The Anarchist

By Austin Corbin

The Fall into Anarchy made way for freedoms unthinkable; however, it has given power to evil as well as good. The U.S. dollar has no power; bartering and trade are the only forms of tender. Yet many fast food chains remain open and in regular business; people bring in small trinkets and bobbles to pay for food, making tip sharing quite the battle. 

After the Fall into Anarchy, the two generals of the Anarchical army destroyed all firearm manufacturing plants, confiscated all firearms, destroying them in the process, and all ore mines were decimated. The Former States of America have been walled off and separated from the rest of the known world. No cellular, radio, or telegram devices function in the country. No postal service has been reestablished since the Fall. Now primitive weapons such as swords, clubs, maces, hammers, bows, crossbows, etc. are the only means of non-architectural defense. 

In the brief time between the surrender of the United States military, and total anarchy, three and a half years to be exact, the two generals plunged America into a complete dictatorship. Where agreements were made with the entire outer world, no one was allowed in or out whatsoever. Walls were built and guarded by surrounding countries. All trade was barred at both land and sea.

After all the agreements were made, the right people pissed off, and government officials assassinated, the dictatorship was abolished. The two generals were nowhere to be found. After a brief period of inner turmoil, everything settled down, and people began to fend for themselves, throwing the former United States of America into complete and total anarchy. 

                                                                     —-

Several generations later, the treaties still stand, and although many have tried, no one has risen to power, and the former country has become surprisingly calm. Disorder has become order, and this order has become the norm.

———

Corvus Cellarus Crow rolled over in bed, reaching for his hand coffee grinder—which he always kept on his nightstand. As he stood up slowly, he felt the morning grog hit him like a freight train. Step by step, he made his way to the kitchen through the long, thin hallway in his small dugout house. In entering the kitchen he swiped his coffee percolator off of the counter. The large sack of whole coffee beans lay on the floor. He took the wooden hand scoop sticking halfway out of the bag and felt satisfied with the amount of beans, filling the grinder as he grabbed a match from behind the stove. As he ground, he took a small break to light his pipe filled with pure North Carolina tobacco, pure Nicotiana rustica. The Florida-imported coffee beans met his nose through the smoke, a sign the beans had been ground to perfection. Cory loosened his grip on his pipe and moved his hand to the percolator; that's when he heard the knock at the door. 

Slightly confused, Corvus reached for the handle of the door leading to the outer world from his humble dugout house. Then remembering himself, he quickly walked to the coat closet, at the bottom of which he kept his rapier and dagger. Swiftly he retrieved the rapier—heftier than most. It was strong, well-balanced, and still considerably light. However, on his way back to the door, Cory caught his eyes fixed on the location of the carefully hidden trap door under which he kept his revolvers and Thompson gun. Corvus, after a moment, decided against arming himself further. He opened the door. Corvus was met by a man with a gun—a fairly primitive slam-fire shotgun, with bad welds and all; signs of an imbecile wannabe politician who somehow had found one or two shotgun shells and decided to make a big deal about it. The man raised a hand in greeting as he shouldered the makeshift shotgun. Corvus invited him in; a short dialogue was made between the two before the man went on his political rant about restoring America to its former glory. Needless to say, Corvus was not interested, or at least not as interested as the man was in the blade that appeared to hastily find its way into his neck, handled by a strong arm—no squirming could save him…

The Night Shift

By Hannah Bertalot

“Good evening, Viktor!” Vani greets with a friendly wave, returned by the half-asleep night guard watching the wall of cameras in the security office.

“Have a good shift, Vani,” he replies drowsily, lifting his bored gaze to look at her through the security window as she walks by, grabbing her keycard from the shelf.

The beginning of Vani’s shift is marked by the deft swipe of the keycard over a scanner, a robotic beep echoing as she clocks in. Then, she marches through the heavy security doors on her way out of the employee-only entrance. It has been a while since she has been put on a night shift, as Vani prefers to work during the museum's open hours. 

However, her coworker had called out sick on short notice, so her father urged her to pick up the slack. While she feigns vexation at her father’s insistence, Vani sighs fondly as she starts her circuits through the museum’s various galleries.

When she was young, she always admired the museum cast in the moonlight—on the rare occasions that her father allowed her to stay up past her bedtime to work the night shift with him.

Her childhood trails after her in brief flashes of memories while she tunes out the silent walk through the museum, her own history weaving in with the history of the much older artifacts within the ancient walls. 

It feels less like she was at work and more like walking down memory lane—school field trips where she knew as much as the tour guides, chasing her friends around the galleries while waiting for her father to get off work and take her home for the day. 

One of the long museum hallways ends in an octagonally shaped room, the walls running high over her head with old windows that allowed ample lighting to shine in on the intricately carved centerpiece—a crane fountain spewing sparkling water from its bill. Water pools at its feet, rippling peacefully. She takes a few steps closer and stares into the pool reminiscently. It feels like yesterday when she was last here with her best friend, Marv. 

The usual quiet buzz of guests in the museum was one of the only sounds besides that of a young girl as she prattled on about a particular painting they were standing in front of. She points to the acrylic painting, “And this is the Old Forest, which was right here before the museum was built!” She explained matter-of-factly to a similarly aged boy, who stared up at the large canvas with a glimmer of wonder in his eye.

“Whoa, really? Why’d they cut the forest down to build the museum, though?” He asked.

“My Pa said that my great-great… uh… how many was it? Like, my great-grandpa’s great-grandpa built it a long time ago to protect all the artifacts that others found and brought to the museum! Because it’s important to preserve our history so that everyone can see how important it is and we don’t accidentally repeat ourselves! Because Pa said that’s a bad thing sometimes, I think.”

The little boy nodded, looking from her and back at the painting, then following along as she led the way to more sculptures. Vani showed off the oldest parts of the museum, proudly parroting anything she recalled from the countless times she had followed tour guides around the museum. 

“And this is the Fountain of Apollo! One of the most important things here! It’s like… a thousand years old, I think!” She says, gesturing up at the grand fountain. “That’s the Sapphire of Apollo!” She points to the blue gem embedded in the bird’s chest. “Pa said it could heal people if they used it correctly.” 

“Wow… really?” Marvey said, awestruck. He reached out to grab it, and Vani quickly pulled him away. 

“Huh?” He asked, looking a little confused.

“No, no! We can’t touch it! It’s very fragile, Pa said! We could break the Sapphire and the statue if we tried to take it out!” Vani explains shrilly.

“Oh… that makes sense. Okay then... Sorry.”

“That’s okay; you didn’t know.”

Soon after, while they were exploring the museum, an elderly lady on a walker arrived, and she waved Marvey over. 

“Aw… Grandma says it’s time to go.” The little boy said sadly, waving goodbye as he ran over to her. “See you later, Vani!” He called over his shoulder.

“Bye, Marv! I’ll see you soon!”

Vani wasn’t sure what had become of her best friend since that day. He had fallen out of touch, and she could only move forward since he stopped attending school.

The clumsy sound of something heavy falling over snaps Vani back to the present quickly, and she whips her head toward the source, her flashlight following along to track the retreating figure of a person as they hide behind a statue.

The night guard quickly shifts gears and returns to work. “The museum’s closed. What are you doing here still?” she calls. 

Instead of an answer, she hears rushing footsteps around the statue the intruder was hiding behind. A moment later, she sees their silhouette as they dart down a hall. She quietly mumbles an expletive as she gives chase, charging after them. 

“Viktor!” She yells, holding her radio up to her mouth. “Call the cops! We’ve got an intruder!”

Somewhere along the way, she loses track of the intruder, their retreating form swallowed by the vast expanse of winding corridors. As noise inevitably carries throughout the silent museum, Vani pauses, listening closely as she tries to hear their echoing footsteps. She holds her breath momentarily, then takes off like a bloodhound with a scent when she hears distant footsteps heading toward the fountain. 

Upon reaching the cavernous room again, the intruder mortifies her as she sees them climb the fountain. They wrap their hands around the neck of the crane while they leverage themself up to reach the Sapphire of Apollo. 

“Stop! You can’t climb on the fountain! You’ll risk breaking it!” She yells, precariously following after them to pull them off the fountain. Upon getting closer, she recognizes the familiar features of a face she once knew well staring back at her. The intruder also recognizes her, losing the expeditious quality in his manner. He hesitates, and she uses that split second to grab his shoulders and rip him away from the fountain, getting the sapphire safely out of his reach. Once they’re away from the fountain, she turns to him.

“Marv?” Vani asks softly, her voice wavering as she hesitates and releases him, backing away a few steps. 

“What are you doing here?” The feeling of betrayal is strong, wrenching her gut as she stares at him. 

Marv stares back, nowhere to run from what he’d done now that she caught him. He didn’t answer, only continuing to stare at her with guilty eyes. He didn’t need to say a word for her to read him.

Her voice is only a murmur, “You’re… stealing. From the museum.”

“I promise I can explain,” He says, almost desperate for her to hear him out as he puts his hands out in a submissive gesture. “I—I have to take the sapphire, and I know this looks bad, but it’s- it’s-” He looks conflicted, taking a breath to pull himself together.

