

Text copyright © 2014 Samantha Redstreake Geary

June 2014 Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved

The stories in this collection are works of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are invented by the authors or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

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 audiomachine's Heroes of PHENOMENA

Edited by

Samantha Redstreake Geary

Cover designed by

Jennifer Redstreake Geary

PHENOMENA Available NOW

**Welcome to** audiomachine **'s Heroes of PHENOMENA album anthology.**

**Surrender your senses and enter a world where epic music, captivating tales and visionary art inspire the** HERO **in all of us.**

Logo designed by Caleb Lotz

 Heroes of PHENOMENA **is a global, cross-industry collaborative campaign encouraging the next generation of authors, artists & musicians!**

**A dedicated** **youth** **section showcases talented aspiring artists and authors from** Elevate's Life & Art Studios **, alongside inspiring industry professionals and the winning entries of** **PHENOMENA's**  Epic Heroes Event!

Epic motion picture advertising music production house, audiomachine, will make a donation to the Los Angeles Youth Orchestra with every download of the PHENOMENA album companion collection.
Table of Contents

OF MYTH AND MIRACLE by Amy Michele

A FLIGHT OF FANCY by M. Pax

SEEDS OF PROMISE by Susan Kaye Quinn

THROUGH THE PORTAL by Crystal Collier

CASSAFATE by Alex J. Cavanaugh

NAILED TO WHITE TIME by Jessica Bell

THE FOREIGNER by C. Lee McKenzie

LEGENDARY by Ruth Long

SENTRY by Darynda Jones

TERRA MAGUS by Samantha Redstreake Geary

MONSTROUS by Daniel Pennystone

MONSTROUS Fear Art by Daniel Pennystone

MONSTROUS Anger Art by Daniel Pennystone

SAVING ANNABELLE by ms. annegirl

THE RED RAPHA by Brennah Whiteside

SEA OF RUINS by Carter Lundgren

SEA OF RUINS Art by Carter Lundgren

THE SECRET OF GENAVUM by Braelyn Whiteside

THE SECRET OF GENAVUM Art by Coleman Criss

THE RED WORLD by Emma Schneider

WELL COME by Caleb Lotz

DOVE by Sarah Aisling

HERO Art by Ryo Ishido

TIMEKEEPER by Alayna Fairman

PHENOMENA Art by Lukas Jurco

OBLIVION by Nitish Raina

FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE Art by Camille Cabezas

THE CALLING OF A HERO by Melissa Muhlenkamp

PHENOMENA Art by Elizabeth Ann Watts
OF MYTH AND MIRACLE

# By Amy Michele

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Red Sorrow

"IN HERE," Eli said, ushering each of the battle worn, four Elementals ahead of him into the safety of the damp Basilica basement.

It hadn't worked. They had come together as Earth, Fire, Air, and Water—the living incarnation of the mythical Ring of King Solomon—believing that their combined abilities would be able to defeat the Demon army that was still rising from the open pit of Hell itself to snatch Earth from the Heavens and claim all humanity for its own.

Eli wrapped this defeat around him like an unnecessary wool coat. He was the one who had drawn the Four from their hiding places and convinced them that this was a war that could be won. Won by them. He'd been so sure. He'd done all the research—so pleased with himself that he had unraveled the mystery. No one had taken him seriously when he first began to talk about his findings. He was just an eighteen year old, seminary student, what could he really know.

Well, he knew. He'd discovered that the Ring of Solomon was not a ring at all. Nor were the jewels that represented the elements merely precious stones. The Ring was a circle of people with amazing abilities, and together they should have been able to defeat the Demon army that had wormed its way into the city and was now showing its ugly talons. But, as usual, things hadn't gone as planned. Eli hadn't meant to befriend three of them and then fall in love with the fourth. He hadn't meant to get anyone hurt.

Eli watched the Four find purchase in the dark, church basement. Pushed into despair and hiding by the army of demons they had fought through the night, the Elementals huddled together in the center of the room. Eli could see that Christopher, the Element Fire, was badly injured. Eli made a move toward him and Christopher put out his hand—signaling Eli to keep his injury secret for now. Eli nodded and backed away, letting the Four whisper to each other words of consolation and despair. He should have done better by them. He'd dragged them out of their own personal safeties and had led them into what was amounting to be certain demise.

He had discovered Lily, the Element Air, first. And he'd fallen in love immediately. She had no idea what she was; only that she wasn't quiet human, even though she appeared to be. Eli had believed correctly that she was part Milcham—a sort of Phoenix—and that her time was running out. He believed that her ticking clock coincided with the timing of the Demon insurgence. If he was right, the loss of this war with the Demons would lose him Lily too—forever.

Christopher had come to Eli next, on the wings of jealousy. Lily's ex-boyfriend and a reprieved soul from Hell, Christopher belonging to the Ring was a necessary evil in Eli's eyes. Their relationship was tense at best. Seeing Christopher hurt, however, was not a point of pleasure for Eli in any way. Christopher had made the choice to fight with the others and Eli respected that. Perhaps that choice had more to do with Lily than caring about defeating Hell, but Christopher had the chance to take his leave from it all and had chosen to stay.

Earth Element, Ray, and the only pure human of the bunch other than Eli, had been the hardest to coax out of his seclusion. His decision to join the fight affected someone else and it had been a hard decision to make. He tried in all matters to keep to himself. A recluse and more than a bit brash, Ray had a secret. He was hiding Talia, the Element Water, a shy water nymph with no desire to be seen by the world. Theirs had been a self-exiled Garden of Eden and Eli had forced them out.

"Are we going to be safe here?" Talia asked Eli, pulling apart from the pack just enough to point her question at him.

The Basilica was made of brick and stone and under normal circumstances a person would be hard pressed to find somewhere sturdier. Eli hated that Talia had to ask the question at all. These four beings, with all their power, should be safe anywhere. But they weren't. Eli wasn't one to lie.

"Not for long," he answered.

He expected Talia to fold herself against Ray as she was known to do in times of stress, but she just nodded her head and stepped back into the circle. An explosion underneath the ground shook the floor. Eli knew the Demons were trying to open another Hell hole. Surely they wouldn't be able to get inside the church that easily.

Eli didn't notice at first, but the tremor had caused the injured Christopher to go down on one knee. What drew Eli's attention was Lily's gasp.

"You're hurt," she said and dropped down beside Christopher. "Eli, he's bleeding."

"I'm ok," Christopher said, but his voice shook and they all knew that wasn't the truth.

"Aren't you immortal?" Ray said, a little less than compassionate.

Christopher shook his head. Ray had agreed to fight with the others, but he hadn't agreed to care about them. His concern was for Talia and that was about it.

"When I die again, they get me back," Christopher said, revealing his true fear. "I go back to Hell."

"No!" Lily shouted, down on her knees beside him. "That can't happen. Eli, you can't let that happen."

They all looked at Eli like there was something he could do to stop this. He'd started it after all. The look in Lily's eyes made him sick to his stomach. He shook his head at her, not knowing what to say.

"We won't let them have you," Talia said and tugged on Ray's sleeve to bring him into the promise.

The Four sat down on the basement floor in a circle. Lily helped Christopher lean up against her for support. She took hold of his hand and as sometimes happened when one Element came into intimate contact with another, both their abilities began to manifest in the room. What had been a light draft drew into a swirling wind, knocking over a chair in the corner of the room and blowing a stack of loose documents around in the air above their heads. Christopher squeezed Lily's hand and the airborne papers caught fire. Talia grabbed Christopher's other hand and the dampness on the basement floor began to pool into puddles. She raised her free hand up swiftly and the water from the floor sprang up like upside down rain. Ray grabbed her hand, always fearful when she showed her power. Lily grabbed Ray's other hand at the same time and the floor began to buckle as the ground shifted under the foundation.

With the circle complete, they had limited individual hold of their abilities and their combined power seemed to take control of itself, feeding off their emotions and the chaos of the situation. They had tried this before expecting that their joined abilities would create the perfect weapon, but instead, they were unable to control it. They were a car with no driver.

Eli knew they did this only out of fear and desperation, and that, while it gave them a sense of togetherness, it actually made them weaker. He reached out toward Lily, wanting to do something to help, but unable to imagine what that might be.

"Lily," Eli said, scooting toward her, reaching out his hand toward hers, where she clung to Christopher. "Is there anything I can do?"

With that, Eli put his hand on hers and a jolt of energy shot through the circle—from hand to arm to body to hand, all the way around. The ceiling shook and a hole blasted through it. Looking up, they could see the stained glass windows of the sanctuary above, from where they sat. Morning was dawning and colored light filtered down around them.

Sorrow suddenly gave way to hope.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Amy Michele grew up on the coast of North Carolina, hanging out on the beach and looking for mermaids. When she didn't find any, she got out her pen. This story is an excerpt from the Ring of Solomon (Myth and Miracle series).

Visit her online at Amy Michele for more about Eli, the Elementals, and the Evil they hope to overthrow. Get to know her alter-ego (everyone should have one) as well, at Amy Willoughby Burle, Facebook, Twitter

#  A FLIGHT OF FANCY

# By M. Pax

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Whispers of Wonders

"IMMERSE YOURSELF in the tea, Fancy." The Seed King poured her a graceful cup. "It's time for you to become mighty."

Steam curled from the dainty mouths of teapot spouts crowning his strawberry curls, giving him more crowns than any other king, one of silky curls, one of very fine porcelain, and a third of steam.

Upon his throne inside the boulder that housed a charming parlor outfitted with prisms, dragon scales, and birds, he held court. To be summoned by the Seed King was a great honor.

Fancy had expected to feel mighty the moment she swooped into court. She didn't. She had less form than the puffs of steam clouding then dissipating over his head. Perhaps the tea would make her stronger. She dipped herself into the essence of jasmine, star anise, and lemon verbena.

The king bowed low, and she was born as if smoke forming over the bowl of a pipe. She grew misty arms, a torso, and a face. Her legs sprouted but ended before feet materialized. For the first time in her life she sat in a chair at a table. She laughed. "I feel the vigor you've bestowed, my king."

"You've ripened into a marvel, so wondrous. I can see it in your soul, my dear. Lovely. You will do fantastic things. Are you ready?"

Many of Fancy's sisters had been invited to tea over the years then sent off to better the world, leaving her colder and yearning for her time. "It's a privilege to be cast at your whim."

"Be fruitful." The king pursed his lips, conjuring a soft breeze from his lungs ripe with clove and cinnamon, ballooning, a gossamer wind of hope.

Fancy floated out of her seat, drifting into an amethyst sky, cupped by a leaf that whisked her over land and sea. Pinks and golds cradled her, inspired her esprit. On the verge of bursting, she was introduced to a seed. It resembled an acorn with an exotic tribal pattern. Glorious. Fancy encouraged it to find land, whispered that it would grow tall and mighty. If she became a great tree, she'd be powerful, a hero of the forest, something fancies often whispered about in the grove.

She and the seed whirled in eddies, courted storms, skirted past a deluge, flying around and up, around and whoosh, searching, seeking fertile ground to sprout and grow roots. Without her, the seed wouldn't believe it could fly and would have dropped into the ocean long ago. She began to understand her power.

The sun grew intense, warmer, guiding Fancy and her seed to an island, to a patch of rich loam beside a gentle waterfall. A yellow bird swooped, beak opened wide.

"Veer left," she told the seed.

Their connection had grown so strong on their journey, the seed heard her perfectly, banking sharply to the left. It landed with a soft bounce, rolling under decaying fronds out of the bird's sight.

"We will grow as one, grand and majestic, felling tears in homage to your beauty." Fancy sang it as a hymn, keeping her seed company, never leaving it alone.

Seasons came and went. The seed flourished into a sprout then a sapling then a tree. Its branches swayed with every breath of wind, every touch of sun, every blessing of rain. It matured into a eucalyptus tinted with the colors of the rainbow. The tree and Fancy courted the birds and lizards, whispering of love. The birds and lizards multiplied.

Fancy could do more, wanting adoration for her sublime patch of the world, blasting a silent song with every gust of wind that came by. One year it bore fruit, a set of sails on the horizon. The sails belonged to a sizeable ship, its decks brimming with men.

"They will love you," she told the tree.

They loved the beautiful eucalyptus too much, staring up at the colorful branches, the puffy white flowers, and sweet green leaves. "You will be ours," they bellowed, striking the hefty trunk with axes, chipping away until Fancy stood tall no more.

She wept, her leaves spilling in a mournful trail behind her. This wasn't what she had meant to inspire. More tools hacked at her beauty, diminishing her, sentencing her to unsightly chunks and debris. She crawled into the largest log. "I'll not leave you," she told the tree.

It moaned. How could it not? It knew as well as she a fancy wasn't as mighty as an axe. She had no muscles to fight with, no brawn. Her groans matched the tree's.

Hauled onto the ship, she felt no hope in the cramped hold. There was no air, no light, no love. Yet she couldn't let the tree's spirit die out. "This is not our end," she whispered. "You're too splendid." She repeated it over and over, sending the idea reeling with every sway of the sea.

The next day, a hardened man forged by salt and gales climbed down into the hold, a bright lantern clutched in his hand. He rubbed his chin, staring at logs and barrels.

"You want me," Fancy said.

Her thought became his, for he carried her off up into the light. On the waves in a wooden vessel they rode, she on his lap, he carving her, shaving her smaller, throwing bits of her into a hearth. It kept them warm and lit the dark corners.

When he finished, she sat as a finely carved violin, gleaming upon the table. Her curves were as elegant as any lady's, her scrolls whispered of symphonies and glory. He took her ashore to a place of grand buildings, domes sparkling under the sun. He labored under the humid burden of the noon hours to sell her. She mourned until she saw a young girl with mahogany hair and honey eyes.

"You will love me," Fancy whispered.

The girl pressed her ear to the polished wood. "I'm Adelina. I will cherish you all my life." She caressed the lines and swirls carved by the seaman, forging a bond as strong as the one Fancy had with the tree.

Fancy knew she belonged with this girl. "I'm yours."

Adelina begged her father until he bought the rainbow violin, yet her pleading didn't end. "I must play it," she insisted all the way home. "It is not enough to have it."

The next day a maestro came to teach her. He and Adelina touched a golden bow to Fancy's strings. Magic. Fancy sang like she never had, spinning all she could into Adelina's heart, catching the girl's deepest passions. Adelina rarely set the violin down. She grew into an alluring young woman standing before a crowd of thousands, Fancy cradled in her hands.

Bow caressed strings. Fancy began with a wistful melody. Low. Aching. Spilling into a yearning ballad then a concerto then an opus, growing to heights never touched by the tallest mountains, to shades of blue never blessed by the sun, to beauty that had yet to be born.

Fancy had never known such joy. The divinity of impassioned creation lifted her from the wood, casting her adrift on the wind. Adelina now stood stooped and frail. Her hair had grown course and white. Fancy kissed her friend then found herself back in the grove with the boulder castle.

The Seed King summoned her. "Did you enjoy your first life, my lovely?"

"I did. I learned I don't need muscles to be mighty."

"Life is nothing without fancies." The king bowed, sending her off into the world again. Fancy couldn't wait to see how she'd be reborn.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

M. Pax is author of the sci-fi series,  The Backworlds, the new adult science fiction fantasy,  The Renaissance of Hetty Locklear, and the upcoming series,  The Rifters.

A Browncoat and SG fan, she's also slightly obsessed with Jane Austen. In the summers she docents as a star guide at Pine Mountain Observatory where the other astronomers now believe she has the most extensive collection of moon photos in existence. No fear, there will be more next summer. She lives in stunning Central Oregon with the Husband Unit and two lovely, spoiled cats. Website, Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads

#  SEEDS OF PROMISE

# By Susan Kaye Quinn

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Seeds of Promise

SEVENTY-ONE. Seventy-two. Seventy-three.

The muscle burn in my arms makes itself known, a welcome companion inside these walls of white. My cot is neatly made, and I've already run the perimeter walls—all forty feet of the ten-by-ten room. By the end of a hundred laps, I was literally climbing the walls with each turn, holding my hospital gown out of the way and getting traction with my bare feet.

Anything to keep from climbing them figuratively.

I'm certain that's part of Agent Kestrel's plan in grabbing me off the streets of Jackertown and keeping me and the others locked away, isolated in our tiny cells. That, and to probe the limits of our mindjacking skills for his purposes, whatever they are. Kestrel may, in theory, be one of us, but he's no friend of jackers. I don't know his ultimate aim, but I don't have to—you can fight the enemy without being privy to all his detailed plans. I just need to keep Kestrel off guard, avoid divulging any information, and stay alive long enough for my brother, Julian, to come for me. It's been almost two weeks, but I know nothing will stop him from finding me and liberating all of us. And when Julian gets here, Kestrel will sorely wish he hadn't.

Eighty-one. Eighty-two. Eighty-three. Sweat rolls off the tip of my nose and joins the small but growing pool on the white-tiled floor.

