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Editor in Chief Misha Kydd

Director of Writing Bridget Iverson

Director of Art Ryan Peden-Spear

Directors of Layout, Design, & Not Building an

Orbital Laser in our Backyard. Really. We Promise Joe Adkisson, Will Adkisson

Director of Proof-Reading Sierra Makaris

Staff Extraordinaire:

Elizabeth Cummin

Eli Dorney

Braeden Hughes

Eric Iverson

Ashley James

Katelyn Jewell

Marissa Kelemen

Elizabeth Morris

Emily Mulvihill

Megan Reilly

Juliana Skelly

Ceilidh Peden-Spear

Marcia WhiteRebecca Young

MMuse Staf

AdvisorJennier Adkisson

Art & Photo Credits:

Cover & Inside Cover: Marcia White

Cover Design: Joe & Will Adkisson

Masthead: Dylan Sylvester

Page 1: Megan Reilly

Page 2: Lindsey Flanders

Page 3: Nichole Bergeron

Page 3: Christine Hallock

Page 4: Sylvia Esmay

Page 5: Emma Hartswick

Page 6: Marcia White

Page 7: Megan Reilly

Page 8: Ryan Peden-Spear

Page 8-9: Megan Reilly

Page 10-11: Maya Bower

Page 12: Ryan Peden-Spear

Page 13: Noelle Kichura

Page 14: Dakota Deady

Page 14: Annavitte RandPage 15: Meaghan Hughes

Page 15: Lindsey Flanders

Page 16-17: Victoria Mousely

Page 18: Sarah Buxton

Page 19: Ryan Peden-Spear

Page 20: Dylan Sylvester

Back Cover: Lisa MacKenzie

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1

Shall I, for tonight, think in fireflies,

morse code, condensed

inspiration, those tiny stars, this night

& the grass gone monochrome,

black, dirt; swings, songs

& voicesshall I, for tonight, just list

wordsshall I confess?

I write for peopletonight I write for you.

A toastthe mosquitoes drink

in our honor, they drink our honor

thicker than watera toast!

to this place, to this evening, seeds,

to fireflies! & pine needles,

to ears. to lips. to Who are you

to me so far? to Who are we but chance?

- Bridget Iverson

As the frigid gusts of autumn rage

The sun retires early in the sky.

A scene of sleep is set on natures stage

All things green will slumber and will die.

The leaves fly to the ground in sweet repose

And barren trunks are clothed in a fine frost.

In this crystal nightcap trees will doze

As flora flees and rocks become de-mossed.

So does autumn put the man to rest

And hair like leaves grow somnolent and fallAnd as the trees in frosty robes are dressed

Sickness shrouds the man in wintery pall.

Yet spring results from each autumn before

And so the man may yet be spry once more.

- Alli Green

Stars

Laying in the grass,

Of the field,

Behind my house,

The dark velvet of the sky,

Dips around the invisible curve of the earth.

These pinpoints,

These small pinpoints of light,

Fascinate me.

Entrance me.

Call to me.

Not in a way,

That makes me want to go up.

But in a way,

That makes me want to stay down,

And want to watch.The Dippers, big and small,

Slip towards me,

Asking to scoop me up.

Orion, waving his arms in battle,

Crying for help.

Ursa Major, the bear,

His jaws open in a fearsome roar.

Pegasus, his wings spread wide.

The Seven Sisters, dancing slowly around the sky.

Winter comes,

And Orion disappears,Taking Betelgeuse with him.

- Cami Douglas

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There is something

indescribable,

so despicable

in the way the waves

refused to hold me.

Tide-breakers

smashed against my wallsbut I refused to crack.

The dams in my lungs

did not shatter

& my chest did not flood.

But the mountains

mocked me

whilst I floated,

high & mighty

above their

grammatical imperfections.

The cliffs would not

echo the subjunctive

when I shouted your name,

always screaming,

If I were there

(if I was there),

you wouldnt be crying

(you wouldnt be crying).

If I could be an entitygreater than myself,

I would be the ocean,

steady, sure, & constant.

My words would form

saltwater waves

& youd cause my

ever-present tide.

This ink would prove

thicker than water

& Id immortalize you,

Selene, keep you aliveforever.

