To submit your work for possible Virge Publication:
Current FLVS students are eligible to submit two pieces of work to be considered for publication in Virge. Submissions must be original works, be accompanied by a completed Submission Form, and the guidelines below.
Original artwork including paintings, drawings, and sketches
Original black & white or color photographs
Original fiction (1,000 words or less)
Original non-fiction (1,000 words or less)
Original poetry (1,000 words or less)
To be considered for sharing on an open mic night meeting, you must submit your piece(s) for review and approval beforehand. All submissions will be considered on a first come-first serve basis. The ones approved for that night of sharing will be posted in our meeting slides. We will share as many as possible, and pick up where we left off at the next share out/open mic night.
Open Mic Night Submissions: https://forms.gle/D8dJ5V91QL3iyTQm8
Social Awkwardness: A Haiku by Allison Arias
"That girl's pretty... hot (?)."
Crap, did I just tell her that?!
This is killing me.
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momentarily by Sabrina Gonzalez
i gazed out the window, closing my eyes and putting my arm outside the car, feeling the wind. i smiled a bit. she laughed.
“what is it?”
i opened my eyes, looking outside. “oh nothing. i felt a slight breeze just now. the world gliding through my fingertips, the scent of new beginnings. the warmth of the sun on my arm, but the chill of the soon-to-be winter's breeze brushing it over. it feels nice,” i looked at her and smiled. “like a smile.” she smiled sweetly back.
“the world encaptured in just a moment’s breeze. most tend not to notice moments, just days or months or years as a whole. but moments are the best part of those, full of so many details in an instant. like embers floating from a fire, or the moon slowly moving, or a breeze on a calm, autumn day. that’s the best part of life, don’t you think?”
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Countin' the days girl by Faye Yarroll
I can't wait to hug you tight,
To see your face and feel delight.
To say wild things, then watch you sigh,
Pretend you're done, but still reply.
I can't wait to run our plays,
The ones you “can't do” so you say.
Em and I, we know what's true,
You love them just as much as we do.
So, get ready, friend, the time is nigh'
I can't wait to see you!
- Your tea sister (yeah, I'm talking to you Sky!)
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Spring Dream by Jinnie
That refreshing feeling of spring
I will never get enough of it
It feels like the sweetest dream, soft, delicate
As I step outside, I close my eyes and I inhale deeply
the breeze may be a little cold, but, I couldn't care less
the air is filled with the scent of those white flowers we call Jasmine
But nothing truly compares with the summery feeling of the sun on your
skin
As I walk to the park, I realize that it isn't just the weather that makes spring special—
Notice the people, the friends talking, couples spending time with each other, grandparents playing with their grandchildren—
Spring isn't just about the weather being warmer, it's also about the love
and friendship that blooms during this time of year
I set my things down, I lie on the grass, closing my eyes and inhaling
once again
I wish I could stay in this sweet dream forever
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What's below. by The Hollowed Quill
TW: Aquaphobia (fear of water), thalassophobia (fear of the ocean), and mentions of death.
The water was cold against my skin; the horizon seemed endless. In the dead of night, not much was visible, not even my own hands before me. If the freezing temperatures didn’t kill me, I knew what lurked below would get me soon enough; I would’ve rather drowned. The thought of those cold, dead eyes and bloodstained teeth made me shudder. There was no surviving it this time. I was already dead. Normally, my mind would be racing. But, weirdly enough, only one thought echoed through my skull that day: How did I get here…?
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The Un-Amusement Ride by Allison Arias
TW: Mentions blood, death, the other Death, etc.
Louie shoved the brochure in my face. "Okay, Gi, if we can just find the exit, we'll be fine, right?"
I shrugged. "Beats me." Honestly, why would she think I knew about any of this? I was just as confused as she was! "Maybe you could ask yourself why we're here when you're finished blaming others."
It was true. Louie begged us to come to Wariland with her reality-TV family, and if we refused, she got all passive-aggressive about it. When we got there, she asked to go to the brand-new "Cave of Thanatos" ride. Even when Winter noticed something was up, Louie stayed there, rooted firmly in her belief that "nothing could go wrong in these places. And look what happened to Winter! So technically, we were all here, stuck in the stupidly named "Pit of Charon", because of her.
"You know," said Olivia, still covered in glowing blue demon blood from last night, "I could literally eat a churro right now. And you guys know how much I hate high calorie foods."
