By Brooke Bombien I had a dream, standing in an ambiguous place where I saw for the first time, the true spirit of humanity-
War brings peace just as hate brings love. I pondered this while I fell asleep, entering a realm of the unknown. I awoke in a room the shape of a sphere, the walls all white expect a curve of glass from which I entered. I assumed the place to be of my sub-consciousness, as the glass showed nothing beyond it but dark space. As I gathered my surroundings, I heard a favorite song of mine, by Eric Whitacre- "Lux Aurumque (Light and Gold)". As my eyes adjusted to the harsh florescent lighting, I made out a young boy siting on an old three-legged stool- playing the violin. I waited until the song was over, and then softly spoke, “That was beautiful, 'Lux Aurumque' is a favorite of mine.” I waited for a response. As a couple minutes passed I spoke again, louder this time: “That sounded great! You are a great musician!” Again I heard no response. I walked up to the young lad, wondering if he could hear me, as this is only a dream. As I walked closer, the boy got off his stool and exchanged his sheet music on a stand for another piece. As he was doing this, he caught sight of me; he stumbled back and mouthed a silent exclaim of surprise. I opened my mouth to speak- he cut me off with hand signs, purposeful and frantic. I stood confused until I finally realized what he was doing, sign language. Sadly, I do not know sign language, as the boy eventually understood from the confused and helpless look on my face, he wrote on the back on the music with a pencil he found- it said “Who and how.” I wrote “A friend and I don’t know.” He looked at me, confused, and then proceeded to turn to his music and continue playing. I walked and to another room, which just appeared in the light. Another young boy stood in the room, finger painting on a canvas with ease. I looked to see what he created, it was an abstract masterpiece, with bold colors softened by light solids. He heard me walk across the hard tile floor, looking shocked. I jumped back with surprise myself, as the boy’s eyes were a dull, muddy white- he was blind. I asked how he was able to paint such beautiful work when he cannot see. He replied, “I paint with my soul, I have enough pride in myself to put what I have in my mind onto paper, even if I cannot see it.” I asked what pride has to do with it. He replied, “If you trust yourself and humanity, you can do anything- even the blind can paint masterpieces and the deaf can play heart-wrenching music.” I woke up to the sound of a song, a favorite of mine, and saw on my computer a painting as beautiful as the universe. By Jack Nolan One hour, forty-six minutes and eleven seconds.
That’s how long Jordan had to wait. The narrow, gold embroidered timepiece on her left wrist had been counting down the days, the months, the years until she would finally meet the man of her dreams. She had spent the last hour, trying on every fabric in her closet, scouring for the perfect outfit to flatter her body. Close to twenty-four years of her life she had waited for this decisive moment. She had thought forever about who the destined person might be: a doctor? An actor? A musician? Someone she met before? Or maybe she walked past him everyday on her way to work and she just never bumped into him. Maybe they went to a party and just never saw each other. Her heart rate sped just thinking about it again, launching itself against both sides of her rib cage like a tennis match in her chest. The nervous energy sent her feverishly back to combing through her closet. After tearing apart her entire closet she finally settled for a simple pair of jeans and one of her favorite band t-shirts. She felt comfortable in these familiar clothes, unlike the discomfiture she felt in any dress or skirt she had. She tried to rationalize the decision by telling herself that it didn’t matter what she wore, they would be in love no matter what she looked like. She looked at the timepiece again and her heart started to do an Irish jig. 32 minutes and 52 seconds! Hurriedly, she looked in the mirror and quickly threw her medium champagne hair into a messy, lopsided bun. This was done out of habit, for she wanted to keep her hair out of her face when she was working on her music. Pulling her hair back framed her fair colored face, and drew attention to her bright, sea green eyes that pierced any object they laid their gaze upon. After putting on a little bit of makeup and studying herself in the mirror for a few moments she remembered why she addressed her appearance in the first place. Wanting to make sure she found him, She had decided on going out of her apartment in New York City and walk a few blocks to her favorite coffee shop. She loved the music that was showcased there every Wednesday night and she knew that a new band would be starting in an hour or so. She had always hoped that maybe her timer would run out at one of the showcases near someone who shared her passion for music. She got to the front of the line and reached for her wallet. All she felt was empty space. She frantically searched her pockets and purse but to no avail. She must have forgotten it at home. Panicked, she looked down at her wrist she saw she had fifteen minutes and eighteen seconds until she met him. Her heart started to jump, as if at any second it would burst out of her chest and fly onto the counter. She ran out of the shop and sprinted down the street the 6 blocks to her apartment. Heart pounding she raced up the stairs and bound into her apartment where she found it right where she left it. She glanced down at her timer. Seven minutes and three seconds. Her heart plummeted into a free fall, like a penny dropped from the top of the Empire State Building. She would need to make it through every light at the crosswalks to make it back to the shop on time. The chance was slim, but she had to make it back. She rushed out of the apartment and bolted down the sidewalk towards the shop again. Two blocks from the shop she hit a busy intersection. Looking down at her timer she saw she only had two minutes and twenty-three seconds left before she met