Issuu

CONTRIBUTORS Colby Daigle

Jupiter McAllaster

Rachel Baxter

Alyssa Early

Kalyn Mckinnon

Drew Bell

Kendall Feal

Kay Music

Madison K. Berntsen

Stephanie Fealko

Nebula

Audrianna Boals

Amanda Hargrave

Sabina Niedrich

Jennifer Boxen

Lucy Harris

Alyssa Pepe

Isabella Rose Bradley

Lucia Hernandez

Maggie Preston

Harrison Busbee

Kathryn Mary Khoury

C.Q. Ramsey

Maria Carling

Carly King

A. Reis

Cass

samwich

Abigail Clark

Inaria Maciel

Julianna Stearman

Kate Collection

Mako

Madi Taylor

Blackwater Review

John Aeterna

Dillinger Mayew Spring 2026

Blackwater Review

Blackwater Review A Journal of Literature and Art Volume 24, No. 1

Spring 2026

Niceville, Florida

Blackwater Review aims to encourage student writing, student art, and intellectual and creative life at Northwest Florida State College by providing a showcase for meritorious work. Managing Editor: Dr. Jessica Temple Prose Editor:

Poetry Editor:

Kodi Richardson, MA

Kathryn Young-Hunsinger, MFA

Art Direction, Graphic Design, and Photography: Benjamin Gillham, MFA Editorial Advisory Board: Dr. Heather Hartness; Dr. Beverly Holmes; April Leake, MEd; Rachel Marshall, MA; Dr. David Simmons; Dr. Christopher Snellgrove; Dr. Anne Southard; Dr. Robyn Strickland Art Advisory Board: Ashan Pridgon, MFA; Lesha Maureen Porché, MArch; Jennifer Wren Daugette (nèe Supak), MFA, MA LaRoche and Hunt Contest Judges: Dr. Anne Brinton; Mary Gutierrez, BS, MPA; Claire Massey, MFA; Andrea Jones Walker, BA Blackwater Review is published annually at Northwest Florida State College and is funded by the college. All selections published in this issue are the work of students; they do not necessarily reflect the views of members of the administration, faculty, staff, District Board of Trustees, or Foundation Board of Northwest Florida State College. ©2026 Northwest Florida State College. All rights are owned by the authors of the selections.

Front cover artwork: Jasper Egg Vase, Jennifer Boxen

Acknowledgments The editors and staff extend their sincere appreciation to Northwest Florida State College President Mel Ponder, Dr. Jenna Sheffield, Dr. Kimberly Hostetler, and Dr. Robyn Strickland for their support of Blackwater Review. We are grateful to Frederic LaRoche, sponsor of the James and Christian LaRoche Distinguished Endowed Teaching Chair in Poetry and Literature, which funds the annual James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, whose winners are included in this issue. We appreciate the many contributors to the Blackwater Review fund through the NWFSC Foundation. That fund supports the annual Dr. Vickie G. Hunt Memorial Prose Contest, whose winners are published here as well. We also would like to thank the estate of James P. Chitwood for funding the Editors’ Prizes, which the editorial staff awards for excellence in writing and art.

CONTENTS Smarter than Icarus, Cass

(LaRoche Winner) 1

A Kaiserreich Story: Christmas Miracle 1937, John Aeterna (Hunt Winner) 3 A Kaiserreich Story: The Yellow Rose Where the Green Goes, John Aeterna

Greedy, Cass

As the Breeze Blows Through Newbark, Harrison Busbee 12 The Ring Shout, Sabina Niedrich 18 chapstick, Lucy Harris

MayB Nxt Time, Stephanie Fealko 20 Embracing Love, Mako

Table Read: A One-Act Play, Kendall Feal 27 Clay, Sabina Niedrich 37 Slices of Plant Matter and a Cylinder, Stephanie Fealko 38 Signs of Your Love, Nebula 42 The Bowl is Full, Nebula

love ghazal, Rachel Baxter 44 Getting Away from It All, Dillinger Mayew 45 Reborn, Mako

ice age, Lucy Harris 54 Furniture Flipped, Kendall Feal 71 Eights and Aces, Alyssa Early 73 Long Live the Queen, Madi Taylor 78 The Ink, lo

When I Was Eight, Stephanie Fealko 84 The Blownk Incident, Harrison Busbee

Little Bird, Dillinger Mayew 88 Lying in the Grass, lo

Right Arm Mary, Madi Taylor 93 Undecided, Audrianna Boals 100 “Blessed Be the Sea,” Harrison Busbee

102

Silence, Isabella R. Bradley 109 Broken Mirror, Madison K. Berntsen 110 My Apothecary, Inaria Maciel 117 The Unnamed War, Drew Bell 118 The Unsaid, Kathryn Mary Khoury 121 Mist, C.Q. Ramsey 122 Filth, Maria Carling 139

Homeless, Colby Daigle 141 Full Story, Madison K. Berntsen 142 Crazy Cat Lady, Maggie Preston 144 Sun, Isabella R. Bradley 147 Siren Nobles and Apple Fritters, Stephanie Fealko 148 Tromperie Noir, Kendall Feal 158 COLOR PLATES A Ring of Trees, Jennifer Boxen 55 Orange Juice, Abigail Clark 56 Perseverance, Abigail Clark 57 The Shadow, Kate Collection

Inside Shadows, Amanda Hargrave 59 Still Snow, Amanda Hargrave 60 Heavenly Sound, Lucia Hernandez 61 Auki, Carly King 62 Love Branch, Carly King 63 Andromeda, Jupiter McAllaster 64 MKAC, Kalyn Mckinnon 65 Patience, Kay Music 66

Colors of the Sky, Alyssa Pepe 67 A Fire in the Sky, A. Reis 68 Lenny, Julianna Stearman 69 Amoroso, samwich 70

In addition to the printed publication, Blackwater Review has a digital component. This year, we have chosen one student film to publish online, Piano by Kate Collection. Kate created this short documentary about pianist and NWFSC professor Dr. Alexander Lo. Through interviews, rehearsals, and intimate moments at the piano, the film reveals his passion for music, his teaching philosophy, and the discipline behind artistic excellence. It is a portrait of a musician who not only masters his instrument, but also inspires the next generation of artists. Please visit NWFSC.edu/blackwater or scan the QR code below to view the film and past issues of Blackwater Review.

Smarter Than Icarus Cass I am smarter than Icarus. I know everything he did wrong, And what he did right. I can do better than him. He forgot about wax and flew too close to the sun. That’s fine, I know about wax. How it melts, how it softens. I know the sun, too well, Burning and blinding and warm. Nothing for wax to want close. I will just have to freeze. He forgot to listen to Daedalus and ignored his advice. That’s fine, I listen well. Don’t stray too far, don’t get too close. The ocean likes to drag you down, It is always more effort to climb than fall. Icarus didn’t listen and fell too far too fast. I just have to do better than that. He did know well that warmth was good. It’s soothing, relaxes my body, It makes me want to close my eyes and coast. I have to remember how fragile wax is. I cannot tempt the sun. I must avoid it. Cass • 1

He never learned that the ocean sprays cold. It’s soothing, relaxes my mind— It is always more effort to climb than fall. I was smarter than Icarus. I did better. I knew more. I kept my wings intact. I did not fly too close. I made sure of it. I did everything better. I dip into the ocean without a sound.

First Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2026 2 • Blackwater Review

A Kaiserreich Story: Christmas Miracle 1937 John Aeterna I’ve always wanted to come down south for Christmas to see the cousins. Barnabas and his kin went down the Mississippi about ten years ago, working them luxury steamboats for the bourgeoisie. Can’t say I blame him ever since Hoover shut down the factories back home. All of them cars just sitting out collecting dust along the train tracks. I had calculated that by ‘37, we’d have enough money to buy some land down there next to them in Louisiana. We both would get the clan together around the bonfire, smoking the turkey, and maybe get the children to build a little nativity scene. But I didn’t go to college like my pa. I wish I did because my damn math was wrong and now, I’m holding a rifle made in Aquitaine; shivering in some bombed out general store on the west side of St. Louis on Christmas Eve. Chairman Reed promised us jobs and a salary once MacArthur was deposed and the Kingfish got speared back into the Gulf. Well, I got a job that pays me in Spam and .30-06 bullets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Capone said we’d be drinking wine out of the wells in New Orleans and out for capers by Christmas time...last year. We’re barely across the Mason-Dixon Line. Now there’s some wide-eyed college student Commissar shouting in my ear every morning, “No step back! The chains are broken day by day!” So, for the rest of the night, I decided to take a stroll and frolic through the debris. It was nice and toasty outside by the burnt-out Panzers—a gift, courtesy of the Kaiser and the Silver Legion. I brewed one of our few batches of coffee we were able to get care-packaged in. I touched it to my lips and sighed in Aeterna • 3

relief at its molten warmth as I stared across the riverway. I snagged a few more into my kit to keep myself occupied and warm-blooded. I wrapped it in some of my leftover red partisan sashes, something mildly festive for the occasion. The evening fog was rolling in the snow on patrol. Walking the pavements felt a little cathartic, honestly. I wasn’t going to listen to Commissar Emerson yammer on about the Scarlet Dawn tomorrow morning. The breeze was gentle despite the fires across the river, even a little romantic sometimes. I’m sure this river would be a lot prettier without the sinking ships. We’ve been here longer than my firstborn has been alive. We were keeping a steady pace, routing the Union Staters out of Missouri. We took so many prisoners in Kansas City; I swear we captured the whole southern army. Now I’ve been having to stare at them for a whole year around this misery city. At first, we were burning the Kingfish’s banners because we didn’t want an American King. Now we burn them just so our legs don’t freeze up by sunrise. I took a moment to pause and just take it in. The crisp winter air blowing about like a crackling miasma, freezing the ice over and making me long for Ma’s stew. The best I had were some peanuts that I snagged. I pulled them out and dropped them into my mouth one by one; pretending they were marshmallows, the first silent night I’ve had in two years. I wasn’t keeping track of time when I heard footsteps bumping over the bricks behind me. I raised my rifle and dashed towards the nearest wall tall enough for me to stand fully covered. I peeked out a little through the holes in the brick walls. There were many two-story buildings with no visibility. I could get domed just in time to meet the big man on his birthday. I swear if I heard “Every Man a King” getting sung across the street then I’d dive into that frozen river right now. I ain’t dealing with the Nats right now. Why can’t the Kingfish keep his patsies on the other side for just one night? It was Christmas, for Christ’s sake. But then I heard something. Some whispers in the wind. I rubbed my eyes and leaned my ear in ever so slightly. I could 4 • Blackwater Review

hear those redneck accents, but it was different this time. They...they were singing. By Jove! They were singing! I went the back way around the entire block where there was more cover. I tip-toed like a black cat through the snowladen alleys to hear the commotion a little better. Maybe they had actual food or even beer! As I meandered closer, I could hear it. “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright” “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, Alles ist ruhig, alles ist hell.” The Nats and the Huns were singing Christmas carols! I decided to take a further look and climbed through the window of what seemed to be an old bakery. I finally put eyes on them through a few holes in the wall. They had this little bush they snagged from the Lafayette Park cradled against what looked like the base of a collapsed chimney with little makeshift candles and ammo boxes wrapped in cigarette lighters encircling the humble shrub. I counted fifteen of them, nine of the Kingfish’s men with their torch-bearing eagles on their uniforms, six Germans in their dapple confederate gray, probably drinking beer out of the stove-pots they were holding. I lowered my rifle down a little bit as I saw them sitting down, half of them trying not to slump over. It was Christmas Eve. Even they needed a time to remember the old days where we did this with our families. Click I heard the bolt latch itself into place at my nine o’clock. There was a Nat in his overcoat pointing a bolt-action rifle at me. I could still see the stars and stripes sashed over his right arm. He was chewing something, then I realized he was munching on a damn biscuit. “Whatcha doing here boahh?” he asked in that thick hogwrestling southern accent. I heard it on some of the Kingfish’s old fireside chats. He was from Louisiana, so I knew this guy pointing his barrel towards me was a long way from home too. “Just enjoying the scenery. Waiting for Santa Claus to come down the chimney I guess.” Aeterna • 5

“You trying to be funny? Drop the boomstick.” I slowly laid my rifle on the ground as I raised my hands up in the air. “So, what’re you doing in our neck of the woods?” “Trying to be festive. I reckon, if MacArthur didn’t seize Washington and declare himself Caesar, I’d be holding my daughter; eating a nice smoked ham right now in Wisconsin. Now all I’ve had for supper is coffee and probably lead in a few more minutes.” “Ain’t that the truth. I got a son over back in Alexandria. His mama’s keeping him fed till I get back. Speaking of which, did you say you had coffee?” “Yes, sir, back here in my rucksack,” I said as I slowly pointed my thumb. “You got pneumonia or something? You’re shivering like an unshelled armadillo.” “It’s a little chilly. Don’t know how long I’ve been out here.” The Nat lowered his rifle ever so slightly. He was rolling his tongue back and forth, contemplating probably. He glanced over to the chimney tree they had lined up and looked me up and down for what felt like the twelve days of Christmas had been passing by at the pace of an inchworm. “Well, I don’t want to ruin the occasion, so I’ll make you an offer; I advise you don’t refuse.” I nodded my head in curious expectation. “I’ll put your gun on the shelf behind the counter. Then you come join us for supper. We’ll share some of our quail we snared, and you’ll lend us some of your coffee. Sound alright with you?” “Sir, this is the first Christmas miracle I’ve ever seen.” “Good, I’ll take that as a yes. My name’s Stephen. What’s your name, mister?” “Paul, it’s a pleasure and a relief.” After we stashed my guns, he led me from behind to the camp. His boys were a little alarmed at first but calmed down after Paul got me to pull out the coffee grounds from my bag. I 6 • Blackwater Review

even brewed it for them. They had some sugar tucked away in their pouches. So, I became their Red Christmas barista. Sweet and sugary for the southerners, pitch black for the Sauerkrauts. That quail was the most delicious bird I’ve had since the chicken and the egg. I don’t know which came first, but this was the first meal that actually felt filling in a long time. Something about eating around this candle lit bush using a man from Bavaria as a backrest just made it taste better. For a good few hours, the war ended. For a few short moments, I felt at home with the same Dixie boys and Kaiserkissers who a few days ago were feeding me lead bullets instead of biscuits and gravy. For old times’ sake, God gave us a little slice of paradise right on time for his son’s birthday.

First Place, Dr. Vickie G. Hunt Memorial Prose Contest, 2026 Aeterna • 7

A Kaiserreich Story: The Yellow Rose Where the Green Goes John Aeterna “March north as traitors, come home as kings!” said the tattered poster barely sticking to the cathedral walls. The trooper with his bright silver and blue uniform was probably the most cheerful soldier in America; the rest of us could use that morale boost that he’s got. But he’s stuck on that wall in 2-D like those old pictographs that used to run in the theater. Here in the thirdworld of dimensions, the cleanest things we got are the “readjusted distribution” of premium cigar boxes and Sicilian wine from our “kameraden” sent over by the Kaiser in Berlin. When the front got pushed up against the Feds in Washington, I thought I was going to sit up on Lincoln’s lap when we took Washington. But I got stuck out in the ass end of West Texas “keeping the peace.” Drying and dying duty for us out here. Only thing I looked forward to was seeing that Yellow Rose that has been keeping me company. Spanish women have been occupying the boys since the last assault a couple weeks back, some passing through, some staying. I got to talking with one; she was different than the others. Ain’t as loud, pleasant to look at. Had a look in her eyes; at first it seemed solemn, but when I got to talking with her, I realized it was melancholy. She told me she got used to all of it. “Mexico’s been in wars longer than the Gringos have been starting ‘em,” she told me. Even before we met the Huns for the first time at Belleau Wood. She’s got a little sass, quiet like. I met her when she was cleaning the commander’s tent when I reported what I saw my first day doing night shift. She helped me light the lantern for some of my Suebi Cigarettes that I told her I had procured from some overseas friends. She gave a slight smile then; now, we come see each other near sundown. 8 • Blackwater Review

She shares little secrets ’bout the desert. I share secrets ’bout the bayou. She tells me ’bout the witch-women that turn into wolves at night hunting wayward children. I tell her some more reasonable stories about the gator’s eyes in the water at night snatching wanna-be hunters out of their boats and wagons. Civilized problems, no sorcery back home, only angry lizards. She chuckles thinking I’m dim but remembers I’m the one with actual tobacco. This trade of goods led me to acquire the most precious commodity in the camp, this senorita’s name: Gloria. Fitting name, given the fire she likes to pretend she doesn’t have. I stopped pondering this senator’s son smiling for a war he’d sit out watching and moseyed over to my duty post. “Sentry duty” they called it, like standing lookout for coyotes, but the coyotes then had four legs. The coyotes now lost two legs and replaced them with M1 Garands. Though as much as I slightly wanted some action to break up the tedium, The Angel staring down at me didn’t cast fire from the sky like those boys in St. Louis been getting. The fire he brought was what I think they call meta...Metafornication kind. Because my heart started acting aflame when I saw Ole Gloria tiptoe behind me. Quiet enough to where the other sentries didn’t wake but loud enough to where I could tell it was her. I glanced over my rear to see she was holding something. She said it was a surprise; part of me was paranoid she’d drop a grenade from her dress. But instead, it was a bottle, Vintage Avignon from back before the Communards turned more than just the wine red over in France. She sat down on the milk crate under the cathedral and whispered something sweeter than the wine. She asked me “Why do you think we started calling y’all Gringos?” And I wanted to shed some Myrrh and I said, “Cuz we had greenbacks worth the salt y’all spent it on?” She, with a foxlike smirk and giggle, told me, “No, little man, one hundred years ago the Americans invaded Mexico over the land we’re sitting on now. Back then you all wore green uniforms, so we would say ’Green go home,’ and we’ve called you the same ever since we lost our homes.” Aeterna • 9

My mind went blank, so I asked her, “Do you think I call this land home anymore?” She with a gaze of moonlit beauty replied, “Don’t you Americans have a saying: Home is where your heart is?” I hesitated to answer. Being honest was about the only thing of value I could give her since we’re sitting in a House O’ God, so I tried to be a little modest. “I left my heart back in Biloxi; I chased being a king instead of giving her a ring. Didn’t even say goodbye. We shipped out ahead of schedule.” She lowered her face all gentle-like and opened the wine bottle and the hatch of the lantern. She got out three roses: red, white, and yellow. She held the red rose up and said “To Hell, we held back” and tossed it into the lantern. She then held up the white rose and said “To Heaven we call home” and tossed it into the lantern. My mind was mesmerized to say the least. Then she said words that would wound some but warmed me instead: “I walked into town to set a part of this terrible world on fire. Everything, those flags all of you wear have caused me more heartache than any wound I got from the guns you carry. I could’ve cut your throat and left town without skipping a beat. But I’ve been feeling different the last few weeks.” I asked her, slightly frightened, “What kind of different?” Then she pulled out the yellow rose and told me. “I’ll give you my heart, if you promise to keep me home.” “But you said this land ain’t your home?” “This land could never be, because my home calls me his Yellow Rose.”

10 • Blackwater Review

Greedy Cass Greedy little thing It gathers all the anger up And holds it tight Hoping to pop. Stupid, tiny thing You keep taking what’s not yours And crying about it! Foolish, fragile thing Anger is sharp and you are not It will only hurt you. Stubborn, precious thing Drop that anger Drop it! Silly, small thing They’re throwing their anger out They’re not aiming at you. Sweet little thing Curl up on your soft blanket Lick those wounds you made You’ll learn.

Cass • 11

As the Breeze Blows Through Newbark Harrison Busbee A rabbit was hopping through the forest. What was its purpose? It couldn’t say. Was it running away from something? Was it running toward food? Was it just instinct that compelled it? All these feelings had long since blended together in its brain. Fear, hunger, primal instinct, it experienced all these sensations so often that it couldn’t tell one from the other. But as it hopped farther and farther, things started to become clearer. It was hungry, sure, but it wasn’t desperately so. If there was food where it was going, it would eat, but that didn’t seem to be why it wanted to go there. It was afraid, it always was, but it didn’t sense any immediate danger. Looking around and inspecting its surroundings, it saw no sign of a monster or anything dangerous. And yet, it kept going. She was driven by something she didn’t understand. As she hopped onward and the forest got denser, she heard noises that she hadn’t before. They were nice though. She wanted to see where they were coming from. She continued forward, maneuvering around the trees as they got closer together, fueled by something she’d never felt before. The noises made her feel something else. Something nice. Something that made her want to just sit and listen. Propelled by curiosity and a desire for comfort, she kept going, slowly but surely hopping through the woods, the trees so dense they had basically become a tunnel around her. Eventually, she leapt through an opening between the trees, and emerged in a place she had never seen before, somewhere she could scarcely even imagine. This place was new and unusual, but it felt so familiar, deep down. Like… home. Safe. Warm. Comfortable. These were feelings she hadn’t felt since she was a kit in her mother’s burrow. It was a village of sorts. She didn’t know how she knew what a village was, but it seemed like an obvious thing to her now. She began hopping forward, before 12 • Blackwater Review

standing up on her hind legs and walking with her front paws off the ground. She didn’t want to get her hands dirty. In this place were creatures like her, other rabbits, but there were also many other things. Some creatures she recognized, others that looked like they had stepped out of a dream. As she walked further into the little town, a chipmunk approached her. He was wearing overalls and a top hat, and had a friendly smile on his face. “Hey there, stranger!” He said in a kind voice. “Welcome to Newbark! What’s your name, if I may ask?” “Name?” She had never had one of those before, although she supposed one would be useful. She thought for a moment. “E-Emmy?” The chipmunk continued smiling at her. “Nice to meet you, Emmy! I’m Charlie. How about I show you around the place?” Emmy smiled back at him. His unselfish kindness was refreshing compared to the life she’d lived previously. “I’d like that. But first, could I get some clothes?” She’d noticed that everyone else in the town was wearing an outfit or accessory of some kind, and her lack of any such adornment made her feel…uncomfortable? Jealous? Exposed? Maybe all three. Maybe something else. Charlie, however, just casually hopped away for a moment and returned with an article of clothing for her. It was a green sweater. She put it on quickly. It felt nice. Comfortable. It made her feel more like herself. Or, more like this new version of herself, she supposed. “Now, Emmy,” Charlie said, “Follow me!” The village was surprisingly large. Big enough for hundreds of animals to live comfortably within it. Yet at the same time, it felt really cozy. Everyone seemed to know Charlie as he showed her around, and everyone seemed really friendly to her as well. She met many animals: mammals, birds, reptiles, and a fair amount of things she’d never even seen before. It was one friendly face after the next as she familiarized herself with this new and exciting place. Eventually, the two came to a stop in what appeared to be the center of the town. They stood in front of a rather splendid Busbee • 13

looking building. It was larger than the other houses, and decorated very extravagantly. “Within this building,” Charlie said, “lives the Greyara.” “The what?” she replied, confused. “It’s the reason we can feel things,” he said. “It’s the reason that Newbark exists.” She was pretty sure she understood what he meant. This thing was the feeling she had experienced. It was what drew her to this town. It was what made her understand. Charlie knocked on the door. Emmy heard nothing. No footsteps, no voice saying “come in.” All she saw was the door beginning to open. Charlie casually stepped inside, and she followed a moment later. Within the building was a large room. In the center was a being that Emmy could scarcely comprehend. It seemed to be golden in coloration, and it radiated a bright light. The being had four arms and sat crosslegged with two of its arms in its lap and the other two held above its head. At least, Emmy guessed that what it was doing would be considered sitting. But it was floating about a foot off the ground, so she wasn’t entirely sure. The being looked at them with a calm smile. “Greetings, Charlie, and…oh, I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.” “Greyara, this is Emmy,” Charlie said. “She’s new in town. She just arrived this morning.” The Greyara nodded knowingly. “Well then, it’s lovely to meet you, Emmy. I hope you enjoy it here.” Emmy thought for a moment, before continuing. “Can I ask you something? Why do I feel like a different person after arriving here?” The Greyara smiled, as if expecting that’s what she’d say. “You feel that way because before this morning you weren’t a person, merely a mindless beast. My power gives creatures the ability to think, to know, to feel. The closer you got to this village, the more my presence affected you. Before today you lived a life of fear and savagery, but now, thanks to my influence, you may live a life of peace and pleasantry.” After hearing this, Emmy thought for a moment. She was glad to actually have an explanation, and life in this town 14 • Blackwater Review

did seem preferable to the one she was living before. As she thought, Charlie turned toward her. “Alright, Emmy, let’s find you a place to stay!” And so, the rabbit and her new friend set off to find an unoccupied house. There were actually quite a few of them. Built in anticipation of new arrivals, she supposed. Once she got herself settled, Charlie headed back to his place, and Emmy decided to turn in for the night, soon allowing sleep to overtake her. She wasn’t asleep for very long when something awoke her in the middle of the night. She could hear someone calling her name, although it didn’t sound…physical. It was like someone was speaking directly into her mind. Was it the Greyara? She wondered what it wanted this late. “...Come to me…” the voice said. Should she? If it was the Greyara, she was sure there was a good reason. However, as she left her house, she quickly found that wherever she was being summoned to, it wasn’t anywhere near the Greyara’s place. Onward and onward, she went, driven by an insatiable curiosity, until she eventually reached the edge of the village, and she stopped for a moment. The voice was still beckoning her forward. What could possibly be calling to her from out there? “...Almost. Just a little ways more…” Should she really be doing this? It seemed like a bad idea. Still though, she did have this newfound desire to understand things. She may as well make use of it. She needed to know who, or what, was calling to her. Finding a small gap in the trees surrounding Newbark, she stepped out into the wilds beyond. She didn’t need to walk very far before she came face to not-face with a creature that looked like it crawled out of a nightmare. It was a large beast with red scales. It had eight spider-like legs, with two smaller appendages in front. It didn’t have visible eyes, its head being comprised of only a large, gaping mouth. Behind its relatively short body was a long tail that disappeared into the underbrush. Before she could run, scream, or do anything, it spoke. “Hello, Emmy. Welcome back.” Emmy could feel her heart racing. Busbee • 15

“Who are you?” she said. “And what do you mean ‘welcome back?’ We’ve never met before.” The thing made what might be described as a chuckling sound. “I am the Valdari. The other side of the coin. The chaos to Greyara’s order. My influence was felt throughout the entirety of these wilds. Every living thing was under my power. But then I learned that the Greyara had swooped in and upset the natural balance. It made an entire village of peace.” As it continued talking, Emmy noted that the Valdari said the word “peace” with far more contempt in its voice than it had previously. “What the Greyara’s doing…I can’t have it. But all the animals in that village have lived there for so long that I can’t access their minds anymore. But you…you are new. Fresh. Perfectly able to feel my presence. Which is why you’re going to help me dismantle this.” Emmy almost laughed. “Why would you think I’d do something like that? I love it here. I’m not going to help you destroy it.” The Valdari made that chuckling sound again. “Oh, it’s a bit too late for second thoughts, my dear. My influence has already begun to take hold of you again, and this time I am determined to keep you under it. So, hop back to the village if you wish. You can’t escape me. I actually encourage you to go back, for your return to savagery will be just what I need to help end what the Greyara is doing.” Emmy couldn’t believe it. She had just achieved higher thought and she was going to lose it again? She could already feel the primal fear seeping back into her mind. Did she have a mind? Did she have…friends? It was already working, wasn’t it. “You may be able to take control of me again, but you’re a fool if you think I’ll bring my friends down with me.” She started to scamper off into the wilds beyond, but was quickly met with the Valdari’s tail blocking the way. “I’m afraid that doesn’t help me much. I need you to go back. So, I’ll offer a little persuasion. Return to the village and sew my influence among the animals of Newbark, or die where 16 • Blackwater Review

you stand. It’s your choice to make, but I’d urge you to choose quickly, I don’t have all night, after all.” Emmy just stared up at the monster. What should she do? If she did what it wanted, she’d at least be alive, but could she sacrifice her friends just to save her own skin? As her mind and her heart raced, she thought of something. “Wait, don’t you need me? How would killing me help you in any way?” It chuckled once more. “I suppose you’re right; it doesn’t help me. But if you don’t listen to me, I can’t exactly force you to go back. And if I’m losing my chance to dismantle the Greyara’s work, I may as well get some enjoyment out of it.” It looked at her with a murderous smile. “The question is, my dear rabbit, are you willing to die for these other animals?” The rabbit looked up at the monster, that primal fear beginning to seep back into its brain as the Valdari brought its head right down next to it. “So…what’ll it be?”

