Category: Fiction

As it goes I seek revenge, not of the lightest kind, where as one has had a jest played upon him, but in the sense of avenging what has been stolen from thyself. I have been robbed!

Where be the armed guards with shackles as to chain this thief and remove him, so that he not rob others as he has robbed me. Is there no justice?

Oh, Ruby lips that look to be as soft as rose petals, hair as brown as autumn leaves, cascading down her back, skin like that of a porcelain doll, and a bodice so slender with curves of a well developed maiden. Thus, behold an angel that had fallen out of the skies, right into thy arms.

Yes, as soon as I laid my eyes upon her, I claimed her to be mine, having her devote her love to me.

Loyal, complimenting her uniqueness, pronounced loi-ale, had promised her love to me and only me. We were inseparable, and we had an indescribable love. Then he thrust himself into our lives, so unexpectedly, but as always the ways of a thief; coming and chilling you with the swiftness of the wind. A poor beggar boy, whose visage of youthful looks was to be admired, something of him she of course enjoyed; thus stolen glances would imply.

I could only find one way to repay him, to repay them both, for I had come to realize their love so great, that nothing simple could destroy it. It was all to come about perfectly on the warm afternoon day, in a far away meadow, where lovers could live and rest in peace.

“Dermutio and my dear Loyal,” I greeted the two, with the utmost glee. If only to hide the need to spit.

“Ah Sir Vintner, you have requested that I and my lady join you on this beautiful afternoon in this lovely meadow, might I add,” he replied as his eyes lustfully glided over the meadow, with a grin only thieves and beggars wore. As for thy lady, she were as beautiful as I remembered her. Though did not, I recall the look of content as she glanced at her husband.

“Yes, you and your lady. I have come to admire your love and passion for one another, and bare a gift.”

I watched as the two lovers looked to one another, an unsure look passing over their faces.

“Do not take my words as an insult to you good sir, but as you are a man of little means, I dote on the opportunity to aid you in seeing to the well-being of thy fare maiden.”

As he stared into my eyes, I could see he wanted nothing more than to achieve this, nothing more than to keep his sweet Loyal from departing from his side.

“We gratefully accept Sir Vintner,” he agreed, as I moved forward to their long lasting gift of happiness. “Only a lowly man would settle for vengeful deeds, but you reciprocate with kindness.”

“Oh my dear friend, I would do nothing of the sort, revenge, what a wasteful deed, indeed. I seek only to aid your love in blossoming, to something more beautiful than what is.”

“Indeed Vintner.” I leered at him, as he informally addressed me. Then fought against my discomfort when Loyal leeched onto him with such love and compassion.

“I care dearly for my Loyal,” Dermutio doted. “She is my light and my peace, she is my happiness. A wonderful life can only come to me with her presence.”

“Oh how you drown her in compassion, oh what dying love. I only ask that you let me do the same onto you both.” I interjected, as I heard the stream that signaled our nearing to the lovers hut.

As we approached the hut, Loyal gasped her excitement, I could not help but notice as her supple breast moved with the gesture.

“It is to your liking Loyal?” I asked her, as I assumed she would. Woman always pursue treasure, but not all treasure is silver and gold.

“Yes, oh yes,” she replied.

Her eyes traveled over the stream that flowed beside the hut, and smiled brilliantly when a fish would fly up from the stream to greet us.

“Dermutio, if you’d please indulge me with your perception of revenge.” I welcomed him,  opening the door to the hut allowing them to view it with looks of pure pleasure.

“Oh Vintner you have out done yourself, as for revenge, it is disgraceful. How one can stoop so low, hmph, I will never know. A man of poor status indeed.”

“Poor status?”

“Poor status,” he confirmed, as we moved to a far back door. Which held their true gift.

“Oh but my friend, even the wealthiest of men could resort to such an act.”

“Rich in earnings and belongings, but broken and poor at heart.” In hearing this I caught his eyes and there I gave him a luring look of understanding. I could not deny him of how true his words were.

“In that my good and wise friend I must say I agree. Now, let us all continue this way then. I have built a cellar for you.”

“A cellar?” Loyal questioned.

“A cellar,” I confirmed, “You both know well that I birth the best wine there is to be created. So I gift you with plenty. Unless you are those who do not welcome the act of drinking.”

“I apologize in saying I do-”

“Oh no we’d love to gaze upon your kind givings,” Loyal interjected with greed, and hesitantly her dear Dermutio agreed.

We moved forward into the dark dank cellar, and my pulse quickened at the sound of water droplets dripping crashing to the ground like 2 ton boulder. The periodical drops making a sound as if to say time was running out, and that the moment was coming. I quickly grabbed a flambeaux, and continued forward. As we passed many bottles of wines, the sound of droplets rung in my ears.

“Vintner, how on Earth do you keep thieves from getting a hold of these bottles?” Dermutio questioned curiously. I reached into my cloak and pulled out a sturdy lock.

“With this my dear Dermutio,” I answered positioning the lock in the glow of the flames, he nodded with his mouth taking form of an “O”.

“Lock the doors with this sturdy lock and nothing enters,” he replied.

“Do not forget my friend that nothing can exit as well. I should indeed thank the smith for aiding me this very day.”

