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Issue 2

Paranoia

Editorial Board​

Editor in Chief: Ella Taft

Deputy Editor: Hana Carlson

Editorial Assistants: Chase Agudo, Sarah Duncan, Ana Goyle, F. El Idrissi, Caroline Powers, Evelyn Yang

Accessibility Team​

Director of Accessibility: Yusra Khalil

Representative: Julieta Cerda

Representative: Matilda Yiu

Represented Countries

America, India, Chile, Morocco, UK, China, and Australia​

Writers

Ella Taft

Hana Carlson

Juliet Higgins

Rajshree Chaturvedi

Ana Goyle

Gabrielle Tchira

Eleonore Mordacq

Julieta Cerda

Lyria Hunte

Yusra Khalil

 

Matilda Yiu

Caroline Powers

Zoe Cobb

F. El Idrissi
Sophia Z.

Bella Holt

Bernie Ince

Evelyn Yang

Chase Agudo

Sarah Duncan

Publicity Team​

Publicists: Ana Goyle, Sarah Duncan, Juliet Higgins, Ella Taft

Web DesignElla Taft

August '25

Contents

  1. Introduction

  2. ​Shattered Petals: poetry

  3. Reflections of Light: personal essays / narrative journalism

  4. Corolla's Looking Glass: flash fiction / vignettes

  5. Notos and Eurus: literary analysis / criticism

  6. The Mirror's Bloom: short stories

  7. Fractures of the Lexicon:         continuous works (novels or dramatic scripts)

GLS covers.png

Photo Credits and Cover Design: Ella Taft

CONTENTS

Fractures of the Lexicon

CONTINUOUS WORKS

The Key to the Lost World: Part One

INTRODUCTION

intro

A Letter from the Editor in Chief

Dear All,

                I will begin by stating that I am quite talented at the New York Times Connections game, despite what my friends may tell you. But last week, I stared at those tiles, holding my screen two inches away from me, and only grew increasingly frustrated. With a fair amount of word manipulation and linguistic acrobatics, I was convinced that four rather random words were connected—“omaha,” “las vegas,” “Chevy Chase,” and “washington.” (Instead, they were in four completely different categories. The category of purple, for those wondering, was 'Proper Nouns After Gerunds in ‘90s Movie Titles.') The mind tends to create patterns or meanings, even where none exist. You just need to stare long enough. Oftentimes, writing emerges from these imagined connections as we try to make sense of the world around us. If no one has touched the back wall of a particular dark wardrobe, who’s to say Narnia is not waiting on the other side? When you let your mind live in the hypothetical, creativity is born from uncertainty, and if you’re lucky, something is revealed of the reality. Our writers are able to skillfully look between the lines of what we cannot see clearly.
                Paranoia is imagination gone off the rails, whether in beautiful, haunting, or insightful ways. It is human instinct to look for danger, even where there isn’t any. This universal experience occurs when your logic is hindered and paranoia blurs the line between what
is and what might be. Most teens on social media have come across videos that refer to the “FBI agent” who is always watching them. Has the world morphed into some parallel to George Orwell’s 1984? I opened BBC this morning holding my breath, as I do every time I open the news, not knowing exactly what to expect. The first four headlines are in reference to another school shooting. A new notification dings: “North Korea Slams South Korea Leader Lee Over Nuclear ‘Paranoia’.” This term is one that follows us everywhere online, and spills over to our real life experiences. Student writers are confronting and exploring these undercurrents through both poetry and prose in this issue. Fall approaches, and Halloween will have passed before our next issue is published. Many people of all ages will turn on a horror movie, eat chocolate bars, then lock their doors a second time. Paranoia certainly has been normalized, but now we face the question: is it rightly so? 
                I didn’t solve the NYT Connections by myself that day. My friend was nearby, unaware of my struggling for the last five or ten minutes. I asked for her thoughts, and we got a little closer—she helped me give up on my genius idea of “omaha,” “las vegas,” “Chevy Chase,” and “washington.” Once I let it go, we were able to find the first two of the four categories. But there were still eight confusing words left, and we couldn’t afford another mistake. Thankfully, another friend peered over at the screen, and with this third perspective, we were able to finish the game successfully. We parsed out the intended meanings of each individual word, the same way we would when examining a poem or paragraph. I wouldn’t say the NYT Connections game gave us a new view of reality that day, but it did remind me of the importance of companionship.
                If I could describe The Glass Lotus Society in one word, it would be community. We are the model of teamwork, networking, and support, even in times of rampant paranoia. We make connections through similarities and differences, reading and writing, speaking and listening. And somehow, we managed to create beauty with our words as we worked tirelessly on this issue, even when many of us were on break for summer or winter. I remember one day, all the way back in June, I mentioned that we were low on submissions. Within 24 hours, we had thirteen new pieces submitted. I am so grateful for their ambition, collaboration, and talent, and it is with much pride that I present to you
Paranoia. These cross-continental connections that we’ve made with each other and our world have truly come together in this issue—no—this movement.

 

Sincerely,

Ella Taft

Editor in Chief

Founder of GLS

SHATTERED PETALS

Poetry

poetry

The Black Swan
BY SARAH DUNCAN

swan

Some are yet to find femininity in my rage for my visage only invokes fear. 

I tidy my wild hair, conceal the crazy in my eyes 

from the long nights spent molding myself with their harsh words 

that on the surface must not break me—though my soul may want to cry.

I lace anti-venom into my speech, so I softened my shouts, and I refrain from opening any doors in their brains 

or any boxes I can’t close, 

as not to overflow the ire I’ve spent years trying to control.

Everything I do is a hyperbole. 

But what I softened myself into is the being they no longer see, 

because if we all look the same I must take up space 

and give myself a memorable name

by auditioning for the white swan. 

For her, Ethereality will not be a compliment 

to equate her worth to oversexuality,

for there’s delicacy within in her bones;

perfection in her self control. 

She softly speaks of all things sweet—refraining from impulsivity. 

The Black Swan 

hides behind this venomous lie. 

She spreads her wings within the confines of my mind. 

How many times must I straighten my hair in suppression of her aggression? 

How long before I stop feeding the demon growing inside me?

In the white swan they see a feminine rage. 

Though into the void she screams and cries to those who refuse to hear, 

she has a catharsis in becoming the monster that they tried to cage, 

she’s still so beautiful though she’s her greatest fear. 

This is what makes her a girl. 

I gave myself unconditional permission to feel 

until I help my inner child to heal. 

They’ll never let me be just a girl.

Pair of Sonnets for the Blind
BY ELLA TAFT

blind sonnets

Alas, when violently your sun has set,

Such leaves have fallen, arid in your frown,

The yoke has grown too heavy through your sweat,

And rain has cruelly stormed upon your crown;

 

Still, I’ve remained here yet, is this not true?

I’ve carved my scars and battled your own beast,

As None halt’d my eternal love for you

I paint sweet marzipan on rage released;

 

And yet, when hurricanes blow my weak smile,

Your love has never once lifted a brow.

Await— this scale has tipped such unfair trial!

Where were you when my spring gave barren bough?

 

You had gone, as eternal one may be;

Soon tiring Time shall take me to rest free.

To love you is to slaughter and to maim

And kill my heart and fill it with cold brine;

My obsession: yet the tears long to shine,

But love, think not of my flaws and my shame,

 

True, burns cannot be hidden in the flame:

No, still, all my mind bleeds for is benign

Grace, or wine and sleep, or memory of mine

To fever dream and catch a star to blame.

 

But a candle cannot clear airs of doubt,

Just as loving you pains me, there I stood;

As I burn myself, a candle won't shout,

The mind’s so dark, I do not know what should;

 

And yet, I’ll let such a fire burn me out,

Knowing I lit the world while I still could.

To My Family in Pyungyang (조선)
BY CAROLINE POWERS

family

Sometimes very late at night I catch myself in 

thoughts that ordinarily I would never indulge in 

Like how adrift I feel in this Godless country 

Catch myself calling a place I will never go “back home.”

I think of you all the time. 

— 

It’s easy to feel cut loose as an American. 

Everything is easy, as an American 

Born from this broken nation on this stolen earth, 

I’m always going to be an American, 

it’s by virtue of being the first born here 

it’s all I’ve ever had to know 

This evil country is full of us all; Born broken. 

This poem is about me, it’ll always be about me. 

— 

I want to know how they are, I want to see them 

I look nothing like them, I’m nothing like them. I am drifting 

Their faces swallowed up in mine 

I wonder if anyone else feels this untethered-ness 

I wonder if they are angry with me, floating away. 

I think of them all the time, 

Please don’t stay angry, when I see you again 

I think of you all the time. 

— 

Cousin. Auntie 

Do you feel it? I’m thinking of you 

I’m sorry for it all:

The war machine, the way coins scatter on a stone path 

The luck of the draw. 

Do you feel my six thousand mile heart beating?

Does it beat in a language you know? 

Cousin, auntie, we’re still here

It’s beating only for you, 

I think of you all the time.

prorogued

Prorogued
BY ANONYMOUS

The heat sears into my

Skin, glasses pinched as a shield.

Every limb begging for respite and

Every street straining strength and

Every bag weighing more than the

Last moment.

The station filled with many like me

And unlike me.

No pause to capture the tracks

No hints to confirm direction

But shoulders, bags, backs of heads-

Yelling, whistling, hustling-

And I smile, drowning in the crowd.

Blue bandanas and green wristwatches

Spills tears of sadness or joy.

Or regret, or guilt, a bitter future.

But mine, never as weak as my mom’s.

Vulnerable, as she left

Her family. My family. All those years

ago for work in

another country.

Waiting for the train and shaking under her bags.

Bruised by weight.

The heat sears into my

mouth, drying my tongue and tears.

Coughing the remorse away.

My necklace choking me all the more.

The heat sears into my eyes.
The train never comes but

it doesn’t feel like waiting

anymore.

The Shoulder
BY ANONYMOUS

shoulder

A shoulder to cry on is all you need.

After the earth quakes quietly crumbling all you believe.

After the ocean overflows, overwhelmingly your peace

After the wind whales uncontrollably leaving you with a bruising backlash.

After the sun scorches mercilessly leaving you with a ripping redness.

A shoulder that will embrace you just as hard as you embrace them.

A shoulder that makes you feel like you are not a burden by making it all wet.

A shoulder that will unquestionably reassure you in the middle of the night when you show up uninvited, unannounced.

A shoulder that whatever happens, will still be the shoulder we all, as humans, crave.

