Misentity - Short Story Edition Winter 2024

Misentity

Short Story Issue

MISENTITY

HIRAETH:

LONGING FOR A HOME YOU NEVER HAD

Cover art by Melayna Tidwell

Misentity is a literary magazine that's been published in North Harford High School since the 1950s (originally called the Golden Harvest).

To see the other Misentity publications, visit issuu.com and search for 'Misentity'.

Editors

Hannah Burk Charlotte Erisman

Vivian Lawson

Kora Niebel Melayna Tidwell

Molly Waskiewicz

All rights reserved by the respective artists in this publication. All right revert back to the artists after publication. No part of this periodical may be reproduced without their consent.

Sweet Dreams

Reese Cole

Lee’s feet pounded against the floor of cold endless corridors that twisted beyond her vision ends hidden by the dim lights above. Her heart hammered as she tore through the halls, lungs burning. But she couldn’t stop not with the unmistakable footsteps of the man behind her, with a pace and step she knew as her father's echoing behind her, closing in with each thundering step. Terror gripped her heart as she ran, her mind racing with fear of what he would do if he caught her. Desperation weighed in her every step, just as she felt her strength begin to fade, something warm, soft, safe yet invisible rested on her shoulders, stopping her in her panicked tracks. In an instant, the nightmare shattered, and Lee jolted awake, gasping for breath, her chest feeling small and tight.

She was back in her bed, in her small cold still bedroom. Her legs held a faint ached, a reminder of what her mind just escaped. She ran a hand over her face, wiping the cold sweat that clung to her. Her father wasn’t here. He was gone, and she was safe, at least that’s what she wanted to believe. As she lay in the dark, her breathing slowing, she became aware of something else in the room. A presence. Unknown and unwelcome. It was as though someone there watching her in her sleep just lurking, but with a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time. It was caring. Maternal, warm even. It was the first time in years that she had felt something close to love.

Lee took a raspy breath and whispered, “Who’s there?”

Suddenly, a figure emerged, she seemed to materialize out of the darkest shadows moving with a grace and flow that seemed otherworldly. The woman wore black silks embedded with faintly glowing silver threads that cast a mysterious glow over her torso. Her skin was ashy, as if it was made of shadows, her hands almost fully skeletal, her face the same from the cheekbones down, her grey hair fell in soft waves. Though her presence seemed godly, Lee felt no fear. Instead, a sense of comfort kindled within her, as if she were in the presence of someone who understood her deepest fears, someone she'd known her whole life. The woman took a step closer, her eyes soft with a kindness that Lee had never seen. She knelt beside Lee, so close that Lee could feel a faint warmth radiating from her. Lee reached out, fingers brushing the woman’s dress, grabbing the material as if it were an anchor in a storm.

The woman held her gaze, her voice a gentle whisper. “I am Melinoe,” she said, “goddess of nightmares.” Lee’s heart stilled as she took in the words, her mind struggling to comprehend what she was hearing. ‘Goddess?’ Melinoe nodded as if reading her thoughts, her gaze filled with a sorrow that made Lee feel understood.

“I felt your dreams, they’re not...” Melinoe paused thinking of the right words to say, ”...there not the nightmares I’ve grown accustomed to see in someone so young. Your mind carries it, it carries more darkness than it should, and more than most others ever will.” Lee’s hands tightened on the goddess’s dress, her fingers curling into the rich fabric. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, a familiar ache emerging deep in her chest.

“I don’t tell anyone about them,” she admitted, voice weak barely a whisper. “I was scared I-I thought if I told someone, they’d think I was broken” Melinoe’s gaze softened further she wrapped her arms around Lee, pulling her into a close tender hug. Lee melted into her embrace, clinging to her as if Melinoe were her own mother, as if she could somehow shield her from the nightmares. From all the pain.

“It’s okay,” Melinoe murmured, her voice thick with her own emotions yet soft like a lullaby that soothed Lee’s restless nerves.

“You don’t have to carry this alone you know.” Melinoe whispered to the top of the girl's head still cradling her close. A sob escaped Lee’s throat as she buried her face in Melinoe’s chest curling into the women for comfort and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she let herself cry. She let all the fear, the anger, and the pain pour out. And Melinoe held her through it, her hands running gently through Lee’s hair, as though comforting her own beloved child. When her sobs finally quieted, Melinoe leaned back slightly, brushing the remaining tears from Lee’s cheeks.

“I must leave soon,” she whispered, regret woven in her voice. And as those words left her lips, Lee’s heart clenched with a new panic.

“No, please” Lee begged, her voice raw. She clutched Melinoe’s dress even tighter her knuckles going white, as though it could keep her there, could keep her in this room, keep them together.

“Don’t leave me. Or… or take me with you.” lee sobbed Melinoe’s eyes softened with a sorrowful gaze as she looked at the girl in front of her, and she reached up to gently touch Lee’s cheek.

“I wish I could, my dear one,” she murmured, stroking lees hair “but you are mortal, and I cannot take you to the plane of existence I call home.” Lee felt a cold wave of despair, but she swallowed it, her fingers still clutching at Melinoe’s dress. The goddess sensed her anguish, and she leaned down, pressing a gentle understanding kiss to Lee’s forehead.

“But know this,” she said softly, cradling lees cheek “You are not alone. I will always be near, watching over you, guarding your dreams. And when the nights grow darkest, you only need to call for me.”

“How?” Lee whispered, still clinging to Melinoe, not ready to let her go. Melinoe took Lee’s small hands in her own, holding them as though they were precious gems.

“Hit your fists to the ground three times, and I will come to you,” she promised. Her words were a vow, a sacred promise that bound them together in a way that transcended time and space. In the quiet, the creak of a door sounded down the hallway, and Lee froze. Her foster parents were awake. She clutched at Melinoe, her body trembling with fresh tears seeping from her eyes as the footsteps approached. Melinoe gathered her into her arms, lying down on the mattress with her, wrapping them both in the shadows of her silken cloak. She murmured a quiet spell, and as Lee lay still, Melinoe’s form faded until she was part of the darkness itself. The door cracked open, spilling faint light into the room. Lee’s foster parents peered in, seeing only the small figure of a sleeping child. Satisfied, they closed the door and retreated down the hall. Once the sound of footsteps faded, Melinoe reappeared, her arms still wrapped around Lee protectively. She smoothed Lee’s hair back, watching her with an expression that was almost motherly.

“I must go,” Melinoe said gently, her voice filled with quiet regret. She sat up, holding Lee’s hands in her own. “But remember, I am never far. I will be there whenever the nights become too dark.” Lee looked up at her with wide, tear-filled eyes. She didn’t want to let her go. She didn’t want to return to the loneliness that waited once Melinoe left. But something in Melinoe’s gaze—something warm and steady—soothed her. It made her believe that maybe, just maybe, she would be okay.

Melinoe leaned forward and pressed a soft, gentle kiss to Lee’s temple. “Sleep now, little one. Let your dreams be peaceful.”

Lee felt her eyes grow heavy, the warmth of Melinoe’s touch soothing her into a restful slumber. Just before she drifted off, she felt Melinoe’s presence fade, like a shadow slipping back into the darkness of night. In her sleep, a sense of calm enveloped her, a sense of security she hadn’t known in years. She knew that when the nightmares returned, she would have someone to call on, a friend, a protector, a guardian from the shadows. And somewhere in the night, Melinoe watched over her, her vow as eternal

Uitta Choro

Hailey McCann

The pattering of feet and harsh shouts behind them does nothing to deter Kayin, their surroundings blurring into a colorful mesh of trees and buildings. A laugh bubbles up their throat, and they have to bite their tongue as they swivel down more side paths.

“Young master, we recommend you cease this goose chase at once.”

The threat bounces out of Kayin’s ears as they snuck behind another building, spinning around and crouching behind a barrel. The frantic herd rushes past, and they can hear the confusion from the group as they open the back door, skipping into the establishment.

“Miss XX, Miss XX!” They call cheerfully, announcing their arrival. The interior is flooded with shades of red, the wine-tinted cloths and walls making the tavern feel all the more homely. Kayin trots to one of the seats at the bar, the ones that spin around, not bothered by the lack of response. There’s another sliding noise from under the bar before a plump lady pops up, offering Kayin a smile. They return it, spinning happily in the seat. They don’t offer any conversation, satisfied with listening in on the idle chatter.

“Have you heard?” The bargoers whispered between themselves, all grins and not-so-secret secrets. “There was another fire. Same ribbon on the post, too. Think this is an organization?”

The topics range from dinner that week to the next king. Gloria made a poor loaf of bread, apparently. Her husband got so mad, he tried to take her outside, tie her up, and-

... The door opens with a slam, the grunt of irritation piercing through the air. A bulky woman walks in, her hair lobbed short and messy. Kayin’s eyes flash with recognition, trying to make themselves look smaller, but it’s pointless. It’s hard to ignore a child at the bar, after all. Eyes narrow in on them, and Kayin can hear their heart rate pick up. She had followed them, hadn’t she? This wasn’t a safe place, she played them like a fiddle. Already prepared for the worst, they’re pleasantly surprised when all they hear is a defeated sigh, a hand rustling their hair.

“... You’re horrible. You should hide out a little longer, it’s pretty suspicious to see a seven-year-old at the bar. Too young to drink yourself away, alright?” She laughs lowly, sitting in the seat behind them. Kayin eyes her curiously.

“... You should get back before they send a larger search party.”

That’s all she has to say for Kayin to be off, scampering out the door. Miss guard must’ve been in quite a good mood, for her to let them go like this. The sounds of nature reach their ears as they frolic back through the woods, the brush crunching beneath their feet. The familiar scents of the forest comfort them, the path they’ve worn down recently guiding them back home. As they approach the castle, Kayin notices the uncharacteristic quiet, though they brush it off, swerving around to their open window to climb back inside.

“Halt at once, young master.” A familiar man marches up behind them. Stifling a groan, Kayin turns around to face him, raising their eyes to meet his own.

“... Evening, mister Baul. Did you need something?” Kayin gives him their brightest smile, feigning innocence. The man scoffs, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Don’t play dumb with me. Your parents have been worried sick. You’ve no reason to be sneaking off, you hear?” He wraps his cold fingers around their wrist, beginning to tug them back towards the front entrance. They sigh and, recognizing their defeat, drag their feet as they walk along.

The walk to the main hall is uneventful, Baul’s grasp on their arm never loosening. As they reach the hall, the knight calls out to a group of figures huddled in a doorway.

“Your highness! We’ve found the escapee. You’ve raised a slippery thing, you know.” Kayin pokes their bottom lip out a bit at the descriptor, glancing away to avoid their parents’ gaze. One of the figures turns towards them, a stern look in his eyes.

“There you are. You’re a little rat, you know that? What have I taught you about sneaking out?” The man spits out at Kayin, who keeps their eyes promptly glued to the floor.

“... Not to do it.” They finally mumble, reluctant to respond. “It’s justYou never let me go out, Father.”

“That’s a sorry excuse to be a disobedient brat. If you stay down here a moment more, I’ll board up your windows and padlock your door so you can learn to stay put. Understand?” He fixes them with a glare as they nod skittishly, already slipping away to their chambers.

The room feels lonely as they close the door behind them, the plain décor picking at their head. Kayin sighs, falling onto their plush bed. Sleeping for the rest of the day won’t be too bad, right...? Big sister should be home soon anyway. They let their eyes flutter closed, curling into their downy-soft duvet.

... They sleep soundly until they hear a shriek, kicking them out of their dozing. They pop their head out the window, searching for the source of the noise but only glimpsing a crowd of people. A sigh falls out of their mouth as they slip out of their room once more, moving fluidly through the halls. The castle is eerily empty, and the portraits on the wall seem to loo overhead. Father, Father, Mother, Sister, Kayin... Their faces stare down at them as they walk, and they can’t help but feel watched. Shaking their head, they ignore the feeling. These are paintings after all.

Pushing past the front gates and darting through the crowd, there’s a [group] of people gaping at the edge of a forest. Some animal stray too far from home again? As they creep closer, a path of fallen trees comes into view. It almost looks like a storm had passed through just a line of trees. As the staff and civilians chatter amongst themselves, Kayin ducks into the forest to follow the path. It’s unnaturally straight and there’s no way it could’ve been a storm.

The path comes to an end with a ring of fallen trees. Kayin hops over some of the trunks, poking around in the branches. A flash of bright pink catches their eye, the silk ribbon beckoning them closer until their feet sink into something wet and sticky. As if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over them, they break out of the trance, their eyes falling to the ground.

They don’t even register what it is at first. Their mind rationalizes with them, it’s obviously mud. They’re in a forest, mud is normal. The crimson staining their skin makes it harder to believe that. It’s- A wild animal must’ve been caught in the fall, right? That’s how nature works. The circle of life. The raunch stench of metal tainting the earthy scent was just that- A poor animal that’s been shown its mortality. That’s all it is.

The hair, caked in dirt and blood, it was just a trick of the mind. There wasn’t a person lying there, under the large oak. Not the body of somebody who had no time to process their demise, caught in a freak incident of nature.

There definitely wasn’t a ribbon tied to their wrist, either. Not a ring on their finger that only belonged to one person, that was specially engraved for them and them alone- There wasn’t.

Black is all Kayin can see for a moment, and when they regain their vision, they’re already on the ground, breathless and clawing at the wood they can’t possibly move on their own, their underdeveloped muscles burning at their effort. They choke on their own words as they scrabble for sense, for anything to make this better. The wood doesn’t budge. Their pants become more damp as the liquid climbs the fabric.

Harsh footsteps can be heard from the way they came, but they can’t bring themselves to care. How could they when they were busy screaming their throat raw? Arms loop around their chest, and they fight the hold, jerking out of it, though they’re caught again just as quickly. The voices around them are blurred, unintelligible, as their face heats up. The warmth doesn’t stop falling from their eyes as they’re pulled into someone’s arms, carried away from the scene.

Kayin doesn’t calm down for a long while. By the time they do, they’ve been changed into sleepwear, sitting silently in their bed. It feels cold, unwelcoming, unlike its usual comfort. Their mind blanks, the emotions from the day overwhelming. They don’t think of anything as they drift into the abyss of sleep.

It’s far earlier than usual when they wake up. The sun hasn’t even risen as they slide out of bed, their feet hitting the cold floor. They don’t bother to get dressed, dropping out of their window almost mechanically. Their feet drag them to the forest, dark in the shadows of the night. Their own worn-down path is habitual at this point, even without their sight. The sky turns a beautiful orange red as they walk, the sun casting a golden glow on the trees. Hours must’ve gone by if the sun was rising already. How had they lost track of time so bad? Even the heat of the day was becoming noticeable.

Except they’re walking under the shade of trees, and the sun shouldn’t be able to reach them under the thick foliage.

Eyes dart around as they catch a whiff of smoke in the air, locking onto a flame not fifty feet from them. Kayin can’t even bring themselves to move at first, staring down the ball of fury with wide eyes. It’s only when a branch falls, crackling from the fire, when they decide to run.

Their lungs scream, but they don’t stop. The short strides of their legs aren’t enough, they can feel the looming heat on their back. And thenplummeting, a cold shock. The rush of water over them, pushing them down. The light from the flame fades, but it’s another struggle to break the surface. A particularly harsh turn in the river throws them against the shore, and they scramble up the wet land. Their legs are shaking from exertion, but they will themselves up.

There’s a large shadow in front of them. A cottage. A home. People? They make the weary decision to stumble on the path towards it. Comfortable energy radiates from the wooden residence, filling them with warmth as they pull themselves to the door. They raise a hand to knock on the door, and the next thing they see is the ceiling of a warmly lit room. A soothing warmth eats at their flesh, digging its way into their body. The hazy awakening is interrupted by the worried face of an older woman, leaning over Kayin.

“Oh, by the heavens, you’re awake. I wasn’t so sure I’d ever see you conscious.” The woman gives Kayin a sweet smile, a few gaps from missing teeth. She straightens up and turns around, giving the child some space.

“I found you absolutely drenched, passed out on my porch. How did a little girl like you get out there?” The woman’s voice drones in a monotonous but familiar tone. Motherly, if Kayin had any idea of that.

“... Fire.” Kayin croaks out—their voice small from disuse. They don’t bother correcting the lady, who turns around with an amused look.

“You’re wet from a fire? How peculiar.”

