The Gold Mine 2021

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Cover Photo Art: The Last Bright Light The Last Bright Light can be relatable to people. The subject matter is based off families having to deal with the mortality of a family member who is already on borrowed time. This artwork is centered around terminal cancer and toxic familial relationships.

The trees represent living individuals. The tree in the center has fallen and is on the verge of death because the roots are exposed, and it is no longer receiving nutrients to sustain it and the lit candle on the ground symbolizes life and is struggling to stay lit as an unknown force tries to blow it out. The tree on the far left represents a toxic familial relationship, represented by the carnivorous plants, and the tree feeds lies to keep other individuals away and to keep other individuals from knowing the truth about the tree losing its battle with cancer. The broken tree, represents a broken person who is trying to stand up to the tree with the carnivorous plants to release the fallen tree from its manipulative grasp and to salvage what little time is left to get the fallen tree the help it needs.

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Table of Contents Section One: Poetry 5. Chasing Skies of Blue Loneliness A Journey through the heart of depression

Thomas Juarez

6. Abuela: Proverbs 31

Isabel Rosales

7. Dwelling Place

Isabel Rosales

8. Faithful

Isabel Rosales

Section Two: Art 10. Lulling Deceit

Michele Pierce

12. Bend Don’t Break

Luena Comas

14. The Battle

Luena Comas

Section Three: Non-Fiction 17. Bandit the Schnauzer

Brittany Wolfe

Section Four: Flash Fiction 19. One

Thomas Juarez

21. Death Arrives

Calista Young

Section Five: Short Stories 23. The Girl Next Door

Heather Mckayla Wylie

30. The Monster Under the Bed

Heather Mckayla Wylie

35. The Darkest Winter

Tiffany Estes

46. Chasing Tomorrow

Heather Mckayla Wylie

Acknowledgments

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Section One: Poetry

Chasing Skies of Blue Loneliness A journey through the heart of depression

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By Thomas Juarez Chasing skies of blue loneliness, abandoning all thoughts resemblant of love.

I have chosen to dwell here. Despondent, alone, devoid of all emotion save sorrow.

Hurry along now. Wait not for me, I wish to be alone, so that I may weep, alone.

Trudging through swamps of black waters. They appear lifeless, as does my soul.

Engulfed within dark and stale torrents, I search for isolation. It is that which I seek.

Fear not for me. I am numb and, should ripple or wave fashion beast, I will feel no pain.

Hiking through mountains of solid rock, a pebble do I see. A single, solitary pebble, alone as am I. Pausing through moments of eternity, the pebble and I immix, from a distance, from afar.

I halt my advance. Isolated, as am I, alone it must remain. Remain alone, remain safe.

Chasing skies blue of loneliness, sunshine serenades my heart, igniting fires deep within my soul.

Alive, alert, awake. Ready for the world. Eager am I, to live, to love, to give. Will you not stay?

I beseech you, stay here, with me. Together we are one. One people, one spirit, one will, to go on.

Abuela Proverbs 31

By Isabel Rosales

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She is. far more precious than jewels.

She rises before the sun Beginning her day helping everyone.

Cooking huevos rancheros with tortillas by hand On the table is café con azúcar with pan dulce, from the panderia down the street.

Her flame never flickers against wind. She prays to God constantly praising His name.

“Gracias Dios por me vida Ayúdame a ayudar a otros. Alabanzas DiosGod thank you for my life. Help me to help others. Praise God” She tended her garden full of lime and lemon trees, tomato plants, and a guava tree for me.

Her soft hair curly laid around her apple cheeks, as the rest laid against her lower back.

She dressed in simple clothes with little to no makeup, but always beautiful.

Carried by strength and honor in His name. her hands touched the heavens and those less fortunate.

Wisdom flowed from her like sweet honey and milk.

Loving everyone as they were her own in her home.

One husband, two sons, a grand-daughter and grandson.

She is blessed by God and no one else.

“Many women have done noble deeds, but you surpass them all!”

She was my abuela.

Dwelling Place

By Isabel Rosales

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I believed I was a mistake.

A demon must have had fun with me.

It held on to me with gnashing teeth, a viscous obsidian tongue, and leather skin.

Its cold mutated broken body with sharp bones pierced me as it held me.

It used to whisper to me. Nothing.

“Nobody loves you” I had faith, I believed you though it felt like I could not see.

“You are ugly inside and out” Beautiful and one of a kind, incomparable.

“You are alone” I heard the cry.

“Kill yourself” I could have done it, but I didn’t.

I used to hate every single day.

I used to plan my own death and my funeral.

A demon must have had fun with me. It made a prison of my mind and body.

I felt spiritless.

I was found in a pit of darkness.

I didn’t know I could be saved. Not when I had hate.

I died for your sins knowing what you would want to do.

Everything.

I love you.

I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

My lamp is lit with an everlasting fire, my soul filled with good.

I know His name and trust in Him because He has not abandoned me.

Faithful

By Isabel Rosales

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We sat at a little coffee shop both of our faces red and puffy from the night before.

We sipped from our steamy coffee cups.

I stared at the door while you stared at the floor.

Tears were bubbling up inside and we wanted to hide but had too much pride.

She told me words I’d never forget “this isn’t what a friend does.”

I tried my best, but it was never going to be enough to mend our brokenness.

Lord You’re with me either way it goes.

We planned how things would work out from now on. I couldn’t talk to my other friends, our friends about it. I couldn’t come over to the house anymore, no more Friday dinners or sleeping over.

We both needed distance hoping it would make things better.

Yet her anger and hatred grew, and I kept trying to meet her where she was, but she kept moving away and if I stood still, she watched me with bitter eyes and turned her back to me. I cried every night missing my friend and the people we used to be.

Lord You’re with me either way it goes.

At some point I stopped trying and she stopped ripping me apart.

We both cried out to God to help us, separately. It took time, lots of time.

Then one day I needed a friend because of the mistake I was caught in. She sat and listened.

I cried and she prayed for me asking God to help me, help us.

Time has passed and sometimes we laugh, other people have come along filling our places.

Now she prays and praises God for the women he made us to be.

Lord You’re with me either way it goes.

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Section Two: Art

Lulling Deceit, by Michele Pierce Artist’s Statement: 9

Art has always been important to me, driving me to pursue my quest for self-expression.

My art delves into a whimsical world filled with color and texture, inspired by stories of truth and fiction. I strive to create intricate works that open a portal to a fanciful world where reality meets fantasy, and curiosity meets creativity.

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Bend Don’t Break: Artist’s Statement Bend but do not Break is an artwork that has a subject matter of the large changes one must make to help in aiding family or friends who are becoming disabled due to illness or injury. The tension is in the storm clouds looming in the red background. To help the family members, the cheetah and the jackal must go through thick mud to get close enough to the pheasant and the blue jay. The blue jay tries to use its wings, but they are trapped in the mud, unable to be used while the pheasant is trying to fly away but its legs are tied and bound to a log that rolls but is caught in the mud.

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The Battle Artist’s Statement: The Battle, is an artwork very personal in nature. The subject matter is about betrayal, anger, protection, and the finality of an outcome. The shriveled lemon at the top is causing an avalanche of salt and is working with the other lemon to cause destruction. The green waxy form are previous victims of the top lemon. The candles represent individuals, and one candle is standing tall and strong, burning bright with anger and unafraid of the threat from the lemon. The candle in the center has a significant amount of wax melting off on one side of the candle, representative of the anger reaching a boiling point. The flame is unstable and wild, threatening to destroy anything in its path. The smaller candle on the left is being lost in the salt as the salt begins to consume it. The flame is about to go out, but the other two candles stand firm in their attempt to protect the last candle. The red ribbons represent the maladies that the lemons are casting on the smaller candle and the central candle. The tall candle, while untouched, is willing enter the danger to protect its family of candles.

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Section Three: NonFiction

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Bandit the Schnauzer

By Brittany Wolfe Bandit is an adorable, sweet, grumpy old man but he loves his people especially the ones who give him treats, food, water and the very occasional table scrap.

Bandit also loves to play with his big bother Migo, but sometimes Migo can play a little rough with him. Bandit has three beds in the house, One in the den, One in the master bedroom, and One in the crate where he sleeps when his people leave to go to school and work, But when they return Bandit is so happy that his people are home, that he runs in circles and jumps on them and is just so excited to see his people home again after they’ve been gone for ages. Even though Bandit is small, he thinks he is a big dog, which to his humans is quite humorous but they always make sure he doesn’t put himself in harm’s way, which is not often thankfully. Another quirky thing Bandit does is that he will sit at your feet while you eat and beg for food, which I guess isn’t quirky but he uses certain ways to do it. Such as, Puppy dog eyes, Staring, and wandering away only to return and start the routine over again.

