By Nikholas Svajlenka A candle gently flickers in the night as a breeze from the cool air comes through my study. For years, I have been left in my own isolation without a clue of where to truly go. For I have seen the greatest libraries of humanity, the armies that forever protect our home, docks filled with vessels of those who bring goods, then the lands of seemingly infinite crops which bring us life. All for naught as I pick up a discolored bottle, shaking it to hear if anything is left inside of it. Some gentle taps against the glass proves my hopes correct as I pour the dark red liquid into a glass. It dribbles into a grand flow before stopping into nothingness. Just gentle droplets that send out shockwaves throughout a glass of seemingly endless darkness. I pick it up slowly, swirling it around before letting my nose taste it first. I’m hit with a sweet, almost naturally fruity flavor with a hint of nuttiness at the end. Perhaps those that come with the fall season, a season I have never thought would look so beautiful. I step outside of my studio, holding a gentle, flickering candle that slowly loses wave to the heat. I walk through the abandoned halls of my grand home to see what there truly is left for me. Another breeze comes through, allowing me to notice where my old research once sat amongst what I once called my home. Each page is filled with light, inky voids that have information of lands long lost to the sands of time. They were once my work, my grand attempt at bringing about information to the world. Now, they are just reminders of my failure to do what was needed.
Continuing my journey, I make it outside to see an old stagecoach that I used to travel around. Where horses once stood, only here are memories of what carried me to places I was called. My family’s house crest sits on the side of the cart, with paint having long faded. I walk over to it, putting my hand against it before feeling a chilling breeze once more. This one was different from the others as I notice whispers of a time long lost. They call out to me, demanding I notice who they are while figures begin forming in the edges of my vision. No longer do I hear the sweet symphony of nature, but the grand bravado of my panicking heart. The beats fill my ears like drums being rattled throughout my skull as I flee into the safety of my house. I slam the door behind me, placing down a simple wooden board that will give me some time. I begin fleeing up towards my studio, passing by a letter from the heir to a nearby mansion. It flutters away in the winds of my body, seemingly chasing me despite it having settled there for ages. Candles begin to blow out around me as my heart is replaced with a grand drum. Using my shoulder to push through the door, I make it to the safety of my studio while the letter from before gently lands onto the table. I use one of my empty chairs to block the door, placing its damaged head against the knob to prevent it being opened. My hands scatter throughout my cluttered table, knocking over textbooks, tomes, scrolls, or whatever else that once contained the knowledge of humanity. A small statue found from lands across our own imagination falls alongside it, shattering with ease as fragments fly across the floor. My vision blurs as I pick up a rusty knife I once used constantly to open letters. Now, the blade nearly falls off once I touch it with my sweaty palms. I slice open the top, removing the parchment inside before tossing the knife away. It lands into a potted plant, shattering in two as the blade separates from its handguard. I walk around, reading every word of the old letter as I pass by the destroyed crops of my personal garden. Its once proud crops, reduced to nothing more than a festering bed for weeds to prosper. Then it all comes to an end as I reach the door once more in my pacing. Silence. That is all I can hear as the sounds of nature return to the now empty halls of my studio. That is, until a ghostly apparition breaks my door into shards with sheer force of an angered spirit. His gaunt face looks down at me, a hand on the missing section of his chest. Before my eyes can even recover, I hear the voice of someone I lost long ago. “My protege…my friend. It has been far too long.” My eyes focus onto his face, its once gaunt texture lost as it reveals a youthful face of the man who taught me everything I know. He offers his hand to me, allowing me to stand up before walking towards my old window. It would be nothing more than a place for plants to grow around as I’ve never cared to look outside. The kingdom I once knew as home has forsaken me for what I wanted to tell them all. Without a word, he motions me to look out to see what I have turned the lands into. The great cities and sprawls of humanity, turned into nothing more than burning pires for those desperate to use. Years of generations now lost to the fanatical minds of those who claim their lives to the fires around them. Armies, once proud of the ideas of a dreaming general, forever left to wander a forest I would go through with my mentor. Their general never to awaken again, left to dream for the rest of time as his men march. Docks, filled with bustling voices and ideas, lost to a strange infection that had come from the ocean. No longer do the waters listen to our commands, but the water commands us. Then facing the crops, I see how they are lost to some type of eldritch infection I brought about. My hand balls into a fist as I try to figure out why he is showing me this. Then, he begins. “My protege, my friend…you have lived in the ignorance of your mind for years since you threw me to the side. I once wanted to protect you, to aid you in finding out how one can learn of what this world is. But now, I want you to no longer be left in a dark shadow of who you were.” He motions to the now repaired carriage with assorted people waiting outside. They look to be those that no longer have an idea of what there is for them. “Now, you are not alone in this journey of self discovery. They will be your voices of fury, your hands of justice, and your assistants in the coming climb up the mountain.” His gaunt hands motions to the tallest mountain I once knew as a grand spectacle for those to watch. It sits now as the home of my darkest desires. “You must unshackle your mind from the chains of denial you have put around it. Let your chest finally be freed from a seething sigh of all your anger. Have the faults you once locked forever onto what you did wrong finally close. Free yourself from a ravenous reach you forever put around you.” He gives me an iron torch, placing a gentle flame that soon ignites the entire torch brazier. “Let you use this final piece of hope to finally slay your body of work. All to finally climb the darkest dungeon.” He fades away as I hold onto the brazier. I look out at the cart, beginning to go down to it. Knowing I must gain retribution through strife. By Nikholas Svajlenka Warm engines gently hum with life while assorted members of the crew make sure they are running at full capacity for the coming voyage. An enginseer, one of many loyal members of the Cult of Mars, walks around while their robotic voice rambles on lines of data only they understand. I lean against a metal banister, my helmet gently hanging off my belt while I write in my old notebook. My pencil glides across the paper that, from assorted rumors passed by our regiment, came from one of the few trees our Hive-World had. Not like I even believe them since our world has been almost barren for years after a civil war broke out between some major cities. I remember the times my father came back from his patrol around the city, face hidden behind his respirator unit with dust caking his entire body. He never spoke about what he saw deep down in those lower hive levels, saying they were meant to be not considered as anything more than trouble.
