The Forge - Spring 2026

Spring 2026 | Volume VI

George Mason University’s premiere speculative fiction literary magazine.

Spring 2026

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Volume VI

INTRODUCTION

VISUAL ART

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

Astrien, Elf Mage by Riverly Twardy . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-5

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

Dagger of Envy by Viohazardous. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Sweet Treat Stop by Abigail Snodgrass. . . . . . . . . . . 14

LITERATURE

Weasel Knight by Nawaal Nackerdien. . . . . . . . . . . . 18

Lyrion’s Magic Emporium by Riverly Twardy. . . . . . . 5

Zero by Jeanne-Vivian . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Resist by Elias Collier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

Onward by Grace Crowley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

Discovery of The Common Fancy

Self Portrait by Senet Abrha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

by Grace Tongnobhakun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

The Storm by Samantha Gerken. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

Free by Donovan Mitchell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Hotel by Tatsumelon. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

Eulogy for a Father/Pigeon

Ocean Metro by Jesse Park. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34-35

by Liam VunCannon-Sullivan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

After Hours by Jesse Park. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

Out in the West by Julian Perez. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

The Eternal Nymph, Iwela by Lake Rusch. . . . . . . . 44

Finding the Little Trash Wolf

Dungeon by Julia Thomas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46-47

by Nawaal Nackerdien. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Rabbit’s Foot by somesparethyme . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50

Build a Fire by Tate Kaufman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

Quiet Research by Dani Olson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55

Third Life: Patient Zero by Stacey Gehring . . . . . . . 40

Closer Than You Think by Areeza Abbasi. . . . . . . . . 56

The Mystery of the Poisoned Queen

Let Time Pass Through by Bayan H.. . . . . . . . . . . . . 58

by Abigail Snodgrass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45

Across The Matrix by Fatma Algaz. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59

Silent Sun by Joseph Colaianni. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57

Release by Grace Crowley. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62

Cover and interior art by Ace Carrasco, Areeza Abbasi, Marian Claros Barrientos Interior sword art by Abigail Snodgrass

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

Letter from the Editor-in-Chief

H

ello readers, welcome to the dark, fantastical depths of The Forge’s sixth edition! My name is Samantha Gerken and this is my final issue as Editor-in-Chief. Student Media and The Forge have been a wonderful experience! I am incredibly grateful for the people I met and worked with, and all that I have learned. My time at Student Media has been a wild ride, and I am happy to see The Forge, and its community of speculative fiction lovers, grow and thrive. The publication has reached not only the George Mason community, but statewide and beyond. In the future, I hope to see the magazine continue to share student made work and resonate with local and global readers.

Our latest issue explores life’s many juxtapositions: humanity—or lack thereof, humor and grief, planets above and oceans below. Literature and art reach the height of stars, the depths of dungeons, and the complex spaces in between. Anything is possible, and what has been destroyed has the power to transform and create new beginnings.

For The Forge team leaders, I give my gratitude to Nawaal Nackerdien (Managing Editor), Areeza Abbasi (Art and Design Director), and Sof Lee (Marketing Director) for working with me to drive our publication forward and make its literature, artwork, and advertising the best it can be. To all of my amazing staff members, thank you for your hard work and dedication.

Your talent, creativity, and care has shaped my time at The Forge. It has been so fun to work with you all and create a community of sci-fi and fantasy fans!

I also thank the Student Media staff that continually support us, including Faculty Advisor Jason Hartsel, and Emily Gomez-Adames (Director Assistant and former Editor-in-Chief). Additionally, I give a special thank you to Athena Reynolds (founder of The Forge), and NhuPhuong “Camellia” Au (former Art and Design Director). Without our chance encounter, I would not have grown to where I am now, so I thank you.

To all staff, faculty, contributors, and readers, I hope you enjoy this latest, transformative journey of The Forge!

Samantha Gerken Editor-in-Chief, The Forge

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Staff Editor-in-Chief Samantha Gerken Managing Editor Nawaal Nackerdien Art and Design Director Areeza Abbasi Marketing Director Sof Lee Editors Abigail Snodgrass Anisa Fox Arrie Lee Donovan Mitchell Emma Li Grace Tongnobhakun Jenny Whitehead Kate Konzelman Megan Cobb Nat Lutes Zachary Grimm Artists Abigail Snodgrass Ace Carrasco Allie Aronson Anisa Fox Emma Li Grace Tongnobhakun Jesse Park Lorien Espino Marian Claros Barrientos Mu Ying Yong

Graphic Designers Grace Tongnobhakun Jesse Park Marian Claros Barrientos Samantha Gerken Web Developers Armin Khazai Beth Moskal Grace Tongnobhakun Kavin Velmurugan Mu Ying Yong Samantha Gerken Special Thanks Caleb Davy, former Editor-in-Chief Kristina Mickle, former Art and Design Director Athena Reynolds, Founder of The Forge Student Media Professional Staff Kathryn Mangus, Director David Carroll, Associate Director Emily Gomez-Adames Tiffany Boggs, Director Assistants Faculty Advisor Jason Hartsel, Assistant Director

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Astrien, Elf Mage by Riverly Twardy

Lyrion's Magic Emporium Riverly Twardy

L

yrion’s Magic Emporium: Buyer Beware!

Review by Caelira Amarwyn (Posted August 29, last updated November 25) I don’t often write these, but I feel it would be irresponsible not to warn my fellow adventurers about this untrustworthy establishment and its phony merchandise.

Last week I visited with two friends from my adventuring group, and I’ll admit we were initially impressed with the place’s lavish appearance. The elderly shopkeeper who approached us was formal and welcoming, and he volunteered to personally show us some of the best offerings. He claimed each weapon, piece of armor, and jeweled accessory he brought out was a powerful relic from ages past, which he’d won in his younger years as a famous adventurer, but which he was willing to sell for a reasonable price if he met the right customer. Of course, he strongly implied that we were these longawaited “right” customers, no doubt a trick he’d perfected on many previous unsuspecting guests.

His sales pitch was remarkably convincing, and my friends were ready to hand over their hard-earned gold. One actually bought the “Cloak of Eternal Shadow” before I could tell her to wait a minute to consider. Luckily, I had the good sense to insist on closely examining the items myself before making a purchase. Believe it or not, these things hardly qualified as “magical” items, let alone ones as powerful as he claimed! The “Blade of Raging Fire” that I was eyeing was just a generic longsword that glowed red when you said some special words, and the others were no better.

The shopkeeper became defensive and angry when I pointed this out, and after a brief argument he called us a bunch of uncultured rats. Hardly proper etiquette for a distinguished merchant, but

just what I’d expect from a scammer and a fraud.

I had to practically drag my friends out of the place before they started a full-blown fight. I’m not ashamed to admit we stole several items on our way out. If you’re reading this, save your time and money; go elsewhere if you want quality equipment.

UPDATE (November 3): After posting my review, I expected I’d never think about this place again. Unfortunately, I was wrong. The item my friend Aria purchased, the “Cloak of Eternal Shadow,” had some unnerving side-effects on her since she started wearing it about two months ago. She’s always been a little strange, so I didn’t think much of it when she first reported hearing mysterious voices at night, but over time it got worse. The night of the last new moon, she said she saw a dark figure watching us from the trees. The worst part was that none of this scared her in the slightest. Instead, she was drawn to the distant voices, and tried to follow this “dark figure” before the rest of us stopped her.

When I told her I was worried and that she should stop wearing the cloak, she flatly refused.

I managed to take it while she was sleeping, and though she was furious upon discovering it was missing, the strange voices she’d been hearing also disappeared. After a few days, she was back to her usual self. I must now add a warning about cursed magic items on top of my previous warning about fakes. Do yourselves a favor and steer clear of this place at all costs.

UPDATE #2 (November 25): I rue the day I ever laid eyes on this place.

Lyrion, you and your “Magic Emporium” have brought nothing but chaos and misery into my life, and if we ever cross paths again there will be a reckoning.

I’ll keep this short. I’d kept the cursed cloak in my pack in the hopes of finding someone who could identify exactly what it was, but eventually

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Aria found out and stole it back. Afterward, she wouldn’t remove it for even a moment, to ensure no one could take it from her a second time. She also immediately started hearing the voices and seeing the strange figure again. The next new moon, I woke up in the middle of the night to see her bedroll was empty. I woke the rest of our adventuring group to search for her, and we finally Aria found her in a clearing in the woods, talking to multiple dark figures, who we could now see and hear for ourselves. When they noticed us approaching, one figure reached out and touched Aria’s shoulder, and they all disappeared.

My friend has been corrupted and now captured by these shadow beings, all thanks to you and your messed-up merchandise. Mark my words: I won’t rest until I’ve rescued her from whatever evil you’ve brought upon us, and then I’m coming for you.

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MERCHANT RESPONSE: (Posted November 26) It’s not my fault that your assessment of the items I presented was incorrect, or that you refused to listen when I told you that you were mistaken.

I wasn’t joking about only selling to the “right” customers either; my job is to make sure the items in my collection find their way into the hands best suited for their use, whatever that should be. The item your friend bought was not cursed, but only works for the rare individual with a pre-existing connection to the Shadow Realm. In my many years as an adventurer, I’ve learned to see things that most people miss, and despite her cheerful demeanor, your friend had an unmistakable aura of darkness around her.

You may not believe me, but I feel it would be irresponsible not to warn you that Aria is not the friend you think she is. I doubt she’ll appreciate your “rescue” mission, and if you insist on pursuing it you won’t achieve anything besides endangering yourself. Not that I necessarily object to that, after you and your friends trashed my shop three months ago.

Dagger of Envy by Viohazardous

Resist Elias Collier

T

he fire had dwindled out and died. Naijah sucks her teeth, sliding her backpack off and letting it hit the ground with a loud thud. Just peachy. This whole “staying at a rest stop” idea was just peachy.

Exactly what she needed, a distraction from the one job she had right now: getting Janae to Fort Belvoir in one piece and reuniting with their parents. Yet here she was, sitting in the dirt, nearly no food, no fire, and nowhere near Virginia.

The campground they had stopped at was decent enough, but severely lacked trees, which caused the ever-present winds to blow with extra force. Naijah was crouched in front of the campground’s metal fire pit, the pyre inside smelling faintly of gasoline and birch wood. A sign near the entrance had read “Lake James State Park”, which would’ve put them in eastern North Carolina. Naijah slides a hand down her face, frustrated, before she looks up to where the rest of her group was, in the open clearing near a large pond that shimmered orange in the setting sun.

Her eyes land first on Janae, her sister. The six year old bounds around the field, chasing Kipp, Naijah’s border collie. Naijah had gotten the dog as a gift for her sixteenth birthday, and he had been with her in the five years to follow. Kipp barks excitedly as he jumps at her, eliciting laughter from the girl. These two were the only semblance of family Naijah had anymore, and for a moment, she lets her expression soften as she watches them chase after one another.

“Not so close to the water!” Buster shouts, grin wide. The blond stands around six foot, two inches.

He had been a farmer’s son before everything went down, he had told her, and it was clear just by looking at the guy. Not lean, perhaps, but all muscle.

Not especially book smart, but a heart of gold. Janae had taken to him instantly, and Naijah didn’t mind him much either. He was nice, and he looked out for Janae, and for Naijah. That was enough.

Buster has one arm on his hip and the other arm is slung around his boyfriend, the last member

of the group, who was also Naijah’s least favorite, Duke. As soon as Naijah had looked at him, it was like he could feel it, turning his head to look at her.

Her expression hardens again. His face was stoic as ever. No, stoic wasn’t right, Naijah thought to herself. Even a stoic face had some emotion, but Duke? Duke’s face had no emotion, it never did. His eyes bore back into hers, and she drops her gaze, unnerved. A chill runs through her, and whether it’s from Duke’s gaze or the wind, she was unsure.

Naijah turns back to the fire pit, which still had a good amount of oil in it, at least she had thought so from the smell. Duke had doused the thing in gasoline earlier, so if that gasoline was still on the pyre, she just needed some way to ignite it. She unzips her backpack and rifles through it hastily.

A wallet that wasn’t hers (from the early days), a stuffed animal that was hers (though she’d always claim it was Janae’s), a couple bags of granola and a lot of other miscellaneous junk; none of which were matches. A second suck of her teeth.

“Need a light?” A voice behind her questions, and Naijah flinches, whipping around. There stood Duke, as dead-faced as always. His light brown, nearly hazel eyes, seemed to glint in the setting sunlight, as did the Zippo lighter he held.

“You have a lighter?”

“You don’t?” He asked, a humorous edge in his voice. Naijah just shakes her head, annoyed, before snatching the lighter from him, and sticking hers back near the fire pit.

“Woah now, c’mon. Hell you doin’?” Duke asks, rushing her and snatching the lighter back.

“There’s still some fuel in the fire pit. You light the pit like that, you’re goin’ up in flames.” He pulls his own backpack off and rifles around a bit before pulling out a small, silver flask. He gives it a good shake, then another, before opening the cap and dousing the fire with the gasoline inside. Not all of it, but enough for a decent fire for the night. It was summer, but Naijah shivers as the wind blows over her scalp. She had to shave her head in the first few

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not bothering to look up. months (who was going to maintain microbraids Duke nods. “Gotcha,” he says, before in the apocalypse?), but damn, did she miss proceeding to sit down right beside her. having hair.

“Guess you didn’t know the answer.”

Duke bends down with a quiet shoot, my knees “No, I did. Just don’t care.” and picks up some dry kindling from the ground.

“Do you need something?” She says sharply, Naijah scoffs, turning back to Duke. “Aren’t you turning to him. “Or are you just gonna bother me like twenty-two? Hell you complaining about like you always do?” your knees for?”

“Ooh. Harsh, sista.”

“Got bad knees. Doctors said I grew too fast as “Don’t call me that.” a kid.” He answers simply, tossing a burning piece “Oh, c’mon. Don’t tell me the apocalypse took of dry stick into the fire pit. It doesn’t hit the pit well away your sense of black unity,” Duke jests, enough to ignite. He hums softly before squatting putting up a fist. down and pushing the stick further in, whipping “Do you need something?” she asks again, back as the pyre ignites. He lets out a low Hmm, harsher now.

Hmm, Hmm which is the closest thing to laughter “You’re strange, y’know that?” he replies, his Naijah has ever seen him do in their month together. voice light, clearly prodding at her. “We’ve been on He looks down at the sleeve of his green hoodie and the road together for what? A month now? Just about exhales sharply through his nose before patting out that, and you ain’t warmed up to me one bit.” a flame that had ignited on the jacket.

“I don’t need to be warm to you.” Naijah retorts “Almost went up in flames yourself.” and Duke just exhales quickly through his nose.

Naijah remarks, and Duke raises his eyebrows “You don’t need to be. But I’d like it.” at her, which seemed to be the closest he could “And you think I give a damn what you get to smiling. like…why?”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to us.”

Duke blinks once before cocking his head.

Naijah nods. “Isn’t that the truth? Speaking “Y’know, I came over here to talk to you ‘bout of which,” she points to his right arm. somethin’ serious, but now I gotta know if I did “How’s that feelin’?” something to you. Are you mad at me?”

“Bout as well as it could, I reckon,” Duke “You mean besides how our first meeting responds as he pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie, went? No, I think we’re doing just peachy.” letting the breeze blow across the bite on his arm.

“To be fair,” Duke raises both his hands, He’d received it from a zombie that had snuck up on “You broke into our house the group as they were stopping to get water from a and tried to stab me stream three days before. “Worst of it’s done. Fever first. I was just broke yesterday, and it feels like…well, it feels about defendin’ myself.” how you’d expect a bite to feel. Want me to bite you “We didn’t so you know what I’m talking about?" know there was people in “God gives immunity to this shit to one person, it,” Naijah says through and it’s just gotta be the most irritating person he gritted teeth, eyes glued to could’ve possibly given to.” She shakes her head the wooden totem she’s and turns her back to him, pulling the piece of wood working on. she had been whittling out the water bottle pouch “I mean we didn’t on her backpack before plopping in one of the four know there’d be lawn chairs the group had set up around the fire people in it either, pit. She pulls her father’s Swiss Army knife out her pocket and gets to work carving into the stick again.

Duke takes a step towards her.

“You want some company?”

“You know the answer to that,” Naijah responds,

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Art by Riverly Twardy

considering it’s our house,” Duke replies under his breath before shaking his head. “I don’t get it though, seriously, what’s your issue with me?”

“My issue,” she starts, setting the wood down hard on the chair’s arm rest, “is that I don’t trust you. Like at all. You stab me, but I let that go cause you agreed to help me get my sister where I’m trying to go.”

“Don’t think you’re over the stabbing,” he says under his breath, but Naijah ignores him.

“Then you get yourself bitten protecting my sister, scaring the shit out of both of us, and then pretend to be dying for shits and giggles, and do the whole tearful goodbye Schtick with Buster, and the only reason you broke character was because Buster broke first.”

“It was a good bit—” “And then you just casually drop the fact that you’re immune. Do you know how many immune people exist? Probably none but you, and you use that as some stupid ass party trick. Plus, you never smile and you don’t even laugh normally. Your face never changes, you just stare at people. You scare me, Duke. You scare Janae. Shit, you scare my damn dog, and I’m grateful to you, and to Buster, sure. But I don’t trust you. Not a damn.”

Duke blinks a bit before averting his gaze down to the fire, shifting uncomfortably.

