called, catching her outside the double doors as she headed toward her car. My voice cracked a little, and only the “ane” was audible, but she turned anyway.
“What’s up?” In the street lights, her gray eyes gleamed like moons and her mouth curved in a slight crescent shape.
“I, uh.” The joke I had worked on all night suddenly vanished from my mind. She was watching me curiously. “Um,” I said again, scratching the back of my neck with one gangly arm.
Top of the list? Jane Aubrey.

Rodriquez’s friends call him giving, empathetic, and composed. Always willing to take the risk if it meant giving someone a helping hand. They celebrate the time they had with him and know that he is watching over them still.

“I had a joke,” I said finally. “It … well, I kind of forgot.” I ducked my head and began to backtrack to my own car. “I’ll tell you next week, I guess.” I turned away before she could say anything and dragged my feet across the road. “You idiot,” I hissed to myself. A deep red car was approaching from the side, headlights rearing in my peripheral, but I hardly noticed.

“Being crushed by the devil wouldn’t stop him from making everyone around him laugh, so I’d be naive to think that being hit by a car would,” says his sister.

You missed a patch of the lawn over there. That happened because you turned too quickly. Cut yourself shaving, did you? You didn’t carry the one in that equation. When you pray, make sure to bow your head. But not that much; you look ridiculous. You chickened out again, didn’t you? Seriously, I think she likes you back. You’re just embarrassing yourself.
My hand was still poised halfway to the handle of my car door, like the universe had suddenly pressed pause. The headlights of oncoming traffic slowed and dimmed. A voice—not one I recognized—was ringing in my ears. If you died tonight, if you were to be hit by a deep red car as you were leaving your youth group, what would you regret?
As I stared back at my darkened reflection in the driver’s seat window, Brooklyn buildings looming behind me, I realized that I would regret a whole lot. A whole article-worth. I would regret not mowing the lawn to my dad’s standards, cutting myself shaving, my abominable geometry grades, and bowing my head too far in communion.
But top of the list?
“Jane!”
Her name came out of my mouth before I could stop it. I turned back, half hoping I’d had another terrible voice crack and she hadn’t heard me. But she was still exactly where I’d left her, watching me with those gray eyes.
I strode forward, and I only half comprehended the deep red car passing just behind me, where I had been standing only a half a second prior. If I hadn’t decided to move, the grill of the car would have crushed me.

We know all of Brooklyn joins us in saying: Noah Rodriguez, you will be missed.

“I really, really like you,” I blurted out. “And I really should have told you years ago.”
For a moment, she only stared at me blankly. When she spoke, her expression was perfectly measured. “Are you playing a joke on me right now?” There was a certain quality to her words, like a taut wire about to snap.
My heart was pounding so hard that my chest felt like it might catch fire. My fingers were numb, pressing into the ridges of my keys. But I had to barrel on, because Jane Aubrey would not be on my running list of regrets. “I wouldn’t,” I said.
And I think she knew that. For all the times I had poked fun at her as kids, muttered white lies to cover my crush, and embarrassed her into confessions, there was a line I would not cross. I knew that the moment I saw her crying at the New Year’s Eve service last year.
Those same tears were beginning to gleam at the corners of her eyes. “I wouldn’t,” I said again.
“Seriously?”
I spread my long, gangly arms out and gave a shrug. There was something between a sob and a laugh lodged in my throat, pounding right alongside my heart. Behind me, Brooklyn traffic was igniting the heat on my face. But the red car was long gone. “Seriously.”
Then, a grin crossed her face, so big and goofy I thought it might split her perfectly straight teeth. “That’s good,” she said, and I think she might have been trying not to cry, “Because I really, really like you too, Noah Rodriguez. I was too scared to admit it.”
The laugh-sob bubbled up in my chest and came out like hiccups, but I didn’t care. “Why? You’re amazing. Perfect. Everyone says so.”
Even when we were kids, I had never seen her beam quite as broadly. She said, “Well, everyone always says that about you. I think I had a right to be scared.”
Maybe there should have been more. A kiss, a hug, or even a touch of our hands. But we only stood there, beneath the overhang of our Wednesday night youth group’s double doors, grinning like idiots in the electric Brooklyn night.

Matt

Julia Stiffler

The Shop smelled strongly of old transmission fluid, sweet, tart, and burnt. It was giving me a headache. We had both bays open since Dad said it was a nice enough day, but there was only so much to be done about this odor when two cars were getting clutch replacements. It caused my temples to pound as I fiddled with the pressure plate, tacky from built-up dirt and debris.
I rolled out from under the Ram I was working on, wiping my forehead. The Shop was a little cramped, especially with three vehicles and two bays. We made the most of our space and I’d gotten used to turning and dodging around cars and people’s way.
This wasn’t how I wanted to spend the summer directly after graduation. I wanted to go on the senior trip to Lake Michigan, visit my uncle in Pennsylvania, and pack for college. Instead, my dad babysat me while I worked for less than minimum wage in his Shop. He never said it aloud, but I know he wanted to keep an eye on me. He didn’t want to lose another son.
Matt ran off 3 years ago, after his graduation, with no note or goodbye. He didn’t even make his bed. I miss him every day. Wasting my July in the Shop would be better if he were here. He last visited around Christmas time. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since then.
When Matt strolled into the Shop in casual silence, I wondered if I was facing a ghost.
Walking in through the bay, he looked good. Broad and charming with the familiar glossy twinkle of his dark eyes, he was the envy of young men. His dimples creased and he smiled widely, as if he had only been gone for a little while. Was this man, flesh and blood, right in front of me? It felt like Christmas again.
The other Shop guys didn’t notice when Matt walked through the middle bay. I dropped the whole socket set, the nice one, and opened my arms as all of the pieces clattered on the concrete. My entire body seized up, just like that.
“No way, Matt?” I strained out, barely audible. He just grabbed me with a howl, bumping into a mounted car behind me. As he slid us to the floor, I felt like we were in school again, laughing and wrestling. He felt the same to me. I felt all of my grief and mourning come undone in one embrace, returning to a time three years ago when everything was right. I couldn’t handle my open-mouthed smile as I held my lost brother. Matt was just a little bit taller than me, a little bit bigger.
“Oh, god, Benny.” I hadn’t heard that name in a long time. “Dude, it’s been too long.” Matt had a slow cadence and drawl in his voice, steady and youthful.
“I’ve missed you.”
I could hardly look away from him. I thought he would blink away if I did. He had little studded earrings. I knew they weren’t real diamonds.
The guys bore down at us as we stood. Chatter paused. They were just as shocked as I was, their eyes wide.
“What’s going on there, Benny?” Victor asked.
A few guys here had known Matt longer than I had been alive, but Victor had only been with us for a few years, so he might not remember Matt like the rest of us. As the room filled with my laughter, the guys remained frozen in shock.
They remember when he first left. We closed for a month to make time for the local and state police. The whole town was on the hunt for my brother. Even after we opened back up, the guys kept the Shop running while Dad failed to find his son.
He started calling after he got a phone a year later. It was less surprising when Matt visited in the past, but we hadn’t heard from him at all since the last time he visited.
The side door opened, the door to Dad’s office. He didn’t immediately notice Matt. Matt’s eyes were transfixed on him, grinning ear to ear.
“It’s Matt!” I pushed Matt forward. He yelped, kicking me as he stepped forward and embraced Dad. His dimples dug into his cheeks. and I wondered if they were cramping by now. Dad hadn’t moved, and over Matt’s shoulder, his face dripped with evident shock. He didn’t make a move. He just met eyes with me as if to say, Are you really seeing this, too?
Dad stepped into the Shop, gesturing to Victor. He unhooked his Shop key from his belt—it was already separate from the rest of his keys— tossing it. “Close for me. Ben, let’s go.”
Dad led the way out without a word and Matt and I followed.
Matt didn’t seem to notice anything wrong, but I did. Dad was hardly acting like he had just reunited with his son. The last time we talked to him, it wasn’t great news. We knew Dad, though. He was just shocked. It would take a little while to soak in like it did when he visited last time.
Dad was pretty avoidant, anyway.
The drive home was straight and swift. There wasn’t much to look at in the countryside, just soybean fields and dairy cows. Some stray cattle dogs, too.
Matt and I had always sat in the bed of Dad’s truck, but I’d gotten used to joining in the cab. Nonetheless, it was like muscle memory for me when Matt hopped in the back. I haven’t sat in the bed of this truck yet.
“New truck?” Matt asked me.
“Yeah, the old one’s at home.”
For a minute, we sat and enjoyed the wind hitting our faces. The air was hot, but the wind was cool when we were in motion.
Matt kicked my feet, winking. “So listen, Benny, I know it’s been a while, but I’m glad to be back. I missed you.”
Twenty-two looked good on him. It took to his skin and demeanor like a fresh coat of lacquer, shining him up and preserving his impurities.
I chuckled nervously, removing my hat and running my hand along the bill.
“Matt, where were you?” I looked up.
“Why didn’t you call me? We thought you weren’t coming back.” I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t, a weird hiccup leaving my throat.
“My cell broke, but I’m here now, right?”
It almost felt too good to be true.
“How long are you going to stay?”
As we pulled into the driveway, Matt stood in the truck bed and let out a big WHOOP, shouting, “I’m back, baby!”
My heart swelled. Of course, this was true. I had merely forgotten what fullness felt like.
Our house was small, square, and perfect for three men. The first room upon entry was the kitchen, with dull honey oak cabinets, old appliances, and a dented fridge with childhood photos and soccer magnets. There was a magnet on top of the photo with Mom in it, covering her face. Dad didn’t like to talk about her, so we didn’t either.
There were newspapers stacked on the kitchen table, which fed into the living room. Dad kept his favorites on rotation. Headlines told stories about armed robberies in the neighboring town, a political riot in Chicago that killed seventeen, and a young man who spun out on the Great River Road, sending his truck right into the Mississippi.
We prepared to sit for a late lunch. Dad had a rack of spare ribs from the fridge that he already cooked up and was glazing. I could tell he was trying to keep busy without talking to Matt. Matt and I didn’t address it in words or knowing glances like we used to. Instead, we both stood at the table, tossing jacks. Matt caught all of them on his second try. I missed and they clanged against the napkin holder. Dad closed the oven and joined us, sitting beside me. He clicked his teeth.
It reminded me of the last time Matt had visited, waiting for the ham to be done.
“Matt, you’re all tatted up,” Dad said. I guess he hadn’t noticed until then. “Geez, it’s like you’re a sketchbook.”
Matt laughed, sitting down. He looked relieved to break the ice. “I’ve got fourteen, and I drew most of them myself. My buddy has a tattoo gun, so I didn’t have to pay anything.”
Holding out his arms, Dad leaned his chest past me to get a closer look. Matt had five different bird tattoos on his right arm. He drew them himself. From far away, they looked nice and sharp, professionally done. Up close, they were young men’s doodles. He’d always been childish like that. Our bedroom walls were lined with those same birds, designed outside of species.
“Wouldn’t you get an infection? Are you vaccinated?” My dad asked, concerned. His voice had raised in boldness and urgency.
Matt just shook his head. “No, it’s fine, it’s fine. My buddy’s marked up all of our friends and they all turned out great, see?” He brought his forearm past my face and towards Dad’s. There was a woman’s name up by his elbow. I assumed they’d broken up.
“You know, I never got any tattoos. Or piercings, for that matter.” Dad gave Matt a pointed look.
“I lost in blackjack a little while ago. I just haven’t taken them out.”
“Oh, I see.” Dad brought his fingers to his mouth and leaned back, thinking like all middle-aged men. With the way he stared out of the window ahead of us, red and green light reflecting on his face, I thought I could see the gears turning in his head. His eyes were bright and glossy like Matt’s, sticking out like a polished button on worn leather. They stuck still in his head as he thought.
Looking up from the table, Dad was in the same position.
The oven timer went off. Dad shot up, startled. Matt looked at me, shoulders shrugging as he laughed, squinting. I still couldn’t believe he was in front of me. It hadn’t even been an hour yet, and he had his feet propped at the head of the table, leaning back. Dad muttered a curse when he burnt his hand.
We mostly ate in silence, which wasn’t abnormal for us. Matt didn’t eat. He picked something up on his way to the Shop. Dad and I weren’t big talkers, but Matt occasionally told stories about his new scars, haircut, and old job. I didn’t ask what he was doing now. Dad didn’t say anything.

---

Dad wanted help outside. He’d been picking away at the bush honeysuckle at the corner of our property line and asked for help to cut it down. The electric trimmer broke a few weeks ago, and we’ve been so busy in the Shop with summer and farm vehicles that we’ve only been at the house to sleep. Since it was the afternoon, we had a couple of hours to knock it out.
Matt stood up first and broke into a run once he opened the back door.
“You still slow, Benny?” I scoffed at his comment and raced after him.
We ran on clipped yellow grass past the playset, my archery targets, the pond where we played hockey in the winter, and our old riding mower. He was just as fast as before he left.
While Matt and I crawled under the bushes and clipped them down, Dad put together the burn pile. We ripped through it. At first, it takes a second to get the hang of the clippers, and it’s hard to find the best way to get as many shoots as possible. After the first couple of tries, we started flying. Matt and I worked so fast together, and we had more fun, too. He made fun of me when I crouched on all fours under the bushes and I smacked him when he wasn’t looking.
Matt and I had it all clipped before dark crept in.
We stood in a line facing the pile of brush we’d cleared. There wasn’t a ton to cut down in the end, but it was better with two people. Matt had his hands in his pockets. He looked deep in thought, lips in a line. He must be glad to be home. The sun had begun to dip below the horizon line. I wished it was more colorful.
Dad broke the silence, checking his watch.
“So tomorrow, we’ll spray the shoots with this herbicide stuff I ordered, and we should be able to pull the roots out in a couple of weeks. It’s 8:30. I’m hungry.” He turned his head, smiling at us. “We make a good team.”

