DazedStarlingUnbound Dragonwings
Founded in 2021, The Dazed Starling: Unbound is the online literary journal of the Department of Modern Languages & Literature at California Baptist University.
Address correspondence to: Dr. Erika J. Travis, Managing Editor
The Dazed Staring CBU. MOdern Languages & Literature 8432 Magnolia Avenue Riverside, CA 92504 (etravis@calbaptist edu)
The Department of Modern Languages & Literature offers a Master of Arts degree in English, Bachelor of Arts degrees and minors in English and Spanish, and a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree and minor in creative writing To learn more about the programs and professors in the Department of Modern Languages & Literature, explore www.calbaptist.edu.
The Managing Editor would like to thank Dr. Chuck Sands. Provost of CBU; Dr. Lisa Hernandez, Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences; and all of those who offered their encouragement, guidance, and friendship during this publication process The Dazed Starling is currently published with funds generously provided by CBU’s Department of Modern Languages & Literature
©April 2025 Respective Authors
Cover art by Hannah Rose Noel
THE DAZED STARLING Dragonwings
Spring 2025
7
Editor’s Note
Dear Readers,
Our community of editors welcome you to The Dazed Starling: Unbound, a digital platform that showcases a diverse array of prose, poetry and art. It is a pleasure to open an online journal for those who are passionate about storytelling and seek to express their imaginative world of fantasy. This year’s theme, “Dragonwings”, features a collection of pieces from CBU students and esteemed friends. The elements in these works draw attention to poems entangled with magic, short narratives about inspiring myths, and innovative art that captures the beauty of our flying, reptilian companions. Through these submissions, we hope the readers embark on a journey through realms of deep reflection and firebreathing creatures.
We aim to cultivate an edition of longing and immersive adventures which highlight the vibrant culture of dragons, castles and princesses. As readers engross themselves in these creative themes, the editors invite you to the 2025 edition of The Dazed Starling: Unbound. Thank you for joining our digital world of wonder.
Sincerely,
The Dazed Starling Unbound: Editorial Team
Prose
Clarissa McLaughlin
Roasted
The Lonely Dragon
Jenelle Hekman
The dragon had flown a long way, searching for someone to be his friend. He had seen this village from the air, found a lovely marsh not too far away, and thought he would settle here. He walked to the town, hoping to find someone to talk to. Alas, the villagers only heard his roars and snarls. The dragon sat outside the village walls for a long time, not understanding why the little humans had run away from him. They could not see that he was friendly. The next day, he tried again. He found two sheep waiting outside the walls.
He was happy, for he thought they were giving him a gift to welcome him. He thanked the guards on the walls, who dropped their weapons to cover their ears, for his roar was so loud. He brought the sheep to his marsh and ate them, thinking the villagers would talk to him the next day. There were no villagers that day, but there were two more sheep. This continued for weeks, and the dragon was no closer to having a friend, though he was very full.
On the last day of the month, the dragon woke up and began his walk toward the village. Standing outside this time was a young girl and a man dressed in silver. The dragon was so happy that he raced toward them, confident they had finally decided to be his friends. He held his claw toward them in gratitude, but the man sliced it with a sharp silver stick. The dragon cried in pain, reptilian tears falling to the ground, forming two deep pools. He had never done anything harmful to the villagers. They had given him food gifts for weeks, but now they had turned on him.
The dragon pushed the man backward and flew into the clouds. He now understood that little humans did not want to befriend a dragon. He flew to the top of a mountain, where he cried, rivers flowing until they reached the sea. He is still there; his tears cause great floods in summer and avalanches in winter.
Castle Abigail Lopez
Seven Hundred and Fifty Years
Grace Crandall
Can light erode?
was my first thought as the actual shaft of pale yellow sun climbed up the rear interior wall of Merton College Chapel in Oxford. I had slipped inside by pure serendipity, offered a way through by a kind student who had seen my hungry look.
It was seven months since I graduated from college, and my ratty sneakers were planted on a floor over seven hundred and fifty years old. For seven hundred and fifty years this chapel had stood, and for seven hundred and fifty years this faithful streak of light had risen up the rear wall. Without fail, without disruption, and seemingly without consequence.
Through the bombings, through the riots, through the illness and the anger, through the sermons and the funerals, the processions, the concerts, the deaths, and the christenings, it kept its post. And when the church was empty on days such as that unremarkable June afternoon, it rose without praise and without acknowledgement along its familiar path.
There were subtle nuances to the light that I would have never noticed in a photograph (if any can be found). It was dappled, and upon closer inspection, mostly soft summer sun accompanied by a myriad of greens, browns, grays, yellows, and subtle blues. I can’t remember the look of the stained glass window that cast it. I don’t believe I ever turned to see.
I stood, entranced and twenty-three, penniless and uncertain. The light, as it had done for seven hundred and fifty years, rose steadily. It laid its soft hand on the crypts, the candle plinth, the ancient wooden window frame. My heart beat on in my chest.
Every day—seven hundred and fifty years.
Seven hundred and fifty years, and it had not left a mark.
The Messenger
Rebecca Harrel
“The king has returned!” Trish cupped her hands around her mouth to shout the call as her hooves beat against the stone streets.
It all happened so fast. In earlier days she watched with vigilance, always ready to send out the call. For generations the centaurs offered their fastest messengers to the front lines, awaiting the day of return. Being chosen was the highest honor a young messenger could receive, but after so many years hopelessness stirred into ambivalence. Now the time had come, and she awoke to trumpet blasts.
Long lost anticipation beat through the city as Trish galloped down the road, heart pounding faster than her hooves. “It’s time!”
A soldier leaned out of a tent as she passed. “What?”
She continued down the road. “The king has returned!”
The commander shouted orders to the guards at the wall.
“They’re here.” She called to the blacksmith, who hung up his apron and called to his family.
“He’s here.” She called to the mothers who hurried their children out the door
All species great and small responded the same. The fighters laid down weapons and their kin trailed them with food and drink. The songs began as Trish passed into the dusty roads of the country. She longed to join them at the gate. If she hadn’t fallen asleep maybe she’d be there, but an unfinished job would bring even more disgrace.
Trish called until dust filled her lungs and her throat ached. The wind knotted her hair and tail. Mud caked her hooves. She traveled until every farmer, worker, soldier, man, woman, and child heard the news. Once she passed the last settlement and shouts echoed from the main city, she turned back to the gate.
She couldn’t miss the arrival. It was her duty. It was her joy. This was her only chance
Foot, hoof, and paw prints covered the ground. A few cloaks lay
forgotten. Tree branches lined the path. Not a soul was left to remove them. She’d missed the welcome, but there was still a chance.
Lights streamed through the palace windows. Music and voices carried through the walls. Maybe she could still get in. Maybe no one had to know how late she was. She trotted up to the door and turned the golden handle. Locked.
She was too late. The biting air and lonely night served as punishment for neglecting her watch. She couldn’t be seen like this anyways. The day had scorched her skin and sweat glued her tunic to her back. Dirt stuck to her legs in clumps. Her hair was a tangled mess fit only to house rats, and her tail was worse. Those inside would be polished and clean, while she reeked of the day’s work.
Out of energy and out of options, she knelt down and cried.
