Contents

[Literature] My Condolences 1 Tyler Slawson Thoughts on Dr. Parrish 2 Travis Truax On Virginia 2 Alex Lehr Electric Girl 4 Timmy Johnson For Starters 9 Josee Vaughn From Head to Toe 23 Tina Firquain Hidden Secrets 25 Jena Krumrine Renewal 30 Joyce Butler Eight Minutes 34 Dawn Frazier

Contents

[Literature] The Awakening of the Sea Hannah Jones

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Divine Wind 36 Trevor Robinson Full of Time 38 Kristina Bruce Legacy of Mosoon: Book 1, Chapter 1 Alex Lehr

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Tanguera, Tanguera 57 Bryant Lyles Tale of a Custody Battle Child 60 Misty Hebert The Ages 62 Cherlyn Snow Where is the Price 64 Hallie Campbell Procrastination Kristina Bruce

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Contents [Art]

Untitled -Amanda Henslee 3 At Sunset- Nick Cloyde 8 Color Cave- Matt Smith 22 Translation Celery- Chloe Richards

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Untitled- David Tilles 29 Prisoner of Fate- Surendra Thapa

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Untitled- Hannah Jones 37 Freedom- Surendra Thapa 39 Shells- Amanda Perry 56 Dressing Chair- Heather Taylor 59 Silence- Gina Salazar

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Untitled- Jordan Caldwell 63 Untitled- Kelly Blue 65 Untitled- Laurissa Willson 67

Contents [Art]

Untitled- Peyton Roberts 68 Untitled- Rebekah Odell 69 Flower- Sarah Goodwin 70 City Light- Tiffany Newton 71 Lennon- Libby Higginbotham 72

To Dr. Virginia Parrish

My Condolences

Thank God for that woman. Sitting in front of me at my sister’s high school basketball game. Her hair, short and silver. She could have passed off as Dr. Parrish if I had not seen her face. Seeing this woman reminded me that I had not yet written this piece. As I sit here on Oscar weekend, with an Oscar nominated film playing on my TV, after a long day of making props for my first feature film production, I am rushing to meet a deadline, just like my days at the university. Possibly even for Dr. Parrish’s class. Sitting across from my current co-writer on my current project sometime in the summer of 2013, she confided she was contemplating returning to college. When I inquired further as to a potential major, she replied with a smile: “English with a Writing Emphasis.” Ah. What a major that is. How I recommended it. As a co-writer on the project, what more she would build from Dr. Parrish’s Writing for Visual Media course. What even more could be taken from the fiction writing course or the non-fiction course. Taking it further, what adventures would be had in Technical & Professional Writing. Well a few months later, no news from her, but an unexpected update from Dr. Parrish: Retirement. And to Southeastern, I offer my condolences. It happened all too often when I would end up on a weekend much like this, walking into her office on Monday morning to lather in my own stress and tell her just how bad it was. And yet somehow amidst that, she always found ways to calm me down and tell me it was going to be all right. She helped give me direction and perspective and opportunity I had not seen before. She cared and took initiative. I look across the room to my collection of film-related books to see several she passed on to me. And now, I get regular Facebook updates from her. She posts on my wall interesting links and festivals. I can’t imagine my future without her. She helped me to hone and craft my calling, as it were. Not in the way of altering it, but rather in the craft. She showed me the art of subtlety. She encouraged new ways of ‘saying’ things. She showed me things I had not seen. Coming into college, knowing God’s purpose for my life and studying under the one person who had both the theological background and the cinematic knowledge at a university that was actually my second choice, Dr. Parrish and I couldn’t have met by accident. It was a God thing. As I reflect on my years studying under her and how much she poured into my life, it could unashamedly bring tears to my eyes. Many successful people can point that one professor or teacher that challenged them and helped propel them forward. For Kristin Chenoweth, it was Florence Birdwell. For me, it was Virginia Parrish. Dr. Parrish, please remember: “There has never been since the beginning of this world nor will there be to the end of this world anyone exactly like you. You are unique, special, and talented. Thank you.”

Tyler Slawson 1

Thoughts on Dr. Parrish:

Dr. Parrish is one of the most passionate teachers I’ve had. In my time at Southeastern I was part of her Fiction course and her Nonfiction course. She was also my advisor for my Capstone project. Though I graduated in the Fall of 2010, the fervor she instilled in me in the classroom has lasted beyond the classroom, beyond campus, beyond Durant, and is still lasting. She has remained a strong, treasured mentor. Dr. Parrish is the kind of teacher that lasts in a student’s writing-heart because her words have a certain echoing quality. Writers and ideas I have discovered since graduation, I’ve come to realize, are only reiterations of Dr. Parrish’s classes. She taught me to dig as deep as possible, and in as many holes as possible, to make my writing the best it could be. “Your lives are so much richer,” I remember her saying, “than you allow them to be.” The world is ripe with opportunity—she promoted—for a writer’s heart and pen. That is one bit of wisdom, among many, that Dr. Parrish has given me.

Travis Truax

On Virginia

What can you say about Virginia Parrish that few others can’t? Let me give a brief testimony. I walked into Non-Fiction as a fantasy obsessed, fiction fanboy. The thought of Non-Fiction writing terrified me. What did I know about Non-Fiction? What did I care? It was easy to account for the past in its reality but in no way what I cared to do. To me, Non-Fiction and Fiction could never go hand in hand, right? Well, thanks to a special lady named Virginia Parrish, I now know that in truth, fictional writing is nothing more than non-fiction hiding in a cloak, wearing a most luxurious hat as it skims the rooftops of creativity in disguise, always striking when we least expect it. Dr. Parrish taught me that fantasies were just transformations of reality, that fiction is the world around, given a new kind of breath, look and sound. With her humor, she made us laugh. With her seriousness, she scared us to death. There was always this adventure-like atmosphere in the classroom with her. This lady knew how to summon whole sea storms and enabled us to enjoy the experiences of non-fiction and fiction alike. She is hilarious, she is full of love for the subjects she taught and to her, the world beyond our normality was truer than anything else, at least to me. She is a creator who taught me how to create further, and I will always cherish my memories of learning under her. Dr. Parrish, I tip my invisible top hat to you, and I know God will bless you in all your days to come. As a student, I admire you. As a friend, I love you. Thank you for the awesome memories and the things in which you taught me.

Alex Lehr 2

Untitled Conté

Amanda Henslee 3



Electric Girl

There were probably better, or at least more romantic ways to begin a relationship than to have you call me one night, well past midnight, and say with an obvious slight slur, “If you want me, come and get me,” but waiting on a pristine manifestation of love would be akin to waiting on death. And I didn’t just want you, I wanted you big time, as I’d explained to you per our last face to face, months previous. But the problem with shaky foundations is they have a way of making everything else shaky as well. Anything you might place on top of it, up to and including your own personal happiness. A few moments of unparalleled physical elation and psychological soothing that are hard to enjoy past their own brief blossoming for the sake of their potential forfeiture. Hard to not to imagine the eventual emptiness that would reign sovereign in place of your warm night breath and your mostly pleasant morning company. And so then… Red morning comes, then black night. Counting happy days on an abacus that’s covered in a layer of dust, and all the other days I need a fucking computer program. In the best of the worst days I had your intimacy or your affection or just your existence in my existence to help get me by. But now I can tell those too are becoming endangered, hours or maybe even precious minutes of soon-to-be-memories of current interactions and discussions and breath-taking physical intimacies. The clock does little more than swallow up time and shit out memories, and so I need no translation: your sighs are a future goodbye that hasn’t yet manifest itself. But it will. I’m certain, now, that it will. I see this radiant near-future as well as I can see the bleary long-past. I’ll hold on for way too long, and when it’s a little too late, I’ll begin the long, hard process of moving on, (which I’ve already done way too many times). And so I try to pass myself off as some mind or soul of great depth and longing, but I always seemed to fall short of such things. We’d have these dense, intimate conversations, with our hands behind our heads, bare chests to the ceiling, and I’d stumble on some idea I couldn’t articulate, and you’d laugh and slap me and say “Let’s get some sleep.” So I’d close my eyes in appeasement, but in truth I’d fear even the swiftest feet couldn’t escape this thing hurtling at us. Sometimes it seems the rugged world won’t quit for a second, won’t give you a moment’s pause. Adulthood is little more than coming down from the selfish high of youth. That’s what maturity says to me at any rate, “Come on back down buddy. Ease back down.” And so then, finally, it comes, some eventual “next” morning, and you’re saying you just need a little space is all, as I’m in the process of breaking down a mouthful of scrambled eggs. I’ve learned, in my many years, the value of swift digestion, so I can eat all of your lies and never get full. Stepping outside later, to this new world, and there was brake fluid in the puddles and fast food wrappers in the tall grass as cars swerved through our yard to avoid the fresh road-kill, more protective of his lifeless body than they were earlier of his animate corpse. And this is the world you’re leaving me alone in? How deeply I wanted you to stay. I, above all others, appreciated your unique structure. Most days the only communion I could find was with the car defroster, and she abandoned me for whole seasons. Now there’d be long rides to work and no sight of pleasantry on either end. Regaled with music or regaled with silence, all I’d be able to dwell upon is you. I think, maybe, if your hand ever gets caught in the tangles of a woman’s hair that it never gets out again. And I could see your glowing heart when you turned off the lamp

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each night. And when I tried to express these feelings they come out lacking in a way I can’t explain. Like trying to light the world with a hamster running on a wheel, there’s not enough power in the electric lines. And so then I was waking up alone when such a thing was hideously unnatural. The blue light of winter. The people around all bizarre strangers, passing blurs I’ll never fully know or even witness again, a life full of empty collisions. Snow falling in compressed pellets like some divine booing. As I drove forward, my mind raced backwards, in time, to when I shook your small hand, your red sweater leaving a strong impression, and then the two of us stepping into the materializing doorframe of our conjoined future. Funny how that works. Someone you could have just as easily never met, and but a short span of time later, you can’t imagine living without. I was overly pragmatic at the start, a new approach, trying to tame my inner impulse to romance. Never the less, there I was again, alone with the sweet taste of alcohol and my fragile memory. It would be nice if we could start at the end, and see how things turn out, before we invested too much. Just for once. A love-story ending, a broken-hearted start. Reverie is all that’s ever really left. Laying down during the worst weather, so strangers won’t interfere, and wading through the whole (now) bitter thing, one (now) bitter moment after the next. Such narrow things, memories of love, to try and squeeze a body through. Or you could try the park at night, light creeping through the differing foliage’s. Anything’s better than gripping the steering wheel tightly, with memories fighting in your head as you still attempt to go about the difficult act of living. Still, I’d have to continue struggling on, wandering through love’s wasteful economy, surrounded by chemical adorations that felt hollow in contrast to my own sufferings. I made an active attempt to keep moving, even as I stood totally still. The house so quiet, since we’d been permanently sundered (or so I thought), it’d be as if raucous laughter and loud, passionate utterances hadn’t frequented its atmosphere for years. I was at a loss for an explanation as to how anything once so beautiful could ever fall and decay with such velocity as Us. The words you spoke, say a year ago, as fresh and incisive as they were in their very utterance, with funnel clouds menacing overhead as you took the last drag of your cigarette, the smells of car exhaust from your warming idle on the curb and dried up pecan shells from our activity over the weekend. Spider web’s woven overnight clung to your face as you searched the garage for any belongings that might have eluded your gaze before. It was a hug, not a kiss goodbye. Later, I slipped into the milky water of the bathtub and allowed it to simmer around me so I could contemplate such a fresh wound, thoughts so violent they affected the weather, the sun coming through all the spring darkness with a summer-like regaling. And that’s how it would end. Roll credits. Maybe. Probably. But now your father has had a stroke in the other room. A little too quiet, and a little too soon. Thus does death affect us, settling down heavily where it’s only ever brushed us earlier. I stopped by to pay my respects and your hands were pruned from washing the dishes, your eyes only a little red, your embrace revelatory. Once, he’d lifted the canopy of the universe up, so you

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could move around, so you could see, and now there were shovel-full’s of sod and the mystery of existence itself between the two of you. That ritual, ceremonial goodbye being infinitely briefer than the supposedly permanent one previous. Your footprints in puddles, vacant for a split second, as you wound your way down the familiar path to my front door (once our front door.) As you knocked, crying for the first time, you tried not to think of your father’s remains now covered in (and trapped) by mud. I tried, for your sake, not to feel good about this sudden jolt in our narrative, but it was hard not to. The car lights flashing on your sleeping face, and it wasn’t the physical I’d missed. Something else entirely. But how to cling to something that itself is trying to cling to something else? And then Me with the wheel perched between my knees, and you tucking your fists back into your coat that you kept on for the ride. No destination is itself a destination. Silence is a form of communication. For days on end you sat on the couch and smoked, and I let you. I loved you, letting you. You had a schedule you kept to, soaps, then game shows, then more soaps. Your veins were electric cables, flashing and sparking sporadically in the day. And then at night, secretive forces snuck in to suck your most precious memories dry, so that you were left with only the thing itself, what you did, who you were with, etc., but not the sights and the sounds and most especially how the thing made you feel inside, if it made your heart hurtle and pound or clam up and withdraw. I bought you trinkets after work. I thought you might like this, and you smiled as if you did, though it was still hard to tell, and I excused myself to go sit on the steps and gather my breath. And so we lived our lives during the day, and in the night our used clothes fell into the laundry basket. We made separate visits to the clinic to jot down our pains on clipboards in exchange for chemical absolutions from our misdeeds. You would speak deep truths to me, squatting down in the corner of the room, using two walls as the balance that your legs no longer consistently provided you. I went to the receptacle where I’d thrown all my memories of you out before, when you’d left, and retrieved them all. My blood pressure dove as I sank into them, like an anatomical narcotic. Funny, in my favorite recollection of you, you got sick. We’d been drinking cold bottles of beer, and speaking to random walkers in the street. Later we ate Chinese. It’s no wonder. That was the night you admitted you’d probably never really love anyone. I was laying down on the living room floor, as you got up and made your way, without any real haste, to the bathroom, walking right over the mortal wound you’d just inflicted on me. I tried to avoid such mistakes again. I offered you a 7-Up, but you looked at me like I was insane. You had a taste for the harder stuff. You drank warm wine, and watched bad movies and sank like a stone to the bottom of the tub each night. And I could only watch you anymore from high above. What a cold distance. We did our grooming as a team in the morning, settled above twin sinks, making each other snort with amusement at inopportune times. You only rarely speak to your family members anymore. You have a defense system I have no hope in penetrating. At times, I would willingly lay down in a grave if death would take care of the rest. And then one night you said you didn’t lay too much stake on words, which meant our actions were all that mattered, which meant we were 6

essentially betrothed without the burden of empty linguistic promising. Or, this was how I translated it. In a city of language we were outcasts. We weren’t born, we willed ourselves into being. And anyway, it’s not as if there was any great alternative to living. Pretty much just one dark alternative to chose from. The one area of existence where we could use the most choice and so of course it was an either/or proposition. Unable to find sleep anymore in the night and I would lift my cold body up and quietly sneak through the house. Strong coffee was my personal petroleum. I could see my back in the kitchen mirror through the window in which I was trying to see the outside world. You’d stitched your name into my left shoulder once, but the letters had become almost unreadable, made so by time and the healing power of the human body. Crickets were fist-fighting the silence outside of the house, as I progressed from coffee to beer, the day’s liquid ingestion sped up to accommodate a few hours of insomnia. The beer had been half-priced, and tasted of the discount, and of course, you had to drink twice of it to the get the desired effect of losing complete symmetry and balance with the perfectly balanced and over symmetrical world. It was dawn before I got to such a state. The sprinklers were all autonomous anymore. They come alive of their own accord. They needed little from us. Life would go on, quite well after our dimming; maybe better than it has with our brief light. But still we continue struggling on, because, after all, what else was there? We make our dinners as our daily memories erase themselves, to never be recalled again, and maybe share a smoke before we hugged our own solid bodies in the night. Then we’d force ourselves awake, pushing our eyes open despite obvious protests, as the books in the library all disappear, and the house slowly decays around us, In a dream I had there was a lake of water in a parking lot, as we marched ourselves out of some city I didn’t recognize, maybe a dream city we all make nightly pilgrimages to in our sleep. There were no saviors to be had. It was just us, on this lonely march. The world revere’s itself, it doesn’t actually matter how we feel. In the tree-line there was a blue dance of insects, and words scratched into the paneling of a fence we had to climb if we wanted to move any further, perhaps a fence we’d built to barricade ourselves against the future. You smiled then, in the dream, which maybe meant you were smiling in the real world, in the outside, which maybe meant you were having a happy dream, which made me forget my own gloomy suppositions. We didn’t climb the fence then, we kicked it in, at a place where it had rotted, and laughingly let ourselves in to his sacred place of progress, a dark temple dedicated to uncertainty. We were laughing and happy as we entered, and this was all I really hoped as we walked on: that we’d be laughing and happy as we left it too. I’d like top say we were holding hands. I’d like to say we were in love. But honestly, I can’t remember anything else about it.

