Category: Fiction

Nicholas Singer

Thor Whispers to Icarus on a Winter’s Day

Mount Thor—as titanic as the god it’s named for. It had taken weeks to get to the remote island in the northeast of Nunavut, but as I stood under the 5,000-foot peak, the only thing that mattered was the next six hours.

I remember the first rock wall I ever climbed. I think I was seven or eight. I had just finished my first Little League practice at Pier 40, and we all ran to the rec room. It was any kid’s dream in there—foosball tables, air hockey, a TV always on, vending machines packed to the gills—but I was always in the adjoining room, where the 10-foot ceiling felt like 10,000, and the rock wall spanned for miles.

I had never climbed that far north before. I always enjoyed winter weather, but there was something about the Northern Canada air that pierced through any love I previously had for the cold. I knew I couldn’t climb in the parka I was wearing, so I shed the fur. The wind immediately gusted and blew a chill straight down my spine.

The first climbing experience I had outside that room in Pier 40 came a couple of years later, in Vermont. We always spent our winters there, skiing mountains like Stowe and Stratton and all the rest in between. The first summer weekend we spent there, I asked my parents why we were driving to a ski mountain when there was no snow on the ground. When we got there, I looked around and saw what summer did to a ski mountain: alpine slides rolling down the mountain trails, putt-putt courses outside the base lodge, ziplines and giants swings. A 50-foot wall, with a hundred or so colorful climbing holds. I sprinted over to the line and waited what felt like a lifetime to get to the front.

My Inuit guide made a motion that he wanted to leave, so I nodded and said qujanarujussuaq, one of the only Inuktitut words I knew. He bowed, set off back through the Akshayuk Pass, and didn’t look back. I guess he didn’t want to sit and wait for hours at the bottom of that mountain with no promise of me ever making it back to him. I didn’t blame him.

I remember getting strapped into all the harnesses and helmets after waiting in that line for ages. I remember how restricted I felt after they tightened all the straps. How was I supposed to move around the rocks if I couldn’t move my left leg more than a foot without it getting tugged or caught? I had never climbed with ropes before—granted I had never climbed anything higher than that 10-foot wall back home. They told me to start, so I grabbed the holds and flew up the wall. I remember feeling like Spider-Man clinging to the sides of skyscrapers, gliding up and up and up until I reached the bell. I struck it with my hand and looked down at the 50-foot drop below me. I jumped, expecting to feel the cool air rush against my face as I plummeted, but as soon as I was free, I felt a tug, and the operators lowered me gently down with the ropes.

I strapped the chalk bag into my belt and tightened my climbing shoes. Starting this climb, I knew there were only going to be two ways down, and one would be far harder than the other. I looked up once more at the monumental peak that I faced and reassured myself that I knew which way I wanted to come down. I grabbed a hold of a jut and slotted my shoe into the crack. “Midgard Serpent” was the name of this route, or Jörmungandr, to some. As Thor’s mythological archenemy, I couldn’t tell who I should be more terrified of.

The first time I climbed actual rocks I was thirteen. I remember I was hiking through the woods around the house in Vermont. It was a late afternoon in October, and already the temperature was dropping. I waded wearily through Utley Brook; the cold water piercing through the skin in my legs as I held my shorts up above the water. I marched through the trees on the other side. Eventually, I found myself face to face with a steep cliff of rock. There was a trail to my right leading homeward, but I had no interest in it anymore. I grabbed two of the jutting rocks and started to climb.

It was impossible to tell how high I was now, but my breath was already growing short—I had been climbing for hours now, and my watch had slipped off my wrist some 300 feet below. I heard a bird fly behind my back. I imagined it was a bald eagle, but since I was in Canada, perhaps it was just a goose. It was probably already at the peak, flying freely, while I stayed here, thousands of feet from the ground, thousands more from my goal.

I remember my first fall. It was on that same face just past Utley Brook. I had already climbed up and down that face a hundred times, so to fall on the hundred and first time terrified me. I had reached the top of the peak, and as I was pulling myself up, the foothold where my left foot was broke off the cliff, and I fell with it. After all was said and done, and all the broken bones were unbroken, I couldn’t wait for the hundred and second climb.

By the time I neared the top, I couldn’t see straight. Each hold I saw was accompanied by two others on either side, and each time I grabbed the middle one I prayed that it was real. One hand up, one foot up, one deep breath, one hand into my bag, next hand up. I thought of nothing but hands and feet and chalk. I looked up once more and could only see the face of the mountain leering over me. It had been hours, and I knew I couldn’t continue much longer, but I knew that I couldn’t stop trying. I heard a crack and a boom. On another face of the mountain, a 200-foot block of pure granite tumbled down the side of the mountain, plummeting to the ground and exploding into thousands of pieces of stone, tossing off the face of Thor, like pebbles kicked down the street by children at play. The boom echoed around the mountain like a Church bell, tolling noon on a summer day.

I thought of the tale of Daedalus and his son Icarus. The cautionary tale—only danger comes to those who fly close to the sun. We are supposed to pity Icarus. But I always pitied anyone who didn’t feel the warmth of the sun, who didn’t fly as high as they possibly could. I imagined that he, too, laughed as he fell.

Author Bio

Nick Singer is a Senior creative writing major at Kenyon College in Ohio. He has spent his time mostly writing fiction, though he occasionally writes some poetry. He is originally from New York City, New York and plans to return to the city after graduating. 

