Generic 10 by Generic Magazine

Generic, Issue 10, Fall 2016 Copyright for all stories go to their creators Generic is copyright of Undergraduate Students for Publishing, Emerson College Interior Design by Kelsey Aijala and Zoe Chen Cover Art by Angela DiLoreto This issue is set in Gill Sans and Baskerville Old Face

Electronic edition published on issuu.com Print edition printed at Emerson College Print and Copy Center, Boston

Table of Contents

LETTER TO THE READER Tetrlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Tale Carl Lavigne Life on the Moon Gwen Black-Graham Fingers and Toes Sami Sirsky Dr. Hoppenheimer, Destroyer of Worlds Patrick Groleau For the Queen Bryan Cavalier Hero Bailey Tamayo Ever After Bailey Tamayo

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Generic Staff EDITOR IN CHIEF Diana DiLoreto

MANAGING EDITOR Rachel Cantor

EDITORS Melissa Close, Sarah Dolan, Casey Nugent, Anna Tayman

READERS Kelsey Aijala, Mary Baker, Alyssa Capel, Sammi Curran, Alexander Eden, Emily Hillebrand, Philip Hubbell, Cassandra Martinez, Alana Scartozzi, Emily Sierra, Nicole Swisher, Bailey Tamayo

HEAD COPYEDITOR Brynn Callahan

COPYEDITORS Rafael Barraza, Allison Rassmann, Olivia Williams

PROOFREADER Kate Gibson

MARKETING DIRECTOR Mary Baker

MARKETING ASSISTANT Max Baker

DESIGN HEAD Kelsey Aijala

DESIGN ASSISTANT Zoe Chen

HAIL, TRAVELER: I suppose you could say that Generic has finally hit Critical Mass: Welcome to Generic 10, a big milestone for us on staff. Five years ago, a handful of students on Undergraduate Students for Publishing’s executive board came together to create Emerson College’s only genre-fiction exclusive literary magazine. Today, that magazine is Generic, and it boasts a staff of thirty students. Generic remains the only literary magazine on campus where students can write, read, edit, and workshop genre fiction, guaranteed. I am often asked, what is genre fiction? In the most basic sense, genre fiction features worlds completely different from—or not entirely quite like—our own. Science fiction, fantasy, horror: these are the hallmarks of genre. At Generic, we’ve published all these and more, featuring allegory, speculative, noir, science fiction and fantasy genres in all shapes and sizes and types. But what makes great genre? I have always believed that genre exists to push boundaries, to express ideals that are universal to every world, but perhaps might be too difficult to write into our world. With everyone’s eyes on this political moment, it’s clear that now, more than ever, genre fiction has an important place to fill in the narrative. It is my hope that the stories in Generic 10 leave lasting impressions on you. This is a milestone edition for me, too, as this is my last semester as Editor in Chief. In the spring, Rachel Cantor will be taking over the editorial reigns, and the magazine could not be in better hands. The biggest and most deserving thanks goes out to Generic staff, but I want to give a special shout-out to the department heads: Mary, Brynn, Kelsey, Anna, Sarah, Melissa, and Casey, keep on keepin’ on. To the entire staff: The world has incredible things in store for you. I’ve never gotten to work with more creative, competent, caring individuals in my life. Michelle: You are still my ride or die. To Pub Club executive board and general staff: Thank you for letting this whacky little magazine just do its thing. And, remember: like Frodo, we do not walk the merry and somber trails of Adventure alone.

Wind Guide You,

-DIANA DILORETO EDITOR IN CHIEF

CARL LAVIGNE SPECULATIVE FICTION

TETRL’S TALE

Carl Lavigne studies Writing, Literature, and Publishing at Emerson College. He was a finalist for Glimmer Train’s Short Story Award for New Writers. Some of his favorite authors are Leslie Marmon Silko, Neil Gaiman, and Ursula Le Guin. He was born in Vermont, where he grew up reading every book with a dragon on the cover.

he light had been to other lands before their island, and yet no tales of it reached them before it did. This is the story the survivors of the first contact told.

They said it looked like a shard of a star brought down from the night sky: a white twinkling light suspended at eye level above the seashore. None of them, gathered around the campfire, could say how long it had been hanging there like a firefly, trapped. The light did not react as the bravest of the group approached. He reached out to palm the light as a huckster might a silver coin or an angry god the moon. He closed his hand around it, and cried out. Moonlight filtered through a bloody hole in his hand. The light grew larger, now the size and shape of an acorn. Perhaps it was a spirit, incensed for some reason and in need of polite placating. Changing course, he greeted it like an old friend. As he spoke, wavering with uncertainty, they thought they heard the faintest echo, like a voice underwater. At this the light pulsed like the breathing breast of a sleeping lover. Some of them laughed, nervous, but it could not have been pleasing to the light. Spirits canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t laugh, and they were fools to forget they might make the light jealous of their mirth. The laughter did not last long. The bravest one faced them and, pressing out from between his ribs, was the light. It expanded, emptying his insides until he toppled over. It hung above his body like a lantern, as large as his heart before it stopped beating. One of the survivors loosed an arrow at the orb. His aim was true and the arrow disappeared. No telltale splash of a missed shot: the missile simply ceased

Tetrl’s Tale

to be. The other stabbed the light with his spear, but the tip sank in and vanished. They fled without their friend. — The only news Tetrl heard was from Mrne, the old woman who ran the sickhouse on the edge of the village overlooking the sea. Bedridden for two weeks now, with an aching head and upset stomach, Tetrl was anxious and sick of the sour medicine Mrne spoon-fed her. The putrid stuff made the baby kick, and she felt no better. She was the only one in the sickhouse, since the others died of the coughing sickness a month earlier. When Mrne told the story of the light on the other side of the island, Tetrl did not believe it, and neither did Mrne. Many accused the men on the beach of killing their friend and conjuring up this story to cover their tracks. Tetrl knew him, the one who died, and was sad to hear of his passing. Tetrl’s husband had been friends with him before the coughing sickness took him. They fished together, and he’d made a bracelet of clay beads for the baby. Perhaps their souls now shared stories among the stars. Tetrl hoped so. Her husband told such good stories—stories she always hoped they could give their child. She practiced them while she was alone, reciting the tales of oceans deep, warriors great, and love endless. It hurt to hear them without his voice. Two days later Tetrl’s condition remained unchanged. Each morning she emptied her stomach and each evening her bowels, eyes flecked with tears from the pain. Mrne came with more news and medicine, though neither made Tetrl smile. Others saw the light. First it’s the size of a bug, Mrne told her with a wry smile. Now it’s big as a bat. She suspected the ones who went looking partook in distilled spirits before investigating the story. Always the tale grows taller, she said. Tetrl asked Mrne what she thought it felt like, the light. Mrne told her not to ask such foolish questions. The young woman’s curiosity, however, would not be quelled. Most of her time was spent staring at the sickhouse ceiling, coughing, and imagining her newborn baby. Anything to alleviate the boredom. She began to imagine the men were telling the truth. Perhaps the light was some lost spirit, passing through the island, washed up on their shore like driftwood. It was looking for a home. When it found an island worthy of that name it would stay and bless the inhabitants with fat fish, good rain, and no coughing. Tetrl thought she wouldn’t mind seeing the light. The next day, however, Mrne was not smiling. A second group of sane, brave men, not of the daydreaming class of men, had not returned. More went looking for them and found no sign. They said they saw a white light, long and wide as a whale, hanging in the air. All around it the trees were gone. Like they never existed. Tetrl asked Mrne if she was scared and the old woman said yes. But not of the light. She was scared of whatever was making these good men see things. If

Carl Lavigne

they couldn’t trust their eyes what could they believe in? More than ever before Tetrl yearned to go find the light. She took a cautious first step, but collapsed back onto her bed, body wracked with nausea like fists inside. People began going to look themselves, not trusting anyone’s word. Commotion, shouting, and arguing wafted to Tetrl’s ear through the sickhouse windows. The light was real, Mrne said, though she had yet to see it herself. Half the island lived inside the light now; it had expanded, burning like a sun day and night. Curious folks who touched it lost limbs. Those who ventured in did not venture back out. Some started to worship it. They said it was a spirit of great strength and it demanded appeasement. They offered themselves up, whole hands at a time. But even so, nothing sated the light’s hunger. As it fed it grew. There was talk of leaving the island. In the night, Tetrl woke to piercing cries. The smell of wood smoke reached her nostrils. Out the window she saw boats burning on the beach. The worshippers were setting to work. The flames licked the stars and Tetrl imagined the light looked something like this. Fleeing only made it hunger for more, the worshippers said. The incursion would cease when the unworthy were all sacrificed. They said the light was here to punish the wicked. Some of the elders, however, disagreed. They listened to Rundi, Mrne’s mother, the oldest woman on the island. Rundi claimed she knew why the light was here. And many people believed Rundi’s story because it was the women who were entrusted with history, to tell the stories truthfully. The men always lied about their history—made it sound better than it was. The light wasn’t a spirit, Rundi said. It was sent by bad men from far away, to eat everything in its path, to fill the bellies of the bad men. It would not stop on its own accord, she said. It must be stopped. Mrne did not appear the morning after the boats were all burned. Tetrl worried, though she did not miss the medicine. She nibbled some bread the old woman left her and peaked again out the window. Charcoal stains on the white sand were all that remained of the island’s boats. It was quiet. All day, Tetrl waited for Mrne to appear. Curiosity kicked harder than her unborn child, but there was nothing she could do to satisfy either. She began to fear. Her daydreams were nightmares, of the worshippers—nameless, faceless, not the people she once knew—breaking down the sickhouse door, dragging her from the bed and feeding her to the light. Did those who entered feel any pain? Would her baby feel it? She no longer wanted to know. Night fell before Mrne entered the sickhouse. In tears, she spoke in a whisper. The worshippers took Rundi into the jungle. Though the elder woman could hardly walk, they broke both her legs so she could not escape. They said

Tetrl’s Tale

Mrne would be next if the light was not satisfied by Rundi’s offering. Mrne left a bag of fruit and bread for Tetrl. If they took Mrne she wanted Tetrl to run away. One little dinghy remained unscathed, hidden beneath a rocky outcrop on the beach, overturned and just barely seaworthy. Tetrl begged Mrne to go with her that very night, but the old woman refused. The worshippers would come looking for her, but they would forget Tetrl was here. No one had seen her in weeks; she could make it off the island with none the wiser. Wait a whole day, Mrne told her. She ordered Tetrl to eat as much fruit and drink as much medicine as she could, then sneak down to the beach and take the dinghy and provisions out to sea. Rundi told Mrne of other islands not far away that she visited in her youth. Somewhere close, Tetrl could find shelter and safety. Mrne left before the sun rose. Fear, Tetrl thought, must have some restorative quality to it, because she was able to stand and walk in the morning, even keeping down the fruit and medicine Mrne gave her. She did not dare leave the sickhouse though. She paced back and forth. No nausea haunted her, for which she was glad; if the worshippers heard her vomiting then there was a good chance they would find her. All Tetrl could see was the beach, and it remained the same as the days preceding; the tide was wiping away the black burns of the fires. No houses, no humans were in sight. The sun set and the sky dimmed, clouds covered the moon, but the night thrummed with a brightness Tetrl could not place. After an hour of agonizing, she cracked the door open and peered out. Her village was no more. In its place, a wall of white light. It was nothing like she imagined, not a fallen star, not a blanket of fireflies, not a rain of lightning. Unfeeling and unending, it stood before her like a fortress wall. Tilting her head back she could not see the top of it, and it stretched as far as she could see in either direction. No one else was around. The hut she and her husband built to house their family was gone. Never again could she go to her husband’s grave—robbed of a final farewell. Gone was the sapling she planted in his name; never would it grow to shade their child in her husband’s stead. Erased were the homes of her mother and grandmother and great-grandmother, and all those she once loved. Empty was the island of even memory. There was nothing left to leave behind. Hobbling down to the beach, bag in hand, Tetrl tried to steady her breathing, but each time she looked back she swore it advanced an inch. The dinghy was right where Mrne said it would be. Tetrl ignored the aching in her back as she flipped the boat over and pushed it toward the ocean. No one on the island worth the air they breathed was unfamiliar with sailing, though it had been a while since Tetrl was on the water. She settled into the dinghy, took up the oars, and began to row. Looking