Before I can dig too deep into my memories, a servo-skull gently flutters past with a characteristic whirring of the anti-grav systems it has. A sudden feeling of fear shoots up my spine, causing me to stand up straight while seeing it turn back around. The skull floats directly above the shoulder of Inquisitor Martel Val, the head of this warband of assorted vessels. He looks at me with a wolfish grin, causing me to shiver while hairs stand up straight all across my body. He approaches me slowly, his synthleather boots letting out gentle squeaks which are muffled by the metallic clacks of the floor. His rosarius swaying side to side while hanging on his belt as hollowed eyes of its silver skull stare into my soul. Despite staring directly at it, my eyes soon shift to his rosette sitting gently on his right lapel. Made from a beautiful rose gold, it symbolizes nothing more than destruction of a thousand worlds. “Guardsman, I had some hopes you would be around here. Please, come follow me so we can discuss your ‘dreams.’” His face twists into a further sickening grin, teeth going from ear to ear similar to that of a daemon. No longer do I focus on that rosette, but into those flaming caverns he calls eyes. Each one flickers with a furious life to uphold all the judgment that our God Emperor wishes to bestow upon those hidden in the dark. “We wouldn’t want to waste any more time than necessary. Considering we have a number of worrying matters at hand to cover.” He begins to walk, his servo floating behind soon after while I hesitantly follow. Palms begin to form with deep piles of sweat underneath the once cool gauntlets of my uniform. “Now tell me, guardsman, how long have you been serving with your regiment? Your young face doesn’t exactly give me any ideas of you being a veteran.” I’m taken aback by him giving such a pleasantry to start this conversation, especially considering how fearsome he is. Reports all across the firing line have said he’s sentenced entire platoons of regiments to decimation. Only because they didn’t meet his high standards of trying to uphold justice amongst frontier space. “3 years now sir…I joined after my hive world had a draft amongst the young men from the medium levels down.” The fear I once had controlling my body dissipates into quiet air to merge with billowing steam to keep our systems cool. My stiff posture relaxes into one of comfort while we head down one of the many hallways of this ship. His wolfish grin calms down into that of a more fox-like smirk, looking at me in the corner of his eyes. “I’ve read all the reports about you, guardsman. The child of a veteran PDF and regimental soldier born in the middle levels with training as an auxiliary PDF in case the hive called for you. I must say, for how desolate Baktra is, the planet has a beautiful forest that only a Paradise World could beat.” Hearing him say the name of my home, Baktra, is always an interesting time for me to remember how long it’s been since I truly was home. How much has changed on it since I was shipped off with the 85th? Only the God Emperor could tell me what… The further we go, the more sounds of the crew wandering around the vessel are heard amongst standard noises of this ship. A pair of voidsmen stand on a corner, smoking a pair of cheap lho-sticks we get in our monthly “entertainment rations.” One of them has a las-carbine gently swaying below his hips while staying connected via a sling. Upon seeing the inquisitor, one quickly taps the other on the chest to stand at attention. His friend delays for a few seconds, processing what he was told before following the other’s example soon after. Inquisitor Val walks over to them, that same grin from earlier displayed across his face while both men begin to shake. Both seem to be muttering prayers to the God Emperor under their breaths before he lets out a hearty laugh. It reverberates deep from within his chest, taking one of the lho-sticks for himself to see what us lower soldiers have to smoke. He takes a long sniff of that arid smoke, that grin seemingly becoming wider as he places it back into the man’s lips. One chest pat later, he returns to me as we head back down along our pathway. One of them is stuck staring at me while we walk away, dumbfounded while his lho-stick falls down onto the floor beneath him. We head deeper into the metallic bowels of the ship with familiar sounds filling the air. Lower members of the crew shuffled around, yelling to each other to prepare for this continuous journey. Some forced labor workers walk past, holding onto whatever they have while armsmen prevent them from going anywhere. One faces the inquisitor with a face only chaos whelps could ever consider loving. He is quickly socked in the stomach by a breacher, barking at him to keep moving while a cyber-mastiff growls. Neither of us say anything as we decide to have better things to do for our time. What feels like days of walking, we stop behind a techpriest currently praying to one of our cogitators. Holy incense smoke surrounds him while praying gently to the Machine God in streams of code I can only dream to understand. We stand there, listening to continuous prayers while Inquisitor Val has a smile on his face as he hums a worker song. It is easily recognizable due to me constantly hearing it from my old job back on Baktra Prime. “The sounds of the machines are that of the God Emperor. Meant to forever be the beat to our holy work…” I mumble the lyrics while Inquisitor Val hums, smiling a little at the comforting song to hear. It was something that we had to hear day in, day out when working at the old factotum to prepare tools for other worlds near us. Penal worlds, lumber worlds, whatever general worlds meant for vast amounts of work towards helping the Imperium. There were always fears that the