The Autumn I Learned Where I Came From 

Yasmine Filio

Ellen woke to the usual smell of firewood burning in the stove. She blinked off the grogginess that was lingering. She rose from her loud springy twin size mattress. Her long straight black hair is wild and tangled. She shoved her feet into her morning shoes. She made her way to the kitchen from down the hall. Her grandmother was already making coffee. She could tell by the familiar scent of Folgers that filled the air in the small two bedroom trailer. Morning coffee was a ritual for Ellen and her grandmother ever since Ellen could remember. 

The kitchen was small. There wasn’t much in it. Just a small old sink next to the stove with some counters and next to the stove a small icebox above some old cupboards. The floor in the kitchen, like the rest of the house, was wooden and always had dirt no matter how many times it was swept. 

Her grandmother’s straight silver hair was already put in a semi-loose traditional bun held together by some white yarn that was weaved together by hand. She was adding some more wood to old stove. The old radio that sat next to the sink was already tuned to the local radio station where a man was speaking in Navajo about the death of his son. He then started naming his mother’s clan and his father’s clans and so on. This is how most relatives find out that someone in their family or a distant relative died, be that blood related or not. Even though the reservation is roughly about 27,000 square miles, someone always knows someone who knows someone in the family. 

Ellen walked past her grandmother and headed to the corner of the kitchen. She reached inside the old white cupboard and grabbed her favorite mug. It had her favorite morning cartoon printed on the side–Speed Racer. Ellen could barely see the graphic of Speed holding his helmet victoriously, due to overuse. She made her way to the table that was in the middle of the room and sat with her empty cup. 

“Good morning, shizhe,” her grandmother said as turned from the wood stove. Then she made her way to the radio and grabbed the old silver dial to turn the volume down. She walked to the sink and placed old hands on the edge of its’ basin. She proceeded to stare out the window above and seemed as if she was scanning the surrounding landscape. Ellen’s grandmother usually only spoke English with Ellen except for the occasional Navajo words here and there. English was Rose’s second language that she had to learn at the boarding school she was sent away to. Her English was coated with a thick rez accent. 

“Good morning, Shima,” Ellen replied to her grandmother. 

“Did you hear that Talibah passed away last week?” Rose asked Ellen, still looking out the window. 

“No, Shima, I had no idea. How did that happen?” Ellen wiped some of the sleep from eyelids with balled fist. 

“Pssshhh maybe from all dat singin’ she likes to do. Ya know that she–” 

Ellen cut her off, “That she stole your boyfriend back in the day? Yeah, I know.” 

“But I always tell myself that if she didn’ do dat I never would have met your Shanli.” Ellen’s grandmother was stuck in a trace looking out the window. She took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. 

Ellen knew that this meant that her grandmother was thinking about a troublesome topic. She would often stare out the window like this when she thought about things that made her worry. Like when Ellen would talk to her about leaving the reservation and going to school in California. She would get up from the small wooden table in the center of the kitchen and stare outside. Well unless it was nighttime then she would stare into the sink like she was trying to memorize every nick and stain and how it came to be there. Everyone knows staring out the window at night on the rez was a no-no. 

It wasn’t that Ellen wanted to leave her grandparents, but there was nothing on the rez for her. All the rez had was bad memories and a lot of dirt. Ellen waited a minute before she broke her grandmother’s trance. “What’s the matter?” Ellen said after a couple of minutes. 

Rose seemed startled by Ellen's voice and shook her head. Her small black almond shaped eyes blinked rapidly. “It’s probably nothin’. But it looks like creator is gettin’ ready to bring snow and your Shanli is still in the moun’ains gettin’ firewood and fixin’ the road,” She stared out at the red hills and rock formations. The rays from the morning sun started to poke through the formation's sharp points. It was a brilliant sky painted with hues of pink, purple, orange, and blue. 

“Grandma, it’s barely September 3rd. Grandfather usually comes back in the middle of the month. I’m sure he’s fine. The road is probably real bad from last winter.” Ellen put both her elbows on the table and clasped her hands together. Then she rested her angular chin on top of her clasped hands. 

Rose took a deep sigh. “You’re right. I jus’ get worried that he goes up all by himself.” She continued her long stare out the window. She wrapped thin dark arms around herself. 

Every year Ellen’s grandfather would go up to the mountains with the wagon. Even though it was 1982, a lot of households on the rez still used wagons to haul wood especially if the family only had one car. It used to be that a handful of men would go up to chop wood for the winter and repair the road to make trips up the mountains easier for everyone. But as time passed, the traditions that took place in those mountains stopped being performed and people stopped chopping their own wood and bought it instead. So, no one really felt a need to go up and do the work anymore. Except for Ellen’s grandfather. He didn’t care that people stopped going up there. If no one else was going to do the job, then he would. He would still go every year, usually from the beginning of August to the middle of September. 

Puffs of steam started to come out of the spout of the blue coffee percolator on the stove. Rose finally broke from the spot where her feet seemed to be glued and grabbed the potholder hanging from the fridge. Then she grabbed the coffee pot and made her way to the table. Then she poured her granddaughter's cup first then she poured herself one. Ellen immediately perked up and started to reach for the sugar receptacle that was disguised as a Coca-Cola box truck in the center of the table. Rose placed the coffee pot back on the stove and sat across from Ellen at the table. 

Ellen didn’t like to see her grandmother sad. She decided to get back on track and talk about the recent death. “So are we going to go to Talibah’s funeral?” Ellen asked genuinely curious. 

Rose’s eyes returned from wherever her thoughts were and replied, “Maybe…I don’t know depens’ on if her kids are havin’ the service at the chapter house. Ya know those kids all left and don’t even come check on family,” Rose was waving her right hand in the air while speaking. 

“Well, If it’s before graduation I will go with you,” Ellen said. 

Ellen had been to quite a few funerals considering her age. She was only 17 and had already been to at least 10 funerals with her grandmother. All of them were friends that her grandmother Rose grew up with in the Indian boarding schools that she was sent off to at the early age of 14. Ellen never minded going to funerals with her grandmother. To be completely honest, she liked them. It wasn’t that she liked death–like most Navajo people, death made her quite uncomfortable. 

No, Ellen didn't show up for death; she showed up for the food: the roasted corn, blue mush, frybread, mashed potatoes, Jello, and basically any other rez staple you could imagine. It wasn’t that Ellen didn’t get fed properly, but there was a time when she was younger when she went to bed with an empty stomach more times than she’d like to admit. That was when she was living with her mother before her grandmother took her to live with her permanently. This time it was her grandmother who broke Ellen from her trance. 

“You're always talking about leavin’ here. I jus’ wish you would spend a little more time gettin’ to know the place your ancestors are from instead of jus’ packin’ up and leavin’. You know in the old days you weren’t even supposed to leave outside of our four sacred moun’ains?” 

“Shima, there are plenty of natives who live outside of the four sacred mountains, and they are completely fine. Plus, I won’t be gone forever, just until I finish school.” Then Ellen took a big, long sip of her black and overly sweetened coffee. 

“Yeah, yeah whatever you say.” Now it was Rose's turn to take a big gulp of her coffee. Then she continued, “Anyway why aren’t you ready yet? You know it’s Friday; we always go into town to shop. Can’t be looking all–” Rose raised her right hand that had two huge silver turquoise rings and waved it at Ellen as if she was casting a spell, “.... messy.” 

Ellen looked down at her white overly sized t-shirt that hung on her strong skinny body rather unruly and then down to her bare legs that had an odd tan from her running shorts and running socks. 

