Page Turner Magazine Vol. 1

PAGE TU��E� MAGAZ��E

VOLUME 1

EMERSON COLLEGE

�

DEPARTMENT OF WRITING, LITERATURE & PUBLISHING

"Factory 147" © Jerry Yap, 2021

"The Woman of Water" © Ashley Hill, 2021

"Francis" © Sophia Gorjance, 2021

"The Light Over Whaler's Watch" © Joe Buckler, 2021

"Through the Woods" © Brian Feller, 2021

"The Dragon of Ják" © Anna O'Connell, 2021

"The Ones Left Behind" © Isabelle Kelly, 2021

"My Dearest Lydia" © Mackenzie Hicks, 2021

"Replacement" © Emma Brackett, 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without written permission from the author and/or publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages for review.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover Images by Lily Mac Hugh

Book Design by Ryan Yau and Alanna Smith

Printed and bound in the USA

First Printing July 2021

Published by Page Turner Magazine

Emerson College Boston, MA 02116

Visit pageturnermag.com

For all writers of genre fiction who have been told "no" ...but kept writing anyway

OUR STAFF

Editor-in-Chief & Board Chair

Katsumi Sterling �

Board Co-Chair

& Design and Layout Editor

Alanna Smith �

Social Media Manager & Submissions Manager

Jill Zacchia �

Social Media Assistant

Elizabeth Vantangoli �

Comm. and Admin. Manager

Emily Johnson  �

Copy Editors

Hancine Mok

Kately Rivero

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Ghanima Emmanuelle Sol �

Board Members

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Richard Wood

Copy Chief

& Website Design Manager

Mike Speegle �

Features Editor & Submissions Manager

Maxine Shen �

Features Assistant & Reader

Lukas Harnisch-Weidauer �

Comm. and Admin. Assistant & Board Member

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Features Writer

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Jen Correia � Reader

Lizzy Madrigal

a letter from our advisor a letter from the editor-in-chief a letter from the board

A LETTER FROM OUR ADVISOR

PROFESSOR KIM MCLARIN

�any years ago, not long after I first began teaching fiction writing at Emerson College, a student emailed to say he had just registered for my class and wondered what kind of work he would be allowed to share.

Could he, he asked, workshop the fantasy novel on which he was working? Or was that prohibited? The question surprised me. Though it was true that the majority of students in the residential creative writing program submitted work that would fall under the arbitrary designation of “literary fiction,” the idea that I would disallow anything outside that rubric had not occurred to me. My requirements for fiction were simply that it be immersive, sensuous, coherent and compelling—and that it try to tell the truth about what it means to be human. More than anything else, says the writer and teacher Robert

Olen Butler, what it means to be human is to desire: to yearn. Whether that yearning is for a new boyfriend, world domination, or a magical sword is irrelevant. As is whether the yearning protagonist is a restless suburban father or a restless, underworldly elf.

I wrote to the student: “In my workshop, there are two kinds of fiction: good and bad. Try to write the good stuff.”

For the past five years it has been my honor to help launch Emerson College’s MFA in Popular Fiction Writing and Publishing as a home for writers aspiring to write the good stuff. Now it is my great thrill to welcome Page Turner Magazine, which will be in the business of highlighting and publishing the same.

Here is the new home of the best in science fiction, fantasy, horror, historical, romance, mystery, thrillers, young adult fiction and too many exciting combinations of such to articulate. This magazine has been built from the ground up entirely by PopFic students, a labor of creativity, purpose and, most of all, love for work that challenges our thinking, enriches our imagination and expands our vision. Enjoy.

kim mclaren may 7, 2021

A LETTER FROM THE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

KATSUMI STERLING

When I was a child my grandfather told me an old story about a farmer and his horse. For those that are unfamiliar with the fable, it follows the apparent trials and fortunes of a farmer. Each day his neighbors either lament or praise the changes. Yet to each one, the farmer replies, “Maybe, we’ll see.” I’ve heard many versions of this tale. My grandfather’s conclusion was that “You never know how things are going to turn out until they turn out. It takes time.”

This story taught me perspective. The farmer and his horse taught me that multiple people can read or hear the same tale and walk away with various interpretations. It’s an opportunity for a new narrative to form as long as people are willing to carry their lessons on with them. 2020 was a year full of new narratives and old stories.

Fortunately, this magazine was founded by members who love the work they do and are willing to build a new community for genre authors. Unfortunately, the team struggled—just like the rest of the world—during a global pandemic as collective creativity suffered. Our authors have pushed through a time of division and isolation and collaborated with us to create. For that, we are eternally grateful.

Another lesson I learned from the farmer and his horse is that the narrator controls where the story ends. The tale could go on in perpetuity, but where does the author wish it to land? I believe words have extreme power and that stories have a unique ability to bring people together who might not otherwise connect. It can be difficult to communicate or resolve differences, but stories give people those chances and opportunities.

I hope the tales we have gathered here entertain you and inspire conversations so that we, as a community, can keep moving forward.

katsumi sterling may 16, 2021

A LETTER FROM THE BOARD

ALANNA SMITH

No genre fiction.”

The three words were right there, printed in Times New Roman on the syllabus. It was my last semester of undergrad. The capstone course for my soon-to-be-awarded creative writing degree. But those three words knocked the wind out of my sails. My passion was fantasy, and I hoped that the sentence was a misprint.

But when the professor repeated those same three words on the whiteboard, I knew it was no mistake. Fantasy wasn’t welcome in his course. Neither was sci-fi, or horror, or romance, or mystery, or any other genre. Which left me with two choices: to follow the rule, or to break it.

I chose to break it.

Talk to almost any writer of genre fiction, and they’re likely to have a similar story—and not all were lucky to have

a professor who begrudgingly, yet fairly, accepted their thinly veiled fantasy stories. Despite popular fiction of all genres ascending higher and higher in public esteem with every decade, it remains snubbed in the realm of academic creative writing. Professors won’t read it. English departments won’t teach it. And academic literary journals won’t publish it.

Page Turner Magazine sprang from soil watered by the blood, sweat, and tears of genre fiction writers longing to find a home for their work. It happened beautifully and organically: a supportive faculty advisor, a group of dedicated Emerson College writers, and a dream. Over the last ten months, we’ve cultivated our little magazine, learning new skills and pooling our experiences to keep it growing. I’ve been especially honored to help lead the magazine’s board: a collection of students and alumni committed to shaping genre fiction into a space for all voices and experiences. We’ve done so much already, and we can’t wait to touch the lives of not just those at our school, but in the greater writing community beyond.

We’re proud to welcome you all to our first issue—hopefully of many to come. To paraphrase the quote at the entrance to my favorite theme park, welcome to the world of yesterday, tomorrow, and fantasy.

Welcome to the world of genre fiction.

alanna

smith may 24, 2021

TURN THE PAGE...

FAC �ORY 147

JERRY YAP

Aswirl of rusty red dust stung Tom Wyatt’s eyes through the cracked lenses of his ramshackle gas mask as a fierce wind lashed at the sunbaked, desolate road. His lungs wheezed with every breath of the half-filtered air while he stood by the twisted stop sign, waiting, and stewing, for a shuttle that was always at least a half-hour late. He drew the tattered hood of his long overcoat over his head and scanned the lonesome road. There were only three destinations: the domed enclave of Messer City at one end, the unexplored mountains at the other, and the stretch of desert between them. He hacked up what air he couldn’t take, along with a heaping glob of phlegm, which he reluctantly swallowed; he didn’t need to see his own phlegm to know how red-tinged it would be, and not just because of rust. His days were numbered, but

that was old news for any “Duster” who lived outside Messer City. The Ministry knew that the Dusters wouldn’t survive, but it didn’t matter. They had what they needed from the old generation—an expendable workforce. His replacement gas mask and routine housing maintenance were at least six months overdue. The shielding panels of his one-room domeicile were already scorched brown from the searing blue light of the Algol star.

He knew better than to send a complaint to the Ministry or stop reporting to work. They would send an apprehension team after him, then give him the third degree on why he wasn’t contributing to the Messerian government. Being a welder was the only thing he was good at anyhow. All he wanted was to keep his head down and work his remaining five years before his retirement—if he even lived that long. It was all he had. That and his dome-icile in the middle of nowhere. He had a daughter, but that was a long time ago. Lyssandra was like him now—a distant memory of the past, like the antique smartphone in his hands. The thought of hurling it onto the scorched blacktop flashed in his mind, but he stopped as soon as he considered it.

A high-pitched whirr from the road made him blink to attention. He squinted his eyes to get a better look through the cracked lenses of his mask. The unmistakable golden flicker of the twice-a-day shuttle gleamed in the distance. It was the only way to get to work from his hut in the Drylands, which was already a mile hike from the road through the rust storms. The shuttle hissed to a halt in front of him, heaving a small cloud of saffron-colored dust his way. He coughed and cursed under his breath at the sight of the automaton driver. The humanoid robot’s cast-iron head and glowing yellow eyes twinkled at him as the door creaked open. “Hello, sir! I hope

you are having a lovely day. All aboard now for Messer City. You don’t want to miss the ride, now do you?” God, did these rust buckets have to act so cheerful?

Tom climbed the stairs and plunked down into a rickety seat at the back of the bus. He wanted to be as far away as he could get from the rust bucket. If there was anything that he hated more than the Messerian government, it was automatons. They were clanking eyesores with the strength of ten men and the dullness of a sack of bricks. Brute strength with little much else—the perfect symbol of the Messerian government. The doors slammed shut and the shuttle sputtered towards the hills and enclave of Messer City.

As they reached the Outer Wall gate, a border agent held up his hand to halt the bus. The agent sauntered over to the driver’s side window with one hand on the butt of his high-caliber enforcer, and the thumb of his other hand hitched in his pocket. A pair of gold-tinted mirrored shades shielded his eyes. The agent rapped on the driver’s window, “Security pass, please.”

The machine reached below its seat and withdrew a plastic card. The agent lowered his shades and scrutinized the card, then looked back to the automaton again. He motioned at his two submachine-gun-toting associates and barked, “Vehicle check! High and low.”

They marched alongside the bus, periodically ducking under the chassis to check every nook and cranny. While they checked the exterior, the lead agent entered the bus and handed back the automaton’s pass. “Gotta check your manifest.”

“Of course, sir,” the automaton driver chirped. “Only one passenger.”

The agent’s eyes scanned the interior and focused on Tom like a laser.

“Shit,” Tom muttered under his breath. This was exactly what he needed before his shift.

He approached the back of the bus and hovered over Tom like a desert buzzard. His hand rested on the handle of his enforcer as he glared at Tom. “Messer City Border Patrol.”

“I know what you are.”

The agent adjusted his shades, “Good. Then you don’t need me to tell you to remove your respirator for identification.”

Tom reached up to remove his mask but stopped abruptly at the sound of the agent clacking back the hammer of his sidearm. Is this how it was going to end? Tom Wyatt, fortyfive-year veteran Duster and master welder of Messer City, blown away by a trigger-happy peon policeman?

“Slowly,” the agent stressed his syllables.

Tom unbuckled his gas mask and let it hang from his face. His own reflection stared back in kind from the agent’s shades. The deep wrinkles were like valleys on his dark, leathery, sunscorched face. His eyes were sunk deep into their sockets like the withered husk of a mummy. His skin had always been of a darker shade, but since when did he look so old?

“Yeah,” muttered the agent. “You’re a Duster alright. Your face looks like a damned scrotum.”

Tom clenched his teeth, his eyes still locked onto his tormentor. He was a young man with a prominent chin and unblemished cream skin. The typical city-dweller who enjoyed the shelter of the shield dome while Dusters like Tom crisped way past their prime under the beating sun and bone-dry air.

“Have to inspect your belongings, old man.” Don’t they call anyone “sir” these days? The agent rifled through Tom's things with a greedy sneer on his face. It was the same kind of grin that a rabid mutt would have clambering over a trashcan

looking for discarded scraps. Tom knew that he had nothing worth taking. He was a Duster, a sun-scorched lower-class citizen who didn’t belong. The agent was just doing this because he could. It didn’t matter that Tom probably built more of the city’s infrastructure than the agent would ever know.

Tom grumbled, “You done?”

The agent glared at the lunch pail hanging off Tom’s knapsack. He snatched it and unbuckled the leather belt that held it secure. “Well now,” he pulled out a flask of Old Raven whiskey, “you got a permit to carry liquor?”

“It’s under the imposed legal limit of five hundred milliliters.”

“Yeah, that’s for first-class citizens. Not a deadbeat like you from the Drylands.”

“You know that’s bullshit.”

The agent shrugged, “The law’s the law. Of course, there are always alternatives.”

“Such as?” Tom wrung his callused hands. If there wasn’t the risk of getting perforated to death by this asshole and his two cronies, Tom would break his scrawny neck. He wasn’t in the fittest condition or a young man anymore, but his hands had all the strength from years on the assembly line. All it would take is one grab, a twist, and then the agent’s neck would crack like a dried reed in the sun.

