"The Wind"

By Tiffany Whitney

the wind eats at my home

blesses my ears

the wind flies through my hair

dries all my tears

it comes in through the latch

it leaves when it wills

i watch as it dances

along, past windowsills.

"Deeply" by Jadah Ownby

I wasn't in love

But love was involved

I loved your laugh

I loved your smile

I loved the way you'd kiss my hand while we walked

Or kiss my forehead as I slept

I wasn't in love

But there was a love

That ran through me

So deeply

That it kept my body warm

And suddenly I have to let go

Of a love that kept me warm

Suddenly my veins become icy

And my heart becomes cold

Guarded 

And suddenly every wall that I tore down for you

Every wall that fell with each new thing I loved

Had been rebuilt

Repaired 

And lined with steel that hopefully no one will ever break through again

Because while I wasn't in love

I had a love so deep

I loved you so deeply

That I don't want to let myself love the little things about someone again

Just for them to walk away like you did

I had a love so secure in you

That anyone on the outside looking in would've said

It may be too soon

But she's in love.

"Dear Me"

By Cedric Howard-Lewis

I am a powerful being,

Yet I am but one man.

There is much I seek to do

Within my lifespan.

There is even more I’ll leave undone—

As I am only human.

So, I call out to Me,

In every single universe.

I ask all of you—hear my pleas.

Where I come up short,

I pray that you eclipse me.

May you run the distance and leave tracks

Where my feet could never see.

I will be great,

But all of you must be better than me.

I’ll take these dreams I’ll never see,

And you will be their tether.

You will give them profound meaning—

More than I could ever.

For every storm I’ve encountered,

I know it’s a storm you’ve weathered.

For every boy that I’ve loved,

And inevitably lost—

I know that you’ve been greater.

I know you have given them a home.

You were what they needed.

You were just right

In places I had no business being seated.

There is one I have loved,

But haven’t—will never—

Call my own.

I know one of you has him—

I know you are his home.

To the version of me

That holds him tight every single night,

To the version of me

That sees his face at first morning light,

To the version of me that has tasted his lips

And devoured them sweetly,

Whose hands have met his hips,

Who’s caressed and pleasured his body

In sensual wit and euphoric intimacy—

To the version of me whose feet have brushed his toes,

Entangled in blankets, his warmth melts my woes.

His laughs dry my tears,

And his eyes see all of me—

Not just the parts that beautify,

But the darkest ones that quell me.

He flashes a smile, and with it, he says, “He loves me.”

When he puts his hands in mine, in that universe I hold everything.

I must reconcile…

In this plane of existence,

A future between he and I is one that will never be seen.

Wherever you are,

Whatever version you may be,

Take care of our boy.

Surpass these restrictions that restrain me.

Do all that I dream of in my wildest fantasies.

Take some weight off these tears—

Love him.

For you—for me.

"A Desire for Passion"

By Tiffany Whitney

I wish I knew how quickly my feet fell on pavement

How soaked my socks could get

I wish I knew the hertz I heard

And which food that fed

I wish I had the heart to tell it like it is

I wish I spoke my spirit, because I never did

I wish I had a drive, that drove me since I was young

I wish I knew my body

I wish I felt my tongue

Standing in stark places

Winding down my wrists

Looking for a love

For a passion that persists.

"A Perpetual Portrait"

By Maculley Bruner

I want all my skin slowly torn off. Agonizingly slow and painful, but lovingly. I want them, her, whoever it would be, to gaze upon me. I want to see a ruined, revolting reflection of what I am looking back at me from the mirror in her eyes. A form presenting my flaws and impure intentions. I’d gaze beyond my counterpart to her eyes, heavy with love, desire, and longing. I crave the process, knowing that the agony would be out of compassion. A necessary sacrifice to be made new.

I want her to know every part of me like an artist knows their work. I want her to complete her art despite my screams and desperate pleading. Slowly replacing the skin she had just taken, making me truly clean.

I want her to do everything meticulously. As the art she’s making would be worth every possible second. I want her to spend hours agonizing over what my skin should look like and what texture I would feel like. I yearn to be built unblemished. To be loved in the capacity of such. I thirst for someone to love me ample enough to do it despite the emotional attachment. To rebuild me so that everything is the way she would have envisioned it.

But it’s terrifying. What if, upon first look, I recoil from myself? What if who I am emotionally is displayed visually? Like a vulgar, amalgamated mess of mistakes and self-loathing. What if what I see makes me gag; the things I hate upfronted, a monster, a creation of my own hubris, of the world I’ve created inside myself.

But I also cling to a shred of hope. For the desire of a transformation to be unrequited. For a final reflection to match my current. That even with the innumerable options to be molded into, the one that I’m resurrected with is none other but my own. My current self, but renewed—clean, transformed. Accompanying this change, no doubt would be an unfathomable sense of love charred into my skin, tracing my veins like delicate caressing. I ache for the seams of my skin to be red hot with the passion of such art. Of the simplistic agonizing nature of the process. Lasting marks being left by her, typical of an artist signing her work. Like an artist, the work is escorted by a sense of passion. A lasting memory to conjoin us in perpetuity.

"Icy Waters"

By Jamie Martinez

Ocean water,

Quiet breeze,

I take my last breath,

As the waves crash over me.

Salty sting,

Silent sounds,

The sand fills my lungs,

Before I can be found.

Icy waters,

Jagged rocks,

I sink frozen and numb,

Descending as my heart stops.

"Light in the Hallway"

By Emily Lynch

Something terrible happens, and suddenly you're in the kitchen of your childhood home.

The light over the table hurts your eyes, and you're looking for your sister.

Something terrible happens, and your little sister is holding your hand underneath the table as

 you both try not to cry.

The baby fusses in your lap as you try to find some solid ground.

You both sneak glances at the other, waiting for permission to break.

To relax the facade of being strong for your sister.