Carl Lavigne

up, she watched the light engulf the sickhouse. Squeezing her eyes shut she demanded this nightmare to end, but trust in her eyes was all she had left. Her feet grew cold and she found water bubbling up beneath her toes. Panicked, she tried scooping the water out, but the boat was filling faster than she could bail. The boat gurgled, like a man choking on his own blood. Abandoning her futile task she set to rowing again, ripping the calluses on her palms and straining the muscles in her shoulders. She imagined her husband there, not to save her—not even he could do that—but so she could see him again before the light took her. What a tale she would have to tell if they met again in the stars. But would a death in the light allow her a bed in the sky? Who would hold the histories of the island if she disappeared? They sat heavy in her stomach, nestled against her unborn child. Further, further, she just needed to get further away. There were other islands. Mrne wouldn’t lead her astray, Rundi wouldn’t lie. The water reached her rear. There was nothing more she could do: the ocean swallowed the boat and with it the bag of food. Tetrl kicked at the frigid waves, recalling how her mother taught her to swim in the shallows. Without a thought, she threw herself away from the sinking dinghy and swam. The weight of her child bore her down, but she could not stop. Spitting out saltwater, she kept her head above the surface. Pain pierced her stomach—the child kicking like it could help its mother swim. The light was surely right behind her. Its glow reflected off the ocean blackness. No matter where she went, the light, like the stars, would always be there. It would chase her child, her grandchildren. She could circle the world only to come upon it again. Despite these fears, Tetrl did not falter. Wherever the men were who sent the light to her home, the light would one day take them too, if it hadn’t already. She breathed deep and parted the water like a blade, swimming as easily as she learned in her mother’s arms. The light could consume the sun and the sky, but she would not let it catch her. She began to spin a story, a new one—one for her child. And she would tell that story every time she held her child in her arms. And she promised every story would end with sunrise.

GWEN BLACK-GRAHAM SCIENCE FICTION

LIFE ON THE MOON

Gwen Black-Graham is a sophomore studying Writing, Literature, and Publishing at Emerson. Her favorite authors are Douglas Adams, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Neil Gaiman. Her favorite obsessions are World of Warcraft and Overwatch. Her favorite burrito at Bolocoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s is Buffalo, no celery.

bove the silent surface of Earth’s moon, a great battle raged. Glossy ships darted back and forth amongst the black sky while streaks of debris drifted into the void. This grim sight was interrupted only by the constant flashes of light that proved hostilities had yet to cease. The ground, an empty mass stretching beyond the eye’s reach, played host to a graveyard of crashed wreckage. One little spaceship, badly damaged but mostly intact, stood in the dust among the others. With a silent gasp, a panel on the side of the ship slowly shifted, revealing a gloved hand that grasped the edge of the opening. A rupture has occurred, came a little voice inside the pilot’s head as she pulled herself through the little window. Oxygen at sixty percent. Water at forty percent. A rupture has occurred. Please seek medical attention. She found its clinical monotone oddly soothing. Her suit was equipped with state-of-the-art monitoring equipment that could predict your chances of survival down to three decimal points. Survival chance is currently seventy-one percent. Oxygen refill required for survival. “Hello? This is Private Kennedy, broadcasting from an unknown sector,” she said, but the speaker only produced static and she had no idea where she was. The long-range broadcast must be damaged too, she thought. All she saw as she looked around was a thick gray mass of rocks, broken up only by crumbled titanium. She felt a wave of loneliness wash over her. Wherever she was, this was uncharted territory. No great Lunar cities in sight. And the ship was a wreck. There was no way it would ever the see the light of day again, let alone

Life on the Moon

fly. Plasma burns marred the outside of the otherwise clean white and orange exterior, and while the cockpit was surprisingly intact, the engine had collapsed in on itself. Strands of blue fuel leaked out, giving some bizarre color to the flat gray world as it puddled into a crater. Other puddles had formed where the other ships had crashed. She scanned the heaps of sharp metal, looking through every dead ship to find some trace of life. She recognized some of the ships like her own, bearing the white and orange of the Earthborn fleet. She felt a slight chill when she remembered the faces of the pilots she knew. No, don’t think about them, she thought. Dwelling on it only made it worse. She saw some bodies lying on the ground and tried to ignore them. In the fresh wreck of a fighter, a piece of debris shifted and the escape hatch slid off. A gun was slung tightly to Kennedy’s belt, its smooth finish glistening in the light of the battle overhead, and she pulled it out in one slow motion as she forced her way through the low gravity. From the hole in the enemy ship emerged another pilot, but she was one of the Lunarians, the rebels from the Lunar Republic. They had been fighting to gain their independence as a nation from Earth’s government. She raised the gun at the figure retreating from the damaged vehicle. The other caught sight of her as she looked up. Was she a soldier? A commander? Kennedy was going to take the fight back to the enemy. “I don’t want any trouble. Please don’t shoot.” Her voice was scratched up by the radio as it streamed into Kennedy’s helmet. She sounded like she was about Kennedy’s own age. “Get out on the ground,” Kennedy said with fake bravado, broadcasting her command through her suit’s internal short-range radio as the figure resumed wiggling out of the hatch. “And leave your gun on the ground. I’m not in the mood to play any games, so no sudden moves, okay?” The enemy pilot dragged herself from the wreckage and laid her body down, imprinting the shape of her blue-accented black spacesuit in the sand. “Did you crash too?” the pilot said, adding, “I don’t want any trouble.” “What’s your name and your rank?” “My name? Why do you need my name?” The girl was still a little dazed from the crash. “Name and rank. Now. If you’re important, I’ll take you in.” Kennedy waggled the gun at her again. She was wearing a black spacesuit with blue accents, the sign of a member of the Lunar Republic’s militia. Kennedy’s was white and orange, the traditional garb of the Earth’s military. Both of their suits came equipped with visors that were tinted to keep out the sun’s blinding light. “Fine,” she said. “My name is Moore. Private Emily Moore. Please, I’m just a pilot.”

Gwen Black-Graham

“Where are you from?” Kennedy said. “Lunar District 3.” “3? Really?” Kennedy almost dropped the gun. She fixed her eyes on Moore’s visor, hoping to get some peek of her. “I lived in 3.” “What’s your name?” asked Moore. Kennedy fell silent for a moment, turning it over in her mind. She deemed a nearby gray rock suitable to contemplate upon, so she strode over to it and sat down. Every step exhausted her. “Alyssa Kennedy,” she said, “I can’t do this. I can’t do this.” The gun’s aim slowly drifted to the dust. “It’s fine. We’re at war, you know? It’s what happens,” Moore replied. Kennedy placed the gun in her holster, making sure it was secure. It wasn’t until the pressure lifted from her fingers that she realized that she had been gripping it tightly enough to make her hands sweat in her gloves. Miniature lines of coolant circled her hand, easing the sensation. Then the water cooling hit, keeping her at a steady temperature. Water at thirty-nine percent. “Don’t try to use any of the air-tanks,” Moore said, as if reading her mind. “They’re rigged to inject a neurotoxin into you if the owner dies. I’m betting Earth does the same?” “Yeah, but that’s pretty morbid. And sorry for pointing a gun at you,” Kennedy said. “I didn’t think you would have shot me.” “You seem really cool with it. A minute ago I was about to kill you, and now we’re just talking. How does that happen?” “Rules don’t apply in war, right? We can just talk. The fight’s almost over,” Moore said. “Of course they do. It’s not right. What I did wasn’t right, what we’ve done to each other isn’t right. It’s just that we’re supposed to be enemies now, right?” said Kennedy. “You don’t seem that bad to me.” “No,” Kennedy said with a hidden smile, adding, “We don’t have to be enemies, either. Look at us now, we’re just talking. How did we get here? A second ago I was about to shoot you. What changed?” Kennedy glanced at her gun, took it out, and caressed a gloved hand across the barrel. She couldn’t feel it, but she knew it was made of a glossy synthetic plastic. One pull of the trigger and a jet of horrid blue plasma would shoot out of it, piercing and melting anyone who was unlucky enough to get caught by it. She herself had only cursory combat training. The first time she had seen it was the worst. She still remembered the look on that man’s face as his chest burst in a flash of light. The memory came flooding back to her in that moment, every detail crisp and sharp in her mind. Sometimes she replayed it in her head,

Life on the Moon

rewinding over and over. Not by choice, but out of habit. She took some perverse pleasure in being shocked by it. Moore had noticed her sudden quiet. “Are you daydreaming? Out here?” she said. “I’m thinking about things.” “There’s no better place, right?” Moore said sarcastically. She gestured over to the grayscale landscape and Kennedy winced at the casual nature of her voice. But the memories continued to pool in her thoughts. Her family had all gathered to watch the television in the textured yellow walls of their living room. She remembered not caring about whatever was on. The whole family was gathered; her sister, Claire, her brother Chance, and her parents. She tried to repeat their names over and over in her mind. She wanted to remember them. Suddenly, a news bulletin flashed on the screen, inviting them in with outrageous colors and sirens. She had always hated how over the top they were. “Breaking news,” the smooth-talking gray-haired anchor announced. “Protests are covering Apollo Square, and authorities have dispatched soldiers to suppress them. We go live to Jeff Oland. Jeff?” “Thank you, Brian. The air in the Lunar capitol seems electric as the ProEarth protests erupted only minutes ago.” She had always been in awe of the truly majestic government buildings in Lunar Base 6, how the golden spires and towering walls licked the light from the sun and how the black sky provided the colony with an eternal, peaceful night. Most of all, she remembered being amazed at the Lunar guards, standing perfectly still in unison with their golden light-rifles tucked against their shoulders. Each was a mirror of the other, marching perfectly still. Even trapped on a cold, lifeless rock, she could still see the gleam their armor cast against the news footage. She remembered learning later that the boy was only around nineteen. Older than her. She guessed that the soldiers hadn’t noticed him at first. Nor did they even recognize the mass of people that were gathering along the paved road, until it was too late. He screamed into the summer air, denouncing the plans for Lunar separation from Earth. Earth loyalty was not a popular opinion. The second the words left his mouth, the soldiers turned their heads. The crowd answered. The battalion was already walking over. In a moment, the most adorned of all of them, no doubt their leader, was inches from the boy’s face. His permanentlyfrowning face was nearly visible beneath his half-helmet. He never saw his eyes, hidden beneath a half-inch of gold-painted metal. The camera zoomed in as he walked forward. He said nothing. The boy had already given up on any delusions of safety. He knew how this would end. The guard’s gun glowed and a red bolt of pure hot plasma pierced his heart. He could only stumble backwards, clutching his chest.

