Seaspray Literary Journal

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SeaSpray Literary Journal

Texas A&M University Galveston Campus Spring 2017

GUIDELINES FOR SUBMISSIONS

Please submit entries by email to [email protected]

Submissions are accepted by all Texas A&M University Galveston students and faculty including alumni.

Submission categories are Poetry, Short Stories, and Photography

Name each file attachment:

Poetry Submission-first lastname

Fiction Submission-first lastname

Photo Submission-first lastname

Only .doc or .docx (no pdfs) attachments accepted for short story and poetry submissions

Do not copy and paste the text of your submission into the body of the email.

All text in documents must be in Times New Roman 12 point font.

Each entry must include your name, email address, and the title of each submission in the body of your email.

Length of short stories must be five pages, 8.5x11”, or less

Photographs need to be submitted as a .jpg or .png file OFFICERS

PRESIDENT MEGAN JOHN Maritime Administration, Class of 2018 VICE PRESIDENT NAOMI MATHEW Marine Biology, Class of 2018 TREASURER MADGELLEN CLEARY Maritime Biology, Class of 2018 SECRETARY JACQUELINE WYATT Maritime Administration, Class of 2018 EDITOR TRAVIS WHITE Maritime Administration, Class of 2016 EDITOR ZECHARIAH JS. TURK Marine Biology/Marine Fisheries, Class of 2017 FACULTY ADVISOR AMY CATON Instructional Assistant Professor & Literacy Coordinator FACUTLY SPONSOR DR. KATHERINE ECHOLS Instructional Assistant Professor of English

Available online at https://journals.tdl.org/seaspray

[email protected]

POETRY

CONTENTS

ZECHARIAH JS. TURK I’M DOING THAT THING THAT I USUALLY DO 3

ZINNIA CROUCH BECAUSE OF YOU 4 ZINNIA CROUCH SHATTERED 5

SHARON PATERSON HAIKU 5 ZINNIA CROUCH HEARTBREAKER 5

NAOMI MATHEW MAP OF THE SOUL 6 ZINNIA CROUCH A LOST PARADISE 7 SEAN CONLEY MERMAIDS 8

ZECHARIAH JS. TURK IMMUNITY 9

ZINNIA CROUCH LOOK AT HER 10 SEAN CONLEY 10:30 11 ZECHARIAH JS. TURK THE DASTARDLY, BASTARDLY, WESTERLY WIND 12 ZECHARIAH JS. TURK FEARLESS 14

POETRY ZECHARIAH JS. TURK GOOD MORNING BEAUTIFUL 16 ZECHARIAH JS. TURK WHAT I COULDN’T DO 17 ZINNIA CROUCH SLY 19 ZINNIA CROUCH LEFT BEHIND 19 EMILY RICHEY WAVE OF MINDFULNESS 20 ZECHARIAH JS. TURK PAIN, PAIN GO AWAY 21 ZECHARIAH JS. TURK WE ARE THE CONTRAST 22 ZECHARIAH JS. TURK THE TAPE THEIF 24 ZECHARIAH JS. TURK TO K---- 25 ZECHARIAH JS. TURK ALONE 26 ZINNIA CROUCH INSANITY 27 ZECHARIAH JS. TURK ANCHOR 28 ZECHARIAH JS. TURK ALL OF THESE SCARS 30 ZINNIA CROUCH STARVING 31 ZECHARIAH JS. TURK OUR PLACE IN TIME 32 ZECHARIAH JS. TURK THE DIM LIGHT SHINES 35 ZINNIA CROUCH WRITER’S BLOCK 36

CONTENTS

ZECHARIAH JS. TURK PERFECT DAY 39

ZECHARIAH JS. TURK THE PUPPETEER 45

HALEY LAWSON WHAT IS AN AGGIE? 57

ZECHARIAH JS. TURK THE RIVER 59

TRAVIS WHITE SKINWALKER 67

ZECHARIAH JS. TURK POST-TRAUMATIC 83

AVA TIME’S UP 89 SHORT STORIES SHORT ZECHARIAH JS. TURK THE MIRROR MAN 93

ZECHARIAH JS. TURK WHERE THE GHOSTS TREAD 111 ______

ASHVIN ADARSH BLOOMING HIBISCUS 5 CHRISTIAN COKINOS DOORWAY 7 KC THE LIGHT DANCERS 10

VICTOR VISER WHERE, TOO 11 KATHRYN BOSQUET ROSE 13 VICTOR VISER HIROSHIMA – THE ALTERNATE TRUTH 17 SARAH DE LEON SEASIDE TRUCK 18

IMAGES KC CRYBABY 19 ROSA ASYALA PEARL 20 MEGAN JOHN WRECKAGE 21 PATRICIA FENNESY LIGHT BULB 27 SARAH DE LEON NIGHT1 PATH 32

CONTENTS SARAH DE LEON SUNSET 34 KATE PATERSON FACE 55

RACHEL WILLEFORD COCONUT PALM 56

KATIE WESTMORELAND DIVING WHALE 58

MADGELLEN CLEARY THE SECRET OF CONNECTICUT 65 RACHEL WILLEFORD STAIRWAY 82 MEGAN JOHN FROZEN 91

ASHVIN ADARSH SPIRIT ANIMAL 92 BRAD DAWE CANOE 119

RACHEL WILLEFORD GREEN TREE FROG 122 CHELSEA DESFORGES PUPPERMAID 123 TAYLOR CUBBAGE CRAB PLANK 123 KATIE WESTMORELAND FROZEN PLAINS 123

RACHEL WILLEFORD ANEMONE 124

ELEANOR HEBERT ISLAND ON THE LAKE 125 VIANNEY VERLADE JUST MET 126 KC WANNA SEE A SHOW? 126 TAYLOR CUBBAGE FISH 127

MEGAN JOHN WATERFALL 128 IMAGES SARAH DE LEON FLOWER 128 KATIE WESTMORELAND ICE CHANNEL 129 RACHEL WILLEFORD SEA TURTLE 129 MEGAN JOHN MARINA 130 TAYLOR CUBBAGE RECYCLED TURTLE 130 RACHEL WILLEFORD CRAB 131 VIANNEY VERLADE TROPICAL ISLAND 132 CHELSEA DESFORGES DOGGY NIGHT 132 CHELSEA DESFORGES OWL 133 VIANNEY VERLADE PLOVER BY THE SEA 133 RACHEL WILLEFORD PELICAN 134 CHELSEA DESFORGES HAPPY DOGS 135 2 MEGAN JOHN SEASIDE TOWN 135

POETRY

I’M DOING THAT THING THAT I USUALLY DO ~Zechariah Js. Turk I’m doing that thing that I usually do When it’s late in the night and I’m drinking of you A pen in my hand, poems scatter the floor A bottle on my desk, a hole in my door

You were my bottle of jack You were my cheap flask of crown You always pick me up When I fall down.

You’re with him now and happy And there’s nothing I can do So I sit here, still drunken Writing love poems to you.

BECAUSE OF YOU ~Zinnia Crouch

How can you look yourself in the mirror? Knowing you caused her to vomit out her feelings. To bleed by that razor. How can you sleep at night? Knowing she used to cry until the sun came up over the words you said. Forget what they say. Words hurt, and someday your words will do much more than that.

SHATTERED ~Zinnia Crouch

My heart full to the brim with tears. Ready to burst my soul. The one that chased away my clouds and eased my mournful head is gone. For when prince charming knocked, I didn’t see despair standing right behind him. Only time could disable my tears that flowed and the disbelief that followed the pain was more than I could bear.

HAIKU ~Sharon Paterson five seven five

three little word lines

run quickly across the page

but still here they stay

five seven five

~“Blooming Hibiscus” by Ashvin Adarsh

HEARTBREAKER ~Zinnia Crouch

Tears empower her She’s collecting broken hearts Feeding on weaknesses.

THE MAP OF THE SOUL ~Naomi Mathew

The eyes are the map to the soul, Or so they say I must disagree Like a soul, it is easier to mold Something simple Even pure It’s often overlooked Expected by the masses It’s something that can fade away It masks the pain It conceals the anger Makes someone’s day better It brightens a room If found in the right place It can take you miles away Even if it lasts for just one minute You must always treasure it It can be taken, in greed Squelched and squandered in any degree A smile in the simplest form Will map a soul to its core

~“Doorway” by Christian Cokinos

A LOST PARADISE ~Zinnia Crouch

It disappeared, lost in the mist that few travel to. A sanctuary. A hidden cove, unknown to many as it hides in the fog.

The water with just the right current, the sand gleaming with the sun’s rays and the rocky coast creating more passageways to peace.

MERMAIDS ~Sean Conley

What a sight Reminding me of home I here do claim But it soon becomes crisper A praise worthy act Not one the same The call is so strong And here I must stay I would if I could Summoned by the music Stay here forever Each and every day But exist at all I would never Hands reach Starting to begin Yet it is terrifying Pulling me forward For its powerful allure The beginning of the end Many died staring Of this I am sure I do not fight it Simply move with the motion A voice sings softly Over the edge A beautiful face arises Into the Ocean A promising ballad Of wonderful prizes A woman I behold Of beautiful stature Just one step Takes me under And all is fine No one could match her Just one step My life not mine I am wrapped in arms My body goes slack A faint voice calls One sweet final kiss Merely a whisper My vision goes black

IMMUNITY ~Zechariah Js. Turk I’ve been building my immune system To be numb to things that I know I no longer shiver in the cold Or smell the roses as they grow I do not smile in the sunshine Nor do I sing in the rain I don’t jump when I am pricked For, I am immune to the pain I do not shed tears any more When a loved one of mine dies My heart doesn’t jump in the least When I look into beautiful eyes I can feel almost nothing now For I have become most immune I don’t laugh or love or cry anymore Or even at pure beauty swoon I live in my personal fortress With walls far too high to climb It may seem like a fortress alone But fortresses fail over time The skies will turn the darkest grey Her memory will waltz right through My immune system will fail again And I will become unglued 9

~“The Light Dancers” by KC

LOOK AT HER ~Zinnia Crouch

Look at my sister, she's so beautiful. Young and happy and fearless. Look at my sister, she's so different. Scared of opinions and weight gain. Look at my sister, she's so paranoid. Excessively dieting and overdoing exercises. Look at my sister, she's so broken. Crying over her stomach and adding scars. Look at my sister, she's so thin. Bony and refusing to eat. Look at my sister, she was so beautiful.

10:30 ~Sean Conley

Silently we walk Together we stand Not even the wind will Her last song plays whisper To North, West, and South With Solemn as our All in silent memory as companion Her last song plays Silently we walk Silently we walk Together we stand Together in the black Darkness taking hold The last note ringing Our shadowed tears fall and The Aggie calling back

~“Where, Too” by Victor Viser 11

THE DASTARDLY BASTARDLY WESTERLY WIND ~Zechariah Js. Turk The dastardly bastardly westerly wind Came down from the clouds up above It arrived in the night And it stirred up a fright And then ran away with my love The cold wind did blow and made her quite ill She never recovered again I still walk the sands Where we used to hold hands Until that damned devilish wind The stars don’t seem as bright anymore As they did when she still was around The clouds block the sky And I still wonder why That she is buried so deep in the ground So I now must behave and be decent If I want to gaze upon her sweet face So by night I do pray That I shall see the day And we will meet up in heaven some place Her soul is no longer trapped here on earth As it twirls and spins through time But I’m left here to wait For my final death date Being punished for an uncommitted crime But my dreams, they do haunt and I see her Just as beautiful as she’s ever been Love’s worth more than gold But stolen by the cold Of that foul and freezing cold wind They say I’ve gone mad since her death Now my poems and words twist and spin And I’m stuck in between Of what’s real and a dream From that bastardly dastardly westerly wind 12

~“Rose” by Kathryn Bosquet

FEARLESS ~Zechariah Js. Turk Be fearless, still, in certain danger’s face When fires burn the world around you And there is no shine in the morning dew And the fearful flee for safety’s place But you are to remain there, fearless Go forth into the danger’s rage Fight strong with all of your might Die knowing that you fought the fight And free these men from the bonded cage For they are not you, nor fearless Bleed, bleed for the taste of being free Feel the stings of arrows and bullet wounds Shatter your ears against the cannons sounds And into that void you too shall see The faces of those before you who were fearless~ Do not fear what others have come to fear Instead let your bravery come as a flood For what you believe, sacrifice your own blood And when those who scorn you are drawing near Do not tremble, and remain only fearless When the light you knew dimming fast And the spring time draws nearer still And you find yourself on that golden hill And your time has come and has passed Know you were what others were not, and fearless. 14

~“Hiroshima - The Alternative Truth” by Victor Viser

GOOD MORNING, BEAUTIFUL ~Zechariah Js. Turk Good morning my love, How did you sleep? Did you dream of high mountains Or Oceans so deep? Did you dream of small creatures Or great many beasts? Of moon men or Martians Or even King’s feasts? Good morning my angel How was your rest? Are you happy and wild And beautifully blessed? Did you know that I choose you And to me you’re the best And that many have tried But only you past the test? Good morning, sweet girl How was your night? I’m so glad to see you In this morning’s light The thought of you happy Just seems so right When I kiss your sweet lips And I hold you so tight Goodnight my lover I bid you adieu Goodnight till the morrow In the bright morning dew Do not fret my sweet love I’ll be dreaming of you.

WHAT I COULDN’T DO ~Zechariah Js. Turk I did all those things you said I couldn’t do, I made it out of that town so small I travelled the world for a little bit And that’s just the start of it all I competed for a world title In the interpretive sport that you hate But even being the world champion Wasn’t good enough for your silver plate I became a fighter in small shows I fought through my injuries and pains But even in victory you weren’t there Your harsh words my memory stains I acted as a professional in a film I have my own poster hanging on the wall But never once did you acknowledge my feats You only ever wanted me to fall I became a hero and a role model To people that I’ve never even met I’ve done so many things said were dreams But every time that I do, you forget I finished writing that novel of mine I live in a house by the sea I’ve everything you told me I couldn’t And you’re still not proud of me.

~“Seaside Truck” photo by Sarah de Leon

SLY ~Zinnia Crouch

I’ll sleep with your girlfriend and leave her wasted in bed. I’ll kiss your crush and brag about it. Just looking for a good time, nothing serious. Just to stab you in the back. Wait, you thought I cared? That's funny, I don't do friends. You? You're just a convenience, I don't actually care about you.

LEFT BEHIND ~Zinnia Crouch

‘Stay strong’ she said as she waved goodbye, leaving me with nothing but memories. ‘See you’ he said as he walked off into the distance to begin anew. ‘Goodbye’ they said as they boarded the plane leaving me in dust, alone. ‘Are you okay?’ said no one. I walked into the place I once knew as home. Now, so foreign. ~“Crybaby” by KC

WAVE OF MINDFULNESS ~Emily Richey At first sense, chaotic nothingness Attacked everywhere without warning

Burning, deafening, agonizing Sensations frantically forming tangible clusters

Breathe, adjust, and seeking patience for insight Reaching awareness, consciousness

No attacks, but gifts of warmth, rhythmic melody, and joy

~“Pearl” by Rosa Asyala

PAIN, PAIN GO AWAY ~Zechariah Js. Turk I’m tired of having these dreams I just want them to go away God, help the sun shine bright And rid me of the grey I dream the same things every night Only to wake up and dread the day Every-thing I see reminds me of her Her memory always comes back to stay Tell me how to fix this Please tell me what to do Does it take a bullet or a needle Or a dropped line off cue? Fix me please Lord I’ll give up my life I am broken all apart If that’s what it takes Please show me what to do To hide from the pain Or show me where to start And rid the mistakes If it’s not in your will Because I am in fear The path that I have taken Of what feelings lie there Then carve it into my soul Because I can’t get over it That I have been mistaken I can’t un-love her

~“Wreckage” photo by Megan John

WE ARE THE CONTRAST ~Zechariah Js Turk We are the ones who don’t fit any sort of mold We are the ones who were rebels and never did as told We are the Poets and Pirates the Lovers and Fighters The Painting in our room till the dawn’s light all-nighters

We are the Contrast.

