2024 Expressions

st. xavier high school

St. Xavier High School

Literary and Fine Arts Journal

Joey Knizner EDITOR

Mr. Tim Reisert

MODERATOR

With every year I’ve spent as a student at St. Xavier, the talent and creativity that abounds on this campus continues to reveal itself and amaze me–whether it be through writing or art from a class, or pieces created and shared through clubs. Through this literary magazine, I’ve had the privilege to examine dozens of works which reflect the efforts of so many talented students. There is something special about the creative group of students gathered here, and this is obvious in the wonderful things they persistently create.

This edition proudly publishes such student works, ranging from poetry examining everyday happenings in a new light, fiction laden with emotion and tension, and artwork capturing something special through the stroke of a brush, the delicate etching of pencils. These pieces reflect a myriad of perspectives, and each provoke a thought or response in some way; these works are intentional, and I am incredibly grateful to all the students who offered their pieces to be published.

There is something to learn from every work in this collection; the students’ pieces featured here have a lot to convey, though fortunately their creators have chosen a reliable medium–art, and writing. Read closely, scrutinize the artwork, breathe in the poetry–and engage with St. Xavier’s artistic communities. You will find your time spent with this publication was worthwhile.

Finally, I’d like to thank my English teachers at St. X these last four years, as well as Mrs. Heile and Young Writers Forum. Their influences have steadily helped me improve as a writer and have encouraged me to always keep writing and reading critically.

I cannot express my gratitude enough for Mr. Reisert and his support and teaching over the past two years, as well as the countless hours of work he has put into making Expressions possible. Thank you to everyone who worked to get this publication, these writers and artists, to where they are now.

I hope you enjoy Expressions.

Joey Knizner EDITOR

The Dancer

HISroom was barren. Solitude hung heavy in the air. The low hum of machines and monitors was the only thing to fill the abyss. Against the far wall sat a large wooden bookshelf filled with dusty and worn-through books. Edward read each book hundreds of times, but every time they lost more of their wonder. The only evidence of life left in the desolate room was a vase on the dresser next to his bed containing a single withering rose.

Edward sat at the window. The moon shone through, illuminating his room, her serene light kissing his pale skin. The moon was his only companion, but even she left for another. She never stood still, constantly locked in her endless dance. Edward envied the moon’s freedom. All he could do was sit at his window praying that one day he could be outside with everyone else, that one day his feeble legs would let him dance like the goddess he watched from his window.

Edward wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but he awoke to the sun’s warm beams of light penetrating his self-imposed prison. He hated waking up. He hated returning from his lofty dreams to his grim reality. He hated this damned chair.

Floorboards creaked as he wheeled his way to his dresser resenting the necessity of life. He wanted to sit still, wallowing in his apathy, but the world kept moving forward, and Edward already couldn’t keep up. Despite his repeated claim to the nurses that he didn’t need their help dressing himself, the menial task never got easier.

As he dug through his drawer Edward reached the bottom, or rather he reached the things he had buried at the bottom. The old cotton hand wraps felt comfortable balled in his fist. They filled him with nostalgia from when he could walk, from when he could truly dance. ~ ~ ~

He had stepped into the ring like he had done billions of times before. Ed had already known that it would be his last time in the ring, but he

never could have predicted why. He held his head high. Was it pride or arrogance? Sure, he always thought he was better than his opponent, but in his four year career Ed “The Titan” Perez had yet to have been proven wrong.

In the other corner sat Barry “The Marauder” Armstrong. Ed knew that between Barry’s status as the only other boxer in the state to have a near-perfect record and Barry’s reputation for persistence and brutality he couldn’t let his guard down.

The arena pulsed with excitement; the harsh incandescent lights blinded Ed in his corner of the ring. He didn’t mind; it wasn’t his first time he was in the spotlight.

Ed watched as Barry loomed just outside his arm’s reach. Despite his nickname Ed was significantly smaller than most of his opponents. Because of his short stature, Ed had to work significantly harder than most fighters in his weight class. He had made going to the gym and a clean diet a priority, and he was going to make sure he hadn’t done it all in vain.

The first bell rang, and the two prospective champions met in the middle of the ring. Ed danced around his opponent. He hit Barry quickly with a barrage of jabs and crosses in an early display of dominance. Adrenaline flooded his body. Cheers flooded his ears. Confidence flooded his heart.

The first rounds went exactly as Ed planned. He was in control. For every blow Barry landed Ed landed four more. “The Titan” was in full control; Barry struggled to keep up with his assault.

Ed decided the tide of this fight.

“The Marauder” had to be getting tired. Ed had him on the ropes, he was sure of it, but as the rounds went on unease set in over Ed’s corner. Barry was still standing and showed no signs of struggling, he was deliberate in his movement. His sharp counters, consistent blocks, and unyielding attacks told Ed the whole story. While Ed was blinded by his arrogance, Barry was turning the tide. “The Marauder” wasn’t helpless against Ed’s onslaught, he was just letting “The Titan” exhaust himself.

Ed was caught off guard. How did he let himself fall into this trap?

In two seconds, he felt all of the momentum he built up over the several rounds dissipate. “The Titan” froze. “The Marauder” capitalized on the opening and struck Ed with a devastating left hook.

The blow reverberated through Ed’s skull, and he lost all feeling. In a split second Ed knew how Barry got his nickname. He was ruthless, stealing the victory that Ed had worked so hard for, and the arena fell silent.

The once-undefeated Titan fell to the canvas and the whistle blew. The crowd was silent as Barry Armstrong stood victorious.

That was the last thing Edward could remember before he lost consciousness.

The hand wraps sat rolled in Edward’s hand. They had stood by Edward for the entirety of his career, but now they were useless. He couldn’t stand even looking at them anymore. Edward turned around and threw the wrap, hitting his mirror.

The mirror fell to the ground, shattering into hundreds of pieces. “Son of a bitch,” Edward mumbled to himself. That wasn’t meant to be so loud. His anger melted into awkwardness. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, especially not his dad.

Before he could finish the thought, his door flew open and Andrés Perez stormed into the room like a bat out of hell. “¿Qué demonios?” he yelled as he entered.

“I’m okay, jefe,” Edward replied quickly trying to get him to leave.

“What was that noise?”

“I knocked over my mirror, everything is okay,” Edward said bashfully. He hated that he was so bothered by something as simple as seeing his wraps.

“What happened?” asked Andrés.

“I threw my old hand wraps at it; I just can’t stand to look at them,” replied Edward.

“Mijo, I know that this is really hard on you, and I wish I could make it better, but it’s out of our control,” Andrés consoled. His father’s face softened from the concerned look to one of pity.

Edward hated that look.

“It isn’t fair!” Edward said. The words came out in a whine like that of an entitled child. He hated that he sounded like that. He hated that he was an object of pity.

“I know it’s unfair, mijo. There’s nothing we can do about it. What happened, happened. I can’t change it; you can’t change it. This is how it is now.”

Edward felt his hatred shift onto his father, “There’s nothing we can do? You never tried to do anything!” The words erupted from Edward. How could his dad have given up on him so easily?

Andrés sighed heavily, trying to maintain his composure. He walked to the broken mirror and started to pick up the shards of glass. “I did try Edward, I tried everything I could,” his voice carrying the burden of his regret, “I never gave up on you! I am just trying to accept the reality of your situation.”

Edward, still angry, retorted, “Accept it? You want to accept that I’m stuck in this useless body?”

“Mijo, acceptance doesn’t mean resignation, it’s understanding that we can’t change what’s already happened. I have researched. I have talked to specialists. I have done everything I can to help you.”

Edward was silent for a moment, “I’m sorry, jefe. I just hate the feeling of being trapped in my own body.”

For a moment, the room was filled with silence, broken only by the quiet clinking of glass as Andrés pieced the mirror back together. Finally, his father broke the silence, “I hate it too, mijo. I wish we could do more about it, but we just have to make the best of our situation. You aren’t alone, Edward. I will always be here for you.”

Edward nodded, reluctantly accepting that maybe his father was right.

The two sat together in silence until Andrés finished putting the mirror back together. He hugged Edward before leaving and closing the door behind him. Despite everything his father had said, Edward still didn’t feel okay.

He wheeled himself to the window. Despite the seemingly amicable ending to their argument, the air was still sour from the conflict.

As Edward looked out the window he was approached by his only true companions: the murder of crows that lived in the fields around his small farmhouse.

