The Forge - Spring 2025

Spring 2025 | Volume V

George Mason University’s premiere speculative fiction literary magazine.

Cover by Ann Rodriguez Samantha Gerken Marian Claros Barrientos

Spring 2025

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Volume V

INTRODUCTION

VISUAL ART

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

Vaipus by Areeza Abbasi. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

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

Brujita! by Marian Claros Barrientos. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Galaxies Within Her by Zeenat Hamidi. . . . . . . . . 10-11

LITERATURE

Experimental Beast by MJ Gomez-Salazar. . . . . . . . 12

The Call of the Void by Areeza Abbasi. . . . . . . . . . 4, 56

Time to Heal by Marian Claros Barrientos. . . . . . . . 13

A Study in Flowers by Kerry Bishop. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

Framed Farewell by Areeza Abbasi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Screaming Mechanical Brain

Free Float by Abigail Snodgrass. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

by Vincent Blackwell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Harbinger by Xander Hall. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 The Skeleton Against the Wall by Presley Hinkle. . 17 Painting of a Falling Soul

by Aryaman Kantawala. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 The Hunt by Donovan Mitchell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Cataclysm by Nawaal Nackerdien. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 The Duelist by Enoch Ogunfiditimi. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 I’m in Love with a Werewolf by Connor Reynolds. . 39 In Vitro by Amber Del Rocco . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 To Be A Mother (Elena) by Ann Rodriguez. . . . . . . . 45 The Wall! by Ronald Sherman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Three Signs That You Are A Clone

by Isabella Roman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 The Beast of Conversation by Jacob Stoneman. . . . 60 Druid Boys by Grace Tongnobhakun . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 An Unfortunate Encounter

by Jeanette Whitehead . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66

To Mars by Abigail Snodgrass. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 If Earth Could Speak by Zeenat Hamidi. . . . . . . . . . 37 You Mean More Than My Own Image

by Knight Stevens. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 The Detective by Melinda Nguyen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Emotion by Jay Huh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Elena by Ann Rodriguez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48-49 Z Star Automobile by Aviroop Kaur-Dhaliwal . . . . . 53 Mosaic by Isabella Roman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Ocean Siren by Delaney Falls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Oyster Number 22 by Malakai Watkins. . . . . . . . . . . 58 The Horseman of Balance by Lake Rusch . . . . . 60-61 The Sky Remembers Me by Zeenat Hamidi. . . . . . . 67 Cover by Ann Rodriguez, Samantha Gerken, Marian Claros Barrientos Interior Cover Pages by Kerbey Chevalier

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

Letter from the Editor-in-Chief:

W

elcome to the Spring 2025 issue of The Forge! My name is Emily Gomez-Adames, and I am incredibly honored to have served as Editor-in-Chief for the fifth print issue of George Mason

University’s speculative fiction literary magazine. It has been an unforgettable journey, one that I will always hold close.

This semester’s submission pool was truly competitive, with over eighty entries across literature and artwork. We want to extend our deepest gratitude to everyone who shared their work with us. Submitting creative work takes courage, and we do not take that lightly. Though the selection process was difficult, we are proud of the final collection of stories and artwork featured in this issue. You will find a wide range of pieces, from epic adventures to chilling horror stories. We sincerely hope you enjoy them as much as we do!

There are many people I would love to thank for helping bring this issue to life. First, to our faculty advisor Jason Hartsel, thank you for giving me this chance to lead and for believing in us from the start.

To Samantha Gerken, our Managing Editor and Art and Design Director, thank you for bouncing around ideas with me, always going the extra mile, and your endless dedication. This issue would not be possible without your hard work and heart.

To the entire Forge staff, thank you for being the best team I could have asked for. Each individual has shown their passion in wanting to be here, and I’m grateful to have worked with such a creative and devoted group. Thank you to the Student Media staff for your constant support and for helping us grow in every possible way. I would also like to thank previous Editors-in-Chief, Caleb Davy and Jude Kallista-Fitzpatrick, for your willingness to answer any questions I had. And of course, thank you to Ethan Reynolds, the founder of The Forge. Without your vision, we would not have this space to share our love for science fiction and fantasy.

As I prepare to graduate this semester, I step away from The Forge filled with pride and gratitude.

My biggest hope is that the publication continues to grow and bring together people who are genuinely passionate about creativity and collaboration. More than anything, I hope everyone involved continues to have fun and find joy in the work we do.

To all our staff, authors, artists, and readers, thank you for being a part of this journey. I am so proud of what we have created together, and I hope your imagination and love for storytelling always continue to thrive.

Emily Gomez-Adames Editor-in-Chief, The Forge

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Staff Editor-in-Chief Emily Gomez-Adames Managing Editor Samantha Gerken Art and Design Director Samantha Gerken Marketing Director Nawaal Nackerdien Editors Areeza Abbasi Megan Cobb Lana El-khatib Aryaman Kantawala Donovan Mitchell Nawaal Nackerdien Ann Rodriguez Sariya Scribner Abigail Snodgrass Grace Tongnobhakun Jeanette Whitehead Artists Kerbey Chevalier Marian Claros Barrientos Lorien Espino Nawaal Nackerdien Ann Rodriguez Lake Rusch Abigail Snodgrass Palika (DC) Sridurongrit Grace Tongnobhakun

Marketing Team Areeza Abbasi Lorien Espino Ronald Sherman Grace Tongnobhakun Hasset Worku Graphic Designer Samantha Gerken Special Thanks Brian Butler, Web Design Caleb Davy, former Editor-in-Chief Kristina Mickle, former Art & Design Director Ethan Reynolds, Founder of The Forge Student Media Professional Staff Kathryn Mangus, Director David Carroll, Associate Director Leah Lewis, Office Manager Faculty Advisor Jason Hartsel

Spring 2025 | Volume V

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The Call of the Void Areeza Abbasi

“W

e ventured southward to the cold embrace of the Alenfort valleys, blanketed in snow that I’ve seen no painter, in even the capital, successfully capture the true beauty of.

However, it was the warmth and adaptability of the locals here that left me the most in wonder. Yet, in all their resilience, they told tales of Voile’s borderlands with a terror that I could almost feel crawling under my skin and clawing at my own heart. And so even as we departed to return back to Albelle with my research, the crisp, biting wind now felt more like a warning, carrying whispers of whatever lurked in that march.”

–Cordelia Estielett From, Land of Shifting Shadows

Where did our mission go wrong? Where did we make a misstep?

I know I should’ve stayed vigilant. I know I should’ve remained focused on my surroundings, focused on running away from the danger—faster and faster—and ignored the way my legs felt like they’d buckle beneath me at any moment. However, I couldn’t help it. How was I supposed to stop my head from clouding with many such thoughts? Not even the sting from the scratches, nor the pain caused by my long hair catching in the densely packed trees, were anything compared to the way my mind reeled with the memory of our failure– No, the memory of my failure. Panic clawed at my chest at that correction. But I pressed forward, the small messenger bag slung over my shoulder and across my body, bouncing against me as my boots pounded on the snow-clad earth.

However, even if I tried to maintain this focus, tried to remember the teachings drilled within me at the academy, there was nothing much to even think about. All I saw was white. The white of the icy blizzard, which felt like it would blow me away if I lost my footing for even one moment. The white of the snow-covered branches, that lashed at my face in my rush. And the white in the corner of my eyes, that slowly crept into my vision as the throbbing ache in my head grew more and more unbearable.

I clutched my lantern tighter, the frail golden glow of the crystal nested within it trembling wildly as my control on my power—my seerus—faltered.

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Remain calm, remain calm. Don’t lose focus…

The lantern’s pure radiance kept me safe from the tainted creature chasing me as I ran for my life.

This flickering glow prevented that impure being from catching up. I couldn't let it die out.

As my breath came out in ragged gasps, I tried to inhale more air, but the harsh wind only served to wring any remaining strength from my lungs. I choked on the breath caught in my throat, coughing hard as it felt like my throat was on fire. I barely registered the sudden dip in the terrain—not until I had already slipped on the snow, falling head first.

My vision gave out before I even crashed on the ground.

I didn’t know how long it had been until my eyelids slowly began to flutter open. I winced from the pain in my head that crashed on me as I gained consciousness. The soft warmth beneath me was the only thing that comforted my aching body.

Wait… warmth?

I quickly pushed myself up, ignoring the lightheadedness I felt from the sudden movement.

I had to focus on the dreadful thought that crept into my mind: No way… surely, my wounds aren’t bad enough to mess up my senses…

And I was right, they weren’t, or at least, they didn’t seem to be. However, the sight before me was even more baffling. Lush green grass, right below me. Not a single sight of that dreadful white, yet the

Vaipus by Areeza Abbasi

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The Call of the Void

scene didn’t leave me relaxed, no. Instead, my heartbeat quickened once more, cold sweat forming on my back.

But…it’s the middle of winter, not to mention that horrid blizzard…

The more I observed my foreign surroundings, the stranger it all seemed to me.

Even as I stood, the field didn’t stir. Though fog surrounded me, not a single blade of grass moved—no breeze whispered across my skin. There was a foreboding sense of emptiness, a feeling which worsened as I tilted my head up. My eyes widened as I realized that the sky above was pitch black, devoid of Sun’s sisters, or Mother Moon, or any other hint of light in that void-like expanse. Yet, there was no darkness where I stood. I could see everything—every blade of grass, every detail on my uniform—with unnerving clarity.

Despite there being no actual light… Ah! My lantern!

I knitted my brows as I crouched down to try and locate it.

I looked behind me. Not there.

Over my side. Not there either.

I even tried fanning the fog to look, but to no avail; it wouldn’t budge either.

No, no, no, no... where in the eternal Seera’s name is it…???

My heart pounded as if it might burst.

Once again, my mind started reeling, clouding with memories of my time at the military academy: “Those filthy, tainted creatures corrupt our pure life force!” My fourth-year professor’s words rang through my mind.

My fingers scraped across the grass, tearing at the dry blades as I searched.

That lantern… that’s my only hope at warding off that creature if it caught up.

My breath caught in my throat as I stood back up again, urgently looking around as dread pooled in my stomach.

“Pure seerus radiates and defends… while a tainted one of those creatures corrupts…,” I started to mumble under my breath.

“Fractures… ruins… destroys—” But then, a sudden tap on my shoulder sent a jolt down my spine, snapping me back to reality. I sharply turned around and assumed a defensive

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stance, only to see a lantern—my lantern—waving right in front of my eyes.

“Seems like you’re looking for this?” The voice was calm, almost teasing.

Then, slowly, the lantern was moved away from directly in front of me, revealing a face marked by a faint, cryptic smile.

The wearer of this smile was a taller man dressed in a style of clothing I’d never seen before on my travels. The style of attire was more flowy than I’d seen anyone in even Alenfort wear, not to mention the ornate chains of crystals that were styled meticulously into his hair and onto his garments, too. From his right cheek up past his temple, an ornate mask covered half his pale face, leaving only one eye visible–a sharp, crimson gaze that seemed it’d pierce right through whoever the man gazed at. And yet this gaze wasn’t directed towards me but his right hand, which held a journal he seemed to be reading; my eyes widened as I recognized it.

“Y’know, you’re quite a decent artist. But… there’s a mistake in this yevnis’s sketch on page fifteen. These types have five leaves per stem, not four,” he mused.

Spirit snare, that’s my traveling journal!

I felt my face burning with embarrassment as a blush crept onto my face and ears. The thing had probably fallen out of my bag when I took that tumble.

Furrowing my brows, I quickly extended my hand forward to yank the journal from his clutch.

However, the man, surprisingly agile in his reflexes, moved his arm away just as I did so. He stared at my expression for a bit, then dropped the journal to the side with a cheeky smile that didn’t reach his eye.

I quickly moved to catch it before it fell on the ground, then held it against my chest.

“Now, now, no need to glare, boy,” he said with a chuckle.

“Not glaring… this is just how my face normally looks…” I soothed my features, continuing with a smile, “I am Vale, for your awareness, not ‘boy’, humble servant of the—" “Ah…! That, under your cloak…” The man interjected before I could finish my sentence. He circled around me, the long fluid fabric of his attire, almost momentarily, forming an arc around me

The Call of the Void

Art by Areeza Abbasi before settling down again. “…Insignia de l’Amina, eh? Based on your appearance… I didn’t take you as a soldier,” he said with a smirk.

Based on my appearance…?

My smile stiffened at those words, but I told myself not to take offense to them; the man probably just didn’t realize, based on the disheveled state I was likely in.

Turning my head towards where he stood now, I replied, “…Yes, that is what I was about to say before I was so politely interrupted. I am a humble servant of the Amina. Now, onto more important things… one, may I have my lantern back as well, and two, did you pick up any more of my belongings?”

He put a hand—or, I suppose, sleeve (as it was long enough to cover his hand)—to his chin and pondered for a bit before shaking his head, causing the chains of crystals adorning his head to clank together.

“Not that I can recall. From what I saw, there was only this journal and lantern nearby. As for this lantern… how about our little soldier lets me handle it?”

With a slow wave of the lantern, he spoke

once more, “I’m the local humble guide, after all. I know how to channel my seerus into these things.

Besides…” He looked me up and down with that crimson eye of his and frowned sympathetically, “You’re quite battered, no? It’d probably be better if you didn’t exhaust your spirit even more. It’d break my heart to let a young servant of our great nation worsen his condition further while I stood by and did nothing.”

The man’s sudden sincerity caught me off guard, but it didn’t surprise me to see him switch his tune after finding out I’m a member of the Amina, Voile’s elite military and strategic force.

There was probably no person in this nation who wouldn’t react the same; however, it did always make things more awkward than I’d like.

I glanced down at myself… and he was right, I was in no state to be overexerting myself. And so, with a sigh, I accepted his aid.

“That works for me. Please guide me to the nearest town or village then.”

The man’s lips curled back up into a smile at my words—a warmer one this time, his softening expression almost welcoming.

Spring 2025 | Volume V

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The Call of the Void

He then turned his attention to the lantern he was holding. A soft glow, deep red—the same as his eye—began to seep from his hand and into the lantern. The crystal within it flared up again, this time lighting up into an intense crimson, as opposed to the golden hue that it usually took on whenever I activated it.

As the man raised the lantern up, the fog seemed to react, curling and retreating from the red glow radiating from the lantern.

“Stay close, little soldier. And…do make sure to match every step of mine with yours, okay?”

It was an odd request, but I didn’t question it; this place in itself was already quite weird. I simply followed closely. Admittedly, the throbbing ache fogging my mind certainly didn’t make it easy— especially since I also tried to stay alert of the rest of this unfamiliar landscape while trying to match each step of mine with his.

As we moved, the parted fog revealed even more patches of this strange, eerie setting around us. Massive flowers were dotted amongst the other flora along our path, their petals stretching wide and swaying despite the nonexistent breeze. Even in my vigilance, I couldn’t help but be in awe of their rich pinks and yellows, giving this otherwise offputting place an otherworldly beauty.

However, I admitted such compliments far too soon.

As we traversed the place, my eyes darted to a centipede crawling near one of the towering blossoms. And then, in a swift motion, the center of the bloom fluttered open, revealing a single, large eye that fixed its gaze on the animal. In a flash, the flower dove forward to strike and the petals snapped shut, trapping the creature. Chills ran down my spine.

The sound of whatever was crunching the centipede inside that flower was utterly deplorable.

However, it also brought to mind something else…

I reverted my gaze to the man guiding me, who, interestingly, showed no real reaction to the nearby happenings.

The sound those flowers made… they were slightly similar to the sound those clanking chains of crystals made whenever he took a step.

I see… camouflage.

However, I wasn’t moronic enough to cause

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unnecessary noises by trying to confirm that speculation. Even if curiosity was burning me from the inside.

I glanced at the towering blossoms one last time; then at my journal, which I was still holding close to me, and then went back to focusing on our otherwise peaceful trek…at least, compared to the prior incident with me and my team. The thought of it twisted my face into a grimace. I almost gagged at the memory of the sight of that horrid entity, but I quickly covered my mouth to muffle any sound.

Don’t make any noises… those ‘flowers’ might sense it.

I reminded myself that there was nothing that could be done about what happened back there. At least, not until I reached this nearby settlement and got myself sorted.

Before long, we seemed to have reached wherever this man was leading me. The fog thinned and, finally, cleared altogether, revealing rows of modest stone cottages just up ahead. However, the place seemed unnaturally quiet, with no sign of life anywhere.

“Is there… nobody here?” I pursed my lips as I looked from side to side.

“You expected people to be awake at this time?”

He turned towards me, chuckling as he did so.

I tilted my head up to look at the sky, still pitch black as ever.

So I suppose it is indeed night, huh…

Bowing, he spoke, “It seems you’re still disoriented, little soldier. I suppose it’s better if I have you rest in my home for a bit?” He raised his head to gaze at me with a hopeful smile, “That is… if you’ll allow this humble peasant to.”

That awkward politeness again. I’d honestly just rather he goes back to acting casually.

But, with a nod, I let him guide me to his home.

It was located nearest to the entrance of the village, but that also made it furthest, although only by a small margin, from the rest of the homes.

The man pushed the door open and allowed me to enter first. Inside, the place was a cluttered maze of various knick-knacks and trinkets, worn books with loose parchment scattered around them, and small jars filled with herbs I did not recognize, amongst various other things.

“I’ll need to leave for a bit to notify others

Story Continues on Page 56

Brujita! by Marian Claros Barrientos

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A Study in Flowers Kerry Bishop

Chrysanthemum

Thick teardrops thunk against weary windows.

James commits every detail to memory: large brown eyes, half-lidded fighting for life, snowy complexion sparkling with sweat like dew-kissed chrysanthemums in early morning.

I’ll be okay.

A little breath tickles his nose, a godsend barely on the tips of her lips.

I know.

Hands slack, glassy eyes, she’s fragile, a porcelain doll threatening to break in the breeze. A dreadful sword stabs James in the heart. Steals his bated breath.

She drifts away, and he knew she was gone, racing asteroids around the rings of Saturn, defying the laws of light and gravity and grandly evading her expectations.

She’s off, the quiescent observer of life’s ebb and flow, Soft-spoken, subtle movement slips past sight— how could she possess any burdens, when she lives out in the beautiful expanse of her mind, where gravity couldn’t possibly chain her down? the bird, the ghost— —the invisible friend, the former-future-business-woman, (a small girl) who drowned in her passions and her favorite, oversized white sweater— She simply lifted her wings and flew away.

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A Study in Flowers

Carnation Umbrellas unravel like the wings of a crow.

James traces mahogany with a single digit. Why did it feel like she was still here, A fleeting beauty flittering by, a carnation in the wind, when her whole life rests in these wooden boxes, six feet under and sealed beneath layers of earth and memory where echoes of joy turn to dust— but in his mind’s eye, he sees her standing there, lingering in the elegies of rain kissing polished wood,

a spirit unbound by time, vibrantly alive in the spaces left behind, She’s off,

sailing waves of stardust across Andromeda, defying the laws of light and gravity and grandly evading her expectations,

please, James thinks, don’t leave forever. and James

holds fast to fallen stars

Gladiolus

She’s livid, lit with fire.

Winds whip wild underneath her wings, feathers drifting like streams of stardust in her wake, twinkling like the petals of a gladiolus in mid spring. do you remember me?

Clouds break, flumes fold, and she’s let gravity decide: (I do) Even though she’s a silent star, lost in heaven’s constellations a woebegone whisper in nebulous nights, racing asteroids around the rings of Saturn, defying the laws of light and gravity and grandly evading her expectations, that godsend never leaves her lips, and she’s just there— a spirit unbound by time, vibrantly alive in the spaces left behind.

Galaxies Within Her by Zeenat Hamidi

Spring 2025 | Volume V

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Screaming Mechanical Brain Vincent Blackwell

“G

reat news, sir! The man! It’s alive!”

“Why is he screaming?”

“What’s that sir?”

“Why is the corpse still screaming?” The tall cloaked figure turns away from his fireplace to face his henchman. “I can still hear him from the other room! You are only supposed to come to me when he’s done.”

“W-well s-sir,” The henchman stutters.

“Th-that’s not the corpse…”

Victor's full attention is turned towards his quivering henchman.

“What?” Victor growls.

Before the henchman can even respond, Victor pushes past him. Victor storms through the long gothic halls into his laboratory. Every inch of the stone walls are coated in the green light of modern equipment. Devices used for chemistry, machinery, robotics, and execution stand tall as if in rebellion against their dated surroundings. Three more henchmen turn towards their frustrated boss.

“Where is it?” Victor demands.