“Oh, you’re quiet now?” Naijah mumbles, picking the wood back up and jabbing her knife back into the wood.

Duke stays silent for a good long while before saying, “I ain’t.”

“Ain’t what?” Naijah scoffs, eyes glued to the stick.“...Immune.”

That gets her attention.

She expects a joke, but when she slowly looks up at him, he’s tense. Tenser than usual, anyways. “...What?”

“I ain’t immune.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Duke just frowns, scratching his chin.

“Am I not bein’ clear—” “I’ve seen you get bitten three times. At least.

Bullshit you aren’t immune.”

“I think…hmm…Well, I guess ‘resistant’ is the better word for it. Not sure.”

“Talk. Plain,” Naijah grits out.

Duke stares at her for a moment before scratching his chin. “You ever notice I been wearin’ a hoodie ever since we met. It’s summer. It was damn near 90 degrees four days ago and I was freezing my ass off, hoodie and all. Don’t even get me started on these.” He taps his eyelid. “My eyes used to be so brown they were damn near black.

Now I got these…light brown ones. Hazel? I ‘unno.

What I do know is that every time I get bit, I turn, more and more, slowly, but definitely.” He sucks his teeth and points up at his mouth. “I can’t even smile anymore without having to physically try and that scares people. I scare people. You and Janae said as much yourselves. You think I walk around looking like an asshole cause I wanna? I don’t.”

Duke looks to the side for a moment before turning back to Naijah, expression as tense as he could possibly get it. “Plus, when’s the last time you’ve seen me sleep, huh? Or eat more than one meal a day? I don’t need to sleep anymore and I barely need to eat because slowly… so goddamn slowly…

I’m becoming like them.”

Naijah stares at him, incredulous, before shaking her head. “Then why the hell would you let yourself get bit for Janae that first day we met?”

It had been horrific. Janae was just slightly too far from Naijah, and right as a zombie’s jaw was about to set onto her, Duke had shoved his own hand in the zombie’s mouth, palm up, taking the bite for her, and keeping the creature at bay long enough for Buster to dispatch it.

“And let a six year old get torn up? Naijah.”

He waves her off dismissively. “I’m not a monster.

Just half of one.”

“I don’t get it. How are you resistant to this? No one’s ever been resistant before.”

“Well, there’s never been zombies before. But I mean, people are resistant to the flu too. Guess I’m just lucky. Though, y’know, you’d think you’d see more resistant people in comics and video games and literary magazines and stuff. I’m feeling sorely underrepresented right now,” Duke says before

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letting out a low hah. A laugh, or what was meant to be one.

“Why are you telling me this?” She asks, not looking back at Duke, dropping her gaze to the fire.

Duke hesitates for a moment before sighing.

“Maybe you don’t trust me. That’s fine. To be honest, I don’t trust you neither, all things considered.

But… we’re alike.”

“No we aren’t—” “We are.” He interrupts, his voice suddenly serious. He catches himself, and clears his throat, trying to lighten himself. “I mean, we've practically got the same hair. You, with the buzz, me with the slightly-grown-out buzz.” It’s clear he’s trying to joke but when Naijah’s frown doesn’t budge, he clears his throat again. “You set out from Georgia with intentions of getting to Northern Virginia, and made it to the middle of South Carolina alone before running into us. You’d do anything for your sister.

I get that.” His gaze drifts out towards the field “I’m the same about him.”

Naijah follows Duke’s gaze over to where Janae and Buster have started to play tag in the field.

Janae’s butterfly hair beads clack against each other as Buster slows his gait, letting Janae push him.

“Tag!" “Gah! Struck!” He cries out as he dramatically collapses to the ground, and Kipp barks, pouncing on him. Ever since Kipp met Buster, it’s like Kipp had forgotten Naijah, essentially becoming Buster’s dog instead. The two were near inseparable.

Buster’s large frame shakes on the ground, laughing as Kipp nips at him. When he staggers back to his feet, he seems to feel Duke’s gaze on him and looks up at him. His eyes meet Duke’s and he smiles brightly, waving before blowing Duke a kiss and running after Janae again.

Duke catches the kiss with a slow close of the hand, then bangs his fist lightly over his heart twice.

“He’s too good for me. If he heard me saying that, he’d knock the shit out of me. But it’s true. He’s all I’ve got from before this hell opened up. Ain’t that how you feel about Janae?”

Naijah doesn’t respond to that, her fist clenching.

“You don’t gotta answer that,” Duke adds quickly, wiping his nose with thumb. “Point being, we’re similar. We’d do anything to survive, and even more

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than anything to protect our people. Whether you like it or not, we’re travelling together right now, so you’re my people too.”

“What does that have to do with this?” Naijah asks, her mouth dry as cotton.

Duke turns to Naijah then, and again his eyebrows are raised, his best attempt at softening his face. “No matter what happens, Buster’s gotta live. Your girl too. And me…well, I can feel myself slipping more and more every time I get bit.” Duke exhales sharply, hand unconsciously covering the scabbing bite mark. “I’m not sure how many more I’ve got in me. I’ll never know that for sure. But if I slip, I need to know that someone will put me down.”

The air feels like it’s been sucked out of Naijah’s lungs. “Why not just ask Buster? That’s a hell of a lot to put on me. I don’t know you well enough for that to be a casual ask.”

“Nothin’ casual ‘bout it.” Duke lets out a low hmm and shakes his head, letting his gaze linger back to Buster. “Buster loves me.”

“Really? Who would’ve figured.” Naijah says, rolling her eyes sarcastically. Duke lets out another low hah.

“He’s got a good heart. A soft one. That’s rare nowadays. But he loves me a bit too much.

That’s my worry. That he’d sooner die than just take me out.”

“Feels like you aren’t giving him enough credit. Yeah, he may be a big softie, but anyone would put down someone else to survive. Even if it was someone…they cared about.” Naijah finishes, sucking her teeth and furrowing her brows, as if remembering something she’d rather not.

Duke remains silent for a bit before looking skyward. “The first time I got bit was on day six of the outbreak. I remember that clearly. Buster and I, we had gone back to my house to check on my family. By the time we got there, my brother had turned. And even with his teeth near my neck, I…I couldn’t kill him. I just couldn’t kill my little brother. It’s a miracle that Buster came to help me.

I’m immune to the bite but ain’t no one immune to having their throat ripped out.” He chuckles dryly before shaking his head. “No matter how tough or soft someone is…sometimes, in that moment, it all goes out the window.”

He turns back to Naijah. “But you? I’ve seen

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Resist

you doin’ the hard stuff. Doing what’s best for the greater good, even if it don’t feel great. I’ve seen you make tough calls this past month. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. So whether I trust you or not doesn’t matter. Not when it comes to this.”

He leans in a bit closer to her and lowers his voice.

“You can’t let me turn. I don’t wanna get stuck like that, and you can’t let me hurt Buster. Or your girl. Or you. You understand that?”

Naijah stares at him before turning back to her whittling. “Buster would never allow that.”

“Buster barely allowed you to skin that rabbit yesterday.” Duke replies and that gets a small chuckle out of Naijah.

“Fair enough.”

“At the end of the day, I ain’t gonna turn. We move smart now.” Duke looks down at his newest bite mark. “Er, well… smarter. So I don’t intend to get bitten any more, not unless I have to. And I can take it if I have to. Even if I’m changing physically, so long as I don’t get bitten too much, too fast, I’ll recover. But this world is unpredictable. I gotta know someone has his back if I’m gone. Besides,” he pauses, then sighs. “You don’t even like me.

Putting one between my eyes if it comes to that shouldn't be that big of a deal for you.”

Naijah looks back at him and studies him, really studies him. There’s a look in his eyes that she can’t read. Is it pleading? Acceptance?

Desperation? She doesn’t know. His face rarely gives anything away; it can’t. Naijah stares at him for a while longer before sighing out slowly.

“I’ll make sure you get dealt with if it comes to that. If. But I doubt it will. We don’t move like idiots anymore.”

“Ain’t that right.” A beat. “Thanks.”

“Whatever.” She replies but the usual venom behind it has been diluted.

The pair sits in silence for a good long while before Duke eventually pushes himself off the chair and stretches, his knees cracking and some of his bones popping.

“Well, I’m gonna leave you be now.”

“Do.” “I’ll come relieve you of watch duty in three hours. Enjoy your…uh…whittling.” He says before turning and starting to walk off but pauses.

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Naijah looks up at him and furrows her brow. “What?”

Duke stands there for a bit, drumming his fingers against his thigh before turning around and walking over to Naijah. He pulls his lighter out his pocket and puts it gently on the arm rest of the chair.

“In case the fire goes out. Keep it out of the fire pit.” He says before turning around and walking over to where Buster and Janae are standing, talking about something Naijah can’t make out.

Naijah lifts the lighter to her eyes, running her thumb over the cool metal. She sighs and puts the lighter in her back pocket, watching Duke’s back as he reaches the trio of Janae, Buster, and Kipp. She watches Buster put a large arm around Duke’s back and place a large hand on the side of Duke’s head.

She watches Buster press a kiss to his temple. She watches as the blond tries to kiss Duke on the lips after, and she watches how Duke ever so slightly turns his head away so Buster’s lips find the corner of his mouth instead.

She had noticed that last one a while ago. How Duke would never let Buster kiss him on the lips, not really, which Naijah found odd for two fellas who had been dating for eight months, according to Buster. She had chalked it up to Duke just being detached. That’s what she chalked most of his behaviors up to. How he always isolated himself from the group. How he always pulled forward when they were walking. How every time he would get bit, or really, any time he’d get hurt at all, he’d immediately just leave the group and come back ten minutes later like nothing had happened. She had always found it creepy. Thinking about it now though, it put a pit in her gut she couldn’t quite put together. Or rather, one she didn’t want to.

But as the one hour turned to two, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Duke wasn’t immune, he seemed earnest about that. So if he was just resistant, could he pass the virus on? Naijah didn’t know, and she figured Duke didn’t either. But if Naijah was in his shoes, she would be too scared to even speak around Janae, in fear of accidentally spitting on her and giving her something her body couldn’t fight off like hers could. If Carlos was still alive, she would be too afraid to kiss him. That would probably just beg the virus to take him over.

When that thought clicks, Niajah frowns.

Elias Collier

Duke was right; they are alike.

The pit in Naijah’s gut widens and she frowns deeper. She stares deep into the dwindling fire, brows furrowed contemplatively. What was it like to love someone you’re scared to touch? To never kiss that person? To get hurt, and bleed, and never be able to be taken care of, in worry you’d infect someone else? That’s why he always disappeared, wasn’t it? He may have been immune (or resistant or whatever the hell) to the bite itself, but he still felt the pain of it. To not even be able to be comforted through that? To not hear “Hey, you’re okay” from someone you love— Stop. Get a grip, Naijah thinks, smacking her hands to either side of her face. One of the few things her dad ever taught her was to always be suspicious. Never put your life in someone else’s hands. She met this man a month ago, and whether she was wrong to break in or not, he had stabbed her. Trust him? Care for him? Absolutely not.

Naijah shakes her head, frustrated. She refuses to feel bad. She can’t. If she shows him kindness, and he double crosses them? If he puts Buster above her sister? She’d…She didn’t know how she’d take it. She was so sure she’d be fine cutting her losses with Duke not even four hours ago but now, something in her gut tightens at the thought.

A strong gust of wind blows, causing the fire to waver, as does her resolve. But then, the fire reminds Naijah of Duke too. Dangerous in a way, and scary in a way, but impossible not to acknowledge, and impossible to survive without.

Because at the end of the day, her and Janae are only alive because of Duke. And she had never extended him kindness once. She raises her eyes back to him again and watches him lean against a tree, close enough to talk with Buster, but facing away from Janae so she can’t see his face. Janae had once told Naijah that Duke’s face gave her nightmares right in front of him at a fire not unlike this one. Duke had cracked a joke like usual, but after that, he would always sit facing away from Janae. Just like he was facing away from her now.

And something about that made Naijah’s gut tighten even more.

Then there was the most pressing matter: what if Duke did turn? Well, then she’d kill Duke, right? The idea of it rattles in her brain. Kill Duke.

Could she do that if it came down to it? He had said she was good at making hard decisions, but hard decisions were things like whether to take a quick route and risk danger or take a safer, longer route.

Hard decisions were things like eating enough to sustain herself or cutting her rations to feed Kipp.

Killing a man in front of his boyfriend wasn’t just a hard decision, it was damn near impossible.

A sudden hand on her shoulder snaps her out of her thoughts, and she immediately grips the wrist of the person tightly.

“Woah,” Duke says, letting out his trademark hah. “Didn’t mean to startle you none. It’s time to switch.”

“Right…sorry,” Naijah says slowly, releasing his wrist.

“No harm done. Kid’s asking for you,” He responds, pointing to Janae who’s still running circles around a very clearly exhausted Buster.

Naijah stands up from her chair.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Duke just nods and slowly takes her seat, mumbling something about his knees. Naijah doesn’t move, staring at him. He looks up at her and raises his brows, looking almost hopeful.

“Something up?”

Naijah continues to look at him. It’d be easy now to extend an olive branch to him. An I see you or an I appreciate you. Something. Would that make Duke feel comforted? She doesn’t know. But maybe she could— “No. Nothing,” Naijah says before even letting herself finish that thought. What was she even thinking? She doesn’t owe Duke anything, let alone some fake kindness, and that’s final.

Duke’s eyebrows lower and he’s silent for a moment before nodding, dropping his gaze to the fire pit.

“Night, Naijah,” he says, voice low.

Naijah gives him a curt nod before turning on her heel and walking away from the fire pit. She gets a few paces away before she sneaks one last glance at Duke, who’s now squatting near the fire pit, and for the first time since Naijah had met him, Duke has a discernible expression on his face: Sadness.

The fire in the fire pit had dwindled out and died.

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14

Discovery Of The Common Fancy Grace Tongnobhakun

S

morgeth was having an absolutely, no-good, very bad time.

The blue sea slug-looking alien moved in circles, clinging onto her eye stalks with her tentacles, as if they were the last thing tethering her to reality. Smorgeth looked back at the holographic screen that appeared in the windshield of her spaceship. Tons of planets were crossed out, deemed unsuitable for acquiring pets.

As the newly appointed Pet Collector for the upper echelons of alien society, she knew the old pets were not in great fashion anymore. They were considered boring and bland. There could only be so much entertainment a rich alien could have when their pet was a squeaking featureless blob. The little blobs, suitably called Squeakies, were quickly repurposed as fine dining. This left the Slugs in need of a new pet. They needed something intricate, truly adorable, as helpless as the Squeakies, but far more elaborate in fashion and class. Pastel colors were all the rage in high society, and they needed something to match as a good accessory.

But where was Smorgeth to find them?

After landing on more than fifty planets, all the lifeforms were either too slow, too smelly, or too unfashionable. They just didn't have that high class quality! The alien sighed while looking at her holographic map. She pressed a button on the control panel and the holograph zapped out of existence. Smorgeth couldn’t give up now. She could just imagine the gossip that awaited her if she were to come back empty handed…

With renewed determination (but mostly driven by fear), Smorgeth let the Planetary Scanner run wild, until it spotted a new destination that was conveniently nearby: A blue marble-like planet.

A hologram popped up, identifying the planet as “UURTH”. Turning on the invisibility cloaking for the spaceship (as to not alert any lifeforms if it landed), she honed her eyes on the planet.

Where should she land? Decisions, decisions.

Perhaps…the landform shaped like an upside

Sweet Treat Stop by Abigail Snodgrass

down triangle? She shivered. Smorgeth had an irrational fear of triangles, so anything triangle-shaped was out of the question. The Slug produced a holographic dart from her tentacle arm, and aimed higher, more to the left. She gazed at the white, snowy landform on top of UURTH, but the color didn’t seem very appealing. Very unfashionable too, she thought. Shrugging it off, she covered her eyes with one tentacle, spun around three times in her pilot chair, and threw the needle.

Raising her tentacle arm, she saw that it landed on a very green plot of land that the lifeforms on this planet called “Europe.” The dart dissolved away, leaving a pinpoint for the spaceship to travel to.

Smorgeth knew nothing of names on random planets like these and only sighed. She didn’t care about names, she cared about results. Every attempt ended up as a failure, and all she wanted was a productive mission. Time to try again and have nothing come from it, she thought, moving to the back of the spaceship to grab something from storage. It was a laser gun. Smorgeth smiled at the dial on the side of the handle. It had two options, labeled “Tame” and “Storage”. “Tame” made the laser perfectly able to meld the minds of the target into what alien society loved most in a pet. “Storage” turned the gun itself into a transporter, storing the target inside the gun. Such advanced technologies could not be found anywhere in the galaxy, and Smorgeth was very pleased at the ingenious qualities of her Slug kind.

Upon entering URRTH’s atmosphere, the invisible spaceship quickly flew to a city in England, zooming by millions of peasants walking through the city. Smorgeth watched the creatures down below, clueless on what to name them. But one thing was true: Smorgeth was impressed with them! Their little forms had a charming quality to Slugs like her. The only issue was that they were all in such drab and dark coverings. Some were in white wigs, which piqued her interest a bit, but were still dressed in depressing-looking pelts.

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Such darkness wouldn’t do, and her boss would be angry if she turned these lifeforms in! Oh where, oh where, could these new pets be?

