Tales from the Wolf Den vol. III

Tales from the Wolf Den

vol. III Spring 2024 edition

From Silver Ink Publishing

The Holding-On Paradox

Sarah Sackett

From the center of the dark room comes the box's faint but steady glow. I walk to it and kneel, cherishing how the rough wooden floorboards have worn to cup my knees like your hands. There is a lock on the box, the small keyhole nearly invisible nestled in the "A" of your name. I take the key from where it hangs around my neck and insert it into the lock. There is a soft click, and I open the lid. Inside is a small orb of color and light.

A memory that I cherish more than anything; it flashes across the glowing ball. I hold it with the tips of my fingers, tracing the lines but afraid to smudge the image, smiling as I watch. When it is done, I place it in the box once more and reset the lock, tucking the key into my shirt when I finish. I sigh, for while I know this memory will fade if I don’t look after it, I can tell you become more worn every time I hold you in my hands.

Ruby, Oval Cut, with Diamond Accents: Abaddon

1861, Northern Virginia

Acquired through Beau Brockin

Avery Merrbach

I hacked through the museum, the screams sang to me as the floor was painted a new color. I had been freed of my imprisonment. Thank you, by the way. ‘Preciate it.

The host wailed as its soul withered away, shoved into the dark. So foolish to try and steal such a pretty thing. I chuckled as my form swallowed it whole.

“Evacuate the building now! Everybody out!”

A burly man’s voice bellowed throughout the building.

A familiar voice, with that twang, the similar tension to that beast. Beau. My chance for playtime had run out.

So, I slinked around and peaked my head out. Beau had blocked the main exit, and the boys blocked the others following in his shadow. One of the men held a device that would make a tone every few seconds. He made a few steps north, south, then directly towards me. The beeping started to increase in pace as he made his way toward me.

I had to go. I killed the closest window, pushing myself through. Glass splintered my arms and legs, leaving tiny souvenirs, and I jumped. My ankles buckled as I collided with the terrain, smacking the pavement. This host’s body wouldn’t survive the fall, so I would have to find someone new. Someone not so petite, so frail.

I collected myself and ran towards the big city. Its arms, and legs were bruised and bleeding, but I didn't falter. The screams in the back of my head only fueled me.

I only made it a few glides until my lungs seemingly ran out of breath. I had to stop. I couldn’t breathe, I felt like I was choking. Is this one asthmatic?

The heart compressed against the walls in distress. It was trying to break free. Behind me, I heard branches splinter, and leaves crushed underneath Beau’s boots. I had to keep going, I had to escape.

I refuse to wait a thousand more years, it will give you such a crick in the neck even if you don’t have one!

I heard him call out behind me, “Abaddon! Stop, it’s over.”

I began to sweat as the body’s feet were planted into the ground. The body might have suffered, but the soul was not dead. She was still very much alive. With sheer human will power alone, the condemned had escaped, and she was fighting me. A mortal was fighting me and winning.

I can’t be beat, can I...?

My- her- feet were glued into the ground, and I didn’t have the power to force them. I slowly felt my grip loosen on their conscience, and I was fading.

Before everyone left me, I looked up. I bathed in the rain. I let it drip into my mouth and onto my face. I felt it slither its way down my neck, and I felt the wind rushing through my hair.

Oh, her hair was so long, an icy blonde compared to the dark.

This was all because of this idiot who can’t breathe right.

And now he was behind me. I watched his hand creep towards my neck, towards me.

Wait.

I lost complete control. She beat him to it, and she yanked me off.

The world went black.

I lie in the muck, unable to move.

I can't see, I can’t move, I can’t breathe. Everything is lost to me.

I can no longer feel their energies, their souls, around me. I am alone in the dark.

Did the mud cover me?

Will anyone ever find me again or is this the end?

I beg for someone to find me, but I have no voice.

I am broken on the ground. I’m shattered. I’ve been ripped away from my host because of their own doing, and thrown away like an old toy. However, I don’t know where, or how long I’ve been here. I’ve been convicted for another thousand years of waiting until- I feel someone. I can’t see or hear anything but I can sense life. I can sense a heartbeat, breathing. A soul.

Will they see me? Or will they walk past me?

They could barely miss me and I would be left here. Is the sun out?

Do I glisten in the light just enough?

I feel its warmth, then I feel its hand. The crook in its neck feels like a warm embrace. I hear its ooh and aah’s as it basks in my glory.

I am free.

Its admiration turns to distress as I tunnel myself into it, making theirs my own, pushing it out of the light.

Condemning it to the hell that they have freed me from, to the dark.

I am reborn.

I have eyes and ears, arms and legs.

I breathe in the fresh air, relishing in my new vessel.

I stretch out my new limbs and crack my new joints, breaking it in. I gaze and see the sun shining through the leaves. I hear the sound of water running, and the birds singing around me.

I’m alive.

I take one step, then two and I walk out of the woods. Beau will find me eventually. He knows me so well, like a best friend does, and I just can’t wait to see him again.

Bittersweet Rylee

Tolar

Off-key and out-of-tune voices filled the room, twisting the ears of everyone present. However, the slight pain and irritation were ignored as everyone's faces were split with smiles. The song everyone knew, the song sung to each person once a year, was being sung to you. Everyone crowded around you, some looking at you through their phones, while others were present in the moment.

It was a bittersweet moment, as you were happy, but I was no longer the one igniting that feeling within you. Going unnoticed, of course, I stood in the corner, my arms crossed, taking in the scene in front of me. Your smile was the only one I cared about. The song was coming to a close, and you took your cue to bend over and blow out the candles that decorated the top of the cake. The pale brown frosting shone slightly from the heat of the number of candles. Thirty-two. You were turning 32 without me.

