SPINE

Manifesto: Our objective is to create and publish stories that transcend the bounds of genre and create their own world in which

characters become real. We will hook you with intriguing adventures, trials, and discoveries that leave you thinking and

wanting more. We will provoke and enthrall you with our unique plots that have the power to change your very being,

that will show and teach you things that will be too profound to keep solely to yourself. It will be as if you are in the

story breathing the same air, going the same places, surviving the same perils as the characters.

Table of ContentsThe New Guy ~ Senga Mellet................................................................1

A Note ~ Anya Lynn...............................................................................3

Leting Go ~ Natalia Belvoir....................................................................4

Three Men and Two Guns ~ Connor Reid..........................................5

Slices of Watermelon ~ Coldesire Alskjd..............................................8

So Still ~ Jules Twinings..........................................................................9

Midnight Masks ~ Nathaniel Clydes.....................................................11

Till We Meet Again ~ Anya Lynn.........................................................13

A Chance Encounter ~ Natlia Belvoir...................................................14

Spikey Tree of Death ~ Violet Llyons...................................................15

The Date ~ Connor Reid........................................................................16

Dr. Pepper ~ Anya Lynn........................................................................17

Milk Crate ~ Chewbacca Rensselaer......................................................18

River ~ Maya Miran.................................................................................19

The Berserker ~ Violet Llyons................................................................21

The Epiphany of Mr. Wei ~ Evan Minto..............................................22

Take Me ~ Natalia Belvoir......................................................................23

No Real Answers ~ Grumsh Oneeye.....................................................24

Like an air bubble in a patch of wet cement, the main dome

of Peary Crater Prison sat very small in the half-mile wide saddle

between two bright peeks, among the tallest on the moon. Near

the dome, smaller buildings and the drifting dust motes of suited

men - a dozen or so near the edge of a shallow pit wherein

scores more worked, moving in jerky hops or swiveling bow leg-

ged strides. Banks of towering lights circled the pit. (The peaks

of the two mountains remained ever in the sunlight, but in the

valley between them night came and stayed for half an earth

month.)

The men wore bright foil suites far less bulky than early space

suites, bullet-shaped helmets screwed on like the lids of wide-

mouthed jars. Locked on, and only the guards with keys, can

openers they were called. Because the easiest way to die here,

the first prisoners had found, was to unscrew your helmet and

let the paper bags of your lungs void into the vacuum.

Near the pit sat a long low cart. Tilted between it and a plat-

form midway up the sloping side of the pit was a three foot wide

belt laden with rocks of various sizes. Two men worked arrang-

ing the rocks as they toppled in, occasionally signalling to the

workers below. Beyond the glare of the lights the sky was agate

black and starless.

One of the forms, the taller, leaned back to gaze up at the nearer

of the peaks. On its summit stood a kind of slim lighthouse,

and from the top of that rose a solar array - blue panels beaded

along paired poles that extended, like the wings of a dragonfly,

fifty meters from either side of a center beam.

Wings drinking sunlight. Astazi felt it. Drinking to fill the

belly of the prison. Small sips from the inexhaustible river ever

rushing past. Rushing home.

“I must see it -”

The other prisoner stopped pushing rocks. “In a hundred-five,

hundred-ten hours you will.”

The prison hunkered half way between crater floor and peek. A

faint path showed, lit part way by the pit lights. And when he

left the perimeter of artificial light, his feet would sense, would

know the way to the top . . . already they moved: one small step,

another, then a long floating leap. . . .

“Are you crazy man, they’ll cut your temp off! They’ll -”

With a thumb flick, stopping the voice.

He climbed on rocks not unlike the rocks of his mesa, up

heights no higher. Yes the suit encumbered but the 1/6th grav-

ity released. As he climbed nearer the sunlight, he grew colder

and colder; had expected it. As the guard sitting bored before

a screen expected him to turn around. Everyone even the new

guys knew how long you could survive on the surface without

heat. Long enough perhaps to climb the nearer peak, but not to

get back.

He climbed on. With his mind he shrunk the core of his being

to a fierce hot coal between lungs and heart. Pulled his fingers

in from the fingers of the glove. Climbed.

The golden upper link of the sun, blinding light blunted by the

helmet’s faceshield. A few steps more and he saw as much as

anyone still on the surface could see: half the bright orb in slow-

motion ascent, no rays because no atmosphere carried them, but

still the heat and the power. The glory.

The New Guyby Senga Mellett

On the other oddly close horizon nothing, yet. He climbed

faster, the coal cupped now like a match between palms. Earth

hung lower, shyer. She would make him climb all the way. I

am coming, he said aloud into the can, the helmet, as if she

could hear him as if she had been waiting.

She had been waiting. He faced her, just above the lunar hori-

zon, the bottom third in shadow. Africa was on its side, horn

pointing left at the south pole. Over the Pacific the mandala of

a young storm. The star at his back, its masculine heat pouring

over him on its way to her. And the sun-siphoning wings silent

ten man-lengths above him. He was a wing, a solar panel, a leaf

imbibing light.

He was a mortal man. Would they cut oxygen next?

Turning from earth to sun he spread his arms, palms open,

and inhaled deeply. A zephyr of the solar wind entered him

and fanned the fading coal bright. The temp reading on his

faceshield showed negative 20 fahrenheit. In the shadows it

would plummet thirty or forthy more.

He bounded in one leap to the edge. Was it fifty feet, a hun-

dred, to the level place below? Not knowing, he leapt, rolling

as he landed to the edge of that plateau. Leaping again, in a

few places having to walk, long strides, then leaping where there

was a ledge and a chance . . . It took him nearly an hour to get

down, and a broken arm, and three frostbitten toes.

But he had seen her, he could go on, he could make it to the

morning.

Before his climb, the quiet new man’s youth and seeming passiv-

ity had made him a target, doomed to die or comply. After the

climb, the news circumnavigated maindome before the cast on

his arm had even hardened. Two surface hours with temp cut.

Guys working on the surface had seen him leaping down from

the peak. Like something flying, one said. Like water falling.

Even Xia Lang was impressed. Wanted him for a cellmate.

Lang had come in the first ever transport and was himself a

legend. A MAW (most-affected world) terrorist sentenced

to life, he had survived the years when surface workers were

steamed alive so often by solar flares prison lingo named them

lobs (for lobsters). Inside wasn’t so safe either. Asteroids pierced

the domes pretty regularly, until better materials and warning

systems were shipped from earth. Virtality wasn’t let in until

the fifth year, when sensory deprivation insanity had cut the

workforce by a third.

Lang was more than a survivor though. Though the loss of

bone and muscle mass had made him a small, weak man, his

skill with virtality systems gave him great power. Because half

the guards were addicts, and what he could do with a pair of

goggles and gloves made you forget you were 92,000 miles from

home. He kept the prison’s cave running, which made him only

slightly less important, and significantly more in demand, than

the techs who kept oxygen-producing greenhouses on line.

So when he said I want him, he got him.

Astazi limped into the cell, right arm in a cast, left arm dragging

a duffle bag. He saw a skinny brown-skinned man twice his age

sitting on a neatly made cot, back to the wall. On that wall was

a pic of city skyline, gleaming skyscrapers, blue bay. Brown eyes

almost hidden by unruly black-grey bangs watched him.

“The one who likes the cold.” Surprisingly robust voice, the

English quick, consonants hard.

“No it’s heat I like.” Stepping forward as the door slid shut

behind him. “For the heat I endured the cold.”

“You been here now what . . .”

“Twenty-three days.”

“Talk to me about endurance in another few weeks,” Lang said,

lying back, child-like frame hardly depressing the mattress. “Lu-

nar weeks.”

2

A Noteby Anya Lynn

Roger sat next to the window in the back of the car. This train ride could change his life. In his hand was the wedding invitation, the

dreaded invite that he knew could come one day. Lilia was getting married.

Roger hadn’t seen her in years, not since they had broken up, but they had remained friends (more like acquaintances) and despite dating sev-

eral other women, he couldn’t shake his love for Lilia.

It was summer and everything was green. The birds flew happily and the sun was bright and beautiful, but Roger had a pit in his stomach. This

was Lilia’s bright future that was about to start and he wasn’t part of it. She was moving on without him and for some reason needed him to

know. True, they were talked a little, but couldn’t she tell he loved her still? Couldn’t she have spared his feelings?

Roger contemplated how he’d react during the ceremony. Seeing her again and being reminded of her beauty would be torture. He wanted to

yell “I object!” but he didn’t want to ruin her day, her beautiful, hopeful day.

He took the invitation out of the envelope again and traced his fingers over the letters. It wasn’t his name on the paper. It should have been.