Then something grabbed her attention: a shining white mansion in the countryside.

Curious, she slowed her spaceship to a halt in front of a large window to see these same bipedal creatures in elaborate pelts and pretty pastel hues. It was exactly what she was looking for! The spaceship scanned the interior building for her to get a proper 360 degree holographic view of the ballroom. And, oh, how adorable these lifeforms were! They danced in twos, their pastel pelts fluttering this way and that, amidst powdered wigs and delicate limbs. Smorgeth marveled at the intricacy of the decorations inside the building.

Floral golden patterns snaked up and down the walls and the furniture, and she couldn’t believe such a fluttery-looking society could ever be smart enough to create such things.

Perhaps other aliens built these tall and mighty structures, Smorgeth mused. Oh, it doesn’t matter now! I have to capture at least one lifeform to present to the Slug leader. I can just clone the rest back home.

Smorgeth was so entertained by the dancing that she nearly missed one of them walking outside to take a break on the balcony.

The handsome young man breathed in the fresh air, glad to be free of the ruckus of the party.

He scratched his powdered hair, leaning against the wall. He never liked parties, but he had to go, lest his friends nag him. He reached into his pocket and brought out a locket, unaware of the invisible spaceship lowering beside him, silently opening its doors to let the alien out. The man opened his locket to see a small picture of an older man that looked like him. He smiled sweetly at it.

“If only you could get me out of this blasted party, Papa.”

And that was when Smorgeth aimed her laser gun, blasting the man with “Tame”.

He jumped and froze upon getting shot.

Then he blinked, teetering a bit on his feet, suddenly looking very lost. His eyes, once filled with a certain wisdom, now seemed innocent. The man looked back at the locket. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion at the picture.

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“I-I…Who is this fancy man?”

Taken aback by this image, he dropped the locket on the ground in shock. Looking around, he asked, “Who am I? What is this place?” He resembled a skittish deer so paranoid in his surroundings that he whipped his head around to see Smorgeth, who was not covered by the invisibility cloak.

She cranked the dial on her gun to “Storage,” while talking to herself. “‘Fancy?’ Is that what that lifeform said? Ah, very well!” Smorgeth grinned with glee. Now, she had something truly adorable to take home to her superiors! The perfect pet. “I will call your race…The Common Fancy!” she declared.

“I-I beg your pardon?”

Not waiting for a response, she promptly shot him with the gun. The man was never seen by his own kind again, leaving only his locket behind.

After capturing the creature, Smorgeth was set on traveling back to her home planet. As her ship soared through the cosmos, all that mattered to her was the general reception to this Common Fancy.

And as for the reception?

Resounding applause!

The Slugs had great success in domesticating and cloning such an adorable creature. Everybody and their mother wanted a Common Fancy to dress up and pamper! However, the Slugs called them helpless and brainless, since they nearly died from not being able to consume Squeakies. Some Slugs could not comprehend this fact. Were fine pets not able to eat fine dining?

Other near-death incidents involved the Fancies simply wandering off and falling over balconies. They had no common sense, and the laser gun worked a little too well for dumbing down their IQs…but at least they were genuine in their affections. Their flamboyant and cultured speech and behavior so thoroughly entertained their owners that the Slugs were incapable of being angry at them. Who cared if they had the survival skills of a lemming? But after these incidents, the Society of Pet Owners stated that the Fancies could only thrive in specialized environments with very specific standards. This meant that only the rich could properly afford to take care of them.

And Smorgeth, upon getting her proper credit, was now a rich Slug.

Art by Jesse Park

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Discovery Of The Common Fancy

Rewarded by her superiors, she loved her newfound money and was offered a few Common Fancies as prizes. But she didn’t care about owning Fancies, as cute as they were. The only thing that mattered to her was “an eternal vacation.”

And now, she leaned back in her beach chair,

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plucked a Squeaky from her plate, and smugly gazed at the alien resort’s purple sea. She was forever known as “The Discoverer of The Common Fancy.” Lauded for her accomplishments, the brave explorer never had a no-good, very bad time ever again.

Weasel Knight by Nawaal Nackerdien

Free Donovan Mitchell

S

pace–an all-consuming expanse that spanned as far as the eye could see. The dim glimmer of stars served as the only light within the empty void. They shimmered like streetlamps reflecting off water, their rays extended far beyond their burning cores. Distant suns flickered throughout the dark canvas like brush strokes on a masterpiece, their image searing itself into the minds of those fortunate enough to witness their glow.

It truly is beautiful…

The light shone onto the visor, gifting the onlooker with an unparalleled scene of the galaxy’s conflicting aspects. Light and darkness intertwined themselves in each other’s arms, merging into a brilliant sea reminiscent of distant human creations. The onlooker failed to recall what exactly it resembled. Maybe it was a painting? Or perhaps a scene from an ancient movie? They’d been away from Earth too long to remember the artistic fruit of the planet’s inhabitants. Still, they were mesmerized by the sight in front of them.

Bzzt! The earpiece blared within the onlooker’s helmet as it sprang to life. The revolting screech sent their head arching back as the sound shook each and every nerve in their body.

“Outside Exposure Has Exceeded Allotted Time!

Please Return to The Docking Bay Immediately!”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me…” whispered the space farer as the message reverberated through their sealed helmet. The entire outfit was tightly packed, trapping the wearer in while they traversed the murky cosmos. Both the suit and the short periods of time a person was allowed in space came as a direct result of the Spores. Too small to be perceived by the naked eye, the Spores carried the greatest threat humanity had ever seen. At the back of the suit was a thin cable, small enough to blend with the abyssal landscape of space.

The astronaut grasped impatiently at their back, searching for the line that connected them to the distant satellite they called home.

“Why couldn’t I just stay out here a bit longer?

I just wanna be free.” *** The space station’s glistening white stood in stark contrast to the peaceful darkness of the cosmos. Its exterior shell was blinding, and blotted out any speck of darkness that dared to breach its walls. The docking bay, home to a multitude of protective screens and flickering devices, shuddered to life as the large wall sealing the room unlatched to welcome the returning inhabitant. Blustering gusts surged into the unsealed area, beating away at the pearly walls that separated light and darkness as the space farer was sucked in. The protective wall quickly enclosed the room once more, sealing its inhabitant within the glossy space as they began removing their insulating suit.

A loud bleep echoed through the docking bay as the loudspeaker housed on the leftmost wall activated, signaling an incoming message to the room. “Welcome Back Civilian! Please Try Not to Exceed Your Permitted Exposure Time On Your Next Outing!” the speaker rang out as the space farer reached for the set of clothes they’d left in the docking bay’s singular locker. “Failure to Return Within The Allotted Time Will Result In—” “—Suspension from outside activities I know,” replied the space farer before the automated message could finish its sentence. Life on the spacecraft meant obeying numerous rules and regulations, all meant to reduce the community’s risk of exposure to Spores. Every moment spent outside the satellite was meticulously examined by its ever watchful eye. Exasperated by the familiar warning, the astronaut reached for the suit they’d laid on the stainless white floor, grasping its crumpled sleeves to take it to their home. That’s when they noticed the tear at the right sleeve’s wrist.

It was small, and would have easily been overlooked if the suit hadn’t been picked up by its sleeves.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” exclaimed the suit’s owner, their eyes widening upon seeing the

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Free

tear. They silently slipped their fingers into the tear, closely examining its dimensions before pulling away cautiously. “When did it tear?” muttered the space farer as they reeled with this newfound discovery. Their brain travelled back in time, reliving the astronaut’s last days on Earth. The planet had become an empty husk of its former self as lives were lost at a rate never before seen.

Finding a breach in their protective covering meant that the entire satellite, home to the crew who’d escaped their planet upon being overrun by Spores, was now destined for the same fate. Realizing the severity of the tear’s existence, the astronaut quickly scrambled to put away their items and rushed to exit the docking bay. They couldn’t stay in that room any longer, otherwise the next person to enter would almost certainly become infested. *** “Well, there’s no sign of anything wrong,” noted the physician as they deactivated the light beaming into the astronaut’s eyes. They’d examined the space farer’s heart rate, blood pressure, skin, ears, eyes, and had drawn a sample of their blood yet still failed to find anything abnormal. The space farer, whose worried fidgeting only increased at their doctor’s words, rose in a cold sweat.

“What do you mean nothing’s wrong?!” spat the patient. “I spent hours out there and was partially exposed! I could be infected! I could be a danger to everyone here!”

The physician sighed, their reaction sending the astronaut into a blind rage. Couldn’t the doctor realize how serious their exposure really was? A spore entering the craft could jeopardize the entire space station, putting everyone on board at risk.

“What I mean is that nothing got through.

There’s no reason for you to panic. Neither the retinal scan or any other test found any trace of a Spore in your bodily functions. As far as we’re aware, you’re completely fine.”

“But! But—” The physician raised their hand, dismissing their patient’s concern. But how could they? How could they when such concern was being ridiculed right before their eyes? Their fury continued to rise as the astronaut gripped their legs to restrain it. It licked at their subconscious, continuing to become hotter as their grip tightened in response. Their

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fingers sunk into the flesh of their legs, sending an acute sensation through their body as the space farer stared daggers into the source of their wrath.

“Tell you what,” began the physician. “I’m going to prescribe you some calming balm to help settle those nerves. I want you to apply it twice a day: once when you wake up and again—” “I don’t need some damn balm!” the patient roared as their rage erupted. They stormed out of the examination room, barely noticing the surprised stares of those waiting to be seen as they made for the health center’s exit. The white walls that covered the waiting room blinded the deranged escapee, throwing them off balance as the physician's shouts could be heard trailing from behind. But it was too late. Soon they would be out of this glistening prison.

Soon they would be… free. *** The ward wasn’t nearly as blinding as the hospital room or docking bay, though that was only because the automated lights had deactivated once time shifted towards an appropriate sleep hour. But sleep wasn’t something that would bless the weary astronaut. While the calming balm had been administered soon after the hospital’s security had pacified the patient, it failed to eat away at the growing tension within their mind. The darkness had given birth to an even greater desire within the space farer: freedom. Sure they wished to protect the satellite’s crew but there was more than that. They wanted to be free of this accursed room, free of the satellite’s confines, and free of their body more than anything. Their very soul ached to be liberated, as if some primordial instinct had been reawakened during its slumber. It fought off the effects of the calming balm, forcing the space farer’s heart into a hurried drumming that flooded their veins with red, viscous liquid. If the medical professionals of the ship wouldn’t take them seriously, then the astronaut knew only they could protect the ship. Their freedom would be a key for the rest of the crew, liberating them from the dangers of the entity the astronaut knew flowed through their veins. … free…free…The word echoed throughout their conscience, becoming the signal for the space

Zero by Jeanne-Vivian

21

Free

farer to slowly rise from the hospital bed. They glanced around the room before moving towards its entrance. The automated barrier slid open as the room’s occupant stepped into the dark hallway.

Light and dark had merged once more, this time into a murky concoction that bewildered the solitary soul. Their weary eyes struggled to function as they shifted and drooped along the bleak path. Blood continued to flow through their body at a quickening speed, rushing to and flooding their brain with crimson. Shadows stretched across the walls and stained their once glistening features.

The patient wandered through the tainted halls, stumbling and tripping over their own feet as they approached the now empty waiting area. *** The dim flickering of their monitor served as the receptionist’s only form of entertainment. While the health center had been closed to the general public for hours, she still had to be present in case an emergency occurred.

Though emergencies were extremely rare in the satellite.

“Hmm?” The receptionist had only looked up from their screen for a brief moment, yet they had gotten a glimpse of a dark figure in the waiting area. The darkness took a strain on their vision, making it difficult to perceive the figure. It stepped sluggishly, moving to the health center’s entry way with deliberate steps. Just before the receptionist could open their mouth to speak, the figure turned its head towards them. The lack of light in the room caused the figure’s

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eyes to appear brighter than they would normally.

It sent a horrifying chill down the receptionist’s spine, numbing their brain as they could only stare in horror. It was a feeling they’d never experienced before, the complete terror of gazing at a body that moved as it rotted. Slowly, their hand moved to the small button hidden beneath the waiting area’s

Art by Grace Tongnobhakun

desk. Their finger rested on the button, hesitating to thrust itself into the red circle and trigger the health center’s alarm system. “...free…” croaked the figure before turning its head from the receptionist’s gaze. It walked slowly towards the automated doors, deciding now to leave the enclosure that had caged it. The receptionist

was too stunned to speak as the doors slid open, allowing the gown-wearing patient to walk out.

Their head fell to their desk, exhausted by what had transpired. Their hand dropped from under the desk as a bright red glow engulfed the waiting area. *** The self-opening door slid to the side, allowing the space farer to reenter the docking bay. The sole human in the room was instantly blinded as the lights sprang to life upon their entry. “Welcome Civilian!” roared the speaker, “How Can I Be Of Assistance?” The space farer focused their gaze on the large wall separating them from the comforting embrace of space. Am I really about to do this?

The wall separating the white glow of the docking bay from the obsidian sky of space seemed thinner than ever before.

To the astronaut’s eye, it felt as though the wall was transparent.

Their brain surged with images of the inky expanse their heart yearned for. An abyss filled with glimmering lights lay on the other side of that blinding wall.

I want to be free…If I’m outside the station, then no one else can get contaminated…

Everyone will be safe…

They approached the wall, resting their head on its steel frame and absorbing the cool sensation from the metal. The space farer knew exactly what they had to do. If no one was going to take them seriously, then they’d take matters into their own hands. They turned away from the wall, centering their dim eyes on the docking bay’s entrance as they recognized the faint sound of rushing footsteps.

“Open the hatch.”

Spring 2026 | Volume VI

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Eulogy for a Father/Pigeon Liam VunCannon-Sullivan

I

f I close my eyes for long enough, I can still see the gray plaster walls of my father’s apartment.

As a boy, I’d stare out the fourth-floor window to a monotony of muffled noise, searching for anything different, and I’d stare with assurance that nothing had the time to stare back. A vast, gray expanse of skyscrapers loomed above a sky striped with wires, and on the city streets below, there marched a sea of men, many of flesh and many more of metal. City dwellers squawked, speakers boomed, car horns blared, wheels screeched through the air without ever leaving the road, and footsteps—some padded in expensive leather, and others wrought from iron— pelted against the window. And yet I’d heard that cacophony for so long that it became quieter than silence itself.

Schools of businessmen swam like minnows in a bustling concrete river, always with an endpoint, yet never seeming to reach it. They diverged along a narrow crosswalk, forking into parallel streams which bordered a long, asphalt road. In the middle of the street, legions of blurred vehicles zipped past at speeds beyond my childish comprehension.

Occasionally, a pedestrian would wander off course, and an irregular, loud thump would pierce the city’s monotony; a puff of red mist would bloom rapidly at the road’s edge and dissipate just as quickly.

Though the sound of footsteps never quieted, I’d always known, following such an occasion, that they’d technically grown fewer.

Bodegas, flashing with neon light, sprawled on every corner—and on their doorsteps, vendors of every trade peddled products of every nature, from fare to falsehood, from fentanyl to flesh. Amidst the stream of passersby, the occasional straggler would dawdle long and awkwardly enough that I could guess which among the four was their calling. I suppose it all boiled down to how long of a distraction they wanted.

Automatons marched among the crowds, en route to duties of their own. Remote workers would

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control these automatons for various delivery and construction services and, in exchange, receive the absolute bare minimum to stave off eviction.

The honor of such a glamorous position fell to my father. Following the automation of every creative field—more specifically, my father’s job as a graphic designer—automaton-piloting was his only remaining opportunity for employment.

Concentrating on his busywork, he’d hold his breath as though he no longer needed it, and the clacking of his keyboard became his primary sign of life.

Some of his coworkers may have been our nextdoor neighbors—not that I’d ever met them. No one stood out or spoke—and if they did, it was typically a trivial remark about the “pleasant” weather, which was perpetually overcast. Everyone was too fixated on their work, on the to-and-fro, on what little time they had between tasks, on getting home as soon as possible, on repeating the cycle the next day, to idle about with conversation. From my father’s apartment, it was often hard to tell the meat from the metal along that interminable concrete stream.

I suppose the difference doesn’t matter.

It never made sense to me, as a kid. Everyone was always in a hurry, yet never in a rush; millions of legs marching onward, yet none of them ever ran.

Millions moving and breathing—and yet nothing seemed alive.

Sometimes, I’d even stare at the sun.

At least when I closed my eyes, there was a fleeting impression of natural color.

I remember on one window-gazing afternoon, a sudden thud reverberated through the glass. A flurry of feathers slammed against the windowpane, and a comet of gray hurtled down toward the sidewalk. The small thing let out a strained coo before finally crashing into the concrete. I picked my head up from the windowsill, rushed down the stairs, and barreled out the front door. I wriggled and shoved my way through the crowds before finally approaching where the sidewalk met the

street. There, an inch from the curb and just shy of the automotive blur, rested a broken pigeon.

What I remember most vividly are the pigeon’s wings, fully spread and deckled like the pages of one of my father’s sketchbooks. Whenever he heard me flipping through them, he’d interrupt his work with an impromptu lecture.

“They can replace every artist with a computer,” he’d declare solemnly, “but they can never replace real art.”

These days, I wonder why a man so fascinated with life and art constrained himself to a place bereft of both—but as a child, all I could ponder was the creature that lay lifeless before me. Its throat was a

Art by Lorien Espino

gradient of shimmering purple, green, and black.