Trish didn’t know how long she sat on the polished veranda, legs curled beneath her, tears streaming down her face. Long enough for the wind to toss back her ruined hair. Long enough for owls to fill the air with their nighttime laments. Long enough for the tears to dry on her face leaving cold streaks in the filth.
“Why aren’t you inside?” a solemn voice said from far away.
Trish swung her head around, searching for the source. A small lamb stood down the steps to her left. She was twice, no three times, his size, yet the way he strode up the stairs made her feel like the small one.
“I can’t get in.” She sniffed. “They locked the doors.”
“Did you knock?”
“Look at me.” She gestured to her dirt covered body. “They would never let me in.”
“Is that really why?” His dark eyes stared into her.
She lowered her head. “I don’t deserve to go in. I slept through my watch and was late to tell the others.” Her hair covered her face, soaking up her tears. “I do wish I could have met the king. They say everyone gets a single chance in their life to see him.”
“No one deserves to go in.” He reached the top steps and continued past her. His gaze was warm and friendly as he moved past her. “Follow me.”
She did. His soft feet tread gently across the hollow platform. Her hooves thudded heavily behind.
“Where are we going?” She stooped her neck to talk to him.
“The day has worn you down. Would you like to get cleaned up?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
He led her to a gate beside the massive doors. Through it was an alcove with a well and a bucket. The lamb hopped onto his back legs and pushed down on the pump. Water streamed from the spout into the bucket.
She knelt down and scooped up the water with her hands. She threw it on her face, her arms, and her back until her shirt and hair were soaked through. She scrubbed until her skin turned red and brown dirty puddles pooled at her feet.
“Turn around,” the lamb spoke, she obeyed.
He guided her tail into the bucket with his head.
“Wait.” She pawed at the ground. “You can’t, you’ll get dirty.”
“I can, I just need you to let me.”
Unable to say no to his resonant voice, she turned forward again. Afraid of seeing his beautiful wool dirtied, she closed her eyes. His hooves worked through the knots one by one. After only a few moments she felt all the dust sink into the water as her tail hung damp and loose. She stepped away from the bucket and flicked the water out of her tail. An excited squeal bubbled up from her throat. She felt lighter without the layers of dirt.
“Are you ready to knock?”
“What if they still won’t let me in? What if he doesn’t accept me?”
“He does.”
She turned to say thank you, but the lamb was gone. She hurried out of the alcove and searched for him across the steps. He was nowhere to be seen, but the door loomed just ahead, waiting for her.
She took a deep breath and knocked.
Seavello
Ben Dragon Jacob
“Did you know there’s a dragon under Fisherman’s Warf?”
James Welch
Lance paused mid-chew. He looked at Martha, a confused expression on his face.
“What?”
“I said, did you know there’s a dragon under-”
“No, I heard you the first time. What do you mean?”
Martha returned his confused look. “I mean– Dude, you know what dragons are, right?”
“Yes, I know what dragons are!”
“Okay then. One of those lives under Fisherman’s Wharf.”
Lance stared at her. “Dragons aren’t real!”
Martha snickered. “Yeah, they are!”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yuh-huh!”
“Nuh-uh!”
“Yuh-huh!”
“Nuh-” Lance is cut off by Martha grabbing his half-eaten sandwich and forcefully shoving it in his mouth.
“I’m telling you, Lance, I saw one.” She said.
Lance coughed up the sandwich and rubbed his throat. “Fine, whatever.”
“You still don’t believe me?”
“Not really.”
“I did! I really did!”
“Prove it!”
“Well, I can’t prove it now.”
“Why not?”
“It’s high tide.” She pointed toward the ocean. Through the thick fog, they could see that the water had covered most of the beach. “The underside of the boardwalk is flooded.”
“Fair point.” Lance stood up and brushed the sand off his sweats. “But did you really expect me to believe you? You know how I feel about these superstitions of yours.”
“They’re not superstitions. What about that ghost we found at the old jailhouse downtown?”
“That wasn’t a ghost. That was a child messing with the door.”
“A ghost child!”
“You kicked him, and he started crying. Not a ghost.”
“Fine.” She stood up and began walking toward the dock.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. I’m going to show you proof. C’mon.”
Lance sighed and followed Martha. They climbed onto the dock, grabbed their bikes, and headed home.
They rode slowly. Their bike lights were practically useless through the thick fog.
“Why did we come out here in this weather?” Lance asked. “I told you it would be a pain getting home.”
“You wanted to do something other than video games,” Martha said.
“Yeah. I meant, like, a movie.”
“That’s boring.”
Half an hour passed. They arrived at Martha’s house. A typical twostory suburban home at the edge of Seaside. The house was filled with various Japanese furniture. Lance stared at a wall filled with crucifixes.
“I always forget your mom has those.” Lance said.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“I don’t know. They’re just kind of unnerving.”
“And you call me superstitious.” She walked down the hall and turned toward the stairs.
“Mama!” She yelled down the hall, “Lance is here! We’re going up to my room.”
Her mom yelled something back in Japanese.
“Yes, Mama.”
Lance followed her up. Martha’s room was filled with a mishmash of pastel colors. One side of her room was covered in 2000s anime and K-
pop posters; the other was covered in posters of ghosts, cryptids, and aliens.
She opened her closet. Clothes and shoes flew out as she searched for something.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for my proof… Here it is!”
Martha stood up and presented a tattered old book titled Cryptids and Creatures of Monterey, California.
“What is that?”
“Proof!”
“Weird books are not proof.”
“At least hear me out!” She opened the book and flipped to a specific page. “Here, read it and weep, Mr. Skeptic!”
Lance took the book. It was opened to a chapter on “The Bobo.”
“Legend tells of an ancient sea serpent that haunts the docks of Monterey” He read, “The Bobo is a winged, fire-breathing monster. Said to be the child of Old Scratch himself, sailors have witnessed it feasting on the flesh of seals, seagulls, and sometimes, humans. It is recognized by its slender, scaled body, red wings, and monkey-like face.
Lance turned the page and was met with a crude drawing of the creature. He grimaced.
“Dude, really?”
“What?”
“This is nonsense. Where did you get this?”
“The Rose Bookshop. That’s one of the few copies in existence!”
Martha beamed with pride.
“I don’t think you know what proof is.”
Her face fell. “C’mon, that book’s from 1904! Why would they lie about that stuff way back then? They wouldn’t have anything to gain like internet fame.”
“They could gain newspaper fame. Besides, the 1900s were boring. Making up stories was one of their few entertainment outlets.”
Martha sighed, “Whatever, man.”
She turned around and began digging in her closet again.
“What are you doing now?”
“Just going to put the book back. Here, hold this.”
She placed a strange-looking rock in Lance’s hands.
“What is this?”
“Something I found on the beach near the Wharf.”
Lance examined it closer. The outside resembled a purple crystal. It felt strangely fragile. He placed his ear on the rock and heard a small steady thump.
“…Martha.”
“Uhuh?”
“I don’t think this is a rock.”
She turned around. “What?”
“This is an egg.”
They stared at each other.
Martha sprung up and screamed in joy. “A dragon egg!”
Her mom yelled angrily in Japanese.
“Sorry, Mama!” She closed her door and turned toward Lance. “I told you! Dragon!”
“Now, hold on! We don’t know that for sure.”