“I need to take the sapphire to help my grandmother,” he tries again. “She’s sick—cursed, and the only way we can help her is if I take the sapphire and use its purifying properties to break the curse.” He explains as briefly as possible. 

Vani stares at him. “Fine. Take it, then. But I won’t forgive you for coming in here and breaking my—” Not even just hers. “My family’s trust.” She responds icily.

The sound of footsteps rushing toward the scene cues Vani to turn away, refusing to watch as she hears Marvey slowly walk back toward the fountain, then the sound of stone resisting as he tugs at the Sapphire of Apollo, freeing it from the ancient sculpture. 

She exits the grand chamber, pointing the police in the right direction to go and get the thief in the other room.

“Freeze! Don’t move!”

Vani pauses to listen, sighing as she leans against a wall and buries her face in her hands. 

“He’s armed! Put your weapon down!”

She will never hear another sentence that chills her blood so efficiently. She will never hear another sound that breaks her heart more than the sound of gunshots, as the smaller crash of what was unmistakably the Sapphire of Apollo shattering follows, and the thud of someone she used to know.

Whispers of the Workshop

By Allison Gee

I sneak my way out of the grim workshop to the stairway facing east. Forcing my way up onto my tippy toes, I shift the curtains out of my view. The sun subtly makes its way to my eyes and I can feel the warmth it brings to my face. Sun is a speciality that we are somehow told to ignore. 

“HOLLY! Are you trying to get us in trouble?” my barely four and a half foot friend screams at me. 

“Jolly, it is not my fault that you don’t always care for the environment around you,” I remark in a snarky voice.
With no time between responses she declares “well why would I when it is all just snow and darkness anyways.” 

“That’s just what they want you to believe, come look out this window and tell me that you don’t think there is more out there!”

“Not this again Holly,” she replies disappointedly.

“I know you think I’m crazy but I know there is more than this life we are living, and once you start looking for it, you’ll start to notice it too”

“All I’m looking for is a way out of here that won’t get us in trouble, now c'mon!”

I follow behind her spiritless, dragging my toes at each idea of going back to work. Everyone around here seems fine with living life in a loop, working all day long – that’s always how I used to be. That’s how I wish I still was. 

To my right are Stock and Wreath; They are the classic textbook elves, efficient, fast and easygoing. Straight ahead we have Bell and Tinsel. They are the slower type (referring to making toys of course), they easily forget the step they are on which leads to unnecessary chaos. Lastly, to my left is good ole Jolly, my best friend and favorite coworker. She may not be the best at making toys but she is my biggest supporter and the reason I am who I am. We all work together and specialize in stuffed animals. Being around each other and even sharing sleeping quarters basically forces us to be pretty close friends. Not to forget the person that makes it all happen, Jingle. Technically, she is the stuffed animal administrator, but to me, she acts more as an older sister. She interacts with us on the daily and is always more delicate when giving out orders. For the general population, they would say Santa is their favorite and while I do find him quite fantastic, he is too cliche to say. Santa is the reason we are all here. Santa made us all and picked out each of our talents uniquely. For example, while Wreath isn’t as good at sewing, he is an excellent stuffer and this causes him and I to make an impeccable team. Needless to say, Santa is like our God. 

Later into the night, I forcefully sit up, breathing heavily, sweat lingering on my skin. The same feeling washes over me each morning. To remember my dreams at night is improbable, but the feeling of them always sticks with me. I don’t understand that if Santa made me uniquely for stuffed animal assembly, why I would slowly lose my passion for it. The thought that I may have been one of Santa's uncaught mistakes straggles with me throughout every day and apparently every night too. 

I finish washing my hands and splash a few drops of ice cold water onto my face. My ribs are forced out by air being filled within my lungs in an attempt to try and slow down my breathing. Something deep inside my stomach feels off and it is a feeling I haven’t been able to shake for months. Composing myself each morning has seemed to help however I can feel Jolly watching me closer than ever, she knows something is wrong. For being my best friend she is oftentimes incredibly blunt. Her hair reminds me of the curled ribbons we put on presents and she normally styles it in two low buns; it seems to be the only hairstyle that works with our pointy hats that supposedly help us work. Her skin is the color of fresh poured chocolate and her glasses almost seem bigger than the snowglobes that decorate our shop. Jolly seems to be the loudest elf and is always talking her ear off to anyone that’ll listen. I love how assertive she is even in the moments I fear for my safety. 

I find myself weaving through the breakfast line, grabbing my usual fruit and toast, going through great efforts to avoid Jolly. I am not sure if I have the capacity this morning to deal with Jolly and her flamboyant personality. Needless to say, my reaction when I turned around and she was right in front of my face. 

“Good morning sunshine!” Jolly states energetically.

I reply in an annoyed tone “Oh, hey Jolly, morning.” 

“Sounds like you didn’t sleep very good last night” she remarks.

“No actually I didn’t and I don’t need you to get involved.”

“Are you just really stressed out because Christmas is approaching quicker than you expected” she reminds me. 

“Ugh no, that is not the problem, you know how prepared I am” I state, followed by a big sigh. “You know what, just come with me,” I say as I grab her wrist and lead her towards the bathrooms. 

“Why are you causing a scene? What do you need to tell me?” she questions.

“First of all Jolly, this isn’t a scene, I’m trying to avoid a scene. And if I tell you what I’m thinking I need you to not judge me” I firmly declare.

“Holly, there is no need for me to judge you. You're the only real friend I have here. So what is it?” 

“You would judge me because what I am about to say is probably going to change your opinion of me but I guess it needs to be said,” I pause to gather my breath and continue after a big inhale. “I know it sometimes seems like we live a perfect life, I mean that is what we have always been told. That Santa is the most amazing creature to exist and that we are all blessed to know him however, with careful consideration, I have come to realize that we are being force fed to believe such things. Have you ever wondered why our stomachs always have an ache deep inside them or why they never let us do anything we want to? Our lives consist of work and sleep and for the longest time I thought that was how it was supposed to be until my dreams at night showed me another narrative. I think we have been brainwashed to believe these false truths and after observing more and more, I am only further convinced. I am not sure exactly what a different life would entail, but I can feel that there is so much more that we are missing out on. I still believe that Santa is the reason we are all here, but if I am right in my accusations, Santa is the one behind this all. We are being held back from our own lives filled with passion and it is being done on purpose. I know this probably doesn’t make much sense and it hasn’t for me either but once you just stop and start questioning the information that we are being forced to believe you will understand it.” 

“This is a lot of information that you threw at me, and I honestly don't believe it in the slightest, but you are the most intelligent person I know and always on the lookout. I see where you are coming from, and I will take time to think about everything you believe to be true. I don't understand how you feel that the man who got us here, our beloved Santa, can be someone as bad as you believe, but I will try my best to see your side of things before completely shutting the idea down in my head,” Jolly responds. 

“And that’s all I can ask you to do” I say in relief

I go about the rest of my day trying to ignore the slight guilt I feel for telling Jolly. It is bad enough that I have been living with a pit in my stomach. I didn’t need to involve her as well. Tossing and turning all night I have trouble getting to sleep. I feel trapped in the only place I know as home and I see no way out. Being an observer for as long as I can remember, I notice things. I notice body language and I usually know what someone is going to do before they say it. I notice that Jolly is unsettled and in turn that makes me unsettled. The selfish part of me is glad I am no longer in this situation alone but the other part questions my decision. I drift off into sleep with moments of regret and also moments of assurance fading in and out. 

I am eager to see Jolly this morning; the exact opposite of yesterday and in the corner of my eye, I see Jolly urgently approaching me from the other side of the room.

“Holly, what’s going on!” she states in a quiet but panicked voice.

“What do you mean? Am I missing something” I state, confused. 

“Why are we only getting fed once a day and why do they always watch us, treating us like we can’t be on our own, and why is the only thing we do is work? Do we even have any freedom??” she confesses panicked.

“Jol, I know it seems scary, especially thinking about how it has been this way our entire lives, but maybe we should take a second and think about this.”

“No, we need to do something about this, where do we even start?” she responds.

“This is going to sound as crazy as what I said before, or even a little crazier, but I have been making plans for weeks now. The only way to fully understand what is happening is to get into Santa's office, and Santa is only gone the night before christmas” I hint.

“But Christmas is in three days, how are we going to make this work?” she asks puzzled.

“I know it seems far-fetched, but it's either we do this now, or wait till next season when Santa is gone again.”   

Something clicks inside her mind and she promptly responds with “Okay so what do you need me to do?”

“First, I need to know you’re committed to this, secondly, I need you to plan some sort of occasion to keep all the elves around here distracted. Since all the leaders help Santa out, the only one we have to worry about is Miss Carol. She is basically deaf and likes to go to bed at a good hour, so as long as she thinks we are all in our beds sleeping, we should be fine. I will distract her around 7 so you need to sneak into all the cabins and make it look like we are all asleep. After that, entertain the elves and I will meet you in Santa's warehouse at 9, should give us plenty of time to search his place and Miss Carol should be plenty asleep by then”

“Yes, I would've never even considered this a possibility yesterday, but now that I see what we have been wrapped into our whole lives, I see that there needs to be a change. I can most definitely keep the elves distracted. You know I throw killer parties. I have never tried it around the biggest day of the year, but I will make it work. I need to get to planning not only to avoid Miss Carol but also to get all the elves on board on such short notice.” 