The first time Kestrel paid a visit to my cell, he and his goon brought another jacker prisoner with them. Just a normal one, no extreme abilities that I could detect with a small brush of his mind barrier. It was enough to know he didn't have an impenetrable mind, like me, and thus was vulnerable to Kestrel's predations. I doubt Kestrel knew about my ability before he kidnapped me, but he certainly knows now. Losing that tactical advantage is worse than being stuck like a lab rat in Kestrel's cells. And every day in here is a day lost in building the revolution with my brother. At least Kestrel gave no sign that he knew about my brother's ability to manipulate people's instincts. That's one secret which will stay locked in my head until Kestrel gets to experience it for himself.

When that regular jacker was brought to my cell, I declined to participate in Kestrel's sadistic little experiment... and the jacker paid the price for it. Just mental pain. No physical damage that I could discern. I thought it would deter Kestrel if I refused to play his games, but he just came around again—with the same jacker.

You can take the measure of a man by what he does—the look in his eyes—when faced with torment by someone evil. I still don't know that jacker's name, but I know full well the man on the inside. He gave me a nod that told me he understood: I wasn't just defying Kestrel, I was foiling his experiment by keeping the extent of my abilities a mystery. And it wasn't just for me, but for all jackers. We were in a fight for the right to exist. My brother would forge a future where we could be free, but he needed time. And numbers. And every tactical advantage we could give him. I gave that jacker prisoner a nod back, acknowledging his willingness to sacrifice for the cause. Bravery like that deserves the kind of respect that allows it to happen.

But that didn't make it any easier to watch.

Ninety-six. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. I splay my hands wider on the floor, gaining more grip as they become slick with the sweat gathering on my palms.

At the end of Kestrel's last torture session, he injected me with something. A drug he no doubt is testing on more than just me. I was unconscious when they brought me in, but the walls are jacker-proof, not sound-proof. I hear the screams. How many others is hard to say, but I'm not the first to disappear from the streets of Jackertown. I haven't felt the effects of the drug yet, either physically or mentally, but I'm sure it will come. Which means I'm in a race between that and freedom—

The door clicks.

I drop a knee down, trapping my hospital gown on the floor, then roll quickly to my side and face away from the door. I curl into a ball and hope Kestrel thinks his meds have begun to work. Or that maybe the walls are closing in.

Always let your enemy underestimate you.

The hard heels of Kestrel's shoes sound behind me, followed by the softer scrape of boots... and then lighter footfalls. They've brought someone to torment again.

"Get up, Ms. Navarro," Kestrel says in his cool voice. Calculated and barren. Much like his soul, no doubt. He doesn't believe my possum act. Probably saw me on camera before he came in.

I roll over to face him, keeping my hands tucked against my chest. They quiver a bit—built up lactic acid making my muscles twitch. Not sure if it fools him, but it's a nice effect. I slowly raise my gaze from the floor, deliberately putting some lost-puppy look into it, but before I reach Kestrel's ice-blue eyes, I see who he's brought for today's plaything.

A child.

She's thin, less than a hundred pounds, and barely thirteen. I don't mentally reach out to test her mind barrier, but I'm certain it's the soft one of a changeling. If a grown jacker can't resist Kestrel's goon, this child will be mentally crushed. I silently thank Kestrel for reminding me of the monster he is.

"Get up," Kestrel repeats.

I slowly climb to my feet, still pretending that I'm weakened. As I do so, I surreptitiously flex the muscles in my arms, hands, legs, and feet, readying them. The guard—a different one than before—smirks at my shaking hands. I scan his overly beefy body with wide eyes, as though I fear his bulky muscles and lack of noticeable ethics.

"You know the drill, Ms. Navarro," Kestrel says. "Mr. Tyler will induce a rather unpleasant level of pain in the girl until you evict him from her mind."

The changeling's eyes are wide, but I can't reassure her. Not yet.

"I don't know if I can." I keep my voice soft, eyes on Kestrel, afraid I will give myself away if I look at the girl. "I don't feel so well."

Kestrel arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. "That would be unfortunate for our young changeling."

I look Kestrel over. I don't see a weapon, but he could have one tucked away. A quick mental reach behind and around me—carefully avoiding the three minds in front—shows the disruptor field is still active in the walls, keeping me mentally locked in the room. The only way to open the door is a signal from Kestrel. I could hold him hostage, negotiate my way out, but the most likely outcome is a tranq dart for me. Or worse. And that won't help the others.

Patience, Anna.

I take a deep breath and vow to keep waiting for Julian. Still... the unnecessary suffering of children is Kestrel's game, not mine. He tips his head toward the guard and issues a mental command. The goon starts in on the girl. She drops to her knees, clutching her stomach.

No time to waste.

I mentally shove past her soft mind barrier, plunging in to find the guard's mental presence: a hard marble suspended in the gel of her mind. I fling the goon out, shove him all the way back to his own skull, then plunge deeper into his mind, searching out the parts that control breathing and heart rate. He's too strong for me to get a kill jack on him, but that's all right—I wasn't planning on taking him mentally.

However, fighting for your life is an excellent distraction.

I lunge for the guard and catch him in a blow to the throat that's slightly wide of target, so it won't kill him, then I land two more in quick succession, both to his gut. He huffs over, clutching his stomach under the assault. A final side strike to his face whips his head back, and he goes down.

Kestrel reaches me mentally. I yank back into my own head, so he can't judge my strength. He chases after me, and the pressure is intense as he bears down on my mind barrier. I whirl on him, bat away the dart gun he's pulled from somewhere, grab hold of his head, shove my knee into his gut, then step back and watch as he sinks to his knees.

I debate a roundhouse kick to the face for his trouble.

I think about this for a full second.

Then I step back. The time isn't right. I'm sure Kestrel will find a way to punish me for this—I can take it, but I don't want him hurting the girl. She's cowering against the door. I don't link into her mind to see what she's thinking. She's already had more violation than she should have to put up. When Julian comes, we'll put an end to her torment. And the others as well. I only hope my blow to the guard's head will blur any memories he has of my mental strength. And possibly deter both him and Kestrel from trying again.

I sigh. "I think we're done for today, Kestrel."

I take another step back, as far as I can go in my tiny cell, then I drop to the floor and resume my workout.

One hundred. One hundred-one. One hundred-two.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Seeds of Promise is a story from the  Mindjack universe, which is comprised of a trilogy of young adult science fiction novels (Open Minds, Closed Hearts, Free Souls) as well as assorted novellas told from secondary character points of view. Anna's story in Seeds takes place off-screen during the second novel, Closed Hearts, and Susan wrote it while listening to the song, Seeds of Promise, on repeat on her iPhone.

Susan Kaye Quinn is a rocket scientist turned speculative fiction author. She writes across all ages, from her middle grade fantasy, Faery Swap, to her adult future-noir, Debt Collector. She also writes steampunk just because it's fun. Her latest release is a short time-travel novella in the Synchronic anthology, which has all kinds of stories that are much better than hers.

You can find about her works on her website or by subscribing to her newsletter (hint: new subscribers get a free short story!). You can friend her on Facebook, but only if you promise not to message her with new story ideas to write, as she already has too many series going at once. Unless it's something about post-singularity robot love stories. Twitter,  Goodreads

#  THROUGH THE PORTAL

# By Crystal Collier

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Journey Through the Portal

I'M LOST in the curl of smoke whisking off my pistol and into the chilly night. My stole slips from my shoulders, fluttering to the snow beneath my feet as I gape at the man, more like monster, who lies in a crimson pool. Sulfur and blood set my heart pounding.

Oh, it's lovely, the swirl of color melting into the snow, the life seeping out of him, the flutter of his fingers as he struggles for breath.

My cheeks twitch upward, muscles I haven't used in so long it's a wonder they work at all.

His chest seizes and ceases to rise.

Fabulous.

I lift the single-chambered weapon with a white-gloved hand, twisting it over to examine the intricate metal hammer, still-smoking barrel, and the word _Flintlock_ inscribed across the top. "Well met, Flintlock. I do believe we shall become fast friends." I scowl at the gunpowder sprinkled across the pristine fabric of my glove. "Oh, you dirty little tool!"

I toss the weapon aside. It's as filthy as the dead man I snatched it off but a few moments ago—all dressed up on the outside, rotting and black at its core.

The gun was too easy anyway. When I kill next, I want it to be more of a challenge.

Retrieving my wrap from the ground, I turn from the dead man and lift my skirts. Some might say it is inhumane to leave a corpse in a dress suit for the crows to pick clean. The idea delights me. I hope the wolves tear his bones apart and spread him to the far regions of the continent. It's better than he deserves.

I reach the rise of the hill, the dead nobleman's home lit by a few remaining candles at this late hour, a warmth he will never know again, a deceptive warmth he never deserved. But life is not about what people deserve.

I scratch at the brand hidden on the underside of my wrist, just beneath the glove. Life is about what we will tolerate, and what we will not.

A wind whorls about me, stinging my nose with a hint of morning dew and musk.

"You will be happy." I wrap my stole more securely around me. "It was a humane kill."

Miles shifts from the shadows. His too-thin coat is buttoned over a scruffy shirt and waistcoat, neck-cloth cinched tightly. Even so, he shivers, his breath puffing in a cloud of white. I have never liked how he towers over me, but in this permanently thirteen-year-old body nearly all people do. At least he comprehends I am no child—though I cannot say I'm particularly comfortable spending time with a young man who can jump into my mind and see through my eyes at any given moment.

He nods in acknowledgement of my statement, limp brown hair falling in his eyes as he slides a little book from his coat.

"I should have liked it to be far more painful," I complain, peeling off my sullied glove. "I hope you are appeased because there _will_ be more suffering next time."

He flicks a charcoal checkmark across a page and settles the book back into its hiding place. His sunken gray eyes bore directly into me, the straight line of his mouth unyielding, even to reveal a hint of his crooked teeth.

I roll my eyes. "Oh come. I will let you kill the one after that if it will make you happy."

His brows lower, jaw muscles ticking.

Hm. No humor. Did he sleep on a hedgehog last night? "If I had known you would be such a strait lace, I would have left you to your master's care and executed my revenge alone."

He shifts to his left leg, the one that's slightly longer than the other. "And how would you have hidden the evidence, Bellezza?"

Oh, his voice. I could live alone for its luscious sound, the lullaby of a cello in the stillness of a starry night.

I shake myself out of its influence.

Admittedly, his knowledge of the law has assisted in keeping my rampage from notice, but I'm not inclined to give him an inch. "Come, Miles." I extend a hand to him. "We have a prisoner to free."

He heaves a heavy breath and slides his warm fingers into mine. Heat bursts in my cheeks and breathlessness seizes my chest, but I force these annoyances into the recesses of my lacquered shoes. No man will ever have influence over me again.

I focus on breaking my body into mist, millions of particles that condense as a cloud, and wrap myself around Miles's shivering body. The tremor of his skin brings me great pleasure, though I can't tell if it's because he fears or adores me. I'd prefer the first.

Though I may not be adverse to the second.

Forcing the thought away, I clear my mind and envision the hallway of the dead lord's estate—the spot where I cornered him before transporting him to the woods for disposal. I can smell the polished cedar floor and subtle rot of old tapestries. The brush of wood paneling filters across my awareness, along with the stillness of air and a tinge of smoke from the extinguished evening fires. I pull us through space to that hallway and gather myself back together, solid once more.

It is darker than I'd anticipated.

Miles stares at our still clasped hands, a slight pucker in his brow. I'm surprised he hasn't withdrawn already and debate breaking the connection first. I wish I could get inside his head and hear what he's thinking.

He drags his fingers away, the tips curling briefly around mine, and then I'm free. My other hand is clenched in a fist. My heart drums like the fall of rain on a tin roof, betraying my need for autonomy.

Treacherous thing. I'm tempted to rip it out of my own chest.

Miles scowls and shakes his head, pulling a hand through his hair. "Third room on the right," he whispers.

A coolness settles over me. The killing calm. "What can she see?"

"Not much. A couple walls. There's a portal window near the vaulted ceiling."

"And?"

"Fear." He bites off whatever else he might have said, his Adam's apple bobbing. He turns a fierce glare on me. "Do not frighten her further."

I huff. "Miles, dear, I can be the most amiable of companions, if I so choose."

His jaw clenches. The threat in his grimace is adorable, but what could he really do to me? With a thought I could be on the other side of the world, and he'd be left standing in this hall.

I pat his cheek and turn to the third door. The scent of iron burns my nose before I arrive. I glare at the dull metal handle and slats that cross-hatch the wood exterior in what would appear a decorative fashion to any mortal. Only the Passionate would recognize it for what it is: proofing against our susceptible fingers.

I rub the circular brand on my inner wrist, recalling only too clearly the scalding of metal and its numbing influence on the brain.

I hate noblemen.

Normally I would kick the barrier in, but in recent weeks we have encountered one trap after another set by the "collectors," men of leisure who kidnap and violate unprotected Passionate children. They've been communicating since their brethren started dying—at my hand of course.

Miles lifts the handkerchief-wrapped key into the door's lock and nudges it open. We both step back and wait.

Nothing.

It's our unspoken agreement that I go first, always—although it took much convincing the first time—chivalrous fool.

I slip over the threshold, and stop. The reek of excrement slaps me hard. The small room is empty except for a porcelain chamber pot and the girl who sits against the wall, her knees pulled up against her chest, forehead resting against her grayed skirts. I wonder what her gift is, and if I might need to approach with caution, or maybe she hasn't discovered her talents yet.

"Pst!"

She lifts her head. Her glistening eyes grow to the size of teacups.

I accept that as an invitation and step forward. "Your master is dead. The bond is broken. You are free."

Her hand flies up in warning, too late. My shoe smacks against a leaver embedded in the floor and sends gears clicking somewhere in the wall.

Tick-tick-tick . . .

That's not good.

Whoosh.

She covers her head with her arms and curls inward. I burst into mist and rush forward, wrapping myself around her. Glittering speckles rocket through the air toward us.

I gasp.

Gold. The most deadly of all metals. The silent killer.

Powdered death grazes the edge of my cloud and I draw inward, solidifying around her. I cough and glitter spews from my mouth. It speckles my hair and arms, sizzling across my skin like lava, fire launching through my limbs.

I try to mist. It's like prying an elephant off the ground with my bare fingers.

The girl whimpers and points to the ceiling where a grate of pikes is poised, an axe already swinging off the mechanical trap at the rope holding it back.

Well, that really sucks eggs.

Of all the ridiculous ways to go—glittery and impaled to a floor? I'd rather be slit open and have my intestines fed to the birds, or rolled across a sea of jackknives and mauled by hungry bears. Dying in a powerful waterfall would be glorious too—

The door bursts wide.

Miles charges through, his coat lifted over his head, arms open. He grabs us both in a single bound and leaps at the portal window. Metal grazes my arm and glass crashes around us, littering the air with shards of light.

