The CyberForge - Fall 2025

The Fall 2025

CyberForge TABLE OF CONTENTS

Volume II

INTRODUCTION

VISUAL ART

Letter from the Editor-in-Chief. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

Noodle of the Tides by Jeanette Whitehead . . . . . . . . 7

Staff. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

Dandelion by Delaney Falls. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Canyon Valley by Caleb Stanley. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

LITERATURE

Levi Sitting by Kerbey Chevalier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

Under the Surface by Nawaal Nackerdien . . . . . . . . . 4

Levi Floating by Kerbey Chevalier. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

The Water Spirit’s Son by Grace Tongnobhakun. . . 6

Swamp of Aonia by Hannah Rocha Leclere . . . . . . 29

Event Horizon by Quinn Brennan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

Swarming Swamp by Caleb Stanley. . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

Time Reveals All by Abigail Snodgrass . . . . . . . . . . 17

Zombie and Werewolf by Anthony Bahizi . . . . . . . . 35

The Wizard and the Trainspotter

Rest Stop Portal by Presley Hinkle. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

by Chris Panatier. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 E-mail to the Undead by Presley Hinkle. . . . . . . . . . 37 Red Hood by Infernal Sayings. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

Forest by Marian Claros Barrientos. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Miss Sisyphus by Presley Hinkle. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Looking for Inner Peace

Bake Me a Real Boy by Presley Hinkle. . . . . . . . . . . 45

by Hannah Rocha Leclere. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55

Deadly Keys of Gold by Aryaman Kantawala . . . . . 48

On Track to Alenfort by Areeza Abbasi. . . . . . . . . . . 61

Synthetic Jellyfish Do Not Sting

Scarlet by Hannah Rocha Leclere . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67

by Nawaal Nackerdien. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 The Revenant: Redux by Enoch Ogunfiditimi. . . . . 57 Cover and Interior Art by Areeza Abbasi, Jesse Park Interior Sword Art by Ace Carrasco

Staring into the Void by Areeza Abbasi . . . . . . . . . . 69 Galaxy Cats by Marian Claros Barrientos. . . . . . . . . 70

Submit your work: forge.studentmedia.gmu.edu Contact us: theforgegmu@gmail.com

Letter from the Editor-in-Chief:

H

ello readers, welcome to the second edition of The CyberForge; our Fall 2025 digital issue!

My name is Samantha Gerken and I am honored to serve as the Editor-in-Chief. Having

been with The Forge for a year now, it has been incredible to see how much it has grown. Our team has expanded to 27 staff members, and has hosted a variety of fun events, such as Trivia Night and Comic Making. This past year, our Spring 2025 print issue won multiple nationwide Pinnacle Awards at MediaFest25. These included First Place, Division I: Literary Magazine Cover and Second Place, Division I: Literary Magazine of the Year.

I want to thank and congratulate all the staff who worked on that wonderful issue! It has been four years since the last CyberForge and our tech-savvy mascot Levi, created by James Gray, has returned! You can find her in the pages of this issue as you traverse the murky depths of the ocean, wander through desert wastelands, and soar beyond planets and stars. To take advantage of all that digital media has to offer, this issue includes animation, unique layout designs, and experimental forms of text. They are sure to teleport you into another world!

Finally, The Forge would not be possible without the incredible people behind the scenes and the passionate speculative fiction lovers who continue to support us on campus and beyond. I thank our faculty advisor, Jason Hartsel, for guiding me in my new role and for always supporting us at The Forge. To Nawaal Nackerdien (Managing Editor), Areeza Abbasi (Art and Design Director), and Nadi Meyer (Marketing Consultant), thank you all for your fiery passion for The Forge and for working with me to make this issue come to life.

To all my wonderful staff members, I am deeply grateful to work with all of you. I am so proud of the community we have built with such talented, passionate, hard working, funny, and creative individuals. A special thank you to Emily Gomez-Adames (previous Editor-in-Chief) for her continuous support of The Forge and her role in its success, and Athena Reynolds (founder of The Forge) for creating this incredible creative outlet and community space.

To all staff, faculty, and readers, thank you for your support. I hope you enjoy this journey of The CyberForge!

Samantha Gerken

Editor-in-Chief, The Forge

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Staff Editor-in-Chief, Lead Designer Samantha Gerken

Art and Design Director Areeza Abbasi

Managing Editor Nawaal Nackerdien

Marketing Consultant Nadi Meyer

Editors Abigail Snodgrass Donovan Mitchell Emma Li Grace Tongnobhakun Jenny Whitehead Katherine Konzelman Megan Cobb Natalia Lutes Zachary Grimm

Marketing Team Areeza Abbasi Kerbey Chevalier Jesse Park Lana El-khatib Lorien Espino Marian Claros Barrientos Nawaal Nackerdien Samantha Gerken

Illustrators Abigail Snodgrass Ace Carrasco Ann Rodriguez Emma Li Grace Tongnobhakun Jesse Park Kerbey Chevalier Lorien Espino Marian Claros Barrientos Mj Gomez-Salazar Mu Ying Yong Nawaal Nackerdien Samantha Gerken Graphic Designers Ace Carrasco Grace Tongnobhakun Kerbey Chevalier Marian Claros Barrientos Mj Gomez-Salazar Nawaal Nackerdien Nadi Meyer

Web Developers Andrew Yarbrough Armin Khazai Grace Tongnobhakun Jeb Hunt Kavin Velmurugan Marian Claros Barrientos Mu Ying Yong Special Thanks Emily Gomez-Adames, Former Editor-in-Chief Athena Reynolds, Founder of The Forge Student Media Professional Staff Kathryn Mangus, Director David Carroll, Associate Director Faculty Advisor Jason Hartsel

Fall 2025 | Volume II

3

Under The Surface Nawaal Nackerdien Quietly, I lay at the bottom of the river, the sunlight danced above me, shining in my eyes and blurring the world above.

A fish stopped to stare at my body and I think, if it could, it would’ve blinked in incomprehension.

Instead, it moved on to its school, which was small, so it might’ve been better to call it its family.

I wondered about mine, if they missed me.

If they were still at the church, looking out at the city below.

And then I would abruptly try not to think of them at all. Their sneers like mine, their sense of duty.

Moss and seaweed started to grow on my arms, and I watched how they fluttered with the currents.

This river was deep but the currents were slow. I stayed bound to this one spot.

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I watched the underbellies of kayaks drift past, bright yellow spearing through the blurred colors of the surface.

A sight I had never seen before.

Sometimes families in leagues of inflatable tubes, their legs shiny with sunscreen.

At night, nothing slowed down. The orange and pink of the water became dark blue, and slowly, the currents became rapid.

This sight dazzled me more than those above. The colors, the blur of sound, it was better than the brush of rain.

Above had been loud, the rush of the city, cars running to and fro, the clouds rushing away in the sky.

The bell of the church, constantly tolling, my family’s muttering, spying on those coming in and out.

Here, the fish race as the cars do, but they move together, not away from each other. The light above swirls over the plants in peace.

Under The Surface

Once, a camera fell into the water and I wished I could grab it with my grey mossy arms. Instead, I imagined taking my memories and distilling them into photographs.

His hand was small, of course, but the warmth that spread through that touch oddly shifted something. Even though I was stone, I wanted to cry.

Two folders would hold ‘before’ and ‘after;’ the cathedral and the river. My family would prize the former because it gave purpose. I, the latter.

He swam back to the surface. I stored the memory.

I was strangely happy, despite his sudden departure.

This bit of purposeless life, myself, and the still sand. I wish I could show them this idea of complete space, the importance of insecurity.

Despite that quiet tightness in my chest, I let myself drift through the days.

I became re-aware when a diver drifted towards me.

I could see him blinking his eyes in shock.

Indeed, when I looked down, I could see I had drastically changed.

There were cracks in my stone where moss had grown through. I was more green than grey. I only hoped my snarl still remained.

I thought the moment was over. And then the diver returned. He held thick ropes that led upwards to the surface. He placed one beneath my left foot and then the right.

When he returned next, the new ropes went beneath my wings, the front claws of my hands.

He tied them tight around me, looked me over dozens of times. Took a picture. I had done nothing, but suddenly I was to be made into a memory.

When he rose to the surface, I returned with him.

My family would no doubt hate what I have become.

I created a photograph memory of the diver at the same moment he took one of me. His black wetsuit, giant rainbow goggles and oxygen tank. My fangs, spread wings, and necklaces of seaweed.

I didn’t think I would see him again, but the next day he returned. He swam around me, taking in how I dwarfed him and placing a hand to my face.

Art by Lorien Espino (left), Ace Carrasco (right)

5

The Water Spirit's Son Grace Tongnobhakun

"S

TUPID WORM!” The spear of ice I threw shatters on the ground. Specks fly. They land on the brick pathway, melting.

My chest heaves, breathing in the dusty air.

The sun beats down on my white robes, and the cloth around my head whips from the wind. My green eyes squint. I watch the desert worm tunnel away, migrating towards the desert. This happens every year.

“Nadir! Come back!”

I ignore Father’s words. I just want to get one good look at it. I need that worm’s trail branded into my memory…

The trail that it left in its wake was nothing short of a gargantuan mess. The palm trees: knocked down. The main house: half in ruins; Father’s ankle: sprained! All of this happened because of that stupid worm.

I curse up a storm when I run back to the main house. Father is sitting in front of the ruins, nursing his foot. His white robes are dusty specks of the ruins stuck to his own head wrap. “Father, are you okay?”

“Yup, yup. Eeesh!” he hisses, trying to move his leg. He grits his teeth in pain, his beard moving with his jaw. “Gah, that hurts. Would you help me up? We need to move. We have to live in the longhouse now.”

“Of course, Father.”

I heft him up, wrapping my arm around his shoulders. He’s a large man, and I can’t let him add too much weight on his foot. We walk slowly to the longhouse. The clay exterior is decorated with animal carvings that Mother made. I scowl at the carving of the sandworm on the entrance arch as we enter.

Just a while ago, the air had been a dust bowl, kicked up by that beast! Father and I had sheltered in the main house. When the ground shakes, we shelter there until the worm passes our oasis settlement. It normally avoids our area, thanks to the blue cacti that Father plants at the wooden

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gates. Blue cacti are composed of more magic than vegetation. They give off a bitter taste that humans hate and a bitter stench that sandworms despise. So why has it failed now? It’s never failed before.

“Father, do you have any idea why the worm went through here?”

“No idea. We should check the cacti later today.”

“We? There is no we. I will do it myself!”

“Alright…” Father mutters, as I lay him down on a couch that’s covered with animal furs and foreign carpeting. He was a trader once—and he still is, when camel caravans stop by. I kneel down to get a good look at his ankle, and he carefully slips off his desert boot and cotton sock.

I gasp. The ankle is bruised in shades of purple and pink, and the inflammation makes his brown skin red. Standing quick, my eyes scan for any small silk cloths. I keep forgetting their location.

The longhouse typically serves as a place where wandering traders could stay the night. I helped with cooking food and hosting dice games, but I’ve barely had to use any of the medical equipment that is stored here.

“Father, I forgot the location of the medical things.”

He points to a blue painted cabinet near the entrance. On top of it is a small blue lantern, made

by Mother. There’s a bit of sadness that squeezes my heart, twinged with annoyance. Of course. She and the word “healing” were synonymous. If there’s anything that gives life and healing in the desert, it has to be associated with her.

Once I open the cabinet doors, I’m greeted with an assortment of different fabrics. After choosing a blue one, I place the palm of my hand on it. It starts to feel cold, frost building on my skin and growing to my fingers. A slow feeling of dehydration gradually seeps its way into me as the frost gives off a cool mist. I walk back to Father after I’ve accumulated enough ice to serve for a good ice pack.

“Here you go, Father. I’ve wrapped it up, so you can put it on your ankle.”

The Water Spirit's Son

He takes it from me with a grateful smile.

“Thank you. Oh! And don’t forget! Heat up that hand and drink some water. I don’t want you fainting like last time, you know?”

“Come on, I’m not that weak. I’ve built up my immunity for years!” I lick the ice chips off my hand.

“How old am I now, 18? I’ve grown already and I’m not a child, Father. I can handle larger spells. It’s huge chunks of ice! In fact, you should have let me kill that worm instead of holding me back.”

“What! What good would it do?”

“Not die from the main house collapsing on us.

Reduced the annual earthquakes we have.”

Noodle of the Tides by Jeanette Whitehead

“Nadir, we lived! It happens once a year.”

“I hate that worm.”

“Nadir, it’s an animal that doesn’t know what it’s doing. It migrates back and forth. And the blue cacti’s all smelly!” He adds, wiggling his fingers at me to emphasize the plant’s bitter smell. “That’s why it avoids us.”

“And that failed! So the obvious solution is to kill it! This is a practical matter, Father. I don’t think you understand. What caused the house to collapse on us? That beast.”

“There’s nothing good about attacking a sandworm in the middle of our oasis! Imagine

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The Water Spirit's Son

today’s damage, then multiply that.” Father cringes when he thinks of it.

“The damage…” I turn away from him, my fists clenching. “Then what else can we do if our cacti’s no longer dependable?”

Silence fills the room. When I turn back, I see Father pursing his lips, his shoulders tensing. He’s as steady as a monk when it comes to letting his emotions control him, but I can see the rawness in his conflicted eyes. He sighs, relaxing himself once he finds a response. “Just check on it first. See if it has anything wrong with it. Then we can make a plan.” He picks up a novel on the table next to him. I know how much he needs the distraction. I sigh and walk out of the longhouse.

Watching out for debris and rubble, I pass by the ruins of the main house. Among the orange and

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red bricks, I see the shards of blue ceramic tiles glittering in the sun. Mother’s tiles. I remember her teaching me how to glaze them with blue pigment.

Her cool hands would guide my tiny fingers when they held the brush. It was different from Father’s calloused palms, sculpting the clay. All of that is gone now. Just a dying memory I’ll never get back.

I tear my eyes away from the sight. I don’t want to think about it. It’s better to think about the present, and not trip over anything else.

When I finally approach the wooden gates, the hundreds of blue cacti look… drained? They flop uselessly to the side, no longer standing tall like the proper guardians they are supposed to be. I squint.

There’s something off about the dirt beneath them.

It’s too soggy. Then it hits me: I overwatered them.

Ever since Mother taught me to ice the cacti

Dandelion by Delaney Falls

The Water Spirit's Son

with a swing of my arm, I’ve always watered them.

But I made a mistake. I was too reckless, having fun with my powers. Thoughtless and impulsive. Just like Mother. I stand there, dazed for a moment, then I run back to the longhouse in a panic, slamming open the door.

“Father! I’m sorry!”

“Huh? What?” He turns from his book.

“I overwatered them!”

Father stares at me for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing. My throat closes up. I wonder if he’ll shout at me, scream at me. Then he closes his eyes, sighs, and puts the book on the table.

The initial shock and anger in his expression fades away. Father opens his eyes and settles into a calm expression.

“Then don’t water it for ten days. There’s your solution.”

“I… What?”

“You didn’t hear me?”

“I did. I’m—I’m just shocked.”

“Why?” He leans on the couch, nestling in the furs. “Do you expect me to be—?”

“Yes! Why aren’t you shouting? I don’t understand! It’s nonsensical—I-I would be enraged in your position! I ruined the main house!”

Father frowns and his eyes soften. He waves me over. “Son, come here.”

I sit on the sofa, trembling. I can’t bear to look at him. Instead, I stare at the pitch black fireplace, dark with coal. He adjusts himself to a sitting position and leans over to clasp his weathered hands in mine.

“I did feel angry,” he says calmly. “But we can rebuild the main house. Only half of the main house was destroyed. So…that’s a new construction project to look forward to, you know?” He smiles.

“But Father!”

“No buts! We already have a mess on our hands—there’s no need to make it worse by getting emotional. Just think of our next moves. Our future… plans! Whatever they are! Going with the flow.”

“Huh...” I hang my head in exhaustion. “You are scarily disengaged from this.”

“Honestly, I’m more focused on my ankle, haha!

Hurts terribly!” He smiles when he says this, but then his face turns neutral. “But I’ll grieve the main house tonight. Don’t want to contribute to your

misery, you know.” Father crosses his arms, a sad frown settling on his lips.

“T-Thank you, Father. I’m truly not worthy of your understanding.”

“Oh, we all make mista—” “Don’t…say anything else. I’ll get you water.”

He perks up again. “Well, at least make sure to get my favorite cup!”

“That cup was in the main house...”

“Oh. Well, Nadir, we can spend the rest of the year remaking it! Have some new memories, you know? Same thing with the main house.” He’s laughing a bit, trying to move on. “After all, I did plenty worse when I was your age!”

“Like what?” I walk over to the upper cabinets.

“Doom my own caravan. I forgot to store enough water for my crew. Had to survive off of the juices from blue cacti. Eugh.” Father scrunches up his face as if he bit into a bittermelon. “Nearly died from the lack of water when we ran out. But then we saw her: A woman with blue hair and green eyes. Her dress was iridescent, like sunlight sparkling on water.

She was paler than the moon, and brought a frosty wind wherever she went. Do you know how rare it is, to see someone like that? I saw her and thought: Wow, hallucination is a powerful thing!”

“Mother wasn’t a hallucination.” I place my palm over the rim of the cup and water flows easily from it.

“But that’s what I thought when we saw her,” Father continues. “I could never imagine anybody going out there by themselves, especially when they’ve got an oasis to stay in! But she had a lust for adventure, that woman! Travelled far to meet us. And it was good that she did! If she didn’t, you wouldn’t have been born.”

I give him the cup filled with water after adding ice chunks inside. It starts melting. Sitting on the table, I listen to the familiar tale. It’s clear he still misses Mother, by recollecting old memories about her. Even though I’ve heard this before, I let him speak.