I waved them forward, toward the end of the cellar where there was a small opening embedded in the ground, the gate-like opening purposely left open.

“Take this flambeaux and descend, indeed what you see will be to your liking,” I beckoned Loyal. She of course quickly grabbed onto the the flambeaux and entered the small room below, her trust encouraging me to move forward with this. As for Dermutio who lingered like the cunning fool he was  at the top, I gripped tightly onto the lock in my hand and quickly struck him on his temple, causing him to tumble into the opening, and hitting the ground with an animal-like groan. Loyal was horrified and released and awful fear stricken screech, realizing too late that there were no such bottles of wine in that room below.

I shut the gate and clamped it shut with the lock. There were two clicks, and I watched as with perfect timing the water from the stream began to pour in from a well carved whole in the wall, with pressure from the fast flowing stream above. Loyal ran past her unconscious love, and moved toward the opening of the small room.

“Vintner what is the meaning of this?” she questioned me with a satisfying look of terror.

“Why it is your gift dear Loyal,” I answered her with a smile, as the water now reached her well above her knees, and I noticed yet again that she did not tend to her dear beloved, who was now drowning in the deep depths of the murky water below.

“Gift?” she asked grasping the bars.

“Gift,” I confirmed. “This is my gift to you in honor of your love for this man,”

She shook her head, “I will be with you, I would very much like to be with you. I feel nothing of the sort for him,” she replied. This aroused something dark and horrible inside of me. How dare she play me for a fool? How dare she not accept this glorious gift I am presenting to her?

As now the water reached her bosoms, at last I answered, “Enough!” I reached in toward her, but she recoiled. “Oh my dear Loyal, if only you had been to me what thy name suggest,” it flowed now at her beautiful neck, “then and only then would we be happy…”

“Please!” She stared at me terrified, thrashing and wildly shaking the bars that would not loosen, as now the water began to engulf her face, and I stood quickly making my way to leave this cellar, as I could hear the water flowing behind me.

“But now, dear Loyal, may you both drown in each others eternal love.”

Bio: I got my inspiration to write this from the short story by Edgar Allan Poe called “The Cask of Amontillado” that I read in my ENC 1102 class this year. I feel like this was written to the best of my efforts, and I hope that I not only get this published in the magazine, but also that whoever reads this enjoys it. Also the format or the story should be kept the way it is, because some words italicized in the story has meaning.

The heat of summer soaking through her uniform, Morgan waited on the school steps, tiredly scraping a stick into the pavement cracks. The beige colour reminded her of sand and holidays at the beach years ago, of sticky ice cream and small rocks that scratched her feet and her mother’s smiling face. She jammed the stick in-between the slabs forcefully.

A body heaved itself down to the steps beside her. Blinking, Morgan looked over.

“Bit hot, don’t you think?” asked the rotund girl, her cheeks pink and her mousy brown hair pulled into a ponytail, gleaming with sweat.

“It’s June,” Morgan replied tonelessly.

“But still,” the girl insisted, “It’s hot, isn’t it?”

Morgan shrugged. “I suppose.”

The girl leant forward, resting her elbows on her bare knees. She’d arrived at Harigate Primary school a few months ago, but Morgan only once recalled speaking with her in P.E. class as they dutifully tossed floppy beanbags to one another.

Morgan dug the stick in deeper, pushing up little heaps of mud. She wondered if there’d been anything alive in that ground, if she’d killed it; a ladybug, maybe, or something similar.

“And that’s Chester’s mum…oh, and there’s your dad.”

Morgan’s head snapped up.

She followed Sophie’s line of sight, peering through the crowd of suddenly faceless people, and then she saw him too. He was just like she remembered: balding brown hair the hue of her own, his cheeks oddly grey from a shave. Morgan felt her heartbeat slow as he neared.

For weeks and weeks she hadn’t seen him, nor heard a word. He hadn’t sent her a letter or rung her up on the phone. But, Morgan thought, it must be because he’s been so busy.

Sophie’s voice was suddenly loud in her ear. “They make such a nice couple, don’t you think?”

Distracted, Morgan gazed at the girl in bafflement, shaking her head as she turned back to her father. But then she saw what Sophie had meant.

Her father was not alone.

Chester’s mother, small and blond and beautiful, was at his side. Chester was talking to him, animatedly gesturing about something that Morgan couldn’t understand but which made him laugh. Chester, who’d once been her best friend, who’d lived in the flat above Morgan since the time they were small, toddling around in rainy puddles together and chasing imaginary creatures in the dewy grass of Morgan’s garden.

Still, Morgan waited for him. Surely he would glance around – searching for her, certainly – and see her. Then he would rush to her and hug her and he would be so happy he’d tell her how much he loved her.

But he didn’t turn around. She desperately wanted to go up to him, to force him to face her, but she was scared, for he was like a stranger to her now, someone she’d had once but had since lost, who’d gone away and never came back for her, a foreigner with a familiar face. It seemed improper to approach him now, rude even, as unwelcome as if she was thinking about someone else’s father.

Morgan watched as they walked away. He’d known that she was there, known that they attended school together, and he hadn’t looked for her.

Morgan focused on Chester’s golden head.