The wind whips gold from my hair and skin, and I mist.

~~~

I LEAN against the glass, glad to see the girl whistling as she sweeps the floor of her new home. I rub the branding on my wrist. Every child we free from the collectors makes my years of suffering worth it.

"You ready?" Miles asks.

I grin wickedly. "You are going to let me torture the next one."

He sighs and brushes at the cut across his cheek as if remembering that blasted window. "Just a little."

A quick death is a mercy I am not willing to grant.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Bellezza has just begun her quest to destroy the collectors, a fraternity of noblemen who kidnap and abuse gifted children. The only problem is that they know she's coming. (Read more of Bellezza in the  Maiden of Time series (MOONLESS, SOULLESS) and her serial story titled BELLEZZA, coming fall of 2014.)

Crystal Collier is a young adult author who pens dark fantasy, historical, and romance hybrids. She can be found practicing her brother-induced ninja skills while teaching children or madly typing about fantastic and impossible creatures.

She has lived from coast to coast and now calls Florida home with her creative husband, three littles, and "friend" (a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese. You can find her on her blog and Facebook, or follow her on Twitter &  Goodreads.

#  CASSAFATE

# By Alex J. Cavanaugh

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Drakon's Empire

A MESSAGE from Drent!

Bassan scanned the note. In five months, his friend Drent would complete training on the planet Cassa. He could come home. The last line stopped Bassan cold.

'No guarantee I'll return to Tgren though.'

Damn, he thought.

His mother's voice rang in his mind. _Time to eat!_

I'm coming.

Bassan joined his parents. His father offered a nod as formal as the uniform he wore. His mother's smile offset the tone and Bassan dove into his breakfast.

His father scooped a chunk of the thick Tgren dish. "Your counsel session is tomorrow?"

He swallowed and reached for his drink. "Yes, sir."

"I understand you're in the top ten percent?"

"Cassan standards." Bassan shrugged off the accomplishment. "Top one percent Tgren though."

His mother smiled and Bassan sat up straighter.

"What matters are your Cassan scores," his father said. "Those determine acceptance to the Academy."

Bassan bristled and stared at his father. Eyes as grey as the hair on the man's head greeted him. The commander of the Cassan base presided at the moment.

But I can't leave Tgren, Bassan thought. That Kintal ship represents me, a half Cassan, half Tgren. I can't lose the connection.

His father scooped another bite, oblivious to the raging tide in his son. "Your work here on Tgren's Kintal ship will definitely help."

Drent's message flashed in Bassan's mind. No guarantee I'll return, he thought.

"I'm not going to Cassa."

The words dropped with an audible burst in the room.

"Not going to Cassa?" his father demanded. "Why would you pass up such an opportunity?"

"Because," said Bassan, mustering his courage, "I can attend the Tgren school and complete my training faster."

His father rested his fist on the table. "The Cassan program may take longer, but you'll be accredited to work across the galaxy. The Tgren schooling is only accepted here. Don't narrow your opportunities."

"But I want to remain here." His chest tight, Bassan struggled to prevent his mental voice from projecting.

"Bassan." His mother stretched her hand across the table. "I know you don't want to leave, but it's a great honor."

"I know," said Bassan, slumping in his chair. "But I can't leave the Tgren ship!"

His father shoved his plate forward and arose. "We'll discuss it later."

Those words haunted Bassan all day.

Nobody understands, he thought.

Even the prospect of his final class didn't elicit joy. He rode his cycle to the Kintal ship in a daze. The glittering blue haze of ancient metal greeted him as he rounded the last corner. The sight of the ship, exposed and inviting, did little to lift his spirits.

Bassan located his instructor in the control room. Translating the once lost language held little challenge for him. Not when his mix of Cassan and Tgren blood assisted him with his Kintal ancestors' language. But the class placed Bassan on the ship, and that pleased him.

He became aware of someone behind him. Spinning around, the wide eyes of the senior science officer greeted Bassan.

"I didn't mean to startle you," said Officer Mevine, holding up his thin hands.

"Sir!" Bassan straightened his posture. Drent's father deserved his respect. No one outside of the Kintal community knew more about this ship.

"Your instructor said I could borrow you," said Mevine.

"Yes, sir. Of course."

Curious, Bassan followed. The rings of blue light were the same in every hallway, but their route struck a chord. Even the ramp carried familiarity. He'd been here before.

The control room over the pods!

Excitement grew with each step. He'd not entered this area in ten years. Not since he'd touched a forbidden console, downloading a special code into his mind. Drent had warned him...

Bassan! thought Mevine, a patient smile coloring his lips. You saved all ten races because you held the code. I'm glad you touched that console.

They entered the room and Bassan glanced to his left. That console sat in an alcove, its panel alive now with data. They strode past to a station at the end of the room. A curved screen dominated the wall, shimmering with light.

Mevine's hand waved over the console. "This system recorded the journey of your mother's ancestors to Tgren, including the period when the people disembarked. Would you like to see it?"

Bassan snapped to attention. The moment the Tgrens awoke from their long sleep? "Yes, please!"

Mevine ran his fingers across the crystal surface, tapping a sequence. He gestured to the metallic orb at the base. Nerves tingling, Bassan placed his hand over the cold ball.

The screen sparked to life. It grew dark and Bassan leaned forward, eager to catch the first image. Streaks of green appeared, forming a pattern that trailed into the distance. The pods!

Dark forms moved, their thin bodies outlined against the green capsules. One passed across the sensor. The body's gentle curves glistened with moisture. A Tgren woman!

Bassan grinned. It felt so real. He lifted his free hand to grasp the top of the console. He missed and staggered forward.

Wait a minute! Bassan glanced around him. He no longer watched on a screen. He was in the pod room.

He looked for the woman. She continued walking, following the others toward a distant yellow glow.

Wait, thought Bassan.

His left foot came forward. He fought to maintain balance and swung his right foot. It was difficult to see in the gloom. And yet the glowing, empty pods hurt his eyes. Dampness permeated the air, but dryer air beckoned ahead. Sweat dripped from his brow and fell on his bare arms. It stung.

He raised his hands to his face. Globs of a yellow-green substance covered his palm. The slime slithered down his arm, and Bassan realized his whole body lay covered. His breath quickened.

"Bassan?"

The room faded. Bassan grasped for the empty pod. He needed to reach that yellow glow.

"Bassan!"

Something wrapped around his wrist, severing the connection. He gasped and pulled his arm free. Bassan's eyes adjusted. Mevine stood beside the console, hands raised in warning. Bassan caught his breath and gasped.

"What happened?" said Mevine.

Bassan glanced at his hands. They glistened with sweat, but the slime was gone.

"I was there," he said.

"Where?"

"When the Tgrens were leaving the ship."

"Bassan, that's impossible..."

His hands dropped and he faced Officer Mevine. "Sir, I was there. It was hot. And humid. It even smelled damp. It was dark, and yet my eyes hurt from the pod's light. And this yellow-green slime covered my body..."

Mevine's mouth opened. "How could you know that?"

Bassan clenched his fists. "Because I was there. I tell you, I'm connected to this ship. Ever since I touched that console, I've felt the bond. It remembers the first Kintal. It remembers me!"

The science officer's eyes shifted. Bassan spun around. The cold eyes of his father greeted him, and Bassan's enthusiasm wavered.

His father stepped closer and peered at the console. Placing his hands behind his back, the commander turned his attention to Bassan.

"Wait for me on the first level."

Father, please...

Now.

His father's mental voice left no room for argument. Bassan's heart tightened and he raced for the exit. He barreled down the ramp and didn't stop until he'd reached the pod room entrance pod room. Bassan grasped the edge of the door frame and sighed.

I was really there, he thought, clinging to the vision. Damn, I'll never have another opportunity.

Bassan stared at the empty room, lost in his cheerless thoughts. A touch on his mind caused him to jump. He turned and a steel gaze greeted him.

_Father,_ he thought, dropping his chin. He didn't trust his voice yet.

You really saw the Tgrens leaving this room?

The question startled him. Bassan met his father's eyes. For once, they didn't appear so unforgiving.

I saw them! he thought. Bassan pulled his fists to his chest. I was with the Tgrens as they left the pods. Father, the ship knew it was me. I believe it could show me more.

Bassan...

His name shot through the fiber of his being. Bassan stepped closer and straightened his shoulders.

Father, you trusted me before. Please, let me stay on Tgren. Let me fulfill the role this ship has given me.

His father shook his head. Bassan steeled himself for disappointment.

"Bassan, I want the best for you," said his father. "And that means giving you the opportunity to pursue your own goals. I had to fight for my future and prove myself.

"You can attend the Tgren school."

Shock rippled through Bassan and his mouth fell open. _I can stay?_

Yes. This is where you belong.

Weight fell from his shoulders. Bassan leapt forward and hesitated. His father offered a wry grin. Bassan accepted the invitation and hugged his father.

If your mother asks, it was my idea, his father thought.

Bassan smiled. I won't say a word.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Alex J. Cavanaugh has a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree and works in web design and graphics. He is experienced in technical editing and worked with an adult literacy program for several years. A fan of all things science fiction, his interests range from books and movies to music and games.

Online he is the Ninja Captain and founder of the Insecure Writer's Support Group. The author of Amazon bestsellers CassaStar, CassaFire, and CassaStorm, he lives in the Carolinas with his wife. Website, Twitter,  Goodreads, IWSG

#  NAILED TO WHITE TIME

# By Jessica Bell

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Deep Heart

_SHE_ LEAVES me standing,

nailed to white time.

Surrounded by space

and shallow breath.

And all the thoughts

I'd hoped to forget.

_She_ turns them to cotton.

They crawl all over me,

tickle and sting

like insects

disinfecting the lesions

that suck me dry

all day, all night—all my life.

My body stiffens

as cotton memories

draw sadness through my pores,

to the surface of my skin.

It gathers and rolls

and drips

from the tips of my fingers.

I hover—waiting

for _She_ to speak.

This will not hurt. I promise, promise, promise ...

White time

is where time stands still;

where _She_ cuts us,

then soothes us,

heals us,

until we bleed silver.

We feel

how we have always wanted to feel.

I want to stay here forever, ever, ever ...

I stand still.

In one position—arms out to the side,

head hanging like Jesus.

Unable to move.

It seems like days.

But the rods of metal

in my hands and feet

do not cause pain.

And even if _She_ let me move

I would not want to.

For the first time in my life

I'm able to relish the throb

in my heart, in my head,

and the ensuing relief,

as the weight in my chest,

in my limbs, slowly fades away

—like that moment in the morning

when you open your eyes

and don't remember the knot

in the back of your throat

from the tears; the years

of self-hate.

My body grows lighter

and lighter and lighter,

until my feet lose traction

from the surface.

If there is a surface at all.

I look down.

At my feet.

They're bleeding

and I'm completely naked.

My private parts non-existent.

My breasts completely flat.

The shape of my body androgynous.

I don't feel judged anymore.

I am a white flame

in a glass box

thriving without air.

The white time and space

surrounding me

weakens in density

before my eyes,

and the world spins.

Around and around my head.

Around and around and around,

and faster and faster and faster.

A tornado of air

gathers in my stomach

and I want to throw up.

I want the spinning to stop.

Make it stop! I scream.

Make it stop, stop, stop ...

And it does.

And there is silence.

And Molly.

I lost her when I was ten.

The leash snapped in the woods

behind my house.

I never saw her again.

It was all my fault.

That day

the heavy-headed mornings

began to overshadow my existence.

I was to blame.

I've hated myself ever since.

Molly licks blood from my feet.

My blood turns silver

on her tongue,

and the white time and space returns;

encases us

with the weightlessness

of happiness and freedom.

And acceptance.

I want angel wings, wings, wings ...

Molly whimpers

and walks backwards.

Her eyes widen

as a knife slices vertically

down the center of my back.

As I open my mouth to scream,

the pain is soothed—a cold warmth

flushes through my spine,

like standing in a slither of sun

in the snow.

Bird wings flap behind me.

Echo in slow motion.

Feathers brush against my ears.

I turn my head.

They're not birds at all.

I have wings, wings, wings ...

My arms tingle.

I hold my hands out in front of me.

Silver light frames them.

I rub my fingers together

and the light rubs off like ash.

And when I blow on the ash,

it sparkles in the air

like sun shining through mist.

I feel alive

for the first time in my life.

No heavy head,

no tears.

No anti-depressants,

no shrinks.

Molly sits without me telling her to,

and holds out her paw.

I smile,

kneel down beside her,

scratch below her chin.

We belong here.

Molly and me.

Thank you, _She_.

_She_ heard my call.

_She_ finally heard my call.

I'm sorry, but it's not your time, She says,

You still have so much to give.

_She_ touches my shoulders

from behind.

I can't see Her.

But Her feathery voice

vibrates through my body,

kick-starting my pulse.

No, no, no!

My mother whispers,

baby, please

stop doing this to yourself,

and kisses my cheek.

She wipes my forehead

with a wet cloth.

Monitors beep.

Lights flash in my eyes

as they are pried open

with stiff cold fingers.

I am lying down,

arms out to the side,

legs flattened to the white

bed—strapped down tight.

My limbs ache.

My head aches.

My heart beats in my ears ...

... and I remember all the blood.

The release

staining the water

as I punctured my wrists with nails.

I close my eyes and swallow.

_She's_ voice echoes in my head.

And I picture the stray dog,

I feed every morning

at 9 a.m. sharp

by our letter box.

You still have so much to give, give, give ...

Love.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

If Jessica Bell could choose only one creative mentor, she'd give the role to Euterpe, the Greek muse of music and lyrics. This is not only because she currently resides in Athens, Greece, but because of her life as a 30-something Australian-native contemporary fiction author, award-winning poet and singer/songwriter/guitarist, whose literary inspiration often stems from songs she's written.

In addition to her novels, her poetry collections (including FABRIC, which was nominated for the Goodreads Choice Awards in 2012), and her pocket writing guides (WRITING IN A NUTSHELL SERIES), she has published a variety of works in online and print literary journals and anthologies, including Australia's Cordite Review, and the anthologies 100 STORIES FOR QUEENSLAND and SHADOWS AT THE STAGE DOOR, both released through Australia's, eMergent Publishing.

Jessica is the Co-Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and makes a living as an editor/writer for English Language Teaching publishers worldwide, such as Pearson Education, HarperCollins, Macmillan Education, Education First and Cengage Learning. Website, Facebook, Twitter,  Goodreads, YouTube

#  THE FOREIGNER

# By C. Lee McKenzie

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Legacy of the Lost

LEGEND SAID that one day He would come. Then the clouds would return over the Telerancas Mountains, bringing the rain.

Each day the Priests prayed.

Each day, a villager, a sacrifice, willingly mounted the jungle trail to find death in hope of bringing Him and those clouds heavy with water. Sacrifice, the legend said, was their only hope.

But the years passed and the clouds didn't come and the rains didn't come. The River Pocare dried and the people languished. The crops had disappeared so long ago that grubs and worms were burrowed far deeper into the earth, and digging for them exhausted the starving.

Children died first. Then, the elderly. Then there were only the most fit who were left at the base of the Telerancas, and one by one they trekked up to offer their lives. Now, only two remained—the woman who once had been queen of many and Chennu, her slave.

The queen cast her glance over Chennu's emaciated limbs. She remembered how he used to clear the jungle with sharp machete strokes, hunt and bring pigs for their feasts. She recalled the fish he speared and wrapped in thick leaves for them to sear over the fire. She bid him to do a thing, and it was done. Just as in the days of her father and grandfather, the slave supported the villagers, and all was well.

She licked her lips, but the moisture disappeared at once. The air crackled with heat and she leaned against the bark of a dead tree.

What had brought on this drought, this death? And what good was a queen if she failed to summon Him and save her people?

Chennu approached with his head bowed, still humble, still respectful of his queen. "You will want me to go to the mountains now." he said.

"Chennu." It took effort to say even one name, but she had things to speak of before he left and before she died. "You shall go to the mountains, but you shall go with this story in your heart. By custom, I can give you this gift, as you are my last subject."

And then she began to tell him of the Pocare and the love she held for the river. Its beauty. How it shouldered its way though the steep banks, low and unhurried. She closed her eyes and was once again on a raft as it swirled and dipped away like a full-skirted dancer, experienced, yet playful and creative.

She spoke of one day in her youth when the river carried her from the village deeper into a jungle she had not known before. It thickened and climbed high on both sides. Fruited blossoms with deep purple clusters dangled at the water's edge, enticing, just beyond reach. Sound didn't exist as before. It came as a song of secret places, dark and old and deep in steamy humus underbrush.

It frightened her to be so far from what she knew, but excited her with its difference. Even the Pocare's song was foreign. It sang of ancient things she didn't know and, plunging ever lower on its way to the sea, hinted rare tapirs and stealthy jaguars and ocelots in the dark places secreted behind rainforest vines. Morpho butterflies brushed the air with indigo wings and skimmed the water's surface.

"In the Pocare's current, anything was possible that day, everything was new. Do you remember the river?" she asked. She didn't open her eyes. If she had, she would only see the cracked mud where water once flowed.

"I remember," Chennu answered. "But the water and the raft that brought me to you were different. The story in my heart is not filled with the beauty you speak of."

Now she did open her eyes. "Then tell me your story. I need to hear it."

He raised his head, and for the first time, they looked at each other woman to man—a break in custom that made her breath catch in her throat. She glanced down. Another break in custom. And all that strangeness pressed against her.

It was Chennu who spoke first. "I'm not sure you want to hear what I have to say. You are the queen."

Suddenly weak, she sat and drew her legs close to her in a circle of her arms. "I give you permission, Chennu. Speak and speak honestly. For now, honesty is all we have remaining in our world." Even her words sounded strange to her ears. This was not the way a queen spoke to a slave.

He waited a moment, then sat facing her, his head the same height as hers, equals in this moment. "When I was a boy, my prowess with a bow and arrow won me a high place in my village. The people honored me because I brought them fresh game and sweet-tasting fish each day. They called me Hunter, the god they looked to for survival."

"And you hunted for us here as well."

"I did, but my hunting and fishing did not have the joy of freedom anymore. I was not the Hunter my village honored. I was the slave expected to provide for the hungry."

"Tell me how you came here."

"The traders arrived in the night and took me away. We walked for many hours until we reached the river, the one you call Pocare, the one we called Lompoco. And when light came, they put me on a raft, like the one in your story. But unlike your raft, mine sat heavy on the water. We passed villages I'd never known with huts clinging to treeless slopes. The Lompoco had no song of the jaguar or the ocelot. It sang of hungry people, their needs, their fears, their different customs. Mostly, it sang of my loss."

"You lost your family. I know. But it has always been the way of our people, to take others into our village and for them to serve our needs. We know no other way."

"Yes. The old ways are important to each village. I understand. But for all these years I've longed for my family and my own way of life." Chennu rose and walked one halting step toward the trail up the Telerancas.

"Wait." The queen struggled to her feet. "If I can't give you a beautiful story to carry with you, then I shall give you your freedom even though my custom forbids it. You shall not die a slave."

Chennu did not turn around. Instead, he held both hands high, in a salute to the mountains. And a stillness came like a great bird with wings stretched wide against the sky. A breeze fluttered the bird's feathered span and cool air washed down the Telerancas canyons.

The queen lifted her face to the sky. Clouds. One. Then another and another crept across the steep slopes until she could only see the tips of the mountain. The first drop of rain touched her lips, and she titled her head up, closed her eyes and let the heavenly water spatter her face. She opened her mouth and more drops trickled down her parched throat. She swallowed and moaned in delight.

When she brought her gaze to Chennu again, he was transformed. His emaciated limbs had thickened and became like those of a youth, taut and muscled. His back rippled with strength.

When he turned, he radiated power.

"You are Him. You were here always, and I didn't know you." Her voice was only a whisper.

"But you know me now. You made the sacrifice, you broke with the old way of your people and you listened to my story. You understood my pain."

"Too late," she buried her face in her hands and cried. "I failed as a queen."

"No. You did not. And your people will return from Telerancas. They were noble and true. I would not let them die when they believed their sacrifice would save you."

She felt him come closer and once he stood with only an arms length between them, she looked up into his eyes and found a magnificent forgiveness there.

Then the Hunter took up his bow and arrows and disappeared into the rain.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

C. Lee McKenzie: In my other life--the one before I began writing for teens and younger readers--I was a teacher and administrator at California State University, San Jose. My field of Linguistics and Inter-cultural Communication has carried me to a lot of places in the world to explore different cultures and languages. I can say, "Where's the toilet?" and "I'm lost!" in at least five languages and two dialects. Go ahead. Pat me on the back.

My idea of a perfect day is one or all of the following: starting a new novel, finishing writing a blockbuster novel, hiking on a misty morning trail in the Santa Cruz Mountains, saying Namaste after a great yoga practice, sipping a cappuccino topped at a bustling café, reading in front of a fire with snow outside, swimming in an ocean someplace. Website, Facebook, Twitter,  Goodreads

#  LEGENDARY

# By Ruth Long

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Legends of Destiny

...and a child will lead them from ashes to ascension.

– from the 5th scroll of the Jadeen Prophets

ADELAN CREPT through the empty riverbed, every misstep recorded on her dusty shins and bloody palms. Her older brother, elegant hawkish face streaked with dust and tears and broad shoulders slack with grief, led the way. Behind them, the remnants of their cloistered lives fluttered in the hot wind along with the ashes of their village.

