Category: Summer 2022

The landing pod touched down on the barren planet as the crew took their first look at planet C42. “Landing pod to Space Center; We have touched down with no damage. I repeat, we have touched down with no damage,” the captain, Xavier Vanlaere, said into the com. 

London Hill, pilot and navigator, barked orders from her seat. “Do not move until final orders are given. There has been no hull damage currently, but we have lost contact with C42 PS crew 01. We don’t know what we are getting ourselves into, so stay sharp. Their landing pod is 3 clicks north from here, and it is our job to find it. This was a failed mission and there are no presumed survivors. Proceed with caution and level headedness.” Flooding out of the ship, a scout squad armed with the latest high caliber weaponry strode out onto the desolate planet. Ice geysers stood frozen. Wind whipped through the suits of the crew, and frost was already forming around their feet. They felt the cold of course, but they weren’t prepared for what would come next. As they strode in rank and formation toward the signal coming from the landing pod’s radar, none of them knew what to expect, but whatever they did, it wasn’t what awaited them.

As they marched toward the signal, the soldiers took bets with each other, trying to ease the tension that electrified the air. All of them stayed alert though, their halfhearted voices echoing throughout the empty planet. The group rounded a corner and the landing pod came into view. They all halted.

“Son of a bitch,” one of the soldiers swore. 

“Lieutenant Craw, send a squad to scout the ship,” Vanlaere barked. “We will remain here until you deem it safe. Be aware, soldier.”

The soldiers rustled with anticipation, and murmurs arose. None of them quite trusted this empty planet. 

Ten minutes later, Craw sprinted back toward the ship, face red with adrenaline and fear. “Sir!” He held something in his glove. 

Vanlaere snapped straight up. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

Craw reached them. “Captain,” he panted. “I’ve found something.” He dropped what looked like a hard drive into Vanlaere’s outstretched hand. “There’s not much else, sir. But this was in it. There were also test tubes, and it looked like it held some sort of blood.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Vanlaere clenched the drive. “Let’s see what really happened to C42 PS crew 01.”

28 YEARS EARLIER

Toby: Mission log, C42-01. We found ourselves here after an unmarked planet showed up on our radar. Landscape appears to be mostly ice. Still unsure about going out of our landing pod, wind speed appears to be far greater than earth’s. Sensors outside the ship read 14.2% O2, unsafe for us. We found a frozen ocean, H2O with an abundance of Sulfate. Still don’t have a good reading on the depths of the ice, Betty was disabled following a gust of wind. One landing pod was busted on impact. We landed almost 4 kilometers from the projected landing zone. Gravity 1.65 Gs, so the suits will be able to handle it. Sea level is -13 meters relative to earth, and the tallest visible peak is 1642.2 meters. This is Toby, engineer, signing off.

Violet: Mission log, C42-02. The landing was rough as part of the landing gear got stuck in the ice. I was tasked with mapping out the new planet with the drone Betty 1.0 but during the first hour of her departure the connection was cut, and when we sent Bella 4.6 to look for Betty, Betty was missing. Since Betty was destroyed we have put off making the map. I also helped Toby with fixing the ship’s landing gear. Tessa and I got into a fight when she wanted me to go outside and I resisted. Man, I really want to go home. I mean, it can’t be as bad as last time.

Sammi: Mission log, C42-03. We have not explored outside of the pod. Birdlike creatures have destroyed Betty, but haven’t done anything to the broken skeleton since then. It appears they attack anything that moves and it is almost impossible to avoid them. Our landing gear broke and we don’t have the parts to fix it. We are stranded now, but the panic hasn’t set in for anybody yet. It’s only a matter of time though. The thermometer outside reads -121.2 C°. Our suits can handle the cold, but we are not sure how to avoid the birds to get to the ice and fish people. Ice geysers streak toward the sky then freeze in a curved position as a result of the hundred kph wind and climate. We have been sent food, and supplies, but command doesn’t have the parts for the landing gear Toby needs to repair the ship. We also need to get samples.

Toby: Mission log, C42-04. Found an instance of C42-C just now. It was chewing through some of the wires. I haven’t seen a specimen this size. Subject resembles a rabbit mixed with a mole, with completely white fur and red eyes. They tunnel around in the snow to avoid the birds and winds. These guys prove how versatile life can be. 

Tessa: Mission log, C42-05. We have made contact with C42. The landing gear is stuck in the ice. This makes quick escape an improbable option. However this provides more time for data and sample collection. Violet has voiced how angry she is with me. I don’t understand it. Whilst trying to fix the ship Toby found a mole-like creature identified as C42-C. They tunnel under the ice and snow to hide from C42-B. This is how we could move without C42-B attacking us. We could use this to get to the C42-A. I need to get my hands on one of the C42-C to get samples. Sammi told me I shouldn’t touch them until we know more. I think she is a fool. We must act on this opportunity or we could lose it. 

Violet: Mission log, C42-06. Toby found a white mole-like creature that tunnels under the snow. Tessa said we could use this to move around without being killed like Betty, and she is going to chase after one of those mole things. I mean, what if the thing scratches her or bites her and she gets infected and it spreads to Sammi and Toby and everyone dies? I also helped Toby with the ship. 

Sammi: Mission log, C42-07. Tessa and I are taking a sample of the ice today. We have found a way to get deep under the ice to take the sample modeling after a new species we have discovered. C42-C looks like a hybrid of a rabbit and mole. It tunnels under the ice with sharp teeth and claws and seems immune to the cold, although it doesn’t have much fur. They are white. Tessa is intrigued but we don’t know its defenses and habits so I’ve told her to stay away from it for now. I’m running low on supplies to treat her if she gets injured. She’s not going to listen to me.

Toby: Mission log, C42-08.  Finally got a clear reading on the ice depths after going through 3 different Bettys. Ice is .54 kilometers deep, and lowest layers are past 12,000 years deep. Did you know the atmosphere here used to be breathable? MRS 01 was destroyed by those damn birds and, oh yeah, none of our measures to bring down instances of C42-B have been successful. They are immortal. Great. On top of that, they attack anything that moves even an inch. I managed to get a signal up to Betty 1.0’s backup camera and found a whole horde of the things. They seem to be riding air currents in a massive loop. Still trying to get that landing gear fixed, can’t take off till we do. This is Toby, engineer, signing off.

Toby: Mission log C42-09. Well, command abandoned us. They said it was “too expensive to keep us alive.” So we have about two weeks till rations run out, and a further three weeks to starve. Of course, we can’t let that happen. The others and I are trying to formulate a plan, but I know it’s gonna be up to me to put that into action. 

Sammi: Mission log, C42-10. Food is dwindling. We have enough to get us through at least a week and a half, after that… 

I’m not sure how it happened exactly, but we have slowly been receiving less and less supplies from Command. Our radars don’t pick up their orbit around C42’s atmosphere. Violet hasn’t been keeping records of our food, so we don’t know when the food started to stop arriving. They’ve given up on us. Toby seems panicked, I think he realizes. It just got a lot more dangerous for us.

Toby: Mission log, C42-11. I think I have a plan to get off this planet once and for all. Command originally sent us some emergency flares, which have since been lost when I outfitted them to a Betty. But I think that If I can make my own flares and get to the top of a mountain, I can get their attention, assuming our orbital AED is still there. I’m planning to take everyone with me in a few weeks. Our food is low, so I should work quickly. I will update you on further progress. This is Toby, engineer, signing off.

Tessa: Mission log, C42-12. We found a way to go under the ice to get to C42-A. We have not had any stable ways to communicate with C42-A. As of now my attempts to understand the language have been nearly impossible. I have discerned that the only way of communicating with them is through pictures. I am attempting to build a C42-A to English dictionary. I have yet to collect the samples of the bioluminescent particles that create the patterns on the C42-A people. They always run away or avoid me when I ask to gather more samples. Perhaps this is a tender issue for them. Whatever it may be, my samples are far more important.