“Be so for real. Have you ever seen an egg like that before?”
“…No.”
“Dragon!”
“No! It’s probably some endangered species’ egg, and you should put it back where you found it.”
“Ugh. Fine. I’ll grab my coat. Go get your bike.”
They rode down to the Wharf. The boardwalk was crowded with guests despite the thick fog. They locked up their bikes and went to the beach.
Lance grumbled as they waded through ankle-deep water. “What were you even doing down here?”
“Oh, I fell off the boardwalk.”
Lance stared at her. “Were you trying to feed seals again?”
“No!”
Lance raised his eyebrow.
“Maybe… Yeah. Yeah, I was.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Takes one to know one. Anyway, I think I found the egg around here.” She pointed at a pile of rocks sticking out of the ocean. The boardwalk was now directly above them.
Martha took the egg out of her bag and climbed onto the rocks.
“Careful!” Lance yelled.
“I’ve got it!” Two seconds later, she tripped and dropped the egg.
Lance tried to grab it but tripped and fell face-first into the ankle-deep water.
The egg smashed onto the side of the rock, and a huge crack formed across its surface.
Lance tentatively picked it up.
“Is it okay?” Martha asked.
“I think it’s fine.”
The egg cracked more.
“Never mind.”
Pieces of the egg began to fall off. A small foot stuck out of the egg. Martha grabbed it out of Lance’s hands. It completely broke apart, and Martha was left holding a small, slimy creature. It had a strange, almost dog-like face, a slender, scaly body, and two thin, bony appendages protruding from its back.
“Aww!” Martha said. “I’m going to name him Dave.”
“Please don’t keep it.”
“Too late. I’m attached.”
Lance sighed. He turned around and headed back to the beach. Then, he felt a drop of water land on his shoulder. He looked up and saw two glowing red eyes staring through the fog.
His voice quivered. “Martha…”
She looked up. “Oh, there’s the dragon!”
The dragon swooped down. Its jaws snapped at Lance, but he ducked just in time.
“Run!” He shouted.
The pair ran out from underneath the boardwalk. Once out, Lance
looked behind him. He saw the dragon wading through the shallow water. Its body was long and covered in green scales. It had two massive red wings and the face of a monkey. Steam emanated from its nostrils and blended in with the fog.
“Well, do you believe me now?” Martha asked.
“Yes! Yes, I believe you! Idiot!”
Martha grinned.
The pair climbed onto the dock, hopped on their bikes, and rode away. The dragon climbed onto the shore and began to chase after the kids. The boardwalk guests screamed in terror as the dragon crashed through the sides of buildings and flipped over cars.
“Dude! It’s gaining on us!” Lance said.
“Quick, down the alley!” The pair quickly turned on their bikes and squeezed through a tight alley. The dragon was unable to fit through.
Lance and Martha rode their bikes until they reached Cannery Row. Lance panted. “Okay, I think we lost it.” He got off his bike and collapsed in the street.
Martha wiped the sweat from her brow. “That was awesome!”
“No! It wasn’t! We almost died!”
“That’s why it was awesome.”
Lance grumbled to himself. Martha reached into her bag and pulled out the baby dragon.
“You kept it?” Lance yelled.
“Yeah!”
“You idiot! That’s why it was chasing us!”
“Oh, yeah. I didn’t consider that. But it should be fine. Look how cute and peaceful it is.” Martha began to pet the top of its head with her finger. Suddenly, the baby let out a piercing cry.
Lance covered his ears. “Put it down!”
“Okay, okay!”
Before she could, a shrieking yell exploded from behind them. The Bobo was perched on top of a building. Flames shot from its mouth, setting the roof ablaze. It dashed over to the top of the Bubba Gump’s sign, knocking it loose from its fixture.
Lance snatched the baby from Martha’s hands. He ran down toward the beach and stuck his hands up into the air.
“Hey! Bobo! Come take it!”
The Bobo turned its attention to Lance. It swooped down and perched right in front of him. Steam shot out of its nostrils, thickening the fog around Lance. It stared at him, an intense fire in its eyes. Then, it snatched the baby away, turned, and flew toward the ocean.
Lance fell to his knees.
Martha walked up next to him. “See? Awesome.”
“I just wanted to watch a movie.”
They watched as the Bobo flew through the fog and past the horizon.
Martha and Lance would never encounter a dragon again. But ever since that day, Lance noticed much less fog in Monterey.
Scorched
Clarissa McLaughlin
A Dragon’s Hoard
Hannah Noel
Lavinia did not consider herself a motherly figure of any sort. By most accounts, she was quite the opposite. She was fierce and swift, each stroke of her wings brought sweeping terror to the villages below. In her youth, she felled armies with the rage of a wildfire and the deadly precision of a lightning strike. Her roars made the forests shake. She was a bane, a terror, a nightmare.
Yet, somehow, she found herself in the possession of four young human girls.
Well, one wasn’t so young anymore. Selia was leaving. Something in Lavinia stung at the reminder. Even as she watched the girls surround Selia and her new husband, saying their goodbyes and wishing them well, Lavinia could not stop the rush of protectiveness. It was silly, she supposed. Vince was a good man; he truly loved Selia, and he agreed to let Lavinia question and pry at every aspect of his life for proof of the fact. Even though the man’s knees had shaken in Lavinia’s presence, his hand clutching Selia’s in a white-knuckled grasp, he had answered her questions, looking her in the eyes like the polite young man he was. It was endearing. Nevertheless, he was taking one of her girls away.
Lavinia was not a motherly figure, and these girls were not her hatchlings. They were smaller and far more fragile than young dragons. They were defenseless without her. Even as an adult, Selia’s calloused hands could still be sliced by one of the dull knives used for paring vegetables. If anything, they were her hoard. Nobody messed with a dragon’s hoard.
In her earlier years, she collected gold and jewels, treasures, and trophies of battle. They piled high in the cavern where her girls grew. She spent her quiet days gazing with pride at her heaps of prized possessions. But Maria cut her leg tripping over a ceremonial sword, and the weapons were removed. A toddling Carmen swallowed an emerald, and Lavinia’s jewels and tiny shiny things were hidden.
Erina was temporarily turned into a shrub while washing dishes, and every ancient item of dubious origin was sent tumbling down the side of her mountain. The culprit was a single cursed chalice, but Lavinia refused to take risks. Little by little her girls replaced her hoard. Still, it hurt to send her old things away.
But her girls brought new things with them.
Mountain wildflowers, plucked and cradled by little hands then piled in the corners made the air smell sweet and clean. Chairs and a table replaced stumps and boulders as the girls learned to craft and trade with nearby villages. Maria was talented in tapestry, Carmen had a love of painting, and Erina tinkered with gears and gadgets. The stony walls, once so barren and cold, became vibrant and echoed happy voices. Where piles of useless treasure once lay, handmade trinkets now adorned the ground.
The older she got, the more Selia wanted to be a swordswoman. At first, Lavinia wouldn’t allow it. Even hatchlings have scales to guard them. What did she, a mere human, have?
An iron will and a rebellious streak. Selia laughed every time she told the stories of her many—and many failed—attempts to practice that forbidden art. Lavinia eventually relented.
She watched her girls practice their talents, learn new things, fail, and fly. She’d never had a better hoard.