The invitation was elaborate. This wasn’t like Lilia, but perhaps she was a different person now. Roger played with it, looking at all the intricate

pieces. There was a large, thick card stock rectangle that the beautiful printed paper was glued onto. Roger traced the edge of the smaller paper

with his finger. There were imperfections. “Not too impressive,” he thought. He pulled the papers apart and looked inside to investigate the poor

quality. It seemed as if another paper was stuffed between the two. Strange.

Roger was curious and also quite annoyed about the whole situation, so he ripped the invitation apart. She didn’t need to see it anyway. A little

note landed in his lap. The name “Roger” stared up at him.

Roger picked up the note and unfolded it slowly.

“If you still love me, I’m yours. ~L”

“Was this real?” Roger he read over it again. The handwriting was hers, he was sure of it; he could never forget it. Lilia still loved him, he

couldn’t believe it. Roger stared out the window no longer annoyed. The sky looked bluer than ever.

Letting GoNatalia Belvoir

She hung up the phone with excitement almost radiating off of her like a loud perfume. Mrs. Murray had spent the

last hour calling all of her friends and family, telling them the great news that her son had shared with her over the phone

two hours ago. Her son was engaged to be married to his girlfriend of three years. Mrs. Murray had been in tears of joy as

she spoke on the phone. Her husband was still at work and she found herself home alone again, wishing she could interrupt

his busy day to share the great news. She went across her bedroom and sat in the seat of her bay window, legs stretched

out across the floral cushion. She remembered sitting there with her son when he was a boy. They would sit and look at the

planes fly overhead.

The sky was now grey, overcast with the hints of a storm brewing in the east. The trees stood tall and naked, their leaves

scattered across the sidewalk. A squirrel sat in the tree parallel to the window where Ms. Murray sat excited and contemplat-

ing the wedding of her only son. Her train of thought was broken by a group of small children across the street playing in

the yard screaming. One of them had hidden himself in a pile of leaves and jumped out, chasing the others around the yard.

The leaves, with all of their warm colors, covered the yards and the streets almost like a painting. Adding color where there

would soon be none. A plane passed by overhead. The airport was only a ten minute drive away, the sounds of planes

cutting through the wind had often filled the house. The children outside all stopped and pointed at the plane with smiles

across their faces. As Ms. Murray watched the children below marvel at the plane, she thought back to her own son. Her

face, tired and worn from her many years of teaching, was suddenly wet with tears that slowly found their way from her sor-

rowful brown eyes. She leaned her head against the window, her thin fingers tracing the window frame into a familiar shape.

Her son had once sat on her lap and drawn a heart with his tiny toddler fingers in the condensation of the window.

Her happiness began to recede into the depths of her mind as sorrow slowly creeped its way into her heart. It was if a shad-

owy figure had reached out from the darkest corners of her mind and held her heart in its hands, squeezing it with tremen-

dous force. Tears streamed from her face, dripping onto the sleeve of her shirt. Her body began to shake as she began to cry

more violently, throwing her hands to her face.

4

Three Men and Two

GunsConnor Reid

Henry placed the cell phone delicately on the kitchen counter.

“Now, we’re just going to sit tight until we get the call. Good thing we

are all comfortable, right?” “Mm-ma-guffh,” said Frederick. Of course,

that was not what Frederick meant to say. He would have loved to say,

“No, I am not comfortable at all. In fact, the wire bindings tying me

to this chair are digging into my skin and this gag is making it hard to

breathe.” Things were even worse with two mobsters pointing their sil-

ver, silenced pistols. Men who take orders from a very dangerous Man.

A Man who loaned Frederick Longley three thousand dollars.

“Mm-guhh-fah,” he cried, nevertheless. “Oh shut

up Longley,” Henry sneered. Henry was a large man; tall, but not

very thin. He wore a black suit that had clearly been hand-tailored

and every feature about him was maintained. His golden hair, neatly

gelled back, his gleaming nails, neatly trimmed, and his glasses, thick

and perfectly framing his brown eyes. Everything about him exuded

professionalism. His accomplice – Damien- was the opposite. He was

about as wide as he was tall, had on a stained button-down white shirt,

and was completely bald. He was the kind of man who you brought to

make a point.

‘When’s Margret supposed to be getting home, huh

Henry?” Damien asked. “Don’t worry,” Henry said, “She’s out shop-

ping. You know how long that takes women. We’ve got more than

enough time to get, let’s say, acquainted.”

“Take his gag out,” Henry told Damien. The fat-

tish man waddled up to Frederick—never pointing his gun anywhere

except at the temple of Mr. Longley—and pulled out the wadded up

hand towel. Frederick doubled over, having in gulps of fresh air. “I—

paid—the—money—back.”

The men had been seated in the back of His restaurant. He had looked

at Frederick over the table with beady eyes glazed over by a dull light.

“You understand that I expect this money back within the year, right?

And hopefully, we won’t have a, problem,” motioning towards His

men while He said this. “Nuh-nuh-no,” fumbled Mr. Longley, “No

problem at all I would say. I figure I should have the money back in

half that time, if business goes well of course. I mean, there isn’t any

real way to tell in today’s market, but you have my word!” The Man

leaned over the table and puffed on his cigar a little. Frederick Longley

could completely see His eyes now. They were as black as lifeless

night. “Good then. You can go now.” Frederick took a few seconds to

drink in his situation, and then stumbled to his feet and walked out

the door in a brisk pace. “I changed my mind.” Henry said. “I don’t

want to do this.” “What’s the problem?” He started. “It’s just one little

job. He pays, or maybe he doesn’t so you smack him up a little and

then he pays. Either way you get paid, and I know that you need the

money.” Henry’s face grew grim. “If Margret finds out that I am doing

this, she’ll be furious.” He blew smoke and said, “Never did under-

stand Margret. I gave her everything in the world, and she still scorns

me. Treats me like I am the sin of the world. I’ll admit, I’m in the sin,

knee deep even, but so are we all. How is what I do any worse than

what your little office job does to people, cheating them out of their

money across the country?” Henry sat stone-faced, and then turned to

Him. “That’s the deal then. He pays, and I get paid. Done. No more

follow ups and no extra jobs if he comes through clean. He pays, and

I am out of here. Deal?” Henry stuck out his hand and He shook it.

“Deal.” He drew deep from his cigar, the red glow rising. “Anyways,”

He started, “I wouldn’t worry about Mr. Longley. I know where he

sleeps.”

Henry stooped in front of Frederick. “Not the way we heard it. We

heard that you took the money, spent it, and then had plans on

jumping out of town before sundown. That plan sound familiar?” said

Henry.

“What? I was using the money to open up a store in town. Down on

Ninth Street, I promise! I have no reason to leave, I already invested

the money,” said Frederick.

“What kind of shop Freddy? What kind of stuff do you sell, huh?”

“It’s, it’s, it’s a shop. A meat shop.”

“A meat shop, huh? You mean a butcher’s shop?”

“Yes, yes, a butcher’s shop. I’m a butcher. Please, I paid the money

back, I swear. Pick up the phone and call Him, I’m sure he’ll clear my

story!”

At hearing that, Damien came over and struck

Frederick Longley square in the jaw. The force of the blow knocked

the kitchen chair over and Frederick with it. “You don’t get to tell us

what to do, got it?” snarled Damien. “Jesus Christ Damien, we don’t

do anything until we get the call, understand? We’re supposed to be

professionals. You don’t get to call the shots,” said Henry. Damien

looked frustrated. About as frustrated as someone with his brainpower

could be. “What am I supposed to do then, huh? Why don’t I get to

call some of the shots sometimes?”

5

“God damn it Damien, look, he’s bleeding all over the tile. Now

I have to clean that up before my family gets back. What’s wrong

with you?” Henry threw Damien a rag. “Get him back up and clean

up that blood.” Frederick didn’t feel like talking much with a broken

jaw. He knew that he couldn’t convince these guys of anything.

Bribing wouldn’t work. He could have all three of them killed with

a snap of His fingers. For the kind of money He throws around,

Frederick’s own mother would put a 9mm in his head. All he could

do is sit and wait for the phone on the counter to ring and pray

to God that good things came out of it. He knew that he couldn’t

convince these guys of anything. Bribing wouldn’t work. He could have

all three of them killed with a snap of His fingers. For the kind of money

He throws around, Frederick’s own mother would put a 9mm in his head.

All he could do is sit and wait for the phone on the counter to ring and

pray to God that good things came out of it.