Sammi: Mission log, C42-13. Tessa and I have gone down once before and taken a sample of the ice. She received a gash in her suit and arm on the way up, and after treating her I have no supplies left to treat anyone else. We are going down again today so Tessa may get her water sample. She also wants a blood sample of the Matcian people. I tell her that that will not likely happen. We have found two clans at war with each other. The C42-A, a kind of fish people we named the Matcian people, it appears, have been forced to choose sides. They live and fight under the ice, but never break it. Violet is leaning more and more heavily upon me, because Tessa is emotionally unavailable. Toby is sending Bettys out like sacrificial pigs. I don’t think he’s getting any work done. He knows the safe word and has the strength to crank the lever to pull us back up though. But I have a gut feeling something will go wrong, I just don’t know what. It’s not safe, and I will not insult anyone’s intelligence by saying it is, but I believe we have a chance to get these samples. If everything goes according to plan.  We just need to get off this damn planet.

Violet: Mission log, C42-14. I finished mapping the planet it is really snowy and icy and I am starting to use the stupid AI therapist. It’s supposed to help but I don’t think it is. We discovered a creature that killed Betty 1.0. It’s a giant bird that hunts things that move. Tessa calls them C42-B. I spent most of my time with Sammi then Tessa came in with a gash and for some reason I started to breathe heavily and I don’t even like Tessa. Then the stupid AI said “You are safe. Everything is alright, you are in a safe place.” NO! I am not safe. This planet killed Betty. 

Toby: Mission log, C42-15. Where is my wrench? Damn. Wait this thing is, oh. Okay, I think I finally did it. I finally outfitted the suit with enough oxygen to reach the mountain. I made some flares. I can finally talk to command. Only issue is, there is a stretch of water, meaning I can’t tunnel under the snow most of the way. It will be a run. I could go around, but that is a multi day trip, and I don’t have enough O2. Command can get me out of this planet, they can take me home. Violet has just been yelling at me, don’t think she realizes that if she tries to use the ship we’ll all die. They don’t think that it’s possible to get to the mountain. Don’t they trust their engineer? I’m planning to leave before anyone else. I’ll give you one more log, and then commands picking me up. This is Toby and oh yeah, one more thing. I hid Bella so only I can use her. Nobody else needs to know I’m scouting the mountain. These Matcians have been sacrificing themselves every few days, I don’t think they realize it does nothing. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be gone next week.

Tessa: Mission log, C42-16. My samples are nearly complete. I have yet to collect data from C42-B. Perhaps I should collect samples from C42-B before we return to command. The C42-A people seem to be at their wits end. I will not stop at this point. Sammi tells me I should be more careful to not offend them. My data collection is going swimmingly. Maybe Mother and Father will be proud when I return. 

Toby: Mission log, C42-17. I started picking up poetry for my last few days on the pod. Found some Edgar Alllen Poe from my school days. Forgot I even had these. Might as well read them, I doubt I can ever see them again. I still haven’t told the others. They will just try to “help” me. I no longer need the unwillful cries to stray me from striding to my future. Was that good? Anyways, I don’t think I’ll be going on anymore planetary sweeps after this. 

Toby: Mission log, C42-18. Woe is me, the lords of these lands have abandoned my memes. The breath of Pan has been breathed into me, yet I freeze in this sea of life-stealing cold. I have no will to go on, and I see that my life has none left to give. Those called “command” have left me. I see my path, burned into my mind, yet I hear the screams of the cruel, unforgiving, killing sky-tyrants. They cannot see me as my heartbeat slows. So many great persons have passed this way. I will join the scores of those living in the life after death, floating around the cosmos while my mortal form remains frozen. Free from this frozen hell. Let me rest now. Peace y’all. 

Tessa: Mission log, C42-19. The C42-A has taken me prisoner. I have attempted to take samples from the walls as they seem to be made of some sort of spongelike material I have not yet seen nor identified. The rest of the crew have not contacted me in awhile. The C42-A chitter away whenever they pass by my cell. I wonder if the chitters work as echolocation.

Violet: Mission log, C42-20. Sammi and Tessa are out with the fish people and I’m in my room with my thoughts. Command has stopped talking to me. When I saw Toby’s tool and drone room I thought I saw Rex working in there I got really scared. I talked to the AI therapist. It said that “her mother didn’t care about her” but she DOESN’T HAVE A MOTHER *cries*. AI therapist: “It’s all right to cry…” NO NO NOOOOOO! SMASH! *deep breathing* I threw it. It’s gone. Okay okay okay I should talk to Toby. Hey hello? Toby, are you there? Toby? TOBY please please answer. I-I-I can’t. We can’t be without you. Don’t leave meee! *sobs*. Why did I come here? Why did I let myself come here? I was a great pilot with a good crew that did good missions but then they died and here I am about to die. I don’t want to die.

Tessa: Mission log, C42-21. They are taking me out of my cell and covering me in a firm sticky seafoam like gel. They are drilling through the ice. This seems to cause a large commotion among the people. 

Tessa: Mission log, C42-22. I am done. Goodbye, thank you. Mother, father. 

Sammi: Mission log, C42-23. Toby is dead. I can’t find his body. I don’t know how. Neither does Violet. She refuses to talk about it. Tessa was sacrificed to the Birds. It’s just Violet and me now. Not much else to report on. Still don’t have a lot of food, very little medical supplies. I don’t know. I’m a little bit numb right now. I’ll try to update later. What’s the point, though? Nobody will see this. Our engineer is gone. Our scientist is gone. Our food is almost gone. Everything but the painkillers are gone from the medical cabinet. Time is running out. 

Violet: Mission log, C42-24. Sammi came back from trying to get fish people samples… without Tessa. *sniffle* WE ARE GOING TO DIE HERE. First Toby dies, then Tessa dies by being sacrificed by the fish people to the birds. I got it, I got it. We can leave even if there are parts broken, we can probably still fly and get out of here. Yes. This is going to work, we are going to be out of here and I will never step foot on another hostile planet again! Hah hah, I have figured it all out, no one will die ever again. I’m going to tell Sammi all about this. Sammi Sammi we should just leave. Even though some parts are broken we can still fly. Sammi: “The bird things will probably get the ship if we try to fly away.” Okay we can’t fly away. *cries*

Sammi: Mission log, C42-25. I found his body. He was impaled on an ice geyser. He was my companion. I was stuck with him for almost three months. I feel empty. But not sad. Not lost. All I feel is worried for myself. Should I feel bad? I didn’t know him that well, but… he was my crewmate. I don’t feel anything. It’s like an endless spiral into hell and insanity, and I don’t know a way to fix this. How do I help us? How do I save us?

Sammi: Mission log, C42-26. Violet is unstable. I cannot deal with it. She talks and talks and doesn’t do anything. She asked if I missed anyone. Then she asked if I had a partner. Then it was onto pets. Then it was a monologue on how much she missed her family. Then she explained every aspect of her social life. Next, she launched into every part of her education. Then she started sobbing. I hugged her, and patted her back. I can’t take much more of this. I need to help myself too.

Violet: Mission log, C42-27. So, things have been going well and no one has died. WE CAN’T LEAVE WE ARE GOING TO DIE HERE. I shouldn’t have thrown the AI therapist. At least I have Sammi. Speaking of Sammi, I’m going to talk to Sammi.

Sammi: Mission log, C42-28. I miss Mom, Buddy, and Dad. Damn it, I miss Tessa too. We weren’t family and we didn’t know each other before the trip, but we were stuck on an ice planet together for four months and all Violet does is talk to me. She won’t leave me alone. I don’t have a lot of alone time, but when I do my only thoughts are: Is this worth it?

Sammi: Mission log, C42-29. It’s not. It’s not worth it. Not with my entire crew almost gone. I’m going to try to get the samples of C42-B tonight. For Mom and Dad. I love you.

Sammi: Mission log, C42-30. I’ve used almost the last of my painkillers. They make me forget. I should probably stop but I can’t. I can’t stop.