Tiana Ibarra

A Little Misunderstanding
        Deep, deep down I love my older brother, I do. However, that doesn’t make me want to strangle him any less. If I had to put it into words it’s like a mom listening to her four-year-old child spout nonsense about what happened at daycare. Now let me tell you it’s a little too late into the night for me to be listening to nonsense, especially from a 23 year old. 
        “Repeat that one more time for me?” I say, still half asleep. I didn’t really listen to him the first time, but he won’t leave me alone and I’ve learned it’s sometimes better to play along. 
        “I saw dad with some ginger woman today!” he whispers loudly attempting to keep quiet enough to not wake up our parents. He parked himself on the right side of my bed hovering over me slightly.
        “What are you talking about?” I ask a little more awake, smacking his phone out of my face. My eyes are squinting trying to adjust to the newfound light.
        “I got off work early so I walked over to dad’s office to see if I could catch a ride,” he begins, “but when I got there, I saw him getting in the car with a tall ginger haired woman.” 
        I honestly don’t know where this is going. However, I’m debating on whether to just push him off the bed and go back to sleep. I can just imagine it like a cartoon playing in my head, but it would be too loud and our parents would definitely hear it. 
        I think he sees my confusion over his small but not very informational story. He looks me straight in the eyes and puts his hand on my shoulder as if to comfort me, “He might be cheating on mom.”
        I don’t say anything. I’m dead silent, speechless. I really hope this is some weird dream, because otherwise I think mom and dad are going to end up waking after all.
        “Cora, did you hear what I say?” he speaks up again after about a minute.
        “Shhh, Yes,” I reply, “I just needed a minute to process so much stupid all at once.”
        “I’m telling you the truth,” he says. His hands waved in the air dramatically along with the light shining over my room. His eyes are wide and he looks like he’s out of breath. However, I’m not surprised though, delusion can do that to you. 
        “Okay, I believe you saw something,” I say, “but let’s not jump to conclusions. Don’t start branding dad with the scarlett ‘A’ just yet.”
        “The what?” he asks, “Why are you talking about letters when mom and dad’s marriage could be jeopardy.”
        I’m going to ignore that first part even though we both had the same English teacher in high school who assigned us the same book. Then I’m going to focus on the second part, “Exactly, Aiden. Could be ruined.”
        “I’m telling you I know what I saw,” he says.
        “Let’s do this. We’ll wait till later when it’s actually day time and I’ll take a look into it myself.”
        “Are you crazy?” he jumps slightly on the bed causing the bedpost to thump against the wall.
        I shush him once again, he looks around sheepishly. 
        Am I crazy? I’m not the one out of the two of us who looks like they’re losing it.
         “What if he is cheating? He can’t know that we know.”
        “We know nothing,” I wave my finger between the both of us before just pointing it at him, “You are delusional.” 
        “You know what? I don’t think you even believe me,” he says getting up from the bed and heading towards the door, “I’m going to handle this myself.”
        I turn on the lamp next to me and jump onto my knees pointing my finger at him as if I was scolding him, “Don’t you dare do anything. We will talk about this when we’ve both had some sleep.” Not that I think that will do anything. 
        He just leaves the room with no answer and does not close my door. 
        You know what? I say in my head to myself in my perfect impression of Aiden. I got the last word so I’ll take that as a win.
        I get up from my bed to close the door, but locking it this time. Something I should have done before I went to sleep earlier. I go back under the warm covers and fall back asleep.
…
        The next morning I wait at the table sipping my coffee tiredly and patiently waiting for my brother to arrive at the table. I really hope he listened to me last night and doesn’t start anything this morning. I don’t think he will, but better safe than sorry.
        Aiden finally enters the room silently, but that only makes me more suspicious. He’s followed in by our dad.  
        “Where’s Morgan? I thought she was coming over for breakfast.” asks our mother. 
        Morgan is our dad’s old childhood friend and now business partner. She’s also our favorite aunt. She’s loads of fun to be around, always has the craziest stories and no filter. Though those stories are saved for when mom and dad leave the room. 
        “Oh, she’s coming. Probably running a little late.” he says. He looks like he’s holding back a smile but I could just be seeing things. 
        My brother sits there and mocks our dad, but he’s too busy looking at his phone to notice. I kick him under the table and he yelps covering it up with a cough. I glare at him signaling for him to stop. 
        A moment later we hear footsteps come from the front door and in comes Aunt Morgan. I look at my mom who also has the same wide eyes and jaw dropped expression as me. My dad laughing at our faces. However, this is the moment Aiden choses to not pay attention to us. 
        “Aiden,” I whisper over to my brother, ignoring me. I call out to him again and again, and he ignores me. Until finally I kicked him under the table. He was about to yell at me when he looked over at Morgan and saw what I was looking at.
        His eyes widened at the same realization as me.
        There stood Aunt Morgan who matched my brother’s description even though it was only a couple of words. Morgan was indeed tall, but she was also blonde. Though I guess that’s in the past, because there she stood tall with ginger hair. 
        “Morgan would be more interested in mom than dad,” I say without thinking and just like my Aunt Morgan my filter is sometimes completely gone. 
        “What?!” shouts my dad, mom, and Morgan at the same time.
Aiden stands up from his seat with his hands out in front of him stopping us and catching our attention, “This is all one little misunderstanding.”
        I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. I can't help but think that I put myself in this position.
        I should have just pushed him off the bed.

Tiana Ibarra is a junior at California State University, San Marcos majoring literature and writing. She has rows of books she has yet to catch up to reading, but still she will try as well as buy more books. Next to her enjoyment of reading she loves to play with her pug, Paco.

Kaila Fergon

Salem 

The torches weave in and out of my vision. If I squint hard enough I can almost pretend they’re  stars, angry red ones. The flames cast the angry, worn faces in an orange glow, their hatred and  disgust igniting further in the amber light. It is difficult to see myself as the monster that they  have named me when I am looking into a sea of bared teeth and twisted expressions. It is  difficult to remember why I tried to save them in the first place.  

More torches come into the large clearing, floating towards me, floating like maybe they’ll carry  me away. But I am no fool. I will not float. I will burn.  

—  

My mother knew the earth as an old friend. I swear it could speak to her and tell her all that she  needed to know. She had remedies for everything. She knew how to draw every drop of potential  out of the plants living in the thick forests of our home. She held knowledge of a different time.  For a long time the people of my village admired her for that, counted on her for that, but very  soon they began to fear her for it.  

It is very difficult to fight what you cannot understand. So this medicine, this seemingly  unearthly form of healing, was an unknown that began to cast very long shadows in the eyes of  people who could not understand it. Witchcraft, they called it, evil, black magic, defiance of a  righteous God. My mother heard the names, saw the scowls and frightened eyes. Yet she  continued her good work, right up to the night they came for her.  

Torches burned like tiny suns outside our home. She did not make a sound as they dragged her  away. Not even as the flames licked at her ankles. Witch, they cried as they bound her wrists.  Devil, curse-bringer. She let them hurl their insults and spit their venom. She never cried out,  never fought back as the flames swallowed her. 

Yet 20 years later I can still hear my own screams piercing that dark night.

—  

My own people, neighbors, friends, turned me into an orphan before I really understood what  that word meant. I swore I would never forgive them for it, but I was young and the promises we  make as children are not often kept. As I grew older, I saw sickness and suffering and began to  carry on my mother’s work. I let the earth speak to me and tell me how to use it for good, to be a 

force of healing in a time of plague and famine and death. I did it far more quietly though. I’ll  admit, I am not as brave as the woman I came from. Yet, still I knew the cost, and soon enough  came the night when I was to pay it.  

The torches lit up the shadows outside my home just as they did all those years ago. I shut my  eyes tight, and tried and resign myself to my fate as my strong and good and kind mother did  once. Yet I do not find the peace I saw on her face that night. Instead I find nothing but blinding  rage. Complete, unadulterated fury for these people who are so quick to destroy what they cannot  understand. Enraged that I allowed my hands only to heal and save, and yet still I will burn for it.  

Furious, maddened beyond any hope of relief that these people who call me witch do not even  know they are right.  

—  

The torches weave in and out of my vision as a crowd gathers at my feet. Children I have given  medicine to, women who I have aided, men who I have bandaged and remedied, they all gather  to watch me burn.  

The madness of it all, it is suddenly so overwhelming that I am laughing. Laughing with my head  thrown back against the night, laughing a horrible, rumbling laugh like storm clouds gathering in  the distance. I laugh and howl and bare my teeth, and when I open my eyes I see that this angry,  fire-bearing mob is afraid. One man finally shuffles forward with his torch and ignites the straw  at my feet, and still I laugh.  

