Editors
Andrew Beatrice
Alex Bernstein
Kai Gottsegen
Kellie Jones
Allison Racine
William Seddon
Elm & Quill
Faculty Editors
Marshall Robinson
Zach Turner
Short Stories Personal Essays
Team Firefly
An Essay
Allison Racine
I was young, 15 years old, back when I bathed in a bucket and bled for my own fire.
I was young, yet most in tune with all parts of myself, accepting of each one…
The girl who knew she longed to use. The girl who kept quiet to save her suffering.
The girl who sat in dirt. And the girl unsure of what was coming.
I wonder to this day which one of those parts others see in me?
Some I have shed and others I've embraced.
Some parts of myself have sprouted from anguish and struggle I still face today.
18 Years, only 5 I spent living, my thoughts flow through interlude. How will we ever console our desire for more when we would rather dream than do?
We all have a period of time in our existence which we think about each and every day.
Sometimes a place or series of memories which conspicuously projects through our day to day.
Mine is sore feet and fallen ash on a thick sleeping bag.
Cowboy camping under Orion and letters to my anxious Dad.
February 8th, 2022…
After 2 years my parents had no alternative option but to dismiss me from a life of what I later found was luxury, and I was driven by two strangers to what they called “The Ranch.”
“The Ranch” turned out to be a small shed at a deserted location in Colorado where I was stripped of my clothing, and from then on I wore convertible cargo pants and a plain red baggy T-Shirt. As I took out my earrings and rings and handed over my phone, they sealed everything in a bag with my name labeled on it. I wasn't expecting such a change, and was unsure of what to expect. “It will be a big sleepover,” my mom exclaimed. I assumed we would at least be sleeping under a roof, and I assumed wrong. I was assigned to a group of girls. Girls who were once hungry for more pills, and thirsty for the poison in their plastic water bottles.
These girls I judged only to find I was judging myself. We were the same, and now I had to find a way to live with myself. I once was selfish, yet then reborn. It was a new life. One filled with tears and confusion; it left me with no choice but to hike. I want to believe I was rewarded after my 13 weeks in the Utah desert. Yet I was always met once again with the part of me who “allied” my thoughts of a relapse. She would keep me far from the girl in the desert. I still don't believe I am comfortable reflecting on those moments I made at Open Sky in depth, because I was content, and in those moments I felt I could trust myself. And later on that feeling had altered. I struggled to face them as my ignorance had dispelled, and I now know how it feels and felt facing the challenges of maintaining sobriety, and to be exposed to such a world of temptation.
As time passed after my graduation from the program it had only become more difficult to look back and feel those memories I made at Open Sky.
Even the simple memories, because they were filled with purity.
We sat on stumps around the warmth of the fire... The pops and crackling of the falling logs, and the sizzling oats in my small metal cup. I struggle to return to those moments, not because they aren't clear, but because it was back then when I believed I could stay sober and I did everything I could to reassure everyone else.
That was toward the end; the beginning of my time was never easy. It was a joke to me at first. The truth was too raw to seem true. My first night at base camp I was greeted by a guide. It was not easy for me to talk at first, especially since I had been put in a place so unfamiliar and I was isolated from the group.
The stars were bright and the sky dark. I was below a few juniper trees, chilled, sitting on top of the cold Utah desert snow. I was in what they called “Gateway World.” In Gateway World, the other members of my team were restricted. They couldn't interact with me until I followed simple self care essentials which would bring me to the next direction.
Essentially, they were labeled directions but worked as “levels.” I was ignored and arrived on a girl Kia’s graduation. It was surreal coming into this raw, unfamiliar environment, and I dreaded the weeks I had to stay. I watched Kia interact with her family and it gave me a sense of hope seeing something so wholesome. Maybe I could grasp and manifest something so pure from this program I thought, but my ego always won in the beginning.
Yet here I was eating with a stick, as the guide lectured me in regards to moving directions on to the “South,” where I would be able to settle in and meet the team.
The guide explained to me that once you completed and followed the rules or tasks, you were able to move to the next direction and once you ' ve moved “West,” granted a backpack. Some of the essential tasks to move directions was Bow Drilling. We harvested our own wood and rock, carving our Bow Drilling set. Bow Drilling was how we made our fires each night. It included a “Top Rock, Spindle, and Bow.” It is too complex to explain in detail, but it is what you would imagine making fire with sticks is. We also were required to write a series of letters to our parents or family back home.
One of the assigned letters was the “LOR” (Letter Of Responsibility). In the “LOR,” we took accountability for our behaviors. It wasn't easy re-living the past we were stripped away from, but it taught me how important and valued honesty is along with the importance of communication. Yet at the same time, all the letters I wrote and the ones I read sent from my family made me grow hard on myself.
In between all of the hard emotional obstacles they threw at us, through the letters, group therapy, and even physical challenges, we had to accept jumping up in the morning for a 3-4 day hike. It was frustrating. Before the hike I would collect all my belongings given to me at The Ranch, then roll them into a tarp which I’d secured with paracord. That was my backpack which I carried miles on end.
Time for an expedition. Three to four days a week we non-stop hiked to a new destination.
I got to know the girls pretty well at that point and even a new part of myself. I began to smile again, and I embraced my unique self. The part I hid away for so long. It was the part of me which my family missed and longed for. The girls I once judged, showed me how your peers can quickly become your closest friends. We looked out for one another like family. I had a different relationship with all of my friends in the group but at the end of the day nothing could have ever separated us from telling silly stories while huddled up in our sleeping bags like middle school girls at a slumber party.
Each of us brought something different to the group ' s culture. Amanda we always said was just like a golden retriever. She had energy and a playful spirit, and also was always there to ask how you were feeling and never held back when it came to her expressing her appreciation for us all. And while we had playful energy we also had Hibah. Hibah was undoubtedly the mom of the group.
Positive and negative. I was able to see something and understand most of all the girls' feelings. And I understood that Hibah tended to put too much anxiety on herself to show up for everyone else. She was generous, a people pleaser, and we always made sure to let her know it is okay to look out for yourself sometimes. That is something they taught strongly at Open Sky.
For those 13 weeks, I never saw myself once and I never knew the time. The significance of that was so we did not get caught up on how we appear externally so it would benefit how we worked on ourselves emotionally. And internally we were all beautiful, in our element, and we had strength in each other's trust like I'd never found before, and we carried on the culture everyone brought after they left.
After months of work I watched people leave and greeted new members with a gentle presence. I began to feel myself gain more of an empathetic perspective on others and even the guides.
It was never easy, and it never got easy… But the hardest part was facing the past and the letters from my family. Some left me ecstatic while others broke me. I was a new person, but the people who I hurt and mattered to me most never got to see me grow.
Around in a circle, the flames of the gentle fire rise. We sat for dinner, and never failed to do the routine dinner chant, which I still have memorized to this day. After the chant we ate and ate, going around the circle, faces lit only by the flickering fire and the bright stars. We smiled and laughed, maybe even cried, sharing ‘gratefuls.’ We all had something unique we were grateful for and we all understood one another. I began to understand what an authentic relationship is and how even though these people aren't my family, I'd never felt so seen and understood that this is the support I longed for from my people back home. Team FireFly helped me see a brighter side to myself.