Kayin’s quick to shake their head, sitting up. “River. I- I was running from the fire, and I fell into the river.”

Her eyes flash with understanding as she turns back towards the stove. There’s a small pot of soup on it, steam beginning to pour from the top. “You shouldn’t have been out and about by yourself. It’s not safe for a child.”

It’s not the first time Kayin’s heard this, so they nod it off, not paying any mind. It’s idle noise in the back until they hear a scoff, blinking the weariness from their eyes.

“The kingdom’s no good, y’hear? They’re worried about the deaths of one or two of their own and ignore the hundreds of deaths of their own people! Really, the royals have been taking and taking from our fields and forests. I say good riddance to that priss.”

The cold words hit Kayin like a wave. Only one person had died recently in their family, after all...

“What-“ They have to choke on their words, a pressure building up in their chest. “What did she do to you? I mean, nobody- nobody deserves to die, do they?”

Turning around with a sigh, the woman shakes her head. “She doesn’t have to do anything. So long as they’re in charge, we’ll keep losing our own children. The more nobles that keel over, the better it will be for us peasants, huh?” Her hand comes down, patting Kayin’s head.

Kayin doesn’t say anything more about it. How could they? Their sister was wonderful. But this woman...

She was nice. She doesn’t seem like the type to wish violence without reason.

Were they the bad ones?

The sound of a bowl being placed in front of them. It looked warm, homey... Nothing like the food served by the bumbling chefs, never uttering a word to them. When they bring the spoon to their lips, it’s overwhelming. It reeks of effort, of love, of... Everything they didn’t have. Kayin eats silently, trying to focus on their food.

“Are your parents expecting you soon?” The woman brings them out of their soup- induced trance, and they make themselves put it down and nod weakly.

“I- Thank you, for the food, but... I should probably go. I know the way...” And the woman looks at them, a sad smile on her face.

“Of course. I wouldn’t want my baby out longer than they must be. Keep safe, alright?”

They don’t want to leave. The warm lights, the heartfelt words, the homecooked food that gave them everything they had never experienced. But they bid her goodbye, trudging the path back home.

The smell of smoke still lingers as the castle comes into view. It’s home, they’ve never lived anywhere else.

Father never clues them in on the news outside, and their friends at the tavern like to say ‘when they’re older’. A nice lady like that, one who made such a warm meal for them, she can’t have lied about that, right? She would have no reason to; she certainly didn’t recognize Kayin.

They trudge home, circling the courtyard and climbing back in through their window. Home. It’s here. It has to be. In their own bed, surrounded by their own belongings, surrounded by their own life. But it doesn’t feel any different than the forest.

The wallpaper is darkened by the night, and if they try hard enough, they can see the towering trees in the patterns. The shadows cast, long and cool and shielding them from the heat. The sound of hacking as people collect their wood for the fires, the shots heard as civilians hunt for their next meal, the burning feeling behind them as they try to run. A sticky puddle on the ground, a flash of pale skin they have to ignore. A single ribbon, wrapped around the wrist of a familiar hand, reaching and grabbing them, encouraging them to bathe in the warmth.

The hot flood of liquid that they’d thought they’d run out of falling down their face. How many people have died like that? It wasn’t... fair. Nothing here was. Her sister was a wonderful person, destroyed by the brutality of life. Surely the peasants die more often.

They don’t know when they fell asleep, when they woke up, sat at the table and poked numbly at the plate of food as guards and chefs run by. Home. Cold, lonely, but its home. It’s where they belong.

Not in the cozy cottage, with the kind lady, or the guard that watches over them, or the thousands of ordinary people who suffer and work every day. Not in the forest, where their feet lead them after a butler takes their plate. Not in the new clearing, stained red even through efforts to clean it. Certainly not at the nearby stump, untying the silk ribbon. You should reuse old materials, after all. Wasting is bad for everybody.

Their home isn’t on the trail, run down from their almost-daily route. Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. Standing on the edge of the forest, staring at their home. Cold and lonely and always moving along, even if they try to leave it. The ribbon wrapped snugly on their wrist, like a gentle hand pulling them home. They leave the land, back to their home, where they belong.

Their nerves light up with the freezing rush, pulling them under the current. But it’s okay. This is home, despite the cold and the pain, and their gentle guide whispers into their ear as it leads them home.

Home is the panic as the days go by. The search that turns fruitless. How can the crown continue if there are no heirs? Home is the ceremony, held after a bloated body is found on a shore near a cottage, a silk ribbon wrapped around their wrist.

The warmth of the guide was gone, leaving Kayin alone again. But it’s alright this time, they can still see it. Lying on the ground, on the grass under the sky. She won’t talk to them. That’s okay, she has plenty of time to come around. They’re just happy to be here with her. They’re sure she is, too, under the blanket of disappointment they’d left over her.

Driven Insane

Charlotte Erisman

“Come home to me, Jenny,” Rick Davis begs, pressing his face against the phone as if trying hard enough would let him go through the screen and hold his wife. Rick sniffles, trying desperately not to cry.

“Okay, Rick. I’m at the store now, but I’ll walk home when I’m done. I’ll call my sister and then be home in maybe 15 minutes, okay?” The phone clicks as she hangs up, and the tension drains from Rick’s shoulders. He can do this. Clean up both himself and the house. Not screw this up again. The police officer stops by 30 minutes later. ************

Rick squints his eyes closed as he swallows the last pill in the bottle. There was no prescribed time to take them; he was just told to take it when his anxiety got especially bad. Rick figures this qualifies. Rick has never enjoyed swallowing pills –or going to the doctor’s appointments that are required to receive them. He always made Jenny come with him, uncomfortable with the questions doctors asked him, and even more so with the assumptions they made about him.

Rick grabs his wallet as he heads out the door, allowing himself a second to open it and look at the picture inside. A beautiful flaxen-haired woman wearing a soft maroon sweater stares back at him. She stands next to a man with close-cropped brown hair and a matching sweater. She smiles up at him, her hand resting on his chest. The picture is of Rick and Jennifer. They had taken Christmas pictures to send to her parents only six months before she died.

Rick drives to the parking lot where the buses are kept. Time to pick up the kids and take them to school. When he’s done with his route, he’ll allow himself to rewatch the same home movies of his wife that he watches every day. *************

Samantha is excited for school today. Her second-grade class is having show and tell! Her mom helped her pack her favorite stuffed animal, Bunny, in her backpack this morning, and Samantha can’t wait to show all her friends. Bunny is a fluffy pink rabbit with a similarly colored bow around its neck. As the bus pulls up to her house, Samantha yanks her hand out of her mom’s hand and flounces onto the bus, waving wildly at her before skipping to her seat. The bus pulls away from the curb, and she hugs her backpack to her chest, looking to see which of her friends are on the bus today. Alby and Emma are both sitting behind her, and she pokes her head around the seat to chatter excitedly with them about what they brought to show off in class today.

The bus door squeaks open once more and an older kid, James, gets on the bus, sliding into the seat right behind Mr. Davis –the bus driver. Samantha has always looked up to James, and not just in the literal sense. Whenever he was out with his friends and he saw her, James would take the time to say hi to her and wouldn’t even get embarrassed when his friends laughed about how he was friends with a second grader. He turns around to wave to her, before saying good morning to Mr. Davis.

“Morning, Mr. Davis!” James says, drawing Rick’s eyes up to the rear-view mirror to make eye contact.

“Good morning, James.” The teen turns around to make a face at some of the elementary schoolers, and they descend into a fit of giggles as he turns back around. While other kids his age might have been annoyed having to share a bus with kids half their age, James had always been kind to them. He never ignored them or said anything to hurt their feelings. Before Jenny died, they had been talking about having kids. Rick likes to think that if they had had one, they would have turned out like James.

The bus passes by the grocery store, and Rick’s breath catches in his chest. Despite it being a year since he lost his wife, it pains Rick every time he buys groceries and passes by the memorial made in her honor. A picture of Jennifer is pinned to a tree next to the store, and flowers –both old and new –are stacked at the base of it. Pictures clearly drawn by children are settled into the blossoms as well. All together it’s a beautiful and well-meaning gesture, but Rick burns at the sight of it. While the spot may not be exact, Rick knows that this is where his wife was struck down.

His breath remains unsteady even as they get further from it, and Rick fishes in his pocket for the ever-present orange bottle within it. He has no luck with that pocket, so he puts his hand back on the wheel and digs around in his left pocket instead. Triumphantly pulling the bottle out of his pocket, Rick frowns when he finds the bottle empty. Right. He took the last of it this morning. Rick rubs his chest as he tries to take a deep breath, meaning to soothe himself so the kids don’t notice. If only Jenny was here; she always knew how to calm him down.

Samantha hangs into the aisle as she talks to her friends, her blonde hair grazing the ground. She ignores Hope –a fifth grader –who is trying to tell her to sit upright in her seat and continues her conversation. The bus pulls up to a stop light, and Samantha looks up as she hears the car behind them honk. Samantha kneels on her seat and peeks over the top trying to see who it is. She gasps as she sees who it is, whispering excitedly to Alby and Emma that it’s her dad behind them! When he sees her looking, Samantha’s dad waves to her and her friends with a goofy smile on his face. He’s on his way to work and must have recognized the bus number. She turns around, ready to shout to Mr. Davis about how that’s her dad, when she notices he’s acting strange. Mr. Davis has always been a little weird, but Samantha figures that’s okay, because she’s weird, too.

His shoulders are tight and bunched up close to his ears. While he normally drives with only one hand on the wheel, Samantha notices they are both gripped tightly on the wheel. She only knows that because she always thought it looked so cool and her dad does the same thing. When the light turns green, Mr. Davis makes a right turn, glancing up into the rear-view mirror to see where her dad turns. Samantha hears James say something and sound confused, but she can’t make out what he says.

******************

“Mr. Davis, we don’t normally turn here. What’s going on?” Rick glances up at the rear-view mirror once more to confirm his eyes aren’t deceiving him. The man in the car behind him is someone who he will never forget. He has dark brown hair that falls into his eyes, which are a cruel ice blue, and his chin is tilted up in arrogance. John Wright. John Wright is not a resident of Brickton, but people from their sister city Glenville often commuted over for their jobs. The man looks up with a smirk and lazily raises his fingers in a wave. John Wright, aged 36; the man who killed Rick’s wife. His eyes are frozen on the rear-view mirror, and he’s paralyzed with a concoction of emotions. Anger, fear, hatred for the man who stole everything from him.

His heart burns as he drives; breaking all over again at the sight of John Wright. He should still be in prison. Despite having driven away from the scene, Wright was quickly caught by the police and sentenced to five years in prison. It had only been one. Rick glances at the mirror once more, and his breath catches. While one hand is wrapped lazily around the wheel, the other has a firm grip on a gun. He steadies his hand on the wheel and points it right at the bus in front of him. With a gasp, Rick slams his foot on the gas pedal, and speeds –as fast as a bus can, anyway –away from the car behind him. Wright’s smirk becomes delighted as he realizes the prey before him has started the chase. The car speeds up behind him, and Rick cannot help but glance up every few seconds to verify it’s still behind him. *******************

Samantha lets out a shriek as the bus takes a sharp turn, falling into the aisle. Alby and Emma help her up, pulling her into their seat so they can all huddle together. It’s a tight fit, but with the speed at which the bus is going, the comfort brought by each other is worth it. Samantha peeks over the seat and sees her dad looking on in confusion and a hint of fear. James is trying to reason with Mr. Davis at the front of the bus to no avail.

“Why is he doing this?” Emma cries, clutching on to Samantha’s hand. Her eyes are watery, and she sniffles pathetically, attempting to stifle her tears. Samantha is also on the verge of crying, but she tries to save face and be brave like her mom always says she is. Samantha peeks back over the seat and sees her dad lifting his phone to his ear. He mouths something to her, but she can’t make out what he says.

“It’ll be okay, Emma. My daddy is behind us, and he’ll tell Mr. Davis to stop.” Her voice is filled with a false certainty that somehow manages to convince the two kids beside her anyway.

“Where are we going, Mr. Davis?” The voice is like a gnat, buzzing in Rick’s ear as he tries to focus. James’ voice has increasingly switched from confusion to panic as Rick ignores him. At first, he had tried to understand why they were going in the wrong direction and then why he was going so fast. By now, he had switched to pleading for Rick to just stop. Please, Mr. Davis.

The kid means well, but Rick can’t help but be annoyed at the persistence that James has in taking charge and figuring out what is going on. He clutches the back of Rick’s seat –partly to make sure Rick hears him, and partly to keep his balance.

Rick briefly glances over his shoulder, past James’ frightened face, to see the other kids. They screamed at the initial burst of speed, but now they seem too scared to make even a peep. The elementary schoolers are huddled together, eyes bright with tears, and Rick knows he’ll have groveling to do when this whole mess is over. To the kids and their parents.

Eyes turned back to the road, Rick jerks the wheel to the side, sending the kids tumbling against the wall as he swerves around a car in his way. The car honks as he speeds past, but he spares them no more than a second glance. He can’t dwell on what would have happened if he had been a second slower. If he hadn’t turned around in time. Pictures flash in his mind:

A car crumpled like a tin can. Smoke and screams fill the air. Panicked kids spill out of the bus, further traumatized by the sight in front of them. A small, pink shoe on the ground right outside the wreckage; splattered with red. Red everywhere. Red on his hands and on his face. His hands are covered in blood. The blood of the family in the car in front of him. The blood of his wife.

Blinking away sudden tears, Rick returns to the present. No use dwelling on what could have happened. Not when the current situation is a more pressing matter. He’s too scared to look away from the road now after what almost occurred, so he fights against the instinctual urge to turn around and confront Wright.

Watching the boy who was like her older brother begging so desperately brought Samantha to tears more than the situation itself did. James had always been there for her; even showing up to her goldfish Bubbles’ funeral last week. He had babysat her on multiple occasions, and despite her protests that she didn’t need to be watched, Samantha always had fun when he came over. Whether they ran around outside on rainy days or hung out inside playing board games when it rained, she knew he would come up with a fun game to play.

Mr. Davis turns around to look at them, and she briefly makes eye contact with him. As a general rule, eye contact tends to make Samantha queasy, and she squirms at the thought of it. Now, however, she feels paralyzed as she stares into his eyes. The usually dark brown coloring looks almost black, and fear spikes through her as she sees this devilish counterpart to her typically fun-loving bus driver. He seems to stare right through her, seeing more than the scared kids they really are. He sees neither the whole nor its parts, but something else entirely.

Mr. Davis turns his head sharply back towards the front, and seconds later Samantha slams into Emma as they all tumble towards the window. Alby whimpers from her other side, and she only just stops herself from echoing the noise.

The bus is going faster than it was ever intended to, and Samantha pulls Bunny out in a weak attempt to comfort herself. She pets the soft pink fur of her stuffed animal, burying her face in it as she leans into her friends for comfort. The bus rocks slightly due to the speed, and each shake and tremor feels like the ground is rocking beneath her.

Despite the bus rocking like a boat on the ocean, James begins to make his way towards them. She hears him stumbling down the aisle, polyester squeaking as he grips the backs of the seats. He tumbles to the floor just as he reaches them, and he grasps the support to their seat to keep his balance instead of standing once more. He checks in with Hope first, seeing as she is by herself in the seat across from Samantha. She shakily pushes her glasses up her nose and reassures him that she’s fine. James graciously ignored the tear marks on her cheeks.

As James turns to check on their trio, Samantha lets herself fall to the floor and crawl over to James. His face fills with surprise as she clings to him, before he accepts the hug and buries his wet face in her hair. She begins to really cry now, sobs wracking her small body.

“It’s okay, Sam. Mr. Davis just isn’t feeling well. I’ll get him to pull over and then you can go see your dad. That’s him behind us, right?” Samantha knows he recognizes her dad, but she nods anyway. His free hand holds the back of her head, and he looks up at Alby and Emma who have squished themselves together against the window. “Are you two okay? You are all being very brave today.” His smile is shaky, but they nod along with him anyway; James is trying his best to comfort them, but their fear is reflected in his eyes.

James lets go of Samantha and she climbs back on the seat with her friends. He looks back to Hope then. “Hey, Hope, right? Since you’re a big kid, I’m trusting you to look after them. This will all be over soon, I promise.” Hope’s eyes are wide as she nods. She’s barely older than them, but she will try her best to do what James says.