Belly growling and feet aching, she matched Dathos' brisk pace without complaint. More than food or rest, though, what she really wanted was a good long cry. Not that it would change anything. Their father was dead, the kingdom under attack, and their years in seclusion were at an end.

Papa. Dead. Those were the words she heard with every step. Right foot. Papa. Left foot. Dead. How long since she'd seen him? A year ago? Two? Papa. Dead.

She'd been five when he sent them into hiding, after the opposition attacked. Afterwards, he'd been too busy mourning the death of his wife and fighting to maintain his throne to come see them for more than a day every year or so.

At least she had memories of him. Wise eyes like her brother. Stern features like her sister. She didn't remember her mother, though Dathos often remarked how much Adelan resembled her. Black hair. Blue eyes. Easy smile.

She was roused from her thoughts when Dathos stopped and turned to her. "There's no point in pushing ourselves like this. We don't know whether Brysa will keep her word. We've lost enough today. I won't lose you too."

"But if she goes to the meadow and we're not there, she'll think we've abandoned her."

He tugged her hood to obscure more of her face. "I'm not willing to risk your life on the chance she'll stick to a plan she didn't like in the first place."

"Please, Dathos. She's our sister," she said, swatting at him. "We can't give up on her."

He rubbed his beard with scuffed knuckles. "All right, but should something happen to me–"

"I've seen what will happen, in here," she said, tapping her temple. "The throne will be yours before winter."

"These dreams of yours trouble me," he said, leaning in to kiss her forehead before resuming their path.

Footsteps muted by sand and movement screened by vegetation, they continued until they reached the southern fork of the river, where it skirted the meadow assigned as their meeting place.

Resounding silence greeted them. Perhaps Dathos has been right after all. Perhaps her sister's loyalties had changed. But moments later, the ground beneath their feet began to rumble and the echo of boots, steel, and hooves echoed across the narrow valley.

Adelan burst from the riverbed, hood falling off with the momentum, the need for anonymity and safety forgotten.

Dathos scrambled after her, cursing her curiosity and haste, pulling her into a protective embrace when he caught up with her.

Brysa emerged from amidst a full regiment of warriors, dark hair trailing behind her formidable countenance and sinewy figure like a vengeful banner.

And out of the dust of her heels, a figure rose, close cropped ginger curls and tattooed cheeks bearing indisputable evidence of his identity: Zaren, the Red Mage, presumed lost in the onslaught that had driven the royal siblings into hiding twelve years ago.

The assembled warriors roared an exuberant greeting.

Nodding to the crowd, Zaren bowed to Dathos and Brysa in turn, before extending a hand to Adelan. "Your Grace, the cosmos has more in store for you than a seat at your brother's feet."

Her heart stuttered. She'd never dared to dream of more. Autonomy and authority were bestowed on the firstborn. Her birthright had been acquiescence and duty. As she accepted his hand, warmth slid up her arm followed by a wave of dizziness. "What is that?"

"Power calling to power," he said, the fierce lines of his inky face softening with affection. "I promised your father I would hold your gift at bay until it became necessary to unleash it."

Raising her hand to his mouth, he kissed her palm and held it out so that she could see the black pooling on her skin. It pulsed there for several heartbeats before racing up her arm, climbing her throat, and blossoming on her cheeks, mirroring the markings on his face.

Brysa approached with Dathos following. "If we don't make it over the wall before dark –"

"I appreciate your concern," said Zaren, lacing fingers with Adelan, "but tangible constraints no longer bind us."

In her mind's eye, Adelan saw a thread of light, dancing, twisting, flowing like a molten river.

Zaren's voice directed her, as though he saw it too. "Control it."

The odd prickling warmth moved through her again, this time coalescing between her ribs.

In the old language, he coaxed her to transfer the light from one realm to the other.

_Protect_ ... and the light appeared, circling the meadow.

_Shield_ ... and light extended, rising to form a wall around them.

_Defend_ ... and the light blazed, scorching ten yards of vegetation beyond the wall.

The warriors fell to their knees.

Into the silence, Zaren said, "As it was written, 'and a child shall lead them.' Behold, the legends prophesied by the elders. The monarch, the militant, and the mage."

Dathos took his sisters by the hand and raised his voice. "Rise. Take heart. Today we take back our lives. Tomorrow, our kingdom!"

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

An incurable ink and paper addict, Californian Ruth Long enjoys fast stories, vintage cars, and southern rock. She lives in constant fear of the grammar police because she doesn't write by the book but by ear, like a musician. You can find out more about her passion for storytelling on her: Website, Facebook, Twitter

#  SENTRY

# By Darynda Jones

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Blood and Stone

THE PLANE hums around me, the vibrations of the small-engine aircraft soothing as I look out onto the ice. White. Sparkling. As far as the eye can see. I haven't been this far north since I was nine, since before my father's career tanked, since before my mother left. Out of four children, I am the only one who lives with Dad after the big break up. I am the only one who understands him. His passion. His conviction.

Because I saw the boy, too.

We have that in common, Dad and I. Dad's colleagues back home laughed at him. No way did he find a perfectly preserved Homo Sapiens in 60,000-year-old Artic ice. But he and his team labored for months to carve out the glacier that encased it. To bring it to the surface for closer examination. To sit in awe at what they'd found.

It was going to be the most important discovery in decades, for the boy was not only perfectly preserved, but clothed and well-manicured, his hair cut to perfection, his face soft with youth. It was impossible. Everyone said it was impossible.

I remember it vividly. My mother had packed up all four of her children and flown us to the North Pole to demand her husband come home or sign divorce papers. It was the only reason we got to visit our father's outpost, the science lab in which he'd been living for almost two years. For us it was an adventure. One that marked the beginning of the end.

The entire team had retired that evening to rest up for the next day. They were going to turn on the heat lamps, to carefully melt away the layers of the centuries-old glacial tomb, but something awakened me in the middle of the night. I strolled sleepily toward the source but found Mom and Dad fighting in the galley instead.

Dad tried to explain. He was on the brink of the biggest breakthrough in history. She had to understand, but she wouldn't listen. She'd had enough of his treasure hunts, as she'd called them. She'd forgotten his calling. He was a scientist, after all, and at the heart of all scientists laid an insatiable desire to discover. To uncover the secrets of the universe. They were dreamers, one and all.

I'd slipped away unnoticed and tried to find my way back to my room at the artic station, but the halls were dark and I'd taken a wrong turn. Probably two. I ended up walking into the lab where my father and his team had set up the heat lamps for the big unveiling the next day. The project was at a crucial stage. There were cameras set up, lab equipment of every shape and size.

That was when I saw him. The boy. The perfect being encased in ice like a cursed prince from a fairy tale. He was the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen, and I remembered more than anything, as I gazed at him through the magnifying effect of the crystal glaze, his eyes. Framed in dark fringe, they sparkled a silvery blue that matched his clothing. They dominated his face, their almond shape ethereal. He looked human but not entirely.

I wiped a hand over the frozen surface inches from his face and gazed at him. Funny thing was, he seemed to gaze back, his expression haunting. I saw despair and desperation. And I knew what I had to do.

Tightening my thin robe over my pajamas, I padded over the wooden slats beneath me in my ragged bunny slippers, the ones with only three ears between them, and I turned on the heat lamps. I had to get him out of there. I had to set him free.

I became frantic. The lamps were working to melt the ice, but not fast enough. I heard the generators kick on as I began scratching at the ice with my fingernails, trying to get to him, trying to free him.

Then I felt skin. My fingertips brushed across his cheek, his skin bitingly cold, and the touch rippled through me like an electrical currant.

I gasped and stumbled back just as my father barreled into the room, his face a picture of astonishment. My mother rushed in behind him with a similar expression. He looked from me to the ice then back again.

"What did you do?" he asked.

When I spoke, my voice was thin. Weak. "I had to set him free."

Dad dropped to his knees, but I didn't understand why. They were going to melt the ice anyway, right? Then I looked back.

The boy had vanished.

I'd broken him. My father. He lost everything sans me. I was the only thing he'd gotten out of the divorce and my guilt never waned.

So when a team of scientists asked him to consult on a project in the same area he'd been in seven years prior, he jumped at the chance. I'd refused to be left behind. Now a sophomore, I took all my finals early and followed him onto the ice once again.

I look over at him, at his exuberance to be back in the Artic Circle, to feel the crisp air and see the purest white that existed on Earth, and I try not to feel guilty that I'd taken all that from him. It didn't work.

My phone chirps and I'm floored I still have reception. The pilot warned us on takeoff we wouldn't have it for long, so I hurry to answer the summons.

It's my best friend Becky. 'He did it again!' she'd typed, then followed that with a bunch of smiley faces.

For months, a superhero vigilante has been swooping around the world, saving people, diverting disasters, taking down criminals. The press dubbed him the Sentry and my BFF and I are utterly enthralled. Even with all the technology in the world, no one has been able to snap a clear shot of him. He is simply a dash of blue light. We don't care. He saves people. He's a champion. He has our hearts, the evidence of which is in my journal, a detailed accounting of every sighting ever reported.

'Deets!' I type back. But just as I hit send, the plane jumps in the air as though it's been hit by a freight train. Alarms blare. Warning lights flash. The pilot shouts something into the com about an engine exploding. And my father rushes to get a lifejacket on me. Not fast enough though.

We fall.

The force of our descent releases gravity and we float down for what seems like an eternity. Helpless. Waiting to die.

We hit hard and skid over the ice forever. Only then does fear take root. My father had taken off his seatbelt to try to get a lifejacket on me. Now there is only a hole in the fuselage into which a blinding light streams. He is gone.

Cold air blasts my face, steals my breath, then the world turns upside down as we flip on the ice, spinning again and again. When we finally jolt to a stop, the ground feels soft. Buoyant. The thick smell of jet fuel suffocates as I tear at my restraints. I'm screaming. Calling out for my father. Begging him to be okay. Then a razor-sharp coldness seeps into my shoes. Slowly. Methodically. It creeps up my calves. So bitingly frigid, it welds my teeth together. It isn't just cold. It's pain in liquid form. I tremble at the force of it.

I can't get the restraints off. I tear and rip and cry until they are too wet. Until my fingers are too stiff. Until my lungs are filled with the bitter, fuel-soaked ocean water beneath the ice. Until I am floating in an endless black.

Then I am free. The lights from the plane illuminate about three inches in front of my face, and he is there. The boy. Only older. More determined.

Recognition registers on his face. He remembers me, too, and my heart leaps seconds before it stops completely. But he is with me. What a wonderful way to die.

As darkness closes in, he moves forward. His black hair floats about his beautiful face as he puts his mouth on mine, and his warm breath enters my lungs. I snap to my senses and clutch at him, because we are moving. Fast.

When I look up I see sky. When I look down I see ice and ocean water. When I look ahead, I see silvery-blue eyes. I am high above the earth one second and laying at the emergency entrance of a hospital the next. My father and the pilot are beside me as a nurse rushes up to us, asks if we're okay. But I am searching the heavens for the Sentry.

All I see is a dash of blue light.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

NYTimes and USA Today Bestselling Author, Darynda Jones, has won numerous awards for her work, including a prestigious RITA, a Golden Heart, and a Daphne du Maurier. As a born storyteller, she grew up spinning tales of dashing damsels and heroes in distress for any unfortunate soul who happened by, annoying man and beast alike.

She currently has two series with St. Martin's Press, the Charley Davidson Series and the Darklight Trilogy. Darynda lives in the Land of Enchantment, also known as New Mexico, with her husband of more than 25 years and two beautiful sons, the Mighty, Mighty Jones Boys. She can be found at: Website, Facebook, Twitter,  Goodreads

#  TERRA MAGUS

# By Samantha Redstreake Geary

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Gathering of the Clans

THE DEAD weight of the body bag tore into my screaming muscles and burgeoning ambition during the grueling ascent to Terra Magus, the final resting place of my career.

I inwardly cursed my misfortune with every tortuous step. The occasional quips of my comely companion did little to lessen my anxiety.

"Do _try_ to keep up, Dungtear!" the girl tossed over her shoulder. "Been climbing this bloody mountain since sunrise," she mumbled under a breath that never seemed to labor, despite the unforgiving altitude.

"It's Dinletir," I grunted, tripping over the tangled toes of the untamed forest. The impossible trail snaked ever steeper, its narrow throat threatening to swallow me whole as I struggled to keep sight of the girl who slipped swiftly through the sea of trees. She navigated the treacherous terrain as if she were an extension of it. The woods accepted her into their midst with open arms.

I, on the other hand, was an intruder—to be devoured before dawn.

I'd never been to the mountains. Never walked into the wilderness. Nature was entirely too dangerous. Unpredictable. Any inclination to travel beyond the controlled confines of our borders was squashed under the steel boot of the Imperium from birth.

I preferred a more _predictable_ environment, one that didn't harbor a hundred or so hazards meant to cut one's cord. With every bead of sweat, I contemplated the myriad of ways to meet my maker. _A wicked wind could knock loose a limb, crushing my skull. A restless root could snag my legs, snapping my bones like twigs. Jagged rocks raking against tender flesh. Carnivorous creatures creeping. Venomous snakes slithering. Lethal spiders lurking. Poisonous plants_ —

My body is jerked backwards, away from the mountain's edge. "Careful, Dimleer, one misstep could send you careening into oblivion," the girl warned, her fist wrapped in the woven cloth of my coat. She released me with a clap on the back. "Don't want to lose our star pupil on the first day."

I mentally added _falling to my demise_ to the mounting reasons why I should be within the comforting arms of a laboratory.

That was the plan. Graduate with honors. Secure a coveted position in the Imperium's agricultural engineering program. Contribute to the world's largest food manufacturer. Make them proud. Make a living. Make a difference.

Yet, here I was, the rotting stench of disappointment smothering what little remained of my future. With only eighteen years behind me, my life was over... not unlike my malodorous cargo.

A sneaky branch snatched at the flimsy wagon's wheels, tilting it onto its side. The sack slid off the wooden planks and landed with a sickening thud at my feet.

The girl spun around, her chestnut curls ensnared by a greedy gust, her startling green gaze wild and piercing. In that moment, she struck me as someone fierce and feral, the fading sun casting an eerie glow across her sage-tinted skin.

She shook her head, shoulders slumped with an inflated sigh. Stooping over the bulging canvas, she ran her hands along the seams with unsettling care. "Lucky it didn't rip open," she said, voice dripping with relief.

"I think their luck already ran out," I remarked, attempting to tug the body back into the wagon with little success.

The girl shoved me, none to gently, to the side, grasped the bag and swung it onto the slats in one swift motion. "You'll need to work on your stamina, Dinlaneer," she smirked. "There's more than hole digging where you're headed." She brushed the dirt from her hands and walked off.

Her casual reference to my despicable fate was the final straw. "It's Dinletir!" I shouted, stomping after her, dragging the wobbly wagon behind me. "And if you insist on butchering _my_ name, I'd like a shot at your—"

I swung around the bend, hell bent on giving the girl what for, when the trail abruptly opened its mouth and spit me out into a vast meadow.

"Chloris," the girl offered with a mischievous grin. "And this," she swept her hand towards the soaring stone walls staring down at us, "is Terra Magus."

The wagon's handle slipped from my grasp, landing with a muffled thud against the carpet of grass. The towering fort, with its broad bones barely peeking through the choking vines, was _not_ what I'd envisioned.

"Welcome, my boy!" a jovial voice volleys from a silver-tipped spire. "Come in, come in!"

Chloris cleared her throat, throwing a glance at the wagon--a reminder of what awaited me beyond the castle walls. I reluctantly followed her, body in tow, into the shadows of my fate.

Apparently, fate failed to have a door.

"Flora, dear, that's no way to greet our guest!" the man scolded.

A dense curtain of creeping stems parted, revealing a narrow passageway. Dozens of fragrant cerulean faces wriggled through the thicket, the whites of their eyes winking as I walked past.

The air was dank with moss covered secrets.

The passage spilled into a lush green field littered with hundreds of carved tombstones. A burst of wind swept the last of my hopes, dashing them against the mocking rocks until they were nothing but dust.

"My apologies, son. Flora's rather wary of strangers. Learned that from Chloris, I'm afraid," chortled a fiery-bearded, bald-headed man that barely reached the belt at my waist. "I'm Zephyr, the caretaker of Terra Magus!" he grinned, wee hand outstretched.

"Dinletir," I offered, accepting his welcoming grip. "And...Flora?" I asked, eyes scanning for another.

"Flora? Oh, ye won't be shaking hands with the likes of her," Zephyr snickered. "She's the guardian of the gate—Chloris' meddlesome Morning Glory. Won't let anyone in without our say so," Zephyr beamed, the curious cultivation curling affectionately around his tiny wrist. "Won't let the Imperium's sky drones see past the tip of their noses, neither. Interferes with their sensors, the clever girl."

"Why on earth would they conduct _posthumous_ monitoring _?_ " I asked, edging away from the sticky vines' reach.

Zephyr poked a chubby finger in my direction. "Why, indeed, my boy! 'Till death do us part', that's the Imperium's motto."

"I'm sorry sir, I...I don't quite follow—"

"You will, son. Soon enough." Zephyr gestured towards the heavy bag behind me, an impish glint in his eye. "Why don't ye fetch our new delivery and we'll have a look, see."

I warily wrenched the warm leather handle of the sack, shifting its weight onto the spongy soil near his dusty boots.

Zephyr leaned over the bag, squinting at the peeling label. "Ahhh! Ms. Smith has finally arrived! In the nick a' time, too," Zephyr grinned, rubbing his hands together with disturbing anticipation.

Chloris caught my troubled glance, her green gaze glowing with amusement. "He's passionate about his work," she winked, tossing me a small spade.

"Let's get her in the ground before the rain comes, lad," Zephyr grinned at me, expectantly.

"I..I'm no expert, sir, but...shouldn't I use a more _substantial_ shovel for digging er...graves?" I gulped, my stomach threatening to exhume its meager contents.

Zephyr slanted his eyes at Chloris, who shrugged her shoulders.

"I see yer well informed," Zephyr grins, his rounded body shaking with laughter. He pulled open the pungent package, releasing a flood of black soil.

I fell back, cupping a hand to my nose, my eyes watering from the stench.

"Ahhh," he breathes in, "the ripe smell of compost—an effective deterrent for the overly curious, mind ye," he whispers, running his hands through the decaying pile. "Not to mention, tis the best stinkin' fertilizer this side of the mountains." He fished out a small leather satchel and tossed it to me. "Go on, greenie, open it."

I pulled apart the muck-covered drawstrings, pouring its contents into my sweaty palm.

I stared at the tiny ginger grains. "What are these?"

"The seeds of change, my boy," Zephyr smiled.

"But, I...I thought..."

"Relax, lad, you'll be planting our future, not the end result of our present. Aye, we've lost too many souls to the sorry excuse they call nourishment. Nothin' but rubbish, fill'n there pockets, leaving stomachs empty and the blood weak."

"Gardening is a capital offense!" I stammered, realization stealing my breath.

"Is that so? Did ye know that, Chloris?" he asked, feigning distress.

Chloris shook her head, feigning ignorance.

I closed my fist around the contraband, scanning the sky for sentinels. "You're insane!"

"Rightly so, lad. That's why Choris fetched us a more level-headed chap, the brightest boy in seven clans, I'm told. I caught wind of yer desire to make a difference, and here ye are!"

Zephyr grabbed a fistful of the inky powder from the bag and turned towards the rows of rocks. He raised his hand to his whiskered mouth, opened his palm flat and blew at the tiny particles. The soil swirled into a shimmering cloud that swept across the field. As if by magic, the scene before me shifted into a wild, thriving garden, heavy with the fruit of ages past--a living promise thought lost, long ago.

"Welcome to the _people's_ agriculture department, son." Zephyr grinned, tapping his spade against a tombstone, its surface engraved with the flowing limbs of an apple tree, the words, _Granny Smith_ , rooted beneath.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Samantha Redstreake Geary works as a freelance writer in the film music industry and is the mad architect behind a string of global composer/author collaborations, including audiomachine's Tree of Life & Existence and Composers for Relief. She's also a speculative fiction author, weaving music-inspired short stories and YA novels under the steady influence of locally roasted coffee. Website, Facebook, Twitter,  Goodreads

##  
#  MONSTROUS

# By Daniel Pennystone

## 12th Grade

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's The Last Ember

THE LONG, lifeless hall, stretched by pale brick, stared back at me with corrupt intent. My heart thumped preparing for the worst. Metal lockers clung to the walls in silent applause as the two very large boys glared at me with twinkling amusement in their eyes. I glanced at the floors avoiding their judgmental stare.

"Say it! Say you're a tattle tale!" yelled Gram.

Their words caused my vision to become a whirl of glassy light, tears hanging from the corners of my eyes.

"Are you crying?" mocked Russell.

Like a thunderstorm startling a horse, I reared back from his words and launched myself towards the boy's bathroom, shouting "NO! No I am not!"

Without hesitating, I dove into the plastic safety of the fluorescent bathroom. The sound of Gram and Russell's laughter echoed off the mustard yellow tiles blanketing the room, followed by the racing of their sneakers. A lurch in my stomach drove me to the nearest sink.

_Why, am I so weak?_ I thought, feeling a sudden shift.

"I wish...I could hurt them!" I seethed through gritted teeth. "I no longer fear them...I hate them!"

An alarmingly familiar ache gripped my bones, filling me with dread. I glanced into the mirror above the dripping sink. The brown and green of my eyes slowly became pigment rings of burning red.

_This isn't right. It hasn't happened in over two years and my eyes never turned red before!_ I thought, memories of my childhood self, sitting in a darkened room, crying, flooded my mind.