You wonder if the baby knows why everyone is crying.

Something terrible happened.

Except,

This time you live alone.

Your siblings are only across town.

But, it's a stark contrast from their bedrooms down the hall.

And you'd feel silly for driving home just to cry.

So, you sit on your bed,

In a house you didn't grow up in.

And you remember how her hand felt stronger than the fear, even though she was two years

 younger.

And you remember how your little brother somehow always knew when you were about to cry.

 You rub your palm and remember the crescent moons her nails bit into your palms,

And the way your brother smiles, even when he’s crying.

This new house is too quiet.

Her laugh doesn't echo down the hall as she watches her shows.

It's hard not to feel unmoored,

When the floors don't echo with your younger brother's heavy footsteps.

Something terrible happens,

And the three of you are standing barefoot, at the bottom of the stairs in the grass.

Holding hands and waiting for the adults to stop talking.

"I Have to Let you Go"

By Cedric Howard-Lewis

I have to let you go.

like a mother bird drops her baby from the nest,

I have to let you go.

I must watch my baby boy

stammer to his feet,

and hope those dainty little wings

will keep him afloat.

I have to let you go.

Not because I want to,

but because I have to—

It’s simply a matter of Time.

It’s the life cycle,

for you and me both.

Deep down,

I always knew my moments with you

were—limited.

I have nurtured, cared for, and protected you.

I’ve prepared you for this.

If I overstay my welcome,

we’ll both be worse off for it.

I know you would never leave me—

I must be the one to do this.

It has been my destiny:

My fate,

what Nature demands of me.

I have to let you go.

Not into the world I wanted, but the world that is.

From the push and pull

of the ocean’s currents,

to the direction the wind blows—

I have no say.

All I know is the day and the way:

I have to let you go.

Dear boy,

widen your stance.

Stand tall,

and turn your gaze to the distance.

I am what was—

that is what will be.

You will forget this old oak.

It has nothing left for you.

It has even less, for me.

Go on.

You’ll find yourself a nice birch.

Change can be scary,

yet the Seasons dare to come

and go.

In every departure,

there it is—

beauty and growth.

Much like Yesterday and Today—

I, too, wanted to stay.

Though, I cannot defeat Tomorrow,

or stop the Night in its retreat,

Surrendering into Day.

I know when Dawn breaks,

and when Darkness flees—

with it, you’ll make haste.

While Time remains a constant,

“tick,tick,”—taking you away.

Once, Time was all we had.

Now, there is a scarcity.

Time pushes on,

as it pulls you away from me.

Heralding your beginning,

As it ushers in the end of me. 

So, Time becomes the enemy.

“tick,tick” telling me,

the death of me—

I have to let you go….

"Last Breath"

By Jadah Ownby

the water washes over my head

i come up

take a breath 

but soon i’m back under again 

it’s a cycle

can’t you see i’m drowning

gasp

air feels my lungs

i’m washed under a wave again

the water is stronger than i

can’t you see i’m drowning

i come up again

gasp

more air

how long do i keep up this cycle

how soon is too soon to give up

water

overthrowing

gasp

water fills my lungs

couldn’t you see that i was drowning?

"The Songbird"

By Juliett Sharp

“Please help me,” The Songbird cries.

As feelings of Rage, Fear

And Hopelessness fill her Eyes.

He responds to her tears,

“I’m trying, Songbird.

I want to help, but

You have little faith in My Word.

You don’t believe I’m able.”

So, she prays and she prays.

Scriptures are read and she pays

Attention in church.

But these feelings linger,

Like a bird on her perch.

Yet, she will still continue,

With little hope in her Venue.

Still holding on to the Rod,

Seeming to stray less and less.

In a “still moment,”

When it’s just her and Him,

He lets her know He’s there

And lifts her chin, because

Her burdens she can “Share.”

These feelings she seemingly has;

The peace, the joy, the clarity,

They ease her burdens, so

She can give others His “Charity.”

But now that the years have gone,

They’ve learned the truth,

Researched, seen, and felt the wrongs.

They have gone “poof.”

Their old friends don’t know

Why. They don’t expect them to.

They just wanted to go,

And be free, happy, and anew.

Their burdens they can still share,

But they don’t share them with “Him.”

Their friends and some family are there,

To replace the once “bright light”, now dim.

The peace, the joy, and the clarity

They once thought to feel, still present.

However, they are now in prosperity.

For they feel them forever in The Present.

That Songbird on their “perch” no longer lingers.

They are now free from the invisible cage

That kept them from being with other singers.

They finally got to feel their fear and rage.

One day, you’ll have your peace.

Be like the Songbird on a new perch,

And feel your rage release.

You’ll end your endless search,

And loudly sing your piece

Along with the Songbird,

No longer stuck in a “Church."

"A Revolutionary Revelation"

By VR

I wanna play a game called

U can only pick one:

do you serve yourself, the system, or humanity?

Choose wisely,

god is watching. 

"He Is"

By Cedric Howard-Lewis

He is the morning.

He is night.

He is the sunrise

on the far-off horizon;

the moon in the velvet sky.

He is the early morning hike

I power through

with illimitable might.

His words are stars—

and in his likeness,

they shine so bright.

He is beauty,

like dawn breaking

across the sky.

He is a journey.

And his heart?

The destination.

Yet he is the blackest night,

the path a haze,

lit only by

his constellations.

He is all the noise of morning,

and all the quiet of the night.

He is the finest garden,

aglow with blessed light.

He bears the most precious fruits,

and I reap the harvest.

Demeter planting seeds—

I admire from the sidelight.

I am blades of grass,

and he, the morning dew.

Does the dew cling to the grass,

or the grass to the dew?

I don’t know—

neither do you.

But…what if we met

in that field at first light,

hand in hand—

and figured it out,

just us two?

Let time be our portion,

and patience,

our sacred virtue.