Timmy Johnson 7

At Sunset digital

Nick Cloyde 8

For Starters Diggory Phelps heard music in his head that he’d never heard before as he drove down

Hawthorne Boulevard…The notes slid, one by one, into place, and, eventually, an entire piece had formed. He felt a strange sense of happiness from this, but the day he’d had eliminated any chance of that happiness remaining. Diggory had many days like the one he’d had this time, but this one had been worse… He pulled in at Showcase Music and Sound, Inc., a music shop close to his home with low prices and a good selection of products. He felt odd coming there and buying something after what had happened that day…He sat for a few minutes in his 2005 white Honda Accord and looked at the black instrument case that sat in the passenger’s seat, then felt of the small, sterling silver, heart-shaped locket that he carried with him every day. It had been a birthday gift for Angie from him, his last birthday gift to her. Reluctantly, he got out of the car. Diggory heard his phone ring as he walked in and saw that it was Bryan, who’d been his best friend since he and Angie had moved to Portland. Bryan had lived there all his life. “Where have you been?” Bryan asked. “I thought we were supposed to meet for drinks.” “Mount Tabor Park, at the gatehouses.” As Diggory said it, he glanced at the woman behind the counter. She must have been new; he’d never seen her before. She was watching him, and he could tell she was listening to what he was saying. He was instantly annoyed. “I don’t understand why you go there so much,” Bryan said quietly. “What do you find to do?” “I just look around and get fresh air, that’s all,” Diggory lied. “Well…are you still planning on coming here, or…?” “No, I’m kind of tired,” Diggory answered. They’d both known what he would say. He’d been saying it for three years, ever since Angie, his wife, had died. After hanging up, Diggory walked to the back shelves and found the cheapest polisher/cleaner for a violin that he could. He rubbed his eyes as he walked to the counter; the light in the store was dim, and there was a lot of black: Black walls, black instrument cases, a black countertop, and the black t-shirt that the woman behind the counter wore. It all reminded him of nighttime…he preferred nighttime. A white nametag on her shirt said Lily in thick, black letters. He decided to look at her again, and when he did look up, he was shocked to find himself staring into the two most beautiful, chocolate-brown eyes he’d ever seen in his life. He hadn’t noticed her eyes earlier. They caught him off-guard, and suddenly, he momentarily couldn’t remember where he was or why as he stared at her. She was short, slim, and did not look much younger than he. She had a small, oval-shaped face and fair skin. Her neck was really small, like that of a child, and so were her hands. Her hair was dark brown and extremely long. Something about it reminded Diggory of a waterfall; it was probably the way it seemed to flow over her shoulders and down the sides of her arms. Her eyelashes were extremely long and made her eyes look even more beautiful. She looked at Diggory expectantly, waiting for him to it would burst through her eyes at any moment and rip through his own…

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He realized that his mouth was hanging open, and he quickly shut it, realizing also that he hadn’t put the polisher/cleaner on the counter yet. She rang him up, not looking at him. She looked shy…Why am I noticing that? He asked himself. He suddenly found himself almost unable to look away from her, and he felt uncomfortable. He tried to resolve normalcy by making himself feel more irritated at her, like he usually felt toward women – like he’d felt toward them ever since Angie had passed away. Somehow, it wasn’t working as well this time. “Is that a locket?” She asked. He jerked his head down and realized he’d forgotten to tuck the locket back into his shirt before coming in. He mumbled something at her and quickly hid the small silver chain and pendant. Now he didn’t need to try to make himself feel irritated at her. “I – I couldn’t help overhearing,” she said, then hesitated when Diggory shot an instant, fiery, annoyed glance at her. She went on, “You – you like to go to Mount Tabor Park? I love that place.” “So, do you eavesdrop on customers frequently?” “Never,” she answered, looking surprisingly amused. Women usually weren’t amused by Diggory. He felt displaced. It was almost like she knew what she was doing to him. He quickly grabbed up the polisher/cleaner and began walking out the door. “Don’t rush. Life’s short enough as it is,” she said teasingly. Diggory hated it when people spoke that way, as if they thought the other person should respond with giddy pleasure to someone who was obviously secretly laughing at them. He turned around, and responded, “No it isn’t. The average human life span is 78.06 years.” It was the only statistic he could remember. The woman stared at him, the amused expression still there but slightly toned down. He could tell, though, that his effort to break her confidence had been in vain. He left quickly, unsure himself about why he always responded to women this way now. He’d assumed it was because of Angie, but now that he thought about it, he’d always acted this way, just to a smaller extent. He’d even treated Angie that way a few times… He wondered what he would have said that day if he’d gotten to the hospital on time, and if Angie had loved him at all during their last years together. He wondered, as he drove away, what was wrong with him. Diggory’s day had been more horrible than usual because he’d gotten fired from his job at Ready Insurance. Part of him was glad about it. He hated the place. He remembered sitting in his little grey office earlier that day, eating his tuna sandwich after seeing some clients and staring at his jar of meticulously sharpened pencils. The sharp grey of the room made him feel claustrophobic. Angie’s father had called; he only ever called near the end of the month, when it was apparent that his check wasn’t going to arrive on time, or at all… “Yes, but I understand…I owe you. I promise, I will get it to you as soon as I can,” Diggory had said. “I know you will.” Even though his father-in-law had said it reassuringly, Diggory had felt what stood behind the words like a specter. Angie’s father thought Diggory was inadequate; he always had and always would. They’d talked for a few more minutes, and finally, Diggory was able to hang up.

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He’d looked around his office, forgetting about his sandwich. He’d stared at the same things as he always did – the looming, misty grey of the wall, his college degree hanging by the door, a picture of him at the company Christmas party last year, when he’d stupidly changed his hair color to auburn at the suggestion of one of the female employees (he still had the bottle of hair dye in his bathroom). His office was bare, dry, and thirsty in its hollow colors. It was like his home, an old brick house that had leaks in the ceiling and bad plumbing. The walls inside were a plain off-white; in them, he saw ghosts that laughed at him. It didn’t feel like home. Home, Diggory thought. He’d realized then with sudden horror that he had never known home… Suddenly, Richard Jakes, his boss, had strolled into his office. Richard had light, wispy brown hair, complete with a cow-lick, a large head, tiny eye glasses with oval rims, a foolish schoolboy grin, and bright, baby-blue eyes that always had the look of an intern. Diggory called him Intern Richard in his head. Diggory had instantly felt suspicious when Richard had appeared…he never came into Diggory’s office. “Hey, Diggory. How are you?” “Fine,” Diggory had replied, only partially looking at Richard. Richard had nodded softly, and Diggory had noted that, for the moment, the intern look had faded. The feeling that had suddenly developed in Diggory’s gut had made him know what Richard wasn’t saying; it’d made him know that he would probably start spending a lot more time at home. Later, while carrying his things out of his office, he’d heard someone in one of the other offices talking about him. “I think he was fired this afternoon.” “Well, it’s not like he has a family to support.” Diggory had run into the restroom. He’d taken a deep breath as he’d kneeled over the toilet. He hadn’t vomited since junior high. Pathetically, he’d almost laughed at himself – at the way he was posed. He’d looked like someone being knighted…Sir Whojustgotsacked, he’d thought. He’d washed his hands and splashed water on his face before looking in the mirror. Diggory Phelps was not unattractive. Yet, he was just out of reach of what women seemed to like. His eyes had deep circles under them, but were a striking, unusual shade of blue. He also had well-defined eyebrows that were darker than his deep blonde hair. He wore glasses with square rims. His face looked pale and drawn, but he had sharp, well-defined cheekbones and a jaw line that complimented his slim face. His hair was barely hanging in his eyes, which gave him a young, boyish look, despite the fact that he was thirty-seven and looked a bit older than that. He was tall and slim, but slightly muscular – more in his legs than in his arms, and it showed in the dark brown suit he was wearing that day. He had large, sensitive-looking hands… When he’d looked at his hands, he’d remembered something. Something he did every Friday. It would make him forget about Angie, about Ready Insurance, about everything… Quickly, he’d walked out to his car and had driven away, unsure of how to feel but very sure of where he needed to go. Mount Tabor Park was Diggory’s favorite place in Southeast Portland – in fact, it was the only place in Southeast Portland that he could truly love. He’d discovered it the year that Angie had found out she had stomach cancer. He didn’t go there only to walk or to look at the scenery, though it was very beautiful.

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The park, full of deep, lush forestry, was filled with walking paths. Diggory liked them, but he usually always went to the gatehouses. In the late afternoons, the sunlight dipped down to the trees, and it looked like golden tear drops that almost seemed to deepen in color to a bloody red as the sun sank into the forlorn horizon. After he’d parked, he’d quickly walked to the gatehouses, despite the sick feeling that was still in his stomach, and stood in front of one. It’d risen above him. With its rigid, stone structure and its dark, wrought iron gates, he always thought of it as standing like a barrier between him and the rest of the world. Ahead of where he’d stood, across one of the walking paths, were trees, covered in the golden tears. The branches were always so dark in the late afternoon sun that they appeared black. Behind the many trees was a darkness, a darkness that Diggory never failed to notice, because he knew it from somewhere – somewhere else. The sun had begun to get weary, hanging lower and lower, and the summer wind had been blowing so lightly that it’d seemed to murmur in Diggory’s ear. He’d closed his eyes and had tried to listen. Then he’d started to do something he did all the time – something that no one else knew about, something that not even Angie had ever known about. He’d placed his violin perfectly under his chin, had placed his bow on the tight strings, and had, slowly, begun to play. He’d not heard the music, and he never did. He couldn’t ever hear it, not really; he at least couldn’t ever hear it the way others who were walking on the paths every Friday heard it. He never thought of them, either…Usually, his eyes were closed. No, he never heard the music…It was too much inside of him already, wrapping around his bones like a primary skin. The piece he’d played had sounded like a classical piece…except it wasn’t. It was one that Diggory had composed in his head…in under two minutes while he’d been standing in front of the bathroom mirror at Ready Insurance. He always composed like that when he was upset or anxious… He hadn’t realized the sun had gone down before he’d stopped playing. He’d opened his eyes and looked at the trees again. That same darkness was still there and always would be, but behind a darkness much more beautiful and much less painful. Quietly, he’d taken out a fortune-telling card and jotted down the first few notes of what he’d played. It was all he needed to be able to remember the rest. Once he’d put the card in his pants pocket, he’d picked up his violin case and walked back to his car… He remembered all of this as he unlocked his front door; he didn’t understand why the woman at the music shop had prompted all of it. He usually never thought about his playing once he was home. His playing the violin was something that really just happened most of the time; it was the same for his composing, as well…It just…happened. Of course, it hadn’t always just happened. He’d had a natural talent, already, but he’d been taught, as well, a long time ago…He thought back to those years as he sat on his couch, staring at the awful, white walls. He remembered when his parents had died in a car crash, remembered when Mr. Parks, an old man who’d been a long-time friend of the Phelps family, had taken him in afterwards, and remembered the day when Mr. Parks had shown Diggory his violin and had played. Diggory’s parents had always said that Mr. Parks was a virtuoso, though they’d always said it with a hint of skepticism. They had always been very critical. Diggory had never heard violin music until the day Mr. Parks had played for him…and yet, he had heard it before. He’d realized after Mr.