I had never seen such color, save for the faded hues of my father’s old drawings. Its unblinking stare locked with mine, the shock of its demise preserved in its wide, vacant eyes.

I sat, staring, throughout my father’s dreary call for dinner, and then after the entry door of the apartment complex shut, and then past sundown and eventually sunrise. When I was forced back inside for remote schooling, I imagined the pigeon’s eyes, and when I closed my own, I sat again, staring until its feathers molted and its flesh turned from gray to viscous pitch. To my fascination, life returned, wriggling in white grains

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Eulogy for a Father/Pigeon

everything except what you are. of not-quite-rice and buzzing about the air with “Dearly departed,” eulogized your little black wings. Finally, in its eyes, there was life, ‘beloved’ boss. though it may not have been its own.

“Passed away,” proclaimed I stared into the pigeon’s eyes until they sank an automated announcer. in and melted into liquid. There was a grotesque “In a better place,” sympathized an sort of beauty, only rendered as such by the fact that it was real. Its color came not from a screen, or embarrassed stranger who’d mistaken your artificial dyes, or some automated series of prompts, service for a washroom.

Millions of ways to say it, except for the one but from the crashing weight of time. that states the obvious. Millions of ways to kill time, In a place drab and bereft of nature, even and yet not one second spent acknowledging that death can be beautiful. Even rot brings color when dwindling hourglass. To sit and swallow it would engulfed in monochrome. The color of those eyes mean to digest its inevitability. swirls in my memory—even now, as another pair Death. That’s what it is. No need to gussy it up. lies before me some twenty years later. This time, You’re dead. they’re yours, Dad. I never thought I’d long to see the color gray Here they lie shut, painted a mocking pink to dull the graying rot beneath. Your arms are crossed again. If I close my eyes for long enough, maybe I still can. over your chest, and your body lies embalmed I love you, Dad, but I wish they let you rot. in a ghastly charade of life. Everyone calls you

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Onward by Grace Crowley

Out in the West Julian Perez

I

toil and work and bruise my hands every day in the mines.

I am not worth the fancy gadgetry afforded to the iron or copper miners.

I am undeserving of laser cutters, pulverizers, and am left with the old reliable pickaxe.

I hammer and chisel and struggle my way through rock after rock after rock before finding my only purpose in life: zinc. I break my back every day for zinc, zinc is my lifeblood and my poison.

Zinc is wonderful, zinc makes all the batteries we use for the mines, the solar panels, the greenhouses, oxygen systems, those big trucks they use to haul the ore—it’s hard to ship coal out here, you understand. I dig life-changing zinc out of this godforsaken red ground, and they pay me nothing for it.

Scrip’s what they give me. The amounts are big but the value is so very small. Every payment is over a million scrip per week; 500,000 of which I pay back to my landlord, which is of course the company I work for. 200,000 more goes to my oxygen, generously provided to me by that same company, and 20,000 goes to food, provided of course by my friends at JD Power and Associates.

Inflation, they say, is the reason.

Market rates and such. These “market rates” don’t seem to affect my bosses, or theirs; just us apparently.

One time, my buddy and me were

mining, and we had this rock we couldn’t quite get through, we almost killed ourselves trying to break it by hand. We sent up for the Tau Cannon: big gun, nobody here was worthy enough to bask in its presence, but we got to because we needed it. We took one shot and that rock shattered into a million pieces. One hit my friend square in the helmet of his space suit.

It cracked; he suffocated.

We tried throwing a funeral for him, but the director didn’t wanna get paid in scrip. The company did send me their condolences though, along with the bill for the ammo.

I miss that guy.

It’s hard in this red wasteland, but then you gotta remember, you’re doing it for your family, so no matter how much you’re screwed, you gotta keep thinking about them. My wife, my kid, my friends, I love them too much to give up. I can’t put them in danger trying to fight the man. I roll with the punches and keep on going.

Me and my family, after hours we always go to the same place. Three miles from our home there’s this nice hill that ain’t too big, and it ain't too far so we save oxygen. We get to see the Earth from there, without all the buildings and such, and all the big lights.

That blue dot where we all come from, I wonder what it’s like now.

Spring 2026 | Volume VI

27

Finding the Little Trash Wolf Nawaal Nackerdien There!

Behind the back of the building where the evil teens smoke their drug-filled herbs wrapped in taco wrappers and drink alcohol made by grinning goblins.

Underneath the giant green dumpster, just beneath where it was scratched by an earth salamander’s spikes.

Do you see the eyes? The red ones that are big and beady? They hold a shine but the little trash wolf never cries. It wants the rusted knives in your bag.

Quick!

Between the aisles of shields and preserved cockatrice eyes!

Tucked underneath the ice lizard pelts and the forever watering undine head.

The little trash wolf loves the tombs in the corner; they sometimes open to reveal colorful frogs whose skin can cause your own to set off fireworks.

Sometimes the tombs include maps to one of the oldest weapons in history: a cut-off ring finger that glows yellow under the right conditions. Eating it makes your tongue purple and instills within you the ultimate power of understanding where the trash wolf is at all times.

Wait! It’s taken the tomb, catch it!

The little trash wolf’s large pointy ears are almost bigger than its head and will hear you coming when you step through the glade of deep contemplation.

There is a hidden ice fang that lays at the center of the glade. It is said that the dragon that buried it there, it came to ponder at the fountain in the middle.

When the dragon sneezed, it froze the entire fountain. One of its teeth went flying, becoming embedded deep in the fountain’s center. From then on this became the Glade of Contemplation. That, and the grass sighs every time you step on it—sigh.

See! The little trash wolf’s huge ears have heard us.

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Do. Not. Move.

Sigh.

Go! Go! Inside the living suit of death armor! It’s resistant to the death part!

Inside the poisoned lion statue’s mouth, right between the fangs! Ah, the mouth closed upon your arm…

Below the deck of the ship! Dodge passed the elf and catch it before it jumps into the sea— …

You’re not very good at this, are you?

The little trash wolf is a very smart little fellow.

It never lies and definitely holds the secret to the universe like you were promised.

Once you’ve found it, you’ll undoubtedly get the answer to the universe or something. Remember, it wants your uneaten crystals.

You’re close! You’re so close!

Go left!

Go right!

Down, down!

Get it before it disappears between the plumes of white, and you won’t see it anymore!

To the left!

Follow the cobblestone path!

Ignore the singing sirens and dancing skeletons, they’re irrelevant!

Okay, maybe the giant bunny with the spiral horn might be a problem.

Wait.

This path…

These cracked magma stones inlaid still with the red…the discarded skin thicker than leather… one scale could encompass your entire being…

This is the lair of the fire salamander.

If you hear its ploppy feet—plop.

Run! Alright, I think I have it this time: After it dashed into the vampire lounge, toppled all the barrels of enchanted blood wine,

Finding the Little Trash Wolf

and managed to make your silver dagger stab into that werewolf on the street outside, I saw the little trash wolf climb the fence into the Moonstone Club: A club for re-enchanting one’s connection to all gods of magic including your favorite, Era daughter of Seuss.

If you enter, you should be able to corner it in one of the moon pools, where the moon flavored water that shines like rainbows will disorient it like a bird and make its fur wet—it hates its fur wet— then you can nab it up quickly…

What?

Don’t you understand? Catching the little trash wolf is important to the universe!

It’s an endeavor that not many take upon themselves.

The trash wolf holds the secrets to the universe! or something…

It doesn’t matter that you got hit by both an earth and fire salamander, or that the Glade of Contemplation froze your eyebrows; the fire salamander solved that!

No, no, really, the poison should be fine if you drink a potion made by the harpies on Jersey Bay within two hours—yes they exist! Mathilda is the finest harpy woman I’ve ever met, in fact.

I might just have to rescind my offer of getting you a discount—listen!

The fire salamander solved both the freezing and the sopping wet issues, I really don’t understand how you don’t see it as a boon that it blasted fire at you for twenty minutes. Wasn’t it thrilling, anyway?

And the vampires stopped chasing you, and I promise the werewolf bite won’t transfer the infection to you. Probably.

The moon pools will be nice! They’ll fix everything, maybe you’ll even speak to Era, she’s got quite the story on the little trash wolf where it…ate…a… banana—hey!

Put my orb back in the backpack,

Self Portrait by Senet Abrha

what are you doing? I promised you riches, didn’t I? What? You think this was a wild goose—it was not!

Didn’t we build memories together? Didn’t we have fun exploring New York? You said you were new.

Wait! Wait! I can offer you anything: Mathilda has gold necklaces made from an unidentifiable stone! They smell like onions and sometimes the spray-paint flakes off but—!

Don’t. Put me down! Not here— Wait, come back!

Come back, come back! …

Please? … … …

Oh. Hello there!

Oh I see, you’re new in town!

Never seen a floating head in a crystal ball before, right? Right? Heh. Well, guess what? I’m not just any regular talking head. No. I know the location of something valuable, something no human has ever gotten their hands on before.

Would you like to—perfect!

First, we have to find the little trash wolf…

30

Build a Fire Tate Kaufman

T

he matchstick was still on my desk. He gave it to me yesterday. I hadn’t yet had the time to fix it to my wall. So there it sat, with its wood warped and yellowed, and its red phosphorous head chipped and worn. It was a game we played, giving gifts in this manner, forgotten things disallowed here. There would be a loose screw at the bottom of a cardboard box, or an errant coin dropped in the pocket of a coat. These were things that had no use here, and so we kept hold of them when we found them and traded them amongst ourselves. My friend Luke collected safety pins, Ryan and Eamonn both sought after bottlecaps, my brother, a dump man, collected twist ties, and I collected matches. This was a dangerous habit. Unlike twist ties, bottle caps, and safety pins, the prohibition against matches was eagerly enforced, owing to their incendiary potential. It was all the more exciting for me this way. The expressions on girls' faces when they leaned back on my bed, looking at me first, then at my hands drawing my shirt over my head. And then, drawn by the halo of light cast by gaps in the doorway, their eyes found the matches affixed to the back of the door, somehow radiating in the dark.

Excitement. Provocation. Risk. This is where the deal was sealed.

It sat there, still. I felt that if I touched it, if I went to put it in its place, the illusion would crumble. For the first few hours after I learned of my brother’s passing, we sat, the match and I, and we stared at each other in silence. To move it, I knew, would be to move on, to push time forward past the last moment I saw his face, the smile as he placed it in my palm, to enter a future in which he no longer existed.

“Found it between some tuna cans. I did some looking, see that right there?”

“See what?”

“The head? Take a look. What color is it?”

“Red?” “Red and?”

I had looked closer, not sure of his point. Then I saw.

The Storm by Samantha Gerken

“There’s a little white nub at the top.”

“Do you know what that means?”

“What?”

“Strike Anywhere.”

“Strike Anywhere?”

“Anywhere.”

This was an exciting development. I had never seen real fire before. Neither of us had. On the monitor in my room, the screensaver was a picture of a fire. But that doesn’t count. In person, neither of us had any conception of what it would look like. Would the flames be uniform in contour?

Would they have real weight, or be something more spectral? What colors were hidden within the orange glow? A universe of possibilities. What would it feel like, from a distance, or pressed against the skin, singeing the hairs on my arm?

How would it smell? I felt like there had been a power placed in my hand—a store of knowledge, expendable only once, that would burst into a warm flame of physical truth, rightness, and then vanish, leaving me alone with its secrets.

Red light seeped through my window from the outside. Light was slow here. It didn’t shift and flicker or burst into colors in the rain or crash and mangle into a gradient sunset. It marched.

Forwards, always. Overhead, pushing down on you, and then leaving you behind in the darkness.

The sun was hard to see—obscured by dust and carbon dioxide. It was a lamp behind a curtain. A show that never starts. The banner ad on my laptop, an unerasable thing, turned red and lost the sway of corporate motion. Cop doorknocks delivered in 1s and 0s, manifest in sans serif. This is how I learned my brother had died. Overdose. Todietan, a bastard derivative of fentanyl, is formulated to have a psychoactive component—vivid hallucinations coupled with total physical nullification. Not taken with the intention to survive. The med team tried Narcan, but it failed. The news bulletin made no special remark, noting the incident matter-of-factly and without detail. Death here was no longer rare. No longer beamed across the solar system.

Spring 2026 | Volume VI

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Build a Fire

is banned. Decades of interpretation, of pushing No longer diplomatically significant. The system notified me that I had until Saturday to write an obit. legal precedent. What happened was a total prohibition on private property outside the bounds Three days to summarize a lifetime. of Planet Earth. This is well and good if you’re a The matchstick won the staring contest.

Terran. But there’s only so much dirt to go around I am a futures trader, a stockbroker. Firms are down there, and if you’re Martian, as I am, you’re not my concern, however. Individuals are at the damned to a renter’s eternity. core of my work. This is not a piece of corporate The only sanctity to be found in this life was on doublespeak, of quaint, nostalgic moralizing, solid-state drives. It was expensive to receive media echoing a luddite time of family-run farms, of here. There was a database, of course, hundreds prospectors looking for a nugget of gold to ensure of terabytes large, but it was selective—and the future of their children. This is literal; I trade purposefully so. Media of discontent and malice, as in human futures, in the day-by-day choices made they had been termed, were not made available for by individuals. The entire speculation industry consumption. Too many variables, too many fragile has trended this way for the past century. It began systems here. One disruptor could doom the whole with targeted advertisements, consumer affinity enterprise, the resource extraction, remote labor, groups, and predictable patterns of interest and money machine, and Mars. We had no choice but to consumption. Click on a dog website, get an ad for work. We had nothing else to do. Nowhere else to a dog toy, see enough ads (progressive in nature, go. And all that was perfect. But solid-state drives, building a story), and you want to buy the toy. You brought on ships, could hold anything, securely, click—a “page click”—a calculation is run, and data privately. Whatever music you wanted to hear. is aggregated. An engagement. This is how people Whatever film you wished to watch. But expensive, like you behave. The system knows this now. impossibly so—you would cry to hear the cost It took a few decades, but people like me if you didn’t know. started to get involved. Place bets. I’ll buy stock in Here is the issue: it is now exorbitantly the potential for John Doe to buy your dog toy, he expensive to leave Earth’s atmosphere. Kessler buys it, I get a cut. He doesn’t, my investment paid Syndrome, as it’s known, is fully realized. Some for the ad—only a few cents. My profile consists generations ago, a company had suspended not of companies but of people. I make a decent thousands of internet satellites into low Earth living this way. There’s an infinite database of ad orbit. It became crowded. Collisions are frequent campaigns, angles, color schemes, and mottos. and create a destructive feedback loop. It was done You choose where you want to invest, how far intentionally. Make it too crowded to be financially you’re willing to go. I’ve filled my books with a few viable for rival companies without established hundred thousand people, but I only buy stock in satellite constellations. This barrier, a wall of decisions over entertainment products. I feel I can rubble, is virtually impassible without tremendous maintain my innocence this way. Major firms will expenditure. Space is now less accessible than it have stock in millions of folks. They’ll pay twenty was before we had come to (and on) Mars. dollars for a year of marketing a divorce lawyer to The Earth is no longer warming. It was cold happily married Mr. Doe, telling him he’s not being there now, we were told. Cold and silver. All that treated right. He can get more out of life if he ends aluminum debris, specs of silver cast in the sky. it. And when he does, the money flows. Owning Even the sun couldn’t get it. someone’s divorce, a choice so personal. I couldn’t *** stomach the thought.

I met her in the rain room where the walls Even if I could, there would not be much here were green and membranous. It was crucial to our for me to buy. This is because of 1967, and it is not mental health, we were told as children, to visit the because of Sargent Pepper, the summer of love, rain room. To be in the dark and simulated storm, peel-and-see. The Outer Space Treaty is three to hear the crash of lightning and feel the blowing words sure to start a bar fight. The core of the wind, and smell and feel the rain. It came down matter is this, as worded: “national appropriation”

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Hotel by Tatsumelon

33

Build a Fire

from sprinklers hidden in the vast ceiling. There were trees, old pines from the Pacific Northwest.

The air was earthy and seemed spiritually significant, deep. Maybe this is what awe meant.

Maybe this is what cosmic horror meant—how people felt when they looked up at the stars in past centuries—this feeling I had in the false rain, under the false sky, and the trees that seemed to know.

I was in a sleeveless, hoodless rain suit. Bright yellow, kept your clothes dry but let the rain hit you on your face and arms. She had not worn one; 34

The Forge

she stood in her bare white shirt and track pants.

Water gathered in her hair, on her eyebrows and eyelashes, and her shirt grew darker. It looked like the slow, laboured caving of a skull to a hammer, blood reddening the floor, pooling, lacerations spreading, crawling like a spiderweb, type three Le Fort separation across the orbitals and the nasal bridge—this pattern formed when the rain hit the contours of her face. Fragile. Actual. Human. She stood still, looked at me, and then to the floor, and we embraced, and I felt the coldness of her wet hair

Ocean Metro by Jesse Park

pressed against my chest, and she sobbed.

She was the one who had started the gifting game, I now remember. It was when our parents had died, and I was too young to remember.

