Prose

Baby Horse

by: Rachel Yin

It is June when Ma walks out of Peking Restaurant with nothing but a thin envelope in one hand and a plastic name tag furled in the other. She examines the crumpled sleeve with scant attention before flinching at the sight of her daughter. I’m sitting outside on the pavement, head buried in a copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer I borrowed– more accurately, stole– from a library back in Kentucky. Her lips tighten into disapproval. “I told you not to leave the caravan,” she mutters, tossing the name tag into the nearest garbage can, an act of liberation. 

“I don’t like your rules,” I sulk, losing my page. Buzzkill. Huffing, I close the book and sigh. “Where are we going to live now?” 

“Funny you ask, ‘cause I don’t plan on living much longer, xiao ma,” she quips. I can never tell if she’s joking or not. Ma simply squats down next to me, thighs nearly reaching the back of her heels before dragging a fag to fuschia-painted lips. Scarlet light from the restaurant’s sign flickers across her face, revealing her skin beginning to grow soft with wrinkles, each burgeoning crease an addition to a tapestry across a body of scars. “Life is a dream walking,” she recites in her rough Chinese accent. One of her old proverbs. “Death is going home.” 

“But whatta ‘bout Cherie? She’s our home!” Ma can’t be serious. I pout, rising to place my hands on my hips. 

Peering over my shoulder, Ma glances at our 1970s Digue, our poor excuse for a home, parked on the other end of the parking lot. The coppery rust engulfing the back-half of the caravan glistens under a streetlight. 

“Cherie’s just temporary,” she shrugs. She must sense my annoyance, because she tosses the remains of her cigarette, gives it a nice firm stomp, and begins walking back to the vehicle. Frustrated, I crossed my arms and stood firmly in place, watching her silhouette dwindle in size. How can she say that? But the wind suddenly intensified, whipping my book’s pages askew, and I quickly trail after her and grab her hand, like a flower bending toward the sun. 

She squeezes it immediately. 

“We’re going somewhere permanent,” she finally says. “Wo men de jia. Someplace we can truly call home.”

The sun descends, a devilish thing, always abandoning us when we need it most.

***

We rarely sat still. Miles and miles of Appalachia were still left to be explored, unearthed. Cherie heaves and swells under our feet, crossing over rough dirt roads left sullied for years. The sun hits the oaks at the right angle, elongated shadows cast over a field of dancing prairies. Sometimes I roll down the window and lean over the edge, the breeze whipping through my hair until I can’t see anything except black. Ma once reprimanded me, but now she simply snorts in amusement as I whip my head back into the solace of the car, spluttering from strands entering my mouth. 

In the summer, melanin multiplies in my skin, deepening from pale olive to honeyed brown like Ma’s. But her complexion never loses color all year round. “I used to farm,” she shrugs when I ask why, avoiding elaboration. But my curiosity refuses to be satiated by half-hearted answers. Sometimes, I dig through Cherie for remnants of who she once was. A torn diploma discarded underneath the couch, a diamond ring stored away in her miniscule jewelry collection, a book in Mandarin, its spine struggling to cling onto its tattered pages. Huó zhe, I rubbed my fingers against the words fading into obscurity. To live. 

When Ma pulls into a trailer park, I realize that it isn’t one at all. Rows and rows of large rectangular boxes perfectly spaced apart, like an enlarged set of Legos we snatched from Dave’s Salvage. We stop in front of a double wide. It’s white and busted and perfect. It’s stationary. 

It’s ours. 

One of Ma’s proverbs resurges mentally. When the old man lost his horse, how could one know it would not be for the best? Ma cuts the engine, turns toward me, and grins. Noticing the sparkle in my eyes, her smile stretches wider and it's suddenly as if all her wrinkles blended together into porcelain skin and she’s sixteen again, like this is the first time she’s seen the world. 

*** 

We’ve moved in for two days when our door was knocked upon with a crisp sound that reverberated around the entire house. I never imagined the perpetrator, a wide-eyed girl with a Foo Fighters shirt cropped dangerously short, would eventually become my best friend. 

“Hi,” she pants, one hand on her knee, the other wiping perspiration off her forehead. The tips of her fair hair are dyed blue and pink. I can’t help but think she resembles Harley Quinn. Or the American flag. 

“Who are you?” I blurt begrudgingly, hiding behind the door. She’s got this crazy smile on her face. It’s scary. It’s friendly.

“Let’s trade,” she offers instead. “An answer for an answer. How old are you?”

I hesitate before letting the number slip off my tongue. “Thirteen,” I say, because I can’t stand being twelve. “What’s your name?”

“Heather. Where are you from?”

“Here and there. Why are you here?” 

“To be your friend!” she beams. Her red bangs keep sticking to her eyes. She’s doing an awful job removing sweat off her brow. “I ran across the neighborhood when I heard about ya.”

I pause. I didn’t know how to respond. “Cool,” I say, because the only people I talk to on a daily basis are Ma and Cherie. 

“Cool,” Heather says too. She repeatedly lifts and taps the heels of her feet against the ground, betraying her impatience, before sighing and parting her lips. “Wanna play ball?” 

Ma’s out looking for a job. She didn’t tell me not to go outside. I nod.

Ball turns into scraped knees into neighborhood gossip. Heather’s twin Jamie and their friend George join us later at the center’s picnic table. Our tongues meet popsicles, the cold offering solace from the blistering heat of the sun. I soon learn that Birdie is the community’s oldest resident, that Heather is turning sixteen in a couple of days, that she steals Marlboro Reds from her stepfather because she wants him to notice that they're gone like it’s a victory, not a confession. Eventually, my tongue becomes loose with stories of my own. I tell them about leaving Peking and purchasing Cherie for dirt cheap at a cowboy auction and the haughty collection of library books that I failed to return. My nose crinkles when they talk about kissing and crushes and sex. When I ask what the latter is, they simply laugh. You’ll understand one day, Jamie teases, ruffling my hair. I pout. I hate being looked down upon. But then Heather’s making kissy faces at George and Jamie’s cackling and suddenly, a strange, unfamiliar warmth bubbling emerges in my stomach. Not from the sweltering heat, but something else. The kind of thing that’s responsible for the permanent smile etched across my face. 

I look up. They’re bickering about something. George holds his hands up in sheer defeat. Heather pumps her fist in the air. 

***

There’s something peculiar about the cabinet above the kitchen sink. Ma flits around it like a moth avoiding a flame, her movements careful, deliberate. The mystery gnaws at me. When I think she isn’t home, curiosity killing the cat, slowly, I nudge the cabinet door open.

Inside sits a bamboo box. My pulse quickens as I lift the lid, revealing rows of blurred numbers—illegible, tantalizing. Before I can make sense of them, two hands pry the box from my own with startling force.

“You’re back,” Ma says too brightly, clamping the lid shut and whisking the box out of sight. I crane my neck, desperate to catch one last glimpse of it, but it’s already gone.

Later that night, in another fool-hearted attempt, my hands tremble as I open the cabinet again, only to find nothing there. 

***

The sun beats on our backs as we read The Bridges of Madison County. Birdie makes mango pudding and Heather refills cherry sodas from Speedway and we share giggles underneath a makeshift hammock while the smell of propane tanks permeates the air, intoxicating. Our brows are slick with sweat, salty and sticky as we chase each other around the park before I quietly lock our door in subdued bliss at Ma’s imposed curfew– nine thirty. Weeks fly by, yet time moves in languid waves. This is our kind of summer. 

Anne’s just smashed a slate on Gilbert’s head when a familiar voice booms in front of my makeshift porch– a borrowed lawn chair from Heather’s stepdad. 

“Hey, kid,” Jamie chirps, and I feel my cheeks tingle. 

“I’m not a kid,” I retort, arms crossing after carefully setting Anne of Green Gables down on my lap. He waves my reply away.

“Here,” he smiles, wagging his eyebrows. “I’ve got something for you.” His hands suddenly fly forward. Something chunky flies in a delicate arc in the air before landing in my palms. A book. 

Mock anger dissipates as I muster all my might to resist the urge to shriek. “No way.” My fingers roam over the letters of Huckleberry Finn as if a fragile ghost. 

“My dad had a copy,” he simply shrugs, and the burning sensation in my cheeks intensifies. 

I blame the heat.

We made an odd bunch. George and Jamie and Heather and I. George’s tangerines are fat and round, exploding with saccharine as their flesh gets caught in our teeth. He squeals involuntarily when Heather finally acts upon her taunting and kisses him, all tongue and saliva, like a panther pouncing on its prey. “Oh my God,” Jamie moans, burying his head in his lap. I sneak a glance at his head of blonde fluff, giggling.

Ma’s peering into the box again when I return. She instantly looks up at the sound of our flimsy door shutting, ebony locks frozen in place where she gripped it, wide-eyed, like I casted a flashlight upon a raccoon rummaging through the dumpster. Yet, the spell of intrigue I felt towards what’s inside broke. Poof.

