Category: Issue 2 (Spring 2023)

Avarium

     Benjamin sat behind his typewriter. He stacked paper into a neat pile, tapped it on the desk, inserted, stretched his arms to top of roller coaster proportions, yawned like a morose zoo lion making his obligatory movement for the day, put his right index to j, his left index to f, and settled in to do the work.

     But he was parched.

     He put the kettle on. Pacing, he let some light through. After all, he had scintillating stories to write, Dickensian triumphs where hope prevailed, intricacies of human neurosis explored with Nabokovian eloquence.

     He frowned.

     Perhaps the mood called for the psychological gloom Henry James created. He closed the curtains.

     Which reminded him. He tightened several screws on his typewriter, tapping the paper again, hopefully having resolved the rattle that kept him from writing yesterday. He sat with his tea. Frowned.

     He decided he was his own man. Benjamin drew the blinds half way again, leaving a little hope in the gloomy room, perfectly analogous to what he wished to accomplish with his own writing. Smug smiles for our genius. 

     Left index f. Right index j. Breathe.

     One demerit for arrogance.

     Had Katie called yet? Worry creased his brow. On the fire escape, a pigeon pecked at the birdfeeder. Its head struck down. He thought of keys hammering letters when it pecked. He pulled the lever and settled back in. The lever reminded him of the bolt action on his father’s M-14. The one that was really in a war, with the scratches and chips to prove it. Those thoughts were not conducive to productive writing, however. Benjamin thought again of birds.

     That was it. He’d write about birds.

     A period piece? Thematically, what can you represent with birds you can’t with humans. They can fly, obviously.  They sing. The boys are prettier a lot of the time, that’s different. There’s vultures and hummingbirds and whole groups they call murders.

     Ahhh. 

     He found it. The muse descended. His muse would now be a parrot, leaning over to squawk all avant garde in his ear. Yes, a parrot that spoke Latin! Put it in the story. What’s that Musilio? The side without the hearing aid please.

     He typed: Melvin Andrews ran an aviarium on the corner of Juniper and 13th.

     Not quite.

     He looked up avarium. In a dictionary. No internet here. Thus, thusly, thusilio, the typewriter. It prevented distraction. Benjamin, afterall, was a professional.

     Avarium was a no go. Aviary. That would do. His muse squawked consent.

     Again: Melvin inherited an old aviary from his grandfather. Where wings once flapped, spiders dwelled. The stones were damp, moldy.

     Haunted aviaries wouldn’t do.

     Once more, with some depth for our poor Melvin: Melvin stood at his mother’s grave, destitute of meaning now. He looked up to the sky, its sparse clouds, infinite stove flame blue, he questioned the audacity of an existence where such a pristine day could arise in his sorrow. With chin high, he asked the universe, God, whoever was tuned in at the moment, Why? Why? Why? A splat of bird shit hit his chin. Some cultures, according to his mother, believed this was good luck.

     Benjamin laughed at his wit. He did that often. A giggling Narcissus before a funhouse mirror. He stared at the words a while, scrunching his nose, then ripped the paper from the typewriter and threw the crumpled ball across the room. It landed at the foot of a mountain of paper balls beside an empty waste basket.

     He paced.

     Swept a little. To get his mind working. 

     Washed the dishes and read the scene from Blood Meridian where the Comanches rained down on the kid. For inspiration.

     Sat. Placed his left index on f, his right on j. Sighed. A choked little sob rattled up his throat.

What Remains

 I hear them through the night. The beams above me creak and groan like moored vessels. I shut my eyes and squeeze until colors blossom in the darkness. Again I lie festering in cold piss until dawn. 

     My gruel’s bland as the hills I’ve grown accustomed to. I eat a spoonful and head out. The Italian who described hell as a frozen wasteland knew more than he’s given credit for. Harsh winter greets my cheeks with fangs and I lower my eyes. Goody Hutchinson and Rebecca Nurse are waiting. They scream and feign convulsions in the bank as I pass. When I’m far enough I hear cackles. It’s funny, if you could hear them you’d probably think of witches.