“Don’t you worry a pretty little silver strand of hair on your head; I am going to go get changed after this wonderful cup of coffee.” Ellen smirked showing her beautiful smile and mostly straight teeth except for a single canine that stuck a little too far out. 

“Yeah, yeah, you know I love every single silver strand and am lucky to be this old,” Rose replied with her little eyes squinting at Ellen. 

With that Ellen took the last sip from her coffee mug. Then she stood up and put the cup in the sink and went back down the hall. She made her way to her small room, then shut the door, and proceeded to get ready for what the day had in store for her. 

Space Dog Laika

Mikayla Portillo

Laika is up there

Biting the icy comets

She forgives us too

Best Wishes, Chaining

Faith Annabelle Button

Chaining’s violently blue eyes surveyed the little frosted alley from the second-floor terrace. He sat, smoking here on the roof of the only local coffee shop in the Colorado mountain town. The bridge of his nose was burnt both by the sunlight and the bite of the cold. The rest of his chin and mouth were buried in the layers of his grey ski jacket.

The alley’s cracked pavement sliced in a line between the concrete buildings. The bases of these were cluttered with broken things, trash-filled buckets, and waist-high piles of dirty snow. Chaining watched a gathering of little dark birds on the ground. The party hopped in the snow, picking at it with their beaks. Behind a nearby dumpster, an alley cat crouched, watching them, too.

Chaining fingered a tiny stone as he watched them. The cat licked his little black nose and lurched forward. Chaining cast the rock in between the little chubby birds, and they scattered, chirping angrily. The cat ran opposite them, leaping into an open window well.  Chaining watched the scene empty, brushing his thumb over his palm where the stone had been. He bent his head as a white Subaru clambered down the alley and turned into the store’s parking lot.

A tall, slender woman popped out of it wearing a warm orange sweater. She shut the door of her car and stood there staring down the alley for several seconds before she strode into the shop beneath him. He closed his eyes, briefly collecting his thoughts. It was not long before her figure appeared through the windows of the second floor. She slipped cross-legged onto a leather sofa next to a window that looked out onto the terrace.

Chaining’s head was still bent, and his figure slumped as he saw her glimpse him from the corner of his peripheral vision. Her eyes flitted past him from behind her gold-framed glasses and dropped immediately back to her screen. But her fingers quit tapping, and she drew her shoulders back. Chaining took in a breath of smoke and blew it out slowly. He watched as it bloomed, then dissipated. Then he rubbed its orange-embered butt into the snow and watched it steam. He looked up again, then over at the women through the window. But the woman had just finished recollecting her things and was making her way toward the stairwell.

Chaining suddenly stood up and his fingers grasping at the snow on the table. He marched over to the balcony rail and waited above the door. The little store bell rang frantically when she bustled out under him. Her voice said sweetly, “Thank you, have a nice day, to you too!”

Just as the door shut, Chaining dropped the snow on her brunette pigtails.

“Ackk!” she spat angrily, pushing the dirty slush from her hair, which now looked soaked.  She flung a glare up in his direction. “Chaining! Why do you always have to be so immature?!” As soon as her brown eyes met his face, her expression softened.

He had pulled the rest of his chin out of his coat to reveal rough brown stubble. Chaining leaned out on the banister, with his eyelids half-closed, staring blankly at her. “Why you gotta run from an old friend?”

“We’re not exactly friends.” Her tone was gentler now, but she didn’t smile. “Are you stalking me or something?”

Chaining’s electric blue eyes flashed. “No, gosh, Saila! Did you think I became a criminal or something? Is that why you just ran? I didn’t come to town to find you."

“'Cause that would be weird,” Saila thought out loud.

"Just wait there a second.” He pleaded. He turned around and entered the shop from the top, clambered down the stairs, and pushed his way through the front door to find her sitting at the storefront table.

“You want to chat, I can chat.” Looking across and down at her, she was all arms and legs, crisscrossed on the edge of the metal chair. She clenched her hands white, as they sat on her knees. Chaining stood there looking at her for a moment before he dropped into the seat across.

“So, ah, are you, ah, working these days or…” Chaining started.

“Both––I mean, I’m in school and working. You?”

“Where are you working?”

“I have a job at the high school as a teaching aid.” They both watched the alley cat, who had returned to his post behind the dumpster, clean himself.

“So, that's how she's creating her positive change; she’s an educator.” Chaining the side of Chaning's mouth upturned, smirking.

“I’m sorry that you disapprove of me.” She frowned, then retorted. “Do you have a job?”

“I am working the lift in Breck.”

“Look, can we both just be adults now and appreciate that we are following what we value in life?”

“Okay, you’re an activist. What is it that I value?” Chaining leaned back in his chair. And smirked.

“Sure, let me rephrase that,” Saila said. “Can you please be an adult and value that I value something and am succeeding?”

“Growing up means, then, learning to value what you value?”

“No, it’s valuing me as a person. It’s looking out for what’s best for me. This is why we didn’t work out, Chaining. Because you don’t care about anything.” Saila’s eyes shone glossy.

“How can anyone know what’s best for anyone?” Chaining leaned in defensively.

“Exactly, Chaining.” She placed her head in her palm and shut her eyes. “You need to stop pretending like you have all the answers and recognize that people are experts of their own lives.”

Chaining’s blue eyes studied her. “Saila, how is it that we always end up in a fight?”

“How about you tell me?” She stood up the metal feet of her chair, scraping the concrete. “Chaining, I hope you enjoy doing whatever you think is valuable with your life and that you find friends who support you.” She turned and began walking away. She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I really hope the best for you in life, Chaining. I really do.” 

Chaining opened his mouth, then shut it again. He only watched her figure swing into the white Subaru.

The birds had returned to the little patch of snow and were continuing to peck the ground playfully. Chaining watched them for a moment, silent. Then he looked down, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a half-empty pack of cigarettes and lit one. He looked up and stood suddenly. The grey cat had launched itself into the midst of the birds and had pinned one of them. All his fellows fluttered away. The little dark critter foundered frantically about in the cat’s mouth as the cat scampered away.

“Damn it,” Chaining muttered through clenched teeth and his cigarette. He kicked a chunk of ice across the asphalt. He sat back down, watching the red taillights of Saila’s Subaru vanish down the street.

I Am So Blessed 

Lance Vinson

-After Joy Harjo

Oh lord, oh lord 

I am so blessed, 

From the dust of this earth 

You have created this mess. 

I release you! 

All the sin I can no longer bear, 

For you have made the same clouds 

That breath in the sky, 

As you look down from them 

Your glory warms my skin and fills my eyes, 

I am so blessed - 

For I know you will answer me 

When I call, 

You protect my heart 

My heart 

My heart 

My heart 

My heart …

And you hold me through it all

To my sweet baby self 

Leyna Tran 

Dear Younger Me, 

You were always so soft. An empathetic, eager heart tucked into a too-small chest, always stretching thin to meet everyone else’s expectations. 

You learned early on that being "nice" made life smoother. You figured out that smiles earned your praise, that saying yes earned you friends, that silence kept the peace. You wore that kindness like armor, not realizing it was seen through. That it was borrowed until not needed anymore. Not realizing that some people see kindness not as strength, but as weakness, a tool, a means to their benefits. 

Let me tell you something that might crush your heart a little, coming from someone who chooses not to hurt you but wants to look out for you: not everyone deserves your kindness. I know you think that's selfish to believe. You used to panic at the idea of disappointing people. The word “no” stuck in your throat like a shard of glass. Like grasping for a breath of sunken air at the bottom of the ocean. But pookie, listen, people who are truly meant to be in your life won’t make you bleed for your boundaries and not give anything in return.  

