The Daylight Dreams by Sarah Dworman

Dear Reader,

This piece is a collection of writings about people. Some are about those refused by society; others describe those revered by it. Some tell of joy, others of heartbreak. Some are fictional tales of magic and monsters; some stem directly from my life and the lives of others. This book tells of self-discovery, betrayal, fear, change, and, most importantly, love.

Life originates from the beating heart and its strength to carry on through the hardest of times. It is what creates the dilemmas we decide on every day. Do you battle mistreatment with vengeance or forgiveness? Fear, with courage or acceptance? Do you accept the pain, knowing that it could lead to newfound peace, or shy away from it, knowing it will hurt? The heart decides where to place our trust and love; it decides all. It is around the heart and its beautiful contradictions that these tales emerged.

I wrote them in the early morning, late afternoon, and the middle of the night. They grew in the sunlight and thrived in the dark, uninhibited by the creatures lurking in the shadows. This book contains my fears, my hopes, my fascinations, and my deepest loves. It holds the dreams I created with eyes wide open, the lives I lived in my sleep, and the friends I created in absence of companionship. Hopefully, they will give you the same comfort.

This book is dedicated to all who inspired me, all who helped me, all who love me, and to you. Dream in the daylight, my friends.

Sincerely,

Sarah Dworman

The Traveler

He waltzed right into town with nothing to his name but a worn-out pack and a bottle full of pain. He’d have a pretty face if you washed away the dirt and the frown. He’s got melancholy eyes that pierce/see right through. No matter what you say, he barely talks to you. He’s rude and he’s crude and not one you’d want to be around.

And some say he’s a hippy, Always high and outta his mind. And some say he’s a bandit On the run since twenty-five. And some say he’s just here to rob your houses and your hearts. But as soon as you might get to know him, He’s gone.

He spends his nights sleeping under midnight stars unless he finds a girl sitting in some bar, Then all the girls will talk about the mystery in their beds. When he walks down the street, people look away. They hold their kids real tight and tell them not to stray if they see a strange man who looks like he’s risen from the dead.

And some say he’s psychotic, He can run, and you can’t hide. And some say he’s a womanizer Here to find another lie.

And some say if you let him in, you’ll never be the same again. So don’t let the man get comfortable. He’s gone again

And everyone says they know all of his truths. They could tell you all about his history and his youth. But who really knows the traveler with the worn brown boots?

Could they tell you he’s afraid to go back home? That his own momma doesn’t even care to know Where her only boy has been in his five years alone on the road. ‘Cause he knows he’s not welcome, not there or anywhere And every place he goes can’t seem to find a care

For the springtime boy who's seen the worst, Seen his mother in a bottle and his father in a hearse. And no one knows he left home at just sixteen.

He’s only known one soul he could call a friend. Now he’s too afraid to find love again

Because they left him all alone, and now that is his creed

So he’ll wander the world, Always leaving before the dawn Just in case a fire lights And the pull becomes too strong

And someone makes him stay just to break his fragile heart. So as soon as he finds hope again, He’ll be gone

The Stranger Upstairs

“I have gone, for a day, to the desert.”

I have spent years curled up in my glass apartment. Alone, except for the mysterious companion living in the opaque ceiling above me

And the voices in my head who tell of the dangers of the desert.

The world beyond the glass is frightening

Filled with dangerous secrets and backstabbing criminals

I see them as I peer through the barrier between me and the monsters

I am soothed by the voices that whisper to me of the tranquility created by my golden cage

But, suddenly, the air fills with ash

As the fires of blame surround me without reason.

The eyes within the glass shine mercilessly with hatred and satisfaction

They have waited patiently to see me burn

I have done nothing, but I am still the victim of their cruelty

My lungs ignite with the effort to breathe

My eyes sting as I desperately try to see through the soot and smoke

I frantically search for the source of the flame

But am met only with the blackened reflection of my misery

As I stare into the glass, the creatures begin to mirror the brush strokes of soot I see in my own reflection

I study their faces, and am struck by the truth of my prison

My demons have never been beyond the walls, searching for cracks to seep in through

They have been behind me, the glass reflecting their visages along with my own, waiting for the opportunity to strike

As I have been frozen, petrified of the expanse filled with unknown curiosities, They have been the voices hissing in my ear

Spinning threads of falsities to conceal the truth and leave me blind and afraid

Confirming the monstrosities of the outside world when they themselves are the true terrors

They laugh at my devastation, smirking with ash between their teeth, thriving off of the smoke that executes me

I fruitlessly my fists bounce off the glass as I rage against their reflections

I pray to return to my cocoon of ignorance, my life of lonely peace and silence

The haunting rhythm of my desperation is joined by ruthless taunts… and a faint pounding from above me.

Vibrations echo through the glass as hit after hit is delivered from above and below, creating a thin spider web of doubt

The barriers I once thought to be a mighty protector bend to my will as if they were no stronger than a bubble on the surface of a ripping river

I press my hands to the wall and push as if I were pulling the sky itself away from the earth

The glass shatters into thousands of glittering diamonds in the desert sun, and I run

I sense the creatures sprinting to catch me, drunk on the sight of my terrible torment

I am more fearful of them than of the golden abyss that once haunted my nights

“There is no danger” in the desert, not as I once believed.

As my feet glide over the sand, I feel as though wings have adorned my back.

I fly over miles of earth, letting the clouds shade me from eyes and whispers

And obeying the directions of the dunes and aviators that lead me to salvation

I place each step with confidence, knowing the endless waves will guide me

Soon, the sounds of the creature’s thundering hunt fades, and I am left alone

As I go, the weightlessness leaves me, and I trudge through the desert, weary and lonely

As my legs start to shake and my eyes begin to close, a glimmer of green erupts from the sand near my toes

I follow the foliage, allowing them to continue the desert’s work of caring for me

They multiply as I continue along their path until I am surrounded by the comforting scene of tall trees and a cool, shimmering pool of iridescent blue

I race to the water’s edge and submerge myself in the relief of cool bliss

When I raise my head, my eyes catch on a figure emerging from the hazy heat beyond the oasis. The fear that had consumed me for years begins to bubble up in my chest, But is quickly submerged by a peaceful understanding just as familiar to me

They stumble to rest at the bank, dipping their dirtied hands into the water to drink Their eyes meet mine, and we study each other as if appraising a friend or foe

My eyes flit over their form, and see a reflection of myself gazing back at me

Tattered, charred garments, smelling of smoke and fear

Hair dusted with bits of diamonds, glittering in the golden light of sunset, Clean rivulets of skin leading from each bloodshot eye, blue as the pool separating us

A sense of recognition passes between us as I finally gaze upon my sole companion

The one I heard occupying the glass box above mine is standing before me as if we were strangers

We sit under the protection of a tree, looking out at the golden sea of sun and sand, And I feel a warmth unfurl in my chest as if it had been there all along but was never able to reveal itself until now

Their arm slowly goes around my waist, and the final ounce of tension leaves my weary soul Reaching up to hold their hand, looking out over a sea of uncertainty, A contented breath leaves my lips as I curl up against my friend, my love

“I have gone, for a day, to the desert”

And emerged with scars for better.

Works Cited

Five Years Ago…

Five years ago, I imagined my life today would be different.

I knew what the path would look like.

Had planned it thread by thread, breath by breath, brick by brick.

I never thought I would want for love

Or long for a soul to rest up against my own and fill the void in my chest.

I had hope for companionship and faith in history.

I never imagined my closest confidant would leave me cold, lonely, and tear-stricken at the brink of day

Looking back as if she knew she was disgracing years of friendship but was confused by my devastation nonetheless.

I never dreamed the road ahead would be muddled by uncertainty and darkness

Waiting for me to claim the torch and find the light once more.

When did the night become so beautiful?