The blacklisted bastards that hide from your gaze We make beauty from nothing leaving many in amaze We take the pain and woe life throws our way And transform it into something to get through the day

We are the Contrast.

The ones who aren’t sure if our hearts are still beating And our thoughts fly apart at the sound of repeating The same boring lives that our parents once led Where we slave over desks and we work till we’re dead

We are the Contrast.

The ones who are ridiculed for all of your fun But we plow through your hatred and shoot at the sun Who carve beautiful words with knives in our skin And we bleed out your hate as if purging our sin

We are the Contrast. (continued on page 22)

We dance in the moonlight making love to the stars We stay out too late and stumble back from the bars The drunkards and rowdy crowd that howl at the moon And the rats in the sewer that all die too soon We are the Contrast.

The black spots on the sun that make things seem strange Though we try for our lives, we never can change The people that break and sew ourselves back And our moods only range from rainbow to black

We are the Contrast.

The ones who you look at and don’t understand The misfit toys who are searching for land Without our contrast and our colors that thrive You’d live day to day, and not know you’re alive

We are the Contrast.

THE TAPE THIEF ~Zechariah Js. Turk I am the tape thief of Galveston I steal tape no matter the weather I hide it by the thousand fold Because I need it to hold me together Staples and nails don’t work too well Since the meat and my flesh is all rotten I’ve been dead for quite a few years now And it’s almost like God has forgotten I stumble and fumble, amble and sway While my corpse is falling apart I’ve lost a few organs along the way The least of them being my heart You’ll see me around the island In stores and in offices too With my hat pulled low and a great big coat Stealing all of your tape and your glue I don’t feel the least bad stealing tape For joints like my elbows and knees After all I mean that I am quite dead So I feel I can do as I please

I’m the famous and fearless Jean Laffitte I’ve plundered for Gold and for jewels I’m a master pirate supreme buccaneer And I outlasted all of those fools.

TO K----- ~Zechariah Js. Turk I only care to acquire the taste of your name My only hope is to whisper it into your ear You shine in colors that I have never seen And even across the room you fell right here Chondrichthyes swimming above us Flying shadows spread across the moon But the distance and time do not matter Because I know we will be together soon I’ve stopped believing in the theory gravity At least in the constant occurring form Since I met you, love, I’ve only been falling Like a kite trapped inside of a storm Your hair flows like the river of Styx Your beauty triggers all my alarms I do not want you in my dreams I just want you to be in my arms Thermodynamic second law states That if together we will always be We will spin naturally into deep chaos But I’m already drowning in your sea Like cetaceans in the arctic circle We found each other lost in song But we are bonding hydrogen to radon Because even “impossible” just sounds wrong I don’t know how to tell you all of this I simply meander at what I should do So I sit here and wait for the day That I can recite all of my poems to you 25

ALONE ~Zechariah Js. Turk From the time of youth long ago I have been in a state of solitude It has never been a sought after state Nor was it born of my attitude

I’ve walked alone ever since Holding the hands of no other I have no one to share with my pain Nor anyone to call me their brother The trees at night do not speak my name In the dark even my shadow is gone My trials, troubles and tribulations Have all been faced quite alone

The days they come and they go With the signing of a hallowed wind My thoughts they torture and toss me When I think of the places I’ve been I’ve demons that lurk in my head I hear the wicked things they say I almost don’t notice them anymore For even they don’t want to stay So here I am wondering through life A life I explore by myself The people come and the people go Like a book forgotten on a shelf

INSANITY ~Zinnia Crouch You define it as a joke. I define it as the worst experience of my life. You throw the word around that scarred me for life. Left me broken and hurt. But I hide behind my laugh for I fear to be judged. Because that day, that scarring day, my nightgown was too short.

“Light Bulb” photo by Patricia Fennesy

ANCHOR ~Zechariah Js. Turk

I’ve never been much one for small talk I’ve always been more of a ghost I’ve never been one to settle down I’ve never been much of a host

I’ve been a sailor man for years Battling my wits with the sea Never have been one for staying And always a quick one to leave

That’s why I could never be with you I’m too much of a traveling man I’ve ne’er been one to fall in love So I won’t even though that I can

I am the anchor to your ship Made to sink fast to the deep But like an anchor, I just slow you down So I’ll pack up my things while you sleep

I’ll kiss your face and drift away I’ll be off on some new path You’ll wake up and cry for a bit

But You knew that our love wouldn’t last (continued on page 28)

The fact is that I care too much To slow down your life for good So I’ll hurt you deeply to help Because I know that I should

And in the nights of my next voyage I’ll write you letters from the ocean I’ll sit on the deck and gaze at the stars With my pen to set words into motion

Once I’ve finished my letter to you And my watch then begins to expire I’ll hold the letter over the bow And set the cold paper to fire

Some things are better left unsaid Which is why I write them to toss away Just know that I love you, but I am your anchor And that’s why I could never stay

ALL OF THESE SCARS ~Zechariah Js. Turk I see that you’ve noticed my scars, They cover me from top to the floor Every time I think that I’m done Something happens to add one more This one I earned on a Sunday When I crashed my motorcycle at noon This one came from a fight in a bar And this one from a slip up in June I know that you see the ones on my face They come from the years as a fighter They aren’t from anything in the dark streets But in arenas pulling an all-nighter This one here that runs my shin Comes from a fall off of a cliff This one that stretches down my ribs Comes from a slip off the deck of a skiff This one that dominates my hand Comes from the slash of a knife This one here on my abdomen Came from a fight for my life Each of these scars has a story And some not so easy to tell The details get mixed in their time But they stay with me just as well The scars that cover my body Are not the ones that hurt the most For if you look upon my heart You’ll see the ones that were left by a ghost

STARVING ~Zinnia Crouch

I’m starving but I can’t eat. Fat is ugly and I can’t be ugly. The pressure by society, by models by media. Skinnier and skinnier, every hour closer to death. Different is ugly. Fainting and diet pills. The monster isn’t under my bed, but in my fridge. In the hospital, an empty body, as the monitor goes flat.

~“Night Path” photo by Sarah de Leon

OUR PLACE IN TIME ~Zechariah Js. Turk Remember me How I used to be Up on the stage being your hero Not how I fell apart only the start Of my descent into zero Remember us being happy In restaurants being sappy Or in shows just being us in make-up and costumes Making out in public restrooms And to them, we were all the fuss

Remember me, like graffiti I know you’re still pretty Remember when I fell away? I try not to now But it happened anyhow And it was destined from that day Remember us, forever more On the sunset shore In May when I kissed you And you, Said you loved me And forever we would be One love formed from us two Remember our accidental kiss When we were playing like this Silly game that we started with friends Please remember how you would call Each time, and I would fall But there’s no such thing as happy ends (continued on page 32) 32

Please remember me My jealousy And how it cost me all I wanted Those birds lost in the rain While I was vain And now I’m scarred up and haunted I want you to remember me All of my misery Remember my lost time Our lost dreams Where the water still gleams Where I outrun my crime I found the pearly gate Held out from all of my hate I can’t get in on good behavior Please remember me by your drawing Not all of my uphill clawing As I climbed high to be your savior Remember me, never But I know it’s there forever When we were facing our last talk I promised we’d meet again But this was the absolute end And you decided it was time to walk Forget me, if you’re not too far When we were in my car And you said that love was ours But never, meant to last And seconds passed But they somehow seemed like hours

(continued on page 33) 33

Even at that time people gave The pennies they would save Just to see me up on the stage Now the stage is bare The same stage where I would vent out all of my rage The fall season left me to burn And then in return I lost my perfect kingdom Of you, and of our life You caused my strife I still can’t believe we’re done You know where it is I work Why do you still tell them I’m a jerk Then come to where I stand? Are you trying to prove a point? Trying to make my words conjoint To sing your praises by my own hand

~“Sunset” photo by Sarah de Leon

THE DIM LIGHT SHINES Zechariah Js. Turk

The dim lights shine like lanterns on the night They waft to and fro on the breeze, With childhood dreams we see their worth But in age are forgotten with ease

Here in your arms I smile And your heartbeat rings into the night, There is nothing to be remembered As we again meet in the morrows night Love is handsome when love is new Love is a jewel that never grow old And in the blaze of the sun Our love shall never grow cold You be you, and I will be I In our make-shift dream land near the sea We can be together and laugh and smile And in my heart you’ll forever be Let me love you in sweet morrows light And I will never again want more For having you tucked into my heart Would be that of a tale of yore The future is dark and unseen And I’ll give you all I bring to the table One thing that I can promise you dear Is to love you as long as I’m able For your sweat voice is a brilliant sound That tugs at the hearts of men And into your arms I am found once more For I’ll never come back again. 35

WRITER’S BLOCK ~Zinnia Crouch The blank story fills the pages with invisible ink. My mind races with hundreds of ideas, none fully formed. I put my pencil to the paper but can’t keep the rhythm. I drop my pencils and trash the paper. Frustrated, because I’m a writer, writing with an eraser.

SHORT STORIES

PERFECT DAY By Zechariah Js. Turk Marcus McGregor woke up to the sound of his favorite song playing. This was a sharp contrast to the usual blaring of his alarm clock that routinely would scream its howls at five AM every morning. This morning was different though. This morning the alarm, now his favorite song, did not sound until eight AM. Marcus had not slept in in a few months, but welcomed the lazy day. Marcus had determined the evening before that this day was going to be the best day that he had ever had. He was going to do everything and anything he had ever wanted to do on a perfect day. Marcus rose from his bed and stretched while releasing a loud yawn. He felt relaxed and well-rested for once. He walked over to the window and opened the shades to let the sunshine in. He looked out of the window and saw only blue skies without a single cloud. “Ah,” Marcus smiled and looked at the beautiful weather, “Today is going to be a perfect day.” Marcus lazily put on some shorts and a plain T-shirt. He was so used to dressing up for work and wearing only his work uniform that he had almost forgotten what it was like to dress comfortably. Today was going to be a day of comfort, Marcus decided, and nothing was going to change that. Today was meant to be a relaxing and slow day. Marcus had already planned most of it the evening before and today would start with his favorite song, then he would make his favorite breakfast. He left the bedroom and wandered into the kitchen where he saw his partner, Sam. Sam often waited at the table for Marcus. Marcus enjoyed having Sam around although Sam did not speak much. A few months back, Sam had saved Marcus’s life and he was grateful for Sam. Marcus smiled at Sam a typical “good morning” 39

smile. Sam was included in the last plan Marcus had for his perfect day, but not the early ones. Marcus made the breakfast, which was comprised of scrambled eggs and ham, and enjoyed it in the company of Sam. After breakfast, Marcus planned on going to go to the park on the far side of town. “I’ll see you tonight, Sam” said Marcus before leaving the house. Marcus got into his car and began his trek to the park. Along the way, he passed coffee shop that caught his eye. Marcus turned his vehicle around and pulled into the coffee shop. He had never been to this shop, but wanted to try something different on this perfect day. He ordered a coffee and sat in the window, enjoying the cars passing and people going about their days as he sipped the coffee. “It’s a beautiful day today,” said Marcus “I’d hate to spend too long on this cup of coffee, no matter how good it is.” Marcus tipped the barista and headed outside to his vehicle. He stood in the sunshine for a moment and smiled before he got back into the car and headed to the park. Marcus arrived at the park to see children playing and laughing alongside their friends. He left the car and found a high spot where the ground formed a small hill in the park. He laid a blanket down and sat on the ground in the sun. The park was bustling with activity, this made Marcus happy. Dogs chased Frisbees, children played basketball on the court, and families walked along the paths that led through the park and smiled and laughed. Marcus loved the people in the park, enjoying their days. The sun was warm on his skin, and the grass smelled freshly cut. He loved the park. He wondered why he had not gone to the park more often and enjoyed the sights and sounds that accompanied it.

“Who knows for sure?” Marcus said aloud, “but I made it here today, and that’s all I care about.” Marcus stood and walked through the park, smiling along the way. He walked down to the pond and fed the ducks, then watched the children sail the miniature sail boats across. He would cheer on the children as they began their races and applaud the winners at the end of each turn. Marcus checked his watch after a while and realized it was nearing noon.

“I need to hurry and get to lunch! I am sure my mother will be glad to see me.” Marcus surprised his mother at her home with some sandwiches he purchased from a deli. They sat and chatted for almost two hours, something Marcus had not done in a long time. His mother asked questions about Marcus’s work and how everything was going in his life. They talked about nearly everything under the sun, including family and the weather. Marcus told his mother about the park and how beautiful it was. She smiled and listened as Marcus detailed his plans for the remainder for the day. He told her all, except for his plans later with Sam. His mother did not like Sam and Marcus decided it best not to talk about Sam in front of her.

Marcus checked the time and saw it was nearly three in the afternoon. He kissed his mother goodbye and left her house to continue his perfect day, which would take place next at the science museum. Marcus liked the science museum, but had not been there in a very long time. He drove at a leisurely pace with the windows down, soaking up the beautiful day. Marcus arrived at the museum, and after a brief, lighthearted conversation with the girl at the ticket booth, entered the museum. The inside was gorgeous and he was amazed at everything he saw inside. He wanted to be a scientist when he was a child, but never 41

kept the grades for it. He happily looked at the rocks in the geology department, the T-rex with the dinosaurs, and the ancient tribes of peoples along with how they lived in the anthropology area. Marcus had a smile on his face that no man could ever wipe off. On his way out, Marcus stopped in the gift-shop and purchased a hat with a dinosaur on it, his favorite dinosaur, the T-rex. Marcus wore the hat outside, smiling like a child as he did. Nothing could bother Marcus today, for today was his day. It was a day about him, his perfect day. Marcus walked across the street to the state aquarium. The one thing Marcus loved more than almost anything was the aquarium. He had not been here since he began his current job, but never forgot the sights and smells the aquarium had to offer. Marcus walked through the aquarium, happier than he had been in years. He saw the great silver fishes of the southern Gulf of Mexico, the brilliant colors of the Pacific reef fishes, and the great many teeth of several shark species. Marcus played with the small stingrays and starfishes in the touch-tank and talked joyfully to the workers with their vast knowledge of fish. He went to the gift shop and bought a t-shirt with a white shark on it. He enjoyed the white sharks above all the shark species. At length, Marcus left the aquarium, happier than he had been in a very long time.

