Neon Neon Neon
NEON ANTEATER RENAISSANCE
Neon Anteater Renaissance (NAR) is UC Irvine’s Campuswide Honors Collegium’s creative works journal, featuring visual and written works from our talented CHC community. Thank you to everyone who has submitted to our issue! We also encourage you to contribute to future NAR issues by submitting your work to uci.nar.chc@gmail.com or https://sites.uci.edu/narchp/.
Editor-in-Chief: Maria Rama-McCain
Event Coordinator: Frank Granda
Marketing Director: Erin Jun
Representatives: Chiana Fujiwara
Hannah Reagan Taryn Jay Lam
Zoe Frederick
Advisor: Darren Warner
Cover Photo: “Inferno in the Skies” by Lauren Finkel
Instagram: nar chc
Website: https://sites.uci.edu/narchp/
Golden Hour Around the World
by Crystal Liu
“A collection of moments where I seized the golden hour while traveling, and, would love to have more people to see these stunning moments.”
pantun berkait of singapura
by Annika Lee
pantan berkait of singapura
the land calls her home, my mother, a siren’s song. but in the here and now she looks at me, child of the land she lay claim to, and knows the way back is barred.
in the here and now she looks at me, a mirror in living, breathing flesh, and we know the way back is barred, but still we yearn for home.
i hold a mirror to see my flesh, try to pick out which parts are hers, and still i yearn for her arms around me, safety at last.
i try to see which parts are hers, as if the land left of herself traces around my body, saying at least your hair is black like the century eggs
you wiped traces of dirt from on that island neither of us call home. my hair is black like the kampung’s shadows but we are in america, of the silicon jungle.
the island calls us both home to her but we have laid our foundations in america, concrete jungle, of the sprawling suburbs.
we have laid foundations here where she looks at me, a mirror to her youth, and tells me she raised me in these sprawled suburbs so i would be a child of this land.
i look at her, an aging mirror, and tell her the motherland calls me, a sirensong. i am a child of nothing and nowhere and there is no land i can claim.
"A pantoum is a style of poetry derived from the Malay poem style, the pantun berkait. As a Singaporean-American, I wanted to pay homage to Singapore's Malay roots. In writing it, I found that it became a reflection on immigration, yearning for a homeland, and relationships with both the motherland and the mother. There is a grief in immigration, and this piece attempted to fully convey the grief, as well as the alienation secondgeneration immigrants often feel from their parents and their culture.
Will I See You Again?
by Vanessa Chow
Taken on March 26, 2024, 6:11 AM, the day I arrived in Japan.
Taken on April 12, 2024, 5:52 AM
Taken on May 20, 2024, 5:07 AM
Taken on June 19, 2024, 4:54 AM
Taken on July 29, 2024, 4:09 AM, the day before I leave Japan after 4 months.
“5 photographs of 5 different golden hours over the span of the 4 months I studied abroad in Kodaira, Japan, in the spring-summer semester of 2024, all taken from my dorm room balcony. Whenever I look back at these photos, it leaves me feeling nostalgic, and always a bit sad, because I know that I can never go back to those amazing 4 months, back to this exact balcony, looking at the exact same sky. 'will i see you again?' is about the passing of time, of leaving moments, memories, people, places, or things behind, and of the sudden realization that you will never see them again for the rest of your life. I think that unconsciously, I will always be comparing the sunrises and sunsets I see to the ones of those amazing 4 months in that Kodaira dorm room; I will always be chasing those golden hours I haven't realized I left behind.”
Searching for Golden Hour
by Christopher Tan
The left photo was taken on my visit to UCI after submitting my SIR and the right photo was taken sometime in the recent past. When I read the theme “Chasing Golden Hour”, I thought about how we always are focused some metaphorical peak, and we expect things to get worse and sunset afterwards. On some days, I feel like I’ve already had my golden hour, and life only goes downhill from here. But these photos like to remind me that I still can search for my golden hour, even as the years pass by. Even after going through some hard times and already experiencing some amazing things, I still can have a naive sparkle of hope to drive me towards something new and greater.
