Bishop Brady The Fine Line

THE FINE LINE

The Fine Line is a literary and art magazine that strives to embody the creative heart of the Bishop Brady High School Community. It is made possible by The Fine Line Magazine Club, which is advised by Mrs. Alafat, and submissions from Bishop Brady students.

We rebooted this magazine this year to both embody and showcase the creative spirit of the Bishop Brady community. I’m really excited by what we’ve achieved so far, and it was wonderful to see the support we received from other students and teachers. I hope that the enthusiasm of club members shines through the pages. This is an encouraging start and a great inaugural issue, and I look forward to watching the magazine blossom over the next several years!

Anshul Rastogi ‘23, Editor

The Fine Line was an experience that we were unfortunately unable to bring to BBHS last year due to insufficient club members, so I am beyond grateful for our wonderful team and advisor who have been able to help bring this magazine to life. I hope it can illuminate some of the true talents of Brady students this year and continue to do so for many more to come.

Aleah Ryan '25, Lead Writing Editor

As a newcomer to The Fine Line club, I was excited to be part of an encouraging group of passionate editors. Together, we worked to create this magazine to represent a collection of creativity from fellow classmates. I am thrilled to see the variety of talents at Bishop Brady. I hope this edition of the Fine Line Magazine encourages everyone to continue creating and inspiring through art.

Farhaan Siddiqui ‘24, Visual Editor

This year, we resurrected this literary and art magazine to celebrate the incredible creative spirit at Bishop Brady High School. Thanks to our talented contributors, we have filled these pages with mesmerizing photography, captivating poems, gripping short stories, and awe-inspiring art. I’d also like to thank the “staff” here at The Fine Line, and also our advisor, Mrs. Alafat, for making this journey possible and very enjoyable. To all fellow students reading this, join us and keep this club alive for years to come! This is just the beginning of an epic adventure, and I can't wait to witness the magazine's glorious growth over my next three years!

Vaibhav Rastogi ‘26, Visual Editor, Website Developer & Manager

I hope others feel the awe that I feel observing the talent present in the Brady Community. I feel so lucky that I was in the Fine Line this year and the highlight for me was being in the position to encourage other artists in the school to submit the incredible pieces about which they were proud. In addition, it was an honor to be a part of creating something that illuminates the meaningful and artful connections which are present in our community. Thank you to Mrs. Alafat for making the Fine Line possible, and thank you to the other members of the editing team whose dedication brought this magazine to life!

Avery Sahr ‘25, Lead Visual Editor

We enjoyed reading all the stories and poems created by the Brady community. There was some amazing artwork that made a nice addition to the written pieces. It was great seeing the talent students have here at Brady. This was our first year being in The Fine Line Magazine club and we were happy to see a great magazine created. Thank you Mrs. Alafat for making The Fine Line possible and to all the other members of this club that worked hard to publish an amazing magazine.

Briana & Kailyn Medina ‘25, Copy Editors

Contents

DARKNESS

Eyes - Aleah Ryan (19)

Finality - Anshul Rastogi (35)

Garden of Corpses - Reticent Memories - Aleah Ryan (36)

Death Tastes Like Strawberry - Aleah Ryan (40)

The Blue Room - Joshua Lamparelli (41)

Bellum - Anshul Rastogi (43)

Find Me - Aleah Ryan (45)

IT - Anshul Rastogi (9)

I Am - Garima Rastogi (10)

A bleeding candle, starlight dim - Anshul Rastogi (12)

A Blank Canvas - Briana Medina (14)

Freedom for All? - Reagan O'Neil (17)

Flight - Aleah Ryan (24)

A Fowl in the Ocean - Aleah Ryan (28)

Nihilism - Vaibhav Rastogi (35)

NATURE

Mother River - Aleah Ryan (10)

Persephone - Chloe McCarthy (11)

Pensive - Avery Sahr (21)

Kingfisher (Color Study) - Anshul Rastogi (22)

A Sparrow's World - Farhaan Siddiqui (22)

Mossy Rock - Sophia Collie (23)

Lonely Iceberg - D.L. (23)

Eastern Phoebe - Farhaan Siddiqui (24)

Song Sparrow - Farhaan Siddiqui (26)

Backyard Relative of the Prairie DogFarhaan Siddiqui (27)

Eastern Chipmunk - Farhaan Siddiqui (27)

Anchor - Anshul Rastogi (28)

The Land of the Giants - Anshul Rastogi (28)

Aipysurus fuscus - Farhaan Siddiqui (29)

Sunflower - Maddy Noel (30)

Forest Fungi - Anshul Rastogi (30)

SUSPENSE

In a Poorly Lit Room - Sophia Collie (31)

The Fate of a Woman - Dady Burns (33)

No Accident - Anya Koshy (39)

MOMENTS

My Companion and I - Gregory Watson (5)

The Girl with the Purple Dot on the Globe - Ashley Constant (6)

The Orange House by the Sea - Hannah Poirier (8)

The Amusement Park - Susan J. O. (46)

Summer - Addie Elizabeth Haas (46)

The Job - G.Z. (47)

ORIGINS

Time's Proem - Aleah Ryan (48)

The Creation of Arulea A Billows of Wrath and Betrayal Story - Sophia Collie (50)

LANDSCAPE

Crimson Crescent - Anshul Rastogi (7)

Binary Sunrise - Anshul Rastogi (8)

Worldhaven - Anshul Rastogi (49)

EDIFICE

The Night Before the Storm - Vaibhav Rastogi (12)

Merrimack River - Vaibhav Rastogi (13)

Downtown at Night - Vaibhav Rastogi (13)

Suburban Infinity - Vaibhav Rastogi (19)

Bishop Brady Postcard - Vaibhav Rastogi (52)

Cactus Cat - Olivia Lavalley (11)

Yolk (Reference Study) - Anshul Rastogi (34)

Vase (Color Study) - Anshul Rastogi (38)

Suspension - Anshul Rastogi (47)

My Companion and I

Gregory Watson

Dry, dusty, and dirty, the well-worn road stretched deep into the ancient forest. It was almost familiar walking along this path as many clearly had walked here prior to myself, yet it felt eerie at the same time. An unsettling quiet seemed to travel as my companion—a silence that sent shivers down one’s spine. Usually, when on a path such as this, birds can be heard fluttering above, while critters will be scuttling to and fro, through the brush, up trees, and sometimes even in front of me. But today, there was nothing; not the tiniest crack of a branch or buzz of a bug could be found. Still, I kept walking along this dark, desolate path for what felt like hours. Just me and my silent companion.

During my travel along this path, the further along I got, the less light filtered through the green leaves above, leaving only slivers of sunshine where there was no foliage to block it. At times like this, somehow, I’m always reminded of how forgetful I am when it comes to bringing things on a walk, such as a light now that it was dark. Despite this, the talks I began to have with my companion brought almost a clarity to the whole ordeal. Sometimes, I wouldn’t even say something out loud, and it would still respond to me. Wonder what time it is, I would think.

Without missing a beat, my companion would answer, Well, you’re the one with the watch, why don't you tell me? Then, everything would go back to silence, as I realized it was right, and I would check my watch, take a bite of food, or solve whatever issue I had just asked about.

However, as my trip dragged on, longer and longer, my companion grew more restless, as if it were a dog having been stuck in a cage, and all it wanted was to get out. It went from this silent observer of my actions, giver of small wisdoms, to this voice, refusing my vow of inaction, my promise to keep going forward. If I stopped for the slightest sip of water, my companion would howl at me, screaming to do what it told me to, whether climb a tree, jump into that river over there, or do any manner of crazy things. Yet each time my companion would start up, I tried to tune it out by continuing along the path ahead of me. But even as my will to continue grew, my companion would not cease its efforts to derail me, whether for just a second or permanently.

I decided I still needed to push on, just one more step. Then another. And another. But time after time, step after step, regardless of my deepest desire to continue, my companion would offer up some ideas to me.

Hey, that looks like a nice tree to climb over there. No, the one with the clear shot from some branches to the ground.

Even though I wanted to ignore it, a break did sound nice. That will I had grown started to fade, leaving only my companion chuckling like he had just won a game even though there were still moves to be made. I made the choice to listen to my companion and head over to climb the tree and rest. My journey was over.

The Girl with the Purple Dot on the Globe

Ashley Constant

Pedaling away from the only place I knew was the most relieving feeling of my life. The wind was blowing through my hair while my father shouted something from behind me. He often had me pedal in front of him because I always lead our adventures. I was the one with the globe, after all. With my pink helmet and fuchsia backpack, I went as far as my legs could take me. I turned around to make sure my protector was still trailing behind me. He kept up with me pretty well for an old man. He knew by my droopy eyes I was getting tired and hot, so we took a pit stop. We grabbed our water bottles and perched ourselves next to the river to check my globe. According to the map, we were a freckle away from Italy, not too far from my purple house.

“Dadda, Grammy’s waiting for me,” I bellowed. “Well, let’s go see her. Where is she on the globe?” He played along.

I pointed to somewhere in Greenland, not knowing what was actually there, and we went along our way. We swerved down the dirt trail, following along the river until we reached the perfect destination. Trees were hanging over our heads like an umbrella, shielding us from the scorching sun. The burning ball of fire was still too bright for me, so I reached into my bag and grabbed my Chevron sunglasses. They were lopsided and scratched, but perfect for me.

“Did we make it, Squeeto?” my dad chirped at me.

“Almost, it’s just through here!” I exclaimed while we rested our bikes on a stump. My tiny hand reached up to his big calloused one and led him through the brush to my purple house. I discontinued walking without warning, causing my dad to run into me. In the distance, there was the most

unique tree an eight-year-old could’ve seen in her whole life. At that moment, I determined that this was where my purple house was. My protector let me play through the trees while I babbled about Grammy and my two dogs, Sparkles and Diamond. Those dogs meant more to me than my actual dog at the time. I stumbled over a root while I was being careless, shouting “ow” before I even hit the ground. My father ran over to me and noticed I had a scrape on my knee. This was when I knew this was the end of our adventures. We made our way back home after he tended to me with the first aid kit. He pedaled next to me this time, asking more questions about Grammy and my house. So I told him all about it in vivid detail.

“So the house is purple, of course. Grammy has her rocking chair on the porch so she can watch me when I play outside,” I gushed. “What about your dogs, Ash?” he questioned me. “Oh, well they are both white and super cute. I play with them every day,” I continued. He stopped interrogating me, which left me with my thoughts – the thoughts that I still have today, about just how much I love my purple house in the woods. These fantasies and images that I had made me flourish when I got older. Even today, I think in color and speak in metaphors, with my wheels always turning. I transferred these images into inspiration for my writing, hoping that, one day, children will realize their imagination is much greater than reality. For myself, I hope to turn the globe that once fit into my backpack into the world I will one day change. Then, I will get back onto my bike and be relieved to go back to the place I have known my whole life.

Crimson Crescent Anshul Rastogi

The Orange House by the Sea

Hannah Poirier

Some day

The sky will be blue

The days will be bright

By the ocean we will lay Until the day settles into night

That orange house is where we will stay.

Once everything is right

We will whisper goodnight

To wake another sunny day

In the orange house by the sea.