Gwen Black-Graham

The rest of the guards followed suit, and the boy fell to the floor. The camera quickly pulled out and hastily transitioned back to the earthbound news studio. “We apologize for any stress we might have caused any viewers. As you can see, hostilities between the protestors—” The little girl sitting by the TV couldn’t hear what the newscasters were saying. She could only comprehend what she had seen. That look in that boy’s eyes was not bravery, not defiance, but only fear. Her little brother was crying. Her parents tried to console her by telling her that they were moving away from Luna, away from the danger that had erupted. “But Mom,” she pleaded, “I have friends here.” She hadn’t been able to comprehend the world then. Her parents had pushed her to enlist after they had arrived back on Earth. Her school drove a fear of the enemy into her. They told had told her of all the terrible things they had done and wanted to do. She still felt some of that whitehot anger they had fostered. As these memories returned, she felt a sudden surge of emotion fuel her mind. She hated them. Here she was, trapped on the surface of moon with no way out. But even as she tried to summon the hatred and blame for her parents, she found that she couldn’t. She was only thinking of that protestor. Or, when her mind wandered farther than she cared to admit, she saw the image of that gold-clad soldier. To her, that soldier became more than just the image of a man on a screen. Whenever she felt afraid, she felt his presence. Kennedy said nothing for several moments lost in thought. She pointed at the sky, and Moore saw that there were far fewer ships than earlier. Even as they watched, some were retreating out of sight. “The battle’s over, then?” It was Moore who spoke. “Looks like it.” Kennedy had a thought as she stared upwards. There was still fighting going on, rogue pilots here or there taking potshots at the enemy. Rookies, like her, though less sensible. It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps her actions had been more reckless than she had thought. How many had died? She had shot down at least twenty in that last battle. Twenty people, all humans like herself. But, she told herself, I hate war. I despise it. I could never shoot a real gun. “I don’t think I could shoot someone, someone near me. I’ve always just been a pilot,” she said to Moore, shaking herself out of her own head. Oxygen at forty-seven percent. Water at thirty-five percent. “I suppose that’s the natural human reaction. I mean, if they’re in a spaceship, then you can’t see them,” Moore said. “You know, I didn’t even have a choice about all this. I enlisted ’cause my parents made me when I left school. My dad told me we couldn’t live on Luna anymore, so we left right before the embargo started. I didn’t get much training.

Life on the Moon

They don’t waste that shit on us. Like, they told us what to shoot and how to use the easy controls on the ships, but not much else. We’re the expendable ones, you and I, ” Kennedy said. “What do you mean? They tell us every time we go out to fight we’re the ones who’ll save the Republic.” “That’s propaganda for you.” Moore stood up, pausing to stretch. She looked around the horizon. She was silent. “Maybe we’re sitting here and talking because we don’t care about the war,” Kennedy said to her. “Care? What do you mean? I don’t want to be a slave to Earth. Of course I care.” Oxygen at twenty-three percent. Water at ten percent. Kennedy’s only response was to cradle her helmet in her arms. “Luna’s done as much to us as we have to you,” she said, after a moment. “Earth’s control is oppression,” Moore said angrily. “You’re Earth’s enemies, though,” Kennedy said. Moore didn’t say anything, but Kennedy saw her helmet shake. Moore’s breath came in ragged bursts over the comms. “They’re not going to rescue us, are they?” Kennedy asked. “It’s an honor to die for the cause,” Moore recited in shortened breaths. “Don’t they tell you that?” “Yeah. But I don’t want to die.” Kennedy sat there in silence, listening to her own ragged breathing. I don’t want to die bounced around in her head so much the words lost their meaning. “I’m sorry for everything, Emily,” Kennedy said suddenly, but Moore gave no response. Oxygen at ten percent and dropping. She finally realized what should have been obvious from the start. As she tried to put it into words, something seemed to shake itself silently from the nearby wreckage. Kennedy stared. Was she hallucinating? Her mind flashed through memories of her family. Her mother and father, her sister, her brother, all happy and cheerful in the movies in her mind; but each was interrupted by the same picture of the boy and the soldier, over and over. Oxygen at five percent. Water at two percent. Survival chance estimated at seven percent and falling. Seek help immediately. Repeat: seek help immediately. For the first time in many years, Kennedy was well and truly afraid as she tried to block the image from her head. Her breaths heaved, and every bone in her body started to ache. Soon, the rubble ceased to shift. Indeed, a figure clad in gold emerged, shining bright in the sun. “What are you?” Kennedy said. No answer. It was getting closer. She now saw it for what it was. It was the Lunar

Gwen Black-Graham

commander, in all of his brilliant and terrible glory. A nightmare. He glided across the ground, shaking up no dust as his boots hit the ground. She took a deep breath, and he stopped right in front of her. She already knew how this would end; she had known it all along. Her mind raced. She thought of her mother, her father, her sister, her brother. She thought of her old house on Luna. Her breaths grew shorter and shorter, and her lungs felt like fire. She thought of Private Emily Moore lying motionless besides her. Oxygen at zero percent. Suit charge at zero percent. Water at zero percent. Oxygen at zero percent. Survival chances estimated at four percent, three percent, two percent, one percentâ&#x20AC;Ś

SAMI SIRSKY CONTEMPORARY FANTASY

FINGERS AND TOES

Sami Sirsky is a sophomore Writing for Film and TV major at Emerson College. She grew up in Pennsylvania but managed to escape to Boston, which is colder but undeniably cooler. She likes sharing a bed with her favorite book, The Name of the Wind, by Patrick Rothfuss. She figure skates sometimes.

he dirt covering Aria Rolland’s face was nothing compared to the grime that had snuck itself under her fingernails. She bit them to keep them short, but it wasn’t enough to keep the dirt out after a morning in the backyard. When she was younger, Aria’s father had raved about what an imagination she had, or maybe he hadn’t. She liked to believe the memory was as true as the statement was, as she truly did see dragons of all sizes before her in the backyard. She waved her stick menacingly to keep them at bay. As the sun set, Aria knew Mother would call her in soon. Mother always believed the darkness to be more dangerous than the light. Aria knew that was absurd, and she thought Father would too. He was much braver than Mother: that was where Aria got her courage from. He had to be fearless since he went off to war years ago, back when, Mother said, they had gotten so desperate for help in warding off the dragons that they couldn’t wait for volunteers anymore. Aria remembered a great deal about Father, but every time she brought something up, Mother said she couldn’t believe it had ever happened. Mother was getting old, though, and Aria knew best. Her feet tripped over each other as she scurried down the hill and shimmied her way through a hole in the fence that separated her backyard from the wildness of the forest beyond. Aria slipped into cover of the trees and found the spot where she buried her stick-sword every night. It was the perfect size sword for her, and she resented the thought of losing it. When she ducked back out from the forest’s edge, it was not the magnificently colored sunset that first caught her eye. She blinked and balled her hands into fists to rub at her eyes

Fingers and Toes

until they hurt, but still it towered over her small yard, more than a figment of her active imagination. Dragons weren’t supposed to hang around backyards in suburban Pennsylvania towns. They were light years away, raging on battlefields and futilely attempting to take down brave men like Father, and like Grandfather before him. This didn’t add up, but it was very real, standing there before her with its giant, blood red scales. One of those scales alone could tower over Aria and crush her if it fell. There they were, Aria and the dragon, locked in a steely staring match that neither seemed inclined to lose. It snorted a bit, shook its head out, and blinked down at her. Its head was enormous; perhaps, Aria thought, it was the same size as her small house. Its eyes were all blackness. Aria couldn’t seem to look away. Mother would call her in soon. For dinner, to go to bed—Mother was waiting inside for her. Mother was inside. Inside the tiny house built of wood and filled with all things flammable. The dragon, coming out of its state of apparent surprise at seeing such a small thing as Aria, snorted a bit. Its nostrils lit up briefly with the promise of fire. Aria thought of Father, bold and brave and fighting the good fight of warriors off in a distant land, fighting a war so important he had left his daughter behind for it. Father wouldn’t go down without a fight, of course he wouldn’t. He would protect his family. That was what he was doing now, wasn’t it? It was what he had always done. Aria’s only family here was Mother, who was weak and always worried, but who cared deeply. Aria had to protect her. And so she ran. Her legs were short, but she was fast. Back down the hill and under the fence, going so fast she hardly had time to fear the broken wood of the posts would give her splinters. She tripped more than ran through the forest then, overwhelmed by the low-hanging branches that cut and scraped at her face and arms and by the slippery leaves that caused her feet to slide underneath her, causing her stomach to drop several times as she nearly fell. Her legs were short and her path obstructed, but she was still fast. The dragon was slow and clumsy on the ground, not yet realizing it could easily knock down the trees and clear its path. Its footfalls were deafening, so it was impossible for Aria to tell how much distance she had gained. Her legs ached and muscles screamed in protest before her mind cleared enough to regret the decision to escape in the direction of the forest. It had been instinctive, but the forest was only good if it could be used to hide. In her current position, all it did was inhibit her from moving as swiftly as she might have. Aria clenched her fists, dirty nails digging into dirtier palms, and tried not to think of the trees turning into kindling around her. She tried not to imagine how it would feel to be set on fire herself, how it would feel to burn. Fleetingly, she wondered what the dragonslayers wore in order to prevent this fate. She wondered what her father wore to face the dragons.

Sami Sirsky

The leaves under her were dry now, and they crunched louder, louder, louder under her quickening feet, but she couldn’t hear them over the tumult of the pursuit. Every part of her ached in protest as she pushed harder towards the outer edge of the forest. The dragon lagged behind, still stubbornly refusing to knock down fat tree trunks and bushy greenery. Aria couldn’t imagine why, but she was grateful. It wouldn’t be long, she thought, before it realized it should knock everything down to get to her. Every branch cracking and snapping under her feet sounded like a tree about to come down and crush the life out of her. She grabbed onto a nearly severed branch as she ran and it broke easily from the tree it had been clinging to. It wasn’t nearly as perfect as her stick-sword, hidden back by the tiny house and the hill and the wooden fence, but it gave her an imaginary security. She clutched it tightly. Father would not be scared. Aria pressed on even as her legs protested adamantly. Another quarter mile, and the woods would thin and open up, if she had gone in the correct direction. It wasn’t a heavily used road, but it was her best shot to find help. Aria hadn’t truly known terror until she felt the heat on her back. The dragon burned the trees in its path that it had thus far refused to destroy. It gained distance on her rapidly, and in the moment it took for her to look over her shoulder and register this, she tripped and splayed out on the forest floor on her stomach. Her elbow knocked into a rock and scraped, openly bleeding. The fall knocked the wind out of her, and she shut her eyes, trying to reorient herself in the situation. The dragon wasn’t interested in waiting for a fair fight. With a magnificent roar that made Aria cover her ears, it sent its first tree crashing to the ground. The sound of the thick trunk hitting the forest floor echoed out to her left, and she scrambled to get back to her feet. It was right behind her now, but it wasn’t making any attempt to harm her. Aria didn’t wait around to come up with a reason why. She looked into its solid black, hopeless eyes for as long as it took to get up, then turned and ran again. It wasn’t hard to hear it as it followed her. The trees stopped suddenly and Aria hardly took notice, too busy wheezing and panting her way forward. Her chest ached from breathing heavily and her legs shook. Breathing hurt. But when the ground underfoot shifted from an obstacle course of fallen branches and slippery leaves into flat pavement, her feet slowed. She tripped, adjusting to the speed and trying to stop momentum from carrying her right out onto the road. A car came chugging down the road and would have run her right over if she’d gone a few steps farther. When it slowed to a stop Aria saw its driver was an old woman. She’d hoped for more people, but a single ally was a great improvement from moments ago.

