MUSe 2023

the MUSe

CHIEF EDITOR

Wilson LeMay

PROSE EDITORS

Benjamin Zague

Wyatt Solberg

Trey McDonald

POETRY EDITORS

Trey McDonald

Kemp Conrad

PHOTOGRAPHY EDITORS

Charlie Gallop

Ethan Friday

Harrison Hayden

ART EDITORS

Will Hess

Wesley Street

COVER ARTIST

Andrew Xu

FACULTY ADVISOR

Timothy Greer

SPECIAL THANKS

Stephond Allmond ’10, Laura Beck, Rebecca Greer, MUS English Department, LeeAnn Christopherson

Copyright © 2023 by Memphis University School

DESIGN: inspired by The Southern Review

TYPEFACE: Adobe Caslon Pro

PRINTER: Metro Graphics

FRONT AND BACK COVER ART BY: Andrew Xu

The MUSe is published yearly. It is distributed by hand across North America.

The MUSe accepts submissions from August 15 to February 28 for its annual publication. Submissions from faculty members and active Upper School students are encouraged. Only previously unpublished work will be considered. Correspondence should be addressed to The MUSe, c/o Timothy Greer, Memphis University School, 6191 Park Avenue, Memphis, Tennessee 38119.

Dear readers,

Every mind on Earth is able to envision the perfect painting; everyone is able to observe natural beauty in the world, and in every romantic’s brain resides a wondrous feeling waiting to be put into words. However, few can take what lives in their head and transform it into something truly remarkable. The ability to translate that vision onto canvas, capture the natural beauty one has witnessed, or express his feelings poetically, is where true skill and craftsmanship are displayed. The following is an exhibition of these translations. Welcome to the 2023 edition of the MUSe.

Through its stellar English and Art departments, MUS has taught students how to take what only they can see in their own minds and paint it, photograph it, or write it. From an alien cow civilization to a bionic humanoid, the proceeding pages are filled with proof that, given the right teaching, anyone can successfully translate their wildest dreams into something everyone can enjoy. I, as well as the other students of MUS, appreciate the teachers who have honed our skills in art, photography, and writing, and I believe you will appreciate them, too, for the contents of this edition of the MUSe could not exist without their help.

A special thank you is due to this year’s team of contributors and editors, and a big thank you is due as well to Mr. Greer for his help in collecting submissions and making this edition of the MUSe a reality.

Enjoy,

Wilson LeMay CHIEF EDITOR

Moo Point

by Taylor Patteson

There I was. Another day passing by. The day was a bright one. No drinking stuff was hitting me from above. The big orange ball was bright as ever. I was eating on some delicious grass when the human came over. He dropped more drinking stuff in the bucket. I got thirsty, so I walked over.

“Now get on back, Larry. This water is for your brothers and sisters. Larry, I mean it. Go on, get, boy!”

I didn’t know who Larry was, but he was for sure doing something wrong. Ahh, the drinking stuff tasted good. I got bored of it though, so I turned back around to socialize. I walked back over to the tall green thing. It gave some nice protection against the sky ball. I was tired from all that walking, so I sat down. I saw Sally come over.

“Hey, Sally!”

“Hey, Larry.”

“Who’s Larry?”

“That’s you, dumbo.”

“Ah, that’s right, sorry.”

“You know Keith was yelling at you not to drink that stuff.”

“Who’s Keith?”

“The human who runs this place.”

“Oh. Well, the stuff tasted good.”

“You mean my water tasted good”

“Wadder?”

“Yes, WATER. That’s the stuff we drink.”

“How do you know all of this?”

MUSe

“I hear Keith talk about it.”

“Who’s Keith?”

“You know what, forget it. You are a lost cause some days...”

“I didn’t forget. And I’m not lost. I’m right here.”

Sally walked away. I didn’t know why she was angry at me. It had been a good day so far, though. Keith had been feeding me a lot recently, and I really liked it. He didn’t want me to move a whole lot, either. He had been putting me in a barn recently. I was never in barn until now. I didn’t really like them, but at least he gave me some food. I saw Bess getting led into the barn with me. This was odd. I still didn’t know why we were in the barn.

“Bess! What are we doing in here?”

“It’s that time, Larry.”

“What’d ya mean?”

“He’s getting us fat.”

“So? What’s the problem with that?”

“He’s gonna sell us to the butcher!”

“The who? Why would he do that?”

“For money. Remember Carl? That’s where he went last year.”

“No, Bess. Carl was sent to that other farm. That’s where Julie went, too, remember?”

“Larry... that’s not a farm; it’s a butcher.”

“So, what does this mean?”

“It means this is it for us...”

“Oh.”

I didn’t say much after that. I didn’t know what to say. I thought Keith loved us, but I guess he just wanted us for something else. He kept Bess and me cooped up in the barn for most of the time now. He would let us out to graze with the other cows every once in a while, mostly overnight.

Art by Harry Alexander

Weeks had gone by since I was first put in the barn. I was starting to feel as if I had no purpose. The white ball lit up the night. Something was off about this ball. It was moving. It was moving fast. Suddenly, I heard a noise like never before. I looked up. It was some type of flying bowl. The next thing I knew, I was getting pulled somewhere. I had no control over my body. I was flying! A loud noise filled my ears. I began to panic. I yelled: “MOOOOOOOO!” A big circle opened. Everything went dark, then a door lifted up. I was met by the face of another cow? I was completely disoriented. Outside the bowl I saw everything move in a blur. The cow confronted me.

“What’s your name?”

“Me? I’m Larry”

“Larry. We have discovered your planet.”

“My planet? I don’t know what you mean.”

“We are going to link your brain to this computer to get you caught up.”

He plugged me into this funny window and put these pads on my head. I started to think about all these things. I knew things I didn’t know before. A switch had gone off in my head.

“Now you should be all caught up, Larry. I’m General Bo. This is our ship. Our mission is to save cows in need. We came across your planet on our screens here. We are bringing you to our planet to brief you on our mission. We are from Apollo. Unlike yours, our planet is run by cows.”

“Ummm... okay...?”

This was all so weird. I didn’t know what to think of all these new friends. All I could think about was how I had left Bess behind to die.

The spaceship entered the atmosphere of the foreign planet. The planet became visible from the window. It was very similar to Earth except most of the planet was green. I didn’t see any oceans.

We got out of the spaceship and walked onto a platform. I was met by other cows.

Everyone looked very serious. We walked into a meeting room. There was something different about this indoor space, though: the floor was grass. General

Bo began to speak to the group.

“Okay, here’s the deal. We found our friend Larry on a planet called Earth. It is run by the Human species. On this planet, humans use cows like us for meat and milk. We need to save our brothers and sisters. We have pulled the information from Larry’s brain. We are sending multiple ships out to locate as many cows as possible.”

“General, I need to save my friends on that farm. One of them is about to be sent to the butcher!”

“Larry, we will send you out in a smaller ship to gather those on your farm,” said Bo. “If there are any questions, hit me on the coms.”

I loaded onto the ship with a couple of pilots. We flew around the planet. It was full of ponds, grazing land. It was beautiful. The cow pilot got on the microphone.

“We are about to leave this atmosphere.”

We began to go really fast. I saw the pilot press buttons, entering the course for our trip. We began to go lightning fast.

We entered Earth’s atmosphere, and we were set to find my farm. The spaceship was on autopilot. We were heading straight to my farm. They had pulled the address from my abduction earlier. The spaceship landed in my farm’s field. I waited for the door to open. I hurried as fast as I could. I went to wake up all the cows on the farm. I tried to gather them up saying:

“Everyone! I don’t have time to explain. You must follow me. We can leave this planet for a society run by us!”

“Larry? Where have you been? Why are you talkin’ crazy?”

“Just trust me!”

I ran to find Bess. The barn was locked. I spoke into my communication device: “This barn is locked.”

“We’ve got it; move out of the way.”

The ship had a red laser light up, and it blew the door’s lock off. The door flew open. “MOOOOOO!”

MUSe

“Bess? Is that you?”

“Larry? Where have you been?”

“Don’t bother. You need to follow me now! I am getting you out of here. Follow me; there is a spaceship waiting for you.”

“Larry, you are talking crazy. What’s a spaceship?”

“You’re just gonna have to trust me on this one!”

A voice came over the communication device in my ear.

“We are detecting some motion inside the house, Larry. This operation cannot be seen by Humans. They are either coming or not. We are running out of time.”

“Keith, honey, do you hear that? Something is outside.”

“I’m asleep, Martha.”

“I’m being serious. Go check it out.”

“All right, all right...”

The front door of the house flung open, and there stood an astonished Keith. “What the...”

The early morning sun was barely peeking above the horizon. The dew-covered pasture was empty, with a bull horn carved into the grass.

Art by Kemp Conrad

The Journal of James Cluten

by Wyatt Solberg

Entry 1: March 1, 2020. Today I heard a story on the news about a new disease: the coronavirus.

“Sources say the virus originated in China. All we know is that it’s spreading rapidly. This could be the end,” says Tod Rickelson on his podcast. I will update with further information.

Entry 2: April 15, 2020. Corona (scientifically, COVID-19) is well into America. I’m not sure what to expect; the virus has proven to be extremely deadly, and, per Rickelson, “it’s spreading like wildfire.” Because of this, I have decided to invest in a mask for safe measure. I think my best course of action is to stay indoors until this blows over.

Entry 3: August 1, 2020. I have yet to leave my apartment. Amazon has supplied me with all the necessities, including my new medical gloves. I wear them to avoid surface contact contaminations. I have also purchased a large supply of packaged meals that will last until next summer. Schools and businesses have gone fully online now. A wise decision. My days now consist of Microsoft Teams meetings, research on the virus, and my new hobby, mastering card tricks.

Entry 4: August 1, 2021. Ah, hello, my journal friends! Long time, no see! I regret to inform you that Covid is still out there. Sadly, I expect I am one of the only ones still alive, but then again, I would not know! A few weeks after my last entry, I read an article by Rickelson, on seethelies.com, stating, “Sources say the virus has evolved and can now travel through electronic waves.” Naturally, I disposed of my laptop, cellphone, TV, and all other possible threats.

As a sensible person, I also figured, if the virus could latch on to electronic signals, it must also spread through UV light rays. Now I keep my curtains shut at all times and use my new patent-pending, Covid-filtering glasses.

I now have no connection to the outside world at all. It’s perfect! It is a bit hard to write with only the flame of my lighter, but not much goes on around here anyways. I guess that’s just the price of survival.

The apartment certainly gets lonely at times, but I have just met a new friend. Randy is only a stuffed dog, but he keeps me company. I have taught him all my card tricks. I can shuffle a deck in milliseconds. I can throw a card from one hand to my toes, then over to the other hand. I can even throw them fast enough to pierce the drywall! Anyways… my mask and gloves have grown just a bit moldy and stick to my long beard at times, but I would rather have a little mold than risk taking them off.

I am beginning to doubt this pandemic will ever end, but it will not end me. I hope someday some new species will decipher this journal; I’m afraid humans stand no chance. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go do my immune system exercises.