It was her fault, Morgan knew. She’d always shown Morgan up, ever the perfect daughter, the pretty, sporty, sunny Chester White over the plain, boring, quiet Morgan Evans. If only she hadn’t existed, Morgan knew things would be different.

When her mother finally arrived to pick her up, Morgan was alone on the steps. She didn’t say a word. It was only when she rose to her feet that she realised her stick had snapped.

She laid in wait in her dark bedroom, the light switch flipped off and her curtains partially drawn. The darker it was, mused Morgan, the easier it would be the see her father’s car lights as he dropped Chester off back home.

When the light came, glowing through her glass window and shifting shadows on her walls, Morgan remained still. She listened for the slam of the car doors, the soft mumble of words. Anger coiled in Morgan’s stomach, burning like acid, but she soothed it with conjured images of what the night would bring.

She waited half an hour to be sure that Chester was in her room and her father gone. Crawling out from under the comforting embrace of her covers, Morgan opened the bottom drawer of her bedside table, pulling out the thick sock and tying the end in a knot. Slowly, she opened her door and manoeuvred her way down the darkened hallway. She unlatched the lock of the outside door, stepping down into her garden, relishing the cold tickle of the grass on her bare feet.

Pacing half the garden back, Morgan turned and stared up at Chester’s window. The light wasn’t on anymore. Curling her fingers around the small stone she’d hidden in her skirt pocket, Morgan drew it out and flung it at Chester’s window.

Soon enough, as she’d expected, Chester’s pale face appeared on the other side of the glass. Her frowning features cleared as she spotted Morgan.

Morgan pointed to the shed behind her, at the garden’s edge.

Biting her lip, Chester nodded once and then disappeared from sight. Morgan headed towards the shed, patting her other pocket in reassurance.

The shed was old, but had spent many years under tender care. Morgan and Chester had loved this shed once, in awe of its bright pink shade and white shutter-windows. They’d spent other summers bunking in it over night, telling secrets in the dark, of Chester’s crushes and Morgan’s fears, their shared dreams, certain of these secrets’ safety in the immortality of their friendship.

Morgan had stopped coming to the shed since last year, since her father had decided he liked the mother and her daughters upstairs better than he did his own. In the glow of the moon, she saw that some of the paint had chipped away, that some of the shutters were missing pieces, and that the muck of the ground had risen up and tainted the lower portions of the shed.

Hearing the jingle of the door, Morgan twisted to watch Chester as she drew nearer, dressed in her white and purple pyjamas.

“Morgan?”

“Yes?” she whispered, ushering Chester into the shed. Morgan followed and closed the door firmly behind her.

“What are we doing out here? I mean,” she said, laughing nervously, “why did you get me out here? It’s the middle of the night.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not even ten yet,” said Morgan. She’d made sure of the timing of it, after all.

Chester rolled her eyes. “I know that, silly, I just meant… it’s a bit odd.”

“Why? It’s not like you talk to me at school anymore,” replied Morgan bitterly.

“I can’t. What, would you like people to spread more rumours about everything?”

“I’d like you to act as though you were my friend.”

Chester’s face crumbled. “I am your friend,” she said timidly.

“Well, a right sort of job you’re doing of it, then,” said Morgan, her tone mocking, “What with stealing my dad and all.”

“I didn’t steal your dad!” Chester said through gritted teeth, her eyes flashing angrily.

Morgan glared at her coldly. “Don’t lie.”

Chester huffed, shaking her head as she sunk down to sit on the lower bunk bed. She fingered the moth-eaten fabric, curling it around her long-nailed fingers.

“I don’t see why you got me out here if all you’re going to do is shout at me,” she muttered.

Titling her head, Morgan asked, “Aren’t you even the least bit guilty?”

“About what? The fact that my mum is prettier than yours and your dad likes pretty women? How is that my fault?”

Morgan stepped closer to Chester, discreetly pushing her hand into her other pocket.

“Don’t you ever talk about my mum,” she warned.

“I don’t see why not. Everyone in school is talking about her.”

“Just don’t.”

Chester stared at her. “You’re so ridiculous, Morgan,” she said finally, disgust coating her tone. “You think this all about you, as usual, so you blame everyone else just because your dad doesn’t love you.”

Morgan tightened her lips. “That’s not true.”

“It is true,” said Chester, turning her head to look at one of the abandoned colouring pictures still tacked to the shed’s wall. “You’re just too stupid—”

Grasping the sock tightly in her pocket, Morgan quickly pulled it out and smacked it against Chester’s head. The heavy load of the pebbles inside, pebbles that she and Chester had collected years ago at the seaside, cracked loudly as they made their target at her former friend’s skull. The blood rushed out faster than Morgan expected; in the movies, the death scenes always took so long, but Morgan thought Chester might be dead already.

A low moan interrupted her thoughts.

Morgan watched as Chester attempted to move, her limbs flailing as they sought purchase on some solid surface. She reached for the bedpost, but Morgan pushed her to the floor. A gasping cry broke through the quiet air as she smacked against the hard ground, small pitiful sobs jerking the girl’s body.

Chester turned her head slightly, her pale eyes seeking out something.