Everyone brought their hands together rapidly, clapping, whooping, and hollering as you straightened your posture, your smile as big as ever. Your party hat had slipped a tad from your movement, and you giggled as you raised your hand and straightened it back out. You glanced up as you fixed your hat, looking at the banner above you with its upside-down triangles in a line, spelling out 'Happy Birthday.' The scene was flawless enough to be on a card—the ideal example of a perfect birthday party.

That was until his hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you close to him. You reciprocated the affection, tilting your head and meeting his lips with yours. I can't say I'm surprised that you moved on, but that doesn't mean I'm not hurt. Your happiness will always mean more to me than my bitterness.

I could never stay mad at you; your smile was contagious. The corners of your lips lifted at the same time as your cheeks, causing the corners of your eyes to crinkle. Your smile showed genuine happiness; you were truly enjoying

yourself. The people you had chosen as your friends and those close to you by blood surrounded you, and of course, him, the man you now pour your love into.

He stood behind you, allowing you to be the center of attention. His hand was still on your hip, continuing to hold you close to him as you thanked everyone who wished you another happy year. He was there to help you cut the cake, he was there to help you hand out the pieces, and he was there to laugh when you had some chocolate crumbs decorating your lips. He was there to love you, and I was here to forget.

I assumed my time of watching over you has come to an end now that I am certain you are loved. Despite being happy without me, I must force myself to be content with that. I can’t say I have reached that point yet, but the visual I am left with is enough.

Slipping away from the corner, I walked through the back door. The harsh wind that would have once caused my face to fall numb from the chill was unnoticeable. I looked down for a moment, taking in the blanket of snow, untouched by anything, before I looked over my shoulder, through the window, and back to you for the last time. Your dark hair was pinned up, resting along the back of your neck, your eyes crinkled with joy, and your shoulders were relaxed, safe, and secure.

None of that is because of me anymore, but I hope I’m somewhere in your heart. For at the end of the day, I am gone.

What I Found

Robin Harger

Hungry, I walk outside. The sun is beating down, and a neighbor says, “hi!“ The smell of barbecue fills the air. I walk towards the small square of the town, people greeting me as I walk past their stores.

Children play in the park, swinging and running around burning up energy. Unfamiliar noises surround me, unaccustomed to my senses.

A world opens up, birds singing, the wind whispering through the leaf filled branches, the crack of a bat, people cheering. I am flooded with memories from my youth.

The heat of the day dictates a light lunch with plenty to drink. An older crowd seeks refuge in the shade, making use of the park benches. This has been an eye-opening experience, filled with weekend noise, which somehow, I failed to notice before.

A shuttle approaches, going my direction, so I flag it down and it takes me back home. Exiting the shuttle, I walk across the street to my home. Using the keyless entry, I punch my pin, and enter the house, still wondering what happened to my car keys.

Turns out in the garage, right in the car lay my keys. Now I can go to the store and get groceries, for tomorrow, as I've already had a hot dog.

An approaching street vendor yells, “hot dog, hot dog!” I can't resist; I buy one with a soda.

Later I pull out of the garage with the radio playing and the windows in the up position, already missing what I found today.

The Waiting Room

Abi Anderson

Although the woman arrived late, I watched her enter with more confidence showing in her posture than I might have possessed in my entire body. She carried a thin blue folder, seemingly with only a couple papers neatly inside. It seemed to be all the woman could carry standing on five inch heels in addition to her already tall and slim figure. She looked as if she may topple over if her pace increased from that calculated saunter. Long dark hair fell over the back of her cream blouse. It complemented her terrifyingly azure eyes. She appeared to be a few years younger than I was, barely old enough to drink. Never did her face stray from the frown that pulled at the corners of her mouth. She was like a cartoon villain, sent here to destroy my chances of going to the ball with the handsome prince. As her heels clicked on the tile floor from the door to the front desk I smelt a light scent of Sandalwood. Greeted by the receptionist, she was handed a small piece of paper.

I didn’t get a piece of paper! I hadn’t gotten so much as a “good morning” from that receptionist. I felt my palms begin to sweat and I wondered if she would smell my anxiety from her great height. The woman chose a chair directly across the narrow room and placed her almost empty blue folder in the chair next to her. As she sat across the room from me, I noticed the extreme amount of chairs in such an otherwise empty room. How many people were applying for this position? The air seemed to be getting thinner. I wondered if the tall woman could breathe. Above her head hung a half-dead plant, of which I could not easily identify. I wanted it to spill over onto her almost white blouse.

“I love your shoes.” Monotone but somehow smooth and hypnotic, her voice frightened me.

“What?” I responded, not entirely sure the voice came from the only other visitor.

“Your shoes, I like them.” There she was again, so precise and secure.

“Oh,” I looked down at my navy blue flats that I had worn so many times they had lost almost all their traction. “I- Thank you, I... I love your blouse.” Why had we been sitting there for a billion years? I adjusted how I was sitting so now my left ankle was over my right. Why couldn’t we have been called back already? I regretted wearing this dress, it never complimented my skin. Why did the receptionist keep glaring aThen the office door from behind the receptionist opened.

“Alice, we are ready for you.”