“I’m hungry,” said Damien. Henry swung his head over and said, “Then

make yourself something to eat. There’s the fridge, there’s the stove. You

might have to do a little work and get your God damn hands dirty

Damien.” It took a few moments for this to register with Damien,

but after a while he shuffled over to the fridge, removed an armful

of ingredients, and started making a sandwich. Frederick recog-

nized the meat as pastrami: beef, thinly sliced, brined, dried, spiced,

smoked, and then steamed. Going price of about $9.35 a pound.

None of that really helped Mr. Longley, but it made him feel a little

bit at ease.

Henry had been at ease. He had felt marvelous the entire day. He

had given him permission to marry his daughter. Henry could

remember the first time he saw her, the hostess at His restaurant.

She had never much cared for her father’s business. Detested it in

fact. Everything was going to work out fine though because wanted

out of this life of crime. He and Margret were going to get mar-

ried, go away together, and start a real life. He was happy for them

and could tell that they really loved each other. I guess that is all a

father can ask for.

“How is that sandw-“ Henry heard a thump in the distance. A car

door maybe. “Damien, did you just close the refrigerator door?”

“No, I closed that a while ago, why?”

With that, Henry shot up from his chair, some of his slicked back

hair drooping forward, and then looked out of the window. “Christ,

quick, Damien, drag him into another room, anywhere else. Buy

me some time!” About then, the three heard a door slam and a

jingling of keys. Then, a voice. “Honey, are you home? Your car

was outside. I thought that you were going to be in the office today.

Were you not feeling well? I knew that you didn’t look so good this

morning. Honey?”

There was no time for Damien to drag Frederick Longley into

another room. There was no time for Henry to come up with a

plan. There was no time for anything to happen except for Margret

to walk into the kitchen and see two men, both finely dressed and

armed, and one man tied to one of her kitchen chairs who was

bleeding from one of his ears and his mouth.

“Henry, what is going on here? Is that Damien?” She dropped the

groceries that she was carrying.

“What exactly is going on here Henry?” she asked.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Henry stammered.

But it was what it looked like. There was no other way to interpret

the situation.

“Henry, I thought that we were through with Him. Saving up

enough money so that we could get along on our own. “

“Your father asked me to do this for him. Just one little thing, you

know how He can be. Think of all He has done for us. All that

He can do for us! This one day of work is paying the same as two

month’s salary.”

“This isn’t the kind of life I want for my family, our family. We

have a family now, do you understand? I won’t dare put them

through all of this. Do to them what He did to me growing up. Do

you know how many men I have seen tied up like this, killed like

this?”

“Margret, please, you’re overacting.”

“No, I’m not. Money isn’t worth this Henry. I thought that you

understood that.”

“I do!”

“Nothing that this man could have done is worth this torture. Untie

him.”

“I can’t do that, you know I can’t.”

“Then I will.”

She moved from the doorway and started to

undo the wire bindings tying Mr. Longley to the chair just as

Damien leveled his gun and fired a single shot.

“She can’t untie him, right boss? She don’t get

to call the shots, right?” Henry just stood there, a vapid look on his

face. After watching his wife slump to the floor, scarlet pool begin-

ning to form, he turned to Damien, “You fat fuck. You just shot

Margret. You just shot my wife. What the fuck did I tell you about

calling the shots? You don’t get to make them, and you certainly

don’t get to shoot whoever you want!” With that, Henry raised his

gun and pulled the trigger until the gun went click and Damien was

on the floor.

Henry dropped his gun on the ground and stared

at the mess he was in. Damien’s bullet had gone straight through

the women’s heart into the forehead of Frederick Longley who now

sat in his chair, head relaxed back. Three dead bodies. Ring. Ring.

Ring. “Hello,” Henry stammered. “Don’t worry about it. I got Mr.

Longley’s money after some holdup in the line, I don’t know the

details. It’s fine. Let Mr. Longley go.”

“The sky is bluer when you’re dying.” Gavin sat up off the grass

and looked down at Mona, who just kept gazing up at the clear blue

sky.

“Are you dying?”

There was a long pause as Mona just lay there relaxed, breathing deeply.

Finally, she breathed out a “no.”

Gavin laid back down, angry for a few seconds, relieved shortly after-

wards.

“What makes you say that?” Another pause, as Gavin watched Mona

breathe in the early summer air, collecting her thoughts.

“My friend’s grandmother told me when I was 10. It was the last time

I had seen her and she just was so crazy. Like really crazy and every-

thing about her made me want to be just like her one day. Anyway, she

grabbed my hand as I was going to get some ice cream or something

like that, and she said ‘Mona, the sky is bluer when you’re dying.’ and I

swear, her eyes were somewhere else that day, like she belonged in some

asylum or something. That’s what I thought - this old lady is insane,

you know? But anyway, she died the next week. It kinda messed up

my entire world, hearing about her death. But in a good way, I guess. I

never was the same, always wanting to see the sky bluer or something. I

think I became an addict.”

She sat up and looked down at Gavin, who was focusing on the sky

more than ever. He had a weird pained expression on his face, but he

didn’t say anything, so Mona just laid down again. They stayed there in

the big grass field they discovered in the middle of the summer until it

became dark out. As Mona stared at the sky she let her mind drift to

another day, another place, another Mona, right at the beginning of her

summer.

—————————————————————————————

Mona hadn’t seen Rohit for over four months now, hadn’t spoken

to him for over two. He had found someone else, was happy with

someone else, felt the electricity with someone else. Yet, when Mona

saw him that Monday morning, leaning against the wall and laughing

at something his friend said, and yet when he looked up and saw her

walking toward him and their eyes met for a few seconds, her whole

world seemed to vibrate. She couldn’t describe it any other way, and she

couldn’t feel it with anyone else. The energy she felt from him simply

made her world vibrate. And so, instead of stopping to give a nice hello,

Mona kept walking, feeling his eyes pierce through her skin.

That night, she called him and he picked up on the first ring.

“Come see me at the pool. Now.” She whispered the words out, almost

inaudible, but she was sure he had heard every syllable.

“No Mona.”

“What do you mean no? How can you say no?”

“Just, no.”

She stood there, waiting for some type of miracle, some sudden epipha-

ny he’d experience, anything. And then it happened.

“I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”

His figure was dark as it approached her and she had a sudden feeling

of apprehension, that this wasn’t the right thing. And then she thought

about Mika’s grandma, like she did before doing anything wrong, and

thought about the sky being bluer. So, as he came closer, she took her

clothes off. First her shirt, then her pants and sandals, leaving just her

bare skin glistening in the pool light. Even with her back turned, she

knew he was staring. She expected him to ask her what she’s doing, a

question she always considered a mere waste of breath, but instead she

heard him say,

“Why are you doing this?”

His voice sounded tired and helpless. Even then she knew she won him

over.

Mona slid into the water, feeling the rush of cold on her skin - her

favorite part. She sucked in deep and let her body drift to the bottom of

the pool like a rock, and when She felt like she was about to explode,

she shot up to the surface to see him standing there looking down at

her.

“Join me.”

“Mona…” he groaned back. He didn’t say anything else, just began

taking his shirt off, his eyes locked on hers. He waded into the water.

Mona didn’t know what to do, what to say or how to act. So they just

floated there for what seemed like hours.

“It’s the big dipper.” Mona pointed up and felt Rohit drift behind her,

his hot breath on her neck.

“You see it? Right there. It’s so bright tonight.”

His answer was a kiss on her neck and she turned around to see that

look in his eyes that always just killed her. They made love that night,

right by the poolside.

The next morning, Mona was gone. Rohit hadn’t seen or heard of her

since that night, despite his phone calls. She left not because she was

afraid to face him the next day. she left because they made love, not just

had sex. They made love while he had a girlfriend. Because when she

woke up the morning after, still lying in his arms, the sky wasn’t bluer.

It was the same shade of dull gray that was there the day before.

8Slices of Watermelonby Coldesire alskjd

Her eyes began to glaze over for she could not steal her sights away

from what lay before her through the paned glass window. Amy’s front lawn

displayed an array of baby clothes, baby toys, and baby diapers. She blankly

stared at the white sign with bold black words reading, “For sale: baby shoes,

never worn.” The tiny soft pink velvet shoes with crème silk laces were a

reminder of her tragic suffering that never ceased.

She looked up at the empty white ceiling and screamed, “WHY GOD!

WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?! TO HER!?” The hysterics were com-

ing, the choking sobs, and the gushing tears that flooded her pink cheeks.

Why did He choose Gracie? She knew life as a teen mom would inevitably be

a struggle, but deep down inside she knew that her unconditional love for her

little angel could withstand any obstacle life threw in her way.

As Amy stared blankly at the miniature shoes that would never

feel the tender warmth of Gracie’s delicate feet, memories of that silent night

began to resurface once again.

One week ago, it was early Friday morning, Amy awoke in a panic.