“Mor—”

Bending down, Morgan once again aimed the pebble-filled sock at Chester’s head. Blood spilled out slower this time as Chester stopped her movements entirely, lying there limply, as floppy as those beanbags in P.E. class. Ruby red liquid trickled from her skull, vivid against the stark white of her neck. It darkened her golden hair, the strands clotting together, staining the wooden floor as it dripped to the ground.

For a while, Morgan felt frozen, unable to move as the body before her passed into rigormortis. She sank down on the floor next to it, drawing her knees to her chest and curling her bloodied arms around them tightly. Rocking back and forth, Morgan stared out ahead, unseeing.

Feeling something slide down her face, she raised her hand to wipe it off, expecting a splatter of blood but instead finding the clear liquid of tears. Her rocking increased then, as a howl of misery sought to tear itself from her throat, which seemed to close tighter and tighter as she tried to breathe—

But Chester would never breathe again. Morgan had taken that from her.

She sobbed then, the racking kind that seemed fit to bludgeon the heart, until her cries rose to screams but she couldn’t hear it because the pounding in her ears was too loud and the last echo of Chester’s plead ran through her head like a siren that just kept bleating—

“Morgan?”

Her throat still tightening in a scream, Morgan looked up to see her father silhouetted in the shed’s doorframe. His horrified gaze shifted between the two girls, both equally bloodied, though one was dead and the other alive. Morgan stared at him blankly, as though for the first time, realising that he must have been here the whole time. Morgan barely resisted the insane urge to laugh, for it was all too much, suddenly.

Because Chester was right.

Morgan knew it as she watched her father’s face crease in repulsion, knew that there was no point mourning the loss of her father’s love because she had never had it in the first place.

Soon there were more people than her father around her and at some point someone came and took Chester’s body. There was screaming and shouting and sirens but Morgan couldn’t understand any of it.

Eventually, though, someone came for her too.

Tears clouded her vision once more as she was thrown over one of the people’s – a man’s, she thought absently – shoulder.

They took her outside, leading her away to somewhere she knew not, but to Morgan’s eyes, everything was blurry except for the broken shed.

The Labyrinth by William Hugel

Nice Guys Finish Last by Doug Kolakowski

The Shedding of Love by Chloe Churchill

All Because of a Penis by April Newcity

Our Apocalypse; What Became of Us by Megan Finsel

Eternal Revenge by Catiana Jean

Psych by Brandie Hyde

As if being forced to explain and justify herself to some shrink that she wasn’t completely crazy, just stressed to a breaking point (there was a difference after all), wasn’t bad enough.  Articulating fundamental truths about her inner most being was verging on some level of Hell, she was sure.  Talk about the weather, talk about school, talk about work, or sports even… anything but about herself and about her life especially.  It was no one’s business.  Hopefully this guy would be smart enough to keep any Freudian theory speculation to himself.

Brenda sat looking out a window at the spots of sunlight that had fought their way through the trees to illuminate the dead fallen leaves on the ground below, and she appreciated the beauty of it.  This fleeting moment was summarily ended with the approach of a tricked out SUV booming some racket masquerading as “music” at levels that caused the windows of the small office to shake.  The driver of the offending vehicle lingered at the stop sign, just in case anyone on the street had missed him.  That figures.  She’s willing the noise to eventually vibrate the rolling irritant to pieces.

“Tell me a little about why you’re here Brenda”.

She resists the set up to ask Captain Obvious if he could have been bothered to read the chart before speaking.  “I was told that my eligibility depended on it.”

“Fair enough, but specifically I’d like to hear why it is you feel that your being alive is a mistake.”

Brenda pauses to carefully consider where exactly to begin.  After gathering her thoughts she says “Life’s positives haven’t outweighed the negatives for longer than I care to recall, which quite frankly isn’t anything new.  I’ve contemplated my death since early childhood, somewhere around the ages of seven and nine, which is right about when the nightmares started.”

The doctor leans forward, intrigued, and encourages Brenda, “go on.”

“In these dreams it was never clear how exactly it was that I died; the specific means by which that came to be were never defined.  The only common thread between them was that whatever happened did so after I turned 18 but before I could graduate high school.  I can only imagine that someone might easily assume that a kid would be terrified by such morbid thoughts… but not me.  In fact, to be perfectly honest, I looked forward to it.”

He stares at Brenda momentarily in a state of stunned disbelief.  “I see here that the nightmares eventually stopped.  Tell me more about that.”

“Yup, right on cue too, between turning 18 and graduating high school.  Life went on, and like a good soldier I trudged through it.  On the day of my 18th birthday, I withdrew myself from my old high school in Southeast Georgia, and the very next day I was standing at the Grey Hound station, holding a ticket in my hand and waiting to catch the 10am bus to Venice Florida where I enrolled back into school and completed my senior year, even though I desperately wanted to quit.  I was in Florida for three months when I had that dream for the very last time; and never again.”

“So what happened after that?  What was it that made you feel guilty for living?”