Soon my laughter turns to screams, though I do not feel the flames touch me. I scream for my  mother who could have walked from this inferno untouched and destroyed each and every person  who would destroy her. Screaming with a horrible kind of agony that splits and folds and doubles  in on itself for all the times I did not allow myself to get angry before.  

I imagine what I must look like to them now. My black hair now scarlet and twisting, ignited and  alive. My eyes full of firelight and fury. The ropes at my wrists fall away and I walk from the fire  unburnt.  

Witch, evil one, curse bringer, death. My mother died without acknowledging their suspicions.  But I am not her, I am not half so good. 

Tonight I will breathe life into their names and they will see for the first time what they have  given rise to.  

After all these years I keep my promise — I am without mercy, I do not forgive them for any of  it. I raise my hands and I burn the world to the ground.  

—   Twenty years later I can still hear the screams. I throw my head back and laugh.

Author Bio: Kaila Fergson was born and raised in Palm Springs, CA. She now lives in Carlsbad with her big chocolate lab, Loki, and a whole bunch of house plants. When she’s not working as a barista, she can be found at some other coffee shop reading a book with her dog at her feet, or dragging her paddle board down to the lagoon. Kaila is studying English and linguistics at Cal State San Marcos. After graduating with her English degree, she hopes to find a job within the writing/editing field and spend as much time as possible traveling and reading good books.

Lyzette Delgadillo

The Knocks

She stood there dressed from head to two in black facing a coffin. Grief stricken in a room of tears that followed behind her. She lifted her hand to her mouth and placed it against the coffin, before she dragged her heels against the aisle that she once marched up adorned in white. When she got in her car, she pulled a mirror out of her purse that was gifted to her by her late husband. She whipped her tears away and adorned the small piece of glass with a cynical smile before she sped off home. 

Her home was southern utopia. Three stories with more bedrooms then she could fill. Not a picture on the wall, just a grand entry staircase that took anyone’s breath away. She marched up the stairs like she was 25 again. Knock Knock Knock. She entered her bedroom and went straight to her white marbled bathroom with sinks lined in expensive perfumes and luxurious towels. She chucked off her kitten heels that were just as expensive as her Dior purse that followed with them. Knock Knock Knock. She removed her lack attire and changed into silky white pajamas. With a smile on her face, she tucked herself into her California king bed and drifted off to sleep. 

Knock Knock Knock

The sounds of the knocks jostled her up from her slumber. Knock Knock Knock. She heard them again. The sounds seemed to have come from the front door. Stepping out of bed, annoyed by potential visitors, she went down the staircase to the front door. With one swift motion, she opened the door to nothing. Not a soul in sight had come to greet her. Confused and still partially asleep, she closed and locked the door, climbing back to her suite. Closing her eyes and once again falling into a deep sleep. 

Knock Knock Knock

She was woken again. Annoyed again, she decided to wait for a second set of knocks. Knock Knock Knock. There they were, as if God himself had read her mind and granted her a sense of sanity. She retreated down the stairs and came to the door again. She opened the door and again there was no one there. Maybe it’s just some kids poking fun, she thought to herself. With a sigh she climbed the stairs again. 

For three months the knocks came and went with no answers as to whom the knocks could have come from. Every night the woman would hear the knocks and she would go downstairs to an empty front entry. But one night she decided she would stay up the entire night. She wouldn’t have a wink of sleep. This idea came from a thought that maybe they knocks were just her imagination. So she stayed up and listened to the silence of an empty home. No sounds were made besides her breathing. Even the rustling of the trees outside decided to be quiet. Hours passed. She began to doze off, but just as her eyes shut, Knock Knock Knock!

            The knocks came. She would not leave her place in her bed. She waited. Knock Knock Knock! The knocks grew closer. Knock Knock Knock! They were at the top of the stairs. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!! They banged on her bedroom door. She waited and waited but there were no more knocks. After months of searching for the creator of this annoyance she had had enough. She leeped out of bed and ripped the door open. Her heart stopped beating for the slightest second when what appeared in front of her was the man she had buried 3 months ago. 

“Hello Elaine,” the figure spoke through smiling teeth.

“Steve! What is going on? You died? How are you here?” she questioned with fear in her eyes. 

“You did bury me sweetheart, and I came to return the favor.”

She stepped back in response until she ran into her suede chair. 

The man stepped closer, “You poisoned me.”

“NO! I would never. I love you, why would I do that?!” She spoke in a pleading tone.

“You did Elaine. You poisoned me. You’re going to get what you deserve.”

“You can’t do this to me Steve! People will notice I’m gone.”

“Sweetheart, it’s going to be okay. Please, I don’t want you to be upset.”

“What are you…”

Steve turns around to reveal two glasses of champagne filled with raspberries, her favorite. 

Taken aback, Elaine responds, “What is this?”

“I just wanted to do something special for you,” he responds while handing her a flute. 

She takes it from his hand and inspects it for any sort of contamination. She sees nothing. 

“A toast to the most beautiful woman in the room. For the woman you are and always will be. I love you Elaine from the bottom of my heart to the stars above.” He lifted his glass to hers before he drinks. Elaine, still quizzical as to what might be in her glass pauses before lifting the glass to her lips. Two seconds later she feels faint and nauseous. She falls to the floor and stares at her late husband, gasping for enough air to scream help.

Steve bends down and plants a kiss on his betraying wife’s head before saying, “Happy anniversary my love.”

Author Bio: Lyzette Delgadillo is currently studying as a senior at California State University San Marcos. She is majoring in Literature and Writing and plans to get her teaching credentials so that she can teach high school literature. In addition to this, she has always had a passion for writing, and she would love to publish a novel one day. Her main styles and genres of writing include poetry, suspense, romance, and drama. Writing to her is an art form that displays raw emotion and words that are as unique as the author themselves.

Isabelle Abril

Bloody Mary on the Rocks

Fragments of ripped black tights clung onto her fumbling legs. Down the hallway she swayed side to side, with her legs criss crossing every step of the way. It was fair to say that Annya had drank a fair bit too much more than she could handle. Although it was not a long journey to the bathroom from the kitchen she sat alone in, she was desperate to make it to the toilet in time. She didn’t want her dignity to sink any lower than it already was. The remnants of a bloody mary awaited at the bottom of a glass for when she came back. Yet, it would be a wise decision if Annya chose to dump the rest of the drink down the sink and tuck herself into bed for the night once she was done.  

She grabbed onto her skirt and the tights underneath them, pulling them down as she sat on the cool porcelain. More tears appeared where her fingers had just been from her hastiness. When she was finished she plopped herself on the ground, lifted up the toilet seat, and vomited out a violent array of red. Her esophagus constricted in resistance from the mixture of burning alcohol and stomach acid, but she could not help herself. 

In between retches she groaned in regret, “Ugh… bloody mary”. 

Having nothing left to rid herself of, she steadied herself enough to make it to the sink. A perfume bottle was knocked to the ground as she moved to turn on the water. Annya scooped up the water into her mouth and gargled, relieving the back of her throat from the painful aftermath of her endeavors. 

