 
### Lux: Volume 1

Edited by Rebecca Lewis

Copyright 2015 Rebecca Lewis

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Preface

Foreword

Author: Ally I. Evans

Author: Bronwyn Graffham

Author: Elizabeth Hensarling

Author: Rebecca Lewis

Artist: Annika Probst

Author: Jase Namigala

Author: Sara Decker

Monthly Writing Contest Winners

Worlds of Fantasy (December 2014)

Showcase (January 2015)

Romance (February 2015)

Runaways (March 2015)

Preface

The Kimball High Literary Journal exists to create a community in which its members may strengthen their writing skills and share their works. We here aim to fortify our abilities by exploring different modes of literature and receiving feedback on our works from one another.

The road to improving our skills as creators is never smooth or easy. By providing members with a community in which they may find support and discuss ideas, we emerge as stronger writers in the end. In addition, while the Literary Journal is primarily dedicated to writers, we have fantastic artists among us because many topics we address also aid in their pieces. We reflect on the world around us through our works, whether they be fiction or nonfiction, and leave our mark on it because we declare that we had something to say. When we commit our ideas to paper, we interpret them in a form that the world can experience too.

This literary journal, _Lux: Volume 1_ , is a compilation of the works of our members as well as winners from our monthly writing contests throughout the school year of 2014 to 2015. Each work is published here with the permission of its creator, and as such, belongs to its creator. On behalf of the writers and artists of the Literary Journal, I hope you enjoy these works.

Rebecca Lewis

President of the Kimball High School Literary Journal

Foreword

From the moment I stepped onto the Kimball campus as a substitute teacher, I knew there were talented kids here. I saw flyers for a poetry reading and "crashed" the event. I was impressed with the level of creativity and the strength of the students' voices. From that moment forward, I supported their Literary Journal Club. This year, as a full time teacher at John C. Kimball High School, I was honored to be the club advisor. It has been my pleasure and my inspiration. These kids are proud to be writers and artists and actors and musicians. They jump headfirst into their art with passion and intelligence. They study their craft, they inspire and share with each other generously, and they speak their truth with eloquence. I am so proud to have worked with such smart and talented kids. Their unique points of view make me confident about the future as it lays in their capable, creative hands. Shine on, Lux and the Light-bearers! Your beauty and truth is invaluable to this world!

Sincerely,

Teri Gartner

English/Speech and Debate Teacher

Literary Journal Club Advisor 2014-2015

A special thanks to Cerridwyn Graffham for creating the cover of _Lux: Volume 1_ and to Teri Gartner for serving as our advisor for the 2014 to 2015 school year.

Author: Ally I. Evans

Copyright © 2015 by Ally I. Evans

### Welcome to Heaven

It happened so fast, I couldn't comprehend it. At the same time. It happened so slow, I could see every millisecond. The phone in my hand went dead as the person on the other end fell. I moved as quickly as my body would allow me. His whole right side was mangled and his normally sandy blonde hair was coated in blonde. I ran my hand down the side of his head that wasn't covered in blood. I felt his last breath.

I don't know how long I sat there calling his name, expecting him to wake up. I heard the sirens coming and felt my dad lift me away from him.

I woke up in my bed room in the same clothes. I didn't know how long I had slept.

"James," I whispered.

I couldn't think about it. I pushed myself out of bed with my weak arms and changed into sweats and a t-shirt. As I made my way down the hall, I heard voices talking quietly.

"She hasn't come out yet."

My mother's voice. Kind and gentle, but worried at the same time.

"It's understandable. They really cared for each other."

James' mom's voice. Of course they were here. He di – he was hit just outside our door.

"How long has it been?"

My voice sounded distant. Standing in the doorway of the room was terrible. The looks of sympathy and pain were terrible.

"It was Saturday night when it happened. It's Monday now," my dad said.

I stood awkwardly in the doorway. James' mom shuffled in her purse and pulled out a little white box.

"He was bringing it to you. He'd want you to have it," she said, holding out the box.

I moved toward her, dragging my body slightly. I grabbed the box and lifted the lid. If my heart wasn't already broken, it would have then. A golden heart hung at the end of a gold chain. Engraved into the heart was a "J" and "K". I bit my lip.

"Thank you," I said, stilling sounding distant.

"It's what he would have wanted."

"I'm sorry. It was my fault."

"Don't you dare say that," his father said. "It was the drunk driver's fault. He's the one who wasn't paying attention."

"James was coming to see me. It was my fault," I said.

"It's your fault because you were born? No, it's not. Do not blame yourself," he said.

I didn't want to talk to them. I didn't want their looks of sympathy and gentle voices. I walked into the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator door, only to close it again. The last picture James and I took together was hanging on the door. I took it off and looked at it. James was making a dorky face and I was laughing at him. I slipped it into the box with the necklace.

I remained in the kitchen until I heard his parents leave. His mom came and said goodbye. I was decent. My parents knew to leave me alone. I had to process it. I had to say it. He was – he was...

I stayed in my room as much as possible. I only came out for small meals and to grab the pictures I printed. I was working 24/7 on a scrapbook of him and me. Everything we had done. I also was supposed to be working on a speech to say at his funeral, but every time I pulled up my computer I just stared at the blank page.

I finished the speech the morning of the funeral. I still don't know how I managed to write it when I couldn't even say it.

I wore a simple black long sleeve dress and black tights. If coming out of my room that Monday was bad, the funeral was worse. Everyone knew how close we were. He was the only person without cancer that I talked to – other than my parents. The looks people gave me were terrible. I wanted to scream that I was strong enough to deal with it and that I didn't need their sympathetic looks.

I don't know how I listened to everyone before me. Listening to his family talk about childhood stories and his school friends talking about the James I knew was torture.

"And now we'd like to hear from someone who was closer with James these past two years than anyone else. Karoline."

I stood up, shaking slightly. My speech was clenched into my hand and slowly made my way to the front.

"Hi," I said nervously. "I wrote my speech this morning. I was struggling with it. That's when I realized that I was trying to write what I wanted to hear, not what James would want to hear."

I left my speech folded and passed it from hand to hand.

"He wouldn't want to hear about how he made me believe that I could survive cancer. He wouldn't want to hear about how he made me feel beautiful despite my lack of hair and lack of fat. He wouldn't want to hear about how I see him – I see him get hit in my nightmares every night.

"He would want to hear about the prank we pulled on his older brother when he visited from college. He would want to hear about him sneaking up on me while I was singing at the top of my lungs. He would want to hear about the time he went swimming in the lake and I watched from the bank, throwing leaves and pebbles and sticks at him.

"He would want me to say it. He would want me to say what I haven't been able to say. I watched him – I watched him die. And all I can see is his smiling face turning to blood. But slowly the memories are coming back, the good ones. When we went on a Disney cruise together, when I surprised him at school. And that's all we have now, is the memories."

I fingered the necklace.

"The days not lived are the worst of them all," I finished. "I love you James."

I don't know how I made it through the months. I think I lived only in the memories of James. I saw him everywhere I went. I saw him in the apple tree in our back yard; I saw him in the lake down the dirt road; I saw him when I listened to his favorite albums. He was with me where ever I went, but his spirit was fading.

I no longer saw him dying in my dreams. I saw him fit and health. He would talk to me.

"I can't stay with you much longer," he said. "I have to move on. You'll be here soon. This is the last time you'll see me here. Go to the doctor tomorrow Karoline. Get tested again. You need to, okay?"

"What do you mean? I have breast cancer that's spread to my arms," I said.

"Go see the doctor. Say that you just want to check it."

I did what James said, and that's how I knew it was him. The doctor told me that the cancer was spreading to m vital organs and there was no way to stop it.

"We don't know how much longer you'll have, Karoline," he said. "I'm sorry."

My parents couldn't look at me the same way again. I worked on my will with my parents, though both of them usually had to leave the room at some point. I knew they were both upset about it, and I should have been as well, but all I could think about was how I was one step closer to seeing James again.

I saw him dying again in my dreams and though I thought of him often, I couldn't feel him anymore.

I woke up one morning feeling considerably weak. My heart hurt. I dragged myself into the kitchen where my mom was flipping pancakes and scrambling eggs at the same time.

"How did you sleep?" she asked.

"Fine," I said.

She set down a plate in front of me and looked me in the eyes.

"You didn't," she said.

"You know," I said. "Every night."

"Say it Karoline, say it for me."

"I see him die every night."

She looked sad. I knew that she and dad both loved me and didn't want me to leave. We all knew it was coming though.

"Mom," I said.

I didn't have to say it. She could tell by the look in my eyes. She grabbed my hands.

"You'll see him," she said.

"Yeah," I said, imagining what it would be like to see him again.

The day was a blur. I signed my will and wrote a brief note to my parents about what I wanted them to do. I wanted them to move on. I wanted them to remember me for my good points, not my bad.

That night I closed my eyes and I could feel my heart struggling to beat. I prayed for it to just let go.

I woke up. It was different than waking up. It was coming back to life. I saw white at first and that was it. Then it slowly came into shape. White was the prominent color. White ground, light blue sky, and a white building. I reached up and pulled a piece of my orange hair so that I could see it. I had hair again. My arms looked full and healthy and I felt better than I had in years. I knew what had happened.

I jumped up and looked around. People mingled around chatting. I looked around.

"Karoline."

I turned around. There he was, healthy and beautiful. I ran toward him. As we embraced, he lifted me up off the ground and spun me around.

"Look at you," James said. "Just like in the pictures in your house."

"Look at you, just like I remember you."

"Welcome to heaven, Karoline."

"Welcome to Heaven."

### Who We Are

The dead of night pounded against Evan's head as he stumbled around his room. He threw what he could into his duffle bag – clothes, his laptop, his favorite books, his phone. He knew the blood was dry against his temple by this point. Head lights pushed into his room from the window, only making his head pound worse. He stumbled to his window and threw it open. The wind pushed against him, sending chills down his back. A voice called out.

"Ev! Evan!"

Evan looked out, a figure making its way toward him. As it got closer, he could see that it was Daniel and he sighed with relief. He tossed his duffle bag out to Daniel and shouldered his school backpack. He was thankful that his room was on the first floor as he jumped out of the window. Daniel's soft hands cupped Evan's face and turned it from side to side.

"What did they do to you baby?" Daniel asked, his eyes clouded with worry.

"Just get me out of here Danny," Evan chocked out.

Daniel wrapped an arm around Evan's waist and got him into his pick-up truck. The house lights lit up and Evan's dad came out, screaming and yelling, but Daniel just drove away with his tires squealing. Evan slid over on the truck's bench seat so he was next to Daniel. Daniel wrapped an arm around Evans and held him close.

It wasn't a long drive to Daniel's house. His arm took its place around Evan's waist, half carrying him to the house. The light in the house only made Evan's wounds look worse. Daniel's room was on the second floor so he carried Evan up the stairs, despite Evan's protests, and laid him on the bed.

Daniel growled as he looked over Evan's wounds. "I'll kill them."

"Just don't make me go back there Danny. Please."

"Of course my darling. You'll stay here."

"What about your parents? What will they say?"

"They'll be happy to have you. I'm going to get some stuff to clean you up."

Evan grabbed Daniel's wrist, stopping him from leaving.

"In the morning," Evan whispered. "Just lay with me, please."

Daniel nodded and laid down next to Evan. He pulled him into his arms as if protecting him from the rest of the world. Evan nuzzled his head into Daniel's neck, shaking a little. Daniel calmed him, rubbing circles into his back.

"You shouldn't have told them about us," Daniel whispered.

"Don't say that Danny. I didn't want to hide anymore. I love you with all my heart and I couldn't bear keeping it a secret. We shouldn't have to hide. We don't have to know."

"They hurt you! Just because of what you – what we are!"

"And I knew that my beautiful boyfriend was going to carry me off into the sunset."

Daniel blushed softly and kissed Evan's head softly.

"I love you Ev."

"I love you too Danny."

### Unlikely Help

Dusk was falling the small, quiet town in a rural part of Virginia. A young man with his hood pulled up and a suspicious object at his waist walked into the town's motel. The person at the desk didn't give him a second look as he got a room for one. No one gave the young man the second look as he made his way to room 13. No one - except one. One watched as the young man pulled open the door and quietly slipped into the motel room, as slipping into darkness. One watched as the young man pulled out a short sword from its sheath on his belt and checked its shine before replacing it. One watched from afar and the young man felt it. His teal eyes trained upward and searched the people outside the window. So many people but none of them looking. One was though. He could sense it. His eyes scanned over the people. So ordinary, boring. His eyes stopped. A woman sat on a bench across street. Her red hair cascaded down to the bottom of her shoulders. Her green eyes focused on other things. Something was different about her though. Was it the way she held herself? Or the way the light reflected behind her, almost as though two giant wings sat on her back, invisible to all.

Of course, the young man thought.

Did she know? Is that why she is here? Was heaven finally after him as well as hell?

He checked his blade one more time before stepping out of his room again. The sun had finally set and the shadows came out. His time of day. He could use to shadows to his advantage if things got ugly. She saw him coming. She knew he would. He was quicker to figure it out than she expected. Perhaps he was smarter than he appeared. She didn't say anything as he sat beside her, waiting for him to speak first. She sat straighter and her wings, unnoticed by all unless you knew how to look right, adjusted themselves so not to hit the young man beside her.

"How much do you know?" the man asked.

"Enough, Phenex," the woman said.

The young man tried not to show his discomfort as she spoke his name. If she knew his name, she knew what he was. If she knew what he was –

"I'm not here to kill you," she said.