The Sunflower Kiss at Sunset
by Empress Sae-Hia
It’s a light intimate meaningful kiss in the field of sunflower, between 2 alike, shining bright mistaken for the sun.
fire lily
by Kelly Pham
ten o ’clock on a Tuesday night –there was something brilliant in your eyes: a flower that bloomed in the sky brighter than any star, and you swore to follow its petals to Saturn like that wasn’t a billion kilometers away.
that's how you remember that moment in your head. you trace the path of the fire through the air and the sound of its whiz on the way up. you let the excitement pollute the atmosphere. and you ’ re always chasing an orange light, something calm, something right.
then autumn sweeps in when you least expect it. a dark and deadened orange. one day, it’s blistering hot; the next your hair is a tumbleweed, mixed with broken foliage from the trees of your childhood. then you ’ re eating dust and losing battles, and entire wars, and all of your churches. you're always losing things you didn’t think would matter,
but they matter. you ’ re standing on leaves that don’t keep their crunch and your skin is too thick. you're standing in a museum and there was never an orange light that made you feel so monotonous. you're standing in black and white trying to remember what color your hands are – what it looks like when there’s life in your palms. somewhere less golden, your lost churches are ringing their bells, but you don’t know what the occasion is.
never mind the flower that bloomed in the sky that night. it was your eyes that saw it, your eyes that held the brightness. your eyes that were extinguished three weeks ago, and you ’ re just standing there – black and white – hoping something good will come to you.
never mind some orange light that takes away the blush in your face and shows your blemishes instead. or the hot air that seeps from the clouds and holds you hostage in that imperfect suit. never mind what it is you seek that has never sought you back.
it’s not so grand as ten o ’clock on a Tuesday night; it’s the dullness of some afternoon that convinces you the occasion is a goodbye to Saturn and every ring you planned to accept.
Recently, I went to a conference in Houston. While there, I visited the Museum of Fine Arts, where there is a tunnel lit by orange light. It's interesting to stand under this light, because it makes you look like you ' re in greyscale. With this poem, I wanted to convey the feeling of chasing something that leaves you feeling empty - something you want so badly to be meant for you but just isn't. The feeling of finally bathing in the orange light you chased for so long is overridden by the greyness of your existence under that light.
Finding Sublime
by Christine Pan
This photo is part of a series of photo I took under the theme "Finding the Sublime in Nature," inspired by the novel Frankenstein. I like to photograph seemingly insignificant things in everyday life and then apply a copious amount of filters to them to convey a story. In this piece, the low-angle shot mimics the perspective of a small creature traveling across this Earth. I tried to capture a sense of grandeur. The high saturation and grainy texture of the photograph gives it a painterly, dreamlike feel. When the light shines bright, dreams are worth chasing.
honey lemon lament
by Adhiti Chandramohan
Love is yellow, for me at least
The melting of jamba juice on the pavement
Squinting at the tetherball lazily sway
A promised game left forgotten
The bright shirt that you lent me
That you left behind as you moved away Will you come back to claim it?
A color you told me I was most like Though I hated it at the time
Do you think of me as your memories decay?
The beak of the goose on that sweater I love
The one that signaled you would stay I think I'll wear it til it frays
As I wait I wait I wait for a response
The leaves of the tree that we grew go yellow
My heart hurts too much for others and struggles to beat for itself. I hope it realizes one day that it controls me more than others do.
Concealed
by Lauren Finkel
I am very inspired by the contrasts of nature and the way it gives and takes in harmony. I have been interested in photography for as long as I can remember, since it makes me feel like I can capture the energy of a specific moment that otherwise feels utterly unexplainable.
Solitary Sun
by Lauren Finkel
This photograph was taken at the close of a chilling winter day near my apartment. It is a dedication to the forces in our lives that are often taken for granted, that which quietly bring us light and warmth day after day and never ask for anything in return.
Inferno in the Skies
by Lauren Finkel
This is my attempt to capture a slice of the fire I saw dancing in the sky one evening. I have loved photography for as long as I can remember, since I feel it allows me to capture the energy of a specific moment that otherwise feels utterly unexplainable.
Like a Butterfly
by Yamil Vasquez
Look up into the bright night
Those shining lights
I’ll spread my wings and soar the sky
Like a butterfly~
Enslaved, entrapped in my cocoon (with no escape)
Belief in hope that may come soon (and make haste)
I’m breaking out of my shell
I’m breaking the chains of hell
I’ll never be tethered by your desire
I’m breaking the carapace
I’m breaking what’s set in stone
You can never hold me down!