---

Since Matt had been gone for so long, we had moved his old twin bed into the garage for more space in my bedroom. It was a big room, and I only had a bed, desk, and dresser, so I had to spread out to fill the space. I had no problem bringing the bed back up while Matt showered, except that it had some mouse droppings and the mattress had developed an odd smell from sitting for too long. I wiped the frame off and sprayed Lysol on the mattress. I put Matt’s bedspread back on for him.
I was sitting at my desk, which I’d moved back to my side of the room, whittling wooden arrows. I tried to embrace creativity, but I normally looked at Matt’s drawings on the wall and copied them. He drew more than birds before he left. Intricate monsters, motorcycles, and weeping willows were as bold as ever. It was hypnotizing how naturally his hand formed his artwork. He may not have been the most gifted artist I’d ever seen, but he could have been if he had taken more time on his work.
Dad didn’t appreciate our habits with our bedroom wall, with Matt’s drawings, and the holes from my arrows. It only drove us to draw more, shoot more.
Matt walked in with his towel slung around his waist. Matt showed up at the Shop without bags, a vehicle, or really anything, but all of his old clothes were still there at the house. I’d grown into them and had been wearing them. He sifted through my dresser drawers, plucking out one of his favorite shirts.
Matt looked at me with a sunken expression. “What, so you’re using all my stuff, now?” I just laughed.
“To be fair, Matt, I thought you weren’t coming back. I helped myself.”
“Whatever, it’s all mine again.”
Matt’s skin looked brighter and fresher after a good scrub. I wondered if he’d smelled bad when he first got here, if it missed my attention. I think he used my deodorant because he smelled like me now. His shoulders had grown broader than when he was eighteen, but the shirt fit just fine. His old pajama pants were too short. We didn’t bring it up.
After my own shower, I went downstairs and fixed up the living room for a movie, setting up the television. Matt and I piled on the couch and Dad sat in the old recliner. We watched a cliché action movie with lots of fighting, money, and women. It was a hit. I had already gotten used to this present sense of normalcy, feeling like we were back to what we were supposed to be. My best friend sleeping beside me is the best way to end any night.
As the ending credits rolled, Matt woke up with a big stretch. It must have been close to midnight, but I felt wide awake. Nonetheless, Dad rested a hand on my shoulder and retired to bed.
“Bright and early tomorrow.” I hoped a good night’s sleep would help Dad come around to Matt.
Matt and I went upstairs to our room. I sprawled on my bed and watched Matt rummage through the top desk drawer, shuffling pens and papers and ruining my organization. The fletching on my arrows was probably getting bent out of shape.
“No, Matt, stop. What do you need?”
Matt pulled out a thick black marker.
“There’s a new bird that I drew.” I sat up as Matt raised a leg of his pajama pants. “I’ve gotta add it to the collection.”
An oddly dignified-looking bird of Matt’s design wrapped around his knee. It was long, dark, and curved, with its head tilted as if to peer at his groin. It almost looked doggish, with one leg sticking out like a tail and its wings curled like big floppy ears.
I watched as Matt stood on his bed and started drawing on the wall. He finished, tossing the marker and sitting beside me on my bed. We looked at his bird for some time.
“You know, I was thinking we could go to the river tomorrow after we’re done with the honeysuckle, the Shop, or whatever.”
I hummed. “It’s a good year for catfish. I’ve been meaning to go bowfishing.”
Matt ruffled my hair, standing. “Let’s go to bed, then.” He shut off the light and we tucked ourselves in. It was dark, but I could see how he faced the wall, away from me. I watched his breath grow slow and steady as time went on. I wasn’t tired enough to fall asleep yet. I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to his job, his apartment, and his girlfriend. What is he doing now? I decided to ask him first thing at breakfast.
Matt tossed in his sleep, mumbling something I couldn’t make out as I grew tired. I wasn’t surprised that he was still a restless sleeper. I just turned away from him like I normally did, and felt myself drift into a peaceful, satisfied sleep.

---

When I woke up, Matt had already gotten out of bed. He made it up nice and neat, which must be a new thing for him. The sun had just broken the horizon and it couldn’t have been past 6:00. I got up to find him, like always. I used the bathroom and made my way downstairs, taking in the dense silence of the morning, bound to interruption from any little thing.
I couldn’t find a trace of Matt downstairs. He hadn’t used any dishes, and his boots were gone. Sometimes he went out and fiddled with the tractor as the world woke up. He always said he liked the clearness of the morning air.
Lacing my shoes, I opened the front door. Before I could look at the carport, I was taken by the empty spot in our driveway. I found myself frozen, staring at the concrete. It must have been Dad and Matt. They must have gone to pick up the Roundup with the old truck. I was kind of bummed that they didn’t wake me.
The toilet upstairs flushed as I closed the front door. I held on to the handle as Dad stepped downstairs. His eyes were puffy from sleep, hair frizzy.
“Oh dang, you’re already up.”
I scanned the kitchen, peering into the living room. Why is Dad here?
“Where’s Matt?”
Dad just looked at me like I was crazy. At this point, I was starting to think he was the crazy one.
“Go back to bed, Ben.”
“Dad, Matt took the truck. He’s not here. Look,” I swung the front door open, showing him.
Dad walked out and stood in the middle of the driveway like he was trying to will the truck back. I couldn’t get myself to walk outside again.
Matt could have been picking up eggs or milk or something. He could be picking up the herbicides. Maybe Dad sent him off to the Shop. He could be going on a much-needed drive through town, reminiscing on what he’s been removed from for so long. He might be catching up with an old friend. Maybe he was getting another cell phone. He could be leaving again. He could be dead.
Dad stopped at the kitchen table and folded through his newspapers, taking one in his hands. He gave it a good look and tucked it under the stack.
“Dad, we have to go find Matt. He took the truck.”
Dad gave me a knowing look and dropped his head. He sighed, brushed past me, and was back upstairs. I turned back inside and locked the door.
Something started to feel wrong to me, like I was missing something.
I scanned the kitchen and my eyes locked on the newspapers. I shuffled through them.
EDWARDS COUNTY SCHOOL DISTRICT SUED AFTER TEACHER TERMINATION
TWO WOMEN CAUGHT LAUNDERING TAXPAYER MONEY
My mouth dried.
YOUNG MAN FOUND DEAD IN MISSISSIPPI RIVER
Suddenly, I felt Matt rip away from me, tossed up with the river’s currents.
My mind reeled, pushing memories to the front of my mind. Our old mangled truck being recovered from the river in December cold. The stretcher rolling past me with a black bag encasing Matt’s cold, waterboarded body. Dad identifying him while Paul from the Shop held me upright, leading me back to his car.
How could I ever forget the biting cold of that morning on Great River Road?
I felt like a fool. Matt was dead. He had died 6 months ago after stealing the truck and flying into the river from the snow. He couldn’t visit me. We didn’t work together, watch movies, laugh, or anything I recall from yesterday. Dad didn’t talk to him because he wasn’t there. Am I even here? Am I even real?
How is this my new reality?
I stumbled my way upstairs, vision blurred. I tried Dad’s door, but he had already locked it. He had gotten used to this, and I should know by now that he doesn’t want to help me.
My stomach churned, head spinning. I couldn’t blink away Matt’s casket, watching it dip into his grave. I will never be able to say goodbye, to beg him to stay. I will never get to know why he stole our truck and why he was in such a hurry to leave.
I barely made it into the bathroom before throwing up in the sink. My fingers and toes buzzed and pricked, my hairs stood up. I took a second to breathe and washed my vomit down the drain, eyes shot and stinging.
I went into my room. Matt’s bed sat there, untouched. I opened my desk drawer and nothing was upturned. Staring at the neat lines of markers, knives, and wooden arrows, I grew red. I ripped the covers off his bed, throwing them to the door.
I landed on my bed. I couldn’t hear the cars outside, only my heartbeat.
It always feels so real. Matt comes home and we spend the day together. I wake up, he’s gone, and I come face to face with grief for the first time, again. It hurts worse and worse every time, more of him being ripped from my grasp after every visit. On mornings like these, I’m left to believe I will never be able to crawl out of this hole I’ve dug. I think I’ll just have to stay here forever.
I rubbed my eyes and looked up, slouched on my bed. On the wall across from me was a perfectly blank space where Matt’s bird had been curled up on the wall just last night.

A City Between Two Souls

Lucas Hill

I come from Paris, and I do not know whom to speak to. I am suffocated. The sight of the ruins is nothing compared to the great Parisian insanity. With very rare exceptions, everybody seemed to me only fit for the strait-jacket. One half of the population longs to hang the other half, which returns the compliment. That is clearly to be read in the eyes of the passers-by.