He had begun feeding them from his window shortly after he was discharged from the hospital. There wasn’t much to do in a small town like his when you were stuck in a wheelchair and when people eventually stopped visiting. Edward had no choice but to interact with the only friends who kept coming back. The corvids quickly learned that if they stuck around his window, they would get a good meal. Edward never had an appetite, so most of the time he would give his vast amount of leftovers to his black-feathered friends.

As he was feeding his birds, Edward’s father walked outside to get the mail from the end of their long drive, startling the crows. In a panic all of them flew away, carrying Edward’s gifts with them.

Seeing the flurry of black feathers Edward had an idea. He knew how he was going to walk again.

It doesn’t take much, does it? For up to turn into down. For order to turn into chaos. For reason to turn into insanity. Edward pondered this as he made his way out into the empty field, birdcage in hand, because he knew deep in his bones that his plan bordered on insanity.

The treads of his wheelchair struggled over the loose dirt, but he knew that the miserable journey from the farmhouse was necessary. His dad already pitied him enough, what would he say if they saw him right now? What would they say if they saw him trying to fly?

The cage rattled in Edward’s bony hands. The crows were restless, as one would suspect when so many were confined to such a small space, but Edward tried to pacify the birds as best he could. He assured them that they would be freed soon enough. Edward felt horrible keeping them all in one cage, but he couldn’t carry another, so he and his birds made do with what they had.

Edward finally reached the middle of the field, away from his father’s prying eyes. He opened the cage with care and out poured a flurry of ebony feathers as all of his birds erupted out of the cage. All of the corvids pulled Edward’s weak body by tethers. Their wings became his own.

As the birds began to lift off the ground, they brought him with

them. Ed felt free again. He was able to move outside the confines of his chair again. For the first time since the accident, Ed walked on his own two feet. For the first time since the accident, Ed’s hollow figure was not the object of pity but rather of splendor. For the first time since the accident, Ed felt like a dancer. Ed felt free.

Pertinacity

As the old vines wither, new stems flourish.

In the bareness of winter, worn skin is shed.

Within the horizon of warmth, prosperity is renewed.

Through the haze of sunrays, vibrance encompasses the land. Fresh violets surface, filling the aroma of spring air.

Energetic, the smell of new things to come. Once withered, Now reborn, healthy.

In the Classroom’s Hush, Where

Questions Bloom

In the classroom’s hush, where questions bloom, The mentor weaves knowledge on life’s loom.

They teach not just facts, but resilience and grace, Planting seeds of curiosity in each young face.

On the playground’s canvas, laughter unfurls, The mentor paints kindness with colors that swirl.

They wipe away tears, mend scraped knees, Teaching empathy beneath the old oak trees.

In late-night conversations, by dim lamplight, The mentor listens to dreams taking flight.

They stoke the fires of ambition, whispering, “You’re capable of more than you’re imagining.”

Mountaintop Meditation

Monks chant and hum celestial hymns atop mountain monasteries, yet I find no such building or temple at this peak. I only see a small lake of pebbles scattered about the apex, all ranging in different size, and my crew of companions, tears streaming, as we look down at the canopy of green evergreen pines which had towered upon us few hours previous.

No one hums, chants, or sings, but I hear muffled sniffling of embracing families and friends, all revenant under some divine presence intangible to the body yet moving to the soul, and the soft brisk wind whisps in my ear like a familiar voice revealing the silence of the mountaintop, only interrupted by the ruffling of feathers of an inquisitive eagle.

My mind feels overwhelmed yet at ease by the ethereal Father. Looking among the trees and the waves of mountains emerging from the horizon I can only think but how could beauty not be evidence of God? How is God such a meticulous artisan? My eyes dash from side to side, taking in such dominant perspective and I wonder, does He ever get tired of this view?

Puddles accumulate under my eyelids from the lasering sun. I am on top of the world and nothing but Him looks down upon me. The sun is as clear like a polished crystal chalice, providing the purest and most natural light attainable in our mortal realm. The brightness is overwhelming

yet welcoming to my rosy cheeks as I bask in this once in a lifetime moment in my own monastery.

I cry joy. I cry sorrow. I cry because I want to.

Never before have I felt such reverence to a natural setting on my own accord. The divine shepherd’s presence can be felt only by the soul of the willing lamb, and I find my shepherd returning me to his flock of one hundred sheep. I understand love for myself, my family, my shepherd, and my companions in my witness of the mountaintop.

Dawn declares the day’s beginning. Sunshine sent from rising radiance. Dark dissolved to shadows, thinning. Surviving sun’s irradiance.

Doubts develop when sun stands high. Stars speculate where dark lies in. Dusk declares the day’s conclusion. Sunset seen on the horizon.

Day does end when twilight comes out. Silver slivers stay from the sun’s beams. Darkness descends once they black out. So soon moon will rouse some from dreams.

Deigning while waning to bestow. Moonlight upon the world below.

Climbing Towards Tomorrow

ANDREA

excitedly walked into Coffee Central, practically prancing. The warm aroma of the darkroast coffee beans and fresh berry pastries wafted towards her. The calm acoustic-pop covers clouded the boisterous city bustle. Coffee Central was her oasis from the concrete jungle that brought her peace before attending any appointments.

“Andrea!” Her favorite barista yelled out. “It has been a while, great to see you!”

“I know, I know, just a lot going on right now. It is great to see you too,” Andrea replied.

“How has everything been?”

“Everything is good, just another check-up.”

“Just getting the regular?”

“Yes, but could you add a strawberry tart to my coffee, please?”

“Of course I can, and I hope that the appointment goes well!”

“Thank you! Have a great rest of your day!” Andrea cheered on the way out of the door.

She made her way to the back of the building, her blue eyes glistening in the sun while attempting to find her 2004 navy-blue Toyota 4Runner. Sequoia, as she named it, had a few dents in various places from driving through rough terrain from one adventure to the next. She managed to avoid the bulk of the damage because Sequoia soared high above the ground below with its six-inch lift kit and 42-inch tires.

While approaching Sequoia, she found someone taking photos of it and this excited her. Her pace quickened to a slow jog to be able to greet the enthusiast faster. Eventually, she arrived, introduced herself as Andrea, and cordially invited the person to take a tour of the inside. As she opened the door a medley of odors came wafting out; the smell of last night’s dinner, the stench of her old hiking boots that someday to be replaced, and the faint scent of a futile attempt to mask these odors, a Evergreen air freshener. The cabinets used for storage blocked the entrance to the car

through the rear right door, so the guest had to enter through the back left door. She scrambled to move her map of The National Parks of The United States of America and her old Nalgene water bottles covered in stickers of the remote places she had visited, though no stickers from the summit of any mountain.

There was not much to show, but she started with the bed: an old blow-up mattress on top of two wood pallets with a secondhand clay colored wool blanket, a space heater to keep her warm at night., and a singular pillow sat at the head of her bed to conserve space. She ended with the cracked storage bins full of her gear, including sunscreen and hats to protect her pale, young skin from the strong sun, while expressing her gratitude for her father who had given most of her gear to her after he realized he could no longer spend time outdoors due to medical reasons.

The young enthusiast expressed his gratitude and left. It was rare that she met a fellow outdoors enthusiast in the city; her mood was lifted.

She then drove the quick trip to the hospital. She arrived; her lucky spot was taken but this was not going to knock her down. She made her way to the “Chronic Disease” division of the hospital and was greeted by the welcoming staff; they already had her information from the countless visits so the check-in process was always quick. She knew she would be having blood tests done and made her way back to the room. The tests concluded in the blink of an eye.

She sat still in the examination chair cheerfully awaiting her favorite nurse’s approval to leave; you technically need to wait fifteen minutes after getting blood work done before leaving.

However, when the fifteen minutes were up it was not Cheryl who walked through the door it was her doctor. Andrea knew what this meant.

“Hi! It is great to see you,” the doctor stated.

“It’s good to see you. Is everything okay?” Andrea questioned.

“No, I am sorry, but your prognosis is worse.”

“What does this mean?” The tears began to well in Andrea’s eyes.

“There will be a lot of support for you over the coming months,” the doctor comforted.

“How much time?” Andrea’s pulse was over 150 beats. Her palms dripped in sweat.

“Eight to ten months,” the doctor slowly stated.

“No!” Andrea exclaimed. Her eyes locked onto the face of the doctor who refused to make eye contact with her.

“I know that this can be extremely difficult to hear.”