The Avalanche

Nick Briscoe

The frigid wind pushes me near the mountain's edge, as the shards of rock pierce my skin while I cover my face. My vain attempt to keep balance began to falter. Slipping. Slipping. The mountain of snow pushes me over. I can barely reach my ice pick as I am thrown over the edge. I strike my pick into the nearest stone, and now, as I hang off the cliff

Author’s Note:

I was pleasantly surprised about the response to my debut flash fiction story “The Avalanche”. I would like to thank the overwhelming majority of people that gave it a good review, although a few outliers had a minor gripe about the ending to the story. With some claiming “there was no ending!”, “It was only four sentences and the last sentence didn’t even end with a period!”, and one severely deranged individual even saying “it ended on a cliffhanger!”

Now, in response to this criticism I would like to prove to the world that I can in fact do flash fiction, and that is why I am announcing my next solo project, the sequel in the critically acclaimed “Avalanche” saga: “The Avalanche: Part 2: Return of the Avalanche”. This sequel will answer all of the questions you had about the story, and will wrap up all of the unfinished plot points, giving you a satisfying ending to this epic adventure.

Now without any further ado.

THE AVALANCHE: Part 2

Return of the Avalanche

By: Nick Briscoe

BUT FIRST, let's recap.

The Avalanche

By: Nick Briscoe

The frigid wind pushes me near the mountain's edge, as the shards of rock pierce my skin while I cover my face. My vain attempt to keep balancebegan to falter. Slipping. Slipping. The mountain of snow pushes me over. I can barely reach my ice pick as I am thrown over the edge. I strike my pick into the nearest stone, and now, as I hang off the cliff

Okay, now, the real story.

After this ad break.

Have you ever wanted to feel the thrill of being in a real avalanche, but don’t want to actually put your life at risk? Well folks, now you can. If you just read “The Avalanche” by Nick Briscoe, or “The Avalanche: Part 2: Return of the Avalanche” also by Nick Briscoe, then you will feel all of the terror and adrenaline of actually being in a genuine, honest-to-goodness, real life avalanche!

actual story on the next page, (sorry for the cliffhanger last time…)

He fell off the cliff and died.

This Photo by Unknown Author is licensed under CC

The Sheriff

Thomas Kupec

I. Leaving Town

I do one final check before I leave. Colt on my right hip, Longhorn on the left. Spare ammunition in a pouch. Tommy’s knife on my back, Leann’s music box in another pouch. I reach into my shirt and feel around for my locket. Briefly, I untuck and kiss it. All set. I bid the innkeeper goodbye with a nod before I step out of the inn. The door swings shut behind me and I stop to inhale. The winter air is crisp and clean. I exhale and get a move on.

My boots crunch softly on the fresh snow. I make my way past the local sheriff’s office, the scent of horses and horse manure growing stronger with each step. Bill sees me before I see him.

“How ya doin’, Robert!” He’s about halfway down the stables, hidden behind the horse he’s brushing.

“Good. You?”

He gives a half-hearted shrug, “Awful business last week, but I’m still alive.”

“Poor thing, what happened to those folks.”

“Damn shame is what it is. The Samson’s were good people. Damn shame.”

We walk almost the length of the stable when we reach a dappled, brown-haired horse. She neighs when she sees me.

“Hey, Trusty!”

She shakes her mane and comes right up to the edge of the stall. I run my hands down and back her neck a few times and she gives another shake. I carefully open the stall for Bill so as not to let Trusty out, then enter after him. Together, we get the saddle on her. Bill steps out of the way and I carefully lead Trusty out of the stall and out to the end of the stable. We find my supplies and load her up. My rifle and ammunition, tools, food for myself and Trusty, and other supplies like rope and twine.

“Where’d ya say ya were headed again?”

“Red Mountain.”

“Well, Robert. Good luck getting up ta Big Red.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, and I put some extra food in there fer you and Trusty! Should give ya another day ta get ta Barrowstown. I saw clouds gatherin’ in the West, so snow might be gettin’ heavier as ya travel!”

“Appreciate it.”

“Well, don’t let me keep ya! Stay safe out there!”

“You too.”

I mount Trusty, and she clomps her hooves. I kick lightly and she starts walking. Then I make my way out of Coldwater. It’s a day's ride to Barrowstown, two if the snow and wind pick up again, then another one to Red Mountain. With four days of food I’ve got plenty of leeway.

II. On the Road

The wind has picked up and the snow is falling faster. There’s a snow storm forming to the West. I need to cover as much distance as possible and hope the snowstorm dissipates. God willing I’ll get to Barrowstown before I need to prepare for the alternative.

A sharp crack interrupts my thoughts, and I’m bucked from the saddle as Trusty slips and falls. Trusty writhes around on the ground until she can wriggle up into a lying position. I can see bone poking through her leg. I already know what I need to do. I’m a day's ride from any kind of settlement; two days hike, minimum. I won’t be able to get help and back here before wolves or a bear gets her.

“No… no!”

She whinnies in pain. I gently get up from the ground and move towards her. I cradle her head in my hands.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The sharp crack of my rifle echoes and the world is silent, for a moment. Then the wind and the snow and the cold are back, and I don’t have time to mourn because I have another eight hours of hiking before I can rest. As quick as I can, I move to pack what isn’t trapped under Trusty. I put food, supplies, and tools into a makeshift rucksack held together by rope and twine. I gather my rifle in my hands and carry on.

III. The Boy

I can’t have been walking for more than two or three hours, though it feels as if I’ve been walking for days, when I come upon two corpses. One is a boy. The other is a mountain lion. There’s a hatchet sticking out of the beast’s head. There’s blood everywhere. On the animal, the boy, the snow and trees, as well. I turn the boy face up, and put my ear to his lips. He’s alive! His lips are blue, he’s shivering, bleeding from who knows how many wounds, but he’s alive!