     At the meeting house-God only knows why we haven’t burned it from our memory-I move my lips and fall to my knees when it’s time. Their eyes follow me. I catch their murmurs when I cross a threshold. A few still greet me at least, most with just nods. These days my face has forgotten its smile. I’m bleak as the January fields and my heart is just as frigid.      

     I had a lover for a time. His name was Jason. He was a fine man, unconcerned with the town’s gossip. At least, for a time. I thought the dark clouds over my life had finally parted. They ruined that too. Not the town’s people, though they tried.

     It was them.

     Jason woke in pain one morning after we’d made love. The bedding was spotted burgundy. Small punctures covered his back. Blood soaked my hands, and although I pleaded with all the might I could muster-a pathetic amount if I’m honest-his heart had hardened against me. He inquired of the townsfolk and they told him what we’d done. They said I tried to imitate the devil’s mark. Elizabeth Hubbard, sowing discord again. Ha! Sowing discord into the flesh of the only man that ever came close to loving me.

     I’m ashamed to say I tried harder to convince the people in the meeting house that I was under the devil’s affliction than I did to convince Jason to stay.

    Mary Walcott assured me it’s only guilt. She heard them for a time, she says. So did Abigail. I believed Abigail. “Hallucinations,” Mary calls them. Tell me, can you converse with hallucinations? Do I imagine the rope marks on my throat? These scars? Am I imagining the rotting smell that wafts through my room when I hear them?

     I’ve talked to a few of the others. Sarah, Mercy, Betty Parish. She was so young. Susceptible to our foolishness. She’s married now. A few towns away, happy. I’m happy for her. Abigail walked into the woods one day and never returned. I saw her pale face at the edge of the forest a month later. She was nude, pale as a rabbit’s ass. When I saw she’d finally put on some weight I knew she was no longer with us.

     I suppose I’m happy for her as well.

     Which hell is worse, what awaits those who take their own lives, or the continuous torment of your past sins paraded before you? I’ve tried to pray. No words come. I wonder whether God even hears. How many women and men did we send swinging from the ends of ropes? I regret I’ve been too cowardly to tie my own.

      This is what my life has become. While the people of Salem go on as if nothing happened.

     I look down while I walk through the village and hear the syllables of my name stretched in a dirge. 

     El-iz-a-beth.

    Last week I noticed movement from the pile of boulders behind the Miller’s barn. I walked a little closer. Rocks rolled to the dirt as the pile shifted, a withered hand reached through the stones and grasped at the sky. Giles Corey has joined my procession. 

     The path to the meeting house is lined with the accused, writhing and pointing my way with rotting fingers. Red rings are burnt into their purple and bloated necks from where they hanged. Giles is flat and deformed. Abigail stands in the distance. Somber as ever. 

     Last night the beams squeaked and I couldn’t resist. I looked. I saw hanging feet, swarming with flies and spinning above me like an infant’s mobile set up by devils. The terror of what I’d heard each night clogged my throat and stifled my screams. Goody Parker’s face spun into view with a smile as happy as a doll’s and eyes black as buttons.

     Tomorrow I’ll go to Goody Miller’s and borrow some rope.

Author Bio

Chris Bonner is a senior at Cal State San Marcos. He lives in San Diego with his girlfriend, daughters, and horde of feral cats. He enjoys unsettling people with words and perpetually failing at basketball.

The Morning Paper

Once a week–no, sometimes twice–the old-man gets to hear the gentle thump on his door.

Even Winny, a black-coated blue-eyed cat, finds a pep in her step and perks up at the sound of it. For a while, it would arrive as soon as the little ding for his coffee went off to let him know it was done brewing. It no longer arrives at the same time every week anymore, though this doesn’t bother him. He enjoys the lack of consistency. In his old age, he believes consistency will lead to his inevitable death. That was something his wife Charlotte believed and then instilled in him. Charlotte was rather superstitious. Her family was involved in the occult while she was growing up. She told him early in their relationship that she didn’t like to speak about her childhood, so he never asked. He knew her as the woman she was, and that was good enough for him.

The paper hasn’t arrived yet this morning, a stroke of luck. It gives him time to brew coffee and head to the store. He grabs two mugs from the cabinet—a dark translucent mug with some engravings on it and a simplistic white mug with a small drawing of a man fishing into a bucket. He fills them to the brim with hot water to keep warm while he’s away.