• Gustave Flaubert, 1871, One Month after the fall of the Paris Commune
  Paris was not as she was. This fact sat in Anatole’s stomach like a stone. In his absence, Paris had been maimed. The Prussians broke through her walls in 1871, ending the Empire with one final blow. Soon after, the Commune took what was left, building a society out of the ruins of Paris. The Commune did not last long. After two bloody months, the Republic had returned to the city and pacified the communards. Paris had seen little more than a month of peace after nearly a year at war, and people continued to eye one another with ire. Anatole had the feeling that the city was set to devour itself. Two years of Paris’ history had passed by without him. Years which scarred the skin of the city, which tore down monuments, which made the streets run red. Years in which he was absent.
  It mattered not, Anatole’s return was a triumph! For months he was chased across the Mediterranean, forced to sleep in hovels and keep a constant eye over his shoulder. The Emperor rarely forgot crimes against him—especially those like Anatole’s—but after some time, there was no emperor, the rise of the Republic ceasing any thoughts of retribution. Anatole had wished to return after the fall of the Empire, but Marie advocated against such a homecoming. When things had simmered down in Paris, he could return. And here he was. The fires were put out. The blood was scrubbed out of the stones of the street. Order had been returned to Paris. Anatole, after so much running, could finally return. Their theft had paid handsomely, and they could live out the rest of their lives in comfort.
  The letter that Anatole had received from Marie requesting his return specified her new address. She had been lying low in the Twentieth Arrondissement since the start of the war—as low as one can lie in a mansion. Marie had evidently put their ill-gotten gains to good use and could now afford several stories of tall-windowed rooms with parquet floors—the perfect place to watch Paris burn. The Twentieth Arrondissement was only a half hour ride by horsecar, and Anatole knew that he had plenty of time to linger. It had been so long since he had seen Paris’ visage, since he had walked her streets. He would like to savour it before travelling to the Twentieth—an Arrondissement he couldn’t call home.
  The clock struck three as Anatole stepped off of the platform at the Gare de Lyon station. The familiar scent of coffee and pastries embraced him, underlined by the everpresent stench of horse manure. That scent had followed him throughout his life, and he found a sort of comfort in it. As he took another breath in, a foreign smell nipped at his nose—that of ash. The scent ripped though him, thousands of nerves in his nose burning as though he were in the midst of a conflagration. Anatole sneezed, wiping his nose with a handkerchief. His eyes travelled to the other side of the Gare de Lyon platform, sectioned off due to fire damage. It had been burnt when the Republicans took back Paris. His eyes returned to the station in front of him. The smell of the building’s burning lingered like a phantom. It wasn’t a fire he was present for, but the ashy scent filled his lungs all the same.
  Anatole returned his handkerchief to his pocket, and ventured out of the station. The station deposited him almost directly onto the Avenue Daumensiel, an honoured place in his memory. He had always run around this street with his friends as a lad, fancying himself the “King of the Avenue”. As he grew older, he began to take this position more seriously, always trying to keep what was his. Memories sprang from the street as his legs carried him down the Avenue. Here, he had tripped and knocked a tooth clean out of his mouth. There, a store he used to steal cigarettes from. He remembered laughing with Marie and his other friends as they ran away, weaving through alleyways to escape the shopkeeps. He sighed. His legs were used to the running, always carrying him away from wherever he was.
  An opening on the side of the street stopped Anatole in his tracks. He remembered this alleyway . . . How could he not? He dipped in, his eyes grazing the cramped alleyway as memories flooded his mind. He and Marie were caught in a rare Paris storm, and had sought any shelter they could. For hours they sat there waiting for the rain to let up, talking and laughing. They talked about their dreams, his need to leave the city, to see the world, and her desire to find somewhere to settle down. He reached out a hand to one wall, feeling his fingers dance over the rough bricks, gravid with memory. They had shared their first kiss that night. Anatole’s heart shrunk in his chest, cowering deeper and deeper into the pits of his body. Poisonous doubt crept into his mind, one he could not shake. Would Marie be different? He had no answer for that question—a question looming in his mind ever since he received Marie’s letter. He took a step forward, his hand continuing to trace the lines of the wall. He felt them. Bulletholes. Anatole didn’t have to even glance at the wall to recognize them. These pockmarks on Paris’ countenance, here? Paris had made hundreds of memories without Anatole, even in this most sacred space. How many memories had Marie made without him?
  Anatole swiftly left the alleyway. Thinking like that would do him no good. He could see the sun begin its march down the horizon, the different inky reds and purples filling the skyline. It was about time for him to travel to Marie’s. Several steps brought him to one of the tram stops of the Avenue. With little else to do, Anatole’s eyes wandered to the nearby crowds, seeking some reprieve from his troubled mind. He could see women and men, bourgeois and paupers, the inhabitants of Paris, all flitting around the street. Their movements were different from how he remembered. These were not the easygoing Parisians he was familiar with. They had purpose in their steps, their eyes scanning everybody nearby. For friends? For threats? Everywhere they went, Anatole could see people staring daggers at one another. Even the paupers had wrath in their eyes, even for those with only pity for them. The war still lingered in hearts and minds. He did not share this Parisian experience with these people. After such a long absence, would he be able to connect with these people? Or had he become foreign to his own countrymen?
  Braying horses ran down the Avenue Daumensiel, pulling behind them the horsecar. Anatole looked up just as the tram came to a stop. He leapt up onto the tram, paying the meager fare to the operator and finding a seat in the very back. Crammed between a working man and the window, he could do little but look out at Paris as the horsecar began to move. It would be impossible for Anatole to forget what Paris looked like—he knew the streets as intimately as the veins and ventricles of his own heart—which made his view all the worse. Anatole’s memory and the reality in front of him rubbed uncomfortably against one another. Several buildings of the Avenue Daumensiel looked familiar, but others were little more than desiccated carcasses, burnt out during the war. He grasped weakly at vestigial memories in his mind, trying to conjure the image of what they looked like prior to his exile. It was a futile effort.
  Time passed quickly by, and the horsecar halted at a stop in the Twentieth Arrondissement. Anatole departed, stepping onto the unfamiliar stones of the neighborhood. He had rarely, if ever, visited the Twentieth, as he had little reason to. The rich liked to lodge in this district, and he had few friends among the upper class. The sun had finally set, and the moon began to take its place, shining small rays of lunar light through gathering clouds. Guided by moonlight, Anatole relied on what few street markers there were in the neighborhood to travel to Marie’s. At last, he had arrived.
  More money than he had ever seen must have been spent on this mansion, Anatole mused. Large windows and black grates complimented the brown facade of the building. It had to be at least two stories, it was hard to tell in the dim light. The door was painted black. It was tall. Imposing. Anatole stepped up onto the stair in front of the door. Clenching his hand into a fist, he reached out towards the door, but hesitated. Time had done no good for his doubt. Still, he could not turn back now. He knocked, and waited.
  There was little noise he could hear from outside. Anatole shifted awkwardly onto his right leg, taking a look around the nearby street. Thoughts began to form in his head, just in time to hear the lock click and the door swing open.
  Marie was basked in light, hardly visible to Anatole until his eyes adjusted to the radiance. Heat emitted from the interior of the building into the cold night, sending a shiver up Anatole’s spine as the warm air covered his body. Two years had passed by, yet Marie looked identical, no new scar on her face nor change to her smile. The doubt in Anatole’s mind melted away as Marie moved forth to embrace him.
  “Oh, Anatole!” Marie said as she buried herself deep into his arms. It had been two long years since he’d felt this kind of warmth.
  “Bonjour, Marie.” He naturally reciprocated the hug, maintaining their embrace for several moments before Marie stepped away. He wanted to kiss her. He opted not to.
  “It’s so nice to see you . . . It’s been so long! So much has happened!” No star in the sky could replace the brightness and intensity of her smile in Anatole’s mind. “Please, come in.” She grabbed his arm, leading him through the threshold of the building.
  The scent of night air and manure outside found no purchase inside of the mansion, replaced with the scent of floral perfume and heat emanating from the hearth. Anatole’s eyes blinked involuntarily, trying to adjust to the icterine glow of the interior gas lamps. The foyer alone was spacious, and he surmised that the building must be larger than any house he’s ever lived in. Marie led him into the parlor—the house had a parlor!—and sat him down on one of the padded seats. She moved to the corner, making drinks for the both of them.
  “It’s . . . really nice to be back.” Anatole said, his eyes wandering around the sitting room while Marie poured alcohol into two glasses. He’d never been inside of such a room, at least not as a guest, but it felt comfortable: homey, even. His hesitation had melted away.
  “Oh, I’m sure. Two years, it’s hard to believe!” Marie intoned, finishing with the drinks and moving towards Anatole. She sat a glass in front of Anatole, before taking her place in a nearby chair. “I’ve been keeping up with you as best as I could, but it’s been hard. It took me weeks to find an address to send that letter to!”
  They both chuckled. It felt natural, as though they were joking at a restaurant about some unimportant matters, not discussing the consequences of crime.
  “I’ve been pretty successful at keeping a low profile.” Anatole looked around, almost like he was making sure nobody would overhear them. “As far as I know, they thought I was the one who had the jewels.”
  Marie snorted. “They were looking so hard when the jewels were here in Paris!” She took a sip of her drink. “I’ve had good success selling the jewels after ‘70. I ran into a couple of complications when the Commune rose, but it all sorted itself out.” She smiled, moving a lock of black hair out of her face while taking a sip of her drink
  Anatole followed suit, taking a short sip before placing his drink down. Whatever she had poured out, it was strong. “How was that whole affair? I tried to keep up the best that I could, but not many newspapers left France.”
  “Oh, you know—” She gestured around. “It was violent. Bloody. I mostly kept my head down. We’ve both been pretty good at that.”
  “You’ve got that right.”
  “So, Anatole,” Marie looked directly at him. He could never maintain eye contact with her for more than a couple of seconds. “How were your travels?” She moved forward, sitting on the very edge of her seat. “Morocco . . . Tunis . . . Italy . . . I heard that you even got into some trouble with the Ottomans?” She raised an eyebrow.
  “Well, you know how it is. I had to move around a lot. Leaned on my Italian and German a fair few times.” He looked to his right. “That whole affair in Jerusalem wasn’t anything too major. . . What did you hear?” His face grew into a smile as he turned back to face Marie. Anatole wasn’t much of a smiling man, but Marie tended to draw it out of him.
  “Oh, not much. Just a little forgery here, a little robbery there.” She snickered. “Papers made it out as though you had yourself an adventure!” Brown eyes focused in on Anatole, expectantly, hoping that he would regale her with the tale.
  Anatole stared back, shifting in his chair. “Like I said, nothing too major.” He was tired, and not in the mood to dwell on that part of his travels. He could see her eyes falter, disappointed.
  “Hmph.” Marie turned away from Anatole and took another drink. Anatole had plenty of stories to tell, but all he wanted was rest and catch up with Marie.
  They talked for a while, draining their glasses to the bottom as they discussed the happenings of their lives: How friends were doing, where relations were, laughing about the misfortune of rivals. Marie kept trying to push Anatole towards talking about his travels, but he was more than satisfied talking about the mundane matters here on the home front. It was nice.
  Soon, a silence came over them, most of their words for one another exhausted. Anatole was content to bask in the warmth of the hearth, nearly beginning to doze off.
  Before Anatole could slip into sleep, Marie began to speak. “Anatole . . . I’ve got something to ask you.” Her voice began to raise, like she was giving a speech or debating.
  “Of course, I’m listening.” Anatole raised himself up in the chair, moving his face away from the flame of the fire to look at Marie’s face.
  “Now that the war’s over . . . We have the time, money, opportunity . . .” She paused. “What would you think of travelling together?” He could see stars in her eyes as she spoke. “We have the means, we could go anywhere! To Brittain, Germany, Russia . . .We could even go to Asia, or the Americas!” She had a fervor to her voice, like she saw adventure steps away.
  Anatole frowned. “I don’t know Marie . . . I’ve been travelling for two years now. I’ve been away from Paris for so long, I’d like to settle down. Enjoy the fruits of our labour.”
  “Oh come on, Anatole!” Her voice raised. It felt like they were kids again, Marie trying to convince Anatole to do something risky. “You always used to talk about travelling, seeing the world outside of Paris! We wouldn’t be running, we’d be going at our own pace.”
  “Marie, I’m . . . Well, I’m just tired.” He put it bluntly. “My dream’s different now. We’ve already done so much. We pulled off the heist of the century!” Anatole reached out, grabbing Marie’s hands in his. “I just want to stay here, with you.” He smiled, looking into her eyes with hope.
  She pulled away from him, looking away. “You’ve changed.”
  “What?” Anatole moved forward onto the edge of his chair, trying to look at Marie’s face even as she turned away.
  “Where’s your wanderlust? Where’s your drive?” Her words tore through him. “This isn’t the Anatole I know. What happened to you?” Marie’s demeanor had changed at the turn of a dime. Where had this come from? Why was she acting like that?
  “How can you say that?” Anatole stood. “Marie, I’ve been on the run for two years! How can you blame me for wanting to settle down just a bit?”
  She scoffed. “Anatole, you haven’t been here! You weren’t here for the war, for the Commune. This place is violent! People seem set to strangle one another on the street. You can’t blame me for wanting a breath of fresh air.” She crossed her arms.
  Bile rose through Anatole’s throat, that burning sensation restricting him from speaking. Had he been right? All his doubts, all his apprehensions—were they true? He looked down at Marie, putting two fingers between his eyes.
  “I think . . . I think I need some air.” Anatole stated. His legs carried him quickly from the parlor, moving at a feverish pace until he was outside. His head spun, his eyes straining to adjust to the night light as he began to walk away. As he went further and further, he failed to recognize anything. The Twentieth Arrondissement was foreign to him, its routes and ways strange and outlandish to his mind. His pace quickened. Had Marie become foreign to him? Has she changed so much over the years as to be unrecognizable? He broke into a sprint, rounding unfamiliar corners and entering alien alleyways as he sought to be somewhere, anywhere but here. Had Paris become foreign to him? The air was heavy, his lungs heaving as he crossed through more and more backstreets. The wind no longer carried his name. Paris didn’t recognize him. Anatole stopped. He faced a dead end. The labyrinth had led him to oblivion.
  Anatole bent down, placing his hands on his knees to support himself as he heaved. His head pulsed with pain. As he tried to regain his composure, he heard shuffling behind him. Whipping his head around, his eyes scanned for the source of the noise. More clouds had gathered, and a few beams of moonlight shone down from the sky, but in what little light there was, he could see a figure shambling towards him.
  “You know.” A voice emanated from the figure, raspy and low. This was not a man who talked to others often. “We don’t get many strangers in the Twentieth Arrondissement at night.” The man moved closer.
  “I’m no foreigner.”
  “Are ya now? A real Parisien, eh?” The man chuckled. Now closer to Anatole, he could see the man better. His face was worn by time, and he was missing a few teeth. To Anatole, the man didn’t look any different from an average pauper. “Which Arrondissement are you from, huh?”
  “The Twelfth.” Anatole said. He had regained some of his composure, and stood to face the figure. These types of people feast on any inhibition that one shows.
  “Really?” The pauper said with a chuckle. “Look at you and I, peas in a pod! I used to live in the Twelfth, before the war.” Anatole didn’t like how close the man was. He could smell his acrid breath, a disgusting mixture of liquor and poor dental hygiene. “Say . . . Which side did ya fight for?”
  “Neither. I was . . . erm—absent.” Anatole cursed himself in his mind. He knew this drunk would leap onto that.
  “Oh, really?” The drunk took a step forward. Anatole took a step backward. “I see how it is. War was a little too real for you? If not for you vermin the Empire would still be around. Paris wouldn’t be the shithole that it is.” Anatole’s face scrunched up. He couldn’t let this man get the best of him. The drunk took a step forward, and Anatole remained steadfast. The drunk man was face to face with Anatole now, still wearing a large, toothless grin. “You know, I was a general during the war. If I had it my way, all of you would have been shot.” Spit shot out of the drunk’s mouth, covering Anatole’s face. Anatole didn’t recoil, despite his disgust.
  “I don’t have time for this.” Anatole pushed the drunk away, who offered little resistance. “Some fucking drunk who thinks he was the Emperor’s chosen soldier.” Anatole began to walk away. “Napoleon deserved everything that he got. Only cowards fought at Sedan.” Anatole was never a fervent supporter of the Commune, but it seemed like all the filth of Paris congregated around the Emperor. He had deserved the loss of his empire. The loss of his life. The theft of his crown jewels, even. Anatole nearly reached the end of the alleyway before the drunk behind him roared.
  “Liar! You scumbag! Your filth deserves nothing but death!” Anatole turned back. Before he could retort, he saw the drunk charging at him. Caught by surprise, both of them tumbled to the ground, stuck in a grapple. Anatole had gotten into plenty of fights in his day, and could hold his own against sober folks, much less the drunk. The both of them rolled around on the ground, stuck in conflict, before Anatole came out on top. He pushed the drunk onto his back, moving forward to pin him with his arm. This conflict, this hate, this is the Paris he remembered. Before everything, the violence. Paris is still violent. Perhaps less had changed than he had thought.
  Before Anatole could do anything else, he saw the glint of a knife being pulled from the drunk’s coat. Rising swiftly, Anatole barely managed to avoid being cut in the arm as the drunk swung his blade with reckless abandon. Years of memory rushed into Anatole’s muscles, that of being hurt and hurting others. It was something he had never relished in his absence. As the drunk rose, Anatole planted his feet on the ground, intending to throw the drunk off balance if he were to charge Anatole.
  “Vive l’Empereur!” The drunk roared as he ran towards Anatole, slashing his knife in front of him as Anatole moved backwards, bringing his foot up and slamming it into the drunk’s chest. The pauper let out a choke, yet was undeterred. Launching himself at Anatole, he was able to bring both of them down onto the ground once more, sitting on top of Anatole as he raised his blade high into the air. “You mutt. You don’t deserve Paris. You never have.”
  The drunk brought his knife down, but was prevented from striking as Anatole grabbed the drunk’s arms, barring him from moving. Anatole was unable to wrest the drunk’s knife away from him, but could prevent his imminent demise. Anatole’s breath came rapidly, fear coursing through him as the men struggled on the ground. Anatole pushed against the drunk, strained his body upwards, trying desperately to gain an advantage. His effort overcame that of the drunk’s, Anatole slowly rising against him, throwing the drunk off balance until the both of them tumbled forward, Anatole tumbling on top of the drunk.
  Not a moment passed until the scarlet sound of death filled the air. Pushed backwards, the drunk’s blade had been turned onto its wielder. Anatole could feel the spread of warmth on his shirt, gore soaking into his clothing from the drunk’s wound. He quickly moved away, disentangling from the drunk and settling onto his knees as he looked over at the body. Anatole let in a breath, his heartbeat slowing down as he regained some measure of composure. From the drunk, he could only hear gurgling and choking.
  Then, it was silent.
  Anatole looked at his own hands, covered in sanguine. He had abandoned this version of himself when he left Paris. He thought he had changed. This violence that he was so alienated from in his fellow countrymen, he felt it would never leave him.
  Bloody hands clasped together in the dark. Anatole had rarely prayed as a child. He believed in no god, no thing beyond himself. Yet, he still prayed. His eyes looked upwards, begging for a response. He prayed for judgement, for an answer, for anything.
  Paris responded. Quietly, at first. The stones beneath his knees pulsed with a soft rhythm. The breeze flowed through his hair in that dark alleyway, sending a shiver down his spine. From betwixt two clouds, the moon shone down on him, a sliver of illumination bathing him in a soft silver glow. He looked up into the sky, into the moon. And then, a droplet of water hit his nose.
  All around him, across the stone and tiles of the alleyway, he could hear the soft fall of rain. Slowly, a drizzle turned into a shower. Water descended from the heavens, showering him in rain. Petrichor filled his lungs as he unclasped his hands. He began to feel water soak into his clothing. His hands fell to his sides, no longer in prayer. All throughout Paris, the filth of life was washed away. Ash was brought low from the air, burnt buildings washed out and cleaned. The bloodshed of the war, of the Empire and the Commune, all fell before the tide. The blood covering his hands flowed freely with the water, leaving them clear and cleansed. He could feel everything flowing away from him. His doubt. His anger. His distrust.
  Anatole stood. It had been two years since he had felt the rain on his skin. Those dry years were the best and worst years of his life. His skin was soothed by the cold rain, cleaned and comforted. This was Paris’ embrace, in its truest form. When he was a lad, he had learned to disrespect the rain. To hate it for stopping him in his tracks. Perhaps it was the rain’s doing when he kissed Marie for the first time. Perhaps it was Paris all along.
  Feeling his way through the darkness, Anatole dragged himself back towards Marie’s mansion. The night was dark, but the spirit of Paris carried his steps, driving him towards his goal. He could see Marie, standing outside. She was painted against the illumination of the interior lamps. A cigarette sat limply in her hand, and she perked up at Anatole’s approach.
  “Anatole, I—I’m sorry, I—” He kissed her, as he had so many years ago.
  “It’s alright, Marie. Everything is going to be okay.” He smiled.
  Anatole plucked the cigarette from Marie’s hand, putting it in between his lips as he sat down on the steps of the mansion, Marie following suit. They leaned against one another for support. Maybe they would see the world together, or remain in Paris, or do both. Anatole had changed. Marie had changed. Paris herself had changed. Yet, it would always be there. Between them, the spirit of Paris flowed, carrying their signals between one another. Paris was not as she was, but she would always be there for them.