Beads of sweat rolled down her face. She felt her round, full belly. Her baby

was not moving. Something was not right.

She shrieked in fear, “Mom! Dad! Help me!” The tears began to pour out of

her eyes. Her mother Marge ran in as she hastily tied her robe. Her father

Bob followed closely behind rubbing his eyes of sleep.

“Amy, what’s wrong? Is it the baby? Are you going into labor?,” said Marge

alarmingly.

Amy cried, “I don’t know she’s not moving. She’s not due for few more

weeks. Mom what is wrong?”

Marge ordered Bob to pack Amy’s things for the hospital. “We’ll meet you

there,” she said. Amy was frantically trying to find clothes to wear, but

nothing seemed right. It was all wrong all of it. This wasn’t supposed to be

happening. Not here, not now. “It’s all wrong! I can’t find anything!” Amy

yelled fretfully. Marge pressed her warm hands to Amy’s cheeks hushing her

to remain calm and breathe.

The drive to the hospital felt like an infinite stretch of pavement.

Amy could not stop the blood pumping anxiety that coursed through her

veins. Her heart beat rapidly ringing in her ears. She continued to feel around

her belly for a kick, anything that insinuated that her daughter was well. But

her large stomach just rested there lifeless. Her mother looked across at Amy

and said with pained eyes, “Honey, please stop panicking. You’re a young,

healthy girl. It will all be okay.” Her mother’s comforting words brought back

memories of her happy, carefree life with Jake. He was always able to soothe

her in times of dire stress with a simple kiss on the forehead or a squeeze

of her hand. Then she flashed to that dark month in July when she locked

herself inside the shadows of her room while she toiled through her first real

heartbreak. With a mix of despair and anger she thought, if only he hadn’t

left.

As Marge and Amy rushed into the hospital, Marge urgently said to the re-

ceptionist that they needed to see Dr. Greenburgh right away. The reception-

ist informed Marge and Amy that they would contact him immediately, but

that Dr. Ruthston would be available until Dr. Greenburgh arrived.

As Marge and Amy rushed into the hospital, Marge urgently said

to the receptionist that they needed to see Dr. Greenburgh right away. The

receptionist informed Marge and Amy that they would contact him immedi-

ately, but that Dr. Ruthston would be available until Dr. Greenburgh arrived.

Amy was filled with dread. Who is this Dr. Ruthston? He doesn’t know her

nor does he know her baby. She did not want this stranger prodding around

on her bubble. She wanted her doctor and she wanted him now.

Amidst her worries and unease, a nurse came and brought over a

wheelchair for Amy to sit in. Her apprehension escalated and the shrill ring-

ing in her ears commenced as she was wheeled through the long stark white

halls.

As they rolled through the halls, she spotted a large glass window revealing a

nursery filled with the noisy cries of newborns wrapped and nuzzled in their

blue and pink soft knit caps and blankets. The piercing sobs comforted her

into a euphoria realizing that in time she would hear those same wonderful

sounds echoing from her own daughter.

Amy was placed on the bed when her father came charging in. A

few minutes later they were all met by Dr. Ruthston. He introduced himself

with a kindhearted smile and a gentle nature that instantly reassured Amy

that she would be in good hands until her own doctor arrived. Her heart

was pounding as he squeezed the warm jelly on her stomach. Dr. Ruthston

moved the monitor around her belly as he observed the ultrasound. He fur-

rowed his brow and said, “Hm.” Amy bolted upright to get a better glance at

the screen exclaiming, “What’s the matter?” “Amy, please lie down and relax.

I am trying to listen for the heartbeat.” “Oh my God! Oh my God! Please tell

me there’s a heartbeat.” In an attempt to compose her, Marge clasped Amy’s

hand and Bob braced her shoulders. Silence. “I’m not hearing anything!”

Amy cried in panic. Dr. Ruthston looked down and said with regret, “Amy

I’m sorry but your baby’s heart is not beating. From the looks of it, it appears

that there has been a cord accident.”

So StillJules Twinings

The words “baby’s heart is not beating” reverberated through her mind. Her

body suddenly went numb. All sounds vanished. Everything turned into slow

motion. She incoherently heard her father say something like “There must be

a mistake.” And her mother appeared to be moaning in grief. All Amy could

do was lie there with her mouth hanging open remaining mute. She had never

felt her heart break like this in all her life. It was as if someone had stabbed

her repeatedly with a butcher knife. She could feel her soul crumbling as her

happy world crashed around her. It was all over. Her baby Gracie was gone

forever. She would never hear her laugh, teach her how to ride a bike, or

watch her grow. This was it. There was nothing Amy could do to change this

cruel fate.

Dr. Ruthston gave Amy a choice of inducing labor immediately or waiting

until she went into labor a few weeks after. His words brought her mind

back down to earth and she realized that her face was sopping wet with tears.

She said shakily, “I want her out now. I want to hold her. I need to see my

Gracie.” She gulped, “To say goodbye.” The doctor nodded his head solemnly

and called in the nurses to prepare Amy for labor. Before the nurses came in

Bob asked Amy, “Now honey, I know this is a hard time for all of us right

now. But I think it would be a good idea if we notified Jake. He has a right to

know.”

Amy immediately scowled and argued, “I don’t owe that bastard anything! I

haven’t heard a word from him since the day I told him I was pregnant. He

already made his choice dad.”

“Sweetheart, I know he is an immature coward, but he should still be in-

formed.”

“No! He lost his rights as a father the day he left me crying in the park alone

after he accused me of sleeping around with other guys.”

Her dreams of raising a happy little family together were shattered the day

Jake roared off in his truck leaving nothing but a cloud of dust in his tracks.

He had betrayed her. End of story. But how could her father bring up her ex

now when she was mourning the death of her first child?

He apologized and put his hands up in defeat saying, “Okay, I get it. I under-

stand. I won’t call Jake.” Tears were streaming down his eyes as he grabbed

her wishing that he could make things better for his one and only daughter.

The nurses then walked in to get Amy ready for labor.

Fourteen hours of pain later, Amy had given birth to a precious baby girl. The

birth was eerily quiet, not a peep was uttered from Gracie’s mouth. What

should have been a momentous occasion was one of sorrow yet joy. Gracie

was perfect in every way. From the pout of her kissably soft lips to the curve

of her full plump cheeks. She was a beauty. “I love you my sweet angel,”

whispered Amy as she placed tender kisses on her daughter’s head. Bob and

Marge smiled lovingly down at their daughter and granddaughter with red,

puffy eyes. Even in her motionless state, Gracie could not have looked any

more serene. Amy was happy to see that her daughter was at peace, even

though deep down inside Amy was suffering. At least she had a chance to say

her goodbyes to the mini human who had been growing inside her for nine

months. Amy snuggled her daughter in a warm embrace cherishing every last

minute for this would be the first and the last time that she would ever lay

eyes on her Gracie.

She was transported back to her living room when visions of that night began

to haze. As Amy looked out the bay window into her front yard she saw

several mothers buying Gracie’s possessions with babies in tow. Most of the

tables were barren with nothing but a few pairs of socks or onesies left. Amy

started tumbling down into her deep depression until she spied a young girl

who looked adoringly at the soft pink shoes with crème laces. They were

Amy’s first purchase for Gracie the day she found out the sex. A frown of

disappointment crossed her face as she read the price tag. Amy was puzzled

by her disheartened expression, they were only twenty dollars. She wanted to

charge forty for them but her mother told her that was way too high for a

yard sale. Then again how can you put a price on something that carries such

immense emotional and sentimental value? As she focused her gaze on the girl

she saw that she couldn’t have been more than 18 years old and by the looks

of her belly was halfway through her term. Something about this girl drew

Amy in. Maybe it was the fact that she was a teenage mother. Amy had no

idea, but before she knew it she was walking outside her front door towards

the girl. She said to the girl, “Take them. They’re yours.” The girl said, “Oh

no, I couldn’t do that.” Amy said, “No, really, I want you to have them. My

gift to you and your little one.” The girl shyly grinned and thanked Amy hug-

ging her tightly.

Those shoes were the last piece of Gracie that she had. But she knew it was

time to let them go. They were being sent to a loving home where memories

would be made. Just like Gracie was sent to a happier place in heaven flying

with the angels. Ready or not she had to let go of Gracie. She may not be in

the here and now, but she would forever live in Amy’s heart. And one day she

would see her baby girl again where they could live for all eternity.

10

The carriage I had borrowed pulled to a stop; one of the horses snorted and I had to suppress the fond smile that threat-

ened my lips (the horses, at least, were my own and I knew exactly which one had made the small noise). One of the carriage’s

doors opened and my companions exited with an air of grace and elegance I struggled to mimic, even though we had practiced for

the better part of the last lunar cycle—some acquaintances I met back at the university decided they wanted to drag me along to the

annual winter ball, one that was usually reserved for the nobility and not the middle-class-nobodies- turned-scholars like myself.