The old-man’s hobbled home is an old fisherman’s supply shop on the water. The front end remains that of the fisherman’s shop, the back end is what he and Charlotte made into a home. A small kitchen, and a bedroom that matches its size. The kitchen is old but held together well and surrounded by windows, along with a backdoor view of the misty endless sea.

There was once a rocky wooden bridge that connected it to town, but that has long since crumbled into the sea. The old-man takes a small raft into town now. He doesn’t recall when it crumbled. He believes it was sometime after Charlotte passed, it could have been slightly before, but he didn’t notice.

Winny lets out a yawn and a stretch as she lifts herself from the counter. She rubs her face on the register before hopping off and making her way to the door. Winny paws at it three times before she stops and stares at the old-man, waiting for him to open it.

As soon as the old-man and Charlotte moved in, Winny appointed herself the shopkeeper, making a home for herself on the counter near the register. She must do a great job because the register is always full of new bills and change. The old-man doesn’t question it. He only ever takes out just enough cash for the groceries and tip. Before leaving, he puts on his newsie cap, a brown and very well-worn jacket, and then he makes his way out.

Sitting in the raft with Winny on his lap, with the coolness of the ocean breeze hitting his pale and wrinkled face, gives him a feeling of rejuvenation. The salt from the ocean water sits in his beard, giving the hairs a curl. Along the way, he sees the giant wooden stakes piercing out of the sea; Charlotte would say they were the fangs of a monster that dwelled beneath them.

When Charlotte’s condition worsened, she liked to go deep out to sea, so far out that they could no longer view their home or the town. When they got that far out, she would ask the old-man “Can you hold me?” He’d look into her emerald eyes, still full of life even when nearing the end, “I only ever stop because you ask,” wrapping her in his arms and blanket, each time holding her like it would be the last.

The old-man docks at the edge of the broken bridge. Thankfully for him, the ladder is still intact. As the years pass and the strength he once took so much pride in fades, he wonders if there will be a day sometime soon when he can no longer pull himself up the ladder. That day is not today, so he pulls himself up with Winny on his shoulder. Winny hops off onto her own adventure while he embarks on his way into town.

They made plans to leave the big city as soon as she got her diagnosis. The timing was oddly perfect because that same big city was about to implode on itself. Not exactly the greatest place to spend your final moments. While they were scouring for an escape, the matured man remembered a fishing town his father would take him to when he was a spry boy and hair wouldn’t be on his face for years.

They packed up the most important parts of their lives and left the rest as they drove to the small fishing town. They didn’t know what would await them, but they were okay as long as they were doing it together.

The town was far off into the coast and had a constant mist settled. Nothing about it had changed since he was a boy. Every building still had a sandy-wooden exterior. None of the buildings had become dilapidated from the years and storms that made their way. Charlotte made a comment that didn’t quite register with the matured man. “It reminds me of my childhood,” she said.

Throughout his stay, the mist has grown. With each passing month, it becomes thicker and heavier, so much so that even those with 20/20 vision cannot see further than twenty feet ahead. Which wouldn’t be much of a problem for the old-man, as he’s lived here for years at this point and should know where everything is, but the buildings in the town seem to shift each time he comes in for a visit. Older buildings are replaced with ones that have a fresh coat of paint, new ones are replaced with the old ones again. No longer are they over here, they’re over there. A labyrinth of a town that has a foothold in the past, present, and future. Remaining a forever constant.

Unlike any other building in the town, the grocery store has a foothold as far as location is concerned. The aesthetics and products sold, on the other hand, are a revolving door. At times, neon lights shine like a beacon to the old-man, and other times it just has a wooden sign with an arrow directed to the store. Sometimes they have cool ranch Doritos and sometimes they only have nacho. That’s always a disappointment for the old-man, he quite enjoys cool ranch.

He enters and is blinded by a luminescent light that coats everything. Meanwhile, a soft jazz tune plays over the radio. This process is always quick and efficient. He grabs some cans of soup, a jug of water, three apples, four oranges, and luckily for him, a bag of cool ranch Doritos. He leaves exact change on the counter and a couple of extra dollars for a tip.

