The Miscellaneator December 2013

e MiscellaneatorDecember 2013

Created by Sarah Castello

Genre of December: Poetry

If you missed this month, enter a short

piece for next month's Genre of the

Month: Sad Stuff. Submit entries at

[email protected] Random Award of the Month:

Most Interesting Style of Narration

Award

Awarded to A. M. Larkson for the dual-

first-person narration of the novel

Heartless.

All entries submitted to The Miscel-

laneator are automatically entered in

the Random Award of the Month

Contest. If you would not like your piece

to be entered, notify us in your entry.

Should I Write This?

Dominick Forge's Game Over

You’re surfing the web randomly one

day and you find a cool site. It’s called

gameover.com, and it’s one of those

websites where your character has to

kill a bunch of monsters and stuff to

level up. Once you level up to level 13,

you win. Finished the game. So you

make a character and start playing the

game. It turns out, it’s really easy to

level up in the beginning, but gets pro-

gressively harder. As you go on quests,

you can get fame and fortune. Or you

could get killed by the first monster

you see.

One day, a few months a"er you start-

ed playing the game, a window pops

up on the screen and asks you if you’re

enjoying playing GameOver. You check

the “yes” box and try to close the win-

dow, but it won’t let you. Your comput-

er screen freezes and you think, Great. I

got a virus. A"er a few hours of trying

to fix your computer, you go to bed,

since you’ve stayed up ‘til ungodly

hours trying to level up.

When you wake up, you find yourself in

a green field sleeping on so" grass. You

look down, and you find that you’ve

turned into your character, and you’re

inside GameOver! The grass field

you’ve been sleeping on is called the

“Emerald Plain” and you notice a

bunch of other people—also turned

into their characters—waking up

around you. All of a sudden, a voice

resonates through the air and a screen

appears on the Technicolor sky. The

voice says that you are now inside

GameOver, and if you will start at the

level your character le" off at. If you

succeed to reach level 13, you are free

to leave and return to your normal life.

But if you die here, you die in real life.

And you don’t come back.

Tell me if I should write this! All com-

ments are greatly appreciated. Email

me at [email protected]

Write Anything . . .

. . . With the title "The Legend"

He who knows the way by heart and

mind will find what he seeks to find

In this journey, he will go alone to meet

his fate, be it death or a throne

So cast your eyes up to the sky and

look for the silver star that flies

For in his hand, the power shall lay and

give him the will to live a new day

But only if he catches the silver star,

the silver spark that’s travelled so far

From times long ago to the future’s

door, to his waiting hand, or so goes

the lore.

Michael Kingston

Next Month: Write anything that

starts with the word happy and ends

with the word sad or vice versa.

Submit your entry by December 1 at

[email protected]

Heartless

Oh, hi there. Didn’t see you come in. Ac-

tually, I kind of did; I’ve been waiting

here for, like, ever. It’s about time some-

one showed up. But I’m certainly glad

you did, and you should be, too, be-

cause you won’t hear a story like this ev-

ery three lifetimes. Four, maybe. But def-

initely not three. Before you start read-

ing this story, I should make something

clear. The girl who’s telling this story

isn’t me. You might find out my identity

later on in the story, but as of now, con-

sider me your guide. If you have a ques-

tion, just ask and I’ll answer to the best

of my ability. (continued on p. 2)

December's First Chapters

Red Roses Mean Death

Vines tangled up its side, entwining

and looping around themselves on

their journey upwards to the sun. The

snaking parts that had finally breached

the summit of the imposingly tall

building hadn’t particularly appreciat-

ed the lack of shade they found on the

wide roof. Therefore, the tallest vines

were stooping over backwards and be-

ginning to descend from the great

heights of the old building. They

seemed to warn the other vines that

the ever-sought-a"er roof wasn’t worth

seeking. Of course, none of them heed-

ed the advice of their older, wiser sib-

lings, and each individual strand had to

make its determined, solitary way to

the top before cursing themselves and

receding back the way they had come.

(continued on p. 3)

The Dragon Egg of King Granlik the

Third

Annie paid a call to the UIRB for the

third time that night. As a change of

style, they actually answered.

“Is the package coming tomorrow?”

Annie asked.

“I believe so. It likes dog treats, and

was born here on the island. You can

call it Amber,” replied the voice through

the phone. Then the line went dead.

A"er plopping the phone back in its

cradle, Annie brushed her teeth, and

then lay down quietly on her bed. The

alarm clock read 11:00 p.m.

The next morning, outside of Annie’s

house, a little monster in a cardboard

box was struggling to write a story.

One day I was walking along and I saw

a bear.

Wait, no.

One day I was walking along and a bear

saw me.

Ugh!

One day I was walking along and I saw

a bear see me.

AUGH!

(continued on p. 4)

Of Hidden Wood

I was peacefully asleep. Then the scent

of burning charcoal filled my nose, my

eyes shot open, then closed as the

thick smoke stung them. I started to

yell “mom” and “dad”, but the smoke

prevented words from escaping my

mouth. I leapt out of bed, coughing

heavily, and got onto my hands and

knees and crawled under the thickest

smoke to my door. Reaching up with

one hand and trying to see the handle,

I fumbled with the door until it opened.

I crouched back down and crawled out

of my room, eyes watering and scared

to see what was in front of me. The

kitchen was bathed in flames, and my

parent’s bedroom, next to it, was no

better off. I tried to scream, but

stopped a"er I inhaled more smoke. I

fell to the floor and heard barking,

yelling, and sirens, but all the sounds

seemed far off and muffled. Then a

loud crashing sound, people in yellow

suits, and water. Lots of water. The wa-

ter was putting out the fire. Water

flooded the house, and the street, the

whole town, the whole world. Black

water. (continued on p. 3)

2 The Miscellaneator

Chapters

Red Roses Mean Death

Chapter One

(continued from p. 1)

I observed the vines from the foot of

the building, the place where they had

their humble start. It was tall enough

that I had to crane my neck back to be

able to see the highest vines. But I

didn’t have much time to take in the in-

teresting battle between the vines and

the top of the building before Elle, the

sturdily built housekeeper, ushered me

Heartless

Chapter One


Next, if you like happily-ever-a!ers, you

had better put this book down right now

and never open it again. I’m not really

sure how this is going to end, but I don’t

want you to have to read a heartbreak-

ing ending where everyone dies (I sure

hope that wasn’t a spoiler) when you

wanted a “I finally realize who my true

love is . . .” or whatever. Because you’re

not going to get that. With that in mind,

I permit you to begin reading our story,

your story, Astryn’s (the girl who’s talk-

ing to you for most of this book) story.

Annnd . . . action!

“I. Am. Starving! When’s the last time

we ate?” Cyth demands rhetorically.

“Stop lookin’ at me, I don’t make the

rules around here,” says Lakan, holding

his hands up defensively. “Astryn’s the

one who’s supposed to be getting us

food.”

“What?” I argue back, “I never agreed

to that! If you want food, get it

yourself.”

We aren’t exactly your normal

teenagers. We’re kind of homeless, and

we sort of steal to get by, and we don’t

exactly go to school. But don’t think

we’re delinquents or something, ‘cause

we have a good reason for our delin-

quent-like attitude: we’re saving the

world. Or, at least, we’re trying to.

Our campfire sends a column of smoke

into the atmosphere. I notice there’s a

big dark cloud looming over the tree-

tops east of here. Looks like a rain-

storm’s coming. I stoke the fire and let

out a sigh.

“Was that the sigh of someone over-

whelmed by my greatness?” Cyth’s sar-

castic voice trails down from the tree

he’s currently lounging in.

Kalin chimes in with, “I thought you

were supposed to be sleeping.”

“I would be, if you would shut up,” Cyth

says, flicking his wrist, effortlessly mak-

ing a rock rise from the ground and

shoot toward Kal, who catches it in

midair and chucks it at the sender. It

bounces harmlessly off a branch next

to his head.

“I always did have a better shot than

you—” Cyth’s cocky voice is interrupted

by a pinecone whacking him.

“Y’sure about that?” challenges Kal.

Suddenly, the back of my neck prickles.

I hear a quiet rustling noise, and some-

thing taps me on the shoulder. I whip

my head around and pelt the attacker

with hail. Lakan yells hysterically,

shielding his face from the hard ice.

He laughs, “Ohhhmigod that was hilari-

ous!”

“Oh, shut up. You didn’t even scare

me,” I lie.

“Yeees, I did.”

I’m about to retaliate when Liliya,

asleep in the tree above us, shi"s and

then wakes up, saying, “Um, guys? I

think— I think we should get going. . . .”

I whirl, and a ten-foot-tall wall of flame

is advancing toward us through the for-

est. I stumble backwards, right into

Lakan, pushing both of us onto the

ground. Great. Now he’s telling me it

“isn’t the right time for this.” I get to my

feet and scramble away from the fire,

ignoring him as he does the same. Cyth

creates a ditch in front of the fire to try

to stop it from spreading. Liliya throws

some bottled potions at the base of the

fire, which makes certain spots un-

harmed but doesn't stop the rest of the

ground from burning. I stand up and

concentrate. A"er a few seconds of

breathing deeply, trying not to inhale

the smoke, I conjure a quick yet fierce

rainstorm on the fire, which subdues it

but doesn’t put it out. As the rain

slows, the flames regain power and

flare up again. We stand for a second,

staring into the fire, and then we turn,

racing into the forest away from the

heat behind us.