Burn!
To ashes, even less I could not care less Now thatI’m free Now that I’m me
And I can do anything!
Burn! Down to your very core
For eternity and more
Now that you ’ re gone Now that I’m done
I can finally fly!
Like a butterfly...
My wings have spread, yet something’s wrong (I’m losing my mind) I thought I’d finally become strong (What you left behind)
What do I do?
How do I proceed?
I’ve let you go but I need you right now
With my own will Have not a clue On how to move on yet
Burn!
To ashes, even less I could not care less Now that I’m free Now that I’m me
There’s nothing that I can do!
Burn!
Down to your very core For eternity and more Now that you ’ re gone Now that’s I’m done But I cannot touch the sky Like a butterfly...
I Thought that I was free I thought that my journey Had come To it’s peak
I Thought myself my best Overcome all stress And yet I’m breaking down!
Burning!
Right down to my heart
From the end towards the start
Now that you ’ re gone
Now I’m undone
My sins ablaze
Burning! to ashes, even less
Deserving is this mess
Now that you ’ re gone
Now I’m undone
Never will I learn to fly
Like a butterfly...
How I yearned to fly
Like a butterfly...
Normally, I submit a drawing for my NAR entries, but I also sometimes write songs on the side, and this one in particular has been resonating with me. Originally, I wrote this as a boss battle theme for one of my game concepts, the boss in question is a singer who takes on a large burden passed onto her by her family lineage. Aiming to break free from those shackles, she works against them, ultimately planning a ruse with the help of the protagonists to tarnish her family's name, but not without first sacrificing her own reputation. Willing to put everything on the line because that feeling of imprisonment is all she's ever known, she gives no regard for her own future, even she could reach heights that she's never seen before. Her story is in actuality, the opposite of this edition's theme, as she outright surrenders her chance to chase after said "golden hour". In a sense, her story is very inspired by aspects of my own life, always playing second fiddle to someone else, a sense of selflessness to a fault that actively worked against my attempts to build self-confidence, until my body and mind forced myself to make irrational decisions to make poor decisions out of self-preservation, only to repeat the cycle again. It's something I've had to work on a lot, especially in recent times, but with the help of various people who've decided to stick by my side through it all, I've managed to make a few breakthroughs, some learned the harder way, others through reflections and calmer circumstances. I'm still working on this story as well, so I intend to give Medea (the singer) a happier ending of her own, too.
Leaping for Golden Hour
by Joelle Lin
This video taken at Great Park Ice in Irvine. I have been a figure skater for 16 years now.
Journey to the Horizon
by Erin Jun
This picture was taken early as the sun was rising in South Korea at the airport. I was returning to California for the start of a new adventure: my 2nd year at UCI. Although I was a bit worried, the excitement of another journey, in both a physical and abstract sense, began with this horizon seen at the crack of dawn. I wanted to share the feeling of a new start and the feelings that come with it to all of you!
Liquid Gold
by Brianna Chang
On the day of my debut, I painted myself in gold. A dragon’s tail swept my skin, Pink and brown enclosed. It concealed each cut and flaw, Burned against my scars. It drenched my skin with frozen gold, And seeped into my heart.
I put on the golden mask, Cold and adorned, It shaped my face with heavy hands Holding me to its form.
Midas now embraced me, He whispers in my ear, “This is your golden hour Your time to now appear, “Surrender to my touch, Fly into the sun. Like a fire in flight, you’ll light the night, And bring a fiery dawn.”
I stepped onto the stage, Shivering beneath their eyes Humans whispered, wrote, and watched–For me to take flight.
“She’s gold!” They whispered. “She’s gold!” “Our created paradigm! The trophy of humanity, One of us, one of a kind!
“Touch her,” They whispered. “Feel her!” See her wings unfurl! It’s our golden hour, Man will light the world.”
I reached a hand towards the spotlight, My unfeeling god, His eye scorched me with its gaze, And set fire to my blood.
“Reach, child.” He seemed to laugh. “I will give you what you crave, You will have your golden hour From the Earth you will escape.
“They will adorn you with laurels, A crown to behold, Precious chains shall wind your waist, And give you wings of gold.”