“Have a good time?” A tight smile forms while hugging the container closer to her chest. I nod. 

It wasn’t until later I realized that she didn’t notice I’d come home past nine thirty. 

***

“Where are we going?”

“Visiting an old friend,” Ma smiles. She’s put on her nicest dress, the teal one with a flower-embroidered collar that I picked out at a thrift store months ago. Her hair looks different too. Wavy. And bouncy. Like a Chinese Princess Diana starring on the cover of People. 

I slouch in my seat. Jamie was supposed to show us his rock collection today before he leaves for his soccer camp. “He’s real good,” Heather had said wistfully, unbeknownst to her the sad smile creeping up her face. “Might even make it outta here someday.” 

Ma had failed to point out that her “friend” was beyond wealthy. Neatly trimmed hedges unfurled across his lawn, followed by ridiculous glass windows behind limestone pillars underpinning the roof of his grand home. A fountain greater in size than Cherie sat before the steps leading up to the abode. Ma pulls just in front of it, and I stare eye-to-eye with cobblestone seals spouting water out of their mouths. 

“Come along, now,” Ma beckons as we walk up the grand stairs before arriving at a set of mahogany doors. 

A few moments after the crisp sound of Ma’s knock, an unfamiliar man of short stature answers the door. It’s as if scenes from a past life, a parallel universe, flash before his eyes, which expand and then harden at the sight of Ma’s dainty face. “How did you find me?”

Then, he slowly angles his head to meet mine. Maybe it's stubbornness, or fear, but I can’t seem to look away. His eyes are pale, so pale that they’re almost gray, and suddenly it’s like he dug too far into the earth and discovered something he didn’t want to see. It’s not love that completely transforms his expression, causing his furrowed eyebrows to thrust to the sky and the immediate slack of his jaw. 

It’s disbelief.  

Then he says something all too peculiar, rough and unfamiliar on his tongue, and I feel as if I swallowed a boulder when he breathes his next word. 

“Mallory?”

Ma jumps in front of him, instantly blocking my view of the man. “Please, Spencer, help us out,” she cries, suddenly dropping to her knees, hands pressed together, and no longer is she Princess Diana but a thing to be pitied, an angel falling from the sky into the endless abyss of helplessness. The man instantly flinches, frozen in place, and two identical little boys with hair so yellow dash out of the mahogany doors, curious.

I can’t look anymore. I run past the stairs and cobblestone seals and into Cherie. I whip the curtains close and the dark engulfs me as if a shield, a companion in my despair. I want to scream, until my lungs fly out of my lips like a slippery fish. I want to sink my teeth into soft flesh, watch it split underneath the sheer strength of my jaw. 

Because I know who that man is. 

Ma returns minutes later, hair wild, mascara smudged, and hands marred with nothing but scratches. “Stupid, fat white man,” she hisses as the engine splutters, fishing through the glove compartment until her hand meets a Miller Lite. “No wonder Americans are so lazy. Too drunk on beer and whores.” 

***

The first thing the girl noticed when the Man arrived was that his hair was gold. Tianshi, she thinks as she spots him from across the dusty makeshift road, the earth radishes’ weight on the milkmaid’s yoke across her shoulders suddenly light.

Angel.

She’d soon learn that the Man is from mei guo, exploring the rural Southeast in search of oil. That he’s looking to marry. He was stout. His nose was crooked. A belly burgeoned from his hips. But he was young. And the greatest thing that’s ever happened to her. 

She’d say goodbye to her parents, not knowing that it would be the last time she’d see them. She’d laugh when he wanted her to and beg him not to leave. She’d let his clammy hands roam her figure soft with goji oil whenever he desired. Dài wo yī qi zou, she’d sing-song with bayberry-stained lips, sweet as the longyan dancing from the trees on her father’s farm. And in those words, he would find music, slipping a diamond ring onto her finger, dressing her in white just like how his mother desires until Fuzhou was no longer her home but a dot on a globe in her new husband’s living room. 

She’d give him a daughter. Mallory, he’d call his child, foreign. But when the mother gazed into the life within her arms, so incongruous to her other parent, she’d know the daughter was her’s. Wo de xiao ma, she’d whisper in her ear, smiling as if they’re sharing a secret. My baby horse. 

And when the girl departs with nothing but a child in her hands and a wad of cash, she’d laugh. The sky weeps, tears seeping into her scalp and slipping through carefully ironed curls. But the girl wouldn’t cry. She’d simply walk down the steps with her head held high. 

Because a good horse does not return to eat the grass behind.

***

“We’re leaving? Why can’t we just stay here forever?” 

Ma’s laugh slithers across the smallness of our home, sharp and metallic. “Don’t start questioning me now,” she lowers her voice, cold. There’s a finality in the way she says my name. My Chinese name. 

A kettle begins to whistle in my ears. 

And suddenly, it hits me like a wave. Heather’s brazen behavior, unapologetically herself. George’s slow-witted yet kind nature. Birdie’s homemade food, rocking picnic benches, the smell of gasoline, the soft, quiet gaze of Jamie’s eyes that if I squint hard enough, one day I could reminisce as a look of something more. The first time I’ve ever called someplace home. 

Tightly closing my eyes, the words burst out of my tongue, loud and uncontrollable. 

“Is it because you want to run away from Ba?” 

The house stills in silence as her eyes suddenly soften.

“No,” her voice suddenly goes terrifyingly quiet. She pauses for a long while before her lips part to speak again. “It’s because I can’t find a job.” 

Suddenly, Ma whips out the bamboo box and dumps its remains onto the kitchen table. Once a mystery, the box reveals a few dollars in cash, four George Washingtons’ slipping out with a sharp jingle. Our situation finally registers in my head, but not my heart. Why can’t she understand? Oxygen struggles to enter my lungs. Claustrophobia morphs from a distant thought into my reality. And the kettle explodes with a deafening screech. 

“But Ma, I’m finally happy!”

A myriad of emotions flicker across her black fish bead eyes– warmth, sadness, and worst of all, guilt. I leave the house, door limping. And I hear the thud of Ma against the wooden floor, in the crevice between the sink and the fridge, nose sniffling, throat hoarse and rasping. 

It’s rather chilly outside. Squatting, I rub my hands against one another, my mind desperate for heat, for distraction from what I know will soon be reality– our departure. So I begin to imagine. I think of a trail of never ending books. I think of Jamie and Heather and George and I. I think of seaside limbs stumbling across endless expanses of soft sand. And maybe, just maybe, in a brief exhale halfway between acceptance and something more, I think of Ma’s hand in mine. 

Xiǎo mǎ ǒ ě ǐ à

Every woman in a perfume commercial is dead. 

by: Galina Opletayev

Every woman in a perfume commercial is dead. 

You can’t save her, sweetling.

Her tax bracket is too high

for you to reach.

The Bronze Alloyed Hero

by: Nathaniel Beasley

The Bronze Alloyed Hero

Throughout time there have existed many talented individuals, strength beyond measure, always seven at a time. These individuals were once compared as gods but over time their reputation has withered down to simple lords; governing over their field of specialty. While some of these lords yearn for their previous renown; a few prefer the quieter lifestyle without the worship of the people. There are only two things that differentiate lords and those capable of utilizing their powers, besides a lord's overwhelming potential, only lords have access to their entire field. The vast majority of people can only utilize one ability and only a small minority can wield two; the point that differs between them is that each lord has full dominion over a specific category of abilities. 

Nobody is quite sure how the lordships shift through seemingly random individuals, some popping out of nowhere where others are born with the power. One thing is for certain, the new lord always has some modicum of Talent within the sacred skills. 

Sellandar grew up as a normal boy, but he was anything but. Inside the young boy was a seed of power, not that of a lord but a seed nonetheless. Sellandar had two very rare abilities, both being powerful in their own right but an even deadlier combo. One day in particular, however, would begin the turning of events that could doom the world. 

“My, young boy, could you show me where your parents are? I need to speak with them urgently,” said the mysterious man, stopping in his tracks suddenly. The man was tall, power permeating the air. His strength unparallelled by any in the small town. Long black hair fell around his head, his outfit screaming importance. 

Sellandar paused for a minute, his age old enough to distrust the stranger, young enough to listen, “You are seemingly important, however you’re too late, the selection happened a few months ago. Nobody left in this town could even dream of matching a man such as your status,” Sellandar said, attempting to appear sophisticated and smart, a complete contrast to his appearance. Ragged clothes clung to his sides, hair cut short, and long gashes on his skin told a story in it of itself, Kalam was a farming village and this boy was swamped with duty. His brother was taken during a selection done every other year, designed to keep the small villages in line by removing any potential threat, such as those with a strong affinity for Talents. Of course the official reason is to nurture potential and create powerful men, in reality however, it was for far more nefarious purposes. 