Samantha rubs her eyes, desperately willing the tears away. Don’t leave, she wants to beg, but she knows if anyone can get through to Mr. Davis it’s him. Samantha remembers when Mrs. Davis died, because they had a different bus driver for a whole week. Ms. Rita was a mean lady. She had yelled at Samantha for leaning in the aisle and made her sit at the front of the bus.

It was only after Mr. Davis came back that James started sitting behind him. At first, neither said much, but as time went on Mr. Davis started to brighten up again. There were still days where his mouth was set in a seemingly permanent frown, but the frequency of those bad days had decreased over time.

With one final smile in her direction, James stands up and makes his way back to the front of the bus.

James has been with the younger kids for a while now, and the respite from the endless questions is a relief. Able to focus more on driving without constant chatter, Rick has been able to steer clear of any other cars or obstacles in his way. Rick’s chest still aches with every breath he takes, and the adrenaline rush isn’t helping. Pressure is building in Rick’s head, and he feels like he’s about to burst. He just wants today to be over.

James collapses into the seat behind Rick once more, and mentally Rick sighs. His headache is about to get so much worse. Surprisingly he remains silent, and Rick glances at him through the mirror suspiciously. His meeting with the younger kids seems to have helped him regain his confidence.

The road Rick is on is long and straight; nowhere for him to turn and lose Wright. The bus is going as fast as it can, which isn’t as fast as Wright’s car can go, yet he seems content to stay behind him. Like he’s chasing him into a corner. Rick looks up and accidentally makes eye contact with Wright through the rear-view mirror, just as he hears the crack of a gunshot. The bullet shatters Wright’s windshield, cuts through the metal of the bus, before imbedding in one of the seats. Rick jerks the wheel as he turns his head to look back in shock.

The kids scream again, and Wright looks angry now as he stares through the broken shards of his windshield. He presses down harder on the gas, inching closer and closer to the bus in front of him. The increase in speed means the wind sends the glass shards flying backwards towards Wright, but the man hardly flinches. Most of them miss, but there are small cuts left on his face –including one in his left brow, making him a gruesome sight as a small trickle of blood trails down the side of his face. His teeth are stained red with his own blood, but it’s as if he doesn’t notice. Like nothing but his rage and the gun in his hand are real.

The kids make no outward reaction to the gunshot like he thought they would. After such a traumatic morning Rick can’t blame them for being almost numb to the horrors that keep revealing themselves.

After what feels like an eternity, the bus reaches the end of the road, making a turn onto another backroad. Rick is trying to avoid densely populated areas because of Wright tailing him. The community was so kind to him after everything with his wife, and nothing could make him put them in harm's way. Not his neighbors or his neighbors' children who are riding his bus. Rick hears James hushing the others and breathes a sigh of relief as he can focus better in the relative quiet.

“What is it, Mr. Davis?” The expression on James’ face confuses Rick. His eyes are sad instead of fearful, and he looks almost sympathetic.

“What do you mean ‘what is it’?” He scoffs, eyes darting between James and the road. Sweat drips down his forehead and he distractedly wipes it away. His breath is heavy in his chest; a leaden weight that crushes his lungs and anchors him in his seat.

“Stop the bus, Mr. Davis.” James’ voice is a careful monotone, sounding almost rehearsed.

“What?” Rick’s disbelief is evident in his tone. Stopping the bus would be the same as saying, “Here you go, Wright, why don’t you kill us all?” It would do nothing but accelerate their deaths. James is crazy if he seriously thinks that is a viable option.

“Stop the bus. Whatever you think is happening is wrong.” His insistence almost makes Rick pause, but one quick confirming glance in the mirror proves James wrong.

.

“Look behind us kid, th-” James interrupts him.

“No, YOU look behind us! Really look. NO ONE IS CHASING US!”

Rick’s headache is building by the second, and he fights the urge to squint his eyes shut against the pain. His jaw aches as his teeth clench reflexively, and the siren call of a nap is all he can think of.

“Stop messing around James. You’re being distracting and if I can’t focus, we could crash.” It’s a low blow, using their safety to win his argument with James, but Rick knows it is effective. If there was anyone more concerned about these kids than him, it would be James.

Seeming fully convinced of his method's effectiveness, Rick ignores James to focus back on the road. He thinks James has given up until he sees James lunge towards him in his peripheral vision.

The two of them begin to grapple for control of the wheel, James trying his best to pull them onto the shoulder while Rick tries to keep them steady and not crash into anything.

“Let go of the wheel, James! You’re endangering not only our lives, but all the kids on this bus!” As if to emphasize his point, a chorus of screams echoes from the back as the bus swerves in and out of the lane.

“Just pull over Mr. Davis!” James; voice is panicked yet his hands remain steady as they pull the wheel with all his might. He leans his whole body into it, hoping gravity will aid him in his goal. They struggle valiantly for an additional minute before something in James snaps. He pries Rick’s fingers off the wheel and yanks.

It almost appears to be slow motion as James’ eyes widen in fear as he goes flying down the steps of the bus and slams his head into the door. His body crumples to the floor, and Rick’s head slams into the steering wheel. The bus shudders to a stop against a tree by the road, and the last thing Rick sees is the younger kids crowding around James’s limp form.

The paramedics said the wound was superficial and that head wounds bleed a lot, but as James holds the patch of gauze to the back of his head, he can’t help but think they lied to him. The scene before him looks straight out of a movie, and it feels like he is watching everything happen from outside his body. Like an outsider.

His view from the back of the ambulance is limited, but James can make out a somewhat clear picture of what is happening. The front of the bus is wrapped around the tree, and the hood is still smoking slightly. While the area is taped off, cars have surrounded them, and frantic parents are calling out for their equally frightened children. Each family that reunites is announced by an eager shout of Mommy! Daddy! And the relieved exclamation of oh thank God baby, you’re okay. The police officers are trying to stop parents from coming through but do nothing to stop the elementary schoolers from running under the tapes and into the arms of their loved ones.

Footsteps approach James, and he winces as he looks up at who is approaching as the dried blood in his hair pulls on his so called ‘minor injury’. The man is clearly in his 40s and has blond hair and striking green eyes.

“Hey James, good to see you kid.” Balanced on his hip is Samantha, her face hiding in her father's neck, searching for comfort. He extends his hand as if meaning to shake James’ hand before seemingly thinking better of it as he notices the bandage being held to his head.

“Hello Mr. Jones. How’s Sam doing?” She peeks up at James at the sound of her name, but quickly burrows back under her dad’s chin. The two men make conversation for a couple awkward minutes, and James almost wishes he was back on the bus just so he would not be having this conversation. After a couple minutes of hearing gratitude and complaints about how if he had known a nutjob was driving the bus he would never have allowed Sam on in the first place, James looks up and sees a familiar figure being escorted over to a cop car. James excuses himself abruptly and walks over to investigate.

“Hey kid you shouldn’t be over here,” one of the officers warns, trying to block Mr. Davis from his view.

“Please, I need to talk to him. I want him to know I’m not mad at him. Mr. Davis needs help sir. Please don’t treat him like a criminal. He just needs someone to help him." James’ voice is choked with tears by the time he is done, and the cop’s eyes soften as he steps aside so James can see his bus driver.

“James!” Mr. Davis exclaims, eyes suspiciously bright as he leans in to say hello to the boy before realizing his greeting may not be welcome. He visibly deflates, leaning back against the door as if to create more distance between the two of them.

“It’s alright Mr. Davis. I know you’re not a monster. You’d never hurt us.” His voice remains confident despite the flicker of fear that fills James as he remembers the expression on his face as they fought for control of the bus. Mr. Davis's eyes were glazed over as if he wasn’t seeing what everyone else was. Spittle flew from his mouth as he argued with James. The man had been eerily similar to the neighborhood stray dog –Peter Barker, who had rabies last year.

Drawing himself back to the present, Mr. Davis couldn’t appear more different. His eyes are bright and are widened ever so slightly with the horror of a man who can’t believe what he’s done. The angry set of his mouth has softened to a downward curve; ashamed and lost.

“I almost did, James. I almost became as bad as the man I was trying to protect you from. You know that’s why I did it, right? With Jenny –Mrs. Davis –so fresh on my mind, I felt trapped by the memory of the man who stole her from me. I was trying not to let you down like I let her down. Look where that got me.” His face contorts into a humorless smile as he holds his hands up in surrender, the handcuffs jingling together.

“It’s not fair, Mr. Davis. You don’t deserve to be locked up for trying to protect us. You aren’t a bad guy!” James sounds whiny to his own ears, but Mr. Davis only smiles at him. His expression is one of pride and is the kind of happy-sad that only adults can achieve.

James launches himself towards Mr. Davis, and the man lets out a surprised grunt as the teen wraps his arms around him. He buries his face into the older man’s shoulder like Samantha had, feeling like a lost child.

“I’m so proud of you, James. You’re the son I always wanted, but the one Jennifer never got the chance to have. She wouldn’t have wanted this for you.” He whispers this into James’s ear, and before he can respond, the officer from before pulls him away.

“Time’s up kid. We have to get him out of here. Go home.” James struggles against the man, trying to get back to Mr. Davis, but the man’s partner pushes Mr., Davis into the backseat and slams the door shut. As the car slowly pulls away from the curb, James can’t bring himself to look away.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he turns around to see another police officer, this one with dark brown hair and ice blue eyes. The man’s grip tightens, and James stares up at him in confusion.

“I think you should come with me kid. We have much to talk about.” As the man begins to pull him away, James looks back towards the police car. Right before it turns the corner, James sees Mr. Davis staring in horror at them as he pounds on the glass, mouth open in a silent scream.

Ace Simms

In the beginning, the dwelling was beautiful—but even more so, was she. Her name — was Maurine. She was kind, she was loving, she was nature’s greatest treasure. All commons people live around her and it should be their greatest pleasure. She resides in a place as pleasing as herself, it’s a lone white house surrounded by flora — Tall trees enclosing making the world seem much smaller — overgrown vines, clinging around brick and mortar as if they belonged. And not soon after she came to town, she saw the house — then it was owned. So, she managed this house for many a years — she shalt not hear a word about her new treasure, for it was her greatest delight.

But through the changing seasons, the people noticed a strangeness and eeriness that creeped onto them — it seeped through their veins and sank into their skin. No one could explain this new phenomenon. Those who got chills from its everlasting beauty now received fearful warnings intuitively.

Maurine lived a life where nothing could stop her. She kept herself clean, mysterious, and proper. Those who watched from afar couldn’t help but admire her, as she knew that if she was around, no water could ever rock her. And it didn’t. So, everything was as it was meant to be.

her prized possession displayed in the window — an hourglass. Every day when the sand fell to the bottom, she flipped it back over to start her day anew. The time slowly drained and ran out the top, but the more she flipped it, the quicker it stopped. As the days got longer, the ravens start to crow — a repetitive, cracking screech in which the melody will go sound out the painful yet alluring sound of crow. If a Passersby heard the song it will act as a lullaby — creating a drowsy, conflicted feeling within those who listened.

First it was a spider — A tiny Black Widow crawling between the grass and her window. She heard the crow song and became enthralled — by its enchanting melody it was now impossible to move along.

So along she went with her tiny black arms up to the first step, where she crept through the house and wept — amazed by its daunting fragility. As she walked, the crows' call attracts more like her, so then came the beetles, the maggots, and the flies, the potato bugs and the ones we don’t know but they have the beady eyes. Crawling through they make nests within this new hide.

She noticed these strange creaking and chittering sounds but brushed it off for the source, could not be found. She noticed the way it rotated and sounds throughout the large rooms which should not make a sound. As the days went on it kept getting more aggressive, frenetic, and loud. She became paranoid and started to frequent the outside less and less, but little did she know she was invaded by pests. Her Tresure began to be eaten without her maintaining it, there was no one to keep it. She knew not of the bugs in her home, nor of the bugs eating at her house, but she noticed the house’s quality slowly going down. Its overall health deteriorated and so then, did she. She collapsed and was never to be seen.

Outsiders didn’t know what was happening within, nor how the quality decreased with exponential speed. They only knew that the last sightings of Maurine were very truly frightening. She was mangled, her hair tangled, purple bags under her eyes. There were signs of life within her house, but eventually, she stopped being seen out and about. And the lights were out for 2 or three.so the people came concerned. Upon trying to enter,. The floorboards were flipped and hollow centered. There was a rotted meat smell that they couldn’t quite place even so they kept walking a steady pace

Walking up the stairs they found light at the end of the hall, Maurine’s name was called but there was no answer at all – only a faint buzzing sound — there stood Maurine’s body — It was no longer her, instead bug after bug crawling on top of each other, eating each other, screaming and buzzing while eating one another. It wasn’t soon before they ran, calling the command to burn this treasure down.

The Black Road

Kora Niebel

Under in the mountain gorge, sat a quiet town. Not, an ordinary one. One of stone and wood. Rotting where it sat. Nobody came, nobody left. Like an unspoken rule that wouldn’t leave the town, all while strangling it’s occupants. To Issac, it was home. Not a good one. Probably. But a home nonetheless. Ghost stories used to be passed down from generation to generation here. All of them worst than the last. Even when Isaac grew up, he wasn’t so sure they were always just stories. Because they followed him. No matter where he ran or hid to. He couldn’t run forever now could he? They would wait. Yes, wait. Patiently.

But there were no monsters. They weren’t real. Issac was sure of it. Issac pushed open the gate of his childhood house. Walking up the pathway, a stepping stone every now and then. He came to its old wooden door, and pushed it open. Issac turned his head around, as if to catch a glimpse of one of his relatives passing by. But no one greeted him of course. The place was falling apart. So he kept going, down the walkway. It felt like old ghosts watched his steps. Stopping at the family Mural. Issac felt the walls of the wood, this structure that housed his family for decades. Each life came and gone. He looked upon the wall, wondering about memories of the ancient past, and upon the tree painted into the wall, each branch hung with pictures of those who lived and died here.

His family has always been. Peculiar. . . It used to be big. But, one by one. They all met strange and untimely ends.

Until it was just him. What?

…

Issac stared at the pictures. Going up from his mother Petra, and father James, to his Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Merci. His grandparents Rudy and Diana Hollow, and so on. Each picture held a memory, one that made the people in them look trapped. As if they all had a secret to hold.

And his parents? Even they seemed to have left him alone. Still, his parents were good people. Maybe.

Issac ran his hand over the tree. Dust moving chaotically as he did so. “Everything has an end, It’s silver lining stops here.” What did that mean to him? It was engraved in the tree painting. Must be another family secret. Issac wondered if it meant that this house was something supernatural. Like all the ghost stories he was told, there was always a place where the bad things stayed at. A tragic event that trapped them within it’s walls. Was his family the bad thing? What was his family’s story?

It comes with time.

His parents left him the house, and the house creaked with every step he made.

No. They didn’t leave him. It was an accident. Issac kept walking. Down the hallways. Exploring the places as if it were a place lost to time. His parents had left him a note. Like a small clue to lead to a bigger puzzle. But Issac never wanted to be here. To have anything to do with his parents even when something called to him to figure this out. He looked down at the note.

“Run Rabit, pick a path. Each step greater, forever in our past.”

He didn’t understand, so he just pocketed it. Issac searched the house, stepping into the kitchen, he looked around. Grabbing things. Issac stopped at a chair. Putting his hands on the top of it. It felt old and weak. A sort of softness to it. Termites maybe. Issac continued to walk, heading upstairs to his old room. He stopped at his door, unlocking it, then with a familiar lift and push forward it opened. Issac stared at the marks the door had made on the floor, and the slightly untouched space that sat empty for at least a few years now.

He is overcome with grief for what is lost.

Issac didn’t notice, but when tears stared rolling down his face, he didn’t bother wiping or stopping them, he didn’t care. No, he couldn’t. Not now anyways.

Because this house feeds on grief.

After snooping around his room, packing stuff. Heading downstairs and continuing throughout the house for a while, Issac decided it was time to put the time behind him. His heart wasn’t okay, being here felt. Draining. Besides, it was too cold. That note itched at the back of his mind again. So he took it out, giving it another look. He even paced around the house. Not knowing what to do with himself. The note. The note. What does it mean? He didn’t know.

But he couldn’t shake that feeling. Looking at the note.. That he needed. To run.

When everything went black. He wasn’t sure how he ended up on the bus. Maybe his memory blurred. But regardless, what could he make of this? This note. The paintings. All the cryptic messages left and lost. He held his head in frustration, why couldn’t he just get one straight answer! It wasn’t fair! Why him..?