Entry 5: Ehhh, some date, 2023. I have found you, my sweet, sweet journal! It has been so long; I must tell you of everything that’s happened. I apologize, my friends; as you can imagine, it is a bit hard to keep track of things in my small space. I can’t even make it to the bathroom with all the packaged meal trays, so I just use the floor. (It’s much more natural anyways.)

Photograph by Charlie Gallop

Oh, and how exciting my world has become. I have met so many new friends. They speak to me through the walls! Randy- or King Randall, I should sayhas gone through a few changes. With all the walls talking, Randy’s constant barking became far too annoying, so I simply snipped his little canine head off and replaced it with a singular King of Spades card. Although it is sad to see his stuffing all over the floor, now he is much calmer and more reserved. The face of the king fits him. It is very funny.

Oh, also, I am now safer than ever before! My mask and gloves have attached to my body. My ears have grown around the straps of the mask, and the blue part is so deep in my jungle of a beard that you would need a chainsaw to retrieve it.

Hmmmm. What else? Ah, the humans, yes. What a shame. Unfortunately and obviously, I was right; the humans are all gone. Humanity is no more. Ha! I told them. They should have known better! Now, all that remains are the infected. The infected are lifeless organisms, disguised as humans who try to trick the smart ones like me into joining them. I know this because I am their biggest target.

Just a few weeks ago, I had my closest run-in with the infected. I was sitting there, doing my daily card routine in the dark, when, CRASH! My window shattered and a ball rolled out from under the curtains. What did they used to call those balls... the white ones with red stitchings? Anyways, I began to hear whispering voices outside.

“Damn, John! Go get the ball. No one lives in there.”

“I’m not going unless you come, too.”

Two small humans appeared under the curtains. Infected clearly, no masks, no protection. Terrible shame. I felt awful for killing them, but I could not risk contamination. They died a swift death; they only had a short time to scream before my flying cards reached their throats. I suppose I put them out of their misery, but it’s still hard to see little kids lost to corona.

Now, even more of the infected pursue me. I worry I won’t have much longer. They come to my door banging and yelling, “Police! Police! Open up!” Ha, what brainless idiots. I’m not falling for a trick like that…

Oh my, what a coincidence! The “police” are here again! Hmmm, they’re banging unusually hard. Uh oh, the door is beginning to break! Goodbye, my friends. My cards and I must fight our way out of this.

Art by Charlie Gallop

Exile

by Jerry Xiao

I.

奶奶 was seven when she learned what it’s like to burn. Her hands dip into searing coal, coal hungering for heat. She reaches to salvage any untouched jade pieces before they, too, are baptized by fire. Her blistering hand retrieves a fistful of untainted black stone from December cold. On rainy nights, she siphons salted air and industrial smog through the hollowed basin of her throat as tears fall down the bridge of her nose. But she cannot wipe them away. Down Yangtze River, her arms quiver and her palms scream as she rises, beginning her journey of miles back home.

II.

Pinned and undreamt, 奶奶 presses white moths to the inside of her cheek. Her summer passes with a mule’s slowness, carrying men on its callused back through soil too acidic to farm. Behind her, the sky spits bones, careens into the horizon’s low drip. I want to believe this is the summer we’ll learn to pump light without faltering at floodgates, where I’ll walk into the brackish river reeds and reemerge with antlers. After the sunset we are all rendered profligate, drinking excess wine, animal fat pooling at the bottom of our stomachs. She wants to shake me from my mouth but instead I compress inward, into my body’s mildewed cavities and silence, circling the heart’s concave chambers. Every time she names me unafraid and every time I want to be unseen. When the forecast calls for torrential rain, I fist my skin

into the pleats of silk, then waken backward into a version of moonless night where I am skinless, muzzled as white moths rifling from my grandmother’s mouth.

III.

Once, 奶奶 said that each generation carries a carcass on its back, today: polyethylene fish, glutted aspartame, the crisp abdomen of a dying moth. Somewhere, someplace a son brings an animal’s vertebrae to his warm lips, whistles through the elisions in its bones. He stands on the helm of a ship looking backward, finding ontological proof in long dead stars. Somewhere, this son catches his grandmother’s hand. Her skin is easy. Warm. Static.

Art by Reese Deupree

The Connecting Lace

by Taylor Patteson

It was the second half, and the Panthers were trailing by three points. Ethan knew if his team was going to win, he would have to be the deciding factor. He took a drink from the green Gatorade bottle and splashed some on his face to cool off. It was an August game, and even though the sun had faded away, the heat was still lingering. Ethan grabbed a towel from the water boy and tried to think of something to inspire his team. Kyle, Ethan’s star wide receiver, had gotten injured in the first half. Ethan had gotten knocked around quite a bit as well. The opposing team, the Bears, had the best defensive line in Tennessee. Ethan had figured out what to say.

He just thought back to what his coach had said on the first practice of the year: “Defense may win games, but it takes twenty-two guys to win a championship.”

It quickly became apparent that this could be Ethan’s last time under center playing the game he loved most.

Coach Filmore pulled Ethan aside before he took the field: “Don’t worry about what could happen... just one play at a time, kid.”

Ethan took the field. Their drive began on the twenty-seven yard line. Ethan threw his first pass incomplete. Ethan checked the sideline for the play-call. Coach signaled a run.

Ethan huddled his team up: “Half-back draw on one.”

The center, Big Bobby, said: “A run? Are you kidding? We are on the twentyseven yard line!”

Ethan, not interested in arguing, said: “That’s the read coach has made.”

The Bears were playing “pass first” defense. With only a minute and forty on the clock, the Panthers, indeed, ran the ball, but it paid off. With an unexpected play, the Bear’s defense was out of position. A breakout run gave a new set of downs to the Panthers. Coach Filmore tested it again. However, this time the run was stopped short. The clock was ticking. Ethan threw a quick screen pass for another first down. The Panthers were marching down the field. The progress was halted with a sack.

Art by Oscar Liu

MUSe

With the ball now on the Bears’ thirty-eight, and forty seconds left on the clock, the Panthers took their final timeout to stop the clock. Ethan and his coach discussed the course of action. Coach wanted to play for new downs with quick passes towards the sidelines. Ethan nodded and took the field again. Ethan was in the shotgun position, and the ball snapped. Ethan had a man open. A quick eight-yard pass. His man failed to get out of bounds; the clock continued to run.

Ethan hurried to the line and called the play: “Omaha! Blue 42... Hut!”

Ethan snapped it and dumped a pass in the flat on the short side of the field. His tight end was a yard short of the first down. The clock was still running. Ethan’s coach was signaling a spike to set up a field goal.

Ethan’s vision became narrower. He saw his dad in the blue fold-up chair.

Ethan’s dad had been his role model. The countless backyard football games had given Ethan his love for the game. Ethan saw his dad’s face. It was as if time had stopped. All around him the offense was settling back to the line. Noise and pandemonium consumed the stadium. Ethan’s dad gave a signal. Ethan checked his wrist for the play call.

Ethan screamed the call: “Jetstream! Green 18! Set... HUT!”

It was the perfect play. Ethan took the snap and pretended to scan left. The defense tried to read his eyes. The Panthers’ running back was on a wheel route and beat his man. Ethan snapped and looked right to launch the pass toward the end zone. The ball was in the air for what seemed like an eternity. Touchdown. The game was over.

Ethan opened the door to the garage and grabbed the bag on the kitchen floor. He headed out and locked the door. He tossed the bag in the back of the truck and threw an old blue folding chair in beside it. He got in the front and started up the truck.

Ethan turned back and said, “Remember, today is about fun kid... Don’t wear yourself out.”

He pulled out of the driveway and, in the rear-view mirror, watched his son clutch the football in the backseat. Ethan cracked a smile.

Art by Will Hess

Photograph by George Flinn

Adam and the Blind Professor

by Benjamin Zague

“Wahhh, wahhh! ”

The baby finally exhaled. The rest in the room, virtually turning blue from holding their breaths, exhaled with the sound of the baby’s cries as if their lives depended on it.

“Six kilograms, twenty-eight grams, Professor Smirnovski - a healthy brute the surrogate has birthed. I must say, I doubted your methods; at times they seemed unsound, but this calls for celebration,” Dr.Orlov said.

“Ahhh, foolish Orlov, I always told you the ends justified the means. Here are the ends sitting right in front of us, in the flesh - a neanderthal caveman baby which I have brought back to life. Just wait until Khrushchev hears the news in Moscow! He’ll reward me with vodka so pure that I’ll go blind,” Professor Smirnovski said.

“Now, time to name it.”

Two decades had passed since the birth of Adam. In a way, the doctor had been correct: he had drunk himself to blindness and one could count the hairs on his head. He was in a long, grueling descent to madness because no one would believe his findings. His only witness, Dr.Orlov, had been sent to labor in Siberia for making heretical statements about being able to cure any disease by using the “tears of giants.” Every scientist thought Adam a hoax or just another case of random mutation. The professor lost his position at the University of Moscow because of his unusual experiments. His only source of income was from Adam, with whom he went on tours to showcase Adam in freakshows; he would break Adam’s bones, bones which would almost immediately regenerate in front of the crowd.

But Adam was aging dramatically, and Professor Smirnovski knew it; Adam was far past his prime at this point, and the Soviets showed no interest in him because of his low cognitive ability. One day, the professor thought to experiment

on himself with Adam’s regenerative abilities, using the tear extraction method Dr. Orlov had preached about, the method he had called “the tears of giants.” Over the course of weeks, the old man collected Adam’s tears using micropipettes. By the end of the fourth week, Professor Smirnovski thought he had collected enough tears to drink, and so he did. He almost immediately gained back his vision, but he also began hearing ripping and grinding. The professor was in agony as his body seemed to take the form of Adam’s.

“What’s happening to me… AHHHHHHHH!”

The professor’s muscles grew so much that he ripped through his clothes. He was the spitting image of his creation, who watched his master in awe. When he gained back his wits, Smirnovski realized what had happened. He was disgusted with his new form and wished he was blind again. Enraged at what he had done to himself, he beat his son viciously and banished him. Secretly, he was pleased with his newfound strength and abilities, as he gained the physicality of his creation whilst also keeping his genius ability. He realized he no longer needed Adam, and so he sent Adam off to work in a freakshow, from which he soon ran away. After getting rid of his loyal son, the professor embarked on a trip to Moscow to show the marshal of the army, Marshal Mikhail, his new form. Upon arrival, he allowed tests to be run upon himself to prove that he was not a hoax.

Art by Gus Williams

MUSe

“How did you achieve such a feat? Combining the body of a brute and the smarts of man?” Mikhail demanded. But the professor would not say; he was looking for the compensation that Mikhail would not give him. Instead, Mikhail had Smirnovski arrested and tortured until he revealed how he came to be.

After much flogging and electric shock, Professor Smirnovski finally broke. His promise of an army of Red Neanderthals had been a lie.

“I’ve already experimented with my own tears in an attempt to transform more people,” he confessed. “But in Nature, the hybrid is barren. It takes the tears of a pure neanderthal to make hybrids. You need… I need my son!”

