Tributaries: Current Issue: Fall 2024

"Let it"

by Jadah Ownby

 

It’ll hurt for a while

But let it

Let it hurt

And hurt

And hurt

Because one day it won’t

And when it doesn’t

The memories begin to fade

 

It’s getting darker

Quieter

Colder

"A Person Stood"

by Keira Aguanta

 

A person stood before a door and dreamed of running away. They thought about running so far in the other direction that they would eventually reach a place they once saw in a dream as a child. There was a garden filled with trees that had dangling, splendid jewels, and there was no need to ever leave. But that would not do.

 

They were filled with fear. They imagined stepping through the open portal into a blue void where his body would feel twisted up and emerge on the other side into a battlefield full of carnage and confusion and strange figures fighting in the dark. They wanted to curl up on the floor and stay there forever, but they knew that would not do.

 

They began to feel anger building up inside themselves. They imagined a twin on the other side, forcing them to go through, and began to imagine himself lunging at them. But just before the blow could strike, the twin turned their face toward them, and gave them a kind look, and all was forgotten, and hitting them would not do.

 

They began to pay attention to the sound of the ticking clock, and thought to themselves, "As surely as this ticking must I step through the door." They opened the door and stepped through while thinking to themselves, "I resolve to myself to live joyfully when I can, try to do the proper thing, and work hard at whatever good work I can find to do, for as long as I can, and that will do.

"Ceaseless"

by Kailey McCormick

the world is no more

yet, here we are

begging for an encore

my beautiful star,

i beg of you

call on me once again

give me all your love

and all your pain

souls mingling

colors bursting

us, smiling

• ceaseless

"Familiar Grief"

by Heavenly Grace Standridge

 

The night before Thanksgiving,

I stood in the cheese aisle

And I started to dial her number to ask

which cheddar she uses for her cheese ball.

Used for her cheese ball.

 

Doing that is no longer an option,

so I grabbed whatever would work.

It's been six Thanksgivings

and I still can’t remember which cheese to grab.

 

I sat crisscrossed on the floor of my kitchen,

the floor of the kitchen that was hers.

I sift through recipes that were hers

it’s all her writing

her leaflets of paper etched with memory.

 

I heard her cane clicking as she came

down the hallway from her bedroom,

but the bedroom is no longer hers,

and it feels like a long time

since her cane was given away.

 

I stood at my kitchen counter

and imitate what she would have done,

hearing what she would say if she were here making this cheeseball:

extra fine minced onions

easy on the salt and pepper

mix it well.

It still doesn’t taste the same as hers.

 

I saw a ghost in my kitchen

the night before Thanksgiving

and only then

did it feel like the holidays.

"hold on" 

by Yellow Sky Poetry's Emily Clayborn

 

Unfortunately, everyone dies

sometimes, the bad guy wins

and there is a great fall

 

but with each bloody wave of memories

through all the uncertainties

hold onto the life-float floating in the sea of memories

 

because without hope

there is nothing at all

"When Death Finds Me" 

by Cedric Howard-Lewis

 

When death finds me,

And all my dreams have come and passed.

When I’ve lived a life in a world, that has always felt beyond my grasp.

When I have out done my wildest insecurities, and turned whimsical ambition, into a long lasting benefaction. 

When the children I’ve raised live to heal my childhood infractions. 

When the brother that raised me, realizes the significance of his existence.

When he is given all that is due to him, after years of insolent persistence. 

When my brother shares his house with a man, and makes it the home that he has never known. 

When his heart is whole, and his soul is happy.

When I’m sure he’ll be fine without me.

I won’t resist the looming figure cloaked in black.

When the familiar silhouette,

Of an old friend, comes to see me once again.

This time you’ve come to me, but I’m left wondering, “do you remember way back when?”

When the boy that lived, didn’t want to live, and would journey often to be amidst your threshold.

When the boy that lived, was the boy that prayed, the same old prayer every night into day.

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep, as I lay asleep tonight, I hope that it’s the night I die. Take my soul, it’s yours to reap. I pray you end my suffering, for another day, I wish not to see. I beg and plead you abide,  and you set me free.”

Death, you refused to come and get me then, but I had such high hope and faith in my friend.

Day after day, I tried to get you to stay, but you’d leave without whisking me away. 

It’s September 17th, and I’m 24 today.

I was 5 years old the first time we met, and we played. 

We tussled in the sand box, and you took my soul.

You stole my breath and my heart,

But you still wouldn’t let me go. 

You were so captivating, in your black battered shawl. 

I thought what you had to offer, was the epitome of it “all.”

I’m 24 today, and I think I understand. 

You knew more then, more than I could comprehend.

When I’d end up at your door, you’d send me back on my way.

With only memories of the sandbox, but I stopped coming back to play. 

When I finally left the window and turned out the light, and went on to age.

When I finally learned why you would not let me prematurely, into your gates. 

When I’ve taken in “all” you refused to take away.

When the last light fades from my eyes, as I slip away.

When death finds me, I won’t have much to say.

Except, “thank you, for everything, each and every day."

"Anymore" 

by Kevinnisha Poole

You don’t need me anymore.

It makes me happy, but it hurts me to my core.

You don’t love me like before.

Now that I’m not needed around, 

I never see you in town.

You’re selfish in your healing,

As any broken thing should be. 

It was silly of me to think I was the cure. 