So, for one lunar cycle, I was taught and tortured as my colleagues tried to instill in me the values that came instinctively

for them. I learned when to use which utensils, how to pass through four different styles of dance without stepping on my partner’s

toes, and the proper way to taste one’s wine (among other things). Just barely days ago, they deemed me passable with forlorn sighs

as if they wished for more time to perfect the noble image. I sighed with relief, however, and hoped that this was a one-time-only

occurrence.

The door to the carriage closed behind me before the carriage took off to return later that night. It took all my training to

not gape in wonder at the building in front of us. My companions (although honestly I accompanied them, rather than the other

way around) led us up the short walk, through the entryway, and into the ballroom before I could gather my wits. The ballroom was

large, almost the size of my entire house I ventured to guess, and painted in a soft blue. Large chandeliers hung from the ceiling,

casting the soft glow of candlelight onto the floor below. The room was roughly divided in three parts: the first being the largest and

contained both the orchestra and the dance floor, the second holding tables to eat at, while the third (and smallest) area was for talk-

ing and mingling.

A servant stopped before us and offered the wine glass in her hand, swirling the red elixir around as if to entice us more.

A woolen, black hat was pulled over her face—the hosts were traditional; servants weren’t ‘real’ people, they claimed, and as such

deserved neither names nor faces. Servants should see, but not be seen; hear, but not be heard.—A ball of fuzz adorned the top.

Briefly I wondered how much trouble this young servant was going to be in, but then I let the thought go: it wasn’t as if I could do

anything (I was both a guest to and of lower class than the hosts). It was intriguing still, I’d never seen a servant dressed with one

before.

Cautiously, she held out the glass towards us again, as if hoping we would take it. The light reflected off the glass work in a

pleasing way, catching the face of one of my companions. The sleeve of the servant’s outfit rose up her arm during the action.

Mid-night Masksby Nathaniel Clydes

12

A small bracelet stretched around the pale limb. More individuality. I smiled. This girl had a personality, which

was more than I could say about the rest of the servants I had encountered this night.

Part of me wished to stay and learn more about this girl, with her long, straight hair and individualized uniform. But, I

couldn’t. It would be uncouth of me to do so. With a wan smile I took the drink from the girl. A short nod was all the thanks I

could give. Her shoulders drooped, as if I had relieved her of a great burden or in reluctant acceptance of her station I could not tell.

A small curtsy was given to us before she twirled away to dance on her own (dancing around the couples).

I turned to face my companions, sipping on the wine and hoping the bitterness in my mouth would distract me from the

bitterness in my heart. After a short while, I retreated from my companions with promises to return. I made my way across the

ballroom in a pitiful mockery of the graceful dance the servant girl performed earlier. I left the room without a glance behind. The

entryway was filled with windows and I chose one to settle against. My forehead rested upon the cool glass as my breath fogged it.

It was dark outside, the sun having set before I had even arrived at the function. Gas lamp posts sat beside the driveway,

illuminating the well-worn path that was littered with hoof-prints and gouge marks. Clouds, I assumed, blocked my view of the heav-

ens.

I sighed, watching the fog of my breath expand then retreat. My unencumbered hand traced patterns idly as I tried to block

out the cacophony from the ballroom. My head turned as I relaxed and suddenly the window was a mirror, reflecting the grandeur

of the inner halls. Pristine, white walls were reflected, broken only by the intricately-carved, wooden doors that opened to the ball-

room where the hosts and guests danced and mingled unaware of my inner turmoil.

I cast one last longing gaze outside before finally removing myself from the window. I spent the rest of the night in a false

cheer to placate my companions. As we talked, various servants would occasionally stop by to present us with more drinks. Sev-

eral times, one of my companions would try to interest me in a dance, but I always managed to divert the conversation. After they

learned I wasn’t in a dancing mood, they decided to introduce me to most of the Barons/Baronesses, Lords/Ladies, and even a Duch-

ess in attendance. However, her drink was the only one I drank that night, her steps were the only ones I wished to dance with, her

face was the only one I wanted to see.

Till We Meet AgainAnya Lynn

In my empty home I wander

Through the dusty rooms abandoned

By the love that used to light them.

I drag my finger across the shelf

That once held my escape

Into a life of dreams and color.

The dirt collects under my nail

In the creases of my knuckles

And spills onto the floor.

It’s a painful reminder

Of a time that used to be

Of a love that was young and strong.

But you have left me now

To the kingdom in the sky

Looking after me

Waiting for me

Watching me cry.

A Chance Encounterby Natalia Belvoir

Garrett sat contemplatively staring out of the window

of the bullet train cutting it’s way silently through the city.

Josh sat next to him, captivated by the new gadgets that

were to be released the next week.

“Dude, are you seeing this? This is so wicked! Man, look!”

An incoming link popped up on his glasses.

“Hurry! Look at it, you won’t believe it! Are you looking,

do you see it? Isn’t it sick! Dude, you aren’t looking, look!”

Josh was nearly out of his seat with excitement. With a sigh,

Garret opened the link and found his scenic view of the city

blocked by the obnoxious blinking ad for the newest and lat-

est music player. Josh began spewing the specs as if Garrett

couldn’t already read them himself. clear

“…and it’s the exact same player that Brandon Warner

uses! He got it before it was released and posted on his

page about how sick it was. Are you hearing me? Brandon

freaking Warner. The rock God of all rock God’s that ever

freaking walked the face of this earth.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of this?” Garrett turned to look at

Josh unenthusiastically.

Josh’s face read nothing but confusion. “Get tired of what?

Dude…did you not hear me say Brandon Warner?”

“This constant blind following of some overly attractive elite

that dictates our lives with ads and blogs and pages; I can’t

go 10 feet without seeing an ad for some new gadget that

does exactly what the last one did but somehow it’s bet-

ter. You probably couldn’t tell me what’s happening in our

neighborhood, but you could tell me what some model said

online. Do you not see how mindless it all is! You spend

half of your day online, did you even notice there was some-

one sitting in front of you two stops ago?” Josh looked at

the seat in front of him.

“Wait… was there a hot woman sitting there? Was she a 9

or a 10?” Garrett sighed and turned back towards the win-

dow. However, his view was once again penetrated by an ad.

“If you’re like me…” the ad began as it played across the

windows of the train. Josh was already entranced by its

captive powers.Garrett proceeded to put in his headphones,

“Play music.” Drowning out the sounds of the afternoon

ads, he slouched down in his seat. With the world drowned

out, everyone and thing looked and sounded the same to

him. Everyone absent mindedly watched the ads as they

played out on the windows, gasping and talking as some-

thing new came up; except for one woman. His eyes fell on

her sitting on the other side of the train. She was staring

at him. Her eyes, her hair, her lips, everything about her

seemed familiar but yet…somehow unknown to him. Long

black curls lightly grazed her shoulders; her eyes seemed an

unnaturally deep shade of blue, they reminded him of his

grandfather’s photos of an ocean somewhere in Europe. Her

lips began to form words, but no sounds came out. “Follow

me”.

Garrett looked around until his eyes fell on Josh, opened

mouth and almost drooling over an ad for the latest version

of net-glasses. The train came to a stop, Garrett looked back

over to see the girl getting off. He sprang out of his seat and

barely made it through the doors before they closed.

14

Spikey Tree of DeathViolet Llyons

They pushed open the door, panting heavily, hungry, aching

and exhausted. They had come a long way, such a long way, that

it felt like ages since they had started their journey, ages since

they had taken those first hopeful steps.

Maybe they could figure it out. Maybe they could fix things.

Their overworked legs threatened to collapse, as they stood there,

framed by the massive double doors, hanging partway off their

hinges, staring with dawning horror at the sight that greeted

them. A hill. A massive, vertical hill, of mud and grass and

scraggly trees. To one side an aging staircase crumbled, to the

other, a road with a huge crack plummeting down the center.

There was no way around.

They’d have to go up the hill.

“Come on, Avery,” Terra said, and pushed through the

dilapidated doors into the pouring rain. They were so close, now.

So close. They couldn’t stop here. They had to keep going. Had

to try.

He had been watching them from the beginning. A

ghost, a phantom, a wisp that hung, suspended, in the air, a

menacing smudge of darkness in the corner; he was everywhere,

in everything. They could not escape him, even if they tried. His

face burned in their fires, his voice thundered in the storms that

plagued them, his footsteps echoed in their nightmares.