“Okay sounds good, try and keep distance from each other the next few days but do let me know if you need my help for anything” I remind her.

“Holly, you’re sure about this” Jolly states, looking for reassurance.
“More sure than ever, which takes a lot with my indecisive brain” I joke. 

“Alright let's do this!” she says as she whips out her fist in hopes to start our handshake. 

So many questions run through my mind, but the one thing I know for sure is that Jolly is a loyal friend. While I am terrified for my life, I know this is the right thing to do. Two and a half days till I can maybe get some answers, only two and a half days until my life will start to make some sense. In the meantime, I distract my mind, planning how we are going to get into his shop and how we are going to go unnoticed. I put Jolly in charge of distracting all the elves and I already have a plan to keep Miss Carol from getting in our way. The biggest obstacle now is determining a plan for how to get in the warehouse and what we will do once we are in. The only way I can scout the premise is to go to the upper level workshops and pear out the stairwell windows. 

I find myself swiftly skipping steps, making sure to be as quiet as possible. I reach level 6 and prowl my way to the window. I don’t have a great view of Santa’s place from here and it is hard to see past the falling snow but I think I found a way in. I rest uneasy at breakfast the next morning, not knowing what to expect from tonight's adventure. 

All the elves are gathered outside, near the runway, full of energy to send Santa on his way. I sneak my way through the crowd and slip unnoticed to my cabin. I take a look up at my bed, beautifully made with no wrinkles or imperfections and then I glance down to Jolly’s bed; blankets going in every direction, pillows on the ground and completely unmade. Normally, this scene would have made me infected with disappointment but the edges of my mouth can’t help but lift and form a delicate smile. While the life I have been living isn’t the one I’ve always wanted, there are still things about it that I would never want to change. I gather my breath, stand up straight and open back up the door. 

“Shh Jolly this way” I whisper as I motion my arm, pointing up.

In the middle of darkness climbing up the side of the shed, I realize that there might’ve been a better way of going about this. My fingertips are freezing and the visibility is worse than I thought. The only thing I can hear at this moment is the wind. Inches from the top I feel my foot slide off the crack I had it resting on. I thought for sure I was about to fall to my death (or really about 10 feet) but I was able to relocate the crack before falling and give Jolly a reassuring nod. I reach the roof of the shed and pull myself up with grand relief. My body is shaky but yet more alive than it has ever been. I make sure Jolly gets up okay and then we lighty step, edging closer to our way in. I spot the chimney I saw from floor 6 and place my hands on its outer walls. I push on my hands, taking the pressure off of my legs and peek into the chimney. After inspecting for quite some time I gathered my breath and decided to make the most courageous and brave decision so far; I made Jolly jump down the chimney. 

“OUCH!!” Jolly’s voice echos to my ears

“Jolly, are you okay?!?” I scream back in a concerned manner 

“Yes, but get down here you’re gonna wanna see this”

I prepare for my descent and start thinking about it deeply until I hear Jolly “get down here now!” Without hesitation I let myself fall and I hit the ground not long after. I landed on my bottom but was expecting more impact than I received. I take my gaze up and see Jolly’s face in complete awe. I look around and am astounded with the amount of new objects I see. I look around for quite some time until a weird ding starts going off on the object above the fireplace. It reminds me that we are on a schedule and have tasks to complete. 

We roam around for quite some time taking in everything around us. It didn’t take me long to find the books and Jolly went straight to the toys, anyone could tell she was in the right department. I begin flipping pages and am completely enthralled by what I am finding.

“Jolly, make sure to take anything you think we could need once we leave” I yell in hopes of reminding her. 

“Okay will do” she alerts back muffled. I continue rifling through as many books as I can, taking in knowledge faster than an elf can sew. I rip out the pages I find to be important and keep going. I’m on my way to my 5th book when I hear a startling clatter come from the back of the room. I carefully make my way closer to the sound when I see Jolly acting guilty. 

“Uh Jolly, are you okay?” I question. She turns to face me and has chocolate all over her face, some even managed to get in her hair. Laughter immediately rushes through my body and we both can’t help but fall to the ground with giggles. My stomach begins to get sore from the amount of laughter but comes to an abrupt halt when lights from the room next to us flash on.

“What was that?” Jolly says with a subtle shake in her voice. I motion for her to be quiet and we make our way over to the window the light is coming from. We get a glimpse of what’s going on and see Santa, who is somehow back already. 

“C’mon, we have to find a way out now!” Jolly urgently speaks as she turns around looking for an exit. Before I turn around to join her, I see Miss Jingle and Santa giving strict commands, something I’ve never seen Miss Jingle do. A few seconds later, I see little elves emerging from Santa's sleigh. Only after a closer look, I realize these are not elves. They are a tad bit too small and are dressed in strange clothes, thinking about what they could be, I flash back to the same memory of myself walking out of the same sleigh. Only now I realize that I was right – I had a life before this. I turn to Jolly who has already realized this truth on her own and has her nose pushed up against the glass with her mouth wide open and tears in her eyes. 

TO BE CONTINUED….

The Glendalough Killer

By Austin Corbin

Back in the rebellious land of the nineties, the citizens of Wicklow, Ireland, found difficulty sleeping. Along with the bombings in the north, a more overlooked issue presented itself just outside the town. In a famous tourist and pilgrimage destination by the name of Glendalough, the stench of death met the nostrils of all in the area.

Sarah McBride walked along a small path; no matter how overgrown it became, she prevailed. The sweet smell of the lough met her nose as the soft green moss welcomed her hiking boots with a damp embrace, the long grass swept across her ankles, and the ancient trees above provided a blanket of humid shade to bask in. A quiet rustle in the grass and movement in the corner of Sarah's eye caused her to look up. Her eyes fell upon a rabbit, coarse hair that blended itself into a collage of warm neutral earth tones, contrasting a soft white tail with long hind legs just beneath it. A truly pristine little creature. Sarah was shocked at how close she was to the living, breathing animal; she slowly brought up her camera to her eye, however, the sound of fingernails softly tapping against plastic had the rabbit gone before a proper photograph could have been taken. Sarah, although disappointed, was delighted to have met the rabbit along the trail.

As her journey progressed, Sarah would often catch hushed whispers of leaves whirling behind her, a sweet little breeze keeping her good company—although seldom did the breeze ever sweep the leaves right before her. The trail eventually came to a head, where Sarah found herself right on the shore of the pristine lough. As she peered into the shimmering water, she watched her reflection, a perfect image, and let all of her worries seep out of her fingertips, a relaxation beyond relaxation washing over her; a momentary peace broken suddenly by the figure that swiftly appeared behind her.

It was in that singular second that Sarah may have realized that she had been followed; however, it is more likely that this second was filled with surprise, panic, or confusion. Short-lived was this feeling, whatever it was,  it soon turned into fear. 

The crime scene was gruesome, to say the least. Blood defiled the clear water of the lough. Two large bruises around the neck suggested strangulation; however, an array of stab wounds and lacerations to the abdomen, eighty-seven wounds to be exact, suggested otherwise. When the autopsy report came back, it had been determined that Sarah McBride, age twenty-seven, had been murdered by strangulation and only afterward was the stabbing frenzy. The weapon used to deliver the eighty-seven stab wounds was a simple steak knife. Upon further inspection of the weapon, the blood of two other recent murder victims was found.

The first victim had been John Hiller, age thirty, murdered in his own apartment, with exactly eighty-seven stab wounds and a pair of bruises around his neck. The second victim, Maureen Rose, age twenty-five, had been murdered in a public restroom on a day trip to Galway, once more, with exactly eighty-seven stab wounds, and a pair of dark purple bruises around her neck. All of these victims had been strangled, stabbed, and left where they lay. A strange case indeed. Who would do this, what motivation was there, and what was the idea behind the method? Captain Stephen McRoy found himself pondering each of these questions and more as he stepped through the Glendalough visitors center. 

All the Captain knew was there was an intense search for the killer in Glendalough, Wicklow, and other surrounding areas. Fortunately, it was not long before a disheveled sixty-two-year-old man by the name of Owen O’Malley was found living in the Glendalough round tower. Blood soaked his clothing. The following is the interrogation record between Captain McRoy and Owen O’Malley.

Capt. McRoy: Good afternoon, I am Captain Stephen McRoy. You have been charged with the murder of Sarah McBride, Maureen Rose, and John Hiller-

O’Malley: I did it.

Capt. McRoy: Excuse me, you did what exactly?

O’Malley: I killed them.

Capt. McRoy: Are you certain you wish to admit to this?

O’Malley: Yes.

Capt. McRoy: Who did you kill-

O’Malley: All of them. McBride, Hiller, and Rose

Capt. McRoy: Sir, do you understand what this means for you?

O’Malley: Yes, yes I do.

Capt. McRoy: Can you describe in detail how you murdered each victim?

O’Malley: I had my knife on me for the first one; damn bugger let out a shriek when I stabbed him, so I cut his scream short with my hands, caving in his esophagus with my thumbs. I held him there, waited what seemed like an age for the light behind his eyes to finally fade.

