Issue 1 (Spring 2022) – Page 3

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.

World Heritage Collection

Cody Hopper

Smoke Break

On the downtown side of Houston sits a strip of outlets ready for all economic walks of life. Center stage down this strip is Coppola’s; an Italian restaurant that prides itself on elegance, a proper wait staff, and award winning cuisines. Next door is Mookie’s; a hole in the wall pizza joint with the cheapest, greasiest pizza that the bar flies ever mulled over. From the back door of each of these establishments every day after nine at night, Anthony would come from Coppola’s and Ryan would come from Mookie’s, and together they would indulge in their one-time-a-night smoke break.

“Shit show in there tonight.” Ryan said, still wearing his sauce covered apron, and removing his rubber gloves, wrapping one glove in the excess of the other, then launching them into the dumpster before fishing his back pocket for a smoke.

“Hasn’t been so bad for me,” Anthony replied, “I just got a family of five. Fresh out of the new star wars and won’t shut up about it.” He slid a hand through his combed hair, and carefully leaned against the wall so not to wrinkle his dress shirt, or scuff his slacks.

“Those movies are getting worse and worse if you ask me.” Ryan took off his hat and fiddled with his flat hair before securing it under cover again. “Honestly they’ve all been kind of shit after Empire.”

“Empire?” Anthony scoffed, “Was Revenge of the Sith just a waste of cinema to you?”

Ryan chuckled, “Revenge of the Sith plays into what audiences want to see, it feels fun but it follows a formula. You spend the entire film waiting for what you now is going to happen,

it plays off your knowledge of the other films and keeps pace by reminding you that the world you love will be here by the films end, almost solidifying that this is not the world you love.”

“No, no- no, I appreciate your idea and I believe that there is a point, but something acting as a prequel is required to serve the purpose of leading us to the familiar destination that we love. The film adds new characters, shifts tones from trilogies, and even manages to surprise an obsessive audience that should recognize every detail.”

Ryan shifted his weight and took a drag of his cigarette, ash fumbling on to his apron, “Okay- but Empire changed the course of film as an art, bringing us editing and designs that we hadn’t ever seen before. Sith just uses those same story telling techniques to craft another good Star Wars film.

Anthony straightened his posture and smiled wildly, making carful practice of not allowing ash or ember to ruin his clothing, “So you do think Sith is a good film?”

Ryan presses a tongue to his cheek and holds back a laugh, “Yeah yeah, whatever. They’re both good. I gotta head back in, I’ll see you at home. Star wars marathon tonight?”

“Sounds much needed.” Anthony bogarted his smoke and adjusted his clothing once more, “I’ll see you later, try and hurry up- I’m not trying to wait another hour”

“Later man. Hey! make sure to have some fun in there! Enjoy the family of five!” The two returned to work after a brief exchange of middle fingers.

World Heritage Collection

Kali Mitchell-Silbaugh

A Walk in the Past

I remember the day all too well, though my heart begs me to forget it. The memories are hard to bear, the moment hard to look back upon. It’s a Saturday. A cool, brisk Saturday, weighted with the promise of winter.

I am biking, but my head is soaring. I am flying through the trees, dancing with the changing leaves. The world is painted with the endless possibilities it promises. I am free. As I glide through the November air, the idea plants itself in my brain and begins to grow, begins to develop roots and spread and grow, begins to flower and flourish and grow. I know where I have to go. I have no choice; the idea seizes my mind and clouds my vision. My brain is no longer engaged in navigating; my feet turn the pedals, my hands steer the bike, as if someone else is controlling me. I am a marionette, unsure of the plans of my puppeteer. I am surprised when my bike turns down the street, surprised that I am able to find it so easily. I suppose I thought the years had wiped my memory clear, but they must’ve missed a spot. I decide to fix that later, erase it from my head as though it was never there. After all, it hurts to let go, but it kills to hold on.

My bike screeches to a halt, tires spinning in a leaf pile. Brown and orange and yellow colors surround me, and I look in wonder at the blizzard of fall. The leaves settle, and time seems to freeze. The street is a portrait; no, it’s a still life, hanging in silence. The houses gaze down at the empty street, waiting, watching, observing. They seem closer together than I remember, forming one unbreakable defense line. I am not welcome here.

A force within me pulls the back of my throat deep into my stomach, and I look down. I can’t gaze at the end of the street. I can’t. I can’t search for the stucco house with the maple tree and the little angel statue and the front door with squeaky hinges. This is a mistake, I know this now. I should not have come here. I was once welcome here, but all good things are lost with time. I have lost this place.

My heart is beating faster than it should, so I sit on the sidewalk and look at my Converse. The wind has picked up a little, or maybe I’m imagining it, or maybe I’m crazy. I certainly feel crazy, because I can’t seem to grasp that this is only a place. Only a street, only a park, only a pond. To me, it’s all a home. No. It was a home, but it is no more. Now, it’s a painful reminder of how things used to be. It’s only a place, I remind myself as I stand up. It’s clear to me that I have to do this, for myself. I’ll never be at peace until I let it go.

Locking my bike to the nearest tree, I walk hesitantly to the three white posts guarding the entrance to the greenbelt. They come up to my waist, but I remember a time when my hands couldn’t reach their rounded tops, no matter how hard I stretched.

A child rides past me on a tricycle, turning sharply between the posts, no reason to stop and think about them. I look with envy as the boy weaves back and forth on the path, not afraid of anything. He belongs in the park. He belongs here. I know that once, like him, the park was welcoming of me. My access seems to be denied now. My fingers run along the edge of the posts and I am painfully aware that I have been standing here for too long. I can turn back or go ahead, but I can’t linger any more. I want to cry but the tears won’t come.

My feet finally make the decision. I take a step, and then another. Ahead of me, in the middle of the path, is a fountain surrounded by tulips. Someone has let the flowers die, just like I’ve let my memories of this park fade away. They look so out of place in the cheery park.

Looking down at my black sweater and ripped jeans, I realize that I stand out just as much as

the flowers. My eyes flicker to the ground and I quickly stumble away, nearly taking out a happy couple and their dog.

Unsettled, like the autumn leaves that flutter around my feet, I float down the path. My body feels unattached to my surroundings, though everywhere I look stirs up new memories. Look there, see, that’s the tree I crashed into when I first learned to bike! And there, to the left of the light pole, that’s where I successfully tied my shoe for the first time. Reminiscing brings a slight smile on my face, and for a moment I take a walk in the past. I am six again, careless again, happy again. I am young and unafraid, innocent to the pain that’s coming my way.

I’m sprinting down the long dock, faster, faster, wind whipping through my hair. My arms are outstretched, palms open. Every time a board squeaks beneath my feet, I squint and make a wish, just like I did when I was younger. I wish this was part of my life now. I wish we had never moved. I wish my parents had never gotten –

My eyes jerk open, interrupting my inner dialogue, but it’s too late. The thought has plagued my mind, and the giddiness is gone quicker than the last days of summer. I trip on a wayward piece of wood and fall onto a bench. Embarrassment creeps into my neck and I shrink back into the dock. If I could only become part of the wood, disappear from this park and avoid these bittersweet memories. I close my eyes, but no matter how hard I try to vanish, I’m still sitting there when I open them.