“Ah, this isn’t about those absurd selections. I may have some power, but I refuse to partake in those barbaric practices,” the man had said, “All I am is a simple man, there is no need to treat me unlike any other.” 

Sellandar sighed and thought for a moment, thinking of the outcomes that could happen based on this one moment, “Fine, stay here for a moment, I guess I’ll bring my mom over to talk with you.” 

Sellandar’s mother, Pivel, was dragged across town to the man. After what seemed like an eternity, the two finished talking. Even with Sellandar trying to listen in on the conversation, there had been some difficulty even seeing the two in the alley. With that one conversation, Sellandar’s fate had been sealed. 

“Come along boy, we have some work ahead,” the man had said, “my name is far from relevancy, but for your sake, you’ll call me Lux.” 

“But, my mom, if I leave her she might not make it through the winter.” 

“You needn’t worry, I’ll have a friend stop by and ensure her safety. You are, from now on, considered my apprentice. We have much to learn and little time.”

As the two walked from the village, Sellandar had thought that he felt a small shiver as Kalam disappeared from view behind them. The grassy stretch appeared infinite before Sellandar, an endless wasteland of green. 

“To truly understand your abilities, you need to learn their origin. Every Talent has been organized into categories for centuries, there are only three ways for someone to obtain a Talent, only two of those are important, both methods involve birth. Either you inherit a Talent in proximity with your parents or, very rarely, mutations occur and the child is born with a random Talent,” Lux said, his voice elegance enhanced against the silence of the field, “You, my boy, are special, only one Talent can be obtained by inheriting it. You are a rare case, in which both the mutation and inherited a Talent from your parents. Based on my conversation with your mother, I assume you inherited your Talent from your father, a worshiper of the church of pestilence, those poor fools. Your inherited Talent likely fits into the same category as mine, I do know what your mutated Talent is, I’m a little surprised that you didn’t get chosen for the selection, you my boy, have the ability to manipulate light and by the chosen ones you are good at it.” “What’s your Talent, Master Lux?” Sellandar asked innocently. 

Lux laughed before speaking further, “My boy, you need to be careful of who you ask that, for many that is a very personal question. The Talent I am strongest in is also light manipulation, studied it for years even. And I see great potential within you, enough to even surpass the lord it belongs to. Don’t tell anyone I told you that, astonishing that such a small comment can be so blasphemous.” 

As the two walked further and further from Kalam, a sense of homesickness washed over Sellandar, each step sending bolts of pain through his leg; such pain unfathomable for a boy, even one used to hard labor as Sellandar was. Kalam was located miles away from any city, usually when someone either came from or left for the nearest city, they used a carriage or a wagon. 

“Boy, you seem weakened by the journey,” Lux said. 

“If I was given some breaks, I’m sure I wouldn’t be exhausted.” 

“You may have experienced hardships within Kalam, but the trials you must endure as my apprentice far exceeds anything you could have experienced there,”

Lux calmly said, his voice not betraying a hint of annoyance, “Take this, it may seem simple but a friend of mine handcrafted a dozen of them as a favor. One

should be more than enough to recover your strength.” 

Sellandar caught the pastry and hesitantly took a single bite, the soft dough melting in his mouth, flavor and energy rushing into Sellandar, “Where’d you go to find such delicious food?” Shortly after the two reached the capital, Lullem Grand, a massive citadel which seemed to shine just as bright as day despite the setting sun. With such a massive fortress, security to enter is vital. However, as the two walked to the entrance, the guards protecting the entrance seemed to bow when they passed. With such ease in passage, Sellandar wondered to himself whether Lux was truly who he said he was. Even a powerful man shouldn’t gain entry by just appearance, regardless of who. 

The biggest surprise for Sellandar, who had never left his home, was the vast supply of people crowding the streets. Even at such a late time, so many groups of people busily heading to where they needed to be.  As Sellandar and Lux wandered the streets, a voice called out from behind them, “Welcome to Lullem Grand, Lux, I didn’t expect you to be here so soon. When you told me you were going to search for an apprentice again, I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” the man had said, his appearance seemed to be the exact opposite of Lux’s. Thin, whitening hair covered the man’s head. Suddenly, the man turned to Sellandar, “You must be the apprentice, I’m surprised Lux found someone of your caliber already, I look forward to talking with you further.” 

“Paln, I hadn’t expected to run into you here, I should have known better knowing you though, never could quite hide from the best, could I?” Lux said, his tone changing to a more casual form, his shoulders loosening, “My good friend, my apprentice here was concerned about his mother for the coming winter, could you stop by Anhel’s shop and bring her some quality food? I would myself but I’ve got little time for detours.” 

Paln laughed, shaking his head. Eventually he responded, “Of course my friend, any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Although I wasn’t expecting you to choose such a young apprentice, my, he can’t be more than thirteen years old.” 

“Fourteen, actually, I’m not that young, I’m one of the oldest boys back at home afterall,” Sellandar quickly interjected before holding his hand up, “Name’s Sellandar.” Paln led Lux and Sellandar to where they would sleep. Sellandar’s hell was only just beginning, every morning he would wake up sore and miserable. Each morning, worse than the last. Months spent training, learning about history, forgotten languages, and the previous lords were all topics that Lux insisted were important. Compared to the main topics, actually training his ability was lackluster at best. Sellandar had always dreamed of refining his ability, but he never expected it to be so low in his master's priorities. 

After two whole years of training, Lux decided it was time to relocate. Moving from Lullem Grand to another city was tiring, and Sellandar still yet to meet the mysterious Anhel. Paln had left several months prior, assumedly for caring for Pivel but Sellandar was still a little suspicious of the man but for the time being, he had to trust Lux enough and continue training under him. The journey from Lullem Grand to Seaside Harbor was long, far longer than Kalam to Lullem Grand, and yet Sellandar hadn’t felt a hint of exhaustion. 

”Master Lux, where are we heading?” Sellandar asked, “We’ve been traveling for a few days now.” 

“Boy, we’re nearing the end, have you been training while we’ve been traveling?” Lux asked, completely ignoring Sellandar’s question, “I’m an old man, I won’t live to see the end of the coming war, the last one nearly killed me.” 

“Master, you don’t look a day over 30, what could you possibly be saying?” Lux only responded with a chuckle before continuing walking, “Boy, when we arrive at Seaside Harbor, I expect you to help around the town. The place could certainly use it.” When the two arrived at Seaside Harbor, a cool breeze blew past, giving Sellandar a shiver down his spine. Lux separated from Sellandar to their temporary home; with Sellandar completely alone in a foreign town, the boy wandered around, wondering what they were doing so far out from home. Lost in thought, Sellandar accidentally ran into a woman, however before he could apologize, she had already walked away, cursing. 

After some time of wandering about, Sellandar doubted whether he should just leave. While he had been treated well, Sellandar didn’t trust Lux; Lux was still a complete mystery to him. Never trusting Sellandar with anything serious. Something had caught Sellandar’s eyes earlier on during his aimless stroll, a small bakery. Tracing back his steps, he found the shop. 

As he entered the bakery, the baker called out to the entrance, “Welcome to Anhel’s Home-Baked Goods, I’ll be out in a minute. Feel free to grab a complementary apple while you wait.” Sellandar grabbed an apple and walked over to a nearby chair, sitting down taking a bite out of his newfound treat. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the air, Sellandar waited patiently for the baker to come out, thousands of questions raced through his mind. 

After a few minutes, the baker entered the room, a lanky man, his voice graceful yet rough, “What can I do for you, Champ.” 

“Are you Anhel? I have a few questions for you,” Sellandar said, his voice wavering. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know the truth or continue the illusion. 

“Sure thing, Champ, although before you ask, could you tell me who you are.” “My name is Sellandar, apprentice to Master Lux, he mentioned you a few times when we were in Lullem Grand.” 

“I see, so that’s why he was this far from home,” Anhel said, suddenly however, a realization hit him; he suddenly spoke quick and stern, a complete contrast to his previous manner, “Knowing that klutz he’s probably here. Sellandar, you’re in the middle of something bad, either you get him out of here now or run away. You will die if you stay.” 

Shocked by the switch up and filled with confusion Sellandar sat speechless in the wooden chair. Hesitantly, Sellandar spoke softly, as if not to wake a bear, “What’s wrong? Master Lux and Paln mostly left me in the dark, he mentioned something about a war, but beyond that I’m clueless.” 

“Sellandar, listen to me, you are in the middle of a war between some of the strongest people in the world, there’s no survival for us ordinary folks, I recommend you get out of town before they fight,” Anhel said, already beginning to pack away his belongings, “Trust me, whenever any two lords fight, the only ones who lose are those nearby.” 

Sellandar stood in shock by Anhel’s fear. The very conversation shook Sellandar’s entire world, causing questions to things he wasn’t even sure he wanted to know. The howling screams outside the very store roared against the wind, snapping Sellandar back into reality. Taking a look outside, one could only see death, horrible, painful deaths. Rivers of blood flowed through the street with ease, bodies littered the ground in minutes. Whatever was happening within the town, whoever caused the event, was far stronger than anything anyone could have ever imagined. 