Bandit is adorable, hilarious, and a very unique schnauzer, But that’s why I love him so much and he will forever be my best friend on four legs.

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Section Four: Flash Fiction

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By Thomas Juarez Deep in thought, I begin my journey. Walking slowly, my stride is meditative. I am trapped in dream, yet awake, aware, and yes, walking. This path I travel is concealed from the world by a tidal wave of cypress trees. They whistle as they sway to and fro, celebrating the tranquility provided them by the morning breeze. My thoughts provoke stirrings as I embrace dissolution. Fully awake, an age-old question whispers within me.

“What difference can one mere mortal make?” I ask of the trees.

Spirits concealed within the rooted legs of these behemoths tense, causing the darkened soil beneath my feet to quiver. Did I say something wrong? Could they truly be listening?

Surely the relationship between human and tree goes further than the mere foolishness we’ve accepted as science, or dare I say fact. Since mankind’s humble beginnings we’ve sought refuge within the safety of their branches. As the beasts hidden in darkness faded, we lost that humble nature and began conquering our environment.

Led astray by falsehoods which fed our egos and made us feel powerful, we struck at the very creatures which so valiantly protected us. Conscious, alert, and alive. Yes, these creatures, these trees, they listen.

Beginning to believe my ramblings and submitting to this new truth, I seat myself, resting my weary shoulders against the jagged coating of bark which cloaks my nearest ally.

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“You are my ally, are you not?” I ask in whisper as I lean my head back, looking to its branches for any inkling of communiqué.

Mesmerized by branches that whisk wildly now, I cannot break my gaze.

Enraptured by visions of oneness, my gaze intensifies time and again. *** Warmth. I feel warmth. The rays of the sun invigorate my senses. I can smell the air as it passes through branch and twig and leaf.

Still, silent, and aware, I have come to inhabit the essence of my ally. I am…TREE.

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Death Arrives

By Calista Young The hospital reeked of vomit and disinfectant. Through its thick, blue walls, the reaper heard sentiments of every variety: “Pass me the scalpel” and “Clear!” rung throughout the ICU. In the waiting rooms, the reaper eavesdropped on prayers for the safety of fathers, wives, babies, and childhood friends. No one knew which prayers, if any, God would answer.

Of course, the reaper had grown accustomed to most of these sentiments. Hell, anyone would become at least somewhat desensitized to it after years of hospital visits.

Now, the prayers sounded as faded and unobtrusive as the beeping of heart monitors or the squeaking of gurney wheels. However, one sound still rattled the reaper to his core: the shaky sobbing that always followed bad news. The shear heaviness of each grieving breath caused every single bone in the reaper’s incorporeal body to ache.

Maybe it was pity, or maybe it touched him deep in the part of himself that remembered what it was like to be alive and to lose.

Unfortunately, given his line of duty, The Reaper heard that sound the most. And now, as he stood in front of Room 4, listening to the steady decline of the EKG, he braced himself to hear it again soon. In the moment the reaper arrived, he saw no medical professionals in sight: only a young man with electrodes all over to his body. A ventilator strained to keep him barely alive.

The reaper stared at the comatose patient with his head bowed. Was it a gesture of respect? Remorse? Pity, perhaps? Then, with a decisive swiftness, extended his arm, and a scythe materialized in his hand. He raised it high, and down it swung.

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Section Five: Short Stories

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The Girl Next Door

By Heather Mckayla Wylie Penny sat at the base of a beautiful flowing weeping willow. It had quickly become her favorite place in the whole world. Sneaking onto the property of the Gray family was her only source of enjoyment during the summer season. Penny surmised that as long as she didn't cause trouble it would be fine. She enjoyed having a somewhat secret spot. It made her feel daring and adventurous like the herons in her books. Maybe it wasn’t quite on that level, but it had felt that way to her.

A few weeks ago, she had gotten into a huge fight with her mother. Penny was so furious she needed to get out of the house before she said something bad.

Slamming the door behind her Penny stormed through the backyard. She walked along the fence. With each step she took a deep breath to cool her temper.

She had been walking for probably half a mile when she came to the broken part of the fence. She wasn’t sure why she had decided to climb through the fence, but she was happy she did. When she first stepped foot under the trees droopy branches, she felt like she had stepped into a fairytale world where she was the main character.

The weeping willow was on a decent-sized hill that looked over the Gray farm. If she stood outside of the curtain, then she had a view of the entire place and even bits of her own family home. Her favorite part was a huge pond that cows milled around and, on hotter days bathed in. On those days she envied them a bit, but the shelter of the weeping willow was usually cool enough.

The setting sun's rays pierced through the veil of swaying greenery. Birds nesting in the tree sang. Penny loved it. They provided her with her own background music for the stories she read. When the birds singing screeched to a halt. She looked up from

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the battered romance novel she had borrowed from her granny and gasped. A bare muscular arm swept aside the curtain of leaves. She slapped the book closed with an audible thwack. The sudden disturbance in her peaceful ruminations of the steamy book in her hands, made her cheeks glow red in embarrassment. She found herself staring into the brown eye of one of the Gray brothers standing above her. He wore dirty, torn blue jeans and no shirt. His skin was sweaty with streaks of dirt on his chest and face.

He looked tired as he gazed at her sitting with her book hugged to her chest. Her eyes felt like they were going to pop out of her head. He tossed his dirty ball cap onto the ground by her feet and plopped down next to her. He groaned and ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair. She was stunned into silence. He was sitting too close; she could smell him and not in a good way. He smelled pretty bad, nothing like the man in the romance novel. Scrunching up her nose at the stinky boy mixed with farm animal smell, she tried to ignore it.

She would never be able to finish her book now. It had just gotten to a good part too. It was too embarrassing that she had been caught. Penny hugged her book tighter against her chest and stared at her brand-new white Mary Janes. She was reading one of her Grammys favorite novels, which were very inappropriate for a sixteen-year-old girl if she was going, to be honest with herself.

The birds began to sing again, but the silence between them was deafening. He was the one invading her space. So, it stood to reason that he would be the one to say something first. Right? Penny wanted to kick herself. She was worried that he would get her in trouble for sneaking onto their property.

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She wasn't sure which of the Gray brothers was sitting next to her. She easily ruled out Wesley, because he was the same age as her older brother, Johnny. They were both away at college and only came home for holidays. That left the twins, Anderson and Elijah. They were only a year older than her and they were identical twins.

It had been at least three years since she had seen them around. The last time she had seen them was at their grandmother's funeral. It was strange how their personalities had completely changed that day. They had basically switched personalities. Anderson was suddenly overly nice to her. He acted like her big brother, constantly hugging her and looking out for her. Elijah wanted nothing to do with her. He avoided her the whole time. She tried not to read anything into their behavior that day.

Penny had never lost anyone she loved so she didn't understand how they felt.

Penny used to be tomboy and just wanted to play with the boys. When they dismissed her, Penny annoyed them even more because they didn't want her around just because she was a girl.

Admittedly, a huge part of it was because she used to have a huge crush on Elijah. He was always nice to her even when he obviously didn't want to be. She could tell that sometimes she got on his nerves but being young and stupid, she never cared.

Anderson on the other hand was a pretty big jerk. He was always pulling her hair and making fun of her. Typical boy pranks. He loved to egg her on and make her yell at him.

Her sister always teased her that maybe he had a crush on her, and that was why he was mean to her. There was no way that was true. Besides, why would she have a crush on a boy that was mean to her? It never made sense to her.

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When Penny was ten, she heard her brothers talking about going crawdad fishing at a river nearby. Penny pulled on her rainboots and followed them. They had gotten a decent distance before they had realized she was following them. Johnny had volunteered Anderson to walk her home. He complained the whole time, and it took him a month to get over it!

When she became a teenager, she changed radically, seemingly overnight. She didn't want to follow the boys around anymore or get dirty. Penny started imitating her older sister. Much to Margarette's dismay. Penny had discovered that she liked makeup, nail polish, and pretty frilly dresses.

She was wearing a new white sundress that had tiny daisies all over it. She loved the dress and couldn't wait to wear it, but now she wished she had was wearing something that covered her legs. The dress stopped at mid-thigh and she worried that it would slip higher if she moved. Her legs were starting to get stiff.

His presence invading all of her senses, nonetheless. She was slowly getting used to the smelly boy and hay smell. His long legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankles. She heard him rustle in his pocket pulling, out something that crinkled. His rough work-worn hand came into her peripheral vision and she flinched.

"Suit yourself." He drawled in a deep country accent. His voice had gotten deeper although it made sense it still shocked her.

Taking his hand away, she noticed that he had been offering her a piece of caramel milk chocolate candy. Her favorite. He unwrapped the piece of candy slowly and popped it into his mouth.

"Hey! You didn't even give me a chance to take it." Closing his eyes, he laughed.