Captain McRoy chokes. He regains stoicism and listens on; however, the story goes on a strange tangent.

O’Malley: Have I ever told you about my family? Of course I haven't. I have none to speak of; they're all dead now, all gone.

Capt. McRoy: Mr. O’Malley, please stick to the topic.

O’Malley: Oh, yes, of course, an urge to mangle the body of this son of a pig came over me. I proceeded to stab him eighty-seven times-

Capt. McRoy: Why eighty-seven?

O’Malley: Well for that you must let me speak of my family.

Capt. McRoy: Fine, go right ahead.

O’Malley: In Belfast, I lived with a beautiful wife and two wonderful children. How could they know? ... Anyway, I had a best friend who lived in Enniskillen—we were there… He and I were inseparable brothers; his mother was my mother, and mine was his, the uncle of my daughters, although not by blood. I lost them all. The bomb. It took them all. My family and I were visiting my best friend, Derek, on November eighth, nineteen eighty-seven. The remembrance day bombing. Gwendallin O’Malley, Malinda O’Malley, Stephen O’Malley, and Derek Carny. Eighty-seven. Why do you think we are where we are right now? Robert McBride, Daniel Rose, Dean Hiller. The men who orchestrated the death of my family. If my children paid the war toll with their blood, then so must the children of these men.

Capt. McRoy: So that’s it. You murdered the children of the men who killed your wife, children, and friend. You do realize there are more men that orchestrated the death of your family, don’t you?

O’Malley: Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. That’s exactly why I’m here.

Capt. McRoy: Excuse me?

O’Malley: Earnie McRoy.

[REDACTED]

By the time the interrogation room scene was finally discovered, Captain McRoy was dead, with a pair of bruises around his neck and exactly eighty-seven stab wounds given by his own knife. As for O’Malley, he was nowhere to be found, with the door to the interrogation room having been left wide open. 

Cogi.

By Hannah Bertalot

It was late at night as a college student walked down their neighborhood street. It was dark, and only a few lamps were around to prevent the cloak of complete darkness. Their Walkman weighed in their pocket, the earbuds connected to it swaying slightly with each step. It had been a long day, so they tuned out the night ambiance with music.

If they tried, Cogi didn’t think they would be able to recall the song’s title, despite it being one that they had listened to countless other times on numerous other nights. It was always there after a long day, drowning out the thoughts they’d prefer to avoid thinking about. It had more bass than meaning.

They sprinted across the grass, and the porch creaked as they jogged up to the front door and let themself inside. The house felt hollow as they flipped the light switch, turning the ugly, buzzing, white overhead light on in the hallway. Loneliness leered over them like a predator as they passed through the living room. They skipped the kitchen and the thought of food entirely and opted to head straight upstairs. They detoured to the bathroom and splashed their face with water, purposefully avoiding their gaze in the mirror. 

Cogi didn’t think they could stomach seeing their face tonight.

The cold water was almost enough to snap them out of whatever daze it felt like they had been in all day—almost. 

Alas, it failed. They turned the water off, then trudged down the hall to their bedroom. They crashed into the disheveled mass of blankets and pillows intended to be their bed, and sleep claimed them with merciful swiftness.

They walked down their street again. It was foggy, and most of the houses were reduced to vague shapes in their peripheral vision. The street was dark, though light still illuminated silhouettes through the occasional window. The Walkman was back in their pocket, though they were listening to a radio station this time. Nothing the voices on the other end said mattered. It was mostly asinine gossip; a news reporter's smooth and professional dialogue. Any actual personality was ironed out for the sake of a classic radio persona.

“A student at Woodside Elementary School has gone missing. She was last seen walking home from school on Thursday afternoon. Police have limited data, so if you have any information regarding her whereabouts, we urge you to contact the police station as soon as possible.” 

Cogi ignored the rest of the news report; their expression shifted into a frown as they stared at the passing concrete beneath their feet. They walked up the sidewalk, and a sense of numbness overwhelmed them as they stepped into the dark house. It seemed as though the darkness swallowed them whole.

They walked down the street again. This time, a young girl meandered alongside them. Cogi cast her a sideways glance, barely paying her any mind. She was filthy and bloodied, looking like she was dragged through the sticks and mud. Her dress is stained, tattered—ruined beyond what even a skilled seamstress might hope to repair. She stopped at Cogi’s mailbox and watched them approach the door. They braved a glance at her face, and instead of the brown doe eyes they had known, a blurred face stared back. 

“Why didn’t you think?” She asked. Her voice was just like they remembered- soft, delicate.

“Huh?”

“Cogito, why didn’t you think?”

They hadn’t heard their name spoken in a while. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.” They answered. Cogi tore their gaze away from her face, then sharply turned on their heel and stepped inside, slamming the door shut. A chill ran down their spine as they peered through the peephole on the door, greeted with the blurred face staring them down, pressed alarmingly close.

Shaking hands slid the deadbolt shut as they turned their back to the door again. They threw themself away from it and stumbled down the dark hall.

Cogi sprinted down their street, their heartbeat in their ears as they went. Red and blue flashed behind them, the cry of police sirens screeching through the air. The world around them was dark, forcing them to focus on nothing but staying on their feet and in motion while the lights grew closer.

The longer it went on, the less it sounded like a police siren, morphing into the wail of a small child. They braved a glance over their shoulder, the blood in their veins chilling like ice as they saw the little girl’s figure close behind, the source of that awful cry.

No matter how quickly they ran, the distance between them and that noise was shrinking. She- it was getting closer.

Closer. 

Closer.

The wailing was so loud now that they knew it was almost upon them. 

Cogi braved one last glance over their shoulder and almost met nose-to-nose with the little girl’s blurred features, her mouth stretched unnaturally wide as the shriek poured from her throat. 

Horror seized their heartbeat for half a breath before they felt the sickening motion of falling forward, their vision snapping to black before they could even process the ground in front of them rushing closer.

Cogi wakes in their messy bed. They’re alone. Sun shines through the dirty windows and drapes over their shoulders, but it does nothing to ease the chill of the nightmare they just woke from. 

It wasn’t real. Cogi realized.

It wasn’t real. They reaffirmed. 

Rising from their entrapment of blankets, they groggily cross the room, pausing with their hand hovering over the doorknob. They take a steadying breath, trying to calm their racing heartbeat. 

Once again, they stumble down the hall and into the restroom, ignoring the creeping feeling of paranoia as its unwelcome claws dug into their ribcage. 

They turn on the cold water, dipping their head to splash water on their face, hoping it will wake them up and chase their feelings away. 

The sound of the faucet is almost soothing in the silent house. 

“Cogito?”

They whip their head up, quickly looking in the mirror. The expectation of their little sister standing behind them in the reflection is abruptly shattered as they realize they’re still alone.

They’re forced to see only their own face, the face of a filthy murderer.

Midnight Wanderer

By Megan Pederson

While wandering through the woods at two in the morning is not enticing, Delilah found herself in the woods almost every night. It was not a mere act of rebellion as most thought, but the only place she found pure joy. She found time to leave her head in the woods. Delilah lived in a rural town in the Appalachian mountains, and the urban legends surrounding her area caused people to be wary of the woods, especially after dark. But with the area surrounded by miles of trees, how could she resist entering the woods? Delilah never cared for these legends, and she knew nothing would happen to her. The dreadful creatures the legends spoke of never seemed to find her, although she occasionally prayed for them to find her. One night, it all changed.

Delilah argued with her mother about venturing into the woods; her mother had finally caught onto midnight adventures. Delilah's obsession with wandering in the woods began years before the night her mother discovered it. In Delilah's true nature, she went back to the woods immediately after the argument. Delilah was not in the right headspace; she wanted to shriek and run until she collapsed. All of her thoughts ran wildly in her head. Delilah was too naive to understand why she could not be in the woods late at night. She strayed from her usual path. She knew unmarked paths were dangerous, but she needed the danger to feel better. Some flawed area of her brain needed it. 

Almost immediately, she could feel the effect of leaving the path. Delilah felt her surroundings change, and she felt the eyes of the creatures around her. Delilah tried to act like her eyes were playing tricks, but she knew better. She did what the average person would, sprinting further into the woods. When Delilah stopped running, she could not recall which direction she came from or which direction to take back. She was so deep in the woods, which meant nothing anymore. The trees were dense, and she was in an area she was not familiar with. From there, she decided her only option was to keep going. She was heading deeper into the woods or almost out of them. It was a fifty-fifty chance. Delilah also decided being stuck in the woods might not be a terrible fate. Maybe she would starve to death, or she would learn to live off the land.

Delilah walked for hours until dawn, and without a doubt, she knew she went deeper into the woods. The woods looked strange and completely different from what she was normally around. It reminded her of the forests in the Pacific Northwest. She did not notice the extreme change of scenery while it was dark. It was beautiful but strange. While the sun was up, Delilah decided to rest. She felt safer in the daylight, felt less vulnerable to the creatures lurking. As she sat on the soggy, mud-ridden ground, a sudden feeling of remorse washed over her, and Delilah knew she had made the wrong choice by going to the woods. Delilah wanted to go home and apologize to her mother. She wanted to promise to never go into the woods again. Delilah wanted to do and to be better. But alas, it was too late. As the sun went down, Delilah started moving again. She moved in the opposite direction, hoping she would end up where she began. The hunger aches kicked in, as she had not eaten in over twenty-four hours. She knew she had to continue if she wanted to find her way home—or find a blackberry bush. The only berry bush she found contained berries she had never seen before, and she did not know if they were edible. The neon green fruits did not look appetizing or safe to consume. As Delilah kept walking, she spotted a treeless hill in the distance. 