He had followed them from the beginning, as they

overcame the obstacles he set up in their path, things he had

shoved in their way like the pawns they were. He had tested

them, worn them down, sought the cracks in their armor, found

their weaknesses. Slowly, they had been drawing closer to the

heart of it, to the center of his secrets, the place where it all be-

gan. They thought they could overpower him. They thought that

defeating the pawns he had put up around it meant that they

could defeat him.

His laughter chased them up the hill.

They climbed.

The rain came down, sheets of it, pulling their hair across their

faces, sticking their torn and faded clothes to their skin, getting

in their eyes, their mouths, their ears, their noses. The water

surged everywhere - in the mud, in the air, surrounding them,

drowning them, sending them sliding back down the hillside.

They clawed through it, pushing forward, hoping that they could

get enough momentum to just make it a little further, just a little

further, just a little –

Finally, they made it up and over, skin slicked with

mud, mud in their hair, in their clothes, covering their feet, get-

ting in their cuts and scrapes, running with their blood. But they

had made it, with the last of their strength, and they propelled

themselves forward, over the ground, past the twisted, broken

forms of the lampposts, stuck in the ground like lightning-struck

trees. They went forward, past the misshapen clock with its

worn-off face, down the overturned and overgrown paths.

He watched dispassionately as they stumbled forward.

Poor, weary children. He set the pieces up, with the ease of one

with centuries of practice, sliding them into place. Really, it was

almost too easy. All one had to do was add the finishing touches

– something to lure them in, set them up exactly where he

wanted.

His crowning glory waited for them, glimmering ever-

so-slightly in the ever present darkness.

Something loomed ahead, something jutting out of the

ground in great spikes, something twisting and twirling in the

wind, glowing softly in the dim light. Terra pointed to it with

one weary hand. A metal tree, its branches strange and mis-

shapen, holding on by just a thread.

“Six Random Lines Eccentric,” Terra read, as Avery

swept the dirt from the strange square on the ground. “Hmm. I

wonder what that means.”

“It means we’re not just close,” Avery said, eyes sweep-

ing their surroundings. “It means we’re here.”

He was looking forward to tearing them apart.

The DateConnor Reid

It was a tradition, at least since they met seven years ago. He had planned to take her to a fancy dinner, to

impress her, better his chances for a goodnight kiss. He had even gone out to buy an expensive bottle of wine

which the man at the store said was, “from a very good European stock with a nice barnyard to the nose.”

He wouldn’t know, he never drank wine. She did. She was very fond of wine, but that never impressed her

dates. Talking about wine made their eyes dull and never call again, so she decided to try something different.

She borrowed a dress from a friend at work which was tight fitting and showed a lot of skin. She was told

that she looked ravishing in it. She wouldn’t know, it made her feel too uncomfortable.

A storm blew through that night, the roads slowly closed one by one, but both of them were determined to

make it to this date. Could be the one. When he got there, the restaurant was dark, dead, and empty except

for the splash of color on the outside patio. She was sitting at a wrought iron table of intricate detail, snow

filtering through the artwork with her blue eyes leveled at him.

They stayed, pouring wine into Dixie cups from the glove box.

They talked, at once fully intertwined in conversation, feeling a subtle spark.

They laughed and called it a night.

She had his coat and his cheeks were rosy from the cold. She found it both cliché and romantic. He got his

goodnight kiss, that night and every year since. Each year, they come back to the same restaurant. Sometimes

it snows, but they always meet, drink wine, and laugh. Now, they go back home, see their kids sleeping

peacefully, and fall asleep warm with each other. It’s things like this that hold people together. Nothing pro-

found, expensive, or overdue. Just something simple, magical, secret. Something to share and keep hidden.

16

Dr. PepperAnya Lynn

He walks into a shop in search for just a soda. The Other Man has the same idea and reaches for the handle of

the refrigerator at the same time as him. He looks at the Other Man and jumps back.

“Oh excuse me,” says the Other Man.

“It’s no problem,” he says.

The Other Man grabs a Dr. Pepper. A few seconds late, he grabs a Dr. Pepper as well. They look at each

other and laugh at the coincidental similarity. The Other Man drops a piece of paper while walking out the door. He

picks it up, but is too late. All the note says is “I’m sorry.”

He sits alone in his living room watching Jeopardy. He spends most nights this way. Suddenly, a loud

screech and crash is heard from outside his window. Intrigued by the change of his normal routine, he looks through

the dirty glass. Flashing head lights and smoke is all that can be seen. Eager for something to see other than his

ancient television, he runs outside and sees a mangled car tangled up in a tree. He rushes to the car and looks inside

the shattered window. He sees the Other Man. A crushed Dr. Pepper can is in the cup holder.

“Are you okay? Can you hear me?” he screams and then remembers the note.

The Other Man looks at him and smiles. He watches as the Other Man falls into a deep sleep.

17

Milk Crateby Chewbacca Rensselaer

I was a five-year-old boy playing in my back yard with my cousin, Alex. We had just finished playing pretend or playing in the

sandbox or occupying ourselves in some other way when I was struck with the most incredible idea.

“Let’s put all the toys in a milk crate and bring them up into the fort with a jump rope!” I cried. It was a stroke of genius.

As I ran to get the supplies, Alex climbed up the ladder into the fort. “Okay, gimme the milk crate, and I’ll tie it and push it out the

window.” This great idea was moving along very nicely.

As I waited on the ground to receive the crate, I recalled seeing someone on television pace back and forth as he waited for

something. Naturally, I decided to do the same, so I walked back and forth by the base of the fort, right under the window. It was

the one flaw in the execution of this amazing plan.

“THUD!” I heard, and I looked up just in time to see the pointed corner of the milk crate as it plummeted towards the

center of my forehead. “CRACK!” it sounded, right before my wails of pain began.

I stood up, brushed the sand off of myself, and headed towards the door, my head throbbing like nothing I had ever felt

before. Just then, the most peculiar thought struck me. I didn’t know what the inside of my head felt like. A scholarly observation it

was. Without hesitation, I plunged my right pointer finger two knuckles deep into the center of my forehead and began twisting it

around.

It was squishy.

18

River Maya Miran

“Thank you for holding. Your call is very important to us. Please continue to hold

until the next available representative is ready to assist you.”

The monotonous female voice repeated over the phone line, interrupting the tinkling

piano music that had been playing for the past few minutes.

Joe sighed and tossed his phone on the moth-eaten couch next to the dog. The dog,

River, was a large golden retriever with beautiful round eyes now focused on the CRT

TV in front of them. The small screen displayed a coca-cola ad: a group of young,

good-looking college kids on the screen were laughing and drinking from coke cans.

River stared transfixed at the screen throughout the commercial. When it ended, he

looked up at Joe and whined. Joe sighed. He figured it was his fault, giving his dog

coke now and then. Ever since River had first tasted that stuff, he had been hooked.

Now whenever they watched TV and a coke ad came on, Joe was forced to drag him-

self to the kitchen and pour some coke into River’s water bowl.

“Not today, River,” Joe groaned. He had enough on his mind already. For one thing,

he had to get through to that stupid insurance company. After his accident in January,

the bureaucratic idiots had managed to screw up quite a lot. River continued whin-

ing and Joe muttered to himself as he pushed himself up. “Fine,” he said. “But only

because I want a drink too.”

He shuffled over to the kitchen, his leg still caste-bound. Inside his aged fridge lay a

stack of cheese slices and a dozen cans of coke, but nothing else. The white paint on

the racks had begun chipping away a long time back, revealing the metal skeletons

underneath.

Brushing aside his mop of stringy brown hair, Joe bent over and grabbed two cans –

one for him and one for the dog. He crouched down and poured the contents of one

into River’s bowl, a chipped red thing he had dug out from the trash a few months

back, and the dog happily lapped it up. Sighing, he straightened up and broke open

his own can. As he stood in his kitchen taking a long draw from the can, his eyes

fell upon the remaining cans in the fridge, which he had left open. Ever since the

accident, he always stood next to the open fridge while eating or drinking; the cold air

made his leg feel better. He had always heard those stories of the old people whose

legs ached in the wintertime, but for Joe, cold was solitude and quiet. The chill cooled

down the burning pain in his broken leg and eased his rapid breathing.

With the fridge door open, Joe’s eyes had fallen upon the array of ten remaining cans.

The neat ordered array of twelve had been roughly broken and now the ten cans sat

in uneven rows. Grimacing, Joe put his head back in the fridge and arranged the cans

in two rows of five and stepped back. River, who had quickly finished his bowl of

coke, barked happily and trotted back to his position on the couch. With a brief satis-

fied smile, Joe looked at the neatly arranged cans once more before closing the fridge

door and heading over to join River. He should call the company again, he thought as

he sunk into the cushions.