With each step leaving the store and making his way through town, he can hear the shifting of it all. Each new piece and building block is being replaced and reimagined and just waiting for his return. He carefully levers down each one of his groceries and climbs down the ladder. Once he steps onto the small boat, he hears a gentle “meow” and Winny hops down into his arms.

As he makes his way back home, off in the distance beyond the mist and below the water, he can hear the calling siren song. It reminds him of Charlotte and puts him at ease on his journey back. Once again, he makes his way up the ladder, holding onto the bags in his hands and biting onto them with his teeth. His left-hand slips a bit, but his right holds on strong. He murmurs to himself, “Maybe next time,” as a vision of falling into the cold blue water, where only silence and peace may envelop him in the arms of Charlotte, runs through his mind. This thought puts him at ease.

Upon entering, Winny immediately returns to the counter and nuzzles up to the register. The old-man gives her a few pats and listens to her purr. “Good girl, good girl.” Then he returns to his home just in time to hear the ding of the coffee and the gentle thump. The old-man opens the door and finds no one waiting for him, just the morning paper at his feet, but off in the distance he can hear a jaunty whistle slowly disappear into the endless mist that surrounds him. A wrinkled smile forms on his face and he grabs the paper and closes the door behind him. Before he can read it, he dumps the hot water from the mugs and fills each one with the freshly brewed pot. His, as always, is black, and Charlotte’s has an inch of cream and sugar. Finally he sits, taking small sips, savoring each moment. He opens the paper and reads the events of the past, present, and future of a world that no longer matters to him.

Author Bio

Harrison Peck is a reader, traveler, coffee drinker, coffee maker, donut dunker extraordinaire, and most of all, a writer. He’s from SLC, UT. However, at the moment, he finds himself in the great state of Washington as a senior attending WSU. When the itch rises again, he’ll probably be back on the road, traveling out and about gaining inspiration for his stories.

Sacrilegious

I don’t know when they began looking at me like a god.

Maybe it was the night after I fed them my ideas on a warm, sugar coated spoon. Maybe it took a lot longer than I hoped. But I know I saw something shift, right there in their eyes after I led them out into the woods that night. I know they stopped looking at me as something purely human. I stood before them, white dress billowing in a bitter Autumn wind, moonlight casting me in soft light, my arms covered in dark, warm blood, the girl lying dead at my feet. Some may have walked into those woods that night and stumbled across that scene and shrieked in horror. They would have called me a monster, a murderer, a devil.

And they would have been right. But the people standing before me then had this light in their eyes. A light like the end of a very long tunnel. A light like I was the answer to all their prayers. Who was the one who coined that phrase, about one man’s god being another one’s devil?

When they got down on their knees and whispered my name like it was something hallowed I threw my head back and laughed.

Call it a cult, call me deranged, call them out of their fucking minds for believing I’m anything other than what I am. I call it something else.

A very long time ago I learned that we all worship something. I simply decided I wanted to be at the other end of that devotion. And maybe that makes me a villain, but hell, I’m hardly the first to play god.

—

Sunlight poured in through the windows of the cathedral. Heads were bowed, hands were clasped together, lips muttered silent prayers. The room was on its knees. Not me, though. My eyes were wide open and I was in complete awe that something so airy as faith could bring an entire room full of people to their knees. When my mother saw me in that state she pinched my arm and I quickly bowed my head with the rest of them. I kept my eyes open though, and a single, unforgiving thought made its way into my head and it still sits there to this day.

I want to be worshiped.

Some days I crept quietly into that old building long after everyone had gone. I would sit there until the sun fell low in the sky and caught the stained glass window, the colors all lit up from within like someone had set fire to them.

—

I remember the first time my mom ever told me about god. She sat delicately on the edge of my bed and she told me about a light in the darkness, about a sea torn down the middle, about suffering and sacrifices and saints, about a golden palace in the clouds, and fire and brimstone beneath the ground.

I think part of me always thought of it as another bedtime story, even though she spoke with such conviction, even though her words were desperate and heavy. I think part of me has always felt sorry for her. I was too young to name the pity for what it was, but it’s easy for me to fold my tongue around the truth now that I’m older.