Miriam’s Transgression

Rowan Phelon

Dear God, the Eternal Father, I ask thee once again, why I had to have been born this way.
Miriam’s prayer was more desperate than ever before. She wished to be in private, where she could fall on her knees in proper respect for her Lord and Savior, but she also knew nothing could save the pitiful soul of a girl who couldn’t help but stare at Laura Mayfield from across the dance studio.
This prayer of forgiveness was requested in frequent succession through Miriam’s adolescence. Each time she caught herself staring at a girl’s lips, each time she grabbed for a supposed friend’s hand, each time she had “accidentally” stumbled upon her brother’s magazine collection. She could still hear her mother’s shriek of despair after she confessed to these thoughts that littered her mind. As she stood vulnerable and wicked, she became aware of the fool she was in believing her mom would accept such a thing. She could still hear that scream echoing in her worst moments, though through her repentance it had slowly morphed into one of her own.
But the prayer had done its duty at long last, and she was two years beyond confession and nineteen years of age at this point. Long outgrown of those silly childish wishes of the romance and love she secretly hoped for. She was in her second year of a good, Christian-aligned college, successfully on her way to becoming the young woman God hoped for her to be. Her sins had been acknowledged and forgiven, and she was finally a normal girl, grown and ready for the life any good Christian should live. But good Christian girls didn’t like other girls. And nothing else could explain the way Miriam’s stomach seemed to turn in unison with Laura’s flawless pirouettes.
“Care to attempt it yourself?” Miss Lafoy said.
She flushed a violent red shade, quickly turning her head from Laura to not only snap out of her daydream, but to shelter her visible embarrassment from her. Taking a deep breath to recuperate, Miriam prepped for a pirouette, changing her mind at the last moment to a fouette in attempts to avenge herself to her favorite teacher. If Laura was impressed as a result, it was merely an added bonus.
Her leg battled the force of the air as she used it as momentum to whip around as quickly as she could while keeping her eye in full focus of herself through the mirror. Once, twice, three times around, and Laura’s attention was finally hooked, ending Miriam’s turn sequence indefinitely as she toppled to the ground with a thud. Mortified, she checked in hopes of Laura suddenly becoming distracted by their fellow dancers’ petty arguments in the opposite corner, but to her dismay, their eyes locked as she pathetically lay on the floor below her.
“Lord have mercy Miriam, where is your mind today?” Miss Lafoy shook her head in dismay. No one was as disappointed in her than herself, but the look on her mentor’s face stung worse than she’d imagine it would.
“I’ll be better.”
“I should sure hope so. Solo auditions are just around the corner, and one of my stars is fumbling her fouettes.”
“It’s just an off day, I swear. I’ll be at my best tomorrow. No. Now. I’ll be at my best now. I can focus, Teach. I just need some water.”
“You need a reset, how about you pack up for the day and get some rest? Come back with a clear head, alright?” She said.
Miriam opened her mouth to protest, but knew her defiance would earn her no favors.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The scream returned.
She hurriedly shoved her technique shoes into her backpack and fumbled around for her keys when she felt a soft tap on her shoulder. Turning in surprise, she found herself face to face with Laura. Breathe in, breathe out. No panic, no problem.
“Oh Laura! Hey.” Miriam attempted at nonchalance by adding a casual lean against the wall, backpack dangling from her fingers. An image most likely unattainable at this point.
“Hey Miri, tough day huh?”
“Nah it’s fine, she’s like that with everyone.”
“No I mean just in general, you just seem out of it. In anthropology too, you usually rule that class.” She said.
Miriam fought off a smile at the thought of Laura observing her behavior in school, and directed her focus back toward their conversation. Drawing herself into the here and now, to avoid the guilt that awaited in the silence of her dorm.
“I just didn’t sleep well, with mid-terms and auditions coming up, you know how it is.”
“Yeah, for sure.” Laura looked around from dancer to dancer, to Miss Lafoy and finally back to Miriam. “I’m here though, if you need to talk or anything.” She mumbled.
Her hesitance brought a myriad of questions to the forefront of Miriam’s mind. One dominated over the others however, and escaped her lips before she gave it its proper consideration.
“Could we study together? I actually need massive help for the exam on Wednesday. You know. For anthropology.”
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She couldn’t tell if the sentiment stemmed from her own mind, or the Holy Spirit Himself, but the shame brewed within her all the same. The sweat pooled within her palms as she felt her grip on her backpack slipping along with her reputation.
“Yeah, okay.”
Miriam watched as a blush crept down Laura’s gentle face toward her neck, turning an identical shade of cherry to the ballet slippers she locked her gaze on. The studio muffled, the squabbles over form placement promptly hushed and through the mirror. Miriam swore she saw the others fade away.
Regaining her composure, Laura locked her doe eyes onto Miriam’s.
“I’ll be in the library at 5:00 then, don’t be late!”
She seemed to almost prance across the floor toward the bar, her feet gentle with each step across the black floor littered with scuffs. The room came back to Miriam then, as if she was seeing it through fresh eyes. The bar walls, a shade of white aged poorly from years of legs kicking up against them whilst stretching. The fourth wall displayed a set of mirrors, accumulating new scratches with each day, and never seeming to be rid of the collection of handprints that streaked across them. The temperature never trickled below seventy-two degrees, serving as a shield in the winter months, and as an irritant throughout the summer.
The studio had a sort of spirit about it Miriam admired. It was filled with the passion of a dozen young women, all choosing to be there physically, as well as in mind and spirit. It had brought her a home upon moving to college upstate, it had brought her an escape from her troublesome mind, and it had brought her Laura.
***
Five o’clock approached leisurely as her banishment from the studio gave an unfamiliar amount of dorm time. She avoided her room as much as a student could. The daylight barely managed to peek over the dorm building across her own and through her dainty window, making it the one time of day natural light graced her beige cell. The desks faced away from the door to reveal to intruders everything a student might be doing at it. The loft beds behind them towered much too high and it was an obstacle to even get to the top, let alone sleep peacefully up there.
As a freshman, she had false hopes that a new year would bring her a less uptight dorm-mate or maybe an RA that cared even a little bit about their job. Maybe it was the shabby dorm buildings, or the way the other girls looked at her, or the absence of her new dorm-mate Cillian, who had briskly slipped into the habit of staying in her boyfriend’s dorm instead. Whatever it was about it, this room haunted her. It had the devil inside it and it was clearly infecting her mind and soul. It was working to reverse all that hard work her repentance had done over the last couple years. And it was keeping her locked away and secluded from society.
Her first week back she could not rest more than three hours at a time without waking up in a distressed state, unable to pinpoint her whereabouts for multiple minutes. On instinct, she would turn her head to the bed opposite her own, but there was never anyone there. Sometimes, she would imagine her one of her friends back home or God forbid Laura fast asleep across from her, and she would slowly fall back into another dream.
Psalm 119:76 “Let your steadfast love comfort me according to your promise to your servant.” She repeated this sentiment as she mutated into what she wished to be perceived as. The girl with night terrors and an obvious lack of friends faded as she pulled her hair back into a tight braid, keeping her makeup minimal, and her skirt long enough to please God, but just short enough to pique her curiosity if her and Laura’s roles were reversed.
Despite her conservative attire, Miriam felt her stomach hollowing itself out as the scream grew louder upon her reflection. It was a warning to turn back. To retreat while she was still a child of God, a prime example of what her parents had taught her a good Christian should be. However, there was nothing against a study session with a friend in her teachings. Nothing in her moral code to raise a red flag at. So surely, that guilt could be pushed down for today.
***
“You’re late.” Laura’s toes tapped the floor in repetition as Miriam’s already dwindling confidence slipped from her grasp.
“What?! No I’m not! You said 5:00 and it’s only 4:58.” She glanced at her watch for the fifth time in the last five minutes, and sure enough, 4:58 p.m. exactly.
“Relax Miri, I was only kidding.”
“Oh yeah, for sure.”
Laura’s smile was bright, and it was infectious, and it only enhanced the volume of the scream.
“So, where are your books? Pretty light load for mid-term prep, don’t you think?”
Shit.
“Ah geez.” Miriam’s hands shook in the absence of her backpack, which was most likely sitting in that empty dorm, without the anthropology textbook even inside of it.
“Gosh I’m real sorry Laura, I’m really not at my best. I’ll be right back with them, I swear, I’m a fast runner.”
“Oh come on! It’s not that big of a deal, no need to run or anything. We’ll just walk.”
We.
Before she could bombard Laura with protests, she was already strolling down the path to Miriam’s dorm building. She tried her best not to overthink the fact that Laura knew which direction to go in as the swirling of her stomach was beginning to migrate to her head, making her dizzy enough to teeter as she followed behind.
She caught up beside her and they waltzed through the campus in an uncomfortable silence. Or at least Miriam was uncomfortable. Was Laura? Was she even aware of anything that was going on in my mind? Could she hear the screams too?
The sun set with ease as they made their way through campus. With each step, it inched closer to Miriam’s level as if it was seeking to shelter the two of them in the safety of the dark, abstaining them from the view of any distant passerbys. The sky bled streaks of orange, tainting the pure blue that had flourished just minutes before. Its beauty intimidated her. She found solace in staring at her feet instead. Safe and consistent as she stretched her legs over each crack in the pavement. The vibrations of her steps crawled their way up through her legs and echoed loudly in her ears. Stepping one, two, three, four. The vibrations grew louder with each one as she could hear them convert into those muffled, familiar shrieks. Endless noise to keep her there, endless screams from each demon inside her.
On the surface, to Laura, she was sure to be frigid as stone and silent as a lamb. She continued her strides pondering on how she had been walking before with the endeavor to mimic the once familiar motions. Miriam had somehow lost track of her body somewhere between there and the library, and something sinister was holding her at a distance from Laura. She could scarcely feel a hazy wind brush the surface of her skin as her calculated paces continued. Her motions were those of a puppet being strung along unwillingly. She managed to plaster a calm demeanor overtop her panic. A panic she couldn’t quite pin the main source of.
It was all swarming above her in a cloud that kept her detached from her physical body. Her faith, her love, her Laura. Why couldn’t it all be part of her simultaneously? Why did some parts of her insist on the abolishment of others?
A verse reached out to her then, with a familiar mercy.
Psalm 51:17 “My Sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart you, God, will not despise.”
The sound of Laura’s melodic voice drew Miriam the final part of the way to Earth with a question catching her off guard enough to feel like a slap across the face.
“So, how’s your new dorm, any better than last year’s?”
Her mouth ran dry as her brain fully processed the question, and the situation she had foolishly put herself in. She had never wished to be back in that haunted dorm room so badly, in fact she’d never wished for it at all. But anything would outweigh the mortification certain to befall her in the duration of this conversation.
Laura was the only witness to Miriam’s humiliating breakdown halfway through the first quarter. Her moment of weakness arrived with no warning, in the midst of a rehearsal that was detrimental to her dance career. A meltdown that began quite similarly to many she had experienced before, but never in such a public space. The aftermath left her feeling vulnerable and alone, so she opened up to the one person with enough kindness in her soul to stoop to Miriam’s level and ask if she was alright. It was not a moment she was proud of. She had wished Laura had forgotten this, selfishly prayed for it even, but clearly to no avail.
James 4:3 “When you ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives.”
Miriam breathed in deep, resetting her lungs, her spirit, and her body for the minimum composure necessary for this conversation.
Here we go.
“I’d almost hoped you’d forgotten that.”
“Oh.”
“No not because— well I just mean … ah forget it.”
“So, is that a no then?” Miriam turned her head, unable to read the blank expression on Laura’s face.
“What?”
“You don’t like your new dorm any better?” Laura reiterated.
“Well, it’s just lonely I guess, being up there by myself all the time.” You’re so pathetic.
“That’s terrible. I can’t imagine how sucky that’d be.”
“It’s really not all bad. I’ve got dance, I’ve got classes, I’ve got plenty to do away from it all.”
“Yeah but like, my dorm is my safe haven and I want you to have that.” She bumped her shoulder against Miriam’s, her smile almost mischievous. “You can always spend time over at mine if yours is really that bad.”
“Really? I mean no, that’s your space and all, I couldn’t intrude like that.”
“It’s not ‘intruding’ Miriam, it’s ‘hanging out’.”
Hanging out? What in the name of all that is Holy is “hanging out”? A small smile creeped into the crevices of Laura’s lips, roguish and knowing. They were walking so close that she could feel the heat radiating from Laura’s body, the air between them too thin, and full of tension.
She swallowed.
“And, you wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course not! Think of it as an exchange. I’m showing up to your dorm with my anthropological knowledge, and you show up to mine with a deck of cards or something.”
“What about candy?”
“As long as it’s not grape flavored.”
“I suppose I can find an alternative. Or just keep all the rejects for myself.”
Laura giggled softly, slightly turning her head in the other direction as if attempting to disguise it from her. Miriam couldn’t fathom why Laura would want to shy it away from her, she had a deep love for her laugh. She was always beautiful, but her smile made her face glow, it brought out the fun in her. The part of her that only seemed to exist on stage, or in private, never in between.
The “fun” Laura seemed to get lost in the routines, practice after practice strained her and it fatigued the smile out of her. It grieved Miriam to watch Laura get caught up in the expectations of dance, of school, and whatever else, to only catch up when she was at the tail end of it all. She wondered if maybe Laura’s faith got to her as well. But she pushed the thought down with an urgency, pretending she hadn’t dared to think of her beliefs as a burden on anyone, including Laura.
Miriam’s brain jolted back from her spiral once again as she felt Laura’s hand slightly brush her own. Laura just seemed to have that type of electrifying effect on her. Miriam jumped out of her skin not expecting the contact, and the regret immediately set in upon seeing Laura’s smile fade out of existence, turning her head away once again. You really know how to fuck it all up don’t you? She knew this should be a sign from God or something, telling her this was wrong. But the hole growing in her chest begged her to reconcile, and she couldn’t stomach the thought of letting Laura think she thought of her as anything less than wonderful.
Overestimating the appropriate response to this, Miriam grabbed for Laura’s hand, and held it tightly within her own as if they were one in the same. Her body betrayed her as sweat immediately began to pool in her palms, but neither she nor Laura let go. Eyes straight ahead they traveled on in blissful terror for one, then two, then the four extra minutes it took for them to arrive at Miriam’s dorm. Dark, and silent, and wicked as could be.
***
Miriam could feel God as he looked down on her from above, she wasn’t used to anyone’s presence but her own within her dorm, let alone a girl she liked and an eternal being that hated the idea of them together. She couldn’t understand why it was so wrong, Laura was so lovely and surely if he made Miriam the way he had, how immoral could the idea of them be? Laura couldn’t hurt a soul. And the pair of them felt nearly fated together. Everything was meant to be as it was, so wasn’t it possible the church had gotten it wrong?
Proverbs 3:5 “Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.”
Her behavior so far tonight could be viewed as a result of cherry-picking God’s teachings to benefit herself. She could turn back now, and it would all be forgiven quite easily. It was meant to be God’s way, and God wanted them to study. So, she would make an attempt at studying.
Laura twiddled her thumbs as a nervous tick while Miria slowly booted up her years-old laptop that had been handed down to her once she’d gotten accepted into University. Her mother had almost been proud. It was a last ditch attempt at retribution for Miriam, a chance to reach her full potential and achieve what her mother had wished for her, to be the daughter every devout follower of Christ should be gifted. Her mother’s face always seemed to be stained with malice each time Miriam pictured it. The reminder made remorse quite difficult to force. Her mother knew her own faith would never be enough to save Miriam. So, why had she ever bothered?
Her gaze slowly drifted over her laptop toward Laura, who was caught up in reading each individual title of the novels displayed across her shelf.
“What’s with the books?” Laura asked.
“Huh? Oh, those are just for decoration.”
“You mean you haven’t read any of them?”
“Well, a few of them, I guess. I liked Frankenstein.”
Laura seemed to be baffled by this, but Miriam had never thought too deeply into it. She was given many books in her lifetime since she’d always fit into the stereotype of an avid reader, but she’d never quite found the time for them.
“Oh Miri, you have no idea what you’re missing out on. You’ve got some great books right in your room and you have no clue what they even say.”
“Are you a reader then?”
“Gosh, I love to read! Nothing’s better than picking up a book after a long day, you get lost in them and they can take you away from it all.” Her gaze dropped to her feet and her hands curled around her knees.
“Sometimes, I just need to be away, far, far away. Don’t you?”
The silence was obvious but the screams overpowered.
“Yes.”
The air grew warm, and the walls enclosed, trapping them there. Two girls alone in that room. Private, intimate, with no one to indignify them but a God with no true capacity to stop them.
“Maybe I just wish too much. Is that stupid?” Laura chuckled.
“That’s not stupid, everyone has wishes.”
“I suppose.”
“It’s true, I have tons. I wish to be better at dance every time I biff it, I wish for more intelligence each time I bomb a test, I wish for—”
For other, more foolish things she couldn’t say out loud.
“—for peace every time I see people being pushed around. Are those stupid? Does that make me stupid?” Maybe.
“No.”
“Exactly. Cause you and I, we’re not stupid.” She could feel resentment bubbling deep within her. Laura didn’t deserve the doubt, and the pain. She should be out there thriving, far away from all of the garbage Miriam had to deal with. Laura was above it all and it was dragging her down to the pit Miriam was rotting in.
As she lifted her head, she realized Laura was staring directly at her. Her doe eyes portrayed every bit of sun that bloomed within her soul, and they were locked directly on Miriam. Intense, and determined, and more frightening than she’d ever imagine they could be. She took a deep shaky breath and with her eyes still trained on Miriam she asked a single question.
“Would it be okay if I did something stupid, then?”
Dear God, I’m not as sorry as I should be for this.