And now one of them was leaving.
Who was she trying to fool? These girls were her hatchlings, not a hoard. A hoard doesn’t leave unless it’s thrown away or stolen. Selia chose to leave.
Lavinia turned away from the happy gathering with a huff, heading deeper into her cavern, not noticing the light footsteps following after her.
“Hey,” Selia said, “what are you doing? The party’s back there.”
Selia stepped around to face Lavinia.
Selia’s joyous smile faded slightly. “Is everything alright?”
“I’m simply tired,” Lavinia said. “You should return to the others. I’m sure your husband will miss you.”
“He can wait a few minutes.”
Lavinia watched the girl shift in place. From Lavinia’s perspective,
Selia looked nearly as small as the day they met.
Selia glanced at the entrance and the jovial wedding party. Then she glanced back to the cavern, where her old life had been packed away.
“Were you going to let me leave without saying goodbye?”
Lavinia hesitated.
“Are you mad at me for leaving?” Selia’s voice was small.
“Of course not!” Lavinia answered immediately. “Never.”
“You’ve been acting so strange. I didn’t know what to think!”
“Today is about you and Vince and the life you will forge together. You need not concern yourself with me.”
“But I want to! I—” Selia’s voice wobbled. “Do you think I’m not ready?”
Lavinia lowered her head to meet Selia’s eyes. “Though I’ve watched you grow, from my perspective, it sometimes seems like nothing’s changed at all.”
“Well, I suppose you are very old.” Selia cracked a smile.
“Hush,” she said with a chuckle. “It was never going to be easy to let you go. You’re one of mine. But you are ready to leave. It’s your turn to find something to treasure as deeply as I have treasured you. And you’ve made a good start.” Lavinia’s eyes softened. “I’m so proud of you. I’ll just miss you dearly”
“I’ll come back to visit, of course. You know I will.” Selia said. “You’re my family.”
“You have a world to conquer.” Lavinia looked at her girl with a sad smile. “And hatchlings don’t come back.”
Selia stood tall and confident. “Then I won’t be your hatchling,” she declared. “You’ll be my hoard. It’s never easy for a dragon to part with her hoard. You told me so yourself. I’m declaring it right now! You’re all part of my hoard. My mother, my sisters, and Vince. I have no intention of leaving any of you behind.”
Lavinia blinked, stunned for a moment, then laughed loudly. She hooked her chin over Selia’s shoulder and pulled her close. It was the closest thing to a hug she could offer. Selia returned the gesture, throwing her arms around Lavinia’s neck.
Not many would consider Lavinia to be a motherly figure. Lavinia preferred it that way. That side of herself was reserved only for her girls. Her hoard. Her family.
The Dragon Child
Jeremy Cheng
Once upon a time, there lived a girl from a village with spotless opal skin and raven hair soft as silk running along the riverside in search of a drink. That was until she came upon the most magnificent creature sipping among the clearest lake water she had ever seen. Its body was longer than any snake or bug she had ever seen, yet it exerted a nobility like that of a royal steed. Its white scales ran along its body in near-perfect symmetry, complementing its horns that emitted a dazzling glow before completing its look with the most captivating sunset eyes. After noticing her, its perky nose and slitted pupils studied her with profound curiosity before halting and transforming into the most gorgeous boy she had ever seen. It wasn’t long before the two fell in love and had a child, one more beautiful than both the girl and dragon combined. His skin, in conjunction with his sunset eyes, amassed into an unexplainable radiance that shed tears if anyone were to look away from him. The boy was named Oriana.
One day, a witch disguised as a common resident was traveling through the village, looking for livers to put in her next potion. Just as she was about to pick her first victim, she noticed a golden glow emanating from the window of a house. When she looked inside, she found the young Oriana lying in peaceful slumber. The witch’s heart melted with affection, causing her warts to fade, voice to soften, face to smooth, and heart to grow a thousand times. At that moment, the now beautiful woman ran throughout the village and spread her joy.
News spread quickly, faster than any plague or fire anyone had ever seen, causing royals, nobles, and peasants alike to flock to the town, bringing gifts of spices, incense, and other precious materials just to get a glance at the child. Years passed, people came, and on one olive-scented sunny day, Oriana lost his mother to a fatal disease. Stricken with unfathomable grief, the celestial dragon abandoned his life on Earth and ascended into the heavens.
Yet Oriana didn’t care as he had become tremendously prideful. He became possessive of his miraculous good looks and began wearing an inky veil over his face to hide it from anyone who wanted to see him. Soon, he demanded payment, a day’s worth of income for five seconds of his presence, or anything that equated to that. As more years passed, Oriana became so wealthy, luxurious goods that would cause common eyes to faint seemed like utter waste to him. Well, that is except one thing. He loved gold. It shined brilliantly, reflecting his luscious, good looks in ways he thought more magnificent than he. It captivated him. Soon, Oriana usurped the income rule and started to demand exclusively gold. Yet in those times, fewer and fewer visitors seemed to appear at his doorstep with each passing day.
“Hm, it must be because the peasants don’t have any gold to give me,” he thought to himself. Of course, there should have been an obvious conclusion as to what caused this predicament, as large, ugly red stains started to grow on the boy’s body. His celestial dragon scales, which were once invisible and painted him in glorious light, were starting to bleed from being tainted with hubris. Yet Oriana paid no mind, and with each passing day he received fewer and fewer visitors until eventually they were no more.
“These fools must be getting jealous of me and my gold. No matter, I won’t fall for their petty acts.” Oriana never faltered in that respect, for even after the village returned to dust, he never moved from his giant pile of gold. Eventually, his words became so bitter and unable to change that they dissolved into poison and fire so that he could no longer speak. Some say that if you stood on the ground where the old capital used to stand, you could hear the sound of wailing from beyond the southern hills.
Rebecca Harrel
Hideaway
The Wounded Healer
Michael Vass
The man ascended the snow-coated mountain, holding his child close. With the other arm, he dug his walking stick into the ground. The ice cracked under the stick with each step he took. His child shifted under the bundle of blue blankets, coughing. It wispily whined as another icy wave passed, forming icicles along the man’s beard. They were still several hundred feet from the cave, the healer’s house.
The man recited the poem his father had told him, one the whipping winds uncovered amidst the rubbish that buried it:
“Soft snow falls in flakes
Each one filled with woe.
But when one breaks
Will we not grow?”
The child calmed, and its tiny green eyes closed. The man recited the poem again and again, the words opening his lungs. They would make it.
Torches lit the black-painted figures along the cave’s walls. From the entrance to the back, they were spaced out enough that every inch was visible. The man dropped his walking stick.
On a table-shaped stone slab sat the healer. His robes were faded so much that no color but gray was left, and the glimpses of his face that were not shrouded by his hood were covered in scars. He leaned forward but did not get up from the table.
“Healer,” the man said, bowing.
He coughed, dust flying from his mouth like the cover of an old book.
“That I am.”
“Can you heal his lungs?”
“Bring him here.”
The man placed the baby in the healer’s gnarled hands. The healer lovingly unwrapped the layers till the baby’s pale chest was exposed. He placed his hand on it and waited as the child breathed broken breaths.
The healer’s hands and the child’s chest filled with light with each word he spoke:
“Filling with air from Shoel
Breathless lungs in you fall.