He is the beginning,

and he will be my end.

But am I anything

to him?

Silence whistles in the air.

Bleakness looks grim.

I am blades of grass—

He is the deafening wind.

"To Know"

By Jadah Ownby

to know is to understand 

and i don’t understand

who i am

why i feel so deeply

but express so little emotion

why i say i'm fine

then cry myself to sleep most nights

to know is to understand

and i don’t understand

why i am the way i am

i am short tempered and moody

i lash out too easily

i yell to be left alone

then cry when i am

to know is to understand 

and i now understand

that i am my father's daughter

i am broken

i am unlovable

i can’t be fixed

because as my father's daughter

i will never be enough.

"Bri's Pumpkin Spice Latte"

By Nora Miranda

2nd place, Spooky Story Contest

They said the factories out by the ridge were leaking again. Something about a line rupture, a coolant spill, maybe ammonia, maybe chlorine. Dalton always smelled faintly of chemicals anyway, so it’s not like anyone cared at first. But Facebook moms started posting videos of strange deer. They’d stumble into traffic, their eyes clouded white, jaws hanging open, moving like they’d forgotten how their limbs worked. “Chronic wasting disease,” some would comment, “Nothing to worry about. Just put them out of their misery.”

We’d been advised to let them decompose once shot, but some couldn’t stand to see the meat go to waste. I heard a rumor that it made a family violently ill when they didn’t cook the meat thoroughly. Gross. Still, asking them to quarantine was a bit of a stretch. They’d taken to Facebook yet again to complain about it at first, but they were promptly made fun of and stopped posting altogether.

It’s Monday, and I’m worried about my upcoming exam. It was a little chilly, and the misty rain trapped that faint stink of rust I hated. Still, I kept walking through the rain, hood pulled over my frizzy hair. 5 minutes until class starts, and I’m a 6-minute walk away. Drastically late by my standards, but I didn't want to disappoint Brittany by not getting her drink at the Rage Cafe. Others were taking their sweet time getting to their classes, half-awake and dragging themselves towards their respective buildings. Most of them with earbuds in, not acknowledging anything else.

Honestly, every student I knew looked lifeless at this hour. Limping, groaning, pale. Probably stayed up doing anything other than getting a healthy night of sleep. Especially all the engineering majors in my classes… I’m no exception, really.

I made my way up the stairs of Sequoya Hall to Room 0223, balancing my homework I’d done last minute along with the Brittany’s pumpkin spice latte. When I slipped into class, Professor Harkins was setting up the slides to go over the practice exam.

I took my usual seat in the middle row, right by the window, beside the spot Brittany usually claimed. Her seat was empty. Not that unusual. She was always running late to this class in particular. I get it. It’s hard to get up this early.

The bell rang, and Dr. Harkins stood in front of the whiteboard, holding a dry erase marker. “Good morning, all,” he said with a big smile, “Any questions about the homework before we get started?”

One guy up front raised his hand. “Could you go over number 8?”

The professor popped the marker open and happily replied, “Of course!” He started writing an equation on the board. He turned to face the class. “This is the exponential growth equation. What’s great about it is you just plug and chug,” he continued, “Now I know y’all just want to get to the numbers and don’t like reading all this stuff, but just look for these key words…”

The door clicked open 25-30 minutes later.

Bri slipped in, breathless, clutching her arm. “Sorry,” She mumbled, closing the door behind her and sliding into her seat beside me. Her hoodie sleeve was tugged down tight over her wrist. I caught a glimpse of something dark soaking through the cuff before she noticed me looking and tucked her hand under the desk.

“You okay?” I whispered.

She forced a smile. “Yeah. Just…” She shrugged, not finishing what she was saying once she eyed the coffee cup waiting for her. “Oh… sorry, I– completely forgot… thank you.” It was certainly lukewarm at best, but she still sipped on the drink quietly, using her shaky, left hand. She looked pale as a ghost, a sheen of sweat on her face. Cold? Flu? Stomach virus?

I guess I wasn’t the only one looking, as Professor Harkins cleared his throat, “Eyes up here, all. This question is on tomorrow’s exam.”

Outside, a siren wailed faintly in the distance. Likely an accident on the interstate. A moment later, another, maybe two, followed it. Must’ve been a pretty gnarly accident. Nobody cared.

The minutes crawled, and I tried to focus on the equations Dr. Harkins wrote at the speed of light. Then came a noise, something sharp and sudden and loud like a stereotypical horror movie screech. Heads turned and the professor paused mid-sentence, trying to ignore it at first until it grew louder. Exponentially louder. At a distance, then right outside, then downstairs, and now in the hall, dozens screaming without pause. A huge commotion near the bell tower, visible from the windows in the back of the class, but those peering out the window were too confused to speak up.

Dr. Harkins frowned and moved toward the door. “Everyone, remain put, please.” He cracked the door open to peer into the hallway. A second later, he slammed it shut and locked it all in one motion. “Move those tables. Now.”

The class froze. “What’s going on?” someone asked.

“Shut up, just do what he said!” Someone else replied, already hauling the nearest table toward the door.

We dragged the long tables and stacked them in a clumsy barricade. From the hallway came the pounding of footsteps. Then, thuds, full body slams hitting the walls. I glanced around and noticed others texting or calling their parents in harsh whispers. Brittany was in the corner by herself, rocking back and forth.

Dr. Harkins was on his phone as well, attempting to contact the public safety department, seemingly to no avail.

A scream rang out just beyond the hallway, sharp and wet, followed by the unmistakable crash of glass. The pounding against the door grew harder, heavier, and a low moan bled through.
            “What is that?” someone whimpered.

Dr. Harkins didn’t answer. His phone finally buzzed in his hand, but there was only a calm pre-recorded message: “Lockdown Protocol. Remain indoors. Help is on the way.”

The professor’s knuckles went white around the phone. “Nobody opens that door,” he said firmly. “Not for anyone.”