I just…

can’t…

stop…

Violet: Mission log, C42-31. Sammi died! *cries* She overdosed on pain meds so she wouldn’t have gone crazy. *Ship door opening* *Quiet* Ohhhh I know what I can do, let’s go visit the fish people! Oh you must be the cult. You want me to join you. Rex, everyone! You’re here! I thought you died. I’m so happy. Guess I have to go. *Splash*

Four dead. A small sacrifice in the scale of humanity. And all in the name of science. Military personnel don’t flinch in the face of death, yet knowing the truth of what happens to astronauts who lose contact is more… grim. “Pack up and let’s move out!” barked Hill. “We gotta get this bird off the ground! There is nothing else for us here.” She avoided the eyes of her crew. It felt wrong to leave their memories here, but how else. Their families were dead, as far as any of them knew. There was nothing left. Nothing else to do. As the ship ascended out of the atmosphere, Hill couldn’t help but think about whether their deaths were necessary. 

Watching as the planet’s dying sun rose over the horizon, the dead crew’s landing pod fading into a black dot in the distance, Hill muttered to Vanlaere, “Do you think they had to die?”

“Had to?” He responded. “No; but it’s not up to us, and what’s done is done. Best not to think about it.” He kept his eyes on the horizon, not looking at Hill. Hill glanced behind her, through the film of the atmosphere. She took note of the soldiers behind her doing the same. Her guilt pounded through her with every second the ship got farther from the planet.

The icy planet grew distant, and most of the soldiers turned back. Hill stayed twisted around though, staring out the glass until her eyes glazed and her back ached, yet she stayed. The very least she could do to pay tribute to the four who died. Who no one would remember. And so she looked. The icy, desolate, bare, hostile planet that used to be full of life. The last London Hill and her crew saw of the planet C42 looked almost peaceful, when the harsh winds, and cold climate couldn’t be felt. Peace. She hoped those four crew members had found it.

The End

Or is it…

 Yes. It is.

“The Old Ones are awakening, it’s time. Humanity will finally rue the day that it stoked the fires of our destruction. Come my fallen kin, the realm of land is ours to play.”

I had waited seventeen years for this moment.

I was raised to be the woman I am now.

I was born to be her.

Humans kill those who they cannot control. And now we shall kill them.

Ten generations of my family sacrificing their lives have led to this. The fate of our species’ kind rests on my shoulders. And I am ready.

I lean over my ancestors’ graves, swirling a drop of human blood with a drop of mine. For one of the few times in my life, I am above ground. I am surrounded by all our supporters, chanting the phrase from our Necronomicon.

The drop of blood falls. I step back from the tomb and drop my pendant into the dirt, crushing it with the heel of my foot, and recite the chant.

“Rise, my ancestors, the Old Ones have awoken! Come, and let us regain what is ours! Rise, my ancestors, let us seek revenge on thou who hast wronged us!” I shout into the night.

“Is it true?” our followers whisper. “Are they back? For good?”

“We do not know yet,” I announce, “but — we know one thing for certain. They’re here, and they will destroy those who wronged us!”

For centuries we were banished under the surface of the earth, as close to the Underworld as one can get. In both a literal and metaphorical sense. But this is the time to strike. We were knocked down and buried underground for long enough. Now, we rise.

“The humans have brutally murdered our kind! It is time for our revenge. A thousand years have passed and the Old Ones have risen again! They will help us in our quest for blood!”

My life is destroying humans. I was born for this. My parents strategically picked this time out. They trained me for this. Since I was a newborn. I’ve mastered the arts of killing and necromancy.

I am ready for this moment.

I have to be. It’s my only choice.

Otherwise, I’d be letting down my family and everything they’ve stood for. Thus, destroying what they’ve worked on for millennia.

I have to do this.

I have to sacrifice myself, the way so many others have.

The razor-sharp knife is gleaming. It is heated by the fire.

I cut a gash along my palm and press the bleeding flesh to the ground.

The pain and the blood loss are making me dizzy. Stars dance through my vision, my soul screams like a banshee wronged.

But I have learned to ignore pain. I grit my teeth, clenching my other, non-bleeding fist so hard my knuckles turn white and crescent moons appear in my palm.

Recently, my hands have been covered in scars. Some from the cutting. Some from the clenching of my fists.

But I have to do this.

Slowly I draw my hand up from the ground. The wound is full of dirt, and a pool of red is seeping into the soil where my palm was.

“Bring me the alcohol!” I bark.

A follower quickly rushes up. I’m not sure if this is the rubbing alcohol for cuts or my followers’ drinking supplies. I pour it over the cut and resist the urge to scream.

But I don’t feel pain. Pain is a weakness. I can’t be weak.

I wipe my hand on the side of my robes, adding another scarlet stain to the soiled, bloodied robe.

Gripping the Necronomicon with my non-injured hand, I begin to chant.

“Rise, my ancestors, the Old Ones have awoken! Come, and let us regain what is ours! Rise, my ancestors, let us seek revenge on thou who hast wronged us!”

“It’s time,” I hiss. Shadows pour from my throat, twisting in the moonlight. Souls in the form of white, wispy shadow-creatures emerge from their lairs.

“Daughter of the Darkness,” one of them bows to me.

“Lady of the Night.”

“Necromancer. Witch. Savior.”

“Thank you, my ancestors,” I say, sweeping into a low bow. “How may I serve you?”

“Dost thou remember thy promise?” one says. This is the biggest, most humanoid one. “Dost thou remember what thou hath sworn to uphold?”

“Of course,” I say. “Once the Old Ones have awoken, revive you, and you shall present the Old Ones with Necronomicon. Reclaim our land and take over the world. Do to the humans what they have done to us.” I hand my ancestors the Necronomicon after hugging it one last time to my chest. For all my seventeen years, the Necronomicon was my life. To most, it looked like any ancient, leather-bound book, but for me, it was special. I traced my fingers along the face emblazoned on the cover, mouth stretched open in a cry of agony, eyes lolling in slightly different directions. The face of the cursed soul trapped inside the Necronomicon. Shadorath himself, Ruler of the Old Ones.

I told myself that my ancestors had done just as much work as I had, worked with the Necronomicon twice as long, but my heart felt emptier with the Necronomicon gone. But I didn’t cry. I never cried. Crying was a sign of weakness. Someone like me can’t be weak.

“I thank you. Thou art not any little girl. Thou art our savior. Now that we have returned, we shall overthrow the Old Ones.”

“Of course. What shall I do?”

“Do what thou normally would before resurrecting us. Thy father, when he joined us, told us that thou were most talented at the art of Necromancy.”

I hid any emotion I felt at my ancestors, who I revived, doing everything, and I, staying here for necromancy. Like they said: I was their “savior.” I was one of the best necromancers, particularly with the Necronomicon, in several hundred years. So why did they leave me behind?

Well, they were right about one thing. I was not any obedient little girl. I was going to get revenge on the humans too, whether they liked it or not.

They can’t kill me. I died a long time ago. Seventeen years have passed since a little girl died and a necromancer was born.

My room underground is as well furnished as a damp cave can guess. Sconces for torches line the wall, and a luxurious bed graces the back wall. It’s not homely, but it’s home.

I stare grimly at the cold stone beneath my feet. “Goodbye,” I whisper to the air, a trace of the smell of mildew and smoke dancing in the cave. I gather my spell books and my notes on dark magic. What else would I need?

Wrapping myself in my long black cloak, I leave my room for what might be forever.

I unroll my map, yellowed by time. The nearest human civilization is around five miles away. I’ll walk there, and then slaughter them all.

When I was an innocent child, before I knew the ways of the world, I wondered why we wanted to kill humans. Now I know and do so without question.

One thousand years ago, humans brutally murdered us during a peace treaty between our kinds. They took over what was deemed our territory, and destroyed our villages, men, women, and even children. All just because we were born with dark magic. Of the few that survived were my ancestors, who created a new life underground. Ever since we’ve been planning revenge on the humans. Me, my ancestors, and everyone else. 

My footsteps are silent on the snow-crusted ground of the cold, empty night. Stars, normally sparkling flecks of light resisting the dark pull of the night have faded behind looming clouds. An ominous warning that the new age of darkness shall begin. 

My eyes gleam like liquid silver as I read the map. I am there. Redwood’s small, cozy village is a homely hearth in a haunted palace. But tonight, the fire shall be extinguished.