“She gave us water to drink. Grew from her palms, you know, with little slivers of ice in them.

Your mother was like a goddess, even in her human form!” Father sighs, lovestruck. “Wasn't wrong for guessing so, either. What’s a Water Spirit compared to a goddess? It’s almost the same thing!” He gulps

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up the water, and scratches his beard, thinking.

“She’ll come back eventually.”

My brow furrows. He’s deluding himself.

“Last time was six years ago. I was twelve.” I pick at the dead skin on my fingers. “And don’t get me wrong, I was happy to see her again. But whenever I think about her, I just get angry about how long it took. You know Mother doesn’t plan anything out, much less schedule her arrivals. She’s impulsive to travel, to make me! She doesn’t think about the consequences.”

“Oh, Nadir, I understand.” His hand comfortingly rests on my shoulder. “Her mind’s like a bird. It flies whenever it wants, with not a care in the world, none at all! Your Mother forgets things when she sees something she deems more interesting. So I have to remind her of what she was doing before. It was frustrating when she left the house without telling me. I panicked. And I understand how it made you feel. I felt… alone, too.”

“Thank you, Father. For acknowledging it.”

“Of course, son! Just wish she stayed put.

Whenever she stayed put, we were finally a family.

Like when she and I were having fun building the main house. You were swaddled on my back too, haha! Remember making all those tiles for it?

Based off of that blue lantern over there. Ah, good times!”

“Yes,” I smile. My heart lightens up a bit. “It was fun making them. I miss her.” I turn my gaze at the lantern, then back to him. ”But she was cramped in the oasis, even when she made a home here.

But even after she made a home, she…”

Father nods, quiet. They didn’t work out. He wanted to stay here, and she wanted to leave. Go elsewhere. Live her life. I drum my fingers on the table I sit on. Father points at me, smiling. “Now, it’s just you I have to worry about! But that’s okay, Nadir. Wouldn’t have it any other way! We’re a good duo, right?”

“Mhm.” I smile. A good duo. The two of us. Hm. Two. Not three. Two. It’s just me, healing him. I’m the only one left. The only one left. I frown.

“Father, I—” I stop myself from continuing, wondering if I should say this.

“Yes, son?” The gentle look in his eyes makes me want to surrender to his warmth. There’s nothing else except his warmth.

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“I don’t ever want to be alone,” I confess.

“You won’t be alone. You’ve got me!”

“No. Not anymore.”

“What?”

“That sandworm. It could have killed you.

So it’s all my fault.”

Father sits up straight. He looks at me head on.

“Nadir, I thought we went over this.”

“But what if we didn’t leave the main house in time? That stupid worm—! Did you know how scared I felt when the damn roof caved in?”

“Son—” “Don’t ‘son’ me. You could have died! I would have been alone forever. The only one left.”

I swallow my tears.

Father’s gaze hardens. He scowls. “And what do you want to do now? Do you want to wait for the cacti to dry? Or make a stupid decision?”

“Stupid? This is far from idiotic, Father!

I am righting a wrong. I am fixing my mistake.”

“No, you’re just making a bigger one. Think for once, Nadir. It travelled to the Badlands. There’s no civilization close by, you know. You’d either burn or freeze out there!” Then he counts on his fingers, listing its qualities. “It’s just black sandstone.

Black sand. Green grass. Oh, right! And even more sandworms!”

“Stop counting,” I sneer. “I highly doubt it.

Remember, only one sandworm migrated through our oasis. Not all sandworms migrate to the Badlands!”

“Doesn’t matter, Nadir. Even if it’s just one sandworm, these animals can’t be messed with.

They’re deadly. You saw! They’ll leave eventually, son. So please, just let it go. Stay. We’re safer here.”

I stand from the couch. My fists are clenched.

“You are nothing but a coward! We’ve been handed an opportunity to destroy this beast! To prevent either one of us from dying! Killing it would make us far more safer! But no! You laugh, you joke about it, you—even when Mother found you—You take everything too—too…!”

Father just stares me down. I struggle to get the proper words out. I replace it with pure rage.

“I’m the only one who cares about our lives in this house!”

I walk away from him and the dining hall. I go to one of the guest rooms, untying my head wrap.

The Water Spirit's Son

I shake my long black hair out, feeling grateful that it’s protected by the cloth. Life is hard enough with sand in my clothes, but at least it’s not in my hair.

So I don’t even shower. I try sleeping my anger away in bed. But when I wake and night comes, I’m left feeling even more upset. My hair is sprawled everywhere. Everything’s a mess. My impulse grabs hold of me, and I immediately leave the room. I peek through the doors of the dining hall. I can’t see Father sleeping from here, but I can hear him snoring. Good.

I run quickly to the storage room, my feet silent on the wooden floor. My hands search inside the chests for any bags. I find said bags along with old rope, and some explosives the old caravans traded with us. After more layers are put on for the cold, I wrap my head again, tight. My hands work swiftly to tie the bags to my back. Slipping into the dining hall

Canyon Valley by Caleb Stanley

quietly, I stuff gloves in my pockets. Night gets very cold, so I must be prepared to kill this sandworm in freezing temperatures. This is the only way to protect Father and the oasis. But the night sky can get annoyingly dark…

My eyes spot the lantern.

I hesitate.

Then I take it.

I slip outside, peeking at Father one last time.

He sleeps peacefully. His words ring in my head.

“It was frustrating when she left the house without telling me. I panicked.”

My fists clench at the memory. I am not my Mother. This is for a good reason. Let him panic, anyways! He’ll be overjoyed when I return. It’s just an easy kill. After all, I am not leaving him like the way Mother did. I am just… making up for my mistake. I leave.

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Like a hunting dog, I track down the worm’s path. I shoot ice from my hands, and leap on the new platform amidst the sands. My feet are wobbly on it, and I struggle to keep balance. I sit on the ice instead, molding ice skates on the soles of my shoes.

Shakily standing up again, I point my hands behind me, and jettison myself forward with the force of my power. After I am sliding on the ice, I bring them in front of me to continuously shoot the ice forward to continue the path. Then I skate across the ice with my shoes while doing it, my lungs burning.

My surroundings turn into a blur, wind strong against my face. My scarf whips wildly. In my head, I thank Mother for teaching me this trick when she returned. To think that such an exhilarating way to travel was also a way to get my revenge!

I do not care how cold my hands are, I do not care how cold the desert winds get at night. I do not care about Father’s warnings. He doesn’t care about how dangerous these beasts are! He only wishes to let the past be the past, but I know history repeats itself. So I will kill it.

When I finally arrive at the black rocky landscape of the Badlands, the burrowing trail leads to a cave inside the black sandstone. I stop casting ice, and skid to a halt. My chest heaves with the effort of so much casting. My skin feels dry, and my eyes burn. I’m thirsty, but I will drink after I slay that worm. Call it a reward. I step off the ice.

Once my feet hit rock, I stomp hard to shatter my ice skates. The soles of my shoes have water and crushed ice dripping from it. I summon an ice spear from my hands and put on some gloves to warm them up.

I enter the cave. It’s pitch black and very cold inside. My body cannot stop shivering from the icy wind. I pull out the blue lantern from my bag and strike a match. Now that my surroundings are now illuminated and warmed with azure, I look at the floor as I walk tentatively so as not to trip over anything. I’m paranoid about where my feet step.

Then I see it. The ground in front of me gives way to a massive hole. I peer over the drop.

It’s the sandworm.

Its long snake-like body is curled up inside, mouth raised in the air. It breathes slowly. Other than that, it’s not moving one bit. It’s sleeping! My throat feels dry and I grit my teeth. I can’t be scared!

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Come on, Nadir! I begin to string the explosives on the tip of my ice spear. After, I strike another match to light up the fuse at the end. I hope it's content with its dreams. This will be the final time it slumbers.

I aim for the mouth. I throw.

BOOM! The whole world turns white. I’m quickly thrown off my feet, flying in the air. My back lands hard on the floor. Everything feels so numb, then so cold. I’m sapped of energy. I can’t move.

SCREECH! I look around in a daze, the world tilting and turning. My skin feels the frosty fog. Oh, the climate worsens at night, how terrible. All I can see now are blurry and dim silhouettes of the disfigured and torn up sandworms. Sandworms? No. I must be seeing things twice! It’s hovering above me. It knows what I did. Or does it? It doesn’t matter. With such an injury, the worm should die soon. The monster lunges towards me, the black bloody hole of what’s left of its mouth swallowing up my vision.

Before I pass out, I see the image of my Mother materialising into view. She shields me. Her arm raises in the air.

I black out.

“Hallucination is a powerful thing.” *** Nothing but darkness surrounds me. I can feel myself floating adrift. The chill of cold frost begins to overtake my soul, and I am sure I will die. But then warmth begins to grow all around me, and I find myself too hot and smothered. I blink awake, only to find myself looking at a woman’s green eyes.

Her glowing white skin, her iridescent dress and blue hair…and her irritated frown.

“Mother.”

I see her palm. My face is blasted with cold water.

“Ahh!” My clothes are soaked. The moisture from her otherworldly presence makes my throat feel less parched. I scowl.

“Why did you—?”

“That’s what you get for making your father cry!”

“I made Father cry? Me?! How?” Mother huffs at me, enraged that I would ask such a question. “Because you were like…like a

Art by Marian Claros Barrientos

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The Water Spirit's Son

goat that’s run loose!” She struggles to find her words, clearly not having been in such a position to scold harshly before. “I carried you home after I killed the worm. I just…shot ice shards at it until it stopped fighting back!” She mimics the scene with her arms shooting out in different directions. Her hands tighten in fists and she splays them over and over again, making shooting sounds with her mouth.

“Pshew, pshew…” She smiles then, upon reenacting the “thrilling” moment, quickly getting distracted by her own acting.

I scowl at how childish my own mother is.

“Mother.”

She quickly readjusts her smile to a frown, embarrassed by her own sudden playfulness.

Mother grooms her blue hair with her fingers, trying to make herself presentable. “Ahem, yes, yes. Eheh.

Ah…Where was I? Oh, I remember now. Your Father was sleeping on the sofa when I walked in! And then I told him where you were, and I even showed him how I defeated the worm! So with all those exciting things, I expected him to be very happy. But oh, I was so wrong. Can you believe what he did next?

He cried, Nadir! And I’ve never seen your father so torn!” She shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Your bravery was inspiring, but as soon as your father cried, all the enjoyment of it was sucked away!”

I sneer. “Of course you would be mad about the enjoyment of it being gone.”

She sighs, embarrassed by her own admission.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter now...He made me realize I had to take this matter more seriously. It was so exciting rescuing you, I tried waking you up by spraying water on you. For fun. Because everything was fun!”

“For fun.”

“Yes! You’re half Water Spirit!”

I point at myself. “I’m half human.”

“I know!” Mother shudders in fear, the realization coming over her. “I think the water made your chill even worse. I-I didn’t want to kill you by accident.”

“And you sprayed me with water again? When I woke up?” “...Oh.” She looks off to the side, thinking. “That was a punishment for making your Father cry. And also to hydrate you!” She smiles. “You’re alive now,

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so it’s different! That’s not bad, right?”

I put my head in my hands. She ignores me and continues her story.

“Anyways, I carried you from the Badlands to get dried by your father. But you already know what happened when I reached him. With him crying, it made me more… aware of your human half.” Her eyebrows furrow in concern as she says this. “You can be just as fragile as other humans sometimes and I always forget that. I am so sorry, my dear.”

Mother’s eyes begin to soften, with her hands threading through my black hair.

I look around, feeling disgusted from the soaked sleepwear on my skin. Father must have taken off my head wrap and my old clothes. I’m back in the longhouse, no doubt. The hearth is now aflame.

“W-why come back now? How did you find me?”

“I came back because I had time to visit you!

I missed my two silly humans. Traveling gave me lots of adventures and lots of uses for my powers.

Whenever I found something enjoyable to do, I wondered how much more exciting it would be if you two were there! And I realized how… lonely it started to get. When I came back to the oasis, I expected things to stay the same as I left it. Instead, there was nothing but a ruined house. There was also a path of ice that led to the Badlands. It was shiny and very pretty! Why was it there? How could anyone not follow it? I had to find out what you were up to. I didn’t even know you were hunting a sandworm!”

“Oh. Oh no. I’m so stupid…” I groan. I did not cover up my tracks. “I’m going to get the lecture of my life, aren’t I?” “Obviously! Be careful when exerting yourself!”

Mother huffs, but a small smile creeps up on her face. “But…it was quite a thrill rescuing you!” Her smile melts away into a scowl. “Just don’t make your father cry next time! Or else it won’t be fun anymore!”

“Okay, okay, I get it…I’m sorry, Mother. I shouldn’t have done it. And thank you for rescuing me.”

“Good. Risks can be exhilarating. But take less riskier risks next time.”

I force myself to rise. She helps me to sit up on the sofa, tucking a blanket around me, like when I

The Water Spirit's Son

was a little kid. Cold water drips from my long hair, I shove the blankets away. I hate getting things wet.

“Where’s Father?”

Mother perks up at the mention of him. “He’s cooking something in the kitchen. Rice and goat meat, with trader’s curry. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten human food! Yum, yum, yum!”

The smell of foreign spices wafts up to my nose, and I turn to see Father walking in. He’s carrying a large tray of the dish, and he blinks in surprise as soon as he sees me.

“Nadir. You’re awake!” He places the tray on the table and rushes over to me.

“Father, I—GYAH! My ear! Not my ear!”

“Yes, your ear! After you recover, you’ll be cleaning the latrines for a year!”

“Not the latrines. Please!”

“Too bad! That’s your punishment,” he barks. “I told you not to hunt down that sandworm! You’re lucky your Mother came, or I’d be waking up to an empty house!”

He stops pinching my ear. His eyes well up with tears. He’s angry and broken all at once. “Oh… an empty house! I don’t even want to think about it!”

He puts his face in his hands, trying to stop himself from crying. “I’m a stupid old man. I treated your concerns too lightly! I should have grounded you for good!”

Mother reaches over to put a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Nadir knows what he’s done.

Perhaps we should ground him for a thousand years, just for his safety.”

Father shakes his head. “Oh, that would be too long. Too much.” He wipes his nose. “Five months would do it. I think.”

With his hands away from his face, he looks so broken, a far cry from the cheery man he was moments before. If I hadn’t done what I did, Mother would have visited us just fine. But I just had to kill that sandworm, didn’t I? I should have just let the cacti dry. I bow my head to him, the guilt stabbing my heart.

“Father… I’m sorry. I should have never taken revenge. I could have died, and that would mean

destroying what we had. Not the main house, but…us. It really is just the two of us. I told you I didn’t want to be alone, but I never thought of your perspective. That you didn’t want to be alone. I should have listened to you. Not…take my foolish revenge and leave.”

I sit up taller. “You wanted to stay, but I wanted to go. Like, like…”

I don’t say it, but everybody knows.

Father looks exhausted, but he lets his face relax as he takes a step towards me. “Nadir. I know you don’t wish for anything bad to happen. I can see that. But please, please take my words into account.

I promise I’ll try my best to take your words seriously next time. But please… don’t go where I can’t follow.”

“Okay, Father. I promise this. I’ll listen to you from now on.”

“Okay. Make well on that promise, son.”

There’s a silence that stretches between us, until I sneeze from the chill of my soaked clothing.

Father blinks in surprise, then chuckles at the sight.

“Did you get a chill?”

I nod. “I blame Mother.” I point to her.

“Hey! I only did that to wake you up. And hydrate you, too! You were very dehydrated.”

I get up from the sofa and wobble from the lack of energy in me. “There could have been less annoying ways, Mother…” My stomach grumbles.

“Aw, but it wouldn’t be as funny! Now, come on!

Let’s get you some human food! But I’ll change your clothes first. Your father changed them the first time when they were wet, so I’ll do it this time.”

“Okay, okay…” I’m held up by her arms and Father’s already walking off to get the tea. He looks back to see me and Mother.

“Oh, and don’t forget to tell me what happened while you were out traveling, dear, when you get back. We missed you.”

“I missed you both, too! I want to know all about how you and Nadir have been doing without me!

Well, aside from the whole sandworm situation, of course.”

I huff. “Of course…stupid worm.”

Fall 2025 | Volume II

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Event Horizon Quinn Brennan lost, floating in space i am the freest i have ever felt traversing the bright empty space between stars i am the freest i have ever felt

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converse-clad feet planted firmly on the sidewalk. i have never been free.

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Art by Mj Gomez-Salazar

Art by Abigail Snodgrass

Time Reveals All Abigail Snodgrass

T

he truth is it was an honor.

And she always told the truth.

They sent them away with fanfare in the traditional gilded ship. In ten years, traveling at the speed of light, they’d arrive ten million years in the future. The mission passed during the centennial of the global federation as part of the ten-point plan to patronize the arts—along with an increased budget for the galactic defense fund—but the arts plan was what made the news. And continued to do so every ten years when a new group was sent, a welcome break from weary political thickets to celebrate the illusion of progress.

Illusion sounds cynical, but she always told the truth. It was her job as a historian—one chosen for the Tempus Omnia Relevat Initiative, no less.

In part, she was glad to go. A change of scenery was difficult to come by on Terra these days, as each conservationist group fell to an ever-growing army of corporate expansionists intent on drawing profit out of any open space left in an increasingly populated Earth. The protected wild space would be replaced by a building, a plaque, and occasionally, a video memorial. Nature was getting outsourced to Mars these days—everyone knew that. Mars had more land for cheaper, and having the largest—and only—wildlife reserve left to humanity on the planet attracted a lot of tourism.

Maybe in ten millennia there would be an entire planet dedicated to nature. Maybe Mars would be terraformed. Maybe there would be a dramatic uprising of furious squirrels who decided to unionize after someone dropped a copy of Marx into their enclosure. Probably not the latter.