Sellandar ran through the streets, adrenaline pumping throughout his entire body. The slaughter continued. Blood dripped from the ears, eyes, noses, and even mouths of those who he passed. The town was painted crimson red. Screams of agony tearing through the previous tranquility of the harbor only minutes ago. 

Sellandar caught sight of the one person he was desperately searching for, Lux was hunched over in between two houses. Blood pooling around him, staining the green grass; dripping from his ears. Lux’s eyes bloodshot, arms covered in slick crimson blood. Discolored skin covered his body. Sellandar’s reality shattered at the sight of his master, sick and dying. Even with Lux’s omission of his real identity, Sellandar felt indescribable sorrow, regret about how little he truly knew of the only person who treated him like a son. 

“Sell, my boy, I thought you would have ran already,” Lux said, his voice wavering weakly, “You aren’t ready for this fight.” 

“Lux?” Sellandar said, tears forming in his eyes, “Lux, it’s not too late, you can leave with me.” 

“Come here Sell, you got this from here,” Lux said, coughing up blood slightly, Lux grabbed Sellandar’s wrist. An oddly reminiscent shiver echoed throughout Sellandar’s body. Sellandar’s vision blurred until he fell over, completely unconscious.

Hours later, Sellandar opened his eyes slightly, the pavement frigid against his feverish body. A major migraine hammered within his head. 

“… Stilen, you had it all, a happy family, lordship, the strongest of all of us. I don’t regret what we did, your daughter was just another casualty. Everyone of us had a role to play, I was just the one to pull the final trigger. Even your allies fear you, you may have won this battle, but you will never truly win the war through fear alone,” A familiar voice reverberated throughout Sellandar’s head. 

“You slaughter my family and tell me it was just another casualty? You also still refuse to acknowledge my superiority above you and the others,” an unfamiliar voice echoed, Sellandar could roughly make out a woman starting to squat down, whispering something into the man’s ear, with his vision clearing, he could see the man was Lux and the woman was unknown. “Nobody else was happy, why should you be above us?” 

“Why does that justify the murder of innocent life? No, you were always the most ruthless, sadistic warlord, Skeran, that’s just how you deal with your actions. Always an excuse with you,” The woman snapped, “Goodbye, Skeran, or should I call you Lux? You never quite could come up with your own name, could you?” 

Sellandar watched in horror as Lux fell over lifeless, pale as a ghost, life faded from his eyes. Sellandar tried to scream, but his body refused to respond. Still slumped over in the corner, dried blood covering his face. He watched in horror as Stilen walked over to him, a smile that could scare even demons flashed through the alley. With that, Sellandar blacked out again. 

Sellandar woke up to the sound of arguing, two familiar voices yelling over each other. Sellandar could barely maintain his balance, his legs felt weak, his soul weak. “Why would you let him come so close to her? We knew this would happen if she ever found him. I expressly told you that she was in town for the time being. Now Skeran is dead and the boy is far from ready to fight her. It would be a massacre, just like with what happened to your brother, Paln,” One voice said, upon Sellandar’s approach, he quickly calmed down and acknowledged the boy, “Champ, you should be resting, don’t mind the arguments of two old men, you’re our future and you need to be strong.” 

Sellandar was quickly ushered back into the room, rest may be important but the only thought floating in Sellandar’s mind was what he would do when he caught Stilen. Weeks had passed and Sellandar was still stuck in bed. Occasionally Anhel or Paln would enter the room, leave some food, and leave. 

Weeks of silence finally broke, Paln entered the room and spoke softly, “It seems your strength has mostly recovered, I feel as though it is time to explain a few things.” “Are you joking with me? I’ve been trapped in this bed for Lords know how long and you're only now answering my questions?” Sellandar said, rage fueling his voice. “My name is Palnial, I am one of seven Lords, your master, Lux, or as we know him, Skeran, was also a Lord,” Paln said, “And you, Sellandar, are the newest Lord, replacing Skeran. He had high hopes for you, Sell, he hoped you would be the one to defeat Stilen, the eldest of the current cycle of Lords.” 

“You’re pulling my leg right now, aren’t you?” 

“Usually, a new Lord needs decades of training, part of our strength is well-earned after all. Unfortunately for you, the final duel is only a year away, and you need to be ready for it,” Paln said, “Anhel and I decided it would be best for me to train you, Anhel is not like us, he doesn’t possess the Lordship for his talents.”

The next year flew by, every waking moment was filled with training, learning, and mastering. Sellandar still had his doubts over his victory, knowing that his foe is considered the single strongest being alive. However he trudged along, until the day finally came. Paln and Anhel both gave their well wishes and left for safety. Sellandar returned back to the remains of Seaside Harbor, wandering the ruins of what was once a great port. 

“So you’ve finally come, I’ve been waiting for you,” a voice called out, most likely belonging to Stilen, “A shame, really, this harbor was where I raised my family, you know, way back when we were treated right, Sell, right? There is so much you don’t know about Skeran.” “Stilen, prepare yourself, the fight of a lifetime is coming to you.” 

“Oh, Sell, you pitiful boy, don’t you see, I have centuries of experience over you, please, let us discuss this like civil Lords, shall we?” Stilen said, “Afterall, you are just as much of my child as you are Skeran’s.” 

“Lux was never my father, he was a great man, my teacher, but don’t you dare disrespect my father,” Sellandar said, wrath fueling his every move, every step closer to Stilen. “Oh, Sell, I’m talking about your Talents, Light manipulation alongside control over blood, one of those is my specialty, that’s what saved you and that insect last year, but you were powerless against my full strength on your precious master,” Stilen said, “We were rightfully treated like gods, once, long before Skeran even came into the equation, I am the eldest Lord, youngest God, I am far older than your precious savior Palnial too, We may have a long life span, but the difference between you and I, is that I can remove the effects of aging. Can you imagine, thousands of years of training but with the body of peak performance?” Wrath bubbled within Sellandar, his full attention on annihilating Stilen. Blood began to drip from Stilen’s nose, light becoming elusive to her, darkness shrouding the town. Finally, Sellandar spoke, “You speak highly of yourself, I suppose anyone would, considering your position. However, you underestimate me, I may be but a fledgling compared to you, but I have one thing above you.” 

“You may be immune to my blood poisoning, but you aren’t immune to disease or parasites,” Stilen roared. She threw her hands up fiercely, preparing to end the bout with a quick blow, but Sellandar was quicker. 

Stilen’s hands flew down, her body being thrown into the building next to her. Sellandar’s wrath sustained his Talent, light beaming from his eyes, taunting Stilen. The battle between the greatest Lord and the newly appointed Lord was over. Sellandar’s overwhelming fury matched Stilen’s expertise. Sellandar collapsed onto the dead grass, light rapidly filling the once absent surroundings. A sigh of relief filling the silent air. 

Author's Statement:

My original idea for this story, at least some parts of it, was from about a year ago. The magic system I built mostly focused around different branches of science. Of course the end result is very different from my original ideas and so most of this story, with the exception of the magic system, is new. My inspirations for the story lie mostly within Brandon Sanderson books and Japanese manga. 

My original idea for this story, a year ago, was a trilogy. I have plenty of ideas for this story, some of them hinted at within it, that I just couldn’t get to because of the size and time requirement. Alongside some parts of the story needing to be cut, there's a little less characterization in the story, namely for Lux, that couldn’t happen as easily in this. 

Firstly though, I want to talk about the title. My original title for this project, a story very different from this one, was going to be Shadowmyth, however the requirement for “hero” being in the title kind of messed that one up. The title of The Bronze Alloyed Hero was quickly thought up. If I do make this story and shift it into a trilogy, the title would certainly change, but for this project, it’s fine. Symbolically speaking, the title is talking about how Lux taking Sellandar under his wing, caused his life to drastically change, making what seemed like a rough life, into an even rougher time. 

I’ll spend a little time talking about the Hero’s Journey: Call to Adventure is when Lux whisks Sellandar away; Crossing the first threshold is their entry into Lullem Grand; Belly of the Whale is Sellandar’s training; Temptation is Sellandar’s contemplation to leave; Atonement takes place during the whole attack from Stilen and Sellandar’s meeting with Lux; Apotheosis is when Sellandar is recovering from his encounter; Rescue from Without is Paln’s training; Master of the Two worlds is the final showdown with Stilen; and finally, Freedom to live is at the very end of the showdown. 