To conjure enough dark magic to kill the entire village, the price I’ll need to pay shall be more than blood. I shall need to pay part of my soul.

It’s easier to sacrifice parts of your soul when they’re in objects, like the pendant I crushed for the ritual. But when you care about something so much you would sacrifice your soul for it, you can do it.

You know part of your soul is gone when you feel the feeling of something draining out of you, your strongest emotions losing their edge, your heart hardening. Every day, I would take a tiny piece of my soul and transfer it to the pendant. It was adorned with a depiction of Shadorath, for it’s him you trade your soul for dark magic. When I crushed the pendant during the ritual, Shadorath took it and revived my ancestors. But if I lose the entirety of my soul, I can never be revived.

But I’d rather be gone than my life’s work.

I stand in the middle of the village, a shadow among the many, silhouetted by torchlight. I let the darkness gather upon me, seeping into my flesh, my blood. But before I kill them all, I want them awake, so they can feel themselves die, see that we’re back, we’re ready to do to the humans what they have done to us. So I scream, letting all of my anguish and stress, anger and sadness, fill the night air. Some lock their doors and windows, and some fling them open and rush out. I turn to them and smile malevolently.

“Hello, humans. We are back. You’ve killed us for long enough. Now we strike back.” My voice is devoid of emotion. It’s just facts. My smile turns sad. And I release everything that’s been holding me down. Shadows seethe and lunge, turn and twist. They rapidly emerge, pouring from every direction. Children sob and wail. Adults run, focusing their energy on escaping and not screaming. I see one woman making a gesture of prayer before jumping out her bedroom window, a newborn baby grasped tightly in her arms. I hear the snap of her neck once she hits the bottom and the baby’s cries. I smile to myself. Shadorath will make sure she does not get a happy afterlife.

No one can escape. No one can run from their shadows forever. They will all die. I watch the humans drop like flies around me. Certain all of them are dead, I turn away.

And then I hear it. The baby. It’s still alive. I turn around, ready to dispose of it. I draw my knife from my pocket ready to slit its throat. But I can’t. It’s just a baby, it can’t hurt anyone, a voice in the back of my mind tells me. That’s not what the humans were thinking when they killed us, I think back. But you’re better than them, says the voice.

Now I see why my ancestors didn’t want me on the quest. I’m weak. Mercy is weakness. But I can’t do it. Be better than them, the voice presses. Slowly I put the knife back. I could just leave it to die. That would be a slower death anyways. But—-no, I can’t. It goes against everything I’ve sworn to uphold, but I have to. I gently scoop the baby up and rock it to quiet its crying. The baby smiles a huge, toothless grin at me, babbling happily.

“Cora,” I murmur. That is the name stitched upon the baby’s blanket. It fits her perfectly. In our language, it means “heart”. “Cora LeTanith.” LeTanith is my last name. It sounds perfect on her. But what do I do? I can’t just bring her along while I murder everyone, can I? I’ll have to go back. My heart sinks. The next village is almost eight miles from here. If I go back, it’ll be five miles there, five miles back to here, and then another eight miles to the next village. That’s eight versus eighteen. And I can’t do that in one night.

Out of ideas, I decide to sleep on it. I enter the house and tuck the baby in her cradle, giving her a bottle of milk to feed on, and I sleep in her mother’s bed.

The mother that I killed, I think. My stomach turns and I chew on my lip, tossing and turning. I killed everyone. Just-just slaughtered them all. A few humans killed us a thousand years ago. This is proving we’re no better than them. But what will Father—I mean, my ancestors feel when they hear what I’m thinking? They would hate me. I’m failing to uphold my promise. How could I do such a thing?

I try to fall asleep, but I can’t bring myself to. What would Father think of me if he was here? I’m glad that Father completely sacrificed his soul before he died—wait, did I just think that? How could I? Father raised me. He shaped me into who I am today.

But is that a good thing? The voice in the back of my head asks. You just sacrificed your soul to kill a bunch of people who did nothing wrong.

I bury my head in the pillow, the weight of what I’d done digging deep into my back. Tears dampen the pillow and I taste the salt. What have I done? Showing mercy? Feeling guilty? Crying, for Shadorath’s sake?

Suddenly a high, sharp scream fills the air. It’s Cora. I rush over to her cradle and scoop her up. Her wails stop as I gently rock her in my arms. I slowly lay down in my bed, still hugging her. Her weight against my chest, the warmth of her breath, and the steady beat of her heart lull me to sleep.

I wake with an idea. “How would you like to live in a nice family in the next village?” I coo to her.

Cora babbles happily.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

I walk outside, her in my arms to find my ancestors. Crowing gleefully at the demolished village. I quickly duck back inside the house, but not before one of them sees me.

“Isobel!” a man barks, ghost face twirling in malice. “So. Thou decided to follow us.”

“Actually, I was here first, so it’s more accurate to say you followed me.” As soon as it comes out of my mouth, I know it’s the wrong thing to say. Turning sharply on my heel, I flee.

“Not so fast,” the ghost man says, floating up in front of me. “Where art thou going? And what art thou doing with that baby?”

I spat in his face. “Shadows, come to me,” I roar. I feel my soul slowly draining out as Cora and I are brought to the next village.

But there is no better. “Witch!” a man screams, running from me. I smirk at his fear. I’m not even a witch. I just possess dark magic.

I float above the village square, elevated by a pedestal built of shadows. “Villagers, I mean no harm. I have found this baby alone, parentless, in a town nearby. I am wondering if any of you would adopt this poor orphan.

I hold out Cora to the villagers. She squeals in happiness.

“We don’t want anything you touched, witch,” the same man said. “Now leave us!”

I scowl. Just when I think humans may not be all too bad after all, they prove me wrong. “If that’s how it’s going to be…” I leap off the pedestal gracefully, landing gently on the ground. The pedestal stretches out shadowy hands, grabbing the man and tying him up in the shadow tentacles.

“Who wants it next?” I sneer.

The entire village is dead silent, pierced by the man’s agonized screams.

I flick my wrist and the shadows drop him to the ground. “Do not tell me no again,” I declare to the townspeople, already leaving.

And then all of a sudden, I am surrounded by townspeople with pitchforks and kitchen knives. “You almost killed my father,” the shaky voice of a boy no older than me announces. The ring of humans grows tighter around me. Everywhere I turn, there is a blade aimed at my face.

How could I let this happen? How could I be so careless to just let them threaten me? I try to call the shadows, but they seem to have abandoned me.

Cora is crying, and I bring her close to my chest. She hugs me tightly with her tiny hands.

“Spare Cora,” I demand to the villagers. “Burn me. Drown me. Do whatever. But spare the girl. She’s just a baby.”

The boy snorts. “No.”

Suddenly a young man runs up. “This is the same girl who destroyed the last village!”

The villagers gasp and glare in harmony. “Kill her! Kill her!” They chant.

“How would you know that?” I demand. “The only survivor of that was little Cora.”

“Cora and my uncle,” says the young man. “He died moments after we found him. You killed him.”

“And now, we shall kill you.”

The villagers move forwards and stab me to death. I collapse with a smile on my face. Now. Now it’s fair. They killed us. We killed them. And now they kill me.

“Hello, Father,” I whisper. “I’m back.”

The last thing I see before I go home is Cora screaming. Running.

But one can never run from revenge.

May 4th, 12:02 AM, 2022: S Flowers

S moved through the crowd, saying “excuse me,” and “sorry,” as she passed by different relatives. She found her mother wearing an all black dress next to her father who was wearing an all black tux. She sidled up next to them, and her mother hugged her close, tears streaming down her face. S let out a sigh of relief. Even though she hadn’t really known Mae Flowers, her great aunt that had died recently in a freak accident, it was still terrifying. What if that happened to one of her parents? (Don’t remember it.) 

“Are you okay?” S asked. Her mother knew Aunt Mae well, one of the only ones in the family. It must have been hard for her (knowing what her daughter had done). 

Her father put a hand on her mother’s shoulder, answering for her, “Your mother just needs some time.”

S nodded. “Should I go?” she questioned. Her father gave a curt nod before walking off. 