Can you see me

drifting through these walls,

these cement barriers

trapping me

between the lines

of my own poetry?

The Relocationist

Can you see me jaywalking

across the skyway?

My astrologer always told me

I was a being of the earth,

yet I yearned to fly,

to soar above the tormentthis body had offered me.

I wanted to be a source of light,

some far-off star

that you could only see

on the clear nights of autumn,

your telescope trained

where your eyes darent look.

Life was a leap of faith

Id never opted to take,

yet jump I did.I still havent hit rock-bottom

of this penniless well

& Ive grown accustomed

to the melancholy darkness

of grey-cloud skies.

There was a fire

on the horizon

years ago

that seared my irises.

They hadnt burned

in ages

& the beauty

wet my eyes

in a way this smoky fog

never had.

I once breathedflames

that were white-hot

& skin-scorching.

I dont think she everforgave me for that.

Burns are different

than cuts or scrapes.

The latter bleed & scab

& bleed again

until you teach yourself

to let them go.

Burns blister

& make yourfingers

Lindsey Flanders

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go numb.

I dont think I ever apologized.

I was & always have been

earthbound,

regardless of my craving

to taste the other elements.

Logic tells me that gravitywill keep me here

for as long as my atoms

retain this form.

This body is my cage

& only in freefall

can I believe

I have wings.

The blazing heat

of the supernovas

deep within my pupils

melts the wax

& I, Prince Icarus,

find myself crashing

towards my reflection,

my existence pooled

in an effervescent shadow

just beneath the waves.

I am suspended here

in this hellish limbo& I have never felt

so alive.

- Katelyn Jewell

Sky Games

I wish I couldfly.

I wouldfly high up above the clouds,

Gliding along rays of sweet sunshine.

I wish I couldfly.

I would hop-scotch across the rain clouds,

Jump-rope with daring birds,

Leap frog with commercial jets,

Patty-cake with spirits.

Let condensation bead on my lips,

Sweet butterfly kisses.

I wish I couldfly.I would dance across the wide expanse of blue,

Sing to fill the silence that is more alive

Than anything.

Harmonize with the song

That no one hears,

But everyone feels.

I wish I couldfly.

I would tap dance on the petals of the flowers in the sky,

Samba throughout the everlasting vastness.

Una fiesta en el cielo!

I wish I couldfly.

I wouldfill the air

With everything that is missing.

And when night falls,

I would kiss the stars goodnight

And tuck the moon into bed.

I would whisper through the fog

And refuse to go back home.

- Rebecca Young

Nichole Bergeron

Christine Hallock

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May Days

Circa 300 BCE

Romans break from work and war

To gather in praise of the goddess Flore

And celebrate the miracle of spring.

They sing; they sing.

Unbeknownst to the Romans,

Celts and Germans dance a wide girth

In fete of Natures verdant rebirth

Round Beltane and Walpurgis

From deep primal urges:

Cry, Make us whole

Maypole.

Circa 1300 CE

In England, each village dances into May

In Germany, Tanzen in den Mai

Where girls about the Maypole whirl

In a florid, visual delight

With the whole of the natural world to unfurl

To the light, to the light.

May Day!

1886

Natures choking a bit

In Chicagos Haymarket Square

Where Anarchists fight to make it fair.

Bombs burst,

Yet fail to

Slake the thirst

Of a million-man

Workforce wanting first

Hungry! Hungry for wages, hungry for land,

Hungry for a piece of the damn pie. Mayday, mayday!

2010

Now grown and glutted on more than pie,

A middle class refuses to die.

The burst of that 1886 day

Drinks heavily this May

From the growing ink spot in the Gulf sea

That I see on the flat-screen TV.

Then that night at the sports bar

The M&M mans M&M car

Drinks lustily, too, from that ink spot

With its gaping funnel and roils the plot

Magnified on HDTVs

Count em, sixty-oneThat also drink from

The ink spots well

In that gulf of Hell.

Mayday, mayday, mayday.

- Bucky Brandt

Sylvia Esmay

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Friday

It was Friday, late afternoon. I had just gotten

a ride home from a friend. I opened the front

door, dropped my stuff off, and went to get

the mail. A few minutes after, I saw my dadsbright red Saab pull into the driveway. He

parked and quickly got out of the car. I asked

him what was going on; he usually arrives

home around seven. He told me hed left a

message that said he was coming home early.