But no longer shall this be
For his healer takes it all.”
With the final words, the light faded. The healer breathed deeply, but his breath was not as strong as before, as if his lungs were pierced.
“He will live.”
“Thank you. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Sing it in rememberance of me.”
The healer laid back on the stone. The man took his child and left. At the mouth of the cave, the healer drew to his final breath and died on the altar.
Years passed, and the man continually recited the healer’s words to his child. Till the day came when he asked what they meant.
“By these words, you were saved by the wounded healer.”
Vine Isabella Contreras
The Last Bite
Audrey Smith
During some year in my youth, I can’t remember which, I was in the car with my mother and sister. A bag of crackers and a Fuji apple sat on my lap. The ride was quiet, except for my nibbling of that large apple. At that age, I could never eat the whole thing, but I still thought some fruit would be nice. Halfway through, I was ready to be done with it.
I let go. The apple fell into the empty grocery bag, our car’s make-shift trash can. A heavy thud.
My mom turned. She looked into the bag. Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes widened. I don’t remember exactly what she said, only an outburst of how she couldn’t believe I just did that. She told a story. My mom and her sisters with my grandmother, my Popo, at the grocery store. My aunt wanted an apple, but with their budget, Popo refused to buy it.
“She begged, and begged, and cried for that apple. She was crying. And you just threw it away,” my mom said. She grabbed my bag of crackers and looked at my sister. “No, she doesn’t get to eat these snacks after throwing that away. You’re not going to eat for the rest of the day.”
That is the image I was left with. A sobbing, hungry girl being dragged out of the grocery store. I didn’t say a word. I recalled another one of my mom’s stories, the time my Popo prepared dinner on a cardboard box that replaced their table, only for the box to collapse under the weight. I imagined my young mother, staring at a mess of food on the floor, realizing there wouldn’t be dinner that night.
About a decade later, I was at my college’s bustling cafeteria. On my tray, I put heaps of red tri-tip and spinach from the salad station. My stomach was bloated, but I persisted. Just one more bite. Now another. If I was to successfully donate blood later that month, I needed my iron levels to make the cut. Anemia ran in my family—so much that my sister needed iron infusion treatment when she got older. I got lightheaded whenever I watched my sister get her blood drawn, so I knew I needed to prepare not only physically, but mentally.
Mom tried helping our anemia with lots of wok-fried steak over rice. She worked hard for my version of Chinese food. In some ways, our idea of Chinese food was the same. The kohlrabi soup, steamed chicken, and fried Ong choy that filled the house with the aroma of garlic. She had all that and more in China but fell on hard times when she moved to the United States. Chinese food was sometimes that, government cheese and white bread.
As the donation date approached, my stomach tightened by the day. But someone out there needed this donation, and I wasn’t going to let a missing plate of spinach, or an upset stomach interfere with that. The day arrived, and after chugging lots of water, I walked to the donation center on campus, and signed in. Once my name was called, I sat down for questioning. A woman asked me a long slog of questions, but only one made me stutter.
“What’s your ethnicity?”
“I’m white and Chinese.”
“Well, we can only pick one, so…” She paused and cringed. “I don’t want to erase part of your identity, but I think we’ll just put white?”
“Yeah. Uh, you know what, just put white.” I was, after all, very white. I had my mother’s black hair and brown eyes, but apart from that, I looked so much like my dad—some people were surprised to learn my mother and I were even related. Still. An eraser, she said? I grimaced at the thought of my family tree on a whiteboard, a giant eraser wiping half of it away. The blood my mother passed through me in the womb, sucked out by one of those needles. But whatever, I thought. They’re not writing a biography about me; it’s probably for evaluating their demographics of donors.
She pricked my finger and then did some things on a computer I didn’t understand. After a couple of minutes, she turned to me and sighed.
“Your iron levels aren’t quite high enough to donate, I’m sorry.”
She explained to me that my levels barely missed the mark. If I could get them up, then perhaps next time. Just how many more spinach smoothies would that take?
“You can still get a snack. Do you want a snack?”
“No, thanks.” I said. Some people I passed by had blue bandages around their elbows. The people whose blood wasn’t rejected. I fiddled with the beige band-aid around my finger where they pricked me. I’m a strong believer in giving back to the community, my mom would say. I thought about my mother again, and again, and again. Mom always volunteered to eat the leftovers, to clean up after others, didn’t she?
As a teenager, I went through phases of trying to waste nothing. Even when my stomach was on the brink of bursting, I kept eating until all the food was gone. Whenever I was tempted to throw the last bite away, I thought of how that wouldn’t be a problem for my mom. I thought of the homeless man across the street, the displaced family starving because they were escaping war. Food was money, so throwing away food was throwing away money, let alone a disgustingly unapologetic display of privilege. I huffed and rolled my eyes at videos of obnoxious online influencers making a mess with food for “comedy.” Guilt had a big appetite. But I could only maintain that level of strictness for so long. Every so often, I would find myself at a restaurant with portion sizes too big. Food that was forgotten and left to mold in the fridge. When I had too much food, I gave in and threw it away. I winced. But who exactly was I helping by stuffing myself?
I developed new habits as I got older. I structured my grocery lists carefully. I asked my friends if they’d like to split meals with me at restaurants, although only some were willing. I tried to stick with ordering food that could be heated up as leftovers. I gave food to the homeless when possible. The most important principle was to buy less than what I thought I needed and then return if I needed more. Most of the time, I would be content with what I purchased and didn’t need seconds. Even so, when I was too full to eat the last bite, I listened to my body. I asked myself if I ate as much as I could, and if yes, I wasn’t going to push myself further.
After graduating, I developed some digestive issues unrelated to my attitude toward food. I never knew when acid reflux or nausea would attack me, but this meant overeating was no longer an option. Food was
sacred, but so was my body. Jesus’s words from the book of Luke echoed in my mind: “For life is more than food.” I had to believe that God created food for the body, and not the body for food. So, when it was mealtime, I knew the plate in my hands, carrying a blessing, was an altar.
The Infernal Coronation
Ryan Reyes
There once was an orphan in a far-off land whose name was never put to memory. Promissum was a realm so blessed that its people flourished with unending grace. Misfortune was an estranged myth, and so was an orphan. They were a rare commodity, a peculiar shadow in a world of light. To the world, little was known about the child except that he was poor in body and mind. Yet, he had ambition as bright as a match flickering in the heart of darkness. While the child has been called by many names, and those names are told mostly in stories — those names serve only as much purpose as the anecdotes they originate from. Anecdotes for children whose ancestors lived the reality now hidden in folktales. However, the past is never truly gone, and I can reveal the real story of Promissum’s orphan of legend — for a small fee, of course. Afterall, what price wouldn’t you pay for a story worth its weight in secrets?