S sighed. It was always like this. Every year since S could talk, there had been a funeral in the Flower family. She turned and walked back through the sea of black clothing, spotting a girl under the shade of a maple tree, distant from everyone else. Might as well try to meet someone new. She thought, walking over to the girl. As she walked over she studied the new figure. She was wearing a tight black velvet dress, and next to her was a dog. 

“Hey!” S shouted, waving her hand at the girl. She looked up, realized S was talking to her, and quickly looked back down at the ground, trying to ignore S. Wow, rude much? S thought, squaring her shoulders and confidently walking over to the girl. The dog looked up at her, and its tail started to wag. S ignored it, although it would be fun to draw later. She took a mental picture. She was good at remembering things. It was what made her such a good artist: she could remember every shape that she wanted to. 

“Not much of a talker, huh?” S asked nonchalantly. 

The girl ignored her. “Fine,” she sighed, walking away again. 

She looked back over to where her mother and father had been standing. She couldn’t see them. Panic started to set in. Where are they? Where are they? Where- No. Don’t start spiraling. Not again. Never again. They just went to calm down. They’re fine. Don’t start again. She tugged at the edge of her hoodie, calming herself down until no traces of panic could be seen. Taking a deep breath, she looked over to the coffin where Aunt Mae’s body was. She smiled, today was a new day for S Flowers. 

April 7th, 1:03 AM: S Flowers

S snuck through the house, cheap knife in hand. This is a horrible idea. Her brain shouted at her, but she didn’t care. She needed to do this. Her father had recently been fired, and her mother was a public school teacher. They couldn’t survive without this money. She took a deep breath and quietly opened the door to her great aunt’s bedroom. She swallowed. She had to make this look like an accident. The knife wouldn’t work. She dug through her pockets and pulled out the strychnine bottle. She looked for the cup of water her mother said Aunt Mae always had by her bed, and poured the whole thing in. It was clear, and she really only needed a small amount, but this ensured that Aunt Mae would die. She had to. 

S turned to leave when she heard Aunt Mae waking up. “Child?” Aunt Mae asked, still groggy from sleep. S froze. “Has my time finally come?” 

S felt a tear slip down her cheek. God, she was a horrible person. “H-how did you know?” She asked, turning back to face her great aunt. Aunt Mae had the drink in her hand. Why is she drinking it if she knows? S asked herself. The thought was not filled with horror, more of a sense of relief. 

“I knew this day would come as soon as you were born, child.” Oh. “Will it be quick?” Aunt Mae asked. S just nodded, a mix of emotions stealing her voice. 

“It’s best if you leave, child.” Aunt Mae said to her. S regained her voice at that moment. 

“W-will you still take it?” S’s head was telling her that she was horrible, terrible, what was wrong with her?? Aunt Mae didn’t even flinch, just nodded. S whispered out a final “I’m sorry,” as she turned to leave. 

The last words out of her great aunt’s mouth were: “Take care, S. You’ve dug two graves for us, my dear.” S shuddered, a feeling of ice sliding down her spine as she walked away; she could hear the cup being set down, and knew what had just happened. Great Aunt Mae Flowers was dead.

Nora

I stare at myself in Tricia’s mirror. I shouldn’t be here, in her bathroom. She hates when I mess with her things. I feel so awkward in this black dress she made me put on. It’s snug with wide skirts and made of velvet. I run the comb through my light blond hair. I remember telling me how when I was a baby, Tricia thought I was albino and was freaking out. When they divorced I thought I would die being stuck with her. I’m positive the only reason I’m still here to tell the story is Nino, my Maltese dog. Dad got him for me before the divorce. I’ve never seen him since (Dad, not Nino); he died less than a year later and Tricia refuses to tell me how. 

“Nora!! What’s taking you so long? Come down here this instant!” A sharp voice from down the steps startles me out of my daydreams. That would be Tricia. She’s technically my Mother but the word couldn’t suit anyone less. She doesn’t have a mothering bone in all of her 207 bones. (She loves to brag about how she was born with an extra one.) Taking one last glance to make sure everything is in order, I scurry down the staircase and into the hall. Tricia awaits me on the Persian carpet by the front door. She surveys me with one eye and I fight the urge to squirm under her hard gaze. Finally she nods curtly, picks up her purse, and walks out the door. I follow behind her. Outside, the twilight air is frosty and I hug my Dad’s old jacket close to me on our way to the Sedan. Of course, I sit in the back, alone with my thoughts. Not that Tricia would have wanted me anywhere near the front anyway. It’s a long way to Flower, WV so we’ve started early in the morning. Does anyone understand silence? How it can be awkward and stiff, but yet bring beautiful peace? 

Usually, in my experience, silence is best. I would never lay my problems down on Tricia. For one thing, she is a large portion of my problems, but even if she wasn’t, she isn’t an understanding woman, especially not to me, and she’d probably make things worse. Sometimes purposefully. Anyway, since Dad left, or I guess, I left him, there hasn’t been anyone to talk to. Dad understood my need for silence, but Tricia took him away from me. At least he’s away from her too now. But usually, even when you’re talking to a really nice person, whenever you try to talk to them they jump in, asking you a bunch of questions and steering the conversation the way they want it to go. When that happens I feel like one little drop in their rushing river of conversation, being carried along without any choice. I hate it. So I remain silent. It’s easier without the possibility. 

* * *

I open my eyes to see sunlight streaming through the windows of the car. I feel hot and the air is stuffy. I rub my eyes and look around to see… no one

Sophie Levine lives in Bethesda, Maryland with her family. When not writing and reading, she loves hanging out with her brother and making memories together. (He is currently learning to swim!) She specifically enjoys writing poetry, realistic fiction, and essays. Sophie gives credit to her Writopia group, Nora will later meet characters from Caitlyn Levitan’s story and Nora’s story evolves from a group idea. 

Spud the spud was an ordinary spud. He did spud things like play in the mud. Spud was the spuddiest spud one could be, doing the spuddiest things, like climbing a tree. One day Spud, (the spuddiest spud), invited his friends to play in the mud. Spud was excited, his friends full of glee, and the spuddiest of them went ahead and climbed a tree. That was Spud of course, the spuddiest of all, but when he tried to climb the tree, Spud the spud did fall. He landed on a tall, yet oddly small wall, and Spud the spud’s friends all gasped in awe. The bravery, the heroism, that Spud had possessed, they didn’t want him to end up like the rest, so they climbed up the wall, first aid kit and all, and checked on Spud the spud, after his fall. Spud was doing fine, so they slid down a vine, back to the safety of the ground. Spud looked around, and sat on a mound, pondering if his spudly wisdom was sound. Spud eventually knew that you’ve just gotta be you, you don’t have to show off or make others impressed. His friends were so great, really, the best. So from that day Spud decided to just appreciate what he had, instead of worrying a ton that his friends would be mad. 

Chapter One        

The wild lands of Cordoba, Spain

April’s pencil shattered. She was an excellent pencil breaker. She groaned and grabbed another one from her bag. Her history teacher gave her a look. Scattered around the sand colored classroom‘s floor were dead pencil carcasses. Yikes. 

         “Nice,” whispered Brooke.

         “It’s not a laughing matter.” Brooke laughed, and April rolled her eyes. Brooke was her best friend. At least in Spain she was. A couple of months ago April had moved from Baltimore to Spain because her Spanish professor father had come to study in Cordoba. So here she was in her international school. She sighed and turned back to her work. 

“Do you want to go to the La Mezquita Cathedral for a picnic during lunch break?” 

Asked Teresa. She was a native Spanish speaker but her English was really quite good. Since the students were encouraged to speak their second language out of class, April was her perfect English speaker; though nobody really spoke their second language out of class except for the English-speaking kids who didn’t have much choice if they wanted to have friends. 

“Sure.” Smiled April. “Oh, sorry, Si.” 

“¡Tu español está mejorando!“

“Merci beaucoup!” Said April, bowing. 

Something that April had to get used to was the very different schedule of Spain v.s. the U.S. In Spain, school ran from nine AM to five PM with a two hour break between one and three, so you could leave school during that time to eat lunch. Since it was only November, she was still getting used to this. Tereza led April up to the Cathedral. Outside on a picnic blanket sat Nour, Gala, Rosa, and Brooke. They looked very peaceful. 