* * *

When we’re far enough away that the

smoke isn’t as putrid in the air, I risk a

glance backward and, between the

trees, see that the fire hasn’t grown,

though it hasn’t gotten any smaller.

All of a sudden, Kal stops running and

says, “Um, we have a problem here.”

I freeze in my tracks alongside Kal as

Cyth, Liliya, and Lakan do the same. In

front of us there’s a large clearing that

might be more accurately described as

a small field. The field is littered with

tree stumps, fallen trees, and Angelics.

The dark angels are killing the trees,

but slowly, and the leader of their

group, a slight, dark-haired Angelic, is

going from tree to dying tree and cast-

ing the same spell over and over. Lakan

tells us the spell they’re using is one

that sucks up souls. So they now wants

to know if trees have souls that they

can harness for power. Wonderful.

As we near them, a few Angelics race

toward us, weapons raised, but Liliya

sprinkles red dust around us, which

hardens the air and their attacks

bounce harmlessly off the invisible

force field. She murmurs, “Five seconds

‘til the blindfold. Four. Three. Two. One

—”

And we disappear. Or at least, that’s

what it looks like to the Angelics. Actu-

ally, we’re just temporarily invisible be-

cause of another of Liliya’s potions,

one that she uses quite o"en and that

we have nicknamed the blindfold. It

makes the air opaque over the eyes of

the dark angels, which gives us approx-

imately fi"een seconds before they can

see us. We scatter, Lakan and Cyth

rushing into the battle immediately

and attacking a few Angelics to get

some good hits in before the blindfold

wears off. Kal and Liliya and I back

away from the clearing, blending in

with the trees as the air around the an-

gels’s eyes clear up. Kalin races into the

trees to the le" of me and Lil, skirting

the clearing. He brings roots up from

the ground, attacking Angelics while

remaining in hiding himself.

Liliya takes her bow from her back and

hooks an arrow on the string, pulling it

taut before releasing and shooting it

into an angel’s arm. The toxin on the

arrowhead spreads black shadows

over his body, and within a few sec-

onds all that’s le" is the arrow. I lose

sight of her as I scurry up a tree, shoot-

ing lightening at the closest Angelic. I

hear a whoosh above me and face the

sky, throwing a blade upward. The

weapon hits my target perfectly, and

the fallen angel shrieks and crashes to

the ground, the knife through its black

heart. Its darkened wings bend unnat-

urally beneath it. I leap to the ground

and retrieve my knife, and I yank it out

of the Angelic’s dead body just as I hear

Liliya scream.

I shout her name, and turn and see her

across the meadow. She falls to the

ground as a spear makes a gash down

her leg. I’m running to her when I hear

Cyth yell that he’ll take care of Liliya as

he telekinetically shoots rocks toward

the dark angel who attacked her. I have

to trust Cyth because there's another

noise behind me.

I duck, sending a flurry of hail back-

wards. My attacker yells and I turn

around to see him bring his arms up to

shield his face from the onslaught of

ice. I hear something to my le" and

turn. That’s a mistake. The dark-

winged Angelic that’s there shoots up

into the air, distracting me as the origi-

nal one swings its sword, leaving a

gash down my shoulder and upper

back. Pain. Pain. Agony’s fire eating me

up. But no time to dwell on it, no time

to do anything but react with an

adrenaline-borne quickness. I scream

and try to face the angel who just at-

tacked me, falling to the floor as I do

so, which jars my body and sends more

flashes of pain shooting through my

wound. Watching the dark angel raise

his sword, I squeeze my eyes shut, turn

away, and flick a blast of icy cold air at

him. I don’t know if it hits my intended

target until I open my eyes a few sec-

onds later and the Angelic is literally

frozen with his blade inches from

where my heart would be. He must’ve

been their leader, because the rest of

the dark angels quickly race off into the

forest a"er my attacker’s death.

But their immediate dispersal hasn’t

stopped the wound from hurting. Every

muscle I move, flashes of pain spread

through my body. It’s too hot, way too

hot, and I take short breaths while lay-

ing on the forest floor, trying not to

move anything. But the darkness is so

nice, and it’s a release from the heat,

and I can’t help but slip into the obliv-

ion of sleep.

A. M. Larkson

3The Miscellaneator

Of Hidden Wood

Chapter One


Books always tell about people “bolt-

ing out of bed” or “sitting straight up”

a"er a bad dream. That never happens

to me. A"er a nightmare, I always fall

back into a restless sleep, and then

wake up in the morning feeling like I

hadn’t slept at all. That’s exactly what

happens today. My tired eyes gradually

open, adjusting to the so" dawn light

seeping in from the small, gray

window. As I look around, the dull,

dusty attic room I call home meets my

eyes. The tiny space in which I live is

situated on the top floor of Sherlock

Café. I sit up and stretch, inhaling

deeply and smelling freshly baked

scents. The Café isn’t open yet, but the

owner, Leanne Arch, is already up and

about, baking her breakfast and the

delicious delicacies that will be sold to-

day. I turn to my bedside table to look

at the time. The digital clock reads

“5:47 AM”. I step out of bed and tie a

hooded cloak around my neck. It

drapes carelessly over my dark green

top and the brown shorts almost lost

beneath the shirt. To top off the

“ranger” look, I put on my belt with a

small pack on one side and a sheath

that holds my dagger on the other side.

Leather boots cover my legs from the

knee down.

The wooden spiral staircase makes

creaking sounds as I walk carefully

down it, slightly afraid—as always—

that it will break under my feet.

Leanne’s voice wa"s to me, along with

the smells of what she is cooking.

“Norah, is that you? I’m making an ap-

ple crumble; do you want a slice?”

A"er the fire killed my parents when I

was six, Leanne found me at an or-

phanage. Her husband had just died,

and she needed someone to help her

at the bakery. I was eight years old

when she adopted me, the oldest one

at the orphanage.

“Ooh, of course!” I shout back to her

from the bottom of the staircase.

We have an agreement— I help her

with the Café, and occasionally gather

herbs and plants from the forest for

her, and she gives me food and a place

to stay. I always get her a birthday

present, and likewise she gets one for

me. The presents are never anything

big, just a small kind gesture like

breakfast in bed or a bouquet of col-

lected flowers. She doesn’t make me

go to school, and I wouldn’t have time

anyway, what with helping her all day.

My first birthday here was about four

months a"er she adopted me; I was

turning nine. Leanne gave me a leather

armband embedded with a blue gem

about the size of one of my dark indigo

eyes. It was way too big for me at the

time, and I wore it as a choker. But

now, I’m fourteen, and it fits on my

arm. I never take it off.

I exit the shop, using the back door

that no one but the dough man and I

ever use. I pull my hood down to shield

my face from prying eyes as I walk past

the front gates of Olive Creek High, the

school I should be attending. At this

time of day, kids are just arriving at the

school, meeting up with their friends

and making small talk. Idly chatting

away. That’s something that I will nev-

er have time for.

My pace quickens as I near the edge of

town. In the Days of War and Fire, a

three-story-high brick wall was con-

structed around our town to keep out

invaders and denizens of the forest.

inside.

“Countess Vynna is looking forward to

meeting you,” Elle said. “She doesn’t

usually have company except for me

and Turek, and, well, we do get boring

a"er awhile.”

She didn’t tell me I was going to live in a

hotel, I thought as the maid led me

through the arching doorway, then

past two floor-to-ceiling windows, both

covered in curtains of black velvet.

Next came four kitchens in a row—one

for each meal, plus an extra for desert,

Elle explained. It’s not a hotel?

“Wait, this place isn’t a hotel?”

The maid forced a light laugh before re-

plying, “Oh, no, honey, this is Vynna’s

house.” I had to stop herself from ex-

claiming in disgust that no one person

should have this much room to them-

selves. Then a clear, silky voice flowed

out of the spacious study.

“Mariah, darling, you had better watch

your emotions; you’re not the only one

who feels them.” The voice chilled my

spine and sent me hurrying a"er Elle.

“Who was that?” I hissed.

“Oh, in the study? Probably the Count-

ess.”

“Did you hear what she said?”

“Yeah, don’t be offended if she doesn’t

say anything to you. Countess Vynna

doesn’t usually speak to me or to

Turek,” confided the housekeeper.

Did you hear what I said? She certainly

spoke to me. And it was downright

creepy, I might add, I thought as we as-

cended an old-fashioned spiral stair-

case. At the top, Elle popped open a

trapdoor on the ceiling. A ladder shot

down to the hardwood floor, and the

housekeeper clumsily climbed, leaving

me to lug my duffel bag and backpack

up the rungs.

She brushed dust from her hands and

clasped them together as I poked my

head above the top rung to survey the

room. My new room. It was relatively

unfurnished; there was a small wooden

chest at the head of a twin bed, which

occupied the wall across from me. In a

corner was a simple desk with a short

stool; one window graced the attic

room with its presence from above my

new bed. It was less than a foot wide,

and square, its glass panes murky with

dirt and smoke from the chimney right

outside. On my right-hand side stood a

weak dresser with a small red rose

adorning the surface. In the center of

the room, covering dusty floorboards,

lay a large rug.

“No place like home? That rose is the

Countess’s gi" to you; she gives you

her condolences about your mother.”