Ruby-Averill straightened her glasses and gulped. No words were needed to describe her crippling fear. Just a text in the group chat. "how much longer guys" she texted. "we're gonna DIE and we're running out of AIR and this was the dumbest choice we've ever made i'm gonna get killed before we get out"
"shut it spg" Olivia had replied.
Kenny, my annoying little brother, cuddled my arm.
Just then, my phone rang. Oh, thank goodness, I forgot it was in my pocket! I pulled it out and noticed something: this wasn't Mom's number, or Dad's, or that of anyone I knew. It belonged to 474-673-2737, whoever the heck that guy was.
But exactly when I clicked on "decline", we all heard -- and felt -- a bump. And not just a small bump, the kind you'd actually expect in a rollercoaster, no, this one was huge. So big we jumped in our seats. "Ah, what now?" I asked.
"I'll tell you what, Gina," replied... a voice I couldn't quite identify.
Louie finally stood up, her arms dangling on her sides. "Who are you... and do you know a way out of here?"
A strange, floating cloud of pitch-black appeared in front of the teeny cable car. "Oh, Louisa," it said, "don't whine so much."
It was the voice again; except he was molding himself, changing. The cloud stretched itself, moved, shifted, until it became long and slender. "Shalrus hemmani skeletu!" Bones shot out from the walls (so that's what those were for) and blended with the cloud. "Daimonel pertera acherelia!" The "fake" scythe and skull on the wall whizzed to the body-like cloud, the skull forming its -- his, it seemed -- head as his now-formed arm grasped the scythe. I gasped. This wasn't a fun ride. Or VFX. Or CGI. This was all real.
And if this was real, he was real. And if he was real, that meant...
I was face to face with Death himself.
"Cloak of shadows, scythe of steel..." He pointed the scythe at me, nearly poking my neck. "... only fools come and do not heal."
That's when I got a notification on my phone. Ruby-Averill again.
She texted a skull emoji.
Louie shrieked and tried scrambling off the ride, but Death zipped to her side. "You shan't escape, Louisa. You are the most foolish of all. But..." He turned to us. "... that does not make the rest of you any less foolish for following her!"
I sighed. He was right. If we hadn't given into her requests for our first ride of the day, none of this would've happened. So, I straightened myself up and said, "Sure. We deserve it. What do you want us to do?"
Death lifted a bony finger. "Everyone but Louisa can leave," he said, "on one condition: if you will be my heiress."
"Heiress? Of what?"
"The next Death. My time is running out, and I must find the next human willing to take my position."
I moved a few strands of soft black hair away from my face. "You mean everyone other than Louie will get to live? Won't her parents have something to say about that?"
Death shook his head. "I can take care of that."
"Good." I held out my hand. "Deal?"
Death shook my hand, and I felt his bony grip against my skin. "Deal."
Everyone disappeared. There was no turning back now.
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Excerpt From "Far too Tired to Fall Asleep" by Lorelai Kalafatis
TW: brief mentions of death and mentions of hunting animals.
Context: This is part of a piece of fan work from the TV show "Ghosts." Robin is the ghost of a caveman, and Julian is the ghost of a politician. Button House is the house (or the land in Robin's case) where they died. Before this, the two of them were spending the whole night together.
When nights would get particularly boring during Robin’s living years, he’d often find himself walking slow laps around his group’s living area. This was different from his restless pacing; this was a bit more thoughtful. Feeling the unique texture of the ground under his feet was oddly soothing to him. That, and the cool air in his lungs and his quiet (but not silent) surroundings. Glow worms would often buzz around him as he walked his laps. He couldn’t leave his area— otherwise he wouldn’t be a good watcher— but he didn’t need to. Walking in small circles was enough for him; he could even do it for hours on end. While calming, it provided him plenty of stimulation to make his sometimes stale nights more entertaining.
☆☆☆
“Isn’t it a little strange to be outside this late at night?” Julian questioned. They were both outside the house, walking through the grounds surrounding the property.
“Nah,” Robin replied, shaking his head. He was taking slow steps through the grass, his hands behind his back and his eyes scanning his surroundings. “S'normal for me.”