The Girl In The Woods

Sunny W. Hays

When I was still me and not them,
in the shortest nights of summer
she would call to me
with a name that was not mine

I would slip from my bastille
and wander into the woods

Despite the dark,
and my lack of grace,
my feet would know the path

The fell of the stones and earth
were etched into their soles
long before they were mine

I moved with the shade
or as a reflection of it

And there she would be,
The girl in the woods

---

He should have felt scared, maybe angry or sad as well. But when Simon’s alarm woke him the same way it had for the last twenty years, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that today would be the day he died.
He was disturbingly calm despite this, for some reason feeling only mild disappointment at the prospect of his death. It was an odd feeling, one that he knew wasn’t right, yet one that he had no doubts about. He considered going to the hospital or maybe even the police, but as he lay there in his bed, he just couldn’t summon the strength to care. He was going to die and trying to change that felt as insurmountable as trying to move a mountain.
Interrupting Simon’s thoughts, his alarm began to blare out again. He elected to turn it off this time, rather than hitting snooze like he had several minutes prior. He climbed out of bed, now remembering that he had work today, and decided that these thoughts could wait until later.
Simon walked to his closet and gathered the clothes that were necessary for the day. He took a short shower, then brushed his teeth, shaved, and got dressed all before the steam had cleared from the mirror. It was all automatic at this point, and he was glad for it. His days tended to get worse from here.
He snaked his way down the hall, placing each foot exactly where he knew the floorboards wouldn’t creak. Entering the living room, he made a beeline for the kitchen, grabbed his keys and braced himself for what would be one of the two most difficult parts of the day.
He crossed back through the living room to the front door, where he knelt to put on his shoes. Once his laces were tied, he stood and stared at the floor in the center of the room. He didn’t dare to raise his eyes any higher. He didn’t want to meet theirs.
“Good morning Dad—um—I’m heading out to work. I won’t be home ‘til a bit later though, Dallia is in town so we’re going to meet up for dinner. I’ll make sure to be back before eight though, so don’t worry too much, okay?” Simon stood there for a few moments, but his father didn’t respond. The room stayed silent. Simon closed his eyes and took a breath before saying “Okay, have a good day. I’ll see you later.”

---

The girl in the woods was made of neon
and negative space
She was seamless
and definite,
a refraction of herself,
recursing outward
in every direction forever

The girl in the woods spoke with silence,
and the world would listen,
quieting itself
just to resemble her
even for a moment

Night after night
I found her,
and we danced
Gracelessly

Myself naught
but a pale reflection of her

It was ridiculous that he was still doing this. Simon knew that no good would come of it, that none of his cowering displays of submission would ever change how his father felt about him. Nothing could, and Simon had run out of time to try. He had at most a few hours before he would die, but still he couldn’t help but diminish himself—all for the sake of a father who was rarely anything but cruel.
If he had worked somewhere important, there would likely have been actual consequences for his absentmindedness. Luckily for him, it didn’t matter if he neglected his duties; no one came to this gas station anyway. The hours rushed by at a pace he should have found alarming, given what was coming. But still, his emotions simply wouldn’t rise to the call.
If he had felt like this on any other day, he might have even been thankful; it would have been a welcome reprieve from how he usually felt. However, as he watched each second slip through his fingers, he found that no part of him felt anything but disappointment and a small but growing sense of dread.
The minutes passed like seconds, and before he knew it, the clock had reached 5 p.m.—the end of his shift. Simon undid the few buttons that held together his vest, the only identifying piece of his uniform, and took it off as he folded himself into his car. He was reminded once again of how grossly tall he was, and as always, he quickly shut the thought down.
The diner where he was meeting Dallia wasn’t far from the gas station, though in that town, very little could be called far from anything else. He and Dallia had eaten there countless times before. For the first time that day, he truly felt the pain of knowing they never would again. He only got to see Dallia a few times a year at this point, and he wasn’t about to let something like this get in the way.
Dallia was waiting in one of the booths tucked away at the far end of the diner. It was smart of her, as this was one of the few restaurants in town and the likelihood of running into someone who would know her was at an all-time high. As he arrived at the booth, Dallia’s face split into a smile. “Hey, kid,” she said, as she got up to give him a hug.
She wasn’t much older than him really and significantly shorter, but that never stopped her from being the big sister he needed her to be. The hug lasted longer than it needed to, though neither would’ve said it felt awkward. Once they had parted, they each slid into their respective sides of the booth.
“So, how’ve you been?” Dallia asked.
It was an incredibly simple question on any other day, but today Simon had a hard time figuring out how to respond. He knew he couldn’t tell her that he was about to die, and he knew that she would see through any attempt at deception. He took just a few seconds too long before responding, “Y’know, about the same as always.”
Dallias eyes narrowed slightly as she coolly asked again, “Oh yeah? And how’s that?”
Simon knew if he told her that she would try and help him. She might think he had gone crazy, but that wouldn’t stop her from doing everything she could to ensure that he made it to the next day. It would ruin dinner.
“As always, nothing ever happens at the gas station. I think if anything ever did, it would likely count as one of the signs of the apocalypse. And y’know, home is . . . quiet. We still haven’t done anything with your room, y’know, so if you need somewhere to spend the night—”
“Simon, I’m not going back to that house.”
There were a few tense moments where silence engulfed their booth before Simon said, “I—I know . . . sorry, I shouldn’t have even asked.”
“It’s okay, kid.” She didn’t look hurt, or even mad, but that didn’t stop Simon from wishing he hadn’t brought up the house. He was an idiot to think she’d want to be in that place again. Simon couldn’t even stand to look his father in the eyes. She’d want to tear him apart.
“How are you holding up with… everything?” Dallia gently asked.
“I’m fine.” Simon stated in the perfect way to show that he, in fact, was not fine. He couldn’t have that conversation, though. Not then and there. But it looked like he wasn’t going to have much of a choice.
“You know you can talk to me about it right?” Dallia offered.
“I said I’m fine,” For a few more moments, silence took a seat at their booth. Simon wished he could keep it that way, but he also knew that if he made this a war of attrition, Dallia was sure to win. “Really, you don’t need to worry about me.”
Those were not the right words to say.
“It’s just—you’re still there, living in that house. It isn’t good for you. You know it isn’t good for you.” Dallia took a deep breath before continuing, “I understand, you’ve never lived anywhere else and it’s hard to move on from something you’ve had your whole life. I know that it feels like you’ll lose a part of yourself, but I’m telling you, that part is doing nothing but holding you back. At this point, why stay? What possible reason is there?”
“. . . Dad would hate it if we left the house.”
“Simon, Dad is—”
“Don’t. Please just . . . don’t.”
***
I am not perfect

I broke infinity in half
so I could be understood
and I was left with nothing,
And a reflection of it