I also want to talk about the characters, Lux, or as is later revealed to be Skeran, is obviously the mentor character for Sellandar, when I was thinking about his character, I wanted him to be untrusting and to have a slow, gradual trust built that eventually ends with him giving up his power to let Sellandar thrive. Throughout the story, Lux calls Sellandar “Boy” except for when he finally trusts him enough and gives him a nickname. Lux also frequently gives nicknames to those he respects, in fact, Stilen is also just a nickname, I got her name from the word Pestilence as her main ability involves disease. Lux got his nickname from the Latin word for Light and Anhel got his name from being very similar to Angel. Even from my very early ideas for this story, Lux was always supposed to be a force to push the main character into greatness. 

Okay, with that done, symbolism time. I’ll only go a little into symbolism here, mostly the big stuff, but there's a decent amount. A major aspect of the whole ordeal involving Seaside Harbor was blood, I wanted it to symbolize the loss of life and how sudden it can be. Anhel’s bakery represents a new home for Sellandar, the apple symbolizing temptation, a better life.

There is a World

by: Galina Opletayev

There is a world that is ruled by a witch. There, a war rages on. But that war would seem awfully unfamiliar to most men. For the war is a quiet one, defined in shallows and slopes like the gentle impressions the tide leaves in the sand.

This world, and its aforementioned conflict, was discovered by humanity completely on accident. One day, sometime in the nineteenth century, a young, human girl fell into the sea. But instead of drowning, she did something far more peculiar, she flew. 

I

 Rayona woke up soundly, from a dreamless sleep, to the sound of drums. Just outside the curved window of her dwelling the festivities were already ramping up. In a reasonable hour, she was dressed in full red regalia, complete with a massive, horned crown pinned to her untamed hair. She joined the outermost circle of dancing, moving through it and further inward. Though it took hours to navigate the many concentric rounds, the reward was sweet. In the middle of the dance was the prize she sought: the satyr, Lam. The woodland god was a cheerful fellow. He was also plagued by his own inhibitions and thus, happily drunk as the sun rose above the treeline. 

“My friend, Lam!” She called out, matching his rhyme with ease. The beat of the grand drums was deafening but the ritual grass tempered the sound. It allowed the dancers' bones to hear the song's volume, leaving only the beat and melody to their sensitive ears. 

“Rayona! What have you?” Lam half-shouted and half-sang as they locked step. 

“I heard from the woman on the loom tonight,” Rayona began, “She brought me news of your exploits.”

“Which ones?” Lam laughed heartily.

“Your remarkable discovery, my friend,” She said in turn, the veil of polite conversation being blown aside suddenly. To his credit, the satyr did not stumble in his motion as he reacted. For half a chorus, they were both silent, save for the clanging of the ribbons of silvery bells tangled at Lam’s waist.

“Find Melayna and her husband, now or when the sky's eight shades past true blue!” Lam belted out the last few words at full throttle. Then, the spirit of the dance seemed to finally take hold of him. The intelligence in his eyes dimmed, making way for a primal fire.

Ramona followed shortly after, the thrall of music gripping her bodily, smoothing out the kinks of her active mind. It threw her like wave at its own seabed, into the shared world of all those present. 

Up above the proceeding, a lone figure stood.. His name waswas Sudden and and he knew a hundred crows. He watched the festival rage on, narrowing his eyes at the two figures that had been previously conversing. With a terse shrug, he headed back down the small ridge. As his worn leather shoes hit the dust and dirt, they made no disturbance in the natural floor. He moved through the thin trees, leaving no evidence of his trail, and ventured towards the stone by the creek. Sudden spent a long moment simply standing by it, allowing the rapid trickle of the water to play its music along his thoughts. Then, he turned and knelt by the stone.

The surrounding stream roared to life. It swept around the curves and slopes of the body resting on the smooth river stone. The nymph lay there, her bluish skin catching the light in strange, murky ways. The bulk of some fifteen to twenty rings jammed on her fingers reflected the pale shine sharper still. She gazed down at Sudden with hardened, opal eyes, and smiled, revealing rows of slim, sharp teeth. 

”Speak,” She drawled and when she herself spoke it sounded like a gurgling spout. 

“Mistress, the Red Ram has sought out and joined the satyr, Lam, in dance,” Sudden replied, looking firmly at the ground. The nymph hummed and what a strange noise that was. 

“Have you found the aid of the Wild one?” She asked thoughtfully, placing her chin on her dozen-knuckled hand and leered over the edge of her stone, down at Sudden.

“No,” He said.

The nymph let out a low rumble, spat a fish bone onto the ground, and closed her eyes. She sat like that for a long while. As she mulled the information over, her ribs moved beneath her skin in rhythmic, hypotonic patterns. 

“Bring me A-di-dala, the sweet witch,” She finally said. 

“Why? How should that help our means?” Sudden questioned.

“It won’t. I simply hunger,” The nymph flippantly answered, “Go now.” 

Sudden had half a second to scramble back before an inexplicable wave burst up from the river, crashed down on the stone, and disappeared with the nymph. He cleared his throat and climbed back up to standing, muttering a few choice words beneath his breath. He pushed his palm against a nearby tree, ensuring its roots did not touch the riverbank, and whispered something against its bark. A twisted branch fell from it, landing at his feet. Sudden picked up the staff and began his journey to collect the kind witch, trodding tiredly west, towards the second sun. 

II

A hundred thousand men in wrought iron armor marched in a strange, near whimsical, pattern through ancient fields. They had elected to bypass the great barrier of thorns, instead skirting towards the unforgiving moorland. That had been the simple part. Now, they had entered the witch land proper, heading through endless, rolling fields of flowers. Each man’s muscles shook with pure tension. Every step they took was slow, meticulous, controlled. They contorted their hefty builds to creep like mice, placing each steel-toed boot just perfectly between the growing flowers. 

Sitting on a hillside about a quarter way off, was a gentle maiden, watching them idly. She had a sheet of silken hair and was tapping her fingers on the very edges of the petals around her. She sang them a lilting, tuneless song, barely audible on the wind. 

The army of men crept towards her, past her, steadily. She paid little mind to the ballistas strapped to platforms, shouldered by dozens of them. She turned no great attention to the barrels of oil and sacks of black powder they carried with them. 

Sudden had just come over the hill two marks left of her, when**** the scene fell apart. One man, soaked in sweat and shuddering under the weight of his armaments and designated load to bear. One man, indistinguishable from the rest. One man, took a careless step, and crushed the neck of a single, lovely, wildflower. 

The vast expanse of the sky nearly burst out, like a shattered glass dome, at the cataclysmic sound that left the kind witch’s lips. Her somber howl grew and grew, swelling with tension rapidly. Sudden watched, with mounting horror, the woman’s eyes water. A single man. A single lapse in care. A single flower, broken. 

A single tear, streaking down A-di-dala’s sweetened face. Breaking like a star hitting the night, leaving a glimmering trace behind. The men’s army stuttered in their slow assault, scrambled to find some path of retreat. But it was already far too late. Many tears now streamed down the kind witch’s face, overflowing and dripping down her chin. She hiccuped through sobs, her pink lips forming half-words, broken prayers for the murdered flower. Her chest seemed to cave inwards, her face scrunching in utter anguish, as she felt the depth of its experience. She grasped feebly at all the life it had beheld, the sway it shared with its siblings, brushing companionably against each other in the breeze. All around where it had grown, the surrounding flowers lost petals in mourning. Up on the hill, A-di-dala has quickly spiraled out of control. Her wails had formed an uninterrupted scream, her body spasmed with great force. But that was trivial, what mattered was the crying. Hundreds and hundreds of sparkling beads of water rushed down her face, drenching her and the ground she sat on. With every ragged breath she took, the flood widened, its tide strengthened. 

Within four sobs, the witch had cried a tidal wave. It crested upwards, reaching vainly towards the sky, before crashing down with a volatile vengeance. Though A-di-dala’s mind never strayed from simple sadness, for she was the sweet witch, who cared so deeply for the flowers, the same could not be said for the salt water. It, now released from the vacuum of its holder, had a mind of its own. It seethed, white foam sputtering in indignation. Its enormous weight fell down on the heads of the hundred thousand soldiers with purified, alchemical rage. Scores of the men drowned instantly in their armored shells, bubbles bursting through the plate. Others were smashed into their compatriots, impaling themselves on each other's weaponry and helms. Their terrified faces flashed meaninglessly before Sudden, who waited patiently for the flood to clear out. It took a handful of hours, the white sun creeping over its own apex in the sky, keeping the man company in their joint vigil. 

Eventually, all the evidence that remained of the event was a thin layer of water rapidly sinking into the fertile soil. The wildflowers swayed idly with Ad-di-dala, humming her tune again. Sudden raised an arm slowly, the other braced on his wooden staff. A crow rose from some unidentified point behind him, and flapped over to the kind witch. It landed on the smooth plane of her hair, prompting a delighted laugh.

”Hello, small friend,” The witch smiled and ran a painstakingly gentle hand down its shiny feathers. The crow squawked in return, its beady eyes regarding her fondly. 