The henchmen point to a cell in the far corner of the room.

Smoke and screams pour out between the iron bars. The smoke slowly fills the lab, hiding the machinery around it, monitoring the thing inside.

Victor forces his way through gray clouds to see

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a thin, pale man stumbling and shaking in agony.

He tries to stand and walk, but whether it is from pain or from a lack of experience, he falls over and over again. Victor squints, seeing its vocal cords are cut out and its mouth is sewn shut.

It's not the corpse that's screaming. It’s the smoking brain in its head. The mechanical device protrudes from the body's head. Gears just underneath the skin pulse in random patterns. The smoke bellows from the exhaust in the back of the head growing in intensity with the man's emotions.

The top of its head is nothing but metal pieces poking in and out of its fleshy bowl. The machine in the body's skull grins and whirls in his head in such a way it sounds like a human screaming in ungodly pain.

Victor opens the cell and walks up to the man.

At the sight of Victor, the man falls to his knees like a sad little puppy. Tears begin to swell in the man's pale eyes. Victor places his hands on both sides of the poor creature's face. For a moment the creature feels a glint of hope. A glint that is swiftly crushed between the monstrous hands of Victor Frankenstein.

“Experiment number 0948.

Failure.

Reason: screaming mechanical brain.”

Time to Heal by Marian Claros Barrientos

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Harbinger Xander Hall

S

arah could not bring herself to tears. Her legs were like icicles–cracked frozen stilts that felt brittle, cold, and ready to snap at any moment. She continued stumbling down the side of the road in her cold, soggy pajamas, her purple feet crunching the icy snow. She had been on it for God knows how long now. She lost track hours ago. Her body was tired, but her eyes were awake, for they had seen things they could not forget.

She could barely think straight. Her thoughts were messy, all in reach but obscured. There had not been a single car on the road for a couple of hours. Although she could barely see the road, she was able to get a sense of the edges by the shine of the full moon, which reflected off the glistening powder. Sarah kept the hope of rescue gripped in her hands. She didn’t want to be alone anymore.

Alone with a cacophony of thoughts, her pain, her fear, and the creature.

Its eyes. She could not forget its eyes–eyes like two overwhelming red headlights. They pierced through her and buried themselves deep within her soul–the only thing remaining when the rest of her mind drained away.

The thing had been following her ever since her friends… since her friends. She did not want to acknowledge what happened. She pushed the images of chaos, anger, fear, and blood aside and focused on the monster. As far as she could tell, it was not threatening her. It was just slowly following behind. She would turn every now and then, looking into the deep wilderness and glimpse its tall, black, slender, feathery body and its eyes. It was wrapped up now in its silky black wings, resembling a body bag around a fresh victim.

Like how she imagined her friends now.

She knew they were wings because the creature had revealed them to her and her friends when the killing started. While the cuts and the blood flew across the cabin floor, its wings spread far apart, engulfing the room, hiding evils within from the sleeping world beyond. She knew it had

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been following them since they entered the woods.

Before they even got to the cabin, she saw it. She knew it was there. She felt it, but the rest of her companions ignored it. They never mentioned it.

They never spoke about it. They ignored it.

Why did they ignore it?

Sarah looked back into the forest reluctantly.

Her head twisted to the right with muffled cracks that broke the silence of the desolate road. Upon looking into the woods again, she saw the beast.

There it was, slowly clawing its way across the desolate canopies of dead frosted trees and towering pines, its eyes lingering on hers, never looking away, never shifting its gaze. Its skinny, winged arms dug their claws into the trunks, barely making a sound. It crawled across the trees like a stealthy panther. Some scratches could be heard through the quiet still of the forest. Deep within its ruby eyes, she began to hear her friends again, the auditory horrors of the cabin replaying like a record: “Help me please, Sarah!” “You don’t have to do this!”

The words stabbed at her head. It physically hurt.

She could not get her and her friends’ screams out of her head. The creature’s judgmental eyes were a grim reminder of the evil of humanity.

She wanted out of this nightmare. She wanted to get away from its omniscient judging presence.

Why hadn’t it attacked her yet? Why hadn’t it killed her? It knew who she was; she could sense it. She needed to get away from this darkness. There had to be civilization around here somewhere, but as far as she could see, there was nothing but the flaky winter woods.

The pain was beginning to rise again. Her arms were cracking, turning purple like her feet. It was cold; she was going to freeze to death. Maybe she deserved it. Why, why did I go with them? Why did they have to go alone? Why now? Why here?

Why did David have to lie?

She couldn’t tell when her thoughts ended and its began. The thing was infecting her mind, thinking her thoughts, whispering its thoughts.

Harbinger

She needed to stop letting it in, she needed to stop remembering. She didn’t want to think about any of this anymore. She needed help. She was shaking and trembling. She knew she couldn’t go for another hour, or she would–would– For the first time, she began to cry. The tears falling from her face and down her cheek warmed her numbing face.

She couldn’t bear to look at it anymore. Its presence was enough pressure on her on its own. She turned her head and stared at the road ahead. She studied its crumbling pavement. The ice interwoven into concrete cracks. Deep within her bright red clenched fist was the hope that a car would drive by. She studied the dirt that peered from holes in the snow and the tree branches that scrawled across the skyline. She thought of anything and everything to get her mind away from the murders and the creature.

Eventually, towards the end of her suffering, Sarah saw a light shining through the empty space between wooden trunks. The neon light of a tall, thin diner sign. It was across the road on the outskirts of a shrouded town. When she finally reached the diner, she read the standing sign: “Point Pleasant-Morning Diner”.

She investigated it from the other side of the road—beaming fluorescent lights glowed from the frost-stained windows. There were people inside, real people. She could get help; she could show them the creature. Before she made her way across the road, a swift, subtle woosh came from behind her.

A shadow etched its way across the ground before her. Deep, rippling breaths blew frigid air onto the back of her neck. She turned and looked behind her as her heart paused its slow beating.

There it was. The dark, black, winged silhouette standing right before her, looking down at her. She turned her stiff neck up to look in its hollow eyes.

She examined its slender abyss of a face. Two spiky antennae sprouted from its skull. Even though it did not make a sound, she understood what it was telling her. Somewhere within the confines of her

mind, she acknowledged the words: The End is Warm.

Sarah didn’t respond. Instead, she turned back around and used the last of her energy to run across the road. The saving grace of an inviting light brought her into its arms. She pushed the doors open, sliding her cracked and bloody left hand across the glass doors and a taped-on paper menu. When she was inside, she saw several people eating. She even made eye contact with them, but their faces changed. Behind the dusty lamps, their gazes changed from neutral to horror. Sarah looked around in a false sense of confusion. Deep down, she knew why, but she didn’t want to acknowledge the truth.

Everyone at the “Point Pleasant-Morning Diner” stood back. The greeting waitress, wrapped in a red and white dress, stepped back and held her arms out.

“Please-please, put the knife down.”

Sarah tilted her head down to the left to look at her bloody knife and bloody arm. She was covered in blood; it was still bright red. The same color as its eyes. She turned back and saw the creature back in the deep woods. It stared at her, and finally, she understood why it was there.

She understood its judgments, its conviction, its warning. Her mind instantly cleared. She had only one question: What have I done?

One of the waitresses was speaking into the wall phone now. She was calling the sheriff's department; other customers were running out the door, past her bloody footprints, and outside the diner. When they ran past the window, they obscured her view of the creature for a split second, and in that time, it was gone. Sarah turned back to the waitress in front of her. It was like she was back in reality now, as if she was finally understanding the cost of what she did, but she still managed to convince herself that she did not deserve this. They deserved it. She needed to convince them all that she was a victim, that she was not crazy, and that she felt remorse for what happened, but Sarah could not bring herself to tears.

Spring 2025 | Volume V

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Harbinger

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The Forge

Art by Grace Tongnobhakun

The Skeleton Against the Wall Presley Hinkle

I

sit against a wall as people pass me by.

I cannot hear them, for I have no ears. Nor can I talk, for my tongue has long dried up. While I do not have any eyes of my own, I still feel their presence around me. I can feel it in my limbs: the vibrations that slither up my spine with each step and every stride taken around me.

I crane my neck toward the sky: the sun is revolting, and the clouds continue to drift apart. My jaw feels weak where it connects to my head; I am unable to close it. The muscles I once had parted ways long before I arrived here.

I’m holding what I think is a sign: it's poorly written by the feel of the letters etched in wood, what’s touching my fingers at least. It reads: “Halloween Sale! Get your ghoul on!” The text is written in cabbage purple and sauerkraut green; there is a container beneath the card stock. A cloud covers the blazing scar above; then someone jostles my leg, taking something from out of the bucket. Its rusty handle strikes my knee as it falls.

The next day, I am wearing something, fabric, and it feels—scratchy. There are children walking by, two of them begin to point at me and laugh.

“Look at that guy,” they wailed, “for a werewolf, he’s awfully thin.” One of them tugs on something mounted on my head, yanking my head toward itself.

Tonight, there are many people walking the streets. Many of them are dressed in disguise: There are vampires, wizards, witches, and many more. Adults complain. Teenagers sneer. There are children bickering about who will get what and how much. The same phrase is uttered in unison so often that it's lost its meaning.

The outfit wrapped around me is three sizes too large, there’s a clip on the back, and I can feel pinpricks stabbing me along my spine. There is no longer a sign, and the bucket is now much heavier. It feels cold and metallic, and its contents will surely cause tooth decay.

It's later in the evening when the street welcomes an unlikely crowd. The children have

dropped candy on patches in the street. Adults are cursing themselves for not getting something to eat. Teenagers scamper now with bottles and bags full of items I do not recognize. Behind me, there is rustling.

They’re walking up the street when long strips of toilet paper begin to soar through the air. It wraps around trees and lampposts, and some even lands on me. It's only after the group of teenagers have dropped their grocery bags and begin swigging liquid that their voices echo through the street. They are careless and ignore who is still hanging around.

Whatever lurks in the dark makes a move, and suddenly, there is a scream. A man runs out of the alley with his hand pressed against his chest: he is limping.

The teenagers crowd around him, asking questions and offering him some of their poisoned ichor. He shakes his head, unable to speak, perhaps his tongue has failed him as mine has. He points at me. No. The alley is pitch black. Something resembling a growl rumbles in response, it stays in hiding. A moment passes and one of the teens thinks to pull out a phone.

There are ten seconds between the line connecting and something leaping from the alleyway. The people ahead of me begin to scream.

Next to me stands a creature on all fours. It might even seem human-like if it wasn’t for its mouth that stretches over the surface of its face with several rows of glistening black teeth.

There are twenty-eight seconds between it appearing and it slashing people’s throats.

Four seconds later, the man with a limp dies.

There is no one else around when the creature, its tail flicking from side to side, sniffs the air around it. I watch, planted against the wall and unable to speak. I warn others in my head.

There is no one around.

A moment later, the creature lets out a screech and runs down the road, its dinner left as tattered remains.

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The Skeleton Against the Wall

I stare at the puddles forming thick clumps in the road while their bodies spurt their last remaining life. The streetlights glow against the blood. It’s sticky. The red mess spills over forgotten bags of candy. If I had lips, they might quiver, or a tongue that might shine with saliva. I am stuck.

What I have lost so long ago taunts me, only to be

wasted down a drain in the curb. A moment later, a gust of wind pushes the cloth further up against me.

My bones cry, and my spine whines. The fabric scratches deeper against my limbs. My head feels like it's on fire. My hands are stuck below my waist, coddling this large metal cauldron with candy barely even touched.

Art by Ann Rodriguez

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The Forge

Painting of a Falling Soul Aryaman Kantawala

A

s I write these words, my soul is full of dread, only worsening as time passes. Ostensibly, I have the wide-eyed, innocent look of a young, genteel woman, with a pretty face and rich, dark hair. Yet if one gazes deeply into my eyes, it may barely betray the heavy gloom consuming me. My soul feels the weight, the burden of my every breath, eternally falling, falling into a dark, bottomless abyss…

Two weeks ago, in the summer of 1869, I was sitting in Cafe Cheniere. My tea sat forgotten, quickly growing cold as I waited expectantly for Count Claudius, who had been courting me for months now. I imagined his smile; his impossibly perfect teeth; his suave, inviting charm; the glossy, impeccably smooth white skin; and his enigmatic, titillating smile, as if there was something he was hiding, almost mocking my naivete. His look was one that you would never forget. He offered a tantalizing glimpse of purpose, fulfillment, in this dull, gray world. It seemed that after ages of waiting, I had found who I was looking for; I was not going to allow this chance to slip me by.

The bells rang as the door opened, and Count Claudius languorously ambled in, as if he had all the time in the world. Immediately, his gaze settled on me.

“Charlotte,” he greeted me. “Why, you look even more beautiful every time I see you!”

I giggled coquettishly. “You have a way with words, Claudius. If you ever lied to me, how would I detect it?”

“Surely, my dear,” he gave one of his usual smiles as he sat down, “I would never lie to you.”

I gazed down demurely as I took a sip of my tea, and grimaced. I reached for the sugar with a shaking hand and struggled to gather a small teaspoon of it. He gently steadied my hand and helped me with the sugar.

“Too bitter?” he asked. I blushed, and he continued. “Have you thought about my invitation?”

He glanced at me expectantly.

I hesitated. “I mentioned to my parents I was to spend some time at the Ladies’ College downtown and…”

“And?” “They believed it.”

“Wonderful!” The Count showed more excitement than I’d ever seen. “Well then, how about we go right now?”

I was taken aback. “Right now? At this very moment?”

“Why not? There’s no time like the present.”

He stood up and offered his hand.

After a long moment of hesitation, I took it.

With a suave smile, he kissed my hand and led me out.

It was a long coach ride, followed by a long walk, to the isolated manor. We had rode out of the city of London half an hour prior. Nothing but a gloomy forest of scraggly, dark trees and flocks of crows surrounded the property, their caws almost sardonic. The manor’s size and luxuriousness were overshadowed by its outdated, looming Elizabethan architecture and decaying, decrepit walls of dull stone. The evening was waning by the time we arrived and the manor’s oppressive towers were silhouetted starkly by the fading light, and an imposing gargoyle glared down from the entrance.

“This is where you live?” I frowned at the forlorn manor. A dark thought nagged at my subconscious, but I pushed it away.

“Indeed,” he said, “and isn’t it grand?”

“It may be, yet it’s so…dated.”

“No matter, we can restore it back to its original grandiosity,” the Count smirked. “Anything for you, my dear.”

“You live alone?”

He hesitated.

“I, ah…acquired this just for us,” he said, regaining his composure. “Come, let me show you the splendid interior.”

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Painting of a Falling Soul

around the corner, down the hall, fifth door on the I obediently followed his beckoning hand. left,” he said reluctantly.

Upon entering the main parlor, I suddenly cried As soon as I was out of his sight, I hurried down out in shock. two flights of stairs, quickly but quietly navigating “Something the matter?” he frowned. the labyrinthine hallways. The corridors became I scrambled for words to explain. “My god— darker and grimmer the further I descended, and the…the walls, the cobwebs, the cracks, the dust, the interior became dustier and older. I rushed everywhere. Surely you don’t expect me to stay with with impatience; it had to be done quickly, lest the you in this horrid place!”

Count became suspicious. Luckily, my memory It was true. The interior was almost as dreadful served me well, and I arrived at a different, even as the outside. The ground of the parlor was littered larger dining room with a grand painting, much with spidery cracks, cobwebs filled the dark corners larger and more adorned than the rest, the center of the room, old armchairs sagged in disrepair, and of attention. To my fear, it was still there. I huffed in dust gathered on all the surfaces of the room. Along annoyance and attempted to pull it off the wall, to no the walls were deteriorating portraits of long-dead avail. The painting seemed to be stuck on the wall. I aristocrats, the perfection of the paintings eerily grabbed the edges and, mustering all my strength, ruined, leaving the subjects’ beauty gruesomely yanked as hard as I could, groaning with the effort. distorted—rips and cuts through eyes, paint Still, the painting did not budge. I screeched in smudging the smiles to turn downwards, facial exasperation and madly clawed at the painting, features missing. the canvas tearing, details shredding, until it was The Count pursed his lips in barely concealed unrecognizable. distaste. “What is the matter with you? You had After I finished, I retreated from the painting, told me you were an adventurous woman; don’t breathing hard. Luckily, this room was so far hidden disappoint my expectations, and don’t tell me now that the Count hadn’t noticed this room before now. that you’re yet another ‘respectable,’ cowardly Quickly, I ran through the maze of hallways, back woman. I had thought better of you. Now, are you up the stairs where I had left the Count waiting. coming with me or not?”

“There you are,” he narrowed his eyes.

My bottom lip quivered as I nodded.

“What had taken you so long?”

“Good,” he grabbed my hand, “now come along.

“Even with your directions, I…got lost.”

There’s much more of the manor to like.”

“I cannot leave you anywhere, can I?” Over my protests, he led me along a corridor he scoffed. “No matter, I’ll be with you from now on, into a better-preserved hallway; I glanced at the my dear.” He draped his hand over my shoulder rooms we passed: a deserted ballroom with an old and beckoned towards the bedroom. “How about fireplace; a study filled with musty, large bound we go inside?” books; and a room that reeked of decay and flesh, I stared at him in wide-eyed shock. “Is it not too containing just one large, dark coffin-shaped box. early for this?”

I grimaced; that box ruined the room. The Count “Oh, forget the posh, boring rules!” He smiled. stopped to display a fancy dining room, lined with “You said you wanted adventure in your life, didn’t several chairs and an imposing chandelier. I voiced a soft noise of excitement, and we continued. Finally, you? And I don’t invite just anyone here; in fact, you’re the first to see it.” after two flights of stairs, we stopped outside a “Count Claudius, you are too much,” I simpered. grand master bedroom.

“Oh, all right.”

“A grand, royal bedroom,” gloated the Count, He enthusiastically tugged me in. I walked “just for the two of us to enjoy. I had told you what straight over to the window, feigning prudishness. a palace this is; you only had to see it in full.” He It was pitch-dark outside, although it wouldn’t have placed his hand on my back, about to lead me in. been much of a view even if it wasn’t. Focusing on “Claudius,” I said. “I’m afraid it’s been a long trip. the scraggly trees, I suddenly felt the Count’s touch I must use the lavatory, please.” upon my shoulder and hip. I felt his breathing He stopped, sighing with annoyance. “It’s

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upon my neck, and I stood completely still, my hair on end.

His teeth clamped down on my neck. I winced, drawing in a breath and biting down to avoid letting out a scream. His piercing fangs left a sharp pain coursing through my body. I smiled, savoring the pain. It was like a rush, a relief, bringing vitality to my limbs. It had been ages since I’d felt this way, since I’d felt any feeling so strongly, and any feeling was a relief to the dull emptiness. I cackled in delight as he withdrew his mouth from my neck.

Framed Farewell by Areeza Abbasi

His face turned into a suspicious frown.

“So predictable,” I rasped. “You gave me just what I wanted.”

“What is wrong with you?” he demanded.

His frown quickly turned into panic, his eyes wide, as he clawed at his neck, suddenly screaming in pain. “You aren’t human!” he managed to gasp between screams. He collapsed to the ground in agony. “What the hell are you? Who are your parents?”

“There are no parents,” I spat at him. “There

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haven’t been for two hundred years.” His eyes searched me in maddening confusion. Red, angry blotches started to combat against his pale white skin, contorting his body. His impeccable, smooth skin began to grossly shrivel up.

Losing my patience, I yanked him back up, drew back and punched him square in the face.

He flew backwards onto the bed, his screaming gaining volume. “There are no parents, and you’re the cause!” I shrieked, backhanding his face, and he coughed up black blood. “You stole away my family, my life, everything!” I sliced him with my sharp, crooked nails with each item, punctuating my fury. I was just getting started. “Do you believe the young girl that escaped had simply died? Well, think again!” I slapped him and clawed at his face, my bottomless wrath only increasing as I wanted more pain, more torment. “You even had the nerve

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to return and stay in the same castle, my castle!”

His screaming reached a fever pitch. “You’re weak!”

I yelled in anger. “Fight back, you goddamned pig.” His screams slowly began to die down as he seemed to be losing strength. I ignored it in my madness, furiously mutilating his body. I repeatedly hit his chest, yet his scream kept dying down, his eyes losing definition, until he went silent; his body grew cold and his limbs went completely still. It was a while before I realized he was no longer responding to my assault. Panting, I stepped back and examined him.