~~~

THE FIRST time it happened, I was too young to understand what was real and what was wrong.

Shadows took me prisoner each night, showing me monsters with sharp teeth and mangled faces. I trembled in the grip of fear, feeling a cold ache paint over my bones as my body began to shrink. Patches of fur sprang to life, spreading from my head to my toes. Tiny claws creeped from the ends of my fury fingers.

I screamed in horror at my beastly appearance.

Floorboards creaked as the enemy approached me, the once human boy. So I lifted my layers of sheets and let them swallow me whole. As I lay there, no longer a boy but a monster, I knew that my life would never be the same.

_How will I keep this a secret?_ I asked myself as a tail wound its way from my lower back, completing my monstrous transformation.

~~~

THE SCREECHING sound of Gram and Russell's sneakers snapped me back to the present.

Hide. Have to hide!

Can't let them see me!

"Ha! You know this probably wasn't the best place for you hide!" exclaimed Russell.

I froze. The stalls were just out of reach.

Why won't they leave me alone?

They've been bullying me for so long!

What's wrong with me?

I can't contain the monster for much longer.

"You know this would all go away if you would just admit it!" sneered Gram.

Without warning, a sharp pain rolled up my spine causing me to collapse. My knees hit the floor, followed shortly by my hands, as stars blackened my vision. The wind was completely knocked out of me. There was no running this time.

Gram and Russell burst out laughing.

My chest burned with stubborn rage at the sound of their familiar laughter.

The last time it happened, they were laughing then, too.

~~~

IT WAS two and a half years ago, in the fourth grade, on the school playground. They had tackled and pinned me to the gravel. The more I struggled, the more rocks they stuffed in my mouth. Tears streaming down my face, I pleaded for them to stop, but they continued laughing as if we were all playing a sick game.

"Hey! Gram! Russell! What are you doing?" The substitute teacher shouted.

The two boys quickly got to their feet and in unison responded, "Nothing!"

The teacher rose from her bench and approached the two bullies. I didn't stick around to find out what they told her, instead, I got off my stomach, spit the rocks out of my mouth and ran as fast as I could, heading for the forest. The teacher had seen me running and was yelling after me.

Still, I kept running, wishing that I were invisible...wishing the evil and the good would just forget about the monster boy who could no longer live in the light.

In that moment I felt like an empty glass jar, so easily broken.

Then it happened.

A shutter of cold pain stung my muscles, causing me to plunge into the train. Slowly I lifted my head. My body ached and groaned with discomfort. All of a sudden it had come to me. In one painfully slow motion I sat up. The air had felt thicker and the world seemed so much smaller. Hesitantly, I lifted my hands to my face expecting to see claws. When I saw them, I was speechless. Aside from the luminous shine outlining their shape, my hands were completely transparent...and enormous! In fact my whole body was one gigantic translucent mass. I tapped my forearm. Like two wine glasses clinking together, they emanated an eery sound that echoed off the trees.

A second monster?

This is completely different from the monster I turned into when I was younger.

I don't want to be a monster!

But how do I stop?

Then I thought of how afraid I had felt in that darkened room and how sad I felt when I was attacked by those boys. In that moment, I discovered a connection.

When I felt those strong emotions, I turned into monstrous creatures!

I must contain my emotions!