"The Little Things" 

by Andrea Queen

It’s really the little things

Of everyday life

That add up, stack up

Multiply

Tower before me

Make me wonder

If I could ever handle

All the little things

 

 

It’s really the little things

Of everyday life

A sunrise, a sunset

A song

A place & people to call home

That inspire me

To enjoy especially

All the little things

"Stone Jaws: A Journal Entry, July 6, 1922"

by Lilith Young

~ Second place winner of the Spooky Story contest

 

I suspect nobody will ever venture far enough into this damned pit to find my body, but in the case that I am ever discovered I don’t care to remain nameless. To whoever has found this record, know that my name is Chester Shaw.

 

I will explain to you my situation. I am at present employed in a coal mine, a career choice I have come to regret in the past several hours. Myself and a party just shy of two-hundred other men entered this cave this morning. I am not sure what caused the cave-in, but, to my knowledge, I am the only survivor of this disaster, something that offers me little comfort.

 

I now find myself pressed against a wall, trying to catch my breath and thinking about how I managed to get myself into this-- had I just listened to my wife we never would have moved to Daisy, Tennessee, I wouldn’t have been talked into this miserable job picking coal out of the mountains, and, in all likelihood, I’d be somewhere far more comfortable than my current state. It was on my insistence that we settled down in this no-account nowhere town instead of the civilized city of Chattanooga that lies just a few hours’ drive from here. I--

 

Something has happened. I know not what, as this acetylene torch illuminates little but dust, but there has been some great disturbance of rock. For a moment, I thought it was my salvation— perhaps some of the other men had survived and clawed their way to me?

 

But, now, as I listen, no voices call out. Still, something has changed. I am certain a damp breeze cuts through the stale cave air, and there is a sense of vastness; perhaps, rather than suffocation, I will perish to another cave in. It may be imagination, but I believe I can hear a steady flow of water— could it be that this cascade of rock has created an exit? Reader, I will investigate and return to my writing with news.

. . .

I apologize if you cannot read my words. My hands tremble and I dare not exhaust my carbide lamp further in the light. I have seen something defying explanation.

 

My suspicions were incorrect, and, rather than discovering an exit, I have found myself inside of a cave—- not a mine, as I was in before, but some dreadful cavern; the walls appear as if carved from wax, with glittering, liquid stone dripping down the walls like heavy curtains. I thought as I cast around for any familiar shapes that the whole room looked like some grotesque ballroom and shuddered at the thought.

 

Suddenly I leapt back—- a jaw yawned at me from the stone.

 

Reader, I thought at first I had imagined it, but I am staring dead at the damn thing! For the life of me it looks like the jaw of a massive shark frozen in an expanse of greyish rock as if the water had suddenly hardened around it. I have heard farmers speak about finding sharks teeth in freshly plowed fields, but this…

 

Maybe the dark and cold is getting to me, but I’m shaken. I am going to put out my lamp and rest. Will write more if not dead later.

. . .

I don’t know how long I sat in the dark before I fell asleep, and I do not know how long it took me to awake, but I lit my lamp and found myself once again staring into that massive jaw. After my rest, it did not strike the same panic, and I found myself leaned against the opposite wall studying it from afar.

 

Eventually, something within me possessed me to speak, and I called out into the darkness.

 

“Hello?”

 

I listened to my voice skip throughout the room and suppressed another shudder, but before I could call out again I heard a soft crackling from the stone before me.

 

The jaw moved.

 

Even now, thinking about it, my blood is ice. I swear to God those teeth twitched in place, like they were trying to pull free. Accompanying the faint cracking I heard something whisper through the cave—

 

“Hello?”

       

The jaws looked like they were trying to snap down onto something. A cold sweat broke out over my whole body, and I called out again and asked if anyone was there. A whisper came again from the dark.

 

“Us.”

 

“Are…” I tried to speak again, but my throat was choked from the dust. “…are you… in the rock?” The teeth ground against the stone. I suddenly became aware of countless tiny shapes in the walls around me; spirals, circles, fragments of shells—- it was like an ocean had been packed into the cool walls. They seemed to quiver in time with the great jaw.

 

“We… are.”

 

It took a moment for me to gather myself and ask another question. I felt shell shocked. “How could you be here? We’re… hell, we’re in the middle of a mountain!”

 

It seemed in that moment that the whole cave came alive, like a greenish light appeared and imbued all those old bones with movement; I felt I had entered a dream, watching a kaleidoscope of strange fossils twirl through the earth. Somewhere, deep in the cave, something massive glided silently through the darkness.

 

“We were not always a mountain.”

 

Then, as quickly as it came, the moment passed. I sit surrounded by glistening tan walls, and the jaw looms before me, as still as it was when I first laid eyes on it. Even so, the cave seems distinctly inhabited, as if even now the walls are filled with life… My fuel supply dwindles. I intend to finish my account, for posterity, then snuff my lamp once again and await rescue. I hope I am found alive, and I hope my wife and I can laugh about this fairy story when I return home.

                                              . . .

My lamp is fading. I feel the weight of the mountain over me. A thousand souls crawl through the stone. I can hear rescuers back in the mine, and I can hear the ocean. God have mercy on my soul.

"The Woman Outside the Mirror"

by Victoria Liszewski

~Third place winner of the Spooky Story Contest

 

The wind howled outside, rattling the old windows of Zara’s new home.

 

“Are you sure you don’t need any help unpacking Zara?”

 

Zara smiled, “No, thank you, I will be perfectly fine doing it myself. Don't worry about it. I’d rather you be able to rest in your apartment now.”