A sudden gust of wind tangos with the trees, and I rise shakily, letting it push me away from the dock. I feel numb, and I dig my nails into my palm to gain some sense of feeling. My hand seems frozen, I can’t feel my fingertips. I push harder and harder into my flesh, wondering if I’ll eventually expose the hollowness of my insides. What am I doing here? I wonder again.

When did it get to be this hard?

I pay no attention to the playground as I pass it; maybe I would stop if there weren’t happy children running and playing, shrieking with joy and darting between the trees. Watching them is too hard, too melancholy. Too unbearable. Childhood is, to me, but a dream; I wish to remember it, to relive it, but I can hardly recall its sparkle.

I disappear into my thoughts, wrapping them like a blanket around me. I need all the protection I can get against the outside world. Every step matches my heartbeat, and I fall into a familiar rhythm. My heartbeat once pounded in the soil beneath my feet; it once tolled like a bell over the park, matched with the slap of my bare feet as I ran through the gravel paths and climbed the trees. My heartbeat was once part of the park, and the house was once my heart.

The house. I am standing in front of it now and I don’t remember leaving the park or walking down the street.

The house, I remember too well. Feelings swirl within me, my own personal storm, and I clutch my sweater. The feeling of illness sweeps over me again, and I cover my mouth. Hadn’t there been a tree there? And the hose – once green, now a clumsy brick red. Still, there’s no denying that this is the house of my past.

My instinct tells me to run up the driveway to the front door, and I do. Waves of recognition, one after the other, pound me like waves carve the beach during an earthquake. Perhaps that is what’s happening, maybe I’m caught in an earthquake. The ground beneath me seems as though it’s shaking. My fingers tremble. The smell of the lavender bushes floods my brain with scene after scene from my childhood, memories long forgotten. I can’t blame tectonic activity; no, my instability is my own fault. I’m facing my emotions after years of swallowing them, and I can clearly see that I’ve damaged myself worse than I’d ever believed I could.

My hand reaches out for the doorbell, ready to hear the familiar tune of the Westminster

chimes, ready to walk into my home and sleep in my room with the bumblebee wallpaper and the mirrored closet and the large windows. I want to catch pill bugs and pick rocks out of the garden and hide among the evergreens. But no, I remind myself. I pull my hand away sharply and back up, burning with shame. Dashing to the curb across the street, I curl in a ball and finally the tears come. They run down my face, great underground rivers seeing the light for the first time in six years.

When I lived here, I didn’t know why leaves change colors and fall away from their homes. I didn’t know that people can be so unhappy, they stop believing in family. I didn’t know anything about the world, and truthfully, I still don’t. But I do know that this place is no longer a part of my life.

Sitting up, I brush the tears off my face and turn away from the place I once called home. When I reach my bike, I unlock it. The bike lock falls to the ground and I don’t even pick it up. I am no longer tied to this place.

I point my bike in the right direction and take off, not even looking back. I leave in search of new places where I will once again feel at home. The past is at my back, and ahead of me, I see only my future.

Author Bio: Kali Mitchell-Silbaugh (she/her/hers) is a third year literature/writing major at the University of California, San Diego. She absolutely loves to write, and is particularly interested in exploring experimental genres and playwriting. In addition to writing, she also enjoys tutoring writing students, singing with her acapella group, and playing the drums.

World Heritage Collection

James Mudrak

The Overzealots

I always hated church when I was growing up. Yet, I spent about eighty percent of my childhood at a church. I thought it was a good time but the majority of the time it just flat out sucked. Everyone there wasn’t really about the message. It was more of a social gathering to see who was the better ‘Christian’ than the other. Before we go any further, I want my reader to understand, this isn’t a piece about the bashing of church-going Christians. If you’re a churchgoer do not be turned off by my allegations. Majority of churchgoers are just trying to go and have a place to feel accepted and to genuinely congregate with their community. I’m just asking you to hear me out for a bit longer because I promise there is a meaning to all of this. Church is a good place to raise a family and become acquainted with some really genuine people, at least that’s what everyone else tells me.

I was forced to go every Sunday for main service, Wednesday for youth groups, and Saturday to help prepare for Sunday. My mom and stepdad were heavily involved with our little home church Trinity Lutheran located in the hell hole of city Hemet, California. My mom acted as theVolunteer Coordinator for several years and she loved it. Mom is a caring woman who just wanted to help out and do the Lord’s work for her church. She’d be the one who people would trust in by telling them confidential aspects of their lives and the one people would trust with their children because she ran an independent daycare from our home for a few years after she met my stepdad, Ed.

Don’t get me wrong, we had some great times at that church whether it was all the fall festivals, chili cookoffs, Christmas festivals, Rally Picnics, or cooking for the homeless. I was never not involved in the church events or else my Mom would reprimand me until my ears fell off. Also, she ran all of the events at the church, so it would’ve looked pathetic if her heathen son didn’t attend and help out. So, I was there for my mom at all times even if I was being a little poopy butt about it. Those were the times that taught me the important life lessons; not the Bible verses we had to recite and all the boring hymns we had to sing.

Then there were the bunk times where church served as a proving ground for whoever’s crucifix hung heavier around their neck. Sunday school was a joke because it was basically a teenage girl or guy who would have cared less whether or not that God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son. I don’t remember anything from Sunday School that held significant merit in my life other than that it wasn’t anything close to a school. Sunday School felt more like a glorified IKEA daycare where we wouldn’t do anything but sit there and stare at each other essentially. It was more of a time to gossip about other people’s families and how ‘unchristian’ they were because so-and-so got to watch that R-rated movie or how so-and-so was a sinner because they said ‘crap’ or ‘hell’. I never understood why the majority of the people at church were so judgmental and thought they served a higher purpose as though they were God’s right hand pounding down the gavel of judgement. It doesn’t end with the kids; the adults were just as contradictory.

After congregation we’d all meet outside of the front of the church where everyone would gather in their cliques. A circle of fashionable worshippers over here, a circle over there. This is where all of them, my family as well, would decide where they were going to eat for their Sunday feasts. These talks would also include another hour-long discussion of whether or not they’re living their lives righteous enough or if they should be more faithful to their lord and savior because they’ve been having one too many glasses of wine before bedtime. Mundane, simple shit that didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of being a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ person.

I never had a good experience with people at church. Any church for that matter. All the kids would bully me, make fun of me, tell me I’m ‘too radical’ and weird. My jokes went over everyone’s head, my sense of style was like a little skater kid that didn’t fit in anywhere, and above all I was a bastard child. All the adults would complain to my parents about how I’m this ‘wild child’ and that I don’t listen to people when they tell me to do things. Although this might have been true it was never out of spite or because I was this delinquent everyone painted me out to be it was simply because I could see right these people and their intentions. They weren’t looking out for me; they were trying to use their powers as adults as they tend to do by telling me how and who to be, but I never could fall for it. I tried but it never felt genuine. I wasn’t some evil little devil child that needed to be changed and molded into something I’d never be! Ain’t nobody perfect! I could never fit that perfect image of what a ‘child of God’ was supposed to be. People at church loved to live their lives with this notion of ‘perfect image’ which is something that my family and I could never really live up too because we were real people. Real isn’t perfect because perfect isn’t real.