Once again, Brenda resisted the urge to rise from the couch where she was sitting, look him square in the eye and slap him for having the gall to collect $150 per hour to ask patients stupid questions.  Repeating herself was a major pet peeve and she had just gone over all of this in the lengthy paperwork that greeted her upon arrival at his office.  This merely served as further proof that someone didn’t bother doing their due diligence before walking into a room with an accepted new client, regardless of the reason behind it.  She felt it irresponsible.

“On Memorial Day weekend, one week prior to graduation, Carly, her fiancé Justin and another woman, Ms. Trevor who I had attended church with at one point were all murdered.”  For a long time I carried the guilt for what happened to her, feeling that it should have, was supposed to have been me to take my leave of this world and not her.  By then I’d been prepared for nearly a decade after all.  I never bothered applying to colleges since (a) I hated school, (b) my family had no money to pay for it and most importantly (c) it hadn’t occurred to me that I would still be breathing, so why even bother?  Then a funny and inconvenient thing happened… nothing, nothing at all.  What was worse, I found that she was too chicken to do the deed myself, having been imbued with various denominations of Christianity in which such things are considered a no-no along the way with the so called ‘fear of God’ thanks to growing up in the Bible-belt and all.”

At this point Mr. Shrink concludes that Brenda is suffering from is something called survivor’s guilt or a type of posttraumatic stress disorder and silently circles the little diagnostic code box indicating same for billing purposes.  She thinks to herself, well isn’t that all nice and tidy.

Leaving the office, she reflects on the session as she makes her way out to her car, satisfied that she had accomplished the deed she was sent to do.  Curiosity about how and when her inevitable demise would finally come eventually brought Brenda around to embracing a philosophy imparted on her by her dear departed friend Carly, whose idea it was to live life as though it were one big adventure and as often as possible, without regret.  And so she did.  Already suffering from a number of known conditions and likely a number of additional undiagnosed issues as of yet that may just as well remain unknown.  None of the things of which she is aware of are curable and all affect the quality of her life in a negative way with no significant improvement anywhere in sight.  Brenda fumbles with her keys when a smile spreads across her face at an all too rare moment of enlightenment.  The realization that the plus side to all of this is that there’s a 50/50 chance that she won’t be breathing ten years from now anyway thanks to a history of short lifespans in her family DNA.  She had already outlived her biological father by two years at this point and was fast closing in on the next deceased relative longevity milestone.

Sadly Brenda has had a front row seat to watching people she loved slowly rot away into nothingness; the wonders of modern medicine prolonging life far beyond the scope of any meaningful quality.  People are so focused on longevity that they agree to subject themselves to treatments that are more horrible than the diseases themselves.  It’s not until later that they regret their decisions and wait in hopeful anticipation of a merciful death that never seems to come.   Her epitaph would simply be that she’d “had enough”.  Sitting in the driver’s seat and having turned the key in the ignition, the engine purring gently, she pats the dashboard with affection as though talking to a cherished pet and says “Ok, Bessie, let’s go home.”

Bio: The past eighteen months have been, to put it politely, challenging. Essentially the end of life as I previously knew it. The return to college life following more than a decade hiatus has been, well… let’s call it colorful. I managed to survive my first semester back in the swing of things and am currently working on a second. It is my goal to complete an Associate in Arts Degree by December 2013 and continue on to study Criminal Justice Forensics.

This is what truly happened to my race.

But do not pity us for we are a strong people.

Our legend will live on now in you.

~ Re-Ida

The invasion began three Earth days ago. I can remember they just appeared out of nowhere. The luminescent glow of their crafts materialized in the eastern sky between the distant shape of Earth’s crest and Moon’s craters. At first, we did not know what to think, but when we realized it proved too late.

Then, two Earth days afterwards, our extermination began… and in those brief forty-eight hours her life was eternally altered. The world she knew, the people she loved, all of it was lost. I am Re-Ida, one of the final survivors of my people.

Here she was, crouched behind the barrels, amongst the rubble, in a deserted alley, clutching a gun. Old, decrepit buildings loomed around her, shrouded in mournful veils of red dust. The whole planet seemed to be mourning; the already crimson soil was soaked with so much blood. She squinted at the empty entrances, at the doors swinging limply on broken hinges. The city was in ruin. Windows were shattered and the buildings were wounded, maimed. All was eerily quiet.

I could not help but wonder, what was the cost of a life, whether familiar or alien? Was fear of the unknown a suitable enough excuse to kill? Did it warrant this planet-wide annihilation? So quickly her people had fallen, so rapidly had her reality unraveled that it was easy to succumb to shock. We used to be such a strong, proud race, now we are nothing but particles in the wind.

Shifting, her knees burning, sweat trickled between her shoulder blades even though the air was frigid. Her paws trembled as she reached up to adjust the scarf she had fixed about her head, concealing all but her vermillion eyes. All this because of Humans…

If I had learned anything over the past few hours, it was that Humans were all the same. Her heart had been hardened watching every one of her family, her friends; everyone gradually fall to their knees. They are all murderers, cold-hearted, cold-blooded murderers.

