The Sextant - Winter 2023/24 by Belmont Hill School

The Sextant

Winter 2023

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The Sextant Team Jake Kornmehl Adrian Tan Mark Price Jaiden Lee Henry Buckley-Jones

Editor-in-Chief Head Associate Editor Photography Editor Sta Sta

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Editor’s Note Albert Camus wrote, “The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself.” During a time where our country is polarized more than ever before, hearing the perspectives and understanding the thought processes of others are both crucial to progression. Both creative writing and art provide a unique opportunity for expression, an outlet of which many students at Belmont Hill have taken advantage. In this issue, Upper School students have submitted a wide range of creative pieces, sharing intimate short stories about experiences with loved ones or nature while others composed poems reflecting the inevitable. Our tremendous faculty and staff have continued to push students to use their talents to exceed in and outside the classroom beyond what they believed possible. Great writing must include a journey of the soul in a vivid, lively setting. This Winter issue features that along with well-crafted, select student art with various photographs and colorful ceramic sculptures that give our readers a view into Belmont Hill’s Arts curriculum. We would like to thank our school’s English and Arts faculty who have assisted in the creation of the 2023 Winter Sextant especially our advisor, Dr. Tift, and all the teachers who have supported us including Mr. Doar, Mr. Duarte, Ms. Bradley, Mr. Leonardis, and Ms. McDonald.

Your Editor-in-Chief, Jake Kornmehl ’24

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Table of Contents: Writing: A Single Drop of Rain………………………………….………………………..…………….Jake Kornmehl, VI, pg. 10 Narcissus……………………………………………..……………………………………………..Jaiden Lee, IV, pg. 11 Nothing Knocks………………………………………………………………………………..Will Achtmeyer, IV, pg. 13 The Quiet on the Water……………………..……………………………………………………Carver Porter, VI, pg. 17 Newsfertaru…………………………..…………………………………………….………….Riley Goodman, VI, pg. 21 The Demise of Comedy……………………………………………………………..………………Sam Dean, VI, pg. 25 Trapped…………………………………….………………………………………………..Haden Bottiglieri, VI, pg. 31 Death Day………………………………………………..…………………….……………………Adrian Tan, V, pg. 37 Truth or Dare…………………………………….………………………………………………….Adrian Tan, V, pg. 45 Untitled………………………………………………………………………………………………..Anonymous, pg. 48 The Colorful Bird……………………………………………………………………………..Thomas Sheehan, V, pg. 54

Art and Photography: Household Bowls……………………………………..………………..………Rafael Rodriguez Montgomery, VI, pg. 5 Earthly Elegance……………………………………………………………….Rafael Rodriguez Montgomery, VI, pg. 6 Seabreeze Serenity………………………………………………….……………………………Ajani Kromah, III, pg. 7 Coral Pillars……………………………………………………………..…………………..Beckett Britt-Webb, III, pg. 7 Bowl of Noodles……………………………………………..……………………………….Marc Tyler Jarvis, III, pg. 8 Sea Foam Vases……………………………………………………………………………….Connor Goodband, V, pg. 8 Birdhouse……………………………………………………………………………………….…..Jack OBrien, IV, pg. 9 Carp Leaping Over the Dragon’s Gate…………….…………………………………………………Polo Brice, IV, pg. 9

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Rafael Rodriguez Montgomery, VI

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Rafael Rodriguez Montgomery, VI

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Ajani Kromah, III

Beckett Britt-Webb, III

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Marc Tyler Jarvis, III

Connor Goodband, V

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Jack OBrien, IV

Polo Brice, IV

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A Single Drop of Rain By Jake Kornmehl Verdant veins collecting the recent rain Rolling like a rock towards the precipice of a cli A droplet forms at the end of a leaf Slowly it falls, slithering down the edge of the branches Passing birds painted with color Sea of dead leaves wilted on the forest oor Gathering, all of the fallen aqueous jewels Soil moist, ready to birth a new soaring, impressive canopy Sprout emerging Nutrients fueling new life Little vermillion ants, army on the forest oor Dodging droplets from the milky grey sky Generations of insects watch with awe Swirling mazes of branches, limbs of the Kapok Now home to the arboreous Starting with one lonely drop

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Narcissus By Jaiden Lee who are you, Narcissus? what are you, Narcissus? as you trace delicate tips across a faded surface of glowing owers, rippling waves miniscule changes to an appearance which i fear believes in no imperfections thinking in vivid brushes dutifully inside your perfectly perceived mind say it, Narcissus sing it, Narcissus ignore all pleas of those who seek of those who appeal of those who desire next to you, what is there that might shine brighter or may stand higher you who seeks to shun all creatures who dare to love grasp it, Narcissus embrace it, Narcissus your name which speaks and thrusts itself just above a pond of illusions mirroring your wants

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just for them to be forced away for when you think so deeply within a face sink now, Narcissus plunge deep, Narcissus for what you gaze with tender vision reveals itself as your inner plague a pool of tricks, of lies, of deceit think not of life think not of warmth set rigid sights only where hell hugs tight do you hear that voice, Narcissus? as it echoes and echoes and echoes forevermore (Based on the Ancient Greek mythological tale of Narcissus and Echo)

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Nothing Knocks By Will Achtmeyer Jason Myers hated Halloween. It made sense; Jason was 16 years old, an introvert, and hadn't talked to a girl in the past 16 years. All he wanted that night on October 31st was some peace and quiet. His parents were out, no homework, and nothing to bother him except the hordes of children outside pushing through the streets like a tsunami and leaving behind more destruction in the form of plastic candy wrappers. Their high-pitched squeals and incessant “trick or treat?” hit Jason like stabs. All he wanted to do was retreat to his room, close the door, put on his headphones, and turn o his brain. He wanted nothing. “Bye, Honey, have a nice night!’ “Yep, see ya.” Close the door, double lock, slide the chain: wait, no, don’t slide the chain or they can’t get back in. Grab a slice, grab a can, go upstairs, shut the door, headphones on; doKnock Knock Damn it, Jason thought. He reluctantly went downstairs and looked out the peephole: nothing. Perfect Back upstairs, shut the bedroom door, headphones on; done. Knock Knock Jason didn’t get up this time; he stared at his computer screen and increased the volume. Trick-or-treaters weren’t about to ruin his night. KNOCK KNOCK “WHO IS IT!” Nothing. If it were my parents, they would text, right? Yeah. Nothing to worry about. A few hours passed in absolute silence while Jason sat, making a crescent moon with his back while his eyes were lit up by the multitude of colors emanating

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from the screen. His eyelids began to grow heavy, the weight of the week’s work nally taking its toll. There are only 5 minutes left in the movie; I can make it. The words began to meld together into a collage of uninterpretable jumble as his mind slowly shut o ; he was half asleep when he heard a KNOCK KNOCK Tunnel vision, back straight, regain consciousness: Wait, was that… no- it couldn’t have– KNOCK KNOCK Oh crap, it is. The hair stood straight up on his back, and Jason felt a sharp stab of fear as he realized the knocks were at his bedroom door. He glanced at the clock; it read 10:00 P.M. Could it be my parents? No, they wouldn’t knock this loudly. Should I at least call out to make sure; no, no, they might not know I’m in here. My lights are on, though; why aren’t they opening the door? Just stay quiet. Silence. Nothing. Jason stared down the door, frozen still in indecisiveness. They must have gone away. It’s been at least ve minutes. I should call the police. His eyes silently darted around the room, trying fruitlessly to pinpoint his phone. Shoot, I left it downstairs… My computer! Dead. He refocused his eyes on the door, hoping with a childish thought that he might be able to see through it, see what was there, but he couldn’t. He strained his ears, listening for even the slightest trace of movement– Silence. Nothing. He looked around the room again, and this time, his eyes landed on the wooden bat he had received for his birthday a few days ago: Three, two, one. Jason inched o of his bed, moving with ninja-like stealthiness across the room, gripping the newly nished wood, unstable in his sweat-drenched palms: Ok, just open the door. You have a bat, you’re sixteen, you’ll be ne.