My classmates pressed closer to the rear windows, trying to see the chaos in the quad. I stepped closer and stood on my toes to peek. Down below, people were running, stumbling, crying out loud for all to hear. One of them tripped, and another fell over them… then…

“Holy…” someone croaked before a hand slapped against the other side of the glass. We all jumped back, some gasping, others yelping. Against the window was gray skin, cracked nails, and a mouth gaped soundlessly. It ignored us and continued to climb up the building like a gangly spider.

            I turned, heart racing, nauseous. Still, Brittany was in her corner, hunched forward and shaking. Her latte was spilled across the floor, and her sleeve was ridden up just enough for me to finally see an ugly crescent shaped gash against her sickly pale skin.

            While the others closed the blinds improved on the barrier, I inched toward my friend.

            “Bri,” I whispered. “When did that happen?”

            She didn’t answer. Just breathed faster.

            “Bri…” I stopped a foot away. “You aren’t…are you?”

            Her head lifted slowly. Her eyes were glassy.

            Then, Brittany exhaled, long and ragged. No. She growled. She was growling at me like a rabid animal foaming at the mouth and staring down its next target. She lunged, and, for a heartbeat, the world went still, and all I could think was, "At least there’s no exam tomorrow."

"Meme"

By Yancong Lin

3rd place, Spooky Story Contest

Seventeen-year-old Jimmy suffers from severe social anxiety. He never tries to initiate

conversations with others. By the time his parents noticed and tried to help him overcome this

social fear, it was too late. Jimmy refused to talk to his parents, and the only companion he

had was the internet, where he seemed to feel he could muster the courage to communicate

directly with others.

            "Jimmy, we left your breakfast at the door. Remember to come out and eat." Looking at

Jimmy's room, from which no sound came, Jimmy's mother felt disappointed and left. That

day, Jimmy was surfing the internet as usual. He scrolled through web pages, and one after

another, funny pictures with humorous captions flashed before his eyes. For some reason,

Jimmy suddenly thought about creating a similar meme himself. Jimmy opened his digital

photo album and picked out a photo from last Halloween of himself wearing a ghost costume.

“It would be great if every day were Halloween, so no one would know who anyone else

is, and we wouldn't have to talk face to face, “Jimmy thought.

            Jimmy opened the image editing program and thought for a while, then added this sentence on it: “The simplest costume for Halloween.” Followed by another sentence. “Drape your bedsheet over yourself and walk out the door.” Jimmy posted this picture on a social forum and soon forgot about it.

A few days later, after several more hours of surfing the internet, the exhausted Jimmy

came to the window. Looking at the familiar neighborhood, Jimmy felt no interest. Suddenly,

a white figure appeared on the street. A white bedsheet—more precisely, a person draped in a

white bedsheet—was moving along the street. Jimmy felt scared by the person's strange

behavior. He stepped away from the window and returned to the internet, trying to make

himself forget what had just happened. While Jimmy was browsing the web, he noticed a red

dot appearing on the information bar at the bottom right of the screen. He tried clicking it and

found that someone had commented under the meme he posted a few days ago, saying,

'Haha, sounds good, I want to give it a try.' Seeing this comment, Jimmy felt a sense of

recognition and, at the same time, found a reasonable explanation in his mind for the scene

outside the window at that moment. But Jimmy hadn't noticed at this time that the post was

being shared at an astonishing rate.

A week later, when Jimmy looked out the window again, something even stranger

happened: almost everyone on the street was wandering around draped in white sheets.

Jimmy panicked and rushed to the computer, trying to check the post he had originally made,

but for some reason, the computer kept freezing on the loading screen. Jimmy couldn't take it

anymore; he had to go out and see what was happening. When Jimmy left his room and went

downstairs, his parents were also wrapped in white sheets. His mother was heating some

chocolate, and his father sat silently at the dining table. Terrified, Jimmy ran straight out of

the house.

Jimmy came out onto the street. The surrounding buildings looked just as usual, but all the pedestrians around him were draped in white sheets. Now Jimmy felt like he was the true odd

one out. He ran wildly through the streets, trying to find someone who, like him, wasn't

wearing a sheet, but it was all in vain. The white sheets seemed to be a trend; everyone in the

town was wearing one. At that moment, Jimmy felt something tug at his clothes. He looked

back and saw a child wearing a white sheet grabbing him.

            "Trick or treat"—a few minutes later, the child said this sentence.

Jimmy's gaze became vacant, and he walked slowly back home. Passing by his parents,

who were still draped in white sheets, Jimmy rummaged through his room and found the

ghost costume he wore last Halloween. Now he looked like everyone else. Jimmy went

downstairs and sat at the dining table, where his mother brought him a cup of hot chocolate.

There was no verbal communication, yet everything seemed to be functioning normally.

Jimmy's family was like this, and the entire town was like this, operating as usual.

In Jimmy's room, his computer repeatedly beeped with notifications. The meme he had

posted had already been shared tens of millions of times. This image, like a virus, slowly

began to infiltrate people's daily lives.

"A Man Lives"

By Huong Do

A man lives. He walks and breathes and thinks. Oh, but, he is not content, because there is something wrong with his existence. Life is not the way he wants it to be, and the discontent preys on his every waking moment. So, he goes searching for the cure to his unnamable problem.

He decides to go for a walk amongst the trees one golden morning. Painted with the shadows of the canopy but airbrushed by the early chill, the man gazes upon the path before him with apathy. There is love, there is feeling, but whatever ravine has marred the face of his consciousness cannot be mended by nature's embrace. He watches the landscape go by, sees how the oak boughs reach for the sky like sinners in hell reach for heaven, sees how banded spiders crisscross the path in dances without steps, and keeps walking. There are no answers for him here, no matter how far he wanders, how much he observes.