His body lay limp, facing upwards on the extravagant bed, the immaculate suit shredded beyond repair. His face was frozen in a moment of complete agony and shock; his arms lay outstretched, as if reaching for some escape, some heaven that would no longer come for

Painting of a Falling Soul

him. I bent over him, examining his mutilated face with my bloody, now-scaly hands, my jagged nails scratching the skin, searching him for any kind of movement. He was truly gone, his features unmoving. Huffing in sour disappointment, I let go of his head and he fell back, again lying limply on the bed.

Gone, all gone. There was no life left in him. This couldn’t be happening.

How had he died so easily? Two hundred years of waiting, searching, just for thirty seconds of retribution only for this puny vampire to lay down and die? I turned away with hollow, sickening laughter. The laughter soon turned into a reverberating scream of fury as I screeched and repeatedly hit the window, shattering the glass.

I viewed myself in the full-length mirror—my hair torn, scowling, scaly face stained with the Count’s blood, neck pierced, and dress ripped. I hurled a flower vase across the room at the mirror, destroying it. Nothing could stay my madness.

Faintly, I heard cackling laughter.

I whirled around, but it wasn’t the Count. It was coming from every direction, and I froze. This couldn’t be. I backed up against the window, but there was no escape. My mouth dried up, and I couldn’t seem to find my breath.

“Enjoyed your petty revenge?” rasped Abaddon from inside me.

“Thirty seconds is all I get?” I demanded in defiance. “You lying, worthless bastard!” My soul burned, and I collapsed as my body shook with the feeling of being impaled with a thousand thorns. My soul was burning.

“Never forget who your master is,” said Abaddon as I writhed in pain. I gasped in relief as it ended.

Art by Lorien Espino

“Let me go! This isn't what you promised me,” I cried.

“Ah, but it is,” cackled Abaddon. He produced an all-too-familiar vision for me: the young girl crawling away in abject fear as her parents were massacred, her cushy, aristocratic life taken away in one moment. She somehow fled the castle in time, yet her troubles were not over. The young girl eked out a living at the edge of society, her despair and sorrow turning into resolve and anger as she found purpose, listening to a voice in her head, guiding her. This sickly, sweet voice kept her going. By the age of 20, she was like a zombie and lived for only one purpose—revenge. It was then that the voice revealed itself—the demon approached her and gave her a choice. Her soul, in exchange for revenge, for a glorious purpose. Yet, the revenge had not been specified. She retained her youth and beauty for eternity, searching for ages, until by chance, she had glimpsed and finally found her prey.

Abaddon’s presence left me with sardonic, mocking laughter, amused at my predicament.

Silence once again returned, and I began to again feel his weight drag on my soul. I slowly rose and trod back through the labyrinthine halls, all the way back to the dining room with the painting. I could take my time now, and with each step I dreaded even more what I was going to see. Finally, I arrived, and there it was.

The painting was a dark, bottomless pit, with me in its center. Thorns, spiderwebs, and demons surrounded my falling figure, which seemed to be ever descending into the darkness. My tears and rips had been repaired, but in the most gruesome ways—black and green stitches polluting the image, features grotesquely twisted, my arms and legs bent in awkward, wrong directions. Sitting down, I stared at the painting in defeat and despair.

With every word I write, the weight of Abaddon drags heavily on my soul. I can feel him now, watching every move I make. Without life, without the Count, there is no purpose left. I have welcomed, even wished for Death, yet I know he shall never come for me, and my fate is far, far worse. There is but one thing for certain. My soul is falling into a dark, bottomless abyss.

Spring 2025 | Volume V

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The Hunt Donovan Mitchell

H

e ran. Gasping for air, the man raced through the desert, bare feet clashing with scorching sands. Chasing him was a mechanical monster only found in the desert. Armed with six legs and a set of red, ever-analyzing eyes, the metallic titan followed its prey’s trail. The beast treaded silently through the sand, its focus solely on the poor, insignificant speck that had crossed its gaze.

VRRR… The sound echoed through the desert, roaring louder and louder as the beast approached its meal. The man closed his eyes, praying for his last moments to be ever tranquil. The engine’s cry grew louder… The titan came closer… The man’s eyes opened as he made peace with his approaching demise, looking toward the serene blue sky as he began to fall.

He felt a tug on his side and closed his eyes once more, allowing himself to go limp in his final moments. No longer could he feel the sand on his feet but he could still feel the rhythm of his heart.

Dumbfounded, the man’s eyelids slid upwards as he glanced down, seeing his airborne feet glide over the sands that begged to be his tomb. He was dumbfounded, confused as to how he’d survived.

That’s when he heard it: the engine’s roar.

The vehicle, a makeshift cycle that hovered above the sands, was piloted by a scarred man. His eyes were covered by a pair of aged goggles, and the scarf covering his neck flapped in the wind as they accelerated. Wrapped in his left arm was the man, no longer a meal for the silver-coated beast.

“You alright?” asked the driver.

The man had trouble hearing his savior over the chaos of the desert. The monster continued to chase the pair, growing faster and faster as it reared back its head in anger. A roar escaped its mouth, a guttural, bone-chilling cry that echoed through the dunes. “Looks like someone’s pissed.”

The cycle accelerated, outspeeding the titan in no time flat. Sand soared into the air, obscuring its vision as its prey escaped. Faster and faster they

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rode, becoming like the wind.

“I’m gonna drop you off and take care of that thing!” the man’s guardian yelled over his vehicle’s roar. “And here you go!”

The man fell with a thud, sand turning to beige clouds where he lay frazzled. Rising, he looked on as his hero sped back towards the beast. He was too far away for the monster to be nothing more than a speck on the horizon, but not too far to hear the mechanical unhinging of its jaw. The sound sent shockwaves through the desert as the man realized what would come next. Without hesitation, the prey began running once more.

VRRR… The speeder accelerated once more, now racing to the metal monster. An intrepid cry rang from its hinged jaw that shook the very Earth where the beast stood. Its glowing red eyes scanned the approaching hunter, analyzing the rider’s abilities and deeming him to be a worthy substitute for its lost meal. Light spewed from the beast’s jaws as it gathered the necessary energy to melt the pest where it stood. Fumes slipped from the open seals in the beast’s metallic coat as the charge continued to grow in power. Seeing this, the hunter reached in his moppy hair for the green-tinted sunglasses stored on his head.

I can’t let it get that blast out or it’ll eradicate the whole desert! thought the hunter.

He revved the cycle’s accelerator, gaining in speed whilst pulling an electric-blue dagger from the sheath hidden at his side. He’d done dozens of hunts like this before and yet it never became any less exhilarating. The gathering energy in the monster’s mouth had become like a vacuum, drawing in the arid wind and pulling the sand from its resting place toward the vicious mass.

The vehicle roared as it quickly approached the point of no return. After all, there was one important key to survival that would never be forgotten by the scarved rider: to hunt is to live.

And so, the hunter slashed the air with his blade,

The Hunt

Art by Abigail Snodgrass

allowing the chain linking the dagger’s hilt and edge to lunge forward. The long chain flew across the wispy desert, desperately grasping for the giant’s maws as its silver head reared back to launch its attack. Its mouth closed briefly, allowing the monster the chance to focus its beam, but that would ultimately be the beast’s undoing. The cold chain wrapped around the titan’s jaws as the hunter pumped the brakes of his cycle, forcing the gray maws to lock. The monster’s scarlet eyes widened in what could only be described as indescribable fear. It desperately rocked its head, attempting to

break the chain through brute force before the gathered energy within it erupted. Try as it might, the beast was doomed to perish. Its titanium head began to bubble as a red glow bled through to its surface until a bright flash perforated through the beige dunes. The hunter shielded his eyes from the blinding rays, his goggles further aiding his resistance. What became of the beast was a mass of blazing iron and copper blood covering the bleak sands. The hunt was over, and the enormous predator had become the scarred man’s prey.

Spring 2025 | Volume V

25

Cataclysm Nawaal Nackerdien

T

he day the sun exploded, I built a sandcastle on the beach. It wasn’t very good; my hands were shaky from the cold water, and the particles of sand were sticking into the grooves of my palm and gathering underneath my nails.

I tried to make it have the triangle roofs that all the other kids had on theirs, tried to make it have some swooping arches and windows that were too round because I used the tip of my index finger.

A spray of salt stuck to my lips which I fretted up with swipes of my tongue. The waves crashed in the background, white tips frothing up and up with their swell before dissipating into light-scattered sound. When I stood in it, the waves had swept pieces of shells and specks of quartz into the folds of my bunched-up pants. They’d prickled past my legs and gradually my feet sunk deeper into the coolness below.

Despite never hitting my face, as I made my castle, salt warmed its way down my cheeks, collecting sand and sweeping it into the edges of my lips, tickling lightly to the point of irritation.

My sandcastle was small. Just a big square with its corners as the towers and no ledges. I had begun scooping out palmfuls of sand from the middle but when I leant back, the sun so warm on my shoulders, it looked like a hulking fortress rather than a castle. So, I put the sand back, panting lightly, then gave up.

It was then that our car pulled up, dark blue and almost silver in the extreme white light. Very small. No sooner had it stopped did my mother roll down the window, her face shoved through it, ostrich egg sunglasses perched high on her nose bridge and her mouth pulled up like a clam.

“Do you want us to die?” She asked, her voice so faint, so whisper-like beneath the waves that I squinted at her beneath the tint of my own shades.

I had looked away from her, at the sandcastle and all its flop-page, and had patted the front entrance so gently, so faint. Then I pressed my hand

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into the top of it, where I had tried to hollow it out.

A piece of me pressed into the world, right at the end of it.

My mother started slamming the horn.

I stood and left.

It isn’t quite as interesting as one thinks it will be, space.

It was a blur of an idea and then it was fire and the edge of the world. Then it was the blue as the earth slowly cycled away until the black crept in more and more to cover it. I had stared at the oceans, at the clouds that dotted white like a pulledapart Q-tip. I had sobbed with probably seventy other children as the place we had loved became immaterial. No more fireworks leaking smoke into the nose, no more factories pumping chemicals into food and clothes. No more cars that rumble beneath one’s thighs and back, no more companies to dictate livelihood. There would be no wars on land, no more coal or oil. No more jungles and apes and rain.

No more deserts, caves, tundra. No more forests and birdsongs. No more oceans.

Only darkness and faint, blinking white lights.

In the fourteen years after, I only saw the white walls of the space station. I greeted neighbours and did my best in school. I ate food that slowly lost its culture, played games that were decades old.

I helped my mother scream at every manager in every position; to one of the food production managers: there was something wrong with the grapes. To the housing manager of our sector: the ACs were too loud; marching from white door to white door through white halls. My face sympathetic to the persons whom she pointed her finger at. And then I helped her lay down each night, her body seeming to age faster than normal and her temper becoming little more than a flame balancing on top of a finger.

“Would you have rather stayed, like your father?”

She asked when I was twenty. I had looked at her tired eyes that now needed glasses. They were

Free Float by Abigail Snodgrass

Cataclysm

still egg-shaped, and I had managed to convince her to get white ones. My hand gripped hers tighter and she sighed. “When you built that castle,” she whispered, “I couldn’t see myself leaving you behind. I had to take you with.”

She smiled, “he was selfish, wasn’t he? Begging you to stay behind like that?”

But when I opened my mouth to answer, hers had shut.

I had laid on my back that night, in the nothingness and silence of air, and thought about my father. He had been on his knees in my room, a grown thing amongst smaller. He’d had his hands on my shoulders, rosary wrapped around his right one, squeezing my shoulders hard and asking me deeply, ‘Won’t you stay? So that we can be together when everything goes?’ The bottom of the cross

stabbed into my left shoulder and I couldn’t answer.

The cicadas outside sang in my stead. I had stood, eyes staring, and I couldn’t breathe enough to answer. It was big and it was young, like a wet thing.

His face had collapsed, brows furrowing down and creating folds in his skin. His mouth had opened in a messy exhale, like it was shuddering out from him, pulled. Tears had fallen then, ‘Won’t you?’

I ran. My breathing harsh and my left shoulder sore.

Ten minutes later, I built a sandcastle.

I had stared up at the blackness in my room, fourteen years later, and wondered what it would have been like if I had stayed. If I had laid my hands in his as everything became heat and brightness and nothingness. Maybe we would have sat at the

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Cataclysm

table, pretending nothing was different. Or we would’ve attended an event at the local Church.

The one he always attended.

I sat up and looked out the window towards the nothingness of black and faint light. Light that had been our own without even realizing it, once. They moved so faint with the slow rotation of the station.

Even now they kicked in quickly. Sounding almost like waves.

The next morning my mother passed away.

Thirty years later I got an email from my supervisor: ‘Earth has been cleared for re-habitation, you gonna go?’

They had told us that it would take hundreds of years. If the planet wasn’t wiped out. There was thermal radiation, everything would be scorched.

What had happened instead was a quiet turn-on of the oven to an extremely high temperature before it was turned off again. It was something less than a tenth of a millisecond. Enough to gently steam the oceans and raze all plant life and animals. It had taken out higher up buildings with multi-level stories, reducing them to one. It had even melted the top of mountains a little. It had killed everyone who stayed behind.

When I stepped back on land, on Earth, it felt like I had stepped onto the outsides of a volcano. It was all blackened, all dusty but no ash. We had to wear suits with headlights to see anything and they revealed the edges of buildings. Carcasses with no discernibility of brick or cement. Most of the metal, if it was closer to the ground, managed to cool quickly enough but it was warped, sometimes curled. Glass cracked, creating all-encompassing aura rainbows when the lights reflected into them.

My feet felt huge and cumbersome, giant, and heavy falling. I marched forward, pushing open doors and hearing only my breathing echoing in my ears.

I couldn’t discern anything about my home.

Anything about how it looked. It was nothing.

Not even the edges of the siding or the door. The windows were empty, and everything was peeled back, like an orange, as if something or someone had reached inside it.

I walked to where my room should’ve been and knelt on my knees. I lifted my hands, to place them

28

The Forge

on invisible shoulders. I stayed and I held, long and longer and then I stood, giant hands rubbing over the small walls.

It was the sound I heard first. The slow swell and the crash. It was the first thing I heard on the planet. Pitch black water, crashing with frothing tips. The stars rose above them, the only light above the empty expanse below it. It travelled far. Pure nothingness until oblivion. The sun must’ve been engulfed underneath it, tucked beneath its waters.

I stood on the spot where my mother stopped, the road being nothing but a man-made rise.

Slowly, I moved down, trying not to slip down the incline. It was for naught, as when I stepped on the beach, I slipped. I fell onto my back, the world blurring and my heaving gasp echoing back into my ears. The suit felled the shock of the impact for the most part, yet my back ached a little, and my right knee that was going made me groan.

I tried to rub it with my hand like I always did and accidentally smacked it more. “Stupid suit, stupid…” I flailed beneath its heavy oppressive bulk, pushing with my arms and my legs below me only to have them slide even worse. “What the…”

I paused, turning to shine my light to the right.

It bounced a bit, sinking through and up, showing the body of a crab buried below, small and tiny. I turned my head to the left. More bouncing of white light. There were shells embedded everywhere. Far as I could see. Preserved, layered in glass for miles, little black dots in curving shapes, some small enough to fit a fingertip and others large enough to hold in the palm.

I managed to get up, moving slowly so as to not slip, and watched as my light sunk deep into the glass until I could no longer see. Closer to the waves’ edge were tiny pieces of glass, all small and chopped up and rounded. They were frosted and I laughed at the sight of them. So normal. So average.

I walked a little bit further, eyes on the shells, a plastic net, the only wood I had seen since arriving back, probably buried to the point that it didn’t burn. I bent and felt the glass beneath my glove, it was smooth and slightly blemished at points. I walked back to where I had started. As my light swept across the glass beach, it stopped on a small risen structure.

Art by Marian Claros Barrientos

Cataclysm

My sandcastle.

Rising with terrible triangle roofs on the towers and arches, round windows. It sunk a little to the side, almost falling. The middle tried to be hollowed out but was still filled. My handprint sunk lightly into it.

It was glass, like everything else. My light cut through its towers easily, sweeping to the down below. The shadows caught on the edges of the handprint, leaving it shaded unless the white light was directly on it.

It was still smaller, but it was also bigger than I remembered. Like a weird box. There was nothing amazing about it, and yet…

I had knelt on one knee and placed my giant palm on top, in the hollow divot, so it tilted down slightly. It was so big the original handprint couldn’t be seen beneath the yellow of my hand. There was nothing. I traced the insides with my index finger.

I breathed in deep. Then I stood. And I looked at it.

I blinked my eyes hard, ‘Won’t you stay?’

‘Would you have rather stayed?’

I stared down at its flop-page and patted the front entrance a bit harder than before. Then I stood and I kicked it as hard as I could with my foot. Again. I slipped and I fell, and I flailed before getting up and kicking it again. It whined and cracked along a triangle. Then the base. Lightning strikes of breakage appeared all over its side and face. I kicked. A crack directly in the middle of the handprint.

Then it shattered, pieces scattering over onto one another, shining a million colours of white light and smacking into the edges of the suit.

And it lay in pieces.

I collected them, held them in my palm and close to my chest, and closed my eyes.

Then I knelt again.

And at the beginning of the world, I built a castle made of glass.

29

The Duelist Enoch Ogunfiditimi

A

round the center asteroid he orbited, maneuvering his 3-pronged craft across the medium of nothingness known as space, he peered into his shaking rear view mirror. His pursuer came into view in a sleek, chrome silver craft. A barrage of zeta rays ensued from his chaser’s cannons, narrowly missing him and taking chunks out of the rocks that littered the area. He maneuvered around the new debris, making sure he wasn't about to fly into a trap. The barrier was now in view, a gargantuan space station formed into a ring with the center made into an arena. In the windows of the station he could see the crowds of people cheering for his pursuer. Turning away from the machine, he looked down into his fuel gauge.

1 bar from empty.

Once again, they hadn’t refilled his fuel.

This wasn't the first time they had done him dirty. He was always alone since his home was destroyed, now left as a gladiator. A berserker dealing out the punishment of Sagarmatha, the Divine One. He went by no name other than Quip.

And no title other than…

The Duelist.

He looked down at his watch.

31, 30, it ticked down the time left in the round.

The bystanders and his adversary believed he was running in fear. But in truth he was waiting.

Once the clock hit 20 seconds he would switch to the offence. He was challenging himself. He veered his craft to fly towards the center of the arena.

He had been setting up a dense field of asteroids there with his careful shots. Kshhh his radio went, followed by a muffled voice.

"Keep running. You’re dead either way." His pursuer's raspy voice scratched at Quip's ears.

22, 21… 20.

Quip kicked his ship into full throttle, dancing through the asteroid field. His opponent struggled to follow him, eyes wide and heart thumping. In front of Quip was a huge asteroid with a hole in the center large enough to pass through. He fired at the

30

The Forge

hole and barrelled through it. Debris now covered the entrance and his pursuer barely steered away in time. The adversary orbited around it until he realized Quip was gone. He cautiously maneuvered through the field, eyes darting every which way. A blast hit the back of his ship and he sped forward.

He focused on his rear view mirror and Quip's shots were practically going everywhere except for his ship. He chuckled at Quip's accuracy.

SMASH. Two asteroids crashed together, pulverizing the back of his craft. The now exposed propulsion systems malfunctioned, sending him scraping and crashing across the asteroid field.

"Star dust," Quip plainly remarked.

His watch beeped.

Ten seconds.

The match was over.

Maybe next time, he would give himself less time. He slowed down and turned to the hangar.

The huge metal doors slid open and a clean up crew ship exited. Quip waited for them to pass and coasted into the entrance. He landed on a pad and jumped down from his ship. Another set of hangar doors ahead opened. The ground under his ship whirred and a conveyor belt took it to the departure hangar. He shook out his legs and walked to the airlock. Once inside, he pressurized and removed his helmet. Taking a deep breath, he looked at one of the screens on his left. It displayed an image of him, and announced him as the victor by elimination, along with his unparalleled, perfect record in bold red text. 110 wins. 109 by elimination.

0 losses. And that was just his record for this station. He looked at himself. He had clear, nearly translucent grey skin, long orange eyes and an elongated head one would see in hieroglyphics.

He exited the airlock to a crowd of confused people.

"Three veterans in one night!" One mumbled to another.

"I thought his species went extinct!"

Another said.

Art by Palika (DC) Sridurongrit

The Duelist

Quip walked through the crowd.

Many among the men were angry about losing money or their prized pilot. He went over to the payment counter. Behind the glass, the insect-like man held a smoker to his mandibles. Taking a long inhale, he gagged and began coughing. After a few seconds, he finally stopped and looked up at Quip, squinting his beady little eyes.