All of this blasphemy had me confused. I thought that this was a place of community and positivity, yet, being so involved with the church and seeing what happens behind the scenes of such secular activities. Even the pastor of our church made my Mom cry one time because he thought that she was planting ‘negative thoughts’ into people’s minds at the church making them leave to other churches. This obviously wasn’t the case; my Mom was more a shepherd to the people of Trinity Lutheran than he was. People simply just wanted to get the heck outta dodge and go to a more healthy and positive church.

Eventually we left the Trinity and tried to find a new home church because we were all getting sick of the overzealous repercussions. Sadly, we never found one we could truly call home. We would attend church every now and then for the annual Christmas service or if my grandmother Gigi wanted us to go with but whenever we’d enter those hallowed halls it never felt the same. They reeked of false prophets and empty messages as we sat in the cathedral of misguided sheep. My Mom always had a way of making light in every situation though. It was during the time we were serving food to the homeless in the community center at the church. We were all smiling, the homeless men, children, and women were too as we served them a warm dinner. I watched each of them pass down the line grabbing a plate and showing their gratitude and my Mom walks up behind me and says, “This is what it’s all about Jim. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

It’s not about going to church every Sunday. It’s not about donating money. It’s not about sitting around talking shit on everyone and how they aren’t a ‘rightful Christian’ because of X, Y, and Z reasons. It isn’t about molding people into who you want them to be. It’s not about being judgmental. It’s all about being a real, genuine, and loving person. I believe that’s what God would want his followers to be. That advice from Mom is something I’ve held close to my heart ever since and it has never led me astray. I’m a man of faith and I walk on my own road of salvation. I’ve never needed a church to tell me how to be a good person because in all reality, you can’t teach heart.

Author Bio: James Mudrak is an aspiring artist, writer, and creator graduating this winter with a BA of Arts in Literature in Writing Studies. He enjoys spending his alone time creating and working on his brand Unify Collective and his other various creative endeavors. To find out more about James, we encourage you to visit his website: unifycollective.com or follow him on Twitter and Instagram @jamezmudrak.

World Heritage Collection

Leilani Dewindt

An Odd Shade of Periwinkle

I was standing four feet tall in a nest of wanna-be Americans when my luggage rolled onto the carousel, its top half torn to shreds. The bag was an odd shade of periwinkle and smelled somewhat like asphalt after a storm. It had been gifted to me by my Mutti because she thought we ought to travel in style.

But there was nothing stylish about it now.

The airport was small and muggy and I was starting to get claustrophobic when Mutti signaled for the nearest employee. Her long, brown ponytail bobbed as she waved a hand. I doubted her outstretched arm would be seen from the clump we stood in, but Mutti stood on her tippy toes and gave a shout.

“Mama, let’s just go,” I said. From the sliver of moonlight that peered through the windows on our left, I knew it was late. Papa would be waiting for us at the house.

“We just bought your bag, Mila,” Mutti said. “Now it’s ruined.” “But I’m tired and hungry.”

Mutti sighed, taking my sweaty palms in hers. “Your father will not be pleased if we come home like this.”

I parted my lips to say otherwise, but Mutti held up a finger. Conversation over.

Her heels made an eerie clicking noise as she walked across the tiles, headed straight for a young lady standing behind a podium-like desk. The lady offered Mutti a smile, revealing a thick gap between her front teeth. I kept my own mouth closed.

“Excuse me, ma’am, our luggage has been carelessly handled and is ruined,” Mutti said. The lady’s smile faded. She drummed two fingers against her podium as if in thought. “Form of identification?” the lady said.

Mutti nodded, reaching into her bright blue purse for a wad of papers. She handed the lady our passports along with a thicker stack of letters that I had never seen.

“Business in the United States?” the lady asked.

I watched Mutti swallow her impatience and straighten her back before speaking again. I didn’t know why my heart began racing and my eyes were starting to water. If only Papa was here to see this. Surely he’d agree the bag wasn’t worth it.

But Mutti did not stand down. “We’ve just moved here.” “This is a temporary visa,” the lady said.

“Yes, we are in the process of getting a business visa with my husband’s work.” “This–” the lady held up the stack of papers. “Is not a business visa.”

“I know, but–”

“I’ll have to call for backup, ma’am.”

I didn’t know what that meant, and I would not wait to find out. “Let’s go, Mama,” I said.

The lady mumbled something into a walkie talkie as Mutti swatted my hand away. I glanced over to my luggage still on the ground and sighed. All this for a periwinkle bag. It wasn’t that I didn’t love it, but I could get another.

I wasn’t sure we could get another visa if those papers didn’t find their way back to Mutti’s purse.

The airport began to empty as more and more families swept through the large set of doors. When they opened, a breeze rushed inside, brustling my lilac skirt. Even my fair skin was starting to turn a ruby-red from the winter air. I was now tired, hungry, and a little bit cold. And my luggage was not avenged!

“Ma’am, we will have to confiscate that bag,” the lady said after a set of muffled voices spoke through her walkie talkie.

“Excuse me?” Mutti replied.

“We can’t verify when the damages occurred so we’ll have to take it in for inspection.” “The damages happened during our thirteen hour flight!”

It was never a good sign when Mutti raised her voice. She rarely did, so I wasn’t sure why she was now.

“Mama?” I tugged on her blouse.

“We can’t verify that,” the lady said. She ignored me and my protests and came from behind her podium to take my bag.

“Wait, my clothes are in there!” I said. It made me sick to my stomach when even Mutti was silent, her shoulders drooped in defeat.

“You’re going to take my daughters luggage and clothes, why?” Mutti said. Her voice was soft and gentle, but I just wanted to cry. “Is it my accent?”

The lady ignored her and I watched with wide eyes as my luggage disappeared. I couldn’t

decide which was worse: the shredded top half, or its vanishing entirely. But then I realized that with it, I had lost all my clothes, and I almost missed the bag’s odd shade of periwinkle.

“Why are you doing this?” Mutti pressed.

But it was useless. The lady glanced at us like we were nothing but the muggy carpet beneath our boots. Before we could say anything else, she left. And I never saw my luggage again.

Mutti grabbed my hand and turned for the doors. “This is ridiculous.” “Mama?”

“Yes, Mila?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I was sorry the bag got ruined. I was sorry I had let the lady take it away. I was sorry we wasted the money on it in the first place.

“When we get to the house, don’t say anything about this to your father.”

Mutti clutched my hand as she rolled her own luggage behind her, stopping short of the red curb to wait for a taxi. I could see my breath in the air and wished for a clock. But even my watch was in that luggage. Even–

“I left my stuffed Hundchen in my luggage,” I said. I didn’t bother looking up at Mutti.

As I blinked, the cold air seemed to dry up any tears that welled in my eyes.

“We will find you another,” Mutti said. She squeezed my hand as a bright yellow car pulled up in front of us.

“To Hollywood,” Mutti said to the driver while we climbed in the backseat. It sounded fantastical and I was sure we would have to turn around soon. No way were we going to Hollywood. But the taxi kept driving, and eventually, we pulled up to a small house on the side of a hill.

There was no view of the city or the beach I had read about. There was only a row of cars stacked bumper to bumper, and blue and green bins by the driveways. We stepped out of the taxi to a peculiar buzz of music.