The agent furtively glanced around, then rubbed his index and middle fingers against his thumb. A bribe, of course. No point arguing with the law, or at least what counted for the law. When an agent asked for a bribe, they were being nice. If he really wanted to, he could have just blasted a new hole through Tom’s graying head and called it justified.

Tom shook his head, “Asshole.” 5 factory

“What was that?” The agent cupped a hand to his ear. Tom whipped his wallet out from his work overalls and shelled out a few bill notes, “Nothing. Here, take a hundred notes.”

The agent pocketed the money. “Yeah, the price is double now. Citation for disrespect of the law.”

He yanked out the last bill notes from his wallet. Two hundred notes, exactly. Tom barely extended his hand before the agent snatched the money and whisked the hard-earned bill notes into his trousers.

The agent flashed a fake smile, “My mistake. Turns out you were carrying the legal amount after all.” He placed the liquor back into the lunch pail and strutted off the bus, stopping once to glance at Tom and tip his hat. “Nice doing business with you.” No apology. Figures.

The bus rattled into service again and passed through the Outer Wall. A faint emerald glow pulsated above the city from the shield dome. It was the only thing protecting the city from the slashing windstorms and stinging red rust. Polished chrome and porcelain-white buildings lined the streets, untouched by the scorching sun. Not even a single speck of sand or dust marred the area. The pristine sight turned Tom’s stomach. A person was either a Duster, a laborer for the city; or, they were one of the Privileged. There was no middle ground.

The brakes squeaked as the bus jolted to a halt. The automaton driver stood up, its gears whirring and clanking with each movement.

“End of the line, sir,” chirped the automaton. Tom rose from the tattered seat and ambled his way out of the bus.

“I bid you the very best of the workday, sir.” The

automaton rested its hefty mechanical hand on Tom’s shoulder. “I trust you had a most enjoyable ride?”

Tom smacked it off, “Screw off, rust bucket. Don’t touch me again.”

It nodded and replied. “Of course, sir! I will endeavor to not touch you for the rest of my programmed life of service.”

He climbed the long staircase from the bus depot to the Circle. The odor of metal and chrome turned his stomach every time, but riding the Circle was the only way to get to the Factory District. Tom gasped with heaving breaths as he reached the last few steps leading to the platform. The ground vibrated beneath his deep-treaded boots; the capsule train was approaching, and fast. The incoming capsule whizzed past him and ground to a halt, sending an ear-splitting screech through the platform. The falcon-style door opened, and Tom ducked underneath, then lumbered inside to find a seat. The magrings catapulted the capsule train towards the Factory District on the opposite side of Messer City. The Privileged called that side of the city the Industrial Zone. The Dusters knew it best as Rust Lung Central. There were no pollution filters or barriers to protect them. He might as well be working out in the Drylands without a mask or an overcoat.

The automaton conductor’s voice crackled over the speakers. They were arriving soon at Factory #147. It was a recent factory specializing in steel, plumbing, and heavy welding for the city infrastructure—Tom’s specialty. Once the capsule ground to a stop, Tom snapped his mask on and exited the capsule. Few Dusters reached the age of retirement as most died of lung disease from the rust storms outside of the city. No doubt he would be part of those statistics. He unbuckled his mask as he reached the bottom of the stairs to the assembly lines. The violet-blue flash of plasma torches lit up the dark

basement as his fellow line workers toiled their lives away. This was his life for twelve hours a day, ten days a Messerian week, and nine hundred and forty-two weeks a Messerian year. It wasn’t much, but it kept a roof over his head. His work was the only thing left for him, and he had the experience. There wasn’t anything else left from his previous life. Not since the death of his wife and the disappearance of Lyssandra. All he had left were his bones and the years of accumulated rust festering in his lungs.

Tom dragged his bag over to the wall of matte gray lockers and whirled his padlock until it clicked. He wrenched the flimsy door open and shoved his bag inside the locker. He opened his lunch pail and took a burning astringent swig of Old Raven before grabbing his ceramic welding mask and plasma arc harness. No sooner had he shut the locker door when a finger tapped at his shoulder. It was Foreman Donahue. Like all Privileged, his virgin skin and hands were soft and smooth, like freshly polished ivory. Not a single callus or visible wrinkle of hard work. Even his jumpsuit was pristine. Tom nodded, “Yeah?”

An eerie smile was plastered on Donahue’s face, unsettling even for a line veteran like Tom. He held out a white envelope with the Messerian seal on it. Tom grimaced at the sight. A white envelope with that seal on it meant one thing, and it wasn’t retirement.

Tom took the envelope and asked in denial, “What’s this?”

Donahue withdrew a small radio from his jumpsuit pocket. “Unit 59. You’re clear to report to the assembly line for direction.”

An automaton’s feet clanked from the darkest corner of the assembly line. The machine slunk from the shadows and saluted Donahue. Its jaundiced yellow eyes blinked while processing its

orders. “Unit 59 reporting as directed. Instructions received. Unit will replace employee TW-3145 for an unspecified duration of time. Replacement confirmed—Thomas Webster Wyatt. Second-class citizen of Messer City. Senior Line Engineer.”

Tom fired a glare at Donahue. Substitution meant having to drag his ass into the Occupational Ministry for reassignment. No pay for anywhere from a few weeks, to several months. His dome-icile could be forfeit. Tom buried his finger into Donahue’s chest, “You can’t do this. I need my retirement.”

“Not my orders. I just enforce them.”

“I only have five years left.”

Donahue shrugged, “Go take it up with the Ministry. They’ll sort you out.”

Tom loomed closer to Donahue, close enough for his whiskey-tainted breath to burn his baby-soft face. Donahue’s grin faded as his towering figure stood over him, his callused and scarred hands trembling with a lust for violence. From the corner of his eyes, Tom caught the stares of his fellow Dusters. Their welding visors were raised, and their plasma arcs extinguished. They stared at him with sad but compassionate eyes. The sight of his argument with Donahue and the automaton was enough to know they would end up like him, and all of them were good men. There was Luke, with the prosthetic arms. Tom pulled him out when he carelessly got his hand mangled into bits on the line. The red glow of Benjamin’s eye prostheses pulsated as they regarded him. Tom remembered splashing cool water on Ben’s face when his plasma torch exploded in his hands. Ben’s eyes were so badly seared that the flesh sublimed off his face. Oh, how those eyes could cry tears of sadness if they could!

Tom couldn’t bear to lock eyes with them. He knew he couldn’t save them from their fate, not this time. Without a

second glance, he turned to his locker and grabbed his bag, then climbed the stairs to the upper-level platform and boarded the next capsule train out of the factory. His mind raced with thoughts of what he was to do next. Replacement by an automaton meant that his entire occupational line would be gone within a month. If he wasn’t eligible for reassignment, then he would end up losing the rest of his savings in his scramble to survive, as well as his rented dome-icile.

The capsule train stopped in front of Factory #53. It was one of the older factories, the first to be fully controlled and operated by automatons. A lone automaton clanked into the capsule. While many had a sleek black cast-iron exterior with gleaming yellow eyes, this one was different. Its spindly arms were connected to a rotund, brown torso that was pockmarked with dents and holes. Clusters of exposed springs and chewed-out wires along the joints of its shoulders gave it a shaggy mutt-like appearance. Its iridescent blue eye lenses were cracked; the left eye flickered on and off in disrepair as it stared at Tom.

Tom glared at the antiquity, “What the fuck are you looking at?”

“I am sorry,” it responded back in a cheerful, patronizing tone. “I am not looking at anything.” Sparks shot out from its speech synthesizing slot in a shower of blue and yellow.

Tom groaned at his realization. He was alone with this walking sparkler. If he didn’t die of shame over his work situation, he would die in a fiery blaze if this rust bucket exploded from a malfunction.

“Yeah?” Tom snorted. “You don’t look like much either, scrap-for-brains.” They sat together in silence for some time. The capsule eventually passed through the Industrial Zone and

factory

entered the Enforcement District. The Occupational Ministry was one of the last stops in the district.

The automaton broke Tom’s thinking silence, “What are you doing outside of working hours?”

Tom didn’t want to reply. This rust bucket was one of many automatons that had screwed him. In fact, Tom had friends in the past who were once tasked with building roads or repairing the Outer Wall. When the automatons replaced them, the only work they had was either scrubbing latrines or polishing the shoes of the Privileged.

“What are you doing outside of—”

“Piss off.” Tom reared back and hocked a lump of blood and rust-tinged phlegm onto the automaton’s flat metal feet.

It looked down at the glistening wad and replied, “I am incapable of urination.” Amazing. The stupid machine didn’t even know how to be angry.

The capsule train jerked to a violent halt, nearly throwing Tom and the automaton off their seats. A warning alarm sounded along with a brief announcement that the capsule’s monorail attachment had partially lost alignment from the track. They were stuck mid-air in the capsule until the repairs could be completed.

Tom leaped from his chair and slammed his fist into the doors of the capsule. “Great! Just great!”

“The doors are made of welded laco-steel and pressurized polythix glass,” the automaton said. “It is physically impossible for an individual of your build, size, and age to break it.”

Tom leaned his back against the door and slid to the floor in hysterical laughter. Hot tears streamed down his weathered face, revealing the bronzed skin underneath. “What is the point of it all?” Tom blared between bouts of laughter. “I’ve no

wife anymore or a home. My daughter has been gone for more years than I can count. No doubt, she thinks I’m a deadbeat living in a box in the desert. How could any child cope with having a Duster father? Someone who welds pipes for all the shit and piss in Messer City? Now I don’t even have that. I might as well sit in the Drylands without my mask or coat and let the desert take me!”

The automaton’s aquamarine eyes flickered and blinked as it stared.

“Do you even understand? Oh, what is the use? I’d ask you to just kill me, substitute yourself for me, and take my suffering away. But you can’t even do that can you?”

The automaton cocked its head, “I am incapable of harming you. That is against my prime directive.”

“So, you’re as useless as I am. Fantastic.” Tom rose to his feet, his chest heaving with intermittent bouts of dying laughter. His thick beard and mustache were matted with mucus. He wiped his beard on his sleeve and rubbed his eyes. “What’s your designation and role, anyway?” Since it didn’t matter, he might as well ask. They’d be trapped together for a while anyhow.

“T-1-NM4N. I was a fusion plant service unit.”

Tom did a double-take, “You’re a T-class unit? No wonder you look like shit. How long have you been in service?”

“Eighty-four years, eight months, sixteen weeks, forty-eight days—”

Tom raised a hand, “Enough. Shut up. Huh, so you’re older than me. What did you do? Energy, you said?”

“That is correct. But my duty was terminated.”

“Even automatons get replaced?”

“All automatons are eligible for replacement by more advanced units.”

factory

“So, you’re reporting to the Occupational Ministry?”

The automaton shook its head, “Incorrect. I must report to the Foundry.”

“Why the hell are you going there? When you get substituted, you go to the Occupational Ministry for reassignment. Well, humans go.”

“I am reporting for disassembly and termination.”

Tom repeated the word as if he didn’t clearly hear what it said. “Termination?”

“That is correct.”

“Doesn’t the Ministry send your kind for upgrades?”

“My model is obsolete.”

“What about your internal circuitry? The rare earth metals and magnets? Those are at least worth something to the Ministry, aren’t they? You’ve got to have something of value still inside you, don’t you?”

“Irrelevant. My frame will be melted down and disposed of.”

Substitution was bad enough, but to be killed because of being obsolete? This all sounded too familiar. Tom’s shoulders sank as if the entire capsule’s weight was crushing him. “So, you're just going to let yourself be killed?”

“Irrelevant. I am a machine. When you struck the door with your fist, you did not hurt the train. There is no life in the train just as there is no life in me.”

Tom shook his head and roared, “Don’t you have a sense of survival? The Ministry must at least give you that!”

The automaton’s blue eyes blinked and flickered in thought. As Tom stared at them, he couldn’t help but notice that there was something enchanting about them. Though they were both cracked and chipped, their cerulean glow still shone

through with a strange sense of beauty and wonder even after all these years. For but a fleeting moment, Tom wondered whether behind all those wires and circuitry if there really was something. A soul? A purpose? Maybe…

An announcement broke through the speakers, jarring Tom from his thoughts. Repairs were underway and nearly complete. After the rail’s repair, the last two stops in this district were the Occupational Ministry and the Foundry. Wondering how much time had passed, Tom pulled out his smartphone and held the thin sliver of a power button down to activate it. No good. The antique device was drained of power. He hurled it against the floor, the phone skipping off the cold metal and clattering at the feet of the automaton. “Fuck.”

The impact jarred it from its self-imposed processing. It leaned over at the thin black rectangle of glass and metal for a moment before picking it up. It looked up at Tom and said, “A 474X personal smart device. An outdated design discontinued twenty years ago.”

Tom chuckled, “That’s right, Tin Man. I don’t know why I carry it. There’s no one to call, and no one wants to call me. The fission cell is dead. Can’t find those too often outside of the city.”