My brother was five, breaking crayons in the kindergarten class, pressing down too hard, trying to color sense into the world. Tears on paper. Nadia saw this, saw fear and anger and confusion. She saw emotions she hadn’t seen before. She wanted to carry them for him, in her princess pencil case, and bury them under a vision of pink and sparkling

tiaras. What she did instead was give him the most valuable thing she had owned: a twist tie.

“Here.” She tied it around his pinkie finger.

“As long as you wear this ring, your parents will have a way to find you.”

It didn’t make much sense. It didn’t need to. A comedian once said, “I don’t believe, I have faith.” My brother wore it for months, until all the green wax paper had been washed away, leaving only the wire… It cut into his skin then, and it was confiscated when a teacher noticed that his pinkie Spring 2026 | Volume VI

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Build a Fire

had developed yellow blisters filled with pus.

He cried some more. She made another— encased in wood glue—ageless like amber, twist ties are forever. From that moment on, they were best friends.

I remember sitting with them in the room that my brother and I had been given. I was ten, and they were both in their early teens. The three of us would always cuddle up under the blankets together to keep warm. Her parents didn’t mind; they felt sorry for us. Nadia’s mother often made us lunch, Mars samosas. I remembered they tasted like nothing I had known. Not like ham sandwiches or beef burgers or pot pies. We were the little white boys with Indian food for lunch, and we were proud of it. The three of us were a bloc; we protected each other. It took me by surprise that day, when I was ten, when Nadia asked me to close my eyes as we watched the movie. I could hear sounds like a distant memory, both hands glued over my eyes.

The lightness of breath, the soft chap of lip on lip. When I looked again, my brother was wiping the corner of his mouth with his wrist, a bashful, sheepish grin. Nadia was beaming, looking into his eyes as he refocused on the movie, unsure where to aim his gaze, and not wanting to give me any indication of the act.

“I’m marrying your brother.” Nadia had said to me once, matter-of-factly.

We were waiting for him to finish writing his employment exam. He would get his score instantly.

Know the trajectory of his life.

“What if he gets the dumps?”

“I’ll learn to love the smell of the dumps.”

And here she was now, older, face sharper, matured, sullen against my chest. Those dreams were gone now—they were the only dreams she had.

She pulled away, and her eyes chilled. Nadia had a way of setting herself aside, of becoming deeply analytical, deeply serious.

“He was getting better. I don’t believe it. We were working so hard.”

I nodded. My brother was on the path to being clean. Ten months. What pushed him? Why would he go back?

“He loved you, Nadia. I’m sure he’s looking down on you, mulling over it, missing you.

Smiling down. He would be proud that you

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aren’t wearing a coat.”

She looked at me with a false smile, a thank you. “It’s not right. Something had to have changed.”

I put my arms around her again. There was no answer. And she cried. She cried until she laughed.

“That selfish fucking dump man. Why’d he have to go and ruin everything?”

“That selfish fucking dump man.” I echoed.

“That selfish fucking dump man.”

At the coroner’s they lifted the sheets.

It was him. As cold and grey as Earth. They asked me what I wanted to do with the remains.

I said cremate.

I wanted to start with how my parents had died.

How he met Nadia. These two events, I felt, framed the arc of my brother’s life. Two opposing forces tearing him to shreds between life and death. I hadn’t known for a long time how my parents had died, until I was fifteen or so, and he had started working at the dumps. It was my birthday, and we were having dinner with Nadia’s folks. They had made lamb bhuna with roti and aloo gobi, and had set up a trading account for me with a few penny stocks and NFTs. I needed to start saving young, they said. Mars is unkind to the broke and the old.

“Here.” My brother handed me a small package, bubble-wrapped and tightly bound in duct tape.

“Cost me a fuckin’ arm and a leg. So don’t go getting it confiscated.”

“Naughty naughty.” Nadia’s father smiled; I had the feeling he knew what it was.

“Don’t go acting like you don’t have a hundred of these.” My brother rolled his eyes at Mr. Joshi then returned his attention to me.

“This is five hundred gigabytes of banned music. There’s a lotta stuff on here. I had a bit of a listen myself. It’s good. Punk, most of it. But not like the sanitized shit they have in the library. This is real stuff. It’s angry. The Stooges, they’re on it, the singer is totally possessed, and there’s wailing sax on some songs, sounds like a funhouse mirror.

Some weird names like Jesus Lizard and The Mars Volta, they’re fun. But one band, Pile, they’re a bit buried on the drive, but they’ve got a song that made me think of you. ‘Build a Fire’ it’s called. When I heard it, I knew in my heart that this drive was meant for you.”

Tate Kaufman

“Thank you, I love you, bro.” I was stoked.

My brother and I had managed to finagle a ten-gig thumb drive of heavier music a few years earlier, and had been hooked ever since; now I had enough for a good few years of discovery.

He came to visit me when I was listening to it in my room later that night. I had headphones plugged in while I poked around on the trading account the Joshis had given me. The knock at the door startled me; I thought I might have already been busted.

Somehow, someone saw the drive, and it was all over. But then my brother opened the door, and all the anxiety dissipated.

“Hey.” “Hey.” I lowered my headphones. “How’s it been at work?”

“Great,” he said, content, “Not a pretty job. But I feel useful. In the morning, I go through the server room to reach the dumps. It’s a beautiful sight to start the day, billions of glittering lights, endless histories, all contained in one place, forever. It’s also the Mars connection point for the trade market. All the wealth of a planet in a few boxes.”

“I’m glad. You certainly don’t stink as much as I expected.”

“Only because Nadia is so eager to give me a good scrub after work.” He shut the door. “You enjoying it so far?”

I pointed to the disk drive, and he nodded affirmatively. “Yeah, there’s so much it’s hard to know where to start. But I’ve listened to that Pile song three times now. What’s up?”

“I wanted to chat. About something serious.”

“Alright, what is it?”

“It’s about how Mom and Dad died. It’s been weighing on me.”

The headphones on my shoulders were still playing music, but it was tinny now, distant.

“What do you mean?” This was a settled matter. They had died on a research trip, outside the complex. There was a solar storm, with little warning, and their nav system went on the fritz.

Rapid changes in air pressure, dust rose in a fury around them, and they had been killed, buried somewhere out in the Martian wild. This is what I had been told.

“The story about the research mission, it’s not true. They had been arguing. I had gotten into a

fight at school, and Dad wanted to spank me for it.

Mom stormed out on him and left the compound to go for a walk outside. They had authorization to leave for their jobs and access to the gear, but weren’t supposed to go unannounced. He threw his suit on and went chasing after her, and then they got hit by the storm.”

He stood frigid. Like a child caught. “It was my fault,” he said.

For a moment, I was frozen, processing, unable to understand the gravity of this. I hugged him then.

It was that image of the five-year-old boy, crying down onto his desk. It surfaced in my mind. That boy, the twist tie bloodletter, at five years old—he blamed himself, and he was crying now, though he tried to hide it by tilting his head upwards, putting his eyes out of view. And I wished that I could empty out that disk drive and make room for all the pain in his heart. This is why he used Todietan. To separate himself from the truth.

But was this a truth worth telling? Was this history how I wanted him remembered? How he deserved to be remembered? I wrote instead: He was a thoughtful brother, a sincere romantic, and the ultimate joy of his parents. I left it at this.

In the morning, it was blue. As blue as it got on Mars. Flakes of snow were coming down. Crystals in the sun. Once I knew the truth, it suddenly seemed like everyone did. I would hear whispers about my brother, words like brat and ungrateful.

But I knew those words must have been there all along; I just couldn’t hear them. He was none of these things. He would have taken the spanking a million times over. To go back and unfight. This is what he had wanted, more than anything. But perhaps then he never would have met Nadia.

He told me he was clean in the rain room.

We had met there with our shirts off, to sit under a tree and listen to music through a waterproof speaker we had bought together. The feeling of the bark against my back, and the mulch under my bare feet. We had tied our shoes together and thrown them up over a low branch so we could climb and get them later.

“I haven’t used in two weeks.”

“Holy fuck, bro. Congratulations.”

He laughed. “Don’t be too quick for praise.

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Build a Fire

It’s a long journey. But I need to do it for Nadia. I owe it to her.”

We looked up at the fake sky, and we had hope.

I met Ryan and Eamonn for lunch that day; they were helping to plan the funeral service, which would be small and brief.

We talked low beneath the vaulted white ceilings of the cafeteria, under the large square windows with rounded edges, and the endless expanse of waste beyond.

“We can each do a speech.” Ryan was already running lines in his head. “I can talk about our band, and Eamonn can talk about the wrestling team.”

“I’d be honored.” Eamonn made a note for himself. “If that works for you. He’s your brother.”

“That would be great. Thank you, guys.”

I made some trades in the afternoon.

I wrote in the eulogy: He was most at home in the rain room, with a guitar in his hand, or on the wrestling mats. Luke joined me for dinner.

“I’m so sorry. I know he and I didn’t always see things the same way, but I know you loved him. He was a great older brother.”

Luke and I talked less now than we did when we were young. Mostly, we just enjoyed each other’s presence. I liked to sit and think and occasionally test our thoughts.

We turned on my computer after dinner to watch pre-recorded fights we had smuggled in on a disk drive from Earth. More so than normal, I found myself reacting to what I was seeing on screen. I rolled punches and clenched my jaw and kept my hands high.

My core tensed at the finish of an arm bar.

And then, I saw the banner announcing my brother’s death fade, having been there for the required amount of time, and in its place returned an advert.

Experience carefree bliss with Todietan, and watch all your worries melt away.

Recently lost your brother? Todietan can help you relive your fondest memories of your loved ones, as if they’re still here.

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It was targeted. Vile. Dredged up from the news, with some asshole putting twenty cents on it and hoping I would be suckered in. That, statistically, I was just like my brother. That I would click “buy.” Wrong choice. Fucker deserved to lose his money, and much more.

Luke put his hand on my shoulder, the tension building in my arm and pressing back into his grip. His fingers curled in, too.

“I need you to leave Luke, now.”

“I understand.” Luke had a look of sad concern, his gaze widened softly, and one side of his mouth was pulling lazily upwards, a smile for the damned.

I paused the fights. My eyes stung. The words to say goodbye hardly came. I was suffocating.

He left through the door, and I turned to my computer.

I opened up my investment app, a sudden flash of heartbeat lines in red and green, the lifeblood of the market. Advanced Search.

My brother’s name.

Product: Todietan.

Investment Type: Targeted Ad. Planet: Mars.

Compound: 12.

Customer type: Discontinued subscriber.

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There it was. Evil. Total. Permanent.

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It had security footage as b-roll. Playing in a loop. Mother running through the decontamination room, and father following.

The sound of sobbing.

The words “don’t touch him.”

Sale price: twenty-five cents. Time displayed: Four days ago. Conversion successful. ROI: ten dollars.

I took the match from my desk, and a hardbound novel with a coarse cover. I could hear Nadia in the back of my mind, telling me not to do something stupid. I ignored it.

I left my room, door ajar, and could hear the fight commentary fading as I moved down

the hallway. It was like a life fading away. Like the dissipating of a possible truth, the intended finality.

I was headed towards the dumps.

The servers lit up like the false sky of the rain room, millions of stars suspended in the abyss. Dots connected, patterns cast and recast. They seemed endless, irrational, infinite. Fans whirring, coolant pumping with each trade. Was this what space sounded like? Was this what Earth sounded like?

Which was louder: everything or nothing?

I was a futures trader, a stockbroker. This comes to me now, and it is perhaps a strange notion to be in my head. I was many things, and now I think I will be only one: an arsonist. Such is the label when you build a fire. That phrase, it lingers now from the song. Build a fire. Written a century ago in relative obscurity. Hearing it felt like destiny.

It plays over in my head. Like the Rube Goldberg had been rigged for this before the first human foot

Art by Allie Aronson

had touched down on the fourth rock. The boot in a game of Mouse Trap. I held the match; I ran it over the book’s cover.

It was orange, with the smallest hint of blue near the bottom. It was vast and licked down towards my fingers. It was more playful than expected, like a puppy, nipping but loving. It hurt, and I held it for a moment more as the wood turned to brown and then black. I put it through the server vent.

For a while, nothing happened.

And then it caught. And everything was bright, and orange, and red, and every color I had dreamed of. It had weight. The flames were wild and lumbering. And as it grew, as it ate away at the false constellations of the room, and as all the stars went dark, there was nothing left but the slow creep of red.

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39

Third Life: Patient Zero Stacey Gehring

T

he blood runs down my forearm; it's viscous, warm, and glistening in the light of the single, weak bulb overhead. It makes my hands slippery, and I have to readjust my grip on the cleaver.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Another hunk of flesh separates from the bone, falling onto the scarred tabletop I use as a butcher block. The coppery smell of old pennies fills my nostrils until I can taste it on the back of my tongue. My lips pull into a frown of displeasure at the thought of potentially contaminating the meat by handling it without gloves. It can’t be helped. The last scavenging excursion hadn’t been able to find any; the area of Manhattan near the entrance to the subway we call home has been picked clean like a long-dead carcass. Until we start edging farther north into the Bronx or south into Brooklyn to find supplies, I’ll just have to scrub up like I’m going into surgery before, and after, my shift.

Three years ago, a laboratory-modified virus, designated G-29, was stolen from a lab in California.

When the thief was cornered in LAX, a SWAT officer took his shot; not knowing the real sample of the contagion was taped to the thief’s chest rather than inside the unassuming duffel he carried. No one ever discovered why he’d stolen the vials filled with cataclysm, and after a week, no one cared. The thief died. So did five and a half billion other people.

The virus spread fast, and it killed faster. The horror of G-29 is that it breaks down the tunica tissue in the walls of blood vessels and causes uncontrollable bleeding, like Ebola or Dengue fever. The tabloids nicknamed it—rather insipidly—“the bleeds”.

I was one of the first in New York to be infected, when the hospitals were still sterile, stocked, and run like a Swiss watch. Back when the medical community was still attempting to treat the virus.

Weeks later, beds lined the hallways. Each day, fewer and fewer medical staff hustled from one bleeding patient to another with hopeless, sunken eyes, grey skinned from exhaustion. Over-the-

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counter Tylenol cost more than your average threebedroom house, and the MOPP suits that protected caregivers from pestilence were as scarce as a whore at Sunday service. You were more likely to spot a unicorn prancing through Rockefeller Plaza than to find clean blood for transfusions. By the end, the only prescriptions being handed out were for a bullet and a communal pyre.

I’m unsure how I survived; that’s not my field, but they studied me until the last researcher bled out trying to find the answer. No one ever did. The virus raged like wildfire and then burned out in six months before anyone got a chance to devise a cure. Three years later, clematis drapes the Flatiron Building like a bridal veil. Times Square is colored with wild columbine, common yarrow, and milkweed instead of neon lights. A pack of coyotes den in Madison Square Garden. In short, the Concrete Jungle is starting to lean heavily into the “jungle” half of its moniker.

After the red tide washed away humanity as we knew it, chaos reigned and desperate people banded together for mutual safety and survival. I fell into my “tribe” when I stumbled out of Mount Sinai hospital after the last of the workers had fled during the final bloody gasps of society’s death throes. I was wearing a pair of stolen blue scrubs and those horrible socks with the grippy bits on the bottom. I hadn’t realized I was the last living soul in the building until the ventilation system stopped working. Then the smell of Dr. Carlyle’s decomposing corpse began to overpower the haze of smoke and charred remains that hung over the city like a death shroud. I’d opened my room door and stepped over the poor woman who had dropped in the hall, a phlebotomy kit still clutched in her bloodless, bloated hands. I’m not sure what it says about me that I didn’t scream…or vomit.

I’d crept out into the bright autumn sunshine and shuffled down a deserted 5th Avenue amongst abandoned cars, shattered windows, and snowdrifts of refuse. It looked as if some mythological Titan

After Hours by Jesse Park

had picked up the city and shaken it like a snow globe. I’d eventually wandered into Central Park, padding aimlessly down one overgrown asphalt walking path after another in a daze. The attack had come out of nowhere—two men smelling of body odor and the salty tang of blood. Their scleras were no longer white, but vivid crimson, the first sign of the bleeds. My screams had drawn Connor, a grizzled, retired NYPD officer just in time for him to put the two men down like rabid dogs with his service pistol. He’d saved me, and we’d stuck together, “collecting strays” ever since.

In my first life, before I’d escaped to New York on a full ride to NYU for veterinary medicine, I had grown up on a cattle ranch in Texas. Daddy trained me to be a crack shot with a .22, a compound bow, or a bolt-gun. The slaughter house never bothered me, just desensitized me to the scent of offal. I never understood people who protested against eating beef and slaughtering cows. Animals live

and they die; it’s their purpose.

At twenty-eight, I’d started my second life as a veterinary pathologist in a research lab. I’d been responsible for performing necropsies on the lab specimens. Many of my fellow researchers couldn’t handle cutting on “helpless animals,” but Thumper didn’t care anymore. That life was cut short when the G-29 virus wiped out seventy percent of Earth’s population in a matter of months. Now, at thirtyone, in my third life, I’m relegated to butchering the animals the hunting teams snag from Central Park.

Blood is simply a fluid and death a state of being, but both were my life, until Vince joined our tribe.