Art by Abdullah Elahi

MUSe Subheverent

by Wilson LeMay

“An astronomical occurrence that happens only once every century, ladies and gentlemen; get ready to witness the comet Subheverent. This year, the comet will come closer than ever before to our planet. I would say get your binoculars out, folks, but, well, ya aren’t gonna need them. And here we go! 5… 4… 3…”

The broadcast crackled and cut. Salvatore Mirai turned in confusion toward his portable radio. Ideally, he would be enjoying this rare occasion in his own backyard; however, he had stayed late grading tests at the school, so he was camped out in his lawn chair in the parking lot. He was alone. He had been anticipating this moment since they had announced the Subheverent’s official date: July 7th, 1977, the day the comet would flash before the whole world’s eyes, bigger and brighter than ever before. Originally upset he would not be home to witness it, Mirai soon realized he would be able to enjoy it much more in the parking lot alone, unbothered by his young son. So, he thought, better to set up camp at school than rush home and miss it altogether. He had foraged through his ’74 Cutlass Oldsmobile and had found his portable radio, had opened the trunk, and had taken out a folding chair. He had tuned the radio to Channel 7, where newscasters would be commenting on the occurrence live. He was ready to witness his part of human history. The radio crackled and cut.

The whole world stopped, or so it seemed to Mirai, sitting in the deserted lot, right as the comet approached the center of his viewpoint. Comet Subheverent, D/1977U2, a flying chunk of space rock, stopped. No bang, no boom, no sound. Perfectly silent. Nothing in the entire world mattered now except the man and the rock in the sky, staring into each other’s souls, nine million miles apart. The man was frozen. He did not know what he was feeling, did not know if he had the capacity to feel anything in his agonizing paralysis. He could not move; whether this was mandated by his brain or the rock’s, he did not know. Perhaps the world would resume again if he waited long enough. It did not. Ten seconds felt like an eternity. He had no control over his body; he was frozen in his lawn chair. Suddenly a voice rang through his head and, with it, came a long, thin crack in the pavement beneath his chair. The voice did not speak in a tone of

bravado. The voice did not sound angry, nor threatening, nor condescending in the slightest. It was calm… but it was not quiet. It was the most deafening sound he’d ever heard. It pierced his ears, and went straight into his head. He felt the crack in the ground beneath him but could not manage to turn down to examine it. So, Mirai did the only thing he had the ability to do; he listened.

“Salvatore Mirai. We have come earlier this time, for your son could not save us. You will come with us. You will do your part.”

It was a strange language that the man had never heard. Yet, in his head, the sentence made perfect sense. He blinked, his first movement in what seemed like hours. He opened his eyes to the brightest white he’d ever witnessed; a pale gray fog seemed to emanate from nowhere at all. He was not on Earth.

All that was left of him was his blue chair. The crack in the ground remained. The radio signal crackled and resumed, “2… 1… , there it goes folks! Not to be seen again for another millennium.”

Photograph by Ethan Friday

Tom and His Voices

by Wilson LeMay

“Good morning, San Diego! It’s another beautiful day here in southern California, with clear skies, no chance of rain, and a 78 degree tempera-”

Tom punches his alarm. It’s particularly loud this morning. The newly awoken man rolls out of his twin-sized mattress, lying on the floor, knocking over the whiskey glass he had left there the night before. It spills, but he doesn’t notice.

Tom is exhausted. He approaches the mirrored cabinet in his bathroom to brush his teeth, but instead finds himself staring at the reflection. Dark rings outline the bags underneath his eyes like a bruise from wearing glasses, although one side is significantly more swollen than the other. He would have appreciated the bright jade that the dark bags bring out in his eyes earlier in life, but that youthful optimism is gone. Destroyed not by age or natural cause, no, but gone nonetheless.

“Tom! How ya doin’, ya old pirate? So good to see you! What’r’ya doin here? Mark was a San Diego bartender Tom knew particularly well. His joint was slightly overpriced for Tom, but Tom knew exactly when happy hour was. Mark often extended it just for him, anyways.

“Same thing I’m always doin’ when I’m here, you know.”

Mark chuckled and turned around to get his friend and customer a drink.

“Go home, Tom. Get some sleep”

“Huh?” Tom questioned. The voice sounded feminine, yet came from where Mark was standing.

“What?” the bartender turned around at Tom’s confusion.

“Did you say something, Mark?”

“Nah, nothing. Hey, how’s my car?”

“Your car? I won her fair and square, remember?” Tom had cheated Mark out of a poker game with his car on the line years ago. He didn’t have the guts to admit it to him, nor did he have the guts to tell his old friend that he had totaled the car over a year ago while driving drunk. For someone who was as worried as he was about Tom’s drinking, Mark sure did love serving him, receiving his money. Last night was no different.

6:33 A.M. Tom’s eyes dart to the clock’s reflection in the mirror when the last digit changes. Tom’s jeans are wrinkled from his wearing them while sleeping; his white v-neck has a stain down the middle of it. He grimaces while taking off shirt, an action that reveals a deep purple bruise on his left collarbone. A voice comes from within the mirror above the sink.

“Don’t remember getting that, do you?”

Opening the cabinet, Tom grabs for his toothpaste, ignoring the voice: “Don’t cover me up, Tom.”

Tom freezes in the middle of reaching for his toothpaste and watches the smile on the bottle animate.

“What would old mum think of you now if she saw you in this state, Tom, huh? Bruised, stained, drunken, exhausted?”

Annoyed, Tom violently slams the mirrored door shut, breaking the mirror, and shattering his reflection onto the tiled floor. Barefoot, he doesn’t dare move. So, his back remains to his bed as he hears another voice, a familiar one.

“Good morning, Tom! It’s another pitiful day here in your life, with a hangover, no chance of friends and a serious black eye!”

The weatherman that Tom awoke to speaks jovially to him directly through his alarm clock, jogging his memory of the night before.

It was late. Tom had seen customers come and go throughout the four hours he’d been drinking. The neon light-up bar decoration was speaking to him again, with the German woman holding a pint incessantly telling him to, “Go home, Tom. Get some sleep.”

Art by Townes Jones

“Says the one with the pint in her hand.”

He did not go home, of course. One beer turned into a couple; a couple turned into a case; then, before the case was gone, came the switch to whiskey. With each new drink came more voices from the bar: the football announcer on the television told him to get a job; the jukebox played songs urging Tom to put down his drink; and his phone flashed an Amber Alert for himself, only no one else received it. His stereo had even warned him four hours ago to stay home when he got in the car. But, Tom wouldn’t listen, not even when he was sober.

“Go home, Tom. Get some sleep,” the neon Bavarian woman gently urged him for a third time. Tom snapped.

“Quit telling me what to do, you Nazi hag! I can do whatever the hell I want!” He slammed his drink down on the table, breaking it and soaking the man to his left with beer. Meanwhile, the guy to his right stood up.

“And who the hell do you think you’re talking to, huh? My grandfather fought those bastards, and here you are calling me one?”

Just as Tom turned to face the speaker, he felt a stern shove in the back from the customer he had doused in beer. He then fell into the grandson of the WWII vet, who took the advance to mean Tom wanted a fight. He landed a solid punch to Tom’s eye, spinning him into the soaked bargoer to his left, who then spun him right back around with a blow to his collarbone. Tom was out.

After having found an old broom and dustpan to clean the glass, Tom returns to the bathroom to clean up. His whole shoulder is bruised purple. Abandoning the task, he sweeps the shards into the corner. Reaching with his good arm, he turns on the shower to get ready for the day. After finding a towel lying on the floor in his bedroom, he tests the water: still cold.

“You don’t have the money to pay for a new water heater, remember?” the hand soap model on the back of the bottle reminds him.

Defeated, Tom turns off the shower and returns to bed. As he rests his head on his pillow, he sees his rosary lying on his bedside table. He wore it religiously as a kid. However, in recent years, it has collected some dust. Tom’s has a small etching of Jesus nailed to the cross connected to the beads. He stares at it, then closes his eyes.

“Why won’t you listen, Tom?”

Art by Oscar Liu

Presidential Poems

by Will Hess

You’ve never heard them like this before For I’ve got a poetic Rushmore With some Limericks to rhyme It wouldn’t be a crime To recite about the leaders in four

Let us cut straight into the action I’m sure you know of Andrew Jackson astute or insane and strong with a cane And cut the banks down to a fraction

Here’s one I simply cannot let rest Teddy Roosevelt rode it the best Everyone got along But Taft did him wrong campaign stopped like bullets to the chest

Calvin Coolidge is the name I’ll call With his swearing in he did not stall With his small pet racoon He was gone way too soon So liked for doing nothing at all

Do you Remember Mr. JFK?

Well I just don’t have that much to say If you give me queries About my crack theories

Then I’ll be killed by the CIA

A True Story

by Gabe Chen

While the words of my teacher Drone on without feature, My hand’s idle scribbles

Soon take form in some rhymes, Now the lights go on out And a movie comes on, Now the time has come, the walrus said, To have a wonderful nap.

2 Pounds of Paper

by Gabe Chen

Two pounds of paper

So scent-filled and so lovely Condemned to shredding

Photograph by Van Thompson

The Expired Giant by

Jacob Harrington

“Did you all hear the news?”

“Yes! We have to see this thing.”

“They’re saying it’s a huge giant!”

“A giant?”

Storms often happened in Ireland. But in late March we had an especially rough storm come through one night. It wasn’t until after the sky had cleared that the town heard the news. A local fisherman was the first one to spot it. Once news broke the entire town had to discover this wonder themselves. As my friends and I arrived, crowds of people walked onto the beach, gawking at the impossible figure.

It was a giant. Two hundred feet tall. Clearly a young man in his early 20’s. As you walked onto the beach, all you could hear were people’s questions about it.

“Where did it come from?”

“How much does he weigh?”

“Are there more like him out there?”

My exact thoughts about him, as well. The storm must have killed him and washed him up on shore. He had all the features any human does. Arms, legs, hands, and feet, but he was the height of a building. His size alone was fascinating. But what was equally enthralling was his existence in the first place. A giant half as big would have been every bit as much of a wonder to us. Compared to him, we eyewitnesses were puny copies. It’s as if he were some type of God exiled from Heaven to die in this lower world full of his puny copies.

My friends decided to climb onto him. Once they did that, the mob saw that it was safe for them to do as well. Dozens of people climbed onto the giant. I stood back, appalled by the sight I was witnessing. I walked away and sat on a hill near the beach, observing. He looked like he was sleeping and could awake at any

moment from slumber. Like he could just get up and walk back to his home. Or squish all the ants swarming onto his body. I turned to my friend James.

“What shall we name it?”

“Maximus.”

“Why ‘Maximus’?”

“It means the largest or greatest.”

Over time the giant marvel began to disintegrate. People could only spare so much time to be amazed. But he was still a wonder to my eyes. I returned to the beach a few days later to find little kids playing on him, using his neck as some type of slide. From a distance you could see the footprints all over his body. Adults were walking their dogs and talking as if he was not there. I did not understand this. He was a man. Just like you and me, but two hundred feet tall.

But yesterday was the past, today is the future. We want a flashier car. We don’t like older things; we become exhausted. It was disappointing to see Maximus over the next several days. You could see his skin starting to deteriorate from people walking on him and from natural causes. I finally climbed onto the giant and looked at his face. His eyes did not anymore seem like they once had held the fire of life. They were a dark grayish blue. You could see the exhaustion in his expression as well as the pain.