She, and the nine others on her team, had a lot of time on their journey to speculate about the world they would arrive in. Many technological advances had been made, but none were the ability to send a message back through time. All the groups that had gone before them, twenty at this point, had been sent into oblivion.

Whenever it was time for

a new group to go, the usual human rights concerns were brought up then argued down, history was important and what better way to preserve it than to get it straight from the past itself. And it was tradition by the tenth group’s send-off. That helped significantly.

Speculation got old after the first year on the ship together. The mission began to feel real and the magnitude of ten years on one ship set in. They tried to settle into routines to stay busy and out of each other’s way. She read through the ship’s extensive archives—her specialty was on the series of ethnic wars that broke out over the use of fisheries in the Mediterranean from 6372 AD to 6375 AD—but she studied widely. Learning from her colleagues also passed the time, taking turns giving lectures on their specialties helped keep them sane.

Light speed travel was one of the few truly beautiful inventions of her time. Starlight streaked across the bubbled windows like cosmic confetti.

Even though she knew they were simply doing large elliptical loops around the solar system, she would sometimes sit at the bridge of the ship and imagine hurtling through the vast unknown of space.

It was difficult to remember how empty real space was while staring out at the psychedelic dream of hyperspace.

By the ninth year, she was going a little stir crazy. She completed a marathon on every running simulation in the exercise room, painted a portrait of each of her childhood dogs, and learnt an obscure dialect of Farsi one of her colleagues spoke. She was desperate to see Terra again, no matter what it may have morphed into. Life on the ship was beginning to feel ripped out of the ancient postapocalyptic science-fiction novels from the Cold War. But with steaming hot breakfast served by a friendly robot every morning.

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Time Reveals All

Even so, the announcement was a relief from the monotony.

“Exiting hyperspace, please remain in shock webbing until transfer is complete.”

The crew gathered excitedly in the masthead of the ship, which had marvelous wrap-around windows, and strapped into their seats. A jolt shuddered the cabin and the lights flickered as they returned to normal space.

Terra stretched out below in a vast expanse of glittering greys, blues, and greens. Clouds swirled in abstract formations at the poles and traced patterns around monolithic continents. The sun, slightly larger and oranger than the one in their time, glinted off of a handful of enormous satellites that would put Hollywood to shame.

“Terra read-outs are nominal.” The computer chirped and the crew exhaled in relief. “All communications are a go. Incoming message from Terra Ground-Control One…” A light blinked on the main console as the holo-projector whirred to life.

A woman’s enlarged face appeared in the center of the room. She was recognizably human, another relief, with dark skin, kind eyes, and curly hair. Her friendly grin eased some of the team’s tension.

“Hello and welcome! I’m Mira Horatius, head ambassador to the TORI initiative and your guide to the future! We’ll have you landed at the Primus Spacedeck within the hour, unless you’d like to stop in at Luna first?” She glanced around, but most of the crew shook their heads, still in shock at their immediate reception. “No? That’s fine—Luna’s major cities are already on your tour! Once the Kappa Produce Satellite gives the go-ahead, we’ll bring you to the ground. Meanwhile please enjoy this incomparable view of our beautiful home, Terra!”

The holo-projection image winked out, once again revealing the windows—they had a magnificent all-encompassing view of the planet.

As their ship neared, larger landmarks came into view. The Great Wall, expanded to cross the entire Asian continent in 4021, still stood proudly, each end sprouting into a metropolis. An immense wake in the Atlantic marked the slow passage of the animatronic Statue of Liberty, created to guide transport freighters and prevent tanker collisions.

There were no blights on the map, no blackened

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craters with vaporized cities. Unless the devastation was expertly hidden, humanity apparently succeeded in bureaucratizing hard warfare—that was next on the legislature’s agenda the year of their departure.

As the ship plunged through the atmosphere towards a magnificent spacedeck set alongside the Chesapeake Bay, money changed hands.

She rolled her eyes; betting on their survival as a species was one of her least favorite pastimes during their long passage.

A muffled roar accompanied their landing— initially everyone whirled around looking for the malfunction, until someone pointed to the windows.

What appeared at a distance to be hundreds of pockmarks on the landing field, turned out to be thousands of spectators. She swore some of them even sported foam fingers and face paint. As the ship unsealed with a loud crack, a blast of cheers hit them full force. It was louder than a Global Gridiron League football match—and the one she had attended had medics on call for bleeding orifices.

Mira Horatius, resplendent in a golden gown, waited at the bottom of the exit ramp, surrounded by other dignitaries in similar fine clothes. She smiled and waved at the stunned historians squinting at the crowd.

“On behalf of the Democratic Terran Imperium, I would like to welcome the twenty-first group of TORI historians!” Her voice, amplified by a minuscule microphone, boomed over the assembly.

She paused for thunderous applause. “To all of you,” She said, turning to the audience, “introductions are necessary. Please welcome…”

“Nazih Boutros.”

Her Farsi-speaking colleague stepped forward, clearly astonished. Mira presented him with—of all things—a plastic nametag on a lanyard. With all the commotion, she was mildly surprised it wasn’t a crown. Nazih seemed to feel the same, but took the lanyard seriously, slipping it over his head.

“Almalthea Rusch.”

“Eirene Pietrowski.”

As their names were called, each crew member walked down the ramp, accepted a lanyard from Mira, and joined the group of dignitaries—followed by loud hurrahs every step of the way.

“Meissa Serran.”

Art by Kerbey Chevalier

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Time Reveals All

Her name was greeted with an enthusiasm she’d never encountered in a lecture hall. When she took her lanyard from Mira, she made sure to flash a smile to the spectators and the cameras that she was sure were among them.

Once she had finished announcing names, Mira raised her arms. The crowd fell quiet. “Thank you all for joining us today to welcome a new group of knowledge-bringers. These are guides from our past to our futures! The official tour calendar will be released within the next week—tickets go fast so be on the lookout for the announcement! Goodbye for now, and may time remember all of you!”

Slowly, the fringes of the mass began to dissipate off to grav-lift train stations, floato-car parking decks, or to wherever else they arrived from. Security was stationed at convenient points around the exits to smooth the flow of people.

Meissa was impressed by the easy management.

“I’ll show all of you to your quarters now— you can give your official greeting speeches at a later date once you’ve

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had time to adjust.” Mira guided them to a slight indentation behind their ship, tapped the concrete with her shoe, and the whole platform began to lower to expose a long tiled tunnel. A small train, reminiscent of the iconic open-air tour trains used at Walt Disney Hyperia, waited at the entrance.

“This transport tube leads directly to the TORI compound! We had it built after the arrival of the fourth group when the crowds grew too large to navigate safely.” Mira took the helm, followed by the still unnamed dignitaries in the next row, then the rest of the crew filed in. “Please keep your arms and legs inside the car at all times! Another train will be sent along later with your belongings.”

Before Meissa could collect herself, the train was off, pressing her back into the cushy bench beneath her. The tiles blurred beside them, and just as she began to wonder how long they’d hurtle through the dark, the train glided to a stop. At the end of the tunnel, giant golden letters spelling TORI gleamed above a pair of intricately carved stone doors. The little tour train looked like a cheap plastic toy next to the obvious luxury. Mira and her dignitaries in their gilt clothes fit right in. Meissa tugged uncomfortably at her plain navy jumpsuit.

“Before we give you a tour of the compound, lunch will be served in the main dining hall. My friends,” Mira’s hand swept to encompass her well-dressed companions. “Will join us, as will the President Pro Tempore of the 914th Heliocentric Debate Forum. A handful of other representatives typically attend, but with election season drawing near we may have less guests than usual. I apologize for their absence, but you will have the opportunity to meet with each Representative if you wish. I imagine your inboxes are already overflowing with requests!” She laughed brightly before stepping on another floor switch to open the doors.

They wound through halls of light wood and dark stone, skylights far above let the noon-day sun spill across the imitation teak, warming the floors. Smaller passages split away into unknown recesses and doors, like the ones at the entrance, but not nearly so grand, gave glimpses of lecture halls, libraries, and conference rooms.

“It’s almost like…a college!” Nazih exclaimed.

Levi Sitting by Kerbey Chevalier

Time Reveals All

Mira clapped her hands delightedly. “We’d certainly like to think so! You historians have much to offer, first hand experience of the past is a unique perspective valued in any educational curriculum.

Our best and brightest find their homes with the TORI’s and go on to esteemed advisory positions in all levels of government.”

“And they listen to us?” Meissa asked.

Mira looked confused. “Of course! Why wouldn’t they? You’ve seen it happen—or at least the aftermath. Our officials would like to make the most informed decisions possible.”

Before Meissa could ask what she was supposed to have seen–the fishery wars, perhaps— they had arrived at the dining hall. Long oaken tables sat in polite rows across the room. The ones nearest to the entrance were full of people wearing an upgraded version of the crew’s own navy jumpsuits, these ones with gold trim around the cuffs. One table, at the front of the hall, was empty except for a lone old man with robes covered in elaborate embroidery that shone from the light of the high windows to his back. The framing made the man himself appear to be glowing, though it was only a trick of the light.

As Mira led them to the empty table, the roar of conversation dulled to a trickle as more people noticed their arrival. Meissa tried to give a friendly nod to a few who caught her eye, but each looked down at their hands or casually skated their gaze past her. It was nothing she wasn’t used to when teaching in her own time, but these—presumably students—seemed frightened rather than nervous.

She wondered again what they believed she had seen.

The old man stood once they had taken their seats around him. Silence fell instantly. “Thank you, pupils and professors, for hosting me and mine today for this wonderful meal. For those who don’t recognize me,” that drew a collective chuckle.

“I am Ludovic Otis, President Pro Tempore for the Heliocentric Debate Forum, and today joining us are the new TORI representatives. They have new, or should I say old,” another laugh, “insights to share and our duty is to listen, no matter how difficult those stories are to hear.” Solemn nods all around. “But for now, our duty is to eat and learn from this special lunch, designed in partnership

with the twentieth TORI group to welcome our new colleagues!”

He clapped his hands once as he sat down, the sound nearly lost in the room’s applause, and a stream of wait staff dressed in sky blue emerged from a hidden entrance behind their table. Steaming plates of food were set before them with quiet ceremony. Meissa hadn’t realized how ravenous she was until a delicious smell escaped from the silver plate covers. Ludovic lifted the lids to return to the staff, and she gasped.

It was food from home. Their time.

The partnership made sense now.

“I hope it’s close enough.” he said kindly. “A lot can change in the ten years between one group and the next—believe me, I know.”

“This is perfect. Thank you.” Meissa nodded— then dug in.

The dining hall was calm for a while, the sign of a good meal, but as the chatter picked up again Meissa turned to Ludovic. To his credit, he had already put his fork down, clearly expecting a question.

“The new ones are always curious,” he explained.

“I’m no exception.” She spared a quick glance at Mira, but she was deep in conversation with one of her companions and paying no attention. Not that she thought she would be stopped, but a polished diplomat didn’t seem the type to give answers the way Meissa preferred them. “I wanted to ask, what stories might be hard for you to hear?”

“I’m sorry?”

She couldn’t tell if he was genuinely taken aback or simply hard of hearing. He might play up one or the other—for opposite reasons. “In your statement, before lunch, you mentioned that the students should be ready for difficult stories.

But I also know that they are all in training to become advisors and diplomats, lectures about the consequences of potential policy missteps are critical to their education. If they are too sensitive to hear about…”

“Sensitive? No, lessons like that are bound to make anyone’s stomach turn. Trust me, Miss…”

“Serran.”

“Miss Serran, students here receive a first-class education—the curriculum emphasizes history,

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Time Reveals All

play to your strengths and all that—and the last thing we want to be is revisionist. Our mission is to learn from the past, preferably directly, in order to avoid repeating the same mistakes. To complete that mission, we have to be prepared to hear heavy truths. I wanted to emphasize that duty to the students today.”

“Yes, but you seemed to have a specific story in mind.” If avoiding her question was deliberate, she wanted to make it obvious.

“Absolutely, I do,” he said gravely.

“You do?” she asked, surprised. The group before them may have sensed the warning signs for the fishery wars, but in the grand scheme of global affairs they were a small spat and the violence was kept to a minimum.

“I understand it can be an uncomfortable topic, and I’d rather not irritate fresh wounds, but your perspective is invaluable.” Mira had tuned into the President’s words and by now, the whole table was listening. “All of you,” he addressed his new audience, “we are here to listen and learn.

So please feel free to speak your mind.”

“Thank you, sir,” Meissa said loudly. “I think I speak for my team when I say we are happy to contribute to the body of knowledge wherever we can.”

“And we look forward to your contributions!”

Mira cheered. “Say, Corvus, from the twentieth mission, mentioned that Patent Production Lines was planning on introducing a new software for immersive headspace plug-in units—was it released before you left? We haven’t found a trace of it…”

Mira’s segue to a new subject, likely intended to help the President, gave Meissa time to think.

They weren’t seeing the whole picture, but whether it was intentional or not remained uncertain. And more troubling—whether the fault lay with an agent of the future or of the past. Given the bureaucratic bogs of the past, she would be shocked if a conspiracy powerful enough to last ten millennia was at play. That left the future, but the sincerity of the President—the logical choice for a head conspirator—threw her. Maybe Mira held greater influence than she acknowledged.

A thought to chew on, as they finished their lunch.

The same waiters in sky blue whisked away

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the remnants of the feast as quickly as they had presented it. Students filed out of the hall first, whispering fervently among themselves and occasionally pointing to where the new TORI group sat. Meissa tried to ignore them. Then Mira’s company and the President stood to say their goodbyes.

“It was lovely to meet all of you today! I’ll be back in a month to accompany you on your intersystem speaking tour—the dates you’ll receive notice of soon. I do believe Leo, of the twentieth group, wanted to speak to you all before you settled in. He’ll be out of the kitchens shortly, if you wouldn’t mind waiting here. Stimulant drinks are available upon request!” Mira offered her arm to the President, smiled, and with a graceful turn of her heels, made her exit through yet another concealed opening, followed by her entourage in golden robes.

They barely had to wait five seconds before a cheerful man with tousled hair, freckles, and a navy robe appeared. Meissa had stopped questioning the need for these odd secret passages by the fourth sudden entrance. “Just had to make sure they were gone! Hi everyone, I’m Leo!” “We assumed.” Meissa said dryly.

“Hey!” He put his arms up in defense. “I’m trying to be friendly! We’re—” “Happy to have us, I know.” Nazih shot her an irritated look. She didn’t want to be rude, but there was something strange going on. Time to see if her bet—that it wasn’t some grand conspiracy from the past—was right. She hated betting. “Why are people here afraid of us? What happened here?”

“You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?”

Leo seemed impressed.

“So you’re admitting it.”

Nazih was baffled. “Care to share with the class?” The rest of their group was also bewildered, Meissa had forgotten they only heard the last part of the President’s remarks.

“If I may do the honors…” Leo looked to her for confirmation, she simply shrugged. “The comments about truth pills being tough to swallow—it didn’t start in the past, if that’s what you’re worried about.

Those idiots wouldn’t know how to organize if their lives depended on it. No, it began once the tenth mission realized how much deference they give us here.”

Time Reveals All

Click Here!

She felt a growing pit in her chest. “A conspiracy.”

“They’ve wised up around here.

Think, humanity always repeats past mistakes.

We’re doomed—it’s Sisyphean. But if you want to be the one to stop the pattern, what do you do first?”

Leo pointed at Meissa.

“Learn about history.”

“Exactly. Theoretically, if you know enough about history, and because history moves through a cycle, you might even have a shot at predicting the future—or avoiding it.”

Her eyes widened as she began to understand.

“And the one productive thing our legislature managed to do was start these missions.”

“Hardly, because it was barely intentional, but TORI is indisputably the shining quarter someone

Levi Floating by Kerbey Chevalier

dropped on top of a crap pile. The tenth were the first to pick up on it. We’re educated, we’ve seen what happens when experts are sent to the dog house.”

“So you’ve established a technocracy.”

Leo winced. “We don’t like that term. And besides, I don’t know anything about computers.”

Nazih spoke up. “But you’re the ones behind the decisions. A government controlled by an elite group of technical experts. That’s the definition of a technocracy.” The rest of their group was too stunned to speak. Almathea was deathly pale.

“We’re advisors! It’s not our fault they listen to us, practically exclusively. And besides, we’ve done a lot of good with it. Like Terminus.”

“Terminus.” She repeated flatly. No need to exaggerate her disbelief—there was no such thing.

“I know that sounds bad, but that’s the point.

Oooh, Terminus, scary! Wouldn’t want that to happen again.” Leo wiggled his fingers at her.

Second to betting, she hated being caught off her guard like this. “Again? How could an event happen again, when it never happened at all?”

“Yes,” Almathea chimed in for the first time.

“I’ve never heard of a ‘Terminus’. And this team is composed of experts in all types of disasters.”

“That’s the magic formula. Terminus isn’t real! It’s a construct! A hoax! But an ominous and terrifying one. It’s so simple too—” He put on a falsetto. “Oh those days of horror! I remember the stench of the flesh bubbling off my father’s arm as he tried to protect me! And later, for our missions— my grandfather told me of the body farms, if you wanted fresh, non-mutated meat it had to be human!”

“But you’re lying!” Meissa cried—the hundreds of hours of honesty drills before their missions!

Wasted on this buffoon! Faces twisted in shock, anger, and outright appall, aimed at Leo, as good as a ring of pitchforks and torches.

“Don’t you see! Look around you—life here is amazing, nearly perfect! And all we’ve had to do is give a nudge now and then, whenever they get too close to a bad call back home. They think they’re dodging another Terminus, and we’re helping everyone out. We do use history and firsthand experience to guide them—just not in the way they think.”

