Demogorgon Lit Magazine // 52nd Edition

The quick brow

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DEMOGORGON Katherine Li Vivian Lu

Editors-In-Chief

Dylan Green Ashley Liu Cherry Liu Marina Shi

Senior Editors

Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg Hannah Cohen Luisa Glass Amanda Chen Jillian Danberry Ishani Hirata-Chandran Victoria Hummel Ava McFadden Kyra Reily Trey Shelton Chelsea Yang Tina Yong Janet Chow Brian Connolly

Editors

Staff

Advisors

Letters from the Editors

Welcome to the 52nd edition of Demogorgon. As graduation caps soar through the air and graduates and families look to the future, it’s worthwhile to consider all the things we’re leaving behind: childhood friends, familiar roads, and years of waiting for the next chapter in our lives. With this issue of Demogorgon, we leave you with stories. We hope you enjoy them.

Vivian Lu

Welcome to this year’s long awaited issue of Demogorgon. A solid 80% of the art in this issue is created by our wonderfully creative, artistic, and not to mention beautiful senior, Ashley Liu. Snaps for Ashley! I hope you guys continue to support Demogorgon and submit a lot of art to make your grandma proud! I will come back and visit you guys.

Ashley Liu

Why did the chicken cross the road? To read the latest issue of Demogorgon! In this issue, we tried a lot of new things. These changes reflect those that all seniors will soon face (just replace magazine with ‘real life’) as they head towards the next phase in their futures. As many of the Demogorgon staff are seniors (more than half - insert Thanos joke here), we will be saying goodbye as the time passes and the year changes.

In this magazine we leave our final words, our final mark in this school. We hope you enjoy spending time perusing the works from the student body published within these pages.

Katherine Li

Special thanks to Aimee Hird, Bill Kovnat, and the East Art Department

Demogorgon is Cherry Hill High School East’s student-run art and literary magazine.

Please submit short stories, poems, and original artwork to eastdemogorgon@gmail.com

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Poetry and Prose Luke Shin Cherry Liu Aine Pipe Rachael A. G. Hannah Cohen Emma Stopek Tina Yong Shina Park Alyssa Park Paloma McMurty Rachael A. G. Rachael A. G.

Failing System..................................................................7 Transcripts of Four (4) Voicemails.............................12 Two Hospitals................................................................14 Jane Doe.........................................................................18 Greek for Mercury.........................................................20 17.....................................................................................23 Performance...................................................................24 Black Sun........................................................................26 Super Heroes..................................................................28 A Simple Way to Determine What to Say..................30 Spring, Autumn, Summer, Winter..............................36 House Parado Story.......................................................37

Art and Photography Ashley Liu Katherine Li Ashley Liu Ashley Liu

Yaz Shaughnessy

Katherine Li Amanda Chen Amanda Chen Jeanie No Jeanie No Katherine Li Ashley Liu Ashley Liu

............................................................................Cover Art ...........................................................................................5 ...........................................................................................7 ...........................................................................................8 ...........................................................................................9 .........................................................................................11 .........................................................................................17 .........................................................................................22 .........................................................................................25 .........................................................................................27 .........................................................................................29 ....................................................................................31-36 .........................................................................Back Cover

Katherine Li

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Failing System I feel like I’m expected to succeed in a failing system and the finish line is supposed to a shiny Ivy League education.

I was taught to look at my classmates and consider them competition to me before I was even old enough to recite my A B C’s.

And now I learn in a twisted system where the ideal student is a robot.

Because you’re not allowed to be sad when there’s an essay due tomorrow.

And you’re not allowed to be sad because grades come first.

I learn in a twisted system where administrators pride themselves in the cumulative GPA’s while half of the students can barely make it through another day.

But it doesn’t matter because we get 5’s on the AP test so it’s supposed to be okay.

Those 5’s represent 5 months of mental breakdowns and stress, they represent every allnighter gone unrecognized.

I learn in a twisted system where I’m nothing but a numbera 4 or 5 is what we strive for on the AP examand when the good grades stopped so did my teachers’ respect.

Because if I wasn’t an A student anymore then why do I matter?

How dare I show my face in the classroom, right?

I learn in a twisted system where students show up to class half alive kept awake only by the stimulants they consume.

Don’t pretend to be impressed by their drive.

Sleeping only the bare minimum, only able to count the hours- if even- on one hand.

One coffee, another energy drink.

We’re exhausted.

I learn in a twisted system.