"Did you need something?" He asked. Quip sighed, and someone next to him put a hand on his shoulder.

"Give the man his money." The stranger said.

Quip turned to see who had assisted him. The stranger wore a silk robe with an oddly designed purple vest underneath. His dress sense was odd, but Quip could tell he was wealthy. Quip held his card reader to the counter and the clerk uploaded the payment.

"Thanks." He said to the robed man.

The man shook his head. "You made me a lot of money today. I look forward to doing more business with you." He smirked, waved, and walked away.

I didn’t get his name, Quip thought to himself before deciding it would be better to just be on his way. He strode through the halls, searching for a mess hall so he could pick something up before his departure. His stomach growled as the food situation became more and more unsure until he found it.

Quip entered the cafeteria, a large room with simple grated flooring —but with a beautiful glass dome ceiling that looked out to the stars.

The cafeteria was completely empty, except for one table where five men sat, talking and laughing loudly. As Quip passed their table, they went silent.

They stared at Quip as he walked by. Veterans, Quip determined. He had noticed a dog tag at one of their necks.

They had fought in the war over Drell, Quip’s lost planet. It was an unwarranted genocide carried out by a faction of the Earth federation, justified by the Drells not wanting to be absorbed into their empire. Quip’s father fought in that war. He taught him how to fly. Nearing the end of the planet’s life, Quip was forced to run away as the fleet made their last stand. Even after that, for four years, he and his species were hunted like game. Elusive prizes littered across the lawless galaxy. For all Quip knew, he was the last of his kind. For that, he carried a mission. In space, he would be unbeatable. With Sagarmatha’s holy guidance, he would exact judgment onto those that had done wrong unto his people.

In this sector of space, dogfighting or dueling was a very popular sport.

Countless veterans from the war converged to fight and show off their prowess.

31

The Duelist

That was how he chose his duels. The zeta rays outfitted to dueling ships were made to disable vital systems and place a ship near destruction to make sure an opponent can concede, but enough shots were sure to finish the job. Quip made sure he always passed that threshold. Death was permitted after all.

Quip ignored the group as he continued on to the cafeteria’s vending counter. He wasn’t one to lose his cool over something so petty as prying eyes. Even if said eyes belonged to the men he sought to put down.

As he looked at the selection of grub, he discreetly brushed his hand over his hip. Sure enough, his pistol was where he left it. He punched a code into the pad on the counter and a burrito slid down a chute and onto a pile of trays to his left.

He picked it up, leaving the tray behind and turned around. The five men still sat at the table, muttering among themselves, and occasionally leering at him out of the corner of their eyes.

Quip decided it was in his best interest to eat on the way to his ship. He strode out of the cafeteria, and took a right, peeking behind him to make sure they didn’t follow. They stayed seated, but Quip could have sworn the gruff looking one at the center gave him a smirk.

Quip flipped his phone out of his pocket, and scrolled through the applications. He finally landed on the Dock Master app and put in his credentials.

‘Exit Dock 5, Lot F,’ it read. He looked up to the directional signs and back down at his phone as he navigated through the maze of halls.

“Dock four…” he muttered to himself, as he passed the door, one dock away from his destination.

At last, he reached the door that led to Dock 5. It slid open and he entered the elevator. As it descended, the soft white lights on the ceiling pulsed rhythmically. Quip tapped his foot on the floor, ready to finally leave this hunk of metal.

The elevator stopped with a jolt, and the white lights turned red.

“DEPRESSURIZING IN T-MINUS 10 SECONDS,” a speaker blared robotically.

Quip placed his helmet over his head, drowning out the annoying countdown. He shook out his legs, and with a pshhh, the oxygen left the lift. He could

32

The Forge

feel himself begin to float. The door slid open and he pushed out. Various crews were working on different craft and a few blasted off into the dark outside. Now upside down, Quip flipped, orienting himself and grabbing onto the railing overhead.

“Lot F,” he said to himself, looking at the bold letters on the ground. “There she is,” he spotted his craft, a three pronged angular beauty. He lifted up his legs and tossed himself off the railing on a straight trajectory towards his ship. Bracing himself for impact as the target got larger and larger, he bent his legs and held out his arms. He landed onto the hull feet first and swung his hands down to grab the maintenance hatch before he flew off in the other direction. Looking around, Quip noticed the pilot in Lot E giving him a thumbs up. Quip gave a little nod and opened the cockpit hatch. He threw himself in and pressed a button to shut it.

Settling into his seat, he flipped various switches and pressed a few buttons. His craft came to life as lights flickered on and a screen in front of his steering wheel started up. Thankfully, this time, they had refilled his fuel. Quip stretched out in his chair with a groan and flipped on the radio.

“Lot K clear, have a safe flight,” a young man said from the other side. Quip took a bite out of his burrito, watching lot K empty as a commercial space liner drifted away. He turned on his mic.

“This is Lot F to control, am I clear?” Quip asked before taking another bite. A few seconds went by as he awaited a reply.

“Lot F clear, have a safe flight. Exhilarating matches, by the way,” the young man answered.

Surprised by the compliment, Quip barely remembered to fumble out a response.

“Th-thanks,” he replied, grabbing onto his steering wheel. One hand on the throttle, he pushed and his ship hummed quietly forward. He exited the hangar and let out a sigh of relief. On the cockpit tablet, he mapped out his course towards Palgan, the planet where he currently stayed.

Picking up speed, he took his hands off the steering wheel and leaned back, looking up. In the glass, his irritable mind turned the reflection from the light into a familiar scene. A scene from so long ago that refused to release its malignant grasp on his mind.

The Duelist

A sheet of grey clouds blanketing a sprawling city. Sirens blared and people rushed about.

Teenage Quip peered in fear up at the atmosphere as allied starfighters wove across the skyline, leaving flashes of red and blue lights in their wake. Scraps of metal fell from the sky, and stray bullets followed. Up there, the first battle in Drell’s atmosphere was occuring. In a matter of one week, the Earth Federation had already pierced Drell’s space defenses. There was a thunderclap and the clouds parted. The cover of clouds was gone. The Speldren, Drell’s largest warship, was split down its crown. It barreled towards the planet's surface in a ball of flame. Above it, an Earth Federation warship of the same size began to descend, firing from all sides at the other starships and fighters surrounding it. A shockwave blasted past Quip, knocking him over.

“Quip, c’mon!” someone yelled.

He turned to see his father above him, holding out a hand. Quip took his hand and got to his feet.

His father, Quilen, looked undauntedly into the sky.

A starfighter screamed past.

“C’mon, we’re going to the hangar, no questions!” he said, and ran. Quip followed suit, silently obeying the order. They sprinted down the sidewalk and around the block through the panicking crowds.

They continued to run, and Quip felt short of breath.

At last, they were now on the gravel road that led to the hangar. Quip’s stride faltered, but he managed to push himself until they reached the entrance gates. Quilen slid his key card through a module on the gate and it swung open.

They began running again and Quilen turned his head towards his son.

“I taught you how to fly, right?” He asked, and Quip nodded.

“That’s right, you’re the best I’ve seen…

That’s why you’ll live.”

Quip broke his father’s order to not ask questions.

“We’re gonna fight?”

His father shook his head.

They reached the hangar doors, which groaned open.

“You’re escaping,” Quilen said stoically.

Quip's father was a space force pilot. He must have seen it all, because he always remained

calm. Quip strived to be like him. He looked into the hangar. At the center was a rose gold, three pronged, angular fighter craft. Run-of-the-mill standard spacecraft surrounded it.

“You’re taking the one in the middle, there are spacesuits over there,” Quilen pointed to the wall.

They got into the suits as distant explosions rumbled the ground. Quip was too shocked to realize that the life he knew was soon to be gone.

He walked over to the craft and climbed in. His father had taught him comprehensively how to fly, so he felt comfortable. He flipped various switches and was about to put down the cockpit hatch when Quilen appeared at the side of the ship. He removed a necklace from his neck and handed it to Quip. At the end of the string was a figurehead of Sagarmatha. Quip looked down at his father who held out a hand.

“I’m with you, Quip. Always.” They shook hands.

He stepped away to his own ship and climbed in.

Over Quip’s radio, Quilen spoke again, “You’re clear for takeoff, son.”

Quip put a hand on the throttle and froze in fear. Ahead, were the jaws of hell. A jungle of death.

Hundreds of ships fighting for supremacy, and headed straight their way.

“Straight for the stars, I’m on your six,” Quilen’s voice put Quip back in the right frame of mind. He shoved the throttle forward, and barrelled through the air.

Quip shook himself from the memory, putting both of his hands to his face. That was the last time he had seen his father, or any of his family for that matter. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the figurehead necklace of Sagarmatha. It was carved from a deep black stone. A woman with long hair and countless arms rotating out of her head like sun rays.

“God has a plan for everyone, right?” Quip thought to himself, feeling the ridges and edges. He held it to his chest and incited a prayer.

“Sagarmatha, oh Divine One. Continue to endow me with the strength to acquire justice, vengeance, for all that was lost. Continue to allow me to be your spear, piercing the wicked, until all that remain are the innocent. I am your heavenly messenger… I am your prophet.”

Spring 2025 | Volume V

33

34

The Duelist

Just as he finished his prayer, his radar flashed and beeped. Stuffing the necklace back into his vest pocket, he leaned forward to look at the screen. Five red dots, five starfighters, blinked at the edge of his scanner, directly behind him. He put his helmet back over his head and took a quick moment to look at his surroundings. No asteroids, stations, moons, or anything he could use to outmaneuver them.

But maybe they weren’t hostile?

Quip tuned to his radio and switched it to receive. A man whistled on the other end.

“Ah, finally, had me thinking you were gonna stay silent,” he said. Quip ran maneuvers through his head as he turned on his mic.

“You the guys from the cafeteria at the station?”

Quip asked, determining whether or not these were his usual targets.

“Yup, those were some interesting matches you had back there,” he answered, then paused.

“But those were our boys,” he finished in a gruff voice. A plan failed in Quip’s mind and he began to simulate another, keeping up the conversation for time.

“They had it coming, and maybe you do too.

Consider it retribution for my people,” Quip replied, looking down at the radar again. The red dots didn’t seem to be getting closer.

“Your people were foolish. All the other species accepted human rule. For all we knew, you guys would have formed an empire to crush us,” the man said plainly in a low voice. Quip could feel his blood turn hot.

“That’s your justification?”

“Eh, justified or not, you don’t fight the natural way of things and hope to win, son.” The man proclaimed confidently.

“Don’t call me son,” Quip ordered, trying to keep his anger in check. “And there’s one thing that you should know about the natural way of things… it’s ever changing.” The radar dots inched closer. The man on the other side chuckled.

“Humans will always be the natural way of things, because nothing will ever be enough for us,” he retorted. Quip had never spoken to a veteran like this, and the man’s ideology bewildered him.

“Maybe not enough for you. Not all humans are bad,” Quip rationalized.

“If you don’t consider being greedy bad

To Mars by Abigail Snodgrass

I guess,” the man began. “At heart, we humans are such greedy things. A tiger or lion eats its fill of the same thing everyday and is content. But man is different. The world kept getting bigger and our stomachs kept getting bigger along with it. Just as we knew seemingly everything we could, we discovered the universe. And then that kept becoming bigger and bigger… until we found you guys. A species seemingly just as advanced, that lacked our greed. The universe had to be ours, there could be no competition. So we did what we had to do. That greed, that resolve… is why we will always be the natural rulers. Fragile little humans bending the galaxy to their will.” His monologue left Quip speechless. He chuckled and continued. “You put in a fine effort though, I will admit. But you know, I’ve always wondered, Duelist. You’re so skilled they nicknamed you after the damn sport itself.

But what’s your real name? I’m Dess Caldera.”

“Quip... hold that name well. It’s the last one you’ll ever learn.”

Quip flipped on the overdriver, mashed his throttle forward and pitched up, blasting into a 180 degree loop. Wincing under the force but now facing the enemy, he fired a quick burst, imploding the right most craft. The others split in opposite directions.

He was hoping to pick off more than one with his surprise attack. Now he would have to think faster than he ever had in his life. Time slowed as each enemy ship curved in its own direction.

Should he follow one and let another easily get on his tail? Should he make a desperate rush back to the station? All sections of his brain strained.

Thinking back to his training, he remembered his lessons about tailing: Enter their blind spot, make sure their turning angles are always as wide as possible, use different levels of speed to pass or stall.

Those were the things his father taught him. So where is the common blind spot of four spacecraft going up, down, left and right?

Even if for a moment, it’s straight ahead.

Quip blasted forward past the diverging enemies. Now he had to determine which of them would be in attack position first, to meet them head on. He whipped his head left, up and right, analyzing their angles. The ship to his right seemed to be much more agile than the others.

Spring 2025 | Volume V

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The Duelist

With afterburners on its sides, it winded into a tight turning angle. Quip pulled his steering wheel for dear life, activating his side thrusters to meet the enemy on time.

The two, now nearly converged pilots sat tense in their chairs, eyes wide and hearts beating like snare drums. Sound was no longer one of their senses, overtaken by primal instinct to shoot first, and live. Their lines of fire got closer.

Closer, Closer, Closer, Fire!

Too early…

The right prong on Quip’s craft was blown off, leaving him with one gun. His shot went right down the middle, piercing the cockpit and the pilot.

The two ships sped past each other, one out of control, and the other still in the fight.

Three more to go.

Bullets flew past Quip from behind. Someone was on his tail. He veered to the left, and bullets trailed in his wake; there was only one option. He hadn’t done this in a fight before, but it would have to work.

The bullets drew closer and closer to him, and he removed his left hand from the wheel. Opening a tiny flap to his side revealed a blue button, a little failsafe he thought up in case of a tough duel. Quip jammed in the button and the thrusters shut off cold.

“C’mon! Work!” he muttered to himself, gritting his teeth and pressing the button repeatedly.

Ding ding ding, his ship finally chimed, and just as bullets skimmed past the glass of the cockpit, the ship thrust backwards. The jolt shot his body forward, making him knock his head on the radar, cracking it. He pushed himself back up before he could lose his shot, and he jammed the trigger for his remaining gun, shredding the enemy to pieces.

Two more to go, but now, without a radar, he would only have his dizzied eyes.

A whistle came from his radio.

“You certainly are worthy of that title, son,” Dess said from the other side.

“I was hoping you were one of the people I already got,” Quip replied, searching for the man and his remaining ally. They were nowhere to be found.

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The Forge

“This was a game of chess, son. You’ve played well, but you’re already routed. Checkmate.” Dess declared.

Where were they?!

Quip ran the fight through his head again from a third person point of view. They split, he went right, got one, went left, pulled a trick maneuver doubling back in the process. Where had the other two gone? It was then that it clicked. They took a wager, sacrificing their allies’ lives just so they could both secure an angle.

Quip looked up.

A tiny speck was in the distance.

He looked down to the glass at his feet.

Another speck.

His stomach sank.

They had taken the time from the fight to fly far away on either side, turn around, and have the surest shot in all of history. There was no way to escape their line of vision.

This was death.

“Damn it,” Quip muttered.

“Adieu... Duelist,” Dess drawled, pulling the trigger.

Quip whipped his pistol from his hip and fired into the glass in front of him. The glass shattered and he was sucked out into space just as his ship was blown to pieces.

“Hard on the outside, soft on the inside,” Quip remembered a salesman telling him before begging Quip to buy the high tech glass. Quip was very glad he did, but now he was spinning out of control through the void. With every spin, he would see the wreckage of one of the only artifacts from his past, disappearing into the darkness of space. Back in his ship, Dess basked in triumph.

“Finish him off, I’m getting a drink,” he told his comrade before turning away from the scene.

His ally rejoiced in their victory, “This will be a story we tell forever! The legendary Duelist, felled by us! Our boys are proud from the other side.”

He turned his ship to face the still spinning Quip and sped towards him. Quip scrunched into a ball to make himself as small as possible.

It was then that it set in.

Even if he evaded shots until the enemy got bored, he would drift through space until he died.

No one would help him. He would be left to starve,

The Duelist

or maybe freeze before that. He could already feel the cold setting in at his fingertips. For the first time in his life, he felt like giving up. Because he had no options. This was the wall. The end. So he might as well let it happen now, rather than dragging out a day or whole week. He curled himself out from the ball and stared down the enemy craft head on.

“I’m awaited with open arms. Take me, I have no regrets.”

No one could hear him.

But he swore he could feel them. His father’s

assuring hand on his shoulder. His mother’s loving embrace. His family. His people, all placing hands upon him. The caress of Sagarmatha’s endless arms enfolding him, carrying him in transcendental warmth.

He closed his eyes and felt peace.

The enemy smiled, barreling towards The Duelist, who was now clear in his sights. His shaky hands gripped the wheel, a bead of sweat trailing down his oily face. He lifted his thumbs above the triggers.

If Earth Could Speak by Zeenat Hamidi

BOOM

Spring 2025 | Volume V

37

38

I’m in Love with a Werewolf Connor Reynolds

D

ear Uncle Fred, I’m in love with a werewolf.

Yes. You heard it.

No, I did not stutter.

I meant what I said.

My one and only…

My ride or die.

My one true love.

Is a werewolf.

I am, in fact, obsessed with them.

“How did you fall in love with a werewolf?” I hear you ask. Well it was a nice starry night in the countryside, blood dripping off my face, everything a blur. It’s hard for me to remember the details with my skull being cracked open. What I do remember is the terrifying look on your face. It scared the shit out of me. Then, as if by magic, all my fears washed away. Black fur dancing with the moonlight, shining so brightly that I forgot what I was even scared of in the first place. Suddenly you were gone and I was on the softest bed you could’ve ever imagined. I was nicely bandaged and recovering from the incursion.

They were a miracle and a doctor.

To think that this all started because I was hunting one down. You see, I didn’t always love werewolves. It's horrible, I know. We come from a long line of hunters that specialize in exterminating them. At the time, it was all I knew and so I grew up thinking they were no more than some mangy beasts. Until that one special night. You know the one. I bet you thought it was going to be a special night too. Well, I still remember that part in vivid detail.

It was a cool autumn night. The leaves had already changed color to meet the occasion. I believed you had received a tip from a friend that there might be a werewolf harassing a family in the farms a little ways out from our headquarters. You were always the brash sort, so, of course, you had been ready to go since yesterday. I didn’t see eye-toeye with you on a lot of things, but what we could agree on was that you should never skip out on an

adventure to kill a werewolf.

Weirdly enough, you actually wanted me to join you on this hunt. I still can’t believe it when you asked me; I still laugh about it to this day. At first, I didn’t think you were serious. You were always disappointed with my performance on my hunting trips. I just couldn’t be normal. I couldn’t kill a werewolf properly. I was just too sloppy. Too much of this, not enough of that, and so on, and so forth. I didn’t want to join you, but your relentless attempts to get me to change my mind were getting really annoying. So, here I am, in your truck leaving with you to hunt a werewolf.

It was like a 30-minute drive or something. I’m not sure. I’m just going to skip to the good part. We parked a little ways from the address mentioned in the tip and were slowly walking to the entrance of the house. Everything was quiet, too quiet. The house was dark and practically abandoned; however, the rows of corn on the field showed that someone had been taking care of it. As we moved closer to the house, you pressed your hand against the door and it opened with no resistance. We both walked into the house, our rifles drawn. Patiently, we combed through the house but found nothing. There was definitely evidence that someone was living here, but nothing to prove that it was a werewolf.

As our investigation drew to a close, that’s when I heard it: a howl. It came from the forest right next to the farm. I called out to you from the other room and you quickly responded. But when I told you about the howl, you just seemed confused. How odd? For some unknown reason, you didn’t hear anything. If only I knew, right? Anyway, I heard it again–as clear as before. Yet you still heard nothing.

I was like, “Whatever, Uncle Fred is getting old.” So I did what anyone would do: run after the noise. I could hear you chasing after me, calling me all sorts of names – my favorite being queer-belly and pixiefreak. But I didn’t stop, and as I entered the forest, I couldn’t hear you anymore. The howling was getting louder, and my trigger-finger was starting to twitch.

You Mean More Than My Own Image by Knight Stevens

Spring 2025 | Volume V

39

I'm in Love with a Werewolf

I hid behind some trees, so it wouldn’t see me coming. By now, the howling was extremely loud, and I knew it couldn’t be much longer until I had my kill for the day. Just as I turned, ready to shoot my rifle, I felt a strike against my head. I fell to the ground, blood rushing down my face. That’s when I realized, the tip had been a trap and I was caught in its crossfire. It was one of your lackeys, the one who had struck me. As I tried to get up, more of them appeared behind the trees, one of them carrying a speaker. They started laughing as they pinned me up against a tree and just like that; you appeared from behind the crowd. I guess I was too much of an embarrassment for you, yeah? Is that why you decided that night would be my final night?