“You come here with the man with no footsteps, yes?” She asked. The crow responded with another, shorter squawk. A-di-dala grinned and pressed her cheek to its side before sending it on its way. Only when the bird alighted on Sudden’s staff did the witch turn to him.

“Friend, what brings you to our place?” She said quietly but the flowers carried her voice, bouncing its tones along their petals.

“I come here on the bidding of my mistress. To bring you to her river stone,” He said plainly. The witch sighed, not unkindly, and inclined her head.

“You may take me. But I request that my soul remain here,” Then a longing look overtook her eyes, as she brushed a hand along the colorful field, “With my darling friends.” Sudden nodded and turned, walking back along his pathless road. The witch followed him and as she rose from her sitting position, her skirt fluttered in the wind. She skipped freely through the fields, for she had no legs nor feat to impact the flowers. Her soul dropped like a stone, through her chest, and lay in the place she had sat for the past thirty-some years. It kept singing her noncencial tune, its smooth sides warming in the endless summer, or perhaps it was already spring, sun. 

They traveled together for some time. The unlikely companions made the occasional stop to rest, and in A-di-dala’s case, to coo at passing flora. Though the witch remained in high spirits, the same could not be said of Sudden. The surroundings certainly didn’t help. He understood the rationale behind the wild witches and beast-men of this place. Their urge to hang their aggressors corpses from branches or half-bury their bones in sprawling roots. The land seemed pleased, fertile with the sacrifices of war. The armies of men had made many attempts to scorch, raze, and otherwise kill the earth of their shamanistic enemy. None of those attempts had been successful, save for the briar barrier, and had been mostly scrubbed from existence by hardworking naturalists. 

In his anxiety, he bid crow after crow to circle above them in the sky. Soon enough, a torrent of small black bodies blotted out light above them, but it did little to ease his trepidation. The war made little impact on him, even if the sight of men outside of the throned briar was disturbing. It was change that irked him, like an insistent minnow, nibbling at the inside of his cheek and slipping between his molars when he attempted to squash it.  

His failure to elicit sympathy for the cause from the Wild warrior also weighed heavy on him. More so, was the hundred-pound embarrassment of never having found her in the first place, which he had elected to not mention to his mistress. It was not the satyr that threatened his position. Quite contrary, Lam provided little opposition, and with the right honeyed bribe, could even become an unreliable asset. It was the damned woman, the Red Ram, that had him worried. Rayona had just enough influence to be a bother and was insignificant enough in the eyes of the greater will to become a true danger. 

Doubtlessly, she was already busying herself, picking at unraveling strands and trading her words for insight on the larger picture. He felt his skin crawl, the vision of those red, cloven eyes, raking across his back. Sudden increased the width of his gait, hurrying along the dry leaves. Before he could deteriorate further, somewhere, presumably by the edge of the world, the diviners’ horns began to blare. Shortly after, the low thrum of great stringed instruments followed. Sudden hummed thoughtfully, glanced at the witch, and smirked. Perhaps he could still find a way to please his mistress. A wizard was known for two things after all: His secrets and his schemes. 

III

Coming Soon . . .

A Knight in Shining Denim

by: Kaelyn Hvidsten

  Deep within the Everglade Forest, nestled among delicate ferns and babbling brooks, bustled the kingdom of Dewberry. The late-summer sun filtered through the towering oaks and illuminated the valley, teeming with activity. Critters of all shapes and sizes scurried about, claiming spaces for vibrant market stalls and stringing cheery banners between the boughs of low-hanging branches. It seemed all of Everglade was excitedly preparing for the coronation. That is, all except for one conceited squirrel. 

The snores resounding from 4513 Applewood Lane abruptly ceased, and Denim tumbled from his bed. “Oh for the love of…” he trailed off in a series of muttered profanities as he rubbed the bridge of his nose and tottered down the stairs towards his front door. A lizard in gleaming palace armor stood outside, his fist raised to continue the knocking that matched Denim’s pounding head. The guard quickly clanked inside, kicking the empty cups and loose papers that littered the floor as he went. 

“I’m here to escort you to your mandatory community service. His Majesty expects you to report in five minutes.”

“It’s good to see you too, Dave. How have you been? How’re the kids?”

“Follow me, please.” The lizard strode back out the door, crushing Denim’s foot beneath his armored boot as he passed. Denim cursed again and threw on his frayed jean vest before stumbling after. 

The familiar clamor of a Dewberry festival crescendoed as the pair picked their way through the early-morning crowds to a small stage near the center of the village. Denim pocketed several goods from merchant carts before they reached a smiling group with green volunteer sashes that gathered before King Jacques. The King stood as high as his mouse legs allowed, issuing orders through a megaphone. 

“Thank you all once again for offering your time. It is because of kind souls like yourselves that these events are such a success! Now, you have your marching orders. Off to your posts, everyone!” Cheers and applause scattered through the volunteers before they dispersed. King Jacques suddenly noticed Denim and pittered over, adjusting his crown and royal purple smock as he went. “Good morning, Denim,” he squeaked, “I’m glad to see you here. Hopefully your experience in community service will help you see that giving to the community is much more rewarding than taking.” His whiskers twitched slightly. “I’d hate to see your… charisma go to waste. Perhaps you’d like to check tickets at the East Gate?”

“What?!” Denim blurted. “But everyone knows that’s the most bor-” The guard kicked him from behind, and he coughed. “I mean, yes, Your Majesty.”

“Excellent!” The King cried, clapping his snowy paws together, “I’ll have David escort you straight away. Oh, and Denim-” he added as they turned to leave, “I’d suggest returning those fruits in your pockets on your way. My daughter isn’t as patient with thieves as I am, and seeing as it’s only a matter of hours before she wears this crown, it may be best to begin practicing discipline.” 

Denim stuttered, but King Jacques was already exiting the theatre, his knotted cane clacking over the cobblestone. Barely restraining a prolonged groan, Denim reluctantly started towards the East Gate.

~~~

“Thank you for coming, and have a nice day. Thank you for coming, and have a nice day. Thank you for…” Denim sat hunched over on the stool outside Dewberry’s east entrance, his ears flattened and his head resting on his paws. The sun had begun its infuriatingly slow descent behind him, and Denim thought that if he saw another screaming child or heard another joke about the weather, he was going to burst into flames. Better get the water ready, he thought bitterly, noticing that the line still extended out of sight. He buried his face further in his paws. 

“Excuse me? Am I allowed to sell these here?”

“Do you have a licence and-” Denim stopped mid sentence, his nose twitching. A warm, nutty aroma that smelled like love and hope and all things utterly perfect flooded his nostrils. He looked up. There beside him was a cloaked crow, rolling the largest cart of candied peanuts Denim had ever seen. The surrounding space instantly dimmed and paled, unable to handle the majesty of that glowing treasure.

“Sir? What were you saying about my licence?” 

“Yeah, yeah, go on in,” Denim whispered absentmindedly. His eyes were wide. The crow confusedly continued through the entrance after a moment, and Denim watched until she disappeared into the market. 

     An annoyed cough called him out of his daydreams, and he turned to find a chipmunk, tapping her foot and waving her ticket in front of him. “You’re good,” he said quickly. “In fact… you’re all good. Come on in, everyone!” He shouted, leaping up and racing in the direction of the peanuts.

     Denim bobbed and weaved between merchants, entertainers, and coronation festival-goers in the direction the raven went. Eventually, he picked up the smell, and it carried him all the way to the west end. He rounded a corner and suddenly there the cart sat, squished between stalls, in all its golden glory, the crow nowhere to be seen. His heart racing, Denim snuck behind the stalls and, when all of the surrounding merchants were distracted, eased it coolly down the road. Keeping a close eye on the patrolling guards, he ducked behind the nearest fern and pulled the cart into the brush. After a few seconds, Denim breathed a sigh of relief, and turned towards the peanuts, a predatory grin lifting the corners of his mouth.

~~~

     Twenty minutes later, a scream sliced through through the cobbled streets of Dewberry. Musicians plucked into silence, conversations petered out, and pattering paws and claws slowed as everyone gradually realized it had lasted too long to be a squeal of joy. The scream multiplied. Dozens of voices cried out from the center of the village, all shrieking one name: “Calypso!”

     Denim peeked his head out of the ferns, and the empty peanut cart rolled away behind him. The name pulled a string of his memory. Calypso the Crow was Everglade’s most notorious scavenger; a master of disguise, she darted between kingdoms, sneaking in and stealing the possessions deemed most valuable. Denim couldn’t help but admire her efficiency. The ground beneath him rumbled as a black mass suddenly shot into the forest canopy and the crowd rushed back towards him. Fed up with his monotonous life in the village, Denim emerged from his hiding place and followed the shadow of wings.

     By the time he reached the East Gate, the King was already waiting and furious. He paced hotly as Denim approached. 

     “There you are! I was about to send the army after you! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

     “Your Majesty, if this is about the peanuts, I swear, the cart was empty when I-”

     “What peanuts? What are you talking about? You abandoned your post and allowed Everglade’s most imminent threat inside the walls! What do you have to say for yourself?”