And this should scare you because this shouldn’t be the future.

And it’s time that my health becomes a priority, not my college decision.

Luke Shin

Ashley Liu

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Ashley Liu

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Yaz Shaughnessy

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Katherine Li

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Transcripts Of Four (4) Voicemails From the mobile phone of Sam Hunter (deceased) Voicemail 1 (1:45 AM, 1/31/20XX) Hey Sam! It’s Jordan! Remember me? Your best bud? Anyway, I’ve been calling and you haven’t been picking up so I decided to leave a message instead. It’s been a long time since we’ve talked and everything. It’s kind of sad that we ended up going to different schools and now we live really far away. I miss hanging out with you a little, especially since it’s been kind of hard to get out there and find new friends and stuff.

Sorry it took me so long to finally get in touch with you. I thought that since both of us were moving and the new school year had started it would’ve been best to let you settle in a little and figure stuff out before bothering you, haha. Hopefully you didn’t take that as a sign that I’m not your friend anymore or anything. I still really want to get back in touch.

Anyway, it’s late, and I’ve got to go. Call me back whenever!

Voicemail 2 (12:30 PM, 2/15/20XX) Hey Sam! It’s-- uh-- it’s me again, Jordan? I called a few weeks ago and you still haven’t answered so I’m leaving a message again. You must be really busy if you haven’t been responding to me. It sure is nice to see you focus so hard on your studies and stuff. Back in high school we’d sometimes find time to hang around and not really do much of anything. That was nice. We didn’t have that much to worry about then either, at least, compared to now. Now everything is crashing into me all at the same time and the going’s getting a bit tougher. Maybe I should begin taking a leaf from your book and focus a bit more myself instead of staying up all night doing a whole load of nothing.

Hopefully this message come out clear. I’m calling in the middle of a rather crowded dining hall.

Anyway, Valentine’s Day was yesterday and-- as expected-- I spent it single again. Hopefully you found someone cute to cuddle up next to and eat chocolates with.

Hey! Do you remember that time when--- Wait what? Hold on I got to finish this---- that time when we--- What? Someone wants me? Now? I-- sorry Sam, someone’s calling me right now. Don’t push yourself too hard-- something bad could happen. Anyway, remember to take a breather now and then, and if you ever have some free time, maybe try calling me. Talk to you later!

Voicemail 3 (10:33 PM, 3/2/20XX) Hey Sam! It’s-- uh-- it’s me again. You haven’t been answering anything I’ve sent you, so I decided to leave another message. I don’t even know if you’re getting this, but I still think it’s worth a try, even if I probably won’t hear back from you.

How have things been going? Work’s starting to ramp up here, so I’m spending more and more time on studying. Hopefully things aren’t too stressful on your end, and you still have time to take care of yourself.

I remember in school whenever schoolwork started to pile up you’d pass up on sleep for sometimes two nights in a row to get everything done. You always looked so tired and I always wished I could’ve helped take some of your pain and stress away but in the end I knew I couldn’t do it and I always stood helplessly beside you and watched you suffer for some number that society told you you were worth. I always did admire your resolve, even if I didn’t quite understand why you worked yourself to the bone.

Sorry for rambling on so long. I really wish that you would call though. I really do miss hearing your voice and talking to you. I hope maybe you’ll find some time to call me, and you’re ignoring me because you’re too busy to talk right now, and it’s not because you don’t want to be friends with me anymore. If it is I’m really sorry.

Call me soon. ‘night.

Voicemail 4 (3:47 AM, 5/26/20XX) Hey Sam, it’s me again. Um-- I’ve been calling and texting you for most of a year now without any response.

If you scroll through our text logs it’s just one huge string of texts from me for the past year or so, haha.

Anyway, if you’re not talking to me because of something I’ve done, I’m really sorry. I assume it’s something I’ve done, since you’ve been nothing but nice to me. I hope you’ll forgive me for it, whatever it is.

I really feel like you don’t want to be friends with me anymore. What type of best friends wouldn’t talk to each other for, I don’t know, about a year? ...

I still really want to be friends. God, I--I miss you so much. I miss talking to you, and I really miss seeing you.

I miss your voice and just being your best friend again. ...

But, as much as I want to be friends, I know that friendship is-- is supposed to be a mutual relationship. I-- it just doesn’t work if one of us doesn’t… doesn’t want to be friends anymore.

So as much as I would like to stay friends, I know that as much as I wish, it won’t change anything if you don’t want to be friends anymore.