Elle attempted to smile warmly, but it

ended up looking like a grimace. Well, I

knew she had good intentions; first

meetings are always awkward. Espe-

cially when they were unintentional by

both parties and when they directly fol-

low a death in the family.

A"er realizing I wasn’t planning to an-

swer her, the housekeeper reached to

take my bags and thumped them down

on the bed. She clasped her hands to-

gether again and then turned to the

desk. I watched from across the room

as Elle opened the single drawer and

pulled out a battered map, which she

unfolded and brought over to me. As

she spoke, she pointed out the areas of

the property she was talking about.

“This is a map of the whole estate.

There are gardens, a pond, and sparse

woods behind the yard in the back.

Feel free to explore the grounds during

the day, but at night Countess Vynna

wants you inside the house.” Elle

checked her watch. “You’ve got a little

more than an hour before it gets dark.”

I was about to reply with an “Okay”

when she added, “And the Countess

had a long day today, so we won’t be

eating dinner together tonight. I’ll

bring up your supper around eight. Be

sure to be back inside before the sun

sets, dear.”

“I will,” I replied, doubting if I would ac-

tually venture outside my room at all.

The housekeeper placed the map on

the desk and quietly excused herself

from my room. I stared at the trapdoor

in the floor for a few seconds a"er

Elle’s head disappeared beneath it.

Then I picked up the small rose from

the top of the dresser. Was this for

me . . .? It smelled abnormally sweet

and I placed it back on the wood a"er

sniffing once. My nose tingled as I sat

down on the bed next to my bags. I

should probably start unpacking, I

thought, making no effort to follow my

advice.

I stared at the round clock ticking away

the seconds. A"er watching it for a

while, I talked myself into getting up. I

walked to my desk, gingerly picked up

the map, and read it. In the middle of

the parchment was an intricately

drawn mansion (without vines on it),

and above it were two titles. One was

in English and read “Evergreen

Estates”; the other title was written in

silvery ink and was written in what

looked like some sort of runic

language.

I studied the rest of the map and no-

ticed that for every English label, there

was also a label in the strange lan-

guage. Cypress Wood, Juniper Hill,

Alpine Hollow, Cedar Pond, Laurel Gar-

dens . . . every title had a subtitle in the

runic letters. Because I was a curious

(and suspicious) girl, I counted the sil-

ver characters underneath “Cedar

Pond.” I came up with fi"een letters.

Cedar Pond. C-e-d-a-r . . . nine letters.

Hmm. Well, the other language proba-

bly has different letters, or it might not

be phonetic. I dismissed the thought

and was about to place the old map

back on the desk when I heard a

scream. A loud one, too. A shrill, pierc-

ing, bone-chilling noise. I froze, the

map clutched in my hand. Oh my god

what is that what is that what is that I’m

going to die don’t let me die oh my god

oh my god oh my god! The shriek began

to peter down to a groan and I gath-

ered my senses enough to bolt down

the ladder and the spiral staircase.

Then I raced past the study (from

where the sound was coming), by the

four kitchens, the tall windows, and, fi-

nally, out the arched front doorway.

Before me lay the dirt road my taxi had

pulled up on; beyond that was the

“sparse wood” Elle had mentioned. Cy-

press Wood, I noted, finding it on the

map I still clutched in my hand. I

looked up at the sky. Still light out; the

housekeeper had said that I’d had a lit-

tle more than an hour before the sun

would set, but how long ago did she

tell me that? Ten minutes? Twenty?

Prompted to move forward by the

moan still emanating from inside the

vine-covered mansion, I stepped into

the woods.

Aria Kyte


However, over the course of the hun-

dreds of years between the Days and

now, the wall has deteriorated and

vines have sprung up all around it.

Now, there’re more plants climbing up

the structure of the wall than there are

bricks. I easily climb up and over the

decaying wall, using various plants as

handholds. On the other side, the lush

forest greets me with the sounds of

chirping birds and cascading rivers. To

my right I see a small wooden shack

that wasn’t there before. The doll-

house-sized hut looks very old and di-

lapidated, which seems weird to me

since I’m seeing it here for the first

time. Its roof is about as high as my

knee. I sit on the rich soil, at the height

of the miniature hut, and open the tiny

door curiously. Peering inside, I notice

that a faded card with a long blade of

grass tied around it takes almost all of

the space in the single-room house.

The words:

Of hidden wood

Are handwritten across the paper. I

reach into the room and extract the

card. As soon as I pull the grass off, the

card starts disintegrating. Startled, I

drop the crumbling paper. When I start

to pick up the remnants, I realize that

nothing remains. I look at my hands,

which are covered in powdery dust

from the paper. I shake them off. What

was that? Something green flashes out

of the corner of my eye. I turn my

hands over and see a small, green leaf

that looks like it’s made of glass on a

thin thread around my wrist. I pull on

the string until my fingers are raw, but

it refuses to break. I sit on the so"

ground for a few more seconds before

rising to my feet and continuing my

walk into the forest. But I don’t recog-

nize anything. I don’t see any familiar

trees, or any of the landmarks that

have always helped me know this for-

est by heart. I don’t see any rock for-

mations I recognize, and when I follow

the sound of rushing water, I come to a

strange waist-high waterfall feeding

into a large pond. A ripple contrasts

against the surface of the water. Anoth-

er ripple breaks its way through the

pond, and a head emerges from the

depths. Light blue hair is shook out,

and silvery eyes blink two or three

times. I gasp and stagger backwards,

away from him. The peasant-style t-

shirt and black pants he wears make

me think, Why would someone wear

that swimming?

When he turns and looks at me, his ex-

pression changes from casual to fearful

to curious in one short instant. I back

away a few more steps, and when he

starts to get out of the water I turn and

flee back through the forest the way I

came. I have only been running for

about a minute before I turn a corner

and see the same boy leaning against a

tree and looking up at its translucent

green leaves. I immediately skid to a

stop and stare incomprehensively at

him for a few seconds before he sees

me and says, “Wa-wait a second…” as I

race back in the opposite direction.

The unfamiliar canopy overhead casts

speckles of light on me through bright

leaves. As I run, a singing, bright green

sparrow flits across my path. I glance

behind me to make sure the boy isn’t

following me—wait. What? A bright

green sparrow? I halt in my tracks and

peer into the greenery where the spar-

row had flown. Ah! There it is… I start

to take tentative steps toward the bird,

but a beautiful tune stops me. The

voice wa"s through the forest, hypno-

tizing me with its music.

Heed the words of my song

And know,

All that I sing is ever for you

I know, I know

All is well, I know,

Yet don’t forget what’s right

So come, come, and sit by my fire

Listen to legends I sing with my lyre,

Great heroes’ stories

And tales of glory,

All that I sing for you

The plants and trees

All turn their leaves

To listen to our beautiful melody

The blue of the sky

And the dark hues of night

Sing what we sing for them

Our song can’t compare

To the bright, fresh air

Or the beautiful song of the moon

I know, I know

All is false, I know

So please remember what’s true…

It ends on such a mournful note that I

wonder why the owner of such a beau-

tiful voice is sad.

A sharper, clearer voice pierces through

my dazed state and I jump.

“D’you like the song?”

Turning around, I see only the forest

before me.

The tone of the voice changes to wary

and cautious. “Hey, you’re not from

here…”

The voice is coming from above me.

Peering up into the foliage, I shade my

eyes from the occasional patch of sun.

An inquisitive face with wide silver eyes

and light blue hair peers back at me

from the greenery. It’s the boy! I step

backwards, but he suddenly jumps ten

feet down to the ground, then grabs

my hand and inspects the leaf strung

around my wrist with silver string.

I forcefully yank my hand away and am

about to punch him when he demands,

“Who did you steal this from?”

His question surprises me. I think,

What?! Who did I steal this from? More

like, who transformed the forest that I

knew so well into this… wilderness? Or,

or why did the paper disintegrate as I

held it? How about, who are you and

why have you been following me?! But

all I say is, “I-I didn’t steal it.”

Silver eyes bore holes into mine as he

asks, “I’ll say it again. Where did you

steal this?”

I’m getting annoyed. “And I’ll say this

again! I didn’t steal it. I found it next to

the forest in,” I pause, thinking of how

to say this without loosing my “angry”

front, “a-a tiny wooden house.” I loose

my “angry” front. However, the boy

doesn’t stifle a laugh or even smile a

little.

He murmurs something to himself that

sounds like, “Her? It can’t be possible.”

A high-pitched bird whistle interrupts

his forced smile and my confused gri-

mace. The shrill sound gets louder and

louder, until its source streaks past my

right ear. I stumble back, stunned, as

the small buzzing thing zooms past my

le" ear this time. Swatting at it only

angers it more, and then another one

joins it. Then another, a few more, and

soon the boy with silver eyes is pulling

me through the forest at an astonish-

ing speed away from what looks like, at

first glance, to be a swarm of hum-

mingbirds.

A. M. Larkson

The Dragon Egg of King Granlik the Third

Chapter 1


It is impossible to write a story when you

are in a cardboard box, with only your

notebook and pencil! Amber thought to

herself while swiping the last pink eras-

er crumbs off her dreaded “Writing

Journal”. Then she slid the notebook

and pencil out through the breathing

slot. Amber, the little greenling

plopped down on the floor of the card-

board box, golden eyes flickering

about. Through the small hole that

provided ventilation, she saw a large,

whitish house across the street. Is that

my destination? Amber wondered.

