Prose

A Profound Phenomenon

by: Aish Devulapalli 

      For people. I hope that love finds itself in every part of your life. 

Kisses on foreheads.

Hugs of encouragement before the first day of school. 

Heads leaned against shoulders on park benches. 

Laughter, loud and unafraid. Imperfect. Shrill. Beautiful. 

All my life, I've been subject to watching love take its forms all around me. It's a cruel thing, only being able to observe such a profound phenomenon. One that always seems to be just out of my embrace, slipping away every time I extend my arms to hold it gently. I’m learning to accept its aversion to being in my possession, distancing myself from the idea of having that connection. The idea of love. 

I’m learning to watch without feeling an intangible longing deep within me. To observe without feeling. So I do. 

I watch lovers as they lean against the side of a building, too intoxicated with feelings to keep their lips apart. 

Friends gathered at a coffee shop table after school, eager to share about their days and to complain about their demanding education. 

A child waddling in between his parents, each of his small hands held carefully by his mother and father. They stare down at him, mesmerized by their year-old son and the love radiating in that moment. 

I was once that child. I was once a part of that phenomenon myself. 

But what I once was will never be so again. 

I deserve such a fate. 

Darkness is perceived in many ways. Enigmatic, unpredictable, and dangerous. We tend to stray away from it, as we cannot see what hides in the folds of darkness’ velvet, and what our eyes cannot see, our minds create. To me, it is serenity. It is when the world seems to lie still, a lapse of mystery in a life that we demand to control. 

So when I heard that Shots- the city’s newest bar, was hiring bartenders for the night shifts, I immediately applied. Working night shifts at a bar might seem like a job only a cynic would enjoy, but it somehow manages to satisfy my insatiable desire to feel something close to love. So tonight I lean against the bar counter; the only thing separating me from the young woman on the other side. 

I don’t know her. She’s too drunk, too sad, and too beautiful to remember me, but in my mind I fill in the gaps of our paths crossing. She could have been my best friend. My lover. My sister. If only fate wasn’t so unforgiving. 

She blinks away tears just as quickly as they form in her eyes, and I've refilled her glass with red wine at least five times this night. Her name is Allie, or so she tells me. 

Allie. 

“I don’t know if he’ll let me l-leave,” this time the tears spill down onto her cheeks, past the dark bruises along her jaw, and trickle into the glass under her. I know that if I could, I’d take it from her, sit at her side, hold her face in my hands, and tell her that she’d never be hurt again. But I can’t. So I pick up the bottle and reshelve it behind me. 

“You’ve had a lot to drink. It’s late too, so head home, okay? I hope things get better.” I try to smile at Allie, but I can’t seem to meet her eyes. 

“I need help,” she chokes out. I’m already turning to the shelves behind me, checking inventory on drinks. I could easily pretend to have not heard her words. I could just as easily turn around and listen to her. 

“With what?”

“I can’t go home to him.”

Break-in Tutorial

by: Sahil Patel

5 ways to easily prevent a home invasion, temporarily and permanently.

Solution 1: When an armed intruder breaks into your home, first, you must stay calm, find the nearest and safest hiding place and contact the authorities immediately. If you happen to have a weapon near wherever you are, take that as an insurance in case anything happens before the police arrive. Calmly wait it out until the police arrive, then bam, problem solved.

Solution 2: If an armed intruder breaks into your house, get a stick and a basket along with some string and make a simple trap using coins and paper bills as bait. The intruders have a great sense of smell and will immediately howl like a wolf. You may find it cringe, but you must remain calm as intruders can also smell cringe. The money will attract the intruder to the basket and once they are underneath it, pull the string attached to the stick and then boom, you now have caught the intruder.

Solution 3: If you happen to have any disease of any variety and happen to have a break in, immediately go back to school, major in biology and gene editing and study until you have multiple PHDs in that area and rent a lab where you can biologically engineer your sickness into any type of disease, most preferably rabies, create a time machine, go back to the day of the break in, inject the rabies into yourself and bite the intruder, unlike the intruder you have prepared a future vaccine for yourself and will be fine.

Solution 4: This solution may be difficult for those who haven’t joined any type of scouts (Girl Scouts, Cub Scouts, etc.) since it requires some basic knowledge on assembling common everyday items into a simple trap. First, predict when someone will break into your house, if no one is going to break into your house, idk just hire someone on the dark web to do it without revealing your true identity. Now, prepare five pieces of gum (any kind), if Mint you only need 4, 6 candle sticks, five packs of any red colored juice and a live goat. Create a pentagram using the juice, put one candle at the edge of each star and hold the last one in your hand, the gum is just prepared for bad breath, put the goat where the intruder will arrive, intruder arrives, the goat will push the intruder into the middle of the pentagram, immediately chant the words of the olden texts and congratulations you have succeeded in Sacrificial Acts 101.