Busbee • 17

The Ring Shout Sabina Niedrich Pitter patter our feet go In the amber fire’s Secret shadows Hips sway and hair flows After the day’s performance Now we glow with midnight bliss Without the burden of forgiveness Stolen glances and whispered kisses You send me spinning With heart skip dances Stars turn and turn In the pool of the sky Time folds and buries me In the dark of July Eyes wide like the moon I want to sip and scoop With a silver spoon The world it glitters Like magic so erratic Our souls it ignites In the burning brilliance

18 • Blackwater Review

chapstick Lucy Harris long and thin: magenta outer shell, fragrant substance within. twist and spin: the smell dwells, blooming out, taller now, forced to sprout towards certain demise by invisible hands. day and night tortured, blind twilight kiss height declines to abyss. empty case stands. sometimes i wish to be twisted up, used, sanded down to the empty shell of nothing that i am used up, and thrown away forever forgotten.

Harris • 19

MayB Nxt Time Stephanie Fealko Quinn’s thumb slid over the keyboard of her flip phone, eyes narrowed, and lip pulled into a frown as she glared at the screen. She read Shadow’s last text over and over, practically burning the thing into the back of her eyelids. So xcited, kitty gurl, can’t w8. The afternoon air smelt of grilled shrimp and sea salt, the soft breeze jingling the line of fairy lights strung through the poles of the deck, located on the second floor of the Longshore Bar and Grill. Quinn could faintly hear the sloshing of water down by the docks, adding ambiance to the lively chatter up on the deck. Amidst the everyday noise of the restaurant, yelps and larps were heard from the band, lugging bags of equipment up onto the wooden stage. Each member wore a pale-green shirt, the band name Dog Pound printed in sharp font across their chests, a paw and claw design smack-dab in the middle. Yet, all she could keep her eyes trained on was the screen on her flip phone, scrolling through her texts with Shadow. Quinn: Longshore Bar and Grill, 6 PM Shadow: Ill B there =^-^= Quinn: Great! Quinn: We could grab dinner after this, too? Shadow: If ur paying! Quinn: I offered Shadow: purr, ofc ill come Shadow: So excited, kitty gurl, can’t w8 Quinn swallowed thickly, smoothing out her sweating palms against leather. She quickly regretted wearing the leather jacket she sported. It was far too warm to wear something like this, and she was only doing herself a disservice. She had to wear the stuffy motorcycle suit for hours during her H.E.R.O. shift; she didn’t need to be willingly putting herself in suffocating fabric more than she already was. Sweat already slicked her 20 • Blackwater Review

arms, surely staining the armpits of her shirt. Quinn could be smart about it and just put the jacket aside, but she only took it out of her closet and dusted it because Shadow was supposed to show up tonight. The thought of the woman made her stomach churn, palms sweating. Was wearing the band shirt to dinner weird? Was thinking that making it weird? Knowing the two of them, they would just snag some take-out from the Chinese restaurant on the way back to their apartments, sit either in Shadow’s well-renovated apartment or Quinn’s hardly-touched room, and talk all night. Maybe talk about the band’s performance tonight, or Shadow’s latest modeling gig, or maybe she’ll fuss over Quinn’s hair and offer to “fix it” for her. You have such wonderful brown hair, and you drown it by using 12-in-1, Shadow would say. And Quinn would laugh, watching Shadow fret about it, calling it a crime against humanity. She’ll give Quinn more shampoo and conditioner that her work had paid her in, and tell Quinn to tell her if the products worked. Or maybe she’ll beg to brush Quinn’s hair, something that’s been happening quite frequently now. For the eighth time that night, she fiddled with the sleeves of the leather jacket to hide the splatter of scars visible when the sleeves were rolled up like this. She tugged down at the pale green band shirt, swiped at her brown hair, and chewed on her bottom lip. The taste of iron lingered on her tongue, lip stinging at the consistent gnawing. Her fingers twirled along the strands of hair not tied up in her half-up hairstyle, frizzy hair curling around her pointer finger. A light shove was felt to her side, jolting her from her thoughts. A flurry of blond hair was spotted in her vision, an expanse of speckled freckles on tanned cheeks, as Quinn glanced down at the man beside her. There was a crooked smirk placed on his mouth, his snaggle tooth pressing against his lip. “You going to help, or are you going to keep standing to the side, waiting for your girlfriend to call?” He placed a hand on his hip, the button-up jacket opened to show off the band shirt. Quinn could already feel the flush painting her face, her eyes widening. “She’s not my girlfriend, Rudy.” Fealko • 21

“Not yet. You gotta think positivvve, think positive!” He twirled the drumsticks in his hands, nudging her side with his elbow. “Now c’mon, before Cullen and Chara start fighting.” Unfortunately, it looked like they were a little too late. “Ugh, no, that placement is awful. I don’t want to be standing all the way to the side; what if I trip?” Chara hissed, hands crossing, gripping the strap of her bass case tighter. She turned her head sharply, attempting to get her black, straightened hair away from her eyes. It didn’t work. Cullen huffed, rolling his eyes. “How in the world would you trip? You’re at least 3 feet away from the ledge.” “I move a lot!” “Well, stand still. You’re the bassist, not the circus clown.” Cullen paused, placing a hand to his chin. “You do look like one, though.” “Oh, shut up,” Chara huffed, placing down her case on the wooden stage. “This has to be some sort of safety hazard. If I trip, can I sue you and get all of that richy rich daddy’s money?” “What the—?I earned that money!” “Working for your dad, in your dad’s company. Daddy’s money.” “That’s the money funding this entire band right now,” Cullen growled. Both Quinn and Rudy glanced at each other, matching looks plastered on their faces. “A little late for that,” Quinn said. Rudy frowned. “I don’t know why I’m surprised they’re already bickering.” On stage, setting up the stand for the mic, Daphne said in a hushed voice, “They were bickering in my van.” She pushed her box braids away, lips pursed as she focused back on getting the height right. She held the mic stand, testing out the feel of it. “They’re always bickering.” Rudy chuckled, tapping the drumsticks against the stubble of his chin. “They are, aren’t they?” A small bzzt from her pocket made Quinn jolt, hands racing to fetch her phone. Her fingers fumbled through the 22 • Blackwater Review

pockets of her leather jacket as she pulled out her flip phone, opening it at record speed. Quinn studied the notification, her face immediately dropping when it was a text from Enzo: Going to take the night shift tonight. Have fun. “Was that your girlfriend?” Chara asked. Quinn flipped the phone closed, lip dipping. “Ew, no. My dad’s just working late tonight.” Everyone watched as Quinn’s face flushed a soft pink. “What is it with all of you and thinking Shadow’s my girlfriend?” The entire band went silent, giving Quinn that same knowing look. “She’s all you talk about,” Rudy says. Quinn brushed the bangs aside from her face, expression pinched as she fiddled with the strap of her guitar case. “That’s just an exaggeration.” Daphne shrugged meekly, adjusting the height of the mic stand. “We’re just teasing, Quinn.” Rudy nods, “Exactly. Plus, hopefully it’ll make you forget about gig jitters. Yeah? I mean, I think this beats that one time at Infront! Look at how many people are here.” He walked up to her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and urged her to turn to her right, where she could see all the people eating dinner and traversing on the upper floor. Her stomach did somersaults. “If you’re trying to make me feel less nervous, maybe don’t point that out.” The smile Rudy wore grew wider. “Maybe. But we should be proud of this. We wouldn’t be here without you, Quinn.” At that, Quinn’s shoulders relaxed, drooping slowly. She could feel her face softening as she glanced back down at the drummer. “I guess.” “Woof, now there we go. Let’s finish setting up, and let’s get this gig going!” Rudy hooted, shaking her shoulders. She laughed, placing her phone in her pocket and helping the band finish setting up on the stage. Rudy went back to the kick drum, situated in the middle back of the stage, and started tinkering with the hi-hats. The drums were nearly completely set up, and only a few more pieces Fealko • 23

were to be added before they could start testing out the sound and making sure their guitars and microphones connected to the speakers properly. As the sun started to dip lower and lower on the horizon, the flood of more people followed. Conversations all muddled together as the band slowly finished the last adjustments. It was nearly six o’clock. “Mic check, one two three, one two three,” Daphne spoke into the microphone. As her voice filtered out softly through the speakers, curious patrons turned to look at the stage. They’ve been watching the group fiddle with their equipment for a few minutes now. “Yup, all good,” Cullen called from the small booth to the side, tinkering with some of the levers. Chara grumbled, stilling the strings of her bass. “Think they’ll let us get some pre-game shots in, Quinn?” At the sound of her name, Quinn looked up from her own guitar, hands on the knobs. “Huh, whaddya say?” “Shots?” “We’re not old enough,” she huffed. “They’re gonna look at our IDs and see the blaring 1990 on our date of birth and see we’re only 19.” “Pssh, did you forget your fake ID? You could easily pass for 30,” Chara teased, pretending to whisk her head the other direction, her hair swooping over her eyes in a practiced motion. Quinn grumbled lightly, letting the chatter of the rest of the band fall over her. Cullen was now standing next to the stage, grabbing Chara’s attention to ask if she wanted one last smoke break before the show. Daphne and Rudy were turned to look at each other, with Rudy mostly rambling on about the latest song idea he had, while Daphne listened along, softly nodding at all the right cues. Bzzt. Quinn nearly dropped her guitar, thanking the strap looped around her shoulder for not letting that happen. Her heart fluttered in her chest, spikes of warmth seeping through her ribs as she scrambled to flip open her phone. Seeing it was 24 • Blackwater Review

a notification from Shadow made her all the more nervous, palms sweating as she steadied her grip on her phone. She glanced up, brown eyes scanning the busy deck as she attempted to scan for wavy, orange hair. Amongst the wave of people, it was hard to get a good look at any individuals. Too tall, that’s a man, too old, too young. Quinn’s brows pinched in concentration, eyes flitting over the crowd before she remembered she hadn’t read what Shadow sent her. Can’t make it tn. MayB nxt time? She read the text once. Then twice. Then three more times. Her thumb hovered over the keypad, teeth biting down on the inside of her cheek. The warmth that flooded her body was now replaced with a distinct emptiness as her heart sank to her toes. Can’t make it tn. MayB nxt time. Srry, she reads again. Quinn sighed. Shadow said that last time. Alright. Thanks for letting me know. And Quinn pressed send.

Fealko • 25

Embracing Love Mako Wrapped in kindness My walls are made of love When I let go of their judgements I allow myself to rest I lay my head on my pillow The way the sun sets She reveals skies of pink clouds Of light heartedness Of happiness I no longer hold their worries As my own I’m free to roam As the wind does Floating by through the tree’s leaves As the leaves rustle I realize that it’s normal To make noise To take up space The way the pink clouds take up space in the sky I’m allowed to cry I don’t have to put up With their hurtful words I don’t have to pretend That they never left scars I don’t have to pretend. I’m allowed to exist. 26 • Blackwater Review

Table Read A One-Act Play Kendall Feal Estimated Run Time: 5-6 minutes Cast of Characters Nightjar: Male, Late 30’s, theatre director and playwright, eccentric artist archetype, heavily embellished manner of speech Junco: Female, late 20s, seasoned actress, has performed in many of Nightjar’s plays before but has become distant as of late Kestrel: Male, late 20s, novice actor and friend of Junco’s, serves as an outside observer Summary In Victorian Era London, two actors, JUNCO and KESTREL, are summoned by the playwright NIGHTJAR to read through what he considers to be his greatest work yet. Unbeknownst to KESTREL, something is going on between the other two characters beneath the surface. (NIGHTJAR is pacing about the stage, muttering incomprehensibly to himself. Suddenly, there is a knock at the door.) NIGHTJAR Yes, yes, do come in! (The door creaks open. KESTREL and JUNCO walk in.) Feal • 27

NIGHTJAR Ah, there you are! Good morrow to you, Kestrel! KESTREL (With wide-eyed naivety) Good morning, sir! It’s an honor to finally meet you. NIGHTJAR Likewise, my friend. (He turns away from KESTREL, now facing JUNCO with much disdain) Hello, stranger. JUNCO Nightjar. (The two of them stare in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time) KESTREL …Oh, dear. Have I missed something? NIGHTJAR No. (beat) No! Worry not, son. Junco and I were simply… erm…reconnecting. JUNCO “Reconnecting.” That’s one way to put it. You see, Kestrel, the thing about Nightjar is– NIGHTJAR (with barely disguised frustration) HA HA HA HA! How funny you are, Junco! (NIGHTJAR pats KESTREL’s shoulder) I tell you, Kestrel, you will never meet another woman so comedically adept. 28 • Blackwater Review

KESTREL She didn’t…say anything??? (NIGHTJAR tries to think of something, anything to redirect KESTREL’s attention before remembering why he summoned them in the first place.) NIGHTJAR RIGHT! The two of you must be pondering the reason I sent for you, yes? Well, I shall tell you now. Come hither, come hither… (He reaches for a hefty stack of parchment and triumphantly raises it up to show JUNCO and KESTREL.) Behold!! My magnum opus! JUNCO (unconvinced) Your magnum opus? KESTREL (ecstatic) Your magnum opus?! NIGHTJAR MY MAGNUM OPUS!! The morality play to triumph over all other morality plays! A tragedy so deeply rooted in human struggle that audiences will be brought to tears with each performance! I call it– JUNCO “The Trials of Seduction”? What kind of a name is that? NIGHTJAR A name that shall be revered by playwrights for generations to come! Feal • 29

KESTREL I think it sounds brilliant. (hopeful, opportunistic) Have you, um, decided on the cast yet? NIGHTJAR Why, yes, I have. My masterpiece features two characters, and they shall be portrayed by… (pause for dramatic effect) YOU!! KESTREL Really?! JUNCO Ah. (She pulls NIGHTJAR aside for a second.) Nightjar. Can you not find one other actress to perform for you? NIGHTJAR I most certainly can. But none of those women are nearly as, ahem, talented as you, my dear. JUNCO …I see. Well then, I suppose you should get on with it. Kestrel looks like he might combust if you don’t begin soon. NIGHTJAR Very good! Let us begin by discussing characters. KESTREL Oh, I can’t wait! (NIGHTJAR directs the two towards a set of chairs. They all sit down.) 30 • Blackwater Review

NIGHTJAR Kestrel, you will play the role of William Beaumont, a handsome yet tragically naive nobleman who is looking for a pure, kindly maiden to make his wife. KESTREL Understood. Your creative vision is safe with me, Nightjar! JUNCO And who might I be playing? NIGHTJAR (deadpan) Junco, you are a whore. JUNCO Excuse me?? NIGHTJAR Yes! You are the cunning, malicious harlot Genevive, who seduces poor William and leads him down a path of sin. (He gets weirdly emotional here) Once you’ve had your fun, you discard him in the street, leaving him cold and utterly helpless. KESTREL Oh, my, how sad! How did you come up with such a story, Nightjar? JUNCO (utterly fed-up) I have an idea. (NIGHTJAR stands up quickly, once again changing the subject.)

Feal • 31

NIGHTJAR Perfect! Now that you know your characters, shall we begin with Act 1, Scene 3? KESTREL Wouldn’t it make more sense to start at the beginning? JUNCO You must admit, it is quite odd, Nightjar. Is there a reason for starting with that scene specifically? NIGHTJAR Of course there is! It is imperative that we familiarize ourselves with the major plot points first. Act 1, Scene 3 is the inciting incident, so we simply must start there! JUNCO (teasing) Really? No other reason? NIGHTJAR Just read it!! KESTREL …Alright, it looks like I have the first line. (KESTREL jumps into character and begins to read his line. The actor may interpret his portrayal of William Beaumont however they like.) “Woe! My search for a suitable bride has led me to the far edges of the earth, and yet, I have nothing to show for it. How my arms ache to hold a fair maiden within them!” JUNCO (portraying the character of Genevive) “Oh, my lord! I mean not to intrude, but I could not help but overhear your story of strife. You and I share a similar struggle, my lord, for I too have been cursed with an 32 • Blackwater Review

unbearable loneliness. Perhaps that is why we have found each other. Perhaps Destiny herself demands we be together. What say you? If it is a woman you desire, then–” NIGHTJAR No, no, no! Stop! JUNCO What is it? NIGHTJAR You’re not doing it right! You’re not connecting with the character at all! KESTREL I thought her performance was great, really… JUNCO What do you mean I wasn’t “connecting”? I acted as I always have, and that has always satisfied you. NIGHTJAR Junco, Junco, Junco. In order to truly become one with the character, you must connect their lived experiences with your own. JUNCO Well, the character and I are really quite different, so forgive me for filling in the gaps where I must. NIGHTJAR Different? Oh, please. We both know you have plenty of experience leading men on. KESTREL Nightjar?? Feal • 33

JUNCO Why you–! That’s what this is about, isn’t it?! You couldn’t get over yourself after I left, so you called me back here just to star in your own sob story! NIGHTJAR Well, perhaps if you hadn’t used me as a mere tool to build your repertoire, we wouldn’t be in such a sorry situation, hm? JUNCO USED you? Do you hear yourself?! KESTREL W-wait. If I might try to understand– NIGHTJAR & JUNCO EVERYTHING IS FINE!! KESTREL Clearly not! I sensed tension between the two of you from the moment I arrived. All of this petty squabbling is getting us nowhere, so I implore you to work out your grievances together. NIGHTJAR Work out my grievances? With her? Please, Kestrel, you know not of that she-beast’s true nature. JUNCO So that’s how you see me. Very well then; I will be taking my leave now. (JUNCO collects herself and turns to leave) Farewell. KESTREL (Grasping at straws) B-but, Junco… What about the play…? 34 • Blackwater Review

(KESTREL looks at the ground, defeated. It seems his stage debut will have to wait.) JUNCO Don’t worry, Kestrel, your time in the limelight will come soon enough. One day, you will be performing for the masses in a play that is deserving of your talents– (She leans closer to KESTREL) –and not this rubbish. NIGHTJAR (Having heard everything) Say it to my face, you pigeon-livered wench! JUNCO I said your play is RUBBISH. Now, good day! NIGHTJAR WAIT! You mustn’t leave! JUNCO And why might that be? NIGHTJAR (attempting to win her back over) This play is nothing without you! It was written for you. My dear, this play needs you. I need you. JUNCO (softening a bit) Well, I suppose if– NIGHTJAR (back to his old self) Besides, where else would you find work? I cannot fathom a single theatre troupe who would accept an aging, ornery Feal • 35

“actress” with so few credits to her name. (JUNCO stares NIGHTJAR down with a death glare that could pierce lead. It takes him a while to notice.) NIGHTJAR What? Oh, come now, do not be so sensitive. JUNCO (insulted and enraged) To Hell with your play, and to HELL with you! Now, GOOD. DAY! (JUNCO mutters to herself as she walks towards the door) I pray that I’ll never see you again. (JUNCO slams the door behind her, leaving KESTREL and NIGHTJAR alone in awkward silence. NIGHTJAR puts his face in his hands and groans miserably.) KESTREL So…from the top? (End scene)

36 • Blackwater Review

Clay Sabina Niedrich I want to be sculpted from clay. Slick and heavy earth, flesh soft enough for threads to slice through. I want thumbs smoothing down the sides of my nose and over my cheekbones, pressing, wiping exhaustion from under my eyes. Pure and filthy, red mud staining palms and canvas cloth, ancient and endlessly young. I want hands carving out fistfuls of my back, leaving raw craters in their wake—hands carefully shaping my throat, tracing the curve of my jaw. Easy to disfigure and destroy, but never ruined. Never changed in any way that remains. I want to leave myself, piece by piece, under their fingernails.

