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PEGASUS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Anatolia College

2021-2022

COVER ART BY CHRISTINA BOUTZATZA

ADVISORS & CONTRIBUTORS EDITOR: MS. JODI HILL LAYOUT EDITORS: MS. JULIA SIEGLE, ALEX KOROKYTHAKIS, ALEXIA SEXTOU

MIDDLE SCHOOL WRITERS Taner Chotsika Ioanna Machalia Andrianna Solomonidou

Zoe Tzika Stavros Zografos

HIGH SCHOOL WRITERS Vasiliki Apostolidou Konstantinos Angelakakis George Bampas Melvin Berkowitz Vivian Karavasili Leonidas Mittas Rafailia Paraschou Agni Pyrovetsi

Moris Saltiel Alexia Sextou Anastasia Spyromitrou Achilleas-Nikolaos Ververidis-Papakonstantinou Dafni Vitsou Danae Vogiatzi

VISUAL ARTISTS Malena Alexopoulou Christina Boutzatza Helen Chemais Theoktisti Dimarchopoulou

Argyro Kotziagkiaouridou Eleanna Papaioannou Moris Saltiel Andromachi Stefanou

TABLE OF CONTENTS

On Covid It was a lonely day........................................................................1 Poetry & Music Snapshots of Poetry.....................................................................3 Tongue-Tied...............................................................................4 Dance with Me............................................................................5 How the 5th Hungarian Dance Taught Me How to Move in the World........................................................................6 Self. Lost in the darkness of my own soul................................................................................8 For all the...................................................................................9 Blue Joanna................................................................................10 Standalone.................................................................................11 Through the Looking Glass...........................................................12 Wasted Beauty...........................................................................13 Pomegranate Juice......................................................................14 Human & Environment Hunting bear..............................................................................17 What to do if you see an angry bomb shell whale........................................................................18 Sunflower..................................................................................21 The End....................................................................................22 Un/Requited Love The Poet...................................................................................24 From what I’ve tasted of desire....................................................26 No one can tell me I'm too young..................................................27 22.2.22....................................................................................29 The Long Way...........................................................................30 Gothic & Fantastical Fight or Flight...........................................................................32 The Demon...............................................................................39 OM, RA....................................................................................40 To Love Being a Teenage Girl.......................................................42 The sound of the bells.................................................................43 Walpurgisnacht.........................................................................44 The Dark Compendium................................................................45 Growing Up, Growing Old I remember................................................................................52 Two windows.............................................................................53 They come, they go....................................................................54 Start here.................................................................................55 Remembering life.......................................................................59 Faded hope ...............................................................................60

ON COVID It was a lonely day by Melvin Berkowitz

It was a lonely day Of lonely skies And of lonely lands. It was the time when windows were not met with faces, and when streets longed for the wear of passer-bys, And once I saw the line of alones in the world. I placed myself in it And marched on with my lonely life. In this line, Friends forsaken Family forgotten I was all alone in the lonely line of the alone. Will you raise your voice? Will you dare to look directly into dreams? Do you dare to step away, to run away, to chase freedom? None spoke, Moved Or cried. It was the only lonely day, Of the lonely week Of the lonely life and year. When I saw more than a lonely line of lonely people I saw a world now empty and distant and cold. But i felt a rhythm of worldly music, of human care, of wish, and dream, and hope- for a moment perhaps, all had come to pass. That only lonely day, I felt alone but happy. I saw the world in my own eyes, And I was not instructed or guided. And all that, during a mere lonely day Of the lonely week Of the lonely month and year.

By Helen Chemais

poetry & music

By Andromachi Stefanou

Snapshots of poetry by Stavros Zografos Poetry is like a tornado you get sucked inside, and only when it’s finished can you get out again. Poetry is like a wooden treasure chest only once you’ve found the key, can you actually see what’s hidden inside. Poetry is like a glass of wine for your soul– as it warms, it refreshes you, makes you whole.

Tongue-Tied by Anastasia Spyromitrou Like deluges and tornados, the thoughts swirl in my brain drowning me in secret glances shared between us. Because we talk but we don't speak and we never say what we really mean. Even though sometimes we feel perfectly aligned and in sync, I am no poet and you're no reader. And when the thoughts become words And I find the courage to oppose the cages that hold me hostage, I feel like god. Until I look into your eyes And in a frenzy they get lost in the obscurity of this world. Marvelously I am no longer sure how to speak or to breathe. And I am left there, standing totally disarmed. So if I’m bound to live in this world aphonic, just know your eyes are worth singing for.

5 Dance With Me by Ioanna Machalia As your eyes coldly survey me, your gaze steals my breath. I suffocate in the snow storm of emotions and the loud silence draws me closer to you. Your precious smile can guide me from the labyrinth that's held me for years. Bless me with your heaven-sent smile and I promise, your eyes won’t see gray again, your dark fears will dissolve in the sunlight my own burning hands create. So now do me a favor and come dance with me. Rest in my hands and let me swing you till the notes are engraved on our brains, tattooed on our skin. Until you feel the melody’s echo flooding your empty heart. Dance until your favorite memory is buried in the nostalgic thoughts that overwhelm you. Until your favorite song becomes the one you hate. Until your laugh becomes your cry. Until your dreams become your nightmares.

By Argyro Kotziagkiaouridou

6 How the 5th Hungarian Dance Taught Me How to Move in the World by Anastasia Spyromitrou Listening to the music I close my eyes and dream. I hear the melodious violins as I stumble through the almond orchard. The fuchsia blossoms caress the bashful chords. Little rebel notes escape the wooden prison and wriggle towards the sleepy raspberry bushes. Amber nightingales and flashy goldfinches flutter around challenging them to a race. They rush between the trotting horses and slide through the heartening caterpillars, they swing around the scolding ducklings and twist among the passive sheep. they whirl and twirl till the fireflies and the dragonflies flutter along all together dancing. And I wonder Why walk when I can dance ? And from that moment I do not walk, but dance through life on tiptoes that twist to the beat of my own drum.

By Theoktisti Dimarchopoulou

8 LOST IN THE DARKNESS OF MY OWN SOUL by Taner Chotsika In a forest full of storms, Noticing leaves’ forms I am lost in this pleasing place, In this lovely natural space. I feel trees whipping around my soul Autumn woods stripped to coal. Wild winds of winter Tearing my cold black soul. I see the lost galaxies, Under the black gravity, Every fear, every hope I share Becomes a star hanging in the air. Now my hopeful emotion is gone, In the deepest of oceans, In the highest of mountains In the tallest dark trees. Loneliness casts this darkness Which drains my life’s happiness. I miss her so much. All I need is my beautiful dark soul…

9 For All The Anastasia Spyromitrou For all the friends I haven’t met boys I haven’t kissed sunsets I haven’t photographed clothes I haven't worn songs I haven’t danced to cakes I haven't baked Monet paintings I haven’t stood in front of languages I haven’t learned to say hello in starry skies I haven’t slept under books I haven't smelled birthday candles I haven’t blown out mountains I haven’t climbed movies I haven't laughed through countries I haven’t registered in my passport wishes on shooting stars I haven’t made oceans I haven’t dived into camera rolls I haven’t filled yet

By Theoktisti Dimarchopoulou

Blue Joanna by Alexia Sextou We pretend it’s alright. I saw a poem written on the tiles of the bathroom stall The sea looked freezing and I felt like / freezing with it I remember when we Ran on the beach icicle sand running in our shoes Our lungs about to burst I stood up and left class Said I have to go to a doctor to cure the cold My knuckles are cracked We blast music from crippling earphones Scream into the distance We pretend it’s alright and our hair gets sticky from the rain that never rained And I remember the sky was dark and blue and purple and colorless at the same time and the sea was freezing My knuckles froze with it You are my Siegfried I think you have come to save me We pretend it’s alright For a short moment you can say it almost really is.

Standalone By Leonidas Mittas Because I still have hope. Because my mind is sharp and my skin is thick. Because after a long day I go home and let music be my therapist. Because I am exhausted in the day but by night I can’t sleep. Because everybody who doesn’t know me thinks I’m harsh. Because people think they know me but they are not even close. Because I remember villains from stories that I sympathize with. Because I always like someone that doesn’t feel the same way. Because my friends don’t know what the word love means. Because it’s too scary to die. Because I was alone when everybody was outside. Because walking through my hometown at night feels like walking through a graveyard, a ghost town. Because alone is the only time I feel in place. Because reality makes me feel like this Because I don’t know what I mean by like this.