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He laid his head back against the tree, they were both leaning against. Somehow he looked less troubled than he did when he first invaded her space.

"You lost your chance."

"Ah, You're so annoying." Penny huffed.

"A lot of girls think I'm charming." Penny scoffed at his cocky attitude.

A soft breeze messed up his hair. Penny reached her hand out without thinking.

When his eyes opened, she jerked her hand back. He shook the hair out of his eyes.

What was she thinking? She must be crazy. He smirked and raised a single eyebrow.

"In your dreams." Penny rolled her eyes, glaring at him.

The corner of his mouth turned up in another cocky grin.

After a moment, Penny looked away.

"You're not going to tell on me, right?" She fidgeted with the corner of her bookmark while waiting for his answer.

"Tell what?"

"Tha…that I have been...you know, sneaking around?" Her cheeks started to heat all over again as he held her eyes.

"If you don't tell anyone, I'm shirking my responsibilities."

"Deal!" She quickly held out her hand to him. Penny's enthusiastic response caused him to laugh. He placed his hand in hers for only a moment before rolling his eyes and dropping it to his lap.

"It's Anderson, by the way." He said as he tucked his left arm behind his head.

"Anderson?" Her mood dropped instantly. No wonder they were already bickering.

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"Penny?" He mimicked her astonishment and laughed at her again. Penny's cheeks heated this time with annoyance.

"You look nice." He said, completely throwing her off.

Confused, Penny drew her eyebrows together and stared at him like he had grown a second head.

"What, I can't compliment you?" He actually looked sincere.

"Why would you want to?" The friendly look in his eyes made her even more confused.

"Because you are pretty. You always have been." Anderson shrugged.

The movement of his shoulders reminded Penny that he was shirtless. Her breath quickened slightly, and she stared at his dirt-covered chest. It shouldn’t have been attractive. Blushing Penny quickly turned to stand.

"You know, I used to have a crush on you when we were little."

"No way." Penny was still crouching when she turned so suddenly, that she lost her balance and started to fall. Her book flew out of her hands, as she pinwheeled her arms to try and stop her forward descent. Penny involuntarily scrunched her eyes closed and waited for impact. Before she hit the ground, Anderson wrapped one arm around her by the waist. Penny's hands landed on his shoulders with a smack and she flinched. One of her knees had landed on his leg while the other was extended awkwardly behind her.

Their faces were only a few inches apart when Penny opened her eyes.

"You did that on purpose.", Anderson spoke quietly with a teasing cadence.

Penny grasped his shoulders slightly, but she couldn't find her voice to respond.

Instead, she shook her head. She hated the fact that his hand felt so good wrapped around her waist. She could feel his warm breath on her face. She breathed in the scent

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of the chocolate he had eaten a moment before. His lips drew closer until there was only a millimeter between them. Her eyes fluttered closed without her permission. When his lips touched hers, they were shockingly soft and gentle. She softened against him, realizing that she was somehow now straddling his lap while his other hand stroked her cheek. At that moment, Penny realized that there was a chance that she could fall for the boy who was mean to her Afterall. She knew she was in big trouble, but she didn’t care.

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The Monster Under My Bed

By Heather Mckayla Wylie Hudson pulled up his paw patrol stool to the bathroom sink and climbed onto it so he would be tall enough to reach the faucet. He grabbed his Scooby Doo toothbrush and squirted too much of his cotton candy flavored toothpaste onto the soft bristles. He brushed his tiny teeth while standing on his tiptoes. He could barely see the top of his blonde head in the mirror. Hudson spit into the sink and picked up a paper mickey mouse cup. Putting it under the sink he filled it until it was overflowing. He took a big mouthful of it and swished it around in his mouth just like his dad had taught him.

Proud of himself he hopped off of the stool and ran to his waiting mother showing off his pearly white teeth.

“Let’s get you into your pjs.” She said ruffling his curly hair.

Hudson ran past her, down the hallway and into his brand-new big boy room. His mom followed after him laughing.

“Can we have story?” Hudson asked while pouting with his big brown puppy dog eyes.

“Only one.” She said firmly. Huffing dramatically Hudson turned and climbed into his bed.

“Which one?” Hudson pointed at his favorite Clifford the Big Red Dog book. She sat on his bed and Hudson crawled into her lap. Hudson loved when his mom read to him. She changed her voice for all of the characters. Even Clifford’s.

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Hudson started to nod off to the sound of his mother’s voice. He felt her tuck him into bed and kiss him on the forehead, but it wasn’t until she started to slowly close the door that he woke up in a panic.

His Buzz Lightyear nightlight glowed softly next to the closed door, but the rest of the room was dark and quiet. The shadow of the tree outside of his bedroom window swayed menacingly and Hudson’s heart raced. A branch clacked against the window and Hudson threw the covers over his head and screwed his eyes shut.

When he told his parents that it was too scary at night, they always told him that everything was okay and that he should be brave. Usually, Hudson crawled into bed with them, but they always brought him back to his own bed.

Slowly pushing the cover below his face, he opened his eyes glancing around the room. His tiny hands shook, and he clutched the cover harder in his fists.

His action figures sat on a shelf across from the blue racecar bed he was laying in. His mommy always told him that they were there to watch him and keep him safe at night. So, when he was scared, she told him to remember that they are there with him.

He curled farther into the bed. His eyes were glued to an empty spot on the left side of the shelf. The spot was where Donatello usually was, but he was no longer there.

His bedroom was silent except for the faint tapping noise under his bed. It sounded like when his daddy clicked his nails on his desk when he was thinking. The rhythmic tapping continued, and a laugh came from under the bed.

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Hudson pulled the covers back over his head with tears in his eyes. The monster under his bed was playing with Donatello. He always played with Hudson’s toys and then Hudson would get in trouble for leaving them under the bed.

He had told his mommy and daddy about the monster under his bed, but they never believed him. They always said that it was just his imagination.

“Come play with me.” The monster boy whispered. Claws scraped slowly on the underside of the bed.

Hudson pulled his cars blanket over his head again. He could hear the screeching sound that he made sometimes. It hurt Hudson’s ears when the monster did that. The boy gets mad when Hudson ignores him and starts to make that awful noise.

“I know you’re up there little human friend.” The boy under the bed hissed.

“I can’t play with you. My mommy told me that you’re just my imagination.”

“My mommy says that about you.” The monster boy sounded calmer, but no less creepy.

“Really?” Hudson asked.

When the boy didn’t respond Hudson sat up on his knees.

“Are you still there?” Hudson wasn’t sure why he asked.

“My mommy tells me about the scary humans above the bed every night before bed.”

“I'm not scary.” The boy under his bed was the scary one.

He even knew what he looked like. One night Hudson was brave enough to look under his bed. The boy was the same size as him with scary red eyes and sharp teeth.

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He didn’t look long enough to notice anything else. Hudson didn’t understand why the boy thought he was scary.

“Let’s be friends.” Hudson fiddled with the bottom of his pajama shirt.

He was a little boy just like Hudson. Maybe they really could be friends. Adults always say that we should make friends with the monsters under the bed, and then they won’t be scary anymore he thought.

“If you come under the bed, we could play together.”

“Do you know any games?” Hudson asked eagerly. He wouldn’t mind playing. It would be nice to make friends with the monster under his bed. If they were friends, he wouldn’t be so scary anymore.

“Lots of games. I have lots of fun toys too.” The monster boy said.

After a moment Hudson swung his little legs over the side of the bed. He hopped down and sat on the floor. The monster boy sat crisscross applesauce with a wide scary grin on his face.

“What’s your name?” Hudson asked. If they were going to be friends, he didn’t want to call him monster boy anymore.

“You can call me Kal.” It was strange seeing Kal talk. He wasn’t as scary when they were face to face.

Hudson crawled under the bed. He followed Kal farther under the bed. He looked around him and continued to crawl. It was getting darker and they had been crawling for so long. Hudson stopped and turned around. Darkness surrounded him and he could no longer see his bedroom.

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“Come little friend, we have so many fun games to play.” Tears formed in Hudson’s eyes.

Kal reached his small, clawed hand out toward Hudson. He took it and they continued to crawl and crawl and crawl. There was no turning back. Hudson would become a monster that lurked under other children’s beds beckoning them to play with him.

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The Darkest Winter

By Tiffany N. Estes Introduction Two years, five months, and thirteen days ago the world was forever changed. It was in the midst of a pandemic, where hundreds of thousands of people in the United States had perished under the threat of a novel coronavirus, that the entire North American continent was swept into an unseasonable arctic freeze. The freezing temperatures further depleted the North American population and claimed countless other lives. The exact figures of the mass death toll could not be determined.

Widespread communication ceased to exist. There was no more media, or social media. Cellular towers were no longer operational. For those who had access to CB radios, these were used only with extreme caution. Radio frequencies were often intercepted by rebels seeking an opportunity to find anyone to kill and rob them of food, ammunition, or anything of value.