I find myself gazing at the moonlit sky

I see peace in what I once thought so fearsome

No longer are the shadows waiting in branches for my guard to drift to sleep

Now they are friends hiding from the blistering sun, waiting to see

We share secrets in the darkness, my friends and I

The leaves sound under my feet, telling tales of where the wind has blown them

The breeze caresses my face, bringing color to my cheeks that rivals the sun’s surrender

He whispers of the gossip from the clouds and stars, soothing my worries with a stinging touch

I run with the creatures of the forest, letting them lead me to salvation

I burrow into the fox den, and find a home warmer than any the sun could offer me

Because it is not an inane heat made to scorch and light the world ablaze

It is a warmth made to comfort and offer love in the coldest times

I do not wish to leave and return to life in the light

The moon offers a respite, a cool oasis in a desert of burning fire

I drink and I drown, parched from the effort to stay alive

I let Her lead me to a secluded cave, away from the responsibilities of the light

I return to my burrow and hide away with the moon as my only companion

She holds me in her arms, sharing the weight that rests in my chest

She is just as lonely as I, familiar with the burden of stone

We wait despairingly for the sun to rise, pretending we are unaware, talking the truth of the day

Of twisted vines made of enemies and friends, impossible choices, and mountainous decisions

I curse my return to the sun, but I know I cannot stay in darkness

Life awaits me on the other side of the night

So I take with me the lilting tales of the leaves, the giddy whispers of the wind, the shared secrets of the creatures, the relieving admissions of the moon

I write down my friend’s stories to be found in the daylight, the proof that I am not alone

Even when the sun burns so bright it blinds, and the night seems so far away

But I patiently wait for the sky to burst into swaths of color and then fade to deep cerulean

My notebook in my hands, I remain to hear the voices of the night

They save me, reassure me, inspire me.

I look at the sky, and I wait.

True Beauty

Breathe in the cooling air, Summer fades to fall

Damp wood beneath your hands, You don’t mind at all

The path to water’s edge

Leading through the night

To sit with you, my angel, you, Glowing in the light

You study the fading sky, Majestic amber glow

Shoulders brush and sighs escape, A peace you’ll never know

The water laps upon the rocks, Lulling you to sleep

You say “take in the pretty things,” A promise I intend to keep

Your perfect swirls of flowing hair, your stunning half-moon eyes

The tranquil air of moonlit night, fields of butterflies

Proximity tantalizes me, hold my hand and close your eyes

A hundred times I’ve seen you here, always a surprise

Lavender, magenta sky

Cannot compare to your green eyes

The gentle wind’s cacophony

Is nothing when you sing to me

A dreamlike scene, my destiny

To never touch but only see True beauty

Trees bathed in golden light

Fade into the mist

My eyes locked you alone

The saint that I worship

I cannot bear to meet your gaze, Your piercing eyes might see

The lovesick fool who fell for you, You mean everything to me

The sunlight kills my haunted soul, I yearn for the fall of night

Where adoring eyes might be disguised by a spectacle of color and light

Your head reclined to see the sky, the forgotten muse of God

The stars align, your foot brushes mine, and somehow that’s enough

Lavender, magenta sky

Cannot compare to your green eyes

The gentle wind’s cacophony

Is nothing when you sing to me

I’ll gladly live my destiny

To never touch but only see True beauty

If you should know

You might just go

Your eyes meet mine

Moonlight shines

You grab my hand

I drown on dry land

Your lips brush mine

Snow falls down my spine

Crystalline Lake

I can’t escape

And you say

“Lavender, magenta sky

Cannot compare to your blue eyes

The secret winds’ whispering

Is nothing when you’re holding me

Just take my hand and promise me

You’ll show me what it means to see True beauty.”

The Rooftop

Act One Scene One

The roof of a New York City apartment building in the fall.

We open on the rooftop of a New York City apartment building. A maroon door leads down to the uppermost apartment, home of twenty-four-year-old college student ANNA and her older boyfriend, CONNOR. The roof is concrete, with an old water tower in the corner and a thick waist-high ledge surrounding it. It is relatively spacious, with enough room for three people to comfortably sit on the outdoor chairs and couch surrounding an orange floral rug that has seen better days. Plants are scattered around the roof; they are cared for well enough but would not oppose some more affection. It is afternoon, but the sun has not yet started to set, and it is closer to dusk than noon - golden hour. ANNA is sitting on the ledge, one leg tucked underneath her, the other resting on the roof. She is looking up at the sky, watching the light fade.

CONNOR enters the roof. He holds a wool jacket and a picnic basket in his arms as he opens the door.

CONNOR

(Walking over to ANNA.)

Whatcha doing out here?

ANNA (Sighing.)

Just looking at the sky.

CONNOR places the basket on the ground next to ANNA’S feet. He sits next to her and hands her the coat.

CONNOR

In the freezing cold with no jacket on?

ANNA

(Reluctantly accepts the jacket.)

It’s not that cold.

CONNOR

Come on, love, tell me what's really wrong.

CONNOR scootches closer to ANNA. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, and she leans her head on his shoulder.

ANNA

I don’t know. I just…

Silence fills the space between them the sounds of the city echo into the audience. ANNA struggles to find the words.

I’m just scared.

CONNOR

Of what?

ANNA

(Standing up, she paces the length of the roof as she talks.)

Of everything! I’m graduating from college this year. I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’m going. I’m supposed to be an adult by now! But here I am, staring out at nothing. I’ve got no job lined up, I’m not going to graduate school, and my lease ends next year. I’ve spent so much time and money to get to this point, and now that I’m here, I have no idea what to do.

CONNOR

(Interrupting.)

Anna.

ANNA

She doesn't notice him.

Kaylee has already had three internships and is spending the summer in France, and I’m just sitting here, staring up at the sky, wondering what the hell I’m going to do with my life. I’m not doing enough! No matter what I do, I’m just not doing enough.

CONNOR

Anna.

CONNOR stands and walks to ANNA. He grabs her shoulders. She stops pacing, breathing heavily with panic. They stand, just breathing and looking at each other. We

ANNA

get the sense that she is looking deep into his eyes, searching for something. He is just looking at her. She grabs him around the waist, hugging him.

I’m just so scared. Everything is changing.

CONNOR

Not everything. I’m right here, aren’t I?

ANNA looks into his eyes once more. She nods halfheartedly, not sure if she believes it. CONNOR moves to the picnic basket.

ANNA

No, Connor, I’m not hungry.

CONNOR

Who said anything about food?

He opens the basket to reveal a bottle of wine, shaking it at her and smiling suggestively. She offers a small smile, but it shows she is not interested.

Alright, party pooper. I guess I’ll have to bring out the big guns!

He retrieves a phone and speaker from the basket. He presses play, and music plays. He leads ANNA to the middle of the roof and starts swaying her to the music. She pulls away.

Come on!

ANNA

Connor, I’m not in the mood to dance.

CONNOR

(Pulling her back into his arms.)

I’m not taking no for an answer. You can do something about all of that later. Right now, I just want you to feel the music, yeah?

She’s not convinced.

Come on. I just want my happy girl back.

He grabs her hands, and she gives in. They start to dance. The music overtakes the scene, and soon they’re laughing and jumping around, all worries forgotten. ANNA trips on CONNOR’s foot, and she falls, crashing them both to the ground. Hysterical laughter ensues.

CONNOR

Feel any better?

ANNA (Blushing.)

Yeah. Thank you. I love you so much.

CONNOR kisses her.

CONNOR

I got this for you.

He holds up a sparkling silver necklace shaped like a flower.

ANNA

Oh, Connor, It’s beautiful.

He places it around her neck.

CONNOR

I knew you’d like it. Everything will be alright, Anna. Trust me.

Act One Scene Two

The same rooftop. The same time of day. Three months later. It could snow any day.

The roof is empty. The same scenery is on the roof as before. We hear yelling from inside the apartment. ANNA bursts through the door. CONNOR closes it behind her. They are in the middle of an argument.

ANNA

(Furious.)

I can’t believe you.

