BetweentheStacks Issue11:Fanzine
Zines
A zine is a small-scale, self-published publication, similar to a magazine, which can focus on a wide variety of topics. Zines are often used to share artwork and creative writing.
Between the Stacks is DeKalb County Public Library's Teen Zine. Each quarter, we open submissions for young artists and writers in our community to share their work. The theme for this issue is Fanfiction and Fan Art.
Zines and Fan Communities
Fanfiction and zines share a long and intertwined history, with zines serving as a foundational form for many fan communities before the internet. Zines, initially known as fanzines, emerged in the 1930s, particularly within science fiction fandoms, as a way to share ideas, theories, fan art, and fanfiction. Zines continued to be popular in fan communities until the 1990s, when fanfiction largely transitioned to the internet.
Learn more about zine history with Make a Zine! by Joe Biel!
The Ice Dragon and Crimson Knight
Josephine, 14
Riders Republic Fanart
Ronan, 15
Hanako Elizabeth, 15
Schmidt’s Connections
By Anonymous, 18
The Coachella sun beat down on Schmidt and his friends. The treacherous desert winds blew through his perfectly sculpted hair, threatening to disrupt its extreme hold. He adjusted his brightly patterned, hand-made linen shirt, he bought from a small vendor in Venice beach just for this occasion, and surveyed his group with a self-satisfied smirk. Jess, Cece, Winston, and Nick each had a very overwhelmed expression on their faces, all of varying degrees. The sheer scale of the music festival was already too much for them, but Schmidt was ready to take it to the next level.
“Alright, people, listen up!” Schmidt yelled, his voice barely audible over the aggressive bass that was blasting from the stage behind them. “Operation Backstage Pass is officially a go. Remember the plan; I charm, you observe, and we all bask in the celebrity glow of… well, you’ll see.”
Nick, sporting his usual look with his baggy blue jeans and red tshirt with a suspicious looking stain on it, squinted as Schmidt. “Charm? You? Were you using that ‘charm’ the other night when you tried to convince that hot dog vendor on the corner that you were a Michelin star chef?” He chuckled, causing the rest of the group to erupt in laughter. Schmidt gasped and his eyebrows furrowed as he looked at all of his friends teasing him.
“Hey! That was a great performance, Nick Miller! He would’ve given us those hotdogs for free if you didn’t go and ruin it with your stupid appearance,” Schmidt snapped back defensively, his voice going up in pitch. Nick immediately stopped laughing and glared at Schmidt.
“My ‘Stupid Appearance’?’ What is that supposed to mean?” Nick questioned as he inched close to Schmidt.
“Oh please, a Michelin star chef wouldn’t be caught dead with a person like you. ” He responded sassily, as Nick continued to close the space between them. “Ok, that’s enough.” Cece interjected, forcefully pulling the two apart. “Schmidt, we’ve been over this. You know every semi-famous person you’ve ever met. That barista last month? You swore he was dating Rihanna.”
“He made an almond milk latte with impeccable foam art, Cece! It spoke volumes!” Schmidt insisted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “This is different though. I really know this person. We go way back.”
“So, who is this mystery artist then?” Winston questioned cautiously. Schmidt puffed out his chest, “I am, of course, referring to none other than… DJ…Wayback.” Silence hung in the air, interrupted only by the louds strains of heavy-metal behind them. Jess, with her wide doe eyes blinked slowly,
“DJ Wayback? Really, Schmidt?” She scoffed, shaking her head at Schmidt. “Yes, Jessica! WayB and I were pledge brothers back at Syracuse. He wasn’t a world renowned DJ back then of course, but we bonded over our mutual love for fine cheese and synchronized swimming. Since then we’ve kept in touch, I just need to find him!” As he finished his sentence, Schmidt began scanning to festival grounds, surveying the crowds of young-adults dressed in boho-casual wear.
“Synchronized swimming?” Nick snorted. “Dude, you can barely tread water.” “Details, details! The point is, Wayback knows me, and he’ll be thrilled to see me, believe me,” Schmidt snapped back, brushing off Nick’s skepticism. “Now, he’s spinning at the Sahara stage later. We need to find the bouncer who will surely have my name on his list. Let’s move!”