Back before I sang and danced around the fire, before I shared my ‘gratefuls,’ I was so used to the thought of how my parents must have felt when they lost me, my trust, and how I even lost myself on the path to what was destined to be so unavailing.
Yet through all the hikes and long nights, my team and I spent working ourselves, tired for the simple warmth of a fire – it made me whole. No longer separated by the conflicting parts of myself which left me contemplating my sobriety and self worth. I stopped asking myself what it is all for, I stopped asking myself why I stay sober, or who and what I live for.
I found it was exhausting, the years of my life I spent ecstatic, dancing, ignorant of the thin ice beneath my cold feet. And none of it could compare to how it felt ecstatic, dancing in the setting sun back in the Utah desert. I felt free.
I used to walk on top of my aspirations, change myself for who I wished I could be. Yet I now understand not to sacrifice my growth for a temporary feeling or sense of simplicity.
Through the anguish, I am a burning flame. The one which provided light through my solo journey. The one which kept me warm as I cried. I can never forget the desert, the dirt under my bare fingernails, now painted in glossy polish. I will forever think of those memories I made each day, and never forget the person I had become, even if I fall again. Because the person I am, the person I built today could never be lost regardless of a lapse.
Yet with that knowledge I've decided to embrace my spiritual self.
I found it will forever keep me on the right path.
A Fan
An Essay
Alex Bernstein
Voronezh, Russia. May 17, 2009. I popped out. Now I don’t know what happened and I most likely will never know what happened, but my birth mother made the nicest decision ever. She put me up for adoption. Her putting me up for adoption was so unselfish because most likely she could not have taken care of me. So I am in an orphanage in Russia waiting for someone to adopt me. I did not know but I had a fan out there. Her name was Nancy, and she was looking to adopt a kid as a single mother. Russia was not her first choice but she ended up looking anyways. She saw me and said that I was perfect. She booked a flight to Russia, and called the orphanage and booked a meeting. But she did not want to go alone. It was Thanksgiving and she told everyone that she is going to Russia to meet a baby for possible adoption. She wanted someone to come with her. Nancy had 2 siblings, Sandy and Sheryl, but they both had husbands and kids. Her mother said she can’t go because she won’t fly, but her father said he will go. So they both went to Maryland, where Nancy lives, packed up and flew there.
Nancy and her father made so many memories. They went to McDonalds and had no idea what they were ordering. Her dad slipped and cracked his back. When she went to meet me, she said she fell in love. She said that she knew she had to get me out of Russia and she would do anything. Nancy and her father flew back to the U.S.A with piles of documents and a meeting with people to make sure she's in a good living situation.
2 months later, a blizzard hits. This was the biggest one Maryland had seen in almost 20 years. But Nancy and her dad are at Logan International, flying to Israel to visit before going to Russia. They made even more memories with getting an emergency landing on island because of a volcano. They were in Israel by the Red Sea, exploring the country. It came to the court day for the adoption to be successful.
And it was. An 18 hour flight with a newborn who’s in a box, crying all night, and does not understand English. When he lands, he meets his grandmother, grandfather, cousins, uncles, aunts.
It was a year in and my mom knew that I was different. I did not talk until I was 3 and it took me an extraordinarily long time to walk. My mom took me to a doctor to see if there were any disabilities.
“Can you put the ring onto the stick?” said a doctor. Nancy watched as Alex struggled.
“Ms. Bernstein, it seems that Alex has Dyslexia, an Auditory Processing Disorder, and has a lot of trouble with Fine Motor Skills,” said my doctors.
It turns out that her father has cancer and its not looking good. I was around 2-3 and it was pretty close to after I was adopted. Her father says to Nancy, “Can you promise me that you will get Alex bar mitzvahed?”
Alex and his mom are getting ready to go up to New Jersey and Nancy gets a call. Her father was in hospice and they knew that he didn’t have much time left. Nancy and Alex rushed up to New Jersey, and she saw her dad one more time.
It was time for me to go to school. But my mom had no idea where to put me because she knew and the doctors did too that I was going to have a lot of trouble. My mom remembered that her dad wanted me to embrace the Jewish religion, so I went to a Jewish preschool.
In preschool I did very well, from making friends, to learning manners. I made friends with a kid named Zack and we were great friends. I used to go to his house all the time and play with egos and that type of stuff. I had a counselor who loved me, and she would give me cookies. My mom was proud of me for doing very well.
Kindergarten, in my opinion, was probably one of the most important parts of my life. This is where I met all of my friends in Maryland. It was 7 Locks Elementary School, and my first ever friend there was Martin. Now Martin was like me in very many ways. Martin’s parents were doctors, but his grandfather was a huge politician in Namibia. I mean this family was loaded but I had no idea. I would go to their house and swim in their pool and play Star Wars Legos. I would watch movies in their theater and play soccer. Another friend I made was Noah. I consider him on of my greatest friends ever and I still know him. I met him at the after school program and he came up to me. He invited me to his birthday and there’s where I met all of my best friends in Maryland. In the spring season, a friend of mine, Mikey, played baseball and his dad, who played D1 SEC baseball, was going to make a rec baseball team.
This is where my sports friends started. We played soccer and flag football in the fall, basketball in the winter, and baseball in the spring. Basketball coaches where my friend Jack’s dad and my friend Matthew’s dad. I was a prime athlete, but my academic skills were struggling. I mean it was clear that public school was not going to be it for me.
I went to McLean school the year after my kindergarten year for 1st grade. I was devastated that I was not going to see my 7 Locks friends and my sports friends as much, but the good thing is that I still did see them at practice and playdates. But 1st through 9th grade was the McLean School Era. 1st grade is when I met my best friend in probably the whole world: Deon. I will never forget when we would have arguments with each other about would you rather have the Super Bowl trophy or the Stanley Cup. He’s the one who got me into football instead of hockey.
McLean is a private school which focuses on kids with learning disabilities. They have small class sizes and go at a pace where every kid can learn at. They teach differently.
I made so many friends and my mom did to. We would go to school get-togethers because there would only be 30 kids in a grade. But this is where I took a huge step in my learning career. I would finally catch up to where my reading level should have been, and where my math skill should have been.
3rd Grade is where I met one of my best friends in my last 2 years before middle school: Trey. We hit it off perfectly. I mean, we were so different from each other that it was a perfect match. He was very, very smart. To the point where he was beating middle schoolers in chess. And he was very logical. While I was the most athletic kid, playing football during recess with the middle schoolers. I was talking about football and baseball while he would talk about chess. It was crazy how we got each other into things. But I also met someone who was always there for me. Actually 2: my dog and my friend Seth.
It was my last year of elementary school. Trey and Deon were great friends, but it was the 4th grade literature class. Now this was a class that helped me meet my original friend group. I became great friends with Seth, Darien, and Sasha. I remember the biggest thing about this year was the comic book scandal and the Saints Rams no pass interference.
Middle school summer is when I started flag football. Basically, I was the best QB in Flag Star Football, and this is where I met many more people. The team was probably better than the ‘08 Patriots. I remember we would blow teams out in the summer and fall league. We won both championships, and I was looking like one of the GOATs with Cupcake. He was the other great at the time.