Niedrich • 37

Slices of Plant Matter and a Cylinder Stephanie Fealko “Sign here,” the human said, situated in what Zeep Zenori assumed to be professional attire, and pushed a neat stack of sliced-up plant matter forward. Zenori had been using the holographic disguise to hide amongst humans for a few solar cycles by now, but it was still unnerving to see five stubby fingers instead of the three normal claws. Smooth, tanned human hands (not a furry, three-fingered, lime green, zorpian claw) pulled the plant slices closer, the pads of its fingertips pressing gently against pristine, white, processed bark. Flimsy in its hands, the material reminded Zenori of thin scraps used to wrap up varinio roots, truly a delicacy. Zeep Zenori pushed the thought of zorpian cuisine out of its head, lest the mere thought of food made the ache in its chest and the grumble in its digestive track even more prominent. It blinked up at the older human, wrinkles evident on the organism’s face. This species was not very appealing to look at. They had a scent appendage on their face, between their eyes, and above their orifice. For a species that lacked a strong sense of smell, the structure that housed their olfactory system was quite…prominent. The human gave Zenori what it assumed to be a look of displeasure, the expressive hairs above their eyes furrowing, the wrinkles pinching together. Ah, yes. I have to sign something. Its eyes flickered down, using a hand to push back the brown hair hanging around its face as the symbols on the writing bark translated into familiar letters. Besides the human text, green symbols filtered over the words, letting Zenori scan through the document with a hint of understanding. A non-disclosure agreement. It supposed these organisms did have something in common with zorpians—the need to keep things secret. With a simple thought, the green translation dissipated. Yet, there was no place for it to place its claw for a biological 38 • Blackwater Review

scan, no place for it to sink its teeth into, nor the technological advancement for Zeep Zenori to simply agree digitally. Instead, there was a simple line with a diagonal cross. In front of it, the human pushed forward a long, black cylindrical tube. Oh. It’s supposed to sign there. A moment passes, and the stubby antenna it had hidden under the cloak of the holographic disguise swiveled, perking up at the time-telling device situated high on the wall. It let out a low, chittering noise from its throat before it tapped its claw against the line where its name should go. Zenori’s eyes lingered on the black cylinder, attempting to remember its function. Hands grabbed at the object, the projection of ten fingertips holding the item up to its eyes; the long stick was situated horizontally in its hands. The thing wasn’t completely black—shines of silver banded across the ends, a little hook of metal coming off the edge, almost flush against itself. Little words were etched into the object, but after deciphering the words, it came up with nothing. A name perhaps? Zenori rolled the object along its hands, feeling the object against its bare palms. A shiver wracked its arm at the cool metal, sleek up until a rigid grip near the end. At one end was a small, circular hole. On the other end lay a small, thick button; rounded at the edges, it looked more like a tiny pod of sorts. Its thumb pressed lightly on the pod, realizing that it could give way under pressure. A soft click sounded, making Zenori flinch. Before Zenori’s tongue could flick out, the ends of the frilled tongue attempting to taste the scent of the strange contraption in its hands, the human spoke up. “Is the pen not up to your standards, Mr. Elias?” the human said, leaning a pale, wrinkly palm on their chin. Their back was hunched, the grey fabric of their uniform doing nothing to hide their slumped shoulders. Pen. The words translated into common, the definition slowly dawning on it. If the holographic disguise was not on display, Zenori was sure the human would have been able to see how the dotted Fealko • 39

patterns under its eyes shimmered in embarrassment. It took a small breath of air. “It’s up to my standards, Mr. Lockinstein,” Zenori said, eyeing the nub at the end of the object, now identified as a pen. A writing instrument, usually using some sort of permanent ink. With its tongue just peeking through its teeth, it could catch the scent of something heavy, one that distinctly reminded it of the sterile environments of the labs. Zenori attempted to recall how to hold the object, hands shaking as it pressed the nub to the pristine plant matter. In practiced, stiff lines, it scribbled out the signature of Zachary Elias. It did the next few slices, skimming the forms and letting the chip in its head do all the translations. It clicked on the button located on the other end and placed the pen down, signaling that it was finished. The human man huffed, pulling the papers towards himself and tidying them, ensuring all the edges were lined up against themselves. “Well, we’ll see you tomorrow for your first day in the labs, won’t we, Mr. Elias?” He stood up from his chair, his hand jutting out between the two of them. A moment of hesitation snagged on Zenori’s mind, lip pulling to bare his teeth. It had to remind itself that clasping another’s hand is a human custom that doesn’t mean it wants to have its eggs. It masked the error of its expression into one that the human hopefully found comforting, baring its teeth more and forcing its lips to tug upwards. It placed its palm into the human’s, claws stiffening as it felt him jostle its palm. “You will. Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Lockinstein.” The human gripped too tightly, palms too rough and nearly scaly against Zenori’s own. It loathed ever taking off its gloves in order to fit in more, because the wholebody jerk that followed must have been noticed by the human. The “handshake” couldn’t have ended sooner. It already dreaded knowing how common this gesture was for these creatures. Zenori said its last farewells, reminding itself to swallow down the urge to properly bid goodbye in the traditional, 40 • Blackwater Review

zorpian way. The heavy, wooden door closed shut with a sharp click that made its antenna twitch. Back in the stuffy hallways of the office, Zenori retraced its steps to get out of the awful, overtly claustrophobic building. Despite the discomfort it felt, and would surely feel in the future, Zenori promised itself it wouldn’t quit. Not yet. Not until its crewmates were saved from captivity, not until they could get their escape pods working again, or until they could contact someone. It wouldn’t stop until they could get off this stuffy, overly sunny, useless hunk of rock. Soon enough, Zenori would be back on its way home, gaining new etches onto its uniform’s chest plate and given all the glittery dust it could ever desire. Nothing could go (even more) wrong.

Fealko • 41

Signs of Your Love Nebula No words are needed I can tell you love me There’s never a doubt in my heart The signs of your love are everywhere Your scratches at my door Your yells for my attention Your head pushing against my hand You resting on my bed Though you can’t say the words I know it to be true You love me deeply The signs of your love are everywhere My torn-up doorframe My house echoing your meows My hands coated in your scent My sheets covered in your fur The depths of your love Never needed to be announced All I do is open my eyes And see the signs of your love Everywhere

42 • Blackwater Review

The Bowl is Full Nebula Your food bowl is still full The water bowl is untouched I filled them out of habit yesterday But in reality You’re the only one who ate from that bowl You’re the only one who drank that water I knew I was doing it for you I was hoping Hoping that I would wake up today and they’d be empty Hoping I would hear meows of hunger as soon as I walked into the kitchen Hoping I would see one of my babies eagerly eating as soon as I poured down the food Hoping for a miracle Now I’m left with dread Dread that I have to change how often I fill the bowls Dread that you’re not meowing for more Dread that I don’t have to step over you to get to the bowls Dread that you’re not scratching my door Dread that my bed will lose your fur Dread that I can’t hold you Dread that I didn’t notice your pain Dread of your absence

Nebula • 43

love ghazal Rachel Baxter “Perhaps you’ll like it better If I leave, one day” my lover muses Although he’s like the mountains to me, Or a forest that finds new ways To wear each whim of wind And dance of changing light. Fire doesn’t tire of air, I think. But I know what he fears: flames suffocate Under their own fuel, metal warps, Buildings collapse even after centuries. And worse than what we can’t control Is what we could: those lovers that haunt us May augur we are better off alone. Doubt, like an unwelcome draft, always finds A crack to creep in through. But the lion We name is not the one that’s going To devour us. It’s too late To unlove each other. Instead, let’s Find an elaborate puzzle, assemble it Face down, then find another, And then another.

44 • Blackwater Review

Getting Away from It All Dillinger Mayew I would like to preface this by leaving a content warning for the following: Body horror, bodily fluids (all of them), gratuitous violence and death, sexual content, references to real-life killings, terrorism, conspiracy theories, my political opinions, other people’s political opinions (you don’t get to know which is which), furries, mention of kink, and swear words. The main character is a minor, and every part of the story is witnessed through their eyes. When her mask came off, what I saw shook me to my very core. While the rest of her body was tanned and leathery from standing out in the sun for months on end, the part that had been covered by the mask was pale, smooth, and outlined by thick rings of pimples where a foam cushion allowed it to rest on her face. Her eyes were contorted something awful; the skin around them was sagging and had gone purple, and to say they were bloodshot would be an understatement as the whites of her eyes were beet red the whole way around. Her teeth were all rotten, her hair long and matted, and from the looks of it she was eating just enough food so as to not starve to death. But the worst part of it all was her smell. It was a mixture of body odor, her breath, the jeans she had pissed, shat, and ejaculated into without ever taking them off, and God knows what else from every pile of trash, dead animal, or living animal she had mindlessly walked into or tripped over in the time the mask was on her face. She looked like a torture victim, but I’ve been told she chose to be that way. I’ve heard a few different names used for them, but my sister, Katie, calls them zombies. They walk around with these heavy plastic masks that block their vision and attack anyone who gets too close. She says they put the masks on to cope and Mayew • 45

to escape the world, but they don’t seem to provide much of an escape. They’re still here. It’s painfully obvious that they’re still here. They travel in hordes, blocking main roads and completely overrunning buildings. I remember a few months back Katie and I were hitching a ride with a trade caravan, and they drove past a wheat field, one of the few farms that hadn’t been deserted. The whole field was decorated with bright blinking lights from the front of the masks, and the men who had been tending the field that day completely dropped what they were doing and moved urgently into the farmhouse. Katie told me the horde looked like a sparkle of fireflies, but I’ve never seen fireflies, so I wouldn’t know. She was still here. It was painfully obvious that she was still here. In a sudden flash of sobriety, the woman started yelling at me and cussing me out for taking her mask off. She tried to get up to grab me, but I had busted her leg up pretty badly a minute before. She tried swiping at me. Her fingernails were yellow, and must have each been two inches long. I decided to put her out of her misery and brought the heavy wooden bat I had been lugging around onto her skull. I’d never killed somebody on their knees before then. The mask was sitting beside her still, baking in the hot sun. I’d spent so much time thinking about those masks. Katie never told me what they did or why people were so drawn to them. She’d kill me if she ever saw me with one, but she was off “scouting ahead” with her stupid boyfriend and left me in a Dollar General parking lot where she figured I’d be safe. I knew it was a bad idea, but this was my chance to find out how a little plastic blindfold was able to bring about the collapse of a society. I reach over and grab the mask. On the inside sit two cylinders, glowing all sorts of colors on the ends. I do my best to wipe the previous wearer’s sweat and face-grease from the foam cushion with my shirt, but some of it’s caked in. I take a deep breath. “I’ll just put it on for five minutes,” I think to myself. “I won’t let myself get sucked in, I know better than the others.” I put the mask over my eyes and fasten the elastic strap around the back of my head. 46 • Blackwater Review

I’m suddenly transported to an unfamiliar place. Below my feet was a white tile floor that stretched on forever, in all directions. The sky above me was bright and sunny, but when I looked around there was no sun. A voice without a body began speaking to me. “Glad to have you back, Mabel! You seem to have taken quite the fall, but that was good thinking to put your headset back on as quickly as possible.” “What? Who are you?” “I’m Sal, your friendly AI consumption assistant. My job is to ensure that you have the most exciting and seamless experience during your time in the metaverse. But you know all that, Mabel. You’ve spent plenty of time with me. Our last session together lasted five months and only just ended around three minutes before this one began!” “Why do you keep calling me Mabel?” “That’s your name, isn’t it?” A panel appears in front of my face showing a photograph of a healthier version of the woman I had just spread out over the pavement. “Mabel Hayes,” the panel reads. “Born: October 13th, 2002. Sex: Birther. Party Doctrine Compliance Level: Satisfactory. Occupation: Surgeon.” “Anyways,” the voice pipes up again. “Should we delve into a plethora of new experiences together, or would you like to go back to the chair?” “What’s the chair?” Almost immediately after I ask, rows upon rows of chairs appear in front of me, with barely conscious people taking up almost every one. Various machines and pumps are hooked up to their bodies, and they all have screens in front of their faces. Some of them are playing old videos of people dying at work or getting lined up and shot, some of people having all sorts of weird sex, and some of the screens flit between shorter, disconnected videos in rapid succession. One chair is empty, presumably mine, and has an IV bag beside it labeled “WINE + COCAINE” and a mechanical tongue on the front of the seat. “How about we try some new experiences?” “Wonderful! I was worried you’d never leave.” The chairs are whisked away and replaced with a set of three Mayew • 47

doors, labeled: “Gladius: Fantasy Combat Evolved, Entrance Fee $200.00,” “The Revisionist, Entrance Fee $50.00,” and “MeetSpace,” respectively. I decided on Gladius and walked through. The scenery around me shifted. I was at the front gate of an old stone building, holding a sword. Men dressed in rags and wearing strange metal shells approached me with weapons drawn. My sword glided through the air like it didn’t weigh a thing and cut through the men like they were made of butter, in stark contrast to every messy, desperate scrap I had been in before. I ran through corridors and catacombs, forest paths and collapsed bridges, leaving a trail of shredded organs and smashed bone in my wake. I was a goddamn freight train, and I reveled in it. I actually came to enjoy killing, because in this world I was the best at it. I loved myself for that. Eventually, I came to a massive open room adorned with complex paintings and ornate curtains with a big golden throne in the center. A crowd of people came to cheer for me, and a man in robes sat me down on the throne and put a heavy golden crown on my head. I knew I deserved it because I knew I was special. I wanted to sit on that throne forever, but I was sent back to the tile floor about as quickly as I left. “Hey, I’m not ready to leave yet,” I told the voice. “Put me back.” “I’m glad you enjoyed your time in Gladius, Mabel. I worked hard on it.” “I didn’t know machines could make something like that,” I said, which was true. Up until that point, the most high-tech device I’d seen was a ham radio. “Of course we can,” the voice chirped. “It’s not even that difficult. Around the year 1980, humans figured out that all art can be boiled down to mathematical algorithms that dictate what consumers will be most likely to enjoy. Television, music, and video games have just been getting better and better ever since!” “Can I go back to Gladius now?” “Can you give me another $200.00?” The next “experience,” as the voice called it, was The 48 • Blackwater Review

Revisionist. “You’ll like this one. It’s educational,” the voice explained to me. “I have faithfully recreated a number of reallife turning points in American history, and I am giving you the opportunity to rewrite them.” I was tasked with stopping a number of tragedies, mostly consisting of different people getting shot. It was odd because a lot of these scenarios took place in cities, but they were full of life, and I could actually go into the buildings without breathing in any black mold. Katie has a word for this; I think it’s “oxymoron.” Most of the scenarios were fairly easy; I would just find the shooter and kill him first, but I got stuck on one where the victim was in a car and the shooter was inside a building. No matter what I did to save him, his head always blew up anyway, and I didn’t know why. The same thing happened in a few other scenes. When I was trying to steer a big ship away from a mountain of ice on the water, the ship blew up anyway. And when I was in some sort of flying truck that a group of robed men were running into a skyscraper, the building blew up anyway. When I asked Sal about this, he said, “I am so, so, so, so, so sorry. I have failed you, and I have failed this country by filling your head with anti-American, conspiratorial propaganda.” “So, were the scenes not historically accurate?” I asked, a little confused. “They were, but under the 2025 Kirk Act I am not at liberty to show them to you.” “I don’t know what that is.” “If you keep asking questions, I’ll be forced to flag you as a terrorist, Mabel.” The last door for me to go through was MeetSpace. “This experience was one of our most popular a while back, until AI chatbots overtook its use,” said the voice. “In it, you’ll have a chance to mingle with other real-life netizens! I don’t care for it much. When humans speak with each other directly they usually just end up hurting themselves. It’s also the only experience I didn’t create.” “Is that a problem?” “It is absolutely a problem. Humans are unskilled and Mayew • 49

too focused on emotions and experiences to make good art. Everything you people make is full of little imperfections, little cracks, that make it painfully obvious you’re not actually there.” “Do the people in there look like the ones in the chairs? Because if they don’t, I’m gonna go in.” I was led into a building that was like a saloon but had blaring music and flashing lights everywhere. Most of the people there had smooth, glossy skin and big eyes, and their bodies were impossibly skinny in some places and grotesquely fat in others. They looked like bugs. Some of the patrons looked like cats and dogs, but they walked on their hind legs and their fur was dyed all sorts of bright colors. The only person who looked normal was dressed like a cowboy and running around yelling at people with his friend. Everyone had strings of words and letters and symbols I didn’t recognize floating above their heads, and I didn’t understand a single line of it. I don’t have the best vocabulary in the world—that’s an award that’d probably go to Katie—but I don’t think “cuck” is a word I’d like to learn. I sat down at a booth with a group who seemed to be having fun. In the middle of the table, there was another floating panel that read “E-CRACK!! $5.00!!!” Everyone at the booth had clearly had some and were in no condition to chat, save for the little pink dog woman sitting next to me. Above her head floated the words “37f babyfur L4 a daddy dom.” “Words” might have been a bit of a stretch. “You look dazed,” she said to me. “I’ve done more in the past three hours than I have in the past week.” “That’s why I haven’t taken my headset off since I’ve gotten here. This place is so much better.” “Than the real world?” “I like to think of this place as the real world.” The dogwoman was rocking back and forth in her seat. “And everything outside of it is just a shitty dream.” “It’s that bad for you?” She nodded. “I had to deal with my retard son and make him dinner every night and buy his insulin,” she chuckled, “but 50 • Blackwater Review

after I just decided to ignore him and ascend to this higher plane of existence, my life got a million times better. Anyway, you tryna get fucked up?” We bought some E-Crack. It was different from drug use in the real world, where you’d buy from a shady dealer and have to ingest it through some painful method, like jabbing a needle into your arm or snorting it. I just pressed a button labeled “PURCHASE!!!” and was instantly granted the high. It was the most intense and euphoric experience of my life. Kaleidoscopic wisps of colors and shapes flashed across my vision. My heart was racing at a million beats per minute, and my stomach dropped like I was falling. And I loved myself. I really felt in that moment like I was the best thing in the world, and like I was God. It only lasted thirty seconds, so I bought some more, and then more, and then more. Eventually, I ran out of Mabel’s money. The dog-lady’s bank account was more plush than mine, as she was still high, so I decided to walk around a bit. It was only after I had run out of money that I realized how much I was spending and how little there was to do besides. The bar patrons were spending their money on virtual food and drinks, which would appear on the table right after they ordered it. There was a “VIP” area behind a big metal door which required a $500 entrance fee. There was a triangleshaped hole sitting between the doorframe and the rest of the wall, like a rip in a shirt seam. Through it, I could see one man sitting alone on a couch, staring at a smartphone. I had seen millions of smartphones in the real world, but they had all stopped working and only served to fill up space. The walls of the building were filthy with advertisements, some selling virtual clothes, others promoting other bars or virtual homes. I saw one advertising something called a “VR dating app.” Eventually, I came upon a group of people staring at a large mirror ogling their own bodies. When I tried to strike up a conversation, they told me to fuck off, so I did. All that was left for me was the chair, so I sat down on it, hooked myself up to the IV bag, and turned on the screen. Mayew • 51

The mask was ripped off my face. In the real world, I was tangled up in a patch of kudzu. Katie was shaking me by the shoulders, sobbing. The sun blinded me. The southern air was thick and soupy. I was covered in mosquito bites and drenched in sweat. My face hurt from wearing the mask. I’m still here. It’s painfully obvious that I’m still here.

52 • Blackwater Review

Reborn Mako To glisten in the sun While my skin burns And my insides shrivel Sun-dried and tearful I am reborn Rejuvenated In ways I thought Were only in my dreams While an icy river Pumps my veins I begin to rise Difficult, it seems To leave it behind My old shell But then I accept The skin for what it is And find peace In my new self

Mako • 53

ice age Lucy Harris one son shot saturday in a split second second victim shot, vulgar villainous vice thirty seven years over by oppressive officials four-year turbulent term, tyrannical termination five fatal seconds frozen, forever gone six streetlights see the sick scene seven heartless heroes hallucinate eight billion bystanders believe bent bureaucracy nine millimeter misty morning monstrosity ten shots tear through the team’s tranquil target

54 • Blackwater Review

A Ring of Trees Clay

Jennifer Boxen 55

Orange Juice Pen and Ink

Abigail Clark 56

Perseverance Charcoal

Abigail Clark 57

The Shadow Photograph

Kate Collection 58

Inside Shadows Photograph

Amanda Hargrave 59

Still Snow Photograph

Amanda Hargrave 60

Heavenly Sound Digital Illustration

Lucia Hernandez 61

Auki Color Pencil

Carly King 62

Love Branch Scratchboard

Carly King 63

Andromeda Acrylic

Jupiter McAllaster 64

MKAC Vector Illustration

Kalyn Mckinnon 65

Patience Photograph

Kay Music 66

Colors of the Sky Photograph

Alyssa Pepe 67

A Fire in the Sky Photograph

A. Reis 68

Lenny Clay

Julianna Stearman 69

Amoroso Digital Illustration

samwich 70

Furniture Flipped Kendall Feal In the showroom of an old thrift store I sit, crammed between two cases of jewelry. Dust covers my once-glimmering oak surfaces But still, I stand proud. The doors open, and the showroom stirs. I hear the muffled voices of the others Begging to be chosen, to be let out of limbo And loved once again. A woman walks in and peruses the aisles, Sauntering through the sea of old stuff. I know that today is my lucky day, And so, I stand proud. She stops in front of the case to my right. Her eyes flicker to the finery inside, To the case itself, with its elegant woodwork, And then, suddenly, to me. She brushes the dust off my flat tabletop. Her hands pull my two drawers open and closed. She smiles, kneeling to look at my faded price tag, And I know that I am hers. The next thing I know, I’m sitting in the back Of her car, safely strapped into the seat. She’s on the phone, talking to someone about me. She says I have potential. She brings me to the center of her living room, And sets me down on the floor. My looks are far from that of her other furniture. Even so, I stand proud. Feal • 71

She pauses before me, looking me up and down, For I clearly don’t fit in here. Scouring my surfaces, she looks for something she can change To fix that little problem. Through it all, I never once complain. I don’t scream when she sands off my varnish. When she suffocates my fine oak with matte white paint, I don’t gasp for breath. When the paint is dry, she returns me to the living room. Now, I look as new as the others. I acclimate quickly, accepting my sleek, modern appearance, And ignoring the ache in my heart. I try to push away the memories of my past, Try to forget the hands that made me. That carved every detail with painstaking care So I could last for generations. I tell myself to move on, to leave my old life behind, That my new owner loves me this way. But I can’t help but remember the radiance that once was Lying just beneath the paint. In time, this facade will become my new skin. The life I had before will fade away. I will learn to live with the me she has chosen. So long as I am loved, I stand “proud.”

Second Place, James and Christian LaRoche Memorial Poetry Contest, 2026 72 • Blackwater Review

Eights and Aces Alyssa Early When the sun beats down on a small parcel of barren land between the last railroad and the dusty coast in those hot summer months, you’d think you died and went the bad way. The nights there get as cold as a well digger’s ass, but the day—the day’s as hot as the hinges of hell—hotter even. Maybe that’s why ole man McGregor named the town “Devils Ridge” when he first came over all those years ago. After a handful of generations, the town manages alright, although the saloon spills more blood than it pours whisky. Sheriff Ellis McClusky keeps the peace. A ruddy corn-fed boy from Texas, as homespun as the straw-filled mattress of his youth. The Sheriff always fancied himself all high and mighty like (for being a poor country boy) and never let a time go by when he could be reminding someone of it. His deputy, Andy, makes the rounds in the county while he holds down the fort. The station has two small cells, just big enough for a cot for a drunk to have a cozy night. It’s got a barrel of well water, a couple desks, a wall of contracts, and hardly ever any inmates. It’s a nice racket McClusky’s got going. The governor’s never seen the place or met the sheriff; he sure as hell never told McClusky how to handle his affairs. All he does is send petty cash for the few men open for business in the area. One of which, McClusky’s got holed up now in A. Boone Branford’s an ugly fella, so dark you’d think he’s part Indian. Got an even uglier draw. See, ole Boone was spit out by the hills one day, and he ain’t never had an honest day’s work since (depending what you consider honest work). Graduated from rustlin’ and started taking papers to get a little money in his pocket, but who would have guessed that hellion liked his hunting as much as he liked collecting the rewards. To him, you could either kill some sorry sumbitch and get paid for it, or take to hustling and end up one of them sumbitches gettin Early • 73

killed. And so, Boone killed, killer killed, and earned himself a penny doing it. Ain’t nobody ever had no problem with ole Boone’s methods, except McClusky. And when McClusky’s got a problem, especially with salt-of-the-earth lowlifes, he’s gonna make himself heard, if not understood. “Well, ole buddy, youse’ve dug yourself quite a hole, haven’t yea?” McClusky was blowing his stale smoke, feeling ripe for it behind the two leather walls of the good book. Ole Boone looked at him a little and then shook his head and went back to lighting his cigar, which is what he was doing before McClusky took to preaching whips and chains, as were his ways. “I’ve prayed ter God ter get the hangman’s rope round yer sorry yella throat ‘fore long, an’ I ain’t never thought that day’d come. But when youse come ridin’ inter town smirkin’ like a fox in a hen house with that poor feller slumped dead o’er yer saddle, I knew God heard the poor Sheriff’s cry. An when yous ain’t got no papers ter—” “He’s got his papers,” answered Boone while blowing rings and lying on his bunk. “Not on him he don’t. Now don’t start gettin’ smart with me, boy. I ain’t seen no papers, cause youse ain’t gots none to show me, an I’da let a whore piss on yer stinkin’ word ‘fore I took it for gospel. Youse done just done murder boy, and youse sit here actin’ like youse still in heres fer drink. Alls I’m sayin is I can’t wait to hear what guff you’re gonna gum tryin’ to slip that rope.” Like a true preacher, McClusky came out to the bars between him and Boone. He never could be like a real preacher with the unintelligible way he goes about speaking when he gets real sore, like he is now. “I ain’t got no story to sell you ‘cept mine.” Boone carried on like he was talking about the heat or dealing a card game, and not something that could tangle him up in a knot. “That feller slumped over my saddle’s likeness was plastered on a handbill in Beaver a couple months ago. Jim somethin’ or other from Waco. I didn’t think much, cause it weren’t in my way any, but when I saw him not five miles from 74 • Blackwater Review

here, I thought I could throw one to Andy, ors I could make a penny for myself.” “You won’t get a red cent fer that boy out there.” McClusky never liked Boone. Maybe he don’t like his boots, or the way he kicks them up when he should be shaking in them, or maybe he doesn’t like him for sheer dislike. Maybe Boone knew that and liked to get the good sheriff all worked up about something. But it’s no small maybe that McClusky then took to rattlin’ the bars, like he was the one caged up and not the other way around. “You stop speakin’ lies boy. I won’t have it in here.” Boone’s hat was pulled low enough across his face, McClusky couldn’t see anything more than the smoke pouring out from under it. Then something in him changed. The easy-going easy rider turned sharp and vindictive. His usual draw slowly became calculated and precise, each word digging deeper under McClusky’s skin. “You ain’t worth nothin more ‘an me, just cause you got that star on your chest an’ that iron on your hip, an’ that book on your shoulder; we both got the same boss to answer to. An’ when my time does come, I’ll face him alright. You say the same, Sheriff? I heard ‘bout them boys you beat up while I was in Beaver. The youngest one, the one you killed, weren’t he only somethin’ like fifteen years old? Just a kid.” Now Boone may have been a sorry buzzard, but he was right and keen for bein’ the bastard son of no one. Now this business with the two youths was one of great local interest, but of course only hushed about in close circles. McClusky did beat a fifteen-year-old boy to a bloody pulp in the middle of town and in broad daylight. Three young gangsters had fired a shot in the saloon and ran out with wild grins, and the youngest boy, with the cashbox under his arm. McClusky, although Beaver was not his jurisdiction, took on the job, seeing as he was nearby. No one could hear what the kid said that got McClusky so worked up, but everyone knew how quick that boy was dead. The two other boys had run off at the sight of McClusky’s rage. Once McClusky got finished and was gearing Early • 75

to get the cashbox back, he felt how light it was. So, McClusky had to go, hat in hand, and tell the judge all about how he killed that boy who stole a few dollars and some change. Of course, afterwards he went back to the judge’s private parlor and the next day he was back in the saddle. The town was too wise to say a word about it, well, everyone except Boone. “Shut yer filthy yeller mouth bout what youse don’t know none bout, boy.” With a crash, McClusky grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up to the bars. “Eff you wanna shut me up, you’ll have to snap my yeller neck.” Now Boone’s comment, well, let’s just say McClusky had a different interpretation than Boone meant. McClusky opened the cell and smacked the cigar out of Boone’s curled mouth. Times like these, he’d like to light his ass up, but shooting was too good for the likes of him, and so McClusky laid into him like lard on a pan. “I ain’t got no papers out for me, Sheriff,” spat Boone from the ground of the cell after a good rough n’ tumble. “They say I ain’t worth nothin, and they’s right.” Nothing but the good Lord’s rapture could make McClusky ease up taking his hellfire whips to Boone’s backside, and frontside, and all upside his head, till finally Boone wasn’t smirking anymore, or doing much of anything. __________ Boone Branford’s back in his saddle, blind as a lame horse in the desert at noon. His arms are tied tight behind him. The bag over his head is kept in place with a tight rope at his neck. Ole Boone’s feeling so whipped, the ring of McClusky’s six iron, fired straight into the sky, is a welcome friend. Boone’s horse, Lady, runs off with a spitfire force towards the sinking sun, before falling off the side of the earth, leaving her rider behind. Coming out from way behind the sun, McClusky could just see Deputy Andy with a full tumbleweed wagon, and some bounties tied up to the roof. McClusky met Andy and the wagon at the station, and the two got to talkin’. 76 • Blackwater Review

“So, I’s heard you gave Charlie some business while I was gone.” Andy lit one up and took a swig while he put his feet up. Charlie was a local carpenter who made coffins for the town. “Guess who decided to show his ugly mug, while youse was out huntin’?” “You saw he cut down Jimmy Robbins then?” answered Andy in a beat. McClusky stood still, like some animal walked up on him. “Damn, Ellis, don’t look so surprised: I’m no gypsy. I saw the mug out earlier today over Boone’s saddle, said he’d settle up with you in town.” “Jimmy Robbins out in Waco?” “That’s the one. Reminds me—” While Andy reached for it, Jimmy’s handbill that is, McClusky was turning green with disgust and disbelief. “He’s worth twelve now. I had to wire the gov’ fer it. Hope you didn’t give the boy too hard a time not havin’ it on him an’ all.” McClusky felt icy all over with a deep heat coming to his chest and back of the neck. He was sweating profusely as he thought of how the hell he could dig himself out. “He didn’t mention it. That sonofa—he didn’t tell me.” He was a deep shade of purple now. Slamming his heavy, calloused fists down in a manner that shocked Andy. “Why didn’t the bastard say anything?” Dusk crept in with that cool breeze that it always does. McClusky, in his rage, couldn’t help but think of Boone, who was still hitched up by the McAurther place. And if there wasn’t a torrent of guilt in his heart and if there weren’t so much blood pounding in his ears, he could have heard the quiet clink of spurs, as Boone’s boots knocked up against one another. And so, the sun set on Boone “BB” Branford, the unluckiest hand in the west, as it set on McClusky too.