The boy was a sickly, pale wisp of a lad. An orphan since he was but a mere babe, haunting the lone orphanage that dared mar the flawless heart of town. The boy was a runt who barely reached the shoulder of most men and as thin and fragile as a sliver of parchment fluttering in the wind. His caretakers were kindly women, immersed in a faith that modern minds might dismiss as antiquated; rooted firmly in those ever-so-noble good intentions. But when have good intentions ever mended a broken spirit or cured a festering ailment? It was the night before the boy would become a man, yet, as one could imagine, it did not bring the youth any form of peace. He had lived his whole life under the oppressive shadow of his own circumstances. A shadow cast from his heart created not merely by misfortune, but shaped by envy into the silhouette of the picturesque castle that loomed on the outskirts of the town. The boy perched on the edge of his worn-out cot, his gaze fixed upon the sun as it sunk below the pristine stone that made up the imposing turrets of Castle Caelum. He called out into the twilight, his voice a plea spoken into the
still air that filled his lonely room, hoping that anyone— perhaps even God Himself—would hear.
“If only I could be king for a single day,” the boy said, “if only to become the most important man in the realm, to feel that I matter to someone beyond these four walls.” As the last of his sorrows slipped into the fading light, the day surrendered to night, and in that quiet transformation, the orphan crossed the threshold into manhood.
Yet, as fate, or perhaps something far more cunning, would have it, his plea did not go unheard. Beneath the silvery glow of the rising moon, a wisp of smoke rose from the cracks of the orphan’s wooden floor. Once the dark smoke had coagulated, slowly shaping itself into the form of a man, it gave way to crimson flesh.
A devil stood before him, a courteous smile curling upon his lips. The imp cleared his throat to speak, “I couldn’t help but overhear your sorrows, dear child. You have been broken for far too long. Let me help you set your heart at ease. Let me make you king for as long as you can bear the responsibility.”
The orphan recoiled at the sudden appearance of this infernal visitor. The young man pressed himself against the cold, unyielding walls of his meager room to try and distance himself from the devil. His eyes darted frantically in search of escape. But, when they met the gaze of the fiend before him, his fear began to dissolve like mist in the morning sun. The devil’s eyes were the kindest he had ever seen, holding a charm that beckoned him to stay, to listen, to talk.
“You said that I could be king?”
“Hmm, let me think,” the devil said, tapping a finger coyly against his lips. “Yes, that’s precisely what I said. It hasn’t even been two minutes since the words left my lips.”
The lad shrank back at the devil’s abrupt tone, a sense of smallness washing over him. “In the stories the Sisters used to read me, there was always a catch.” Excitement flickered wildly within the young man’s heart, threatening to overtake his caution. “Would I be king in that castle on the hill just outside town? Or is this some cruel jest, and I would be merely called ‘King’?”
The devil’s eyes had a fire of playfulness in them. “How could you wound me so?
Not all devils are monsters—only most of us are. I assure you, I am quite the upstanding citizen where I come from.”
“And where might that be?” A hint of trepidation returned to the lad.
“Must I spell it out for you, boy?”
“No, I feared as much. If there is truly ‘no catch’ to this, then what are the terms of the deal?”
The corners of the devil’s mouth grew taut with a smile. From the same swirling darkness that heralded his arrival, a scroll of ancient parchment materialized, unfurling before them. “Simply sign your name in three places. We shake hands, and you shall be Promissum’s new king when the sun rises. And whenever you’ve had your fill, you need only say my name — Apateón. After all, what have you to lose?”
“Are those all of the terms?”
The devil chuckled — a sound that made the freezing night more frigid. Yet the humor did not seem to arise from the lad’s question. “You know what, my boy? Perhaps I shall share some of the finer print, though I doubt it will deter you. Desperation has a way of clouding judgment, does it not? The last part of the deal is that I will be watching you.
Grading you. Observing where you falter as a good king—”
“That doesn’t sound too bad.”
“I wasn’t finished yet, boy. As I witness your inevitable failings, I will provide... ‘encouragement’ to help you perform better.”
The ominous nature of the devil’s statement was swiftly dismissed; an afterthought lost in the swell of the young man’s yearning. The orphan took up the quill without further hesitation and signed his name in the three designated places on the parchment.
A satisfied smile curved upon the devil’s lips as the contract ignited, the parchment curling into ashes that hung in the dead air of the orphan’s room. He extended his hand toward the lad. “Then our pact is sealed.”
When the two hands met, a sudden heaviness settled over the orphan. His eyes grew weary and an ache seeped into his muscles. Unable to meet the gaze of his fiendish benefactor, the young man felt the room sway,
and before long he crumbled to the cold floor, unconscious.
Jolted awake, an unfamiliar sensation enveloped the orphan as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The coarse scratch of his humble cot was no more. Instead, a plush, heavy softness bore down on him like a warm embrace. When the boy was finished clearing sleep from his eyes, he found himself nestled upon a grand bed draped in velvet blankets.
As his gaze wandered, the young man found that the chamber surrounding him was vast. Gone were the barren walls and shadows. The walls were now adorned with majestic trophies of past hunts. Antlered stags and fearsome beasts immortalized in silent vigil. Between each noble creature hung paintings of the rolling countryside of Promissum, capturing the realm’s beauty in vivid hues. Each landscape appeared to have a deeper significance, stories that whispered beyond mere artistry to the orphan. Intrigued, the lad rose from his new bed and crossed the cold, polished stone floor to examine them more closely. Each painting rested above a plaque of burnished gold. As he read the inscriptions, he realized that the paintings depicted the very locations where the king had hunted and claimed the trophies that now adorned the walls.
The young man turned his attention back to his surroundings and found himself drawn to a grand portrait hanging above the head of the bed. It was his own likeness, the sole portrait in the regal chamber. In the depiction, he stood as a heroic figure, adorned in lavish finery. Closer inspection revealed that the artist had rendered him taller, broader, more imposing. No longer was he the unseen orphan; a burden to those who had merely tolerated his existence. Now, he had become the very king he had envied from afar
Beside the bed, upon a delicate table, rested the fabled crown. It was a curious object. It was crafted from a labyrinth of twisted golden rods inlaid with darkened gemstones. The crown almost resembled vines, a design that might have given another man pause. To the new king, however, such peculiarities mattered little.
With a surge of satisfaction, he lifted the crown and placed it upon his head. A newfound hope blossomed within him — the hope that he could rule justly and do good for his people. Yet, the moment the cold metal
touched his brow, a whisper slithered into his ear.
“Know that I’m always watching.”
Startled, the new king spun around to face the intruder, but his eyes met only the emptiness of the grand chamber. An icy dread coiled around his heart, stealing his breath and leaving him teetering on the edge of panic. He clutched at his chest, the crown’s weight suddenly heavier than iron.
“Milord,” an unfamiliar voice called from the main door of the chamber. “Are you well, sire?”
Still struggling to fully regain his breath, the young man said, “Yes, I-I am. P-Please, come in.”
A rather handsome man slowly opened the heavy oak door, stepping inside. “Your Highness, I must inform you that you are slated to make some important decisions today in your royal court. When would you like me to bring the matters before you?”
“I will need some more time,” the young king replied, his voice unsteady. “Could we perhaps address them closer to midday?”
“You are the King of Promissum; you may request nearly anything, your royal Highness. A few more hours are of little consequence. It shall be done, sire. Thank you for your time.”
The attendant bowed deeply and slipped away through the door from which he had entered.
As the door closed, the young man found himself alone once more in the grand chamber. Yet, the oppressive tightness in his chest remained. It was almost as if an invisible wire coiled around his throat, sharp and unyielding — like the edge of a sword pressing ever so lightly against his skin.