Covid-19 was something else. My mom had a compromised immune system so she could not have gotten it. So, I got school from Zoom and it was fun.
Jump to the end of middle school. I was a troublemaker and I almost got expelled for it. But there was a reason: my mom had cancer. And that put pressure on me. My mom had bone marrow cancer, and she got a lot of treatment. But for a month, she would have to go to John Hopkins every day, and have someone take care of her. She had to have someone watch me. Remember Seth? Well, I stayed at their house for a month. I want this to be known: I will be forever grateful for the Burgers (that’s Seth’s family). Ms. Burger and Mr. Burger will always hold a spot in my heart.
My mom got cancer treatment, and it was supposed to last for 3-5 years. It only lasted for 4 months. It was pretty bad. After those 4 month it spread to her brain. It was one night she just passed away in her sleep. My Grandma was there and my aunt. We had a funeral. I don't think I fully processed it, until my grandma handed me a note. It was from my mom. I burnt people in my past but I remember this line: “No matter what I will always be your biggest fan.” I will remember that forever. I took that with me. I had no idea what was going to happen in the future, but I always know I have someone with me.
Somebody Feed Frank
A Short Story
Will Seddon
He first sees the empty racks in the fridge in the grocery store. Then he sees all of the refrigerators empty. The security guard of the grocery store that works at night gets scared because it is weird that all of the food is gone. He looks around for the food, and he can't see the food anywhere. So he looks all around the store to see if he can find it. He looks in the fruit section and he cannot find anything. He looks in all of the aisles, by the bakery, but he can’t find anything. The night guard goes to the phone and dials the manager.
“There is missing food at the grocery store and all the fridges are empty! Can you come to see what happened to the food?”
“You better not be wasting my time... It is 12 o 'clock!”
“Just come to the store!”
“Okay, I will come. ”
When the manager shows up and he looks at the empty fridges, he is in shock. He looks all around and he says: “I will restock the fridges tomorrow.”
The night guard is very confused. Why is there no food in any of the fridges? Because yesterday, he remembered, that they were all full of food.
As he was driving back home he turns around because he thinks maybe someone has stolen the food and he wants to check the security cameras in the store. The manager is just about to leave the parking lot when the night guard arrives.
They walk back into the store and go to the security room with the recordings from the security cameras. They see a skinny man with a torn black suit, and long greasy hair walking to the fridges. He is eating all the food from each fridge very fast.
Both of them are very scared while seeing this, because it is not normal for a human to be eating that much food. He shovels the food from the fridge into his mouth. He grabs Hot Pockets out of the fridge and doesn't have a reaction to anything being still frozen as he throws food down his throat. He squeezes ice cream cartons and all of the ice cream from the cartons falls into his mouth. He dumps out a bag of frozen broccoli into his mouth, with icicles on every piece of broccoli.
The security guard is terrified at the camera footage. He thinks to himself ‘Should I call the police about this? How can a person eat all this food? How can a person eat so much food that is uncooked and frozen and still be okay?’ The manager calls the police and tells them about what he saw on the cameras.
A week later, the manager hears something outside so he goes outside to check and he sees people taking food out of a big truck and bringing the food into the manager ' s store to stock the shelves. The people are moving food around on dollies and stacking the shelves with peanut butter. He sees bread being stocked now and cans of beans also being put on the shelves. The manager is confused because he did not order any food. He goes to check the store's records and there are purchases for a lot of orders of bologna costing him $50,000.
The manager is furious! He does not know what is going on and he does not know who ordered all of the food to his store.
Meanwhile, the ghost Frank is ordering a bunch more food on the manager ' s computer as he is still hungry. He is hacking the manager ' s computer and spending all of the manager ' s money. Frank feels good about buying food because when he was alive he was a poor man and never got to eat good food. When Frank was alive he loved to eat bologna because it was really cheap and to him it was delicious. So that is why he orders a lot of bologna. Frank is thinking about how much food he can get from this store before he has to go to another place where there is a lot of food.
Now that Frank has another order placed, he was hungry. He decides to go back to eating the store's food and he eats all the beef. He tears the steaks in half and eats them.
The steaks are tough and hard to pull apart, but it is not a problem for Frank. The beef is not cooked, but Frank does not care. He can eat anything, even if it is raw. Frank finds all of the food in the store delicious and he is getting hungrier as he eats. He thinks: ‘I want to eat all of the food in the world!’
A man was buying food for a barbeque. He was throwing brisket, pulled pork, corn bread, hamburgers, and hot dogs into his cart. Another man was buying bread from the bakery section of the store and took the bread from the shelf and put it into his cart.
Some kids were buying chicken nugget tv dinners to bring back to their house for dinner. A mom was buying food for her children and letting her kids get the food that they wanted. The mom that is shopping with her kids sees Frank eating all of the chips in the chip aisle. The mom thinks that Frank is stealing and she is scared of him so she tells the manager that a man is stealing. The manager sees Frank eating all of the chips and tells Frank to stop eating all the food.
While Frank is gobbling multiple apples, the manager sees him and knows he needs to get him out of the store. The manager looks all around and sees a big baguette and knows what he needs to do. He runs over and he attacks Frank with it.
As he is about to hit the ghost over the head, Frank eats the baguette that the manager is holding and runs out the grocery store. Frank is very angry so he wants to eat all of the food in a different store because he is bored with this one as there is no food left in it. The manager is scared because the whole baguette was eaten in one chomp.
The manager tries to push him out after telling him to stop, but his hands go straight through Frank. Frank laughs at the manager, and goes to the next aisle and eats all the soup, pulling the lids off of them, and wolfing down every can. He eats granola bars and candy with the wrappers on them. And he eats the ramen from the aisle and dumps the box of ramen into his mouth. The customers at the grocery store reach in their pockets for their phones to call the police. The customers all go out to the exit to leave the store.
The manager is hiding in a stack of food because he is scared of Frank and he is also calling the cops.
Four cop cars come to the outside of the store, and the cops come into the store with guns. Then they tell Frank to leave the store but he does not leave the store so they shoot at him. But when they shoot Frank, the bullets go through him and they are shocked. The cops all run away scared. Frank leaves and goes to a new store because the cops came and because he had eaten all of the food in the grocery store.
When he gets to the new store he is eating the food there very, very fast. He is eating the food faster because he has more strength from the food. He had already eaten all the food at the next grocery store. And he goes to grocery stores everywhere, eating all of the people's food. He moves faster after every grocery store. After only a day, he ate from all of the grocery stores in the world and he started going into people’s houses and eating from their refrigerators and cupboards.
He goes to restaurants, school cafeterias, and gas stations. People were panicking and they were hungry and started looking for food on the farms but there were no crops because Frank had eaten everything. So the people had to kill animals and eat them. But there are not enough animals to keep everyone alive, and Frank ate all the seasoning to put on meat so everything tasted bad.
And Frank was still hungry.
Haunting Decisions
The first thing Arthur saw when he opened his eyes was a light. A bright, blinding light, beckoning him to come towards it. To let it embrace him, and never let go. And he wanted to go towards that light, towards the promise of that warmth and never-ending joy. But the second he took a step forward, he turned around, looking at where he had come from, and where his body was.