River was busy burying his head in between the pillows on the couch, no doubt look-

ing for that French fry Joe had lost a few days back. “Coke and French fries,” Joe said

out loud. “You’re going to become diabetic soon, River.”

Sighing, Joe stretched his legs and arms out in front of him. Maybe it was time for a

nap. Dusky sunlight filtered through the dusty curtains into the room, warming up the

otherwise cool apartment. The weak evening rays scattered across the thin, dirty carpet

of the living room, into the dust-filled corners, and onto the cracked whitewashed

walls.

River had managed to find the French fry and finally contented, curled up and closed

his eyes. Joe shrugged and turned off the TV, letting his head fall onto River’s back as

he closed his eyes.

~

Eyes still closed, Joe’s nose twitched. It felt excruciatingly warm here, curled up on the

couch next to River with the thin cotton blankets. He could feel River’s body moving

up and down with each breath. Clearly the dog could sleep through anything. Groan-

ing, Joe opened his eyes a fraction of an inch. Was it brighter in here than usual? He

opened his mouth to take a deep breath and realized that this throat was dry. Probably

shouldn’t breath in River’s fur when I sleep, he thought. His mind still half-asleep, Joe

pushed himself up and stretched, glancing around the room to the thermostat. Frown-

ing, he shuffled over. He never set the heat more than sixty and it felt like a sauna in

here. Maybe another coke would cool him down. But what was that smell? It seemed

as if his neighbor had taken up “ethnic” cooking again. Joe’s gaze swept over to the

small hallway that led to the outdoor corridor and he frowned once again. He hadn’t

left he light on in the other rooms, had he? As he neared the hall, he froze. The shim-

mering light came from flames that were running along the length of the hall. Flames,

he thought. Fire? Fire. “Fire!” he shouted and wheeled about, causing River to jump

up, howling in fear.

~

The flames leapt across the door as if taking part in some disorderl

dance. River howled louder than ever, crying with fear and frustration. Joe just stared,

sweat trickling down the side of his face as he looked at his last escape route, blocked.

His eyes turned to the rooms and him and he tried imagining any other possible

escape. Grabbing River by the neck, he stumbled into 11.5

he muttered, “If you had acted like a real dog we might not be in this mess.” Sud-

denly, River jerked out of his grasp and dashed over to the kitchen window. “Don’t

bother,” said Joe, “Only leads to a fifty foot drop. Can’t do that with this busted leg.”

River pawed and whined at the closed window, looking over at Joe with wide eyes. Joe

felt a knot growing in his throat. Could dogs jump that far? He doubted it, but what

else could he do?

He made his way over to the window and pushed it open, cooler air from outside

rushing in. He looked down at River, who had thrust his head outside. It looked as if

River was considering his options in his little dog brain. After a moment of delibera-

tion, River sat down and continued whining and howling. Joe raised his eyebrows.

Even in a moment of crisis, River acted like a human child.

He made his way over to the window and pushed it open, cooler air from outside

rushing in. He looked down at River, who had thrust his head outside. It looked as if

River was considering his options in his little dog brain. After a moment of delibera-

tion, River sat down and continued whining and howling. Joe raised his eyebrows.

Even in a moment of crisis, River acted like a human child. “Whatever happened to

your doggie intuition, huh River?” asked Joe, as he sat down on the kitchen floor with

River. Guess there’s nothing else I can do now, he thought, as he watched the flames

leap higher in the adjacent room, devouring the spindly coffee table and ancient floor-

boards, each second coming closer to where he and his best friend sat, defeated.

19

The heat trapped in the small apartment irritated Joe more than anything else. Sure,

you would think that sitting there with a depressed dog and flames eating away at your

few possessions something else would come to mind, but Joe thought of the heat.

“See, River, aren’t you glad we didn’t have the money to go to Florida?” Joe said loudly

over the sound of the hungry flames. “Would’ve just been like this.

River had closed his eyes and now opened them, looking up at Joe sadly.

“What, you think Florida would have been nicer?” Joe asked, confused.

River sat up and tilted his head, looking at Joe. “Of course it would have been nicer!

They sell coke there!” Joe yelped and back away from River. Did he just talk?

“Yes, Joe, I talked. Anyway, they sell coke in Florida. The ad showed the kids in

Florida.”

“A hallucination. I’m hallucinating. Hallucinating. Dreaming. Can’t be. Dogs don’t talk.

River doesn’t talk.”

River yawned widely. “No, dogs don’t talk. But clearly I am. I like the hallucination

explanation best, so let’s go with that buddy.”

Joe’s heart was pounding. “So my hallucination knows it’s a hallucination.”

“Hey, we’re clutching onto the last straws of death, aren’t we?”

“What? That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Hey, don’t blame me for having bad English. I’m a dog. And a hallucination. And I

live with you.” Joe had to nod. The last argument really proved the point.

“So, River, think we’re going to die?”

“Of course,” the dog said simply, nodding. Joe sighed, sweat trickling down his back

and face, and leaned against the wall. The flames had entered the kitchen now, and

every breath was laborious.

“Why? Why? Why…?”

“Ah, you wish for me to delve into the metaphysics of it all? Or would you like me to

follow the religious path? How about spiritual? No, how about painting the picture of

good versus evil?”

Joe closed his eyes, wishing that in these last moments, his mind could provide him

some peace.

“No, sorry, no peace of mind right now, sir. We have to settle this business. So, tell me

about your childhood.” Joe opened his eyes. The dog was wearing a monocle and suit

and had a notepad in front of him.

“Are you supposed to be a shrink?” he asked.

River barked and wagged his tail.

Guess that’s a yes, thought Joe. He could feel sharp pains in his lungs as he struggled

to stay awake. My childhood, he thought, the lit up kitchen swimming in front of his

eyes.

+++++

He thought of the park and the swings, of his mother’s warm, soft chocolate chip

cookies, of his baseball games, of his sister’s dance recitals. He thought of the horrible

yearbook picture when he had the flu, of the kid next door who stole his bike, of the

lasagna his college roommate made, of the wet seats on the carnival rides in April, of

his dad’s thick eyebrows that caught fire when he tried to cook, of the rainy day when

he made paper boats to float in the puddles. He thought of the white alarm clock he

lost in middle school, of the broken umbrella hidden under the basement stairs, of the

B+ on his spelling test in fourth grade, of the rhythmic noise of the washing machine at

night. He thought of the broccoli in a neat array in the vegetable aisle in the supermar-

ket in his hometown, of the soda that fraternity gave out every Halloween, of the dog

pound he passed every day on his way to preschool, of the cold Vermont winters when

he would roast marshmallows over the fire.

River’s image disappeared before him and the kitchen dissolved in blackness.

~

“Just the one?” shouted Rick. In all his years as a fireman, he figured he had never seen

a guy so lucky. They had got there just in time to pull then man out – he was hardly

breathing.

Janis nodded over to him and turned around, watching the EMTs surround the man

with a flop of brown hair on the stretcher. Rick walked over to the guy, whose face was

covered with an oxygen mask.

“Hello, sir, can you hear me? Was there anyone else in the apartment with you?” The

man’s eyes widened and he tried to remove the oxygen mask.

“River! River!” he gasped. The EMTs looked at Rick, annoyed that he was disturbing

their patient.

“My dog, River. Help him! He was right next to me.” Rick frowned. He had just asked

out of formality. They had checked and there was no one in that apartment, human or

animal, save for this man.

“There was no dog there,” he said.

The man started mumbling, a weak grin appearing on his face.

“Ah, River, good boy, jumped out did you? Well, I will talk to later then. How about

meeting at the mall? They have a sale on coke.” Rick shook his head. This wasn’t the

first time he had seen some person completely lose it when they almost died. But this

guy seemed to have lost it a long time ago.

He heard the EMTs muttering that they had to remember to refer him to the psych

ward as they lifted him into the ambulance. They slammed the doors shut and drove

away, siren wailing.

In the shadows of the old, decrepit buildings that lined the crumbling road, a shape

stirred near some trash cans, unseen by the firefighters still hustling about. The shape

got up and slunk off in the direction the ambulance had disappeared. It was a dog – a

golden retriever with beautiful, round eyes – limping.

On the ambulance, Joe had his eyes closed. “I know you made it, boy, I know you

made it.” He drifted off as the ambulance disappeared into the blackness of the warm,

summer night.

The Berserkerby Violet Lyons

He’s called a berserker.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I saw you admiring my collection. Here’s your drink. I put my favorite pieces up

on this shelf. The rest are in the back – I’ll show you after the interview.