Marcus thought about Sam almost every step of the day. He was usually nervous to spend time with Sam, especially in public. Today though, he planned on spending his evening with Sam and was looking forward to it. Marcus drove home around six thirty and entered his house to see Sam at the table. He did not say anything to Sam and heart beat a little faster as he passed Sam. Marcus changed into his best suit for his following plan for the evening: Attending the opening night of his favorite musical at a local community theatre. It had been months since Marcus had been to the theatre, and he wanted 42

to look his best. Opening nights usually consisted of wine and cheese before the show, and Marcus did not want to miss it. He left his house, dressed well in his three-piece suit and arrived at the theatre at exactly seven ten. He saw a few of his friends and they all chatted and drank lightly before the show began. His friends smiled and all talked about how good it was to see him. Marcus was happy his friends accepted him, but he knew they did not approve of Sam. He thought about Sam back home, but wanted to enjoy the show before seeing Sam again. Marcus sat with his friends during the show and they all enjoyed the music and humor that it brought. During the intermission, he and his friends talked excitedly about what the second act of the show had to offer. They all knew the show by heart and wanted to sing along, but knew it was rude. They all sat down to enjoy the second act after intermission. After the show had ended and the curtain closed, Marcus and his friends chatted in the lobby about everything they enjoyed about the show, along with a few critiques. They talked to the cast and had their play-bills signed before leaving the theatre. Marcus hugged his friends, and left the theatre, still smiling. It was nearly ten pm before Marcus got home. He walked into his house and poured himself a glass of fine wine he had been saving for an occasion like this. He was excited and nervous to close the evening with Sam. He looked himself over in the mirror as he sipped the wine, making sure he was still immaculately dressed. “God,” said Marcus, “Today was such a perfect day.” Marcus nervously adjusted his tie and prepared to close the evening with a late dinner with Sam. He had lit candles and set them on the table where Sam was patiently waiting. He put on his favorite record and waltzed around the room, and Sam, before taking his seat at the table.

Marcus’s heart beat fast and with passion as he stared at Sam. He loved Sam very much, even though he had never said it. Nervously, Marcus placed his hand on Sam. He shuddered, feeling his face heat as he touched Sam. Sam was beautiful, and Marcus thought Sam was perfect. With many extreme emotions, even guessing his own actions, Marcus put his lips against Sam for the first time. He held them there for over a minute, appreciating Sam for all that Sam was.

Marcus shook intensely as he cocked Sam’s hammer back and with the squeeze of a trigger finger, ended Officer McGregor’s perfect day.

THE PUPPETEER By Zechariah Js. Turk I am a master of my craft. I am a perfectionist. As it is with all aspect of my life, I give 100% in all and everything that I do. I take all the time necessary to create a perfect work of art. I have awards on the walls, medals in the halls, and food on my table all because of my craft and the perfection I dedicate to it. I have travelled far and wide to work for films, theatres, and even sideshows. I am a puppeteer. I am not any ordinary puppeteer though, I am the world’s greatest.

My work has made me much money over the course of the years. That’s not why I made puppets though. I made puppets for my own approval. How foolish of a person to think that art was created for them. Art is created for the artist’s approval. It is a way for the artist to continually test himself in ways which were previously not thought of. Each work had to be better than my last. Each piece had to be the pinnacle, as though if I were to die the last thing I left this world with was a masterpiece so beautiful and life like that generations would clamor to see my work for eons to come.

I made them all. I made monsters that lurked in your child’s nightmares. I made ventriloquist partners that helped men on the path of success. I made TV puppets that lit up Saturday morning shows and caused laughter for generations to come. Each one had its own special personality as though it were alive to me before any other human had time to lay hands upon it. Artist’s interpretations of my work, in earlier years, were sometimes questionable and at others down right incorrect. Once I had honed my abilities though, there was no question the personalities that my pieces possessed.

No matter how beautiful I made a piece though, no matter how much time I spent in ironing out the details of a puppet, I could 45

never attain the beauty that I had seen in my wife. We had been wed in our early twenties after meeting in a convention in Rome. I was showcasing two new puppets I had spent years creating. She, though, was a dancer with a team. The style of dance was that of what I had only seen in India. She danced with a red veil around her that whipped and licked her shoulders as a flame does. I was astounded by what beauty she possessed. God himself took the time to hand craft her, every stitch of her being called to me. I was transfixed on her from the day we met to the day we wed and for many years after. Our adventures led us all over the world with travelling art shows and random jobs on movie sets. Even after we were informed that she could not bear children, our love did not falter. We grew old together, through thousands of projects and holidays and vacations, we had spent all of them together. We had formed a beautiful home in a nice neighborhood. Our families loved to come visit us and we always had projects going on to show. Wall to wall of our home was usually covered with awards and medals and beautiful paintings and my most famous works. Which is why I was pained so, when we discovered she was sick.

I noted that she first had begun to falter in her dancing routines. We were in our later sixties at this point, but she had never missed a beat when she danced in the living room of our house. I noticed that she had stumbled during one of her routine steps. We soon discovered that she had brain cancer that would diminish her abilities slowly until she died. She refused chemo, stating that she was in line to die anyway and would rather do it with a full head of hair.

Months went on and she fell apart. Slowly she began to forget things. The headaches came too, she would scream in agony waiting for them to subside. I had placed all of my work on hold so that I could be with her. I wanted to hold her hand through this difficult time. I wanted to tell her all would be well. I wanted to lie to her so that she may die in peace without having to worry about what 46

would become of me. At length, she had faded into nothing more than a shadow of her former self as she withered away. She stayed in our house, refusing to seek medical attention. She wanted to die where she was happiest. I watched as day by day she would walk around the house, looking at all of her old things. She would put on an old veil and walk slowly around the house so as not to fall. She was just as beautiful as ever even though her body was falling to pieces.

Early one Sunday morning, she lay next to me. Her body began to convulse violently as though having a seizure. I arose and tried my best to comfort her. Her eyes though, were unstaring, unwavering, and unseeing. Her teeth gnashed together and white froth leaked from her open mouth as she emitted a strange choked moan. I tried to pick her up, but to no avail. Despite the overwhelming prayers, her death came. I had very little time for remorse as she breathed her final breath. The spark in her eyes had dimmed out, and now they were cold and unseeing.

I rose from my bed in a frenzied rage of sorrow. I fell to my knees and began to curse the ground on which I had fallen. My heart was heavy laden and my mind could not satisfy the differences between a nightmare and reality. I lay on the floor for the better part of an hour, in my great sorrow. At length, I rose and walked over to the bed where her corpse now remained. I moved her hair back from her face so that I may see into her eyes. Her eyes were cold and unseeing. They blinked not, but instead gazed into the nothingness within our bedroom. They were as dead as a puppet’s eyes.

A puppet’s eyes?

At once my mind began to drift and to wander into a grand idea, a most amazing idea. SHE would be my final masterpiece. She could be the most amazing work of art I ever created. It was as 47

though I were taking the blue print God have given me and forming a most spectacular masterpiece with it. I needed to work fast before she began to rot.

I dragged her body from the bed only to see the stains that the froth of her mouth had made upon the sheets. I had to relocate her to my workshop in the basement where I kept all of my tools. Her body fell from the bed with a dull thud as her head bounced on the floor. With my grasp firmly around her ankles, I pulled backwards through the house. Her body seemed very light. I half expected it to be heavier due to “dead weight”. This was not the case though as I approached the basement door. I opened it and pulled her down the stairs into my workshop. Her body made dull thuds against each step. I was quite worried that I would damage part of her, but time was of the essence.

My first duty was to drain the blood from her corpse. I knew that the Egyptians had done so in order to preserve certain parts including the flesh. I had to attach her body to a rope and pully I used to hoist heavier items from the ceiling, upside down. Firstly, I tied the hair back and into a bun to avoid blood from collecting in the hair. I hoisted the body upward (and with much pain I might add) made an incision on the neck with a refining knife. I placed a bucket beneath the corpse to capture the blood as it fell. Copious amounts gushed out of the opening and splattered all about. I was lucky enough to have put on my work apron to avoid the blood from splattering on my clothing. The blood flow lasted several minutes as I sat upon my stool contemplating my next move.

With a quick search of the internet, I decided to remove all of the vital organs. This proved to be an easier task than previously expected, as many had diminished in size and the lack of blood made it much less messy. I threw the organs into the same bucket as the blood and made ready for disposal. Her brain proved to be the most difficult to remove. I lowered her from the ceiling and onto 48

the floor. I had untied her and propped her up in a chair. Once I had removed the scalp and placed upon a mannequin as a wig, I had to use a saw designed for wood to remove the skull cap. This was extremely time consuming and difficult, given my arthritis. I scooped out the brain as best as I could and placed it into the bucket as well. This was the part of her that loved me, sitting mushed in a bucket and not almost indistinguishable from all other organs.

Finally, I removed her eyes. She had the most beautiful eyes that any human could ever bear witness too, and now it was my time to have them removed by my own hand. Carefully, I pulled them back from their sockets with the same tool I used to remove puppet’s eyes. Once the nerves had been exposed, I cut them at the base, leaving the gaping sockets empty.

I then set her upon the floor fully. Her body seemed so strange and empty now, and those large gazing sockets stared like that of an eyeless ventriloquist puppet. I poured copious amounts of salt on and around the body to preserve any remaining tissue and withdraw any remaining fluids. I had to go down to the local market once to purchase more, then continued my work.

Once I felt as though I had done all that I could do for the day I retired to my chamber. There I sat in solemn and melancholy silence while waiting for the salt to do its job. The day was still before noon and I wanted to finish before too late in the evening. I fell asleep for nearly an hour before awaking and returning to the basement to continue my work.

While the body sat in the salt pile I dug for a set of glass eyes that would be good enough for her. There were none that could imitate the incredible colors that sat in the iris of the one that I loved so dearly. I placed a color that nearly resembled them into the corpse’s sockets, and promptly glued the eyelids shut so that I 49

would not view the injustice of having changed her eye color. With paint I perfected the colors of her skin as it was before the salting and injected silicone to many of the deflated regions to make the body look more plump and less dehydrated from the effects of the salt.

My bride had been brought back from the dead and looked almost identical to what she had many years prior. I picked up her body and began to waltz as we had in our youth around the home. I held her salted flesh close and smelled her hints of plastic that wafted from her now plump body. We danced in an embrace for nearly an hour as I began to grow tired.

I sat her upright in a chair and sat myself opposite, admiring her. She was so beautiful that I was sure that the gods would take her from my embrace at any moment. I slowly began to fall asleep again, for a second time in the day. Despite my efforts I again drifted off without the ability to fight off the sleep.

Once I had woken, I was startled to see the chair empty. Here I jumped and looked around the room. I saw her body, laying some ten feet away from the chair face down upon the floor. This, admittedly, had startled me and I sat her back up into her chair.

Every evening, for nearly a month, I would raise her from that chair and waltz with her around the room. When I would realize that something was wrong with her body, I would take her into the cellar and fix it as best as I could.

One night, while waltzing in the kitchen, her body had taken a step on its own. This shocked me and I let go, watching the body crumple in a heap upon the floor. Again I brushed it off as fantasy and lifted her. I dragged her to the chair that had become her resting place and several feet from the chair, her arm shot out and grabbed the chair. My old heart could not take this movement and I fainted. 50

I awoke on the floor to the body placed upright in the chair. My heart beat strong and my mind raced. I picked myself up from the floor and began to move toward the bedroom to rest. The day continued without incident.

Into the evening as I laid next to the body in bed watching TV, I heard a distinct grunt arise from the body. Here I turned and watched the body intently for any signs of life or movement. The body sat, facing the TV with no movement for nearly ten minutes. I turned to watch the television again and began to drift off into sleep before a second grunt woke me. I turned to see the face of the body had turned and was now facing me and now smiling.

I moved the body to the chair it had come to call home and returned to bed, panicking. I sat in the dim light of the television’s glow for nearly an hour before I heard things clanging around in the kitchen. I stepped into the kitchen to see the pots and pans all a mess, but the body still in the chair I had left it. The horror of the smile pressed upon its face sank into my soul as I noticed that the smile had stretched some grotesque distance far across the face of the puppet and ripped the flesh, nearly reaching from ear to ear. The eyes of the doll were beginning to darken in the white areas. The eyes were now a dark grey and I could not look into them. I threw a blanket over the body before returning to my room

Again I went to bed, faint of heart and scared. I slowly faded into a deep sleep.

Upon the morning time, I had found the body still in the chair, with the mouth closed, but still ripped from ear to ear. I knew that I needed to sew the mouth closed now at the torn places and attributed the tearing to dehydration of the skin, causing contraction and tearing. There was no reason for alarm other than my mind may possibly be playing tricks on me.

I meandered my way into the basement to find a needle and thread to return to room and begin to sew. I had not made my way to the bottom step before I heard the basement door slam shut behind me! I shrieked and fell on the final step.

I woke on the basement floor, covered in blood from a deep scar above my head. My nephew was helping me up from the floor of the basement and sympathetically begging me to check into a home to watch over me.

When I asked him who would take care of my wife, he became enraged and told me that I needed to come to terms with the fact that we had buried her some months ago. I asked about the puppet in my house and he claimed that I was delusional, for the entire family and many of my friends had attended her funeral. There was no puppet and he insisted I had dreamed the entire thing up.

I went to look through the house to find it completely empty. He showed me a copy of her death certificate that he had taken on his phone and repeated that this was not the first time that this had happened. I became scared and wept for my wife was gone, and out there waltzing through the streets, alone and unguided.

They checked me into a home not a week later. The attendants and nurses insist that I have dementia along with minor traces of Alzheimer’s, but I know what the truth is. I know my wife is out there, searching for me.

My nephew came every Tuesday for two Tuesdays in a row. On the second Tuesday, he stopped coming and was replaced by an older, fatter gentleman who had similar features, but was not him. He told me I had now been there for years. Impossible, this was my third week, and my wife must be out there somewhere. I did not know what they were up to but he and the fat man were coinciding.

Last night, I stared out of the placid window of the room they had placed me in within this make-shift prison. I stared many nights out of this window, longing to just walk down the street unassisted once again. They never let me, not in all of my three weeks, months, years, no weeks I had been here. I wept, and wept deeply as I always had.

This night was different. I sat, staring out of the window and into the darkness when a pair of bright, green eyes that glowed like stars caught my attention. They jumped around in the night and slowly made their way to my window. I sat on my bed as the eyes pressed hard against the glass and a dull tapping was heard as the eyes repeatedly touched the glass. I turned the light in the room to see what creature was so confused that it was attempting to enter my room this late in the evening.

The light illuminated the face of my wife, no longer beautiful. Her eyes were blacker than the night, and her smile was unstitched as it stretched from ear to ear. Her teeth were showing bright, and almost two inches in length as they glimmered in the evening. Her skin was sluffing off of her body and her hair falling from her scalp.

My heart missed her so much, that I did not mind her present state. I broke the glass with my lamp and wrapped my arms around the puppet. I held her close and begged her to never run away again. My heart was full now, and happy again. I apologized for being scared of her in the past and vowed never to leave her again.

I kissed her wide smile before a bright light from above flashed with ferocity. I assumed it was the ceiling light becoming bright again before I heard an officer shouting at me to drop the body. Here, I let go and the corpse fell, not onto the ground, but into a broken and shattered coffin. I began to panic and though of the dream I must have been caught in. I was in a hole!

I began to cry and shriek as I heard my nephew begging the officer not to taze, nor fire his weapon upon me. Frightened and confused I began to claw out of the hole until I felt arms lifting me out of the hole. I was on the grass and realized that I was in a cemetery and surrounded by vehicles with flashing lights that confused and scared me.