Despite Robin taking these walks often after death, they’d never feel the same as when he was alive. Unlike when he was alive, he couldn’t feel the ground underneath him or the air flowing in his lungs. He couldn’t feel anything for that matter. And there wasn’t as much wildlife around him either. Not only were there no glow worms, but accounts of animals, like wolves, had been hunted to extinction centuries ago. He’d watched countless animals get hunted near Button House. Despite the fact that people in his time had to hunt to survive, it still stung when he watched certain animals, some he loved dearly, slowly disappear. He wondered if glow worms suffered the same fate...
The two of them had completed one lap around the property before Julian had begun to complain. “This is boring.”
Robin let out a low, annoyed grumble. He trusted Julian enough to share a special pastime with him, and he was complaining. He didn’t seem all that interested when they first went outside anyway… “Well… you go inside if this not good enough for you!”
Julian didn’t even reply. He walked off the moment Robin suggested he should.
And now, Robin was alone. Despite not being able to feel anything physically, Julian’s departure left a cold feeling over the caveman. They spent the whole night together, and now Julian was gone, all because he was a bit bored. Robin missed having someone at his side on nights when he couldn't sleep... Oh well, he thought to himself. It’s not like he wasn’t used to being lonely. Robin spent the rest of the night outside.
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Alpha and the Lands of Galdur: Chapter One: Legends Never Die by Miravyn Lysandrel
Thunder roared, shaking the earth with its snarls.
Wind howled, splitting the grasses, clawing at the trees.
Rain pounded, swelling puddles to lakes, twisting dirt into black mud.
Lightning screamed, tearing apart the skies with each strike.
Yet the wolf still sat, watching the white serpent tongues flash, listening to the bellows of the sky without a flinch. The hole into the den yawned behind her, yet she ignored its promise of warmth and quiet.
The wolf shifted her paws slightly and resumed staring up at the sky with her calm, sad eyes, of which were the very same color as polished, gleaming emeralds, even in the shadows of the storm. Around those eyes lay a pattern of beautiful, pale-green circles that almost looked as if they were leaves, melded into her fur in an almost perfect circle.
The wolf lowered herself from a sitting position to one of laying down, allowing her fur – a swirled mix of a glossy, vibrant green that one could make out even in the darkness of the storm and a silky, slightly musty brown – to mingle with the increasing amounts of mud beneath her. Vines – genuine, bright green vines – wove their way in and out of the wolf’s pelt, alive with bright blooms of various pinks, purples, and blues, each one a vivid light in the darkness. Just above each of the wolf’s paws were tufts of slightly lighter brown fur, growing thick and long, yet just as silken and smooth as the rest of her.
Up above, the air was cracked in two again, then shaken violently with the following, deafening roar. Only a few strides away, a tree’s trunk subsided to the pressure of the gales, snapped in two, and came crashing down with a sound that warred with the thunder and rain.
Yet the wolf had not flinched. She, in fact, had scarcely done as much as blink as the great oak beside her met its end.
She flicked her tail, swiping it in a graceful ark through the drowning grasses, and the collapsed tree rose slowly into the air again. The splinters of the trunk that had fallen away rose as well, and slowly, gradually, yet with more elegance than believable in the midst of the tempest, the oak was once again reunited with its roots. The leaves and branches settled again as if heaving a great sigh before allowing themselves to be assailed by the winds.
It was only then did the wolf glance at the towering tree. A most peculiar expression appeared on her once-blank face, as if she was torn between the most genuine smile and the deepest frown.
A howling call echoed from the depths of the warm den behind her, the words swept away into the falling night before they could be caught. The wolf stood, still so calm, so peaceful, and before she turned to vanish into the tunnel’s welcoming depths, she murmured something to herself.
“Only the unseen power may heal the scar.”
It, too, was pulled away into the storm in the span of an eye’s blink.
The wolf nodded to herself – a single, small nod, as if it all finally made sense.
And then the brief shadow that crossed her face was as if that sense had come in the form of a death sentence.
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A Blood Red Sun by Robert Davis
TW: Mentions of blood and death.