All sensible until…

That shoulder would worry themselves for your own sake. Worry that one day those heavy tears make your heart heavy and then become too heavy to carry. Eventually, that weight would become too heavy for the shoulder too. And then — poof. It’s gone. It leaves to go find a shoulder of its own to carry the now transferred burden blaming you for the damage.

Fates Spin
BY SARAH DUNCAN

fates

Step back and look at all the time I waste
Fixated on my final breath as I
Forget to breathe, while living my life based
On how I’m meant to live before I die. 

Hope to ascend after earth clips my wings
To sanctuary, if my soul’s reformed;
Refuge from fire with no hymns to sing,
If I’m not in the favor of the Lord. 

So in this promise I’m still yet to find
An earthly sanctuary from my brain.
Perfectionist with an imperfect mind,
Why do I think of things that cause me pain? 

This puzzling game of life, I may not win.
I’ll let the fates spin what they wish to spin.

smpte

SMPTE Bars
BY ANONYMOUS

Away we came from away

and I never felt so shamefully belonging.

I want to leave but still I stay

But I know it’s trying to kill me, 

or maybe it’s paranoia of suffocation that

kills me instead

but it’s what I know and it’s

all I know and everything

I know and see

is filled with this dream

of the world but could I ever

go?

Or maybe it’s better I stay

here, but maybe it’s easier

And I like it here- or, I

like myself here- and

I never felt so shamefully belonging

in my English-speaking country when

all I want is to be different 

in a mass of difference

and all I need is to be accepted

in a crowd of safety

where I am too safe.

smpte-color-bars-5791787_1280_edited.png

You were right.
BY ANONYMOUS

right

The human mind is truly the scariest thing of all.
It tricks you into thinking something is there when there’s not
You hear things down the hall
Perhaps footsteps, a knock
Everyone thinks you’re crazy
Maybe you are
Your mind’s hazy
Clinging on to past scars
You’re convinced of ill intentions
A kill, stab, or maim
At even the slightest mention
Of your name.
‘I will heal’ you think
as you try to ignore
sounds intensifying while you’re on the brink
the opening of your door—
Footsteps, to reap
It’s notrealnotrealnotreal
Relief
A tear
A chilling pause as you
Sleep
Forever.

___'s lament
BY CHASE AARON AGUDO

lament

“do you
remember the 
couple who asked us 
to take a photo of them at 
the park?”

he says,
“the whole time I
was taking the picture,
I thought ‘damn, I wish I had that,’ 
you know?

it’s like—
why couldn’t that
be me? it’s all i ask;
but nothing ever works. nothing.
jesus.”

movies

the movies that we watch.
BY ANONYMOUS

the movies that we watch.

 

I see us in the movies that we watch; when they’re holding each other close, searching  ambitiously for more love to consume in each other's eyes while dancing in a room full of souls  that are useless to the setting except for how flawlessly they ignore them. 

I see us in the movies that we watch; when they break a tension no one knew was there until it  abruptly dissolves by a tease. 

I see us in the movies that we watch; when the protagonists' heart flutters with butterflies when  the words you speak back to me fulfill my hopeless romantic heart by telling it what it’s been  craving to hear those words out of my mind. 

I see us in the movies that we watch, except that’s it’s not us and never will be.

eidolon

Nursery Rhymes from Eidolon
BY ANONYMOUS

I wish the lighthouse were the sun

And all the land, the sea.

I wish all sailboats seas have spun

Came back to carry me.

 

I wish the wind would be my shawl,

Not bite my neck and skin,

I wish my feet would slip and fall,

A silence in the din.

 

The raging rocks would rip my flesh,

The stinging salt would slice,

The sinews shucked, the blood all fresh,

The sea my only vice.

 

No, my limbs won’t tear today,

The rocks won’t see the sound

Of my shrill voice, lost on the way,

My mind was never found.

watching

watching, wishing, waiting
BY CHASE AARON AGUDO

sitting on the edge of that balcony,
he can only imagine how much fun 
those people seem to be having down there.
the room behind him, where the others are,
it can’t quite satisfy his whims—

he had never grasped how such
raw, unfettered laughter could have
come from alcohol and music 
him? he needs better company 
 
so he’s given a choice:
retreat inside and live 
to be quiet, tempered;

or stay watching
wishing, or worse—

waiting?

damage

damage control
BY SARAH DUNCAN

laying in the shattered shards— resemblant of the mirror glass 

my wretched glances crack— 

of adolescent fragility, 

i cannot identify the damage 

you urge me to control, 

or discern whose reflection 

deceits me while 

trapped in a mirror 

maze, tricky shapeshifters 

taunting me at every corner; 

void of all 

proclivity for 

soaking up sunlight, 

they refract it, cast the burden 

out, put the onus upon me to 

catch it. 

squeezing into crevices 

where the light won’t reach 

me, i look for shade to cast 

a shadow 

and hide whilst their 

watchful eyes 

burn into me— 

attacking from every side— 

so as to confuse them 

with an illusion: 

it lets them believe they’ve 

emblazoned my ideal amelioration—
an amalgamation of my own conflations—

a shadow as elusive as the escape,
for it distracts me from the glass shards
cutting into my sides; 

i confuse the blood oozing out
for me being small enough to hide.

REFLECTIONS OF LIGHT

Personal Essays / Journalism

reflections of light

You’re Looking for a Cute Genre… But It Ain’t Me, Babe 
BY BELLA HOLT

cute genre

                As 2024 came to an end, Timothee Chalamet’s new persona hit the silver screen and reintroduced Bob Dylan to the world. A Complete Unknown, last year’s Bob Dylan biopic, watches as Dylan makes a name in folk music and later “goes electric.” With the success of the biopic, folk music went viral on TikTok and re-entered the mainstream. While this long-overlooked genre absolutely deserves the attention, Tiktok’s current folk revival disregards the genre’s crucial history. 

                Out of the entire movie, A Complete Unknown’s depiction of Dylan and Joan Baez’s affair was what resonated most with teenagers and young adults. The movie’s cover of Dylan’s “It Ain’t Me Babe” has been used nearly 40,000 times on TikTok— most often in videos where users soulfully lip sync to the lyrics, “I am not the one you want, babe, I am not the one you need.” However, users fail to look past the melodic guitar and observe that folk music is a vessel of protest. 

                At the height of its popularity, folk music was used to fight against injustice during the Civil Rights movement and the Vietnam war, not just croon of heartbreak. Renowned 1960s folk singer Phil Ochs once described himself as a “singing journalist;” he took the stories he saw on the news and trapped them in his lyrics, immortalizing this era of injustice and pain in a melody. Even without considering the genre through a modern lens, folk persists as a uniquely profound genre. However, when taking into account the unsettling political climate that we live in today, the genre undertakes a new significance. 

                Every day, we as American residents are faced with another concerning, frightening, or downright absurd news headline. The world we live in today has given us plenty of reasons to protest; as shown by April’s Hands Off and June’s No King protests. Thus, it seems only obvious that the protest roots of folk should be the main focus of its revival. High school student Sienna McCabe, class of 2027, emphasized that all kinds of protest art– including folk music– “keeps people from going numb…when everything feels overwhelming.” If you enjoy “It Ain’t Me Babe” or want comfort during these troubling times, perhaps experiment with folk’s protest songs– Phil Ochs’ “Too Many Martyrs” or, for a more recent artist, Jesse Welles’ “War Isn’t Murder.”

COROLLA'S LOOKING GLASS

Flash Fiction / Vignettes

corolla

Death By Search
BY EVELYN YANG

search

                Jeez. They’re red again. She looks down at her feet, surrounded by a shallow pool of water. The shower’s clogged too. Hot water beats down into the basin as steam fills the air, billowing into her face. Glancing down again, the color of her feet slowly starts to appear unnatural. The shade of red is darker than scratched mosquito bites and aggressive pimples, seemingly seeking immediate attention and intervention. What if something’s seriously wrong with me? She reaches for the shampoo bottle. Nah. It’s probably nothing. After a grueling day at school, the last thing she needs is to have a crisis about her health. 

                Foaming shampoo between her hands, she remembers the small splotches of red and purple she once had under her skin. “Splotches underneath the skin” she searched up on her phone, retyping typos in frustration. “Burst blood cells,” or “petechiae,” and as always, “underlying medical conditions,” appeared as she quickly scrolled through the results. Google said it was caused by minor injury. Don’t really think that playing volleyball counts as a minor injury, but it makes sense. I bruise pretty easily too. Whatever. The cause was dumb, so it means that this is nothing too. She scrubs at her hair, staring at the white patterned wall in front of her. Her feet throb with phantom pains, as if encouraging her irrational thoughts. I hate this. Is it really normal to worry this much about something so inconsequential? 

                By the time she’s finished with her shower, the mirrors are fogged up, and she’s itching to grab her phone. Before she opens a search engine though, she puts on some music, letting the upbeat tune resound between the bathroom tiles. It’s a jarring contrast to the dread seeping through her body, but she’s never enjoyed silence. Subconsciously, she knows it’s the effect of the internet– her generation grew up with screens and constant stimulation, filled with bright colors and attention seeking graphics. From video games and shows to digital homework assignments, it’s impossible to get away from. She thinks of it as a noose, where every tap and hour lost to the digital world loosens the desperation for a distraction.

                But social media claims there’s a way to get used to silence again; “Quitting everything” and “regulating your screen time” are the solution, and she tries to believe it. Even though she always ignores the screen time limit she sets for herself, guilt bleeding through every extra tap. Sometimes, the world captured within a rectangle is much easier to navigate than her bleak reality, filled with school and depressing news. 

                No longer unsettled by silence, she opens a search engine, typing up “Feet red shower” quickly. No, I don’t like that. I want to know why. “Why do feet turn red in the shower.” The results load speedily, and she’s not surprised when the general results are harmless: the effects of heat, skin irritation, and underlying medical conditions. A Reddit post catches her attention; a commenter claims it’s from the body trying to eliminate extra heat from the shower by raising blood vessels closer to the skin. Sighing, she closes the tab and shuts off her phone. I don’t really trust that reasoning––it’s from Reddit––but at least I know it’s just from showering. Nothing bad. Not gonna die. 

                But as she exits the bathroom, obsessive thoughts continue to wrack her mind, and it’s as if the mirage of safety is left behind in the steamy room. Horror posts and videos of people speaking to the camera with tired expressions start to flood through her mind: “––ruined my life,” “I’ll never be the same again,” and “Doctors found nothing.” The urge to search more tugs at her thread of sanity, begging to rampage the sensibility of her mind. But she knows that as much as the internet is a hub of knowledge, not all of it is correct. If she clicks every link, takes every fact to heart, the black hole of information will suck her into chaos. By the end of it, she’ll have five different self-diagnosed diseases and plenty of solutions, as if that’s how it works in real life. 