They set me upon the ground and I writhed in fear. The man had my nephews voice, but this was not my nephew. This man was balder and plump and could not be my nephew unless he had aged ten years over night! Here I tried to escape and grabbed the nearest object that I could, a shovel. I swung at the perpetrators. I heard the loud pop of a tazer diffuse and then fell to my knees before into immediate darkness

~“Face” by Kate Patterson

~“Coconut Palm” by Rachel Willeford

WHAT IS AN AGGIE? By Haley Lawson

When you come to Texas A&M from another state, you get a lot of questions from the people back home. Most are really hard to answer because as most of us have heard before “from the outside looking in, you can’t understand it and from the inside looking out, you can’t explain it.” For example, try explaining to your high school friends why you instinctively said “Large African Field Mouse” instead of elephant during the winter break or why you yell really loud when someone says a number. I got asked a lot of different questions such as what is a yell leader? Who’s the mascot? What’s a twelfth man? Why do you go to the gym and yell at midnight on Thursday? What’s Aggie Muster? What is Gig ‘em? Why do you hsss? And the list goes on and on and on.

In my freshman year, I was still learning these answers myself so most of the time I gave them a quick one or two-word statement followed by “it’s really hard to explain”. Now, as a senior, it is so exciting to answer these questions because I know the answers and because I live the traditions. “Why do I yell so loud?” Well I have Aggie Spirit and that is my class year! A Whoop! The mascot is Ms. Reveille, the highest-ranking member of the Corps and the First Lady of Aggieland. Yell leaders… that’s another funny one to explain. I used to say “well they are these guys that lead us in yells, kind of like a pep rally.” Now I know that they are these amazing guys who are the face of the school and who unite all of us together. They get us excited to be involved in our community. They are the embodiment of the Aggie Spirit. The Twelfth Man is the Aggie student body. We are always ready to step in for someone who needs us. I go to the gym and yell on a Thursday night because it’s a family tradition, a Sea Aggie family tradition, to go and get excited. To yell our hearts out with the rest of our little island family and get excited to BTHO-whoever we are playing that week. It’s a time to 57

be together and to take a break from all the ‘school stuff’. Aggie Muster is one of the best things about A&M because it is a family reunion. It’s a time to reminisce about the good old days and remember the friends we lost that year. But that one question that used to be very easy to answer, “what is an Aggie?” That question has become the core of who I am. An Aggie is a member of this huge family of people who may not have met each other but that will do anything for each other. An Aggie is a leader. An Aggie is strong, loyal, determined, and passionate. An Aggie is a fighter and will step in to fight for those who don’t have one. An Aggie is a student of the best University in the world and once an Aggie is an Aggie they always will be!

~“Diving Whale” photo by Katie Westmoreland

THE RIVER By Zechariah Js. Turk The regularity with which I had taken my family to visit the portion of the river remained singularly steady for many years. I, however, will ne’er return to that cursed place for any amount of time allotted nor any amount of items offered as treasured rewards. I adhere to the fact that previously I had no inclination to the supernatural, yet I admit that I have a complex feeling of both fear, and undeniable belief in such.

The river in question ran for hundreds of miles and twisted and turned to create isolated oxbows and a plethora of small islands. The water was quite turbid and lacked much visibility. We would frequent these small islands with a boat for picnics and relaxation after a long day in the sun. It was upon one of these pine- covered islands that my daughter had approached me after swimming for several hours and complained about a young woman she had seen in the water. She had explained to me that there was a woman under the water on the opposite side of the island. She claimed that the lady in the water had grabbed her ankle while she was under the surface and attempted to drag her down. Immediately, I traversed the far side of the small island where my daughter had been playing to see nothing more than smooth and glassy water. I entered the water and swam beneath the surface, yet found nothing along the lines of what I would consider strange. My daughter was at the age where imagination could run rampant and at times had confided in me the presence of an imaginary friend. Upon the discovery of nothing I returned to my daughter and asked if she had been sure she had seen a woman in the water. If there had been a woman in the water, I would wonder where the woman had come from, since we were in an isolated region of the river. 59

She answered in a way that caused me to not doubt the validity of her story, as children tend to do while lying. She was firm in her belief and so I brought her back to the side of the island. Investigating yielded no further results and without evidence to cause for adequate alarm, thus I proceeded to take no action. I passed her ideas off as pure fancy and gave the blame to a submerged tree branch near the island. The strangeness did not begin to occur until that evening. Once we had returned home, my daughter had begun to talk about the woman in the water yet again, insisting on what she had seen. I completely dismissed the case once again and reminded her that there was no woman in the water. During her bath, however, she began to complain about her leg hurting where the woman had grabbed her. I inspected the leg, worried about she having scratched it on the submerged branch, when I had noticed a defined red hand print than enclosed her ankle. I stared at the red spot and wondered how I had missed it earlier that day. The print seemed quite fresh and strangely deep in color. I gave my daughter no reason for alarm in my demeanor and insisted that a tree branch must have inflicted the bruise. My concern lay more that I had been in the sun too long that day and that my mind was seeing things that were not there. The night had come and I put my daughter in her bed. I examined her leg once more to see the wound had continued to darken. I returned to my bedroom and sat on the edge of my bed. I wondered whether or not I had made the correct choice in ignoring my daughter for insisting that there had been a woman in the water. At length, I made myself comfortable in the bed, and tried to clear my head of the bruise I had seen and of the day.

In the early morning hours, somewhere around two, I head the television turn on in the living room. I assumed that it had been my daughter and rose from bed to send her back to hers. She was not allowed to watch TV so late at night. The volume was astounding and so loud that the walls nearly shook. I rose in anger and entered into the living room to find it empty. Had she simply turned on the TV and left simply to spite me? I turned off the TV and looked around the area to find that she was indeed in her bed and in a deep slumber. While I sat, engaged in guessing, the TV came back on. Immediately, I returned to the living room to see the TV back on and loud again. On the screen was a documentary of rivers. I found this strange and turned the volume down and the television off. At that moment I realized the sink was running at full blast in the kitchen. I was utterly bewildered but turned the sink off and went back to bed. I sat awake, intent on listening to the sounds in the house to see if anything strange occurred. For the remainder of the night, all strangeness ceased. My dreams though, were far from pleasant. I saw continual visions of water, dark and murky, like the river. I continually tossed and turned and had trouble sleeping without being trapped in the river. The morning found me making my coffee, singularly and far earlier than the usual time frame due to my inability to sleep. My weariness was heavy and I could feel the effects in my body and mind as all seemed to be trapped within a distinctive blur. The majority of the day passed in what seemed to be little to no time at all. Upon retrieving my daughter form her school, we returned home. Within the house was a scene of madness, and one that will forever strike me as supernatural.

Upon nearing the house, strange noises were heard inside. I opened the door with haste and was met with a strange sight. The three sinks were flowing water as well as the two bath tubs. The TV had been turned on yet again, but this time to a murder documentary, and the volume at full charge. My daughter collapsed and grabbed her ankle, swearing that there was a threatening grip upon her. I could not place these strange occurrences on the behavior of a prank playing child. These made no sense and my house had been confined to lock and key all day. Within the house, I felt an uneasy sense of being watched. My daughter’s bruised leg worsened to a blackened bruise state. She did not want to stay the night here, but I assured her that things would be alright and that the oddities were due to nothing more than the fancy of some prankster. I knew this to be a fallacy. We settled for the night and the house seemed uneasy. A sense of someone watching my dear child and I overtook me and I sat engaged in guessing at what fancy had betaken my mind’s eye. I sat entwined in staring at the ceiling in my chamber and breathing slowly to aid in finding sleep. The ceiling began to twist and turn in a morbid sense, as water twists within a river. The sound of water running began again and I dismissed it as nothing but mere fantasy. I assumed that my dreaming was catching the better of my senses and that the ceiling pattern in the darkness was tricking my eyes into disbelief. Then, the sound of water running possessed my ears. Again, I had fancied myself unto dreaming with little given in the way of actual occurrences in the realm of reality. A shriek from my daughter rang through the home and sent a shiver down my spine. A coldness betook my mind as though pins and needles had been shoved into the grey matter of my brain. I sat upright in the bed and rushed from my chamber to see what had caused the distraction. 62

Upon entering her room, there was no sign of her to be found and the noises within the house were sequentially unbearable as the water ran and the TV shouted at an elevated volume. My heart throbbed and my mind spun in furious circles as I panicked and began to try and find her. I soon heard a second shriek peel from the bathroom and rushed down the hallway. Once I had opened the bathroom door my eyes fell upon a seemingly surreal sight. My daughter was in the bathtub, submerged fully in water. Her hair twirled and spun about her face at an alarming rate and the water poured directly from the faucet onto her face. She appeared to have her eyes forced open by an unseen force. I yanked her from the water with much effort, as though she were being held in the tub. She gargled and spat out water as she screamed. Her eyes were bloodshot and she was in great fear, as was I. We had no time for solace as she was suddenly pulled by an unseen force by her ankle down the hallway, her leg held high in the air and her face and upper body scraping along the carpet. Here, I screamed in horror as I watched her become elevated completely from the floor and flung across the living room against the TV. I ran in chase, following her as the invisible monster dragged and moved her across the house before dragging her back down the hallway and into the bathroom yet again. I had pulled her with force from the tub a second time and ran into the living room with her clasped tightly in my arms. Water overflowed from all faucets in the house and a solid inch had accumulated at this point. I screamed in terror and begged the spirit for what it wanted, any sort of hint to end this madness. The house went black and the water stopped running. There was an unnerving silence in the house that flooded our ears. My 63

daughter’s sobs grew in volume as she trembled and shook in my arms. The TV turned on and illuminated the dark room. The only thing it showed was a missing female poster. It was a woman I had never seen before, she was young and beautiful yet totally unfamiliar. The TV began to hum in a low and ominous tone as it vibrated and then became water logged and shot sparks before turning black. The lurking fear encompassed us as we sat in silence. Hurriedly, we ran from the house with few possessions and I drove down to the local motel to rent a room for the night. We gave the clerk little to no explanation as to our abruptness in the early hours of the night but ensured that we would be gone by the morning. We settled in the room and I tucked my daughter in assuring that it was all a bad dream. She knew it was no dream though and shook and cried. She stated that the woman on the television screen had been the very same that she had seen in the river. My heart and blood grew as cold as ice and I did not sleep that night. After the morning came, I took her to school to say for the day and returned to my home alone. I opened the door to find everything completely dry and untouched by the previous night’s chaos. Every appliance in the house functioned properly and there was not a hint of dampness to be found. Here, I tried to leave the house when the television turned on untouched. I shuddered and turned to see the same image that I had the previous night when the water in the sink began to run yet again. I grabbed the keys to my boat and ran to my vehicle, prepared to once and for all end the madness that had taken my small family. I drove to the storage unit and picked up my boat before heading to the river. Once I had reached the river I lowered my boat into the water and made ready myself to travel back to the island. I 64

drove the time to the island, completely encompassed by madness. The water was far darker than it had been the past Sunday. I reached the island and ran to the side where my daughter had claimed to have been grabbed by the woman. I dove into the water, time and time again, grabbing into the dark water and praying to find only that of a tree branch. Among the third dive, I grabbed something. I grabbed something that was soft, with a firmness in the center like that of a human arm. No movement came as I surfaced and took a deep breath before diving again to where the thing was. I dove and this time latched onto the thing. It did not budge as I pulled with all of my might time and time again. The third drag I felt a snap and the object and I moved toward the surface. Upon breaking the water, I soon was locked on terror holding onto a decomposing and bloating body of what appeared to be a young woman. I swam toward the shore and dragged the body onto the flat portion of the island. The body was puffy and full of gasses from decomposition and stared with an unblinking eye into the sky above. There was a thin rope fastened to the feet of the girl that had snapped upon my pulling. I left the body there and returned to my boat before driving back to the launch and phoning the police. The next few hours were blurry due to a lack of sleep and exhaustion. The law enforcement officers recovered the body and identified it as the young woman who had been missing nearly two weeks. I lied when I said that I had found the body by simply diving regularly for fish and stumbling upon the grisly discovery. It did not take but simply one full day and evening before a murderer and motive had been confirmed. Her lover had killed her by strangling her before driving to a secluded region of the river and dropping her body over a small bridged some 400 yards north 65

of the island. The body was thought to have drifted with the small weights until it became entangled on the bottom near the island. I do not know what happened to him, nor do i care. I know that i shall never return to that river. I sold my boat soon after and moved houses within the year. I cannot shake the eyes of the body as they stared into the sky. I cannot shake the smell that the body emitted as it rotted along the shore. Most of all, and most hated of all, my daughter cannot shake the scar imbedded upon her ankle, the shape of a handprint from a lady trapped in the river.

~“The Secret of Connecticut” photo by Madgellen Cleary

SKINWALKER By Travis White

The setting sun slipped past the dark grey storm clouds brewing over the spruce forest, painting the autumn sky a brilliant shade of orange and pink. In the distance, lightning strobed within the growing storm; thunder rumbled and rolled across the gentle hills of the west pasture. The crisp, cold air stung his face and burned his lungs as Jackson and Preston made the hike to the truck.

“Storm’s rolling in,” Jackson panted.

“Yeah…” Preston’s voice trailed off. He still had not taken his eyes off the tree line since they left the ranch house.

“It’ll probably hit pretty soon,” Jackson mused, studying his friend’s distant expression. “Probably gonna scare off any coyotes or whatever did that,” he motioned back to the ranch house as he unlocked his truck.

“It wasn’t no fuckin’ coyote doin’ that,” Preston mumbled, reaching for his rifle case. “You know it, too.”

“Well it obviously wasn’t just one, but what else could it be? There weren’t any bear tracks or anything-”

“There weren’t any fuckin’ tracks!” Preston snapped. “No paw prints, no hoof prints, hell the damn buzzards wouldn’t even touch it!”

He smirked, dropping the 10 - round magazine from his rifle into the case and swapping it with one of his 30 - round magazines. He loaded the other five into their pouches and slung the rifle over his shoulder. Jackson shook his head, sliding his wooden bolt-action rifle out of its soft case.

“That’s a lot of ordnance,” he chuckled. “You planning on getting in a firefight with the feral pigs with your AR?”

“Don’t you get all liberal - pussy on me,” Preston smirked.

“I’m not man,” Jackson loaded the 4 - round box magazine into his rifle. “I just don’t think the coyotes are gonna shoot back at you-”

“Dude, come on!” Preston slammed the case shut with a sharp crack. “When’s the last time you saw a coyote rip a cow in half and throw it seven yards?”

“Well, what do you wanna do about that then?” Jackson snapped.

“Leave,” Preston turned to face him. “This whole thing feels wrong. This whole place feels wrong.”

“Well, the way I see it,” Jackson shoved two extra magazines into his breast pockets, “wrong, right, doesn’t matter. A paycheck’s a paycheck. And ol’ Farmer Brown has a good bit of money to throw around, apparently.”

“No paycheck’s worth gettin’ killed by whatever did that!” Preston pleaded.

“Come on, dude,” Jackson patted his shoulder, “animals do weird shit all the time. It’s nothing! Besides, this is money you can put toward that pretty diamond ring for Chelsea…”

“Won’t matter if we fucking die, you stubborn cun-!” he stammered.

“Preston!” Jackson cut him off. “Calm the fuck down!”

Preston leaned back against the truck, his eyes darting from the pasture along the treeline. The cold wind kicked up a cloud of bone- 68

white dust around their truck. Thunder growled through the trees in the distance.

“Fine,” Preston sighed. “You win. Let’s get this shit done.”

The sun had set by the time the two had gotten set up, Jackson watching the pasture and Preston over at the game trail in the woods. The storm hovered quietly in the sky, towards the city, but had not crept any closer. The wind had long died down, leaving an eerie calm in its wake. Jackson stroked his neatly trimmed beard, gazing out at the now still forest. He unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt.

“How’re you holding up out there?” He radioed Preston. After a moment of silence, the radio hissed back to life.

“I’m doin’ fine, just sitting here with my thumb up my ass,” the radio crackled. “How’s the pasture lookin’?”

