Fiction

Fox

“Fox? Fox?” my foster mom, Arilyn Skyes says. 

I look up. “Yes?” I say. There is no tone in my voice. 

“You mustn't be scared,” she says gently. Her sky blue eyes are wide with worry and tenderness.

I am not scared. I feel nothing. I’ve always felt nothing. Some would say I am strange. Some think that I must have undergone a huge trauma. I haven’t. I’ve simply felt nothing. 

“I am not scared,” I say simply. 

Taerl, my foster brother, who’s 14, snorts. “Geez, Mom, you don’t need to tell her. She doesn’t feel anything.”

He’s the only one who knows. 

The Skyes are my third set of foster parents. The first pair, the Mairiflyns, thought I was too strange. The second pair, the Smiths, thought I was too dreary. 

“I mean, she’s like, a void, of nothing,” Taerl blabbers on. “It bet there’s nothing in her brain.”

“Taerl!” Aryilyn admonishes.

I don’t feel anything. I never feel anything. 

“Fox, help me with the boxes?” my foster dad, Maxwell grunts. We moved. I had started a few weeks of school at their old house, but now they decided to move, so I’m starting a new school. I don’t care, though. Afterall, I never feel anything. 

“Yes, Maxwell,” I say formally. 

Taerl groans with envy. “How come you let her call Dad by his first name, but not me?” he complains. 

Aryilyn shoots him a look. “She’s adjusting, Taerl!”

He ignores her. “Why does she have to live with us? And what kind of name is Fox?”

Aryilyn gives me a worried look. “Don’t talk like that to your sister!”

She says it while tugging on her dark brown hair. She shouldn’t feel worried about me. I don’t myself. 

Taerl’s face screws up. “SHE’S NOT MY SISTER!!!!!”

He runs up the stairs. 

I feel nothing. 

“Please excuse me,” I say, picking up the tiny box of my stuff.

Aryilyn opens her mouth to say something, but I head up the stairs. 

“And get ready for school! You have two days to prepare, since you’re starting on Thursday!” Maxwell hollers after me, smoothing down his hazelnut hair as he grimaces. He had just stubbed his toe on one of the boxes.  

“Yes Maxwell,” I say.    

I climb up the ladder to the attic, which is where my new room is. I sit on the floor, and open my box, which contains a few pieces of clothing and a pendant with a piece of rock carved in the liking of a crescent moon. I turn it over in my hands. 

“I should be curious about this,” I say out loud. “But I’m not. Is there something wrong with me?”

I reach within myself for any shred of emotion. There is none. 

“I should be concerned,” I say. “But I’m not.”

I ponder for a few minutes, turning the stone around in my hands. 

Sundunly, the trapdoor to my attic bursts open, and I calmly look over to where Taerl is standing. His face is a furious shade of red. I wonder how people can feel emotions and have them show up on your face.  

“Your things,” he snaps, thrusting a huge box at me. It slams into me and pain shoots through me. I don’t show it. I can’t show it.

“What’s wrong with you!” he shouts. “You were supposed to dodge it!”

I stare blankly at him. 

Tears spring up into his sky blue eyes. 

Sorrow. I’ve never felt sadness before. 

“You’re nothing like her,” he hisses. “My real sister. Aralyna. She had emotions, unlike you. What are you?”

“I am Fox,” I say, like I’ve always said. 

He snorts in disgust, and storms out of my room.

“Who is his sister?” I ask to the space around me. “Who is Aralyna?”

It doesn’t respond of course. Not that I care. I don’t have feelings after all.

“Superperformer”

Written by Ori Don

You know, I could never shake the feeling that I was born for the camera and audience, that I would look good in any piece of clothing that I was given. I dream of performing in front of an audience and having the time of my life doing something I enjoy.

Now, I’m not the most muscular guy ever, but I’m somewhere average. I’ve got brown hair, almost shaped like a mohawk, but not as close as some would say. I have a tall frame, being 6’0” last time I measured! My face, on the other hand, is not so great. I’ve got almost non-existent lips, and I have to pout every time I want to look good in photos, and I’m awkward when I smile. The good thing about editorial shoots is that I mostly don’t have to! Once I get clear skin, it’s over for everyone that I know.

My parents always say that the only way that you will ever make good money is by working a job in computer science. However, I don’t think that’s true. Actors like, say, Henry Cavill are loaded with money! I believe it’s hard work in the industry that will get you money. I can’t muster up the courage to say, “I don’t want to work a boring 9-5 job in computer science! I live for the attention, the drama, the spotlight!” However, every time I try to give subtle hints, they don’t notice.