                She pauses at the sight of a painting hung up on the wall as she enters her room. Her grandma painted it, her frail fingers gracing the canvas with the stalks of bamboo and Chinese characters. Longevity, that’s what bamboo symbolizes. How old was her grandma now? It feels like she’s been eighty-three for so long. Probably because she’s actually ninety-four. That's…old. Scary. What if––

                Maybe she searches everything up because the reality is that she's scared of how sudden everything can end, of dying in a way she can’t control. Her great-aunt had breast cancer twice. It runs in her family, it chases after her, saying, “You’re next.” The last time she saw her great-aunt, the frailness of her body, the sagging of skin and juts of bones, all of it spoke to the fragility of her humanity. Her great-grandmother was bedridden for the last ten years of her life; her neck tightening itself like a noose, causing her brain fog. Sometimes she forgot her own daughter, her grand-daughter, and her great-grand-daughter. 

                It happened to them, so what would stop it from happening to her? Some illnesses are genetic. Some life changing, life destroying, things hurtle into people’s lives without regard. At least she’ll know, if she searches it up. If her future is derailed by the threat of death and of illness, at least she’ll catch it before the worst hits. The power of the internet is that it has information, even if the downside is that it has information. 

                Still, despite the reassurance that a semblance of control remains, it terrifies her that her life could be conquered in such a way. To be reduced to a single search. 

                For even if it is the illness that kills, it is the search that determines it first.

lantern

The Lantern
BY HANA CARLSON

                There was once a beautiful young woman.

                Once.

 

                There are no walls.

                Well, perhaps there are. She just never reached them.

                Perhaps every time she wandered too far and turned back, the next step would have been when she realized that she was confined. 

                Perhaps.

 

                But she never saw them.

                She never saw… anything.

                She could only feel. The rustling of her clothes, her soft, long hair brushing against her arms. The pain in her feet, from walking so long, to nowhere.

 

                Not to nowhere.

                That was where she was.

 

                The void.

                Where there are no walls.

 

                She had never known the light, just the eternity of blankness surrounding her.

                Blankness is not the right word, for she could always feel something. Something in front of her, behind her, up, down. That something just happened to be nothing.

 

                Nothing can be anything.


 

                There are no directions.

                Well, perhaps there are. She just never realized them.

                Perhaps she was merely in an elaborate maze, though every step she took felt like falling, though everywhere she went she was always on solid ground. Perhaps that was simply the layout of the place.

                Perhaps. 

 

                But she never felt stable.

                She never felt… safe.

                She could only continue walking. Hoping to understand the space around her.

                The lack of space around her.

                How she was being suffocated, even though she had all the freedom in the world.

                All the freedom in the world, to wander blindly. Feeling her heart freeze every step she took, because she had no idea if it would be the one that inevitably sent her to her doom. She had to learn to live with it. The constant lackingness. Of her knowledge, her eyes. She lacked everything she needed, and everything was lacking. 

 

                Everything was lacking because everything was nothing, in this… space. Not a destination, for that meant finality. Not a place, for that meant definition. No, it was a space. Free, unoccupied. 

                Empty.

 

                The void.

                Where there are no directions.

 

 

                She could feel the time passing.

                She could feel herself growing tired.

 

                Still, she continued.

 

                Walking, running. Tripping, falling, standing.

                But never stopping.

                The void would swallow her if she stopped even for a second.

 

                And still, she continued.

 

                She continued, and she could not tell the days passing, for there was no sun, no moonlit sky, no stars guiding her way. She could only feel the time. It’s essence, slowly but surely slipping through her fingers.

                Oh, how she longed to grasp it!

 

                Still, she continued.

 

                Until, one day… something caught her eye for the first time.

                Nothing had ever been able to do that before.

                It was all dark.

                But… something was glimmering.

                The sun? The stars?

                And she ran as fast as she could.

                She ran and ran and ran because finally, finally she was going somewhere that wasn’t nowhere.

 

                She ran and ran and ran and finally, finally, found what she was looking for.

 

                A light.

                A lantern.

 

                It was not particularly ornate. Some might call it rickety, or dingy, or dirty. It was altogether quite broken. The metal handle was rusty, the glass cracked. Still, it managed to contain fireflies inside, and their light made her want to smile.

                Smile like the sun.

                For she had seen it! She had seen the sun! This capsule of good! Light!

 

                Yet as she picked it up and cradled it to her chest, she started to notice things.

                Light illuminates, after all.

                And she finally basked in the presence of the light, she realized that the nothing had been something after all.

                When she had felt nothing, there had been something there.

                Watching her.

 

                And as she could now see, she noticed it take shape.

 

                Shadowed, inhuman figures, surrounding her. Everywhere. Below her, above her. To her sides. In front, behind. Everywhere. She had never been conscious of their presence before, but now that she knew, she shied away from them. Terrified.

 

                Now that she could see, she noticed the walls. 

                They were so close.

                They boxed her in.

                Trapped her, along with the monsters. 

 

                Now that she could see, she noticed the direction of the place.

 

                And

                                she 

                                                started

                                                                to

                                                                                fall.

                Somehow she hadn’t been standing at all, the whole time.

                She’d been falling, and she was again.

 

                Feeling herself fall and fall and fall.

                All she could do was hold the lantern close and pray that the little lights wouldn’t escape.

 

                Stuck, in the in between of reality and fantasy, awake and asleep, forever.

                Forever falling. 

 

                Until finally she hit the ground.

                It… hurt.

                But she got up.

                Dusted herself off.

                And made sure the lantern was all right.

 

                It was. 

 

                And somehow, even though the monsters were now gathered around her, so close she could feel hot breath against her cheeks, the light seemed to hold them at bay. Just barely.

                She could see them watching her every move. Every twitch of her fingers.

                But she would not allow them to take away her lantern!

                No more.

                No more wandering blindly.

                No more endless falling.

                No more.

 

                She would see!

                And see she did.

 

                She looked up from the light and the monsters, up to the sky.

                Or rather, where the sky should have been.

 

                This time it was different.

                Instead of the usual lack, there was… something else.

                Another light! It glowed with the same tenacity as her original lantern, but she decided that she needed both. It would mean more sight. 

                More light.

 

                And so she continued onward.

                                Upward.

 

                She found footholds. Stairs. Leading her up and up and up. 

                And so it went.

                Each step she took, she saw the light in the sky grow brighter.

 

                Brighter.

 

                Brighter.

 

                She ignored the growing monsters surrounding her.

                She focused only on the light.

 

                And finally, she reached the sky!

                But as her hand moved up, to grasp the lantern she now saw, instead of finding the handle, she found a hard surface.

                She tried again.

 

                Something was wrong.

 

                And she realized why the light had grown, why it had been so similar to hers.

                It was hers.

                Well, in a sense.

 

                As she peered closer, she realized that it was a mirror.

 

                And as she did so, she noticed something else.


 

                Her reflection.



 

                She, who was once a beautiful young woman.

                Once.

 

                And as she saw her reflection, her hand trembled.

 

                And down flew the lantern! Down the trail she had carved upwards herself! Down, down, down, until it finally reached the bottom!

 

                And smashed, the fireflies free once more.


 

                Her reflection…



 

                She didn’t have one.

 

                                She was nothing, just like everything else in this space.

 

                                                And as the light drifted away, she lost sight of the walls,

                                                She lost sight of up and down,

                                                She lost all sight of anything.

                                                Of everything. 

 

                                                Until it was only nothing. Nothing, once more.

 

                This time, though, the monsters did not leave her alone.

 

                The monsters, whose face she wore.

fragile

Fragile
BY F. EL IDRISSI

“I…”

 

BREATHEBreathe-

 

“Out.. I want out, please.. I beg you.”

 

The door to my mind slides itself open to the most unwelcomed without my consent. 

 

I wonder why the curious thing does that sometimes.

 

The reason why it engulfs me with such hatred in retaliation to my search for a decent spot in society still remains the question I ask myself the most… Yet, I still haven't got an answer. 

 

Why so much venom in this intoxicating heavenly drink of mine?

 

I look down, foam fizzing out of my mouth- drowning out my pleads for help. Muffling out the sounds of pain I’m supposed to make… The noise I’m unbothered to make..

 

Because who am I, if not my sole saviour?

Who am I, if not the sole survivor of the apocalypse I created?

 

“I know- I know I'm nothing just please… PLEASE”

 

What elSe Can I do otheR than plEase those who try their hArdest to judge Me?

 

Is it normal that chunks of my hair are tangled between the lengths of my fingers? That my nails are brittle and bloody–

 

Does that blood come from the shreds of skin I scraped off my own body? Or is it the blood that oozed out when I unpurposefully bit the skin around my nails too hard? Anyways, obviously this isn’t about me, Isn’t iT?… IS it?

 

What are you saying? 

 

 

Hm? Yes, you—the girl on the mirror that has eyes which find no depth? The one who looks terrified of… Me?

 

 

I’m just ‘paranoid’, you say?

 

Yeah, that’s what you tell me every single time. 

 

‘Why are you so paranoid?...’ 

 

Who are you calling paranoid? I know for sure that I’m NOT paranoid-

 

ImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnot—


 

“I AM NOT!! I'M NOT PARANOID, OKAY?? STOP THINKING ABOUT ME JUST STOP…STOP THINKING… STOP LOOKING…”

 

“Stop staring at me… GET OUT OF MY HEAD.”

 

My throat’s got a shard of glass stuck right through it and I can’t seem to swallow it? It hurts… I’m- I’m cornered by my own being— weak, useless… Victim of my own emotions and hallucinations.

 

“Stop.. You aren’t real…” 

 

BREATHE.

PLEASE.

ghosts

The Ghosts
BY ANA GOYLE

                I see the ghosts sometimes. The ones from the dark, dank subway station when I was 6. When the 6 train sign stood on a pedestal smiling at me from above and my grubby little hands clutched my father’s, as we walked down the endless stairs closing us in. The familiar sights of barricades and peeling paint and the smell of musty odor greeted me. My father grabbed the blue chipped metro-card from his pocket; the one with faded letters Easy Express Pay on it and turned to swipe and then

                Help, a man croaked. Please. 

                And I turned. 

                Turned to see his cane and his bent back. His agonizing face, full of haunting memories, leaning against the subway tile. And I know. I know he is seeing the ghosts. The ghosts. The ones from the past. The ones of what if. The ones with tart tongues that cluck their mouths with the tut tut and raise their eyebrows at you. The ones that rip, and tear, and tug, and stop at nothing. 