"Tell me your name and I'll be the judge of that." For the first time, the two locked eyes. Phenex's dark teal eyes met the woman's solid green eyes in the dark of the night.

"I am Anabiel, Angel of Stupidity," she said simply.

"You're the one who stopped World War III, correct?"

"Of course. And you are the son of Lucifer and Lilith, are you not?"

Phenex was silent. The big question. Of course she would ask. The question was, was he really their child?" "They are no parents to me," he said.

"I know, Phenex. That's why I'm here," Anabiel said. "We need your help."

"We? You mean heaven?"

"Yes and no. Heaven is trying to remain uninvolved."

"Then who?" Phenex frowned slightly at the red head.

"You'll meet them soon enough. Right now that is not the issue. Just listen. Have you heard the rumors?"

"I try to avoid demons, so if they're spreading rumors about me, I haven't heard," Phenex said sarcastically, earning a slight smile from Anabiel.

"Not about you. They are trying to raise your father," she said.

"Well, that's a mood dampener. He'll kill everyone."

"That's why we need your help." Phenex sighed and thought for a minute. He didn't like helping people normally. That drew too much attention. However, his father rising was not something he was going to let happen.

"How can I help?" he asked softly.

"I need a big favor from you. I need you to go back down to the pit. Two girls will be there. They're the ones that will need your help."

"I don't like that idea." Anabiel looked at him and showed some remorse.

"I know you don't want to return. The only way they're going to be able to stop this is if you can lead them through and out of the pit. You need to get them to trust you. You need to get both of them out safe."

"And you trust me with that?' Phenex asked.

"You sound surprised that I do," Anabiel said.

"People don't tend to trust me."

"People see who your parents are and judge you off of that. You are the best person for this. You're the only person who can do this. So tell me, Phenex: will you help us save the world?"

"I'll help you stop my father."

### The Longest Chase

My Darling,

It was two years ago that you were taken. I remember it well. I came home, and from the outside everything seemed fine. When I came inside, I first noticed the picture. You hadn't spoken to your brother in years, yet suddenly there was a picture of you and him on the piano. I tried to explain this to the police when they finally arrived, but they thought I was crazy. I was so proud of you though. I could almost hear you asking me to find you. I knew that you had left the picture as a clue for me to find.

Jessie helped me. She tracked down your brother's cell phone, but I soon discovered that he was in jail for gang related violence. So why was the picture of you and him out? It took me months to find the connection. There had been no ransom note and your parents suspected you to be dead. I wouldn't take that though. I was glad I didn't because when I found out that your first serious boyfriend was friends with your brother, I knew I hit the jackpot. Jessie came to my aid again. She tracked where he'd been over the last few months.

It was the cabin in the woods I checked first. It took me hours to find it but I finally did. Your favorite scarf was tied to a tree. The cabin itself had blood stained on the wooden floor. My heart stopped. I ran back to the tree with your scarf started digging...

It's been a year since the police started looking for him. I fear he's gone for good and will never get the justice he deserves. They told me that when they examined your body they discovered you were pregnant. I lost two people to that psycho. My two babies, my wife and my child. My life. I only have theories about why he did it, and perhaps that is better than actually knowing why.

If only I had made the connection between him and your brother sooner. If only I hadn't stayed late at work that day. If only... if only... so many if onlys.

I love you my darling and I miss you. I feel as though a part of me is missing. It's been two years and it still feels weird without you beside me. I know you would want me to move on. I will someday, but not right now. I'm not ready to let you go yet. I love you.

Your Love

Always

### Fairy Wings and Piercings

Every girl in the school had her eyes on Tanner of the Wiccans. Perhaps it was his black, spikey hair. Perhaps it was his blue eyes. They weren't the pale baby blue that most people and creatures had, but a pure almost unreal blue. Perhaps it was the Wiccan tattoos that peeked out the collar of his shirt or perhaps that piercings on his ears, lip, and eyebrow. Perhaps it was his broomstick. For me, it was this that first caught my eye. It was a dark navy blue – almost black – and two black wings jutted out from the back of the bike. They weren't fairy wings, like mine. They were feathery, angelic wings.

I would never admit that I was head over heels for him. I would admit to myself that he was attractive, but I told myself that he was most likely an egotistical jerk. Deep down, I knew he wouldn't fall for a guy like me. I was just an everyday fairy – light brown hair, green eyes, and a shy personality.

I tugged nervously at my sweatshirt as I walked down the hallway that was generally deserted at this time. Perchance this why I was so surprised to see Tanner leaning against the wall. My wings fluttered, matching my heart perfectly. I cursed that he could see the spark of my attention because of my wings and kept my head down as I walked by.

"Callen? That's your name right?"

I looked up, surprised by his words.

"Y-yeah that's me," I stuttered.

Tanner flashed his normal smirk and beckoned me over. I thought for only a second before walking over to him. He held one hand behind his back and when I reached him, he reached his hand up and placed something behind my ear. I reached my hand up and touched it, realizing that it was a flower. I blushed instantly.

"Fairies like flowers, right?" Tanner said.

I looked at him. He actually seemed nervous! I could almost see a pink tinge on his cheeks, but it was gone in a second as he composed himself again. I smiled reassuringly at me and he smirked. Within a second, he had my back to the wall and his hands on either side of his head. I didn't shy away from his as I expected myself too. Instead I just stood there, more shocked than anything. Tanner looked a little shocked as well at what he had just done.

"We should hang out some time," he said, his voice low and husky.

I blushed and nodded, my wings fluttering like crazy. He reached his hand out and gently touched them, smiling.

"They're beautiful, you know?" he whispered.

I blushed more. He leaned in and gently pecked my lips before backing away.

"See you around Callen."

Author: Bronwyn Graffham

Copyright © 2015 by Bronwyn Graffham

### Just a Civilian

"Hey, wake up." I woke up to my older sister, Sarah, shaking my shoulder. "Honestly, how do you even sleep through that kind of earthquake? It was shaking the entire house for God's sake!" I slowly sat up on her couch, drowsily opening my eyes.

"I slept through an earthquake? That's too bad." I brushed a hand through my long brown hair, catching all the tangles with my fingers. I winced.

My younger brother, Edmund, popped into the room. He was fourteen years old, and hoping to be a journalist. I worked as an editor, so he got introduced to the idea of writing while he was still quite young. He was good at it, especially for someone of his age. He liked to come to work with me sometimes, and watch the writers write. They liked him quite a bit, and they helped him with his work and enjoyed having him there, "Are you going to leave soon? Can I come along? I finished all of my chores, I swear!" It was summer vacation; the fact that Sarah was driving him so hard on his chores was sort of annoying.

Sarah was twenty-three, and I was twenty-one. My mom left our family once Edmund was born, and our dad ended up taking care of all three of us on his own. He got a job as a traveling salesman, so we've had nannies and babysitters for as long as we can remember. Eventually, he decided that Sarah was old and mature enough to watch over us, and she stepped into the nanny role. My dad pays her pretty well for "babysitting" us all day and all night. Edmund is still too young to get a job, so I got one earlier than I wanted to, so that I could help out with buying food, and be able to get what I wanted. It didn't take long for me to decide that I wanted to be an editor of our city newspaper, along with the couple of magazines that the company took care of.

I stood up. "I'll be heading out soon. Let me change my clothes and brush my hair and teeth." Sarah huffed, but didn't demand he stay home. He had done his chores, after all. I stood up, running into my sister's room where all of my stuff was. I always slept on the couch; I couldn't stand being stuck in the same room as her. I slipped out of my plain tee-shirt and shorts and replaced them with a pair of comfy dark blue jeans, and a baggy maroon shirt with some sort of random design on it. I think it was advertising some restaurant. I never cared enough to actually read it.

I stepped into the bathroom, brushing my teeth and pulling a comb through my hair. I really needed to cut it, the length was really inconvenient. I put it in a sloppy braid, and stared at myself in the mirror for a moment, looking into my blue eyes. I gave myself double pistols, cracking a smile. "Alright, we're leaving!" Edmund ran to me, his backpack on his shoulder. We headed out the door and towards the bus stop. We walked too slowly, though, so we had to run at the bus before it left us. We paid the driver and sat down in a seat near the front. He started talking about the earthquake I had slept through. "I just can't believe you slept through it! It woke me up, it shook the entire house. The news people said that scientists were just as surprised as we were. There weren't any signs of it coming."

"Weird. Hey, maybe it was actually an alien space ship landing on Earth!" I joked.

He laughed, "As cool as that'd be, they assured us that it was just a quake."

We joked about it until we were at our stop. We headed into the office, and I sat down at my desk to begin my work. Edmund sat in a small chair next to mine and pulled out a small journal, where he started writing. We both stayed there for a bit over an hour, occasionally saying hi to my coworkers, before we decided to get up and go to the McDonalds down the street for lunch. We got up, leaving our work at my desk.

As we were walking back with our food, the ground began to move again. We had trouble keeping our balance, thinking it'd be better to stay still and not move around. We should've started running right then, right when we heard the loud ' _thud'_. We both started looking around wildly, trying to determine what had fallen over. Soon, there was a loud, deep shout. It sounded like a battle cry, in some language that I'd never heard. There were shriller, terrified cries after that. My eyes widened, as I grabbed Edmunds hand and ran away from the noises. We were blocked by a large... thing. It was standing on two legs, and covered in black scales. It tilted its head at us, letting out a low hiss. I started backing away, trying to get Edmund to do the same.

He didn't move, though. He was stuck like a deer in headlights, his eyes wide. The thing growled at him, lifting up a hand with long, shiny, sharp claws. He took a step back; tears showing in his eyes as he looked from the things face to its claws and then back again. He whimpered when the thing opened its mouth—which stretched all the way across its head, so it really just looked like its head was splitting down the middle—and let a long black tongue sliver out. "...Run." I whispered.

Edmund turned to look at me, opening his mouth to say something. He didn't get to say it, though, because the thing shoved its claws into his gut, shoving him backwards with the force. I screamed loudly, in a pitch I didn't know I was even capable of making. "Edmund!" I cried, reaching for him. His mouth was open, and I was able to tell the exact moment that his soul left his body. His eyes dulled as blood drizzled out of his mouth. I looked at the monster in horror, taking another step back. I had to get out of there. I whimpered as it turned its head towards, finding that my body wouldn't move. My legs felt weak from grief and horror, and I didn't think I could run.

I probably would have just stood there and gotten killed if a bullet hadn't hit the thing in the head, directing its attention. It turned to where the weapon had come from, a pair of iridescent wings erupting from its back as it flew towards the shooter. I turned and ran, trying to avoid the battle that seemed to be going on. I felt like I was in a Marvel movie, but I wasn't anybody important. I was just somebody there that they could kill off for effect, or show running and screaming out of screen in the distance. I was just a civilian.

Author: Elizabeth Hensarling

Copyright © 2015 by Elizabeth Hensarling

### Land of Confusion

She stood mere feet from him. She smiled at him and swayed gently as he played; her long beautiful black hair blew gently behind her. The notes and lyrics streamed from him easily as he looked into her so blue eyes. She had always been that beautiful, since the first day he saw her a little more than two and a half years ago, at the same farmer's market. He now stood at the exact spot he had then; he played the same song. She had told him that day, after his show, that she had loved the song, saying "A beautiful rendition."

He'd sputtered and choked on his words as only a seventeen- year-old boy could. Somehow he'd managed to ask her to come the next weekend and he would play any song she wanted.

She'd asked for the same song. And over the next eight weekends a pattern arose. She'd request 'their song', as she would call it later, and afterward he would stutter out an invitation for the next weekend.

On the last weekend of the market's season he had worked up the courage as he played 'their song' and other ones to ask her to go out with him. It had come out as an invitation for him to play 'their song' wherever she'd like. She laughed at him and told him to meet her at the coffee shop on the corner where the farmers' market met and to leave the guitar at home. They planned for ten o'clock the next Saturday, and so a new tradition was built. Every Saturday at ten o'clock they would meet at a predetermined destination. The only rule was it could not be the same place as the previous weekend.

He'd often thought later that it was odd that they'd never exchanged numbers and had no way of communicating throughout the week. So his desire to be in her presence grew until Saturday when it burst out like a dam.

They'd never needed to contact each other, not really. They'd always show up at the exact same time on Saturday. Her on her bike and him driving. He'd offered her a ride once and she simply raised an eyebrow at him, and told him not to stray from their "lovely and simple routine."

When she missed a Saturday at the original coffee shop, he had no way of contacting her. So, he just returned to the shop every Saturday at ten. When the farmers' market opened again he went to the first spot they'd met at. He always played 'their song' to open just as he had before fall.

It was the last weekend of the farmers market when he was packing up, that a light touch on his shoulder made him turn, to see her. She looked paler and thin. Her long thick black hair was now short fuzz on her scalp. She only asked him to play the song for her, so he did. He played the song for her until the sun started to sink in the sky. Then he sat his guitar down and pulled her gently into him. No words were said. He never asked what she was sick with; although, it was obvious she was ill. He did, however, ask her where she would like to meet and if he should leave his guitar behind. Her gentle laugh made his heart stutter. Her smile though, faded as she told him, "Memorial Hospital." He had nodded and asked if he could give her a ride. She looked relieved. He remembered how exhausted she had looked sitting in to passenger seat of his truck. She looked as though she would blow away.

For the next year and six months, he played 'their song' for her at Memorial Hospital. Every Saturday at first, and then on Mondays and Wednesdays too. That was when he'd met her older brother. He'd looked heartbroken and tired. When he'd introduced himself as her brother, he had laughed and told him that, "It was good to put a face to the song." He would talk to her brother every day he saw her. It was always on his way out but it was hardly brief. He'd learned of their parents' deaths and that she'd been fighting the same fight for six year, since she was eleven. It was only just now that it had caught up to her.

