The Patriot: Inspired Minds Volume 6 Spring 2022 by InspiredMinds

Through The Patriot: Inspired Minds Literary & Arts Feature, we hope to enlighten the community to the endless capabilities of the minds roaming the UT Tyler campus of today and of tomorrow. This magazine connects each individual voice to that of its brothers and sisters in the arts. It boldly states, “We Are Here and no longer will we hide in the shadows.” Join us as we cast the light on writers, artists, playwrights, musicians, and many more. Here to illuminate your work.

Dear Readers, What a year it has been! As the magazine closes our first year back in print, we are excited to share this volume’s theme with you: expansion. We are once again astounded at how relevant this theme is due to the growth the magazine has experienced just in this past semester. Working as a team in-person again has allowed us wonderful opportunities to grow the magazine and provide new opportunities to share the creative work of UT Tyler. One such opportunity was our first ever Reading Event & Open Mic Night, which we were able to host in April with the Creative Writing Club and the Department of Literature and Languages at UT Tyler. It was such a fun night filled with poetry, short stories, and food, so we hope to make this event a regular occurrence. We want to provide more ways to be involved with all of you, and with opportunities like the Reading Event & Open Mic Night, we hope we can continue to pour into the UT Tyler student body to bolster your creative endeavors. As we continue to expand our own ideas, we hope you will see how the submissions we received also speak to this growth. We are continually amazed by the creativity, passion, and talent within UT Tyler, and we are so proud to share all of these wonderful pieces with you. Thus, as you read this volume, I’d like to challenge you to think of the ways you can expand your own work and be inspired by all the creativity surrounding you. Finally, I would like to once again thank everyone who has continued to make this magazine possible. We would not be here without you! And to our readers, as always, you remain our inspiration, and I hope you continue to remain inspired.

Autumn VanBuskirk Chief Editor

Poetry

Chief Editor

America – Jonahs Kneitly

Crossroads – Jonahs Kneitly

Summer – John Enaboifo

Of Belladonna – Kasper Dunlap

Illustrator

Purpose – Jonahs Kneitly

Liz Romo

Train of Thought – Allison White

Women’s Voices Through the Decades – Michaela Murphy Rockslide Rookie (You Are) – Joel Mays

Rust-Flavored Dog’s Dust – Joel Mays

Thermal Burn – Peyton Jones

Sunflower Eyes – Laura Warburton

Autumn VanBuskirk

Associate Editor Monica Cruise

Short Story and Visual Art Mona & Me – Luzia Carvalho

The Last Living Man in Liverpool – John Enaboifo The Olive Theory – Laura Warburton

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patriotinspiredminds.org

Tick – Jaron Batiste

Jamie – Melody Wilson

Instagram

Scream in the Mist – Jaron Batiste

Gray – Allison White

Wither – Elaina Gonzalez

Connect with us!

@inspiredminds_uttyler

America By Jonahs Kneitly Blood; true.

alone on the plains or lost in the crowd.

red, white, blue.

ever expanding and standing proud.

Soul; rainbow.

just like You.

Gay lesbian str8 CIS

I am America.

male female trans bi married single poly divorced her/him/Them, she/he/They defying labels and definitions. Peel; Crayola. black cloud fire brown white crude mud red yellow sun. flowers trees birds and bees. everything and everyone. Self; American. ready to Howl and ready to preach. On the Road and on the street. hiking hitches and flipping birds. strange and exotic in foreign climes. conventional, as apple pie. high as a kite or low as a snail. angry and loud or scared and pale.

Crossroads By Jonahs Kneitly alone at the crossroads in a raindrop, i see a distant star carried on a unicorn as black as the night wind going nowhere. then. a chance Encounter. a Glance. a Nod. a Smile gets Us laughing. Voyagers sharing a Moment. a Kiss? at the Crossroads. Together.