It's not fair.

In times like these. He’d go to his aunt charlotte. She’d seemingly always had the answers.

But she didn’t really. Did she.

What are you doing?

Telling the story.

That’s not how it went. Was it?

It didn’t matter. He just bottled it up and focused. It was getting late. Issac needed some rest. Even if it was on a bus. Isaac would ride as far as it would take him. He didn’t want to think about it. Any of it. It was an accident.

Even if he knew it wasn’t.

As he fell asleep. He dreamed of blackness. Of monsters clawing at his neck and face. It was as if he could almost feel the frostbite gripping his throat and..

He woke up.

Oh.

He rubbed his eyes. Still feeling exhausted. Maybe more drained than before, but sleep was still sleep. Once he got off the bus, he quickly checked into a motel. It would house him. At least for tonight. He is.. Unsure what is out there..

But, deep down, in some little pocket he knows. At least. Of something. That something was there.

As he was walking to his motel room, he could feel the hairs on his neck stand. Like he was being watched. As he ripped his head around. He could only see the motel office, the parking lot. And straight rocky road. And that flickering yellow streetlight. Isaac couldn’t help but watch it. But the more he did, the colder he got, until his hands and neck felt ice cold. He squinted. Was someone there? He could’ve sworn he saw.. something. His face scrunched. He couldn’t tell if he was scared, or angry. Maybe sad?

No, he was just tired. But there was definitely a face there. In the woods. A smile. He felt his head, he was going crazy wasn’t he? He put his hands in his pockets and found some coins. As he took one out, he didn’t remember putting them in. Again. He felt the note. Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it. But he couldn’t ignore it any longer. He looked back up at the streetlight and that uneasy feeling hit him.

Why did he run?

He knows why.

It was flickering again.

But this time, for a second, there was something there. Something tall. Taller than those trees. Isaac felt his heart drop as he stepped back. But his legs were locking up. It was there again. It reached out, as if to touch him, that face. Isaac couldn’t look away. For fear if he did. The air felt thin. Suffocating. That face. It eyes so wide that you could probably see it’s sockets. Bags under its eyes like melting skin. But a dark sick grey as if it drowned itself and became a tree so nobody.. Nobody would find it’s body. It’s eyes shook unnaturally.

Until it’s small smile, turned to a grin. And a slow, crack. Was heard. Tilting its crooked head. Crack. Tilt. Crack. Tilt. Isaac could hear his breathing harsh and rugged. It was still reaching Run.

His heart, he felt his heart. Isaac ripped his eyes was from the creature and ran. To his room. No fumbling the keys, in, unlock, open. And slammed the door. He breathed a breath of relief. Still terrified yet maybe safer. He turned his head, and walked over and closed the curtains. After a second, he peaked through. It was gone. He felt immediate dread. But maybe, it’s for the better.

He sighed. And started setting up, taking his things out. It wasn’t much. But as he began to unpack. He fumbled his bag, and a newspaper fell out. As he put down the bag, he picked up the newspaper. Flipping through it. Most of the pages normal, or scribbled out. Few words were underlined or such. But, how did this even get in his bag? He could feel his stomach drop again. That unease. Isaac felt the air suddenly start to chill. As he turned his head to the door. That thing, he forgot about it.. It, it couldn’t open doors.. could it? It looked so human.. Yet..

He could hear loud booming steps outside. Under the door, the luminescent lights of the porches that buzzed with a hum, started to flicker. Panic set into his chest.

Something had come to collect. But what did he have to give?

Issac ripped his head around and started searching through his bag desperately. Something. Anything. It was at the door. Scratching at it. Slowly. Turning the knob. Until the door squeaked opened. Scratching against the floor. He dropped his bag and fell, putting his arm over his face, he remembered something. Something from long ago. As it crept closer, he grabbed one of those golden coins from his pockets. And held it up. Praying in his head that the stories were right.

A trade.

He felt the point of it’s nails drag across his held up palm, and slowly took the coin. A cracked and distorted voice came over, deep and watery. “Trade.”

He looked up, and it was gone. His pounding heart started to ease. Looking at the open door. And in front of his feet. A present wrapped in more newspaper, and a red bow. Isaac sighed in relief, falling back and taking a much needed breath, one he didn’t realize he’d been holding while he shook. He took a moment, before sitting up again. Pushing to a stand, and closing the door once more, making sure it was locked. As he drew the curtains, his head turned back to the box. It’s red bow seemingly illuminated dangerously in the dark. He strode past it and turned on the lamplight by the bed, going back over to pick it up. He stood motionless for a while as he held it. Issac unfolded the paper carefully Anything could be a clue at this point.

The voice was back again. But he couldn’t focus on it now. Once he got through the paper. He saw it was another news article. Of his little sunken town. He always saw these papers. In the boxes near the barber shop,

waiting to be taken. Nobody ever needed one, they already knew what they said. They’d only take them so they could toss them in the fire in the winter. Nobody cared about the outside world. Because in more ways than one. Nobody could leave. But Isaac did. He wanted to leave, to escape. He focused on the box itself. His mouth felt dry. What in the world could he expect as a gift from a monster like that? Issac took a breath and opened it. His fear turning quickly to confusion. It had a Crystal Key and next to it, a mossy green colored stone with a hole in its core. The whole thing sanded perfectly. He looked around in the box. Nothing else to be found, but a note.

“Unlock your past, to open your present. Use the Key, to see the truth.”

Another puzzle. Issac was starting to tire of puzzles. He took the key from it’s place in the box. For some reason he found it weird. Looking back from the key to the note and back again. In all honesty just giving him the key was looking suspicious. He turned it over in his hands, feeling it’s glass exterior. Breakable. Yea, surely it would break if he used it? Then what was it here for? He put it back down into the box and grabbed the stone. Why the stone? He sighed and turned it over in his palm. Smooth and cold to the touch. Isaac then sighed and closed his fist around it. He turned his attention away for just a second, then felt a pain like a pin poking his skin and dropped the stone on the floor. He held his hand to his chest, and when he looked, there was a small pinpoint bleed on his finger. He stared at it bewildered. Then to the stone on the floor, carefully then bent down and picked it up. A little drop of a red spot was.. Inside the stone now. He looked back to his finger, and the wound had disappeared. Isaac felt dread for what he’d gotten himself into. That future felt so unsure. His gut didn’t feel right doing any of this. He wanted to keep running. Maybe If he got far enough away from here, he could be freer. He sunk in his seat, his head low. Who was he kidding. They’d just follow him.

For now, he needed rest. He can’t go back now after he’d just paid for a room.

He didn’t dream. What was there to dream about? How ironic, that he couldn’t even get away from his bizarre reality even in his dreams. So, when he got up, he still felt exhausted. But enough energy to function slightly. Isaac pushed off the bed, and started to put things back, and clean. Once he took a shower and got dressed. He set off back to the motel office. And returned the keys. The lady there only gave him a nod. Understanding to some level. Somehow. She had kind eyes. He wished he could’ve said more before the bus trip back home.

What would he have said? What would you have said? If you knew, you were facing death. And could no longer run.

Untitled

Ryan Bancells

Thunder rolled across the evening sky like the blast of some great horn, slicing through the humid air like a dagger. Something about the evening seemed foreboding. Perhaps it was the absence of birdsong, something which frequented these areas of the continent of Falonde. Perhaps it was the stillness of the air, the vanishing of the wind which normally swept through the tops of the tall grasses as far as the eye could see. Or perhaps it was the man who was making his way through the plain towards the walled city in the distance.

The man had an aura of darkness about him, from the clothes he wore to the frigid hatred radiating from his stormy gray eyes. He wore a black leather tunic and pants & had a scabbard containing a longsword strapped to his belt. The sheathed blade was obscured by a black cloak and hood which swished from side to side with every step he took, like the folded wings of a hawk. Beneath the hood, he wore a black mask which obscured his nose and mouth, leaving only those cold orbs visible, glaring out from the shadows of the hood with fury towards the whole world, and all the people in it who had wronged him.

The cloaked man was known to the people of the West as The Black Hand, Conqueror of the Kingdom of Damagius. Long ago, he had been known as Lejon Kalorrix. Back when he was still pure, back when he was happy... The Hand shook his head in annoyance. That name, those times... were dead now. He couldn’t allow the past to stop him. Not when the future was within his grasp.

As he approached the gate, a man in leather armor and a metal helmet stepped out of the shade of a tree, bearing a spear. A guard. The Hand had dealt with these types before. Bored of their jobs, tired of rations and sweltering heat, spearpoints dull. Indeed, as the man stepped forward, The Hand noticed bags under his eyes.

“Sandin Dalwyn, Sergeant of the Guard. State y’name an’ business,” the guard intoned in a bored voice.

“Kalvar,” muttered The Hand, using the name he had taken on years ago as a disguise. “Kalvar Dhan. Emissary from the Ki’thorik Lands.”

“Ki’thorik, eh? Lemme see y’papers.”

“Papers?”

“Yeh! Papers, identification, call ‘em whatcha will. I gotta see ‘em to letcha in.”

“I was not given papers,” The Hand said slowly. “No identification, no entry, ambassador or not.”

“I see. Well then, Sergeant, I may have other ways of identifying myself.” “Do tell?” muttered the guard, beginning to move back to the shade of his tree. It had been a long day for Sergeant Sandin Dalwyn, and he was ready to go home.

The Hand reached for his left glove and slowly began to pull it off, revealing the distinctive feature which had earned him his name- where the palm and fingers should have been was a cloud of black smoke in the shape of a hand, swirling and flickering like a bonfire of darkness. The guard gasped in fear and shock.

“The Black Ha-”

The sergeant didn’t even have time to breathe as The Hand reached out, smothering his face with the trademark appendage. Dark tendrils curled around his face and body, squeezing the very life from his body. The sergeant slumped to the ground. Whether he was unconscious or dead, The Hand was unsure of, but in his experience, it was normally the latter.

The element of surprise was gone now. Already The Hand could see guards amassing on the walls, nocking arrows to bowstrings. It was time to attack. He drew his longsword from the scabbard. The sword was called Varzolis, and it was one of the toughest and most powerful in the entire world of Shakal’makon. Its starsteel blade gleamed like a mirror, but not in a way that portrayed light. It gleamed as the eyes of a killer gleam, as the full moon gleams above a wolf pack on the hunt. This was a deadly gleam. It was a gleam that hundreds of stout fighting men had seen flash before their eyes as they took their last breaths. The hilt was skillfully crafted of onyx and wrapped with the hide of a leodrake which had once tried to attack him. The leodrake, needless to say, was dead now. The Hand raised the blade, point upwards, above his head.

“Minsanis taranend!” he yelled. Dark clouds began to amass above his head, swirling and churning like a storm-tossed sea. The wind howled, whipping around his cloak like so many spectral soldiers. The polished black pommel stone at the hilt of the blade began to glow with a dark purple aura. Lightning flashed like his swordblade through the sky. He became aware of dark figures amassing around him, rising up from the tall grasses and drawing inky black blades. He grinned beneath the mask. His army had arrived.

He brought the sword down in front of him with a yell of anger. A bolt of lightning slashed down from the clouds, sundering the gates into splinters and scorching the stone entryway. He turned to his army. A mass of thousands of dark, shadowy figures, all bearing swords, their skin impervious to weaponry and acidic to touch. They stood silently, awaiting his command. Varzolis flashed through the air, reflecting another bolt of lightning. The future was within his grasp. “Attack!” he screamed over the howling wind.

The tide of dark warriors rushed forward, flowing around him and through the gate like a tsunami, crashing through the marketplace like a flash flood. Houses began to burn as more lightning crackled down from the clouds. The Hand laughed, reveling in the destruction. But ten guards had mobilized - and they bore starsteel spears, the one thing that could injure his soldiers. The Hand heard a triumphant yell from the streets in front of the palace. The guards were rallying as his troops retreated, charging forward towards the fleeing ranks. The Hand gritted his teeth in anger. No. Not now, not when he was so close!

He began to mutter an incantation under his breath, words so ancient and forbidden that no one to this day remembers them. His eyes grew dark with the shadow of evil, and deep purple mist began to spill from his hands, wreathing the surrounding area in smoke. His voice grew louder as his anger grew, reaching a terrifying crescendo which chilled the blood of even the bravest guard that day. As he spoke the final word of the incantation, the dark hand flashed upwards, sharp tendrils of shadow curling out towards the guards. Like hurled knives, they pierced each man through the heart. The guards collapsed to the ground, unmoving. The Hand began to levitate into the air above the rapidly spreading cloud of mist, inadvertently putting himself in clear view of the archers atop the wall. Distantly, a command rang out.

“Fire!”

A dozen arrows soared upwards from the wall towards him. He glanced toward them, and each one broke into splinters, hurtling downwards into the fog. The dark hand twitched again, and every archer on the walls fell dead. The Hand was level with the window now, and slowly began to drift towards it, his cloak fluttering in the wind behind him. He reached the window, from which the prism-bearing man had retreated, just as the blanket of smoke below reached the walls.

A wordless scream of fury ripped loose from his throat, and the window shattered into a thousand shards. Another yell, and the shards froze in midair before flying into the room beyond. Screams echoed throughout the cavernous great hall which had once borne the window as two dozen guards were slashed across the face, arms, and legs by the glass. At the far end of the room, a glowing, semitranslucent dome sat, covering the pair of gilded thrones which sat upon a dais there. Within it stood a man with brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard, arms held high. Duke Raynac Benlls. Behind him stood his wife, Duchess Salea Ffraxa, a beautiful woman with her long, blond hair topped by a circlet of gold. The Hand swished Varzolis through the air, and the half-sphere vanished. The duke gritted his teeth and spoke.

“You. I know of you. The one they call The Black Hand. With good reason, it seems.”

“Perhaps, Duke Benlls, you know more of me than you realize.” Indeed, though the duke knew it not, The Hand was rather familiar with him. Long ago, when he had still been named Lejon Kalorrix, he had been a hero. A wielder of light and magic. A master swordsman, trained by none other than the famous Duke Raynac Benlls. Raynac had been his mentor and friend, guiding him along the path of light and justice. Then the fateful day had come. Lejon and Raynac were engaged in battle with the encroaching forces of darkness, Raynac taking on a horde of soldiers, Lejon and his sword, Rapaxios, facing down an enormous dark dragon. Lejon fought bravely, but in a moment of weakness, the monstrous claw of the beast swung downward, slicing off Lejon’s left hand, taking his sword, Rapaxios, with it. The blade had clattered away beneath the body of the gigantic monster. Without the source of his magic, Lejon was overwhelmed by the dragon’s breath and collapsed to the ground, unconscious. As he lay there, the battle still raging around him, he had a vision.

Raynac found him on the ground as the dark forces retreated, awakening him and helping him to his feet. They returned to camp, and Raynac bound his handless wrist. He began learning to fight right-handed over the next month, until the forces of darkness again returned to attack them. As the pair strode forward towards the dark horde, Raynac began to speed up. As the duke approached the dark horde, the lead soldier called a halt, dropping to one knee and bowing his head.

“Your command, milord?”

Lejon stared in horror as Raynac waved his hand.

“Rise, my faithful servant.”

The soldier returned to a battle stance, staring over Raynac’s shoulder at Lejon.

“A new ally, milord?”

Raynac shook his head and turned to face Lejon, his eyes inky black pools of shadow. “No, Commander. An enemy.”

Raynac pulled a dagger from his boot and lunged at Lejon, stabbing him through the chest before he had time to react. Lejon slumped to his knees, dark blood pooling around his legs. The dagger withdrew from his ribcage, and he collapsed to the ground. Raynac leaned down to Lejon’s ear.

“You always were a fool, Kalorrix. You never knew true power. And now... you never will.”

Lejon had blinked wearily as details began to swim into view. Where was he? Where was Raynac? Suddenly, memories came flooding back into his head. The battle, his hand, Raynac betraying him- had it all been a dream? He’d tried to sit up and take stock of his surroundings but felt a tug on his wrist. He had glanced up at it, for he was spread-eagle on a stone slab, and gasped. His arms and legs had been chained down, he was disarmed, and his armor was gone. The rest of the room gradually came into focus. He was in a dark stone chamber, lit by a singular torch. Moss grew on the walls, and the silence was broken only by a steady drip-drip of water from between two bricks. He lay in the darkness for a few minutes, contemplating his situation, when a sudden scraping of metal on metal echoed throughout the room, and light flooded his vision.