As she spat out the water, she spat out the name of her drink once more in disgust, “Fucking bloody mary”. 

Her eyes met herself in the mirror and she lifted a hand towel to pat the corners of her mouth dry. The very little left of her lipstick had smudged onto the coarse fabric. A hiccup escaped her mouth and a self-pitied laugh followed soon after. 

Annya thought aloud, “Who the hell even drinks bloody marys anymore?”

And with that, the room grew cold. Unbelievably cold. An unnervingly pale figure emerged in the mirror before Annya. Long dark hair swooped over the figure’s shoulders. Annya’s mouth dropped in awe and she could not help the shiver that shook her spine. She looked behind her, but there was nothing except for a towel hanging on a rack. Her droopy eyes turned back towards the glass, and she cautiously brought her hand forward. 

Smooth, cold tile met her fingertips. The figure in the mirror, the woman, was silent. She did not have to introduce herself for Annya to know who she was. 

Maybe it was liquid courage, but Bloody Mary did not look so scary to Annya. The look in her eyes betrayed her mysterious demeanour. There was no anger. No rage. Only a deep sense of pity. The darkness of her sunken hollow eyes intrigued Annya. She wanted to test the legend.

Her voice a quiver, Annya asked, “Who will I marry?” 

The woman did not answer at first. She slowly shook her head from side to side as a sad smile appeared on her lips, “There is no future I can tell that will comfort you”. 

The edges of her being began to fade away, and within moments her entire apparatus was gone. Annya sunk to the hard tile, and she folded in on herself, knees pushed up against her chest. She tried to cry, but she could not. Instead, dry heaves crowded the tiny bathroom and reverberated off the walls. Her face turned an ugly red as she gasped for breath. 

Nothing but bad news had ever come her way as of lately. Earlier she drank to forget the end of yet another relationship. Her third serious boyfriend, who like the other two, could not remain committed to only her. It was all so stupid, and now she might as well delete her half finished dating profile. Why even bother, if she was going to die before marriage anyways? 

Reaching her limit of self pity, Annya got up from the floor and staggered back to the kitchen. Her eyes squinted and her forehead scrunched at the sight remains of her drink. In anger, she threw the rest of the bloody mary down the sink and turned on the garbage disposal for further satisfaction, wishing that she could grind up the real Bloody Mary into bits and pieces. 

Determined to drink into delusion, as if she didn’t feel delusional enough from the entire ordeal, she decided on another drink. Annya mixed orange juice and vodka before continuing to drink herself into an ignorant bliss.

Author Bio: Isabella “Isa” Abril is an undergraduate student at Cal State San Marcos.  She enjoys writing poetry and short stories. Although she does not entirely believe in the supernatural, she would like any and all spirits who happen to stumble across her to respectfully leave her alone. Unless they can do something really cool. 

Allysa Castillo

Pinehouse

Lucy Hamilton dog eared the page of her favorite book as she sipped her cup of hot chocolate with extra cream and a dash of cinnamon. She sat at her usual spot of the cafe, nestled in the corner by the book case. Pinehouse was a vintage clothing company from the 1940’s renovated into a small coffee shop in upper Manhattan. The wood floors and old lamps were reminiscent of the cafe’s past life. They were never fully lit, adding a warm and inviting atmosphere to the space.

            It was a Tuesday afternoon on a cool autumn morning in early October. The weather started to change, but it wasn’t quite cold enough to bring out the parkas and long boots. Lucy was dressed in a plaid dress and a white pull over sweater paired with Maroon Mary Jane’s.

            She glanced at her watch that was rimmed in gold and had a leather strap, a true beauty from her mother. The aesthetic of the watch matched the mood of the cafe. 

            1: 53 pm.

            One may not have guessed that Lucy was dressed for her first date with a boy from her Advanced Chemistry 450 class. She dressed simply and not to impress.

            At 1:56 pm she FaceTimed one of her closest friends, Maria. “Hey, what’s up?” Maria remarked in her high usual cheerful tone as she was stretching her legs in what looked like an incredibly awkward position.

            “Are you doing yoga?” Lucy asked in disbelief and held her laughter.

            “It’s my New Year’s goal,” Maria answered, shifting into a downward dog position. “Anyway, enough about me. How’s your date going?”

            Lucy didn’t say anything for a long pause.

            “Ooo that bad, do you need me to save you?” Maria asked, misinterpreting her friend’s silence.

            “I almost wish it was.”

            “Wait, what? Am I missing something?” 

            “He never showed up, M. Or should I say I got stood up.” Lucy looked down at the page she was reading.

            “Ughh, what a total jerk! What’s his name? I’ll have Steve beat him up for you.” Steve was her boyfriend of three years and also the linebacker for their college football team.

            “Thanks, but it’s my fault really. I asked this guy out from one of my classes, thinking he was interested. Obviously, he was just being nice because he knows I have an A in that class.”

            “Well, I still think you should have Steve give him a punch. Maybe just one blow, you know nothing too serious. Just enough for him to remember who’s friend he stood up.”

            Lucy half smiled, thinking that Maria was one of the most loyal and supportive friends she ever had. “Thanks, Maria. It’s okay. I have a lot of studying to do anyway,” she said softly, trying to hide her disappointment. “I think I’ll pay for my drink and head out.”

            “I don’t envy you pre med majors. Have fun in the library. Hey, if you need a study break, you know where to find me.”

            “See ya, M.”

            “Byeeee,” she said as Lucy hung up.

            She sighed and waved at the waiter for the receipt. Looking out the window, her mind drifted to Luke. It was a year since her and Luke went their separate ways. Some may have called it a break up or bad timing. Lucy didn’t see it as any of that. As part of Luke’s treatment for his drug addiction in rehab, his doctors believed it was best to remove any other distractions that might add more stress on his plate. Unfortunately, his parents believed that included Lucy.

            We’re sorry, Lucy. You know, we love you, but Luke needs to focus on getting better, healthier. Besides, you need to focus on applying for med school.

            Of course she understood. It would be selfish of her to stay, knowing that her presence and the existence of their relationship only made it harder for Luke to heal. She was a reminder of everything he lost and, in many ways, he resented her despite the love he had for her. They were both ambitious pre medical students on track to attend medical school together in New York’s finest colleges whether it was Columbia or NYU. They were the “golden couple” until Luke found something else to study other than hospital terms and the human body. Three months later, Lucy found him on the floor of their apartment from an overdose. There was officially nothing golden about them.

            She still kept tabs on him and he would call on occasion. Their conversations were limited to the weather, breakfast, and nothing remotely interesting. Lucy wondered if the antidepressants were changing him slowly, making him into a lifeless piece of skin and bones.

            “Your bill Miss,” the waiter handed her the receipt, interrupting her thoughts about the past.

            “Thank you.” She grabbed her belongings and headed for the door. Just as she was about exit, the door flung open and the bells above the door made a loud clamor. She would have run into the gentleman if she didn’t notice him running toward the door a few seconds before he opened it.