Binary Sunrise Anshul Rastogi

Anshul Rastogi

IT came like a thunderclap

Abrupt but potent

And at once

Innervated with vigor

I hurtled awake

I felt a symphony of colors stir

Somewhere beneath the rippling rhythm

Of my heart

Flushed with an aureate tide of coruscant vitality

Discordant yet magnificent

Enigmatic yet beautiful

Crescendoing within

Like the swell of a tumultuous sea

Thrumming threads churning in restless embrace

Seeking release

Intangible but brimming with power

So much power

If only IT could be given form

First, I willed IT to my hands

Scratching mist-cloaked monoliths into existence

Kingdoms etched into sublime splendor

Time hammered into form with a drumbeat of charcoal rasps

Silver oceans born from rivers of ink sunken into crinkled white mountains

Stories told and untold under the guidance of these

Nimble fingers

So worn and weary and wiry

With use

So I willed IT to my tongue

Freeing IT’s rumbling hymns into the turbulent mammatus

Lips exsufflated ribbons of starlight luminous as birdsong

Lungs roared rhythms to the timbre of ambition

Words curled upward in articulated wisps of dreamlike vapor

Tumbling around into the shape of thought

Carved by a faithful tongue

Until breath left me

And the larynx could only

Garble on

In its glorious evanescence

IT dwindled away

To senescence

And the storm

Grew dim and mute

Again

I smiled

A knowing smile

And returned

To a knowing sleep

Awaiting IT’s inevitable return

To rouse me from my dreams

With my dreams

Mother River

Aleah Ryan

listen to her the small voice whose soft and mild sound whispers peace

glistening her cool hue as water ripples over stone eternal towards a greater ultimate end she sweeps the earth until her essence diverges spreading out her gentle touch for alllifeblood of each she gives

I Am

Garima Rastogi

I don’t know who I am, But maybe the mirror knows:

It tells me I’m a girl with deep brown eyes, Shallow waters with no glimpse into me, A girl whose locks of ebony hair

Curl haphazardly in every direction.

But that doesn’t tell you a lot, does it?

It doesn’t tell you that my parents

Traveled halfway across the world

Just to give my brothers and I a new life in this “land of opportunity”.

It doesn’t tell you that I don’t know where I belong, That I’m a girl trapped between two worlds.

It doesn’t tell you that I don’t know what defines me -

Is it my skin color, or the one I am surrounded by?

Is it the daal I love or is it the pasta I crave?

Is it the city I’m growing up in or the city I was born in?

Or is it both? But most of all, it doesn’t tell you:

I don’t know who I am.

Vase

(Color Study)

Anshul Rastogi

Persephone

Chloe McCarthy

Olivia Lavalley

My cat sits in her hammock unabashedly bathing herself, Licking away all of the imperfections, washing away the touch of my eager nephew, The sun shines down on her fur, an array of bright colors illuminated by the hue of orange, Her coat grows warm beneath the light, confirming her reasoning to lay there, Warm and beautiful she cleans and cleans away. Her striking appearance implores me to reflect on mine, Her soft fur incomparable to my rough skin, When she walks it is with grace, while my steps never cross a mind, You cannot easily compare a being with such beauty to me, But oh, does the mind wander.

Author’s Note: This is a pastiche of Walt Whitman’s “A Noiseless Patient Spider,” written for an assignment in Mrs. Sica’s Creative Writing I.

Cactus Cat

The Night Before the Storm

Vaibhav Rastogi

A bleeding candle, starlight dim

Anshul Rastogi

A bleeding candle, starlight-dim Stains the raindrops scarlet, standing lone amid the storm And dies its weeklong death like a lunar sun

Wax pools in soft moonlight, a home lost to a quivering hearth above Ever burning, ever ceaselessly churning—the candle dies

And so, too, are lost the colossi of our age Enveloped, forever, in electric torrent

A blaze wanes to umbra, deeds and flames flicker to dust

Till their wax grow frigid, till their legacy be fading warmth

The giants of my youth glint into the abyss, and I wonder: are we lesser for it?

Author’s Note: This is a pastiche of Walt Whitman’s poem “A Noiseless Patient Spider,” written for an assignment in Mrs. Sica’s Creative Writing I class.

Merrimack River Vaibhav Rastogi

Downtown at Night Vaibhav Rastogi

A Blank Canvas

T he trees lining the sidewalk were filled with colorful leaves, half-covering the little signs of vintage shops. Fallen leaves, along with some trash, blanketed the road. The chatter of impatient people filled the once-quiet neighborhood, coming from a lengthy line of future artists stretching along the block. The air was chill, stinging the faces of those outdoors. A man and a woman were among the line, the only two patiently waiting. That is, until now.

“I’m done waiting,” the man said. He tightened his scarf around his neck, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm them up.

“You must. We must remain patient. Time will come,” the woman responded, looking straight ahead.

“You know I’m always patient. But, is that all we do in life—wait?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what are we doing?”

“We are remaining patient. We have the opportunity to attend a workshop with a very well-known artist.”

“Yet people are still unhappy.”

“Of course, and yet we have the opportunity to create a masterpiece. We have the opportunity to put our abilities to the test.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure where I would even begin.”

“Don’t worry about it. You will know.”

“How?”

“When the time comes, inspiration will find you.”

“You are sounding very wise right now. But, currently, all I can think about is unhappiness. The people in this line have the opportunity of a lifetime, yet they are still unhappy with the wait.”

“I mean, we all struggle to find happiness.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I do not. I find happiness in people like you, Pearl.”

“You will never truly be happy on this planet.”

“That is not true.”

“Yes, it is.”

Briana Medina

“Why do you say that?”

“Do you see that sign over there, Jett?”

“Yes, I see it.”

“What color is it?”

“It is white.”

“Exactly, white. Plain white like a blank canvas.”

“Yes, it is only one color, yet the shop brings in new customers daily.”

“Everyone is used to the color white. It is everywhere. It is the beginning that can easily go to waste.”

“How so?”

“You could keep a blank white canvas in front of you forever and never do anything with it.”

“Many things go unnoticed and end up wasted.”

“That is very true.”

“But, what do you mean everyone is used to the color white?”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Black.”

“Why?”

“Because it matches with everything.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?”

“You like to match.”

“Yeah, most people do.”

“Precisely my point; people like to match.”

“Okay, why do you think that is?”

“Do you see the trees lining the sidewalk?”

“Yes, Pearl. They are everywhere; how could you not?”

“Well, things you see all the time easily go unnoticed.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”

“Oh, don’t you go down that path again.”

“As I was saying, have you ever kept a favorite leaf of yours?”

“Yeah, of course. I did it all the time when I was a kid.”

“Why would you pick that certain leaf?”

“Because it was just prettier than the others.”

“Of course. All the leaves are different. They are all unique.”

“Yet people choose the ones they find prettier.”

“People admire the leaves that are your usual pretty color, like the bright red ones. The other leaves easily go unnoticed, for they are different. People do not like things that are different,” the woman laughed to herself.

“That’s for sure,” the man sighed.

T he man and woman had finally reached the building. They entered, filled with the excitement of improving their artwork. They took their seats in front of the blank canvases. Their instructor, a well-known female artist, handed out paints of all colors. The man stared at the blank white canvas, squeezing out a little of each color onto his paint pallet.

“Paint what is in your heart,” the instructor encouraged.

“I don’t know where to begin,” the man groaned, glancing back and forth between all the colors.

“Your paintings reflect the person you are on the inside. Remember that.”

“Which color should I start with?” The man turned to his friend.

“I don’t know, whatever color you want,” the woman replied, turning back to her canvas. She did not know where to start either.

“Should I start with the primary colors?”

“Stop asking me. It is your painting, not mine.”

“Just answer me, should I?

“Just because all the other colors come from the primary ones doesn’t mean they are any less im-

“No.”

“Well, all colors stem from the primary colors in one way or another, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Even though they all came from the primary ones, do you think they are any less important?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Jett, listen to me. In a tree, all the leaves are attached to the branches which stem from the trunk. Correct?”

“Well, yeah, obviously.”

“Are the leaves any less important than the trunk?”

“Well, in the winter, tree trunks survive without leaves.”

“Yes, but there is a time limit on how long they can go without them.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and all leaves are unique. They’re all different colors aren’t they?”

“Yeah, yet people favor the more colorful ones.”

“Yes, but they are all the same.”

“Not color-wise.”

“No, but in the sense that they all end up on the ground, don’t they?”

“Yeah, they all fall at some point.”

“So, are the other colors any less important than the primary ones?”

“No, each color has a message, right?”

“Yes, but colors don’t matter. What’s behind them is more important.”

The instructor, having overheard their conversation, said, “Correct. When you paint, you are telling your own story. So, what kind of story are you trying to tell?”

T he man glanced out the window, noticing the plain white sign in front of the little

shop across the street. He picked up his paintbrush, dipping it in the black paint. He began to paint a stroke, but halfway down the canvas, he stopped.

“Why are you stopping?” The instructor asked.

“I-I don’t know.”

“What is stopping you?”

“Fear,” the man practically whispered.

“What are you afraid of?” His friend, the woman, asked.

“What aren’t people afraid of?”

“People fear many, many things.”

“I fear judgment.”

“No one here is going to judge you.”

“Yeah, no one here, but what about elsewhere?”

The instructor butted in, “Paint your story. Only think about what you will see, not others. So, what do you see?”

“I see… judgment. I think I understand now. People are afraid of what is different; that’s why they don’t like it.”

“So, what are you waiting for?” the instructor questioned.

“Everything. We must remain patient in this world.”

“The time will come,” the woman smiled. Again, he picked up his brush. He stroked it up and down, equally painting half of the white canvas black.

“This is only the beginning,” the man grinned. The woman looked at her friend’s canvas. She laughed to herself as she began to paint the same thing on hers.

“Yes, it is,” she said.

Author’s Note: This short story is modeled after Ernest Hemingway’s “tip of the iceberg” approach to storytelling.

Freedom for All?

Reagan O'Neil

T he United States Declaration of Independence states that this truth is, “self-evident, that all men are created equal.” But does this statement ring true when the nation initiates different races into the population? The United States has discriminated against new racial groups that immigrated into the country. For example, Congress passed the Asian Exclusion Act in 1882 to prevent Chinese immigration (Our Documents). Generations have come and gone, but racism is still an unnoticed issue. Racism remains to be a daily issue for people of color despite the progress Americans have made. Although this is a daunting and discouraging truth, racism is not inevitable, especially if people are willing to change. Fortunately, this change does not require the abridgment of rights in the First Amendment. With this being said, more action needs to be taken to end racism such as the use of racial slurs, the college admission process, and the use of stereotypes.

To begin, the use of racial slurs and derogatory language is a primary issue when it comes to racism. A United Kingdom think tank study found that there are 10,000 Twitter posts with racial slurs posted each day (NBC News). These statistics underestimate the true use of slurs because they do not account for the other internet platforms or the slurs used in speech. The Pew Research Center held a survey that revealed the deplorable truth that 38% of black people have been called an offensive name online (Pew Research). The use of racial slurs and derogatory language, especially on social media, is a constant battle for people of color.

Secondly, the college admission process is strenuous for all students, but the acceptance

rates are different for each race. According to researchers at Princeton University, an Asian person must score 140 points more on the SAT to have the same chance of getting into a college as a white person of similar characteristics. Researchers also stated that if colleges abolished racial considerations such as affirmative action, Asians would benefit the most, with their acceptance rate rising by six points. When I learned this truth going into my freshman year of high school, it petrified me, making me wonder if one bad grade would lead to someone of a different race receiving my spot in my dream college. To specify the difference in acceptance rates, Harvard’s acceptance rate for Asians is 8.1% and 10.6% for Hispanics compared to the 11.1% for white students. Surprisingly, the acceptance rate for black students is 13.2%, the highest acceptance rate of all races (The Harvard Crimson). However, preferential treatment of any race is neither a favor for anyone, nor is it preparing them for the real world. So, what is the solution to this issue? The solution is to accept students solely on grades and other merits to make the application process fair for all applicants. The unjust discrimination of people of color in the college admission process forces students of color to overcompensate for the racism they tolerate. Lastly, people employ stereotypes to make assumptions about people. While there are both positive and negative stereotypes, all of them are hurtful because they discredit people who have worked tirelessly for their achievements.