12 Through the looking glass by Vivian Karavasili Rainy day, the sky’s gray And I return home. Make my way through the house And into my room, my safe space. Suddenly, I need validation. So I step in front of the judge. His vile smile starts to show. And I’m feeling blue. Looking on the other side of the mirror, My reflection hides behind shadows. Shadows that form a different me. An ugly me. Someone I no longer recognize. A stranger. Who is she? What happened to her? Anxiety? school? love? No one really knows. And I’m feeling blue.

By Moris Saltiel

Wasted beauty by Agni Pyrovetsi I can shape the world with my mind, design a picture-perfect life. Draw a smile or a sun filled with light and create the possibility of an eternal sight. I can even touch the sky, ablaze with bright hues of sapphire, and have the fragrance of freesias filter to my lungs as I amble among the meadows of paradise. I hear the rustling of the foliage and I feel enlivened with every aria of the nightingale. I stare at the gleaming river and ponder what is reflected, dream from dawn till dusk and get lost in the astonishing drapes of life to break the obscure codes of the unexpected. But as I wander aimlessly through those ceaseless aisles of life, I keep asking myself, “What is it really like to feel alive?”

Pomegranate juice Raphailia Paraschou It’s already 2 o'clock and the party's still going strong. Music, games, dancing, and drinking. Everybody is having a good time, even her. Even though, when she had received the invitation, her friend tried to prevent her from going by any means possible. “You know he is gonna be there! I have a bad feeling about this. I refuse to go and so should you!” She just smiled, “It’ll be fun.” “Have you forgotten what happened the last time he was there?” her friend snapped back. “How could I have forgotten? My best friend Lola was involved. But these are just rumours. Besides, Lola is a notorious liar,” she had insisted. So here she is, smiling, singing, and dancing to the beat of the music, seeming to have left everything, even her friend, who must have gone to sleep by now, in the past. The dance floor is coming alive. The lights have been turned down low and the volume of the music has reached its climax. The beat is pumping harder and faster and everyone around her has started dancing aggressively. When the biggest dance hit of the summer comes on, she suddenly feels like she is being drowned in the lake of bodies that has been formulated around her. She scans the place to find a quick way out but it's no use. So she chooses to swim. She starts dancing and manages to reach the back corner of the room where the table with the drinks stands. She decides to have a drink. She avoids alcohol, the only sign of her past self, the one that she maintained when Lola was around, and notices a bottle of pomegranate juice. Her favourite. She grabs a plastic cup and pours the red liquid into it. “It looks like blood,'' she thinks to herself and starts laughing, remembering Lola’s aversion to anything red.

15 Suddenly, she sees him approaching her with oomph, as always. Lola used to say that she loved his confidence, but now she despises it, as Lola had told her ages ago. He is only a few metres away when he trips and stumbles aggressively into her, almost knocking her over, spilling the red juice on her shirt. “My favourite white shirt!” she cries, “You ruined my favourite shirt.” “I am sorry I didn’t… let me help you.” he says, grabbing a napkin from the table. “No. Stay away from me. Don’t touch me.” “Chill girl, it’s no biggie!” he answers laughing. The red liquid has spread across her shirt creating a big red blotch on her chest, like a wound that bleeds. “It’s no biggie huh?”she whispers in disbelief. “Is that what you told Lola?” she says raising her voice. “Is this a joke to you?” she screams without being able to control herself. “Can’t you see that my shirt is destroyed because of you?” “I am sorry I didn’t mean to. It just happened,” he replies as he walks away. “Wait,” she meant to say, but when he turns to face her, responding to her exclamation, she sees Lola’s face staring back at her, and she can’t get any further words past her lips. She grabs a handful of napkins and starts maniacally rubbing the blotch. She rubs and rubs, but it has taken a deep, red colour. She keeps rubbing and rubbing, crying until the blotch becomes brickred. Only then does she stop. Despite the rubbing, despite her mother struggling to remove it, despite the force of the new washing machine, the blotch stays there. As for her, she will never touch pomegranate juice to her lips again. She shoved the shirt deep inside her wardrobe. She didn’t want to throw it away, but everytime she accidentally touched it, she felt a pinch in the exact place that the blotch once was. Somewhere near her heart.

By Theoktisti Dimarchopoulou

17 Hunting Bears by Achilleas-Nikolaos Ververidis-Papakonstantinou I could never feel whole again. After a life of hunting bears. I have shot with my rifle: eleven Sun Bears, three Polar Bears, four Brown Bears, seven Grizzly Bears Now I can never feel the same. My hands are trembling I am sorry for this. This pen must be making a mess of the paper, carving an inky hole which I’ll clumsily clean with a tissue. After all these years of hunting bears, retirement came smoothly. I was visited by my old partner, Sun Hoon, Who told me many things, but one of them shook me deeply. I remember something along the lines of: You are ridden with guilt, but don’t these furs make such a warm embrace during winter? Sun Hoon, you fool! You don’t realize. You’ve been a bear hunter for so long but you never noticed you were a bear too.

What to do if you meet an angry bombshell whale… By Daphne Vitsou Excerpted from a report by the zoology department of Harvard University published in the New York Times. Research conducted in 2017. The angry bombshell whale is the largest toothed whale and the largest predator on the entire planet. It can easily be recognized by its gigantic round head that looks like a bombshell (this is where it got its name from). The angry bombshell whale is very dark blue that sometimes can be confused with black. They attain a maximum length of about 146 meters and weigh up to 300 tons. Angry bombshell whales are deep divers. They can hold their breath for approximately 4-5 hours. Their life span is 80-90 years. They were first discovered in 1712 by the zoologist and explorer Sir Arthur Bay. Since then, we have managed to gather a great amount of information because of technological developments. Yet, the most crucial piece of information has remained the same. That is, they pose a great threat to humanity… Last pages of Arthur Bays scientific journal. April 4th 1712. Finally, after 23 days I made my great discovery! Even though it was not the initial goal of this expedition, it was extremely fascinating. While I was observing the waves after the storm, I noticed a strange object in the ocean that looked like a bombshell. It proved to be a huge whale. I estimated that it has to be about 90 meters long. For a moment it seemed like it looked at me angrily with its gigantic eye. Then, the enormous creature disappeared into the ocean. I can’t help but wonder, is this the beast that all of those myths of the local islanders were talking about? Is this the demon that lives at the end of the world? Will this be the discovery that will finally make the queen dub me knight? So long angry bombshell whale. We shall meet again. April 26th 1712. I am alone in a tiny room, in a tiny village, on a tiny island in the Galapagos. Why? Half of the ship and the entire crew were eaten…

19 Article from the newspaper London Times. Published on December 22, 1954

Angry Bombshell Whale Creeps into the Thames Early this evening an angry bombshell whale was seen swimming in the river Thames. The whale was moving slowly to avoid attention. This was impossible because its gigantic head was above the water surface. When people first saw it, they thought it was a moving rock. The whale was planning to secretly reach the Parliament and eat Big Ben. It would have succeeded if it wasn’t prevented by the shallow waters and Mrs. Una O’Brian, a Scottish whale hunter, who happened to be in London for the winter holidays. Because the water was not deep enough, it was difficult for the whale to jump out of water and eat Big Ben. Una quickly pulled out her speargun (that she carries with her everywhere she goes) and shot the whale in its blower. The whale died instantaneously, making a loud sound. Efforts are being made to remove its dead body. This has been the sixth angry bombshell whale attack this year. Interview of Dr. Emily Pattison, giving information on what to do if you meet an angry bombshell whale (2019). Well, it is a fact that angry bombshell whales pose a huge threat to our society. Ι find it worrying that some people still underestimate them. Everyone should be aware of the danger and take at least some basic precautions. After intense research, we came up with some very crucial protection measures. Please dedicate a moment of your time in the following list. Pray. ALWAYS CALL A PROFESSIONAL. Call the number 3947 294 939. Our trained whale killer will immediately be sent to help you. Don’t try to kill the whale, unless you really can’t avoid it. Angry bombshell whales will try to hide in order to trick you. Unless you are extremely farsighted, that “trick” won’t work on you. They are clearly visible. Yet, if you pretend that you haven’t

20 noticed them, they will keep believing that they have actually managed to hide. Do pretend that you haven’t spotted them and it’s vital not to start screaming. If you do, they will start moving fast. The question is what you can do if they realize... Angry bombshell whales love epic rock music. Their favorite bands are Black Sabbath, Jethro Tull and Led Zeppelin. If you play some music, they will immediately start dancing. That will give you some time to call a professional. Just remember to turn up the volume a lot because angry bombshell whales don’t have strong hearing. At some point they’ll stop dancing. If help has not arrived by that moment, we advise you to dress up as a mouse. Angry Bombshell whales are terrified of mice. They will freeze. This will give you a little bit more time, but be careful. When the angry bombshell whales realize that you are not an actual mouse, they will get even more angry… Dr. McMillan’s reply (professor of philosophy in the University of Wisconsin) when asked in 2018 what he thought about the whales. Those attacks are such an uncanny phenomenon. Never before in history has humanity experienced such aggressive animal behavior. It really makes me wonder, is nature trying to take revenge because we abuse her? Ιs it just a bizarre coincidence? Why are angry bombshell whales so angry after all?