But, yeah, he’s called a berserker. The little ivory chessman, with the cone hat and the shield? It’s what you were looking at,

right? One of the Lewis chessmen, part of the first chess set ever found . . . or, rather, the earliest chess set ever discovered. They

found them somewhere in the UK – on one of the Outer Hebrides, I think. I first happened upon him in Scotland. There he was,

staring at me, chewing maniacally on his shield like the berserker he is, and I knew. I had to have him.

I found him in the museum. The big one that’s in Edinburgh? The Museum of Scotland, that’s the one. Well, I

needed to have him. It’s how this all started. They had a special that day, the only day I was there – I was visiting with my family,

whom I’ve always adored – even my sister, who is done with museums after fifteen minutes. I think I was ten or eleven, or maybe

even younger. I wandered by myself, past the elephant birds and the tigers and the ancient Roman coins and sandals, the odd col-

lection of perfume bottles of all sizes and colors, the ladies fans, along with a rather extravagant travel reticule. I wandered through

the account logs of the explorers of old, including the odd female who traveled with her husband, and men who had sailed all over

the world.

I saw the sign advertising for the Lewis chessman, so I went to have a look.

There aren’t many of them. I can’t remember if they didn’t find the whole set, and just assumed it was an ancient

chess set, or if the pieces were on loan from somebody, and they only took a few of them to display. I only remember the ivory

ones - the king, seated in his throne, the knights, on their horses, reigns gripped in their hands.

And my little berserker.

Well, needless to say, I read the information on him. His purpose, the decorations on his sheild, his uses on the

board, what he was based off of. On the board, he was some sort of rook.

But in life, a berserker is a soldier. In a battle, it’s the berserker’s job to go in first. Run towards the fight, howling and shouting

and generally be terrifying. They’re meant to intimidate the other army - to scare them, to make them flee, or quake in their boots,

or whatever makes them as ineffective as possible, with the most amount of humiliation they can manage. That’s what a berserker

does.

We aren’t that different, him and I. Kindred spirits, you might say. I liked everything about him, and I wanted him

so desperately. Like I said, kindred spirits. And I was very young.

So I reached out and took him.

Through an inch of bulletproof glass.

The Epiphany of Mr. WeiEvan Minto

The man staggered backwards, his face awash in surprise and wonder. The gravel, dotted with flecks of snow, let

out a satisfying “crunch” beneath his feet. He stared straight ahead, his eyes shining brightly as he took in the

amazing world in front of him. His name was Mr. Wei, and he had never seen anything like this.

In front of Mr. Wei stood a towering wooden barn, coated in snow and creaking ever so slightly as the wind blew

across the barren plain. The most striking feature of the barn, though, was a large, worn-out American flag, pinned

to the main doors of the building. It was a quaint, old-fashioned symbol, thought Mr. Wei, but it perfectly fit this

iconic scene. They were going to love it.

He turned to his right and saw a hill in the distance, glazed with snow and glistening in the moonlight. Spindly,

leafless trees reached up like skeletal claws and formed eerie silhouettes against the sky. In that sky, Mr. Wei saw

more stars than he’d ever seen in his entire life. They formed a glowing tapestry above his head, a blanket of light

profoundly different from the dull fluorescent lights of the city. As he craned his neck to gaze at the beautiful sight,

he began to understand the powerful allure of this natural landscape. For the first time in his life he felt truly tiny,

a little speck dwarfed by the incomparable scope of the universe.

At that exact moment, Mr. Wei made his decision, and wasting no time, he cried out in a thick Chinese accent,

“That will be all.”

Immediately everything went pitch black and dead silent. There was no barn, no flag, no trees, no stars. There was

no wind and no gravel. Mr. Wei carefully pulled out the headphones, removed the thick goggles, and laid them

both gently on the table in front of him.

He blinked vigorously to readjust his eyes, then finally reopened them to see that the blinds had been pulled up on

the nearby window, revealing the massive sea of skyscrapers outside, glittering in the orange evening sun. Mr. Wei

turned to find two well-dressed men standing in front of him, watching him with undisguised anxiety and a trace of

excitement.

Mr. Wei stood up straight and ran his hands down his pristine black suit, smoothing out any wrinkles that might

have occurred during the demonstration. He turned his stern gaze toward the two men, then let out a wry smile.

“Gentlemen,” he said proudly. “You’ve got yourselves an investor.”

22

Take Meby Natalia Belvoir

Take me,

Move me,

Lead me,

The sound of the beat,

The rhythm of our breath as we…

e

x

h

a

l

e... ecstasy.

Sweating passion,

Our motion consuming us,

We become lost,

Until the world is not what we know.

Things began to fade,

Disappear,

Reshape.

Just us in the fog of our tango,

My hand in yours,

And your other hand on my back

Your skin against mine as the color fades

We become lines on the music sheet

Just black and white

Fading on the final beat.

23

No Real Answersby Grumsh Oneeye

Once there was a beautiful girl, and she scampered through the

empty world searching for love. The girl had parents who loved her, but

she couldn’t always see. She had friends who loved her, but sometimes

they fought instead. The girl fell in love, fell out of love, and the world

went on. One day the girl met a boy, and he fell in love with her. The

girl loved the boy as well and, for a while, they were happy.

The river slips by, a rippling carpet beneath their dangling feet. The

mid-afternoon sun dances across the water, and dapples their faces with

leaf-shadows. Quiet. They’ve been sitting here for an hour now, a few

words spoken here and there. Gradually they’ve drifted together and

now, curled in his arms, she sighs. “What?” he whispers.

“Nothing.”

They sit and watch the water drift by. He rubs her shoulder, gently,

and nuzzles her ear, breathing in the smell of her hair. Quiet. “We

should go now,” he murmurs.

“Hmmm…” She turns, shifting in his arms, and their lips meet for the

first time. It’s a slow, hesitant kiss… sweet and gentle. They part and

their eyes meet, deep brown gazing up into crystal blue. Again she

reaches up and, softly, brushes her lips against his. “Now we can go,”

she whispers.

****

Soon, however, she discovers that they cannot be lovers. Our girl can’t

be with a man, she realizes, and so she tells him. It nearly breaks our

girl’s heart to tell this boy she loves so much that she can’t love him

the way he wants to be loved. The boy nods, and cries, and says he

understands. For a long time the boy doesn’t understand, and struggles

against the truth, but eventually he sees it and truly understands. The

boy comes back to our girl now, and he still loves her.

She finally picks up the phone, “Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Hey, I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“I know, sorry… look, I’m leaving tomorrow and...”

“I’m free today… I need to see you before you go.”

“I was thinking we could dance…”

“Yeah, sure, can you pick me up?”

“Yeah.”

They dance long into the night, joined in a furious swirl of spinning

skirts and kicking feet, flying through the hall as if their time will last

forever until, exhausted, they collapse together and rest, gasping for air.

He puts his arm around her and, after a moment, she snuggles closer.

A long moment passes, strains of music drifting down the stairs are the

only sound. “Should we go?” he finally asks.

“What time is it?”

“Only eleven, we should stop by the pond before I bring you home.”

“Okay.”

****

And so these would-be-lovers arrive on their empty beach. Imagine their

pain, their love, their sharing. See them together. And the boy has to

leave…

****

The moon, bright in the crystal darkness, shines a silver path on the

water, a road of flickering light stretching out into the summer night.

The moon is full, and the stars pay a thousand tributes to her glory.

He stands on the beach, looking out over the water, silent. She shivers,

pulling his old shirt more tightly around her, and he steps closer, wrap-

ping his arm around her shoulders, her head against his chest. Silence.

Another time, he thinks, this would be romantic, but it’s still beautiful.

Silence. The moon rises, slow, steady, unstoppable as time. Silence. The

silence stretches, comfortable as an old coat across the pair, peaceful.

He shivers and turns away from the water, slipping into her warm, soft

embrace. Her hands are cold against him, and he covers them gen-

tly before wrapping his arms around her again. His lips move, silent,

against her forehead, mouthing words she can’t hear: a word he can

never say, but wants to, please, a word he doesn’t want to say, but has

to, goodbye. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t be,” he replies.

“This is, I like this a lot, but… I can’t do… sorry.”

“I understand, I’ll be okay, don’t worry.”

“If I could… if I was with any guy… I’d be with you.”

“Thank you.”

They stand at the edge of the water, looking out over the moon’s silver

road for a long time. They hold each other tightly, sharing warmth,

unwilling to leave, not yet. Finally she shivers again and they turn

regretfully away, back to the car. At her house he opens her door and

gives her a hug. “Goodbye,” he whispers.

“It’s not forever, visit me.”

“Of course.”

****

This is no romance, there’s no happiness waiting at the end. This is a

love story, and those can be sad… but they need hope too.

SPINE