I finish tying the lashing and stand to catch my breath. The boy is doing better. His lips are no longer blue, and he’s breathing easier. I got him out of the cold, wet rags he was wearing and into some clean dry ones after I bandaged him up. On my way to the fire pit, I grab the mountain lion haunches I’d butchered earlier, skewer them, and place them over the fire. Bonelessly, I flop onto my log.

My peace is interrupted by the boy. He shifts around trying to get comfortable before he realizes he’s in an unfamiliar place and tries to stand up.

“Shit!”

He sees me moments later, then gets out and looks around.

“Who’re you.”

“Robert. Who’re you?”

He’s silent for a moment, then, “Pete. How’d I get here, Robert?”

“Found you face down in the snow after doing the tango with a mountain lion. Where are you headed?”

Pete stays quiet again, this time there’s a frown on his face. His stomach grumbles.

“Well, I’m headed to Barrowstown. If you’re headed in the same direction you can come with me. Sit, eat, think about it.”

I grab the skewer closest to me, and dig into it. Moments later, Pete grabs the other and sits down on the other log. We eat in silence, save for the crackling fire and the wind. Pete finishes his before me, then clears his throat.

“I'm also headed to Barrowstown.”

I give him a nod, and he wanders out of camp for a bit, then comes back and goes straight to bed.

IV. Memory

The sun is gone, and the night sky is full of stars. It’s gotten colder. I haul myself off the log and into my lean-to. I don’t remember going to sleep, but I wake up to a familiar melody and a shaky stagecoach. Leann stops playing the music box.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to sleep?” There’s a sly smile on her face as she catches me.

“I was… resting my eyes.” She throws her head back and laughs so hard she just about cries. When she’s done, she wipes her eyes and scoots closer to me. Beautiful. I wrap an arm around her to make sure she stays there. I feel a press against my cheek and look at her. She kisses me again. This time we doze off together. The stagecoach rattles us awake.

“Yah! Yah!”

“Joseph! What’s happening?”

“Outlaws, Robert!”

I go to speak again but the stagecoach hits something and we’re flung. I grab Leann, and my world is spinning. Around and around and around, and then crash and we hit something, but this time it stops us. My wife is crying, and I try to find out why, but it hurts to move.

“Don’t move, Robert! Don’t move! I’ll go get help, I’ll– I’ll–”

The door is thrown open, and I make out a glint before– I fling my body up and hit my head on the top of my lean-to. I don’t notice the pain. I’m gasping for breath and reaching for a woman that isn’t here.

“Leann.”

A Letter for My Desk-Drawer

Sarah Sackett

Here is a letter that you will never read written while you sit next to me and miles away, far from my touch yet near to my words.

And I feel how those words hurt youwhen I dig into myself, cry that my brain is full of steel wool and bees that sting and set fire to the pages I try to write. Your voice, offered to me like chocolate drops when you ask, “What about me?” “What have you written about me?”

And tears spring to my face that my pen can only bring itself to mourn the loss of you that you can’t see.

Even when I’ve given you pages of silver, citrus, and cinnamon I tell you they’re no goodif I can’t dip into my own soul how am I supposed to touch anyone else's?

But I will listen to your chocolate drops and write about the lovethe love that holds my head and tells the bees to make honey instead of fire.

Sometimes I wonder if you ever glimpse past the mirage I hold in front like a curtain always uncertain that you might see the real mecovered in welts and holes where my esteem should be.

Every time you say you love me most I feel my nails claw against the fabric as I utter my protests, terrified you might be right but refusing to be seen.

I learned love from the empty shape outlined in pain by its absence, a negative space only making itself known when it was not wantednow it doesn’t know what to do to my chest and I fear it isn’t there at all.

So I return your songs of “I love you”not just for you, but also for the hives of swarming uncertainty so that maybe I can convince me too. It has to be there. The pain was outlining something real - how do I learn to read between the lines?

That first hug was ecstasy.

The scared little boy hiding behind his demon-mask finally found some empathy.

And you were still prickly around the edges when we sat in the faintest rain under the streetlight after sunset in your driveway Spilling ourselves onto the concrete and admiring the cinematography.

I think they got your best sidethose clear blue eyes, melding with silver rain in the starlight.

You’re the green of first summers spent in creek beds under the canopy, and the red of cinnamon candles and the flannel you look best in. I tripped over the flames and into the vines, and they were the first to tell me they loved me.

It’s been two years since my forest caught on fire or is that image too violent? too accusatory?

I know that’s not how it works, but how are you supposed to feel when you turn to see the heat at your back has become everything else? But you were the heat. And you still are the forest. So how were you to see the fire for the trees? It doesn’t matter to me because even if it still stands, I can’t lay in the creek bed anymore and I can’t cry to the fire without fear that my uncertainty might put it out.

“Bob

-White”

Keaton Schneeflock

Barks echoed across the wind-swept plain, the grass painted as blood underneath the setting sun. The dog searched fervently, its nose pinned to the ground. It began to trot faster, following a scent through a land of a thousand smells. The wind slowed, and the grass sat back up. The dog came to a rest, perking up its head, and its nose twitched incessantly. In a mad dash, the hound tore through the coarse stems, becoming a brown blur in a field of green. The sound of flapping erupted, and a covey of bobwhite quail fled to the red sky. Thunder pierced the air. The quails, one by one, became lifeless, falling to the terrestrial sea. A familiar whistle brought the dog running back, with a mouthful of quail and a tail full of happiness. A pair of quail managed to evade the barrage of invisible fire. They sailed silently into the darkness of the undergrowth, the plain painted black against the absence of the sun.