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He hovered his left hand above the doorknob, his right hand strangling the bat. He gripped the knob– No turning back now– and jerked the door towards him. The faint light from his room spilled out a bit beyond the threshold but failed to uncover the darkness of the remaining hallway. Nope, Jason began to close the door when a faint noise echoed like recrackers through the night: Footsteps– odd sounding, unlike anything he had ever heard, but certainly footsteps. He hesitated and held the door still; the footsteps stopped. He started to close the door again; the footsteps grew closer. He stopped again; the footsteps stopped in exact synchronization. Jason stood in the doorway, one foot behind the door, caught in a limbo between absolute fear and utter confusion as he tried to reason what was happening. An impulsive thought involuntarily caused him to open the door just a bit wider: he heard footsteps again, but this time, moving backward. He did this several more times: open, close, open, close; back, forth, back, forth. The sweat was now gushing out of every pore in his body, the soles of his feet leaving a wet residue underneath on the hardwood oor. His eyes nally settled on the barrier of light that separated the illumination of his room from the darkness: There, the footsteps are right there. He opened the door wider and began to step forward. Slip The hallway nosedived below Jason’s line of vision, and the oor rammed into the back of his head as his foot slammed the door closed, and the light footsteps became hard sprinting. The lights went out, and Jason was plunged into darkness. Fear seized him as his limbs moved in haphazard motion, straining between seconds to nd either the bat or the light switch. His hand reached up and enclosed around the door- open. He stood up, slipping as he held onto the door for support, and slammed at the wall, hoping to hit the light switch. Click Light engulfed the room. Its long sticklike gure, almost like it was made of tangled twigs, complete with a blank face save two small piercings, almost like pin holes for eyes, was frozen in indecisiveness, in a limbo between absolute

fear and confusion. It stared right at Jason, almost trying, with a childish thought to see right through him as the bat came crashing down into its skull. Silence. Nothing.

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The Quiet on the Water By Carver Porter As the last of his oxygen ran out, John yelled something inaudible, said a prayer, and closed his eyes. He felt the darkness closing in on him, and then there was nothing. On this particular day, it wasn't just another Tuesday for John and Patrick. They had their rst potential breakthrough, a meeting with a venture capitalist who could fund their new line. The two tossed on slightly wrinkled button-down shirts and knotted matching navy blue ties. They drove to the o ce in John’s 2006 blue Toyota Corolla and went into the o ce. They found the o ce marked Eric Schultz, knocked, and stepped inside. “Hey, Mr. Schultz, nice to meet you. My name’s John, and this is my business partner, Patrick. We are the cofounders of Surfs Up Inc.” “Nice to meet you both. Have a seat, and let’s discuss.” The two of them sat down, and the negotiations began; they talked about their new short n technology, which allowed more maneuverability on the board for high-level surfers. “I’m interested in this product, I have to be honest, but I need to know what level of investment you are looking for and the equity I can get in return,” Mr. Schultz questioned. Gulp, John, and Patrick looked at each other from the corner of their eyes. This was the moment they had been waiting for, but they had assumed that they would be given an o er. They hadn’t discussed what to ask for if they were given a choice. The pressure was on now, and they knew they couldn’t sell themselves short, but the o er would be o the table if they asked for too much. “We want $50,000 in exchange for 10% of the company.” Impulsive as always, Patrick did not stutter in his request.

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First, though, this story must start way earlier in St. Augustine, Florida, when John was born in 1995. Growing up, John lived just a short walk from the beach, and he always had a fascination with the water. He would swim out on his surfboard and stare into what seemed to be the in nitestretching Atlantic Ocean. From a young age, he started sur ng. He was always chasing the thrill you get from riding in wave after wave, and that was where you could nd him before or after school. The water didn't feel like a second home to him; it was home. His real home never seemed to be without con ict. Whether it was his grades, something he did, or something he didn’t do, John’s father was always on him about something. His parents met at Florida State University, and on John’s 18th birthday, it was apparent that he’d be lucky to make the waitlist with his grades. Under his parents’ nancial support, John went to the University of St. Augustine. He seldom visited his parents in college and barely scraped out his grades to get his degree in business, but it was at college that he met Patrick: his instant sur ng buddy, best friend, and eventual business partner. The two had moved in together and were working on their line of surfboards after school, but they spent most of their time on the water themselves. Gulp, the tension in the air was unmistakable. Mr. Schultz opened his mouth, but John missed the rst few words, tense with anticipation. “Well, gentleman, I suggest you go next door to the comedy club and tell your jokes elsewhere. Don’t get me wrong, this could be a good company one day, but the risk is incredibly high, and you have no actual product or sales to show for, only an idea.” Slam, John yanked the ocean-blue Toyota’s driver-side door closed behind him. “Why in the world would you ask for $50,000?” John angrily questioned Patrick. “I don’t know, I thought it would work, and it’s not like we couldn’t use the money; maybe we could’ve made our rst line of the new ‘boards.”

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“Yeah, and I would love a million dollars, too, but now we have nothing, thanks to you.” John snapped. The drive home was silent, except the old radio turned to a station playing country. When they got home, Patrick got out, but John stayed in the car. He lowered the windows, claiming he needed some fresh air. After a few minutes, he got out and checked the trunk. He got back in and backed out of their driveway without a word to Patrick. Ten minutes later, John stood on the beach facing the ocean. He had in ated his rowboat with their electric pump. He threw gear onto the boat, locked the car, and was o . Alarm bells rang in his head. Patrick had betrayed him, and now they were back where they started. He wondered what would have happened if he had spoken up. What if he had the foresight to plan for that question? His nonstop self-questioning felt loud, even standing on the deserted beach, so he set o on the boat. After 40 minutes of hard work, he was away from all of it; the noise of life was gone, and he had built-in surround sound speakers to the sound of seagulls chirping and waves crashing melodically. He geared up and set o on his real mission. He dropped an anchor and rolled o the side of the boat and into the ocean. He set o to the bottom of the ocean in a full wetsuit and with just enough oxygen for a quick hour swim. Scuba diving was something that John and Patrick had found, and after they invested in equipment, they always enjoyed it, but this time, John was breaking the rst rule. Never dive alone. The water was dark as night. John gracefully kicked his ippered feet and found himself at the bottom. He felt the calm wash over him as the cool water embraced his extended arms. To the right, he saw a large group of rocks; he went over to explore and found vibrant algae on a huge rock. As green as a forest, John stared into the abyss of green. His mind felt still. A ash to his right, a silver uorescent sh swam over his left shoulder. He spun to look, but it was gone. Crash, he felt the pain before he knew what was going on. It felt as if his

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entire right foot had been crushed. He looked down and saw the green-covered rock covering his right foot. He tried to move his foot, but it wouldn’t budge. He used his strength to try to roll the rock over, but it was futile. At this moment, panic began to set in. He checked the oxygen meter on his wrist and saw that he only had fteen minutes of oxygen left. He yelled, screamed, and angrily pounded the rock with his right st. This continued for several minutes, but when the timer on his wrist hit two minutes, calm set in. Even though John had always wondered if there was an afterlife, he wasn’t considering any of that now. Thoughts started popping in his head. He realized he wasn’t mad at Patrick; they could bounce back and get new funding, but his parents were the last thing he thought about. He felt gutwrenching guilt; I should have been nicer to them. John vowed that if he got another chance, he would say thank you and hug them both. Suddenly, all the times he thought he was being mistreated weren’t so prevalent in his head. He remembered his rst day of school, learning to surf with his dad, and birthday dinners. John took his last breath, and he looked down. He could not move, but he saw nothing. He just saw his foot sitting on the ocean oor. The green rock was gone. How could the rock be gone? John didn’t have time to question what he saw. The timer on his watch hit zero, and as the last of his oxygen ran out, John yelled something inaudible, said a prayer, and closed his eyes. He felt the darkness closing in on him, and then there was nothing.