Annoyed that my afternoon alone had

been disrupted, I went inside. In the middle

of looking through the mail, I noticed my dad

lingering awkwardly in the dining room. He

turned to me and said, Nana is very sick. She

had a brain aneurism.I started racking my brain. I knew that

word; its bad, isnt it?

It looks like shes not going to make

it.

I instantly burst into tears. The next

hour was a blur. A blur of tears, phone calls,

and a hot chocolate with too much powder at

the bottom.

We went, my dad and I, to the hospital.

I tried to create a lighter atmosphere and stay

optimistic by singing along with the radio in

the car, but to no avail. When we got to the

hospital, it took about ten minutes to find the

Intensive Care Unit. Level four, room eleven.

We called to see if we could go in because the

ICU was behind locked doors. They said yes.

We walked in.

I saw Nana, red hair shining just as

bright as every other day. But she was lying

in a hospital bed, eyes closed, and white tape

securing some equipment to her mouth. Wewere summoned back into the hallway. A

doctor was in the room, and we couldnt go in.

We waited in the hallway for what seemed like

hours.

Seeing my nana like that was one of

the most difficult things Ive ever experi-

enced. She was one of the strongest people I

knew. And she was laying on a hospital bed, with a

machine breathing for her. It was taped to her face.

Distorting it.

I didnt know what to say. My mom said

Nana could hear us but couldnt acknowledge us;

my mom said we could hug her, kiss her, talk toher, hold her hand. I stood there awkwardly for a

bit, and then I stepped forward and rubbed her hand

through the blanket. Mom said I could hold her

hand, so I did. We were like that for a while, hand

in hand, while I thought of all the things I wanted to

tell her, hoping she would get my message telepath-

ically. I think that she did.

Once, ever so slightly, I thought I felt her

hand tighten on mine. I told her that I was there,

but the slight smile on her face told me that she

already knew.

Soon, it was time to say goodbye for the

day. I hugged her through the various wire con-

nected to her and kissed her. I told her I loved her

and I would see her tomorrow. I kissed her two

more times on the cheek, said a few more words,

and left. My mom pulled me aside and said that

they didnt know when she would pass away, and

that theyre might not be a tomorrow. I told her I

needed to go back once more to Nana. I hugged

her and told her repeatedly how much I loved her.I kissed her once more and stood up to get one last

full look at her. Then I saw her lips move, just

slightly. As if she was trying to give me her last

kiss. I leaned down and kissed her softly on the

chin.

I love you so much, I whispered.

- Justine Tibbits

Emma Hartswick

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Gross You Out

I woke up to shaved sandpaper

where my eyeballs used to be;

bones splintered by lunching mealworms;

brain liquefied by radioactive sludge

shining slime-green in my grey matter.

The universe took an eggbeater to my spleen

and bore forth something raw, something

middling between half-alive and mostly-dead.

Humanity souffl. I woke up to joints

twisted under oppressive gravity,

and its all I can do pick up my pen and write:

theyre coming for you, too.- Sierra Makaris

I Lie

I lie to keep myself alive, to keep myself awake.

I lie to make the dreams stay down and to continue to be fake.

I lie to keep him close to me, to keep him in the dark.

I lie to ensure that Cupid aims and shoots true to the mark.

I lie to hide who I really am and lie to beat her down.I lie to mask the pain and tears, to rise up from the ground.

My pain brings hope and grants me wings to fly so far away.

Running from my hopes and fears, keeping them at bay.

Im not who you suppose I am, Im not that girl at all.

The real true me, I push her down, laughing as she falls.

- Aiden Pichette

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The Writer Writes

Why does the writer write in prose?

because of its beauty I suppose

it is the beat of the music that you can not hear

but when the words are spoken theyre crystal clear

it is the painting brushed from the artists eyeso beautiful it sometimes makes you cry

it is the sculptor at the wheel, his hands in motion

his minds eye took shape with determined devotion.

-Marion Surprenant

You will find your courage

From deep within

To stay steady

As life throws all its got at you.