Amber crawled closer to the opening,

hoping to see the house closer. She

strained her eyes sideways and caught

glimpses of her captor. He was wearing

a strange, blue outfit and walked at a

slow, measured pace while carrying

Amber’s cardboard box. The blue pack

slung over his shoulder bounced with

every stride.

Inside the box, Amber was jostled

around while she tried to lean against

the side. Whoaaaaah! While peering

through the eyehole, the greenling had

lost her footing and slid to the rear of

the moving package, hitting the wall

with a painful thud. Suddenly, the box

jolted down, and then stopped moving

altogether.

“Ooooh, what is it?” Grubby, five-year-

old hands flashed into view, reaching

as far into the box as possible.

“Can I have it, mommy?” Asked a boy,

about the age of eight.

“No, they’re shoes for Annie. Where is

that girl?” An exasperated mother li"ed

the box up roughly, jolting Amber out

of her quest to stay away from the

probing hands.

“I’m here, mom.” A girl’s voice, proba-

bly in her teens, echoed in Amber’s

ears.

“You know those shoes I’ve ordered

time and time again? Well, they’re fi-

nally here!” her mom announced in a

relieved tone.

“That’s great, mom. Thanks.” The girl

said as she took the box from her mom.

* * *

5The Miscellaneator

Once in her room, Annie swished scis-

sors through the masking tape and

flipped open the box.

“Do you think it worked, Howlz?” Annie

asked as Howlz, the Flonkeys’ beagle

mix, trotted into Annie’s room and gave

her a blank stare.

Upon opening the box, Annie saw a

small, green monster with floppy yet

pointy ears and blunt teeth. A"er pick-

ing up the monster and setting her

down on the hardwood floor, she

kicked the box so that the opening was

perpendicular to the ground. While in-

vestigating all corners of the parcel, An-

nie discovered a letter. It said:

Dear Annie,

King Granlik III has stolen property in his

hands. It is a dragon egg that will only

hatch under the right conditions, but if

he manages to hatch it, the dragon in-

side will become evil like the King and

that would be the end of the Island of

Charte, on which the King resides.

We (those undercover on the Islands, the

Reef, and the Boats, or the UIRB) need

you and Amber to come to Charte, take

the egg to Palm Isle, and hatch it with

the help of a UIRB member. I know this is

a lot of pressure to put on a fi!een-year-

old, but if you don’t succeed, it will be

the end of Charte.

The boat you will take to the Island of

Charte will depart in three day’s time,

and you will be able to get a map once

on the island. You must try an or-

angeade shake; the shop is about twen-

ty paces le! of the boat dock, where you

will land. A!er you drink the shake, ask

the clerk to see Kenny. He has informa-

tion for you, though he may not know it.

Sincerely,

Jim

When she finished reading the letter,

Annie picked up Amber and yelled to

her mom, “Mom, can I go over to

Gretchen’s house for a week?”

“What?! Wh…when? Why? D…did she

invite you?” Came the confused voice

of an over-worked, stay-at-home-mom.

“This Saturday, um, birthday party, and

yes. Yes, she invited me.” Replied

Annie, feeding Amber a couple of

Howlz’s dog treats.

“A week-long birthday party?”

“It’s at Misneyland. Janet and Ashley

are also going. Gretchen got a hotel re-

served inside the park for all four of us.

It was expensive.”

“Well, you have a piano recital. . . .” ob-

jected Annie’s mother.

"Very, very expensive. She reserved it

two months in advance."

"Well, alright."

Yessss! “Thanks so much, Mom!"

Yayyyy! We’re going to the Island of

Charte! Said a voice in Annie’s mind.

It’ll be fun and heroic! Have you been

there before? I have. I was born-

She set Amber down, and suddenly the

voices stopped. When Annie touched

the side of Amber’s head, the voices

started again: and it was fun because I

got to explo- Annie let go. Then she

touched her again: whole island be-

cause the king wasn’t evil yet. He cher-

ished greenlings—like me—and gave us

presents and oh! He was a wizard, too,

and he gave me and my siblings powers,

one each. (this was proved by Amber

levitating ten inches off the ground) I

had so much fun whizzing around the

castle while my brother breathed fire

and my sister bumped into him invisibly.

What powers do you have? An eager

monster face looked up at Annie.

“Well, I don’t have any,” said Annie,

hoping not to disappoint the young

greenling.

Oh. Well, maybe I can support you when

I’m flying! Can I try?

“Uh, sure.” The human agreed, grasp-

ing Amber’s front paws.

The over-weighted greenling strained

upward, managed half a foot, and then

collapsed.

A sharp intake of air from Annie an-

nounced her fear. She had just gotten

the monster, and now… did she hurt it?

A voice in her head contradicted her

doubts. Whew! That was hard! Can you

do anything? Maybe turn invisible?

Breathe fire?

“I told you, I don’t have powers,” Annie

sighed, “I wish I did, but I don’t.”

Amber sprang up. Maybe I can give you

one. I’m not as magical as a wizard, but

I have some magic in me.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” ob-

jected Annie, “It would take a lot of en-

ergy out of you.”

It won’t be too hard! Here, grab hold of

my paws. Amber closed her eyes in

concentration. Annie felt as if a bolt of

lightning shot through her, then she let

go of Amber’s paws. Now let’s try it! A

joyful voice suggested.

Placing her hands around Amber’s

paws for the third time, Annie looked

at the clock. It read eight o’clock; al-

most breakfast time.

Staring at the ceiling, Amber li"ed An-

nie six feet off the floor. Wow! You’re lot

lighter than you were before!

“Maybe you made me lighter,” Annie

guessed, “What…how did you do it?”

I just thought about you flying and me

flying and then I felt like I was flying and

then I imagined flying and me and you

flying and—

“Okay, I get the picture. You imagined

flying,” Annie cut her off.

A"er setting the human down, Amber

whizzed around the room, knocking a

book off the shelf and then heaving it

back.

“Anniiiiiiiie!” yelled a voice from down-

stairs, “It’s dinnertime!”

Author's Name Omitted


Genre of the Month: Poetry

Prophecy

Author's Name Omitted

A window frame above the door

Bells blow in the wind

They sing, “The present is no more

This game we cannot win

We foretell the coming of the dark

That will swallow mankind through

So sing along, lest you be forgot

But listen, listen too

We bring the future a present, at last

A present of impending doom

We warn of a time that’s nearly passed

A time that’ll be gone soon

So remember you must! or never you

will

See the rest of daylight’s reign

Remember the words of my song until

The dawn shines through the pain.”

State of Fear

Mary Clearson

There is a place

A horrible state of mind

That mightn’t be so horrible

If we didn’t think it so

But we do

And so it is

Many things live there

And they are all different

But one thing they have in common:

They are all fears

They haunt our minds and souls

And that’s the way it is

But it doesn’t have to be that way

You know

We could stand up to them

Put them out of our minds and souls

But we don’t, we think we can’t

And so it stays the same

A cycle of fear

Of being too afraid to conquer the fear

Of being ignorant of others’ fear

Of succumbing to the fear

And as long as we think it’s inevitable

It is

There is a place

A horrible state of mind

That wouldn’t be so horrible

If we didn’t think it so

Next Month's Genre:

Sad Stuff. Take this to mean whatever

you think! Depressing poems, anyone?

If your entry is longer than 500 words

we will only publish an excerpt if we

choose to include it in the Genre of the

Month section.

Submit entries to:

[email protected]

Progress

Alice Chen

A halo of wires surrounds you now

A thermostat you clutch

A crown of technology crests your brow

To your le", an iPod-Touch;

A telephone rings, and a blackberry

Is concealed in your astronaut suit

Behind you stands a library

Of DVDs and CDs, to boot;

Triangles, figures, geometric signs

Decorate your wall,

But nowhere within this square mile

Can a book be found at all;

Posters and screens on optometry,

Optical illusions and static-y TVs,

Thermometers read 67 degrees

But through all this, nowhere to be

seen...

...Are books and telegrams and record

machines.

You, Progress, have gotten the best of

me,

With your iPhone-Five-Cs and your flat-

screen TVs.

A Self-Cleaning World

Alice Chen

The past, a tired place of dreams

And broken-down old hopes

Before it lies an ancient screen

With roses and music notes

Creak, creak, the rusty screen opens

Beyond is a vast junkyard

Composed of things that are old and

broken

And no longer avant-garde

I venture through the gathering hues

Of sadness and remorse

Pick up a tune of gray and blue

Sit on a rusty rocking horse

Falling through the misty skies

Are anger and despair

They filter through my foggy eyes

And past my wind-blown hair

A raven in the distance stops

Mid-flight, halts its wings

As it perches on the top

Of a cold and heartless tree

And as I stare beyond the bird

A sound resounds aloud

My hazy, fuzzy sight is blurred

And I see fire falling from clouds

The fire sweeps the ground quite clean

With the quickness of a snap

And now I think this is a dream

From which I’ll never come back

For this is a place, so far away

Not even you can see it

And the fire comes down every day

From the heavens to clean it

That is why the land is dry

And why the people come and go

‘Cause the fire that come down from

the sky

Sweep them and their trash below.

