The CyberForge - Spring 2021

Spring 2021 |

Volume I

The Digital Edition of The Forge

Spring 2021

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Volume I

Microfiction The Last Bit of Life by Joseph Mauceri................................................... 8 Admiration by Alex Wright......................................................................... 9 Fang by Joseph Mauceri............................................................................... 11 Liar by Joseph Mauceri................................................................................ 13 Just an Average Day for the Demon Lord by J. Mauceri......................... 15 Boiled Ocean by Joseph Mauceri................................................................. 18 Changeling by Victoria Mendoza................................................................ 20

Short Stories Cedwinr by Victoria Mendoza..................................................................... 22 Life and Her Teacher by Alex Wright ....................................................... 25 The Sacrifice by Kaitlin Swanton............................................................... 28 The Hoard by Eli Vandegrift....................................................................... 33 A Visit to Olympus by Joseph Mauceri ...................................................... 36 Suburbia by Alex Wright............................................................................. 38 Momento Somnus by Victoria Mendoza..................................................... 40 Drifting by Victoria Mendoza..................................................................... 44

Poetry The Truth is Dark Under Your Eyelids by Victoria Mendoza................ 48 The Valkyries’ Chosen by Ethan H. Reynolds............................................ 50 Sundown Town by Julie Tran..................................................................... 52 The Warrior Poet by Ethan H. Reynolds................................................... 54

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TABLE OF CONTENTS (CONT.)

Volume I

Tabletop Roleplaying Games Violet Dreams by Ethan H. Reynolds......................................................... 56 BioHazard: Pocket Edition by Ethan H. Reynolds................................... 58 Superkiller by Ethan H. Reynolds............................................................... 60

Art Section Arduous-6 and Zavo by Adam Frank......................................................... 62 Ba Trieu by Taylor Dinh ............................................................................ 64 Gravity by Favour Nwagu........................................................................... 66 Seeking Vengeance by Sally Soto................................................................. 68

Submit to our magazine at:

theforgegmu@gmail.com

Letter to the Reader This is your Captain speaking their final message:

What a wild, wild ride this year has been.

Hi everyone, Ethan here, and welcome to The CyberForge, our fully digital edition of The Forge! You’ll notice that there’s somehing special about the CyberForge as well from the cover; we are in full color! Now you can see some amazing artwork and graphics in The CyberForge like you never would in print!

In The CyberForge, you’ll find all the usual suspects, like microfiction, short stories and poetry, but there are some added sections to this issue! There is a Tabletop Roleplaying Game section filled with three fully playable games for you to play (and modify if the rules are vague or are not your fancy) with your friends! There is also a fullfledged art section filled with amazing, colorful artwork that you will not want to miss.

To keep this short and sweet, this is the last issue that I will be working on with The Forge. It has been the most fun, most educational, and most heartwearming experience I have ever had being Editor-in-Chief of this magazine, and that was because of my awe-inspiring fellowship of wonderful staff, my loving and supportive family, and you, yes you, the reader of this message. All of you made my dreams come true, and I cannot be more thankful.

So, there you have it. You’ve got all the info you need to know before you delve into The CyberForge. For now, I’ll be leaving the ship to whoever wants to command it, and I’ll be back to being a reader just like you. So, sit back, relax, and delve into the sprawling cityscape of neon that is...

The CyberForge.

— Ethan H. Reynolds, Editor-in-Chief

Our Beloved Staff EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Ethan H. Reynolds MANAGING EDITOR

Kaitlin Swanton ART DIRECTOR / COVER ARTIST

James Gray WEB TEAM

Henry Fisher ARTISTS

Norbert Barrion Donna Tran Sally Soto Taylor Dinh Favour Nwagu Adam Frank STAFF WRITERS

Victoria Mendoza Joseph Mauceri Eli Vandegrift Alex Wright EDITORS

Julie Tran Carolyn Klein Garret Kearns

Levi, the cyberforge mascot

By James Gray

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the last bit of life By: Joseph Mauceri

When the last of humanity has been wiped out. When all the animals have succumbed to ruin. When the last bit of bacteria has been completely eradicated. When the sun has scorched the earth clean. The last bit of life within this solar system will not rest within Earth. It will rest on Titan.

The moon of Saturn, so stagnant and intriguing. The ice is its rock, where the frigid temperatures freeze ice into stone. Methane is its water, where it rains once every 1000 years.

Earth will be devoured by the sun. Titan will begin to warm.

The methane will evaporate, going into the atmosphere. The ice will begin to melt, freed from its icy prison. Whether it was brought to

Titan by a comet or laid dormant on the moon all along, life will take root.

Single-celled organisms will multiply rapidly, becoming colonies, becoming plants and animals. Perhaps what will come will be like what once lived on Earth. Perhaps it will be something completely different. Will the wolf make a resurgence?

For the next few million years, before the sun finally dies, while the largest moon of Saturn becomes a world, the last vestiges of life in the solar system will rest on Titan.

Will intelligent life rule the solar system once again? And if so, will they make the same mistakes we did?

Artwork by James Gray

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admiration By: Alex Wright

Sir Ainsley Stonecaste of Naporia was a proud man. He was a proud man because he had much to be proud of! You see, Sir Ainsley was a castle builder. He had built castles, fortresses, and even a few palaces far and wide.

He was famous for designing the keep which kept King Forells guards. He Painstakingly laid the foundation for Queen Ja’Mrins extravagant tower. He himself dug the moat surrounding Duke Irleas’ motte. He even laid the stone and the brick for each and every palace within fifty miles.

He was knighted by the king for his deed, gifted many treasures from the queen and

promised support of the dukes army in time of need. Yet, for all of this Sir Ainsley did not live lavishly. His hut was wooden, his bed made of straw and feathers. He ate just like any other peasant. Why? He did not strive to live as royalty does, for royalty is admired only by the people they rule. No, Sir Ainsley was not content with the life of royalty for he did not live for the admiration of his peers. He lived for the admiration of kings. Of queens. Dukes and duchesses.

Royalty does not admire other royalty.

Face to face, they share pleasantries but in separate rooms, they scheme against one

Artwork by Vintage Illustrations

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another; loathe one another. To live as they do would be to catch their ire. No, Sir Ainsley was smarter than that. He built them their security and he built it well. They admired his work. They admired him. In this way, he was content.

So, imagine his surprise when he finds himself in a stone cell, that he himself built, in a crumbling castle. He stares out of his iron bars to the guards surrounding duke Irleas. The Duke glares at him in contempt.

The motte that was the foundation for his castle had eroded astonishingly fast.The dried marshland was made whole once again with the addition of the moat and the motte sank and eroded away. The castle atop crumbled.

This issue was one that Sir Ainsley could fix, given time, but Queen Ja’Mrins had decided to take the land from the Duke with support from King Forells. The Duke, unable to get word to his own King and with no castle to protect him, was defeated quickly. He fled to his old fortress on the outskirts of his land and attempted a counter attack on his enemies.

The Queen and King alike enjoyed the safety of Sir Ainsley’s work and the counter attacks failed. The Duke assumed Ainsley, a knight of a neighboring nation, to be the catalyst of this destruction. He summoned Sir Ainsley to his fortress and here he stays, neither living like royalty nor peasant, but as a prisoner.

The architect is left to sit and contemplate his time among Kings and Queens.

Those who have admired him, have also abandoned him. No one needs a master architect when the building is complete.

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FANG By: Joseph Mauceri

“Demon!” “Animal!” “Beast!” “Monster!”

Those were just some of the words used to describe Fang by those who lived and worked at the orphanage. Even those who visited him to see if they wanted to adopt him, with the highest of hopes, would find themselves terrified of the young boy after only a few minutes.

There was nothing truly remarkable about the boy. Aside from his sharp teeth and white hair, he truly looked like an ordinary 8-yearold. He played, he laughed, he slept, he did everything a normal child would do, albeit, never with any other children. The only thing he wouldn’t do, was talk.

“Fang…” the houseparent said timidly, the door barely open so that she could see the young boy sitting on his bed. “You have a visitor.”

Fang looked at the door out of the corner of his eye. The houseparent immediately closed the door, letting out a brief yelp as she did so. Fang simply rolled his eyes, hopping off of his bed. After walking out the door, the houseparent had already fled the scene. It didn’t matter to him though; he had done this so many times before he knew exactly what to do. He walked down the hall to the room he always conducted his interviews in.

His “prospective parent” was already set in the chair opposite of Fang’s designated seat at the table. He walked over to his own chair and planted himself in it. He stared at the man across from the table. He couldn’t help but

notice the strangeness of the situation. It was only the man, no other spouse.

“Hello Fang,” the man said, “it’s very exciting to meet you.”

Fang just stared at him, his eerie and emotionless gaze alone had scared off so many couples before. However, the calm and collected smile of the man before him did not waver in the slightest. Fang would need to start using more extraneous methods to drive this one away.

Artwork by Norbert Barrion

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“I’ve heard a lot about you from the people that work here,” the man continued. “They dress up their words and make you seem nicer so that they can get rid of you, but I see through their façade. Fortunately, that only made me more interested in you.”

Fang’s gaze did not change.

“I’ve done a lot of independent research on you. If I’m not mistaken you arrived here two-and-a-half years ago. Were you always so quiet? Or was it just since you came to the orphanage?”

Fang’s gaze did not change.

The man sighed before continuing. “It’s a little hard to have a dialogue between us.

Or should I talk to your friend sneaking up behind me?”

At this, Fang’s eyes widened.

The boy’s head turned to meet the gaze of his only friend, the strange, green creature floating behind him with the intent to strangle the man. It wouldn’t be the first time he had tried to attack someone, but it was certainly the first time that anyone had actually seen it.

“I suppose you didn’t enjoy me digging up your background like that, but I hope you understand that it was nothing personal. You intrigue me Fang Varanus.”