For example, how many of you have received good grades and had people assume that you only earned them because of your appearance? This has happened to me at least 10 times in my life,

even though I was adopted when I was 11 months old, and never received any Asian education. In a study published by the National Center for Biotechnology Information, researchers asked 1,022 white adults who worked with children how many racial stereotypes they supported. In the results, the stereotypes against black adults were the most highly endorsed. These stereotypes included the assumption that black people were unintelligent, violence-prone, and had unhealthy habits. According to the same study, Hispanic young children had the most negative stereotypes out of all the races’ young children as they are put under the same stereotypes. The conclusion of the study found that teens and children who are black, Hispanic, or Native American are at much higher risk of negative stereotypes than any other race (NCBI). Ridding society of stereotypes would help to build better interracial friendships and relationships, which would benefit everyone. Stereotypes hurt the people who are being placed under the stereotype and the people who are stereotyping others because it promotes ignorance, which is the seed of racism.

I n contrast, many argue that preventing racism will abridge the freedom of speech as stated in the First Amendment. They have the concern that abridging one right will cause the violation of other rights. However, it is the responsibility of all American residents and citizens to use the freedom of speech and the freedom of the press to educate others about how all races are equal. Preventing racism is not about telling people what they can and cannot say; it is about education about different races and cultures because most racism stems from ignorance. For example, people who live in an area with minimal diversity do not know how to act around those of different races. In support, a study that Princeton carried out stated that “a white employee’s concerns about not appearing prejudiced when col-

laborating with a Hispanic co-worker may detract from the attention he devotes to their joint work… This increased effort and vigilance may [lead to] underperformance.” While there is no excuse for calling people names and saying derogatory comments, education of these people will discourage racism because the knowledge that those comments are not true will become more widespread. The current issue of racism is not insurmountable and does not require the abridgment of rights to have progress made.

T he “land of opportunity” continues to struggle with the issue of racism in the use of racial slurs, the college admission process, and the use of stereotypes. People should not promote racism or any other form of discrimination with impunity. The recognition and intolerance to racism are essential to progressing to a better future. The start of the end of racism can begin as soon as people notice and no longer tolerate it.

Works Cited

“10,000 Racial Slurs Used on Twitter Each Day, Says Study.” NBCNews.com, NBCUniversal News Group, 13 Feb. 2014, www.nbcnews.com/tech/internet/10-000-racialslurs-used-twitter-each-day-says-study-n29876.

“Asian-American Harvard Applicants Saw Lowest Admit Rate of Any Racial Group From 1995 to 2013: News: The Harvard Crimson.” News | The Harvard Crimson, www. thecrimson.com/article/2018/10/19/acceptance-rates-byrace/.

Belasco, Andrew. “Is There a Bias Against Asian College Applicants?” College Transitions, 23 Mar. 2021, www.collegetransitions.com/blog/asian-bias-collegeadmission/#:~:text=Another study of Harvard's admissions,11.1% figure for white applicants.

“Chinese Exclusion Act (1882).” Our Documents - Chinese Exclusion Act (1882), www.ourdocuments.gov/doc. php?flash=false&doc=47.

Duggan, Maeve. “1 In 4 Black Americans Have Faced Online Harassment Because of Their Race, Ethnicity.”

Pew Research Center, Pew Research Center, 20 Aug. 2020, www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2017/07/25/1-in-4-blackamericans-have-faced-online-harassment-because-of-theirrace-or-ethnicity/.

Priest, Naomi, et al. “Stereotyping across Intersections of Race and Age: Racial Stereotyping among White Adults Working with Children.” PloS One, Public Library of Science, 12 Sept. 2018, www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/

It watched her as she stepped back out into the unfamiliar hallway. Its gaze followed her with each gentle step she made over the worn carpet. It pierced the shadows, defeating any cloak of darkness she could have reached out to for protection.

She had always been taught not to be afraid of the dark, only what could be in it. And she fully trusted that belief, but this night was a bit different. She had found what was in the dark. Now, any shadows that reached out to her weren't nearly as frightening. Because she knew there was nothing in them.

EYES

Aleah Ryan

The only thing that could hurt her was right there—watching her watch it.

The doors that lined the hallways locked her in place, all closed, cornering her to face the thing.

It was a simple horror. A canvas at the end of the hallways with eyes painted all over it, each looking down at a shattered little mirror that was seamlessly glued to the precise center of the woven monstrosity. The broken mirror reflected down the dark hallway, showing the girl as she quietly stood alone.

However, the girl didn’t dislike the painting because its images were unnerving. It wasn’t because of the strained eyes that were placed into a never-ending forced stare. It wasn’t the shade of red that dripped from some of the pupils. It wasn’t the fact that the mirror hadn’t always been cracked.

It was what she saw in the splintering images that the reflective metal showed her.

Her standing peacefully in the hallway in one.

Her eyes missing from her head in another.

Suburban Infinity Vaibhav Rastogi

Her absence in the last.

A cold crept around her shoulders, and she looked towards the ground. It was too dark to see her feet, yet the mirror continued shining through the end of the hallway. She could feel all the eyes boring into her image. Her broken little soul. They could see her. Even when she couldn't see herself.

W hen she finally dragged her gaze back to the painting, the eyes were closed. She took a few wary steps forward, reaching towards the only thing she could now see—the broken mirror. Step after step, she slowly drew closer until her fingers brushed the smooth, cold alloy. It sent a shiver down her arm.

Then they opened.

Starting slowly and one at a time, then quickly spreading towards the mirror, the eyes opened with a sickeningly wet crunch-like sound. They whipped their pupils about in the darkness before finally resting on the girl.

But this time there were more. So many more.

They spread off the canvas and into the darkness.

They surrounded her.

Yet her fingers remained on the mirror, the broken shards cutting into her soft skin. She watched as her blood slipped between the cracks and

stained her many reflections.

For a moment, she didn’t move. She did nothing but burn under the seemingly infinite gaze of the innumerable eyes that coated everything she could see. Their psychedelic colors were inexplicably enticing.

If only her eyes could shine like them.

A hand that was smooth as ceramic reached out of the cold light of the mirror, contrasting the neon and bright colours that blinked and blinded her. It reached for her face. Carefully. Slowly. Gently. Its beautiful fingers lingered over her eyes before reaching out as if to shake with her.

W hat a world this was. Bright. Colourful. Beautiful.

She was grateful for the kind opportunity to join it.

The pain was brief before she was able to experience the neon flash of this strange realm. And all she had to pay for a taste was her eyes.

The red liquid now dripped from her pupils. It stung.

It burned. And worst of all, it was dark. Her hand was still placed on the mirror, and she felt the porcelain figure reach out to her once again. She took it.

She needed more than a taste. She needed it all and she would sacrifice everything she had to get it.

A girl stood alone in the hallway, the light of early morning dawn filtering through the windows. Her skin was a pale porcelain hue that glittered and reflected the morning rays and her eyes shone with a dimmed psychedelic vibrance.

She looked at a painting. It was one with tons of crazed, bright eyes that looked down towards a cracked little mirror directly in the centre.

With a faint smile, she traced her fingers around an eye that seemed just a bit wider than all the others, watching the paint smudged on her fingers as she drew it to rest.

The newest edition to the brilliant artist’s collection.

It was bright

It was colourful.

It was wonderful.

“What a beautiful world those eyes must see.”

Pensive

Avery Sahr

This drawing of an bird's eye was created for an assignment during Ms. Owen's Intermediate Art II course. Later it was entered in the 2023 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and the drawing won a Gold Key in the Drawing and Illustration Category.

Kingfisher

(Color Study)

This is a color study of a kingfisher photograph.

Anshul Rastogi

A Sparrow's World Farhaan Siddiqui

Mossy Rock

Sophia Collie

I must tell you

This green rock

Whose mossy surface

Between the damp

Grass and the sidewalk

(where people Are walking) sits still

Silently

Onto the ground with

Not one movement

That can be seen

And then

Rolling and bouncing

Flying out

An old shoe on

Its side

Out of control

It rolls

Till it can roll no longer

It stops

Tired and solid

Rock

Done its journey

Mossy all around

Author’s Note: This is a pastiche of William Carlos William’s “Young Sycamore,” written for an assignment in Mrs. Sica’s Creative Writing I.

Lonely Iceberg

D.L.

A lonely white iceberg

I saw her stand out from under the black waters

Saw how she reached towards boats for company

She tried to look welcoming in those cold waters

Welcomes went unnoticed, and boats turned away

To my discomfort, my mind will remain frozen

Standing from the depths of my dreams

Desperately reaching, stretching, calling, begging the sun to melt me

Till the sun kindly takes my loneliness away, any company remains far away

Till my mind is water, it stares at the lonely iceberg

Author’s note: This is a pastiche of Walt Whitman’s “A Noiseless Patient Spider,” written for an assignment in Mrs. Sica’s Creative Writing I.

Birds soar through the sky, diving and floating through the clouds, free from the shackles of the ground. To be able to fly is to be one step closer to being unstoppable, intractable, ebullient. For any creature to scour the skies is for that being to exist ever nearer to the planets, moons, and stars that govern the aether.

T he sun slipped towards the horizon as Finch and Jay walked side-by-side down the old, quiet streets of their hometown. The sky was a clear blue with streaks of pink and orange reflecting on

Flight

Aleah Ryan

the undersides of the scattered clouds. Their world was so small. So silent.

“It's been a while,” Jay laughed, pulling his hands from his hoodie pocket and running his fingers through his black hair. “I think this town missed you.”

Jay stood at an equal height with Finch and his blue eyes reflected the sky overhead. His over-shirt was black with yellow streaks, repping their old school colours, and his glasses were a deep navy blue. The sunset’s warm tones lit his tan skin so he seemed

more awake and alive than he did at any other time of the day.

“I think I just may have missed it too.” Finch smiled, fiddling with the rings on her fingers. “I’ve been so busy.”

“That’s your fault for graduating early.” Jay patted her head as the pair turned down a side street. “You didn’t have to go so soon.”

“Maybe,” was all Finch said in reply.

Ever since they were young, Finch and Jay always

Perched and Posed 'Farhaan Siddiqui

Author's Note: this photo was taken at Elm Brook park. The bird shown was nesting in a park shelter.

flew together. The skies were theirs to explore, never tethered to the ground. Nothing held them to reality. If they so wished to be fierce angels with wings of indomitable spirit, that’s exactly what they became. No textbooks, adults, or outsiders could convince them otherwise.

To most, they were delusional. To themselves, they were delusional.

But they were delusional together.

As they grew older, the world tried ever harder to make them see the brilliant ball of fire that ravaged the sky at day's break to be no more than the morning sun. It tried to make them see the whimsical mist that befell the death of night under the moon's watch as nothing more than the simple fog.

But what value could be found in such a world?

If that was the reality of a sane man, they chose to be crazy.

Every day, they found new ways to learn how to fly. All in their minds, but never any less real. They refused to be tethered to the menial and worthless existence that they watched everyone around them resign themselves to.

W hen they were young, all the children of the town joined them, but as they grew up, they let the beauty of their reality be traded for that of the adults. Jay and Finch watched as child after child left their world. They heard the calls of their former friends to follow, but they simply could not bring themselves to listen.

“I guess I just had to leave when you finally found a way to fly without me,” Finch said as the pair climbed the great metal tendrils that hung from the brick walls, so simply labeled Fire Escape.

Finch hated that she could see those stupid words.

“Oh, that's not fair,” Jay replied, hauling himself up the ladder like they had done a thousand times before. “I just wanted to try it.’

“You tried it alone.”

“Maybe.”

“What if I wanted to fly with you?”

“Who said you can’t?”

Finch turned her gaze to the ground, shaking her brown hair around her face.

“What if it’s not the same?”

“That’s up to you,” Jay said as he pulled himself over the lip of the great building and waited to watch as Finch did the same. “But flying alone was an experience unlike any other. The first time, at least.”

“So we can fly again after?”