The thing about people is they all need something to worship, something to pray to,
to devote themselves to in the name of something painfully more divine. And the truth is, most people want nothing more desperately than they want to believe that there is more than darkness at the end of it all.

The thing I realized for myself is on the flip side of that coin. We can get our hands on so little in this life, and we’ll never know if there’s more after this until it’s too late. The entirety of our existence is so miniscule in the face of history and eternity. We will touch the smallest, most insignificant sliver of everything that has been, and will be. If we want to be remembered we have to get our hands dirty. If we want to be revered we have to get them bloody.

I was 13 when my mother first took me to church with her. It was right after my father left us. I think she was looking for something else to carry her grief for her, to promise her that there will be more after this one shit life, to promise her that one day that hole in her chest will be filled in and forgotten. I remember her waking me unceremoniously on a Sunday morning and giving me a scratchy blue dress. We were 20 minutes late and we slid awkwardly into the very back row. I only remember a few things from that day – that light in the stained glass windows, that moment of the room being on its knees, and thinking god is on the right end of history. I remember thinking there’s something beautiful about damning a thing and then offering it the means to salvation – becoming both a poison and the antidote.

—

It took me a good long while but I eventually figured out how to pick out the kind of person who would follow me, who would look at me like I was a god. I was a little disappointed with how easy it was. First to get them close enough to whisper my ideas in their ears, and then to make them believe them.

I clasped their shaking hands in my own, and told them about cities in the clouds, about fire and brimstone and swarms of locusts blotting out the sun, about golden hills and sapphire seas. I simply wrote my name where god’s would be.

I promised them peace. I promised them pain.

And when they were filled with equal parts hope and dread, I whispered in their ears what they needed to do to earn one and escape the other. I fed them honey from the tips of my fingers. I made them bleed and kissed their wounds.

I told them that I loved them. And I meant it.

—

I led them out into the cold, their bare feet padding against the frozen ground. The moon was full in the dark sky when I drew them into the woods that night. I wore a thin white dress and my teeth chattered against the cold. I could hear the girl tearing clumsily into the trees ahead of us. I almost felt sorry for what was coming for her. Almost, but not enough to stop it when my entire life had been building to that very moment since that first Sunday morning.

With a single word my followers went tearing into the woods after her, the quiet night suddenly full of desperate howling and starved cries, carnal and beastly, and dreadfully, beautifully human. I could hear the girl racing through the trees, could imagine her own white gown shredded and covered in filth, could imagine her stumbling blindly beneath the canopy of evergreens as the cries get closer, and her own grow more wretched.

When they caught her she didn’t even scream. Her body was limp as they carried her to a sorry imitation of an altar I had them build that afternoon. I stood silently, holding a silver dagger tightly to my chest, drunk on the scene unfolding before me. All that matters, all that will ever matter is that they did this simply because I asked them to. The words I spit out next meant nothing, they were hollow, dead – words about innocence and sin and sacrifice. But the people nodded along and looked up at me with those bright eyes. The girl’s own eyes were dark as I lifted the dagger up, and the only thing she said before I plunged it into her chest was

Why?

They got down on their knees and I threw my head back and laughed.

I was still laughing when the sirens and lights ignited the clearing in sound and color and plumes of dust. I brought my bloodstained hands to my chest and laughed and laughed as my followers shrieked and scattered into the darkness beyond the trees, laughing as they raised their guns and fired, and I crumpled beside the girl’s still-warm body, laughing until my lungs were drowned in blood, and I drew my final, unsteady breath.

And I died, like everyone before me, and every one to follow.

Author Bio

Kaila is a senior at Cal State San Marcos, and she is studying literature and linguistics. She lives in Carlsbad with her dog and a couple dozen houseplants. Kaila loves horror movies and good books, and perpetually has a stack of novels to read next that never seems to grow shorter.

Thor Whispers to Icarus on a Winter’s Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Author Bio

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

A Little Misunderstanding

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

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

The Flower That Always Wept

In a peaceful park, full of greenery and an abundance of colors ranging from red to orange to yellow. The parents are sitting on the picnic blankets near the blue lake. The children run around playing soccer, frisbee, or creating flower crowns. The children always love to go for the geraniums to compliment the cosmos. Then there is me, the lonely blue flower that grows near the lake. No children wish to come admire me and choose me for their pretty crowns. As I look from afar I grow jealous and yet again I close up to weep.