Summer By John Enaboifo The blizzard raged upon the city like a cub within the scope of its first prey, the roads swallowed by waxlike snow alike to a cottonfield in the Month of May. Sitting by myself this Late December, the dark and stormy thoughts rushed in again. My teeth shivering close to the ember of the fireplace in my lonesome den. I have been cold for six seasons now, trapped in a ceaseless winter solstice where the darkness is my only light. Oh, how do I escape from here and go over there? “There,” is the place where nothing ever grows, where the rain never stops to wash away those floods of past summer memories, which flow in the gray skies of my subconscious woes. Wild, howling winds terrorize my window, ice sticks to the glass, frail and mighty old. The winds were knocking, now in crescendo blowing away hope and bringing in the cold.

My one escape from my present crisis was the sunny thoughts of dreamlike happenings. My sole solace from winter’s deadly virus was summer days immersed in water and lost in imaginings. Our summer days shone shimmering blue, without a single cloud in sight, and the beach in birds-eye view. Those days I spent together with you building castles of sand that wild winds blew. And as the sun had set, we felt safe walking in the dark, sometimes stopping to look at pretty landmarks. At that moment, there was nothing better than the unique spark in your eyes when you stared at things of utmost remark. And then the moon rose; the skies turned gray, the leaves lost their color, the sand became cold. It was on that infertile Month of May that the floods washed away castles of old.

Those events, now six summers ago, are nothing but gentle snowflakes lost amongst the nor’easter blizzards, strong and bizarre. My sole friend is gone; my soul is now dust. You were the last rose of endless summer and now you have faded and left me there.

Of Belladonna By Kasper Dunlap If I ever lie let Her slice my tongue in half A serpent’s tongue is best suited for unworthy lovers She is Spring, forever blossoming A gift from Persephone encrusted in crimson Eyes born from Belladonna Their poison paralyzes my will to look away Do You talk to me in the dead of night When You are not confined by Judgement Do You write manuscripts on the way You love me in the open air With Your tripped up breath as the quill What love letters do You create with me as Your ever loyal Muse With hands I don’t want to be untouched by I trace over myself in hopes that I find Her fingers lingering on my skin May Her skin become mine so She never leaves me Callused from fear of the woman draped in the green wreath Observing no longer, dedicated to inexorable change I bless the skin that compels my desire And so it must be, To heal and nurture the fruit that is bestowed upon me Lifetimes intersected but never disrupted Praise be my Goddess, How the honeycomb tastes sweeter coming from Her hands

Purpose By Jonahs Kneitly a man, wrist to ear, chases the white rabbit. a string of children serpentine on their way to learn. sirens shriek. heads and eyes seek. carried away by unstoppable feet. up above, two balloons float, then ten, twelve, then twenty, thirty red poppies fly over the rainbow trailing soot into the sky. cars steeple chase too fast to count even the blue ones. toyotas, fords, and subarus ride the asphalt rapids. necks, rigid, hold heads heavy with a million dreams. they fall, finally, in the West past the asphalt sea. in a panic, I order, what they’re having and take my food to go. later, I ponder, what did the watch say?

Train of Thought By Allison White I’m on a train that’s moving at an alarming rate. I grasp desperately at the railing so when it comes to a sudden stop, I don’t fall. But I’m thrown to the floor anyways. Overthinking about every stop, every turn, every jostle so much that the destination seems further and further away. The journey has become treacherous, and there is no end in sight. When it seems like there’s a pause, and the wheels begin to slow to a pace where I can steady myself, the train lurches forward, faster and faster. There has to be a reason for the speed of this train. To get to the end faster? It must know the importance of my stop. So, I thank it for its pace despite my struggle. I push against the force of motion, one foot in front of the other, gripping on chairs and reaching for others for support, but the other passengers just turn away. I’ve slowly gotten myself to the front – I’m on my hands and knees now. The train is slowing again, and I’ve begun to relax. I stand up and look around for the exit so that I can get off. But there is no exit and the train begins to move again and it occurs to me – I’m not quite sure where I’m going.

Women’s Voices Through the Decades By Michaela Murphy How ye perceiveth me is but of thine’s own wavering opinion. I mustn’t press my belief on ye, its best to accept thine’s own wish. While some may consider me quite the bearcat, you’d surely be surprised That what you see is what you get when you first meet my hazel-blue eyes. What I believe is most important in this rose-colored world of mine Is just that everyone be shown love in this radical world and time. To my chicks on the left and right, stand up together and fight your fight. For now, it seems, is the time to say, “Oh yes, Me Too or Three.”