“I am only nineteen,” Andrea cried. “I was supposed to have so much more time.” She began to sob.

She eventually composed herself and made her way to the car. Once sitting in Sequoia, she broke down again. The biggest question that came to her mind was, “What will I do with the little time I have left?” She found the receipt from her coffee and scribbled a bucket list with a single item on it: climb a mountain. When she was younger, her dreams were about summiting a sixteen-thousand-foot mountain and looking out towards the horizon. She had always wanted to feel as if she was truly on top of the world. But how? She had little money; all her gear had only been used for short weekend trips to escape the city and her apartment.

She began to forge a plan. She planned on having a yard sale.

Immediately she called her dad. Since she lived in an apartment in the city, she had no yard to have the sale on, so she would have to call her father. He picked up the phone from her steering wheel and she told him everything.

“Hi, Dad,” she started.

“What’s up, Andrea?” He replied enthusiastically, “How did your appointment go?”

“That’s what I am calling about. It didn’t go well.” She choked on her words.

“I am so sorry to hear that. Are you okay?”

“Only for the next eight months.”

They both began to cry on the phone. They both knew it was coming for the longest time but did not want to accept it. Now they could not run.

“Why don’t you come over and we can talk about it?” He lived just outside the city, so it was not a far drive to get to.

She arrived and explained her plan to him. She planned on organizing a yard sale to raise money for her grand finale trip and to get rid of her unneeded items before taking off for her the trip of a lifetime. When explaining the plan to him he just stared at her. He knew it was not his choice but without her presence, he would be all alone.

Throughout the next two weeks, she quit her job and spent most of her time around the city and surrounding suburbs hanging up flyers for her yard sale until the day was finally upon her. She had always had an issue with giving things up but did not think it would be an issue. She was going strong until a little girl showed up trying to buy her favorite teddy bear. Andrea could remember countless nights sleeping with the bear and crying in its arms, but there was no way the bear could fit in the car. The space was limited enough, she could only bring the essentials.

The girl could barely see the table. Her rosy cheeks came in and out of view as she jumped attempting to get a better look at the items while her mother browsed a different section of her father’s lawn. Andrea knew what she was trying to get and attempted to get it out of the way. She thought that maybe if no one bought it she would be able to bring it on the trip with her.

Deep down she knew that she was wrong to do this. She was too late. The little girl had already seen the bear before she had the chance to move it out of the way. It hurt Andrea to see it go.

How could the girl getting the bear be better than Andrea keeping it? Then she remembered those restless nights when she cuddled the bear tight; she envisioned the girl doing the same thing. She recognized that the girl would gain much more by having the bear than Andrea would. Andrea decided that her last month’s goal was to make others’ lives better.

After eventually raising enough money by selling nearly all her possessions, she packed up Sequoia and was off. With her, she brought a lightweight, lime green, single-person tent, a sleeping pad, her water bottle and filters, enough food to get out to where she planned to hike from, two outfits, her hat, and a lightweight hiking backpack to keep all the essentials in. The travel to the park was strenuous but no match for trusty Sequoia. Upon arriving, Andrea decided that she was going to spend a few weeks traveling around the National Park to get a feel for the environment and

go on day-long excursions. She did not struggle with the shorter hikes, but when she attempted an eight-mile loop, she had to take frequent breaks because of the mucus build-up in her throat and extreme coughing. After three weeks she had decided it was time to embark on the journey.

She drove outside of the park and found a long-term parking lot to leave her car in during the journey. She left the car at the lot, only paying for a week of parking, and hailed a car to take her to the trailhead. She enthusiastically told her driver about her plans for the next few days.

She had decided that since she had not been feeling well, she planned on hiking only a few miles daily.

The journey commenced at midday. She waited in line at the first trailhead to use the restroom and fill her water. After thirty minutes she took her first step on the trail. Since this trailhead was just a short walk from the visitor center, she did not have to worry about the difficulty of the trail. However, this was not the case further on in the journey. As she journeyed further onto the trail, the crowd thinned. The sky grew darker, faster than she had anticipated, so she pitched her tent in the dark. Lying down on her soft sleeping pad after a long day of hiking made its extra weight worth it.

Everything was going swimmingly until the third day. The bright morning sun had woken her up, like the previous days, but something was different. She attempted to breathe, and it felt like tar was in her throat. She coughed for what felt like a day, almost hacking up a lung, and the thick mucus loosened slightly but no major change. Today was the day she had to summit as a large storm was arriving in the coming days. She knew that she had to keep going, so she persevered. She moved her thin legs and weak muscles up the mountain the whole day, hardly taking breaks in fear of not reaching her goal. She passed a couple on the path who looked hungry, so she decided to give them her extra food. She could barely stomach anything anyway so why keep it? They had a short conversation and she kept moving. The trees disappeared around what would be lunchtime. The end was near. The last part of the hike was the most difficult; near the summit were just large boulders and unwelcoming rock faces. Nothing dared to live up there, not even small plants. Still, she prevailed.

Finally, she had done it. She stared over the peak. It seemed as if

she could see for miles, she imagined the big city she had left behind in the distance. She saw the sun setting and the golden hues that this left on the jagged peaks. The tranquil light glowed so brightly on the scenery around her. She breathed the clean, fresh air, not afraid to cough because no one else was around. Andrea was at peace. She couldn’t stay at the peak for too long because of the wind exposure so she backtracked on the trail for a short while until finding an area suitable for sleeping. Something felt different. She knew the end was coming, but every morning the dream of looking over the mountains and breathing that air had pushed her to keep going. Now she had reached that goal. She had crossed her final dream off her bucket list. There was now nothing to look forward to. From giving the other struggling hikers her extra food, and not selfishly keeping her bear, she had made a positive impact.

As the sun kept setting, she packed her clothes neatly in a pile. She condensed her tent and reserved rations into a pile near the smoke signal fire she started. The area near the camp was surrounded by a flower patch. Solemnly, she walked around, picking the most beautiful ones. Finally, when she had collected the flowers, she used extra paracord and tied a bouquet, placing it at the base of her pack in front of the blazing fire. With empty hands, she made her way to the cliffs at the summit of the mountain. Her whole life since her diagnosis, everyone had told her how long she had to live. She felt like a puppet, her life was not in her control but at the fingertips and diagnoses of her doctors. For once, she felt powerful. She could determine the outcome of her life. It was either trying to fight through the hike down, possibly dying on the way, and then rotting her days painfully in hospice, or dying of her own volition. In the end, she chose control.

The Real Janitor

THE

incessant buzz of the neon OPEN sign flickers to silence. The deadbolt rests sternly on the windowed doors. Freezers full of cool drinks line the walls, and shelves stocked with a colorful ecosystem of snacks divide the store into aisles. The white tiled floor shows specks of food here and there; the plastic broom and dustpan lay lifeless beneath the counter with the coffee machine. The cash register’s money drawer is open.

The woman behind the counter cowers in fear, making sure not to peek her head above the faux-granite countertop. Her eyes stare at the door ajar in front of her: the janitor’s closet.

Beyond the window, the darkness stands still and stares inside. The sound of metal tapping on glass pierces the otherwise stagnant air; it’s shrill as wayward screams. The doors are locked – it’s not enough. Tap, tap, tap. Clink! The sound of metal falling on the floor replaces the tapping.

Ding! The door chimes.

Then, the fluorescent bulbs of the station no longer emit harsh clinical light. Everything is soaked in a deep, thirsty red – the kind used in darkrooms to develop photographs.

A roaring howl comes from the aisle between the chips and the beef jerky. The crumbs disappear from floor, the snacks rearrange themselves by color, and the stained floor is now spotless. An invisible wave of chaos rummages throughout the store, and the lights explode into pitch black when it comes near. The entire store is clean and dark, the way it’s supposed to be after closing time. All of the store is covered in shadow except for the area behind the register.

The woman shuts her eyes and holds her breath.

Crack. The store is as black and empty as a void; only the faint sound of breathing echoes through its pristine aisles.

The formerly dark janitor’s closet is now bathed in a fierce yellow light. The smell would prevent most others from peeking inside, but if one were to look, they would find a shining skeleton. The skull has something chiseled into the forehead: THE REAL JANITOR. The bucket next to the skull is full to the brim of red water, and not a drop of it is on the floor.

from “North Beyond the Boros”

The following excerpt is from Jordan Ingram’s work titled “North Beyond the Boros.” Mack, the story’s central character, had been told a traditional poem, “Eulogy of the Drowned,” which features the Leviathan and its plethora of unholy aquatic depictions and characteristics. Boros is the sea surrounding Mack’s island-city of Naejeki’Boros, Naejeki being the alternative name for the Leviathan. This featured event details a tragic event in Mack’s past.