     Denim froze. Hazily, through a fog of peanutty dreams, he remembered the face of the merchant who had pushed the cart. He’d recognize that scarred, feathered face from the wanted posters anywhere. Well, apparently anywhere except behind a mountain of the world’s tastiest snack. “King Jacques, I-”

     “Never mind! I don’t want to hear.” His whiskered face twisted. “We have an incredibly dangerous situation on our hands.”

     “Dangerous? I’d hardly call a case of thievery dangerous,” Denim half-chuckled, but the laughter promptly died in his throat. 

     “That’s enough out of you. You have no idea the catastrophe you may have just caused. Come with me,” he finished in a whisper and walked a few paces, just out of the earshot of passing civilians. Denim instinctively stilled as the King’s black eyes fell urgently upon him. “Calypso indeed stole our most precious possession today; I saw her carry it off with my own eyes. However, the Princess, Calypso, myself, and now you, are the only souls who know of its existence, and I should like to keep it that way. What that blasted bird took is worth more than all the world’s gold. She stole the Heart of the Forest – the Golden Acorn.” Denim’s eyes widened, the words ‘more than’ and ‘gold’ ricocheting around his skull. The King dropped his voice even lower and continued. 

     “That Acorn has been secretly passed through the Dewberry royal family, generation to generation, for over six hundred years. It has the power to restore life to the forest each spring, and my daughter cannot be crowned without it. If it is not returned to the castle by the rising of tomorrow’s sun, the winter will come this season, and it will stay. For Calypso, a creature who feeds on death and shames the name of her species, that is a paradise. 

     Now, listen to me very carefully. I cannot create a panic by sending out soldiers during the festival. Since this is your mess, I am entrusting you to right it. You must go alone, and take nothing but this lantern and dagger.” The King handed Denim a firefly-light and a small, silver knife, encrusted with several sparkling gems. “Though it does not serve the kingdom, I don’t deny that you are a fine thief. You are cunning, a quality that will serve you well should you choose to use it for the benefit of others.”

     Denim raised a finger and cleared his throat. “If I may, your royal mousiness, I don’t think this is such a good-”

     “You will be cleared of all withstanding charges and gifted a large sum of peanuts if you succeed.”

     “Done.”

~~~

     A flock of forest finches startled and took flight as Denim yelped and suddenly sunk waist deep in the river. Several hours had passed since he began his journey, and Dewberry, the only home he’d ever known, wasn’t even a blink on the horizon behind him. The moon was well into her climb, her shining face providing little light through the thick foliage. Denim climbed onto the bank, grumbling and ringing out his tail.

     “Good-for-nothing fireflies,” he muttered, angrily tapping the lantern King Jacques had given him. The light promptly went out. “Oh, come on! I didn’t mean it!” He whined. The fireflies indignantly remained dark, and Denim yanked off the lid of the lantern and dropped the whole thing in the grass. Vowing never to employ the help of those “pretentious wannabe stars” again, he stomped onwards in the dark. 

     The King had directed him to follow the river until it opened into a barren meadow. There would stand Everglade’s tallest tree, which long ago shed its leaves and rotted from the inside. Carved into the corpse was Calypso’s lair. The King warned Denim that no one had ever been able to enter the meadow undetected. Then again, he thought, none of those amateurs were me.

     Denim hadn’t gone more than fifty paces before he slowed, the hairs on the back of his neck pricking up. The intense conviction that he was being watched slid its icy fingers up his spine and made him shiver. He squinted around, barely able to make out anything in the inky blackness. Nothing stirred except for the occasional owl’s song or late-night cricket raves. Hesitantly, he took a step forward, and cringed when a stick cracked under his paw. 

     All at once, a bloodthirsty screech filled the air to his left, and a pair of razor-edged claws closed around his shoulders with an iron grip. Denim struggled against the cold bones as he was heaved from the ground, but to no avail. The forest floor spun farther and farther beneath his feet. 

     “Let go of me!” He yelled through gritted teeth as they reached the top of the canopy, kicking his back paws like a trapped rabbit. The crow cawed aggressively, obliging, and the crushing pressure on Denim’s chest lifted. “AAAAAAAH!” 

     Villagers later reported the wailing of a freefalling rodent reached all the way to the outskirts of Dewberry.

     Just before he struck the grass, the talons closed around him once more, and Calypso jerked to the right to pin him against a nearby tree. Denim struggled to whip his neck out of the way as she repeatedly drove her beak into where it had been moments previous. In horror, he realized he’d lost his dagger sometime during the fray. Calypso shrieked and reared her head back, preparing for one final blow.

     Suddenly, a flash of hazel slammed into the raven’s side, and she fell to the ground, releasing Denim. Too stunned to run, he watched as the pair rolled off, feathers flying and wings beating furiously. Finally, his savior sunk their teeth into Calypso’s leg, and she instinctively took flight, soaring into the shadows and out of sight.

     The heavy sounds of Denim’s breath filled his ears. After a moment, he stumbled over to the brown bundle lying by the river. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a young mouse. As she opened her eyes, he wordlessly held out his paw to help her up.

     “I’m fine,” she snapped, rising to her feet, “You, on the other hand, almost got yourself killed.”

     When the mouse brushed herself off and met Denim’s stare, recognition rocked through him, and his mouth fell open. “You’re Princess Daphne.” He pointed at her, dumbfounded.

     “Well-spotted,” she quipped, replacing the tiara that had fallen around her neck. “And don’t bother introducing yourself. My father’s already told me all I need to know about you.” Her eyes narrowed.

     “I don’t understand… why are you here?” Denim asked, unfazed.

     She sighed. “When we get back to the kingdom, you can’t tell anyone I was with you. I snuck out. I saw Calypso fly off with the Acorn and heard Father sending you after it, and I wanted to make sure it would be returned to us safely. Besides, this might be my last chance for an actual adventure before I’m stuck in the castle for the rest of my life.”

     Denim hardly imagined living large in the palace and being given everything on a silver platter qualified as stuck. Never having to worry about where he’d find his next meal sounded like a fantasy. 

     “Listen,” he said, his heartbeat finally calming as he continued along the river, “I appreciate the concern. Really, I do. But I hardly think the forest at night is any place for a princess. I can handle myself. Calypso’s likely dropped off your precious little snack in her lair, and I need to be invisible to get through the meadow. I can’t accomplish that if I’m towing a walking flare behind me. Dear old dad will have everyone and their mother looking for you.”

     “Excuse me?” She huffed, stomping along beside him, “Do you hear yourself? Do you recall that time two minutes ago when I saved your bushy butt? And when we find Calypso’s hideout, chances are I’m going to be the one towing you through that meadow! You can’t fight to save anyone, much less the Heart of the Forest!”

     “And what gives you the right to come out of nowhere and criticise my combat skills?” He whirled to face her, placing his paws on his hips defensively.

     In the blink of an eye, Daphne drove her knee into Denim’s stomach, grabbed the scruff of his neck, and flipped him on his back, winding him. “I’ve trained for nineteen years with the head of the royal guard. And you should know, being a misogynistic nutbag doesn’t sit well with the future queen. Now come on. We’ve got to get the Acorn before the sun rises, and I have to teach you how to protect yourself so you don’t officially doom us all.”

~~~

     The moon was at her peak. Denim and Princess Daphne sat hidden in a tree at the edge of the meadow, apprehensively gazing up at the colossal fortress that was Calypso’s hollow tree. Different species of beetles and roaches writhed and shuddered over every inch of its charred bark, giving it a vital, malefic air. Down below, several shifting shadows crawled through the grasses, no doubt patrol rats. And there, queen of everything the darkness touched, perched Calypso atop her tower. At her feet was a small, golden speck. 

     Denim gulped. “Are you sure the spring won’t come without the Acorn? I mean, everyone back in Dewberry is probably wondering where you are. Maybe it would be best if we just…” He trailed off when Daphne slowly turned to face him, exasperation etched in every whisker.

     “I did not just spend the last three hours teaching you how to punch for you to just give up! You are by far the most arrogant, selfish animal I have ever met, and I work in politics! You’ve spent your whole life believing the world revolves around you, and guess what, you’ve gotten your wish. The lives of countless others are now resting on our shoulders. It’s time to wake up and step up. You hear me?” She poked him between the ribs, hard.

     Maybe it was the gravity of the situation, maybe it was Daphne’s authenticity, or maybe it was a lingering hallucination from all the peanuts, but a small lightbulb flickered on in his mind. Small, but important. His perspective slightly shifted, and he saw the squirrel Daphne was talking about; the squirrel that stole, who didn’t treat anyone with respect, who’d only come this far for the personal rewards. He saw himself, and he didn’t like it.

     “You’re right,” he finally replied. Daphne blinked. “If we want to get out of each other’s hair, we have to work together. I’m ready.”