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Parks had played for him – realized that, somehow, the music was familiar. When Diggory was about fourteen, about two years after he’d come to live with Mr. Parks, Mr. Parks had handed him the violin and asked him to “try his hand at it.” He’d said he would teach Diggory how to play. Diggory had played, a little sloppily at first (for he’d never even seen a violin up close, much less handled one; his parents had been too poor to own musical instruments), but after a few moments he’d improved. He’d still lacked much at the time, of course, but he’d still played much better than Mr. Parks had expected him to. When he’d finished, he’d seen that Mr. Parks had tears streaming down his face. Diggory had never asked him why he’d cried. Mr. Parks had died when Diggory was eighteen and about to leave for college. Diggory hadn’t been able to go to the funeral. It’d felt wrong, somehow. He’d remembered Mr. Parks saying he hated funerals, so it’d seemed natural not to go. He’d gotten to say goodbye to Mr. Parks already, anyway. They’d known for a while that he didn’t have much longer, because he’d developed lung problems from smoking. He’d had several stints put in and had been in and out of the hospital, and he’d begun using an oxygen machine just before it’d happened. Diggory didn’t like to think about it. Mr. Parks had been more of a father to him than Diggory’s own father could ever have been. In college, Diggory had met Angie. It hadn’t taken long for both of them to decide that they wanted to get married. Diggory hadn’t had much money when he’d left for college. Mr. Parks hadn’t had much in the first place, and much of the money had been spent on hospital bills. Diggory had begun receiving financial aid, but once he and Angie had gotten married, her parents had told him that they would pay for his college and that the other money could be used for Angie and Diggory to live on for a while. Their only condition was that they pay him back eventually. The cost had been tremendous. They had encouraged Diggory to study to be an insurance agent, because they’d assumed he’d make a lot of money, and because they would only have to pay for Diggory to get a Bachelor’s degree. Diggory had agreed – he really hadn’t ever cared what he went to college to become. He’d already begun keeping his violin a secret. Mr. Parks had given him his violin just before he’d passed away, and Diggory had hidden it. He’d started playing all the time, but he hadn’t felt right about playing for anyone he knew…not even Angie. Once Diggory had gotten a job, he’d been able to pay Angie’s parents back some of the money that he owed them, but not even near a fraction. After he and Angie had spent all of the money he’d saved on their own bills and other expenses, there was never quite enough. There would usually be some measly sum left that they would ultimately have to use for household repairs. The little brick house, the one Diggory still lived in on Hawthorne Boulevard, had been damaged from the beginning. The previous owner hadn’t taken very good care of it. Diggory still owed Angie’s parents the majority of his college costs. Even after taking extra hours at work several times, trying to make more sales, he was not much better off than he had been before. Working on commission made it difficult to make very much even when he did make sales. He couldn’t help wondering where the money to pay Angie’s parents was going to come from. He always wondered that, but now that he’d been fired, it seemed to be something growing inside him, just like the something behind the woman’s eyes at the music store…

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He stared at the dust-covered radio where it sat on a little stool in the living room, or what he called the living room. It was really just a room, with its off-white ghost walls and its green carpet that made Diggory feel nauseated. The carpet was old and had a dirty look to it; it didn’t matter how much he vacuumed. The ceiling had cracks in it, and Diggory had to put down pans each time it rained. There wasn’t a TV; Diggory had sold it a few months ago in order to pay the electric bill. The radio had been Angie’s. Diggory had noticed the layers of dust on it that morning – really noticed. He would have cleaned it, but Angie had liked to clean things her own way, and Diggory had never been able to do it right. So, the dust stayed. An old, moth-eaten pack of fortune-telling cards sat next to it. He’d found them in Mount Tabor Park, in a parking lot. Each Friday when he went to Mount Tabor, he brought one with him and used it to write his music on. He didn’t know how to actually tell his fortune with them, and even if he had known, he wasn’t sure that he would want to know his future. His small and almost unusable kitchen led into his dining room. He could see the table from where he stood. In the middle of it sat a huge poinsettia that his neighbor, whom he barely knew, had given him for Christmas. It had, of course, lost all of its flowers, and was even uglier than when it had still had all of its blooms. All that was left was a group of thick, knobby, green stems shooting up from the pot of dirt, like alien tentacles. Diggory sometimes found himself staring at it for a long time. It was desolate, bare. It seemed to stare back at him, desperate and starving. A business card sat tucked under the plant. It was from a counsellor whom Intern Richard had suggested Diggory see. Suggestions were funny things… “I suggest you see a doctor, Angie. It’s not going to get any better if you just ignore it.” “No, because then I’ll find out something that will scare me. What good will that do?” Diggory went into his bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, next to the nightstand. Blue light poured into the room from a light in the neighbor’s yard – a light, spectral blue that made Diggory feel afraid. He didn’t like the thought of anything spectral. He took off Angie’s locket and placed it on his nightstand, where it shown in the light, next to the absurd, bright blue alarm clock that Angie had bought for him some time ago. There was always so much blue… Blue, like the ocean. Angie had wanted to go to the ocean after she’d gotten sick… “Why can’t you understand why I want to do this, Diggory?” “Because you’re sick. You shouldn’t be going out-” “I have cancer, Diggory; it’s not like-” “Please don’t say it.” “You don’t care about anything I want. You only care what I may be doing with our money. This trip is all I want. Can’t you see that?” Diggory had been suspicious of her for some time because he’d noticed that she’d opened a new account in the bank without telling him. He’d overheard her on the phone, talking to someone about it. When he’d confronted her about it, she’d just said it was for insurance. She’d said that, in case of something happening, they could have the money in the new account put away as a safety net. Just before she’d died, Diggory had asked her about it again, unsure about it because they’d never put his name on the account with her. She’d told him then that she’d used it all for her hospital expenses – that there had been no other option.

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Before she’d gotten much too sick to work, she had started to work longer hours at the department store. He’d thought maybe it was because she hadn’t wanted to be at home with him – to look at him. He looked at the locket again and picked it up, feeling the cold, stiff metal in his hand for what must have been the thousandth time. He wished he’d gotten to see her wear it more before she’d died. He got up and retrieved one of the fortune-telling cards. Carefully, he wrote, “I miss you,” on it and placed it next to the locket. It was the first time he’d admitted it since she’d been gone. He sighed before beginning to fall asleep. “I love you, Diggory.” “I love you, too.” *** Diggory awoke screaming, hearing Angie scream in his mind. In his dream, they’d been back at the sea shore…He was sweating, his head pounding. He couldn’t sleep. He drove to a deserted parking lot downtown and sat in his car. It was five o’clock in the morning, and the sky was a deep, deep indigo. Soon the sun would rise, and Diggory dreaded it – he was a vampire trapped in mortality, a vampire that died every day rather than never. He stared at the sky, willing it to stay the way it was. The color reminded him of the ocean. I’m drowning, he thought helplessly as he closed his eyes. Where was the money going to come from? What would he tell Angie’s parents? She’d tried to get them to back off after she’d gotten ill, but they were like starving dogs, jumping up, up, up…Every last cent was crucial, every last crumb. Oh, Angie, he thought. Suddenly he was at the sea shore with her again… The water was so cold, but they were alive. They were happy, just for that one day…She fell backwards into the water, bluffing. “I’m drowning, Diggory! Save me, save me!” Her eyes were like fire coals, golden orange in the sun as she laughed. “I’m drowning!” She screamed, and the sound scared him, even though she was joking. It made him grab her suddenly and kiss her so that she would stop. They fell back into that deep, cool indigo, clasping each other. Drowning. Drowning… He hadn’t been able to save her from drowning. He drove to Mount Tabor later and played. He’d never been there in the morning, because he was usually always trapped in the mist of his office. He had a strange feeling as the sunlight stroked his face, as if he’d entered someone else’s life. He was standing on the Mount Tabor cinder cone, high above the rest of the park. He could see Mount Hood, one of his favorite sites. The sun had risen hours ago. He finished playing and looked down below at the trees. Like green cotton balls, they were clumped in large groups, and he could see hints of the paths, like ripples in water. He finished playing and suddenly heard a female voice behind him say, “Good God!” He jumped and spun around. It was Lily, the music shop girl. How did I remember her name? He thought. She stared at him, astounded, with her mouth hanging open. “So, you’re an eavesdropper and a stalker,” Diggory said accusingly as he put his violin into its case.

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She stared, and answered, “I come here every morning.” He didn’t respond. She waited, then quickly said, “I have a friend who plays the cello in the Portland Symphony Orchestra. They’re looking for a violinist.” Diggory felt hot. “Do you play anything?” He asked, partly to change the subject. “I play the clarinet.” “Why aren’t you in the Orchestra?” “I just can’t do it,” she answered, and Diggory saw that same look in her eyes…He saw the thing that sat there behind them, waiting… “Will you please audition? No one as good as you has auditioned yet,” she implored. He started to walk away from her, and she rushed after him. “It pays well,” she declared. “I don’t play for money,” he said, though he only said it because he was angry…Where would the money come from? He couldn’t do that, though…He couldn’t play in an orchestra. He felt overwhelmingly angry. He felt angry that the one person alive who knew about his playing was this small, insignificant, annoying…and beautiful woman. He turned to look at her; he couldn’t help it, for he remembered her eyes. The sunlight almost looked like it was coming from within her, and she looked like an angel to him. The light seemed to burst out on all sides, toward the rest of the earth below where the angel and the vampire stood. *** Months later, Diggory couldn’t explain what had happened that morning on the cinder cone, but he’d felt even more intense than the night he’d first seen her. That morning, they’d sat on the cinder cone and had talked for a while – just general conversation. Still, Diggory felt that he’d known Lily always, and he wondered what she thought about him. He began going to the music shop more and more frequently; she worked there nearly every day, and they normally got to talk a lot because not as many customers came in during her shift as they did earlier in the day. He didn’t get to see her nearly as much as he wanted, though; he had to work a lot. He had begun looking for ads in the paper for odd jobs, like mowing lawns and painting. He began making just enough to keep his bills paid and to buy only what he absolutely needed from the grocery store. He was beginning to get more and more phone calls from Angie’s parents, and he had to ignore them. Luckily, they didn’t live too terribly close. The Portland Symphony Orchestra still hadn’t found a violinist, and Lily asked him to audition nearly every time she saw him, never letting up. Diggory told her the same thing every time: “I’ll think about it.” He never did, though. He knew it wasn’t an option – not for him. Winter came and went, and soon it was spring. Diggory had told Angie’s parents that he was trying to simply survive, and that he would have their money as soon as he could. They’d said they understood, but he knew they really didn’t. One night, when Lily was off work, Diggory took her to the gatehouses at Mount Tabor with him and played for her there. He didn’t have any apprehension as the wind blew her hair in her eyes slightly, making him want to reach out and touch it. He wondered what she was thinking. As he played, she stood there next to him, unmoving – transfixed. It was like they would stay there forever – even after they left, they would always remain there in the darkness, the music echoing in the air around them, binding them. Lily began coming to Diggory’s house sometimes. She walked there, and sometimes he would drive her back to her apartment on 42nd Avenue. After the first few weeks, he wanted to kiss her every time she got out of the car, but he could never harness enough courage. They

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were friends, he supposed, though it felt like more than that to him. He could feel himself changing…He did not dread daylight so much anymore. Sometimes he felt happy even at times when he should have felt like lying down in the middle of the highway. Every time he saw her, he felt closer to her. He wasn’t sure what was happening…It wasn’t like when Angie and he had fallen in love, yet that wasn’t really a good comparison. They’d been so young then. The way he felt with Lily was truly inconceivable. He didn’t even know her that well, and already he couldn’t imagine never having met her. He kept asking himself: If it’s not love, then what is it? One night, Lily was sitting with Diggory on his couch. He hadn’t told her about the problems in his life…It would be too much to dump onto her. No one liked someone who did that, and for the first time in a long time, he wanted someone to like him – maybe even love him. He’d discovered earlier that day, though, that he was running out of the small sum he’d managed to save over the past few weeks. Soon bills would be due, Angie’s father would call again, and there would be less and less food in the fridge. Diggory wondered if Lily questioned why he hadn’t made dinner for her or offered to take her out yet. Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Diggory. She’s not attracted to you. Angie had said that to him once when they’d been out and she’d seen him glance at a blonde woman about their age. She’d been sick for a few months at that point, and Diggory had tried to act like what she’d said didn’t bother him…even though he’d felt like ripping his eyes out… “I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow yet,” he said quietly, wondering what Lily would say. She looked at him, her eyes like water crashing against rocks. Diggory didn’t understand why her eyes always looked that way to him…but she was so beautiful. Diggory barely took it in at the moment, though. The thought of where the money would come from pushed at his skull like a cancerous tumor… “Well, for starters, you should audition for the orchestra.” Suddenly he felt angry. He got up and exclaimed, “You’re a hypocrite. Why don’t you ever audition, Lily? Why don’t you do a lot of things? Why don’t you ever get your driver’s license?” He sniffed after a moment. “For starters,” he repeated. “I hate those words. There are no ‘starters,’ in my opinion – not for people our age, anyway. There were starters a long time ago, but not anymore.” He stopped himself when she looked like she might cry. His throat felt tight. He barely knew what he was saying. He imagined insults that didn’t exist, and he wanted to make her feel bad because there were so many things he’d never done…He’d been a failure when starters had been available, and he was a failure now… She looked at him, and said, “I don’t audition because I can’t afford the upkeep on my instrument and I’m not good enough. I don’t have a car…what’s the point in getting a license?” Her eyes still had that look in them, and Diggory wanted to disappear. Her face looked far away, distant. She sighed and said, “I have to go.” “No, wait,” Diggory said. His voice sounded like it never had before. Lily stayed on the couch as Diggory came over. “I’m sorry,” he said as he sat down beside her again. He hadn’t seen any odd jobs in the paper lately, and his search for a permanent position had been in vain earlier that week. That phrase popped into his head again as he tried to think of a solution…For starters, I could...However, nothing followed…

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Drowning, he thought as he looked out the window at the rain and as he looked at the water dripping into one of the pans on the living room floor. The tears came before he could stop them. He hadn’t cried since he was a little boy, something that had earned him a slap from his mother and a stern lecture from his father about manning up. His father would have laughed at the very idea of Diggory being a musician… Diggory imagined his father doing just that every time he thought about auditioning, and he thought about the fact that, even if he became a musician, Mr. Parks would never see it. What am I going to do? Where is the money going to come from? That was all he could think of; he was not thinking of the Portland Symphony Orchestra or even Lily… She looked shocked when he looked at her. “Diggory…” she said quietly and scooted closer to him. “What’s wrong? Tell me.” He did. He told her everything…He told her about his parents, about Mr. Parks, about Angie and her parents, about his marriage, about Angie dying, about his job and the fact that he’d been fired from it, and about the money. He cried the whole time as he spoke. He cried silently rather than making any noise, and it allowed him to talk more easily. He’d learned to cry silently a long time ago. “It’s okay, Diggory,” she told him, stroking his hair gently. “It’s okay.” No one had ever said that to him before. Later, they were still sitting on the couch. “I’m sorry about all that,” Diggory said, still feeling strange about telling her everything…He felt relieved, though. Somehow, he felt human. “It’s okay,” she said again, and looked at him. They looked at each other for what seemed like ages, and suddenly Diggory couldn’t hold back any longer. He pulled her close and kissed her softly…gently. He felt afraid, but he couldn’t stop. He loved her, and he knew it. He was sure that she loved him…maybe. He had never kissed Angie this way…He couldn’t imagine kissing anyone but Lily this way. It felt strange to him; he hadn’t kissed anyone in a long time, and he felt like he was in a daze. He pulled her even closer, and he barely noticed that she was beginning to struggle. He was kissing her more and more deeply. He was so, so hungry… She pulled away from him suddenly and jumped up from the couch. She backed away from him as he stared at her. He was afraid of having scared her; she was so delicate. She only said, “I have to go, Diggory,” and abruptly walked out of the house. He followed her to the door and watched her as she ran down the sidewalk in the rain. From the back, the way she was running looked almost like someone struggling in deep water…drowning. The words he’d wanted to say to her were drowning, too. He tried to grab onto them, but couldn’t…I love you, he thought, still watching her. He shut his door after she was out of sight, already hearing the music in his head, threading itself together. *** Diggory was eating lunch a week later with Bryan, who’d finally persuaded Diggory to let him pay. Bryan had black, curly hair and a beard. He also had a round face with glowing cheeks. He frequently wore a Metallica shirt that he’d gotten at one of their concerts. He wore bandannas, sometimes to hide his curly hair. He was unusually soft-spoken for someone who

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looked like he belonged to a biker gang. It was always comical to watch the expressions on the faces of waitresses when they heard him speak for the first time. After several minutes, Diggory told him about Lily, and about what had happened. Bryan seemed shocked that Diggory had met someone in the first place, but then they hadn’t talked in a while. Diggory showed him a picture of her on his phone, a picture he looked at all the time, even after she’d run away from him. After a moment, Bryan said, “I know her from high school.” “Really?” “Yeah.” The way he said it made Diggory feel leery. He could always sense when something was coming, especially from Bryan. Bryan waited a moment, then said, “During our senior year, she had this boyfriend. I think he was a football player. They went to a party one night, and she got drunk. He and his friends…well…” He trailed off. He didn’t like to talk about things like that. He concluded, “It was awful. No one would take her side, and she dropped out of school after things got really bad. Her parents even started getting death threats.” Diggory felt like his heart had been eaten out of his hand. So that was why. That was why she’d run into the rain… Suddenly, his phone rang. It was Intern Richard, to his surprise. Intern Richard wanted to rehire him. No one was making as many sales, and they were needing to increase their employee count again. Diggory was speechless. He managed to say that he would accept the offer. In the back of his mind, something nagged at him, but he ignored it. He needed money, and fast. He didn’t care that he hated that office and that it made him feel like a corpse. He needed money, and he needed to get out of that awful house that he was trapped in. That night, he got up enough nerve to go see Lily. He stepped in quietly as he looked at her where she stood, at the counter. She didn’t say anything, but she stared at him, and then Diggory saw it. He saw it behind her eyes as he had from the beginning, and now he understood. It moved behind her eyes wildly, and it looked to Diggory as if he were watching a storm from a window in a peaceful room. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” “How did you-?” “I know Bryan Spark. I was telling him about you, and…” He trailed off, just as Bryan had. She didn’t speak. He saw tears in her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked. “I thought you would think of me badly, and I…I want you to like me, Diggory.” “I do like you, Lily. Nothing’s changed. Don’t you know that?” He came close to her and took her in his arms. “It’s okay,” he said as she cried. He did the same for her as she had done for him. He knew then that, standing in that dim music shop as he held her, he would stay with her for the rest of his life. “Audition,” she whispered as she lifted her head and looked at him. “I can’t,” Diggory said. “I’ve been hired back at Ready Insurance.” Her face held a confused expression. “I thought you hated that place.” “I do, but I need money, Lily. I need it now. I can’t wait long enough to audition and see what happens.”