21 Sunflower by Vasiliki Apostolidou Next to the anxious river is green grassland. This is where I live. The bright sun is warming me and it makes my stem greener than before. But when the sun is covered by gray joyless clouds, misery fills my whole body, I look at the ground… I am almost withered. But once the sun shines again I look him deeply in the eyes, full of gladness. I turn my head passionately to look at him. My crown of blonde hair is waving to the soft air’s rhythm. I smile at the sun which fills me with pleasure and the sun smiles back giving me fresh shine.

By Malena Alexopoulou

The End by Konstantinos Aggelakakis This is the end One phrase almost magical Once you say it Something always follows After the rain comes the rainbow After the end comes the start In our world, the rainbow never came Only rain flooded our souls with misery New start, New chapter Is it new, will it excite me? I am afraid that is not the case Normality, like they said Normality will fill us with hope Normality in this world of rain In a world where rainbows were long gone This world, our world will always be the same The future was near, they said It turns out, it was hiding all this time Hiding behind our rainbows Trying to stay alive Stay alive, to watch us change The future that wanted us to return to this normal life This life, that was killing us from the inside The vision of our brave world Only words in the air, lies filled with hope Our normality had left through the door Emptiness tried to fill this empty and dark place Life will always be there for us Even after the end Life will wait there patiently for us to change…

un/requited love

By Malena Alexopoulou

THE POET by Andrianna Solomonidou The birds in crimson have long stopped chirping. Was Love a fire or nothing but a taste? Painfully is the heart’s mirror breakingbefore Love’s name will now be written “late.” An eyelash in the face of craziness, yet she is still dancing and she still sings the shadow and remembrance of her fullnessnow she is a butterfly without Wings It was enough that he had looked at her with eyes full of trips and color and soul. It was enough that he had talked to her with lips full of notes and stars and gold. She knew life would always be a sonnet, for she hadn’t loved a man, but a poet.

By Argyro Kotziagkiaouridou

From what I’ve tasted of desire by Danae Vogiatzi after Robert Frost’s “Fire and Ice”

A beautiful stranger asked me where I was from And his tongue tasted Sweet like poisoned apples. I’ve Never felt that sort of desire towards someone I do not know. I gave him my soul. Why I did what I did, I wish I knew. Taken advantage of Or not, He will forever own a piece of my heart.

By Andromachi Stefanou

27 No one can tell me I’m too young by Dafni Vitsou I was five or maybe six, I can’t remember, but that’s not what really matters actually. What really matters is that I met him… the love of my life. Or at least I thought so… It was my first month in elementary school and I was not happy at all to have left kindergarten. My world was falling apart! I had six hours of lessons with a terrible teacher (she was kind, sweet and patient…), there weren’t any board games and puzzles to play during recess (even though I had actually thought they were boring…) and I hated my noisy classmates! (I still do, but anyway…). My life was a mess! It was a sunny Friday afternoon, and my friends thought it would be a nice idea to race from the classroom door to the big tree at the far end of the school yard. I always came last in races, but I did my best to reach the big tree, running as fast as I could. I was nearly there, trailing only two of my friends, when suddenly, what a shame, I tripped and fell right in front of a very tall, extremely handsome sixth-grade boy! “Are you all right?” he asked me anxiously, as I got up trying to put on a brave face. I felt so embarrassed that I was short for words. I just stood there, looking at him, as if I was completely frozen. I would have definitely started crying, if he hadn’t been standing there. When he realized I was not hurt he said, “Be careful," breathed a sigh of relief, and left. I was thrilled! He was the love of my life! The one and only! We would definitely get married and have three children. Suddenly, my scraped knee and my friends meant nothing to me. I was in love! But as I was standing on the schoolyard, speechless, watching him disappear in the crowd, I realized something that I should have realized so long ago (five minutes before, actually). He was twelve and I was six. He was almost an adult and I was just a girl. It could never work out! What could I, an ordinary mortal, do?

28 I wasn’t in the mood for stupid races anymore. All I could think of was him, for one whole afternoon! I would just sit on my desk daydreaming without even listening to math, the class that I was normally an ace at. I didn’t even know his name. What could it be? Where was his house? Was it close to mine? Did he think of me at all? An end was put to all of those questions when I got home and learned that we were having pizza for dinner. That was very exciting as well, and made me forget about the mysterious knight. But when Monday came and I had to go to school, I would sometimes stare at the big tree at the far end of the schoolyard during the break to see if he was there. That lasted for about a week. Then I completely forgot about his existence. Elementary school, foot races and mysterious knights gave way to high school, big chemistry books and disappointing dates. The other day, ten years later, I saw him walking down the street and I recognized him. I hadn’t thought of him for so long! All those memories suddenly came back. He was so important to me for one whole Friday afternoon. But there was one thing that really surprised me. I was taller than him!

22.2.22 by Alexia Sextou

I want to be a poem.

I told you I write, I blushed I thought about saying how I could make you into one Instead I said you could b e w r i t t e n ; passive voice.

No, I don’t want to be written about in a poem – I want to be a poem.

You looked up at the ceiling I thought, another delirium of yours Yet suddenly this musing startled me, For how could anyone be a poem at all? You do not rhyme or sound a song You are not traced on paper. I thought about how Poetry is feeling; entity and art; it is not its own until it makes us feel I thought, how strange, Boy Wants to Be Art.

I realized then How irrationally sensible what you had said could be; So long as you make me feel something You’ll forever be poetry to me.

- This is how you’ll sound all the way to North Carolina

30 The Long Way by Anastasia Spyromitrou

I would never admit it but I walk the long way for you. I stay in places a little too long I let the hallway traffic slow me down and as I watch the other people pass me by I hope that maybe this time I’ll pass you and maybe our eyes will meet and lock and people’s voices will slowly fade away and everyone will disappear and maybe I’ll see a gleaming in your eyes as our feet force us to move and everything will go back to normal. And even though it’s just a maybe I’ll always walk the long way.

By Theoktisti Dimarchopoulou

GOTHIC & fantastical

32 Fight or Flight by Vivian Karavasili The misty air battled with my mother’s warm floral essence, while she was running agitated, with me in her arms. I felt the ground beneath me shaking. I opened my crying eyes and checked behind. My father was looking at me with despair in his eyes, yet he smiled as if to reassure me. There was a piercing scream from far away and my parents suddenly stopped. They faced each other and stared, tears forming in their eyes. My father was shaking his head in denial. My mother set me down. She caressed my face and kissed my cheek. Then she ran away into the bloody battlefield. Minutes later, stuck in the same position she left me, I heard the gunshot. My father grabbed my hand and hastened to find her. But then we did. My father fell down to his knees and cried in agony--we were too late. Silently, he stood up, kissed me on the forehead and vanished. I woke up in the night. Feverish and disoriented, I got up hastily to find the photo album. I opened it to the page where my parents’ photos were. We looked alike. She was skinny and pale with long, blond hair. He was tall with greenish eyes and freckles. And we were alike, as well. She was an open-minded, adventurous, avid reader. He was a kind, inquisitive, nature-lover. I was, too. But we did have one difference. They were dead and I was stuck in a life without them. My life was endurable for someone whose parents had died in the war. I had my grandmother, my mother’s books and my sanity. I had a home. That’s all I needed, I suppose. But I wanted an explanation. Why had my father left me there? What had happened to him? Who was the enemy? And why did my mother have to face the enemy alone? It had been nine years and my grandmother was still holding back information. Even when I asked someone else in Cochem, either the waiter in the coffee shop or the handyman or the local gossip, the reaction would always be the same. They would listen. Their eyes would widen. Their mouth would subtly open, as if it was waiting a thousand and one days to finally speak the truth. But then it would rapidly close, holding prisoner that breath of relief. They would lower their eyes and say “Ilsa dear, a young lady like yourself should not be thinking about horrendous wars,” or “Oh you know, ghastly times these are.” They would typically put on a stiff, forced smile, as well. The enlightening phase did begin, at last. It was just dawn when my grandmother called me to her bedchamber. It seemed to me she had a troubled look on her face, though it might well have been the malady. She held my hand gently as she told me that I needed to leave