“¡Holaaaa!” 

“¡Hola!” Brooke was from Switzerland and spoke English, French, and Spanish fluently, but the rest besides Tereza spoke little to no English. It was a fun lunch, but it felt like a hundred degrees out, even though it was November. Rosa had brought a frisbee and the girls decided to start a game, passing and chasing after it. The plaza around the Cathedral was blocked off by tan walls, but nonetheless April managed to throw the frisbee over them. 

“BRO!” Shouted Brooke. 

“¡Haha, búscalo!” said Nour. 

“Vamos. Geet.” Getting the frisbee was a shameful fate. The frisbee had gone over the west wall so she headed that way. She came out of the plaza onto the street and checked along the wall. Hmm, it wasn’t there. She walked along the street and looked all around– still nothing. She noticed a little wooden area up the street. It was odd that she’d never noticed it before; they ate lunch here a lot. Maybe the frisbee was up there. 

For some reason her hair stood on end as she entered the woods. 

“Ow!” she shouted. A small thorn bush had poked her. She rubbed her leg. Then she noticed something neon a little ways into the woods. It had to be the frisbee! She ran up to it. Perfect, a frisbee! But it wasn’t Nour’s frisbee. It was another frisbee. What a coincidence, she thought. Well, the frisbee could still be here; in fact, she saw something up to the left. It was a bit of an effort to pull it out of the tree it was stuck in. What… It was another frisbee. She looked around. More frisbees surrounded her! And there were balls too. Was that a whole bike? A skateboard? What was going on? Nah this is too trippy, thought April as she grabbed one of the frisbees and ran for it. Once she got out onto the street she ran straight to the plaza. 

She saw her friends chatting. “Gente!” 

“Tomó un lar-” Nour was cut off by April.

“I was in the forest next to that street on the west and I saw like five hundred frisbees and like balls and bikes and skateboards! They were everywhere! But I couldn’t find yours!” April was too weirded out to speak Spanish. 

“What?” Gala asked “ No entiendo.”

Brooke raised an eyebrow. “ There’s no forest on that street. Cordoba is like a desert, there aren’t any forests. Maybe it was a mirage.” 

“Um, no.” April said “ Because how would I still be holding-” She lifted up her hand to find nothing in it. “ What? But-but…” 

Nour sighed. 

“No frisbee!” They were all raising their eyebrows  at her. Even Rosa, who had no idea what she was talking about, looked doubtful. 

“I think you need to lie down.” Said Tereza. 

“¡Español por favor!” Said Gala. 

“Lo siento. Creo que Abril debe tomar una siesta.” 

“¿Qué?” 

The voices of her friends trailed off. Was April going crazy? Nour took her hand and led her inside.

“You really should go to the nurse, Abril– I mean, April.” Saadet, who sat next to April in Spanish, said as she tapped her on the shoulder. “You look really ill. “

“I am really ill.” April felt like throwing up. She raised her hand. 

“Abril?” Her Spanish teacher asked. 

“¿Puedo ir a la enfermería?”

“Sí.” 

As soon as April was out of the classroom she barfed in the trashcan in the hallway.

“Yuck…” 

On the way home April was burning up. Her parents didn’t have a car and relied on public transportation, so walking home was pretty painful. She called her parents letting them know she would be home soon. It was only a ten minute trip. When she got home her parents set her down in bed tenderly with an ice pack on her forehead. 

“Okay, you should just lie down for a while,” Her mom said. 

“Okay…” She trailed off.

The next morning April was still sick. 

And the morning after that.

Finally relief came. “Dad? I feel better…” 

“Really? May I take your temperature?” Her father said.

“Sure.” 

“Oh good, your fever has broken. Let’s keep you home today just in case.”

“Coolio.” 

April lay back down. While she was sick she’d had some weird fever dreams: flashing lights, maps of mysterious places, and a heck of a lot of frisbees. Her phone buzzed. 

“hola cuando vuelvas a la escuela? “ Read a text from Nour. 

“mañana” April texted back. 

“:)”

She thought for a bit while she peered up at the ceiling. I really need to find the frisbee woods. I need to know I’m not crazy. I need to know. I remember the plaza, and where it was on the west wall. There was only one day left of school this week, so she needed to take advantage of it. 

On Friday she packed some extra stuff in her bag. She planned to go to the woods before school so she woke up early.  She had 45 minutes to explore the woods.  

“Why the rush?” Her brother asked. 

“Gotta meet with my teacher because I missed stuff.” Nigel raised his thick eyebrows at her. She rolled her eyes. “Bye.” 

“Bye.” 

The Cathedral’s plaza was just a little out of the way to school. She stood right at the doorway to the beautiful cathedral and found the west wall, heading out the entrance onto the street and–

Nothing. It was just a street branching onto another street. No, that’s not…right. April was not crazy. But if nothing was there… She felt defeated. Then she had an idea. She grabbed a ball that was in her bag and ran back into the plaza, tripping a little but too distracted to care. She looked around, found the west wall, and threw her ball at it. After a few failed tries, she finally got it over the wall. Then she grabbed her bag and went to the western street. Was that-? Yes! The forest was there! What was going on? A forest that only appears when you throw a ball or frisbee? Now she was worried. Was she going crazy or was this…magic? No, that would be crazy, she comforted herself. But she still approached the forest nervously. She was glad there weren’t people around to see her. Her hair stood on end again as she entered the forest. She saw several balls and frisbees, and this time she saw more objects and noticed that the forest went on for a long long time. An abnormally long time. Cordoba has an average temperature in November of 65˚ which, when combined with the lack of water, meant there wasn’t much forest. Something was in the air. It was gold, almost like dust, and it smelled like vanilla.  

“Ow!” Shouted April as she tripped and fell flat on her face. A piece of gold dust settled on her hand. It looked like a piece of gold leaf but it moved through the air like it was moving through water. She saw an odd glow in the distance. She walked towards it, careful not to trip again. She pushed aside a bush and…

It was… a small female figure about five inches tall with long golden hair that fanned out across the forest like fog. She had tan skin and was wearing a short white dress with no sleeves. A long train of white followed her. Her eyes were closed, but she was standing up. No…not standing, floating. Suddenly her eyes opened and stared right into April’s. She floated higher and came to eye level with April, who felt like she couldn’t breathe. What was happening?

“Hello. My name is Cayetana.” April rubbed her eyes. Did it just…speak? 

“H-Hello…?” April whispered slowly. 

“We’ve got a lot to talk about…” Said…Cayetana? 

“Um…can I get back to this meeting? I’m available next week.” 

Cayetena looked majestically worried. “What?” 

“I don’t think I’m really ready to discuss my impending descent into madness. Could we talk at 5:30 later today perhaps?” 

“Um…okay..?” Cayetana said, looking confused. 

“Great, bye!”

April skidadelled out of the woods. She could not handle that right now – she just ran to her school, not looking back. Did she really just postpone her meeting with a faery to after school? She’d have to tell Brooke about it and make her come with her. She couldn’t do it by herself. 

  “Brooke!!” April collided with her friend. 

“April!!!!!!! You’re back!!?” 

April had almost forgotten she had been sick. “Yeah, yeah, anyways come with me!” 

“Huh? What is it?” 

April grabbed Brooke’s pale hand and ran along the corridor to the bathroom. Thank goodness there was no one in there to eavesdrop. “Okay, Brooke, this is going to sound a little crazy but… do you remember when I lost that Frisbee and I told you about that forest?”

“You mean that one you hallucinated because you were sick?”

“No! I mean, well yes, but I went back this morning!” 

Brooke put a finger over her lips. “Shh, you’re safe now.“ 

April smacked her hand away. “No! I went back and I saw a faery!” 

“A faery?” Brooke asked. “I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be at school today if you’re not feeling well.” 

“Fine.” April was getting tired of explaining. It would be easier to show her. “ Come with me after school to go see it.” 

Brooke sighed. “Well, alright. I’m just worried about you. Seeing things is not a good sign, April.” 