The next day I open up to bask in the gleaming sun. “Ah, it’s another cool day at the park”, I think to myself. I then turn around to see the children playing and the adults laughing, but it is weird. I do not see any reason to be happy today. Yes the sun is warm, but all I see is dullness. It is weird how everything is so colorful, but all I see is dullness in the air. As I am about to close up again, I notice a shadow come over me and hear, “David come look at this blue flower! Isn’t it so pretty?”. I look up and see a little brunette girl, and then let the words sink into me. All of a sudden I started to notice that the sun would never be as bright as this little girl’s smile.

I have come to learn that the little brunette girl’s name is “Lucy”. She would come and visit me often and play around me. I felt odd knowing I was getting such attention, but at the same time I was happy to finally get noticed. Lucy would often talk to me about how pretty I was and how I should shine my bright blue colors out to the world, but every time I looked in the reflection of the lake I would only see black and white. As time went on Lucy would bring me pretty rocks and small twigs to complement my shade. I started to have some confidence in myself and slowly started to feel myself grow stronger. I was so unaware of what was going on around me that I didn’t even notice how weak little Lucy’s demeanor got.

It has now been a week since little Lucy visited me. I was starting to get worried that she got sick and tired of me and decided to turn her back towards me. It is another hot summer day here at the park. The children are running around doing the same thing like it is their routine that they must do. I am slowly starting to find it enjoyable to look at my surroundings. I can finally see colors because of Lucy showing me more to life. I turn to look at my reflection and notice how blue the water is and how my wilted self became fuller with color. Then I noticed a shadow behind me, but it wasn’t Lucy, instead it was David. I knew something bad happened because Lucy was no longer with him. I received the unfortunate news of Lucy losing the battle to her illness. After receiving such news I close up and weep again.

My world has yet again lost its colors. Who will love me now that Lucy is not here with me. I needed her to be here to know I exist, to spend time with me, to tell me I am important. What is the point of being here now that she isn’t in this world breathing and running with the other children. I turn to look at the children playing and realize that the world has lost its color. It is futile to escape the situation I am in. I cannot escape this pain and loneliness I feel. Night has fallen, and I yet again close up and weep until I fall asleep.

I had a dream about Lucy last night. I was in a meadow. It was me and the green grass surrounding me. The area was so pretty and the sun was so bright. For once I felt the nice warm feeling again. I turn to see a little girl in front of me. I could not see her face due to how bright it was, but her voice sounded just like Lucy’s. I felt tears well up in my non-existent eyes, but before I could say anything to her she interrupted. “Why are you losing your beautiful color, my cute little flower? You were so full of life when I was around, and now you look weak just like how I was. You have such a long life to live. I do not wish for you to live it mourning me and thinking negative thoughts about yourself and others.” As she was speaking to me I did not notice the tears that were falling. Then I feel her hands touch my petals and wipe the tears with her thumbs. She lifted my head and I was finally able to see her bright smile one last time. Before I woke she spoke one last sentence to me, “Please witness the world I was not able to
explore fully!”

I burst awake like my soul left my body, but then got dragged back in. I looked around and it was the normal park with children, but something was different. Everything looked so colorful…so vibrant. For once I didn’t feel like I was envious of others. I felt at peace with myself. I looked to see the children playing and I felt joy just by watching them. I didn’t care if they came to visit me or not, I was just enjoying life at the moment. I turned around to look into the bright blue lake and saw myself. I looked beautiful and full of color. I was no longer wilting, but thriving. I admired the scenery that was at hand until nightfall and decided to close up to the night, finally feeling comfortable with myself.

Author Bio

Mae Salah is a Literature and writing major along with an education minor at California State University San Marcos. She enjoys reading, walking, and writing in her free time. She enjoys cold days where she can snuggle up in blankets and have a good read or watch T.V. She also loves to try new things and food whenever she gets the chance.