Livestock perished along with people, which further limited food supply.

Businesses were destroyed. Family homes were burglarized. Those who relied on medical care died the soonest. There were no longer hospitals or emergency services available. Martial law was in full effect. Water and electricity were scarce commodities.

Pollution from major cities such as New York City, Chicago, Dallas, and Los Angeles spread into suburban areas. Rural water supplies were tainted, as a result of sewage systems that could no longer operate and pump properly causing toxic sludge to contaminate the general water supply, rendering it deadly for human consumption.

Colonies of people began migrating from crime-ridden and polluted urban areas into the rural countryside and formed communities there. Lone survivors who were

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already established on farms and ranches on the outskirts of society, and families residing in remote areas were malicious in protecting their private land and homes against invasion.

Rebel groups rallied together to raid and vandalize grocery stores, gas stations, looting anything of value, in search of supplies. Many rebels were killed for trespassing and theft, however, many more survived. Urban refugees spread through the countryside like cockroaches, as they began migrating further and further away from the cities. Killing a few did nothing to deter more from coming. People fought over basic food supplies, stealing guns, ammunition, warm clothing. Oftentimes they fought to the death.

Harsh and primitive conditions were suddenly thrust upon an American consumer-based society that was spoiled to the ease and convenience of 24-hour shopping, delivery services, and fast-food. When such luxuries were no longer an option, it truly brought out the evil in people. The savage inner beasts emerged from just under the surface of those who were desperate enough to survive. Doomsday preppers everywhere flourished, reaping the reward for living a life of paranoia. Ironically, living a life in preparation for the worst possible scenario not only ensured longer survival, but it made them a prime target for murder and theft. Survival of the fittest was more evident than ever before in everyday existence, as Darwin’s theory played out like a horrific reality show, where escape was only awarded by death.

How could anyone have ever predicted such a catastrophic series of events?

The world once known, and taken for granted by all, had experienced a complete disruption of order and reason, made even more complicated by a never-ending winter.

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*** Carmen Carmen walked into the freezing cold night air, her feet were weary, tired, and numb. She was weak from hunger. Exhaustion and fatigue was taking a toll on her body. The shrill sounds of children crying from hunger pains echoed fres in her mind. It was a recent memory that caused her to shiver inside, the way you do when someone runs their fingernails down a chalkboard. Carmen cringed at the thought of having to face that again. She refused to go back empty-handed. The helpless feeling of not having enough to eat was hard enough for an adult to endure, but forcing innocent children to understand that there wasn’t enough food to satisfy their hunger was an impossible task. There were twenty seven people total in their commune, including herself. Of those twenty seven, thirteen were children. Once a child reached the age of twelve, they were expected to contribute to maintaining the community they had established.

A year and a half ago the group had fled from Dallas. Murders and theft were running rampant in the metropolitan area. They were constantly fighting off rebels who relentlessly attacked them during numerous attempts to steal their supplies. It had become a burdensome effort. The Dallas refugees set up shelter in an abandoned warehouse and hoped to survive far away from the polluted, crime-ridden city limits. The wayward group settled in the outskirts of Odessa, Texas and established a community, making their home in the Texas plains.

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The newly established community was a hodge-podge of friends, neighbors, and what was left of families that had escaped from their shelter in the basement of the Dallas County Community Center. The group had stayed in the basement for about six months after the winter vortex swept the entire nation. Each person in the group brought with them non perishable food, guns, ammunition, blankets, cots, bottled water, batteries, first aid kits, adding to the supply. The group had fared well taking care of one another, each contributing their own unique skills.

A Dallas structural engineer was among the group, and he had been clever enough to devise a way to create electricity from runoff water collected, by melting snow and creating hydroelectric power. This gave the group limited supply of electricity, heat, and potable water for consumption. After six months, their food and supplies had swindled significantly, to almost nothing.

The rebel attacks on their small compound had grown to be more frequent and deadly. The group started with thirty-four, and quickly began to dwindle. As hardships surfaced, battles were both won and lost. The group had decided to move on and escape Dallas, seeking refuge into the West Texas plains.

As she walked, Carmen watched as the sun peeked up over the horizon. She was tired from travelling, sick of the fight for survival. Hunger ate away at her insides and her will to live. Carmen knew that there was a homestead nearby, however, she did not know whom or how many occupants were there. She, along with her group of survivors, had fought a man near there and killed him a few months prior. They took his hunting rifle and the doe he had killed. The meat from that deer fed their group for a week, maybe, but not much longer than that.

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They were resourceful to use every part of the animal, grateful for its sacrifice. Ironically, little to no remorse was ever shown for the man’s life that was taken that day, nor was it ever spoken of again. A few of the group members discussed where the man had lived, knowing it must be nearby. They made plans to go back to that area and search for resources belonging to the dead man that they could take for themselves.

I was this, coupled with the sounds of hungry, screaming children that led Carmen to come back there. Her group was not faring well, and although travelling alone was not something the group typically allowed, the deafening cries of starving children drove Carmen to leave her community in the dead of night and find something... searching for anything to ease the struggles of her people.

Carmen sat on the cold, hard ground, leaning against a hay bale where she rested for a brief time. She was dressed in her warmest winter gear. She had been wearing the same set of clothing for two years, and had the misfortune of hand washing her garments, only twice. This was difficult to do, since water and electricity were rare commodities. Carmen was dressed in a thick parka coat, insulated gloves and snow boots… garments she had acquired on one of her many snow skiing vacations she shared with her husband. This of course had happened in a previous life. Ski trips to resorts in Colorado and New Mexico were a distant memory compared to the harsh, cold hell she now endured. Carmen knew such luxuries as vacations were never going to happen again in her lifetime. She wondered to herself how much time she had left to survive? Everyone’s days were numbered. This was a fact of life that had become painfully more obvious to her and everyone around her in more recent times.

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Her husband, Tim had been killed during a battle with rogue urban misfits at their Dallas compound. Tim and Carmen never had the chance to start the family that they had always dreamed of. They were still newlyweds when their world changed.

Carmen fell asleep against an old hay bale, remembering Tim and she dreamed of him. In her dream, they laid together, their bodies intertwined in a warm embrace.

She could feel his familiar hands caressing her face. He told her he loved her and assured her he was in a better place. Tim told Carmen to be strong and begged her to continue fighting and not to give up. Carmen was awakened by the rising sun, as it peeked over the horizon, shedding light on the bleak, cold day. A sea of white stretched across the landscape for as far as the eye can see.

Damned snow. I’m so sick of snow. Other than the promise of light, the sun did nothing to warm her body. Carmen was left with memories of her husband's touch and his words of encouragement...a memory that was made real, once again by her dream.

Carmen rose from her resting spot, feeling renewed. Even with the bitter coldness of the atmosphere, the sunlight still felt good on her face, soaking in vitamin D and lifting her spirits, just a little. She grabbed a handful of snow and shoved it in her mouth, savoring the moisture it provided. The wetness of snow melting in her mouth, fell down her throat, soothing and invigorating her insides. The cold blast of relief was, however, only temporary relief to a seemingly never-ending thirst. Carmen focused her attention on the homestead she observed in the distance, determined to do anything necessary to ensure the well-being of her people.

As she walked across the desolate ranch land, Carmen could see the little homestead growing closer, possibly it was only another mile or so away. She crawled

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over a fence line sizing up the place. It was a modest farmhouse, with a classic big red barn sitting adjacent to the two story, turn of the century farmhouse.

No livestock or horses could be seen. Maybe she would get lucky and find a horse in the barn? Carmen had made up her mind that she was going to attempt to overtake the property, and claim a place her people could come to...a new place to call home, to expand their territory and supplies. Maybe there would be actual beds to sleep on?

Oh! To sleep on a bed again! To rest my head and actually sleep the kind of sleep that allows a person to wake peacefully. Only in my dreams can I escape this hell.

Carmen’s mind wandered away, then back again to the task at hand.

Carmen felt tired all the time, there was no more peace in her soul. Her eyes hurt, her feet hurt, her mind was numb. She didn’t care what she had to do to achieve this much desired peace. She was prepared for anything. That is when she saw the woman.

As Carmen approached, ever closer to the homestead, she came within a quarter mile of the property, she observed the woman step out of the two-story farmhouse and onto the wrap around porch. The woman stood there and surveyed the landscape. She seemed to be looking in Carmen’s direction. Carmen stood still, ever so still, careful not to draw any attention to herself. She stood there, frozen in place, literally, waiting, waiting for the woman, and watching her every move, like a cat would watch its prey. Waiting, patiently waiting for the opportunity to pounce, to take the woman down. Carmed focused her attention on taking what she wanted and so desperately needed. She had come too far to stop now. Too many people counted on

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her to survive. Her small community of people had all contributed and supported Carmen when Tim was killed defending their commune. They held Carmen, hugging her following her husband’s murder, feeding and caring for her. Now it was Carmen’s turn to return the favor.