“Of course,” Jay smiled, raising his hands as he gestured to the pastel aether overhead. “We can fly together every day. We can conquer the creatures of the shadows. We can ride the sun into tomorrow if we so desire. We can be unrestrained.”

“The days would be ours again,” Finch laughed. “I would finally be able to let things go back to the way they were. I could see the day for its adventures and not its work. I could see the moon for its myths and not the sleep I must be losing. I could be free like we were when we were young.”

“Exactly,” Jay ran and hopped to the edge of the building, hanging his hand on a flag left from ancient battles as he swung himself around.

Caution read the sign.

Again. Finch despised seeing those forsaken words. Why must her reality be dragged down? Everything became so terrible when Jay flew without her. But this, this was her opportunity for things to be right once more.

Finch went to sit by Jay’s feet, hanging her legs off the edge of the building. The pair watched the sky's dying light flare as the sun screamed to protect its throne in the sky.

“We both broke promises,” Finch breathed. “I’m not mad at you.”

Jay didn’t speak, and Finch didn’t turn to look at him.

“I had begun to let it happen to me too. I saw school as my reality and college as my future. I planned to graduate early. I tried to fly without you first.” Finch sandwiched her hands between her knees to warm her fingers.

“What happened after I learned to fly?” Jay asked.

“I didn’t know what to do.” Finch hung her head. “I kept going like I was told. I continued the way they all said was best. But two years later, I’m just as bound to the ground as ever before.”

“And now you've come back to fly our way,” Jay continued.

Finch nodded, blinking her eyes to keep them from watering. She had no reason to cry, but her hands were still shaking nonetheless.

“You do know that once you do it, you can’t go back,” Jay reminded her.

“Since when have you doubted me?” Finch whispered. “Our whole lives have been devoted to staying in our own world. Now that I want to return, you’re trying to stop me?”

“I’m not trying to stop you, Finch. I’m just trying to tell you that this world isn’t the same.”

“I’ll take it."

“Okay,” Jay smiled before stepping away. “Until the end, Aura.”

With a shaky breath, Finch looked around. Alone. Again.

Jay’s presence disappeared in the wind, the zephyr running its cool fingers through her hair. How Finch missed feeling his touch. Now the only place she could find her friend was in the breeze.

“Until the end, Caelum.”

Finch carefully and slowly brought her legs beneath her as she moved to stand. The symphony of sounds in her mind was silenced as she stretched her hand above her head and watched the sun resign itself to the horizon. The crisp air surrounded her, holding her closer than she could remember.

T he wind wiped the glistening tears from her face and Finch could do nothing but laugh as it tugged at her clothes. She stepped away from the edge and danced with it. It scooped her hair and twirled her about.

T hey had always believed the wind favoured them, Finch and Jay–Aura and Caelum. If they were the birds of humanity, the wind was their handler. Gentle and encouraging, it bridged the gap.

Finch knew the wind embraced Jay. It filled his wings as he soared. The thought made her smile.

It led her towards the edge, and she took its hand. Whether she was dancing with Caelum, the wind, or just by herself, Aura knew not. But she followed the lead of whoever guided her.

T he sun was dead and the children of the moon sang so far away, high in the sky.

This photo was taken in my backyard during the summer. I took a burst of photos with high shutter speed to capture the moment the bird was singing its highest note.

Song Sparrow Farhaan Siddiqui

NATURE

NATURE

Backyard Relative of the Prairie Dog

Farhaan Siddiqui

Eastern Chipmunk Farhaan Siddiqui

This photo was taken in my backyard during the summer. The way the chipmunk was standing reminded me of a prairie dog.

This photo was taken in my backyard during the summer. We have a patch of shrubs and small trees that, while ugly in the winter, seem to attract a lot of small wildlife in the warmer months.

Anchor

Anshul Rastogi

Betwixt the maelstrom of the storm-ridded ocean of souls I sway, I drift, I prod and I venture yet am never lost Anchored to the seabed by mothers and fathers by sons and daughters

Hand-in-hand, they are chain links to a boulder So far away in the murky depths to seem a specter

Their utterances are whispers now carrying half-imagined figments of the halfforgotten

kneading oil-laden cotton wicks for a diya on Diwali;

proclaiming a bond between siblings on Rakshabandhan;

the rhythm of a tongue so distant yet so drummed into our souls to seem inseparable ferried by a reverence to another world another sea within the ocean, now a glacial deposit in memory

They give me strength, purpose, pride

My son, they tell me, cupping my face in weary hands

Remember a world of brighter dreams

Author’s Note: This poem was created for an assignment in Creative Writing 1 based on the theme of Tradition.

A Fowl in the Ocean

Aleah Ryan

A fowl in the ocean, Its pinion slicked with deplorable detritus and beak filled with asphyxiating salt, it strikes out with its talons, grapling with the weight of the water to free itself. The feathers of its wings and rectrix that once helped it soar so unfettered, now are the things that drag it down into the abysmal depths of this place that isn't its own.

And hēo, the worthless creature in the disfiguring water's reflection, -insignificant, inconsequential, inconsiderablehēo wants so desperately to be one with the sea, but the reprehensible thing is repudiated by the ocean's aqueous touch. For the sea wants not more litter.

Author’s note: This is a pastiche of Walt Whitman’s “A Noiseless Patient Spider,” written for an assignment in Mrs. Sica’s Creative Writing I.

Anshul Rastogi

The Land of the Giants

Aipysurus fuscus

Farhaan Siddiqui

Dusky brown with dim yellow on its sides, Along the seafloor it glides.

It pokes its head in the crevice of coral To find no goby; something is abnormal.

The water around has been warmed, And thus the reef has transformed.

From color and life; full of food, To white and barren; destitute.

Coral bleaching in the Scott Reef. We have much to do about this grief.

Their population is changing at a negative rate. Fourteen seen per hour in 1998, To one just a year after 2004. This was the fate of the Reef of Ashmore.

The population is unknown, But few are left; this has been shown.

Though Aipysurus fuscus takes the heat, Extinction can be beat.

While specific efforts for the snakes’ conservation Have ended in dull stagnation, Some believe in translocation— Moving snakes to areas of low concentration. But this is just an evasion And would result in exacerbation.

A plan for the snakes to captively breed

Does call for some need,

But

will be done in vain

If we do not maintain

The snakes’ domain.

Author’s Note: This poem was written for a project in Marine Science about endangered marine species. I chose to research the dusky sea snake (Aipysurus fuscus). These sea snakes have only been found in five coral reefs near Australia, including the Ashmore Reef and the Scott Reef. Their exact population count is unknown but it is rapidly declining based on a survey count at the Ashmore Reef. 14 snakes were caught (then released) per hour in 1998, but only one snake was caught per hour in 2005. This population decline is mainly due to habitat loss from coral bleaching and rising temperatures. There are no specific efforts to help these snakes, but some ideas include relocating them and captive breeding. However, in my opinion, the best way to help these snakes is to focus on protecting the coral reefs they live in.

Fine Line Logo -- Stylized Anshul Rastogi

Sunflower

Maddy Noel

My favorite flower, Is yellow with power. Brown in the center, A valley I enter.

Filled with flowers of sunset, Cures all my upset.

People are right, This is better than the night. My favorite flower.

Forest Fungi

Anshul Rastogi

IN A POORLY LIT ROOM

Sophia Collie

The torches illuminated the space dimly. The room contained simply a table and two chairs. The cottage as a whole was on the smaller side. The night was dark, and the trees surrounding the home guarded it against the dangers of the dark. There was no decor in the room where they sat, it was merely a beige box with seating. The one and only window was covered by blackout curtains, nobody could see inside.

“Do you want anything to drink?” the host asked. He stood by the table where the man sat.

“No, thank you,” the man replied. “I prefer my drinks without poison.”

“That’s fine, I didn’t have anything anyhow,” the host said, taking a seat across from the man.

“Then why offer?”

“The mortals call it ‘being polite,’” the host shrugged.

The pair sat in silence for a few moments. The man looked around at the bare room. He put his hands on the table and began to tap a rhythm with his fingers. The torchlight cast an eerie glow on the host across the table.

“This home reflects you,” the man said, provoking conversation in the deafening silence.

“I stole it from a mort al family,” the host said. “I picked it for its solitude.”

“Of course.”

“Shall we discuss our purpose?” the host asked impatiently.

“If we must.”

“Forgive me for wanting you gone as quickly as possible.”

“I suppose the feeling is mutual.”

The host rolled his eyes and then leaned forward, his face serious. “Do you think the girl can handle it?”

“She is more than capable, so long as he doesn’t catch on.”

“Do you predict he will?”

“No. My son is blissfully unaware at all times,” the man said with a joking tone, even though his expression remained passive.

“Which is precisely why she is on my side and not the boy’s.”

“And why I am ashamed to be considered his father,” the man offered grimly.

“I do have another concern.”

“Which is…?”

“Do you think…given their past, that she will be able to disengage her heart from her mission?”

“I would sure hope she would be smart enough not to make the same mistake twice,” the man laughed, the grin on his face contrasting the desolate environment. “Although,” he continued, this time more serious, “their tangled threads could potentially provide her an advantage over him.”

“Such as?”

“If she were to give him the illusion of reconciliation, it would place him in the palm of her hand.”

The host rubbed his chin in thought, mulling over the man’s idea. “And you do not think the boy would suspect anything?”

“I return to my previous statement, my son is painfully oblivious.”

“And you think the boy would reciprocate? You think he will want her again given what happened last time?”

“I may not like him, but I know my son. He would do anything for that girl. He is a spineless coward.”

Malevolence flashed in the host’s eyes. “Yes, I believe this will work beautifully.”

“If the girl can get him vulnerable enough, she will have the perfect opportunity to attack.”

“And he will no longer be an obstacle in our plan.”

“It is my deepest desire to watch the task be completed.”

“You wish to watch?”

“Of course.”

“Then it is settled.”

“What is settled?”

“The date her mission will be executed.”

“And what may that be?”

“The day of the ball.”

“Ah. So you would like that to still go on?”

“It is the ideal time. It will cause the most public outcry.”

“As you wish.”

“I do.”

“And when the girl completes the task….” the man started. However, the host already knew his question.

“I will see to it that your queen is returned.”

“Thank you.”

“It is a family obligation.”

“Even so, I am grateful.”

“And the girl must also be placed in your care.”

“Why is that?”

“Once she completes her task, she will be unwelcome on her own island.”

“Can you not hypnotize them as you have with the others?”

“I could. However, it is rather draining to my magic to use it on that many mortals.”

“I see. And how shall she be welcomed in my kingdom?”

“My followers will see her as the hero that will lead them to victory. And you shall see her as the daughter you never had.”

“I suppose she would be a step up from my current offspring.”

“You will protect her from harm, I trust.”

“Of course.”

The host and the man looked at each other for a brief moment, something silent passing between them. The torchlight danced across both of their faces, illuminating similarities between the two. A thunderstorm raged outside, no doubt a conjuring of the host across the table.

“She is our most valuable asset,” the host said. “Aside from me, of course.”

The man laughed at his joke. “And me, I should hope.”

“I do believe she has the potential to surpass even your brutality.” The host’s tone was light and a smile

tugged at his lips.

“I sincerely doubt it.”

“Just you wait. Once she completes her task we will watch her confidence as an assailant skyrocket and soon, she will be unstoppable.”

“I have no doubts about your selection.”

“You do not have a choice either way.”

“No, I suppose I don’t.”

“Well then it is settled, and I no longer have business with you,” the host said.

“So quick to dismiss me.”

“I prefer to not have unnecessary parties in this home I have stolen.”

“And why is that?”

“I am so used to being alone in the depths of the sea that I find it most unsettling to have company.”

“You would think you’d enjoy it after all those years spent alone.”

“Alas, I do not.”

The host stood from his chair and approached the door of the poorly lit house. The man stood to follow but stopped in the hall.

“You must understand,” he started. “The boy could be persuaded. We could turn him to our side.”