I wanted to let you know that, even if you don’t want to talk to me anymore, I’ll still be open to being friends, and if I’ve done anything to hurt you, I hope that one day, I’ll get some closure and find out what it was and maybe one day I could properly apologize to you for it. If I’ve really hurt you and there’s nothing left that I can do to help you then, even as it hurts to see you go, I’ll support you even if you decide to cut me out.

I really want the best for you, even if I might’ve hurt you in the past. …

I’ll be going home for a few weeks when it’s summer break. I know that summer’s a while off, and after finals season. But if I don’t hear anything from you, I think I might drop by your house sometime then and see if I can find any closure. If you don’t want me coming by tell me and I won’t. If you want to drop by to see me I’ll be where I always am, right at home with my parents, same one as when we were kids and before we moved away for school. …

Sorry for rambling on for so long at such a late hour. …

Sorry for not being a better friend. …

Sorry for hurting you. …

Sorry. …

Goodbye.

Cherry Liu

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Two Hospitals

And the world he left behind shifted And became a stranger to him As his conscience reminded him That he was just a spoiled brat.

He lies there in wait, Veiled in either the darkness Of his soul or the night that Surrounds him with his cursed stars.

His eyes are closed Too scared to meet a world That has long since abandoned him That he has long since abandoned.

He dreams of two children, A girl and a boy, One whom he knows too well, One whom he knows not at all.

The girl is his daughter For whom he did nothing But torment her and shape her Into a shadow of something.

She whispers to him with Poison in her words The result of seeing his shadows Play across her face once too many a’time.

And she tries to play the role Of one distressed by the coming of death Tried to hid that his passing will be A relief to her.

And it is she who bore the second child Who whispers in his dreams For the traces of his voice fall Like flitful ashes on his skin.

He is his grandson, Of whom he has made an enemy To whom he hurled insults Hoping it would make him stronger.

But the boy grew frailer And flinched more than fought Repeating the cycle again and again Until he fled to a better world.

Because there are those who can’t run away And what of them?

They’re stronger, they aren’t weak: Can you see the people’s hatred?

Yet the memory of one spring night Etched forever in his head Assured him he is justified When he fails to grieve.

Because when systems fail You go to what you can The familiarity of a ginger snap Can save you from the shadows.

So he doesn’t cry When the candles start to flicker Because his flame for the one who Once held him is gone.

Gone is the man whose wife, The guiding star of his childhood, Raised him from nothing, And all that’s there is ashes.

There will be no eulogy From the boy or from the girl His memory lives in The tear stains on their pillows.

She lies there in wait Her hair a torch against The coming of the darkness She’s come to consider a friend.

In a hospital bed so oft By her occupied she Has come to consider it Her own, she lies.

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Her hair flickers like Fire against the stars Which rage against her as they Refuse to align.

And she waits each day For another call back to her second home Only to be told what she knows: That there isn’t hope.

There isn’t an answer to the Equation tearing her body to shreds Like her skin was made of paper And her blood the ink etched across it.

And she’s running out of time The equation isn’t solved And she dismays because she fears It never will be.

And her candle flickers out Her hair’s embers become ashes The world she so longs to know So far away from her.

And she tries to tether herself To a ground from which she wishes not to part With her torch against the night That burns the grass between her toes.

Aine Pipe

Amanda Chen

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Jane Doe It was raining in fingers. One minute, it would pour from a finger of cloud. The next, the finger of cloud would be pulled out as suddenly as it had been shoved in. Then, in minute three, the rain would return with a vengeance.

At three AM, the visibility was bad by default, and these curving mountain roads were always dangerous, no matter the conditions. To make matters worse, I was listening to my favorite night driving music (soft rock—lots of piano), and singing as loudly as I could along with it. I had been in the city for the weekend, and was hurrying back home to what promised to be a manic Monday. Honestly, conditions were so bad, and I was so distracted, it’s a wonder I even noticed the figure lying in the middle of the road.

I slammed the breaks, narrowly avoiding a collision. At first, I thought the figure was a deer or a large animal of some kind. I got out my car to investigate, grabbing a flashlight from the glove compartment. One glance revealed my error—it was a girl. She was lying face down, her head circled by a small pool of dark blood. Resisting the urge to gag, I switched on my flashlight and examined her more closely. She was ten or so, dirty blonde, small and thin. Gingerly, I picked up her wrist. There was a pulse.