The woman in the farmhouse moved toward the garden where she knelt down and stayed. If there was a garden, thought Carmen, what else do they have? Carmen arrived, closer to the property, and she crept around the backside of the big red barn.

Carmen watched the woman, who appeared to be digging into the frozen ground with her hands. Digging into the patch of dirty, clawing away at nothingness between dried up corn stalks and vegetation that had seen better days. The women never pulled anything out of the garden that Carmen could see. Perhaps she was wrong? Perhaps there wasn’t much food here? Carmen reminded herself that even if she was wrong about the food, that there was still the farmhouse. A whole house! And a barn. There was plenty there to provide for her new family, much more than they currently had, and there was room to bring along the women and children and create a living situation much better than they had known since they had fled Dallas.

Carmen gripped the pump action shotgun which she carried with a whiteknuckled grip. She watched the woman in the garden, surveying her every move. As the woman stood, Carmen closed in on her quickly, taking steps that were swift and light, fast and furious, like the steps of a cheetah, closing in on her prey. Carmen pumped the lever on the shotgun, resonating a clickety-clack sound which chambered the round she meant to use to kill the woman. It was the same rifle that had killed the woman’s husband a few months prior.

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*** Beth Beth walked onto her front porch. The day was new, the children were fed and her oldest boy was reading a book to her youngest child when she walked outside to dig for potatoes in the garden. Beth shut the door behind her. She crossed her arms over her body, looking out across the landscape. Searching for anything that may be out of the ordinary. She fixed her eyes on the horizon, then scanned the pasture looking for predators, of both animal and human variety. She thought she saw movement in the distance, in a pasture adjacent to the big red barn. She watched the area carefully for a few minutes but never saw movement again. Feeling that it was safe to move forward, Beth walked towards her garden.

Beth crouched in her garden. She was swathed in heavy clothing, wearing her husband's old jacket over her own. You could never have enough layers for the bitter cold wind that never seemed to subside, and washed over her body, causing her to squint as she dug deeper into the soil for potatoes, carrots, anything worthy of consumption. It had become a rigorous daily chore, which she now endured alone.

Her husband was killed only a few months ago, while hunting for wild game to provide meat for their family of four. He was a skilled hunter and had the ability to not only hunt wild game, but he could process and preserve the meat for future consumption. This allowed the food to store safely for several months. So far, they had enough meat stored away to eat for another month, maybe two, if they were frugal enough.

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Beth lived alone on the family farm she shared with her husband, and their two boys. Jack was aged seven, and he looked after his younger brother, Toby who was five while Beth left each morning in search for food and supplies.

West Texas was a desolate place, with typical summer temperatures that reached a hundred degrees. But that was before everything changed. Temperatures in this frozen tundra averaged negative 15 degrees most every night. The daytime offered little in terms of warmth, temperatures rarely climbed above freezing, making the already desolate landscape and soil rock hard. The terrain was harsh and flat, the kind of place you could stand in the right location and look around for many miles. There were relatively few trees to obstruct your view, or to prevent the wind from cutting right through you.

Melting snow by over a fire, then storing the water in their home to prevent refreezing was one of the daily chores Beth had grown accustomed to. Beth dug deeper into the soil remembering a time when she pulled tomatoes, squash, fresh lettuce and even strawberries from this same garden. The family farm had been operational for over a hundred years, started by her husband’s great-grandfather, and passed down for three generations. Now Beth carries a Colt .45 in a holster across her body just to dig root vegetables from the frozen ground, in case she is vandalized.

The threat of thieves and rebels was always present. The men who killed her husband likely robbed him as well. She found his body less than a mile from their family farm. Shot twice. Once in the head, and once in the chest. He was already blue from death, frozen, and stiff when she found his body. Beth felt a strange mixture of grief and

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sorrow for his loss along with a pang of envy for her husband who was no longer forced to suffer this miserable existence.

The only thing Beth felt she could be hopeful for these days was replenishing their dwindling food supply to make it stretch just a little longer. She fought everyday for the sole purpose of survival. Beth was tired of fighting. Long gone were the once familiar days of tending to their farm together. Family dinners, camping, horseback riding, fishing in the pond they kept on their 400 acres of land...these were all vague memories of days gone by.

Beth felt hopeless. The tremendous weight of the responsibility for keeping her boys alive solely belonged to Beth. She had fought for so long to be strong. She remained strong for her boys. But Beth was running out of hope and they were soon to run out of food.

Beth whimpered and ran her hand across her face, leaving a black streak of soil on her red, wind-burned cheek. The start contrast of red and black across her face resembled that of a native warrior. She fought the urge to cry. Beth had run out of tears.

She stood up from her crouched position in the garden.

It was then that Beth heard the unmistakable clickety-clack of a shotgun chambering a round directly behind her. Beth stopped dead in her tracks and stared straight ahead. Her body went numb, the wind stopped blowing, she heard nothing, felt nothing.

Everything faded to black.

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Chasing Tomorrow

By Heather Mckayla Wylie Kyra climbed the rusty ladder in the dark, being careful to skip the third to last rung that had broken the previous spring. She pushed the heavy hatch above her head open and climbed into the open-air cage that housed her only hope for salvation.

She tried her best to ignore them while she set to her task of fixing the sputtering light. Kyra pilled her long white hair into a knot on top of her head, securing it with a scrunchie her father had brought back for her on one of his last food runs. Kyra had a feeling that her father knew he would never be coming home that day.

"Kyra, my darling, let me in." A familiar voice tinged with a snarl called far below.

Breaking out in a cold sweat Kyra fought the tears that hearing her father's distorted voice always brought. Instead, she focused on the memory of the man she once knew. *** A nine-year-old Kyra sat cuddled up to her father with her eyes closed. His bulky arms wrapped around her as he slowly rocked the chair. She focused on his voice, ignoring the hateful cries from outside the blocked-off lighthouse door.

"Your mother was a beautiful woman with a kind smile and an even kinder heart."

She felt his voice rumble through her tiny form as he gently stroked her white hair.

When Kyra was born, she had a mod of pure white hair. It was the only outward sign that Kyra was different.

"She kept that smile until the very end, to bestow it on you. She fell in love with you at first sight, and even though she was able to hold you for only a moment, it was the best moment of her life."

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He recounted the story of the day Kyra was born. She had heard it many times throughout her life. Her father wanted to make sure Kyra knew how much both of her parents loved her. He called her his miracle girl because she had been a happy surprise.

Paul and Annie Montgomery thought they couldn't conceive and had already given up trying. When they found out they were going to have a baby, they were ecstatic.

"Before she fell ill, your mother was the best doctor the hospital had. Everyone loved her, even the mean old nurse who hated everyone." Falling silent for a moment, he pulled Kyra closer.

"Actually, Ms. Sylvia was the one who helped your mother when she gave birth.

You were her very first baby. She was brave." His voice caught as he continued.

"The screaming started unexpectedly. Your mother was sure that something was wrong with you. She was frantic. She forced the nurses and the new doctor to perform an emergency delivery." This part was always hard for Kyra to hear. She understood why he told her this story. The only way Kyra could understand why she was special was by learning about her mother's death.

"After you were born, she started to seize. She was too weak to fight it. We didn't know at the time that it was the virus flowing through her veins and through yours.

Unfortunately, she was the first one to die."

"It took two years for the virus to spread through the population, killing half of the infected. It was a slow-moving virus. It took them even longer to figure out how the virus started and how it was spread. At first, they thought they had found a cure. By then, it

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was already too late. Eventually, it mutated, turning infected people into monsters that we later started to call them the Other."

"The monsters had already started causing chaos, and the government couldn't control them. They were at the top of the food chain and killed for fun." She finished for him.

Her father patted her head with a proud smile.

"Yes, their outer appearance didn't change and could blend in with the rest of the population effortlessly. It made the Other the most dangerous predators. They had already wiped out a third of the remaining population before anyone realized what was happening."

He pulled Kyra up so she could look him in the eye. "Do you know what makes you special?"

Nodding, Kyra dutifully answered. "I'm special because I was born half human and half Other. Unlike the Others who were turned into monsters, Others who were born feel empathy and are not controlled by basic animal instincts."

"And what does that mean?" He asked.

"It means that I have an advantage over the feral Other. I can use my instincts to help me, but I have more advanced problem-solving skills. I can also blend in with them if I absolutely have to."

"That's right, never forget that." Kyra's father pulled her in for a tight hug, and she fell asleep in his arms. ***

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The wire sparked in Kyra's hand as she concentrated on fixing the light. When the floodlight came to life full force, Kyra threw her hands up in the air victorious.