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Newsfertaru By Riley Goodman The gloom of dawn is born in the blackness of dusk. --As the sun ached to peek through the slim cracks in his box, he could not help but wonder what would become of him. Without opening his eyes, he knew all too well the ways it yearned to traverse his skin and consume his esh. The back of his skull laid gently upon the aged, homely Transylvanian earth he had so furiously shoveled. He may as well have looked like any other traditionally dressed man lying in a co n of dirt. He saw through his closed eyelids, tracing the grains of wood above his head. Despite his restful appearance, it was merely a facade, masking the malevolence from any man unfortunate enough to mistakenly open his box out of the thousands surrounding it. He had heard the clamor and chaos around him for weeks upon end and knew that it was nally time: hunger had overtaken him. He unfolded his arm from his chest, bringing them to his sides beneath his cloak, the back of his hand grazing the blood-red velvet that lined it. He waited breathlessly, for hours, until the sun had given up on the promise of returning tomorrow, as he heard the footsteps rhythmically approaching. He braced himself against the dirt, and upon seeing the metal rod of a crowbar wedged into the box’s lid, he sprung. He burst through the cover, brandishing his sharp, claw-like nails before falling upon the poor soul who had happened upon him. He felt his strength double, then triple, and more as he sunk his dagger-sharp, cat-like fangs into the eshy part on the side of the man’s neck, licking at the life that spurted from him. He instantly knew that his slumber had been not in vain. After one hundred and fty years, Dracula had returned. The night was di cult. He ung the man o , leaving him in a folded heap in the corner of the warehouse where his box had ended up. It seemed like only yesterday that he had packed himself away to evade those pursuing him for

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what seemed like years prior. He wondered what twist of fortune had let him end up here: a dark, dingy warehouse teeming with rats in every nook and cranny. It was perfect. With the strength of ten men, he picked up his co n and carried it deeper into the warehouse hall, where it would be less easily discovered. He then knew that he must verse himself with his surroundings, and with that, he felt himself compress into the size of an apple. Fur grew all over his body, and wings sprouted where his arms once were. The little bat uttered out of the open warehouse skylight. His senses were immediately overwhelmed: this was neither London nor the Transylvania countryside. Pulsating lights, brighter than he had ever seen, were everywhere: on buildings that touched the sky, large, yellow, metallic automobiles, and dull, tall metal street posts. Then there was the wall of noise. It was a horri c experience, even for an ancient, undead creature who had witnessed every uprise and downfall of man. His little bat ears rang, and his eyes, accustomed to the pitch-black night sky, ached. His head started spinning, and as he looked out of the illuminated skyline, he realized that the buildings in the distance were slowly growing taller above his head. He looked down, and the pavement expanded before his vision went black. He woke inside another dark box, instantly realizing it was not his own. The dirt beneath him had become a cloth, and in the corner was a small dish of water. Thankfully, he felt no pain as he stretched out his wings. Yet again, he heard another person approaching. This time, the person fully opened the box as the little bat remained lying. With eyes wide open, Dracula saw the face of a young girl peering down over the lip of the box at him. Her bright, green, vivacious eyes contrasted her bold, dark bangs and eyebrows. She smiled at him, pleading, “Get well soon, Mr. Bat.” The girl placed a cube of a juicy, porous red fruit beside the water dish. The bat was repulsed but dared not make any move to alert the girl of his consciousness. The girl walked away, her hair dancing around her shoulders with each step. Dracula rose upon his little bat feet and stole a glance at his surroundings. He was in a cigar box atop a small, round, wooden table in what

appeared to be some kind of kitchen, although it was unlike he’d ever seen before. Shiny granite lined the top of white wooden cabinets, and teal ceramic tile lined the walls. None of that mattered after he glimpsed the open window over the sink, though. He waited for the girl to be far enough from his box before scrambling over the edge onto the kitchen counter. He dove o the countertop and felt the air shove him upward as his wings opened. Silently, he apped out the window. Despite the night’s tiring trials, he later found that he was unable to eat. Not that he couldn’t -- he was hungry enough to make short work of anyone in the throngs who occupied the dark city streets. He tried twice, but upon tasting the esh of the victim's necks, an image of the girl who had rescued him from certain doom ashed in his mind. Unknowingly, she enabled his centuries-long feast upon her species to continue. For the rst time in his existence, Dracula felt…bad. An unknown sensation -- guilt -- sti ened his body. He knew he could never eat again -- no matter how desperately he wanted to: his joints solidi ed, barring him. After being an alien in this foreign land, he was instantly alienated -imprisoned- in his own body. What was he -who was he? He was disgusted with himself; what good is a vampire who cannot survive, who cannot prey upon humanity? His conscience spoke to him for the rst time, and at that moment, he lost his identity. He knew not what to do. He panicked in his fugue state. He apped distractedly through the night sky, unnoticed by those who infested the streets below him. He glided directly through the warehouse skylight, landing on the cold cement oor in a tumble. He fumbled through the mess of boxes to where his co n had laid earlier that evening. He’d debated waiting for the sun but knew it would be unbearable. He stared at the location he had feasted just hours before, where he burst through his co n lid, his suspicions con rmed. He gazed blankly at the wooden shrapnel that lay about his feet. He mindlessly picked up the sharpest of the bunch, a shard the length and thickness of his forearm. He dragged his feet, walking back to his co n, knowing he had no choice. He made up his mind. He returned his head to the soil of his homeland. He brought the stake above his chest and thrust it through his ribcage.

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--And Darkness ceased in darkness.

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The Demise of Comedy By Sam Dean Sir E. Yuss howled out a villainous laugh as comedy slowly crumbled before him. His shadow consumed New York, destroying what he had once loved. Before Sir E. Yuss was grown, he lived as a gleeful child named Edward (Ed) Yuss; his father, Mr. Yuss, ruled New York as comedy royalty. Even the most enormous of auditoriums had no capacity for the crazed audiences kneeling before Mr. Yuss, leeching happiness o his hysterical punchlines. Ed’s father had the world of comedy before him, but his heart had no desire for ruin. The little boy nestled in the front row seat of the St. James theater, clutching the comforting hand of his mother, gazed up towards his father upon the stage. Glowy-eyed and open-jawed, he watched in awe as his father manipulated the entire audience before him — controlling the emotions of thousands at a time. The young boy, Edward Yuss, wanted nothing more than to possess this ability. As the years of Ed’s childhood progressed, his desire to be just like his father turned into obsession as comedy consumed his mind. It was apparent to Ed the risk of entering himself into the world of comedy; he had gigantic shoes to ll – after all, his father was the king. Nevertheless, the ambitious boy chased his dreams. “ED! HOMEWORK! NOW!” Mrs. Yuss said, attempting to pry her son’s mind from the grips of comedy. Yet, he continued scrapping paper after paper, drafting his rst set in hopes of beginning his saga as a comedian. —

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Globs of sweat dove o his forehead, staining the white sheet on which he scribbled his signature, securing his rst performance. Ed had two weeks until his debut but still needed to write his set.

The Prince Is Here! Comedy King Hillary Yuss’s Son Follows His Footsteps With First Ever Show! Word became public that Ed would pursue a career in comedy after his legendary father and comedy fans around New York went berserk. The St. James theater, home to Mr. Yuss and now to Ed himself, had once again sold out. Under immense pressure, Ed scrambled to put together material for his show. Write, scrap, repeat. Write, scrap, repeat. Write, scrap, repeat. No jokes seemed good enough for his set – an onset of panic overcame him. Apprehensive of failing upon the same stage his father ruled, he turned to punchlines that he knew could work: his father's old material.

Two weeks later Please welcome to the stage the Prince of Comedy himself! Edward Yuss! The suppressed sound of an applauding audience became clear as Ed stepped out from behind the curtains, conscious of his every move. His legs trembled with each step, and as he approached the mic stand, his wired eyes slowly traversed the endless sea of viewers. “Hello, St. James!” Ed forced out of his tightening throat. His performance had begun.