33 immediately. She added that I should find shelter in the Meiers’s home, 47 miles west of town. I opened my mouth to speak, to ask, to deny, but she stopped me before I formed a word. “Ilsa, you know I am sick. I cannot come with you.” She gave me a map with the path marked. Then she continued, “But do not worry dear, I will be fine. It is you they will be searching for: young, naive and untrained. That is why you need to be cautious. You had better go, before it’s too late,” she said. I packed a few pieces of clothing, my books, my photo album and some food-whatever I thought was necessary. I kissed my grandmother goodbye and left, still wondering what was happening and what she meant. I stepped outside, fearful of what was ahead of me. Just when I had convinced myself nothing was going on, I heard the gunshot. That same gruesome sound the bullet made before going through my mother’s body. And I kept hearing it again, and again, and again. I ran toward the echoing sound, till I saw it. The pile of faceless bodies. An aggregation of lurid red. In a rapid paranoia, I stumbled away from the scene and made my way through the woods, Ι headed west in the direction of the Meiers’s house. I walked for days, circling the villages marked on the map, eating out of cans, sleeping on the cold moist ground, until I felt I was nothing but a figure with no identity. Just as I was about to give up, I spotted a stone house on the hillside. I made my way up the hill and faced the dark, wooden door. It was splintered and had a bronze knocker in the shape of the letter D. I knocked, hoping someone with a warm smile would welcome me in. On the contrary, before me stood a brunette boy with a callous look in his eyes. “Who are you?” he asked in an aggressive tone, his eyes scoping every detail of me–perhaps in an effort to answer his own question. “I’m Ilsa, I was promised you’d offer me hospitality.” He stared blankly as I spoke. I rushed to explain as simply as I could. “My grandmother could not follow because she is ill, nor could I stay with her. As far as I could gather, we are in the genesis of a civil war and she said I am in danger. She said that I am who they want and that they’ll be searching for me, although I did not understand why. Something about me being naive and untrained, which is clearly untrue.” However, he did not seem to understand. His response was an unambiguous, apathetic “You cannot stay here.” As he started to close the door, I blocked it with my hand. “Please, you don’t understand. I have nowhere else to go. I came all this way because I

34 was told that you’d help me.” While I was trying to convince the boy, a woman came to the door and asked him what the matter was. He whispered something in her ear, and as she prepared to kindly send me away, her eyes fell on my necklace. It was an heirloom my mother had given me, a gold-plated half locket. My mother wore one half, and I wore the other. I glanced at it and only then realized that it had something carved on it-the letter D. “She’s a “Disparate,” she whispered. “Let her in and make sure she has whatever she needs. We will speak at dinner, sweetie,” she said to me, and then left the room. The boy clenched his jaw and fists, as if to show off his wounded knuckles. I asked if I could take a shower and he guided me to the bathroom. “Dinner is at seven, do not be late. We’re not going to wait for you, loudmouth.” I scoffed at him and closed the door. After showering, I put on the cleanest clothes I had in my backpack and went downstairs for dinner. In addition to the mother and the irritating son, two more people sat at the table, the father and the younger son, I figured. I approached the father to introduce myself–I thought it was only appropriate. “I’m Ilsa Kramer, it’s nice to meet you, sir. I’m grateful that you let me stay.” “Kramer, as in Ryker and Fiona Kramer?” “Um, yes sir, they are my parents. Were.” I corrected myself almost immediately. “Well, that is all the explanation we needed, isn’t it?” He looked at his family for reassurance. “Ilsa, I am Axel Meier and this is my wife Eden, and my two sons Fynn and Milo.” The older boy rolled his eyes at me, and his father noticed. “I see you have met Fynn,” he laughed softly. “You two will have to get used to each other, because you, Fynn, will have to train Ilsa.” Fynn seemed even more annoyed than before. “Training for what? My grandma mentioned I was untrained-that was the reason I had to leave-but she never explained.” The couple looked at each other, confused. “Sweetie, do you know who your parents were, or, I guess, what they were?” Eden asked. “What do you mean? They were my parents. They had a bookstorewith travel guides, explorers’ biographies, and a section with

35 mythological stories about a special breed of humans,” I used air quotes to highlight the fiction of it. “Ilsa, oftentimes, myths are not really myths, but are actually facts that people cannot fit into their reality,” Axel explained. “That breed you referred to-which includes your mother and all of us-is one of these cases. We are called “Disparates,” and we are not a myth, as you can see.” He waved his hand around to convince me. I lowered my eyes and stayed silent, trying to both digest what I had just been told, and to decide if I believed it or not. I must have stayed that way for much longer than I realized, because when I finally looked up, Fynn was staring at me with something that appeared like pity. The rest of the family were waiting for me to say something-to make sure they didn’t have to repeat. “So, you’re telling me that my mother, Fiona Kramer, and all of you are a special (using the air quotes again) breed of humans? That do what exactly? Release fire from your palms?” I said, trying to test if it was a joke. Milo, who now looked a lot older than before-probably nine or tenanswered, “When he said ‘your mother and all of us,’ he meant all of us, meaning you, as well.” “What? Look, you can make up whatever little bed-time story you want for yourselves, but you cannot convince me that If I did hypothetically have some sort of powers, I wouldn’t know.” Fynn looked at his father, who nodded assuringly, in response. Then, Fynn stood up and left the room. It seemed weird, but I ignored it and continued talking about how ridiculous this sounded. As I was sarcastically asking if the family had a history of mental disorders, an arrow brushed past my ear from behind, and before I knew, it was caught tight in my palm. I was frozen in that position for a second, stunned that I had heard the arrow being shot, but even more so, that I caught it. “You see?” Fynn came out of nowhere. “Come on, loudmouth.” It seriously enraged me that he called me that, considering that he had only known me for a day and that it was certainly false. I followed him anyway, determined to figure out the truth. In the next couple days, Fynn demonstrated fighting techniques, from knives, javelins and guns, to actual physical fighting. The process only made me hate him more, though. He was arrogant, self-centered and

36 cold-hearted. The only positive thing about Fynn Meier was that he really liked to talk about himself, and by asking only a few questions I learnt more and more. He told me all about the abilities of the “Disparates.” The known ones included enhanced senses, strength, immune system, stamina, agility and empathy-and they were shared amongst all “Disparates” around the world. He explained that each “Disparate” was stronger in a specific field. Fynn’s strongest powers were enhanced senses, strength and stamina, though he claimed he was adequately strong in all of them. If one of your parents had the “D” gene, as it was called, you were sure to have it, too; however, if both of your parents did, you were likely to be more powerful. Fynn said that his parents recognized my last name, because my mother was a “badass” and a “ridiculously great fighter.” My father was, in his words, “just a regular guy” who loved his wife so much that he willingly gave up everything to follow her to all kinds of battles. He said that they were an impeccable duo. Aside from the supernatural aspects, that did sound pretty much like my parents. I also found out that people called the enemy of the first war “Nameless” because no one knew his identity, and many suspected he was starting this war, as well. Aside from the early mornings of training and the unspoken hatred between me and Fynn, all was well. That is until one dim Tuesday. “I think it’s time you try it out,'' he said. “What? No.” “You are telling me you’re scared, loudmouth? Is that it?” “No, I am not scared, you idiot. In fact, I am completely ready,” I responded, trying to seem mighty. By then, I had decided my favorite weapons were the chain flail, a steel, spiked head attached to a chain, and the shuriken, a star-shaped blade. I thought one of these would be my best shot. I picked up the chain flail, only to realize how heavy it was. I started swinging it back and forth aimlessly, contemplating what to do with it. “Come on, let me help you.” he opened his palm, as though to take it from me. “No thank you, I'm perfectly capable.” “Please let me, loudmouth. You’re going to hurt yourself otherwise.” “What did you just say?”