What was I to do? The shock of the discovery had kept away the panic up until that moment, but then it hit me in full force. I considered the facts. This girl was alive, but just barely, and probably not for long. I had no idea who she was and what she was doing out here. I needed to be very careful moving her. Lastly, I knew that there was no way I could leave her there.

What little I knew for sure compiled, I began to consider my options. I could either drive the girl to the local hospital four miles up the road myself, or I could call an ambulance and give her over to more capable hands. Taking her in my car would be faster, but she would be better cared for in an ambulance. I decided on the ambulance, but just as I was taking out my phone to make the call, the rain started up again.

Call me reckless, but I reversed my decision to call 911. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the girl stranded in the rain while we waited for the ambulance to arrive. Cursing the fickle weather, I picked her up as gently as I possibly could (which I’m afraid was not very gently at all). I arranged her as carefully as I was able in the passenger seat. I had a tiny car with no backseat, or I would have lain her down in it. The girl’s head kept lolling to the side. I grabbed a book from the floor and propped up her head . (In hindsight, it probably would have been better just to let her head loll.)

Now that she was face up, I saw just how horrific her wound truly was. She had a huge gash in her forehead, and it was bleeding profusely. She must not have been out there long, I thought, or she would have bled to death by now.

I kept a first aid kit in my car. I grabbed the five biggest band-aids in the box and layered them on her wound, one on top of the other. Once the stack was completed, a little blood still showed

I was speeding more than a little, but I figured I was justified. The music was off, and I could think. How had she been hurt? I wondered. I didn’t think she had been hit by a car. My best guess was she had fallen face-first off the low cliffs ringing the inner side of the highway. Why she was there, I hadn’t a clue.

These were the most worried four miles of my life. I stopped several times just to make sure that the girl was still breathing. As soon as I pulled up to the hospital, I bolted inside. The first person I saw was a nurse on the night shift. I screamed at him to get outside with a stretcher, and fast.

This would probably be a good time to mention that I am a doctor. A surgeon, in fact. This was the hospital that I worked at. It was the hospital for a tiny rural county, the most modern building for miles and miles. I knew everyone who worked there with me, including the nurse I had just snagged.

Nick (that’s his name) and I made a mad dash for the parking lot. We stopped in front of my car, and I opened the door. I heard Nick swear crudely under his breath. (The foulest thing I had heard come out of Nick’s mouth up until this point was the occasional “dangit.”)

Somehow, Nick and I got the girl onto the stretcher and inside. I quickly stitched up her wound.

That was all I could think to do. Nick and I set her up in a bed. Then, Nick left, shaken, to continue his rounds. I wasn’t due to start work until nine the next morning, and still more than five hours away. I waited, staring at the girl, worrying and hoping, until I crashed asleep two hours later. That was night one.

----The girl made it through that night, and through the next day, too. Still, she wasn’t doing well.

She was comatose, and likely had some sort of brain damage, either from the shock of the injury, or from blood loss. I continued to worry constantly about her, and repeated my vigil the second night.

Then there was the matter of her identity. I asked all of the hospital staff if they knew her. None did.

This was unusual. There were only three towns in the county, and none with more than five thousand residents. The combined staff of the hospital knew pretty much everyone in the county, and many of the residents of the next county over besides.

I tried a new approach. I made flyers and drove around the county, sticking them in mailboxes and taping them up on street lamps. When that didn’t work, I bought an ad in the local paper. I even bought ads in the papers of the three counties closest to us. I checked all of the “have you seen me” ads for our area. All of this was to no luck. I was still clueless as to the girl’s identity.

At this point I came to a resolution: if the girl 1) survived, and 2) had no relations, I would take her in. At the time I was 29, (pushing 30), had no family, was not in a relationship, had few friends, and lived alone. Loneliness was taking its toll on me. [I was standing on the bridge of loneliness, and the bridge of loneliness was a toll bridge.] I liked this new resolution very much.

Then, on the sixth day, she woke up.

Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg

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Greek for Mercury Silver runs through my veins.

Not the romanticized mesmerizing metal. The one which is associated with kings and other fantasies.

No. This is a silver which is despised. One which is representative of evil, chaos, and madness.

Mercury.

My veins flow with mercury.

But now, I am hated.

Too strong, too lethal, too heinous.

A freak, a monstrosity, inhuman.

The infamous beast used to ignite fear amping children.

So it was decided I would die.

I was a warrior.

I fought armies singlehandedly.

My wounds would only grant insanity to those who inflict them.