The group reluctantly followed Schmidt towards the Sahara tent, weaving through a sea of flower crowns, oversized sunglasses, and questionable fashion choices. Schmidt navigated them confidently to the desired location. As they approached the backstage entrance, Schmidt straightened his shirt and flashed a rehearsed smile. He walked over to the burly security guard with no doubts.
“Excuse me, sir! I am here to see DJ Wayback, I should be on the list. We are, let’s say, old friends.”
“Name?” The guard responded blankly, not taking his eyes off his clipboard. “Schimdt. Just Schmidt.” He responded confidently, puffing out his chest. Unimpressed, the security guard raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Name’s not on the list, buddy. Make your way to the GA pit.” He groaned, dropping the clipboard by his side.
Schmidt’s smile faded, but he refused to give up. He took a deep breath, pushing his proudly toned chest out even more. “There must be some mistake.” He snapped. “He might’ve put me down under his nickname for me.” He laughed and cracked a smile.
“And what would that be?” The guard said with a black expression, unamused. “Fatcakes.” The strong, intimidating man remained unmoved. Schmidt, desperate, turned to his friends, his voice barely at a whisper.
“Ok, plan B. Jess, you’re gonna put those bug eyes of yours to use! Come up with some really sappy sob story about how you overcame adversity and escaped some traumatizing summer camp or something. Cece, you use that beautiful smile of yours.” Jess looked at Schmidt, her eyebrows furrowed.
“I don’t know, Schmidt. I think we should just give up.” Cece nodded in agreement, already knowing this whole plan would end in a disaster. Before they could argue anymore, a deep voice echoed from behind them. “Schmidt? Is that you, you glorious man?”
Everyone turned to see a tall, skinny man emerge from the backstage tent. He was pale with a shaved, tatted head, and he was wearing a sequined jumpsuit with enormous headphones around his neck. Schmidt’s eyes widened, “Wayback?!” he exclaimed, the rest of the group stood frozen in shock. “Is that really you? You’ve… blossomed!”
The man threw his arms around Schmidt in a tight bear hug, nearly crushing him. “Fatcakes! It’s great to see you! You remember me right? From Syracuse? Now DJ Dolla?”
Schmidt’s face fell. DJ Dolla? Not DJ Wayback? His whole plan crumbled before his eyes as he realized he read the Coachella lineup wrong. He mumbled something about the mistaken identity. Oblivious to what was going on, DJ Dolla clapped Schmidt on the back.
“What are you doing here? You here for my set? I’m tearing up the Sahara state tonight! Bring your friends backstage afterwards and we can reminisce on the good old days.” DJ Dolla chuckled. “Remember that time you got stuck in that chimney? Hilarious dude.” The group stared at Schimdt, mouths fallen wide open. “You couldn’t make this stuff up,” Nick muttered. As they were ushered backstage by DJ Dolla. Schmidt could only manage a weak smile. Maybe his Coachella adventures wouldn’t be exactly as planned, but at least he got where he wanted to be. Backstage with his friends, and DJ Dolla.
The Ghost Alexis, 18
Dreaming Matthew, 15
Narancia Emer, 15
Tea Party
Elizabeth, 15
Afterburn
by Anonymous, 14
I can’t breathe. The air is suffocating, and every desperate inhale feels utterly futile. How could I have let this happen?
Yet, deep down, I know this was the only outcome.
This war has been a relentless shit show, a spectacle of overconfident fools trying to validate their pitiful existence. Something they all know is a lie. Honestly, it’s embarrassing though not as embarrassing as dying for the same hollow cause.
A scream pierces through the chaos, and I struggle to pinpoint its source until it reaches me. That voice. The one that has brought me joy for the last decade, the one I fought so hard to distance myself from, fearing it would become mine forever. Now, that beautiful voice is unleashing the most horrifying cries I’ve ever heard.
God, if you’re listening, please don’t let that mouth utter those sounds ever again.
All I wanted was to reach your level of brilliance, to match your unwavering strength, driven by my own selfish desires. Well, Izuku
“Can I still catch up to you, Izuku?”
That is my final thought. Your beautiful green hair, those eyes brimming with joy and hope. If there is an afterlife, I long to meet you there. As my vision fades to black, I mourn my own loss not of my life, but of you.
I don’t think I ever truly said it, but I love you. So much.