The man finds himself in a crowd of his fellow man some time later. What they speak of is irrelevant to him; it is their company that he seeks, not their words. He sits with them at their table and simply experiences. They laugh and prod at each other's egos in jest, they enjoy the time spent with one another, but the man cannot bring himself to lie and say that he is happier here. No, in fact, he is only more jaded than before he stepped into this situation. Why is he tortured like this? Where is his joy? Overwhelmed by emotion, he storms out, blinded by the sun as he reenters the world the way he came. He wants to be reborn.

His memory clouds over, and the last couple of hours he has spent stumbling around the world are nothing but muddled water colors on a dirty canvas. He is lost. Was there a place for him here, wherever "here" is? Sitting down, the surroundings begin to make sense to his weary eyes. Dark in this lonely alleyway, lonely in this painting of his own design. How his body itches, the way it continues to speak to him, but in a language the man does not understand! Sorrowful from the mere fact that his happiness seems unobtainable, the man can feel the burn under his skin. Yes, yes, it's under his skin, deep in his muscles and vibrating through his bones! The burn of frustration, of discontent and shame, renders him paralyzed in the shadow of the sun.

He must have been forgotten in the rush to create man. His ambitions and whims, fallen from the palace in heaven.

The skin he inhabits feels loose, like clothing that wasn't meant to be his. And, since he is an honest man, who is he to be wearing someone else's clothes? So, why not take it off? He sheds his ill-fitting costume! From fingertip to ear, from scalp to toes, he lets his skin fall away like the finest robes, robes that are not his! And, oh, how he bleeds, a river flowing down his muscle and viscera to pool at his heels like a cape. The man can feel the crimson coming off him, and he is not numb to the sting of suddenly being so exposed. If not forgotten, then he is now certainly unrecognizable to the king above!

Looking down, away from the sky, he stares at the nude figure in the reflection of the puddle. He sees himself the way that people should have seen him from the very beginning: as himself.

And, what a strange thought, but the shapes in the splatter start to form meaning. Yes, he sees symbols, definitions! Instinctually, he uses his finger as a pen and his blood as an ink on the wall he stands before, and writes. Writes! Though the letters are slow to form at first, they come smoothly, as smoothly as he bleeds.

He can understand now, in the dark of his alley and hidden from the gaze of the sun, what he believed was wrong with him. Oh, this soul thought he was created wrong and left to fend for himself in a world not built for him. His finger glides across the brick wall as if it knew this dance all along, a performer waiting for the right moment to enter the stage. It knows of the damned who did not make it to heaven, of the men who have learned companionship, and of the body it is attached to.

Trapped in this body was this, this discontent dreamer, this searcher, this writer!

A witness watches with worry. Splattered all over, a skinless man writing with the little life he has left and a sincere smile gracing his features. Sincere, happy, written across his face though there is no skin left to express such emotions. The bystander quickly walks away in fear of what might be wrong with this man, and if it were contagious at all. Without a doubt, someone will find him tomorrow. How could one spend his last moments like that, so impossibly alive? The madman!

"Out of Tune"

By Silas Owens

I remember the first day he held me, his small hands stretched clumsily across my body, barely able to press my strings. His strumming was wild and uneven, but full of something real: Excitement, hope.

I responded with whatever voice I could find, proud to be part of something just beginning.

He was relentless. When his fingers ached, he kept going. When a chord wouldn’t ring true, he’d try again and again, jaw clenched, brows furrowed.

I watched frustration turn to quiet triumph. Over time, the noise we made became something else entirely. Music, not perfect, but honest. And, I sang for him. As he grew, so did the music. His hands moved with confidence, no longer searching, but they knew me. The melodies we made together filled the room, each note woven with his joy, pain, and everything in between.

I hung proudly above his bed, worn and warm. But, then, … slowly, the music faded. He’d still reach for me, but the spark was different, dimmed, distant.

Eventually, even those half-hearted attempts stopped. I remained on the wall, untouched. My strings loosened. My voice faded. I became a memory.

Until today.

“Hey, Dad…” a small voice said. “What’s that on the wall?”

He glanced up. “That’s my old guitar.”

“Can you play it? Please?”

His hands hesitated as they lifted me. A soft strum, clumsy, cracked.

“Why does it sound weird?” she asked.

“It’s out of tune,” he replied blankly. “I don’t feel like fixing it right now.”

"The Shadow of Whiskers: The Guardian's Legacy"

By Marcus Bartley

Chapter 1

Marcus had always been a night owl. At 22, he thrived in the quiet hours when most of the world was asleep. Dalton, Georgia, was a sleepy town, and its dimly lit streets offered Marcus a sort of solace as he wandered aimlessly with his earbuds in, the soundtrack to his insomnia filling the void. It began one unassuming evening.

He first spotted the cat on Elm Street. A black feline with glowing, ember-like eyes that seemed to cut through the dark. It sat motionless; its gaze locked on him. At first, Marcus did not think much of it. Cats were common enough, and this one, though eerie, was just another stray. But as he turned corner after corner, the cat was always there, perched silently, its eyes unblinking. Marcus felt an uneasy creep over him, like static electricity on his skin.

He quickened his pace, trying to shake off the irrational fear bubbling up inside him. Yet, no matter where he went, the cat reappeared—always just out of reach, always watching. The first truly terrifying incident happened near an abandoned warehouse. Marcus turned his head for a split second, and when he looked back, the cat had moved impossibly fast, now standing directly in his path. Its form was different, larger, more sinister. Its shadow loomed unnaturally long, twisting and curling like smoke.