Fang’s gaze softened. He looked at his friend, who floated back over to Fang with no protest.

“What’s your friend’s name?” asked the man.

Fang swallowed. “His name’s Delta.” It was hard to croak out the first words he had spoken in over two years.

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liar By: Joseph Mauceri

He regained consciousness strapped to a chair, soaking wet. The sudden event left him panting and gasping for air. He looked around wildly before his eyes zeroed in on a man standing not ten feet away from him, a wooden bucket in his hand. The stranger dropped the bucket as if he had been caught doing something wrong.

“Good,” the stranger began, “you’re awake.”

“Who the hell are you?” The man managed to get out, his breathing finally calming down.

“Oh, my name doesn’t matter.” The stranger began taking off his suit jacket while walking over to a coat rack. “You’re a hard man to track down Seamus. I guess that’s what hackers are good at, but everyone leaves their fingerprints somewhere. You just have to know where to look.” The stranger finished taking off his coat and hung it on the rack. He began unbuttoning his dress shirt next.

“So, if you know who I am you know who my father is,” Seamus said, “you should know this is a bad idea.”

“Oh Seamus, Seamus, Seamus,” the stranger continued, “I’ve never had a good idea in my life. Just bad ideas and terrible ideas.” By this point he was topless. He turned back towards Seamus and walked over to him. “This is probably the worst one I’ve had yet.”

The stranger put his foot on the side of the chair and leaned over Seamus. He stared into his eyes, a massive grin on his face, mere inches away. Seamus didn’t know what to expect. His

Artwork by Donna Tran

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eyes darted around the room, hoping for a way to get out. He was close enough to kiss him.

“What do you want from me?” asked Seamus, his words shaking.

“Not what you think I want,” the stranger responded. “I want you to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“That your actions have consequences!”

The sudden shout caused Seamus to lean backwards in the chair. He would’ve fallen if the stranger hadn’t stopped him. He began to laugh. “My you are a jumpy one. But in all seriousness, you screwed up my life.

“Only a month ago, I was spending time with some of my friends. We were minding our own business, when suddenly, my boss rolled up on the strange and clocked me over the head with a metal baseball bat. He asked me what I had done with his money. I said I had no idea what he was talking about. Then he hit me again. It was not a fun day. He told me to get his money back by the end of the week or else I was a dead man.

“Turns out, the exact same time I received a payment from another client, you hacked my boss’s bank account and transferred an identical amount of cash to yourself. The coincidence was astronomical. Of course, it took me three weeks to figure that out and by then I had already paid off my boss.

“So, Seamus, I want you to apologize to your dad for robbing him and then framing me for it.”

Seamus sat still for a moment. Utterly shocked. But his face soon turned to one of defiance. “You can’t prove anything. And as soon as my father finds out you locked me up here, you’ll be sorry!”

“Oh, that’s right!” the stranger interjected, “I never really introduced myself, did I? I assumed you would know who I was, especially since I knew you and all.”

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Shadows flew off from the stranger’s body, launching into Seamus’ mouth. His jaw was pried wide open with a soft crack as it was pulled farther than physically possible. The stranger walked over to Seamus, sticking his hand into his mouth and stretched out his tongue. A small, black blade formed in his other hand as he pressed it down upon Seamus’ tongue.

“They call me the Boogeyman, and my specialty is teaching brats like you a lesson.”

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just an average day for the demon lord By: Joseph Mauceri

A banging sound resounded throughout the entire castle, rousing its master from his slumber. “Cade!” the master shouted, still groggy as he rolled out of his bed and onto the floor. “Ow! Cade! Where are you!”

The figure of a tall man, with long, golden hair and wide-rimmed glasses, appeared out of thin air next to their master. They patted down their white and turquoise cloak, as if to

iron out any wrinkles. They seemed groggy themselves.

“Yes, master?”

“What is that incessant banging?” the master answered.

The servant pushed up their glasses from sliding down. “It appears as though some of the nearby townsfolk have started a revolt.

They’re currently trying to break down the

Artwork by James Gray

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door with a wooden battering ram.”

“Wood?” The master got to his feet, waddling over to his dresser to take out a long robe. “This castle is made of Blackrock. They should know that a simple battering ram won’t break it down.”

“No sir, but it is rather annoying.” The servant’s eyes suddenly transformed from pale blue with a white backdrop, to red with a black one. “Would you like me to take care of them for you?”

“Cade, why do you always feel the need to resort to murder?”

“I apologize, master.” The servant’s eyes returned to their original color.

“Just take me to the front gate.”

“Right away, master.” He placed his hand on his master’s shoulder, and the two disappeared in the blink of an eye.

The act of everything around you blurring and shifting as you suddenly appear somewhere else would ordinarily be a little jarring, at least to a normal person, but the master had taken part in this method of transportation so many times, that the initial nausea he felt no longer occurred.

They were behind the crowd, the banging now combined with the sounds of men and women shouting and the crackling of flames on torches.

The master turned to his servant. “You can go ahead back in—this’ll only take a second.”

The servant nodded his head and disappeared.

The crowd still hadn’t even noticed the master’s presence. They were too focused on breaking down his door. He sighed at their ineptitude. “Time to get their attention.” And he released his power.

It washed over the mob with the strength of a wave, but the gentleness of a mist. They froze in place from the strength of the evil

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energy, the only sound now being the crackling of torch flames and one more thud as the mob dropped the battering ram.

They all slowly turned towards the source of their dread, practically in unison, to the see the figure of a tall man in a black robe, with a calm smile on his face.

“Hello,” he said, the dread the mob felt suddenly being alleviated. “What’re you doing here tonight?”

The mob shuffled uncomfortably. A few murmured. Obviously, they hadn’t thought this through.

“We’re here,” one called, “to stop you!”

“Yeah!” a few others agreed.

“Stop me from doing what?”

More murmurs.

“From taking over the world!”

“Yeah!” More agreeing. One person even clapped.

“From taking over the world?” the master repeated. “I’ve been here two weeks—you don’t think I could’ve done that already?”

The mumbling continued but was even quieter than before.

“It doesn’t matter!” a third voice called, “You’ve hurt too many people! You must be held accountable!”

The master pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Look, I know I had to do some terrible things to get a body, but you try living as a vapor cloud that can’t smell, taste, or touch anything!”

The master took a moment to compose himself, taking in a few deep breaths. “For all the lies and deception I did, I’m sorry. For all the limbs Cade broke trying to resurrect me, I’m sorry. And for the very small number of actual deaths I caused, most of which weren’t actually good people to begin with, I’m sorry.

I wasn’t thinking straight. I’m not asking you to never form an angry mob to try and kill

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me again, I’m just asking that you don’t do it while I’m asleep. You’re not breaking through a Blackrock door with a tree. It’s just annoying and wakes me up. Do we have a deal?”

The crowd mumbled to themselves. They didn’t give him a straight answer, but quickly dispersed. The master began rubbing his eyes, walking back to his castle, still immensely tired, when he realized, there was one man that was still there. He carried no pitchfork or torches. Instead of the enraged or disgruntled look of the others, his was instead sad and dejected.

“Can I have my daughter back?” the man asked.

The master let out a sigh. With every bit of air that seemed to exit his lungs, the more he seemed to shrink. His short hair grew, falling down his back. In just a few more moments, the glamour charm he had placed on himself was lifted, and he took on the appearance of a little girl.

“Sure,” said the master, still with the deep, booming voice of his male form, “as long as you can find me a replacement host.”

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boiled ocean By: Joseph Mauceri

Carlton stood still as his oxygen tank was fastened to his back. It was large, holding enough air to keep him submerged for at least an hour. He always wondered why they kept the air tanks so full. They wouldn’t be submerged for nearly that much time.

“You’re all set,” said his assistant, moving on to the other diver standing right next to him.

“Thank you, Sirius,” Carlton responded, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Does it ever get easier?” the other diver asked. “I mean, salvage operations use to be dangerous, but never to this level.

“You should be less worried about whether or not this gets easier and be more focused on actually gathering supplies Drake,” Carlton replied, not even turning to look at his partner.

“Today we’re looking for food. And make sure it’s fresh. I don’t want you hauling back 100 pounds of rotting fish.”

“Oh come on,” the other diver replied, “you know me better than that. We’ve been family for ten years.”

“And yet this is our first time diving together. Whether you’re married to my sister or not, I’ll have your removed from the salvage detail if you screw up more than once.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The two divers walked to the hatch of the submarine. It was four times as large as a normal one, plenty big enough for two people to jump through.

“You’ve got twenty minutes before the

water begins boiling again,” Sirius said to them, “grab what you can, then get out!”

The duo nodded their heads and jumped into the ocean. *** They swam as fast as they could. It was hard with such a heavy load, but there was no time for excuses. They could feel the water heating up as they ascended. Their only hope for survival was their submarine, just out of reach.

Carlton was just ahead of Drake, hearing the timer beeping in his ear, beeping more and more with every second that passed. They had ten seconds left. The sub was 12 seconds away.

They would be boiled alive in two.

Carlton felt something touch the bottom of his feet and a strong push. He flew through the water, with enough force that he broke through the liquid’s surface through the hatch back into the sub, flying out and landing just next to the hole. Carlton laid on his back for a moment, looking to his side as he saw the water begin to bubble. He checked his watch, time was out.

He sighed a breath of relief.

“That was a close one Drake,” he said. He looked around when he heard no response.

“Drake?”

That’s when he saw it: his partner’s air tank. The boiling ocean had claimed another one of his friends.

Design by Ethan H. Reynolds

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changeling By: Victoria Mendoza

No one truly knows when a changeling has entered their lives. Not until it is too late, and the blood tithe has been paid. These things never do turn out neatly. Folks know this like they know how a storm blows. Most times, someone ends up bartering a wayward creature they’ve raised from the crib away for someone a bit more human. The Fair Folk chatter and call this the “human condition”—the yearning for something that looks like you, the revulsion and reverence for things that don’t. Such is the case with a girl named Mara.