He was laying in a bloody battlefield, his helm knocked off and laying discarded in a puddle a short distance away. There was a large cut on his cheek, something he hadn’t even noticed in the fight. His armor was bloodied, and the scabbard by his side had been cut clean, now laying among the rocks and mud. The dragon emblem on his armor was cracked, with several parts either shattered or missing. He took a step back towards his own corpse, and the other individual crying over it.
He recognized the dark hair almost instantly, slightly curled and barely reaching past his shoulders. The other was holding the dead body close, whispering prayers for this to no longer be reality, for Arthur to be breathing, alive, and in his arms. He reached out one translucent hand, trying to comfort his crying husband, only for the ghost’s touch to pass through his flesh, as though it had been nothing.
Another anguished cry came from the survivor, and Arthur kneeled on the other side of his own corpse. He wanted to reach out, to wipe away the tears, to tell him everything will be okay, but he couldn’t. Not anymore.
He wouldn’t be able to interact with his husband ever again. He would never be able to console the other. Never be able to talk with him. He wouldn’t be able to let the other know he was nearby, and would only be able to observe. If Arthur chose to stay here, he wouldn’t get anything more. He would only see the other age and die, and watch as he wasted away.
If he chose to stay, that is.
Arthur looked back at the light, which called out to him again. If he walked through it, alone, that would be it. He’d never have to see the other’s fate, and he would be spared whatever heartbreak would have been in store. It would be such an easy trade off, to vanish into whatever beyond awaited for him, and to wait until the other’s soul joined him. Is the choice really that easy? Would there even be a cost for him to pay for something that seemed to be such a luxury?
Yes. There would be a hefty price to pay in return. But what was it? Would Arthur forget everything from his life? His friends, family, good and bad? Would he just forget one thing? Or was the light some honey-covered lie, meant to entice him before ensnaring him in its inescapable jaws? Whatever the case was, going towards the beckoning call would likely only end it with more despair than he wanted.
If he left, Arthur knew he would never see the living world again. He would never watch the autumn leaves change from bright green to their familiar flamecolored hues. He would never again witness the first snowfall of the year, nor see the stars far above him.
He would not see the snow melt away, giving way for spring to come once more. He would likely never see storm clouds or rain again.
But he would also never see what became of this world. He would never see all he knew become ancient, ruined debris. He would never see how all he knew would eventually fade away, giving rise to a new world. He would not get to see how everything ended, nor would he know the fate of everyone else. He could stay in blissful ignorance, and wait.
But if he had to make the choice, to go to the light or to stay, it was no choice at all.
Arthur stepped towards the other, seeing the tears fall onto his own corpse. He reached one spectral hand out, and placed it right over his husband’s heart. His lips moved, but he didn’t hear whatever words were spoken. He sat down beside the living person, tears silently rolling down his cheeks as he mourned not for his own lost life, but the life he’d had with the other. He could feel the warm light fade away, now turning him away instead of welcoming him. Arthur had made his choice, and he didn’t regret it. He knew would never leave. He would stay, for all of eternity if he had to. He didn’t regret his decision to stay behind, and in that moment, he knew he never would.
FISHERMAN’S DOCK
A Short Story
Rhett Hennessy
They say death is a black void, infinite and silent, where time collapses, and purpose and meaning are left behind. They say death is the ocean in the dead of winter, where being numb is a gift as one unravels to the bow of pain. Some say death is the turning of a page that should not be read, the ink bleeding into the paper, as the agony of pain and mistakes seeps through, a mirror without a reflection. And yet, death is not an enemy. The quiet companion has always walked beside you as it waits, the final breath of a storm, the still horizon after a raging sea.
A groggy dawn it was. Scattered strands of clouds covered the bright beam of light in the sky as the absence of warmth arrived in the tiny town in late October. Out of bed, he looks out from the window sill. A window opens as a chill breeze walks through the room. He gets dressed, his leather boots tightened, and as the door opens, grass sways simultaneously. As the patches change level, he halts and transitions to the flagstone. Seagulls squawk in unison, and waves break past the shoreline upon misplaced rocks. It was chilly, yet he was not cold, considering he was wrapped in his Pacific Trail jacket. Abandoned by the thought of hunger, he walks nimbly down the cobblestone road. A muted tap was heard at every step as his vulcanized rubber boots impacted the weathered stones, whose shade was now darker from the morning mist. The brisk air clung to his now rosy cheeks as a howl of wind sounded past him, swirling fallen leaves in its path.
In the distance, the small town lay nestled beneath the hill, its clustered cottages cozy and quaint. Their roofs steeped in the fog of morning. A faint scent of sea salt lingered through the air, mixed with tamping wood and an earthy aroma. The faint light of dawn cast a soft silvery glow over the cobblestone streets, reflecting the light in the small pools of water collected in the street's dips and cracks.
Houses flickered faintly one by one as the town slowly stirred to life. As he walked closer to the city, the mist began to thin, revealing more details of the familiar streets and storefronts. Small cottages, adorned with wooden shutters and ivy creeping up from the grass below, lined the road; these windows were now brighter as the citizens stoke their fires with their lighters. The smell of sea salt gradually gave way to something more decadent and warmer -- a hint of freshly baked bread and buttery pastries filled the crisp morning air. He spotted the warm, inviting glow of the baker. The windows fogged with condensation, trapping the warmth inside. At one point the sturdy, wooden door was probably a soft shade of green was now a worn dark brown. He pushed it open, and the bell sounded as he stepped inside. The sound of the melodic jukebox flooded his hearing as the lyrics suddenly wrapped around his mind.
"Morning to you!" the baker greeted, his voice cheerful, but there was a touch of weariness in his eyes. "Up early. I see you ' ve heard about the storm that’s supposed to hit tonight?"
The fisherman’s facial expression shifted to surprise, looking out the window at the gray, misty morning.
“Tonight? I hadn’t heard anything yet. I noticed the wind, though. Felt colder than usual.”
“Aye,” the baker nodded, shaping a loaf of bread with his hands. “They say it will come in hard after sundown: strong winds, heavy rain, the works.”
From a nearby table, Miss Eliza looked up, her usual place by the window, which gave her a perfect view of the darkening sky. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles. Each line was etched from years of salt air and hot days from the previous summers. Her skin was thin and papery, a faint pale color with a hint of rose near her upper cheekbone. Her hair, once a thick, dark brown, was now a silvery white, pulled back into a loose bun with strands of hair rebelliously framing her face.
“These storms, they’re sly this time of year. The wind picks up from nowhere, and the whole coast will suddenly roar. It’ll be here before we know it.”
The fisherman had seen his fair share of storms, but there was something different in how Eliza spoke about them. Her gaze was far away and thoughtful.
“Sounds like I’d better head down to the docks once I’m done here,” he said, taking the warm roll the baker handed him.
As the fisherman made his way downhill, the scent of the sea grew more intense, thick and damp, filling his lungs with a familiar saltiness.
It was tinged with the faint smell of seaweed and wet wood. The wind had picked up, too. It was no longer a gentle breeze but a push as if the gust had its hands against his chest, increasing slowly with more pressure. He walked.