You gave so much. Time. Energy. Forgiveness. More forgiveness. Excuses. Second chances. Eighth chances. You believed that if you were good enough, helpful enough, agreeable enough, lovable enough, people would stay. They would be kind back. They will finally see you. 

But you were never invisible. They saw you just fine. They had you wrapped around their finger. They saw how you always answered texts right away. How you dropped your plans to accommodate theirs. How your empathy made you predictable. How your guilt made you flexible. Some people took your heart not with love, but with expectation. As if they were owed it. As if it came with a return policy that said, “Be nice, no matter what.” They liked what you could do for them, but they didn’t like you for you. Read that again. They liked using you as their pawn. You made them feel superior.  

I wish I could go back and sit beside you on that bed, the one you cried into at night because you didn’t know how to stop being everything for everyone. I’d take your hand and tell you: You don’t have to be anyone else’s priority but yourself. There’s this saying that “You don’t have to light yourself on fire to keep others warm.” 

Sometimes, being kind means saying no. If they were your true friends, they would respect your decision and not continue to force you to change your mind and reconsider their favor they are asking of you. Sometimes, being loving means letting people go. Sometimes, pleasing yourself means disappointing others, and that’s okay. You can’t keep trying to prevent what feels wrong from occurring. If it was meant to be in your life, then it would stay. If they want to leave, let them. Everything happens for a reason; there’s no point holding onto what is hurting you the most. No one could love you more than you love yourself and that’s what is most important. If they don’t support you for who you are, then they don’t support you at all and there’s no reason to hold on. You were taught to think that pleasing people equals being good. But goodness isn’t obedient. It’s integrity. And integrity often requires courage, not compliance. 

I want to talk to you about the guilt you carried. You thought saying no meant you were selfish. But there’s a difference between being selfish and self-preserving. Prioritizing yourself doesn’t mean you don’t “love” or care about others. It means you refuse to disappear for them, to lose yourself in the process of wanting to be there to be a reliability for them. Sometimes you need space for yourself and that’s okay. If they cared, they would understand. That’s not cruelty. That’s clarity. It’s self-love first in order to love others.   

You can't expect to be everyone’s solution, pookie. You’re not a therapist, a fixer, a sponge for emotions no one else wants to hold. You’re not responsible for how people receive your boundaries. You can say no with love and still be met with anger. You aren’t accountable for every situation you have a right to say no to. You can explain your truth and how deeply you feel and still be misunderstood or unconsidered. That’s not a reflection of your worth; it’s a reflection of theirs. Let this sink in: You cannot please everyone. You will end up losing yourself in the process.  

You’ll lose yourself to other people’s comfort. You’ll start to consider and rethink your value by how little space you take up, how much you bend. Then one day, you’ll look in the mirror and not recognize the same girl staring back. Her eyes will be tired. Her smile will be practiced. Her voice will sound like an echo of someone else’s expectations. You won’t have your own originality or that loving, cheery, ball of sunshine personality. That’s when you realize the cost of pleasing everyone is your own peace, and you’ll be in regret.  

But here’s the beautiful part: you’ll find your way back. You’ll learn that kindness doesn’t mean compliance. Those boundaries don’t make you bad. That self-love isn’t arrogance, it’s survival. One day, you will be able to sit in a room and speak your mind. You’ll finally build the courage to say no without a three-paragraph explanation. You’ll disappoint someone and not lose sleep over it. Surely, you may feel guilty but the very next day you will feel better than before when you cried yourself to sleep. You’ll feel and love someone deeply and still choose yourself when you need to. Even given the circumstances sometimes you will drop the one you cherish and love a lot to prevent hurting them furthermore. You’ll protect your softness without apologizing for it and it will feel worth it. And that, pookie, is when your kindness will become confidence and courage. Not everyone will understand your growth or your “too much” emotions. Some will call it selfish. Some will say you’ve changed. Smile anyway. They’re right, you have changed. You’re better than them. Sometimes there are people that can’t be helped when they can’t help themselves.  

You’ll learn to please yourself first. And in doing so, you’ll finally start living. 

With love,
The You Who Knows Better Now

The Hands That Held Me  

Lilian Indusa 

Right from my tender age, my grandmother’s hands were my whole world. I was her favourite. She always helped me with her hands, gave me food, porridge, and even fruits. She never wanted me to go hungry, not when she is around. A time came for me to join school, and she was very excited about it. She would fold my school uniform, arrange my books, and always see me off as I left for school. Waving at me and saying, “Bye my grandson.” The hands spoke more than words ever could. They scolded me, comforted me, and prayed for me. I picture her now, several years after she is gone. What I see first is her hands. 

My grandmother brought me up. My parents worked long hours in the city, and for this reason, they were always away. I spent most of the time with my grandmother. When I woke up, I would see her as she hummed a hymn while the kettle whistled. I would sit on the bed’s edge as I watched her tie her headscarf with very calming movements. The first light would slide through the window, falling in my grandmother’s face. “Time to greet the day,” she would say, with great happiness. 

I always appreciated her routines. Although at times I found her to be very strict. For example, when I was a child, I wanted the freedom of my classmates, who would stay up late at night watching TV or go for weekend outings. For her, she believed that children should go to bed early, and that was the rule. She strictly enforced her rules, and I could not go against them. She would tell me, “You’ll understand when you’re older,” she said. I shrugged, not realizing how much truth lived in those words at that time. 

In her last year of living, she had grown weary and did not have the energy to enforce her rules. Yet her rules still lingered in my mind. I had gotten used to them, and they were always in my mind. My grandmother grew weaker and weaker. She started to forget small things like where she put her glasses, whether she added sugar to the tea, or where she put her sweater. By then, I was in grade 6, and I would see how she struggled with her illness.  “You will be fine, Grandma.”  I would tell her even though I knew it was impossible, considering her health status. My parents had told me that she had a number of underlying health issues, including diabetes, high blood pressure, and arthritis. At times, she would smile at me, but I could see the fear glimmer behind her smile. Her once strong and capable hands that carried me had become weak and shaky. At times, she could not even lift a cup. There is a day she told me to peel potatoes. I was surprised because she never trusted me with this task. She told me, “My fingers don’t have energy anymore.” I went ahead and peeled the potatoes, and she even applauded me for doing a good job.  Of course, I had learned this from her as I used to watch what she did. 

I remember one evening, after I gave her milk (it was her favourite), she felt relaxed for a while. She slept, and I would even hear her breath. When she woke up, she suddenly changed and looked like she had become very sick. My mum was around, but my dad had gone to work. My mother quickly called for an ambulance, and within no time it arrived. It was an emergency. She was loaded into the ambulance and went to the hospital. I was left behind. I did not know that that was the last time I would set my eyes on her when she was still alive. I was told that she was declared dead on arrival. I was sad. She had been my whole life. She was 79 years old when she passed away, but I still just wanted her to be around. Her hand held me; I would always remember.  

The house felt quiet and empty. I could not come to terms with the fact that from now on, I would not hear her sing in the house. Her hymns still echoed in my memory. She was buried after one week. I cried at her funeral. Watching her lie in the casket was the most heartbreaking moment in my life. People took turns speaking, but I did not have the strength to speak. Until now, I still find myself listening for her voice in the mornings, thinking that I will get her hands to hold me like she did.   

Years later, when I left home for college, I remembered how she would wave at me and tell me, “Goodbye!” She was such an awesome and caring grandmother.  As I write this memoir, her memory lives on in my heart.  

Light

Patience Gwardyak

I can’t be bothered to look for the nearest light when I wake in the morning. Instead, I drag my eyes along my skin, beginning with my arms, to see if the permanent black ink is still there. I have a few tattoos, not as many as some others. Mine are small and barely noticeable.