The thing most folk don’t know about the circumstances of a changeling is that the changeling often times turns out more mundane than the child the Fair Ones spirited away on a cloud of dew and dream smoke. Mara was a muddy child, oftentimes traipsing about in the bog behind Mama’s backyard. It wasn’t until she grew into her buck teeth and her gangly arms that whispers started following her and the forest started sticking to her. Her mama tried to ignore the signs—as all mamas do—but when Mara grew into her gifts, there wasn’t much hiding her heritage.

Nothing much changes when one of the mundane folk find a Fair One in their midst.

There’s always the anger and misplaced betrayal. Most mamas—no matter how many scraped knees kissed nor nighttime hugs

given—most mamas look to the changeling with a kind of broken sneer. Like the changeling was the one to personally spirit the mortal babe to the realm of the Fair Folk and settle into the newly vacant crib. They’ll turn on the changeling quick enough, sometimes after a month’s time or, in Mara’s case, a mere week’s worth of bottled feelings.

Mara, as all changelings do, never truly knew what had changed between her mama and her. Just that she woke up in a ring of salt, an iron cleaver pressed against the paper skin of her throat and her mama’s hand gripping the handle.

The dangerous thing about changelings, the thing all mortals find out only when it is much too late, is that their gifts are never wielded with the fine control of a Kindly One that has grown surrounded by magic.

For changelings, their gifts are often unruly things, wielded with the finesse of a newborn.

So, when Mara’s mama had reached her wit’s limit and tried to bring the cleaver down on poor Mara’s throat, well. A changeling can gain entrance to the halls of the Fey with a payment of blood. It was just a simple trick for Mara—the forest’s creatures had always liked her, anyways. It was nothing at all to call up the snake. It was even less of an ordeal to command the willow tree to shoot a branch through her mama’s heart.

Artwork by Donna Tran

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cedwinr By: Victoria Mendoza

A trail of smoke trickles up to meet the dull blue-grey dawn blanketing the lake. Save for the crisp snap of the small fire Freya could afford, the world seems to hold its breath.

Scanning the surrounding forest, Freya sees nothing but a thick wall of evergreens with the occasional dull orange of turning leaves interspersed throughout. There is comfort to

Artwork by James Gray

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be had in witnessing a sleeping world, where even the ghouls and people of the frost, who dust the ground with snow and ice, are at rest.

No hunting foxes, no desperate badgers— bellies concave after a hard, unforgiving winter.

A puckish gust of frigid air runs across the back of her neck and stirs the fire, sending sparks up in a swirling eddy. The wind dances around the paltry campsite and Freya could almost believe that there were sprites in the flurry. Almost, if not for the fact that she had watched them die with everyone else. Any other day, Freya would curse at some lost god, damning the icy grip of the breeze. Today, Freya will be like the lambs she never had the patience to nurture. Today, Freya is lingering in every moment.

At the first bird’s song, trilling and sweet and just a bit haunting, Freya kicks rust-red sand over the dying embers and starts towards the spiny ridge of the mountains curved around the lake. The incline is steep and it doesn’t take long for a burning ache to race up Freya’s legs. What was once dulled by the shroud of morning mist awakens as the sun follows her ascent.

Muttering a hasty prayer to a longforgotten god of luck or small miracles, Freya heads towards the glittering peak of the mountain. It is only after she cuts the back of her hand on a particularly jagged branch that Freya slows down to appreciate the golden light streaming through the treetop. Stray snowflakes glittered through the air around her in swirling eddies. Looking around at the deep greens and vibrant oranges of the foliage, Freya tried to imagine the forest around her rustling with life again. A hungry, wanting hope bubbles from the pit of her stomach and she sets her jaw, starting up the mountain once more.

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Black sand litters the ground, coating the patches of land not yet overrun by vegetation.

Freya’s focus narrows until she can only see the few feet in front of her, urging her on towards the promise of a hidden savior. She climbs, determined, steadily reaching the heavens.

Even now, with the sun’s heat battering her back, and even with hours of distance between her and the early morning when all but the most determined gods sleep, Freya neither sees nor hears signs of life. Not much anyways. Not anything close enough to touch.

Every so often, there is a distant rumble that makes her think of the giants of the northern ice, slumbering away.

She climbs quicker, anticipation zipping up her spine in sharp bursts. The path ahead of her glints, onyx sparkling through the trees.

Freya pushes onward, buoyed by the shrinking distance. The curved peak of the mountaintop flies towards her, as if the ground beneath her was hoping for her success. She thinks, smugly, of her sister’s overwhelming joy when she’ll come home with a god. She imagines the feast.

Her mother’s tearful hug. Thorin, finally seeing her worth. She imagines, hopes, and anticipates all of this without paying attention to the fast-fading grass beneath her, until she is stopped short by the feeling one gets from almost falling unexpectedly. She looks around, surprised to find herself at the mountain’s peak, and is underwhelmed. For one, the ground up here is just as silent, just as still, as the one behind her was. For another thing, there is no god. No savior. Just Freya, the allencompassing sky, and a ground so smooth she can almost see her reflection. Her first thought, after the disappointment of a godless existence, is that the climb was all for naught and she is damned to have to go back down to journey back to her sparse village. Her second thought creeps up on her in the way that is

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so silent, so unnoticeable, that she’s afraid it had been there in the recess of her brain all along. Her second thought is that the ground, usually so level and forgiving, felt unnervingly slippery. Only then, once she allows herself to register the feeling of one foot involuntarily sliding away from the rest of her body, can she start to feel the fear.

The slick curve of the mountaintop allows for little purchase, lacking the neat little holes and jagged edges common among its kind.

Even with the threat of falling hovering over her shoulder blades, she wanders at the smooth cliff face and wonders how it curved outwards on all sides like a near-perfect sphere. There’s no distinct line, but Freya knows—like all dying animals do—that she is balanced on a precipice and losing time. A high, keening whine reverberates through her mind and fear skitters up her spine. In front of her there is oily, black obsidian—an unwelcome surprise. Behind her, a thin layer of moss and grit coats the ground. Slowly, she slides a foot back towards the safety of the silvered moss coating the ground. As she feels the blessed resistance of the moss beneath her, she lets out a shuddering exhale. Heart still racing, giddiness starts to creep through her veins, fizzy and more than welcome.

An explosive shriek sounds behind her as a crow bursts through the treetops, swooping past her for some unseen prey. She startles backward, choking on a gasp. Her left foot— the one anchored to the supporting grip of the moss—flies out behind her as she lands with a painful crack onto the damnably smooth obsidian. It happens slowly and all at once. Gravity’s hungry grip pulls her into a graceful arc down the curve of the mountain’s face. She twists, scrabbling for a grip on something—anything. A choked sob is ripped from her throat. She slips further down. One

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last desperate lunge towards safety leads to her smashing her chin. The first thing she registers is a deafening crunch and blurred vision. Then, pain—hot and electric—radiates from her jaw as the iron tang of blood floods her mouth.

With that, she falls.

Time slows, until it feels like she’s been plummeting for eons. The wind’s howl rushing past her becomes muted, dull. Her labored breaths drown out all other sounds and it is almost peaceful. Gaze tracing the deep black of what she’d thought was the mountaintop, she collects more details the further away she gets. This is the last thing she will ever see, so she will be gluttonous, devouring its image like a jealous lover.

A jagged fissure, to the left of where she slipped. The crack traces a lightning bolt down the protruding curve above two large, misshaped holes. Inky darkness peers out of them, and she imagines the depths watching her—bearing witness to her ending. Two smaller ones below them that are somewhat shattered. And teeth. Two rows of impossibly large, deep black teeth lining an open jaw, frozen mid-howl. Fear, animalistic and overwhelming, starts to flood her damaged nerves. Then, she lands in a painful heap on a slick palm, spine twisting, legs shattering, and shards of her body piercing itself. She doesn’t have the energy to grimace, much less the energy to shriek at the burning heat of her dying body. She looks up at the dead god, whose body is being reclaimed by the earth.

As her ragged gasps become fewer and far between, as her vision fills with swirling cosmos and a glittering promise of something her mind can’t fully hold just yet, as she stares down the remains of a once-great king, she can’t help but think that there is beauty in the unmaking of a god.

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life and her teacher By: Alex Wright

A giant sits at a grand stone table in what would otherwise be an unimpressive wooden home. The quick, heavy breaths escaping his long white beard suggests he’s tired. There is a low rumbling behind his large stone belt begging for a meal several days overdue. The open bay window to his left lets in a soft breeze which carries the comfort of the mountain air he’s come to enjoy. Before him is an empty mug. He shifts his attention to a clamoring in

the next room. Out walks a small gnome with skinny metal legs. Her right arm is covered by a large iron gauntlet and her left eye is a spherical crystal, partially encased in steel.

Various wires run across and under her loose

leather apron, which covers grease-stained clothes. In her left hand, she carries a tray with a teapot and a cup.

“So, you’ve come to my home after all this time and you won’t even teach me something new?” she asks. “Some god of knowledge you are.”

“Ha, it is good to see you, sister,” he responds.

She sets the tray down on the table, fills the giant’s mug before hers, and sits down on the chair across the table from him. She takes a sip of her tea and looks up at him. He studies her peculiar prosthetics and frowns.

“It was Bliss, wasn’t it?” he asks before finally picking up his steaming mug.

“Who else?” she replies, taking another quick sip.

“Quite fair,” he laughs. “You, too, have always had a bit of a rivalry, I suppose.”

“It comes with the job.”