                My father didn't turn though. He just swiped his card and motioned for me to follow. And I reluctantly followed. Under the barricades. Under the barricades. And just watched. Just watched, as the man went and sat on the staircase in defeat. And crumpled. He crumpled like a candy wrapper. He was a broken record coughing out the notes. But we were on the other side. We had already passed through. It was too late. And as we waited for the 6 train with its glowing eyes and metallic body to come into the station and take us away, far away, I just watched. Just watched as a single wet tear, somehow more painful and haunting than a stream of one thousand waterfalls, fell down his single cheek. And then I began to see the ghosts, too.

watching

Somebody's Watching Me
BY ANONYMOUS

My door creaked open. It was slightly ajar - odd since I had closed it. I stepped out from the steaming shower, soaking wet and a towel oddly wrapped around my body. 
 

The soap suds spread across the corners of the shower, the mirror fogged up. It smelled a lot like the new shampoo I had used - a mixture of wet dog smell and floral. I cleaned up the puddles of water, the stray hairs in the bathroom sink and floor and stepped out, finally ready to watch a good movie, eat some dessert and have a good night alone. 

The light flickered on and off, threatening to put itself out completely - my landlord had promised to fix it but it had been two months already. Everything about this tiny apartment gave me bad vibes mixed with the almost ‘routinely’ malfunctions of all the appliances. 

My stuffed animals and dolls glared at me from my bed, almost as if to say ‘Why did you leave us alone again today?’ I turned off the light, the wall plate dangling and I closed the door. 

I was waiting for the cake to heat up when the phone rang. The shrill noise pierced my ears and I ran to grab it. I lunged for the phone and as I pressed it to my ear it stopped, the line on the other side was dead. 

I closed the windows and drew the curtains - why weren’t they already drawn? - before heading back to the kitchen and watching the microwave go around in circles. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

I had turned off the shower. My tap wasn’t leaking. I froze. Maybe it was my cat playing with the tap again. But something about this, this time, felt off. 

I tiptoed into the bathroom and felt along the wall for the light switch. The wall plate must have finally fallen off, because all I could feel was the paint peeling off the walls. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip.

I turned on my phone torch and panned it across the room. The light lit up the corners of the room, accentuating each shadow and silhouette of my things strewn messily everywhere. I still couldn’t find the source of the dripping sound. That was when a putrid smell stung my eyes and nose and practically hit me in the face. 

I looked up. 

The light shines directly at a little girl. On the top of my cabinet. Who almost exactly perfected reassembled my childhood doll, which was perched on my bed. Her eyes were glassed over, skin waxy and an abnormal ashy shade of grey. She clutched that doll tightly in her arm, its worn out face soaked almost thoroughly with blood. 

I freeze. My heart stops. 

The blood pools around her as it slowly seeps into the wooden cabinet and trickles down creating an opaque puddle. 

The look of the corpse that stared unblinking into me stayed etched into my memory just like the claw marks on her face, right across her eyes. 

sun

The Sun
BY HANA CARLSON

                It was always close by.

                The sun.

                Yes, she could see it over the horizon, could taste its sweetness tingling on her tongue.

                Yes, she could feel its radiation beckoning her blood further, could smell its intoxicating scent. She heard its whispered song, drifting through the space in between them to her ears.

                She was spellbound by it.

 

                But it was always close.

                Never here.

 

                She ran, day and night, through storm and fire.

                She never paused to catch her breath or admire the view.

                She picked herself up every time she stumbled, never stopping to take care of her wounds.

                Yet the distance never changed.

                No matter how long she ran.

                No matter how fast she was.

                The distance never changed.

 

                She could see it! She could taste it! She could feel it! She could smell it! She could hear it!

 

                But it was always close.

                Never here.

 

                She started to see everything in a haze. Wherever she went, whatever she saw was blurry. Hard to reach. Hard to understand.

                But whenever she stared at the sun, everything was bright. Real. Burning.

                So she kept her eyes up, not noticing the ground beneath her or the seasons changing. She did not notice that fewer and fewer people surrounded her until at last she was alone.

                She did not notice these things, for the sun had blinded her.

 

                Soon she realized that food had no taste. Not to her, anyway. It merely provided sustenance, nothing more.

                But whenever she tasted`` the sun, she tasted its sweetness. She felt as though she had attained enough energy to run for the rest of her life.

                So she stopped eating, never noticing the frailness of her body or the brittleness of her bones. She did not notice the pangs that racked her or the feebleness of her legs.

                She did not notice these things, for the sun had taken her taste.

 

                She found that she no longer felt tired, no longer needed those brief moments of respite. She no longer felt anything.

                But whenever she stared at the sun, she felt the eternal longing within her heart. The desire to finally, finally be happy. To reach the sun. She felt alive.

                So she continued running, never feeling the pain of her bloody, bruised feet or the parchedness of her throat. She did not notice the tears streaming down her face, or the searing pain that followed every step.

                She did not notice these things, for the sun had numbed her.

 

                Soon she observed that she could not smell the flowers. She could not smell anything.

                But whenever she thought of the sun, she could smell the glorious glow that filled up her body and nostrils until everything else was blocked out.

                So she continued running, not smelling her clothes, body, and soul. She did not notice the sickly scent that flowed from her or the lack of all things alive.

                She did not notice these things, for the sun had taken her smell.

 

                She recognized that everything was suddenly so very quiet. She could not hear the birds or the wind in the trees.

                But whenever she listened to the sun, she could hear its music, flooding her with unimaginable sensations, singing to her a siren song of fire, movement, telling her just how close she was!

                So she continued running, not hearing the voices calling to her, warning her, berating her, growing in urgency and volume until they were gone, for she had traveled too far. She did not hear the gradually slowing of her heartbeat or the thump of her legs against the ground.

                She did not notice these things, for the sun had deafened her.

 

                She did not notice herself fall.

                Collapse on the ground, miles from everything she’d known.

                She did not notice herself take her last heaving breath.

                Her heart slowly stopping.

 

                She only saw and tasted and felt and smelled and heard the sun.

 

                So, so close.

NOTUS AND EURUS

Literary Analysis / Criticism

notos and eurus

Flesh and Faith at War: A Reckoning of Eros and Spirit in Anna Karenina
BY CHASE AARON AGUDO

eros

“The road to hell feels like heaven; the road to heaven feels like hell.”

-     Unknown

 

                Widely regarded as the father of Russian symbolism, poet and religious thinker Dmitri Merezhkovsky dubbed Leo Tolstoy the "greatest depictor" of what he called the "mysterious border-region where the struggle between the animal and the God in man takes place" (Merezhkovsky 64). In Anna Karenina, this struggle takes place on the battlefield between spirit and eros—between moral aspiration and bodily desire. Tolstoy explores the novel's three main masculine archetypes—Karenin, Vronsky, and Levin—and meditates on the consequences of an imbalance between the spirit and the flesh. At the heart of this dynamic is Anna, who acts as the erotic litmus test against the men's ability to integrate the physical and spiritual dimensions of love. Through these three relationships, Tolstoy proves that spirit without a commensurate level of eros is hollow, whereas eros divorced from spirit can only be disastrous; instead, he advocates for a harmony of the two forces to forge a love that is equally fulfilling and divine: agape. It is at this intersection of body and soul that Tolstoy delves into what it means to be human and emerges with an antidote to existential despair. 

 

                While Karenin's strict adherence to Christianity initially appears noble and saintly, this sanitized piety prevents him from maintaining a strong erotic or emotional connection with Anna. Tolstoy's portrayal of a sexless Karenin, devoted to cultivating an austere spirituality, critiques the incorporation of overarching Christian moralism into romantic love. Karenin's hasty retreat into lofty religiosity in response to Anna's illness reveals how excessive spirituality alienates, not reconciles, a failing relationship. When Anna calls Vronsky and Karenin to her bedside, Karenin addresses Vronsky in a moment of forgiveness: "I wished for her death…But I saw her and I forgave…I want to turn the other cheek, I want to give my shirt when my caftan is taken, and I only pray to God that He not take from me the happiness of forgiveness!" (Tolstoy 414). Commendable as it may be, this quick clemency seems inhumanly devoid of any emotional input from Karenin, furthered by Vronsky’s feeling that Karenin's reaction "was something lofty and even inaccessible to him in his world-view" (Tolstoy 415). Karenin's grandeur reduces into a desperate attempt at forbearance; presenting as misguided and curiously weak, the cuckold can only mimic agape’s unconditionality. Such a reflexive turn to God reflects an inability to process human emotion, and instead of bolstering his faith, Karenin virtually emasculates himself. 

 

                This lack of inner strength and masculinity underneath Karenin's self-conscious spirituality results in Anna's resentment towards Karenin. In a conversation with Stepan Arkadyich following her sickness, Anna laments: "I hate him for his virtues…the look of him affects me physically, I get beside myself…though I know he's a good and excellent man and I'm not worth his fingernail, I hate him even so…" (Tolstoy 427). As the novel's erotic barometer, Anna feels physically repulsed by Karenin's spirituality—her own body, literally and metaphorically, rejects such a disembodied piety. Given that her act of adultery originates from erotic starvation, Karenin must provide an appropriately human response as Anna’s masculine counterpart. Unfortunately, this responsibility falls on immaterial, spiritual shoulders, which have no substantiality in the practical world. Even if he is a "good and excellent" man, Karenin's inability to access genuine emotion leaves him hopelessly ill-equipped in the emotional realm and woefully unprepared to support Anna. 

 

                If sex is "the point at which body meets spirit," then Karenin's spirit blocks, instead of bridges, Anna's need for visceral recognition (Cook 122). Anna tries to excavate within her husband a manliness that can satisfy her erotically and spiritually but finds neither spirit, eros, nor agape. Karenin can only approach marriage with a superficiality that lacks the emotional scaffolding needed to sustain a healthy bond with Anna, who, caught in a sexual drought, jumps at the chance to drink from the deceptive oasis of Vronsky's sexual appeal. Through Karenin's failure to incorporate humanity—passion, jealousy, desire—into his marriage, Tolstoy demonstrates how indulgent piety fails the individual in every arena of life and frames brazen faith as a tool more sterile than sacred.