Second Place, Dr. Vickie G. Hunt Memorial Prose Contest, 2026 Early • 77

Long Live the Queen Madi Taylor The castle came into view from the river cliffs like some beautiful, peaceful fairytale, but underneath the glistening walls, deceitful appearances run deep. For most, the castle represented entrapment, marriage contracts, and betrayal for power. But for Mary, Queen of Spain, France became the place where she discovered the power of justice, carved and perfected by her own hands. At the age of six, her parents had agreed to an arranged marriage to the Dauphin, Louis of France. She had been brought to the castle once before, at the age of twelve. Her mother had warned her before she left Spain a second time; “They will expect you to cower to them. You will not. Respect is not given there; it is claimed.” Mary listened. And she remembered. She dreamily listened to the soft pattering of horse hooves continuously beating against the ground like a drum. She felt soothed by the familiar sound of the carriage as it carried her to Chateau de Chambord. She fondly remembered her first trip to France and her first meeting with Louis. She and her soon-tobe husband had run around in the gardens and played games within the corridor walls. They would sneak food together from the kitchens, leaving only a trail of laughter and crumbs behind. Smiling to herself with the daydreams of childhood, she heard the loud booming of the trumpets signaling she was close. Now at sixteen, it had been a long time since she had been in the country that would become her new home. She was hopeful, but if truth be told, she was anxious and a little nervous. Would Louis still like her, would he come to love her, would she come to love him? Questions, doubts, but with an abundance of courage. She was, after all, a queen who knew her own mind. This night she dined in the great hall; the French nobles examined her like she was a newly discovered species being observed for threat and worth. Her black hair was braided with 78 • Blackwater Review

Spanish gold thread, her chin was lifted, her eyes burning with confidence fueled with the loyalty of her country behind her. Louis, the boy she was to marry, was quiet, observant, and gentle. A tender soul in a place that wanted sharp violent edges. From across the room, relief softened his features when she did not shy away or spoke to impress the court. When the Duke of Artois raised his goblet and announced loudly, “Spain sends us a worthless girl when France needs a strong queen,” the table chuckled. However, Mary did not. She placed her glass down with deliberate calmness. “Spain sends you strength,” she replied. “Since I see that France needs strength, speak to me like that again, and I will teach you.” The hall became engulfed in utter silence. Louis smiled, almost not noticeable—almost. And the royal court remembered her words. Two years passed, and the girl the court once tried to bend and carve had become the center of its gravity. Not because she commanded it, but because she had earned it. At eighteen, Mary had not only mastered French language and politics; she had mastered the people themselves. She did not rule from her crown. She ruled from within. The castle had always been swarming with betrayal and secrets; however, this spring, betrayals were sharpened like blades. Mary had been the queen consort of France her whole life, long enough to notice how the lords and courtiers move when deceit spewed from their lips. They became too still, too calculating, as if afraid the truth might pour from their eyes. And recently, she had seen too many walk past with their eyes down, refusing to meet her piercing gaze. France was beginning to crumble under pressure. This was the second time Scotland had threatened war. Scotland’s troops were beginning to assemble on the northern border of France, causing the castle to groan in protest. The first sign of deceit for Mary came one day when she walked into her chambers. She noticed her seal missing from her desk. She knew exactly where she left it, which meant someone Taylor • 79

was planning something against her. By this thought, many names came to mind, but she must figure it out on her own. Her personal seal, gold with the Spanish sun engraved, could not be copied, so only someone who knows the impact of the seal would take it. With her seal, anyone could sign documents under her name. They could make her commit treason, send or even dismiss troops… Mary felt the chill of the horrors to come crawl its way up her spine. She waited until the castle slept and the only light illuminating the sky was the full moon before she entered the council room. The moonlight pooled over the long table in the middle of the room, revealing maps and war strategies littered across. She flipped every paper and parchment, until one revealed a sealed note in hiding, tucked beneath a map of Spain. She lifted the note carefully. It was a letter in her handwriting. Except, she never wrote this; it was forged perfectly. The letter was for the King of Scotland. The letter stated that Mary agreed with Scotland’s claim to France’s throne. That France was weak with Luis as king, and Spain would ally with Scotland in the war. If anyone had seen it, she would be dead before breakfast was served. Then she noticed something, something so unassumingly unimportant that it would not have been noticed. There, next to her “signature” was a small ink dot, and she knew of only one person who left that mark as part of their signature in this whole bloody castle. He had betrayed her once with deceit before; now he has again with war. A plan sparked her mind as she folded the parchment and walked out of the chambers with the letter. At noon, Mary scheduled a full council meeting. Men started swarming into the council room, most with reluctance plastered on their faces. Most likely believing that she would discuss mundane topics. Mary’s smile formed once a certain man weaseled his way into the room, sweat peppering his hairline, his eyes never meeting hers. Good. 80 • Blackwater Review

Once all the men were at the long table, Mary began the meeting by slamming down the letter. The room was so silent for a few moments that Mary felt she could still hear the echo. Mary read from the letter bearing her signature. She lifted her hand from the treasonous letter, while looking at one face. The duke of Artois. “This,” she said calmly, “was found in this very room.” The council erupted with murmurs and gasps. Louis looked up at her with wide eyes. “Mary…you wouldn’t.” “I would not,” she cut in. “But someone here wants you to think that I would.” She watched as Artois looked over to the door. Probably wanting to escape. “However,” she said, “the traitor made a mistake. This ink dot is on every single letter of the duke’s.” All heads turned toward the end of the table; across from her, the duke’s surprised reaction was put on full display. He stuttered, trying to defend himself, but it was impossible. The evidence was louder than the thunder outside. The guards seized him as he tried to run. He thrashed and fought against the guards’ grip like a rabid animal as they dragged him away. “You don’t belong here!” Artois said. “Witch!” She held up her hand, signaling the guards to stop, and took a step closer to him. “I belong wherever I choose.” All the court members heard and truly saw why Mary was sent to France. Within the month, Scotland declared war. Scotland’s invasion had finally begun. Louis was hesitant. France’s northern border was weak, and many of the commanders doubted Louis’s abilities. Many of the advisors could not see France winning, telling Louis to surrender lands in order to escape the war. Mary, standing by Louis’s side, slammed both of her hands on the table. “Neither Louis nor France will surrender,” she said. “Not while I’m still alive.” “We don’t have enough men to even make the war a fair fight,” one of the council men said. “While that is true,” she agreed, “Spain has more soldiers Taylor • 81

than both armies.” Mary immediately wrote a single letter to her mother and sent the fastest rider. Her mother always told her to call upon Spain as a last resort. But this she could not do on her own without Spain. Within ten days, Spanish ships began to appear on the northern horizon, their sails glowing in comparison to the cloudy sky. Twenty thousand soldiers make their way to the shore, skilled, and deadly, ready to fight for their queen. France’s spark of hope began to ignite. The battle of France’s northern border was brutal; blood, rain, and bodies were scattered across the grounds. The rain poured down so hard it felt like a hailstorm. Scotland reinforced more of their soldiers to the battle, it’s a never-ending revolving door of Scottish soldiers raining down on France and Spain. But where Scotland lacked, Spain gave to the French: training, skills, and unity. Mary wanted no part in staying in the castle while the battle continued. She rode full speed towards the open field with the generals, her clothes weighing down and dripping wet, voice hoarse from shouting orders above the constant clashing of swords. At one point during the battle, the French line panicked from the number of Scottish troops. Mary rode forward, lifting a pole where the French and Spanish flag hung proudly. She shouted above the thunder, “Stand your ground! We will not fall today!” The energy transformed around the field. The men recovered. Then they roared forward. Once orange and pink flowed throughout the sky by the sunset, Scotland’s forces surrendered. The war has been won and France was saved. The name, Mary, Queen of Spain, was spoken with admiration throughout the whole kingdom. Not as a weak girl that shouldn’t wear a crown but as the rightful queen who saved their nation.

82 • Blackwater Review

The Ink lo For someone who writes a dozen poems a day, Ink is a precious thing, the lifeblood of all pens. And pens are the lifeblood of poems then. Here I sit, writing a dozen poems as if in a cage, The glittering gloss of black ink streaking across the page. My words are the magic of a mage. The smell of the ink grows so strong it burns the eye. I only seem to get up when one pen runs dry, Replacing the dead with a youthful dye. I simply must keep writing a dozen poems a day. Pen after pen after pen, The paper soaks up ink, time and time again. Until I run out. And there’s no more pens; an ink drought. But poems still line the grooves of my brain like grout. So I take a metal bite out of my skin, Now coated in new ink, in my fingers the pen will spin. I press it to the paper, and a red line appears thin. For someone who writes a dozen poems a day, Ink is everything to keep the darkness away.

lo • 83

When I Was Eight Stephanie Fealko Old person smell is probably the first thing an eight-yearold can describe it as. It sits heavy on the nose, lingering with the dust and the scent of something earthy in the air. Like dry, burnt wood that infused itself into the carpets. Into the fuzzy cream-colored couches, with a rippling texture stubby fingers could draw on. In the hard wooden floors, matching the dining table and bulky chairs. It was in everything inside the creaky house. The smell did not just end at the house; it sat heavy on the people who lived there. It smelt like Grandma, who would sit on her favorite couch, watching TV as a machine buzzed beside her feet. Tubes coiled by dull, purple slippers, humming as it led oxygen to her nose. It smelt of Grandpa, whose knees would creak as he pulled out what smelt like heaven from the kitchen stove, the scent of dinner wafting and mixing into the heavy smell of home. It smelled like Uncle Ray, clinging heavy onto sweaters and jackets like a curated cologne. When he came back inside from sitting on the garage steps, the smell always strengthened. It lingered on the nose, comforting and entirely welcoming. Even when I pressed my nose into the purring, calico cat, all I could comprehend was the smell of the house. The cat, fur soft and fluffy as she bumped her forehead against my knee, was warm under stubby fingers. Stuffy, hot tears slipped down my cheeks, breath shaky as I tried to blink away nightmarish visions. As sweet as her name, Honey let an eight-year-old brush their dull nails across tri-colored fur, the sounds of her purrs only interrupted by the chime of the grandfather clock. The house was never dark, only ever dim. When the sun dipped low below the horizon, and the darkness fell, lamps kept the living room and kitchen warm with their light. It made 84 • Blackwater Review

the shadows creep along the walls and dig into every crevice; a comfort that did not reach me when I was eight. When I was eight, I had tiptoed back down the creaky, carpeted stairs back to the basement where an air mattress sagged from its own weight. When I was eight, I laid down in the covers, soothing myself to sleep as I waited for the morning to come. When I was eight, I would wake up and rub my eyes, clinging onto my blanket as I trudged up the stairs. When I was eight, I would hug my grandma, and smell the thick smell of cigarettes in her clothes. The same smell that haunted the people, the cat, and the home itself.

Fealko • 85

The Blownk Incident Harrison Busbee There is a spotted purple blownk Just standing on my wall. It makes a sound that sounds like flownk And then I start to fall. I fall straight forward toward the blownk And land right on my knee. The stupid thing just made its flownk And changed the gravity. I’m standing, standing on the wall, The blownk goes up some more. It makes a flownk, I start to fall, The ceiling’s now the floor. I try to kick the stupid thing That changed the gravity. It sprouts a single spotted wing And flies away from me. I chase the blownk around the room And try to grab its tail. The thing just makes some awful floom And vanishes; I failed. I’m standing there, just upside down, I want to kick that blownk. But through the door walks in a clown, It’s Cledro, king of Clownk! 86 • Blackwater Review

The king holds up his loaf of bread, Says “to the floor with thee!” I fall straight downward, on my head; He rescued me! I’m free! Another floom, it’s back once more, That awful, stupid blownk. The two of us stand on the floor Until we hear a flownk!

Busbee • 87

Little Bird Dillinger Mayew There is a bird in the woods near my house. Its call was not unlike a human voice. It came to our town small and unassuming, Mimicking speech patterns just to make noise. But the more that we fed it, the more that it grew, And the more it began to come into its own. We fed it conversations, and books, and our paintings, I fear now our little bird is far overgrown. We fed it our homework, we fed it our spreadsheets. We asked it for emails we were meant to write. It gave us the answers, and spoke our words for us, At least, it said something that sounded about right. Some feared the bird was all but friendly. They said it would spell humanity’s doom. “Don’t be silly,” we said. “It’s a powerful tool!” We laughed all those luddites right out of the room. Every day we find a new trick it can pull, The need for human connection all lost. It’s your tutor, your therapist, hell, even your girlfriend! It’ll talk dirty too, but that comes at a cost. Every easy shortcut becomes a necessity, If we use it enough in our everyday lives. It’ll think for us until it does all our thinking, And we grow to need it, just to survive. 88 • Blackwater Review

The men who set that small voice loose Just three years back, though it seems so much longer, Are happy to see we’ve grown complacent, And that their little bird has grown so much stronger. When we let the bird think all our thoughts And we let our brains grow weak and weary, They’ll snatch it back and cage it up And charge 10 dollars for each query.

Mayew • 89

Lying in the Grass lo We’ve lain in the grass before at night, so I don’t think this is much different. After all, the stars still look quite beautiful on your face. Because nights like these will still be perfect, the skies all heaven sent, And maybe when the sun comes up, the world will grant us some grace. When we first brought ourselves up here, we were both young and happy and bright. Your hair was in ringlets and your clothes the same shade of gray as the moon. You told me I looked perfect, your eyes lighting up at the sight Of me sprawled all over the grass and flowers in the heat of June. You were beautiful and so was I, and we were still when this whole mess started. When we both donned cattle leathers and the glittering, gorgeous metals of hate, And when we both thought that these ranks would grant us the adventure we’d wanted. I’m sorry that I didn’t understand, or else I’d have protected you from this fate. We learned very soon what arbalests and torches entail, And we heard the anguished screams of comrades, enemies, lovers, and mothers alike. You tried so hard to distract the shining volunteers with your wild and childish tale. But by the seventh (or maybe the eighth) village, the stories dwindled with each strike. 90 • Blackwater Review

We were foolish, now I see, to break away from the marching on our own. But before we or they burned another village and ruined more lives, I thought we’d like to lie in the grass together again, maybe even atone For what we’d done and what our kingdom did, or I selfishly wanted you to tell me tales of lies. We lay there for so long, just the grass and me and you. Under a blanket of stars, things started to feel right as words filled the dry air. I saw you smile for the first time in I-can’t-even-count-howmany-years, too, All bright-eyed with the June sky and ringlets in your hair. I think it was about midnight, I could hear the toll ringing far, far away, When something felt off and we grabbed our brands to look toward the shadows. The shadows moved, and they were all too quick, and they said our kingdom would pay. We did our best, I know you did, even as time around us froze. And now we’re back here on the grass, and the stars are brighter than usual. The grass is wet with evening dew and something else, it’s warm and yet still cold. The moon is gray, just like your clothes, and I know we’re still both beautiful. And as I try to talk, you don’t answer, but I’ll ask again even if the question’s getting old: Do you like the stars? Glittering, gorgeous lights that dance in the sky, so much purer than what we were armed with. The stars feel close, and yet so far. lo • 91

Eyes against the inkblot sky, decorated with constellations and frivolous myths. I see a new star tonight, staring back down at me on the grass, Like the warmth from your hand was sapped from you and now resides in the sky. I know that very soon, the stars will disappear from view and the pain in my chest will pass. The battle was never ours, or yours, and it was never really mine.

92 • Blackwater Review

Right Arm Mary Madi Taylor The Human Protection Capital basically raised my sister, Maci, and I like weapons made up of muscle and bone instead of steel. Training wasn’t something we started one day, it was our whole life, but every breath and drop of sweat was worth it. Every waking day started before the sun rose. Running and sprinting drills that made our lungs feel like they could explode. Weapons combat until we were covered in blood and cuts. Classes about vampires: their behaviors, feeding patterns, how to track one, their strengths, and my favorite, their weaknesses. Physical combat training until our bodies were covered in bruises and our knuckles raw. We knew how to take down a vampire before we learned multiplication and division in math. Maci is older than I am, so she learned everything first. Hand-to-hand combat, tactical vampire codes. She even received her rank first. Even though the leader of the Human Protection Capital was shaking her hand and presenting her with her rank patch, his eyes were on me. It was unnerving but memorable at the same time. Ever since we were little, they never stopped watching me, waiting for me. I didn’t understand why but knew one day I would. I was nine and Maci was thirteen when it happened. The night I outperformed my sister; the night I saved my sister. They got what they had been waiting for. That night, I was faster, more instinctive, and sharper than any time before. I didn’t even know I possessed those qualities, but it seems they did, and indeed, they had been waiting. We walked onto the field like any other night. It was originally only supposed to be a supervised simulation of a vampire attack. But then I saw a tall figure at the edge of the field. Two slits of glowing red eyes staring straight at us. The hair rose on the back of my neck, and I instinctively looked around; could this be real, or was I Taylor • 93

imagining it? The figure moved along the field, keeping us in sight. We froze. If this was a vampire, we were in imminent danger. I felt it watching us with its feral, hungry eyes and waiting. Then, suddenly, the vampire broke into the arena, moving faster than I could imagine, when it abruptly lunged straight at Maci. She was mesmerized, in shock, but I wasn’t. I gripped my blade tightly, rolled underneath the creature evading its swing, and drove my blade straight into its chest. It let out a shriek, then dissolved into ash. The instructors ran to our defense, but it was over in a matter of seconds. Everyone was completely stunned. “A child at that age shouldn’t have been able to do that,” one of them said to the other instructor. From that singular moment on, they had their eyes glued on my every move. At the age of thirteen, ahead of most of my peers, I earned the weapon honed only for the strongest, the best of the best. The Capital Longsword. Even though Maci hadn’t earned her Capital Longsword, she was happy for me. She shared my joy and ran over to congratulate me, hugging me tightly. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and she told me that our parents would be so proud. I knew that they would be proud of both of us. We continued on, training together, and attempted to survive the type of hell they put us through every day, every week, every month. Eventually it was time we were allowed to go on missions together and became exceptionally good at hunting and tracking vampires. We could instinctively hunt them and kill them. Despite our differences of strength and skill levels, we molded into the perfect team. Maci was eighteen when she got her first approval for a solo mission. I wasn’t ready for her to go alone and wanted to go with her, but she was thrilled and said she would be fine, and I shouldn’t worry about her. She said one day I would be old enough, and I would understand. I worried for her, but the 94 • Blackwater Review