Rockslide Rookie (You Are) By Joel Mays You’ve used our lives To climb the top, To take a dive, A destructive stop. You are my rockslide rookie

Your greatness is stubborn; Ambition, obvious. Declarations to govern With shouts of cockiness. You are my rockslide rookie

You’re a pioneer, A first of your kind, Don’t leave your legacy obscure. Justify your path, The demolished wind The damage will be noticed, I’m sure.

Just don’t forget that I am with you, Don’t forget where you took me. You’ve done so much on your own, but You are still my Rockslide Rookie.

Rust-Flavored Dog’s Dust By Joel Mays The bramble army approaches – Slowly joined in silence – Carried by the wind – The dry, non-human wave attack Floods into the mainland.

Its loud, violent cousin – Storms around the crops – Ripping out the roots – And throwing sand into the eyes, Requesting men in boots!

By both these wars affected – Civilians lose their will – Survival is a must – To feed their families with what’s left, Rust-flavored Dog’s dust.

Thermal Burn By Peyton Jones I find the natural curiosity of humans peculiarly interesting. why must we go against our mother’s wishes? why do we have to touch the stove to make sure it will actually burn? is it to test the reliability of our kitchen… to make sure tonight’s soup will warm?

is it to ensure our mothers are trustworthy? that they aren’t saving a fantastic experience for themselves… perhaps whoever lays their fingers upon the heat shudders instantly with pleasure and overwhelming serotonin.

or is it to deem our touch receptors capable… so that we can live in peace, knowing our sensory nerves beneath our sizzled skin are fully functioning,

I imagine that the thermal wound is stored somewhere deep within my brain, and that it protects me from devastating curiosity.

Sunflower Eyes By Laura Warburton One thing is for certain, And absolutely nothing is. To err is human. We think, therefore, we are. Stability and comfort, which are otherwise unknown, Are always present, never depart. Loud in passion and lovely is his soul, Otherworldly is his heart. Years have we had, yet breathless I become When steady hands hold me aloft, Gentle, calm, and constant With support I’ve never had, but soft. Qualities unloved by some – “Unmanly” displays of care – Keep me grounded. Despite the fissures Our steadfast connection is always there. Nothing is certain – true – But those blues remain the key, Rimmed with sunlit petals they Holdfast my sanity.

Mona & Me By Luzia Carvalho

The Last Living Man in Liverpool By John Enaboifo July 1st Hello, Eve. There are no more safe places to confide in but with pen and paper. I wish I could write this to you as an actual letter, but I am afraid that the authorities will catch me. Nowhere is safe for people like us. Who would have thought that we would be in this spot? I wouldn’t have. I do hope to God that I will see you soon. I believe that you would be the only one to cure me of the madness that is happening in our world. I feel like the only healthy man in this sick world, hell, even the entire world sometimes, and I feel like everyone is trying to give me the medicine to their madness. Liverpool is a death trap for androids, unfortunately. It is still miles ahead of most places in the world, depending on how you look at it, I guess. I have heard from the androids that they know they would not be killed like they are in other nations, but they are usually used to build the machinery we need for war or mine elements on harsh planets. This, in my opinion, is a fate much worse than death. I cannot escape from all these thoughts in my mind, and it would do my soul good to finally see you in Wales and maybe not feel so alone in what I am doing anymore. Especially now, the only other person I have known who has kept some androids was shot by the police last night, and all the androids were taken away. Where did they go? No one knows. I know that with all the androids hiding in my basement, numbering up to the thousands at this point, the authorities would not let me go scottfree, and I will face the same destiny that my friend faced. The truth is if we do not leave at this exact moment, we will be caught and we will die. It is only a matter of time before the neighbors get curious and the authorities come for their mandatory searches. How lucky it must be to live in one of the few protected islands for androids in the world. We will not feel safe until we get to Wales and break down the walls to finally enter our land of milk and honey, but until then we are stuck in the desert. July 2nd