I hope you can forgive me. All I ever wanted was to see you smile. It doesn’t hurt anymore. I’m so tired.
I’ll see you again when I wake up.
Dex Dizznee and Iggy
Lillian, 13
Party Girls
Alexis, 18
Sunshine Burns
by Gigi, 16
Faith has never been afraid of death.
She was always the one throwing open the doors to prove that there were no monsters in the closet, the one to choose a fight over the often more sensible approach of laying low, the one flipping the preacher off in the middle of his sermon. There was no amount of black eyes or bruises that would make her fear death, and church certainly didn’t do it, no matter how much her mother’s various boyfriends would try.
Honestly, if death came for her, Faith would probably welcome it with open arms. But when it came for the people she loved, for her Watcher, that’s when she would fight, tooth and nail.
Sometimes, she felt like her resistance was almost a plea. Like she was begging death to take her instead.
It never did.
So she ran, like she always did. It was simple, running. If her mother taught her anything, it was that burying the past was always easier than dealing with it, and there’s no better place to hide than in plain sight. That and everything was fine, even when it wasn’t.
Somehow, she ended up in Sunnydale, California, and god, the town redefined the word “dump”. A one-Starbucks hellhole in the middle of nowhere, where the best place to have a night out was open to all ages and happened to be vampire central.
Just Faith’s idea of fun.
But then she met Buffy Summers. Faith would live in Sunnyhell for the rest of her life if that meant she got to see Buffy Summers every day.
She was gorgeous in that effortless kind of way, like she honestly didn’t know how beautiful she was, but she did know her power and god, did she own it. She was innocent and adorable but not naïve, and her hair–it may be cliché, but Buffy Summers had the hair of an angel, falling perfectly in blonde waves of pure sunshine, bouncing with every glance over her shoulder and every vampire staked. Buffy was the sun (and this was definitely cliché now): beautiful, warm, and unreachable.
Because she was also completely, undoubtedly, straight.
Faith was so screwed.
If Faith had told the Faith of last year–hell, the Faith of yesterday–that she fell in love at first sight, she’s pretty sure now-Faith wouldn’t have made it back to Sunnydale.
But everything was fine, she would tell herself when she was alone in her cheap, moldy motel room while Buffy Summers spent time with her perfect family. And it was fine when Buffy wrinkled her nose at some crude joke Faith made and she could swear her heart skipped a beat like she’s some cartoon character with hearts for eyes. And it was fine when Buffy Summers held her hand as she broke down over Kakistos’ ashes and didn’t let go the whole walk back to her motel.
Everything was fine. It had to be, otherwise Faith was going to lose her mind.
So it was business as usual. They would go slaying, crack some quips, dust some vamps, and head home on their own. Faith would pretend she didn’t miss the adrenaline rush, the brush of Buffy’s skin against hers, the way Buffy looked at her when they were alone in that graveyard, her eyes shining with the thrill of the hunt, like this was their destiny, like they would be fighting side by side for all of eternity.
Those brief moments where Buffy was the Slayer, where Faith could tell that she accepted the power running through her blood before she went back to being Buffy the perfect daughter and Buffy the best friend and Buffy the schoolgirl worrying about homework and boys.
But she always went back, and Faith was always left in the wreckage, cradling the remains of her torn-up heart.
And, worst of all, Faith seemed completely incapable of doing anything that made Buffy anything but ecstatic, which apparently included offering to take her to Homecoming. Everything is fine became Faith’s mantra as Buffy hung off her arm, repeating the words in her head and forcing a smile, when all she wanted to do was drag Buffy into the alley and kiss her until she couldn’t breathe. But it was fine, and if she was a bit hard on the vampires during patrol the next few days, well, it wasn’t like anyone was watching.
Until there was, and she got a new stuffy English Watcher who taught her about Sparta and seemed to somewhat care about her training, which was more than she could say about Giles or any other adult. It wasn’t like Faith expected them to worry about her–she’s not that stupid, despite what Gwendolyn Post ended up claiming–it’s just that it was nice to feel cared for, at least for a little while. Post wasn’t even particularly nice to her; it just seemed like she wanted her to be alive, a vibe that she wasn’t exactly getting from Buffy or the Scoobies.