Solution 5: Become American--it’s quite self explanatory.

Deadly Night

by: Tobias Mayer

It was an almost beautiful dance. A tight tango between life and death. Each morning—at the exact crack of dawn—a man named Tom would dash out of his dwelling, disappearing into the outside world in search of food, tools, and the like; anything to prolong his survival another day. And every time, the man would return just before sunset, never to peek outside until the next morning’s light. There was no explicit reason for this avoidance of the night time—no one to say that such activity was irrational. But that was because they had all mysteriously perished while within the grasp of the lunar moon’s light, their bodies left in its wake.

Whether it was the light that killed them or something else entirely, it made no difference to Tom. As far as he was concerned, he was the only person left—he had not run into another person since the First Deadly Night, and was quite convinced he never would. So, here he stayed, holed away in an abandoned house, scavenging for supplies during the day and biding his time before he would have to change locations again in search of even more supplies. Perhaps the weight of possibly being the last man on earth would have crushed poor Tom, if only he’d had the time to think about it. He did not, however—his days consisted simply of running in the day and cowering at night. A simple, animalistic cycle. A beautiful dance. A tango between life and death.

But cycles can break. Dances can end. Age caught up to Tom eventually. One morning, he just sat up in his bed, and decided he was done with it all. Done with the running. Done with the fear. And just like that, years of solitude caught up with the man. He yearned to join the rest of mankind in peaceful slumber, wherever one goes when they perish. With his mind suddenly made up, he simply sat in his bed—or rather, the abandoned bed that he took for his—waiting for nightfall. All the while, Tom reflected upon the times before the First Deadly Night. The times of people. Of plenty. Of certainty—however false it had been. All of these thoughts, memories, and feelings accompanied him as he eventually crept up to the old door of the abandoned house he was staying in. They followed him through the door, and waited with him as he too awaited Death, riding upon the silvery light of the moon. Tom only doubted his decision one final time before he strengthened his resolve and stared down the sky, challengingly.

Night approached quickly after that. The sky darkened. Tom’s nerves—conditioned from many years of survival—screamed at him to run inside. To sleep away the deadly night sure to come, as it did every other night. But being resolute as he was, Tom simply swallowed his nerves, and continued to stare down the approaching stars. It was not long before the moon first peeked over the horizon. Tom had almost forgotten its silver sheen, and breathed in amazement—carefully noting that he was still breathing. He watched as the moon rose into the sky, wondering when and how the release of death might come. Would it be instant? Would it hurt? He tried not to let that bother him, allowing his nostalgia for fellow man to cement his place at the stoop of the abandoned house. All the while, he stared up at the beautiful night.

When the moon had reached halfway to the top of the sky, something changed. A flicker of light caught Tom’s eye, and he looked up at the moon inquisitively. It was shimmering now—actually shimmering! Slowly, a dark, claw-shaped figure appeared over its cratered face. To Tom’s surprise, the shadow began reaching—down across the sky, to the horizon. From the horizon, to a nearby hill. Snake-like, the dark hand slithered along the grass of the yard, quickly reaching for Tom. Sitting still, he let the hand envelope his own shadow, the two becoming one. A funny drawing sensation occurred, and Tom felt himself becoming increasingly drowsy. His last thoughts had been those of curiosity. About the mysterious being on the moon. But alas, they were all shortened as Tom finally succumbed to the pull, letting his life slink away with the hand. Seemingly satisfied, the hand retracted from Tom’s limp body, sliding back over land and sky to return to the moon. Tom—who had indeed been the last man on earth—was now dead.

Having eaten the last of mankind’s souls, the mysterious being was now satisfied. Gathering itself from every corner of the dark side of the moon in which it had been staying, it formed into a physical cocoon of darkness and shadow. There it would remain for thousands of years, undisturbed. A mysterious, dark god was being born.

And when it finally awoke from its metamorphosis? No being in the universe was prepared for the aftermath…

No Regrets

by: Nawra Shaik

“Truly,” I turn to the haggard man next to me, “Truly, I hope you’re happy.”