"Go away!" Marcus shouted, his voice trembling. But the cat did not flinch. Instead, it let out a low, guttural growl sound no ordinary cat should have been able to make. And then it lunged. Marcus bolted, his heart pounding in his chest. The world blurred as he sprinted through the narrow alleys and empty streets, the sound of clawed footsteps echoing behind him. The chase was relentless. The creature’s presence was suffocating, its howls otherworldly. Marcus did not dare look back. He sought refuge in an old library, its heavy oak doors offering a momentary barrier. Gasping for breath, he scanned the room for anything he could use as a weapon. His eyes settled on a dusty iron candlestick—his only hope against the demon cat that hunted him. The silence stretched on, broken only by the frantic beating of his heart. For a moment, he thought he had lost it. But then, the flicker of a shadow in the corner of the room told him otherwise. The cat was inside.

What unfolded next was a battle Marcus would never forget. The creature was faster, stronger, and far more intelligent than any ordinary animal. But Marcus fought with every ounce of his strength, fueled by sheer desperation.

As dawn broke, the first rays of sunlight pierced through the library's stained-glass windows. The demon cat let out an ear-piercing screech and dissolved into a cloud of black smoke, leaving Marcu’s trembling but alive. From that day on, Marcus was never the same. The scar on his arm—a souvenir from the creature’s claws—was a constant reminder of the night he faced the shadow of whiskers. And though he never saw the cat again, he could never shake the feeling that, somewhere in the darkness, it was still watching. Yet Marcus could not escape the lingering effects of his encounter. The shadowy presence of the demon cat haunted him in subtler ways now—not with physical confrontations, but with whispers in the silence, flickers of shadows in his peripheral vision, and a gnawing paranoia that made the darkness oppressive.

He avoided the streets at night and found an odd comfort in the daylight. But things started to change as the scar on his arm began to fade. It was not just fading, it was as if it were erasing itself. This struck Marcus as odd, though he tried to convince himself that the scar had never been as deep as he had imagined. One evening, however, Marcus’s insomnia returned with vengeance. He found himself pacing his small apartment, suffocated by the quiet. Against his better judgment, he decided to venture outside.

Armed with a flashlight and a pocketknife, he made his way to the same library where the incident had culminated. The streets seemed unnaturally still, as though the town itself held its breath. When Marcus reached the library, he hesitated. Pushing open the heavy oak doors, he stepped inside, flashlight in hand. Dust swirled in the beam of light, and the old building smelled of damp paper and forgotten stories. Marcus's heart raced as he navigated through the rows of shelves. Suddenly, he heard a faint sound. It was rhythmic, like the tapping of claws against wood, and it seemed to echo throughout the library.

Marcus froze. The scar on his arm burned intensely—so much that he dropped his flashlight. It rolled along the floor, its beam illuminating the center of the room. There, in the light, stood the black cat. But this time, it was different. It was smaller, its ember-like eyes softened and almost seemed... familiar. Marcus did not feel terror, this time—he felt an inexplicable pull.

He knelt, trembling, and whispered, "What do you want from me?"

The cat padded closer, its movements slow and deliberate. Marcus’s scar stopped burning and instead radiated a strange warmth. The cat let out a soft purr—a sound that Marcus swore carried a melody.

And then, it spoke. Not with words, but with images. Memories flashed before Marcus's eyes—memories that were not his own. He saw flickers of an ancient town, filled with glowing lanterns. People worshiped the creature, bowing before it and whispering prayers. The cat was no demon—it was a guardian. But something had gone wrong. Banished to roam the earth in shadow, it had sought out Marcus, who, unknowingly, carried the fragment of an ancient relic embedded in his skin—the scar.

The cat stepped closer and pressed its head against Marcus’s hand. At that moment, the scar vanished entirely. A burst of warmth radiated through him, and the cat dissolved into a trail of light. Marcus felt an odd sense of peace he had not felt in years. From that night forward, Marcus’s insomnia disappeared. But he also gained something new— a sense of purpose.

The quiet of Dalton’s streets now felt alive, humming with the history he had glimpsed. He spent his nights studying the fragments of memories the cat had left behind, piecing together the story of the guardian and its forgotten legacy. Though the cat was gone, Marcus felt its presence in every flicker of the dark protector, not an enemy. And he knew his role in the story was far from over. Marcus’s newfound purpose began to reveal itself in unexpected ways. The memories the guardian cat had left behind felt more like puzzle pieces than a complete picture.

Every night, Marcus studied them, jotting down the fragments of imagery that surfaced in his mind. A glowing lantern here, a cryptic symbol there—it all hinted at something larger than himself, something ancient and buried deep within the fabric of Dalton’s quiet streets.

One evening, while researching in the library, Marcus stumbled upon an old book tucked away in the forgotten recesses of the shelves. The leather-bound volume was worn and brittle, its cover adorned with the same cryptic symbol he had seen in his visions.

The book seemed to hum with energy as Marcus touched it, as if it recognized him. The pages were filled with intricate illustrations and passages written in a language Marcus did not understand. Yet, certain phrases glowed faintly when he ran his fingers across them, as though guiding him to the next direction. The symbol on the cover stood for an ancient order tasked with protecting the balance between realms—a task long abandoned when the guardians were banished.

Driven by a sense of urgency, Marcus began to search for remnants of the order. His research led him to forgotten landmarks around Dalton—a crumbling stone bridge, a peculiar fountain in the town square, and even the old warehouse where he had first met the cat. Each location carried traces of the guardian’s magic, subtle yet undeniable. Marcus felt a connection to these places, as though the town itself was revealing its secrets to him.

One night, while exploring the stone bridge, Marcus discovered an inscription hidden beneath the ivy-covered surface. It translated to something eerily familiar: “The light of the guardian shall awaken through the chosen.”

Marcus knew then that he was part of something much larger legacy that had been dormant for centuries. But not all discoveries brought clarity. The visions grew more intense, and with them came glimpses of another shadowy presence that hunted Marcus in his dreams. He could feel its anger, its yearning for the relic that had been embedded in his scar. It was a force that opposed the guardians, determined to keep their power suppressed. The figure grew closer with each passing night, its influence spilling into reality in strange lights flickering, chilling winds brushing against Marcus’s skin, and even the faint sound of clawed footsteps following him once again. Marcus realized he had a choice. He could ignore the visions, leave the relic dormant, and live a quiet life—or he could embrace the role the guardian had chosen for him and uncover the full truth of what had been lost. The choice felt daunting, but Marcus knew the night the cat dissolved into light had changed him forever. He could not walk away from what he had become.