Time was starting to catch up to the remains of this man, just like it would someday do to ours. The clock for him to be special was not ticking anymore. No one cared.

After a week or so I returned to find Maximus with graffiti on him and his limbs being amputated. It was difficult to witness the end of what was once an incredible thing. To no surprise, there were no eyewitnesses or observers. Just me. As if he was nothing to anyone, before or after they saw him. When the town talks about him now, he is not talked about in amazement or astonishment. He is viewed as that large sea-thing that washed up on shore. Not a two-hundredfoot-tall human.

Eventually all trace of Maximus would be no more, the last bits and pieces of him washed away in another storm. All that was left was the echo of a brief and colossal astonishment.

The Fourth of Terror

by Roberto Ferrer Guimaraes

“Oooo! Aaaah!” went the crowd as the Boom! and Pop! of the fireworks crackled in the beautiful night sky.

“I love America,” said Jack, as he experienced the true joys of the Fourth of July.

“I know, this party is awesome. I wish we hosted parties like this,” said Jack’s younger brother.

“Benny! Jack! Time to go home; thank Mrs. Angie for inviting us to her home,” yelled their mother.

Benny responded, “Mommy, just five more minutes: we were just having fun.”

“No,” said a loud voice coming from the back. “Time to go, now.” It was Father, holding his Jack Daniel’s, waiting to go back home to his broken-down couch, where he would expect not to be disturbed.

Crack! In the car as the family were on their way home, the first sign of rain appeared from a bolt of lightning ten miles out.

“Funny how it was just a beautiful day, and now it’s about to rain cats and dogs,” said Jack.

“Oh no!” cried Benny. “We forgot to bring Sparky inside.” Mother dialed in and pressed the gas harder to arrive home as fast as she could. But it was no use. As the family pulled into the driveway, the back gate was already opened. Sparky was not there.

“Dumb dog,” said Father.

“We must look for him; he is out in the rain all alone,” said Benny.

“No, it’s too late and it is raining. We will look for him at dawn,” said Father. Benny and Jack soon start to beg for their father to have a heart. Father had enough to give them five minutes to look around the neighborhood.

By eleven o’clock at night, it seemed impossible that there would be any hope of finding Sparky. But Benny and Jack did not want to give up.

“He must be around here somewhere,” said Jack.

“What’s that?” yelled Benny. A creature seemed to be lying in the middle of the street, knocked out cold. The kids’ worst fear emerged.

“Is that Sparky?” said Jack. The two kids quickly got out of the car with Mother and Father behind them. As the family approached the wounded animal in the rain, they saw a trail of blood leading towards it.

“It is just a damn deer!” said Father. But its injuries were different from those of an animal hit by a car. The deer seemed to be slashed and massacred in the middle of the street.

Art by Abdullah Elahi

“Let’s go home!” exclaimed Father.

“No, please, let’s look a little bit longer,” said Benny as he tried to hold Father back.

Slap! Benny fell back in terror as Father unleashed his rage upon him.

“Jerry! That’s enough,” cried Mother. But for Jerry, that was not enough; he wound back with his bottle of Jack Daniel’s to get an extra hit in. The family suddenly heard a growl in the distance.

“What was that?” said Jack. Whatever it was, it stunned Father as well. A shape came out from the distance; at least ten feet tall, it came closer, and the family sat still. Its claws left chalk at every step it took. As this dog (if you could call it that) was one house away, Father ran back to the car, leaving his family to fend for itself.

“Dad, no, don’t leave us!” yelled Jack.

“Screw this!” said Father. He turned on the ignition and floored it back home.

Benny, Jack, and Mother were all alone with this animal spawned from the underworld. Face to face with them, the creature opened its mouth, revealing teeth as sharp as steak knives. A great gust of wind brushed the family, swirling leaves and burnt fireworks, and the creature was gone.

Skirt! Vroom! Father zoomed past the house, relieved that he had escaped the situation. “Thank God,” laughed Father.

Blop! A moist wet substance fell on Father’s forehead. He looked up disgusted, “What theee -- ” Crunch. Crash!

At the break of dawn, the other three finally came back home only to find their car crashed into their own house.

“Roof-roof!”

“Is that…?” said Jack.

“Sparkyyy!” exclaimed Benny. The lovely dog came out from the bushes.

“And look, he found a bone to chew on.”

Photograph by Stephond Allmond ’10

The Mailroom

by Benjamin Zague

Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department Evidence Lockup: Journal of Julie Lamb

10.9.98

“The Monterey County Superior County find Larry Fayette guilty of all three counts of murder in the first degree…”

This is the case that helped me find my passion in criminal justice. Larry Fayette was an innocent man, only proven not guilty after his death. My college professor has recently found me a job opportunity to work in the mailroom of one of the biggest law firms in Los Angeles: Wolfe & Brothers. I have an interview, with them in a few days, and I hope that if I perform in this interview and work hard for a year or two, they’ll offer to pay for my law school; that’s what they usually do, anyways.

10.12.98

My interview went amazingly well. Mr. Wolfe, or just Cain, as he wants me to call him, wanted me to start today if it was fine with me. He said they were truly swamped today, and of course, I couldn’t miss the opportunity to start working immediately. I was in the basement of the office all day, working with another girl. Her name’s Ella; she’s about my age and has been working as a paralegal straight out of USC – lucky her! Ella was tasked to train me and shadow me for a few days in the mailroom to make sure I learn the ropes. The mailroom isn’t exactly glamorous; it’s more like an archive, a place where things that aren’t useful anymore go to be forgotten. Ella seems professional and good-natured, but she said something to me at the end of the day that I haven’t been able to get off my mind:

“Don’t stick your nose too far in Mr. Wolfe’s mail; you may smell something that you don’t like.”

She said this with a smile on her face, before quickly walking off.

10.30.98

Ella hasn’t been around since the 25th. Mr. Wolfe’s been taking me to lunch every day since he hired me. I’ve been getting looks from the other employees and associates for a few days now; in the breakroom, when a guy saw me walk in, he accidentally poured coffee on his hand, not paying attention. I thought that I must’ve been the most stunning woman on Earth, the way that they’d been acting around me. Instead, when I came toward him to help clean up the mess, he whispered to me that I was being too visible and that it was going to get me killed instead of getting me further in the firm. I mentioned this to Cain when he took me to The Musso and Frank Grill for lunch. He told me it was just a joke about me overworking myself to death, and that if I kept working the way I was, I’d be promoted to paralegal before the end of November. He was insistent that I tell him who made the joke to me; after a while, I eventually told him.

10.31.98

I’m not sure if I’m allowed to speak on what I read in Mr. Wolfe’s mail. The man that spilled coffee on himself didn’t show up to work today, and he wasn’t the only one that’s gone missing. Mr. Wolfe’s mail had in it. I’m not sure whether or not I should bring it to the police. (Because it’d be illegal.)

11.1.98

I’m going away for a while, but I’m ok. I needed a quick getaway because I’ve been working extra hours in the mailroom every day. Despite this, I’ve been the happiest I’ve been in a long time. The Larry Fayette case motivates me every day to work harder, but Cain is letting me get a quick breather for a couple of days.

I’ve been banging and banging on the mailroom door. I don’t know how long I’ve been in here, but it’s been long. Blood is coming down into my eyes, and my head has been throbbing violently. I’m just now getting back my bearingsthe last thing I remember is that he hit me. He took me out to dinner and… well, now I’m here. I’ve been hearing a grinding sound and a man and a woman yelling above me - Ella? Maybe?

I hope someone finds this.

Eternal by Trey McDonald

But I was not dead, for I could never die.

I had become a universal Eternal, one which the lesser beings could have only hoped to defy. But I escaped them. The alive, burning Universe that I once knew had been replaced with a cold, dead Universe. This is the Universe I conquered. I was the Last. I was the End. I was the Omega. I was the Remainder of all the beings which came before me. I had conquered them all.

I had seen empires rise and fall, but, when all wars were over, and the Valley Air in which I walked hung heavy from the Shadow of Death, I remained. I never fell. I could not fall. Whether it was my destiny or my cold drive to be the Divine that brought me here, I was in the place of what the prior beings would have considered to be a god. My existence was conquering. My existence was knowledge. My existence was Order. My soul had ascended to the highest points of thought. It comprehended the universe: its Order, its Chaos, its Reason. My transcended soul floated through this abyssal void.

Death, I had eluded. For the trillions of years I had spent conquering, even longer I have spent escaping the Force chasing me. Time watched me through the Shadows of this darkened Universe with each second bringing me closer to him. But I would escape him as I always had. Time could not catch me. Death could not catch me. I would not be conquered. The Air of the Valley still hung over me, chasing me. It was the inescapable force marching toward me; its hooded robes brushing against me at every turn. A vision began to form in my mind… I was in the Valley. The Valley in which many of my friends, my enemies, the people I had never known, had been conquered by Time. Their souls taken by the figure marching toward me.

The Valley’s jagged peaks gave way to a dark sky, an expanse above me. The Above called for me. The Above was my escape. The Above beckoned me. I reached up and pulled myself through. Up to the place where gods rest, up to the place where Death could not take me, but I found myself instead in a Library.

Art by Jake Klepper

Art by Andrew Xu

The shelves reached upward to a height clouded by the grey fog. There was no Above here.

Time found me again, continued its strides toward me. There must be the final knowledge to escape Time forever contained in these books. I searched through the many books and found what must be a way out. I made my way out of the Library to the lone Rock in the sea. This lonesome Rock was order, but Time was also order. It had found me once again. It continued toward me as it always had in its measured strides. The Sea undulated and flowed chaotically; if I could find an Order to this Sea, I could escape and ride a wave to my salvation. There was no Order, though. The waves ebbed and flowed chaotically. The Sea was Chaos.

Time continued its march toward me. I did not continue my search for the Order. I embraced the Chaos. I allowed the Sea to consume me. I allowed the Chaos to consume me, but it never harmed the Order that is my Rock. I held fast to it as the waves rose over me, plunging me into a Sea of the darkest Night I had seen. Time was Order. Time was not Chaos. Time was swept from me. I, however, rose above the wave of Chaos as I raced it toward the Island of Salvation which I now saw on the horizon, guided by the beacon of the sole remaining Star in this ancient sky. Like all things though, it too died, leaving me at the feet of my enemy under an ancient sky. The Island quickly disappearing from the horizon, the star’s light diminishing with it. There was no escape here. This was my End.

He stood in front of me with his eyes watching me from behind his hooded cloak. His very being cast a shadow over me. I could not escape him. Not this time. I had defied every law but him, my final opponent. He was the one without Life, but the being to which all Life came. He was not only the End but also the Beginning. “Are you ready?” he asked me through his hooded robes. I nodded. He reached out his skeletal hand. I held onto it. . . I was finally conquered.

Unwavering Hope by

Evan Wu

As I watch the snow dance through the sky, I marvel at its grace and beauty. But somewhere far away from here, The harsh cold is far from lovely.

With little shelter and frosty winds, Disease spreads with alarming haste. While people die from unjust bombing, Unknown talent goes to waste.