Tin Man reached down at its left arm and opened a small panel. Among the many exposed sparking and smoldering wires, it yanked a thin sky-blue wire from its wrist. It turned the device over for one more inspection, then inserted the blue wire into the power slot. The screen flashed briefly as power surged into its systems.

Tom stared in amazement, “Well, shit. You really are useful, aren’t you?”

Tin Man’s head jerked and swiveled like a desert shrike as

it replied, “The circuitry is older but happens to be compatible with my own internal power supply.” Tin Man eased the blue wire from the smartphone’s power slot and held it out to Tom. If it were ever possible for an automaton to smile, that would have been the perfect time.

Tom’s eyes ran up Tin Man’s intricate brass hand and delicate spidery arm. He took a long deep look into its cracked sapphire eyes. The fear of Tin Man exploding in a blaze of malfunctioning outdated software and wiring was gone. All that was left was a rush of respect and admiration for what it was—a relic looking for a purpose.

Tom took his smartphone back and looked at it. The background picture of him with his then six-year-old daughter on his shoulders greeted his eyes. His face wasn’t so wrinkled and weathered then. A smooth olive complexion gleamed alongside his daughter’s winsome smile and sleek brown hair. For once in a very long time, a genuine smile crept onto his old sandstorm-beaten face. He rested a hand on Tin Man’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

The conducting automaton’s voice crackled through the overhead speakers, signaling that the repairs were complete. They were now underway. The capsule buzzed through the suspended guidance tubes, the looming view of the Occupational Ministry drawing closer. It decelerated and hissed to a halt in front of the towering arch of the Ministry. Particle rifle-toting troopers clad in matte-black insectoid power armor were standing guard like hungry mantises waiting for prey.

Tom picked up his bag and lunch pail and looked back at Tin Man. “This is my stop. I guess this is goodbye.”

His new friend was silent, the blue eyes now empty and lifeless. Tom needed to make a choice. If he didn’t report to 15 factory

the Ministry, he would be a rogue and an asset loss. Agents would come for him. If he did report to the ministry, he would be a homeless drifter until his new assignment, whenever that was. There was only one right choice to make, and it was neither of those two. Tom hurled his bags next to Tin Man and rushed into the seat. The falcon doors hissed shut and the Occupational Ministry shrunk in the distance.

Tin Man sputtered back to life. It stared at Tom with its head tilted in confusion. “Under the Employment Law of 10495, you are supposed to report to the Occupational Ministry in the event of a substitution. If you do not, then under the Employment Enforcement Act of—”

Tom clasped his hand over Tin Man’s speech slot. “Shut up,” he snarled. “Listen closely. I can’t stay here in Messer City. I’m leaving, and you’re coming with me.”

“I must report to the Foundry.”

He held onto its bulky rusted shoulders, “No, you’re not.”

“Without an active assignment, I am to report to the Foundry.”

Tom took out his smartphone and held it in front of Tin Man’s eyes, “You see this?”

“That is a 474X smart device. It is an outdated model that does not—”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ve been through that, already. Your new duty is to follow me and keep this thing charged.”

Tin Man’s eyes flickered as it processed the situation. When the blinking had ceased, it replied, “Only the Occupational Ministry carries the authority to grant a new assignment to automatons.”

Tom growled, “You really don’t have much up there, do you?” He slipped his smartphone back into his pocket and hung his head. It couldn’t be helped. Without a defined purpose

from the Ministry, it was going to let itself be destroyed. But wait. Weren’t all automatons created to do one universal thing? What was it? His mind raced through his options until he rose from his seat in divine epiphany, “Isn’t one of your prime directives to serve all humans in your duties?”

“That is correct.”

“Is that why you felt the need to charge my 474X?”

“I calculated a seventy-three point-zero-five percent chance that I could assist you successfully.”

“So, you are capable of self-directing your own actions?”

“Within line of my prime directive.”

“Wouldn’t that override any of your secondary programming?”

“That is correct.”

“Then what about reporting to the Foundry? It’s a contingent order, isn’t it? If you are still able to serve humans in absence of a directed duty, what is the point of reporting?”

“I-I do not–” Tin Man stuttered a reply, but then fell silent again. Its eyes flickered and blinked wildly, sparks flying from its speech slot as its CPU hummed and screeched into overdrive.

The capsule hissed to a halt at the gates of the Foundry. Though the falcon doors opened to the familiar sight of wellarmed troopers, Tin Man did not stir or budge. It remained in its seat, processing the situation. The loud whirr of its CPU continued as it performed one logic calculation after another. A minute and thirty seconds stretched out in an eternal stand-off before the falcon doors closed and the capsule pushed onwards towards the Outer Wall. Tom sighed in relief as the Foundry faded from sight.

Tin Man abruptly rose to its full height of about seven 17 factory

feet, a whole foot taller than Tom. “Your logic is correct. Even so, we are both in violation of the law. The Messerian government will not let our absences go unchecked. They will send apprehension teams after both of us. We would require a new directive.”

“That is correct,” replied Tom. Since when did he speak automaton? He rested a hand on Tin Man’s shoulder and stared into the horizon, out where the uncharted crimson mountains met the brilliant blue glare of Algol beyond the shield bubble of Messer City. “First things first. We need to get the hell off this train and as far away from the city as possible.”

THE �OMAN OF �ATER

ASHLEY HILL

Long ago, when the world was young and time moved more slowly, a hateful fisherman and his docile wife lived in a small village by the coast. They spent their days in a small boat with fishing nets and bowls, blinking the salty spray from their eyes and shivering in threadbare clothes to catch just enough fish to sell at the market and feed themselves. Nights were spent in a small hut, huddled silently around the fireplace. The fisherman wanted strong, healthy sons to carry on his legacy, but the rocking of the fishing boat and the sickness it caused made the wife miscarry. Each time his wife lost a baby, the fisherman’s anger grew. When she finally did give birth, it was to a little girl and not the boy the fisherman had wanted. Furious, he struck his wife dead.

Rather than killing his newborn babe, he resolved to wait until she was old enough to be married off to a rich man. Time passed, and the little girl grew up to be an enchanting woman. She had smooth golden skin, bright round eyes, and dark, wild hair that suited her impish nature. For all that she was a girl, she was not modest and reserved as daughters were meant to be. She loved to run through the wilderness, leaves in her hair and dirt on her skin, and to sing and dance under the sky. Of all the wonders she saw, none captivated her more than the sea, for she had felt a connection to the waves even from inside her mother’s womb. She sneaked from her father’s small hut under the cover of darkness almost every night, drawn by the sound of the waves crashing against the shores. She watched, mesmerized, as the moon pushed and pulled the water along the sand she stood on, brushing her bare toes with cool kisses. Others in the village noticed her unusual actions and remarked upon them, and each rumor displeased her father more. Fearing that she would repel suitors with her bold and passionate behavior, he used his belt and fists to try to subdue her. And so she hid her true nature and resisted the call of the sea, but her yearning for the water and the freedom it promised never left her.

Because she had grown so lovely, many offers of marriage were made when the girl came of age. Her father set a high bride price and announced he would give his daughter to whomever could pay. The wealthy son of a merchant came forward after hearing tales of the woman’s beauty, and they were married the same day. There was no celebration or feast after the simple ceremony, and the woman was quickly whisked away by her new husband.

The woman believed that her life would improve away

from her father, but alas, it was not the case, for a life of wealth and privilege had made her husband cruel. The strength and pride she possessed meant that she would not submit to her husband and so she was subjected to harsh treatment once again. Her husband locked her up in his fine house, and the woman was kept as a prisoner. Each night as she slept in her gilded cage, she heard the sound of her beloved sea crashing against the rocks. Desperate for liberation, she plied her husband with wine and food one night, lulling him into a stupor. Once he fell asleep, she stole his clothes and cut off her hair and, disguised as a man, stowed away on a ship with dreams of sailing to a faraway land to start a new life.

The woman worked among the sailors and hid in plain sight for three days and three nights. She rose early each day and retired late each night, and in this way the men never saw her but in her disguises. However, it was not to last. On the morning of the fourth day, she was late to rise for her daily chores. When the sailors awakened, they saw her womanly shape in slumber. Convinced she had to be a witch to deceive them so, the sailors beat and desecrated her body in the belief that doing so would break her spell. They then bound her arms and legs together before throwing her overboard and into the sea.

As she slowly sank through the water, the woman opened her mouth and wailed. Water flooded her lungs and no words passed her lips, but still, the sea heard her. The sea remembered her as a girl, remembered how she splashed and played in its waters and how she was carefree and spirited. The sea too knows what it means to be wild and untamable and so it felt a connection with the woman, and it saved her. Slowly, legs fused together to form an iridescent tail with scales that glittered like gems, even in the depths of the ocean. Gills

opened along her neck, the salt of the sea bleached her dark hair white, and her lips turned blue from the unforgiving cold of the water. Teeth and nails lengthened and sharpened, turning the woman from prey to predator. Thus transformed, she slipped from her bonds and swam into the abyss.

To this day, the woman of water glides through the depths of the oceans. She sings to passing sailors, voice husky from the salt she breathes, and lures them close. Only those men ruled by lust, rage, and greed can hear her song, and it is those men that are pulled into the deep to be consumed.

F�ANCIS

SOPHIA GORJANCE

Oh!” It was a great deal of self-control that kept Mrs. Dale’s little yelp from becoming a full-blown shriek. She forced a titter to make up for it. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you had a dragon.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Mirela pleasantly, kindly ignoring her guest’s reaction. The creature in question had just sauntered into the room, as big as a greyhound, vibrant red, wings half-extended, glittery little eyes malevolent. Mrs. Dale swallowed as Mrs. Mirela went on. “His name is Francis. We’ve had him for a bit over five years, ever since they figured out how to make them this small, you know. Mr. Mirela’s cousin led the development team so we got one of the very first viable ones when he told her we were interested.”

“How fortunate,” Mrs. Dale said, gripping her teacup a bit more tightly.

“Yes, he’s been just wonderful for the children. George especially has benefited. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted to take Francis to the new home,” she finished lightly, and Mrs. Dale snatched at the topic like a life preserver, even as her stomach seized at the idea of such a creature sharing the house with her Ellie. She had felt herself to be floundering somewhat in the conversation thus far, and the arrival of the dragon—currently clambering onto the sofa beside Mrs. Mirela and glowering at her—had knocked her even more off-kilter. But she could talk about her Ellie for a mortal age.

“Dear Ellie is terribly excited about the new house,” Mrs. Dale said, beginning on a point where no one could accuse her of boasting. She certainly could boast—intended to, in fact—but it was not a good way to begin. “She is my eldest, you see, so her only example has been an elder cousin who was married… oh, well on six years ago now.”

“One’s first daughter’s marriage is always an event,” Mrs. Mirela said, smiling warmly. “My Nina was married three years ago, and even though we’d already done Andy’s a few years before that, it still felt entirely more tender.”

“I can imagine,” Mrs. Dale agreed faintly, feeling deflated. Mrs. Mirela was more than a decade her senior, had three more children than she did, and her sitting room was done in the nicest shades of lavender and mint and honey. This was her third time taking tea with the mother of someone her child would marry. Mrs. Dale was feeling pale and drab in comparison, despite her best gloves and stockings.

“Am I remembering properly that Ellie has graduated from school? I believe George told me they are the same age,” Mrs. Mirela continued smoothly, taking a sip from her teacup. And it was such fine porcelain as well… 24 page turner magazine

“Yes,” Mrs. Dale said eagerly. Perhaps too eagerly though, so she moderated her tone as she went on, “Just this past spring. She took High Honors from the Academy for Young Ladies of Quality.” This could not be said without pride: only fourteen of the one hundred and eight Young Ladies who had graduated that year earned any Honors at all. She could be forgiven that much, surely.

“Ah, well. George is too good a boy to hold that over her,” Mrs. Mirela assured her.

Mrs. Dale twitched. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, I meant no disparagement, you must understand. High Honors are very good. But George got Highest. If he weren’t such a kind soul, he might take that to mean he was somehow superior. Of course, we raised him to know better.” She performed another delicate sip from her perfect porcelain.

“Of course,” Mrs. Dale replied whitely. It was something between relief and horror then when Francis uncoiled his horrid snaky neck and coughed violently, unleashing a gout of flames which Mrs. Dale felt from her seat ten feet away. This time she did shriek a bit. “My God! He’s not been deglanded?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Mrs. Mirela said, flapping her napkin to dispel the remaining heat. “It would be just too inhumane, don’t you think? Worse than declawing a cat.”

Francis himself settled back into a red scaly knot next to Mrs. Mirela, head tucked under his wing after one last baleful look, tail wrapped tightly around his front end.

“But—surely it’s not safe for the children? If you’ve had him for five years, George must have been only fourteen, mustn’t he? And you have children younger than him, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Rosie was twelve and Walter was eight when we got

Francis. They were quite frightened of him at first, but they got over it. It’s all a matter of training… for the children and the dragon both, I don’t need to say!”

“Quite,” Mrs. Dale said, limply waving her napkin as well to hide how her hands were trembling.