37 “Huh?” he looked surprised. “How dare you call me a loudmouth! Ironically, you’re the one who has been talking about themselves non-stop. I have been nothing but nice to you since I came here, and you curse me every chance you get. You are pathetic!” I was screaming. “Wow, relax loudmouth, it’s not like I called you anything horrible.” I felt my body flaming up, the steel of the chain getting warm inside my tight fist. That is when I struck. I lifted my hand and started swinging the chain as high and as far from my body as I could. He did not even flinch. I felt my blood boiling inside my veins and a foreign energy supplying me with power. I erupted in wrath and released the energy. Now, midair, I felt more potent than ever, while manipulating the blue energy to my advantage-my only goal- attacking Fynn Meier. I raised my hand, forcing him to my level, and then threw him to the ground. “Jesus, how did you just do that?” Fynn said in awe. “Oh my god. Did you see that?” I was too confused to care about a curse. I giggled in excitement and hugged him. A few seconds later, I realized how awkward that was. “Um, sorry” I said and stepped away. We rushed to the house and narrated the incident to everyone. I spent the next few weeks trying to fully control the energy, along with training with Fynn. I seemed to have been prejudiced--he was quite bearable. I had grown to like his sarcasm and his excessive talking. I’d sit and listen to him, as though I was listening to a melody. As a result, training had become more fun and I could see great progress. I could now fully manipulate the energy, yet I did not have stamina or agility. That is where Fynn helped the most. “Come on, plant your feet and focus on your intent. Find the balance,” he said calmly. “All you need to do now is hold it for ten seconds. If you do that, then your stamina will gradually improve.” I exhaled slowly and closed my eyes. I focused on my intent: an image of my parents staring at each other with tears in their eyes, right before parting forever. Seeing my mother’s body lying on the ground and then the remains of all the innocent people of Cochem. I saw war. I saw revenge. That was my intent. That was what I wanted. I opened my eyes and extended my arms. Orbs of energy formed in both palms,

38 and I felt the power. I started counting. Reaching number nine, my body began to tremble, yet I resisted. I got up to eleven seconds and then fell to my knees. Fynn rushed to help me up. “Ilsa, you did it! Well done.” Still exhausted, I lifted my head to make sure I had heard correctly. “You called me by my name.” We were centimeters apart. “What?” he paused. “No, I didn’t.” “Yes, you certainly did.” “No, I certainly did not, Loudmouth.” “Don’t even try,” I laughed. It was only then that I noticed the color of his eyes: hazel. A ring of marble gray encircling the irises. Then forest green, with amber flecks near the pupils.

By Theoktisti Dimarchopoulou

The Demon by Konstantinos Angelakakis One night, one dreadful but peaceful night, Father came late from work and opened the door Mother was nowhere to be found All the brothers and sisters were left alone Alone in the dark alleys of the house Crying for the friends that they had lost The friends that the Demon killed off The Demon that so easily had come through the door Everything now was falling apart in this house But the story was not even close to its end They could still hear the breath of the Mother going down the hall The Demon had killed her long before she could say one word Brothers and sisters one day left the house to get away from the Demon Days went by in the house, even years but the kids were nowhere to be found They had forgotten all about their Mother, the mother that was now just a memory The once kids were now grown-ups, the once Brothers and sisters were now strangers The Father that was left alone at that old door was another dead man They had been broken up by one Demon The Demon that came in when Father opened the door

OM, RA By Achilleas-Nikolaos Ververidis-Papakonstantinou To Shuji Terayama, in the alley behind a colorful cinema

He was filled with angst, And so he burned himself with the tip of his cigarette. Can he cry? No. Can he fly? No. Can he speak? Barely. - someone from the audience jumped Of course, he can fly! He can fly on the human airplane! “GLIDER CRASHES IN TSUSHIMA CHANNEL” Read the papers. The young Korean, named Lee-Hogen… You see, he had tried to fly back home on the cheap metal-framed wings of the human airplane. The human airplane… The human airplane! On the last day of November, I went hunting with my friends from Yanaka, Michiko and Chin-Hae. Chin-Hae shot a bird with his rifle it died. “Even the flying can die, you see,” I heard him say So I spread my arms, “I’m alive!” Can he fly? or, rather What good is flying? My father, Imamura Johnny, handed me a cigarette in the theater toilets. “You smoke. It will make you a man.” A man for the time span of a cigarette. I imagined the dead bird in my hand.

41 With 600 yen in my pocket, I Headed to a restaurant. In an alley I met Lee-Hogen, the young Korean. “Can you fly?” I asked him. “I loved the November wind!” he shouted. I pointed my cigarette to the sky. “Can you really fly?” “Fly to where? Flight is short and besides, even the flying can die, you see.” I crafted a human airplane behind the cabin I rented for 1.000 yen a night. In the middle of December, Chin-Hae paid me a visit he gripped the rifle at his side “Will you try to fly?” he mumbled. I wrapped the human airplane around me, “I’ll fly back home, I love the November wind! I’ll fly back home. I’ll fly back home! I love the November wind!!” “GLIDER CRASHES IN TSUSHIMA CHANNEL” Haven’t we seen this before? It’s not enough to die for your country, go on, I know you want to fly away too. Goodbye sky. Goodbye father. Goodbye human airplane. The last thing I saw: the blue of the Korea Strait. Can he fly? Yes. What good is flying? - the audience stayed silent The anguish of my mother. The loneliness of my father. Chin-Hae gripped his rifle.

TO LOVE BEING A TEENAGE GIRL by Alexia Sextou She melts red on her letters dyes her lips cherry so she can taste the burnt paper. The aftertaste of cheap soda. Her nails screech on broken vinyls who cry for dead lovers and absent fathers The candle burns as she dances to a beaten fire rips her skin Peeling her soul and eyebrows How nice it would be to be burnt alive. By Argyro Kotziagkiaouridou

The sound of the bells by Zoe Tzika I can feel the children of the wind What has changed? From afar, something is approaching. White blank tape and then dark. Tall pale figure standing. Dead, withered, unborn. I could hear him breathingHeavily Do you want to live? Yes Bring me to life Bring life to me I can’t. Why me? Why him? Dry leaves on the ground A land fallen rises Peaceful scenery? Somebody vanished them all. Death quietly grabbed and grabbed And couldn’t get enough. He is just a messenger Of the greatest kings and leaders. Would he choose to live ? No. Heartless, maybe yes but human, he could never be. If brave hearts showed mercy Lifeless shadows would arise Death of dead people So that killing is being killed, the past may be past the ancient might be lost but the future is damaged and the whispers of the fallen will continue to repeat for the eternity repeat the sound of the bells.

44 Walpurgisnacht by George Bampas

Darkness is a witch. It falls quickly, Creeping upon the hills, The mountains, the oceans. Darkness consumes all. It falls quickly, And to hurl a glowing disk into it Is hard work. Darkness knows no superior. Darkness is her own god. Darkness is soft. It birthed the first light From within. An ancient call to start the fires To burn all fear away Voices surging with raw being To protect oneself, to eviscerate The welcoming foe. Darkness is unforgiving. It lies, cold, concrete, tangible Casting itself on the world. Darkness is lonely, Even though she is everywhere. Darkness is patient. It lives. It breathes. It sees. Darkness was the beginning. What shall the end be? But now it’s fading. It’s dying. All the love The magic The stories of an old gammer The mountains light up And the sun has just risen.

By Malena Alexopoulou

The Dark Compendium by Moris Saltiel

The following excerpt is a small part of a larger novel, categorized as encyclopedic fiction and based upon the seminal work of Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neil, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, and its sequels. Each character, location, event or otherwise refers to a specific fictitious creation that has been chosen carefully in order to build upon the known timeline in the world of the League without changing or contradicting any of the previously known details, whilst also mirroring real life events. All due credit is given to Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neil for the use of their story elements. The following text is told in the form of a report concerning the activities of a special kind of covert unit, and is only one of many contained within the pages of the Dark Compendium: This warns you… -M Introduction The following entry is but one of the many that were gathered from a great number of classified documents from the archives of various organizations and serve as supplements to Miniluv’s former director, Gerald O'Brien's work: “The Black Dossier” (of which portions have been mysteriously leaked and published on the underground site DarkNet.tom after the complex events of 2010), specifically in the section titled “The Sincerest Form of Flattery”, which listed attempts aside from the main British versions (under Prospero in 1610, Lumuel Gulliver in 1750, Wilhelmina Murray in 1898 and 1909, and Joan Warralson in 1946, and perhaps the ill-fated Victory Vanguard in 1964) to create a so-called “League Extraordinary Gentlemen”. The results vary. The Fourth American League - 1956 After the conclusion of World War II, the United States entered a supposed 'golden age' of prosperity, optimism and national cohesion, ushered in by the arrival of the post-war 'baby boom' and the resulting birth of the suburban ideal throughout the nation. Aside from the presidency of communist Mike Thingmaker from 1945 to 1953, the immediate post-war life in the USA was also one of high consumerist extravagance, with the growth and success of the television, fast-food chains like McDowell’s, and the cultural and technological milestone of Charles Dingo's 'Dingoland' and Roy Brisby’s ‘Brisbyland’ amusement parks. Just as strongly in the US, the post-war period included a gigantic push into outer space, with the American space program building on the footsteps of pioneers like Sewlyn Cavor and Dick Seaton to explore and conquer the stars in ways man had once merely dreamed of. Back on Earth, however, the US President and former military chief Merkin Muffley, along with the head of the FBI J. Edgar Hoover, began to feel a growing relevance in their plans for American domestic and foreign strategy for a League, following the Third US League's retirement. To best construct this new team, Hoover acquired the help of his star G-man and perhaps America's most trusted lawman: Detective Richard 'Plainclothes' Tracy, a Chicago police officer. Tracy was perpetually occupied with policing matters,