I don’t see myself anymore
I cannot look at them

We are not the same person
We do not want to be

They are dimly lit
while I echo the world around us,
drowning her out
as she calls
our name
***
The waitress, like the saint Simon desperately needed her to be, mercifully came by to take their orders. Dallia got a salad and a glass of water. Simon, on reflex, ordered the chicken strip platter and a butterscotch milkshake. This was going to be his last meal. He could have stepped out of his comfort zone and tried something he never had before losing the opportunity, but then again, he was never much for change.
Dallia eventually broke the silence. “Look, kid, I know you want to stay, but you’ve been there for too long. That house hasn’t done either of us any good in years. Truth be told, I came here because I just moved to a new place. I have an extra room you could come stay in. It’s got its own bathroom and everything. You wouldn’t even have to stay quiet. It’s got thick enough walls that you’d have to scream to get anything through them.”
She laughed a little at that. Simon did not.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you keep staying there. Tomorrow I’m gonna rent a moving truck so we can get whatever you want out of that house. I can’t make you come with me, but I’m not going to keep sending money to pay bills. You and I both know you won’t be able to afford it without me, so just, come with me, please.”
Simon wasn’t used to seeing Dallia this desperate. He didn’t like it, but after everything, he just felt numb. He knew there was no getting out of this if he planned to still be around the next day. Dinner had been ruined enough.
“Okay.” He almost whispered it, but Dallia heard it loud and clear. She left her seat to slide next to Simon and hug him. She was tearing up now and thanking him over and over again. Everything felt far away at this point. She went over the logistics of everything, from renting the truck to selling the house. Simon nodded along but heard none of it. The food came, and they ate. He couldn’t taste any of it.
As they headed out to their cars Dallia pulled him into one last hug. He tried to lean into it, to feel like she was, but there was nothing left inside him anymore. She said she’d see him tomorrow, and though he nodded back to her, he really hoped she wouldn’t. Better someone else find him, or no one at all.
He took the long way home, though there was no real long way in that town. He thought he’d take one last look around, but even if he wasn’t dying, he knew he wouldn’t miss any of it.
When he finally arrived back at the house, it was eight thirty. He was late, not that it mattered to anyone but him. He took three deep breaths before putting the key in the lock. He didn’t want to go back inside. He didn’t want to see his father there, but he didn’t want anything anymore. He turned the key and opened the door.
He wasn’t smiling. His father never really liked to smile, so it was only fitting. He was posed like an old portrait, a stature and expression wildly unfitting for someone of his standing. His unblinking eyes pierced into Simon’s in a way that always terrified him. But Simon couldn’t feel that way, even if he tried now. They held each other’s gaze for several long minutes before Simon sighed and said, “This is stupid.”
Simon crossed the living room and took down the photo of his father that hung above the fireplace. It was stupidly large, and Simon wondered why his father had hung it up in the first place. He supposed that it was another desperate bid for respect, but no one in their right mind would have ever respected his father. He didn’t deserve to be respected.
Simon wondered if that was why no one had shown up at the funeral. It wasn’t that nobody respected him enough to show up, it’s that he was an asshole who no one liked. Simon had spent twenty-seven years afraid of that man, and another three afraid of his ghost.
He set the photo face down on the kitchen table, then went back to the front door to lock it and take off his shoes. He started to wonder how it was going to happen. Was there going to be some great accident, like a leaky gas line that blows up the whole house? Was someone going to break in and kill him, and if so, would he even fight back? Or was he going to have to do it himself?
As these thoughts ran through his head, he walked down the hall, stepping on each board just to hear it creak. Then he heard something familiar, something he hadn’t let himself hear in a very long time. He turned around and went back through the kitchen to the back door. He waited and listened until he was sure.
He took off his socks and exited into the backyard, not bothering to close the door behind him. It was dark, and he couldn’t see where he was going, but that didn’t matter. He knew where to go. He walked and walked, scraping himself against errant branches and stepping into thorn bushes. At one point, he walked straight into a tree.
Eventually, he arrived.
He walked down the old dock, keeping his eyes up the whole time, all the way to its edge. Slowly, he let his eyes fall to the still, moonlit water until eventually they reached his reflection.
He was overwhelmed, as every emotion he should have been feeling all day hit him at once. Panic filled his chest as he looked down at himself. A scream tried and failed to escape him as he slapped a hand over his mouth. His skin crawled as he held his own gaze, watching as anger and sorrow burned in his eyes.
Simon always hated crying, it made him feel pathetic. So when he saw tears budding in his eyes and felt a sob forcing its way up his throat, something in him broke. He felt his knees begin to buckle and threw himself forward, just thankful that he wouldn’t have to bear the reflection any longer.
He wasn’t a bad swimmer; he certainly could have gotten out of the water. But instead, he sank. There were tears, though no one would be able to tell. He screamed as loud as he could, for as long as he could, until every scrap of air had left his lungs. He couldn’t see the bottom, so instead, he looked up.
One last time he saw her, standing at the edge of the dock, now looking down at him. She waved goodbye and he could not return the gesture. As his vision slowly faded, his face split into a smile.
Simon was dead.

---

I was alive

Silence sang from my lungs
My name was mine,
and I was no longer them

I left my reflection behind
It could no longer compare to me

For the first time
I saw my path before me,
Lit with neon lights
And I danced

Gracelessly

As I left,
The girl in the woods.

Birdie

Allie Fisk

It’s a cold November day. The kind of cold that even though you put on every layer imaginable, it still penetrates through to your bones. I just got out of my only evening class, the sun barely visible over the city skyline. Peaks of deep red turning violet, then slowly into navy as the evening fast approaches. I pull out my phone to see if I have enough fare for the bus and find that there are several notifications waiting for me, all about different things and all requiring my immediate attention. There is a text thread from my friends asking if I was going to meet up with them. I quickly scroll past that one. An email from my university notifying me that I need to meet up with my advisor ASAP. Again, I scroll past. Two messages from my bank stating that my utilities and loan payments are overdue, and one from Birdie.
“Call me.”
I furrow my brow at the text, leaving it on read, and stuff my phone back in my pocket as I continue my journey to the bus stop. The sudden contact after being ignored for weeks feels like whiplash. Especially since she won’t stop texting me either. I try to put it out of my mind for now, but somehow, she’s always there.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the stop’s overhang are a welcoming warmth as I wait for my taxpayer funded chariot to arrive. My mind drifts as I try not to think about the bills and the loans, and especially Birdie. The memory of when we first met here feels like a distant dream. I only paid for her ride, but the gesture was enough to invite conversation, and we lost track of time, and missed our stops. The memory used to be a fond one, but now feels like a lifetime ago. My phone buzzes once more bringing me back to reality.
Another text from my buddies, pestering me for an answer. I chew on my lip, staring down the message as if that would make it go away with some sort of unknown superpower. Before clicking on the thread to reply, another text from Birdie comes through, asking why I’m not answering. Ignoring her messages once again, a swift response is sent to my friends as I leave the bus stop. The autumn wind starts to kick up, whipping chestnut strands of hair in all directions as it creates a tangled mop on my head. A drizzle of rain begins as I avoid the thought of inevitably responding to her.

---

Classy’s Bar and Grill, the usual haunt for the local college kids who have little to no money. Selling cheap food and cheaper beer, it’s a paradise for those in their early twenties. I find myself at the entrance of the bar, still trying to come up with some excuse to not go inside, but make my way in anyhow. Scanning the restaurant, a hazy screen of smoke layers itself with the pungent odor of alcohol and regret as my friend Miles waves me down. As I make my way over, a roar of noise comes from the group as everyone greets me enthusiastically and makes room at the table.
“Glad you came, Aidan.” Miles says as he hands me a drink. “I know you’re usually a homebody, but dude, you’ve got to start coming out with us more.”
I take the bitter beverage from him, an unenjoyable IPA that will do the job for now. Carefully taking a sip and setting it down, the cool liquid gives some respite from the otherwise choking environment.
“Yeah, and I still really don’t want to be here, but it’s better than being home right now.”
“Why?” another asks. “Birdie still bothering you?”
I scoff, “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Aren’t you guys coming up on a year together?” Miles asks.
“Well . . .” I pause. The thought of the impending anniversary sticks in my mind. I had forgotten that it was almost that time.
“Well, since last month we haven’t really been seeing much of each other.”
I gaze into my glass—dark brown irises stare back blankly as they appear discolored by the liquid. I watch as the bubbles of the drink rise and pop, ever so carefully building pressure, only for it to be released once it reaches the surface. Jealousy envelopes me at the mere sight of those bubbles. Freely and effortlessly dancing about, while I feel like a slow drag. Always remaining just below the surface as if I will never reach that bursting point.
“That’s right, y’all are on a break, why is that again?” one of the guys asks. The question sets my teeth on edge.
“She was sucking the life out of him figuratively and financially. Keep up with the lore.” Miles remarks as he gives me a sideways glance.
Turning my attention away from them and quietly scanning my surroundings, I find the table where Birdie and I had our first date. This place is filled with her presence; in every nook and cranny there is some piece of her that lingers. We would come here often, not just for the cheap beer, but also for the dancing—Birdie loves to dance.
Staring out at the lively scene of the bar, I turn my gaze in the direction of the dance floor. Bodies moving back and forth to a fast yet comfortable rhythm to follow, and people break off into pairs as the music begins to slow. I’m not the biggest fan of crowds, but when she takes my hand and leads me into the middle of the room, nothing else matters. Birdie gazes up at me as she persuades my hands and arms into position with hers, and we begin to sway in time with the music. I crane my neck down slightly to gaze at her. The cool silver of her earrings stands out against her golden hair, and her eyes shine with a familiar warmth that draws me in.
“You know,” she says. “This is my favorite part of our evenings.”
“What? Waddling around with me and my two left feet?”
She giggles, “No. Just being with you is my favorite part.”
A small grin creeps its way onto my face, when suddenly Miles snaps in my ear and the memory slowly fades from view. I blink a few times and turn towards him, a confused expression painted across his face.
“Dude, you good?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just . . . thinking.”
He leans closer to me, squints, and then leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. What he’s searching for I’m not sure, but I side-eye him in return.
“What?” I ask, taking another sip of my drink.
He purses his lips, “You got to let her go.”
The beer in my throat comes dangerously to choking me as the words leave his mouth. Coughing for a solid minute, he waits for me to finish as some of the drink spills.
“I’m sorry?” I grab a napkin to clean myself up and wipe the table. “What do you mean?”
He raises an eyebrow, “You know what I mean. She’s not good for you.”
“And what gives you the right to say what is or isn’t good for me?” I glare at him. He always thinks that he knows what’s best.
“Look, Aidan,” Miles puts his back to the others and gives his full attention to me. “Don’t let the good times cloud your judgement. You’re looking through rose-colored glasses.” My pulse begins to pound in my ears as he continues.
“All her eccentric hobbies? The trips? Her shopping habits? Aidan, I don’t care how much you like her, you need to let this go. I’m tired of seeing you get strung along and used for her own gain.”
“What do you know? You don’t know anything about us or what she means to me,” I snap at him.
The glass is half empty now as I gulp down more beer, and my phone is still buzzing. The pressure of a response and everyone’s opinions about Birdie feels endless, and Miles is certainly not helping. I know that there’s some truth to what he is saying, but I can’t seem to find the capacity to believe it. I set down my glass harder than intended and stand up from my seat.
“I’ve got to go.”
Complaints of my departure follow me out the door as my feet trudge aimlessly. My mind can’t help but focus on Birdie: was she really using me? Something inside me stirs as Miles’ words settle in my thoughts.
Meandering the streets in the rain, I come across all our regular stomping grounds. I pass the local coffee shop, the nearby park, and a few boutiques where we had so many good times. Where we would laugh and enjoy each other’s company, but Miles’ words are branded into my brain. The realization of his meaning slowly becomes more present as I think back on those moments. All these places and more, I can’t remember a single time when she paid for any of it, and if I couldn’t she would pout and complain the entire time. The hobbies she would pick up for a couple weeks at a time and then drop, I paid for her supplies. The trips out of town, and the hotels that she would stay at, I would scrounge every penny I could for those. Then the clothes, the never-ending stream of them would dry up my bank account with how often she would ask.
Was she truly only after money? Did any of the time we spent together mean anything? Did she ever love me? That last thought cuts like a knife as I continue to make my way home; the conflicting emotions grow increasingly intense as they begin to morph into resentment.