Across the stage, I began to run. Gold crackling on my skin
Across the stage, I leapt in the air. The crowd cheered with delight.
What freedom! What wonder! Chants swelled beneath my feet I flew towards the spotlight Laughing, wild, and free.
My heart thumped with their claps, Cameras blinked in surprise, Capturing the moment, That humanity learned to fly.
Gold broke from my skin. Shining wings took flight. It was man ’ s golden hour, And I was their prize.
But the applause never stopped. It flooded my wings with air. The spotlight gasped as I approached, Fury in its glare.
“Stop!” I cried. “Go back!” But the crowd beneath still roared. I crashed into the spotlight, Fire consumed my form.
Metal boiled on my skin, And seeped into my bones, Lava poured down my throat, Turning me into gold.
Gold seared to my face, A permanent new mask, And I knew from then on, I can never turn back.
I crashed into the ground, Gold seeping like mud Life poured out of my head, Spreading my wings of blood.
Dark ants bore into my sight. But the crowd turned towards the stage. Another one has appeared, Their voices began to fade.
“He’s gold! He’s gold! Our created paradigm! The trophy of humanity…. One of us…. One of a kind…. ”
At its core, this poem is about the pressure to live up to the world’s expectations– and the pressure that comes with trying to become the world’s expectations. As a student in college who is searching for internships and jobs this summer, I was constantly polishing my resume, filling out applications, going to interviews, and trying my best to portray myself as the perfect candidate. I had to portray myself as a valuable person to hire. In other words, I had to “paint myself with gold,” you could say. As college students preparing to enter the job market, we are told we have to stand out, to be unique, to have something valuable that the rest of our generation doesn’t have. We are pressured to get into the right clubs, the right classes, and make ourselves competitive for the market. We have to “paint ourselves in gold,” let it seep into our identity, and portray ourselves as unique and valuable in all the right ways to potential employers, recruiters, or even customers– with the knowledge that other people around us are trying to do the exact thing. Yet despite all of our attempts to be unique and valuable in the job market, we also have this nagging feeling that we are replaceable.
It’s important to note this kind of system isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Many people can and do succeed in their professional and personal lives through it– that’s why the speaker of the poem could fly on her golden wings. Moreover, throughout history, humanity has invented and accomplished great things under this idea of competition. The real problem comes only if it is taken too far– if we let the expectations of the world push us too close to the spotlight. In the end, my fellow CHC students, just remember this: Don’t paint yourself in gold. Don’t try to be unique and valuable to other people just to fulfill their expectations. You might succeed, yes, but more than likely, you’ll crash and burn. And the problem is… you won’t really stand out more in any of the right ways than the next person will. The best person you can be is yourself. That person isn’t going to be completely unique or different from the next person (because we ’ re all people in the end), but that person will be you. That’s the only way you’ll achieve your golden hour. And hey– I don’t pretend to be perfect. I still do attempt to paint myself in gold. This poem is just as much a reminder to me as it is to you.
Espanglés et Tu (Spanglish and You)
by Frank Granda
Oí et bienvene. Hello and welcome to your guide to Espanglés, otherwise known as Spanglish, Nuevo Español, or New Spanish is a creole language based on a combination of English and Spanish with hints of French, Portuguese, Italian and other romance languages. This guide will teach you basic grammar, vocabulary and easy phrases to help you get acquainted with this new tongue.
Espanglés is gendered with a masculine (El) and feminine (La) form like other Romance languages. Spanish grammar and pronunciation still apply.
Pronouns: Common Words:
Yo soy/e’toy
Menar - to mean Tú eres/etas
Il, Ella Utd. e/eta
Bucar - to search
Necetar - to need Nosotros somos/etamos
Ellos, Ellas, Uds. son/etan
Count to 10:
One/uno
Two/dos
Three/tes
Four/cuart
Five/cinc
Six/ses
Seven/sept
Travar - to work
Ecuhar - to listen
Glossary:
Munde - world
Aci - here
Po’avor - please
To’día - all the time
Travo - Work
Qui - who
Friend - ámino/a
Eight/oche With me - comiño
Nine/nuve
Ten/diz
Governo - government
Bandea - Gang
Common Phrases:
Hello: oí - singular/oyan - plural. salut, salute
Thank you: gracias
How are you: comme etas (informal), comme eta (formal), comme va, comme ce va, ce va.