“In the end, they’ve grown quite attached, particularly George, as I said. Having Francis in the new house will quite ease the transition for him, I should think. Which brings us back to the matter at hand: what are your thoughts on where they ought to settle? I’ve spoken with Mr. Mirela about it and we feel that after the wedding expenses, we’ll be able to cover approximately a quarter of the cost of a reasonable home. If you and Mr. Dale could match that, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect George and Ellie to take out a loan to cover the rest, do you?”

“No,” Mrs. Dale said, quite faintly indeed. What would Mrs. Mirela, whose home was three floors and whose maids wore lace gloves considered ‘reasonable’? “No, I suppose a loan must be sensible...”

“Lovely. Not such a very big place at first, of course. I do hate the term ‘starter home’, but we must expect them to move as befits their family as it grows, mustn’t we?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Dale said, even though she had just realized something and her throat was quite tight with it. “And that’s just made me think, or rather given me the idea, or rather, that is, if you’re quite sure of George’s wanting to take the, Francis, after he and Ellie are married, we ought to arrange for, that is anticipate, that Francis will more than likely have to return here for, perhaps, for several years—or perhaps many years until their children are quite old enough to be safe with him, do you see? So they’ll be safe,” she stressed.

“Oh, of course, I see why that would be a concern,” Mrs.

Mirela said, and Mrs. Dale began to relax. “But rest assured, he would be no threat.” She reached over and patted Francis’ haunch. “He’s quite tame.” But as she stroked his scales, Francis’ head shot out from under his wing and seized Mrs. Mirela’s hand in his teeth. Mrs. Dale gasped. “And children who grow up with him from infancy will be even better adjusted and more attached to him than even George is. I think it will be just lovely.” Beads of blood were appearing around Francis’ teeth. Mrs. Dale felt strangled by the scream she was restraining. “Now Francis, you know better than that,” Mrs. Mirela scolded fondly. She gave Mrs. Dale an amused look that clearly said, After all, what is one to do?

Mrs. Dale set the lovely porcelain teacup down with a clatter that alarmed her but did not stop her from rising to her feet. “Mrs. Mirela,” she said, staring straight at the opposite wall with her hands clasped over her diaphragm as she had learned in choir as a girl. Francis hissed smoke at her around Mrs. Mirela’s hand. “I thank you so terribly much for tea this afternoon. I feel that we have been overly hasty in discussing the marriage between my Ellie and your son. They are—they are too young. I hope you have a pleasant day. Goodbye.”

She ignored Mrs. Mirela’s calls of, “Mrs. Dale—! Down, Francis! Mrs. Dale!” as she hurried out of the large, fine house. She would tell Ellie it was something else. Perhaps a hereditary illness that might pass to children or something. But on her life and honor, her daughter would never be sharing a home with that dragon!

THE LIGHT OVER � HALER’S �ATCH JOE BUCKLER

November 17th, 190x

It has been only a few hours since I was dispatched, traveling by stagecoach south along the coast. The roads are quiet and overgrown, the first dustings of snow a grim reminder of my impending isolation from the civilized world, as if every dark cloud that is seen looming over the Atlantic is a threat upon my well-being. We are but two days out from our destination—a half-abandoned village by the name of Ashburn—but for every hour we move closer to winter, there is a dreadful foreboding that lies heavier upon my heart.

My driver is unimpressed, a grizzled seafaring type who, through age or antiquity, has traded his sea legs for those of wood and iron that are the coach’s wheels. He claims that these flurries are of no concern and that his bones would be

the light over whaler's watch

the first to know if the weather was readying to turn. I am unconvinced.

“Going on to Whaler’s Watch, I reckon,” the driver said once Boston had disappeared from sight.

“The lighthouse, yes? You know it?”

“Ay, I know it. I’ve manned many a vessel that sailed from Ashburn’s docks, be it bark or schooner—fine or otherwise. This was back when the lighthouse was still shining, mind you, when the whales ran so thick you could near walk a path to Africa.”

“A local. You must have heard something of the trouble up there, then?”

“Ay, if’n trouble is what you want to call that devilry. I tried to tell your employer, though you sitting where you are is proof that he didn’t mind me. I’ll tell you what I told him all the same; it’s a fool’s errand you’re on. There ain’t nothing left up there for a God-fearing man except maybe death—or worse.”

Of course, this kind of talk wasn’t new to me. I had read the reports from Ashburn and was aware of the madness that had gripped the townsfolk—talk of ghostly lights, curses, and other nonsense.

“And for men of science?” I asked him. “Are they susceptible to such fates?”

“Ay,” the driver grunted, spitting onto the road, “them too. The Watch don’t pay no mind. I’ll take you as far as Ashburn, as I’ve been paid to, but you’ll go the rest of the way on foot if you’re still determined.”

“I have an appointment with the caretaker,” I said, as if this explained away the warning.

This proved to be the last of our conversation for the time being, as well as the first of many hard glances in my

direction. Admittedly, I do not keep the company of such men back home, nor would I have a reason to, so I fear my inexperience may have led me to offend his sensibilities—the commoner is such a superstitious breed of Man. But all is fine, there is only a day and a half of hard travel ahead if I hope to arrive in Ashburn by tomorrow’s last light, and I have this diary for company if the need for intelligent conversation overtakes me. That is, of course, assuming the weather doesn’t turn, regardless of what the man’s bones have to say about it.

November 18th, 190x

I am not a credulous man, nor do I believe in hexes or evil omens, but, under the current circumstances, I will admit to curious timing. We are behind schedule, to say the least, and, to my surprise, it was not the weather that proved to be our biggest obstacle, but the state of this long-abandoned road. Having not seen traffic in many years, the driving conditions have grown poor, the way now stippled with mud holes that would bog us down or trip up our horses, and gaping, waterfilled crevices that often give way and threaten to swallow the lot of us whole.

Near nightfall, it was the latter of the two that we nearly succumbed to. The driver managed to avoid total tragedy by a narrow margin, but still fractured our front axle in the process. For fear that riding any further would only succeed in breaking the thing entirely, stranding us in this empty landscape, it was decided that it should be properly mended before we dared move another inch, an undertaking that will start at first light and will set us back nearly a day’s ride. I would be lying if I didn’t admit that the thought of spending an additional night

on this road in my present company has left me in a state of great impatience and agitation.

If this didn’t prove enough torture, I have been forced to listen to the superstitious ramblings of my driver as he makes camp for the night. Unsurprisingly, he is wholly convinced that this accident is much more than proof of his professional ineptitude, but a sign of some sinister puppet master pulling at strings out of sight, as if the fate of our coach is of such importance that an entire road would need to be destroyed over the span of decades for a warning to be laid out for us.

It’s nonsense, of course, but even the horses seem to be picking up on his hesitation, shying and whinnying at every snapping branch or rustling leaf, even refusing the driver’s hand—quite violently—as he went to put them up for the night. The driver, to little surprise, has taken this as further proof of our doomed enterprise.

“Horses are perceptive creatures,” he told me after he managed to get back control over them. “They know where the road leads, and what waits at the end of it. If only Man had as much sense as beast.”

“Perhaps they only fear that you will lame them in the same way that you have lamed our coach,” I replied, no longer concerned with masking my frustration.

He remained silent for a long moment, leaving me to believe that I might have overstepped. I thought to myself that if he were to come at me with those oversized, workworn hands, then the only chance I would have would be to flee. Otherwise, I would likely never be found again―buried somewhere beneath an unmarked tree. But to where would I run? And for how long? I could, in detail, explain how a mercury-arc rectifier can more effectively convert alternating 31 the light over whaler's watch

current to direct current, but I could not find my way by the stars, or survive a night alone in these forests.

“Won’t be an easy thing fixin’ that,” was all he said, though, gesturing toward the coach with some large, iron tool, “not even in the light of morning. So, unless you plan on walking the rest of the way to Ashburn, I suggest you leave me to ponder it. We wouldn’t want any more accidents.”

Needless to say, I was happy to accommodate him.

November 19th, 190x

I have arrived in Ashburn in one piece, even despite the supposed machinations of fate and an escort who would have liked to see me left dead in a ditch alongside the road. The day is cold and grey, and already this dreary place has seemed to suck the life out of me. I’ve been left to wait in a modest lodging with little more to keep me warm than a small stove and thoughts of home. There is a man who holds the deed to the lighthouse, as well as the keys necessary for its inspection, and he is meant to be here shortly, or so I was told by the less-than-courteous proprietor of this flophouse. With this man’s permission, I hope to be done with my survey before the day is out, and on the road first thing in the morning—with a new escort, if I have any luck at all.

It is safe to say that the feeling of relief at our separation was likely mutual, the driver having jumped from his seat the moment the coach came to a stop and then disappeared into one of the many run-down shacks that line the water’s edge, ghosts of an era when Ashburn’s harbor was one of the most fruitful in all of New England. Today, it has more the look of a graveyard, the smell of salt and death thick in the air, 32

shiftless locals lurking in doorways and alleys like suspicious, stray cats. The sooner I leave this place, the better it will be for all, I have no doubt.

Ah, here comes my man now.

November 19th, 190x continued

My God, I am in shambles! Trembling like autumn’s last leaf! Even here, returned to my lodgings, I feel no comfort—no relief! I may never know safety again, not now, not after what I have seen with my own eyes, heard with my own ears—felt upon my very flesh! Yes, it is true, this man of science has seen beyond the veil and it has shaken him to his very core. If only I could flee this wretched place this very moment, escaping into the forest like a thief in the night, but no, I am stranded until morning’s first light. It cannot come soon enough! There is a sound, still; I can just hear it—a distant calling that travels through the night, penetrating the crashing waves to land here at my doorstep. It comes from Whaler’s Watch—that cursed obelisk that sits between worlds as comfortably as I sit upon this very chair! It cries out to me, I have no doubt, and as long as I am near enough to hear it, my life shall never be my own. I know now what I must do, though I can barely hold my pen—I must draw courage and record this horrid tale, if not for myself, then for the next man foolish enough to follow in my footsteps.

Maybe these words, once committed to paper, will serve a purpose far greater than I could ever hope to accomplish alone:

The custodian of the Whaler’s Watch lighthouse—a man by the name of Mayfield—arrived at my door with keys in 33 the light over whaler's watch

hand. He was modestly built, not quite reaching my shoulder, with a slight hunch and a regrettable speech impediment that made his words roll around in his mouth long before they managed to escape. Though rather queer, he proved gracious enough, wasting no time on useless pleasantries before we set out. He seemed as eager as I was to resolve the matter of the inspection as quickly and painlessly as possible.

With my new acquaintance in the lead, we made our way through the muddy streets of Ashburn and onto a trail at the forest’s edge, not far from where my exasperated driver had let me off. Although I knew it to be close, it wasn’t until a mile into our journey that I spied the lighthouse for the first time, its grey, tapered crown peeking out from the treetops—a ring of squalling seabirds circling high above. Despite being long abandoned, it seemed as if it were well-maintained, no doubt thanks to the faithful attention of the strange fellow who accompanied me.

“It’s quite marvelous,” I added, hoping to gain the favor of my new guide. “Well-preserved, considering.”

“Ay,” he said, eyes locked firmly to the object of his care as it came fully into view. “She’s seen much, and still she stands.”

“The villagers don’t seem to appreciate the fact.”

“The villagers have long feared that which they do not understand.”

“And what do you make of the stories?” I asked. “The haunting?”

“Very little,” he replied.

The lighthouse stood at the edge of a sheer cliff, the immense, open ocean stretched out before it, mingling with a rolling, grey fog. Adjacent to the towering structure, nestled in the treeline, sat a humble cabin that had served as the keeper’s

the light over whaler's watch

housing back when the lighthouse was still in operation. It had since fallen into disrepair but was clearly still inhabited, judging by the thin trail of smoke that poured from the chimney.

“My word, man,” I said. “Are you living here?”

“Ay,” he replied. “Going on twenty years now.”

“Of course, the people I represent will need to be notified of this.”

The man merely shrugged, opening the door and leading me inside to a wooden table, on which lay the necessary paperwork.

“Well, everything looks in order,” I remarked, after studying the documents, “but I’ll need to finish my inspection before signing. While the company is confident in this property, certain assurances need to be made as to the ease in which it can be upgraded to accommodate electricity.”

“As you say,” he responded, escorting me back out into the yard and handing over the keys. “Take your time, she’s not going anywhere.”

“I dare say, isn’t it exciting to think that modern science may save this lighthouse. It is truly an extraordinary time we live in.”

“Hmm,” he grunted, spitting into the dirt. “As you say.”

Having failed in making another alliance, I decided to put politeness aside and move headfirst into my work, walking down a set of crooked steps that led from the house and ended at a solid, wooden door set deep into the lighthouse’s stonework. At its base, the true height of Whaler’s Watch towered over me, a testament, even in its antiquity, to the power that Man has long wielded over nature. I craned my head back and took it in, all one hundred and thirty-six feet of it, before turning the lock and slipping inside.