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Lily only sighed, but didn’t pursue it any further. Diggory went back to work, Lily stopped talking about the Portland Symphony Orchestra, and they began to see each other all the time. Diggory was happy – happier than he’d been in a long time. He still thought about Angie a lot, but he wasn’t mourning anymore. He would always love her, but not the way he loved Lily. He and Lily never talked about the day she had run away from him, although she apologized for it a lot. Diggory felt worried that maybe she didn’t feel the same about him as he did about her. How can that be true, though, when I can see her heart from her eyes? Diggory didn’t know. *** Diggory was eating lunch one day in his office when his phone rang. He thought it would be Angie’s dad, but it wasn’t. A female voice said, “Is this Diggory Phelps?” “Yes,” he answered. He thought maybe it was someone wanting to buy a policy, and he felt excited. “I’m Morgan Leyland. I’m a friend of Angie’s. Do you remember when Angie opened another bank account after she became sick?” “Yes. She just told me…” “She lied. It’s an account she began to save money for you. She put money into it until she died. Just before she passed away, she asked me to be the overseer. She gave me some more money she’d wanted to put into it, and instructed me to take all of the money out of it and keep it for you myself until now, since she wouldn’t be able to put any more money into it. I’ve tried to reach you for a week.” “My phone was out…I wasn’t able to pay the electric bill.” “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that anymore.” Diggory asked her why Angie hadn’t wanted him to know until almost four years after she’d died, and Morgan said, “She didn’t want her parents to know about the account. She thought you would tell them without thinking and that they would try to guilt you into giving them all of the money.” When Diggory asked her what the amount was, and after she answered him, he thought he saw a flash in the corner of his eye…Angie’s eyes? …like fire coals…He thought of all the extra hours Angie had begun to take at the store, and all the times she had been secretive about the money she was making. It had all been for him – for his sake. For a moment, he thought he saw Angie smile in his mind. Diggory Phelps, now that you’ve won all of this cash, what are you going to do now? Well, for starters… After work, he went to Mount Tabor and played. For the first time, he heard his own music. He looked at the trees, like he’d done so many times before. The darkness behind them as the sun went down wasn’t as dark anymore. *** The auditorium was completely black, except for one bright light hanging from the center of the high ceiling. It was Diggory’s turn…Finally, it was his turn. He played slowly at first, feeling the notes slide into place. Soon, the music grew rapid. He closed his eyes, and saw himself standing in front of Lily as the sunlight radiated from behind her like angels’ wings…The angel and the vampire…

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When he was finished, he heard one of the judges’ pens hit the floor. He knew he’d made it by looking at their expressions when the auditorium lights came back on. He was the last to audition that day. Lily ran onto the stage suddenly. She hugged him close after he’d put his violin in its case, and he stroked her hair. They looked at each other, and he kissed her like he’d kissed her that night. He wasn’t sure what kind of chance he was taking this time. She let him kiss her, and he didn’t feel so afraid. The words were hanging on the edge of his lips, about to let themselves fall into the ocean…but they weren’t going to drown this time. “I love you,” he told her, finally feeling worthy enough to say it. “I love you, too, Diggory,” she replied, and he saw that the storm behind her eyes had stopped. The spell had been broken. They stayed in the auditorium for hours after that, and Diggory played a piece that he had written just for her that day. For the first time in his life, Diggory Phelps felt like he was home.

Josee Vaughn

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Color Cave digital

Matt Smith 22

Head to Toe an Intoxicating Jubilee. Keep calm. Losing breaths. Moving forward. Now One Person Quits. Relax they say, Stop worrying. Tick tock Under the gun. Variations, Waltzes, Xanthippe. Young dreamers with a Zeal for life. Assemblè Ballerina. Count 5, 6, 7, 8. Don’t look down. Enticing Fouettès. Grand jetè.



Tina Firquain 23

Translation Celery acrylic

Chloe Richards 24

Hidden Secrets LESSON 7

GONE IS THE SADDEST WORD IN ANY LANGUAGE.

When Johnny told me the news I collapsed. “It was a hit and run,” he said, “It was quick. She didn’t suffer.” They only thing the police could tell us about the accident was that her car went over the edge, crashed, then exploded. The wreckage was discovered by a local resident. They had seen the smoke when they were drawn to the window as a car sped past their house. The police returned what few items survived the explosion. One of the items was her small heart shaped pendent. She had worn the necklace since I was a baby. It had been scorched, but somehow survived. I had always assumed she kept a picture of me in it, but was surprised and confused to find a small gold key. The world was silent as they lowered her casket into the ground. I did my best to be strong, but lost all composer as it sank. Uncle James took me into his arms. I clung to his sturdy broad shoulders as my tears ran down the lapel of his navy blue suit. Although, black is the traditional color of mourning everyone was dressed in bright colors. My mother was a vibrant woman, full of color and life, and that’s how she wanted to be remembered. She always said she didn’t want people wearing black to her funeral. She wanted to be remembered through celebration not mourning. People talked about her heart, her spirit, and how the angels must be rejoicing to have their sister home. The crowd started to clear as the workers began to fill in her grave. I ran my hands across her picture as Mona wrapped her slender arms around me. She was dressed in purple, Mom’s favorite color. I clung to her purple dress as if it was my last chance to touch that heavily entity that had been my mother. I starting having nightmares again a few days after her death. I roamed the hallways of our house seeing ghost around every corner. The only thing that seemed to comfort me was the photo albums with her pictures in them. I began to carry them around the house with me. Laying them in and around every room. Uncle James and Mona took turns keeping an eye on me. Life without my mother didn’t seem worth living. I stared out the window night after night wondering what she had wanted to talk to Uncle James and me about. I curled up in her old room, her old bed, clinging to her pillow wishing this was a nightmare I could wake up from. Then one night after wondering the halls and falling asleep in her room I awoke to the sound of sirens. The room was engulfed in flames. I began gasping for air as the smoke filled my lungs. I was frozen in place, unable to move, unable to speak. I was in my nightmare, surrounded by fire, trapped with no way out. The flames towered over me as if they were laughing at me, taunting me. I grasped my mother’s necklace that I had been wearing and stumbled from the bed to the floor. The next thing I remember is being put into the ambulance as I watched the fire roar out of control.

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I was kept in the hospital for several days. Mona was by my bedside every night and Uncle James every morning. People stopped by to bring flower and cards trying to convey their sorrow for the turn of events which had befallen me, but I just stared off into the distance. The doctors prescribed me sleeping medication because I started waking up in the middle of the night screaming. I would jump out of bed pouring with sweat clutching my mother’s necklace terrified of the shadows that were chasing me. The day I was released from the hospital I tried to convince Mona and Uncle James to take me to the house, but the doctors had advised them against it saying it may cause me undue stress. However, when I was strong enough to walk on my own two feet I found my way back to it. There was nothing left of my mother’s house, nothing but a pile of ashes. I wondered through the ashes thinking about all that I had lost. Our home was destroyed. The place where we had so many memories, gone. The porch I kissed my first boyfriend on, gone. The kitchen where Mom taught me to cook, gone. The room I grew up in, gone. The pictures of my father, my mother, and me, gone. I sat in the ashes for an hour before Mona and Uncle James drove up in her car. “Grace,” Mona sat beside me as I looked at her with tears in my eyes. “It’s all gone, Mona. She’s all gone.” I wiped my eyes. “What am I supposed to do now?” “I don’t know, but you’re not alone,” she pushed my hair back behind my ears. “Baby girl,” Uncle James said as he sat on the other side of me. “We’re going to get through this.” “I don’t want to get through it. I want her back. I need her back. I can’t believe she’s gone.” They put their arms around me as I cried and sat there with me in the ashes till I was ready to leave. LESSON 25 SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO BE CRAZY ENOUGH TO GET YOUR POINT ACROSS “What do we do now?” I asked my father as we sped down the road. “We leave town.” “Leave town! When are we coming back?” “I don’t know.” His eyes were fixed on the road. “I can’t just leave town. What about Mona and Uncle James?” “Right now the best thing to do is put some distance between us and the bad guys.” “Just exactly who are the bad guys and what is it they want.?” I bit my lip feeling uncertain about my choice. “That’s a little more than I can explain right now.” He pulled into the parking lot of a hotel. “Get out.” I followed him out of the car, to his hotel room and watched as he began packing his belongings. “I don’t want to leave.” He stopped, sighed, and looked up. “We have to go Pumpkin Patch,” he zipped, buckled up his bags, and sat them by the door. “We have to put some distance between us and,” he wobbled his head, “the bad guys.”

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“Where are we going?” “I know a safe place.” He began wiping down the room. “Where?” I stood straight. “You’ll see when we get there.” “But we are coming back, right?” “I,” he sighed heavily, “I don’t know.” “We have to come back!” I snapped. “Grace,” he stepped toward me. “I’m sorry.” “I need to know.” “Know what?” he looked puzzled. “I need to know what I’m giving everything up for.” “There’s no time.” “Then I’m not going.” I sat down on the bed. “Grace, we don’t have time for this,” he opened the door and motion for us to leave. “I’m not leaving without an explanation,” I crossed my arms. “Grace!” “I’m not leaving!” “Okay,” he said sitting down beside me. “I really hate to do this.” “Do what?” I leaned away from him. “This.” He reached out in once swift motion and plunged a needed into my neck. I got dizzy and blacked out. When I came to we were in a new car and streaming down the interstate. “Where are we?” I sat up wiping drool from my mouth. “Almost there.” His eyes never left the road. “Almost where?” “Somewhere safe.” “I need you to tell me what’s going on.” I glanced around to see an umbrella laying in the back seat. “It’s not the time.” he said still facing forward. “Not the time,” I grabbed the umbrella and started hitting him. “It’s never the time, is it?” he snatched it from me and tossed it out the window. So, I grabbed the steering wheel and continued to yell. “I have been kidnapped, forced into a highway chase, shot at, and almost blown up.” The car swerved side to side. “What are you doing?” the car jerked as we struggled over the wheel. “You’re going to cause us to crash.” “And what was that you injected in my neck?” I took one hand off the wheel, balled it into a fist, and started punching him. “Nothing harmful,” he tried to defend himself with one hand and steer with the other. “I needed to get you out of there.” “Well I need answers!” I kept hitting him.

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“And you can’t think of a way to get them sensibly?” I stopped hitting him and let go of the wheel. “Get them sensibly!” I said calmly than paused to take a deep breath and started punching him with both fist. “You think I haven’t tried to be reasonable?” he let go of the wheel to defend himself. We swerved hard to the right and I smacked back against the passenger door. “It would have been reasonable for you and Mom to come and tell me truth before all this shit started.” I sighed holding my head. “You don’t understand.” He regained his focus on the road. I huffed, leaned back against the door, pulled my legs up, and started kicking. “I’m tired of you telling me that I don’t understand.” I began kicking the side of his legs. “Do you think I want to be on the run?” I moved up to his sides as he tried to deflect my kicks with one arm. “Do you think I like people trying to kill me?” I began kicking at his head, “Maybe if you would tell me what the hell is going on I might understand why people I never meant are trying to kill me.” “All right, all right, Rosy, stop,” he shouted as I froze in place. “I’m sorry, Grace,” he pulled off to the side of the road and put the car in park. “You’re as crazy as your mother,” he smiled. “What do you want to know first?”