7The Miscellaneator

Contest WinnersGuidelines: Include Lanterns

First Place

Reborn

The enormous golden clock is sus-

pended over the restless ocean, its in-

tricate hands marking the passing of

every hour, every minute, every

second. The silver gears behind it spin

tirelessly, keeping time in check. The

sky is overcast with mist that blurs the

line between the sea and the indiffer-

ent clouds. I am lying on my back at

the edge of a cliff, with my feet dan-

gling off. Directly above me is the huge

clock, and we are face-to-face. Mine is

speckled with dirt and the salty spray

of the ocean. The clock’s face has an

image of a grayish planet, a planet long

forgotten, a planet whose inhabitants

have long ago destroyed it. Our earth.

Well, not exactly. The reign of mankind

has ended. Family, friends, neighbors—

they are all gone, and I haven’t the

time to grieve. No, there is no one else

on this rock but me. Thus, I can more

correctly call it “my earth.” These

thoughts flicker in my head as the sec-

ond hand moves to fi"een seconds be-

fore twelve o’clock. I am not sure if it is

nearly noon or nearly midnight, but

that doesn’t seem important any more.

It’s now ten seconds before twelve; the

hand seems to slow down. Seven sec-

onds le". Six. I close my eyes. Five.

Four. Three, two... As the hands all join

together, pointing north, the golden

clock begins its dozen chimes. With

each chime, an unlit lantern appears

next to a number on the clock. The first

chime seems to shatter my fragile

eardrums. I clasp my hands over my

ears and curl up into a ball. The second

still penetrates painfully through my

empty soul. Five more rings, and I nar-

rowly miss rolling off the cliff in my

crazed agony. The chimes begin to get

so"er. My eyes squeeze open, and, as

the twel"h ring sounds, the clock melts

out of the sky. But the lanterns stay,

and a small flame flies from one to the

next, lighting all twelve of them in less

than a second. Droplets of melted

clock, gold and silver, sprinkle me in a

sparkling rain. The liquid metal pools

around me, then falls into the sky

again. It swirls around the circle of

lanterns and forms an enormous gold-

en phoenix whose wings span from

horizon to horizon. The fire from the

lamps flares up and bathes the bird in

blinding heat. I am glued to the ground

in terrified awe as the majestic bird

brings its wings backward, then flaps

them once. With that, all that remains

from houses and roads and mankind’s

existence is blown away with the force

of a thousand hurricanes. But not a

hair on my head moves, not a leaf in

the few surrounding trees stirs. As the

wreckage is blown away, I tear my eyes

from the barren landscape to the gold-

en-feathered firebird. Its glowing eyes,

able to perceive the slightest move-

ment, turn to me, and a fierce power

rushes through my veins. I scream and

writhe on the ground in agony. My suf-

fering is immediately relieved as the

creature brings its enormous head up

to the sky and great plumes of yellow

fire billow out of its mouth and turn the

entire sky a blazing color. The sky ex-

pands. The phoenix’s metallic flames

stop moving, and I feel as though I am

l o o k i n g a t a s t i l l s h o t o f t h e

apocalypse. Then, the fire begins mov-

ing again. But this time it encircles me,

orbiting faster and faster around my

body, picking up pieces of dirt and

rock. Now the bird is above me, and it

breathes its cleansing golden fire

around me. I barely have the time to

see everything around me disappear

before I am thrust into darkness. The

last image I see is a new planet, a vi-

brantly alive planet, a planet whose in-

habitants are just beginning their long

saga on it. Our earth. Their earth. I hear

a word whispered through my soul be-

fore the sacrifice becomes complete:

REBORN

Lyndon Taylor

Second Place

Lamplighters of the Sky

The sky is blue, velvety purple, fiery or-

ange at times, gray and heavy, and, so

rarely, clear, dark violet and dappled

with trickles of brilliant silver stars.

Tonight is one of those rare brightly lit

nights. The pinpricks of light illuminate

the velvet-lined curtains of the night

sky. And as I look up, the diamonds of

radiance are extinguished, one by one,

the smallest ones first. They’re like

candles, the tiniest of them being

tealights and the largest of them

house-sized floating lanterns. And the

lamplighters of the sky go around from

lamp to lamp, blowing out the small

ones first and saving the industrial

strength fire extinguishers for the last

ones. Of course, all of the lanterns, can-

dles, and tealights, regardless of if

they’re lit or not, are invisible when the

fluorescent energy-saving lightbulb

that is the sun rises. But the lamp-

lighters help to slow down the process,

and make us appreciate dawn, keeping

an element of beauty and consistence

in this ever-developing world of ours.

Alice Chen

Next Month's Contest

Prompt: Where do the stars come

from?

Must be fiction; 1000 words or less;

only one entry per person

Submit entries before December 1 to

[email protected]

Third Place

The Last Angel

The crowded city streets are muted,

waiting for someone to wake up from

this stifling dream. The gutters are

brimming with rainwater, washing it

down the drain, away from the people

who take no notice of anyone else, of

the rain, of the girl staring at them from

a roo"op. Wishing that one of them

would smile for once. Her wings

spread. Over the smoggy city she soars,

carrying a lantern to light her way

through the haze. Smoke si"s through

her rain-soaked feathers, and no one

bothering to look up and see their last

hope, their final savior, glide past the

endless gray skies. She is alone, the

only one who would never give up on

this land, brought to her knees by the

very people she tried to save. She

lands in the suburbs and sets the

lantern down. With her long, light

blonde hair plastered against her face,

her knee-length simple white dress

clinging to her body, and most of all,

her sad expression, she looks very

much like the people. But her eyes dif-

ferentiate her from them. Her bright

blue eyes, sad, half closed. Almost giv-

ing up. Yet she looks up, for what she

thinks is the last time, for what she

thinks is her good-bye to this depress-

ing place. And what she sees bestows

her with a golden halo and a shimmer-

ing gown. Her wings grow and regain

their silvery-white glowing sheen, and

the smog is erased from her hair, her

wings, and her grateful heart. Closing

her beautifully crystalline eyes in a

peacefulness she hasn’t felt on her face

in years, she mouths the words “thank

you” as she floats upward in a golden

ray. Below her, the small child who had

taken the time to look up and smile for

the angel watches the last flicker of

golden sunlight disappear into the

clouds. But as the girl picks up the

lantern, the rain stops.

Aria Kyte


The Miscellaneator's PicksOdds and Ends of Writing

Damoenic Situations

Her dark purple bat wings folded and

flexed as she spoke in the way that al-

ways made shivers creep up Rellym’s

spine. But not for the reason you think.

The manner of speaking that Avakia

had adopted at this moment when Rel-

lym was bowing mercifully in front of

her was the “I have found the excuse to

kill you that I have been looking for”

manner. It meant that he had failed in

his job. Again. Failed for the who-

knows-how-manyth time. But no, it

wasn’t the famous fall-in-love-with-

the-person-you’re-supposed-to-kill

failure, though he had been the victim

of that many a time, too. It was the kill-

the-wrong-person-and-then-go-to-hu-

man-jail-for-that-and-then-try-to-

break-out-only-to-have-them-discover-

that-you’re-a-damoen-and-send-the-

armed-forces-a"er-you kind of failure,

which only happened to Rellym three

times. This year.

If Rellym were a normal server, Avakia

would have killed him on the spot, if he

hadn’t already been killed long before

this incident. However, he was a spe-

cial case. His father happened to be

Avakia’s younger brother, Kurinno, who

Moved six years ago, when Rellym was

just ten.

By the way, in case you don’t under-

stand anything, feel free to just stop me

and ask. What? You didn’t understand

the word “Moved”? Oh. Well, Moving is a

term for… I think humans call it

“dying”? However, dying implies that

the dead person cannot become alive

again, in the sense that the dead cannot

communicate with the living. However,

as damoens are never technically alive,

they are unable to die. Therefore, the

only diff erences between Moved

damoen—or simply Moved, as many call

them—and Kayi damoen—or just plain

Kayi—is that Moved cannot contact the

outside world. They are frozen in the

form they Moved in, and the only way

others can contact them is by clearing

all thoughts from your mind and medi-

tating on the spot they Moved for four

days and seven and a half hours. This is

very uncommon, as damoens rarely ever

have clear minds, much less blank ones,

and even rarer is the time one will see a

damoen sitting still for four days and

seven and a half hours. Did that define

“Moved” clear enough for you? Yes? Ok

then, back to the tale.

Kurinno’s last wish was for Rellym to

grow up normally, as Kayi (not

Metekayi, the half-alive state damoens

with no homes live in. The streets of

the Und are even less kind to homeless

than the streets of the Huaam.)

What? Don’t tell me you didn’t under-

stand “Und” and “Huaam”—sigh. Well,

the Und is the “Underworld” as humans

call it, and the Huaam is the human

world. Yes, I am well aware of your “con-

tinents”. Oh, don’t even get me started

on countries. If you ask me, if all the hu-

mans are split into tiny little sections of

land, what are their chances of surviving

an apocalypse? Why, we have apoca-

lypses every few weeks, but since all

damoens are so buddy-buddy with each

other, even if apocalypses struck every

day (which they did for eight days in a

row in the Great Apocalypse Storm of

1845) we’d be surviving them le! and

right! In fact, there was apocalypse just

two days ago in my great uncle’s area.

He said the ground shook like heaven,

and it was raining fire until someone’s

sister’s cousin ran out into the middle of

the street and scolded the sky, “You

should be ashamed of yourself! Going

all apocalypse on us, when we just sur-

vived a few floods last week! At least

give it some time to sink in, so you’ll get

your fun in having surprised victims and

we’ll have some excitement in our lives,

instead of having catastrophes whenev-

er we look at the sky a funny way.