Citizens have no choice but flee, And leave behind all that they own. Often forced to proceed on foot, They must start a new life alone.

But despite the gunshots in the air, Those who stay hang on to hope. Though the enemy is drawing near, Victory is not out of scope.

Musicians help brighten the mood, And many men come home to fight. With support from around the world, The future could still be quite bright.

Photograph by George Flinn

A Train

by Eliot Morris

I live in a house far enough away from the tracks, where the horns of the great machine are like a song lulling me to my dreams. At each distant blast, my head falls further into settlement. My arms relax, my legs unwind; I lay in peace and am moved only by my thoughts. Where its strict path lay fixed, I do not know, nor do I dare point out: for a distant train is much like a bird whistling in a tree amidst all the leaves and limbs which conceal it (now just as the birds and trains hide, so now has my conscious fled from me).

I sink into a time far from now when the world has stopped turning, and the sun has quit burning; when persistent eyes of greed quit yearning and when the heels of the fallen quit hurting; when the hearts of the troubled quit turning, and when patience has done some observing. Then our world can again be spinning, and the sun can again be burning, and then we, in turn, will be learning that this train of ours can start swerving.

Photograph by Ethan Friday

Art by Andrew Xu

Damsel in Denial

by Benjamin Zague

“Remember to make sure you lock both your elbows here and aim down the barrel. Take a deep breath, then squeeze,” I said. I was teaching my grandson how to shoot, and he was taking on nicely.

“Hey, Pop-Pop, could you tell me about the damsel in distress story? You always tell me that you will one day, but you never do. I’m old enough to hear it now, don’t you think?” Billy Joe said. It was true; I always told the boy that I’d tell him my favorite story when he was old enough to understand it.

“Well, so it went a little like this…”

“Hey Rich, you see that filly over there? That’s Copperhead Lassie. Fivehundred-dollar bounty in New Mexico, and she just happened to fall into our hands,” Dick said.

Dick and I were in Fort Sumner, New Mexico, for a few weeks, to lay low. Our gang had just pulled off a chain of robberies on the newly built Central Pacific Railroad. On our sixth one, in Promontory Summit, Utah, undercover deputies were waiting on us and took almost all of us out. The rest of us decided to split up for a while to keep the law off our trail. I always had the thought in the back of my mind that one of the gang members must have tipped off the law for protection from swinging, but there was no way to know for sure.

“I don’t know, Dick, we’re supposed to be laying quiet for a while until we get our bearings; no need to cause trouble with the lady for no reason,” I said.

“A lady? If you could even call her that. She’s more a man than both of us, that’s why I’m asking for your help. I would’ve walked up to her, taken her to the sheriff’s myself, and been back before my beer turned warm if she was just a lady. That woman right there is wanted for eleven murders. Heard she’s such a good markswoman that when the army ain’t let her enlist, she helped the Injuns push back the Mormons in Utah in the Black Hawk War, before the Federal army got involved,” Dick said.

“The Black Hawk what?” I said.

“Never mind that; just follow my lead,” said Dick. He confronted the lady who, in turn, put a knife to his neck.

“Bob! You just gone stand there while this crazy whore got a knife to my neck? All I said is that I like how her blouse complimented her body. See, that’s the problem with women nowadays: they always make a fuss about nothing. Good or bad.”

That was Dick. If you killed him I bet his mouth would still be able to move. He always got us in trouble with his rhetoric. So, me being the helpful person I always strove to be, I attempted to defuse the situation because the whole saloon was getting riled up at this point.

“What’d you call me? I was a military nurse in Utah for five years – I’m reallll precise with a knife. So what’ll it’ll be, fella? Scalp or neck?” Copperhead Lassie yelled.

I struggled with Lassie to get the knife out of her hands and, almost as if on cue, the law rolled into the saloon, wondering what the trouble was. Lassie immediately began playing possum to the officers and made it seem as if I had started all of it.

“Oh, officers! Save me; these two men don’t know what ‘no’ means. Thank the heavens, y’all got here just in time,” Lassie said.

The officers took us to the sheriff’s office where we waited until the morning before the sheriff himself came to speak to us.

“Well, well, well, if it ain’t the train track boys. Y’all been wanted from California to Utah for quite some time. I’d think y’all would be smart enough to not let your libidos to get the best of ya. And if there’s one thing I hate more than a thief, it’s a man who doesn’t know how to properly treat a lady. Now, I’m gonna play eenie meeny miny moe to decide which one of you two is gonna swing first,” the sheriff said.

“Sheriff, this is a big misunderstanding. We have unfortunate faces; we don’t know anything about no train track – ” but the sheriff cut Dick’s words off and began singing, starting with pointing at me.

“Eenie meeny miny moe, catch a outlaw by the toe, if he hollers, hang him slow, eeny meny miny moe.”

His finger fell on Dick.

“My momma told me to pick the very worst one and you are it!”

His finger fell back on me.

“Robert Dufresne, it is your lucky day; you get to christen the brand-new gallows here in Fort Sumner,” the sheriff said, “and, Dick Chaney, you get to witness your friend being hanged. This is a win-win to me.” Dick and I were thrown back into the cell to wait for them to call me up to get dangled.

Something didn’t sit right with how the deputies burst into the saloon as soon as I got involved, as if they were watching us. Dick kept on trying to talk to me, but I just waited for them to call me up. I couldn’t help but thinking about the failed train robbery, how the sheriff’s finger initially fell on Dick, but then back to me. I thought I was gonna die anyways, so it didn’t matter, but I couldn’t help but think.

Photograph by Stephond Allmond ’10

“Mr. Dufresne, you’re being summoned to the gallows; only God can save you now.”

I took one last look at Dick before walking out. There was quite a crowd waiting to watch me hang when I walked out there, including Lassie. She was standing at least forty feet away from the platform, and I stared her down as they tied the rope around my head. She switched her gaze from me to the lever; when they flipped the lever, almost as soon as the floor disappeared below my feet, a sound cut the air above me and I fell below the gallows stage. She had perfectly aimed at the rope and cut it with one shot. Sounds of confusion came from the crowd and the guards above the stage. I scurried out of town where Lassie picked me up on horseback.

“Robert Dufresne, Dick Chaney is a rat; they were going to let him go after you died. The rest of your gang has been either arrested or strung up by now because of the tip Dick gave the law. Follow me; we’re headed to Utah.”

And so that’s how I met your grandmammy. I fell in love with her as soon as she shot the rope. To her, I was the damsel in distress.

It was Only Natural

by Wilson LeMay

I’m writing this to prove what I did was right. Once I explain what I did, you’re gonna agree with me.

Peter woke up before I did. He was the first thing I saw; him trying to get cell service. He couldn’t. Peter said we flipped an ATV, but whether that’s really how we ended up in the middle of the woods in Montana, I’ll never know. I don’t remember much from that day. I tend to stick to the ATV story, though, because Peter wouldn’t lie to me. I wouldn’t lie to him. We’d been friends since we were toddlers.

We grew up together, went to school together, and planned our senior trip together. We both loved the outdoors, so, naturally, we chose to go out west into the Tetons. We were honestly perfect for the situation we found ourselves in. So, if, in fact, we had rented ATVs, we must have wrecked them somewhere off the trail. I don’t know why we would’ve abandoned the path, though; I have a slight memory of a bar the night before, but after that, nothing. Until this moment, at least.

“Peter. What happened?”

“We wrecked the ATV. I don’t know where it is. We must’ve run off a cliff or something; it all happened real fast”

“Well, where is it? Wouldn’t we have to pay for that? Where’d you find an ATV; I… I don’t remember buying an ATV.”

“What? This morning, dude; we rented it at noon. We rode for, like, six hours already. We split the cost? You must’ve blacked out.”

It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. The sun was split into a thousand blinding rays by the towering trees; my ears were ringing. I had so many questions that Peter just ignored. He didn’t seem to care much.

“Peter, where are we?”

A natural question, I thought.

“Somewhere in Montana. I hope. The map is with the ATV, wherever it is.”

“Well, are we lo-”

“No, Cob, we aren’t lost. I told you, we’re in Montana. When I get service I’ll call a park ranger or something.”

That’s my name, by the way. Well, it’s Jacob. Everyone calls me that, except for Peter. He’s always called me Cob. I don’t love it, but I endure it. Anyways, I’m writing this to prove what I did was right. And once I explain what I did, you’re gonna agree with me. What I did was only natural. I’m writing this to prove my sanity. So, that’s what I’ll do.

We wasted away the afternoon trying to get cell service. It was dumb, looking back. We should’ve looked for the ATV we were supposedly driving. But, we wandered. I was incredibly dizzy. It must have been the tall trees. By nightfall, Peter’s phone was dead, and he was finally ready to admit we were lost. I would have pulled my phone out to try and help, but I couldn’t remember the password. My head was pounding. I still had so many questions.

“Are you sure we’re in Montana?”

“Yes, I’m sure of it, Cob. How bad did you hit your head? You’ve asked that question like eight times.”

“I’m fine; I feel fine”

I was fine. He just kept on doubting me for no reason. At least it was dark now. The sun had finally set, and I was glad, because it was killing my eyes. But Peter insisted we needed more light, so I helped him gather wood for a fire. He didn’t care about what I wanted. We separated to see who could find more. After about thirty minutes, the sun came up. Of course, we were up north in Montana, if Peter was right, so the nights were short in the summer. I had heard that before. Nothing strange.

But, right when the sun showed itself, I saw a man come out from behind a tree. Very, very old, he was, and native-looking, with sky blue and maroon war paint on. He was so wrinkled I could barely make out his face. He walked by me, not seeming to notice me. I didn’t think anything of it; really, I thought it was kind of cool. I saw a Native American, right? In broad daylight, I saw him. You believe

me. The sun went back down after he passed me. Shorter days, too, in the north, as you know. I walked back to camp with the wood I had gathered and told Peter.

Unlike you, Peter didn’t believe me.

“What do you mean yesterday? You’ve been gone for forty-five minutes. And no; no, you didn’t see a Native American. And we aren’t on a reservation. And if you had, why didn’t you ask him for directions, or food, or something?”

I explained to him that the man didn’t speak English, obviously, so I didn’t bother. And who was he to say we weren’t on a reservation? He himself admitted we were lost. Peter just wouldn’t believe the man disappeared, either. But that’s what he did. I saw it. You know they’re into voodoo and all that; you believe me.

We ended up making a fire that night (it killed my head), and went to bed. I fell asleep quickly, but at some point in the night, I saw the man again. It was daytime, and we were at a spring. This time, he did talk to me. He had a deep voice, with an accent unlike anything I’d ever heard.

“You and your friend are trespassers on my land. Now, you owe me. Your people killed my people, and I have not received a peace offering in centuries. I demand one now, or you shall not leave my grounds. I must receive your friend’s blood. Soon.”

Naturally, I agreed and attempted to shake his hand, but I couldn’t touch him. I guess it was just a magic trick or something. I thought his request was fair. I still do. It was only natural: we trespassed onto his land, so he needed something in return. When I woke up, I was back at the fire with Peter. I don’t remember how I got back, but I told him the story. For some reason he laughed; I think the woods were getting to him. They say people can go insane when they’re lost.