They hid under the cover of the towering blades. Huddled together in fear, they had no words to choke out and no feelings they were able to shout to the world. They lay in each other's embrace until the morning's dew matted their feathers. Light filtered into the grass tangle, and the pair began to move about in search of breakfast.

One of them scurried in quick fashion, pecking at fallen prairie grass seeds. He was a dark chestnut, streaked with brown and white scales, with a bold black stripe running past his eyes over a white face. He was called Bluestem. The other moved more slowly, constantly checking upward for danger. She looked much the same, but with a buffy face that lacked the eyestripe. She was called Bramble. Neither of them were at ease; they were more alert than they had ever been. It wasn’t unusual for a member of the flock to fall into death's arms a few times each season, but nothing of this magnitude had happened before. They foraged through the morning in silence, always keeping in close contact with each other. As high noon arrived, the grass became flooded with light.

“Bluestem,” Bramble whispered, calling him over. “I think we should move to the clear-cut for some shade.”

“Okay,” Bluestem whispered back. Neither of them had ever led the flock before, but he followed her close behind. The clear-cut ran through the middle of the great meadow, lined with a barbed wire fence draped in overgrowth. This time of day, the grass threw down a shadow upon it, some of the only shade as there were few trees in the meadow. Bluestem became uneasy at the sight of the fence, where he and other flock members would call out from

the top of the posts to keep in touch with each other. “I’m here! Where are you?” he would say. The humans called them bobwhites, as that is what it sounded like they were saying to them. He turned to bramble, and they continued their foraging in the shade, always within earshot. Following the shifting shadows of grass, Bramble jerked her head. Something moved near a fence post.

A small clump of disturbed soil protruded from near the base of one of the posts. A naked nose with unusually long whiskers and a furry head seemingly lacking eyes poked up from the dirt clump. It was only a small shrew. Bramble continued her search for grubs near the grass edge. Bluestem uttered something Bramble couldn’t make out, and an overhead shadow shot across the clear-cut. Bramble looked back to the mound; the shrew was gone. Scanning above the fence, Bramble found the shadows source. A gray and white bird, no bigger than her, sat atop the wire. Its bill was slightly hooked, but otherwise it seemed no menace. It split from its perch, disappearing beyond the towering grass past the hedge-row. Bramble stared in horror at the fence as the bird made its exit. She now knew what Bluestem had said. “Shrike!” A bird they were taught to fear as chicks, but one they had rarely noticed till now. Bramble and Bluestem fled the clear-cut, returning back to the thicket. Up on the barbed wire fence was the shrew. A barb protruded from its neck, its tail dangling as it hung impaled upon the top wire. Maroon streams trickled from the puncture wound. A snack for later.

Bramble and Bluestem arrived at a shallow brook, hidden under thick clumps of reeds. Bramble sat and turned away from Bluestem. “You know the shrike was only gathering food just like us,” said Bluestem. Bramble shied

away, turning her attention to the greenery instead. “I’m sure that bird hunts like that every day; we just haven’t given it any notice before.”

“But how is the shrike different from man and his tools or the dog?” Bramble cried. "Why does it feel the need to kill in such a way?"

“It wasn’t the dog's fault. He may be a servant of man, but that’s nothing he can change. The shrike only did what it needed to in order to survive. Its ways may be different from ours, but it's still one of us. It only takes what it needs; I can guarantee there are still shrews in that burrow.” Bramble ruffled her feathers, continuing to sit away from him. Bluestem didn’t know what that meant, but she clearly had no interest in talking.

Night arrived at the brook. Fireflies flit under the cover of the cavernous stalks. Toads sang their chorus of love from the water that rolled like the grass on a breezy day. Sharp beams of moonlight began to pour through the canopy, separating each blade from the next. Bramble turned around at last, waddling over to the creek to sit beside Bluestem. “I fear that all of this will be gone. The fireflies, the grass, the clear stream,” said Bramble.

“You have no reason to think that,” said Bluestem. “Even the hunters, with all their power, kill only for food, just like the others. They are not so different.”

“I saw something today at the clear-cut,” Bramble said. “I can’t say I know what it is or what it can do, but it is not supposed to be here.”

“Can you show it to me? " said Bluestem. Bramble gave him a glance, sat up, and they made their way back to the clear-cut. Bramble took the lead, traveling to the highest point of the open space, looking down towards the base of the slope. Large creatures, armored plates of yellow like the sunflowers of late summer, sat dormant atop a field of upturned soil. “The tools of man,” thought Bluestem. He did not know what to say to Bramble or what to think of for himself. They left, back to the shelter of grass, to forget for a while.

The nights and days of spring had left, bringing the nights and days of summer. Bramble and Bluestem continued their everyday routines. Following the silhouettes of grass, they learned from each other's wisdom of the meadow. Under the shrubs, the pair worked together to dig a shallow scrape in the ground. While Bramble finished digging, Bluestem set off nearby to gather bundles of grass to bring back. They both worked diligently over the next few days, bringing in clumps of straw and sewing them finely together into a bowl around the scrape.

Bluestem poked his head into a thick mass of tangles, pulling out the dead blades, which required less effort. “That’s an interesting blade,” he thought. He bit down on a thick, dark strand. The strand moved free from his bill, slipping away into the tangle. It came back, sliding through the sedges. It lunged at him, its jaw lined with needles. He shrieked, calling for help, as coils began to tighten around his body.