Fingers and Toes

The window rolled down and the woman looked aghast, taking in Aria disheveled state up close. “You’re not supposed to be out, girl,” the woman scolded without preamble. “Haven’t you seen the flyers?” “I’m not a girl,” Aria replied angrily. The woman seemed to grasp the urgency of the situation and unlocked the doors, allowing Aria to get inside before she inquired further. “If you’re not a girl, what are you?” she asked. “Does it matter?” The woman rolled her eyes. “So when I take you home, what do you expect me to say to your parents?” Aria rolled her eyes right back. “You can say to my mother, ‘She is very brave.’ Or just call me Aria.” “So you’re a she but not a girl, huh?” the woman said. “Kids these days.” Aria’s face scrunched in anger, but she decided this wasn’t the hill she’d like to fight and die on, at least at the moment. Instead, she said, “So who are you?” The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Evans. Aria found that rather non-specific, but decided not to be picky about who saved her from imminent death. She announced herself as Aria Rolland, child of Marcus Rolland, known dragonslayer. Mrs. Evans seemed rather less impressed than Aria would have liked her to be. She explained to Aria, with the great air of condescension that adults oftentimes couldn’t help but adopt when explaining something to a child, that there had been flyers posted all over town warning residents to stay inside after several reports of dragons spotted nearby. Aria thought it quite ridiculous that they’d post the flyers outside, exactly where the residents were being warned not to be. But it wasn’t a fabrication: they passed several of the posters as they drove. Aria wondered if things would have been better if she’d stayed inside, or if her whole house would have burned. Aria tried to rub some of the dirt off her hands and onto her pants. Mrs. Evans eyed her attempts, and Aria expected a scolding for bringing grime into her clean car, but Mrs. Evans only laughed quietly. “Stop trying,” she suggested. “Your skin may be dark, but you still can’t hide that filth. Do you live outside?” Aria didn’t bother taking offense. Things were looking up. She even reclined back in the seat and closed her eyes. She hadn’t realized until they shut how badly they had been burning from staying wide open on alert. It was almost peaceful, until she flew forward and her head smashed into the back of the driver’s seat as Mrs. Evans laid heavily on the brakes. Aria didn’t need to ask what she was doing. She peered around the seat and saw the massive red leg of the beast that had been chasing her all evening.

Sami Sirsky

Without registering a thought, Aria’s hand was already on the handle, ready to pull open the door. She thought perhaps a noble death would be better than this life of running. It had been heroic to draw the dragon away from Mother, especially at a mere twelve years old, when she could still be expected to rely on the protection parental figures provided. People would speak of her up and down the town—perhaps word would even spread further—calling her things like brave and cunning, and Aria might not be around to hear, but Mother would know. Maybe even Father would hear. Mrs. Evans would spread word. As a final kindness, she would surely tell the tale of brave Aria’s last moments. Her final stand against their world’s greatest evil. And she would go in the same way her Father might someday: fighting the good fight of a dragonslayer. Wasn’t that what she had always wanted? She still held her makeshift stick-sword, a symbol of her courage, in her left hand. They called him dragonslayer, but they would call Aria Rolland the brave child of a dragonslayer, the young girl of only twelve years with the fearlessness of a fully grown warrior. Father would hear, and he would know her, and he would weep for the child he had brought into this cruel world, the child he hardly had the chance to know. He would think of her as he went into his next battle, and he would nobly slay another dragon in her name. And just maybe, if she was lucky, in whatever world came after this, Aria could watch him do it. She would like that, to see his face again. She could remember it from her childhood, from the memories she cherished dearly as she was the only one left to know them, but she’d like to see it now. To know how he had changed. Mrs. Evans gave the car some gas. Aria startled. She was going to try to go around it. Aria’s plan had been insane, but she was twelve. Mrs. Evans was supposed to have more sense. She didn’t get very far, though, before she stopped again. That was when Aria first saw them. They were dressed as spectacularly as Aria had dreamed, exactly as warriors should look. Knights in shining armor, she thought, and she couldn’t help but smile a bit in spite of herself. Their armor shone so they glowed, unspoken heroes. Mrs. Evans screamed, but Aria barely noticed, already with one leg out the door to get a better look. She’d always wondered, always dreamed, always hoped… They stabbed at the dragon with magnificent swords—real ones—and Aria’s own stick drooped at her side, hanging loosely in her grip. She stared in wonder. The dragon roared and struggled to turn and look down at the tiny humans surrounding it, overwhelming it, overcoming it. There were so many of them, too many of them for it to gain any sort of focal point. Aria shook her head. It was unbelievable. Surreal. One of the dragonslayers broke away from the rest, and he grabbed her attention. He opened his mouth, and she guessed he was asking why on earth she

Fingers and Toes

was there, but it was impossible to hear over the dragon. Unfortunately, the stray dragonslayer had also attracted its attention, and it found a direction in which to focus its fire. The heat Aria had felt on her back in the woods was nothing compared to the blinding pain that overcame her in that moment. She felt it before she saw it, felt the white hot tips of flame tickling her face. Too shocking to be anything more that pleasant first, it soon turned painful and brought her to her knees, gasping and choking for clean air. She felt as though her skin was melting away. The dragonslayer moved more quickly, arriving at her side instantly. He knelt beside her and she looked into his face through teary eyes. It swam before her, but he looked to be around her mother’s age, with a handsome face and a beard the same black color that her own hair was. He looked worried and kind. “Father?” she said, but it felt as though she had no voice left with which to utter it. She had no way of knowing which chivalrous savior was her father, for they were all brave men with reflective helmets set fast on their heads. She tried again anyway, but only managed to choke. The dragonslayer had been protected by his beautiful armor, but he had no way of helping her. She put a hand on his arm and he did not pull away, which was perhaps the best he could have done. “Father,” she managed with more conviction. “What are you doing here, miss?” the dragonslayer answered. He looked sad, and she could not imagine why. She wasn’t in much pain, not anymore. “The orders were to stay inside.” “I didn’t know,” she tried to answer, but again she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs and her throat hurt with the effort of speaking. Suddenly everything was flames and heat and white hot pain, and she barely realized it was because the dragon had breathed its fire again. Mrs. Evans was still in the car. Aria hoped she got home safe. She hoped too that Mother would not be too disappointed she had stayed out after dark. She hoped this man, if he was her father, would go to her and be the one to break the news of what had happened. She coughed again and realized she was leaning heavily on the dragonslayer now. She could not support her own weight. “Father?” Aria choked out wearily. She just wanted him to confirm what she knew before she lost all sense of what was happening, but the man was not her father, and she couldn’t have ever known if he was.

PATRICK GROLEAU SCIENCE FICTION

DR. HOPPENHEIMER DESTROYER OF WORLDS

Patrick Groleau is a sophomore Political Communications major with minors in writing and business studies. He is from a small town in southern New Hampshire and loves to hike and fish. He is a dungeon master and an avid reader of all things genre.

he universe began with a big bang. Somewhere and somewhen (for space and time are not independent entities), the universe began to expand. At one microsecond, protons formed. At one one-hundredth of a second, nuclear fusion began. At three hundred eighty thousand years, hydrogen, the simplest element, formed. Hydrogen swirled and condensed into lumps of matter, creating protostars and planetesimals. The protostars and planetesimals gained mass, creating solar systems. Life formed on some planets (presumably). Civilizations formed next. One such civilization was human civilization, and they were on the brink of a great scientific discovery. Soon they would be able to travel—through tears in spacetime—to distant stars. Or at least Dr. Sadat hoped they would be able to. Dr. Sadat couldn’t concentrate that well at the moment. He was strapped to his wife’s nuclear spacetime transporter, which was on an asteroid orbiting the sun at twenty-eight thousand two hundred kilometers per hour. Dr. Sadat couldn’t think about his wife’s machine, however. He kept thinking about his rabbit, Dr. Hoppenheimer. One year ago to the day Dr. Sadat had sent Dr. Hoppenheimer one kilometer forwards and three minutes into the future. Dr. Hoppenheimer was the first rabbit to travel through a tear in spacetime. Sadat had had many other successful tests before and after the rabbit. He had sent rocks and potted plants and lab mice through the machine. After Hoppenheimer returned, he had sent even bigger creatures. There was a pig named Snowball, and a Clydesdale named Winston. Dr. Sadat was confident

Dr. Hoppenheimer, Destroyer of Worlds

that he would be sent through spacetime without a hitch, but his rabbit still nagged at his mind, for after it returned it was not the same. “Are you ready?” a voice asked through a speaker above his head. It was Farrah, his wife. She was directing the transporter remotely from the transporter control station at the NASA base in Houston. “Just a moment,” Sadat said, breathing heavily. “I just need a moment.” “You can have a few minutes, but the nuclear reactors are almost fully charged. We don’t want any mishaps; I don’t think we’ll be able to get our funding a second time. But take a moment. You still have time.” Hoppenheimer had made it through the transporter easily. He was the only creature that Sadat had viewed in depth after it had traveled through spacetime. The other animals only had had their vitals checked and then were sent back to earth without a second glance. “Hey babe,” Farrah said. “You have two minutes and—yes?” “Do you remember Dr. Hoppenheimer?” “Our bunny? Of course I do.” “Did he seem to act funny after the experiment? Like did you notice him stop being interested in his kibble or the carrots we got him?” “One minute—I wouldn’t worry too much about it. It’s a rabbit, it just sits and poops. What else would it do?” “Yeah I guess. It’s just—he looked empty. He had this glazed stare. Like a shark, or a doll.” “I’m sure you’re just a little nervous, babe. I promise you’ll be fine. I love you.” Dr. Sadat took a deep breath. For a brief moment the image of Hoppenheimer’s beady charcoal eyes haunted his thoughts. “Thirty seconds,” his wife said. “I’m ready.” It was silent for a few moments. Dr. Sadat tried to push the image of the rabbit out of his mind. He took a few deep breaths, concentrating on the sound that they made in the speakers of his helmet. “Three,” his wife said. “Two. One.” Sadat was on a spacewalk. He was much younger. His wife’s machine wouldn’t be tested for another seventeen years. He liked space. For the first time in his life he really could be alone. Back home he had six brothers, all squished into one three-bedroom house. In college, to save money, he had signed up for cheaper built-up dorms. After that, he had crammed himself and five other friends three to a room in their first apartment— one they could barely afford. Sadat was sick of people. He preferred to be alone. Now he was alone, aside from a handful of scientists at the ISS. He was

