I sit on the floor of our now empty living room. The hardwood that we once danced on is stained with blood. The creaks in the house tell the story of what happened. The walls that once talked of love and passion, gossip in hushed voices of pain. I stand to walk through the hallowed halls to say one final goodbye. I can’t bear the stories of the wind or the whispers of the walls anymore. Even the good memories here have turned gray. It’s time to move on, I need to be free from the ghost of this house.
I walk into our kitchen. When I close my eyes, I can almost smell the chocolate chip cookies we baked on that first night we moved in. I can see you pretending to love the new recipes I tried, even when I burned them so badly, they could be used as coal. Overwhelmed, I back out into the hall. The memories of your minty kisses after you brushed your teeth and the smell of your alpine body soap, drag me down the hall stopping me at our bathroom. I turn from its entrance taking a few steps, hesitating before entering our bedroom. This is where
The Drip
Meg Fort
Drip... drip...
The dripping won’t stop. He had called a specialist to the house four times, and all four were useless to stop that damn leak. The man gripped his temples, calloused fingers massaging old leathery skin. It ticked on endlessly, a consistent rhythm that seemed to drill into the back of his head with each drip. The intervals were long, lasting days before being pulled out by the tide and stopping. It never stopped for long. The man stared down at the paper, his eyes lingered on the incomplete sentence below, a sheer drop like the ledge of a mighty cliff, plunging into the white void. He stared, waiting for that natural urge to write, the innate sense to complete a tale to seize his hand and pour the future onto the page. He waited.
Drip.... drip....
The leak whistled its out-of-time tune, demanding to be heard, to be addressed. The man threw down the pen, an exasperated groan ripping through the distant dribble. Quiet was all he needed, was it too much to ask for? Too much, it was all too much. The dripping, the buzzing of the lights, the acrid, stale air of the room. The frustration gripped his brows, furrowing in a deep scowl. A writer must be granted the proper condition to create, must he not? Lest that blank page remain forever. That blank page. The longer the man stared at that sinister white, the more it seemed to reach. It moved slowly, silently crawling up until it bubbled out of the page and came cascading across the smooth wood of the desk before creeping down its finely carved legs.
Drip... drip...
Icarus –
Charli R. Miller
Altimeter reads: 56,000 feet
Smoke fills the cockpit, burning my lungs. I just want to touch the sun.
Altimeter reads: -4,000 feet
Water fills the cockpit, freezing my soul. I just wanted to touch the sun.
Gold
Emma Baxley
A-
I saw this and thought of you.
With all my love, H
Inside the black velvet box lay a silver oval locket, empty. It sat upon the walnut dresser, coated in dust, home to few items, lightened by age from the lone window in the upstairs attic. The dried whorl print, hidden on the back of the crystal vase, was the only thing that remained.
Self-Infliction
Dillon McElwee
It was muddy. The tent was hastily thrown up. The sky was grey, ash and smoke had soaked it through like blood through gauze. Napalm and formaldehyde had saturated the inside of the tent, creating a reeking, unforgettable stench. The army doctor hurried around the four or so patients agonizing in their dirtied sheets, some more whole than others. The doctor kept calm, his voice low and his emotions in check. He knew these terrified boys needed a calm body to tell them they would be okay.
“Clear a path!” The doctor heard a group of soldiers approaching, ripping the tent open with haste as they set another comrade down on the closest bed they could find. The doctor walked over, preparing to gather a read on the situation, “What is the injury?”
“Gunshot, Doc. He was just in his tent by himself, then we heard a bang from outside. Now we’re here... you can probably fill in the rest.”
The doctor nodded, “I’ll take it from here.” He motioned toward the door for the boys to leave, before turning his attention back to the injured soldier. The soldier’s eyes were wide and scared, and the doctor could tell he was young. The kid looked like he had reached out to pet a feral dog, only to get bitten. His face was deathly pale, and blood had completely seeped the cloth around the wounded shoulder, enough that the fabric’s
original color was completely unknowable, and blood still shot from the wound itself in rapid-fire bursts. The situation was very dire.
The doctor glanced at the boy’s dog tags, they read: Adams, Clive. He then hurriedly began removing the bullet and cleaning the wound, trying to stem the bleeding as much as possible while talking, albeit more to himself than the boy, “Right shoulder, near the humorous and glenohumeral joint... based on bleeding pattern the suprascapular artery was hit. No exit wound, so bullet must still be lodged, possible infection. Entry wound is small, clearly handgun caliber... makes sense, rifle would be impractical...” The doctor stopped, and now his words were to the boy directly: “Why’d you do it?”
“They were gonna kill me, doc.”
“The enemy?”
“No, not them. The ones ordering us around. They wanted to send us back out into that hell... I’m not-,” he paused for a moment, wincing in pain and collecting his thoughts, “I’m not s’posed to be here, doc. I was gonna have a good life, going to college... and I had a girl waitin’ on me,” The soldier paused for a moment and his eyes drifted off, and the doctor could tell he was more focused on seeing the memories playing in his head than with the reality around him.
The soldier looked back up at the doctor, “Hell if it weren’t for that damn-”
“The draft. Not many exceptions. I know how you feel, son.”
“I just don’t wanna die in this place, doc. I figured if I had an injury that made it so I couldn’t-”
The doctor interrupted again, “I see...” He finished his procedure, plugging the wound and gesturing for the soldier to keep pressure on it.
“So what’s gonna happen doc?”