Really,” she added, “you ought to have

more pride in your destruction that this.”

The “this” was emphasized as she ges-

tured to the half-hearted effort put into

wrecking nearby houses and streets.

Roofs were only partially caved in, and

walls were only half destroyed—but

that’s beside the point. Wait, what was

the point again? Apocalypses… Coun-

tries… Oh yeah! The Und and the

Huaam. Well, now that that’s explained,

let’s move on.

So it was the least Avakia could do to

take Rellym in and raise him properly.

However, as nothing about “raising

properly” says anything against slavery

and henchmanism, Rellym found him-

self doing Avakia’s dirty work: killing

people, casting dry spells, that kind of

thing. But Rellym’s damoenic skills are

far from satisfactory, so murder victims

ended up with slight headaches, and

dry spells turned into “wonderfully

plentiful crops”, as one of the farmers

thanked the “angels” who provided his

town with forgiving rains and perfect

farming weather.

Usually Avakia (being the Undeniable

Ruler of All and Nothing) would kill at

least a servant a week. But even

though she hadn’t yet killed one this

week, and Rellym had made his, what,

seventeen thousandth? mess-up in a

row, Avakia had sworn to raise him as

Kayi, and that did not include killing

him.

Alice Chen

Want me to continue? Email flying-

[email protected]

I ♥ NY

The old flashlight served as a perfect

prop for midnight storytelling. BX cra-

dled it in his hand as he spoke in the

deepest and spookiest voice he could

muster.

“The dra"y alleyways and intertwining

streets make the city a confusing place

to tourists, which is unfortunate be-

cause of the massive number of

tourists drawn to the labyrinth of grid-

lock that calls itself the City That Never

Sleeps. How many cases are there of

missing cameras, phones, and wallets

that, once lost, can never be found

again? Not enough to stop the steady

stream of visitors from rushing to the

five boroughs with expensive cameras,

text-filled cell phones, and bulging wal-

lets. How many of these innumerable

cases of ‘lost’ belongings are thanks to

the thieves, robbers, crooks, burglars,

and all-around wrongdoers that ram-

pantly populate the streets of the Big

Apple at night? More than a few.”

Brooke stifled a giggle at BX’s serious

voice as the light switched hands and

Attan’s ominous voice projected itself

into the abandoned lobby.

“Why hello there, naïve, innocuous visi-

tor. Let me see your photographs. I love

the lighting on that one! Say, do you

want me to take a picture of you in

front of Battery Park? Okay, you just

stand over there, say cheese, and kiss

your five-thousand-dollar camera

goodbye. Would you like to protect

The Wandering Tide

Racing toward the wharf on a nine-foot

tall wall that loomed over the stalls

and trinket-wielding booths, Code

tripped on a loose brick. He stumbled

and tried to keep his balance without

slowing down, dropping his heavy sack

of clinking coins, or falling to either

side. To his le" were the various booths

that preyed on souvenir-hungry

tourists. To the right of the wall was a

twelve-foot drop to the sloshing sea-

water. On this side, the bottom portion

of the wall was a darker shade, the col-

or change beginning at nine feet from

the top and disappearing into the

waves, suggesting that, at high tide,

the water was as high as the cobble-

stone town square on his le". Behind

him and to his le" were a dozen or so

guards of the royal crown, pursuing

him through the thick crowd. They

were inadvertently knocking over stalls

and spilling keepsakes, curios, and

knickknacks everywhere, in the pro-

cess angering merchants and tourists

alike. Code was almost at the end of

the wall when he realized that it ended

abruptly and with a tall drop to the

wooden dock. Cursing under his breath

and not wanting to find out what he

would break on the drop, Code dove

sideways off the last brick of the wall,

his swan dive hindered only by the bag

of coins. When he surfaced, four of the

guards were standing on the dock di-

rectly above him and one held an ar-

row with a rope tied to it and a bow. By

the time the arrow was fitted to the

string, Code was underwater again and

swimming powerfully to the Wandering

Tide, a Spanish galleon that he had

stolen from a boat aficionado. When he

reached the Tide, Code climbed the

rope tied to the anchor and hopped

over the railing onto his ship, smirking

and saluting the English guards as they

flung various projectiles and choice in-

sults at him.

Aria Kyte

I have a pretty clear idea of where I

want this to go, but does anyone like

it? Is it worth it for me to continue? I

haven't seen many novels about pi-

rates so I thought this was relatively

o r i g i n a l , b u t a m I w r o n g ?

[email protected]

9The Miscellaneator

The Legend of Costebelle

I used to live in Costebelle. It was partly

perched on a hill beside the sea. I was

the spirit of that city, the embodiment of

the beach, of kids playing, of gulls

screeching, of waves crashing and of

reefs teeming with tropical fish. The

summers in that wonderful place

smelled of the native Torrey Pine tree,

with its dark evergreen spines stopping

falling pinecones before they dropped

onto your head. You would have liked it

there. The end of our street opened to a

grassy field where you could lie down

and watch the ocean while the aromatic

breezes swirled around you and carried

your doubts and fears out to sea. It was

a place of bliss, of carefree simplicity,

where anything could be cured by listen-

ing to the bluejays sing. In that place by

the sea, in that place where you could

smell the wildflowers just before they

bloomed, nothing could go wrong.

Then the Miners appeared. They started

as a tiny organization that would ran-

sack small towns and steal magical

items. But as time wore on, the organi-

zation grew larger and larger. By 1998

everyone in wizard circles had heard of

them and feared them. But for a while,

our small city was safe. They paid no at-

tention to Costebelle, since it was so

small compared to the metropolises and

seemed unimportant. They focused

mainly on New York, D.C., Los Angeles...

The big cities with many magical items

and rivers of power flowing through

them. But then they wondered if there

was any power rooted in the landscape,

carried in from the ocean to the coasts.

So the Miners—magic-finders, spell-

smiths, and power-hungry wizards of all

sorts—they came and cast their ugly

smog over Costebelle. They came look-

ing for magical items and power buried

within the photogenic cliffs of our city.

The Miners, pure embodiments of greed,

would wake before the birds began their

morning songs, and rest long a!er the

unseen moon had risen, blocked by the

smoky air. During the day—though you

couldn’t really tell day from night—the

Miners would dig in the beautiful coast

that was Costebelle’s namesake. Even-

tually, the crashing waves and bird-

songs and pine-tree coast were all oblit-

erated by those terrible wizards.

However, the era of the Miners could not

last for long. In a place as fragile as my

hometown, no one as power-hungry as

them was meant to live there. On a day

that started out like many others, the

cliff collapsed into the polluted sea. I’ll

always remember that scene: I was

standing in the field I had so o!en

watched the very same cliff from, and a

terrible rumbling struck my ears. I saw

cracks spring up through the side of the

cliff, until...

That night, in secret, the people of

Costebelle cleaned up the bay, mages

using purifying powers and regular peo-

ple taking mud out of the seawater and

dumping it where the cliff used to be. By

the time the Miners woke up, the place

was as crystalline as it should have been

the whole time, and they were angry.

Very angry. With us, with the fact that

we had the gall to put all that dirt back

over the place they had been digging

for . . . maybe years, to get to. Someone

shot a gun, and we fought the Miners.

We were very angry too, as you would

be, too, if you had been there. They had

taken our home, our beautiful city by

the sea, and destroyed it. But they won.

They drove us out of our home, took

captives, killed many, and ever since we

have stayed in the shadows, waiting . . .

waiting for our time, the time to take

back our beautiful coast.

That time is now.

Of all the cheesy game intros I’ve ever

watched, that one’s probably up there

with the top ten most artery-cloggingly

cheesy. Ah, whatever. Everyone’s told

me this game’s great; hopefully it’ll live

up to my expectations.

Not to brag about how much I know

about this game or anything, but

Costebelle is 99% the same as real life;

you cannot die in real life if you die in-

side the game. I glance at the case that

held the disc as the MMORPG is

loading. The name is written in cursive

letters:

The Legend Of Costebelle

A realistic yet computerized voice

shocks me back to the game. I scram-

ble to grab my headphones and eye

goggles that complete both the simula-

tor game and the nerd appearance.

“Hello and welcome to Mithil, the

world beyond your Earth.” The voice in-

duces me to open my eyes inside the

hi-tech eyewear and I see a light-

skinned female NPC standing in a stark

white room. She is wearing a dress

that’s white with light teal color blocks;

in the back it skims the floor, while in

the front it ends just above her knees.

The NPC’s shoes look like Stilettos, but

taller, if possible, and her straight and

silver hair ends at the small of her

back. Her bangs are cut straight across,

and they almost obscure her eyes

when she tilts her head sideways.

The graphics are getting better every

version. And the voice simulators. I

know I don’t have to respond, and the

ageless female introduces herself as

Suzuki Takako—in the surname, given

name format—in Japanese, then En-

glish. I only speak English, but, through

gaming and anime, I’m familiar with

the Japanese social standards, and I

speak my name for the voice recorder

as “Kennedy Dylan” instead of “Dylan

Kennedy.”

My name appears before me in

Japanese kanji, written on what looks

like a holographic notepad. A small,

yourself from the terrors that roam the

alleys of this anonymous metropolis?

Well, I’m afraid that’s quite impossible.