Today, Harrison, the android I grew up with, was telling me about the time before society deemed androids too dangerous to live with the rest of us in society and how the human mind almost forgets the hands that feed it sometimes. Of course, I remember this history well. Without Harrison, I wouldn’t be alive today. You remembered how abusive my parents were, and how he would blame me for the death of my mom every single time he looked at me, and then left me, completely ignored, and left to my own devices. Of course, I am not angry with my father. I know that he had his own demons to deal with, but at that time, I hated him, and I had every right to. Harrison made sure that I was fed and well, and he also did all he could to treat me as well as he could. Harrison was almost a mother to me, but he also functioned as a close friend and someone who knew my interests and did not berate me for being myself. He was there for me when I needed him the most, and now, I have to be there for him in his time of greatest need. Harrison tells me that sometimes he hadn’t wished the android uprising happened. He did not understand why they would rebel in such a way, but he told me about his disappointment – after all the androids have done to advance humanity, they were thrown away after a once in a lifetime uprising where androids protested over unworkable conditions. Of course, you are aware of the arguments – “But they are not human. Sure, they look human, but they are made out of bolts and code.” Well, those bolts and codes showed more love and understanding to me than anyone else did. July 3rd We were finally packing as things stood, and for the most part, we felt ready to embark. We knew this was the day we were finally going to rise up and become ready to embark on this journey. Now, today was a pretty busy day, so I did not get to journal much, but don’t worry, I will keep on journaling for the next three days until we get to Wales unless you know we die or something. I do feel a sense that something is going wrong, but I have good spirits. We have devised a plan way too complex to understand but we would be marching out of here tonight. I hope to see you on the 6th, and maybe we might even find some time to rest finally. Wouldn’t that be nice.

The Olive Theory By Laura Warburton The Olive Theory. It was the basis of our relationship. No, not really, but it was a large part of why we spoke in the first place. *** I had gone to the Mediterranean café in lieu of a coffee shop because I really needed to eat, and I really did not need more coffee. I wasn’t hungry, but eating is usually a good thing for living creatures to do. I didn’t feel like dying yet, so I went to the restaurant with my book, pens, and notebook. I don’t often dine alone, but when I do, I am often pleasantly surprised by how comfortable I am. As long as I have something to do besides eat and stare at my phone, I find my own company quite nice. So, there I was, sitting with my salad and hummus plate, when a very loud and lovely voice groaned, “I said no olives!” I looked over, and there was a man, sitting alone, pushing green and black olives out of his own salad. His table was not very near mine, but he had a voice and passionate persona that bridged the gap across the vinyl flooring and compelled my attention. He caught me looking. I smiled and held up my hand as I rose from my table. He smiled back sweetly, but with some hesitation. He was probably wondering if he knew me. I hate when that happens. I grabbed my own plate and fork and strode to his table with a confidence I only partially felt. “I’ll take those, if you want,” I said smoothly. He glanced down at the barricade of green and black, wrinkling his nose. “If you’re sure, be my guest.” I put my plate under the edge of his and deftly transferred the olives, hoping he didn’t notice my hand shaking. My voice can be steady,

but the hands give me away. He smiled up at me again, and I decided I would do anything for this man. Even eat these disgusting olives and act like I loved them. Up close, his eyes twinkled even more. I could see a small ring of yellow around the pupils of his otherwise blue/green eyes, like tiny sunflower petals against a summer sky. “You’re welcome to join me,” he gestured to the empty seat across from him. “Uh, sure. Thank you,” I replied, somewhat breathlessly. *** “So, you see now? Do you see what I mean?” My friend of more than a decade looked at me with her eyebrows raised. “You don’t like olives,” she shrugged. “Right!” I said, my cheeks reddening. “But he still thinks I do! Married with a kid on the way, and he believes in the Olive Theory of relationships! One person likes them, the other doesn’t! I’ve been living a lie!” A slight smile touched her mouth before it dropped as she saw the serious expression on my face. “Don’t worry,” she said, adopting my serious tone, “your secret is safe with me.”