---

Passing through the threshold into the apartment, a heavy sigh escapes me as I scan my surroundings. Dishes piled in the sink, dust collecting on the shelves, and a few depressing houseplants on the windowsill await me as I set my things down on the kitchen counter. Normally, I’m a bit of a clean freak and would never let things stay dirty for too long. Though since Birdie left, I haven’t been motivated to keep up with some chores as often as I should. A heavy weight has made a home in my chest as the thought of what this place used to be is unbearably suffocating. Reminders of her presence in every corner of the small one-bedroom apartment tear at my consciousness, leaving only tatters as I try to pick up the pieces and move on. It’s funny how one person can leave such an impact on my life.
I stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do as my mind races. Eventually making my way to the couch, head in my hands to hopefully prevent a headache from forming. Sheets of rain cascade down the windowpanes next to me while the wind beats against the front of the building. Rhythmic, powerful, getting louder and faster. Loud to the point that it sounds as if it’s coming from all directions.
Wait, louder? I realized that the pounding was getting more persistent, and that it was directly behind me. Coming from my front door, it seems as if the storm decided to follow me home when the muffled sound of a voice speaks up. . . .
“Aidan? I know you’re home, please answer the door.”
Whipping my head around to face the door and the unexpected visitor on the other side, a sudden shiver runs down my spine. I cautiously move to look through the peep hole and can’t believe who was standing there. I quickly undo the top lock and open the door, and a sopping wet creature stands before me. Her blonde hair plastered to her head, clothes drenched in rainwater, and there’s a faint squishing noise coming from her shoes as she shifts her weight.
“Birdie?” I ask, even though the answer is clear. “What’re you doing here?”
She grins, shivering in place, “Hoping I could come in and warm up. Hurry and move, I’m freezing.”
She brushes past me and finds a place on the couch, still shivering as she rubs her arms, trying to warm herself. In shock, my legs mindlessly move to the small linen closet and pull out a towel for her. She gracefully takes it and begins to dry her hair. Seeing her rain-soaked hair reminds me of when she steps out of a freshly taken shower. I quickly avert my gaze, shooing the memory away and look towards the window. Standing there in front of her for a moment, a question softly escapes my lips.
“Why’re you here?”
She pauses, a fistful of hair in the towel. Her powder blue eyes look up to meet the corner of mine as I avoid her gaze.
“Well, you weren’t answering any of my calls. So I thought I would come check and make sure you weren’t dead,” she answers smoothly.
“Cut the crap, Birdie,” I say, heat building in the back of my throat. “You haven’t talked to me in weeks since you dropped off the face of the earth. The fact that you’re contacting me now, and showing up out of the blue no less, seems rather suspicious. So, what is it?”
She lowers the towel from her head, clutching it in both hands. A dark expression moves over her face, but she takes a deep breath, and her eyes fall to the floor.
“You want me to be honest?”
“I feel that’s the least you could do.”
She sighs, leaning back into the couch cushions. The vibrant and carefree expression she always has on her face now gone–I’ve never seen her look so defeated before. Eyes blank, staring at the ceiling, she whispers something that I almost can’t make out.
“I got scammed.”
Silence fills the room. That pressure feels like it’s on the brink of bursting, as I stare at her in utter disbelief.
“You got scammed.” I repeat back. “You? Of all the people I know, you . . . got scammed?”
She sits up with a start and stares me dead in the eye, an endless and unfamiliar inferno now blazing behind them. “Yes. I got scammed. And what of it? I’m already embarrassed enough. I thought that you would be the one person who wouldn’t make fun of me and be understanding.” Just as quickly as it was lit, the fire is now dowsed as tears take its place and start falling down her cheeks.
“I thought I could trust him,” she begins again, sniffling. “He said that he would make it worth my while, and that I just needed to get him the money and then—”
“Birdie,” I stop her mid-sentence. Trying not to think about it, but my heart breaks at the mention of this other “him.”
“How much?”
“It’s not what you think,” she stands up from her seat and tries to move towards me. “We never did anything.”
I step back, putting a hand up so she can’t come any closer.
“How. Much.”
She sinks into the couch once more before responding. “Ten thousand dollars.”
My eyes widened and my stomach drops at the sheer amount of what she lost, let alone how she was even able to get it in the first place.
“So what? Did you take out a loan for 10 thousand dollars and just give it to the guy?” Now pacing back and forth in front of the couch, a faint sense of dread starts to worm its way into my mind.
“I know it sounds bad, but listen he assured me—”
“But nothing, Birdie.” I stop in front of her, my heart feels like it’s about to beat out of my chest. “How could you have been so stupid?”
A look of hurt flashes in her eyes. I stop myself before saying anything else, taking a moment to collect my thoughts. I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“So then, what? Why are you truly here?”
She doesn’t look at me. Her fingers entwine together as she rests her arms on her legs. Leaning forward, water drips from the ends of her hair onto the cheap laminate floor. She sits like that for a while, contemplating, and then with giant puppy dog eyes, gazes up at me.
“I was hoping that maybe you could lend me some money.”
Like the bubbles in an amber drink that sits half empty at a bar, my bubble finally pops.
“No.”
The façade she’s wearing melts away as her face twists into an undecipherable emotion. “I’m sorry . . . what did you say? I don’t think I heard you correctly.”
“I said, no.”
She stares at me in disbelief. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no, Birdie. I’m not going to give you any money.” I walk over to the kitchen counter and start unpacking the things that were put down earlier. She stands up and makes her way over too, grabbing my shoulder and turning me around to face her.
“I don’t think you heard me clearly. I’m in debt and I have no money,” her talon-like nails dig into my skin. “Could you just help me out, this once? You always help me.”
Removing her hand from my shoulder, a slight sting is left behind, “Yeah, I used to, but then you left me.” I move to the other side of the counter and continue my task.
“I can’t keep doing this. How do you expect me to keep funding this lifestyle of yours when I can barely pay my own bills? How do I know that you won’t just leave me again after I give you the money?” A slow rage builds in my chest. “No Birdie, I can’t help you with this one. You’ll have to figure it out on your own.”
Suddenly, she grabs my bag and throws it on the ground; she’s furious at this point. She continues to grab whatever is in her line of sight and throws it. Dishes, plants, and decorations all find their way to the floor. My belongings are now strewn across the apartment as my own anger continues to rise. Standing there, shaking with rage, I attempt to speak calmly.
“Get out.”
She scoffs, “Oh, did I strike a nerve? You know, I always thought you were a weak and pathetic man, but I didn’t anticipate that—”
“Get out!” A scream so violent echoes throughout the room, surprising both of us.
I don’t think she expected me to ever counter her, but enough is enough. I walk to my room, rummage through the drawers and grab what I immediately recognize as hers, and storm back out, shoving it all into her arms.
“What’re you doing?” She asks, her tone shaky.
“Take these and leave, we’re done.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“But I am,” my mouth curls into a scowl. “I don’t ever want to see you again. Don’t come back here, and don’t talk to me. I’ll drop the rest of your stuff off at a friend’s place, so leave.”
I try to herd her out the door. Items in hand as she tries to find a way around, but with me being directly in front of her there’s no way other than out. Looking like a sad, wet dog, she stumbles out into the hallway, pure shock and horror on her face.
“You know,” she stammers, lip quivering. “I thought you, of all people, would actually take pity on me.”
I just look at her. “Sorry to disappoint.”
As I close the door behind me, she wails, “You can’t do this! What am I supposed to do?”
Her words fade as I shut the door, and so does the world for a moment. A small fuzzy sensation tickles in the back of my eyes as I look out the window once more. Tears silently streak down my cheeks as I drown out the screaming and the pounding coming from behind me and see that the storm outside has finally subsided.

Just One Life

Emmalee Hartwich

I could hear gunshots ringing in my ears as I dodged between the ruined buildings of a village turned battlefield, my own rifle held tightly in my hands. This part of the now decimated town wasn’t as chaotic as the rest of the field, but there was still enough danger forcing me to duck down behind sparse rubble as stray bullets whizzed overhead, narrowly missing me. I could feel my breath catch in my throat as more gunshots rang out, my grip on my firearm intensifying. I never wanted this damn war. But that said, who would want this? Some petty conflict that most agreed could have been avoided and was nothing more than a waste of life? There are very few people that benefit, and some drafted young man such as myself was definitely not one of them.
As I dared to peek out from my little stretch of cover, my body tensed at seeing someone also ducked down in the rubble of a nearby abandoned building, their enemy uniform standing out like stars in the daytime. He hadn’t yet noticed me, clearly in the same dilemma I was, watching out for stray bullets. I took a shaky breath, hands gripping my rifle. Just remember your training. Your very quick and rushed training. Remember, you have to do this. It’s just one life to take, right? They say the first time’s always the hardest, but you’ll forget this eventually, right?
My scattered thoughts were halted when I pulled back the hammer on the rifle to load it, clearly not having been as quiet as I’d have liked. The enemy soldier whipped around at the sound, eyes locking on mine. He reacted as fast as me, grabbing his gun, quick as lightning, and moving it up to fire. I instinctively dodged to one side, his shot missing. He’d not gotten the time to reload before I charged at him, knocking him back into a wall of rubble. He stumbled, disoriented for a moment, before trying to raise his gun again, till I knocked it out of his hand with my own, eliciting a short grunt of pain from the man. I raised my rifle once more, finger already on the trigger and ready to put an end to the scuffle.
But I just stood there. Rooted to the spot. Breathing ragged. Staring down at him.
I’d not gotten too good a look at him before, what with the rushing adrenaline of near-death, but now that we were standing face-to-face, my mind couldn’t help but notice new details. This guy, down in the dirt, staring up at me from the barrel of the gun, he couldn’t have been any older than me, maybe give or take a year or two. Before, I’d only been focused on his foreign uniform, the only thing the generals told us to focus on, but now my sight was drawn up to his eyes. Wide, terrified, and something I recognized. It wasn’t the look of a man ready to die for his country. This was someone who was sent to die without choice. A look I’d seen on my own features in the mirror since the draft.
My mind was barely present to tell me how long the two of us were just staring at each other. I damned my frozen limbs, which, no matter how much I tried to replay in my head the things taught to me, just wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t shoot. Why was I shaking? Why wouldn’t my finger pull the trigger? It should be simple. It should be easy. Just do it already! For your country, for your own life. It’s just one life to take. It’s just one life.
It’s just one life.
I looked down with a shaky breath, hands loosening their grip. I could just barely catch a glimpse of the other soldier’s face showing a hint of confusion between the previous fear as I found myself slowly lowering the rifle away from him.
“Go.” Even I was surprised by the single word that came out of my hoarse voice. The soldier looked up at me in shock as I pointed away from us, but the message was clear.
I couldn’t kill him.
Thankfully, I wasn’t forced to say more, as the man very quickly got the hint, scrambling to his feet, picking up his gun, and running off. I didn’t bother seeing what direction he ran, still left in mild surprise at my own actions. Yet … I don’t think I regretted it. Even with the storm that followed that decision.
“What in the HELL was that?!” I jumped in fright at the rough, commanding voice that pierced the air. One that had told me off enough times at boot camp and that I now knew was surely going to be much more brutal towards this slip-up.
General Tulligan.
Sure enough, turning around, I could see him march in through the broken doorframe of the house, uniform already splattered with new red stains and eyes burning with a fury that gave me all the confirmation I needed to know he managed to see what happened. My body tensed as he marched up to me, voice louder than a cannon going off right next to one’s ear. “You just let that man waltz off?! He’s the enemy! Have you forgotten your training already, private?!”
I sputtered for a moment, trying to explain my thoughts, when even I wasn’t sure yet what I had been thinking. “I— he was young! Same age as me- I just froze …! He was just looking at me and I—”
Tulligan gave me a stern look, interrupting. “I couldn’t care less about the ‘look in his eyes’ or his age! He wears that color, he dies. Now, go back out there, find him, and finish the job!”
My hands were shaking as I took another breath, my own words continuing to shock me, wondering what I was doing. “…No.”
Tulligan looked down at me with such offense you’d think I’d cussed out his entire bloodline. “N… no?” His offense very quickly molted back into anger, face going red. “You better watch your words, boy! I told you to find that man and kill him. That’s an order from your general—”
I snapped at him, voice just firing off with pure emotion at the steering wheel, and mind still trying to make sense of my own decisions as I rambled. “I can’t, alright?! And what does it matter?! It’s just one guy, it’s not like he started the war! What’s the point of chasing? Do you think everyone has to die for a successful battle? Is that it?! Is one life just too much for you to let go of?!”
The general stared at me, not saying anything during my unexpected rant, though I could feel his seething anger clear as I spouted off the top of my head. Once I’d run out of words, his silent glare continued for a moment, till he stepped forward. “So … you’d throw away the honor of your country to avoid having to take just one life …?”
“I’m saying I can’t do it, and there’s no point in chasing down one man. So no, I’m not going after him.”
The general gave a low scoff, reaching for the gun across his back. “Tch. You’re no soldier … Those words, they’re those of a coward. A weakling. A traitor.”
I felt myself step back with a flinch, hair raising on the back of my neck. “…Wait—”
I didn’t even get a chance to form a full sentence as General Tulligan raised a leg and kicked me right in the gut, catching me off guard and knocking me to the ground, kicking my gun away and raising his own to my face. “I’d say this place is fine enough for the execution of a traitor like you. Pity you chose to go out like this, soldier. Enjoy rotting in hell with your new friend—”
I recoiled and flinched at hearing a gunshot, freezing as I thought it was Tulligan’s gun. But then I opened my eyes, realizing I wasn’t dead, and instead heard … someone else’s shocked gasp of pain. I rapidly looked up, stomach turning at the sight above. The general. Eyes wide with shock and betrayal. Gun falling from his hands. Bleeding from the side of the head. As his body fell in front of me, blood pooling out of his skull and life fading from his eyes, I scrambled back, feeling sick, but quickly looking to where I’d heard the gunshot come from and the bullet that ended the general’s life.
Some distance away, just in the shadow of another building, there was no way I could mistake the silhouette and eyes of the one lowering his rifle. The enemy soldier. The one I’d spared. He looked at me firmly from afar, no words vocally needed to communicate what he probably meant to say with his action.
Now we’re even.

Hummus

Kylie Jo CastaÑeda

After a week of being stuck on the third floor of Saint Rose Hospital, you came home. The doctors said if you could stay healthy at home for three weeks, you would be able to start chemo. You were laid up in bed while Mom tended to a fluid bag with a tube attached, the other side inserted in your abdomen. My spine tingled and became restless while watching her tend to it. I tried to understand how you must’ve felt when they put a tube inside of you. You wanted to have your favorite lunch: hummus and pita. I grabbed an end chair from the dining room, the one with the wooden arms I could wrap my hands around or trace the designs in the wood when I felt uneasy. I dragged it through the house to your room. As you sat in your Victorian style reading chair, I extended the legs of a TV dinner table and sat across from you. We laughed and joked. We ripped pieces of pita and scraped roasted red pepper hummus straight from the container. We played Gin Rummy and you won. You always won.
After lunch, I told Mom I was going to go hang out with my friends for the evening. We had a long conversation. She insisted I was making a bad decision. She insisted I should stay home. She said, “You have no idea how much time you have left.” You hadn’t finished teaching me how to drive. I wasn’t done with school, not due to graduate for two more years. You couldn’t leave me yet.
I left the house that afternoon. I can’t tell you where I went or who I went with. I have tried to remember that night, it had to be important enough for me to leave. Was it my first girlfriend? My best friend, Nick? Or Thomas, the bad influence you didn’t like? I have absolutely no recollection of that day after the conversation with Mom. She called me the very next morning to tell me you were back in the hospital. There were some complications in the night. You were going to be fine, the doctors you trusted so much were going to fix you. They had to. You weren’t going anywhere.
Two days later you were sent to hospice, a week later you were gone. That day, the day I chose to go see unmemorable friends, was the last day we were together in our home.
I hate that I can’t remember what I did that night or who I was with, that I loathe roasted red pepper hummus now, winning at card games and that cancer exists. I hate that you are not here to see who I have become, that I had to go on alone at sixteen without my greatest friend and biggest fan. I can’t get past the pain I caused myself by creating a delusion to feel better about leaving that day. Most of all, I am regretful that I took that moment for granted. That I gave up five more hours of memories with you, for something so unmemorable. This is a pain that lingers like a persistent ache, a constant reminder that a part of me is missing. A void that can never truly be filled.