her soulmate. She had to make it to the shop. She might miss him on the street. Looking to her left Jordan saw there was a small gap between cars that she could make. She started to rushed across when a red blur came into her peripheral. Suddenly she felt a sharp pain press through her torso, as if she had been kicked by two hundred horses at the same time, sending a shock-wave of pain through all the nerves in her body. Warmth spreading throughout her figure and then nothing as her vision folded into darkness and her consciousness faded into oblivion. When she came to, her first instinct was to frantically glance at her timer. Twelve seconds until she met him, but the rotation of her arm to see the timepiece sent searing pain into her side. Blood was pooling near her abdomen and she could feel the cold seeping into her mangled frame. Six seconds left and she glanced out as a heavily tattooed young biker stopped near the red Mustang a few feet to her left. The panicked driver didn’t even notice the bystander as he got off his Harley, pulling a small red and white bag from his backpack as he moved towards her. Two seconds and he was just five feet away. Her heart started to flutter faster and faster as he closed the distance. She started screaming, her banshee-like wails drowned out by the noise of the city. She felt as though a knife had been plunged into her chest, her heart cutting itself to ribbons as it raced faster and faster, destroying her in the effort to keep her alive... One... Zero... The biker kneeled over her and cradled her distorted figure in his arms as she sobbed. Sirens wailed in the distance, steadily becoming louder as they rushed to the scene. He started to check her broken and twisted body for wounds near her waist and chest. He was running his hands down the side of her ribs, feeling for broken bones that could have pierced major organs when he saw the blinking timer at her wrist. Glancing down at his own he saw it still read three years, fifteen weeks, three days, six hours, forty-five minutes and seventeen seconds. By Serena Wooten Prologue: The New Colony of Roanoke, August 17th, 1590
She could feel it. It was penetrating her very being, like ice rushing through her veins. It was all because of that stupid corner. She had caused an uproar, raving to her husband about that same corner, with the shadows that never seem to leave and the voices that whispered to her very soul. “You are raving mad woman,” Ananias chuckled patronizingly, “It’s one corner of the cabin that hasn’t seen the light of day. I already have one child that cowers before the darkness, don’t let me have another, Eleanor.” As the argument persisted, and Ananias came to threaten to send her back to her father in England, Eleanor grew quiet, going about her business like an obedient little wife. Eleanor cradled Virginia back against her chest as they sat on the tiny cot. The toddler’s eyes gazed at her innocently, trying to focus on her every word. “Are they real, Mama?” her high-pitched voice cut in to her mother’s storytelling, glazed with curiosity. “Angels? Are they real?” Eleanor combed her fingers through her daughter wild chestnut hair. “Yes, my love,” she answered. “What do they look like?” Eleanor smiled. “Like us, but far more fair.” Virginia pouted, crossing her tiny arms as if insulted by the mere idea of it. Eleanor smiled, tickling her tummy, “Not fairer than you, my darling,” she assured as Virginia giggled. “But if you close your eyes and listen real close and quiet, you can hear them sing their heavenly songs of God’s word. It’s one of the many blessings God can give you.” Virginia’s tiny, grubby hand slowly reached up to the dangling chain around her mother’s neck. She grasped the circular pendant of silver encasing a blood red jewel streaked with cracks of yellow and black. “Was this a gift from Him?” Eleanor stiffened, the foreboding feeling returning. Dread slowly seeped through her, her fingers trembling as they found Virginia’s to clasp and pull away from the jewel. “Mama?” Virginia’s voice was hesitant as she could feel her mother shaking and her grip tightening around her. Eleanor didn’t even glance at her daughter as her eyes slowly dragged over to the dark, isolated corner of their home covered in shadows. As if it had never seen the light of day. “There are many worlds out there, Virginia,” her voice had dropped into a whisper. “Promise your mother that you won’t go out looking for them.” “I - I promise, Mama,” The young girl’s voice trembled upon noticing her mother’s ashen look. “Go find your father for me, love,” she pushed. “Make sure he hasn’t fallen asleep on the floor once more.” The ale tends to do that to him. Virginia paused, her small hand squeezing her mother’s in fear, but didn’t dare disobey. “Okay, Mama.” Eleanor’s eyes slid closed as the sound of her daughter’s pattering faded. Her fingers clutched her pendant, which had started to burn. She could hear the soft buzzing of the whispers once more. “You can’t take them,” she whispered into the empty room. The shadows within the corner expanded, spreading against the wall, the tendrils creeping towards her figure as the whispers grew louder. ‘We . . . will . . . take . . . them . . . all . . .’ the voices hissed. The shadows surround her, reaching out to the pendant around her neck. “You promised,” Eleanor whimpered. The necklace seared into her skin. “Y-You promised you would leave us alone - leave her alone - if I set you free - ” The harrowing whispers answered with a word, repeated over and over like a mantra: ‘Croatoan . . . croatoan . . . croatoan . . . croatoan . . .’ All that was left of Eleanor Dare was her scream as the shadows engulfed her and the entirety of Roanoke with them. By Olivia King Exhaustion. The emotion that kept coming back. The boy - not yet a man - had experienced hell. And every time the adrenaline, the anger, the fear all faded and the exhaustion returned. He just wanted to give into his body’s desire. He hadn’t wanted to go to Belgium but his mother signed him up and shipped him off, saying it was his duty. She thought her son would be back in a month. He has been in Belgium for three.