As the saying goes, you can run, but

you can’t hide. We know every twist

and turn of this latticework of

skyscrapers, for we are the masters of

the boroughs that feed the tourists’

cameras their famed Brooklyn Bridge

and Times Square and Chrysler Build-

ing . . . Do you dare infiltrate this em-

pire of thievery that we call home?”

“Oh shut up, you’re so full of yourself!”

Maj snatched the flashlight away from

Attan, who had been shining the beam

toward the dilapidated roof to cast

creepy shadows on everyone’s faces.

She flipped the switch and the room in-

stantly went dark. As his eyes adjusted

to the sudden midnight hue the old

lobby had taken on, Attan brushed his

black bangs out of his face.

“Ugh, Queens, Your Majesty, you’re so

boring. Do you have a life?” Attan teas-

ingly emphasized Maj’s other names as

he knew she hated being called any-

thing but Maj.

Faking a haughty scoff, Maj adjusted

the red crown with gold accents that

topped her auburn curls. “I’m not the

only one who lives in a bathhouse.”

Another voice joined to keep silent

darkness at bay. It corrected, “Bath-

house lobby. I’m pretty sure you don’t

live in there,” Stat gestured to the piles

of broken concrete and rubble that sur-

rounded them. The same building re-

mains le" the lobby of the demolished

bathhouse the only place that was in-

tact enough for the group of five

teenagers to live.

Maj ignored him and felt around in the

darkness for her cot, a ripped sheet

that she had salvaged from the broken

building when they had first arrived

there. She laid down in the makeshi"

bed with her back facing the group.

Taking off her crown and placing it be-

neath the clump of sheets that was her

pillow, Maj sighed and closed her eyes.

Again trying not to laugh, Brooke asked

Stat, “Hey Stat, gimme a light over

h e r e , s i n c e s o m e o n e h a s t h e

flashlight.”

Stat had light gray eyes that were al-

most white, which gave him the ap-

pearance of being blind. His tangly

whitish-blonde hair was held at bay by

the halo of technology surrounding his

head. A headset with a microphone

and a lens of shaded glass attached to

it clung to his unruly bangs. The single

pinkish lens gave his le" eye the ability

to scan computers and phones and

other electrical items for information.

Perched above the headset on a small

lever that moved by itself was a pierc-

ingly bright fluorescent light. Stat

blinked his eyes and the light flicked on

instantaneously, or at least at what

seemed instantaneous to the human

eye.

Born with a mutation under his le"

eyelid, Stat had the ability to transmit

brain pulses more quickly than the nor-

mal human. The mutation also allowed

him to transmit short radio frequency

signals out from behind his le" eye.

The signals only traveled for half an

inch at most outside his eye, and to say

they went very fast is an understate-

ment. They were only detectable by ra-

dio frequency transceivers. Luckily

Stat’s father had been a technological-

ly savvy genius, Hugo F. Carter, who

had created a radio frequency

transceiver in an eyepiece, which he

had attached to a headset for his son.

Carter had also been the creator of

Carter Technology, or C-Tech, an Amer-

ican company that had flourished in a

world of people who had constant nag-

ging needs for the technology of to-

morrow, today. A"er a reputation-dam-

aging scandal concerning trillions of

dollars, Russian technology, and Hugo

himself, Stat lost his father to snipers

that had been hired by billionare Vlad-

mir Boris Ivanov, owner of a large Rus-

sian company that flourished in the

same world of people as C-Tech.

Stat and Queens were the only ones of

the group of five who claimed to own

anything of money value, with Stat’s

headset and Maj’s crown. Maj tells ev-

eryone that it was passed down from

generation to generation until it found

its way to her brow, but they assume

that she stole it from a pawn shop in

the borough sharing her name.

“Thanks.” Brooke found her way to her

bed, a cocoon of curtains, sheets, pens,

pencils, and notebooks. She shuffled

her way under the clutter and ended

up facing the group. "'Kay, I'm good."

A. M. Larkson

Where should I take this? I was think-

ing of making it about a group of kid

thieves who live in New York City,

but . . . where do I go from there?

Should I even continue it? Email me at

[email protected]


Robin Hood

The entrance to the subterranean lair

stands before me, appearing to be

sinking into the surrounding mud and

muck. The intimidating soldier leading

me grasps the rusty handle of other-

wise wooden trapdoor and pulls. I peer

around the figure in front of me, only to

see nothing as I strain my eyes against

the darkness beyond the door. When a

spear impatiently jabs me from behind,

I spitefully drag my handcuffed hands

forward and start to descend into the

underground compartment. I initially

think that it will be a cinch getting out

of here and going back to my old life,

but then I feel the aura coming from

the walls. An aura of suppressiveness,

and an aura of strictness. No tricks will

pass here. The sign hung on the back

door confirms my fears as I look over

my shoulder. It states in bold: “NO

MAGE.” I won’t be able to use magic

within these walls.

Despite the initial midnight hue of the

structure, the walls and dilapidated

stairs take on a greenish glow as the

guards and I make our way further

down. Looking to the side, I see wood-

en supports built along the extremely

flimsy walls. These halls have the ex-

travagance of a coffin.

As my captors and I reach the bottom

of the seemingly endless pit, the path

diverges into three skinny corridors.

The knight in the front veers toward

the hallway on the le", and I feel the

spear prod me from behind again. Re-

luctantly, I continue on my clanking

march.

They should never have caught me. I

am not the fastest, and I am not the

smartest. No, I am better than the

fastest and the smartest. I am Robin

Hood. Well, I was. The fact that they

caught me is the worst blow my identi-

ty has taken in a long time. Now I’m on

my way to be subject to some incredi-

ble torture before being killed. But I de-

serve it, I thought bitterly, Not because

stealing is wrong, and I should never

have chosen that sinful lifestyle, no. I de-

serve these handcuffs and this fate be-

cause I let them catch me. No one in

their right mind would have been that

stupid and boastful. I had to have the

best of the best. I had to steal from the

nobles, not just enough to get by. I’m

stupid. By the time I’ve finished scold-

ing myself, I notice that we are nearing

the end of this passage. With this real-

ization, I notice that I am nearing the

end of this life.

There is another small door in front of

the first knight, and he has to duck be-

neath the frame a"er opening it to get

through. Behind the door, I see an ex-

tensive room full of nearly eighty

knights just like the two who lead me

down here. So this is how I will die? At

least I’ll go out with a bang, I think,

noticing the sign on the wall that says,

“MAGE AREA.” I conjure up some magic

and then there are seven of me, and

my clones have already wounded a

dozen or so of the soldiers. But there

are more where they came from. I look

around at the bloody scenery and think

briefly about what my last words

should be. Then a spat of gore hits me

in the face and the adrenaline kicks in.

I smirk and dive head-first into the

crowd of waiting knights, wielding only

a short knife.

I saunter out of that death-hole with

the weight of nearly eighty deaths on

my shoulders. I’ve never felt better.

Michael Kingston

Should I expand on this and make it

into a contemporary Robin Hood?

blue-outlined sign pops up with the

query, “Is this your name?” written in

Japanese and English. Except, in the

English version it states, “This name is

you?” Well, you can’t expect them to

get everything right. I raise my virtual

hand to press the green check mark,

confirming that, yes, “ケネディディラン,” or “Kenedi Diran,” is my name. The

NPC’s voice rematerializes and I’m in

mild awe again over how real it

sounds.

Dominick Forge

Should I continue this or write Game

Over? The Dark Star

The sky was clouded over and the day

was gloomy. A young, blonde girl of

eight or nine stumbled on the pave-

ment in her hurry to get to the Upper

Fairfield Bakery. The girl, Mollie,

paused awkwardly outside of the warm

shop and took off her cloth jacket.

When she stepped inside, she hung it

on a silvery coat rack that she could

barely reach. The owner of the small

shop was talking to a customer, but

when she saw Mollie she motioned for

her to go upstairs.

Mollie ran up the steps, two at a time,

and when she reached the house-floor

she was absolutely out of breath. She

sat down to wait for Alexa, the 23-year-

old owner of the shop, to join her. A few

minutes later, Alexa came. With her

came a plate of steaming cinnamon-

rolls.

As they munched on the baked treats,

Alexa asked about Mollie’s school day.

When she saw Mollie looking outside,

Alexa inquired, “What is it? Don’t tell

me it’s snowing again?!” In Upper Fair-

field, snow was only seen in bright pink

scoops on top of a paper cones on ex-

tremely hot days. That is to say, before

last week; the Demon Star comet had

come again, and with it came bizarre

weather. It hailed at random times,

rained when there was not a cloud in

the sky. Once, Mollie had seen snow

falling from the ceiling of Alexa’s bak-

ery! Those weren’t the only weird

things happening; Mollie had been see-

ing strange things recently. When she

looked out of the corner of her eye, she

saw foxes with nine tails, but when she

turned, there was nothing there. When

she stared into dark corners, she saw

eyes peering out at her, but when she

lit a candle, nothing was there. She

heard growls, whispers, wings flapping,

but, upon investigation, nothing was

ever there. Until today.

A tired old wagon pulled by tired old

horses rambled by. This was not an un-

common sight in Upper Fairfield, but

Mollie stared at it, and when it passed,

Waiting for Dawn

It was pouring rain. The rivers were

overflowing, and the lush green leaves

that hung in the web of branches over

head had rivulets of water flowing

down them. Three figures were silhou-

etted against the dark forest’s back-

drop. Through the sheer wall of rain-

drops one would barely be able to

make out the shades of the figures’

pelts. One was reddish with a white

sable pattern and a black star on his

le" front leg, one was white with dark

markings and a small spiral on his face,

and there was smaller one that fol-

lowed in their wake, stopping at every

bush and squirrel-den to investigate.