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“How in the world could a lie be based on firsthand experience?” Nazih asked incredulously.

“Life back in our time sucked. And that’s straight facts. Think—fear of death is the greatest motivator ever. Not a drawn-out death from stupid apathy like the one we were facing in our time. Imminent destruction!” Leo slammed the table, making everyone jump. “After World War II, for example, the world was scared straight—so we changed for the better to make sure it never happened again. Now imagine all the benefits without any of the destruction—that’s Terminus.

Keep people on their toes with the thought of unthinkable agony if they screw up, and they’ll think twice before making dumb decisions.” He leaned back, as if resting his case.

“You disgust me!” Meissa spat.

“I had the same reaction when the nineteenth mission told me about it—well, maybe not that viscerally, but I was pretty mad.” He had the audacity to sound sympathetic. “But here, we’re not historians—we’re politicians. And if that’s what they want from us, we might as well be good ones.”

“I’ll tell the truth! We’ll tell them!” Nazih exclaimed. The table nodded emphatically.

“We have a speaking tour scheduled! We have a platform!”

“And you think they’ll believe you? Over a hundred and ten years of precedent? They’ll think the long trip made you insane. If I remember correctly, the mission literally ate each other.” He shook his head. “No, the smart thing to do is make the best of it. Think of it as a change in careers, not as a personal failure.”

“You truly believe you can control history?

You claim to recognize patterns—well that’s another one. Remember: the USSR, the Cultural Revolution, the DPRK. Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia.” She was standing, backing away from him.

“Oh, don’t quote Orwell at me. It’s nothing like that—we’re a democracy here. The people vote for who they want, we help who they pick. This is a waste of time.” He walked away from the table.

“I thought I’d fill you all in, but what you need now is time. If you go back to the main hall, someone will show you your room assignments. Due to mental health concerns, I’ll inform the lead advisors that

Art by Kerbey Chevalier

none of you are ready for life outside the compound until after your press tour.”

The door slid shut behind him.

Prisoners.

The twenty-first TORI mission were prisoners of the past, ironic considering where they were.

Not that they didn’t try to escape the compound.

She worked with Nazih to get a morse code SOS signal flickering out the highest window every night—but either morse was so ancient no one bothered with it, or they were ignored. They were isolated from students, who were told they needed time to prepare for the tour, and all other mission members were aware of Terminus.

Meissa had imagined many versions of a future Terra—none were close to this.

They did have access to the news. That surprised her at first, cutting off outside information flows was the critical step to isolation, so she assumed it was propaganda and disregarded it. But after a few days, she realized she could change the channel—and the possibility of a government having complete control over hundreds of thousands of hyper-wave broadcasting stations, including local or amateur ones, was too great to imagine.

The news was bad. A hydronaut carrying rich asteroid-mining titans on a sightseeing tour in the depths of Europa imploded, disturbing the sensitive alien wildlife. A popular Martian restaurant chain was accused of using indentured servitude as an employment tactic, promising passage to the planet in return for years of hard work behind the robofryers. Paradoxically, this suggested that the news was good—it’s a big solar system. If there were no deep-rooted problems, it only meant that the reporters didn’t see them.

Reluctantly, she trusted the news. When she brought her observations forward, the group did too. Nazih pointed out that the headlines were actually better than the ones from their time—at least there was an entire talk show about the latest advances in technology and how they’ll benefit the disadvantaged.

A month passed.

She was reminded of her time on the ship: nothing to do but learn.

She learned that the Democratic Terran Imperium was generally democratic, despite the

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Time Reveals All

last descriptive qualifier or the invisible technocracy.

Several popular networks hosted lively political debates biweekly, and predictions of voter turnout for the approaching elections numbered in the billions—more than 80% of the system population.

There were whisperings of a pedagogue emerging on Mars, but whenever a news segment showed him he was surrounded by TORI advisors. She hated to admit it, but after seeing Leo’s plan in action, it started to make a certain amount of sense.

Someone had to protect the voters who exclusively watched “Hot Venus Vacation” from themselves.

Once, while she and Nazih were crunching on Korn™ kernels in front of the holo-projector, the martian politician and aspiring pedagogue, Marcus Valens was fielding a press conference.

“What do you want to say to those who allege that your defense grid is similar to the one Zhoshen employed right before Terminus?” A reporter called out.

“I’d say that Terminus was millennia ago and that I want to guarantee the safety of Martian citizens. Next question?” Meissa could see TORI advisors frantically shuffling notes behind him.

“What do you think is the greatest threat to Mars right now?”

“Look, I know that hard warfare hasn’t happened in ages. People might call me paranoid, but I’m the one reading the signs—Terra is gearing up for action. They’ve increased their rocket capacity and recently upgraded their interstellar launch system. Mars needs a strong leader—one that won’t back down because petty laws say so.

Not when the other side is ignoring them already.”

The conference exploded into frenzied questions. Nazih clicked the projector off. TORI would need a stronger arm with this one.

Another month passed.

Their speaking tour was canceled. The pre-election debates reached a boiling point that hadn’t been seen since before Terminus, everyone was saying. Marcus Valens had decided to run for Executive, with the full support of eleven billion martians behind him. There was talk on Terra about forming a coalition against him. A new Terran surveillance base was built on the Martian moon, Phobos, sparking heated arguments over interplanetary boundaries.

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Warnings of a potential new Terminus flashed across headlines the day before the elections. The TORI compound was in lock down.

A new militant Terran group promised violence if Valens won; an equivalent Martian group asserted the same in the event of a Terran victory. Meissa and the rest of the twenty-first group now had the run of the place, trusted to understand the urgency of the situation. She didn’t have time to cope with abandoning her vow of truth, any moral person would help with damage control wherever they could. Whichever role—politician or historian— would be most useful, she would take.

History was catching up to them, or a false narrative was cornering them. Did it matter, when the consequences were the same?

Election day.

Marcus Valens answered a question related to accusations of beginning a new Terminus.

“What’s going to happen, is going to happen. I don’t want destruction. But if they force my hand, then Martians will come out on top. Terminus?

That’s dramatic. Half of those TORI’s didn’t even see it firsthand.” There were no advisors behind him this time.

Mira appeared in the compound later that day.

It was the first time the group had seen her since their welcome lunch. She called an assembly in the dining hall. Haggard students and advisors in wrinkled navy robes with dark bags under their eyes filed in quietly and took their usual seats at the tables.

“I’ve gathered you all here today to thank you.”

Mira took a deep breath and shuffled her notes.

Meissa thought she saw her eyes glisten. “Thank you for your dedication and your resolve. Whatever happens after this election, know that none of you are to blame—but also that none of you are to lose hope. The greatest hallmark of democracy is the peaceful transfer of power, and I believe that the greatest way TORI can show support for the citizens of this Imperium is to respect their will.

Our duty will continue to be to remind this system of humanity’s greatest catastrophe—Terminus—in hopes that the appeal of a peaceful future outweighs the fear of a violent present. Thank you all again for your efforts through these few months of turmoil.

And may time remember you all.”

Time Reveals All

When Meissa remembered that night, she thought a personnel’s hand must have slipped, the power of suggestion was that strong.

Klaxon sirens went off in the compound, strobing lights streaked across the halls, revealing groups of hysterical students at every pulse.

The smell of smoke drifted through the vents, as threads of it curled under doors. A forgotten holoprojector in the corner of the room broadcasted a chorus of newscasters screeching into their mics, points on system maps behind them blinking with little red x’s.

Terminus 2.0. Or was it the first one? It didn’t make a difference.

All Meissa knew was that the flesh bubbling off Nazih’s arm did stink. Leo was right about that one.

She ran after the first missile hit the compound.

The small radioactive warhead tore through the ceiling and impacted the wall across the room from her—but only a few feet from Nazih. Desperate cries echoed in her ears as the thuds of exploding missiles shook the sooty floor under her pounding feet. She didn’t stop until she reached the crest of a small hill overlooking the once-shining TORI headquarters, along with a few other survivors. She watched as the destruction illuminated the murky waters of the bay.

The compound didn’t burn; it disintegrated— molten stone chewed through the detailed woodworking of the halls and furniture, leaving a sloppy ashen pile behind. Beyond the compound, the city fared no better. Those not vaporized during the initial burst suffered slow agonizing deaths, either from disease or grotesque mutations that defied comprehension. Perhaps they were a disease in their own right. The sun flamed a deep red, spurting vibrant colors across the devastated skyline, like blood seeping from a festering wound.

A few days later, as she huddled in the corner of a blown-out building, waiting for a crowd of crazed looters to pass, she listened to a glitchy broadcast on an ancient radio. It was one of the few semireliable methods of communication left. Marcus Valen’s nasally voice broke through the static.

“Citizens of Terra, I urge you not to panic.

This first wave of strikes focused on the eastern seaboard was conducted by Martian military forces

after we received reliable intelligence about the creation of a deadly Terran bioweapon. These strikes were a spectacular military success.”

A hunk of granite, still smoldering, crashed through the thin roof of the ravaged room, landing a few feet to the right of the radio. The looters in the street didn’t bother to glance over.

“That being said, Terra now has the opportunity to make peace. After terrorizing this system for centuries, imposing their ideals on us all, Mars is generously extending a hand of friendship and reparation after this warning. As Martian Executive, I urge Terran leadership to accept this offer.”

Through the hole in the ceiling punctured by the piece of granite, Meissa watched a thick gray cloud billowing into the stratosphere, forming beautiful columns from the ashes of destruction.

The radio’s broadcast broke more frequently.

Marcus Valens was still speaking. “Once again, if any representative of Terra is listening—” A thud, audible over the static. “What was that? What do you mean Terran spacecraft—I thought we got their major ports—” Another thud, closer. Perhaps an explosion. “Oh god—get down—I said get down—” An earsplitting explosion over the radio waves, hellish screams—then static.

The looters had moved on, growing bored once they smashed every unbroken window in the street.

An acrid acidic rain had begun to fall from the cloud.

Meissa turned the radio off.

After that, she moved quickly. She knew all that survival training would come in handy one day.

A bunker—fortified, leftover from the time war was distant but people knew better than to invite it—had enough supplies to keep her alive. Just take it one day at a time.

A decade later, a ship blipped out of hyperspace above Terra. It was little more than a glorified transport spacer, really. A radio signal was sent to one of the enormous orbiting satellites hovering above the planet. No one was there to hear it.

On Terra, Meissa watched one star flare brighter than the rest for a split second. It arced across the horizon, then vanished. Ten minutes later, it appeared again—closer this time. She watched for hours, waiting for it to burn through the atmosphere.

With a sigh, she stood and began walking to meet it.

They deserved an explanation.

Fall 2025 | Volume II

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The Wizard and the Trainspotter Chris Panatier

M

oore was beginning to regret this. As he crossed Welkin Street, he found himself staring up at Welkin Station—or rather, what was left of it. Approaching the chain-linked fence that surrounded the station and ignoring the do-not-enter signs dotting the perimeter, he stepped through a conspicuous hole in the fence. He figured his contact must have made it. He figured that there wasn’t anyone left to care about trespassing.

He forced himself through the hole, landing uncomfortably on his arm on the other side.

As he ambled towards the station, Moore stopped at the fountain that stood in the middle of the plaza. After years of disrepair, the drains were clogged and the reservoir was left filled by yesterday’s rain. Moore stared into his reflection on the surface of the stagnant water. He looked like shit, as he always did. Same uncut, unkempt blonde hair, same patchy beard, same sunken eyes, same t-shirts he’d had since he moved out from his dad’s place to somewhere else on Earth instead of up in the space colonies that now encircled the planet.

He damned himself for leaving the house so rarely and damned the city for not giving him any reason to. Not like I can make people come back, he thought. Everyone had been leaving the old cities for the past few years—everyone except him. He wasn’t fully sure why his contact had agreed to come rummage through an abandoned train station with him. Maybe it was for the same reason he called himself a wizard.

Moore stood up from the fountain and walked towards the station’s boarded-up entrance, the building still proudly standing a couple of stories tall, as if it didn’t realize how few intact windows it had left. In front of it, he spotted something so bright against the overcast gloom that it seemed to glow: a neon pink motor scooter leaned against the station’s fence. As Moore got closer, he saw that it was completely covered in stickers—a menagerie of cute animals, stars, planets, and pride flags he almost recognized covered most of the scooter’s flat

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surfaces, the neon pink paint shining between them.

It looked like a toy. He couldn’t imagine anyone riding it.

“It’s great, right?” Moore nearly jumped as a youthful, enthusiastic voice spoke a little too loudly behind him. Whipping around, Moore found that he no longer had to imagine the scooter’s rider. The owner of the voice and, presumably, the scooter, was short and husky, although his body type was hard to discern under both a large black cloak and what looked like a bright orange flight suit. Under the hood, he had short, thick, black hair and eyes that seemed to sparkle in the light. Those eyes sat comfortably on a round, soft face that made Moore feel older just looking at it. He idly fidgeted with a tool bag he had slung over his shoulder as he looked at Moore. “…Are you Dahlia?” Moore asked. Worryingly, Dahlia calling himself a wizard while they discussed the plan online was beginning to make sense.

“I sure am!” Dahlia responded, giving a thumbs-up. “Ready to get this show on the road?”

Staring at the side door marked “STAFF ONLY” in faded red letters, Moore shivered.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he lied poorly. Without another word, Dahlia took Moore’s hand and ran up the worn stairs. Dahlia’s hands were warm. As they touched, Moore found he didn’t mind Dahlia taking the lead, even if going to the station had been his idea.

After the application of a pair of bolt cutters, a crowbar, and what Dahlia described as aggravated assault against an inanimate object, the side door slammed open, kicking up a cloud of dust. After a brief struggle through the janitor’s closet, the two found themselves in one of the station’s many side hallways. Somehow, the inside of the station looked worse than the outside: broken glass was strewn across broken tiles, catching what little sunlight filtered through the clouds. Ivy grew in through every hole in the wall it could find, wrapping

itself around any ornate fixture it could find. The housings of fluorescent lights glittered in the low light, turned off for the last five years. Judging by the amount of dust, nobody had been inside the station since they had last been turned on—nobody but him and Dahlia.

Brushing themselves off, Moore and Dahlia advanced into the station, meandering through the hallway and taking in its museum-like decor. Moore found it a little difficult to keep pace with Dahlia, but whenever he lagged behind, Dahlia was quick to turn back and close the space between them again.

Rail maps dotted the walls, now years out of date— Welkin Station wasn’t the only train station that had closed after the exodus to the space colonies left most of Earth abandoned. Eventually, Moore stopped and stared at one, mentally tracing his old commute out on the map.

He remembered standing on the train during rush hour, cramped with dozens of other people, struggling to listen to a podcast, while someone yelled into their phone over someone else blasting music through a portable speaker, while he was exhausted enough to want to collapse, hopefully hard enough on top of the speaker to break it or get him time off work. Somehow, he missed it. Dahlia

Swamp of Aonia by Hannah Rocha Leclere

was next to him, taking a picture of a flower that had somehow bloomed in the station’s depths.

The way it grew out of the cracks almost made it look like the flower had made the cracks itself.

Maybe it had.

“Oh, right, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Dahlia said, “Why did you want to come here, anyway?

You didn’t tell me.”

“I did,” Moore responded, glowering in the direction of the map.

“You didn’t,” Dahlia snapped back in a way that sounded more like a joke than a correction, “You just said it was complicated and that you’d tell me when we got here.” Moore groaned. Dahlia smiled as he looked up from the flower.

“I was a trainspotter,” Moore said, “Back when I had a job, I came here all the time. This is one of the few stations around here where the rail lines and the subway meet.” Dahlia narrowed his eyes, slowly shaking his head. “Anyway, why’d you come here? You didn’t tell me why you wanted to either.”

“You asked me to,” Dahlia said, “And I like this urbex stuff.”

“Well, beyond that. I didn’t tell you my reason, so you must have some other motive, right?”

“Not necessarily, but I do have a reason to be

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here past being here with you,” Dahlia said. He fidgeted with his tool bag again, and Moore swore he saw a glint of something metallic inside that wasn’t the crowbar he’d used to beat the door to death. Even with his eyes on the rail map, Moore could tell Dahlia wasn’t smiling. “There’s something I want to investigate here. It’s a little hard to explain—can’t really get into it right now.”

Moore wanted to question him, but Dahlia’s face told him enough. Before he got the chance to reply, however, a sudden tremor shook the station.

Dust and debris were shaken from the walls, strewn

“I hope not,” Dahlia replied. Both of them grimaced at each other, but Dahlia was quick to regain his cheer. “Anyway, we ought to get moving. I’m sure you’re not just here for the side hallways, right?”

After a few minutes of wandering the dimly lit corridors, the two made their way to the station’s entrance hall. The ceiling rose thirty feet as they crossed the threshold. Up above them, the overcast sky shone through the station’s skylights, a dreary shade of gray covering the concourse and highlighting just how far it had fallen. Paper trash

litter danced along the tile floor, and the rail map Moore was looking at came loose. Dahlia grabbed his arm and tugged him out of the way just before they collided, the map’s plate glass cover shattering into glittering pieces on the floor.

“Thanks,” Moore said, his voice shaking.

“No problem!” In a second, Dahlia was back to his cheerful self, the tremor seemingly shaking him out of his bad mood. In contrast, Moore had become much more pensive. “…Was that tremor related to what you’re looking into?” Moore asked as if he didn’t want to know the answer.

was strewn about the floor—tickets, brochures, and newspapers dated around the station’s closure—and dust was visible floating through the air. It certainly wasn’t as grand as Moore remembered it.

The ceiling felt ten feet lower.