            “Lucy Hamilton,” he said confidently.

            “Um, yes.”

            “Is that a question?” He asked with a slight smirk on his face.

            “Well, of course, I mean yes. Yes, I’m Lucy. And you are?” She said, irritation on the edge of her voice. 

            “The guy who has a very great explanation of why he’s late to your date if you would let him buy you a cup of coffee.”

            Lucy was still trying to understand why she was still standing at the entrance of the doorway and not walking to the library.

            “So you’re the guy that stood me up.”

            He blushed. “You see, I have a good explanation for that. I was really, really nervous for the date and when I’m nervous I start clean panicking around my place.”

            Lucy raised her eyebrow, wondering how this guy was in Advanced Chemistry 450.

            “Well, then, maybe you should continue panic cleaning around your place,” Lucy responded and shoved past him.

            “Hey I have details on the next pop quiz.”

            She hesitated. “Mr. Miller doesn’t give pop quizzes.”

            “That’s what all the people who fail his pop quizzes say. I mean, hey if you’re sure then I won’t stop you,” he said, raising his hands up.

            She stated in her spot and hated how much he was enjoying this. “Fine, one hour. And, I’m also not a coffee drinker.”

            “Name’s Daniel, by the way,” he officially introduced himself and Lucy noticed for the first time his eyes. They reminded her of autumn, green mixed with brown and golden. “Shall we begin our study date?”

            Lucy smiled, unsure what she was feeling. She couldn’t help but compare the way she felt to her first date with Luke. With Luke, she was wildly attracted to his intelligence, sophistication, and maturity. Daniel brought a different energy that made her comfortable, at ease. 

            “I’ll have tea,” she said and walked back inside. 

            The two found a booth by the window and, outside, the leaves were beginning to change as they fell for the next season. Golden replaced the green, giving way for something bright and new.

Author Bio: Allysa Castillo is a junior at CSUSM with a major in PSCI and a minor in LTWR. Some interesting facts about her are that she has a lifestyle and wellness blog and was a gymnast for 7 years. In her free time, she loves to write, design, photograph, and anything that’s creative. Her career goals include law school after her undergraduate and eventually pursuing international law.

Savannah Dial

Death’s Daughter

            She runs as fast as she can, shadows biting at her heels like hounds, growling and snarling. A shadow strikes out with claws, causing her to jump right, tilting on the narrow stone. Thousands of stone paths lay before her as she maneuvers across them, jumping up and over, frantically searching for any resemblance of color in this long white hallway. 

            “Valencia,” the shadows whisper. 

She stumbles, her yellow rain boots sliding across the path, falling right off the edge. Valencia screams between her teeth as she barely catches the edge of the pathway, her fingers digging into stone, breaking nails. Her boots skimming a world as black and slippery as oil, tendrils of it running up her boot, and wrapping around her ankle. Valencia buries her hands in the stone clawing for a stronger grip, a way out. 

            Teeth made of shadows dig into each of her red coat sleeves, pulling her from the edge. The world beneath her holding tight to her boot, but the shadows refuse to release. With a sharp pull she is back on the pathway, short one yellow boot. 

            The shadow hounds still hold her sleeves, dragging her back towards the world she came from. With a cry she grabs both of the shadows in her hands, they immediately disappear to their master with a yowl.

            Pulling herself from the ground, she continues to run down the white hallway, keeping to the thin pathways. Ignoring the portals to worlds as dark as the one she came from, looking for something that might nurture the ember in her heart- hope. 

            “Little one, it’s time to stop playing,” the darkness calls behind her. 

            Valencia only runs harder, leaping over portals. One world with snow that falls black, she nearly collides into another at her side, this one lit with stars that shine as bright as teeth. The little ember dying in her chest with each dark world she passes. 

            “Valencia,” the dark echoes again, she swears she can hear the whisper of his robes on the pathway.

            Throwing her head back for a glance, she screams, “Leave me alone!”

            “Oh, daughter.”

            Words lodge in her throat, not even sure what to scream back at him. Father holding too much in one word. Father; abuser; caretaker; master; devourer. 

            She feels the whisper of his fingers down her neck, a tease, a promise. Valencia hurtles forward, leaping for any world not colored black. Glancing down she sees a small shred of a world shaded in gray and white. Without another thought she launches herself from the pathway, fingers ghosting across her coat. 

            Then she’s falling, arms reaching for a sky she cannot hold. Her head is thrown back to see the portals of worlds around her, the ones twisted in shades of monsters and daemons. She only has a moment’s thought to wonder why this world is among them, before she’s ripping into the gray and white world, its portal shredding like paper. 

            Like a fallen star Valencia streaks across a white sky, catching a glimpse of the place she was, a hooded figure waiting on the other side. Tumbling to the ground, Valencia does not think twice before leaping into action. Running from the portal, running from him. 

She flies past crumbling gray buildings, cracking white walkways, past the shaded parts of this world. All without noticing her new shadow creeping around the corners, slithering after her. Valencia does not realize she is a streak of color across a sky in a world devoid of it. 

            Glancing left she looks into a shattered window to see she does not belong here. Not with her midnight hair, her bright blue pants and a single yellow rain boot next to a green sock. Not in this world where every building, every object is shaded, void less of color. 

Her eyes move to the silhouette of a man, cast in shadows, watching her with hungry eyes. Valencia turns to run, but it ends in a cry, as a hand wraps in her hair, another latching on to her wrist, yanking her back.

            “Hello poppet,” the chest rumbles behind her. The hand in her hair tilting her head back, exposing a pale throat. The man behind her running his nose across the side of her neck. “If I took a bite would my mouth explode with taste? Would I see the bright vividness of your blood? Would I quench this hunger deep inside me? Tell me poppet, are you the answer to everything?” He sings, dragging a tongue across her neck, nipping at a piece of her ear. 

            Snarling, Valencia throws her head back, smashing into the face behind her, the sound of crunching bones in her ear. The hand in her hair is released, and she turns to run, only to be pulled back by the hand on her wrist. 

            Disgust riddles her features as she sees the man before her. Molten gray skin dripping down his face, a toothless mouth gaping, and milk white eyes staring down at her. 

            The man gives her a wide grin, “Will I taste fear on your skin, poppet?”

            Valencia laughs, “No, but I’ll taste it on yours.” 

With her free hand, Valencia thrusts her hand through his molten skin, breaking bone and swimming through gore. Clutching his heart in her hand, she extracts his still beating heart from his chest. It pulses in her palm, and Valencia bites into it like a ripe peach. 

            Lost in the feel of the skin between her teeth, the blood gushing down her throat, she did not notice him before it was too late. 

            “Valencia.” 

            She whips around, hair dripped in gore spinning with her, spraying blood on to his black robes. “No,” she breathes, dropping the heart from her hand, taking a step back. 

            “Oh, little one. What have you done?” 

            Valencia takes another step back, frantically searching for anything. Tearing at her own chest as if to take away the fear wrapped around her. Take the fear the man in black robes ignites in her. 