“I thought he was an annoyance to you?”

“He is, at that. However, my queen would think otherwise.”

The host looked at him blankly. “We have no time for your romantic infatuation. The boy is an obstacle to our goal, and he must be eliminated.”

“He has the strength, though. He could fight on the frontlines.”

“Then why not simply complete the task now?”

“Because my queen will not forgive me. If she were to know I was here…”

“Then she will not know!” the host shouted, growing agitated.

The man sighed, relenting to the host’s stubbornness. “Fine, fine.”

“Will you leave now?”

“Your intolerance for socializing baffles me to this day.”

“I suppose I get it from our mother.”

“That would make sense.”

“You get your temper from our father.”

“I find that incredibly ironic.”

“How so?”

“You are the one ravaging the realm with natural disasters and killings, yet I’m the one with the temper.”

“Leave my house.”

“It’s not yours. You stole it.”

“Now, Brother.”

“As you wish.”

The man walked through the door the host held open into the dark night. It slammed behind him and he felt a subtle breeze across his back. He looked over his shoulder at the cottage his brother had stolen. As he walked away, the man heaved a heavy sigh.

“And so it begins,” he said to no one.

Author’s Note: This piece was part of an assignment for Mrs. Sica's Creative Writing I class in which we were instructed to create a piece that was mostly dialogue and did not give the readers an obvious sense of what was going on. The goal of the piece was to give readers a “tip-of-the-iceberg” understanding, leaving a lot of room for interpretation. This piece is also a snapshot of a scene from a longer work.

The Fate of a Woman

T he chapel’s room was dimly lit. There were no windows and the door was locked. The gilded wall sconces all held candles. Half of the candles were unused and half had already been burnt, almost to the base. The light illuminated the brick walls and the white ball gown in the corner sparkled. This room was the only closed-off space in the building and was used for embalming. Someone had moved the equipment out of the room, but the stench was not so easily removed. The child sat on a wooden stool, staring at the white gown. The man stood next to the locked door.

“Why aren’t you dressed? It is time,” said the man.

“This room reeks,” the child stood and walked over to the gown.

“There are certainly worse fates for a woman.”

“I know,” she said.

“He comes from a good family. He has a stable place there.”

“I suppose.”

“That dress cost a fortune. You should be more grateful,” the man said.

“You could probably still sell it or trade it.”

The man scoffed. “He gave very specific instructions on what you should wear.”

“I am sure he won’t mind.”

“I don’t think a girl should be speaking on matters of a man’s mind,” the man replied.

“I apologize.”

“You cannot act like that when you

Dady Burns

are with him. I do not want him or his family thinking that is what I taught you.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Christ! You think someone could at least keep this place clean. Do not let your dress touch this floor,” the man said and kicked at the soiled floor.

“We could wait and do this at the church later.”

“No. The trading season starts tomorrow.”

“Well, then, after the trading season.”

“Do you really want to know the truth?” asked the man.

“I would.”

“After your tantrum in the town, people started trouble and tried to break your agreement.”

“Maybe they were doing the right thing.”

“Do not argue with me over this, child. I know what is best for you.”

The child sat back down. “Where is she?”

“I do not want to discuss your sister with you,” said the man.

“Is she not coming?”

“Why would you expect her to?”

“She is my sister.”

“Your sister is fulfilling a different path.”

“Where is mother?”

“She is in bed. She is unwell again.”

“Who will help me get dressed then?”

“That is a woman’s issue. I know not.”

The child stood again. “Father, please reconsider this.”

“The previous trading season was not kind. I have been left with no other choice. You will be an obedient child.”

The child sat back down. “Yes, Father.”

“You are not yet of age, so you have nothing to fear.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Regardless of what happens. Just remember that there is always a worse fate for a woman.”

“I suppose.”

“Just remember that this room is locked and every tool has been removed. Do not try anything.”

“Can you please bring my mother and sister to me? I just want to hear their voices.”

“That is simply not going to happen.”

The child stood and said, “Liar.”

“Child, you already know the truth.”

“Say it, then.”

“Like I said, there are certainly worse fates for women. You really should be more grateful for this opportunity I have given you.”

“I hope it is worth it. I hope that earning your place in Hell was worth it.”

“I have already gotten rid of two of my problems. You are the last. After this I will not struggle in the next trading season.”

“I will not go willingly.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Why would I? I have nothing important to lose.”

“The location of your mother and sister,” the man said.

“What?”

“If you go through with this and behave for a year, I will give you the location of your mother and sister.”

“What about after the year? What will become of me then?”

“You will not be locked in a room without tools then.”

“What if I come back and find you?”

“If I can be bested by a child, then I truly deserve any fate.”

“I probably will not be a child by then anymore.”

The man laughed. “Probably not, but maybe by then you will have realized your place in the world.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, I will make the choice even easier for you.”

“How?”

“You can willingly leave this room and go through with the agreement, or you can stay in this room.”

“Are those really to be my two choices?”

“I gave a similar choice to your sister. She picked it wrong.”

“What about mother?”

“She was not given a choice at all.”

“A year is all you will get. Then I will come back for you.”

“A wise choice.”

“How will I make sure that I get the location?”

“I will give him the location written in a letter and tell him to open it at your anniversary.”

“That will do, I suppose.”

“He will be arriving any minute now. You must not delay any further.”

“Please leave me,” the child said.

T he man dismissively turned and left the room, making sure to lock the door behind himself. The child continued to stare at the white dress in the corner for a few moments. As if her mind was not yet made up. She quickly disrobed and slid into the expensive gown. It was probably the nicest thing she had ever touched. Without another person to help, it was difficult to tie up the back and the bodice, but she managed. She knew she would have to learn how to manage most aspects of her life by herself now. She knocked on the door when she was ready. It seemed that the man had been waiting outside the door as it was immediately opened.

“Glad to see that there is still some of your mother in you,” the man said.

“You forget that I also have plenty of you in me.”w

“I promise you, child. I do not.”

Author’s Note: This short story is modeled after Ernest Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants.”

Yolk

(Reference Study)

Anshul Rastogi

Finality

Anshul Rastogi

Etched into this passage of time

Is the wearing of our brittle bones

And fitful bodies

The herald of the last door

A final feebleness

A frailty of the corpus failing as, Ever gradual and inevitable, The faculties fade

And the functions collapse

Nihilism

Vaibhav Rastogi

There came a day when the sun didn’t rise. Fragments of the universe disintegrated into bytes.

A cold, lone earth spun in the heavens.

A plague biting away at its atmosphere.

A starless, moonless, desolate sky.

There was a man who looked at the heavens.

As the firmament collapsed, he stared into an inky abyss,

In that abyss, he saw himself.

Until this heap of gaunt flesh

And stringy muscle

Tears itself apart

Beneath the burden

Of its own breath

And the mind sinks into eternal oblivion

The door shuts

Leaving behind only

The abyssal silence

Of utter Finality.

An observer, unable to revert the impending collapse.

A man of free will, but only in definition.

T he sun slowly rose to greet a new day, gently warming the world beneath it. The air filled with the buzz of unconscious life, resonating over crumbling roads and the ashes of collapsed buildings. Vines snaked their way over deteriorated walls and nestled in the burnt husks of rusting cars. Trees claimed homes and flowers wilted in the empty skulls that decorated schools, hospital floors, and everywhere else people once wandered.

Koen's steps sounded heavily on the creaky wood floors of his house as he finally dragged himself to wake for the morning. He rubbed the gruff of his face, his rough hands meeting his astringent stubble with a dry scratching sound. His feet were bare and the only clothes he bothered to wear were his baggy sweatpants.

He brought himself to the bathroom mirror, peering past the orange and brown rust stains that ate away at the reflective surface at his figure. His fingers inspected the textures of his face, plucking, pulling, and rubbing at the bags beneath his eyes. Some fundamental part of him still looked twenty-four.

But he could feel the truth hidden away somewhere inside him. He was an

Garden of CorpsesReticent Memories

Aleah Ryan

abomination to reality, a disgrace to the cycle of things. Mother Nature rebuked him and anyone who lived such as he.

Koen ruffled the black hair that rested just past his shoulders, his eyes slowly matching the dark colour more and more by the day. His tanned skin was worn with scars, and he couldn't help but dwell on them as he analyzed his appearance. His hands traced the marks that made their way across his chest and shoulders. War.

He remembered the days just as any other. The desperate pleas to survive so that he could see Jesse again as he and his comrades curled up in the ditches while the screams raged on around them. Oh, how desperately he just wanted to be able to see Jesse.

T hey all fought to defend their beliefs; their country. The cultist rebels wanted to take away the cure. They all claimed it was by the demand of Mother Nature.

Only now did Koen see what those souls had shouted about for so long. Only now did they all see how reality did not submit to the will of man so easily. Only now did humanity understand its insignificance.

Koen slammed his

hands on the edge of the sink, his muscles tensing as he forced himself to not break anything. He was never a man of anger and he refused to start now.

With a strained breath, he relaxed and put on a forced smile. He opened his mouth and pulled back the side of his lip, scrunching his cheek. He examined his teeth before sticking his tongue out. The split down the middle had nearly healed.

Koen winced, just as a child would when receiving a flu shot. Muscle memory just meant one couldn't forget the sensation of true pain. He shut his mouth quickly and rubbed his tongue along his cheek to try to get rid of the feeling.

He was just as bad as everyone else. At some point, he had tried to find a way out, despite knowing the futility of it all.

Koen shook his head and stepped back from his reflection. He hated looking at himself, now more than ever. There once was a time when he could believe in loving himself because he knew for certain that someone loved him all the more. It made him feel valued.

But the body that was once loved wasn't this one. It may have been the same skin with all the same scars, but it was not his own. It

was not the one the person he valued had loved in return. It wasn't his, merely that of an imposter.

He finally dragged himself away from the creature in the mirror that he struggled to claim as himself. Refused to claim, rather.

Koen lethargically made his way across the hallway and down the steps, keeping his eyes trained on the floor so the pictures that still hung on the wall didn't taunt him. He couldn't bear to look at them, the version of himself that had once been so real, yet he couldn't bring himself to take them down either. Jesse had hung them.

With a breath, Koen held his hand to his forearm. Every day he wanted to hate. Hate the world, hate the doctor who had put all this into motion, hate the captain that would have sent him to his death. He wanted to hate the government for not seeing the end is near. He wanted to hate the cultists who tried and failed to warn the people.

He wanted to hate himself. And sometimes he almost wanted to hate Jesse.

How could he? Hate Jesse, of all people? With age may come wisdom, but with time comes bitterness and Koen had endured far too much time and not enough age.

He was one of the soldiers to receive the cure for death while deployed. Faced with two choices, Koen could only either decide to die at the hands of a bloody war or live forever to see Jesse. At the time, the general public

had just begun to have the option to receive it—at a steep price, that is, unknowing of the revelations about the accursed vial that would come out some-odd years after.

But no matter the available knowledge, Koen would've still chosen to live if he was given the opportunity again. An eternity of suffering just to be able to live as much of a life as he could with Jesse would always be a fair trade.

Maybe, just maybe, if Jesse had had the opportunity to take it too, things wouldn't be so bad. But Koen knew he never would've wanted his person to endure an eternity. In that way, Koen was beyond grateful that Jesse had never trusted the cure enough to take it. No person who now had the power to live forever wanted to.

Koen wandered his way into the kitchen and picked up a small pill container from the counter and shook it carefully in his hands. He popped open the top and dumped however many were willing to fall out into his hand, rolling the teal capsules between his fingers and palm.

Every day Koen fought with the idea that, if he had just taken the opportunity given to him and accepted the cure to life when it was first offered, he wouldn’t be stuck here. But he knew why he didn't, and why he never would if he had to live his life all over again.

He couldn't have just died and left Jesse for however many waking years his person had left. So, Koen chose to live in the abandoned world with his love, aware that he would never be able

to take back his decision.