I hoped that was the sound of other kid’s playing in the streets, riding bikes or jump

roping.

But the streets were vacant. Aside from the idle hum of our taxi as Mutti pulled her

luggage from the trunk, there was no one here.

“I hope they won’t have parties every night,” Mutti said as she looked to our neighboring

house. It was much bigger, and maybe a little less worn down. But I liked the look of ours much better.

We thanked our driver and made our way to a double set of bright orange doors. A beat later, they swung open and Papa came running out.

He wrapped me in his arms, laughing or weeping, I couldn’t tell. “Welcome home, Mila.” My heart was racing again, but this time it felt different.

Sure, this didn’t look like home. There was no sound of rain hitting the windows, or bells to tell the hour. Children didn’t ride their bikes past sundown; there were no children at all. Our house didn’t come with a spiral staircase that led to my very own playroom; there was just one room for us all. I didn’t see grandma or grandpa, or any of my friends from school.

I didn’t see a lot of things I had just thirteen hours ago. We were exhausted, and I even missed my luggage and its’ odd shade of periwinkle.

But there was my family, and Papa had made Mutti’s soup for us. There was my family, and they felt like home.

THE END

Author Bio: Leilani Dewindt is a current student pursuing a BA in Literature and Writing at the University of California, San Diego. She was born in Belgium, Europe and moved to San Diego when she was seven years old. In her spare time, she enjoys curling up by the fire with a good book, cuddling her little chihuahua, or watching Stranger Things.

World Heritage Collection

Doug Harris

The Tale of a Blessing

On April 27, 1931 in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, the world was infinitely enriched by the addition of Rita Elizabeth Salvi; my paternal grandmother. She is the fifth of seven kids in the household of one working parent. During her childhood, things were marred by tragic loss and anguish brought on by the Great Depression. Her father, Nicola Salvi, immigrated from Italy and repaired shoes for a living. While her mother, Harriet Elbert, was a homemaker who grew up in Indiana, and they met while she worked at a boarding house. In 1913, they married and wanted a big family. Unfortunately, their first and fifth child died in infancy; the first, Helen, succumbed to double pneumonia at age 2, while the fifth, Nellie, was stillborn. Their first son, Louis, was a bundle of joy, but they were not satisfied just stopping there, and so they agreed to have more. From there came Virginia, Armand, Elvera, Rita, Eleanor, and Marlene. As a father, Nicola was strict and old-fashioned, but his wife brought a gentleness to their home. After struggling through difficult economic times during the 1930’s, Nicola could not last any longer and took his own life. Their mother, Harriett, did her best to keep the family together, but ultimately gave in to clinical depression and took her life as well a few years later. At this time, Rita was only ten years old, and her oldest siblings were in their early twenties. Even though they no longer had the ones who brought them into this world, these kids had each other and summoned the strength to move forward. Almost a decade later, Rita would come across a theologian who gave her solace by proclaiming her parents went straight to heaven despite their “last minute insanity”. Despite her struggle, Rita continued living with honor and faith.

The next home for Rita, Eleanor, and Marlene, was St. Anthony’s Orphanage in Oakmont, Pennsylvania. Elvera (Vera for short) was fourteen years of age and adopted by their maternal aunt, Josephine. To be clear, the only reason why these three adorable children were not snatched up in a heartbeat by a lucky adult, was that their older sister, Virginia, did not want them to be separated; since kinship meant everything to them. At the orphanage, the nuns were kind but commanded obedience. During the holidays or when visitors came, everyone listened to these little munchkins’ cheerful singing. Throughout the four years they lived there, Rita was held in high regard for being nurturing to around a dozen girls whom she looked after, and they called her “Aunt Rita”. At school, she was the only orphan in the class, but did not receive any

special treatment. When she looks back at her time in the orphanage, Rita has nothing but happy memories of it, since it taught her the lesson of helping yourself through helping others. Her reaction to cigarettes later on was immediate revulsion, and she vowed never to commit to anyone that used them. At times when life got hard for her, Rita used her faith, made a prayer, and brought up the energy to get through the day. Compassion, empathy, and respect were the cardinal virtues which she made sure her next generation would have within them.

During high school’s junior year in Dayton, Ohio at Roosevelt high, Rita met the love of her life, Clyde Harris; they got together through her sister Marlene’s adoptive brother. Upon going steady, both Clyde and Rita agreed to finish their education before going any further. After four years of dating, they married when she was 21 and her soulmate was 22. It just happened to be on a national holiday, Groundhog’s Day. Rita knew that her schooling was over since she did not have enough money, and because in this era, women were not widely expected to go much higher than this. Originally, she was employed as a secretary-clerk at a finance office for a year, and then Rita was hired at General Motors as a clerk-typist. Throughout her nineteen-year career, Rita was dependable and felt respected as the competent worker she was. When her children came along, she took some time off to raise them, but ultimately returned in order to help pay for their college. It didn’t take long for her to gain trust back, as her bosses put her in charge of mentoring younger managers on duties of the office, and rapport was built as she was always fair. As her employers were away negotiating business from time to time, they put Rita in charge of everything. Her hourly wage was initially $4.00, and when she retired it was $10.00. This provides proof of the appreciation her hard work earned. Rita is a natural caregiver who not only put sincere thought into her job, but exponentially more in her role as a mother.

In her early twenties Rita was ready to have kids, as Clyde had graduated college and was working full-time. They both wanted a big family but four was the most; Rita definitely did not want to go through as many childbirths as her own mother had. Clyde wanted all sons, but they compromised with having one daughter; as it happened, they each got their wish. The first child delivery went smoothly as the doctors put Rita to sleep through it all. However, her second time was far more excruciating as the doctor was out to dinner, and they did not have any time for anesthesia; later on she would say that it was the most severe pain she has ever experienced. They picked their first two names: Michael and Mark, and then their daughter was named after her sister, Marlene, but shortened to Marla for a distinction. Since Clyde worked away from

home a big part of the month, Rita put the caboose on the line. Their youngest, Matthew, was born with hypoglycemia (naturally underweight) and was instructed to eat an ice cream sandwich every night after dinner. The two primary traits they would ingrain in their kids were honesty and discipline; as parents, they never tolerated lying and delivered swift punishment when it occurred. Rita was sure to be an impartial judge and expressed no favoritism. She sent them to Catholic school just like she went through. It gave a convenient location and strongly instilled honor. Both Rita and Clyde insisted on all of their kids attending college, yet they did not push for any one in particular. Rita did her part in giving her children a better opportunity in life.

Once all the kids were out of the house and into homes of their own, she was not done living just yet. Rita was not finished being her caring self, as her world grew bigger with grandchildren. Her position transitioned from babysitter to caregiver, and everyone knew she was in all of their corners. Despite her best intentions of staying fit through exercise, Rita’s knees developed early onset arthritis, and ended her running days for good. Nevertheless, her grown kids still counted on her unconditional support through obstacles like losing a child, divorce, and terminal illness. In spite of these serious issues, Rita’s heart and soul never aged one bit. Now, her eleven grandchildren are the light of her eyes, for whom she prays for every night. My grandmother does not have a long list of accolades or is known across borders, but is nonetheless remarkable for knowing who she is, what she wants and what is important in life. Through it all she has been stronger than many I have ever known, and I am certain she would happily do it all over again. Within my heart she shall have her own nook where I will hear her cheering me on as she rests peacefully amongst the greats of the ages.