Jena Krumrine

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Untitled graphite

David Tilles

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Renewal Briesanne stood before the large transparent wall of the magnificent building and read the inscription etched into it: STEP ACROSS THE THRESHHOLD AND FIND PEACE!!!!!!!!! (Renew Your Mind) She was pushed into the wall. Hordes of people were running in various directions. No one ran into the building. Vehicles were speeding and careening through traffic lights that were flashing green, yellow, and red simultaneously. Those little men figures on the corners that indicated when to cross the street were standing still. The crossing figures and Briesanne were the only figures exhibiting any similitude of stillness. Face pressed against the transparent wall, Briesanne could see inside the building that promised peace. She quickly turned away from the building and flattened her back against it. There were not very many people inside that building, but those there looked oblivious to the noise and panic she was experiencing. What would she have to do to get that type of peace? She had heard rumors that few people who went into this building ever came out, and those that did were not the same; that they looked the same, but they were different; not normal – insane. She felt crazy now. There had been no peace here in this place for years. While the country fought against other countries for global power, the citizens fought among themselves for personal power. Freedom they called it. Freedom to do what? Freedom from what? There had been a lot of fighting going on to gain peace and protect all of that freedom for hundreds of years. As the chaos escalated around her, Briesanne fought the temptation to run against the flow of the chaotic and panicked crowd and enter the building that promised peace. Then she remembered the words to a song she had heard when she was young, and she understood what it meant to be tired of living but afraid to die. There was a deafening explosion. The ground shook under Briesanne and people around her screamed, but they didn’t stop moving, running toward an unknown destination. She wondered which freedom had just cost the lives of who knows how many people. The swarm of people rushing past her caught her in their movement and she was swept harder and faster along the sidewalk several feet past the entrance to the possibility of peace. The horde pushed, pummeled, scratched, and kicked Briesanne as they forced her along their path. The pain was breaking her body and her heart. So many people talking of freedom for all and peace for all, yet causing so much pain. How had this pain happened? Talk of peace had been in the news for centuries. Briesanne had been born in a world of words and talk: Talk of freedom for her race. Talk of freedom for her gender. Talk of freedom for her beliefs or non-beliefs. Talk of freedom for her speech. Talk of freedom for her body. Talk of freedom for her words. The words were plentiful enough – they just weren’t the right words, and now she was surrounded by chaos and war and death and fear – and alone. She had lost, both

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physically and emotionally, family and friends in the fight for the freedoms each individual and group demanded. She slumped with her back against a dark wall, tired, weary, in pain, and on the verge of giving up. She didn’t know what the building was behind her. The wall was not transparent. She didn’t know if people were inside. As she looked from side to side she didn’t see an entrance. She slumped further down until she sat on the cold concrete covered with expectorant, garbage, and waste of the humanity that had pushed her down, then pushed past her and refused to help her up for fear of losing the possibility of whatever freedom they sought. As Briesanne sat and was stepped over, stepped on, and ignored, the noise that surrounded her had become deafening. There were bombs bursting everywhere, car bombs spraying metal and people in all directions, missiles demolishing buildings, people shrieking, babies – oh, the babies, the babies crying louder than ever and with a frightening sound. Even the animals growled and howled. Then, Briesanne, with horror, realized that the sound was not the howls and growls of animals but of humans. Knowing that she would not survive if she stayed where she was, unable to stand without help, she crawled on her hands and knees alongside the dark wall, through the waste and garbage on the cold concrete sidewalk to the building that offered peace. It took what felt like decades of crawling under the feet of those running and moving in chaotic frenzy, but Briesanne finally inched her way to the transparent door. She cracked open the door at the bottom with bloodied fingers and immediately it was opened wide enough for her to crawl through. She was lifted from the ground and placed in a chair. She surveyed her surroundings. She found that the wall was only transparent from the outside. The door had been opened and she had been placed in the chair by a being not quite human. It was human-like but had an opal-like transparency. It emanated a light, but not a blinding one. There were others that looked the same, but had different qualities. Briesanne could not comprehend or explain the differences. The gender of the beings was indeterminable. There were no discernible differences among the beings. The motions of the being were gentle and calming. Several beings surrounded Briesanne, but she did not feel threatened as they began to clean her body and clothing of the dirt, grime, and waste that had attached to her as she crawled to their door. There was no noise, but it was not silent either. There was the gentle sound of rain – a cleansing rain, a peaceful rain – the rain for which she longed. “Where do I find peace?” Briesanne asked quietly. “You must undergo our treatments,” the being answered. “You must become as we are.” “May I leave here if I don’t want to undergo your treatments?” The being nodded. “You are free to go at any time.” “I am free to go any time I want. Will I still have that freedom and keep my peace, if I stay?” “You have always possessed freedom because you possessed the ability to make choices. What hindered your freedom was your fear. Fear of the consequences of your choices. Fear of not having power and control over not only your own life, but at times the lives of others. Fear of being seen as insignificant in the eyes of others. Fear of sacrificing the “I” for the “Other.” “ What do you mean by ‘sacrificing the ‘I’ for the ‘Other’?“ Briesanne asked. “You and your kind talk and write of peace. You desire them and have fought for them and died for them,

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but none of you have discovered the place where you must begin to find peace. You must undergo our treatment.” “I am afraid that the rumors are true about this building. If I undergo your treatment to achieve peace, I will die. If I choose life and leave here, I will be considered insane,” Briesanne whispered. There was a decade of silence. Briesanne asked, “Will your treatments hurt? What do I have to do?” “They will not harm you. When you have completed our treatment, you will have peace. “What do I have to do?” “Use your freedom to make the choice to change the way you think. Make the choice to see others as you see yourself. Make the choice to put the ‘Other’ before – the ‘I’. When you make the choice, you will see a difference in yourself, and others.” Hesitating, Briesanne held her hand out to the being. “But, I want to leave when I’m done. I want to see my family and friends again.” The being took her hand and the others surrounded her joining their hands. Briesanne leaned back in the chair and looked up toward the ceiling, which was as transparent as the wall had been from the outside. For a moment, she saw past the clouds. Before she could comprehend what she saw, the being closest to her whispered in her ear, “It is completed.” Surrounded by the beings, Briesanne was guided to the door. “We wish you well,” they seem to sing all at once. As Briesanne stepped through the door, she looked down at herself and saw that she looked the same as the beings. She turned to ask them if they saw the change, but the door had closed. She slowly turned to face the street, wondering how many people would be horrified at her transformation. No one seemed to notice. Briesanne braced herself against the wall, stood tall, and began to walk against the flow of the frenzied horde.



Joyce Butler

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Prisoner of Fate acrylic Surendra Thapa 33

Eight Minutes

It takes about eight minutes for the light of the sun to reach the earth, she remembered reading in a science book, while other stars may take years or even thousands and billions of years. It was funny how this particular reading came to mind on the day it did. On a college campus with thousands of others, she was only one small dot in a sea of pixels—take a picture of the crowd and you weren’t likely to notice her. She was quiet, tucked away in the shadows like she always was. Even her hair was the color of darkness. Her eyes were almost as dark—she had to face the sun for the golden-green to be noticed. She had only turned her face away from it for just a moment when a sea of exclamations and questions rose up around her. Our nondescript twenty-something raised her head in puzzlement, wondering what had caught their attention. They were in a building that was at least one-third glass. It had been built specifically to let sunlight in at nearly all hours of the day. She’d written stories and studied by this very same window, gazing out at the view of the rest of the grounds and the hills and woods beyond. Now, the light was changing, wavering. She had only glanced at the sun itself for a split second—it would be the last time she ever saw it. The glowing orb, both a kindness and a killer, was throbbing and pulsing like someone’s frightened heart. Its beat was erratic, its rounded surface seeming to tremble. Then, it burst. The sun exploded with a force that sent a shockwave into Earth itself, making the planet under her feet tremble. Watching the bright flare of blinding white-gold expanding outward followed by a growing purple-black darkness in the middle, she felt her stomach cringe and spoke to the only one that could calm her: Please, Lord, if it’s Your Will that I be with you today, please come and get me! There had been so many signs for so long that the world couldn’t continue on the path it was on. She’d done the best she could in hopes that everything would work out in the end. Breath ragged, she continued to stare where the sun had just been. Earth was now receiving its final eight minutes of sunlight; she knew that it would soon be shrouded in darkness. The moon would also grow dark, for there was nothing for it to reflect. Her fearfulness was cut short, however, because she saw everyone gravitating toward something. Puzzled, she went away from the glass and stood on her tiptoes and tried to see what had their attention. After negotiating her way through the crowd and trying not to bump anyone, she saw him. In the old days, it was said that his first form wasn’t very impressive, either. He had been an average man, average height, average weight for the day. People speculated what he’d looked like, but the trouble was that they just couldn’t fathom an ordinary skin holding an extraordinary soul. This form was just as confusing as the first probably was—he was a small build for a man with slender bones. His skin was fair this time and he had shaggy strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes, and glasses. There was no facial hair and he wore the same generic jeans, T-shirt, and sweatshirt with rolled up sleeves as the other men around him. But none of the others were fooled— guys, girls, dark, pale, large and small alike were clamoring for his attention. Even the ones who didn’t want to admit it were drawn to him. The ink-haired girl especially was drawn to him—she felt a sudden overwhelming desire to get his attention. It was as if she were seeing s shirt. Like the

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woman in the Bible who had suffered excessive bleeding for over a decade, the ink-haired girl knew it was going to be all right if she just didn’t give up. Her faith hadn’t been in vain, for he turned his gentle gaze on her. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t have to. Just as she had seen under his skin, he could see under hers as well. He knew her phoenix-like abilities to rise from difficult situations because he had created her—he knew her name and every secret thought she had. Dawn, this woman’s name was, because she had found a new beginning when she’d begun to believe in him. There was no more sun, but that didn’t mean all light was gone forever. In the midst of all that chaos, he took Dawn’s hand, watching her wide dark eyes filled with both nerves and excitement. Dawn could hear her heart beating in her ears and it was as if the rest of the world was receding. But her heart didn’t stop as she expected. Instead, an invisible spark passed from palm to palm, racing up her arm and spreading through her body. There was no spectacular light show, no singing choir, no stereotypical sign that anything had taken place—but that didn’t make it any less divine. Suddenly, her weak and weary body seemed to come alive with an energy she hadn’t known since she was a child. “How do you feel now?” he asked her quietly. “Alive,” she answered, “like I could run and run and run and never get tired.” “Then do it!” He kept hold of her hand and began to sprint. Much to her surprise, she kept up and didn’t get short of breath. It felt so easy, so effortless! He led her up a ladder and onto a scaffold where some workers had been making repairs. She felt the board tremble under her weight and fall, but something even more miraculous than the healing happened: she and her savior were running side by side in the air! Giggling and breathless, she cherished the feeling of being weightless, of defying gravity itself. She wasn’t afraid. She would never be afraid again. The world around her disappeared, however, and dissolved into golden light. No! Come back! She sat up in bed, realizing that she’d fallen asleep unexpectedly. Still feeling the sensation of pressure on her hand, she stared at it for a moment, then looked around. She was alone, her fiancée was at work, and images of what she had seen were still blurring with things that she saw now. Her eyes landed on the digital alarm clock whose display was flashing “0:08” in bright green letters. Next to it was her golden ring with a crucifix on it. The tiny Jesus was facing her, glinting brightly in the sunset light like a promise. I will never leave you, he said.

Dawn Frazier

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THE AWAKENING OF THE SEA Walk along the hallowed shore Where the waves idly rush forevermore Shells sit patiently, watching from below While sprouts of seaweed wave to and fro Further out, deep into the sea Creatures are swimming in a sporadic jubilee Light trickles down while bubbles slowly rise Gifts from the fishes to their neighbor-the sky And in that scene of eternal remission Impeded a woman, a disruptive vision Flailing her arms in no natural way She was forcing fate’s hand, an intrusion to stay Now, resting by ships on the dark ocean floor Life pays her no bother, just as it had before

Hannah Jones

Divine Wind Wind-sailor, Cloud-jumper, flying so high, Floating, I’m boating on waves of the sky, Waters below me and beauty above. Yet, I’m left thinking of land that I love. The rising sun sets, it bows to the west; Waves of nostalgia now burn through my chest And yet I fly on. Much honor I bear Pushing me forward through enemy air Into the twilight. I am as a ghost, Dead to my country, a spirit at most, Soaring on glory of honor in death. All I can hear is the sound of my breath. Then with a plunge into eternity, I crash to the cries of “Kamikaze!”

Trevor Robinson 36

Untitled ink drawing Hannah Jones

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Full of Time

I look at my plate and it is so full.

Mostly it seems full of not enough time. Time can be so very power-ful. Some believe we look at time foolishly. The world is full of precious passing moments. It has been said time is money and I am fully broke. Isn’t it aw-ful how we waste both? Youthful, I thought I couldn’t wait to get older. I was so full of myself then, when time was wasted on foolishness. Thank-ful, is what I should be, that I lived through the stupidity. Now joyfully I re-evaluate my full plate…

Kristina Bruce



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Freedom acrylic Surendra Thapa

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Chapter One of the Legacy of Mosoon: Book 1 A long time ago, in a faraway land, there lived a ruthless rapist, murderer, blasphemer, and

in all manner of things, an evil demon. Quite a pleasant beginning, is it not? Perhaps stories need darker introductions to help us understand the extent of the trials, to know the power of the dark roads. A reminder of our mortality, in which we have fallibility. I cannot presume to know the name of every human on my home planet; I can assert, however, that each of us has, at one point or another, witnessed true evil, and witnessed true beauty. Good and evil are simple truths. There is no complexity to their structure, no mindless jurisdiction to their status. They are what they are, and they have always been. Since the days when Adam walked among the beauty of Eden, our perception has been clear, and our identification has been, at best, unhindered in recognizing these elements. Was Mosoon any different than us? Could Mosoon, the Haven of Hope, center of the Chain of Worlds, be devoid of such simple and well known mortality? The better question would be, is there a civilization without sin? It is the debate of ages. It is the essence of all trials in relationships: that we perceive what others fail to see, that we thrive on what would best be left to the halls of debate. In essence: no. In further essence, as there is no civilization that lives without sin...so too is there no civilization without salvation. Without hope. Without, as many would dare to speak it, an Aurelias. What is an Aurelias? What does that strange word mean? Such an odd word. On Earth, the Anglo-Saxon name Aurelius is derived from the Latin aurum, which means, “gold”. Gold is the essential part of the human spirit, that intent to do good, the obsession with being surrounded by good. It is a natural element within the people to desire that status, that beautiful, guiltless way. What, then, is the purpose of the Aurelias? It is simple. The Aurelias was meant to remind us of that. Nothing more, nothing less. A wise man once said, “You are good people, yet sometimes you forget.” Earth has its Aurelias. The Aurelias, in fact. He walked among His people, and instructed them in the ways of God. He bled for them, died for them, rose for them. In all manner of things, the Aurelias thrived in the very essence that God given, for the Aureliases were, are, the messengers of God. Not the warriors, as has been set in stone by the Chain of Worlds, but the messengers. The Reminders. The power of reminder has such effects on human spirit, and it was nothing less of that when Gron Hatchat walked the lands of Mosoon, a sister world to Earth in the Chain. “Bengi, are we getting close?” The frantic man finally had to speak. He had been pacing back and forth for a half hour now, his head arting to look over to the far eastern door of this great, brightly lit chamber. Inside of the room beyond it was his wife, and tonight was both special and terrifying. The man was sweating all over and his breathing was faster than it should have been. He was scared- very scared. Bengi smiled softly. This man was a dwarf compared to the pacing man, standing at only three foot eight, but in this moment he seemed so much taller; his eyes shining as brightly as the blue flame torches that lit this large, old stone chamber, his luminescence more than just physical, literal light.