Connor and I’d been sitting in a homemade tree stand we’d erected near the Central Park Zoo, waiting to take one of the herd of white-tailed deer that had overrun the greenspace, when I’d caught movement and a flash of brown out of the corner of my eye. Verdant sycamore leaves brushed my cheek

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as I’d nocked an arrow I’d scavenged from a Target on Broadway and W 61st. My fingers were relaxing on the bowstring when Connor’s palm slammed into my shoulder, sending my arrow into the ground beside the worn work boot of a tall man with a mop of unkept black curls and startled eyes as wide as silver dollars. Connor hailed the man, Vince, before he bolted and, as our de facto leader, offered my would-be prey a place with us.

Vince was objectively handsome with his dark features so different from my own dirty blonde locks and dishwater-blue eyes. His rangy six-foot frame, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and long legs dwarfed my five feet, four inches, and I liked to study how his musculature moved beneath his swarthy complexion, what he called a “gift from the Old World.” I think he was implying Italy, but I’m pretty sure New Jersey was more likely. Either way, he proudly said he was a homegrown Brooklyn boy. Vince claimed he was a Marine, home on leave when the lockdowns started. The attitude fit a military man, as did the body composition, but he knew jack about guns and couldn’t hit the hind end of a dead steer lying at his feet, so I think he was “putting on airs” as my Mama would have said.

I didn’t call him out for it. Who was I to judge a man reinventing himself in this strange new world?

He always wore this god-awful ring on the ring finger of his left hand. It was gaudy as all get-out: chunky, gold, and heavy, with a large, faceted black stone at the center. I’d asked him if he was married when we met, but he’d just scoffed and said that no woman worth the trouble of keeping had shown up yet, that he’d taken the ring off his old man while he was lying in a puddle of his own hemoglobin. Well, technically Vince had said, “piss and red juice,” but I don’t swear. Mama raised me a lady.

Vince was a satisfactory lover, but he frequently went topside to find me needless objects. Handpicked daisies from the park while hunting.

A cashmere sweater from a penthouse apartment on Park Avenue while on a scavenging trip. A scarf from the department store with smashed windows where he’d arranged the mannequins as if they were participating in some wine-fueled bacchanalia.

Things changed when we found Dennis.

The middle-aged mechanic joined up two months after Vince and, within days, started making his

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homemade “wine”. He worked on the maintenance crew and brewed his hooch further up the yellow line from my red-splashed workspace. Once Vince had gotten a taste for Dennis’ special blend, he’d started whining about how Connor was just like his dad, always telling him what to do, how he could run our tribe better than some old geezer. When I’d said that Connor was doing an admirable job providing for our collective, Vince had gotten angry.

Then he’d gotten mean. Then I’d started wearing long-sleeved shirts that covered the vivid splashes of my own hemoglobin beneath my skin. Vince may have played at being a hunter, but I was no one’s prey.

Oliva, another found stray, walks into my workspace, the light bouncing off the white subway tile I scrub down twice a day and illuminating her flawless skin like a Renaissance Madonna, while it makes me look pasty and sallow. A rib is clutched between her fingers, grease dripping down her chin.

“Oh my god!” She strips a hunk of meat off the bone with her teeth and speaks again, her words muffled as she chews, “This venison is amazing!

I can’t believe you went hunting by yourself this morning. Vince must be rubbing off on you.” She raises her dark, perfectly plucked eyebrows. Leave it to Livvy to worry about her eyebrows during an apocalypse. “It tastes different than usual. Do you think it got into the leftover feed at the zoo?” She pauses abruptly as she steps closer and frowns with concern, “What happened to your face?”

I start reaching up to touch my injured left cheek, but stop before making contact; the coagulating blood on my hands would contaminate the small cut there. “I fell trying to haul this down the subway stairs,” I answered, waving my knife at the remains of the carcass on the table. The memory of Vince’s ring glittering in the sickly pale light of the tunnel flashes sharp as broken glass.

I hadn’t fallen.

Just then, Dennis sticks his head around the corner. He shoves his black framed glasses with the cracked right lens up his nose, “Have either of you seen Vince? Connor says he’s late for his guard shift.”

“Did you check his bunk? You know that lazy ass can’t be bothered to do anything unless he damn well wants to.” She glances at me apologetically.

Art by Mu Ying Yong

I just shrug, it’s true.

“His bunk is empty, and all his stuff is gone.

I thought maybe he’d finally moved into your bunk space with you, Kate.” Dennis says, looking at me expectantly.

I shake my head slowly, a crinkle of confusion marring my brow, “No, I haven’t seen him since this morning.” I toe the heavy gold ring with the gaudy black stone, that glitters in the light of the single bulb of my workspace, further into the shadows near my feet.

43

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The Mystery of the Poisoned Queen Abigail Snodgrass

S

desperation leaked from her face. The lashes he was a leggy dame. Most elves were.

She stood in the corner of my office, looking out were tied.

“How long ago did you leave the castle?” the narrow window. It must’ve offered a poor view, “Perhaps fifteen minutes.” blackened with pipe-smoke as it was. Even if it was That checked out. The alarm bells started clear, the greasy alleyway it led to wasn’t a pleasant their ungodly clanging about then. “Then we have sight. Rain slowly turned the dust coating the cobblestones into a nasty muck. The drops pattering another ten before they start knocking at my door.

Enough time for you to run through it once more.” against the pane reflected the dull light, making it “You can’t possibly be serious!” seem like tears were streaking down her face.

“Deathly.”

“So, can you help me?” She asked timidly.

“I’ve told you everything! Gods!” Her voice “If I couldn’t, the castle guards would be was shrill from panic. “And I’m implicating you dirtying their boots in the sludge outside by being here!” as we speak.”

“Eh, they’ve slammed me in the dungeon She craned her neck to get a better angle before. A little damp never hurt anyone.” Those on the alley. chains, though. I touched my wrists gingerly in “They’re not there, sweetheart. Calm down.” remembrance. “Well, it’d probably be less pleasant She relaxed a fraction, only to turn her head for someone of your constitution. But you still have and glare at me. nine minutes to get the story out.

I raised my hands in defense. “Sweetheart, as Think of it as insurance you aren’t screwing in only someone with a sweet heart would bring me a case like this. Or someone who’s had their hand in me over. I’ve found people are more honest with the imminent threat of a rope around their necks. a druid’s herb jar.”

Literally, in your case.”

“My name is Evelina. And if you can’t help me, “Have it your way—” Evelina spat. “Just please just say that—my watch for the guards wasn’t remember there are two ends to a rope.” just for show.”

“Wise words to live by.” I agreed sagely.

To my horror, I noticed tears welling in her eyes.

“Hey, now it’s alright—I never said I can’t help you.” I “Now let’s hear the tale.”

She took a breath to steady herself and moved was just asking myself if I wanted to. to stand in front of my desk. Not fully relaxed, but It wasn’t that I believed that she poisoned her, away from the window and her futile watch for the anyone with eyes could see that the delicate blonde guard. The phantasmic rain tears disappeared, thing perched in front of me wouldn’t hurt a fly, but replaced by soft candlelight, as she sobered to tell I still wasn’t sure if I trusted enough eyes in the her account. “It’s a simple story. I prepared the queen’s court to lash my fate to hers. queen her morning tea, brewed fresh from the pot “It’s only that I’m not sure where else to go, and kept in her chambers—” I had heard such great things…” May the traveling “You brew tea in her bedroom?” gods help me, I never could say no to a pretty face.

“No, in her chambers.” She gave me a scathing Call it my fatal flaw. look. “There’s a private sitting room where I set “Fine.” the porcelain.”

“Sorry?” Her hair fluttered at the slightest shake “Does she ever have guests for tea?” of her head, reminding me of a caged bird.

“Yes, sometimes—but not today. Will you let “I’ll help you.” Against my better judgment. me speak?” She glanced pointedly at the candle “Thank you.” Her brow smoothed, and a little

The Eternal Nymph, Iwela by Lake Rusch

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burning low on the desk. It was close to melting past another brass pin.

“By all means.”

“I prepared the tea, poured it, placed the cup on the table, and waited for the queen.”

“Was there anyone in her room with her?”

She shook her head. “The queen does not employ changing maidens. She says that any clothes she cannot put on herself aren’t worth wearing.”

A very reasonable opinion.

That sensibility is a good reason why an angry queen was so dangerous.

“So there was no one but you and the queen in the room?”

“No one. The queen took her seat by the window, raised the cup to her lips, and took a sip of the tea.

Before she could put the cup down, she had seized and collapsed. She looked so small amongst her skirts; it was horrible.

I ran to her assistance, but she thrashed away from me. I could see the whites of her eyes and foam at her lips— that’s when I cried out.”

“Poison…” I muttered to myself. Nasty stuff.

I never liked the taste of it. “So the guards ran in—how did you escape them? I can’t imagine you overpowered them in full mail, unless you’re an enchantress? In which case, I’d rather be a frog than a toad. I hate warts.”

Evelina stared at me, the crease in her brow

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returning. My smile dropped. Tough crowd.

“If I were an enchantress, I’d never stoop so low to seek aid from the likes of you, Kyron Murche. Too wretched to make an honest living like the rest of us and too proud to join the queen’s guard. Instead, you stick to the bottom of people’s shoes like chewing sap.” She looked down her nose at me, like I was

a particularly large roach she discovered in the queen’s linen. Curse my luck. The prettiest ones are always the meanest.

I leaned back in my chair. “Look, sweetheart, let's save the compliments for later. I only accept praise if it’s well-earned—call it one of my quirks.

Did you leap out the window, then?” I mimed a bird, fluttering towards its demise.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The guards arrived while

Dungeon by Julia Thomas

I was holding the queen’s head to the floor to prevent injury from the thrashing. Of course, from their perspective, it resembled a brutal assault.

They tore me away, and at once she began to convulse again. She resisted with the strength of four men, and while they attended to her, I slipped away as quietly as possible.” Her eyes went to the

candle again, burning lower by the minute.

“I presume you left because you’d be the primary suspect?”

“Yes. I didn’t do it. I thought you might be the only person who could help me prove it—and help me catch the one who did. I heard what you did for that maid.” She was referencing the maid who supposedly robbed and killed her master. It turned out the wife wanted the money and tried to pin it on

the help. The rich ones are always overlooked, their wealth as good as a well-placed scab.

“And all I have to go on, is you standing here telling me you didn’t do it, right?” Because that was news like heavy rain on fresh hung laundry.

“I’m afraid I left before I had time to search for a hidden assassin.”

The pin in the candle, freed from its waxy prison, clanged in the dish below.

“You know what? Good enough for me, let’s get out of here.”

I grabbed my coat from the rack near the door while the dame nervously pressed out the wrinkles in her humble maid’s dress. My hand was reaching for the brass door handle when a knock sounded.

“This is the queen’s guard! You are suspected of harboring a traitor of the kingdom! We know you’re in there, Murche!”

The dame flinched. “I knew I shouldn’t have come here! Of all the stupidest—” “Shh. They’ve learned to show up here first when they’ve got a runner.” I locked the door and dragged my chair in front of it for good measure.

It fit perfectly under the handle. “Alright, new plan.

Follow me.”

Avoiding the creaky floorboards, I crossed the office and flung open the window. Half my legs were outside before she cried— “Stop!”

My fingertips clung to the window ledge as my feet rested on the first iron rung I had set into the brick years ago. I heard her rush across the floor before I saw her head rise above me. Blonde hair like angel wings.

“What? Scared your chance at a clean slate would shatter? This way’s faster.” I shimmied the rest of the way down.

“I can’t believe you.”

A moment later, she joined me.

“We need to get into the queen’s chambers, I’ll need to see where it happened.” I led her down the alley out into a busy mercantile street. A shout behind us indicated that our exit was discovered and unappreciated.

“That’s impossible! The whole upper city will be locked down!”

She was right. The alarm bells were still

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ringing; the tolling echoed through the streets, amplified by the brick-and-stone walls of the buildings. The city folk responded by keeping their heads down and getting out of the guard’s way, making it easier to spot fugitives. Merchants lining the avenue we hurried down were packing up their wares into crates, peering around like squirrels burying a harvest. Heavy wooden shutters clapped shut on the lower floors, and well-dressed wives drew thick velvet curtains over picture windows on the upper ones.

I narrowed my eyes at a trader who was attempting to surreptitiously study us over an armful of rugs. I turned back to Evelina, “Do you know the servant's entrance to the castle?”

“Yes, but that would be the first entrance sealed, as the guards suspect me.” Her eyes darted to meet the eye of every curious watcher, clearly terrified of one raising a cry.

I grabbed her arm to slow her pace, “Listen to me. You need to walk confidently. Stop looking at everyone like they’re going to have some sort of fit. At best, they’ll think you’re crazy. Worse— an enchantress.”

She yanked her arm away from my hand, but slowed down and lengthened her stride.

“That’s better. Will they post guards at the servant’s door? Or a fellow servant?”

“A guard. But there will be more at the front entrance and at the exits of known hidden passages and drainage grates.”

Rhythmic marching signaled the approach of a platoon of guards further down the street.

They dragged a cringing shopkeeper from an apothecary store, and two of them began interrogating him. The dame shuddered at his supplications and looked away.

“Only one guard?” That wouldn’t be nearly as bad as the squadron of private security I had to get through last week.

“Likely one, maybe two. They don’t believe a guilty servant would have the courage to leave the castle in an ordinary way. This way—” She took an abrupt turn before we reached the guards, who were now mocking the shopkeeper’s pleas. The path was more than an alley, but less than a bustling place of business. I figured we had a few hours yet before the main crowd slunk out at dusk to visit

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dingy establishments that were boarded up during daylight.

“So,” I said, after stepping over a pile of rat droppings, “what brings you over here regularly enough for you to know your way around? Doesn’t seem like it’d be your cup of tea—sorry, too soon.”

“So,” She repeated snidely, “a servant can’t know her way around? Or is it that a woman can’t have a sense of direction?”

Geez. You’d think I was a smelly creep at a tavern instead of the guy trying to save her life.

We passed three shops with windows so grimy they could’ve been selling real magical cure-alls without anyone ever noticing, until she spoke again.

“I used to live near here before lodging in the castle with the rest of the young servants.”

“I bet the rent was great.”

A look of hurt flashed across her face, “I couldn’t afford to be selective.” She hurried ahead of me, her slipper flicking mud onto my scuffed boots. As I followed her route through the back corners of this pond scum neighborhood, I sensed I had made a mistake. Perhaps she assumed my comment implied that she was a lady of pleasure.

I waited until we turned down a road whose gutters were free of offensive-smelling slimes and was wide enough for two to walk abreast, before daring to speak again.

“I didn’t mean that at all…I believe you rightfully earned your place in the queen’s service.”

“We’re nearly there. Pardon me?”

“Nevermind. Is it around that bend there?”

I pointed to the end of the street. She nodded, so I strolled to the corner and peered around the side of the building as casually as I could. Two guards, but one who might have had an actual stick up his rear, pointed his finger at the other before marching off. The remaining guard, swathed in an oversized uniform, twiddled his thumbs in front of a battered wooden door. His features, too large for his pockmarked face, told me he couldn’t have been long out of training. As I watched, he paced a few times across the curb, sticking his gangly arms out for balance before tripping over his shoelace.

I wondered if his mother packed his lunch before sending him off to his shift.

“As you can see, they don’t think highly of the servants.” She said wryly, looking past

Abigail Snodgrass

“A lot of things, probably. But I got us inside— my shoulder at the guard. you can lead the way now, right?” I straightened up “I gathered. Alright, I have a plan—but first, and brushed off my jacket. rules.” I held up my hand to count off. “One, don’t She looked around, squinting in the dim question anything I do. Two, even if it sounds crazy, go along with it. Three, if I tell you to run, you move.” lantern light of the hall we found ourselves in.

“Yes, I can. This way.”

“I’m not going to—” She set off at a brisk walk down the granite“Understand? Great, here we go—” I grabbed paved passage, heading further into the castle. her hand and stumbled off the corner and into the Antique lanterns lined the way, their lights weakly guard’s view. He straightened up and tried to look flickering behind bubbled glass panes. As I kept imposing, but his raised eyebrows and wide eyes pace with Evelina’s long strides, I considered how landed him firmly at mildly terrified. Perfect. to proceed with the investigation. Who would want “Whoa—” I swayed back to regain my balance. to poison the queen?

“Way hay and up she rises, early in the morning!

Too many people, that was the answer.

Hey!” I sang and wove my way down the street like Sheoria—our neighbors to the east—hated my feet were two dying snails, dragging Evelina behind me. I stopped right in front of the poor guard the royal family because, two hundred years back, one of them accidentally killed a Sheorian cow. whose color was leaking from his face, throwing his Virndelf, up in the mountains, held a similar longscars into craterous relief. standing grudge over bandits in the alpine passes.

“How can I help you, sir?” He put a wavering Old wounds. Older pride. All falling on the hand up to block the door. queen’s shoulders.