From new life to death,From relaxation to stress,

And yet you survive,

A shining light in a world of dark,

A beacon to lead the way for others

When they are lost.

You will find your strength

And help others find theirs.

Reach for the stars.

You have the courage to do anything

If only you try.

You will find your courageAs you live life strong and unstoppable

For you know

That dreams can come true

If only you try.

Dont hold back,

Let loose with all youve got,

Show you true self,

No one can stop you.

No matter how fast life flies by,

You have the power to slow it down.

You can control your path in life,

You can make it around those corners

And still survive to see what lies ahead.

- Ceilidh Peden-Spear

ill find yo r c

m deep within

o stay steady

s life throws all i

m new life to

Courage

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Three Hundred Years

Its been three hundred years now, I think, though it is hard to judge the passage of time when I

never sleep and never stray into the sun. Three hundred years since I ventured out boldly, rashly, armed

with a vial of holy water and a dug-up fence post, and the thing I sought turned me into what he was. I built

a castle in Romania, mostly for the style, but also so the rumors of a horror lurking on the moors would

bring a fearful solitude instead of the police. Sometimes people come out to the castle. They are clever,

having deciphered the riddles, but nave. Girls come, sometimes, seeking their Edward, or scholars lookingto run controlled experiments to determine details of my cravings. I send them away, if I can, before the

hunger overcomes what willpower I still possess after all this time. I am not a monster. I would not have

anyone live as I do.

For three hundred years I have lived here, alone in my lonely castle on the moors. And when the

mob finds me, armed as I once was with stakes and crosses and strings of garlic around every mans neck, I

will sadden. For although they are strong, a vampire is stronger; I will drink my fill that night.

- Will Adkisson

Im a vampire

Skin like snow and lips pure red

But Im no freaking Princess

I may be the fairest but to no one am I ever fair

Your blood is my drug

And I will possess your heart

Dont give me Twilight

I may not sparkleBut my bite is quite a brilliance

- Devon Preston

Vampire

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My Lover Lies in My Leaded Arms

My lover lies in my leaded arms. His pulse has beaten a tattoo in the base of his neck, a faint pur-

plish bruise that lies so sweetly still. The steady thrum of life that echoed throughout the cavernous pit in

my chest fled in the night like an ill-advised lover. His eyes, which had been molded with the sky itself, lie

fixed upon my face, the faintest trace of a smile on his perfect lips. Numbly I lean over, hoping to feel the

sweetness of his breath on my cheek, hoping for him to shiver and fold my arms around his being. But no

movement, not even a twitch to ease my aching, bleeding, needing soul. He lies dead, so far away, even ashe sleeps in my warm embrace. Goosebumps march along the base of my neck, almost like ghostly finger-

tips were grazing across my skin. The knife lays on the bed stand, almost within my grasp, but Im fearful

that if I move, he will fall and be gone from my hands. We lie there for an eternity, me stroking his face, his

hair, just like we used to. The comforting weight of him lulls me into believing that hes not dead, merely

sleeping. That he will awaken and smile and draw me closer to taste the passion that blooms on his lips.

But too much time has passed and I now cannot help but face the truth; hes gone and Im alone.

-Anonymous

Cold Blackness

I watch him lie there. He shifts in his

sleep. He turns, and each time he turns, another

whimper, another shudder, another tear escapes.

The moonlight seems to strike him at an odd

angle. Shadows shift, covering his back, his arm,

his wrist. He flings a hand over the dew-covered

night grass. The fingers uncurl, and there, upon his

palm, another shadow stirs to life. He twists, and

on his smooth bare chest there is an empty space

of stars and blackness, deep, deep, something fall-

ing in the cold blackness, crying to be heard. He,

himself, falling while I watch fascinated and do

not move even as those stars wheel suddenly into

the sky. I try to count them as they go, as they blur

past the trees dappling the sky.

I slowly and gently reach for his pale,

elegant hand and hold onto it as my only salvation,

as my only way to keep him safe. I sigh softly

and lay beside him, holding that hand close to

my heart, never wanting to release it. I uncurl hisfingers to fit mine perfectly between them. As I do

so, I again look upon his palm. There in his hand

rests a single star. I watch trembling as it splits to

form two, one gliding with a small tingling sen-

sation into my own palm. Then we are falling,

falling, into the cold blackness in his scarred sad

soul . . .