Moore’s eyes wandered up to the lobby’s vaulted ceiling, idly tracing the path of a particularly tenacious stem of ivy. As his eyes meandered, they caught the dome that crowned the almost museumlike lobby. He remembered staring up at it as a child, transfixed by the visions of heaven painted on it: cherubs blowing on horns, people in robes dancing and reveling while bright gold stars caught the sun

The CyberForge II

Swarming Swamp by Caleb Stanley

The Wizard and the Trainspotter filtering in through the skylights. The painting was gone now, but Moore still stared, as if looking at it hard enough could bring it back. The dome stayed blank. Dahlia shuffled next to him, his sparkling eyes staring up at it in tandem.

Just before Dahlia could speak, another tremor rumbled the station, the cracked stonework suddenly giving way. In an instant, the dome went from unreachably high up to hurtling down towards him and Moore. Before he consciously thought to do anything, Moore had shoved Dahlia to the ground, landing mere inches from the dome’s edge as it crashed down to the floor, splitting in two. Perhaps out of some desire to protect him, Moore ended up on top of Dahlia, holding himself above him with shaking hands and knees and staring directly into those sparkling, dark eyes. Moore was breathing heavily. Dahlia was smiling, but he seemed lost in thought.

“Thanks a million, Moore,” Dahlia said, a little pain evident in his voice, “But a warning would be nice next time.” Moore pushed himself off Dahlia, avoiding eye contact.

“Are you okay?” Moore asked, his face red from some unnameable mix of emotions. “Should we leave? I could get you to the hospital—” “I’m fine,” Dahlia said, still smiling, “What I wanna know is what made you so interested in that dome.”

“It used to have this painting on it when I was a kid, and it got me thinking…” Dahlia tilted his head to the side.

“So it wasn’t the dome, then?” Dahlia replied.

“Huh?” Moore frowned. Dahlia chuckled.

“You were only interested in what you remembered about the dome, right? You weren’t really looking at it.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to,” Dahlia responded, without missing a beat, “But I think you’ll get it soon enough.

Anywho, if you’re here for the trains, I don’t think the subway platform is too far from here! Why don’t we go there next?” Moore nodded as Dahlia stood up. Both of them seemed relieved to keep moving.

Moore and Dahlia descended to the subway platform, now much more mindful about what was above their heads. Wide, slow sweeps of a flashlight made necessary by the lack of any natural light revealed that the platform looked like it had been

left in a hurry. Litter was strewn across the large stone tiles of the floor, mostly newspapers and magazines from the year the station closed. Every monitor was off, no longer listing arrival times and rail updates. No trains waited at the platform. The rails were so covered in dust that Moore could see it without getting close. The benches were the same, if not worse, from being left unoccupied for years.

The entire platform was quiet. The entire platform was empty. Dahlia sat down on a bench, gesturing Moore over. As soon as Moore sat down, Dahlia shifted closer to him.

“Can I ask a bit of a weird question?” Dahlia said. Moore was suddenly very aware of how close they were to each other.

“Uh, go ahead,” Moore responded, avoiding Dahlia’s gaze.

“Why didn’t you leave during the exodus to the colonies?” Moore’s eyes narrowed. He’d asked himself that question before, and he gave the same answer to Dahlia that he gave himself.

“I’m…not sure,” Moore said, stress evident in his voice. “I kind of can’t imagine myself living somewhere else, especially not in space.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve lived here all my life.” Dahlia raised an eyebrow.

“That’s not really a good reason.”

“Well…” Moore trailed off. He knew it wasn’t a good reason. Having lived in one place from birth to twenty-seven years old didn’t exactly preclude him from leaving, no matter how much he wanted it to.

Dahlia was smiling. Moore liked it when he smiled.

“Maybe you just didn’t want to,” Dahlia finished Moore’s sentence for him. “But I don’t think you’d be telling the truth if you said that.” Moore sighed.

It felt like Dahlia was reading his mind.

“Why not?”

“Just a hunch.” Dahlia was still smiling. Moore avoided eye contact. He decided to look around a little more. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything else.

Scanning the train tunnel with the flashlight again, Moore spotted a metallic glint down one of the tunnels. As he got up and approached it, Dahlia followed behind, holding his free hand. As they peered into the train tunnel, a squared off wall of metal stared back at them, one that Moore would recognize anywhere. A Morika 3400 series subway Fall 2025 | Volume II

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The Wizard and the Trainspotter “Dahlia, what the hell is it doing?!” train, lying on its side, its friendly yellow paint Moore shouted. scratched and faded with time. The same train he “What I was worried it would do,” Dahlia rode since he was a kid, the same train he rode to responded between deep breaths. “I can explain work every day until Welkin Station closed three later, okay? Just keep hold of me!” Moore couldn’t years after the Exodus, the same train he had a have agreed to a better idea. model of sitting on his desk—the same train that As Dahlia and Moore ran out to the concourse, got him into trainspotting. the train followed close behind. It struggled to As the stark light of the flashlight shone make its way up the stairs, smashing through through the front window, Moore saw ghosts. He could see himself as a child, sitting next to his mom, tiles, concrete, and metal as it went, emitting jolts of distorted static as it fought the solid materials. looking out in wonder at the passing lights. He Moore could hear its motors running and its wheels could see himself right out of college, huddled up shrieking against the tiles, kicking up plumes of between other commuters, trying not to fall asleep. dust as the train forced its wheels to run off the rails.

As he moved the flashlight, he could see himself Skidding to a stop on the tile, Dahlia slammed reflected in the window, staring into an empty train down his tool bag and pulled out two halves of a gun car. Before he realized it, he was on his knees. that looked too big for a human to handle before Tears fell on the tracks. assembling it with blinding speed. As he took a “I can’t live like this,” Moore choked out, his knee, Moore realized it must have been at least half shaky voice echoing through the tunnel. “I can’t Dahlia’s height, if not half his own. Dahlia’s breath fucking live like this…” Moore began to heave. slowed down. Moore kept hyperventilating.

Dahlia silently placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Pass me the magazine, babe,” Dahlia said, “I just want to go back…back to when I had a purpose, his voice more serious than Moore had heard it a goddamn idea of where I was going in life! A job, all day. While he was able to register what Dahlia friends, a fucking hobby!” Moore was beginning had called him for a brief moment, his adrenaline to yell. The tunnel shook, nearly knocking Dahlia smothered any other feeling as the train pulled the off his feet. He was looking at the train now. majority of its body into the concourse, coating the “I just wanna be—” massive space in crimson. Without saying anything, Before Moore could continue, every light Moore grabbed the surprisingly heavy box sitting on the train turned on, all glowing the same shade in the tool bag and passed it to Dahlia. With a brief of furious red. The tunnel shook harder, and the “thanks,” Dahlia slammed the magazine of antitrain’s wheels spun wildly, rocking it like a fallen materiel bullets into the oversized rifle and pulled animal onto its wheels. Without warning, the bolt back with a sharp, metallic thunk. Taking a it lurched forward. deep breath, Dahlia took aim. Moore braced himself, “Shit, I knew it!” Dahlia grabbed Moore’s hand but it wasn’t nearly enough. and pulled him off the ground, nearly dragging him A deafeningly loud bang cut through the behind as he leapt back onto the platform, the train grinding of the train’s wheels against concrete, the not far behind them. After pulling Moore up, Dahlia sound shaking the entire concourse. In an instant, broke into a full sprint up and off the platform, the bullet ripped through the body of the train, Moore scrabbling to get his footing as he looked making a golf ball-sized hole on its underbelly and back over his shoulder. sending the monster recoiling back against the The Morika 3400 looked like it was a wild concourse’s wall. Before they could celebrate, the animal on fire. The train was writhing with what train began to writhe again, scrambling back onto seemed like rage, using its mechanical suspension its wheels more frantically than it had been before. like legs to clamber up and out of the tunnel with It began to move erratically, lashing out against the terrifying speed, directly towards him and Dahlia. station and continuing to pull itself free.

Distorted white noise blasted from its speakers like Without time for a warning, Dahlia fired the wail of a monster, giving Moore the adrenaline another shot into the train, striking one of the he needed to keep up with Dahlia. There was no wheels close to the tunnel’s entrance and blowing doubt in his mind that it was trying to kill him.

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Art by Samantha Gerken

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Zombie and Werewolf by Anthony Bahizi it clean off. The shot proved just as ineffective in stopping the train from advancing as the first.

Moore was beginning to panic. Dahlia was sweating. The coupling keeping the ferocious engine attached to the cars in the tunnel was beginning to give way, the straining metal barely louder than the train’s roars.

Moore’s frantic eyes came to the front of the train. The train he had commuted on for his entire life, the train he had been obsessed with his entire life, was screaming and struggling like a beast trying to kill him. The grates on the train’s front that he once appreciated for their unique shape now reminded him of snarling teeth. In the crimson light bathing the interior, the ghosts had been exorcised.

What the train had been to him before paled in comparison to what it was now—that was all in the past. He knelt down next to Dahlia and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Right there,” Moore said, his shaking voice regaining some composure as he recalled what he remembered from his research on the 3400 model.

“The engine is right between the headlights. Shoot it there!” Dahlia nodded, taking his eyes off the train to lock them with Moore’s. There was a fire in his dark, sparkling eyes that Moore hadn’t seen before. He was beautiful. He smiled before taking aim again.

“You better be right,” Dahlia said as he pulled back the bolt. Dahlia held his breath. Moore followed suit, keeping his hand on Dahlia’s shoulder.

The train’s front end flailed like a snake’s tail, its bright red headlights illuminating the empty concourse. Both of them braced as the coupling finally gave way, the train flinging itself at Moore.

Before it hit the ground, Dahlia pulled the trigger. In an instant, the train car was sent flying in the opposite direction, the bullet drilling straight through the bottom of the train and up through its roof. The train’s lights doubled in brightness as it slammed into the station’s back wall. Before Dahlia or Moore could react, the engine exploded violently, the shockwave sending them tumbling backwards and blowing a hole in the station’s wall, filling the air with a mix of dust and debris.

As the two struggled to their feet, the dust settled, and the vibrant pink of a sunset filtered through the newly-made hole, illuminating the concourse. The benches stood empty, ticket booths 34

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were unmanned, litter dotted the floor, and not a single light was on. The train was dead.

The concourse was empty, and there was nothing left to be done in it. Moore’s heart pounded in his ears. He pulled himself close to Dahlia—they were both shaking.

“What…what was that?” Moore asked, slackjawed as he felt the adrenaline leave his system.

“What happens when you leave an AI unattended for a few years,” Dahlia said, his usual chipper tone returning with a sigh, his shoulders going slack as he put down the rifle. “If an AI like the one in that train is left without anything to do, it kinda goes stir-crazy and starts doing stuff like… that. It’s really prevalent in situations like this— sudden closures and stuff. The exodus exacerbated it with how few humans are around on the surface now, and it’s up to guys like me to deal with it.”

“That sounds familiar,” Moore muttered. Dahlia leaned in close, smiling widely.

“So you get it now?”

“I…I think I do. I definitely don’t want to go back anymore, but…I don’t know where to go from here.” The sunset had shifted from pink to a vibrant orange, the lowering sun illuminating more of the station. Moore and Dahlia were sitting on the ground next to each other, watching the last embers of the train burn out.

“Why don’t you come with me?”

“Huh?” “You can come over to my place! I’d be willing to help you figure out what you wanna do now. Maybe you could end up like me!” Moore mulled the choice over more than he expected he would. It sounded surprisingly nice.

“Well, I mean…I couldn’t tell you right now, I’m still all strung out from—” Dahlia gave Moore a peck on the cheek, making him freeze up.

“Do you think you can tell me now?” Moore sighed. Dahlia smiled.

“Does your motor scooter even have space for someone else?” Dahlia went from smiling widely to frowning even wider.

“Oh, shit…I’ll call Rico.” Moore couldn’t help but laugh, eventually cackling harder than he had in years as he and Dahlia left the station bathed in the sunset’s orange light, clambering through the hole the train had made. As they stepped outside, Moore didn’t look back at the station. He thought ending up like Dahlia didn’t sound too bad.

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E-mail to the Undead Presley Hinkle Re: Q1 – Weekly Newsletter & Operations From: Jennifer Holten Sent: Tuesday, March 16th, 2028, 3:42 AM To: Mike E. Kary; Sean Powell; Gary Smith; Rachel Dunt; Bennet Averys; Christian Dex; Sam Grater; Rudolph Valdez; +46 others Recording Transcription:

T

o Whom It May Concern: Please stop eating my chicken piccata. It had my name clearly written on it, and I know it was one of you. [Scoffing]

I am sorry to be using this chain to bring up issues like this, but I go through a very extensive process every weekend while I’m meal prepping that involves several hours of work that keeps being hastily cast to the wind each time you decide to steal my food. [Heavy sigh] Besides, no one else in the office carries the same Tupperware as I do–so I know there’s no confusion. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. Please.

For one thing, it’s rather insulting that one of you thinks you can just keep stealing my food just because it’s there. It might be a shared space, but everyone is only entitled to what they bring themselves; let us be respectful of others. [Scuffling] And on another note, someone has really got to throw away the rest of the food that’s in there.

[Gagging] It’s basically rotting at this point, I mean, who the hell leaves cottage cheese unsealed for this long? [Gagging intensifies] It’s like no one even comes into the office anymore.

Where is everyone anyway? I’m still coming in. In fact, I’ve been getting here early, even with the news of the outbreak on every news station. [Coughing] I’m tired of being the only person who’s actually trying to get any work done anymore. #THISGENERATIONDOESNTWANTTOWORK While we’re on the subject, I understand that working from home is pleasant and, more than anything, don’t think I’m a fool, convenient, but you all aren’t even trying anymore. You log into meetings, but there isn’t anyone in the cameras. It’s all just heavy breathing and what sounds like scratching somewhere behind your monitors. For God’s sake, just get IT to fix your mic like everyone else. It’s really not that hard. [Nearby growling] We're all worried about the infection. I am too. But you don’t see me freaking out over it! That's what they want, people. Chaos, Disorder, it’s all part of their little game! This infection can't and

Rest Stop Portal by Presley Hinkle

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Email to the Undead

shouldn’t stop us! We have important work to do, and I expect you all to stick with it! Maybe if we can pull our weight, we can have a pizza party in the breakroom. My treat. #WEARENOTSHEEP Oh—and before I end this, because there seems to be some kind of commotion down the hall that I’m keeping my eyes on #ALWAYSSOMETHINGTODO. I would like to kindly ask whoever keeps leaving a trail of blood in the women’s restroom to perhaps look into getting a different brand of pads or tampons that work for you. Sam, I’m talking about you. I don’t mean to call you out, but it’s time you got that looked into. [Tongue clicking] I understand more than anyone, I’ve had four children and am nearly at menopause myself, but how difficult can it be trying to find health products that are optimal for you? If you bothered reading my previous email, you would have remembered that there is an extra pack of pads, with wings, that’s right, I got you girlies, in the supply closet on the 4th floor. Yes, I know the elevator is broken, but you can take the stairs just like I do every morning when I’m here.

[The sound of clattering objects, someone crying out, then footsteps running against the ground] Honestly, as I close off this email or—well, recording, since I wasn’t able to finish it on my computer before Gary suddenly decided to assault me out of fucking nowhere too, I realize now that I think all of you are just ungrateful.

I do so much [Grunting] for this [Grunting intensifies] fucking [Bashing sounds] company!

Oh my god…[Silence] That little fucker, he got me?! [A loud gasp, then ripping fabric] That’s fine, it’s fine, it’s all good. I can take it. I’m strong [Heavy breathing ensues] #NOBITEWILLSTOPTHE9TO5 Listen y’all, [Staggered breathing] I just want to say one last thing…

[Distant scrambling and glass breaking] For the person who keeps parking in my parking space, I— [Intense screaming and the sound of something being torn apart] AARGHHHOMMYGAWWdd… [Silence, then wet crunching noises, a heavy thud, a melodic woosh]

Thanks much, Jennifer Holten (she/her/hers) Senior Technical Assistant, Department of Finance, Rex Industries Coordinator of Executive Administration and Planning Sent from my iPhone

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Art by Mu Ying Yong

39

Forest by Marian Claros Barrientos

40

Red Hood Infernal Sayings

Plague.

An undefeated killer. A thing that defies all senses.

You cannot see its horrible smile.

You cannot hear its vicious cackles. You cannot touch its poisonous body. However, its terrible essence is visible in what’s left behind in its wake; a valley of the dead and dying, decaying amongst desiccated bodies and destroyed lives. Ferrets and squirrels, pigeons and hawks, lizards and skinks lie reduced to nothing. Their eyes rolled into the backs of their heads, muscles surrendered, skin cracked like barren dirt, and minds shredded into scattershot memories that have lost all meaning as the last seconds of their lives pass. Not even the forest itself is safe. Trees, aged centuries in mere days, are speckled with white as the parasites feed on their corpses. Bushes that once grew berries have now been reduced to a sludge only the flies could eat. There's hardly anything to eat. I've been beholden to eat worms and beetles, each sickening crunch of their bodies only adding to my desire to bring an end to this. Death had claimed the forest and its inhabitants. Their final purpose was to serve as a trail leading towards the angel of death. The one inexplicably safe from it all, the harbinger of demise that brought this pestilence with her.

It was her: Red Hood In spite of all she’s done, it's hard not to feel bad for her. Following her reveals that she's a human puppy, no older than ten. Green eyes bright with wonder as she looks around the forest, humming songs to the rhythm of her skipping feet. She pats flowers like beloved pets and talks to ants and insects like

neighbors, politely asking to step over them so she may reach her elder, named Grandma. Waving towards the deers and the bears, she wishes them good luck and even offers some fruit from her basket. Has she any idea what she leaves behind? Does her body fail her like it has for her victims?