“You—” I stabbed a finger at his chest. “You can She didn’t help herself either. Opening the help me by letting me through that door right there.” palace doors every other week to hold a forum for My words slurred across my lips. the city folk to air their grievances. Some called it “Sir, I can’t let anybody past—” honorable and brave. I agreed with her advisors— “Oh, come on! We lost track of time! And my with her strong personality and sharp tongue, there boss—you know, the boss—is going to kill me if was no easier way to make enemies. All the rich and I don’t shine his shoes before tonight. She—” powerful have targets on their backs—especially the A finger in the direction of Evelina. “Has to do good ones, like the queen. laundry. Do you want the royal court to be wearing Doors began to appear alongside the hall we smelly clothes?” I asked in a stage whisper. were walking down—some little more than decrepit “Well, I’m really not supposed to…” He was pieces of driftwood propped against a frame, others losing his resolve. Time to seal the deal. I pitched intricately carved beauties. The aromatic scents forward and grabbed the guard’s shoulder to stop of a royal lunch drifted from one up ahead. I was myself from falling. My arm snaked around him, reminded that my breakfast had been a stale piece and I leaned in close to his ear. “It’ll be fine! You of bread, dried meat, and a hunk of cheese; in other don’t want to get me in trouble, do you?” words, all I had left in my cabinets. Investigative He wrenched his head away from me work only paid enough to keep the rats off it. and extricated himself from my grip, passing my Besides, questioning the kitchen staff might arm off to Evelina, who, to my surprise, didn’t drop scare up a lead. me. “I guess…just this once…” He opened the door.

“Care for a bite?” I asked Evelina, pointing to the “Go quickly.” door, which upon closer inspection, had a serving “Thanks! You’re my best friend! Forever!” fork and a ladle carved into the rough planks.

I called from over Evelina’s shoulder as she dragged “I thought we were here to see the scene of me inside. He gave me a funny look before closing the crime, not risk the dungeons for a taste of the door and resuming his post, presumably idly aristocracy. The stairs to the queen’s chambers are day-dreaming and waiting for lunch. further along this passage.”

The moment the door closed, she shoved me “Sure, but the queen’s tea leaves had to come away. “What’s wrong with you?”

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from somewhere.” The look on her face told me I had guessed correctly. “I have a few questions.”

“Fine. But you need to ask swiftly, I’m sure the guards are sweeping the castle.” She glanced behind us, as if we had magically waltzed by a squadron of soldiers without noticing. “It’ll be quick.

Promise.” Hopefully, I could get answers and at least one pure white flour roll, vastly better than the terrible whole-grain ones that come cheap at the market. I led the way to the door, and she reluctantly followed.

The kitchen swarmed with cooks, dishwashers, waiters, and maids—all of whom were running around like a hydra with one of its heads chopped off. Lines of roasts hung over two furiously blazing fires while cauldrons of stew bubbled over a third.

My stomach rumbled loudly, but not louder than two screaming cooks arguing about how much salt a dish needed. “Hello?” I tried to grab a waiter’s arm, but he slipped away like a buttered fish. “You there—” To a maid this time, who also evaded me.

“Let me try,” Evelina offered. “Prince Adequin is allergic to shellfish!”

The kitchen froze. The two arguing cooks paused mid angry knife wave, and a servant putting potatoes into a stew dropped his entire armful with an echoing plop. They looked at us like we were the prince’s bloated anaphylactic body.

“But that’s on the menu tonight!”

One of the cooks cried.

I saw my opening. “Let’s see if we can work something out.” The cook walked over to talk— thankfully, it wasn’t the one with the knife—and slowly, the babble of the busy kitchen started up again.

“Why was I not informed of this? Prince Adequin’s stay has been scheduled for weeks! The feast tonight is in his honor!” The cook fumbled her fingers anxiously.

“Now you care about your patron’s safety?

After the queen’s brush with death this morning, I’m surprised anyone in this kitchen would claim vigilance.” I tutted and shook my head. The cook turned paper white.

“I had nothing to do with that! No one here did!”

“Nothing at all? Then where did the tea come from? Did it just materialize in her cup? You all are law-breaking sorcerers?” I leaned in close, close

Rabbit's Foot by somesparethyme

enough to see in the cook’s eyes a rabbit cornered by a hound. Evelina scowled at me over her head.

“I swear! Yes, we sent up the tea—but we drank it too! We make a pot every morning from the same batch of leaves as the queen, and we only send up a single serving. The dregs are over there!” She pointed to a teapot and several mugs sitting on a puny table in the corner of the kitchen. “I’m sorry, we haven’t had time to do those dishes with the feast preparations going on.” I believed her, but that severed a lead.

“The tea was a gift from Prince Adequin, you know,” The cook confided. “Sheoria produces wonderfully delicate teas.”

“Thank you for speaking to us,” Evelina jumped in. “I think I was mistaken, the prince isn’t allergic to shellfish—I believe one of his knights is.” She patted the cook on the back and sent her back to work.

We left the kitchen, Evelina marching faster in front of me. I had half-hoped to solve the case right there, but that would be too easy. Poisoned tea leaves were a rookie move, scoffed at by a would-be royal assassin. However, it was interesting that the tea was a gift from Sheoria—but they wouldn’t risk war, even for an opportunity to vent their antipathy.

So the case was still shrouded in mystery.

And I hadn’t even managed to nab a roll.

“Here are the stairs to the queen’s chambers.

We must hurry. Time is slipping away.” Evelina took the steps two at a time, her pale hair streaming out behind her like a waterfall in winter light.

“Won’t there be a guard?”

“Hah!” She scoffed. “If the queen is well, the guards will be concentrated around her, not posted to an empty room. She’ll be in the entrance hall directing preparations for the feast.”

Indeed, when we reached the top, no guard was there to take advantage of my shortness of breath. While Evelina studied the door, I straightened up so I wouldn’t look like an old asthmatic dog. I tried to see around Evelina’s elbow for any signs of a break-in, but there were none. I knelt next to the gilded lock above the handle. No tell-tale scratches of a pick set either.

The door was left slightly ajar. I pushed it the rest of the way open. Long beams of late afternoon sun fell across sparse chambers. Sparse even by a

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but the castle doors are thin…” royal’s standards. Two leather-backed chairs sat on “Who was it? Did you hear…” a lone, richly patterned rug. The rug barely covered “Yes.” a quarter of the cold stone floor. The chair not I stood up, pocketing the teacup. She leaned facing the empty fireplace had a low wooden table close to my ear and whispered. beside it, and was turned toward the only window.

“Ah. I thought so.” I patted my pocket.

Delicate white curtains, billowing like an anguished “Thank you for the confirmation.” spirit, gushed into the center of the circular room.

“Perhaps I should turn myself in.” She looked Someone forgot to close the window against the as if she was going to be sick, her pallor the color evening chill. As the curtains seemed to inhale by of the curtains dancing around us. pressing close to the wall, I saw a shattered saucer “Nonsense. They’d kill you.” and a spilled teacup lying in the ebbing light.

“And if you reveal this, thousands more will die!”

“This is it?” I approached the scene and She hissed. crouched to get a closer look.

“I have a hunch everything will be fine—and “Yes. As you can see, the chairs, the rug, the my hunches are usually right. We should go, we’re table, and the fireplace are the only objects in the wanted downstairs.” room.” Evelina had concluded there was nothing I left her standing there, an ethereal sight amiss with the door. “That—” She pointed to a door with her pale hair waving in time with the wind, catty-cornered to the one we had entered from. and started down the sickening spiral stairs. I heard “Leads to the queen’s bedroom.” her slippers race after me, before I felt her clutching “Does she get late-night visitors?” I poked my shoulder. “‘Usually’ is not enough to stake a finger at the still-wet spot of the carpet near a kingdom on!” the mug. Most of the drink had spilled.

“Hey, remember rule one? Because what you’re “No!” She gasped. “Are you suggesting—” doing sounds an awful lot like questioning me!” I “I’m not suggesting anything. Just keeping all escaped her grasp, raced down the stairs, and burst the options open.” I shrugged and licked my finger. into the hall, startling a group of passing guards.

“And that window leads…”

“You! Halt!”

“Nearly seven floors straight down, and these Evelina careened into my back, caught herself, are the only rooms. No one but a magic user could then saw the guards racing toward us. She looked have climbed it.”

“And you didn’t see anyone.” I scratched my chin. up at me, horrified and furious—a conflicting paradigm caught in one face. “Remember rule A locked room puzzle. Perfect. “Well…” three?” I held out my hand, “Let’s scram!”

“You saw something?” I was going to shove that We dashed down the flagstones, further into dame out the window myself if it took a tour of the the castle. A group of guests done up in handsome castle to jog her memory. suits and elegant gowns screamed and dropped “No, not this morning. This was nearly six their canapes as we bowled them over, the guards months ago. But you had asked about late-night hot on our heels. visitors…” She bit her lip and looked at the ghostly “This is the wrong way to the exit!” curtains as she thought, as if the truth was a spectre Evelina cried. waiting to possess her.

“I know!” I hurdled a cowering waiter, “Yes?” I picked up the unbroken teacup who had decided the best thing to do in a crisis to examine the design. was to drop his tray of canapes and cover his head.

“He wasn’t a late-night visitor, in the sense “We’re heading to the banquet hall!” that you meant. He frequently visited in the early The grand entrance hall was sumptuously mornings and in the late evenings—before and after decorated for the feast. Flowers stuffed in thick the working day. They often shared tea together. bouquets suffocated half the room with their He could only stay for so long, though. I believe it overpowering perfume. Crystal chandeliers was the night before he was to leave early the next reflected twinkling candlelight into the eyes morning. There was yelling. I tried not to listen,

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Abigail Snodgrass

of hundreds of opulently costumed attendees.

Conversation was held in a politely hushed tone, while a string quartet played soothing melodies in the corner, and waitstaff waltzed by carrying trays of delicacies. A squadron of guards loudly pursuing two unkempt runaways was clearly unwelcome— especially as I accidentally broke the bottom bottles of a tower of wine, sending the whole construct crashing down.

“Excuse me! Heading through—” I pulled Evelina through the crowd to the massive double doors at the end of the hall. As I pushed past people, I grabbed a fancy hat for Evelina and a sequined cape for myself. The guards struggled to keep their eyes on us.

We reached the banquet hall and lost most of our pursuers behind us. As expected, the royals were already seated; it was beneath them to seek conversation by mingling with their guests. The queen, cloaked in crimson ceremonial attire, was at the center of a table joining two longer tables that lined either side of the hall. Our thunderous entrance turned all eyes to us. The guests seemed as if they couldn’t decide if they wanted us arrested or simply quickly seated—whichever would restore normalcy fastest.

“Your Highness!” I ran down the central avenue between the tables, where the jesters typically juggled. A handful of the guests—the ones already a few glasses deep—thought a performance was beginning and cheered me on. Evelina joined me, but kept her head down.

The queen raised her hand for silence.

The cheers were abruptly stifled.

“Yes…” She squinted at me as if I were an actor on a stage and she had a balcony seat instead of standing a few feet in front of her. I noticed that her crimson gown was chosen especially for the evening—it made her look flushed, which was infinitely better than seeming pale and sickly.

It also lent a rich luster to her loose dark curls.

“Murche, isn’t it? Kyron Murche?” She leaned back and sighed. “What is it this time?”

“You!” A man, a few seats down one of the longer tables, stood up. “I’ll kill you! I’ll wring your neck with my bare hands! I’ll—” “Oh, sit down, Baron Walrich, it's not my fault your son is a scumbag.” I leaned down to

Evelina, who had jumped closer to me in fright, and whispered to her under my breath. “His son got mixed up in a Magiball gambling circuit—you know how it is.”

“Murche? My patience is wearing thin.”

The queen tapped the tip of her glass.

“The poisoning, your Majesty. The attempt at your life this morning, that’s what this is about.”

A gasp from most of the guests in the room— clearly word had been kept tight in light of the feast. Notably, none of those at the high table looked surprised.

The queen gestured for me to continue.

“First of all, this woman,” I pointed at Evelina, “is completely innocent—unless you believe concern for her queen is a crime, in which case she is the guiltiest of us all.”

“Evelina!” The queen’s eyes widened, noticing my companion for the first time.

“She arrived at my door this morning, begging me to take this case. If she hadn't, the consequences might have been cataclysmic—but fear not!” I whipped my arm around to face the other table. “The answers I am about to reveal will avert catastrophe!”

“Murche! Please!”

“It began as a locked-room mystery. The queen, poisoned in her chambers at the top of a high tower, with a maidservant as the only witness, and the only obvious suspect! But who, other than a frustrated servant, would want to poison the queen? I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but you don’t make that question easy to answer.”

“Treason!” Several of the guests cried.

“Not treason! Investigation in pursuit of justice!

A jilted peasant likely wouldn’t have the means to purchase expensive poison, but a resentful aristocrat…” The guests sharing the high table with the queen shifted in their seats. One dressed in heavy furs I identified as the representative from Virndelf; the other, in gold to the queen’s right, I assumed to be Prince Adequin from Sheoria.

An air of young arrogance emanated from his green eyes—a feature I was sure he was told was a sign of beauty and wealth, given the way he placed powder on his face to highlight them. “A resentful aristocrat would have the means, but it would incite war!”

Frightened murmurs from the crowd. The

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seal—” I flipped the cup over and slowly panned it in guards who had chased Evelina and I quietly front of each table, “and magical items are known blocked the exit, but didn’t rush to arrest us. to be extraordinarily durable.”

“But what if the affair was personal? Perhaps “So your entire case is based on lies and embarrassment from a rejected advance?” I looked aimless speculation!” The prince scoffed. at the young prince. Evelina quivered beside me.

“How can you listen to this, your Majesty?”

Prince Adequin leapt to his feet. “Just what “Well, Prince Adequin, there is a very simple are you implying, sir?” way to test the veracity of Murche’s theory.” The “Allow me to tell a story—my queen, please queen turned to him and smiled. “Murche, please interrupt me if I fall too far from the mark.” bring the cup to the prince.”

The queen gave me a nod of assent. “A handsome I approached the prince, set the cup before him prince, sent to ease tensions with a neighboring then stood again with Evelina. I noticed the color kingdom, finds himself negotiating with a beautiful, had returned to her cheeks, and the corners of her intelligent, young queen. He finds her conversation mouth were curled almost into a smile. stimulating, her wit charming, and, after meeting The prince reached out and grabbed the cup's regularly for tea in the morning and dessert in handle. “See? Not poison.” He laughed. the evening, decides to confess his feelings. He “Now raise it to your lips.” The queen ordered. foolishly frames it as part passion and part business Prince Adequin stopped laughing and slowly decision; after all, marriage is the easiest way brought the cup to his lips. Evelina and I leaned to settle a longstanding blood feud.” forward, along with the rest of the silent hall. His “Lies!” The prince slammed his hands on the fingers trembled as the brim neared his lips, and table, “guards! Arrest this man!” The guards began to converge on me. I saw Evelina tense, ready to run. for a moment I believed he would go through with it rather than live in shame—but at the last second “Wait!” The queen ordered. “Let him finish.” he blanched and slammed the cup down.

“Thank you, your Majesty.” I bowed. “Even if The guards were moving to arrest him before Prince Adequin was the would-be assassin, we’re the cup could hit the table. still left with the how. How did he, or anyone, The hall exploded in chaos. Guests were out manage to poison the queen while she was veritably of their chairs, demanding decorum. The revelers alone in her chambers? Unless he could turn left in the entrance hall jostled to get a better himself invisible,” This brought an uncomfortable view, forcing the guards escorting a belligerent chuckle from the guests. “There was still no earthly Prince Adequin to the dungeons to shove them way into the room!” aside. During the mayhem, the queen motioned for “Exactly!” The prince resumed his seat.

Evelina and I to join her.

“Even with your lies, all can see I’m innocent!”

“Thank you, Murche!” She had to shout a bit I ignored his exclamations. “The tea itself was to be heard. “I apologize for suspecting you, Evelina. sampled by the kitchen staff, who are all currently If you wish to reenter my service, I would be happy still alive, raising the brew above suspicion. But to have you.” when I visited the scene,” The queen raised a brow “I am honored to accept, my Queen.” Evelina and glanced at Evelina, but maintained her silence, curtseyed elegantly before turning to me. “I also “I noticed something unusual.” I fiddled in my pocket wish to thank you, Murche, and I apologize if my for a moment, the guests watched me with bated manners earlier today were brusque.” breath. “This—” I brandished the teacup I had I felt myself turn red; the gratitude of two removed from the scene. “Remained unbroken, striking dames will do that to a fellow. “Don’t while the saucer it was set on top of was shattered mention it—and I don’t blame you, I’d be anxious right next to it.” too if I was wanted for attempted regicide.”

“A stroke of luck!” The prince interjected.

“Why don’t you join us?” The queen offered.

“Perhaps. An odd coincidence that this cup was “The feast was in the Prince’s honor, but it could from a set gifted to the queen from Prince Adequin easily be in yours.” The guards had managed to the day after his rejected proposal. See—here is his

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Quiet Research by Dani Olson

The Mystery of the Poisoned Queen

restore a semblance of order.

“No, thank you. I should get back to the office.”

“At this hour?” Evelina asked.

“My services need to be available to the next desperate dame to knock on my door.” For the next disbelieved servant, I thought to myself as I turned my back on the castle glowing with warmth and mirth. I needed to be ready for the next maid who would be hanged for being convicted of a crime by one rich noble instead of a jury of her

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peers. I needed to prepare for murders—these ones successful—committed for no greater reason than a childish man’s rejected affections.

I needed to be ready because too many are content to allow fate to decide justice—but at the end of the day, I’d rather thumb my nose at fate, the ugly twin, to serve her beautiful sister. And maybe one day, I could accept an offer to celebrate, knowing my work was done.

Closer than You Think by Areeza Abbasi

Silent Sun Joseph Colaianni

T

ell me why you would be a good fit for this job. I see you have some experience in maintenance, but what kind of maintenance specifically?”