In fact I should stop them altogether.

~~~

SWEAT DRIPPED from my forehead onto the reflective tiles as the pain of my transformation grew more severe.

Stay calm...don't feel...just breath...

I kept my emotions hidden these past two years. Never engaging in after school activities or group exercises. Even at home, I'd isolate myself in my bedroom for hours.

Why? Why did I have to tell the truth? Why didn't I stay quiet when Mr. Trillman asked who threw the school supplies out the bus window? So what if he threatened to take our end of year field-trip! The field-trip, I wasn't even going on because my parents couldn't afford it!

Stupid!

"You just had to tell on us!" taunted Russell.

"You just couldn't wait to get back at us!" Gram said, shoving my back.

Two long, sharp fangs extended out of my mouth as blade like claws swelled from my scaly, black hands. An amazing rush streamed throughout my body making me stronger and faster. My shoes shredded like paper from the giant claws that unfurled from lizard-like feet. The scales spread like a disease, crawling up my shoulders. A mane grew wildly, covering my entire head in a storm of fur.

Not hearing any laughter, I turned and looked at the two horror-stricken bullies. Their lifeless, pale faces and dumb struck expressions made my heart sink. I peered down into the mirror. A lion's face stared back at me—eyes burning with pure hatred. My body was covered in scales as black as shadows.

The monster has won.

A loud and powerful roar rose out of my chest, shaking the walls of the room. The earth quaking sound shattered the mirrors and disfigured the room's structure. Like a bomb eruption, the tiles exploded into tiny abstract pieces. The two boys ran from the disintegrating bathroom, screaming in terror.

I scraped my sharp claws down the walls, lashing out, enraged. The claws cut through the wall like ripping apart tinfoil. I couldn't stop. It felt exhilarating to let the monster out! Swiftly, I launched myself at the closest wall and broke straight through it. I bounded up and down the halls of the school, clawing and smashing through the lifeless pale walls. I sliced up giant math books and entire class rooms. I battled the gym until all that was left was an ocean of broken benches and misshapen sports debris. During my rampage of the school cafeteria, I realized that the fire alarm was ringing. The sound echoed down the ruined halls and shattered windows. My breath caught in my throat. Pipes hung limp from the damaged ceiling. Walls trembled on the verge of collapse.

I did this?

I fled the school, running through parking lots, across streets, avoiding cars, all the while staying hidden from people. My eyes burned with tears, blurring the lines of my house. I snuck in the back, climbing up the screen porch and entering my room through the window. Clumsily, I crashed into the room and swiftly shut myself into the closet, clawing the walls in my haste.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs pounded my heart with panic. I held my breath, wishing I were dead.

I exhaled at my Mom's familiar gasp. "Peter? Is that you?" she asked, cautiously.

"Yeah." I whispered.

"Are you...okay?" she breathed with concern.

"No."

She took a deep breath and sat next to the closet door. "Did you...transform again?"

"Yes," I replied, tears streaming down my face.

"That's what I thought. Can I see you?" she inquired, gently.

I pushed the door open, allowing her to peer inside.

"Bless your heart," she said, reaching her hand under my fury chin to lift my face.

"You are _not_ a monster," she said, her gaze tender.

"Look at me Mom! I have fangs and claws...and a tail!" More tears spilled with my words.

"Don't listen to the bad thoughts that crowd your head with fear and hate," she smiled, cupping my face in her hands. "When I look at you, I see something beautiful."

She grasped my scaly hand, pulling me from the closet, and wiping the tears from my swollen, red eyes. "I need to show you something," she said, guiding me downstairs into the living room, where a scene scrolled across the flashing screen.

The news story featured my middle school, except it was completely overgrown with wild vines and giant shimmering leaves.

"I...I thought I destroyed it!"

"The news said two boys pulled the fire alarm because they saw a bear. Everyone was evacuated."

That's why I didn't see anyone, I realized.

The newscaster was interviewing the school's science teacher. "I've never seen plants of this size or color," the teacher said, muttering something about a natural phenomenon.

"Why do you think these _monsters_ are...evil?" Mom asked, studying me. "All they've done is help you."

"No!" I argued.

"When you ran from those terrible boys who hurt you on the playground years ago, you told me you wished you were invisible. Peter...you turned into glass—a crystal giant that no one could see...no one could shatter."

I shook my head, turning away from her. She grasped my shoulders, holding my gaze. "Listen! Do you not remember running to me in the middle of the night when you were small. You were afraid of the dark. When I looked into your eyes, they were glowing like stars. You could see so clearly in the dark, you lost sight of your fear. You changed in order to conquer your fears."

I opened my mouth in protest, but she stopped me. "You have a gift, Peter—not a curse."

A warm breath settled inside of me, transforming me back into a boy.

She grabbed me and held me close.

"You're very special, Peter...embrace it. Free yourself from doubt, believe in your gifts, and live in the light...that's where you belong."

#  MONSTROUS

# Artwork by Daniel Pennystone

## 12th Grade

# Fear

##  

#  MONSTROUS

# Artwork by Daniel Pennystone

## 12th Grade

# Anger

#  SAVING ANNABELLE

# By ms. annegirl

## 12th Grade

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Crossing Destiny

In loving memory of the girl with lensless glasses,

Thank you.

SHE HEARD footsteps. Soft and weighted footsteps.

Annabelle curled deeper into her mattress. Wolves, witches—WOLVES! She feared wolves the most. Their soft, weighted footsteps haunted her sleep.

From her top bunk, Annabelle peeked at the opposite wall. The shelf hanging there collected storybook figures. Father removed the villainous characters because she couldn't sleep while they were watching. When the witch residing there had burnt the back of Annabelle's neck with the acidity in her gaze, the child cried out until Father came and threw the wretch into the wastebasket.

Now, her trembling palm fell hard on her perspiring neck, to swat away the tension knotted there.

Annabelle peered below to see her younger sister, Bethy, who was sprawled across the lower bunk with one hand lost in a mesh of brown hair and the other corking the open faucet on her face. Annabelle smiled at the resting child as she lay—above the sheets!

Snake-like vines enshrouded Bethy, and a beastly hand latched onto her ankle. Imagining these horrors pulled Annabelle from bed and sent her sailing on bed-sheets over her sister.

Encompassing Bethy, Annabelle cocooned her sister and contingently sprung into her own bed. Folding within its sheets, her eyes squinched shut.

She'll learn, Annabelle reasoned. She has to learn the rules.

Two deep pools of blue then gazed at the window facing them. The white eye in the sky beamed through the screen and cast tangled patterns on the floorboards. The wind whistled, twigs snapped, and the wolf prowled beneath the window with soft, weighted steps.

Crunch.

Rule #1) Stay tucked in.

SHE HAD to go. VERY badly. Annabelle wasn't supposed to drink after seven o'clock, but her parents were having a party and had been negligent to remind her. She could hear the thuds of big feet and tall bodies outside her door.

Annabelle warily floated into the hallway and drifted, deaf to their music and numb to their grazes and apologies.

In her white nightgown, she hovered outside the bathroom door. It was shut.

Her heart beat raced, off-setting her steady stride to a cautious wobble as she approached. Toes to the door, she raised a fleshy, four year old fist and gently knocked twice. She waited. Nothing. She tapped once more and held her ear to the door. Still no response, so she turned the doorknob as though shaking hands with an old friend. Placing her barefoot upon the cold tile, Annabelle latched the door behind her and took a half step forward.

Before her were black tennis shoes beneath crumpled jeans filled by long, bare legs.

_Turn invisible. Turn invisible!_ She shouted within the confines of her mind.

No luck. She'd been detected.

"Oh! What are you doing?! GET OUT!" the toilet girl shrieked.

The beration kicked Annabelle in the stomach and sent her flying out the door into the jungle of wild people. She ricocheted between laps, hip bones, and kneecaps— their music, deafening, and their collisions, disorienting. Ages passed before the girl reached her bed, away from the sophisticated chaos.

Neatly re-tucked in her pristine palace, Annabelle fastened her eyes shut.

In the days to come, Annabelle wondered which of the exposed that night was more frightening—the girl who saw a ghost, or the girl who wished she was one?

And silently, Memory's ghost swaddled the girl like pristine white sheets.

Rule #2) Flip the switch.

"THE SUN did not shine. It was too wet to play, so they sat in the house all that cold, cold, wet day..." Annabelle thought as she and her siblings descended carpeted stairs with steps like rolling thunder.

Stumbling into the darkness, all giggling was silenced, and Laughter's entire existence was forgotten until light flooded the playroom and the children roamed freely.

Almost.

Danger lurked along the left-hand wall—a deep hole, where, no doubt, night creatures nested and the final cries of foolhardy children were laid to rest. The area was concealed by placemats, and still the children ventured close to peer inside, but not Annabelle. Soft, weighted footsteps bid her to not tempt fate.

She watched the others stare down the cave's throat, scoffing its mystery. Only Annabelle knew it stared right back as they built cardboard castles, defended by little boys, and large plastic candy canes.

Watching. Waiting for the slightest misstep to then swallow her down in an instant.

So Annabelle built her castle on the opposing wall declaring, "Watch if you must, and know that I, too, am watching. Always watching."

Rule #3) No peeking.

THE FAMILY had made a habit of watching films every evening. Father said it was because they hadn't outgrown their need for a story before bed.

The children had each developed a fair sense of right and wrong, and, as parents might hope, the persuasion of fictitious characters would not supersede their own guidance.

"Close your eyes," Mom and Dad instructed, and obediently, little palms suctioned to little eye sockets.

Annabelle couldn't tell why she did it. She just did.

Slowly her fingers slid apart.

Through finger-blinds, Annabelle witnessed the corruption of humanity. She wouldn't have called it that, then. No, with not yet enough reason to question it, Annabelle locked the image away in a time capsule to be curated at a later date. But Annabelle had not performed a burial that night, for what she had welcomed into her mind was already dead. The stench of this decaying and lustful creature soon marred her mind. But the girl was aware of this, as much as a corpse is aware it is dead.

Rule #4) Look both ways.

"WE'RE JUST gonna run some tests," a pair of glasses told her.

_For what?_ Annabelle thought.

The only tests she had known involved times-table flashcards.

Today's test was different.

She laid as a pharaoh might in her resting place, foreboding bystanders of her ill-fated curse. In the white tunnel, she was tormented by strange cackles belonging to the old witch who'd once presided over her sleep. Her neck began to burn, and Annabelle started to cry—first in soft streams, then in terror-stricken sobs. White gloves removed her from the tunnel, and the refugee gasped as she rose to scratch away the flames in her neck. The tension ceased, and Annabelle reclined in her mummified state until the white glove began swabbing her arm.

"What are you doing?" Annabelle murmured.

"We need to draw some blood," the white glove hissed.

The white glove advanced toward her arm with a long silver tooth, and the easy green light in Annabelle's eyes flicked passed yellow, straight to red. She violently protested until the white gloves permitted her to sit upright.

The girl looked to her left, scrutinizing the operator. She looked to her right at Mother clasping her hand, and then back to the white glove.

They'd cross this street together, Annabelle and Mother, like they always had. For Annabelle trusted the white glove the way she trusted drivers to obey traffic signals and be mindful of little girls.

She watched her life-blood satisfy vial after deep-red vial.

The depleted arm was wrapped ceremoniously, and Annabelle reentered the catacomb where old crones screeched and spectators fled, lest they be cursed, too.

Rule #5) Ride the bike.

THEY TOLD her she was sick, but Annabelle had been sick before. When the girl had a cold, she could still play hide-and-seek, but lately it seemed the whole world was hidden. When bed-ridden with fever or strep throat, the girl could color pictures, but now colors were absent, and her eyes couldn't picture them. If not carried, the young girl clung to railings to escalate household terrain and received visitors like a hospice member.

Annabelle was _very_ sick.

To the rhythm of soft, weighted footsteps, much of her body succumbed to disease, but never her mind. No, never her heart that dreamed of swampy forests ruled by tree fort kingdoms and endless sunshine to govern the skies.

Like any rising seven year old, Annabelle measured the wide world in pedaling cycles, and there came a time when her monsters could not detain her any longer.

On feet, light in both pigment and substance, Annabelle ventured from her tucked sheets, slid a reliant hand along the wall and, in vain, flicked off the light switch. The ghost girl followed the creaking floorboards to the stair. Annabelle's head twisted right to confront the shadow there, then left towards Mother's warm, salty scent.

Taking her hand, Mother and Annabelle crossed the threshold.

"Follow Mommy's voice," Mother called in wary faith to her sightless child, and so she did.

Atop her two-wheeled steed, Annabelle resisted the shocks of gravel and absorbed the folding grass that bowed as she passed.

Death could not have her that day, and so she lived.

In a world of nightmares, Annabelle lived—and she rode her bike, blind to the wolf's advances.

#  THE RED RAPHA

# By Brennah Whiteside

## 11th Grade

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Above and Beyond

HER VIOLET hair clung to the moisture coating her hollow bone structure, dusted boots planted in the fertile soil of the memories once known to be a proud kingdom.

The sun had grown darker that day—that dawn of betrayal, those hours of devastation.

Mirages of rustic towers and soaring eagles loomed over the deserted valley. Distant trumpets roared with victory far across the land. A broad ox blood flag vividly wavered among the mountains, the sunlight bursting past the constant triumphant flapping in the wind.

The girl's darkened eyes saddened at the mere thought of her begotten kingdom's rule. A chord struck profoundly with sorrow in her heart at the recollection of her past kingdom's fate.

Gruesome images flooded the valley—children shrieking, mothers weeping, fathers fighting for their families against the abrupt attack of the Nomaite Isle. She winced as she reflected on those times. Her ears rang with the cries of her people. Her heart weighed heavy with the forgotten ones. Helpless villagers, slaughtered at the might of a sin older than time. She cringed with the pain that only a leader can slave.

Falling to her knees, the girl could only stare at the ruins. Her cry broke the deadly silence, head buried in her shaken hands. Guilt gouged at her spirit, tears relenting in pain.

She felt defeated.

A soft breeze drew back her stifled breath. Lifting her eyes, she peered at a red tree on a far-off hill. Just past where the beloved kingdom used to prevail, a red-blossomed tree stood proud in the rays of the East. The girl knew this tree from legends, thought to be only folklore.

It was the Red Rapha.

She heightened with the strength that only hope can offer. It is a tree birthed from sorrow but nurtured by faith. The Red Rapha represents a future worth fighting for.

"All it takes is faith the size of a mustard seed," she recalled under her breath. She gazed at the miraculous sight in awe. For this end solely resembled the makings of a new beginning.

#  SEA OF RUINS

# By Carter Lundgren

## 10th Grade

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Lords of Lankhmar

ZAER WAS alone. He preferred it this way. No one can bother you in isolation.

He leapt from pillar to pillar and stopped to gaze at the desolation—dilapidated buildings, collapsed towers, and giant stone slabs as far as the eye could see.

Zaer was quite fond of the Sea of Ruins. His parents always nagged him to stay away. "You'll injure yourself!" he said in a ridiculous voice mimicking his parents. _I'd be long dead if I wasn't capable of traversing the ruins properly_ , he thought to himself.

He jumped from the ten foot pillar and landed with a roll. The roll stopped abruptly by a glass wall. Zaer writhed in pain on the ground for a good half hour. After the pain subsided, he stood back up and checked for blood or a concussion.

He glared at the tall figure reflected in the glass.The towering seventeen year old with his messy brown hair and vibrant green eyes had ruined his cool roll. "Heh," smirked Zaer, "the ruins ruined it."

It was getting dark so Zaer headed back, not wanting to invoke his parents' wrath. On his way, he saw a wall just a bit shorter than him. He got a running start and vaulted over, failing to realize there was a large pit just behind it.

_Crap_ , was Zaer's only thought as he plummeted down into the abyss.

Lucky for him, there was a deep pool at the bottom. As Zaer swam to the top and towards the shore, he looked around the crater. It was illuminated surprisingly well, with the sunlight glinting off the water. The mouth of the pit stretched into a long tunnel. Since the entrance was twenty feet above Zaer, he decided to look for a new way out.

He ventured into the foreboding passageway, his eye drawn to the strange markings that appeared on the walls with increasing frequency. He couldn't tell if they were scribbles or a different language. The farther he walked, the greater the markings appeared, until they coated the walls with solid black. Zaer pulled out a glowing bottle and held it out in front of him, to light the path sunlight no longer reached. A few steps later, he hit a dead end.

There was a small obelisk jutting from the ground—jet black like the walls. Just above it, a small diamond shaped rock floated, its ebony surface spinning slowly on its own axis. Zaer was intrigued by the hovering rock. _I wonder what kind of magic this is_ , he thought as he reached for it.

Zaer grabbed the stone and held it in his hand, inspecting it. It had ceased all movement, laying still in his palm. Zaer's eyes grew heavy and he collapsed to his knees. "Oh, this can't be good," he breathed, moments before sleep stole over him.

Zaer dreamt of his home town, Aidera, in the Sea of Plains. The entire village was ravaged by floods. Zaer floated in the water on his back, gazing left and right at what remained of Aidera. The small stone and wood houses were swallowed by the currents, leaving a scattering of rooftops.

He turned his attention to the water's mirrored surface, startling at his reflection. His body was wrapped in full battle armor, black as the night. The crimson water felt sticky and warm. Moving through its silky, iron depths pleased him.

A flash of white caught his eye, pulling him towards a sinking house. He swam closer, squinting at the rounded bit of ivory. The skull smiled at him as he drifted past. Zaer smiled back at it and waved. The dream was so joyous—he never wanted it to end.

But it did.

Zaer's eyes opened slowly. He felt an unfamiliar weight anchoring his hand to the ground. He raised his arm in disbelief. A jet black gauntlet covered his fist, fingers gripped tight around an obsidian sword.

Both were drenched in blood.

He then realized a few things. The first being that he was no longer in the cave. The second that he was back home. And the third...he was lying in a pool of blood. He yelled in alarm, wrenching himself from the slick floor and dropping the sword. The moment he released the sword, the gauntlet dissipated into nothing.

Thoughts raced through his head.

Whose blood is this? Is it mine? Am I dead?

Zaer felt his strength drain, forcing him to fall back onto his blood-soaked knees.

Why do I ache so badly? And why didn't anyone help me if this is my blood?

He realized that wouldn't make sense. There was entirely too much blood for just one person. He felt as if a stone dropped in his stomach and he grew pale. Slowly, Zaer looked up and studied his surroundings.

Corpses

Corpses littered the town. Shock rendered his voice useless. His eyes grew wide and he tried to back away. But it was to no avail, for he was in the center of the massacre.

His breathing grew erratic—his head pounded and his chest burned. He dashed home, averting his eyes from the gut-wrenching scene. He jumped over the bodies and limbs that littered the ground. When he made it home, he saw that his door was broken. It lay inside, cut into several pieces. He called for his parents and ran upstairs to their room. Their door was ajar—the stench of death poured from its gaping mouth.

Zaer stumbled into his room and collapsed on his bed. He cried until his pillow was soaked and his breathing slowed. He sat up and looked at himself. His clothes were covered in blood. Scarlet coated his hair and fingernails. It was everywhere.

He went into the bathroom and scrubbed it all away. He tugged on new clothes and stumbled into his room. Despair had taken Zaer. He felt nothing but pain. He stared at his hands and wondered why he continued living.

He had already come to the sinking conclusion that he had murdered everyone. He, alone held a deadly weapon and was the only one left alive.

He looked past his legs and saw the black diamond shaped rock. He picked it up and yelled, "Was this all your doing?" Zaer wrenched his hand back to smash it against the wall with all his might, when the rock suddenly vibrated.

He opened his hand. The rock floated up, a black cylinder materializing just above the diamond. The cylinder fell back into Zaer's hand. He stared at it, not sure what to feel anymore. Then, a large blade manifested above the cylinder. Zaer realized this was the same sword he had dropped. It was formidable, reaching a bit beyond five feet in length. The single edged sword was shaped like half of an elongated trapezoid. It was the same jet black as the rock. The strangest part was, it wasn't one solid piece of metal, but many floating pieces, none of which touched. Four separate pieces all the same size and shape made up the two sides of the sword, and a different piece made up the top which was slanted, giving the sword its deadly edge.

The center of the wicked sword was hollow and within it swirled a restless dark energy. The sword disgusted Zaer. It had murdered everyone and used him as a vessel.

He grabbed the two handed handle and swung at the wall. It was easy to swing. The blades cut straight through the wall. Zaer looked out the window and saw it had buried itself in someone's chest. Zaer went pale and felt sick again, remembering his current position. So he went out and looked for survivors. He checked every house and every room. In each one he found only more bodies and the sword. It was cursed to follow him but Zaer refused to touch it. He couldn't bring himself to bury everyone, seeing them was traumatic enough. So he found all the flammable liquids he could and burned the entire town.

Aidera was no more.

Zaer had packed a bag of essentials and set off towards the Sea of Trees. He heard it was a place heavily influenced by magic. He turned back one last time to look at his burning town. "Goodbye, everyone," he muttered in despair. "I'm sorry...I always wanted to be alone...but all I want now, is for you all to come back."

He turned away and saw the sword lying in front of him. "I'll bring you. But only because I need to find a way to destroy you." He said to the sword. He bent over and picked it up. It glowed and vibrated and suddenly disappeared, leaving only the diamond rock behind. Zaer reluctantly placed it in his pocket. He thought he heard a voice whisper, "Finally." He shook his head, thinking he must have been hearing things.

He was tired, broken, and lost.

And for the first time in his life, he was truly isolated.

Zaer was alone.

#  SEA OF RUINS

# Artwork by Carter Lundgren

## 10th Grade

#  THE SECRET OF GENAVUM

# By Braelyn Whiteside

## 9th Grade

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's God of the Drow

WE RUN down the corridors, the cold creeping down my spine like a virus.

Another sentinel comes around the corner. Besnik swiftly slips one of the spikes from his back and thrusts it into the enemy's heart. The lump of fur brushes my foot as I step over it. I'm about to run ahead when a giant fist grips my ankle and my head meets the concrete floor. The beast rolls on top of me, his sodden crimson fur weeping scarlet tears onto my chest. Two of his hands hold down my shoulders, while another one palms my face, its serrated claws digging through my scales. Green liquid blinds me.

"Sudama!" The voice calls my name right before a thud echoes off the cave walls. I reach for one of the knives on my belt. The sentry's last free hand takes hold of my wrist. My knee connects with his most sensitive area. The knife handle finally meets my palm and I guide the deadly blade through his skull. I push aside the lifeless Rubramalzek, and aid Besnik, hitting his opponent upside the head. Besnik kicks his knee from the side. The knee bends at an odd angle and I'm positive it's broken.

"Nice touch," I compliment the blue Draconem.

He responds with a wink as we continue our mission.

The hall opens up into a room with a ceiling so high, it's difficult to make out. Besnik looks confusedly at the map Torem gave us. "This should be where it is," he mutters to himself.

The doors across the room begin to open. Besnik and I hide in nearby shadows.

The leader of our enemy tribe comes through the entrance, his black cape flowing behind him. Turva stands in the very center of the room, eyes glowing yellow. "We've been waiting for you, you know," He states, his voice dark and deep. The cold feeling comes back and I feel sick.

I step out from our cover before Besnik can stop me. "How did you know we'd be coming?" The very sight of Turva sickens me. His narrow eyes that search your soul for something he could devour—his scarlet fur the color of poison, his spikes, dripping with the screams of every soul he's tortured from our tribe, Auctellio.

"If it's your dying wish to know," he snarls and another Rubramalzek brings out Torem, cut, bruised, and so weak they don't even bind him. He throws the traitor on the ground, and Besnik runs over to help our friend.

Turva turns to walk away but I can't let our mission end like this. "So where is it? The Genavum?"

He stops, but doesn't bother to face me. "In...safe keeping."

My heart sinks under the weight of his words. Our mission has failed. "And what will you do with it?" I whisper.

This time, he turns. We're face to face and I can feel his toxic breath rotting my skin, but I stand my ground. "Whatever I please. It would be pleasant if your tribe was out of our way."

Not only has our mission failed, but we've also failed our people. Shame taps me on the shoulder and I let it take over. Disgust, horror, and somberness force my shoulders to fall.

The ugly savage smirks and begins to walk away, signaling for us to be killed.

Troops file through doors on both sides of the room, surrounding Torem, Besnik, and I. More out of necessity than desire, I shake off all the emotions Turva injected me with and ready my knives. Besnik tugs more spikes from his back.

"You ready?" I challenge.

Besnik twists the spikes around in his hands. "Let's do this."

My legs carry me toward the enemy line, fueled by ire and terror. My knives slash in every direction, hitting some, missing some. I dodge a spear and counterattack with a blow to the gut and a blade to the head. The feeling of invincibility pumps violently through my veins. I am unstoppable.

A knife fails to penetrate the scales that guard my body, and one of my longer blades slice off his head. I forcefully step on an enemy's foot, intending to stab him, but something hits my head. I fall out of balance from the surprise attack, and fall to the floor. A sword threatens to finish me, but I roll to the side and trip the perpetrator, throwing a knife into his chest.

Someone catches me from behind—holding me so another adversary could wrench the life out of me. He throws his blade at me, but I bend over, hurling my captor into the line of fire. I seize a knife in a nearby corpse just in time to shield myself from an incoming sword. The edges collide and I'm not sure I can overpower this one. He grits his teeth and the weight of his blade becomes heavier.

Over the hairy beast's shoulder, I spy Besnik trying to keep up with all the swords raining down on him. Besnik sees me watching him. "Light the bloody ómva!" His voice sounds tired and strained.

I look my enemy in the eye. With every last ounce of fading energy, I fling his sword as hard as I can to the left. Before he knows it, there's a knife in between his eyes.

The pouch on my belt reminds me we have the advantage. We have the ómva. A bomb designed by Auctellio's best and brightest. This better be the right time to use it because there have only been three we've made, and one took us almost a centaetus to create. It specifically targets red Draconem DNA coding within a 200 foot radius, and separates the cells from its owner. It's messy, but effective. I retrieve the small, rounded black piece of metal and place my claw inside the hole.

Something wraps around my neck and air no longer makes it to my pulmos. The ómva starts glowing green and flies up into the air. Black spots cloud my sight but I can feel it working. _Maybe we will survive. Maybe we could defeat the Rubramalzeks._

A tugging at the back of my mind succumbs to the dark. I'm numb and out cold.