The mercury seeps into their skin.

And I watched them slowly turn into unintelligible beast.

Then they drop dead.

As for me, my wounds were cured instantaneously from a touch of my manganese sword.

My wound would not cauterize on contact with the sword that pierced me.

And for the first time, I felt the agony of a blade.

Mercury flowed out from my veins.

Spilling onto the ground.

Silvery pools around me. My life draining.

I looked up and saw the wicked faces and laughs, vile and toxic.

Remembering that these faces, now full of mercury, used to be full of silver.

I was a goddess.

Honored by the city, people celebrated me.

People prayed to me.

They prayed.

Hannah Cohen

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Amanda Chen

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17 so close to freedom so far from independence so excited for college so draining an application process so many arguments with parents so many beautiful memories with friends so lots of sleepless nights so little time to enjoy life hypocrisies everywhere “get a job and take AP classes and volunteer” but “why do you never sleep? why are you so stressed?” “you got your license!” but “you can’t get a car and only drive one person between 6-11” “you need to get into college and do extracurriculars” but “why don’t you have a life? why don’t you have friends?” junior year is hard no amount of warnings, cautions, and threats from friends and family could have possibly prepared us for PSAT, SAT, ACT, AP, subjects, intolerable teachers, downward spiraling friends, persistent acne, screaming parents, driving, college tours, your first love, your first heart break, drugs, alcohol, parties, the ups, the downs, and all of the in between so just remember underneath the piles of to do lists, the endless school forms, the college brochures, the empty coffee mugs, the worksheets, the prom dresses, and the school-required books, there is hope. purple sunsets, warm laughter, soft kisses, long drives, and tan skin lay just around the corner 17: a year of waiting, transforming, growing, crying, laughing, and trying, through it all, to be ok

Emma Stopek

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Performance Stepping out onto the worn black floor Arranging positions into formations Anticipating the first sound Of a starting note Beginning to move With the sensation of vibrations Buzzing through you The bright lights Warming your skin As your arms and legs Extend into the air Smiling widely At nondescriptt faces Feeling the energy; the euphoria Of the performance Creating a connection Between you and the audience Ending With cheeks stretched, eyes in crescents Stepping off The worn black stage

Tina Yong

Jeanie No

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black sun he shines brightly in the summer sky. i follow his light. that’s all i can see tonight. a single gray beamthat never seems to get any closer no matter how fast or far i run. he sends me on an endless odyssey. i don’t know where i’m going. but that is all i am doing. an empty hopethat touches every crevice of my mind and occupies every thought possible. his light flickers. i falter. i want it all to end. a black suni realize i’ve been pining over a vacant and counterfeit dream. a dream that bears no fruit. i wake upand i see the red sun.

Shina Park

Jeanie No

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Super Heroes Oh my dear, Don’t you know that heroes aren’t just born?

They can be, oh they certainly can be born Born from wrongly shed blood and flaming ashes From broken traditions and beaten shores But they can be made too, From metal and lightning, The water of them turned to ice from what they suffered Long ago is when they had forgotten tears, Too used to standing up with dry faces For their iron coated golden hearts to be on their sleeves anymore The can be chosen too Chosen for the purity in their eyes and fight in their soul Some just love to watch the good crumble under the weight of everyone’s world, You can see them from the magic, See them in the light and the darkness For it’s there, pouring from scar covered wounds But all heroes have one thing in common Can you tell me what, my dear?

The ground that they protect?

The skies in their minds?

Is it that they sacrifice again and again with so little given to them?

Oh, such good guesses you have.

But no, it’s not those things.

It’s that the heroes never have enough time, Until they die

Alyssa Parke

Katherine Li

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Trigger warning: rape, murder, explicit language.

A Simple Way to Determine What to Say Transferring schools, I’ve noticed a change In the way these students call each other names Instead of Billy, Jake, and Isabella I hear them say, “What’s up my n-” In case you were confused, let me clear the air If you are not black, you should use that word nowhere.

I do not care if you are “not white” Saying it as an Asian or Arab isn’t right.