In the middle of celebrating her triumph, a baby's wails pierced Kyra's ears, and she flinched. She forgot that the Other sired children just like any other species. The screaming infant was half-human, just like her, but she knew that being raised by the feral Other would taint it. The child didn't stand a chance.

In a way, the Other still acted much like normal humans. If she didn't know any better, she would have been fooled as many humans had been.

Her father used to talk about how the Other mimic human traits based on the memory of past memories. Kyra hadn't understood what he meant until she had gotten older. She surmised that it was like how you know how to read, but you don't actually remember how you learned how to read. Except you feel this way about everything; at least, that was what she was told.

Twenty, thirty, a hundred years from now, they would lose the small amount of humanity they had left.

Kyra sat gingerly on the railing that circled the top of the lighthouse. The sun's morning rays painted the sky a beautiful orange that drew Kyra in. This was as close to the outside world that Kyra had been in seventeen years. The beauty of nature momentarily let Kyra forget her situation. She sat staring at the sunrise for several minutes.

Kyra thought about a story her father read to her when she was a little girl. It was about a young girl taken from her family by an evil witch who locked her up in a high

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tower with no way in or out except by climbing up her long, elegant hair. The witch kept her locked up in the rock tower for many years before a prince came to save her.

Kyra laughed almost manically at the similarity of her situation to the ridiculous fairytale. She mulled over the irony that no prince was coming to save her. If she was going to survive, it would be by her own doing.

Although Kyra hoped one day someone would come to help her, she did not hold out much hope. Kyra hadn't seen another human since her father left three years before.

With a heavy sigh, Kyra stretched her arms out wide. She refused to think about the bad things that happened to her.

Kyra walked down the winding staircase. By the time she reached the bottom, her head was spinning.

After her head cleared, Kyra opened the crate that their non-perishable food was stored in. One by one Kyra pulled out every can of beans including pinto beans, black beans, and black-eyed peas. She hadn’t known that black-eyed peas were even a bean. Her dad told her that they had been a band too. It boggled her mind how someone would name their band after beans that were called peas. Next, she pulled all of the different kinds of canned fruit and vegetables. Counting her rations, Kyra realized it wasn't even enough to last her a month. She crumpled to the floor and dropped her head in her hands. She had made it a year alone in her tower with the necessities her father had brought back last. Kyra wasn't dumb. She knew that it wouldn't last forever, but she had ignored the problem until now.

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Tears streaked down her face as light tapping sounded on the sealed door. Kyra covered her ears in a rush to block out the noise. Lightly rocking, Kyra silently begged the Other to stop calling to her.

"Come down to riot the holy bear," called a feminine voice. The Other often spoke in gibberish. Like the Others had lost the ability to properly form their thoughts in speech. The nonsensical sentences made the Other even scarier to Kyra.

"Silly little girl, locked in her tower. Come out and play with us," came the familiar menacing voice of her father.

Kyra knew that the only reason her father spoke to her was that his mind hadn't fully deteriorated yet. She secretly hoped that day would never come. He was all she had left, even if he had become a monster. The Other formed packs. Usually no more than twenty. There were probably ten of them milling around the lighthouse, including Kyra's father. Shaking off the thoughts of her father, Kyra decided to come up with a plan. She needed to find food and Other necessities for herself. She knew that she couldn't waste any more time crying.

Kyra pulled an old hunting knife out of a beat-up chest, and she attached it to her hip with an old utility belt her father had stumbled upon a few years ago. Kyra knew how to wield the weapon properly, but she had never actually used it. If she played her cards right, she wouldn't have to. The hunting knife’s blade and hilt was painted grass green with pink petunia’s, purple aster, and blue forget-me-nots all over it. When Kyra's father brought it home, she was too scared to hold it. Her father brought back a paint set the next time he went out, and they sat together while he painted the flowers for her.

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The paint that was on the blade itself had long ago started to peel. It didn't matter to Kyra whether it was perfect or not. The blade was filled with memories of sparing with her father over the years.

Kyra pulled an old camouflage backpack onto her shoulders, sinching the straps tight, and clicked the little connecter into place over her chest. Underneath the backpack, Kyra wore a worn-out grey leather jacket that was a size too large for her.

She pulled on clunky grey hiking boots that matched the leather jacket almost perfectly.

Kyra waited beside the front door listened closely to the nonsensical mutterings from the other side until they slowly died down. When she decided that they had fallen asleep, Kyra crept to the opposite side of the small, round room.

With a flashlight that was only used for emergencies, Kyra pulled open a small hatch that had been hidden by a chest. Shining the light into the creepy hole, Kyra listened for any sound below. The underground tunnel was the reason her father had moved them into the lighthouse. It had been created a hundred years ago and crisscrossed throughout their small coastal town. Not many people knew about the tunnels, and Kyra hoped she would not run into any Other.

Dropping gingerly into the hole, Kyra slowly closed the hatch, shutting herself into pure darkness. She clicked the flashlight on, and when it didn't work, Kyra raddled it a few times until the flashlight came sputtering to life. The flashlight was one of those fancy flashlights that charged up with sunlight instead of batteries.

Hiking through the tunnels was nearly second nature to her, although she had never done it alone and her father never let her come out of the tunnels. She had never been outside, except for when she climbed to the top of the lighthouse.

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Kyra's heart hammered in her chest with both excitement and fear.

After walking a few miles, Kyra came to the exit she had been searching for. Kyra pulled the blade out and holstered the flashlight. The darkness instantly enveloped her.

It was better to be extra cautious. The light would cause unwanted attention.

The hatch was rusty and made a high-pitched whining sound when she opened it, causing her heart rate to spike again. Kyra froze with the hatch halfway open and listened closely. When there was no noise or movement outside, Kyra wiggled through the small opening.

She struggled due to the bulk of the backpack. She wished she had taken it off, but it was too late now. Finally, she freed herself from the unexpected hindrance and painstakingly slowly closed the lid.

Kyra glanced around the large room that she had emerged in. Stacks and stacks of dust caked books lined every wall. Kyra ran her finger over a tattered bound book that looked at least a hundred years old, when she lifted her finger, it was covered in dust. Several more laid haphazardly on the floor. She turned around slowly and marveled at the sight. Kyra had never seen that many books before. She gazed longingly at the many bookshelves before reminding herself why she was there.

Kyra only took a few steps toward the door before she got distracted again. A book lying on one of the desks caught her attention. The cover was black with a beautiful blonde-haired girl in a poufy blue dress sitting on the ground and looking up to the sky. Kyra blew some of the dust off of the book, and admired the girl for a moment, considering the irony of the title Alice in Zombieland. Kyra quickly pulled off her

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backpack, shoving the worn novel inside. Kyra clasped the pack into place and did a small hop. The book didn't add too much extra weight.

Stepping outside the door, Kyra took a moment to adjust to her surroundings. A low fog covered the area, making it difficult for Kyra to see more than ten feet in front of her. A light mist clung to her exposed skin. Lifting her face to the sky, Kyra marveled at the feeling of the cool water on her face. Birds sang loudly from somewhere to her left while the first rays of the day cast shadows around her.

Avoiding debris with every step, she made her trek through the ghost town to find supplies. A makeshift barrier made from concrete, sandbags, and barbed wire stood to her left. A remnant from a past she was never a part of. Graffiti marred every inch of exposed wall. Nature was already taking back the land that humans had taken over.

Greenery spiderwebbed over everything in its path. Kyra's cumbersome hiking boots crunched on small bits of broken concrete, glass, and gravel as she walked.

Kyra stopped at an intersection and pulled a brass compass from her pocket.

Turning north, Kyra sighed at what she saw in front of her. The road ahead was covered in abandoned vehicles. A minivan sat to her left with a bright red Porsche sitting behind it with its front end mangled. It looked like the Porsche had hit the minivan. To her immediate right was an abandoned bus laying on its side with a pile of at least twenty other vehicles behind it.

Slowly picking her way through the mess of destroyed cars, Kyra wondered how her father had done this so often. She clambered atop the hood of a truck, trying her best to ignore the skeleton in the front seat. She dropped to the ground again quickly.

The zigzagging she was forced to do was taking too much time. Kyra kept an eye on the

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sky. The position of the sun told her that it was around noon. She had been walking for almost three hours when she came to another bus lying on its side. This one was bigger than the last and blocked most of the road.

She pulled on a pair of leather gloves she had stuffed in her pocket a few miles back. Kyra set to work climbing the underbelly of the bus. She stood gingerly on the row of glass windows at the top and looked around her surroundings. A cold wind made her shiver, and Kyra zipped the leather jacket up. She could see her goal just ahead.

Kyra stopped halfway to the building when she heard muttering to her right.

Frozen to her spot-on top of an old car, Kyra crouched down and pulled the hunting knife from her belt. She was ready to strike if necessary.