Even the librarian, and a lot of teachers at my school said I should be famous! One time, I was in the library, helping out with re-shelving books, and my librarian said, “Your name sounds like it would be the name of a famous person!” I just marveled inside at that statement, because finally, someone recognizes that I should be famous when I’m older! However, that’s just a fantasy for now.

“From a Dog's Perspective ”

Written by Will Richmond

It was a chilly winter morning like many others. I had just woken up and was ready for the day ahead. As I walked downstairs I felt like something was off but I couldn’t put my finger on it. When I got to the kitchen I was greeted by three of my owners, a mother and two brothers. Just then I was shocked to find that they had eaten without me! As quick as I could I ran over to my food bowl and started slapping it to signal that I was ready to eat. I was only halfway done with my food when the brothers got up to leave for school. When I was finished, I ran upstairs to my what I like to call my “lookout area”. I call this my “Lookout area” because I have a perfect view of the street. Just then I saw my first intruder, the mailman. As fast as I could I immediately started yelling at him as loud as I could, but he didn’t seem to notice me, strange. This time I ran downstairs next to the door and waited for him as he put the papers through the mail slot. Just then I started barking even louder and he heard me, he quickly pulled his hand back and left immediately. As soon as he was out of sight I calmed down and sat down on the couch knowing that the house was once again safe.

They’ve Found Us

Cico had changed in ways that no one spoke about. The city stretched out before me, a sprawling mass of stone and steel, where nature has been pushed to the edges and forgotten. The land, battered by countless storms, both natural and man-made. Once a haven of rolling green hills and lush forests, the countryside now bears the scars of relentless industrialization. The air hangs thick with the stench of burning coal and the sharp tang of rusting metal— a suffocating blend that clings to my skin and fills my lungs with every breath. The stench, so constant, so pervasive, that it settles on my tongue, leaving a metallic bite that lingers long after I’ve taken a breath. A flavor I have gotten used to.

People didn’t look you in the eye here, not anymore. They knew things were different, but no one could say quite how. Cico had a way of making you forget–forget what it once was, forget how close the edge really is.

Tonight, the mist is thick, coiling around the streetlights, stretching shadows into corners and alleyways where light can not reach. In the distance, the river hums, rough and swollen from the recent rains. Its song, muted by the fog, faded beneath the silence of Cico’s streets.

The bells toll—once, twice, three, four, five times—marking the hour. It’s five o’clock. I'm late. 

I walk faster, my boots clicking sharply against the damp cobblestones, the sound bouncing off the narrow walls of the tight streets. The buildings surround leaning in as though to listen, with cracked bricks and grime-covered windows looming overhead. The alley is dim, lit only by a flickering street lamp further ahead, its feeble light barely pushing back the darkness pooling in every corner. 

A faint chill brushes the back of my neck. Something is wrong. I stop abruptly, my breath fogging in the cool air, and glance over my shoulder. The alley is empty, its shadows shifting in the wary glow of the streetlamp. I peer deeper into the mist. Nothing moves, yet this haunting feeling stays. I keep forward; my steps faster now, less measured, urgent. 

Then I hear it–a faint scuff of a footstep. Soft. Unmistakable. My breath catches. I freeze mid-step, the sound of my heartbeat piercing now. Slowly, I turn. There, beyond the veil of mist, a shadow stirs—a figure cloaked in darkness, too far to make out clearly but close enough to send a jolt of fear up my spine. 

I whip back around, my feet moving instinctively, my steps heavier as I pick up, my exhale shallow and hurried. I do not run–not yet. My steps grow louder against the stones, and so do the faint ones trailing behind me, keeping their distance, but always there. The streets blur around me, the familiar labyrinth of Cico warped by fog and fear. Each twist and turn seems to lead further into the city’s shadowy maze.

Finally, I round the corner to my street, my building comes into view. Relief floods my thoughts, if only for a quick moment. I dash up the steps, fumbling for the key with trembling hands. The door clicks open, and I slip inside, slamming it shut with a resounding echo through the narrow hallway. 

Inside, chaos reigns. The usual calm of the apartment has been replaced by hurried movement. The faint bitterness of burnt coffee lingering, sharp and intrusive. Clothes litter the floor, half-packed bags spilling their contents. Papers and documents are strewn across the table. My parents dart swiftly between rooms, their faces pale and drawn. 

My mother looks up as I enter, her sharp green eyes meeting mine. “Bella,” my mother says, her voice trembling as she hurries toward me. A loose strand of her dark hair, streaked with early gray, falls from the bun she’s always careful to keep neat. She hurries to me, her steps small but quick, the hem of her long cardigan brushing the floor. “We have to leave. Now.” 