Monday morning was painted white with snowfall. I saw it through the curtains of my bedroom window, but I ignored it. Per usual, I looked down at my arms and sighed, because the words were still there, etched in my olive-toned skin. The word on my left arm read ASTHMA, while the one on my right arm read NEAR-SIGHTED. These are odd choices for tattoos, but I, like all others, have no choice. I’m only thankful my medical problems aren’t severe.

I untangled myself from the sheets and sat up, rubbing my eyes. Time for another day in this cruel world, where I do nothing but play my part in the machine. I heard my roommate downstairs in the kitchen, making breakfast.

Some find it strange, but my roommate is a man. Many people think a man and woman can’t live together without being in a relationship, but that isn’t the case in my household. True enough, he likes women, but I don’t like anyone. I never have! I can only tolerate him because he understands that. Keith, my roommate, is a good person, one of the few left on this planet, so I don’t mind sharing space with him.

Keith had plates ready for both of us. Our dining table was in the kitchen because there wasn’t much space in our bungalow for a proper dining room. It wobbled as I sat down because it had one broken leg that we never bothered to fix, having fished it out of a dumpster some years back. I looked down at my plate, noticing how everything was in twos. Two eggs, two slices of bacon, two servings of hashbrowns, and two slices of toast with strawberry jam. He was always conservative with food, never making more than necessary.

He was dressed nicely, like he was planning to go somewhere special.

“What’s the agenda for today?” I asked, digging into my plate.

“I have a doctor’s appointment today,” he answered.

He picked at his food. I could see the fear behind his eyes, and I understand why it’s there. Doctor’s appointments don’t come without tattoos. Keith already had a few. LEGALLY BLIND tattooed on his left wrist, HORMONAL ACNE on his neck, DEPRESSION across his chest, and LACTOSE INTOLERANCE on his right thumb.

I tried to cheer him up, “You haven’t been your best for a while. Maybe they can see what’s wrong and give you some medicine.”

Keith had been feeling sick these past few weeks. He was on and off with sporadic fevers that drenched him in sweat, and he’d lost weight, though he was already thin. I was fearful of what could be wrong, so I wanted him to go to his appointment.

“I’m good,” he assured me.

“Not as good as you ought to be,” I replied.

I stirred the runny egg yolks, spilling over the edges of my plate onto the red gingham tablecloth. Keith offered to clean it up so I could leave for work on time. I only took a few bites before I pushed my plate aside and left. I trudged through the slush to the bus stop, waiting impatiently for my ride. The wind was bone-chilling, giving me shivers.

I sat at the back of the bus, far from the other passengers. As the bus passed through my dilapidated neighborhood, I caught a glimpse of Keith, locking the front door. He was holding a bloody tissue up to his nose. I locked my gaze on him through the window until he was out of sight, though he wasn’t out of my mind.

The snowstorm kept most people inside. I didn’t have many customers to serve, so my

shift was slow. I had six customers altogether, leaning over their steaming hot drinks and half-eaten plates with newspapers and books in their hands. Some were chatting with each other. As I cleaned a table left behind by a mother and her child, I overheard an elderly couple behind me, talking in hushed tones.

“Did you hear?” the woman asked.

“What?” her husband inquired.

“The police are going to start arresting people with certain diagnoses,” she said. “The president signed it into law yesterday.”

“How soon does it go into effect?”

“Today, as I understand it.”

I froze, but I don’t know why. My ailments weren’t anything serious, so I know the police won’t arrest me. I had no reason to be afraid, knowing totalitarian laws couldn’t hurt me as badly as some others. To my horror, the couple noticed me. They knew I was listening. I snapped my head forward and grabbed the dishes from the table.

I stumbled behind the wall that disconnected the kitchen from the dining area. I didn’t want anyone to see me. I clumsily dropped the dirty dishes into the sink, breaking some. If the owners found out about this, they would take it from my paycheck. The only other waitress on shift, Miriam, approached me from behind.

“You gonna stand there all day?” she asked. Her tone was snooty.

“No,” I answered curtly.

I didn’t feel the need to answer her, but I did anyway. Miriam was as low on the chain as

I was, but I suppose she acted out to make herself feel more important. I didn’t know why she hated me so much to begin with, and I didn’t care to find out, either.

“What is it now?” she prattled on. “Having trouble with the rent again?”

“No,” I answered.

I’m usually tight-lipped about my finances, but she somehow knew about them anyway. She might have heard me discussing it with Keith over the phone. I would sometimes call him during my lunch to talk about how we were going to survive with what little money we had.

“The president signed a law to detain people with certain medical conditions,” I said.

“So?” she asked.

I turned to face her and asked, “Aren’t you scared?”

“Why should I be scared of the government? What are they gonna do, arrest me because I have LEG CRAMPS tattooed on my thigh? Arrest my husband because he has CONSTIPATION on one of his love handles?” she asked.

“I guess not,” I shrugged.

“All you have is bad eyesight and asthma,” she said. “I think you’re fine. If anyone needs to worry, it’s that roommate of yours.”

I broke away from her and continued wiping down tables, thinking of Keith the entire time. His health problems were the worst of anyone I knew, and I wondered if he had a hidden reason for being afraid of the doctor’s appointment. I contemplated which medical conditions might warrant arrest. When it came time for my lunch break, I read through the newspaper to confirm the rumor I had heard, and it was true.

“Medical conditions that spread to others or cause contamination to public health will be handled as a matter of national security,” the newspaper read.

It wasn’t long before Miriam came to bother me again.

“There’s a phone call for you, babe,” she said.

“My name is Louise,” I said. “You can just call me that.”

“I think it might be urgent, Louise,” she said. “It’s your roommate.”

I lifted my feet and went to the phone.

“Hello?” I asked.

“It’s Keith.”

“How did your appointment go?”

“I have a virus,” he heaved. “A bad virus, and I have no idea how I got it. The name is so long, I can’t even pronounce it.”

“How?” I asked.

“The doctor asked me the same thing, along with some other questions,” he answered. “He said it’s more than likely sexually transmitted, but it could be from something else, too. I don’t know how long ago it happened, but they tried giving me a tattoo across my forehead.”

Oh, of course they did. A virus that’s potentially sexually transmissible? The forehead was an ideal location for that tattoo, based on their methods. I rolled my eyes.

“You can wear a hat every day,” I suggested.

“Lou?”

“Yes?”

"They tried giving me that tattoo, and then they told me I couldn’t leave because my virus could be a threat to public safety. The president passed some law–”

“I know. There were customers in here talking about it earlier.”

“They were in the middle of telling me all this shit, and I don’t know what came over me, but… I ran. I ran away from them and now…” he trailed off into silence.

I placed my hand over my heart and grimaced, “Oh, why would you do that? I mean, I

know why you did that, but you know they’ll send the police to our house and heaven knows what they’ll do to you now!”

Keith refused a marking, resisted arrest, and evaded police. He broke three laws in one day, and I didn’t want to imagine the consequences. The fear began to flow through my veins again, making me shake. I realized I wasn’t scared for myself. I was scared for him. For others like him.

“I know, Lou!” he argued. “I know I messed up, but…I’M TIRED! I don’t want anyone to know anything about my body! I’m not going to let them stigmatize me with another tattoo. Someone in the streets would kill me faster than the disease! No matter what, I’m fucked.”

He was right. I had to admit it. First to myself, then out loud.

“I know,” I sighed. “I think we all want that, Keith, but that’s not the world we live in.”