Maybe it was her. She knew that the stray cat loner thing wasn’t going to make her a lot of friends, but the common experience of being called as the Chosen One and being forced to prevent apocalypses should have made a stronger bond than whatever she had with Buffy. How many people does that happen to? But Faith still patrolled alone more often than not, and Buffy spent time with her vampire ex-slash-friend-slash-boyfriend–whatever they were, Faith told herself that she didn’t care.
It took her five pummelled vampires to come to the conclusion that she did, in fact, care.
She hid out in her motel room for three days before Buffy visited, looking around the place like it was nothing more than a hole in the wall. Faith supposed it wasn’t.
So they talked; at least Buffy did, and Faith listened and gave noncommittal, curt responses. Faith had never been one for the communication thing–seemed like too much work for not much reward, and it wasn’t long before she’s pushing Buffy away again. But Faith, being Faith, couldn’t help but call after Buffy as she turned to walk away, no matter how much it made her hate herself. Buffy Summers was like a magnet made of pure sunshine, and Faith couldn’t figure out how to detach herself before she got burned.
But Faith was getting burned, badly, so she convinced herself that it wasn’t hope that she saw on Buffy’s face as she spun around so quickly that a normal human would have gotten whiplash. She told herself that there was no flicker of disappointment as Faith shook her head and said, “Nothing,” that she didn’t care about the sad smile that Buffy flashed her before turning and leaving. She didn’t care as she sat motionless on her bed, staring at the fly crawling on the wall across from her.
Then, the fly took off frantically to escape the impact of the door hitting the wall as Buffy barged back into her room and simply said, “No.”
Faith raised her eyebrows. “No?”
“No,” Buffy repeated emphatically. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to push everyone away and do the whole loner thing. Not again.”
Faith let out a short laugh, more out of shock than anything. “You’re really gonna lecture me-”
“I’m not done,” Buffy said, putting her hand up to silence her, and if she wasn’t still reeling from Buffy being right in front of her, Buffy coming back, she probably would have punched her in the face. “Look, I messed up. I shouldn’t have hidden Angel from you. You deserved better than that. I meant it when I said you could trust me. That I’m on your side. Because it’s just the two of us, Faith. The Slayers, the Chosen Two. We gotta look out for each other.” She paused and added, “And Angel and I are not together. At all. In any way.”
Faith’s lips twitched up against her will. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Buffy’s eyes widened comically, and she hastily said, “It doesn’t! I just thought, since we were, y’know, doing the honesty thing, I should mention it, but it’s not important or anything-”
Faith snorted, a genuine smile spreading across her lips. “Relax, B, just pulling your chain.”
Buffy breathed a sigh of relief, and she laughed, first softly, then louder, uncontrollable giggles bursting out of her. It was a wellknown fact that Buffy’s laughs were contagious, and soon, they were both keeled over on the bed, desperately trying to catch their breaths. Their stomachs ached as the laughter gave way to silence, and Faith was acutely aware of the inches between them. She turned her head, her eyes tracing over Buffy’s face in profile, and she had never wanted anything more than to reach over and grab her hand.
“I do trust you,” Faith murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper, and Buffy turned her head to meet her gaze. Buffy smiled, a small, soft smile that Faith had never seen before, and she shifted to thread her fingers through Faith’s.
Faith stopped breathing.
“Is this okay?” Buffy asked, her voice as quiet as Faith’s must have been, and it’s a miracle that Faith can force out a, “Yeah,” without spontaneously combusting. Buffy smiled again and turned her head back to face the ceiling, closing her eyes, their hands still intertwined.
The Radio Host of Rumors
Thea, 14
Zombie Girlie Alexis, 18
Topaz (minus Numby)
Thea, 14
Percy & Friends
Lillian, 13
Happy Baiheng Thea, 14
Keefe Sencen
Lillian, 13
Jolyne Emer, 15
Madeline, 14
Taski Maiden
How Many Avengers Does It Take to Bake a Cake?
by Gigi, 16
Tony’s beginning to regret waking the team up with the Emergencies Only alarm.
Granted, he had stayed confident far longer than most; he didn’t react when Thor came charging through the door in full armor, Mjolnir in hand, or when Banner scampered into the kitchen like a skittish animal, glancing over his shoulder and shifting from foot to foot. He didn’t even flinch when Romanoff realized that there was no threat and sent him a death glare that made Pepper look like a harmless kitten (okay, maybe he flinched a little bit).