He stares back with dilated pupils, crazy but not quite, sinister but not quite, sorrowful but not quite.

“This isn’t how I wanted it to be,” he spits at me. His hands, clenching the hard black remot, shake wildly by his side. His grimy hair falls into his eyes once again, but he makes no moves to shake it out, because in this moment, it doesn’t matter. Not when his family and mine are pounding the doors to the auditorium. Their desperate pleas would have reached me whether I stood in front of the solid slate door like I am now or if I’d been standing oceans away. They know about the bombs I’ve planted in all the warehouses, stacked high with the very things their lives now depend on. The remote controlling those bombs now rests in the hands of the man in front of me. The pounding continues, their words ringing down my spine.

“Please don’t, please. We promise we’ll be good, please don’t, please….”

Suddenly, I hear one of the outer doors being wrenched from its hinges, the crash of the steel hitting the concrete resounding through the universe, and now the pouding is much closer. Only one door left. The last door keeping them from me.

I turn back to the man, and take a solid step forward. His eyes widen, and the hand cradling the remote flies to his chest, protective. I take another step as he backs up, tripping on nothing, falling over backwards. I suppose, no matter how hard I try, the pity I feel for him could never outweigh the deep-rooted lust for revenge I’ve got, and he must see that. The closer I get, the faster he scrambles away, and now he’s screaming at me.

“Get away! Get away! Just please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to, how could I have known the pills would cause this much trouble? I’m sorry, please,” He begs.

He’s not sorry, we both know it. How could he be sorry? How could he be sorry after he created the only pill in the world that completely erased your regrets? How could he be sorry when no one else is, when they look at each other with quivering eyes at every turn and drag well-worn blades through one another's flesh? How could he be sorry when they stand up again, eyes clear and stable once more, and spill tears onto the still-warm bodies of their dead brothers, sisters, mothers, friends underneath them? How could he be sorry when the fog clears up and the pain rips through them, through every vein, a fire burning so hot underneath their skin that the only thing that would help them is another icey pill, melting the fire, cooling emotions, chilling and freezing hearts into blocks of ashy stone.

No, this man isn’t sorry. And he deserves to die. Except, I can’t kill him. Not like this. I reach into my pocket and pull out a glassy blue capsule and hold it up in the air for him to see. He freezes for a moment, and then breaks out into a wide grin.

“Yes, yes! Give me that pill, give it to me!” He cheers, and now the tables have turned. He hobbles toward me and I back away, but right as he reaches me, I flip around and toss the pill into my mouth. Pulling out the knife I’d been saving for so long, for this very moment in fact, I turn back around and plunge it deep into his heart. No regrets.

Obsessions

by: Nawra Shaik

Once it was decided that my mother would be leaving me in Ashleigh’s house for the duration of her day trip to file her tax return, there was nothing for me to do but drag my weight through the house, flopping onto any floppable surface in the vicinity and beg my mother, please, please, don’t leave me there with her, I’ll be bored to death. My mother, ever the cheerful optimist, told me my coffin would be eagerly awaiting my return. But please, anywhere but with Ashleigh? I’ll even stay home and do the dishes. That’s how my mother could usually tell that I was desperate. But once she got something in her mind, it was to be followed through with, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

That’s how Ashleigh found me in her living room one Saturday morning, raindrops streaking down her window panes, pulling the weight of my misery closer to the earth along with them. As per her usual style, she offered to play checkers with me (no thank you), or maybe chess (no thank you), or maybe I’d like some crackers (no thank you), or how about whole wheat bread with butter (no thank you, because even a psychopath wouldn’t eat that as a snack). About 30 seconds in, she gave up and took to reclining on her couch, fan on high speed and television playing the kinds of soap operas you’re not meant to actually watch. I raked my eyes around her living room and kitchen, looking for anything interesting I could possibly do. Desolate white walls and dusty floors stared back, almost as though only a ghost lived there. But the grating sounds of Ashleigh's snoring a minute later killed any suspicions I’d been fostering. I groaned and flopped onto her beanbag chair and stared at the ceiling. Flopped. I was doing that a lot these days. I was practically a pro. They should make a sport out of it, give me a chance to actually be considered athletic for once in my life.

It was through dreams of an Olympic Gold Medal in Laziness that I first noticed the box stuffed into her ottoman from where I lay, flopped, in front of the TV. Her ottoman was not the sort you could sit on, for Ashleigh kept all sorts of sharp pointy things inside it that made for a very uncomfortable seat. The specks of baby green on its orange surface, which I was certain were mold, were not very inviting either. But a hot pink box with what seemed to be a bunch of pills of some sort decorating the cover caught my eye. What prompted me to gingerly knock over the lid of the ottoman with my foot and peek inside was the hope of it being a certain kind of pill I knew would finally cause some drama and excitement around here.