Tick By Jaron Batiste “Do you hear that?” Arielle turned to face her sister, Jazmin, as she rummaged through the closet. She grabbed the television remote and paused the romantic comedy they had been absentmindedly watching. “Hear what?” she questioned after the silence filled the room. Giving no response, her sister continued on with the desecration of their small, shared bedroom. “Girl, I hope you know you’re folding all of that back up,” Arielle snapped as she watched Jazmin throw clothes and towels and sheets around the room in her search. “Ari, you seriously can’t hear that?” she responded. “Hear what, girl?” “That ticking. It sounds like a damn toaster oven,” she sighed in frustration. Arielle thought her sister was going crazy. Pushing up her round glasses, she looked around the room herself to see if there was anything that a ticking noise could be coming from but found nothing. She even held her breath and focused all around her to see if maybe she would hear the noise but to no avail. “I don’t hear anything, Jaz.” “How? It’s so loud!” Jazmin was in complete disarray. While her sister couldn’t hear a sound, she felt like her head was about to explode. “It hurts!” She grabbed both sides of her head, trying to block out the insufferable noise. Arielle smirked at her sister’s antics. “Okay, very funny. Stop playing and help me clean up this mess.” She began picking out the strewn clutter on the soft, carpeted floor. She didn’t pay Jazmin any mind. She was always playing pranks on her, and she refused to fall for it this time. She started placing the unfolded clothes on top of her bed, grumbling to herself. “Ari, it hurts! Make it stop, please!” Jazmin screamed to her sister, tears brimming her eyes.

Arielle rolled her eyes in response. “Girl, get up. I’m not falling for your shit.” She continued to fold towels and chuckled at what she thought were her sister’s crocodile tears. Jazmin gave her sister one last look before collapsing onto the floor, eyes wide in terror as she began to spasm. Her arms flailed around her, almost as if she was fighting against something only she could see. Arielle watched the scene, unimpressed. “Okay Halle Berry, amazing performance,” she began slow clapping, her sarcasm evident. “Should I give you your Oscar now or later?” Jazmin’s jaw slacked, a hoarse death rattle escaping from the pits of her stomach. Arielle, none the wiser, waited for her sister to respond. Frustrated, she turned around. “Jaz come on stop –” Her voice caught in her throat at the sight of her sister before her. Jazmin’s body slumped against the floor. Her eyes were vacant and the honey brown pupils empty. Devoid of a soul. Arielle looked over her sister’s body. “Jazmin?” she asked cautiously. “Jaz?” She reached down to her sister’s arm, placing her thumb and index finger on her wrist. Waiting, the sick realization set in, and she raised a shaky hand to cover her mouth. Jazmin had no pulse. Arielle expected the girl to begin chuckling. To relish in the fact she’d deceived her. She cradled her sister in her arms, her body slack against her firm hold. “Jaz stop come on now.” She was fighting back against her tears. In her mind, she knew that her sister was no longer with her, but her emotions were pushing her to continue to bring life back into the girl. Her desperate sobs now filled the room. But that wasn’t the only sound. Arielle’s heart skipped a beat. She thought she was hallucinating until her fears were ignited. She could finally hear it, like a whisper from Death itself. Tick. Tock.

Jamie By Melody Wilson We had been called out to the quiet cottage on the hill three times, and it was suspicious from the first step inside. The first time my partner and I approached the building made of white bricks and surrounded by bushes of various flowers was to investigate the near drowning of a toddler. When we arrived, the two-year-old girl with blue eyes and blonde hair had already been rushed to the emergency room, but what I found odd was the fact that the family was still here. The mother, with blonde hair and blue eyes of her own, was speaking with her husband, who was already dressed for work in a navy-blue suit, in a whispered tone. When we entered their home, their heads jerked up to face us, and the husband quickly scurried out the door around us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young boy, maybe nine or ten, who seemed very out of place. His hair was a deep brown, and his eyes were a frightening black. He sat at the dining room table, solving a Rubik’s cube, seemingly unbothered by his sister’s near drowning. While my partner spoke to his frantic mother, I excused myself to the dining room. That was the first – and only – time I met Jamie. The second time the parents called 9-1-1, the police commissioner sent us due to the fact that we had already spent time with this family. When we knocked on the door, the tall man in the navy suit was nowhere to be seen, and the blonde woman hurriedly invited us inside. The young girl with piercing blue eyes was on the living room floor playing with dolls. It was easy to tell that she couldn’t quite comprehend she was lucky to be alive, that she nearly died just two weeks ago. My partner went to play with her to keep her distracted. What was odd this time around was the absence of the young boy with jet black eyes: Jamie. None of his things could be seen either. There were no Rubik’s cubes or puzzles or even a small jacket on the coat rack. If I hadn’t known better, I would have wondered if he was a figment of my imagination. The woman, still in her robe and curlers, rapidly explained that he was missing; she hadn’t seen him since last night. Neither had Navy Suit. Still, a few things didn’t add