I do not care that 2 Chainz has it in his song You can skip any word that does not belong I do not care if you “love” black folks Or if you chant BLM, thinking you are “woke” I do not care if you put your hair in cornrows Or if it’s only “black life” you know You may think the “black community” “accepts you” I think it’s about time you knew That no matter how much rap you listen to Or slick those edges you try to do You will never be black You’ll never feel the pain of knowing our ancestors were held in a shack To only be taken from their home And sailed over here I do not care if your black friend allows it If you use it, you are a hypocrite Off the top of my head I can think of some slurs That if I were to use, you would be hurt “But everyone uses it”, “it’s just a word” Let’s take a look at history you ignorant bird About 6 million Jews were murdered in the Holocaust In Sudan 2 million Darfari citizens became lost 90% of Native Americans were killed when Europeans came to this land There are countries where same sex marriage is banned 2 million Cambodians were tortured and subjected to death After the Armenian Genocide, no Assyrians were left.

What about the Japanese Nanking Massacre?

Where Chinese families were forced to rape each other.

Is this hard to swallow? Is this too explicit?

Well the point of this poem is not to solicit But to educate those on the traumatic historic events, that are still healing in the communities of many races, ethnic groups, members of the LGBT community, and people of particular religion.

Anyone can say whatever they want but it is mature And sensible to avoid any slurs that have been used to dehumanize a group of people. Although you may not be able to completely understand how African Americans feel, you can relate based on your people’s real experiences to help make this world a little less bitter and a little bitm better.

Paloma McMurty

Ashley Liu

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Ashley Liu

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Ashley Liu

Ashley Liu

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House Parado Story Spring Snowmelt river The ice roars as it cracks Yawning as it wakes Summer Fireworks bursting Summer in a spray of sparks Bone-grey shadows linger

Autumn Rain at sunset The scent of possibility Harvest moon hangs heavy Winter Silent forest Lost in three color dusk Snow covers all things

Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg

“Mama, will you tell us a story?” the young girl asked her mother.

“Of course.” The woman smiled. “Which one would you like?”

“Tell me the story of Xabrina and Xalador!”

“Once upon a time…” began the woman.

Once upon a time in a distant kingdom there lived a innkeeper and his wife. The couple, though poor, were blessed with two beautiful daughters. The older daughter was named Xabrina. She was kind, hardworking, and down to earth. Xalador, the younger daughter, was her opposite in every aspect. She was selfish, lazy, and always had her head in the clouds. Still, the girls were very close. Every day the girls would do their chores together (or rather, Xalador would sucker Xabrina into doing both their chores). While they were doing their chores, the girls would talk about all sorts of things. Yet their favorite topic, the one that they would return to day after day after soot-filled and pot-scrubbed day, was dreaming about their future husbands. Both girls wished to marry a wealthy man who would elevate them from their lowly station to lives of luxury and ease. As for the details, the two sisters would talk for hours, plotting and planning and giggling until sundown.

The years passed, and the girls grew old enough for marriage. Many young men came to court the two sisters, but all were turned away. Thought they were women now, the sisters had not forgotten their girlhood dream.

Finally, their moment came. A wealthy young nobleman on his way to the city stopped to stay at the inn. Both women immediately began plotting to secure the man’s hand. Xabrina believed that she could impress the man with her industry. Xalador, however, had a different plan. She would pray for fairies to come and help her with her chores. Then, the man would think that she was rich and had servants. At this, Xabrina laughed. “He’ll never fall for you like that!” She left the kitchen to clean the man’s room.

Still, Xalador remained firm in her resolution. Leaving her broom untouched, she kneeled in a heap on the sooty kitchen floor and began to chant.

“Fairies, fairies come to me... For your help I plea!”

She stood up and smiled a smile of triumph. Just you wait, Xabrina… Then she left the kitchen.

The next morning, the kitchen was spotless. “Come look!” cried the innkeeper’s wife, full of pride for her daughter. Everyone, the man included, came running. They were all impressed. Everyone, that is, save for Xabrina.

How could lazy Xalador get the kitchen so clean? Then she spotted it: Xalador’s broom. It was still propped up against the wall, in the exact same position as yesterday. It must have been fairies! She looked over to Xalador to censure her, but the man was already pulling closer to her, leaning into her. It was already too late.

Two months later, Xalador and the nobleman were married. She lived the rest of her life in wealth and comfort.

Three months later, Xabrina married the tanner’s son and lived the rest of her life in filth and misery.

The End. “Now sweetie,” said the mother, “what’s the moral of the story?”

“Be lazy and pray for fairies to solve all of your problems!” The girl cried with glee.

“Yes sweetie!” said the mother, beaming. “My little angel!” She turned off the light and creeped out to go pray to the fairies.

Ashley Liu

Rachel Agosto-Ginsburg

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Ashley Liu

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Ashley Liu