At this point, she had been walking in the woods for two days. Delilah almost succumbed to exhaustion and hunger, but the hill in the distance gave her hope. She knew she could climb it and attempt to find where she was in the woods. She had a bad sense of direction, but she thought the hill could give her an idea of where she was. Delilah trekked up the hill. Despite her negative state, she found peace and joy in the stunning landscape around her. Delilah saw the greenery go on for miles, and she had barely climbed a quarter of the way up. The size of the hill deceived Delilah; it looked small and easy to climb. Delilah trudged upwards for hours, and when she finally reached the top, she saw something beautiful. It looked like an overgrown medieval French palace, but she knew it could not be. She lives in West Virginia. A palace deep in the woods and of this style was a puzzling find. She was in America; she knew it was not possible to have a French palace of this style in the woods.

Delilah freely entered the overgrown palace; the door had been taken over by nature. As she wandered through, she admired the intricate art along the walls, the statues, and the gold lining on the walls. Although the earth had taken over the palace, the craftsmanship still had immense beauty. Delilah appreciated every detail of the palace. She knew finding the palace took her nowhere, and if anything, it showed she was further from home than she thought. A humming sound came from the distant side of the palace, and Delilah still had some adventure left in her, so she went to explore. She found herself climbing stairs to find this hum. The stairs were unstable, but she needed to find the source. Delilah had nothing left to lose. There was a miniature door at the top of the staircase, and the door led into an old bedroom. Right in the center of the room is a bright light, shaped like a crack in glass. Delilah was convinced she was hallucinating from hunger and thirst. She also had the thought she was already dead, and maybe this light would take her to the afterlife. 

The light sucked Delilah through; she thought this would be the end of her life. Delilah flew through a long tube with shades of lilac purple, light pink, and dark red swirling around her. She felt as if her head would explode—the pressure from the tunnel felt horrible. But then, the tube shot Delilah out exactly where she began. It shot her out where she strayed from the path and the area where the woods shapeshifted around her. Delilah made her way to the path and started her journey home. She noticed the path was the same as when she went missing. It had no new marks, footprints, fallen branches, or anything. It was untouched. Delilah pondered how she entered the portal. She wondered if she was blinded by rage and simply did not notice being sucked into another world or if she hallucinated the entire experience.

Delilah walked home sobbing, still utterly confused about what happened. The walk home dragged on forever. The walk home itself felt longer than her time in the woods. Once Delilah got home, she immediately checked the time. It had only been an hour since she ran out. This confused her more, but all she could do was eat, drink, and have real sleep. Delilah never figured out if this was all a hallucination. No matter what the truth was, she made a promise to herself that she would never wander in the woods past dark again. 

An Irish Goodbye

By Cedar Jeffers

The chilly air of late November hit Shirley McOleden as she walked out on the balcony from her hotel room in a remote part of Dursey, Ireland. She and her husband, Walter McOleden, were on vacation from their stressful life in New York. Walter was a lawyer with a crooked reputation, and Shirley was a housewife who loved to go on expensive and over-the-top shopping trips. Their friends all assumed that the McOledens were well off and rich; while Walter won his cases—because he was paid off—Shirley’s habit of overspending made money tighter than the two of them wanted to let on. The McOledens stayed at the West Point Bel Air Hotel with one other family, the Gresnals. The hotel was prestigious, only able to accommodate ten people at a time.

Shirley watched the Irish Sea; the cold, icy water slammed against the rocks on the shore, and then she noticed a small brown motorboat approaching the shore. Shirley turned and walked through the glass doors. She walked down to the lobby to meet the guest. 

“Harry, who is checking in today?” hollered Shirley from the staircase. Harry was an older man with his silver hair in a buzz cut and a wispy mustache; he wore a nice-tailed charcoal gray suit. He was born and raised in Scotland and had a thick Irish accent. 

“No one I know of, miss.” Harry politely told her.

The Gresnals were eating breakfast in the dining room. The family was well off financially but tended to fight over everything. The Gresnal’s kids, aged 10 and 6, were oblivious to the constant arguing. Richard was forced to marry Nancy because Nancy had old family money. Their marriage was more out of necessity than love, and it was clear. They lived in a large house in London. The 10-year-old boy, David, enjoyed everything to do with cars and other mechanics. Sally was a fussy 6-year-old girl with blond pigtails who loved to play dress up. Annoying her brother was another favorite pastime—until he fought back and she cried.

The front wood doors slammed open as a short, dark-haired man walked in, carrying a small, well-traveled suitcase in his right hand and an umbrella in the other. 

  “One room, please,” the man requested.

----------

Sitting around the dining room, the two families were engaged in a light conversation. David and Sally were fighting over who got the red toy car and who had to play with the blue car. All the hotel’s occupants were cooped up all day due to the rain and foggy weather. The man entered the dining room, everyone falling silent and looking at him as he did.

“Hello,” the man spoke naturally and then walked over to the end of the long, dark table across from the rest of the guests. He pulled out the dark oak chair and sat. It was late afternoon; the gray outside clashed with the warm lighting from the simple but elegant chandelier that hung over the table. The other guests stayed silent and watched the man. Shirley broke the silence. 

“Hello, I am Shirley McOlden, and this is my husband, Walter.” Shirley pointed one red, sharply manicured finger to Walter. Walter was wearing a navy crew neck sweater and brown khakis. Shirley had on an equally cozy sweater as her husband but in a light peach color, with wide-legged dark brown pants. 

“Hello,” the man had a foreign accent that none of the guests could quite place, “I am private detective Nicolas Adnoln, and the hotel has hired me to investigate a potential murder.”

The guests all looked at Nicolas with shocked, horror-filled faces. The children stopped playing with their toy cars to look at Nicolas.

“Why… why would anyone do that here?” stammered Walton. 

“One of the housekeepers found a gun and was worried. I am here to ease their mind, Mr. McOleden.” Nicolas explained to the guests with a nonchalant expression. The guests look at Nicolas curiously.

“Well, if you are a so-called detective, what can you tell me about myself?” Nancy asked.

“Don't bother with Nancy. She is such a homebody with no life other than her children.” Shirley sighed as she walked over to the window and gazed out at the rain.

“Take that back,” sneered Richard. “She is my lovely and interesting wife,” he proclaimed. He was not glaring at Nancy but at Walton. 

“Mr. Richard, I can’t help but notice that you were glaring at Mr. McOleden instead of Mrs. McOleden. Was she not the one who said that about your wife?” Nicolas pointed out.

“He knows why!” Richard slapped the table and stood up. Richard was heading for the entrance of the dining room. Walton grabbed Richard's arm.

“Let’s not let old fights spoil our vacations,” Walton said with a slight warning. 

“Well, maybe if you didn't steal my fiancé, we wouldn't have to fight.”

“Richard, love, not in front of the children!” Nancy wailed.

“Oh please, Walton did not steal me from you; I simply became bored and wanted to see if the two of you boys would fight for me. Walton was the richer of you two, so he won. I am sorry that you are tired of your wife, Richard, but that is not Walton’s fault.” Nancy calmly told them, as if she was explaining why she had eaten supper last night.

“Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to go read in the peace and quiet without you all fussing.” Shirley strolled out of the dining room with her brown heels clicking against the hardwood hazelnut floors.

“Come on, David and Sally, let's go.” Nancy scurried out with her kids holding both of her hands.

----------

“Dinner is served,” Henry said as he set down the rosemary-roasted chicken in the middle of the table. The guests sat in tense silence. Everyone was still tense from the afternoon. The Gresnals sat across from each other with little eye contact between them. Walton sat by himself. 

“Where is your wife, Mr. McOleden? I have not seen her since this afternoon; is she ill?” Nicolas asked. 

“I don't know. She is her own person, and she can come to dinner if she chooses,” Walton replied snidely. 

“Like how she chose you instead of my dad?” asked Sally in a sweet, innocent British voice. She was looking at Walton with wide, blue, questioning eyes.

“Sally, Love, we do not say those things ever.” Scolded Nancy.

For the rest of the dinner, the guests did not look at each other. Nicolas was not brought down by the others. He hummed an annoying tune as he ate dinner, and after every course was done, he would send praises to the chef and staff. Walton suddenly stood up and left the room.

“Well, that was rather rude,” Nancy commented. 

“Yes, you're right. If you don't mind, I think I will follow him and see if Mrs. McOleden is alright.” Nicolas explained as he stood up and followed suit. He walked up the stairs to find Walton pounding on a door.

“Shirley, open your door! You have missed dinner and made me look a fool,” screamed Walton.

“Mr. McOleden, why do you not have a key to your own room? And why are you yelling at your wife?” Nicolas asked with skepticism in his voice.