Patrcick Groleau

four hundred kilometers from civilization. Just cold and silence and nothing for kilometers all around. Sadat was usually happy, but he missed Farrah. “Would you be willing to give up your life for science?” Sadat listened to Farrah through his video monitor. It had been a few days since his spacewalk. Next to his monitor was a window facing away from Earth. Sadat had gotten the bad view. Nothing but stars and asteroids, and the infinite blackness of space. Farrah was back at home leading a team of researchers on nuclear theory. Her dissertation, “The General Theory of Unstable Atoms,” had earned her a full-time research position for the company SolarX. “That’s quite the question.” “I’m serious.” Farrah pushed a stray hair behind her ear. She bit her lower lip and turned the volume on her computer up. “My grant went through. I’m starting tests on my theory soon. I sold it to the SolarX Research as ‘nuclear energy on steroids.’ It’s going to cost more than any other research project in human history.” “That’s great, babe!” Sadat smiled at his wife. He missed her face. He missed the warm touch of her skin. He missed the sex. A year in space was a long time. “The math says I may be able to warp spacetime, possibly even tear it. But it would be incredibly unstable. If I can’t keep the energy contained it would create an explosion that could destroy all life on Earth. Would you be willing to risk your life for the sake of science?” “Where are you going to test it? They won’t let you test it on Earth?” “The asteroid belt.” “Do you need people to test it?” “Yes, but not for a while, if my research ever progresses that far. Obviously I would need to test it with lab mice first. I certainly would want to.” “Well if you need someone to test it, I would be eager. All science takes risks. I’d risk death, even my own, to advance science. A thousands deaths for one pivotal gain in the advancement of humankind is worth it. It’s always worth it. It’s like Marie Curie dying from radiation poisoning. Think of the new research that was possible because of her.” “Like my research...” Farrah said. “Exactly, and Marie always had the handsome Pierre Curie to help her with her research. A real looker, or so I’ve heard. I think Marie Curie was lucky to have such a dashing research assistant.” Sadat grinned. She grinned back. “Yeah, are you the Pierre to my Marie?”

Dr. Hoppenheimer, Destroyer of Worlds

“Well, Pierre died from being run over by a wagon wheel, so I think I’d rather Marie—radiation poisoning is much more heroic.” Dr. Sadat had experienced traveling in the vacuum of space many times— usually to get to his transporter. It was a lot like being in a pool. Your body has no weight—it is free from the pull of gravity. You just float around like a jellyfish or a piece of driftwood. Traveling through spacetime, Dr. Sadat would later remark to his wife, is a lot like traveling through space, except that instead of having a weightless body, you have a weightless consciousness. Your mind is free from the pull of spacetime. It simply wanders, divorced from the restrictions of human thought. The universe began with a big bang. Dr. Sadat saw this with his own two eyes. He was floating, nude, at the beginning of spacetime. He arrived at the moment the universe began to expand. He watched quarks form; he could see them with his naked eye. Then he watched protons form. They burst and bounced like popcorn kernels in a microwave. His body was ripped and pulled through the fabric of the universe. He saw trillions of planets, and stars, and solar systems form. He saw hardcarapaced creatures crawl out from the water and breath oxygen, or sulfur, or whatever chemical they needed to breath. He saw planets with no life. They were barren rock. Some had mountains made of pure diamond, the pressure was so great. He saw neutron stars, and black holes, and pulsars, and nebulas, and sweet overwhelming darkness. He saw one edge of the universe and a split second later he saw the other edge. He traveled nearly immeasurable distances in less time than it takes to light a cigarette. Dr. Sadat giggled and then screamed. He tried to claw at his eyes, but his body had no substance. For a moment he looked down and saw his nude form and was ashamed, for he realized that countless civilizations had seen his genitals. And then it happened. He saw civilizations rise and fall. One of them could have been a human civilization, but almost all were alien. It didn’t matter what destroyed them. An asteroid. A dying star. War. Disease. They all died in the end. He saw some civilizations traveled amongst the stars in great silver spaceships. They started new civilizations on new planets. But in the end, they all died. And then he saw the universe go dark. One by one the stars grew, red and bloated like cysts. They burst, or imploded in on themselves, but eventually they cooled. Sadat floated through space watching them get dimmer and dimmer until

Patrcick Groleau

there were no stars to be seen—until there was no light left. Only darkness. Sometimes, floating through the darkness, he would bump into a planet, or an asteroid, or an old satellite from an earlier age. All the celestial bodies were the same. It didn’t matter what section of the universe he was in. They were grey hunks of ice and rock. Not even the simplest bacteria would survive the heat death of the universe. Sadat traveled from one end of the universe to the other. He traveled from one end of time to the other. He traveled past galaxies and past empires. He saw the breadth and depth of the universe swirling and colliding, rising and falling, living and dying. And then he was back. Dr. Sadat was one kilometer from where he was originally strapped in his transporter, and the time was three minutes ahead. “Great job baby,” Farrah said through the microphone. “I’m so proud of you. You did it.” Sadat could not smile. Every night the dream was the same. Sadat floated in the blackness of space. Sometimes he floated for hours. Sometimes he floated for a few minutes. Eventually, the rabbit would appear. Dr. Hoppenheimer floated—immense, white, and forty thousand times larger than the average rabbit. He was like an alien monolith—a creature beyond human comprehension. He stared with his beady, glazed eyes. He did not speak, but Sadat heard the words echo in his skull. The rabbit spoke to him from inside his own mind. “Now I am become death, destroyer of worlds.” Sadat took time off from work. The dreams had been getting to him. It had been only a few days since the experiment. Every night he woke up in a cold sweat. He tried not to bother Farrah; she was supposed to travel to test the transporter herself in a few days. He didn’t want to worry her. “You need to shut this project down.” Sadat was speaking with Dr. Griffin, head of research and funding for SolarX through the telephone. “Please, it won’t be to your benefit. No human will want to use this.” “Won’t want to use this?!” Dr. Griffin scoffed. “You traveled through spacetime! You teleported. With your wife’s research we could be able to reach

Dr. Hoppenheimer, Destroyer of Worlds

countless new planets. Think of the resources. Limitless resources, from millions and millions of planets.” “It will be useless. I can’t explain, you wouldn’t understand unless you went through yourself. It does things to your mind. I hate it. His face. I keep seeing his face!” “Yes I’ve heard about your um... bad dreams. You need to understand that we aren’t the government. We have to meet our budget and produce results, or else people start getting fired—that includes your wife. We’ve put too much money into to this project to not get results. I’m sorry that you’re a little shaken up. I’m sorry about your nightmares and your rabbit. I’m sorry it did not go as planned. I’m sure the bad thoughts will go away, but this launch is going to happen. Just think of it as a sacrifice that you made for science. You know, like Marie Curie.” Sadat hung up the phone. Dr. Sadat sat at the transporter control station at the NASA base in Houston. A small black headset gripped his head. A microphone was poised in front of his mouth. His hands, resting on the control panel, were shaking. A small green screen said, ‘All functions offline.’ Four hundred seventy-eight million, seven hundred thirteen thousand, one hundred eighty-six kilometers away, Farrah was strapped to her nuclear spacetime transporter waiting to travel through spacetime. It had been one month since Sadat had traveled; now it was his wife’s turn. “Are you ready?” Farrah said. Silence. “Sadat, are you ready?” “Yes,” Sadat’s voice wavered. He began to remotely activate the nuclear reactors. The green screen turned orange. Nuclear fusion initializing. “Are you ready to make scientific history, baby?” Farrah said. Her voice was bright. She was breathing heavily. Her breath hummed in Sadat’s earpiece. He frowned. “Yes,” Sadat said. Farrah would be traveling farther than Sadat. Thirty kilometers forward—to a neighboring asteroid—and three hours ahead in time. The dial had turned bright red. Nuclear reactors charged. Sadat hovered his hand over the controls. “Babe, it’s just going to be one minute.” “Is everything okay?” The tips of his fingers tickled the engage button. He took his hands off the control panel. Sadat felt tears begin to well up in his eyes. He wiped them and began to

Patrcick Groleau

breathe deeply. He thought of all the good times he’d had with his wife, their first date, the nights they spent playing board games in her dorm room, his proposal, their wedding, the honeymoon, the sex, their first day at NASA, all of it. And then he remembered Hoppenheimer. Dark red. Nuclear reactors unstable. The rabbit’s beady, charcoal stare haunted him. “Farrah, remember when you said you’d be willing to die for science?” “Yes.” “Well would you be willing to die to stop it?” Dark red. Nuclear reactors unstable. Destruction imminent. Sadat was breathing heavily. His throat felt like it had swollen like a balloon. His face was hot. “What do you mean?” I am become death, destroyer of worlds. “I’m sorry.” It was a tragedy, like Challenger or Apollo One. The nuclear spacetime transporter was nothing more than dust. No company was willing to pay to rebuild it. At least not now. Not for a long time. SolarX had told the press it was an unfortunate accident—a mechanical malfunction. And so it was written in the history books. Farrah was given a hero’s burial. So was Sadat. He was found in his home by the police three days after the facility had been destroyed. There was no suicide note. Just a small piece of paper with a picture of a rabbit whose eyes had been replaced with spirals. It was captioned, “I am become death, destroyer of worlds.”

BRYAN CAVALIER FANTASY

FOR THE QUEEN

Bryan is a senior Writing, Literature, and Publishing major. This is his first short story to be featured in an Emerson College literary magazine. He also writes reviews for Artful Comics. To those who are having a hard time getting published, Bryan says to never give up. He believes in you. His favorite books are The Hobbit, Hitchhikerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Guide to the Galaxy, and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. He is also horrified by bees.

t is a beautiful spring morning, as the flowers begin to bloom. The flowers, so varied in their colors, shapes, and scents, draw my soldiers and me to them. As Bees, it is our duty to collect the sweet nectar and pollen to aid in the forging of the liquid gold that sustains our kind. This sweet liquid gold is what we are all born into and some die in, though many return to the earth. And within our Hive lives our honorable Queen Elizabuzz the Eighteenth, the light of our colonies’ lives—and the woman I have the honor to serve as a nectar gatherer for. Since my modest birth, I, Madam Regina, was taught as many bees were. Some were to maintain the Hive, our noble home. The older Bees help raise us from larvae and manufacture the liquid gold that lets us live. Others protect the Hive from invaders who seek to cause harm or steal our gold. Regardless, we are all given basic instructions for self-defense, as this land is as beautiful as it is dangerous—something I always keep in mind when heading out to gather flower nectar. Accompanied by my comrades Gwen, Francine, and Rose, I fly over the vast plain to reach the flowers. Beneath our feet is dull, uninteresting greenery. It is like looking upon a flower with no head, but less tragic. In a pinch, though, this dull greenery can have tactical advantages in escaping from the foul beasts that may hinder our noble quest. For while this day looks nice as any other, we Bees of the Hive of Queen Elizabuzz the Eighteenth must remain in a state of constant vigilance. Perhaps it is my age, or maybe having gone on one too many nectar-