- Juliana Skelly

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11 - Maya Bower

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The grass is green

The skies are blue

The clouds are grey

As I think of you

The hot summer heat beat down on the

theater. He worked, alone, in the dark behind

stage. Young, only an apprentice. He ran the

lighting board as the singers came and went

through the Cabaret. As the night came, the

songs got lonelier and sadder, mostly old smooth

jazz, speaking of lost loves and broken hearts.

Alone - in the world of dark, silently pacing

underneath the shadow strewn rafters, quickly

darting past patches of light from the old hole

lined curtain. As the night was drawing to a close,

he set the lights and silently disappeared into the

lobby, completely devoid of people, heard thebittersweet solo, sung beautifully by the young

actress on stage. How he longed for a partner to

dance with, but he was alone.

He danced by himself, sadly, lonely,

minuscule in the eye of the galaxy, of the

universe. He slowly walked back, through the

side door, into the dark. He slowly walked back,

occasionally peaking through the curtains at the

pretty actress. He slowly shuffled back to his seat

as the song drew to its heart wrenching climax.

The actress walked off stage, brushing past him,

giving him a nod with a sad look of compassion

in her eye.

As he sat down he looked out the window

to the right of him, out into the lonely darkness on

that hot summer night. As he gazed out, it began

to rain with a faint, distant boom of thunder. The

rain fell softly at first, as the last handful of songs

came to a close. The crowd slowly shuffled out of

the theater into the night, still unaware the lonely

man existed, and he cleaned up the back of the stage,

utterly alone, in the dark. The only sound was the

soft, slow swish of his broom as he swept away all

the memories.

He shut off the light of his lights, his

beautiful, beautiful lights, and began to cry as he

flipped the final breaker. He slumped in his chair as

the rain turned to torrent, his tears as numerous as

the drops of rain. He eventually stopped and peered

out into the black night. The rain came down and the

wind blew through the trees, almost as lonely as he.With a final, solem movement, he stood and

looked, one last time, at his beautiful lights. He

closed the door, picked up his coat, and put it on as

he walked through the dark, silent, deserted theater.

He got to the door and picked up the sign on the

floor, hanging it on the door. Closed Indefinitely, it

read. He turned, gazed one last time into the lonely,

sad theater. With the deed done, he locked the door

and walked out of the theater, the last man to ever be

there, the last caretaker, his last love.

And with that, he walked through the rainand wind, through the strife and silence, into the

dark, and you would have sworn you could hear the

smooth jazz playing on the night air.

- Shevla

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For Granted

Do you still take me

For that love stuffed teddy bear

Dusty on your shelf?

One buttons missing

I sit in my miseryFully neglected

My heart of stuffing

Has broken; bitterness seeps

Through moth eaten holes

Was I only your childhood plaything

A toy

To be thrown away?

- Elizabeth Cummin

Hunger,

We all know what it is.

We have all felt it before,

When you skip breakfast to try to shed that pound,

Or when dinner is later than usual.

But do we really know hunger.

The clawing, debilitating pain in your stomach,

The weakness that eclipses everything,The uncertainty of when the next meal will come,

If it will ever come,

The embarrassment of standing in line at the soup kitchen,

Feeling like everyone is looking down on you,

Your hungry children that look up to you

With questions written all over their faces,

Questions that you do not know how to answer or quench.

What is hunger, really?

Whenever I say that I am starving,

Because I only ate one bowl of cereal for breakfast,

I do not think of all those people,

Who cant remember when they last ate a bowl of anything.

If I am starving, then what are they?

-Ellie Pitmon

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Rain clouds

Though the sky is grey and indistinct,

It doesnt rain.

Everything looks sadder in the grey.

The tall trunked trees grow solemn,

The wicker chairs cold.

The cobblestones show their moss.The birds are off,

Hiding from the impending storm,

Wary of the sky,

So much like a sleek, grey cat.

The cats, too, are uninterested,

Lying near the door,

Making a show of keeping inside.