CONNOR

For Christ’s sake, Anna. I said I was sorry.

ANNA

That doesn’t make it any better! You can’t just say “I’m sorry” and fix everything! This isn’t new, Connor. I know you. I know when something’s wrong. You’re never here, and you’re distant even when you are.

CONNOR

What are you talking about?

This has been building for a long time.

ANNA

It started with you coming home late all the time. You never said where you were or where you were going, but I didn’t say anything because I trusted you. Then, you started missing things.

CONNOR tries to interrupt.

ANNA

You weren’t at my birthday party, you missed three date nights without telling me, and you barely remembered that dinner with my parents last month! I thought maybe something was going on and that you’d talk to me when you were ready, but you never did! And now you forget our five-year anniversary?! And then the only thing you have to say is, “I’m sorry.” At some point, “sorry” doesn’t cut it, Connor!

CONNOR

Are you angry about the anniversary dinner? If so, we can go out right now! Hell, I can schedule the biggest holiday you’ve ever had in your life! It doesn’t matter! You’re making such a big deal out of nothing.

ANNA

Oh, I’m the bad guy here? Well, I’m so sorry for wanting my boyfriend to be there for me! Oh, forgive me for being a little angry when he doesn’t seem to care at all! God, I just wish you’d talk to me.

ANNA sits angrily on the ledge, exhausted from her outburst. She is devastated.

CONNOR

I am talking to you! You’re the one who’s not making any sense.

ANNA looks away. He doesn’t get it. CONNOR sits next to her. He tries to put an arm around her, but she shies away. He opens his mouth, another apology on the tip of his tongue.

CONNOR I don’t know what else to say, Anna.

ANNA

You could tell me where you’ve been.

CONNOR

I’m right here, Anna.

ANNA

But you’re not, are you?

ANNA looks at him; her eyes are cold and hurt.

You could be honest, again, for the first time in months! You could say anything that shows you still love me… You could just say you love me.

Silence. He can’t say it. They look at each other. This time, he is searching her eyes for a fragment of forgiveness. She realizes there was never anything to find in the first place.

ANNA (Whispering to herself.)

Maybe Kaylee was right.

CONNOR (Suddenly angry.)

Oh, and what did the almighty Kaylee have to say? What insight could she possibly have into our lives?

ANNA

She saw you out with Abby. I told her it was just for work, but she said it looked like more than that.

CONNOR

Oh, come on, Anna, you know Kaylee! She spreads any rumor she gets her hands on. You can’t possibly believe-

ANNA (Interrupting.)

I found a receipt in your jacket pocket from last week. Dinner for two at Tavern on the Green.

CONNOR says nothing. He’s been found out.

CONNOR

Anna, I’m so sorry. She means nothing to me. I made a mistake, and I swear it’ll never happen again.

ANNA isn’t listening. He gets on his knees in front of her, pleading.

God, you’re it for me. I swear you’re it for me. I love you so much. I’ll do anything. Please, just give me a second chance!

ANNA laughs suddenly, hysterically. It is filled with heartbreak.

ANNA

What happened to us? We used to be everything.

CONNOR looks at her, hoping for a glimpse of understanding. He does not find it.

I think it’s best if you leave.

Taken aback, CONNOR nods, standing up and dusting the dirt off his knees. He turns and walks towards the door. ANNA starts crying softly, her head in her hands. Abruptly, at the edge of the doorway, CONNOR turns around.

CONNOR

Carnations.

ANNA

What? CONNOR

Your favorite flowers are carnations. I got some for you for our anniversary. They’re sitting on the table. Even that damn necklace I got you is shaped like one. You like the ones dyed rainbow ‘cause they remind you of the tie-dye you used to do at summer camp. I know you don’t believe me, but I really do love you, Anna.

ANNA looks at him, seeing him for the first time. Snow beings to fall lightly around them. The first snowfall of the year.

ANNA

Roses are my favorite flowers. And I never went to summer camp.

CONNOR

Goodbye, Anna.

He turns his back on ANNA. The door closes.

Act One Scene Three

The same rooftop. Midafternoon. Six months later.

ANNA is standing alone on her roof. It looks different. All of the personal itemsflowerpots, blankets, chairs - have been removed. KAYLEE comes stomping up the stairs.

KAYLEE (From offstage.)

Anna! What box do you want your china in?

She enters, stopping short once she sees the view from her best friend's roof.

Every time I come up here, it takes my breath away. If that old lady from Chicago hadn't bought this palace the second you put it up for sale, I would’ve snatched it up before she could even find her reading glasses.

ANNA doesn’t respond. She’s too caught up in her head. KAYLEE sits on the ledge next to where ANNA is standing. (Playfully.)

Whatcha thinkin’?

ANNA

Just about things.

KAYLEE gives her a look.

ANNA

You know, I got this place for the views? I always loved the idea of sitting up here, staring at the sky. I never used it as much as I thought I would, though.

KAYLEE (Jokingly.)

Well, that’s because you never invited me up here. How are you, though? Really?

ANNA

Not great. But I think I will be. Eventually. You know he called me a few months ago? He said (Mocking CONNOR’s voice.)

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.” Like I was the issue all along.

KAYLEE

What a dick. A manipulative, mansplaining dick.

ANNA

But he wasn’t. Not all the time, at least. In the beginning, he was sweet and loving. He held my hand in public and made me laugh. Yeah, sometimes he could be a bit insensitive or…

(She doesn’t want to admit it.)

Manipulative… but then he’d do something that made up for it. He’d get me chocolates, or we’d go to the theater.

(Her hand unconsciously reaches for the necklace.)

He was everything I could have wanted. Until…

KAYLEE

Until he cheated on you.

ANNA

Yeah. It seemed like he just stopped caring the second he found someone better. Like he was just keeping me around to play with when he had the time. I just feel so stupid for caring about him in the first place. All the signs were there! I just ignored them like the romantic idiot I am.

KAYLEE

(Seriously.)

He didn’t find someone better, Anna. He couldn’t even if he tried. He is the one who made a mistake. He is the idiot! Not you. All you did was follow your heart. You can’t fault yourself for that.

ANNA

But you saw who he was from the beginning! If I had just listened to you-

KAYLEE

Yeah, and if I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t have listened to me, either. You loved him, Anna.

ANNA

(Whispered like it’s a dirty secret. Perhaps it is.)

I think I still do.

KAYLEE

And that’s okay. You’ll get over him. It just takes time.

ANNA

You can say, “I told you so,” you know?

KAYLEE

(Back to her lighthearted self.)

All in good time, my friend. All in good time.

There is a moment of silence as they look out at the cityscape. KAYLEE looks at ANNA. She has an epiphany.

KAYLEE Scream.

ANNA What?

KAYLEE

Just scream. Let it all out into the city.

(ANNA gives her a look like KAYLEE is crazy.)

I saw it in a movie or something.

ANNA

But what if someone hears and calls the police?

KAYLEE

You’ll be moved out by the time they get here.

(She senses ANNA’s apprehensiveness.)

Come on. I’ll do it with you!

ANNA stands up, and KAYLEE holds her hand, pointing her out to the city.

KAYLEE

3… 2.. 1… SCREAM!

ANNA and KAYLEE scream, letting all of the heartbreak and pain absorb into the hustle and bustle below. KAYLEE drops out, letting ANNA’s scream overtake the city.

KAYLEE

Didn’t that feel good?

ANNA (Laughing.)

Yes! Thanks, Kay.

KAYLEE

Anytime, Anna. Now, you wanna help me pack up that china?

ANNA

I’ll be down in a minute

KAYLEE

Alright. I’ll meet you downstairs, yeah? We’ve got a moving van to meet.

KAYLEE retreats back into the apartment. ANNA looks out over the city, standing on her rooftop for the last time. She takes a deep breath. She reaches up, unclasping the chain from her neck. She holds the necklace in her palm, feeling the weight of it. Then, she throws it over the edge of the roof, watching as it glitters its way down into the dirty New York City streets. She feels a little bit lighter. The first cracks begin to heal.