He began to crave those three days when he would, if only for a small moment, make her smile. He'd abandoned his spot in the farmer's market and she'd berated him. He had simply told her he would do it next year, because he refused to play without her there. She had yelled, telling him to not get so attached. She was an accident waiting to happen. A volcanic eruption with a warning, and he should run far way before he was caught in her path of destruction. He'd cautiously climbed into her small bed to hold her as she cried. "I love you," he told her. She'd apologized to him and said she wouldn't say those three words aloud to him. She couldn't leave him knowing she'd said them. He had understood and simply sang the song once more for her.

The next weekend he came and her brother stood there with tears in his eyes. He'd stopped and simply turned back around. He drove to the very spot in which he stood now, playing 'their song' for her.

He didn't cry or yell. He wanted to but every time his eyes began to sting or his throat tightened he saw her eyebrow raise as she told him that crying over her was not part of their routine. And so he played and played, with her beauty on the backs of his eyelids and their song on his lips and tongue.

### Love at First Sight

Soft pink skin, tiny button nose, small puckered lips, baby blue eyes squeezed shut. Tiny fists flail in the air along with chubby arms and legs. Tiny toes perfect for drooling all over. Soft baby fuzz, so blonde you can barely see it. How such a small thing can control your every emotion, you don't know. You haven't yet experienced the joys of being an older sibling. But as you hold the squirming figure, trying to soothe it before the tears begin. You think it will be impossible. But as soon as calm settles over the tiny one. The small soul merely stares up at you with eyes full of innocence only a newborn has. You, right in that instant, know that no matter how hard or impossible you will do everything to protect the bundle in your arms. The tiny soul that you have come to love so quickly, will always know it's loved as long as you're alive.

### Remember, Before You Forget

Teenagers to most in the western hemisphere, we are a percentage of over dramatic nothings. We are no ones, entities that have yet to "earn" a voice amongst the crowd.

We know nothing of true emotions; we do not know love or hate. We cannot experience deep sadness or overwhelming exuberance. We're too young to fall in love; because we fall so often. But how is our love any less loving than that of an adult's? We fall fast and hard because the world has not yet calloused us. We are not yet afraid to feel all there is to feel. We embrace what adults refuse to. People lose their ability to experience things with the "volume" turned all the way up. Children and young adults have cranked the stereo of life all the way up. To feel and experience, so when they forget how to love and hate quickly, how to fall into an oblivion of sadness and feel monumentally happy. We can remember all we did and all we felt when we were over dramatic nothings.

### Sorry for Falling

If you stood in front of me right now, I'd tell you how much you hurt me. I always seem so childish when I think about ranting to you. When I know I was nothing to you. I was just a person, just a person with a name and a face. But you were something to me. You were a lot to me. My distraction from sadness and anger; you were the person I loved. Every "I love you" that I said, meant something. They were something for the simple fact that I was in love with you. I have dealt with so much with you. Lies and secrets and hardness. Struggles, that had I not fallen for you I could have avoided.

I would like to tell you this too, I love you. You were my inspiration. I wish we were closer in more ways than one. I wish I could have heard your voice and experienced your presence. But we didn't make it, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for falling in love with you.

### Your Back Pocket

A decade and a half ago I hid something in your back pocket. I put it there so it would be protected and wouldn't be tainted or hurt. I knew you would protect my artifact for me because you had gained my trust and I loved you. And now I'm afraid you're going to take my artifact from me and not even know I had given it to you for protection. I'm afraid you will leave and never know that I had stowed something so precious to me in your pocket so long ago. And I'm afraid that if I tell you what I hid in there you'll take it the wrong way. Because you see I hid a huge chunk of my heart. I hid my smiles and my tears. So many tears; my hopes, dreams and nightmares. I gave them to you because I knew you would never look for them or expect to be given such things from me. And to be honest I did not intend to give such a thing to you but you seemed to me, at so many times; when I was so afraid and felt so broken and alone; to be my only fan and my knight in tarnished armor because you have seen 100 more battles then me, and I'm sorry. I'll take it back and though you have no knowledge of the precious and irreplaceable thing I've given to you. I'm frightened and hesitant to do such a thing, because I'm afraid that if you go you'll forget me and I will no longer feel safe at the thought of any one person. But I need to protect myself and I will no longer put such an unknown burden on you, because I love you. I love you as the person you are in this moment and I loved you when you were a teenager so full of angst. You have always been my brother. The brother that I have never had to dream of, because I've never had a moment that I can recall that I couldn't think of you. I need you to see that, I need you to see how much my brothers mean to me. I would not have trusted you so dearly if I didn't love you so.

For my "adopted" brother

### My Candle

It was always great in the beginning, but their beginning was over now. She had been right, he was no different from Him, and no one ever would be. And because of this, here she was; hiding, terrified that he'll find her, desperately hoping he will. For her endings aren't happily ever after, they are nightmares that leak into her waking hours. It's been so, for as long as she could remember. Knowing that he turned out no different than Him broke her heart. She'd needed him to be different; she had never felt this way about someone before. No one had ever made her stomach buzz or toes tingle from just a glance in her direction. No one before had ever made her smile when her nightmares invaded the days; but he had done those things.

Today though, her happy days had come to an end. She'd not meant to slap him but she'd seen The Master's face, and when he leaned in to embrace her she panicked and hit him. As soon as she did, she saw his beautiful face twist into a look of disbelief. She ran before it turned to anger and disgust. She hid inside their small bathroom and curled her body into a ball trying to be invisible. When a knock sounded on the door tears spilt over onto her cheeks.

"Baby, please come out."

At the sound of his deceitfully soothing voice she began to shake. The Master had sounded soothing before he had done his horrible tortures that made her body tremble in fear to this day.

"Please come out so we can talk. I just want to help you, Love."

She shook her head silently; she knew he was lying. He always lied to her to get her to do what they desired. He told her to do what they all desired and freedom would be granted to her... that had been a lie. But she had thought he would be different, he felt so different.

"Okay, I'm coming in. Please don't run from me."

The terror that tore through her caused her to shake violently. This was going to be it, he was going to do what the others and The Master had loved to do- he was going to hurt her. Perhaps he would end it once and for all, so she wouldn't have to suffer anymore. She cowered and pushed further into the wall as the door opened. He came in and crouched down in front of her. He reached out to touch her making her involuntarily flinch.

"Please don't hurt me. I'm so sorry."

He sat down in front with a 'defeated' sigh. The way he looked at her was as if his heart was breaking, but He had been a good actor too. When she would finally break down and cry and beg for forgiveness, He would apologize and say she made him do it. And if she was perfect and good next time he wouldn't have to do it again. She believed him; she thought he felt love and compassion for her.

"Maggie, I won't hurt you. I just want to know if you're okay."

The burn that had built up behind her eyes lessened as she looked at the man in front of her.

"Maggie, I would never hurt you, you know that. I love you. Please my love, come back to me."

Recognition sparked in Maggie's mind a moment before she threw herself onto the man in front of her.

"Ryland?" Maggie choked on the tears that squeezed her throat. "Ryland don't leave me please. I'm sorry, so so sorry. Please don't leave me alone."

Ryland engulfed Maggie in his arms. "I won't but tell me what happened?"

Maggie sobbed into his embrace as she shook her head. She didn't want to tell him. She didn't want to think about Him. She couldn't understand why that had happened to her nor could she understand why this had.

She loved Ryland, he was the only good thing that had ever happened to her; the candle in her dark room. But she didn't have the strength or the courage to tell him about what had happened to her, for all those years before she had finally escaped.

### A Moment of Love

Love poems are written to show the wonders of love. But what about the pain? The feeling you have when your love is taken from you, or falsified. What of the events of jumping into the abyss of love blindly, hoping someone will jump with you. And when you emerge broken and bruised you look back up towards where you came and ask why they didn't fall with you. So you feel all the great brightness of love drain from you and be replaced with dull pain.

However, in the recesses of your mind you remember the feeling. The utterly blissful happiness you felt and so you dry your tears and smile. Because you will never stop loving. The love stories and songs are there for that reason. The pain you feel will not stop you from loving freely, because a moment of true happiness is worth a lifetime of pain.

Author: Rebecca Lewis

Copyright © 2015 by Rebecca Lewis

### The Man with Dragonfly Wings

_There's nothing immoral about my research as long as I let him go in the end,_ Doran thought.

Holding up the flask to his eyes, he peered through the glass to the contents caged within. A man, a tad larger than his thumb, sat against one side of it. His wings began in a line running from the shoulder blades to the lower back, protruding outward and to the side in the shape of butterfly wings. However, they shimmered in a design mimicking the translucent one of a dragonfly.

Doran scratched a rough sketch of the wings in his notebook. He took care to include all the slopes and curves of the veins that seemed to stitch the wings together. Choosing a warm spot on his windowsill, he set down the flask. The little man gazed out the window and his wingtips quivered when he sighed.

In a tenor voice tinged with baritone, the man whispered, " _Let me out."_

"You can go once I'm done," Doran told the man.

The man furrowed his eyebrows. "When?"  
"A couple more days," Doran replied.  
"I've been here a week."

Doran bit the inside of his lip. _I know, but I can't let you go yet,_ he thought.

"You're fascinating," Doran replied, attempting to dodge the subject.

"I'm not an animal."

Doran grunted. "Might as well be."

The man shook his head. He fell silent, staring back out the window. Doran followed his gaze to the garden beyond. Flowers of all sizes grew within the bounds of the property, speckles of colors creating a rainbow out of spring. Some plants towered over others while a few clung to the ground as if something would carry them away at any moment.

Doran sat down in a chair by the window. "That's your habitat?"

"That's part of my _home_ ," the man stated.

"You live in the garden," Doran said. "You're like butterflies, or birds."

The man harrumphed. "Butterflies and birds don't wear clothes."

Doran redirected his attention from the garden to examine the little man's body. He had wondered about the origin of the red tunic and trousers when he first caught the man.

"What are those made of?"

The man jutted a finger out toward a bush set toward the far side of the garden, the side bathed in sunlight and not the shade of the apple trees. From the bush grew red flowers with petals encircling one after another in tight bunches.

"Rose petals?" Doran asked.

"For spring and summer."

"What about winter?"

"Bird feathers."

Doran frowned. "You hunt?"

"No," the man corrected. "We gather them in spring when the birds molt and save them for winter."

Doran grunted and stood up. Striding over to one of his desks, he flipped through a textbook, frowned at it, and scribbled something in the margins. He slammed that one shut and plucked another from a bookshelf.

"What do you call yourselves?" Doran asked.

"What?" the man asked, and brushed a few locks of brown hair out of his face.

"Well," Doran said, "sometimes you're called fairies, wee folk, the Fae-"

" _Taydae_ ," the man interrupted.

The word slid off his tongue with the musicality of a violin. He almost seemed to sing it, but it pierced the air like birdsong and could have been mistaken for it.

"Taydae?" Doran repeated, but the word lacked its beauty when uttered from his ill-mannered lips.

He shrugged. "Or _Taydi_ for singular."

Doran tossed the textbook onto the desk and wrote down the name in his notebook. Adding the sound of the name beneath it, he took a note to listen for more of the Taydae language.

"And what's your name?"

Doran looked up from his notebook. "Me?"

"What do you call yourselves?"

Clutching the notebook against his chest, Doran leaned forward. "My people?"

"You call yourselves 'my people?'"

"No, no, no," Doran said. "We called ourselves humans."

"Humans?"

"And human for singular," Doran said, and gave a nod.

The man laughed, a sound like the tinkling of silver chimes on a summer day.

"What's so funny?"

"It sounds like _hummuh_."

"Which means?"

The man laughed again. "It means brutish." He shook his head. "It sounds like it fits."

"How am I brutish?" Doran said, an edge of irritation creeping into his tone.

The man gestured to his cage. "You stuck me in a bottle. That's not exactly 'civilized.'"

"But you're a fairy."

" _Taydi_ ," the man insisted.

"Whatever," Doran said, "but you're not important."

The man's wingtips fell a few inches. "How?"

Somehow the word sounded like a question, a plea, and an accusation at the same time.

Standing up, Doran snapped his notebook closed. "Doesn't matter."

At that moment, the sound of someone banging on the door to the study reverberated through the room. Doran jumped a few inches where he stood. This elicited a bout of laughter from the little man.

"Quiet, fairy," Doran hissed and then called to the door, "Come in!"

The door swung open, hitting the wall behind it with a loud _crack._ A large woman, bulging at the waistline enough to add curves to her dress, lumbered through the door with a wooden rod in her hand. Baring her teeth, she narrowed her eyes at Doran. He shimmied a couple steps to his left, obscuring her view of the man.

"Any progress yet?" the woman growled.

Doran shifted his weight from foot to foot and averted her gaze by looking at the floor.

The woman came a few steps closer. "I ain't giving you this space for free, you know."

"I know, Mrs. Homer."

Doran retreated backwards until he pressed against the edge of the windowsill. He rubbed the back of his neck and clutched his notebook to his stomach.

Homer grabbed the notebook from his hand and flipped through the first few pages. "What's this?"

"Observations."

"Why can't I read it?" she asked, squinting at the words.

"It's not written in Derlin," Doran explained.

"And why not in the king's Derlin?"

"It's in English."

Homer shoved the notebook back into Doran's hands. "That language died."

"I'm fluent."