As it turned out, it wasn’t pills I had seen on the cover, but an array of little beads. Curiously, I pulled the box out and laid it on the floor, kicking up a cloud of dust as it plopped to the ground. Ripping it open, I pulled out a slightly yellowed plastic pouch. Within the pouch were smaller pouches, and in those pouches several even tinier ones. Each little bag held hundreds of shiny plastic beads with holes in them. Also in the box was a thick coil of perfect shiny metal, and a set of tweezers.

“What the…” I breathed. What even was this? But a brief skimming of the instruction manual taught me everything I needed to know. It was that rainy day, trapped in Ashleigh’s musty home, that I made my first ever bracelet. I spent hours stringing tiny beads the size of a baby’s pinky toe onto the metal coils, and I fell in love with bracelet making. Hours later, as my mom came to pick me up and I left without Ashleigh even waking up to say goodbye, I realized my true purpose in life: To make jewelry.

Naturally, as soon as I got home, I finessed my mother into buying me a whole pack of beads for myself off of Amazon. I excitedly awaited its arrival. The minute it arrived, I ended up making a whopping two bracelets, and then the box sat in my basement, lonely, untouched, for the rest of eternity.

Silhouette

by: Britta Lundeen-Hetland

The figure enters the room and sits. His chair creaks with the rhythm of the screeching wind outside as the dim light bulb sways with the draft from the door to the dingy apartment. The light crackles, casting a fire-like illusion of light on the peeling walls. A dog whines in the other room and begins to scratch, scratch, scratch as the pangs of hunger infest him. An o£f-white paste sits abandoned on a plate in the center of the table. the silhouette does not move.

A soft beep from the microwave stirs him, and little green lights paint the time: five o’clock. An hour has gone by, and the storm with it. The lightbulb has fizzled out, but the sun illuminates the room through a window above the kitchen sink. The person shimmers in the light and stands, stretching his legs. He exits the room and a squeaking sound can be heard. the figure comes back and is followed by a dog wagging his tail eagerly. The dog licks the paste from the plate on the table and laps up water from an old bowl in the corner. He races out of the room as the figure sits back down. Soon he tires and trots back to sit under the kitchen table. The two of them sit and rest.

Two more beeps sound before the third signals the man to stand once more. the dog whips up, alert. The shadow-man strides out of the room, tailed again by the dog. A creak of metal is heard, and the man returns alone. the dog whines for a while, and then realizes it is useless and the sounds fade out. A golden haze casts her threads of light through the dusty air, illuminating paths of gold. The light simply passes through the man as if he were not there at all. the golden haze begins to fade, sliding down the walls and down through the cracks in the floor. The man is left a contour of his previous luminance, still motionless.

Cars can be heard now, echoing through the window. Doors open and shut through the building in a routine rhythm. The telephone jerks into life as an incoming call rings through the room. It sings out for a minute or two, giving up when no one comes. Silence seeps back through the walls and engulfs the room.

Suddenly the door to the apartment is turned and in steps a man, carrying three bags of groceries and wiping his face with his sleeve. He tries the kitchen light and finds it burnt out. “Blast,” he mutters softly. Fumbling to the kitchen cabinet, he rummages quickly through the top shelf and pulls out a lightbulb. In a few minutes the light is replaced and the apartment is filled with a soft glow. The man grunts with pleasure and unpacks his groceries before leaving the room and letting the dog free. A large food dish is filled with food and placed before the dog as he waits enthusiastically. The man sits down at the table across from the shadow-man with the dog at his feet. He pulls out a newspaper and begins reading, unaware of his company. But the shadow merely stares across the table at the man, with a look reminiscent of longing. The man suddenly drops his wallet and a picture falls out, floating down through the air and across the floor. He looks solemnly at it as a tear rolls down his cheek and nestles into his scraggly beard. His brother’s smiling face looked up at him happily. The  figure sees this and gets up, walking to the photo and staring down at it with a rush of memory of himself and his life. After some time, the man wipes the tear away and picks up the photo, placing it carefully back in his wallet. The figure once again takes his seat at the kitchen table and the dog, the man, and his brother are still once more as the day slips away through the cracks between the floorboards.