When he reached the docks, he saw the water shoving the pillars more aggressively than usual. He began to tug on the ropes, fastening each knot against the biting wind. Crouched low, he pulled a thick, pale patterned rope from the boat’s side and looped it over the weathered wooden post. His palms bore the friction of the burn from the ropes and cut through the holes in his wool fish monkey gloves. He tugged the knot tight, the rope creaking under the strain of his final pull to test its strength. He then planned to move on to the second knot, walking on the damp wooden planks.
As he began to move to the far side of the second knot, his boot grazed over a slick patch of algae, and he lost balance. His arms flailed in the air as he desperately tried to regain control, but his legs gave out. Still falling backward, his reflexes were useless, failing to prevent his demise. His head struck the metal edge of the tackle box with a sickening thud. A jolt of pain coursed through him before his vision went dark, leaving only the dull roar of the waves and the muffled cry of a distant seagull fading from his senses. The warm rush of blood from his head mixed in with the icy water. The seafoam mixed with blood, transitioning into a light pink. Unconscious, he didn’t feel the first raindrops that splattered against his face nor the wind that began to whip harder across the dock. His chest rose and fell shallowly. His body was unresponsive.
There was only silence. A quiet so still, it seemed the whole world held its breath. The fisherman's body lay motionless and limp as the water enveloped him. His mind slowly slipped further into the quiet, one can only describe as a weightless darkness. The cold was now a distant memory. The water grew darker, and strange shapes moved in the shadows, barely distinguishable silhouettes of light as they surrounded the fisherman. The faint light rays broke through the surface, casting a dim glow that flickered and shifted as the water moved.
He rose slowly. His body, still on his back, was guided not by the fight for survival or his doings but by the incomprehensible command of something more significant and influential. His limbs were weightless, as if palms were gently thrusting his body upward. His face broke the surface of the less choppy water drifting towards the shore. It guided him with every shove as the current followed its path. The shoreline drew closer as the tide became gentle. A series of lights flickering beneath him was all to be seen, still guided by the entity. But then it too stopped; the ocean paused as if It held its breath for a moment as if it was savoring the life it was given before offering one last gentle push that carried him to shore. The water around him was a murky gray and green. The ocean was a dark green near the horizon and grew translucent as he neared the sand. Each ripple cast shifting patterns over the pale shore. A wave lifted him, rolled him forward, and spat him onto the wet sand.
The world around him appeared vivid. His thoughts were in a lucid state and no longer cluttered. He saw the light blue sky hidden from the gray with streaks of gold and pink, illuminating his surroundings. He could not feel the chill of night falling slowly, though he sensed the quiet of the dawn around him. A few seagulls circled overhead, their cries distant and faint, fading in with the waves hushing over the sand. Everything was sharp and familiar but felt untouchable, like a distant memory unfolding from afar.
He rose from the sand, every step followed by an unusual quiet. His vulcanized rubber boots no longer made a muted tap. The life around him felt detached like an unsolved Lego set, as waves crashed against the shoreline slightly off rhythm, muffled as though trapped inside a glass. It was chilly, but the air did not cling to him. The cold, biting wind that should have brushed against his skin passed by, unacknowledged by his body. He transitioned towards the cobblestone road. Despite the lack of light, he could still see the faint shimmer of morning mist on the stones. The fog draped low and was heavy and dense, blurring the edges of the street. Leaves swirled in the wind but didn’t scatter naturally; instead, they spun in strange, looping patterns before settling still.
As he approached the hill, the town revealed itself slowly, its cottages nestled still in the fog that held onto the roofs and shingles. The earthy smell and sea salt air were no longer present, as a metallic, sharp aroma took control. The light spilling from the windows was no longer cozy and warm but rather dim and unnatural, as one by one, the lanterns' flames died, and the dark entered as if it were caught between two worlds, one he remembered and one he didn’t quite understand. His presence seemed unnoticed, not unwelcome, as if it had always known he would walk its streets, his memories left for the living.
They say death is a black void, infinite and silent, where time collapses, and purpose and meaning are left behind. They say death is the ocean in the dead of winter, where being numb is a gift as one unravels to the bow of pain. Some say death is the turning of a page that should not be read, the ink bleeding into the paper, as the agony of pain and mistakes seeps through, a mirror without a reflection. And yet, death is not an enemy. The quiet companion has always walked beside us, hidden in the final breath of a storm, and rests upon the still horizon, waiting patiently.
WENDIGO
A Short Story
Henry Greene
The man wakes up and lurches towards his kitchen. He flicks on the weather on his radio. ‘’And up by the more midwestern area you might be getting heavy snowfall for a few days, and temperatǘṛësô upto
As the radio fades to static the man slams his balled fist against the hard oak surface of his counter. “GODDAMMIT, not again!” The man says before he marches out the front door, wielding an axe and a hacksaw. Marching past stumps and trees alike, wandering towards his usual spot for chopping, he spots a hint of red a couple yards to his left. He jogs towards the spot and sees a deer lying lifeless in a pool of its own blood. The man almost gags at the body covered in viscera it would call its own, maggots writhing in the cavity its chest once laid full.
The man runs through the wood over shrubs and stumps till he hits his foot on a loose root. Plummeting, the man pulls himself up. “Shit, think I broke something,” he says to himself whilst limping to his shack after dropping his tools. He flips through the pages of his wildlife books in search of any sign to an animal that would attack that viciously in the dead of winter. He limps towards his bedroom where he grabbed the polish wood forearm of his gun from its resting mount, and four buckshot shells made of plastic and brass. He locks the doors, then lays in bed with the gun ready by his side…
The sun rises on the snow tinted treetops. The glare of dawn glinting upon the man ' s resting eyes before arises. He Looks around dazed and tired, puts his hand to his side and feels his gun.
Horror assailed his thoughts.
Suddenly remembering the prior day… pangs hit his stomach. “Too hungry to worry about this now. ”
As he limps to the kitchen, he grabs the gun on his bed and leans on it like a crutch. Entering the kitchen, he takes a seat to look at his foot, and hears the radio. “That damn thing is still static,” he says under his breath.
Snow from the night made traversing the same path troublesome, yet he still forded the trail. When he reached the deer, it was rotting and decrepit, lifeless as the day before. But this time was different. It was altered. Its chest was deflated and legs bent as if its bones had left it. He poked it with the 12 gauge he brought with him. He follows the bloody trail left by the beast. Intestines of animals and humans alike are strung through the canopy. The smell of death wandering the air. The frigid wind bellows against his coat. When he reaches the end of the trail, he stays lent against the gun to support his broken ankle. Peering upward, he sees two star like eyes, looking down upon him. He points the barrel to the sky. Clink... BAM. a creature screams in agony. The wind and snow pick up, obscuring his vision. He hears the beast crash into the ground. It has to have weighed at least a ton. A plume of snow fills the air. It lets out a call before standing once more. It reaches its long emaciated arm towards the man, stepping closer and closer. With each step the earth shakes. The man unloads another shot at the beast. The pellets barely setting it back on its pursuit. The wind blows colder and colder.
The man knelt to the ground. Unconscious, afraid, and hungry.
An alarm blares in his ear. Waking up, he's met with an ache in his leg. He looks around; his shotgun is safely on the wall, his boots are neatly put next to his bed, and his clothes are hung up on the door. He gets dressed with a slight limp.