local penal world, more of a penal moon if anything, Baktra Secundum would have traitors of the Imperium replace us. Luckily- My internal thoughts are quickly stopped when hearing talking between the Inquisitor and Tech Priest. It seems that I only ended up hearing the end of the conversation before the tech priest faces me. He doesn’t look to be a veteran with most of his biological body still there for all to see. A lower respiratory unit is attached to half of his face, hiding it from the world while the rest is seen. His skin is an almost copper brown, pieces of plasteel exposed from his body while wires run throughout his back. He motions for me to follow, using his large Omnissian Axe as an improvised walking stick. It seems like another infinite walk as we head across a bridge that stands above rows of them. Looking over the banister, I see the same sights that came before our current destination. Members of the ship’s crew heading to their stations or just enjoying some leisurely time. Especially since we will have to be working hours upon hours soon to prepare for our jump. Not much information was given to us about our job other than the Adeptus Administratum ordered this expedition. A cold shiver shoots down my spine, eyes shooting around while seeing cold steel pulse with life. Tentacles of abominations grip onto members of the crew, dragging them into the abyss while hearing their screams. My heartbeat begins to sound like that of a drum with it filling my ears as a sickening back beat. Those dreams, dreams of grand ruination, have finally become true. I take quick, shallow breaths before feeling my legs give out from underneath me. I land on the cold steel floor, feeling an almost welcoming embrace similar to death before soon passing out on the floor. The last thing I hear before darkness engulfs my vision is the voice of Inquisitor Val. “He truly is a psyker…” By Meaghan Kelly Cassidy, in her short nightgown with her tired eyes, drowsily stumbled through her tiny kitchen, really only a length of counter space. Her hair was wild and frizzy, crowning her round face in a wreath of gold as some strands caught the early sun.
With a groan, she remembered that she hadn’t brewed coffee the day before, so with her head slumped down she set on making a pot of tea. Her white, flowery nightgown brushed against her legs as the AC kicked in. She then had a strong desire to wear pants for a month. Moments later, after a couple of sips of blistering hot tea, changing into dark jeans and a loose black top, Cassidy was more awake. She had settled into the soft, pale cushions of her lengthy couch while she found comfort listening to the early morning. She could hear the birds in their nest on the building across the street, her neighbor’s cat rustling around, the water turning on for someone’s shower, the neighbor across the hall padding around, and her other adjacent neighbor mumbling nonsense in his sleep as he dreamt about an old break-up that was still eating him up. She could hear the dream, she realized in a muddled, quiet thought. She could hear windows opening and doors creaking, dog’s collars jingling, the shower turning off, milk being poured and then the rustling of a cereal box. This is two floors down, she realized as she focused on the sound. As she tuned into an early morning argument on the first floor, she adjusted on her couch and thought about the pale light of the rising sun flooding through her room; she could only really hear the building creaking in the strong wind and her neighbor’s cat pestering for food. Her tea had grown cold but she finished it as she thought about what to do with her hair, as she tried to forget the memory of hearing so far. She had straightened it, dyed it black, and was waiting for it to dry when she heard Dorrin stomping down her hall. As he knocked, she heard her across-the-hall neighbor turn on her radio- the crackle and smooth talking host put her in a state of calm as Dorrin burst through the door, keys jingling loudly in the lock. Dorrin was generally in a state of anger with the way he went through life: shouting orders to his construction crew like a general, stomping through homes, flinging perpetual glares and sharp comments. Because of this, he didn’t have many friends, all of whom consisted of Cassidy Cieszki. With her chirpy remarks and resilience against insults, she seemed to be the only one to stay with him. “Cass, something’s happening,” Dorrin stated with a strong, stony voice. From the way he spoke and acted, Cassidy got truly concerned, because yes, he was right, she heard people on the first floor, but it was truly that Dorrin was scared and shaken with his voice trying to conceal his fear and his reckless arrival. What truly scared her, though, was that he addressed it almost immediately (she had noticed early on in their friendship that Dorrin was stubborn and absolutely unwilling to address a problem outright unless it proved to be a dangerous and immediate issue). Her neighbor’s radio crackled again, the feed suddenly became clear, and the host’s new song slipped out of the speakers, soon after she heard her neighbor snoring softly. “Cass, listen to me-” thunder rumbled outside, the impatience of a large storm staining the swath of clouds. “- we have to leave. Wait. Did something weird happen to you, too?” Cassidy sat up on her couch, curious by the drastic change in weather. She nodded soundlessly- soundless to Dorrin, she could hear her hair brush against her shirt, her shirt against her bra, the quiet creak of her bra as her shoulder moved subtly. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she heard Dorrin whisper over and over. He never swore and when she looked over at him, his lips weren’t moving. “Very weird,” she said. It was her normal speaking voice, soft but echoing a quiet storm, and now it was booming in her head like a large bass drum. Dorrin saw her flinch, and his mantra grew louder. Dorrin had messily- and obviously hastily- parked his large black truck in the apartment’s lot. They got in and slammed the somewhat heavy doors, then he pressed the ignition button. Cassidy could hear the chain reactions of the car starting: electric shocks, gears turning, machinery coming alive, and the explosions of the pistons in the engine. It was all too much and collectively it hurt more than hearing the repetitive thunder outside. Dorrin drove them out of the garage and down the road, where things were being tossed about in the gales of the sudden storm. She could hear the hard thumping of a trash can tumbling down the sidewalk, an umbrella being inverted with a quick and slightly metallic thwoop, and a tree branch cracking. All the while, she could hear Dorrin’s mantra along with, “This is me. I’m doing this.” “Calm down,” she whispered, it still achingly echoed in her skull. “Calm down!” Louder this time. “Dorrin. Calm. Down,” she said with steel in her voice, like a booming crack of thunder in her head. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel but this time he heard her. He loosened his hands and inhaled deep and long, gathering his calm. The thunder grew quieter and the wind grew calmer. A swinging street sign slowed down and settled in a tilt like the Tower of Pisa. The trash can rolled to a stop and a plastic bag went from floating in the air to skittering in the street. The truck came up on a yellow light and slowed to a stop as the light turned red. “What can you do?” Dorrin said with a tremble in his voice and crazed, panicked look in his eyes. “Hear really frickin’ well,” Cassidy said in a quiet voice. Dorrin nodded and she distantly heard him- what she figured to be his thoughts- say “Yeah, I thought so.” She could hear a woman’s heels click-clack on the sidewalk a couple of yards farther along the street. “I think I can hear your thoughts.” At this, Dorrin whipped his head towards her. She heard some of his hair’s locks hit his temples and the click of the lightbulbs in the stoplight as it switched to green. She pointed out the change and the truck went on. She heard “huh” in Dorrin’s voice both in his head and out loud. As they came up behind a car waiting to get on the highway, Cassidy overheard the indie-rock on their radio and started quietly dancing to the song playing: Ain’t it funny how I wanted this all my life? Ain’t it funny how I got it here and it don’t seem right? Ain’t it funny how we all want to be someone new? Ain’t it funny how I fell in love and then came June? Cassidy sang quietly, her voice echoing in her head quietly, like a fading storm. By Meaghan Kelly Cade was trying to escape his thoughts, so he disappeared into his study, in the southwest corner of his parents’ manor in rural Fahlar. It was crowded with leaning stacks of books, cluttered with ancient weapons and formidable instruments, and poorly lit by the perpetual flames in the fireplace stationed behind his antique writing desk. His messy onyx hair fell into his eyes as he wrote spells in diverse languages in the leather notebook he got last year. His rings were in a pile of silver in a shallow bowl at the corner of the sleek, mahogany desk desk, his obsidian greatcoat tossed on the coat-hanger by the door, his steel-toed combat boots careened at the feet of it , and his wire-rimmed glasses perched neatly by his quill’s inkwell. Cade was trying to escape a boy’s winding, vine-like scar, snaking up his left arm, covered by his multicolored sweaters that brought out the caramel of his skin. As he was trying to not think about the boy’s dark blonde hair and the expert ways it could catch the sun and spin gold, Cade started to notice that small pops of spells were going off around his head. He looked up from his journal and saw a colony of sparks swarm around him. He started seeing the coming and going of his ash-made cat, produced from a very specific spell, and the Nefac rune tattoos marching along his forearm. He stood up from his desk chair, almost tripping over a several pound dictionary by his feet as he hurried out of the gloom. He walked down the gilded halls, with its gold-veined marble and walls of floor length windows, looking out over the many acres of woods turning honey-colored in the changing season. At the curve of one hall, somewhat near the main entry, was a portrait of his immediate family: father, mother, and sister. Wallace, Magnolia, and Sara Dumont. Cade walked to the end of the hall and before he could make it to the thick double doors that led to the main foyer, they burst open and Sara rushed in. “Cade!” she exclaimed as she charged him. He feigned surprise, used to her bursts of chaotic energy and always willing to humor her. Her tan skin glowed in the light of the dying sun and her ink-black hair reflected the golden outside in gleaming highlights. When she tackled Cade in a hug she quieted, her energy shifting. “What pesters you, brother?” she asked in a much more formal tone. Cade hugged her back, gently. “The tragedy of death.” He discreetly directed them into metaphor, a common tongue for the Dumonts. “What has death stolen from you?” “Love.” “What caged bird sings?” “The golden finch.” Sara sighed. “Not still, brother.” “I’m afraid so.” Sara pulled out of the hug and looked up at him, a sorrowful emotion swimming in the depths of her dark eyes. She then took a few steps back and Cade could see the mischievous glimmer in her eyes and the beginnings of a smirk on the corner of her lips. It was the perpetual dare they had for each other: Do the wildest thing right now. Cade was preparing a curse of some kind when she burst into energy, yipping and jigging, waving her arms about like a