ANNA

Everything will be alright.

She walks to the door, locking it behind her.

Bejeweled

I am not a person who adores horror movies. I do not find them to be the epitome of cinema, but I wouldn’t say I hate them. Blood and jumpscares are just not what I choose to entertain myself with. I lean more toward romantic comedies, dramas, and fantasy TV shows when I want to relax. And my parents are the same way, so horror movies are a rarity, if even a possibility in my house, and I don’t like them enough to go to a theater. So, long story short, I don't watch them. Except for when I am with my friend, Grace.

Grace loves horror movies. Thrillers and slashers are her favorite genre. Her favorite movie of all time is the original Scream from 1996 because it mimics traditional horror movies, poking fun at their faults and similarities. On her seventeenth birthday, Grace, our other friend, Julia, and I had one of our classic movie weekends. (Once, we watched all nine Star Wars movies in one weekend. We were exhausted by the end, but laughed harder than we thought possible.) This time, as per the occasion, Grace chose the movies we would watch.

“You haven’t seen Scream?!” She exclaimed incredulously as we discussed what we might start our evening with. “You have to see Scream.” She quickly pulled up her Amazon Prime account, much to my chagrin. “Don’t worry, Sarah, it’s more of a spoofy kind of scary scary than a scary kind of scary,” Grace said casually. I smiled in gratitude. She knew exactly what I was going to say before I even thought how to word it.

I stayed quiet for most of the movie, not wanting to give my opinion in case Julia or Grace thought differently. That was a bad habit I had picked up around that time. But, in the end, I really enjoyed it.

I always thought I was closer to Julia than Grace. She knew me better than anyone; we used to joke that we were the same person, just born in different states. Every dirty little secret I had was hers to know. Julia was all consuming, a beautiful person and even better friend. So when she started drifting away, I thought it was something I had done. Maybe I had said too much, or been too open with her. Maybe a joke I said didn't land quite as well as I thought it did.

I was terrified of being alone, so I stopped doing anything that might push her away from me. Her opinions became my own, and any unsightly part of myself was sequestered away to be criticized in the dark of night. Little did I know nothing I did would have stopped her from leaving. The summer before my senior year, she found new friends. They liked to smoke and drink and hang out, only to smoke and drink some more. I never had any desire to partake in that kind of activity. And Julia knew that just like she knew everything else about me. So, she stopped talking to me entirely, even when school started. We had nearly identical schedules and sat with each other often, but she barely even looked at me. And when she did acknowledge my presence, any statement of mine was met with a scathing look like I had offended her just by existing. Nothing got her to even smile at me, no matter what I did. I only saw Grace once a day and never caught sight of her in the halls, so the only people I had to talk to were Julia and her new friends. It felt like I lost them both Julia wanted nothing to do with me, and Grace was so far out of reach.

But despite all of that, Julia was still my best friend. I hoped our relationship would prevail even if she wasn't making the best decisions. This was just a bump in the road. I just had to wait for the storm to pass. I missed having friends but didn’t know how to fix it without giving up on someone I had considered to be family since I was six years old. So, I sat with her

at lunch, even though I knew I would be ignored and talked down to. I wanted her to know that I was there for her and still cared about her even if she wasn’t showing she did.

I suffered a lot in those first few weeks of school. I was so alone.

My only reprieve was the football games. I would sit with Julia, her friends, and, thankfully, Grace. In fact, I only started going because Grace asked me. Julia would tell jokes and laugh with her friends, just like we used to, and I’d sit with Grace, pretending nothing was wrong. Julia was always on my mind, but I felt less lonely with Grace there.

One time, I was late. I got there before Grace to find Julia and her friends sitting on our usual row of the bleachers. There was enough room for one more person to squeeze in right next to her, so I sat down, my arm and leg pressed against her own. I was reminded of all of the times we had hugged and shared couches and chairs. I have always been very touch-oriented, and Julia knew that. For that brief second, everything felt normal again. But my blissful illusion was shattered by a hauntingly familiar, scathingly ruthless tone.

“Um, can you not be so close to me?” Julia snapped. I almost couldn't believe my ears.

“What?” I questioned. Did she really hate me so much that she couldn’t even bear to sit next to me? Her cold eyes bore into mine, making me shiver more than the frigid autumn air. There was no reflection of the kind friend I had always cherished. Maybe she was never there in the first place, I thought.

“You’re too close. Could you just sit in the next row, please ?” There was no one else in the rows surrounding us. That’s why we sat there. My heart plummeted.

“Sure,” I whimpered, barely able to keep the tears out of my eyes. I awkwardly climbed to sit in the row in front of them. My shoulders hunched down over my chest, trying to hide my

heartbreak from prying eyes. My eyes focused on my brown boots, avoiding any gaze that might try to comfort me and bring attention to my grief. Another one of Julia’s friends climbed the steps, and I shoved the anguish down long enough to craft a mask of contentment. Through the haze of concentration and devastation, I vaguely noticed Julia calling for the row above to move and make space for the newcomer.

I sat alone, letting the pain freeze my body, despite the jacket I had around me. I was devastated. The thought of going home crossed my mind, but that would make everything real. If I went home, I would be giving up. I would have to accept that I had lost the person I cared about more than anything in the world. So I sat there, fighting to keep the tears at bay. I heard laughter behind me and couldn’t help but wonder if they had noticed my vulnerability and were mocking me. More tears burned my eyes, and I blinked, desperate to stay composed until I was safe in my mom's car, where I could finally break down. I let the cold air disguise my trembling as shivers, and sat, trying to forget the world around me.

Then, a familiar pair of worn Doc-Martens stopped next to my seat. The left one had a busted zipper that fell no matter what you did to fix it. Grace. She plopped down next to me, bundled up against the cold air. She smiled, carrying a blanket and a boat of french fries.

“Sorry I’m late. I got these for us to share!” She handed me the red and white checkered paper. “Here, you look cold,” she said as she wrapped her blanket around our shoulders. Either I didn’t look as terrible as I felt, or Grace knew that I wouldn't be able to handle talking about what was wrong because she didn't comment on the tears in my eyes or the thinly veiled devastation that infiltrated my whole being. Either way, I was grateful for her. The whole night she didn't ask why I was so sad. It’s like she knew exactly what I needed: a friend to show me I

wasn’t alone. We could talk later. We laughed and joked and, for the first time all year, I felt like everything was going to be alright.

“I missed this,” I confessed, knowing she probably wouldn't pick up on how desperately I had needed her.

“Me too,” she said, just as sacredly. It might have been my imagination, but I swore I caught sight of the same pain reflected in her owl eyes that had greeted me every morning for the past three weeks. “We should hang out soon. There’s a new horror movie coming out! I’ve heard it’s really good and I was looking for someone to watch it with!” The idea of spending time with her made my heart soar. A loving smile came to her face, and I realized my cheeks hurt from the grin on my own face. I hadn’t smiled like that in a while. Pure elation grew in my chest, and suddenly, I didn’t feel as cold anymore.

“I’d love that.”

“Ugh, god, SHUT UP!” We screamed at the television as two characters gave the, unknowingly, R-rated movie a run for its money.

“I swear I did not know what this movie was about when I said we should watch it,” Grace grimaced goodnaturedly as I muted the television. “It was just supposed to be a horror movie!”

“Well, I mean, it is called X,” I smirked, “That was a pretty big clue.” We laughed at our predicament, warm and sated from hot chocolate and the blanket that rested on our laps.

It wasn't until that night that I realized how blind I had been. With Grace, there was no fear of being annoying, or pushy, or saying the wrong thing. I was never afraid she would leave if she got tired of me. She was always there to listen even when she didn’t understand, to offer

comfort even when she didn't know how, and to care even when I felt like no one else did. It didn’t matter if I didn’t see her all the time. Grace would always be there. And she always had been. And I loved her more than anything.