A blood-red sun rose over the settlement of Tatanka Creek, giving the cracked earth a crimson hue. The gunslinger rode silently through its rays, casting a long shadow across the ground. A rooster crowed in the distance, heralding the arrival of morning. Townsfolk poured out into the central street and began their morning activities. Children squealed playfully as they ran around their exasperated mothers. Shopkeepers shooed the previous night’s drunkards off their doorsteps and opened for business. The gunslinger moved through the crowd, his passing silencing even the rowdiest members of the crowd. The air seemed to still at his presence, as if the world were holding its breath. Dozens of eyes followed the man and his beast as they halted before the boarding house. The gunslinger efficiently dismounted his horse and tethered the reins to the building’s hitching post. As he stepped inside and closed the door, the air of silence passed. The townspeople returned to their daily activities but remained uneasy.
Dust floated through the stagnant air of the boarding house before landing on the desk. Stephen Letterman pulled the lodging records from the drawer and placed them down in front of the gunslinger. The man ruffled through them before selecting one and taking it out of the stack. Stephen smiled, a businesslike grin that had no warmth behind it. “I suppose that will be all, sir?” he questioned. The gunslinger glared at him, then nodded once. Stephen reclined in his chair and lit a cigar. “Now that you’ve found the man,” he said, “we can move on to the matter of payment.” He looked up just in time to see a closing door and a pile of bills on the table. Chuckling, Stephen leaned forward and began counting the money. Despite his terrible manners, at least the gunslinger payed well. Not that it mattered much; the fool would be dead by noontime tomorrow.
Sherriff Wendell Thompson peeked through the shutters. The short, stocky man’s hands trembled in worry. The outlaw Eli Vaught had come into town with the arrival of the harvest and had taken the goods of just about everyone. Any man that stood up to him lay six feet under, their corpses food for the worms. Thompson’s eyes darted side to side, looking for anyone who might eavesdrop. Finding nothing, he sighed and turned back to the gunslinger. The man glowered in the shadows of the room. “A bounty hunter, eh?” Thompson said, grabbing a bottle of whiskey. The gunslinger nodded slowly. Thompson poured the amber liquid into a glass, took a sip, and exhaled slowly. He offered a glass to the gunslinger, who pushed it away. “You’re sure?” Thompson asked. “This is Irish whiskey, a rare find in these parts.” Again the gunslinger abstained. The sheriff raised an eyebrow before taking the glass back. “Suit yourself,” he said. “This also happens to be one of the only things your target hasn’t taken from this godforsaken settlement.” The gunslinger stood from the desk and moved to leave. “Going so soon?” Thompson asked. The man in black left, slamming the door behind him. “Don’t worry!” the sheriff called, “The undertaker will take good care of you!”
Eli Vaught stood above Sheila’s sleeping form, a hatchet in his hand. The moonlight glinted across the weapon. The woman muttered in her sleep, calling for him. Damn her! She’d betrayed his trust; sold him out to the gang bosses back east. Eli couldn’t travel with someone who had given him up for cash, regardless of love. He caressed her face one last time before bringing down the hatchet. A beautiful face. A face pale as the moonlight. A face that now lay still as blood pooled from below the neck. Dropping the weapon, Eli stepped out of the room and closed the door. He walked downstairs, whistling a jaunty tune. Sitting at the bar, Eli noticed a newcomer at the lodging house. The gunslinger glanced at him, and Eli felt a chill. Covering it up with bravado, he moved closer to the man in black. “You the feller that been looking for me?” he asked. The gunslinger nodded, sipping from his hip flask. Eli smirked. “You know,” he said, “I won’t run. Ain’t the honorable thing to do. So how’s about this: you and I have a little duel tomorrow. Let’s say… noon.” The gunslinger glanced at Eli’s extended hand, then shook it.
Noontime came, and the townspeople holed themselves in their houses. The stagnant air seemed more suffocating than usual; the sun was blindingly hot. The boarding house’s door creaked open, and the gunslinger and the outlaw strode into the town square. Eli chuckled, bowing to the cowering townsfolk. The gunslinger stared contemplatively at his antics as the two got in place, sizing his foe up. With their backs to each other, each man walked twenty paces. Both men turned and fired at once sending a loud crack through the air. Eli looked at the townspeople and bowed, waiting for the gunslinger to fall. He suddenly felt warmth from the blood spilling from his forehead. He looked at his opponent, who stood uninjured. “Nice shot,” he said, falling over lifelessly.
A blood-red sun rose over the settlement of Tatanka Creek giving the cracked earth a crimson hue. The gunslinger rode silently through its rays, seeking his fortune in blood.