The ceiling, he had then realized, was a large metal grate covered by a rusty sheet of iron, which was being shifted to reveal the enormous maw of a huge black dragon. Its scales shone like a moonless midnight, and its eyes, beady and shadow-filled, scrutinized him like those of an enormous crow. It had been then that he realized it had not been a dream. Raynac had betrayed him and left him for dead, and he had been found by agents of the shadow dragon, Vane, upon whom he now looked. Vane exhaled, and a dark mist filled the room, clouding his vision. Through the smoke he heard the dragon’s voice, rolling like a bass drum note.

Lejon had seen then that the dragon was right. The smoke had already penetrated his lungs, and he was running out of air. What he couldn’t see then was the black shadow filling his eyes as he nodded and began to speak the oath. “You are the mighty hero, the one they call Lejon Kalorrix?” Lejon had let out a cough in response as the fog filled his lungs.

“I am not one to bandy words, mighty hero, so I will give you this ultimatum. If you wish to live, you will swear fealty to me, here and now. You will do as I command and obey my every word. In return, I will gift you powers like you have never known, enough to take revenge on your former friend, Benlls. Otherwise, I can close this grate once again. You will suffocate before long within this fog, and I will leave your corpse here to rot until I need another vacant cell. The choice is yours.”

Lejon had seen then that the dragon was right. The smoke had already penetrated his lungs, and he was running out of air. What he couldn’t see then was the black shadow filling his eyes as he nodded and began to speak the oath.

The memory flashed through The Hand’s head in an instant, no more than a blink, but a blink was enough to fully renew his anger towards the duke. Seething with rage, The Hand levitated a portion of the bloodstained shards of glass from the floor, condensing them into a razor-sharp javelin, which hovered before him in midair like a lightning bolt frozen in time. He reached out and grasped it, scrutinizing the spearhead. He raised it, poised to throw, and glared down at the duke and his cowardly wife.

“The future... is within my grasp.”

He hurled the weapon downward towards the duchess. Raynac moved to throw up another shield but was too late. The javelin stabbed through her midriff and continued into the gilded throne, shattering on impact. A gasp emerged from her throat as she collapsed to the ground, blood flowing steadily from the wound onto the stainless marble floor. Raynac let loose a strangled yell of fury as The Hand laughed, lunging towards the dark-cloaked man and throwing up his hands, releasing a blast of compressed air that sent The Hand hurtling into one of the stone columns, which cracked and collapsed on top of him. As The Hand, momentarily stunned, struggled to lift the chunks of marble, Raynac dashed to the duchess’ side.

“Salea?! Salea, my love! Can you hear me?”

The duke touched a hand to the wound, channeling every bit of magic he had within him into a healing spell, trying with all his might to close the wound. Tears began to flow down his face, not from effort, but from sorrow. The wound would not close, he knew. The lance had been touched by powerful dark magic, that much was clear. Yet still he tried, his veins glowing blue beneath his skin as pure light and magic coursed through them. His eyes had begun to fill with the same glow, when a hand reached up and brushed away a tear from his cheek.

“Raynac...” the duchess said weakly.

The glow subsided. The flow of magic gradually slowed to a trickle, and Raynac looked down into the dark green eyes of his wife.

“It’s too late.”

Raynac glared at her through his tears and began to pump magic into her once again, but she reached up and pushed his hand away. “No. You need your strength to escape. He’s too powerful. You need to leave me. He’ll kill you!”

“Salea, Salea, please. Just hang on a bit longer, the medics will be here, I know they will!”

The duchess shook her head sadly, a strangled breath escaping from her throat. “I... love you.”

Her eyes fluttered closed as her hand drifted away from his cheek. Hot tears of anger flowed freely from Raynac’s eyes, giving his face a sheen which complemented the gleam in his eyes as he stood up, drawing a rapier from a scabbard at his side. He began to stalk slowly towards the column beneath which The Hand struggled. A flick of his hand, and the column shattered into miniscule specks of marble dust, coating the black cloak with white powder.

“I want to see your face before I kill you, scum,” snarled Raynac.

“You... can’t… defeat me... Duke Benlls,” wheezed The Hand as he regained his breath.

“You’ve made a fatal mistake today.”

“Yes? What might that be?” questioned The Hand, climbing to his feet and picking up Varzolis from where it lay on the floor.

“Now I have nothing left to live for.”

Raynac leapt into the air, lunging at The Hand, blade outstretched. The Hand laughed, parrying the strike easily. But Raynac was not thrown off by the lightning-fast movement, executing a neat spin and bringing his rapier down in a ferocious barrage of slices, thrusts, parries and ripostes. The Hand managed to block each one, but with increasing difficulty. The duke was indeed a master swordsman.

Throwing out his free hand as he deflected a lunge, Raynac sent a bolt of crackling purple energy towards The Hand’s chest. A bolt of dark energy streaked out from the dark prosthetic to meet it, causing an explosion which sent both duelists flying away from each other. The Hand landed beneath the windowsill, while Raynac just missed the thrones, hitting the dais with a crack like a whip. The combatants began to circle around the edge of the room, each looking to be for all the world like a tiger stalking his prey.

“You should never have come here, Conqueror.”

“You should have listened to your wife’s dying words, Duke Benlls, and fled when you had the chance.”

Suddenly the rage faded from Raynac’s eyes as he stared past The Hand, who now stood before the thrones, at his wife’s limp body. Her final words rang clear through his mind like the toll of a funeral bell. You need to leave me. He’ll kill you! Raynac closed his eyes and reached up to his shoulder, brushing the clasp of his cloak- a golden shield with a diamond lightning bolt emblazoned across it. When he opened his eyes again, they were glowing blue. Flames of the same color flickered in his hands. Nothing but illusion, but enough to fool the Hand into believing it was a spell. Raynac let out a resounding unearthly roar- the Call of a dragon.

Over 1000 miles away as the crow flies, atop an enormous cragged mountain, the Call found its way to the mouth of a cave, where it echoed off the walls into the darkness and found its way into the ear of a sleeping, enormous, blue-scaled dragon. The dragon awoke, his eyes glowing blue like lighthouse lamps on a foggy night. His scales were the deep color of a newly mined sapphire, his spines the size of a banana and as sharp as the fang of a sabretooth tiger. His talons, flexing in and out, mined deep gouges in the stone floor. The dragon was called, in the language of dragons, Skaldramanst, a name which meant roughly, in our language, Skysurfer. He was the son of the first dragon of the storm, Guthamran. He had an ancestry which meant power, and indeed, he lived up to the legacy.

His eye twitched. It had been years since the last time his Caller had sent out the Call. Why now? What had changSuddenly the Call took full effect, and the vision of the dragon and the vision of his Caller synchronized. In front of the enormous wyrm stood a man clothed in black with his sword drawn, facing off against him. The dragon knew not who the man was, but he could sense a cold darkness surrounding him- along with an enormous, untapped supply of power. His Caller was definitely in trouble. Their vision desynchronized. Letting out a roar, Skysurfer let a bolt of lightning rip loose from his open maw, demolishing the mouth of the cave & widening it enough for him to escape.

He had been in hibernation within the cavern for decades. It felt good to stretch his wings again. With a growl of fury, he leapt into the air, soaring off to the southeast towards Chalring City- where his Caller was.

Raynac felt his vision desynchronize. His ally was on his way. He just had to hold out a minute longer. He sent the illusory flames towards The Hand, causing them to dissipate upon impact. The Hand laughed, and Raynac did too, only internally. The Hand was getting overconfident. The more overconfident the enemy is, the easier it is to defeat them. This is a fact that has lasted throughout history and probably will outlast our very lifetime. The words of Raynac’s first ever dueling tutor returned to him through the haze of middle-aged memory. Keep your enemy off balance, Raynac. Distract him. Get him monologuing. One thing the darkness can’t resist is an opportunity to inflate its ego.

“Truly, you are a masterful mage. Where, pray tell, did you learn? Who was your master?”

“I fear the truth would break you, Duke Benlls.”

“Many have said as much, dark one. As you can see, I’m still sane.”

“Oh, Duke Benlls,” The Hand laughed in a singsong voice, “don’t you recognize me?”

Raynac squinted curiously. He recognized something of The Hand’s fighting style. Something familiar. The way he swung his blade. The way he blended his magic with his swordfighting... it was not unlike the way Raynac fought. Surely, he wasn’t... Raynac hadn’t trained...

His thoughts were interrupted by a roar from outside. Raynac snapped free of his contemplative stupor, darting towards one of the large columns. Channeling his magic to negate the effects of gravity, he dashed up the side of it to the ceiling, backflipping off the stone panels and, releasing his concentration, let himself plummet downwards. As he fell, he saw the dragon rush through the window, wings tucked tight against his side. Raynac swung his cloak wide, using it like a parachute to control his descent. He slid into the saddle upon the dragon’s spiked back with practiced efficiency, lying flat against the sapphire-blue scales- and the pair’s vision synchronized again.

They saw the eyes of the black-cloaked man widen. Opening their mouth, they let loose a huge bolt of lightning, which soared through the air like a javelin of destruction, blasting a hole through the wall and sending the dark man flying backwards. They lowered their head like a battering ram, crashing through the rest of the ancient stones like a wrecking ball, soaring free out into midair.

They let their wings spread wide, banking left and sending another bolt of lightning from their open maw into the ranks of dark soldiers below. Reveling in the power, they dove low, down into a wide street, reaching out with their claws and ripping through a horde of shadow-men like a lion through a herd of gazelles. The people of the city cheered triumphantly, their hearts lifting at the sight of the force of nature that was the synchronized pair.

Far above, in the throne room, The Hand got back on his feet, brushing bits of ancient stone brick off his cloak. The duke had escaped.

He made his way to the shattered window- and stubbed his toe on something sharp and tough as a diamond. Looking down, his face lit up as he saw before him a small golden prism pulsing with light.

The Chathalias. A small, nondescript jewel, capable of being used as perhaps a paperweight- if one did not understand its true value.

The Chathalias was the life force of the entire kingdom of Chalring, the enchantment that had turned the once barren wasteland into a flourishing haven of forests and plains. Each of the three realms had one, originally. The Dathalias, the life force of Damagius, had been sundered by The Hand only a year before. The Luthalias of the kingdom of Luliel was still intact- for the time being. The Hand raised Varzolis above his head and struck. A tendril of black smoke flickered across the surface of the prism. Another blow, and a crack split the jewel down the middle. The ground trembled furiously. A third blow, and the prism shattered into pieces with a boom. The Hand lifted his boot and ground them into dust. As the last fragments of light were broken, a dark shockwave began to slowly spread outward. As it touched a large potted plant in the corner of the room, the leaves began to wither and disintegrate into brown-gray dust.

Far below within the city streets, the synchronized dragon-duke pair glanced up as a crackling sound reached their heightened ears. The centuries-old ivy that crawled down the walls of the palace was browning and wrinkling, dying before their very eyes, the dry leaves cascading to the ground like a waterfall. Closely following it was a dark shadow, passing over the ground, spreading outwards like a ripple within a lake on the night of a blood moon. All living things in its pathtrees, flowers, rats, anything that breathed or grew- were collapsing to the ground like wheat before the scythe. And it showed no sign of stopping.

The pair stared in shock for a moment, then instinct took over. Some 200 feet ahead of them was a young boy, no more than 12, a large dagger in his hand. Three shadow warriors were advancing towards him, all bearing swords and round shields. The duo, their thoughts identical, leapt over the head of the boy, straight into the dark soldiers. Two went down to their claws, the third to their fangs. They turned to the boy, roaring and flicking their tail at their back. The boy, understanding the signal, leapt onto their back behind their Caller as easily as if he was saddling a horse.

“Wait!” cried the boy. “My dog, Starwalt! He’s back home!”

Raynac’s memories mingled with the dragon’s. He remembered seeing the boy months ago, playing with a small white dog outside his home. They took to the air, banking right towards the boy’s home. They landed in the street, sniffing the air furiously for any signs of the scent of dog. It wasn’t necessary though, as the sound of barking reached their ears. Looking down, they saw a white dog with brown spots, maybe 2 feet tall now, pawing the ground like a bull and growling furiously. They reached out with a talon, trying to pin the dog, but he leaped from side to side, dodging every attempt to grab him.

They growled with frustration, then let out an involuntary roar of pain as the dark ripple brushed their tail. It burned like the fires of a volcanosomething the pair had felt once, long ago. They leapt into the air, their tail whipping out behind them to snatch up the dog. Their wings beat furiously as they soared up. They glided away from the city-

Raynac snapped free of the synchronization of the Call with a jolt. What was he doing? His people- he couldn’t leave them behind! He spun around in the saddle just as the shockwave reached the walls of the city. The gates burst off their ancient hinges and a tide of dark warriors charged out. He saw the guards screaming as the darkness collided with their posts. As Raynac watched, the darkness consumed them, closing around them like shrink wrap. The walls were now manned by more, newly transformed dark warriors.

It’s too late for them, he realized.

Now that the darkness had passed through the walls, it was moving much faster over the open plain. A passage from his magical textbooks, which he had endlessly poured over as a kid, darted through his aging memory. Walls slow darkness as molasses slows a fly. Turning back around, he dug his heels into the sides of the dragon, instantly regretting it as the ironhard scales clanged loudly against his boots. The dog, Starwalt, was howling loudly, but Raynac paid him no heed as they zoomed over the plains, a trail of ash and the scent of burning pines trailing them like a shadow- which, Raynac realized, it was.

As they passed over the city of Chalsireni, the dark shockwave collided with the stout stone walls- and halted. The reach of the Chathalias was only so large, and it ended here, despite Chalsireni being considered a part of the kingdom of Chalring. Raynac suspected that Port Caltora, far north on the Aldiev Peninsula, was safe as well. Beneath him, Skysurfer circled around and hovered in midair, staring out over the barren landscape. A singular tear traced a path down Raynac’s face, tumbling to the ground and sizzling against the scorched wheat stalks.

“D-Duke Benlls?” murmured the boy from behind him. “Yes, young one?”

“Where do we go now?”

The duke sighed, turning his gaze northeast. “I have friends in the north. They live in a secluded area known as Willowgrove. They’ll keep us safe.”

The boy looked starstruck. “Willowgrove? The birthplace of heroes? It’s real?”

Raynac nodded. “Yes. And we’re going there now. I think fate led me to you. We both have a role to play now.”

Grinding his heels into Skysurfer’s sides and wincing against the pain, Raynac turned the dragon towards the distant Willowgrove Wood. They soared off at a steady pace, leaving behind them the sundered, former kingdom of Chalring- and flying into a new future.

Hideous Heart

Athena Tyminski

“If you don’t shoot, you will die! Do you want to die Williams?” Officer Smith spoke loudly and sternly.

“No, Sir,” I said shakily as I held my gun up aiming at the target. “Then fire!”

I suddenly shot the gun and the bullet barely hit the arm of the target. I sighed as I turned the safety on and put the gun down. My hands were shaking as Officer Smith walked over to me.

“Sir-”

“You wish to be an officer, correct?” he cut me off.

“Yes, but I-”

“Then don’t wuss away from a gun! You would have died if you were being attacked!”

“But we aren’t,” I tried to explain.

“So, if we were, you wouldn’t have feared that gun?”

“I-” he was right, I would be dead if this was real. I gulped as he walked away, I could tell he was disappointed but there wasn’t muchRING!!!

The phone suddenly started ringing with a loud high-pitched sound causing me to flinch from my thoughts, it was a loud annoying sound till thankfully Officer Clark answered it.

“This place isn’t even that bad, people here are amazing, as if I’ll need to use a gun,” I mumbled to myself as I walked over to my desk and took a sip from my water bottle.

I looked over and saw Officer Clark and Officer Smith talking about something till Officer Clark spoke up.

“C’mon Williams, we have a case of foul play and Officer Smith thinks you should come investigate with us."

I took a quick glance at the clock 3:46 am. I sighed as I stood up, putting my gun in my holster and followed them to the house. It was now 3:59am, Officer Smith shoved me forward, I looked back at him. The bell then sounding the new hour it had struck 4:00am and it was still as dark as midnight.

The door opened with a small creak, and we were met with a rather happy looking man. Who would be awake and so happy at this time along with having the cops at your house – no I’m probably just overthinking it.