 

“Alright then. Let me know if you need anything else later, hun.” Zara then closed the door.

 

Slowly, looking back at her new, yet old, apartment. She grabbed some of the dented boxes and placed them on the one table in her apartment.

 

As Zara unpacked her boxes in the dim light, she felt a creeping sense of unease. Among the few items she had brought was an antique mirror.

 

She had found at a dusty estate sale while shopping with her friends. The seller had warned her of its peculiar history, but Zara had brushed it off, drawn in by its ornate silver frame and the way it seemed to shimmer even in the dim light.

 

As night fell, Zara hung the mirror on the wall of her bedroom, positioning it perfectly to reflect the flickering candlelight and the detailed tiles on the wall. She admired the mirror for a moment, with its intricate designs curling around the edges like vines, and then she turned to continue unpacking more boxes.

 

Once she turned away and grabbed the knob of the bathroom door, the temperature in the room dropped. A chill slithered up her spine, and the shadows seemed to dance around her. She glanced back at the mirror and froze.

 

For just a moment, she thought she saw something shift within its depths; however, she found the reflection of herself staring straight back at her.

 

Dismissing it as a trick of the light, she shook her head and continued unpacking. Then, from the depths of the mirror, a soft voice called her name- hushed, yet echoing with an urgency that made her blood run cold.

 

“Zara… please help me.”

 

As Zara turned back to face the mirror, she stared back at herself, yet she knew that it was not her; whatever it was, it looked like her but didn’t mirror her actions.

 

“I may look like you, but I am my own person; I was trapped in here.” The figure whispered shakily, “I can help you, but, in return, you must help me get out of this mirror.”

 

“How the hell are you trapped in my mirror? Who is pranking me this time?” Zara said with a shocked expression, “It’s not even Halloween yet!”

 

“Stop yelling, and this isn’t any prank! Would you please help me out? I know it seems crazy, but I’m stuck in this mirror!” The figure exclaimed.

 

“Alright, alright, I get it. Do you have a name?

 

And, what do you mean by you can help me?” Zara questioned. “My name is Vixie, and, in return for freeing me, I can grant one of your wishes.”

 

“Oh really?” Zara said sarcastically but intrigued, “Then can my wish be to live a better life? I want a less mundane life: to travel the world, explore new places, and make new friends. Can you do that?”

 

Hm?” Vixie scoffed, “Don’t believe me? I can do that and much more; I could even make you rich!”

 

“Then I’d like all of that to be my wish. Now, what exactly do I have to do for you? Sell my soul?” Zara said with a laugh.

 

Vixie rolled her eyes, “No, nothing like that; I’m not the devil. I was told that there was something on the back of the mirror which would free me.” There was small writing next to a hole which read, “To free the trapped, you must first sacrifice something of your own in return.”

 

Zara flipped the mirror back to show her concerned expression, but Vixie quickly told Zara that “It was nothing to worry about as it only meant something small like a piece of jewelry.” As Zara took off her necklace and placed it into the hole, something nicked her finger.

 

“Och!” Zara exclaimed.

 

“Are you alright? What happened?” Vixie asks.

 

“It just nicked me; I’m alright, it was probably just a split end of the wood.” Zara explains.

 

Vixie breathed a sigh of relief, “I’m going to try getting out now.” Vixie extended her arm and pushed on the mirror. As her arm went through the mirror, she screamed in excitement, “I never thought I would get to see the other side again!”

 

Vixie then held on to the side of the mirror to crawl out. Once Vixie was completely out of the mirror and stepped away, she cried, “I’m finally free! I’m so glad I remember how she tricked me!” She then wrapped her arms around Zara.

 

“Tricked you? Who are you talking about?” Zara questioned with a puzzled expression, “How did you get tricked?”

 

Vixie smiled as she pushed Zara towards the mirror, “The same way I tricked you!” With one forceful push, Zara went through the mirror's glass, now finding herself on the other end of the reflection, only able to peer into the room she was standing in.

 

Zara’s heart started to race as she reached for her hands, only to feel a cold, hard surface.

 

Vixie picked up the mirror with a sinister smile and started walking for the door. She paused momentarily and glanced at the empty boxes on the table.

 

“Vixie! You said you’d help me!” Zara pleaded, her voice trapped in the glass, seeming to get more muffled as she spoke.

 

Vixie walked to the empty and dented box, carrying an air of renewed freedom with her. “Don’t fret, I’ll still keep my promise,” Vixie said with an eerie smile, putting the mirror into the box, taping the box back up, “and don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be able to trick someone just as I did to you.” “Now to find a lovely new home for this mirror,” Vixie sang while picking up the box and walking out the door.

 

Once she made it outside, Vixie looked around the dimly lit street with a new look in her eyes. She walked into the alleyway to find a garbage bin. The wind howled around her as Vixie placed the box down.

 

“Well, I guess this is where we part ways.” Vixie said, awaiting a response, “Oh wait, sorry I can’t hear you anymore; I guess that means it worked!” As Vixie walked away, Zara could hear the laughter from Vixie.

 

From a distance, Zara could hear the door click shut to the building her apartment was in, leaving Zara with the knowledge that if she desired to be freed, the mirror would beckon for another foolish victim.

 

All that remained was a sinister laugh lingering in the still air, whispering promises to serve as an eternal reminder of how she was fooled.

"A Love Awry"

by Reagan Brady

 

Guided only by the moonbeams, a young girl made her way through the dark and harrowing wood. The trees seemed to watch her as she passed; every shadow became a wannish specter; to escape one monster, she’d waltzed into the maw of another. Were she to turn back, she’d face certain death on a pyre; if she continued, she would surely become prey to something more sinister.