“What’s going on?” I manage to ask, my voice shaking. “Who…who was out there? Who’s–”

“No time,” my father interrupts , carrying an edge of panic. His broad shoulders fill the frame. His face, usually calm, is lined with worry, his square jaw set tight as he moves. His dark hair, always neatly combed, is slightly mussed, his calloused hands moving with a precision that betrays how long they’ve prepared for this moment. “They’ve found us.” 

The word hit like a punch to the chest. They’ve found us. My throat tightens, and fear blooms bitter on my tongue. 

The muffled thud of boots echoes through the apartment complex, growing louder with each passing second. I crouch beside the front door, pressing my ear against the wood, hoping–praying– they’ll turn away. But they don’t. Every sound, every movement seems to amplify, the low thud growing nearer. My fingers claw at the floorboards, by body taut, waiting. Then the footsteps stop. The air shifts, like weight, press down on me, suffocating, silence piercing my ears as shadows creep under the door’s narrow gap. 

A sharp knock splits the quiet–quick–I stutter backward, my wrists catching my weight. My gaze darts to my parents, Their faces etched with fear, lips drawn tight, their movements quick and mechanical as they stuff the last of our belongings into bags. My mother’s hand trembles as she shoves the last documents into a bag, her fingers working so quickly they fumble. The tension hung between us like a deep fog, thickening each breath. 

The knock sounds again, louder this time. My other’s sharp green eyes meet mine, desperation bleeding through her calm facade. “Go,” she hisses, her voice low but urgent. “Hide. Now.”

“I can’t leave you,” I protest, my voice thin, barely there. 

“You don't have a choice,” my father declares. “Just like we practiced,”

No. I can’t leave them, not like this. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I don't get a chance to speak. Another strikes the door. My mother’s face crumples, her hands trembling, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Bella, please.” Her hand grips my arm, guiding me toward the latch beneath the floorboard. I hesitate, rooted to the spot, fear warring with my need to stay. Her pleading look breaks me, I stumble backward, into my hidden space, the cold wood biting against my palms. The dark beneath is thick with dust, the air stale and suffocating as I crawl inside, pulling the door closed behind me. A sliver of light seeps through the edges, and I press my face to the crack of the hardwood.

The apartment door bursts open. Heavy steps stomp against the floorboards, voices low and guttural. There is a scuffle. My father’s voice breaks through, a harsh grunt followed by the sickening punch of flesh against flesh. My stomach lurches.

“Get down! Don’t resist!” One of them growls. The metallic clang of handcuffs cuts through the chaos, followed by the crack of a body forced to the floor. 

“Please–don’t hurt him!” my mother’s voice cracks with panic, her footsteps fast and frantic. The crack of a slap sends a tremor through me, my nails digging into my tissue. Salt tears burn down my cheeks, I bite down my lip, soon followed by a metallic tang. I press harder against the crack, willing myself to disappear, to melt into the shadows. 

They come closer now, heavy steps used as a cruel countdown. One of them steps into the hall, their feet too loud, too close. I see shadows dance across the floor just outside, their silhouettes stretching, bending. 

“Where is she?” one of them growls, his voice a vicious snarl. I hold my breath, barely able to keep my throat from betraying me. Another voice calls from the other room, distant but firm.

“She's not her. Keep moving”

 There’s a pause, heavy and thick. The sound of struggles— my parents’ muffled protests, fade, swallowed by the quiet. I can hear them dragging my father out of the living room, the scrape of his shoes across the floor as they pull him. My mother’s cries rise, ragged and frenzied before they are hidden in the background. The apartment door slams shut with finality. The sound echoes through the apartment, filling every space. And then, nothing. Just the lingering echo of footsteps that grow fainter and fainter, until they are no more than dull throbs in the distance. 

I stay hidden, every muscle taut, every breath shallow in the stale air. The faint sound of the city outside mums. The river, it sings on, mocking in its normalcy, in the endless pit I find myself in. Minutes stretch into an eternity, I can’t bring myself to move, to look once more, but the footsteps are long gone, the echoes of my parents' struggles and pleas now miles away.

Slowly, I slide the door open just enough to peek through, the apartment is empty. I crawl out into the wreckage of our home. The place is destroyed, broken in ways I can’t fix. The mess, the scattered papers and bags, scream answers to the question I already know, one I don't want to hear.  The apartment is still, leaving me alone, in this stillness until I am swallowed whole.