ritual dance before running through the doors from which she came. Cade followed with a small smile while the spells quieted and slowed. For dinner, they were served a pasta meal, a favorite of one of their main cooks. “How was your journey, dear?” Magnolia asked as she began to sip her wine. Mrs. Magnolia Dumont was well known for her wide-ranging, loquacious novels and her looks, with her tall, skinny frame; clear, pale skin; and dark, glossy hair. Her medium of story-telling, especially in printed works, was where Cade got his medium of magic, ink. “It was a pleasing ride- I could see the countryside this time- and the rolling fields, with the occasional stone house or village, were beautiful,” Cade said with a soft smile. “I told you in my letters but in case you forgot, everybody’s turning over a new leaf, Dolores is starting to tutor, Finn is challenging himself with the responsibility of being class president and school prankster and the teachers are getting ever more stern.” Wallace Dumont nodded along, remembering his last few years in the Academy. He would’ve told a story and sprinkled in dozens of jokes and tidbits of information not necessary to the story. However, he had learned over the years that in states of great emotions he shouldn’t talk, for his strong emotions could cause unintended things to occur. Sara peered at him, knowing something had happened that he wouldn’t talk about. I’ll get it out of you, her eyes comminated. They continued on, talking about the last few months and the progression of business, school, and friends but throughout, Cade had to stop himself from raving about what happened when he boarded the carriage home. ⚣ Liam stepped out of the carriage and walked into the night. The dark hid the creatures he knew lurked between the thick trunks of the swamp trees. It had taken him a few days to arrive home from the rural location of the Hoatzin Academy and the constant jostling of the carriage didn’t let him sleep. He stepped onto the path of smooth stones, put together by his grandfather, that snaked all the way to the large house in the depths of the wood and water. He always loved the view he had from the porch, where he could spy on the long-legged birds and the slow reptiles that moseyed along the shallow banks. It comforted him to know that the crocodiles would always meander and the herons would always be regal. He loved the consistency of it, how the future would always seem the same, even if it was different. During the journey, he had thought about the most recent school year. How everyone slowed down, cleaned up their act. How the school prankster had become class president, how there was less gossip of that one girl cheating off of everybody. Then he realized that he had slowed down, too. His nightmares were less frequent, he had less outbursts, less troubling predictions. Down he went on the stone path. This is my gift for you. “Liam! Oh my Spirits, hi!” Alex came rushing down the path, nir gold-streaked hair glowing in the moonlight. Liam smiled warmly as he saw nem rushing towards him in the dead of night after not seeing him for almost a whole year. “Hey, munchkin,” he said quietly, in a way enjoying the quietness of the swamp. “What are you doing up so late?” “I was waiting for you! I know you usually get back home late so I got the cook to make me some coffee and Mrs. Bellagamba and I read books while waiting for you and just now she said one of her birds saw the Academy carriage drop you off so I rushed out to meet you.” “Okay, kiddo, thanks for waiting for me but it must be past midnight, you should’ve been sleeping.” Liam patted him on the head and they continued down the path. Just as he suspected, Mrs. Bellagamba was sitting at the dining room table, hunched over her coffee in exhaustion. There was a bowl of soup across from her and a plate of small carrots next to her. “Good evening, young master, I assume your journey was pleasant,” Mrs. Bellagamba said softly, in the lull of the late night. She was Alex’s governess before he attended the Academy and for the past few years she had become part of the family, alongside the perpetually exhausted cook. Liam nodded, “It was pleasant enough.” He plopped down in the seat with the soup, a chicken broth with rice noodles, and Alex resumed munching on his carrots. In the dim light and absolute darkness flooding in from the wall of windows, the house seemed smaller to Liam, the paneled walls crowding him, the long, thin hallways closing in as the portraits of his ancestors swarmed him. He tried thinking of the swamp, of all the interchangeable visions he had seen, the consistency of life, but all he could think of was the walls closing in and the raven-haired boy going on about his little sister; her piercing dark eyes and her mother’s hair, and her father’s skin tone as they walked in the open-air walkways, and the marble statues basking in the sun of the atriums. My home is like a palace of spirits, a collection of rivaling energies in each wing. So big it could hold an entire village, but only about seven people stay. I think that’s why I love the Academy so much, it’s just like home, only with different people. And you. “Liam?” He awoke in his house, the oak walls paler as the rising sun’s hazy light came in through some window, his father standing before him. “Hey,” Liam spoke with a hush, “how are you doing?” “I didn’t know you were back. I didn’t think you were coming back,” he added with a mumble. Liam wanted to ask if he was okay, but it was quite clear that no, Juan Guerra was not okay. ⚣ Cade sat on the patio with a mug of coffee that kept him warm from the constant winds that whipped at the oak trees and stole their auburn leaves. He was thinking of the boy again, how he walked in his corduroy trousers, with power and purpose and direction.