For the Queen

gathering missions, but I have grown uneasy. I have seen many a friend get themselves killed by the forces at work in this world, a world that does not understand our great work. The bears want our honey, the toads want to eat us, and then there are these mysterious ogres. We do not know what they want, but no one knows what to make of them. Rumors have it that these so-called ogres are more likely to interfere with honey gathering on a nice day such as this, though I have never seen one in person… and I pray by the Earth that I never do. Fearing these rumors, however, I order my comrades to proceed with caution and fly over to the flowers at a brisk and steady pace. Scoffing, Rose does not agree with my concerns. She is young, arrogant, and perhaps a bit daft. “Regina, why do you worry so? The green plains seem safe enough to me.” “That’s quite enough Rose!” I snap. “You know full well why we can’t take our time.” Rose scoffs at me again, begrudgingly following my orders. Similarly Francine is on her first day of nectar gathering, and easily excited, having never been outside our Noble Hive before. “Oh shush, Rose, I’ve never seen such a glorious view. I can’t wait to tell the Hive of our adventures. I have never seen such a beautiful display of color before.” I suppose I once thought the same when I was her age, but now only the gold amber glow of our inner Hive gives me peace of mind. The blue sky is a constant reminder of the monsters that fly above us, that have swooped down and devoured many of my men. Those monsters that tower above us while we hide in the green earth can be even less predictable. We no longer go near the pond, as a blight of some kind has struck it. And I dare not even get started on those damned hornets who tried to invade our Noble Hive, killing hundreds of my brothers and sisters before being fended off by our noble guard, while I protected the eggs and larva... Not that the bastards ever breached the Hive entrance, of course. Francine was too young to recall any of this, as she was only a larva at the time. As a matter of fact, she only just gained her wings last week and was only briefly given a lesson, by whom I know not. There is a peaceful innocence to her behavior, one that fills me with hope and dread. The earth, while merciful in giving us flight and life, has always been harsh to our ilk. I have lost many a good Bee on days like this. I pray by the earth I don’t lose another. Just as I am meditating on these facts of life, the sky is blocked by great shadow. I order my squadron to hide in the grass, and it was then I noticed something was off. Francine is missing. I order my men to search for the young gal in the grass, but she doesn’t appear anywhere, so I briefly fly up to get a better view. I find Francine slowly flying blissfully towards one of the most horrid monsters I know. It’s blue-feathered beast with a white tummy, black clawed feet, wings, a crest upon its head, and beady black eyes. Some call it a blue jay;

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we Bees call it Blue Death. Like all of their cursed avian ilk, the Blue Death flies around and ambushes stray Bees on a whim, and we know little about why they even exist other than to maim, kill, and torment us for sport. Foolishly Francine flies up to the wyvern’s face, curious, having never seen such a creature before— and is bit in half before I can even warn her. I buzz in horror, “No!” Gwen hears my cry as the blue-feathered tyrant slowly pecks at what remains of Francine with its beak. I can only hover and watch, paralyzed with shame, as such a young life is taken before my eyes. What kind of Bee am I if I cannot keep my own kind safe? It takes a while for me to realize that Gwen is buzzing at my face. “Regina! We need to go now! Before the beast notices us! Regina! Regina!” Begrudgingly I agree to fly off with Gwen, though I do so with a heavy heart. We have a mission; to do anything we need that nectar to live. However, as we fly off, Francine’s death repeats in my head over and over. I have lost many a Bee before, but never one so young and pure. I don’t know if I’m going mad or just old and tired. Francine was too good a Bee to go in such a blasphemous way. Her death goes against our beliefs: the ones we have for why we are here. We believe that when our kind dies, we are to return to the Hive or be returned to the earth. For when nature created us, the earth needed us to fly and spread pollen. Because not many beings on this earth can fly, we Bees consider it an honor to have been given such a gift. For when we Bees are no more, as with all life, the earth takes us back. The least we can do is try to honor the earth or Hive be returning to either one last time. I do not know if Francine will ever get such treatment, and I fear the earth is angry with her soul for that. Over and over this thought bothers me as Gwen and I fly towards our destination, never yielding, never ending. It should have been me. I do not think I could have saved Francine, but I could have avenged her. Aside from our speed, the earth granted us a mighty lance on our backsides to protect all that is good to us. I could have tried to jam the blue-feathered demon through its heart or eye, but such a powerful weapon is not to be used lightly. Our lances are only intended to be used in the direst of situations, and if it breaks off in our foe, we bleed out and die. This is why the Hive guardians are intended to learn such skills, as they are our first and last line of defense against many creatures and enemies. Even so, this makes me feel no better for my cowardice towards Francine’s grim fate. Nevertheless we must fly to our destination, with the wind at our backs. However, I then notice another thing that is off. I ask Gwen about it nervously: “Where the hell is Rose?!” “It will be fine, Regina,” Gwen says confidently. “The sooner we get to those flowers, the faster the liquid gold will flow for our Hive. Rose only means well.”

For the Queen

I snap, “You went over my head?! I am the leader of this expedition! No one moves unless I say they do!” Gwen hovers downward in shame. “I tried to stop Rose from flying off, honest I did, but he wouldn’t listen. He just gloated about getting all the nectar himself if we were not up to the task. Forgive me, Madam Regina.” I reluctantly agree with Gwen, as she is my friend. Gwen proceeds to console me over Francine’s death, and she has a good pair of antenna on her head. Normally I would agree with her judgment, but something feels off today. I can feel it. The day is too nice, too quiet. Some other fiend is conspiring against our Hive and I just know they are nearby. I don’t tell Gwen about it, though, as she would only agree with me to humor me, as she knows I am venerable. Gwen knows I keep flashing back to Francine and the Blue Death; she wants to get the nectar and get back to our Noble Hive as fast as possible. I do not blame her. As time goes by while we fly, both Gwen and I sense something. Not in our minds, but in our bodies. The scent of yet another Bee’s death. As we rush through the green expanse I pray to the earth and our Queen Elizabuzz that it is just some other Bee or hornet from a far off tribe, but deep in my heart I know who it is. I wish it were not so, but I know who it is when we find the crushed corpse of that poor Bee. The poor decrepit corpse was none other than Rose’s. Gwen we at the sight of his body, but I am oddly cold. I never liked working with Rose, as he would always ague with me and I only cared for him due to my job obligations, and yet I felt cold. No, not cold, afraid. I have never seen a large imprint in the ground like this. The plains saw rain last night, and beneath the green was the brown earth itself, and embedded in it were chunks of Rose’s yellow and black corpse. Whatever killed him ended his life quickly, as Rose’s head was scattered all over the almost oval-shaped imprint in the ground. I look at Gwen. “We need to find out what did this.” Hovering in place, Gwen is stuttering incoherently. I ask her multiple times to tell me what was wrong with her, but she just hovers in place, horrified. Just as I am about to fly up to her face and verbally give her what-for, I see what has her all worked up. A shadow falls over us, Gwen still hovering aghast in terror. I turn and take notice of an oddly-shaped… foot? No, it can’t be! It is the same shape as the foot print that squashed Rose. No, no, this is no foot. It’s some kind of weapon, or armor, or both. I don’t know, all I know is that I have never seen this being before… and my antennae can detect traces of Rose’s blood from one of them. I know not of what to make of it. It is even larger than the Blue Death I fled from. Despite my fear, and with Gwen stuck in a state of mental paralysis, I decide to fly around the perimeter of this massive creature to get a better look. Whatever it is, it has light blue legs that go up to its shoulders? No, no, it has to be rare improvised armor of some sort. Much like a snail, yes, yes. That makes

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sense, as the being’s arms are red as roses and its hands are a matching—light pink? Wait, what the bloody hell am I thinking, the red arms and pink hands don’t match at all! It has to be more armor. What kind of crazed monstrosity needs this much armor? I fly right up, and by Queen Elizabuzz’s abdomen, I wish I didn’t. The beast’s eyes are a piercing blue, filled with malice and hate, nearly bulging out of its head! Its enormous ears are probably capable of hearing my every movement. What appears to be yellow moss grows out of its head. A bulbous nose is surely capable of smelling our presence; and massive pink lips. It gives a toothless grin with what I feel to be sadistic intent. I don’t know why, but I feel the need to see if such a creature is capable of communication. I hope that all of this was some kind of freak accident on this being’s part, as it appears clumsy, blissfully oblivious to my presence in front of its own face, and daft. I buzz to the being, “Hello! Can you understand me?” Its eyes close as it laughs as if I weren’t even there. I slowly back off, as the laughter is maddening and fills me with unease. The gargantuan horror’s eyes then burst open, still laughing as it begins to stumble towards me. It is at this moment that Gwen gives a mighty scream: “Fly away! Get out of there now Regina! It’s an ogre!” As the ogre gives chase to me, giggling with the same ill-intent that it likely gave Rose, I buzz at Gwen with fury, “You knew about this ogre the whole time?!” “I thought the ogres were only a myth! I only heard about them from some of the other gatherers! They said they were supposed to be harmless, so long as you don’t startle them,” the foolish Gwen buzzed back in a panic, trying to keep up. I buzz back, enraged, swerving out of the reach of the giggling ogre’s ginormous hand trying to crush me to death, “You call this harmless?! This bastard killed Rose, and if we don’t fly back to the Hive it will kill us all!” As Gwen is about to apologize for her blatant stupidity, the ogre’s fist comes down upon her. With the force of ten thousand Bees, Gwen is swatted out of the sky by the cackling giant! I cannot help but watch as my friend Gwen falls to the Earth, and I can only think one repeating thought: “Not again!” Over and over, my failure to protect my fellow Bees won’t stop ringing through my brain. How the Blue Death ate Francine alive, as I just stood by and watched. How Rose was squashed by this horrific beast because he wouldn’t listen to the protocol I gave him. If this ogre is not stopped, surely it will go after the Hive for pure sport and kill us all! But most of all, I will be damned if I allow Gwen to die while I still breathe on this Earth! I’ve had enough of this senseless butchery of my people for the amusement of sadistic bastards and gluttons! It’s time I brought honor to our Noble Hive once more, as well as to myself. For too long, I, Regina, have allowed bad things to befall my fellow Bees. I

For the Queen

sat and watched as we died by the thousands, hid with the larva during the hornet raid of last fall. Am I no more than a larva? If I am a larva, I will allow one more life to fall in front of me. But I am no larva. I am a Bee, a proud Bee of our Noble Hive. I refuse to allow one more Bee to die while I still draw breath. For I am old, tired, and all around fed up with all of this nonsense! I soar up into the air and prepare my lance. I know what will happen when I use it, and to be frank, I don’t mind. Aiming myself right between the ogre’s eyes as it gives a sickening toothless grin, I buzz with rage: “You! Heartless ogre! In the name of all that is decent, I, Regina of the Hive of Queen Elizabuzz the Eighteenth, sentence you to death for the murder of Rose, and assaulting my friend! Prepare thyself, heathen! For what you will feel is the equivalent to the weight of your sins!” I charge, lance in front, as fast as I can. The ogre only stares blankly at me as I prepare for impact. I buzz as loud as I can, “For the Queen!” I hit the ogre right between the eyes. My lance pierces its flesh. The ogre’s eyes water as it lets loose a horrid wail of agony, and I release my lance. Unfortunately, I cannot slay it, but the ogre does run off screaming ever so loudly. It is strange. I feel happy for the first time in ages, yet also… tired. Gwen, still recovering from having the wind knocked out of her, flies over to me and hovers above my head as I lie on the ground. “Regina,” she cries, “you didn’t need to do that!” I reply slowly, “No, I did… Gwen, gather the pollen and nectar. Don’t let mine and Rose’s efforts be in vain. Go now, quickly! Before the beast returns.” Gwen nods silently and flies off in sadness. As for me, I’m fine like this. I finally feel like I did something meaningful for once. I saved my friend, saved the Hive. It’s all OK. Losing consciousness, I hear the earth call me back. And I quietly answer.