The giant peers into the next room. From where he is sitting, he sees a lavish workshop filled with many metal skeletons, all in various stages of construction, and glowing crystals scattered around the room. Pulsating tubes run along the walls to a blue light deeper within the room. He makes out faces within the tubes.

Happy, sad, even terrified expressions flow through toward the blue light. The giant takes another sip of his tea.

“Tell me, Duella, why these metal creations and not flesh? Surely as the god of life you can reserve his actions.”

Design by Ethan H. Reynolds

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The gnome takes another sip from her cup and sighs.

“Life is a blessing,” she begins, “and one that I hold very dear. Yet, with that blessing there is a curse. Death. All must live through this cycle. Bliss holds death very dear to himself and decided to lay that curse upon me, as it is his nature. I cannot give life to what has died.

That goes against everything I stand for. Yet, like you, I cannot die. Not fully. Parts decayed, but I remained. Anything I did to bring them back would simply wither away by morning.

So, I adopted metal working and gave it life.”

“But, dearest sister, you know we can die. We are simply too stubborn to do it so willingly. That is why we have followers, who are learners of our craft, so that they may take up after us when we pass.”

“Oh Vakt, dearest brother, you are the teacher here. I simply do. Besides, Bliss would not allow for a new rival.

“And he has agency over you now?”

Duella laughs, sets her tea down, and drops a sugar cube in the cup. With a soft smile, she stirs it carefully and stares into the swirling liquid. She taps her spoon on the side of the cup to shake off excess water and sets it back down on the tray. She sits back in her chair and takes another sip.

“Well, what of you, brother?” she asks. “You were kept caged and tortured for millennia and yet here you sit at my table. Where were your students? Why did you not give in to his curse, hmm?”

“You know my students died out years ago. Surely you saw them come right through your tubes,” he replies, pointing to the next room. “And, as I said, we are stubborn. I am no exception.”

“Ah, do as I say, not as I do, hmm?”

“Maybe you are the teacher here. Not me,” Vakt laughs.

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“I am but a humble forger.”

“Yet you create life.”

“They can be one and the same.”

Vakt looks back to the workshop. The subtle pulsing of the crystals makes a breeze that catches his beard waving in a strange and pleasant dance. When the breeze dies off, his beard lies still. He takes another sip.

“Your new hobby has become your job?”

Duella smiles. She stands and rushes to the workshop. Vakt hears the rustling of metal scrap in a drawer. She comes rushing back to the table and sets down a small metal man, no more than five inches tall. She stands him upright and taps the tiny red crystal imbedded in its chest and it starts to glow. The little man springs to life. Its head darts around the room until it sees the giant sitting at the other end of the table. Its head rises to meet Vakt’s eyes.

It waves happily to him.

“I’ve been experimenting. Bliss can only decay flesh to steal souls. He has no power over metal. All I had to do was figure out how to make a soul work with a metal body.”

“Does it have a name?”

“I think his name was Arle in his past life as a servant.”

“So, no?”

Duella looks over at the giant, confused.

“Well, I suppose I would just call him Arle,” she says.

“You gave life to that which cannot have it naturally and didn’t even bother to disassociate the soul with its past life?” he asks, studying the tiny metal man. “Does that not go against what you believe in?”

“Metals are elements of the earth, brother.

I’m sure in your travels, you have spoken to earth elementals, yes? Do they not have life?”

“I suppose they do.”

“Then I stand by my beliefs. And don’t worry, these creations still die as normal,

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mostly. They have an internal clock built in— when it’s counted down, the unit opens and releases the soul back to me, naturally. He can’t abuse his powers to hoard these souls from me any longer. Names mean little in the grand scheme of things.”

“This all seems too impersonal, too mechanical, even if they are fully sentient.”

“That’s the point.”

“Is it? You talk of an abuse of power yet sit here toying with the idea of life itself as if it were your play-thing.”

“You dare walk into my domain after all this time and criticize me?”

“I’m saying this because I’m worried about you. There is no point to life if it’s set on a timer.”

“Sometimes I wonder if there’s even a point when there’s no timer at all,” she says.

“Perhaps death is the actual blessing here,” he replies.

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” Duella says as she forcefully sets her cup back down, spilling her tea a little. She stands from the table again, beckoning her little creation to follow her.

“I’m going back to work,” she says. “Your dinner will be ready shortly. Please do make yourself at home.” She walks toward her workshop and Vakt can feel the breeze blow through his beard again. He takes a deep breath.

“Sister,” he says, looking down at his emptied cup. She stops and turns to him. “You have become too attached to your creations.”

“Excuse me?” she begins.

“You have taken up the role of the god of life and the god of death. Life is not so simple that you can put it on a rail, pick it up when it falls off the end, and place it back at the start.

Souls are more aware than you give them credit for.”

“He makes them suffer, Vakt,” her voice

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quivers.

“As do you. You made diseases too, yes?”

“They are living creatures too.”

“Living creatures that thrive off the suffering of your other creations—man or animal. What of that cycle now that you’ve made man unkillable?”

“They’re better off. He was overstepping his role! Killing them personally, not simply collecting.”

“You’ve overstepped your role now. He’s made you break the cycle.”

Vakt stands from his chair and gingerly walks toward the little gnome like a frail old man. He leans down closer to her and reaches out with something between his thumb and index finger. She reaches to meet his hand and he places the little metal man in her palm. She stares at it with a long silence.

“Vetni,” she finally says. “His name is Vetni.”

“Ah, I did teach you something after all,” he smiles. “Now, I smell a roast that I must tend to.”

Vakt straightens out and shuffles to the kitchen next to the workshop. Duella stays behind and admires her work. Vetni stands within her palm and she picks curiously at the glowing red crystal within his chest. It begins pulsating, a quick flash which slowly subsides and repeats over and over, not unlike a heartbeat. She smiles and holds him closer to her as she walks over to the door frame and pops her head into the kitchen to witness Vakt bring the roast out of the fire.

“It was nice talking with you again. I’m glad you’re back.”

“Aye, glad to be back.”

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the sacrifice By: Kaitlin Swanton

They had warned me for weeks not to venture down to Ceto’s cave.

They said that if I came out alive, I would not be the same. Undead. Monster. She-beast.

I spat on the earth and said that it was we who would not be the same. Soon, we would be dead. I enunciated dead so it was two syllables, not one.

And so, I ventured down there anyway.

Now I see them screaming on our village grounds; my cold eyes leer into the distance at the smell of the enemy steaming from downwind pirate ships while I hunch over the hills above them all.

The enemy is here. And I should have listened to the warnings. *** They are both my mothers and my sisters.

Women who live alone in a small village by the shore, isolated. They raised me on the island Sarpedon. Built me from infanthood, gave me education, survival skills, and religious idolatry. We are a pious people.

I am Arete, born on Cisthene in Aeolis. My father was a fisherman and my birth mother died from infection after labor. I was named so by her in the hopes that a name meaning virtue would bring lucky days about for my father, with nets full of fresh haul to sell at the market.

I do not remember much from those days. I do remember why I ran away, though.

I had been six when I heard my father make arrangements for my marriage to the woodcutter’s son. My hair was as fire and my eyes were as water, with a face speckled by freckles and rose cheeks. I was bound to fetch a suitor with a good bride price as I aged and so an arrangement was made. The money was sorely needed--the fish came and went and the debts rose higher. It was inevitable, my father said.

Inside, I screamed. I feared the day a man would touch my body and do to me what had been done to my mother, and so at six years of age I stole my father’s only boat and sailed to nowhere. I preferred death than marriage, for death would be kindlier.

That was when I crashed upon the shores of Sarpedon three days later after a storm and I was found by my sisters, my mothers. They took me, raised me, taught me, loved me.

Never once was I promised to a man twice my age. I thought of my old life less and came to belong to the new one I was given. I never once thought of my father.

My sisters were a religious group that worshipped the land of Sarpedon and its waters in respect of sea deities Ceto and Phorcys. It had been Ceto’s powers, her blessings that enchanted the island to be a safe place for groups of women to live. Never once did my sisters fear the wars of men because the island kept the ways of men afar.

We were hidden as a pearl buried in a stretch of coral reefs.

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And so that is why when the spotters found man’s ships sailing towards the horizon, I went to Ceto’s cave. *** We were secluded but not stupid. For many moons before, nymphs that stopped at our island to rest gave witness to new stories: up north, a pirate invasion swept from coast to coast, increasing ever south. Villages were burned, looted for silvers and oils, the houses were stripped for wood and the goats taken. The pirates took young men for slaves and for the young women — well, don’t we all know what happens to the young women in these stories?

“I am going to make an offering to goddess Ceto,” I said to my sister Melite, who was more like my mother for she had raised me. Her years numbered thirty.

“An offering would be wise,” she agreed.

“I will need supplies to go to her cave and the dagger of Phorcys for the offering.” I said.

At this, her face froze. “Arete, you do not mean--I cannot allow it! Yes child, make an offering, but I will not permit your leave to the cave to make yourself a sacrifice!”

I frowned with defiance. This reaction was the same one I heard from other sisters weeks earlier when the attacks began to come closer, except theirs came with assertions of what I might become. Undead. Monster. She-beast.

“The pirates are coming, they are but a few days away on the horizon; if only I could offer sacrifice, like in the stories you told--” “You do not know half of the stories, child,” she blistered with rage, then softened.

“You may pray, that is all.”

I bowed my head in respect as she left, catching fear in her eyes. She knew just as I what a group of pirate men meant for our

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peaceful island, the violence that would ensue.

Indeed, we had archers and fighters, but up against fleets of men with enslaved soldiers?

Our chances of survival numbered zero. Our only chance laid in the hopes of a sacrifice, a human offering, at the altar buried deep in the ancient waterfall cave. In stories long ago of our island, women who offered their bodies to goddess Ceto were transformed, made strong and fierce enough to defend the community from all trespassers. We would need that sacrifice again, and I would be the cost a hundredfold over if it meant the protection of my sisters.