“Hello, we heard about a suspected case of foul play. Do you mind if we come in, look around, ask a few questions?”

“Ah - yes, of course! Welcome! Please, do come in,” the man greeted eagerly, “I am sorry for the disturbance, see that shriek was my own dream. As for the old man who lives here, he is away in another country, please, let me show you around.”

The kind man lead us through the house and let us search thoroughly, nothing seemed to be out of place he showed us all the old man's belongings showing us nothing was missing –wait – if the old man was out of the country... wouldn’t he have taken a few things with him? I ignored the thought, of course he did, how am I supposed to know what the old man owns.

“Would you kind gentlemen enjoy some tea with me?” the man offered.

Some tea did sound nice after having to do so much training without much rest. We all agreed, and he kindly pulled up some chairs for us to sit. Officer Smith, Officer Clark, the kind man and I sat cheerfully drinking tea as we asked a few questions and began joking about how troublesome I was with a gun.

“You just need to keep your breaths steady, and you can’t let your heart rate rise so much that you’re shaking with adrenaline, you just need to keep calm and steady. There is nothing to fear from a gun, Williams,” Officer Smith said as he took a sip of his tea.

I nodded as I took a sip of my own. This tea was exquisite, probably the best tea I’ve ever had. I turned to the man to tell him, but he was pacing, and he seemed to be very pale, he looked ill, but I didn’t want to question it yet. My heart was racing with fear. Had he done something wrong? If he did, was I in danger? Was my crew in danger? I could feel my heart thumping in my chest, I continued to laugh and act normal until suddenly -

“Villains!” the man shrieked sounding as if he could tear his vocal cords, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! - tear up the planks! - here, here! - it’s the beating of his hideous heart!”

We quickly pulled up the planks that were under the kind man's chair, we were met with a horrifying stench that quickly filled the entire room.

I almost threw up at the terrible sight of a disassembled corpse, his heart and eye torn out, this poor man was half blind. The sight of the hole in the old man's torn apart chest where his heart should be, covered in blood with arteries and veins led down to the old man's heart along with his eye laying on his chest with his optic nerve that should have kept his eye in his socket. His limbs had obviously been torn apart by a kitchen knife; his flesh was cut very messily as if torn apart by a wild animal. I couldn’t stand the sight of it, I turned away to see the man who looked petrified as if we had done something wrong. I suddenly pounced onto the man and put him in handcuffs, I was shaking in fear as he took him to the station.

Now Officer Smith was questioning the man, the man was happily answering telling us the horrifying tale that sounded almost fake sadly it was all true. He was disgusting, he seemed so proud of himself and somehow Officer Smith was acting as if this was a normal thing to happen every day.

After Officer Smith came out of the man's cell I asked him, “How do you do it? You’re so calm about talking to a murderer... As if it’s normal.”

“Of course, it isn’t you just have to act calm. Most criminals can see right through you and know you are scared and weak, then it makes them feal powerful. Have you ever heard of ‘fake it till you make it’ Officer Williams?” I nodded. “take it to heart, Williams,” he said before walking away leaving me near this insane man and I quickly walked away as Officer Clark finally put the man in his cell.

Force of Time

Lena Groff

The wind wiped through Claude as he walked. Sighing, he shoved his freezing hands into the pockets of his gray stained, Jasper Ville University sweater. It was a terrible day, he decided. Nothing had gone well.

Looking up at the sky, he saw the large dark clouds slowly making their way. Lighting within, sparking and flashing with a might like the gods. “It’s going to rain.” Claude thought to himself. Shaking his head he continued forward, pulling his hood up closer around his ears.

A steady rain started to pour as Claude made his way to the large suspension bridge. Cars, trucks, buses, and vans, filled with people, crawled across. Their slow movements seeming to make all the drivers antsy. Looking into the windows Claude gazed at the people, there inaudible yells, being unheard by those whom they were directed towards.

Nearing the end of his trek admits the sprays of water and oil, a large black van lay on its side. Fire engines, police cars, and ambulances all surrounded it. Letting out a deep sigh Claude quickened his pace. Not wanting to be caught in any more problems.

“Finally, home.” Claude murmured, reaching the front door of his apartment. The rain had slowly continued into its downpour, and large puddles were quickly forming everywhere. Opening the door, the warm, soft feeling of his apartment was all he needed to make his day better.

Removing his wet shoes, Claude turned, sighing when his eyes landed on the couch. Moving he flopped down on it, staring up at the ceiling, and everything from earlier came flooding back in.

The sounds of his mother, yelling and complaining at him for every little thing that happened cut through him.

His professor, judging and criticizing for the recent failing of the midterm pierced his soul.

And, his boss, threatening and arguing about every late day and early out. That shook him to his core.

All these people. Every single one of them. They all had the audacity to yell, criticize, and threaten him, when all he was trying to do was get through his life. Even though it had become a terrifying struggle. “One day,” Claude thought to himself, “One day, they’ll see. They’ll all see. I’ll make them if I have to. I will be someone.” Lifting his fisted hand, Claude stared at it. “Oh, what am I kidding.” He growled, “I’ll never be anyone. I am worthless.”

He continued to lie there, lost in thought, until a chime sounded. Abruptly, he shot up, looking around. “What?” Claude wondered, scrambling towards the door, to who it might be. Cautiously opening the door, Claude stared dead faced at the delivery man. “Are you-” “Where do I sign?” Claude asked hastily. “Here, here, and he-” The guy stared, until the frantic of signing, pulling of object, and slamming of door.

Claude turned with the small object he had signed for in hand, interactions with people made him antsy. Slowly he made his way away from the door, towards the workroom. Everything he’d ever strived for was in this room. The walls, the furniture, the math. Everything he had ever hoped for sat in this room. But the most important had to be the large metal box that sat unmoving atop the largest of the desks.

This box was the most important thing in Claudes life. It was the key to his future success and fame. Everything he hoped for would become possible with this box.

Moving papers and tools aside he placed down the package. Ripping it open and gazing at the contents within.

A small piece of red crystal sat wrapped in layers of bubble wrap. Reaching down Claude gazed at it in amazement. Pulling it out and holding it up to the light of his lamp. It began to shine. Everything around seem to be coated, in a red layer of light. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Mesmerized, he stared at it, looking within. Sudden flashes of light sparked inside of it, almost as though it was charged with energy. Without a second thought Claude made his way towards the large metal box, pulling up on the. Inside, sat a nest of wires and electronics. All strung together in a knot. Moving them aside, he carefully placed the crystal within.

Pulling his hand out Claude closed the lid, turning to the outer edge. Where a large panel of buttons and switches sat.

Flipping and pressing a few of them, Claude instinctively stepped back. He stood there unmoving for what seemed like an eternity as if waiting for something to happen. He slowly made his way towards the box after a few minutes, reaching out to it.

This, though, was a mistake.

In a bright flash of red-light Claude started to feel a tingling feeling throughout his entire body. It raced through him, like a bolt of lightning through the sky. Something was happening, but he couldn’t quite place his finger on it. The room around started to spin, and the red light seemed to glow brighter and brighter. Then it hit him.

Like a bus, a huge gust of energy crashed into him. Claude was sent flying into the back wall. Papers flew, and wood splintered as Claude groaned, then again. Another wave of the invisible force hit him, head on. This time, the things around him seemed to move. It started slowly but gradually began to move faster and faster. Everything in the room, as Claude watched, was being pulled in by the machine.

With a metal crash the lid of the machine flew open. The flurry of papers and debris started to fly up into the air, creating a large tornado-like shape. In a great crash the tornado seemed to be quickening its pace. The force, starting to travel faster and faster around.

A scream was the last thing that came from Claude, just as his world went black.

Shadows

Anonymous

I shudder as the thick, demoralizing scent threatens to strangle me. I hate this area of the school, which always reeks of perfume, but I have to find my sketchbook. I head straight to my history classroom… and freeze. A tall girl sits at a desk in the corner, her long blond hair flowing over her white cashmere sweater. Her pink, glossy lips and dagger-like artificial nails tell me everything I need to know. She’s popular – the kind of girl I’d go to any length to avoid. But in her hands is my sketchbook. The girl hasn’t noticed me, her eyes slowly observing my art.

Invading my privacy with every page. Realizing I’m still standing in the doorway, I carefully approach the girl, ignoring the way my body shakes. She doesn’t even know me. How can I just confront her? Yet… I have to get that book back.

It’s not until I’m standing over the desk that the girl looks up, noticing me.

“Oh, hey! I didn’t see you there. Is this yours?” She’s overly cheerful, the kind of popular, happy-go-lucky girl I could never be.

“Give it back. Now.” I glare at the girl and her obnoxious freckles, perfectly placed around her nose.

“One second. I liked some of your drawings. What’s your name?”

“Just give it to me.” I grab the sketchbook, start to pull it from her grasp when…

Rip.

A page tears in half, ruining the drawing I’d worked so hard on. Tears bead in my eyes as I clutch the sketchbook to my chest. I turn, my cheeks burning, and flee the room. How could I have been so careless?

At lunch, the girl approaches me, ponytail bouncing with each step.

“Hello!” She beams at me as if I’m her friend.

I stare intently at my shoes, observing each minute detail. The gray tracing around the company emblem, the thick white soles, the lace that is ever-so-slightly crooked in its metal hole.

“Hello?”

Ugh. Why can’t she just leave me alone?!? “Hi.” I mumble, hoping she’ll take the hint. My eyes bore even deeper into my shoes.

It’s coming.

A voice resonates through my mind, no more than a whisper but somehow magnified as if through a microphone. A wispy black form drifts in front of me. Suddenly, two girls sit in the branches of a tall, gnarled tree. Its coarse grey bark shines golden in the evening light. The younger girl has thick, auburn hair which gleams in the afternoon sun, her thick braid thumping against her back as she swings on one of the lowest boughs. The older has deep brown hair, cropped at her shoulders. It drags on the ground as she hangs upside-down, arms outstretched in pure joy. A cloud rolls over the sky and rain begins to fall, blurring the images of the sisters until nothing is left.

Surrounding me once again is the crowded school cafeteria. I sigh, turning back to the girl. She’s said something, but I didn’t hear, distracted by the snapshot of the past. My ears catch fire as she looks expectantly at me.

“What?” I try to put as much irritation into my voice as possible. How can I get her to go away?

“Oh sorry. I didn’t know you hadn’t heard me. I said, where do you get the ideas for your drawings?”

“Why do you care?” I ask, scowling at her.

“Jeez, okay. I was just trying to compliment you.”

On the walk home from school, I think about this girl who isn’t afraid to approach me, part of me wishing I’d run after her. But if I try to apologize, I could hurt her… like I do everyone else.

The sound of leaves crunching under my feet pulls me back to reality and my stomach turns.

It’s coming.

The voice seems desperate, urgent.

“What is it? What’s coming?” I speak aloud.

Silence. Whose voice am I hearing? What does it want me to do? I could tell my mom… but what would she do? Since the accident, she’s been absorbed in her work.

By the time I reach the door, I’ve decided to talk to her anyway. Maybe she’ll understand.

The house is empty. I flick on the lights, swing my backpack to the floor.

“Mom?” I call, glancing around the room.

No response.

She’s supposed to be home by now – she said she had the night off. Just then, my phone buzzes.

“Hello?” I answer, waiting for my mom’s harried response.

“Hey, babe. I’m so sorry. Something came up. Maybe we can hang out another night? There’s pizza in the fridge if you want it – you can take care of yourself, right?”

“Sure. Bye.” I hang up, cutting her off mid-excuse.

The shadows of earlier rise to my mind. What is going on? Something must be wrong. I pull out my sketchbook, hoping that drawing will ease my building nerves. However, as I set my pen to the paper, my vision goes black. Only a sliver of the room remains.

It’s coming.

The words swirl around my mind.

It’s coming.

A face looms up at me from the dark, full of terror. Her face. Pain stabs my heart and I double over as the blackness fades. A bright, red-orange leaf flutters to the floor beside me, burning against the white tile floor. I reach for it in disbelief. How did a leaf get inside?

I watch yet another leaf flutter to the ground, only to be crushed by someone’s shoes as they rush out the door. Gathering my things, I leave the classroom and am immediately enveloped by the chaos of a school hallway.

“It’s okay. I see them too.”

Everything stops. The world is silent, cars moving in slow motion. The leaf sways in the breeze, beckoning. Slowly, I reach out, take the leaf. Somehow, the shadows are connected to Lucy. But can I trust her?

“Hey…” I begin, jolting us out of the trance. The leaf falls from my fingers, forgotten. “My mom won’t be home until late tonight. W-would you… want to come over?”

“Sure!” Lucy beams at me, and somehow, I feel as though I’ve known her all my life.

As we begin the trek to my house, we reach an unspoken conclusion. We won’t talk about the shadows until we’re inside. A comfortable silence surrounds us, and, for the first time in weeks, I’m not attacked by memories or whispers. . . .

As I walk into class, a cold breeze blows past, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

The bell has barely rung when the darkness creeps into my mind. I sigh, irritated. Neither Lucy nor I have seen any shadows for days. Why does one have to appear now? There’s no choice.

The shadow completely consumes my vision, blocking out everything. It’s coming

The nothingness swirls, faster and faster, a whirlwind of darkness and panicked warnings, coming, coming, coming, echoing in my brain. I feel myself crash to the floor as the storm whirls me away.

A toddler, barely two, stares down at an infant. The baby is beautiful, wide eyes staring up at her.

Immediately, they bond.

At 5 and 7, the girls are old enough to wander into the woods together, leaping over creeks and fallen trees, lost in an imaginary world of ponies and princesses. When they break free from the forest, they stop, staring at the tree in front of them. Its leaves shine in the autumn sunset. A beautiful inferno of reds, oranges, and golds burns against the dark wood of the tree.

A year later, the girls play in the tree, eyes alight with joy as they swing from its flowering branches. The younger girl gasps, noticing a cave in the hill nearby. They enter, filled with curiosity. Stalactites and stalagmites decorate the large cavern; a waterfall pours from a nook in the far wall, spilling into a glassy pond at its center. The rocks glow with colorful lichen, giving the place a magical feel.

Suddenly, the two girls fade, the sound of the rushing water dying away. Come.

It’s coming.

. . .

A small, uncomfortable bed supports my limp body. The white sheets are pristine, their sharp aroma of cleaner burning my nose and throat. A dark figure lies on the bed beside mine. Lucy. A leaf flutters to the floor, its ruby color startlingly familiar. Suddenly, I realize. The leaf comes from our tree.

As soon as she sees me awakening, Lucy bolts upright. “Velia?”

“Hey.” I rub my eyes, slowly pulling myself into a sitting position. “What’re you doing here?”

She glances furtively behind her before whispering, “I saw it again, but this time…”

“You passed out?” I interrupt. “Yeah.”

“Hey did you… see anything? Like, just now, before you woke up?” As soon as the question is out of my mouth, I regret it. What if she thinks I’m crazy?

“Actually…” Lucy hesitates, “I did.” She lowers her voice, barely audible over the clamor in the hallways. “It was the loveliest tree I’ve ever seen –red and gold – just like the leaves that we find after the shadow comes. And I heard something, a voice, telling me to come.”

I know Lucy is frightened – the shadows never speak to her… or at least not until today.

"I heard it too.” I pause, not wanting to tell her everything. “Do you think… maybe we should go?”

“I think we have to, don’t we? Isn’t that the only way to get the shadows to stop? But how will we know where to go?”

“I think I know where the tree is. Can we meet at my house tonight?”

“Okay, sure.”

As we part ways, a little flame inside me seems to spark, a tiny quiver of hope, deep in my chest.

Is Lucy… my friend?

. . .

I can’t help but worry about Lucy. What if I hurt her?

By the time the tree comes into view, the sun is setting, golden and familiar in the evening air.

Lucy bounds past me, marveling at the beauty surrounding us. When she approaches the tree, I draw nearer, watching. Her finger reaches out, touches the bark. Slowly, she traces the initials carved into the tree. V + W. Almost subconsciously, my hand jumps from my side, smacking the other girl’s away.

Lucy flinches, whirls around to look at me, hurt and confusion in her eyes.

“What was that about?”

I stare down at the ground, the lump in my throat blocking my words. I can’t meet Lucy’s eyes.

A thick, awkward silence fills the air, making moments feel like days.