Bramble, busy weaving together strands at the bowl, sprang up at the sound of cries for help somewhere in the grass. She scrambled through the sharp blades, bolting toward the hidden shrieks. Arriving at the sight, feathers danced in the air, and Bluestem beat his wings upon the ground, fighting as coils continued to wrap around him. Bramble jumped onto the snake, pecking at its eyes. She latched onto its face, shaking it free from its grip on Bluestem. She jumped off, thrashing around its head with her bill, loosening the coils. Flailing it around, she writhed her body, smacking the snake continuously against the floor. Detaching her bill, the snake's tongue hung loosely from its jaws as it lay there, belly up.

Bluestem shook himself, heaving upward. He hopped over to Bramble with only a slight limp. The two huddled close together, giving soft chirps. Side-by-side, they traveled back to the nest. Neither of them knew what to say to the other, but they both felt fulfilled inside. The evening came, and the sunset cast deep watercolor hues that bled across the land of grass.

Bluestem sat nibbling some seeds, keeping an eye on Bramble through a thin blind of switchgrass as she tidied up the nest. “It was nearly complete, and tomorrow the first egg clutch should arrive,” he thought. The melody of a summer’s night began, and off behind Bramble and the nest, Bluestem noticed two stationary fireflies that didn’t seem to behave naturally. They just sat there, sitting about halfway up the stalk towers. The fireflies flashed a slow flash. And then he saw it. They were not fireflies at all. A dark face crept into view, holding a pair of bright yellow eyes. Pointed ears displayed black tufts above them. Its body encompassed a lightly spotted brown fur coat, and at its rear, a stubby, bobbed tail flicked behind it. It licked its lips.

Springing from the shadows, deadly daggers shot from its paws. Bluestem squawked in terror. A cloud of plumes erupted above the nest. Bramble's body lay lifeless in the bobcat's jaws. Bluestem froze behind the curtain. The yellow eyes stared him down for a moment, and the animal slunk away into the night. Loneliness is a sound, and it was louder than anything Bluestem had heard before.

Winter came, and the meadow turned brown, covered in a canopy of snow and ice. Bluestem lurked in the gloom of blackberry thorns, sopping from the melting snow. “Man often says that he enjoys winter, but what he really means is that he enjoys being sheltered from it,” he thought. Bluestem knew it was not man's fault that Bramble was gone, but he felt the only reason he cared for her so much was because of what they had done to their flock.

Since Bramble left, the armored yellow beasts had crept in, taking with them all that the meadow had. In its place, they had left behind mountains of concrete that existed as if its creators were beyond and separate from the rest of the world. All that remained were little islands of grass separated around man's dominion. “What is life?” thought Bluestem. “It is like a firefly flashing in the dark or the ice that forms just before a sunny day.”

One final sunset fell upon the remains of the meadow. The waves in the sea of grass, the symphony of the night, and the song of security that once rang throughout its days had become a vague memory. The song had not been sung in many moons. Bluestem hobbled over to where dirt met the last of his ruined home. He called out one last time in remembrance of Bramble and to whoever was listening.

“BOB-WHITE!”

The Earthquake that Made It Snow

Isaac Martin

The snow falls when we least expect it to. Oh, the happiness it brings to them. Every year our world is shaken up and thrown to chaos but after those few seconds of fear, the peaceful sound of snowfall is among us. Winter is all my family knows. The frosted trees are stagnant yet the only change about them is how the snow lands on their branches. Despite the weather, the scenery is endless. We look past our farm into a world unknown yet so familiar to us. At our farm, it is always cold, and we cannot venture out beyond our abode. In the daytime the bright sun shines onto us and yet the snow doesn’t melt. Our neighbors are in a close circle, yet we only see them for a few weeks of the year.

I wish we could visit them; they live on a pile of what looks like coarse, beige snow and they sit there under their umbrellas without a care in their world.

Soon, our time was up. Days, weeks, and months go by without any snowfall or sunlight. We’re in the dark again. We wake up to that familiar earthquake sound hoping to see snow falling but no, our neighbor's home has tilted and slid off the cliff they once sat upon. Later, the outside beings turn the sun back on. The pale creatures stretch their limbs and lift us off our cliff. Their expression shifts at the sight of us. It begins to snow.

The Shadow over Roseford

Riley Lockerby

It had been three weeks since the entity made its appearance in the small town of Roseford. It quickly became obvious that those who died on the first day were the lucky ones. Ever since it had appeared, anyone who dared lay their eyes upon it found themselves killed or driven to insanity. It wasn’t that they saw and immediately started stuttering incoherently. It was the revelation–the understanding–that drove them to madness, wishing to share the secrets of… whatever the name of the entity was. Even catching a passing glance was enough to either end one’s life or change it forever. A group of survivors, led by Silvio Verstand and his friend Mason Morris, huddled within a supermarket, which had been sealed off completely. The glass sliding doors had been painted a deep, abyssal black and covered with three layers of wooden planks to block any and all sight. The sole way in or out was through the maintenance doors on the west side of the building, thankfully facing away from the monstrosity inhabiting the heart of the city, just off to the east.

“How are things looking?” Silvio sat on the floor beside Mason.

“Bleak, but manageable, I guess,” Mason ran his fingers through his hair, sighing. “I’m so tired, man. I just want to walk out there and get it over with.”

Silvio looked towards the exit. “No. We can make it through this. We just need to formulate a plan to get us out of Roseford. That’s all. Once we have a plan, we can drive away and never look back!”

“But how the hell are we supposed to make it past that thing out there? Anyone that looks at it either dies or goes insane!” Mason demanded. “Not to mention it’s been causing all sorts of weird stuff to happen around the city. Animals fused together, it’s been overcast ever since it appeared, and there have been earthquakes every other day! We don’t even live on a fault line!”