He raised a trembling hand to his neck, fingers grasping at nothing, unable to alleviate the sensation that he was slowly being strangled. Each breath came with increasing difficulty, shallow and strained. His panic rising, he rushed to the ornate mirror near the chamber door. Pulling down the collar of his linen shirtand gazeing upon his reflection. What he saw made his blood run cold. Encircling his neck was a dark blemish, not unlike a birthmark. It twisted around his throat like a wreat
of thorned vines etched into his flesh. Stumbling back from the mirror, the young man finally grasped the true nature of the devil’s ‘encouragement.’ Should he falter in his duties, should he make enough mistakes, the devil would see to it that he choked beneath the weight of his own crown.
Time passed with agonizing lethargy before the young king was faced with his first trial. Seated upon the throne, was the royal court assembled before him. The attendant from before, whose name was Kalós, stood at his side, beckoning the first petitioner forward.
An elder approached. He wore heavy robes and bore a leather-bound tome etched with ancient symbols. A monk of considerable stature, he bowed deeply. “O King of Promissum, our temple faces a schism. My brothers debate whether power stems from love or fear. I seek your wisdom to restore harmony among us.”
The young king tensed. Philosophy had never been his strong suit. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the devil lurking in the shadows, urging him to hasten.
Feeling cornered, he cleared his throat. “I understand your plea, Brother...”
“Finnick, sire.”
“Yes, Brother Finnick. Convey this to your brethren: Power stems from fear. When one is truly feared, his rule is unthreatened; his presence alone commands obedience.”
A hush fell over the throne room. The monk’s expression was inscrutable. After a pause, Brother Finnick bowed once more. “I shall carry your words back, your royal Highness. May they bring clarity to our discourse. Thank you for your time.”
He departed, uneasy murmurs rippling through the court. The king glanced toward the lurking devil, who shook his head mockingly. A constriction tightened around his neck; he fought to remain calm.
Kalós announced the next petitioner — a humble farmer representing destitute villagers who found joy in the land’s simple blessings.
The farmer bowed deeply. “Your Majesty, we seek your support to build a communal hall. It would strengthen our community, allowing us to
share resources and support one another.”
The king frowned, unable to comprehend their contentment amid poverty. “Would it not be wiser to request aid to improve your farms and increase your wealth?”
“Our happiness lies in our unity, sire, not in material wealth.”
“I cannot allocate resources for such trivial pursuits,” the king said curtly.
“Focus on improving your own circumstances.”
The farmer’s smile faded. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Thank you for your time.” He departed, and there was a mass clamoring from the royal court. The unseen grip around the king’s neck tightened further.
The final petitioner, an emissary from a neighboring realm, stepped forward urgently. “Great King, a dragon has awakened near our borders, threatening our people. We humbly request Promissum’s aid, as your knights are renowned for their valor.”
The young man hesitated; his heart urged him to help, but fear and doubt clouded his judgment. “Our realm has never known such threats, nor do we intend to meddle in the affairs of others. I must decline.”
Shock rippled through the court. Promissum had always extended aid to those in need. The emissary bowed, despair evident, and left without a word. The weight around the king’s neck became unbearable. He gasped for breath, vision blurring.
Overwhelmed by the day’s events and the increasing constriction around his throat, the young king retreated to his grand chamber. “Apateón! I cannot do this,” he cried out. “I... I no longer wish to be king.”
The devil materialized before him, eyes gleaming with sinister delight.
“Release me from this torment,” the king said. “I have made a mistake!”
The devil’s grin widened. “We had a bargain. You wished to be king for as long as you could stand it. Have you reached your limit already?”
“Take back the crown. I can’t bear it any longer!”
The invisible noose tightened sharply. The king clutched at his throat, collapsing to his knees as he struggled for air. Darkness encroached at the
edges of his vision.
“Careful what you wish for; it may have unintended consequences.”
The orphan awoke engulfed in the coarse scratchiness of his cot. He was no longer king. He cursed himself for being deceived. He knew deals with devils favored no one, they only favored the fiends that initiate them. Rubbing his throat, he felt relief as the tightness subsided. A commotion outside drew his attention. From his window, he saw a long line of people leading to the castle. Listening intently, horror washed over him. The king was found dead in his chamber after uncharacteristic decisions the day before.
Rumor had it a thin wire strangled him. As the orphan grappled with this grim news, guilt and fear surged within him. He had to live while the king died in his place, and that was consequence enough to haunt his days.
And so, my friend, that is the tale of the long-forgotten orphan. His story is so ancient that its echoes have faded from memory — older than your great-great-grandmother, truly. A pity, isn’t it? Those times were most fascinating to witness. Yet, Promissum always finds a way to restore its perfect façade.
But tell me, did you enjoy the story? I’ll waive my usual fee this time if you promise to return for another. There are so many enchanting tales yet to be told; all I ask is that we seal our agreement with a simple handshake. After all, there’s great value in a handshake. Remember, one should never break such a pact — unintended consequences tend to be... unfortunate for those who do. So, meet me here again tomorrow at the same hour. If you can’t find me, just ask for Apateón.
Poetry
Nature’s Mini Meteors
Rebecca Harrel
Dragonets
David Isaacs
They come one by one, ruby throats glowing like fire in a dragon’s belly.
They fight for the sugary stuff, beaks stabbing into columbine like teeth seeking meat.
They hover in the garden, thrumming wings beating a rhythm, fanning the drooping fuchsia.
Chirping and hovering, these dragonets drink and dart, slurping up sweet nectar.
They leave as a group, Waiting for the next day To hunt their prey.
Pink Sky AnnaMarie Frese
Metallic Reflection
Kaci Rigney
Camouflage: kaleidoscopic metallic reflection of forest, water, field, sky dragon wing colors.
Oblivion
Jennie Riad
How many generations needed to occur for me to find you?
How many stars had to align, how many chance encounters and fateful decisions had to converge across centuries to bring us together in this moment? It’s a dizzying thought to imagine the countless lives lived, the loves lost and found; the journeys taken and paths untrodden that ultimately led to our meeting. Were our ancestors aware, on some subconscious level, that their choices were weaving a tapestry that would one day connect us? Did they feel the faint echo of our love resonating through time? Perhaps it was destiny, a preordained plan written in the constellations long ago. Or maybe it was simply a beautiful accident, a serendipitous collision of two souls in the vast expanse of existence. Whatever the reason, I’m eternally grateful that the universe conspired to bring us together. It took countless generations, but finding you makes it all worthwhile.
Leap
Clarissa McLaughlin
Easy Path
Kaci Rigney
Cautionary steps obscured by turbid chaos; each fog-laden path both difficult and different.
Shifting silhouettes following; hounding me past bound’ries, set in stone. Sacred stones we’re not to move. Would that shadows lift— journey veiled in hidden steps— darkness drowns my way.
The misty trail forks: which way? The easiest one? Or a rocky climb? Throw caution into the void;
Path Easy it is, for dark mystery intrigues.
Playtime on the path— ghosts and goblins—laugh them off.
Shadowed confusion, haunting screams deep in the copse halt me in my tracks.
Girl? Surely, a curlew call.
Trembling fear steals my breath.
Cloudy vapors hang; sulfurous, rank, and deadly. Limbs crackle, echo.