 

Her father’s angry roars had long been lost to her, but still, her legs spurred her on with fervor, despite the heaving of her breast and the aching in her lungs. Like a startled songbird, her heart clamored in her chest, with both exhaustion and terror alike.

 

It was not until the forest gave way into a clearing that she finally collapsed, panting, weeping; her knees skinned against the coarse earth, a circlet of thorns dug into her brow as she fell… and she was alone, utterly alone.

 

“Where have I left to go?” The young girl wept. “Am I not discarded, dishonored?”

 

The clearing into which she had stumbled was marked with gravestones, their writing wearied by weather and overcome with foliage. It was a small yard; she could make out thirteen places in total where corses may lie.

 

Where she had fallen was one such tomb. The markings on the stone were entirely effaced, leaving nothing but subtle grooves, whispers as to what may have once been written.

 

Beneath the twinkling moonlight and the fog that had appeared, veiling the graveground with a mystical air. She extended her arm, compelled by the sudden urge to run her fingertips along the smooth stone. And, oh! A sudden breath of wind caused her to tremble. She snatched her hand back; what kind of magick had propelled her so?

 

“Sweet creature,” from behind, a voice crooned. “What brings you here?”

 

The young girl turned with a start, too weak still to stand. And looking up, not at the sky, but at a smiling face, she was enraptured with awful admiration.

 

She had appeared, a shadow against the bright of the moon, like an apparition. Her dark tresses served to accentuate the paleness of her face, the blackness of her eyes—there seemed no pupils there!—a terrible beauty.

 

The comely woman reached a velvet-gloved hand to the dirtied girl who, moon-struck, stared at the lady before her in a dazed state. “Come, then. What is your name?”

 

“Rosaline,” said the girl, their hands intertwined. Standing, still, she trembled against the other, taller woman. She feared her legs may give way at any moment. “What may I call you?”

 

The lady inclined her mouth close to Rosaline’s ear, murmuring into her golden hair; the scent of her handsome perfume caused Rosaline’s cheeks to become wounded with blush. And as if sharing a secret, the fine lady whispered:

“Carmen.”

***

It was not until dawn that they reached Lady Carmen’s estate.

 

Iron-wrought and decidedly massive, the black gates opened for the two ladies as they passed; they were tall enough to where it appeared as though they were attempting to keep something out… or another creature caged within.

 

The building itself was larger than anything in Rosaline’s old town, perhaps greater than even the town itself. A thick mist shrouded most of the mansion, covering its base; amber light poured forth from many arched windows, as though the mansion is a great spider peering at them from above. As the muddy forest ground gave way to slick cobblestones, Rosaline could make out more of its architecture; smiling stone gargoyles, bat-like wings painfully detailed, yet with cobwebs suffused between their teeth, waited at the entrance.

 

Though indulgent and grand, there was a sense of weariness about the manor; the smoke-colored stone was aged, yet the sharp black spires stood defiant against the encroaching daylight. It seemed, to Rosaline, at odds with itself, a juxtaposition between passive death and the boldness that it takes to live.

 

The doors groan as they open. Rosaline thinks it some form of magick—until a flickering lamp dispenses the shadows, revealing to her a weathered old man. His head is bald and wrinkled, and a hunchback dampens his constitution; his eyes are glazed over with white, blinded.

 

“Good day, Lady Carmen,” croaked he.

 

The man wields the light to guide them down the hall, which is blanketed with red carpet. Portraits on the wall, each enclosed in an ornate golden frame, stare them down as they pass; Rosaline thinks some may bare resemblance to Lady Carmen, but others look downright horrifying. There is a tickle on the back of her neck when she moves past those in particular, a sickening sensation of a gaze on the back of her head.

 

And yet, when she turns, there is nothing but shadows following.

 

Rosaline asks not why there are no lights in the hallway. It is not until the hall gives way to what appears to be a ballroom, complete with sparkling chandeliers, does the old man quiet his lamp. Banquet tables are clothed in white sheets, not unlike the kind Rosaline’s own mother was dressed in for burial only a few weeks prior.

 

The old man departed without a word, gliding, phantom-like, from which he came.

 

“Would you join me for a bath?” Lady Carmen asks.

 

It is only then that Rosaline notices that her own filth had rubbed onto Carmen, from where the girl had been clutching her arm for support, grime and crescent-shaped fingernail bites tarnished the Lady’s fair skin. Her dress, black as it was, seemed almost wholly unaffected, until a splotch of mud caught in the glamorous chandelier light.

 

Rosaline apologized profusely, with all the energy she could muster, but then politely declined Lady Carmen’s request—they could not possibly bathe together, share in the same water, which she, dirty and dishonored, was sure to taint.

 

But the Lady insisted.

***

For reasons unbeknownst to Rosaline, Lady Carmen had taken an interest in her. She found herself flushed with the attention, especially as she was ushered into the Lady’s room, which housed a large bed with black, lace-like sheets and drapery that, should the need arise, offered some privacy. At the foot of the bed was a lounge chair, offering only one armrest, which Rosaline could imagine sprawling out on in perfect, melancholic contentment.

 

The windows had thick curtains drawn over them, obscuring any and all outside light; the only means of light were through the candle fixtures, many of them, all of which were posted to the wall. The bedroom was, in a word, dreary.