“I missed you,” I told her, eyes shining from realizing how lucky I was to have her.

“I missed you too. Now turn the movie back on, they're done making us uncomfortable.” I laughed and complied, turning up the movie. And maybe it wasn’t one of my favorites, but I enjoyed it more than any movie I had ever seen, even though it was a horror movie. But it wasn't the plot that made me love it, or the characters or the actors, and definitely not the genre or the premise; it was Grace. I’d watch a hundred more horror movies if it meant I could spend more time with her.

Eclipse: A Modern Myth

There once was a time when no one knew what it felt like to love. Relationships were not built on affection but on convenience. That is, they were until the first lovers met, and they changed everything. So much so that the gods chose to honor them by placing them into the eternal sky. You see, the founders of love existed long before time was documented by man. Back when gods still meddled in the affairs of mortals. But there is balance in the world, and with every blessing comes a curse. Good cannot exist without bad. Love cannot exist without hate.

The man was known for his calm, delicate appearance; the woman for her fiery, cheerful personality. Complete opposites, but perfectly in harmony. They say that when they first locked eyes, the whole world froze. No one quite knew how meaningful their meeting would be to the future of humanity. Even the gods were shaken by the power the pair held. It seemed that they completed each other. Where there was once a hidden, aching chasm, there was now a peaceful, sun-kissed, meadow.

It was rare to see the couple apart. And soon, the village took notice of their strange bond. Both gods and men observed the lovers with longing and admiration. But soon, the villagers' respect melted into envy. They grew tired of bearing witness to extraordinary devotion without being able to experience it themselves. Instead of smiling at the couple walking hand in hand, they began to sneer and shout. The entire village started to despise them, simply because they possessed something others did not. And one day, the town decided that they had enough.

As they often did, the lovers disappeared to a nearby field to watch the sky change from day to night. They dozed in the late autumn air, wrapped up in each other's arms, and soon fell asleep. One of the villagers stumbled upon them and was overtaken by envious rage.

"How dare they have something we cannot," he thought. "Why should they flaunt their tenderness with no regard for the cursed, lonely souls condemned to observe from afar?" So, imbued with jealousy and disdain, he ran to tell the villagers of his discovery. They returned to the field and, in their blind loathing, grabbed the lovers and dragged them to their deaths. The gods, however, pitied the young lovers. They watched as hatred met the purest love the world has ever known. And as the wave grew and grew, it crashed down on the innocent, destroying them and the honest devotion they held for each other. The gods mourned for them and their love as much as one can mourn for something they never had. So, they honored the lovers with the gift of an eternal life up in the sky they both so adored. And once a year, the man in the moon and the woman of flame embrace so strongly, it casts the earth into darkness, forever reminding humanity to never be afraid to love. So do not forsake their tragic sacrifice. And on the day of the eclipse, hold your lover close, and remember.

The Lady of the Tracks

When I was ten, I watched my father work himself to near death on the railroad. He woke up at four o’clock every morning to hike his way through the Alaskan wilderness to reach the construction site before six. He walked through every kind of weather, carrying his pack of tools and essentials on his back. His face showed the craters of hail pelted onto once clear skin, smoothed over my rain, and baked in place by the burning sun. He was a tall, thin man with muscle built from lugging wooden logs across the railroad site. He used to let me hang off of his arm, holding my weight effortlessly with the muscle built from pounding metal spikes into the ground with sledgehammers.

We were never a poor family, but after my mother died in childbirth, my father needed something more than fishing and textiles to support us. He got a job helping to build the Alaska Railroad shortly after my brother Jimmy was born in 1920. Every morning I’d wake up with him and make him lunch to take to work, then I’d help my younger brother and sister get ready for school. Most of the money my dad earned went to the school, as they started asking for tuition after the other schoolhouse closed because of a faulty roof during a bad snowfall. We lived in a small town in the middle of the woods, with winding trails leading to Talkeetna, the town nearest to us with an hour's walk in the summertime. The town had everything we needed, except for the few amenities we ventured to get from Talkeetna, but that was rare. The only time I could really remember was when Mr. David’s grandmother had a heart attack, and my dad and I had to race through the woods to get a doctor, as we were the only ones with a dog sled.

My siblings and I would get home at three, and my father would get off the buggy that took the workers to and from Talkeetna and beyond at six, only to arrive home at seven. He was always too exhausted to help with chores, so my siblings and I cooked and cleaned as much as

we could. He was a good father, despite his lethargy. The railroad sucked all of the life out of him. Where once was a joyful, supportive man was now a shell, filled with longing for the past. He worked on the railroad for much of its development. In the first year and a half, my father had helped the tracks branch from Anchorage to Talkeetna. The town was aware of the railroads increasing proximity, but we were not worried. We were proud that men from our corner of Alaska were building something to last a lifetime. My friend's grandmother even said that it would create a boom in little towns like ours, beginning goods and people to buy them. It was one month out that we learned the construction plans ran right through the town. I still remember my father coming home looking more lifeless than ever.

“What’s wrong, papa?” I asked, more mature than any other eleven-year-old could hope to be.

“They’re going straight through the town. By the time we’re done, there’ll be nothing left.” His eyes landed on the portrait of my mother on the wall. Tears gathered in his eyes, memories of choosing this town flowering in his mind like crocuses under the snow. “I’m so sorry, Martha.”

Sure enough, a week later, we got word that most of the town would be destroyed by the proposed route for the railroad. People searched for a way to stop the inevitable. They tried to get in touch with the railroad company, but they had no care for a small town in the wilderness barely anyone knew about. After a month of fighting with no progress, there was nothing left to do but run. Our house was on the edge of the town, so my family was among the brave few who stayed. But many of them left a few weeks into construction, either finances or emotional burden chasing them back to civilization.

“At least I’ll be close to the construction site!” My father reasoned with false contentment. I didn’t understand it until I was older, but the town shunned those who were fortunate enough to stay. My father made sure my siblings and I noticed no difference.

I woke up with him every morning and watch as he helped in the deconstruction of years of history in order to continue the American Dream. I stood outside our home, gazing at the workers as they hacked away at my town and replaced it with a new neighbor. I sat with my thirteenth birthday gift, a notebook and pencil set, and drew what I saw. Tall pillars of wood and leaves bright to their knees by heavy axes. Miles and miles of tracks laid precariously across root systems and animal burrows. My father, his arms raised above his head, driving a metal spike into the ground with a hammer, the rhythm echoing in time with his fellow workers and the lack of caws from the crows. I kept my drawings in a small cloth sack, hidden carefully under my bed.

We tried to keep going to school even when everyone else left. But, with winter coming, it got too dangerous to go to Talkeetna every day, even with the sled. Then, my father came home one day, sat us down, and told us we were going to move.

“They’ve got to get rid of all the standing buildings. It’s a safety protocol,” he stated numbly, repeating the words said to him hundreds of times. “You are going to live with your grandparents in Anchorage.”

“Anchorage?” I repeated. “But that’s so far away! Are you going to get a new job?”

His face fell. “No. I’m going to stay in Talkeetna with the other workers. It isn’t easy to get a job like this. But it isn’t so bad! You are going to go to a great school in Anchorage, and your grandparents will take very good care of you. I’ll send you as much money as I can so they can-”

“But then we won’t see you,” Jimmy whined, tears brimming on the edges of his eyes. My father tried to reassure him, but I could see in his eyes that he was thinking the same thing. The next day, he took us to Talkeetna on the sled and met our grandparents at the edge of town, where roads began to creep into the wilderness. He hugged each of us for as long as he could, but nothing can last forever. He loaded us into my grandfather's car, and I watched as we pulled away from him, leaving everything we had ever known behind us. He waved, trying to hide his devastation, but I could see the cracks in his smile. I spent the drive to Anchorage drawing him standing there; I did not want to forget. Somehow I knew it would be a long time before we saw each other again.