“This isn’t a world I want to live in,” he said. “Anyways, I’m home now. I’m sorry for whatever happens because of this. I hope I see you later.”

“I’m coming home right away,” I began, “stay inside and lock all the doors until I–”

The phone clicked before I could finish. I hung it back up on the wall. I needed to go home. I didn’t know if I could do anything, but I had to do something. I removed my apron and carelessly tossed it into the trash. I suspected I wouldn’t be welcome back after this, and to my delight, Miriam was blocking the doorway.

“Oh, now you’re gonna leave? It’s not even halfway through your shift.”

“I quit,” I said.

I never thought those words would leave my mouth. I’d been working at that restaurant since I graduated high school, and I never pictured my life without it. I knew, more than anything else, I needed to go home and help my friend. The police would come knocking on our door for him. I delusionally imagined myself saving the day in some ridiculous way. I slipped into my puffer jacket as I walked down the street to the bus stop. The next bus wouldn’t be too long.

All I could do in the meantime was pace around the bench. I tried to catch my breath, stared at the chalky white sky in search of a solution, but there was no heavenly light shining down on me. The cold pierced my skin like a thousand needles as I waited. When the bus finally arrived, I handed the driver too many coins and did not bother to wait for him to hand the extras back. I didn’t care.

I walked down my street faster than I ever did before. I saw the silhouette of my tiny house in the distance, its faded yellow paint contrasting with the pure white snow. I paused in the middle of the sidewalk. There were no police cruisers outside. I opened the front door, relieved to see Keith sitting at the dining table, still alive and in the flesh. He turned his head and gawked at me as if I were a ghost.

“You’re home early, Lou,” he said.

“I quit my job and ran home as soon as I got off the phone with you,” I explained, still out of breath. “The police will be here before nightfall. You know this, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

We stared at each other in the dark a long while. My brown eyes locked on his green eyes without blinking. I had never known a person to be so accepting. I thought it was his greatest characteristic, but seeing him, waiting for death alone in the dark, made me realize it was his greatest downfall.

“Won’t you do something?” I asked.

“What is there to do? I already told you how sorry I am for what’s to come.”

He had a plate of cherry pie with a half-melted scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, placed in front of him. He’d taken a few bites.

“You’re eating dessert at a time like this?” I asked.

“It was my favorite as a child,” he said. “My mom used to make it for me.”

I didn’t like the way he was talking. He made it sound as if it were going to be his last meal. I tried to think of a way to save him, but nothing came to mind. Even if he ran, they would catch him. What could I do? I didn’t know.

A loud knock interrupted my thoughts. I walked to the nearest window and peered behind the curtains. There were red and blue lights flashing through the glass. I could see men in navy blue suits standing in a disorganized line in the front yard, and two at the front door. I turned back and stared at Keith, noticing a thin black line running down his forehead, from where the marking began.

The police knocked again.

“I’ll answer,” Keith offered, getting up from the table.

He pushed past me to open the door, and I listened as the police asked him to confirm his identity, which he did, without hesitation. He wasn’t trying to fight. He allowed them inside. One of them took notice of me and grabbed my arm tightly.

“I would ask you to wait outside, ma’am,” the officer said.

The officer kept hold of me and forced me outside, where I stood in the yard with other men in uniform. The one who escorted me out went back inside, not bothering to close the door behind him. My breathing turned irregular, and I wished I had an inhaler, though I hadn’t used one since I was a child.

I turned to the officer closest to me and asked, “Is Keith under arrest?”

“I’m under no obligation to reveal anything,” he answered.

“I know he’s broken the law, but I’m sure he’s willing to make it right,” I said. “There are people out there who do far worse things than refuse a marking. He’s not a bad person.”

The officer held up his palm to me as a gesture of silence. “Listen, I know what you’re trying to do. I’m sure your friend is a perfectly decent human being, but he still broke several laws, and there are consequences.”

I gulped, fighting back tears.

“It’s beyond us. We are doing what the president and his administration tell us to. That’s our job.”

Quiet fell over us for a while. I stood as still as a statue in the bitter cold while the other officers wandered around in circles, cracking jokes and making small talk. I envied them for their nonchalance. I wanted to worry about the things they did, like what I would be eating for dinner, or my spouse forgetting to turn the dishwasher on after filling it with dirty plates and silverware. To them, this was just another day.

The gunshot rang through my ears like a thunderclap. I was so scared that my soul nearly escaped my skin. My limbs jolted at the sound. I wrapped my arms around myself to stop it from happening, but I trembled nonetheless. I wanted to run to him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Even in the midst of this earth-shattering crisis, I wanted to save my own life. I didn’t want to be a part of this world any more than Keith did, yet I still wanted to stay.

I was staying alive for the hope of it all.

Keith left because of the despair of it all.

I found the nerve to inch myself closer to the house, and the same police officer I had spoken with earlier intercepted me by holding out his arm.

“Stay outside,” he ordered. “If they shot him, it’s because he was still resisting.”

I moved around him and ran to the front door. The officers who entered earlier were standing over a pile of flesh and bones in the living room with a dark puddle forming around it. Seeing him made everything fall into place. If the law hadn’t ended Keith’s life, his illness would have, so he decided to leave on his own terms.

I covered my mouth and ran back outside, falling on all fours. I buried my face in the snow and sobbed uncontrollably. It took me a while to pick myself up, because with Keith gone, nobody else was going to do it. I sat on the ground as more police arrived, deafening me with sirens, invading my home, and disrespecting what remained of it.

By the time I was allowed to go back inside, all I had left as a reminder of him was a red stain in the floorboards and the half-eaten cherry pie topped with liquid ice cream. I let it sit there for days before I finally threw it away. I never knew what the virus was, but I believed Keith was existing in a different world. One where his body belonged to no one but himself.

Now, when I open my eyes in the morning, I look for light, knowing it’s him.

Two lovers kiss under a broken night

Heather Garcia, AJ Maldonado, Izzy Medina, Natalie Munoz, Josue Ramirez-Linares, Genevieve Robbins, Delilah Romero, Jayden Romero, Ryam Ruffennach, Domenick Tillman, Amado Vigil, Kialy Vigil, Noble White, Adrianna Williams

of blue as Moon watches, zones out

to help one think, as kids walk

on the smooth floor in a broken line—

I have a self idea of what is to be.

Three high school students pretend

they are little, again. One of them

is the third wheel. A child mourns

the loss of their glasses while being

made to remain in place. Stare into

the soul of a painting, trying to find

the meaning in every brush stroke,

every shade or hue. Little legs rush

to stay together, hands grasp tight

with chubby fingers. The big kids

join in, the only difference being,

height and clothing, in the moment.

Three sets of eyes, three different

views, three different interpretations   

Are humans not gods to craft a swirl

night sky brings it down to earth?

Three friends look at each painting

in their life perspective. Wielded

sorrow, each vibrant hue confined

into a single masterpiece. A young

guy notices something while looking

at the painting. Black and white,

wavy like the sea—darkness enfolds

the old man, huddles into himself,

as he plays his last sweet melody

on a guitar

Two lovers kiss under a broken night’s light—

Ash Acevedo, Geoffrey Dunn, Melanie Fuller, Tristin Lee, HayLee McDowell, Jillian Metsker, Sami Ortmann, John Phillips, Piper Reich, Lucas Smith, Mariah Soto, Brooke, Tourgee, Izaiah Trujillo, Livia Weller, Aliyana White

fractured. The lion looked longingly

towards the left - so far away from home.