Leaning forward, Homer shook a finger in his face. "Listen here, boy-"

"I'm twenty winters old," Doran interrupted. "Not a boy."

Homer growled and shoved Doran away from the window and into the wall. Grasping her wooden rod with both hands, she pressed it against Doran's neck right under his chin. He struggled for breath, his fingernails digging into the skin of her wrists. Little air eked into his throat. His heart thundered in his ears.

It was times like these in which he regretted being the runt of his family.

"As I was saying, _boy_ ," Homer continued, speaking painfully slow, "you're a foreigner, but you're living with me. The governor hired you to find a way to kill all the magic pests in the region. We need the land. You following?"

Doran rasped, "Yes."

Homer smirked. "And I'm the handler of the little foreigner. The governor only let you in the region for this job. So, since I need to keep an eye on you, I need to read your notebook when I want, where I want, got it?"

Doran, unable to reply, gaped like a fish and forced his neck to nod again.

"Good," Homer said, and released Doran. "Next time, I'll beat you like I did yesterday."

She poked her rod against the bottom of his ribcage and a spike of pain lanced through the area.

Homer smiled. "I thought the broken rib was very convincing."

Doran grimaced but refused to make a sound of pain.

When Homer finally backed away, Doran slumped against the wall beside the window but failed to collapse to the floor. He used his body to conceal the man in the flask. _She can't know I have him_ , Doran thought, _She'll kill him._

Grunting, Homer headed back out the door. The hinges protested against the abuse. Once the lock clicked into place, Doran let out a groan and sagged the rest of the way to the floor. The notebook clattered against the wooden boards.

Doran gulped in a breath and then moaned, clutching his hand to the bottom of his ribcage. The broken rib felt as if flames crept across it just to prevent him from calming his heart rate. Laying down on the floor, he shunted the pain aside to take deep breaths and get his heart back to its regular rhythm. All this abuse, the beatings and near-stanglings, day after day, just for a study. It almost did not feel worth the trouble sometimes, but his desire for knowledge drove him on.

"Human?"

Doran clenched his teeth and sat upright to where his eyes were level with the windowsill and the little man. The man beat against the glass of flask, kicking and punching at it.

When their gazes locked, he stopped and asked, "Human? Are you alright?"

It took Doran a second to recognize the words. He had spoken in Derlin to Homer, but Knoro's words were in English. A faint part of his mind wondered why this had not seemed strange until this point. However, a larger part of his mind growled in irritation at being referred to as merely a human. It felt demeaning, like the only aspect of him that gained him any significance was his species.

"Doran," he told Knoro. His voice sounded thin and raspy.

The man froze, one fist against the glass. "What?"

"My name's Doran."

His expression softening, the man said, "I'm _Knorokatamle_. Call me _Knoro."_

Doran heaved himself to his feet, using the wall for support. He plopped down in the chair beside the window and leaned back in it.

"Knoro," Doran repeated.

He doubled over and picked his notebook off the floor. Writing the name down in the book, he looked back up at the man.

"Hold still," Doran commanded.

Knoro froze like a glass figurine, watching Doran while he arched his pen across the paper in sweeps and curves. Time passed; Doran failed to keep track of how much. However, when Doran faced Knoro for longer than a glance at the end, he realized Knoro still held his fist against the glass. _Didn't take too long_ , Doran decided.

He flipped the notebook around to face Knoro. His wingtips flitting upward, Knoro backed up a few steps.

"That's me."

Doran nodded, turning the notebook back around, and smiled down at it. "A great sketch actually."

"Are you alright, Doran?" Knoro asked.

The smile slipped off of Doran's face. "Huh?"

"That woman almost killed you," Knoro elaborated, pressing his hands flat against the flask.

"Don't worry about her."

"You could've died."

Doran frowned. "Why do you care?"

Knoro hesitated, as if he did not know how to answer. Then he mumbled something under his breath. He raked his fingers through his hair. Finally, he spoke, trying to put some thoughts together, "I...I'm a trapped animal, remember?...Without you, I'm never getting out."

Doran's shoulders slumped. "Yeah."

He got up from the chair and trudged over to his desk. After glancing down at the sketch again, he sighed, throwing the notebook onto the desk. _I'm chasing fairies_ , Doran thought, _literally_.

Flipping open the cover of a textbook, he skimmed through several chapters. Studies on the migrations of unicorns. How a mermaid swims. Why trolls differ from gremlins. Knowledge that should only be seen by the eyes of a wizard, all of it. Doran shook his head, combing through his thoughts. Why study magical creatures when he could never make use of the energy itself? The closest magic-wielder he possessed in his bloodline was the third cousin on his mother's side, the touch-telepath that was the pride of the family.

Doran pressed his lips into a straight line and slammed the cover of the textbook shut. Stalking over to a bookshelf, he selected several books and sat down in the seat by the window again, careful not to jostle his ribcage. A cracked rib on the left side. Horrible place for it.

When he opened the first book, dust flew forth from its cover. Doran spent the next couple hours consumed in its pages and failed to look up until the light grew almost too dim to read by.

When it did, he gazed out the window. In the garden, the lights of fireflies flickered on and off, as if partying the night away. Although, with closer inspection, Doran saw the lights concentrating near the edge of the forest beyond the garden fence.

"Knoro?" Doran said. "You awake?"

Knoro rolled over to face Doran. "Yeah, couldn't sleep."

"What's going on out there?"

Knoro bolted upright and scampered to the side of the flask closest to the garden. His wings flexed open and shut, glimmering in the last rays of sunlight.

"They're looking for me," he replied. "I've been missing."

"It's only been a week."

"That can be a lifetime for a _Taydi_ ," Knoro said.

Doran frowned. "How long do you live?"

"About three centuries," Knoro said, still pressed against the glass.

"Then how is it long?"

"We live as fast as butterflies and birds, even if we live long."

Doran gazed back out the window at the lights. A search party for Knoro. Family, friends, neighbors. He looked back down at Knoro, who fluttered at the side of the flask like an imprisoned butterfly. Trapped with a stranger, he begged for release. At least Knoro's imprisonment had not been of his own craftsmanship. That gave him an advantage over Doran.

_Why did I ever agree to find a way to kill fairies?_ Doran thought.

He never wanted this.

He never dreamed of studying magic in order to kill people, even if they were fairies.

Did he really need to follow through with his promise to the governor?

Without another thought, he snatched the flask from the windowsill, causing Knoro to yelp.

"What are you doing?" Knoro sputtered. "Where are we going?"

Doran whisked him away from the window and toward the door. He coaxed the door open without a squeak and prowled down the corridors. They arrived at the back of the house, and the entrance to the garden.

Opening the door, Doran heard Knoro gasp inside of the flask. He spun around and his eyes widened.

"Really?" Knoro asked. "But why?"

"You're not a thing," Doran stated. "No more than I am."

After he finished this, he would need to tell Homer that he refused to complete his investigation on how to exterminate fairies. He shuddered at the thought of the aftermath of that conversation.

Nevertheless, Doran plucked the cork off the flask and Knoro wormed his way out of it. In the air, Knoro's wings glowed with their own light. Doran gazed at them, entranced, and followed them while Knoro hovered from right to left as if struggling to stay aloft.

"So _hummuh_ ," Knoro said with a grin, but sounding out of breath.

Doran snapped out of his trance. "I'm not a brute."

"No," Knoro agreed, "but _hummuh._ "

"You said that meant brutish," Doran said, and poked a finger at Knoro.

Knoro's smile widened. "It also means childish."

"I'm twenty winters old," Doran insisted. "I'm a scholar."

"With a fascination in magic that only wizards should have."

Doran crossed his arms, tapping the flask against his side. "I'm not ashamed."

"Follow me."

Doran raised his eyebrows. Knoro waved at him, his former jail keeper, the scientist who put him under the microscope.

"Why? I trapped you."

"I did the same to you."

"What?"

" _Shimmering wings leave the soul in chains,_ " Knoro replied.

The English sprang to life with the inflection he added to it. It rang with song and music, lulling the mind to peace.

Then it clicked. "Taydae can enchant."

Knoro flew upward several feet, but steadily floated down. "Now you understand my frustration."

"You wanted to be trapped."

Knoro shrugged. "I was curious about humans."  
"And I wouldn't let you go when you wanted."

"I enchanted you to bring you to me."

A smile crossing his face, Doran snapped his fingers. "That's why you were so easy to find."

"I needed someone who didn't want to kill me."

Doran folded his arms. "But since I wanted to keep you, you couldn't enchant me again so that I would release you?

"You're sharper than you think, Doran _,_ " Knoro said.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Doran asked, "This, what I just did, was my own will, right?"

"Thankfully, yes," Knoro replied. "And I was lucky that you were a _Kashim._ "

"Kashim?"

"English-speaker," Knoro explained. "The speaker of the dead language."

"Plenty speak it."

Knoro shook his head. "It's your native one. I don't speak Derlin. That's why I'm using English."

"How old are you?"

"Seventy winters. Still young."

As Knoro began flying away, Doran said, "Fairies can speak English because it's old. As old as the last time fairies spoke with humans regularly."

" _Kashims_ and _Taydae_ were once close allies."

"Allies?"

"Yes! Now, hurry up, _Kashim._ "

Doran walked behind Knoro as he fluttered toward the gate of the garden. He shoved it open, and it creaked at his touch. They traveled to the edge of the forest lit with thousands of fireflies. Then, Doran spotted them, the hundreds of fairies among the fireflies. Along with clothes made of flower petals of all kinds, they varied as much as one human from another.

"I'm safe!" Knoro called out.

Hundreds of squeaks, many of them calls for Knoro, emitted from the swarm of fairies who flocked around him. Doran stood back, watching the display. Many of the women nuzzled Knoro in the neck, and other brushed wings with him in greeting.

"Stand back!" a voice yelled.

The swarm parted for a man to fly through, clad in an outfit of daisy petals and with graying hair. The elder flew around Knoro in a tight circle and inspected every inch of him.

" _Knorokatamle,_ " the elder said, "you're malnourished. Just look how your wings have dimmed."

He forced one of his arms under Knoro's, and Knoro slumped against the man.

"Thank you, _Fraishan._ "

"Knoro, you okay?" Doran said.

All of the sudden, the swarm turned to him and many shrieked, darting back into the forest.

Fraishan narrowed his eyes at Doran. Speaking Derlin, he asked, "Are you responsible for this?"

Doran stiffened. "Yes."

Fraishan handed Knoro off to another man hovering nearby and fluttered over to Doran's face. After leering close to him, enough to see into his eyes, he descended to the level of his neck. Doran did not dare to move. When Fraishan laid a hand on his skin, on the forming bruises where Homer had attempted to strangle him, he flinched. Fraishan kept his hand on the bruise, running his small hands across it. It felt as if an ant managed to skate across Doran's skin.

Switching from Derlin to English, Fraishan muttered, "Someone tried to kill you."

Doran squeezed his eyes shut. This was the last thing he needed: attention.

"The lady of the house," Knoro said, "tried to kill a _Kashim._ "

Fraishan flittered up to Doran's face again. Continuing in English, he said, "A _Kashim_? I thought there were none left. So, human, you understand me?"

"Why aren't you speaking Taydae?" Doran ventured.

"I'm old," Fraishan said, and cracked a smile.

Doran raised his eyebrows.

"And sentimental," Fraishan explained. "Now, come on."

Doran pointed to himself. "Me?"

"Yes, you," Fraishan said. "Why not?"

"I hurt him."

"You were coerced to."

"How did you-?"

Fraishan nodded. "You _Kashims_ have always been curious. This job to get rid of us was the only way a commoner like you could study magic. I've seen it before."

"You have?"

"With other _Kashims_ when they were still around," Fraishan explained. "As your kind have died off, human civilization had deteriorated without innovation."

"You don't have to speak English to be curious."

"No, but the _Kashims_ were the last people who all possessed that trait. The others died off long ago. Now, stop arguing. You need healing."

Doran prodded his neck. "It's just a bruise."

"That's not all she's done to you, is it?" Doran squirmed under Fraishan's scrutiny, remembering the broken rib, and Fraishan hummed in affirmation. "I thought so."

The swarm of fairies engulfed Doran, hundreds of hands urging him forward toward the trees. His mind called for him to resist, and escape back to the safety of his study. Then, he realized, that was not safety.

Gulping, Doran walked into the forest, hundreds of fairies lighting and guiding his way.

### On Being Human

Jasper drew in a breath from his cigarette and puffed out a wisp of smoke. He then stabbed the cigarette into the ash tray. Digging into his pocket, he located a couple five-dollar bills. He tossed them on the counter of the bar next to the check and slid off of his seat. The alcohol that money had paid for buzzed in his veins, but the amount lacked enough potency to impair his speech or stride.

He picked up a cue stick from beside the pool table and set up the balls. With the rasp of age and cigarette smoke in his voice, he called, "Hey, Fred, you wanna play?"

"I have to get this place cleaned up, Jasper," the barkeep replied. "But you go ahead."

Jasper shrugged his shoulders. "Your loss, my friend."

At the moment he hit the first ball with the stick, the door to the bar banged open and a man stumbled through, hefting grocery bags in his arms. A gust of wind blew in after him and struck Jasper like an off-tune string quartet, sharp against the skin. As he shivered, he noticed the incoming storm clouds through the open door.

As the door closed, the man, a young fellow in a collared shirt, looked at him from over the tops of the bags in his arms. His brown eyes widened at the sight of Jasper, the pale skin of his face draining to an even lighter shade.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," he said. "But, uh, Fred, I got your groceries."