I ventured by nightfall when the sun could no longer make bright my absence.

The ships were growing larger on the horizon by then. The stars dangled in the sky, just low enough to touch the laughter of my sisters snug in their cots. I took with me a lambskin pack of olive oil, honey, and wine and snuck into our sacred building which housed Phorcys’ obsidian dagger on a golden stand.

I grabbed it nimbly and went on my way west to Ceto’s cave.

The path to the waterfall cave cut through forests alive with animals and a rocky hillside that looked over the whole island. The moon hovered above, imposing as the eye of a prophet. Coyote barks and bat screeches bathed the darkness. My feet carried me swiftly, for I could only think of those ships edging further to our beaches, crashing on the sandy shores, my sisters staring in horror . . .

An hour had passed by the time I stood on the end of the forest, which opened to a steep cliffside with glittering seawater below. The moon bloomed low, a white narcissus bulb flanked by the smaller anemone of stars, drifting into the mirror of the sea. Black dots shifted in front of the moon — the pirate ships coming closer.

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My eyes flicked to the water where crags jetted from the island. A brilliant stream ran down the cliffside’s edge, a spectacular waterfall roaring into the sea. Ceto’s cave laid somewhere behind those falls. In our lore, Ceto’s devotees leapt to the sea into the sacred cave where an altar awaited their sacrifice. It was supposed to be a legendary place; it was said Ceto birthed three children of Phorcys there that would protect the island forever. I did not know who the three children were or what became of them.

I dove from the cliffside, about several tree-lengths high, with the lambskin pack tied securely to my back and the dagger in hand.

Saltwater filled my mouth and I swam through the sea, cutting the water with the strokes of my arms. The roaring of the waterfall grew louder the closer I swam to the falls and I imagined the ships did, too. I dove under the falls, briefly hammered by the pounding water, and rose to find myself in a hollow, winding sea cave which glowed faintly from the light of the moon. Darkness painted the skinny cavern in varying shades of black and stalagmites hung from the ceiling. I could not touch the seafloor and continued to swim on, the dagger flailing strangely in my hand as I wound through the tunnel.

Several hours passed as I swam deeper into the tunnel and clung to the slick walls when I tired. The light of the moon disappeared, leaving a black landscape in its place. Occasional blue-green orbs bobbed in the water, perhaps algae or sea creatures. Since I could not trust my eyes to carry me forward, I had to trust in faith. Faith that the legends were true, that our lore was more history than mythology. That there actually was an altar at the end of the cave instead of an abrupt ending.

The floor began to rise and gradually I found footing to wade onward through the

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tunnel. After more time, the water dropped to my ankles and I came to a dark room where moonlight fell through the exact center of the ceiling in a hole to the sky. Stalagmites framed the room as regal columns to a temple. The air felt murky and clear, ancient yet new. This was Ceto’s cave.

I knew what I had to do when I saw an obsidian glass bowl at the center of the cave. It stood on an altar, shining silver from the moon.

I removed my soaked lambskin pack and took the bottles of olive oil, honey, and wine from them. I carried the dagger of Phorcys, sleek from the kisses of the cavern water.

“Goddess Ceto, daughter of Pontus and Gaia, most ancient mother, protector of Sarpedon, please accept my offerings, my humble goddess,” I spoke in the ancient tongue and let the bottles’ contents drip into the bowl. The sweetest smells swirled in the air as the honey dripped like silk gold, the red wine dripped as blood, and the oil dripped as ichor into the bowl. I took the dagger and it shined in the moonlight, its blade ever sharp and perfect. I sliced the dagger into my palm and let my blood seep into the bowl, mixing with the food offerings.

I imagined the taste would be sweet to a god.

The pain was nothing, for I had more to do.

“Goddess Ceto,” I sank to my knees in ecstasy, tears flowing from my eyes as I thought of her powers and of my sisters. The pirate ships were close, and my sisters would be taken by the men and —

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“Humble mother, make me something powerful. If not in this life, another,” I looked through the hole to the sky, watching the moon swell to a silvery jewel, perhaps a teardrop from the gods above.

“Let me protect my sisters as those before me once did. Please accept my sacrifice,” I said, and I took Phorcys’ dagger and raised it before me. It glimmered in the moonlight, a glowing black tooth.

And then I plunged the dagger into my heart, cutting the organ in half, and sank to the ground as the moon faded to black. *** “ T h e ambrosia!” a voice yelled.

Clanging and sounds of struggle filled the air. I could not open my eyes, and I remember my head felt like an aching fire, deep in my scalp. There was a hissing sound filling my ears and an explosion of scents filled my nose. The world seemed to tip over on itself, the sky trading places with the earth.

Suddenly, a sharp stone was removed from my chest and I cried in agony as a cold liquid filled its place. A gaping hole had been punched through my body.

“Stupid girl,” a voice muttered, and I sank to unconsciousness.

Two days later I awoke, and when I did the

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world was different. I had been taken back to the recovery room in the village. Everything oozed with flavor. I could taste scents from all around me, gathering the flavors in my mouth and hair. I could hear birds caw from forests far from us, the thrumming of the sea waves.

The sound of ships coming from the beaches.

“You have no idea what you have done,” I heard Melite’s voice above me. “You are a monster now.”

That was when I opened my eyes, and I saw her face over mine. Her agate eyes pored over me and the aging creases of her face stood out in perfect contour.

And then she screamed and fell away from me, gasping for air. Her body turned gray and stiff and screams from my sisters erupted around me.

“Tie her eyes! She is Medusa!” one screamed and a cloth was placed around my head. Where hair would be, something thick as ropes twisted and wrangled, and suddenly the hissing in my ears made sense, the smells and tastes from all around me: my hair was alive with snakes, more than a dozen.

The snakes chomped and bit at my sisters and they screamed once more as they sank fangs to their faces. Stop! I commanded them with my thoughts, and they ceased.

One of the elder sisters stepped closer to me, horror and anger in her eyes. She flinched from my vision and I pulled the cloth over my eyes. “You have killed her,” she said to me. “Killed Melite, stupid girl. You are now the Medusa, she-beast. We do not want you here. Go to Styx where you belong, worst and third child of Ceto.”

That was when I ran in grief from my village, slinking away into the hills above. It had all been for nothing.

Art by ekaterinatutynina

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*** Now I stand above them all, watching from the hills as the pirates come from the shores to the village houses. I can see the hate in their eyes. Smell the blood in their arteries, the pheromones of their skin.

They said they did not want me. That I should go to Styx. Begone.

And now I watch as the men set fire to my village. As they chase the women. As my sisters flail helplessly with chained hands.

I walk down from my place on the hills, the snakes hissing in anticipation. I soothe them with my voice, telling my story so they know my history. I know what they are thinking.

They want blood. To feed. To bite. They smell the scent of mortal men in the air and they want to taste.

The screams are getting louder. The men are tearing the clothing from the women now.

Happy. Excited. Aroused. I can smell their hormones in the wind, their bodily reactions to their thrill. Their hearts are pumping faster.

I can see their faces, musty with sweat, grime, and soot. I can count the veins in their throats and the snakes chitter with delight, venom dripping from their open mouths.

I walk with closed eyes to the center of the burning village as gasps fill the air around me. I can smell the shock, the fear, the astonishment.

I drink it in and come alive with the perfume of terror. It is such a delicious smell, an elixir burning life into my lungs. The scent of sweat and skin and male pheromones drift closer to me, hovering by my face. The men surround me, watching — I can see it in my snakes’ eyes even if mine are closed. I can imagine their confusion and horror, and oh how it electrifies me! The snakes dance on my head and hiss with rage. Perhaps they can have blood before the bodies go cold.

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The men tremble closer, axes and swords and torches raised.

And that is when I open my eyes.

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Spring 2021

THE HOARD By: Eli Vandegrift

He holds a dark cloth to his nose, staunching the blood flow, as the caravan approaches the village. The rising altitude bites at his sinuses and another rush of blood dampens the cloth against his face.

Outside the wagon, a mountain rises. Its slopes stand out against the monotonous pale desert hills, blooms of green cascading down the ridges. The back of his neck is slick with sweat and he wipes it away with the bloodied cloth.

“Nahim, Kol. Use something clean,” his sister hisses. With one hand, Kol grabs a new cloth and with the other, he raises a pair of Nocs to his eyes. The base of the mountain’s peak focuses, and he searches for what he is both desperate to see and fears to know exists.

Near the top, he can make out a circular formation, surrounded by dense shrubbery and cacti-like trees. Dreiter Mountain’s very own dragon cave.

“It’s said that the Dreiter Mountain dragon’s hoard is one of the most soughtafter treasure mines on the continent,” Kol’s older sister said to him a few days before they started their journey. Well, ‘journey,’ is a strong word. More like a weekend trip to an overpriced farmer’s market. Dreiter had the largest monthly gathering of bakers, traders, fishermen, farmers, crafters, and blacksmiths for over 100 miles. Kol was finally old enough to make the trek for his family to purchase and trade wares for the month.

“What kind of treasure?” Kol asked.

His sister shook her head. “No one has gotten close enough and survived to say what’s actually in the cave. It’s thought to have over a million kah worth of gold or jewels.”

As Kol watches the cave through the Nocs, something glimmers inside. He jumps and puts the Nocs down just as the wagon shudders to a stop. Dozens of voices clamor together outside.

Kol and the others climb out and the noise erupts into a cacophony, a mix of traders and sellers yelling out prices, crying babies, laughter, and various animal bleats and complaints. His sister grins at him.

“Welcome to Dreiter.”

*** She’s getting tired of the smell of bread.

While everyone in Dreiter and the surrounding villages come to their bakery for their planetrenowned bagels and rolls, May would have been content to never eat bread again. The past few weeks, she’d been looking for any excuse not to work the market, as she dreamed every night of venturing far away from Dreiter in search of something greater than bagels. For now, though, she sits on the counter at their booth, bored.