Andfinally,

When the rain clouds break down,

Drips at first,

Drops,

There is no relief from the disquiet,

From the tristesse du monde.

The rain is colder

Than it should be,

Too cold,

Too sad,

Too lonely for today.

Sitting and waiting for the storm to pass,

I hear just the ticking-tock of the rain,The clicking snap of the clock,

And the soft time keeping of my heart.

- Emma Hadden

Wings of Intangibility

Violet silk bleedslike ancient wine

across

flame-seared tapestries

of cobalt earth.

Charred remains

of sage brush and dark wood

drown

in rivers

of parched rocks,

thirsting in the umber sun.

The planes of rock split

where thin arches once lingered,

and moth-like,

her raven hairflits around her

shadowed countenance.

She shifts gracefully

in the smoke-steeped air,

traversing the length of imagination

just above

the memories of tangibility.

On her,

wings would be a mere

redundancy.

- Braeden Hughes

Dakota Deady

Annavitte Rand

School vs. Learning

An academic dilemna

To learn is the passion

School, the obstacle that

often gets in the way.

- Ariana Matthews-Salzman

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Take one look

These mirrors contort

They hate me

Degrade me

These mirrors deform

Take one look

Is that you in the glass?

Or is it a strangerWho keeps looking back?

You seize us

And tease us

Control us

To please us

I give into fear

Take one look

These mirrors surround me

I spin and I turn

But theyre still all around me

Look in the mirror

All that we see

All that we are

All we can be

I take one look

My reflection complete

I tear down these mirrors

Until my image is free.

- Gabby Mantone

Unchained She stands alone Watching and waiting

Knowingthere

sonlysomuchtimeThebattleth

athasbeengoingonforyearsIsc

omingtoanend.SheknowsandunderstandsWhatwillhappenWhatherworldwillbecome.

Thewavesofemotionswarm

Andflowover

herAsshestandstall Ready to continue the fight. The fight that she is chained

to.ThechainthatholdsherthereBindsher,holdinghercaptiveAndsoonthelinkswillshatter.SettingherfreeTobewhoshewants

to

be.-MeaghanHughes

Lindsey Flanders

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Smile

The sky is shrouded black;

a thick heavy mask that yields to no one.

Ahead of me lies a bomb shelter.

People are piling in by the dozen,

screaming and shouting, tumbling and kicking

and running over one another in their hustle.

They know whats coming.

I, too, am running. But I am so far away.

I can feel myself getting nearer with every footfall

and still, I know it is not enough.

And so I stop.

I fold over, my forehead scraping the cold concrete.

I reach up

touch the hideous yellow star emblazoned on my gray shirt.

My fingers curl around it, and I begin to rip it off.

But a hand touches mine.

I look up, quickly, and scramble to my feet away from the touch.

A woman stands there. She pushes a stroller.

And in that stroller is a baby, who is obviously malnourished and sick.

And the woman just stands there.

Her clothes are rags that hang off of her waif-like form.

And sure enough, a star just like mine sticks out like a sore thumb against the black of her dress.

She gazes at me with a look so piercing, I feel she can see right through me.

I find my voice.

What are you doing?! I scream at the top of my lungs,

Run! You have a baby with you!

And the woman smiles.

I am struck, dumbfounded.

For this smile is not a smile of malice, of conceit or contempt or hatred

which is the only smile I have seen since being forced to wear this star.

This is a real smile, a genuine smile, one which I myself have not been able to wear

ever since I can remember.

This time, my voice comes out as a whisper, and amid all of the chaos I dont expect her to hear.

You dare to smile?

And this woman, she throws back her head, and she laughs.

A full, hearty laugh.

My child, she says to me in a voice that is almost musical.

How can you not smile when there is so much beauty to behold in this world?

Beauty? I whisper. I look around me, and everywhere I see black and gray.

I see misshapen lumps of fabric pretending to be human

running towards the one bomb shelter we have in our town.

And around it, I see the bodies of those who were trampled to death.

There are children screaming and crying for their mommies

who lay dead at their feet while they wail.

Victoria Mousley

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I see no sky, only black clouds, and all of the trees around me, if not cut down, are bare and dead.

This is not beauty.

Oh, child. she says softy in her melodic voice.