“Brother, if you are still here when I play the violin, I’ll curse you to the point of chronic hypnotization.” “Hm?” he half-heartedly asked, then, “Oh! Oh, I’ll be off now.” Cade stumbled off of the outdoor couch as he hurried back inside to give his sister space. His socked feet slipped slightly on the tile on the other side of the glass door, catching the attention of Magnolia, who was preparing a piece of toast for the late morning. “Are you alright?” “Yeah, of course, Sara was starting to practice her violin.” Cade gave a sheepish smile and made sure no coffee spilled. Magnolia’s eyes narrowed, “You usually stay anyway.” “Well, I guess my mind is a bit too frazzled to focus on muting the magic and maybe I have more faith that it will truly affect me this time.” “Or maybe you’re distracted and can’t focus on protecting yourself,” she suggested. Cade paused. “Maybe.” He sat in the Blue Room, staring at his newest tattoo. Hablar. “Scribe.” The ink morphed into a blob waiting to be commanded into a message, “Good morning.” The ink formed the words then disappeared into the Inbetween, away from the surface of his skin. Cade wanted a response on the small sheet of paper he had linked to the communicative tattoo, but the boy may not have seen it yet or his sheet was out of reach or he didn’t want to respond, or a multitude of other things. “You need a distraction,” he spoke, looking up at the arched and artificially frosted windows that looked out onto the blue section of the gardens. He snapped his fingers and his notebook and his fountain pen appeared. He opened up the book to a page, cluttered in paragraphs and symbols and basic sketches, and wrote jasanová kočka, plovoucí. From the ashes in the fireplace on the west wall, adorned in intricate carvings of lilies and berries, formed a sleek cat that rose as if from a slumber. It took a precise step outside the heavy iron grate, a few inches off of the pristine blue velvet rug that decorated the room. It pranced from the remains of the old logs and merrily approached the bay window, the plush chaise lounge and loveseat, and finally Cade. It sat in the air and curled its tail around itself, peering at him patiently. Cade peered back, nothing residing in his mind as he stared at the smudging ash and listened to the birds in the cobalt wisteria trees. He went back to his notebook and wrote lumière de papillon. From the light streaming in through the windows, dust floating peacefully in the lazy morning, the wings of a butterfly came together and flitted around the small room, coming around to tempt the ash-made cat. The cat noticed it and attempted to bat at it, but the butterfly adjusted ever-so-slightly to avoid it. Hence, a playful hunt began between light and ash. The false creatures danced around the room and Cade fell into a sort of trance watching them traipse around the room, leaving hardly a trace. The spells wore out and they faded away: the butterfly merely fading into the shadows and the cat flaking away into indiscernible flakes of old ash. Sara came in as the last of the flakes flew back to the fireplace. “What’s bothering you so much?” she asked as she sat alongside him on the sky blue chaise. He heaved a long sigh and reclined as thought about what precisely was wrong. It could’ve been that there was only one year left of school for him and he didn’t know what to do. It could’ve been that he might not see the golden boy that haunted every waking moment, anytime soon. It could’ve been a random blight of sadness that struck him that morning. It could’ve been anything really. “You know that theory you have?” he asked instead. “Where, when someone dies, and there are none to mourn them, the grief passes on to someone in the world?” Sara gave a subtle nod, an acknowledgement of unplaceable sadness. She jumped up then- with energy that was hidden a moment before- and gave a quick glance to the outside. “We’ll have to do something fun, then. We could help Mother garden, or climb some trees in the Purple Garden, or go bee hunting in the Yellow Garden. Surely you wouldn’t pass your grief to me by keeping me all locked up.” With the last statement she cocked her head and held down her silky black dress. Her eyes didn’t reflect this childish behavior, though, as they hunted Cade’s expression and in their own way begged him to be joyous with her. “Okay,” he said, sitting up with a small smile. “Let’s go hunt some bees.” By Caitlyn Kiefer Waves lapse against the crumbling cliff
Another sun pulled below the horizon Another day has been born then gone Watched from a house of stone Home of an isolated man Relying on meats and fur Assisted by his basset hound When the forest floors were shot bare Birds found other forests to nest The sea called for him to find another living His ship sailing off persisting towards storm Leaving the basset hound condemned to ground Forest reborn, starting with the shrubs Then come vines reclaiming the house The hunter gone brings squirrels along Rabbits return, then birds, followed by deer Life renewed to the forest on the shore Yet the hound still guards the porch Despite having gnawed it to bits Wondering what he did Unable to stop protruding ribs Every breath risking tear Sunken eyes watch the slithering horizon suck away another sun While awaiting his sailor from a sea that stopped storming long ago Another day born then lost By Caitlyn Kiefer The trees have gone from pink to green to brown