In the Spring of 1923, they finished the railroad. I was sixteen and had spent the past three years living happily with my siblings in Anchorage with our grandparents. Every day, I felt the hole of family burning through me. I missed my father. He wrote us letters every month, sending us love, his wages, and little mementos of home. In summer, he sent dried flowers, and in autumn, red leaves from the oak by the river. In the winter of 1921, he managed to find a camera and take a picture of himself standing over a mighty gulch bridged by train tracks and metal supports. I had drawn that scene almost as much as I drew him on the day we left, looking longingly after the car.

He invited us to see the opening of the railroad, promising the President would be there. I could not have cared less about him or the speech he was set to give. All I cared about was my father. I counted down the days until I could see him again, planning every moment, dreaming of being home.

On the day of the ceremony, I woke up before everyone else, I was so excited. I ran around the house, yelling for my siblings to get up as quickly as they could so we could leave. I dragged my grandfather out of bed and into the brisk spring morning before he had even woken up yet. The drive was long, and I could barely sit still. Jimmy would have yelled at me a hundred times if he were not just as anxious to return home. We had each brought one suitcase for the hotel room, but I had brought my small cloth sack, waiting to show my father all of the drawings I had made.

We reached Talkeetna just in time for the ceremony. I sat through the President’s speech about hard work and achievement, scanning the crowd for my father. Then, I saw him. He looked considerably older like the work had hardened him, but that did not matter to me. I shook Jimmy as hard as I could until he saw him too. We raced through the crowd, annoying the listeners with shouts of, “Father, father!” When he locked eyes with us, it was like everything fell into place. He scooped us into his arms, our tears soaking his shirt.

We had finally come home.

Years later, Jimmy and I returned to the town. Our father had long since passed, and I had graduated from art school with honors. I had sold hundreds of paintings, most of them of my home. Jimmy worked in wildlife conservation and advocated against the destruction of nature in the name of progress.

We rode the train to get to our home, asking the conductor to stop when we were close enough. It was ironic, using the very thing that had changed our lives to being us back to where it all began. The train stopped in an empty clearing. You would have never guessed there was a town there had it not been for the dilapidated building sitting in the far corner of the clearing.

“That’s home,” I said, looking at the stoop where I made my first drawing. I heard Jimmy breathe beside me as if he were too stunned to speak. I understood the feeling.

We returned the next day with supplies. We loaded the train with wood, tools, paint, and whatever else my husband, Dan, a contractor, had told us we would need to refurbish a house. By the end of the summer, our childhood home looked as beautiful as it had when we left it. On top of the mantle, I placed a framed picture of my parents. The sunlight reflected off of the frame as if they were thanking us for recreating their home. Jimmy came up behind me.

“Are you sure you want to live here?” he asked. “It’s pretty far from anything. It’s not like there’s anyone here if something goes wrong. You’ll have to use the dogs to get to town.”

“Yes, Jimmy. I’m sure, and Dan is too. And the train said they’d bring us anything we need. We aren’t the only ones to live out here. I want to raise my kids here, Jimmy. I want them to see the world the same way you and I do.”

“I know, Mary. I just worry you know.”

“I know,” I smiled at him. “This is what mom and dad would have wanted. To see their home lived in. Everything will be alright.”

Dan stayed to finish packing while I rode the train with Jimmy to drop him off at Talkeetna. We admired the passing scenery, stopping every once and a while to watch the river flow or the birds flit from tree to tree.

When we reached the gulch, I grabbed a copy of the drawing of my father standing in front of the very place I was now at. It was the first print I had ever sold. I remember my father smiling as he bought a copy from the gallery I had designed around our home. That picture sold even better than this one.

I folded it up, creasing the edges until it resembled a plane. The train car had open sides for this exact reason. As the train crossed the cavern, I threw it into the gulch, watching as it drifted through the air, far away from the train. A gust of wind suddenly burst from below, carrying it back to the car, where it drifted to rest at my feet.

“That’s what you get for littering,” Jimmy joked.

“No,” I said, picking up the print and holding it close to my chest. “That was dad saying thank you.”

Works Cited

Federal Railroad Administration. “Alaska Railroad.” Alaska Railroad | FRA, U.S. Department of Transportation, 12 May 2020,

https://railroads.dot.gov/rail-network-development/passenger-rail/alaska-railroad.

McCarthy, Dennis. “Living Life 'off the Grid' at the Edge of America: Dennis McCarthy.” Daily News, Daily News, 28 Aug. 2017,

https://www.dailynews.com/2016/07/07/living-life-off-the-grid-at-the-edge-of-america-d ennis-mccarthy/.

The Mad House

The asylum stood ominously at the top of a hill, trees bordering the winding cobblestones that slithered through the forest. A locked gate loomed above the driveway, blocking Rue Liddell's car from his destination as he crept along the road. His gray suit was wrinkled, and his hair was still ruffled from sleep. Beside him was a briefcase with a stack of papers and folders haphazardly thrown on top of it, all buckled into the passenger seat for safekeeping.

Rue leaned over the steering wheel to gaze up at the sizable building. He analyzed the gate for a lock or handle but saw only smooth iron bars and stone. Rue sat impatiently for what felt like an eternity, waiting to be granted entrance. As he reached for the gear shift, ready to return home and reschedule his appointment, the gates opened, leaving just a whisper of air between the front of his car and the creaking metal. He stole another glance at the building; this time, his eye caught the sight of a figure in the upstairs window. The silhouette loomed over the courtyard, casting it into shadow, then swiftly disappeared into the stark building. Rue shivered as a jolt raced up his spine. He turned up the heat before driving to the entrance.

Rue pushed open the door, revealing the interior of the hospital. Juxtaposed with its drab facade, the reception area emanated warmth and life. Lamps illuminated a scene of comfortable chairs and perfectly arranged table settings in golden light. Doctors and nurses bustled across wooden floors, going from one wall of white windowed doors to the other, dressed in identical, pristine, white uniforms. No one seemed to notice Rue's presence except for the receptionist, whose gaze had not left him since he opened the door, her face locked in an almost painful-looking grin. Behind her was a singular door, smaller than the rest. It was wooden, with no window and a golden handle that glinted in the light. When Rue stepped fully inside, the tension melted from his shoulders as if his anxiety had been purged by an invisible force lining the door, lightening the air around him.

"Excuse me," he said, approaching the desk. The secretary's perfect smile did not falter. In fact, it grew into an even more peppy, perfectly welcoming grin. Before he could complete his thought, she stood, abruptly interrupting him.

"Oh, Mr. Liddell," she exclaimed brightly. Her name tag read Carol in impeccably sweeping cursive. "We've been expecting you. Right this way, please." She turned on her heel and walked to the door behind her desk without pause, leaving Rue scrambling to catch up.

"I'm here to speak with Dr. Azel about an assignment for school," he said hurriedly. She unlocked the door, revealing a steep staircase. "Is this the way to his office?" he questioned.

"Yes, Mr. Liddell." Her expression still had not changed since he first saw her at the desk. "You'll find everything you need down here," she said, her eyes unblinkingly staring through him.

Rue peeked down the dark corridor. He could not see past the first three steps, let alone what awaited him at the bottom. The airy weightlessness left him, replaced by apprehension. "I'm not sure you understood me," he began again, "I'm here for "

"Yes, we know what you are here for, Mr. Liddell," she interrupted, her blank face opposing the impatience in her tone. "We've been expecting you. You'll find him here." She gestured down the stairs again, leaving no room for argument. Rue took a deep breath and began his descent. He heard the door close behind him, leaving only a few mounted candles on the stone walls and the sliver of gold from the base of the door to light his path. He walked, the twin echoes of footsteps ricocheting in the claustrophobic space. He reached the bottom of the stairs, where a stone landing led to another door, identical to the one behind the receptionist - except for its size, which seemed to have shrunk to just above his shoulders. Rue attempted to open it but found it locked from the other side.