Man, I really hate you for that. Of course, you didn’t get what you wanted. It’s hard for me to remember all the details after the head bashing incident. From what I’m told, the speaker playing the howls attracted the real werewolf. They popped up and started having their way with your team.

Unfortunately, though, you got away. It sucks too, if I hadn’t been bashed in the head, I would’ve ran right after you and stabbed you through the heart myself. Oh well, when I do find you, you’ll be wishing for death.

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Now where was I? Oh right, the werewolf.

Turns out they’re pretty cool. The one that saved me decided not to, in fact, kill me either. Even knowing who I was, it didn’t matter. Apparently, they were also the one taking care of the farm. To say this darkened my conception of the world would be putting it mildly. It took me weeks to slowly trust people again.

You know, stuff like that changes you, makes you go a little crazy. But crazy is good, crazy is nice. Crazy is what’s going to end your miserable existence, Fred. And I hope that when you’re reading this letter you know that you are utterly fucked. I know I will be addressing it to you specifically, but I had to write, in the blood of your bud Joe, by the way, “I think someone peed their pants” on the envelope.

You better be rolling out the red carpet Fred.

Because I’ll be showing up with my partner and we’re looking forward to spending some muchneeded time with you for dinner. Don’t bother making the table, we’ll make it for you.

To my Uncle Fred, Your biggest fuck up is getting exposed and I’m ready to serve justice.

Fuck you.

Love, Arrow

The Detective by Melinda Nguyen

41

Trigger Warning

In Vitro Amber Del Rocco

“B

abies…are a gift from God!” Ender’s mother suddenly declared without warning, as she stabbed a forkful of baby peas into a bed of stiff mashed potatoes.

For once, Ender didn’t know what to say. So, she tucked a loose dreadlock behind her ear and pushed a few soggy peas around on her plate instead.

“So, why haven’t you popped one out yet? I’m not getting any younger,” Ender’s mother hounded her, cutting straight to the chase.

“Well, it’s not for lack of trying,” Ender sheepishly murmured, careful to avoid her mother’s invasive stare.

As Ender slowly chewed the remainder of her food, a pair of green-gold eyes seized her restless mind. Her breath began to shorten as she was overcome by the realization that she wouldn’t get to drown in the rich pools of amber ever again.

Part of what Ender had said earlier was true.

What she’d purposely failed to mention was how she had stopped taking her fertility pills months ago. When the oblong, indigo capsules packaged in iridescent cellophane were delivered to her front door, via vacuum tube, she popped them into her mouth, slid them under her tongue, and pretended to swallow optimistically. While her husband, Silo, was sipping a cup of matcha coffee, Ender went through the motions of getting ready for work.

“Ava, turn on sink,” Ender instructed the ephemeral hologram that was on standby in their bedroom, den, and foyer.

As the water flowed from the faucet, Ender would spit the pallid pills into an envelope made out of old newspaper clippings. Then, she’d shove the incriminating evidence into the back of their cramped closet. Despite Fallopia’s technological advancements, there were some things that remained old-fashioned – like their daily news for instance. She couldn’t flush the capsules down the toilet because it would detect the foreign substance, and alert The Council immediately. The same thing

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went for the mirror, the sink, and the tub.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Silo was not necessarily a bad guy. He was just…safe. With his turbulent, baby blue eyes, rugged jawline, and strawberry blonde tresses, Silo was undeniably gorgeous. But their pairing had been arranged by design. On the eve of her eighteenth birthday, Ender’s demographics had been dumped into an artificial intelligence database and matched with an anonymous suitor. As Ender exchanged vows with a complete stranger, she scanned the bustling crowd for a familiar face.

A pair of green-gold eyes frantically scanned hers, watering at the sight of the gold band nestled on her mahogany finger.

Her marriage to Silo felt like one long, monotonous chore. Every single night was the exact same: make dinner, clean kitchen, fuck husband, go to sleep. Ender wanted more out of life. But beyond that, she wanted to have a baby with someone she actually loved. Not someone she stayed with out of obligation.

Fallopia was in dire need of repopulation.

Women without children were the city’s last hope.

Much to her chagrin, Ender was reminded of her reproductive duty. When she was on her lunch break, coworkers cornered Ender about her flat stomach. When she went to her mother’s luxury condo for dinner, Ender was grilled like a piece of red meat. When she visited her in-laws, they never offered her wine, because it was bad for conception.

When Ender conversed with clients at work, it was the only time she felt free. She was a death doula. Ender helped people plan how, when, and where they would die. But also, she helped them decide what they would leave behind in their absence. Silo’s job was a sharp contrast to her own, as he worked for the fertility board. Under strict orders from his supervisor, Silo had been forbidden from discussing his employment with anyone.

Even his own wife. Because of this, his hours, responsibilities, and title were shrouded in secrecy.

In Vitro

In the beginning of their marriage, Ender had tried her hardest to get him to spill the beans. But like an impregnable fortress, Silo wouldn’t budge. Her resentment paired with his silence only drove them further apart.

Fallopia was a low-crime, low-poverty city.

As a result, only one law had been put into place.

Once a woman reached her 28th birthday, she must conceive her first child. Failure to comply resulted in a mandatory transfer to a corrective facility, Utero, for further examination. The grim reality about Utero was…some people never came back.

After work was over, Ender drove home, pulled into her driveway, and squeezed her eyes shut. She was haunted by that familiar image again—a pair of green-gold eyes that blinked nonstop, burning a black hole into her retinas. When she finally exited her car, she stared at it in contempt. It was like the first generation of the Cyber Truck and the third model of a Tesla X had a baby, melted consecutive bars of gold, pressed it into thin sheets of mylar, and slapped wheels and doors on it for shits and giggles.

As Ender walked through the foyer, dirty blonde dreadlocks slithered across the small of her back, like a snake on the move in uncut grass. Charms the shape of the moon, sun, and stars hung from her locs, forming melodies like the ornaments rotating on a baby mobile.

Like her womb, the house was abnormally cold, sterile, and empty. There was no sign of Silo, his car, or the cold cup of matcha coffee he downed every single morning. The lights were off. There’d been no hologram to greet her. And the air was eerily stagnant. The hair on the back of Ender’s neck stood up as she realized that something was dreadfully wrong.

After turning on the lights, Ender’s chocolate brown eyes widened in horror. Spread out like a deck of cards on her dining room table were the oblong, indigo pills coated in dried saliva and confetti-sized bits of newspaper.

An android’s distorted voice boomed from the entertainment center.

“ENDER ABRAMS, YOU HAVE DEFIED THE FERTILITY ORDINANCE SET FORTH BY THE COUNCIL. FOR VIOLATION OF THIS LAW, YOU MUST BE REHABILITATED.” A colorless fog began to fill Ender’s dining room, rendering her unconscious immediately afterwards.

When Ender woke up, she was on a metallic cot in a room the color of cracked eggshells. The walls and floors were painted the same drab color, devoid of any decoration or human touch. There were no windows—only a door with a slit the size of a crescent moon. As she tried to stand to her feet, Ender was prevented from doing so. It was as if both of her feet had fallen asleep and were now filled with copious amounts of lead.

Without warning, the door to her cell opened and a disoriented man in dire need of serious grooming stumbled inside. Ender blinked up in disbelief at the stranger, pausing as her eyes locked onto his. Just like a balloon losing air, Ender’s breath briefly left her lungs. The mesmerizing pair of eyes that occupied her every other thought were not a figment of her imagination. They were real.

And so was he.

“Lucky?” Ender asked in disbelief, the back of her throat thick with dread.

Lucky did not meet Ender’s inquisitive gaze.

Her words had fallen on deaf ears because he was in survival mode. To him, she was just another conquest.

“We must mate–or they’ll kill us,” Lucky lifelessly replied.

Ender’s eyes followed Lucky’s, which were warily fixated on a black, rectangular camera mounted to the wall. A red dot began to blink profusely, indicating that a recording was in progress. ***** Down the hall, Silo sat in a control room, removing his finger from the big red RECORD button on the switchboard.

“The ordinance must be followed–no exceptions can be made.”

Spring 2025 | Volume V

43

Forge Master

44

To Be A Mother (Elena) Ann Rodriguez

I

was never meant to be a mother. I knew that early on. I watched the light slowly fade from my mother's eyes with each passing birthday, a gradual distance growing between us. Some might say she helped cultivate my independence, but that wasn’t her intention. I became this way out of survival, plain and simple. There are moments when I wonder if things could have been different. Maybe if they had been, I’d be more empathetic and sweet.

But I’m not, and I’ve come to terms with that. I don’t desire to change it. This detachment is what makes me a great scientist. In this world, being a scientist means pushing boundaries, embracing risk, and ignoring morality in the relentless pursuit of knowledge. Does it keep me awake at night? Maybe.

Is it worth it? Absolutely.

I’ve fought tirelessly for recognition, and I’ll do whatever it takes to hold on to it. If I fail, I’ll take it all down with me. My superiors are aware of the extent of my commitment, which makes my new assignment all the more perplexing: a longterm hybrid research project. Is this a punishment or a challenge? Are they testing me to see if I can uncover something truly revolutionary? I can’t figure out the real purpose behind this project.

No matter how carefully I ask, no one will give me an answer.

“He’s small and fragile. Why couldn’t I get one of the older ones? This one might not even survive the first three experiments I planned.” I circle the glass box containing the subject: a baby sitting upright, appearing no older than thirteen months. His eyes are wide and curious. His tousled brown hair falls messily over his forehead, growing over his eyes.

"Higher-ups know what they're doing. Take it or leave it," the guard says, tapping the glass enclosure three times. The glass disappears with a faint hum.

"What's he even a hybrid of?" I ask.

"How would I know? I'm just here to drop him off." He taps a few buttons on the device on his wrist and strides out without another word.

Emotion by Jay Huh

"Thanks anyway," I mutter as the door slams shut. "Jerk."

I step closer to the child on the counter. He meets my gaze, unblinking. “You definitely look half-human,” I say, brushing his hair aside to get a better look. His irises are perfectly split down the middle: one half deep blue, the other crimson red. "Interesting." I lean in, analyzing his features.

Possibly a water spirit hybrid. Not a fairy; his blinks don’t emit the crystalline sound typical of their kind. Maybe an animal hybrid, their physical traits usually manifest in adolescence.

"Bap!" The baby slaps my nose with his tiny palm, interrupting my train of thought.

"Ugh." I groan, turning to my desk. "Ridiculous.”

I sit down and try to gather my thoughts. After years of pushing the boundaries of hybrid science, I'm reduced to babysitting. I glance back just in time to see the baby teetering toward the edge of the counter. I rush over and catch him mid-fall.

"Nope. In the chamber, you go."

The lab techs installed the hybrid containment chamber last week after my Captain assigned me this project. The sleek, steel structure hums softly as I lower the child inside on the floor. He stares up at me, unblinking.

"I'm thirty-two," I muttered, returning to my desk. "I could be running lunar research labs, but instead, I'm stuck here with a baby."

I pick up a photo frame that's balancing on the edge of the desk. It's Elias and I, my former partner.

We could've conquered worlds together, had he not flown too close to the sun. I was simply left to sift through the ashes. Sighing, I place the frame face down and start typing up the course schedule for the semester. My responsibilities stretch beyond this experiment: teaching hybrid biology courses, supervising lab interns, and advancing my research.

The cursor blinks against the blank document as the enormity of my tasks settles over me. I breathe, place my fingers on the keyboard, and type.

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Class Schedule: ◊ Week 1: Lab safety procedures ◊ Week 2: Hybrid safety procedures ◊ Week 3: Adjusting the hybrid to machinery procedures ◊ Week 4: Hybrid handling procedures ◊ Week 5: / “Wa-Wamm!” The baby squishes his face against the glass of his chamber, making other absurd noises.

“This is going to be hell,” I mumble.

And it was–for weeks.

I didn’t know taking care of a child would mean making sure it wouldn’t kill itself every few minutes. I knew babies were dumb, but part of me wished they weren’t, so I didn’t have to be on my toes constantly. He's endlessly curious, grabbing anything within reach. I once caught him trying to chew through the cables of my active energy machines–good thing they're wrapped in aluminum.

I’ve never had to babyproof my lab before. Annoying as it was at first, I've come to realize many of my tools and machinery are hazards to... well, everything. Living alone for so long, I had never considered that another person may not have as good a sense of surroundings as I do. Maybe this experience will help me improve my lab's safety and even my performance when I eventually work with a team on a more significant project. If I ever get assigned one. No… I have to stop thinking like that.

When I get assigned one. *** “What are you naming him?” L0024 asks, leaning casually against my lab counter.

L0024, an old friend. His real name is Ian. I no longer call him that. I call him 24. If anyone caught me referring to someone from a lower division by their birth name, I could be exiled. He's sharper than most in his position, although he turned down a promotion when it was offered. I never understood why. We climbed out of the Floors together, also known as the lowest division, designed to fuel the Departments with highly motivated minds. Down there, the only ladder to the surface is built on scientific achievement. If you want to break through

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the concrete ceilings, you need the Departments to notice you. They govern everything in our society.

They encourage education, but only the best are promoted to higher divisions.

When we got accepted to preparation school, where I now teach, he was the ambitious one, talking endlessly about pioneering discoveries and making it to the top. I was more rebellious, more... defiant. I didn’t want to become another selfabsorbed boffin chasing data for the sake of prestige.

Yet here we are: me, a self-absorbed boffin, and him, a medium-ranked officer tethered to fieldwork.

He never resented me, and he’s never made it weird.

He’s content moving through sectors, collecting secrets he won’t share. I don’t ask. That’s our balance. Always has been. We only recently started hanging out again, and I’m glad we got back in touch.

“Naming him? I’m not going to name him. He is 1112M4T300, and that’s that.” I scoffed and started organizing this week’s paperwork for my students.

“Quite a mouthful. Not even a nickname?” he shouts as I enter the kitchen to fetch the nutrient paste for general hybrid babies.

I hesitate at the cabinet. “I suppose it is long,” I say over my shoulder. “Maybe just... 300. Or 1112.”

I frown. “One-one-one-two sounds weird, though.”

“It’s kind of cute, like any other human baby.”

I see him holding the baby up as if inspecting it, which makes me chuckle.”M4T, 2Mat, Mate, Matt, Matty?”

“Mateo,” I say without much thought. The room was still for a second.

“I thought you weren’t gonna name him,” I could hear his smile from here.

“Well, you said it was a mouthful. And the numbers... kinda look like the name, if you squint.

It’s just a convenience thing.” My pulse races.

People who name hybrids get in trouble. Naming implies care. Care leads to attachment. I can’t afford an attachment.

I notice him holding back a smile. I can’t tell if it's smug or genuine. “I like Mateo. Good job,” he says as he hands me the baby and grabs his coat.

“I- I’m not going to call him that, though!”

I quickly clarify, as if trying to cover up a heinous crime.

“Sure you won’t. Welp! I gotta go,” he says as he

To Be A Mother (Elena)

puts on his coat. Sitting the baby down in his high chair, I cross my arms. “Where are you off to?”

“I’ve got a situation back on a lower floor, so I guess we’ll see what that’s about,” he smiles and steps out the door. He blows a kiss to the baby, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

“Good luck, don't die,” I say softly but seriously.

The missions they send medium-ranking officers on are ten times more dangerous than those assigned to high-ranking officers. The low ranks get all the dirty work, like on-site reports and interrogations with criminal hybrids. High-ranking officials just… sit in an office analyzing data. If an issue isn’t threatening a high-ranking officer’s life, it isn’t considered an issue.

“I won’t~” he sings as he leaves.

As I turn to look at the child, he giggles and smacks his hands on the little table set up on his high chair. I sit down in front of him, preparing his food.

“What am I going to do with you?” I say, as I put a fair portion of food on the spoon for the creature to eat.

“Maa–” My eyes widen when I hear him utter that.

“Oh–” I cover his mouth with my finger before he even finishes trying to sound out a word I do not want to hear. “Oh no, uh–” I realize how ridiculous I look, shushing a baby who doesn't even know how to speak, let alone think. “Uhm… EH-LEH-NAH,” I say loud and slowly.

“Eeh-nah,” he attempts to say my name.

“Close enough,” I smile in response, but something in my heart aches. Subconsciously, I caress the creature’s cheek. It has such a soft texture. I don’t like this emotion. I feel like I need to smash a plate to get rid of it. *** Days pass, and I begin to understand why couples want children.

I’ve been finding myself becoming a parent to this hybrid, not by choice, but through a growing sense of gratitude. I’ve learned things I never imagined: how quickly a tiny body digests food, tricks to speed up potty training, and the surprising effectiveness of turning “adult” meals into smooth

paste to encourage eating. Mateo prefers savory over sweet, and parenting has started to feel like a small victory. I find myself doing ridiculous things for his amusement, but he also laughs in the strangest moments. Once, I walked into his chamber's glass door, and he laughed hysterically.

His favorite expression is when I look angry and stick out my tongue. Despite the hard work, his presence makes it worthwhile. Maybe the higherups knew I was lonely. As for the experiments, Mateo is doing well. As expected, his body temperature differs slightly from ours, but he still looks completely human. I've decided to bring him to my classes; he's not ready to be left alone. Luckily, it fits with the curriculum. However, it has brought some unexpected outcomes.

“T0016?” A student of mine says as I write on the board.

"Yes, S78?" I turn to see the boy, pencil in hand, aiming toward Mateo. My stomach drops.

Negative feelings toward hybrids aren’t new; many students have made their disdain clear. But this time, it hits differently. Hybrids are seen as worse than animals, labeled Creations of Sin. It’s how we’ve always been taught. Humans dominated this planet after we advanced technologically and decided to stay, wiping out the native creatures in our path... We treated these beings as study subjects, mistaking their silence for a sign of weakness. Over time, some adapted and evolved in ways that outsmarted us, which led to the creation of the Departments, a military force designed to assert control. After winning the war, humanity established a rigid hierarchy. Centuries later, the Allegiance, a resistance of humans and creatures, created hybrids as a form of rebellion. These beings, part human and part creature, live as walking contradictions. The Departments, wielding immense control over education and society, perpetuate the belief that hybrids are dangerous abominations, fueling widespread fear and hostility that ensures hybrids remain in captivity.

"Can I throw something at it?" he asks casually.

A few students chuckle. Despite widespread animosity toward hybrids, students are expected to maintain strict standards. This includes a formal tone, prescribed materials, and regulated uniforms.

Precision is everything. It’s how I was taught,

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To Be A Mother (Elena)

and it was effective.

Blinking, I ask, “Where do you wish to throw it?” slowly feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.

“I don’t know, hopefully, it's face,” more laughter. I smile.

“I believe that the aforementioned action is neither appropriate nor professional within a laboratory environment unless a legitimate, rational hypothesis supports it,” I say, thinking that he’ll get the hint and move on.

"Good thing I have one." My eyes widen. How dare he continue this charade? "Do all hybrids have a survival instinct?" he says before hurling the pencil at Mateo.

I slam my desk's control, activating the glass barrier around Mateo. The pencil clinks against it and drops harmlessly to the floor. Mateo giggles, oblivious. The cage designed to protect us from hybrids was now used to defend my hybrid.

“Enough! This is highly inappropriate language and behavior. That will not be accepted in my classroom. Do I make myself clear? Does this class look like a joke? You are here to become detectives, scientists, or doctors to work and improve this world.

Not to act like clowns. I should suspend you.” I let my anger get the best of me, but at least I turned it into a learning experience.

A relevant one.

“I’m sorry I–” "Out!" I point to the door. "You're dismissed for the day and lose today's attendance points.

Immaturity will not be tolerated." The boy stands up and leaves, face pale. I pace, fists clenched. "As for the rest of you," I turn toward the class, "laughter during a lecture is a sign of incompetence. I'm disappointed in you all. Expect extra work this semester," The classroom falls silent. I had never

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been this strict, but maybe this was meant to happen.

“Baapah!” Mateo exclaims. I quickly turn to him and say the worst thing possible…

“Yes, my dear?” As the words leave my mouth, I freeze in place. Perhaps I am becoming too endeared with this creature. I turn to my class and hear whispering and estranged faces all around. *** “You called Mateo, ‘my dear,’” 24 says as he

To Be A Mother (Elena)

processes the story I had just told him. I’m lying down on my couch with my face covered by my throw pillow, utterly humiliated.