That was when she heard it, the distinct whine of their patrol vehicles. She tensed, cocked her gun, and glared over the barrels. As the rover bounded into view their headlights sliced through the clouds of never settling dust. They drew closer and closer, and then…

She jumped up and fired. Three shots erupted, two in the dirt, one glancing off the hood of the approaching lunar rover. She reloaded with a flick of her wrist, fired again, and one of the men fell. Reload. Shoot. Reload. Shoot. She missed more than she hit, but as the rover whizzed by she clipped them twice more and caught the second man in the shoulder. Then the rover spun out — its tires struck a patch of loose dust — and careened into the street.

Re-Ida ducked down amongst the barrels. The only sound was her raspy breathing. She could hear a voice shouting, hear the crackle of radio static, and then there were footsteps. She peeked over the barrels’ rusty rims to see the rover was still and a body lay crumbled on the ground. The second Human sat in the rover, clutching his arm. A third Human was inspecting the wound.

Now was her chance for vengeance! Re-Ida leapt to her feet and clutched her shotgun tightly, her finger resting comfortably on the trigger. She fired. But nothing happened. She realized; the laser cartridge is jammed! Quickly, she ducked down again, before they spotted her.

She knew she had to get out of there while she still could. Time was of the essence. So she began to separate from the barrels, walking backwards while keeping herself in the shadows. With one hand clutching her gun, the other traced the cold stone wall behind her. She kept her eyes on the two Humans; the second was now lying on the ground while the third crouched over him. Then the third Human stood up.

She quickened her pace.

He turned and his helmet reflected her retreating figure.

Holstering her gun, she swung around and began to run. She could hear him shouting into his radio, but she didn’t stop to listen. Light on her feet, Re-Ida dashed down the alley, swung around the corner, and suddenly collided with another body.

Stumbling away, she looked up into the shiny, reflective surface of a black helmet. She caught her breath and reached for her gun, but his large hand clamped down upon her wrist.

“I won’t hurt you.” His voice, spoken in a whisper through the speaker in his helmet, made her heart jolt. “Listen to me, I can help you.”

“Humans do not help. You are all killers!” Whipping out her dagger Re-Ida slashed at his face, going for his throat, but the man was too quick and ducked away. He disappeared into the haze.

Suddenly, there came shouts behind her. Re-Ida swung around to see three Humans breaking through the rusty clouds of dust, silhouetted by the sun’s waning light. She couldn’t run anymore, they would eventually find her again. She watched them approach, watched as they cocked their lasers, and she sank into a fighting position.

Red light erupted from their guns.

She used her dagger to knock two shots aside and ducked the third.

Re-Ida was doing well and the fight looked promising, until she stumbled. Then a laser clipped her side. The dirt bit her palms and her knees; she couldn’t breathe. Pain was blossoming in various places as blood poured from her wounds. She quickly realized she was about to lose.

I knew I was about to die then. I remember I was not pleased, however I accepted the inevitable. As the Humans bore down upon her, she was aware she was about to reunite with her people and an unexplainable longing filled her. In my mind’s eye I could see my Mama smiling, I could hear my Papa and my siblings laughing and calling to me. I anticipated joining them…

Just then, something swung into her field of vision and landed in between her and the approaching Humans. Through rapidly deteriorating sight she watched as a man with a gun, haloed by the setting Martian sun, began to fend off the Humans. Then she rested her head against the cold ground and the darkness descended upon her.

She came to when something wet splashed her face. Sitting up, Re-Ida coughed violently and blinked, wiping her eyes.

“Are you alright?” a voice above her asked.

She looked up into her reflection in a black helmet. I was horrified to see a Human standing over me. Before she could react he held up his hands and exclaimed, “I am a friend.”

“Traitor!” she spat. “You claimed you came in peace!”

“I know…”

“What happened?” she demanded venomously. “Your people turned on us! You killed us all!” In her rage she tried to sit up again, but a burning pain screamed in her side. She gasped and clutched herself.

“Don’t move,” there was an ache in his voice, as if he felt her pain, “you’re wounded and bleeding.” he said, but she had already recognized the feeling of a laser lesion.

He reached into his pocket. Her heart jolted, as moonlight flashed off something metallic. A knife! She tried to move away and tried to kick. He grabbed her ankle.

“Wait!” he exclaimed. “I won’t hurt you.”

She glared at him and snapped, “Every human tongue lies!”

“No. I am not one of them!”

“You are not a human?” she demanded, looking him over.

He shook his head, “no, I am. But I fight with the Martians!”

“Implausible!”

“I’m a part of a Resistance against Earth, on the Martians’ behalf!”

“Lies! You are killers.”

“But I saved your life.”

That statement struck me harder than a deathblow. It had not occurred to me he was the reason I had not been killed. At the time I was unsure whether I should thank him or not…I was unsure whether I wanted to live. Slowly, she pulled her foot out of his hand. He held up the device and she realized it was a medical wand. Pressing a button, leaning in, he applied a warm light to her side and she felt her wounded flesh begin to repair itself.

“The Resistance offers safety and protection for war refugees. You can join us.” he offered. “You would be sheltered and cared for; we have food, water, and a safe place to sleep…”

“I can take care of myself. I do not need help from a Human!” she snapped.

He reclined and gazed down at his gloves, the black of his suit morphing with the darkening sky behind him. Re-Ida struggled to see where he ended and the night began. “Not all Humans are the same.” he said his voice cracking.