As Marcus stood beneath the glowing lantern of the stone bridge, he whispered a silent promise to the cat—the guardian that had entrusted him with its legacy. The darkness of Dalton’s streets felt different now, not oppressive but alive, filled with mysteries waiting to be unraveled. And somewhere in the shadows, Marcus knew the cat was still watching, guiding him toward the answers he looked for. But with every step forward, the looming shadow of his enemy drew closer, waiting for the moment to strike.

Marcus steeled himself, knowing that his journey was far from over. The story of the guardian was only just beginning, and his role within it would shape not only his destiny but the fate of the realm itself.

As Marcus stood on the stone bridge, the cool night air whispering against his skin, he gazed down at the inscription now etched into his memory: “The light of the guardian shall awaken through the chosen.” His scar was gone, yet he could feel the warmth of its purpose coursing through him, a reminder of the role he could no longer deny. The town of Dalton felt both familiar and foreign, its quiet streets brimming with the weight of untold secrets. He clutched the old leather-bound book tightly in his hands, its glow faint but persistent, as though urging him forward. Somewhere, deep in the night, he could sense the darkness shifting, growing. The shadowy presence in his dreams loomed closer with every heartbeat, its hunger palpable. Whatever came next, Marcus knew it would not wait for him to be ready.

The guardian's voice, soft and melodic, echoed in his thoughts, a final whisper before the trail of light faded: "The path is yours now." And though the cat was gone, Marcus could still feel its eyes watching, guiding him from beyond the veil.

In the distance, a light flickered with lanterns, but not of this world. It beckoned him, daring him to take the next step. As Marcus's breath caught, a new determination filled him. The guardian's legacy had only begun to unfold, and with it, a battle that would evaluate every ounce of his courage. He turned toward the glowing horizon, his resolve unshakable.

Somewhere beyond the veil of shadows, answers waited. But so did the enemy. And this time, the stakes felt even higher. Marcus tightened his grip on the book, his heart racing. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it head-on.

The light of the guardian burned within him now, and he would not stop until he uncovered the truth. Dalton was changing. The shadows were stirring. The question was not whether he was ready, it was how long he could stay ahead of what was coming.

Marcus felt the weight of the guardian’s book in his hands, its worn cover a tangible reminder of the responsibility he now bore. The faint glow of the cryptic symbol in the book seemed to pulse with the rhythm of his heartbeat, as if the artifact itself were alive. He knew there was no turning back, no returning to the quiet life he once knew. The shadows in Dalton were restless, their movements imperceptible to most but starkly clear to Marcus. He could feel them waiting, watching, and biding their time.

As the days passed, Marcus discovered that the visions left by the cat were not just fragments of the past, they were warnings. The glowing lanterns from his dreams became beacons in real life, illuminating hidden messages and guiding him to places no one else would dare explore. The puzzle was sprawling, its pieces scattered across the town and beyond, and Marcus was the only one who could put them together. But as he unraveled the mysteries, the sinister presence that had plagued his dreams began to take form in the waking world. It was not just a shadow anymore, it was becoming something tangible, something powerful. The closer Marcus got to the truth, the stronger it became. Lights in his apartment flickered more often. The air grew colder, and whispers that were once faint and distant now seemed to echo through the very walls.

One evening, while studying in his dimly lit apartment, Marcus was jolted by a sudden, ear-splitting crash. He rushed to the window, his breath catching as he saw a thick, inky fog rolling down Dalton’s main street. It was not natural—there was something alive in the fog, something searching. He could feel his eyes on him, even from the safety of his home.

The scar on Marcus’s arm, though no longer visible, began to burn once more, a searing pain that felt like a warning. He gritted his teeth and turned his attention back to the book. There had to be something on its pages, some clue to stop whatever was coming. As he flipped through the ancient text, symbols began to glow brighter than before, forming a pattern that had not been there earlier. It was a map.

The map revealed a location deep in the forest on the outskirts of Dalton—a place Marcus had never ventured. He knew it was a trap, that the shadowy force would be waiting for him there, but he also knew he had no choice. Whatever was coming, whatever the shadow sought, he had to stop it before it consumed the town and the world beyond.

Evelyn, the historian he had recently confided in, joined him on this new journey. Armed with her knowledge of ancient texts and an uncanny intuition for solving riddles, she became an invaluable ally. Together, they prepared for the unknown, gathering supplies and weapons for what felt like a mission into another realm.

The night before their departure, Marcus stood on the stone bridge, staring into the waters below. He felt the presence of the cat—its light, its guidance—but no longer as a comforting shadow. This time, it felt like a force urging him onward, even as the weight of what lay ahead threatened to crush him.

As dawn broke, Marcus and Evelyn set out into the woods, following the path laid out by the glowing map. The air grew colder and more oppressive with every step, the trees seeming to close in around them. When they reached the marked location, they found an ancient, crumbling stone altar surrounded by symbols matching those in the book. And in the center of the altar lay a shard of glowing light—one of the fragments of the Guardians’ Light, hidden away for centuries.

But they were not alone. The inky fog that had rolled through Dalton now swirled around the clearing, coalescing into a monstrous form. The shadowy figure from Marcus’s dreams had fully manifested, its eyes burning with malice as it reached for the shard.

Marcus knew this was just the beginning of the battle—both for the fragment and for the fate of Dalton. As he squared off against the shadowy figure, the scar on his arm flared to life, radiating with the guardian’s light once more. Evelyn stood beside him, her unwavering resolve giving Marcus the courage he needed.