Author Bio: Doug Harris is a 25yr old transfer student at Cal State San Marcos. Doug has recently earned his Associates Transfer Degree in English, and is now pursuing his Bachelor’s Degree in Literature & Writing. Doug is an aspiring creative nonfiction writer, who yearns to dedicate himself to producing beauty through his written work. Doug is an introverted, conscientious and a “wise-beyond-his-years” young man. Doug strives to live with a pure-heart, just like for example, what Mahatma Gandhi lived for: “In a gentle way, you can shake the world”.

Brenna Doyle

The Gardener

Her fixation on plant life didn’t really start until about a month after the funeral. She spent her days on the couch, despondent and disheveled, with blank eyes trained on the television set that never turned off. Her husband never really bothered to turn it off even though he knew she wasn’t really watching – the noise of the shows and movies offered some comfort in their newly quiet house.

But one day, he found her in the kitchen, cutting the stems of some carnations that their neighbors had put on their front porch that morning. It was a shock at first, seeing her upright and doing something other than laying around. When she had finished with the stems, she put them in a crystal vase and then left to her room, murmuring about needing to brush her hair.

The following day, he found her in their backyard. She was still in her pajamas, but her hair was brushed neatly and braided down her back. She stood in front of their lemon tree, picking off the ripest of the bunch and when she was asked what she was doing, she simply responded, “I think I’m going to make lemonade.”

Which she did. And then followed that up with dinner for two that night.

And then on the third day, when her husband returned from work, he had nearly fallen into a panic when he realized that she was nowhere to be found. But this panic only lasted a minute or two, as she came sweeping in through the front door, fully dressed and five different shopping bags hanging off her arms. Her cheeks were red and her chest heaving from exertion, but her eyes were sparked alive once more. The sight of her like that, like how she used to be, almost brought tears to her husband’s eyes, before he finally swallowed the lump in his throat and asked what she bought.

She took him to the couch and took seven different ceramic pots from her bags, all in various colors and sizes. Not even paying attention to her husband’s incredulous and fairly bewildered expression, she also unpacked several different seed packets; some featuring brightly colored flowers and others depicting thriving vegetable life. She proudly announced to her still-baffled husband that it was her intention to start a garden in their backyard.

While she poured over the instructions on the back of the seed packets, her husband watched her steadily. The bags that had once formed underneath his young wife’s eyes were fading and the permanent frown she adopted was turning up. He felt as though he had been waiting his whole life to see this change in her rather than the one month it had been, so he rose to his feet, kissed her on the head, and told her that a garden would be lovely.

Everything after that day had changed. Instead of lounging about in her pajamas and refusing to eat, she was always dressed for the day and either in the backyard taking care of her slow-growing garden or reading obsessively on the internet for different ways to improve her gardening technique. Everyone, especially her husband, was quite surprised to find that she had a natural talent for taking care of plant life. And it never went unnoticed that the more her garden thrived, the happier she seemed.

Her home life, however, was creeping to a standstill. Her husband was rarely home, as he seemed to be taking on more and more hours to be able to feed into his wife’s rapid expenditures. The children that the couple had once imagined occupying their house had become a fantasy that neither acknowledged. Their quiet house grew quieter still.

But she never seemed to waver in her happiness. Her garden expanded until it took up more than half of their backyard: the wild blues, yellows, greens, and reds accounting for the majority of the garden, while her tomatoes, lemons, and squash made up the rest. Her obsession even made its way into the house, with several different potted plants taking up space in every room of the house. A bamboo plant in a beautiful jade box in the kitchen, a fern in a bright blue pot by the door. Cacti in every room, even the one that she never stepped foot in. Lilies in every bathroom and daisies as the center piece of their dining room table.

But, by far and away, her favorite was the little succulent that sat in the little toy dinosaur planter above her bed. It was a small, cheap little thing that she bought for two dollars at the grocery story; it wasn’t nearly as pretty as the daises on the dining room table or quite as eye-catching as her lilies, but still her favorite.

And she obsessed over keeping it alive. She spent hours online reading tip after tip on how to keep her little succulent alive and thriving. As years passed, her focus on the succulent had disrupted her garden completely. Weeds had begun to poke out and the flowers were slowly beginning to wilt.

It was the most ridiculous thing. Even her husband, when he was around, would tell her so. Succulents are arguably one of the easiest plants to keep alive, so her obsession was unprecedented and unnecessary. He would much rather have her focus on cleaning up the backyard that now looked more like an untamed jungle than the thriving garden she had once loved. His irritation fell on deaf ears, however, and once he saw her painting a familiar name across the dinosaur pot, he fell silent and let her be. He let her be for days, the two going without speaking. He watched her as she bought book after book on succulents and fretted over the right soil and whether or not her succulent was getting enough light or water. The light that had come back, the light that he had been killing himself to keep alive in her eyes was replaced with a new one. It was unfamiliar and frightening – and it wasn’t what he had agreed to.

His days at the office grew longer and his time at home grew shorter until it was nonexistent. Eventually, his closet and drawers had emptied and his space in the driveway had been clear for months. But she hardly noticed nor did she particularly mind. It was just her and her favorite little succulent in the little toy dinosaur pot.

“I’m going to keep you alive.” She mumbled, staring at the little plant. She set it aside and walked down the hall, passing by the room she never went into and ignoring the old, crayon dinosaur drawings that sat on the door.

Thorns

When I was a young girl, my mother had an affair. I, no older than ten at the time, discovered the affair, but kept quiet at my mother’s request. For several days, I sat beside my father at the dinner table and ignored his suspicious inquiries about my mother’s whereabouts and the guests she had over while he worked.

After three days of silence, I awoke one morning from a terrible nightmare. A nightmare in which a spirit visited me, chastising me for betraying my father so and bestowing a curse on me. A curse that demanded every time I were to experience a betrayal, a rose’s thorn would rupture my skin somewhere on my body. Only in the event that someone could show me the same devotion my father held for my mother, would all the thorns disappear.

In the sobering morning light, I had forgotten all about the nightmare and readied myself for the day.

The first thorn that tore through my skin poked out from the soft flesh of my belly, still spongy from childhood fat. My mother had made another comment about my weight at breakfast before swapping my cereal for a banana, and I had instantly felt the tiny pinch. Upon my inspection, I found the thorn. It was miniscule, barely visible, and didn’t even cause me an ounce of physical pain. But it brought with it a barrage of emotional agony. I hoped it vain that if the overabundance of flesh on my stomach disappeared, the thorn would go with it. But it did not budge.

My next thorn cropped up on the side of my wrist. I was a teen, barely in high school. A boy I had fallen for grabbed me too tightly, and a thorn burst free from the skin. It pricked his hand and though he released me, I felt no relief. I cried as he fled from me, my fingernails tearing at the thorn to remove it, but it merely cracked my nails.

The next boy I loved was caught in the embrace of another, and from that, thorns sprouted from my scalp. This one caused significantly more pain than the others. I sobbed for days over my freakish appearance, and attempting to hide them with my hair was no good. They only seemed to grow longer and sharper, demanding to be seen. I could hide no longer.