“We’ll figure something out, okay?” Silvio couldn’t allow himself to falter. “We have food. We have water. Sure, the produce is all rotten by now but this is America! Everything has so many preservatives, we’ll be able to last in here for years!”

That didn’t seem to lighten Mason’s mood any. In fact, it seemed to exhaust him further. He lowered his head into his knees and groaned. “Why bother, man? We’re gonna die trying to get out of the city anyway. We might as well just wait here until we starve, even if that’s years from now. Which it won’t be. We’ve got twenty people in this store with us. We’re going to eat through our food really fast,” Mason refused to lift his head.

“Look, I know things are bad but”

“We found a survivor!”

Silvio and Mason both immediately turned towards the source of the sound. Two of their fellow survivors rushed over to them, waving their arms.

“We heard knocking at the door and found a survivor! He doesn’t even seem to be insane, but he says he saw the creature with his own eyes!”

“Take us to him!” Silvio jumped to his feet, running towards the back of the store with the two others.

Mason followed suit.

The store wasn’t exactly small, but it felt much larger, walking through the aisles with anticipation. What would the man say? Could he help them escape the grasps of the entity? There were too many questions and Silvio would have to just wait and see.

After what felt like an eternity, the group burst into the employees only zone. The man’s disheveled appearance made him look rather old, as though looking upon the entity had aged him significantly. He was dressed in a simple red tshirt and gray shorts. His hair was speckled with gray. If anything, he looked exceptionally ordinary for someone that had supposedly seen the entity over Roseford, lived to tell the tale, and didn’t go insane.

Silvio wasted no time.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I saw it,” the man’s voice was raspy and hoarse.

“Can you describe it?” Silvio crouched down beside the man.

“No,” the man reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled up piece of yellowed paper. “But I drew it.”

Silvio delicately reached out for the paper, his heart in his throat, and unraveled it.

The charcoal image plastered on the paper was difficult to understand to say the very least. Through the smears, there was a massive, towering black figure, organic in appearance but unnatural in every other way. Silvio could make out a hand in the mass of darkness in the middle of the page, as well as four piercing eyes, shockingly crisp in comparison to the rest of the drawing.

Though he wanted to look away from the eerie image, he was unable to pry his eyes away. Tentacles writhed on the page, slithering around his hands, shifting through the cloud of smudges and fingerprints that covered the paper. Every time his eyes moved to a different area, it seemed that the drawing changed,

hands appearing and disappearing, tentacles slithering all around, shadows shifting, but through it all, the eyes never changed. They stared directly through Silvio’s soul. The paper itself felt alive, as though it were breathing.

In the back of his mind, he heard someone shouting “Silvio! Siiilvio!” over and over and over again. It wasn’t until he saw the hand waving in front of his face accompanied by some finger snapping that he realized it was Mason.

“Silvio? Hello? You there?” Mason snapped his fingers a couple of times.

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm here,” Silvio rubbed his eyes.

“You were zoned out for like five minutes there,” Mason said. “I was trying to get your attention forever.”

“Oh. My bad. I was just looking at this drawing the guy made. Supposedly it's what the entity looks like,” Silvio explained.

“It is! I promise you! It is!” the frantic man said. “Or at least, it’s the best I could do… How could one draw such a being? Its truth, impossible to discern. Its existence, beyond anything we could ever hope to imagine.”

“Okay, now you sound crazy,” Silvio said.

Behind him, a bottle suddenly tipped over and onto the floor, shattering against the concrete and exploding into hundreds of pieces.

“What was that?” Mason looked over his shoulder.

“Just a bottle. Must’ve fallen off a shelf or something,” Silvio shrugged.

“No. It’s him!” the survivor cried. “All of these! It’s all his doing!”

“Should we knock this guy out or something?” someone said.

“You know that’s really not a bad idea,” Mason said in a deadpan, snarky tone.

“I’m beginning to think you’re just another crazy cultist.”

There was another shattering sound, this time from the milk bottles, which had fallen from their snug shelf and onto the floor, glass scattering in a hundred different directions.

“Someone go pick up that glass please? I’ll get to work on sweeping up the bottle and then join you over at the milk bottles,” Silvio said.

“I’ll go deal with it I guess,” Mason trudged away from the group and the questionably sane man.

Though they tried and tried, every time they picked up one mess, another would appear. For several long, arduous hours, they struggled to keep up with the cascade of falling foodstuff and glass, but in a store of this size, it was impossible. Eventually, things were getting so bad that shelves were collapsing, lights were exploding, and electrical wires were tearing. The store was falling into a state of disrepair at breakneck speeds, and the origins of the mess were becoming more and more clear.

“That man is doing something! I know he is!” Mason stomped his foot. “I mean think about it! Ever since he showed up, things have been falling apart and it’s only been five hours!”

“I don’t know if it was the man or the paper he brought along with him,” Silvio continued to mop the floor, where pickle juice had spilled and left a neon green, translucent puddle on the floor.

“What do you mean?” Mason leaned on his broom, looking up as one of the lights promptly exploded and collapsed into aisle thirteen. “Oh for the love of…”

Silvio sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll deal with that later.

What were we talking about?”

“The paper?”

“Oh, right. Well, when I looked at the paper, I could have sworn the image on the paper moved when I looked at it. I don’t know how to explain it, but that paper–which that crazy guy said was just a drawing–felt alive,” Silvio

explained. “Something was wrong with it.”

“That’s weird. When I looked at it over your shoulder, it just looked like a bunch of random scribbles,” Mason put the shattered glass in a paper bag while Silvio mopped up the pickle juice.

“We’ve gotta get that guy and his drawings out of here,” Silvio muttered.