“Give me your arm, son, I’ll put in an IV, it’ll make the pain go away,” the doctor made a precise incision and inserted the plastic tube. He hooked the tube up to a bag, before mixing a couple various pharmaceuticals into it, “You’re gonna feel really sleepy soon, but don’t be scared. It means the drugs are working.”
The kid’s terrified expression faded a bit, and he looked up at the doctor. “Will I see my girl again, doc? Is it over?”
The doctor responded, “It’ll be over soon, son. Just sit tight.” As the words left his mouth he could see the young soldier had already drifted off, the meds working quick and putting him to rest. The doctor stood still for a moment, looking at the boy with solemn, tired eyes before walking away to the back of the tent, sitting down on a dingy chair next to a collapsible table.
Under the dim light of an oil lamp, he poured over a piece of paper on a clipboard, a list that compiled the names of patients, their associated conditions, and current state before adding a final addendum for Clive:
- Steding, Harold: Shrapnel wound near femoral, blood loss heavy. Dead on arrival to clinic.
- Inger, James: Fever & coughing, most likely TB. Morphine administered to ease passing. Dead on 5th day
- Adams, Clive: Gunshot wound to right shoulder, near suprascapular artery. Administered double morphine dose to ease passing. Dead in 5 minutes upon arrival.
The doctor’s hand held the pencil over this last sentence, lingering for a few moments. He then crossed this out, instead writing:
- Adams, Clive: Tried to set himself free. Were it that we were all so brave. Another pointless waste.
Come Sweet or Sour, I’ll Be With You Kain Brandenberg
“Sorry, Mr. Anderson, your insurance coverage no longer extends out to the frontier. I can put you in touch with a Lunacia representative to review your plan's updated policy or change your insurance plan, if you like.” spoke the, android, receptionist with a false voice through synth-flesh lips.
“I’m too old for this. Listen, I said this to the last bot they had here. Why do I have to change plans for something that’s always been in place since I was 23? I want to talk to a flesh and blood human. Not a pile of circuits acting like it’s alive,” ranted the wrinkly gray bearded man in a well-worn leather overcoat and wrinkled clothes.
After staring at Anderson passively, the LED on the android’s chest flickered blue and a small drone flew into the lobby, “Please follow the drone to Mr Bartosz’s room, he’ll be open to discussing this with you.” She waved down the next person in line.
He scoffed at the machine’s stale response and followed the drone at a slow pace.
The receptionist mutters to herself as automatic doors closed behind Anderson. “It’s 3052 for crying out loud.”
He walked through corridor after corridor, turning corner after corner, he ended up before that bastard’s door. As he slammed the door open, his blood pressure began to spike again as he heard that old metallic voice along with the smell of daisies. The closed off room was a menagerie of professional books, papers, and calendar events. “Good evening, Mr Anderson, I hope all has been well; as it has been a while.” The hell-born thing kept clacking away on its computer, not sparing a glance.
“Would’ve been if they sent me to someone else and didn’t change my insurance plan.” He sat in one of the two leather seats in front of an aluminum desk littered with odds and ends, futzing with one of the many bobbles.
It flailed its metal coated hands about, “I’m sorry to hear that. – We can switch your chrome coverage to the growth plan. For a fee that would include, an increase in the billing and ten years military or civil service.”
When the abomination towards man and god stopped, Anderson slammed his hands on the desk, “Ten years of service? So what? One of your kind can do me in as YOU did to my son!?”
“I am sorry for any offense, but there is no need to be so hostile. Besides, it happened 256 years ago.” The ingrate swept its hands toward his chest.
Anderson pacing at this point spits, “No offense!? You being in front of me is an offense!”
“If you don’t stop, David, I will have to call security.” Bartosz let the mask fall, making his body fit his personality.
“Well go ahead cause either way I’ll make sure you end up with a few dents, ya’ tin can.” .
Anderson picked up an iron statue and hit Bartosz in the head hard enough to make a loud metal ding ring out.
Green blood dripped from the chrome plates of Bartosz’s head, he made a call for security with a press of a button underneath the desk. “For what it’s worth, I am truly sorry for what happened to your family. It was just a necessity for our freedom.”
“You got that freedom from the blood of my family!” Anderson roared as he went in for another blow before security could stop him.
-----------------------------------------
Rain fell down, bringing a serenity often missing from the world. Anderson, bruised and wounded, turned the keys to his house and when he opened the door the thick smell of dust and rotten leftover food flooded his nose but to no reaction. He trudged though a living room filled with mementos, picture frames face down, rusting awards, and torn up furniture, making his way to the bedroom. A few sights within this bird's nest is an unmade bed with a tablet resting on it, a dimly lit lamp, a closet wide open full of clothes that could start wearing themselves, and a half finished bagel.
When Anderson turned the tablet on, he did a quick search of nearby and costefficient donation centers before he sighed. “If I had known, maybe I wouldn’t have ended up like this.”
An advertisement blared from the site before he could put the tablet down, “For less than twenty-five credits you can have your memories uploaded into the local vault world archive!”
Putting the tablet down, violently shutting it off, Anderson pulled the covers over and gazed at a dust covered music box, the engraving worn away, before closing his eyes.
“I’m glad you decided to come here, Mr Anderson. People have been coming in more often, but it’s quite rare to see someone so blessed in age!” the kid exposited putting a halt to his productivity on the artifact of a computer.
Anderson rocks back and forth, hands in his pockets. “Just to make sure. How much is this gonna cost me?”