The rolls in front of her sell quickly but the bakers keep bringing them out, hot and fresh each hour. Her mother’s bakers include May herself, her brother, and May’s girlfriend, Shelly. As Shelly brings up yet another tray

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of bagels, she winks and grabs May’s thigh briefly. May tries to grab her back but Shelly runs off to the kitchen again, laughing.

May shakes her head, turning to take another customer’s order. Her eyes widen and she smiles.

“Isa, my gods, how are you?”

Isa, a tall girl with braids down her back and a machete at her hip, stands at the counter.

A boy, his hair in nearly identical braids, stands next to her, his nose tinted red. From what May remembered, this must be Isa’s brother.

“Better now that I can smell your mom’s baking, May,” Isa says. She leans forward and kisses May’s wrist, as is customary in Dreiter for women. “I’ll take a dozen of your finest wheat rolls.”

“Coming right up,” May pockets the money.

“How’s the family?”

“Alright. Little sister’s sick with heat rash again so I have to hurry before the witches run out of their best healing ointments,” Isa takes the bag of bread and hooks it onto her belt next to the machete. May stares with slight envy, imagining it must be so much more relaxing being a harvesting family out in the fields.

They make more small talk before Isa walks off to get the medicine, leaving her younger brother at the booth. Meeting May’s eyes, he blushes and a drop of blood drips from his nose.

“You alright, love?”

He nods quickly.

May turns to deal with another customer, but the boy is still there almost a half hour later. Finally, she asks if he needs something.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You’re so beautiful,” he repeats. “Please, would you consider marrying me?”

May can’t hold back a laugh this time.

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“Because I’m hot? You just come of age to be married off ? Stop messing with me, kid, go find your sister.”

May jumps down from the counter as one of her sisters comes up to take her shift. She starts weaving her way through the crowd of the market, wondering if her favorite pub is open yet.

The boy follows her, slipping in and out of sight as they pass by other traders and merchants.

“At least tell me your name. I’m Kol.” “May,” she says, “as in, may you kindly leave me alone?”

They continue through the crowd until May stops outside the pub: closed for another hour. She sighs, glancing at the boy. He’s still following her but his eyes every so often move in the direction of the mountain. May follows his gaze and smiles. This might give her a good excuse to finally have some fun in Dreiter. ***

It takes them the hotter part of the day to climb up the mountain, though the heat drops as they get closer to the peak. Sweat spills down May’s back but she hasn’t felt this alive in months. It didn’t take much convincing to have the kid agree, and if anyone asked, she could say she was just giving the tourist something to talk about back home.

They climb over another hill and find themselves at the front of the dragon’s cave.

Kol shudders and stops, hiding behind a bush. When nothing happens, he stands, legs shaking slightly. “Is that it?”

May nods, her own breath short in her chest. Inside the cave is the most sought-after hoard in all the continent, and she’s about to be the first person to see it. A cold breeze floods out of the cave, and on the ground in front of

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her, frost coats the grass. May nearly gasps.

She hasn’t seen ice in years.

“Why is it so cold?” Kol asks, shivering.

May doesn’t answer. She takes a deep breath and enters the cave, Kol following not far behind. ***

Bagels. Frozen bagels of every kind for as far as the eye could see. Stolen from the Dreiter market over what must have been dozens of years. May stumbles backward in shock, tripping over a chunk of ice. She lands on the ground, the cold seeping through her clothes and into her skin. She looks down and holds back a scream. The ice chunk is a dismembered hand. Several other ice chunks are also full of body parts, from other treasure-seekers who must have been frozen and broken apart.

Kol drops next to her and grabs her arm, his fingers digging into her wrist. They stare up at the dragon, eggshell-blue flanks rippling as she turns to face them. Her wings rise like spikes behind her neck, glimmering and deadly.

Her eyes shine milky white.

The dragon’s nostrils flare and she steps toward them, eyes unfocused. She lowers her head and sweeps it from side to side, ripples of freezing air rushing toward them. May spares a glance at Kol and he’s still shaking but they’re thinking the same thing: if she’s blind, maybe they can get out of this alive.

However, in less than a minute, the dragon rears her head and her throat glows a silver hue, icicles forming along the scales leading up to her mouth. She breathes in, ready to blast them with ice.

Then, she pauses. She breathes in again, the sound of the air rushing into her lungs the loudest thunder. The dragon leans down until her blue snout is nearly touching May.

Artwork by Donna Tran

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Another scream builds in her throat, but she swallows it.

The dragon nudges her bag. May’s eyes widen. While Kol is busy humming prayers to himself, May takes off her bag and unravels the straps. Inside sit several fresh bagels from her family’s booth. Thick drool slips out of the dragon’s mouth and hits the ground, instantly freezing.

Hands shaking, May takes out the bagels and spills them in front of the dragon. In seconds, the dragon sweeps them up and carries them off to the corner of the cave, where she wraps herself around them like she’s protecting a nest of eggs.

May takes Kol’s hand and they run.

Adrenaline pumping in her chest, May can’t help but smile. She finally found something exciting about bagels.

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a visit to olympus By: Joseph Mauceri

“Holy crap!” was the first thing Pollux thought when he happened across the man.

He was just behind one of the wide skyroot trees. If Pollux hadn’t ran off on his own, he never would’ve found him. He was laying on the ground, taking quick, sharp breaths with immense difficulty. It was clear he was suffocating.

“Crap!” Pollux shouted in his head again, crouching down next to the man. He’d never actually seen someone suffocating before. Come to think of it, he’d only heard about it from his father. “Focus on the problem at hand.”

He moved to attempt to help him, but then he realized he had no idea what to do. His hands hovered over the man’s body as he just stood there, confused and unsure of himself.

That’s when he had a brilliant idea. He took out a small, clear pearl from his pocket, and shoved it down the man’s throat. “Swallow, swallow,” Pollux encouraged. With great difficulty, the man swallowed, and the small sphere went down his throat.

The results were almost immediate. The man’s sputtering ceased, and he started to breathe normally. He sat up, coughing a little as he became accustomed to the air. “Thank you,” he said, finally able to gather his surroundings.

Now that the man was safe,

Pollux finally took this opportunity to take in his features. His skin was grey, though it appeared darker since he was covered in soot.

He was dressed from head to toe in black rags with a few pieces of armor on his wrists, chest, and knees. A black sword was laid down by his side, which the man picked up as he steadily got to his feet. Pollux couldn’t put his finger on it, but he seemed oddly familiar.

“You okay?” Pollux asked, getting to his feet with him.

“I’m fine now,” the man answered. He looked around, wearing a look of complete amazement. He turned around and around, his eyes darting around the area, absorbing all the information. “Where am I?” “What do you mean?” Pollux responded.

“You’re in Olympus. *** Castor couldn’t believe what he was seeing. There was some sort of blue ceiling to the cave he was in. It was so much brighter than what he was used to, his eyes were having trouble adjusting. His rapid-blinking was a mix between his utter bewilderment and his nocturnal eyes being able to absorb all the light. Not to mention, all the lava was gone. Instead, all the islands seemed to stay

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atop this thick sheet of fluffy white. He turned to the man that had saved him and asked the one question on his mind: “Where am I?” “What do you mean?” his savior replied.

“You’re in Olympus.”

“What’s Olympus?” Castor asked.

“It’s where you are,” said the man, his sympathy for Castor seemingly dwindling.

“Look man, I don’t know how else to describe this.”

Castor’s head continued swerving around the area, still in amazement about where he was. “What kind of cave is this?”

“Cave?” asked the man. “What’s a cave?”

Castor turned back towards the man.

That’s when he noticed that he didn’t look like anyone he had ever met before. His skin was pale, but not like his. It was more of a light pink type of color, surrounded by what he could only describe as the lightest tan he had ever seen. He was dressed in dark blue, with skintight t-shirt and black pants, as well as what appeared to be brown sandals on his feet. Even his hair was lighter, being a creamlike yellow in color. He wore a bemused smirk, seeming to find pleasure in Castor’s confusion.

Despite having never seen this man before, something about him seemed familiar.

“You don’t know what a cave is?” asked Castor. It was at this moment he finally realized his predicament. “Am I not in Hades anymore?” *** Pollux was utterly perplexed by this stranger. The lack of oxygen for a while could explain his delirious statements, but his overall appearance was still drastically different than any other person he’d ever seen in Olympus.

“What’s Hades?” Pollux asked.

The man began pacing back and forth

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with a worried expression on his face. Pollux looked on in utter confusion as the man began mumbling to himself. “How did this happen? All I did was touch a statue. How do I get back?”

“Are you okay?” Pollux asked.

The man turned towards Pollux, his eyes were puffy and red. Was he about to cry?

“No,” the man whined.

Pollux dragged his hand across his face. “I can’t believe I have to deal with this.” Pollux cleared his throat as he attempted to talk to the man again. “What’s your name, sir? I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

The man sniffled before he answered.

“Castor.”

“Castor? That’s an odd name.”

“Well, what’s your name?” the man asked, his sadness being somewhat overwritten by annoyance.

“Pollux,” he answered.

“Well, from my point of view, your name is weird.

Pollux scoffed. “Pollux is an amazing Olympian name. It was the name of the founder of the civilizations of Olympus.

“I don’t doubt it,” said Castor, “but just think before you speak. Perhaps my name has great cultural significance to the Hadesians as well.”

The pair glared at each other, but then their looks softened. Their glares turned into grins, and they began laughing. Somehow, all of their apprehension seemed to wash away.

“Come on,” said Pollux, “I’ll take you to my place. Maybe we can figure out a way to get you home.”