“Because… well, because we are not sharing a room, she wanted some alone time. We haven't shared a room for a few years now, but that is none of your business.” Walton told Nicolas sharply. Walton’s face was red with anger and embarrassment. Nicolas walked over and tried the doorknob; the door was unlocked. Nicolas looked at Walton and opened the door. The room was a disaster, and Shirley was nowhere in sight.

“Does Mrs. McOleden normally keep her room in a disaster? This looks as if there was a struggle with someone else.” Nicolas deduced.

“No, she is one of the most organized people I know,” Walton replied. All of the blood had drained from his face. Nicolas noted the room as he walked around: a broken chair, a tipped-over lamp with a shattered light bulb, shattered perfume bottles, and other containers, face cream and lipstick, which were knocked down from the dresser. Drawers were flung open and clothes were scattered across the large, earth-toned room. A torn piece of the flowery curtains caught Nicolas's eye; he bent down and picked it up. The room was illuminated in a dreary gray by light pouring in through the glass door. Nicolas stepped over the knocked-down curtain rod as he looked at the locked balcony door. The door had the words “Good-Bye Love” written in red lipstick; the writing looked rushed. Nicolas unlocked the door. The noise filled the room with the click of the lock. As he stepped out on the balcony, he saw her. She had fallen from the third floor onto the sharp, rain-soaked dark boulders. Shirley's blonde hair covered half of her face, and her limbs were twisted at odd angles. Her pale skin clashed with the bright red that covered the surrounding rocks.

“Did… she kill herself?” stammered Walton. With shaking hands, he grabbed the edge of the railing overlooking Shirley’s body. Walton had a pale, horrified look on his face.

“No, Mr. McOleden. This was no suicide; this was a murder,” Nicolas said with a matter-of-fact tone. 

.

Thinking Like a Forest Fire

 An emulation of Aldo Leopold's famous piece Thinking Like a Mountain

By Allison Gee

The snapping of the embers beginning their dance lingers into the darkness of the night. It is felt within every living thing; within the passion inside of their hearts. 

Every nonliving and living thing alike knows the power within the bright. To the cheatgrass, it is an eager opportunity for success; to society, a threat to their existence; to the elk, a stress against its own refuge; to the soil, it's an unspoken word ready to be expressed. But behind all these truths and beliefs, there is a deeper meaning known only to the fire and flames themselves. Fire is the only thing to have the power to destroy so much life, be so much life, and create so much life. 

The presence of a fire is felt within every living creature. It is the calling to survive and the fierceness in their eyes. It is the drive with which everything living is born. Only the immature can believe that fires have the potential to be controlled. Only the foolish will be tricked into believing that fire is a hazard, not a keystone of life. 

My own relation back to this topic comes from my many years as a forest firefighter. I started straight out of college, and while at first it was an easy job to fill the weekends, soon enough it taught me the ego humans encompass. One particularly hot day in mid-September, a simple fire changed my perspective. My crew and I trod across a smoky meadow in the Big Horn Mountains, known as home to an abundance of moose. This fire was raging. The trees were infected with blister rust and pine beetles; they were more susceptible to burning. From the first look, this fire proved to be the same as the rest: daunting and powerful, selfish and conceited. My buddies and I have always had a passion for fighting fires, for fighting for control. However, I now understand my great fault in such a belief. 

We had been in the field for no more than an hour when Chief instructed us to change plans and hike to the next ridge in hopes we could stop it from spreading over. The dryness of the grass echoed throughout my mind, knowing we could be out here for longer than I’d like. Immediate rage swept over the top of me, and I could feel myself resisting the decision. With no other option in sight, I began walking, one foot in front of the other. With each breath, my lungs were tighter, but with each breath, I was trekking closer. I took a few more steps up, and I could finally start to see the burning landscape below. 

I was initially appalled by what appeared before my own eyes. After a closer look, however, the flame that blazed and raged across the forest somehow completely skipped a section in the middle. After all my years working this job, we’ve never seen anything quite like this. Sometimes, the tannin that's weaved into pine needles manages to keep fires away; however, there were no pine trees in the area. Curiosity quickly stuck. We fiercely worked our way to the middle to find a group of black-footed ferrets all huddled around one another. Their homes are found in prairie dog burrows, but they have been pushed above ground due to the fire. The species that once was questioned as extinct survived one of the biggest fires of the year with no explanation. 

In that moment, I realized and will forever know that every move a fire makes is intentional. After all these years of fighting for control and trying to silence the rage within a fire, I realized fires do not rage; fires rebirth what mother nature can’t. 

Before I was able to see the world in this way, I always feared the fire. I always thought it rebelled and was trying to speak for the many injustices and mistreatments of this world. But since then, I have lived to see that fire is caring and respected among the wild. I have seen the dependence the ecosystems have on the renewal of life, created by fire. I have watched serotinous cones fulfill their purpose and seen forests rebuild. I have gazed at the mosaic pattern instilled into the earth's ground, almost as if God were painting it himself. And because of all of these things, I have learned the trust within the fire and the flame. I have learned there is a way known to the wild, and every little detail is put in place for a reason. 

The immaturity we all have to fear what is bigger than ourselves shows our mistakes. It should be no surprise that recklessly searching for safety leads to destruction and pain. Fire is destructive beauty that creates effortless balance. Fire is a keystone of life that cannot be caged nor controlled. Perhaps this is the hidden meaning in the snap of the dancing embers, deeply known within the wild but never understood by society. 

The Bus

By Josie Schultz

Rubbing my eyes, I sit up, realizing I had fallen asleep. I blink slowly as everything comes back in a flood of memories.

I was with my best friends on a road trip. We all wanted to travel away from our small town, and this was our chance.  We had bought and refurbished a minibus, making it exactly as we wanted. The windows had blinds, and we removed some of the seats to open it up. It was divided into sections for us to share. I had shared the back area with Luke, who we deemed the comedic relief and planner of the group. Donovan and Brooke shared the middle, where Donavan would listen to Brooke's consistent yapping. Lastly, Juliette and Chase shared the front; they were like the angel and devil on your shoulder, but it's only devils. Since nobody else wanted to take the role, Chase was our driver. We didn’t have a set destination, just a few areas we wanted to visit. After that, we would have to think of other places. 

As we set our trip in motion, we picked out some entertainment, stocking up on board games, playing cards, books, movies, and various other entertaining things. Later, we would realize how pointless these things would be.

Barely an hour in, and the boredom was getting to us.

“Luuuuuuuuukeeee, I’m bored." I had said, dragging out his name and emphasizing my intense boredom, dramatically leaning on him in the process. 

“What do you want me to do about it?” He jokingly rolled his eyes, smiling as he spoke. 

“Not a clue... maybe we could play one of the games!” I sprung up after I remembered we had our random assortment of games. Quickly sifting through, I threw out names for Luke to pick something. Finally, we decided on chess, which we both had a very vague understanding of. The game didn’t really go anywhere as we playfully argued at each other's made-up rules. 

As we got deeper into the game, the others started watching, amused by our interesting tactics and lack of knowledge regarding the rules. 

“You can’t take my king without declaring war!” 

“Since when?! I can do what I want, and my knight wants to fight your king.”

“Fine! Rock paper scissors. Right now.”

“Rock…paper…scissors…shoot!” 

“Ha! Checkmate, my knight killed your king." I had won rock paper scissors, ultimately winning the game as well.

"What even was that game??” Donovan hesitantly asked.

“The best game ever!” “The worst game ever.” Luke and I replied at the same time, looking at each other and laughing.

We had passed a few hours with our silly game, and the sun was starting to set. Chase started pulling off to a public campground for the night. It was the perfect little spot for us, with a place to start a fire and cook a simple meal. We had brought hot dogs and other easy foods, making it a quick process. We were all just talking and having fun, but in the shadows, there was something. Something different. Something weird... it was just there, unnoticed by us. Waiting. Stalking. 

“Oh my god, guys, we should play a game!!” Brooke suddenly suggested. Everyone seemed down, so we decided on a classic: hide and seek tag. We quickly gathered some stray sticks and picked them blindly to determine who would seek first. 

"Why am I always the first one to be it?” Luke complained as he pulled the shortest stick. 

“Quit complaining and start counting.” Brooke retaliated. 

As soon as he started, we all scattered. I stayed close, taking the risk of assuming he would forget to look nearby. I was under the bus with a decent view of where everyone else was heading. Donovan ran straight to a tree, climbing high enough that he couldn't be seen, or gotten, easily. Chase and Brooke went to some nearby bushes, laying flat near them and covering themselves with leaves, quietly arguing that the other stole their spot. Juilete was the only one I couldn’t see, but she had gone a little deeper into the woods behind us, probably just behind a tree. 

“... Twenty-eight... Twenty-nine... Thirty... Ready or not, here I come!” Luke was quick to start looking, wasting no time on contemplating where we could be and immediately heading towards rustling. As he got to the bushes, he tagged both Brooke and Chase; it was almost an immediate find.

“SEE YOU GOT US FOUND!” Brooke playfully yelled at Chase, to which he instantly responded, “THAT WAS OBVIOUSLY YOUR FAULT!!”