THELeviathan’s resume did not bode well with young Mack, already one who enjoyed dabbling in the arts. The Leviathan’s mental presence made the lore feel more like history. But as a child, such fears could not be so consciously preserved.

One day, at the age of nine, Mack’s parents would partake in the yearly festival of the Fisherman’s Wake, the second phase of the festival always taking place on the gargantuan Leviathan, a ship bearing the same name of the mythical creature.

As with every year, the Boros sea—rife with boats and ships and starring the Leviathan—was boisterous with cheer. Near the harbor and the beach, speed boat races, swimming contests, and the vibrant carnival Pink Pike echo cheer. Further out in the Boros with the Leviathan were a partying band of ships and other smaller boats.

The family’s cabin was located in the midship. Having been hours into the event—the Moon now reciprocating the Sun’s graces—Mack and his family slept as the rest of the ship continued into the night. It was this night, however, that heavy, umbral, mischievous clouds saw it fit to block the Moon’s shared brilliance.

Soon, the energy of the party reached even the captain and his seamen as they drank away at the gallery of mind-buzzing, temperwarping, gilded rum and old, magenta wines.

With the night in its graceless prime and the ship’s masters near blind of how to handle a ship, three peculiarly shaped juts in the waters became impossible to dodge. And in almost an instant, the urchin-like

spikes ripped a gash in the right side of the ship—below the waterline— so epic it began at the bow, rushed through starboard, and tapered off just before the stern. The ship stopped near immediately as the rudders were obliterated.

The entire ship began sinking and tilted with no time to spare, and when the passengers felt the Leviathan ripple in agony, there was chaos. Being midship, it took Mack’s family longer to find the exits. Screams hailed around the family as mobs of passengers flocked towards them. At the docks, lifeboats were already being deployed en masse. Just when Mack’s father hurried his wife and son to an open lifeboat, the tilt of the ship crashed a room’s worth of furnitures and other objects through the windows, causing the tethers to break, hook onto a descending minifridge, and snag the mother’s ankle, yanking her towards the railings while Mack and the father, and the crowd, were launched into the water. Mack and his father noticed the mother half-stunned and sinking quickly. Mack, the closest, dove underwater to free his mother, but due to the speed of her descent and his lack of age, he just barely grabbed onto the tether, only for his young lungs to begin punching at his chest for air. The father now swam to capture them, both of his only family fifteen feet into the dark waters.

He grabbed Mack, who was still trying to free his mother from the tether.

The father’s eyes darted to nine things: His son. His wife. The tether. His wife. His son. His wife.

The tether. His son.

His wife.

The mother stared at three things: Mack’s eyes glued to her own. His hands at his throat. His cheeks turning blue.

And she pointed at her son, staring into her husband’s eyes. The father knew what had to be done, turning away from his beloved, hardwilled companion. And as the father ascended, the son’s eyes remained glued to his only mother. Thus the waters strangled his screams—his beloved, benevolent life-giver falling into the blackening expanse—and his consciousness could no longer persist as the imagery fully assumed its baleful allusion.

The Leviathan killed his mother.

The Leviathan killed his mother.

On the Neon Sea

Images float throughout the stream, Currents drag the fluorescent lights, See one here, See one there.

The symphony of sounds drowns out the world around, It conducts a dissonance of noise, And before you know it, You’re sinking into the neon sea. But a dam is built, The water stills, The current stops, And the sound is silent.

But it’s only temporary, The dam falls to the cacophony of noise, The streaks of fluorescent light, Flood the world around, Leaving the neon sea wanting even more.

With you, life flourishes. People are grateful, people take note. I appreciate all you bring to life; As without it, there is none.

How could I go back to life without you?

A world made so dry, so dull? One that is unable to be inhabited entirely A place I could not call home.

When I look at your face— Into your beckoning eyes—

All I can see is the essence of healing you encompass. But far greater is your capacity for destruction.

The apple tree in my backyard needed you. Together, you made a tiny seed into a source of sustenance for hundreds.

When you and my dear ol’ tree split ways, My dad brought out the axe.

When you disappear, I too lose my true self. Minutes turn to hours on my lonesome Pleading for just a taste of you.

You’re needed in spades, just not too many. Too much of you is overbearing. I love you, But too much of you can destroy.

A feverish downpour from you

Is something I never fail to appreciate. The beauty in the passion of winds, streaks of rain eternal Drive me mad with obsession.

Unending passion, however, is not passionate. Too much of a good thing is overbearing. Your unending passion kills. A hurricane of sensation from you spells doom for millions.

What do you have to say for yourself, fiend? How can you allow this kind of result to come from your love?

Where too little and too much of it kills? How can one choose between two deaths?

Maybe I’ll drown Just for your sake, love. Compared to a dry, lonely demise I would rather die in your sweet embrace.

Coming to Light

Swirling ‘round the cold wind blow.

Decrepit flora swish to and fro. A curse passed down from generations. The creator sends his condemnations.

Boiled and skewered, stabbed and gut. The door to fate is surely shut.

Spilling crimson as he goes.

Only for him the pearly gates close. All alone at the end of existence.

He finally gave in with no resistance. A vanished curse and futures unclear.

Life soon began to reappear.

No longer in hiding the people could roam.

A new light arrived upon them it shone.

JACK REDDY Chapel

A yellow tint when the haze of the sun blends with fluorescent glow of the lights.

Listen to the fountain. It echoes through the foyer.

Omnipotent silence in a place of chaos.

The silence cleanses the mind, calms the soul.

Wooden door frames mark the entrance. Entering a place of peace, surrounded by stained glass and green plants, true tranquility.

Answer to a Cry

I am alive, yet I feel dead. I am headed in a direction, yet I feel directionless. I am overthinking, yet not thinking right.

Everything seems clear, yet I am in a fog. Why? Why oh why?

I long to be alive. I long to know where to go. I long to walk in clarity and certainty.

“Here I am.

I am life. I am truth.

I am light.

I have been here for a long time, yet you never came.”

I am here now, help me.

“I shall.”

Changes

An examination of gentrification

While I have grown, things have changed all around me.

Environments evolve, never for free.

Neighbors come and go,

Trying to find someone who will not say no.

Rust turns to shine, old becomes new.

In come the once sheltered, now homeless, wondering “What should I do?”

Fortune arises for those who succeed,

Innovative thinkers look at what neighborhoods need. Communities rise and fall, And come back improved after all.

Time strikes fast for those who least expect it.

I get to know the ones who stay and reminisce about the ones who got hit.

Only those who listen and observe can truly hear and see. No one can witness changes unless they are free.

JACKSON WHITWORTH

CARTER ENSLEIN

ЦИКЛ (Cycle) “AGAIN,”

I. ОБУЧЕНИЕ (Training)

demanded Maestra Zhestokiy in an accent as thick as motor oil.

“Maestra, please! I won’t ever say that again!” whimpered elevenyear-old Yekaterina in response to her wicked instructor.

“I know you won’t. Do it again.”

Yekaterina scurried to the center of the ballet training room floor with her head hung lower than a vine of succulent grapes. Her tears fell upon the cold floor she’d found herself dancing upon for several years now. Maestra has forced Katya to do the same taxing routine fourteen times since 7 am. Katya said something Maestra did not like.

“You will never say that you are starving ever again. Some people out there don’t have any food. You should be grateful that you get all the food you need. You have plenty. But if you ate every time you were hungry, you’d eat too much, and your stomach and hips would begin to spill out of your clothing. We don’t want that…do we?” said Maestra.

“No, Maestra Zhestokiy, We don’t.” replied Katya meekly.

But that is all that she ever wanted. The aches in her stomach were too much for even four cups of frigid water to alleviate. After class she was given a portion of borscht, which Maestra only let her have four spoonfulls of.

“But Maestra I’m—” cried Katya.

“Watch your tongue, devochka. You are already fat enough as it is.”

“I know I’m too fat, I do. But my mom used to say—”

“Is she here now? No? No. Who is?”

Katya threw her eyes to the floor, avoiding the shame of meeting her teary cheeks with Maestra’s bottomless brown eyes, for she knew her mother was not to return. She swallowed as salt began welling in her eyes.