Walking to the kitchen he hears a slight static ringing in his ears. Frost grows on the windows at an increasing pace, till all blurred and frigid, a voice calls his name.
“~Winston~”. The voice calls in a crass yet soothing voice. The door creaked open, a plume of cold fog filled the floor. The wind howled. The fog wraps around his ankles like shackles to a prisoner. Pulling him to the wilderness...
Stepping outside, he sees a tall emaciated creature with grey flesh and limbs thin and long like fresh lumber. It has pitch black hands and two beady glowing yellow eyes like the stars of the night, and deer skull for a head.
It lumbers toward him, the air chilling around it. The man froze like a deer to headlights. Reaching out, the beast grabs the man and hoists him to the air. Its nails are like fingers digging into his skin. it opens its mouth.
“~Winston~…” It pauses. “~Join me~… ” The voice echoes around the wild. He weeps tears of blood. Closing his eyes, with his final breath he dawns a smile.
Our Berry Stained Hands
A Short Story
Kellie Jones
Cassi kept quiet and I admired her for that. Her presence made it impossible for her to disappear. She wasn’t popular, not a loser. Which is a hard place to land. She laughed with the boys who shouted in the halls and would check in on the ones who smelled in the back row. Neither group loathed her for interacting with their opposite; she was too kind to hate for things like that. She’s not like the girls wearing their mother's pearls with lips to match their kitten heels. They dressed as the woman they wished to become. Cassi was so utterly girlish with ribbons and innocence radiating off of her. Her clothes were nicer than anyone in the room yet they had grass stains and paint intertwined with the flowers on her skirt.
She was bound to strawberry licorice. It seemed to be linked to her identity. With your eyes closed you could recognize the smell of her pink additional sweeteners. Once, her bag poured onto the floor in front of the class and a shower of licorice came pouring out. I would have froze and cried. She simply laughed to herself for herself. Cassi dropped to the floor, tidied her things, and handed out a piece for everyone in the class. She was the kind of girl who could get away with that kind of strangeness.
I envied her for it. I had always wanted to tell her that. I thought about approaching her so many times. I would walk to her desk, and introduce myself. She would offer me licorice, and I would accept. That would be it. That's all I needed.
When I entered the classroom she was sitting at my desk. I guess she noticed me staring from the doorway for she waved me over to my own seat.
“You’re Evelyn, Right? How about you sit with me at lunch.” With licorice in my hand, I said yes.
Sitting with Cassi became routine. She would do most of the talking, I would listen. She didn't seem to mind that I didn't have much to say. It was just me and her. Sometimes we would even sit in silence, but that also seemed to be a form of communication.
Months went on and I got louder. I told her about my family. A mother who had a child when she was still a girl. How it was just me and her till it wasn't. How my new father supported us. I told her about our new house and how my father got my mother a new job. One that pays her more than tips. We live comfortably in a life where I am no longer confined to handme-downs.
Throughout the year I seemed to stick with her, as she stuck to me. Cassi would walk me home every day, she would come over for dinner and help my mother clean while cracking jokes with my father. I loved every minute of the time we spent together. But there was something off about it all. As we became closer to me I slowly watched her girlishness unravel. I slowly realized that she was continuously wearing the same skirts and dresses with stains. A new rotation every week with fresh ribbons and jewelry to distract from the overuse. I once confronted her about it. I had asked her if she simply loved the stained outfits. Her expression faded so fast in a way I had never seen before. “No, I don’t.”
The next day she came in with a new dress on. Pink with little strawberries embroidered on. She made a whole show out of it. She spun in front of the class collecting praise and awe from boys and girls alike. You could tell it was expensive at first glance. She didn't sit with me at lunch or walk me home that day.
In the middle of the night, she showed up at my house. She had changed into a tan skirt with light green stains around the trim and knees. I cried when I saw her. She wiped my tears and asked if we chould never mention today again. I agreed. My mother gave us a slice of warm cake and that was the end of it.
It was May when she invited me over for the first time. On the second to last day of school at lunch. She said it so naturally as if I had been over to her house many times.
“My mother invited you over for a month if you would like. We have a guest room you could stay in. We will be traveling a bit for my father's work. I really don't want to spend my summer alone. You can say no if it's too much but…”
“I'll be there. You won't be alone this summer. ”
Unlike the trips to my home, this was quiet and awkward. We had been walking for twenty minutes before we finally stopped. We walked into a laundry mat and I was told to sit down. It was old and rundown with old men smoking and mothers gossiping. She walked to the counter where an elderly woman sat staring out the window. I couldn't hear what was said but the woman ' s eyes darted to me as Cassi talked. The woman brought her to the back of the store. They disappeared for ten minutes and the girl who came out wasn't the person I walked in with.
The walk was long and my bag was heavy. I had been trudging it around all day. I packed the nicest dresses and skirts I had. My mother even let me borrow some of her jewelry. I was thrilled to be with Cassi for the summer but a lingering worry followed me.
The maple curls that fell down to her back were gone. Her skirt was replaced with a pair of dress pants and a buttondown. She had changed into a stranger. A stranger who played the piano with my father and baked with my mother. A stranger smelling of strawberries. We rode the bus the rest of the way to her house in silence. I tried to hold her hand, she was sticky and sweaty and her face had gone red. She ripped her hand away once we got to our stop. Her house was just as I imagined it. Pillars, marble floors, and grand doors opened by a maid. However her mother was not how I imagined. She rushed down the stairs tripping over her robe and giggling to herself. She hugged me as if we had been lifelong friends. She reeked of perfume and wine. Her speech was fast yet empty.
“Oh, Evelyn! How wonderful it is to finally meet you. Call me Malisa, please nothing formal. Your hair, oh how lovely! You are just as beautiful as Collin said. Come sit down, I'll cook up a meal…” She kept talking but I stopped listening. Collin. The moment I heard it I could feel Cassi’s eyes on me. She was waiting for me to do something. Anything. Her mother kept talking more to herself than me. She must have wandered into the kitchen at some point but I didn't notice. She wasn't crying but her sadness radiated off of her. The smell of strawberries burned my eyes. “I’ll be here for a month. Can I have a tour before dinner?”
We walked amidst women with Purses and Men with cigars. It was overwhelming yet appealing hearing the sound of slot machines ringing, people screaming and crying unable to tell the emotions connected to either. It was all so foreign and destracting to me that I didn't realize my hand that it seemed to be intertwined with Cassie's. I apologized, releasing her once I felt the sweat on her palm.
I had become accustomed to our life in that house. We ran in the yard till the green stained our knees. We baked sweets in the kitchen with help from their chef. We dressed in fine clothes and conversed with the wealthy men and mothers who came to Malisa’s parties. I was happy there. Cassi was not.
I watched strange new men who came for Malisa after dark. I watched money slide through hands. I watched as Cassie turned away from it all. I didn't blame her. this was her everyday life, not a vacation.
We had left at night and arrived in the morning. Our legs were tired and cramped but we walked with excitement trying to match Melissa's speed. She was excited and so were we. Finally being out in the house felt nice. We would be meeting Cassie's father at the casino where we'd be staying for the week.
The room was as luxurious As the rest of the hotel seemed to be. From our window, we could see the streets we had left filled with people. You can only imagine what it looked like at night with all the lights winding through the shades. I asked questions. But Cassie's mind seemed elsewhere as she stared at the people down below.