“Okay… well, where’s this cavern you told me about? Let’s go see it!” Lucy sounds overly cheerful, trying to repair her mistake. Her eyes burn as bright as the leaves as she beams at me.

“This place is amazing!”

“Never mind. I-I… can’t. We can’t go in there.”

“What? Why?”

“Not without her. Never.”

“Without who?” Lucy’s voice softens. As if, somehow, she understands.

“…Willow.” My voice cracks and I wipe a tear from my face. “My sister.”

“I’m so sorry.” I feel Lucy’s arms around me as the tears fall, but I pull away. I need to tell her, finish the story.

“A few months ago, I was driving Willow to school, finally confident enough to drive her on my own. There… was an accident. We were taken to the hospital but s-she c-couldn’t b-be saved. And it was my fault.”

Lucy is silent for a moment, letting me cry, her hand still lying soothingly on my shoulder. “I… understand. My cousin Julian died in a house fire two years ago. His parents couldn’t get him out in time. He was only four years old.”

“I-I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how awful that must’ve been. What happened?”

“They said it was a cigarette that started it. No one threw any blame, but my aunt and uncle don’t smoke. It was my fault. I’d been there for a party… and I used to smoke. I don’t remember smoking that day, but I must have. The next morning, he was gone.”

“Oh. That’s horrible.” I feel stupid now knowing what this girl has gone through.

“Yeah. Anyways, enough of my sob story. I just wanted you to know that I understand if you’re not ready.”

“No, it’s okay. We can go in.”

“You sure?” Lucy asks, throwing a skeptical glance my way.

“Positive. Let’s go.” I lead the way to the entrance, stooping to get inside.

Lucy stops mid-step as she enters the cavern. She stares around in wonder and disbelief, awed by its hidden beauty. She dips her fingers into the turquoise water and I realize that I’ve wanted to bring her here since we first met, knowing she’d love it as much as Willow had.

I wonder... would my mom love it too? Willow and I agreed that it would be our secret. But now, Willow’s gone, leaving mom desperate for any reminder of her. Willow’s room, directly beside mine, is the same as it was before the accident. This place too, is untouched. If I could get mom’s attention, pull her away from her work, I think she’d love it. Tomorrow, I decide, I’ll tell her.

Sitting at the kitchen table the next morning, I eat my usual breakfast of toast and eggs, waiting for my mom to come downstairs. When she finally enters the kitchen, she seems exhausted. Dark circles surround her eyes, giving her a raccoon-like look. She seems so tired. But… what other chance do I have?

“M-mom?” I begin, trying to quell the butterflies in my stomach.

“Yes, babe?” Busying herself with the coffeepot, she doesn’t even look at me.

“I was wondering if I could… maybe… show you something?”

“Sweetheart, you know I’m busy. Is it really important? I have to be at work by noon today.”

I take a deep breath. “It’ll only take a minute – it’s just… somewhere Willow and I used to go all the time. I-I thought you might like to see it.”

“Oh. Okay, I guess. Let me change my clothes and then we can go.”

“Thanks.” I offer her a weak smile. . . .

An hour later, my mom and I pick our way through the woods, sidestepping thorn bushes.

“You said you and-and… your sister… used to go somewhere?”

“Yeah. She found it a few years ago. We always played there.” A heavy silence falls over us, thickening the air until I almost can’t breathe. When the tree comes into sight, my mom stops in her tracks.

“It’s… wonderful.” Tears glaze her eyes, and I know she’s thinking of Willow. She walks towards the tree, slowly running a finger over the initials my sister carved there, just as Lucy did.

Suddenly, I hear laughing. Lucy crests the hill, followed by two adults who I imagine are her parents. The woman, tall and erect, looks just like Lucy. The man is large and heavyset, a hint of a beard peppering his chin. As I see Lucy smiling at them, talking about this place, something within me snaps. I stalk up to her, leaving my mom to gaze dazedly at the tree.

“What” I fight to keep my voice steady, “are you doing here?”

“I-I just… wanted to…” She trails off, clearly taken aback by my vehemence.

“Why are you here? What made you think it was okay to bring them to this place? Her place.”

“Velia, please.” She begs, “Listen to me.”

“Why should I care what you have to say? It’s not like you care about me.”

“I do, I do. I promise, Velia, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I struggle to find a comeback, but her sincerity leaves me at a loss for words. Our parents have stopped their examination of the tree to stare at us.

Lucy takes advantage of my silence, words rushing out of her mouth. “Theshadowstoldmetocome. I had another vision, and it showed us here. I had this urge to bring my parents. Please, Velia. I’m sorry.”

“I-I…” I trail off as the fire inside me fades. I’ve forgiven her, whether I want to or not. “It’s okay.”

Suddenly, I’m aware of my mom’s hand on my arm.

“Velia? Who’s this? A friend of yours?”

“Mom, this is Lucy. I met her at school.”

“Hello!” Lucy beams at my mom, clearly relieved.

At that moment, Lucy’s parents join us.

“You must be Velia,” her mom says, rushing over to give me a hug. I stand awkwardly as she holds me. “Why, I’ve heard all about you!”

I glance at Lucy, but she doesn’t meet my gaze, clearly embarrassed by this display.

“Look,” I begin, addressing Lucy’s parents. “If you guys want to see, I understand. Just… keep it between us, okay? I don’t want people ruining this for me. It… used to be a place for my sister and I to go… it’s really hard for me to come here without her. That’s why I yelled at Lucy.”

“Lead the way, then, Velia.” It’s my mom who speaks first, placing an arm around me as we start towards the cavern.

As we enter, there’s oohing and aahing from the adults, who gaze around the hideaway in wonder. My mom pulls me aside.

“Honey?” She begins, looking at me for the first time in months. “I just… wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I haven’t been here for you like I should have.” She pauses, wipes a tear from her eye. “Heck, I don’t even know who your friends are.”

“It’s okay, mom.” And in that moment, I know it’s true. “I’m sorry I was so angry with you.”

“Love, you have nothing to be sorry about. It’s normal to be angry after a loss like that. I should’ve supported you.”

Hot tears streak my face as I smile at her, unable to speak. Mom hugs me, holding me tight.

Suddenly, a noise like a train thundering down its tracks reverberates through the cavern. The room shakes, stone crumbling from the ceiling. For a moment, my heart seizes, sure that the ceiling is collapsing and we’re going to die.

Thankfully, the room holds, and, as the tremor stops, everything goes still. I rush to the mouth of the cavern, Lucy by my side. Looking out, I’m blinded by clouds of dirt and dust. When the haze begins to clear, I freeze, horrified. Willow’s tree stands untouched. But beyond it, trees are uprooted, laid across yards and homes, or just gone. I can see our house, once beautiful, crushed to the ground in a matter of minutes. Willow’s room is gone. As we stare out at the wreckage of our town, my mom sets her hand on my shoulder.

“It’ll be okay, sweetheart. We can rebuild. At least we’re all safe.”

Lucy meets my gaze, and in that moment, we realize. Bringing both of us here this morning was no coincidence – it probably saved our lives. In the midst of the destruction, she grins at me. My friend, Lucy. And I smile back.

Renewal

Peter Freer

A bullet whizzes past his left ear. Another, behind his right heel. Sharp stings shoot up his forearm. He spares the limb a glance and brushes off the sickening, wet warmth that seeps into his sleeve. Lungs burning. Arm throbbing. Heart hammering against his ribcage. Blood rushing in his ears, a repulsive undercurrent to the backdrop of explosions and screams. There’s a boom in the distance. Quickly followed by a thud: what’s left of someone’s extremities. The sound echoes in his ears. It’s a sickening symphony. His feet are screaming as a stick snaps under his weight, sending him tumbling into the thorny underbrush, a thin branch scraping his forehead. Stupid pine.

“This is not what I signed up for” The blond hisses, eyes rolling as he pushes himself up, a half-assed attempt to stand. Chest creaking with exertion.

CRACK

Daniel’s eyes darted around. He spun around. Swiveled. Didn’t see a thing. Suddenly, cold, sharp steel pressed to his Adams apple. He swallowed. Hard.

“Whatcha doin’ all the way out here?” Drawled a voice, grating Daniel’s ears. Say nothing.

“Not a talker?” Hummed the attacker, there';s a sneer in his voice, cocky bastard. Theres a hand on his dog tag. Rough. Calloused. Dirtying the precious plate. But the attackers hold on the knife has loosened.

“Daniel, eh? It’d be a shame if I-” Jerk.

In the stranger’s abhorrent yammering, Daniel twisted the knife out of his hand.

Viciously, turning to swing his fist at the attacker, knuckles landing on unkempt bristles. He rubbed the irritated skin on his throat, glaring at the man, covered in powdery snow. A little string in his soul tugs at his ribs, leaving an aching feeling. For only a split second, the image of a brunette playing in the snow, cuts its way across his mind-

An unbearable pain rips through his body. An agonized scream tears through his larynx, jolting him back to reality. Daniel looks down. To his horror, he finds the blade he had so foolishly lost track of, had embedded itself into his thorax, tearing through his dermis like a sickening stick of butter. Daniel watched the eyes of his assailant widen as the all-toofamiliar whistling of an explosive hurdled towards them. A deafening boom pierced Daniel’s ear drums, the force sending him flying. This couldn’t be the end. It simply couldn’t. He couldn’t die. Not like this.

More flashed through his mind. The burbling of a baby. Squealing laughter. Wide, joyous grins. Warm soup on cold days. He saw the image of a little girl, her mousy frizz sitting in waves down the back of her floral dress. A little brown apron and slippers, all covered in flour. A triumphant grin on her face. “Daddy!” She called, holding out her mittenshrouded paws with a tray of what could only be muffins. “Look what I made!” She chirped.

“Elizabeth?” Daniel croaked, his vision melding into dark static blobs. His head hurt, throbbing against the inside of its calcified shell. Daniel opened his eyes, squinting as he lifted his head from a coarse pile of dirt, snow, and sticks. Small scrapes on his profile burned dully. The crisp air smelt of iron and earth, but another smell was invading his nostrils. Pungent. Foul. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, feebly forcing himself to sit upright, his elbows creaking with the effort. Rolling his head to gauge range of motion, something in him nagged: something. Something is VERY wrong. The sky was dimmer, no longer the blinding off-white, but a cloudless periwinkle. Even worse, it was silent. No wind. No battle. There was the meager whistling of his own breathing to keep him company. Sharp pain bolts through his spine, causing him to jolt.

Suck his teeth. Wincing, praying the sensation would be fleeting. Daniel hung his head in defeat, a sigh escaping his throat. He reopened his eyes, taking a few seconds to blink. There was a mess of red down his front. He hadn’t given it much thought until he blinked a few more times, eyes bugging out in disbelief. He vaguely remembered the botched vivisection he was gifted by his attacker earlier, but it had yet to occur to him the true severity of the injury. Either the blade had breached all three layers of skin, or the explosion finished the job for him. The edges of the wound were seared. Cauterized, admittedly, but badly charred. His eyes grazed over the window of his thorax, nearly choking at the sight of his very own organs. Bile rose to the back of his throat, burning his palate before he could hack it out over his shoulder.

No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. No. No, not to him.

Frantically, Daniel gripped the nearest branch he could, hoisting himself to his feet and stumbling a few feet. He clutched his abdomen, wincing as he moved. He had to go somewhere. This couldn’t be real. It’s all a sick dream. None of this is real. He’ll just.

Wake up. Yeah, he’ll just wake up the next morning and all will be well. Elizabeth will greet him with that beaming smile like always, and it’ll all be fine. Nothing is wrong whatsoev-

Daniel’s thoughts were impeded by his left knee giving out, sending him crashing to the frozen ground, yet again. A frustrated cry clawed its way out of his lips. Wrapping an arm across his torso, he squeezed the other side of his waist, attempting to get a grip of himself, tears welling in his eyes, nerves screaming. He has to keep moving. He has to get home. Wherever home might be. He needs to move.

Daniel once again forces himself to his feet, wobbling a little as he stands. He manages to put one foot in front of the other, then the next. It could hardly be described as ‘walking’. More of a pathetic cycle of poorly controlled falling. He stumbles. Trips.

Catches himself on nearby trees. He loses track of how much time he spent doing this. A sad little loop of what must have looked like the most pathetic burn victim of the century. He stumbles across a tall tree and sighs, leaning his forehead against the smooth, pale bark and closing his eyes for just a moment, catching his breath. He’s woozy, swaying like a drunkard. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that the only sound around was that of his own, miserable breathing. There wasn’t anything else. He hasn’t heard ANYTHING other than his himself since he had gotten up. No leaves. No scuttling of animals beneath the brush. Or snow. Or twigs. Nothing in the trees either. There haven’t been signs of life for...miles, have there? No sooner than this revelation set in, than did Daniel’s heartbeat escalate. He doesn’t know where he is. When he is. He knows HOW he is, but it is undeniably very bad. He lets out a choked sob of anguish and stumbled forward, searching. He isn’t even sure what he’s searching for. He’ll figure it out when he finds it.

Daniel finds himself going in and out of consciousness. Not falling asleep but not paying attention to what he’s doing either- Thinking-? Saying-? He can hardly remember what he’s walking around for. The only thought that wafted in and out of his mind was that of Elizabeth. He had to see her. Somehow. He was going to find her. He wasn’t sure where. He wasn’t sure how. He just. Had to.

He bumps into trees. Bushes. Stumbling into a particularly thorny patch of bramble, he winces at the sensation of it tearing at the lining of his stomach and intestines. He feebly wraps the remnants of his shirt around the wound, eventually giving up when it all unravels. Eventually he takes refuge against a thick trunked aspen. He could just. Take a rest here. Just a small one. Just a... little bit of... res...t

Ouch

There was a sharp pain in his chest. As if someone was dragging a sewing needle against the inside of his ribcage. One, scraping the outside of his liver. Another, prodding at his spleen. Each worse than the last, dragging Daniel out of unconsciousness. His eyes, barely able to pry themselves open, only allotting him the vision of blurry scribbles above him, of which, he miraculously deduced, were branches.

An agonized cry tore itself from his throat, leaving his trachea raw. His nerves were on fire. He couldn’t fathom what god he had unknowingly infuriated. No man could have come up with a torture akin to this. This must be god’s punishment. The only blessing for Daniel was the soft, muffled chirping of a singular bird. A solace amongst his tribulation. Painstakingly, his head swiveled, searching for the creature, sucking his teeth as he did so. His eyes meet no feathers in the trees. No nests. He glanced at the ground in front of him, hoping that maybe, just maybe, his winged savior would be amongst the brush. To no avail, Daniel coughed, something jostling in his chest. There was a muffled, disgruntled chirp, not that he could truly hear it over the stabbing pain, acute jabbing at his diaphragm. Another howl miserably sliced through his being, a bitter tear slipping down his cheek, curling down his jawline. It dripped off his chin, stinging the long, superficial lacerations along his core. He hardly registers the beads of hot red that pool at the surface of the wounds, only to trickle to the ground and seep into the white snow.

Daniel lifts a trembling arm to his chest, a feeble attempt to lure the creature out of his thorax. His limbs have a dull ache. He half-heartedly contemplates his digits, unnerved by the dull monochromes they were turning. The feathered intruder in his chest ruffles itself, letting out a soft chirp before fluttering out of the cavity and grabbing a small twig.

Only then does it look up at him, blinking. The creature is small. Fluffier than he had originally anticipated. It looked. Young. More pathetic, he can hardly believe. Theres an unexplainable ache in Daniel’s soul, like someone had pressed a large stone to his lungs and told him to breathe.

The avian looked to the man. Gave a soft chirp. It was a sad, sonorous sound. Daniel’s eyes traced its small figure and watched as it dropped the twig for just a moment and shook, extending its wings and shaking its head, leaving its body seemingly large and fluffy. It had to be young, its light brown feathers checkered with light greys and whites of down, webbed with damp tinges of crimson. That little thing climbed up Daniel’s pant leg, scaling his arm and making its way to the man’s shoulder. Once it reached the peak, the bird gave another sorrowful chirp and lowered its head and gently bonked it against Daniel’s jawline. Almost an apology for causing the man pain. As much of an apology you could get from a bird. He couldn’t help but sigh, letting the bird nuzzle against him for warmth. It must have been trying its best.