I cannot believe a Grim Reaper like her can be so cheerful! What is she? Perhaps the cruel kindness of death, granting the forest one last gentle act before the slaughter? A sinister final gift before the end. Her smile, a hidden herald of a harrowing demise. Is Red Hood as much a victim as we animals are, forced to travel through the beautiful forest to reach her destination, only to walk back through the graveyard of her own creation? Does she even know the harm she causes?

She's but a puppy. Innocent to the world. Perhaps she'll walk past the rotten remains of the forest and not recognize it. Maybe she’ll live the rest of her days, find a mate, and raise a pup herself before passing on–all without realizing what she had done.

The only thing I know for sure is that she is not sick.

She's bright-eyed and excited to reach her still-living ancestor.

Regardless of it all, for the sake of the forest, she must die.

There was this little brook I had started to call home. A slithering river shrouded in the shade of plentiful trees, light from the sun peeking through the leaves, enough to leave a thin veil of darkness and speckles of light on the green grass.

Sometimes the foxes would pass by. Sometimes birds hovered near the water, or frogs stared

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off into the woods with their mysterious minds. It was nice. A small little sanctuary where survival didn’t matter, where you could just…live.

All she left behind was a rotting corpse.

I ran ahead fast as I could. If I could find this 'Grandma,' I could end this, once and for all. I had tried to take out Red Hood, but she was far smarter than I thought. She had hidden herself away. By the time I found her hiding spot within the nestled shrubbery of the valley, she was already gone. I had tried again and again, but each time this puppy, this human puppy, evaded me. Humans learn fast, far faster than any animal. I needed to be clever.

Traditional hunting tactics wouldn’t work. Instead of going after her, I'll make her come to me.

I found a cottage deep within a valley, not unlike the other human cottages at the forest's edge.

Surrounded on all sides by trees, it was a small oasis from the near-endless tree line. There was a human at the window with no others in sight. Fur greyed, skin wrinkled, gait fragile. She saw me and said hi to me, as though I were a friend. She even offered me some fresh meat. I couldn't deny a feast, but I also couldn't trust her. This must've been Grandma, the reason for the plague that has consumed everything I hold dear.

I ate my fill, my sickening fill. For the sake of the forest, it must be done, but there was no triumph in this hunt. It was as if I had eaten a rabbit stuck in a human trap. There was no thrill, or honor to the hunt, no chase, no battle between mind or body, just…a killing. Red Hood is destroying my home, but had I not done the same to her?

No, we were different. She had the gall, the audacity to smile and skip around the rotting remains of her consequences. This needed to end, and I

intended on finishing this pointless slaughter.

Like a puma, I lay in wait for my prey.

Disguising myself as Grandma was not my first idea, but it meant that Red Hood would come close.

I waited and waited, all the while my hatred for her grew. She had destroyed my home, my forest, and had the gall to smile through it all. My food, the meals I once earned, became helpless and inedible.

Horrible tripe that smelt of bile and rippled with maggots. Just one small bite nearly killed me. This needed to end. If the forest barely survived the initial trip, then the return trip will be the final nail in the coffin. The fangs in the neck of a helpless morsel. This was the last chance for survival. My home’s fate shall be sealed by sunset.

“Grandma! I'm here!”

“Lift the latch. I am too weak and cannot get up.”

"What big ears you have.”

“All the better to hear you with."

“What a big mouth you have.”

“All the better to speak to you with.”

“What…big eyes…you have…” “…” Red Hood then did something…strange.

I've never seen anything like it. Her eyes grew wet, water dripping down her cheek, and she whimpered like a hurt puppy. What was this, and why did it hurt me to hear it? Her little noises tore through my hate like teeth through flesh. She wiped at her eyes as she said, “I'm really sorry.”

My heart panged for the poor puppy as she buried her face in her hands, making little squeaks and sniffles. A bringer of such death and destruction now looked so vulnerable, so scared. In spite of everything Red Hood had done, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor thing.

I didn't prolong it. Red Hood had gotten what she wanted. She was with Grandma.

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Art by Nawaal Nackerdien

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Art by Emma Li

Bake Me A Real Boy Presley Hinkle

O

nce upon a time, I used to be the Gingerbread Man. One day, when a little old woman and a little old man had gotten hungry, they decided to bake me right then and there, but as soon as the oven was open, I ran for my life. I was scared, you see; the reality of my actualization and the fear of death were hitting me like a tenderizer against a slab of meat all in the matter of seconds.

Those of you who know may remember how my story ended and by this point may be wondering how I could possibly recount my tale now after what appeared to be such a conclusive end. Well, my friend, I have wonderful news regarding such a thing.

In the time since, the little old woman and the little old man have baked many more treats and sweets, but nothing they make is ever as good as little ol’ me. So finally, after running a few errands, the little old woman and the little old man decided to pull out that dusty jar wedged deep in the cupboard. Unsealing the wax, they began to knead the dough, but something peculiar happened while getting me ready. In their old age and carelessness, they placed my inert lump next to a stack of bloodied tissues from a cut their grandson had gotten from playing outside.

The weak thing was always getting into trouble and the old couple saw to it that he got bandaged in an instant. Well, when they arrived back in the kitchen and saw that the tissues were no longer soaked in the child’s blood, they assumed they had already tossed them out and continued with the rest of their evening. If only their eyes hadn’t gotten so old, they might’ve noticed that cruel red tinge my mixture had taken on. Overnight, I sat in the fridge while the bloodied lump that was me grew by about the size of three.

The next morning when they were ready to continue, they seemed to be acting odd over something as ordinary as measuring out my toppings. Perhaps the pair had a strange dream and couldn’t shake the feeling that it meant something more than they were giving it credit for. It was then I decided to take my chances. I spoke to them, at least, I think it was myself talking. The mechanisms are not very clear now with everything that has happened, but nevertheless, the little old pair and I came to an agreement.

“I want to be a real boy,” they heard, “I won’t run anymore, I’ll be yours to keep and cherish and play with for as long as you’d like.”

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Bake Me A Real Boy

There was silence from above me before finally, the little old woman said, “Oh, we’d be happy to have you, Gingerbread Man, wha—” Before she could finish, I interrupted her and said, “For me to be a real boy, I need what makes a real boy real. I need to be able to see and feel and taste just like one too. It’s the only way I’ll be yours.”

And as if they were in a trance, they were gone.

There was the sound of footsteps, the metallic scraping of a blade from the knife block, a confused, “Gramma, Granpa, what time is it—” followed by a loud raspy scream, and before I knew it, they had returned.

Within no time at all, they had mixed the final ingredients into the old and snipped my dough into the one shape I knew to be true.

The warmth of the oven arrived shortly after, and I couldn’t help but welcome the heat as my skin began to cook. This was going to be so much fun, I thought. All of the games and stories we would play, I just couldn’t wait.

But when the timer had gone off and the oven was opened, something had gone terribly wrong. I heard the little old woman first. She screamed like a banshee and flung the oven door closed before the little old man could see what had happened.

A few minutes later, her screaming turned to weeping then finally, something must’ve snapped, let go, and she was simply breathing.

As for me, something felt different during those extra minutes in the oven. Whether it was simply

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the heat or the eggs had gone bad, I felt more alive than I had ever felt before. Much of my crumbling existence the first time around, I was to be eaten, I was to be scarfed down without a second thought, but not again.

Never again.

Now, after granted a second chance, I was met with a sensation unlike anything I knew to be possible. Cavernous. Hollow. Hungry. I knew right then and there exactly how to settle it.

The next thing I knew I was leaping out from the oven and making a mad dash toward the little old folks as they shuddered from what they had created, but it was too late. Although the realization of what they had done seemed to finally be settling in their mushy little brains, the blood was on their hands and there was no going back. How could they? Frankly, it really didn’t matter. I’d take it all away, every bruise, bump, and wrinkled line of their skin, they’d never have to worry again.

Looking up at them from the floor of the kitchen, I squinted at them through my brand new eyes and licked my lips with a tongue that twitched with each movement around my mouth. It didn’t take long after that for the little old woman and the little old man to hurry at once out into the snow.

They howled and begged as little red footprints began to catch up with them. In the distance, I snarled through bloodied teeth and hairy knots, “Run! Run as fast as you can. You can’t escape me, I’m the Gingerbread Man!”

Miss Sisyphus by Presley Hinkle

47

Deadly Keys of Gold Aryaman Kantawala

I

cannot remember the where, or the when, from which it had started. The second, the minute, or the hour, that had set me on the path of the typewriter. It seemed almost as if I was destined to come across it. I couldn’t have been fated to forever live a dull, lonely life as an unknown author.

No, I was destined for fame, and there I’d gotten it–and perhaps lost it all.

Steppenham Street was always full of life, whenever I’d needed it. I’d first fallen in love with the place through my freelance reporting for the local newspaper. Anything that happened in this humdrum excuse for a town happened in this street.

Not that I want to be a journalist; this was a shortlived job to pay the bills. It isn’t cheap once you drop out of your Creative Writing major in college and your parents aren’t willing to pay for you anymore.

As if I’d even need the major to succeed! Back to the point, Steppenham Street was a downtown of sorts, and my favorite place was Abbott’s Bookstore & Pawnshop. Here, I’d found books to write a scathing review about in the local paper. Today, though, I just needed inspiration. I’d realized I was getting nowhere with my one-off jobs and it was time to finally settle down to write the Great American Novel. I even had the classic situation that all the old, great writers had: I was running out of money.

“Morning, Alan!” Abbott, the clerk, smiled as I walked in. “What is it this time? Stuck on another article?” he joked with a wry grin.

“Oh, those days are over,” I said. “This time it’s important.”

Abbott raised his eyebrows, amused. Fine, he could laugh all he want. He’d eat his words soon enough. I wasn’t going to tell him that the local paper had let me go. It was for the better. I scanned the endless shelves of voluminous books.

Existentialism, the human experience, comedy of manners. Boring, boring…what rubbish people write about these days! The books section seemed to be useless today, so I wandered to the miscellaneous aisle. That’s where it immediately stood out to me.

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The ancient machine lying there was out of place.

“Abbott,” I called to him, “since when did you have typewriters in stock?”

I inspected the ghastly thing, the hulking old black metal somehow not rusted. The keys shone gold in the light. Not bright, dazzling gold, but the dark, rich, unpolished hue of gold. The edges were strangely sharp, and very precisely cut. The type hammers connected to the keys almost resembled the teeth of a smiling, ghoulish black head. I rotated it to check the back. Strangely, there was a grave message in shiny lettering scrawled on the back: He who makes use of this instrument, will forever regret the incident.

I frowned. What kind of reverse psychology marketing was this? Intrigued, I heaved it in my arms and took it to Abbott in the front.

“Who sold this to you?” I said.

“Hmmm…” he said, "Strange. I’ve never seen that before.”

I was puzzled. “This was on aisle 12! What do you mean you’ve never seen it before?”

“I swear to you, nobody ever gave this to me.

Somebody must have left it here by accident.”

“How much do you want for it, then?”

“Oh, don’t worry about paying for it,” he said.

He paused, reading the inscription. “Are you sure you want to buy this? This message doesn’t sound so inviting.”

I scoffed. “I’ll be fine, thanks.” I took the typewriter and rushed out.

I paced in front of my typewriter, which calmly sat on the desk. Though there was nothing suspicious about it, it was simply off-putting. I had to come to terms with the fact that I may have wasted an afternoon. I sighed, deciding it wasn’t a waste yet.

Sitting down to the table, I nervously readied my fingers over the keys. I typed in, “ The”, then quickly dove under the table and hid. Thirty seconds of silence. I carefully peered out, and nothing seemed to be amiss. I laughed it off and sat back down in front of the typewriter.

Deadly Keys of Gold

There really was nothing to worry about!

I finished my sentence, “ The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.” I reached to tear the page out, when suddenly an idea, a story, crossed my mind. I froze in shock. I had it!

This idea I had, this story, was pure genius! An amazing plot, with dynamic, absorbingly interesting characters, countless different allegories and social commentaries abound. And it all started with the above sentence. I raced to print out the story on the typewriter, my fingers perfectly synced, creating melodic, flowing prose. As I typed, I thought I saw, in my peripheral vision, a glowing angel. I couldn’t look straight at it, only in the corner of my eye.

Whenever it was there, my story flowed—it was my muse.

When I was finally done with the first chapter, I stopped myself, breathing hard, my fingers tired.

I went through the pages, and I was instantly absorbed in the story. There was no doubt that this was my start. I celebrated through the apartment, until I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I frowned. Something was off, and yet I couldn’t pinpoint it. I looked slightly more mature, dare I say, more handsome. I brushed it off to the stress of this strange day.

Over the next few days, I restlessly banged out the rest of the novel with short breaks, knowing exactly which word to use, my fingers arcing over the keys, moving in hyperspeed. My fully-imagined story materialized into 500 pages of pure prose. So many writers have difficulty making their work as good as their original idea; with this typewriter I had no trouble. The story of the brown fox slowly morphed throughout the course of the novel into a story about our civilization and society. My fingers finally reached the last sentence: “ And he gazed

a final time at the phantom, never to be truly realized again.” I sighed in relief

and laid back in my seat.

My hands felt drier, and I massaged the soreness. Were there some new wrinkles? I peered at my fingers closely. They seemed to be very worn, and gained a few years in them. I would’ve attributed it to the typing but for the veins in my arms and extra fat in my figure. I hurried to the mirror, and shrieked in horror.

I was not staring at myself; I was staring at a

middle-aged man. I must have been around forty or fifty. I couldn’t breathe in my disbelief. This could not be happening. I ran my hands over my face and whole body, trying to convince myself this was some bad dream. Why did I ever touch that accursed typewriter? I ran back to the typewriter and ripped the remaining unused pages out. Then, picking it up in my arms, I threw the bulky thing as hard as I could (which wasn’t a lot). It cleanly bounced on the floor and landed right side up. I cursed.

The rest of the day, I paced the room back and forth, desperately trying to figure out a reason behind this. That night, I tossed and turned in bed, cringing at my veiny, aged hands. The typewriter with its ghoulish teeth made my skin crawl. And there my manuscript sat, on the desk, papers neatly stacked. The next few nights, between what groggy half-sleep I got, the manuscript ate at me. Should I burn it? Was it going to curse me even more?

Yet in the back of my mind, the image of my muse made me think twice.

After two nights of this madness I gave in to the temptation and reviewed the manuscript, which was, to my relief, simply immaculate (and free of curses, to my knowledge). The script made its way to multiple publishers, who quickly wrote back competing offers, and I threw darts to choose one. No matter. The Tale of the Brown Fox quickly became an international bestseller, selling millions of copies and translating into thirty languages.

My fame was unimaginable. I wasn’t just the “next big thing”; my book was something everyone had to read. Multitudes of reviews claimed it was the “best work since Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”, then even more reviews derided them for comparing such a measly book like Huck Finn to a behemoth like Brown Fox. I was on the cover of Time (“Alan Silverman: Person of the Year”), shook hands with the president, and was in consideration for the Nobel Prize for literature (unfortunately they said they judge it on a “body of work”, not just one book). I even had a beautiful wife, Victoria, whom I’d met on a book tour. I’d very quickly fallen for her shimmering, long, blond hair, and tall, curvaceous figure. I was able to move out of my apartment, leaving Steppenham Street without looking back. Every morning, I woke up with my beautiful wife to my resplendent, thousand-

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foot penthouse apartment. Every single piece of furniture was state-of-the-art; sparkling statues of me abounded. I didn’t care for isolated manors; I wanted to be at the center of the city, and center of attention. Abbott had asked me to mention him, since he was the first bookstore in which my books were published, but as far as I was concerned, “I had never seen that man before”. As for the typewriter, it began collecting dust in the innermost, darkest corners of my basement. I was sure that it was never seeing the light of day again.

My family no longer recognized me, my age almost the same as my parents now. As if I’d ever needed them anyway. It was difficult getting used to my body, though, and the creaks and aches never failed to surprise me. I sometimes mourned my youth, yet it was nothing compared to my newfound fame. My muse was brighter than ever, fully realized. It became a routine, going out on book tours, interviews, events; and after, coming home to Victoria. She would croon, “How’s my big star doing?”, immediately after I’d come through the door. During interviews, she’d clutch my arm and giggle like I had an infinite sense of humor.

Yet slowly, the interest and fame began to die down. Years passed. Everyone had already read the book by now, and people began to think that this great novel was a little ho-hum. I should have known that publicity was never permanent. The angel that had accompanied me through my writing and my fame had begun to slowly fade away. I spent long hours in my study, typing away at my computer, then using normal typewriters when that didn’t work, then furiously writing with a pen and paper when that didn’t work. It was all in vain. Even I could immediately see that every draft, every hodgepodge idea I came up with, was complete crap.

At first, Victoria would leave me alone during those long hours, not wanting to “interrupt the process”. But soon she began to bother me. It started with snoopy questions at the dinner table— “So, how’s the next book coming along?” Soon, she was pestering me nonstop. She would come into the study, peer over my shoulder, and sigh with dissatisfaction. I was contacted for interviews where I was relentlessly asked, “When’s the next novel coming out?” Articles were titled, “Alan Silverman: A One-Hit Wonder?” Suddenly everyone was in my

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business, wondering what had happened.

The dinner table grew cold and distant. Neither I nor Victoria deigned to say much to each other, until in exasperation she finally broke out, “Come out with it! Why aren’t you writing another novel?”

“Don’t you see?” I snarled. “I’m trying.”

“Evidently not hard enough,” she huffed. “You’re holding something back, and I don’t know why.”

“It’s a long process. I can’t just sit down and write another bestseller. I can’t just think of a good idea.”

Victoria slammed her fork down on her plate with a violent clank and leaned over the table towards me, glaring, inches from my face.

“Why not?”

I returned her glare in silence.