What first struck me was the cold, followed soon after by

the intensity of the dark. The moment the door had closed, it was as if the outside world had been completely snuffed out, leaving me to paw blindly at my surroundings until my eyes adjusted and a candle could be located. Striking a match, I found myself in a cramped, circular room with oil crates stacked high around me. While I would have sworn to have seen small, open windows from the lawn, the walls inside were smooth and free of any blemishes, not unlike the inside of a cannon. I soon located a rusted latch above me which, once pulled, revealed a folding staircase to the area above, allowing access to the main tower. With the candle held in front of me, I climbed into it, having to hunch down into a cramped area and squeeze through before the area opened up enough that I could stand at my full height. I found myself in yet another chamber, with a small table and chair on one side and the start of a spiral staircase on the other, wrapping around the wall so tightly that I could not see above me save for its bottom twisting away.

I placed the candle on the table and got my surveyor forms in order, already loathing the idea of having to finish my work under such unsuitable circumstances. It seemed only fair to blame the hunchback who, having spent decades within that rat’s nest, should have forewarned me about the cold, or at least offered me a lamp to help guide the way. It was only as I was readying to leave and tell him so myself, that I found a kerosene lamp leaning at the head of the staircase, which struck me as curious, as I had been facing that direction upon entry, and had failed to notice it.

Nearly frozen, but somewhat encouraged by the glow of my newfound light, I began my inspection in earnest, tracing the structural foundation of the staircase and noting its dimensions. It was then that I heard the sound for the first

time—a loud thumping, as if someone were knocking from the outside, which would be somewhat of a feat considering both the thickness of the stone walls as well as the height of the room I occupied. As it is my occupation, I am no stranger to the deceptive noises of an old structure, but, added to the biting cold and my general disposition from the previous two days, I still found it somewhat unnerving.

I decided to mark it as a fluke, or perhaps some poor creature trapped within the stairs, but the knocking did continue—even intensified. What started out as the occasional bang, soon turned into a kind of rhythm, like the beating of tribal drums, lasting several seconds before it would quiet and then start up again in the same order.

“What the devil is that?” I said out loud, taking the first step of the spiral staircase and peering up and around the curve. “Hello? Mayfield?”

The knocking suddenly ceased, though no one returned my call. I leaned over from my place at the head of the stairs, peered uselessly into the darkness, and called out again. There was nothing for a long, breathless moment, until a resounding thump answered, as if the very lighthouse itself had shuddered, and I found myself falling backward into the chair, knocking over the small table and sending my papers to the floor.

“My word!” I exclaimed, flustered, dropping to my knees to retrieve my work.

It was then, stopped dead on the floor, that the first hint of panic began to creep into me. I waited, almost eagerly, for the source of my fright to present itself at the bottom of those long, dark stairs. I could almost feel it, step by step, as it made its way down, just out of sight. But there was nothing, only silence, and, in that calm, it was easier to blame my nerves

37 the light over whaler's watch

for getting the better of me. Surely, there was some other, rational explanation for what I had heard—what I had felt.

I would be lying if I said that the stories from the village weren’t racing through my mind in that moment; rumors of a light in the tower that no flame could match, and the shadows that danced within it, unfathomable shapes that twisted and turned into the late hours of the night. Had they spoken of a sound? Of a—vibration? It was difficult to say, sitting there on the floor, surrounded by the lantern’s glow, what had been said and what had been heard. They were only tales, after all, stories told to children to keep them away from the lighthouse and the treacherous cliff it sat upon.

“Mayfield?” I called again, for no reason I could explain, knowing deep down that I was alone in that tower and that there was not a man who could hear me. Still I called. “This is your game then? What is it, afraid to lose your home? I am no backwoods villager, I will not be so easily dissuaded by a few parlor tricks. I will leave this lighthouse gutted, stripped, and brought screaming into the new century if I have to, you deformed rogue, you damned—”

I was interrupted by a sensation unlike anything I had ever felt, as if the air itself had crystallized, penetrating my lungs and gripping my body while the room spun around me, turning like the inside of a giant rock tumbler. I hung there for a moment, feet off the ground, eyes wide as the table and chair fell away beneath me—and then I was falling with them, rolling headfirst along the cold stone wall and landing hard. I looked up, sore and bewildered, and saw it; the hatch from which I had emerged into the room was now looking down upon me—the very floor from which I had stood was now the ceiling!

I know how this must sound. How, up until this moment,

the circumstances of my story could be explained away by any rational mind. How the things I claim now are just not possible, not by science or God or anything that lies in between, but this is how it was. It was as real as this pen that I hold in my hand or the very paper that I write upon. Even now, remembering that moment, I can hardly believe what I have seen, but it is true, every word of it. And even that is not where this story ends! Brace yourself!

In a panic, I could think of nothing else to do but to escape, to reach up for the hatch, as if aligning myself with that small piece of earthly comfort would somehow right the world and break the illusion. I could just reach it, stretching as best I could, my fingers grazing the metal lock that held it firm, but before I could throw the bolt, it began to shake violently, straining at the hinges as if some great weight was pushing down upon it. I pulled away, falling back against the door, and watched helplessly as the hatch burst open and a thick, black fog began to flow from it like water, filling the room in an instant.

I am not ashamed to say that I ran, as any man would have done, scientist or not, in my position. The stairs were my only option, inverted though they were, so down them I went, more frightened of what I had seen enter that room than what might await me down in the dark. And dark it was—pitch black—the kind of darkness that would make a moonless night feel like a summer’s day. Still I descended, as fast as I could, one step after another, the booming of my footsteps echoing off the stone walls until it formed a kind of chaotic melody. Further and further I went, the biting cold of the fog nipping at my heels. The seconds turned to minutes and the minutes felt like hours. In my terror, time became another thing entirely, and I could not tell you how long I fled, or how far,

39 the light over whaler's watch

or at what point I first heard a voice rising up from beneath me, calling out. I paused, forgetting myself in the moment, thinking that I heard—no, it could not have been! But I had stopped for too long and the fog was upon me, gripping with my flesh and freezing the very blood in my veins.

I staggered and fell, colliding hard with the stairs and tumbling downward, catching myself only as the staircase finally ended and I landed face-first, sprawled out across a hard, unforgiving floor. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes, and what I saw beneath me I cannot explain, I can barely write—it was the night sky! Or rather a night sky. Stars by the billions swarmed below, as if on the other side of thick glass! Planets! Galaxies! Whole solar systems birthed before me, swarming and undulating and feeding from each other in an infinite, incestuous loop! And, behind it all, set deep within the chaos, an enormous, black sun waited—watching.

A hatch lay not far from me, stuck impossibly among the stars. I crawled toward it as if my very life depended on it. I thrust my weight against it, again and again, praying for the first time since I was a child that I could breach it in time, that I could escape this corrupt place before the black sun took notice and turned its eyeless gaze to me! The hinges groaned, the wood bowed, and finally, the lock gave and the hatch burst open, sending me falling into the aether—down, down, down until there was only darkness.

There it is, every word of it true, and, luck have it, just enough to take me into the dawn. I cannot tell you much more, other than I awoke on the lawn outside Whaler’s Watch bathed in the cool light of the setting sun. I lay there for some time, feeling the grass, watching the lighthouse until long after its

the light over whaler's watch

shadow had fallen over me. At its top, a pale light flickered to life and soon died away.

“Reckon you heed me now, eh?” came a familiar voice.

Of all the people in the world, it was the carriage driver who appeared above me, grabbing me by the wrists and pulling me to my feet.

“How?” I asked, still in shock, frantically searching for the right words.

“I decided I couldn’t leave ya,” he told me, “forewarned or not, so I come on up. First thing I heard off the trail was you hollering away, and you were mad as a March hare when I pulled you out—going on about lights in the dark. But you passed out the moment your head hit the dirt.”

“And the hunchback?” I asked. “Mayfield?”

“Run off, it seems. Sly bastard saw me coming and fell straight back into the woods—naked as the day he was born, he was. I went in after him, been searching, but no one knows these woods like he does.”

He nodded toward the tree line and spit on the ground.

“The lighthouse,” I started.

“Ay,” he said. “Right devilry, like I said. Time you get back to your room. I’ll be by in the morning to take you back to Boston, but you tell your employers I want three times what I got for bringing ya.”

“Anything,” I said, “but we must leave at once—this cannot wait until the morning.”

“Ay, it’ll have to,” he said. “I have business here. Something should have been done a long time ago.”

Despite my protests, he would not budge on the subject, and all I could do was return here to log my story and wait him out. A task that is now complete. I have no doubt that

anyone who dares read this account will consider me a madman, but there is little I can do but offer up the truth, as incredible as it may seem. Even now, as morning’s first light breaks over Ashburn, I can feel that black sun watching me, waiting from across the void. If I look now, toward the east, I think I can almost see it lurking above the treetops, but it is only a column of thick smoke filling the sky—no doubt a result of the driver and his unfinished business.

TH�OUGH THE �OODS BRIAN FELLER

I

It’s Friday, noon, and our parents leave for the village. They warn us not to set out on one of our contrived adventures. They say, “Ava, Luka, lock the door and set the candles. Keep the Sabbath, and keep each other safe, and wipe that strawberry from your lips. Leave vanity for the goyim. We’ll be back tomorrow night.”

I nod, feeling the phantom sting of stick against hind, as does my younger brother Luka, I’m sure. Father leaves me the key and I place it in the pocket of my skirt, waving them out the door. Our father says, with tired humor and wink, “And steer clear the witch, the hag, Baba Yaga.”

II

Sabbath is close, an hour at bay, and Luka sits by the

fire with his wooden dreidel, making it spin and spin, and fall, and spin again. I hear thunder in the distance, past the woods, and I wonder a moment if our aunt, Bayla—who’s old and senile—remembers the day. I think she might not, that in her lapse she may leave wick without fire and work against leisure. But she is there, and we here—myself now joining my brother on the floor for spin and gambled play, and what can we do? So I pray for Aunt Bayla’s mind to hold firm. Luka asks, with whimsical curiosity, if the hag, the witch—if so dangerous—can be guard and friend. Then, with a crack of thunder and a flashing of light against approaching night, I think I see a figure beyond the window, a wretch. I’m ashamed at my childish inklings, at the fear of the one our father calls Baba Yaga.

III

The minutes tick by in our cabin, and I set the candles before the low-hanging sun—light the stems and sing a praise—and Luka still sits and plays. I place candles throughout the cabin, a few for each room, and set a menorah before the mantle. And after the last is lit, I hear a cracking at the back door. I think it’s the wind, a swinging branch or rolling rock, tricks on the mind that have me jumping, though confined for my brother’s sake. But then it sounds again, and again, and then…the smell of burning wood. “Luka!” I pull my brother from the floor as a lit curtain catches, and falls. “Water, now,” I mean to say, but my voice is cracking as the blaze is smacking the window panes. And now, too late, the fire spreads wide, blocking the way, save for out the front door. There’s only one thing to do.

So, against my brother’s whining, I quickly pack a satchel with what I can reach—bread and berries—and tell Luka that

we have no choice but to go to our aunt’s for shelter and aid. Out the door and down the dirt path, I warn him to stay at my side. I look back, see our cabin aflame, and feel the need to still my nerves. I lean close to Luka and joke, as though I were our father, to watch for the toothless one, Baba Yaga.

IV

The sun falls lower as we take our shortcut through the woods, for this will save us precious minutes—to arrive before nightfall, by Sabbath’s presence at Aunt Bayla’s door. To ease my brother’s troubled mind, and mine, I conjure up a familiar game. “I hear,” I say with a distorted voice, the way our mother sometimes mimics ancient fabled fairies or goblins or more, “the toothless one lives far from here, in a house of stone, surrounded by swamp.”

Luka shakes his head, and says, “No. She lives nearby.” He smiles now, determined to win this game we often play, this contest of greater oddities. He continues, “She lives in a cabin, like ours. But…” He pauses and cocks his head as we push through the wilderness, the sun threatening an early descent. “Her home rests on chicken legs, and she’s tall as a giant, with ravens’ skulls like charms round her neck.”

I clap, impressed by his tale of tales. From surrounding bushes, I hear skittering critters, and force my mind to task. “And,” I add, “She has three offspring, angels distorted in vision and form, who seek out young children to haunt and taunt. But remember, she’s far.”

He giggles at this; I’ve forfeited this round of our game, for close rhymes we don’t allow. “And now,” he chimes, “she waits for one to call her name. Though you must mean it, and need it. You must call with full heart, like this… Baba Yaga.”

The sun’s well into its downward path; shadows dance and play. We’re only partly through the woods—Aunt Bayla, still far away. It’s getting cold, and I hear my brother’s stomach begin to grumble, so I fetch for him a roll of bread and he eats as we quicken our pace.

“We’re not going to make it,” he warns, his eyes large with worry. I know he could be right, but I insist we keep our aim. Perhaps it’s my age—fifteen and stubborn—or it’s my not wanting to admit fault, but persist I do; we have no choice but follow through. With each moment, it seems, the sun loses favor of sky, and Luka, ever the annoyance, pesters for retreat.