The tendrils of a thought gently nudged its way through Daniel’s consciousness, grasping at his cerebral cortex and weaving its way through the folds of his brain. His hands were practically useless. He could hardly hold his arms up without fatigue. He hadn’t bothered trying to move his stiff legs... Even if he did make it home, how was he surviving with such serious wounds? Whoever attacked him was no Macbeth, but even then, how was he making it out of this godforsaken forest alive? He could hardly see straight. What was he going to do. What. How. Why-

The bird let out a soft chirp, thudding its head against Daniel’s jawline, tugging at a piece of the man’s now wiry blond hair, pulling him out of his spiral. It was like the avian was scolding him. Painfully, it reminded him of Elizabeth. Her incessant pouting and huffing when he would go off on tangents, knocking her head gently against his hip or torso in exasperation.

A weak sob escaped the man’s lips, small shudders wracking his body. How could he be mad at this little thing? It just wanted warmth. It deserved support. It deserved to live.

He wasn’t going to make it home, but maybe, just maybe, he could help this little bird. The bird gave a content chirp, a noise akin to understanding, and proceeded to hop down the man’s arm, diving into his thoracic cavity, eliciting a groan from its host.

The man tips his head back, feeling the smooth bark, letting out a shaky breath. He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, trying to dull the pain in his chest. He closes his eyes as numbness slowly creeps up his extremities, a dull, static-y sensation. Visions slipped through his mind. Gideon from the bakery, a childhood friend who always smelt of almonds. The sound of wind rustling the reeds by the river of their little settlement.

Elizabeth’s laughter. Cameron’s sweet smile. Soft moss on his fingertips. Petrichor. Resounding satisfaction in watching people feast upon his soups. Slowly, his subconscious and the cold worked in tandem, stealing the feeling from his limbs, his nerves becoming null and void. Daniel sucked his teeth for a moment before biting down on his tongue.

In his heart, he was sitting in the sun, Elizabeth and Cameron at his side, eating bread and honey.

Very slowly, did it occur to the bird that Daniel was gone. Woeful chirping met with no response. The spasms stopped eventually. The heat faded. The bird built its nest, making use of whatever was left of his kind soldier.

Slowly, the forest became full of life. Frost no longer formed. Snow thawed. The sun smiled and the trees waved back, greeting it with green leaves and new sprouts. The bird continued to build its nest, adding new twigs every so often. It grew. Lost it’s down.

Watched the ivy crawl up Daniel’s remains, rooting him to the tree. Purple hyacinth grew between Daniel’s hips, helping to hoist its nest to the middle of Daniel’s chest. Slowly, the bird and its offspring watch the seasons cycle and anticipate the return of tender spring.

Elizabeth’s tentative footfalls were a soft beat amongst the sweet birdsong of the forest, melding into the warm ambience. A soft scoff escapes her lips, wrinkling her nose in distaste as her eyes grazed the inky etched details of her map.

“I’m not lost, this is fine” She grumbled to no one in particular, trudging through the thick of the forest, watching freckled light pattern the mossy ground. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the glinting of metal in sunlight, curiously creeping towards it. Eventually she came upon a rather morbid and interesting case. Dry remains rooted into the earth via English ivy and Hyacinth. She knelt before the skeleton and studied the dog tag dangling from the clavicle, a bittersweet smile gracing her lips before being further distracted by a soft chirping in front of her. Where Daniel’s heart should be, was a nest of song sparrows.

In the dead of winter when you hang your bones up to dry and sink into the soil may the earth reclaim you and cover you in flora may nature weave itself through your shoulders and ease the ache of living it is agony. most of all, I hope it is kind to you I hope sparrows sing in your soul because in death, there is the very virtue of life itself and the cycle may start again -renewal

Buffet Bandit

Ben Grabia

“Meatloaf?” I said, wheeling him out of the dining room into the buffet.

Grandpa, a shrunken man whose Vietnam Vet’s hat left an inch of empty space on either side of his head, nearly irked himself out of his wheelchair. “We ate meatloaf–”

“Every other night in the jungle. I know. Kidding.”

“You talk to that girl at school yet?”

I sighed. We had made it all the way to Dusty Pete’s All You Can Eat without any of my attempts at romance coming up. I had been hoping he’d forgotten. “No.”

“Come on, Rudy! Those who don’t do, don’t get. You gotta have gumption.”

I got Grandpa back to the table – even managed to squeeze some green beans onto his plate despite his best efforts to evade all veggies – and picked up my own plate. His voice trailed me as I walked away.

“And get yourself something hardy. You could use some meat on your bones.”

But I had eyes for only one thing at this buffet: dinner rolls.

“Fresh out,” said the worker standing on the other side of the heat lamp. I was staring at an empty aluminum tray where the soft, warm balls of dough were supposed to be piled high.

Well, nothing to get caught on. It was just one of those days. Engage Disappointment Protocol – allow myself one well-earned sigh of sorrow – and move on. Perhaps I’d try for some pasta. That was usually alright–

“Come on, really?” said the girl next to me in line, apparently not as quick to accept defeat. “When’s the next batch come out?”

“That’s it.” The worker threw up his hands as if to prove they were empty. “I make another bag we’ll end up throwing a dozen away at the end of the night.”

The girl's shoulders fell, just as mine had at the news. I noticed then that she was pretty. Really pretty. Maybe it had more to do with the idea of someone else being as interested in bread as I was than it did her eyes, big and bright, or her blond-but-curly hair, but the latter two traits certainly didn’t hurt. Regardless, it didn’t matter; I troubled myself none with those thoughts. There were procedures in place for just this situation.

The thing about procedure is that it must be strictly followed. Procedure only works when every detail is seen to with precision. With discipline. It is no surprise then, that when one step into “Look Dead-Ahead and Walk Past”, I broke the “Look Dead-Ahead” part, things went awry. I caught the girl’s eyes only for a split second. That was enough to derail the second part of Pretty Girl Protocol: “Walk Past”. My legs stopped moving. A foreign, terrible instinct was floating to the surface of my stomach. Beyond my own will, I felt my lips begin to part.

“Bummer, huh?” I said, as the girl and I stepped out of line. I hardly recognized the voice as my own. Even stranger, the fact that I actually wanted to talk. “Bread’s just about the best thing they have here.”

She looked up. I was half tempted to turn away, to pretend it hadn’t been me who’d spoken. But when those bright, honest eyes met mine again, this time not just by happenstance, all doubts left me. I had made the right decision. “No kidding,” she said. “Don’t know how I’ll get through dinner now.”

I exaggerated a sigh, letting my head hang and my arms sag at the end of it. “Guess I’m settling for buttered noodles tonight.” I noticed her plate then and the fact that it had real food on it. Chicken and broccoli and potatoes type stuff. I supposed our palettes weren’t exactly the same.

She smiled and turned her head, studying me. “What’s Plan C? A PB&J?”

“Ouch.” I laughed. She laughed.

“Can’t say I blame you though,” she said. “I only come here for my Pop Pop. Couldn’t tell you what he likes about this place.”

I wanted to say more, to tell her how it was the same with my grandpa, how I only came here for him, how I couldn’t stand it either. Instead, what I did was back away. A force, just as strong as the one which had willed me to talk, was now pulling me away. Like I had hit a word limit.

“Yeah, well,” I said, searching for a smooth exit and finding none. “Good luck.”

I turned away quickly. I couldn’t for another second stomach the look across her face, watching me retreat. I had no room to interpret it, to consider the possibility that maybe she had wanted to keep talking. A horrible feeling was filling my stomach. A confusion of my own. All over again I was wishing I had never spoken up.

Procedures exist for a reason.

Halfway back to the dining room I turned around, realizing I still had no food. She was gone. My eyes fell upon the worker, the one who’d denied us rolls. He was holding a pair of tongs, poking food under the heat lamps in slow-motion. His eyes were dead, his body slumped. The guy was totally indifferent to the damage he’d done to the dinners of two bread-loving kids.

Protocol told me boo-hoo. There was nothing to be done.

I plopped down next to Grandpa at our table. Dad was reliving Cain’s wrestling match from earlier that evening.

“You were great. I mean, when you got that takedown–” He stood, raised his arms over his head, and brought them down as if throwing an invisible man WWE style across the table.

Cain himself was indifferent, working on a rotisserie chicken.

“Rudy, what do you think about working out with your brother this summer? Maybe have him show you a few moves?”

Without looking up. “Nah, I don't know.”

“Some hard work would be good for you, I think. It’s about time you started making your own way, bud.”

I shrugged, mumbled a response, and the conversation moved on.

Grandpa elbowed me under the chatter. His eyebrows were lowered, questioning my still-empty plate.

I looked away but could still feel his gaze. Those who don’t do, don’t get. Well, I was pretty tired of not getting.

Without alerting the rest of the table, I stood up and headed back to the buffet.

“Excuse me, sir.”

The half-awake, bread-denying worker behind the buffet looked up.

“Really nothing you can do about those rolls?”

“Not tonight,” he said. He looked ready to doze off.

I half-turned away, feeling it was hopeless, not wanting to deal with the confrontation anyway, but forced the stupid Quiet Guy procedure back down my throat and stayed put. “What if I promise to eat them all. No waste.”

“They come thirty in a bag. How hungry are you?”

“I’ve got brothers,” I said. “And if they can’t finish em, we’ll take the rest to go.”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

I looked at the guy like a dog in a donation commercial, hoping at least he’d feel bad about himself before I left. But there was nothing behind those minimum-wage eyes, and that bothered me even more. The big, Dusty Pete’s: Since 1980 sign on the wall flickered, laughing at me.

“Hey, what about that?” I said, pointing to the slogan underneath the sign. “‘How you want it, as much of it as you want’?”

The worker rolled his eyes. “Look, man–”

“I wanted rolls. Nothing else. And... you’re leaving me empty handed here.”

“It’s just a stupid motto. What they put in the commercials.” He leaned in, whispering. “You know this shit ain’t how you want it.”

I took a deep breath, unable to believe the words that were about to come out of my mouth. “Your manager see it that way?”

I stood at the entrance to the dining room, six rolls and a few things of butter on my plate, scanning the place. I found the girl sitting by herself at a two-top, though a recently deserted, half-finished plate was across from her on the table.

“Can I interest you?” I said, walking up.

She was caught off guard. Just recognizing me took a scary couple of seconds. “How’d you...”

I shrugged. “The guy crumbled at ‘please’.”

“My Pop Pop’s just getting a refill,” she said, gesturing to the abandoned plate. “Insists on doing everything himself though he can hardly see.”

She took two rolls and some butter from my plate. That left her looking at me again. Studying, smiling, and certainly still confused. Unsure what to make of this. Which was hard because I didn’t know what to make of it either. I had no idea what I was doing, what I was hoping to accomplish. There was no procedure for this situation. This was completely uncharted territory and the urge to run off was creeping in again.

“Thanks. Seriously, this is nice,” she said.

I scratched the back of my head, feeling very foolish standing by her table uninvited. I figured this was the part where she’d give an awkward nod, or maybe look around in silence. Tell me to buzz off one way or another.

“I’m Emma by the way.”

My eyes returned from their place on the wall and my mind from the doom it had already embraced. “Rudy. Nice to meet you.”

And she was still looking at me like she was expecting something else. Something obvious. On my part. I could think of nothing, and I knew any further attempts to extend the conversation would make it weird. So, I quit while I was ahead.

Stepping away, I could feel her eyes on my back again. And again, the feeling made me sick. Made me feel so cowardly. Despite what I told myself, there was also the unshakable feeling that I was leaving something on the table.

Too late. It was a good go.

I thought about returning to my table, to my family, who would surely ask where I had been. I could hear Grandpa’s voice already. You stopped there? You gotta have gumption!

My legs were rubber and hardly obeyed my order to turn around. “Emma?”

She had never even returned to her meal. Her eyes were there, waiting to meet mine before her name had made it halfway from my mouth.

“Yes?”

“Can I give you my phone number?”

I had to go to the hostess stand to get a pen, but I made it happen. When I took back my seat next to Grandpa I had a grin on my face, bread on my plate, and half a torn napkin in my pocket with ten numbers and a heart neatly printed on it in black ink. Somewhere on the other side of the restaurant, a girl had the other half, my own messy scrawl upon it.

“Thought maybe you ran off with the circus,” Grandpa said. “You alright?”

I played coy but easily allowed the story to be pried out of me. Dad nodded approvingly, Cain gave me knuckles, and Grandpa leapt in his chair when I flashed the napkin. “Ha! That's how you do it!”

Brownies with soft-serve vanilla was the obvious choice for dessert, and it was bound to taste ten times sweeter this night. I had the bowl set down on the toppings table – garnished with whipped cream and two cherries –and only turned my back to it for a second while grabbing a spoon. That was all it took. My beautiful creation was gone when I looked back.

I glanced around and quickly found the culprit, an elderly man who hadn’t made it far.

On any day prior, I would have simply fixed myself another bowl.

But I had seen what action could do for a man. Gumption was my new middle name. Life didn’t step on Rudolph Gumption Gardner.

“Hey, sir.”

He didn’t stop. I stepped after him and spoke louder. “That’s my bowl you’ve got there.”

Nothing. He kept moving, hard as it was for him, maybe even gaining speed as he hobbled toward the dining room.

I found a voice within myself I’d never known. “Thief! That’s my brownie!”

And he turned to look at me then, but so did the rest of the restaurant. The hunched, old man squinted in my direction, trying to figure out the fuss. Just then, Emma came up behind him and placed a hand around his waist.

“What’s going on Pop Pop?” she said, looking between him and I.

My stomach fell through the floor. My cheeks burned. I wanted nothing more than to evaporate. But because I was pretty sure the old man genuinely could not answer the question, I spoke up. The powerful voice was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by the familiar boyish, wavering one. “He uh... took my bowl.”

“Are you serious?” She was studying me yet again, though with none of the humor of before. “It’s a buffet, dude, get another.” She shook her head, rubbing the old man’s side. “He’s blind, Rudy.”

Her Pop Pop pulled away with a scoff. “Hardly. That Agent Orange has done a number on me but I can see all I need to.”

Emma had to grab his arm to keep him from walking into a trashcan. He still had my dessert as she led him off.

I plopped back down at the table empty handed.

“No brownies a la mode?” Grandpa inquired.

I couldn’t even hide it. The tragedy was too much to bear. “I botched it. I’ve known the girl twenty minutes and already managed to piss her off.”

Grandpa chuckled. “You’re just a sad story walking, huh?”

“Not funny.”

“Relax, it happens to the best of us.”

I shook my head and crossed my arms.

“What do you want me to go talk to her for you myself?”

I came close then to telling my own grandfather to shut up. But perhaps his idea wasn’t entirely crazy.

“Sir–”

The old man’s spoon dropped against the brownie bowl. He looked up, squinting. Emma’s Pop Pop was alone at their table, her chair pulled out.

“I wanted to apologize for earlier,” I said.

He smiled. “Ah, it’s Dusty Pete’s Department of Investigation again.” He put his wrists together and held them in the air. “You caught me, the buffet bandit.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. Besides, who won?” He took in a big, heaping spoonful of both brownie and ice cream, keeping eye contact with me all the time.

I laughed, glad he wasn’t holding a grudge. “Well, I thought I might introduce you to someone.”

I stepped to the side. My grandfather, a man missing both legs from the knees down, wheeled himself forward, grunting with each push. “Heard you served, sir,” he said, extending a hand. “Thank you for your service.”

They shook. “82nd Airborne,” said Emma’s Pop Pop.

“101st,” said Grandpa.

It was like I disappeared from the room. They talked about how they were both drafted out of high school, how they both were in Vietnam during Tet, how time seemed to move different over there, how the weather was horrible but the cities were alright. Minutes went by. Eventually Emma came back.

“What are you doing here?” she said, torn between anger at the sight of me and confusion at the sight of my old grandad.

I pulled the wheelchair back from the table. “Just about to be leaving.”

Emma ignored me, placing a slice of cheesecake in front of herself and another plate in front of her Pop Pop. The man erupted at the sight of his food before I could get Grandpa turned around.

“You've gotta eat something other than dessert,” Emma said. “Just have a few bites.”

“Meatloaf?” her Pop Pop said. “In the jungle we had meatloaf–”

“Every other night!”

Emma was taken aback by the conviction with which the two old grumps were staring her down. She looked from them to me. I shrugged, fighting hard to keep a smile off my face.

She sighed, shook her head and laughed. “I think you two better stay.”