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Clunk – a crushed beer can bobbled on the stage beneath his feet “This kid’s a fraud; he’s using his daddy’s jokes!” an anonymous voice yelled. He’d been caught. An outrage of boos broke the brief silence, and his heart sank to his stomach. Ed hurried o stage, dodging a storm of rubbish, in disbelief. Tears swelled in his eyes as he sprinted through the theater's back door. The pain and humiliation was unbearable. Ed had failed to live up to his father's name and had made a fool of himself. Pain evolved into anger; Ed wanted others to feel what he did on that stage. He needed revenge. The aspirational little boy who sat nestled in the front row of that very same theater had disappeared that day, replaced by the malicious, dark Sir E. Yuss. Sir E. Yuss’s towering stature became enveloped by a new midnight black trench coat that fell to his ankles, leaving just enough room to see the heels of his black, hard-bottomed loafers that let out a click with every step. His sharp collar popped up to his tense jaw, and the fedora upon his head cast a shadow that hid all his face except the fraying ends of his bushy mustache. He collected a gang of others, the Frowners, obedient to his every command, who dressed in dark formal attire and a front-tilted fedora. – An army of heels clipped the soaking wet concrete of downtown New York as Sir E. Yuss led his gang to their rst victim. ‘Click, click, click, click.’ Frowners led through the front hall of the small Dreamland theater, their presence darkening the corners of every room. The dark sea of Frowners rushed into the auditorium in silence, xed on a joint mission. The clock struck 8 pm as

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–

Frowners took their seats in front of the elevated stage, and a small, dgety man shu ed his way to center stage in front of an audience of dead silence. He grasped the microphone before him, looked at the audience, and raised an eyebrow when he couldn’t distinguish a single face's features. “How are we doing tonight, New York!” The comedian said in a facade of con dence. The feedback of his rapid breath was the only response; his grasp tightened. Gulp- the comedian hesitantly began his material, wary of the audience's silence. His rst one-liner was no hit among the crowd. Left to su er in an awkward, long silence, the comedian scratched the back of his scalp and cleared his constricting throat. “Hah, tough crowd'' the man muttered. He knew he would need to up his game. Joke after joke, the frowners among the dark audience did not even crack a grin. Sweat beaded down the comedian's forehead, his eyes tinted with a teary glimmer. The lump in his throat entrapped each word that begged to exit his lips to break the silence. The microphone crashed onto the stage oor with a loud thud, and the comedian ran o stage in horror and defeat. Yuss grinned under the shadow of his top hat as the maroon stage curtains promptly closed with a continuous squeak. In unison, a lineup of cashmere sweaters and fedoras arose and clicked their way out of the theater, encased within the massive looming shadow of Sir E. Yuss’s pitch-black trench coat. –

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Yuss and the Frowners incited terror in the minds of New York comedians as they ruined show after show after show. Left and right comedians dropped out of the profession after the traumatizing attack of Sir E. Yuss, many joining the Frowners themselves. Yuss howled out a villainous laugh as the billboard signs above the small New York theaters went dark. Comedy slowly crumbled before him as his shadow consumed New York, destroying what he had once loved. The small theaters had closed, leaving Yuss with one option. He summoned Frowners to haunt a familiar place: the St. James theater.

Mystery Guest Performer: You Won't Want to Miss! Yuss had acquired his biggest victim yet. Dozens upon dozens of clone-like Frowners followed Sir E. Yuss into the elegant St. James theater. Click, click, click; their presence chilled the air. Yuss approached the front-row entrance. Pivoting his feet and beginning his march to the weathered leather seats, a sensation of familiarity overwhelmed him. The seat felt so comforting to him as he sank into it; he could picture his mother sitting beside him. His hands ran cold without his mother's relaxing grasp, and his leg began to bounce in angst, letting out a soft click that echoed throughout the theater. The maroon curtains swung open in one rapid pull, and Yuss’s heart sank to his stomach. Clenching his eyes hard, he prayed that what he saw was not true, but his father remained on the stage when he opened them back up. Closing his eyes and covering his ears, Yuss tried to drown the sounds of his father's voice; he couldn’t bear to listen. He was stuck, unable to let out a laugh to prevent his father from the same pain he had felt. Sitting in the front row,

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unrecognized by his father, Yuss had to endure watching his father under the wrath of the Frowners. – The auditorium was left in the silence that Sir E. Yuss had become familiar with. But for once, he felt no sense of pleasure. This time, he did not smile in the presence of su ering, unsatis ed by the agony he brought upon his own father. For once, Yuss felt remorse – and empathy for the comedian on stage grappling with that heart-sinking feeling of humiliation. When his father had left the stage in defeat, Sir E. Yuss did not stand up, and for the rst time, his gang led out of the theater untouched by the reach of Sir E. Yuss’s shadow.

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Trapped By Haden Bottiglieri It is late; how late, she does not know. Her watch is broken, and her phone is dead. She stands up from her desk and sighs, ready to leave after a long day. She plods through the empty o ce with her bag towards the elevator. Pressing the “down” button, she adjusts her long, dark hair in her re ection on the polished elevator doors. Although she had been there for a month, she still was not used to the meticulously clean state of the o ce. It was unsettling. Ding! The elevator doors open slowly. She takes a step forward and bumps into a man. “Oh, sorry!” she says. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Just forgot my keys,” he says, his eyes pointed towards the ground as he sidesteps her and walks quickly into the o ce. She thought everyone else had left a while ago. She recognized the man with his short, messy haircut and the nervous expression on his face. Was his name John? She steps into the elevator and turns around to press “G,” just as the man pivots on his back foot and pulls something out of his pocket. “Never mind, they’re right here,” he says, smiling at himself. She puts her hand on the door to stop it from closing. “Thanks,” he says. The re ective doors close behind him. As they start their descent, side by side, she can feel him peering at her out of the corner of his eye. She is a young, attractive woman and was used to it, but it still made her uncomfortable. She crosses her arms over her chest. The elevator is slow today. She looks up at the black panel above the doors as the numbers on display decrease. 13……….12……….11……….10……..9………..8…………

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The elevator slows to a stop. She looks at the buttons. The only one lit up is “G”; neither she nor the man had pressed “8”. She waits for the doors to open. They don’t. The man stands there, holding his hands and looking at his feet. She presses “Open Door”. Nothing happens. She presses it again. Nothing. She presses it a third time. Nothing. She jams her nger against the button over and over again to no avail. The man watches her out of the corner of his eye. “What the f***!” she says. She continues to press the button. “I don’t think that button’s working,” the man says, meekly. She ignores him and continues to press the button. She sees the alarm button next and presses it hard. An alarm goes o outside the elevator. It sounds as if their elevator is oating in space–as if the alarm is getting lost in the black abyss, being heard by no one. She continues to sound the alarm–the alarm should be heard by someone who can help them, that's what it’s for–but something tells her it’s hopeless. Something tells her she’s stuck. “Are we stuck?” the man asks, staring at the woman as she presses the buttons. His eyes are wide, and his body is still. The woman continues to ignore him, pressing every button in hopes that one will lead to her rescue. She’s using both hands now, running them up and down with more and more force as she lets out a scream in frustration. “Do you have your phone?” she turns to the man and says, annoyed. “I, uh-no, I don’t,” he replies. This is the rst time she’s acknowledged his presence, and it took him o guard. “Do you have yours?” “Mine’s dead,” she says. She massages her temples with her thumb and fore nger in irritation. “What the f*** are we supposed to do?” The man is staring at the button panel, and without blinking, he replies: “I don’t know.” The woman sighs and turns towards the doors. She places her ngers in the crack and tries to pry them open.

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Crack! The nail on her index nger breaks. She starts to bleed. “F***!” she shouts, holding her left hand in her right. She looks up at the ceiling, biting her lip and trying not to cry. She turns around and faces the back wall of the elevator. The entire wall is one big mirror, and she watches the blood from her ngernail drip out of her hands and onto the carpet oor. The image in the mirror gets re ected back by the gleaming doors. Their picture is copied forever in the mirror, going back until it’s too small to see. They are trapped together one million times, with one million women looking back at her in one million di erent elevators. The entire time, the man’s feet were nailed to the ground, and his head tilted down. He had not moved a muscle while his fellow prisoner lost her mind trying to escape. He merely observed while she searched for a way out, like watching a rat run around a maze. “Are we stuck?” he repeats, staring ahead at the elevator doors. The woman can’t help but laugh through her teary eyes at the man’s ignorance. “Yeah, I think we are,” she replies. She turns to face him, and he turns to meet her eyes. “How’d you know?” The man cracks a nervous smile and looks at the ground. “I’m Jane. What’s your name?” “Ron.” “Okay, Ron, I guess we’ll be here for a while, so why don’t we get to know each other,” Jane says, nding a seat against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest, and looking up at Ron. He looks at her sitting on the ground for a second before sitting against the wall across from her. “So Ron, how long have you been here?” “20 minutes, same as you,” he replies. She laughs. “I meant at this company.” “Oh- oh, at this company, about a year,” he replies. He smiles a little at the amusement his mistake caused Jane. “I’ve only been here-”

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A sensation on her face. She slowly sits up–her head on the oor. Her head aches as she slowly opens her eyes. His face is inches above hers–she jerks her head up out of surprise and bangs into his front teeth. “What the f***!” she yells. The bright lights are overwhelming, but she sees him crumble and fall back against the wall. She hears his head thud against the wall as she stands up. Her head is spinning. “What were you doing?” she yells.