“Oh, well I’ve worked on some of the newest vessels out there. You know the ones running on V24.”

“Oh wow. Very impressive.” I do my best to show intrigue on my face. Whether Lewis is lying or not, he’s either determined or desperate, and that’s enough. “So tell me about yourself. Family, friends, past escapades even. Anything to let me know you on a more personal level. We are very intent on knowing our…” I open my mouth but nothing comes out, and I’m not sure why. I’ve done this same spiel almost a hundred times and I can’t think of the word. Too much time has passed and I need to say something. “Clientele,” I blurt out.

“Clientele?” Lewis looks at me puzzled.

“No, um, I mean our crewmates,” I notice the sweat upon my face and my fingers tingling. I take a deep breath in and a smile comes across my face as it comes to me, “our cooperatives.” I give out a slight laugh.

“Ah right, well let’s see, um, I got my mom back home and, uh, my uh dad’s been gone for…well it’s been seven…eight years now.”

“Do you mean dead?”

“Yes, he uh, passed on. Besides my mom, that’s about it. I got no women waiting at home, and I must say, I lead a rather boring and uneventful life.” Lewis stares at the table then back at me.

Realizing that he’s not strengthening his résumé, he continues, “but when working I’m great to get along with, and I’m known to bring people out of a bad mood.” I act like I am writing something down while nodding. He’s a nobody. Probably never worked in anything meaningful. I should probably take him to the bridge as soon as possible before he turns back. He seems naïve enough, I’m sure he’ll follow me anywhere. I don’t even need to go into step two.

“Well, even though we’ve only talked for maybe

five minutes, I love your style. I usually go into a whole other line of questioning, but I want to show you around the place and go over some of our other duties.” I scoot back in my chair and stand.

“Oh, alright.” Lewis stands and follows as I walk through the door into the main hallway. The whole station is one big ring surrounding a sphere where the engine is located. At least that’s what I’m told; I’ve never been in there. There is only one bridge which connects the ring to the center.

I begin the tour: “Here’s the main hallway.

It connects to everything you’ll need to access.” We walk past multiple doors on the left of us, “These are all power rooms where our electrical, nuclear, and solar powers are all stored.” I point to three doors labeled as such. “This is the dining hall where you’ll be given your three squares per meal.

And don’t worry, you can eat as many meals as you want each day.” I quickly walk past it to make sure that Lewis moves along with me. We come upon the DANGER: BRIDGE AHEAD and CAUTION: DO NOT ENTER signs.

“Woah,” Lewis says, “what’s up with that?”

“Hm,” I act uninterested, “oh that’s just the bridge, they have those signs up for safety reasons.”

I give a warm smile.

“Even the ‘Do Not Enter’ sign?”

“Oh yeah, trust me it’s harmless. I go in there all the time.” I look around pretending there's someone there, or listening, “there’s supposedly radiation in there, but I’ve been on this ship for a year now and just look at me. Do I look radiated?”

“No,” he thinks for a second, “I guess not.”

“Sweet, our next stop is through there, I just need to grab something real quick. I’ll be through those doors,” I point to the singular door behind us.

“But you go on ahead through and wait for me on the red couch. It’s right when you enter. Um, I’ll be right back, ok?”

“Uh, yeah sure the uh the red couch, right?”

“Yes, the red one.”

Lewis heads over to the lever on the door

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Let Time Pass Through by Bayan H.

and pulls it down and pushes. The door opens up, and before I head through the other door I tell him, “Don’t get radiated on me now; you seem like a good guy.” He gives a slight smile with a forced chuckle, but heads through all the same. I go through the other door, which leads to the bathroom. I turn on the water and wait for it to get warm. I feel my headache coming back, but maybe I’m just hungry.

After I wash my hands and face, I head to the dining hall. It’s a large room with eight tables and five chairs each. I’m alone on this ship, so it’s strange that there’s so much seating. Maybe it’s to make me feel less alone. Instead, it does quite the opposite. When I walk in, I change the color scheme to “Champagne Supernova.” This changes the green walls and blue tables and chairs to light yellow, pink, and light orange. Slow jazz plays on the speakers while I get my three squares from the

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food tubes. You can change the color and flavor of what comes out, so I go with my usual: red cranberry, yellow corn, and white shellfish. This is the meal I had most when growing up. I’ve been here so long, I’ve forgotten what the real thing actually tastes like.

After I get my food I also grab a glass of water that always tastes tainted in a way I can’t describe.

I go to the center table where my steno pad and pen lie, and flip to the latest unfilled entry.

Entry Number: 99 Name: Lewis Ballinger Place of Origin: Theia, 1.5 Billion Miles away.

Reason for Crossing: Told him I would meet him by a red couch.

Hesitation: Questioned the Beware and Caution sign but went in no problem.

Notes: Everyday feels the same and I hate the

Silent Sun

consistency of my life. No Notes.

My handwriting is terrible, but according to the lady who hired me, I was good enough. Looking back on it, I don’t think that interview mattered.

She would’ve hired the first person they interviewed.

I suppose this means I’m lucky. I sure feel like it. *** Nine Months Earlier “Tell me why you would be a good fit for this job? I see you worked on a farm, and have little experience with new technology.” We’re at a table outside with a coffee in front of us both.

“Well the job description said I didn’t need any previous experience, and that the job was rather rudimentary,” I say.

“Oh, you actually read that? Most people just sign up for the pay and don’t even look that deep into what the job is.”

“Look, I’m not trying to work on a farm all my life, and if my family wants to scrutinize me for not

Across The Matrix by Fatma Algaz

putting in enough work, or for being lazy, then I’ll gladly spend however long on some ship with a grand check waiting for me.” I want out of this life I have and even five months, isolated on a station in the boonies of space, isn't enough to get me to turn away and walk back to the farmhouse.

The lady interviewing me is smoking the longest damn cigarette I’ve ever seen and blows smoke into my face. I’m unsure if this is a test or not so I don’t complain.

“But do you think you’d be a good interviewer?”

“Well, do I gotta ask shit questions like ‘Tell me why you would be a good fit for this job?’ because yeah, I can do that all day. Though it’d bore the death out of me.”

She takes a three inch drag with still five inches to go and again blows it straight at me.

“That question gets people to think about themselves, studies have shown, and not only that but to also think of their good qualities,” she takes a few quick puffs, “and when people talk highly of themselves

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Silent Sun

they get confident, and become looser and less aware of the situation.”

“Look, I don’t need to hear about your studies alright?” A few seconds pass before I try to get the interview back on track. “Yes, I feel I’d be a good interviewer.”

“It’s not just about the interview, you know, the most important aspect is getting the subject to cross the bridge to the core. And they have got to do it on their own accord. You can’t physically force someone to cross. Once you get one hundred subjects to cross, then your job is done.”

“Ok. Wait, what the hell is all of this about anyway?”

“It’s bigger than us, and I mean all of human kind. It’s–it’s the most important thing in the universe and beyond."

I give a skeptical glance. “This isn’t some sort of cult is it?”

She gives a heavy sigh, “Look, just don’t worry about it, okay? Just do the job. That’s all you’ll need to worry about. Alright?”

In an overly eager manner I say, “Wait, so did I get the job?” The lady begins to stand.

“We’ll get back to you sometime this week, but anticipate that you’ll be gone for a few months, even a year. So pack accordingly.”

“Well, it was great to meet you. Say, what’s your name? I don’t think I caught it.”

“I’ll tell you when you get the job.”

“This is a cult.”

She takes another long drag while slightly nodding, “Well it was nice meeting you, Heather.

I like you, you’re…well I can’t think of the word, but that’s what you are.”

She goes to leave but turns around again, “Oh, almost forgot. Here.” She hands me a piece of paper and a pen. “Write a paragraph about whatever you'd like; your morning routine would do.”

“Um ok, what’s it for?” I begin to write down what I did this morning.

“It’s just for us to examine your handwriting.

You’ll be writing down information, and we want to be able to read it.”

“Well jeez, I’m afraid it’s pretty sloppy.”

“Ah no worries, it can't be worse than what I’ve seen before.” ***

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Art by Anisa Fox and Arezza Abbasi

Present Day When I’m done eating, I put the empty tray into a slot in the wall. I leave the pen and steno pad in the same place. I head to a terminal and can see that the last person is planned to arrive tomorrow morning. I could go into hibernation until morning, but instead I decide to kill time by playing billiards.

During my time here, I’ve really gotten good at it, and sometimes I can get six balls in a row. I never thought I’d get so much pleasure out of such a simple game.

After a couple of hours boredom strikes and there’s no motivation to do what I’ve done a hundred times before, like watching the same movie, or reading the same book. You’d think if they’re sending someone here alone then they’d at least have enough to do so someone doesn't go crazy.

I spend a few more hours doing simple exercises, and daydreaming about what I’ll do once I get paid.

Move out to the city, buy a house, and live without any worry about paying bills. I wonder how much has changed in nine months. I hope the payment can go a long way. All this daydreaming isn’t doing me any good. I should’ve just ended the day like I’d originally planned. I think my headache is coming back, but maybe I’m just homesick.

I go to my quarters, freshen up, and drink the purple liquid that will put me into a hibernation state.

When I wake up, I head straight to the dining hall and change the theme to “Ultraviolet Sunrise.”

This changes the walls to a deep purple, with light blue tables and deep red chairs. The song that plays has tambourines and soft-spoken vocals. It reminds me of the beach. I get pancakes and coffee which is always bitter. Breakfast is always my favorite meal of the day. It’s like a limbo period between waking up and the beginning of the day.

The ceiling beeps. Someone is docking. I head to the meeting room, grabbing more coffee before I go. In the room, I take a seat and look over the profile of who’s arriving. A guy named Robbie Castle. Very little experience with work. That’s most of the people that come by. I get through a quarter of my coffee before the door opens revealing Robbie with dense curly hair.

I stand to greet him, “Please come in.

I’m Heather.” I put my hand out as he comes in.

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“I’m Robbie.” We shake hands and take our seats.

“Can I get you anything to drink before we start?”

“Um, no. I’m- well actually, just some water would be nice.”

“Sure thing,” I press a button on the side of the table and a glass of water comes through an opening in the table.

He looks impressed by this. “Thanks,” he takes a sip and I can see his distaste of it.

“How was your trip?”

“Long. But I slept through most of it.”

“That’s good. So, I guess just jumping right in, what made you interested in this job? I see here that you said you have experience in electrical work.

I do have to tell you that most of the work you’ve been doing is outdated on this vessel, and your training of the tools back home is useless here.”

“Oh, well then why did I travel all this way?”

“Because the pay is unmatched to any other job you could get.”

He thinks for a while. “Yeah, I suppose that’s the reason. What kind of work would I be doing then?”

“Honestly, even I’m not too sure.

Probably mechanical work of some kind.”

“What do most people do here?”

“Oh, it’s just me.”

He sits up in his chair before placing his elbow on the table and rests his chin on his hand. He looks at me with squinted eyes. “Wait, what do you mean it’s just you, like, you’re alone…on this whole thing?”

“Yeah, same kinda deal with you. I found the job listing and flash forward one interview later, and they sent me here, all alone, for…nine months now.

Jeez, I’m not too sure.”

“Nine months!”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“What have you been doing all that time?”

“Well…look, do you wanna tour of this ship while I tell you?”

“Um, sure.”

“Alright, follow me.” I tell him as I get up and walk out the door. “So basically, there’s this massive core in the center of the ship and a giant loop around it, that’s where we are now. There’s a dining hall, a bathroom, other lounging rooms, and the

Release by Grace Crowley

bridge which leads to the core. I go in there every so often to flip some switches and turn some dials.

In fact, here it is now.”

“Do Not Enter.” Robbie reads.

“Hm, oh yeah so about my job. What I was sent here for was to interview people in the room that we were just in and then say ‘We’ll get back to you’ and send them on their way.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Look, I have no idea what anything I do here means. But, just a little bit longer and I go back home. Hopefully with the pay they promised me."

“So what’s the 'Do Not Enter' sign for?”

“Oh, so like if anyone ran past those first doors they would avoid the bridge which stops them from messing with the ship.” Robbie gives me a forced nod of understanding. “Look I’m just spouting out what they told me.”

“Right. Right.”

A few seconds pass in silence until I propose a question, “Do you wanna check it out?”

“Huh?” “The engine room?”

“Do I want to check out the death room?”

“No, look, it's not a death room—” Robbie looks at me suspiciously. “I’m serious.”

“Alright then, let’s go.”

“Cool. I gotta grab something, but just make your way through, and I’ll be there shortly.”

“That sounds like a—” “Do you want me to just send you back home like I’ve done to the rest, or can I get some company? Jeez, I’ve had no one of interest to talk to.

They’ve all been boring people trying to get a job.”

“You consider me a person of interest?” He has a slight smile, and I give him a blank stare in return.

“I’m gonna kill you myself if you try to flirt with me.”

“Hey you’re the one that—” “Just cross the goddamn bridge!”

Robbie chuckles softly. “Alright, alright.

I promise not to blow up the ship.”

I walk away and look back to see Robbie fumbling with the handle until he gets the door open. I head to the dining hall, where my steno pad and pen lie and enter in the last entry.

Entry Number: 100 Name: Robbie Castle

Spring 2026 | Volume VI

63

Silent Sun

Place of Origin: Rockney 1.2 Billion Miles away Reason for Crossing: Told him I’d meet up with him.

Hesitation: At first thought it was a death room like the signs suggest.

Notes: Get me off this ship.

I get up and put the steno pad through a slot in the wall where they said to put it once I was finished.

I wait for a while in silence while drinking more coffee until I hear ringing. A red light flashes above the phone next to the slot and I pick up.

“Hello,” I answer.

“Who am I speaking to?” A male voice responds.

“Who else would it be? Also, I think that’s what I should be asking you.”

“Did you get one hundred people to cross the bridge?”

“Yeah, I just finished.”

“Alright.” I hear voices in the background that I can’t make out. “Ok. I need you to cross the bridge.”

“What?”

“Look, do you even know what you’re doing up there?”

“No! Of course not, no one ever told me anything that made a damn bit of sense. I just wanna get off this ship, and-” “What you’re doing is bigger than any of us.”

I take a seat and let out a sarcastic sigh, “go on, just tell me the whole spiel.”

“The ship you’re on will destroy every planet and moon and star in the galaxy and reduce it all to stardust. A total reset of all life.”

“The hell are you on about?”

“There's no point in asking questions. We don't understand it ourselves, but I can tell you that this whole galaxy will be destroyed to make way for a new one.”

“Oh, well that’s reassuring.”

“Now, will you cross the bridge?”

I go to say something but pause and take the time to go over things in my mind, trying to come up with different explanations. “So…it’s over…we’re all gonna die?” Seconds pass until I accept there won’t be another response, and I have to give a slight chuckle given the circumstance.

“I knew this was a cult.”

I hang up the phone and when I do, soft piano

64

The Forge

music starts to play. I take a few breaths, unsure of what to make of all of this. I go to get some water, but the dispensary isn't working. For some reason, this calms me. It reminds me of when I had dreams.

My dreams were always stressful—things were slightly off, and it drove me insane. I would wake up more pissed than anything, thinking, “Why can’t I have at least one peaceful dream?”

With nothing left to do, I walk to the hallway, and notice the looming presence of the door with the warning signs telling me not to enter.

Now I understand how everyone else felt when being told to enter. Maybe it’s all a test, nothing will happen, or there’ll be an escape pod to bring me home. Probably just wishful thinking.

I should’ve just kept talking to Robbie.

After enough stalling, I just go for it. I pull the handle and push the door open. The bridge is skinny and has a few lights lining the ceiling.

I see the other door and begin to walk towards it.

I feel like I’m not making any progress until I finally arrive. It’s all too real, but I quickly swallow the thoughts plaguing my mind.

“Look, there’s no way any of what that guy said holds any merit. Alright. I mean it’s ridiculous.

It’s ridiculous. Just open the door and go home.

You're just tired.”

I notice that I’m talking out loud and take a final deep breath before opening the door. It’s pitch black but I walk in anyway. I figure lights will come on eventually. I hear the door shut behind me and all at once the room turns white with light.

My headache is gone.

The blinding light was a pulse of energy being sent out. Nearby stars, rocks, and other space junk were all vaporized. The machine began to move through space. Every few hundred-thousand miles it lets out another pulse, destroying more stars, moons, and planets. The machine is headed for the sun and, upon arrival, will destroy that too.

When that happens all will be gone along with light itself. Leaving only specks of stardust that, over billions of years, will float and then stick together, until they create new stars, a new sun, new planets, and lastly, new life.

The Forge Transforms...

F

rom the dark streets of fantastical cities to hoards of rotting zombies, The Forge guides readers into

experiencing whimsy, sorrow, magic, and wonder, all within the genres of science fiction and fantasy.

This round of poetry, f lash fiction, short stories, and artwork by George Mason University students brings readers to a darker side of The Forge: where poison, fire, and slugs reside. Expect noir-like mysteries, one-star yelp reviews, and questions on what it means to really be human.

The Forge is a platform for writers, editors, artists, designers, and readers to share their love for speculative fiction. Creativity shines within these pages, celebrating human thought and challenging what we know now, by examining what could be.

Follow the

journey of The Forge:

forge.studentmedia.gmu.edu

@theforgegmu @TheForgeGMU @theforgegmu

Thanks for reading!

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