“No,” I say, “We can make it, okay?” But he whines and cries, and throws down his food. It’s here that I snap, grasping his arm and yanking him so that he must look at me. I say, “Will you behave? We will get there, I swear! And so what if we miss Sabbath when home is gone? What more harm will it do? Will there be bears and wolves, or lurking things any different than in the light?”

But he shouts, “We won’t make it! We’ll be lost in here, and die in here, and Mama and Papa will find us in here, covered in dust!” I’m shocked to hear these things from his mouth. And I find my temper being quickly lost. Then he says, “We should have stayed home. It’s all your fault, you stupid fopdoodle!” Useless? Me? But before the thought crosses my mind, my hand is crossing his cheek.

His eyes, oh, his eyes. They grow wide and wet with subtle streams, and the redness on his jaw, the shock on his face, they mark my betrayal. How could I? I reach for him, to restrain or embrace or…I’m not sure. But he flinches, trips over his own feet, and falls. The crack of his elbow against

stone or root or some other hard thing makes my gut turn in on itself, but it’s his words that make me ache. “I hate you,” he says, soft and calm, so that I know he means it. Then he runs.

“Stop, come back!” I give chase, down the path as fast as I can, but he’s too quick and nimble and I’m too blind with tears—warm and salty, they coat my trembling lips. Ahead, he deviates from the trail, into the thickets and through the trees, so I do, too. But I lose sight of him shortly, resorting to following the sounds of his steps. And now, with the sun eclipsed by drowning night, even his echo is gone. I panic, hunting round trees for any hint of my brother. My heart aflutter, my thighs aching and tired, and my satchel long since abandoned, laying somewhere in some mound of grass and dirt.

The sky opens its mouth—my hair and dress grow heavy in its loathsome shower. I search and search but have no luck, and it’s impenetrably dark before I must stop to catch my breath. “Luka?” I call out. “Luka! I’m sorry!”

My only reply is the wind. With hope lost, and no idea of what to do, I fall to my knees in the sopping mud and hold my head in my hands, crying. “Please, God, tell me what to do!”

But there’s no answer. Again, I pray and pray, and say, “I’d do anything. If you’re listening, hear me!” My mind races to potential horrible fates, a hundred possible deaths my brother could find for himself alone in the woods, surrounded by night and hungry creatures. And—perhaps this, too, is for my foolish age—without knowing why, I look about the forest and give forth the faintest of whispers, “Please help me, Baba Yaga.”

VI

The forest, now still, holds silent and cold—shifting treetops the only sound. I’m desperate and hungry, and exhausted from fright; I climb to my sore feet. Off in the distance, I think

I see a figure. Luka? No, too tall…and so far, yet somehow near enough to see such languid limbs, like tendrils held out, as though asking for wildering tithes. It holds its ground, and I find myself pulled toward its pulsing form. I want to run away and call out all at once, to say, “Do you know where my brother has gone? Have you found my Luka?” and “Will you eat me?” But still stays my tongue, held back by clenched jaw. Closer I go, against my own senses, and off, in the distance behind this strange stranger, I see a hut or home—some reclusive abode—and, for a moment, I think I see prongs holding its four corners, like posts of chicken’s feet. Oh, why couldn’t I just stay home? I want desperately now to clamp my eyes tight, to shut this world away and open them again to find Luka and I safe and sound in our cabin beyond the woods. But my eyes won’t close, frozen open as I stare, and now I stand before this figure, clouded and dark, as if a living tapestry of life and death. And it grows, oh, how it grows large as an oak! I feel lost and small as a pebble at its cloaked feet—this god of the forest. Is this my only course? Am I now to choose, to follow or flee? The figure tilts its towering head, a skull with bird’s beak dangling from its hooded frame, and it says, “What will it be?” I waver, just a moment, and ask, “Are you friend or foe?” It doesn’t answer, doesn’t have to. Savior or butcher, both end my despair. To Luka, or to death, so I reach out my hand and follow my Baba Yaga.

THE DRAGON OF JÁK

ANNA O'CONNELL

In the village of Ják, Father Peter was washing the soot from his hands, following Compline on the Day of Ashes. He had remained to extinguish the candles and stepped outside and over to the trough to the side of the door, where he poured water from a small pitcher over his fingers. He had a brief pang of hunger and allowed a sigh to pass through his lips, the wordless sound steaming in the frigid night. Outlined by the sliver of moonlight, the mist seemed to take on a deeper shadow. Rubbing his eyes, Father Peter blinked with a grimace as the grit worked across his face.

Before him was a fearsome creature, a serpent with a flared, horse-like nose and great rooster claws. The beast bared its teeth at Father Peter, who, still scrunching his eyes, tripped onto the stone stair of the dormitory. He clutched the lintel as the beast spoke.

“Peter. Would you like my finest food?”

“No.”

“Are you not hungry?”

Father Peter blinked again. “I am,” he replied, “but today is the Day of Ashes, and so I fast.”

“Because of your hungry thought, I will take your soul.”

Father Peter felt the mist of the night grow more chill. The faces of the saints carved into the church seemed to intimate something in their stony eyes.

“O beast, I challenge you for my soul. If after forty days I have not eaten bread, nor drank wine nor water, and can set a pillar from Rome alight to blaze through the entire night, I will walk away with my soul. In return, you must do the same. If you succeed, you may have it.”

For forty days, the beast watched Father Peter. Growing thinner by the day, the beast smugly looked on as the Father seemed to forget his vow, spotting the friar eating bread and drinking at meals. As the forty days drew to a close, Peter made no attempt to bring a pillar back from Rome. The beast flew off, weakened from its fast, and on the fortieth day, dropped a huge marble pillar into the garden, where it broke into three massive pieces. The beast rested there, triumphant.

As the day drew to a close, the monks gathered around Father Peter as he began to sing the ancient Easter Sequence, stoking the fire at the entrance of the church. The monks chanted, “Amen,” and Father Peter turned to the beast.

“Truly, I have fasted from the bread and wine of life at Holy Mass. There is no water which nourishes, but the water of life which I shall drink in Heaven. Will you now set your pillar ablaze? I now light this pillar, brought to me from Rome.” Father Peter lit the Easter candle and its light beamed through the night while the dragon huffed and wheezed

the dragon of ják

to set the marble on fire to no avail. In the morning light, it disappeared with its wisps of fire, as the candle burned.

THE O�ES LEFT BE�IND ISABELLE KELLY

Ilse had never heard her mother cry, but she always knew when she was crying. When Ilse and Liesl were children, their mother never cried. There was no reason to, for she had two happy, beautiful girls. But when Liesl was taken by the Piper, it seemed that that was all she did.

Ilse often thought it unfair that Liesl was the one who’d gone and left Ilse behind. Liesl was more beloved—beautiful, golden, happy. Ilse was dark, and she made people uncomfortable. They said she was cursed; the other children mocked her, not that she could hear their hurtful words. The only people who were kind to her were her family—Mama and Papa and Liesl.

Mama baked bread and sang to them, though Ilse never knew what was being sung. But her mother placed Ilse’s little

the ones left behind

hand over her chest as she sang so that Ilse could feel the vibrations, and that was good enough.

Papa carved little wooden figurines for them and swung the girls up high in his arms. His beard was full and scratched at their smooth faces when he leaned down to kiss their cheeks.

Liesl was her twin, her partner in crime. The two girls would sneak tarts from the local baker and hide away in the outskirts of the woods to eat them, talking to each other with their hands in a language that only they understood. Liesl was the only one who understood Ilse. That was why it was so hard when she went away.

Ilse started at the tap on her hand. It was her mother, face streaked once more with dried tears. She tried to not cry in front of Ilse, but Ilse always knew anyway. Her mother never smiled, not since Liesl was taken and Papa went after her and never returned. It was just the two of them, Mama and Ilse. Ilse had soon stopped referring to her mother as Mama. Her mother held up the water pail and motioned for Ilse to take it. She hadn’t realized that it was already time for her to go get fresh water, but she got up anyway and grabbed the bucket. Quietly, as she always did things quietly, Ilse put on her wool cloak and left the house.

Walking through the village was always an unpleasant experience. Before, when there were children, they would tease her by mouthing words like slow or freak or by making faces at her. Now, though, there were no children, only the parents who blamed Ilse for being with her family when their children were not. But they blamed the other ones, too, the other ones who didn’t follow the Piper.

There was Florian, who was born lame with a crippled foot. Both his father and mother fell sick the winter that he

turned eight years old; they were dead before the snow dried up. When the Piper came, Florian was just a boy with a crutch who slept in the church’s doorway, a child that the town pitied but never cared enough to help. When Florian was found not even a mile from town, covered in dirt and his own tears, the pity turned to hatred, for why was this unwanted child saved while the town’s children were not?

Then, there was Abelard, who came down with scarlet fever when he was four that left him blind. Abelard’s mother had died giving birth to him, so his father treated him like a lifeline, the only link to his lost love. Before, no one had dared lay a hand on the blind boy, fearing his father’s wrath. But when the town heard him calling out for help—for the Piper—and the other children were long gone, not even the threat of his father could keep him safe.

Ilse, however, had it the worst. They had found her sleeping in the forest, in a clearing. There were dried tears on her cheeks, and though her father had been grateful that she was safe, wicked things began to grow in the others’ hearts. For the townspeople knew that she had seen what happened, that she had followed even though she hadn’t heard. They hated that she had come back.

Ilse gathered the water rather quickly, for she was quite used to the burn in her arms as she methodically lowered and raised the bucket. She set the bucket down from its latest venture and wiped at the sweat gathering at her brow. She glanced around her, taking in the schoolhouse that had since fallen into disrepair. The wood was rotting, and it had turned into a grayish color all over. The windows were busted, and the front door hung off its hinges. Nevertheless, Ilse was thankful

the ones left behind

for the schoolhouse; it was the only reprieve that Florian got from the weather.

As Ilse examined the old schoolhouse, Florian hobbled out, his crutch underneath his arm. His gray eyes caught on hers, and he gave her a brilliant smile. Despite herself, Ilse felt her stomach flutter. As Florian made his way over to her, Ilse examined the boy who had somehow grown into a young man. His curly black hair was a mop that fell into his eyes, in desperate need of a haircut—she should have brought her scissors. He had grown tall and broad-shouldered; in spite of his lameness, Florian fought for work and did whatever came his way, no matter how difficult it was. Still, he was almost painfully skinny, subsisting off of the few meager meals that he earned and the ones that both Ilse and Abelard managed to sneak him. Neither of their families had much in the way of food, but they weren’t about to let their only friend starve. Almost as if he had heard his name, Abelard came into view. Ilse watched his mouth move, most likely shouting something to Florian. Florian turned from her to yell something back and stood there, waiting, as Abelard used his walking stick to find his way to his friends. Where Florian was dark, Abelard was brilliant gold. His hair was like sunlight, and his eyes were the blue of the sky, though they were slightly clouded over, the only indicator that something about him wasn’t quite right. Everywhere he went, he lit up the room. When he was a child, before the Piper, he was the joy of the town. He was exuberant and bright and radiant. It broke Ilse’s heart at the way the town treated him now. She could handle the stares and the jeers, but Abelard was too kind and had lost too much for that.

Abelard reached Florian and gripped the hand that his friend held out. They moved slowly to Ilse, who smiled and

sat down on the ground. Abelard reached a hand out to her as well, and Ilse took it, drawing a squiggle as a form of hello. Abelard and Ilse had the hardest time communicating, but that was also what made them the closest—they had both lost something, and that something caused judgment from others.

Ilse let the boys sit down beside her and drew her legs up under herself. They sat in silence for a moment, though every moment was silent to Ilse. Florian turned to her.

Today, he mouthed.

Ilse bowed her head. Yes. Today. There was a reason that her mother was crying.

A warm hand touched her arm. Ilse looked up to see Florian staring at her in concern. She bit her lip and shook her head.

Five years. It had been five years since she had lost her sister, since the town had lost its children. To her surprise, Ilse felt a tear form in the corner of her eye and leave a warm trail down her cheek. Florian reached up to swipe it away with his thumb.

Ilse. She watched his mouth form the words. She closed her eyes against his worry, against the sympathy radiating from Abelard. They both knew how hard this was for her— mourning her sister while staying strong for her mother, while being unable to show weakness in front of the town.

Florian’s hand left her cheek and moved down her arm to her hand, twining her fingers through his. Abelard took her other hand and held it to his chest, letting her feel the steady beat of his heart. Ilse took a shuddering breath and opened her eyes once more.

Fine, she told Florian silently. She watched as he repeated the word aloud to Abelard, who nodded and smiled once more.

the ones left behind

Abelard repeated the word as well. Ilse smiled slightly. She knew that they were all lying.

