Category: Issue 1 (Spring 2022)

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.