 

A side door then led to a bathroom, where Rosaline found herself, with Lady Carmen as her companion, there now. There was a claw-footed tub that took up one wall and a sink on the other; hanging above it, almost precariously, was a small, circular mirror. It appeared as though it had been moved many times. And there was, of course, the toilet itself—grander and more intricate than a toilet had any right to be—and, lid-closed, Rosaline sat atop it in anxious anticipation.

 

Lady Carmen stood before her. The candles cast her face into a light most seductive, and, when she smiled, her teeth seemed sharper than Rosaline initially remembered.

 

The two ladies, clothes undone, slipped into the bathtub together. There Lady Carmen assaulted Rosaline with a touch most tender; up and down she rubbed her back, the warm and soapy water, which smelled of the rose petals that floated atop it, easing Rosaline into a state most serene. But then, she remembered her mother’s gentle embrace and was plunged into a state of sadness most severe. And upon the lip of the bathtub, she lay down upon her arm and began to weep.

 

“Sweet creature!” Lady Carmen explained, her pettings having stilled. “Have I done something to offend?”

 

Rosaline assured the kind Lady that it was not her fault at all; rather, the young girl was entirely indebted to the Lady, who had saved her from a most cruel and incestuous fate.

 

“He misses my mother much as me,” Rosaline whispered of her father. “But I was not prepared to give my womanhood to him to soothe his grief.”

 

For a moment, Lady Carmen, quietly contemplating, said nothing. She washed the girl’s hair in soothing, well-practiced movements, causing Rosaline to lean further into her. The suds of the soap bunched up and slid down her slender neck, her arms, before finally puddling into the water.

 

“Stay with me, for a time,” Lady Carmen said at last.

 

“Oh, but I could not possibly intrude!” Rosaline exclaimed, turning to face Carmen.

 

And Lady Carmen was suddenly seized with the full picture of Rosaline’s seraphic beauty; cleansed now, her cheeks were affused with a rosy freshness, dewy like a garden at dawn, and her neck—it was so pale, so slender. Then there was the matter of her hair, long and blonde and feminine, which Carmen had not ceased in running her fingers through.

 

“It is not trouble, not in the slightest. Should you stay, which I pray you shall, there are only a few stipulations; I suffer from a condition of insomnia most intense and, as such, spend most of my days asleep; I offer you full reign of the manor, as you are my beloved guest, whether I wake or slumber. There is just one thing I must ask of you, my Rosaline.”

 

Rosaline’s ears pricked at the severity in the Lady’s tone which, shy of her being affectionate, had remained moderately easy until now. “What is it you require?”

 

Lady Carmen moved from Rosaline’s hair to her neck, soapy claws massaging her quickening pulse. “You have entrance to all rooms in the mansion except one. I ask that you do not enter one room, at the very base of the stairs. It is for your own safety, you see; a monster dwells there.”

 

And naturally, Rosaline, a girl unaccustomed to disobedience, agreed with celerity, unsure of the temptations that boredom would soon bring.

***

The two women dwelled in the manor for quite some time together, each doting upon the other; their relations, the specificities of which are left to your imagination, improving with each passing night.

 

What the Lady had said was true; she spent most of her days asleep, waking only with the moon. For the most part, this did not bother Rosaline, who had become accustomed to her Lady’s nocturnal sleeping habits; this deep in the forest, where gray clouds held constant possession over the sun, the day and night were not so different anyhow.

 

When Rosaline found herself unable to sleep during the day, not wanting to disturb her lady, she would excuse herself from their room and turn toward the library or the gardens to busy herself. She hardly spoke to any of the manor’s staff. They all gave Rosaline a wide berth so that, even when she attempted polite conversation, they would only give one-word answers and quickly excuse themselves.

 

One night, just before morn broke, Lady Carmen admired Rosaline; she had gifted her a new necklace of soft opal; save for her lack of wings, the young girl looked every bit angelic with the precious stone upon her breast. With time, the Lady’s adoration for her companion, and Rosaline’s beauty, grew immense, almost unbearably so.

 

Rosaline! Oh, so blissfully unaware! Treacherous heart, traitorous organ.

 

The two women sat at the piano in the same ballroom Rosaline had first seen many moons ago. Lady Carmen, at Rosaline’s behest, had begun to give her lessons, and the two were making slow progress.

 

During one of their many breaks, Lady Carmen turned to Rosaline, urging her attentions. “Rosaline,” said she, “do you know what I wish? How I long to have your soul sepulchered within mine, never to let it free? To trammel up and trap you there—a lone rose amidst my soul’s garden of thorns. Dangerous woman. Your folly awakens my dead heart.”

 

However, perhaps sensing the perilous question behind her eyes, Lady Carmen presses a finger to Rosaline’s lips before she can respond. “I grow weary. Let us continue this morrow’s night.”

 

She steals out of the ballroom before Rosaline can even bid her bye; the mortal woman does not catch the tears that shine in the dark eyes.

 

Rosaline did not accompany Carmen to bed that day. Alone, she sat in the ballroom, fingers sliding along the keys, wondering over her Lady’s odd behavior. If she cared for her, much as she claimed, possessively so, would only one mistake disable her Lady’s affections?

 

Her mind wandered back toward the night they had met and the rules her Lady’d set. Go not into that one room, but everything else is as good as hers. What secret, then, could Carmen be hiding? Rosaline had bore her soul to Lady Carmen during their time together—her hopes, her dreams, her terrors—yet, at any inquisition to Carmen’s past, she would shut down.