"Miss Carol," he started, "the door appears to be…" he trailed off. As he turned, he was met with empty space instead of the owner of the second pair of footsteps that had accompanied him down the stairwell. "Hello?" He called, his voice bouncing off the walls, the only sound other than his own breathing. He walked back to the top of the steps but found the door bolted shut. There was no lock, no handle, no light seeping through the crack. In fact, as he felt along the wall, there was no longer a door there at all, only smooth, frigid stone. He was trapped. Rue turned to race back down the stairs but did not get more than three feet before he ran face-first into the downstairs door. Panicked, he whipped his head around what was once a long staircase. He was now inside a cube of stone, surrounded by three empty walls and one locked door. The candelabras had disappeared, leaving the white thread seeping under the small door as the only light source. He heard a faint screeching from inside. With no other option in sight, he grasped the handle and twisted. Mercifully, it turned, inviting a wall of light into his stone prison.

Momentarily blinded, Rue stumbled into the room, squinting to see his new surroundings.

He found himself in an office. A large mahogany desk was in front of a wall of windows strewn with documents, books, and trinkets, including a tea set and a heart-shaped vase of flowers. They danced as if they were being tickled by a light breeze, but the air in the office was stagnant. Cages hung from the ceiling and rested on tabletops, imprisoning monkeys, birds, rodents, and other creatures. Their cacophony grew as if they were trying to speak to him. A prominent bookshelf stood to his left, filled with dozens of identical volumes, which, at a closer look, revealed themselves to be titled The Unknown Secrets of the Mind and its Powers by Dr. Jacob Azel. Rue let the door swing shut behind him as he shuffled to the windows. Outside, he saw the courtyard in front of the hospital, including the iron gate and his old blue car parked at the entrance. Somehow, the staircase had led him up to the third floor.

"It's a beautiful view, isn't it, Mr. Liddell," an unexpected voice Rue jumped. A man now sat in the scarlet cushioned chair behind the desk. He had frizzy gray hair, a red face with a bulbous nose, and wore a white coat with brown plaid pants and outrageous chartreuse patent leather dress shoes. A hat pin was threaded through his lapel. His crooked smile and green eyes burned through Rue as if they were dissecting him. An embarrassed flush set in as Rue saw the name on his coat: Dr. Azel, the man he had planned to meet.

"Oh, I didn't hear you come in," Rue placated, attempting to put the confusing events behind him. He stretched out a trembling hand, hoping to appear professional despite being so flustered.

"No, you wouldn't have. Let us begin our interview," the doctor instructed, dismissing Rue's outstretched peace offering. He gestured to the uncomfortable-looking metal chair on the other side of the desk.

Dumbfounded, Rue rounded the table. "Shouldn't we discuss "

Dr. Azel's smile flashed to a burning glare. "Sit down, Mr. Liddell." His voice thundered through the small space, freezing the air. Then, as if time had stopped for a brief moment, the grin had returned to his face, and Rue found himself seated without having sat down. "Would you like some tea?" the doctor asked gleefully, pouring a cup and all but shoving it into Rue's hands without pause. Unconsciously, he began to sip the bitter liquid from the blue porcelain cup. Delicate crustaceans and birds flitted across its surface, his fingers nervously tracing their raised figures. A drop fell from the side of his cup. He thought he saw tendrils of smoke rise from the desk where it landed He looked up, too frightened to even dare to speak anything but incoherent nonsense.

"Now, I believe you have some questions about my research on the human mind. I find it to be the most astonishing subject," Dr. Azel giggled. "Now I'm sure you know those 'doctors' they teach you about in school," he sneered, sauntering over to the bookshelf. He carefully plucked a volume off the shelf and returned to the desk. He did not sit down. "They will tell you all about the minds' incredible capacity," he continued, "but they do not understand our true potential. What I have discovered makes their work look like child's play! You see, the consciousness is not tied to a singular body, as they have led you to believe. We can transfer our minds to any willing host. Well," he scoffed, flipping through the book, and landing on a well-loved page, "willing is a subjective term."

The creatures in the cages resumed their cries for help. A shuffling sounded from behind Rue, but before he could turn to investigate, hands slammed down on his shoulders, securing him in place. He struggled, but the hands merely applied more pressure. He craned his neck to see his assailant, Carol's peppy grin staring back at him.

Stalking over Rue, Dr. Azel leaned down, hissing into his ear, "The host does not need to consent to the procedure so much as they need to stay still." Ropes twist across Rue's torso and arms. He looked down to see rose vines encasing his limbs, rivulets of blood dripping from the thorns digging into his skin. He fought to escape, opening his mouth to scream, but no sound left him. A vine had wrapped around his throat: a warning. The vines pulled, warping the metal chair into a flat table, leaving him prone with the doctor circling above him. He held the tome in his hands like a precious gift and began to read.

"'Ensure the subject has ingested the concoction.' Done!" The porcelain sat innocently on the desk beside a corroded hole where the tea had dripped from his cup. "Thank you for making this so easy, Mr. Liddell. I was worried our first human-to-human transfer might bring up some unexpected challenges, but you proved me wrong. Didn't he, Miss Carol?" The secretary nodded, releasing him to retrieve a trolley full of bottles and equipment. Rue continued to struggle but to

no avail. "Now for the exciting part!" The doctor giggled again, his eyes alight with deranged excitement. He grabbed an unnatural yellow liquid from the cart and downed it in one gulp. "Miss Carol, if you please," he coughed, shaking himself to swallow the neon concoction. Carol reached under the desk and grabbed a large generator with two cables attached to a pair of helmets. One was plain, the other adorned with a mouth guard and goggles with no lenses. She placed the second helmet on Rue's head, securing the mouth guard between his teeth before locking it into place under his chin. The goggles prevented him from blinking, and his eyes quickly filled with tears.

The doctor placed the other helmet on his own head. Carol flicked a switch on the machine, and it began to glow a sickening green. He squealed with delight, "It's working!" His terrible laughter grew with the viridescent light, assaulting Rue's senses. He could barely see through the pain until two yellow orbs entered his periphery. The doctor's hair had turned fiery, and his eyes now resembled the potion he had taken just moments before. The vine around Rue's neck tightened, completely cutting off his air supply.

"Good night, little boy," the madman whispered, his eyes pulsing between yellow and purple, lulling Rue to sleep. His vision flashed between overwhelming colors and the sight of his own body, restrained by vines, turning blue from lack of oxygen. The last thing he knew before darkness overtook him was a horrific laugh and a scream of triumph.

When he awoke, muffled voices floated into his periphery.

"We are so sorry this happened, Mr. Liddell. We put him in maximum security after the last time he tried to escape. We don't know how he got out again. We're just glad he didn't do anything worse than those contusions."

Rue tried to respond but found he could not even pry his lips apart. He attempted lifting his hands to his face but soon realized he could barely move his body at all. His eyes shot open to see a clean white ceiling. He frantically looked around and found himself in a small room with

padded walls and one tiny square window from where the voices seemed to originate. He tried to stand but was horrifically unbalanced. A straight jacket encased his arms and torso, leaving him without the use of his arms. He managed to right himself and stumble to the small window. He froze at the scene before him. Rue saw himself, dressed in his best gray suit, speaking to a stout nurse in the hospital's mockingly perfect white uniform.

He heard his own surprisingly lilting voice travel through the hall. "That is quite alright, Miss. As long as he is properly dealt with in the future?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Liddell," the nurse replied. "He will remain in solitary confinement for the rest of his stay with us."

"Hmm," his voice spoke, sounding like it was trying to hide satisfaction behind the guise of pity. "And how long will that be?"

"Well, Mr. Azel will be here as long as he lives, I'm afraid." Rue watched, helpless, as the nurse walked away, revealing a mirror across from his cell. In its reflection he saw Jacob Azel's reflection staring back at him, a plastic muzzle locked around his face. His breathing accelerated. He slammed his head into the padded wall, praying he would awake from this horrific nightmare. He watched himself turn around, but in place of his own brown eyes, he saw glittering green had taken their place.