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“The time is nearing, I’m sure. Once Persia’s finished with the last of the injections, she’ll have to rest for another half hour. It shouldn’t be too long...” But even he, with all of his evident faith, hardly dared to believe his own words. This was not going to be a normal birthing process and he and everyone else knew it. That was why Kilok was in such a state. He knew what his wife was about to deliver, and Kilok Hatchat was not an easy man to startle. He had been in many battles inside of Mosoon and out, leading small squadrons of forces against overwhelming odds against some of the most dangerous people in the Chain of Worlds, and yet Hawkglade soldiers were miniscule in their delivery of fear when it came to this For several thousand years, Mosoon had prepared for this since Shekah the Seer’s vision that foretold the coming of the Hatchat baby, who would, in all essence be identified as an Aurelias. For eight thousand years, Jeelea had dedicated itself to protecting the Hatchat family, and there had been much blood; much unnecessary sacrifice. Jeelea, footstool of the worlds, with all of its power God gave, had fought an unending war against Shadow Gelix over the birth of the Hatchat child, for Attuck Saron had been relentless in his quest to purge the Hatchat family from existence. But then, if you were a murderous, soul stealing demon, and a prophecy was made concerning your fall at the hands of a child who would not be born of eight thousand years, perhaps you might be as persistent. “I am coming.” Kilok and Bengi both looked up. The voice had only spoken for a brief second, but it had been so clear in its tone, so powerful in its three, simple words. Both men had heard it, and both had felt the warmth that came with it. “Is it him?” Kilok breathed. “I imagine so. He sees to be letting us know that the time is coming. Fairly soon, I would gander.” “Well, I wish he’d hurry up, I hate suspense.” “Kilok, he’s your son. Give the boy some time, every child has to prepare for this moment. God gives us nine months to ready ourselves for the world...and sometimes, I’m not quite sure if it’s enough.” He chuckled, his eyes twinkling, and Kilok closed his eyes, laughing as well. “You’re right, you’re right...I don’t know what’s going on with me. I’ve ever felt this way...I mean, I have, back when S-...well, I feel that fear again. That beautiful, so much desired fear. Bengi, I need some evaluation.” “You’re a daddy,” Bengi replied almost at once, in the most powerful form of simplicity. “You’re a daddy. I do not believe that necessity falls upon a further explanation.” “Don’t be so poetic. Tell me, should I be afraid?” “Of course you should, Kilok. You are a father. That’s the scariest job in the world, believe me, I know it. I was one, remember?” “So was I...” Kilok breathed, trying not to think on it. “It’s just...I keep thinking back...to...” Kilok’s throat caught, and his face quivered. Bengi cleared his throat loudly. Now was not the time to bring that up. Kilok did not need to dwell on the dark past, not now. Not on this most beautifully blessed night. “Would you shut up, dad?” “Watch your mouth, boy,” Kilok said firmly, looking up and searching the thin air. “You’re not even born yet, don’t make me ground you before you escape your first cell.” “Well, then, stop breathing like a madman.”

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“Fine,” Kilok registered, waving finned hands down his chest, taking in inhale to exhale. “I’m okay. I won’t freak out so much anymore, alright?” “Thanks. I’m about to come out in a little while. Be strong for me, I’ll need you.” “You have my word, son,” Kilok promised his unborn child. “What did he ask of you?” pried Bengi, looking inquiringly at Kilok. Kilok beamed at the man, but also was bemused. “You couldn’t hear him?” “No. I understood, of course, that you were speaking with him, but I heard nothing.” “Odd...why did you hear the first thing that he said, then?” “Probably because he wanted me to hear it. You’re his father. He needs to begin learning the value of privacy with you, speaking with you, and you alone, on matters that only you can understand, Kilok.” “He said I needed to shut up and stop being so anxious. He said he needed me, that he’s about to be born.” “Alright, then, let’s get to work!” Bengi cried out joyously, clapping his hands together hard and jumping down to his feet from the tabletop he had been sitting upon. Kilok nodded, and together the two men began to make their way across the empty chamber and towards the door where his wife awaited them along with the two nurses. The room beyond the door was much smaller than the chamber that Bengi and Kilok had been waiting in. It was rounded and edged along the walls were tables crowned with a wide variety of medical aids. Packs filled with a glistening, glowing golden fluid were heaped in a small pile on one table, each labeled “Healing Salve, Class V”. The Siren milk and herbs inside of them were powerful restoratives imported directly from the kingdom of Mystica, from the world called Earth. Next to this pile was a cordless heart monitor with tubes connected to the woman who lay on a long table in the middle of the room, breathing lightly, her eyes closed in her sleep. She was beautiful and had aged well, forty-two years of majestic quality. Persia Hatchat’s golden threads were untouched by the gray of ages, and her smooth, tanned skin bore no evidence of wrinkles, a fact that Persia acknowledged as a great disappointment, as she had not yet earned the wisdom of her years. Kilok enjoyed taunting her about this, having the mischievous blood of a jester, reminding her of how foolish of a woman she truly was, to which his loving wife would reply with a fireball to the face. It was one thing to tease a woman. It was quite another, and a very dangerous another, to tease a Majon, the maidens of destructive energy, who harnessed the very power of fire and lightning at their fingertips. But he loved her, and she loved him. It was that simple-a story untouched by baba crap. She looked at peace, and that was a contentment for Kilok all in itself. Like music, it filled him with hope that this was not going to be nearly as bad as he was making it out to be. “She had the last of her injections?” Kilok questioned the two figures in the shadowy part of the room, who were crouched over a far table, examining a bowl of what he knew was his wife’s blood. The shorter of the two, an elderly woman who looked about Bengi’s age (at least eighty years), turned to face Kilok, surprised at his sudden arrival. “We just administered the last of it, yes, but what are you doing in here, Kilok?”

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“It’s time, Aretha.” “What do you mean? She’s just had an injection of a Class II Pre-Genesis, but it won’t be another-” “It’s time,” Kilok cut in, firmly, with as much calmness and kindness as he could muster. “Trust me, I know. My son’s told me.” “Has he now?” asked the old man standing beside Aretha. This man was a gangly sort, strange in his appearance. The top of his head was devoid of hair, and his skin, though pale, had several patches of red about it, and his nose was very long and crooked. With his pitch black, colorless eyes, he resembled a very odd human vulture. “So that voice we just heard...I’m not insane, then?” “Well, I don’t know about that, Abe, but you certainly did hear a voice,” Kilok said all too seriously, bending down beside his wife and grasping her hand gently. Her skin felt slightly cold. It scared her. What was it like, giving birth to an Aurelias? “That voice...was your son?” breathed Aretha, her eyes wide with amazement. “Indeed, it was. I heard him too,” Bengi assured her, coming over to stand beside her, his Santa Claus beard pouring over her elder hand as he took it gently. “He’s coming any minute now. We must prepare. The moment she gives signs, we will spring into action. We have to wait, but not for long.” “Oh, dear...I wasn’t aware that Aureliases could actually force themselves to be born!” Abraham the Vulture Man exclaimed. “Any baby will do that, Abe,” Aretha corrected him. “They’re more stubborn than we are. I suppose that little Gron only had the added bonus of telling us.” “He’s a smart kid,” Kilok laughed, rubbing Persia’s hand softly in his, stroking it so delicately. She was his flower, and he wondered just how wilted she would be after this was all over. She had already made it through one pregnancy before...but this was different... “So, then, do we utilize the Class V Pre-Genesis injection?” Aretha questioned Bengi. Bengi shook his head. “No, not yet. I have a feeling we won’t need them. Honestly, all of our preparations have been a waste, I believe. This is one baby we know for a fact will make it just fine.” “But Persia, Bengi...” “Is a strong woman.” “It never spoke of-” Bengi stepped on her foot. Instead of crying out in pain or anger, Aretha was silenced at once. Her eyes widened as she realized just what she had been about to say, and the guilt took her. She cast her eyes away from Persia Hatchat as Kilok looked up at her, questioning what she had been about to speak aloud. “She will be fine, yes?” he asked Bengi, and it was almost, horrifyingly, a plea. Bengi smiled, and Kilok, who had known Bengi Staagon since childhood, was content with its presence. Bengi Staagon had several smiles, and those who knew him well could always tell what was going on inside of his head, just by observing those muscles. This was a smile of faith. His faith smile. A smile that had never been, to Kilok Hatchat’s knowledge, wrong. A smile that could move mountains because he believed it so. Of course, what Kilok had never told the old dwarf was that the smile was also kind of creepy, but that was only because Bengi’s eyes were pure silver, in perfect imitation of the midnight moon, and thus it was an eerie, but still assuring,

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combination. “She will be more than fine,” was the answer. But it did not come from Bengi Staagon. It came from below Kilok’s chin, from the woman whose very hand he held in his own right now. Persia Hatchat had awaken from her slumber, and Aretha and Abraham stared in amazement. The injection of the first Pre-Genesis enhancer should have knocked her out for at least a half hour more. “Headache?” Kilok inquired her softly, checking her temperature and stroking her hair out of her face, which was still ragged from the travel. They had journeyed the length of their homeland plus two large empires, just to get to this place. Hundreds and hundreds of miles, weeks of harsh and beautiful weather. But it had been worth it. This place was special. From the begining, the Hatchat family had known that the Mountain Gora would be the birthplace of Gron Bradeno Hatchat II, just as the Hatchat family had known that one day, they would produce the Aurelias of Mosoon, even thousands of years before it happened. “I had a dream,” Persia told her husband. “It was a nice dream, too. You should’ve seen it, Kilok. You should’ve seen him.” “You’re talking about the cargo hold?” “Yeah. Black hair, Kilok. He has your hair, right down to the shape.” She stroked Kilok’s long, wavy dark hair with a trembling hand, something so smooth to touch, like silk. Silk and ice, for it had a frigid feel to it. The man’s chubby cheeks and his small Santa belly bounced as it always did when Kilok Hatchat was ecstatic. “Eyes?” “Piercing blue, Kilok. A subtle green ring around the pupil. He has his grandfather’s eyes.” At this, Kilok closed his eyes, and offered a small prayer to God. Father above, if you may, please tell Dad that we succeeded. He has a clone now, down here. Let him laugh the night away. He returned to Mosoon once more, and looked over to Bengi, Abraham, and Aretha. “He looks like Dad,” he told them, hardly able to contain his glee. “Yes, Kilok, we heard,” chucked Aretha, giving him a thumbs up. “Cause one Gron Hatchat wasn’t enough,” Abraham said sheepishly, though they all knew he was playing. Gron Hatchat the First had been an eccentric man. A Mithrilon ranger, he had dedicated his life to the protection of nature, and in such a life, had slowly began to learn the languages of the creatures of the wilderness, from rabid squirrels to the mighty, grazing baba of the fields. He would often chase the dangerous, panther-like Maguires about their woods, which already was suicide, in his attempts to have true conversation with them, as they had long ago learned the language of the Mosoic people, and thus spoke it very well. “He’s going to be a warrior, no doubt,” Bengi complimented grandly. “The light of Mosoon, sent down to reclaim Mosoon from the sight of Saron. This is indeed the greatest day of Mosoon’s long life.” “Let’s not think about that right now, Bengi,” Persia Hatchat told him, her eyes skyward, softly thanking God for the visions that He had given her. “This is my son’s birthday. And we should talk about-” But she suddenly stopped, and her face, which was ecstatic with brilliant light by her happy features, suddenly greyed to something much darker. Kilok frowned.

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“Honey?” “He’s here...” she breathed, all too suddenly, her eyes wide with fear, and she turned her head to face the door. “He’s coming...” “Who’s coming!?” Kilok exclaimed, and he jumped to his feet at once, looking towards the door. There was a sudden flash of brilliant white light, and in the next second, a sword had appeared in Kilok’s hand. The hilt and blade both were pure white, blazing, blinding in its power, shining with a silver aura around the long, slightly curved blade. Sapphires, their blue intense by the white light, glistened, and the top of the hilt shined like treasure, the top part sculpted into a miniature, flying dragon, its mouth open wide as if blowing invisible fire. The sword lit the small room so much that Aretha, Bengi, and Abraham were having to cover their eyes, and Persia’s were closed. There was indeed something going on, just outside the door. Footsteps echoeing in the chamber just outside. “No one is supposed to know that we’re here,” Bengi breathed. He stepped forward, walking next to Kilok. “Whoever it is, we’ll hold them off. Aretha, Abraham, if you hear fighting, get her out of here at once.” “You know we can’t do that!” breathed Aretha, terrified. “This place-” “I know, I’m sorry...wishful thinking. Wait here, and protect her. Kilok, she’s your wife. You need to stay here and guard her.” “I will guard her,” Kilok replied savagely. “I’ll guard her by taking out any opposition before it reaches her.” And with that, Kilok Hatchat bolted forward, pushing the long, scarlet curtain aside that covered the doorway, pelting into the chamber with his sword at the ready, his eyes filled with malice at any who would enter this place now, at this time. “Don’t fight him...” Persia breathed, her eyes oddly transfixed on a certain part of the ceiling. “Kilok!” But Kilok Hatchat was already gone. He had reached the center of the chamber, and was staring down the intruder now. Bengi was hurrying up behind him, and when he saw the man that Kilok was pointing his sword at, apprehension overcame him at once. “You!” he hissed. Bengi immediately shifted himself into a fighting stance, his hands finned with one before him, his knees bent, ready to respond to the inevitable attack. “You leave this place now.” “Surely that’s no way to greet me,” said the man before him, scratching his chin, bemused. “Surely manners befit such men of your status?” “You have no place here,” Kilok snapped, the blade’s white intensity growing as he said it. “Not tonight!” “As you have entered my country illegally, without registering with the border patrols first, I daresay this is, as has always been, my place, Kilok.” The man shook his head sadly, throwing his curved, blonde bangs out of his face. He was a short man, much shorter than Kilok but not nearly as short as Bengi. He had a rather bulky frame, and on this night, he wore splendid robes of the deepest orange radiance, something like the color of sunset. His face bore a blonde beard to match the hair on the top of his head, and around his forehead he wore a bright red headband. His hazel eyes bored deeply into Kilok’s light green.