Koen let the saliva in his mouth build up before bringing his palm to his lips, virtually swallowing the smooth capsules dry. After so many empty years, a man learns a trick or two.

He had only begun taking the hallucinogen pills after Jesse passed, as he never endorsed drugs in his lifetime. But now… now Koen didn't consider his existence to still be a part of his ‘lifetime.’ That had ended when he had to carry the body of his person through the desolate streets and bury it alone. There was not a minute after that Koen still considered his life.

This was his never-ending purgatory. One that he and the few other forsaken souls that remained were forced to endure alone.

Koen leaned his weight onto the marble counter, closing his eyes as the pills ate away at his empty stomach, their strong contents breaking down painfully as he absorbed them. He let himself sit down, groaning a raspy breath as the pain subsided and his limbs began to tingle.

The world blurred and slanted as his reality shifted. He held his knees tight to himself, yet all the same, the crescendo of sounds and sensations made him feel powerless. The whirling of shapes and colors disoriented him, and before he knew it, he rested on his back, staring up at the ceiling as he waited for the delusions to settle.

The painfully familiar voice called from just beyond the walls and Koen glanced around from his place on the floor. The rusted metal hinges and worn wood of the nearby cabinets were distorted, flickering between a psychedelically bright version of themselves and reality.

“Why are you on the floor?”

The voice traveled ever closer and Koen turned his head towards the kitchen entrance where he watched the red and green blur of the Christmas socks that Jesse wore nearly every day step towards him.

“I couldn't tell you, love.”

The figure stooped beside Koen's head, letting out a low breath as it leaned against the leg of the kitchen table.

“You know, it’s okay to not be quite okay.”

“Whatever could you mean?”

“After a while, these things don't produce the illusions you'd want, my love.”

Koen tilted his head, letting his neck relax as his cheek squished into the cool, hard floor. It was true. After so many years, the drugs wore down the mind to the point that their effects were hardly as vibrant as they once were. The teal pills that once brought him back to the perfect world only

granted him the blurred edges of past memories now.

“But I can still get to feel your presence, Jesse. That's more than enough.”

“Even when you're doomed to wake up and remember you're alone.”

“Not now, Jesse.”

Koen brought his hand to his eyes as he let out a breath. Even in a fabricated reality, Jesse always had to be the pessimistic realist. All the same, Koen relished in the sensation of his person, even if he knew none of it was real. Even if he knew it was just recycled memories. Even if he knew it would slip through his fingers like grains of sand when the time came.

And so, he let himself lay alone on the kitchen floor, savoring the delusions while they lasted.

~

T he scuttling sensation across his skin was what finally woke Koen from his dazed state. He jerked up, batting the unidentified creature off his leg in the dark. Hours had passed, and the day had been wasted away, just like all the others.

Koen hauled himself up from his place on the hard floor, his muscles sore and stiff as he clung to the counter for support. He drearily wobbled to the sink

and flicked the faucet on, bringing his mouth to the tinted well water. After a moment of drinking, he heaved, the empty contents of his stomach splattering into the sink's basin. It was a dry and burning sensation as the combination of stomach acid and drug residue scraped at his throat.

“Bloody hell,” Koen rasped, his voice wavering as he bit back tears. His hands clenched the metallic edge of the sink, trying desperately to stop his arms from shaking.

His days were spent trapped in this despicable cycle. Nothing had meaning to his wornout mind as, with each passing moment, he felt himself slip away all the more. It hurt him inexplicably to know that he'd be forced to watch the person in the mirror, the person that Jesse had once loved, crumble away into nothing but bleary memories. All the while, Koen's husk of a body would continue to wander the world, forcing his mind to stay alive, whether or not it was truly living.

At the end of the day, when dusk becomes incomprehensible from dawn, the fact that humans are social creatures dooms them to be lonely ones as well. When left to themselves, there is nothing to hold their identity together, so they crumble.

Until there’s nothing left but reticent memories in a garden of corpses.

No Accident

Anya Koshy

It was early in the morning. I didn't know the time, but knew it was before six because I didn’t want to be up. Suddenly, there was a noise, which didn’t sound distant—instead, closer to me. I then realized it wasn’t any ordinary sound. It was the same sound I heard almost every day at six in the morning. I hit stop on my alarm—it took me a second—but at least the ringing in my head was over. All of a sudden, my mom walked in.

“You have a two-hour delay,” she said as she walked out of my doorway.

“Okay, sounds good."’

And when she said that, I was elated. I was clearly not a morning person. I set a new alarm on my phone and went right back to sleep. What I thought was five minutes became an hour and thirty minutes. It was time to wake up all over again. I had to hit snooze this time. On my third attempt, I finally hit the snooze button. It was easier to roll out of bed this time.

I got ready for school and went downstairs to eat breakfast. As I went down the stairs, I could smell the bacon and eggs. My mom always made breakfast when she felt like there was time, and it was good for today. I peered through the frosted window and saw all the snow on the ground. After I finished breakfast, I picked up my bag, grabbed the keys off the counter, and walked out the front door. My car took a second to start because it had been sitting outside in the cold all night. I was about to pull out, but the first thing I noticed was the shiny pavement of the driveway. I slowly pulled out of the driveway and left the house.

The drive was thirty minutes long since I went to a private school. So, like always, I turned on the radio. I wanted to listen to the news to hear any updates on the snow. The radio also took a second to start. It started back up at the perfect timing. The song had just ended. Which meant that Neil and Marga would come on. They started talking about the usual—jokes, last night’s game stats in Boston, national news, and finally… the weather updates.

“Around 7:15 this morning, a tractor-trailer was driving recklessly, and about five or six cars went with it,” Marga said abruptly.

Death Tastes

Like Strawberry

Aleah Ryan

Rainwater fell over shadowed alleyways, washing the dust and grime of the day down the gutters and eventually into withered grass patches. Even through the dreary drizzle, the sun swept its way across the quiet town, forcing its warmth onto the place that relished in its frost-bladed winds. It was still.

Cloth sneakers soaked through with run-off and arms weighed down with a water-logged hoodie forced him to remember where he was. He shook out his hair and rubbed the rain from his glasses before turning to climb down the fire escape, his fingers painfully gripping the slippery bars. Every missed step filled the empty air with the sharp pang of bone striking metal, but he was much too rushed to care, not even taking the time to bother letting his usual fears of falling reach him.

He grappled for breath as he reached the ground, stumbling briefly as he turned and rushed down the side streets, going opposite the downward flow of the water. Even as his hands slammed into the asphalt and the red of his blood was carried away on the filthy current; he sucked in whatever damp air he could with a strained hiss and continued.

His hands came to his knees as he turned to stand before the blind alley between two empty buildings. That’s where it faced him.

Death, in all of its indomitability, ruled this tiny part of his world.

He crept up to it, starting slowly, then throwing himself at its hollow figure. For something so terrifyingly irreversible, he couldn’t help but grip its small porcelain hands, feeling how the poor fingers froze in this weather. He couldn’t stop himself from drawing his own chilled palms over its pale skin, pushing back its red hair that fell aimlessly around its shoulders. He couldn’t bite back the wavering exhale as he scooped up death itself into his arms and held it close to his chest.

A nd so he sat there, gripping death in his arms as if to do nothing more than spite it, rocking slowly back and forth. As he waited under the drizzle in the shadow of the dirty alleyway, he brought death’s paling lips to his own and crumpled there with it. It was then, as the bruises set in on his body and the blood pooled with no life in hers, that he realized something.

Death had the sweet taste of strawberry chapstick; a flavor that would certainly linger.

The Blue Room

Joshua Lamparelli

I entered the room and a musty salty smell overtook my senses. The room itself was filled with beautiful gold trim which glistened due to the pale light coming through the window. But as my eyes darted around the room, nothing stood out to me more than the most minute detail: a deep shade of blue which reminded me of memories long ago, when I was just a boy. The longer I gazed, the more I started to fall into memory.

T here I stood, on a warm beach blanketed with vibrant yellow sand that seemed to stretch for miles. The ocean shone brilliantly like the most unfathomable sapphire stretching as far as the eye could see, its beauty incomparable to any amount of riches in the world. But on a day like today, even a place of such angelic beauty could feel so cold and inhospitable. Today was a day of mourning, but everyone kept telling me it was a day of remembrance. I grabbed the urn from my mother because it was his dying wish for me to spread his ashes in his final resting place. This place was his favorite. Our favorite. I tried to stay stern, but I felt a single salty tear drip past the floodgates and run into my mouth. The world's saddest stream was dried in a matter of seconds as I flung the final remnants of my best friend around the most gorgeous, peaceful place on earth.

I squirmed as I felt my eyes watering up. I fought to dispel the urge. I needed to stay stoic for his mother's sake. It had seemed like the world was against me that week; every day without him had started to feel more and more like my last. But hopefully now, with closure, things would get a little easier. But things had to be fine for me. I needed to be the shoulder his mother could lean on. I dropped to my knees and put my head towards the ash as I whispered my final message to a friend I lost too soon.

“I’ll take care of her, Jerry. I promise.”

I was barely able to whimper out this message before feeling my composure crack. That’s when I felt a hand on my shoulder snapping me back into the moment.

“You okay?” a voice said behind me.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. I just needed to say goodbye.”

I t urned to see who had addressed me. It was a tall man with white snowy hair, a jolly yet stern expression covering his face.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” I said, breaking our silent observance of each other.

“ No, I don’t believe we have, but I’ve heard all about you, James. I am excited to finally meet you; Jerry did nothing but speak of you.” My eyes stared back blankly at him with what I assumed was a pondering look. “I am Jerry’s grandfather, Charles,” he stated, breaking my silent inquiry. He stuck out his hand.

I reached out and shook his hand. With not even another glance exchanged, he turned and strolled away towards some other guests to make conversation. This struck me as odd because Jerry was always an open book to me, but he mentioned how his grandparents had passed away when he was young. I found it odd why he wouldn’t tell me about Charles, but I tried to forget it and put it to the back of my mind. With that, my despair returned. We had so much planned together. My birthday was coming up; we had great plans for my 17th birthday. We were going to go fishing and surfing all day in this very spot where he is resting now. I wish I got to see him one more time, one last time, but by the sound of the accident, I didn’t want to see him like that. It was a brutal car accident a week prior. I was told that his brakes failed, which caused him to crash into power lines. There was a gas leak, and boom.

“Sweetie,” I heard behind me. I turned to see Jerry’s mom, Ms. Martin.

“Yes?” I replied with a sturdy expression.

“It’s time to go,” she said with a sense of comfort in her voice.

With that, we climbed into my 2014 gray Jeep Liberty and headed back to the last place I saw Jerry before he passed his house.

“He left something for you,” Ms. Martin stated. “He told me that, if he ever went, to give this to you.”

Hearing this, I was curious and pondered my entire way on the drive back to her house. I pulled into their driveway. It was always difficult given its minute size and thinness. I never could understand why an architect would ever design such a driveway. But that was of no importance. At that moment, I was pressed to see what he had left me. I walked over to the passenger side and opened the door for Ms. Martin, then bounded up the steps, opening the front door to be greeted by Rover, the family dog.

Rover was a brown mutt—a larger dog, probably around eighty pounds. Even a jubilant young pup like himself was sulking on such a sad day. It was almost as if he, too, had truly said goodbye to his best friend today as well. I patted him on his back as I stepped by. I saw Ms. Martin had stepped into the doorway with my peripheral vision.

I opened my mouth to speak but was interrupted by the barely audible sound of a duck quacking. She shushed me as she picked up the phone. She motioned for me to leave, but not before handing me a book. I didn’t recognize its softly worn green cover with a faint yellow star in the middle. I had no clue as to why he would leave it to me, or what it was. I nodded a thank-you and hugged her as I left. I marched down the steps and climbed into my Jeep. I sat down and, before I left, opened the book.