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“One month, I know,” he cuts her o . They look at each other for a moment. “I remember because, on your rst day, I showed you where Brian’s o ce was.” “Oh, that’s right, you did. I forgot about that.” “It’s okay. I didn’t expect you to remember,” says Ron, shaking his head. “No, thank you,” Jane says. “I’m glad someone here is looking out for me.” There’s a pause as she thinks of what to say next. The blood from her nger collects in a pool on the carpet oor of the elevator. The silence hangs in the air–this is the rst time they both hear how isolated they are, how silent it is when neither of them speaks. “I feel like no one respects me here.” Ron stares at her. “I worked so hard to be here, and I feel like nobody thinks I deserve it,” Jane con des in him. “Yeah,” Ron says after a pause. “I don’t t in here either.” Their conversation perseveres for a while; how long, neither one knows. Time does not seem to move under the uorescent lights on the elevator ceiling. Their prison appears to exist outside of the world they know. The room feels smaller the longer they sit there, with no idea when they will be rescued. Jane’s eyelids begin to feel heavy as the (minutes? hours?) go by. She feels herself being taken by sleep, and nally, she gives in. Ron’s wide-eyed stare is the last thing she sees as she allows herself to lose consciousness.

The man doesn’t look at her. His eyes are pointed straight ahead, not looking at anything. He curls up in a ball in the corner, and she can hear him begin to cry. “What were you doing?” she repeats, standing in the opposite corner. He’s whimpering while he holds his knees in his arms. She stands there, mouth wide open. Bzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz. “Is that your phone?” she yells. “Ron, is that your f***ing phone?” He doesn’t move and doesn’t answer. They stand there–the only sound coming from the man’s pocket. “Ron, you said you didn’t have your phone. Is that your f***ing phone?” He mumbles something from the corner. “What?” she snaps. “I’m sorry,” he says. “What are you talking about?” “I just thought–I thought we could be together.” She stares at him for a minute before responding. “What the f***?” “We could’ve been together. And now I just ruined it.” he says through his tears. His phone is still buzzing somehow. Is someone looking for him? Is it morning yet? “Give me your phone,” she says, unsure how to answer or what it is he’s even talking about. Her legs are shaky, and she doesn’t sound as con dent or angry as she would like to. “I know we can work it out,” he says. He’s stopped crying now, but he won’t leave his corner and won’t face her. The light ickers overhead and the woman’s heart skips a beat. Her breath quickens–she feels alone. She looks to her left at the mirror on the wall and sees her clones looking back at her. They look small. Weak. Scared. Helpless. Alone. The lights icker again. She has no idea what to do. The man is silent, but his phone continues to buzz. “No one ever even looks at me. No one talks to me. I knew you would get me from the rst time I saw you,” he says.

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She doesn’t answer. She looks around her, searching once again for a way out. She looks up and sees a square panel over the man’s head. An escape hatch? The man’s phone continues to buzz. He squats in his corner, unmoving. She starts to question if he is even the one talking–the one saying these things to her. “We should be together,” she hears. The lights icker again–and go out for longer this time. 10 seconds? A minute? She feels like she’s about to throw up. The woman realizes she can’t waste any more time. She has to get out. She runs and steps on the man’s shoulders, jumping o and punching the panel with both hands. She struggles to get her upper half out of the elevator but eventually succeeds and hoists her legs onto the roof. She looks down into the hole and sees the top of the man’s head–he’s still crouched in his corner. The lights inside the elevator go o for good. She looks around her. Nothing. Pitch black. The cables holding the elevator seem to go up forever. The elevator only touches one wall. She walks over to the wall, but as she does, she feels the oor shift below her feet. She stops in her tracks. Is the elevator moving? She takes another step and feels the elevator drop about a foot down. Her heart jumps and she feels a bead of sweat crawl down her face. It mixes with the tears falling from her eyes–she didn’t even notice it, but she had started to cry. She stands there, frozen in place. Suddenly the elevator starts falling. Her hair shoots to the ceiling and her feet leave the ground. She screams in terror as she plummets to the ground with the elevator underneath her. Crash!

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Death Day By Adrian Tan Everyone is born knowing when they will die. It’s inevitable. Many people have tried to avoid dying on their death date, but no one has ever escaped it. Or so I thought. Just yesterday, I was not-so-calmly going about my day, waiting for death. It’s considered taboo to tell others when your death date is, so everyone else, including my wife and children, were none the wiser. You notice that I said yesterday, right? Well, somehow, I’m still alive, past my death date. By midnight, I realized that something was horribly wrong. I was still breathing. I sat there in bed, thinking. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Since no one besides me knew my death date, I should be safe to keep living. Hopefully. Everything was going normally until a man in a crisp black suit came into my workplace. I greeted him pleasantly, as I did all my customers, but he quickly ashed a badge, saying “I’m with National Security. You’re going to have to come with me.” Welp. I follow along, praying this isn’t what I think it is. We enter a black car with windows so tinted that they seem to absorb the sunlight. After I buckle my seatbelt and we start driving, I try to make small talk with the man. “Um, so, do you always drive without your seatbelt on? It’s not very safe, you know.” The man grunts. “Death day nowhere near now.” I nod. “Well, can you tell me anything about why you have me here?” The man doesn’t answer. That’s a no, I guess. Worth a try. “How much longer?” I ask him. I sound like a little kid, but I want to know. Even though I can’t see his face, I can tell he’s annoyed. He presses a button on the dashboard, and I feel a sharp jolt as my consciousness starts to fade away.

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When I open my eyes, I’m in a blank room. The light on the ceiling re ects o the white walls, making me squint. There’s only one other person in the room with me. It’s a middle-aged man, his hair starting to gray and wrinkles beginning to crease his face. As I get my bearings, the man speaks. “John Walker, 31 years old, married, 1 kid, bank accountant. Day of death: June 10th, 2134. It seems you’ve gone a bit past your assigned day of death.” I nod. It seems this man already knows everything about me. “Well, what do you want from me?” I ask, “Kill me?” The man laughs. “Quite the opposite, actually. I’m here to o er you a job.” He pulls out a formal-looking sheet of paper. A job contract. Seeing that I’ve skimmed over it, he speaks. “As stated in the contract, you’ll be working with us for 100 years, after which we’ll provide you with enough funds to live out the rest of your life peacefully. Alternatively, we can give you a quick, painless death right here.” I sigh. “I don’t have much of a choice right now, do I? What’s the job?” The man smiles, and wrinkles crease the side of his eye, making him look almost kind. His next words most certainly weren’t. “You’ll be death.” I blink. “Death? Do you want me to kill people? Grim reaper type stu ?” He chuckles. “Something like that. We’ll give you a daily quota and a list of people who have their death date on that day.” “So… I kill these people?” He nods. “Why are these death dates even a thing?” “Helps productivity and also keeps the population under control. People work harder for their retirement money when they have a death date. Completely randomized..” “I’ve always wondered this, but why doesn’t everyone just commit every crime they can right before they die?” “Brain implant. By acknowledging your death date, you cede control, allowing us to steer you away from those kinds of decisions. Of course, now that you’re past your death date, we can no longer in uence you.” Wow. I’ve lived my whole life under some sort of mind control. I had assumed the feeling of liberation after my death date was just a psychological