“I asked you a question, you witless bastard.” exclaimed Maestra, striking Katya across her delicate red cheeks. Katya fell to the ground gracefully and concealed her pain from Maestra as best as she could.

“You are. You’re here. My mother is not.”

Katya could barely get a word in edgewise as her stifling tears

CARTER ENSLEIN

slowly choked her.

“Good girl. Just think about the feast we will be having on Friday. You can eat what you want for Victory Day.”

As Victory Day came and went, little Katya never saw a celebratory “feast”, only a brittle future and present filled with torment. This abuse continued for years as Katya, whose likeness resembled a hummingbird, crystalized into a magnificent dancer under the pressure and heat of Maestra Zhestokiy.

II.

(Exercise)

She likes to dance more now. Or at least she thinks she does. Regardless, she dances beautifully. Elegantly and with succinct movements, yet not like a swan. She dances like a shark. Her dance is led with her chest while her arms and legs follow behind in perfect synchrony. Katya endures aches and stabs of pain in her joints, a mark the late Maestra Zhestokiy has left on her, among many others. Maestra made Katya into a shell of what she once was, and she pushed her far beyond her limits and then some more. She taught Katya everything she knows about ballet, including how to break your body in half but still look beautiful.

Today, Katya must prove herself competent for the annual Zhestokiy Home for Lost and Troubled Girls show, and she has been learning this routine her entire life. She sits crisscross on the cold Marley floor and paints beige colored foundation over the “European pink” color of her pointe shoes so that they can match her skin tone. The soft makeup sponge glides across the silky ribbon and erases any pink there ever might have been. The spine of the slipper snaps with a light crunch as she breaks into the sole and wraps the now light brown ribbon delicately around her ankle and foot. As she stands up, she leaves small, smudged foundation marks on the floor for she did not let her shoes dry long enough.

The grating bell that greets her every morning seemed to take a hiatus on this day of importance, so Katya is in quite a rush. Needing to stretch out, and as quickly as possible so she can even have a chance at impressing the judges, Katya stands on her toes as the ever so familiar pain shoots up her toe and strains up her calf. She winces with a smile

CARTER ENSLEIN

on her face. Her art is painful, but her pain is art. A searing pain rushes up her thigh while carefully stretching her legs into the splits. Each fiber of her muscle strains and seems to stab themselves. When she begins to hear her muscles rip apart with light pops, she ceases. Looking at herself in the mirror in a fit of agony, she grimaces at the sight of her own body. The only thing left to do is to press through her pain and continue to swing her arms and dance upon her mangled joints. Her fingers were practically drained of blood and frigid to the touch. The knees she once recognized to be her own were bruised and sharp. Her hair is dark and thin, something she inherited from her mother. Katie was not unlike a doll you can bend in every way you desire. But now, the reflection that stares at her is a dancer who is finally loose enough to demonstrate a prowess of pain. Katya rises once more, trotting across the tracks of foundation she left behind on her previous run, winding up her momentum she leaps into the—

Crack.

Slip.

Slap.

Thud.

A warm, cardinal colored pool spills out onto the shiny and pale wood floor. The reflection of an ornate chandelier lingers on the surface. Long dark hair saturates with the essence of the body in which it belongs. Katya cannot see. She cannot think, for the ruckus in her head is too loud to form a thought. The edges of the accident begin to shift into a shade of crimson. A stifled gust ripples the topmost layer of blood. Breathe. All she can do is breathe and exist on the floor. A once elegant slipper lays in a pool of blood, the light brown shifting to a maroon.

The body of the fragile girl lays upon the vast planks of light wooden floor like a fallen gazelle. Her eyes remain closed as her chest rises. Then falls. Rises. Then falls. Her skin is pallid, not unlike the ceiling that caps the studio. Still air whispers in her ear that she is alone. An ambience of music from the food hall twirls through the air. She is drowning in pain, she only has one thing on her mind.

“Please,” Katya pleaded with her body, “please let this be the end.”

A mirror hangs across the expanse of the wall. Through this image the source of her blood is revealed. Her head has opened, and life is dripping out of her by the second.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

She begs her body to concede. In a milky, muted room lays a mangled beauty for one to find. She wishes that nobody will. She musters a deep breath and exhales as the coffee-colored door stays still, locking her body away like a latch on a casket. A beauty has fallen with and from grace, and never will she return to it.

III.

“Welcome, girls. Welcome to your new home. I understand that a lot of you have ended up in this building due to rather unfortunate circumstances, but that does not change the fact that the girls you see in this room are your new family. You will watch your sisters, and yourself, turn into women as one. I was once exactly like you all. Scared. Lost. Orphaned. But I found solace in the loving embrace of ballet, handed to me by my Maestra, the founder of this institution. I was the first student and child to be housed and taught here, also the first prima to come out of these walls, but with my instruction, I will most certainly not be the last. Here at the ZHLTG, you will learn, practice, and gain a myriad of traits: Respect, obedience, discipline, empathy, notoriety, and tenacity. You will be loved. You will be learned. You will be respected. You will be taught. You will be fed. You will speak when spoken to. You will breathe and have only these walls and myself to thank. Across the hall, your dinner is waiting. It is borsch. Nobody in this room will drink or eat a single spoonful until one of you can tell me the most important aspect of ballet. The one thing you will learn so deeply, you’ll regard it as a friend. You’ll accidentally say your own name when beckoning it. You’ll lay with it, wake up to it, stare it in the eyes and fall in love. So. What is it?”

Silence.

“Nothing? None of you have even the semblance of a clue? Fine, you, the blonde one. Yes, you. Come here. Do a spin, any spin, your choice.”

The girl musters the courage to do a twirl. The others are watching, the corners of their mouths starting to move upward. As the little girl

twirls, Katya kicks her leg out from under her and she falls to the ground.

“There it is. That’s your answer. Hurt. To become an excellent ballerina and a true woman, you must learn to deal with it. And here, with my help, you will.”

The little girl lies upon the stained marley floor with tears streaming down her face.

“Now, devochka, do it again and everyone can go eat,” demanded Maestra Katya in an accent thicker than tar.

“But my leg, miss, it hurts” pleaded the little girl.

“It’s Maestra. Now do it again.”

The Bullet Wrapped Around My Finger

The following excerpt is from Evan Cornwall’s work titled “The Bullet Wrapped Around My Finger.” The narrator struggles to piece together the facts surrounding her husband’s death. When her memories and facts collide, she faces a difficult truth. This is the first chapter, titled “Sunshine.”

THERE

Sunshine are many occurrences of red. The intrusive pop of cherry, the reassuring, smooth light hue of a poppy field, the frustrating glow of a traffic light... and the Crimson that seeps from smooth skin into a lightbrown carpet on a brisk, sharp, unforgiving January morning. Trickling down his arm like a river, carving patterns into goosebumps and body hair. It is thick. It is sweet. It is warm. Blood defines the life of a man, as it defines the life of my husband, his last rattling breaths, the soft gurgle of this thick liquid from his sweet lips, and the ghostly, haunting look of regret that claims his expression. Now, blood defines our bedroom carpet, each strand of his golden hair curling around each one of my fingers, playing at my hands. I lean in close, body shaking and trembling, my screams already having fled my throat, and weep for him. Salty tears pour from my eyes as they gaze into his. I fall into his lifeless stare, observing the redness of his own eyes, and each sliver of muscle that crafts his beauty. Those same eyes gazed at me as we danced in the kitchen, told me they loved me, leaked tears onto my shoulder, and gleamed as we planned our future in hushed, excited whispers when the early hours of the morning tempted us to bed, where his eyes would rest. Minuscule veins reach to his pupils like tendrils and vines, but all I can see is the reflection of a lost gleam, his final attempt to tell me he loves me. I choke on my own despair and press my lips to his cheek. It is still warm. He can’t feel it. He loves me. He loved me, but he didn’t tell me one last time, only gurgled a pitiful gasp of sadness and desperation.

