Ally Hoffman 1000 Days

The first day, they locked her in the basement in funeral clothes with a glitchy TV and a kiss goodbye. She was glued to the news reports with abstract terror, unable to feel anything but the tears dripping down her face She organized the canned food by flavor She yelled for her parents She pulled out pieces of her hair. Eventually, worn down from everything, she drifted off.

The second day, the fear set in. The news was still playing with no information she hadn’t already heard. This was real. She searched the basement, trying to find anything to hold her attention Instead, she found three yardsticks, a toolbox, some candles, and a radio. She arranged, then rearranged, the toolbox twice. She turned off the TV but couldn’t stand the silence upstairs, so she turned it to the static. She used the toolbox to open a can of beans and ate all of it cold with her fingers, falling asleep remote still in hand

"Summer

Day" by

Cindy Wang, pencil

The eighth day, the door unlocked. She jumped up from her spot in front of the TV and bolted to the door, screwdriver in hand as a makeshift weapon. Instead of her parents standing there, she caught a glimpse of a woman shoving a boy into the basement before the door closed, leaving the both of them stuck inside. She didn’t hesitate, throwing herself at the door with all her strength. It didn’t budge. She screamed as loud as she possibly could, feeling like a little kid throwing a tantrum, but it wasn’t fair He tried to say something to her, but shut up, jumping back as she wildly swung her screwdriver at him before collapsing to the ground in tears

The ninth day, she handed him a can of food, a silent apology He accepted and pulled a fork out of his pocket, more well-prepared than she was They exchanged names and pleasantries and he told her he needed to draw diamonds around himself or something would attack him and she taught him her food organizing system. Neither of them talked about the news.

The fourteenth day, he tried to open the door. She had a panic attack and dragged her nails up and down his arms when he tried to touch her. She didn’t break skin. The TV stopped working.

The thirty-first day, she woke up to a diamond drawn around her with his chalk. She let him take the larger half of their can. She told him about how her parents had dressed her in funeral clothes, not expecting her to survive. He told her how his parents said they’d come back She proposed to wait 1,000 days If they didn’t come back, they would break their way out He agreed

The sixty-fifth day, they practiced fighting with the yardsticks she had found earlier to prepare for the outside world. They were both a little hesitant at first, but by the end their knuckles were bruised and their energy spent. The hundred eighth day, the basement light flickered out She reached out and brushed his shoulder, making sure he was still there. He pulled out a small matchbox, brushing her fingers against the rough part. She grabbed a candle

The hundred seventyseventh day, she heard someone upstairs He snuffed their candle out and she grabbed her screwdriver before they both jumped backwards, scrambling away from the door. They waited there in fear for hours, terrified of being found by someone –or something– dangerous. He grabbed her hand in the dark, and that’s how they eventually passed out, clinging to one another for safety

The two hundred and first day, he ran out of chalk He was inconsolable, yelling at her, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. He settled on drawing diamonds out with his blood. She bandaged his finger with cloth torn off from her funeral dress.

The three hundred sixty-fifth day, she mourned.

The four hundred seventy-third day, the static on the radio shifted to something understandable They huddled around the radio in the blanket they had been using as some type of comfort They were sleeping next to each other every night to save his blood. The radio program was a sermon. It called the outside an apocalypse. It called on them to repent. It asked for donations. She prayed that night while he was making his diamond.

The six hundred sixty-sixth day, the radio program didn’t run She viewed it as a coincidence that it was the number of the beast, coincidence that she had tried to move the radio to the opposite side of the room, but he didn’t. That side of the basement was bad, he explained, dragging their supplies away. So is six, he added, staring mournfully at the radio.

The eight hundred sixty-first day, everything broke. The TV screen exploded, lodging glass in her skin and limiting their basement space even further. He ran out of matches, plunging them into darkness. One of their yardsticks broke. She curled around him and sobbed as he tried to learn how to negate the sixes

The nine hundred ninety-ninth day, she picked up a piece of the TV glass while he was sleeping. She cautiously stepped over his diamond, knowing he’d be furious with her in the morning, and spread her hand until she felt glass. She grabbed it, ignoring every childhood lesson she had learned, and stared at the lock. She was getting out of here. She took a deep breath and slashed the glass against her palm before pressing it to the door, soaking the wood with blood The door was getting wet and she was getting lightheaded, so she wiped her bloody hands on her funeral clothes before banging her elbow into the bloody spot in the door. Maybe it was because the door was old, or her blood had weakened it enough, or because the day didn’t have a six, but she was able to slam through the door to peek to the outside world.

And as the sun rose on the thousandth day, they were free

Chloe Harnphanich West

Oh, how shall I describe my thoughts to you, When even words cannot contain my sighs? Your threadbare pants and wrinkled shirt were too, Just add-ons with your murky, clouded eyes. Your sharp and loathsome words that made me fret, Gave much more sense about your withered heart But then the wind blew sadly with regret, And soon I saw I wanted a restart I’m sick of how I treated you just so; The selfish, cunning ways my words had flowed. Your humble soul was far fairer than foe, But now you’re gone and left by overdose. Oh, brother, how at fault I can’t express, Now when the sun rise East I just look West.