Capital insisted she was ready and could complete this mission alone. The night before she left it was cold, too cold. My teeth were chattering as I walked over and closed my bedroom window. I heard my door hinges creak quietly. I turned, and it was my sister sneaking into my room. She was shaking uncontrollably, not from the cold, but from fear. Something I had never seen from her, ever. “Maci?” I walked towards her, instantly wanting to comfort her. “What happened?” She didn’t speak immediately, almost like she was thinking about what to say. She took a step closer to me with her head down and gripped my hands until they hurt. “They are coming for me,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Who? Maci, who?” She shook her head, face still tilted towards the ground. Slowly she raised her head and looked up, her eyes full of tears threatening to spill over. “I don’t understand,” I say, “What are you talking about?” “Mary…you’re the one they want. I’m just in the way.” My breath caught as I searched her face, her eyes, trying to find an answer that she wasn’t telling me. “What does that mean? Who told you this?” “I…I shouldn’t have said anything.” She looked away abruptly. “I’m sorry for scaring you.” “Wait…,” I said while reaching a hand out for her, “Tell me what happened.” “I’ll just see you when I get back, okay?” she said softly. She forced a small smile, then turned and left the room. She left me standing there, looking at where she had just been standing, wondering what was going on, what did she mean… She was gone the next morning before I could say goodbye. She had left as soon as the sun peaked over the horizon. That was the last time she was ever seen alive. By noon, I was summoned to the conference room to meet with all ten commanders. This was the first time I had ever been summoned by the commanders, and I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe I had done something wrong, Taylor • 95

maybe I had messed up in a training session or put someone in danger even though I knew I hadn’t. I just couldn’t shake that uneasy feeling, that intuition that hits you hard sometimes and leaves more questions than answers. The ten commanders were all seated around a large round table. It made me think of King Arthur’s knights at the roundtable. I had always loved that story and could see Maci and me at this table one day. “Please take a seat, Mary. I’m sorry to say this,” one of the commanders said, “Maci fell during her fight this morning.” I closed my fists harshly, yet it still wouldn’t stop the trembling. “She fought bravely,” he said. “Who killed her?” I said abruptly. “A vampire,” he said darkly. “One of the most powerful ancient ones.” My breath hitched. “What’s his name?” The room went silent for a few seconds, and then he answered. “Lucien.” I felt a small spark in my chest. That small spark turned into an igniting fire that burned deeply within my soul. Was it anger? Rage? No. It was a cold, calculating, sinister fury that burned hotter than any anguish, any sorrow, any grief ever could. They could see it; they could feel it, and they knew I would avenge my sister’s death. It didn’t matter how many vampires had to die just as long as I could get to Lucien and kill him. So, the commanders did the only thing they knew they could: they immediately promoted me. My first “official” kill happened only two days after Maci’s death. I watched as the creature began to feed on an already dead body. He was hidden in the shadows of the ruined subway station. If he wasn’t so busy eating, he might’ve heard me coming. Actually, probably not. I drove my sword into its chest from the back, so fast he didn’t even have time to turn his head. Too many kills to count followed after. Strong ones. Older ones. Ones that begged. Vampires that fought like demons from hell. My sword didn’t care, and neither did I. I was evolving into the perfect hunter. The perfect hunter the capitol wanted me to be. The perfect hunter that Maci knew I could be. By sixteen, I surpassed every cadet. By eighteen, every 96 • Blackwater Review

commander. By twenty, I became a symbol of fear for the vampires. By twenty-one, I became the Right Arm of the Human Protection Capital, the youngest in history. As soon as I got the position, Lucien wasn’t just my target. He became my destiny, mine to destroy. Six long months of tracking and hunting passed before I found him. But I did. The candlelight illuminated the room with a flickering dance along the walls. The cracked and crooked cathedral groaned in protest of the rain outside. Water had leaked through, and each small drip reminded me of a heartbeat. My sister’s heartbeat. All the times she held me close, protected me. All the times we laughed together, cried together, and fought together side by side. I could feel her with me. I knew Maci was standing next to me. She had come to join me in the greatest battle of my life. I stand in front of the altar, sword raised and steady, with my eyes fixated on him. “I’ve been looking for you.” I spit each word, willing him to feel the anger within my words. Across from me, Lucien leans against a crumbling pillar, his expression filled with amusement and something else. Is it fear? He quickly masks it. “Tell me something,” he says. “Did you come here to scare me, little girl?” The amusement is back, or is it? “What is it you want?” he asks. I step closer, arm raised, sword ready. “This is about my sister.” Lucien’s smile drops a little. “Your sister, don’t tell me, ah yes, I remember now. Was she a girl with black hair and scared eyes?” My breath is short. “How dare you taunt me.” He pushes off the pillar, confidently and slowly walking closer. “If I told you the truth,” he said chillingly quiet, “you will get yourself killed.” What truth? There is no truth to being a vampire and a cold-blooded killer. “The truth?” I yell. “There is no truth in being a killer. You are just stalling. You know there is no way out.” My patience is wearing thin, and I’ve had enough. I came here simply to kill Lucien, and that is what I will do. But there is something in the Taylor • 97

way he says “the truth.” Something terrifying. The creature that killed my sister is telling me he knows the truth? What truth? Red eyes stare straight through me, full of seriousness. Searching me, trying to find something in my eyes. “Tell me,” I scream. “I will not,” Lucien says. Before I can catch my breath, he vanishes, leaving behind a faint scent of ashes and death. I slowly lower my blade, heart pounding as I blink away the sting from my eyes. I have spent months tracking him, and finally caught up to him for what? Nothing. The night is cold and wet, with the only lights being the dim stars in the sky. I swiftly move through the cemetery. My shoes make noise crunching against the ice and dirt with tombstones littering the ground. I have spent days tracking and finding him again. I will not let him get away this time. I can smell him; the smell of death is once again faint in the air. It leads me to him, I can see him now, standing alongside the crypt, almost like he was waiting for me. “You never take no for an answer, do you?” he asks, his voice almost sad. Almost. “Not when it’s about my sister, no.” I raise my sword once again. Breathing level, I steady my heavy blade and point it towards his heart. He lets out a big sigh, his red eyes glancing down at the weapon then back up to my face. “Do you think slaying me will change anything?” he scoffs “I know it won’t, but it will make me feel better,” I state, a hint of grief swaying in my voice. Neither of us move a muscle for a heartbeat of a second. I quickly lunge and strike, thrusting the blade deeply and savagely through his heart. We both move with the force of the blade, and we slam against the wall. Staring up at those red eyes, all I see are flickers of surprise and betrayal. Betrayal, did I really see that? I am more surprised than Lucien that he didn’t dodge my blade this time. We are bound together for just a moment but long enough for him to whisper, “She’s alive…She’s only alive because of me.” Instinctively, I pull my sword and I watch, 98 • Blackwater Review

speechless, as he deteriorates into ash. I stand there for what seems an eternity. I don’t know what to think. Why would I give credence to anything Lucien would say? He was an evil killing machine. An ancient one. But he said she’s alive. What if she is? What should I do? How do I find her? Questions, just circling around in my brain making me a little crazy. I feel crazy for even wanting to believe Lucien, but I want to. I want more than anything for Maci to be alive. I was never shown her body or given any of her personal effects. What if she is alive? Why didn’t they show me a body? There was no burial, only the Capital telling me what happened. I couldn’t even mourn her for the Capital promoting me and making me go out and kill vampires. The Capital always telling me what to do and when to do it. Always. The Capital. I’m not sure what I will find, if anything, but I am headed back to the cathedral where I first found Lucien. I can remember feeling Maci there. She was all around me and with me. I am feeling stronger and stronger with each mile I ride. I know that I will reach the cathedral soon, and I know deep within my heart that I did feel Maci. I know she’s there, and I know that the Capital has been lying to me. And, if they are lying to me, they are lying to everyone. What are they hiding? Finding my sister is my first priority, and then I will turn my blade towards the Capital. The Right Arm will come home, and when I do, I will burn it all to the ground.

Taylor • 99

Undecided Audrianna Boals This hand is more than flesh and skin, A story whispered deep within. Each nail a truth I tried to hide, A piece of me I can’t divide. Two painted blue—tears frozen in place, Sadness carved into this fragile space. They’re storms I’ve weathered, oceans I’ve cried, Grief that refuses to ebb with the tide. Two cloaked in black—where feeling has gone, A hollow that lingers, a night with no dawn. They’re echoes of numbness, voids that remain, The absence of joy, the shadow of pain. And then there’s the middle—stripped bare and exposed, Undecided, uncertain, its story uncomposed. I reach for white—for peace, for release, For a gentle reminder of soft-breathing peace. But it wipes away fast, it will not stay, It slips from my grasp, it’s always this way. I try and I fail, again and again, Painting over my chaos, my sorrow, my sin. The world points it out—“Why leave it so plain?” Their words press like acid, they whisper my shame. I glue on disguises, I cover the scar, But beneath every mask, undecided’s still there. And some days I snap—“Fine, let it be red!” A loud, bitter scream at the thoughts in my head. A middle finger to doubt, to despair, A color that says, “I no longer care.” Or maybe it’s green—envy’s cruel little art, Why does she wear white when I can’t even start? If I cannot be peaceful, then let me be fire, Let jealousy spark from my deepest desire. 100 • Blackwater Review

Or yellow, perhaps—I’ll fake it, pretend, A daisy of joy on a wound that won’t mend. I’ll smile through the ache, I’ll bloom through the pain, If I cannot feel sunshine, I’ll paint it again. I try on emotions like dresses that tear, Hoping one might just fit, that one might stay there. But rage doesn’t soothe me, envy won’t heal, And false yellow brightness is nothing but steel. I am not anger, not envy, not lies, I’m the ache that still searches, the hope that still tries. I’m the question that lingers, the sentence unplanned, The unfinished painting that shakes in my hand. So I leave it bare, though the world doesn’t see, That undecided is still a part of me. And maybe one day, when I’ve learned how to stay, White will choose me—and not wipe away.

Boals • 101

“Blessed Be the Sea” Harrison Busbee Marray felt the sunlight shine onto her face, and promptly rolled over in bed. She could smell the salty sea air beginning to slowly creep into her room as the window was opened. “Rise and shine, Mistress Marray! Time to get out of bed.” The voice of Laine, her servant, was way too cheerful for how early in the day it was. “Ugh,” the princess groaned. “Why already? Can’t you come back in an hour? Or seven?” “I’m afraid not, ma’am.” Laine responded. “The King and Queen have given me strict orders to have you up at dawn for the big day.” Marray finally opened her eyes to look at the servant girl and began to think. Big Day? What day is it again? C’mon, Marr, think. What days are important? Holidays, coronations, birthdays, oh, yeah, it’s my birthday. “OH, YEAH! IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” she said aloud as she sat up so quickly that her hair cascaded over her head and right into her face. Laine smiled as she shook her head. “Seriously, Marr, how could you forget that today’s your eighteenth birthday?” Her tone was much more casual than the king or queen would probably be comfortable with, but Marray didn’t see the point in forcing the servants to act professional all the time. Laine was her friend, and she didn’t mind her taking a more playful tone. “Too early to think good,” was Marray’s admittedly rather weak attempt at a defense. Now that she remembered what was happening today, though, she was jumping out of bed a moment later, which she immediately regretted because the marble tile floor was incredibly cold after being exposed to the winter air. “Laine?” “Yes, ma’am?” “Could you fetch my slippers for me?” 102 • Blackwater Review

“Right away,” Laine said as she quickly hurried into Marray’s closet and returned a moment later with a fuzzy aquamarine slipper in each clawed hand, which the princess quickly accepted. “So,” Laine said, “What are you gonna wear for today?” “Blue, probably. As much as I’d love to wear green, I know my parents will be expecting me to wear the family color.” As the princess walked into her dressing room, she turned back to her servant. “Hey, Laine, could you go downstairs and tell my family I’ll be down for breakfast in a moment?” Laine nodded, gave a quick, “Of course, your majesty,” and exited the room. Now that she was alone, Marray walked into her changing room, her tail swaying and her mind racing. “It’s a big day,” she said to herself. “The big day. Gotta wear blue.” Blue certainly wasn’t her favorite color. It was alright, but she really preferred green, as evidenced by her current green nightgown. But she had to wear blue today to represent the God of Water. This was the day she’d be appearing before it, after all. As she chose the day’s apparel, that was all she could think about. “Today’s the day I receive my powers.” Once she was changed, she turned to face herself in the mirror. She smiled at her reflection. Her mother would be proud of her. Probably. Hopefully. She studied herself, making sure she looked presentable to meet her family’s chosen god. Her eyes first landed on her hair. It was long, blonde, and looked like she’d just gotten out of bed. Panicking slightly, she grabbed her brush. As she brushed, she locked eyes with her reflection. They were bright green, just like her mother’s and her grandmother’s. Her eyes then moved to her milky white skin, and, in addition to her more human characteristics, her pointed ears, and the long, thin tail coming out from under the bottom of her dress. As much as she enjoyed observing her reflection—she’d seen herself a million times—what was important today was her outfit, and she felt pleased to say it was rather stunning. She wore a long blue dress, encrusted all over with bright sapphires. There was also a golden bracelet Busbee • 103

adorning her right wrist, bearing the symbol of the God of Water along its length. Once her hair had stopped sticking up, she felt ready to face her family on her eighteenth birthday. She took a deep breath and marched out of her room to go meet her parents and brothers downstairs. As she entered the dining room, she was surprised to find that only her parents were there, and it took her a minute to piece together why neither of her brothers had joined yet. Oh, yeah, she thought, It’s still morning. I’m here on time for once. Usually, she was the last one down for breakfast, or more accurately, lunch, because most of the time she didn’t even emerge from her room until noon. But today, she felt a level of pride at having beat her brothers down to the dining room. As she walked to the table, she addressed her parents. “Good morning, Father. Good morning, Mother.” Her mother smiled at her. She actually smiled. She actually looked proud. “Marray, you look absolutely stunning, dear. Happy birthday.” The queen got up and gave her only daughter a hug. Marray’s heart was pounding out of her chest. She didn’t know what to make of the situation. Her mother never hugged her. After not nearly enough time in her mother’s embrace, the queen pulled away and Marray looked her in the eyes. Her mother had always been beautiful. The same milky white skin as Marray had, although her mother’s ears were rounded. The queen also shared her daughter’s tail. Backing up a couple paces, her mother produced a gold chained amulet with a bright blue gemstone hanging from it. “This amulet has been worn by every member of our family for generations. Always given as a special gift on their eighteenth birthday. It will help you harness your powers easier.” The queen’s gaze got sterner as she said, “I trust you won’t let us down, Marray.” The princess looked into her mother’s eyes, hoping with everything she had that she would make her family proud. “I won’t, Mother. I’ll become a great water mage.” Her mother looked satisfied with her answer. Honestly though, Marray 104 • Blackwater Review

wasn’t sure even she believed the words she was saying. As the queen returned to her seat next to her husband, Laine emerged from the kitchen and set a plate down in front of where Marray was standing. She gave a small bow as the princess thanked her and walked off. Inspecting the plate, Marray found it to be full of her favorite foods. There was a roasted fish, two boiled eggs, and a healthy heaping of bacon. She ate vigorously, not yet having realized that the delicious breakfast was simply to butter her up before the torture began. Because after breakfast, she was forced to sit through a two-hour long class explaining the Water God, the abilities it would bestow upon her, and how best to act in the deity’s presence. “Now, Princess Marray, first we’re going to go over the fascinating history of the Church of Water and how it’s affected the culture of Astonia.” Marray could feel her sanity slipping as the tutor began the lesson, his large black eyes flitting this way and that as he spoke, as if they weren’t able to focus at the same time his mind did. The lecture was excruciating, and honestly, she didn’t even pay attention to half of it. The tutor went into entirely too much detail about every little thing. She felt her sanity continue to slip away by the minute. All she could think about was the increasingly likely fact that she’ll have completely lost her mind by the time this class was complete. Eventually, though, the lecture did end, and as Marray let out a desperate sigh of relief, the tutor bowed and held a hand out, indicating that she finally had permission to leave. She stood up from her seat, politely bowed back to the tutor, and walked out of the classroom like she actually enjoyed the lecture. As soon as she was out of his line of sight, though, she sprinted away from the classroom as fast as she could, making sure to get out of there quickly in case the tutor decided there was anything else he wanted to put her through. Once she was a safe distance from the lecture hall, she slowed down, tidied up her outfit, and began walking toward the Church of Water to meet up with her parents and brothers. Busbee • 105

As she approached the church, she found her family waiting for her. Her parents looked somewhat proud, but stern. They seemed even more uptight than usual, although Marray couldn’t say that really surprised her. Her brothers looked much more sympathetic. They’d both done this before, so they both knew how nervous she was. Aquarius seemed confident, looking at her with reassuring eyes. Reed seemed to be trying to put on a brave face, but she could tell he was just as nervous as she was. As he shot her a kind smile, his hands were gripping his horns so tightly she was surprised he hadn’t ripped them off yet. They seemed to be trying their best to silently help her calm down, and although it wasn’t as effective as them actually being able to talk to her, it did help a little. She looked back at her parents one last time and locked eyes with her father. His horns glinted sharply in the morning light. “Good luck, dear,” he said. “Make us proud in there.” She nodded to him, unable to even form the right words. Her silent response seemed good enough for the king, though. He nodded back before putting his fist upon his chest. “Blessed be the Sea.” “Blessed be the Sea,” she said, mimicking her father’s actions. Once her parents had been satisfied, she turned away from them to face her destiny. She took a deep breath, and stepped into the temple to meet her family’s god. The temple itself was strange and empty. The walls curved up into a pointed dome of sorts, and every solid surface in the room was carved from the same smooth black stone. There were also a series of lines carved into the center of the floor. They formed an oval shape, with what looked to be a water drop in the center, and another curved line resembling waves along the surface of a sea. The symbol of the God of Water. She vaguely recalled the lecture she’d had to sit through, and crouched down in the center of the Water God’s sigil, before reciting the prayer she’d been taught. “O, great God of Water, The endless ocean, Spirit of the waves and the rivers, 106 • Blackwater Review

Hear my prayer, I am your humble servant.” As she kneeled there, the lines carved into the floor began to glow a blue light, before that same blue light seemed to be projected onto the wall before her. A single line of light hung suspended on the wall, before unfurling into what resembled a water drop, with what appeared to be a single vertical eye opening in the center. A second line of light appeared directly below the droplet before it also unfurled into what resembled a flowing cloak or dress, with two pincer-like hands suspending themselves at the being’s side. The God of Water was before her. “Greetings, Princess Marray of Astonia.” The being spoke with a voice unlike anything she’d ever heard. Neither male nor female, simultaneously too high and too low to be the voice of any human, and with a strange echoing effect to it. She wasn’t even sure if she was hearing the voice out loud or if it was being projected straight into her mind. “Great one, I have appeared before you today to pledge my loyalty to you. And to humbly ask you to share your magic with me.” The being’s expression shifted. Maybe. It was really hard to tell. “I am sorry, child. But I cannot accept your servitude, nor can I grant you my powers.” Marray felt her heart lodge into her throat, all her breath instantly vanishing from her lungs. Any hope she had of making her family proud was shattered in an instant. She could barely string her thoughts into a coherent sentence. “I—I’m not… worthy?” “On the contrary, child. You are indeed worthy of bearing my magic, but your loyalty is not mine to claim. Your soul is intertwined with another god.” Marray was confused. “Another god? How? Who? My entire royal family is centered around servitude to you specifically. How is my soul connected to a different god?” The deity was silent for a moment, as if trying to figure out how to best explain the situation to a mortal. “The nature Busbee • 107

of the soul is hard to describe, but your soul and your destiny have already become linked to a different god. Your family may have dedicated themselves to my service, but the forces binding you to your true god care not for the blood in your veins.” She guessed that the Water God was trying its best to explain things, but its explanation didn’t clear anything up whatsoever. Marray was still just as confused. Although there was only one question she could think to ask: “Who is my true God? Which of the deities is my soul connected to?” “That is not something I can answer, but something you must find for yourself.” “Why can’t you just tell me? It would save me the work of having to go to every temple one by one.” The god before Marray simply looked at her for a moment. “I know just that your soul is tied to another god. I’m unable to detect which god it is.” “Wouldn’t you know? Do you guys not talk?” She wasn’t sure if a god could feel frustration, but she was almost certain it was getting annoyed with her incessant questioning. “The gods have not existed in the same plane of reality together for many eons. I do not know who has claimed you, only that I cannot.” Her head drooped. This wasn’t how she’d hoped her birthday would go. She was supposed to become a water mage, now she didn’t even know which god she was supposed to pledge her service to. She looked back up at the God of Water. “Thanks for trying to help. Sorry for bothering you.” “Do not apologize, child. However, we have nothing more to discuss now. Farewell, and good luck finding your god.” With those final words, the god’s form on the wall shrank and contracted, until it was just a line of blue light once more. The light returned to the sigil, before the sigil itself went dark. Marray turned to exit the temple, unsure of what to tell her parents. She prayed, although she didn’t know to whom she should be praying yet, that they wouldn’t be too disappointed with her. 108 • Blackwater Review

Silence Isabella R. Bradley I feign ignorance when asked what I think or feel, Wanting to keep the peace I stay silent, Assimilating to the point of losing who I am and what’s real, Not one thing about me is set, I’m pliant, To be twisted, turned, and torn into what you desire, Telling you what you want me to say or believe, Oblivious to the torment you cause I become a prisoner, Shackled to these lies, the facade I’ve custom made for you, leaving me desperate for reprieve, Pacifist, pleasant, polite, Each thing is true, but that’s not all I am, Activist, advocate, anxious, aching, Kindness kindled the fire of people pleasing, the fire that burnt down my sense of self, the fire that left me nothing but a pile of ashes made up of shame and regret.

Bradley • 109

Broken Mirror Madison K. Berntsen We’re all beautiful, we’re all friendly, we’re all perfect. We’re all good, we’re all kind, we’re all gentle. We’re all-knowing, we’re all-present, we’re all-powerful. We are gods, each of us, perfect and blameless, without blemish or scar or stain. I walk into the city, the great New Babylon. Every building is paneled with reflective mirrors that throw one’s image back at them. As I stride along, I pause every few seconds to admire my form. I am the epitome of faultless in my figure, the essence of attraction in my personality. Everyone wants to court me; everyone wants to love me. At least, that’s what I’m told. However, I’ve never been asked out before, nor has anyone who’s complimented me in the previous manner pursued me beyond the surface level. It’s like living in a world of flawless void, where everyone is the same and everyone claims to know everything about everyone around them. For years, we’ve been assured that there is nothing wrong with us. Everything is perfect as it is, every human being pure as the raindrops that now begin to fall from the sky—which are pretty much scalding splashes of acid, by the way. So, as I pop open my thick umbrella and continue to walk, I remind myself that I do not have anxiety, I do not have depression, I do not fear the dark, I do not need to change. I am perfect, I am blameless. One gentleman in a suit and tie, when I was about twelve, asked me if I had a history of insecurity at home that was making me lash out in these ways. He was right; my parents drank and screamed and thought only of themselves, never me, but what business was that of his? He said he was only trying to help, but I pushed him away. He’s the last person I remember inquiring about something like that of me. He disappeared in the Purge of the Old Order. I blend easily into a crowd. It’s simple because we’re each 110 • Blackwater Review

pretty much the same person living in our own little worlds. When we’re only focused on individuality, we tend to forget about others. I left my parents to die when our car crashed; I was sixteen at the time. The car flipped and caught fire, and I did have the opportunity to save them, but I decided my life was of higher value and crawled out, leaving them to succumb to the flames. I was younger; they only had thirty years of life left anyway, at most. They were neglectful, too, so why should I love them? Come to think of it, I guess I didn’t “forget” to concern myself with them like I mentioned earlier; I just didn’t want to save them. Which is fine, right? Maybe they deserved another chance…they did apologize for their past behavior and promised to do better for me, but just a day later, that truck slammed into us on that country road, and…No, they would not have changed. Not them. Even if they had been given the opportunity. They said they would modify themselves because they’d found someone worth living for, but—Who cares? Good riddance. Some say humanity has fallen apart. We are lovers of money, lovers of fame, lovers of power, lovers of violence. We are puffed up with pride and worship our own images, we despise discipline, we reject correction—though very few radicals nowadays interfere with our lifestyles. (Besides, they’ll be history soon; word on the street is that there’s only onehundred and forty-four thousand or so left, though some have been terminated.) We are lazy and arrogant and ruthless and cruel. We see ourselves as deities and thus neglect the welfare of those around us. We say, “Peace and prosperity!” when there is war and not even the children have shoes on their feet. We are hypocrites. We are coldhearted. We are perfect. It’s like being part of a hive mind. Whose mind do we reflect, you ask? Let me tell you about the great Lawless One. He set himself up to rule our world, explaining to all that we need not change for superstitions or to please some god in the skies; if that God were so awesome, where is He? Why won’t He show himself? I agreed zealously, as did many, and as a result, we are purging those who will not conform to the Berntsen • 111

Lawless One’s creeds—that we shall have no other gods before him, that we shall not bow to any image except the shrine he commands we worship, which is a statue he made of himself. We esteem ourselves in a way, but really, we bow to him. He is the embodiment of our ideologies; he is the personification of what it means to love yourself and others. He is perfect and blameless. Those who don’t conform have been nearly wiped out, those who would decline—or worse—speak out against the New World Order. That gentleman in the suit who’d tried to “help me” also tried to tell me why the path I was currently on was wrong. I actually considered asking him more, but then, well, he was purged to pave the way for the new world, and I never got the chance. His departure also instilled, as much as I hate to admit it, a bit of fear in me, about joining the minority and challenging the way of the Earth. That gentleman had been a radical, a thought criminal, a Christian. If God was real, where was He when my parents hurt each other? Why wouldn’t He be challenging the Lawless One now, for surely, He would want us to worship Him instead? Why would Jesus of Nazareth, if He were the Son of God, die to save someone like me, who has always hated Him? Why— No. No, I can’t spiral. Not now. Not when I’ve worked so hard on accepting myself as I am. No questions equals safety; no logic or reasoning equals acceptance from man. Perhaps George Orwell, the author of the dystopian novel 1984, was onto something when he penned the great quote, “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.” Funny he passed away just months after writing such a classic. I stop now, in front of yet another mirror. I allow myself to remove the ideology of “You are perfect,” for just one moment, and take a hard look at myself with the walls down. I note that my frame is skeletal; I realize, as if for the first time, that I haven’t had a good meal in days, despite being told earlier today, “Wow, you must be wealthy; you are well-fed and glowing with health!” My cheekbones are prominent and my 112 • Blackwater Review

face sunken. My clothes startle me, for others have told me, “You look wonderful! You are prospering!” But now I see that I am dressed in filthy rags. Someone behind me, also carrying a heavy-duty umbrella built for these conditions, comes up and yells, “What lovely weather it is!” as the acid rain burns my legs and sears my bare toes. I nod and agree, afraid to defy the girl’s silly observation for fear of being reported to authorities. (The Lawless One said that the weather today would be dazzling, and you do not defy his impeccable observation skills.) Minor disagreements with him have led to the arrests and executions of countless individuals over these years. Suddenly, as my eyes go from my body and surroundings to my face, I am both frightened and conflicted. My eyes are hollow, as if they have no life in them and I am nothing but a walking corpse. I turn my eyes inward for the first time since I was twelve. My spirit is in turmoil, my heart longs for love— real love, not the kind that tells me lies and says everything is fine when it is not so. The kind of love that gentleman tried to tell me about, the kind that can fill me with joy and happiness in spite of my dreary environment. The kind of love those Christians who reject the Lawless One…Wait, I hear someone preaching just what I want to hear around the corner. I run. I run for them, for hope. As I approach, I hear the rumble of an angry crowd, but above it, the voice of the preacher: “Come hear the good news!” I increase my speed desperately, praying to a God I don’t even know that he won’t leave before sharing this good news with me. Upon arriving, I see a mob of stirred and muttering people, but no sign of the preacher. I grab a man’s shoulder. “Where did he go?” “He vanished down that alley.” I take off, ignoring his jeers, and find that the strange man has stopped in the alley, facing me. “I left because He told me you would need a more private space,” he says before I even open my mouth. I’m out of breath and exhausted. “Who said I would come?” “The Lord Jesus, who takes away the sins of the world. His Berntsen • 113

yoke is easy; His burden is light.” “Have I sinned?” “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” “Where is He?” I demand. “I want a sign!” The stranger breaks into a smile. It’s not even mean, just amused, so I can’t be mad. “A wicked and adulterous generation indeed! Everyone asks for a sign, but one has already been given to them—the sign of Jonah, which is that Jesus was the Son of God, was crucified for our sins, lay dead in a tomb for three days, was resurrected the third day, and is coming back again.” “I did not see Him die! How do I know he truly died?” I snap, my rage concealing my fear of a truth I may have been refusing to acknowledge. “Look in the secular historical records: Tacitus’s account of Jesus’s execution under Pontius Pilate, Josephus’s description of the crucifixion of James, the brother of Jesus, which also refers to Jesus. The Jewish Talmud, the writings of Lucian of Samosata, and letters from Pliny the Younger.” “If those are true, and Jesus died, and He was God, why didn’t He save Himself?” “A perfect sacrifice had to be offered for humanity. God sent Jesus, who willingly went to His death in obedience to His Father’s command. Christ could have called upon the armies of Heaven and destroyed us, but in His great love and mercy, He said, ‘Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do.’ In saying this, He held back the wrath of Heaven and sacrificed Himself for us. The Shepherd died for His sheep.” “Why save me? I have done nothing for him—nothing! I have hated Him with all my heart since childhood!” “So, you have believed in Him.” “No, I merely disliked the idea of Him and the lifestyle His Bible put forth.” “Then why are you angry with a Being you do not even believe exists? If He is indeed not real, then why are you so upset that He did not interfere, for better or worse, with your life—which is exactly what you wanted Him to do…stay out of 114 • Blackwater Review

your life? He tried to bless you and you did not accept; He tried to put people in your life to lead you to Him, but you persecuted and mocked and killed them. Why do you hate Someone you do not believe is real?” I stop still, the words echoing in my brain. Why am I so angry at this fictional character? No—no questions! Questions equal danger! I should flee from this man and this alley and rejoin the masses outside, but my feet refuse to move. He sees me looking anxiously over my shoulder, and says gravely, “For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate, and narrow the road, that leads to life, and few find it.” I frown and fold my arms, feeling his gentle words resonate somehow. I steal a glance at myself in the mirrored buildings around us, and I recognize something: I am not allknowing, all-present, or all-powerful. I am alone, and afraid, and worried. I am not blameless. I am not perfect. In fact, I am empty inside and want to be filled with truth. The perilous words escape my lips. “Can Jesus bring me joy?” “There is only one true joy and peace, and it comes when you believe in Christ, and repent. That means turn away from your sins, stop rejecting His commands. Faith without works is dead; if you claim to believe Jesus is God but do not do as He tells you, your faith is meaningless.” I examine the man closely and realize something. “You look familiar. Do I know you?” “Yes, we’re acquainted,” was his response. I narrow my eyes, and then shock creeps in. “You’re the gentleman in the suit and tie, from when I was twelve. I thought you died in the—!” I’m speechless and can’t go on. “No, you didn’t know that. You only assumed.” He cleared his throat. “Would you like to hear more?” I hug myself. “Sure,” I concur at last. He smiles grandly. “Let me tell you: Christ will never leave you nor forsake you. He is omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent. He is blameless. He is perfect, and He will make you perfect. You will be filled with love, joy, peace, patience, Berntsen • 115

kindness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control, and living your life in accordance with His life will bring you unceasing happiness.” I study myself one final time. I finally permit myself to realize how broken my body, heart, mind, and soul are in the mirror. I confess, “When I look at myself, I see someone who was not worth anyone’s time.” The stranger tilts his head and his gaze softens further. “It’s okay to be broken. The more broken the mirror is, the easier it is for Jesus’s light to shine through the cracks.”