“There’s something very wrong with me, 24,” I groan.

“I think you’re finally thinking like a person and not a scientist,” I could hear him say as he sat down beside me.

“That’s the thing. I need to be a scientist, but I’m becoming soft,” I say, adjusting myself to sit next to 24, still hugging my pillow tight.

“Nothing wrong with a little softness.”

Elena by Ann Rodriguez

“Everything is wrong with that,” I whisper. Looking up, I see 24 stifling a laugh.

“Think about it, the first scientist with a soul,” he teases; I roll my eyes at his comment.

"Scientists do have souls," I retort halfheartedly. "We're just... overly passionate."

Who am I kidding? To succeed here, you need to be ruthless. The higherups I admire commit atrocities without hesitation, while moralists are quickly silenced. I thought I was growing cold, but ever since this child entered my life, I’ve realized I was never as strong as I believed.

“Our peers hate hybrids. If they were given this child, it would’ve been dead months ago, Elena. You’re doing fine,” he places his hand on my shoulder, but it does not feel reassuring.

Pushing his hand off, I say, “I don’t feel fine.” I then stand up and start pacing slowly.

“What are you so scared of?”

His voice grows louder.

“Getting attached,” I respond firmly.

“Elena.”

“I can’t do that again; you know what they do to attachments here,” I say, locking eyes with him. But he shakes his head dismissively.

“They wouldn’t kill a baby,” He sputters.

“They’ve done it before. Spring of 5021, you were on duty, and we all saw it happen.

There are protests every month because of that incident, as well as many others. You and I both know that baby didn’t deserve to be–” I choke on my words.

“But that’s because– because,” I cut him off, scowling. Why would he defend them? We both know we comply out of fear. It’s simply easier.

“That’s how they control us, 24!” I yell, holding back tears. All I feel is rage. Indifference was easier than guilt. But now I’m angry again. What have they done to me? At 19, I was a fighter, a protester… a target. My eyes widen.

“I know, Elena, but they wouldn’t kill your baby!”

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To Be A Mother (Elena)

he says, standing.

“He’s not my baby,” I whisper, still stunned.

“You know what I mean. You’re the captain’s star student. He sees you as a daughter. He wouldn’t take Mateo… not unless you rebelled–” “You’re right. But what if, when Mateo grows up, he learns the truth? What if he fights him… fights me?” 24 furrows his brows. Silence. I turn away, rubbing my temples. The headache is coming fast.

Then, I feel a gentle hand on my arm.

“That’s why you’re here. You’re his mother now, Elena.”

My cheeks flush. Maybe from anger.

Maybe something else.

“Shut up,” I move away and head to my room.

“You can control the narrative,” he says, his last words before leaving. They rumble around my head after the door shuts. I can control the narrative.

That’s grim. That night, I threw up. *** A few years pass.

Mateo is now four human years old. He has gotten used to the experiments and thinks they are normal. Even during the painful ones, he sits still, trusting me when I tell him I went through the same thing, though that's a lie.

Thankfully, he's made a lot of improvement; he's become a smart boy for his age, at least compared to humans. I suspect his intelligence is developing faster than usual, but that might be due to having a scientist as his guardian. His hair grows three times faster than that of the average boy. He likes it short, so I've learned to cut hair. Funny, isn't it? A scientist by day, a barber by night. I still don't know his hybrid type, but my suspicions remain: dragon or phoenix. 24 is betting on a dragon. I'm leaning toward a phoenix because of the division in his eyes. Red often signals fire types, while blue might reflect his human side. Still, it could be something much simpler than we imagine.

Mateo's grip tightens around my hand as he stumbles during our walk to the Hybrid Report Center, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Remember what I told you, Mateo. Stand what?”

“Stand high and bow down,” he says confidently.

“Good! So when we get to the big man’s desk,

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you will do that, and then say what?” I ask as I fix the collar of his shirt. He might be the most puttogether hybrid the captain will be seeing today.

“Good morning, kind captain!” he shouts enthusiastically. I can’t help but smile at his energy.

His genuine sweetness is better than candy.

"Good job, buddy!" I say, offering a high-five.

He slaps my hand with perfect aim and laughs as he skips along. The hallway stretches endlessly, a reminder of how massive The Department's buildings are.

“Elena,” Mateo says, no longer skipping.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Why are they in cages?”

I look around. I hadn’t realized how many caged hybrids were in line. They were all older, dirty, and unhappy, some even with bruises.

I might be among the first trying to raise one like a normal child.

“Because they’re not as happy and handsome as you, dear,” I say, playfully grabbing Mateo’s nose.

He giggles but keeps looking around, unsettled.

He’ll have to get used to this.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because they’ve been naughty. Now come along, or we’ll be late,” I say, walking faster.

Ahead, a scientist holds a gilded cage with a sedated fairy glowing faintly inside. Likely part of a gene analysis, small creatures like her are often overdosed. Seeing harm done to beings like Mateo makes me sick.

I check in and find a seat with Mateo on my hip.

People stare. No one’s seen a calm hybrid outside an enclosure before. I feel… proud.

“Elena and 1112M4T300, your meeting with the captain may commence.” I stand, fix Mateo’s collar, take his hand, and walk through the doors. They shut behind us.

The captain’s desk looms ahead. He wears his smooth, white mask, blank and inhuman. I’ve never seen his face. It’s been four years, yet the dread in my chest returns like an old scar. I don’t know what he expects of me, just hoping I’ve done enough.

“Good morning, kind captain!” Mateo exclaims and bows. Once he gets back up, I bow as well.

“Are you 1112M4T300?” His deep, digitized voice vibrates through the room, giving me shivers.

I don’t wish to disappoint him, and I know I won’t.

To Be A Mother (Elena)

"Yes!" Mateo says brightly. I glance at the captain, worried about Mateo's lack of formality.

But the captain nods. I exhale in relief.

“What a well-mannered young man, very impressive, Elena. Well, 1112, tell me how it's been under Elena’s care.”

I look down at Mateo, who meets my eyes.

“Am I good with you, buddy?” Mateo smiles at me.

“Yeah! She’s funny!” he says while pointing at me.

“Funny, you say! Why Elena, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a joke from you in my life! Please, I’ve had a long day. Provide me with one of your jokes,” he said and crossed his arms expectantly. Panic tightens my throat.

Jokes are not orderly. I wish I had let Mateo know about any possible questions we could encounter. I only briefed him on the main introduction since that’s all I’ve ever had to think about with past hybrid subjects, but of course, Mateo’s special, I should’ve known.

"Oh, um... I think he meant to say I'm strict and level-headed. I haven’t made any jo–" “I gave you an order,” he cuts me off. I froze.

“I–Uh,” I look at Mateo, who’s smiling innocently. “What did the chicken say when he crossed the road?” I say and look at the captain awkwardly.

“I don’t know, what did he say?”

I sigh and get behind Mateo. I grab his arms and make them move like a chicken.

“Bawk, Bawk, I’m a chicken, oh no! Blehh, bleh... because he-he got run over.”

Mateo laughs as I don’t stop making him move like a chicken. This is possibly the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done in front of my boss.

Captain clears his throat and says, “I must apologize, as I do not have good humor, but I believe it was an excellent joke due to your laughter. " He pulls out his notepad and clicks his pen. "Anyways, do you have any skills to demonstrate?”

I quickly compose myself and put Mateo’s arms down, “No, sir. He is quite young. I still don’t know what he is a hybrid of.”

“Disappointing.”

“But! From many tests and– and experiments!

We have valid suspicions that he may have some

kind of ability we haven’t unlocked yet.” I pull out my presentation pen and place it on the floor, and the hologram of my presentation appears behind me.

“I’m listening.”

“His blood levels differ from a human’s… he runs colder,” I say, flipping to his temperature charts and daily logs. “He’s brilliant. Solves puzzles fast when it frustrates even me.” I play a time-lapse of Mateo fixing a remote-controlled truck in under three hours. “With training, he could be a genius.

He recently built a motherboard from scratch in less than a day.” I show an image of his replica. “I suspect he’s a dragon or phoenix hybrid… His heat signatures and eye color match the symptoms. If my past studies are right, dragon traits must be triggered. We’re definitely onto something great!”

I add, trying to sound confident.

He smiles and stamps his paper. “I give your hybrid a 9 out of 10. I have high expectations for his future. Keep up the good work, little one.”

I smile in relief and grab the stamped paper he hands to me. “Thank you, Captain. What do we say, Mateo?” Crap.

“Thank you~” says Mateo as he waves and walks out the door, and I walk behind him, avoiding eye contact with the captain.

“Mateo. Interesting.” *** “At least it wasn’t ‘my dear,’” 24 teases after I tell him what happened at the meeting. I start groaning.

“I’m going to lose my job, the child, my future.

It's all over,” I say as I get up from the couch.

“You’re going to be fine. You know the captain can be overly understanding and flexible with you!”

“But what if that was crossing the line, a name, 24… I gave him a name! He knows now that I’m attached, I need to– I need to do something,” I say as I pace around the living room. But then suddenly, I stop in my tracks.

“Uh, what are you thinking?”

“I need Mateo to be afraid of me.”

“What? That's your plan?”

“That’s how the captain will know I’m just like the others: unattached, cold, strict, and capable of not feeling anything!”

Spring 2025 | Volume V

51

To Be A Mother (Elena)

24 stood up from the couch to meet my eyes.

“Have you ever thought that maybe being different is why you got such a good grade? You’re thinking outside the box,” he tries to grab my arms and hold me in place gently, but I shrug him off.

“No, 24, this happened to– you know who…

They’re scared of us ‘thinking outside the box,’ they want you to stay in… That’s it… I need to keep Mateo in the box.” A lightbulb turns on above me.

“Uh, do I even want to know?” he asks as he watches me approach the hybrid chamber’s glass door. This room had become Mateo’s bedroom, like any other child’s area. His drawings hung on the walls, toys were scattered all over the floor, a lovely colorful train carpet was on the floor, and even a wall where we measured his height since he first started standing on his own.

“I can’t allow any more contact with him. He needs to see me not as a mother, but as his scientist,” I start tapping on the glass door’s security system.

“What are you–” “Hybrid chamber is now locked,” the voice said.

“Are you crazy?” 24 grabs my wrist, pulling me away from the door.

“This is for the best. For all of us, even him.”

“Locking him inside the containment room like a dangerous hybrid? He’s a child!”

“I–I don’t know what else to do,” I said, shaking my head. I felt like something had come over me, something I didn’t recognize.

“Maybe not… lock him inside by himself?” 24 said, flabbergasted.

Rage bubbled inside me. I know why I do what I do. “It’s either this, or they take him away from me!” I pull my hand away from 24 violently and turn my back on him.

“Stop being paranoid! Wake up! They won’t take him!” he says, to no avail.

I swiftly turn around and walk up to him.

I get close to his face and say darkly, “Do you think I trust what you have to say?”

“El–” I point my finger at his chest and push him back with it, “You told my husband that he would be fine.

You told me he would be fine.”

“You know that’s because I thought-” “Go home, 24.” I turn around and sit on the couch, feeling another migraine coming on.

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I close my eyes as I rub my temples.

I hear 24 take steps towards the door, only to stop and say, “… Just… Don’t hurt him…”

“Go home!” I yell out. I hear the door shut. A tear wets my cheek. It’s almost morning. *** I didn’t sleep. Mateo’s voice breaks my dissociation. “Elena?”

“Hi, honey,” I say, turning to look at him through the glass door.

Mateo knocks. “Open the door, please,” he smiles.

“The hybrid chamber is locked,” a voice says. He looks confused.

“Elenaa~” he sings. I take a deep breath, trying to drown him out.

“You can do this,” I whisper to myself.

“Open!” he exclaims. I stand, my body sore from five hours on the couch, and turn back to him.

“Child.”

“Elena!” He laughs, slapping the glass.

“You must stay here.”

His smile fades, brows furrowing.

“I am in charge of you,” I say. He blinks, eyes widening.

“I don’t wanna be here!” he protests.

“There’s nothing I can do,” I reply, walking to the glass.

“Elena!” He slaps it harder. I crouch down and place my hand on the glass.

“I’m sorry, child,” I whisper. He hits the glass near my face, making me gasp. Then faster, harder.

“Open! Open, open, open!” His fists slam against it.

The look in his eyes shakes me. I feel weak, like a coward. A tear slips down my cheek, and I quickly turn away, sliding down the door with my eyes shut.

The soft vibration of his hits trembles through me.

“Open!” he cries, now begging. “I’m sorry!

Please! Open!”

I cover my ears, a sob escaping.

“Elena!” He won’t stop shouting my name. It’s torture. Then the floor rumbles beneath me. I open my eyes instinctively. Mateo is still calling my name, but above him is a dark, vast cloud. The ground shakes again, almost making me stumble.

Z Star Automobile by Aviroop Kaur-Dhaliwal

To Be A Mother (Elena)

I brace myself against the glass.

“Mateo?” I say a bit too softly.

“Open the door!” His voice matched the lightning strike that hit the door. I gasped. This is it.

“Elena!” Another lightning strike against the glass, this time, making an actual mark. I react quickly and start pressing buttons on the security system to let Mateo go.

“I will open the door, honey. I need you to calm down first, okay?” I said desperately. “Come on, come on, come on,” I chant beneath my breath as I stumble with my typing.

“Hybrid chamber is now unlocked,” the voice says.

The door quickly opens, and instead of Mateo trying to make a break for it, he runs towards me for a hug. I sit on the floor to hug him back. Cradling his head, I hold him tight. I am never letting anything get between us again, not even my selfish person.

I feel my clothes getting wet, and when I look up,

I see that the cloud is still there, but it's only raining.

My whole face felt damp from the rain and the tears that would not stop falling. Only then did I notice that Mateo was crying as well.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, shh,” I say, rubbing his back in an attempt to soothe. I look up to see the cloud slowly dissipating.

“Fascinating,” I whisper.

“You are mean,” he says with a pout.

“I’m sorry, I won’t do it ever again, never. I’m sorry, honey, I’m so sorry,” I say as I hug him tighter, and our bodies rock as we try to calm down. I don’t know what comes next. I can’t help but act like a mother, and I can’t bear the thought of losing him.

One wrong move, and they could use what I care about most to threaten me. Was this all set up?

At this point, I don’t care. I would do anything for Mateo… anything to keep him safe. I’ll fight with everything I have to raise him. But deep down, I know I’m royally screwed.

53

54

The Wall!

Ronald Sherman

“U

p and Forward, Beyond the Pale!”

To be there. To be in alleyways most wretched, as the boot of the tyrant was tossed overhead. To watch, as the National Razor descended upon the nape of napes, jewels and crystalline gold shattered into fractures, with the Last gaining its first dignity. To meet with Babuef and Darthe, Rosa and Liebknecht, under the candle of moonlight, with upheaval in our midst. Hope, hope; that burning word, my most delightful indulgence, which fills my heart with a deeper yearning than anything of the flesh. Beguiled in its rosy scent, I march. Thump, thump, thump; it beats, Director Core, prying my mirrors forever open.

However, I am in Nonimus, the prevailing nothing. The Razor fell, the masses farther.

Prophets of light cast unto the gnashing of teeth.

Our holy creeds became reviled slogans, alongside the flagellation of our heroes for the entertainment of pigs. When the carnival concluded, their bare bodies, ribbons, and bones exposed to the accursed sun had their hearts plucked. Still beating, still drumming, it was cast into engines of smoke.

Smoke and blood, which now plume out of gnarled pyres of iron, where the devil forges his trumpets.

His minions raise them to their lips, and blare their infernal-eternal cacophony. Through the brass is the tune that puts the world to sleep.

Rest eluded me. Its siren call screeched from village to village, only to fall mute at my presence. In these villages lay the world and its citizens. Upon the clay, the people stood, their eyes clouded with a delicate cream, staring into nothing. Behind their firmaments is a world of rainbow, which duly pulsed in their vision. Ashened soot pocked their skin, a disease they enjoyed, cherished.

“A truly wonderful day!” one exclaimed. “The colors! The colors! Oh, how they dance behind our eyes! Oh, oh, how we have been gifted!”

To gain their attention was meaningless. Most of what you could gather is a simple nod or perhaps

Mosaic by Isabella Roman

a grunt. But they certainly weren’t unaware. When the colors faded from beneath their cataracts, their howls of depravity would echo from wall to wall.

Their bare feet would feel the viscous, grey mud between their toes; their lungs filling with metallic current. They would scream. Crying for relief, but not for cure. They would shriek even louder if you proposed such a suggestion.

Beneath. My soul lay beneath this canopy of grotesqueries, as the hamlet laid under the walls of the citadel. Coarse stone, pilled to the heavens, spikes protruding from the ashlar. The smooth steel gleamed underneath the choked moonlight, as bright as it was dull. At the base of this megastructure was a horde, desperately attempting to scale it. The spikes were broad enough to act as platforms, where the numerous attempted to scale them. I have as we all. Some would even make it as high as the last row, the grooved edge of the capstone etching itself into their minds. Their hands, of course, would then slip, as they plummeted to their deaths.

It was cruel, truly. The last row was just out of reach. The Citizens toil, offering their children as lambs. Lives, centered around the Wall. I wonder if there is anything behind it. Ancient megaphones shriek, “UP AND FORWARD, BEYOND THE PALE!” but this is seldom. Seldom is worship.

Processions, chants of pure ecstasy towards the Capstone Most High. Lectures in our study halls, with professors exalting their praises more jubilantly than any cleric. The shattering of throats, the desiccation of tear ducts, all towards our new freedom–if we could just vault over that last row.

Now, there is only a quick yell. A yell, a droning cry, and then total silence.

Oh, if I could only be in Guernica! To sing praises to our heroes while the great dragon expelled its flames! To be reduced into cinders instead of clay! To lose my senses by the drum of a mortar! To be split into atoms, reduced into memory by hellfire! Anything, everything besides the Wall!

Spring 2025 | Volume V

55

56

The Wall!

The Call of the Void

It has extinguished me of my spirit, and has left only an aching lust for tragedy. For tragedy is better than nothing at all!

But, I am delirious. These desires are fantasies. For the Wall is all I’ve known, as all there ever will be. Revolutionary dreams were espoused by the foolish, the idealist. They didn’t understand how the world works, and neither do I. Life itself cannot be unreasonable, only I. It has lasted for eons, hasn’t it? If it truly made no sense, then how could it? The issue must be myself. I am unworthy, unintelligent. I cannot understand the Wall.

But I must, and I know I will. I shall scale it.

I shall scale it, and when I have reached its peak, I shall look down to the crowd and scream with total vindication, “Leave, slaves! Return to your hovels!” I will proclaim. “For there is nothing behind these walls! Nothing but the same sludge we walk through! Nothing but nothing! Empty!

Empty!” The looks on their faces! How they will finally weep for their dead, that their struggle had been for nought. The dejection, the blank gazes of disbelief, as I tear back the veil. Not tear, shatter. Their lives will lack passion, as mine hath been! The illusion, the Wall, all will be made into dust!

I push past the feeble, unable to resist my advance. The weak shall always object, but never act. The strong, I and I, are destined to dominate.

To scale this Wall, to reveal truth. Truth! I finally reach the base, my eyes boiling with rage. The spikes gleam about a foot away. All I need to do is lunge, and the first part will be over. As I take position, the squeals of swine beckon me as I steer myself. It is then I noticed it. Beneath the base of the wall as a moat filled with the corpses of the fallen. Their twisted, gored bodies piled on top of each other, serving only as memory.

Memory of what was. Memory of what I’m now about to be.

I couldn’t look away... To die scaling the Wall, as though there was no more of a virtuous endeavor. In the mass of broken flesh, a pale face protruded in the center. Sweet and effeminate was its sculpt. It was smiling. No matter, no matter. Beyond the pale, I shall triumph. Under its ashlar, I shall die.

Continued from The Call of the Void, page 8

The Forge

of your… esteemed arrival, but please, in the meanwhile, make yourself at home. Don’t hesitate to use any amenities and such!”

With that, he returned my lantern to me, the crimson glow dying out as he did, then he scurried away without shutting the door.

I glanced around the cluttered yet strangely comforting chaos of the house, a sign of liveliness that was somehow foreign in this place I found myself in. For the first time in a good while, I finally felt a sliver of ease.

As soon as I let myself finally feel some relief, a wave of exhaustion washed over me.

How long had I been running on adrenaline?