Kneeling, and cradling his body, I rock back and forth gently, like a boat lost at sea rocks on small waves. Surprise claims me as a solemn song breaks the room, stretching to coat the blood-stained carpet, dim

overhead fanlight, bedside table, and frosted windows in its aggressively calming sweetness. The tune comes from my own cracked, shaking lips. You are my sunshine, to the forest green curtains that he picked out, which now playfully reveal the snowy outdoors and teasing strips of sunlight which catch the dark pool on the light carpet. My only sunshine, to our simple full-sized bed, where we will never sleep again, where I will never again hold his head in my lap and kiss his skin and feel his hair and smell home in the white sheets. You make me happy, to the light blue walls, now trademarked with sunlight and a dim yellow glow, creating a space where I should feel secure and content. When skies are gray, to the frosted over windows, claiming a quarter of the wall that I face. Darkness to my left, glow to my right. You’ll never know dear, to the corner of the room in which we were going to put the crib, for a child that we will never have. How much I love you, into his pale ear, as if he could hear me.

Outside, the world turns, billions of gears continue to turn the clock of capitalism, greed, love, sadness, money, joy, and pain. People click into place, bustling cities generate light and possibility, rolling country sides trademark peace and escape, and powerful mountains serve the few dangerous souls brave enough to conquer them. They do not know my pain, nor does the smooth blanket of snow that silences our neighborhood and the back woods around our house. Nor do the hooting owls and chittering squirrels, or dark mighty oaks. In this moment, I am a sailor, alone in a boat of pain and shock, floating in a sea of grief and hopelessness. Everything is quiet. The world will never see me finish my song with one last kiss goodnight and a breath into the face of a man I love,

Please Don’t Take my Sunshine Away

Now, silence engulfs everything. It claims my soul, pulling me further and further into a world far from the one in which my husband died. I know I should dial the police, but I need to hold onto my love for a moment longer. I am struck with how closely this moment parallels those late, quiet nights we spend together, holding each other, whispering to each other, loving each other. Now, it is only I that loves him.

Slowly, my hand reaches to my side and penetrates a soft jean pocket, and I grasp my cell phone. Cold metal chills the bones in my hand, and a gasp escapes me.

Why must it be so cold?

An eternity passes as I stare lifelessly at the shaking object in my hand, so smooth, so shiny, so reflective, and finally I press the cold metal to my ear.

“911, what’s your emergency?” A firm and gentle tone cuts the silence, intruding on my last moments with my love.

“He’s dead,” I whisper.

“Who’s dead, m’am?”

“He is,” I state simply.

“M’am, I need you to work with me here. Take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on. The police are on the way.”

“Hmm.”

“Who’s dead?”

“He is!” I scream, “He’s dead!” Tears find me again, and each drop that runs down my face seems to carve lines in my skin. I can hardly breathe. I become reduced to a whimper, to my primal form. Convulsions seize my body, which folds in half. Fire rises through my throat as I scream, and scream, and scream. “He never got to tell me he loved me!” I fling the cell phone across the room and watch the glass of the glowing screen shatter in slow motion, the breaking of a lifeline, the only thing that could have saved him, would have saved him, suspended infinitely in a moment of time, on the light blue walls of our bedroom, now forever stained with grief and pain. I continue to shake, convulse, and scream, desperate, inhuman sounds claiming my vocal cords.

One. Two. Three.

I take a deep breath and move. My fingers wrap around my love’s bloody wrists, pulling him with me. Adrenaline courses through my veins, injecting me with a strength that I have never known. Lactic acid pairs well with adrenaline; pain motivates me to pull harder. A bloody corpse slides across a light carpet, and I make for the back door. The back door is freedom, the gate to heaven. It will just be me and him, just like we always talked about. His body slides across hardwood, cold tile, carpet, leaving a streak of red behind him. What an image I must be, holding my dead husband in some desperate attempt to keep him in my life, face wet from tears, dark blood pooling beneath my feet, illuminated by red and blue pouring in through the windows, completely surrounding me. This moment exists as the last desperate cry of me and him against the world.

I am as a captain of a ship watching her vessel be blown apart, but the splinters of the hull are the splinters of the door breaking in, and the police are upon me. Life is slow, and peaceful for a moment, winding down until I am on a beach, watching the swirling gray storm on the horizon, basking in the white sand. And then, the water takes me.

My body slams to the cold tile floor, my wrists bound with painful metal. My soul trapped.

“Don’t move!” A voice hits me like a bullet to the heart, and in that moment, I die.

Family Business

RAIN

clamored beyond the window, and dark clouds stretched across the grey sky. Few ventured out in the rain, across the street to Ealing’s Broadway Station, and the rest sat at home gloomy–or worse, busy with some wicked work. Except for Paige. Content with the day, she lounged in a chair by the window, her eyes peering through a thin veil of dark hair she hadn’t bothered to move out of the way. In her hands she clutched a book, its pages yellow and the cracked type faded. The worn, leatherbound volume stood in sharp contrast with her fine white blouse. As she advanced through each chapter, she paused and looked up, scrutinizing the city streets lurking before her–streets illuminated by some far away, dull sunlight. She mumbled to herself as she read, pulling together the pieces of plot and making connections, revealing her insights to no one but the empty streets before her.

“The General has been lying... his attack on North Island... he’s helping the enemy... diverting forces and attention...”

Behind her, familiar figures moved in and out of the grand room in their restless agitation and activity, hovering around the shining oak table, stuffed leather chairs, and the glistening display cabinets laden with valuables. But Paige kept reading and thinking. Years ago, she adapted to interruptions–to strange voices, shouting, and clashes–perfecting the art of tuning everything else out best savor the words in front of her. And few interruptions were truly worthy of leaving the world she immersed herself in; the brawl of 1907, the house fire of 1912, and the whole 1916 draft incident were notable exceptions, as they directly threatened her health and safety.

“Paige, why don’t you come do something productive for a bit, instead of just wasting the day reading some dusty old book. You could finally join us in the ol’ business,” some uncle or cousin yelled. It sounded like Cousin Theo’s raspy voice. The voice faded as it stretched to the parlor where Paige hid herself away in, the booming words traveling from an office or salon a story or two above. Paige didn’t even look up.

JOEY KNIZNER

For most people, reading was a means to end. Read to get instructions, to get news. But literature captivated Paige in and of itself. From the careful way she turned the crisp pages, her greedy eyes tracking to the first word on the next, she savored every sentence. Sentences built to paragraphs, paragraphs built to chapters, and chapters were a universal measure of time and experience–in books and life alike. Even the most fantastical, tumultuous story held wisdom and insight into the daily routine she found herself in.

Hostage negotiations, for example.

“I’d say that quietly sitting here reading is a lot better than plotting and pacing, doing some business that’s going to get you all killed,” she avowed, settling back into her book.

Muffled voices traded ideas as quickly as the family traded guns under the Victoria Bridge every month.

“C’mon, Paige,” the voice–Cousin Theo she was now certain–yelled back. “Just sit in with us for once–”

“Not interested.”

“See what it is we actually do.” Theo paused to confer with someone again. “You’d get to live through something exciting, see firsthand the type of adventure like in those books you’re always reading.”

“If you–if any of you–had ever read anything before in your life, you’d realize I do experience exciting things.” With a snarl, “And never at the cost of a life. Please tell Ben, I will never–”

“This is important, Paige. Just give us a chance.”

“Leave me alone, Theo.”

For a moment, he stopped. Hoping he’d given up, Paige tried to focus on the words dotting the paper before her. She peered at the book, but her eyes glossed over the bleak, far away words. Her hands trembled, and she squeezed her eyes shut, her mind tumbling at having referenced the man who ruined her life.

Not now. She thought, a hot tear sliding down her cheek. Not ever.

The thunder of Theo’s footsteps–a man with more kills on his conscience than the butcherer down the street–broke her reverie. Knocking through the door, Theo stumbled in, his tweed cap askew and his tie crooked, like his teeth; perhaps he had too thoroughly celebrated the nearby pub being placed under the protection of the family, which set him

off balance.

Paige turned away from him, settling her eyes on the outline of the railroad station, willing to ignore him until he left. Just like she’d always done.

“Paige, I know you don’t like the idea of working with us. You’ve made that clear enough for quite some time now. Since you were old enough to know about all this really...” His voice trailed off. Shaking his head he played his last card, “But if you sit in on just one meeting–just planning a bit of pick-up, that’s all–we’ll leave you be.”

“All of you?” Paige questioned, her words betraying her disbelief.

“All of us. Most of the family agrees.” Theo replied, then, with a cringe, “For once.”

“All of you?”

“Well, me, Oscar, Arthur, Thomas, Harry and George reluctantly, Winny–”

“Ben?” Paige asked, suddenly skeptical.

“It was Ben’s idea.” A pause.

“And the women? Do my other cousins and aunts agree or–”

“Yeah, they agree.”