     “Okay,” she said after a moment, bewildered, “let’s go then.”

     The pair carefully picked their way through the meadow, staying low to the ground and quiet as a, well, mouse. When they reached the base of the trunk, they found a mountain of what looked like thousands of transparent insect statues.

     “Exoskeletons,” Daphne breathed. Wordlessly, she and Denim strapped a pair of the largest ones to their backs and joined the masses of scuttling feet on the tree. It was slow work, and Denim sensed that Daphne, a creature not accustomed to climbing, was growing weary.

At last, they neared the top and slowed before they came within Calypso’s view. Denim repositioned so he could whisper his rough plan to Daphne.  

“I’m going to go around to the other side and throw off my vest as a distraction. When Calypso hopefully chases it, we can try to get the Acorn from two different angles.”

     Daphne nodded, and Denim began crawling to the northern side of the tree. Once he was secure, he slid off the exoskeleton and held his jean vest out with one arm. At the sight of that bit of fabric, everything that had defined him until this point, the thievery, the lying, the impertinence, suddenly rushed to the forefront of his mind. He felt he was holding a piece of himself – a shred of a life he was ready to leave behind. He dropped the vest. 

     A great black eye peered over the edge of the tree, focusing on the blue lump bouncing between branches. Calypso stretched out her wings and dived after it. Denim quickly scrambled up the remainder of the tree and met Daphne, who tucked the glowing Acorn under her arm. It was more glorious than Denim could have ever imagined. Every inch of its incandescent surface was covered in luminous, pure gold, and it shined like it was sent from heaven itself.

As they clambered down from branch to branch, Calypso reappeared in the air behind them and swooped at Daphne, who pressed the Acorn protectively between her stomach and the trunk. Calypso doubled back and swooped again. The insects began to realize what was going on, and they changed direction to scuttle towards Denim and Daphne. Denim realized they had about ten seconds before they were overtaken.

“Run, Princess!” He yelled, “I’ll distract Calypso when she comes back!” 

Daphne looked like she wanted to fight, but there wasn’t time. Calypso dove towards her, and she leaped to the next branch, pausing only for a second before jumping lower. Denim steeled himself and tried to remember what she had said about punching. Before she flew back out, Denim sprung out onto the crow’s back and dug his paws into her feathers. “Twist, thumb over knuckles, fist to chin, and… follow through!” 

Calypso screeched and dipped in midair as Denim connected a punch to the side of her head. He landed another, and another. Suddenly, she barrel-rolled, and Denim lost his grip around her waist. For the second time in the same five hours, he hurtled through the night air. Down, down, down he tumbled, bouncing off blackened branches, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. The ground grew closer, and he rocketed into the pile of exoskeletons, spraying old skins like a volcanic eruption of the undead.

     Gradually, the sheddings broke his fall, and he skidded to a halt, several hollow legs curled around him. The corners of his vision were beginning to darken, but he forced the thought away as he faintly registered someone calling his name. Denim frantically dug his way out and looked up. Daphne was still climbing down the tree, a legion of bugs on her tail. The Acorn was slowing her down. 

     “Denim! Catch!” 

     She threw the Acorn as hard as she could, and it arched through the starry sky, a glistening silhouette. Denim shuffled backwards and aligned himself as the nut plunged towards him. He threw up his paws, but it was too late. The Acorn brushed his fingertips before crashing to the ground with an earsplitting crack. He froze.

     “Time to go!” Daphne yelled as she darted up behind him. She grabbed his arm and yanked him into a full sprint, quickly bending to scoop up the Acorn on her way. The pair bolted away from the meadow, legs shaking and breathing shallow, towards the cover of the forest. They didn’t stop running until they were sure the sounds of thousands of scuttling insects had completely faded into the night.

     “Did we lose Calypso?” Denim gasped, breathless, when they stopped by a bend in the river. 

     “I don’t know. We’d better hurry back to Dewberry. I’m not sure how much time we have.” Daphne responded, doubled over. 

     “Wait,” he said when he had control of his lungs, “There’s something I need to check. Can I see the Acorn?”

     Daphne handed it to him, and Denim immediately squeaked in surprise.

     “What? What is it?” Daphne looked over, concerned, and she matched Denim’s distress. There, running from tip to base, breaking the Acorn’s perfect surface, ran a large dark split. The tip of Daphne’s nose went white.

     “I’m so sorry, Princess. It slipped while I was trying to catch it, and it must have landed on a rock. Will it-”

     “It’s done,” she said shortly, swallowing hard. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ll just take it back to the kingdom and hope that I can be crowned before the sun… ” She trailed off, and a strange expression melted onto her face.

     In one fluid motion, she plucked a sharp stone from the riverbank, swung it over her head, and smashed it down onto the Acorn. It instantly shattered and splintered open. Denim yelped and leaped back.

     “Are you crazy?! What are you-” But the rest of his sentence shriveled on his tongue as he gazed down upon the fractured nut. Its insides were black as pitch and oozed a foul-smelling liquid. Denim thought he even saw some wriggling decomposer feasting its way through the flesh of the seed. The golden Acorn, the Heart of the Forest, which had kept Everglade and Dewberry’s royal family safe and blooming for centuries, was completely rotted through. Daphne flung a paw to her mouth and sank to the ground, eyes welling over.

     “Did Calypso do this?” Denim breathed. Daphne numbly shook her head.

     “No,” she replied, sniffling, “no, she couldn’t have. The Acorn is linked to the monarch of Dewberry and symbolizes their loyalty to the forest. The only way it can corrupt from the inside like this is- is if…”

     “Your father.” Denim felt like he had been hit by a freight train. He joined her in the cold grass, his head whirling. “Why would he want to endanger Everglade?”

     “I don’t know,” Daphne whispered, hugging herself, “I have no idea how or why, but this can only mean he’s working with Calypso.” 

Both sat, stunned, for several minutes. Finally, Denim broke the silence.

     “I know this is frightening,” he said quietly. “I’d spend the rest of my life right here if it meant I never have to face Calypso or the King again. Maybe that makes me a coward. But it’s like you said: the lives of countless others are on our shoulders, and it’s our responsibility to see this thing through. I’m with you now, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.” He held out a paw to help her up. “Teammates?” 

She hesitated, then reached to hug him. “Friends.”

To be continued…

     Notes for the end because I didn’t finish lol (not to be included in lit mag): Denim and Daphne make it to Calypso’s tree, and they start sneaking up to retrieve the Acorn. Denim has a bit of a character arc, and the first symbol appears: his jacket. He wants to leave his past life of thievery behind, and he shows that by giving up his jacket as a diversion. There’s a battle, but Denim and Daphne manage to escape with the nut. Once they return to the forest, they discover that the Acorn was damaged during the fight and realize a little later that it’s completely rotten on the inside (second symbol). The Acorn represents the current monarch’s loyalty to the forest, so this can only mean that King Jacques is corrupt, and he’s been working with Calypso the whole time in order to gain more time on the throne (dun dun duunnn). Princess Daphne is obviously very upset, and Denim comforts her. The second act comes to a close with their newfound friendship.

     The pair race back to Dewberry to share what they’ve discovered, but nobody believes them. When the King figures out they know the truth, he tries to send them to the dungeons, but Denim and Daphne fight their way free of the guards and back into the throne room. Daphne wrestles the crown from her father and starts to put it on right as the sun is rising. But before it touches her head, the King appears behind her and pulls out his dagger. In his most heroic moment, Denim launches himself between Daphne and the King and takes the hit. Daphne dons the crown, coronating herself just in time. The Acorn magically swirls back together and heals Denim in the process. 

     In her rightful place at last, Queen Daphne sends her father to be detained by the royal guard, who witnessed his attempted murder. She also knights Denim, clears him of all charges, and shares a large stash of peanuts with him. The end!!

One little epilogue note: I purposefully did not have Calypso talk after the beginning to show how villains are often dehumanized and misunderstood. Calypso’s origin story is unknown (at least for now :) ), and it’s far easier to hate/fear something you know nothing about.

Hate Letter to my Car

by: Erin Koller

Dear Ember, 

     I am writing to you in order to express my potent dislike of everything about you.  You may think that you are named Ember because your license plate begins EMB; however, you’re so named because you are a hot mess and if you crash I’ll leave you in the ashes.  That crash becomes more likely every time you refuse to accelerate.  The carpet under your pedal is worn thin, and so is my patience.  Your remarkable gas mileage is wasted on a rusty wreckage like you.  You are undeserving of it.  Your previous owner smoked, and looking at you I can see why.  You get winded going uphill faster than my grandmother.  During the winter, the slightest layer of frost may as well be glaciers of ice, mirroring the pace you move at.  Suffice it to say, you are on ice, and it’s thin.  At the next minor inconvenience I will send you to a dumpster and cleanse the earth of your presence. 

Waiting expectantly for that day, 

Erin