“I’m not seeing things, Brooke! You’ll see after school.” 

They walked to class in annoyed silence.  “Bye,” April muttered.

“Bye,” said Brooke.

April’s leg was bouncing up and down at top speed all day. She was so impatient to get out of school and go to the woods that she barely focused on her class. 

Aya, a kid in April’s Spanish program whispered from behind her. “Why were you gone so long?” 

April felt even more anxious since the intensive Spanish for non-Spanish speakers class meant she couldn’t leave for lunch on Fridays. She still had hours to wait.

“I was kidnapped by faeries,” April replied, seriously. Aya laughed. 

It was almost 5 o’clock. And…the bell rang. April grabbed her stuff and headed towards the door. 

“April, come stay with me!” Said Mr. Jimenez, calling for April, who rolled her eyes in the other direction and then turned to smile at him. “We should go through your missing work–” 

“Can we please do it at a later time? I have something urgent at home.” 

“Oh, of course.” 

“Thank you so much, so sorry!” I hope my parents don’t find out about that one. 

Brooke was waiting outside the door. “That took you a while.” 

“Yeah, I got held up. Let’s go!” April almost forgot her backpack in her rush to get out of the school. She ran down the stairs while Brooke laughed. 

“Are you unironically skipping?” She said.

“You got a problem with that, fool?” April honestly just wanted to go as fast as possible. 

“Can you please explain to me where we’re going and how and why?” Brooke asked.

“It’s hard to explain, you’ll see.” She swung through the ivory pillars into the Plaza de Mezquita, then led Brooke to the middle of it. 

“What…?” Brooke asked. 

“You’ll see.” April threw the ball at the west wall and it soared over the top. Hole in one. 

“Hey, is that my ball-?” 

“It doesn’t matter!” April savagely yanked Brooke over to the west entrance of the Plaza. “Ah yes! Here it is.” April caught sight of the forest a second before Brooke, who looked over her shoulder. 

  “What…” Brooke’s eyes were as big as dinner plates. And no, not Tapas like a salad bowl. Full dinner plates – and you can quote me on that one. The forest was there. Brooke was very interested in plants and as she looked at it, she saw plants that should not have been growing in Cordoba. Plants that shouldn’t even be grown anywhere in Spain. And plants that should not be growing together. And plants that shouldn’t be growing at all. There is no way that was a Sitka Spruce, an Alaskian mega tree, growing next to a Plumeria Plant which was grown mainly in Hawaii.  And…

“April…” 

“Yes?” 

           “April, that flower right there, is a Cooksonia, the first Vascular plant we know about.”

“Oh, cool,” said April causally.

          “No April. Not cool. That plant went extinct 25 Million years ago. “

“Wait, I don’t understand…” 

  “Yeah, me either,” said Brooke. As an avid plant lover she was very confused. “April, I know you said this before, but there is something going on with these woods.”

  “See, I’m not crazy!” April laughed. 

Brooke looked down at her hands. “Am I…on drugs?”

“What, no! Are- No!” 

Brooke looked worried. “ Let’s just go,” Said April.

“No, April, stop. We’re not going into the creepy woods that aren’t always there.”

“I’ve already been in, it’s fine.“ 

April ran in and Brooke hesitantly followed her. She grabbed a Cooksonia plant on the way in and put it in her backpack. They were both in the woods now. Frisbees and small playable things suddenly emerged from the brush as they walked. 

“Whoa, you weren’t kidding about these frisbees.” 

“Yeah. I definitely was not.” April stopped. “ This is where I saw Cayetana.” 

“Do you mean Cayenne? I thought that it was grown mainly in East Africa. I didn’t know it was this far north!!” 

“No, not Cayenne! Cayetana, the faery!” 

“Wait WHAT? Kanye??” 

“It’s actually Ye. Get it right Brooke. “ April looked like Brooke should have known what she was talking about. “Y’know, that faery I told you about.” 

“Yeah, I did not believe you.”

“Hey!” Said April sadly.

“Would you have believed me if I told you I saw a fairy in mysterious fake woods that most certainly do NOT exist?” 

“Ok, fine, that’s fair.”

“Anyways, did you talk to this faery?”

“Yes, it told me its name. And it asked to talk to me.”

“Wasn’t it already talking to you?” Brooke interjected. “ Also isn’t “it” a little insulting?” 

“It- I mean she wanted to talk to me about magic, I think.” 

“And so did you?” 

“No, I told her I was free at 5:30.”

“WHAT?! You blew off a magical Cayenne faery to go to school?!”

“I didn’t want to have to deal with that!” April looked upset. “ It was too much for one poor little 14 year old to handle. Yikes!” 

“Well, what time is it?”

“5:28” So close, yet so far. 

“Um… “ Said Brooke. “What is that?” April whirled around. What was that? A small purple glow was radiating from the brush a little ways away. April ran to the spot to find a small…portal? Hole? Purple hole? It was very small, big enough for a faery to fit through but not much else. 

“April…what is that?” Said Brooke, her hand shaking. Suddenly something came out of the portal. Brooke jumped back and grabbed April covering her mouth. April objected but Brooke pulled her behind a bush. 

“What did you do that for?” 

“We don’t know what that thing is!” Exclaimed Brooke who looked frightened and worried. 

“It’s a faery! What can it do!” 

“Well lemme tell you something it can do: hear you! Shut up!” Brooke covered her mouth again. Then they heard another voice.

  “Ugh, where are they?” Said a disgruntled voice. 

“They’re here. Behind that bush.” Said a calm and deep voice. Brooke and April looked at eachother, eyes wide. “Come over here, you two. There’s nothing to be scared of.” 

“That sounds very suspicious,” said Brooke. 

April rolled her eyes and stood up. “Hi there!” 

“April!” Yelled Brooke. “ We’re being subtle.” 

“By hiding behind a bush?”

“Yes.” They both looked around and then at the two figures floating in the air in front of them.

 “Wow,” Said Brooke. 

The first one had tan freckle-covered skin, and the most fabulous hair. It looked like her head was on fire. She was wearing a short orange and red dress with a large fiery skirt that fanned around her. She had two wings on her back which looked like stained glass. They seemed to be decorated with an animation of her fighting a fire-breathing dragon. The wings barely moved, but somehow were always moving. 

“Oh my god,” said Brooke. 

The other one was the complete opposite. Her long blue hair looked like a cascading waterfall which dripped to the ground. Her skin was smooth and dark. She was wearing what seemed to be a blue romper which looked like a blue leaf with veins, but sparkled with large water droplets. It had a belt which looked like a rain cloud. Her wings were also stained glass with water droplets animated.

“Hello there?” She asked. “My name is Dew.”

“Hi, Dew.” 

“We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Trigger warning: suicide

Stevie Dreger was the first friend I ever lost. He was also the last person in the world I would have expected to kill himself. But regardless of any previous premonitions anyone held to him, on that beautiful August day he still walked himself and his beat-up red chucks onto the bridge that connects Shelburne and Buckland and returned himself to the earth.  Stevie used to tell me that he didn’t belong to anyone. He told me that one day 16 years ago, the various elements of the earth came together to form one imperfect being: himself. He never explained why; he just knew. 

Stevie left notes before he died. He left notes to everyone in his life that he loved, or rather, everyone in his life that would want an explanation. He left notes for everyone he knew would be unsatisfied with simplicity. The simple fact that he was done with living. Not because he was depressed or angry at what the world had or had not handed to him, but because he had done everything he had wanted to do. For years after the fact, I was angry at him for that, but I knew the real reason I was mad at him. The most selfless person I had ever known had gone and done the most selfish thing anyone can do: deprive you of their presence. If the dead can be selfish, maybe they are more alive than we think they are. My anger made him real; more than a pile of dust secure in an ugly vase.

For me, Stevie left a checklist. A wrinkled piece of a legal pad, with five items listed on it. I spent night after night trying to decipher what it meant until I came to a conclusion. They were the five things Stevie wanted to do with his life. By each item was a check mark, written in thick black ink. 