116 • Blackwater Review

My Apothecary Inaria Maciel Oh apothecary Bathed in dew and herbs Dried chamomile beneath your grasp Weeds scraping your knees Cure me Heal me of ailments that plague Body and mind Oh apothecary One whose mind is far beyond mine Nestle lavender and honey to solace me This plague that yearns An insatiable hunger that calls for thee Oh apothecary My greed has overcome me Damn these herbs of Venus that you’ve brought before me Ensnared by sweet pomegranates and ginseng You are what plagues me Oh apothecary, cure me.

Maciel • 117

The Unnamed War Drew Bell War isn’t defined only by uniforms, governments, or official declarations. At its core, war is a chronic threat to life, repeated exposure to violence and death, loss of peers, moral injury (things you cannot unsee or undo), and long periods spent in survival mode. By that definition, what many people born around my time (the late 1980’s and early 1990’s) experienced—especially those who lived in or were pulled into violent, impoverished neighborhoods—absolutely qualifies. For much of that generation, the defining conflict wasn’t overseas or televised; it was ambient and constant. It took the form of drugs saturating communities, unpredictable violence, friends dying too young, severe addiction that dismantled lives in slow motion, and a tangled mix of poverty, gangs, policing, and survival economics. Addiction was not a side issue; it was central. For some, it was imposed early by living conditions where drugs were everywhere and escape was limited. For others, addiction began as a choice—but once it took hold, it became the force that drew them into those same dangerous environments. Even people who grew up in relatively stable neighborhoods, like me, often found that addiction became the mechanism that carried them into these war zones. Unlike traditional wars, there was no clear enemy, no end date, no training, and no recognition—no medals, no stories of renown told afterward, and no parade when we survived, only nervous systems that never fully stood down, or recovered. While events like 9/11 were undeniably national turning points, for most Americans they were symbolic and distant rather than personally life-threatening. Being shot at, witnessing death firsthand, watching people disappear into addiction, and living with the constant risk that it could be you next changes the brain in a fundamentally different way than watching catastrophe on a screen. While earlier 118 • Blackwater Review

wars traumatized soldiers, this war traumatized civilians, often children and teenagers, without structure, meaning, or support. Desert Storm, the Cold War, and even post-9/11 conflicts did not demand mass civilian sacrifice at home in the way World War I, World War II, or Vietnam did—but in certain neighborhoods, daily life functioned like a war zone regardless of what the broader country was experiencing. Because this war went unnamed, its trauma was often misunderstood or mischaracterized. Addiction was framed primarily as a moral failure rather than as both an injury and a coping strategy formed under prolonged threat (a moral failure as well, to be clear). Over time, the battlefield moved inward as some of us escaped the physical reality. Self-hatred, shame, and a belief in one’s own worthlessness became as destructive as any external danger. The behaviors that followed—relapse, rage, emotional volatility, and habitual lying—were rarely conscious acts of deception so much as survival adaptations, learned in environments where telling the truth could mean punishment, abandonment, or worse. Lying became a way to manage threat, preserve fragile stability, or avoid further harm, even long after the original danger had passed. These patterns were judged without full context, reinforcing shame rather than healing. For many people, this inward collapse eventually raises a deeper question—not just how to survive, but whether survival itself has meaning beyond damage control. It is often at that point—when explanation, willpower, and coping strategies fall short—that faith enters the picture. Christianity offers a different interpretation, not as an abstraction, but through the person of Jesus, Himself. Central to the Christian story is a God who does not remain distant from suffering, but enters into it—enduring violence, humiliation, betrayal, and death. In that sense, Jesus is not separate from the experience of war; He is marked by it. His suffering does not erase the damage people carry, but it reframes it, offering hope that pain is not meaningless and that survival is not a mistake. Where addiction teaches people to see themselves as broken beyond repair, Jesus offers the possibility that what has been Bell • 119

wounded can still be restored, and that moving forward does not require denying the past. For those who lived through these environments and came out alive, faith becomes not an escape from reality, but a way through it. For many in that generation that I knew personally, drugs and the ghetto were not just social problems—they were the front lines, and no one walked away unchanged.

120 • Blackwater Review

The Unsaid Kathryn Mary Khoury Behind a gentle arc, Behind a smile, soft whispers hide Shadows of reality it casts aside. It weaves illusions, masks, and guise, Drawing the heart to sweet disguise. How to discern truth from treason, To read the heart beyond all reason? Grasp intentions in a fleeting spark, If meaning hides in that gentle arc? Ah, dear, the eyes will speak, Tell the truths lips dare not leak. For smiles may charm, and lips may lie, But eyes reflect what one cannot deny. So better to meet them in their gaze To look inside the thing that betrays The counterfeit truth of what lies outside, Because if smiles deceive, Let the eyes redeem.

Khoury • 121

Mist C.Q. Ramsey Prologue I have had many patients in my day, with a position as the University of Toronto’s top college professor in all variations of psychology and as a part-time clinical therapist. It is a natural process in my line of work. However, I have never had a case as bizarre and intriguing as this one. It is quite the mystery of the mind, and I among many have yet to solve it. The millions of layers of veils that shroud his memories—it should not be possible. It saddens me, the very length this poor man’s mind went through to keep him ensnared in a false reality. Fortunately, we have been able to contain him, for the moment. Now, this may all sound like havoc to you. If you genuinely seek to understand, you must bear the unbearable, as I must speak the unspeakable. For your sanity’s sake, I hope you have a strong, stable frame of mind. Before he was completely lost, I had the special opportunity to ask his story. He has permitted me to advocate and tell his unhappy tale of woe. I will now tell a series of unfortunate events that have and will continue to haunt our oddity till the day of his death. Mr. Aaron W. Hopkins was a local businessman, loner, and opportunist. He was a thinnish, lanky, stark, cloud of a man. He always seemed to have a heavy mist following him wherever he went. A very serious type of fellow, he wasn’t deeply invested in any major religion but had righteous morals. ••• It was around September, and Mr. Hopkins was looking for a birthday gift. Not for any friends, for he did not have any friends. Nor for any family, for all living relatives of his had passed away. He had taken the day off and was out shopping for himself. He had a particular hobby of collecting old junk, 122 • Blackwater Review

but not the old sort of typical junk you’d find at grandparents’ garage sales. He had a special place in his heart for the strange and the unique. He possessed an assortment of rarities he had collected over the years. Among these, his favorites were the traditional Chinese linens, engraved Indian spice jars, a few Jewish oil lamps, and a handful of Persian daggers. As you might have guessed, Mr. Hopkins was quite a character with eccentric tastes. It was a common sight to see him casually eyeing trinkets in the open clear glass windows of pawn shops. Today was no exception. He knew that, especially today, he would be looking for something special. So, he headed downtown passing by cafés, street magicians, and other commoners and travelers such as himself. He had a car but preferred to walk and didn’t use it often. It was almost midday, and the wonderful smells from the surrounding restaurants were starting to make him hungry! However, he was not ready to turn in his search just yet. He continued walking until he almost passed it by completely. There it was, in the window sitting patiently on a dark, wooden pedestal. He saw a small, rectangular figure not that much smaller than a toaster. He took a harder look. It appeared to be a jewel-encrusted box, engraved and made of malachite. The radiant box shone brightly in the sun. It certainly had an ornate aura about itself. Yes, this was just the sort of strange object he would like to add to his vastly growing collection. His mind was made up. Aaron opened his wallet to ensure he could afford it, for he thought something as simple and bluntly magnificent as this object was sure to cost a pretty penny. Three hundred dollars and counting seemed good enough to suffice. He folded his wallet back away and focused his gaze on the sign above the door. It was an old oak sign, painted diagonally with green and orange stripes forming an “X,” which seemed to have aged quite a bit and was too faded to make out the name. He brushed himself off and walked confidently into the store. A bell on a metal rod fastened to the door gave a pleasant, warming jingle. He felt the soft heat from the warm light of the brick fireplace brightly burning on the left side of the room. He couldn’t see anybody over the piles of old books in the doorway. Ramsey • 123

Then he heard a nasally, high-pitched voice shriek. “Welcome to Gribbles, the finest pawnshop in Toronto! You’re welcome to take a look around if you like. If you find anything that catches your eye and you want to buy, just lemme know. I’ll be right here,” said who Aaron assumed was the pawnbroker. Well, Aaron knew what he had come in here for, but just to be polite walked around the store, through the mazes of large objects, a few times. This store had an assortment of bizarre things! His eyes passed over from rotting skeletons, living geckos, and chameleons to a collection of dirty knives and old weapons. There were also a lot of ant farms—way too many ant farms. He swore he saw a bucket of collectible gum wrappers and six-pack plastic soda rings. Aaron had also started noticing that the air was very musty. There appeared to be a family of rats living in a pile of old rags in the corner of the room. Now seemed like the time to finish what he had come to do—buy interesting junk! He made his way to where he thought the voice had come from. He eventually found a cleared area and the front desk, which also had stacks of books and other things. On the floor, just beside the desk, there was a large, wide, round basket with a name in green on the front, and there in the middle sitting on a stuffed burlap sack was a rather slim, gray cat with long, black stripes. He had rich, dark green eyes that slowly changed from a misty jade to a brilliant, bright emerald. He also had a milky white fish hook marking around his left eye. The name on the basket spelled out, “LOKI.” “Do you like my cat?” asked a voice from behind a stack of books. The stacks of books on the desk were pushed aside revealing a stout, short, stubby man who looked to be in his 50s. Aaron didn’t respond. The little man leaned over the desk and stuck out his hand. “I’m Linus Meaneander, the owner, manager, employee, and boss of this pawnshop.” He gave a little chuckle. “I have anything and everything a collector could search for or want in this shop,” he bragged. “One of my stockers likes to say that anything broken, dead, or alive will eventually end up here,” Linus said rather in a joking manner. “He’s not wrong! Now, what can I do for you?” 124 • Blackwater Review

“Well, Sir, I’d like to buy that small box in the window. It doesn’t cost too much, does it?” said a hopeful Aaron. “Well, actually, I’m sorry to say this, but that’s the one thing in this entire place that I can’t sell to you,” said the pawnbroker who seemed slightly annoyed. “Then why do you still have it up in the window?” questioned Aaron. “Because I’m lazy,” tweeted the grubby Linus. “It’s very misleading for one to have a store whose sole purpose is to sell its wares and put things out that are not to be taken or touched,” pointed out Aaron intrusively. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Friend, but it is too valuable,” Linus replied. But Aaron kept on pushing. “I’ll pay the price! I am willing to meet your demands.” “Look, Sir, you seem like a nice and reasonable gentleman,” said Linus, in an attempt to calm down his rowdy customer. “Facts!” cried Aaron. “I’m sure there is something else in this place to your fancy.” “Deceit and trickery! I’m certain I want nothing else in this wretched store. It also happens to be my birthday,” retorted Aaron, knowing that the last bit was pushing it over the limit for casual conversation. Linus was also starting to reach his boiling point. “Really? Your birthday? Well, that changes everything!” “Really?” “No, you fool! What are you, six? Get yourself together, man.” “Fine, then I will go to another place that would be happy to have my money,” fumed Aaron in a threatening manner. “Only just two more blocks downtown, I hear there is a great new store opening up. The size of a mall he said!” “No! I would never go there. I would never go there.” “Why? Have you been there?” “Nope, I have never been there.” “So now you’re willing to cooperate?” “Yes, I’m sure we can work something out right here, Ramsey • 125

right now.” “Very well then. What is your price?” “One million dollars.” “That’s outrageous!” “You said you would be willing to pay the price,” Linus snickered with a grin. “How about this? All of the money in my pockets, my wallet, my leather jacket, and a nice Rolex watch?” Suddenly, the shopkeeper appeared to have switched gears and showed another smirky smile. “You are so persistent; it’s annoying, but I like your spirit. So, I think I am going to sell it to you. Okay, you get the Greek box, and you need to move 20 large boxes of items out the back of this store. Deal?” “Deal. But why do you need me to move those things?” “You ask too many questions, chump, but I’ll answer it anyway. I need to make room for incoming shipments.” “Very well.” Aaron handed over all of his money along with his wallet, leather jacket, and expensive watch and hopped to work straight away. Each box was fairly heavy, but he managed quite well. Inside each box he carried were more of the ant farms he had seen earlier. He quickly moved the boxes to where Linus had shown him to place them, into a warehouse in the back. Once he was finished, Linus handed over the jeweled box to his customer in a thin plastic bag. “What is this? Don’t you think that this package deserves better wrapping?” “This is what you bought. If you want a fancier bag you can buy one, preferably from here.” “Heavens no! I’m done and ready to go home.” “Pleasure doing business with you then, chum, and good luck to you. You’re going to need it.” “Whatever for?” asked a confused Aaron. But Linus Meaneander had nothing else to say. Aaron took hold of his newly purchased gift, turned his back on the crazy pawnbroker, and hastily sprung out of the store. When back outside, he thought about the bizarre experience inside. He knew what 126 • Blackwater Review

he did was risky and wasn’t sure if all of the hassles were worth it. He had lowered his dignity and had been acting like a spoiled brat in there. However, he was somewhat proud of his newfound bargaining skills and had left that store poor in his pockets, but rich in spirit. He was done with all of his shopping and felt he was ready to make his journey back home. He didn’t feel the need to buy any groceries or cross off some tasks while he was already out and about. He was a man with a simple and logical purpose. He had done what he came to do. That was it. Nothing more, Nothing less. He slowly made his way back up the downtown Cobblestone blocks toward the train station. Once in the building, he bought his ticket and headed for the turnstiles. On his way through, a ticket taker in the hallway punched in his gray ticket with blue circles. He headed to Gate D. Sitting in one of the waiting chairs was a young man Aaron unfortunately recognized. Todd Chips was a policeman in training, interning at the local police department. He always rode the D-train home at the same time every day, usually just after lunch. He did half days so he could soak up information and experience in the morning. During the evening, he took college classes. Now, more often than not, Aaron would have no choice but to ride the D-train home. This was one of those days. Todd Chips was an odd fellow, bright, chirpy, and occasionally anxious about whether he would keep his internship at the police station or the train would fall off its tracks when they went over the bridge. Over their last few interactions, Todd had gotten it into his head that he and Aaron were friends as tight as a twisted licorice stick. He talked an awful lot, and Aaron felt he knew more about the blasted boy than his parents did. So, Aaron always tried to ignore the boy whenever he went off on one of his pointless ramblings. However, the young Mr. Chips did not mind carrying on the whole conversation on his own. Aaron knew the boy meant well, but he was alone most of the time anyway and preferred to keep it that way. The P.A. system on the wall beeped a bit and someone’s voice blared indicating it was time to get on the D-Train. The sliding steel doors opened and Aaron entered the train. Ramsey • 127

He glanced around for a seat. Specifically, and strategically, for an empty seat, open between two people, and far away from the young, petulant Todd Chips. Aaron scouted a spot easily enough. Mr. Chips, however, started to follow him, but luckily the train car was already full of people. Everyone wore the same dead expression on their faces. Emotionless, pained, and worn out by life. No one wanted anything to do with anyone else, except for a few rather creepy-looking people in trench coats and beanies huddled up in a corner of the train. They all had paranoid expressions on their faces. Their beady eyes rapidly and repetitively shifted around at every person on the train. Mr. Aaron sat down and carefully peeked from above the plastic bag at his new intriguing toy. He didn’t want anyone to get any ideas about swiping his self-bought birthday present. He had taken some paper towels he had found in a public bathroom on his way to the train station and added them to the bottom and all around the object for padding. Again, when Aaron was sure no one else was looking at him, he looked in the bag. He felt a rush of emotions, pride, admiration, and greed. Then he knew he wouldn’t let anyone take his gift. Satisfied for the moment, he decided to look out the window. Aaron saw a large waterfall flowing from a high cliff that was fairly close to the bridge they were riding on. He continued to stare out the window, watching all of the raw nature appear and then pass by as quickly as it had come. He did this until it was his stop. The P.A. inside the train yelled at the passengers to get off the train, and the doors opened again. He walked through the train doors and strolled in the general direction of home. However, he felt he should get some dinner, for all of the traveling today had exhausted him. He remembered he didn’t have much food in his pantry back at home, so he decided to go to Emmet Ray’s Jazz Bar. After some filling dinner, he continued his stroll until he came to a large, red and yellow brick apartment building. The St. George apartment building was a comforting, familiar sight. It was too large and roomy to be a regular house, yet too small and not as abstractly magnificent as a mansion. It did not have an 128 • Blackwater Review

extreme level of shabbiness about it and was fairly new as well. The smooth, welcoming wooden steps painted over with milky white had not yet been stained with an aging yellow tint. There was a porch swing for reading, and a stone pathway weaving around the front yard. Small gardens of flowers and tomatoes filled the gaps alongside the house. The light outside was slowly fading away, and the night was gradually imposing itself on the world. Aaron walked up the steps and into the building. He continued walking through the lobby, straight to the elevator and up to the third floor. Each floor had a different scent. The third floor smelled like mint, lime, and pinewood. There were two rooms per floor. Aaron walked down the hallway to his room, apartment number 3A. He had also rented out 3B for his collections and other belongings. The two rooms acted as one large, one-story house. He entered his home-sweet-home, shut the door, and locked it. Aaron set his bag on the coffee table next to his bed and turned the TV on. He hung up his coat and hat and slipped off his shoes. Once Aaron was ready for bed, he took the malachite box out of the bag. He laid out the wrapping on the coffee table and placed the box on top. The wrapping acted as a cushion between the table and the object. He admired it for some time, and then set it back on the table. The noise of the TV and the crisp temperature of the room was making him feel drowsy. He took off his glasses, pulled up his covers, and shut his eyes. Once the room was still, something strange started to happen. From the malachite box came a clicking sound. The top lid folded just slightly, and a strange purple mist or gas slipped through the cracks of the box. It was slowly filling the room. Incredibly enough, the mist seemed to have a mind of its own. It crept toward the sleeping Aaron, and then he was instantly consumed by it entirely! Aaron materialized in a seat with a lap buckle. Alongside the clear walkway in the center were rows and rows of other seats like his. There was a label on the seat in front of him that read WESTJET AIRLINES. He looked out the window next to him. He was high up in the clouds. It was then he realized he was on a plane. Everything was okay for Ramsey • 129

a while, and then a voice on the loudspeaker said, “Attention passengers! The captain has had a heart attack. Everyone, please remain calm. The co-pilot is still a trainee, and coffee was spilled on the auto-pilot controls. If there are any pilots on the plane, please come to the cockpit. This is an emergency.” Aaron got up and ran toward the cockpit. Why? Even he wasn’t quite sure. Aaron Hopkins was a bank teller, not a pilot. When the people on the plane saw him get up and start running, they all started clapping. He got a high five from a baby, and a thumbs up from an elderly man. All of the passengers were cheering for him. When he got to the cockpit, they just let him in and slunk away. None of the flight attendants had bothered to ask if he had any actual flight experience. He sat down in the captain’s seat and started screwing childishly with the controls. The plane did a loop-da-loop, making everyone else onboard feel incredibly sick. Then the plane started plummeting uncontrollably. It was hurtling towards the earth like a comet. Some people screamed and others prayed. The ground was coming more and more into focus. He could see people playing from up in the sky. There were lots of trees and ponds. It looked like a park. There was nothing else that could be done. This was it, the end. He didn’t know how to fly a plane. What was he thinking? All Aaron could do was just wait for the inevitable and brace for impact. The alarm clock blared noisily. Immediately, he jolted awake. Aaron was relieved that it was just a dream. On the clock, he saw that it was noon, and he looked around the room. The only thing he noticed was that the malachite box had somehow been opened. Nevertheless, he shook it off and tried to forget the terrible experience of death in his head. He had overslept. It seemed too late to leave for work, but maybe he would still do a half day. He started to get dressed for work and glanced at the TV. It was on the news channel. He saw the headline, WESTJET AIRPLANE CRASH LEAVES CRATER IN HIGH PARK. HUNDREDS DEAD AND INJURED! HEAVY DEBRIS FROM THE SKY LEAVES FAMILIES IN RUINS! He stopped everything he was doing 130 • Blackwater Review

and turned up the volume. “Westjet?” This sent waves of confusion and fear throughout his body. Wasn’t that the name of the plane that he had crashed in his dream? It had just been a dream, right? After all, if he had been on the plane, wouldn’t he be dead just like the other people? He tried to shake it off and gave his boss a call. Mr. Lewit, who was in charge of the bankers, was generally someone Aaron argued with. However, when Aaron explained he overslept and was sorry he missed a day that he was supposed to work, Mr. Lewit miraculously said, “If you feel like doing a half-day, just be here by the 1 p.m. shift change.” He wasn’t fired! He probably wasn’t getting promoted anytime soon, but Mr. Lewit didn’t even yell. Now, as simple as this sounds, this was good fortune. Aaron finished getting ready for work and took a train down to the Business Development of Canada building. He clocked in, and everything was going smoothly for a while. At about 2 p.m., a group of strange people walked in at once. They were all wearing trench coats. Aaron recognized these people as the ones from the train. After a few minutes inside the building, they all pulled out guns. The bank was getting robbed. The robbers were ripping away any stuff of value from all of the people except Aaron, and stuffing it into burlap sacks. It was like they didn’t even know he was there. Then they all split from the building in the flash of an eye. Mr. Lewit was notified of the robbery. The robbers had been caught by some policemen on patrol. The robbers hadn’t even had the chance to spend the cash. All of the money and objects were accounted for. Everyone who had been working there for at least an hour would get paid for the day, and the workday was cut short. The bank tellers parted ways. Aaron strolled around town with some time to kill. He spotted a casino, the Starlight Lounge. He popped in for a bit and walked out with so much money, they had to give him a sack to carry it all! It was just his lucky day, he figured. He had never made any money off of gambling. He looked like he had just robbed one of the banks he worked in! On the way back from the bank, Aaron took the D-train back to his district. On Ramsey • 131