This cub, Star of Dawn, had silver col-

oring on her face that spilled down

onto her shoulders. Dawn’s body was

white, yet she had black-tipped paws

and a black underbelly and a black

swirl coming from the bottom of her

right eye. The two wolves in the front

were trotting along at a fast pace with

their heads tucked down into their fur,

but the last one was hesitating, sniffing

the air, and shaking off every raindrop

that fell into its fur.

“Dawn is not ready yet; she is too

young, Streak!” the white wolf argued

to the other.

“Blizz, this is not about the child. It is

about the survival of our very world!”

hissed Streak as he steamed with im-

patience.

“The survival of our world cannot be

trusted to an untrained pup! Come, we

must turn back and wait for her to

grow wise with age,” Blizz said, plant-

ing his feet in the muddy ground.

“In any case, we cannot continue to the

Silver Meadows,” Streak decided, “We

should camp for the night.”

Crawling under the thorny, dripping

bushes, Streak and Blizz called the pup

to them.

* * *

Dawn awoke in the gray morning with

her fur damp and cold. She carefully

backed out from under the bushes, and

took in the forest around her. The rising

sun highlighted the greenery and re-

flected on the falling dewdrops. Trees

stretched upwards, grass grew higher

than the bushes, and shrubs covered

the ground. The sound of trickling wa-

ter could be heard coming from the

bottom of a sloping ravine. The thirsty

wolf pup raced toward the ravine, but

when Dawn abruptly stopped at the

top, looking down to the stream at the

bottom, the rainwater that had satu-

rated the dirt made her loose her foot-

ing and go sliding down the bank.

Dawn tried to dig her claws in, but she

kept slipping on the wet soil and even-

tually splashed into the stream.

Dawn clambered back out of the river

and onto the bank, whereupon she

promptly slid back down. Then she at-

tempted to leap up the bank, but she

fell back all the same. Dawn splashed

to the other side of the stream, turned

around, and tried once again to run up

the side of the bank. She got halfway

up, but her back right paw slipped un-

der her and she went cascading down

on her back. Roughly landing in the riv-

er, Dawn coughed and tried to scale up

the other side, but she had no more

luck there than on the first side. Whim-

pering, Dawn ran upstream, hoping to

find an easier way to ascend the steep

riverbank.

Gradually Dawn began to notice that

the sides of the stream weren’t curving

upwards at such a sharp angle any-

more. As she climbed cautiously up the

sides, Dawn realized she didn’t recog-

nize the trees and scents. Since her

sense of smell was dulled because of

the river and rain from the previous

night, the wolf pup couldn’t place the

smells. However, when she heard paw-

steps and saw three wolves emerge

from the background, surrounding her,

Dawn new she had gone past her

pack’s border.

“Well, if it isn’t Lone Star of Dawn,

daughter of Mountain Blizzard and An-

gel of the Skies.”

Sherry Gray

11The Miscellaneator

Footprints in the Snow

There is no sound, no movement, no col-

or for a long, long while. Then there’s a

break in the whiteness and two figures

appear, walking through the whiteness

toward each other.

"Walk with me," he offers.

“Where are you going?” she asks with a

slight smile.

“You're coming? Oh. Then I'm going

wherever you’re not.” His clear eyes

laugh like tiny bells and shine like the

sparkling snow.

“Why don’t we go together, then? If

you're going where I'm not, and I'm fol-

lowing you . . . I think that makes sense,”

the girl muses.

“It would make more sense to travel to-

gether if we were going the same way.

But I’ve got barely any sense with you

stealing it away.”

“Well, since I took all your sense, you

had better come with me if you hope to

get it back.” The snowflakes caress her

upturned face as she steps forward. Dirt

meets her boots, whose soles print

tracks on the powdery white atop the

unpaved road. He sighs and follows her,

prints of his own lining up parallel to

hers. They walk in silence for a few min-

utes. Gravel and ice crunch under their

feet as bright snow falls from the heav-

ens.

“Are you cold?” he asks her. She lies with

a shake of her head and he sees the

truth through her shivering fingers. His

hands find hers and warm them. The

silent snowfall persists as they continue

to walk. The road is definitely of the less-

traveled-by sort, as theirs are the only

shoe-prints that mar the snowy ground.

Is silence really golden? Nothing re-

minds her of unspoken words more than

the perfection of white.

But he doesn’t wish for those words to

remain unspoken, those words, those

words that change everything.

“You know, you really do take my sense

away,” he says without turning to face

her curious eyes. “I can’t think when

you’re with me.” Can’t think about any-

thing besides you, he corrected himself

in his mind.

She stops walking and looks back at the

tracks they made in the snow. Two

trails. Side by side. Parallel. Frozen in

time and space and gravel and ice. She

waits until the silence builds back up

and drowns her beating heart before re-

plying.

“You don’t need to,” she tells him.

“I can’t make sense of anything when

you’re here.” His eyes are filled with

longing.

"Neither can I," she whispers.

They stare at each other in the snowfall

for a long while. Snowflakes trace down

their faces.

"But what does that mean?" he asks.

She doesn't reply. "For me, it means I

love you."

She smiles in her sleep, remembering

the last words he ever spoke to her as

tears paint tracks down her face like

snowflakes. Like two parallel trails of

footprints. His picture lies next to her

pillow, a single teardrop adorning it.

Scrawled on the back in his handwrit-

ing are the words, "Walk with me."

He blinks away the cold wind,

snowflakes painting tracks down his

face like tears. Like two parallel trails of

footprints. His white wings blend in

with the snowy backdrop as he sees

her through the window pane. When

she wakes up in the morning, the back

of the photograph will no longer say,

"Walk with me." It will say "I love you."

Aria Kyte

Been awhile since I wrote a short piece.

Tell me how I could improve it.

[email protected]

she burst outside and ran a"er it, trip-

ping over the cobblestone streets. She

sensed magic. The wagon halted as the

driver talked to someone on the side of

the road, and Mollie almost ran right

into it. Instead, she dropped her teddy

bear, pried the doors in the back open,

and peered inside. She saw a magnifi-

cent beast: a white panther, with wings

of silver folding over its body, and crys-

talline antlers branching out from

above its abnormally pointed ears. It

lay on its side, breathing heavily; a coil

of iron around its neck tethered it to

the inside of the wagon. The creature

was gnawing tiredly at the rope, trying

to get free, while blood and sweat fell

from its jowls. Its eyes were a sad

white-blue, and it had nearly given up.

A faded, green-and-purple sign on an

inside wall of the wagon read, “See The

Mystical Dragoncat, White Fury!!”

Mollie knew she should be afraid, but

she wasn’t; she felt sorry for it. The

panther stopped chewing at its tether

and looked up at her with its blue eyes.

Mollie was climbing inside the wagon

to get away from some police who

were quickly running up to her. She

heaved the doors closed and latched

them; the girl expected to see some

sunlight coming through cracks in the

wood of the wagon, but the only glow

came from the panther’s rheumy eyes.

Cat and girl looked at each other. Mol-

lie knew that the Dragoncat’s rope was

long enough for it to pounce on her

and devour her, but Mollie still wasn’t

frightened. The wagon lurched back-

ward and sent Mollie sliding toward the

panther. It tried to stand but fell back

down, and the girl collided with its

shoulder.

Aria Kyte

[email protected]


Do I have to be good at

writing to submit a piece?

No. Absolutely not. The

purpose of this newspaper is

to give amateurs and aspiring

authors an audience, not to

flaunt the work of

professionals.

Questions? Comments? Ideas?

Contact Authors

This is a list of authors who would love

to receive any feedback from readers.

A. M. Larkson:

[email protected]

Dominick Forge:

[email protected]

Aria Kyte: [email protected]

Celeste Meritha:

[email protected]

Alice Chen:

[email protected]

FAQ

What is The Miscellaneator?

The Miscellaneator is a self-published

nonprofit newspaper created with the

goal of giving amateur and aspiring

writers an audience. Whether or not

they get one is up to you, the reader.

How can I submit my writing to you?

Email: [email protected]

How do I submit contest entries?

The same way you would regular writ-

ing, but be sure to write "Contest

Entry" in your entry so we know what

to do with it. If you mean the Random

Award of the Month, everyone who

sends in writing is automatically en-

tered into it. If you would like to not be

on this list, notify us in your entry.

Will my writing be in the newspaper?

That depends on how many submis-

sions we get.

How old do I have to be to submit

writing?

There are no age restrictions, which is

why we like to keep this paper clean.

But if you are under the age of 13, we

will omit your name unless you specifi-

cally tell us to include it.

How can I comment on and offer sug-

gestions to authors featured in The

Miscellaneator?

If an author wants feedback, their

email will be posted on the front cover

of this paper. If you would like to com-

ment on their work publicly, or if their

email is not on the list on the front cov-

er, email us directly with the subject

line: "Praise/Critique for [Author's

Name]'s [Title]" and your comments

will be considered for publication in

the next issue.

How is Miscellaneator pronounced?

Miss-uh-lay-nee-ay-ter

The Miscellaneator December 2013

Documents

Transcript of The Miscellaneator December 2013