My mother pulled me from school and agreed with me that it would be best I no longer be seen in public. She left our home that night. With my father having passed a year prior, I lived alone in our house, only accompanied by the family maid.

As the years passed, my body seemed to garner new thorns every day, sprouting any time the maid looked my way and cringed. Soon enough my body was covered in prickly brown thorns and rumors whispered around my small town about me. They all talked of the monster with hideous disfigurements that never left its home.

Everything changed when my mother hired him. Beau. A boy maybe a year younger than me to be my tutor, since the last few refused to teach me if they weren’t allowed to see me. I wasn’t sure what Beau looked like, nor did I care in the beginning, but one thing was obvious from the moment he introduced himself through the door of my bedroom: he had a gentle heart.

Every Monday and Wednesday, he would sit outside my bedroom door and teach me all different subjects for three hours. And then he would talk to me for the following two. At first, I didn’t like that he talked to me. I didn’t like his curiosity about my condition or the way he kept trying to make me laugh. He was a nuisance – one that I despised and did my best to ignore. After all, keeping him at arm’s length meant he could never betray me.

And then one day, he had to cancel his tutoring session with me. It wasn’t until he missed our day that I realized I had grown fond of our talks. I spent the time that was supposed to be ours pacing around our room, concerned about his wellbeing.

He returned the following day, apologizing and informing me that it was a family emergency and everything was okay. He confided in me that his father was sick and Beau was his sole caretaker. I realized then how truly good he was; I started talking back to him after that.

Looking back, I think that was the moment I really fell in love with him. And with the love I felt for him, I began to desire being with him. For days I wrestled with whether or not I should finally see him face-to-face. He had asked, once, if we could but I had turned him down at the time without a second thought. Part of me regretted that decision, the rest of me was too terrified of another, much more harsh betrayal.

And then one day, I left my room just as he was walking down the hall towards my room. It was a Tuesday – he shouldn’t have been there. Seeing him for the first time and so suddenly had rooted me to the spot, just as my horrid appearance had frozen him.

Only seconds had passed, but it felt like hours when he finally began to move. With a shock, I realized he was walking toward me. I wanted to run, to hide away, but I couldn’t. Finally, he was in front of me. Slowly he raised his hand and I instinctively flinched, but he brought me no pain. Instead, he traced his fingers down my arm, slipping through the maze of thorns. He slowly weaved his fingers with mine, wincing as he did. I opened my mouth to object as my thorns pricked against his skin, but he raised his other hand to my ruined cheek.

And he smiled.

And in that smile, I could see it all. I could see his kiss, and embrace, and love fixing me. I could see the thorns retracting and disappearing altogether. But I knew that if he betrayed me – when he betrayed me, those thorns would come back tenfold.

So I tore away from him, shouting for him to go. To leave and never come back. I screamed until my voice began to go hoarse, my vision blurring with tears. He stared back at me in pain, his hand bleeding from my thorns tearing at the delicate flesh there, but it barely affected me. All I could see were the faces. The faces of the boys I loved, staring at me in disgust and indifference. My mother staring at me, her face unloving and unaccepting. My breath left me in sharp bursts and inky black tears ran course down my cheeks, but still I screamed for him to leave.

There was a horrible tearing sound, cutting my tears and screams short. And when I looked down, there was a thorn, larger than I had ever seen, sprouting from my chest. But this time, red began to stain the area surrounding my new thorn, and I felt my body growing weak. I looked up at Beau, his sweet face twisted and horrified. I reached for him, longing to be in his arms.

And then I collapsed, dead on the floor in front of the boy I couldn’t let love me.

Author Bio: Brenna Doyle is a 24-year-old Murrieta resident and college student attending CSU San Marcos. She is a literature and writing studies major, aiming for her bachelor’s degree and aspiring to establish a career as an English teacher, though she hopes to be a published author one day as well. She has one daughter and enjoys baking, reading, and writing anything from novels to short stories to poetry in her spare time.

World Heritage Collection

Amani

What Allah Wants

Know your place, habibti¹. We are women, women have their own role. Keep your legs crossed, even when you’re not wearing a dress. Tch, tie your hijab tighter, don’t let your hair be seen. Go wash yourself, do wudhu² before going to the prayer mats. Sit quietly at the back of the room, behind the men. Keep your head down. Pray to Allah for the health of your family. Don’t be selfish. What are you doing? Don’t take your hijab off until you leave the mosque, if you must. Say hello to all of the khalos and khalas³ before playing dolls with the other girls. Don’t play with the boys, they are mean and rough.

I know my place, Mama. I wait until you have your back turned to sit criss-cross, to think about painting and astronauts and dinosaurs when the imam⁴ is talking, to rip my hijab off and run with the boys as soon as I’m out of the mosque doors. I know the girls with their dolls are jealous of me, because they’re good girls who listen to their mamas. I don’t know these people, I don’t talk to strangers. I know my place, Mama.

Be modest. Don’t wear shorts that show your thighs. Don’t wear shorts at all. Don’t dye your hair or get tattoos. Why change what Allah made? Don’t date, that’s not right. Hurry, get out of the pool and put on a towel before your umo⁵ comes over. Come help Mama in the kitchen.

Serve the tea, be a good hostess-in-training. Baba and I are going out, make dinner for yourself and for your brothers when we leave. Your older brother is in charge. Don’t be disrespectful, immodest, loud, assertive. Women have their own role, we are women. Know your place, Habibti.

I know my place, Mama. I’ll cut my shorts to the length I want, I’ll roll them up as soon as

you’re not there. I won’t ask for permission, I’ll ask for forgiveness. I dyed my hair, I have a tattoo, I date boys and girls. Don’t tell Baba, please. Allah wants me to be happy. My umo can treat me like a niece or not look at me. Don’t tell him I said that. I don’t want to make dinner, with you or by myself. I want to play video games with my brothers. I can’t help being disrespectful, immodest, loud, assertive, when you raise me to stop before I even start. I know my place, Mama. Do you know yours?

sweetie; darling
the washing process before prayers
uncles and aunts
Islamic prayer leader
uncle, father’s brother

Author Bio: Amani is a senior at UC San Diego, majoring in Literature – Writing. In addition to studying for tests and writing papers in Spanish and English, she likes to listen to music and hang out with her friends. After graduation, she is planning on teaching high school students how to enjoy the full experience of writing and reading.

Fall and Spooky Horror Stories

Brendan Cox

My Uneventful Life in Retail

We’ve all had that kind of job before. You know? The kind that has us pulling our hair out from boredom, wishing with each passing second that God will finally have mercy on you and drop you dead. No? Okay, so I may be alone on this one, but trust me it’s horrible. There’s nothing quite like the anguish of sitting behind a marble countertop with only the list of ingredients on cereal boxes to keep you occupied; The lines of strange knock-off breakfast bars keeping you company are you stare longingly at the clock hanging above the exit, waiting (oh how you wait)for those metallic hands to click softly by, signaling to you that it’s finally eight o’clock, and you can leave. That’s not even to mention that god awful ticking noise that seems to have appeared within the last week; droning on at odd intervals with no sign of leaving anytime soon, but I’m probably getting ahead of myself.