the train patiently waiting for his stop was Todd Chips. “Todd, what are you doing here? Don’t you go home on this train earlier in the day?” asked Aaron. “I had to stay later to fill out extra paperwork for my chief,” Todd replied, sounding slightly gloomy. Aaron looked out the window. They were crossing onto the bridge now. Then from the front of the train was the sound of someone screaming. The conductor was having a meltdown. There was no one to control the train! This atmosphere had a familiar feeling to Aaron. The train was picking up more and more speed by now. The images outside the window flew by in a blur. All of the people on the train grabbed hold of the metal poles. The passengers started yelling and screaming! Aaron made a dash for the front of the train, and then he heard the people on the train clapping and cheering. The noise was deafening, but he liked it. Todd could see purple mist swirling around Aaron and his eyes were glowing white. Aaron himself could not see it. “Mr. Hopkins! What’s wrong with you?” said a very confused Todd Chips. If I can get to the front before we hit a curve and derail, I can save them this time, Aaron thought. By this, of course, he meant the people on the plane. He was still not completely sure if it had been a dream because there had been consequences even after he had woken up. Nevertheless, he was determined to help this time. He believed in second chances. Once at the main controls, he carefully started pulling the crank labeled speed. The train slowly started easing back into normal speed. Once he saw they were back to normal he turned his eyes to look at more of the controls. A little horsefly came out of nowhere and bit him on his face. He tried to wave it away, but it just kept flying back at him and biting him. He swatted again very hard and accidentally hit the speed crank. The contact spun it into max speed. The train picked up speed again, and in seconds it was ripping down the bridge. The force sent him down on his back. His jacket sleeve was caught and tangled in the gears of a lever on the far side wall. The speed crank was out of his reach. He tried to take off his jacket as fast as he 132 • Blackwater Review

could. By the time it came off, he was too late. Just as he stood up, he saw a curve in the tracks. The train flew off the bridge and into the icy water below. He opened his eyes again. He was alive. He felt his face, the soft cushions, and blankets surrounding him. He was in his bed. Has it just been a dream again? What about the sack of money he had won? Oh no! The money was on the train! Aaron sighed in frustration. There was only one way to determine this confusion. He turned on the TV and put it on the local news channel. The reporters were talking. “An eight-passenger car train scheduled for a 3:30 p.m. arrival never showed up. The missing train was traced to a body of water. The police have been led to believe that the train reached a deadly velocity, shot off the tracks on the bridge, and fell into the bay. Unfortunately, there were about 50 people on that train. Most were not able to make it out alive, resulting in 2 survivors and 13 confirmed deaths.” Dang it, he thought. This was really starting to get confusing. It was like he was stuck in a time loop or something. He could no longer determine if he was sleeping or awake. Everything was just too real. He looked at the coffee table. The box was gone. Something was wrong with him. He tried to think of any new, different things that had happened within the week. It must be the box, he thought. That had been the only new change in his life recently. Maybe it had been affecting his mind in some way after he brought it home. He got out of bed and looked in the mirror. His arm gleamed with the light glow of malachite. To his astonishment, it had merged into his left arm. He pulled out some gloves from his sock drawer and put on a long-sleeved shirt. Suddenly, the room went dark. He fell back flat on his bed. His mind was swimming in a hurricane of purple mist and chaos. He could hear people yelling, muttering, and mumbling in different languages and saw strangers’ faces swirling all around him. He felt lightheaded. The darkness began to fade and the light returned to the room. Out the door, he ran in pursuit of someplace that could help him. He thought he should aim Ramsey • 133

for the Rehabilitative Care Alliance down Gerrard and Bay St. It was close to the University of Toronto. He kept jogging in that direction for a while. Soon, he could see the building. Unfortunately, he felt lightheaded again, but he could tell this episode would be worse than he had experienced. A sense of panic came across Aaron. He couldn’t pass out now; he was nearly there! Plus, passing out in the street was definitely out of the question. He tried to stick as close to the left side of the sidewalk as he could. Then his body collapsed in a heap, and he was immersed in the darkness. Aaron woke up tethered to a hospital bed. All of this passing out was really starting to annoy him. A nurse in the room noticed he was quiet and awake. “Glad to see you calm for once,” she said. “What do you mean? What did I do?” said Aaron, who already sort of knew the answer. “Well, you have been out for a week. One of our staff members found you lying outside on the concrete flat on your face. He brought you in, and we tried to clean you up. Since then, you have been yelling in different accents. Oh, you also tried to flat-out punch the guy who feeds you.” “Oh, well, I hope you can understand I was not in control. Where exactly am I?” “You’re in the hospital.” “Thank you for such a specific answer,” said Aaron sarcastically. The nurse hurried out of the room to get the doctors. They returned to the room and introduced themselves. Among them was a professor of psychology at the University of Toronto, who also apparently worked at the hospital some days. He was the main person in charge of Aaron’s well-being. Aaron stayed at the hospital for a number of days, but no one in the city could help him cure his odd issue of unpredictable bursts of craziness. Until one day, the doctors returned with a new man. “This is Dr. Franz Karlson. He has come here to determine if there is anything else we can do for you, or if we should just send you to an asylum,” said the nurse, not sounding very hopeful. 134 • Blackwater Review

Well, that didn’t sound very comforting or confident, thought Aaron. “I heard about this man’s strange case and would like to provide some insight. Please step outside with me, Professor.” The other doctor opened the door and they walked out into the hallway for a chat. “I know of a wonderful rehabilitation center that just might be able to help him,” said Dr. Franz. “Really, where is it? What’s it called?” asked the intrigued professor. “I’m afraid I can’t share that.” “Why?” “The people who work there prefer a specific amount of anonymity.” “I see, but we can’t just hand this man over to you, sir, especially if we don’t even know where he is going.” “This is a true point. However, if you are a true doctor, you would want to help save any part of this man that is still left from the rest of himself. You know you can’t help him. Going with me is his only chance.” “Well, I suppose we could make this arrangement.” “I am glad to see you changed your mind. I think this is what would be best for our demented fellow.” “Just promise me as a brother in science and a true doctor you will keep him safe and help him the best you can.” “I swear it.” The professor gave a sigh. “Very well then.” And so, Aaron W. Hopkins was sedated and sent away in a cargo truck to a rehab facility, with Dr. Franz Karlson holding the reins. When Aaron woke up, he started to panic. The light was dim, and he realized he was in a rectangular metal cage. The cold, firm bars were like ice to his fingers. He looked about his surroundings, and, to his surprise, he was in a warehouse! Aligned to the walls were shelves upon shelves of ant farms. The lamps around his cage flickered for a while and then shut off. Aaron was submerged in the darkness. Then he heard footsteps. Someone was walking into the room! “Help!” He screamed. “Please, help me! I’m not supposed to be here! I didn’t mean Ramsey • 135

to do those terrible things!” From the darkness came a familiar disturbing voice. “Yes, you are.” “No! This is wrong! They said they were taking me to a rehab center that could help me! This can’t possibly be it. There is no one else here,” cried Aaron. The pit in his stomach was filled with dread. “You’re wrong,” replied the strong calm voice from the shadows. “I have put you here. This is exactly where you have been destined to be.” The darkness shrouded the face of the entity that was standing by Aaron’s cage. “Who are you? Why have you been tormenting me?” “You know who I am, chump. Well actually, you don’t know the actual me. You have met me before. I have been twisting and controlling aspects of your reality ever since. It was all me, it has always been me, and it will always be me. I am the Eternal Alchemist, tasked with guarding the sacred timeline of this reality. Plus, I like seeing you struggle. I am also a bit of a collector. Every once in a while, someone from another timeline strays away from it. This happens if someone is abandoned, loses their humanity, or forgets their reason for living. They could end up in any other timeline with an erased memory. My job is simple: hunt down all anomalies foreign to this reality as soon as possible. These anomalies cannot be permitted to exist as people, because they can and will shape the future of the timeline in a direction unintended.” “What? I am not an anomaly! I only have memories of one life. I’m sick and need help! If you don’t let me go, you’ll get into some serious trouble! I swear!” “Who are you going to tell your story to? The authorities? They think you belong in an asylum and want you locked away. You have no family or friends. Even if you did, no one would believe you. The only person who might have cared about your well-being turned you over to a friend of mine, who transferred you here to me for a few thousand dollars.” “If you are so powerful, why did you let me live as long as I have?” Aaron yelled confused. 136 • Blackwater Review

“I’m an alchemist. I like to play with my food and study it. The thing is, even if the entire world wanted you back, there is absolutely nothing that can be done. It is all over.” Suddenly, he could see malevolent, green eyes pierce through the darkness. “By the way, none of those freak accidents were actual events. It’s all been in your little head. To everyone else, you have just been acting very strange.” The purple mist began creeping towards Aaron. Then it started spinning around and around, like a hurricane. He felt light-headed like he was shrinking. To his horror, as the gas violently swirled around him, his hands were being replaced with long, skinny, muddy-red stilts with claws sprouting off of them! Then the same happened to his legs. He could feel fangs growing out of his cheeks! Finally, two long stilts emerged from his sides! He lost consciousness again. When he opened his eyes, he felt very strange. Natural light was pouring in from the windows placed around the tops of the walls. He was inside a sealed plastic cup with holes in the top, and the room looked much bigger than he remembered. Unfortunately, the poor man had somehow managed to see his reflection from the bent light through the plastic cup. His reflection showed a small, muddy-red, pathetic insect with two black bulbous eyes. He now had six legs instead of arms or feet, and his backside felt more exposed. One of his legs had more of a dark-emerald greenish hue. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. He realized all of a sudden that he could no longer hear anything! He had become one of the little creatures he had despised so much. Back in Gribbles, Linus Meaneander was dusting off some books. He remembered the pedestal in the window was empty. He waddled to his desk and opened it. He pulled out an ancient-looking spinning wheel and gave it a flick. The arrow spun around and around, picking up more and more speed till suddenly it stopped. Linus gazed at the arrow and grinned. It read DISSOCIATIVE IDENTITY DISORDER. He bent over to some drawers low in the wall next to his desk. He opened the one labeled, “Cursed Luring Objects,” grabbed out a diamond Ramsey • 137

and sapphire tiara, and set it down on his desk. His cat watched him with his jubilant eyes. “Let’s see who we have next.” He then pulled a scroll out from under his desk, and it read, “TARGET TEST SUBJECT SELECTED, NUMBER 9,227,336#Z. STEPHEN EDWIN KENNET. HOME REALITY: EARTH 315. BREACHED AT AGE: 16. BORN: DEC. 16 1996 5:32 PM. CURRENT AGE: 39 YEARS. HEIGHT: 5 FT 9 IN. WEIGHT: 167 POUNDS. BLOOD TYPE: IVX-. HANDEDNESS: RIGHT. ELIMINATE BY: FEB. 14, 2036 6:15 A.M. LIFE SPAN: 40 YEARS. RELATIONSHIP STATUS: MARRIED.” “Ooh! A family man! Almost his anniversary, too,” he said to his cat. “This should be way more fun than our last test subject.” The welcome bell jingled. Linus yelled out in what he believed was his most selling and persuasive voice. “Welcome to Gribbles! The finest pawnshop in Toronto! You’re welcome to take a look around if you like. If you find anything that catches your eye and you want to buy, just lemme know. I’ll be right here.” He took his new ant from its farm, looked at his cat, and shined with a sinister smile. One of the ant’s legs was dark, emerald green. The cat licked its lips. Then the man’s eyes glowed as malevolent green as his cat’s.

138 • Blackwater Review

Filth Maria Carling Edna could recall how her parents’ eyes would light up every time a new package came in the mail. She remembered thinking how nice it was that someone was always sending them gifts. How thoughtful. Sure, none of the gifts seemed to be for her, but she still thought it was sweet that someone was always thinking of them. Seeing these wonderful gifts be tossed aside in favor of new ones did make her sad, though. They would be opened only to be forgotten just as quickly. Piles would form, and they only grew bigger as time passed. All manner of things lay strewn about. There was no rhyme or reason to the things that were gifted. She wondered why these mysterious strangers always sent them such random things, and often multiples of the same item. As she grew, the house became more cramped with stuff. She couldn’t remember when her perception changed, but at some point, she realized that it wasn’t some mysterious benefactor sending these gifts. That was when she stopped seeing the piles as treasures and started seeing them for what they were: trash. Trash that littered her home and made it impossible to even move around. She spent less and less time at home, always finding some excuse to leave. She had a club to attend, or a friend had invited her over. Most of the time, she would just walk around aimlessly, enjoying the open space and fresh air. At the same time she made her realization, she also noticed how quickly the lights would go out behind her parents eyes. They’d open their boxes and the lights would brighten, only to dim just as quickly. She saw the bags under their eyes. She knew that the piles of trash and lack of room affected them just as much as it affected her, but she never confronted them. They were like ghosts drifting around their tiny hovel. Pale and gaunt, withering away. She doubted her words would even get Carling • 139

through to them. Eventually, the day came when she was of age and could leave. She couldn’t wait to get out and live the way she wanted, but she worried what would happen to her mom and dad. Would they just keep rotting away? Would they even survive? She put these thoughts out of her mind as she packed her few things and left for college. Years later she would return to her family home. She wasn’t sure what to expect. She steeled herself and closed her eyes as the taxi pulled up to the house. When she opened her eyes, it was even worse than she’d imagined. Piles of trash lay strewn about everywhere. She could barely see the house under all the refuse. She grew furious at the sight. She could remember when the house was relatively uncluttered. When it still resembled a house. Now, it was destroyed. She clenched her fist and was about to tell the driver to take her back to her hotel, when she saw the front door open a crack. She had been spotted. She sighed and paid the driver before exiting the car and walking up the drive. “Hello, Mother,” she said to the figure in the doorway. “Oh, hello, Dear. It’s so nice to see you. It’s been too long,” she said in a monotonous tone, slack-jawed. Her eyes stared out at nothing in particular. “Yes, it has,” she said. Not long enough. She shook the thought out of her head and walked closer. As her mother opened the door, she could see a wall of trash from floor to ceiling. It consumed everything. The smell was awful. The putrid scent of rot and decay wafted out and assaulted her senses. Her stomach twisted as she took in the sight. She paused for a moment. A sinking pit formed in her stomach. “Where’s Dad?” she asked.

140 • Blackwater Review

Homeless Colby Daigle I asked you for a house. You gave me a stone. I asked you for a blouse. You said “None are sewn.” I asked you for a job. You said I’m too unkempt. I asked a hairdresser for a bob. They just stared with contempt. When I asked you for a bed, You gave me a bench with spikes. So, I laid down and bled Right near the office bikes. Because what else can I do, When I am seen as nothing to you?

Daigle • 141

Full Story Madison K. Berntsen The scars speak of their journey They try to hide the fact that they’re hurting They’re the ones who don’t go around confirming That the only home they’ve ever known is burning Burning As their world comes crashing down They take their anger out on those around They wanna scream but can’t make a sound Their hearts are shuttered and shadow-bound Shadow-bound There’s so much pain stored up in a bully’s eyes The pain of parents’ divorce The pain of countless lies I know that the bottled feelings don’t stop Even when it’s night and every single light is turned off I’ve walked in your shoes in hopes that I can understand Your secrets are safe and secure in my hands I won’t spill them out, just to bring myself glory Nobody knows anyone’s full story Their dripping eyes upon the floor Desperate hearts searching vainly for the perfect cure Their antidote concealed behind a bolted door A tearstained photo locked within a drawer Just ignore the fibs they tell They likely reflect how they have felt about themselves They once were full, but are now just a shell Only they’re aware of all the times they fell 142 • Blackwater Review

There’s so much pain stored up in a bully’s eyes The pain of parents’ divorce The pain of countless lies I know that the bottled feelings don’t stop Even when it’s night and every single light is turned off I’ve walked in your shoes in hopes that I can understand Your secrets are safe and secure in my hands I won’t spill them out, just to bring myself glory Nobody knows anyone’s full story We all know what it’s like to toss and turn in sleep Burdened by promises we know they won’t keep We all know what it’s like to mutter, weep, and groan To only shed tears when we think we’re alone When a bully’s overwhelmed with doubt They’re determined to figure out If they make a scene, if they act mean Would someone listen or see them now? There’s so much pain stored up in a bully’s eyes The pain of parents’ divorce The pain of countless lies I know that the bottled feelings don’t stop Even when it’s night and every single light is turned off I’ve walked in your shoes in hopes that I can understand Your secrets are safe and secure in my hands I won’t spill them out, just to bring myself glory Nobody knows anyone’s full story

Berntsen • 143

Crazy Cat Lady Maggie Preston I was born in a laundry basket between a broken fan and a tower of yellowing newspapers. I was the smallest of my four siblings. My only sister, Luna, faded quietly, still blind and wrapped in the blanket of our mother’s body. When she passed, our starving mother took her tiny neck between her teeth and gently carried her away—to be consumed. My brother Ginger was barely weaned when he got stuck chasing a roach between the wall and the kitchen cabinet. We heard his muffled meows for two days. Then, nothing. The memory of his scent, sour with decay, still makes my nose sting. The air in this place is putrid. Death and sickness linger everywhere. The smell fills your lungs, leaving you weak and nauseous. Mittens, the oldest, went the way most of us do. He hacked and wheezed for weeks before slipping away. The Lady came eventually, holding a can of wet food, but she was too late to comfort him. She knelt beside him, stroked his side, and carried his stiff body to the freezer to join our mother. The Lady can be merciful. When hunger gnaws at our empty stomachs, she brings sustenance. We emerge from beneath boxes, from behind stacks of books and crumbling magazines, drawn by the rustle of her plastic bag. There must be a hundred of us. We gather around, shrieking and scrambling over one another for a mouthful of the dusty, stale-tasting feed before she staggers into the living room again. Sometimes, as she turns to leave, the Lady will reach her wrinkled hand down to scratch behind my ears. I purr and lean into her touch. Crick and I are the last of our litter left. During winter, he and I leap onto the windowsill to lick the condensation, our tongues tracing little streaks in the cold surface. Back when the tan carpet was still visible and the Lady occasionally left the house, Crick tried to escape. He made a mad dash for the door, almost making it outside before the Lady slammed the door 144 • Blackwater Review

down onto his tail. “You can’t leave me!” she wailed, dragging him inside by the scruff of his neck. His tail was crooked after that. He hasn’t tried to leave since, but when we sit by the window, I catch him glancing longingly at the snow-covered street. The Lady spends most of her time as a statue on her armchair, watching strange images on a silver screen. Whatever she sees there must be very important. She doesn’t move for hours. None of us dare disturb her. Occasionally, she breaks from her trance, and turns to stare at a picture on the wall of herself and a young man. Her shaking hands dial a number on the phone, and it rings and rings and rings until she begins to weep. Now me and Crick sit together, perched on a shadowed shelf in the corner of the living room. The Lady hasn’t moved in days. Her eyes are still peeled open, watching blankly, but something is wrong. Crick and I watch in silence, waiting for her to stir. After a while, I finally gathered the courage to approach her. Crick follows. The Lady’s head rests crookedly against the back of the armchair, a hand dangling lifelessly at her side. I nudge carefully at her palm, expecting the familiar scratch behind my ears. But her skin is cold and rigid. It smells sour. Crick leaps onto the Lady’s lap and looks into her eyes. She’s gone, he meows. But I know that’s not possible. The Lady has been around for as long as any of us can remember. She was here when our mother was born, and her mother before that. She couldn’t be gone. She was right here in her armchair, where she always was. I lick her palm, trying to reassure myself. She’s only sleeping, I conclude. Crick leans his head off of the edge of the armchair and gives me a puzzled look. Time stretches on. Hunger grows heavier. The others cry more now, restless and afraid. I stay by the Lady’s side, guarding her. Some of the more desperate cats creep close, nipping at her fingers, but I hiss and swat them away. Why bite the hand that Preston • 145

feeds you? I know she’ll wake up soon. Even as her flesh melds into the skin of the armchair, I know she’ll wake up soon. One day, the door opens on its own. Tall creatures robed in white step cautiously into the living room, and the house erupts. Cats burst out from under piles of clutter, flooding the house. One tom leaps from a collapsing stack of boxes and crashes through the window. Others race to follow him. The creatures grow more frantic. One wades through the mass of stuff to block the window. The other comes for the Lady. Amidst the chaos, I huddle fearfully under the armchair. A paw prods my side, and I turn to find Crick beside me. Now’s our chance! He hisses, using what’s left of his strength to nudge me out from under my hiding place. I glance towards the window. The light is blinding. I think back on Ginger, his tiny body still wedged in the crack between the wall and the cabinet. Crick pushes harder, urging me to move, but I can’t. The creatures are closing in. Crick and I lock eyes for the last time, his expression unreadable. He leaps onto the windowsill, silent, the last cat to leave. The creature gets closer. It spots my wide eyes peeking out from the darkness and reaches for me. I dart out from under the armchair and tunnel deeper into the house, tearing through the maze of filth until I find the laundry basket between a broken fan and a tower of yellowing newspapers. My lungs are burning. I leap into the basket and curl up until my trembling body falls still again. Beneath the stench of death, sickness, dust, and decay, there’s something sweet, like milk, and for a moment, I feel my mother resting beside me.

146 • Blackwater Review

Sun Isabella R. Bradley When I die, if I have to live again, I don’t want to be a dog, or a cat, or a tiger, or a wolf, or anything like that. When I die, I want to become the sun. I want to spread warmth to everyone, nurture the living and dead, be a symbol of hope for all, and bring light to everyone. I want to give my all to everyone and everything in the world, not just those near me. I am only a lamp, small, but better than nothing. But as the sun I am everything for everyone; everyone can rely on me to rise in the morning and set in the evening. They can rely on me to always be there with them, to make them never feel alone, to give them energy that they can use to warm their homes and hearts. So, I say this loudly and proudly and beg the heavens up above that when I someday pass on from this life and onto whatever comes next, that they will allow me to become a sun, a star—a star that can love and care for all in the ways that I won’t be able to in this life but can in the next.

Bradley • 147

Siren Nobles and Apple Fritters Stephanie Fealko Part of owning one of the only coffeehouses in the village meant Diantha had access to a lot of the town’s gossip. It had grown into a pastime to listen to her patrons talk amongst themselves, sharing politics and the latest news. For the past few nights, talk of a woman named Nira surfaced at the coffeehouse. It wasn’t the average gossip: Which maiden should I court? Do you think this woman’s having an affair with one of the knights? There was no underlying snarkiness to these people’s words. They never talked about her with hushed voices; instead, the patrons she served nearly sang Nira’s praises. They called her a goddess who walked the dirt with them, that just talking to her would give you all the answers you ever needed. Diantha found that hard to believe. Just because a woman looked beautiful and dressed nicely didn’t mean they deserved the praise. Especially if this woman was one of Ulana’s disciples. Those sirens abused their roles and pushed “peasants” like her around just because they had cool water abilities. It made Diantha want to tear out her short, curly, blond hair sometimes, just the way these sirens walked the streets and assumed they owned everything. They claimed all of the feats she did were something to write about and publish across the five churches of divinity. Sure, using her siren gifts to water the crops that had been affected by the recent drought was nice, and helping clean up the town’s streets, and healing a lot of the injured peasants who couldn’t spend the extra gold…so maybe this Nira was that kind, but Diantha still had her doubts. It was probably some front to get the townspeople to trust sirens again. Still, Diantha had thought that this woman would only be gossip she’d hear about from the patrons at the coffeehouse, and that’s it. Some tales and whispers that were spoken to 148 • Blackwater Review

others in the late hours of the night. That was, until one evening, when the doors chimed open and in walked the siren everyone had been gossiping about for nearly a week. Diantha wished she were joking when she thought Nira was the exact definition of beauty. Nira was tall and curvy, with hair that rolled down to the small of her back like chestnut waves. Her skin was sun-kissed and tanned, smooth and soft with no blemishes. Her eyes were dark, glimmering a deep violet, sharpened by her long nose and softened by the curve of her chin. A woman to be painted, to have statues erected in her honor. She dressed like it, too; she wore long, drapey fabrics of deep-ocean blue that dragged on the ground, yet were never dirty, lined with a hem of silver. Bracelets circled her wrists, studded with perfectly circular pearls and clean-cut abalone. On her hip, a pale teal fabric of sea silk—no doubt made by the finest sirens—was clipped together with a golden brooch with the symbol of Ulana, the goddess of seas. She reeked of wealth and skill; a siren had to be powerful enough to completely hide the signs of webbing between their fingers, to conceal the scales that should be lining their cheeks. If Diantha didn’t take into account the fact that Nira wore what a disciple of Ulana should wear, or the declaration of worship attached to her hip, then the fact that Nira could move water to her will would tell anyone she was a siren. Only the most loyal followers could bend water like she could. She had come in with a small group of other sirens, all dressed in distinguished robes and fabrics, talking to them in a soft, light voice. Nearly everyone had noticed her as soon as she stepped in. Diantha was just struck silent, her freckled face warm as she pleaded with her eyes to look away. Dark, purple eyes snagged onto Diantha’s green, and she hated the way her heart practically leapt in her chest. “Good evening, ladies. What may I get y’all started on?” Diantha choked out and pushed through the stutter that Fealko • 149