“What an odd dream!” he said.

He had always trusted me. I don’t know what changed. It was no dream, of course, as you can plainly see. But he wouldn’t have it. He just wasn’t the same Peter anymore.

The day went on. We wandered aimlessly in the woods. I saw a couple more of them that day, all sporting the same maroon and sky-blue paint as the Chief. I told Peter when they passed by, but he claimed he couldn’t see them. He didn’t have his glasses on, so I think that’s why.

Art by Abdullah Elahi

Night fell, and the Chief came by camp again when Peter was out looking for food. “I demand the offering tonight. Any later, and you’ll never leave my land.”

I agreed. Why wouldn’t I? I wanted to get out of there and so did Peter. The way I saw it, and still do, it was a win-win-win: I get to leave, Peter gets to leave, and the Chief gets what he wants. Can’t you see? It’s obvious. One person wanted me to live my best life, and the other didn’t want to be my friend anymore; Peter didn’t care that my head hurt, and I still think he lied to me about the ATVs. The Chief cared. He wanted what was best for me. He gave me the opportunity to leave. So, I took it.

I waited until Peter was asleep. I didn’t want it to hurt; he was still my friend, of course. I found a rock that seemed like it would do the job. I must have stepped on a stick or something because, right as I brought the rock back, Peter woke up. That’s when he told me I was crazy.

You see, that’s the problem. In their last moments, people show their true colors, and Peter was no different.

I didn’t need Peter. He thought I was crazy. And, more important, he was holding me back from leaving. So, like any other rational person would do, I killed him with a rock. I didn’t know what the Chief wanted, specifically, so I laid it all out for him. I found a sharper rock that was perfect for incisions, and used it to separate all his organs. I figured the Chief hadn’t received a gift in so long, he’d appreciate a feast like this. So, I gave him Peter. The Chief deserved it. He was getting me home. Any part he needed, it was there. I unrolled Peter’s skin flat so the Chief had easy access. The body was warm too, so I’m sure he appreciated that. Peter was still my friend, though, so I placed a flower on his heart. It stained red pretty quickly, but I figured the thought was all that counted. I turned around and walked, not stopping for two days. I didn’t see any more of my new friends, though. Eventually, I hit a road.

So, it worked. I don’t understand why everyone has a problem with it. I put Peter out of his misery; he was insane. The Chief is happy, and I’m home. You see how logical this is? I know you do. I just don’t understand why the Chief didn’t take the offering. The news said Peter was still lying in the woods when they found him. I guess the Chief didn’t like it or something; I don’t know. But when the world reads this, I know they’ll agree with me, like you do.

It was the only natural thing to do.

Photograph by Aidan Lightman

Mother of the Mountain

by Wyatt Solberg

“Get inside quickly, or she’ll freeze you in minutes,” Hans shouted through his snow-covered face mask. “Rosa does not take kindly to visitors.” Dr. Ugonschev and Stefen hurried inside, and Hans zipped the entrance behind them. The sound of shrieking wind and beating snow was only slightly buffered by the thin walls of the tent. As he cranked up the heater, Hans looked at the two new climbers.

“I worry if we had arrived any later, Mr. Stefen’s fingers would have fallen off.”

The professor’s apprentice laughed while rubbing both hands together frantically. Dr. Ugonschev smiled as he removed his hood and took off his suit. He removed his frozen goggles and placed his tiny spectacles at the end of his large nose. He picked up his notepad and began jotting.

“Hans, what would you say is our altitude here?” he asked.

Their guide, who was already starting the stove, responded, “Ehh, around 12,400 here.”

Ugonschev wrote for a minute then peered back up. “And is the weather always this abominable?” he said.

Hans had opened three cans of beans and set them on the stove.

“On Monte Rosa? Yes, yes. Always. Although, I will say, today I expected more visibility,” he replied.

The professor then remembered their strange finding. “And the lone jacket? I can’t imagine someone losing it in these temperatures.”

Hans turned up the heater once again, then responded, “Ah, yes. That, I have no answer for. I suppose it could have been an extra that fell out of someone’s bag, eh?”

Ugonschev wrote once more. Stefen sat near him. “Our experiment has been quite the success so far, my boy, but I am afraid we will not have a conclusive answer until we study our oxygen at a higher altitude,” said Ugonschev.

After a few minutes, Hans had the beans ready. He signaled them over, and they began their meal. Stefen particularly enjoyed it, scarfing his beans in two minutes. As they talked over their meal, a strange noise came from outside. It was a sound higher than the whistling wind. Hans wiped his face off and stood.

“What the bloody hell was that?” said Stefen.

Hans shushed him and listened intently. There it was again. It was clear this time. Someone was screaming outside the tent. The three walked over to the entrance of the tent. Hans undid the zipper, sending a piercing cold gust of wind and snow in. They looked out and, at first, saw nothing.

“What’s that there?” said Ugonschev. Hans squinted his eyes. About thirty yards away, nearly invisible through the blizzard, they could make out a dark silhouette of a woman in the snow. The scream sounded again; it was clearly coming from this person.

“Oh, my God,” Hans said as he rushed inside to throw on his suit. “Stay here. I’m going to help her.” Hans slipped on his boots and goggles as he left the shelter. Stefen and his professor watched through the door. The woman seemed to be further away now. As Hans approached the woman, a huge gust of wind shot over the plateau. Hans and the woman disappeared. The two jumped back inside to prevent the snow from getting in. After a minute, it died back down, and the two peered out again. Hans and the woman were nowhere to be found.

“Where are they?” Stefen asked.

Dr. Ugonschev shouted through the wind, “Hans! Hans!” They waited for a moment. He shouted again and again, but there was no response.

The cold began to freeze the moisture on their lips. “Stefen, if we stay out here, we’ll freeze before he does. We’ve got to go in,” said the professor. Stefen reluctantly agreed and stepped back inside, zipping the tent.

“How could someone make it up here by themselves?” asked Stefen.

Ugonschev thought for a second.

“I’m sure it is fine, my boy. Probably just a lost climber. He will be back shortly.” The doctor’s body language did not convey that he believed everything was fine, but Stefen sat down anyway.

MUSe

Two minutes passed. Then five. Then ten. Still no sign of their guide anywhere.

“Dr. U., something is not right; we must go find him. The sun is completely gone now,” said Stefen worriedly. “I’m going to find him.” Stefen began putting on his gear again.

“Slow down, lad!” said the doctor. “We mustn’t jump to conclusions.”

Stefen was already at the door. “I am just going to take a look around. I’ll only be a moment, sir,” said Stefen. Before Ugonschev could stop him, he was gone.

Photograph by George Flinn

The doctor frantically threw on his own suit. He grabbed the third lantern and headed out. He followed Stefen’s dim light in the distance. The light disappeared and Ugonschev could no longer find his apprentice.

“Stefen! Wait!” he called desperately, “Stefen, slow down!” He was cold even in his suit and unsure how long he could bear the dropping temperature. He looked for what seemed like hours, screaming for his companions. As he began to lose all hope, he made out two dim lights in the distance. He trudged through the snow, screaming, “Hans! Stefen!”

The lights suddenly went out. He shined his own lantern and could make out two figures sitting where they had been.

“Great heavens! What are you two doing?” he screamed. There was no response. He trekked closer and closer to the figures.

Dr. Ugonschev froze. He had found Hans and Stefen. The two were sitting straight up in the snow across from each other. Both were completely naked; their clothes were nowhere in sight. Their skin was dark blue, and their eyes were pale.

Ugonschev ran to Stefen and collapsed next to him. His tears froze almost immediately under his goggles.

“God, no! Wake up, my boy, wake up! What happened?” he cried. Stefen’s skin was iced over, and his eyes were wide open. Both men were clearly dead already. In terror, Ugonschev shuffled back through the snow and examined the scene. He had lost feeling in all fingertips already. He took quick, heavy breaths but did not move.

Just a few feet in front of Ugonschev, the lights appeared again. They were not lanterns. They were the eyes of the woman he had seen before. She wore a tattered white dress and no shoes. Her skin was wrinkled and blue, and her stringy hair was frozen in place. He could not move. The woman approached him slowly. Her mouth took up most of her face, a toothless smile that stretched past both ears. Ugonschev stared into her glowing eyes as she approached. He could not look away.

The professor felt a strange sense of warmth and comfort. The woman reached out her long, pale arms and pulled him into her chest. Slowly, he fell asleep in her embrace.

The Invaders

by Jacob Harrington

Day 42: The day they came was a cool October day like any other. I was coming back from the grocery store when my radio started cutting in and out. And then a voice came on the radio: “Inhabitants of Earth, we are a species from the planet Udarvis. We have traveled across the universe looking for a planet. Earth fulfills our needs. Thank you, and goodbye.”

I thought maybe it was a hoax. When I got home my parents were freaking out because there was an alien spaceship entering the atmosphere. We packed everything we had and decided to go to my uncle’s house. We had to stop for gas because my uncle lived five hours from us. That’s the last time I would ever see my parents the same. The sky became bright, and my parents levitated off the ground then dropped. I rushed over to them, but they had changed. They were talking strangely, and their eyes were white. I ran, and now I’m under a bridge in Iowa. I’m just trying to get to my uncle’s in Colorado. JB.

Day 46: Ever since the invaders (I guess that’s a good nickname) came, they have patrols looking for humans that outlasted their invasion. They’re everywhere. I walk in the woods because they patrol the highways. It’s strange; the aliens do normal human activities. They know how to communicate, drive cars, dress themselves. And apparently, they also know how to keep power and water running, and still produce food. When I walk by the highway, I see them, and it doesn’t seem like they are aliens. Hopefully my uncle wasn’t taken when they invaded. If my map is right, I’m 124 miles from his house. JB.

Day 85: I have no idea where I am. I was on the way to my uncle’s, but invaders saw me off the highway and started chasing me. So, I ran, and they have been searching for me for a month and a half. I’ve been staying in this abandoned mall for three weeks now. I’m waiting for the heat to die down, but it sounded like invaders were outside of the mall a few days ago. I just need more time. JB.

Day 90: I found someone else, a real human. She ran into the mall one day, and I almost shot her. But I don’t trust her. When you’re alone for ninety days, you trust only yourself. She said that there is a haven in Oklahoma, so we’re going to head that way after we collect supplies. JB.

“How did you hear about such a place” I asked

“I was with someone a few weeks ago, and they told me. We were on our way there when we were swarmed by those zombie-like humans. He sacrificed himself for me, and I ran.”

“Wow. Well, in the morning we will start traveling to Oklahoma. Goodnight”

“Goodnight.”

Day 93: I still don’t know if I should trust her. She says she knows where to go, but then she gets us lost. What was supposed to be a week’s journey may turn into two or three. Hopefully she gets us on the right track, and we will be there soon. JB.

“Do you even know where you are going?”

“Well, yes, of course. If we keep going along 70 East, we will eventually take 35

Photograph by Ethan Friday

MUSe

South and be in Oklahoma. We only have about four or five days left until we are there. Trust me.”

“Trust you? This was supposed to be a week’s trip. It has turned into two weeks. I don’t know how you expect me to trust you, Chloe.”