46 and his persistently busy schedule made it impractical for him to lead the new League himself, but his expertise in handpicking his own allies on the force allowed him to be of great assistance in tracking down and securing the partnerships of its members. The group, devised by Detective Tracy and approved by Hoover and Muffley in March 1956,included: - Richard ‘Rick’ Blaine. A cynical, world-weary American traveler who had given great assistance to the Allied war effort, especially the French Resistance, once while acting as a Bar owner in Morocco during the Vichy French occupation, and countless other times while serving with the Free French in Brazzaville in French Equatorial Africa. Blaine had returned to the United States shortly after the conclusion of the War, and after being decorated for his service by then General Muffley, found work as an advisor in Red Cross repatriation camps across America and Europe. Detective Tracy theorized that the war-battered meanderer Blaine could make an excellent addition to the League with his deep sense of righteousness, and skills in weaponry and hand-to-hand combat which the agent had picked up during his service with the Free French. Blaine accepted the League position, but appeared somewhat dismayed at the prospect of fighting again. - Anthony ‘Tony’ Rivers. A juvenile delinquent who had suffered an apparent Edward Hyde-like transformation into a bestial creature following a hypnotherapeutic experiment by the Washington employed Dr. Alfred Brandon. Despite his widely reported death during the incident along with Dr. Brandon's (which was subsequently featured in a film adaptation in 1957, in which the event was treated as fiction due to governmental attempts to cover up the issue), Rivers had actually survived, and was being held by the FBI at a secret facility in the Nevada desert when Detective Tracy had him recruited for the new League. Rivers' lycanthropic powers gave him enhanced strength and agility, but when his 'Werewolf' form was utilized, the young high school student would inevitably enter a stage of nearly uncontrollable rage, which made him incredibly dangerous to be near, but ultimately, greatly effective as a government agent. - Thomas Ripley. A dashing Bostonian con man, who had been in hiding in Greece after a particularly notorious, but also partially failed scheme involving Ripley's impersonation of a shipbuilding magnate in Italy in 1955. Despite his vast newfound fortune gained from this ruse, Ripley was cursed with a debilitating paranoia, fearing for his continued freedom should the authorities or one of the countless American intelligence organizations track him down. Ironically, the law, in the form of Detective Tracy's CIA colleague Hubert Bonisseur de La Bath (117), did locate Ripley, not however to enforce any justice upon the con artist, but to recruit him for the new American League. Ripley's skills in forgery, impersonation and all other forms of deception were identified by Hoover as traits that could be quite helpful to his new group. This was much to the irritation of Tracy, however, who was not thrilled at the prospect of procuring a criminal due to his staunch sense of justice. - Rita Farrar. During the 1941 – 1945 hostilities, this actress had served two highly effective roles in the American war effort, both as a Hollywood starlet, in which she found her image draped across the walls of servicemen across the world, and as the gun-toting, masked vigilante 'Señorita Rio' (alternatively 'Rio Rita'), in which she battled the same types of spies and infiltrators most of her costumed contemporaries were feuding with throughout that period. After the end of the war, Farrar found herself employed against Soviets, the Chinese, and a plethora of terrorist organizations by the Americans, again not unlike most other agents of Washington at the time. Although Farrar's

47 experiences hadn’t been exactly unique, or anything particularly extraordinary by the standards of her line of work, the progressive Muffley picked Farrar out of a dozen or so other nominees presented by Detective Tracy to Hoover and himself due to her background. - G-8. A prolific fighter pilot ace who had fought in both World Wars and led a distinguished interwar career as well, having been a member of the Helldiver squadron that took down the New York Ape creature in 1933. However, unlike his open and very public British equivalent James Bigglesworth, the mysterious G-8 kept his true identity hidden under an alias, keeping his birth name unrecorded for his entire career. To this day it remains unknown to history. G-8 was possibly the easiest for Tracy, Hoover and Muffley to recruit for their League, seeing as the secretive pilot had a long history behind him of Government employment lacking in the majority of the League's other compatriots (except for Farrar). Despite his close ties to the Government, however, it would appear based on the testimonies of those who worked with G-8 that he was perhaps the strangest and most remote of all the League members, with his often-bizarre decision-making and dark personality. Legendary British League member Orlando described him, and his adventures, at one point, as being “Frankly, bonkers”. The Fourth American League began operations in early 1956, occupied in their work by the variety of Government perceived threats plaguing the seemingly tranquil post-war America, under its desired peaceful façade. Naturally, the new US League went overseas in many of their assignments, where the conflicting ideals of Communism and Americanized Capitalism divided the recovering world, along with the volatile elements wrought by humanity’s expanding entry into nuclear science and space exploration. Such missions partaken by the Fourth American incarnation of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen include: - Tackling the explosion of hostile extraterrestrial and radioactively mutated entities attempting to invade Earth , such as the collectivist spore infestation that spread from Santa Mira, California in 1956; the almost comical 'SaucerMen' invasion of 1957; the Protoplasmic 'Blob' creature which attacked Anchorage, Alaska in 1958 (Having similarly threatened Phoenixville, Pennsylvania the previous year); and many others. - Participating in all manner of espionage against the 'Red Menaces' of Russia and China. G-8 led flights of Lockheed U-2 spy planes, for instance, over Soviet territory with his protégé Francis Gary Powers, until the May 1st U2 incident of 1960 involving Powers made it impractical to continue. Meanwhile, Ripley used his charm and skills in extortion to successfully extort enemy agents and power brokers out of money and information, and Farrar similarly used her looks and appeal. The entire team fought together as well in covert battles against communist operatives like Albania's Alexandr Slanovicz (an Albanian born Soviet mercenary) and China's Wo Fat (a Red Army spy). - Engaging in non-violent exploits for Muffley and Hoover similar to past incarnations of the American League that featured primarily exploration, with the group visiting and gathering intelligence on a variety of 'pocket dimensions' accessible throughout the United States, such as 'Toon Town' in Los Angeles and 'Sesame Street' along with ‘Flatland’ in New York City. These cosmic realms investigated by the American League were unique in their existence in that they were both present and accessible within our world on a smaller scale while also existing on a larger scale within their own universes. Both the League’s exploration, and the FBI’s supernatural consultant, the

48 warlock lawyer Gomez Addams, determined these rules at the time. - Combating the rising organized terrorist cells growing to take advantage of the fragile Cold War environment that were operating around the world by the time this League was founded. These organizations included the enigmatic European group S.P.E.C.T.R.E. (founded in 1947), the similarly ruthless THRUSH (founded in 1892, supposedly by Colonel Sebastian Moran), and to a lesser extent, the formerly anarchist, but since overridden into NeoNazism association of KAOS (Founded in 1905). As to be expected, the Fourth American League also jousted with less ambitious, though certainly equally dangerous criminal networks of the era, like the Unione Corse, and the Triads, who, as will be described in more detail later in this Dossier, were incredibly still supported by the unnaturally old, and surprisingly powerful Devil Doctor. The Fourth American League had a very successful and productive run between 1956 and 1961, accomplishing more assignments in the space of only 6 years than most of these teams did over decades. This run was slightly disturbed however after young Democrat James Trelawney Cassidy succeeded President Muffley, one of the main founders of this League, in January 1961. Although Cassidy was still actively supportive of the League as his predecessor had been, the administration of the League began to enter a difficult period after the new President's allocation. Firstly, Hoover and Cassidy frequently found themselves at odds, each holding conflicting views over subjects like the Civil Rights movement and the presence of the Mafia in the United States. Secondly, Richard Tracy also began feuding with Hoover over the Mafia issue, which the FBI chief chose to suppress and ignore, despite the growing power of a new generation of gangsters in America such as Michael Corleone and Wilson Fisk. This turbulence in the background of the League's operation severely limited the group's ability to be deployed over the 1961 – 1962 period. InSeptember of 1962, however, the three administrative figures behind the League, as well as the rest of the US Government and the FBI, were able to come to an unanimous agreement over an area requiring the deployment of the American League. This was the concerning build-up of Soviet armaments that, unbeknownst to the League, would soon lead to the Cuban Missile Crisis. After weighing all possible responses to this issue, fully aware that increased tensions in the region could lead to World War III, Cassidy, Hoover, Tracy and CIA Director James 'Jimmy' Christopher chose to deploy the League into Cuba to subtly gather intelligence. The group arrived on the picturesque island via a fishing boat, and once on Cuban soil, made a base in a small, unoccupied farmhouse before splitting up to utilize their respective skills to gather information on the Soviet weapon movements. Blaine took the most obvious route, using espionage skills learned during his days in the French Resistance to furtively photograph and record as many of the hidden missiles, guns and other weapons in Cuba as he could locate, as well as their origins and purposes. Rivers assisted Blaine in his human form as best he could, seeing as his lycanthropic persona was hardly the most effective for stealth work. Ripley and Farrar chose to infiltrate the Cuban high society, with Thomas posing as a Russian war-hero to gain access to the restaurants, bistros and clubs frequented by Ramos Clemente’s elite, and Farrar as a nightclub singer. Despite being one of the greatest pilots in the history of aviation, G-8 stayed