◉◉◉ The chugging of the train would have lulled any normal person to sleep but not the teenager. It kept away the exhaustion and fuelled his fear. The noise reminded him of the galloping of the horses hooves, the rain hitting the wooden planks in the trenches, but most importantly, the discharge of a gun. The images kept replaying like a movie but on a constant loop. The nightmare would not go away- it kept getting longer. The longer he stayed in Belgium the more scenes haunted his dreams. Three fellow boys from his hometown didn’t last but one month. It wasn’t a spray of bullets that took them but the weather. The rain wore down the ground turning everything muddy and unsteady. Even the horses were occasionally gripped by the devil and pulled from one hell to another. The sight was almost as bad as seeing those who were pestilence ridden release their last breath. Except this was faster. Those boys were the first to occupy his thoughts, their cries echoing in his head until the sun rose. A sudden whistle from the train sent a rush of adrenaline through the boy’s body. He felt his muscles tighten and his pupils dilate. He looked around and shook his head, but to no avail. If he did not watch the horrifying loop in his brain he was afraid that he would certainly fade away. He clenched his eyes shut and attempted to cover his ears in the hope of lessening the memory without drawing attention to himself. His uniform already made him stick out. And for that he kept his guard up. That whistle... forever ingrained in his mind. It is what put the boy through unspeakable terror. The thing itself was rather harmless-just a small piece of metal-but the man who wielded it was not. Everytime he blew the whistle more men died. The rain had inhibited the effectiveness of their attack but that didn’t stop death. The sounds of the bombs, bullets, and cries of his comrades richoted around in his head. The blood turned the ground slippery once more. The last moments of his commanders life parades through the boy’s brain. The man fell lifeless next to the cowering soldier, his eyes clouded over. The boy slowly regained his senses. His eyes flickered open and he brought his shaking hands down, quickly brushing over his tear stained cheeks, before falling into his lap. He could feel the exhaustion slowly seeping back in. He shifted in his seat, a stabbing pain was sent up his side. He rested his head against the cool window, the contrast in temperature providing little relief. Maybe just maybe, he should give in. It would give the boy the relief he craved. It would be better than returning home. The boy closed his hazel eyes, allowing the exhaustion to take over. ◉◉◉ No one noticed the soldier until the train arrived at the station. By his uniform they could distinguish that he was an Englishman- Corporal P. Thomason, his name-tag stated. The passengers and onlookers didn’t know if they should send word to England, for the boy had deserted and would be branded a coward. The train conductor and a few other men helped move the sixteen-year-old to a back room of the station, where a blanket was placed over his body. It was the 28th of October. What everyone at the station and on the battlefield didn’t know was that the battle would end nine days later. The British were able to capture Passchendaele and end the third battle of Ypres, but within those months two hundred and seventy-five thousand troops died. By Hunter Bonaparte Fifteen years ago I never would’ve imagined owning a dump like this. Everyone here would’ve been a cog in my master plan. I did everything right: the right schools, the right friends, the right parents, the right girlfriends. Everyone had their expectations so high and I wouldn’t have blamed them. My job was going to be something big, demanding. I would sit in a chair double my size with my feet up on a mahogany desk built by some kids I’ll never meet other than through my paycheck. Goldman Sachs, the White House, Mr. C-E-O... my job is to chop wood.
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2017-2018
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