Jackson peered through the scope of his rifle, scanning the pale, moon-lit hills. He followed the fenceline with his crosshairs, where the pasture melded into the blackened forest. He swept past what he figured was just the shadow of another one of the heifers, then snapped back to the shadow. It was a full grown elk; a bull with a rack larger than any he had ever seen.

“Shame you went out of season a month ago,” Jackson whispered, bringing the walkie-talkie back up to his mouth.

The bull’s head shot up, staring at him with orange eyes, glowing as if it were staring into the light, but there was no spotlight, no headlights, not even the moonlight poking through the clouds. It reared up, standing on its hind legs, and bounded off into the forest on two feet.

Jackson sat, startled and frozen, staring through his scope into the forest, as the wind picked back up, rustling through the trees. The hairs on his neck stood up. His heart was pounding.

“Dude?” Preston’s crackling voice broke his trance.

“... I just saw some really weird shit,” Jackson laughed. He had no idea what else to do but laugh.

“‘Animals do weird shit all the time,’” Preston sneered, “remember?”

“Nah man. This is going to sound insane, but have you ever heard of an elk walking on its back legs?”

“... What?” The voice was garbled; something was interfering with the signal.

“Yeah. It’s heading your way too,” Jackson shivered, watching the white wisps of his breath slither away into the cold night.

“Too bad all I’ve got is fuckin’ .223…”

“Too bad elk is out of season, dumbass.”

The radio hissed; Preston was holding down the send button, but he remained silent. The hissing died. The wind died. In the distance, lightning flashed silently through the clouds.

A rifle shot shattered eerie stillness; cracking like thunder across the gentle rolling hills and echoing down the pasture. The treeline exploded into a flurry of squawking and flapping as flocks of blackbirds took flight. Two more shots rang out in the dead night, as something screamed, deep in the forest. As if someone flipped a switch, the wind returned, blowing into the forest. Jackson yanked the bolt of his rifle back, chambering a round, and slammed it home. He grabbed the radio, fumbling with the buttons in his shaking hands. 70

“Preston, what the HELL is going on?!” he cried. He waited. The seconds dragged on; the wind had begun to howl. The cattle bawled and bayed, stirred from their slumber.

“PRESTON. Are you there?!” he screamed into the receiver. Only the wind answered.

“Preston, if you can hear me, stay where you are. I’m coming along the game trail from the south,” he paused, “don’t fucking shoot me!”

He bolted from his camp stool as another unearthly howl erupted from the forest, much closer this time.

He came to the clearing where Preston had parked the truck. His heart dropped as he stared, dumbfounded, at the empty gravel clearing where the truck should have been. He swept the ground with the beam of his flashlight, searching for any sign of footprints or tire tracks leaving the lot. There was nothing. He shook his head. If the truck had been stolen, he surely would have heard the alarm, let alone the engine turning over. As impossible as it seemed, the truck had simply vanished without a trace, along with their extra ammunition and rifles. He gulped, turning off the gravel road and into the forest.

The game trail ran parallel to a small creek bisecting the forest, running off the property towards the Navajo reservation. Over the wind and the thunder and his own panicked breath, he struggled to hear even his own footsteps as he slunk through the forest, lunging and stumbling to avoid tripping over the blanket of roots weaving across the dirt. At the edge of his flashlight beam, the branches twisted and blurred with the howling wind, morphing into menacing phantoms in his mind as he searched blindly for his friend among the woods. As he stumbled further and further along the path and into the forest, the full-bodied aroma of pine slowly faded, replaced with a strong, metallic stench. 71

As he swept the forest floor with his light, a sharp gleam caught his eye. It was bright and yellow. He snapped the rifle up to his shoulder. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he breathed a sigh of relief; it was just a shell casing. He scooped the spent brass up, examining along the bottom. The casing was dirty, covered in some strange oily, black substance. Encircling the bright silver primer, he could just barely make out the stamped ‘.223 Win.’ lettering. This was Preston; no doubt about it. He held his fingers up to the light, studying the strange black substance that had coated the brass. He sniffed the oily substance. It felt like blood. It smelled like blood. He swept the forest floor with his flashlight. Dozens of small black droplets glistened in the cold white beam, forming a trail alongside Preston’s boot prints, leading deeper into the forest.

Preston was being chased.

The tracks and the black globs on the damp brown pine needles were spaced few and far between; whatever was chasing Preston was quick. As he strayed further from the game trail and deeper into the forest, the smell was almost overpowering. He gagged, dropping to a knee as he retched.

In the mud next to his foot, he could make out a fresh hoofprint. It was a split hoof, but it was far too small to be the elk he saw in the pasture, and yet as he looked at the tracks through the mud, something seemed off about them. Something he could not quite place; that tugged at the back of his mind. He stared, crouched over the trail, until it hit him: it was the stride. It was running on two legs, like the elk.

“My god,” he whispered as his voice quivered, “there’s two of them.”

“Mi gowd,” a gravelly voice squawked from just beyond the treeline, “sers tu uv nem.”

Jackson whipped the light up to the trees, searching for the source of the sound. After a moment, he realized that he recognized the garbled voice.

It was Preston.

“Preston! You OK?” he called out to the darkness.

“Yah!” Preston chirped, closer now. “Jus zittin’ ere wit mi thum up mi as!”

“You sure bro?” Jackson chuckled nervously. “You sound like you hit your head or something.”

He heard heavy, clumsy footsteps crashing towards him just past the edge of his flashlight beam. He barely noticed the cold as he quivered. Something was approaching, not Preston.

Something was talking to him, using his friend’s voice.

“Yah! Jus sittin’ here bro!” it replied. It’s speech was clearer, more coherent.

It was learning how to speak. He shuddered, a lump forming in his throat.

He leveled his rifle to the darkness, gripping the flashlight along the barrel with his forward hand. The steps grew closer. The air felt almost electrified, like right before a lightning strike. The nauseating metallic odor burned his throat with each breath.

At the left edge of his light, he could just make out a darkened, vaguely humanoid shadow. His arms froze as he tried to move the light. His instincts told him not to look. They told him to drop the light. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to run. He swallowed, shifted the beam of his light. His mind reeled as he stared at the creature

It was covered from head to toe in wiry, shaggy black hair. Its feet were hooved, caked in mud and pine needles. It raised its hairy, ape-like hands up to its face to block the light. The yellow nails of its fingers had to be at least three inches long, and were caked with grime and blood. It staggered forward, lowering its arms to reveal its long, goat-like snout. Black, curved horns grew from the mass of matted hair on its head.

“No please,” It protested, the long clumps of tangled hair swayed as it lifted its arms again, “please don’!”

The rifle bucked, thundering out into the still night. The creature’s black blood splattered against the trees just behind the fresh hole in its head as it crumpled to the ground. It wheezed, then let out an impossibly loud ear-splitting wail. The cry shook Jackson to his very core, as he stared at the convulsing creature. The wind screamed once again through the trees as another wail answered from deeper in the forest. And another. And another. Soon, the forest was alive with screams and howls all around him. The creature rose slowly back to its feet. It stared him down with glowing yellow eyes and bellowed, charging. He dodged it and bolted further off into the forest.

The thin branches whipped and stung his arms, the needles stabbed his face, as he sprinted through the twisted and tangled trees. He had been running for what felt like hours, as a chorus of inhuman screams and wails erupted from seemingly all sides. He could hear the beast trampling behind him. He could almost feel its breath on his neck as he ran. He had lost whatever trail he had. There was no creek, no fence line, no game trail, only a seemingly endless labyrinth of trees and stumps, gullies and roots.

His foot caught a downed log, sending him tumbling down a muddy embankment. As he rolled, he dropped his light, and his rifle slipped off of his shoulder. He came to a stop just next to a 74

rocky stream. The wet smell of dead pine needles and dirt was almost enough to mask the nauseating stench of the creatures. He covered his neck and head as he cowered in the mud. Along the trail above him, he heard the creature’s hooves stomping, bounding further along the path. He watched it stumble and slip as it came to a stop, sniffing at the base of one of the spruce trees. The same tree his flashlight beam was shining on.

Jackson scrambled through the loam, his wet fingers closing around the cold metal tube. He fumbled for the button; the beam danced wildly through the trees until finally he clicked the soft rubber switch off. The creature stopped. He held his breath as he watched its shaggy head dart from tree to tree. It dropped to its haunches, sniffing the base of the tree. In the distance, another cry echoed through the trees, bringing the thing to its feet. It brayed in reply, bounding off in the direction of the sound. He lay there, cowering in the muck, as the forest fell silent again.

He pushed himself up on trembling arms. His knees gave out as he tried to stand; he caught himself on a tree as he fell. He gagged, doubled over, and puked up his last meal. As the waves of nausea subsided, his whole body shook with mind-numbing terror. His mind raced. He had never seen nor heard of anything like this in his entire life. His friend was lost somewhere in these godforsaken woods. He was lost somewhere in these godforsaken woods. At any moment, another one of those things could come screaming out of the darkness, ripping him to shreds with its yellow, filthy claws. With each quivering step, each ragged breath, he hoped he would blink himself awake in his shitty, messy apartment, free from this nightmare.

“Jackson?” a voice called out behind him.

Preston’s voice.

He wheeled around, switching the flashlight back on, bathing the figure on the other side of the stream in the flickering light. Preston raised his arms, blocking the light from his eyes. His forearms were covered in deep, bloody grooves, bordered by dark purple bruises. A streak of blood trickled from his matted blond hair. His clothes were caked with dried blood and dirt; but it was, without a doubt, Preston.

“Ow! Turn that off!” He protested.

“Oh thank Christ!” Jackson sighed. “We need to leave, now.”

“Yeah, I have been looking for you!” He motioned to the trail behind him, “this path leads out!”

Jackson staggered up the slope, wincing as aching muscles burned in protest. Somewhere near the top, the mud gave way and threatened to send him tumbling back down to the streambed. Preston grabbed his forearm, pulling him up onto the trail.

“Christ, man, you have no idea how glad I am to see you,” Jackson laughed. Preston smiled, staring down into the streambed.

“Yes, I have been looking for you,” he said, almost robotically. After a brief pause, he chuckled under his breath.

“Dude, do you have any idea what the hell’s going on here?” Jackson motioned to the trees encircling them. “What the fuck are those things?!”

“Hmm?” Preston cocked his head to the side.

“You hit your head or something?” Jackson asked, taking a step back, “Where the hell have you been?! And where’s your goddamn rifle?!” He clenched his fists as his fear gave way to anger. Here they were, lost in the woods, hunted by a pack of otherworldly monsters,

and Preston barely seemed to realize anything was wrong despite practically begging to leave just a few hours ago.

“Rifle?” Preston asked, almost staring through his friend. Again, he chuckled, “What?”

“Jesus, FUCK, forget it!” Jackson threw up his arms in exasperation; he figured his friend was just shell-shocked. “We’ll get it in the morning. Maybe. I don’t fucking care, let’s just go!”

He followed Preston further along the web of game trails and roots snaking across the forest floor, in spite of his better judgment. His friend was clearly concussed, yet Jackson had almost no other option but to push forward. Besides, Preston seemed to know where he was going. Better than him, at least. In spite of this streak of good fortune, a growing sense of unease welled up in his mind with each step they took. The way Preston was acting, the way he was speaking, how they just happened to stumble into each other while hopelessly lost in the forest, all of it was just wrong. These kind of coincidences only happened in movies or books with shitty writers, not the real world, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that he wasn’t going to suddenly wake from this fever-dream. Yet here was his friend, covered in scratches and bruises, unwilling or unable to acknowledge the gravity of their situation.

The uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach grew with each passing minute. They had been walking for half an hour now, their silence broken only by the rustling of the wind and Preston’s insane chuckling. His misplaced laughter only set Jackson further on edge. With each bout of laughter, something deep within his mind was screaming at him that something was wrong, yet he still failed to grasp just what it was.

“We are almost there!” Preston piped up cheerily, before letting out another stifled chuckle, when it finally came to him.

Each time the laugh was exactly the same, like a recording.

Jackson froze, reaching for the pistol at his hip. Preston stopped, slowly turning to face him.

“Who the hell are you...” Jackson growled, unclipping the strap on his holster. Preston cocked his bloody head, unfazed.

“What do you mean?” He asked. It was Preston’s voice again, but someone or something else was speaking for him. Jackson drew his pistol.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!” He screamed. The pistol shook in his hands, the sights danced over this thing’s head. It chuckled again, sending a chill through his body.

“Do you really think that will save you?” A full ear to ear grin spread across its face. “Do you really think anything can save you?”

Jackson stood firm just past the swaying tree line at the edge of the meadow, still holding the gun to his lifelong friend. Dandelion seeds tumbled through the air across the clearing, whipping and whirling in a dizzying waltz around the creature who wore his friend’s face. Lightning flashed under the clouds, bathing the meadow in a cold, pale light. Thunder crashed, only to be swept away amidst the roaring wind. In the distance, on the other end of the clearing, he saw it.

The elk.

It stared him down with glowing orange eyes as it approached. He blinked, and it closed the gap instantly. Preston stepped aside, and it took its place in front of him. It was massive, bigger than any elk he had ever seen in his life. Its head shot up to the darkened sky as it bugled, a sharp, wheezing sound that seemed to bore straight through his ears and into his mind. He tried to shoot, but his hand was frozen. He tried to run, but his legs would not move. He felt 78

his mind slipping away as he stared into the creature's eyes. In the clearing, Preston chuckled.

The elk was gone now, almost as if it were never there at all. Instead, a lanky old man sat on his haunches in its place. His tan, leathery skin barely clung to his bones, and he was clothed in rags and elk skin, his chest-length, greasy black hair was crowned with an elk skull, antlers and all. His eyes had the same inhuman orange glow. The man rose to his feet, reaching out to Jackson.

He exhausted every ounce of willpower he had left, commanding his numb legs to run, his frozen hands to fight, all to no avail. The man’s wrinkled, bony fingers hovered inches from Jackson’s forehead. In his mind, he was screaming, but his gaping jaw was silent. The man touched his head, Jackson’s eyes rolled back, and his whole world crumbled as he fell into an endless black abyss.

The void grew colder and colder as he tumbled further and further into nothing. Seconds dragged into minutes, minutes stretched into hours, and he could have sworn he had been falling for days.

Eventually he found himself lying on his back in the meadow. Preston was gone, the old man, the elk, and even the storm were all gone, leaving the bright Northern Arizona sky above. He eased himself onto one knee, gazing wearily along the tree line. The grass, the flowers, and the dandelions held fast amidst the stagnant air, and the starry vault above was perfectly mirrored in the beautifully still pond in the distance.

He braced himself against a cedar tree, easing himself up onto his feet. The meadow swayed and spun as a wave of dizziness struck him back down to one knee. He stared at the still grass, bleached to a chalky grey from the pale full moon overhead. As his senses came to him, he gazed back up to the stars. 79

They were moving.

The stars and the moon glided in a gentle arc across the sky, slipping towards the horizon as the soft pink glow of dawn bled across the sky in their wake. In a matter of seconds, the morning sun beat the darkness back behind the trees, sliding up higher and higher in its arc, before drifting back down towards the tree line as the darkness chased it back out of the sky.

The sun, moon, and stars wheeled faster with each cycle, with night and day passing in a matter of seconds, until each cycle ended quicker than he could blink. The sun and the stars spun quicker and quicker until the entire horizon was bleached to a bright, burning white light. The needles fell from the pine trees, the flowers wilted, and the grass withered away, but the cedar tree stood unscathed.