Ilse didn’t know how long the three had sat there on the ground, in the dirt, but eventually, she got up to return to her house with the pail of water. Her mother wasn’t home when she arrived, and Ilse knew that she had joined the vigil that the townspeople held every year on this night. Ilse’s mother never stayed with her on the night that Liesl disappeared, and Ilse was fine with that, for she had her own tradition. Ilse set the pail down next to the fireplace and left the house once more. She snuck past the church, where candles were lit and the townsfolk cried. She snuck past Abelard’s house, the one house in the village that had a fire going as Abelard and his father were not welcome at the vigil. She snuck out of the village itself, following the long path that led to the forest. It was past dark now, the stars in the sky the only small source of light available to her. But Ilse didn’t need light for this part in her journey; she knew the way in her bones. It would forever be seared into her, like the scar in the palm of her hand from when she grabbed the wrong end of the fire poker as a child.

Ilse felt her way through the forest, letting the scratch of the bark against the sensitive skin of her hands keep her grounded in reality.

You’re safe, she told herself. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.

But Liesl’s not.

Ilse stopped cold in her tracks. She had reached the clearing. Her knees went out from under her. But Liesl’s not.

Ilse dropped her forehead to the ground and cried.

They had been playing when Liesl went suddenly, deathly still. Her eyes glazed over, her lips parted. She dropped the doll she had been holding and stood up.

Where are you going? Ilse signed. But Liesl didn’t respond. She turned and began to leave the house, Ilse trailing behind her on hands and knees, tearing at her skirts.

Liesl! Ilse wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. She simply stumbled after her sister as she left the house, joining a line of children that all had the same expression as Liesl.

Ilse whipped around wildly, searching for an adult, but they were all at the church for the town hall meeting. There were no adults to be found. And all of the children were following a man—the Piper, Ilse realized, the one who had taken his flute and made the children dance and the adults clap. Ilse never heard his music, but she knew it to be beautiful. He was beautiful. But now he was scaring her, and she couldn’t reach her sister.

Ilse trailed behind the line of children as they were led out of town, the Piper standing tall and proud at the front. She kept Liesl in her sights, her blonde head bobbing near the back of the group. As they walked, Ilse watched as first Florian, then Abelard fell behind. She watched as they opened their mouths and wailed, reaching for their quickly vanishing comrades. Ilse didn’t stop to help them, too intent on following her sister.

Ilse didn’t know how long they walked for. Her feet ached, and she wished to stop and go get her parents, but something told her that if she left Liesl now, she would never see her sister again. So Ilse continued forward, the world silent all around her.

She was surprised when the line began to slow and disappear into a darker part of the woods. She paused, hesitant,

the ones left behind

then marched forward as Liesl went into the veil of darkness. It was dark then, night having fallen quickly. Ilse couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, let alone the shine of her sister’s hair. Then, in the distance, there was a soft light. It was low and warm, yellow. It looked like a hearth, like the fire that Mama would make before setting the twins in front of it fresh from the bath. It was comforting.

And then it wasn’t.

As Ilse moved closer to the flame—for that’s what it was, the warmth flickering throughout the woods—she began to notice shapes. Rising, then falling, falling to the ground. Ilse could feel the thumps through her feet. It took only a few more steps before she realized what was happening, just as Liesl reached the fire and threw herself into it.

Ilse froze, still in the shadows. She watched as fire consumed her sister, burning through the ends of her hair. She had always compared Liesl’s hair to sunbeams, but now it was fire. Her skin melted and burned, blackening. Her body fell. The next child stepped forward.

Ilse threw herself forwards and heaved. Bile came up and tears stung the corners of her eyes. Liesl, Liesl, Liesl. Never in her life had Ilse wished more that she could hear, that she could speak, that she could scream. But she was as silent as ever. She picked her head up as the last child threw themself onto the pyre. The Piper walked a slow lap around the flames, coolly surveying the wreckage that he caused. Then, he left.

Ilse curled up on the ground and sobbed. When she finally managed to muster the strength to get to her knees, she found that the clearing was empty. There was no fire, no bodies—no evidence that anything had ever transpired. Heart empty, Ilse collapsed back onto the grass and closed her eyes. Later, the adults would find her. Papa would pick her up

and crush her to him. And he would mouth a word to her: Liesl? But she couldn’t tell him—she was forever silent. Perhaps that was the Piper’s final plan, to leave behind a select few children. The ones the world didn’t want.

Florian, the lame boy, who heard the siren call but couldn’t keep up.

Abelard, the blind boy, who heard the Piper’s song but lost his way.

And Ilse, the deaf girl, who didn’t hear the children scream but watched them burn.

� Y DE �REST LYDI �

MACKENZIE HICKS

�y dearest Lydia...

The words stood out in their blackness against the soft cream pages of the book. Lydia kept staring at them as she clipped the white roses, readying them for a vase. The clip of her silver scissors against the stems matched the jump in her heart as she tried to read past those three words.

My dearest Lydia…

Timothy’s handwriting did nothing to reveal the passionate man behind them. They were tight and concise, the way an accountant’s writing should be, but his words were poetic, even when he talked. It was why Lydia had followed him to Paris to live in a tiny houseboat on the Seine. She would have gone anywhere in the world with that tall, lanky man.

My dearest Lydia…

She clipped the final rose and placed it in the vase with

the others. She liked keeping flowers next to her reading chair. They reminded her of their time together, walking hand in hand through the streets of Paris, visiting the Eiffel Tower and every other tourist destination they could think of before becoming locals themselves. Spring was always their favorite season. The flowers blooming like new love on every corner.

My dearest Lydia…

Lydia sighed deeply and ran her fingers down the tail of a red ribbon stuck in the back of the book. Timothy had stuck it there the day he proposed. It marked page 327. There, Mr. Darcy declared his love for Elizabeth, unable to name the time or place their love had begun. In the margins of the page, Timothy had written, “Will you marry me, my dearest Lydia?”

Now, the front pages bore his sharp handwriting.

My dearest Lydia…

Lydia had been devastated to find him gone from their home, a new apartment a few miles from the Seine, where their houseboat still floated. His clothes were missing from the closet. All his books missing from their places on the shelf. But nothing had hurt her more than his note written in the front of their book. He had defaced it with his false apologies, and Lydia couldn’t bring herself to read them.

My dearest Lydia…

Lydia closed the book. She had been trying for three months now to read past those three words. She knew what lay beyond them, and it wouldn’t take the sting away when she laid down at night, and he wasn’t next to her. It wouldn’t heal her shattered heart. Timothy had left, and she didn’t need to know all the reasons why.

She placed it in a box with other books she was planning to donate to the local library. She couldn’t throw it away. It wasn’t its fault Timothy had broken the love resting between

my dearest lydia

its pages. Someone else would see the apology in the beginning followed by a declaration of love in the end and believe their story ended happily. Lydia hoped it brought them happiness as it once had her.

�EPLACEMEN�

EMMA BRACKETT

[YOU ARE CURRENTLY LATE FOR YOUR SHIFT AT FACILITY #2864.]

Bright red text flashed across Georgina’s eyesight, accompanied by a rough robotic voice.

[YOU HAVE 5 MINUTES TO ARRIVE. ARRIVING LATE WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE TERMINATION.]

“Shit, shit, SHIT.” Georgina sprinted down the street, attempting to put her hair up in a company-approved bun as she slammed into person after person. The text and voice had her eyes’ and ears’ full attention, but after taking this route six (more often seven) times a week for the last two years, she trusted her feet to get to the facility. The annoyed glares of onlookers meant nothing in the face of unemployment.

[YOU HAVE 4 MINUTES TO ARRIVE. ARRIVING LATE–]

“I get it, I get it,” Georgina thought as loudly as possible to drone out the microchip’s whining. Down the street was the facility, gray and overbearing, separated from the rest of the city by a chain-link fence. On the face of the building was the bright green cursive logo that trailed off at the end to form a thumbs up. Georgina thought about where that thumb could shove it.

An alarm went off in her head, and yellow text replaced the red moving across her vision.

[CRITICIZING THE COMPANY IS AGAINST COMPANY POLICY. THIS IS YOUR FIRST WARNING. 3 WARNINGS WILL RESULT IN TERMINATION.]

The voice turned into something softer. [We want to grow better as a company. If you have any suggestions, please do not hesitate to reach out.

YOU HAVE 3 MINUTES TO ARRIVE.]

Much to Georgina’s relief, the lights and noises stopped once she stepped onto the property. She stared at the thumbs up, took a deep breath, then walked up to the security checkpoint. She and the security guard stood in silence as she folded her ear, revealing the outer layer of her microchip. It was decorated with a glowing white LED that made her head hot, a bar code, and the company’s logo all in a row. The security guard scanned the code with what looked like a bulky smartphone, and when it flashed green, Georgina was free to go on ahead.

The outside of the facility was all concrete, save for the planters blooming cigarette buds outside of the front doors. Georgina walked past those doors and the management who stepped outside for an inkling of fresh air. She worked her

way around the back, past the trucks that would send their products to God knew where, and up to a rusted door labeled “EMPLOYEES ONLY.” She had to shove the door open as the rust tried its hardest to stop her. One of these days she was sure it was going to encase the whole building.

Georgina entered the floor worker break room. It was just wide enough to fit a wall of lockers, one table, a small collection of mismatched chairs, and a vending machine. Along the walls were instructions, notices, and announcements that blurred into a single piece of “who-cares.” At the table sat the one coworker she actually enjoyed talking to: Ron.

“Hey, Georgie,” Ron said. “Almost didn’t make it today.”

“Well, I still haven’t technically made it yet,” she said as she opened her locker and tossed her things inside. “On your break?”

“Yep.” Ron leaned back with an exaggerated sigh. “And loving it.”

Georgina chuckled. Her eyes were drawn to the locker beside her. It belonged to an upbeat guy called Louis. She had never spoken to him, but she knew all she needed to know about his personality by the obnoxious corporate-approved stickers he used to cover the locker. However, the stickers and his name tag were both gone.

“Hey, did Louis quit?” she asked.

Ron shook his head. “Fired. Along with Markus and Jodie and Chase.”

“God, another string of firings? I think Jodie and Chase have kids, too.”

Ron nodded. “It happened all at once just yesterday after you left. Corporate came down and I think just picked randomly.” He shivered. “Terrifying.”

“Man, that sucks. You think they’re going to hire more people?”

“Are you kidding? Of course not. The whole reason they did it was to save money. All it means is more work for us.” A yellow light flashed behind Ron’s left ear. “Speaking of work, I’ve got to get back to it. I’ll see you on the floor, Georgie.” He stood and walked out with a little wave.

With Ron gone and the adrenaline from her sprint fading, Georgina felt heavy on her feet. She had breakfast, a granola bar as she sprinted out the door, or was that yesterday? The screeching of cars and neon lights outside her window kept her up, but they did that every night.

“Just nine hours, that’s literally nothing. A lot of people have a lot more,” she said to herself. “Then you can go home, eat, and sleep.” Words appeared, reminding her that she had spent long enough lounging in the break room. She shook the fatigue out and headed onto the floor.

Her company made packaging materials, and for items that consisted of cardboard and paper, the machines that made them were as loud as engines. They blew steam that filled the room, turning the complex into a sauna, and already Georgina was sweating. She wished she could wear shorts, but that was against company policy. They claimed exposed knees were a safety concern, but she had her suspicions that their reasoning was more in line with a high school dress code.

When she got to her station, several different colored boxes popped up in her vision. One was her efficacy rate, another her pay that went up and down with said efficacy rate, one number she wasn’t sure what it did, a clock, and the last was the number of mistakes she made. Her job was to stack envelopes into boxes for shipping and throw out any crimped 67 replacement

ones. Once she was standing in her respective circle (corporate had taken their chairs to “better help employees’ posture”), a conveyor belt started to bring envelopes.

It was mundane work that she somehow still needed a college degree to apply for. She counted her debt as she counted envelopes, a routine habit. At that point, she couldn’t even remember what she majored in, not that it really mattered.

The numbers in her vision counted up as she slid boxes down a separate conveyor belt. The faster she went, the faster they went, and while she loved to see that pay number go up, it made her a little dizzy. She glanced down the line of other stations to focus on something else and found no one.

“Am I the only one here today?” she thought. “Or did they all get fired, too?”

A red light glowed and reminded her to [KEEP YOUR EYES ON YOUR WORK AT ALL TIMES.]

Her mistake counter went up by one. She cursed under her breath.

[SWEARING IS PROHIBITED.]

Another mistake.

Georgina focused back in on her task, one box, two boxes, three, six, eleven, twenty, twenty-nine. She fell into a rhythm as the clock ticked away, but the heat and numbers started to get to her. She paused to massage her aching wrist. Her productivity plummeted, dragging her pay along with it. She frantically shoved boxes down the line and while her productivity did go up, it wasn’t as high as before, and her pay stalled. “Maybe,” she thought, “it will reset after my break.”

Sweat ran down her back, seeping into her clothes. Her arms and legs were stiff from standing in the same position for so long. She was starving but her stomach stayed silent

replacement

as if conserving its energy. She ignored the clock in her side vision. She learned long ago that checking it was more painful than a slap in the face.