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response to the fact that I wasn’t dead, but I guess not. That brings me to my next big issue with all of this: “What if I don’t want to kill people?” “Miss your quota, and you die. Don’t worry, though. We’ll start you o with one person a day and increase it as you gain experience. We’ll cover up any loose ends or mistakes you make.” Hmm. I guess I’ll have to get used to this kind of thing. “Am I still going to be able to live at home?” “Yes, but it goes without saying that this is to be kept secret from everyone. Even your … coworkers are unaware of who the others are, and we expect that you keep it that way.” “Yes sir,” I said dryly. I suppose I’ll have to get used to this life if I want to keep it. Then, I think of something. “What about my wife and daughter? Won’t they die way before I do?” The man smiles. “As long as you do your job well, their lives will be extended as well.” I went home mulling over all that had happened. How does a man go from being a boring accountant to becoming death himself, or at least one of them, in just a day? “Are you all right, honey? You’ve been acting weird ever since you got home.” My wife asks. “Yeah, I’m good. Just had a lot to think about today.” “Well, let me know if you want to talk about it, all right?” I smile as I nod. All in all, I’m still alive and I’m happy with that. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~ I blink my eyes groggily as I wake up. My wife is sleeping soundly beside me. I see something in the middle of my vision so I blink a few more times to make it go away. It doesn’t. That makes me look a little closer, and I realize that it’s a list of names. In the middle of the screen is a big list of names with a scroll button, so I assume there are many more. In the top left corner of the screen, it says: “Lives ended: 0/1”. There’s my quota. I sigh as I scroll down the list, looking to see if there are any familiar names at a glance. There are so many of

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them that I give up after a few minutes and select a random name. The list stops scrolling as soon as I click and zooms in on the name, transitioning into an information page. It says the person’s name is Sa Shapur, she’s 43 years old, lives in India, divorced with two sons, and works as a computer engineer. On the bottom of the screen are the words: “Take the kill? Y/N” I hesitate, thinking about this woman and her life. She’s only 45. I close my eyes and click “Y”. This is necessary, I tell myself. I know I need to do this to keep my own life and support my family, but it just feels… wrong. I’m taking another’s life to prolong mine. If I don’t do it, someone else will. At least that’s what I say to myself, over and over again, as I think of ways to kill an innocent person. A few minutes after I select my target’s name, a box pops up in the middle of my screen. It reads: “Forced transmission activated. 3…2…1…” I feel a weird tingly sensation as my vision goes black for a second. When I open my eyes, I’m not standing in my room anymore. The air brushes past my face, smelling of smoke and roasted meat. Contrary to the brisk morning that I would see if I stepped outside my house, it’s hot and sunny. It seems to be a little past noon. I’m standing outside a blocky yellow building that looks like it’s made of many di erent-sized cubes, shaped into a vaguely rectangular shape. A window appears, reading: “Arrived at target’s residence.” So this is her house. I can’t think of a way to… complete my job yet, so I look around for somewhere to sit down, relax, and think. I end up in a co ee shop. After ordering a plain medium roast co ee, I stare at the wall, contemplating my next move. I’m so absorbed in my thoughts that I barely notice when the co ee arrives. I absentmindedly take a sip as I think about the least painful way I can kill someone while staying as far away as possible. Poison is my rst thought, but where would I get that? Most of the ‘poisons’ that I can easily access are for killing animals and bugs, which probably won’t be able to kill a human. As if reading my thoughts, a window pops up in front of me. Actually, it probably was reading my thoughts, now that I think about it. The window’s title reads List of Available Poisons. Below it is a list of sciency-sounding names. I skim down the list until I see a familiar one.

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Hydrocyanic acid. That’s cyanide, right? I click on it and a small bottle appears in the air. It lands on the palm of my hand, only a little bigger than my ngernails. “This is for the best. Someone else would have killed her today.” I repeat these words over and over in my head like a mantra as I head back over to Sa Shapur’s house. I peer through her window, looking for a place to put the cyanide. I can see all three members of the family sitting in the living room. Sa is in between her two sons, reading a book to them. I quickly look away as my resolve disappears. Do I have the right to rip their lives apart? They look so happy together. I have to do this. Is my life worth more than hers, though? I grit my teeth, thinking about my wife and daughter. I need to do this. I repeat this in my head as I wait for an opportunity. I see Sa leave her two boys to brew herself some co ee. She heads out of the living room into the kitchen, putting a little plastic container of what I presume is the co ee powder into the top of a machine. She pours in some hot water and then rests her head on the counter. As she sighs, I can faintly make out her words: “Why does my death date have to be today? If I die, what’s going to happen to my boys?” She stays there for a few more seconds and then walks back. After she’s out of sight, I carefully pry the window open. To my relief, it’s unlocked and swings in soundlessly. I carefully slide through the now-open window, making sure not to damage the little bottle. Once I reach the machine, I see the co ee spilling into a cup, the same type I usually drink. Medium roast. I hesitate again. Then, the co ee machine makes a beeping noise and I hear Sa tell her boys, “Mom’s gonna go get her co ee, okay?” There is a short chorus of okays and I hear her footsteps. I quickly pop open the top of the canister. The cyanide smells like bitter almonds. I quickly dump the contents into her co ee, hoping I get all of it out. I then slip back out of the window as quietly as I can, shutting and ducking under it right as she enters the kitchen once more. I curl my knees to my chest, resting my arms and head on them as I sit there, thinking about what I just did. Then, another window pops up in my vision. I can see it even though my eyes are closed. It says: “Congratulations. Daily quota met.” In the house, I can hear the boys screaming and crying,

begging their mom to wake up. My body starts shaking as I silently sob with them. After some time, I’m not sure how long, my silent cries subsided. I wipe away the remnants of my regret and call the police. This is the least I can do for those boys. The boys who just had their mother taken away. By me. I shudder again as I push 9-1-1 into my phone. Then, a screen pops up in front of my face. “The phone number for police in India is 112.” I replace the 911 with 112. After two rings, I hear a voice say “112, what’s your emergency?” I steady my voice as best I can and say: “I’m not too sure what’s happening, but I’m hearing screams from a house I’m standing next to.” “Can you give me the address and tell me anything else you know?” I tell her the address and say that I was just passing through and don’t really know anything else. She seems to believe it and says “The police and emergency services will be there in 3 minutes. Please leave the scene if there is any danger,” and then she hangs up. After the call, I take a few deep breaths to center myself. Then, I realize I have no way home. Right as I think that, another window appears, this one saying: “Forced transmission activated. 3…2…1” I feel that same tingly sensation and close my eyes. When I open them, I’m back at home. “Arrived at host’s house.” I take a deep breath and look at the time. Only an hour has passed. It’s now 7:00 AM, the time that I usually wake up. I steady myself before I realize that I’m still in my underwear and t-shirt that I wore to sleep last night. I throw on a collared shirt and pants, tying my tie as I head down the hallway to the bathroom. The toothpaste today tastes oddly like almonds. Almost like cyanide. I suddenly gag and my head starts to spin. I killed someone today. I killed them. The realization hits me like a van. I took a life today. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~ The next day, the same thing happens. By the time I wake up, the screen is already in the air, displaying my quota for the day. It reads: Lives ended: 0/2. Seems like it doubled. I spent the whole day yesterday trying to come to terms