I had no clue, and I didn’t have much time to ponder on that thought as my legs gave away, causing me to slump in the nearest chair.

I let out a deep breath, allowing my shoulders to sag after having forced myself to maintain proper form for who knew how long. Certainly not me, at least…

My gaze fell on the lantern in my left hand as I thought back to the recent strange events—the strange mission. This strange landscape. Not to mention that strange local.

That man… was a bit odd, but not that bad, if I’m frank…

My thought trailed off as my gaze fell upon the cracks in the crystal nested within my lantern.

I quickly brought it closer to see if my eyes were playing tricks on me, but sure enough…there were numerous cracks on it.

Huh…? When…?? It was totally fine during my run… and it was fine when that man initially dangled it in front of me— That man…

The crystal cracked after that man used it.

“Tainted seerus corrupts, it… fractures,” I whispered under my breath.

The crystal… it got fractured after that man channeled his seerus into it: it was tainted.

That means he…

I dropped my lantern on the ground.

My stomach dropped and twisted into knots that felt as if they would crush my insides.

What in the world have I gotten myself into…?

Ocean Siren by Delaney Falls

57

58

58

Three Signs That You Are A Clone Isabella Roman 1.

Y

ou drop down on to a fire escape as quietly as possible, watching a drunken brawl occur between two men. One is a simple bargoer, attends trivia night every Thursday; the other, you’ve been tailing for weeks. It’s a normal fight, by all means, nothing you have to get involved in. The only goal was to watch him and identify his contacts at a later date. Your target seems to be losing the fight as punch after punch is directed at the side of his head.

A split eyebrow keeps his vision from working at its fullest capabilities as blood seeps heavily from the wound. You think that he’s about to keel over, until he reaches into his jacket. You already know what he’s going to do, and you shoot an arrow into his hand before he can pull the trigger. The gun falls to the ground, and as he holds his hand, he locks eyes with you.

There’s confusion, maybe the slightest hint of fear. You doubt he hasn’t been hunted by other bounty hunters or vigilantes before, but he shouldn’t know you.

“You-You’re not supposed to be here.”

2. Within the base, whose location was willfully

given when threatened, you prowl its pristine halls. There are people walking about that you avoid; however, there are no guards. Which means that no one is expecting uninvited guests. As you secure another explosive to the wall, a lone door catches your eye. Snapping the lock with a crowbar, you enter the isolated area, to which you find a room filled to the brim with old filing cabinets. It’s strange, records haven’t been stored by physical copy in decades.

Nevertheless, you begin working through each

Oyster Number 22 by Malakai Watkins

drawer taking in keywords from each folder you scan. “Procedures,” “Protocol,” “DNA,” “Transfer,” “Reaction.” You take pictures of each of them for further reading when you get back home; you don’t know what you were expecting on this mission, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Horrifyingly, as you reach for another drawer, the door opens to a man in a lab coat, holding a file of his own. He drops the file.

“Evander? How did you get out? Security!”

3. You can barely breathe. Something is crushing

your chest and your legs, but you remain. You remain alive. Taking heaving breaths, ignoring every ache, burn, and wound you have, you push. Your chest feels as if it will explode, feeling every bone brace and some even crack.

But you prevail, rising from the rubble with a large piece of cement weighing atop your back. You can feel how fleeting your strength is, your arms are shaking. You glance upwards, desperate to see the damage you’ve inflicted on the compound. It appears that not every explosive that you planted went off, seeing one of the buildings off to the side still standing; however, ahead of you, a figure stands. He stands tall, wearing a hospital gown that just covers his knees. His body is left completely unscathed, possibly even clean despite the dust settling over the area; almost as if his body was meant to be preserved, like taxidermy. He catches sight of you, your face staring back at your own. And you realize: You’re staring at the original.

Spring 2025 | Volume V

59

The Beast of Conversation Jacob Stoneman

E

veryone who read storybooks while growing up knew not to converse with mysterious talking animals. I didn’t read those books growing up. I read nonfiction books about local wildlife, chemistry, geology, and the like. Those don’t talk about animals having the ability to speak.

I used to think I was so clever learning all those fun facts, while my classmates learned about talking animals destroying houses. Who knew that those tales could’ve helped me later in life?

One night, I was walking home from school. I stayed that day to study at the library, and having lost track of time, didn’t notice that the librarian had already left. I guess she didn’t see me in my little corner before leaving.

I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck and face. It was so cold out that I had to put my already gloved hands in my pockets to keep them warm. “I guess winter’s here,” I mumbled through the scarf.

Because I’d left late, the only lights allowing me to see were the streetlights.

My mom would probably be working another late shift. Who cares where my dad is, he clearly didn’t want me to know, since he left when I was younger. It’d just be another night of me buried in my books, alone at home.

I was wondering which takeout leftovers I was gonna heat up when I heard a twig snap behind me. My head jerked back to look behind me. A few street lights away I saw a broken tree branch. “I don’t remember walking past you.” There was a large tree swaying back and forth above the street lamp. The branch must’ve fallen due to the winter winds.

I resumed my trek home, walking for several more minutes before a powerful gust of wind blew directly in my face. It was so strong that it snatched a dollar bill right from my pocket and sent it fluttering to the ground near some bushes.

I walked over to it, leaning over to pick it up when the bushes rustled. The wind had stopped by now, so I didn’t know what was making them rustle. I stared at the bushes, and felt them stare back. I grabbed my dollar before standing up and walking speedily away.

I’d walked this path home in the past, so I didn't know why this time felt different. I neared the corner which led to the street of my apartment. “Almost home.” But just then, I heard that rustle again. Instinctively, I turned to look at the bushes. They stared back with two bright orange eyes. I froze up immediately. I knew all the types of animals found in my area, and none had orange eyes.

The eyes stared at me, unmoving.

“Good joke, guys. Follow me home, scare me with fake orange eyes and rustling bushes. Come on out.” I folded my arms in disapproval. I didn’t know who they were specifically, but I was sure it was someone from school.

The eyes continued to stare at me, unmoving, unblinking. I was starting to get weirded out, so I took a step forward, onto the sidewalk.

I continued to make eye contact with the eyes, taking step after step toward the corner. I knew the moment I turned, the eyes would be out of sight and then I’d

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The Forge

The Horseman of Balance by Lake Rusch

61

The Beast of Conversation

run as fast as possible to get to my apartment.

The eyes remained fixed on my gaze as I made my way down the old sidewalk. Patches of grass, growing through the cracks, brushed past my feet.

I stumbled over branches, due to the minimal light from the flickering street lamps. The eyes following my movement from the bushes.

Finally, I reached the corner, and swiftly turned to run right to my apartment when I smacked into something in front of me.

“Good evening.”

I stepped back and looked up to see what was in front of me. My arms and jaw dropped as a large wolf-like beast stared down, meeting my gaze directly. His fur was pitch black, so was the rest of him. The only real color was the glow of his eyes.

The same orange eyes from before. Though the streetlamps flickered and backlit him, his glowing eyes revealed his details.

I quickly glanced over at the bushes that had had the orange eyes previously. I saw only leaves brushing against each other in the wind. The only glowing eyes were that of the thing before me.

“May I introduce myself?” I look back at him and into his deep orange eyes.

“You can talk!” I was so confused and shocked, that was all I could make out.

“As can you. What a small world to be able to meet someone who can talk.” He chuckled to himself as if he had said something funny.

Despite being a bipedal wolf-thing with glowing orange eyes, he didn’t feel like a threat anymore.

His vibrant eyes were very hypnotic. If I stared long enough, would I fall in? The way he spoke was way more civilized than most of my classmates. “Excuse me… but what are you?”

“I am simply a traveler looking to see the world and learn as much as I can.”

“I love to learn too. I was just reading this interesting book on the history of folktales for native tribes.” I pulled out the book I had been reading earlier and showed him the cover.

“How interesting. May I see the book?”

“I don’t know… I borrowed it from the library, and I don’t want it to get messed up.” I pulled the book away from him and held it against my chest, its weight rising and falling with each breath I took in the cold night air.

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The Forge

The wolf-man took a step toward me; his eyes hadn’t blinked once since I first saw them.

“I promise I’ll be careful. I just wish to learn all I can.” His large muzzle curled up into a smile, and his unblinking, glowing eyes jutted outward.

His mouth was filled with razor-sharp teeth that reflected the moonlight.

The unease I felt earlier began to creep up on me once more. “Excuse me, but were you the one who broke the branch and were the eyes rustling in the bushes earlier?”

“I was… I was just trying to work up the courage to introduce myself. I’m not the best when it comes to interacting with people.” He took another step toward me, his smile never changing.

“I…I see. Well I’m glad that it was just you, I thought that someone dangerous was following me at first.” I began to lean back and took a step away from him.

“Mmmm. I see. Well, lucky for you, it was just me. Now, may I see your book, I just want to look for a second.” He raised his arms toward me and took another step.

“I don’t kn-…”

“It’ll be fine.” He was still taking steps to get closer. I turned to look behind me. I was at the edge of the sidewalk now. I turned back around, but once again he was right in front of me. His orange eyes practically jumped out of his head. Then his stomach growled.

“A-are you hungry,” I said, trying to change the subject.

“I am. I was planning on eating after this.”

“I see, well there’s this one place down the street that I like to order from, and…”

“I don’t like takeout.”

“Well… what do you like to eat?” His tongue wriggled out of the edge of his mouth and it dragged across the whole of his upper lip. It stopped on the other side of his mouth, then it slid back inside.

He straightened his large body to loom above, cracking several times, as if standing was new to him. His claws clacked against each other as his arms stretched out. His eyes were ready to launch out of their sockets. Then he opened his mouth wide and spoke.

“Meat.” Then he leaped.

Druid Boys Grace Tongnobhakun

“A

real druid has to follow the rules of nature. You have to kill things or be killed by them. Because that’s how nature works.”

My blood turns cold when Francois says it.

We all turn to see him nonchalantly untangling the twigs from his scruffy black hair. He’s been trekking through the woods, and has just joined our group in the sunny meadow. We were talking about what it meant to be a druid. Some boys are shocked.

Some boys agree. Francois turns to me, his brown eyes locking on my face.

“I’m right Beau, don’t argue with me.”

“I didn’t plan on it…” I shiver, shrinking in on myself.

One brown boy with curly black hair– Blaise–asks, “But aren’t Druids supposed to protect nature?”

I swallow my fear and nod. “Yeah, Blaise is right. That’s what my mom says.”

Blaise is smart. He always questions Francois about the details. Maybe he’ll say it’s too mean, and killing’s bad. Really bad. Francois rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. The rays of sunlight seep through the trees, shining on his white skin. “Yeah, but aren’t druids a part of nature? Then that means we have to be like nature, duh. That means we need to be fighters! We have to train and be the best druids in the world. It’s to protect the forest and our village when we get older! We need to be hunters, like predators. In the wild.”

All eyes are locked on him. But then a hand raises from the group, and we turn to see who it is.

It’s Blaise again. “What do we do for training?”

“Umm… we hunt prey. And we practice fighting.”

“How do we practice fighting?”

“Easy. You just fight.”

“Fight how?”

Francois huffs. “You just do, alright?”

“No, no, there’s styles and everything, you have to think about the transforming and stuff-” “We’ll think about it later!”

Fighting? I don’t want to fight. Transforming hurts, too… I shakily raise my hand.

“What is it, Beau?”

“Um, what about scavenging? Like harvesting plants and stuff?”

He holds his chin, thinking about it. Then he smiles. “Yeah, yeah. That makes sense. And then we’ll add meat too, with the hunting.” His eyes light up with excitement. “And we’ll cook meat and start a fire. We’ll have a big feast! But we have to get teams first. Come on, Blaise, stand up.”

Blaise rolls his eyes. He’s not happy with his new leadership, but he walks over to stand beside him. Francois and Blaise put everyone into two teams. There’s only six of us in total, so I’m part of a group of three. There’s Blaise, me, and René, who is my cousin. Francois wants us to train up. He thinks the three of us are too weak. He explains to Blaise, “You can think, Blaise, but you’re too smart, so we need to balance it out with muscles. René… Well, he’s René. But he has the confidence, at least.

René cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “What do you mean, ‘He’s René?!’” As he yells, he leans forward to make his point, his blond hair ruffled by the wind, with blue eyes blazing in anger.

“You wore a dress that one time!” Francois shouts back. “You’re too soft!”

“I like dresses!”

“Doesn’t matter; that’s weird! Didja get them from Beau’s sister, or what?”

René huffs, and looks away with his nose up, crossing his arms. I snicker. He did get the dress from my sister. But while I try to hide my laughing, my ears catch Francois whispering to Blaise, and my mood is ruined instantly. “And Beau… He cries too much at everything. I don’t know if he can hunt prey if he’s that weak. His arms look strong, though.”

I cry too much? That’s what he thinks of me? I look at the ground in shame. I don’t want to be here anymore. René pats my shoulder warmly and his

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Forge Master

hand stays there, comforting me. “Who cares what Francois thinks?” he whispers in my ear. “Let’s just do whatever we want, in our own way.” He ruffles my black hair.

When Francois leaves with his group, Blaise instantly tells us the training rules. “Okay, so… when the two of you fight, keep going until blood is drawn. When you see blood, stop! Or when I say stop.

Okay? And you have to transform, okay? Into any animal, like-” “Like a whale?” René says, joking.

“Will it give you any advantage in the fight?”

“No…” “Then don’t. Nobody knows how to turn into a whale, well, unless you’ve touched one.”

I gulp. “I don’t want to fight, I want to join the other team.”

Blaise sighs sadly. “But Francois told you guys to.” I don’t think Blaise wants to, either.

René’s staring at me. What does he want?

Then he winks, smiling.

“I’ll train with Beau,” he says.

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“Come on, Beau, get up.”

When we’re both on the far opposite sides of the meadow, Blaise tells us we can start anytime.

I freeze up. René stands up tall, and his body changes. Ginger fur grows on his neck, his clothes meld into his body, his bones make a cracking sound as they get smaller. He falls to the ground, shrivelling up in pain. He’s getting smaller, his face, his body, it changes into, into…

“A cat?” Blaise asks. “Hmm. Not bad. I can see how a cat can be good for fighting.” Blaise looks at me. He’s waiting. I panic.

Lucky René! He has a ginger cat he’s petted!

He’s petted this cat for so long, so what other animal have I touched for at least a minute?

Oh, wait! I got it!

I drop to all fours. I prepare my body for this.

Okay, okay… I can do this. It’s just a bit of pain, but I hate pain. Ugh. My bones bend, aching in protest, and my white skin stretches to fit the new body as it turns grey. I grit my teeth. They’re growing too big for my mouth, too sharp! My gums and teeth start to ache. The pain in my bones turns awfully sore. It’s

Art by Nawaal Nackerdien

Druid Boys

hard. He’s trying to get on top of Blaise. It looks like limping away after a grueling marathon, the burning still there. It’s aching, hurting, intensifying! hopeless at first, but then he actually does! There’s more wrestling and biting. I can feel the jolts of pain I fall to the ground. My legs can’t take it. Fur come from both of them. They yowl. Claws slice grows all around my skin, feeling like fire lighting flesh. The metallic scent of blood reaches my nose. me aflame, in how fast and brutal it roams. I can’t And then René scratches Blaise in the face, leaving distinguish my clothes from my body. Everything a mark. Blaise wriggles away under René’s weight hurts. Hot, salty tears run down my cheeks, and and escapes. they soak into the grey fur. I’m left shaking in my Blaise is far away from René now. His face and bones, breathing heavily. I can taste something pelt has claw marks. Blood is dripping from them. I metallic in the back of my throat. I don’t know what can smell the iron. René looks scuffed up, and his that metal taste is. ear is bleeding from a wound. Both of their pelts “Ooh, cool. A dog? Cat and dog. A wolfish dog.” are dirtied with soil and grass. Blaise has more cuts Blaise says. than René. My heart is pounding hard. I whine I turned into the stray dog that visits our house in fear, shaking. sometimes. The pain quickly eases away, and my They turn back to their human selves, all legs feel better now. I sigh in relief. Getting up, I healed up. Both of them are breathing heavily from shake my head to get rid of the tears. I don’t have hands to wipe them. You can’t wipe tears with paws. the fight. Wait… Are they actually healed? I know that some of us would get hurt while hiking in the René struts towards me, and lies down in the woods, so we would shapeshift to heal. But I’ve middle of the grassy field, belly-up. I can smell never seen someone look so… drained after everything and anything. There’s René’s pine tree healing themselves! scent, along with Francois and the other team’s trail I bark at Blaise, just to make sure if they’re from far away. The wild scent of birds in the trees okay. Startled from the sound, he looks at me. “I’mnearby comes easily to me, and I can’t forget the I’m fine... And René’s got to be fine, too. He has to.” earthy aroma of the squirrels! I hold myself back He turns to see René, staring at the ground, his fists from chasing them. clenched. It doesn’t look like he wants to talk.

The last one I notice is Blaise, and he’s just “Good job,” Blaise says. “You know how to waiting. He’s got a faint soap smell. I can sense pin someone down.” He looks down at his hands. some excitement and a bit of fear underneath his “Maybe I should’ve tried batting with my paws bored-looking face. I walk towards René, his pine instead of using my claws…” tree smell getting stronger the closer I get. It’s a He looks back up at René, only to see him heavier aroma than the grass. My heart beats faster. glaring at him for a long time. Blaise snaps, “What?

René is purring.

We had to train. I’m sorry!” Blaise looks enraged, Is he… not even going to fight? but I can sense fear and panic from him.

I look back at Blaise, tapping his foot. His René says, “Whatever. You deserved that.” hands are on his hips. “Well? Aren’t you going to?”

He sits on the ground. I walk towards him and rest René gets back on his paws and rubs against my head on his lap, laying down. He pets me. My tail my legs, his pine tree scent getting on me. I laugh wags a bit. on the inside. It looks like we’re not doing this after Francois and his team are coming back. We all! Thanks, René. I lick his fluffy face. hear them arrive, and we see they’re all hunting HISS! dogs. Dead rabbits hang from their jaws. Blaise Hissing? From Blaise’s direction! It’s the same cat René shapeshifted into. It’s Blaise! Oh no, Blaise, sighs, and I can sense his disappointment.

“Let’s train Beau tomorrow. If that doesn’t work, please don’t. Blaise runs towards René’s direction, then just send him with the other group. He said he and tackles him. wanted to join, anyway. Maybe catching prey would My tail is between my legs, and I don’t know teach him something.” what to do. They’re screeching in a wrestling pile.

The prey smells like iron.

The cat with the pine tree smell–René–is fighting Blood smells metallic.

Spring 2025 | Volume V

65

An Unfortunate Encounter Jeanette Whitehead

T

he fallen leaves on the pebbled country road lay like small, curled hands, grasping at their soggy brethren. Beetles and small flies laced in and out, occasionally taking flight as Muriel crunched through them. She pulled her woolen shawl more tightly around her shoulders. The wind was blowing steadily. This particular afternoon carried a damp chill from the deserting sun. The temperature had dropped after heavy rain from the day before, and now, after this long and endless day, she dreamed of a nice hot cup of tea and a warm fire.

The forest, which surrounded her on both sides of the road, was filled with a cacophony of birds twittering, leaves rustling from skittering chipmunks, the seasonal plotting of squirrels that dug around in the earth below the large wooden trunks, and branches moaning as they rubbed each other from the force of the wind. They formed a backdrop for her thoughts as she contemplated the conversation she’d had with Doctor Shaw. She’d run into him after her tutoring session, leaving his boys to their nanny. He was just returning home after seeing a patient, and his grim expression, the lines deepening on his face, was a telling sign; someone had died.

As she gave him an account of the day’s lesson and he handed her the week’s pay, he told her everything. She had that effect on people.

Oftentimes in her life, she learned more than she ever had a right to and recurrently learned things she wished she had never heard. So, to avoid the guilt and the horror that came after, it was a skill she honed. Knowing when she should leave before too much was said. Rarely drawing out useful information, should she need it. It was something she had worked at since her realization that it was not just some unlucky occurrence. It was not something that happened to her, but rather, by her.

Doctor William Shaw had a prestigious place within this community, and thus she had a direct line to all the town’s secrets, like it or not.

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She hadn’t planned that; it was by sheer luck that he was looking for a tutor. When she arrived mid-morning for the day’s lessons, she could feel the unease ebbing from the household. Both chatty boys were unusually quiet. Before her departure, she had learned from Doctor Shaw that his patient, the woman of the couple living in the old Woodson house on Knot Hill, had recently passed from typhus.