 

                If Karenin represents the dangers of overzealous spirituality, Vronsky stands as his erotic opposite. By prioritizing human desire and jettisoning spirituality entirely, Vronsky embodies C.S. Lewis' characterization of eros as "the carnal or animally sexual element" of love (Lewis 131). The most immediate danger of overindulged eros is the belying of genuine connection, as illustrated by the consummation of Vronsky and Anna's affair. Instead of describing the adulterers' act, Tolstoy opts to depict the emotional fallout that follows. Vronsky, having lured Anna away from her husband, feels "as a murderer must feel when he looks at the body he has deprived of life…this body deprived of life was their love" (Tolstoy 149). Like Adam and Eve after partaking of the forbidden fruit, Vronsky and Anna flounder in a disarrayed cloud of shame and loss. Their affair embodies a fall from grace whose narrative silence mirrors the exclusion of spirituality by the couple, who, by yielding to their base desires, withdraw into the animalistic side of eros, effectively separating them further from God. This sacrificial eroticism predicts Anna's suicide through the death of Froufrou, Vronsky's horse. Before he crashes Froufrou, Vronsky realizes that "[in failing] to keep up with the horse's movement, he, not knowing how himself, had made a wrong, an unforgivable movement" and cries, "A-a-ah, what have I done!" (Tolstoy 199-200). This moment of defamiliarization—when bodily sensation overtakes conscious awareness—parallels Vronsky's erotic downfall with Anna: just as he abandons his better judgment during the thrill of the horse race, so does he permit the same estrangement to disconnect him from moral responsibility when he has sex with Anna. Froufrou's death, although accidental, stems from Vronsky's inability to integrate body and soul, and it is this selfish prioritization of desire later drives Anna to suicide. In the prolepsis of Vronsky's horror through Froufrou's tragic accident, Tolstoy affirms that when eros obscures spirituality, the consequences are deadly. 

 

                Vronsky's shaky spirituality subtly uncovers itself when he gazes at a painting of Christ by the artist Mikhailov. Observing solely the artist's technique and ignoring the religious overtones of the painting itself, Vronsky exclaims, "That's technique!" to a disheartened Mikhailov (Tolstoy 474). Vronsky, like Karenin, fails to register the humanity that Anna embraces. Consequently, she delights Mikhailov after observing the sadness in Christ’s face as he stands before Pilate, whereas Vronsky bypasses such emotion—the very foundation of agape!—as if removed from feeling entirely. Vronsky simultaneously fills Anna’s erotic void while exacting a toll on her heart, leaving her beholden to another man unable to level with her in the human realm of thoughts and feelings. At best, Vronsky can only comprehend the surface-level aesthetics of religion and faith, like how only appearances appeal to Karenin. Both men are superficial, and this vacuity shows in each of their empty relationships with Anna. Merezhkovsky's "struggle between the animal and the God in man" collapses as the animal overtakes God in Vronsky's untempered sexuality (Merezhkovsky 64). Lacking the ballast of proper spirituality, Vronsky becomes a critique of unchecked desire shielded from responsibility; just as Karenin's faith without eros yields deficits in Tolstoy's moral economy, Vronsky's eros, detached from spirit, proves just as incapable of achieving agape.

 

                If Tolstoy presents Karenin as the manifestation of stern abstinence from eros, and Vronsky as eros’ strongest adherent, then Levin emerges as the golden middle ground between the two extremes. The novel's male protagonist wrestles with the disparities between spirit and eros rather than opting for one over the other. This harmony allows Levin to transcend both his erotic and existential difficulties to uncover agape—the selfless, unconditional love that ensures an equal fulfillment of the physical and spiritual. Levin's capacity for this integration shines when he visits Anna in Moscow. Levin, in the atmosphere of the urbane and sybaritic Moscow, stands at risk of a spiritual fall. Anna’s erotic allure immediately pulls at Levin, and he almost succumbs to the devil on his shoulder when he "glance[s] once more at…[Anna's] figure as she took her brother's arm…and felt a tenderness and pity for her that surprise[s] him" (Tolstoy 700). For the first time since marrying Kitty, Levin momentarily looks at another woman through the lens of desire. However, before he falls into the same sensualism that consumed Vronsky, Levin quickly realizes that "there was something not right in the tinder pity he felt for Anna" (Tolstoy 702). Despite being shaken by the encounter, Levin finds balance when he reconciles with Kitty: although Anna's sexuality has rocked Levin's uprightness, the literal and metaphysical return home allows Levin to restore his moral pendulum to equilibrium. While Anna weaponizes eros to triangulate Vronsky's affection, Kitty grounds her husband in an emotionally stable and fulfilling bond that brims, but does not overflow with, erotic energy. By refusing Anna's enchantment and relying on his true connection with Kitty, Levin proves capable of tempering desire with fidelity and moves one step closer in his journey to achieving agape.

 

                If Anna tested the boundaries of his Eros, Levin's existential crisis tests his spiritual resolve. Although Kitty finds happiness in her motherhood and marriage, the philosophically conflicted Levin struggles with a spiritual chasm that drives him to contemplate suicide. Levin does not resort to theology, however, nor does he indulge in the throes of desire; his breakthrough comes from the embodied storge he uncovers for his son, Mitya, which acts as a prerequisite to cultivating his sense of agape. After a storm threatens to harm Mitya, Levin shares how, in fear for his son’s safety, he "realized how much [he] loved Mitya" (Tolstoy 814). In pulling Levin out of his inner turmoil, Mitya becomes not only the physical fruit of the couple's aptitude for Eros but also the solacing evidence of a moral universe for his father to confide in. Levin may never ascertain the answers to his existential questions; but insofar as he can partake of the spiritual wellspring offered by fatherhood accompanied by a constant stream of healthy eroticism with Kitty, he has all the strength he needs to lead a meaningful life. 

                In the novel's final pages, Levin remarks:

                                This new feeling hasn't changed me, hasn't made me happy or

                                suddenly enlightened, as I dreamed—just like the feeling for my

                                son…my whole life…is not only not meaningless, as it was before,

                                but has the unquestionable meaning of the good which it is in my

                                power to put into it! (Tolstoy 817)

 

                In Kierkegaardian fashion, Levin leaps—not necessarily into faith, but into a deep metaphysical trust in the simultaneously unknowable but ever-reassuring good. The realization of his agape serves as a reminder that when the Lewisian "animal" and "God" in a man work together, no storm, erotic or existential, can hinder one's path. Whereas Karenin and Vronsky fail through their imbalance, Levin succeeds through his wholeness.


                In Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle posits that "Every art and every inquiry, and similarly every action and pursuit, is thought to aim at some good" (Aristotle 3). Likewise, the "goodness" of every target upon which every action aims remains in flux. With the dimensions of spirit and eros, Tolstoy presents a series of such targets with the stories of Karenin, Vronsky, and Levin. On the one hand, Karenin's Icarian ascent into spirituality strips him of humanity; on the other hand, Vronsky, under the weight of his perpetually unsatiated desires, stumbles into animality. Likewise, Anna becomes consumed by her ego, and, having looked inside herself to find nothing left, she ends her life. Only Levin, through personal strife and existential hardship, can walk the narrow yet rewarding path between flesh and spirit—and in doing so, arrive at love in its highest form: agape. In the end, Anna Karenina is Tolstoy's reminder that, in the battle between the animal and God, the best outcome is a human reconciliation.

Screenshot 2025-08-26 at 12.19.41 AM.png

On “The Golden Girl” and Accountability
BY ZOE COBB

golden

                Cambridge Dictionary defines A Golden Girl as: “a woman who is very successful and is much admired, although often only temporarily”.  Daisy Buchanan is a major character in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, she is the central focus of many of the book’s events, and arguably the most central character in the entire story. She is also one of the most famous literary Golden Girls in American literature. Readers view Daisy from the ever-changing lens of Nick Carraway, the narrator of The Great Gatsby.  Throughout The Great Gatsby, Nick’s perception, opinion, and admiration of Daisy shifts from upbeat and positive to shameful and pessimistic. Nick once sees Daisy as a pure, wealthy, and successful individual, but as the novel progresses, he realizes some of Daisy’s fundamental flaws, coming to realize that no one is truly spotless. 

 

                Nick’s first descriptions of Daisy depict her in a positive light, as Nick observes and interacts with Daisy in her home at the first dinner party. During this dinner party at the Buchanans, Nick describes how he finds Daisy and Jordan upon entering the house:  “The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon” (8). This action already serves as a mirror for Daisy’s life, highlighting a core theme of being seen and not heard. Daisy mimics a statue, a beautiful display for all who pass through.  She and her friend, Jordan Baker,  are “buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon”, like something is trapping them in these positions. Daisy, specifically, is restricted, like she is not allowed to move in her own home. This demonstrates a lack of agency. Daisy is “anchored” to her life, “anchored” to her possessive husband,  Tom. As the evening progresses, Nick describes Daisy’s voice as they make small talk, when she welcomes him into the party: “[She had] the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found it difficult to forget: a single compulsion” (9).  Nick leaves an impression on the readers' minds of Daisy’s voice being an enchanting spell or a beautiful song. However, interactions with Daisy are temporary and fleeting, as “[the] arrangement of notes that will never be played again.” Her “face [is] sad”, but Nick still describes her features as “bright” and “lovely”.  This conveys that Daisy is not truly seen, that people choose to focus on her good features instead of truly identifying how she is doing.  The “excitement in her voice that men who cared for her found it difficult to forget: a single compulsion” elaborates on the building idea of Daisy’s alluring nature and how it affects the individuals around her. Daisy’s voice is so enthralling that she can stimulate “a single compulsion”, highlighting just how influential she can be. After this interaction, Nick feels welcome and comfortable, and his positive descriptions of Daisy reflect that. Nick’s preliminary chronicles of Daisy provide a glimpse into her life and introduce Daisy as someone “difficult to forget”, “bright and lovely”, and without agency.