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with what I did. I nally managed to come to some kind of understanding with myself and calmed down a little. I need to stop dwelling on this. My life and my family’s lives are depending on me. I scroll through the list of names just like yesterday and just select a random one. The screen displays the information about my next target. The air is gray, like a layer of smoke covering the city. The setting sun’s rays are blocked by the smog. I’m in Beijing, China. “Arrived at target’s residence.” I’m standing outside a large apartment building. My target lives in the 5th room on the second oor. I walk up the stairs, mentally steeling myself. I slip through the window as quietly as I can and look around. There is no one in the room. I hear someone humming in the bathroom and the sound of water hitting water. They must be taking a bath. I decide right there how I’m going to complete my task. I take a look around the room for any electronics. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~ Today should be my nal day. My body’s alarm clock wakes me up at exactly 6 in the morning every day now. The window, which I’m all too familiar with at this point, pops up. This time, however, the screen is di erent. It reads: “Congratulations! You have reached your nal day. Lives ended: 0/1.” I see the quota of 1 and stop for a moment. I’ve gotten to the point of killing almost 50 people a day. Maybe because it’s my last day? Then, I look at the list and my breath stops. There are only three names on that list. Then, I begin to panic. My wife, sleeping next to me, must have sensed my panic, as she slowly opens her eyes and asks me if I’m all right. I take a deep breath and tell her I’m ne. She smiles, nods, and closes her eyes again. For the past few decades, I’ve gotten so used to ending lives that I’ve gotten into something of a routine. I wake up early and nish almost all my quota before breakfast starts. I go up to my chosen and tell them straight up what is going to happen. Some resist, but all of them end up lling my quota. I’ve become desensitized to killing. Now, the feelings I felt on my rst day come rushing back. I feel rage boiling up in me

for the rst time in a while, directed at the people controlling the life and death of all of humanity. My wife and daughter are still sleeping by the time I get dressed. I check on my daughter’s room. She’s sleeping peacefully, unaware of my presence or state of mind. I resolve myself then and there. I’m not going to bring any harm to my family. I write a note for my family, skimming over the past few decades and telling them that I was sorry. They needed to live on. Without me. I hadn’t shed a single tear after taking my rst life. Now, tears stream down my cheeks. I hold my head in my hands as I choke back the sobs. Taking a deep breath, I leave the note on the nightstand. The window oats in my vision. I click on the middle name. John Walker. It’s June 10th, 2234. My death date ashes before my eyes right as I take my last breath.

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Truth or Dare By Adrian Tan “Truth or Dare?” My friends and I are sitting in a circle. We just nished a hard day of sports and are now enjoying the cool respite of air conditioning from the summer heat outside. Miranda starts us o . She points across the circle at me, and I think about which one I want to choose. I eventually pick Dare, but as soon as I do, I hear a click. The lights go out. It’s already past sundown, so the room is completely dark and eerily silent, except for the chirping of crickets and our collective breath of surprise. We sit there for a moment, wondering if the power went out. A voice comes from somewhere in the room, whispering “I dare you…to run.” Then, I hear one of my friends’ screams tear across the room as I hear a sick ripping sound. “One down, six to go!” The voice says, giggling. Then, the lights come back on, and we all blink confusedly for a second. Then, I hear someone start retching. It’s Miranda, and she’s staring at the body of our friend Jason, who is currently lying on the oor in a pool of blood, his throat torn open, the rug on the oor stained a dull crimson. I feel dinner start to come up through my throat as well, and I vomit up the beef stew we had eaten earlier. It looks just like the blood saturating the oor. We stare at each other in shock as we try to process what happened. Before anyone can say anything, the lights go out again. My adrenaline kicks into high gear, and I shout “Everyone, get the f*** out of here! RUN!” I bolt for the door of the bedroom. A chorus of panicked footsteps follows after me. My movement must have stirred the others. The bitter tang of vomit and the metallic scent of blood ll my nostrils. Gasping for air, I throw open the door and run across the hallway, trying to get to the stairs. Click. As I start descending the steps three at a time, I hear another scream, and this time, there is a sickening crunch as the lights come back on. I take a quick glance back and regret it immediately. Jack’s skull is split open, his neck

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at a weird angle. He had been struck by a giant brick previously hanging above the door. Something must’ve made it fall o . I push those frantic thoughts out of my mind and try to calm down. “What’s your plan?” I ask myself over and over again. “Everyone, we need to stick together and get to the doors!” I shout, hoping that the lights stay on. As if fate is toying with me, the lights ick out once more. This time, instead of freezing in shock, everyone panics and runs. I bump into at least 3 people as everyone begins to dash madly in all directions. Sprinting as fast as I can to the front door, I pray that I won’t feel blinding agony and then death. There are no screams this time. As the lights come back on, I arrive at the door, only to nd that something heavy is blocking it from the outside. It does not budge under the weight of my adrenaline- lled panic. I nally give up and stand there, eyes darting all over, trying to gure out another plan. The house is pretty big, so I might be able to nd a hiding place. Where I can call the police. I hope. There’s a closet a few feet away. Throwing the door open, I run inside. The door starts to swing shut but I stop it and gently close it. I need to be quiet. This seems to be storage for cleaning supplies, as it smells strongly of soap. Something brushes up against my arm. Sti ing a shout, I feel out the tiny bristles. It’s a broom. I pull out my phone with shaking hands and try dialing 911. The call goes through, and I hear “911, what’s your emergency?” I almost cry in relief as I whisper furiously into my phone, trying to tell them the situation. The phone suddenly starts playing static in my ear, and the creepy voice I heard before whispers “I’m coming for you…” My thumb hits the red button to end the call so hard that my phone might have cracked. My mind races as I stamp down on my panic. Two faces appear in my vision. It’s Jason and Jack, staring at me with empty eyes. I shudder and the images go away. I hope that the others are okay. Opening the closet door as quietly as possible, I start tiptoeing down the hall. Assuming whoever’s attacking us has blocked all the doors, my only

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option now is to get something to smash a window with. As I look around, I hear a Click. The lights go out. S***. I put my hands out and walk around, making a quick mental image of the house. It’s quite vague and blurry since I’ve only been here for a few hours. Every time my hand brushes against something, I tense up. Nothing so far. God help me. I round a corner, and a voice whispers “Got you!” Then, I feel blinding pain in my neck, moving down my chest. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I scream in agony as the pain of a million insects shredding away my upper body hits me all at once. I vaguely see the outline of a person. Then, blackness. Game Over… “Aw, come on! Why is this game so hard?” Max exclaims. Jason, sitting next to him, laughs. “Why are you complaining? I was the rst one dead. My luck is so bad.” They look at the title screen of the newest horror game ‘Truth or Dare’. The graphics are really amazing. Too real. Almost lifelike. “Wanna play again?” Max asks. Click. The lights go out.

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Untitled By Anonymous Scrambling out the door in the morning to catch the bus that he was regularly late for, Will could hear the screaming from his parent’s room. His parents had a tendency to ght early in the morning when they were drunk. As the creaky screen door shut behind him, he carefully walked around the empty bottles on his front lawn. Climbing up those three treacherous stairs that lead to the row of seats on the bus was like a death sentence every morning. With today being the start of the second month of his senior year, he felt lost. Will understood that most people who were born in Skitzville stayed there. Will was a bright kid, but due to the circumstances of his nances, and the distractions at home that held back his performance in school, the concept of college was almost entirely out of the picture. The thought of being stuck in the hellhole that's known as home for him was a thought that kept him up at night, and he was determined to not end up like his parents. After coming home from a long day of spitballs red at him and teachers more worried about their fantasy leagues than informing the class, Will was fed up. After waltzing past his mom who was blankly staring at the television and his dad who was eating leftovers in the kitchen when he was supposed to be at work, he noticed a red piece of paper on the co ee table. As he shu ed through the overdue bills and the unread magazines he managed to read the big font that spelled out: “EVICTION NOTICE.” As his stomach dropped he realized that this was the nal straw and that there was nothing left in Skitzvile for him. Laying in bed he thought of ways in which he could escape the world he lived in, but with no money to buy an expensive ticket somewhere and no car, his dreams quickly faded. As his mind continued to wander he began to think of his favorite movie, Forrest Gump. In the movie, there is a point in which Forrest nds himself alone and lost, and his response is to just start running. A bulb in Will’s brain lit up and he decided that his best option was to simply run away. Will had no idea