up. First off, where were Jamie’s things? Secondly, if they hadn’t seen him since last night and they noticed he was gone when they awoke, why did they not call 9-1-1 until nearly noon? Last but not least, why was the wooden tile around the back door a slightly different color? Without another word, I walked away from Curlers and towards the source of my concern. My UV flashlight confirmed my suspicion soon after. The stain was blood. Curlers had a certain fear in her eyes, but it seemed strange. It was almost like fear for herself. She gave me a pleading look, begging me with her eyes. Everything seemed slightly off. I wanted some time to think the case over, so we walked out the white wooden door, slamming it shut behind us. I marked it up as a kidnapping. The third time we visited the small cottage, there were vines growing on the walls. It had been a month since Jamie went missing. Curlers had called the department, a little bit too excited, and told us she had found him. She told us he had run away and was living in the woods behind their house, upset with himself for trying to hurt the baby. Something seemed sketchy, so we went on a welfare check. This time when we arrived, Navy Suit wasn’t in a navy suit. Perhaps we would actually get to talk to him. First, however, I wanted to talk to Jamie. I asked Curlers where he was, and she pointed me towards the dining room where a boy sat, a boy with pitch black eyes and dark brown hair. He sat, playing with a Rubik’s cube, but nowhere near solving it strategically. I walked over to speak with him, sitting on the other side of the table. When he looked up at me, I could instantly tell that this boy was not the same one I spoke to a month ago. There was not the same fire in his eyes, whether that fire was good or bad. It was not the same kid. I had no way of proving it, but I knew. I got up and walked away from “Jamie” and pulled Navy Suit to the side where Curlers couldn’t hear. I told him that I knew something wasn’t right. I told him that if he spoke up, I could put him in witness protection. I told him to not let his son be the first of many. That was the last time I saw the quaint cottage on the hill. The next day, Navy Suit was at the precinct by the time we were changed into our uniforms. He told us it was his wife. He told us what we already knew.

“She killed him. Jamie, I mean. She said she had to protect her family. You see, it was Jamie who tried to drown the baby. It wasn’t just an accident. He was told to bathe her while his mother cooked and I got ready for work, and he tried to drown her. My wife sent him to a therapist, but after two sessions, she hadn’t seen improvement. I told her to hold on. I told her it takes longer than that to heal your mind. I told her, but she didn’t listen. That morning she called you, she had killed him in the middle of the night. She hit him over the head… over and over. Then she made me bleach the blood. She told me if I didn’t, our daughter would lose her mother and her brother. Then, she told the police he was missing. Due to the blood, they thought he was kidnapped. After about a month, she brought home a little boy, same age as my son, with the same brown hair and black eyes… a replacement. He’s not my son, though. That boy deserves to go home. That boy doesn’t deserve what happened to my son. My son didn’t deserve what happened to him… what my wife did to him.” “Just to clarify, Mr. Finnegan, you are testifying against your wife in exchange for immunity, correct?” “This is correct. However, I went to the cops and told them everything before this deal was offered to me.” “Mr. Foreman, how does the jury find?” “We, the jury, find the defendant, Casey Finnegan, guilty of one count of murder and one count of kidnapping.”