He jerked his head down from the blinding light and back towards the dying meadow. Some of the grass had disappeared, giving way to a thin dirt game trail. He followed it back up to the tree line. There, standing at the meadow’s edge, a figure waited, wrapped in the only shadows left in the clearing. The silhouette stood perfectly still, yet the inky darkness writhed and squirmed, clinging to its lanky frame, like a drop of blood in the fresh snow. No matter how long Jackson stared, he could not focus on the figure.

The figure now stood before him, just a few paces away. The trees along the meadows edge crumbled, the splinters kicked up with the dying grass to the ever-spinning heavens above.

Jackson stumbled, falling backwards in shock. Just moments ago he could barely see it from across the meadow. He scrambled back to his feet.

“What are you?!” He finally found the words.

“Please…” the figure begged.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!” Jackson cried, his voice all but lost to the roar of the wind and the rustling of dead leaves engulfing them.

“My name is Sheridan Aleck...” its velvety voice was almost deafening. The meadow melted away as the light stretched all around them.

“SAVE ME.”

PART II WILL BE AVAILABLE IN THE ONLINE PUBLICATION, COMING SOON

~“Stairway” by Rachel Willeford

POST TRAUMATIC By Zechariah Js. Turk

This letter is not what I expected, I began to write and the words and thoughts just poured out as though the letter wrote itself. This is an open letter to the man who changed me forever. I will never forget the day. Some people know this about me, some people do not.

I will always remember you, and the day you decided to play God on the beaches of Macfadden on June 30th, 2013. I was about to graduate college and was excited to try out my new kayak. I don’t remember anything leading up to the moment you decided to take the lives of two people and then yourself. I vividly remember everything that followed though in explicit detail. I often have nightmares about that day, just to remind me in case I had forgotten. I was on my tailgate when you and your friends pulled up to where your ex-wife, her new boyfriend, and your daughter were playing on the beach. I was the blue ford right next to them, but I doubt you noticed. I’ll never forget the way you threw your door open and began to shout. It shattered the silence I was enjoying after having kayaked all day. You were shouting like a thug and already had your pistol drawn and pointed at your ex-wife. I guess you had done something like this before because she walked toward you all too calm. That’s when you pulled the trigger and put your explicit words into horrifying actions and spilled her brains onto the sand. The people all around ran away in terror as you fired four more shots into her new boyfriend. I was so close that I could hear the bullets as they pounded holes into innocent lives not more than four feet away. You sprayed several shots around before you turned the gun

on yourself and painted the sand with the blood of the only guilty man in attendance. The sounds of shots fired and bullets whizzing past changes a man forever. I will never know which changed me more, the action, or the follow up. I remember there was no saving you or your ex- wife. Both of you were dead although your bodies still twitched and drained their substances into the sand. The man who you shot four times was still very much alive. If you didn’t know, or if you were completely gone, he lived on for a few minutes afterward. We tried to save him in any way we could, but the three holes in his chest and one in his neck stopped any CPR. His moan may be what changed me forever. Maybe it was the way he vomited before he passed away into another realm of existence. I bet you didn’t know that I was a hunter, in fact I had killed many animals for food. That was the only time though I had actually watched the life leave another living creature’s eyes. Maybe that is what changed me forever. The most innocent person there was your daughter. I wish you could have hung around to hear her screams, to try and dry her tears, because I was. We pulled a tarp over you and placed a beach towel over your ex-wife. Her boyfriend lay in the shallow surf and his blood flowed freely into the water. I wish you were there to hold your daughter and tell her it would be okay so that I didn’t have to.

I was there while your friends sped off and left me and one other man to cover the chaos. The people gathered after a few minutes to see your body count as though it was some sort of circus show. I was there too until your brother made his way out to identify your body. I was there for over an hour as the three bodies were identified and zipped into large black bags never to be seen again.

It was not the first time I had witnessed death. It was not even the first gun fight I had seen, for I had been in one almost two years 84

prior in San Antonio. The only difference was now it was in my safe place where I was happiest, and there were children involved. It was an accumulation of things to be honest. It was just a storm front of things that collided to create pure madness that changed me from that day forward. I get nervous now in large crowds and try to avoid going into public when I can. I sit with my back to the wall when eating at restaurants. I can never focus solely on a conversation because I am too busy focusing on everyone else’s actions in the room. I have recurring nightmares frequently and lack the ability to sleep the entire night through. At times I lie awake in bed and pray for hour on end for sleep to come even though some nights it never does.

I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in almost a year leading up to the day I met you. Now it’s almost become a necessary part of me. Even as I write this, I stare down the barrel of another loaded bottle. The months that followed that day saw me begin to change the person I was. I am sorry that you lost your wife to another man, but I have lost almost everything to you. Your actions turned me into someone completely different. I lost the woman I had been with for four years because I became angry all the time. I had never physically exploded and broken things before, but in the immediate months it became a normal occurrence. Those nearest me have all tried to help, but nothing ever has. I went so far as to move away from the town where you and I had both lived. I grew up on that beach, it was five days before my 22nd birthday when you lost your temper and I had been walking the sands of that beach all 22 of those years. I loved that beach more than anything, and since that day I’ve never seen its sands.

I have tried to go to meetings and find help. At the first meeting I had gone to I heard a young man tell his friend that I 85

hadn’t even served, so how could I suffer? I never tried to find help from anyone else ever again. The May before we met, I had competed at the international speech and debate tournament in Rome, Italy. I don’t know if you know what prose writing is, but I was the world champion in it at that tournament. I usually competed in at least six events per tournament and placed in all of them. In the two years before, I had won more than seventy medals and competed in four national tournaments, gold medaling in them all. The year after you, I only made it to one tournament, and didn’t even place, so I retired. My grades were affected too, but despite you, I graduated college with two associate degrees. The three deaths you caused that day were not the first I had ever seen, as I had seen a man drown when I was only ten, but they were the most gruesome. The chaos was irreversible and the visions remain. Everything seems fuzzy and vague at times and sometimes I begin to question my sanity. You robbed me of my athletic abilities and my MMA career. I was 5-0 in MMA as an amateur, but I’ve only been in a training gym twice since that day. My motivation grew stale and my love for the physical fitness faded.

I’ve been taking more stupid risks since I lost that young woman I was with because you changed me. I’ve become more reckless and ready for death. I don’t know anyone else as prepared and ready as I am, but I do not let it get the better of me. I have sewn myself back together since losing her. Like I am some hapless and thrown together scarecrow. At one point my depression had become so severe that I found myself contemplating suicide. I called an old friend who talked me out of it and I drank that night until I was unconscious.

Two years after we met, I found myself lost out at sea in a kayak and fighting to stay alive. I made it back to shore if you were wondering. I got a tattoo from my favorite book to remind me never to give up. I don’t know if you read much, but the book is called “The Old Man and the Sea”. The quote goes, “Man is not made for defeat, a man can be destroyed, but not defeated.” I love that quote, so I got it tattooed on me with a half-eaten marlin. When I see it on my arm, it reminds me of that day, along with the hardships and trials that came with it. I know you had many tattoos, and I wonder if any of them had any meaning. Despite your best efforts, people still call me Mr. Brightside. Some good came from your actions of evil, for I now run the soup kitchen at my church. I preach to people regularly about love and peace. I donate to the needy and try to be a good person.

Almost three years to the day later I saved a family from a capsized sailboat. The people all called me “Hero” and they all loved me and knew me by name. People bought me things and news stations interviewed me, as if what I had done wasn’t expected of people. I saved three people. Maybe it was God’s way of trying to patch the three people you had taken that day. It was June 20th, 2016. People stopped into the liquor store where I work just to see me. It almost made me forget about you, and your actions. The way you had been causing me to suffer for the past three years. It almost doesn’t count though, and I am sure you know that too. I pray that wherever you are, floating around in the universe, that you have found peace. You have forever taken mine away from me. I hope you are well and I pray for your daughter though I haven’t seen her since the last time I saw you. It is with care that I close this letter. I pray that whoever reads my letter to you can take a moment to think about others before they pass judgement. I pray that they find peace with themselves and never take the path that

you took. I seem happy on the outside, but my interior is a dark place and at times I can’t help but slip into that void. I don’t know how many people will read this, but I hope they all can take something away from it, but not in the way that you took away from me. Sincerely yours, ZT

TIME’S UP By AVA

I awoke with a chill running down my spine that forced me to sit up. I was drenched in sweat. I slowly rolled my arm to check my right wrist and saw it, a black 10 embedded in my skin. My timer had begun. I had 10 hours to find them.

I rushed out of my front door, without even adorning fresh clothes, and began to run down the street. I called my best friend to tell her that my timer had appeared and that I was running to her apartment right then, before she hung up, I heard a gentle sniffle from her line. It took me almost 35 minutes to reach her house. I ran into her arms, almost knocking her over in the process, and she collapsed to her knees. She reacted exactly like I thought she would, but we decided not to waste time and help me get ready to face them in only 9 hours. She brought out many outfits for me to try on, but none of them felt right for the moment I was doomed to encounter. I eventually settled for a simple jean and hoodie combination, it was better than nothing. I hugged her and made my way; hopefully I would see her again.

I spent 5 hours wandering around downtown alone, and watching for anything out of the ordinary. At first I was simply exploring my favorite shops in the area, trying to hide my timer from sight. One man in a small antique shop saw the timer, and embraced me, with tears streaming down his face. He raised the sleeve of his shirt and I took a step back, his timer read only a 0. He wiped tears from his eyes and wished me luck on my adventure. I left the store without buying anything; I wouldn’t need any more material items.

After a delicious dinner I looked at my timer and it read 2. Only 2 hours, I can’t believe this is really happening. I threw money on the table, pulled my hood over my head and left the café. I 89

began to walk around again, but a man on the other side of the street caught my eye. I stopped to get a good look at him; he was well built, not big or bulky, just kind of an average man. He looked me in the eye and gave me a look that made my heart skip a beat. We continued walking our separate ways, I hoped I wouldn’t see him again, the fact that he could cause me to be knocked off guard means that he might be the man I’m looking for. I found my way to my favorite park and sat at the edge of the fountain, where the cherry blossom tree is in full view and there are hardly any buildings obstructing the view. The park is beautiful in the hour before sunset, the street lamps are barely lit, the attendees are all heading home, and a person can just be alone with their thoughts here. I looked up to the sky to take in the first glimpse of changing colors, but the sound of approaching footsteps caught my attention.

“Beautiful day isn’t it?” I looked forward and saw a man approaching me. It was him. It was the man from the street. I looked around and all of the other park goers had vanished. I stood up, and checked my arm, 0. It was time.

“I was wondering when this moment would happen. I’ve waited years for this.” I took my hood off of my head so I could get a good view of him. I rolled up my sleeves and walked towards him. “So how are we going to do this? Standard rules?” I was less than 4 feet away from him, I could see the bright green pigment in his eyes, and how his hair just barely sat in front of them.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to play by the standard rules.” He took a step forward and looked me up and down. He was sizing me up, he’s feeling confident. We both took steps closer to each other, and so it began. Our fight to the death, only one of us would survive.

~“Frozen” photo by Megan John

~“Spirit Animal” by Ashvin Adarsh

THE MIRROR MAN By Zechariah Js. Turk

Upon a glance I may seem as though my strangeness is unjustified. I may appear as though the random ticks and audible mumbles are that of a mad man. I am not mad though I tell you, I am merely haunted. The details leading up to my present state are so fantastic that had I not lived them, I would not bear the ability to believe them myself. Spare me a moment of your time and I can prove to you that I am not mad. I can describe, in detail, the events leading up to my present state of mind and then, then you will believe me.

It had begun exactly one year ago, shortly after I had moved into my new apartment. My wife and I were in the midst of a divorce, and I was under a tremendous amount of stress. The pain of being replaced was excruciating. I was noted as “peevish” and “a weak man” by her new lover. To be honest, I never fancied myself a strong man. I had been noticeably walked upon in all aspects of life. My stature (obviously) is not one to be made for intimidation. Existence at the time was difficult.

I was about my normal morning rituals in preparation for work. I was in front of my mirror, leaning very close, moving with smooth downward strokes of a razor. I had locked eyes with my reflection and immediately became disgusted with the man looking back at me. He appeared weak, even his eyes were weak. However, in my examination of my face, which was placed merely three inches away from the mirror glass, I noticed a twitch in my eyelid. I had not felt a twitch myself, so it struck me as odd.

I moved my face closer, now only an inch away from the glass. I was near enough for my breath to create a slight fog upon the mirror. Looking into my own eyes, I was focusing hard when at an instance, I witnessed my reflection blink. 93

The sudden realization of the impossibility I had just seen caused me to leap backwards from the mirror and place my back against the wall. I was breathing heavily, and was very nervous. After a few minutes of justifying what I had seen, I brought my half shaven face close to the glass again. I completely convinced myself that I had only imagined the thing. After all, I was lacking sleep lately and was very tired.

I finished my morning rituals without any further incidents. Even the entire day at my job seemed to run normally. My day had come and gone and my weary mind kept wandering back to the incident. I lay in bed that night, not for more than several minutes when I had fallen to sleep. The night’s dreams brought me a certain level of discomfort as I nervously awaited the morning. The following morning had come and gone without incident as well.

Weeks had passed and I forgot the moment all together, passing it off as a sleep deprived hallucination. Those things, or so I read, were very common when one is exposed to great amounts of stress.

It was nearly six weeks after the original incident. I was back in front of the mirror again, this time I was preparing for sleep. I had finished my shower and was about to brush my teeth, as was usual. I was, admittedly, looking down when I reached for my toothbrush. I specifically reached for it with my left hand, but from the peripherals of my vision I witnessed something. My reflection had reached with the opposite hand, stopped midway, and then continued with the hand as, as to mirror my image. I jumped, obviously startled by the great movement made. I glared at the mirror, this time sure of what I had seen. My pulse had quickened at an alarming rate. The reflection though, continued to mirror my image. Zero delays in time occurred as I sporadically waved my hand in front of the mirror. I jumped. I yelled. I did a double take.

The reflection kept in synchronized movements, never missing a beat.

I was absolutely sure this time. I knew I had seen the movement differ from my own. I stared, transfixed into the reflections eyes. The eyes were my own eyes, yet they were somehow different. Something about them seemed unnatural, almost surreal. The feeling was similar to staring into the eyes of someone with a similar color of your own. I felt uneasy the longer I stared into the eyes of the reflection.

I immediately left the bathroom and entered my bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed contemplating the reality of what I had seen. I, again, began to justify the oddity on the depravity of sleep. Stress about personal matters was at an all-time high as well. There were many factors that could attribute to my mind simply playing tricks on me. I knew the peripherals of the eyes were subject to the trickery of shadows. They are, after all, made to detect movement and are very sensitive to light changes. It may have been nothing more than a light change.

I convinced myself again that the stress of everyday life was beginning to take its toll and that I was simply in need of a full night’s rest. I took to resting in the bed in a reclined position, listening to the noises of the ceiling fan as it whirled around. I could not keep my pulse down this time. Things had become strange in the house and strange in my mind. I was not mad though. The feeling of madness did not at any moment envelope me. I was instead, fearful. I lie awake for the greater part of the night still worried by what I had experienced.

The morning came after what seemed like many hours slowly ticking by. I was able to sleep for maybe ten to twenty minutes at a time before I would awaken from nightmares. I nervously entered the bathroom this time no strangeness was to be seen. There was 95

nothing for the entire morning that would have been stricken as odd. I was sleep deprived. I avoided the bathroom at all costs. I went to work with an unshaven face and un-brushed hair. I spent the remainder of the day trying to spot my reflection missing a beat anytime I passed by a window or any sort of glass. I was slightly unnerved to return back to the apartment, but I did.