“You think I’m an idiot? You tell me what’s going on, and we’ll see if I understand.” Her voice shook with quietly controlled defiance. I refused to say a word.

She sighed and retreated away, standing up.

“You’re giving me no choice. I thought you really were a big star, you know that? But a few years have shown the whole world the truth. You’re just a lying fraud. I barely even know you.”

“Enough!” I retorted indignantly. “Who made all this money for us? You have no right to be questioning me right now. And what about you saying that you loved me?”

“Tell me,” she said, ignoring me. “How old are you really? Every time I’ve asked, you’ve been vague or made a joke.”

I hesitated for too long. “54.”

“Your birth year? The day?” I frantically raced to answer Victoria’s questions. “And when was your father born?”

This one had me stumped into silence, her scowl burning into me. She stormed from the room without another word.

Within a few days, I’d found her belongings emptied out, a virulent note left on the dresser. I’d hurled an expensive vase across the room in anger, shattering it. Just like Victoria and my muse, my fame left me too, not too long after. Now I was just an aging has-been, living alone, isolated, in his grand, empty apartment in the center of the bustling city. I resented my old body more than ever, and my sparkling apartment only served to dim my

Art by Grace Tongnobhakun

Deadly Keys of Gold mood even further. I was living in my own mountain of regret, abandoned by all.

For a year, I made countless futile attempts to restart my career. It was a pointless exercise. With every failed attempt, the push became stronger, taking more of a hold on me. I couldn’t do it, it would be the end of me, yet I had to. No longer could I live as a normal person–a nobody, unknown and stuck with the ignorant, common people of society. I was meant for something greater. Finally, the urge was too great.

I was in disbelief, almost in a trance, as I finally unlocked the safe and brought it back out into the light of day. I placed it in the study, and sat down grimly, readying my hands over the keys. A short story, perhaps? No, that wouldn’t sell unless I made a whole collection, which would be almost the length of a whole book. And at that point, why not write another novel at that length which would sell more? I was known for novel writing. Anyway, the idea in my mind would have to decide the length, not me.

My finger shook as I reached towards the keys. I winced and pressed them. As I placed the first letter down, the idea shot into my head with the force of lightning. I felt the familiar rush which I hadn’t

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felt in so long, and actually smiled for once. I savored the touch of every key as I raced to pound out my new story. I quickly fell back into rhythm; it was like riding a bike. I couldn’t help but notice that my muse had finally returned, glowing faintly. I strained my typing, trying to make it ever brighter.

In a few days, I had formed the makings of a new story, one that rivaled even that of Brown Fox. What was I kidding? This was five times the literary genius of Brown Fox. An all-encompassing story of multiple intertwined families; many stories, filled with adventure, intrigue, romance, betrayal, satire, and universal messages across multiple sections.

The life of one person, maturing and changing, was at the epicenter of this sprawling masterpiece, His Worldly Dreams.

Yet with every keystroke, I began to feel the weight of my body, the weight of age ever pressing upon me. I watched my hands go from sprightly and lively to aged, wrinkled, losing tissue and becoming veiny. My breathing became more shallow, hoarse, and I had sporadic coughing fits. I dared not look in the mirror, but I knew what I would see anyway— completely whitened, thinning hair, the wrinkled, scarred face of an old man staring at me, his gaunt, bony body much past its prime, his yellowing teeth decaying with age. The keystrokes became an exercise, my strength waning.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a dark figure emerging from nowhere. He wore a tall, black cloak and held a long scythe with a hand of bones; the inside of the cloak seemed only darkness and oblivion. He quietly strode past me, and I paid Him no heed. I was expecting him. He politely took a seat behind me on the couch, watching me craft my story.

Yet my muse, the angel, grew ever brighter, and I knew I could not stop this novel. He seemed to get a

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little bored, rising from the couch and gently sitting on the luxurious grand piano. He softly began to play Chopin’s “Nocturne in E♭ Major,” which was a pleasant yet depressing accompaniment to my writing. My breathing became hurried, fitful, sharp, and I feared my lungs were getting tight. I was possibly developing some kind of disease, but it was too late to stop now. My fingers frantically flew across the keys in a futile race against time. If I continued to finish my masterpiece, I was sure to die. Yet if I ceased to write, my life would no longer be worth living.

“Leave me!” I exclaimed while typing, finally acknowledging His presence.

He continued playing “Nocturne,” unperturbed.

“Please,” I cried hoarsely. “I must finish the story. I cannot die now!”

I watched in horror as my fingers eerily typed, “ He saw the light, and knew it was time.” I was tantalizingly close to the end of my novel. I could not stop now at all costs. He was nearing the end of “Nocturne,” and I knew what would happen when it finished.

My fingers were no longer in my control; they automatically kept typing. “ He looked around as he breathed his last few breaths.”

Damnit! It was now a struggle even to breathe. The world faded around me, and there was no going back. I finally resigned myself to my fate.

He plunked out the final note. I typed out the last sentence, “ His ambitious life ended

not with a bang, or an encore, but with a quiet whisper, an afterthought.” Right

as I typed my final key, Death took me.

There it lay. My ultimate manuscript, His Worldly Dreams, possibly the greatest novel ever known to man. To this day, I will never know if it was ever found.

Art by Grace Tongnobhakun

53

Synthetic Jellyfish Do Not Sting Nawaal Nackerdien

A walk through a forest of salt, my fingers tangle through oxygen tank wires This sand,

Caught, snatched from the external view,

a thousand white kaleidoscopes—

this glass box shows

I miss your stolen memories

a forged viewpoint

We are encoded,

An absorbing plague,

my brain a mainframe

our essence of selves

another me is built upon

taken as we sleep

Do you remember the pale blue?

Hypothermic hibernation,

The quiet sensation of a

at our fingertips, art is written

black hole opening beneath our feet

by our created selves Birds fly, snow wings tipped with black feathers constant parallelism, Telephone towers eclipse our view of the stars and our own doomed departure.

Quiet now, these synthetic jellyfish are not real.

They do not sting.

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Looking for Inner Peace by Hannah Rocha Leclere

Art by Ace Carrasco & Areeza Abbasi

Fall 2025 | Volume II

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56

The Revenant: Redux Enoch Ogunfiditimi

N

othingness is truly infeasible to the human mind. Extending beyond infinity while also lasting only an instant. A darkness so vastly different from simply the absence of light. There is no before. There is no after. I am nowhere, and no one. I am nothing. There is no I. For nothingness is all there is, and all there is not.

Until that isn't the case. First, it was just a hint.

A speck of light, a distant twinkling star. It had been so long since I had last thought. Or had I just a moment ago? What does it mean to think? And why would I do such a thing in such endless dark?

So I simply observed. Watched as the star grew closer and closer. I imagined if I was anything more than just a…mind, I could’ve reached up and grabbed it.

But no. I was nothing more. So I watched.

Watched as it stopped as a ball of impassioned fire. I watched as it exploded into a kaleidoscope of infinite colors and patterns that encompassed my very being. I would’ve liked to shield my eyes against the horizonless phantasmagoria.

Eyes?

Yes. Beneath the infinite sensations I felt the tinge of memories. Of eyes. Arms. Legs.

Of my slow, painful death.

The Mandelbrot set enraged, a red hot, piercing, creature, casting spikes into me. I wanted to scream. I wanted to return to nothingness. To be back in the brief oneiric moment that lasted forever.

The octopus bristling with spines burst into ethereal eyes that looked upon me. Within me, immersing my entirety in indescribable warmth.

And it happened. The colors surged past as if I was launched through a tunnel at the speed of light.

My wish was answered and I returned to nothing.

No. No, this was darkness. Completely different.

Something twitched. The feeling frightened me before it extended further up the edge of my existence.

Art by Kerbey Chevalier

I flexed my fingers. Stiff, achy, and cold.

And I breathed in the air. Rather, the lack of it.

A spear of pain pierced my core and my heart set off like a snare drum. My lungs expanded and I opened my eyes. I shot up and bashed my head on the ceiling, not seeing it in the pitch black.

I groaned and set my head back on the hard wood I was laid upon. My arms were at my sides and I barely had even an inch of room to stretch them out. I reached up and put my hand against the smooth timber about a foot above me.

And I remembered.

That thing buried me alive. Laughed at my words of invigoration. To stand. To fight against the incomprehensible. To believe in the future of mankind, anew.

I saw fires rekindle. Fists clench. Eyes sharpen.

“To the stone cathedral!” We began to chant.

“Together, we can open its doors!”

I had told them.

Then they fell away to bottomless fear. For behind me, it floated in the air, appearing like a phantom in the night. The devil armored in gold.

It seized me by the neck in its icy claws, drowning my senses in a miasma of despair.

It whisked me halfway up Mount Arcineth in a blistering rush of wind, breaking my skin on bushes and branches, only weaving past tree trunks so I wouldn’t die. I was frightened by my own guttural screams echoing down the mountain. I closed my eyes as tight as I could so I wouldn’t see the blood jumping out of me and onto the foliage that raced by. Not to mention its mouthless head that I could still see, clear as cursed crystal, with my eyes shut.

A leathery pyramid covered in more little eyes than I could count. A hundred locked on me in terrible laughter and scrutiny that stabbed my soul and made my ears bleed. A hundred more darting this way and that as if thrilled by the breakneck speed, charting our breakneck course up Arcineth.

It dumped me in front of the old grave-keeper.

It made me watch as he shook to his core, digging

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The Revenant: Redux up my grave and dragging my coffin from the cabin.

And it cursed me and buried me itself, for having the gall to imagine a future free from the astral shackle.

I gritted my teeth, remembering how I starved.

How I bled from the gashes on my skin, broke my knuckles on the lid of my box. How they had the gall to rip our lives from us. And how I had succumbed to nothingness, my anger just a futile dream.

I didn’t question why I was alive now.

No. I knew.

I screamed and pushed at the coffin top with all of my strength. My arms raged. I believed in all my heart that I would lift the insurmountable weight above me.

But I was feeble.

A husk. A shell of a priest that already lacked the makings of a fighter.

I closed my eyes and clenched my fists. I asked Gaia, why? Why do I live? Just to starve and perish again?

But I felt no hunger in my stomach.

No. I felt full. More than I’d ever been.

I calmed myself. Centered my soul. And above me, in the darkness beneath my eyelids, the star returned.

I reached out for it, placing my palms against the ceiling, and it came closer.

Closer.

Closer.

Once again it exploded into an infinite kaleidoscope. My hands buzzed with lightning and razors, and my eyes shot open.

The inside of the coffin was illuminated, dancing with geometric patterns that bounced from wall to wall.

A psychal energy coursed through me. I took a deep breath. I exhaled, willing this energy from my palms. I was blinded. The wood cracked, then shattered above me as endless fractals surged upwards and pierced the surface.

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Art by Grace Tongnobhakun Air rushed down towards me and I saw the bleary cursed sky before dirt buried me again.

But feeling that dirt on my face filled me with bottomless joy. I felt connected. Beyond. I could’ve lain there forever, one with the earth. But she rose me for a reason.

So I dug. I dug for my life until my hand emerged from the dirt. Gaia fell from me as I pulled the rest of my body from her skin.

The grave keeper watched me in awe as I looked up at the dismal sky, rumbling in a storm of jinxes that had lasted for a decade.

Left and right, at the triplet forested mountainsides, swaying in the rising wind: Arcineth, Merkinnia, and Versillene. And straight ahead, to the east, at the golden Dodecagram Palace at the foot of the mountain, where the devil sat and indulged in the fruits of the mortal world.

Surrounding the twinkling palace was a sprawling, rotting village. I grew up down there. In those brighter days when beings were permitted to dream.

Even further east, beyond the devil’s estate, was the sea, crashing violently with malicious tides. One would find it hard to believe, but this land was once a paradise. Edellith. Cradled by three mountains and the ocean. Where mortals and spirits lived in harmony.

The grave keeper dropped to his knees, crying and apologizing. I raised a hand to absolve him.

He noticed my wounds and tattered clothing and ran for his cabin, muttering some amazement.

When he came back he was holding a long brown cloak in his hands.

“Please, sir. Take this!” he said.

I nodded and took it. I wrapped it around myself, raised the hood over my head and tied the string around my neck tight. I knew I was a ghastly sight. Skin and bones moving on something beyond the mind of man.

“Shall I dress your injuries?” he began again,

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The Revenant: Redux

“what was that! W-What are you?”

I shook my head; I needed to get to work.

I reoriented myself with my surroundings. Yes, the stone cathedral is that way. North, beyond the dihedral, buried in the face of the mountain.

I put a hand on the grave keeper's shoulder as I walked past him. His words ceased and he watched silently as I disappeared into the forest.

He rubbed his eyes and looked back at the pile of dirt that was my grave.

A dream?

Yes. One materialized in the physical world by metaphysical impetus.

A revenant?

Yes. Will, risen from the other side.

A phantom in the night.

The world was heavy with fear. Owls watched me silently. Animals shook with nightmares in their burrows and tree trunks.

Yet I arrived at the high-reaching stone doors without any trouble. Two twenty foot high blocks of rock with thin rectangular glassless windows, embedded in the face of a cliff, carved with ornate designs of nature. Vines and leaves, rabbits and birds, serpents and personified winds. None dared to stand before the Cathedral of Korvenna, mockingly named after our noble saint. Now the tomb of salvation, of the light, where the future was written away. No one could even open it. Another mockery on the necks of the earth's children. A Herculean door to the light with no hero to open it.

I could. For this and more, I was risen. Here, was the true first step. I raised a hand, aiming my palm at the slit between the two doors. A deep breath with the star-crossed wind clawing at my back against my cloak, and an exhale that brought the chromatic fractals back again. My cloak rustled as I pushed the energy forward against the doors.

This was something beyond strength.

The doors thunderously groaned open, and the aperture whistled as the winds ran inside.

I followed them, stepping into the stone cathedral.

The hollowed out mountainside was dark, spare the moonlight falling through the doors and the eternal blue flame dancing in the hearth at the back. There were thirty-seven rows of stone benches

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behind the silver altar that reflected the blue flame.

Atop this altar lay an unfurled scroll, oozing with malice.

I walked down the aisle, pushed by the gusts, no doubt Gaia's wishes piercing through the veil of sleep. I will wake you, Mother. I will make this right.

I took hold of the scroll and looked it over.

Writing writhed and wiggled across the paper like worms and snakes. Words I couldn’t understand danced through my head and made me sick. The devil’s seal that tore away the heartbeat from our world, and cursed Gaia, and the spirits, to unending slumber, blanketing the world in a bleakest chill.

I ripped my eyes away from the parasitic scrawl, burrowing into my mind and dulling my connection with demonic verses.

I remembered everything. The sun on my skin, the flowers blooming as far as the eye can see in the spring, the animals singing and dancing with mankind in harmony.

I rounded the altar and stared into the azure flames. I shivered from the cold it emitted. My cloak waved and rippled across my thin frame, dancing a crowing dance. And I listened. For I want what they want. I am risen for them.

I casted the scroll into the fire. I listened to its innumerable shrill screams as the flames raged.

I watched the corners begin to darken, followed by words here and there bursting and bleeding out.

Behind me, at the entrance of the cathedral, space churned. The air spun and ripped. A demon was here, called forth by the cries.

I turned not.

The words that came forth resonated through the air as if it was water. In language that scratched at my ears before becoming my own tongue.

“Just how did you get in here?” It asked. I didn’t reply. It exited the churning space and hovered up and down, defying the physics that tethered beings to the earth. It looked like a mockery of human form. A face like the mimicry on a butterfly’s wings. A tiny torso with long limbs that were wispy at the edges.

As I did not speak, it continued. “No human can push open those doors.” I gritted my teeth at the scratching on my eardrums. “And not only that.

You’ve broken the greatest of taboos. Alas, it matters not if the contract is destroyed.

On Track to Alenfort by Areeza Abbasi

Fall 2025 | Volume II

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The Revenant: Redux

No human has ever killed a .”

I couldn’t understand what it called itself.

The word didn’t ripple into my language. It came as a mess of sounds and fell as a blank space in my mind.

It waited for me to respond. I gave no reaction.

Just watched the scroll burn away, weeping as it died. Spat on its ashes when it succumbed to nothingness.

It was angered by that. It pulled a scythe from the air like string from a spool.

“The punishment for this is death.”

It proclaimed.

I nodded. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

I raised a macilent hand in front of my face and felt the sacred geometry encircle the thing.

Confusion was the last sound it ever uttered as I scrunched my fingers.

The fractals converged upon it, crushing it to a mass of astral mush. I turned to watch it sink to the rocky ground and fade into the air.

I wanted to say something in that moment.

To proclaim my name, and state that I was the first to kill whatever wretched thing that was. But no name came to my consciousness. As if I had never carried one. I walked past where it had existed, swiftly beyond the thought.

For I was beyond such a thing as a name.

I am.

And I carry a mission.

Back outside the cathedral, in the clearing before the surrounding forest, I could already feel the energy of the world shifting. The dark rumbling clouds still blanketed forever across the sky, but something else had brightened beneath the seams.

Gaia was rousing. A subtle warmth beneath my feet.

I looked to my left, at one sister mountainside.

Versillene. Then right at Merkinnia. Torches wavered, illuminating both, carried by the snaking lines of people, hiking up to the mines and down to the bottom to drop off their tireless work. My jaw tightened and I clenched my fists. They were working us to extinction for things they needed not.

I would rid the earth of this scourge.

As if feeling my presence, the lines slowly began to stop. Heads turned to look at me. They were too far to hear, but I knew what they said in my heart.

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What is he doing over there?

Does he have a death wish?

Worry not, my beloved people.

For you will soon be free.

A gust sprinted from the forest, rustling across the grass before it caught my face. It caressed my jaw, caught all of my sunken contours, urging my attention to the left. I listened to the awoken spirit, letting it guide my turn, and I faced two more of the demons twenty feet away.