Feet crinkling over the fallen remains of spring Rushing towards the door, towards the warmth From here we can watch the world lose a year Our muddy boot tracks still imbedded in the ground Yet the birds no longer stop in the garden to sing They’ve left, gone to a new home down in the south While here the first snowflakes begin to appear Swirling silently down they have no sound Turn away they’ll have covered the whole ground Beneath them our footprints have burrowed Underneath the wet snow they’ll erode We watch this new layer build while safely wrapped inside The snow beginning to climb the walls with ever growing stride Rolling hills emerge around pressed to the window in growth Encasing us together, awaiting the coming seasons blowth Beams of light push through the shedding walls Anticipation rises with the sounds of bird calls Rushing back to the world in our fresh boots Sloshing around among glistening grass chutes Bootprints bigger than those gone At the cusp of our peak and yet We’ll continue to walk-on by Riley Butler Glances blend
Sinking like stones Into our hearts Waiting, I groan Words unspoken They're in your eyes A silent song In which our story lies by Nikholas Svajlenka As the sun rises in the west,
There is an ancient city that sits on the Tiber. A city that has lasted for ages long gone Starting as a kingdom led by a brother that murdered his own. Yet as the kingdom fell, the sun began to reach the middle of the sky. As it did, a Republic was no more. Their name became the feared rulers of the world For their banners spanned from Scotland to Sudan From Spain to Iran, they ruled alone. But as the sun began drifting to falling in the east, Nero fiddled as his city burned. Their banners fueled flames that torched everything away, Burning a split between East and West. And as the sun finally falls in the east, No more were they unified nor were they anymore. As Rome was left to the sands of time. As the sun rises in the west, An island nobody assumed turned into the home of a man for the ages. He soon rose in the ranks of a revolutionary council Tired of a king that knew nothing of how to rule. When the sun reached the middle of the sky, A fatal blade fell on the kingdom of old, slicing off the snake’s head. Incompetence replaced incompetence for nothing changed except fear Only for the incompetence by a man from the dirt. He began to start his conquest for the world, similar to the Empire of old But once the sun started to fall in the east, his heart was struck. Jackals of Empires he once fought started swarming his faltering body. And as the sun finally falls in the east, No more was there the French Empire. As Napoleon spent his days isolated, dethroned from his creation. As the sun rises in the west, There lies a Union that overthrew an incompetent Empire. Slaying a family that was guilty only for their association War was soon to follow as their leader promised a bright future. 1923 was when his ideas could finally come to light, A slow rise of the sun to the center of the sky. His death was met with a slower increase of freedoms, As a state of terror ruled over their lands. But as the replacement tyrant finally met his end Their land was met with a sun shining in the center of their sky. Money was made while people started to enjoy themselves No more did they worry for they had to care little. Until an era of reforms came upon them with their last leader, Then did the sun finally begin to lower towards the east. People that once never had a state of their own created it from a collapsing land. Once the sun set on their nation, the banner was lowered, For their final effort was scattered to the sands of time. As the Soviet Union was no more, Destroyed by those who wished for a new era. by Sariah Meeker What if, when I get there,
It isn’t home, But hell in disguise? What if, when I see the light, It’s from the long shadows Cast on the god-forbidden floor? What if, when you say, “Hello Old Friend.” All I hear are my own betraying words, Breaking promises before they were even made? What if, when we sit down and talk, We realize I am so small, A speck of mortality compared to you? What if, when we have our first embrace, All I feel are the scars on my soul From all the stuff I’ve been through? What if, when I see you, The real you, I realize I never knew you at all? What if it doesn’t feel like home? Like love? Like belonging? Like me? What if… What if… What if… By Jeanne Baker I walk through the woods
No light can be seen It's dark in this forest Someone is watching me shivering, cry It's so cold in this forest Even though He sees me I am on my own The pressure I feel, so deep and unknown The branches squeak My pain I keep The world has stopped In death I drop But I'm still alone in my forest. By Jayana Russell Her heart is still falling for him….it falls deeper and deeper