W hat I saw shocked me. The very first words on the page were “Dear Journal,” followed by 8/19/20. This was his diary. I proceeded to turn the slightly worn yellow pages to the last one, the day before he died, and read.

Dear Journal,

Today was a wonderful day. I went surfing with James and got ice cream with my mother afterward. I was really happy because I finally got my brakes fixed.

T hat’s all for today,

Jerry

WORLD BREAKER

Bellum

Anshul Rastogi

He awaits the chaos of the world with bated breath. T he berth of stillness cradles the cosmos beneath a darkling horizon. Fleets rove amid the inky brink of space in quiet wait, watching from just beyond reach. He turns his gaze upward, into the cavernous silence, as streaks of fire carve friction trails through the rusty pall of the dusk sky. Iron Titans – war machines of death and metal – descend like angels of destruction riding upon wings of flame, hurtled from the churning stomachs of monolithic dreadnoughts in orbit. Shadowless and distant, they outrace the speed of their own sound as they rip through the atmosphere. On three spheres have they waged war and three spheres have they conquered. They come now to deliver the final outcry of The Last Solar War like infernal heralds of some unbidden judgment.

He only wonders if there will be anyone left to hear it.

A dull ache sets into his heart at the sight. Exhaustion drums his bones like an old litany so familiar that it stings to recite, yet so ingrained into the soul that one cannot bring themselves to let it go. His shoulders bore the burden of shattered empires, once. Now only the perpetual visage of empty eyes and grim deeds haunts what remains of his dreams and nightmares. He watches, quietly, as the Iron Titans follow the southbound arc of gravity’s yearning tug before glinting to silence and kissing the dusky horizon over the sea. At his feet, the coastline ebbs to the rhythm of his breath. In and out it goes, the foamy saline sloshing around tainted war boots. It is the heartbeat of his silence.

He presses his eyes closed. The taste of the Carthian ocean lingers on his tongue, reminding him of the seas of Mars before war and atomics made a scorched radioactive desert of its surface. The face of his son lingers beneath his eyelids like an unforgotten specter. I will be home, he vows. Wait for me. Your father will be home. Until then, endure.

CARTHUS

She is a gargantuan marble wreathed in milky white strips of cloud. Her nighttime surface swirls with aquamarine oceans and pristine green continents glittering with the neon lights of still-awake cities huddled in the darkness. Her blue star, bright and young, crests her daytime side like a flaring crescent.

She was a hostile world, once; seven centuries ago, her countenance was a weeping rictus of bitter heat and unending calderas amid boiling seas. Then Man arrived – first as a roving explorer, then as a dedicated terraformer – and brought with him the ice carved from her planetary siblings and the liquid oxygen drunk from the atmospheres of gas giants. His planet-crackers plucked from the young world twin fistfuls of rock and fashioned them into her two moons, infant children cast into their mother’s orbit to tame her all-too-fast fifteenhour spin and to slow her days. He sowed into the world the seed of life – genetically engineered flora and fauna meticulously designed to construct an exact, stable ecosystem and microbes that decomposed the vaporous sulfur and methane clouds to create ozone and breathable oxygen. Then, gradually and inevitably, came the colony ships, carrying the pioneers of this planetary system. First in the hundreds, then in the thousands, and then in the millions.

She is now home to a vast sector of the human race. Her shores are cornucopias of wildlife, her lungs the belt of rainforests stretched across her equator. The long, distended supercontinent of Aldaria yawns lazily across the eastern hemisphere, tapering across her side like a birthmark until it ends in a tattered string of archipelagos. Her grasses and trees are the bountiful imitations of the life that once claimed the soils of Man’s homeworld, Old Earth. In the span of half a millennia – barely a fleeting heartbeat to her – he molded the surface to his desire, a precise perfection to suit his imperfect race. His designs are the ambitions of a species and his fingers are the instruments of cosmic change.

And now, he returns to reclaim the gifts he had once bestowed.

Fleets of warships cocoon her atmosphere from high orbit like a murmuration of iron wasps, coiling like snares as they prepare to unleash orchestral violence upon the surface. Juggernauts such as these once brought civilization to her shores, before their colony pods were traded for cannons built to crack the mantle of moons. In twenty hours, they will scorch the planet clean of sentient life. Centuries of progress will become molten rubble. She was the tenth world beyond Man’s home system to be terraformed in full. She only fears that she may be last.

THE WORLDKILLER

It descends upon the city, at first as nothing more than a mote of fiery light streaking toward the surface from orbit. A falling star, those below will think at first. Then about a dozen of its brothers join it all across the sky with artificial, uniform spacing, riding the orchestral thunder of a hundred sonic booms, and reality will dawn.

Atomics have come to Luminor, City of A Thousand Spires, and they carry in their fuselages the vials of annihilation.

The first of the Worldkillers lands in the distance, perhaps some fifty kilometers away from the city. Light seems to stutter, then erupt as the epicenter of the explosion roars with a fiery radiance that could flash-blind the naked eye. The fireball expands from Ground Zero, a shockwave racing ahead to tear skyscrapers and rupture eardrums. It sounds like the last shout of a dying god. Edifices crumple and sink like towers of papier-mâché being crushed by some invisible, careless giant. Rubble the size of glacial boulders is flung outward. Then the fireball at the center of it all collapses downwards and sideways and Luminor disappears in a sheet of pure sun. In three seconds, the megacity becomes a molten, charred scar beneath the plume of a titanic mushroom cloud. Twelve million threads of life are clipped short in an instant. The radioactive fallout will claim millions more.

THE SOLDIER

He sits in the deployment bay with the rest of his de-

cade, awaiting the death that is the fury of the battleground.

All is silent but the arrhythmic heartbeat of the engine as their ship – The Solace of 613451 – hurtles through the Carthian atmosphere. The chemical reek of protein cubes and armor polish mixes with the lingering stink of unwashed sweat. Around them, the cramped corridors of the ship seem to press inward like the walls of some claustrophobic metal tomb. Their helms and pauldrons lie thick with spray-painted pigments, a menagerie of desaturated hues telling the tale of countless curses, dreams, and aspirations etched onto cold metal.

Home. He only wants to be home. He still remembers, if only faintly – cool breezes sweeping the grassy green hills under summer twilight. Moonpetals blooming under a brisk springtime sunrise. Watching birds flitting through the trees. His fingers pressed into the damp earth, back when they were still delicate and nimble things. Back before…all this.

It feels so distant, now, as though it happened to another soul. He remembers a family – the crystal laughter of a delighted mother, the caress of a proud father. He longs to just be that child again, cradled in the arms of safety. Of security. He wonders where his mother and father are now. Dead? Ailing? Or still standing expectantly by the door every day, waiting for a son who’d never return?

He is a soldier now, he tells himself, but beneath the fragile shell, his spirit still feels like a boy’s – lost, fragmented, and swept up into the chaotic storm of screaming metal and death. He is afraid, but he does not say it. He is not prepared to die. But then again, is anyone ever?

WORLDBREAKER

He lies in the abyss of darkness. Of his power armor, all faculties have failed, save the broad-line comms. It is some divine irony; only a thousand discordant moans of pain crowd the channel, eroded by the static of enemy jamming tech, the voices persisting as if to mock him. To haunt him. To accuse him. Why had he led them here?

They had given him their faith. Their dying breaths.

And now a thousand of his men lie dead in the scorched soil for all but naught.

The man-killing shell of metal encases him like some steel sarcophagus as it lies defunct, the dead oculars leaving him blind. With the respirators gone, he will suffocate to death in his helm. He almost wants to let it happen. He was made for this, wasn’t he? A genecoded weapon born in a lab to be spent in battle like a thoroughbred warhorse.

He is tired. So tired. His arms hang from his shoulders, almost torn from their sockets. He tastes blood on his lips and feels more trickling out from the spike of pain in his side. Only a promise keeps him breathing.

My son, he remembers. I will return. He forces a wavering hand upward to press the emergency release clasp. With a hiss of pressurized air, his helmet unclamps, the metal seams parting as interconnected plates fold away on slackened hinges. The brisk, blood-tainted breeze rushes in to assail his nostrils. The vault of the sky, pale and bright, gazes back down at him as he squints dimly at the blue sun above. Tears prick his eyes at the abrupt influx of light. He

lies there, on his back, amid the strewn corpses of his men and the metal intestines of felled Iron Titans. Slowly, he staggers to his feet, torn sinew screaming against half a ton of brutish muscle, splintered bone, and dead armor. In the distance, a medic ship wails through the sky. Twin contrails streak after the pinprick of glinting metal. He smiles feebly. Son, he thinks. I may just see you yet.

Sensing his movement, some remnants of a mauled Iron Titan’s neuromorphic targeting system awaken behind him. A cannon strung to it by torn, strangled wire adjusts its aim, swiveling on impaired gyroscopes.

He pivots around to the sound of whirring motors, gauntleted hand reaching for his telehaptic pulsegun, and finds himself facing down the nanocomposite barrel of an Iron Titan. It shoots him in the head.

Author’s Note: This piece was completed for a short story assignment in Creative Writing 1.

Find Me

Aleah Ryan

“Let their lost beauty be painted in the broken sky to reflect our shattered hearts.”

The brilliant pastels of the aether as the sun crashes into its throne room of the sky. The deep tones as it is forced out of its position. Places such as these are often where people look to find the ones they miss the most. They take pictures of the pretty clouds as they seem to add to the painting that they believe was created oh-so-very-carefully in the name of the fallen. It's a poetic peace—

to have your memories splattered overhead so that those who claim to have held you so dearly can believe you’re close to them every morning and night.

I don’t want anyone to look for me there when I’m gone. I’d much rather be left as I lived; not looked for at all. But if I had to promise a place where I could be found— it’d be in the wind.

Any wind would do, but… specifically the eerily comforting breeze in the dead of night. The breath of air that rustles the silence. Please, darling, let my cool fingers tug at the hems of your hoodie as we wander the woods together. Let me talk forever in the whispers of the leaves because only God knows I refused to shut up while I was alive. Sit and listen to my muffled wails as a night storm rages outside your window because I could never bring myself to cry before you back then. Dance with me in the fields and on the rooftops because that is the closest thing to freedom earthlybound souls such as ourselves could ever stumble upon.

And when my zephyr subsides, leave any thought of me behind with it.

For not even the wind could blow on forever.

The Amusement Park

Susan J. O.

As we were driving down the highway my stomach growled with excitement. As I glanced over to the driver, I felt a sense of safety. This was our first trip as a couple. We’ve only been dating for 6 months. It took us months to make the plan, and it finally happened. The sun was setting on the ride to the amusement park. The clouds gave off a warm orange with a hint of coral pink. As he drove, he held my hand the whole way. His fingers wrapped mine in a soft gentle way to show that I was safe with him. As we got closer, I started to dance in my seat, wiggling with joy like I was a little kid. We pulled into the parking lot and obtained a spot in the back. As we got out of the car, I felt the kiss of Jack Frost on my face. It was the middle of October, almost Halloween. I could feel the amusement park pulling me in with joy. I grabbed my boyfriend's arm and pulled him in closer as we walked to the ticket booth. The lines were long, filled with kids and adults awaiting the seduction of the amusement park.