Castor began following him, a small grin having taken hold on his face. “It’s strange,” he thought, “Despite the weird skin, different colored eyes, and maybe even the hair, he kind of looks like me.”

Artwork by Yenty Jap

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Spring 2021

Suburbia By: Alex Wright

Mrs. Jones checks the timer on her oven.

It reads 5:32 and ticks down second by second.

She cracks the door and peers in at the roast cooking within. She smiles the dainty smile that she is known for and closes the door again.

Mr. Jones sits at the table with little Billy and his older sister Sussie. Mr. Jones flips through the virtual pages of the daily newspaper. He prefers the newspaper version over the news feed because it “reminded him of simpler times.” Mrs. Jones smiles at her silly husband and his silly thoughts. Simpler times. Funny

thing is, that’s the name of the newspaper too!

Mr. Jones flips past the headlines filled with armies, tyrants, and bombs and heads straight to the sports section.

“Dinner’s almost ready guys!” Mrs. Jones says with a smile. “It’ll be a few more minutes, but you all look absolutely famished, so I fried up a few bacon-wrapped scallops to hold you over!”

She places a small plate to the left of the large rotting hole in the center of the table and stands back with a smile. Little Billy stares

Artwork by James Gray

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at his game projected onto the surface of the table. The splinters and moss that cover the table almost make it look like a real battlefield!

His little soldier avatar shoots another and he smiles. The semitransparent scoreboard hovering next to his face shuffles the names into new positions. Sussie waves her hands in a strange, flowing dance in front of herself.

The holo-shades across her eyes shows streaks of various colors swishing around in similar strokes. She’s painting another picture!

“Eat up everyone!” Mrs. Jones says with a wider smile. No one stops what they’re doing.

No one even looks up. “What’s wrong with you all? I slaved over a hot stove for hours to make this!” Still, no one moves. No one even blinks.

“Hey now!” she says defiantly. “This roast will be done any minute now and you need to eat these scallops before it comes out nice and hot! Woo, is it hot in here? Maybe I should turn the oven down a bit.” She turns around to grab the dial, but it falls off.

“Um, Jerry, I think the stove is broken,” she says as she looks up at the timer. 5:32.

She turns back to her family, dial in hand, and begins to speak, but she’s cut short by the sight of a steady drip of water from the ceiling. She looks up to find a large hole torn in the roof.

Water drips from a rusty pipe directly onto Mr. Jones’ new shirt.

“Oh dear!” she yells as she rushes to grab a rag. “Honey, move out of the way! You’re getting all wet!” She dabs the rag on his shirt and he flips to a new page in the newspaper without a second thought.

“Where did this hole come from?” she asks.

“Why aren’t any of you answering me?” she pleads.

She stops her protests and stands up straight, staring out of the pristine and spotless window over the sink to the road outside. She tilts her head and moves toward

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the window. With every step, she can hear the steady clomping of hooves coming up the road a little clearer. She pops her head out of the broken window pane in the bottom left. A blast of hot air reddens her face as she stares up the road in awe. A man on a horse rides up the street, past the Johnson’s house, past the Jenkins’, and past the James’.

She smiles her famous smile as the man and his horse come closer. The man wears a helmet, which covers his face with some sort of breathing apparatus. The horse wears something similar. A cowboy hat rests on top of the man’s helmet and he has a rifle, pointed up and propped against his hip. She nervously smiles a bit wider and, through the broken window, squeezes her hand out, cutting it a little. She waves to the stranger as blood runs down her forearm.

“Hello!” she yells. The man brings his rifle up to his shoulder and aims it at her. He spurs the horse to force it into a light trot and doesn’t take his eyes off her as he moves by.

She continues to wave and smile.

“Hello, kind sir! Lovely day, huh?”

He keeps on moving, not looking away from her until the horse turns the corner onto Baring Street. She sighs and pulls herself back into the house.

“Such a nice man,” she says. “I wonder if he’s a friend of the Helgen’s!”

She walks back to her husband and frowns.

She grabs his chair and pulls it backwards with surprising ease until the water no longer drips on him. His head rolls back and he stares up at the ceiling as he flips to another page in the newspaper.

“There you go, honey,” she says sweetly.

“What would you do without me?” She kisses his cold, blue forehead and walks to little Billy.

“You should really stop playing those games, young man!” she laughs. “They’ll rot

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your little brain right out of your head!” She pats his metal scalp and his head slumps to one side. He falls out of the chair with a loud clank and the broomstick making up his left arm comes out of the socket.

“Oh dear!” she says as she picks him up and puts him back in the chair. “Clumsy me!”

She picks up his arm and sets it on the table in front of him.

“I’ll fix that after dinner, dear,” she says as she looks to Sussie and frowns again. The canvas around her left eye has started to peel from the intense heat and the paint making up her chin has run a little.

“Young lady, I told you to use that face moisturizer I gave you!” She waits for an answer but the timer on the stove dings.

“Oh! The roast is done!” She walks over to the stove and fiddles with the space where the dial used to be. She looks at the timer. 5:32.

She will have to deal with that broken timer later. She picks up the empty tray in the oven and sets it down on the stove top. She inhales deeply and sighs in satisfaction.

“Who’s hungry?”

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momento somnus By: Victoria Mendoza

It was only when she was cradling the rapidly cooling body of her once-bestfriend-slash-would-be-lover that Magpie the Destroyer truly understood the gravity of adventuring. That was to say, she’d never truly believed in her own mortality—much less of the mortality of others more competent than her—until this very moment. Faustus, her familiar and the closest thing she ever had to a brother, perched on a barrel next to the pair.

Hand trembling, Mags reached down to trace the side of Mara’s face. A spindly emerald finger skirted over scarred brows and across a twice-broken nose to settle on the onyx markings along the dying girl’s jawline.

Counting the lethal teeth inked across Mara’s jaw—feeling the absence of Mara’s essence—a keening moan seeped from Magpie’s frozen mouth. The crashing waves and the north wind’s rage melded into a roaring crescendo

Artwork by James Gray

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that screamed past Magpie’s ears. She curled her toes, burrowing them deeper into the nearrotting planks of the deck. It was only when bird carcasses dropped onto the deck that Mags noticed tendrils of her soul reaching for something—anything—to grab on to and anchor herself in this newfound reality. Jaw clenching and gaze firmly on Mara’s frozen, horrified stare, Mags slowly released her grip on the souls of the birds, pulling further into herself. Faustus croaked, hopping nervously from one foot to the other.

“No,” muttered so lowly, the wind plucked it from Magpie’s mouth before it had the chance to leave her lips. Hands slid down to Mara’s shoulders, grip tightening until her sharp talons break skin.

“No, this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Come on, Mara—” Mara’s head snapped back from the violence of Magpie’s shaking. “Hurry up and wake up already— please.”

Two caws from Faustus—one as a means of comfort, the other as a warning. A bolt of heat raced up Mags’s spine and her leathery ears twitched in panic. “I know, Faustus, but she’s going to get up soon and I can’t leave her, okay? She didn’t leave me on the mountain, or in the dragon’s ribcage, or inside that aboleth’s lair, so I can’t just leave her here—okay?

I can’t. I can’t be the one to have killed her because it was an accident and she’ll wake up any minute now.”

The staccato rush of footsteps echoed across the dock, sending a jolt of energy through Magpie’s veins. Faustus, nipping at one of Mags’s long and pointed ears, flapped his wings. In a frantic rush of oily black wings, he tried to reach her left hand, beak nipping at anything he can get near. A plaintive screech left his beak as Mags refused to let Mara go.

Bumping his forehead against the rune-inked

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knuckles gripping Mara’s shoulder, Faustus shuddered and shrunk into himself. Time was an unforgiving mistress and, as the seconds rushed by, it became painfully apparent that Mags was out of time and—for the first time in her life—out of luck.

Faustus, in a last-ditch attempt to gain access to Mags’s palm, clawed at her wrist. A streak of violent red seeped across the back of her wrist and onto Mara. Mags sucked in a sharp, startled breath, and finally looked at Faustus. He flapped his wings, cawing, urging her to act. To do what Time will allow her to, now that they had none. Throat aching, she tasted salt and iron on the back of her tongue. She wasn’t sure whose blood it was—hers or Mara’s. Some small part of her, still unwilling to lose Mara, hoped it was a melding of the two.

Pulse thundering in her ears, Mags shuddered and hugged the body of Mara.

Leaning close to the delicate swirl of the oncepowerful mage’s ear, Mags swallowed hard.

“Please, please, please wake up, Mara. Please.”

Voices, thunderous and furious, were heard from the gangplank. As Faustus became more frantic in urging Mags to move, she loosened her grip on the body a finger at a time.

Tracing the scythe inked into her forearm, Mags pulled the scythe free and turned to face the gangplank. Her gaze skirted to Faustus, remorse washing through her. With her free hand, she slashed a talon across Faustus’s soul bond inked on her palm, severing the tie.

Screeching furiously, he dived towards her before dissipating into a cloud of ash. She bit down a sob, nerves aching with grief from losing so much in such a brief amount of time.

A shout rang across the deck as crewmembers raced up the gangplank, noticing Mags crouching over Mara’s corpse.

Jaw clenching, Mags counted the bodies

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she could take down before she, herself, was exterminated—a fate she had earned twenty times over. She tightened her grip on her scythe, muscles bunching beneath her to pounce on the boatswain charging towards her. Chest aching at the thought of yet another friend murdered by her hands, Mags reared back to throw her scythe through the boy.

As her scythe arced through the air, an icy hand gripped her wrist, stopping the motion.

Mags snapped her head towards the offending hand, only to find Mara’s stern—if not a bit transparent—gaze glaring down at her.