At that moment a brilliant light, like a star gone supernova, blinded them both. Re-Ida squinted against what were rover headlights.

“Marcus! Why?” A voice boomed.

The man stood up, positioning himself so his body shielded her from the light. Sitting in his shadow, Re-Ida tried to peek around to see their attackers.

“This is wrong!” Marcus declared. “We shouldn’t even be here!”

“We can’t return, you know this, Earth is dead.”

Slowly, Marcus waded into the light. Keeping his voice level he claimed, “We’ve gone about this all wrong. They don’t deserve to die!” As the headlights were averted, Re-Ida could see his comrades surrounding him, some listening, some brandishing their weapons. She climbed to her feet.

It was in that moment I finally understood the Humans. Re-Ida’s heart pounded. If my native planet was dead and I was seeking a home, I would do what I had to, to help my people survive. His species were homeless, and desperate, and perhaps her people had been less-than hospitable. Maybe our extinction was the result of a planetary war, rather than a species’ massacre. She felt her blindness begin to lift.

“You’re a traitor, Marcus.” The others accused sharply.

Marcus raised his chin and declared, “perhaps, but not in their eyes.”

“You would risk your freedom and your life, for that?” One asked, aiming his gun at Re-Ida. Marcus turned to look at her. Re-Ida clenched her fists and glared back.

“Yes.” He declared.

I never imagined a Human would speak such honorable words as those. It went against everything I had assumed of them. Re-Ida just stared at Marcus, the Human, the traitor of his people and the hero of hers, enthralled. But maybe acting upon our assumptions had been our first mistake.

Whether it was accidental, although she doubted it, or intentional, which was more likely, the unthinkable happened. The Human still pointing his gun at her suddenly fired. Re-Ida saw it, a fixating bolt of red light hurtling towards her, and she prepared to die for a second time.

That was when Marcus lunged in front of her, without a cry or hesitation, and Re-Ida watched in horror as the laser dissolved in his chest. His body crumbled to the ground.

The plaza was still, none quite sure how to react. Re-Ida gazed down at Marcus’s body, then up at the others. Her instincts told her she should run while she could, but she was stunned by the fact Marcus was dead. I could not explain this new emotion I felt; I was in disbelief that he had willingly died for me. Perhaps we were wrong…

Turning, she forced her feet into a run and bounded across the plaza. Laser fire ricocheted off the rock around her. Perhaps not all Humans are the same. She ducked into an alleyway and allowed the shadows to consume her.

Bio: How can I describe me? If you’ve seen me around campus I always have a paintbrush in my hair. I am an artist and a writer and (whether with words or with paint) telling stories is one of my greatest passions. I strongly believe that words can make a difference, and if my work can make at least one person smile, then I have done my job. I hope someday to be a Special Education teacher, but I know I will always tell stories. Now you know me 🙂

A ray of sunshine poured through the crevice of a long draped burgundy curtain, and landed between two coconut shells tightly strapped around Myrna’s breasts. It gradually rose to the crease of her hair line, exposing her to the light. As it did so, she abruptly awoke with a throbbing headache and the sound of ACDC’s, “Big Balls” repetitively skipping on Jim Parker’s record player in the next room. With a failed attempt to disregard the noise, Myrna found herself in her best friend, Connie Pendergast’s house lying on the floor beside two middle age men. Myrna turned to them and noticed they were covered in regurgitated chunks of chyme, preserved from the night before on their excessively hairy chests. While the stench initially repulsed Myrna, she found their lack of consideration for their propriety, let alone her own, mainly concerning.

One of the men lying on the floor, who appeared boisterous and ill-mannered to Myrna the night before, continued grasping an empty bottle of Jameson that was heavily smeared with black ink around the rim, but Myrna failed to notice this detail. Instead, her attention focused on the man’s blue name tag that read, “Hello, my name is Dick”. She muttered his name to herself five times, and each time she said his name, she seemed disgusted more than the time before as the bitter taste of the word ran off her tongue. She hated the resonating sound of his name, and everything associated with it, but made no effort to avoid it.

#

A few moments later, Myrna noticed a strange bright orange wristband around her scrawny wrist stamped with the phrase, “First Priority”. It reminded her of Patrick Bronskey, who was the first man to cover the entire scope of their firm, and the second man to ever break Myrna’s heart.

Two months prior to Connie’s gathering, Patrick and Myrna were perceived as a completely happy and functional couple by all who knew them.  However, this changed when Myrna came home to find Patrick in their bedroom with his bare ass on top of her stepsister’s fiancé, Fred Lloyd. Myrna was horrified by the sight dwelling in her memory, partially because of her lack of judgment then, but mainly because of the signs she recollected afterwards. All of which included: Patrick’s Owl City albums scattered throughout their apartment,  All My Children displayed on the recently watched portion of his Netflix account, his hidden feminine product collection, but most importantly, his fixation with embracing her in a “doggie-style” position, of which Myrna was hardly fond of.

Myrna desperately wanted to forget all of it. However, her attempt to remove him from her memory resulted in two coconut shells tightly strapped around her breasts, suffocating her into a state of panic.

Myrna quickly barged into Connie’s room yelling, “Connie! Connie, get up!”