"Thanks, Mike," Fred replied. "Go ahead and take the money on the bar."

"Thanks."

Jasper set his cue stick down on the table, shoved his hands into his pockets, and came back toward the counter of the bar.

"Name's Jasper," he said. "You a friend of Fred's?"

"The kid just moved into town, Jasper," Fred replied, wiping out a cup. "He's starting as busboy next Monday."

Jasper nodded.

Mike set down the groceries and a sketchbook he had been carrying. He then placed his hand on the bar to balance himself as he hopped onto a barstool. However, when he jumped, the ledge of the bar crumbled beneath his fingers, leaving Mike airborne. He tilted backward and flopped onto the ground, his back and head hitting the floor with a hard thud.

Everyone froze. Then, Mike groaned and brought his hand to his head where he hit it. Jasper rushed forward, stooping down beside him.

"God, kid," he said, pulling Mike upright by the shoulders, "you okay?"

Mike moaned again and nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Jasper helped Mike to his feet, then stepped behind him. He took Mike's fingers away from the point of contact.

"What are you doing?" Mike asked, attempting to turn around.

Jasper pushed on Mike's shoulder to force him to face forward again. "Stop moving. Let me see it."

As Jasper touched the spot where Mike struck his head, Mike winced and ducked away from Jasper. "I said I'm fine!"

Jasper frowned. "Kid, you hit that head of your's on _tile._ You might have a concussion."

"I'm fine," Mike repeated.

"Fred," Jasper said, "back me up, will you?"

Shaking his head, Fred said, "Jasper, let him be."

Jasper rolled his eyes and seated himself at the bar again, crossing his arms across the counter. Mike glanced at the seat next to Jasper and then at Jasper himself.

He frowned and turned away. "I'm gonna heat up some soup."

As Mike shoved open the door to the kitchen, Fred called, "Get some for us too!"

Jasper heaved a sigh and glanced around the bar. Noticing the sketchpad that Mike left behind, he plucked it off the counter and began to flip through it. He paused a moment, tilting his head, while he appraised the image of a landscape. Nothing in the scene resembled anything from Earth. Something that might have been a tree, though it shared more similarities with a bunch of vines, dominated one corner. Orbs hanging from its tendrils illuminated its surroundings in the picture, revealing some creatures on the ground. However, the shading was still too dark to distinguish what they were. Jasper focused on the orbs and saw the colors concentrating on the centers of them like sparks of fire or stars.

"Certainly has an imagination," Jasper commented. "But he's good."

"Gonna be a great artist one day," Fred said. "I know it."

"You and your 'feelings.'"

"They're usually right."

"Yeah, yeah."

Jasper grunted and went back to the pool table. He remained in a companionable silence with Fred until Mike emerged from the kitchen, juggling three bowls of soup in his hands. He set them down on the counter and beckoned Jasper and Fred over to him.

"What are we having?" Jasper asked.

Mike smiled at him. "Beef stew."

"Sounds good."

Jasper eased himself onto a barstool. Setting one of the bowls in front of Jasper, Mike took a seat beside him. He and Fred started eating without preamble while Jasper stared down into his bowl.

Growing up in a household in love with soups, he knew them when he saw them. But this in no way possessed the characteristics of beef stew. Brown chunks of something that Jasper guessed were supposed to be beef floated amidst vegetables that, for of life of him, he could not conjure up a name for. Jasper furrowed his eyebrows and spooned some past his lips.

The "meat" felt like rubber against his tongue, but tasted as if the animal that produced it were a mix of a chicken and a pig. While the taste of the stew bewildered him, Jasper found himself desiring another bite.

"So," Mike said, "you like it? I made it yesterday."

Jasper let out a harsh chuckle. "Yeah, but this isn't beef."

Mike ducked somewhat in his seat. "I had no idea what to call it."

All of the sudden, thunder rumbled outside and rain splattered against the windows. Mike started and came close to knocking over his bowl. Then, the lights winked out. Fred cursed.

"I knew a storm was coming," Jasper mumbled.

He heard Mike's voice in the dark. "I'll get a light."

A stool grated across the tiles of floor. Footsteps. Noises of someone rummaging through something came from across the room. Then a light pierced the black.

Jasper shielded his eyes for a second while they adjusted. When he looked back at Mike, he rubbed his eyes and they widened. Mike held an orb in his hands about the size of a baseball that glowed from within. Just like the ones from the picture on the sketchpad.

The flames burst out from the center and licked the edges of the orb's interior. Mike cupped it in both hands and used his hip to shut the drawer. He smiled at Jasper but the smile faltered when he saw Jasper's expression.

"What?"

Jasper gaped for several seconds, gathering his thoughts. Somewhere in the background Fred cursed again. However, Jasper's thoughts raced through his mind like fish too fast to catch with one's hands.

"Mike!" Fred shouted. "You don't use those here!"

"What is that?" Jasper finally managed to say.

Mike looked down at the orb in his hands. His eyebrows raised half of an inch. "A portable light. What about it?"

Jasper stood up. "Is that a fire?"

Fred hopped to his feet as well. "Jasper, now just calm down."

"Well," Mike said, "more like a contained star. Fusion power."

"How is that possible?"

Mike frowned. "How isn't it?"

"Mike," Fred pleaded, "now isn't the time."

"I saw those in the picture!"

Mike laughed. "They don't actually grow on trees. We tie them up like that during celebrations."

"Who," Jasper said, taking a step closer to Mike, "are 'we?'"

Fred sighed and growled something under his breath. Then he stalked back behind the bar.

"The Kiedins," Mike said, and a scowl contorted his features.

"The what?"

"I thought this was a refugee town."

Jasper threw his hands into the air. "What refugees?"

Mike closed the distanced between himself and Jasper and raised the orb to his face. Drawing his eyebrows together, he stared into Jasper's eyes. He moved the orb and changed the amount of light going into them.

Mike harrumphed. "I don't understand what's wrong. You're not human either."

"What the hell?" Jasper shouted and recoiled.

He fell into a fit of coughing and supported himself with the bar. Mike attempted to come nearer, but Jasper held out a hand for him to stay back.

Coming out of the fit, he said, "What are you talking about?"

"Your eyes," Mike explained. He gestured to the orb. "They don't dilate."

"What does that have to do with me being human?"

"Sit down."

Jasper shook his head. "No. I'm leaving."

All of the sudden, Fred materialized in front of him and Mike grabbed Jasper's arm.

"Jasper, sit back down, please," Fred said.

Jasper writhed in Mike's grasp but the grip became like an iron shackle. Mike possessed far too much strength for his form. The floorboards squeaked beneath Jasper's boots as Mike dragged him back over to his seat. He fell onto his stool with a grunt and scowled at Mike.

"What do you want?!"

Mike held onto Jasper's shoulder. "For you to listen."

"I'm all ears."

"Alright," Mike said and released his shoulder. He sat back down on his barstool. "Let me get this straight: you have no idea what a Kiedin is?"

"Not one."

"And you think you're human?"

Jasper slapped his hands against his thighs. "I am human."

Mike looked away and tapped his fingers against the bar while Fred grimaced. "So, you don't know about aliens," Mike stated.

"Like little green men?"

"Then you-" Mike started and then stopped. He opened his mouth and words failed to come out for a minute. "Little green what?"

"Men. Like in cheesy sci-fi movies."

Mike slammed the heel of his hand against his forehead. "No! Aliens as in sentients not from Earth."

"Okay," Jasper replied and gave a single shake of his head. "Then no."

"Do you remember your youth?"

"You mean my childhood?"

"Yes."

"I grew up here in town," Jasper replied and folded his arms across his chest.

Mike stood up and carried the orb back behind the counter of the bar. He held it high and rummaged through the items in one of the drawers. Pulling something out of the drawer, he muttered a few words under his breath. Fred's eyes widened.

"I didn't know I had that."

"That's because I put it there a couple days ago."

Mike walked back over to Jasper and revealed a long wand of silver in his hand with a sharp tip, similar to a skewer except for a display screen attached to the back end of it.

"This," Mike said, "is a blood tester. I prick your finger and this can tell me what species you are."

Jasper attempted to wave him off. "No, I'm human. I know it."

"If you're human, you're abnormal."

"Nothing wrong with being different."

"Do you really not want to know?"

"Yes."

Mike set the blood tester on the table. "You know Fred's an alien."

Jasper's eyebrows shot upward. "What?" His eyes turned to Fred.

"It's true," Fred replied, running his hand through his hair. "I'm Gorvanian."

"But you look human."

"He has to use a cloaking device," Mike said and laid his hand over the blood tester. "He's actually blue-skinned, has three eyes, and doesn't have ears."

Jasper narrowed his eyes and let his hands go limp against his knees.

At the silent question, Fred supplied, "I have sensory areas on my skin that pick up sound waves in the air."

"You're human-looking though?"

"Enough to make it by on Earth without some...major modifications."

"Some aliens do that?"

Mike nodded. "Earth has towns of refugees from all over the galaxy. Some have to have surgery to live here."

Jasper winced. "I hate to think about it."

"Same here," Mike replied and his face softened.

Averting his gaze from Mike, Jasper stared down at his hands. Those hands constructed this town from a farming village, building houses and factories, shops and offices. They managed a business before most others found a niche in the community as commerce came with the new interstate. They were the hands of a laborer, a mentor, and a leader. But the hands of a human? Maybe not.

Jasper sighed and thrust his right hand out toward Mike. "Do it."

Mike nodded and grasped Jasper's hand. He changed his grip to hold out one of the fingers and then pricked the tip of it with the blood tester. Afterwards, he released Jasper's hand and punched a few buttons on the device. Jasper lowered his hand to the table, waiting.

Seconds passed.

The blood tester beeped.

Mike pressed his lips into a straight line and a nodded his head a little. "Not human."

Jasper slumped in his seat, put his elbows on the bar, and held his head in his hands. He forced himself to take a deep breath. This was too much. He came here expecting a quiet evening with a friend, and now some kid was telling him that he was an alien, a real alien.

Facing Mike again, he said, "This has to be a joke."

Mike sighed. "It isn't. I'm sorry."

"You can't prove it."

Mike failed to reply and seated himself next to Jasper. He slid the blood tester across the counter such that Jasper could read the screen.

It read, "Dravet."

"What's a Dravet?" Jasper croaked, his voice more rasp than before.

Mike clasped his hands in front of himself on the table. "They're from planet Mariosh. They, well, your people, look human."

"What's the difference?"

"Your brains run faster," Mike explained. "The pupils don't dilate because the mind can process all that info, and adjust. No need to change the amount of light coming in. Fantastic spacial intelligence. Natural builders."

"That explains a lot, I guess."

"This doesn't change the fact that you're still Jasper," Fred said, placing his hands on his side of the counter and leaning forward. "Human or not, you've done good things."

Jasper forced himself not to break eye contact with Fred, not to dismiss Fred's words as madness. He owed that much to his friend for all the years of brotherhood he had given him. With that glare alone, it seemed as if Fred was attempting to intimidate Jasper's stubbornness into submission.

As an uneasy tension hung in the air, Jasper envisioned Fred as the Gorvanian Mike had described. Somehow, the difference did not appear as much of a stretch of the imagination as he initially thought. The flat ears could vanish and the large forehead could house a third eye without his facial structure changing.

"Are you really not human?"

Fred shook his head. "Never have been and never will."

Then, Mike put a hand on Jasper's shoulder. "How old are you?"

"Sixty."

"Earth-years?"

"What else?"

"Well," Mike continued, "there's another difference."

Mike avoided looking him in the eye and Jasper's heart raced.

"What is it?"

Sighing, Mike rubbed the back of his neck. "Metamorphosis."

"Like a butterfly?"

"At about sixty-two Earth-years, you'll...transform. Your body will stiffen, and look like its crystallizing. It's like falling asleep." Mike locked his gaze with Jasper. "Inside the crystal, your body will regenerate everything, piece by piece."

"What will I look like? Human?"

"You've never had an impulse for...procreation, right?"

Jasper's eyebrows shot up. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"After you change," Mike said, "you'll reach sexual maturity for a Dravet. Humanoid, but chestnut brown skin, purple eyes since your's are blue right now, and bone-like armor on your chest, back, and limbs. Minus the joints, of course."

Jasper snorted. "You sure know a lot about this."

"He should," Fred said. "He's a scientist in that stuff."

"I'm a xenobiologist," Mike explained. "My specialization is the Corinthian constellation, which includes Mariosh."

"And the kid never shuts up about it."

"So what now?" Jasper asked, hunching over. "I'm not human."

Fred's face hardened. "We make plans."

Jasper furrowed his eyebrows. "We?"

"Your change will take five years, Jasper," Mike said. "You'll need someone to watch over you."

"I don't have any enemies."

Mike slung an arm around his shoulders, and smirked at him. "Trust me, Creation is a whole lot bigger than any Earthling ever imagined. Someone's bound to want something from you."

"We'll be here for you, Jasper," Fred said. "Don't doubt that."

Jasper heaved a sigh and rubbed his eyes. "I can't believe this is happening. I'm a freak."

Mike grasped one of Jasper's hands and splayed out his fingers. "Who's hand is this?"

"Mine," Jasper said, and tried to tug his hand away.

Mike's iron grip returned and refused to release him. "Yes, and are you a freak?"

"I'm an alien."

"And that's nothing to be ashamed of," Fred said. "Your parents must have been refugees. They wanted you to have a good life. Have you had it so far?"

Jasper remained silent.

"What have you done all these years, Jasper?" Fred asked, urging him to speak.

Jasper licked his lips and frowned. "I made this town great."