                As the story continues, Nick begins to see more of Daisy’s imperfections, and he begins to view her in a more negative light. A major part of Daisy’s character is her presence in the social elite as well as her profound wealth. Before Nick, Jordan, Tom, Daisy, and Gatsby, Nick’s neighbor and Daisy’s former lover, head into town on the day of inescapable heat and high tensions, Nick and Gatsby discuss Daisy: “Her voice is full of money”, Gatsby says. Nick’s internal monologue reads, “That was it. I’d never understood before. Daisy’s voice was full of money–that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it…high in a white palace, the king’s daughter, the golden girl” (120). This presents the idea that people engaging with Daisy might crave some sort of validation, a proclamation of their value from the “king’s daughter [and] the golden girl.” The purity of being “high in a white palace”, someone who has not yet seen the hardships of the world. One of Daisy’s most admirable traits is her “inexhaustible charm”. The “jingle of [Daisy’s voice]” alludes to Daisy’s ability to stay in people’s minds, again underscoring the idea that Daisy is unforgettable, that she is the golden girl. Nick’s continued descriptions involving musical language echo the positive connotations he established Daisy’s character with. Later that day, during the climactic fight between Tom and Gatsby for Daisy’s love,  Daisy is approached by Tom as he demands that she admit that she never loved Gatsby. He claims that if she could do that,  all her pain and hardship would go away: “She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal as though she realized at last what she was doing–and as though she had never, all along, intended to do anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late” (132). Nick’s narration of this brief moment has notes of skepticism, and perhaps a bit of shame cast onto Daisy. His usual narrative voice is interrupted with short sentences, highlighting his shock at both the events of the day and how Daisy has responded. Her “eyes fell…[as] she realized at last what she was doing”. This is like a cry from Daisy to Jordan and Nick to help her escape the situation. Daisy had not realized that “it was done now, it was too late,” and that the harm she had caused the people in her life was not fixable with one quip from her enchanting voice, or one “bright” gaze from a “sad face”. Daisy does not say anything in this particular moment, marking the beginning of her decision to remain silent when she is uncomfortable. Her “inexhaustible charm” has been exhausted. This fight is a turning point for Nick, as he now sees a different side of Daisy,  understanding that even “the golden girl” has flaws. 

                After Daisy’s response to Tom and Gatsby’s fight, Nick’s perception of Daisy is significantly tarnished. Nick once saw Daisy as respectable and honest, but now views her as shallow and incapable.  At the first dinner party, Nick observed Daisy as “buoyed upon an anchored balloon”, someone with a lack of agency in her own life. However, after Gatsby’s death, Daisy makes a very conscious decision about how she wants to respond by deciding not to respond at all. Following the numerous deaths at the end of the story, Daisy and Tom leave their home in East Egg, leaving no address or contact information. Nick is utterly in shock, and he realizes that he is the only one who is trying to do right by Gatsby, the only one who is attempting to honor his life. Standing in the rain, at the cemetery for Gatsby’s funeral, Nick remembers: “without resentment, that Daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower” (174). Daisy chooses not to take accountability. She does not attempt to make amends with Gatsby, or get involved in the final events of the story. She does not take accountability for the car she was driving, or apologize to any of the parties involved. She hardly values honesty or integrity. Daisy can not even deliver an “I’m sorry” from her enchanting voice,  she could not even give a look with her bright eyes. However, despite all of this, Nick views her “without resentment”. He does not excuse her actions, but rather, he chooses to live without baggage. As Nick continues to reflect on the horrifying deaths of Myrtle, George, and Gatsby, he considers his overall time on the East Coast.  He determines that: “They were careless people, Tom and Daisy–they smashed things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made…”(179). Nick’s perception of Daisy has completely flipped from the beginning of the story. Daisy, the once motionless statue laid upon a couch, is now capable of “smash[ing] things and creatures”, or maybe, she was capable all along. Daisy runs back to her wealth, back to her identity as the “king’s daughter”, high in the white palace, instead of undergoing character development and righting her wrongs. Instead of facing the consequences, Daisy runs, evading all consequences. Daisy Buchana, the once “golden girl”, has fallen from her pedestal.

                Daisy is a character who reflects The Great Gatsby’s themes of innocence and guilt. Nick initially sees Daisy as harmless and stationary, but by the end of their time together, he views her as destructive and irresponsible. His opinions are reflected in his descriptions of her voice and actions, or her lack thereof. He recognizes that even people of the highest status, the “golden girls” of the world, are not innocent in the slightest.  Nick is a character who admires honesty, and after the events that ensue in East and West Egg, his faith in the truth has diminished. He has seen lives and relationships torn to shreds, and no one with enough integrity to render the consequences. Nick’s character speaks to how the words and actions of others shape one’s beliefs. Daisy, as well as The Great Gatsby overall, shows readers the dangers of allowing others to take responsibility for actions that are not their own.  Daisy undergoes life-changing events throughout the story, but she ultimately ends up in the same place she started, and her life remains unchanged. She retreats right back to being a stationary object.

mirror bloom

THE MIRROR'S BLOOM

Short Stories

games begin

Let the Games Begin
BY ANONYMOUS

"Hello, Miss Hartford! Oh, it's lovely to see you come in so early!" a middle-aged man exclaims, spotting Juliet from afar.

She chuckles and makes her way over, replying with a smile, "Well, I wanted to make a good first impression, sir."

"Very well then, since you came in so early, why don't we get started right now? Come on in."

 

While leading her into his office,Juliet carefully chooses her seat, reminding herself of her grandma’s wise advice: "Sit to his left, straighten your back, plant your feet, set your bag on the side of the desk so he doesn't see it, and smile."

 

"Okay, let's start, shall we?"

 

Juliet nods and begins her introduction.

 

After an hour of talking, questions, and laughs, they finally reach the last question.

 

"Okay! Last question: what is something you can't imagine yourself living without?"

 

Juliet pauses.

 

"My family," she blurts out without thinking. Her adoring grandma and irresistible little brother were the only family she had left;she had to look out for them no matter what.

 

"Okay, that should be it! Thank you for coming in today! Do you have any questions for us?" he asks.

 

But Juliet's mind drifts. The words he was speaking faded into muffled echoes as a dream from the night before crept into her consciousness. Her heart begins to pound, loud and uncontrolled.

 

"Umm...Miss Hartford, are you alright?"

 

"No—I mean, yes. Thank you for this opportunity! I'm looking forward to hearing from you!" she says as she makes her way out.

 

As she walks back, she reminds herself that it was just a dream,

 

"Breathe in," she tells herself as she takes a slow regulated breath. "...and out." She exhales quickly. Slowly but surely, her pale skin regains its colour.

 

That same evening, she receives an email from the company, but waits to open it with her family.

 

"Grandma! Come and bring the popcorn with you!" her little brother Jason calls out.

 

"I'm coming, my darlings!" she replies.

 

Juliet can’t wait any longer. She desperately needs this job, and now is the moment when she gets her answer.

 

"Okay, I'm here. Remember, honey, whatever happens, don't forget your worth," Grandma gently assures.

 

Juliet gives her a soft smile as she opens the life-changing email. 

 

"Dear Juliet Hartford, we hope this news reaches you in good spirits. We are delighted to inform you that after careful consideration, you have been ACCEPTED FOR A POSITION AT OUR COMPANY!!!" she announces, gradually rising in excitement.

 

"Oh, we're so proud of you honey!" Grandma whispers in Juliet’s ear, wrapping her in a tight embrace.

 

Meanwhile, Jason jumps around gleefully. "Guess who is finally getting the new video game? ME, ME, ME!"

 

Juliet's full smile drops as she continues reading the email to herself this time. "We hope you forgive us for our amateurism, but we feel it is time we clearly explain our company's purpose to you. We are secret associates of the police. Our mission is to steal back stolen goods from high-profile criminals and hand them back to the police. We have a new mission. We believe you would be the perfect person to lead it. If you accept, please come back to our office tomorrow at the same time for further explanation."

 

Her face washes out. It was too late to decline the offer. It has been ages since she last saw her little brother this happy. She decided to stay quiet. “Tonight, we celebrate,” she thinks.

 

The next day, she arrives at her new office when her interviewer explains everything about the mission.

 

After months of intense training, she was finally ready. Her mission? To infiltrate an abandoned factory and retrieve a priceless stolen necklace.

She was warned that  spy companies were also after it. She needed to be careful.

 

Finally, she arrives at the faraway abandoned factory. The sun hid from this part of town, away from all the rowdy crowds. Wind howls, merciless to the innocent trees hiding the surrounding area, keeping it hidden. Some may say it's detangling the trees' leaves, but Juliet believes it's penalizing the trees for  hiding such a revolutionary place.

 

Miles away, on a dark deserted highway, two little silhouettes are seen on opposite sides of the forest, walking away from a white van and into the forbidden forest, fully armed and ready for action. Both reach the factory simultaneously but enter from opposite sides. 

After making significant progress towards the necklace, she takes a glimpse at the room and finds various generously fleshed guards. She suddenly bumps into someone as she sits down. Instinctively, she reaches for her gun and points it at the figure.

 

"Woah there, relax. I don't work for this messed up company. They told me you'd be here. I'm Nick, I work for a different company. They hired me to get the necklace."

 

Juliet slowly lowers her weapon as her eyes narrowed.

 

"I'm Juliet. And listen, I’m here for the necklace. Once I have it, I’m gone. Got it? So if I were you, I’d leave while I still can."

 

Ignoring her threat, Nick said, "Okay, so… security here is insane.” Glancing towards the guards, he thinks. “We should work together to get the necklace. Then figure out the rest.”

 

"Hahaha, no, no way. I'm not teaming up with you! You're the enemy, I cannot be working with you!"

 

Nick sighs, rubbing his temples.

 

"Listen here, little miss ‘I-know-everything’ you have no other choice. We both know that if we leave this place empty-handed or get caught, we are dead! So, the smarter thing to do is to work together to get it and then act as if one of us got held hostage or something. I’ll tell you what—if you end up being the kidnapped one, I’ll make sure you ‘escape.’” He adds a wink.

 

Juliet stares at him intensely, then finally rolls her eyes "Okay, fine."

 

"Wow! That was way easier than I thought it would be!" he says, genuinely surprised.

 

"Yeah, well… let's just say I need the money."

 

Let the games begin.

angels

When the Angels Eavesdrop
BY CHASE AARON AGUDO

                “And Levin, when he proposed, went up straightaway out of the water: and, lo, the heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the face of Kitty shining like a dove, and lighting upon her: and, lo, a voice from Stiva, saying, this is my beloved friend, with whom I am well pleased!” bellowed Stepan Arkadyich, marching into the church nave holding a bottle of vodka in his left hand and two crystal shot glasses in his right.¹

                “Be quiet!” Levin hissed, aghast at his friend’s apparent sacrilege. “Can’t you see that we’re in a church? Deacon Khristianin will kill you—no, he’ll kill both of us!”

                Evening had fallen upon Moscow on the day before the wedding of Konstantine Levin and Katerina Shtcherbatsky. For an hour, Levin paced back and forth in the chancel after his turbulent confession to the deacon, hoping the church’s sanctity could help reconcile the spiritual disconnect between his doubt and his salvation; this contemplation, of course, was ruined by Stepan Arkadyich. 

                “Good!” the intruder grinned. “He’ll go to hell, and we’ll be in heaven, drunk!” 

                Irritated and amused by Oblonsky’s flippancy, Levin walked towards the front pew and sat down while his friend’s footsteps grew louder with every step. Just before handing Levin a filled glass, Stepan Arkadyich looked at him with a rueful smile, then shook his head and chuckled. 