Once inside, the nervousness had slowly diminished as I went about my evening rituals with no incident. That night, still kept a certain uneasy sleeplessness about it. I was not entirely certain that I should let my guard down.

Several weeks had passed, but this time, the uneasy feeling had not. I became ever increasingly paranoid about the mirror, and for good reason. I would walk by in passing, keeping a keen eye out for any trickery. At night, I could not sleep for the nightmares of mirrors and my own reflection began to consume my thoughts. My work life was affected as many co-workers would make comments about my increasingly rough appearance and the large, dark, circles that had formed around my eyes.

Now it had been a full four months since the original incident. Only two had occurred thus far. I could not shake the feeling that the eyes of my reflection were not that of my own. Physically everything seemed identical, but his eyes were different. I knew this. I knew he was someone else, so I avoided the mirror at all costs.

On this night, four months removed, there came another incident. I had entered the restroom to relieve myself, when from the corner of my eye I noticed my reflection was precisely one step behind me. I turned, shocked to the mirror and the reflection matched my pace.

“Listen you!” I shouted at the reflection, “I know you are up to something!” I sat panting as my blood pressure began to rise. I began to ready myself for the reflection to answer. I sat, leaning 96

hard on the wall behind me, gazing into the eyes that I knew were not that of my own.

“Answer me!” I shouted again. No reply came, there was no recant. I stared at length for the better part of ten minutes.

Then I noticed something, something very strange, and something that confirmed my allegations at the man in the mirror. I took a step towards the mirror to view a smudge in the bottom right corner. Very cautiously, I leaned near the glass, keeping a very wary eye on the reflection. I examined the smudge. It appeared to be a hand print. My attentive cleaning and avoidance of the mirror made it impossible for it to have been there, ever.

I sat engaged in examining when I made a startling discovery. The hand print was on the inside of the glass. I began to shake with worry as I lifted my hand and neared it to the smudge. I could see that the handprint was that of my own. Everything about it matched, but it was on the other side of the glass. It was not on my own.

I quickly withdrew my hand, amazed. I was astounded at what I had discovered. This was proof that there was someone on the other side of the glass. I hurriedly rushed to leave the restroom to fetch my camera when I slipped. The rug on the floor had moved out from beneath me, I reached out my arm to catch myself, my hand landing in the exact spot of the smudge. I slowly withdrew my hand to see that the handprint now shown on both sides of the glass.

What was this madness? What had occurred in this instance? Was this mirror a portal to a separate time? Could this glass predict the future? If that were the case, why was the reflection behind today? Things did not make sense as the strangeness was taking ahold of me. I knew how to combat this feeling. I would clean the mirror and move on to cover the mirror with a sheet so that the

only thing it could reflect would be the sheet and my reflection would, essentially, be gone.

This was the perfect plan to ease my worry and rid myself of the cursed reflection for good. I cleaned the mirror of the smudge very diligently. There was a sense in the air of someone around me. Someone was watching very closely, I could feel it in my bones.

I had finished cleaning the smudge and went on to grab a dark green sheet from the closet. I stood on the restroom counter and tacked the sheet into place. Not a single inch of the mirror was visible from behind the sheet. There was no way anything could be reflected at this point except the dark green cover of the sheet. I felt slightly more at ease with the deed. I stared at the sheet to see no reflection.

Back into my room I walked and sat upon the edge of the bed. I knew sleep would yet again elude me, this time for good. I held my head in my hands, breathing heavily still. My heart still beat fast and loud was the ringing in my ears. I then decided that no reflection of mine was acceptable. I drew all of the blinds on the windows in order to shield myself from the chance that the man in the reflection would see me. Once I had finished covering all the glass, I sat in my living room at ease in my recliner. The only light illuminating the room was above my head. Then I realized the glass on the television was reflective as well. I walked over and turned the damned thing down onto its face to cover it.

Would a man so insane have been as wise as this? I do not believe so. A man as crazy as they say would not have been so clever as to eliminate the threat completely yet, be able to go on about his daily life avoiding his reflection. The only problem was that my co- workers and friends seemed to know that something was amiss. The following four days included little sleep and the weary look

seemingly reflected on my outward appearance as more and more questions began to arise.

My performance at work must have been noticeably changing. My employer requested a meeting with me on the afternoon three days after the latest occurrence. I was instructed to take time away from work. I was informed that I was beginning to cost the company money and that I should take time away to collect myself. My job was secure, but for the present time, was terminated. He seemed to understand greatly about the loss of my wife to another man.

Should I have told him about the man in the mirror though? The man in the mirror was the cause of these problems and seemed to encompass all rational thoughts I had during the day. I could not mention the man in the mirror. I knew he would think me crazy. I was not crazy. I am not crazy.

I agreed to take a leave of absence. It may have proved fruitful for me to clear my mind and focus solely on the divorce and attempts to gain custody of my children. I had not seen them in months now, for I was at work while they were free. Their mother had them staying with their grandparents on her side while the divorce was taking place. Would they recognize me? Would I recognize me? I was aware of my rapid weight loss as my clothes fit looser and looser as the time passed. I could feel my body changing. It had been several days since I had seen my own reflection.

It was only four days until the next incident. I was lying in bed, very weary and sleep deprived. I had been in a semi-conscious state of sleeping when I heard something. It was very, very quiet at first, seeming almost inaudible. It was a tapping sound, as if someone were outside my window.

Nervous, and obviously startled, I arose from my bed and grabbed the pistol from atop my dresser. All the lights within the 99

apartment were out so that I could sleep. I walked slowly, so very slowly, into the living room where my only two windows were located. I sat and listened, hearing all the sounds the night stillness had to offer, but never again hearing the tapping. I knew though, I knew what I had heard. I neared the windows. I very attentively looked for any sort of shadows being cast upon the blinds to indicate a possible intruder. I waited for many minutes, patiently, for any sort of noise or movement. My pulse had risen again and my hands had begun to shake. I leaned my head near the window, waiting to see if any audible noises could be heard from outside the apartment window. My right ear neared the drawn blinds very, very closely.

Soon again the silence was abruptly interrupted by the faint tapping. Three very distinct, yet faint taps were heard in my left ear! The sound had originated from inside the apartment. This I was sure of. I was scared, mortally frightened that an intruder had entered my small living quarters undetected. But how? The door remained locked as I had always had it. At the time though, I could not check the door. There was an intruder inside my home and it was my duty to unveil the person.

I held my breath tightly to listen for the tapping again, and my search was soon answered by three louder taps upon glass. There was someone in my bathroom. The intruder was in my bathroom. I began to tremble violently as I crept silently through the apartment and to the closed restroom door. The tapping grew in volume. Louder and louder it grew without stop. No longer were the taps in threes. Now they came incessantly and back to back, whoever the intruder was in my restroom wanted me to enter there. Could they be aware that I was armed?

I reached the door of the bathroom, the audible taps could still be heard from within. I pointed the pistol at the door and threw the door open in a single motion. I reached for the light switch in a 100

flash and turned on the lights. All of the previously mentioned had occurred within the fraction of a second. Could a man with no control over his thoughts have been so accurate with his movements as to accomplish this? I think not. To my horrid surprise, there was no intruder in the bathroom. The room was completely empty except for the large sheet covering the mirror. I was confused, flustered, and shocked at the discovery.

Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before. That’s when the horrible reality set in that the noise was coming from the mirror.

I yanked, in a frightened rage, down the sheet sending the tacks flying. There in the mirror was my own reflection with the pistol raised just as I had. I pointed the pistol at my reflection and my reflection pointed the pistol, in the mirrored fashion, back at me. I shook and my reflection shook. I breathed as he breathed, long, drawn and heavy. I stared into the bastards eyes, his eyes were my color, but they were not mine. I knew he had been tapping on the mirror previously. He was an intruder, separated from me by glass.

I did not place the sheet back up as I rushed into the living room. I fell, face first, from a combination of extreme anxiety and fear, onto the floor. At this time, I was rendered unconscious. When I awoke, the sun had risen and was illuminating the apartment. I must have lain on the floor for some time. My guess would be that several hours had passed. I pushed myself up to a sitting position, only to discover that at some point during the night I had vomited. The remnants of stomach bile lined my chest and a quarter side of my face.

My head was spinning as I walked into the restroom, this time, completely apathetic towards the reflection as it kept pace with me. This was the first time I had slept for more than three hours at a time and my body, although weak, felt relieved.

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I undressed in front of the mirror, careful to watch the reflection though all seemed normal. I then climbed into the shower. I turned on the hot water in the shower and let the water flow over me. I sat in the warm water, enjoying the feeling. I could not remember the last time I had taken a warm shower, let alone one for this duration of time. It felt relaxing and calming as I bathed fully.

After nearly thirty minutes of enjoying the shower, I drew back the shower curtain to view the empty room. The room had been filled with the steam of the shower and completely fogged over the dreaded mirror. I took a step out of the shower. The floor was wet so I laid a towel down, bent over sideways in front of the mirror. When I stood back up my face aimed at the door, I again, from the farthest reaches of my vision, noticed my reflection made no movement, as though he had been standing erect the entire time.

I gave a shriek and turned and the reflection matched my movement as I backed into the wall. He had been standing the entire time I was bent over. I knew it. He was there, watching me through the glass. If he were to bend over he would have lost sight of me. That must have been it. That was the reason that the man did not bend down as I had. He knew though, that my attention was on the floor and that he was out of my line of sight. The condensation on the mirror made it increasingly difficult to fully view the blurred figure. He was using this to his advantage. He was cunning alright, definitely a match for my wits.

I stood trembling, not able to view the man’s eyes through the fogged glass. This worried me a great deal, for I could not confirm that they were no longer my own eyes. He might not even have my own face anymore. He may have shifted into his true form. I sharply slammed my open palm into the glass to wipe away all condensation so that I may be able to fully view the face of the man living in my mirror. 102

A man much resembling my likeness stood in front of me. It was him. It was the mirror man, I could tell by his eyes. They were the same color of mine, but they were not mine!

I engaged in staring into the eyes of the man in the mirror, waiting for him to make a mistake. I waited for him to blink out of turn as he had before or use the wrong hand as I moved or to simply forget to move as I moved. The face of the man began to become blurry again as I waited for a moment that he would make a mistake.

Upon this time, I heard a knock on the door. I admittedly was startled for a brief moment. I turned my attention to the entryway door. I quickly placed my robe on and made my way to the door to discover that a neighbor was inquiring as to the shriek. I had explained that I had simply seen a rat and that was the cause of my abrupt fright. I assured that there was no need to worry and sent them on their way.

Back into the apartment I turned. This had to stop, the man in the mirror was torturing me, tantalizing me. He was cunning enough to only move when I could not see him fully. He was so cunning that even I was impressed. He was not smarter than I and I knew that he would soon make a mistake. He could not keep this game up forever. He would falter, and when he did, I would be there.

Back into the bathroom I entered, staring intently at the reflection. I would keep my eyes as wide as possible until the absolute moment I had to blink. When the need was imminent, I would blink quickly, and swiftly. I knew he would soon make a mistake, he had to.

Six more days had passed, and I took long turns staring into the mirror, only stopping for moments of rest. When the night fell, my fear would overtake me. I would go back into my sleeping 103

chambers and listen intently for the tapping sound, which never came again. The darkness has a way of making people feel frightened. Now I had time to sit at the house, now I was trapped in the same small apartment as the monster that lived in my mirror, and it frightened me so. I was never more than a foot or two away from a firearm or a knife. I was ever so cautious.

My greatest fear was that he would escape the mirror in the night and find me while I slept. So I had made it a point between turns in watching the mirror to set frequent alarms to awaken me should I sleep for too long. This unusual trend continued for six more days as I grew more weary than humanly possible. My tiredness made my senses all the more acute.

On the sixth day I was in the bathroom fogging the mirror. I had no intentions of climbing into the shower, but had remembered the creature’s bravery when the mirror was fogged. I was sitting on the floor, staring up on the mirror, knife in hand and ready to strike at any moment should the thing decide to show up in order to glance at me. He must have known I was onto him, he was careful never to stand as I sat as to not expose himself.

I had been running the water for nearly thirty minutes when I heard knock at the door. I ignored the knock and stared intently at the mirror, waiting for the reflection to stand, but he did not. Then there came a second knock and I knew the reflection would soon stand and expose himself, but he did not. I began to shake on the floor, my smile brimming, he, at any second, would think I was going to rise to answer the door and expose himself.

A third, and very thunderous series of knocks came from the front door. Frightened by the volume, I rose to see the reflection rise in step, matching my movements perfectly. I turned to leave, but again he turned. However, as I walked out of the room, from the edge of my eye, I noticed the reflection stayed behind!

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This was the time! The creature had made a vital mistake, I looked back into the bathroom, the mirror now, was covered by the door from and not visible from my present location. I flung wide the front door to great the visitor who had come knocking so loudly. There in my door frame stood the towering man that was living in my old house with my wife.

I bid him hurry any questions he had for I had important business to attend to at once. He seemed angry and demanded why I had not shown for my meeting with the divorce lawyer earlier that morning. I could not give him any viable explanation other than I had overslept and that I would happily sign the official papers as soon as I had the time. For now, there was an urgent matter that I needed to attend to.

He asked why I was fully clothed with the shower still running in the house. He made it apparent that my physicality was changing. He asked me several times why it was that I mumbled. I had not mumbled, nor had I heard anyone do so. He informed me that if I ignored their calls anymore or missed the rescheduled meeting, that there would be consequences.

Why was this full blabbering on? Did he not know that I now had proof of the man in my mirror standing there still and failing to reflect my image? Although I could not see the mirror I knew that the man was there. I knew that he was standing there, trying to peer through the fogged glass to see me. Ha! He could not though, not this time.

The large man seemed nervous as he backed away from the open door and left with one last swear word and a threat.

I slammed the door behind him and rushed into the bathroom. Unfortunately, the reflection must have noticed I was gone and left too so that he could match my speed upon reentering the

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bathroom. I turned quickly to face the mirror and the reflection matched my speed.

To my horror, I saw, as if traced with a finger on the glass, writing on the mirror. My heart exploded with terror as I read the quote “Let me out” written in a jagged and horrid fashion. My fear and body could take no more.

I grabbed the mirror on the wall and pulled hard on the fastenings until I had removed the glass from the wall. I felt the edges of the mirror cut deep into my hand as I lifted it high over my head. I stared into the reflections eyes, clearly visible in the lettering on the mirror. They were the same color as my eyes, but they were not my eyes!

I let out a yell as I smashed the mirror onto the ground, sending shards flying in all directions. The bulk of the mirror sat in a collapsed pile on the floor. I stared at the fogged pieces as I slowly backed away from the wretched pile. I waited for maybe another hour before I entered the room again, fearing the now shattered mirror. I looked down into the pile of shards to see the man staring back at me. He was in different pieces now. His face made harsh angles and he now had several eyes staring at me from the shards.

I did not know if shattering the mirror would stop the man, but I was very frightened. I had now been nearly three straight days without sleep. I stared at the broken pieces on the floor for nearly an hour. I saw no movement in the reflection that did not match my own, but the eyes were still there. I decided to pick up the shards. I had already touched the mirror once and it had left deep gashes in my hands. I was petrified at what the tiny shards may do.