 

Her thoughts troubled her.

***

Rosaline had explored every room and chamber in the manor—all but one.

 

That one room remained a shadowed effigy in her mind, a thought most forbidden but equally as sweet. She had found the room in question; many days had she stood before the door, which was less splendid than all the others, but she obsessed over its plainness.

 

What had it to conceal?

 

She would accompany Lady Carmen down there until her Lady slipped beyond the door, and Rosaline would wait, with bated breath, her ear pressed flush against it. She could never hear a sound. But Carmen would emerge, breathless and bright-eyed. Her eyes only ever glowed as bright when she cast her gaze upon Rosaline.

 

What, then, could she be hiding?

 

Another lover?

 

The very thought staked Rosaline’s heart with awful jealousy. However, whenever she broached the subject to Lady Carmen, she was met with nothing but dismissals.

 

Rosaline feigned sleep one moonless night, cozied in their bed. She remained entirely still, her eyes placidly closed, even as Lady Carmen woke and stroked her golden hair with gentle familiarity. Rosaline willed her breaths to stay even.

 

The weight on the bed shifted as Carmen stood. There was the shuffling of clothes as she dressed, and, after Carmen gave Rosaline one last pet, there was the sound of the door as she exited.

 

Even still, Rosaline stayed perfectly quiet should her Lady forget something and return to the bedroom for some benign reason, spoiling Rosaline’s plans for this night.

 

But she did not.

 

Rosaline then crept from their chamber, silent as the grave, and down the winding staircase. She was uncomfortably aware of her heartbeat, thrumming like thunder in her eardrums. Its beat quickened with each treacherous step.

 

Could she not trust her Lady? Could she not return to bed or, better yet, spend their night together domestically?

 

She found she was too far gone for that.

 

As she slunk through the ballroom, the parlor, and many of the rooms she’d scoured before in the daylight, begging for her mind to silence that seed of doubt by busying herself with activities, her throat began to choke. The door before her was conspicuously plain, unlike anything else in the manor. It was common, brown, and weathered.

 

She touched the door: its hinged groaned as if in pain, and a narrow winding staircase of black marble presented itself to her eyes. She descended it.

 

There was no light to be found down here; the air dampened the further down she wound; perspiration began to crown her brow. She took careful, feeble steps as she transported herself down the long labyrinth of darkness. The shadows seemed to whisper, and her heart thrummed frantically in her chest as if to shout: Get out! Get out!

 

And then—the shrieks began.

 

Rosaline paused midstep. Peals of high-pitched pain, decidedly human yet indecipherable, shattered the whispering darkness, the idea of something deadly, and confirmed it. Those were not her Lady’s screams.

 

She would only take a peek. She hadn’t much further to go.

 

Down, down the young lamb went, walking toward the house of slaughter with a nefarious wonder. Oh, why couldn’t she leave Pandora well enough alone?

 

As she neared the light, the screaming began again. Rosaline considered turning back. Should she, Lady Carmen would never know of her misdoings, and all would be as it should. And yet, she found she could not look away, as she longed to penetrate this darkness.

 

And at first, she was not entirely sure of what she saw.

 

There was a man, reduced to only his underclothes, strapped by his wrists and ankles to a long table, such as those in the ballroom. The only light in the basement came from the five candles that surrounded the table. It was not enough to paint a perfect picture, due to the shifting shadows, but Rosaline could make out the tears on his face well enough.

 

Then—oh! Her beloved Lady, whom Rosaline was closest to, hunched over the faceless man in a feral state. Gone was her unflappable elegance, replaced with rabid hunger. Dark and sunken were her eyes; scowling like a winter sky, bereft of light!

 

Who was this woman? Rosaline knew her not.

 

Greedy, she took one small step forward, still remaining most shrouded by the shadow. But it was one step too close for, oh! She caught the man’s face! She had never seen him in a state so dire, nor did she even think it; his face was covered in welts and puncture wounds, and his mouth bled from where Carmen held his tongue, a thick, slippery thing, in her hands.

 

Lady Carmen swallowed it whole. Lady Carmen, a gentlewoman, refined and picturesque, a cannibal?

 

Rosaline could not hold herself back any longer; her emotions had grown too volatile, too explosive to contain. Her hands clasped over her mouth, she sunk to her knees in disbelief, shoulders heaving, body possessed by both sadness and nausea alike.

 

The movement caught Lady Carmen’s ireful eye.

 

And what red, fiery things were they now! Were she not so bestial, Rosaline would say there was a trace of sadness there, a semblance of humanity. Her fangs flashed when she sneered. There was no hiding the monster she was.

 

“You disobeyed me.”

 

Rosaline let out a choked cry. “I couldn’t, I… I needed to know; I never thought of this!”

 

Her father jerked his bonds at the sound of his daughter’s voice, confused, disorientated, enraged. Were he not already reduced to such a pathetic state, and were there not a greater terror standing before her, she would have reflexively felt afraid.

 

But she felt nothing for him now.

 

“Are you… are you going to kill me as well?” Rosaline trembled.

 

Carmen, a wild thing now, scoffed. “And, other than this scene you see now, have I given you any reason to believe that?”

 

Rosaline shook her head. Instinctively, she shrunk away from Carmen, who reached out a bloodied hand. Rosaline remembered, then, the night Carmen had discovered her; covered in mud as she was, she had taken her hand all the same.

 

Oh, what a terrible thing was she. What a mortal error she had committed. The nature of humans; to grow complacent in their happiness, only to ruin it and long for it once more. Could she have just lived in ignorant bliss?