            “Did you really think you could run from me, daughter? Look at the mess you have created without me,” a bone white hand gesturing towards the collapsed body. “Did you really think you could run away from yourself? It’s time to grow up, to accept what you are.”

            Like any other child when being scolded, Valencia drops her head, and wraps her hands behind her back, drawing shapes in the blood with the tip of her toe. “I thought I could be better,” she whispers. 

            “Then me?” His robes bellow with him, as he gestures towards himself. 

            With eyes still downcast, Valencia nods. 

            “Take this as a lesson, daughter. You will never be better than me,” he nearly snarls. “There will never be a better for us.”

            “Then what is there for us?” She cries, throwing her head up, tears dripping down her blood-stained cheeks, red drops falling off her chin. 

            “We will be Gods. You will be extraordinary.” 

            The ember in her chest rumbles, just a bit. “Extraordinary?” 

            “My daughter, you will sit on a throne of bones. You are already a world walker. You will devour these worlds.”

            Valencia glances down again, lip between her teeth. “I don’t want to be a devourer,” she mutters, more bloody tears dripping down. 

            “Look at the death you created. Did you not enjoy the taste of his blood? His fear? Deny me, daughter, deny me.”

            Valencia could not, so she kept her head down, drawing more shapes in the drying blood. 

            “You will never be the creature you desire to be, accept the monster you are.”

            Silence echoes between them. Except for the sound of Valencia’s yellow rain boat scraping blood from the cobblestone, and the body’s dying breath. 

            In one fluid movement, he has her petite chin gripped in his bone white hand, forcing her to look into the face beneath the hood. “You will be my predecessor. You will be legendary, daughter.” Her father releases her face and takes a step back, black robes billowing in a non-existent wind. He lays out his hand towards her, “It is time to go home, little one.”

            Father rings in her head again and all the words associated with it, monster, patriarch, death. And in the end, like every other child, Father is just another word for God.

            She glances to the body, licks the blood from her lips, and takes Death’s hand. He flashes her his teeth, an attempt at a smile and pats her little hand in his. Together they walk from this gray and white world, Death’s robes whispering softly on the cobblestone, until Death and his daughter simply disappear.

Author Bio: Savannah Dial is a third year Literature and Writing student at California State University of San Marcos. She has been writing stories since the age of thirteen, and seven years later she has no plans to stop. She’s written millions of words by now, and will write a million’s more. As one of her tattoos says, a representation of who she is, “Daughter of the Words.” Savannah spends most of her time doing homework, reading, writing, and paying attention to her needy cat Squirrel.

Julian Yoval

Art of Letting Go

      After two years of living in this apartment, I am barely realizing how white this ceiling is. The more I notice the abundance of chips within the ceiling, the more my eyes become heavier. I have no clue if I do manage to fall asleep or not because before I know it, the sounds of a loud set of lungs fill the room. Maybe if I ignore the cries they will just eventually simmer on their own. The cries immediately increase along with my frustration. 

     Thoughts of regret instantly fill my mind, and I think back to how my life got to this point in the first place. A year ago, my main priorities were deciding whether I wanted to work overtime or indulge in a weekend full of trysts and intoxication. Now I have no choice but to focus on this freeloading little ball of skin. 

       I hate being a father. 

     “Shut the fuck up…” I mutter under my breath. “What do you want from me?” 

     I turn my head and notice the picture of my girlfriend that I had on my nightstand. Some nights I forget to lay it flat. I should put the picture in a box somewhere but I can’t help but want to keep it close to me. 

     The last couple hours have been a blur to me, and it feels like I’m under the influence of psychedelics rather than simply being sleep deprived. I check my phone and see that it is four-thirty in the morning. I’ve been up for two and a half hours, and I need to leave for work at eight. The crying gets much louder and I finally lose it.

     I take my pillow and lay it over my face so that my own screaming does not make her mood worse. I scream as loud and long as I can. An abundance of stress and frustration finally being released into the open. I have always had issues with being open about my emotions. The last time I waited to release all my stress and frustration, I ended up with this little “gift” right here. Eventually I toss the pillow to the wall and I can hear it hit the floor with a soft thud. The crying continues and I barely manage to get myself out of bed to turn on the light and go pick up my daughter. 

     Every day for the past eight months she wakes up at the same time and doesn’t stop crying until her lungs give out – which is a pretty long time. Her screaming continues to flood the room and I decide I can’t take it anymore. 

     “WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO SHUT YOU UP!?” 

    The crying suddenly stops and so do I. I take slow small steps towards her crib in preparation for her to return to crying. I peek into her crib and her tiny caramel colored eyes stare back at me in confusion. Her mother had the same caramel eyes. I remember them every day. Sometimes I forget that for the past eight months, although my daughter keeps me company, I have been alone. The night the world gave me my daughter, it also took away my best friend. 

     She took away my best friend. 

     I know how selfish it is to blame my own daughter for the death of my girlfriend, but the nights where I can’t stop thinking about her, I can’t help but try to find something or someone to blame for her being taken from me. 

     I often think back to the day my girlfriend’s pregnancy was revealed to me. I knew I wasn’t ready to be a father. I couldn’t even take care of myself, let alone a baby who needed me every second of the day. To this day, I still couldn’t take care of either of us. 

     My daughter stares back at me from her crib, and for the first time since her birth, I see the resemblance of my girlfriend’s face in hers. She lets out a whimper and slowly begins to start crying again. For the first time in her eight months of life, the sound of her crying doesn’t make me want to kill myself. I pick her up and gently nestle her head on my shoulder as I walk around the room.

      “Daddy’s here baby, don’t worry,” I whisper to her. “You don’t need to cry anymore baby, I don’t know why you cry so much. But it’s okay, because I love you. I’m always going to love you, my baby.” 

     After about fifteen minutes she finally begins to calm down. Instead of bringing my daughter to her crib, I bring us over to my bed and sit down as I hold her close in my arms. I pick up the picture of my girlfriend and hold it in front of my daughter’s face. It occurs to me that I have never talked to my daughter about her mother. 

     I spend the next hour telling her everything about her mother. From memories, to her personality, her perfections and her imperfections. I try to hold back the tears as I talk to my daughter, but some manage to slip out. 

     Before I know it, my daughter slumbers in my arms and the sun comes up. I get up and lay her back in her crib. Exhaustion has taken over me completely, but I still can’t help but stare at her as she sleeps. For the longest time, I was angry at the world for taking the only person that has ever mattered to me away. I was too stubborn to realize that although my best friend is gone, she managed to leave me a gift before she left.

Author Bio: Julian Yoval is a third year student at California State University, San Marcos where he is majoring in literature and writing. His interest in literature and writing has recently led him into an interest in teaching. He is currently a college tutor for the LEUSD and hopes to obtain his teaching credentials upon graduation.

Allysa-Marie Castillo

Dancing Colors

Preface

The northern lights were on my bucket list from the age I knew what bucket lists were. I remember my grandfather retelling stories about the colors that would dance around in the sky when I visited my grandparents during summer weekends. My grandfather would use big hand gestures as he described his back packing adventures in Alaska with his college friends, Steve and Al. I would sit in awe at their dining table, thinking that one day I would tell him my own adventures. I guess you could say my grandfather had something to do with my love for adventure and nature.