“I’m trying to sleep here.” Connie said as she drowned her head into her pillow.

“Get up! I need to know what happened last night!”

“You had a good time for once in your life, and it helped you get over Patrick, didn’t it? Now, go back to bed.” she said with her back towards Myrna.

“That’s beside the point, Connie, and I can’t go back to sleep. I have a job to get to, and now I’m in no condition to work thanks to you! Just look at me! Do I not look ridiculous?”

Connie didn’t reply.

“I knew I should have never let you talk me into…”

Myrna paused as she looked over at Connie’s alarm clock.

“I’m late!” she screamed.

Myrna ran into Connie’s closet and found a bra one size larger than what she was accustom to, a white button down blouse with a harsh yellow stain protruding from the inside of the sleeve, and a charcoal pencil skirt with a slit running up farther than Myrna’s usual liking. However, Myrna was desperate to get to work promptly, so she wore the dreadful ensemble. She  rushed out of Connie’s house, stumbling over the bodies still lying on the floor, and hopped into her old beat up 2003 Mazda Protégé. It took her three times to start her ignition until it finally gave in. Myrna then drove to her law firm, but in the process, she approached five continuous red lights. At the last red light, she encountered a Prowler to the right of her. The man inside gently rolled down his window uncovering his fully grown beard. Myrna hated beards. More importantly though, she loathed the intense volume of his roommate’s metal band streaming out from the man’s car, because it drowned the sound of the whistle he directed towards her.

“Hey, sweet cheeks.” he said.

Only Patrick had ever called her that before, but she didn’t mind hearing the same words cross another man’s lips. She indulged in the moment very briefly, but then returned to reality. She slowly turned her head towards him, and rolled her eyes so far back that the color white shined brighter than her day. The man uncontrollably burst into laughter.

“What’s so funny?” she thought.

The man continued laughing, and as the light turned green, she bore as much weight into the gas petal as her body would allow.

#

Soon after, Myrna pulled into the parking lot and immediately found a spot close to the front entrance of the firm. She hurried out of her car and rushed up the long flight of stairs leading to the doorway. On her way up, she bumped into Patrick.

“Hey, sweet cheeks” he said.

“Hey, Patrick. I’m really late, so we’ll have to catch up some other time.” Myrna said as she rushed to open the door.

“I just wanted to say congratulations”

Myrna turned towards him.

“For what?” she said.

“For your little escapade last night at Connie’s house.  I heard all about it from Dick. It’s about time you let loose, Myrna.”

“How did you hear about that? And you know Dick?”

Patrick watched Myrna profoundly, finding the qualities written all over her face very enticing.

“Word gets around, and yeah. I like Dick.” Patrick said.

“That’s the problem…” she muttered.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing. I really must be going now.” she said as she opens the door.

“Oh, alright.” Patrick said, and as she walked away, he glided his tongue over his top lip very slowly.

#

Myrna hurriedly entered her scheduled meeting in Union Hall, where Miranda, her assisted secretary approached her with a folder filled with paperwork needing to be signed. She handed Myrna the folder, and as she looked up at her, it fell to the ground.

Miranda said, “Myrna, sweetie, let’s go to the bathroom. There’s something I need to show you.” as she picked up the remaining papers.

“No, the meeting is about to start. We can’t go now.”

“They will just have to wait,” she said as she pushed Myrna out of the room.

Miranda took her into the nearest restroom grabbing Myrna by the forearm.

“Ok, brace yourself” Miranda said.

Myrna entered the bathroom and approached the mirror. She intently gazed at her reflection where she found the silhouette of a giant penis drawn across her forehead with permanent marker. It stared directly back at her with a void expression as she stood in front of it motionless, and exposed. Myrna quickly turned to Miranda.  Myrna began to shriek, but in the process she slipped in a puddle of water. As she fell, the slit in her skirt completely ripped. Myrna then turned to Miranda, and burst into tears.

“Let’s try to get this off of you.” Miranda said as she bends down to wipe her forehead with a napkin.

“It’s no use. It must be drawn on with permanent marker.”

“Are you going back into the meeting looking like that?”

“I suppose” Myrna stated. “What other option do I have?”

#

Miranda and Myrna walked into Union Hall and approached a round table surrounded by all perfectly groomed middle aged men. As they sat down in their seats, the men stared intently at Myrna’s forehead, and the silence soon filled the entire circumference of the room. She gulped. The silence compelled her to say something, anything to revive the moment.

So she screamed, “Penis!!”

Myrna turned to Miranda with a smile.

“Penis!!” Miranda screamed even louder.

Soon, a few gentlemen from the round table followed the pattern. Myrna then listened intensely to the word, and the more she did so, the more appealing it became to her.

Bio: April Newcity is orginally from Savannah, Georgia where she studied and majored in dance and minored in theater at Savannah Arts Academy. She has choreographed eight pieces of works and has performed many leading roles. One of which was the Tin-Man in her school’s full length ballet, The Wizard of Oz. During her education at Savannah Arts, she attended many open mics at the school as well as within the community to support her sister and brother. However, she hadn’t promoted her own works of poetry and fiction until she attended the State College of Florida. There she hopes to further her education as well as expand her creativity in other realms of art.