Wrath

Gareth crested the hill and stepped onto the rock-strewn ledge overlooking the valley far below. His legs shook from the effort of the long climb, but he ignored these minor discomforts. Today rage propelled him. Abornial stood before him, dressed in a fine silk tunic, smug smile plastered across his face.

“Gareth,” he said in greeting.

Gareth said nothing, he simply stood there staring.

“O come now; we both know what we’re here to do,” Abornial said. “You might as well greet me. Your silence does nothing to intimidate me.”

“I have no desire to banter with a snake like you,” Gareth responded. “Your visage disgusts my eyes. I will not have your name foul my mouth.”

Abornial wandered back and forth upon the plateau, making a show of his complete disinterest.

“Gareth my boy, drop that self-righteous act!” Abornial said. “You don’t have to play the hero with me. I know she was just a warm body to fill your bed at night.”

Gareth seethed with quiet anger at these words. “I loved her, and she loved me,” his only response.

“Interesting…I was not aware that whores could feel love, and she was a whore Gareth, this we both know.”

Gareth’s blade leaped from its scabbard as he swung in a vicious arc for Abornial’s throat. Abornial’s own sword came up to parry the attack and in a swift motion he shoved Gareth back. Gareth instantly regained his footing and charged in for an underhanded blow attempting to open Abornial from hip to shoulder. Abornial danced out of the path of the blade and lashed out. The impact of the blow on his blade shook Gareth’s bones to their core. Abornial liked to play the part of foppish nobleman, but beneath his eccentric attire was a body corded with thick slabs of muscle. The two warriors clashed steel once, then twice more, before both moving back to assess their opponent.

“This is where you die Abornial! Believe me when I tell you that you shall never walk down this mountaintop. I will leave your body here exposed to the elements.” 

Abornial said, “You want me to apologize? Beg for your mercy? For killing some wretched whore?! Look, Gareth, I…”

He lunged in for a quick thrust, intending to skewer Gareth on the tip of his blade before he could react. But Gareth sidestepped the thrust and slammed the pommel of his sword into the murderer’s face. Abornial’s nose exploded in a shower of crimson.

            “I will leave you here,” Gareth said. “My sword driven through your wasting body and into this very earth we stand upon. People from all over the ten kingdoms will speak of my wrath here. A monument will be erected. Not in honor of your memory, but as a precautionary against your folly.”

            Abornial laughed, a wicked sound full of delight. “Kill me you may! But that won’t change anything! You will still burn with hatred for yourself! Her mind betrayed her in the end you know. O how she cried out for you Gareth as my knife kissed her fair skin again and again! I tried to assure her you would not be joining us, but she would have none of it! Come to think of it, she may have actually thought that I was you. After far too long she begged for death, and I being the merciful lord I am, granted her final request.” 

            The two warriors leaped for each other once more, the sound of their blades an ominous prediction of the storm clouds in the distance. Abornial tried to cut Gareth’s legs out from under him with a sweeping strike. Gareth easily stepped over the whistling blade. His own sword whipped out and took Abornial in the arm. A patch of fabric began to darken where Gareth left his mark.

            Realizing the duel was nearing its end, Abornial screamed in frustration, “You’re pathetic! How could you, a man all of us hold in such high regard, have fallen for a common whore?”  

            Gareth advanced on Abornial in a fury of vengeance, the tempest of his onslaught too much for the wounded lordling. Abornial fell to the ground in his haste to retreat.

            “You could never understand the love I felt for that woman,” Gareth said. “Not in a hundred lifetimes. It is beyond your capacity.”

“You would kill one of your own?” Abornial screamed. “You know we need all the skilled warriors we can get! You know what is coming!”

Gareth let the point of his sword lower as he stopped to consider Abornial’s words.

“Monsters to our fore, surrounded by conniving allies,” Gareth said. “Even so, I would not have you stand beside me.”

Abornial replied, “Fool! You will…”

Gareth’s blade took him through the mouth, exploding out the back of his skull and driving deeply into the earth. 

Author Bio

Owen Ybarra is a senior at California State University, San Marcos where he is majoring in Literature and Writing. He is an avid fantasy reader and as a result most of his writing is fantastical in nature. Owen lives by the beach in Oceanside and tries to surf most mornings.