"Put your weapon down. I come in peace," a deep voice called.

Kyra turned towards the voice at lightning speed. Her heart raced when she saw the person a few car lengths away. His hands were raised in the air, and he wore a bandana on his face, effectively hiding it from her view. What caught her attention first was the scraggly stark white hair that framed his face. Lowering the knife, Kyra eyed him with slight distrust.

Obviously, he was not Other. He was like Kyra. Only those who were born from a woman who was infected had white hair. Kyra wasn't sure why. She had never questioned it before, and now she was grateful for it.

He lowered the mask from his face, and Kyra gasped, bringing one hand to her mouth. He had a scar running diagonally from the middle of his left eyebrow to midcheek. It looked like an old scar. His face was clean-shaven and angular. The wild mop of white hair hung in his face, and he occasionally shook it out of his brown eyes. His

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skin was a creamy tan that looked more natural than from the sun. Based on what little Kyra knew about race, she could tell that he was of Asian descent. He reminded her of a poster that her father had brought home for her. He called them a boyband. The only music Kyra had ever heard was of her father singing to her, but she treasured anything he brought her from the outside world. He said that they were K-pop idols, and had been very popular all over the world when he was younger. The poster displayed seven boys with the same exact hair colors and similar clothing sat together in a field of bright pink flowers with the words "Love yourself" above their heads. She treasured that poster and the message it held.

Kyra's father had tried to teach her their names and a few of the songs that he remembered. They were all in a foreign language, and her father was a terrible singer, but she loved them, nonetheless. They had kept her company through the years she spent alone.

The boy in front of her resembled the boys on the poster enough that she dropped her guard slightly. Although, his features were a bit different from the poster boys, he felt familiar and safe, but she knew that it was only because of how he looked.

They had yet to move from their respective spots as they sized each other up. He wore black jeans, black boots, and a very soft-looking black shirt with a golden design that she couldn't quite make out. The fabric looked like flowing water, and she remembered that it was called silk. He looked clean and a bit fancy because of the shirt.

He wore a bulky jacket that looked out of place with the rest of his outfit.

His speculative eyes regarded Kyra with the same scrutiny as she jumped from her perch. As she got closer to him, she noticed the jewelry he was wearing. He wore a

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simple gold ring on his right pointer finger with a knotwork ring of the same color on his middle finger. She noticed the gold of a wristwatch peeking out from under his jacket, and a thin golden chain is hidden under his shirt. She wondered what was on the chain.

Perhaps he wore a golden pendant under his shirt. He even had golden studs in both of his ears.

"Your pretty dexterous, climbing over busses and stuff. That was pretty cool."

"You were watching me?" Kyra raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, sorry I didn't say anything. I didn't want to scare you and make you fall.

You looked pretty distracted."

Kyra stopped a car length from him and waited for him to close the distance. As he strolled toward, her he wore a smirk on his lips.

"I didn't expect to run into anyone today. Names; Quinn."

"Kyra." Kyra didn't bother with last names because they didn't matter anymore.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Kyra. I just got into town last night. I've been going around different states to try and find other humans. I never thought my first day in Charleston would lead me straight to an heir. My luck sure is changing! I thought all I would find was more of those beings." His smirk turned into a grin as he stared at her.

"What is an Heir?" Kyra was having a hard time following.

"You are. You never heard of an heir? Do you even know what you are?"

Kyra nodded and recited the answer that her father had taught her. "I'm an Other who was born, not turned. I am not like them because I was exposed to the virus while still in my mother's body. Since the virus was introduced to my system while my brain

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was still developing, I easily adjusted. Whereas for fully developed brains, the virus caused a whole mess of problems that basically fried different sections of the brain."

Quinn stared at Kyra with shock in his eyes. "Well, that pretty much sums it up.

Other, huh? I guess we all got different names for the people who changed. I usually just call them zombies." He shrugged.

"Can I tag along? It's been a while since I've been around another person."

Quinn touched his chest absently, and Kyra wondered if the necklace he wore had a memory attached to it.

"Sure, if you tell me about your travels. I've never left home." Kyra didn't mention that what she meant by home was the lighthouse and not the town.

Quinn talked about the different places he had explored as they walked through the city, avoiding any Other they came across with little trouble. Kyra wasn't sure why, but the Other never tried to harm them. They had passed two different groups while scavenging the area.

Kyra was on high alert, but the Other just ignored them or called out to them in their garbled English.

As Kyra and Quinn walked down a side street, one of them reached out toward Kyra, and she flinched away. Her heart hammered, and her palms started to sweat.

"She won't hurt you. They think we are the same as them."

"Then how did you get the scar?" She said, pointing to his cheek.

Quinn's eyes filled with shock as he suddenly stopped walking. He turned toward Kyra. "Scar? What scar?" He frantically felt his face.

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"My beautiful face." Quinn wailed, and Kyra nearly had a heart attack when one of the Other started to get to its feet. In the next moment, Quinn had doubled over laughing. Realizing she had been tricked, Kyra slapped his arm and stalked forward.

"Come on, it was just a joke." Quinn caught up to her, still laughing.

Sobering up, Quinn stopped Kyra from walking. "I got it from a human. A few years back, I ran into this group of probably ten humans. The leader of the group had some serious trust issues, and he lashed out. I wish I could say we battled it out, but it wasn't that dramatic." Quinn shrugged, absently running his hand through his white hair.

A raindrop landed on his cheek, and Quinn tilted his head up to the sky. As the rain started to fall, they stood staring at each other.

"For us, humans are more dangerous than the Other, as you call them, will ever be. Even though I call them zombies, I know that in some way, I am one of them. We both are." He shrugged, looking sheepish. Kyra noticed that his hand had strayed to his shirt again. At that moment, Kyra realized that Quinn had a loved one who had changed as well. She suddenly felt closer to him.

Despite what he had said, Kyra refused to acknowledge the Other when they called out to her. She was still scared.

As they ran hand in hand through the rain and into the library, Kyra decided she could trust him with her secret.

"So, why do you call them Other?"

"Why do you call yourself an Heir?" she countered.

Quinn shrugged. "You know how when someone died, you inherit all of their best stuff?"

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Kyra just nodded. She had immediately thought about her father.

"Our mothers died to give us the best parts of themselves so that we would be immune to the virus."

"I never thought about it like that."

Quinn followed her through the front door and looked around the room. She watched him fiddle with a few books on the floor.

"It's the name my dad came up with,” Kyra said, “Because they look human, but they are not. He said that humans used to count people by different races, and then at the end, it would have "Other." Dad said he always hated that. It made it seem like if you were not listed, then you were not human. He thought it seemed pretty fitting."

"Makes sense," Quinn said while dusting off a journal. Kyra watched him while he read. It was the first time since she had met him that he was entirely silent.

"Good book?" she asked.

"Not really," he said, handing it to her.

Kyra looked down at the journal he had given her. It looked like it had been made for a child. The cover was faded and flaked, but she could make out different pastel colors. Kyra flipped through the last page and read the sloppy writing.

Dear Diary, I am not used to writing these words. I have not kept a diary since I was a young boy. Even then, it was only because my older sister made it seem like so much fun.

Today's date is January 17, 2030. I am currently in Memphis, Tennessee. I was transferred here a month before the crisis around the United States started. It took another year before the government told the world what was actually happening. It was already too late. It has been five years since then.

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I won't say my name, but I was a government official when this all started. I was one of the people who lied to the public.

Now, it has been seven months since I have left this building. The building used to be an insurance company. Now, it is a home for those who have nowhere else to go.

It's too dangerous to venture outside. The people outside have all gone crazy.

They are feral, like mountain lions, and just as deadly.

Our only saving grace is that they have seemed to settle. They do not seek us out, but if one of us happens across their path...

The last humans to leave the building never came back. They were supposed to bring back food for the group a week ago. We are running out of options.

The government stopped sending correspondents with promises of saving us four months ago. Yesterday, the electricity went out. I'm starting to lose hope.

I had been religiously keeping my phone charged to get the president's updates. I also hoped that my wife would get into contact with me, but now that the electricity is out... It doesn't matter anyway.

As I write all this, it made me think about that day again. The day our lives changed, or the world ended. It depends on how you look at it.

When I close my eyes, I can't help but think it's all over. There is no way life can go back to the way it was. Only the strongest will survive.

My tears stain the pages of this journal every time I open it. I told my wife not to take our daughter to the park. I had known something was happening, but I hadn't known how bad it was at the time.

Natalia's chubby red tearstained cheeks, begging me to let her go outside and play, haunts me now. I would give anything to hold her in my arms again.

I wanted to save them, but I made the wrong choice. Now, my wife and child are dead. At least, I assume they are.

We couldn't be together, but we were able to communicate. Our phone calls were what kept me going. It has been about a year since my wife stopped responding. All I can do is accept that they are gone.