Every hour of the day She still finds herself thinking about him, knowing that he’s so far away. The way he smiled at her How much joy his laugh brought her The way he would hugged her and looked into her eyes. Their separation caught her by surprise Who knew that the love he portrayed would be all but a lie? Why? Why did she have to fall for him and his schemes? She was so blinded by her love for him that she couldn't see the truth. The evidence was all there, there was no need to look for proof. Her heart was broken into pieces of glass Someone she loved so dearly made her never want to give her heart to someone else again. But that fact was not true, she would love and give her heart again But she would only do it, if it was him. By Sophia George The ocean gives and the ocean takes
Stirring in its depths, a new life awakes The little wave peeks out its head Bobbing above the other waves it treads Looks up at the sun’s hot touch Thinks for a moment, decides it's not too much For that little wave to handle, that strong little wave A journey it must go on, a whole ocean it must brave But the wave, with eagerness, crosses the expanse ‘Cross the horizon of cerulean dreams it will dance Flitting from sea to shining sea, it swirls Through ripples and sprays and currents it will twirl Laughing across the expanse of ocean, Relishing the steady caress of the fierce sun As it turns the wave’s back into a cape of diamonds As the sun sees its reflection in a mirage beyond reason The wave, with its brothers, look up at the sight Of a little strip of land breaking the azure night The wave pushes forth, ahead of the rest Eager to prove to all it’s the best But as it comes close, a new feeling appears A contentment, a sleepiness the wave had feared It wanted to go on, to rush into war To see how quickly it could go, how far But as the wave approached the small island’s sands It had a new wish, a new dream at hand The wave grew tired, and slowing down, It heard the lulling lullaby sound Of the waves before him reaching the sand Gracing the shore with a dream and a plan They had made it home, and so the little wave too Wished to be free from the big prison of blue To be free, to be home, to find its rest The wave touched the shore with a breeze at its crest Before the wave fell down, caressing the shore Free from the confines of the jail of azure Free to rest well and as that hot sun shone The wave’s glossy face knew that it had reached home. By Sophia George When I close my eyes, I see your face
In each and every unsuspecting place you’re haunting my dreams I find you in the darkest nights And in the orange sunrise beams I feel your poison, masked as charm Tastes like sugar in my memory But now I find that it brings me harm If I dwell too much in discovery The empty promises on your lips Torture me in silence Reminders of the ones I used to kiss now fuel my insatiable violence You thought that it was all over When you watched me run away From the grief-stricken, heartbroken lover You claim to be, or so you say But though I am long gone from your presence I know I am never far from your mind You’ll find The only thing that will heal your wounds you got from me Is time And in your head will forever live my poems, my songs and rhymes They will haunt you forevermore When you least expect it When the angry hearth fire roars when the rain tries to make you forget it When the snow that always lands on top Comes to find that in the hot sun It cannot do anything but melt Remember me as the only one Who ever had the horror and pleasure of having you Your kisses, your secrets, your pain Remember me as being the only thing you couldn’t contain The one who got away You can try to run as fast as you can But I am out of reach And the only thing left of me Are my words, my voice, my speech I am safe from your poisoned darts of lies The web you spin I will surmise That you betted on me giving in And now that I have run away free You dwell in vicious anger and wrath But you’ll find you cannot take it out on me Like a melody of nostalgic pain Remember me in the face of winter When you thought you won, And when there comes the sweet spring rain That washes away all that you’ve done When the snow on the mountain top overlooking the sea Is confronted with the fire of a thousand angry sons And that beautiful snow has no choice but to melt I pray that you will remember me |
LRHS Literary Magazine StaffEditor-in-Chief:
Alejandra Jones Senior Editors: Sariah Meeker Lee McCormack (fall) Artistic Editor: Bryson I. White (senior) Instagram Editor: Rania Brown (senior) Editors & Staff: Sophia George Blase Harriss Meaghan Kelly Chloe Meeker Adrian McCall Liliana Palermo Estefania Quintino(spring) Katelyn Ranheim Maria Rodriguez (spring) Mario Rodriguez (spring) Livia Weekley Spring 2024 Table of ContentsArtworkPoetryFictionFall 2023 Table of ContentsArtwork~"Jellies" by William Lemaster
~"Mini Landscape" by Richard Bui ~"Leesville Lion" by Bryson White ~"Zuzus bday 4 skool" by Rose Van den Troost ~"A Study in Winter" by Chloe Meeker ~"Les Plaines Liminales et Étranges" by Bryson White ~"Night Sky" by Richard Bui ~"Sunrise" by Elizabeth Cawley Fiction~"Retribution Through Strife" by Nikholas Svajlenka
~"To a New Frontier" by Nikholas Svajlenka ~The Storm's Echo" by Meaghan Kelly ~"Lines" by Meaghan Kelly Poetry~"Sailor" by Caitlyn Kiefer
~"Walk-on" by Caitlyn Kiefer ~"Connection" by Riley Butler ~"The Sun Rises in the West for it Falls in The East on Many" by Nikholas Svajlenka ~"What if" by Sariah Meeker ~"Dark Cold Alone" by Jeanne Baker ~"Deceiving Heart" by Jayana Russell ~"The Life of a Wave" by Sophia George ~"The Melting Snow" by Sophia George |