Come see the world through my eyes.

She reaches out her small, frail, withered hand to me, and lays it over my own.

All of a sudden, the world is bright.The trees are in full bloom, and the world is filled with their splashes of color.

Red and orange and pink and green and brown and yellow.

And the sky. Oh, the sky.

The sky is blue, the clearest blue I have ever seen.

The radiant sun beats down on my face and warms me right to my soul.

The bomb shelter is an ice cream shop, and where there were screams there is now laughter.

Laughter! as children pick their favorite flavors,

and the parents eat the remains of what their kids cant finish.

They are hugging and smiling and laughing.

There are no skeletons, no darkness,

and no ugly yellow stars.

Here,

we are all people.Just people.

And then, I hear something I never expected to hear again.

A lark, perched in an oak tree nearby, opens its throat to sing.

Its song washes over me, and I cry out with joy.

Its call is answered by others in the trees surrounding.

The song swells and swells, and soon it is all I can hear.

My heart aches with longing, and I involuntarily take a step towards the sound.

But when I do, the womans hand falls off of my own.

The birds, those glorious birds,

they are no more.

Now I hear them for what they really are...the whistle of what we all knew was coming.My world had now returned to black and gray.

Beside me, the woman knelt down, picked up her baby, and cradled it to her.

The babys huge, chocolate brown eyes bored into mine.

A contented look was on her too-skinny face, and her eyes glistened.

And I knew she was seeing the world through her mothers eyes.

As the world around me changed from black and gray

to red and orange,

as everything I had ever known erupted where I stood,

I looked into that babys face, and I could hear the larks

song in my head.

And in those last few moments, when all was being lost

forever,

I smiled.

- Cassidy Thompson

Victoria Mousley

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Devils Decade

Time seems to slow

As it progressesThrough its never ending

Flow of math and

Words and battles and

Sciences and theories and

Laws and hypotheses and

Monotony.

The clocks hands

Begin to stopAs if the very

Molecules themselves haveHit their

Breaking point.

It is here,

Lost amongst the

Fallen chalk, that

It seems one can

Only truly become

A single object

Of complete stillness.

As the periods slowly

Shift to eras and eons

Andfinally super eons,

And the days get longer,

Becoming weeks and months

And years andfinally

Decades, it all begins to

Slowly sink in and

Create its own impression.

And just as you

Begin to grasp the theory of

Why hydrogen wants to be

Greedy and steal another

Valence electron, all for itself,

It happens.

,

The bell slowly whines out its

Monotonous screech, and oh how

It stings, but it signifies the

Freedom given to those who waitedAnd survived thus far into

The clutches of the demon of

Time and formulas and algebra

And grammar.

Their excursion from the

Depths of this icy hell sends them

Flying back to the residence of

Their kin, only to forget who

Conquered the Trojan City

Amongst the piles of music

And pizza and movies left

Behind from the party at

Joes house.

And when the yellow demon

Returns to steal the souls of

Those who succeed in

Making it through the previous

Decade of the hell,

Only to return for anotherRound with the caretakers of

This frozen garden of the

Devil himself.

-Brendon Giroux

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The Enforcer

- an excerpt -

Acidic rain pattered on the roof of the shut-

tle as it dove through the Venusian clouds toward

the immense dirigible-city of Persephone. As it

swooped over the balloon, Rukan saw a multitude

of workers scurrying atop the balloon like insects,racing against time to repair corrosion before their

own protective suits were breached by the relent-

less acid. The shuttle cleared the segmented tita-

nium, turned, and Rukan caught his first glimpse of

the gondola.

It was huge 5 miles long, 2 miles wide,

and a mile deep. Three stubby wings protruded

from each side, supplementing the balloons lift to

carry the citys 10 million inhabitants and provid-

ing a mount for the jet engines that propelled the

city through the atmosphere. An outer shell protect-

ed Persephone from the sulfuric acid. The shuttle

shuddered as the laser rockets turned off and the

jets on the wings turned on. It entered an aperture.

Rukan screamed and ducked.

If the autopilot hadnt been on, he would

have died in seconds. The computer wove the

shuttle through the dizzying array of catwalks,

buildings, and other vehicles. Roads only existed

for pedestrians and magtrains; flying vehicles fol-

lowed whatever route the onboard computer deter-mined was fastest and not going to result in injury.