My name is Alex. I work full time at the Quik-n-Fast, the mini mart nestled right in the middle of the Autumn Meadows apartment complex. I sincerely doubt you’ve ever been there. I’m sure you’ve probably been near it though. If you ever catch yourself driving off of interstate 45 and you see the decrepit old billboard advertising the place, I would recommend you stop by. There’s plenty of things to see down here. The other day I saw an alley cat dragging what I thought to be a human hand into the sewer. I would’ve done something about it, but he and I have been on rather good terms lately. I think with any luck we’ll be friends eventually. The peeling paint on the sides of our innocuously painted mint green apartments are definitely something you should check out on your next visit, and that’s not even to mention our other greenery—or lack thereof. Sometimes I feel my closest friends here are the terraces surrounding the store, their soil dried with ashy remnants of whatever ancient plants used to reside in them.

My cynicism aside, the gig isn’t half as bad as I’m making it out to be. I mean, sure no one ever comes in, and my only regular here at the store is the annoying muffled ticking imitating the sound of several wind-up toys grinding just out of earshot, but besides that hair-pulling insanity the pay isn’t that bad. Plus, the owners of the mart have a stake in Autumn Meadows and let me live in one of the extra units free of charge so long as I continue to work full time. As far as I’m aware I’m the only employee, and I work the whole day 8am-8pm. In fact, now that I think about it, I’ve never even seen another resident here at this complex. I’m surprised the place has even lasted as long as it has considering that it’s been months since someone last bought anything. Besides the occasional visit from a rather suspiciously gaunt and pale gentleman the place is dead. His visits are seemingly at random, but he always comes sporting the same Adidas trackwear to drop off a suspicious brown package in our mail unit. At this point I’m convinced the whole thing is a front for some drug trafficking ring, but hey, so long as the paychecks keep coming, I could care less about what this store is or isn’t selling. Tuition is a bitch.

As far as working actually goes, when I’m not searching for the source of the whirring and clicking, I mop every 15 minutes and restock products. At least I’m supposed to restock products. I haven’t had to restock anything since I got this job. I’m sure most everything on the shelves are expired, but as of yet I have not been enforced to cycle them out. I’m going to see how long I can ride this out. Besides mopping, I spend most of my time inspecting and facing products. Everything we offer is strange and off brand. I would go so far to say that most of the stuff we sell is some variation of a bootlegged repackaging of mainstream products. There’s Fruity O’s, Colonel Crips, Wafer Cakes, you name it.

To distract myself from my intense boredom, I decided that the subject of my attention today would be a bizarre box of granola bars with the branding of Quaver Oaks. Its box was covered with a variety of multicolored bears in tutus waving wands at one another under a large tree. I have no idea what a quaver is, and its imitation is rather shameless (Side-note: I’ve just looked it up, and I guess it’s the disgusting British way of referring to a quarter-note in music notation. Considering that the packaging had nothing to do with music, this has left me with many more questions than answers). Needless to say, this was as exciting as the day was going to get. As I began to question my sanity for concerning myself with the logical consistency of off brand cereal, I heard a voice.

“Hey Alex”, came a deep mumble from behind me. A large man covered head to toe in hair stood in the doorway. When I say that he was covered head to toe, I mean it quite literally. The only area not distinctly showing a thick matting of brown fur was the area of his body covered by khaki shorts and a Hawaiian button-up. He lifted a blunt up to his dreadlock covered face and parted his hair just enough so I could see his hominoid complexion from underneath.

“Hey Ed”, I responded, unsurprised to see my Sasquatch roommate leaning against the foggy glass doors of the Quick-n-Fast.

“It looks like you’re hard at work”, he said with a yawn before taking another drag from his roll.

“You too. I can hardly believe you’re out from your room, even less from out of the apartment. You reached enlightenment yet?”

“I’m working on it”, he responded, clearly missing my sarcasm, “It’s a process, little dude.” He eyed the box of inaccurately titled cereal I had in my hands. “I see it’s been a rough day for you, huh?”

I quickly put the box back where it belonged with a tinge of embarrassment. “You’re acting like you have something better to do?”

“I do”, he responded rather matter-of-factly, “You should really drop in to my office for a cleansing, my man.”

Ed’s “office” was really just his bedroom. To tell you the truth, I’ve never even been in there. He’s invited me several times, to which I always decline. I wouldn’t consider myself the most straight-laced person, but I don’t think there’s a day that I’d be ready to try whatever he’s got in there. I can only imagine the hippy paraphernalia lining the walls, his gaudy bead curtain, and stray bongs that would help develop his professional atmosphere. I think he could sense my dramatic eye roll from under his thick canopy of hair.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, dude. My cleansing seshes are renowned the world over for their regenerative healing properties.”

“That’s assuming I need healing.”

He gave me a raised eyebrow as he walked into the store, “Suit yourself. I just know that I’m not the one talking to boxes in my free time.” Talking to boxes? Was I really thinking that entire thing out loud? Shit. This day really was getting to me. Ed reached for the box of granola bars and gave the seal on top a little tug. A multitude of randow wrapped bars fell into his giant hand before he unwrapped one and promptly set it into his mouth.

“Really, man?”, I said with a sigh, “You know my boss watches inventory like a hawk. Just because this place is probably a money laundering scheme does not make it okay for you to just take whatever you want. There are repercussions to— Ed? Ed, you okay, buddy?” But Ed wasn’t listening. Somewhere in the middle of my ranting he had droned out and his gaze was transfixed to a dark corner to the left of my cashier’s counter.

“There’s some seriously weird vibes coming from over there, dude.”, he said, his voice came out like it was traversing molasses.

“Huh?”, I turned around and inspected the corner before realizing the noise had returned, “Oh. You mean the clicking? Yeah he’s been here for a while now. It’s almost been long enough that I’ve just about given him a name. What do you think of Jerry? I think he’s got a real ‘Jerry’ quality to him.” But Ed was still transfixed on the corner, his eyes from under his dreads seemed to be fixed to a dark section of gaudy cyan tile. It was at this point that I had realized I could finally discern a general direction that the ticking was emanating from, and I followed Ed’s gaze. He started slowly walking towards the corner, each step shaking the racks of chips and candy around him. Afraid he was going to force me to actually have to clean for once, I ran up and grabbed his arm, “Hey Ed, are you okay?” This seemed to do the trick and he shook his head, clearing his bizarre trance.

“Sorry about that”, he mumbled as he came to, “I must be a little too sober.” He pulled out another roll and lit it before quickly inhaling.

“What’s your deal with that corner over there? Do you not like the name Jerry?”

He squinted at the corner again before motioning his index finger at it, “Those couple tiles over there are slightly loose. Wait who’s Jerry?”

“The ticking noise…”, I said trailing off, avoiding his gaze out of slight embarrassment.

“Bro. I dig that name.”, he said with an affirming hand on my shoulder, “We should probably check out what Jerry is doing to be causing all these wack vibes around here.”

Ed and I walked to the corner. I knelt down and examined the tiles, and noticed that indeed, the tiles were loose. I have no idea how I had missed that through all my inspections to find the noise earlier. As I reached for the tiles, the clearly audible ticking suddenly ceased. Ed and I were left in relative silence, only accompanied by the hum of the bulbs above us. We looked at one another, exchanging confused glances. I returned my eyes to the croner and gripped the edge of one of the tiles and lifted to reveal a hole roughly large enough for a person to fit down into. We peered into the opening, and with the help of the store’s fluorescent light fixtures, were just barely able to make out the bottom of the hole.