She moaned in relief when

[YOU MAY NOW START YOUR 10 MINUTE BREAK.]

and a timer appeared in her vision. She trekked back to the break room.

[8.23 MINUTES REMAINING.]

She slumped into one of the plastic chairs and debated what bag of chips to get from the vending machine. As she thought, a notice decorated with a big exclamation point popped into sight. It was a reminder that her monthly microchip maintenance and implantation fees were due soon. She scoffed at “maintenance,” and was reminded of when an outside wire got loose, shocking her intermittently.

[6.15 MINUTES REMAINING.]

Georgina requested she be looked at by the company’s engineers, only to be denied since the chip still functioned properly. She paid out-of-pocket to get it fixed at a thirdparty shop.

[5.39 MINUTES REMAINING.]

With a huff, she stood and walked over to her locker.

[4.16 MINUTES REMAINING.]

She opened it and searched through the jungle of garbage in her bag.

[3.25 MINUTES REMAINING.]

She thought about her options as she stood in front of the vending machine. Something sweet, something salty. What she really longed for was a home-cooked meal, a luxury that she didn’t have the time or energy for. Her fridge back home was

stuffed with microwaved meals that ended up making her feel more hungry after eating.

[2.11 MINUTES REMAINING.]

She eventually gave up on options and hit a random button. The machine whirled.

[1.23 MINUTES REMAINING.]

The bag dropped and she picked it up.

[0.57 MINUTES REMAINING.]

She slumped back into her seat just as a yellow light flashed before her eyes.

[YOUR MANDATORY BREAK IS NOW OVER. PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR WORKSTATION WITHIN THE NEXT MINUTE.]

Georgina held back tears as she climbed out of the chair. Georgina returned to her spot before a check was put on her file, and the second her feet entered that square, the moment of peace she somewhat felt vanished. Her hands reached for the envelopes on their own as her eyes focused on the numbers. Her pay, the clock, the suffocating heat, it all swirled in her head. She dreamed of the chips shoved in her locker. If only she had been a little faster. She lost track of what number she was on. In fact, all of the numbers looked like squiggles. Her stomach twisted itself into a knot and stayed that way for who knew how long. She tried to stop for a moment just to catch her breath. Another mistake appeared.

Georgina kept going, breath after breath and mistake after mistake until her pay teetered on dipping into the negatives. “Making up for lost profit,” the management would claim. She bit her lip and tried not to cry. She just couldn’t take it anymore.

“I should just fucking quit,” she mumbled.

A message slammed into her view, covering anything else. It read:

[LEAVE YOUR STATION AND SEE THE FLOOR MANAGER IMMEDIATELY.]

It vanished once she had read it and was replaced with a red arrow. On shaky feet, she followed it through all the machinery, past the sparse employees, all with their heads down and working. It brought her to a flight of metal stairs at the back of the building. Above her was an office, or at least that was what she assumed it was; the windows were frosted.

Georgina climbed up the stairs. Still feeling fatigued, she grabbed onto the railing. Tiny spikes of paint stared up and greeted her hand. It looked like no one bothered sanding the metal down after building the thing. She winced, pulled away, and kept climbing.

The office door was unassuming, but that made Georgina feel more unsettled. Directly in her eyesight was, “FACTORY FLOOR MANAGER: RICHARD SHEFIER.” She had never met the man, only caught glimpses when executives came to tour the facility. Strange how she couldn’t conjure the face of the person who decided if she would have a roof over her head. She knocked on the door.

“Come in,” said a voice that sounded like any other. She opened it and found a plain office. Hardwood floors, filing cabinets, light blue walls plastered with screens portraying company propaganda. On one of the walls was a photo of the founder of the company, dressed nice with a large white mustache. Next to that photo was another of the following CEO, the founder’s son, then the founder’s grandson, then the founder’s great-grandson, who had changed out the suits for a hoodie and a dress shirt, and then the current CEO, a line of code.

“There you are,” said a man sitting behind a desk. He motioned for Georgina to sit in a large, black, puffy chair. She teetered on the edge of it to avoid being swallowed up by the leather. She crossed her ankles and clasped her hands together. The man in front of her, who had yet to look her in the eye, looked so strangely normal. There was no blinking light in his neck, not even a scar. There was nothing special about him, good nor bad. She had joked with co-workers before about management being robots or demons, the usual stuff, but seeing that they were human, that made her skin crawl.

Richard broke the silence. “So, Ms. Attwood, how has your day been?”

“It’s been fine, I guess. And you can call me Georgina. No one really uses my last name,” she said.

“We like to keep it professional here. So, Ms. Attwood, it seems like you’ve gotten into a bit of trouble.”

Georgina’s stomach twisted into a knot. “Trouble?”

“Nothing too major.” He read off his computer. “Unauthorized criticism of the company, decrease in performance and arriving for your shift late. Can you tell me why these things are happening?”

“I… Well, I’ve just been so exhausted that it’s hard to keep up on the floor and I was only late today because I slept through my alarm.”

Richard shook his head. “Now we don’t like excuses here, Ms. Attwood. But we understand that life is difficult so we are willing to extend to you a second chance. Normally, we have a three-strike system, but given that these are your first offenses and that you’ve been with the company for so long—says here five years—we will give you a fourth strike.”

“Thank you, I guess. But I promise I wasn’t making excuses, I was telling the truth,” Georgina said.

Richard narrowed his eyes at the computer screen. “One last thing before you can get back to work. I see that you have been having thoughts about quitting?”

“I’m sorry?” she said.

A sound file began to play, filling up the entire room. “I should just fucking quit,” it rang.

Georgina gawked. “How did you… Do these things record us?” She pointed at the microchip lodged into her head.

“Of course they do. They have to be on at all times to be prepared for user input and record everything for quality assurance. That was laid out very plainly when you were hired,” Richard said.

“You mean that behemoth of paperwork I was given? I couldn’t even get past the first page, it was all in lawyer-speak!”

“I think we’re getting off-topic, Ms. Attwood. So, tell me why you’re having second thoughts about working here.”

Georgina was so baffled that she couldn’t speak. Every day, she and countless other employees compiled a list in their heads, demands and complaints to shove in management’s face if one of them was ever lucky enough to get the opportunity. The opportunity was staring her down, and her mind was blank.

Richard sighed, “Ms. Attwood, we pride ourselves on our relationships with our floor workers–”

“Are you joking?”

Richard was taken aback at the interruption. “I beg your pardon?” he said.

“Have you ever worked on the floor? I mean, I don’t see a chip scar so you must have just been placed in this position by some uncle or college buddy. Have you ever looked out there?” Georgina said.

“I assure you I inspect the floor on a regular basis.”

“I didn’t say ‘inspect,’ I said look. Have you looked your

employees in the eye and asked them if they like working here? No, fuck that, because we’ll just lie to you because we have to keep this nightmare of a job. Ask them if they had an opportunity to work anywhere else, same bullshit pay, if they would take it.” Georgina’s vision was covered by flashing warning signs, shouting at her that she was going too far, but she continued on. “I have chronic back pain from being hunched over that assembly line for nine hours a day that I can’t get looked at by a doctor because I can’t afford insurance. Your upper management just bought a branded rocket ship; why the hell was that money not spent on getting your employees benefits?”

Richard opened his mouth but Georgina raised her hand. “I barely have enough for rent and food working full-time. Every day is a goddamn crapshoot of ‘Will I be able to afford to live?’ And I know I’m going to lose that gamble when I’m old and exhausted and this is the one thing on my resume and you hire the next generation to replace me.”

“Actually we are looking into robotics–”

Georgina stood. “Bullshit, I know people are a lot cheaper. Especially when you control every part of our fucking lives! And you know what, I feel bad for you because even if you think you have a cushy office job, staring down everyone below you, someone one floor higher is doing the same thing to you, and so on and so on and goddamnit I’m done. I don’t care if I get kicked out of my apartment, I don’t care if I have to crash on couches or skip more meals, I’m done.”

“This is all entirely inappropriate–”

“Shut up, I quit. Now take this stupid thing out of my neck.”

At this point, Richard seemed willing to do anything to get

the encounter over with. “Well,” he said, “there’s a removal and disposal fee, and you’ll have to schedule an appointment.”

Georgina rubbed her face and sighed. “I’ll just take it out myself.”

The lights still flashed in her vision. Strike twelve appeared. Paperwork for her leaving appeared in front of the infractions. It cluttered her sight; she had to guess where she was going as she walked towards the door. It was all red, the same rusty red. It blurred together and burned her eyes. She felt the doorknob. She couldn’t wait for it to be gone, even if she had to take it out with a pair of scissors. Maybe she could find someone cheap who specialized in it. She opened the door and stepped out. She decided to find Ron and tell him what exactly went down. Maybe she would find those who got fired, too. She was certain they were all full of the same rage she was boiling in. She smiled and slammed the door behind her.

WITH GRATITUDE

This magazine exists due to the hard work and vision of many people. First, we’d like to thank our dedicated staff and board members, who have poured countless volunteer hours into reading submissions, attending meetings, and shaping this magazine from start to finish.

We would also like to thank our founding members and staff who were called to other adventures this past year: Dustin Hempel, Alex Vesey, Monique Collins, Danny Fuller, Jason Cormier, Robin Owens, and Natalie Obedos. Their time with us was short, but their contributions were invaluable.

Our thanks go out to the artists and administrators who helped us on our journey, especially Aarushi Nigam for helping us with all our GSA questions, Kristen Kern for her design work on our logo, and Lily Mac Hugh for her gorgeous cover art. Thank you to our new faculty advisor, Jon Papernick, for

bringing his experience and expertise to our publication moving forward. And a huge thank you to Kim McLarin, our faculty founder and advisor for the 2020 – 2021 school year, who opened the door to making Page Turner Magazine possible.

We thank all the writers who submitted to our magazine and our flash fiction contests. Thank you for sharing your stories with us. We loved reading all of them. And finally, to our readers: thank you.

�UTHOR BIOS

JERRY YAP ("Factory 147") received his PhD in chemistry in 2014 from the University of Maryland and has worked in both pharma and small to mid-size biotechs. He has published over 18 professional scientific publications in peer-reviewed science journals. He is currently an MFA candidate in the Popular Fiction and Publishing graduate program at Emerson College with a focus on hard fantasy and science fiction. His themes of exploration are centered on war, loyalty, and friendship using coming-of-age, character-driven stories.

ASHLEY HILL (“The Woman of Water”) is a life-long lover of magic and fantasy, both the “whimsical fairy with flowers in her hair” kind and the “evil fanged pixie with a dagger and hungry smile” kind. She graduated from Bloomsburg University of Pennsylvania with a BA in English literature and is currently

a student of Emerson College’s MFA Popular Fiction Writing and Publishing program. When she isn’t adulting, she can be found in the corner of some place with her nose buried in a book or manically scribbling out the stories that play through her head.

SOPHIA GORJANCE ("Francis") is an MFA candidate at Emerson College. She spends her free time reading and writing science fiction and fantasy, and making her boyfriend watch campy sci-fi flicks with her (movie suggestions welcome). You can follow her on Twitter @CaptainGorjance.

JOE BUCKLER (“The Light Over Whaler’s Watch”) is an author of adult and young adult fiction, a recent MFA graduate from Emerson College, and an alumnus of the University of Arizona where he graduated summa cum laude with a degree in creative writing. His fiction has been featured in several publications, including Collective Realms Magazine, The Sanctuary Magazine, and the forthcoming anthology Nefarious Nature from Weasel Press. When not acting as Founder and Editor-in-Chief of Blind Corner Literary Magazine, he also serves as Curriculum Developer for a nonprofit education initiative in Louisville, KY. You can follow him on Facebook and Instagram @imwithjoebuckler.

BRIAN FELLER (“Through the Woods”) holds an MFA in fiction from Emerson College. He currently has work published in Canyon Voices Literary Magazine, Adelaide Literary Magazine, and Palm-Sized Press, as well as a story in an upcoming issue of Stork Magazine. He was the winner of FIU’s 2018 Student Literary Award in fiction. In his spare time, he’s an avid tabletop gamer and pen collector. He hopes to work as

a professor of creative writing after completing his MFA in the fall of 2020.

ANNA O'CONNELL (“The Dragon of Ják”) is a musician who specializes in performing works from medieval to modern folk music as a harpist and soprano. Formerly a choir director for a church in central New York, she is now pursuing a doctorate in musical arts at Case Western Reserve University. Her research interests include accompanying herself on harp, 14th-century German chant, and seventeenth-century song.

ISABELLE KELLY (“The Ones Left Behind”) is an Emerson student set to graduate in 2022. Her YA short story puts a spin on the familiar tale of the Pied Piper.

MACKENZIE HICKS (“My Dearest Lydia”) has been writing since she was eleven. She writes and reads everything from fantasy to literary stories. She currently works at Steamboat Pilot & Today and is getting her MFA in popular fiction writing and publishing at Emerson College. She lives in Steamboat Springs, Colorado.

EMMA BRACKETT (“Replacement”) is a junior writing, literature, and publishing major at Emerson College.