A group of students hold hands while a group

of blended

in older kids 

The questions in that love expression

under the light of the night. A line of children

walk by, as the boy stood there staring

at the bright colored painting. In front of him,

A statue triumphant standing over three

tourists. Standing still in front of structured chaos,

as children and teachers walk hand in hand, laughter

fills the room. In symmetry three depictions

of brushed canvases are judged by humans

before them—with glass shards tattered below.

Three kids look at three paintings, similar, but

ultimately so different. Three adolescents see

themselves in different ways inside each painting—

A kiss says more than the painting in front. Still

writing music until my face is pail, and my heart

stops.

Necropolis Part 1 

Gage Genova 

Telion let his eyes wander across the sparsely filled tavern. As men had gone missing, more and more of the tables and chairs had left with them. The thatch flooring had been changed less and less frequently as the Chilled Neck slowly descended into the same oblivion that everything else in Turghusburg had. By his reckoning, there were eleven men seated around the main parlor, and about three more in some private room. What the men were in there for Telion couldn't begin to guess, as Cratchett was still working the floor with his boys. The quiet thoughts and observations were cut short as one of the boys came up to the corner table to collect Telion's empty mug. 

“Half-face, you need another pint?” The young boy, only 13 winters behind his eyes, shined at Telion with a capricious smile. The side of his face that could move scowled as Telion shoved the glass into the kids’ chest.  

“T'more onna tab, n keep t'foam lower'n the lip.” It was a struggle not to slur his speech. The scars across the right side of his face had left him with paralysis, an unmoving mound of matted flesh which hadn't healed right and couldn't have healed right. He counted his blessings that the gods had deigned him to keep his right eye. The boy nodded and shuffled across the room, reaching the bar and slurring his own speech to his father to get two more pints of ale poured.  

“T'pints, and wit’ oar foam.” The boy set the mugs back on the table and walked away. While more patrons vanished in the wind, the ones Telion wished would be swallowed up would be the sons of Cratchett. Far too mean-spirited for their age; an ail of the age it was as if the rules of the world seemed to be erased at a whim.  

“Town hero! Come back here!” One of the men in the private room had opened the door and beckoned for Telion to join them. Taking his cue, Telion stood from his table and left the tavern, pulling the ragged bit of cloth that had been his cloak about him.  

There were no stars, and the inky black void of the dead heavens displayed its full belly across the sky. The priests of the land had not found any answers to these phenomena in the two years since they had started. Hurried steps grew behind Telion, and as they slowed, Telion could feel the hand move for his shoulder. Knife drawn, he turned on his heels faster than most. The blade caught hand along the tip of the index finger, a slow trickle of red beads flowing down the polished edge. 

“That wasn't sporting of you.” The face behind the hand belonged to Kelwin, one of the older sons of Cratchett, smiling with uncommon mirth as he pulled his hand back.  

“Yu fodder ha’ be'er get to teachin’ ya t'nae chase down a rabid dog.” With great effort, the left half of Telion's mouth curled up into a smile as he slipped the knife back into its sheath. 

“Kotterk and Jek wanted you back there.” 

“Nae, an wantin’ me, taer wantin’ somethin’s ‘een dead for years now.” The flicker of life that had been held in Telion's eyes as he wielded the knife had faded, lids half shut as his senses returned to their many year lull. “An got a ‘and worthy o'spear, dinnae see what good taed have for me.” With a sharp turn, Telion shifted his weight fully in the opposite direction and continued his walk home. The shingles of shops listed and rattled in the evening wind as the street wound on towards the high walls that did little to guard against the darkness past them. The small hovel, thatch flooring and basic cot, that sat along the wall was where Telion had resided since his last adventure. Lying in the darkness of that single room, he could barely sleep. The reflexes of his encounter earlier in the evening had taken him back to that moment. 

 

The trees stood, black teeth coated in orange viscera as bark crackled with flames. The heat was nearly intolerable in his mail shirt, and he had doffed his coif minutes before as the sweat continued to streak down his face. For all his bluster, the beast before him which belched sulfur and poured rotten, sickly black flames from its carapaced body had not slackened its assault. The tip of his spear had cut it along the eyes, leaving it blind, but the blood of the two-legged hellspawn was even now eating the very earth below the raging behemoth. It stood a full ten feet tall but stooped at seven, as its immense torso and forward drawn shoulders brought it into the silhouette of the human form turned ghastly primal. Along the spinal column, it sported many great chutes and spikes; some issuing forth a choking black smoke which clung about any object it touched and stung like the bites of thousands of insects.  

In its rage, the mockery of man had taken little care of positioning, leaving a path to strike toward the heart. Diving below the swinging arms, Telion poured his last strength into a final killing blow. But it was for nothing, as the stomping and swinging of the beast had brought with it the kicking legs which had now launched Telion across the ground. For those moments of flight, the world around him felt cool, and time slowed to a halt as the world spun. Sky, then fire, then dirt. Sky, then fire, then dirt. Five times he counted the cycle before crumpling against a tree trunk. His breathing came in short, ragged rasps as he crawled to his hands and knees. His spear was broken; the haft splintered and had only left a measly two feet of handle to wield it with. His vision bobbed; the world sought to pull him close and embrace him in those moments, but he clung to the smoldering bark as he regained his footing. The beast, having heard his blow against the tree, was already lumbering forward. The blood had begun to dissolve the facial tissue of the beast, leaving barren pockets behind the thick chitinous plates where new viscera issues forth.  

It stopped three yards away, and it refused to move for multiple minutes. The sounds of the fire, its heaving breaths, and the rasps of a dying man were all that filled the empty space between them. Telion felt the long battle now, an ache which touched down to the core of his bones. His head felt loose and weighty, and his legs felt as though they could no longer tolerate his continued persistence. Every inch of his body screamed to stop, and if the beast would simply die, he would let himself rest. It was with that sharp snap back into a body long exhausted from a full day of battle that Telion saw the monster break into a charge. Nine feet became five, and without thinking he brought the spear up and braced it against the tree. It bore down on him, using its head as a battering ram. The spear slammed through the chitin, and the wings stopped it inches away from his chest. It fought for a few moments, pushing the tree back through the ash caked dirt before rearing up and screaming. Blood flew from its maw as it screamed in pain, reeling in circles and spitting acidic, tarry blood across the ground. Telion stood in awe, watching as the head of his spear remained embedded in the skull of the beast. Before he could react, another agonizing wail sent a glob of that wicked blood at him. He could only watch as the black mass hurdled toward him. 

He was awake long before the crowing of roosters, and morning light had not yet filtered over the city walls in those early hours. Shuffling around the dark hovel, Telion bid his time as the minutes stretched on. Soft soled boots padded down thatch for what felt like many long hours until finally the faint sound of a rooster’s crow broke the monotonous silence about the room. Opening the door, he found Kelwin waiting. 

“Telion, Jek and Kotterk would like nothing more than to offer you a chance at something.” Kelwin had always been a friend to Telion. The young man was only three years the junior of Telion, and in the five years since his battle against the beast, Telion had found that Kelwin was one of the few he could confide in.  

“An got nothin’ for me. Tae have it inner ‘eads that I'm still who I was.” Telion shook his head in dismissal and moved to pass Kelwin and head toward the market center. 

“It isn't that way at all,” Kelwin had gripped him by the shoulder, directing him back to his door. “And even if it were, the fire of battle still burns within you, it is plain to all who have eyes to see it.” The resultant punch came across Kelwin's face with the force of an anvil, sending him spinning into the dirt and muck. 

“N’ waddaya know o’ the fire ya say I have?” Telion stood over Kelwin, his body tensed, and his brow slickened by a sudden onset of sweat. “Ya ne'er seen it, cos it an taer. N’ figuring it ‘er, could ya stand it? An no fire in me, n’ do well to nae forge’.” Telion picked Kelwin up to his feet by his collar and walked away. 