"Damn right you did," Fred replied and thumped his fist against the counter. "And you have a long life ahead of you to do even more."

"You'll live longer than any human," Mike added, giving him a smile.

Jasper gave a bark of laughter and looked to Fred. "You better help me through this, you old fart."

Fred smirked. "Wouldn't rather do anything else."

### Of Monsters and Men

Pressing her back against the headboard of the bed, Angela leveled her rifle at the Alliance soldier peering through the bedroom window. She noted two things about the soldier, minus the pistol on its belt, which spelled trouble for her at once: the body armor tough enough to deflect any of her bullets and the helmet's visor that displayed environmental data to the soldier. Every Shieldbearer knew that no human mind rested beneath that helmet, just the parody of one. Cybernetic enhancements ruined humanity. Cyborgs believed humans to be the inferior beings, and now they planned to extinguish humanity through slaughter on a battlefield. As nature decreed at the dawn of time, dominant species squashed the lesser ones. The soldier before Angela represented nothing short of a disaster, a security breach, a screw-up on her part as a sentry. Nothing good could come of this.

The thunder of battle still raged close enough to hear and smell. But it kept its distance enough for Angela to focus on this enemy.

Yet, humans were the ones prone to make mistakes. They felt compassion.

She licked her lips, and said, "Get out of here if you still want your head."

The soldier became frozen in place by the aim of her rifle. Angela tensed. The soldier's reaction did not make sense, because it should have reached for its own weapon or ducked out of the way of her rifle before she could fire. It should have. Pursing her lips, Angela glanced over him. It must have been with the Alliance. It could be part of no other faction with that level of technology in its armor. From Angela's experience on the battlefield, the soldier should not have hesitated, an Alliance soldier never would.

As Angela's finger twitched on the trigger, the soldier raised its hands up and said, "Don't shoot!"

Angela halted her action, and narrowed her eyes. The plea rang with the emotions of a human. But Alliance soldiers never possessed those, for they sacrificed them to transform into perfect soldiers, into cyborgs.

"Give me a reason."

"I don't wanna hurt you," the soldier said, and the pitch of its voice rose a little. Fear?

The soldier must have glitched. Angela retorted, "You're with the Alliance."

"The armor doesn't mean what you think."

Angela snorted. The soldier not only glitched, it was stupid. "People like me have nightmares about your type."

"No," the soldier said, "I'm not with the Alliance."

Glitched, stupid, and deaf. Was it possible the behavior was a trick? Angela ground her teeth together.

Controlling the level of her voice, she replied, "Prove it."

"Let me take off the helmet."

Angela readjusted the rifle to aim at the soldier's head and gave a single nod. Moving as fast as it dared, the soldier clicked off the seals of its helmet and removed it from its head. A face emerged from beneath the armor, one with light brown skin and crystal-like eyes. Angela's breath stalled in her throat, but her grip on her rifle remained steady. The man beneath the armor bore no evidence of the cyborg enhancements that defined Alliance soldiers to the rest of the galaxy. Frowning, the man tucked his helmet under his arm and raised his eyebrows as he shrugged.

"Well?" he asked. "Do I keep my head?"

Angela took in a deep breath, forcing her lungs not to shudder. She maintained the position of her rifle, staring at the man's eyes.

"The name's Ryan."

"Angela."

Ryan quirked his lips into a small smile. "Sounds like Angel."

Angela growled, causing the grin to vanish from Ryan's face. A few moments passed and Ryan cleared his throat.

"Could you lower the gun?"

"No, glitch-head," Angela replied. "We're in the middle of a war zone."

The battlefield materialized into the reality around them as she spoke of it, although it had been there all along. The explosions, the gunshots, the smell of burnt flesh stinging the nostrils like fire came rushing back to Angela's senses. Like a nightmare, or a memory one pushes down in a futile attempt to forget it, the responsibility assigned to Angela shot to the forefront of her thoughts. Guard duty. She was a sentry. This bedroom acted as a location to hide and to watch.

And Ryan was a distraction, one who had somehow consumed all of her attention. An unknown player could not be trusted.

"Leave."

Ryan's eyes widened. "What? Why?"

"If you want to live, go now," Angela repeated. "You're not a Shieldbearer. You could be a spy."

"But I'm-" Ryan attempted to say.

Angela leaned forward from her position. "One more time, glitch-head, and I'll say it slowly. Get. Out. Now."

She annunciated each word like a full thought, as if each one carried Ryan's fate in its arms. Ryan's Adam's apple bounced on his neck, signaling a gulp. Backing away, Ryan slid the helmet over his head and reattached it to his suit of armor.

"I'm not with the Alliance."

"I know," Angela said.

"I salvaged this armor off a soldier. I need to find my squad," Ryan rambled. "We're Drazers. You know that name? We're not as big as you Shields. But we're human." He begged with his hands, never realizing how his gestures stripped him of any dignity. He reeked of desperation now. "I'm alone!"

"Yeah," Angela replied, "and you'll be alone and dead in ten seconds!"

Dropping his hands back to his sides, Ryan progressed fifty yards away. He then turned around, falling into a jogging pace, fleeing from the death offered to him.

Clenching her gun in her hands, Angela watched him disappear from sight, the armor lost in the ruins around her location. Once he was gone, she released the breath she had caged up in her rib cage, and it sputtered out like a dying fish.

Ryan was gone. She did not have kill him. She did not have to kill him. Thank the gods that someone out there besides the Shieldbearers was human. The Alliance had failed to assimilate everyone into their forces. A day might still come when the war could be won. Humans might not go extinct.

Angela imagined Ryan shouldering the burden of the war, searching for his comrades, and keeping safe a hope he was unaware he carried.

### The Journey of My Music

Drums herald the dawn, set rhythm to once frivolous hearts.

They thunder in untried veins,

They hammer in fledgling ears,

We sense them in the silence.

Laudable efforts from the few serve as the kindling.

Fire sparks as the clouds roll in,

Torches blaze as wind bears down,

We find our light in darkness.

The beat maintains our music, never-ending, infinite.

We dance in rain 'til sunshine,

We dance in sun 'til nightfall,

Bodies sway beneath moonlight.

We craft monuments from nothing with stones shaped by lyrics.

Pillars of our artistry,

Skyscrapers seen by true hearts.

No challenge stands in our way.

We then display this panoply of art for you to see.

We wait with rapt attention,

Moments pause as tension swells,

Our peace teeters on an edge.

But you never blink, never ponder or stare in wonder.

You ask what we witness here,

You ask if we think we are

Something special since we're young.

We ask if you see the music in the trembling air.

You call us young and naïve,

You regard us as jejune,

You say we must stop dreaming.

Cinders smother and set fire to our golden temples.

Lightwood made of doubt and hate,

Beginnings of disrespect

To those we once admired.

Our gold transforms to lead like reversals of alchemy.

Butterflies to chrysalis,

Hot fire back to embers.

Our music comes to loathe you.

We now scream to be visible, sing only to be known.

I must now walk far away;

I must not become destroyed.

I shall shield what we once had.

They rebel against you, their vocals stained by your contempt.

Your disrespect is callous.

Your bigotry breeds outrage.

They seek to usurp your rank.

You and they tear at me, and use instruments for twilight.

One world clashes against rocks

While one struggles against waves.

They both shatter in the end.

I turn away to safeguard my remaining melodies

While both worlds overwhelm me,

While both worlds whisper to me.

They promise peace amid war.

Both demand my choice, tribute to their cause, a sacrifice.

One tastes of bitter jaundice.

One tastes of sour regret.

Some choices I make are wrong.

The journey to discover myself has shadowed turns,

But I forge on despite them,

And I keep walking forward.

One day my songs shall ring true.

###   
Where Words Have Taken Me

I tred on the border between what is real and what is not. I step through the door that defines the line between dreams and reality. I venture where few dare to go with open minds and their hands buried in their pockets.

Yet, I cower under the gaze of the very face I dare to spit in.

Criticism binds my hands but sets my mind free. It gifts me paths once traveled. It levels mountains to hillocks. Shards of glass rend me asunder at the same time they stitch my words into something that ascends its origins.

My guidance came through an initiation by fire. Before it, I thought my words to be a sort of pinnacle, as if I had come to the summit and I could never reach a higher altitude. However, the voice I committed to paper resounded, not me, but Charles Dickens, and not in a good way. I layered metaphors with adjectives and sprinkled in nouns where I saw fit. People applauded the language of those pieces, but rarely did they praise the story I told or the way in which I used those words. Once someone told me that my writing was as thick as molasses, sunlight broke through the cloud cover. Language can never be substituted for a good message or a riveting character. Now, I know the tale before I write it. Moreover, the possibilities and endings of each story lies in sight before I choose which one to tell.

While there is much to learn, creativity tempered by experience forges the best of melodies.

Although, for some reason, people will argue that the manifestations created by this sort of genius lack the luster, the gleam, I endeavored to make. Who defines the line between reality and imagination? Who sets the words in stone and proclaims themselves king?

My reality is not yours and yours is a shadow of mine. You satisfy yourself with a half-truth. The viewpoint you cherish paints only a partial landscape.

Your truth, your passion, is half.

You believe that fifty percent, or more, of what occurs in your mind is false because your fingers told you so. Your nose says you never smelled honeysuckle found one the lone tree of a field at the top of the world. Your ears proclaim that stars cannot sing and that the peoples of other worlds have never whispered secrets to you. Your eyes convince you that a dragon has never borne you on its back as it swooped through the heavens.

Your experiences filter through a mind closed off with blocks carved by society, by "common sense."

I laugh at your petty arguments.

But don't take me as arrogant, for I am truly humbled by what I learn from you and from others.

Just don't call me insane.

If reality is what we perceive with our senses and minds, then there has never been a border between the fantastic and the mundane.

I am a writer. I forge reality.

The pen is my tool and the paper is my canvas.

I hold a hammer in one hand and a piece of unformed reality in the other.

Universes of though expose themselves to me. You will never know my worlds unless you read my words. And so, I offer my hand to you. Journey with me to rediscover the world you lost when society told me that pretending was playing instead of living.

I am no fairy tale, yet I shimmer with magic.

I am no sorceress, yet I cast a spell to bring people who were never born to life.

I am no God, yet I create things in the blank spaces He left for me.

This is my story. It's time I told it to the world.

Artist: Annika Probst

Copyright © 2015 by Annika Probst

###   
Rotten

'Til Death Do Us Part

### Flow

### Negative Sequence

### Convex

### Black and White

### Boy and Girl

Author: Jase Namigala

Copyright © 2015 by Jase Namigala

### It Only Takes One

We're all cut from the same cloth, the same flesh and bone, just differing colors of brown.

Yet we all behave paper-thin, falling victim to society's every whim.

At what point does it stop, at what point do we stop being the puppets and rise up?

It just takes one person, one spark, to create a revolution. And it takes just that many people - one - to stop it. So if everyone one of us holds the power to change the world, what's holding us back?

Whatever you've wanted to say, say it. It doesn't matter who's watching or who's listening, disregard the stakes.

Step forward, and be brave. It only takes one.

### The Gray Area

You again, the one who has always been the subject of my envy.

I plaster a forced smile upon my face as I talk to you, playing the part of the excited friend who has not seen you in so long; yet my face grows thick with the falseness of my smile

In everything, you are not my equal. You are my better, and that bothers me to no end. In your story, I would be the dastardly villain, who loathes you underneath my cheerful veneer. But the problem is not with you, it is with me. You are the paragon of perfection, and though I know you have your demons how I wish that knowing of their existence would fix the appearance of mine.

How can I be so wracked with envy that I am drawn to such methods as demeaning you daily in my mind? Thoughts of me being the superior haunt me, plague me. They will be, and already are, my destruction.

I am not pure.

I am a monster, and you will never know. You will never know how much I yearn to be the person that you are; and the worst part of it is that you seem to be my reflection, better than me in regards to everything, every little aspect of myself that I strive to improve.

How many times I have I watched you sing, wished with all my heart that I could be as good as you or as respected as you are - those times are countless; how many times have I pettily wished to have your outer beauty, wished that all the blemishes on my face and the imperfections that I have could just melt away?

The struggle between selfishness and selflessness is a war that is fought at all times, every day, a never-ending conflict that threatens to overwhelm me.

Yet, at the heart of it all, I have one simple question:

Why not me? Why do I not possess the virtues that make you such a treasured person?

Or maybe the question is not so simple at all. Sometimes it disappears into the abyss of my mind, but it comes back to taunt me when I fail, as I constantly fail to achieve the impossible standards that I set for myself.

Perhaps it's just a matter of perception. Maybe in someone else's story, I am the hero. But in this one, I play the part of the villain, with gusto.   
And you know what they say: villains never get happy endings.

### Vortex

Every day for the past three years has felt the same; they are all blurs of breathing, sleeping, talking, eating, helping, existing. All these parts blend together to create my life.

It's her typical lunch break routine: Go to the little cafe off Sixth Street, grab a peppermint mocha - extra whipped cream, screw the weather - and a half of the chef's special sandwich. For some reason, she has always looked forward to the change of sandwiches. The chef there, at the little cafe that she always forgot the name of, changes his pattern in which he doles out sandwiches every week. Of course, it could be the same pattern, with different ingredients, but...she hasn't really noticed anything yet. Is it sad that figuring out this seemingly random switching of sandwich flavors has become her central internal conflict? Perhaps. But honestly, nothing else really entices her at the moment. Maybe in a couple of weeks, or in several months, or in five years. On a whim, she closes her eyes and imagines it, and as she turns the corner she bumps into a person, who clutches at her, mouth opening and shutting without a flow of words coming out. This wordless exchange brings her attention to the top of the skyscraper not too far away from the cafe, and she realizes without speaking, in a matter of nanoseconds, that she knows this girl. She has known this girl for ages, memorized that shoulder-length black hair whipping around her petite figure.