I’m sorry: lo sentó
Welcome: bienvene
What’s your name: comme t’llamas (informal) comme s’llama (formal)
My name is: m’llamo
Good morning/afternoon/night: buen día/buena tarde/buena noche
Where is (are you)/Don’eta (etas/etan)
Goodbye: adiós
It was a language guide that I have written for a story a while back I would like to share for the linguistically curious.
Pink Paint
by Maria Rama-McCain
I captured this photo in front of the bridge heading to UTC and I thought the red and pink roses matched the pink in the sky. I hope to continue working on my photography skills and I can’t wait to submit more pictures for NAR!
Abaddon
by Ivonne Hartono
If he were to stay sane in this constantly changing world, Abaddon needs to keep a constant in his life. And in this present, his constant comes in the form of two: going to church on his Sunday and loving his first and eternal friend.
That is why Abaddon walked along the pebbled path, long abandoned by men and slowly consumed by nature. Following the road to the familiar holy sanctuary in his sight, the same one he had visited since the latest turn of the decade. His attire–everything black from his suit to dress shoes with his red tie being the only exception–is the same as last Sunday’s. And the Sunday before that. And the Sunday before that Sunday.
Yet, the siren song of change was too strong for him. Its persuasion pressured his weary soul a little too much, and he finally caved on that final Sunday. For the first time in his existence, he let those changes consume his body. The two horns protruding from his head, the tail swaying with the air, and the wings representing tainted angles attached to his back. A true form of a demon that pretends to be as pure as the human they torment.
Such irony, Abaddon thinks as he reaches the doorstep of the church, for a demon to be entering the holy ground of the Father who cast them away. What is left of his pride flares at the self-imposed insult and his anger surges from the hidden corner. Like the heavenly fire that burnt his and his brethren’s wings, his fury spread to his veins and demand that he revenge, avenge, kill, and maim–
Quickly, Abaddon takes in a breath and closes his eyes, quelling his anger with a sweeter memory of his friend. He lets his mind drown in that honey sweetness that will remind his pride of the reason for its shattering.
Fresh. That was his first thought as he breathed in Earth’s air. There were no ashes, no smoke, and no heat. Just a cool breeze smoothening his calloused skin, darkened from the constant raining ashes back in Hell.
His glowing eyes looked around–squinting from the unfamiliar existence of light. Why is he here? Why is he back on Earth? His answers were found on the ground where the red pentagram was carved on. Ah, he had been summoned to fulfill some evil deed. And he begins to wonder who his summoner will be this time. Will it be a broken-hearted lover? Or will it be a greedy commander? When he turns to see his summoners, his head tilts to his side–for he is greeted by a child with a pure smile that contradicts each of Abaddon’s expectations.
“Hello.” The child’s eyes twinkled in delight. “Are you the demon that takes souls in exchange for a wish? Because if so, I have no need of my soul. But I do have a wish which I hope you can grant me. ”
Abaddon tilted his head further. No doubt in the child’s heart and no trembles in the child’s body. His voice emitted the aura of a commander in front of his troop–a king in front of his subject. With hidden amusement, Abaddon nods.
“It is true. I applaud you, child, for summoning me. ” The tiny child’s room shook with the force of his speech. “What is it that you wish for?”
The child's eyes twinkled with joy as his bright voice carried his wish. “A friend!”
Abaddon pushes the door of the tiny church open; its archway barely scratching the top of his hair as he passes through. Disappointment tickles his throat as he finds that the church has been turned inside out. Even the chaos of Earth managed to taint God’s holy sanctuary.
With a small weight on his heart, Abaddon walks to the center of the altar. His hand waves through the empty space before hooking around a stable chair. Dust scatters to leave a trail as Abaddon drags the chair closer and closer to the altar–where he settles down the old chair and sits down on it with a creak.
Abaddon runs his hands over his face while ignoring the invisible weight that burdens his body and the phantom soreness pulsing through his veins. His weary eyes cast a glare at the statue in the center of the room. The statue that represents his Father who sent Abaddon to his eternal torture. The Father that humans hail as merciful.
Merciful, huh?