"Goodbye, Mr. Azel," he heard himself say, a giggle leaving his mouth before he turned, humming as he walked down the hallway out of sight.

Yours For Life

I thought I saw you at the coffee shop yesterday. He was the same height and build as you were, and his hair was the same cut and color. I didn’t see his eyes, but if I had, I’m sure they would have been the same incandescent blue yours were.

Isn’t it funny how we talk about our ended relationships in the past tense? We say things like “He was incredible” or “I remember when we used to go to the movies together.” It’s like I’m giving a eulogy at your funeral about what a wonderful person you were, concealing all your wrinkled edges for the sake of remembrance. When, most of the time, the person we’re talking about isn’t even dead! Maybe it’s because we want them to be. That would be easier; if the simple fact that you aren’t in my life anymore was an unavoidable fact. If I could blame all of this heartache on fate instead of free will. That way, I wouldn’t be left with the devastating pain of knowing the person I love chose to leave me.

Or maybe I talk about you in the past tense because you are dead, in a way. Five years is a long time not to see someone, and I’m sure you’ve changed just as much as I have. The person I knew is probably long gone, only visible when the light hits just right and you can see through the years of distance into the past. I know I’m not the same as when you knew me, inside or out. When I look in the mirror, I see long hair, worry lines, and eyes that aren’t as happy as they used to be.

Time changes everything, but for some reason, I can’t imagine you any different from how I knew you. I know it’s impossible for you to be the same, but my mind refuses to change anything about you. When I think of you, you’re sitting on our cushioned window frame reading a book, the sky gently glowing behind you. Your hair is golden in the light of the sun, and you’re smiling at me like I’m all you could ever want and need. You look so content. You’re

like a polaroid picture displayed at the forefront of my mind, tinted gold by the past, frozen as you were at twenty-two. Or a stained glass window, depicting a scene to be worshiped for its divinity, meticulously cared for. An image too sacred to be tainted by the cruelty of age and distance. It is as old as time itself, yet vibrant as if it had been unveiled just for you to witness.

I sometimes wonder if I’d even recognize you if I saw you as you are now or if I’d continue to live in peaceful denial. In my mind, you are perfectly preserved as the man who loved me back. It’s less painful that way, than recognizing that you don’t anymore.

I still find myself missing you. I lure myself into a false sense of security, I tell myself I’ve moved on, that I’ve successfully overcome heartbreak. For a fleeting moment, I’m the hero who has slain the dragon and can finally live in peace. Then the illusion breaks as the beast rises behind me, devouring me when I least expect it, only to spit me out again and begin the onslaught anew. Anything can send me back to my knees with bloody hands, desperately scooping up the shards to reform my misshapen heart. And it’s always the most stupidly simple things that send me reeling through the past, like seeing your lookalike in a coffee shop. Every time I’m reminded of you, I feel my heart explode out from my chest, the shrapnel killing all surrounding life, leaving me alone with the dragon in my palace of memories.

It would be so much easier if I could hate you. It makes sense after all; if you were the villain, then I could talk myself out of my misery. “Why be devastated by the boy who broke your heart when he wasn’t that great anyways? Now that the fog is gone, you can finally see him for what a terrible guy he really was. You were right to leave him!” But the truth is you weren’t anywhere near terrible. You were good and kind, and everything I’ve ever wanted in a partner. And I didn’t leave you. Sure, in the roughest patches, it was back and forth for a while. But, in the end, you were the one who said that you couldn’t commit to something so young.

That you needed to grow and live outside of school and childhood and me. It was too scary to admit you had found love before thirty. It was too good to be true. I asked you to stay, to try and work it out. But you needed to live more before you settled down. I think hearing me say I wanted to marry you freaked you out too much. It still hurts to know I drove you away. And the truth is, villainizing you would ruin the best thing that's ever happened to me. You were my soulmate, in some ways you still are. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I loved you. I’ve tried, but every time I get somewhere serious, I can’t seem to imagine a future with them. I can’t see myself standing next to them in front of a suburban house with kids. Not like I did with you; I wanted everything with you. At night I dreamed of white picket fences and a mailbox with your last name on it. I was terrified of growing up, but I wanted to grow old with you and call you mine forever. I wish I had never said anything. I would have pretended to hate the idea of a family if it meant I could keep you. I’d give anything to go back and erase everything I did to scare you off and make you leave. But that’s just not possible. So, moving on is not an option, and hating you is out of the question, so what’s left? They say time heals all wounds, and maybe part of that is true. I’m not as pathetic as I was when we first called it off. But if five years isn’t enough to move on, what would be? How many more years have to pass before I can live like I never knew you? How long will I have to suffer the feeling of phantom touches before I can forget what it ever felt like to be held by you? Maybe I never will. Maybe you’re my other half, and I’ll never forget being whole. It’s a depressing way to live, though. Always wishing I could go back to the past, never able to let go. I don’t want to be lonely forever. But I think I always will be if I keep living like you might love me again. And I know if there was ever the slightest chance, I’d run back to you quicker than I fell for you in the first place.

I know I’m writing this in vain, and that you won’t read this. You haven’t read any of the others; you probably threw them away when you saw who was writing to you. Or maybe you did read them, then threw them out and didn’t respond because you hate me for reopening old wounds. Or, more likely, that you’ve moved out of the apartment we lived in. Whatever the truth may be, you’ve clearly moved on. And it hurts to know that you’re probably content with someone else while I dream of the years we had together, tangled in sunlight, slowly overcome by gray skies. But I know I can’t move on, but I can try to let you forget me. So this will be the last letter I send. At first, I wrote to try and reconnect us. When you didn’t answer, I kept doing it. I’m not sure if it was because I was lonely or because I still loved you, or just because I needed to talk to the person who knew me better than anyone. This time, I wrote to say goodbye.

It hurts too much to pull us both back into a past you don’t want, and I can't return to. And maybe one day I’ll find a nice boy who will love me and give me everything I’ll ever want. And if that day comes, I’ll spend the rest of my life with him, but part of it will always be yours. So farewell to the boy who owns my heart. I’ll always love you, and I’ll never forget you.

Yours for life, Alex Alex,

I don’t know how to start this, but I guess I'll be blunt and hope you can forgive me. I’ve spent the past five years looking for something even half of what we had, and I’ve come up short every time. It would be wrong to try and apologize to you this way. It feels so impersonally

sentimental. So, if you’ll have me, I’d like to see you again. Would you do me the honor of meeting me next Wednesday at two, at the coffee shop near our old place? Maybe we can talk about those white picket fences?

Unknowingly, stupidly yours, James

About the Author

Sarah Dworman is a seventeen-year-old writer from upstate New York. She was raised on a lake in the Adirondacks with her parents and dog, Lila. She has been writing and telling stories from a young age, starting with retellings of her favorite books and movies. She originally planned to pursue a career as a Broadway actress but then discovered her passion for writing. She hopes to spend her life telling stories in whatever forms they reside in, be it acting, writing, song, or whatever else inspires her.

Ms. Alam’s creative writing class was essential in her journey to becoming a writer.

There, she explored the many forms of writing she could use in her quest for creativity. She sends the biggest thank you to Ms. Alam for being excited about her twenty-page play, even when the limit was five pages, and for allowing creativity to run wild. Without her, she could never have discovered her immeasurable passion for writing. Sarah has loved being one of her Creative Writing Warriors and is thankful for the endless love and support. She will never stop writing from her heart.

Another thank you goes to Keira Woods, whose creativity and expertise has brought these pieces to life. Despite the inexperienced communication and scribbled illustration ideas from the depths of Sarah’s mind, Keira has managed to create some of the most beautiful pieces Sarah has ever seen. She is endlessly grateful to be the recipient of such artistry.

Lastly, thank you to her parents for always being excited about her newest literary adventure. She is eternally grateful for her best proofreaders.