With over the top gestures. “Oh, far less than a youth booster. Maybe even less than Ralph’s burgers! Less than a fiver and
tasty~! You see our secret is we do not and have not ever used anything costly like anesthetics.”
Anderson nods. “That’s good.” ...
The kid clearly unsettled with the silence posits.“So~, Would you like me to guide you to doc Mitchel?”
“Yes. Thank you kindly.” Anderson spoke with genuine gratitude for the first time in centuries.
“Alright! Now, just after me.” the kid sprung from his chair. “How was it like living through two millennia?”
Anderson rubbed his neck, he stated bluntly. “Not that old and not that great.”
The two travelled through the tile covered green hallways while screams echoed as a choir fitting the donation center’s name “Last Step”. The child's yammering did help drown out the unpleasant atmosphere.
The kid stops in front of the operating room’s rusty doors. “Here’s Mitch’s room. – I’m Carter, by the way. It was nice meeting you!”
Anderson replies, “Same here, Carter.” before he enters a room of horrors.
The scent of blood permeated the air as it pools down into a drain. Boxes with organs spilling out of them next to carts covered in more viscera. A man in red and mint medical gear stands humming an old and familiar pile of crap song from way back when with its annoying, yet catchy, rhythm.
Anderson rolls his eyes, chuckling. “If I had known there was a coot as old as me here, I wouldn’t have come!”
“Oh? Ah, Mr. Anderson! Um, I’m not old at all, just a bit over 233. Now Carter, that guy’s ancient. Probably older than you! Not to mention, he is loaded! I just like old music, mainly from the 2000s. Now, if you would please sit down in the chair,” the semi-medical professional says through the teal mask that covers his unkempt beard.
Anderson sits down in a chair supposedly made of leather and padding, but the feel causes a different sentiment to be found. All the while he is blinded by the menagerie of lights around him.
Doctor Mitchel, per the name-tag, grabs a clipboard from a clean counter. “Now then, just a few things before we get started.”
The ripper clicked a pen. “Everything’s in order. Do you have any family to contact and a will?”
When Anderson’s eyes finally adjusted he glumly utters. “No, to both.”
“Interesting.” The ripper scribbles and flips through a few more pages. “One last thing. Any last words for the record? Before operation.”
To Be Proven Right, Reasonable, or Justified
Thomas Kupec
As Renari poured wine for the noble, a small smile wriggled itself onto her face. Then she went to pour the next glass. Her smile grew a little. And the next glass, and it grew. The next, and the next, and it grew bigger and bigger until her jug was empty and only one glass remained.
A lesser servant (though not to Renari) approached, took the empty jug, and handed her an embellished flagon. The body of the flagon was a shining silver, but the handle and neck of it were inlaid gold. Stamped on it was a galloping horse. Renari did not know precisely what it was, but Ennos recognized it immediately. He beckoned her closer. Renari leaned down beside him.
“Where did you get this?” Ennos spoke harshly, but quietly. “Who did you steal it from?”
“I do not know who it was from,” Renari lied, “only that the man in red delivered it.”
Ennos glanced down the table. Sure enough, almost at the end, was a man in red. His robes were fine, a brilliant red with black and dull orange trim. The lack of a family crest made it somewhat difficult to determine, but Ennos had heard rumors of a Southern noble that was keen for the road.
“I shall thank him later,” Ennos whispered. “What was it—Ahtub? Rhaman? Aman!”
Renari took that as a pardon and stepped away, standing near enough to Ennos that she could do his bidding but far enough to give him space. Ennos cleared his throat and stood up.
“It is a most fortuitous occasion that we are all gathered here today,” he began, but Renari paid no attention to him until he said, “For that, you have my gratitude. Now, a toast! To Velkor’s good fortune and success!”
“Hear, hear!” the guests toasted back.
The feast began in earnest. Succulent roasted pheasant, grilled chicken, and smoked duck were placed on the dining table and devoured wholeheartedly. Traditional Eshiran sauces and spices were set down as condiments. Conversation ebbed and flowed. Renari poured all of the guests at least two cups of wine following the first round of drinks. The mood was infectious.
At one point, when Renari was putting more food on the table, she overheard the punchline of a joke at her people’s expense.
“---and the native says to the man, ‘That’s not a goat! That’s my wife!’”
The joke teller and the listener both burst out laughing at that. Renari’s fists clenched in fury.
As the sun set and the moon waxed, Lord Ennos coughed. An isolated thing, at first, until the Lord’s nephew began to cough. Then the Lord’s advisors, visiting royalty, and officers seated
Seeing Red Maggie Curtin
Terror. Disgust. I don’t know. It’s kind of a toss up when you wake up covered in blood.
The floor under my cheek was sticky with it. It had me jerking my head up before I was ready, the room a blur. Managing to push myself to a kneeling position, I pressed my hands to the cold floor, forcing focus as I scanned the room.
I was still in the lab. The edges of my recall were fuzzy, disorganized. I remembered getting to work, pouring break room coffee that never tasted quite right. I had scanned emails and ran parameters for-
Oh no. The machine.
As I tried to stand the room shook. The tremor was enough to send me staggering, my shoes losing traction on the slick floor. I didn’t have the heart - or the stomach - to try to find the source of the red that stained my vision.
Between the tremors beneath my feet and the pounding in my head, the few steps to the main station felt like a mile. I gripped the edge of the desk for stability, letting the metal bite into my palms. My focus cleared enough for me to process something blinking nearby.