“That was two nights ago,” he had said to her, standing in the parlor with his hands deep in his pockets, his dark eyes laden with an emotion she couldn’t quite place.

“But I arrived there early this morning, while it was still dark. The servant boy had come running to my door and, banging upon it until finally, I answered, he begged me to the house.” She realized then that the expression on his face was sorrowful but horrified. Justly so, because she was horrified too when he let out a weary shuddering breath, and then low, just above a whisper, he said, “She was sitting in their bed; fresh and pink like a newborn.”

He looked sharply at her when he said that last part, full of disbelief, hoping for someone else to explain it all away and knowing nothing from this earthly plane could. His hollow eyes bored into her, searching for the answer, not from her, but beyond her. The feeling of his voided stare gave her crept underneath her skin and pierced her soul. The terror on her face couldn’t be hidden behind her hand. She just stared back at him with her gaping expression, a tear escaping one eye and rolling down her cheek.

It couldn’t have been true, Muriel thought as she left abruptly afterward. Could it? One didn’t just simply stay dead for three days and then rise from a pit in the earth. Then the woman had walked two miles to their house. How was it possible?

Muriel suddenly heard a loud crunching in the brush on the side of the road behind her. Startled, she yelped loudly, clutching her hand at her breast.

The shawl twisted into a knot under her white

knuckled hand. She turned fearfully toward the noise to see a fox emerging from the brush. Its russet fur was thick, and when it locked eyes with her, its white teeth glinted in the waning light. Her heart pounded. After a moment, the fox scampered off and she remembered to breathe. She didn’t like the forest at this hour, it always seemed so large and full of hunger, growing with the darkness.

These afternoon walks, returning to her room in the reverend's house, often had a calming effect on her. They allowed her to reflect on the day, the work she had completed with the Shaw children, their ability to light up when they grasped a concept, and how she might be able to make this place her home and stop running. The walk was only a few miles, and now that the weather was getting cooler, she liked the time she had to herself. She hardly ever stayed at any place for too long, but she was hoping this might be her permanent place, maybe she could even find support for a schoolhouse.

Maybe, if she could keep her life simple and go unnoticed.

Her uncanny ability driving people to spill forth

The Sky Remembers Me by Zeenat Hamidi

all of their hidden thoughts kept her from enjoying one place too thoroughly. The secrets they had walled up deep inside themselves, life damning confessions, were taken from them. Whether it was done willingly or not made no difference, it was the vessel to which they were poured that mattered.

The receiver of these confidential aspects of their lives was Muriel Potts. Being a woman of a certain age with no husband, no status, and no familial ties to give people a sense of her belonging, made her an immediate threat.

Too often she had found herself exiled from social circles for knowing more than she deserved.

In some cases, she had no control over the onslaught of a confessional, and these moments were generally ruinous. In New Hampshire, after college, she had secured a position in a well-known household as a teacher. There, it was unsurprisingly an affair between the husband and a maid which led to disaster. Her knowledge of the matter had her leaving quickly, before they could dismiss her.

When she settled in Massachusetts afterward, it was a secret child of the young girl she was tutoring.

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Mundane, shallow scandals of the privileged, which she would rather have not been party to.

New York was different, it had almost broken her. She fled less than a year ago. Leaving behind most of her things, she ended up here, in Delaware.

She had been petrified by the grotesque actions which, unprompted, had slid, so easily, from the disturbed young man she was hired to instruct.

With no proof she knew no one would believe her.

The toxic, clinging nature of his mother, and the arrogant dismissiveness of his father solidified that. The way that he had tried to ensure she never told another living soul was an act mirroring his confession. She still bore the scar across the small of her back where his knife had pressed through her dress and into her skin. It was the reason she knew, now, not to linger on curiosity, and to never tutor anyone large enough to overpower her.

But this afternoon, her trust and curiosity had bested her. She stayed too long with Doctor Shaw.

She had grown careless, letting him tell her too much because she was worried for him, but also because she was caught up in the mysticism of it. Something from outside reality had occurred.

Events of a kind which she often thought only surrounded her, and so, she hadn’t been able to peel herself from the conversation.

She quickened her pace, the pebbles underneath her feet were slick. Her gait was reckless, and she wasn’t paying attention as she maintained speed. She was thinking only of the warmth of her room, of the cozy calico armchair, and the lavender and yellow patterned quilt, when she stepped into a deep puddle.

She heard the splash of water and the crunch of bone against bone as her ankle bent awkwardly, sending her chin hard into the ground. As she cried out from the pain, the gravel bit into her skin like small darning needles. The rich smell of earthly decay filled her nose as she struggled to pull herself up. She spat out dirt and rancid rainwater which had filled her mouth, and wiped bits of leaf litter and sandy grains from her face. Her shaking hands came away bloody.

Her ankle was absolutely broken, and it throbbed so badly that she just stayed sitting there, breathing steadily in and out as darkness pricked at the edges of her vision from the pain. She tried to

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think her way out of the excruciating waves, which were crashing over her, threatening to drown her.

A gust of wind whipped loosened strands of muddy blonde hair from pins on her head, torturing her further. She brushed them from her face, roaring a cry at the tree line in frustration.

Having walked for over thirty minutes, the doctor’s house was now over a mile away, and it was close to three more until she reached town. Because the Reverend's home wasn’t too far from Doctor Shaw’s, she walked unless it was raining. The past winter when she was hired on, Doctor Shaw had sent for her. He would have always done this, but Muriel didn’t want to take advantage of his kindness.

Often, he needed the transportation himself. It was a steady income, but the workdays had recently begun to vary. The Doctor’s wife had been caring for her aunt in Maryland and Doctor Shaw sometimes sent the boys to be with their mother and aunt.

It could be well into nightfall before the reverend noticed she was missing, but he would come looking, eventually.

She cursed herself loudly for not buying better boots last week when she had been paid. No one was around to hear her vulgarity, so she did it again when a sharp, searing jolt of pain tore through her ankle and up her leg. She wanted to wait until it was colder out, so that the boots might last longer.

Saving up to replace all of her things, like an entire wardrobe, books, and hygiene necessities, had taken time. As much as she appreciated the reverend’s kindness, and loved the quiet coziness of her room, she also wanted a privacy which he could not possibly provide there, and she was so close.

She gathered the strength to pull up her skirt and look at her ankle, which had thankfully moved during the panic after her fall and was no longer sideways, the boot likely keeping it intact when it broke. But she could feel it beginning to swell. She loosened the boot laces carefully, trying not to agitate her leg. The adrenaline was wearing off and her teeth grinded, fighting back the tears from the pain. This seemed like the second most horrible thing that could happen to a woman. The first would likely follow if she remained here through the night.

She looked around her and saw only the line of trees on either side of the road, which tapered off into the distance, their red, yellow, and orange hues

blending together. Closer to her on her left was the very green grass, refusing to accept its autumnal fate, soft from the rains.

“Oh, damn it all TO HELL!” She screamed in another loud exasperated cry of frustration.

Stuck sitting there, now wet bottomed as the puddle seeped through her dress, she wrestled a handkerchief from her skirt pocket. She blotted her bleeding chin, knowing the blood had likely already run down and stained the neckline of her blouse.

If anyone came across her now, they might run in fright instead of helping her. She crawled painfully toward the grass, dragging pebbles and leaves with her. She was contemplating waiting for someone to pass by or trying to makeshift a walking stick and ashamedly hobble back to the doctor’s house, when she heard a rustling of leaves and branches.

Unexpectedly, out of the tree line stepped a wiry tall man in a dark auburn suit jacket and linen pants. A capelet was draped elegantly over his shoulders flipping slightly in the wind. His crown was adorned with a dark bowler hat, slightly askew atop his glistening, ginger hair. He was devilishly handsome, and, upon seeing her, his face went from an expression of intrigue to concern. As he strode toward her, she felt a small ember of hope beginning to grow in her chest.

“Sir! Please I–” she was cut off by the grunt of pain that came from trying to shift her weight so that it wasn’t putting pressure on her injured ankle.

With a note of embarrassment in her voice she said, “I fell prey to my own obliviousness.” Then she pointed to the puddle, taking a deep breath. His approach slowed as he looked toward the large, very obvious, muddy puddle and she continued, her voice breaking, “I may have broken my ankle, in that cryptically deep puddle.” Her speech became short and clipped by pain as she spoke, but she lifted her head defiantly against it. “And I am not sure, I mean, I don’t think I can make it back. To the doctor’s house.”

He was closer now, his hands were in his pockets but he removed them, and she could see a sympathetic grimace on his face. He lifted his hat and ran his fingers through his slightly curly hair before replacing it. Then he crouched down so that he was face to face with her, studying her. He took so long, looking at her, and he was so close.

Art by Lake Rusch

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An Unfortunate Encounter

The warmth seeping off him crossed the small distance between them, almost steaming. The hair on her neck stood up. Then, just for a moment, she could see that his yellow green eyes weren’t quite right. But, she must not have seen them properly, likely from the clouding, throbbing pain. Because after blinking tears from her eyes, and breathing in the mossy air, in through her nose, out through her mouth, she could see that they were normal after all.

“I would consider it my duty ma’am,” his voice was silky with a faint Irish accent which caught her off guard. He took in her ankle with a dismal expression. He gave a sharp exhale at the state of it, and then he looked back over his shoulder down the soggy leaf covered road, possibly contemplating the distance to the Doctor’s house.

Still perched lithely on his heels, knees bent, he turned back to her, “I’m headed that way myself.

I was taking a scenic route but I heard yelling.” He paused for a moment, and she guiltily remembered all the screaming and cursing she had done. “I thought I should see what needed tending to.” He looked over her crumpled form again, a sad heap of limbs and fabrics on the wet ground.

“And glad I am, that I did.”

She had her good leg pulled towards her under her powder blue skirt, now stained with dark splashes of dirty puddle water and spots of blood from her chin. The off-white lace of her underskirts were pulled up around the other leg showing her worn out shin high boot, the heel broken and laces partly undone.

Embarrassed, and slightly horrified at how that must seem, how it might be perceived, she made to pull her skirt down. Her face twisted in anguish.

“No, please.” He began as he put his soft gloved hand out atop hers and stopped her from covering herself. Instinctively, she pulled her hand back and stared at him, eyes wide in shock. The quick movement twisted her leg, and she whimpered in pain. She couldn’t hold it back anymore, and tears began falling down her cheeks. She was furious at herself for being so infantile in front of him, this man who she didn’t know, and whom she was now at the mercy of. She didn’t dare look at him after that. She wouldn’t show him any more of her weakness. She didn’t know him, and a weakness was more than just an embarrassment, it was a

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vulnerability. She just stared down at her lap, her hands tightly clenched fists.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean–” he began, as she interrupted him with, “Oh God, this whole infernal– it’s so infuriating.”

They locked eyes and laughed.

His laugh tinkled in a far-off, inhuman way, like bells or windchimes. Hers was strained, tinged with the dread of a woman alone in the road with a strange man whom she didn’t know.

Slowly, he ungloved his right hand, tucking the glove under his armpit, and then held that pale hand out to her. She noticed right away that it was not a working man's hand. It was lightly freckled, and bony, his nails unnerving her. They were much too long.

“Let us start again,” he said, his hand held static in the space before her. When she hesitated, he said quickly, “Tobias Foxglove,” and smiled at her. But his grin was toothy and slightly too eager. Muriel didn’t want to be unkind. Immediately she thought, what if he didn’t help her? A man’s kindness always soured if you didn’t do as they anticipated. She knew that from experience, and so, she wiped the tears from her face with her bloodied handkerchief and gripped his hand lightly, cautiously.

Clearing her throat of tightness and fear, she forced out her name, “Muriel Potts.”

“Well, then, Muriel,” he said her name like a curious new word he had just learned and now wanted to use so many times, it didn’t feel like a word anymore. “I think you’re right to assume your ankle is broken.” He said quickly and then bounced lightly on his heels before standing up and sticking his glove back on.

“I’m off to see Doctor Shaw because I’m looking for an apprenticeship. If he’d like to take on a young graduate.” This was when he pointed out his own brown leather doctor’s bag, sitting in the short grass a short distance behind him. It stood out against the green tufts, and surprisingly that concerned Muriel—she hadn’t noticed him carrying anything when she first saw him. When did that get there?

Had he dropped it on his way to her? Is that why she hadn’t noticed it, because it was rather large for a doctor’s bag? But then her ankle sent another stroke of pain through her, and she ignored the voice in her head telling her in a whisper, “run.”

An Unfortunate Encounter

seems that you’ve got something special about you.

“Oh,” she said, mostly to herself. Her small Don’t you Muriel?” mouth opened just long enough that a wandering Fear welled inside her, and she began to slowly fly might crawl in as she thought of what to say next. crawl backward, ignoring the pain as the rhythmic Her wit was blurred by pain, overwhelmed by the afternoon’s nightmarish sequence of events. It didn’t pounding in her head grew. She felt as if she was being smothered, crushed from inside her own matter that she was stuck wordless, he just went skull, and she tried not to cry out. She laughed on not waiting for her to respond. His cool grey awkwardly instead, sputtering, “Oh– I don’t think voice filled up the buzzing silence on the road I’ll need… anything like that.” in the forest.

He advanced on her as she tried to retreat.

“I can run back to get him, and bring him here, “Nothing special about me,” she proclaimed, but I’m afraid that it’s starting to get dark.” He gestured toward the horizon between the trees, with grinding her teeth, “and I would much rather wait for Doctor Shaw,” she finished, eyeing the empty his back turned to her, “I wouldn’t want to leave you road behind him. The buffeting within made her out here alone.” He said as he was heading toward eyes shake, and tears began to flow again as she the bag. finally accepted that no one would be coming to her “Oh, I’ll be alright,” she replied quickly, trying rescue. “If it’s all the same to you,” she choked out. to edge her voice with courage, but knowing that Ignoring her panic, he walked toward her the searing pain, which now pounded in her ears, intently. She had gained very little ground, indicated she may not last through the night. She dragging her skirts and ankle along the damp grass. didn’t even know why she said it, why her head “Nonsense.” He smiled, a wicked and sinister was pounding now, and not her ankle, and GOD, smile, “It won’t hurt a bit and it’s just a mild she thought to herself, it’s so loud. She wanted to pain reliever.” squeeze her eyes shut, and force it all to disappear, He said this alluringly, which probably worked but the fear she could feel crawling its way back up on many women who were willing to explain away her throat kept them glued to Tobias’s back. anything that didn’t lead to safety. Women generally “No, no! I insist that you allow me to at least liked handsome men who came to their rescue, see what I can do to get you up and moving.” His and a young aspiring doctor no less, so what could voice was barely audible through the torrent of possibly be the harm? But Muriel was educated, blood rushing into her ears. “You don’t want she had been to college, and despite his striking to be stranded on a dark road in the middle of appearance and honeyed words, Muriel wasn’t the countryside,” he said as he opened the bag, one to explain away dangerous men; Not anymore. rummaging around inside it. “You never know what When a man went from charming to cloying, he kind of strangers you might meet.” She nodded had a goal that he intended to meet, and this man absently, trying to ignore the drumming inside wanted to harm her. her head. Trusting him, just for a moment, she Something special about her? No, but there closed her eyes tightly, as if to keep the blood from was definitely something about this man, Tobias, bursting out of them. something that was unnatural. She could sense When she opened them again, he was walking toward her. In one hand, he was holding a small vial, it, and she had ignored it. Whatever ember of hope which had been stoked by his arrival was now and in the other, a syringe. Expertly, like he had doused. Her uncanny gift of drawing out people’s done this countless times, he inserted the needle truths was starting to feel like part of a much bigger into the vial and pulled the little curled handle ends world. A world which she had been unknowingly of the syringe back. Liquid filled up the chamber, shielding herself from. and he squeezed the contents out just enough so She noticed a gold chain had dangled out from that the liquid shot into the air in an arc. It was blown quickly away by the wind, his chartreuse eyes his pocket as he bent over her retreating form. Not something an Irish, apprentice begging, medical focused on her, never leaving her. graduate would be able to afford. He was never the “Usually, I think I wouldn’t need this, but it

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man he appeared to be, and she had missed so many signs. She was disgusted with herself, that she could let something like this happen, again.

“It’s not the pain I’m concerned about,” she said, feeling around in the grass with her hand behind her skirts, searching desperately for anything to defend herself with. Knowing now that she was right, he was not a friend and more likely, though she dared to admit it, maybe not even entirely a man. She grasped a rock, but it was pitiful. It was small and useless, a mirror of her. And now, Tobias was gripping her arm, pushing her shawl out of the way and beginning to unbutton her sleeve. He was so quick, and when Muriel tried to yank her arm away from him, crying out in anguish, he tutted at her, clicking his tongue disapprovingly like a disappointed instructor.

“Now, now, Miss Potts.” He glared at her, his eyes were almost glowing, and his pupils drew themselves into plump slits. “Don’t be difficult.”

He continued to roll up the pale sleeve of her blouse, still grappling her unnaturally. She struggled against him, lashing out with her other arm. That feeble attempt to fight back just pulled him down on top of her. He was ravenous, and now that he was closer, parallel to her trembling body, she smelled the damp earthy forest more clearly.

Not from the ground or the forest around her, but from him, as he lowered his head toward her. His lips brushed her ear, and his breath was hot on her neck.

“This town is going to be fun.”

Muriel screamed into the void as he plunged the needle deep into her forearm, squeezing out the contents of the syringe. It met her with a deep snaking pain which traveled quickly up her arm, and then there were only a few moments of wildly thrashing about, raking her nails at his face as he ducked back dodging her. He was smiling more freely now, a flash of white teeth sharp and gleaming like the fox on the road.

She felt her body go limp. And somehow, horribly, she was still capable of sensing everything, but unable to move even her eyelids. This too felt unnatural, no modern medicine could possibly render the patient into a deathly stiffness like this, not while keeping them alive. The pain and the pounding subsided and she felt a fleeting moment of

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relief. Until the voice inside her, which she usually felt always at the back of her mind, guiding her, became so quiet. Then she felt nothing but terror.

She could only watch now, in horror, as the sky and the vibrant treetops alight in the darkness around them, turned on themselves. And then she was facing the ground, having been thrown over his shoulder, her arms and shawl dangling.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve found a Pusher,” he said as he walked toward the forest, pausing at the edge and taking a deep breath in through his nose; smelling the night air, the blood on her clothes, the creatures in the forest around them.

“You probably don’t even know what that means, but I feel compelled to explain it,” he said, drawing out the word ‘compelled,’ emphasizing it dramatically.

“And well, that’s your nature, isn’t it, Muriel? I’m sure you figured that much, at least, by now.”

His words stirred something in her, the absence of the pain clearing her mind enough for her to really contemplate what that meant, the terror guiding her to think her way out of this somehow.

Her years of running from position to position, ironically hiding from the truth. Special wasn’t the right word, neither was uncanny, nor gift. Pusher?

That felt like the right word, it fit how it felt for her to draw confessions. But still, she had never really needed to push anyone to tell her anything. They almost always fell to it willingly, tripping over it, and stumbling into her lap, shocked to find themselves at the mercy of her discretion. She thought, what would happen if I did push? But now that her little champion voice, which she had so long hidden and kept at bay, and had only now felt a need for, was a small flickering flame she could not fuel.

“Your soul is going to be just the refreshment I need. You know, humans can be so stale sometimes, and it really is getting harder and harder to go unnoticed. I’ve been following you for a while, actually, it’s a wonder you didn’t realize it sooner,” he chuckled.

He was whistling absently, his cape lightly flapping against her cheek. Then, he snapped his fingers, walking deeper into the expanse of trees, and she witnessed the doctor’s bag rising from the ground, floating along behind them, like a dog on a lead.

Forge Master

Spring 2025 | Volume V

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The Forge Thrives...

F

rom dystopian futures to whimsical realms, The Forge is a gateway to adventure, magic, mystery, and the

occasional chill down your spine, all within the genres of science fiction and fantasy.

In this collection of short stories, f lash fiction, poetry, and art from the imaginative students of George Mason University, readers will find a new adventure awaiting them in every world introduced. Each piece offers a unique lens into the strange, the imagined, and the extraordinary.

The goal of The Forge is to provide a creative platform for writers, artists, editors, designers, and readers who share a passion for speculative storytelling. This magazine is a celebration of the limitless creativity that science fiction and fantasy allow.

It is a place where imagination leads and reality takes a step back.

Follow the journey of The Forge: forge.studentmedia.gmu.edu @theforgegmu @TheForgeGMU

Thanks for reading!

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