No, he didn’t actually regret anything until Barton dropped into the kitchen from his hidey-hole in the ceiling, landing silently like a freaking cat.
Really, Tony can’t be blamed for the yelp that escaped his throat as Barton just appeared next to him or the laugh that bubbled out as he took in Barton’s interesting clothing choices. Because he was wearing a ratty gray t-shirt and purple Hulk boxers.
And what was Tony supposed to do but tell JARVIS to get many, many pictures so this moment would be forever remembered in the years to come? It was really Barton’s fault; who would ever think buying underwear with your teammate's face emblazoned on the back was a good idea?
Unfortunately, Barton doesn’t seem to share his sense of humor if the arrow an inch away from Tony’s nose is anything to go by.
“Don’t get twitchy, Katniss,” Tony says, going cross-eyed as he attempts to stare down the arrowhead. He takes a step back and surveys the room, noticing and ignoring the fact that his teammates
do not look happy with him. “Contrary to popular opinion, I am human, and I understand that many of you are tired, or angry, maybe a tad bit irritated-”
Barton’s arrow embeds itself in the wall an inch from Tony’s head, and he turns to stare at it as soon as he registers the impact. By the time he looks back at Barton incredulously, he’s facing another arrow. He tilts his head to the side to see Barton staring back at him, utterly unrepentant. The absolute nerve of these people.
“What did I say about getting twitchy?” He tuts, stepping to the side to avoid the highly lethal projectile aimed at his face. “As I was saying,” he continues with a glare in Barton’s direction, “given your current feelings, you may be wondering why I’ve called you here tonight.”
“Right now, I’m wondering who would bid the most on your head.”
Tony stares at Romanoff. “You are aware that I let you live here for free, right?”
Banner sighs, pulls off his glasses, and pinches his nose. “What are we doing here, Tony?”
“Why, Brucie Bear, I’m so glad you asked!” Tony slings his arm over Banner’s shoulder and sends pointed glares at Barton and Romanoff. “As you may or may not know, today is September 28. And, despite what the media likes to claim, Captain America’s birthday is not, in fact, on the Fourth of July. As of…” He trails off. “JARVIS, time?”
“2:54 AM, sir.”
“As of 174 minutes ago, Steven Grant Rogers is officially ninety-two years old! So, I say: let us honor our treasured teammate and show him support during this trying time. Y’know, since he destroyed the organization that was funding the team and left me to deal with paying for a group of superheroes with ridiculous appetites… which is fine,” he hastily adds as Romanoff’s glare somehow becomes more
murderous. “He also found out his formerly dead best friend is a highly trained assassin who doesn’t have any memories of their past together, so let’s cut him some slack.”
“Hurry up, Stark,” Thor growls. “Not all of us have the time to listen to your nonsensical ramblings.”
Tony points an accusing finger at Thor. “No more pop tarts for you.” He walks over to the kitchen island, which is heaped with various objects that are covered by a white tablecloth. “Side note: I would just like to remind everyone, again, that this is my house that I pay for and you live in for free.” He sighs at their glares. Why pick fights you can’t win? “What I was trying to say before I was so rudely interrupted is that we should show our appreciation for this glorious, patriotic day that marks the ninety-second year since this world gained the absolute joy that is Captain America by–drum roll, please–baking him a birthday cake!” Tony rips off the tablecloth with a flourish, revealing baking ingredients and utensils piled on the island and nearly knocking a precariously stacked tower of mixing bowls over.
“You woke us up at three in the morning to bake a birthday cake, ” Romanoff says, sounding slightly incredulous. She’s not using her I'm-a-trained-assassin-who-could-kill-you-with-my-pinky-toe voice, so she can’t be too mad at him. At her side, Barton finally drops his bow, staring at Tony like he’s gone insane.
“Not just any birthday cake, Agent Romanoff,” Tony says with another sweep of his arm and another terrifying wobble from the stack of bowls. “A good old-fashioned American birthday cake for our very own good old-fashioned American boy.”
Banner winces. “That wasn’t phrased very well.”
“Either way, this is definitely not an emergency,” Romanoff says, her voice slipping back into watch-your-back territory.
“Okay,” Tony concedes, “the alarm may not have been the best idea.