 

“I am sorry, my lady, oh, please do not go! Stay with me! I beg of you!”

 

They could fix this, indeed; they would let her father live, cleanse themselves of this near-murder, and live out their lives—or at least Rosaline’s finite mortal one—in warmth. They never needed to speak of this again. Rosaline would pluck the memory from her brain; somehow, someway, she would. They could be happy once more.

 

“I can no longer trust you,” said Carmen, the softness of her voice at odds with her monstrous appearance. “You will not be capable of loving me after this anyway.”

 

“No, I can! I will!” Rosaline crawled toward Carmen, prostrating herself on the cold, hard floor. She would not let herself turn Carmen away, not after all she had done for sweet Rosaline, naïve thing; all Carmen had asked for was for her to stay, and she would do that.

 

If only she were allowed a second chance.

 

Empowered by some daemonic magick, the flames from the candles flared to an impossible height. The dancing fire illuminated everything around it. Near the walls, bodies hung from the ceiling, unrecognizable at first, as they had been transformed into human husks. They were withered shells, each of them bearing an expression of horror. Putrid bodies, Images of Death; these surrounded Rosaline, who was kneeling on the floor in front of their Maker.

 

Infernal beast was she, Lady Carmen; a woman of death and despair, a blood-sucking Vampyre! How cruel could the Fates be? In order to escape one pyre, Rosaline’d run into the arms of another!

 

The house trembled and decayed, rotting from the inside—a creature within itself. Lady Carmen risked one glance backward—Orpheus-like, mourning her Eurydice. And then she, too, disappeared into the darkness of the sullen wood.

 

The fog lifted. Sunlight had returned; the lot was no more in a state of perpetual darkness. The house had turned to dust, sifting between Rosaline’s fingers, like the sands of a time she longed to return to.

 

But now she was alone. Entirely, utterly alone.

"AI - Who?"

by Evie Beason

 

Justin was a very curious kid who loved to ask his grandma questions about EVERYTHING!! “How many hairs are on my head?” “Why is the sky blue?” “How much do you love me?”

 

Every day after school, he would get in her car with a new question, and she would try her best to answer each one.

 

But today, Justin got in the car with the biggest smile! “Grandma! Guess what I saw!! There was a squirrel on the playground today, and it was all white?” He said excitedly. “How do animals get white?” he asked.

 

“Get White?” She asked. “Yeah! Like how some animals are completely white, and others are colorful,” he explained.

 

“Oh, you mean albino animals,” she said. 

 

“Al-who?” Justin was confused by the word. “Who is that?”

 

“Albino is what you call animals that are all white,” she explained.

 

“Oh! Well, how do they get to be al-bi-no?” Justin asked.

 

She looked over at him, laughed, and said, “Let me tell you the story my grandmother told me and her grandmother told her.”

 

“A long time ago, at the beginning of time, all animals had very vibrant colors. When the world was first created, the Maker made five tribes for the animals: the felines, canines, reptilians, feathered, and amphibians. Every animal was perfect in the Maker’s eyes, but He had one rule for the animals: never go into the water. He never said why, and the animals never asked.

 

At the time, the only things that needed water were the plants. The animals drank the refreshing juice from the fruits and were satisfied. All the animals lived in peace and harmony, for everyone got along. The zebras could run with the lions instead of running from them, as could the deer with the wolves.

 

But one day, as the baby animals from each tribe played, they found themselves at a beautiful river. The water was crystal clear and glistened when the light touched it. It was mesmerizing to the baby animals.

 

They ran back home to their tribes as fast as their little legs could take them to tell their parents what they had found. They were so excited to go back and play in it, but their parents told them never to go back there, for the Maker said it was forbidden. The little ones were so upset they couldn’t play in the beautiful water. But they obeyed their parents and went on with their day.

 

The next day, the young animals were playing and found themselves back at the water. They were so tempted to get in, but they remembered what their parents had told them.

 

As time passed, the little ones would go back to the water, longing to get in week after week. The younglings couldn’t handle it any longer. Their curiosity got the best of them, so they devised a plan. Without their parents or the Maker knowing, they planned to sneak down to the river and play.

 

One day, as they played like normal, they found themselves at the edge of the water once again, except, this time, they were going to get in. Knowing what their parents told them, they wanted to see what the water could do for themselves.

 

Each little animal went into the water one by one with their conscience telling them it was a bad idea. When they first got in, everything was great. They had never felt anything like it before. How the water felt against their fur and feathers filled them with joy, and they played until their hearts' content.

 

But as they sat in the water, they noticed something. Their color was washing away! All the little animals were terrified because they knew their parents would be so upset with them. They all ran out of the river as fast as they could, but, by the time the baby animals got to the edge of the water, they were completely white. All of their beautiful colors had washed away in the water.

 

In their panic, they all began to weep. As they were sitting thinking of what to do, the Maker came out of the forest. He was shocked at the sight of the little animals and asked them what had happened. The young ones told him, and he was greatly disappointed. The little animals asked the Maker what to do and if he could give them their color back.

 

But the Maker shook his head. He told them it was too late and they needed to go home and tell their parents what they had done. They all cried some more, scared of what their parents would do, but the Maker insisted they return home.