We were to stay in the room together without exception. It seemed we would not be joining Melissa at the party she was going to based on her wardrobe alone. This was worse than being at the house. But Cassie seemed fine almost excited. Once Melissa had left she informed me that Malissa would be staying in another room down the hall. Only checking in on us in the mornings. After making sure all the doors were locked Cassie ran to her suitcase and flung it open. Out came pouring dresses, wigs, and pearls mixed with loose packs of licorice. She handed me the candy then ran off to the bathroom with clothes in hand. As I stare at the pile of clothes it occurs to me I have never seen them before at school. These were Melissa's clothes old ones she had lying in the back of her closet with the tags still on. They were mature and sleek without the stains and holes I was used to seeing Cassie in.
When she stepped out from the bathroom she wasn't the Cassie I'd known from school. Again I was met with a stranger With long black hair tied up with a white ribbon in a long tight silver dress. I don't think I'd ever seen her look so excited. She dug through the pile pulling out a light blue dress in a similar style and handed it to me.
“I can't wear your mother's clothes. Even for pretend we aren't allowed out of this room. ”
“I have been taking clothes from my mother for years. She's never noticed. Not once. If we look like this even if she saw us she wouldn't recognize us with the state she'll be in. I've been on these trips countless times before. my father promises to show but never does. My mother will leave with new dresses bought by strangers that will end up in the back of her closet like these. I will be going out tonight but if you'd like to stay I won't force you to go. ”
I wore the dress. It made me feel beautiful and Cassie thought so too. I hated how happy I was in that dress as we wandered the halls of the casino. We played games with men who bought us drinks and gave us more money just to stick around. The nights went on like this. We drank liquor and got sick in bathrooms. It was exhausting and exciting and I loathed myself every hour of it. I no longer wanted to play as a woman. I wanted to go back to just being a girl.
The last night Cassie got drunk. More than she should have been. I decided we should call it a night and she got mad. As we walked up to the room she stank of beer and cheap perfume. She looked like Malisa. Pitiful.
I didn't notice him at first. He wasent in many photos around the house. He stood near the window, but he wasn't looking outside he was staring at us. I screamed dropping Cassie a bit. We could walk out and apologize for entering the wrong room. We looked different now. He had never seen me before. It would be so easy. But I was too slow.
He had ripped Cassie away from me. She was thrown onto the ground. They were both screaming. He was winning. Her wig was gone her dress now torn. She was a shell of the person she was just an hour before. I was met again with a stranger.
The train back was quiet. Malisa was told everything. Cassie returned home with an empty suitcase. This would be my last night in their house. I was being sent home. Cassies father thought it best we separate. Malisa apologized to me crying. I wiped the tears of a girl no longer a woman. And certainly not a mother. It was night when we got back. We sat in Cassie's room quiet and unmoving. I don't know how long we were like that but when she suddenly stood I was snapped back in the reality of my time here. She lifted her mattress, pulling out a neatly folded dress. I instantly stood and locked the door. It was the same as I had seen it last time. Pink with little strawberries embroidered on. She left me on the floor and returned with it on.
She didn't have any ribbons or pearls. Her natural hair short and dark. I stared at her feeling the tears burn my eyes. She walked me to the bathroom sitting me on the rim of the bath. She stepped into the shower turning it on. I watched her through the glass. She stood staring at the ceiling, and I watched her melt. Like water hitting sugar. Something so beautiful and cherished. Turned into nothing but a mess on the floor.
I'm married now. I have a husband who provides for me. I love my husband the way a wife should. I have a son. He is loyal like his father and gentle like his mother. As he grows I watch him change. It's beautiful. He is beautiful. Sometimes as I watch him I see a girl. A girl who made me happy. Truly happy. A girl unlike any other.
Me, my son, a stranger. We all smell of artificial sweeteners.
AN Old Story
A Short Story
Andrew Beatrice
They were ready. The crates were being stacked. He sat and watched them being piled precariously against the barn door. The soldiers moved in and out of the campsite of his bivouaced company in the dawn of early morning. They walked and prepared for the coming day, checking supplies, cleaning uniforms, arming themselves. Marching along, warming themselves in the brisk morning air. He knew that this time, finally, they would win.
He watched the officers ride along, inspecting the camp, riding high like kings atop their horses. He stood, finished his morning routine, and walked over to offer a hand to the soldiers unloading supplies. In silent camaraderie, they worked toiling away, bag after bag, crate after crate until there was nothing more to be organized and unloaded. He walked with his fellow soldiers in the direction of the fire and the welcoming promise of food. They arrived at the cook site in good order and quickly found places to sit or lean. They sat down to a stew of unknown origin and a couple pieces of hardtack.
He knew that surely today would be a good day now; a hot meal like stew was a luxury out in the field like they were. It warmed him immensely, and with the combination of hard work and warm food, he was almost sweating in the cold air. As he ate, he contemplated the horizon, the fields broken by thousands of tramping feet and, just beyond that, bright trees of every autumn color as far as the eye could see. He could see a lone horseman appear, a speck on the horizon, riding in the direction of their company ’ s headquarters.
He observed the rider dismount at the doorway of the command tent and stride inside. The flap of the tent door fluttering in his wake and the whistle of the wind. The rain was starting to fall, a light drizzle for now, but he knew it would pick up quickly. It was at that moment, that the bugle sounded to call them to gather for drills. He stood, and in the blink of an eye, he had gathered his possessions and was ready to go. He made his way to the parade ground where his company had gathered for a march. Falling in line with the other soldiers, he eyed their threadbare and ragged appearance. As the horn sounded a second time, he marched in step with the other soldiers. Wondering what the day would bring, he passed the time with his comrades conversing about the monotonous life of soldiering.
Finally, at long last they stopped in a small glade lit by the midday sun to rest and recuperate before continuing on. He could see the company scattered around reclining against whatever they could find to rest on. Suddenly, from around them arose a frightful sound, a yell of almost wild proportions. Out of the trees to their front came a column of grey-coated soldiers with bayonets fixed. With a shout of alarm, he and his comrades jumped up and quickly readied themselves to receive the rebel charge. For the next half hour, fierce fighting drowned out the beauty of the glade and forever scarred it with the wounds of war. Both groups of soldiers beat a steady retreat to their respective camps, bloodied and bruised, missing half their number after the brutal engagement.
As he stumbled into the camp with the rest of the survivors of that brutal engagement he immediately dropped and lay in the grass as they peeled off to rest. He dully watched as the sergeant went running in the direction of the command tent. He knew in his heart that somehow that was just the beginning.
They were marshaling in the brisk afternoon air. He stepped onto the parade ground with the other members of his unit. It felt like it had only been a few short hours since the brutal fight of earlier. They were going to march out against the enemy. He heard someone mutter that the rebels were out in force. He didn’t want to even think about fighting, he was sick of it. He heard the officers call out a few short, terse commands. He felt his feet move and heard the sounds of thousands of tramping boots. He was disconnected from it at this point. He watched, mentally, distant, as the long column snaked out of the camp and into the field.