“But they have obtained an item that would help you regain yourself!” The words had frozen Telion, his boots pressed against the dirt anchors in a tide of roiling emotions which swept against him as so many breakers. He choked on words that foamed about in his throat. Kelwin had betrayed him, had told those men that he had wished nothing more than to look like himself again. To talk with his voice again. 

“Nae, i'snae real. Taer after a goal differ'n mine. Onl’ooking t'make a fool o'me.” Telion's eyes flicked across the desolate cobbled streets, looking for any excuse to leave and not look back on Kelwin. “Please, leave it be.” He stopped, pausing between each word to force himself to fully pronounce the words to leave no doubt for his friend.  

“You and I have been friends since before the final battle you had. I vouch for Jek and Kotterk. My father vouches for the validity of their offer.” 

“Lemme think as to what I want to do.” Taking Kelwin's right hand from his shoulder, Telion cut the ground under his heels as he sharply turned and walked down the snaking streets which cut between conjoined, uneven buildings. 

Telion found his work at the last charcoal kiln in the city, and it wouldn't be until after the darkening of the day that he would find an opportunity to meet with Kotterk or Jek. The two were well known dandies who fancied themselves collectors and sellers of curios from realms far reaching past the eastern waters. The spear that they had last sold to him, which had been sold in the good faith that it had an unbreakable steel core shaft, had proven wildly inadequate. This seemed the case for many of their baubles, queer trinkets of lands which likely had no place in reality and had no true power. Unguents and salves which stank of sulfur and the two brothers claimed they were panacea. They seemed to have their small shop running all hours of the day as long as the two were not out drinking or partaking in other vices. 

Approaching the store front, he saw the signature shingle which had flashed in many hazily remembered dreams. An open chest with two stage masks beside it. The wafting odors from the many incenses inside the shop made his eyes water as nostrils flex closed. Candles were the preferred lighting for the two, beeswax candles which burned without odor as to not interrupt the stench of the brother's preferred incense. Three censers hung from chains in the ceiling, puffing smoke about the room which swirled as wicked minded sprites before coalescing as vipers along the ground. Each step Telion took was marked by the creaking of the floorboards, and the distinct lack of the two brothers. Every indication had been made that the store was open, as the slithering smoke trails out the open door greeted all who walked along the pavers outside.  

“He'o?” Telion called out, his breath disturbing the descent of another wisping smoke trail which clung now to his body in some rueful and futile display of anger. The door behind the counter swung wide and from it stretched the lean figure of Kotterk, a smile spread wide across his abnormally round face.  

“I trust that I find you in good health, Telion?” 

“Oh, he will be in better health after what we have for him brother!” The rotund, bouncing frame of Jek was next to dance in. The two brothers spoke almost in unison, their voices in a sing-song harmony which grated on the ears.  

“That will be plain for all to see, brother!” 

“And why is that Kotterk?” The two played off each other in a perfect routine, their bodies clothed in audacious garb of flashy colors and many frills seemed to intertwine as they spoke and moved about each other. The signature blues of Kotterk meshed with the greens of Jek to form a twisting, half fat half gaunt four-armed beast clad in teal.  

“Sta-playin’ your games n’ tell me what you’re wantin’ me for.” Telion approached the counter, his eyes like beady orbs of fire in his face now. The theatrics of the two had always bothered him, but the constant insincerity with which they spoke was now too much to bear. The two brothers stopped, reeling back in fear-driven apprehension, expecting a blow to swing from the brutish commoner’s hands.  

“Now, that is no way to regard the men who have an item of great relevance to you. I demand you apologize for such barbarity.” The brothers spoke in concerted unison; their right and left index fingers pressed against the air accusatorily.  

“N’ if I say nae?” It took great effort to force the fleshy lumps of his former lips on his right side to move and speak as clearly as he could as anger rose inside Telion.  

“Then you will live forever as the hideous beast you are now. Uncouth of appearance and tossed to the wayside as a misbegotten mongrel of any place you see fit to inhabit.” Jek’s jovial face now flashed with the same fires of rage and hatred which had begun to show in the slight tensing of muscles on Telion’s body. The fat man had an abnormally thin framed face, which had streamlined further with anger until it seemed as though the grim intent of the man had forced his face into the cutting edge of a blade. “Now listen and we can help you to reclaim that which you have lost. We will hear no disagreement, and this is final. By coming here, you have made your intent known, and there can be no renegotiation in that respect. Kotterk, if you would take our fellow here through what it is we have for him.” 

“Yes, you are here for we have in our possession a mask of great power. Imbued with witchcraft of an artifice which no mortal alive today could ascertain the origin of.” 

 “Like that spear you’s given me years back?”  

“That is of no importance now, Telion. We had mistaken two items of similar value and intrigue and simply gave you the wrong one. You must understand that it was a simple mistake made in the past and that we could not make a similar folly again!” Kotterk was fast to dismiss the comment with a smile and blank stare, his jowls bobbing with the words, out of sync by mere seconds to give the impression he was still talking as he paused. “This time there can be no doubts. This is an item of unique make, and you will find no finer gift for a twice made hero.” Kotterk reached below the table and produced a large, ornate casket with gold fittings and carved reliefs of leaves along the corners. He opened the lid for a moment, letting the emanating glow from the mask within light the room more brilliantly than any summer day before shutting the lid closed once more. What little Telion had seen was awe inspiring. A golden mask shaped to the original contours of his face. The sculpted metal seemed a metallic mirror of the man he had long since sought to become again. 

“How much?” Telion’s eyes darted between the smiling face of Kotterk and the box, not noticing that Jek had left his brother’s side and slinked beside Telion. The conniving, round framed man had taken it upon himself to press the haft of a spear into the palm of Telion’s right hand, while also tying a press coin pouch fit to burst to the man’s belt.  

“No cost for you, hero. You must simply finish what you started.” Telion swung around as Jek spoke, taking measure of Telion’s forearms to rightly place an order for new metal vambraces to be made.  

“Waddya mean by that, Jek?”  

“The beast of the Blackmire Forest wasn’t killed. At least that is what is said now. Two towns to the south of us, in Netter’s Jump, they are saying a beast matching what you fought has come about the area and turned it into a hellish land choked by a black miasma. As more people flee northward, and through this fine city, they take with them a gathering flock of those too cowardly to see through the issue. Netter’s Jump is nearly vacant now, and soon after that will be the township of Naen. And after that, here in Turghusburg, we will see more people leave toward the capitol. You already see it now; the market is left empty by midday as more and more of these simple folks find themselves seeking to leave ahead of this calamity.”
Jek had gone into a tizzy, his arms moving about erratically, and his face flushed with frustration. Sweat had begun to stream down the sharp ridges of his face as he spoke; eyes flexed forward as he pressed on. “It is bad for business, and without a steady supply of those items coming northward with Netter’s Jump unoccupied, we will be short changed on wares. You want your face back, you fix this. We will supply you with the necessary accoutrement of one such as yourself, and you will solve this problem long in the making.” 

Two weeks had passed since the conversation in the curios shop between the brothers and Telion. The two men had bought for him a horse with bit and bridle, barding, and a new saddle. To go along with his outfitted horse, Telion now wore a wrought iron suit of plated mail and an ornamented bascinet helm. The suit was much heavier than what he had worn in years prior, and so at any opportunity in his trek south he took care to practice movement so as to be ready when the battle was upon him. He dreaded the thought of fighting the beast again, a creature he had seen fall to the forest floor and be engulfed within its own caustic blood. If it had not died there, then there was little he could do to cease its continued living now. But the mask had been such a tempting offer, that despite his dread he took on the task of slaying that which was already dead once. Kotterk had seen his apprehension in that moment and even fitted the mask to Telion’s face. The feeling of the metal conjoining to his flesh was worse than the tar which had melted it, but when shown his reflection in the mirror he finally recognized himself. Even now, his hands wandered up to touch the flesh like metal which had formed his new face. It had given him a gold tint to his skin; across his entire body it seemed as though he were a moving statue of pure metal.  