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“I have been registered for decades!” Kilok shot back, not backing down. His anger at this man’s presence was almost too much to bear. “I have full rights to be in your country.” “But in this sacred hall, hiding like refugees?” asked the short man. “A terrible, terrible thing, if someone were to discover you here. Especially on tonight, of all nights.” “What do you mean?” demanded Kilok, but before the man could answer him, Bengi cut in. “Our business here is our own. Leave.” “I am well aware of what business you have here.” “I said it is our own. I did not say that it is private.” “And he knows too,” the man pressed on, ignoring the dwarf. Kilok and Bengi froze. They both looked at each other, their breath caught cold in their lungs. “How?” Kilok breathed, losing all defensive manner. He was suddenly terrified, and it was not the same beautiful terror that had been eating at him before. This was true terror. Antagonistic terror. “We’ve kept it-” “Secret? Of course you have. Very well, too. The Ragons, I ask you...” “They’re the defenders of truth in this world!” snapped Bengi, and in his anger, scarlet flames suddenly appeared between his fingers, his eyes blazing with fury. Something about the man before them enraged Bengi so much. Kilok, of course, knew what it was, and he wondered why Hazel Decamo would dare make an appearance here, tonight, before Bengi Staagon. It was one thing to encounter Hazel Decamo outside of the Mountain Gora, because he generally stayed within his palace of Kelzic, ruling over the mighty empire of Sardio behind iron walls and stone doors, and the scales of his beloved pets, the dragons of Sardio. But for him to come to this place, to have found them...not tonight, Hazel, not tonight... “Defenders of truth, keepers of secrets...and yet they spoke so passionately about the Aurelias of Mosoon. ‘To Gora, the mountain of your humble land. Please don’t kill me.’ I did as he asked. I did not kill him. He gave me valuable information. You’ll need to have a word with Augustus Jan, Mr. Staagon, about his priorities. What if it had been Attuck questioning him?” “Then he would have to trap me in Hell itself to stop me from protecting my wife and child,” Kilok swore. “Has he sent you in here to negotiate peacefully? Not his style. Tell him to come and speak with me. I welcome it.” “Kilok, if Attuck were aware of your presence here, believe you me, he would not bother sending me in as a negotiator,” replied Hazel coolly. “I have come of my own accord. I come bearing a gift. Will you accept it?” Bengi and Kilok stood in stunned silence. The air itself was getting hot. It was not a good warmth, but a stuffy disdain. “A gift?” “Yes, Hatchat, a gift. Saxai!” he called in a loud, booming voice (Hazel Decamo has quite a strong, natural bass voice), and the doorway on the other side of the chamber, leading out to the entry hall of the Gora cave where they hid, was suddenly filled with another newcomer. This time it was a woman of most splendor, an hourglass form, her hair long and light orange, her skin the color of a ripe mango. She wore most unique armor, crystallized and transparent, her black pajamas underneath displayed like jewelry. In her hands she carried a large, dark wooden mug, in which something was sloshng around. The mug was so large she had to carry it with

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both hands. As the woman approached, her eyes weary of the dark looks that Kilok and Bengi were giving her and the object she carried, Hazel turned to face her, smiling a small smile, and nodding. Saxai bent down onto one knee, straining to keep the mug from tipping over, and Kilok got a good look at what was inside. A dense, scarlet liquid, which smelled rather odd. “Are you mocking us?” demanded Bengi, trying to keep a level attitude. He understood what going on no more than Kilok did. “Wine derived from the eggs of Melody. You’ve met Melody, haven’t you?” “Yes, I’ve met Melody,” Kilok replied coldly, remembering, bitterly, a time long ago when Hazel Decamo and he had clashed, the former upon the back of a great beast, his personal favorite dragon. She was a beast of notoriety in Sardio, fierce and stone strong, with breath that could melt through solid rock. “Why do you bring this before us?” “It’s a gift, Dad. Let him give it to you, I can’t wait to receive it.” Hazel looked up, a highlighted expression in his features. He had heard Gron speak too. “You stay out of this, Gron,” Kilok said loudly. “You don’t know this man the way I do. You don’t know anyone. You’re not even born yet.” “I know that, but I also know him. He’s...creepy, but he means well...for now...” “See, even your son- hey! Watch your tongue, boy,” Hazel said darkly, holding a threatening finger in the air. “Your son seems to have some mutual alliance with me, at the time. Now, accept this wine, and when he is born, pour it over his forehead. He is christened with the symbolic blood of Sardio. It is custom in Sardio to do this with every birth. It is this great empire’s way of accepting all Sardion born children into its lands, indeed, into all of Mosoon. Consider it my way of saying, ‘Welcome to the world, Aurelias.’” “I don’t trust you,” Bengi growled, the flame within his fingers sparking now. “You have always served Attuck with little apprehension...why change your attitude now? Murderer...” He added this last bit with the darkest contempt. Kilok had reached his limit. He snatched the goblet out of Saxai’s hands, ultimately sloshing wine everywhere, drenching Bengi’s beard and his shirt. Saxai looked affronted by the move, but Hazel looked bored. He had expected as much. Kilok was struggling with the mug. It was quite heavy. “Pour that on your son,” Hazel told the elder Hatchat. “He will be an official Sardion citizen when you do. The wine knows, as will the census. Sardio welcomes the Aurelias, and it is my duty to represent this nation, as its emperor. Now, I have given my gift, parted with kind words, and I leave you in peace.” “We will never have peace,” Bengi swore to the emperor, but Hazel Decamo ignored him. He jerked his left hand ruggedly and Saxai rose at once, turning quickly, and the two of them began to make their way back to the door, Hazel’s long, swishing cape, dark red on the outside, flapping with invisible breeze. Saxai allowed him to pass through the door before her, but as he stepped over the threshold, Kilok and Bengi watching him apprehensively, the Sardion emperor turned. “See that your son receives that gift. It will benefit him, some day, to be a Sardion citizen. Your son is going to be the only hope for Mosoon’s victory in this war against Shadow Gelix. Don’t screw up by letting him die.” And with those final, parting words, he turned and walked out of the room, Saxai following closely behind. Kilok wanted to run after the man. He managed to get past Saros’s defenses. Saros had told them that they would be safe here, but Attuck’s right

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man had found them! So, then...Attuck must know they were here. But where was he? “You are curious about this,” Bengi told Kilok, indicating the goblet in his friend’s hands. “Pour that shit out.” “Bengi...” “Okay, sorry. Pour that dragon shit out. We don’t need it disgracing this hall, with your son’s birth on the way.” “Why did he come to us with a gift? Why not an assault? If Saros could not even hold him back-” “This is the Mountain Gora. This is the home of the Galrog Council. No Galrog can be turned away from this place, you know that. Even Saros cannot undo the power of the Galrogs. However he slipped in, he had a family advantage, being of the Galrogs.” “So do you think that Attuck knows? He is out there, then, maybe? Sent Hazel in with... what is this...poison, do you think?” “No, he was quite sincere. I ‘m just too damn prideful to admit it.” “Bengi?” Bengi shook his head, quite sadly. “The dragon was being honest. He fully intended this as a true gift to your son, Kilok, and I will be man enough to admit it. But that does not mean we have to accept it.” “You’re sure?” “Of course I’m sure. His heartbeat would have given him away. So would the Hithe molecules in his blood. The unfortunate thing of being a dragon hybrid is that he can’t lie as well as others, at least, not to a KatchKev Ornth. The pulse goes so much faster and burns fiercer.” “You are your sorcery,” Kilok commented, still examining the contents of the mug. Bengi wrinkled his nose. “Not sorcery. Natural ability, Kilok.” “Let’s get this back to Persia and see what she thinks.” He looked at the sword in hand, struggling to hold it there with the large mug, and willed it to leave. In the next second, the sword faded away into white mist. “She won’t mind. Mom will know.” “I still would feel comfortable asking her,” Kilok replied firmly, and he and Bengi began to make their way back towards the birth room. “You popping out soon?” “Almost. I want to see if Mom will give me permission to have that wine poured over my head.” “And what, you’re going to stay in there if she doesn’t? Gron, that man-” “I know what and who he is.” “Don’t interrupt.” Kilok stopped in his tracks. Bengi stopped too, only briefly, but then decided to continue forward, not looking back. Kilok needed to have this discussion with Gron, and he needed to do it alone. When Bengi had vanished into the medic room, no doubt telling everyone what had just happened, Kilok sat the large mug down onto the floor and then began to pace back and forth. “Gron, this man, this Hazel Decamo, he serves Attuck Saron. Closely, too.” “And Attuck Saron is king of Shadow Gelix?” “Yes, he is.” “I am being born to fight him.” “Son, that’s for another day. This is your birthday. Your first birthday. The very first. I don’t

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want these Gelix folks dampering the spirit of this day. I don’t know what Hazel Decamo is playing at, but he has spent the last eight thousand years letting it it know quite well where his allegiances lie.” “People change, Dad. And I don’t think that Hazel Decamo has any ill intent with this.” “Do you know the things he has done, son who has not even walked this world yet? Do you know about the murders...and the slave trade of North Sardio...” “No, as you have said, I am not yet born. I have much knowledge to gain, in the coming time. Years you will teach me and I will do my best to hold onto your knowledge. But whatever drives Hazel Decamo to make this offering, I don’t feel anything ill coming from him right now. This war you have with him, his sins, they are yours. My war is coming too, in different territory. I will choose my alliances well, Dad. Just ensure that I know how.” “You seem to know plenty already, son,” Kilok commented. There came a light, child-like laugh. It was a beautiful song, something like song. Kilok felt a euphoria unshared. Hearing your child’s laugh was one thing. But hearing it before your child was even born...that was something else altogether. “We can do this, dad. I only know what has been given to me. God has a purpose for me already, and I won’t remember it when I come into the world. I’ll be ignorant. I’ll forget. Reteach me what I know now.” “I will, son. I promise.” “And don’t worry about Mr. Decamo. He needs me alive. More than you know.” “Does he? You seem to know more than I do, son. Tell me, what’s going to happen? Hazel Decamo vanishes for ages, and then he shows up here and-” “I’m ready to come, now. Sorry for interrupting, but Mom is hurting. Something’s gone wrong with the medicine.” “What!?” Kilok gasped. He immediately began sprinting for the medic room. Sure enough, he could hear Persia Hatchat crying. It sounded like she was in pain. He burst through the tapestry and found Bengi and Aretha near Persia’s feet. Persia’s legs were wide open, held smoothly by Aretha, and Bengi had his eyes closed, his hand over her birth canal, his face filled with utmost concentration. Faint blue light was reaching out from his fingertips, and was crawling its way into her, seeping so smoothly. Persia’s face was contorted into pain, her limbs shaking. Kilok grasped her hand, and placed his free hand over her belly. Something was happening. Something was moving. “It’s time,” Persia whispered to him. Kilok was sweating. “We’ll get through this,” he promised her, as he set the mug of wine down on the floor beside the bed. It was a simple whisper, a simple promise, and yet it lacked any form of baba dung. It was genuine. A command. He had spent years commanding his military forces back at home, and this was no different. It was a rescue operation, and two lives were on the line. Well, one...they knew that Gron was going to make it. That was what faith was. But Persia... “Kilok, stand back,” Abraham told him, gently pushing his way beside him. He had what looked like a long, wooden spoon in his hand, like a soup ladle, but the dome part was oddly twisted in a double curve. Kilok knew this to be a KatchKev instrument, an invention of Bengi’s. Inside of it were waters from Lake Jadelyn, the traditional birthing landmark of KatchKev children. The waters were calming, gentle, and flowed with little forces stopping its living form.

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special. It eased both pain and strain, allowing a quicker, more docile delivery. The waters themselves carried the baby outward, on a gentle journey, and the push was simplified by its presence, for few things could stop the flow of KatchKev water, which in itself was alive. Kilok edged around the table without letting go of his wife’s hand. Her breathing was getting harsh, and she moaned louder. She was hurting. “Do it now, Abe,” Kilok urged the vulture man. Abraham nodded, and without another word, he began to shake the small staff over Persia’s body, and as he did the light green waters of Lake Jadelyn sprinkled down over here, raining down on her legs and thighs and breasts and face, her hair and arms and her heaving stomach. The waters rained with simple grace, calming to look at, reassuring that its purpose was a good one. As the water touched her skin, it slowly seeped into her very pores, an unnatural thing, but this was KatchKev water. It had purpose, it knew it had purpose, and it would fulfill its purpose. So many legends revolved around the water of KatchKev, that it lived, and was assured to have thought. That it deserved to have rights, even. This was the beautiful thing about it. It was alive and it stayed with you, a companion through a troubling time. It cared about you, and that was enough. Nothing more, nothing less. As the water poured into Persia, being a glass to its contribution, her breathing steadily calmed, and her shaking body eased into solace. She was alive, and it became apparent to her all too well. Slowly, gently, Kilok raised a hand and stroked her cheek. She smiled, her brilliantly beautiful eyes snapping open, and lavender irises met light green. An unspoken request sailed between husband and wife. Quit being a baby. Kilok smiled, understanding this all to well. There was such assurance in his wife’s expression. She meant for him to be faithful, and faithful he would be. God had a hand in this situation. It was good enough. Fear but him, yes, but he knew that fear bit him. In knowing that, it reinforced his will to overcome it. “I hate it when you worry, Kilok. You look like a freaking drowned puppy,” Persia laughed, and her laugh with filled with the most beautiful mirth, and she said the words so calmly, unhindered by pain or exhaustion. The waters were working with her body, soothing her like gentle waves crashing on a shore. She had become a member of its family, in the brief time of its presence inside of her. What did she have to worry about? For that matter, what did he, Kilok, need to worry about. God was there. He just had to remember it. “Abraham, enough,” Bengi called over to the vulture man, and Abraham ceased his sprinkling. Persia was breathing lightly now, her eyes closed and her breath like sighs of relief. She was so comfortable on the inside. On this night, the Aurelias comes... “Where’s those rags?” Bengi asked Aretha, who held up a light green cloth in hand, saturated with some kind of clear liquid. “I had it ready.” “Good girl.” He took the rag from her, and held it over Persia’s canal. “Persia, this will not hurt you. I promise.” “I’ve been pregnant before, Bengi, just do it.” “Alright, then.” He slowly lowered the rag towards the canal, and gently began to insert the end of it into the hole. Nations will love and fear him whole... “Come on, Gron, it’s okay, my child,” Bengi whispered, speaking directly to Persia’s nether

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regions, a sight that would have been so odd, had no one in the room understood. But Bengi had spent the last six thousand years birthing children, and he was a master soother, a man who made the journey possible for both sides. Children knew him as a friend, and he lived as such. A father without children. “He’s going to take it?” asked Abraham, working hard to divert his eyes from Persia Hatchat’s privates. She was a stunning woman, and it was hard. “Yes, he will grasp it. It is the rope to climb to the world above. The waters of Jadelyn will carry him, but he will need that one last bit of help.” “He’s persistent, I can already tell. Quite full of himself,” Kilok chuckled, wiping away the coming tears of joy that he felt. “He shouldn’t have a problem getting out.” “Yes, we can all be assured that my vagina won’t eat our baby,” Persia said rather bluntly. Bengi, a man who was not easily set off, turned an intense red in his cheeks. Aretha stifled a laugh and Abraham was sweating now. Kilok, however, had not heard. He was looking at the large mug of wine on the floor. Even as his child neared, Kilok Hatchat felt troubled. And those nations who love and fear him will know that God has sent him to conquer the devil. And thus, in his triumph, more will follow that example. More will walk that path, and follow the destiny given by the Ultimate... Why had Hazel Decamo come? Attuck Saron would not easily throw a chance like this away. Hazel Decamo had managed to infiltrate this place, past Saros’s defenses. Even if Attuck were unable to pass, Hazel Decamo was a deadly warrior, skilled by countless centuries, and he had overcome obstacles inhuman, beyond understanding. He had been facing weary travelers, one a pregnant woman, and even with Kilok’s master swordsmanship, he had no doubt that Hazel could have easily overpowered him. Especially being that he had been able to smuggle in a servant, who did not have the same leisure of entering this place as a Galrog did. What was this all about? There never had been a time when Kilok Hatchat would think of Hazel Decamo as a friend. The man had murdered good people in his time, and ran this empire with an iron fist and his peoples’ fear of dragon assaults lest they submit to his will. The man worshiped dragons as religion. They were the only things that brought Decamo true joy. The man loved them so much that he had even changed his surname to match the old Mosoic word for dragon, “decamo”. No one even knew his true surname. Above all these things, Hazel Decamo sat at the right hand of Attuck Saron, enemy of the worlds. Attuck Saron, who had murdered thousands, who had instigated wars in many worlds. Attuck Saron, king of Shadow Gelix, a world of his own making, its very essence forged by the souls of countless victims, all of whom had fallen to his dark power, all of whom had had their souls sucked right from their bodies by the same man...and Attuck Saron, the very man who, eight thousand years ago, had been destined to be destroyed by the very child who was about to be released by Persia Hatchat in this small, old, forgotten room in the Galrog cave of the Mountain Gora... “Trust it, father.” Kilok closed his eyes. “I will, then.” He said it with regret, but his son was right. His son meant what he said. “Oh, boy, here it comes.” Persia’s hold around Kilok’s hand tightened, and he brought himself back to what was going on around him. “Kilok-”