49 behind at the team's headquarters, as he was too well-known to the Russians from the Wars and the recent spy-plane incident to work as an undercover agent, so he guarded the team's equipment instead. This scheme worked well until October 4th, the day when the Soviet Union installed the first Nuclear Warhead in Cuba, when Blaine and Rivers were captured by Cuban and Russian forces whilst attempting to infiltrate the proceedings. Rivers escaped by assuming his so-called 'Werewolf' form, and fled into the tropical jungles, while a self-honest Blaine quietly surrendered. The Cubans and Russians then applied hypnotic techniques modeled from those mastered by Sâr Dubnotal, Dr. Helmut Caligari and Leon 'The Magician' Mandrake (unaware that prolonged usage of such techniques may result in the user developing arthritis) on the incarcerated Blaine, causing him to leak the locations of the rest of the American League against his will. Riley and Farrar were then promptly captured in their Havana Hotel, whilst G-8 was cornered at the group's coastal base. The team (save for Rivers, who was still a jungle-borne fugitive) was then brought before their old enemy Alexandr Slanovicz at the Russian Embassy. Rather than torturing the League, or whatever else the Communist spymasters may have been willing to do to their prisoners, Blaine, Ripley, Farrar and G-8 were ransomed back to the White House. In Washington, President Cassidy was sent an ultimatum regarding the League: either the group's presence was to be publicized and damage America’s reputation even further than it had recently been already after the disastrous Bay of Pigs invasion, or release American held Russian prisoners Illya Kuryakin and Andre Rostov back to them, and cease ground-level espionage in Cuba. After a great deal of contemplation, Cassidy, Hoover and Tracy, with assistance from James Christopher and Alexander Waverly, chose to accept the relatively fair Russian-Cuban deal, and the American League, save for Rivers, were returned home via a chartered Fishing Trawler to Miami, Florida. As the embarrassing incident in Cuba had made the faces and identities of their top secret agents known far too well to the Soviet Union, compromising the League's ability to operate undercover, a serious dilemma then faced the League's administration. Hoover, Cassidy and Detective Tracy eventually came to the unfortunate conclusion that, due to the Cuba debacle, their group was no longer fit to serve as covert operatives. At this point, Farrar chose to resign from the League, seeing as her civilian identity had nearly been made public, which could have ended her acting career. The starlet had decided that potential risk of losing said career to another botched undercover mission was far too great. She then later returned to Hollywood and her onscreen career full-time, successfully launching a comeback as a dramatic actress, before choosing to retire into marriage and motherhood in 1971. Following this, only Blaine, Ripley and G-8 remained as vestiges of the formerly powerful League, which prompted Cassidy, Hoover and Tracy to end their consideration of what to do with the remaining group by, perhaps reluctantly, disbanding the team. Blaine and Ripley then left the Government service, convincing the everrighteous Tracy to take it upon himself to attempt an arrest on the latter for the ex-con's past criminal activity. Tracy was given a warrant by Hoover for this purpose on the night of the

50 League's disbanding, hoping to catch the extortionist on his return to his Washington apartment, only for the famous detective to find the home vacant. The talented Mr. Ripley had escaped to France under an assumed identity, where he remained in hiding for the rest of his life (save for a number of notable involvements in a series of criminal schemes). Blaine returned to his home of New York City, where he opened a new cafébar inspired by the one he owned in Morocco. After opening this establishment, Blaine crossed paths yet again with his old flame Ilsa Lazlo (née Lund), who was living in the city with her ex-French Resistance fighter husband Victor Lazlo, who was working for the United Nations. Blaine and Lazlo reconnected as close friends, with Ilsa suggesting Blaine's establishment's name: Central Perk. The only member of the League who remained in FBI employment was G-8, who continued his service under Hoover, although primarily on the home front following the Cuban incident, battling against airborne 'super-criminals' of the era such as Adrian Toomes and Robert Kirkland Langstrom until his retirement in 1973. Despite the fact that the fast G-8's true identity was never revealed, many have theorized, including one of the pilot's biographers Philip Farmer, that the American hero may have been yet another alias of the exLeaguer Lamont Cranston, or possibly his contemporary Richard Wentworth (AKA 'The Spider’), but that theory has been disregarded as “frankly, bonkers”. As for the AWOL Rivers, the unfortunate 23 year old vanished into the dense jungles of Cuba, and was never seen again, despite the attempts of hunters like Sergei Kravinoff to track him. Some intelligence officials have inconclusively attributed reports of a strange cryptid known as the 'Chupacabra', which has been sighted in various locations in the Caribbean and occasionally elsewhere since the mid-1990s, to Rivers, but nothing concrete has been presented as of yet regarding the operative's fate. In the aftermath of the League's disbanding, President Cassidy, FBI Director Hoover and Detective Tracy immediately set to work compiling a new League in replacement. Initially, this was to include similar personality types to the last group, but Washington's supernatural advisor Gomez Addams suggested an alternative avenue of employment, specifically figures capable of 'magical' powers. The desperate Cassidy, Hoover and Tracy, who needed a new group promptly to counter the Soviets, accepted Addams' idea, and this evolved into The First 'Magic' League in 1963. Despite the abrupt ending to its service, The Fourth American League may have been one of the most prolific League's to date, partaking in an enormous number and variety of assignments within their seven year period of operation.

Growing Up, Growing Old By Andromachi Stefanou

52 I Remember by Vasiliki Apostolidou I remember my first steps I was walking carelessly, fearlessly I was full… I am older now and a large piece of me is missing Where am I? I am at the bottom of the ocean still searching for me I remember my former self I was full… Still confused, still struggling with the aggressive ocean Where is the rest of me? I remember me years ago I miss me, the old me I was full… Something is missing Maybe I need to swim deeper

By Argyro Kotziagkiaouridou

Two Windows by Danae Vogiatzi Images that blurred together: the twinkling of the wind chimes that were hung on tree branches around the garden, the feeling of the sun when it danced on her bare cheeks, the smell of lilies and the colors of tulips, the delicious smell of strawberries boiling in the homemade jam and of all the fruit that was resting in baskets around the kitchen, the voices that immediately relaxed every nerve of her body. These are some of her first memories. She was always the little girl with the big blue eyes and the fiery blond hair who was so quiet that people wouldn’t even notice her. But what was going on inside her head was the polar opposite of what anyone would suspect. She had the ability to notice every little detail of the world she was living in. Her eyes never stopped scanning everything around her and with her imagination wild, she would always create scenarios and characters, make up stories in her head. Stories that didn’t let her sleep at night, thoughts so complex that they gave her a headache. She was a quiet little girl with a loud mind, and as she grew older her mind just got louder and more harmful. She got caught in the current, a never-ending spiral that managed to break a few times. There was panic, and sadness and something else that she couldn’t exactly wrap her head around. Weird feelings that drove her mad. There was also love, love that she didn’t know she was able to feel. She thought she was broken a lot. And when someone thinks they are broken, they just exist, letting the rays of sun shine through the cracks, absorbing none of it. Little by little the pieces would start to stick together until they broke again and again, for she lived in an unstable and unpredictable mind. She was an observer, a wallflower. Someone that saw everything but didn’t really participate in the world around her. The noise in her head was so loud that it sounded like static, the information she held could fill up entire bookshelves. And although that was overwhelming, it also made her feel safe. Because during the times when her head would go silent, she felt it was too loud. So, she needed the noise, the unbreakable and unchanging routine that kept her going. It was that routine and some people which made her life worth living. The sense of comfort and simplicity that those few people and doing the same things every day can offer. She realized that every wish, every desire and dream she ever had, took the form of a person. A person that was willing to love all of her with all he had. And she was willing to do the same. So, she fell and he caught her. And together, they were perfectly in sync. There was a spark inside her and those things fed that spark until it turned into a fire that kept on burning. And with it burned the girl as she continued to live, for she couldn’t imagine abandoning the life she was used to. She did not know what the future held for her and that was a weight present in every breath she took. She felt like she was constantly running against the wind, but she got used to it. And she lived with it until it became a feeling that she co-existed with. But because of that ever-burning fire, things were unexpectedly good. And good was good enough.

they come, they go by Alexia Sextou i put flowers in boys’ hair sipping lemon juice under the elm tree they flinch away in fear turning my head i ask rhythmically what is it they are afraid of i hold them they let me hold them cradling their head with my both arms and torso i listen to them whisper their pain away to me thank you they finally say they leave trails of tearing petals.