He had not felt this good in his own skin since before his first excursion against the beast, he now hunted anew. It had appeared from nothing, an inky black illness which excreted itself into the world to plague the land of men. Telion was not the first to have tried the beast, and the bodies of those who strode before him all those years ago had never been found. The beast never ate, and it never appeared to rest. It was an avatar of hatred, and for the besting of it Telion had been granted the title of hero. He drank for free, he had his choice of house for free, and he was catered to by the burgermeister. But in the months after the last fight with the beast, all he cared for was being alone. Eyeing the road ahead of him, he felt a renewed vigor to prove himself worthy of his own life and accolades.  

Ahead of him he saw the ruins of Netter’s Jump, a small farming town built atop a river gorge which snaked from east to west. There was nothing there, except for smoldering ruins and bubbling mounds of tar which retained some shape of humanity even now. Each new mound pushed his heart further into his gut as fear overtook him in that moment. 

Workshop Shark-Ship 

Levi Fanning 

 
From the bowels of the planet
The Earthen ones did design and plan it-
The creation of the Workshop Shark-Ship. 

 
The ocean drained when hangar doors opened
And split the Earth in two
When engines ignited, the machine was space-sent
All with captain and crew
And on its maiden voyage
None in the universe could muster the courage
To sink the Workshop Shark-Ship. 

 
It sailed the void on solar wind
The plated exterior was smooth and finned
And on each deck were two million guns
On its dorsal fin, two great big ones
Whenever the captain would command
Its jaws would part—a hundred miles they spanned 

And inside they’d be unveiled
Those rows of teeth, monstrous in scale
To chew the foes of the Workshop Shark-Ship. 

 
Over the years, an uprising began
Unlike the others who all turned and ran
They sent their ships to intercept the tyrant’s
The onlookers knew to expect great violence
Time stopped and everyone wished
The Megalodon gone, it wouldn’t be missed
But they stood no match for the Workshop Shark-Ship. 

 
From the Milky Way to Andromeda
The dreadnaught went on causing carnage
It ate the planets of Centauri Proxima
And spat out all the garbage
The humans might’ve devoured us all
If this—their fate did not befall
A black hole fed the Workshop Shark-Ship. 

Contributors

Abigail Blanchard is a Senior at CSU Pueblo majoring in English and is minoring in both Italian and Leadership Studies. She has experience with outreach projects as well as non-profit work and is passionate about writing, reading, and helping others. She hopes to have a career in grant writing at a non-profit (or multiple non-profits) in the future to utilize her passions. She loves to travel and aspires to travel anywhere in the world that she can in her lifetime. She also does creative writing on the side, mostly non-fiction, and has gotten a poem, creative non-fiction piece, and her photography published in the two most recent editions of Tempered Steel.

Faith Annabelle Button was raised in a small Colorado town along the Arkansas River. Her work is often inspired by her seasons as a white-water guide or her adventures in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Annabelle is a senior in the Social Work program at CSU Pueblo. Her ideal afternoon is spent in a cozy coffee shop with classic literature, Christian theology, philosophy, a good friend, or all four. She strives to create stories that press her readers to ponder both the ancient brokenness and marvelous design of the world that we all navigate. She is one of eleven children growing up in a bustling, homeschooled in a loving home. Annabelle loves people, prides herself on asking good questions, and is typically the loudest person in the room. She is also an unapologetic, bubbly extrovert. She plans to die of tuberculosis or drink hemlock, just like her favorite thinkers and authors.

Dean Boud is an artist that stems from the city of Reading, Pennsylvania. He moved to Colorado with his son in 2019. Dean started his educational Odessey in 2021 at Pueblo Community College where he obtained his associate’s degree in graphic design. This was only the beginning though; he transferred to Colorado State University Pueblo in fall of 2024 for his bachelor’s degree in media and entertainment. Dean has established a new brand and patch design for the Fredonia, Kansas police department during his time at PCC. He also won the competition Walter’s Brewing Company was holding for the label design for a new beer commemorating CSUP. Dean has also been the lead editor of the Today Magazine since Fall 2024.

Levi Fanning (they/them) are a quiet computer engineering major with a love for the arts. They started writing and sharing poems with a small circle of friends in high school. Even though they don't write as much as they used to, they never forgot their love for making new and creative stories!

Yasmine Filio is proud to have completed her story in her creative writing class. 

Hailey Gardner is studying History and also minoring in Museum Studies and Creative Writing. She loves reading, writing, and watching anime and international TV shows like Weak Class Hero, The Trauma Code: Heroes On Call, Love Between Fairy and Devil, and Taxi Driver. Hailey is a strong advocate for accessibility and brings her lived experience as a wheelchair user to her work and studies. She hopes to earn a Master’s in Library and Information Science and become an archivist.

Gage Genova is a current psychology student and prospective writer living in Pueblo, Colorado. While he has already had a story published in Tempered Steel by the title of “Glasshaven Blues,” he is now trying my hand at writing a medieval fantasy story. He is a full-time student at Colorado State University Pueblo, and he is hoping to enter into the field of psychology upon my graduation.

Patience Gwardyak is a student at CSU-Pueblo, majoring in English with a focus on creative writing. She has been published in Tempered Steel before and hopes to work in the literary field in the future.

Lilian Indusa is a student at Colorado State University Pueblo with an interest in writing poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction. The work written explores memory, identity, loss, and what people experience in their everyday lives. The student is working to develop writing skills in all genres through practice to become a competent writer.

Mikayla Portillo aspires to work in publishing one day. She spends her time reading, drawing, and over dressing for casual meetings.

Kimberly Sample is a student attending Colorado State University Pueblo studying English and Secondary Education. She is the author of the previously published story, "Where the Willow Trees Sing," in CSU Pueblo's The Today Magazine. She aspires to create a classroom space that fosters creativity, critical thinking, and respect. 

Leyna Tran was born in Colorado and is a freshman at Colorado State University Pueblo majoring in Business. Alongside her studies, she has been developing her skills in creative writing and developing her voice in nonfiction, using her writing to explore growth, boundaries, and self-love. Her piece “To My Sweet Baby Self” reflects her progress this semester and her passion for expressing real emotions through writing.

Chloe VanEvera is an English major student at Colorado State University Pueblo. She hopes to become an educator after graduation.

Sebastianna (seb-as-tee-on-uh) Walsh is a senior in her last semester at CSU-Pueblo. Her major is Art and Creative Media with a minor in Computer Information Systems. She has a deep love for all forms of art but she especially treasures ceramics because of the endless opportunities for creation and expression. Sebastianna's practice is rooted in small, deliberate ways of slowing down and seeing what is really in front of us. Through interdisciplinary experimentation and an enduring fascination with light, she aims to create pieces that allow for pause, curiosity, and reimagining how we relate to one another and to our environments. She wants to continue researching what feels authentic or permanent in an era of constant circulation and trends. 

Olivia Winkelman is a history student with minors in anthropology and creative writing. Her fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction have been published widely, including Vagabond City Lit, Crab Apple Literary, and Mister Magazine. She plans to get a dual master's in library sciences and public history after graduation.