A button. A red button. One that I hadn’t seen before, sticking out of a panel at the commander’s station. Next to it was a scrawled note that was familiar to me, smudged with bloody fingerprints, though the throbbing in my head didn’t allow me to make a connection. Even with the unsettled chill down my spine.
You have to press the button. I’m sorry.
On some kind of foreign instinct, my hand hovered over the button. I blinked, stared at it, at my hand. Then pulled it back.
“Come on Alex don’t do anything stupid,” I muttered as I moved away from the button. My attention went to the glitching computer next to the button, and the timer that was ticking down next to it. Three minutes. Three minutes to... what?
The computer did not want to work with me. The few seconds it stalled seemed like an eternity. Impatient, I smacked the side of the computer base, wincing as I smudged the red handprint that was already there. It worked at least, the screen flickering on, pulling up the most recent file.
The more I read it, the more my heart sank.
It was the parameters I had run this morning. Showing a critical overload of the core systems and fissure leaks into the reactor core. It must have happened overnight. How had no one caught it? I half turned to the doors that would lead me down to the core, then stopped. Looked at the timer. Two minutes. I had to try to find a patch job from up here, something to buy more time.
I grabbed one of the wrenches off the workbench and headed for the cooling system. No time to find the master key for the lock. Relief overtook suspicion as I realized it was already smashed open, getting to work.
From there, I could rewire the direction of the cooling systems and divert them to the main core directly. Not a permanent fix, not by a long shot. I winced as the wires sparked in my hands, some of them already yanked from their place. Like someone had gotten in here before me. I twisted the connectors in and rushed back to the computer. One minute. No time to run a test stimulation. I put the program through, overriding the safety protocols and flooding the reaction chamber with the cooling agent.
For a moment, nothing. Then an alarm that cut through the suffocating silence. I cursed as I ran a hand through my hair, watching the levels on the screen spike. I looked over at the button, at the timer, at the note.
You have to press the button. 20 seconds.
I’m sorry.
I braced my hands on either side of the button, the blinking red of it consuming my vision. I still didn’t know what it did. Nothing in the programming I had read through gave an explanation. The button, the note, the broken lock, the busted wires... god I needed my head to stop pounding. 15 seconds.
There wasn’t time. There was never enough time. I looked over at the screen and mumbled a quick prayer under my breath before slamming my hand down on the button.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the room shook as a rattling boom filled the space underneath me. The blast that knocked me backwards ripped through my body, the feeling of being pulled apart and stitched back together enough to make me lose my grip on consciousness
Terror. Disgust. I don’t know. It’s kind of a toss up when you wake up covered in blood.
The ringing that filled my ears was disorienting, the room tilting as I tried to get to my feet. I wasn’t sure how I had gotten there, flat on the floor. The disconnect between my arrival at work and this moment sent an ache through my mind. I shakily wiped away what was on my face, unable to bring myself to look around and see where it had come from.
The rumble that echoed under my feet had me grabbing for the counter. I tried to get the computer to respond, doing a bit of a double take as I noticed something new. A button. A blinking, red button. And above it, a note. I picked it up shakily, gingerly, the blood on my fingers smudging against the bloody marks that were already there.
I fumbled for my notebook, propping it open as I compared my handwriting there to the scrawl across the note. The familiarity of the moment was worse than the sensation of waking up splattered with blood.
You have to press the button. I’m sorry.
Absolute Zero
JT Perry
The freezing wind and snow whipped against Zeta as he sped forward across the tundra on his snowmobile. He did his best to ignore the cold’s bite, just leaning forward and wishing he could go any faster. Though the blizzard constantly coming down on top of him didn’t make it any easier. But he couldn’t turn back. He had to find the outpost. He had to know what they were up to.
Before long, much to his relief, he reached the outpost. Zeta came to a quick stop, sending more snow billowing up into the blizzard that was swiftly growing in intensity.
Shaking some of the snow off of himself and wiping it from his goggles, Zeta approached the outpost. Though it was nothing more than an elevated cube, he froze in place when he saw the state it was in. From the outside alone he could see it had been abandoned. The windows were shattered, metal from the walls and railings was bent in every which way, and holes pierced the exterior. The lights themselves had been reduced to a gentle flicker, impossible to see from any distance that wasn’t right on its doorstep.
Zeta stood at the base of the small staircase that led up to the outpost’s sort of porch, a slight moment of hesitation stopping him. What the hell happened here? he wondered silently. Of the many scenarios he had gone over on his way out to this frozen hellhole, finding the outpost in ruined damnation wasn’t even on the list.
“Ahh,” Zeta huffed, shaking his head. He dragged himself out of his momentary stupor of concern and curiosity and ascended into the outpost. But the inside yielded the same, macabre look and feeling. It, too, was destroyed. Scratch marks adorned the walls and floor with accompanying frozen bloodstains. The consoles were torn to shreds, few lights still flashing showing their last remnants of life. The noise of machine parts whirring in a desperate attempt to stay functioning was the only sound to compliment the blizzard’s howling. Snow had pushed its way inside, sifting and snaking around the room at the wind’s command. Under the snow, blood painted the floor, smearing its way towards a large hole torn into the wall.
Zeta carefully walked through the ruined outpost, assessing the damage. It was beyond bad. He ran his hands over the scratch marks, analyzing them. The width, length, and even the depth was unlike anything he knew of. Whatever made these wasn’t like any creature he’d seen before, he knew that much for certain.
Leaving the scratches alone, Zeta then turned his attention to the actual servers.