Either way, you’re here now, and we only have a few hours before Cap wakes up for his daily five o'clock run.
So I say: let’s get cracking.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Literally. We have a lot of eggs to crack.”
They stand in silence, exchanging glances that make Tony fear for his life. Finally, Thor sighs. “I suppose we are already here and everything is set up.” He raises Mjolnir threateningly at Tony and adds, “But if you ever attempt something like this again, Stark, your screams will be heard across the Nine Realms.”
Tony takes a step away from Thor as Romanoff and Banner reluctantly agree, leaving Barton. He sighs as everyone looks at him expectantly. “Can I at least change first?”
“Nope,” Tony says cheerfully.
Barton turns to Romanoff for support, but she shrugs. “You wore it.”
He sighs again. “It doesn’t seem like I have a choice here.”
“You really don’t,” Tony says, nodding sagely. He claps his hands. “Let’s bake a cake!”
As it turns out, the Avengers have no idea how to bake a cake.
It started off reasonably well. Each person was assigned a task: Romanoff would make the buttercream, Tony would mix the dry ingredients as Barton did the wet ingredients, Banner would prep the pans and preheat the oven, and Thor would provide moral support (it was unanimously decided that he would stay away from all the breakable glassware after many past incidents).
Two hours later, Tony tips the cakes out of their pans. Thor and Banner cluster around him, watching intently.
“I don’t think they’re supposed to look like that,” Barton says,
perched on the counter next to Romanoff, who’s licking white buttercream off of a spoon.
Tony eyes the flat cake and prods the sunken spot in the middle. “We could just cut the top off.”
Romanoff slides off the counter, pulls a knife out of god-knowswhere, and cuts the cake in half, ignoring Tony’s indignant “Hey!” She presses her finger to the inside, leaving a large imprint when she pulls away. “Clint switched out the baking powder with the baking soda when you weren’t looking. It’s not salvageable; it’s way too dense.” She hops back on the island and scoops another spoon of buttercream out of the bowl, switching from white to blue. “We could use it for cake pops.”
Banner looks back and forth from Tony to Romanoff, his mouth open and his head swiveling comically. “Wait, so… what do we do now?”
“Nothing,” Tony shrugs, keeping his face blank. “The man is physically incapable of sleeping in a second past five, even on his birthday, which means we have about five minutes to bake a new cake.” He pauses. “Well, maybe-”
“We are not trying to bake a cake in five minutes.” Tony starts to argue, but one look at Romanoff tells him that his safety hinges on his ability to stop talking.
Tony stops talking.
“Smart choice,” Barton says with a smirk.
“Okay, the guy who ruined the cake and who happens to be wearing Hulk underwear can really not be talking right now.” Tony narrows his eyes. “Why did you ruin the cake?”
Barton shrugs. “I was bored.” His fingers tap aimlessly across the surface of the counter. “Also, Nat had a plan, and I’m not stupid
enough to work against her.” He bumps his shoulder into Romanoff’s as she grins around her spoon.
“Come on in, Wilson,” she says, setting the now-empty bowl of blue buttercream aside and starting on the red.
Tony turns to face the entrance to the kitchen. A man stands in the doorway holding a beautifully decorated cake on an ornate glass cake platter. He smiles awkwardly and moves to wave, but he thinks better of it as his gaze darts to the cake.
“Hey,” he says, “don’t mean to intrude. I’m Sam.” Tony begins to introduce himself, but Wilson cuts him off with another smile, less awkward this time. “I know who all you guys are.” He steps into the room and hands the cake off to Romanoff. She sets it on the kitchen counter, pushing Barton out of the way, and collects a pile of presents that was sitting inconspicuously in the corner of the room, arranging them around the cake. Tony raises an eyebrow as he notices his present along with others from each team member.
“Why do you have our presents?” Romanoff levels a flat gaze at him, and he sighs. “Why do I ask?” he mutters.
Just as Romanoff steps away from the counter, surveying her handiwork, Rogers walks through the door, blinking blearily. He stops, staring at the pile of presents and the cake in the center, decorated with loops and swirls of red, white, and blue frosting. His gaze drops to the flour-covered floor, the half-empty bowls of dyed buttercream, and the general mess that is the kitchen, and he raises an eyebrow at Tony.