There were bystanders on the bridge the day Stevie died. A couple in a blue sedan pulled over as he swung a leg over the railing of the bridge. They said later that as he saw them sprinting in his direction he flashed his crooked smile and waved as he dove into the water, releasing a breath. 

Along with the notes, Stevie left a very detailed description of exactly what his funeral would look like. He wrote that under no circumstances whatsoever was anyone to wear black. He also described how he would like his coffin to be brought down the aisle, with a rendition of Prince’s “Purple Rain” playing in the background. We used to listen to “Purple Rain” on repeat after school sometimes. We would be in Stevie’s room, surrounded by posters of Bowie and Mick Jagger, reading or procrastinating on our homework. After a while of listening to it over and over again, Stevie declared it his favorite song of all time. He had determined that no matter how many times he listened to it, his ears were never bored.

And so there I sat, in my mid-length yellow frock and white sandals, in the chapel of the Immaculate Conception Church, watching the pallbearers in their sky blue suits carry half of my heart in a box down the aisle, tears soaking my handkerchief. I half expected him to open the casket, jump out, and have a laugh. 

Stevie was a Catholic, and a devoted one.  He didn’t believe in the religious aspect of it, the “God crap” as he so eloquently put it, but still, every Sunday there he was, his blonde curls pushed back, his tie loose on his neck, staring ever so intensely at the priest as he gave his sermon. I asked him once why he went if he didn’t believe any of it. We were lying in a field of dandelions, lying in the opposite directions of each other so our faces were side by side. He didn’t respond to the question at first. Instead, he picked a dandelion, uprooted it from the earth, and pushed my hair behind my ear. He wrapped the stem of the flower around the back of my ear so the pretty part would stick out from my hair. He turned his head and grinned as he told me he went because he loved to observe. Watching hundreds of people give up their time to worship something that he didn’t even believe existed was fascinating to him. He liked all of the old ladies sitting in the pews who always turned around to shake his hand. He liked that they always asked how he was doing, how his mother was and if he had a girlfriend. 

I remember after the memorial service my family piled into our beat up white station wagon and drove over to the Dregers. Their brownstone stood at the end of Aster Street, three down from ours. The house looked like it had lost color; the already dull brown bricks looked sadder somehow. I remember their entire living room was crowded, not with family or loved ones, but with lillies. I remember the smell and how it smacked me in the face when I entered the foyer. I had to squeeze onto the couch between Stevie’s little sister and an assortment of colored lilies, each with their own crinkly plastic wrapping and obnoxious ribbon. They were ugly. Plain and ugly. And Stevie was none of those things. 

A few months after Stevie died, I went to visit him at the Delphinium St. Cemetery. His headstone had just been finished, a pile of fresh soil surrounded it. Engraved on the stone was his full name: Steven George Dreger, beloved son, brother, and friend. Words that did not hold a candle to all that he was. It was December, and in classic New England fashion, snow piled up everywhere. Stevie’s mother had made sure that his headstone was untouched by anything that could damage it; I had heard from Ms. Richards down the street that his mother had visited the cemetery every evening since the day of his funeral. I brushed the freshly fallen snow off the top of the stone and sat. The snow soaked through my corduroys but I didn’t care. 

Surrounding his stone were the putrid lilies that had been at his funeral. I turned my head to avoid the smell. Blended with the lillies was baby’s breath, a somewhat mediocre flower. The arrangement was less than beautiful, so I unwrapped the plastic and rearranged the flowers in a more suitable manner. Still, the bouquet was not perfect. I tried again. And again. At last, I gave up and left the flowers in a pile, the plastic wrapping crinkling in the wind. I stomped out of the cemetery in a fury, unsatisfied with the flowers, unsatisfied with their state of ugliness. Disgruntled, I stormed over to the florist, Mr. Beau, to demand that he make something better. Although Mr. Beau had nothing to do with my dislike of lilies and their putridity, off I went.

Freshman year of high school, Stevie and I went out for a while – only for about a month or so, and it didn’t work out the way we thought it would. Stevie’s stubbornness to reveal anything about his emotions led to our eventual breakup. Or maybe it had been my lack of, well, desire to be in a relationship with anyone. The true cause of our romantic downfall was never found, because two weeks later, his father was in the ICU for a heart attack. Every hole we had stabbed in the very fabric of our relationship was patched. I had been sitting in the lobby of the ICU, Stevie asleep on my shoulder, for three hours before the doctor came out to give us the news. His father was stable, or as stable as can be after a heart attack. Stevie collapsed on the floor in sobs of relief. That was the first time I ever saw him cry. 

Mr. Beau called me on New Year’s Eve.  I was watching Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve 1985 regardless of how much pain it caused me; Stevie used to love to watch the ball drop. Mr. Beau had called to offer me a job at the flower shop after I had given him a lecture on the importance of flower fragrance. He figured that he would rather have a motivated employee than a disgruntled customer. I started work there in the New Year, after winter break. The store was always humid because we had to keep the flowers warm in the winter. Nobody wants a dead flower. 

After Stevie’s father’s heart attack, our relationship went almost back to normal. We still hung out after school every day, had dinner at each other’s houses and whatnot, but I don’t think Stevie ever looked at me the same way. Sometimes I would catch him staring in my direction, his head tilted to the side, his blonde curls falling across his face. “What?” I would say. “Is there something on my face?”. He would look at me in a way words cannot describe and shake his head. 

By March, the flower shop had doubled its profits. Mr. Beau was so satisfied with my work that he gave me a 20% pay raise. I could anticipate the needs of every single person that entered the shop just with one look. A young woman in her mid-twenties with freshly manicured nails: a bride in need of a bulk order of roses. A small boy with a collared shirt and blue jeans, hair parted to the side: flowers for his grandmother. A middle aged fat man with a receding hairline: a late present for an anniversary forgotten. I would obsess over the orders, picturing the event in my head and letting my hands do the rest of the work. I watched each of the people walk out of the store, taking in the bouquet I had presented them with, feeling like I had done good work. But I also felt unfulfilled, like there was something missing. Like those people walked out with a bit of me. The bouquets were good, but not good enough – for me, or maybe for Stevie. 

I started working overtime in the shop when school ended in May. I had the summer off before college, no internships or extra work that had to be done. I found myself on the stool for hours at a time, forming bouquets for nobody in particular. Customers were rare in the summer, as most people were off at the Cape for the season. While Mr. Beau was on vacation, I moved the lily stand to the back of the store. I couldn’t bear the smell. The days stretched into nights as I put together a million combinations of flowers together. I hadn’t brought any of my flowers to Stevie, it never seemed right. 

The obsession grew into something bigger as the summer drew on. I placed orders for more varieties of flowers we could buy for the shop, more combinations that were beautiful, but not Stevie’s beautiful. It reached a point at which I was using so many flowers and wasting them on unsellable bouquets, that Mr. Beau had no choice but to fire me. I was completely devastated, I couldn’t sleep for days, images of multicolored daisies and violets floated in front of me. I felt incomplete.

The day before Stevie died, he called me. He wanted to know if I liked Italian Wedding Soup. I told him I had never tried it before, so three minutes later, there he was, outside my door holding a container of his mother’s homemade Italian Wedding Soup. I poured myself a serving and sat down with him in the breakfast nook. The sun reflecting off of his golden locks was almost blinding. He squinted his eyes intensely as I took a sip. It was delicious. I smiled at him and told him that it was the best soup I had ever had the pleasure of tasting. He nodded in satisfaction and told me that this was the last piece of information that he would ever need to know about me. I never understood the gravity of those words until he was gone. 

Stevie never got his perfect bouquet. It was never going to be right. Everything beautiful about Stevie had died with him. But I forgave myself for what I had done. Maybe if I had been a little uglier, or if my hair had been shorter, or if my nose scrunched up at an odd angle when I was thinking, maybe then he wouldn’t have fallen in love with me and maybe then I wouldn’t have been the last task on his list. Because stuffed in the back drawer of my bedroom on Aster Street are the words that completed the short but vivacious life of Stevie Dreger. Stevie used to say that he didn’t belong to anyone, and maybe he didn’t, but as sure as the blue of the sky and the swiftness of the wind moving through the trees, I belonged to him.