~~~

SOMETHING DAMP and sticky clings to my eyes, making it almost impossible to open them. I wipe the mysterious substance off with my hands, astounded to see the ómva worked. Gunk was splattered all over the floors and walls.

I wonder if Turva was close enough to experience the bomb. Though the thought is probable, it is doubtful.

I search for Besnik under all the red goo. The door across the chamber is slightly open, my blue-scaled ally walks through it, also covered in Rubramalzek.

"This is the most horrendous thing I've ever seen in my entire 124 ages of life, Sudama. I'm telling ya," Besnik hollers, and I chuckle. He clutches his stomach, covers his mouth, and lets loose his digestive system.

"It couldn't have been that bad."

"You mean, you didn't see it?" He wipes the spittle from his lips.

"I was choked and passed out!"

He strides towards me, attempting to avoid puddles of our enemies. "Wimp."

"Look who's talking," I jeer, clapping him on the back.

We stand in silence for a while, then I ask, "So what now?"

Besnik sniffs, "Now, we take a bath."

#  THE SECRET OF GENAVUM

# Artwork by Coleman Criss

## 10th Grade

## Besnik

#  THE RED WORLD

# By Emma Schneider

## 8th Grade

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Ice of Phoenix

SHE STANDS in the middle of an endless sea of red grass. "Hello?" She calls out to me as I draw nearer. "Where am I?"

"Welcome to the Red World," I answer. "Population, one."

Her expression is bewildered. She has no idea who I am, and yet I know everything about her. "How do I get home? I need to get back to my family before they start to worry."

"They won't notice your absence," I tell her. "Unfortunately, you'll be stuck here for three days."

She looks me up and down, her blue eyes narrowing. "Just with you? Isn't that a little...scandalous?"

I smile. She says this same thing every time. "I promise you'll be safe. Who knows, you might even want to stay."

She scoffs. "I doubt it." We're joking, but even so, it's painful. My one wish is that she will stay, but she never has.

"Follow me," I say, taking her hand. She's hesitant at first, but eventually relents.

We wade through the tall grass toward my little wooden house, and I ask about her life. "Have any family?" I already know, but I just like to hear her voice.

"Yes," she replies. "It's my mother, father, sister and I. You know...I really feel like I've been here before."

I refrain from telling her that she has, instead I drop subtle hints. "This world is my home. I used to live where you come from, but I accidentally killed someone, and this place is my punishment."

She drops my hand. "You killed someone?"

"He was a thug," I say, "trying to take money from a little girl. I stabbed him. Turns out, he worked for the government." It used to take me a long time to tell her this story, but now it flows from my mouth like normal conversation. I've found that speaking about it casually helps her trust me.

We take a seat on my sagging porch and look out at the horizon. She is staring blatantly at my face. "What is it?" I ask.

She turns away, embarrassed. "Nothing. It's just...you look so familiar."

If the government is hoping to punish me, it's working. Having her look straight into my eyes and not recognize me is the hardest thing I've ever experienced.

"What's your name?" She asks.

"Adam," I say.

"I'm Penelope." _I love her name._ "You're kind of cute, Adam."

I used to try to make her fall in love with me. I would do everything I could to make her want to stay, but it never worked. Eventually, I learned to let things play out casually. She still never stays, but at least I don't come on too strong.

"Tell me about yourself," she says. "Do you get lonely out here?"

I nod. "Yes. You can't imagine how boring it is. You only have to be here for three days. My whole life is going to be spent here."

She sighs. "There's sort of a beauty to it, though. I like how simple it is. Plus, I've never seen this much grass in one place, or its unusual color."

I want to embrace her—wrap my arms around her body, and make her remember. It amazes me how her mind can take a place as ugly as the Red World, and still find something likable about it. This time, it is she who catches me staring.

She places a small hand on my chest and smiles. "You have a wild heart, Adam."

"What do you mean?" I ask. I've never heard her say this before.

"You love too quickly, and trust too easily. What if I were here to kill you?"

Everything within me wants to tell her why I trust her, why I love her, but she needs to figure it out on her own. My heart does feel wild, and on a whim, I brush a piece of her dark hair out of her face—something I would never do to a stranger.

"Being out here all alone can make a person do irrational things," I say.

She smiles, but her eyes are troubled. "I know your face," she tells me. "Where have I seen it before?"

"It doesn't matter," I say.

"It does," she protests. "Because I, too, am trusting." Her next words are whispered. "And love quickly."