Collisions were surprisingly uncommon, happening

only one out of perhaps ten flights when a vehicles

guidance beacon (which the computers used to

prevent collisions) did not take into account propel-

lers, wings, long tails, and the like. Obviously, all

the vehicles in Persephone were required by law to

be equipped with ejector seats.

Also the layout of the city wasnt what he

was used to. The buildings were heavily indus-

trial, putting out obscuring clouds of smoke andsparks. The city was built in three dimensions: in

addition to the standard grid pattern of buildings

one might expect on a planes surface, the pattern

continued along the vertical axis. The only connec-

tion between a building and the structure below it

was a massive pylon, probably with elevators and a

magtrain line.

At long last, the shuttle arrived at the City

Hall. It was located at the top of the gondola, befit-

ting its important position and preventing attacks

from above. The shuttle touched down gently, and

Rukan slowly lifted his head. An ambassador and

several guards were filing onto the landing pad.Rukan quickly made himself presentable, then

exited the shuttle, salvaging as much dignity as he

could.

Greetings! he called. Are you the am-

bassador from the Venusian government?

I am, said the ambassador. My name is

Hovalk. I suggest you come inside; as you are no

doubt aware, this is a fairly lawless planet despite

our best efforts, and an Interplanetary Enforcer

would make as tempting a target as I can imagine

visiting our rather inhospitable city.

You give yourselves too little credit,

Rukan said. Im sure there are some places that

are worth visiting here. You do make a good point,

however.

They proceeded indoors. They entered an

elevator, one wall of which was a large screen that

showed pastoral views of other planets. The eleva-

tor deposited them into an office.

The office had wood paneling on the walls,

an enormous oak desk, and upholstered furni-ture; this was clearly where important dignitaries

were met. Another huge screen replaced one of

the walls, this one showing a nebula somewhere.

Rukan supposed that these were used instead of

windows because the Venusian landscape was so

unappealing. Hovalk took his place behind the

desk. The guards took their places at the door. Ru-

kan sat at a chair across from Hovalk.

How should I begin? the ambassador

wondered aloud. How much do you already

know? he asked Rukan.Very little, Rukan replied. I know you

have a problem you cant solve on your own, or

I wouldnt have been called here. I know it must

be of a military nature, because you didnt re-

quest an Investigator or Diplomat. I know that the

cause must be moral, or in keeping with the Inter-

planetary Charter, or the Interplanetary Council

wouldnt have sent me.

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Correct on all counts, said Hovalk. Ac-

tually, its not entirely military, but an Investigator

would be ill-prepared for what we need.

Some time ago, a new band of smug-

glers calling themselves the Freed Coin formedin the Production Quarter. We didnt think much

of it at the time; smugglers arent exactly uncom-

mon here, and we had better things to do with our

manpower. But then one of our law enforcers,

who must have discovered them, was found dead.

He had a tattoo of a coin in the loop of a padlock,

which had a key in it. The autopsy determined

that the tattoo was added after death, like a calling

card.

Since then, the Freed Coin has become

more active bolder. Theyve added members

and taken more than a passing interest in theft,

assassination, kidnapping, forgery, and a dozen

other illicit ways to make money. Most of these

types of criminals wipe out their rivals, but the

Freed Coin has been absorbing theirs. Theyre the

first criminal group to become a real threat to the

government.

Every time we think weve tracked down

their headquarters, which isnt hard to do with a

group of this size, its either a false lead into anambush, or the headquarters are abandoned and

rigged with explosives and all manner of traps.

But not this time. This time, we have a

contact inside. She just wants to get on the right

side of the law without being hunted by both

the Freed Coin and us. She basically offered us

information on the Freed Coin, its location, and

help getting in if wed drop all charges against her

once the Freed Coin is dispersed.

Obviously, we took the opportunity. But

we dont know if our own forces will be able to

defeat the Freed Coin. So we sent for you qual-

ity over quantity.

To be continued. . .

- Jamie Duke

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So much depends

Upon

So little and

Yet

So much beauty

Comes

Forth

- Kellen Hopwood