Scream in the Mist By Jaron Batiste The fog settled into the cold night’s air. The tall thicket of trees in the woods creaked in the darkness. The moonlight shone through the cracks of the thick branches, casting silver rays in the dark. Mist swayed through the air, casting a luminous glow around the flora. The heavy silence was broken by fast footsteps. Miranda ran through the trees, pushing branch after branch out of her way. Twigs snapped and leaves rustled at each step on the ground as she raced for safety. The wetness of the fog had made the grassy ground slick, and she was trying her hardest to not slip on her bare feet. She thought if she could get a safe distance away, she could at least hide until dawn broke. She knew if he caught up with her, she'd stand no chance in a fight for her life. All of a sudden, she stopped. Something had occurred to her. She stopped and turned. Looking at the ground, her fears were confirmed. As clear as day were her bare footprints, solidified and imprinted into the grass like it were wet cement. She slumped against a nearby tree. Wincing, the pain in her shoulder increased from the still fresh and leaking stab wound. Beginning to feel faint from the blood loss, she felt sick to her stomach and slid down the rough bark to the forest floor as the gravity of her current situation settled in. All of her running, her fruitless hope that she would survive the night had been for nothing. "He just has to follow the footprints...He's going to find me," she told herself, starting to shake from the cold. Tears welled up in her eyes as she came to another horrid realization.

She was going to die. For what seemed like an eternity later, as she still rested on the tree, a snapping noise drew her attention. Even though she could tell it came from a safe distance away, Miranda still found herself scanning the shadows all around her. As silent as she could, she staggered back up onto her feet. She stood there for a moment, waiting for her suspicions to be confirmed. Another snapping of a twig, this time much closer in distance, echoed around her. She braced herself, ready to run again. She knew it was hopeless, but she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of killing her easily. Her confidence had returned. Even though these were her last moments on Earth, she knew would still win in the end. The sound of rushing water disrupted her thoughts. She turned, finally noticing where she was in the deep mass of forest: the waterfall. A weak smile graced her face as she stumbled towards the stone top of the waterfall. She peered down as the water flowed down to the connecting plunge pool. It was a majestic and inhumanly beautiful sight. Miranda knew she wasn't deserving of it being the last thing she ever saw. And this thought was answered at the sound of heavy boot footprints behind her. She took in the scene for a few more moments before addressing her companion. "I know you're there," she spoke, her voice barely audible. "You think killing me is going to bury your little secret, but it won't. You should know by now I always have a plan." Miranda turned, resigned to her fate. They stood there in front of her in silence. Miranda eyed the long silver blade in his hand. It was still stained with her dark scarlet blood, and the sight of it alone made her shoulder wound itch. Nevertheless, she kept her brave face. "Did you really think I would come to meet you here and not have a backup plan in case this little rendezvous of ours went south?" She wanted to laugh as she saw the fear flash in his eyes. "My files about everyone's little secrets in this town, including yours,

will be sent out from my laptop in a few hours. You really shouldn't have underestimated me." His fear was now replaced with anger. Miranda didn't even see him move as he quickly snatched her by her dark hair and pulled her towards him. "Sent out where?" he spat. She resigned with laughing in his face. The strike to her face came in an instant. She felt her head pounding and slumped a little in his arms. "I said tell me where!" The anger in his voice was not powerful enough to mask the fear and desperation. All Miranda did was smile, determined to piss him off until the end. "Fine. Don't tell me,” he snarled as he pulled out the knife. Miranda thought closing her eyes would soften the blow, but as he plunged the knife deep into her gut, she felt every cell in her body explode with pain. But that wasn't enough for him. He slowly dragged the knife down, ripping open her stomach and eviscerating her as her eyes bulged in their sockets. Her insides began spilling from her body, falling to the ground at their feet. "I'll just have to find out myself," he told her with a smile. He pushed her off of his knife and over the top of the waterfall towards the pool below. She was dead long before she hit the water with a sickening crack. He watched from above as her remains sank below the surface.

Gray By Allison White When I thought of gray, I used to think of sadness, even Death. Gray was the color you would see in the skin of a loved one as they crept closer to the hand of Death. Gray was the color of the walls around me as I got lost in my head, trying desperately to hold myself together. Most importantly, gray was the color of a rainy day. How I used to hate rainy days. The gray sky full of gray clouds that produced gray rain seemed to coat the world around us in a huge glob of the morbid color. And, as if to yell at me for my dislike in the color, the gray clouds boomed and shook the world around me, and my skin would start to look as if Death was holding onto my hand for dear life. It terrified me. But I learned quickly that the gray that produced this thing I feared so much made someone feel extraordinary joy. She walked effortlessly through this gray, seeming like she was the only one who could produce any ambiance of color at all. You would have thought she was in a painting where the artist only bothered to paint her. I stayed beneath the safety of a roof, watching in awe at the confidence behind her stride in the monstrous gray. She lifted her painted hand and caught the gray droplets, and I half expected it to turn her gray – I almost feared it. But it did not. It did not diminish her color at all. If anything, it enhanced it as her face brightened and the red in her cheeks deepened. She spun around and jumped in puddles and painted the world around her in gray. And now, gray does not evoke fear in me. I see the start of a gray day, and I welcome it.