“You guys argue too much,” Luke complained, looking for the rest of the hiders. As he looked around, he passed both me and Donovan a few times. Growing impatient, he started calling out for us menacingly. 

A loud, bloodcurdling scream pierced through the air, making everyone freeze instinctively. Slowly returning to their senses, Luke, Chase, and Brooke realized it was likely me or Juliet who screamed. I quickly came out of my hiding spot, joining the group to figure out what was happening. The screams continued again, and Juliette emerged from the forest's edge, stumbling over herself, trying to get away from... something.

Straying Hope

By Treyton Allphin

In the aftermath of the fall, the world lay in silence, the remnants of humanity scattered like leaves in the wind. He navigated the desolation, his eyes bright. 

Once a stray, he felt oddly free in this new, empty landscape. Once alive and bustling, the streets were now overgrown with weeds and wildflowers that broke through cracked pavement. The air carried a blend of decay and a weird dampness.

Prowling through the streets,  he weaved between rusted cars, his paws barely making a sound. A flicker of movement caught his eye — a rat darting into a crevice. What was abundant in the past is a rarity nowadays. He crouched low, instinct sharpening his focus. With a pounce, he captured it, savoring the taste of fresh meat amidst the ruin of this world. 

Feeling better after eating the rat, he ventured further into the city. He climbed onto a fallen street sign, surveying the remnants of a collapsed world. Tall buildings loomed; they were skeletal giants, their windows shattered, some reduced to rubble. The natural world was taking back what once was humanity.

He wandered into an abandoned grocery store. The door hung open, creaking gently in the breeze. Inside, the shelves were primarily bare. He looked for food from any source. He nudged a can with his paw, watching it roll and hit the ground, empty, just like everything else.

As he explored the aisles, he caught sight of a small group of others lurking in the shadows, startled by the knocked-over can. He paused, sizing them up. They were lean and wary like him, their eyes full with suspicion. He felt a mix of pride and caution as he slowly approached. One of them stood out of the group and approached him. The rest were scared, but this one wasn't. The two were point-blank; he was skeptical, but they kept coming, slowly nudging into him.

The others watched him for a moment, then began to move closer. They didn't speak, but their body language was clear. They were assessing him, deciding whether he was a friend or foe. He held his ground, maintaining a steady gaze. They kept approaching the two, but it wasn't the same. Their gaze became threatening as if they were pushing the two out. 

Days turned into weeks as he adjusted to this new reality. He had a new companion, they scavenged together, sharing food and warmth. They would curl up in the sun-drenched corners of the crumbling buildings, finding comfort in each other's presence.

One day, while exploring the neighborhood, they stumbled upon a small garden—wildflowers blooming among the rubble. The vibrant colors stood in stark contrast to the gray backdrop, filling them with a sense of wonder and hope.

He watched as his companion sniffed the flowers, their tails flicking in curiosity. It was a small oasis of life in a broken world, a reminder that even here, hope could thrive.

In this world, there was finally a little bit of warmth. As the sun set, casting a warm glow over the ruins, he felt hope again. Amidst the darkness, life could still flourish.

Hiding Out

By Savanna Proffit

Bang!!  

A bomb landed about 150 yards away. Yvea plugged her ears and ran into her and her family's small tent to hide. Her father had built it out of scrap fabric from what was left over after their house was raided and destroyed by the Germans. Her father and mother, the two most important people in her world, were taken from her and her little brother Lyad when they were out looking for any bit of food they could find on the outskirts of the camp they had been living in for several weeks. They had not returned, and an old woman from the camp who had gone with them said that they were killed by a party of Germans marching through the woods. They had only let the old woman go because she was old. Now, Yvea was left alone, at the age of ten, to care for her five-year-old little brother. 

She had been outside trying to get a small fire started so she could cook a little bit of the food they had left over when the bomb struck. When she ducked inside the tent, she grabbed Lyad and they huddled in a corner together, holding on to each other for dear life. After a few minutes, they went outside together and looked for the other people who lived in their camp. Slowly, they started stepping out of their hiding places into the daylight that was quickly waning. Each person looked around, and then one by one, all of their gazes fixed to the north. Fires burned in buildings, and people screamed, and ran toward them, telling them to go and hide.

“THE GERMANS ARE COMING!” they shrieked, and in the distance, they could see it was true.

Everyone in the camp ran around frantically, grabbing what little they needed and had to survive. Yvea grabbed the bag of food her parents had prepared for a time like this one. She grabbed her little brother by the hand and a blanket, practically dragging the two along as she ran. 

“Yvea, where are we going?” Lyad asked, trying to catch his breath.

“I don’t know… we are going to hide out somewhere,” she responded frantically. 

The two ran and ran as darkness quickly enveloped them. Yvea knew of a place that few other people knew about and was trying to find her way. At one point, Lyad tripped and fell, making him cry even harder than he already was. Yvea picked him up and put him on her back, wrapping him in the blanket and tying it around her chest. She continued to run, for she knew how cruel the Germans were.

She had heard stories of what they did to other Jews in Germany as well as France, Yugoslavia, and Poland. She was petrified with fear not only for herself but for her little brother as well.

They finally reached the hole in the ground that would be their hideout for who knew how long. She did not have a light, so she could not see any of her surroundings; all she had to rely on was her intuition and memory. 

Yvea and Lyad climbed into the hole. She found the matches she put in her pocket. Yvea put Lyad down to one side and tucked the blanket around him tightly. 

“I’ll be right back. Don’t move,” Yvea said, pointing her tiny, slender finger in his face. She quickly went outside, almost on a run, to find sticks. Once she grabbed as much as her small arms could carry, she went back into the hole and put the armload against one wall before going back out to repeat the process.

Lyad’s beady, dark eyes followed Yvea as she went in and out of the hole several times before deciding they had enough wood for the night. Next, she used a nearby rock to dig a shallow hole in the dirt. She set some of the wood into a teepee and started a fire. She cooked a few small pieces of food, and she and Lyad ate their dinner huddled close together with the sound of bombs and mistles overhead.

_______________________________________________

Smoke filled the air. Nazis were everywhere, taking people hostage and buzzing around like wasps chasing someone who got into their hive. Only, they were not protecting their “hive”; they were destroying someone else's home.

A two-story building stood on the outskirts of the Jewish city; upstairs was a family of four. They all huddled in a corner, the father holding a gun ready to shoot at any Germans who decided to come in. The two children were wrapped in a blanket and enclosed in their parents’ arms. 

At last, some of the noise subsided, the children’s parents looked at each other and nodded. They shook the two sleeping children.

“Adriano! Adriano! Wake up!” whispered their mother.

“Farah! Wake up, sweetie!” their dad spoke softly.

Adriano awoke and looked with troubled eyes at his parents' ashen, dirt-covered faces. They had tears in their eyes. Many troubled thoughts went through the twelve-year-old boy's mind. His dark brown, almost black eyes went back and forth between those of his mother and father. 

Once Farah was awake, their father began.

  “Adriano…this is going to be hard for you, and us, but I want you to listen to and do everything I say. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Abba, I understand.”

“There is a hole in the side of a small hill in the woods east of here. I want you to take your little sister and go there. Don’t stop on the way for anything. Here is a bag full of food. There are matches in it too.”

Adriano’s tears streamed down his cheeks as his mother pulled him close. She too had tears spilling from her eyes. The whole family hugged and cried together. 

A few hours later, when night had fallen and the stars shone over the land barely able to make themselves known through the smokey haze, Adriano’s father and mother woke up their two precious children, who had once again fallen into a troubled sleep. 

“Adriano…” his father said as his mother gently rocked him back and forth.

He looked up and knew what they were going to say.

“Adriano… take your sister and go now. Keep going until you reach the small cave. Don’t stop, do you understand?” His father asked.

“Yes, Abba,” Adriano whimpered, his voice shaking.

“Take care of Farah. We want you to know that we love you both very much, and we would not be asking you to do this if we didn’t know that it was for the best. Now, come here once more, my yeladim,” their mother said through tears.

“I love you too Ima, and you too Abba…” Adriano whispered.

“Me too, I loves you Abba and Ima…” Farah squeezed out of her tiny throat as she sobbed uncontrollably against her father and mother.

“Now go… Go! Now! And don’t stop for anything!” Their father said.

Adriano grabbed the food bag and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and one around Farah’s. They ran down the two flights of stairs, out the door, and almost to the end of the street. Adriano looked back as a bomb hit the building they had left their parents in. It exploded into a million small pieces. Smoke, ash, and fire erupted from the building, now a heap on the ground. Farah wanted to scream. She grabbed Adriano and smashed her face into his stomach, sobbing. Adriano hugged her tight, his tears forming raging rivers down his cheeks.

“We… need… to keep… going, Farah.” Adriano grabbed her hand and wiped his tears and Farah’s. In a split second, they were running again, even faster now with no reason to turn around. Adriano knew that he had to keep his sister safe, and they had to make it to the hole. So they kept running. They ran and ran and ran. When they finally got to the woods, they could run no longer, and the night was falling, so they slowed to a quick walk; although exhaustion weighed on them, they had no time to spare.