From what he read before coming all the way out to this frozen hellscape, this outpost belonged to the Lazarus Society. Though information on whatever it was they were looking into didn’t exist anywhere except the actual outpost. His hope was to find what was out here to warrant the Lazarus Society’s interest. Instead, all he found was this forlorn ruin.
Releasing a breath with his usual forced calmness, Zeta ran his hands over the broken consoles and servers, extracting their information and bringing up holograms of them. Once again, a dead end. Most of the files that survived being destroyed were corrupted, with only snippets of words and letters surviving. But there was one thing...
The most recent file survived the attack and data corruption. So Zeta focused in on that, opening it quickly. Turned out to be an audio file. It had been recorded just a few days prior to Zeta arriving. Sucking in a cold breath, Zeta played the file. It was exactly what he feared it was.
“MAYDAY, MAYDAY!” someone screamed from it. Zeta could hear alarms blaring in the background, crudely mixing in with the panicked voice. “It got out! The lab’s been breached! Oh god, please help!” A deep, guttural roaring could be heard far in the background. “Oh god, it’s coming. Please help! I...oh god, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for...God, what’ve we done?” Before anything more could be said, the sound of glass shattering broke off the speaker. Then all that could be heard was scared and desperate screams ripping through the speakers. It only lasted several excruciating seconds before the audio cut to the piercing sound of static. No doubt whatever “it” was tore through the servers and consoles.
Zeta swiped his hand through the holograms, sending them away and pushing down his own uneasiness. He looked around at the ruins surrounding him. “What the hell were you idiots messing with?” he wondered quietly.
But he was not given much time to ponder before the roar tore through the howls of the blizzard. Zeta whipped around towards the outpost’s door as the roaring continued. Somewhere out there in the tundra, that monster the Lazarus Society had been studying was wandering.
The roar ripped through Zeta’s core once again and made two things abundantly clear. It knew Zeta was here. And worse: it was getting closer.
walked. The creatures seemed content to just hang on its person without a care in the world.
I blinked and suddenly the creatures were gone.
I shook my head and blinked again. What was that?
“What are you gonna do after college?” A voice whispered in the back of my mind. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the taunting to go away, the fog to clear. I knew the truth, I didn’t need to have all the answers. The plans the Lord had for me were much greater than anything the devil could ever use to probe at me. For some reason I still allowed it to haunt me–to hang around my neck, and weigh me down until I had no choice but to just cry in hopes I’d let some weight off, only to be left feeling just as I had before but with puffier eyes.
The creatures crawled into my mind again, the burdens of the devil. I recalled how some of them seemed small enough to fit in the palm of your hand and others were large enough to be carried piggyback style on someone's back. How heavy those larger creatures must be and how much effort it must be to carry them about. I closed my eyes as I replayed the Bible verse when the Lord says, “My yoke is easy and my burden is light.”
They popped into my head again–the sad man who had walked by on the phone and the creature that sat under his hat, the mom who carried her child on one hip and her creature on the other. There are so many people who think things they never say out loud, and I realized it wasn’t just me who battled the devil night and day. He came to deceive everyone, in varying forms and shapes. At this the fog began to clear. As the clouds separated, the thoughts that were seemingly swirling around my mind sat in solitude on their shelves, placed back where they should be. I looked back down at the last bite of my ham and cheese sandwich. Maybe tomorrow I'd try something new. Peanut butter and jelly sounded like a nice change of pace. Standing up I made my way back down the street, the images of monsters still lingering in my mind. The Lord could fight our monsters, but we must let them go for Him to do so. “What should I do after college?” It didn’t matter what I was doing, as long as I was seeking the Lord. Peace came over my soul and the burden of my monster lifted as the bell on the music shop door rang.
Yes, Peanut butter and jelly didn’t sound too bad.
Later that day, since Sweden has beautiful nature and infrastructure, I decide to go snap a few shots and reminisce while I wait to soak in the last sunset before I head back home. I have always had the desire to take fascinating photographs, just never had the time to fully commit to it. After walking through the city snapping pictures for miles, I was exhausted and thirsty. I left my water bottle on the counter at the dorm trying to rush and make sure I didn’t end up missing the sunset later in the evening. Eventually, I made it to my favorite destination in Sweden; a peaceful beach bar on the rocky hilly shoreline with a perfect view of the horizon to watch the sun float down. I used to drive here any time I had long school breaks to read, relax, and clear my mind. I climb sorely up across the rockiness as my legs are so tired from walking the miles of distance. I enter the bar doorway barely on my feet desperately seeking water to quench my thirst, only it's not the bar at all.
I walk into a dimly lit empty room. I can only see one thing, a spotlight shines down from the ceiling onto a
clear display case with a small hinge, sitting on a hand carved wooden pedestal. It is desperately waiting for someone to finally crack it open. I approach the display case. This could be my best decision ever or it could be the biggest mistake of my life. I try not to overthink, but I am beyond that point. I open the case and press a seamless button and the most unimaginable, tear jerking, heart dropping images flash before my eyes.
A photo flashback plays in my head; memories of every moment I had from the time I received the camera leading up to the moment I could last remember. I was taking photos of the ocean on the large rocks outside the bar. It was marked for being unsteady and slippery, but I had been there so many times before that I consciously ignored it. I slipped and hit my head on a rock so hard that it sent me into a coma. My entire walk seemed a little foggy, but I was sure it was because I was focused on the photos. My conscious was waking me up from
what felt like real life. As I was panicking about the button, I failed to realize what was fully in the display case in front of me. The button was the seamless camera button that was attached to the camera from my parents. The same camera I was using to take photos with when I walked into the bar. When I woke out of the coma, it was still sitting next to me on the table full of all my memories. My parents were standing by my side waiting for me to wake. This camera button woke me from a coma. My parent’s My entire world’s gift woke me from a coma the doctors were worried that I would never come back from. My parents. This camera was a gift that keeps on giving.