“We will be there soon.”

Day 97: We’re in Oklahoma, I think. We should be there in the morning; it’s another five miles. I am going to wake up early and scout around. I don’t know if she’s telling me the truth. She has been acting weird. At dinner she was sweating and twitching. I asked her what was wrong. Her response: “I can’t wait to be around my people.” I thought in my mind, same. But I thought it was weird how she said “my.” I told her I had first watch, so I’m going to go ahead and do my scouting. Maybe for my last time, JB.

“Chloe! Chloe! Chloe!”

“Huh? What?”

“Wake up! Eat your breakfast so we can leave.”

“Okay. Okay. Give me ten minutes then we can leave. Did you hear or see anyone this morning?”

“No; was I supposed to?”

“No…just wondering.”

Day __: I have no idea what day it is here. Turned out that the girl I was traveling with was an invader. Apparently, they have spies that manipulate people to come here. There is an entire army of them luring people in. My theory is that they put alien souls into the bodies of humans. The bodies become hosts, and the invaders can control the body.

My question is, does the human soul die, or do they merge? I will soon find out. I was in this cell with five others. It’s just me now. For my last time. JB.

Art by Abdullah Elahi

The Lost Ones

by Taylor Patteson

“C’mon Jake. We’re going to be late for chapel.”

“I’m coming.”

We hustled through the foyer and saw a delivery driver opening the door.

“Hey, sir; do you mind signing this for me?”

I guess he thought we worked there because of our Friday attire. On Fridays at Alexandria University School, everyone wore coats and ties. I turned to Jake, looking for a response; however, I knew instantly this was a mistake when I saw the grin on his face.

“Well, of course, I will sign this. What might it be?”

“Usually we aren’t allowed to open the packages.” The driver cracked a smile.

“Ah, right.”

“This was supposed to be delivered yesterday, but the sender wanted to hold it. I think he wanted to attach this letter.” The driver handed the letter to me. “You gentlemen have a good day.”

“You as well.”

I looked over at Jake. “You talk too much. You know that?”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Yeah, right. We are really late now,” I said.

“Hold up; I want to read the letter.”

“We don’t have time. I have it. We’ll read it later.”

“Fine.”

I kept the letter and headed to chapel. Chapel was boring and dull, as per usual,

but I couldn’t stop thinking about the letter the man had handed to me. I had to see what it said. I leaned over and slid the letter out of my pocket. I gently unfolded it and began to read:

To whomever:

Long story short. I keep pulling these outta the ground in the same place. I am looking to benefit monetarily. I have so soooo much more to show -present- reveal, (whatever) to the 1st people I can get the attention of I was told I could mail them to a university and ask for help + at the same time the university gets to use them for research + academics. I have many MANY more all sizes. All types. Tools, painted, wood. Teeth, upper/lower? mandible. Don’t know if upper or lower. I’m sending $20.00 so they may be returned to me. Unless A.U. decided they are interested in purchasing them. Or if you are of the opinion that they are not artifacts carved by human hands long ago. If that’s the case then please put them back in the box b/c I don’t even want you touching them. Lol.

Anyways please tell me everything you can about these. Please test the paints + tell me the make up + ask the same with the wood, teeth, + bone. I’ll send another box full soon. Thank you so much.

Respectfully yours…

I sat there in the chapel astonished. Was this guy crazy? A practical joker? A serial killer?

I put the letter back in my pocket. Chapel was about to end. Thankfully, I had no classes left for the rest of the day, because I knew Jake and I would have to tell someone about this. We might have evidence to a murder.

Once chapel ended, I went to go find Jake. I saw him talking to Dave. I walked over to him and signaled over for a second.

“Dude, I read the letter.”

“What letter?”

“The one that came with the box.”

“Oh, yeah. How could I forget? Did you read all of it?”

“Yes, and it is super weird. It was talking about artifacts and bones. I think this guy might be a killer or something. You got to see this.”

Art by Benji Berry

“OK, well, give it to me then.”

“Not here. Let’s go back to the foyer.”

“OK.”

We walked back to the foyer. As we approached the couches, we noticed the package was still in the drop-off box. We both sat down on a couch while making sure not to let anyone see the letter. I pulled it back out of my pocket and handed it to Jake. He unfolded it and began to read.

I pulled out a binder to blend in and waited for his reaction. I was anticipating a reaction; however, I never got one. He continued to read with a straight face. After a minute or two had passed, he finally said something, but it wasn’t what I expected.

“This package is in the wrong place.”

“How do you mean?”

“Alexandria University. That’s where this package was supposed to go. Look right here. It says A.U.”

“That could mean anything. Let’s not rush to conclusions.”

“I’m not, but I’m also not going to ignore simple facts.”

“You can’t prove it, though.”

“Bet I can. Go look at the package over there and see where it was addressed to.”

I got up and walked over to the package; the front read:

Alexandria University Archaeological Dept.

“What does it say?”

“You’re right.”

“That’s what I thought. Let’s take a quick walk outside.”

“What are you doing?”

Before Jake gave me a response, he was out the door, so I followed. When the door closed behind me, he gave me his answer.

“About to see what’s in this box.” He had scooped it up on his way out the door.

“We can’t do this. It is illegal.”

“Not if it’s already open.”

Jake pointed to a gash in the side of the package. You could see through it. Jake held it up in the light.

“What do you see?”

“Nothing really. It doesn’t seem to be artifacts though.”

“Do you think the letter is a diversion or something?”

“Probably not, I think this letter got mixed up with another package this guy sent, and the real package could be sitting somewhere else.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“I’ve got a plan. Neither one of us has class for the rest of the day, so let’s go do some investigating. The best place to look is where the package was supposed to go in the first place: Alexandria University.”

“What are we going to do, just walk in?”

“Pretty much. There’s a quick way in. Where does your dad work, again?”

I answered reluctantly: “The Archaeology Department. We can’t just take the package.”

“Yes, we can. No one even knows about it. It wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place. Who’s going be looking for it? All we’re doing is correcting the delivery guy’s mistake.”

“Fine. Let’s go.”

Jake and I arrived at the university with the box and letter. I led the way because I knew where my dad’s office was. We walked with the box in a backpack, entering through a side door to avoid confrontations with employees. We walked left, toward the research center, and went to my dad’s office. The door was open, and Dad wasn’t there, but his key card was. I turned and looked at Jake. He grabbed it.

The research lab was just across the hallway. We made sure the coast was clear and walked over toward the double doors of the lab. Jake scanned the card. The light turned green, and we snuck in.

“Let’s split up and look for the real package.”

I listened to Jake’s orders and cautiously looked around. There weren’t any packages around the whole lab. Maybe it was in another room, or maybe this whole thing was a waste of time. What would we do with this so-called real box anyway? My thoughts were interrupted by Jake’s whisper.

“I think I found something.”

“OK. I’ll make my way over.”

He was by the double doors at the front. I guess we had passed right by it; as I approached him, I saw an unopened box.

“You sure this is it?”

“I got no clue if it is, but it’s the only box up in here. I’m going to open it.”

“Uh, are y-you sure about this?”

“What do you think we came here to do, Max? Quit being a bum and cut this thing open.”

I pulled out my Swiss Army knife and sliced through the tape on the lid. We opened the box, and this time we struck gold. The box had the contents referred to in the letter. And there was one thing inside that the letter had not mentioned: a map. I grabbed it and showed it to Jake.

“A map? What in the world? This is some treasure hunting scheme this guy’s pulling. I say we follow it.”

Art by Oscar Liu

“What? Your logic doesn’t make any sense, you know that?”

“Where does the map point to?”

“Looks like Grand Toone.”

“That’s weird. That’s in the middle of nowhere, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So, when are we going?”

“I don’t know about all that. Seems ridiculous.”

“That’s what everybody said about the treasure that art dealer hid in the Rocky Mountains. What was his name? We saw it on Unsolved.”

“Oh, uh, Forrest Fenn.”

“Right. And then a guy found it, and auctioned it off for over a million dollars.”

“This guy’s writing is a long way from Forrest Fenn’s. What if we are chasing something that doesn’t even exist?”

“I’ll raise you a better question: what if it does exist? See… got you there. Look, it will be easy. We can tell our parents we are going to a party, and we will be back late. We can leave right now, and we should be back before it even gets dark.”

I checked my watch. It was only 11:42 A.M. “This may be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, but I guess I’ll go.”

“Sweet. You’re driving, though. I need to take a nap.”

“My mom was right; I need to branch out to other people.”

We swapped the boxes and left the lab. I dropped the card back at my dad’s desk and headed back to my truck. I sent a text to my mom to cover for my temporary absence and began the trip to Grand Toone.

Once we pulled into the supposed location, I woke up Jake. We passed some abandoned shacks and followed the map. It led us to a field.

“Here we are,” I said.

“There’s nothing here.”

“Well, look who was right. I told you we were chasing nothing.”

“Wait a minute. Look over there.”

Jake pointed to a circle of trees surrounding an obelisk of some sort made entirely out of stone.

Maybe there was something to this map, but I wasn’t sure what that something was yet. We jogged toward the obelisk. I noticed the topography was changing. It became steeper, and the ground was dotted with holes and mounds. We reached the structure and looked around for artifacts, but all I noticed were three holes in the ground. They were small chambers, lined with stone, newly opened.

“Open that box up, Jake.”

“Ok. Why?”

“Because I may have figured something out.”

“Here you go. Now, what is it?”

“Maybe this is where the letter writer dug that stuff up.”

“Oh, shoot. Good thinking.”

I reached in the box and took out the three items: a tool, a bone, and a painted piece of wood.

I put one in each chamber. Suddenly, I heard something.

“Uh… Max, do you hear that?”

“Yes, I do…”

The ground began to shake, and chants filled the air. The holes released hordes of nomads, all marching towards the obelisk. From behind the obelisk arose a man in primitive garb. He was summoning all his people. There was something different about this man though. He wasn’t Native American, like I imagined

an ancient people from this area must be. In fact, all these people were pale –extremely pale.

These weren’t natives, or at least not the ones I learned about. Jake and I were surrounded by fifty or so men all in nomadic garb. The man beside the obelisk stepped forward.

“You two. Why have you come to this sacred place? Why do you have possession of my holy things?”

Jake answered, “Hello, sir, we seemed to have found your map, and we wanted to come here to return it to you.”

“Map? We have made no map to the location of my people. Why do you stand here and lie in front of me?”

One of the warriors came to the leader and whispered something in his ear.

“Show me this map you have, then.”

I gave him the map. The chief looked over it. He looked over to one of his men and said something in a strange language. Two guards brought out a dirty, disheveled old man. The chief looked at the old man.

“Your luck holds, old man. These boys have intercepted your map. Now, what did you just put in the ground there, boy?”

“I saw three holes, so I put the items from the box back into the holes to see if they matched the general size.”

“This mound has held our holy items for generations. The bone symbolizes the god of our ancestors, the wood symbolizes the god of nature, and the tool symbolizes the god of labor. The three pillars our society has run on for centuries. We are the Lost People of the Moon-Eyed. We lived beside the Indian tribes for centuries, but our people were all but wiped out centuries ago. That is when our ancestors settled here, and rebuilt our civilization. We wish to be left alone, but this man has disrupted our secrecy and independence. You have done well to return what is ours. But we cannot trust you outsiders to keep us hidden.