Paige felt the weight of the book in her hand and fidgeted with a corner of the text. I could be free.

“Paige, will you do it?”

“One time?”

“One single time. It’ll be quick.” Theo shifted his weight. “It’ll hardly take an hour. All you gotta do is just be there while we formalize the details. Just sit in on the meeting. Then you can run back here and get back to–”

“Don’t push it, Theo.”

“C’mon, isn’t this the type of opportunity you’ve been waiting for?” She looked away. “Do this one, easy thing and then we’re all get off your back about joining us. Though, of course the idea is you’ll come and help us today, and realize–”

“Stop talking, Theo,” Paige snapped.

“Paige, take this deal,” he sighed. “You know the family doesn’t normally make deals or compromise. In fact, I don’t know if it ever really has... I mean there was that one time with that constable from Camden...

and then–”

“One hour?”

“One hour.” Theo affirmed, snapping back to focus. “You’ll see how we operate and plan, see how things work, then, after you run back down here, the rest of us’ll start loading up to leave. And no one will bother you with family business again.”

“One hour.” She repeated, her voice a whisper. Her eyes ablaze, “Fine. And then I’m done. With all of it.”

“Atta girl, Paige,” Theo boomed. “We may make something out of you after all.”

“When are you planning this heist?” she asked, ignoring that last part.

“As soon as you get up to the parlor.”

“Let’s get this over with,” she sighed. Closing her book, she placed it on the pile beside her chair. Stepping past Theo’s lopsided grin, Paige approached the steep stairs. Glancing up as she ascended, her eyes locked onto a picture on the wall–framed by the sun. As she fixated on the face, a vivid memory squeezed its way into her consciousness, reminding her of everything she had to lose.

The sunlight had leaked through frosty panes, bathing the room in a gentle glow. A neat bookshelf had waited in one corner, its rows lined with colorful editions, having been illustrated with wonderful pictures and whimsical characters. A child’s bed had bounded another corner, and a plush chair had rested atop a soft rug against the back wall.

A small child sat on the floor, entranced by the tale her mother was telling. The tall woman occupied the chair, gesturing to a book in her hands and mouthing the simple words. Her upright posture gave her a regal air, but her kind eyes and face diffused any of the anxiety associated with addressing royalty. Dark hair flowed behind her, and, to the child, seemingly became one with the shadows playing on the wall.

A man sat beside his child, feigning the utmost interest the children’s story and playing along, his arm protectively around his daughter, his back to the falling sun. His other hand rested on the floor, no more

than a half dozen centimeters from the reliable Webley pistol he’d kept at his side ever since the family started doing business. He always had to be prepared.

The minutes had slipped by in an instant, and soon the book’s worn pages were pressed together again; Hitty’s first hundred years were up, and the small doll had settled down to complete a memoir of her travels.

The child, who had sat still and engaged for so long, finally began to stir and stretch, yawning; the sun had nearly vanished, having receded into darkness.

Ready to put her child to bed, the woman stood up. Glancing past her family and towards the window, the woman froze, her eyes catching some flicker of movement in the distance. The man sensed the disturbance and jerked his head towards the glass–

The window shattered, a bullet whistling through the tight space, ultimately finding its mark.

The child cried, fighting her father’s tight embrace until long after Aunt Emily and Uncle Arthur had carried the body away. The beloved mother and wife was gone, though her blood forever tainted a pair of delicate dolls as her crimson life seeped out, stretching towards the bookshelf and bed.

But all the young girl could remember from the aftermath was her father’s soft voice tickling her ear with promises she didn’t understand, about people she’d never heard of, offering assurances she could not comprehend.

And he delivered. Soon.

But he could never bring back what they’d lost. No amount of bloodshed could do that.

She was gone.

Sharp voices roused Paige from an uneasy sleep, her mind still unsettled by the short-sightedness of yesterday’s meeting, by her family’s unwillingness to see their own flaws. Even when their own lives were on the line. Even when they had the chance to avoid the suffering of their loved ones.

Money speaks louder. Paige thought with a twinge of disgust,

brushing aside stray hair. Even louder than family.

Her quick footsteps echoed as she hurried down the hall, shuffling past traces of mud, blood, and the occasional glint of bullets or the odd abandoned Webley handgun resting in the privacy of night. Dark shadows painted the walls as she approached the crack of light flickering like fire, leaking from the thick double doors down the hall; bodies gestured in the midnight meeting, accompanied by, of course, shouting and swearing.

Her pace never faltered as she approached the door.

Bursting into the parlor, the room fell quiet, curses dissipating mid syllable, arms freezing and heads whipping around as Paige strode to the center of the room.

A semicircle of plump chairs occupied the space, and a single grimy, blood-stained sack next to Uncle George was the only evidence that anyone from the heist had returned. No light peaked through the windows, but, unfortunately, the flickering artificial bulbs made the room usable.

Uncle Arthur and Aunt Emily sat near the door, with Cousin Amelia beside them. Uncle George stood across from them, and Uncle Oscar loomed frozen at his right. Aunt Isla had leaned in close to Uncle Harry, who had leveled his gun at the source of the noise the moment Paige crashed in, like a wild bullet biting through a rotten plank.

Ben stood motionless besides Harry, his hand having instinctively knocked the Webley to the ground. He watched Paige with cautious interest, masking his momentary panic.

After a few tense seconds stretched by, Aunt Emily spoke.

“Paige, what are you–”

“What happened?” Paige urged, cutting her off. “Where is everybody?”

Uncle Harry growled, “It’s none of your–”

“Sure it is, it’s her family too,” Cousin Oscar cut in, catching a sharp look from Harry.

“Where is Cousin John?” Paige continued, furrowing her brow. “Where is Theo? Charles?” Only Ben would hold her inquisitive stare, but his face held no clues. “Where did they all go?”

“The heist–” Amelia started, shifting in her seat. “The heist didn’t go as planned.”

“How?” Paige demanded. Turning to George and his stained, soiled attire, “Is George the only one who came back? We–no, you, you all sent six of us even though I told you it was a trap. The setup was far too perfe–”

“Paige,” Arthur countered, “Johnny’s never done us wrong before. It was your word against his. How would we know–”

“And where is this backstabbing, low-level mug now?”

“He’s dead, Paige,” Ben announced, entering the conversation. “Shot him myself. As for–”

“Kill one, lose five then,” Paige hissed, letting the bitterness she’d harbored and buried for so long openly color her speech. “I know you lot struggle with arithmetic, but I expect even you can recognize that’s hardly equal.”

At her attack, the room fell silent again. She held no smoking gun, but the vehemence of her words was forceful enough.

“We only lost one, you impudent wench,” George muttered. “If you’d care to listen.”

“Where did you say the others were taken?” Harry asked, dismissing Paige.

“The Yard detachment was from Brent, that slime town,” Aunt Isla snarled.

“I’ll contact Dr. Grey,” Emily offered, shifting to see past Paige and across to Ben and Harry. “He’s a native of Brent and could check where they’re being held.”

“Absolutely not. Grey will go to the constable if we approach him, Emily,” Harry retorted, “We need to see what we have on Edwards and get him–”

“Is this all you do?” Paige accused, looking at each of them in turn. “Rob, blackmail, kill? Extortion and coercion? Is this all you are? Is this all we are–our family?”

“Paige, I think it’s time for you to leave,” George called. “We’ve got enough of a hassle on our hands as it is.”

Unfazed, Paige turned to where Ben sat. Ben, the man with the final word over the whole operation. Over the whole family.

“Is this what Mother would have wanted us all involved in?” Paige sneered. “You all are criminals, murderers, thieves, gangsters. Did she see–before taking your bullet–how much of a greedy, uncouth, repulsive animal

JOEY KNIZNER

you are?”

All eyes snapped to Ben, and Paige was distinctly aware of the Webley hung at his hip. His hands rested innocently on the chair, but could drop her dead in a heartbeat, she knew. Everyone in London heard the stories of retaliation after his wife’s murder. Of the blood that stained Ealing’s streets, so much that even the rain struggled to find untainted ground. Even Scotland Yard never publicly released suspect information, instead busying themselves collecting the bodies and investigating quietly until evidently dropping it. In Ealing, everyone knew you didn’t cross someone like Ben and live to tell about it.

After a moment–never breaking his gaze with the young women challenging him–he spoke. And she had only heard him speak so soft, so calm once before.

“Paige, your mother planned that operation–the one that got her killed–not me.”