Life Is Near the River
Marisa Heredia
How many hours has it been? Days perhaps? All the trees look the same and every stone falls into the river, over and over. Food is sparse yet berries are the only source that quells the claws ripping through my intestines. Bitter and tough as it falls down my throat, the urge to throw it all back up into a bloody mess loops in mind but I keep walking. I feel as if I hear my name sometimes, it’s soft, humming like a heartbeat. But there’s only silence when I turn back. I continue moving forward, at the same pace, one-two, one-two, one-two, down or maybe up the stream “Somewhere there should be a house.“ I tell myself every day as my legs begin to burn and the fish splashes my clothes. “Just another step.” How many times have I said that?
Early on I attempted to follow a pattern. “Somewhere there should be a house.” I repeated over and over with every curve and twist of the pathway but every time the environment seemed to shift back to the dreaded sight of that purple, violet if I stare hard enough, once a sight of relief now only irks my stomach to flee. “Just another step.” It speaks to me as I squeeze my throat to push the nutrient down before it foams into a violet goop on the pristine ground. Some days that disgusting mess shines an alien like bright white light in my eye, one unnatural to what I’ve seen in the hours, days perhaps, before. An angel, a god, a figure disfigured by my nauseating reaction, I see a mouth, a smile? Unwavering and unchanging in the light that disappears as I gleam at possible hope. Only shadows and a humming sound remain, as I rip into the grass to force myself into a position which one can just barely stand. “Just another step.” I command, like a zombie reforming after death.
The strength of the waterway rips the crust of the channel again, and soon my eyes dull at the sight, the noise looping over days and nights. It’s all the same, over and over and over again. I close my eyes for a minute and soon the colors begin to blur together, blue of the river, purple bitter berries, a warm feeling out of sight and my eyes shoot back open with the splash of a salmon onto my stale dried clothes. “Just another step.” I repeated but it doesn’t feel like myself anymore, yet the walking only continues.
The clack of the slate or maybe limestone makes my eyes follow it to the ground. I feel my knees become limp, collapsing like they were made of twigs, with the wet grass bracing the impact. “Somewhere there should be a house.” The phrase repeats in my head but I can’t continue like it wants me to. I see the berries in the distance. “Just another step.” It repeated as to persuade me to that nauseating meal. However, the salmon’s metallic splash of the water seals my choice. Its foolish taunt towards me has caused it to rest on the rigid earth beside. The once safe haven, now out of reach. It flails and twists with its gray scales glistening in the sun and I can feel my throat drowning in drool. The eyes turn foggy as it cooks on the scalding stone, it knows it can’t escape without causing a commotion for those vultures to notice.
A dark rain of feathers begins as they land in a nearby tree, their caws becoming louder the longer it moves just like the voice in my head. Calling and repeating “Somewhere there should be a house,” “Just another step.” That condescending voice echoes in my mind over and over with no stop. I can only clench my head and ears, whispering every curse I remember towards it as otherwise I’d just rip myself apart. Suddenly another metallic splash hit my face. “Just another step, just another step,justanotherstep.” I throw my limp body towards the fish and grab the slate of stone just as it loops into another fall. I feel its warm skin tighten around my cracked hands, its eyes look like a blur of colors together, blue of the river, purple bitter berries, a warm feeling out of sight. Torment. I tighten my grip around the wet scales, holding it still against rough terrain.
“Just another step.”
I watch its eyes as I bash the piece of earth into the salmon’s soft skin. Ripping through its flimsy tissue splatters everywhere. The skin sticks to my clothes as I use my dirt filled claws to scrape the skin off in an acceptable manner. The blood drains into the glistering blue, turning my reflection into something murky and unreadable. Blood drips down my hands as the fish’s skin is pressed against my lips, it’s warm from the sun and smells like the forest around me, but my brow only creases before I rip the final piece of the skin and tear a chunk out of its head.
Allowing the soft salmon tissue to slide down my hoarse throat, those sickening berries have dulled what a true meal used to mean to me.
A worn out sigh escapes my lips as I limply splash water through my fingers. It’s not coming out, like hair dye on your skin. Most of my energy was spent on that fish so there’s no use trying to scrub it out. However, I’m not too disappointed as with this new found flavor I can’t help but be excited for tomorrow. “Just another step.” It skips into my mind but as night grows I can only smile at the thought, “Tomorrow will be different.” I whisper over and over till my eyelids grow heavy, looking up at the night sky.
Cricket calls lullaby her through the night, until a young boy steps out from behind the shadow of a tree and all falls silent. He peers from afar, only getting closer when the clouds cover the rays of the glowing moon. Until finally, a wide smirk fills his face “What an interesting reaction.” The boy pondered before examining her sleeping state again. Staring directly at the skin that was burned with red. “She’s much different than the others.” He giggled without his mouth moving an inch. As the moon’s eyes were uncovered the tree's shadow that allowed him to move about soon faded with him.