                “Kitty is a fantastic woman, and extraordinarily lucky to have you, but, oh, what a terrible loss! Love is the best and worst thing to happen to a man, I believe. Matrimony has an awful habit of keeping a man tethered to a woman… especially with so many other—oh, forget it.” 

                “No, no,” Levin admonished, raising an eyebrow. “Oblonsky, finish that sentence.”

                “Patience, s’il te plaît,” said Stepan Arkadyich as he lowered to clink his glass against Levin’s. “Queens may be subordinate to kings, but they are often the reason why kingdoms fall.” 

                “Really, Stiva? Sometimes, I don't understand anything that comes out of your mouth.” 

                “Then reason with me! Underneath that moralistic manner of yours, I suspect, is life itself. Vigor, vivacity, virility—these gifts remain in men much longer than women! Why should we be stuck? Xenophon, the great philosopher and thinker, once said: ‘He who marries a beautiful woman in hopes of being happy with her knows not but that even she herself may be the cause of all his uneasiness.’ You should learn from him, Levin! Zealous commitment to one’s wife isn’t exactly a virtue, and besides, it wouldn’t hurt to have another woman on the side, you know…”

                All of a sudden, Levin forgot the name of the man standing in front of him. Bringing his hand to his mouth, the strange figure pressed his lips against his drinking glass, tilted his head upwards, and winced as he swallowed a transparent liquid. Cold sunlight from the setting sun beamed through the stained glass windows and reflected off the man’s cup; looking down, Levin saw his fingers wrapped around an identical container with the same sharp-smelling fluid. 

                Dropping his drink, Levin stood up to look at the man eye-to-eye. Everything Stepan Arkadyich had ever said relating to love and marriage should never be taken seriously, Levin knew, but these particular words cut him like the scornful pain one feels from tearing open a neglected wound. Given that the two men had known each other for years, Levin had chosen to ignore the cavernous distance separating him from Oblonsky, which grew with every single one of his acquiescences to his friend’s dalliances; now, everything about Stepan Arkadyich—his contentedly full belly, his careless demeanor, his careening affairs—became morally repulsive. 

                “How could you possibly say such a thing? I love that woman, damn it, Stiva, I love her! Just because you seem to enjoy mocking your own wife by running off with other women doesn’t mean I plan to do the same. Killing the life out of anything even remotely pure or meaningful, Stiva—that’s all you ever do!”

                Levin did not know that his mouth could ever pour out such anger. Mentioning Dolly would certainly inflame Stepan Arkadyich, but the words had already echoed throughout the nave, and it was too late to pull them back now. Nevertheless, Levin felt an inexplicable satisfaction from having said something so authentic, and he looked into the dark eyes of Oblonsky with newfound indignance.

                Opening his mouth to speak, Stepan Arkadyich was bewildered to find himself caught between surprise and guilt as he stared at Konstantine Levin. 

                “Pass the vodka,” Oblonsky croaked. “Quickly, before I become sober again.” 

                Reaching for the bottle was easy enough; Levin had more difficulty grasping that which was swirling around the mind of Stepan Arkadyich. So tense had the church become that it almost seemed to silence itself, as if the angels depicted on the stained glass windows were straining their ears to listen to the men’s conversation.

                “There was a time,” Stepan Arkadyich said as he swallowed his fourth serving of vodka, “when I thought you would never find a wife. Unless you learned to loosen up and stop caring so much about your damned morality, you could never be happy. Vronsky should have been the last straw—I could have sworn you wouldn’t have anything left! When you proposed to Kitty for the second time, however, I knew I was disastrously, monstrously wrong…” finished Oblonsky, and, as he began to choke on his tears, he realized that it was he who had been wrong about marriage, it was he who had been fooling himself, and it was he who had destroyed his relationship with Dolly. Xeric was the reserve from which Stepan Arkadyich sourced his love, and for the first time in his life, he shared a glimpse at the vast expanse of emotion held by the man less than a day away from being married. 

                “You’re a much better man than I am, Levin,” Stepan Arkadyich continued. “Zero times have I ever been truly attached to any one woman, did you know that? Anytime I look at Dolly, I don’t feel anything more than an expedient fondness. Berate me all you want; it won’t change the truth.”

                “Can’t you see all the harm you’ve caused for Dolly or your children? Don’t you feel any guilt?” questioned Levin as he sat back down.

                “Every day! Forget wanting to feel guilty, Levin, I can’t feel guilty! God has cursed me with indifference, don’t you understand? How does one breathe underwater? It’s impossible! Jealousy never hurt me because I’ve never loved anyone deeply enough to feel envious at all!” 

                Konstantine Levin was bewildered to find himself caught between surprise and guilt as he stared at Stepan Arkadyich. Love, in its unrelenting and almost cruel demands, had broken Levin down to his most rudimentary parts and left him with almost nothing; but as the wave crashes upon the stone to form the smoothest of surfaces, so had the weathering from Levin’s pain sculpted his soul to set free an unbreakable sense of self with which he could love untainted, uncompromised, and unmoved. Men like Stepan Arkadyich had chosen the most indulgent foundation upon which to base their love, squandering any chance of gaining familiarity with their deepest and truest selves because they had never been given, nor expressed, genuine affection; after all, could one blame the plant deprived of sunlight for reaching out in every direction to search for that which it could not recognize? No, Levin concluded, for he had cradled his solitude until it became a tonic from which to drink; Oblonsky had never known such sustenance.

                Offering the bottle back to his friend, one of the men became aware of a strangely warm sensation traveling down both sides of his face. Prince Stepan Arkadyich raised the cup to his lips and caught a taste of his salty tears before they disappeared into the vodka. Quiet, cold gusts of wind blew into the nave from the outside and aided in drying the last tears on his cheeks. Rising from the pew, Levin saw that his friend was shuddering. Shifting the bottle from his left hand to his right, he took the depleted cup from Stepan Arkadyich, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and began walking towards the door. 

                The moon had long begun its ascent into the sky when the two men emerged from the church gates. Under the silent stars, they walked without speaking; one was heavy with drink, the other was heavy with solemn sympathy. Vodka had the uncanny ability to dull one’s pain, Levin reflected, but as he bore the weight of a drunken, semiconscious Oblonsky on his arm, he knew it could just as easily become one’s prison.

                “When the priest tells you to kiss the bride, remember to close your eyes,” Stepan Arkadyich suddenly said, and as Konstantine Levin failed to keep the corners of his mouth from rising, both men threw their heads up in a cathartic mixture of laughter, relief, and understanding.

¹ A play on Matthew 3:16-17 (KJV).

fracture

FRACTURES of the LEXICON

Continuous Works

The Key to the Lost World
BY BERNIE E. INCE

PART ONE

Aurelia 

~*~ 

My cheeks were aflame with mortification as I slowly stood and gathered my belongings. God, I couldn’t believe it. My first day and I was late. 

                I’d been in my shared, on-campus four-bedroom apartment for less than a week, and yet I’d still managed to map out the entirety of my university’s campus. But despite everything I’d done to ensure otherwise, I had still been late. 

                Stupid freaking alarms. 

                Filing out of the row of seats in the amphitheater of a classroom, I followed my new classmates out, keeping my head ducked low to avoid the gazes of the people I passed. Damnit. I didn’t even know why I was so worried about what they all thought anyway – it’s not like I was going to be sticking around or anything. Because as much as having a degree majoring in English sounded awesome and like my life finally had some meaning, it wasn’t what I was really here for. 

                No. Not even close. 

                Oxford University prided itself on being the first university to open in England. It had a ‘rich history’ as my tour guide had said when she’d shown the new residential students around the place. It had supposedly been founded in the year 1096, and blah, blah, blah… God that woman hadn’t known a damn thing about the place she was supposed to be guiding people around. 

                No. The ‘history’ she’d been raving so much about was fake – a complete and utter fabrication that’d been written and designed by humans to cover up the bastardly truth of such a ‘prestigious’ institution. Just like with most things that’d been tainted by the human race. 

                Because, unlike that tour guide, I knew that Oxford had existed for far, far longer than the nine hundred and twenty-nine years most people thought it had. As did my father – or at least, according to his journal he had. 

                I would never know for certain since he sure as hell hadn’t told me shit before he died. “Ahem.” 

                My thoughts were rather rudely interrupted by a pair of beaten-up looking black boots that entered into my line of sight – well, that and the throat that someone had cleared pointedly, too. Startled, I yanked my downcast gaze up from where I’d been staring purposefully at the floor. Only to meet a pair of eyes so dark and…lifeless that I had to stop myself from physically recoiling. 

                A shudder worked its way up my spine as I forced myself to stay put. 

                God. There was just…something about those eyes. I just couldn’t quite put my finger on what, though. 

                Tearing my gaze away from those eyes, I sucked in a sharp breath as I took in the face they belonged to. ‘Beautiful’ didn’t even begin to describe the man that stared back at me. His hair was ebony black – the colour almost matching that of his eyes – and was cropped close to the sides of his head but left curly on top to form a bit of an oddly well styled mop. His pale skin was somewhat golden, radiating a bright and healthy glow. The lines of his face were a conflicting mix of pointed, defined and soft – and yet, they all seemed to just fit. Somehow. He blinked rapidly – once, twice, thrice – shaking his head as if to clear it. Then those eyes caught and held mine in their alluring stare.

                The stranger opened his mouth, as if he were about to say something, but someone else beat him to it. “Kayde? What’re you doing…?” The newcomer’s words died off as a pair of vibrant, pale blue eyes met mine – or as much as they could at least since I sure as hell wasn’t looking away from the first ones. “Oh.” 

                The rest of the world continued around us, people shoving past to get out of the classroom. But the three of us just stood there, motionless, as unmovable as boulders in a raging stream. 

                Shaking his head, the one with dark eyes stepped forward, sticking out his hand as he appeared to fix an open and approachable smile on his face. It was almost like he was one of the professional politicians that were often shown on television. “Hi–” 

                Before he could say another word, though, I stepped back, as if doing so would somehow spare me from any possible form of attachment. 

                Psht. I could almost laugh at the absolute bullshit my own mind had sprouted in that moment. But I didn’t. Instead, I just edged to the side before ducking around the two insanely handsome men. 

                Maybe if I just kept my head down and focused on getting out of there, I could just shrug off the entire incident like it’d never happened… 

                But even as I thought about it, I heard the telltale sound of pounding footfalls coming up behind me. Well, there goes that plan. 

                A second later, I felt a large, warm hand land on my shoulder, halting my escape from this classroom that was turning out to be more of a cage than a place of learning. “Hey, wait.” The male with the dark eyes – Kayde, or something – panted slightly. 