“Happy birthday?” Tony says with an apologetic smile.
Rogers smiles, the first genuine smile Tony’s seen from him since SHIELD fell. “You guys didn’t have to do this.”
Tony opens his mouth to make some snappy comment about the ridiculous ingrained politeness that Rogers can’t seem to shake, but
Wilson beats him to it. “It’s Captain America’s birthday. Least I could do was make a cake.” Maybe not what Tony was going for, but he lets him have it.
“Thank you,” Rogers says, doing that weird thing where he makes eye contact with everyone individually to show how grateful he is. “It means a lot that you’d do this for me.” He moves toward the island before stopping suddenly, his brow furrowing in confusion.
“...is Clint wearing Hulk underpants?”
Dio and Pucci
Emer, 15
Skele-Temmie Anonymous, 16
This is fanart of a game called “Undertale”. In this game, there’s a character called Temmie. They run a shop called “Tem Shop”. There’s also a skeleton character called Sans and he’s the most popular character in the game. So, I drew Temmie wearing Sans’ jacket.
Monet Inspired Lila, 16 Inspiration: Claude
For Hope Lila, 16
Domina Lila, 16
This Is Why Small Businesses Fail
by Gigi, 16
Maddie had expected opening a butcher shop in Sunnydale to be far more lucrative than it was turning out to be.
Everyone remotely involved in demonology knew that Sunnydale, California was on a Hellmouth and that barbecue fork injuries were a shockingly common occurrence in the town. It really wasn’t hard to put two and two together, and Maddie had always had a slightly worrying fascination with vampires, so it really shouldn’t have been surprising when she disappeared to Sunnydale with no warning to become an entrepreneur.
Judging by the sheer number of phone calls her horrified family members had been making, it was very surprising. If Maddie had to hear her mother cry, “My daughter’s a butcher!” one more time, she’s going to have to move again. Or maybe remove the phone from her shop.
Opening a butcher shop had really seemed like a good idea at the time, and it wasn’t as if Maddie didn’t enjoy it. She got to cut up meat, and she could buy some for herself at very cheap prices.
But at the end of the day, the vampires didn’t seem to want to buy blood from her. And she really just wanted to sell blood to the undead.
Should she have been worried that she just wanted to sell blood to the undead?
It took two months before everything finally paid off. Maddie had been working afternoons and nights since the shop opened, though she had never gotten any customers past eight. That night, though, the door banged open at two in the morning, and a tall, slightly pale man walked in, his large, brooding frame filling the entrance. If his
complexion wasn’t a hint, his outfit screamed vampire: a black leather trench coat draped over a dark red silk shirt.
“You want blood, I’m guessing?”
He raised his eyebrows at her before sighing. “You get a lot of us around here, huh?”
“You’d be surprised,” she said. “Turns out vampires much prefer finding warm, human food over pig blood.” Maddie furrowed her brow. “You aren’t gonna try and eat me, right? Because that would be very not cool.”
The corner of his lip twitched up. “I’m not going to eat you.”
“Good,” she said, still eyeing him warily. She slid a pint across the counter. “Five dollars.”
He stared at her incredulously. “That’s two dollars anywhere else.”
Maddie shrugged. “You’re in Sunnydale, man. This town has more vampires than humans and I’m not supposed to charge extra on blood?”
He rolled his eyes and slapped the money down on the counter, whisking off with his trench coat swirling around him.
“Have a great night!” she called after him, smiling giddily to herself. Maybe she had a few issues and seeing a vampire shouldn’t be so exciting, but she also just saw a vampire. A real, bloodsucking vampire who bought blood from her. She haggled with a vampire. A vampire who… did not leave a tip.
Jerk.
Trench Coat Guy quickly became a regular, stopping by for a pint at two o’clock every morning like clockwork, and after a week, he seemed to get over his aversion to tipping. He still didn’t tip well–his
first tip was a singular penny, and it took everything she had to not laugh in his face–but something was better than nothing. So they had their routine: he would slip through the door, Maddie would give him his blood, he would pay her, drop an assortment of pennies in her tip jar, and disappear into the night.
She still knew nothing about this guy–she called him Trench Coat Guy, for god’s sake–but she didn’t dare ask any questions. This may have been her first time actually dealing with vampires, but she was anything but unprepared. She had even made a list of rules before she moved:
Rule number one: don’t ask questions.