I lay in my bed until the night fell. I stared at the ceiling fan, needing sleep, but frozen with fear at what had occurred earlier in the day. The night grew later and later as I sat in bed, listening frightened to the sounds of the night. 106

Then, I heard a distinct sound coming from the bathroom, a very, faintly shrill sound of glass moving. I heard the pieces shuffling around on the floor growing louder and louder as though something were crawling out of the pile of shards. My heart beat fast as I grabbed the nearest object, the knife by my bedside and brought it into the bed with me. Then came the heavy thud sound of footsteps in the bathroom. At this, I threw myself into the closet, breathing heavily and frightened of the man that had escaped the mirror.

My breaking of the mirror released the creature that was inside. I sat trembling in the closet as I heard the heavy footsteps leave the bathroom. Slowly they made their way to my bedroom door. I heard whatever the thing was jiggle the handle to enter my room, only to find it locked. A sense of pure, unfiltered terror was sweeping over me. I held the knife in an upright position ready to strike. The room was pitch black, and I could see nothing.

The loud footsteps then walked into my living room, I heard a slight laugh. It was my laugh. The thing that had escaped my mirror had my laugh! This was a feeling beyond that of terror as I sat in my closet, shaking with near paralyzing fear. The laughter stopped and the loud footsteps neared the front door. I heard the door open, and slam. The monster had left my apartment. He was loose in the streets. I remained in my closet, shaking, and paralyzed at the thought that maybe the monster had only opened and closed the door to trick me into revealing my whereabouts. I knew though, I knew what he was up to, he was cunning and smart.

I sat in the closet for I do not know how long, at the very minimal several hours. I sat shaking, wondering, and dreaming of what thing lurked within the empty rooms of my apartment. He was too smart to have left, the mirror man was trying to outwit me. But I knew he could not outwit me! I was aware that he would grow

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impatient of waiting and when sunrise came I would leave the apartment, or die fighting the monster that looked like me.

I heard footsteps thundering up the stairs to the apartment. I heard the door open and slam shut, this time locking. He had tricked me! He was not in the house at all, but now made sure we were locked in together. That mad thing! I shook with fear as I heard him moving the shards on the bathroom floor. He was returning home. He was leaving me.

My attention and shocked fear was drawn away as several sets of footsteps were heard thundering up the stairs. Something banged loudly on the door followed by the sound of splintering wood as the door collapsed. Many footsteps were heard entering my apartment as I heard the strict orders to reveal myself to the officers. The mirror man must have done something frightful and led them back to here. He was in my bedroom, but I dare not make a sound as they ran through the apartment. My bedroom door splintered down as I shrieked with fear from within the closet. The officers ripped open the closet door and their bright lights blinded me. I dropped the knife as I clung to the officer that had arrived to save me.

They were violent with me, slamming me to the floor and handcuffing me all the while their weapons drawn. They hoisted me up, everything was loud and I was frightened. I shrieked and instructed them that they had the wrong person. I shrieked and kicked, but they grew more violent with me.

Upon my arrival to jail, I was sedated. For the first time in months I had slept for more than seven hours. I awoke strapped to a gurney, in an all-white room, a room without mirrors. I had finally beaten the mirror man. I laughed loudly and gleefully for he could bother me no more.

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Two men entered the room and questioned me. I felt safe now, for the officers had to have seen the mirror man. I explained everything, from the first time I noticed him, to the shattering of the mirror. They informed me of the murders of my ex-wife and her lover. I was shocked. I was appalled that they were accusing me. It was the mirror man. They had to have seen him!

The bastard had taken my shape when he murdered my wife and her lover. I cried audibly and visibly with great pain as I witnessed pictures from the crime scene. Their mutilated bodies had been placed in front of the bathroom tub. Both of them had been killed, first the lover, and then her. They had seen the mirror man do it. I could not bear to look at the grotesque bodies in the pictures. It appeared as though the mutilator knew no bounds as he severed their heads and pulled out the majority of any major organs from the bodies.

I cried and pleaded with them to listen to me. They did not believe a word that I had said, but I knew the truth. Even at my own trial, when presented with the knife, I pointed out how the eyes in the reflection of the blade were not mine! While looking into the knife blade, I saw the reflection wink. Much I had begun to shriekd and thrash about in fear until I was again sedated.

Here I sit within my cell. I sit here with my arms bound, solitarily confined to this room. I sit in this cell, frightened. I am unable to sleep and unable to dream. I cannot escape my growing fear and sickness nor can I convince the guards of my innocence.

I stay awake all night, standing against the back wall of the room, peering out through the plastic window of the cell. For there, across the hall and out of my reach they sit and watch me behind a two way mirror.

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The following short story is an excerpt from the novel Where the Ghosts Tread by Zechariah Js. Turk. Where the Ghosts Tread is currently in the process of being published, and will be available for sale soon!

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WHERE THE GHOSTS TREAD By Zechariah Js. Turk He was back on the sea shore, this time he was nowhere near a cliff. The sands were white and beautiful and the water a crystal blue that connected to the sky and made it hard to tell the difference between the two. There was a breeze in the air that was welcoming and warming. Palm trees stretched along the shore, and the waves lightly lulled. Stretched between two palm trees was a red hammock swaying in the breeze. At the base of the first palm tree wearing a straw hat was a man leaning against the tree with a handmade guitar.

The young man approached the person against the tree. When he neared the man, the man picked up his head to reveal his face. It was the young man’s grandfather. He was startled by the sight of his grandfather sitting beneath the tree, shirtless and barefoot with his toes sunken in the sand. The tell-tale sailor tattoos covered his grandfather’s chest, back, and arms. They had all faded with the years and the sun abuse. When he was alive, he had rarely worn a shirt when in the sun. This had made his skin and dark with dark spots that spread between the tattoos.

“You have come a long way to get here, my boy” said his grandfather, lightly plucking the guitar strings.

“This place is beautiful. I’ve only seen it in movies and in pictures. Where are we?”

“Near the gulf stream. My father used to fish out there alone. I always was worried about him, but he never died at sea. He passed in his hut early one morning. He had the sea in his veins, as our lineage does. Your father did not though. He was more interested in being a business man. I’d say he did well.”

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The young man joined his grandfather seated on the ground. The sand was warm and inviting. He laid down on his back to bask in the sun. He peered at his hand, throbbing but without a visible wound. He was confused, but did not ask any questions.

“What troubles you my grandson?”

“Why would something be troubling me?” The young man felt a sting in his heart as it suddenly sank.

“Those waves,” said his grandfather, pointing out into the water. Further out past the bright blue waves large, almost black ones began to swell and twist. “They tell me stories. They let me see what goes on in this weird world. I see trouble right now, it seems to be getting closer.”

“I should think it hard to be stressed while fishing the Gulf Stream” said the young man “It’s been a dream of mine to fish here since before I could walk.”

A large crack of thunder then rang through the air. The young man sat upright from the sand and peered around. Where the black water was churning there too were forming large thunder clouds. A flash of lightening illuminated briefly what appeared to be a face in the clouds. The face was beautiful and perfectly formed.

“Is that her?” asked the grandfather, “Is that the lady that has you being reckless?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I notice how far out you go in that kayak. I notice your lack of life jacket. I notice your drinking habits and how you stopped wearing a seatbelt.”

“Those are small things that don’t mean anything.”

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“You used to be so careful though. You go on these adventures because you don’t care if you die, but you’re too scared to pull the trigger. That’s usually how the rebel is, that’s why he does the extreme things that he does.”

“That may be true for other men but not to me.”

“Hiding what hurts you doesn’t help you grow, John. A broken heart can never be a healthy one. Why do you run from problems instead of fix them?” Asked the old man.

“I find that it makes things easier when you can pretend that you’re not the one at fault. When we met, she asked me what I was running from. She laughed when I said ‘My past’. Then, without warning, she became a part of it.” The young man caught himself staring at the clouds, hoping for another flash of thunder for illumination. The dark clouds moved closer and the wind increased. “Why is this beautiful place turning torrent?”

His grandfather simply laughed, “Young man, the place is still beautiful it is only your outlook that has changed.”

The wind was picking up even stronger and the water was rising steadily up the sandy shore as the black waves neared. Thunder was becoming more frequent and the face in the clouds had disappeared into large black clouds without form. He turned to his grandfather for advice, but he could not hear the words spoken as the wind had begun to violently howl. He turned to look over the rising water as a massive black wave, some thirty feet high, came crashing over the shore and over the young man.

***

He sat upright in his tent, soaking wet and awakened from his dream. The tent was filing with water and a storm was raging outside. The young man tried to stand and immediately remembered his right hand’s injury as the stitches ripped and the 113

wound opened. The searing pain was nearly unbearable, but the young man was panicked as the wind beat the tent violently. He was sure that at any moment the tent would collapse to the ground.

He opened the flap to the tent to pure darkness encompassing the surrounding island. The rain beat against his body in a way that felt like bees attacking. The rain was freezing cold. The sky would illuminate for brief seconds as the lightning would crash around and the deafening booms of thunder would echo through the air. The water had raised enough to get a large majority into the tent. Outside the tent down near the river, the water reached near his knees where there once was land.

This weather is out of control. I need to grab my things and move to the higher part of the island.

The water was flowing around him and he felt his bag nudge his leg making its way to the river. He snatched up the bag with his left hand and began stumbling through the darkness. It was so loud that he could barely hear himself think. He opened the bag and removed his flashlight. He turned it on, only to barely recognize his surroundings. The water was high and still climbing, it had masked a great lower portion of the island. He shone the light near where his tent had previously been, but could see nothing through the rain. He spun around and through a flash of lightning saw the trees and thick briars that rose from the water to the higher ground of the island.

He pushed and shoved his way through the brush to get to solid land. His hand ached fiercely and the thorns on his bare feet stung. He had not been expecting this. He had watched the weather and was not expecting it to even rain a drop for the next several days, let alone a torrential downpour. He had heard of flash floods like this happening in the past. Though he was trapped, he was in awe of the raw power nature was displaying.

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He wondered if it was even safe to head to the high land of the island. There was a danger to being near the tall trees while the lightning smashed and crashed through the forest. He planned to get to the high ground and just lay flat. He would stick to the more shrub covered side of the high land away from the trees. He knew it was not the brightest idea, but his options were extremely limited.

He pushed through the water on and on until he was completely out of it. The thorn vines were thick and wrapped around his feet and pants as he moved onward to the higher ground. The light beam from the flashlight illuminated the thick underbrush and the ghostly pines would flash their great shadows from time to time. He tripped and fell and laid flat on his back, cursing his luck.

His fear was immense as the lightning seemed to crash all about the island. Each crash made the young man jump. He rolled onto his stomach to keep the rain off of his face, as it was becoming harder and harder to breathe with the water flowing over his nose and mouth.

If I stay on this island, I will become stranded as the river rises. I do not know if I can swim with my hand in this condition. I need to get to the boat…THE BOAT!

He rose with his flashlight in hand and his bag slung over his shoulder. He immediately realized how much the water had risen. There was no telling if the boat was even still tied to the tree knee he had left it on. He screamed in agony as he moved the flashlight beam from side to side searching for the boat. He saw nothing except rising water and debris that it hauled down the river.

At that moment a bolt of lightning blinded him and the sound deafened his ears. He fell down into the water out of pure fright. This was the closest he had ever been to a lightning strike. He did not know where it hit, but he did not feel any ill effects. He bear 115

crawled through the water back to the high portion of the island. He was panting and aching in pain. During his run for higher ground, he had tripped twice and landed fully in the water. He knew his only option was to weather the storm.

The young man waited as the storm raged on and the lightning struck repeatedly. After what seemed to be an hour, the wind had subsided and the area around had become increasingly light, though dimly lit. The rain had been reduced to a drizzle, but the water was still on the rise. He no longer heard the thunder from the lightning.

He could see around, but the day was well into the evening. He grabbed his bag and headed for the highest part of the island, no longer fearing the lightning strikes. Upon standing he felt weak and weary. The storm had taken its toll on the young man. He stumbled as he walked, his paces were deliberate and slow and his hand ached now worse than it had when the wound was fresh. On the highest point of the island, he peered across the thrashing and violent river in the dim evening light.

I need to get to the mainland. I need to get there so I can begin to walk back from this place. I am not even sure geographically where I am. I can check the map in my bag once I get to the mainland. From there I can follow the river down until I reach the boat ramp. How long will that take though? I took a long time getting here, and heading back will take at least two, maybe three days if I can keep a steady pace. The boat had most of my fishing gear, but I do still have a few spare hooks and some line in my bag. Maybe, with some stroke of fortune, I will find my boat again, or another boat I can use along the shoreline and just cruise the river back.

His heart felt heavy knowing that he was to soon cross the river as it raged onward. He knew, though, that staying on the island would be far worse as the water was sure to rise more if more storms 116

were to arrive. He dug through his bag to see what he had inside compared to what he had already taken out and left in the boat. He had his map, his journal, a small pocket knife, a piece of flint, some spare batteries for his flashlight, his flashlight, some fishing line, a few small hooks, and a piece of steel wool. He put his bag on his back and made sure that it was cinched close.

He walked to the edge of the east side of the island that was once so high out of the water and now barely was above the waterline. He looked until he found a decent sized log floating on the edge of the island. It was his idea to crudely try to paddle his way across using his legs, but supporting his upper body with the log. The river, though, raged hard and moved violently downstream.

He made his way to the water’s edge, and after several deep breaths, plunged toward the log. He latched to the log and began kicking until he had been pulled into the current, leaving the island behind. The water was strong and violent as it pulled him down stream. The log began to immediately pitch and turn in the open current. The young man tried to keep his head above the water and kick hard trying to reach the opposite shore some fifty yards away. He kept pushing with all of his might, but his effort seemed almost meaningless as he was pulled down stream. He had been in the water for a mere minute before the lost grip of the log and was plunged into the water.

He struggled to keep his head up as the water dragged him swiftly downstream. He was in fear as he thrashed about trying to keep his head up. He could see he was nearing the shore with every stroke of his arm and push of his kick. He began to think of fighting, and how there were times that he felt similar to how he felt now, helpless and drowning. Nature though, was stronger than any man he had fought and the time was at hand to fight the river. He 117

would take quick, sharp breaths above the water before submerging his head again and paddling onward.

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~“Canoe” photo by Brad Dawe

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ART AND PHOTO GALLERY

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~“Green Tree Frog” by Rachel Willeford

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~“Puppermaid” by Chelsea Desforges ~“Crab Plank” by Taylor Cubbage

~“Frozen Plains” photo by Katie Westmoreland

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~“Anemone” by Rachel Willeford

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~“Island on the Lake” photo by Eleanor Hebert

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~“Just Met” by Vianney Verlade, rendition of original piece by Colleen Wilcox

~“Wanna See a Show?” by KC

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~“Fish” by Taylor Cubbage

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~“Waterfall” photo by Megan John

~“Flower” photo by Sarah de Leon 128

~“Ice Channel” photo by Katie Westmoreland

~“Sea Turtle” by Rachel Willeford

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“Marina” photo by Megan John

~“Recycled Turtle by Taylor Cubbage 130

~“Crab” by Rachel Willeford

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~“Tropical Island” by Vianney Verlade, rendition of original piece by Colleen Wilcox

~“Doggy Night” by Chelsea Desforges 132

~“Owl” by Chelsea Desforges

~“Plover by the Sea” by Vianney Verlade, rendition of original piece by Colleen Wilcox

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~“Pelican” by Rachel Willeford

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~“Happy Dogs” by Chelsea Desforges

~“Seaside Town” photo by Megan John

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