With iridescent glitters inviting his prey, awestruck by shimmering wings, the dragon awaits unwitting victims, he feeds, salivating slime.
Darkness devours, swallows. Does the path seem easy now?
Writer’s Block
Clarissa McLaughlin
Dreams
Michael Vass
I dare to drown in dreams, There fantasies become fact; Life is more than what it seems.
I am alive under moonbeams, Beyond the bed is what I’ve lacked, I dare to drown in dreams.
Is not reality what one deems But under the dreary contract, Life is more than what it seems.
I’ve passed mortal extremes To drink Eden’s extract. I dare to drown in dreams.
There no one stops my schemes, And all goodness is compact. Life is more than what it seems.
I choose the better of the streams Recovering the ancient artifact. I dare to drown in dreams Life is more than what it seems.
Hannah Noel
What Do You Want
Aliya Beaupain
You want to be beautiful?
Give me your hands. I’ll fit them for silver And labor and sand. I’ll trim down your fault lines And paint you in gold— And give you the weight Of the silence to hold.
You want to be magical? Give me your dreams. Net me those crystalline Trembling things.
I’ll carve them like gemstones And teach them to fly— But don’t blame my hands When they come home to die.
You want to be brilliant?
That one is new Not what I expected From someone like you But since you’ve been patient And since you’ve been smart Come close to me And I’ll teach you the start.
You want to be brilliant?
Give me your nights.
Give me your failures
And anger and spite
Give me your shackles
And give me your brands— And then when the iron glows
Stretch out your hands
Hammer your past Down to carbon and dross
Fire the furnace
And count it no loss
When the faces of yours
That are dead call your name
For there is no gold
Like what’s born of the flame.
Guarded Clarissa McLaughlin
The Dragon
Harley Schechter
Sometimes words are not enough:
The rage as Burning flame
In blue heat
The dragon scratches In blue ink. Burning down fields of wildflowers.
The Dragon King’s Pursuit
Zachary Conquest
Onward he hurtles, slicing through winds undaunted. Though exhausted, flesh and sinew strain in tandem, refusing defeat to volleys of rain. Forests become miniscule dark patches far below his sweeping shadow. Tearing at clouds with great mighty Scratches, the air bends to his will. Beads of wetness, weigh his scales Down. Yet by some bright, golden flicker Through slit, ancient eyes, the Dragon King prevails.
Authors
Aliya Aiko Beaupain
is a junior pursuing a double major in theatre performance and creative writing. She sees poetry and prose as the ultimate act of generative subcreation. She hopes that her pieces prompt deeper thought about what it means to face personal failures, and the fleeting nature of existence.
Audrey Smith
is a masters student of English at Claremont University. She got her bachelors degree in creative writing at CBU in 2024, and she hopes to become an English or Creative Writing professor after getting her PhD. In addition to reading and writing, she loves painting, piano, history, and her church.
David E. Isaacs
has been teaching English at CBU for 28 years. He loves observing the natural world which inspired his poem, “Dragonettes.” He believes human creativity flows from our being made in the image of God, so working with words is one way to be a good steward of language. He has traveled widely but somehow keeps coming back to Riverside where his cat and friends live.
Grace Crandall
graduated from CBU in the winter of 2023 with a degree in English and a minor in Film. Her piece “Seven Hundred and Fifty Years” tells the story of what she witnessed in Merton College Chapel in England (the very same chapel that J.R.R. Tolkien once attended).
Hannah Noel
is a CBU senior double majoring in English and philosophy. Though she plans to become a lawyer, she enjoys creative writing as a hobby and would like to publish middle-grade fantasy in the future. She hopes her passion for the genre comes through in her piece, “A Dragon’s Hoard,” which explores the possibilities of what a mythical beast might value.
Harley Schechter
is an online student in her second year. She is majoring in English and minoring in creative writing. She has chosen writing in hopes that her words and the worlds she will create will be a safe place for people who may think or feel they are alone in the world. She is currently developing two books of poetry and hopes to open a bookshop with her sister in the Temecula Valley Area.
James Welch
is a junior majoring in English with a concentration in creative writing. He believes that writing is an opportunity to explore worlds beyond our own. He also views it as a chance to smash characters together like a toddler playing with dolls, much to the dismay of his readers. He aspires to become an English Professor and transfer his curse to the next generation.
Jenelle Hekman
is a junior majoring in creative writing with a minor in children’s literature. She loves writing because it allows her to express the ideas and worlds trapped in her mind onto paper. She doesn’t always do this for others to see, but for herself. Jenelle also loves music and has played the saxophone for 11 years.
Jennie Riad Ed.D
is a three-time alumna of CBU, graduating with degrees in History, Higher Educational Leadership and Student Development, and Organizational Change and Administration. Dr. Riad is the co-founder and CEO of The Beehive Company, a dynamic female empowerment platform. Beyond her entrepreneurial endeavors, writing serves as an emotional outlet and a creative refuge. She harnesses the power of the written word as a form of advocacy, driven by a deep commitment to forging a more equitable future for all.
Jeremy Cheng
is a junior majoring in creative writing with a minor in marketing. In 2019, he got Covid-19, became quarantined, and started writing his first work in his room. Engrossed in the excitement of story crafting, worldbuilding, and character arcs, he has continued to explore his interest in writing ever since. In the future, he hopes to bring life to his creative vision through marketing in addition to publishing his own book.
Kaci Rigney
is an alumni with a BA in music, 1987, Kaci Rigney has enjoyed leading worship, song writing, recording, and singing opera. As an award-winning poet, her poetry appears in several eZines, two anthologies, and nine selfpublished poetry eBooks. Besides poetry, Kaci thrives on writing stories and how-to-write poetry books. As a pantser with a vivid imagination, Kaci never knows where her typing will take her. She’s married, with two daughters, and several grandchildren.
Michael Vass
is a sophomore seeking a dual degree in accounting and creative writing with a minor in Christian studies, (which inspired the short story “The Wounded Healer”). He primarily writes fantasy, and has explored formal poetry (which led to the poem “Dreams”). In his free time, he enjoys reading various subjects from classics to books on church history. He aspires to become a CPA and help others through accounting and writing.
Patrocinio Ryan Reyes III
is a senior , majoring in creative writing. His approach to storytelling centers on evoking one specific emotion throughout his stories. Ryan is a giant TTRPG nerd and hopes to create his own game in the future so more people can create memorable stories with their friends.
Rebecca Harrel
is a senior majoring in creative writing. Her author mother instilled a love of words in her at a young age so she wrote her first novel when she was thirteen and hasn’t stopped since. She desires to become a professional editor and, when she isn’t writing, teaches middle grade students how to write and edits her friends’ works.
Zachary Conquest
is a junior majoring in English. He has enjoyed writing since he was young, inspired by the stories he used to create with his parents. He has a pipe dream of developing new, creative stories for a major animation studio. Ultimately, he wants to use his writing to honor the Lord. He thanks his family for their continued prayers, love, and encouragement.
Authors
Aliya Aiko Beaupain
david isaacs
Harley Schechter
Jennie Riad
Audrey Smith
Grace Crandall
James Welch
Jeremy Cheng
Hannah Noel
Jenelle Hekman
Kaci Rigney
Michael Vaas Patrocinio Ryan Reyes III
Rebecca Harrel
Zachary Conquest