Rule number two: don’t make them angry.
Rule number three: really don’t make them angry. They will try to eat you if you make them angry.
She learned rule number three the hard way.
It was four in the morning, and Trench Coat Guy still hadn’t shown up. Honestly, Maddie was a bit worried. Three straight weeks of never being late, and now he decided that he didn’t need blood?
Who knows, maybe he’d switched to human blood. She had no clue how vampire psychology or physiology worked.
She heard the door swing open and turned, expecting Trench Coat Guy to rush in, coat swirling around him, but there were five men standing there instead. And judging by their faces, they were not human.
“We want blood,” one of them growled.
“Sure,” Maddie said, forcing a business smile despite the shiver that shot down her spine. “What kind? We have pig, cow-”
“Yours,” he said, his face twisting into what must have been a smile, baring his fangs.
“Look, sir, I sell perfectly good blood here at a great price.” She willed her voice to stay steady as she reached under the counter, her hand wrapping around the cross she’d hidden there. “I can get you a discount, if you’d like.”
He tilted his head to the side, blinking slowly at her. “Tempting.” His eyes darted up and down her body, and Maddie fought the urge to shudder. “But I think I’ll pass.”
He lunged forward, and she whipped out the cross, her eyes screwed shut as she thrust it forward to where he should land. But there was no hiss of burning skin, only the thud of a body hitting the floor, followed by a strange whoosh, as if wind was blowing through her shop.
She tentatively opened her eyes to see a pile of dust where the first vampire had been and Trench Coat Guy fighting off the others. It didn’t take long before he turned the rest to ash streaked across the shop floor, and he stood in front of her, panting with needless breaths.
“You’re late,” she said, quirking an eyebrow. “And you got dust all over my floor.”
That was enough to startle a laugh out of him. “I’m sorry?”
“You should be,” she said, pulling out a pint of blood and sliding it across the counter. “I should really make you clean up the remains of the undead that you’ve dispersed around my shop. Do you know how much of a pain sweeping is?”
“I’m sure it is,” he said with a smirk. He set his money on the counter, but Maddie pushed it back towards him.
“This one’s on me,” she said, and he slowly picked it up, eyebrows
furrowed. “You did kinda save my life.”
He smiled again, more sincerely this time, and he dropped a tip in the jar. “Thank you.” Judging by the clinks, Maddie was getting multiple pennies today.
She smiled back. “No problem. And thank you,” she said with a nod at the jar. As he turned to leave, she added, “If I’m giving you free food, you could at least tell me your name. Y’know, so I can stop calling you Trench Coat Guy.”
He snorted, pausing at the door. “Angel,” he said before disappearing into the night.
“Angel,” she repeated. Maddie sighed, and her eye caught on a small paper in the tip jar. Did Trench Coat Guy leave a cash tip for once?
She reached into the jar and picked up the paper, unfolding it to see a poem instead of a bill. She snorted–there could not be a more Angel thing to do than tip her in everything but cash–and smiled as she read the short poem. It was just eight lines and about friendship, and her limited knowledge of literature had her leaning towards Dickinson as the author. She sighed again, shaking her head as she folded the poem and tucked it away.
“Dumbass.”
Little Lion
Lila, 16
Zenitsu Zion, 15
A super awesome 9 grader th Naomi, 14
Luce Ariana, 16
I did what you wanted, that’s it?
Madeline, 14
Splatoon Marina and Pearl Mikayla, 15
Embroidery of an Era Jet, 14
In this piece I represented 8 characters from the Mauraders Era fandom (this generation above Harry Potter). The snake representing Dorcas Medows, the roses represent Evan Rosier, the antlers that they are on represent James Potter, the crystal ball represents Pandora,the moon inside of it represents Remus Lupin, the rat represents Peter Pettigrew, the knife represents Barty Crouch Jr, and the star represents both Sirius & Regulus Black.
Thank you!
To all of our wonderful artists for sharing their work and to the DeKalb Library Foundation for funding this project.
Featured Artists:
Alexis
Ariana
Elizabeth
Emer
Gigi
Jet
Josephine
Lila
Lillian
Madeline
Matthew
Mikayla
Naomi
Ronan
Thea
Vox
Zion
and all of our anonymous artists!