“You think?”

Exactly 399.6 minutes after the man walked in the doors of the store, the roof collapsed. It was instantaneous, the entirety of the roof, from wall to wall, came crashing down simultaneously. Over half of the survivors were killed in the cave-in, the break room and the hallway just beyond it being the only areas where the roof remained. Silvio and Mason were among those lucky enough to endure the destruction of the supermarket’s roof and remain relatively unharmed.

“What the hell happened?!” a woman cried.

“It was that god forsaken man that saw the creature!” a man yelled.

“Silvio! Silvio are you there?” Mason had hid himself under a table during the cave-in on the off chance that the roof also collapsed in the break room.

“I’m–” Silvio’s words caught in his throat as a horrible, strangled cough erupted from his lungs, leading into a fit that lasted nearly thirty seconds.

“Hang on!” Mason rushed over to Silvio, slamming his palm in between his friend’s shoulder blades.

After a final, sharp cough, Silvio finally spoke clearly, though he could still feel the dust coating the inside of his mouth. “I’m alright. I think.”

“That man… I bet he was an extension of that creature sent in here to drag us out!” Mason hissed.

“But the creature never showed any interest in anything! It just sat in the center of town and the world itself is what killed everyone!” Silvio insisted.

“Well, maybe it got bored! Think of it like children and ants! Children don’t care about ants until they see a colony of them and decide to burn them alive with a magnifying glass!” Mason helped Silvio to his feet. “And for the record, we’re the ants!”

“I know we’re the ants! What else would we be in this scenario!” Silvio snapped.

The boys looked out of the hallway, gazing at the scene before them. Massive piles of ceiling tiles and vent shafts littered the ground. Every shelf was bent at odd angles and all foodstuff was absolutely decimated.

“Oh my God. It moved!” someone shouted. “That thing move” They were silenced in an instant as an unknown force suddenly sliced their head clean off of their body, which flew backwards and directly to Silvio’s feet. Their body collapsed into a monstrous pool of blood. On their face, an expression of sheer horror was etched into every line and wrinkle. The worst part, however, was their eyes. Each eye had melted out of its socket, a pale translucent white paste stained the deceased’s hollowed cheeks.

“Oh, my God!” a male survivor let out a terrified, drawn out scream as the head rolled over to him, propelled by something that could not be seen.

“I’m gonna kill that man! I’ll throttle him with my own hands if he’s still alive!”

Mason roared. “He’s ruined everything! Our friends have died! Our store has collapsed! I’m gonna kill that son of a-”

Mason’s eyes suddenly fell on something just to the east of the store and he instantly fell silent, his arms going limp by his side, his jaw falling slack. His breath became shallow and raspy.

“Mason!” Silvio grabbed hold of his friend and pulled him back, rather violently, in the protected hallway. “Mason for god’s sake get ahold of yourself!”

He smacked the entranced boy, shaking him vigorously.

“I’ve seen more than any human should. I now understand…” Mason whispered. “Calamity… The flow of all things and its inevitable end at the hands of disaster. I understand it all.”

“Oh, God. Not you, too,” Silvio felt as though his heart had been ripped from his body. His one and only friend had laid eyes on the creature.

There has to be a way to save him! He only saw the beast for a second! He can recover! I know he can! He’s strong and far braver than anyone else I know! I’ll snap him out of this trance and we’ll escape Roseford together! Silvio thought. You cannot save him.

“Huh? Who… said that?”

I did.

The voice felt like it was directly inside Silvio’s head, echoing within his mind.

“Who the hell are you? Get out of my head!”

I’m afraid not.

Through the debris, the man from before stepped out, his eyes hidden by impossibly dark shadows. His mouth was shut.

No. His mouth was not shut. He had no mouth. Just barren, empty flesh where lips should have been.

Gaze upon His greatness. See that He is all that has been and all that will be. His beauty is beyond imagination. There is a flow to the world and He is the end of that flow. He is calamity.

“Oh, God,” Silvio rasped, falling to his knees, an overwhelming weight crashing down on him in a wave of insurmountable darkness. He tried to fight it, but as he struggled, the weight only pushed down on him more.

Indeed.

The man extended his hand.

Come. Gaze upon Him. Become one with Him. Why won’t my body move? Silvio thought. Is this what it feels like to give up? I know I shouldn’t go but I can’t stop myself.

The boy rose to his feet, Mason standing beside him, his eyes glazed over, his iris and pupil missing completely. In the debris, Silvio could see people rising up, some of their bodies melted together, fused into some unholy abominations brought about by the mere presence of the horror over Roseford. He couldn’t fathom what pain they were going through, but it mattered not. He reached his hand out, grabbing hold of the man, who gently pulled Silvio forward.

Silvio’s mind filled with many thoughts as he moved down the hallway.

I feel no fear now. The remnants of humanity within Roseford have been lost.

This is not giving up. This is just the best choice. Why should I have to suffer alone? It’s a pointless battle to fight. My mind feels more clear than ever. This is the right choice.

Silvio pulled Mason by his wrist, the two boys walking in the light together. The man looked back at them one more time, leaving them with a single command. Look up. And they did. Their eyes came to rest directly on the shadow over Roseford.

Editor’s Note:

I am incredibly proud of the work these students completed this semester. Their creativity and willingness to try new styles and genres has produced the pieces found here. While each of these pieces stemmed from a class assignment, these students have more fully begun finding and expressing their own voices and styles, and I feel it dishonest to take any credit for the work produced here. It has truly been my privilege to work with these talented writers.

Charissa Motley Editor & Creative Writing Faculty