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Jade Eyes (Daughter of the Jeweled Veil Vol. 1) by Allison Arias
(Rudy Zhang)
“Oh, but I can’t...” wails the 1991 TV in front of me. Old-timey, I know, but hey, it’s something. Plus, HD is overrated, right?
Right?
While Auntie Ting lies on the couch, watching reruns of English-dubbed K-dramas, I’m left brooming the floors of the apartment. Mom’s upstairs, either cleaning the floors, writing the cookbook she’s probably never even going to publish, or dancing to old music while doing chores.
Yep, it’s the last one. I can hear it from down here now.
Frankly, I wish I could be in Auntie’s place right now, but she’s an elder. She needs her rest. Me, I still have a whole lot more of that “youthful teenager’s energy”, so I’m left doing the chores, specifically the harder ones that Mom can’t bring herself to do. So yeah, I guess I have it easy right now.
Ding-dong.
“Can you get the door for me, baby?” calls Mom.
I set the broom on the chair closest to me and head to the door (which isn’t very far away, either). “On it!”
It’s the mailman, who hands me a tiny indigo envelope. “Hey, kid,” he says, “I got something for ya.”
Before anything, I can smell the delicate envelope. Fresh. Maybe lavender. Perhaps tulips. I’d even bargain on mint. But definitely aristocratic. And it’s not just the scent; it’s also the artistry put into designing the envelope. Gold lining, gold motifs, even my address in delicate golden writing: Apt. 274 Hallows Circle, Manhattan, NY, US.
Then it hits me: this envelope could only be from one place.
“I just got accepted, didn’t I?”
(Opal Warburton)
I flip open my laptop. Password: orcsrock11210. The screen loads, the tiny black pointer disappears, and I’m left watching dots go in a circle.
Robertson is standing behind me with a grilled cheese and steamed carrots in a small China plate from the kitchen. “Lunch, Miss Warburton?” he asks before shoving the plate in front of my face.
I look back at him and give him the teensiest little smirk. Robertson is kind of this replacement dad for me at times. How else would he know my favorite? Still, I wave the plate away. “Not now, Robertson.” I pick my bangs away from my face. “I’m a little busy, as you can prob’ly see.”
Suddenly, the pointer appears in the middle of the screen, and I clasp my hands before grabbing the mouse next to the laptop. The pointer hovers to the tiny envelope. 1,957 unread emails. One more than yesterday.
“Let me guess,” says Robertson, now on the other side of the room. “The Institute?”
“Whatcha think?” I click on the envelope. My eyes widen as they meet the words “Subject: Institute Acceptance Letter”. Yep, he enrolled me. I’m doomed now.
Robertson sets my lunch on my dresser and struts to the door. “If you don’t mind now, I’m going to have some food of my own.”
“Sure,” I say. There’s no use to him staying. I’ll have to go either way. Why? Because, no matter what I think, or say, or want, Dad always forces me into the business.
I bang my fist on my soft feather pillow, trying hard to drown my rage, until I remind myself: there’s no use. I’m trapped.
(Haylee Carlton-Estevez, MAIN CHARACTER!!!)
I stand in front of the airport, bags and ticket in hand. One flight and I can change my fate. Just a few steps into that doorway and I’ll be waving my old life goodbye. This might determine my future, my days and nights, until I die.
I want to go inside, but there’s a voice inside me saying I shouldn’t. “If you step any further,” it tells me, “you’re going to get yourself killed. There will be no life out there for you.”
I take one step closer to the door. For Mami. I take another step. For Dad this time. I take a few more steps, for Lucas and Annabel and Tess and baby Jo. So they can come here without fear.
The glass door slides open. This is the moment. The moment I should be running to the counter and giving the lady my ticket, then sliding through security and flying off to France and to the Institute, changing the course of my life forever. But I can’t.
All my life was here. My parents, my siblings, my friends and school. The family food truck. My memories of crushes, playdates, holidays, everything I built was in this town.
I shake my head, trying to center myself. Mami and Dad would want me to be here. So would my Lucas, and Annabel, and Tess, and Jo, and everyone. And so would I. I have their blessing to be here, their support. I earned my right to go, so you know what? I was destined to come here.
With these thoughts and beliefs, I take one last step into the airport. For me.
There’s no turning back anymore, no second-guessing my choice. Luckily, I don’t regret a thing. I walk to the woman by the counter and take out my ticket. “Flight 95. Marseilles.”
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