I don't think anyone has ever seen me. I believe that no one has ever tried, and if they had it was out of pity. But I don't want your pity. I want to be known...but is it even possible? Is it even possible to ever truly know someone, commit to mind the myriad of faces they put on every single day? It no longer matters, I remind myself. My closed eyes bear the brunt of my haphazardly spread hair landing on my eyelids. I feel nothing.

She cannot help but obey the impulse spreading through her entire being, She pushes her way through the clamoring crowd, which seems to take forever, though she spits out rapid-fire pardons to the twenty or so people she shoves past. In the back of my mind, she is thanking herself for wearing flats, as opposed to heels, today. All she knows is that she needs to get to that spot. To the roof. To her. It feels as though her existence depends on reaching the top of the roof. Oddly, though, her brain doesn't register what the other girl is about to do as something cowardly. It whispers to her that this, this other girl is brave. Reckless. Powerful. And the girl stops, though just for a second, realizing that maybe she is just rushing up there because it's something new and she doesn't like it.

I hesitate and there is a pregnant pause, the cacophony of sounds filling my ears as I inhale. Don't you know, don't you all know that I am a coward? That I cannot even perform such a simple act. Something you've all gathered here to see; my death, and I am incapable of delivering a worthy show.

The stairs seem never-ending, like the Hydra's head; two more appear just as she finishes one, and by the time she bursts, more like stumbles, onto the roof, breathless, she has slowed to a pitiful walk. But she won't - can't - let that, or the new collection of sounds that have assailed her, a negative change from the sole sound of her pounding feet, distract her. She knows where she's going, and what she's going to do.

I open my eyes.

Did you really think that I was up here to save someone? I am not saving someone.

That figure surrounded by clean, crisp air, that black against the spotless blue sky - that is me.   
I have planned out this moment and the actions that will follow for so long. For two years I have plotted and schemed, and today I have finally broken, finally persuaded my mind to "see" myself at the top of the building. Today I am brave. Today I will defeat my demons.

I shuffle forward, one foot in front of the other. I am almost at the ledge.

Wait, something tells me. It stops me plumb in my tracks, because I believed that my conscience had died a watery death, drowned in tears spent over a boy who would never love me, that whatever soul I had possessed died when I became estranged to all whom I had known.

My life flashes in front of my eyes. Whatever left there is, anyway. Because my life? That's just my work, the profession I had given 150 percent of myself to. The work that was the largest constant in my life, driving me to this moment.

Maybe...? No, my demons are calling me again. I have to silence them...can't let them control me as they have for the longest time...

One more ste - sto - ste -....

The echoes of desire and obligation haunt my mind.   
Suddenly, a memory, buried deep in my mind from so long ago that I barely even remember who had spoken the words, segues into my mind.

"You are my savior."

I curse myself a thousand times. Four simple words, spoken by a faceless shadow, a friend who I had left a thousand times more broken than she had been before she met me. I am not in the business of fixing things. I am a destroyer, and I cannot change. This is my destiny. My broken body on the ground, surrounded by a pool of red crimson...a fitting end for one who has caused as much destruction as I have.

But this memory...this, this plague, has done something to me. I am frozen to the spot. And now, my mind is fixated on the question - can I change someone's life again? Not because I am paid, not because of an obligation, but because I truly, wholly want to?

I had followed this path because it seemed right, to my parents, to my former friends, to my teachers; because I was tired of being selfish, and I was sick of hurting people, but never, never because it was what I wanted.

Is this what I want? Or am I just being selfish again; will my last act only satisfy my thoughts, desires, and needs? What about -

Someone's coming. I can hear their feet pounding dimly, below me, matching the speed and the tone drumbeat of my pulsing heart - rapid, urgent, pleading. And I know, no matter who it is or what they are going to say, I have made my choice. It has been the first thing I have chosen in a long time that feels like it satisfies me.  
So I take a step.

### Soul Science

He was the boy - no, boy was the wrong name for him. He was Lucifer's protégé, a demon wrapped in beauty, an angel covered in lies, one who outdid his master in almost every respect. He had a silver tongue and eyes filled with stars that had no room for her in their depth. She was pure, the angel with a heart as easily popped as a bubble, but burdened with a brain as heavy as rock. It weighed her down, kept her to Earth, where she fell and found him. He was everything she never wanted, but she fell for him anyway.

the inferno

It's too late for her, sobbing out her eyes as she lets her iridescent wings sweep around her, reflecting the light of the fire. It tries to fill up her eyes, attempting to sneak in and light something that has been long missing within her. But his words have brought her to the breaking point - push push push -

She stands. Taller than before, yet as short as ever, she stares into the night, stares into the ending and her eyes gleam like diamonds as she strides away soundlessly into the darkness. Her footsteps sound like a farewell.

He collapses and the spark is lit, but far too late for him to fan it, to let it do anything but disappear into embers.

the spark

He treats her like a gentleman. But in reality, he doesn't care. He cannot find in himself to. He is as cold as the first freeze of the darkest winter and he needs a particular firebrand to wake him up but she is not the passion he craves.

He kisses her anyway, falling into her hackneyed ways like a puzzle piece meant to belong there.

(Some days, he fools himself into believing that he does.)

He is an enigma, and he demands mystique in return.

She is a fool, a lovelorn being struck by Cupid's arrow, and the more she pours her heart into his hands, her soul into his heart, the easier it becomes for him to forget, for him to leave, for him to run (away from something real).

He has convinced himself that he is the scientist, the creator, and she is simply the inferior, the protégé. She can be a work of art, but she will never be the masterpiece, the crowning glory.

(She has never stopped trying to prove him wrong.)

the wood

They dance. Both literally and figuratively, a war of words flying between them faster than the speed of light as they twirl round and round, losing themselves in their shared avoidance of the truth. Ironic, but that was what they were; the embodiments of darkness and light, the daughter of Heaven and the son of Hell. They knew, as soon as they touched, that they were a spinning wreck toward disaster.

After all, what good can come of a black hole meeting a supernova? Of brown eyes that spoke of warmth meeting ones that rivaled the depth, the emptiness of the universe?

She knew he was bad and he knew she was good and they knew nothing was black and white.

They met in the gray area between destiny and duty, between right and wrong.

Of all the planets, they would always have Earth.

### The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Hello there! I see you staring at me. Don't freak out, I won't do anything crazy. I just want to talk. You humans are such a strange species sometimes. Oh, wait - I forgot to mention, I'm a hallway. Out of all the things I've seen or experienced - graffiti is a fantastic sensation. Tingles all over - oops, wait, I'm getting off track. Anyway, the thing that fascinates me most about you humans is that fundamental emotion, Love. I see all kinds of lovers every day, black and white and gay and straight, I've seen it all. You know, they say that being a hospital hallway or an airport terminal allows you to experience more kisses and real love and breakups and tears, but I've always appreciated being born as a high school hallway - enough about me, though. Not that I can feel, at least not in the same capacity that you can, but I've always, in some way, envied a stable human relationship. The power of a thing, sight unseen, that can carry you throughout your life and bond you to another person, whether of your sex or of the opposite. It's always made me confused, how people can't tolerate others of the same sex loving each other...what's the difference, other than appearances? Like I said, everything about people baffles me. But I admire your capacity to feel, to reach out to others, to give and give and give even when there's nothing left.

Those kinds of lovers make me the saddest, though. The ones who could have loved each other maybe in different circumstances, but cannot because of forces unknown. The ones who give up before they know what could happen, or continue to give regardless. One of the memories that always stays in the forefront of my brain, or my equivalent of one, is the interaction between this girl and her crush. They would always pass each other next to me, and she would give him the clearest and most wistful of gazes, but when he asked her if anything was wrong, she would always answer with "I'm fine." It wasn't that she was, but because she already knew, and instinctively had known, that he would never care \- that he didn't have the propensity to care for her. I despise those two words. I can't necessarily emote, but I've seen for years upon years what that simple phrase - usually a lie - can do to people, how it can crush their hopes with a single blow or erode their hearts away like the tide does to a cliff.   
I don't like thinking about them. It makes me question the idea of love as you humans have thought of it. I feel like it's romanticized (high school English hot words are great for vocabulary improvement) to the point that it becomes a necessity for social survival, for acceptance, a life-float to hang onto when things get tough. Love is so trivialized, being used in everyday language to show appreciation for something when "like" or "admire" would be a much more appropriate term.

It just doesn't feel right. Love, for me, is shown through so many different ways that I can't even remember or count them all. But maybe that's why I admire it so. Because like people, it's multifaceted. It can be exhibited by a person picking up his classmate's papers; by a teacher who pushes her students to their limits because she knows their potential; by a boy who brings his boyfriend's favorite coffee drink to school because he sees his partner is sad; by the girl who isn't afraid to text her boyfriend first because she realizes their relationship is equal; by the boyfriend giving his girlfriend his jacket even though he knows he'll be cold. I hope you humans realize how lucky you are to feel love. To linger in the slow realization of it, to treasure it, to hold people's hearts in your hands and take care of them as if they were your own.

I can't say much, but before you go, I'll leave you with this: my happiest memories of love are first kisses, because they speak of promise and new beginnings and never-ending text threads and smiles so wide that they hurt your face and eyes that shine like newly placed fluorescent bulbs.

Well, you'll probably be off to somewhere; people are always so busy, but maybe you'll come back. But even if you don't - bon voyage, fellow hallway-walker. I hope you find the person that who makes every kiss feel like your first.

Author: Sara Decker

Copyright © 2015 by Sara Decker

### Excerpt from She's A Rainbow

April, 1967

John hummed in contentment as he poured more tea into his ceramic mug. Steam wafted up from the spout, fogging up the lenses of his glasses, the warm vapor a nice contrast to the brisk morning air. Rain pattered rhythmically against the window; it was a calming noise. He turned back to Catherine, who was sipping at her own cup of tea, watching absent-mindedly as the rain droplets raced down the window pane.

Without warning, she snorted, triggering her recognizable cackle that filled the room. John glanced up at her, a brow quirked in curiosity at his sister's sudden outburst.

"What's it this time, Cate?" he asked, a hint of amused skepticism slipping past his lips.

Catherine looked at John; her thick taupe hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail revealed her eyes were still gleaming with levity. "It just dawned on me," she mused, her eyes flashing back to the rain. "I chose a _lovely_ time to visit you in the sunny, cloudless city of Los Angeles."

She laughed again at her newfound irony, and John couldn't help but chuckle himself. As if Catherine didn't see enough rain back home in Washington. "What can I say, Cate? It's just your effect on nature." John smirked slightly as he watched his sibling scoff in response to his teasing.

Catherine fought back the urge to stick her tongue out at John as though they were daft children again. Instead, she simply grinned. "Need I remind you, April showers bring May flowers, so you're welcome."

John shook his head, biting back a smile. God, he had missed Cate. It had been ages since he had seen her last—he struggled to think back to the occasion. His parents' twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. That had been two years ago.

Taking another sip of his tea, he turned towards his sister. "So, what's been keeping you busy? Are you still writing for that newspaper of yours?"

Catherine sighed, cocking her head to the left. "Yeah, I am. It's getting a bit...oh, I don't know, repetitive, I suppose. It's the same thing every week." She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and her forefinger. "I just thought I'd be at the center of it all—the music, the riots, the _action_."

A sympathetic smile played at John's lips. Leaning forward in his chair, both of his hands cradled the warm cup. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to that paper, Cate, and we both know it."

She flushed at his compliment, averting her eyes as she sipped idly at her tea.

John sighed. She deserved so much better—she was so talented. It should have only been a stepping stone to get her moving on to bigger and better things, things she was most certainly capable of.

"What about you," Catherine deftly changed the subject, shifting the focus off of herself and onto John, "how's school going?"

He grimaced at Catherine's mention of school. John could have never mentally prepared himself for college, despite his endless attempts to. It was a strenuous daily effort that he had to put in, struggling to keep up on his studies and rushing to and fro between his two jobs. Studying to be a doctor wasn't all that it had originally seemed to be.

"It's alright, you know," John spoke, pausing for a moment. "It's a lot of work, but it's good."

Catherine looked concerned. She couldn't bear to know her brother was working himself to excess. "Are you still working those two jobs?"

"Yeah." John shrugged one shoulder, gaze flickering from Catherine to his tea. The predicament he found himself in wasn't what he would refer to as favorable by any means, but it paid the bills and kept food in the fridge. Or so he had originally thought. "Money's a bit short, but Rob's giving me an extra week for rent."

The look in Catherine's eyes was one of doubt. She stared at John inquisitively, searching his calm demeanor for any tell-tale signs. Tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, she set her teacup down. Catherine knew _that_ look. "You're not going to pick up another job, are you?" He hesitated, and she snapped. "Christ, John! You know, you're going to work yourself to death if you keep this up!"

John knew that she instantly regretted her little outburst—her hands shot up to cover mouth directly after the last word rolled off her tongue. He couldn't help but chuckle inappropriately. "I know, Cate. There's not just many other options though, now is there?"

She pondered this, her eyes closed in thought, shifting her head slightly to the left, and then to the right, and to the left again. Her eyes shot open, and John watched in amusement, ready to hear his sister's million-dollar idea. "You could rent out the apartment!" she declared, eyes roaming the bare surroundings before her. The furniture was sparse in the main room, as with the rest of the house, but it was livable and clean by typical standards. It did the job.