She froze, all other thoughts irrelevant. She felt the stirrings of nausea in her stomach.

“She’s the one who got the family all together–and she knew exactly what she was doing, what the risks were. I warned her not to start something with the Merton gang, but she did it anyway.”

He paused, his eyes glassing over, his mind beholding a cracked memory from decades before–memories from before his life, too, was shattered by tragedy. Memories of when Ealing was a nicer, safer place, the type of place you could raise a family. His face betrayed flickers of sadness and joy as he recalled all that was, and all that was lost. His voice remained unsettlingly gentle, but sorrowful.

“She was a very confident woman, you know, and I am burdened every day that you didn’t get to be raised by her, that you’ve been deprived of what you’ve been deprived of. She was truly a good person, cared a lot about this family.” His eyes hardened, as if pained to continue. “I swore I would never ruin that picture for you, that I would never ruin your memory of her. But I can’t lie to you anymore.”

Paige stood in shock, her eyes locked onto his. His words ricocheted in her mind as she struggled to grasp them, struggled to process what he was saying. My mother was not my mother. Tears obscured her vision, and her balanced suddenly proved unstable. My mother was a murderer. She dropped to her knees, the room spinning. And my father lied... to protect

me from that–

“And I see her intelligence and confidence lives on in you.”

From the grimy carpet, she heard his voice dwindle to a whisper. Above the roaring of her heart in her ears, her mind ringing like the day shattered glass rained on her–and the coppery blur struck dead her childhood and future.

The bullet that was ruthlessly avenged.

The bullet that served justice.

The bullet that ruined everything.

The bullet that was supposed to find its mark in Ben, the man behind it all. Only he wasn’t.

My mother was a monster, like the rest of them.

So what does that make me?

Sleep was fleeting, the rumble of Broadway Station preventing fitful rest even though it hadn’t changed schedules for a decade.

“Paige? C’mon Paige you gotta talk to us.” The knob rattled, but the latch held firm. No light slipped through the ornate curtains.

Her room brooded in darkness, and she could barely see her hand before her face. The time of day was unknown, irrelevant.

“Please, Paige, talk to us, say something,” someone called from beyond her door, harassing it with knocking.

She needed to get away. But no matter where she went in this city or what she did, she could never just be an ordinary person.

From the glares she catches, shocked expressions cast her way, or the people who slink back as she wanders to the bookstore, every time she walks out of the house, her family name marks her. No matter how much she could pretend she didn’t notice, or liked to believe she imagined it.

Even the bookshop owner–kind Mr. Marks, who’d recommended some of the best written distractions Paige had ever laid eyes on–took on a much quieter and mousy demeanor the day Aunt Emily walked with her to the small shop.

And she could never walk through that door, into the humid air of the musty storefront, without the short man’s eyes widening, darting behind her, expecting some violent family thug.

“Like Theo promised, we won’t bother you about business again.” Her family had done too much for too long for anyone in London to escape the curse of its name and reputation.

Even in the innocent and insignificant corner of the city the bookshop rested in, family business trailed behind her. Whether she liked it or not, this unwieldy mechanism of lawlessness would keep ravaging her life.

What could she do?

“Paige, please say something. We need to know you’re okay.”

To escape their influence would mean to leave. To go far away to a place where no one would know her. But even traveling as far as Norfolk–though what poor soul would want to live in Norfolk–wouldn’t be far enough. His and Her Majesty residing in Birmingham amplifies any and all news in London, including occasional reports of family business. And leaving and making a new life which required funds, and to do it quickly enough to get out ahead of the aftermath of the failed heist would almost certainly leave a tangible connection back to the family. A connection that would land her in a cell, if realized.

Not that, in this uncertain time, anyone would authorize her to take the money anyway. And no amount of TNT could break the safe in the cellar, not that making the family an enemy was an option either.

“Paige? Open the door, Paige.”

If she couldn’t leave, maybe she could at least get out ahead of the impending destruction; the family was in an impossible situation, dedicated to a rescue but dismissive of the dangers and effects of their current plan.

Maybe if she helped the inspectors and detectives, she could work out a deal for herself. She had never done anything illegal, and the one time she “helped” plan something, she was fervently against the whole operation. Testimony from anyone in the family would confirm just how little she wanted to do with all this.

But the family.

“Paige, I know you’re upset at Ben, he should have told you–we should have told you. Let us make it right.”

Rough, mean, and violent, sure, but they were also the only ones who cared about her.

Whether she liked it or not, Ben and the others were looking

JOEY KNIZNER

out for her and would protect her from any retribution from rival gangs, bobbies–or the Crown for that matter, foolish as it would be. They were the ones who raised her when her mother died, and they kept her protected from harm all these years.

No, turning over her family–betraying them–would not be acceptable.

Is that what her mother would have wanted?

She couldn’t leave, but she also couldn’t make a free life for herself in London either.

There was no way be autonomous without the family–with its dangerous reputation and wretched business, its nightly squabbles and poorly managed resources, and its unstable foundation. Might the only life near those who cared about her–outside of prison–include a more active role in their business right here in Ealing?

And, more importantly, with time and effort, could this business change?

“Paige?”

Could their name stand for something different one day? Something better?

The distant thundering of a bullet interrupted her; it resounded with a deeper, more threatening pitch than the puny Webley’s the family favored so much.

“George! Tell Alex to stay out of the arms cabinet. Little rat shouldn’t be allowed a gun...”

Snapping up to her feet, Paige peeked through the thick curtains, her pupil stinging as a sliver of sun crossed it–

–and she threw herself on the ground, having glimpsed several figures crouching on the rooftop across the street.

“Now, Paige, I know you’re thinking about your mother. Many of us knew her. Maybe together we could even find some of her old stuff. Please, just come on out.”

Holding her heart, she tensed, her eyes squeezed shut. Her mind spun, and for a moment she was a child again, in this same room, watching her mother die. The bullet came from the window, across the street...

Fighting against the grasp of memory, she forced her eyes open and made herself focus on the present danger. Slinking to the edge of the curtain, she pried it open a fraction and peered out, seeing in a new light.

JOEY KNIZNER

And the family would never notice.

Still divided on how to retrieve the heist crew–and get their hands on a sum of money while they were at it–no one was looking outside, no one was paying enough attention.

The echoes of inflamed voices still rattled through the house; Ben and the others had worked and plotted until daybreak, evidently. Circumstance distracted the top minds of the family, who were now exhausted, agitated, and unbalanced. No one would see what was coming.

Ben would be blindsided. Again.

And this time he would not live to avenge it.

“Paige, I don’t know what you’re afraid of. C’mon out. We’re family.”

Paige eyed the figures on the roof, rationalizing–and ignoring her pounding heart–that the rooftop figures would likely be only a portion of the attack.

After what happened with her mother, anyone willing to cross the family knew they must be ready to exterminate it, to snuff it out completely and scatter the ashes–or they would be burned one day when the fire roared back.

Peering down, Paige studied the figures on the street, watching the shifting mosaic of dark suits, dark caps, and dark cases. Any one of them could be an operative, waiting for the moment to break off and storm her home, to attack the inconspicuously connected townhouses that served as the base and barracks for the family. Behind the pedestrians, one by one four black Crossley automobiles slipped to a stop a block away. Men in cheerless suits emerged from each, heading down the street towards the house.

Unlike her family’s agents, these operatives weren’t wearing their distinctive tweed caps. They were the enemy; sleek, well-armed, wellorganized. They were death. And they were coming.

Looking back to the sidewalk, the same dozen inconspicuous men had walked past several times now. And in hardly a minute, the reinforcements up the street would meet them, and they’d be ready to attack.

This was an ambush, no doubt about it.

“Paige?”

A threat lurked here and now, primed and ready to strike the family

as it reeled and fought over how to respond to the blow it had already taken. The target was presently wounded and weak. Blind. Unfocused.

“Paige?”

And–without warning–this next strike would overturn a dynasty spanning decades in its own sanctuary, replacing it with an even viler evil in a mere matter of hours.

“Paige?”

But these assailants could have the crime, the guns, the hits, the dirty deeds fit only for dark nighttime streets.

“Paige?”

This city, this block, this operation–her inheritance, challenge, and obligation–was her family’s. Was hers.

“Paige?”

Taking a breath, she stood up from her careful crouch beside the window. Approaching the locked door, she moved quickly through the darkness, feeling the shadows of conflict dissolve behind her as she made her resolution.

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