 

Trying to think of what they would tell their parents, the little ones slowly walked home. When they got to their tribes, all the parents were in disbelief to see their babies as white as snow. They asked them how this happened, and the babies told them the truth. Their parents were greatly troubled and disappointed that their babies disobeyed. However, they reminded the little ones that they still loved them because they were still their babies, no matter what they looked like. They also reminded them they could have prevented this from happening if they had listened. They never disobeyed their parents again because they knew they were looking out for them.

 

But as they grew up and had babies of their own, because of their actions, some of them were white. Since then, more and more animals have been born white, which people today call albino, showing their uniqueness to everyone because of what happened many years ago.”

 

Justin sat in his car seat with his mouth wide open. “THAT IS THE COOLEST STORY I HAVE EVERHEARD!!” He clapped his hands together. “I’m going to tell all my friends tomorrow at school!”

 

As they pulled into her driveway, she leaned over and kissed him on the head. “Justin, never stop asking questions."

"The Pact with the Vampire"

by Rosa Lopez

 

When Rose woke up, the first thing she noticed was the cold. Not the biting, stinging chill of the winter storm, but a deep cold that seemed to have settled into her very bones. Her skin, pale and almost translucent, was no longer warmed by the pulse of her heart. She sat up slowly, glancing around the empty ruins of Dracville Castle.

 

The storm had passed, leaving a deadly stillness in its wake. Rose senses were sharper, cold. She could hear the faintest crackle of ice forming on the stones, smell the distant scent of pine trees from the forest below. Her vision was as if the night had peeled back, revealing every shadow, every detail with perfect clarity.

 

She no longer needed her lantern. Rose stood, the weight of her new reality sinking in. The curse had been lifted from Billy, but at a terrible cost to her humanity. Her heart no longer beat in her chest, and her skin had taken on the ghostly paleness of the undead.

 

She touched her lips, still faintly tasting the iron tang of her own blood. He had taken enough to break the curse but left her alive or not alive. Vampire. The word echoed in her mind, heavy with meaning. She had become the very thing she had feared, the monster of legends.

 

But even as panic began to creep into her thoughts, something else stirred within her, a hunger that was so uncontrollable. It nibbled in her insides, deep and most important, a need that she could not ignore. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, as if the pain could be willed away. But the hunger only grew, a starving, burning sensation that clawed at her very soul.

 

She thought of Blood. The word whispered in her mind like a command, and with it came an image, her father, still waiting for her in the cabin, unaware of the storm’s fury or the danger that now hides in the night. Rose's heart ached at the thought of him, but, at the same time, the hunger urged her forward. She stumbled toward the castle’s broken doorway, stepping out into the moonlit snow.

 

The world outside was mysteriously silent, the storm clouds clearing to let out a sky full of stars. But the beauty of the night meant nothing to her now. The hunger was all consuming, and her thoughts were torn between the love for her father and the growing desire to feed.

 

As she made her way down the mountainside, her steps quickened. Rose had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but every moment she was aware of her new nature felt like a war inside her mind. Rose's instincts screamed for blood, but her heart was the part of her that still felt human fought desperately to hold on.

 

When she reached the edge of the forest near her father’s cabin, she hesitated. She could see the faint glow of firelights through the trees, the warm safety of home so close. But she could also hear the rhythmic beat of his heart, feel the pull of his pulse in her very veins.

 

Her fangs, sharp and cold, ached with the desire to sink into flesh. Rose fell to her knees in the snow, her breath coming in a gasp. No, she whispered. I won’t hurt him. But how could she stop herself? She was no longer the daughter her father knew. She was a predator now, a creature of the night.

 

Suddenly, a shadow moved at the edge of her vision. She snapped her head up, her heightened senses locking onto the figure emerging from the trees. Billy. He was no longer the pale, cursed figure trapped in the castle. Freed from his prison, he looked more human now, his skin flushed with the warmth of life, his once icy eyes softened. But there was still something otherworldly about him, a power that radiated in the stillness of the night.

 

You shouldn’t have come here, Rose. Irritated, her voice trembled with a mixture of anger and desperation.

 

Billy approached her slowly, his gaze calm but filled with an understanding she could not deny.

 

"I couldn’t leave you to face this alone."

 

Rose’s fists clenched in the snow. "You did this to me. You made me a monster."

 

"I gave you a choice," he said softly. "And you chose to save me."

 

Her anger flared. "I didn’t know the cost!"

 

Billy squatted before her, his voice gentle but firm. "You are not lost, Rose. You are stronger than you know. The hunger will be unbearable at first, but you can learn to control it. You do not have to be like me."

 

"Control it?" she said, her body still trembling with the need to feed. "How can I control something so powerful?"

 

Billy placed a hand on her shoulder, and she felt a strange sense of calm wash over her.

 

"I will teach you. I have had centuries to master hunger. I can help you."

 

Rose looked up at him, her eyes filled with both hope and fear. "And what about my father? I cannot go back to him like this. What if I..." 

 

"You will have to leave," Billy said softly. "At least for now. Until you can be sure you will not harm him."

 

The thought of leaving her father behind, of abandoning the only family she had left, tore into her heart. But deep down, she knew Billy was right. She could not risk his life. With a heavy sigh, Rose stood, her eyes lingering on the cabin one last time.

 

"Where will I go?"

 

Billy smiled faintly. "I will take you somewhere safe. Somewhere far from here, where you can learn to control what you have become."

 

As they turned to leave, Rose cast one last glance back at the cabin, her heart aching with the weight of the choice she had made. She was no longer the girl she once was. The dawn would never be hers again, but, in the shadow of the night, she could find a new kind of strength.

 

And, just maybe, there was still hope for redemption.