____________________________________________________________________________

It had been almost two days since Yvea and her little brother arrived at their new, hopefully temporary, home. They were sleeping as soundly as they could. The night was strangely quiet, and the faint smell of smoke lingered in the air with an eerie fog that hung low to the ground, making the already hard-to-see surroundings more indistinct. Yvea startled awake to sounds closing in, sitting up straight and staring at the opening of the cave. She listened closely to whimpering, then footsteps; they grew closer and closer until two small silhouettes stood in the opening. They ducked in and sat against the wall. 

____________________________________________________________________________

Adriano had no idea someone else was with them. Darkness enveloped them and he could not see a thing. Farah clung to him still crying, closing her eyes as tightly as she could manage.

“You must try to sleep, Farah.” He said, trying to soothe his heartbroken little sister even though his heart was just as torn. 

____________________________________________________________________________

The fog still engrossed them, but not like the night before. Everything smelled of smoke, ash, and dust. Even with all of the bad smells, there was a freshness in the air that made it crisp. It would have been enjoyable except for the doom and gloom hanging over the land. The sun shone through the trees and into the dark hole where the four children slept.

Adriano stirred a little and his eyelids fluttered open. He almost let out a small yelp when he saw Yvea sitting against the opposite wall holding her little brother the way he was holding his little sister.

People Don’t Change

By Julian Denney

The small bar was rowdy, filled with the strums of guitar strings, slurred singing, and clinking glasses. Andrés was unfamiliar with the place; he’d been stuck in the town for a few more days than anticipated. It was supposed to be a quick place to sleep on his travels but was beginning to look more like a long-term arrangement as his mode of transport left him stranded.

“This seat taken, sir?” A dirtied man stood awkwardly, a bit tense. The newcomer's dark eyes stayed trained on him as they awaited a reply.

“Naw.”

The man sat down, not appearing put off by the curtness. His hair was tousled, grains of sand insistently sticking to his face and clothes. He settled into the seat with a now waggish grin.

“Name’s Beau, thanks fer askin’.”

I didn’t ask.

“Andrés.”

Beau stuck out his hand, waiting for a handshake that didn’t come. With a sigh, he dropped it. The guy seemed like a bad flannel mouth; he refused to drop a dead conversation. It was clear he’d seen his fair share of quick acceptions and rejections, though. He knew how to carry on every time Andrés thought it was blatantly over.

“Whaddya drink? I’ll buy you a glass of whatever booze you want.”

“Whatever gets me tipsy quickest. Listen, I don’t wanna listen to yer wobblin jaw. I came here to mind my own, you should try it.”

“Gee, sorry I asked.”

Despite the snarkiness of his tone, he ordered ryes for the both of them anyway. If anything, this guy wasn’t a half-bad distraction from the current predicament Andrés found himself in. His horse had gone lame a day’s walk from the town. It was unsalvageable. Until he found someone generous enough to offer a free ride out, he was stuck at sea. Frankly, that was the only plan he had. Beau stayed silent for a few short moments, analytically watching Andrés.

“Fall on hard times?”

“Sure did. My damn horse went n’ made himself crowbait.”

“Ah, no wonder you ain’t sociable.”

“I am. Just not with people tryin' to butter me up.”

“I ain’t tryin' to butter you up, I’m just making conversation!”

“Nobody buys a stranger a drink unless it’s a good-lookin girl, and I ain’t that. What is it you want?”

Beau stared at him, breaking out in another grin. He looked like he was rehearsing each line, cycling through a practiced dialogue. It was almost unsettling -- like he was waiting on a fish to bite a lure.

“Is it so wrong to be generous when kindness is so sparse?”

“I ain’t a kicked dog, and I doubt you got the typa kindness I want.”

“And what kindness do you want?”

Andrés fell quiet now. It couldn’t hurt to try and hitch a ride sooner rather than later, but it still felt risky. Even if the man could spare a ride, was he the trustworthy type? By the looks of it, he wasn’t the helpful, down-to-earth sort. Maybe he was judging too harshly. In his imagination, he’d planned for his saving grace to be a merchant, or some sort of family man, or even a woman. The saying was to trust your gut, but the only sensation he was getting so far was some sickness from the booze.

“You got a ride west?”

“That’s something I can work with!” Beau barked out a laugh, slapping Andrés back.

By the next morning, Andrés was regretting his choice to accept help. The moment he’d stumbled back home last night, he’d started regretting his choice of drinking. His head hurt, his body felt weighed down, and he was suppressing the urge to vomit -- it was like his body's late reaction of disagreement. As it was now, he still felt shaky on his feet. He was used to hangovers, and that wasn’t what was happening; he knew it wasn’t. But, he had bigger issues to focus on.

“Sleep well, princess?” That voice was really starting to irritate him.

“Never better. What’s the plan?”

Andrés’ voice came out with more malice than he’d intended. Maybe the rough night was grating on him more than he’d thought.

“You want a bite to eat while we hash it out? Looks like you need it.”

“If yer the one payin'.”

Sitting across from Beau was more uncomfortable than sitting right beside him. His eyes were piercing, and watching the man examine him like a project was disconcerting. On the upside, the little joint offered foods that reminded him of home. It tasted like the warm biscuits his wife used to make, and he could almost envision his twins beaming at him from across the table. At least that memory had yet to feel sour. Yet to.

It didn’t take long to hash out the details of their plan. Beau doing most of the talking made it easy enough. It was haphazard, but as long as Andrés made it out of that town before sundown, he didn’t care.

They set off just before noon, the sun glaring down on them unsparingly. Andrés was stuck with a slower pack mule a Beau kept to his quarter horse. He was considerate enough to keep a slow pace, steadily walking in tandem with the mule. The conversation started as shut off as it had been in the bar, though it gradually opened up more. Andrés even found himself cracking lighthearted jokes, rather than sticking to his snide remarks. It wasn’t half bad if he was being honest with himself.

By the time the sun was about to set, they’d both loosened up enough for their interactions to be easy. Setting up a camp for the night was a breeze, the bickering limited to joking jabs instead of the full-blown arguments Andrés had been anticipating.

“I can take over cookin’. Not to be a braggart, but I fancy myself a good cook. Call it my payment for the help.”

“I ain’t ever gonna be against doin’ less work, if you wanna bust your chops then feel free.” Beau grinned.

Setting up a small dinner didn’t take much time. The fire cast a comforting glow over their makeshift camp, sizzling of meat in lard filling the silence. The scent of well-seasoned food lingered around them. Sitting so close to Beau, it struck him how much he’d really grown fond of the man. He couldn’t keep sitting with a guilty conscience, couldn’t keep letting the guy sit next to such a monster unknowing.

“I-.. I got somethin' I gotta get off my chest, Beau.”

“Have at it, Andy.”

“I got a bounty over me. My family’s dead, and everybody thinks it’s my fault. I know it ain’t, but it feels like it sometimes. Hangin’ around me is dangerous. I know I didn’t kill ‘em, but that don’t change that I coulda prevented it. That don’t change that they’re in the earth now. It’s a big price over me, Beau.” It all poured out at once. Even though it should’ve felt like a weight lifting, the only emotion he felt now was dread. What if he’d just lost his only friend?

“...It’s alright, Andrés. I believe you. I got somethin to tell you too.”

He paused.

“What??”

“I’ve killed people. It was my fault. I pulled that trigger myself, didn’t have nobody makin’ me do it. It was my job, but I didn’t feel remorse for ‘em. I don’t know what them people did, but I always assumed it was bad enough if someone needed ‘em dead.”

The sizzle of meat was the only thing that filled the silence, and it felt a bit less comforting than it had just moments ago.

“Ah- that was a lot. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. I understand if you don’t want to stick around anymore. I swear, I’m a different man.” Beau seemed to fumble for words for the first time.

“It’s.. it’s alright. I used to give the benefit of the doubt more, but I got a lot more resentful after my whole… ordeal. Guess this is my sign to go back to bein’ kind, huh?” He hesitated for a moment before giving Beau a friendly hit on the back. Beau smiled.

“Thank you. You don’t know how much that matters to me.”

Andrés offered a nod of acknowledgment as he got to his feet, plating both their meals before sitting back down. Beau went back to filling the quiet with stories, yarning the hours away long past when their food was finished. By the time they’d readied up to go to sleep, it had to be near midnight.

Falling asleep was shockingly easy. Andrés had developed a hate-hate relationship with sleep after he’d gone on the run; it was hard to knock out, it was hard to stay out, and his dreams made sure he woke up still exhausted. While drifting off, he’d almost been able to realize something was wrong -- that the day had been too good to him.

He knew he was right when he woke up. It was still dark -- no more than an hour or two after they’d gone to bed. Beau was hovering over him with a musket, letting Andrés have a view straight down the barrel. His expression matched what Andrés had envisioned when the man had come clean about his history -- there wasn’t a lick of remorse in his eyes. Rather, it looked more like enjoyment. Andrés found himself tripping over his words as adjusted to the situation.

“What the hell’re-”

“You had a bounty over you, and you still bought into a stranger's niceties?” There was no more warm southern accent when he talked, just a monotone northern mockery.

“I told you the true story! You-.. I…” He couldn’t find what he wanted to say — damned ten-cent man.

“And I told you mine. You shoulda kept true to your guns -- people don’t change.”