It was dark and gloomy, with a contrast of the warm lights coloring sky. We finally entered the park hand-in-hand, jumping with glee. The leaves lay perfectly on the amusement park rides, waiting to get blown away by the sounds of screams. There were people dressed up in costumes to try to scare us, but

we weren’t scared—we were amused. I glanced over to the right and saw the octopus ride I’ve always rode as a kid. I rushed over to the octopus ride to get our place in line. As we were waiting in line, I couldn’t hold my excitement. I was going to explode with the amount of happiness I had. I hope he did too. I turned to him, babbling about my memories here, and he just looked back at me with a soft look. I thought at that moment that maybe, maybe this might be real. We climbed onto the ride and he sat on the outside protecting me from getting crushed. He pulled me in close making sure I was in his arms and making sure I was safe. As we got off the ride, we were drunk from the spinning of the amusement ride. We tried walking to the car rides, but failed and had to sit down. After we walked over to the car rides, we sat in the cars and just talked about our future. As the night got darker and colder, we went through the haunted houses. Every scare and scream brought us closer to holding each other tighter. I felt happy. For our last ride, we rode the ferris wheel, and the amusement park was coming to a close. As we got to the top I’ve never felt more on top of the world. I looked at him with the same eyes a girl looks at her dad and I knew that I was always going to be safe with him.

Summer

Addie Elizabeth Haas

As I opened my eyes, the bright sun shot through my window. Annoyed, I threw my comforter over my head, not wanting to get up. I felt completely unmotivated until I remembered it was the first day of summer. No more stress – I finally got to live life. Summer’s my favorite because it’s when I’m at my best. It radiates positive energy and calmness through the vibrant skies. The trees are no longer begging for the sun; they’re full and bright green. One of my favorite things to do is go for a drive and blast my favorite music with the windows down in my car. I feel as if each day has something fun I’m able to do and I have

MOMENTS

an abundance of time. Tan skin, rosy cheeks, and freckles appear on my skin after swimming in the hot sun all day. At night, there is the sound of the crackling fire while I try to get a perfectly roasted s’more. The sparks crackle into the air, almost falling onto my t-shirt. Around the fire, my brothers make jokes that make my mom and I laugh. Nothing but happiness surrounds the atmosphere. Not only do I feel more alive during this time, but it seems like society does, too. Restaurants are crowded with outdoor seating, more people are involved with outdoor activities, and everyone’s out on a body of water.

The Job G.Z.

T he warm rays of the beaming sun flashed down through the wide windows. The feeling of the sun touching my face had always felt good, though it did partially blind me as I tried to work. I had forgotten how busy it would become when it wasn’t the cold and bitter months of the year. School was out, people had more time. Well, more specifically, kids. And they were always hungry. I always knew our food was good. However, for some reason, in the three months of the year when it’s warmest, people would flock to get our warm and piquant slow-smoked barbecue. It didn’t matter who it was—could be a group of blue-collar workers, Nascar pit crews, or Chris Sununu—the juicy, flavorful, smoked ringed meat would captivate everyone and anyone. It wasn’t that people didn’t stop in during the frigid seasons, but

less people than summer would ever attract. Perhaps it was the melancholy weather along with the hushed dark nights that tampered with people's minds, pushing them away. The nostalgic smell of oak wood burning gradually filled my nose once again. Glancing over at my manager unloading the smoker, lost in my mind, almost forgetting I was at work thou“Hello?” I snapped my head abruptly over to the girl from which the sound came. Was she talking to me?

“Hello?” Awkwardly, we made eye contact as I squinted my eyes in her direction. Luckily my manager stepped in, failing to realize that she was trying to talk to me. I felt a drop of sweat slowly roll down my forehead like sap coming out of a tree. This was going to be a long few months.

Time's Proem

Aleah Ryan

In the beginning, there was everything, yet nothing at all. The land had no beginning and no end, stretching on for as long as eternity would let it. The tall wheatgrass swayed in the steady wind to no end, relishing in the peace, while the mountains that edged the unattainable distance stood unphased by time because time was not a thing that existed. How could it?

T here were no humans to invent such a wasteful thing.

T here was nothing but the wheatgrass, the mountains, two deities and one creature.

T he Sun, trapped in her place in the West, and the Moon trapped in hers in the East. Though these deities may have existed for as long as the grass and the mountains, they were not the creators of this land. That “immortal” being had long since perished in the creation of this eternal place, their right hand becoming the Sun and their left becoming the Moon while their body remained the dirt, their existence channelled into the only thing that lived: the grass.

The land was a beautiful corpse.

T his world was one of twilight because the Sun and Moon could not move, their lives a boring punishment as they watched nothing but the grass sway beneath their gaze. However, from the dead titan's heart rose a strange creature. Small, frail, insignificant. All the same, any life that wasn't just simple grass in the prepossessing yet painfully empty land was intriguing to the deities.

A child. With pure blue and green eyes and honey skin, it grew from the grass and came to sit in the very center of the ever-stretching land. It was just as stunning as this timeless world, however; it was just a child.

T he Sun took interest in this strange creature and called out to it. She did this until the child gave her a name, Yoake, and would speak to her to no end. The Moon couldn't bear to see her sister in the West enjoy the presence of this strange gift alone, so she too called out to the child until she too

received a name, Yuugure, and they would converse to no end. There was no time, so the child could speak forever as she wandered the endless expanse this world had to offer, and the deities could listen for even longer.

Eventually, Yoake invited the child to live beneath her and only her. To bask in her warmth, so they could speak to one another clearly without the space of infinity between them. All she would have to do was follow the warm breeze from the West.

As the child began to wander into the breeze, Yuugure begged for her to stay. To live under her instead, so they could speak forever. All she had to do was follow the cool breeze from the East.

T he stupid child became confused. How could it choose between its sisters that dwelled in the sky? Either seemed like a terrible decision.

If she went to Yuugure, Yoake would rip herself from her point in the aether. Kill herself so the land would lose its balance and be plunged into a frosty night.

If she went to Yoake, Yuugure would drag herself from her peace. Kill herself so the land would lose its balance and be forced into a blistering day.

Either way, the wheatgrass would die. So, the vacuous creature returned to the middle of the land where it would be an equal distance from both Yoake and Yuugure. A place where it could hardly hear either of the deities. The only clear sound was the constant rustling of the wheatgrass.

In irritation, Yoake blistered her light brighter, forcing the child to witness her in an attempt to get it to return to her. Surely the child would respond once she saw how brightly Yoake shined.

Similarly, Yuugure blew her wind ever harder, carrying her voice on the wind and in the grass's rustling, hoping the child would wish to return to her.

T he child hated seeing the light of the friend it could not truly see and hearing the voice of the friend it could no longer truly speak with, so it did the one thing it could think to do. It stabbed its ears through with the wheatgrass till blood dribbled down its neck and it could no longer hear. Then it carved out its eyes with the grass ends until blood poured down its face and it could no longer see.

The child died in its dark silence while Yoake and Yuugure could do nothing but watch.

It was a horrifying experience for both the deities, as they had never even seen the death of a blade of grass, much less the gruesome suicide of the only thing in this world they could speak with. Because time did not pass, the child's body never faded. The blood never dried. Yet the wheatgrass continued to sway around it.

Silence filled the land as Yoake dimmed her light and Yuugure ceased her wind.

Eventually, they decided the eternal world wasn't only their punishment. It wasn't just their prison. Because, to them, it was no longer the beautiful corpse of the titan. Rather, it was their very own hell. A hell of the gods.

T hey couldn't bear to remain in the forsaken world, to stare at the child they had driven to death, but they did not have the power to leave. There was nothing else for them to turn to.

So Yuugure and Yoake wept.

From their divine tears, a new pool formed. From that pool came many dead worlds and treacherous stars. One world especially caught the deities' attention. One of a limited shape. One that knew not eternity. A place that endured time.

It was a pure green and blue, and its sands and dirt were a warm honey tone. A new child.

T hough not quite the same, Yoake and Yuugure agreed to treat this child better.

T hey shared this world but did not speak to it. Still trapped in the hell of the gods, Yoake and Yuugure revealed themselves in turn to the child, back and forth, all the while carefully changing their appearances from the dazzling bodies of deities to mere orbs in the child's eyes.

T his child was not trapped in an eternal inbetween. Rather, it experienced a day and a night. From these days and nights, grass grew and spread in this new world. From the grass came many creatures, even some that were similar to the true child. But none of them were nearly as beautiful. None of them were worth speaking to. So the gods remained silent in their hell, watching this new world unfold and grow. Yet they still remembered to remain distant. The body of the true child, their child, reminded them of that.

A nd so, the gods protected this new world from the curse of eternity with the bonds of time.

Author’s Note: This was a short story submitted for a World Literature Honors assignment in which we had to make a creation story after reading examples of similar myths from all around the world.

(Color Study) Anshul Rastogi

The Creation of Arulea

A Billows of Wrath and Betrayal Story

Sophia Collie

I n the beginning, water was all there was. The still, lifeless ocean was colorless on the surface and unmoving, but below, in the depths of the sea, a whisper of purple smoke slowly grew into a cloud layer across the entire floor. The smoke eventually floated its way to the surface. It gathered itself and morphed into a figure with two arms and two legs.

T he violet goddess wiggled her fingers, testing their mobility. Once she was situated in her new form, Errasith looked down at the water she had originated from. The goddess frowned, disappointed by the dullness of her domain. With a flourish of both hands, she illuminated the darkness, filling the water with hues of blue, purple, and magenta. The energy thrummed through the sea, a quiet yet constant buzzing that would go unnoticed by most.

W hile happy with what she had just done, Errasith was not yet content with her new world. She looked around where she stood, floating slightly above the water's surface. The goddess thought about creating land for others, as she was lonely. She would make them complete opposites, to celebrate the individuality of everything she would bring to life.

Errasith raised the first island from the depths of the sea with a simple upward motion. Gliding toward it, she knelt to touch the water surrounding her island. This one would have a warm tropical climate, with sunny skies and humid temperatures. Its people would be peaceloving and kind to all.

T his island will be called Kellani.

Errasith floated North until Kellani was merely a speck in the distance before pausing. This is where she would create her next island. Once again, Errasith raised the island from the depths of the water. She bent down once more to bestow its characteristics. This island would be a tundra, where ice and snow stayed all year long. The energy she had placed in the water would allow the climate to be vastly different from that

of the previous island. It would be full of honest and hardworking people. This island will be called Hashel.

T he goddess then traveled Southeast planning to place her final island equally distanced from the other two, forming a triangle. Errasith started her journey, but an uneasy sense washed over her once she had gone a distance. It would appear that the water which she had risen from had another smoke layer over it. However, this time, it was red and ominous.

T he smoke collected as Errasith had, into a figure similar to her, but different. This figure had sharper angles and gave the goddess an uncomfortable sense of fear. Tarsalor was a lurid red shade and when he flicked his hand, thunder clapped and a lightning bolt struck from not far away.

Errasith understood the god’s silent request for his own island, so she allowed it, unaware of the grave mistake she would be making. Nonetheless, the goddess watched as Tarsalor created his island in a manner similar to the way she created her own. He raised it from the water’s depths and touched the surrounding water to give the island its attributes. Darcelon.

He silently told the goddess the word, the roots of which meaning ‘do not disturb.’ Errasith would obey Tarsalor’s request to leave his island in peace, though she could already sense the evil. The goddess glided to the center of the trinity of islands that Arulea was comprised of and created a ball of light that would light the days and a dimmer one for the night.

This new island created by Tarsalor would be a deciduous environment, with mild temperatures and mighty trees. Its people would be brutal, troublesome folk that would lead impure lives. Errasith, however, silently knew to accept it because deep down she understood its purpose in her precious realm of Arulea.

The darkness must always exist, for there cannot be light without the presence of dark. This island would be called Darcelon. It is not to be disturbed.

Author’s Note: This piece is the story of the creation of a fictional world from a longer piece.

Acknowledgements

In crafting this magazine, The Fine Line Club would like to express its gratitude to the following individuals:

Mrs. Michele Alafat, for advising the club, guiding club meetings, and for her tireless work in creating the entire magazine in Indesign;

Mrs. Peggy Sica, for strongly encouraging students in both semesters of her Creative Writing I classes to submit writing to the magazine;

And, finally, the Bishop Brady High School community for sharing its creativity and remaining inspired!

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Bishop Brady Postcard Vaibhav Rastogi