The next thing he knew, he was stuck in the pouring rain in a small makeshift fortified campsite with the rest of his company. He knew the other companies of the army were similarly afflicted but it didn’t improve his sour mood. He was cold and wet and tired and wished he wasn’t. He waited for something, anything to happen. He was tired of waiting and doing nothing but at the same time, he was tired of the fighting and all that it entailed. He was starting to fall asleep when out of the dark night came a loud crash.
The men of the company burst up like an uplifted lance and with a shout and a roar turned to face what now seemed like an attack. The rebels were still yet to be seen but their yell could be heard with frightening clarity. They gathered and readied themselves.
Out of the dark tree line came a horde of screaming soldiers making right for their camp. He and his fellows stood together in a sea of blue coats prepared to fight. Their rifles went off in a scattered, banging fashion knocking down enemy soldiers in small clumps along their charging inevitable rush. Then with a burst, they were there, right in among them, both groups mingling with wild abandon in a single violent strike. He stood facing a grey-coated rebel, watched the bayonet on the end of his rifle glinting in the moonlight, and stabbed out with his own bayonet. He didn’t stay to watch the fate of the rebel but immediately proceeded to find another. He found him standing above another, bayonet raised high, ready to strike the fatal blow. He charged in with a roar and downed him with a swift stab from his own bayonet, sending the rebel reeling away into a small cluster of other soldiers. Suddenly he was set upon by a behemoth of a soldier swinging a rifle like a club every which way. He saw this soldier slam others with his rifle and send them flying in every direction possible. When suddenly he was standing right before him, he raised his rifle futilely trying to keep him at bay but with a resounding crash he was sent tumbling to the ground, crumpled in a pile.
He watched dully as that huge rifle was raised above the head to strike him dead when a small crowd of his fellow soldiers converged on that one giant and brought him down. He stumbled up dazed, his head ringing like a bell, his vision was swimming in and out almost failing him.
He watched the death and destruction around him in a haze of pain, trying to figure out how best to get away from it all. He saw groups of soldiers charging across the field and hammering into each other in a miasma of slaughter. The survivors of one fight, holding out against the victors of another. Soldiers running from the fight, bloodied and beaten. The grey, blue, and red of the soldiers mixed together as if in a painting. He stumbled his way to the edge of the field, falling at the base of a lone tree and leaning against it. They were still fighting, battering away at each other with no end in sight.
He watched the soldiers fighting where he had just been a second before, the full moon hanging above them all in the sky.
He looked down at his hands seeing them pale and wispy, ethereal in the soft moonlight. He looked across the field watching the soldiers on both sides, their ghostly forms fighting all around him. As he looked out across and watched, a sudden sense of resignation came over him, for them to continue this fight they had already been fighting for so long. He was resigned to his past and his future.
The next morning, he awoke in the camp. He was ready. He sat and he watched the crates being stacked, he watched the soldiers moving in and out of the camp, and he knew now that this time they might not win.
Poetry
A Heart Once Full
A heart once full, now fractured, torn, By words unsaid, and love forlorn.
In silence deep, a shadow falls, Echoes of dreams within these walls.
The warmth has fled, the light is gone, A love that flickered, now withdrawn. Each memory sharp as shattered glass, Time heals, they say—but none will pass.
The nights are long, the tears are slow, The heartache lingers, won't let go.
A whispered name, a fleeting touch, Now distant echoes, cold to clutch.
Still in the dark, the sorrow stings, A broken soul that cannot sing.
Yet through the pain, a faint reprieve
For even hearts must learn to grieve.
THE IMPRESSIONIST
Allison Racine
I am an impressionist, I carry my bag of nothing while gazing at still trees in a park.
I, who am the impressionist, puts my right hand on my chin just to lift my left eyebrow and paint lines so thin.
I am an impressionist, Yet my life well lived abstract. But please, buy my impressionist-like painting. I just want my abstract life back…
EMPATHY
Kai Gottsegen
If empathy is idiocy, then the world must be full of geniuses.
I have felt cold, unloving hands around me, holding me in a vice-like grip. I had believed they belonged to ones that wouldn't hurt me.
I had believed they had belonged to friends.
“We’re your friends,” was what they told me. I never heard them say “You’re a fool.”
If showing empathy is weakness, then people must be made of strength.
“He is just messing around,” one of them had said.
“It’s no big deal.” Is what they had told me.
“You should be flattered.” Their unspoken words whispered. How lucky I should feel, to have been harassed…
All their words gave me was tears. They never gave me comfort.
If being empathetic is wrong, then everyone must be right.
“We would never hurt you, ” one of them had said.
“We care about you. ” Their words had lied.
“So why do you insult me?” I had wanted to ask.
“So why do you make me cry?”
I had never gotten an answer.
If empathy is like darkness, then everything is like light.
I had always brushed off their remarks.
“They are just messing around, teasing, as friends do.”
“They would never hurt me. They are my friends.”
I do not know how many times I told myself these lies.
Because I thought there had been no one else.
But now I know:
If empathy truly is idiocy, then it is better to be among fools.
Your Bright Green Eyes
Your bright green eyes were once filled with hope and wonder, always catching the sun as you ran and raced about
They once held your soul, wild and free as the wind.
Your bright green eyes, the color of summer leaves. Always filled with excitement and joy, They contained a spirit I thought could never be broken.
But now, your green eyes no longer shine. They have been scarred by torment that never ended
Eyes that were once filled with light and hope, now only a phantom remains Your green eyes are no longer as bright, lacking that signature spark
When I saw you, my heart was shattered. One eye was bloodied and bruised. The other was wide with terror, screwing shut as I came closer to help.
You thought I would hurt you. Now, instead of joy and freedom, Your eyes hold only fear.
Your green eyes, they’re hollow and scared, widening and darting around, Afraid of every shadow and everyone else.
Now, those green eyes do not fill me with joy
Instead, they only fill me with despair
Tell me, when will they become your eyes again?
Sweaters
Kellie Jones
The cold in your room seems to have trapped me
Like a mouse following a cat A fool already dead still dreaming
Like a flower growing in the basement It will never be anything more than mold
Like a choir of lace to our fingers and blood on our toes soaking the socks you bought me
It would be such an easy thing to turn off the fan But what would I do with all the sweaters you made me
My Room
My bland room Is small And neat And adequate for me
Though, I wish Sometimes That it Was a little larger
There is no use In blankly Complaining About the things that matter not
Ode To The Rocky Mountains
Ana Pope
The Rocky Mountains are my home. Their beauty can not be matched, at least not in my eyes. When I stand at the summit overlooking the landscape, everyday problems become scarce.
Like the last of the spring snow giving way to a dry hot summer. From there the city of Santa Fe seems smaller than it feels and less significant.
On windy winter days the snow blows in clouds of sparkling dust. Skiing down the mountain is like a dream. The fresh powder makes even the steepest terrain less treacherous. Some years the snow reaches my knees!
In the spring the mountains restore their vibrant colors. Muted green dots the mountain sides. The pine trees and evergreens earn their name.
Seemingly unscathed by a harsh winter.
These mountains I know so well.
No matter where I go they will never escape me. Time apart only makes the heart grow fonder.
Art
Kaitlyn Gregory
Giorgia Capobianco
Giorgia Capobianco
Jacob Wulfstat
Jacob Wulfstat