Merciful for the humans, but not so to his angels.
With a deep sigh, Abaddon closes his eyes. He closes his knees together, folds his hands, and bows down in front of the statue on top of the dust of his shattered pride.
“Dear Father in Heaven,” Abaddon says with a broken ego. “Here I, a humble traitor to You, bow down on the feet of Your statue. Praying once again for the mercy that humans boast of You. To ask for one last act of mercy on this tainted demon.”
Screamings echo in the distance, and the light starts to burn his skin.
“Please, bless me with Your salvation. So as to...” Abaddon pauses. His ears twitch at the sound of distant explosions as more fellow sinners meet their demise by the Army of God. “As to... step foot and walk amongst Your Heaven once again.”
Abaddon continues his prayers. His mouth keeps moving, yet his mind begins to wander.
To the memory of the child. To the memory of his friend–of blue eyes and tan skin, of black hair and cheerful smiles. And the day when Abaddon lost his greed for human souls and turned to crave the joy of mortal lives and salvation.
“So, I will never go to Heaven, you say?”
Abaddon shook his head, enjoying the freshness of Earth and life for as long as he could.
“No, your soul belongs to me. And when I receive it, I should drag you to your eternal damnation at the gate of Tartarus.”
The child–no longer a child but more of an adolescent now–hums. His posture was calm despite the threat of the demon that loomed over him. With his blue eyes, he gazed at the flower in between his fingers, twirling its stems and spinning its petals.
“I heard that it was not good down there.” Abaddon hummed in agreement, closing his eyes to fully immerse himself in the breeze of the mortal realm. “It is never good in Hell.”
“Why do you want to return there so badly then?” The child turned to face Abaddon, laying the dying flower on the ground. “If it will be as bad for you as for me, why return voluntarily?”
Abaddon tilted his head. “I have no choice. I have been bound to Hell’s fire and their torture for the rest of my existence. Once I receive your soul, I shall return to my torture along with you. ”
“The child tilted his head. “What if you did not receive my soul? Will you still be able to stay on Earth?”
Abaddon blinked, tilting his head up to the sky. A dumbfounded sound shamefully left his body as he found the one thing that no demon had ever questioned before.
Screamings disturb his sweet dreams and a gust of wind fully wakes him. When the sound dies down and what remains is the deafening silence, Abaddon opens his eyes slowly. And he finds that the church no longer exists, except for the chair he sits in and the statue of God Himself.
Wood and rubble ground into fine dust floating around. The moment Abaddon turns his head upward, he knows that his time on Earth is up.
Bathed in golden light, God stands high amongst the might of Heaven’s army. His eyes cast a burning gaze on the sinners and demons which destroyed what was left of His creation. His anger bubbles over the edge of the clouds and extinguishes the life of those it touches. Even from a distance, the screams of fellow sinners and demons still reach Abaddon.
Is this the sight he will witness as he reaches his dying moments? The end of Old Earth to make place for the new one to thrive while whatever remains of this Earth are cast to Tartarus? Will this be the last sight of Earth he sees?
Before Abaddon can question it further, the sound of flapping wings interrupts him.
Abaddon gracefully turns his body and thinks that perhaps God is merciful after all when red eyes meet his friend’s blue ones.
“Abaddon.”
The familiar voice thrums in him and Abaddon wishes he could cry at this very moment to hear the voice of his only love. The sound so sweet that haunts his dreams with its phantom whisper. Under his breath, Abaddon whispers the word ‘friend’.
And before Abaddon can do anything, his mind quickly plunges into centuries-old memories when he sees the bright blue eyes reflecting his pitiful figure.
“Abaddon.” Abaddon hovered over the fragile human. His fingers hovered over the bony face as he placed yet another wet cool rag over the childno, old man ’ s face. His eyes may be sunken and his gaze may be tired, but it still held the same promise of friendship whenever they met Abaddon’s red eyes.
“Rest, friend. Reserve your strength.” Abaddon settled on the chair by the man ’ s side. “Sleep if you need, so you can wake up the next day.”
His friend laughed weakly, then settled his bony fingers over his stomach–folding them likewise the sisters they saw at church last Sunday. “I'm afraid that ‘next day’ will never come for me, friend.”