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where he was going to go or how he was going to get there, but he had the comfort of knowing that anywhere would be better than the shack that he was currently rotting away in. Or so he thought… Late that night, after the ghting stopped and his parents were slumped over as if they had been tranquilized, Will decided to start packing. He emptied out his backpack and shoveled some of the remaining clothes that didn't have holes in them into the main compartment. He tossed the pocketknife his uncle got him for his 16th birthday into the back as well, along with the scarce amount of money that was sitting at the bottom “for a rainy day” jar. Will decided to exit using the window in his room, as each door was in need of some serious WD-40, which probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway due to the alcohol keeping his parents sound asleep. It was a little brisk out, but the hoodie and shorts that Will had on were su cient. His lthy sneakers picked up some water from the midnight dew as he crept through the yard and into lumination from the ickering street lights. As he continued to walk, the burning in his legs slowed him down, and knowing that there was a diner/ motel in a mile or so, he pushed on, feeling his backpack rock with each step. It was 3 AM when Will stumbled into the parking lot of the 24-hour diner. The faded neon lights in the window spelled “open,” so Will took the liberty to open up the grimy glass window. Will was greeted with the oceanblue eyes of the waitress who clearly needed some sleep, and he sat down on the ripped leather cushion of the booth closest to the door. Putting down the menu, paper napkin, and glass of iced water, the waitress blurted out “I remember my rst time running away too.” Will laughed at it, partially because it was funny, partially because he could hear the sarcasm in her voice, as she seemed way too young to be running away, but mostly because his drunken father always told him, “Always laugh at a pretty girl’s jokes.” After scar ng down the crappy omelet and throwing down the crumpled $10 bill that he had in his pocket, he noticed on the receipt that the waitress had left her number, and Will walked out with a smile. By the time Will was leaving the diner he noticed the time on his phone read 4:26 AM. Realizing that the sky was opening up and the sun was ready to rise, he thought that taking a nap in a taxi

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was going to be more economical and more friendly on his feet. Using the remaining battery on his phone, Will sat on the curb and called a cab. Hucking his bag into the backseat, Will tossed his remaining cash at the taxi driver telling him to “take me as far as this can get me.” Feeling his weight sink back into the seating as the radio played music in an unrecognizable language, Will drifted o to sleep. As Will woke up the taxi was rolling to a stop. Even though Will was half asleep, broke, and homeless, stepping out of that cab into the morning sun he felt free for the rst time. Being away from the stresses of his family and the pressure of school. As he scu ed his feet down the side of the one-lane highway an old and rusty pickup truck ew by, spitting out black exhaust and kicking up dirt. Through the smoke and the dirt, Will saw a glimpse of the one remaining brake light as the car slowed to a stop. Will stopped walking as the car started moving in reverse towards him. As the rundown block of metal pulled up next to Will, through the foggy-seeming window he could make out the silhouette of the driver as he reached across the single row of seats to manually roll down the window. As the grimy glass disappeared back into the car, Will was greeted with a smile. The missing teeth, unmanicured beard, sweat stains around the collar, and the uncomfortable odor that was emitted from the car were enough reasons to send a normal person running, but with no money, energy, or will to keep walking, it seemed as if there was no choice but to climb into the thing that arguably shouldn’t have been considered as a car. Will found it interesting that the unnamed driver never even asked anything as he shut the creaking door; No “Where are you headed?” or anything of that sort. As the car sputtered forward, Will nally broke the ice. “Well thank you for picking me up! My name is Will. What’s yours?” There was nothing but a grunt from the man. At that moment Will saw the man reach into the cutout of his door and pull out what was clearly a bottle in a paper bag. He felt the car swerve a little as the man took a drink, and the butter ies in Will’s stomach started to utter. He knew he should have never gotten into the car, and his mind started to wander.

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What if this guy tries to kill me? What if he’s insane? Why did I spend all my money on that stupid taxi? I’m just as irresponsible as my parents. I have to get out of here. The car swerved again as the man took another sip. As the car found itself back in the correct lane, the face that was hidden in a tangled beard turned to look at Will. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. My days of killing are done.” Will’s stomach dropped and he could feel the heat in his face as it turned red. The man’s head slowly turned back to the road as he took another drink and the car swerved once again. I have to get out of here. Knowing that he was in a worse situation than he could’ve imagined, a wave of regret owed over him. You idiot. Smart move leaving home. I’m just as bad as my parents. How could I be this dumb? Almost hearing his heart beating, Will tried to calm down. Feeling his chest rise and lower slowly and deliberately, his thoughts slowed down. Slowly looking around the car while trying to not seem suspicious, Will noticed that the pin was sticking out, meaning the car was unlocked. That was the ticket out. The one obstacle was that the car Will was so unfortunately seated in was pushing 90mph, and jumping out of a car that fast was just as dumb as getting in the car in the rst place. Will knew that the one time he could get out of the car without the risk of being grabbed or attacked was when the car swerved as the alcohol burned down the man’s throat, but yet again, the car was still moving too fast. How can I get this car to slow down? Will’s only thought was to get the man talking again, or at least grunting, in hopes that this distraction would relieve some of the pressure that was on top of the pedal. He began to ask “Sooo, where ya headed?” The man turned to Will and stared for a while and held eye contact as he took another drink. As he turned back, again without any response, Will peeked at the speedometer; 84. It was working. He kept on with the same plan, lling the car with useless

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questions that were met with no responses. Will could see the man become gradually more annoyed with each inquiry and start to worry that the man would do something to shut him up. Well, eventually that was the case. Even though Will’s hopes were high and the speed that showed on the dashboard was low, he pushed too far. As he turned to ask one more stupid question, Will was unexpectedly met with four bare, hairy knuckles. The next thing Will knew he was lying on the side of the cracked pavement, as the entire right side of his body was on re, and the world around him was spinning. He must’ve hit me so hard that he knocked the door open and me out. Will knew he couldn’t have been out for long, as he could see the car circling around and the mu ed roar of the engine grew louder. Through the dizziness, shock, and pain, Will looked at the open half-desert plain that stretched to his right and booked it. As he glanced down, his limping leg poked out of the massive holes that came from scraping across the road. Looking back, Will could see the cloud of sand that ew up as the car bounced o the road and onto the desert plain that Will struggled to run across. Having his ght or ight kick in, he started to limp faster and faster. His legs started to burn and he could feel the blood from his cuts dripping down his body. As he was running, Will noticed a big black spot that was shielded by some dried bushes and trees. As he inched closer and closer to the spot with his limited running speed, he could feel the ground below him shake. The car had almost caught up. Almost reaching the bushes, Will leapt forward, in hopes that they would provide some protection from the rusty car grill that was about to slam his back. As his mouth was met with sand and broken twigs, he could feel a wave of heat radiate over him, as well as the deafening chug of the engine. Oh my God, the car is ying over me. As the commotion subsided he could hear the exhaust echo, as well as a mu ed scream. Managing to lift himself up, what seemed like a black spot from afar was a massive sinkhole, and at the bottom of it sat a pile of now scrap metal. As Will tried to look closer, there was no sign of the mystery man that was going to be Will’s new nightmare. Hobbling back to the road with no plan, money, clothes, phone, or possessions to his name, Will remembered the

waitress from the diner and smiled. Even though he was half dead, in the middle of nowhere, and basically had no future, knowing that someone out there wanted him was comforting, and then he realized what he had. Reaching into his back pocket he felt the sweaty, sandy, crumpled receipt and unfolded it, revealing the number she left, and the light at the end of the tunnel for Will…

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The Colorful Bird By Thomas Sheehan A ock of blackbirds y by night When their eyes behold a surprising sight Above the horizon, a lone bluebird ies Such a di erent bird - it hurts their eyes The blackbirds stare with a harsh look of shock Perhaps the bluebird shall join the ock No! What a gross and horrible suggestion A blackbird expelled the blue, kicking the bird in question The Bluebird kicked out, her heart yet broken If only she could change color with a magical token The Bluebird cried and cried, and wished to turn black Then The Bluebird ew south; there was no going back The bird ew and ew; it traveled for miles Until she arrived at some mysterious isles She glided ashore, admired the view When what should she see but a bird who was blue! The bird dawdled ‘round and perched on a log When another bird, red emerged from the fog Now there were three birds, four then ve soon emerged These ones were green, what a colorful bird world Yellowbirds, purple birds ran ‘cross the beach The bluebird was shocked at this rainbow land reached

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As she ew through the trees she looked at the ground Noticing a blackbird, whom she met with a frown The blackbird replied with a beautiful smile And the bluebird wondered why that bird wasn’t hostile Not in one ock, the birds ew in tandem The kindness of one bird was no kind of random With all di erent colors, the feathers were special Unlike a ock with the same colored vessels On this island, no color was deterred Thus ends the story of the colorful bird

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