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“Push real hard,” Bengi commanded her, shaking the rag a little more firmly, twisting it into a tighter cyclone, and thrusting forward, gently. And then he and Persia both felt it. The tug. “He’s got it! Yes! Now, Gron, if you can hear me, and I’m sure you can, hang on tight. Let the waters allow you passage.” “I can hear you, and I am ready to get out of this place. Go ahead, pull me out.” “Alright, then, son, here we go. Persia, push! Push the waters! Focus on the waters! Let them be an essence part of you, as the flames in your breath, as the ice in your veins. Let your full concentration deliver Gron to us this night, and by the ceremonial blessings of KatchKev, I deliver unto you your making.” He said it so elegantly, so professionally. Bengi had did this a thousand times before. So many children of Mosoon had been delivered by his hand. He began to send the comforting, healing blue light into her once more, and Persia pushed, all intent to release her son, all intent to allow the new age of Mosoon to begin. For once the sun rose, Mosoon would change forever. Kilok held his breath. Aretha looked mystified, knowing what was coming. Abraham was fanning Persia from her free side, waving a large, wide fan over her, letting the cooling air hit her to ease the flows of the water. Something was moving inside of her. Something like rumpling boils had taken her stomach, movng down to her nether regions. Persia’s eyes were closed with something that looked like a concentrated face with slight fear at the unknown, but then, where was her faith at? They had been assured of the success of this pregnancy so very long ago, before any of them had existed, even the six and half thousand year old Bengi Staggon. She gasped, loudly, her breath caught with something sharp, harming her. The blue light faded from Bengi’s hands. Kilok, his own breath caught within him edged his head around, still not daring to release his wife’s hand. Aretha gasped, but this one was filled with splendor. “He’s beautiful.” In Bengi’s arms, the old man held a small child. A child whose arms waved around quite passionately, as though he were conducting an invisible orchestra. A child whose feet flew above his head with bent knees, and whose wet hair, soaked by the waters that had carried him out, and which drained out of Persia like a small waterfall even now, was black as his father’s own hair. He was laughing. Laughing, laughing, and laughing some more, the baby sang a song that none of them had heard before. He was absolutely struck with giggling, something in him had activated a humor button, and it was glitching like mad. The small child was absolutely tickled at the prospect of life, and it consumed him quite well in his first few seconds of true breath. “He’s laughing.” Kilok could not help but to state the obvious, his face dumbfounded, a stony expression of absolute phenomena securing his features. “He’s absolutely, without a doubt... laughing.” Bengi and Aretha were laughing too, as the old man gently wrapped the baby boy in a light blue blanket, cleaning off the inner residues from his head. Persia lay her head in Kilok’s arms, and the two of them waited for Bengi to bring over their son. It had been so natural of a delivery. Kilok had been absolutely terrified. Persia had been indifferent about her health. Lack of expectation had been the moment, for they had none known nothing of destiny. “And here he is,” Bengi said smoothly, carrying the baby Hatchat over to his parents, who looked upon their son with a lost sense of word.

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He was alive, he and his mother, and all was well on this night. The perfect birth. Gron Hatchat had come to Mosoon. His laughing had ceased, and he was now grinning. Grinning! Toothless, a mouth full of gums, but it was still an evident grin. There was something in that smile that could not be anything less. A tiny hand pointed a miniscule finger at the two elder Hatchats, and gently, Bengi placed the baby boy into his mother’s awaiting arms, who shakily held him. Kilok took a bent cushin from Abraham, who propped his wife up slowly upon it so that she could sit up while holding their son. “Yep, he looks just like the first Gron,” Aretha commented graciously, blowing a small kiss to the child, who, amazingly, actually raised his hand up without looking around at her, as if he meant to catch the invisible kiss. “Yes he is,” Kilok laughed, cleaning sweat from his forehead with one hand, and taking hold of his son’s hand with his other. “Just as ugly, just as bald.” “Oh, don’t listen to him, Gron,” Persia whispered to the baby. “He’s just a mean old man!” She said the last three words in a monstrous growl, and this got Gron cracking up again. The baby’s mirth was Kilok and Persia’s pleasure. It was music, true music, and had a life of its own. “I suppose it’s time, huh?” Kilok asked, this question directed at Bengi. He nodded down at the floor, where the mug of wine sat. Bengi looked over at the mug on the floor as well, and his eyes narrowed. He closed them for a brief moment, as Aretha and Abraham looked at each other. “Bengi told us that Hazel Decamo had come,” Aretha whispered, looking fearfully at the wine. “He told us that Decamo had come with a servant. That they’d brought a gift for Gron.” “Wine made from the eggs of his dragon,” Kilok explained to her. Abraham raised his eyebrows. “He wishes for Gron to be a Sardion citizen?” “That’s what he said. You’re used to the tradition, then?” “Yes, of course, my cousin had that wine poured on his head at his birth. Sardion citizenship. But why Gron? Surely Hazel knows that Gron will be living in Zillisland?” “He said that somehow, it will help Gron to be a citizen of Sardio.” His and Bengi’s eyes met. A silent understanding came through them. Gron had made a simple request. “Gron wishes it.” “Does he, now?” Persia simpered, stroking their son’s head softly. “You wish for Hazel’s wine, son?” “He asked for it, yes, but...” “But what?” Persia looked around at him, her eyes wide. “The man did no harm to you, yes? Bengi, I know it’s unfair to ask you for this, but-” “Persia, if Gron wants it, I have no right to stand in the way,” Bengi cut in, trying to sound placid, not wishing to damper this joyous night. “I am happy for Hazel’s contribution, odd as it may be. “Judge not, lest you yourself be judged” and all, yes?” He was sounding bitter behind his attempt at content grandeur, “I am happy for you. In fact, would you give me the honor?” He outstretched his hand, wiggling his fingers. Kilok bit his lip, feeling something less than fear but more than doubt, but he forced a smile and nodded. Aretha and Abraham gave each other a look. Kilok went around the table and picked up the wine from the floor, and with that same

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feeling of slight apprehension, handed it to Bengi. Persia gently offered Gron to Kilok, who took his son gladly, and dropped to his knees, careful not to drop Gron. Bengi walked forward, staring down into the depths of the wine, wishing nothing more than to toss the substance into the deepest trench. But this was Gron’s night, not his. Revenge was not for the exploit of others. It was personal, and belonged to two people; those involved could not drag others into the matter. As Kilok held his son, staring down into the boy’s bright blue eyes, he knew that things for this world were going to change, the responsibility had fallen upon his shoulders to raise this boy right. “In the name of God,” Bengi began, bringing his breath to a steady, brisk pace, “I, Bengi Staagon, child of KatchKev, name this child before me, Gron Bradeno Hatchat the Second, an offspring of Mosoon, and a child of Sardio, the empire of the dragon, under his lordship H-H” He broke off, for a moment only, trying to regain his composure, “-Hazel D-Decamo. By the proclamation of this Sardion tradition of old, and by the making of the dragon Melody, I give Gron Hatchat, Aurelias of Mosoon, his entering of this world, his passage of citizenship. May the blood of God be his salvation, and may the bonds of the Aurelias be his guide.” And with those final words, he tipped the cup over, pouring the red wine onto Gron’s forehead, offering a small prayer to God that he would not regret this. He had to trust Gron. He had to trust God. The wine dribbled onto Gron’s forehead and seeped down into his hair, the smell of it intensifying as it made skin contact. Gron did not seem to mind, but lay still, his eyes wide as if intrigued by what was happening. For a few seconds, nothing seemed to happen. Just as Bengi drew a breath of unexpected relief, having had a small, hidden fear of Decamo’s loyalties, there was small flash of scarlet light that shot up from Gron’s forehead. Kilok’s white sword instantly appeared in his hand, Bengi shifted into a fighting stance, and Persia looked on with wonder. Aretha and Abraham were scared. But the red light only hovered over the small boy, spinning in a vortex, a small cyclone. It stayed there in the air but for a moment, and something appeared out of the top. It was a symbol. A familiar symbol. To a citizen of Earth, it resembled a lower case cursive “r”, with a crucifix through the middle. Love and bindance. The Hatchat family insignia. It hovered there and Gron was awed by its sight, his eyes wide with absolute delight. And then the symbol faded, as with the rest mist that birthed it, and a deep, booming voice filled the room, a voice that, without a doubt, belonged to the emperor of Sardio himself. “Gron Bradeno Hatchat the Second. Blessed by his God, born by his mother Persia. A child of Sardio. This record has been made, and placed into the Sardio census. Welcome to the world.” And the voice said no more. The wine from the large mug had vanished with the red mist which left rather hastily now that its job was done, and there was utter silence from the adults of the room. But little Gron Hatchat, oh no, there could be no silence from him. There was too much to see, too much to relish. As he stared at the ceiling, he saw things. Visions which he understood little of. To his understanding, it was minimal, but to us, we would register that he saw a small girl, blacked haired and plump, running around a widespread, yellow grass field, laughing hysterically as it stormed viciously, the pounding rain and the flashes of lightning accompanying the squeaks of floating jellyfish-like beings, as the small girl gave chase.

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There was an adult woman, her figure lean and her hair the most beautiful blonde color, cut short. She lay upon a field of her own, this one peaceful, and stared up into the night sky, unsure of why she suddenly felt an alarming presence of peace fall over her. A boy clashed swords with his father, their dark skin given new pigments by the bright moon that shined down upon their seaside port town, their laughter like song. So many more faces flashed past his mind’s eyes. Hundreds of faces, hundreds of looks of pure delight. All of them looked so happy, filled with an elation, though they knew not where it came from. That feeling of hope was real, and it was spreading from the cave of the Mountain Gora like a plague, but this was a beautiful plague. It was welcomed. It filled every person in Mosoon with hope, from politicians to jail inhabitants. Every person in this world felt it, all at the same time, all of them hit by something that was like nirvana in breath. And they loved it, all of them, even the most evil of hearts. Hazel Decamo felt it, as he knelt down upon the marble floor of his own throne room, looking up at the dark shadow who had commandeered his throne, temporarily. And that dark shadow, a most evil shadow, felt it too. He felt that hope in his black bones and rotting teeth, his foul breath was diluted with soft, sweet smelling euphoria. And he hated it. Hated it, and loved it. His hand gripped tightly around the black staff that he held in hand, and he felt something else mixed in with that hope. He was the only person in Mosoon who felt such a thing in this moment, for no one’s hope, no one’s content, was overrun by negative thoughts. Except for him. Because what he felt with this hope was the contradictory matter. He felt something foul, aggressive in its meaning, and it crippled him on the inside. It was absolute, undeniable fear. “He is born...” “Yes,” Hazel Decamo acknowledged his dark master. “He is born.”

Alex Lehr

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Shells

graphite

Amanda Perry

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Tanguera, Tanguera El abrazo, What she was missing is now found Within the rhythm of an all night milonga And the movements she is led through El abrazo, She leaves him at home His isn’t Here And love like this She knows he hasn’t felt El abrazo, Flushed cheek, Pressed against partner’s His arm, cradles her back His hand, hers El abrazo, She knows he lives Where the music is muffled And there is no direction He is everything she needs There El abrazo, Unfamiliar love Leading her across the floor Like countless others She lives Here El abrazo, Broken She drives herself home He is awake To witness sweaty skin And sore feet But she retires the night El abrazo He gives, settling in bed It is everything he has She knows But it doesn’t compare El abrazo,

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As her head rests on his chest, She dreams of returning to Fair Winds and dancing streets But he is not Here

Bryant Lyles

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Dressing Chair acrylic Heather Taylor 59

Tale of a Custody Battle Child Car ride. Tick toc. Tick toc. Tick toc. Home. But what exactly is home? She’s done this many times before. Leaving one family for another. The confusion, the tears, the hurt, the anger, not knowing whether to be happy to leave, sad to return, or to be sad to leave, happy to return. No one ever understanding. Behind a closed door, a little girl sits, not knowing what to do or how to feel. Shedding the barrier that’s been her disguise. She doesn’t even understand why it has to be this way. Many questions, but not enough courage to ask them. Sometimes not even knowing something is wrong, just accepting because it’s all she knows. Lied to. Used as the golden treasure in a cruel game. The creator of the game being one of the people who is supposed to look out for her, take care of her. Will she ever know the truth?

Misty Hebert

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Silence linocut

Gina Salazar 61

The Ages Gold, cherished No law No punishment; fearfulness Unknown No judges. Earth: untroubled. Spring was forever. Earth, rich Fields White. Rivers Of milk, of honey, golden nectar From trees. To land of death, Silver Spring short, add winter, Summer, autumn Air White-hot, Icicles down Bronze Quick Yet no evil Iron, vein. All evil; modesty, truth Feld earth, in Came trickery, slyness, plotting, swindling, Violence, damned desire. Earth, Giver of harvest. For more; dug her Pried out wealth. Evil found guilt More guilt. War came. Bloody hands. Not safe Kill Death Bloody earth. Blood

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Cherlyn Snow

Untitled 3d

Jordan Caldwell

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Where is the Prince? XOXO Yearning. Zeal. Abandoningbut beautiful; beautiful but cruel. Daughter of Ethbaal. False prophets. Gruesome death. Israel. Jezebel. 2 Kings 9:7 Lustful, Masquerading, Needy. the Original Princess… QUEEN! Remorse? Sins of JezebelThey’re Undeserving. Vindictive.

Hallie Campbell



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Untitled acrylic

Kelly Blue

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Procrastination Pupils Replacing high priority actions with Ordinarily low priority tasks Causing Responsibility to delay. Anxiety takes over which gets people to Start working on the Task at hand. Inevitably No work would be done but Apprehension can turn Task-aversion Into an Overwhelming sensation of Nothingness.

Kristina Bruce

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Untitled acrlyic

Laurissa Willson

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Untitled acrylic Peyton Roberts 68

Untitled graphite Rebekah Odell 69

Flower acrylic Sarah Goodwin

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City Light typography Tiffany Newton

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Lennon linocut Libby Higginbotham

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Acknowledgements Editor-in-Chief Alex Lehr

Staff

Hannah Jones Hallie Campbell Tina Firquain Rachel Jones Cherlyn Snow Joel Dameron

Cover Artist Dawn Frazier

Cover Conceptualist Hannah Jones

Advisors

Dr. Randy Prus, Chair of English, Humanities, and Languages Jack Ousey, Associate Professor of Art, Communication, and Theatre Special Thanks goes to Virginia Parrish, who inspired many works and many writers.

Submissions for Green Eggs and Hamlet 2015 can now be sent to [email protected]. The deadline will be March 3 of 2015. Contact Randy Prus [email protected]