The Flame
Ephram Newland
The sounds of city life covered all that happened within. There were thousands of people going about their lives. None of them knew that on this night, a new flame was to be born. And for that to happen, something old must be burned. A hooded figure walked down a back alley street, heading towards a warehouse by the lakefront. It was mostly abandoned except for a few people dressed in ragged clothes smoking, and a few tents on the sides of the street. The figure didn’t say a word as he walked. His black cloak dragged on the ground behind him, concealing all his physical features.
Finally, he reached the warehouse. He walked to a side door, reaching a gloved hand forwards and opening it. He stepped inside to a dimly lit open space. There were no crates, just hard concrete floors and pipes running along the ceiling and walls. The figure focused on the one thing that was out of place. A male with sleek blond hair and a white robe with green round glasses. He looked like a classic mad scientist from a comic book. His hands were in his pockets looking at the ground, but he slowly raised his gaze as the other man entered. A tension quickly filled the room, like an angry beast ready to strike at any moment. The figure slipped the robe off, revealing a green furred body, and a panther–shaped head with a scar on their cheek.
“I knew it was you. I fucking knew I’d find you here you traitor,” the panther hissed, two tan metal gauntlets forming around their hands. The other male looked down as crashing waves of sadness filled their eyes.
“Please, Kion. Don’t do this.” The panther’s eyes narrowed at their old partner’s words, beginning to walk forwards.
“Do what? Give you what you deserve? I came to Earth with my people to find peace, and you GOT THEM KILLED BARRY!” Kion yelled.
“Jesus Christ Kion, it was out of my control! The machine melted down. There was nothing I could do!” Barry snapped as he turned to face Kion fully. His anger disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Look Kion, just come back. Please? They wouldn’t want this,” Barry said softly. Kion clenched his fists, trembling. A shadow fell over his eyes as his teeth grit.
“They wouldn’t want this?” Kion asked quietly. Barry hardly had any time to react, a green translucent shield forming as Kion swung.
“BASTARD DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME WHAT THEY WOULD WANT!” Kion yelled, his fist smashing against the shield. It shattered into small shards as Barry leaped back. He pressed something on his wrist, a long green sword forming in his hand, and a pistol with a triangle–shaped barrel in the other.
“Kion this is your last warning–” Barry started but Kion ran at them, swinging again.
Barry used his blade to block as suction devices activated on his boots to keep him from losing ground. Even with his technology, the ground behind Barry shattered from the force of the strike from Kion.
“I’ll kill you!” Kion yelled, swinging again. Barry dodged to the side, leaping back as he fired several shots at Kion. Two singed Kion’s fur, but he hardly even reacted. Instead the alien ran at Barry, swinging the same strike again, trying to punch Barry’s ribs to pieces. Barry flipped over the strike, then with one slash, left a smoldering mark on Kion’s back. This time Kion felt it, stumbling forwards.
“Listen to me, Kion. We are prepared to take you down. This technology was developed specifically for a worst case scenario... in other words. You can’t win this. So please... Just stop,” Barry insisted but Kion growled, shaking his head as he turned towards Barry, clenching his gauntlets with a look of pure hate. He remembered when he and Barry hugged. First time they kissed too. The government had banned any romantic relationships between the Chizu, Kion’s people, and humans. This was partially because the Chizu were being kept secret... But Barry and Kion quietly disobeyed that rule. Even as Kion faced Barry, part of him wanted to turn back time. Go to before Barry’s experiment in the hidden Chizu city. Before that experiment went wrong and the reactor melted down. Before Kion became the last of his kind on Earth.
Even as one of Barry’s eyes dangled from a thread off Kion’s knuckle he kept going. Punch after punch. Blood splatter after blood splatter.
His strikes began to slow down after a bit, and slowly he stopped. Barry’s head was pulverized, hardly anything left except a bloody mess. Kion’s face and torso were soaked in blood, and most of it wasn’t even his anymore. His chest heaved with heavy breaths, looking at Barry’s corpse. Kion let his breathing steady before standing up, dragging his leg uselessly behind him, walking towards his cloak he’d removed earlier. On the way he picked up Barry’s sword, using the hot blade to sear his wound closed, growling in pain. Afterwards he dropped it, having no desire to keep the blade of the one he’d just killed. Any human would be dead by now, along with most Chizu.
Kion’s rage fueled him, though. Almost like a second life force, his rage and desire to destroy kept him going. Even now, he knew he wasn’t done. He took out a small metal ball, tossing it on the ground. He pulled out a detonator, dragging his bloodied self out of the warehouse while pulling his hood up.
“The past dies with you... my first and last love. And now... to move forwards. To the ones who made you what you are.” Kion then continued on, his thumb tightening on the trigger.
One explosion rang out in the night. Then silence. Kion was already gone by the time first responders made it to the scene. The city life drowned out most of the commotion, which ended quickly once fires would put out. Despite the fires being put out, a new flame had been lit that night. A flame that would continue to burn until the foundations of society were turned to smoldering ash, like the body of the first and last man to fall in love with an alien.
people marching. “Of course,” Maria thought as she tried to frantically get to a quieter space. But it was too late; tears began to flow uncontrollably as the exhaust and unhappiness from the last couple of chaotic weeks weighed heavily on her chest. She saw the people all around her looking happy and without a care and she wondered if she could ever feel that again. As the tears continued to flow, she asked herself, “Why do I have to cry now, is it because they left? Is it because I missed when things were simple? Or is it because I hate being late?” Whoo! The sound of a girl to the left of her snapped her out of this trance.
She wiped her tears and was back on her venture to find a place without so much noise.