John shook his head, dismissing the possibility and wiping the glee from his sister's face. The ways in which her idea could go wrong were manifold. "You know I'm not a people person." He paused to take a sip of tea before returning to his thought. "What if I ended up rooming with a criminal? Or one of those pot head hippies?"

Rolling her eyes, Catherine playfully tsked her brother. "Consider it a learning experience." Her eyes flickered earnestly. "You need to get out more often, anyway. I don't want you rotting away in here," she added, attempting to lighten the mood.

"I know you mean well, but I—"

"No buts," Catherine interrupted. She wasn't about to let him get off of the hook that easily. "Rain or shine, I'm going out tonight, do you hear?" She smiled deviously, drinking the last of her tea before setting the cup down. "And you're coming with me."

* * *

John's eyes darted around the smoky club. There were quite a few people showing up to see this band play—it was hot and slightly cramped as more and more people started to flood in, their loud chatter only dimmed by the cacophony coming from the speakers. Exhaling slightly, John rested his head on his hand, propped up by his elbow on the bar counter.

Catherine had meandered off somewhere earlier by herself, after he reassured her that he just wanted to get something to drink first, and he now wondered if it was plausible for him to sneak back home. She knew that he wasn't an avid fan of rock and roll. Dismissing that idea with the wave of his hand, he straightened up, taking another sip of the alcohol and feeling it wash down his throat and into the pit of his stomach, where the feeling that he wasn't meant to be there resided.

Was he always such a black sheep? John scanned the dimly-lit club, looking for a trace anything that could draw him in. The crowd was dancing, and the atmosphere was thick with electricity and excitement as the band played, their instruments clashing in one loud, heavy clamor. Reasons unbeknownst to John, it simply wasn't his scene.

His eyes swept the boisterous crowd again, hoping he would be able to pick out Catherine so the two of them could leave. He felt a twinge of guilt for wanting to abandon his sister's plans so early on. It was selfish, he realized, but she would have to come to terms with the fact that this wasn't his idea of fun sooner or later.

He was met with a pair of startling blue eyes. Blinking twice, John focused in on the person holding his gaze from across the room. She was staring at him curiously from behind a mess of springy, champagne blonde waves. He watched her frown slightly, before an ecstatic grin lit up her face. She gestured enthusiastically at him, her hand waving him over to the throng of people. John smiled politely, and held up his drink as a formal decline to join the crowd.

When he looked back, she was nowhere to be seen. _Strange_ , he thought inwardly. John sipped at his drink, fighting the urge to ask the bartender how many more songs remained in the set. He was yanked backwards abruptly, nearly falling off of the barstool to the ground, but managing to stumble to his feet. Coming to his senses, John looked forward to see that a mane of pale curls leading him into the crowd. He was rendered speechless.

John muttered apologies that he knew would go unheard under the roar of the music as he bumped into people, a small hand guiding him through the crowd. Reaching the center, he felt her drop his hand. He glanced quickly to his left and then to his right, utterly perturbed. Where had she gone?

Moving to the outskirts of the crowd, John kept a watchful eye out for the girl, and Catherine as the band continued to play. The singer belted out lyrics unknown to John, his long hair acting as a canopy his eyes, and the guitarist leapt, hitting a chord mid-air, and driving the crowd insane. John felt those two looked familiar, whereas the lanky bassist and the bearded drummer were unrecognizable.

The band's set ended soon thereafter with a climactic strum of the guitarist's axe. The crowd began to cheer wildly, and their applause was thunderous. Weaving his way out through the mob of people, John waited for Catherine by the bar. He felt himself trying to appear nonchalant; he pretended to not know why he was doing so. Perhaps it was just the alcohol speaking. John had always labeled himself as somewhat of a lightweight.

"John?"

Pulled from his inner musings, John directed his attention towards the voice that had just called him: Catherine, who was a couple of feet away. She looked lively, her face flushed from the close confinement of the crowd.

"Hmm?"

"Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah..." he spoke, and with one word, he felt as though he was leaving a world behind, "yeah...let's go."

Writing Contest Winners

The following pieces were submitted by John C. Kimball High School students to the monthly writing contests held by the Literary Journal, and each person won first place in their respective contest. These winning works are organized here by month and by the theme of the contest.

### Worlds of Fantasy (December 2014)

### Dreams

By Allyson Tiongson

Copyright © 2015 by Ally Tiongson

I dream of gods, monsters, and men when I close my eyes. I dream of the sky in shades of multi-color and the ground in flames. I dream of everything and anything, all at _once._

I dream of people with purpose and worlds of fantasy. I dream of a rebel king and a brave princess along with a rouge knight. I dream of dragons, with their wings so wide and powerful they rip through clouds and soar through the never-ending sky. I dream of riders on these mystical beasts, and sometimes, I dream that I am one of them.

But something is different when I wake up from these dreams one day.

I awake with the same sun in the sky and the same birds that sing and the same family downstairs making breakfast.

But this morning, I wake with the crown of the dead, rebel king from my dreams lying right in front of me.

_Oh dear,_ I think. _What have we here?_

### Showcase (January 2015)

### The Moon and the Ocean

By Marissa Boling

Copyright © 2015 by Marissa Boling

My heart used to beat on its own. Slow and constant. I didn't hear it in my ears nor did I feel it when I walked. My hands used to always be dry and steady. I kept them in my pockets or running through my hair. Before you, my knees were stable, I walked without purpose, but also without wobbling or stopping at store windows to find something you'd like. You told me you were the same way before me. You described yourself as the ocean who met the moon, you said,

"I've met the person who makes the tides and brings me waves," I didn't know how to respond so I laughed and kissed you on the cheek.

There's a constant fear in relying so much on another's existence. There was an unspoken agreement on our coexistence. Or maybe it was spoken, I forget to listen to you when I'm distracted by your eyes, eyes that carry every color I love and every mystery I want to solve. I know with us, one cannot live without the other. If we could, we'd never dare. I remember I told you one night,

"You are the sun compared to every star. No one even comes close," You hid your blush. I could tell you didn't know how to respond so you grabbed my hand and kissed it softly.

Now my heart beats too fast, I can always feel yours in sync with mine. Your heart pumping blood for my benefit more than yours. It's keeping you alive so I can see you in the morning. I can hear them beating together as one in a chorus of drums. It's the sound I need to go to sleep. Though after midnight you get grumpy and mumble,

"Go lay over there, I'm trying to sleep."

My hands are sweaty by the time I see you. They have a habit for always looking for yours. Even when you're not in the room. I subconsciously reach to my left waiting for your cold, slender fingers to lace with mine. I'm quite lost without you. I feel more comfortable with your hand in mine. Though I don't complain when I find them tangled in your hair instead of my own. One time you squeezed my hand so tightly. You told me you had a secret and when I leaned in you whispered to me,

"Holding your hand is like holding my entire universe," I don't remember what I said. It was something along the lines of,

"That's silly. The universe is far too vast. It's filled with too many stars, galaxies, planets, and space to be able to be held in your hand," then you kissed me and I understood what you meant.

I sometimes wonder if I use the "L" word and the "F" word too loosely. _Love_ is taboo. _Forever_ is a jinx. But I fling them around like they're just concepts. Which I know they are. But we gave them meaning. Which I feel they are. It was raining, we were under blankets. You used both words in a sentence. The sentence was,

"I am going to _Love_ you _Forever_ ," and I was terrified. The good kind of terrified that lets you know that there is something worth being scared of.

It's hard to walk. Your smirk makes my knees weak. When I walk, I walk with a purpose. Now I walk with a cause. I walk to see you, to pick up your breakfast, or find you a holiday gift. Even though you insist you don't need one because you argue,

"You're all I need. Nothing else. Don't waste your money," like seeing your lovely smile could ever be considered as a waste of money.

You said I was the moon to your ocean. I made your tides and brought you waves. I assured you that I was always there, even during the day when the moon looks like a faint shadow. I said even then, I'd be there _Forever_. To let you listen to our hearts form a rock band, to let you hold the universe, or to bring you a little happiness in a box. I told you that with every tsunami tide or small wave that I would _Love_ you. And we're doing just fine.

### Romance (February 2015)

### It's a Punderful Life

By Jase Namigala

Copyright © by Jase Namigala

Day 1:

"Hi, I'm Nell."

Day 52:

"They say that when you pick off a fallen eyelash, you place it between your finger and another person's, and whoever ends up holding it gets to make a wish."

"Is it true? Have the wishes actually worked for you before?"

"I don't know, but I think...doing it with you would be the best time to find out."

Day 8:

"Can I take you to -"

"Church? Because I really love that song. Wait, sorry, what were you going to say?"

"Never mind."

"No, really! If it was important..."

"It's fine! Don't worry about it."

Day 100:

"Your breath smells like peppermint."

"And yours smells like mocha."

"You know how I love peppermint mochas."

Day 20:

"I can't believe you would just do that!"

"What?"

"Don't play innocent, mister. How can you sabotage me like that? I was winning! On Rainbow Road!"

"I can't help it if I'm a MarioKart master!"

"Ugh."

Day 365:

"You know, it doesn't have to be like this."

"Like what? Like you keep calling me even though I told you I just wanted to be alone?"

"Because I just want to be your friend! You think it makes me happy when I hear from our friends that you just stay home and cry all day?"

"I'm done with this. You said it was over, but clearly you can't let go."

"Fine."

Day 366:

"I'm sorry, if you're hearing this. I just wanted to say goodbye, for the last time. I'm moving to New York, but you can...come visit if you ever want. Um, I guess I'll just be seeing you around. Maybe this is funny to say, but have a wonderful life."

Day 200:

"Not every person that looks at me wants to hook up! So please stop getting unnecessarily jealous. It's just going to ruin you, you know?"

"You're wrong."

"About what?"

"I'm looking at you, and I want nothing more to hold you in my arms and smell your hair and tangle my hands in you, your essence, forever."

"That's not exactly hooking up, you know."

"Agh, come on! Am I not out of the danger zone yet?"

"Fine...but only because forever is a long time."

Day 69:

"I brought you your favorite sandwich, thus not fulfilling the stereotype that girls make sandwiches for boys; they own sandwich shops - wait, never mind, that doesn't make sense."

"Hey, did you know today is the sixty-ninth da-"

"Shut up."

Day 367:

"..."

"I love you and I want you to know that the spark you lit inside my heart will never go away. You know that I love learning, and I want nothing more than for you to learn more about me, and me to learn more about you. I want us to eat spaghetti on the beach and sing songs comprised of the goofiest puns that always make me smile like a moron, feet dangling off the side of a bridge. I want to kiss you at twilight because I like the way space and the stars in it match the shine and the depths of your eyes. I want to have a forever with you again."

"No."

"Okay, then..."

"Um, what I meant to say was - not a forever."

"..."

"A nellion forevers."

Day 1, part 2:

"Can I help you, sir? What kind of sandwich would you like today?"

"Don't call me sir, call me James, please...and I think I'll have the Italianell."

"That was a terrible pun, James. You should be ajamesed."

"You don't have to Nell down in my presence, you know."

"I think I just came up with a new ship: Jamesmile."

"...Does that mean you like my smile? Because we could actually make that a name of a bona fide ship, you know. What if we sail to Maine and listen to the lighthouse nells?"

"It's a date!"

"Puntastic, James."

"Punderful, Nell."

Runaways (March 2015)

### Fast As You Can

By Sydney Roach

Copyright © 2015 by Sydney Roach

My heart is pounding as my arms are scratched to ribbons by passing tree branches. Distantly, I can hear the familiar braying of the dogs. The family dogs. My dogs. I can't focus on them for too long, making it through the swamp is my only purpose in life right now. But nothing wants me to leave, even the mud on the ground sinks around my shoes, as if everything here wants me to die only to be swallowed up by the mud and then the bayou. To float forever under the thick tree canopy among the frogs.

Giving up is not an option, even stopping is an inconceivable thought. My lungs burn and I have no clue how long I've been running. Even reaching back to grab one of my few water bottles would waste precious seconds. Seconds I don't have.

My quest seems futile. There's no escaping my family. The treacherous swamp surrounding our land is just as good of a barrier as the barbed wire fence around our compound. The sheer impossibility and idiocy of my escape is not lost on me. I'd have to be half crazy to just think about possibility of making it out the forest. And maybe I am, but I have to try. If I'm caught, there's a fate worse than death waiting for me.

Minutes pass, possibly seconds. It's impossible to tell how much time has passed since I left. Time slows and rapidly speeds up as if trying to catch up with itself. Time becomes fickle, the only reliable way is to count the trees that pass me with their razor sharp branches and bows that could hide a matter of creatures.

I hide behind one of the biggest trees in the swamp, right on the edge. Sinking down, I pull out my phone and send a text to my friend who should be here with the getaway car any second. Allowing myself the smallest bit of hope, I relax. My aching legs scream as the adrenaline leaves my body but I just keep telling myself one more minute. One more minute until I'm free.

Silence. Nothing reaches my ears as the entire swamp holds a collective breath. Not even the dogs can be heard and I begin to relish in freedom.

The dogs howl again breaking the silence. Ten feet away, nine, eight, seven, six. My panic rises with the volume of their wet pants. I cannot make noise.

Revealing myself would be the worst mistake of my life.

They stop again. I peek out and only the tip of my nose sticks out from the tree. Turning, my eyes meet grey ones, the owner's face stretching into a yellowed, gap-toothed smile. My entire body seizes up as he speaks.

"Caught you, darlin'."