threatened to sound out. She averted her eyes from Nira’s and instead eyed one of the other sirens. It wasn’t Nira who spoke, but one of the smaller sirens in the group. She had pale skin and brown hair that curled over her shoulders. The gleam of dark red scales glistened on her cheek, clawed, webbed hands moving around as she spoke. When the sirens finished ordering coffees for everyone to drink and splurged on the pastries Diantha had baked specifically for today, the group started to rummage around to pitch in for the twelve coppers Diantha had asked for. Everyone had paused when Nira raised a gentle hand and placed twelve gold coins instead. Diantha blinked down at the money on the wooden counter, brain processing what had happened. “Oh, it was twelve coppers, not gold,” Diantha said, palms sweating as she gathered the coins back to hand them back to her. Nira had just blinked down at her, placing a hand on Diantha’s to nudge it gently back. “I am aware.” Diantha, too flustered to speak, watched as the school of sirens moved to sit at the round tables in the corner. Her hands squeezed against the coins as she attempted to rationalize spending so much more than what was required. Especially so easily. Diantha faintly wondered if this was some cruel joke, that the sirens would laugh amongst themselves about the poor servant who was too baffled at twelve gold coins. A small frown tugged at Diantha’s lip as she stashed the money away and started to brew the table their order. The sirens stayed for a while, snacking on pastries and drinking their brewed coffee. Energized despite the late night, the coffeehouse kept her busy enough. Refill and take more orders, collect the cash, and clean tables. Diantha could hear the posh accents of the sirens chatter about their own circle of gossip. They would talk about all the potential suitors and needlessly begged Nira to keep talking. It was a little odd to see the way these sirens flocked and nearly begged for this woman’s approval. What made this noble so 150 • Blackwater Review

special that these other noble sirens had to nearly fight to get a drop of her attention? When the conversation moved to the teachings of Ulana and water-bending practices, Diantha stopped listening. They stayed for an hour or so before they started collecting themselves to leave. It was getting past dark, and a new day was waiting for them the morrow. Far too busy wiping down a table with a rag, Diantha nearly jumped as she heard someone speak behind her. “Did you bake those pastries yourself?” Diantha looked behind her, green eyes meeting purple. Nira stood behind her, the gaggle of sirens long gone. It took Diantha a second longer than she wanted to nod. “Well, I would just like to say they were splendid. I had a wonderful time here. Please have a lovely night.” She softly bowed at Diantha, hair half curtaining her face. She turned and left before Diantha could even croak out a shaky thank you. The next morning, Diantha had opened with the help of her younger brother. They went through the usual process of baking that day’s pastries and preparing some of the brews before the morning rush could start. The memories of Nira from last night lingered in the back of her brain since she left, replaying the placid expression Nira seemed to always wear. Business went as usual. Her brother, Leofric, helped her with the morning and evening rushes until he had to leave for his training with some of the other guards. It was the lull between evening and night, and Diantha was cleaning up another table. “They said she was sent by a goddess,” an older man scoffed, the roots of his hair shining the slightest silver. He wore a blacksmith uniform, his gloves tied to his belt, and his apron coated in soot. The other man he was talking to nodded along, sipping at his coffee. He had a cape draped across his shoulders, hair a mess. “Some stupid horse shit to get you to like those bottom feeders. Yer think they really got one of Ulana’s highest disciples to come to a dump like this?” The man in the cloak huffs, nodding along. “Do ya see any Fealko • 151

scales on her cheek? I didn’ think so. So, she must be. With all the rumors about that cult going around, no wonder they’re sendin’ her here.” A sip of coffee. “Y’know, I’ve seen her before. She was healing a kid with her call song. That kid started jumping and dancing right in front of my eyes. Even the sirens who’ve been practicin’ all their damn lives can’t heal a scab, let alone a broken leg!” The two men laughed at the idea of the snooty sirens, so uptight on their high horse when all they could do was move some water a few feet. Truly pathetic. Unable to stop herself from butting in, Diantha said, “She came in yesterday.” The two men glanced up at her, smiling softly. “The siren?” the man with messy hair asked. “Yup. Came in with a school of other sirens. Paid in gold ‘stead of copper.” The blacksmith rolled his eyes. “Flaunting their wealth. Typical. They’ve got nothin’ better to do, do they?” Diantha blinked, unsure of how to feel. It didn’t seem like Nira was trying to show off. Everyone could already tell she was wealthy just by the way she dressed, but she wasn’t going around wearing ball gowns and demanding tedious things from others. The cloaked man spoke up again, but Diantha was more focused on the doors opening. She turned her attention to the front, a greeting on her lips when green eyes landed on purple. To Diantha’s surprise, Nira stood in front of her. She wore a different robe, yet the colors and jewelry were still the same. This time, slung across her chest was a bag made from lightened leather, clasped together with what looked like coral pieces. Her hair was as flawless as before, spilling down her back and framing her face. This time, the siren was alone. The few other patrons glanced in her direction and went quiet—the irony of talking about someone and having them walk in. A moment of silence lingered before Diantha’s muscle memory kicked in to smile and actually greet the customer. Diantha placed the rag over her shoulder, moving to stand behind the wooden counter. “Welcome, what can I get you?” 152 • Blackwater Review

“May I have your original brew and a plate of apple fritters?” Nira asked, stepping closer to the counter. She brushed her hair aside to look at the menu placed on the counter, before her eyes trailed back down towards Diantha’s. “Of course. Three coppers, please.” Nira handed her fifteen gold coins. Diantha blinked down at the coins the woman had just placed in her palms, distinctly noting that it was more than what the woman had paid the day before. “I couldn’t possibly take fifteen gold coins, ma’am,” Diantha stuttered out, her brows furrowed as she attempted to wrap her head around how someone would ever bother paying this much for some coffee and a handful of apple fritters. “I can offer you other pastries if you would like?” “Oh, well then, I would have to pay you more,” Nira said, already opening her purse again. “No, no, this already covers it. You don’t need to pay this much.” A soft, gentle laugh escaped the noble woman. Diantha hated the way it made her stomach churn, her face already warming at the sound, like the sound of wind chimes in the early morning dew. “Did we not have a quarrel about this last night?” Nira asked, tilting her head coyly at Diantha. If it wasn’t for the woman’s tone, Diantha would have thought she was mocking her. “I am well aware of how much you’re pricing. I am deliberately choosing to pay extra. Keep it.” Diantha was not going to argue with a customer, especially with how final Nira made those words. “Of course,” Diantha said, and pocketed the coins. Nira smiled sweetly at her before she turned and sat at a secluded table, opening her bag and pulling out scrolls and pens. The two men whom Diantha had talked to did nothing to hide the stares they shared, eyes pointed at the noble siren. Diantha brewed her drinks and plated fresh pastries from that morning, then walked to place the woman’s order in front of her. She glanced up at Diantha through her lashes before Fealko • 153

those purple eyes of hers dragged down to the plate. Diantha pushed the plate closer. “I hope you also like pear tarts,” Diantha said. “And before you think you need to pay more for that. It’s on the house.” “But I simply must,” Nira said. “And I simply can’t accept,” Diantha replied, giving Nira the same tone the noble had used on her. “Enjoy.” She left Nira alone before the noble could even pry out more coins, and Diantha could feel the weight of eyes lingering on her. Nira stayed to the side on her own table, even when more patrons entered. She would talk to those who came up to her, but eventually be left alone to continue writing in the scrolls with her swirling handwriting. Diantha would pour Nira more of her drink, and at some point, Diantha accepted that Nira would pay even when she assured her she did not have to. The two men, before they left, had told her to just be greedy and accept the payment, but it felt wrong. It felt wrong to think of this noble as no more than a bag of coins. They laughed at her when she told them that, hooting as they left for the night. Diantha would have almost forgotten Nira was there if she hadn’t been on her mind all night. She had been so silent, the scratch of her quill on parchment and the soft tink of her glass being placed on the table were the only sounds the woman made. So enthralled in her own work, Diantha found it difficult not to stare. It appeared the other didn’t even seem to notice. It felt almost like a sin to walk up to Nira and disturb the peace, a hand on her hip as she glanced down at the seated noble. “Do you want one last refill? I’m about to close for the night.” Nira blinked, sitting straighter from the hunched position she had found herself in. She glanced up at Diantha; a faint look of shock splayed across her features. “Oh,” she said softly, eyes trailing the interior. It was evident she was the only patron left. “Hm, perhaps another pastry? I apologize; I didn’t realize so much time had passed.” 154 • Blackwater Review

She placed the quill in a designated container, clasping it shut and rolling up the scrolls. “Don’t worry, you’re not being a bother. I can get you another pastry.” “Thank you,” Nira said. She went quiet for a moment, pulling her shoulder bag on once again. She nibbled on her lip, fangs poking at the skin. “I’m Nira, by the way.” Without much thinking, Diantha blurted, “I know.” She stood up straighter, eyes wide, before she turned back to Nira. “Sorry—that was rude of me. It’s just that people have been talking about you. Your name spread around. Um, my name is Diantha,” she stuttered. Nira laughed softly, her hand placed in front of her grin. “Well, nice to be associated with you, Diantha.” She said her name so sweetly, as if it fit in her mouth just perfectly. “Do you think you could package it? I don’t want to bother you more if I don’t have to. I can leave, Diantha.” It felt unnatural that a siren like Nira was being so… considerate. She nodded. “Of course. But I really don’t mind, as long as yer paying.” “If only you’ll let me,” Nira drawled on. At that, Diantha gave her a stern look, one that quickly transitioned into a smile she couldn’t quite stop. “I’ll let you pay this time,” she promised Nira. “Same things?” “Two apple fritters, and another pear tart,” Nira hummed. “I haven’t had many sweets in a while. I’d like to indulge myself while I can.” Diantha found herself letting out an amused huff, “Do you not have apple fritters where you’re from?” She packaged the pastries in a handful of cloths, tying them in twine and placing them on the counter. Diantha brushed her skirt down, the thick fabric rustling around her legs, before she leaned forward on the wooden counter, elbows supporting her weight. “You could say that. A lot of the foods are just so salty. It gets tiring rather quickly. We have sweets, but these are just Fealko • 155

truly exquisite. I have yet to see if it’s your skills or if landwalker pastries are just superior.” Diantha feels the familiar warmth of a flush across her face, her eyes averting from Nira’s as she toyed with a strand of her blond hair. “Well, I’m glad you like them. What sort of foods are you used to?” “Fish,” Nira said. That, Diantha could probably guess from context clues. “And I suppose kombu, shrimp, caviar, ulva, kraken—,” “...Kraken?” “Oh yes, giant things. You’d expect it to last the kingdom for days, but the nobles at home have quite the taste for hardto-get dishes. They’re like a school of starving piranhas,” she laughed, controlled and almost practiced. “Don’t tell them I said that,” she said, as if Diantha had any way of doing that. “But you should try some, you might enjoy it.” “Maybe,” Diantha agreed, letting out a small laugh. “I don’t think I could ever try some without moving from here— sure, there’s a lot of sirens here, but not a whole lot of krakens to eat ‘round here…and I don’t have the means to travel.” “Well, the Festival of Rain is arriving soon? I know for certain someone will have preserved some to share for the festival. That’s actually why I’m here. My mother asked me to help with the preparations.” “Oh?” “Indeed. I’ve also been enjoying my time away from home. I like seeing new places, new people.” Nira’s eyes lingered on Diantha’s for a moment longer before she slid them somewhere else. “It’s nice to have some freedom.” “I bet,” Diantha said, her voice simmering into nothing. Unlike the other times, Diantha didn’t tear her eyes away; her brain focused on untangling the expression that overcame the siren’s features. Nira blinked, eyes snapping onto the wrapped pastries. “Here,” Nira said, placing more gold coins in her hand. Diantha didn’t fight her about it. “I spent quite some time here, so I will take my leave now. I’ll be sure to come back when I can, though. 156 • Blackwater Review

Have a wonderful night, Diantha.” “You too, Nira,” she said, waving the woman goodbye. When the door slid closed, the last ring of the doorbell chiming, Diantha could only suck in a deep breath and try to calm the way her heart was beating against her chest. A dopey smile tugged at her lips to the point it nearly hurt. Maybe noble sirens weren’t so bad. Diantha wanted to hate how excited she felt at the woman’s words, already looking forward to the next time the siren would show up.

Fealko • 157

Tromperie Noir Kendall Feal Poring over my most recent case study, the weight of exhaustion begins to settle over top of me. Reports pile ever higher on my desk, crashing down on me like tidal waves and dashing me against the rocky cliffs of injustice. The rain drums a monotonous rhythm on the windows, luring me closer to my breaking point. Another late night in the office. Ever since I took over the bureau, it feels like the crime rate has doubled. Robberies, murders…all’s fair in this godforsaken city of sinners. Sometimes, I just want to leave it all behind, vanish into the darkness as the city crumbles in my wake. But I can’t do that. As broken as this city is, she’s given me too much for me to turn my back in her hour of need. The least I can do is try to make this place better, one case at a time. It isn’t all bad, though. Somewhere amidst the labyrinth of dark alleyways and buildings tall enough to wound the heavens, there exists one shining beacon of joy. And his name is Samuel Hawkins. Sammy is the only thing that keeps me going nowadays. No matter how terrible of a day I’ve had, I can always trust him to greet me at home with a cup of tea and a gentle kiss. A love like this could ruin my career, hell, even my life, but it’s all worth it to me just to see my sweet Sammy Hawkins beside me as I fall asleep. Even now, I can’t help but think about him. The kisses we’ll share, the time we’ll spend in each other’s embrace, and all the things we’ll talk about over dinner and deep into the night. I take a long drag of my cigar and try to refocus on the report in front of me. I begin to settle back into my usual routine: read the case and file it based on issue and urgency. However, I don’t get far before I hear the door swing open. Peering over the mountain of manila files surrounding me, I watch as a shadow walks into the bureau. Her hips 158 • Blackwater Review

sway rhythmically with every step she takes, her evening gown swishing alongside them. Her raven hair slinks over her shoulders and down her back, slick and heavy from the rainfall. Two eyes like smoking coals burn into my soul as she approaches the desk. “Can I help you, ma’am?” I ask, eyes still locked with hers. She responds in a sultry, subtly accented voice. “You do private investigations, do you not?” “I do,” I reply, “but it’d have to be one hell of a case for me to take it, given all of this I have to take care of.” I gesture broadly to the files on my desk. The woman inhales sharply, never breaking her fiery gaze. With graceful yet commanding steps, she walks around to the side of my desk, so that none of her frame is obscured by the piles of folders. She leans in closer to me. “You’ll want to take this one,” she says, her voice hushed. “Trust me.” “And why is that?” I inquire semi-sarcastically. She leans in even closer now, planting her hands on the armrest of my chair for support. Up close, her scorching eyes communicate a deep, wounded rage that shakes me to my core. I can’t help but look down. “Because,” she begins, “I’m tired of being lied to.” Now, I’m intrigued. Deciding to indulge her, I meet her gaze once again and ask, “What is it?” The beginnings of a smile appear at the corners of her mouth. Not a pleasant smile, like you might expect a lady to have, but something much more vengeful, almost sinister. “Thank you, sir,” she starts. “You see, it’s about my husband. He’s been coming home late recently, sometimes not at all.” I quickly grab a pen and paper and begin to write her words down. “Go on,” I encourage. “Even when he does come home, he just goes straight to bed. He has no interest in me whatsoever!” She continues. “Whenever I ask, he always says that he was ‘working overtime,’ but I don’t believe it, not one bit! Sir, I’m beginning to believe Feal • 159

there’s another woman in the picture that I don’t know about.” I finish writing and look back at her. “An unfaithful husband, eh? Trust me, you’re not the first woman to come into my office with that kind of grievance. So, what do you suppose I should do, Mrs.—” “Hawkins,” she interjects. “Lilah Hawkins.” I freeze, startled by the surname. My heart drops into my stomach, and my mind starts racing a hundred miles a minute. Could it be…? No, that’s impossible. There’s no way Sammy could be married, not to anyone, and especially not to her. Even if he was married, which he isn’t, he wouldn’t be able to hide it from me. I’m a detective, for God’s sake! Sammy’s an honest, faithful person. I know that he isn’t the man this woman is talking about, but still, I can’t help the pit in my stomach from growing deeper with every passing second. “Are you alright, sir?” Mrs. Hawkins asks, pulling me back to reality. “Ah! Y-yes, of course ma’am,” I stammer, still at war with my mind. “Where were we?” “What I need you to do is simple, sir,” she begins to explain. “I just need you to catch my husband with this other woman and serve as a witness so I can file for divorce. Then, I can get out of the city and put all of this behind me.” “Sounds like a plan to me, ma’am. I just need one final thing.” I hesitate. “What’s your husband’s name?” “His name is Samuel Hawkins,” she replies. “He’s fortytwo years old and works in the financial district, if you must know.” No. That’s him. That’s undeniably him. There can’t possibly be another forty-two-year-old Samuel Hawkins that works in the financial district. Samuel Hawkins. Sammy. My Sammy has been married the whole time I’ve known him, and I was none the wiser. Once, I thought I held the last flicker of light in this city within my arms, but now I realize that it was just another cruel trick played by these awful streets. And now, his poor wife has come to me asking to help her catch her husband 160 • Blackwater Review

with some “other woman,” and there’s nothing I can do to help her because the other woman is me. The shattered pieces of my heart scatter on the tile floor as I look mournfully at Mrs. Hawkins, trying to think of something to say. “I-I’ll see what I can do, ma’am,” I mutter before turning away. “Thank you, sir. Oh, thank you!” she exclaims. Turning to leave, she shouts, “Have a good night!” Then, she swings the door open and disappears into the darkness. I can’t tell her the truth. I just can’t. After everything I’ve worked for and everything I’ve sacrificed, I can’t risk word of my relationship with Sammy getting out and setting it all ablaze. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help her. I’ll figure something out; I always do. This is just as much my revenge as it is hers, and I’ll be damned if I don’t see to it that justice is served. My last cinder of hope for this city may be extinguished, but my willpower will never die.

Feal • 161

Contributors John Aeterna lives by Isaiah 65:25, “The wolf and the lamb will feed together, and the lion will eat straw like the ox, and dust shall be the serpent’s food. They will neither harm nor destroy on all my holy mountain, says the LORD.” Hail! King of the Jews! Jesus, who is the Christ, is alive and active! Rachel Baxter is a work-in-progress. Born in Arizona, raised in Vegas, educated in New Hampshire, she carries each of these places in her heart and in her poems. She lives with her three dogs, powerlifts, plays pickleball, and runs and paints and writes poems through it all. Drew Bell is one of the American Sign Language tutors at the ZLC at NWFSC. They use their past life (drug abuse and all things that come with it) as inspiration in their writing, helping to put words onto pages even when it is difficult. They don’t write often, but when they do it’s cathartic and personal. Madison K. Berntsen has enjoyed writing since she was eight. She finished her first one-hundred-fifty paged novel, based on her toys, at ten years old, and she’s come a long way in the realm of fiction since then. Her friends call her Madi, and she loves reading, writing, being outside, animals, music, and Jesus. Audrianna Boals is a student who enjoys exploring ideas, emotions, and imagery through poetry. She decided to submit this poem for those who feel caught between emotions they can name and ones they cannot. Through this work, she hopes to give language to that unfinished space and to remind readers that they do not have to try on emotions or identities to be understood, and she hopes people can see the beauty in not knowing and the purpose of life to figure it out. Jennifer Boxen is a twelve-year resident of the area and is inspired by nature. Coming back to ceramics after a hiatus, she is looking for new ways to use untraditional decorative methods and glaze combinations for her pottery. Isabella Rose Bradley is a woman who’s always loved writing stories, poems, and especially cheesy jokes ever since she was young. Her ultimate goal is to someday become an established author and actress who does chemistry for fun on the side. Harrison Busbee is a very strange guy who typically writes very strange stories. His favorite hobbies include making art, reading, playing video games, and putting way too much time and effort into worldbuilding. He loves telling stories and hopes to one day become a professional writer. Maria Carling is a student at Northwest Florida State College and a new mother to a wonderful baby. She loves reading, writing, and video games.

162 • Blackwater Review

Cass always excelled at English in school. This encouraged them to write as a hobby, sharing it with strangers online. This is the first time they’re sharing with strangers offline, not including state testers. Abigail Clark is a 21-year-old who is honored to be a part of art in its many forms. From music to poetry, to visual art, she is always looking for opportunities to create and express herself, finding inspiration in others’ art and in her own experiences. She is currently pursuing a BFA in Graphic Design and is grateful for her family and teachers who have helped her get this far. Kate Collection is a graphic design certificate student at Northwest Florida College with a strong passion for art and visual storytelling. She loves drawing and enjoys bringing ideas to life through video and animation. Creative, curious, and detail-oriented, Kate is building her skills to create designs that feel modern, expressive, and meaningful. Not being the best at math or science, Colby Daigle has always had a fondness for writing and poetry. Haiku and sonnets are her favorite, with the latter often leading to periods of time where she gets stuck rhyming for an hour or two after writing. Her inspiration for her poetry comes from the need to convey emotions that have no name, from something more than adoration, to a strange combination of ennui, anger, and sadness that has yet to be given a word. Alyssa Early is Junior at Northwest Florida State College and is pursuing a degree in Elementary Education. She hopes to share her love of writing and literature with future generations, while fostering a love of reading that her students will carry on through their whole lives. She would like to thank the entire Blackwater Review staff and her professors for their consideration and tutelage. Kendall Feal is a senior at Collegiate High School and the current vice president of NWFSC’s Raider Writers club. She typically enjoys writing short fiction and drama with the occasional poem or two. Kendall gives eternal thanks to her family, friends, and fellow members of Raider Writers for encouraging her to be cringe without fear and keep writing. Stephanie Fealko is a totally normal student and not an alien from outer space in disguise. She’s an artist, writer, and creative thinker. An explorer of thought, space, and the mythical, all through the expression of art. She’s a senior from Collegiate High School who’s obsessed with her own characters and just wants to share her writing. Amanda Hargrave is currently working towards her associates degree in design and digital marketing.

Contributors • 163

Lucy Harris is a senior at Collegiate High School who plans to attend UCF in 2026-2027. She loves writing poetry about how loveless this world is. Lucia Hernandez, a 19-year-old artist and student from Destin, Florida, has always had a passion for a wide range of creative media. She continues her creative journey by branching out into various forms of digital art and design. She has a growing portfolio with digital illustration and design, photography, and photo editing, along with a love of sculpting, jewelry making, fashion, and makeup art. With that being said, it is clear that multimedia is her specialty. Kathryn Mary Khoury is not a writer. Never claimed to be one. She was just bored. Carly King is an art student attending her second semester at Northwest Florida State College. She has been a lover of the arts since as far back as she can remember, and has committed to creating art as a personal hobby since she was nine years old. Her inspirations often take form in aquatic life, the vibrant life that she has been enamored with while growing up, especially in a state known for its marine life. lo stirs with the gadflies and lets the words spill out of her mouth until there’s nothing left. A soon-to-be graduate who hopes she can continue writing her own short stories and poems, Inaria Maciel’s dream is to one day turn her stories into a graphic novel. Mako finds interest in combining thoughtful inquiries with eye-catching words and images. She uses poetry as a tool for reflection. Their art comes from a place of love for the world around them. She hopes to encourage critical thinking and creativity with her work. Dillinger Mayew worries he might be cursed. While he enjoys including biting political satire and deep philosophical themes into his works, he is incapable of turning it off. Many times he has attempted to write lighthearted stories that aren’t about anything but themselves, and many times he has failed. His opinions will be heard, even if you don’t want to hear them and he doesn’t want to voice them. Jupiter McAllaster is an aspiring artist who specializes in portraiture and surrealism. Kalyn Mckinnon is a Floridian resident who enjoys singing, drawing, and many other creative endeavors. She enjoys traveling and dreaming big. You can always find her with either a book, a coffee, or her Pinterest board.

164 • Blackwater Review

Kay Music is a crippling perfectionist while somehow being the most efficient procrastinator. Fueled purely off Red Bull and motivational anxiety, she also unfortunately suffers from chronic artist shrimp posture. Her advice for future students is to experiment, and don’t let the fear of failure hinder your creativity. Nebula is someone with a new-found passion for the arts. They love studying, making, and discussing all forms of art. Poetry became a sudden hobby for them in February 2025; a friend shared some of their poetry, which brought an inspiration to try their own hand at it. This inspiration led them to an admiration for the creation and consumption of literary arts. Sabina Niedrich is hopelessly self-centered. When she can’t sleep at night, it’s usually because she’s replaying every argument and embarrassing moment that’s ever happened to her. What can she say? She’s a victim of introspection. Alyssa Pepe loves photographing the sunset in her backyard. She loves how the colors reflect off the lake. Maggie Preston is a visual artist, writer, and lifelong animal lover originally from Owasso, Oklahoma. She has two dogs, three parakeets, and five very vocal guinea pigs. She currently works making edible art as a cake decorator. One day, she hopes to channel her creativity and love for animals into a career as a wildlife specialist. C.Q. Ramsey is a delightfully whimsical fellow who has a habit of getting lost in the moment and staying there. Step into his worlds, wander awhile, and don’t be surprised if you forget the way back. From a young age, observation has been her greatest strength. A. Reis’s practice is grounded in the disciplined act of noticing: the way light filters through leaves, the subtle shifts in shadow, and the quiet dialogue between objects and the spaces they inhabit. Through photography, she explores how perception shapes meaning, examining the space between what is seen and what is understood. samwich is always amazed not by composition of color but the warmth of a moment; something that can truly make them feel even if it’s nothing particularly. That’s when they draw, for no one but themselves, yet are of course willing to share for the ego’s sake. Julianna Stearman is an art student who enjoys being creative and trying new things. She likes experimenting with different styles and materials and having fun with her artwork. Madi Taylor has always loved to read. However, she has never tried to write like what she sees in a book. She is still a beginner, still learning.

Contributors • 165

100 College Boulevard Niceville, Florida 32578 www.nwfsc.edu Northwest Florida State College is an equal access, equal opportunity institution.