BAILEY TAMAYO SUPERHERO FANTASY

HERO

Bailey Tamayo is a writer, a lover of anime, and a reader of comic books and fanfiction. When inspiration for a story hits hard, she often becomes so absorbed in her writing that she forgets to eat and sleep. Bailey will graduate Emerson in 2017 with a double major in Communication Disorders and Writing, Literature, and Publishing.

melia is fourteen years old when she first meets Momo. She thinks it must have been love, from that very first moment, from that very first breath. She is walking home from school to the house her brothers once lived in. Her wings are wrapped tight beneath the gauze, strapped to her spine; they make it hard to breathe. There’s a small kid in an alleyway that Amelia passes, getting kicked by bigger, meaner kids. Amelia thinks to intervene, and then she thinks of the wings tied to her back and she doesn’t. Someone else does. This girl is no bigger than the one being beaten. She rushes into the alley with a cry, and then fists are flying. As Amelia watches, the older kids are launched into the air by the girl’s little fists; it takes her a long moment of staring to realize, numbly, that the girl has super strength. It’s a classic power—it’s a power that will get the girl killed. One word to the right ear will have her labeled a threat to the Necromancer, but still she puts her tiny frail body between monsters and their prey, and to Amelia the girl is a giant. She approaches them when it’s over, though she doesn’t know why. They look just alike—deceptively small and fragile, the same heart shaped face and big eyes. The girl who was being beaten has her dark hair pulled back into two braids that Amelia imagines were once neat; the girl who saved her has her hair pulled back into a sloppy bun, curls falling out to frame her face, and Amelia doesn’t think it was ever neat at all. She kneels before her sister and wipes her

Hero

tears, presses a pair of glasses into her palm. The sister sniffles and slides them on. One lens is cracked. They only realize Amelia’s there when they are swallowed by her shadow. The protector scrambles to her feet and stands between them, a five-foot tall monolith, unmovable. She raises her fists. They are bloody and trembling. “Who are you? What do you want?” She doesn’t give Amelia a chance to answer, though Amelia’s not sure what she would have said even if she did. “Get out of here. I don’t want to have to hurt anyone else.” Amelia sees that the girl is crying and realizes she is telling the truth. Not far from here is the home where her brothers lived. Farther away is the warlord of this quarter and the undead enforcers. Farther still is the fortress, where the Necromancer lurks—the Necromancer, who would kill these girls if given the chance. And yet she stands here, fearless, and declares that she wishes no harm. The shock of that fact is like a hook down her throat. It fishes the words out, unwilling, and she has no idea what she will say. “I won’t tell on you. I’ll protect you.” Yes. Yes, she’s sure it was love. She should have known better. Momo was a hero, and Amelia should have known better. She was a fool, and she never stopped being a fool. She takes the girls away, Momo the twelve year old hero and Mimi her small sweet twin. They have no family to speak of, much like herself— disappearing is easy. If they stayed they would both be killed for Momo’s power, and though Amelia is not one for heroics, she doesn’t think she could bear to see that strength crushed. And so Amelia starts running. She doesn’t stop running for a long, long time. It is hard, at first, to relearn how to live with others. Amelia has been alone now for so long. Once she had brothers, and in their own rough ways they raised her, to hunt and to steal and to fight. These lessons are easy enough to pass on—Momo is eager to learn, and Mimi is quick to pick up. They are small and fast and clever, and have their own little tricks; they have not survived this long by being stupid. Scavenging through the dumps and rubble is a game to them, one they are good at already. Picking pockets comes even easier, though they often leave something for their marks in return: buttons, toys, notes. It is a perverse sort of fairness that makes Amelia uneasy. Too close to a sense of remorse—or justice, even worse. This might breed heroism, like lilacs from the mud, and then where would they be? Like Amelia’s brothers, who taught her their most valuable lessons in death? One brother chose to stop living in fear and died with his wings

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bared to the sky. Another died rebelling against the cruelty of the Necromancer’s warlords. Amelia’s favorite brother died harboring fugitives, others with powers. They owed their lives to him, and when the Necromancer found them, he let them live if only they gave up the man who helped them escape. It doesn’t really matter how they died, when it comes down to it. They were heroes. Then they were dead. Amelia will not let these girls die the same way. Other things are harder to teach, and to learn. Gentleness. Nurturing, and patience. The soft and sweet things that children need. Amelia’s brothers were gruff and sparing in their sweetness—the few tender moments she remembers are far off and faded like old, yellowed photographs. But these two are young, and she wants sweetness for them. They hole up in a shack at the edge of the city and Amelia enrolls them in a school that does not ask many questions. She cooks meals for them in the morning and sings lullabies at night, and she tries to help them with their homework. Except Mimi is a better cook than she is, and Momo’s understanding of arithmetic beats Amelia’s by leaps and bounds. And she does not know any lullabies so she makes them up, and Momo laughs and tells her she has a terrible voice, but always requests a song to fall asleep to anyway. In the end, they all raise each other. Amelia finds that she likes it better this way. Momo and Mimi grow. They are sixteen when Amelia finds the comic books that Momo has been hiding, the old ones that Amelia thought had all been burned back when the world’s heroes were first defeated by the Necromancer. They fight quietly, and then they fight loudly, because doesn’t Momo understand what being a hero means? Doesn’t she know the law, that using her superpowers like these heroes did will only get her killed? And Momo shouts back that laws like that are why they need heroes, that someone has to stand up to the Necromancer like the men and women in the comic books, and Amelia retaliates by burning them, angry and afraid, and saying that each and every hero in these stupid things is dead exactly because they tried to stand up to the Necromancer. They don’t speak for two weeks after that, until Mimi finally talks them into apologizing. Amelia says she’s sorry for burning the comics. Momo does not say sorry, but she says that she knows Amelia was only trying to protect them. When Amelia asks her to, she promises not to use her powers in public, and she promises not to be a hero. Amelia never thought to make Mimi promise as well—Mimi, obedient and docile and powerless. She will regret that later.

Hero

When Mimi is eighteen, she is once again caught in an alley by kids bigger and meaner than she is. This time Momo is not there to save her. A girl tells them about it later, after Mimi is buried: the big bad men were some of the Necromancer’s lackeys, and they followed her from work, cornered her in the dark. The sweet-faced girl with the glasses rushed in to save her, told her to run, and she did. She didn’t know what that they would kill her, she owes her life to that sweet-faced girl, she’s so sorry for their loss. Amelia cries for days and days. Mimi was a hero, she thinks. Mimi was a hero and she was murdered for it, just like Amelia’s brothers, just like all the superheroes that came before them. Amelia’s philosophy, the rules she lives by, are validated. Momo cries for days and days too, and then she cries for longer. Amelia doesn’t know what she’s thinking, but she hopes that she understands at last the cost of being a hero. When the tears finally dry from Momo’s eyes, there is a fire in them, and Amelia knows that she hasn’t. “I’m leaving,” Momo says two months later. “Someone has to stand up to the Necromancer. Someone has to be a hero.” Her eyes are screwed shut; she is waiting for Amelia to yell. Amelia knows that she should—she knows she should cry, scream, do anything to stop her. But she knows, too, that Momo is a hero. She has always been a hero, just like her sister. It is Amelia’s fault for forgetting. When she opens her mouth to yell all that comes out is, “When are we going?” Momo spins her round and round with joy, and when she helps Amelia unbind her wings for the first time in years, she cries, just a little. They steal away in the dead of night, heading for the fortified fortress at the center of the city. Momo brushes her mouth against Amelia’s just before they leave, a quick and clumsy press of cracked lips to cracked lips. It is the first and last time they ever kiss. Amelia becomes Angel, presumably because of the wings. Despite her best efforts she is soon labeled sidekick, and Momo laughs so hard that when Amelia punches her shoulder she topples over, and then she just laughs harder. The people call Momo the Hero. Just that—just Hero. They hear whispers in the night, not long after they beat the first warlord and his undead horde: the Hero is fighting for us. I saw the Hero the other night, in the flesh! The Hero will come. The Hero will save us. Amelia hates them. She hates them for their cowardice, and she hates them for their mindless praise. It only goes to Momo’s head, makes her more

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reckless, puts her in more danger. She hates them for accepting Momo’s sacrifice so readily, for sending Momo to fight their battles and save their lives. They would have Momo die for them, and Amelia hates them for it. Hero, Amelia thinks. It’s simple-minded and plain, as far as names go, just like the people who thought it up. Amelia has never been charitable to them before and she is not charitable to them now. Hero. Momo is bleeding from a cut above her brow, she is swaying on her feet, but she stands tall over their most recently defeated foe and she smiles at the children she just saved. They are superpowered, too, and the undead were trying to drag them away. The children open their mouths and they call Momo Hero. It is frightfully simple, and frightfully fitting. Momo sleeps in her lap. In the day they fight villains and monsters, winding their slow way through the quarters to the heart of the city, and Momo has never looked more alive. In the night the darkness plagues her. The wounds of battle return; the stress and the fear and the pressure turn her eyes bruisey and dark. In the day she is the Hero, and she is invincible. In the night she is Momo, and she is barreling towards her own destruction. “We’ll win and we’ll free everyone, because we’re heroes and heroes always win!” says the Hero, and it is not a lie. The Hero believes it. The people believe it. Amelia sometimes believes it too. “I’m afraid I’ll die for this. I’m afraid I’ll leave you alone,” says Momo, only once, in the smallest and darkest hours. It is not a lie either. Maybe the Hero will win. Maybe the world will be freed from the Necromancer’s clutches by their efforts. But Momo will not live to see it. Amelia strokes her hair tells her otherwise. Tells her they’ll win together, they’ll save the world, and when it’s over they’ll hide away in the country, far outside the city, hang up their masks and retire their names and just exist—just be Momo and Amelia, for all the rest of their days. Amelia sings Momo to sleep with stories of a future that is far too good to be true, and when Momo is finally asleep, head pillowed in Amelia’s lap, Amelia faces the truth. “I fell in love with a hero,” she says, dispassionate, resigned. The undead are getting stronger and the foes more cunning the closer they get to the fortress. Each victory is harder won. The Necromancer has his eye on them and he has not taken kindly to their efforts. Amelia follows Momo on her doomed quest and waits for the day that her suicidal idealism gets her killed. She hopes that knowing Momo’s fate will harden her heart, make it hurt less to lose her. Momo wakes and smiles at her, and Amelia knows it won’t.