He took me on my first camping trip to Montana when I was shy of ten years old. Mom insisted that I was too young, hesitant to have me out of her sight for more than a week, and dad took my mom’s side because he always did even if it wasn’t what I wanted. I convinced them to let me go by promising to be a “good girl,” complete my chores without complaining, be nice to my little brother Thomas, and do all the childlike things one promises when they have no real responsibilities. By some miracle, they agreed and that was my first adventure with my grandfather.

For my thirteenth birthday, he took me to see the northern lights. As my grandfather claimed, “It was one of God’s greatest gifts and nature’s greatest beauty.” This year we were supposed to go for one last hurrah before my grandfather started his chemotherapy. Cancer had other plans, though, before I could make peace with our annual tradition and saw the dancing colors with him one last time as he’d like to call them.

Wish You Were Here One Month Ago

“Sam, what do you think about this? Or do you think Julie would like the blue one?” My mom held the two sweaters up together at eye level. “Well?” They look hideous I thought. “They look great.” I refrained from sighing as customers walked passed us in the overcrowded Macy’s. Christmas shopping was Julie and my mom’s tradition to do together. Julie was my younger sister. Her and mom were always more similar. They liked shopping, make up, and all the things I could care less about. Mom would never admit it, but I knew Julie was her favorite.

“Sam, could you at least try to not act like your teeth are being pulled out? And, Christ’s sake, stop frowning. It’ll give you wrinkles,” she said harshly. “Right, like getting old is such a crime,” I spoke. “What?” “Nothing,” I bit back. She stopped walking and then I really wish I said nothing. “You know Samantha Anne I have had it with your disrespect and utter disregard for this family. It’s like anything that requires minimal effort you’re too selfish to even try, even on Christmas Eve!” she yelled, earning a few glances from passer byers. “Gosh, what would your grandfather think,” she muttered under her breath.

I stopped in my tracks, feeling the heat rise to my face. Mom noticed and, for a moment, she realized the effect of her words. “Sam, I-” “He wouldn’t think. You know why? Because he’s gone. He’s dead. Dead.” My words hang in the air, like bad food stuck in your mouth for too long. My mouth was clenched and I felt my eyes water. “Sam-” I turned away, rubbing my eyes before they turned into tears. “I’ll wait in the car,” I said turning away without giving her another and walked out the exit. The cold air blasted in my face. It reminded me of the cold air of Alaska and the way the wind blew like it didn’t care. I pulled my jacket tighter to my chest and made my way back to the car. I sat inside, wondering how life could move past me like a blur, yet it felt like I was in frozen in time. I closed my eyes, trying to remember what it was like last winter when my grandfather and I hiked up the mountain to see the dancing colors. Even in his old age, I could still see the wonder in his eyes and the curiosity that was found in a young child despite the wrinkles on his face. His love for nature always astounded me. He found a type of serenity that I wondered if I would ever find again. “You couldn’t have waited. Just one more…Christmas,” I whispered into thin air and curled my knees to my chest and dozed off The slight movement of the car woke me up. I opened my eyes, disoriented, to the taillights of another car on the road.

“You were asleep when I got back,” I heard my mom say. “You looked so peaceful. I didn’t want to wake you.” I snickered. Peaceful. “Sam, please.” Her tone was different. It was sad, desperate, and nothing like her usual nagging voice. “I’m trying here, ok? We all miss him. I know you and he had a different and special connection, always have. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss my own dad.” It was the first time I saw my mom show any vulnerability since my grandfather’s passing. Even at the funeral, I could tell she was restrained and displaying the right amount of sadness for no one to question her sanity. I stay silent, looking at the window and the snow that stuck to the pavement. “Listen, I wasn’t supposed to tell you this, but dad and I bought tickets for you to visit Alaska this upcoming January, so you can go for your annual trip to see the northern lights.” “Tickets?” I emphasized. “We got it for you and your sister, Julie. She’s been dying to go. I thought it would be a good bonding experience for you two girls, some quality time.” Now my mom started to sound like her old self. “Merry Christmas.” “That’s me and grandpa’s trip.” “I know, but I think it would be good-” “Well forget it. Just return the damn tickets. I’m not going.” “Sam-” “I said no! Okay? Everyone else misses him because he was family. That’s what their supposed to do. But he wasn’t just my grandpa. He was my best friend,” I respond, my voice slightly cracking. “Oh Samantha.” “I’m not going mom. Sorry, but I’m not.”

We pull into our driveway and she kills the ignition. “Please think about it okay. She really wants to go.” She hands me a thin wrapped box with a bow. “In case you change your mind.” I stare at her for a long moment, but then take it. “We’re gonna be baking Christmas cookies for Santa soon. It would be nice if you could join.” I shoot her a questionable look. “Isn’t Thomas too old to still believe in that crap?”

“He’s barely 9.” “Whatever,” I reply rolling my eyes. She kisses me on the top of my head. “I love you Samantha. Don’t stay out here too long. It’ll get cold soon.” I nod as she walked out. I unwrapped my early Christmas present and find two tickets laying neatly on bottom of the box. I consider ripping it up into shreds, but my fingers don’t move. I think back to what he told me in his hospital bed one night. “Sammy, I want you to promise me something.” “What’s that?” “Promise me you’ll go.” “Where?” “You know where. The dancing colors.” “Well of course I’ll go. We have our annual trip in the new year.” “No. I mean I want you to go even if I’m not here.” “Don’t say that. You can’t-” “Sammy, you know what’s the best thing your grandma taught me? She taught me that the greatest joys in life are shared. That’s why I took you on that trip when you were so young to see the northern lights. That summer your grandma passed away, I was a mess. I couldn’t bring myself to go back to that place, but then I saw how much you wanted to go, so I took you. Seeing the world from your eyes, how excited you were at something I’ve seen a dozen times made it seem like I was seeing it for the first time. I found a part of myself again in nature. It was more healing than any anti-depressant or drug a doctor prescribed me.” I pick up the tickets and hold them between my index finger and thumb. “I hope you’re right,” I say to myself and look up. When I walk in back to my house, the aroma of cookie batter fills the air. “Hey mom, do you mind if I join you in the next few hours? I wanna show Julie her gift.” She looks at me in surprise. “I mean, the gift was supposed to be for Christmas,” “But technically, you kinda spoiled it for me so don’t you think Julie should get her Christmas gift early too?” She smiles. “Fine, but just this one gift.” “Promise.” “I wish you would do more of that, Sam.”

“Do what?” “Smile. Your grandpa always loved to see you smile.” I hesitate. “I know,” I said and then I run upstairs to tell Julie the good news.