“With the power of the three gods, that lives within me, I bend your will.”

All the tribesmen began to chant and pray to their gods.

“With the power of Lugus Long Arm, I bind your labor against us.”

The chief grabbed the three objects and held them to the obelisk.

“With the power of Cernos the Wild, I bind you from finding this place again.”

I looked at Jake in disbelief. A red ruby emerged at the top of the obelisk.

“With the power of Dun of Many Children, I cloud your minds!”

The praying and chanting got louder and louder. The noise became deafening, the ruby began to light up and suddenly all went dark.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

I rolled over in bed to turn off the alarm. My mother walked in.

“Good morning, what did you do last night?”

“Just the usual, you know.”

“Okay, well don’t tell me too much,” she said sarcastically. “Your breakfast is on the counter.”

I lied because, truthfully, I had no clue what I did the previous night. Not only do I not know what I did last night, but the last thing I remembered clearly was my first class before chapel. After that, everything – the letter, the obelisk, the Lost People – all blurred and overlapped. What did I do? How did I get home? Was I drugged by something on that letter? Was it supernatural? No, that would just be too crazy.

There were no Lost People, and, if there were, maybe it would be better if they just stayed lost.

Meeting Moody

by Benjamin Zague

“All over a game of cards, huh?” Detective Smyrna said to me as we were going through the crime scene. It was a warm Manhattan evening at Moody Dobbs’, a famous rooftop bar, with an even more famous owner, in the heart of Harlem.

“Yeah, it looks like it; he was known as a cheating better all around town. The question is, why would someone even sit down with him to play a game of cards?” I said.

The man was shot four times in his torso with entry and exit wounds to show for it. The issue was that there were no shell casings or bullets lying around to corroborate the wounds.

“Yep, .454 Casull in a Smith & Wesson 460. Killer had time to pick up the casings, too, assuming he bothered to reload. If we get ahead of this and check the registry, we should be able to have a list in a few hours of everyone who owns this gun in all of New York. What do you think, Smyrna?”

Detective O’Reilly, our weapons ballistic expert, said this triumphantly to Detective Smyrna; his mind was already made up that this would be how we’d go about it, but he was just asking for the detective’s approval as a formality. Smyrna sighed and leaned against the wall to roll up a cigarette. He usually used Tootsie Roll papers, saying that the chocolate aroma from the paper combined with the tobacco to make the cigarette taste better.

“That all sounds good, O’Reilly, and once again, you’ve outdone yourself. But it’s highly unlikely that the gun that killed this man was a 460 Smith & Wesson. One, if this man was shot three times at close range with it, there would be a lot more red to show for it than what we’re seeing.

“Two, most criminals that are as smart as it seems this man is, judging off how he covered up his tracks, buy their guns from gun stores in Pennsylvania where gun registries don’t exist. We haven’t even looked through the whole scene yet for evidence; let’s finish up here before the rats get to him. After that, we can come up with a plan of action.”

When Detective Smyrna said “let’s” get back to work, he really meant just me

and O’Reilly. He would watch us and counsel us from a distance, refusing to get his hands dirty, so I slipped on my black latex gloves to look for anything we could potentially use as a lead. All I could find of interest was a leather-bound ledger book that Moody Dobbs used to keep up with his customers’ tabs and his regulars’ usual orders.

“Smyrna, O’Reilly, come look at this. Moody didn’t record who was in and out tonight after 10 P.M., just two hours before the shots rang out, when the bar usually gets most of its traffic.”

“Well? You think this is enough to take him in for questioning?” said O’Reilly.

“No, I say we just give him a visit and talk to him privately. No need to bring him into the station and have it rumored that Moody Dobbs is a suspect in a murder. It’ll bring too much heat to the case, and we’ve already had enough high-profile murder cases in Harlem,” I said.

They all agreed, and we left the crime scene to go to Moody’s nearby penthouse on 223 West 135th Street. From the outside, his home seemed to overlook all of Harlem. We called him up from his lobby, and he buzzed us in still wearing his bathrobe and sunglasses. He sat us down on his terrace before letting us talk.

“Moody’s guessing you three little pigs ain’t coming here for Moody’s signature, and the smell of cud and mud y’all seem to enjoy rolling in is starting to intoxicate myself, if I say so myself, so I implore you three to start speaking before your stenches further offend Moody’s nose,” Moody said.

He pulled a facemask out of one of his bathrobe pockets and put it on.

I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from laughing at what Moody had just said; I’d heard stories that he had a habit of referring to himself in third person and rhyme, but this was my first time ever hearing him speak.

“Mr. Dobbs, we just had a few questions about the murder at your bar, and if you had any idea that could help us find the guy who did it,” I said.

“Moody heard a boom, then got in his brand new Ferrari and zoomed. His mother always told him when he hears a crack, never look back, and that’s what he did. Moody didn’t see nothing,” Moody said.

“Well, we have the notebook that you use to keep up with who’s been in and out of your bar, and it seems like you stopped filling it out a short while before

the murder. Was there any reason for that, Mr. Dobbs? We’re just trying to get a better understanding here,” O’Reilly said.

Moody, seemingly getting serious, pulled down his mask and scooted closer to us.

“Bottom of the ninth of the 1986 NLCS when I was on the Mets, one out, no one on base. I’m batting against Plexico Enriquez; he had the hardest recorded fastball at the time and decided to take it out on Moody. He hit me smack on my right eye at 110 mph. The rest I don’t remember, because I blacked out, but what I was told was that I stormed the mound with nothing but my one good eye and absolutely let Plexico have it.

“Then, next thing I actually remembered, was a doctor flashing a light into Moody’s eye and the burning feeling that came with it. He told me that I had a severely detached retina, and if I took another hit like that to the face, I’d permanently lose my vision. I was told that I could never play baseball again, plus, that I’d have to wear these sunglasses to ease my sensitivity to light. That’s how I got the name Moody Mae Dobbs.

“He ended my career, so I took my version of justice into my own hands. I’m telling you three right now that justice is about to be served for whoever disturbed and ruined and did a murder in Moody’s bar, and that’s why I ripped the pages out of the notebook and cleaned up the crime scene – so my men could get there before you all do. That’s Moody’s way, b’cause Moody don’t play.”

We were cuffing Moody when we heard gunshots ringing out from a few blocks to the south side of the terrace. His men were handling things; they’d be long gone by the time we could get there. Somebody had brought a personal beef onto Moody’s turf, and that had earned the killer a personal beef with Moody. Moody kept short accounts. That was Moody’s way.

As we were taking him out, he gestured with his chin toward the fireplace, and said, “Hey! Take that baseball on the mantel; it’s the one Plexico hit me with, signed and all. I want you to have a souvenir from meeting Moody.”

Art by Joseph Zhou

Photograph by Charlie Gallop

The Empty Saddle

by Lewis Butler

His saddle would soon be empty. The day was near when he’d have to leave this old town, the town he’d grown up in. It would remain exactly how it had been for the last 73 years. His favorite saloon and general store would still have the original logs. The smell of smoke would permeate the wooden shacks from all the cigars and cigarettes that had come before. His family had moved away many years ago, but John knew it was for the best, because folks from Witherston didn’t get that opportunity often.

John remembered the days of the Pike’s Peak Gold Rush when new faces showed up every day. He had made a lot of friends back then, but they, too, had left by now. His father had been one of the first settlers back in ’58, a fact that had made this place John’s home for as long as he could remember.

He still remembered his first horse, Stella, given to him by his father on his twelfth birthday. She was a beautiful paint horse. She would roam the rolling Colorado hills by day and find her way back home just in time for supper. Times were changing, though. Horses couldn’t roam like they once could because of the land enclosures that had come with the gold rush. Streets now covered the paths of the horses. Automobiles now filled those streets. Palominos, greys, sorrels, and paints didn’t see the same use anymore.

John took his roan with him into town and tied him up to the old posts. He strutted down the wooden planks of the sidewalk and entered Betty’s Saloon.

“Are they serious about taking down those posts? I mean what harm are they doing? A few of us still use those. They’re barking up the wrong tree,” John said, referring to the notice posted outside.

“I hear ya. None of it makes much sense, but I guess they’re pushing people to buy automobiles. You know that’s the future, they say,” Betty sighed.

“That may be true, but what harm is my horse doing that them automobiles aren’t? They take up nearly all the damn space in town and kick up more dust than any horse I’ve ever been around.”

“But don’t you think it’s time for some change? I know this building could use some fixin’ up. Maybe these things are for the better. We thought the same when those locomotives came through, but those sure have helped.”

“It just feels like a damn shame, that’s all. I wish things were simple like they used to be. Back when cowboys rode horses and were heroes to me. That’s the way it’s always been, or at least for a long while.”

Betty slid a drink down the bar and started to wipe down the tables. A man dressed all in black entered through the swinging doors.

“Whose horse is taking up my post?” said the man.

“That would be my horse, Johnny Ringo,” said John, smirking.

Of course, this man was no Johnny Ringo, but by his attire, one would believe he was trying to impersonate the famous outlaw. The man was well put together but appeared to have been traveling for some time, judging by the sweat and grit on him. He must’ve been in his early thirties, but his rugged face made him look much older.

“Well, you better move that wretched thing, so my Charlotte can have a place to stand.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we’re going to have to settle this outside.”

John scooted his stool back from the bar and took a final sip, then grabbed his jacket, swung it over his shoulder, and led the man through the doors. The two men strode out into the street, across the many lanes. Betty watched, wide-eyed, over the batwing doors. Without another word spoken, the two men set up to duel, twenty paces apart. Betty stood immobile, watching, and the sound of the seconds ticking by on the saloon clock seemed as loud as the pistol shots that must surely follow, but, in the next instant, a loud car horn blared.

Charlotte, the stranger’s horse, with her untied reins trailing, was spooked by the shrill sound. She wheeled away from the sudden noise, lunged, and bolted, striking her owner in his torso, and sending him flying into traffic. The cars had no time to react.

“Is everyone all right?” came the voices of several drivers. Betty crashed through

MUSe

the double doors and stood in shock with her hand over her mouth. The pavement was painted with blood. John watched Charlotte run off through the trees on the far side of the road.

Journal Entry #1: After the accident I went after Charlotte to make sure she would be OK. She was not mine, but no horse should be out there alone with its saddle, bridle, and reins still on. I found her a few hundred yards into the hills under the shade of a cottonwood tree. I removed her things and saw that she was on her way. I thought she would head back into town, but she followed a line of trees into the hills and went out of sight.

Journal Entry #63: I still haven’t gotten the scene out of my head: the man smeared across the pavement, the look on Betty’s face. I have been writing these reflections every day since, and I thought I would’ve gotten over it by now. There’s something haunting about all of it. How I was sure I was going to meet my fate at the younger man’s quicker hand. But I was saved...I was saved in a miracle. That was supposed to be my time to go. How terrifying is the thought that an automobile can take you out of this world so quickly.

The only peace I have found is the thought of Charlotte, roaming the hills. Like horses used to do.