55 Start Here by Danae Vogiatzi

In my pocket, I had a candy wrapper, a ticket stub, and my uncle’s credit card. And I was running away. I know what you are thinking: Michael, that’s what you bring with you to start a life in a new town? How exactly is a Twix bar’s wrapper going to be of benefit? To be blunt, it won’t. If you haven’t already figured it out, I didn’t really think this decision through. I am currently traveling one way on a train to anywhere but my hometown. I look kind of ridiculous, wearing my tuxedo on my way to nowhere in particular, and I am starting to regret my decision to leave right after junior prom. But once an idea enters my brain, it doesn’t leave. I’m stubborn like that. To be honest, stealing my uncle’s card was probably the only thing that might be beneficial. I’m feeling a little guilty about it, but again, I didn’t think the decision through. I am sitting in the very back of the train with my head against the window, looking outside at the passing scenery. And I am thinking. The past week has been absolute hell and heaven at the same time and considering everything that happened I am glad to be leaving. Not prepared, just glad. Monday morning, I walked into school and everyone’s eyes were glued on me. That was a first considering that I don’t really have any friends and not a single soul in the school gives a shit about me. I learnt the reason behind all this sudden attention later on that day. I walked into class, and I swear, everyone turned to the person next to them and started whispering. For the next few hours, I could just feel everybody’s stare like blades against my skin. The entire day I had this unsettled feeling that I couldn't shake. Like an itch you can’t scratch. During the break I went to my usual spot under the bleachers, where cigarette butts were scattered all over the dirty floor, ate my usual lunch (a tuna sandwich with mayonnaise) and as always, lit up a cigarette. I smoked half of it before I was interrupted by the voice of a girl who I think is named Samantha. “Principal Haynes wants to talk to you in his office,” she said. I couldn’t figure out why he would possibly want to see me since I never got into any trouble. I was too lazy to try to piss off anyone at that hellhole we call a school. I followed the girl like a lost puppy. Walking into the principal’s office I felt the look of doom radiating from his eyes. I sat down. Apparently, somebody had informed him that I was in possession of narcotic substances with the intent to use and distribute them. Now that’s crap, because (a) I wouldn’t want any kind of interaction with the jerks that crowd the school, and (b) I didn’t have any drugs in my possession at that particular moment. In fact, I had not come in contact with any drugs since the week before, when I finished the last of my supply. After hearing all that (I left out the part about me actually doing drugs) he let me go saying that this isn’t over. What an idiot.

56 After entering home that day and taking one long look around the trailer that me and Uncle Jimmy were sharing, an idea came to mind. What if I actually did this? I mean, what if I actually did sell drugs at school? Our quality of life would improve drastically. Currently, we live in a trailer the size of a very large bathroom. It was dirty since none of us ever cleaned up after ourselves and every table surface was covered in empty glass bottles. It’s not like he could actually find life’s true meaning at the bottom of one of them, but he didn’t seem to be willing to stop trying. As you can imagine, the smell of our humble home was not very pleasing either. It reeked of stale alcohol, weed and aftershave. But we somehow still lived in it. I don't know whether we did that by choice or because we felt that this was the life we deserved, but somewhere along the line that dilemma seemed to fade. I called Fez my drug dealer and made an arrangement. He supplied me with enough product to help cover our electricity and water bill. I had missed warm showers. The next two days, Tuesday and Wednesday, were pretty amazing. I made sure to spread around school that the rumors about me were indeed true, and that if anyone wanted a little piece of the action, they could find me under the bleachers at lunch. It is impressive how many people want either a break from this filthy world we are living in or a little something to help with the anxiety of upcoming exams. In two days, I was sold out of everything, and I was holding more cash in my hand than I had had in a while. I decided to transfer that money to my uncle’s credit card without telling him because, (1) If there was any spare cash laying around, he would use it all on booze, and (2) If he knew that there was money on his credit card he would use it all on booze. Now Thursday is when things started to go south. Apparently when principal Haynes said ‘this isn’t over’ he actually meant it, because I walked into school that Thursday and immediately a pair of strong hands tackled me from behind and pressed me against the lockers. The bastard had actually called the cops on me. Like drug use on the school premises in a small town was something completely unheard of. They searched me and obviously did not find a single gram of anything illegal. But from the way that they were looking at me, I could tell that they would keep their eyes fixed on me until they found a reason to bust me. I honestly look like the kind of person that cops hate and would find suspicious. I look like the outcast, the person that doesn’t quite fit in. The kid in the baggy, old clothes that is either a genius or a school shooter. But I’ve learnt to not judge others by the way that they look. When it comes to judging I pretend to be blind, but I’m not stupid. Today was junior prom. I had brought a pretty ridiculous amount of narcotics to sell knowing well enough that by the end of the night it would all be gone and I could be a few thousand dollars richer. I didn’t care about the cops, in fact I didn’t even think about them. Call me risky but I need that warm shower. As the night progressed and my pockets got lighter while my wallet got heavier, I noticed more and more lights shining outside the school. In the beginning I thought that it was just the aesthetic lighting, but upon looking outside the window I saw that about five cop cars were parked outside the

57 school as if waiting for the dance to end. I didn’t even have to think about the reason why they were there. They were obviously waiting for me, only this time if they searched me they would find about one and half grams worth of reasons to put me in juvie. I knew I had to get out of there. So I snuck out the back door. I stayed low and I ran. I felt the panic starting to slowly boil inside me as I approached the trailer. I grabbed the first thing that I saw in front of me as I entered the kitchen (a Twix candy bar) and my uncle’s credit card. The money was mine anyway. It could help him pay for a rehab program, but at that moment I didn’t really care about anybody other than myself. I went to the train station and booked a ticket without even looking at the destination. I had to get out of there. I couldn’t go to juvie, not again. People are expected to learn from their mistakes and not repeat them, but I am a teenager. I still have a long way to go. This stage in people’s lives is very uncertain, awkward and just plain difficult. I mean seriously, we are expected to make so many important decisions with no experience and no knowledge of what life is actually like. It's so messed up. Life is messed up lately. There are just too many injustices and flaws in our world--people shouldn’t even pay attention to my stupid life choices. But hey, I wasn't the one who built this system, nor am I the one who will bring it to the ground. Waiting for my train while eating my candy bar I didn’t think of anything. It was like my brain had gone completely silent from the adrenaline, the pills I had swallowed, and the weed I had smoked. I felt safe when that happened. At peace. It is the only way that I can make the world seem just a little better in my head. Seem like it's washed in that perfect light that just makes everything look a bit more beautiful. I almost didn’t notice when the train stopped in front of me. I boarded it and picked a seat from all the empty ones. And that was when the thinking started. After a few hours, the train stopped. I walked to the very front to find the driver. He was a fat, bald and sweaty man around sixty that reeked of smoke. “Excuse me, where are we?” I asked him. It turns out that we had stopped four towns away from where we started. “Have a good night sir” I wished him. Stepping off the train I turn and watch the doors close. And you know how I feel? I feel indestructible. I feel like if I were to get shot at this exact moment I would live. Nothing and no one can stop me. I am the king of the world. Again, it could be the drugs doing all that thinking but I feel pretty damn powerful. I walk out of the train station and inhale the night air. The rest of my life waits in front of me. And I start walking into a town I do not know with nothing but a candy wrapper, a ticket stub, and my uncle’s credit card in my pocket.

By Argyro Kotziagkiaouridou

Remembering Life Anonymous When you have shed your last tear and your eyes feel dry like the harshest deserts When you cool off from that fight, the one that you hate discussing when your friends ask When you remember how pure your first love felt, like a beam of summer warmth in the cold winter When your pockets are empty, but your mind is full That’s when you appreciate life When you can’t stay still any longer, sitting by the door, staring, waiting for a visitor When your father’s belt finally sits comfortably around your waist, and you see him in your reflection When you get rid of that old couch, and along with the dust and the stains, a bit of your past gets thrown out When your final breath draws near, and you try desperately to steal from time itself one last moment, like a child reaching for a far-away cookie jar That’s when you appreciate life

Faded hope by Agni Pyrovetsi The hands of the emerald clock were running nimbly through the glass, as if they wanted to forestall the crystal drops of faded hope The moonlight hid behind the veil of the starlit sky, a gentle breeze whistled softly through the smokestacks of the road Bluebells were hunching towards the face of the earth, closing their cocoon of life in silence, their petals withered by the wear and tear of time as they had played out their final dance of fate And when a dark shadow glided haltingly through the crusted window, a driblet of dolor inundated the room and the beats of the scarlet pump of life became more and more sluggish until the wheel of fortune pointed to the winged angels No one could reinstate him from the abrasion of time No one could reinstate him from the pain of life

By Eleanna Papaioannou