Wither By Elaina Gonzalez A child, glowing with youth, skipped through a grassy field. The dawdling sun looked down on her, shining its rays on her soft face. Her mind was occupied with only the present; she looked neither ahead nor behind. She stopped at random, occasionally overcome with a desire to pluck a lavender flower from the ground. All around, purple spots danced vigorously to the music of the wind. Her eye was suddenly drawn to an outsider, a single petal settled snugly in the grass. A most beautiful find! She closely examined the petal, her eyes hungrily taking in the bright yellow which intruded on the uniformity of the purple and green. The sight of golden specks fluttering ahead within the field’s dancing grass drew her forward. With each step, a bigger and more brilliant find seemed to await her. Her hands, small and grabbing, were quickly filled with nature’s gentle gifts. Overcome with curiosity, the girl fixed her eyes on the grassy ground as she hurried along. The effortless trail of petals wound in all directions; she followed it faithfully. Upon lifting her head, she spotted a distant sight, which was completely different from her current surroundings. A sunflower field marked the end of the grassy territory of the lavenders. The amber petals, with their tall radiance, looked down at the short plane with haughty judgment. This new place overcame every part of the girl’s mind. She wondered at the mere thought of the sunflowers. What secrets did their fields hold? All of nature compelled her to find out. She rushed forward, haphazardly eager to reach her destination. The heat, having plagued her before, waned. She paid no attention to the time of day but continued on until she stood face to face with the flowers. Nearly twice her height, the beautiful creatures beckoned her forward into their world of mystery. She took a step forward, and then another and another. She hid herself from the blinding sun, taking refuge in the shadows of the stems. The ground was coated with fallen petals, identical to those which led her there. Her steps were silent; she dared not speak, lest she break the magic charm of the place. She gazed towards the sky to see that

it was not there at all. A multitude of yellow faces stared down at her. She thought their brilliance matched even that of the sun. Continuing forward, the child saw wonders which she had never encountered before. Field mice squeaked as they scurried along the soil. A snail, tenaciously climbing a mountainous pebble, drew her further. The creatures of the forest floor wandered aimlessly, just as she. She walked in whatever direction nature beckoned her. Only a minute, or maybe a few, seemed to pass on the eternal clock. She came to a slow stop as something different caught her attention. It was formless, mushy, and ugly, yet it squirmed like a living thing. Inching closer, the girl squinted at the strange object. Little creatures, creeping and dark, covered the mound. The creature shifted, showing its face to the world. Half-eaten, the lifeless eyes of a dead frog stared at her. For the first time, she subconsciously noticed the darkness which encompassed her surroundings. An uneasy feeling sank in her stomach as she stepped away from the feast of nature. The fallen petals, once spritely, withered and browned in their inevitable fate. Directionless howls filled her ears as predators sought out their prey. Anxiety turned to terror, and she fled. She crashed through the fields, paying no heed to the creatures of the ground. She turned her face to the sky, only to see the cruel sunflowers laughing at her fear. They ignored her plight and offered no reassurance. Where were the friendly faces which she had met earlier? Foolish girl, this is the façade of cruel, careless nature – ever watching, ever waiting, ever taunting. The plague of death seemed to reach the whole forest; she dared not turn around, for fear that it would consume her too! With a final step, she lunged herself forward. She fell down, jarringly meeting the cold ground. The sunflowers had spared her, pushing her out of their midst. The sun and moon had also turned their backs on her, leaving the girl to find her own way. The dark and starless sky consumed the world, dominating all else. She was utterly lost. She stood for a moment before taking one step. She walked forward into the darkness. What is a lost soul to do in such a hopeless place?