One Last Hurrah Present

“Do you think we’ll get lucky?” Julie asked excitedly as we trek our way up the hill. “I’m not sure. According to the app and Max.” Max was our tour guide for our round about trip in Alaska. While he couldn’t join us, he gave us clear directions and, with my experience in the past, it was doable. Julie and I arrived two days ago and did the normal sightseeing, museum hopping, and tourist attractions in Anchorage. “Can you remind me again why we had to go at 1 in the morning?” “Grandpa always said the best times were when the skies are the darkest and clearest, which happens to be around midnight,” I share and stop. “Here this is a good spot.” “Finally, I feel like we’ve been walking for hours,” Julie complains. I chuckle and roll my eyes. Julie was never the adventurous or athletic type. “Are you sure this is the right spot? I don’t see anything,” she states after a few minutes. “Just be patient. Trust me,” I say softly and breathe in the fresh air. “Stay still and watch the sky.” Now listen Sammy. I can hear my grandpa’s voice as clear as day. You gotta be patient. The colors don’t dance for just anybody. “Look! Over there!” I see Julie point to the sky in amazement, startling me at first. The I follow the direction of her finger and observe the first ripple of color in the sky. The vibrant green smeared across the sky like it’s a painting. The green bleeds into a bright fuchsia color and then back to green. It was so mesmerizing that I forgot how cold my face was. There was calmness that I couldn’t describe as if Julie and I were in our own worlds but encompassed in one beautiful, cosmic galaxy. If nature made me feel small, then the northern lights made me miniscule in comparison. I was this tiny bug looking up into infinity. The colors danced and shifted. “This is incredible, I mean, wow.” I glance at Julie and smile. Was this how my grandfather felt when he saw me for the first time here? Hopeful. It was a beautiful feeling, but one that felt so foreign for so long.

“Worth the hike?” She nods. “How long does it last?” “Five minutes. Maybe thirty. A couple hours. There’s no way to know for certain.” That’s why nature brings you into the present. You gotta look, otherwise you might miss it and it’s gone. The beauty is fleeting, but that’s part of the magic, my grandpa would say. I look up again at the dancing colors of the sky, feeling grounded to the earth, but lifted up to what remained beyond up above. “One last hurrah,” I say to the stars and move closer my sister, hoping that he heard that too.

Author Bio: My name is Allysa Castillo. I am a PSCI major with a minor in LTWR. Some interesting facts about me are that I have a blog and was a gymnast for 7 years. In my free time, I love to write, design, photograph, and anything that’s creative:)

Cody Hopper

Stray

I’ve come to my senses just this once to tell how I was justified, how none of this was my fault. I don’t want this to make less of me, I don’t want this to become the twisted memory of my life. I realize that redemption is as far as heaven, but I have to try. Maybe one confession could elaborate my innocence and save me. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.

            I live in a house with two roommates, I do not wish to besmirch their names so we’ll call them; Siegfried and Roy. Siegfried is my oldest friend, and I hated Roy. I think it was because he looked so much like my sister’s parole officer, but I digress. Siegfried had met Roy in a psychology 101 class. They chummed it up quick, next I knew we ditched the dorms and moved in. The house’s backyard was a fenced off, tree shaded, oasis of boulders and grass, where the stray cats of our neighborhood would visit often. They were mostly harmless as long as you didn’t go near the kittens. In that state of nature mother is always watching. After some time we felt bad for the cats, who had become skinner day by day. We put water out for them, and gave them tuna. We considered adopting some, but after a logical discussion of cost we agreed we were better off just keeping them fed and in the outdoors. Then the pandemic happened.

            Within a month all three of us had lost our jobs and money was getting tight. Not to mention being held up in this house together was becoming toxic. We shrank skinner day by day. All the canned “apocalypse food” lasted about a quarter as long as television would have you believe. Soon we were broke and starved. I began spending my time with the cats, waiting for change. The feral strangers I dared not touch before had become friendly with me, the mother even allowing her kittens to sit in my lap. Over time however, I noticed the cats began to vanish.

            I was closing the house up for the night, heading for bed when I passed Siegfried’s room. I heard snarls and strange noises within. I carefully touched the handle and gave it a silent shake to determine whether it was locked; it wasn’t. I eased the door open a crack, the moment the threshold broke a tremendously awful smell wafted over, nearly gagging me in its passing. I collected myself and peered inside to find Siegfried sitting on the ground, surrounded by the vacant hides of cats. Their blood spattered about the room in every direction. A Pollock visionary. I stepped in standing on my toes and creeped behind his shoulder; he was face first into the stomach of one of the cats, gnawing at every piece. The cat’s intestines dripped out of his mouth, he slurped it up just like a ramen noodle.  I couldn’t help but cough, halting his progress. We stood in fear of one another for a moment. Now what I tell you next, I pray you don’t hold against me. These were the hardest times I’d ever known. My hunger was immeasurable. With little hesitation I removed the cat from my good friends clutches and began to indulge myself. It was the best meal I’d had in weeks, months! Succulent, and delicate. After our feast we talked it over, it would be easier for me to get the cats- they loved me. The following weeks the house, minus Roy, was well fed. I had started to feel normal again. It wasn’t until the meals had become uncountable that we noticed the hair. Both of us had developed thick coats of hair, mine on my arms- Siegfried’s traveling across his back between the arms, even beginning to envelop his face. His teeth even began to look sharper, matching his newly pointed ears. It wasn’t long before Roy would notice.

            We went on the prowl for another cat but none of the bigger cats showed. Eventually, a kitten landed in my lap. Kittens were small, would this feed us both? We snagged the kitten and were heading inside when Roy stopped us. He stood at the door, staring at our grotesque forms. He yelled and panicked, he had told us he’d seen the cat carcasses, he could smell them throughout the house. At that same moment he lunged towards me, pushing me to the ground and snagging the cat from my hands. He held the kitten protectively, it writhed and yelped in his arms, stirred by the commotion. Siegfried and I got to our feet and began to circle Roy. He tried to back up, but our circle closed. Roy was coming between us and our dinner and times were hard. Impossibly hard. We were blind the to the real. Even when we jumped on Roy we only saw dark and confusion. As we pulled the flesh from Roy’s face, we barely noticed the kitten scurry away. Hunger is a disease if not treated. Our nails had sharpened enough that ripping him into chunks was easy, even when he tried to scream removing his tongue was like grabbing a pinch of salt. He didn’t live long after we opened him from throat to groin. It was the best meal we had in months. The cats were good but this was five fucking stars.            

The appetite returned quickly. The mail man was gamier, the ice cream man was nearly flavorless, but the pizza delivery guy was perfectly marbled. With a change in meals there was a change in us. What we look like- what we are, I can’t describe. I won’t describe. I have nothing more to tell you except to stay away. Food has limited itself and soon I’ll be reduced to eating whatever form of creature has become of my last friend. I know it was what he would want though. Thank you for understanding, and believing me. I know that when you read this, you’ll understand how this was all unavoidable, and how you would’ve done the same

Author Bio: Cody Hopper is a student at CSUSM, when he isn’t doing improv, or flippin’ za, he can be found in the dark corners of his room, writing the next story of horror and torment that crosses his mindscape. He loves violent stories, comic books, movies, coffee, and buffalo wings– not in this order.