The group's rations are getting smaller and smaller. Soon we will run out entirely.

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I'm sitting in a corner away from everyone else. It's cold, and my hands are shivering. It's hard for even me to read, but that's okay. I don't expect anyone to ever read it. No one cares about the ramblings of a middleaged man writing in a journal made for children with a unicorn on the cover.

Looking into the scared, hungry faces around me breaks my heart.

Since I have nothing left to lose, I will be leaving after everyone goes to sleep. I will search for food, but if I do not come back, that is okay. It will be one less mouth to feed. This is my penance for keeping the truth from them.

If this is the last entry, then it means I didn't survive. If you are reading this, it means you are a survivor. Continue to push forward no matter what and make a life for yourself in this dying world. Remember the people who came before you and never forget how special you are.

Sincerely, A man who is eternally sorry for his mistakes.

Fat, ugly tears fell down Kyra's cheeks onto the journal in her hands. Her vision blurred as she wondered how the journal had gotten in a library in Charleston.

"Humans die all of the time. That's just how it is." Quinn patted Kyra on the shoulder, but it didn't make her feel any better.

"Doesn't make it any less sad."

"I didn't say it did. I'm just saying, we can't do anything about it. All we can do is survive like the guy in the journal said."

He was right. Kyra felt silly crying for someone she had never met. The man from the journal wouldn't have wanted her to cry over him either.

"So, why are we at the library, looking to do some light reading?" Quinn said.

Rolling her eyes, Kyra ignored him.

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She walked into the back room where the hidden door was. As she opened it, Quinn whistled from behind her. "Now that is what I'm talking about," he said excitedly.

His reaction filled Kyra with pride.

Quinn climbed through the trap door and reached his hand out to Kyra. He then helped her move a heavy trunk on top of it.

Organizing their finds, Kyra watched him move about the room. He pulled off his own backpack and jacket and dropped them on her bed. She noticed that the gold she had seen earlier was of dragons and flames crisscrossing all over the long-sleeved shirt. She had never seen anything like it before.

"I got it from this fancy department store."

"Huh?" she asked, dumbfounded.

"The shirt. there was a lot of cool stuff, and it was free because, you know, apocalypse and whatnot."

"Oh." Kyra didn't know how to respond. She had never had new clothes before.

"So, what is this place?" He asked while staring at the poster tacked to the wall near her bed.

"A lighthouse, my father inherited it from his father a long time ago." Nodding with a proud look on his face, Quinn stared at Kyra.

"What?" She fidgeted with the canned meat in her hand.

"You're like real-life Rapunzel."

Kyra rolled her eyes. "The irony hasn't escaped me."

Quinn dropped into the rocking chair a few feet away from her. "I think it's pretty cool. Does that make me prince charming?" he asked, grinning.

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He dodged a bag of skittles Kyra had thrown at him effortlessly. Quinn picked the small colorful bag, off of the ground and studied it.

"You do know this expired like twenty years ago?" He raised the eyebrow with the scar running through it.

"And?" Kyra snatched the skittles back from him.

Quinn raised his hands in defeat, but she could see the laughter in his eyes.

Not bothering to respond, Kyra sat the skittles gingerly on a foldable table by her bed. Her father had told her once about all of the foods and snacks he used to love.

Skittles were his favorite, and when Kyra had found them, she had gotten excited.

It was almost like her father had heard her thinking about him because his voice rang out behind the door.

"Kyra." She froze. He had come back again.

"Is that your dad?" Quinn asked, and Kyra nodded, her eyes glued to where his voice had come from.

"Why don't you talk to him?"

"How could I do that? He's one of them."

Quinn shrugged and came to stand by Kyra's side. "So? It doesn't mean you can't talk to him. There's a reason he is here."

"They run off of pure instinct, and a father's biggest instinct is to keep their child safe. Besides, you're lucky that he came back for you." Quinn pulled out the necklace that had been hidden under his shirt. Stepping closer to Kyra, he opened a small locket.

Inside was a picture of a girl with long black hair and the same angular cheekbones.

"My older sister," Quinn answered the question that Kyra had been thinking.

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"Did she turn into an Other too?"

"After our mother died, Emma took care of me. Our father had died when Emma was young. All we had was each other."

Kyra wasn't sure how to comfort him, so she didn't try. Instead, Kyra just listened patiently.

"When Emma got sick...I was only fifteen...She died." Quinn's voice shook, and tears streamed down his face.

"I'm so sorry, Quinn."

"I would give anything to see her again. I never got a chance to say goodbye.

You should say goodbye while you can."

Kyra stared at the door for a moment before sliding down the wall. She closed her eyes and felt Quinn's hand slide into hers. He sat next to her rubbing his thumb against her wrist.

"I'm okay, dad. You don't have to take care of me anymore."

It was silent, and Kyra wondered if he had already left.

"Love, Baby goo." Kyra choked on a sob at the sudden garbled response.

Quinn squeezed Kyra's hand.

"I love you, too, dad. I miss you so much. I'm really okay, though." Quinn put an arm around Kyra's shaking shoulders and pulled her into himself. They sat like that, him playing with her hair and her crying silently until Kyra lost feeling in her right foot. She pulled away slightly, and Quinn dropped his arm.

"This is pretty cool. I've never been to a lighthouse before."

"The view is amazing." Kyra wiped her eyes on her shirt and sniffled.

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"Wanna go up?"

"You know I do," Quinn said, jumping to his feet.

Kyra laughed and led him up the winding staircase.

"Hold up. I need a moment." Quinn leaned against the wall, and Kyra laughed again.

"You'll get used to it eventually."

Quinn started to laugh too. After a moment, they stood there, just staring at each other and smiling. It had been a long time since Kyra had felt that happy. She forgot how it felt to smile so much.

When Kyra sat at the top of the lighthouse, she could pretend that the world was different. The sun was bright, and a few clouds dotted the sky. It was hot, and there was no wind.

"Is that your house?" Quinn asked, pointing at a white ranch-style house. The house was rundown from seventeen years of not being maintained. Kyra had always found it charming to look at.

"I suppose. My father moved us into the lighthouse when I was a baby, so I've never actually been in it."

"Why not? It's not like we have to stay in the lighthouse anymore."

"We?" Kyra had never imagined living anywhere other than the lighthouse. She definitely never thought about living with another person again.

"Yeah. Sounds like fun. We can play house maybe we can even have a few babies." Quinn winked and then laughed.

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"Don't look so serious. Although it's starting to look like I'm the last man on earth."

"Doubtful. You've said so yourself that you have seen other people."

"Ah, bypassing the important stuff, I see."

Kyra shoved his shoulder, and they both smiled.

"You know, the world is ours now, and we can make it anything we want."

"Ugh, that's so cheesy," Kyra grumbled, but she smiled anyway.

"Is it not true?" He asked.

"I guess it is." She shrugged.

"I don't want to be alone anymore," he whispered.

"I've been alone for so long that I think I might go crazy soon." Quinn turned toward Kyra excitedly.

"I mean, come on, even those who have actually gone crazy have other crazy people around them."

"That doesn't even make sense." She laughed and shook her head at his excitement.

"Is it a deal?"

"You make it sound like a business deal." Kyra laughed.

"We grew up in an apocalypse; we know absolutely nothing about business."

"You're not wrong." "Kyra boldly took his hand while staring at the house down the hill.

Quinn squeezed her hand briefly but didn’t say anything. She had never considered a romance in her life and wasn't sure if the blossoming friendship between her and Quinn could even be considered romance. Nonetheless, she started to imagine a life with

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Quinn, in a real home, with laughter and warmth. Even though she didn't know what all that entailed, Kyra suddenly wanted nothing more than to create a family. For now, it would be just the two of them, but who knows what the future holds. Maybe they will grow close enough to create their own family, or maybe they will find other humans to form a family with. They were only seventeen, but that didn't mean anything in a dead world. Quinn was right, the world was theirs, and it would be a waste not to do something with it.

"It's a deal.”

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Acknowledgments Staff: Editor-In-Chief: Isabel Rosales and Heather McKayla Wylie Managing Editor: Calista Young Editor: Tiffany Estes Faculty Adviser: Leah Chaffins

Additional Announcement: In past issues of The Gold Mine, the winners of the John G. Morris Poetry Prize and the Leigh Holmes Creative Nonfiction Contest have been printed in the upcoming edition.

However, this year we are making an exception due to the journal only coming out in digital version. We will withhold the addition of this last year’s winners until next year so that the prize winners will have a print edition of their meritorious writing.

We’d also like to make note that this was the first time that the Gold Mine staff consisted of two Editor-in-Chiefs. We’d also like to thank them both for their willingness to change directions mid-stream to accommodate the needs of an ever-changing pandemic world during the creation of a journal edition.

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