Shaking her head once, Mara guided Mags’s scythe through the air. An opening formed out of smoke and shadows, cleaved from the sky and leading to gods knew where. Mara— effervescent and the only one Mags ever trusted—moved towards the opening, one hand still gripping Mags’s wrist. Mags tried to read this new Mara’s gaze. It was at once familiar and alien—all challenge, fondness, and condemnation. Mags tried to breathe around the hardening lump in her throat, all too accepting of the accusation in Mara’s gaze.

Mara tugged on Mags’s wrist once more and stepped through the portal. Immediately, without thinking, Mags followed. After all, there really wasn’t anywhere she wouldn’t go if it was in pursuit of Mara.

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drifting By: Victoria Mendoza

A spacesuit drifts within the void of space.

It’s tattered, burned, and locked in a slow perpetual spin. The light of the nearby star shines through the golden-green visor and onto the greyed, necrotic skin loosely hanging from the face of the man inside. His one remaining eye glows in the reflection of the great oasis of fire before him. How he wishes to be there. To just be able to feel the heat again. To feel the energy of it. To feel alive as he once did working on his farm on Octavius IV. He can almost feel the dirt beneath his fingernails again, the sweat running through his brow.

“To live for just a moment longer.”

The feeling is pulled from him and flung into the encroaching void as his vision spins past the sight of the sun. The light bouncing off of his visor makes it hard to see the stars beyond. An everlasting blackness floods his view. It’s broken only by a single spec, a far off star. He tries to reach for it but he can’t move.

Dread seeps in. The same he had felt for most of his life. The dread of an incomplete crop for the fourth year running. The dread of city limits slowly creeping toward the farm. The dread of the growing popularity of synthetic foods. The dread of a corporation offering pennies for the land he worked for half a lifetime. The terror of watching his crop burn the day after declining. Of watching his family cry.

“Please stop crying.”

The thoughts bounce around his sun-

bleached skull until it’s filled with the image of a green planet as it spins into view. Octavius IV. It spins and orbits as it always has. The lights of the cities that dot its surface flicker like fire. Or perhaps it is actually fire. The Master had promised as much. When his lands had burned, the government came and put out the fires. They quarantined the area, citing strange radioactivity. The story changed with each agent or representative he talked to. After months of this, the corporation offered to come ‘clean up’ the land. They were given the land as payment.

“What will we do? My family…”

Anger sparks in the back of his mind. His slack jaw clenches with memories of fighting for his land in the courts. They dot his mind like the void beyond the planet; speckled with fires that burn in the vacuum of space billions of miles away. The speckles hang in vague shapes depicting an uncertain history on Octavius IV. He looks up to search for the twins, Nira and Lirus. He catches sight of the Sigma V star which makes up Nira’s foot. His stone-like neck forces him to give up on seeing the rest and focus elsewhere.

“Where is my family? Where did she take them?”

He thinks about her. The Master. She had offered her support. Her guidance. Her home.

Safety. She offered her hand and he took it.

He took her mark; two parallel marks cut diagonally, enclosed in a circle, in the center of his chest. He took her training. She housed

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him, his family. The army and his duties kept him from seeing them for some time.

“Oh God, where are they now?”

A comet flashes into view. A blue stream of brilliance streaking across the cosmos. The dusty tail cutting a line in the darkness in the dance of an icy flame. The comet moves as he does; perfectly synced with his neverending spin. During training, the mark on his chest glowed a cold blue. The colder the mark, the more in sync everyone was. It was more than just in body. During battles, they would communicate without speaking. Men would go down and get right back up. He took a bullet to the chest but never bled. The mark burned colder. He kept fighting. They all felt The Master’s grip on them—they never spoke of it, but he knew. So they fought. Cut through cities. Burned them, as their homes had been burned. The Master promised they would all burn. They’d start anew. All of them, and their families, would finally be free.

“You should have run…”

The comet disappears in a flash behind a fiery tentacle lashing out from the sun as it inches back into view. He focuses on the shadows of a debris field. The space station.

He’s suddenly standing in it, his gun raised.

There’s screaming. People run for the escape pods. It’s hard to see. His right eye is gone; it fell out months before.

“Months… When was the last time I saw my family?”

The Master isn’t there but he can feel her hand on his back, pushing him forward. Her finger gripping the trigger of his gun. She walks him forward, aims his gun. He feels her anger—not his own—when the first escape pod launches.

“I want to see my family.”

His gun flashes. He doesn’t bare the weight of the recoil. He looks to his comrades. They

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shuffle forward in unison, as he does. Guns raised, always firing.

“Where are they?”

He tries to speak but nothing comes out. They don’t look his way; they just gaze forward, as slack jawed and lost as him.

“I want to see them!”

His body stops. The second escape pod jettisons and he can feel his body shake violently. Her anger spikes within him, as does his, in a visceral meeting of decrepit and violent minds fighting for control of a beaten and worn vessel which wants nothing more than to sit and relax and see his family one more time.

“Let me go.”

A part of him sighs, though he can’t say which part. He sees a row of white and silver tanks down the corridor. Hundreds of tubes neatly extend out form each tank. Large blue, red, yellow, and white diamond hazard signs lazily hang on each one.

“Please.”

In a single flash the colors jump out at him in a beautiful swirling display of bubbling, frothing masses which metastasize and spread through the corridor in ways equally mesmerizing and revolting. The numbers and letters on the signs expand and dissipate, losing themselves in the cancerous masses that spread like a flash flood through this inanimate body drifting through a void. His suit was scorched and torn. That was the last time he felt the heat. The station was breaking apart.

He was spinning. Her grip fades and her mark warms with each rotation.

“Thank you.”

He tires of the glare from the sun and strains his neck to look up into the stars above once more. He could swear he feels pain as he forces his head back further, but he doesn’t care. He has to see them.

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His dread and anguish disappear as he hears a pop within the suit, which rings throughout the domed glass that’s encased him. His neck finally moves. He looks up freely and is greeted by the sight of Jirus pulling Nira’s hair. He traces the outline of each child and can almost make out a third. He spins along and traces out a mother within the stars. She’s berating the children who seem to pay her no mind.

How he wishes to be there. If only to live a moment longer. If only for the chance to see them again.

Design by Ethan H. Reynolds

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the truth is Dark Under Your Eyelids By: Victoria Mendoza

After Charles Simic my love. And isn’t that its own kind of tragedy?

Where lips say yes or hips say more or where a slumbering form is invitation in and of itself, the truth is stuck under your scrunched-shut, false-slumber, “please godmother come witch your way into this satin theft and unmake this beast of a would-be prince.”

My brave little curse bearer, wouldn’t it be nice to unburden all that rage? Wouldn’t it feel so sweet, so refreshing, to just render undeserving flesh from intrusive hand and nourish your vengeful hurt?

Artwork by Donna Tran

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the valkyrie’s chosen By: Ethan H. Reynolds

The mallet strikes the anvil, Grease covering his wrinkled palms, Sweat dripping from crooked brow, He grunts with each passionate strike.

A bullet rips through her shoulder Blood trickling down her arm, Yet she rises and fires upon the enemy As she bellows a deafening war cry.

Heart and passion, bound to the soul, Are the keys to the clouds, the cosmos above.

The horns of war blaze across an empty field, And those who answer with a yawp may survive, As Death himself is afraid of those without fear.

Artwork by Adam Frank

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Sundown Town By: Julie Tran

the setting sun spurned their souls through the rotting underframe and floorboards glimmered soft a wistful spell and song of mockingbirds with manilla wings the lulling lament seeped out onto the gray dust of the streets a fog of smoke wreathed sleeping heads as the nearby town became ghosts with the white of their skin paling and the flush of their cheeks purpling the rising moon burned their blood scattering and scurrying up the chapel hill of stone and ashes like a writhing mass of silver maggots they carried blazing firelights with cotton wicks the smothering heat brazened their faces in search for burnt and decaying flesh the swarm buzzed in riled unison disease desecration and death to the persecuted who would serve their hunger

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the gleaming star turned their eyes northward to follow the constellation trails marked and sung about by ancestors before the trade winds carried and guided the birds with clipped wings in their flight up the mossy hill where the ashes of those who flew before solemnly sighed under the weight of bronze and copper stones in hopes of fulfilling stilled dreams at last they wearily marched towards the red horizon morning fire churned between the rim of the ground and sky to form the mouth of a drinking gourd spilling liquid flames of flickering crimson down the hill fissuring ash and stone into imbrued rivers crawling towards the afflicted flock of flight with suffocating scarlet stifling their throats with knotted strains yet still they lifted their silenced voices in unison to sing freely at last Artwork by Donna Tran

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the warrior poet By: Ethan H. Reynolds

Soft words bless his tongue, And creation, his wrinkled hand But his blade remains sharp, As do his senses and mind, For treacherous souls lie in shadows Waiting for the dagger-strike.

Artwork by Sally Soto

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art section Artwork by Taylor Dinh, Adam Frank, Favour Nwagu, and Sally Soto

arduous-6

By Adam Frank

zavo

By Adam Frank

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ba trieu

By Taylor Dinh

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gravity

By Favour Nwagu

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Seeking Vengeance

By Sally Soto

The Forge Roars...

From the starry cosmos, to the fields of magical lands, The Forge contains all aspects of adventure, emotion, and mystery within the genre of speculative fiction.

In this collection of microfiction, short stories, poetry, TTRPGs, and artworks created by writers at George Mason University, readers can expect to delve into lush, awe-inspiring worlds across all ages of time. The Forge offers a full experience for all lovers of speculative arts, offering a lovely pair of superb writing with wonderful world-building and beautful artwork.

It is the goal of The Forge to give writers, readers, editors, and artists who have fallen in love with specualtive fiction a platform to express their passion for this genre. With each flip of a page, this collection seeks to serve as an escape from all things grounded by our world with powerful prose littered throughout.

If you have any inquiries or want to submit to our magazine, send an email to:

theforgegmu@gmail.com

Thanks for reading!