One was some amalgamation of arms mounted all across a man’s frame. The other was a being clad in silver, and its head was a vertically-opening crimson eye. They floated there, looking at the open stone doors behind me. Their disbelief was heavier than lead, and as they stared at me, their anger sent ripples through the veil.

A lump nearly took hold in my throat, remembering the power these things held. I felt uncertain in a two-on-one bout against creatures from beyond that no mortal could contend with.

One good hit and this body would be shattered–and I doubted I could rise again if I wasn’t in one piece.

But no.

I wasn’t anywhere close to alone.

I felt the zephyr at my shoulder, and it made me feel weightless. The grass and dirt beneath my feet filled me with life, and the eyes of the workers filled me with hope.

Just then, I noticed how still they were as well.

These demons. Through their uncanny, oscillating images, I recognized it. Uncertainty in the face of the unknown. Reckoning with the possibility of death.

I smelled rain on the snake-bitten breeze.

Lightning flashed, before thunder snapped at its tail a count too slow. Then the downpour came, drumming upon us. My cloak swelled as the zephyr danced around me, keeping me dry. The water that began to puddle around me rippled, jumped here and there. A simbi clawing for its will, desperate to help.

“Rest,” I whispered. “Gather your strength.”

The spirit listened. The life left the puddles.

The demon with countless arms all over its dark, effusing body lurched forward. I set my stance wider. I let one hand emerge from my cloak, hovering at my hip.

The Revenant: Redux

Come then.

Lay your false eminence bare.

It surged towards me with outstretched claws like it was on ice. I swung my arm, hurling a spear of sparkling fractals with all my bony weight. My energy ripped. My energy tore, as the demon met it straight on. My energy bore through the creature entirely and sailed into the distance, illuminating the watered tree tops.

The demon’s legs touched the ground just then.

Mere feet from me, it looked down at the gaping hole in its chest.

“How...” It uttered, scraping onto my eardrums, overpowering the rain. “What are you?” it asked.

I didn’t consider answering for even a moment; I made my move for the final blow and it did the same.

Twenty arms with razor sharp claws reaching towards me.

And one more spear.

Its head was rendered a cloud of dust as another javelin reached for the sky before bursting like a firework. The arms stopped and fell.

Smoke rose from its body. Another demon faded from the world.

The second demon, with the vertical crimson eye head and silver armor, had its arms crossed.

“I understand,” It said from a mouth I couldn’t see. It slowly drew its arms apart, revealing a long, shimmering silver sword it had tucked in some pocket of space. It flourished the blade before whipping it out to the side. The rain that fell upon the flat hissed and steamed back up to the crashing clouds.

Apprehension draws death.

So I struck first.

I hurled another spear, screaming to call forth strength from my gut. This attack was even greater than the last two. But the demon was gone, leaving not even a trace where it floated before. A tree groaned, splintered, and crashed on its side.

I felt the demon’s presence behind me.

The dread of it staring down my neck. I dove to the mud as it cleaved the air where my head was.

My heart nearly leapt from my chest.

The zephyr panicked too. It dragged me across the ground like a puppet on strings, smearing my cloak with sludge before picking me up and putting

me back on my feet.

“Easy now,” I said, shaking. “Work with me.

Not for me.”

The immediate wind calmed. It hung on my body like a drawn bow. And I stood, a spectral arrow.

The demon’s silver armor twinkled and clinked as it rushed towards me, lunging with its steaming blade. I dodged left, slipping around the point, light as a feather. And I countered, holding out my hand and attempting to encircle the demon with my energy.

Fractals scintillated, folding upon themselves endlessly as they curled around the creature.

I clenched my fist tight.

The divine geometry collapsed to a point.

I swore.

The demon was gone once again.

Something sang through the air. A sharp whistle. I spun around and leaned back. The tip of my nose jumped from my face. As easy as pappus leaves its dandelion.

It kept hold of the offensive, giving me not a moment to think as I dashed and dodged its whistling strokes. I expected to taste metal on my tongue when I grabbed my top lip with my teeth.

But no blood came.

The swipes were coming far too close. I was swift. Could change direction on a silver coin. But the demon was a fleet being as well, and extremely skilled above that. I had no chance to attack.

I dodged right and almost impaled myself. It read me. I dashed backwards and then made right– and it read me again. My back hit the stone doors of the cathedral and I realized I had been cornered like a hare.

The demon’s crimson iris head blinked, then narrowed at me in mockery. There were flames raging in that eye. Like hexed souls clawing from a burning sea.

It coasted towards me, slowly, staring down at me. Towering above me in the downpour, it raised its blade to the sky.

The world flashed.

Lightning fell from the clouds, a striking serpent that met the tip of the sword and blessed it with a coat of sparks.

I held two hands out to the side, imagining

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a weapon. Light scattered from my hands and geometry unfurled to a kaleidoscopic long sword.

The demon brought down its blade.

I screamed, swinging mine up to meet it.

The air warped. The winds cried.

CRACK Deafening thunder clapped, cascaded down the mountain, and shards of silver rained upon me.

The crimson eye was wide in disbelief.

Its shattered blade shook in its hand. Before it could utter a word, my blade was through its pupil.

The people on the other mountainsides cheered. For I, their champion, stood victorious.

I breathed heavily. My heart was still racing.

The demon’s armor laid in a pile on the grass.

And I looked to the golden palace, twinkling at the foot of the mountain like a bejeweled crown.

There wasn’t a moment to waste, and so I began my descent. ~ ~ ~ Now aware of my presence, demons assembled along my path.

I fought.

I travailed.

Through forest and over gurgling stream. Through the run-down village bereft of dreams.

Six more demons met me along my path, and six more demons fell.

I learned from them. Each of them was a means to explore my ability. Each malevolent creature rendered fleeting dust made me sharper and swelled my energy to greater heights.

Standing in front of those palace doors of solid gold, I knew I could win. I knew I would free the world. I took a deep breath, steeling myself before my venture. I knew it was waiting. That it could’ve come and met me at any moment of my journey down the mountain.

My mind did falter then. For I knew the devil worried not for deaths of its kin. That it existed miles of magnitude beyond them. That it could bury me again for good.

Thump.

Something landed by my feet.

I looked down at it, all twisted and stiff.

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A dead crow.

I followed its grim gaze up to the palace's gate tower, which pierced the sky like a spear. I wiped the rain from my eyes to see better, and the zephyr reupped its shielding.

A demon was perched atop the pointed turret, a shadowy silhouette, resonating against the rumbling clouds.

I waited for it to come down and die for that little jest. It just stayed up there, staring at me. I held its glowing eyes as I nudged the poor little bird with

Art by Kerbey Chevalier

The Revenant: Redux

my shoe. She twitched against the jumpstart from my magic. Her neck twisted back into position and she got back to her feet. She cawed, nestled against my ankle, and took off flying for her nest.

Seeing that, the demon stood. I prepared to attack.

The wretched thing stepped from its perch, and floated for a moment before flying off into the distance. East. Bound for the sea.

I didn’t worry. For they would all soon depart from the earth.

I raised a hand to the golden doors and willed my energy forward. They screeched open, wailing like the anguished and damned.

I stepped inside.

The main hall extended about a hundred meters, hard tile blanketed with red velvet.

Columns holding blue flame lanterns reached up to the lofty ceiling every ten meters, alternating between gold and silver. Each was uniquely designed, with dragons and snakes, gargoyles and birds. I gritted my teeth as I passed the ones with people encased upon them.

I was tense. Besides the rain hammering on the walls, everything was far too quiet. I reached the end of the hall and pushed open the next set of doors, preemptively forming a spear of fractals.

Still, nothing was there, so I let the weapon hover at my shoulder. A grand violet-carpeted staircase swept up the room before me, leading to the throne room.

The sheer luxury of the place disgusted me. The steps were too large for any human, and I had to climb them with my hands, pushed by the friendly wind all the while. After a laborious effort, I reached the top and stood in front of the throne room doors. They were emblazoned with the same demonic language from the sealing contract.

Chants that the mind couldn’t read, yet rattled the soul’s intuition.

I gave myself not a moment to harbour second thoughts. I forced the doors open…

It was there, sitting on its throne of ivory and platinum.

The devil armored in gold.

Its pyramidal head was inclined up to the glass ceiling, watching the rain fall into waves that raced for the ground. Moonlight and cerulean lantern fire

was pushed and swayed by the rain, draping the devil eerily. It fell upon the devil’s miasma of vitriol and went slow as honey, sliding down its effigy and golden armor, a hazy shroud.

It looked down at me with its endless gaze and chills permeated through my skin to my core.

Hundreds of little eyes across its leathery head locked on me in terrible scrutiny.

I stepped into the throne room and the doors shut behind me. Before I could speak, I started to hear things. Whispers from every direction, burrowing into my skull. Demonic scrawl was writhing across the walls. Lines snapping at lines.

Stanzas swallowing stanzas before bursting to battle again.

I knew not how the devil sealed away the world’s heartbeat. But I knew I stood within another contract, waiting to be stamped.

“Hello, priest,” It boomed, shaking the room with its metaphysical vocal chords. “...”

It raised its arms out to its sides.

“You live. You have risen.”

“I have,” I agreed. “From the coffin you buried me in, to put you to a deserved rest.”

Its countless eyes narrowed, a hundred vulpine grins with no lips. “Still so ardent. No doubt why you were chosen,” It said, pounding against my eardrums. “You, are Gaia’s final wish, her last arrow shot into the dark. You’ve done well, I must admit.

I thought they’d kill you. But human. Oh, human.

Swallow your pride. Abandon your rectitude.

For truly I tell you, for all the magnitudes of might that you stand and trial above your kin, I sleep, unmoved, upon the prowess of my own.”

“You suggest I run in fear?”

It rose, levitating from its throne. A long, flexible tail waved behind it, ending with a razor sharp spade. It rumbled with an intense passion, “No, human. No. No. No… I want this. I need it.

To tear you limb from limb. To squander the final dream. To wield your glimmering soul and pierce it through her rousing heart. You, are my dream.

You, are my final victory. I thank you, for delivering me the world I was cast away from. For delivering me the means to snuff out that deceitful light, eternal. I thank you.”

I swallowed. I kept my face stolid,

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but I shook, reckoning with my thoughts. I stood in a calculated cage.

If I lost, would I feel it as the devil brandished my soul and slayed the world? Would my anima be at its hip forever, as a trophy to the revenge it carried out? I wish I knew the story. Where it all went so terribly wrong.

No. The story matters not. I stand champion now.

I am their dreams. I am her final wish. I am the last arrow from the astral quiver, fired into the harrowing dark.

I am!

I widened my stance. I let a hand emerge from my cloak.

“Come then, creature. I wish to see it. A pitiful demonstration of how you fell in the first place.

Show me the feeble magnitudes you speak of.

Splutter. Rage. And then, let your fruitless tale be forgotten again.”

It scoffed. And I wished to look upon its unsightly visage no more. I wished to hear its nightmarish voice no more. I could wait no longer. The zephyr swirled around me, for it too could wait no longer.

Apprehension draws death.

The end starts now.

I hurled the spectral javelin at my shoulder.

It zipped towards the demon.

It raised its right hand and swatted the projectile, backhand, shattering the spear.

Never had a demon done such a thing during my battles. I paused for a moment.

The devil folded into the air. It reappeared directly in front of me with crossed arms.

It swung its tail with a whistling strike and I created a geometric shield to block it.

I barely finished making the construct in time.

The tail struck it a split second after, shattering it into sparkling, formless energy. The force was immense–I was launched across the floor.

I flipped, tumbled, and slid until I hit a golden pillar.

I blasted to my feet with the help of the zephyr, and once again, the demon was right there in front of me. The tail waved like a patient viper before shooting down at me, as swift as lightning.

I jumped, fractals and wind blasted from my legs. I sailed into the air as the spade pierced clean

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through the golden pillar. Flipping and flailing, I had to remember to shut off the release of my energy.

I nearly hit the glass ceiling.

My stomach leaped as I began to fall back towards the floor. The zephyr caught me with a soft cushion of air that spun me back to my feet.

I was endlessly grateful to the spirit.

Dying from a fall would’ve been a disappointing end.

My blood was as cold as ice. Every hair across my insubstantial frame was standing on end.

And the devil was laughing at me with all those little eyes.

I shot out a hand and formed a prismatic slab above it. I slammed it down and the demon met it with a golden gauntlet, shattering another of my attacks.

Was I truly so incredibly weak?

I held both of my hands out to the side and a phantasmagorical long sword extended from my grasp.

The devil’s eyes shot round, wildly accepting the challenge. It sped towards me and I ran towards it.

The tail came forward, swiftly.

I swung my blade to bisect it.

Slpp My brand shattered not. The demon and I passed each other.

I turned to face it again. And there came the pain, raging like I never thought possible. I looked down at my blade. My right hand was still tightly held onto the kaleidoscopic handle, but it had left my arm, clean as can be.

I grinded my teeth together and held back my screams. I didn’t bleed. My flesh and bone twinkled under skin, dark like night.

“First blood,” the devil declared. “Tell me.

How feeble is my prowess?”

I started to back away. I let the blade disappear.

I began to try and pick up my hand to attempt to reattach it, but the appendage withered to ash on the floor, cursed.

“Do you understand?” It shook the room.

“Kneel and I’ll make it quick.” It waited for a moment, observing me holding my glinting arm.

“And I want you to thank me.”

“Thank you for what, creature?” I muttered.

“For giving mankind language. For giving

The Revenant: Redux

mankind fire. For giving mankind the concept of a fight.”

I was reminded of an old tale just then.

One I hadn’t heard since I was a child, of a being bestowing those very things.

It was a cautionary tale with an unhappy end.

And no gift given generations ago in good faith requires repayment.

“I thank you for nothing. You can make my body kneel if you manage to kill me,” I declared.

The devil's pyramidal head rose and it laughed thunderously. “If I manage?” It raised its hands and they began to glow blue. “Very well. I’ll make it slow.”

It thrust its palms forward and a wall of azure flames curled towards me. I made a wall of fractals to block it.

Scarlet by Hannah Rocha Leclere

The friendly wind swept in front of me to help.

The flames reached me quickly and clashed against my defenses. This was a different flame, like the one dancing in the cathedral's hearth. Fire that raged colder than ice, yet burned all the same.

It was laborious to breathe. The frost burn clawed at me, charring my cloak. It bit at my throat and lungs.

My wall of energy was giving. The zephyr too was losing strength. I looked up, squinting through the lethal light. I raised my remaining hand.

One last try.

One last idea to give me one last chance to win.

I fired my energy up to the ceiling and the glass cracked. The rain came down harder and harder, until it collapsed the ceiling entirely, bringing shards of glass raining upon us. I had never seen

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The Revenant: Redux

such a torrential downpour. The sky was falling down on us, and the flames receded back to the devil’s palms.

The water was already halfway up my shins, and there was life in it. The simbi, now raring with energy, sent waves rising and crashing against the demon, pushing it side to side unsteadily.

By then, I had accepted it. What I had to do for them. This chromatic, ethereal energy held me at my core, my tether to the realm. It was my blood.

It was my life. And I would use everything.

For a greater future.

For a flourishing world.

I let my arms fall to my sides, and I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath, visualizing that star of infinite ethereal light, and it shimmered into my mind’s eye. I exhaled, then inhaled again, willing it within me, then down to my gut. I started to glow all colors of the visible spectrum. First incredibly dim, then so bright that when I opened my eyes, the whole room was filled with my effulgence.

The devil shielded its eyes from the antithetical light with one arm and smacked away a wave with the other. It shot its tail at me and it was deflected.

The zephyr caressed me with a breezy embrace, knowing what was coming.

The simbi, now up past my knees, massaged my legs and splashed my face playfully, wishing me happy final moments.

Though I appreciated it, I needed no solace.

For this, I was risen.

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Live free.

For the world is yours.

My energy swelled to a fever pitch. I was a star, filling the world with divine light. I stood, the final spectral arrow. And I gratefully fired my soul into the da— When the sun shines above us, bathing us in warmth, we know who to thank. When the spirits aid our work and play with our children, we know who to thank. When we sing with the birds and swim with the serpents, we know who to thank.

For we saw him emerge from the stone Cathedral of Korvenna. We saw him slay two demons without a drop of fear before disappearing into the forest. And we saw the terrible palace of gold become a blazing star that burst and parted the unending cursed storm.

Yes. I was there, truly. We descended the mountain as morning light filled the world. The demons were gone, disappeared, with their anchor to the world defeated. And we found him there, on his back in a clearing of the rubble. Skin like night.

Shriveled and thin as a rake. Painted on his face, an indescribable peace.

I was one of the people who carried him. We carried him to the summit of the highest mountain.

The awoken zephyrs kept us warm. We bore a promise upon our hearts as we buried him and built his monument.

We will never forget our hero.

We will never forget our Revenant.

Staring into the Void by Areeza Abbasi

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Galaxy Cats by Marian Claros Barrientos

The Forge Grows...

F

rom the burning cores of black holes to the murky depths of the sea, The Forge presents worlds of magic, mystery, and

scientific wonder within the genres of science fiction and fantasy.

This collection of poetry, flash fiction, short stories, and artwork is created by dedicated students at George Mason University, where there is no shortage of fantastical work to be found! Readers will travel through different characters and quests to gather fame, misfortune, or defeat an old evil.

The Forge provides a creative platform for writers, editors,

artists, designers, and readers to share their love for speculative fiction. This magazine celebrates human imagination and is a way to both leave reality behind—and challenge it.

Follow the journey of The Forge: forge.studentmedia.gmu.edu @theforgegmu @TheForgeGMU @theforgegmu

studentmedia.gmu.edu

Thanks for reading!