A Pity Prize

K.M. Donaldson

“Girls! Girls! It’s time for games!” Sophia’s mom called as she walked onto the lawn, carrying a basket overloaded with prizes. She called again in a sing-songy voice, “Who wants to play musical chairs?” Dread settled down in the pit of my stomach as the circle of chairs came into view. I had convinced myself that games were silly and I was much too mature for them. After all, I was nine years old, one whole year older than most of my class. While I hesitated at the edge of the yard, all of the other girls flocked to the chairs in the middle of the grass.
“Katelyn, are you going to play?” Sophia’s mom stared. I looked at the crowd surrounding the game and shook my head. “You don’t want to play?” I shook my head again.
I wanted to hide. I knew I was being a party-pooper, but I was stubborn. There were no takesies-backsies. Speaking up would be even more embarrassing. I stood awkwardly by the prize table as I watched the girls go in circles over and over. A primitive game really. An unbearable feeling started to overwhelm me as the hypnotic party music played and paused and played, again and again. It lasted forever. They had played until everyone had a prize. Even me. A pity prize. At the bottom of the basket was a cute, purple puppy with big, blue glittery eyes. The silly animal actually made me start to feel better, but my face still felt flushed from embarrassment.
Suddenly, I was alone. Everyone ran to separate areas in the yard while I had nowhere to go and no one to talk to. The games were over, thank goodness, but now the birthday girl was busy with all her friends; no one I knew, no one that liked or noticed me. I just had her. I stood in that yard feeling completely and utterly alone. I found an isolated nook by the fence in a grove of trees and I sat. I watched the girls talk, run, laugh, play, and push each other on the swings for what felt like ages. Why did I even bother to come? At that moment, something inside me just snapped. I suddenly felt the chokehold of resentment. It was as if my limbs had a mind of their own. I stuffed the puppy into the branches of one of the trees, its small body squished, distorted and limbs dangling. Its eyes looked like they were bulging out, staring at me.
Then, I went over to the playset and started asking if anyone had seen my toy. “I don’t know where it is! I must’ve lost it somewhere,” I whined. I looked around frantically and they followed suit. Very soon, everyone in the backyard was searching for my purple puppy, which was safely in the branches of a tree, right where I had stashed it. I hoped no one would find it because, well, I hadn’t thought it through. What happens if someone does find it in a tree? They will know I was lying. I would be caught and everyone would hate me for sure.
Girls scrambled around the yard and asked me where I last saw it and what it looked like. I felt a surge of importance; everyone seemed to care about me, and I ate it up. I tried to hide a smile … not very well, I’m sure. I never was a good liar, but no one noticed. After all, why would I lie about a toy? I walked calmly around the yard simply turning my head every which way to “search for my lost toy”. I started to feel a pang of guilt eating at me. Sophia’s friends were so nice helping me look for my toy; maybe they didn’t deserve to be tricked like this. Sophia didn’t deserve her birthday party to be turned into my pity party either. She was fun to be around and she always did her best to include me at school. She was a good friend.
I found myself in the abandoned tree grove where I hid my stuffed animal. It felt like only a few minutes went by when slowly, but steadily, everyone started to give up. Sophia’s friends started to go back to playing, including Sophia. I deflated. It was a rush to have everyone’s attention all at once and I was disappointed it was all over. Did they even try or was it just a game to them? I approached the tree and ripped the stuffed animal from the limbs of the tree. Half heartedly, I lifted the puppy into the air and raised my voice, “I found it! …”
For the rest of the party, I took little to no interest. I was wallowing, to say the least. I was ashamed that I would try so deliberately to take Sophia’s spotlight. Not like she skipped a single beat or anything; she went right along with the rest of her party. Her friends crowded around her. She was this beautiful, bubbly ray of sunshine with the biggest and warmest smile, and I was a scheming and terrible friend. In the living room, I watched Sophia open her shiny, new gifts in her big, shiny house with all her friends huddled around her. Accessories from Claire’s. . . so jealous! “Ooo”s and “Ahhh”s echoed around me as each new thing was pulled out of the giant glittery bag from her mom. Moms always give the best gifts.
After that party, I told no one about the incident. Not even Mom. Sophia and I grew apart. I didn’t think I deserved her friendship anymore. I didn’t really deserve any friendship after what I had done. I especially didn’t deserve Sophia’s mom’s delicious pancakes the morning after our occasional afterschool sleepovers. I still wish I knew what she put in those things. Despite all that happened, I still craved every bit of that attention I had felt at Sophia’s party. I was greedy for it.
After Sophia had finished opening gifts, all of us girls went up to Sophia’s room. Everyone was gathered on the bed but me. I had tuned out the others’ talking and giggling a while ago. I was squeezing the purple puppy, stroking its soft ears. Guilt was churning in my gut, and I couldn’t even meet Sophia’s gaze. I don’t think she noticed. Soon, Sophia’s mom appeared at the door and announced that my mom had come to pick me up. It was finally three o’clock! I looked back at Sophia and her friends all huddled on her bed. None of them stopped to even look at me. I stood up, the puppy still in my hands. I looked down at it, and its big eyes stared back at me. It knew what I had done. It knew everything. I dropped it on the floor and left.

Tiny Tales: A Memoir

Tom Darby

Times Square
In the early 1970s, I was flying into New York and missed my earlier flight, and arrived late in the evening. As the 747 began its descent into JFK, I turned to the older gentleman next to me and asked if NYC was his home or if he was just passing through.
“Oh yes,” he said. “I have lived in New York City all my life.”
“Do you have any advice for a first-time tourist like me?” He took a closer look at me as if to appraise my young age.
“Listen,” he said in a fatherly voice. “Everything you have heard about New York City is true … the good and the bad.” He paused for a long moment. “The best advice I can give you is just remember to stay away from Times Square after dark.”
I had thought that my earlier flight would give me time to find a cheap hotel for the night, but the airport was essentially closed down. A security guard pointed to a phone on the wall that I could use to find accommodations. Tired and nervous, I lifted the receiver to hear a kind voice of the lady on the other end of the line ask some questions about what accommodations I wanted. I emphasized “cheap.”
“At this late hour,” she said, “I only have one vacancy that meets your criteria.” I wrote down the name and phone number of the place she recommended.
“I’m wondering if you still have a vacant room tonight,” I said to the hotel clerk on the other end of the line.
“Yah, I have a room left, and I will hold it for ya.“
“Where is your place and how do I get there?”
“Oh, it’s so easy, it is right in the middle of Times Square.”
“WOW,” I mumbled.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Ahh,” I spoke up. “I’ve been advised that it is not safe to be in Times Square late at night.”
“Yup.” He seemed to sense my inexperience in the big city. “Look, here’s whacha do. When ya get to Times Square, ya stand up real big and tall. Shoulders back, chin up. And when ya walk, put a tough swagger in ya step and a smirk on ya face. Anybody who sees ya will think ya the one gunna cause the trouble, and they’ll leave ya alone.”
After putting the phone back on the receiver, I caught my reflection in the night-darkened glass window. I stood up, pulled my shoulders back, chin up, and practiced a few tough guy faces. I looked at my watch. It was after midnight.
t.d.

“Punk” on the City transit Train
We had just boarded the light-rail commuter train during the evening rush hour. It was standing room only, so we grabbed the overhead bar next to a rough-looking young man with a shaved head and more tattoos than fingers. He had just hung up his bike by its wheel on the overhead hook. The train lurched to a start, and we all swayed in unison.
At the next stop, the doors in front of us opened, and a middle-aged man and woman, roaring drunk and loud, staggered into the entryway and immediately crashed onto the two vacant seats reserved for senior riders. The young man with the bike immediately looked at us and then shouted out to the drunks.
“Hey, those seats are for old people like these folks.” Pointing to us. At 75 years, I guess we were showing our age. Turning to us, he said, “You should be sitting there.” Sensing a possible unruly confrontation with the inebriated ones, we said, “No, no, thank you, that’s OK, we really aren’t that old.”
He started to move toward the drunks, but I stepped in his path and thought that the best thing to do to de-escalate the situation was to ask him some questions to distract him from his gallant endeavor.
“Are you a regular on this line?” I asked.
“Yeah, I work 15 miles out of town, and I take this train to the edge of the city and then ride my bike five more miles to work, every day. I love my work. I’m learning to be a car mechanic.”
Our chat with him for the next several stops revealed him to be a kind and earnest young man. At his stop, he got off, gave us a thumbs up, and hopped on his bike and rode into the night. From this experience, we learned not to judge someone by the number of visible tattoos.
t.d.

Slow Reader
I am a slow reader … very slow. In fact, I find now that, as a floundering intellectual, I can write a story faster than I can read one. Back in the golden age when every home had only one phone with a three-foot cord connected to the wall, and gasoline was .25 cents, my older sister was a voracious reader. She had just read Clavell’s novel Shogun. It was a 900-page paperback so heavy that one could hardly lift it off the table.
Sis, seeing me growing up well-versed in six guns strapped to the hips of my Roy Rogers pajamas, pirate swords, and whaling ships, knew that Shogun was the book I had to read.
I had never read a book over 100 pages and protested that there was nothing worth reading any longer.
“Little brother,” she insisted, “This book is so you. It will change your life, and you will enjoy every word of it.“ I walked out of the room, rolling my eyes and thinking how loony she was, always trying to improve my life. Moments later, she grabbed my arm for attention, and right before my eyes, she tore off the first 300 pages of the paperback.
“Here … Stretch yourself and read a 300-page book, and you will beg me for the rest of it.”
I was still a slow reader, but I was fascinated with the first part. I got up an hour earlier each morning to read, took it to lunch and sat in the corner, so I could read without being disturbed. Then read myself to sleep at night.
To this day, fifty-plus years later, my memory is still that for my interests at that time, it was the best book I ever read. All thanks to my loony sister.
t.d.

Interview with Morgan Vayle

LilyAnna Babien

Local Paranormal Romance Author and Publisher Morgan Vayle Shares Her Experience
LilyAnna Babien
Editor of The Swift

LilyAnna Babien: Where did you come up with the idea for the story (Dust of the Earth)? This is quite an expansive tale about a vampire searching for answers in the halls of WSU.
Morgan Vayle: I had the initial core pieces for it when I was fifteen-ish, so almost twenty years ago. And that was kind of inspired by mythology and the Old Testament. I went to school for biology and environmental science, and had forgotten about this story. When I remembered it in the middle of the night, my initial ideas of this sort of religion and mythos combined with this new knowledge that I had gained about biology and evolution. In the end, I got this draft that turned into what my story is now.
When I was first developing this story, it was initially going to take place in Portland and be at [Portland State University], where I went to school. But then as it developed, I realized these characters would not want to be right in the big city, but close by, and Vancouver seemed like a good place. As I was researching colleges and universities that the main character, Nikki M, would go to, [Washington State University] sort of had her career track. It seemed to be a nice fit.

LB: What were the easiest and most difficult parts about writing this book or just writing any part of the series?
MV: For me, action scenes flow, really well. As the series develops, it expands into a more international/global issue, and it brings in some other ancient civilizations and histories. So, the difficult part was doing all of that research to stay true to what exists in our world, while also incorporating my own ideas. Just making my own world where I could just imagine something away.

LB: How do you get out of writer’s block? Say, you’re in the mood for writing, but you feel kind of drained from your work or you feel like you can’t put words to a page. How do you get around that?
MV: I kind of like a short term and a long term process. For long term, making writing a habit really helps prevent writer’s block for me, because it keeps the story so forefront in my mind even when I’m not writing. So that, by the next time I get to writing, like the next day, I already know what’s gonna happen. It’s easy to keep going. In the short term, if I have a week off for the holidays, and something that kind of slows down the ability to do it daily, or if the words just ain’t coming, my “short term habit” to overcome writer’s block is to just start describing the scene and the setting. It builds the ambience and I can accept that, “I’ll move that out or delete it entirely”. Just sort of starting to set the scene and writing a little bit can help set up the words for what’s actually happening and the scenes start to come.

LB: What would be a piece of advice for someone going into a role of writing or publishing?
MV: I would say find a supportive group of other writers. It’s very easy as a writer to feel isolated. You know, it’s a solitary art. And if you’re going through the publishing process, it can be very stressful. It’s similarly stressful once it’s released and you’re trying to market. Have that group of other authors who have that range of experience, who know what it’s like to be starting, who can give recommendations, who can just generally be supportive. Find people who can support you and create this little community, so you don’t feel so isolated and discouraged.

LB: How powerful is word-of-mouth when it comes to selling your books?
MV: It’s very effective. Going to the Gothic Market and the Longview [Washington] Dark market, there’s a lot of overlap of people. At the last Dark Market, I had some people that I met at the Gothic Market saying that they read my book or they just bought my book or they talked about it to their friends. If you can find one person in your audience, then they’re connected to other people as well, who would likely help spread the word. . . it’s definitely very effective.

LB: If you were to look at yourself when you first started writing these books and you were to give yourself a piece of advice, what would you tell yourself?
MV: It’s okay to cut a lot of your words. I ended up rewriting my first book after about a year of release, because there was a lot of extra stuff in there that didn’t need to be there, that just slowed down the pace. I think not getting discouraged is a big one, understanding that you really need to be building up your back list. It’s not just putting all of your eggs in the hope of your debut basket. But also, a part of that understanding is that traditional publishing isn’t necessarily the hallmark of success. You know indie publishing [smaller publishing] … I feel like it’s getting better. The perception about [those types of] publishing, a lot of people think that it’s just, “Oh, authors giving up,” or, “Their book isn’t that good,” because they’ve been rejected by its traditional publishers. That’s not necessarily true; there’s a lot of value in indie [and smaller] publishing. You can get a lot of success and there’s a lot of good reasons to choose that over traditional publishing and to not have an idea that it is the only way to, “make it as an author”.

LB: Do you have any closing notes for readers or publishers or anybody who is interested in the literary community?
MV: Even though sometimes we can see that there can be some toxicity, I would say overall, the community of readers and writers is so just wonderful. They’re so friendly, welcoming, and supportive. Most people I know are not feeling like they are in competition with other authors, but are instead wanting to lift everybody up. So do not be scared about reaching out to authors, for advice or feedback. This is coming from somebody who is very introverted. Asking questions, reaching out to people and networking have been some of the most satisfying things as an author. So, I would just say; reader, writer, or publisher, don’t be scared of the fellow people in your community. Because almost everyone is gonna be absolutely wonderful!