The clearing came alive as light and shadow clashed, the boundaries between realms bending under the weight of their battle. Marcus could feel the guardian’s presence within him, a steady beacon urging him forward. But for every moment of hope, the shadow responded with unrelenting darkness.

As the first blow landed, Marcus realized that the fate of the world might hinge on his ability to trust the light within him. This was no ordinary fight, it was the beginning of a war.

And the war was far from over...

"Zorn"

By Kaden Kennedy

What if I told you that you live in a world of magic and fantasy with a few Zorn here and there, but that isn’t the point. The point is that all the “stories” you have heard are true. The world you live in has werewolves, vampires, and many more beasts and creatures spread out all over the world.

My name is Leo M. Bennett, and I am what you would call a science experiment gone right. I am the combination of most of the big bads that hide amongst the masses.

This school does not just have normal classes like algebra or chemistry but rather animals within you and potions class. This school is full of vampires, werewolves, witches, and wizards, along with a Zorn. What is a Zorn, you might ask?

Well, that is something I am still finding out. I am a Zorn, which is a mix of the three. I can move as fast and live as long as a vampire without the whole blood drinking thing. I can become a werewolf and am a wizard. There is, however, an additional power that comes from being a Zorn, and that is the ability to see people for who they really are and what they are in certain situations.

Zorns are a rare species and are more powerful than most species as well. Our cousins Besonderer Anblick, or people with special sight, are like us but only with the ability to see rather than transform. The B.A. are just the normal kids in this school, and the special kids are rather different than the average school.

All the different races get their own building, so no werewolf is put with vampires or vice versa. The reason behind that is werewolves and vampires are super territorial and don't really mix well, but you will get the occasional mixed  relationship, which some people find disgraceful, but everyone else doesn’t seem to care. But now that you have a general understanding then i will take you to the beginning.

***

“We need to go,” a man yelled from the other side of the room.

“But what about Leo? He doesn’t even know what he is or what he will become,” the female yelled rather upset.

“Listen, we must do what is necessary, and he is going to live with my sister. She is one of us as well, and she could even teach him control, By the time he goes to college, he will be ready,” he stated as he tried to calm her down.

“But what if something happens to her? Tom, I don't know if she should teach him everything rather than just the basics” The female asked.

“I know that was the plan...just to control it and nothing more. Finding out you are a Zorn at a young age is a lot of pressure for everything you have to learn” Tom ran into the room wearing a full button up black suit. He had brown hair and glasses over his blue eyes. He looked at his wife Ada with her brunette hair and hazel eyes. Her dress was blue like Tom's eyes.

Tom walked over to his wife and hugged her. As they hugged, a little boy walked into the room around eight years old.

“Mommy I packed my things, ” the boy stated rather sleep on his way to his parents. The boy turned the corner with brown hair and blue eyes. He was wearing pajamas with paw prints all on them and a dog on his shirt. 

“I will get him if you get his bags” Ada glanced at Tom as she walked over to Leo.”

So, Leo, did you pack your protector?” Ada asked.

“I knew I forgot something,” Leo stated before running to his room.

Tom walked by with Leo's bags and put them in the car. Leo walked back in the room carrying his stuffed werewolf in his arms.

Ada took one more look before Leo yelled, “ hey mom, race ya to the car.” Leo took off, and Ada followed him to the car. Tom also took his final look at the house and soon followed them out. When Tom got to the car, Leo was already asleep, and Ada was fighting back tears thinking of all the memories in the house.

“Hey it is gonna be fine,” Tom told her before starting the car.

“I know it’s just he won’t have a normal childhood, will he?”

“No, he won't, and he will learn that he is more powerful than either of us can even imagine,” Tom answered, looking back at his sleeping child. “Now off to Sarah’s place.” Tom put the car into gear and started to drive off.

***

A fog surrounded me and covered my eyes with grey smoke that seemed to cloud my vision.

My peers, friends, and even my own family looked at me like I was not all there sometimes. I felt off, like there was something missing inside of me.

The world has lacked color for what seems to be too long, but I guess I have gotten used to it by now. It is the last day of school, and the last time I went to Coahulla Creek. I am a high schooler and soon to be a senior in just a few minutes more.

The time is drawing closer to 3:30, only to leave and do all this again in another couple of months. There must be something more to life than this dull school, and the depressing thoughts of what to do when school ends. The school bell rings, and everyone runs to depart and start the official summer break. I run and get on the bus sitting next to a couple of friends of mine.

“Hey, what's up Leo, are you doing anything exciting this summer?” Alex asked excitedly.

“Yeah, are you going on one of those hunting trips that your uncle and cousins all go on in the summer?” Andrew joined in.

“I don’t really know yet guys, I haven’t really been invited yet.”

It only sucks that Lexi had to move to that other school this past year. Are you still going to be here next year or are you going to that school your family is going too?”

“I don’t really know yet. I know Lexi told me the day we started classes that she wasn’t going to go here anymore.”

How long did she know that she was going to another school? We used to be inseparable, but this past year or so, we have been growing farther apart. None of my other family knows how I am feeling half the time. Not Lexi, not any of my cousins, not my uncle, or even Aunt Sarah.

These past few years, I have seen all my cousins start going to some new school, and they have been leaving me one by one until I am all alone. All I had left was Lexi and then she joined the others. I want so badly to go to that school they go to, but what I truly long for is somewhere to belong. Next year may be different, or will it yet be the same shade of grey.

Leo arrived home on the first official day of summer. He waved goodbye to his friends on the bus and walked the gravel road up to his house, arriving at the cabin that he had lived in since he was a child. The cabin's exterior was painted blue with a white accent. His aunt's black Jeep was also parked outside. Even Lexi’s car was parked with a specific shade of red that often looked like a sunrise. None of the colors mattered though because, to Leo, they were all oversaturated in gray shades.

***