Hero

They find the Necromancer. Amelia doesn’t know what she was expecting—a monster, perhaps—but it definitely wasn’t the man they find. He is tall but not giant, broad but not massive, with a small smile and the loneliest eyes Amelia has ever seen. He is just a man. His name is John. He says he has done this, all of this, following the dream of seeing a lost loved one return from the dead—truly return, in body and mind—not the shambling droves of undead monstrosities he has now. The law was against him, and then the heroes were too. Once they were gone he knew that any new heroes would try to stop him, and so he had them dealt with. John is withered with age and guilt. He says that he didn’t mean for all this to happen. He says that he regrets the atrocities committed by his hand. Momo believes him. So does Amelia, much to her own surprise. For a while, all they do is talk. About power, and life and death, and justice. In another life, Amelia thinks, Momo and John might have been friends. But even though John regrets, he is not yet willing to admit that his dream is impossible. And he is not going to let anyone stand in his way. Amelia recognizes that diplomacy is futile, but Momo would not be Momo if she did not try to save everyone, and she tries to save John right up until the moment he attacks. Even after that. The final fight begins. The Hero wins. Momo does not. There are two gaping holes on either side of Amelia’s spine; her wings lay on opposite ends of the crumbling fortress, looking smaller and frailer than she ever remembers them being. She can still feel them—phantom things, fluttering out behind her. She imagines that the gouged pits are empty sockets, weeping red tears in parallel lines down her back. Curiously, as she approaches Momo’s broken body, she cannot even feel the pain. She thinks she should be screaming. She should be shouting and wailing and begging the heavens not to take Momo away from her. Maybe she should even be angry, maybe she should be shaking Momo’s shoulders and saying I told you, I told you this would happen, why didn’t you listen why don’t you ever just listen I love you I can’t lose you this way please please please— Instead she lies down beside her, cradles Momo’s face in her hands and brushes the hair from her eyes. “You look so tired,” she says, strokes the bow of lips slowly turning blue. The lips curve into a smile. “I am.”

Bailey Tamayo

“Don’t sleep yet.” “Okay.” They stare at each other for a long time, and it’s like the world is quiet. Amelia can pretend for a moment that they live in a forgiving world, a kind world. “I’m sorry,” Momo says, blood bubbling bright and too red from between her lips. Amelia pulls herself closer. Her hand shakes as she runs it through Momo’s hair, again and again. “Don’t say that,” she says. “Don’t start being sorry now. You never were before, and if you start now, I…” She laughs, once, high and broken. “I just might pretend I can still fly and throw myself off a cliff.” But Momo just croaks another apology, despite how violently Amelia shakes her head. “I don’t mean to leave.” “Then don’t.” Amelia clutches at her, pets her cheeks and brow and lips with starving fingers, trying to memorize her through touch alone. “Angels shouldn’t cry,” Momo laughs, from very far away now it seems. I’m not an angel, Amelia doesn’t say. Angels can do miracles; angels protect the weak and stand up for what’s good and just. Angels are named Momo, little girls who risk their lives to save their sister, foolish young women who martyr themselves for a thankless people. A real angel would be able to save you, Amelia doesn’t say. “You’re my angel,” is what Amelia says, as Momo slips through her fingers. Momo just smiles. “And you’ve always been my hero.”

BAILEY TAMAYO FANTASY

EVER AFTER

erro dies. Then Terro un-dies. “Oh my god, can you stay alive for two whole seconds on your own?” says Billy, shrill and just a touch offended. “It’s like you’re not even trying!” “Hack! Gack!” says Terro, as he gags on the collapsing column of his throat. With effort that should kill him, he manages to solidify the melting clay back into some semblance of flesh. It immediately starts to melt again. Fuck. He jostles painfully as Billy hikes his liquefying torso higher on his back, can feel himself smearing away on the mage’s cloak. Too bad. He liked that cloak. Billy will probably throw it away later with some lame “it’s too dead best friend-y, boo hoo hoo” excuse. What a waste. “Terro! I can hear you dying to spite me, don’t you dare!” Splitting the enchanted forest in half is a canyon like some great cavernous mouth, complete with jagged teeth at the bottom and a rickety rope bridge tongue, because apparently no quest can ever be easy. Billy begins to pick his careful way across and Terro, plastered to his back, can do nothing but follow. “You just have to stay alive until we find the dragon stone. The cave’s right across this bridge, I know it, just stay alive—” Through monumental effort Terro garbles out some words past the muddy drippings of what used to be his hard palate. “Can you keep it down? Some of us are trying to die over here.” “Terro, you have to try to live!” “I am trying to live. I was kidding.” “Well—well try to live harder!”

Ever After

Terro dies again. Then Terro un-dies again. Billy wails, “You did that on purpose!” “Gee, sorry,” Terro says, with as much sarcasm as he can muster. Which isn’t a lot, apparently, since his consciousness is deconstructing into dirt and he only manages to slur out a pathetically sincere-sounding “Shorry.” They’re long past the bridge now; it creaks and groans somewhere distant behind them— he must have been out for a while. This side of the canyon seems to be more of the same, despite Billy’s promise: dense, magical wood, trees ancient and innumerable rising high above them, and no dragon cave in sight. Terro rests his cheek against Billy’s neck and can feel the slick of resurrection-sweat along the slope of skin and muscle. It can’t be easy, bringing him back again and again. Billy’s magical reserves were already exhausted in the battle against the Lord of Darkness, and he hasn’t really slept since, what with how focused he is on finding the dragon stone. His face glows with magic stretched too thin. “I’m serious,” he’s saying, “I can’t keep this up much longer, you have to stop dying!” Panic has replaced the offended note in his voice but Terro can’t even bring himself to make fun of how pathetic he sounds. Partly because he literally can’t—his teeth have cemented together—but mostly because he feels bad. He hums noncommittally, and Billy stops whining at him just long enough to wheeze out a plea for directions: “If you wouldn’t mind, huff, could you point me in the direction, puff, of the dragon caves, please?” Terro rolls his eyes but the trees are enamored of Billy. Their branches sway as they point their knotted fingers in vague directions, and Billy thanks them and lurches onward. He’s already gone back to scolding Terro, as though he believes that relentless bitching could break the Lord of Darkness’ curse. Billy put up a good fight in that final battle against her, Terro will grudgingly admit, but his defeat was sound. It’s no surprise that they lost, not really. For starters, the kingdom put their faith in a hero named Billy, which is a stupid fucking name. Heroes are named Eodred, or Magda, or Charlemagne. No hero of legend was ever called Billy, as Terro enjoyed pointing out time and again throughout their journey. And anyway, Billy has never really been Chosen One material. Yes, his raw magical power is astronomical, and yes, his ability to grant life to previously inanimate objects is unprecedented—Terro knows this better than others—but he’s also fifteen, and Terro’s pretty sure that no pubescent teenager is emotionally prepared to shoulder the pressure of saving the world. What kind of self-respecting king picks a kid and his mud monster to fight his battles for him? Evil kings, that’s who. Good always triumphs over evil, the king had said, while stroking his scraggly beard and cackling quietly beneath his breath. Terro had tried to warn Billy that this whole quest was bad news, but the poor gullible idiot had been too blinded by his own self-destructive heroism to

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pick up on the king’s obviously evil social cues. And now look where they are. “Just stay alive,” Billy says for the millionth time. He sways on his feet, but his grip on the undersides of Terro’s thighs is so tight that muck begins to drip between the gaps of his fingers. “Just live until we find the stone.” If his teeth weren’t still stuck together, Terro would scoff and tell Billy that they aren’t going to find the stone. He knows it in the way he knows few things: he knows Billy is and will always be a hopeless loser; he knows that the sun will still rise in the morning, despite the Lord of Darkness’ victory; he knows that for every epic legend of good defeating evil and heroes living happily ever after, there must be twice as many tales of failure. When this story is told, Terro thinks the Lord of Darkness may be written as the hero. Honestly, that might be for the better—the king warned them that she would shroud the land under a reign of terror should she overthrow him, but so far the worst she’s done is kill Terro, and to be fair, they were trying to kill her first. And then when Billy started crying all over Terro’s corpse she even told them of the dragon stone that would break her curse, which was pretty thoughtful, never mind that they won’t find it in time. “Terro? Are you listening to me?” Maybe the bards will sing songs of her. Maybe they’ll sing about how she unseated a mad king after defeating his evil mage, and the evil mage’s unholy homunculus abomination. Terro doesn’t mind being thought of as a villain—he figures most unholy homunculus abominations are—but it’s too bad that Billy won’t be remembered as a hero. The kid’s a pasty dork who was so terrible at making friends that he literally had to make one from a pile of sludge when he was seven, sure, but he’s good, he’s always been good, and no one will remember him. “Terro! Don’t—” And maybe the Lord of Darkness was never evil, and maybe the king was never good, and maybe Terro really is a monster. But what about Billy? He stumbles along and the trees sink their roots clear of his feet; he gives his gratitude and thousands of leaves rustle in pleased response. Only a good guy could do this, Terro thinks, but no one will know this story. No one will sing songs about the mage that could charm the trees. If there is anything Terro regrets, he regrets that. “Please, just stop dying!” Oh. Terro hadn’t even realized he died that time, but he must have, because familiar magic is prickling like pins and needles all over what’s left of him. The resurrection finally unglues his jaws, and he uses the opportunity to slur out, “You can’t keep me around forever, nerd. All mud monsters melt.” Billy remains stubborn, however shaky his voice is. “We just have to find the stone.” “You’re not going to find the stone, stupid. And even if you did, are you honestly trying to tell me you’d kill the dragon guarding it? You love dragons.” It’s true. Anyone else would be more interested in their treasure,

Ever After

but all Billy ever spoke about was their ancient wisdom and their fascinating reincarnation cycles, the geek. “I’ll—I’ll talk to it,” Billy stutters. “I’m sure it’ll be willing to share once I explain the situation.” Terro raises an eyebrow. At least he tries to. He thinks it might be sliding away down his cheek. “Yeah, because dragons are known for how great they are at sharing their treasure.” Billy doesn’t answer because he’s too busy tripping into a ravine. The rocks are serrated and sharp, and Terro feels himself shear away from Billy and then shear away from himself before coming to a very wet and sudden stop. When he un-dies, it’s with a dull, throbbing pain in his middle. He tries to sit up but finds himself unable to—because, oh, the stream has washed away everything below his waist. Yeah, that would explain it. He falls back with a wet slap and a sigh, and then Billy is there, hovering above him. A gash has opened along his brow, and he’s trembling all over with magical strain; blood and sweat trickle onto Terro’s face and erode him in saline rivulets. Far above them the trees whisper their concern, but Billy doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are swelling with tears—he looks painfully young. Terro realizes, with some remorse, that his nice cloak has been torn to shreds. He has never been kind, never been comforting, but there is a first and last time for everything and so he reaches up and pats Billy’s cheek. Except he’s dying and losing control of his melting limbs and instead of a consoling pat he sort of ends up slapping Billy with the wad of dirt that used to be his hand. They stare at each other in shock. Terro’s hand falls away, leaving a single muddy finger plastered to Billy’s face. He says it again, perhaps gentler than before: “You can’t keep me around forever.” “You’re my best friend,” is all Billy says. He tries to keep his voice steady and neutral and fails spectacularly. Despite himself all Terro can feel is desperately fond, because in the end, damn it, he’s just as enamored as the trees. “I know.” His voice is wet with mud, bubbling dark and thick through his crumbling lips. “Now shut up and let me die in peace, or else you’ll taint my reincarnation cycle.” Billy is on the verge of hysteria, but he manages a laugh around wet, snotty sobs. He touches Terro’s face and Terro dissolves beneath his fingers. “Since when did you believe in reincarnation?” Since I realized I haven’t spent enough time with you yet, Terro thinks, and then he proceeds to choke on his own disgusting sappiness and is more than happy to die again to escape the embarrassment.

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Emerson Collegeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Premiere Genre Fiction Magazine

Carl Lavigne Gwen Black-Graham Sami Sirsky Patrick Groleau Bryan Cavalier Bailey Tamayo

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