I try to keep my hopes from soaring. I desperately want her to return my love, but things like this take time.

~~~

THE NEXT few days pass in a blur, but I savor every moment. With Penelope by my side, the whole world becomes brighter, even beautiful. She tells me stories I've heard hundreds of times, but never tire of, as I lead her on long walks through the fields. With each passing hour, she opens herself up to me more, and I fall in love all over again.

"Adam," she says near the end of her last day. "I feel like I've known you forever." She reaches for my hand, but I pull away gently. If I let down my guard, my heart will only break more.

"I do too," I reply. We sit down in the grass under the fading sunlight.

"You have the saddest eyes. Why?"

_Because of you_ , I want to tell her. Instead, I say, "It gets lonely out here."

"Has anyone else ever visited you?" She asks.

I shake my head. "Just you." This time I can't stop her from taking my hand.

"I've been here before, haven't I?" She inquires, her voice delicate. "You've been hurt, and I think I've done it to you. It makes sense. You seem so familiar, and...I wouldn't—I couldn't—fall in love with a stranger so quickly."

"Yes," I whisper. "You come here every year, but you never know who I am."

She isn't surprised. "While I've been here," she begins, "it's been as though you and I were the only two people alive. But now...memories of my friends and family are coming back. There are others that need me."

My stomach drops. "It's okay," I say. "You can leave tonight. Before midnight, you just say the words and everything will go back to normal."

She pulls a hand through her dark hair. "That's the problem. I don't know if I want to go back."

Again, I force soaring hopes back into my chest, keeping them out of the way. She can't stay. She won't stay. Her voice fills the night air again. "The slightest memories of times we've had together are returning, and I'm sure that...I love you."

I swallow the lump forming in my throat. "You know you can't live here with me. You have loved ones who need you."

She touches my cheek. "But _you_ need me," she says. "You don't have any loved ones. Except, maybe me. We could raise a family here. It's not so bad."

This is everything I wanted, but for some reason it feels wrong. I can't just take Penelope away from her family. It seems almost cruel. "No," I protest. "It wouldn't work. You think you'd be happy, but you'll miss your parents and sister. Once you stay, you can't ever go back. I can't do that to you."

A stray tear falls down her face, and I brush it away gently. "You're right," she says. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"It's okay," I say again. "I'll see you again someday."

She leans in and brushes her lips against mine, and it feels right—like a goodbye for now, but not forever.

"I want to go home," she calls out into the darkness.

At the sound of her voice, the ground begins to rumble, and she is gone. But this time I am not so sad. I will see her again.

One day, she will come back.

#  WELL COME

# By Caleb Lotz

## 8th Grade

# Inspired by PHENOMENA's Epiphany

HE AWOKE fast, breathing heavily, and in a daze. This was a man who had no name and had no right to one anymore, although you could still see his physical attributes if you had been there.

He was filthy with sweat and dirt. He was hairy, decent in shape, but his hair was revolting. He had received fresh scars somehow—slashes across his sides and chest, with bruises and other marks. His clothes were disgusting as well and smelled of body odor and manure. Much had happened to this man, and one thing that stood out was his eyes, they looked strong and seemed to possess soft shades of...no, solid shades of black.

The man, by now, may have come to his senses, but he was still unsure of where he was. The walls that surrounded him were like those of a tower or a well. It was solid earth where he sat, with dead grass at the bottom. The walls were covered by moss which was eerily as dark as the stone. At the top...was light. It had to be the sky, but it was too far up. There was no way to scale the wall, nor was there an exit...anywhere.

"You lost mate?" came a rough, painful voice from the unnaturally darker side of the well.

"I...uh," was all the man who just woke could manage to form with his lips.

"Of course you are. Take your time easing yourself," said the man on the darker side. "In fact, we'll play a little game. Now, I understand you don't know me and well...I actually know you, but that's beside the point, right? Right! Anyway, I bet you can't guess where we are. I'll give you three, no, four chances to wager a guess."

The man who woke was suffering from shock, but did his best to recover and cooperate. "Well I would love to..uh...believe it or not, but who did you say you were, again?"

"I didn't," said the man on the darker side. "In fact, I can't exactly tell you or you would likely figure out where we are, but if it's any difference to you, you're James, correct?"

"Oh.....yes...that is my name," said the man who woke.

"Right then! So, James...where _exactly_ are we?"

"Um," muttered James as he rubbed a bruised hand across his ashen face.

"Um isn't a place, James, but if you would care to think quietly to yourself, that would be fine by me," said the man on the other side.

"Right," said James.

James was contemplating his surroundings, but of course, as we humans only think of the obvious solutions or tend to analyze them, we provide answers like James. "A well?" James asked, his face colored with sluggishness.

"If it were as obvious as that, James, we wouldn't be playing. Time _is_ of the essence, so think smart and fast. The well is a good metaphor, however, think deeper. You're stuck and nearly alone...you have 3 guesses left," said the man on the darker side.

"What are you trying to pull?" shouted James. "A cave? A damn shelter? Where the hell are we?" James screamed while trying to stand, except...James couldn't stand, for when he looked down...there were no legs.

James looked up, and for the first time, saw the man who spoke. Only his face showed. Though it was dark, James saw piercing dark eyes staring from a perfect male face covered with the rough stubble of his 5 o'clock shadow. _He looks like an angel,_ James pondered in his mind with awe.

"Flattered," said the man. "But, James, during your little pow-wow, you seemed to have been _in the moment_ , I guess you could say, and guessed twice. You have one last chance."

"I know where we are now," said James, his voice hushed and calm.

"Where, then?" asked the man whose face was hidden once again.

"Heaven," James answered blankly.

The man did not answer.

Suddenly there was a grunt, then a small chuckle, followed by a giggle and another. A burst of "Bwahahahahahahaha!" erupted from the side where the man was.

A look of confusion fell over James. Abruptly, he was confronted by the man he was speaking to.

He saw—all of him.

"No, James. Not at all," said the man to his face. "In fact, we're in Hell," The man said, roaring with laughter. He barely managed to release his final words. "And _I_ am the very _Satan_ himself!"

##  
#  DOVE

# By Sarah Aisling

Inspired by PHENOMENA's Fortress of Solitude

THE CHERRY red ultralight clears the tops of the trees, heading straight for the craggy, boulder-strewn side of Mount Hope.

The walkie-talkie strapped to my wrist crackles, and Dad's frantic voice squawks, "Dove, bank left!"

I maintain speed, breathing deeply as cool air rushes past my face, sending ribbons of hair trailing out behind me. The deadly rocks loom closer, and a mix of exhilaration and fear rush through my bloodstream.

Close.

"Remember your emergency protocols!"

My fingers encase the throttle so tightly, it might have to be pried from my hand.

Almost there.

"What's happening? Jesus—"

I regret how helpless my father must feel, believing his only child is about to slam into the side of a mountain. Is he thinking of _her_ , my mother, how he'll be truly alone in the world if the ultralight ends up crumpled like a discarded ball of paper?

My veins burn. My chest expands and contracts at the same time.

There it is.

At the edge of certain death, I wrench the controls—working hands and feet feverishly—and the ultralight veers up and to the left, slipping past an outcropping. It's almost as if the space was carved out in anticipation of a reckless, sixteen-year-old girl searching for the ultimate rush.

When the wheels finally touch down, I'm already unstrapped. My father is huffing hard from running, but he's there, throwing himself at me, lifting and cradling me to his chest like a toddler. He turns around and around, the hazy orb of the sun playing peek-a-boo with me.

His eyes are shut tight, lips mumbling as if in prayer. Then the tears come, and he sits down in the tall grass and holds me close. The bright green blades tickling my cheeks wave proudly around us.

On the way home, the _"What the hell were you thinking, young lady?"_ never comes. It never does. Over and over I stretch the limits of what's possible, watching my father age before me.

Dad turns on the radio, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. "Do you want to stop for ice cream?"

"No, thanks." I don't deserve it.

Guilt is an ugly troll under the bridge of life.

I rest my cheek against the cool glass of the passenger window, wondering why he didn't mention the impression of my sneaker molded into the floor of the ultralight or the misshapen throttle.

When we arrive home, I pull out my Lofstrand crutches—the annoying walking sticks I use to get around. Right now, I could run or jump or break concrete blocks with my legs and bend steel with my bare hands. For Dad's benefit, I pretend to struggle out of the car.

A few hours from now, the struggle will be real.

I have a rare disease. It's so unique, my deceased mother and I are the only documented cases in the world.

Mom died when I was six. My memories of her are mere impressions: warm hugs, soft lips against my ear at night to banish monsters, a cascade of dark curls tickling my skin, striking blue eyes, the voice of an angel singing to me . . . all mashed up with the pain of losing her and memories of Dad walking around like a shell of himself, trying to stuff his feelings inside. I kept watching, waiting for him to explode like a canister snake. I can't say he's healed over the past decade, but he copes.

Mom died of "complications" from our mysterious illness. Sometimes Dad looks at me with dread in his eyes when he thinks I'm not looking. I guess I can't blame him.

After we go inside, Dad disappears into his office, and I disappear into my room. I sit by the window overlooking the backyard and rest my chin on my hands, allowing the gravity of my burden to settle inside my gut and swell—a thirsty sponge sopping up my fear, loneliness, and desire for someone to share this with.

The first surge happened on a roller coaster. As the centipede of cars tipped over the top of the highest summit, adrenaline shot through my veins. I screamed and whooped, but not with fear—with pure joy. And my foot punched a hole in the bottom of the car. For the first time in my life, I didn't need to lean on anything or anyone in order to walk. The burst of strength lasted six hours. Since then I've had to do progressively wilder things to recreate the phenomenon, and each burst seems to be shorter than the last.

An effusion of restlessness invades every muscle and tendon inside me until they're singing with desire. I need to move or suffer the inevitable pain that comes when I don't.

I pull a sweatshirt over my head as I pause by the door to my father's office and knock lightly. "I'm going for a walk."

"Careful, Dove."

I press my cheek to the door. "Love you."

"And I love you."

For show, I use my walking sticks to make my way into the woods behind our house, but once away from prying eyes, I collapse them and use the homemade straps I designed to sling them across my back.

Beneath the thick canopy of trees exists a different world, where the sounds of human life melt away. The pungent perfume of damp earth and decaying leaves envelops me. I find a familiar path leading into the valley and start to run, each shockwave reverberating pleasantly up my legs.

I end up at the same place as always, an old train trestle deep in the woods. I love to sit underneath it and scream as loud as possible when the train goes by. The screech and roar of the cars overhead swallow secrets. No words are taboo here; the silence that follows cleanses it all away.

I pick my way through the metal and wood supports until I reach my favorite perch. Anticipation builds inside as the blare of the whistle sounds, the rumble of the arriving train growing louder.

A sudden rending crack splits the air, and the entire trestle shudders. A section of the bridge buckles, sending chunks of debris plunging into the creek. The train will derail!

I scale the metal support closest to the sagging track and crawl onto the crossbeam that runs just below it. Shrieking a war cry, I raise both arms above my head and straighten to full height, becoming a buttress.

As the train barrels over the trestle, I clamp my eyes shut and pray, certain the quaking reverberations will shake me apart. The thundering bullet doesn't go over me—it surges _through_ me, making me part of its glorious power and creating a rush of adrenaline like no other that explodes through my veins.

After the train is gone, silence returns, carrying forgotten words my mother whispered to me before she died, words that permeate my soul.

"The genetic mix is perfect this time. You will do what I couldn't, Dove. Be strong. Be brave. Be amazing, sweet girl. I love you."

My mom _knew._ I will honor her memory by discovering my true purpose.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Sarah Aisling hails from the East Coast of the US and loves living by the ocean with her indulgent husband and precocious daughter. She's working on the full-length version of her short story, Dove, and is editing another novel entitled The Weight of Roses. When Sarah isn't being enslaved by her characters, she can usually be found with her nose in a book, obsessing over nail polish or anything leopard, biking, hiking, camping, and spending time with friends and family. Website,  Facebook, Twitter,  Goodreads

#  HERO

# Artwork by Ryo Ishido

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Fortress of Solitude

## Ryo Ishido: Facebook, Twitter, Soundcloud, YouTube

#  TIMEKEEPER

# By Alayna Fairman

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Fortress of Solitude

"YOU'RE COMING, right?" His daughter's voice, broken with emotion, came pitifully through the receiver. "...Dad?"

The connection crackled, but Lucas barely noticed above the slow ticking of the elegant watch secured around his wrist. "I can't."

"Grandma-ma is dying!" A gasping sob escaped her. "Grandpa-pa is sick with worry!"

"Sweetie..."

"Why can't you come?" Her voice was as mournful as the clouds overhead.

Tucking a hand into his pocket, he fingered the delicate metal gears and springs he had purchased minutes ago. His lips pressed into a thin line. "I have a commitment."

Silence rung in his ears.

"Sweetie...I'm sorry."

Shame gripped him as soft sobs penetrated through the static. As much as he wanted to be at the hospital with her, he could do no good there.

His gut twisted as he disconnected the call.

For his own lack of courage, he could not explain his absence. He had never been able to. Even if he could summon the words, she wouldn't believe him. No one would. Some days, he barely believed it himself. Each day he woke hoping it was a vivid, lingering dream and yet every morning the weight of the singular responsibility greeted him. He saw it first in his daughter's watch and then in the faces he passed on the street. He could never ignore them, could never tune out the Rhythm. He answered its call first, above any other.

Turning up his coat collar, Lucas ducked out from the shelter of the antique shop and into the rain. It was only a brief walk but by the time he reached his apartment he was drenched. Heedlessly, he tracked rain into the narrow entry hall and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the landing, he grabbed the handle of the banister and vaulted himself up the second flight. The ascent concluded abruptly in a solitary, wooden door. Without pause, he turned the lock and stepped over the threshold.

The Rhythm enfolded him instantly, a living wall of energy that took the air from his lungs. No matter how often he exposed himself, it never diminished in its potency. When he had first begun to sense the Rhythm, to feel the vibrations of energy that sustained life, any contact with another human inflicted the same breathtaking effect. Some years ago he had finally found a way to channel and contain the Rhythm of each individual. In doing so he had also discovered how to help them.

Pale, fluorescent light flooded the expansive room as he flicked on the light switch. Clocks occupied every corner and crevice, crawling up walls and crowding together on the cluttered floor. Majestic and unremarkable, expansive and reserved, elegant and simple; from grandfather clocks to pocket watches their combined hum filled the room. The air vibrated with the authority of their power. He could feel each and every one, sense every tick and detect every faltering reprise.

Lucas had built them, weaving the unique life energy of each individual into the woodwork, the balances and the mechanics. It had been impossible to create a single, simple clock that existed solely to contain the Rhythm, and each had taken a distinctive appearance to parallel their human counterpart. No two beat at the same pace, with the same urgency, of equal strength or comparable passion. Some were soft and weak, some powerful and grand, and others just existed. Each was perfect in all of their flaws and oversights. Each was invaluably precious to him.

At that moment however, there were only two that called to him. Adjacent to a tall window at the back of the room, the clocks of his grandparents leaned against one another for stability. On the left, his grandmother's was a beautiful tapestry of flowers and birds weaved into mahogany wood, and beside it his grandfather's was a gnarled oak structure inset with fish and bears, deer and wolves. The pair had been among the first Lucas had constructed, and from the beginning they had kept a synchronized rhythm.

Now, they seemed lost and disconnected. The pendulum of his grandmother's clock ground as it swung laboriously to and fro, the second hand beating with each painful click. The grandfather was faltering too, the pendulum rocking in a violent motion as if trying to slow itself by sheer force of will, setting the weights off balance and the hour hand to surpass the second. It was just like his grandfather: always racing to catch up, never content to follow behind.

Lucas's stomach twisted. He had woven their Rhythms into the clocks and in doing so he had uncovered how to alter the Rhythm, to change time and save life. Without the clocks, he could only sense the flow of energy. Now, he had a responsibility to sustain it.

Skirting around a stack of broken moulding and past his workbench where dials and clock hands were scattered among tools and shavings of gold, Lucas made his way swiftly across the room. Sinking to his knees at base of the clocks, he drew open the crystal-cut glass door of the grandmother clock. With trembling hands, he retrieved the parts from his pocket. He had tried everything else.

Time lost meaning and gathered consequence: hours laboured past while seconds mocked his desperate efforts. Metal shavings coated his hands and oil trickled down his wrists as he tried to restore the vitality of the mahogany grandmother. The pendulum rocked ever slower, whispering of existence ending as the weights shifted into their last stance of balance. Beside her, the gears of the grandfather ground as the hour hand spun, trying to catch up to the dying pace of its partner.

Lucas dropped back, clutching the tools with which he had granted countless others a second chance.

Understanding crept over him, bringing tears to prick at his vision as he listened to their countering Rhythms. They had done everything together, lived in synchronized Rhythm from the start. Both had confided in him that they did not wish to be left behind, in life or in death. Now, the clocks spoke of that truth.

Lucas's eyes drifted to the tools in his hands with remorse. He was the only one who could fulfill that wish, the only one who could keep them together.

Reluctantly, he opened the glass door of the grandfather clock.

Connecting the heartbeats of the clocks proved effortless and minutes later, Lucas sat before them, distantly watching the twin pendulums drift back and forth in a calm, synchronized rhythm. A lover's dance ending, they slowed with each pass until the last gear turned and momentum died out, settling them to rest. Despite the other lives that continued to beat around him, the room seemed suddenly silent and still. Only the Rhythm of his daughter's watch persisted into his consciousness, its pace erratic with fear and grief.

His phone suddenly blared to life and the hum of the clocks returned in intense opposition, reminding him that there were others who needed more time.

His answer would be the same.

Cradling the watch against his chest, Lucas closed his eyes and picked up the call.

He couldn't come.

He had commitments.

#  PHENOMENA

# Artwork by Lukas Jurco

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Fortress of Solitude

#  

#  OBLIVION

# By Nitish Raina

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Fortress of Solitude

THE ONE-HANDED boy limped toward the Asylum.

The Imperators had come up with many names for the gigantic structure over the decades. The Safekeep, the Hightower, the Purgatory. Fortress of Solitude, they called it now. But the common masses had never really cared. To them it'd always been the Asylum. Its occupants were, after all, said to be locked away to protect others from them. People infected with the virus that'd wiped out half the world. Monsters—who, if not contained—would wipe out the other half as well.

But unlike the masses, the boy knew the truth. Monsters weren't contained in the Asylum. They were created there.

"Halt!" a voice called. A thick, gruff voice. His father's voice had been thick. That hadn't saved him from being dragged to the Asylum.

The boy turned. Nine guards were making their way toward him.

Nine.

Nine was how old he'd been when they'd taken him from his mother. The poor lady had barely put up any resistance. What was the point? The Sentinels would've taken him either way, just like they'd taken his father. But that was all in the past; a life behind him. He was fifteen now, and a different person.

"What are you doing out here?" asked another guard in a high-pitched voice. "Curfew has been imposed!"

With his lone hand, the boy pulled his cloak round himself tighter.

"You mute, boy?" Gruff-voice had spoken this time. "What's your name?"

Name. They could have his name. "Oblivion," he said, wincing as the muscles in his neck spasmed. "Oblivion, Oblivion," he repeated, jerking his head both times as his neck convulsed painfully.

The guards drew back, horrified. "H-He's been to the Netherside."

Everything that was outside the city was the Netherside to them. Funny, they thought there was a place lower than this crumbling mass of decadence.

"Call the Sentinels!"

"Don't bother, he'll die on his own—"

That was true enough. Anyone who ventured outside was dead in a day.

"Summon them!"

The boy didn't move as four humanoid guards—their bodies ostensibly made of metal—emerged from one of the many alleys intertwining through the city. Four Sentinels.

Four.

Four months was how long they'd operated on him in the Asylum. Four months of insufferable agony as his right arm had been "rebuilt." They said he would feel no pain once they'd worked on his head.

They never got that far, though.

When they moved to his left arm, his organs began failing. Just like the other rejects, they'd thrown him into the Netherside. Lacking a hand, lacking his sanity.

The Sentinels were solely responsible for the Imperators' power over the city. Everyone knew that the Sentinels were invincible, yet no one knew how the Imperators built them, or the reason behind their infallible loyalty.

The boy did.

He let his cloak drop, drawing startled gasps from the guards. Perhaps they were surprised at his missing left hand. Or the metallic right one. Some of them were probably comparing his right arm to that of the Sentinels—eyes widening with shock even as their minds struggled to draw conclusions.

Yes, they were right in drawing a link between him and the Sentinels. Like them, he'd almost become a killing machine. Almost turned into a monster to rob the citizens of their free will. Almost, but for his body failing at the last moment.

The Sentinels, who were now training their arm-cannons at him, were mindless machines of destruction, yes.

But the boy . . . The boy was something more.

More startled gasps emerged as the boy's left arm suddenly appeared. It wasn't his real arm—he'd lost that, with everything that'd held his mind together. It was green, ethereal, and—judging from the guards' reactions—ghastly.

The arm turned into a whip and lashed out, sweeping across the narrow alley and grabbing all four hapless Sentinels. A moment ago, their arm-cannons had been ready to unleash raging destruction upon him.

And now, they were little more than heaps of junk.

"W-What are you?!" said one of the guards, frozen in place. The others had already turned back and were running down the alley.

"Oblivion," he said, his head convulsing as pain shot through his neck. "Oblivion, Oblivion," came the two involuntary reiterations with an equal number of head-jerks.

His ethereal hand shot out again, grabbing all eight of the fleeing guards in a single swipe. They didn't turn into a heap of junk, like the Sentinels had.

They turned to ash, as all things eventually do.

"The Netherside," croaked the guard, his eyes now devoid of life. "What did you find there?"

When they'd taken his hand, they told him they'd take away his will. Force him into submission. Break his resolve.

"Resolve," he said. "Resolve, resolve."

The guard struggled to speak. He didn't need to. The boy embraced him with his green, spectral arm, his expression unchanging as the man's body began crumbling to a mound of black ash.

He turned back toward the Asylum. The Fortress of Solitude. The symbol of everything that was wrong with this city.

He would burn the place to the ground today, and the people would call him a hero for it. They'd tell stories of him for years to come. About the hero who'd saved the city.

Did he think himself to be a hero? Not really.

Would he save them? Yes.

Everyone had a right to hope. Everyone had a right to be free. Everyone had a right to have what had been stolen from him.

Everyone had a right to be . . . normal.

And anyone who tried to take that away . . . For them, he'd be the end of the road.

For them, he would be Oblivion.

#  FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE

# Artwork by Camille Cabezas

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Fortress of Solitude

#  THE CALLING OF A HERO

# By Melissa Muhlenkamp

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Fortress of Solitude

THE BREEZE picks up, blowing my hair into the air like strokes of black ink against the gray sky. I lift my eyes toward the approaching storm. The rising clouds embrace the ruined city in a violent expansion of gray smoke and sand, covering the metropolis as it has every night since it all began.

My earpiece buzzes to life. "5-0-L-1-T-U-6-3, we have a breach." I press the button under the skin behind my ear to silence the voice and rub the back of my neck. The tension in my muscles isn't real, I know. I have no muscles anymore, but the gesture still feels natural. My eyes drop to the exposed skeleton revealed under the eroded skin around my fingers. No muscle tissue, no tendons, no veins, just a conglomeration of wires and polished metal that used to be wrapped by a synthetic membrane. "Solitude, do you copy? We have a breach."

A sigh escapes my lips, followed by the faintest of groans, and my attention drops to the identification code etched on my wrist. I know the combination of numbers and letters can be read as "Solitude," but I can't help disliking the nickname.

"This is 5-0-L-1-T-U-6-3," I say. "I am on my way."

I return my attention to the swelling storm. A frown creases my forehead as I acknowledge once more the reason behind my calling. My body, unlike any other, blends with the broken surroundings perfectly. I am just another mass of rusted metal, lost in a jungle of forgotten dreams. I walk toward the edge of the guard tower as the orange moon vanishes from view. Fort TR35 stands behind me, a stronghold of isolation that protects its inhabitants from the harsh environment of the outside world.

I bend my knees, lean forward, and jump. My feet hit the ground just as the sandy winds envelop me, wearing away a little more of the synthetic skin that remains around my face. I pull the black scarf over my nose and cheeks in an attempt to protect them. The sand scrapes against the soft tissue, but at least I don't bleed. A human wouldn't stand a chance against the abrasive power of the nightly storms.

My heat sensors activate, expanding my awareness of the surroundings. I look up, focusing my attention on the swirls above me. I wasn't created to protect. The military cyborg program that conscripted me at the age of eighteen had only intended to use my brain as the nervous system of a metal carcass that could endure countless wars without harm. But fifteen years later here I am, the sole survivor of a ghost project, living to protect the remnants of human civilization.

My peripheral view detects red bodies moving in my direction. I turn to face the three approaching monsters. Their yellow eyes glow like gold coins, revealing the high levels of radiation coursing through them. They, too, survived the nuclear holocaust, but their survival turned them into something else, something ghastly, something not human. They are called The Others. I square my shoulders, ready to confront them.

Two of them jump first, aiming their gaping jaws toward my neck. Their rotting teeth open wide, craving the taste of real flesh. I can't help laughing as I reach for their slimy throats and pivot in place before slamming their hairless bodies to the ground. They would be disappointed to discover sheets of corroded metal under my dark suit rather than the blood they hunger for. The third monster lunges against my back, digging his broken nails into the sides of my arms. I yank him off and smash him against the other two just as I pull the knife from my belt. He whimpers in pain, but the cry barely leaves his lips before I slide the dagger under his chin.

The other two stand, struggling for balance. I tug one of them by the leg and pull him into the pointed edge of my knife while the other one runs away. I lift my blade, intending to throw it in his direction. But I don't, knowing the swirling storm will hinder its trajectory. A frustrated growl leaves my lips. My only choice is to follow him.

My legs pump against the ground, chasing his trail. My heat sensors don't pick him up, so finding him amid the billowing storm could take all night. I maneuver around piles of broken cement and decayed metal, not quite certain of my location. Hours pass without signs of him. I finally turn around and begin to retrace my steps when a giant, red mass of moving bodies comes into view. My limbs stop in their tracks; I am surrounded.

"Solitude, do you copy? The Others are here. They are attacking the fortress," says the voice inside my ear. I blink several times, analyzing the information. Fort TR35, or the Fortress, as humans call it, is under direct attack. It takes me a second to connect the ambush before my eyes and the assault against the fort, both perfectly synchronized. "Solitude, we need you!" the voice yells.

I press the button behind my ear. "Are the gates sealed?"

"They won't be much longer. We can't keep them out," says the voice.

I cast a glance toward the approaching mass of mutated creatures closing in around me, and begin to run in the direction of the fort. My legs propel my body upward just as the mutants reach me, raising me off the ground and over them. I don't turn around, knowing they will follow me, but this doesn't matter. I will outrun them before reaching the fort.

"The fortress must hold," I say through clenched teeth. "Seal the outer compartments if you have to."

The voice pauses for a moment, as if unsure of something. "If we seal the outer compartments you won't be able to get in, and we won't have connectivity anymore."

I clench my fists as my legs pick up speed. The mutants knew this would happen. This was their plan all along, to lead me from the fortress and eradicate its only defense. But I see no other way out. I can wait out the storm until the receding clouds return the atmosphere to the calm but scorching temperatures of daytime, even if it means further harm to my metal skeleton. The mutants will retreat, too. The extreme heat affects them just as much as humans, if not more.

Some of the young survivors in the fort call me a superhero for risking my life to defend them against The Others. I don't think I agree. My memories of superheroes from the magazines I used to read as a child portray brightly dressed people that can fly and break walls. I can't do that, but if my actions bring hope into the hearts of the survivors, then the concept isn't so difficult to accept.

"Seal all outer compartments," I repeat. "Let no one in."

The voice doesn't respond. There is no need to. My earpiece buzzes, then stops.

The fortress is secure.

#  PHENOMENA

# Artwork by Elizabeth Ann Watts

## Inspired by PHENOMENA's Fortress of Solitude

#  