Abaddon glared at his friend, his fist clenched by his side, wishing that he could refute the natural fact that his friend was not in fact dying. That his friend will live to see another day, to live to see another sunrise, to live until next week where they will go to church together again.
That he will stay a little longer by Abaddon’s side.
“You know it as well as I do Abaddon.” His friend sighed. “Today has been a long day for this old man. I wished to rest tonight.”
Abaddon refused to meet his friend’s form and instead cast his gaze on the afternoon sun.
“Good night Abaddon.”
“Good night, friend.”
That night, Abaddon had the most beautiful soul within his grasp. The soul that he spent the last 9 decades with. The purest one that he ever encountered in the entirety of his existence.
And instead of bringing it back to Hell, Abaddon let go. He watched as the soul disappeared to Heaven’s gate and watched as his choice bound him to Earth for the rest of his existence.
“Friend, it has been a while.” Abaddon’s voice trembles. His friend, no longer a frail old man on his deathbed nor a young child rolling on the ground, stands with a purifying aura that burns his body.
Abaddon’s friend is as beautiful as he recalls him to be. It is a shame that those blue eyes are so filled with sorrow. “Oh friend, why are your eyes misty?”
“I heard your prayers, Abaddon. I heard them every day. I tried to beg Our God Almighty to spare you, for your pure wish of redemption, but He said it was impossible.” His friend’s voice trembles and Abaddon wishes that he could rush over to his side without being burned.
“So, I asked Him for any form of mercy that He may bestow upon you, and His answer is ... ”
Abaddon’s eyes follow his friend’s gaze, downcasted and glassy, that overlooks the sword of Heaven’s fire in his grasp. An understanding settled over him, and Abaddon smiles at the mercy he was given.
“Friend, please, do not cast your eyes from me. I wish to see them.” Abaddon grins when he sees the beautiful blue again. God is truly merciful to send such a lovely gift to escort him to death.
Despite the holy aura that burns his skin, Abaddon walks closer and closer to the beautiful angel birthed from the pure soul. He reaches his smoking hands over his tan skin, hovering for fear it will shatter upon contact.
“Between death and Tartarus, I will prefer the former. And God gives me the mercy that none other of my kind will ever receive. Yet, the greatest gift he sent my way is you, my dear friend. Seeing you again before my death is the greatest wish that I whisper in every one of my prayers. ”
“So please, will you grant this demon’s last wish and keep your gaze on me as you drive the holy sword through this sinful body?”
Abaddon feels pure gratitude overflow him when he watches his friend nods.
So, with a peaceful smile and a sweet goodbye, Abaddon drowns himself in the beautiful blue of his friends. He lets the cold water wash away the burning of holy fire from his inside out, numb the sting of sword piercing through him, and detach him from the feeling of his body shattering.
And when the last of Abaddon’s smile turns to dust, his meeting with his friend under the golden hours of God’s mercy ends.
I have been writing for 10 years. This story was inspired by two content creators that I frequently watched during Covid-era. From then, I came up with the idea where there exist a world where demon re-learn to love a human so much that they are willing to cast away their pride and just enter the church to pray to ask for help.
Moo Deng
by Erin Jun
I decided to crochet something for one of my closest friends on her birthday and I saw that her love for Moo Deng the hippo was increasing by day. So naturally I crocheted Moo Deng for her gift and here is the final result! It isn't the best since I started crocheting recently but I do hope she likes it and all of you do too!
CHCommunity
by Christopher Tan
Picture from this year ’ s CHC Beach Day. I was thinking about what I wanted others to know about me, and I ended up liking this photo the best. I love the new council this year, and I’m eternally grateful to have a nice family of friends from the CHC. Thanks to events like these, I find a much appreciated break from the stresses of life, and a sense of belonging to a family of amazing people.
Wings of Golden Hour
by Theresa Toledo
These videos were filmed at the beach near my house, a place I visit almost every day since it’s just a five minute walk. Sunset has always held a special meaning for me. Back in high school, a couple of my friends who live in the same neighborhood as I started going to this beach together. It became part of our routine because we would pass by it on our way home from school, and it would always be sunset by that time.
My friends and I were chasing golden hour for the aesthetics and social media, and I managed to capture clips of birds who seemed to be chasing golden hour in their own way, who were soaring through the light as the day came to an end.