It was carved directly into the foundation of the building and I could make out dirt on the bottom about 10 feet down. On both the left and right I could see what appeared to be entrances to tunnels that seemed to go further into the earth around the complex, but the darkness kept me from interpreting any other characteristics about it. The whole thing looked rudimentary. It seemed like someone had spent years with a plastic spoon carving their way through dirt and cement with some unclear purpose.

“Hey, Alex”, I heard Ed say as he motioned to the bottom of the pit, “Looks like you’re going to have to think of quite a few more names.” I peered down at what he was referring to, and to my surprise, I was met with the tracks of hundreds of tiny footprints. Each was perfectly rectangular and couldn’t have been more than an inch long.

I looked to Ed, “Well, I guess this is a thing.”, and I started to return the tiles back to their spot over the hole.

“Wait, little dude.”, Ed put his hand on my shoulder, “There is undoubtedly a myriad of adventures and self-advancing experiences down this hole. By choosing to put that tile back, you are denying yourself the destiny chosen for you by Jerry.”

I squinted deeply at him, letting it really sink in how much I thought what he just said was bullshit. “Ed”, I said, “I know I might have been crazy enough to name the this noise, but I don’t think I’m crazy enough to go spelunking into some random hole that we just discovered under my place of work.” He nodded at me slowly like he was starting to interpret the reality of the situation. “Furthermore, I think it would probably be wisest to contact property management to get this hole filled as soon—.” Ed was in the hole. I hadn’t even noticed him jump down.

“Hey I can fit down here!”, he called up.

I looked down at him in disappointment, “Really?” Ed seemed unaffected by my judgement as he grabbed another granola bar from his pocket and began eating it.

“Y’know”, he said between munches, “These things are kind of stale.” He then started crawling his way down the left-side cavern and I realized that I had no choice in the matter. At the very least maybe I could find and put an end to the noise which had caused me so much mild-annoyance over the past week. I quickly grabbed the penlight I kept underneath the cash register and slid down to join him in his descent.

The Heart of the Mountain

The thing about Darian was that he had very little tolerance for just about anything.

“God, it’s a fucking icebox out here. I still have no idea why you insisted I come with you on this one, Frank.”

“ Nineteen years and still complaining about the cold. Isn’t that the least bit embarrassing?”, I retorted. He spat and pulled his checkered wool cap firmly around his dark brown hair.

“I’ll stop complaining when the parks department decides to start paying their rangers decently.”, he gruffed as he glared at me, his gray eyes standing uniform with the seemingly endless array of snow covered pine trees on the horizon. The storm this weekend was much rougher than it usually was this time of year on Roosevelt’s Peak and the weight of the powder pushing against our legs as we trudged up the side of the mountain served as a constant reminder.

“Come on, Darian, we’re almost there. The radio station can’t be further than a mile up”, I motioned towards a large cluster of trees situated on the cliff side in front of us, it’s rocky complexion jutting out into the dim sky like a knife. “Plus your eye is way more experienced with traces of foul play than mine. From what the manager of the station said it’s been about 36 hours since he lost communication with them. It’s probably nothing but the shitty weather, but you can never be too careful.” I gave a shrug to him and we continued forward on our trek up the mountain.

It took us about forty-five minutes of maneuvering through a mix of densely packed snow and layers of fresh down before we made it to the cliff face. It loomed over us casting an evil shadow over an already overcast mountain. I walked up to the side of the rocks and inspected the surrounding area. Approaching a fairly sized boulder, I found the stretch of cable we had mounted to the side of the cliff from previous expeditions. It certainly wasn’t ideal, especially with the weather as it was, but with an conveniently timed landslide blocking the only road up to the station, it was better than walking through miles of dense wilderness.

“Couldn’t have picked a better day to lose contact with the world?”, Darian snyded as he fumbled with his harness.

“Tell me about it. I’m just hoping that losing out on a couple days of shitty rock music is the worst thing that this mountain’ll have to bear witness to”. I slipped into my own harness and pulled the straps tight around my abdomen; It’s cloth constricting my leg like a predatory snake luring me into a false sense of safety. I clipped my harness onto the mountain’s cable and tossed a piece of rope Darian’s way so that we could tie ourselves together for the ascent. As he attached the line to himself I noticed a brief glint of metal swinging from around his neck: a brushed gold locket, It was clearly worn from touch, a detail that was bizarre to distinguish with the light as unclear as it were. He looked up at me as I studied his somewhat out of place jewelry, and he quickly grabbed at it and stuffed it into his puffy beige overcoat.

“Please”, he sighed, “I don’t want to talk about it”.

I looked at him with a hint of concern across my face, “Wearing that thing isn’t going to help you forget, man”.

“I don’t remember asking your opinion, Frank”, Damian said curtly. He walked past me, averting my gaze as he attached his own harness to the mountain’s side. Damian pulled off his padded wool gloves and threw on a pair of heavy duty climbing gloves before setting his finger to the stone and beginning his ascent.

As we climbed I thanked this bizarre formation of rock for poking out as awkwardly as it did. It’s orientation had prevented a large amount of snow from covering the rocks, yet that’s not to say I felt safe. Each grasp on a new ledge accompanied by a howling gust of wind felt like it was judgement being passed from God; As if one wrong movement would prompt him to cast me from the heavens. I struggled to keep my legs and fingers from trembling. My face felt hot with adrenaline coursing through my veins, and as I peered out over the seemingly infinite void of waving pine trees, the race of my heart only intensified.

We had made it approximately three quarters of the way to the top of the cliff. I pushed my legs to move and motioned my arm to grab the next rock. As I placed my hand the sudden sensation of dampness jittered through my fingers and I felt a sickening feeling filter through my body. My fingers grasped but I felt nothing in my palm. Before my mind could even understand what was happening, I felt my stomach rise in my gut. An entombing gust of frost knocked me from my side and I knew that I was going to die.

I felt a solid thud against my back and I lay there looking to the overhanging rock above me. I watched the sky for a few seconds wondering why darkness hadn’t yet overtaken me before I realized I wasn’t dead at all. I heard an exasperated panting to my left and sat up. I was sitting on a rather narrow ledge of rock situated about 15 feet diagonally from where I had fallen with Darien there next to me shaking and looking terribly exhausted. His hand was clamped so tightly to the rope connecting us that I wasn’t sure if he could release his grip.

“Promise me that you won’t make me save your ass again”, he gasped between ragged breaths.

I looked at him in disbelief, “See that’s one reason for bringing you along”. I smiled shakily at him, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, Darian smiled back.

Author Bio: Brendan Cox is currently a third-year student at CSUSM pursuing his degree in Literature and Writing Studies. While creative writing hadn’t been his preferred area of the degree, he has deeply grown to love it. His disillusionment with critical analysis within the study pressed him to find interest in other facets of his study. He has always had a passion for writing horror, and he believes that reflects in his writing. When he’s not writing he loves playing music and expressing himself in any other creative area he can get my hands on.