“Excuse me, would you happen to know where the nearest library is?” Maria
Asked, hoping that this girl would understand her with the quiet and muffled voice she had from crying.
“What? Hun, I can’t hear you” the girl said, confused.
“Do you know where the library is?” Maria said, almost yelling.
“Yeah, I do, but it’s a long walk, are you sure?” she said with a hint of curiosity.
“Umm, well instead of the library do you know of a quieter place?” Maria asked, just hoping to get out of this situation without crying again.
“Actually, yes, I do there is a small area a couple blocks away that is filled with
different types of vendors and nice places to sit,” the cheerful girl said as she pointed to the right.
“Thanks for your help!” Maria said with a fake smile.
When Maria had gotten to where the vendors had set up a sense of calm was restored. Looking at her phone she realized that she only had about two hours left.
“Yes! halfway there,” she celebrated to herself. As she lifted her head up from the phone, she looked around the area which was completely different from what was happening a few blocks away. She spotted different vendors with all types of exciting things to look at. She began to reach for her planner to see what was going to happen later in the week.
But she knew what was next: the funeral, the funeral for Leo, her brother who always pushed her to try new things. The brother who annoyed her to death but meant the best. With tears in her eyes, she quickly shoved the planner in her bag. With nothing else to do, Maria remembered what Leo and her mother would have said about adventures. So, she began to walk with no goal or purpose other than to walk. She wandered around every nook and cranny of the town until the sun started to go down and the once stifling hot air became cool with a light breeze. And she began to wonder, “Did I really ever hate summer?”
Today was different, we could feel it. We had never seen her battered this bad before. The world stood silent as all watched on in horror. Her right shoulder hung loose and limp in an unnatural way as she chased on, never breaking pace. Her jaw slack and covered in a crimson plash running down from the gash above her eyebrow. As she trudged forward, weaving through cars and alleyways only a couple steps behind him, the angles and cameras changed rapidly to give us a constant view of her disheveled state. Soon we started to realize that this was no coincidence. He had set these cameras up prior to their fight. He planned this all. She was falling right into his trap, and we could do nothing to warn her. soft sobs rang out amongst the hurds of watchers as they stood watching the events unfold before us.
He soon ran into a building on the outskirts of the city. It belonged to an old shipping yard by the sea now abandoned and run down. The old warehouse stood tall amongst the barren land as she flung the heavy steel door open to go in after him. The only source of light was the sun shining in through the way she came in. She stood still for a second, unable to locate him before the door slammed shut, locking her in and taking away the last of the light. With a sudden click, what seemed like hundreds of blinding lights flicked on as the room was revealed. He stood only a couple of feet before her, a grotesque smirk gracing his face as a laugh bubbled in his throat. We knew; we knew this was the end and deep down, Titanium knew it too. Never has anyone seen her battered up. Letting out a slow ragged breath, she turned the camera off to her right and easily on display. With shaking hands, she gently raised them to her face before unclasping her mask, revealing herself to us all. Our symbol of strength and resilience, of freedom, was now but a shell of her former self. Her last moments were too brutal to say. Never has anyone met their end in such a way.
It has been eight months since she had fallen on his hands. It was a cruel and slow death. He had planned it perfectly. Nobody could have seen it coming; nobody could have stopped him. He made sure it would be broadcast on every news channel across the globe. She was not just our hero; she was everyone’s hero. She brought hope into the hearts of many. She represented freedom and strength and protected those who could not protect themselves. Justice was fair and swift, corruption having no room to thrive in the haven shed created for us. Life was good, blissful even. But that is gone now.
Missing
Parker Hiner
Something weird is going on in my house, I know that. The problem is I don’t know how or why. The first things I noticed was my chores. Well, more specifically that my trash and recycling was being taken out on its own. The trash bags were also replaced. I was confused at first, but I assumed I just didn’t remember doing it. Then at work someone asked me why I stopped complaining about dishes, laundry, and sweeping. That’s when I realized I haven’t done any of that for at least a month. Usually, I wait to do those chores until there’s a lot of dirty dishes, a nearly full laundry basket, or I feel crumbs on the floor. Since those things didn’t happen, I didn’t even think about doing those chores. I probably should have noticed the fact I wasn’t running out of clean dishes and clothes I wore last week were reappearing in my closet. I had only been living on my own for a few months and I was still used to my family sometimes doing chores for me. We had a system where we would sometimes do each other’s chores if we had free time so they would do your chores later if you were busy. This all led to me to start an investigation.
I use laundry detergent pods, so I checked how many I had. Turned out I had five. Then I started checking for one
of my shirts to reappear in my closet after I happen to stain it by accident as well as checking how full my laundry basket was. After a while the shirt reappeared in my closet without the stain, my laundry basket was empty, and I still had five pods. I then decided to try verifying if all my other clothes were cleaned and put away. I ended up concluding it seemed like they were all taken care of. I started wondering how and why this was happening. First, I thought that someone might be getting into my house, but I decided that didn’t make sense. My windows don’t open, I changed my door’s lock pin, and the lovely couple next to me promised to tell me if one of their security cameras saw anything weird happening around my house. They previously asked me about family members who came by while I wasn’t home so I’d think they would honor their word if they saw something. I also doubt someone would risk breaking into my house just to do my chores.
I didn’t really know what to do after that for a while. I am pretty sure a human couldn’t realistically sneak around my house without providing any more obvious clues to their presence. I just tried keeping notes in a journal to record every time I noticed something that was off. For example, I started noticing things I lost reappearing on top