                Tensing, I prepared to throw him off me as he started to turn me in place. And yet, despite my better judgement, I couldn’t quite move to do it when I looked up and met those strange eyes. 

                Shit. What the hell was wrong with me?

                Absolutely everything, and yet nothing all at once. If that was even possible. Guess it is now. 

                My heart pretty much stalled as he offered me a half grin. “You forgot this,” he said, holding out one of my black pens. Damnit, I must have dropped it in my haste to get away from him and his friend. 

                Breathing out a small sigh of something that I was almost ashamed to call relief; I took the pen from his outstretched hand while mumbling a quick “Thanks”. Turning, I didn’t dare look back over my shoulder at the man – or his friend hovering a step behind him – before moving to leave again. 

                “I’m Kayden by the way,” he called out after me. “And this is Jay,” he added a moment later and I didn’t even have to look to know that he’d undoubtedly just gestured half-heartedly to his tall, if quiet friend. 

                I knew that I shouldn’t; forming any connections in my short time here would just lead to heartbreak down the road. And yet, despite that, I still found myself stowing those little tidbits of information away. 

                I was here for a purpose: find and retrieve the dragon egg. I needed to remember that.

                But…Kayden… 

                Crap. I was in so much goddamn trouble.

Kayden 

~*~ 

God, what the hell was I doing?

                It had been a week since I’d first laid eyes on that girl – Aurelia Everhart, if our professor was to be believed. And yet, it didn’t matter where I went or who I was with, she just seemed to…linger in the back of my mind. 

                It’d definitely made starting classes in this human prison of a school hard – harder than it should’ve been.

                “What’re you thinking about?” 

                I almost jumped as Jay slipped into our shared dorm room. When I glanced up, his ebony skin showed the small signs of sweat that often showed up after a run. At least one of us was still maintaining our fitness regime. 

                I was meant to as well. Especially considering the fact that we weren’t meant to use our supernatural abilities such as strength, speed and endurance unless it was a last resort. Which meant stupid human strength, being slow as hell, and having the endurance of a weakling. After all, we weren’t exactly just two regular humans attending the institution they now called Oxford. No, we were here for one reason and one reason only: to protect the last surviving dragon egg - mainly from human greed and idiocy. An infinitely rare and precious thing that, for some reason, my ancestors had decided to leave here of all places. 

                And yet, nothing seemed to matter except for Aurelia. There was just something about her…

                “Kayden?” 

                Whipping my head up, my heart sped into a pounding gait. “Huh?” 

                Shaking his head in what could only be exasperation, Jay wandered over to the trunk at the end of his little cot of a bed. “I said, ‘What’re you thinking about?’” 

                Silence stretched out between us – as strained as it’d ever been. 

                We’d been close since the day we were born. Our mothers had grown up knowing each other and they’d made damn sure that we’d known each other too. We’d been as thick as thieves despite our supposedly different ‘social classes’. I was raised to be a prince of the world the humans had attempted to wipe off the face of the earth all those centuries ago. But Jay had been raised for this – to rotate in and out of Oxford all to protect the egg. 

                Two completely different lives; yet, here we both were. Together, living the life that I’d always wanted and the one that Jay had been destined for as all malakhim were – though they were more commonly known to humans as angels. 

                But something was different. This girl… I couldn’t get her out of my head. Her beautiful long wine-red hair and hazel-coloured eyes haunted my every move. Constantly lingering despite how much I wished otherwise over the past five weeks.

                “It’s her, isn’t it? You’re thinking about that girl.” Jay perched on the edge of his perfectly made bed, scanning me from head to toe. Whatever he saw caused him to turn his head away, his mouth tightening at the corners. “You know what Queen Rayna will do. A human doesn’t belong in our world, Kayde. It’s only going to do more harm than good, and you know it.” 

                Shaking my head, I sprang to my feet from where I’d been sitting on our shared floor surrounded by my textbooks. “It’s not that…” My words died off as I took in Jay’s sceptical look. “Okay, it is that. But there’s more,” I semi-lied. “There’s just something about her… She’s got a reason for being here – and it’s not to get a degree,” I added before the smartass could make some sarcastic comment. “I don’t know how I know it. I just…do.” 

                Sighing, I wandered over to lean against the wall across from him, resting my head against the plaster. “Does that make any sense?” 

                Snorting, my oldest friend leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. “I think you might’ve hit your head one too many times.” 

                “And I think you know that I’m right,” I bit back through clenched teeth.

                Rolling his eyes, Jay sat back, balancing his weight on his hands. “Even if that is the case, what do you think she’s here for then?” 

                Leveling a bland glare on him, I replied in a deadpan voice, “What are we here for?” 

                “The egg? Really?” Shaking his head again, Jay jumped up from where he’d been sitting. “But we ensured that humans would never know about the egg’s existence…” 

                “You and I both know that those wards aren’t foolproof. That’s why we’re here after all.” 

                “That’s why I’m here, you mean. You’re meant to be back home studying to become the next king of the Lost World.” He shook his head for a third time, like he was attempting to dismiss me despite the almost laughable fact that it was literally illegal for him to do so. But I could see it, that seedling of doubt. That little voice of reason inside his head that actually saw the merit behind my words.

                “I’m not saying we should report it or anything…I’m just proposing a…stakeout. Just to be safe.” I shrugged, watching him start to pace the space of what little area remained free of the crap on our cluttered floor. 

                “And when exactly do you propose we do this, oh wise one?” My friend’s tone was dry, sarcastic as he continued wearing a path in our floor – though his footsteps were noticeably more calmer now than they’d been moments ago. But it was the question itself that told me all that I really wanted to know; I’d won. 

                “Tonight. It’s a full moon tonight. I don’t think she’s going to drag it out if she doesn’t have to.” 

                Raising a brow, Jay opened his mouth as if to say something before snapping it closed and looking away. Almost as if he’d thought better of it. Which was…odd, to to say the least. “What?” I couldn’t help but ask.

                “Nothing. You just…for a second, you reminded me of…him.” 

                “Oh.” Understanding and sorrow swept through me as I comprehended what he was saying – and all that he wasn’t. His father. The man who’d practically raised me, too – even if it may have been against his better judgement. Pushing off from against the wall, I quickly crossed the distance between us before resting my hands on his shoulders, waiting for him to look up and meet my gaze before saying, “Let’s make him proud.” 

                “Yeah…” 

                It’d been five years since we’d lost Rydon – Jay’s father – in an incident with some humans on the border of our lands. And yet, we all still felt his loss as keenly as if it had just happened last week – Jay especially. 

                Knowing that there was no other way to truly get rid of the soul-deep pain in my best friend’s eyes, I decided a change of subject was in our best interests. “Hey,” I said, nudging him playfully. “Ten gold marks says I’m right about Aurelia.” 

                Snorting out a choked laugh, Jay nudged me back. I couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when I saw the light return to his eyes, humour dancing in those pale blue depths. “You’re on.”

Aurelia 

~*~ 

The bound leather cover of my father’s journal was worn, the protective material showing signs of not only age, but also the well caring love I’d seen him show the book. I knew the pages inside were yellowing and worn, yet the ink was still as clear as the day it’d been used to scribble the words onto the page in my father’s familiar scrawl.

                Even just looking at it now, I felt that empty, broken piece of an abyss inside of me ache in that horribly familiar way I’d grown all too accustomed to over the past few months. 

                Tracing shaky fingers over the emblem that’d been stamped onto the cover – a circle with the viking-like symbol of a dragon on it – I sucked in a deep breath before finally opening the book. The pages were sleek and smooth, the mostly black ink long since dried. I ran my fingers over the first page before flicking through to the page I’d marked the last time I’d had the guts to search through the contents of the mostly fictional sounding journal. The contents of which held his ‘research’, as he’d once claimed when I’d asked years ago. 

                Little did I know what that ‘research’ truly entailed.

                But even as I scoured through the familiar pages, it wasn’t the contents of the journal, the plan I’d finally enact tonight or even the man who’d written it that my mind wandered towards. No. It was something else entirely.

                Kayden. 

The man – his name, face, voice, anything about him, really – just…lingered. When I was awake, in my sleep. Everywhere. He was just…there. It wasn’t simply weird. It was annoying and distracting. 

                Despite only sharing one class together, he was still always there. In the halls, at the shops, in the library… It was like he was a reaper or something ridiculous like that. Tasked with haunting me for the rest of my days.

                A knock on my room’s door tugged me out of my spiraling thoughts.

                Glancing up, I turned to face the dark wood of my door, snapping the notebook in my hands shut before calling out loud enough for the person on the other side to hear, “Come in.”

                A second later, the door swung open with a small squeak, revealing one of my roommates’ faces. 

                Maybel’s collarbone length honey coloured hair had been pulled away from her freckled face into a half up, half down hairstyle, making her pale skin and defined features stand out more than usual. In the six weeks that had passed since move-in day, Maybel had become the person I was closest to out of everyone here – definitely out of my roommates, at least. 

                Despite that, however, she was also one of the last people I ever wanted to see knocking on my door when it was originally shut. Whenever she did, it was either because something bad had happened, or because she was determined to see if I’d join her in going to a party – something that I’d shot down every single time without fail. And judging by the fact that it was now dark outside and the skimpy but not too revealing black dress she was wearing, I was betting heavily on it being the latter. 

                Ugh. Great.

                Something about my face must’ve given away my thoughts because it took all of a second for Maybel to put on the big puppy dog eyes that I’d become all too accustomed to – it was an art that she’d truly mastered in her nineteen years of life. Her soft brown eyes were pleading as she cut in before I could utter a single word, “I know what you’re about to say-”

                “Do you? Do you really?”

                “-but I really think that you should come. Just this once. Give it a try. It’ll be worth it, I promise”

                I’d already started shaking my head by the time she’d finished speaking. We’d had this discussion once or twice every single weekend since moving in together. And despite her being the only person I thought I’d actually miss from this place once I was gone, my answer was still the same as every time she’d asked me before. “No.”

                “Please, Aura,” she begged, dragging the words out into a big, long, hideous whine. “Pretty please with sugar on top? I genuinely think you’ll have fun.”

                Fat chance of that happening. “I’m sorry, May. But I’m going to sit this one out.”

                Crossing her arms in a way that I knew meant she was in no way ready to give up yet – a look I’d become a bit too used to – she leaned back on the balls of her feet and narrowed her eyes at me. “What? Like the last eleven times I’ve asked? No. I’m not taking no for an answer this time. Get dressed. You’re going.”

                Shit. Had I really said no eleven times already? I couldn’t help but wince as I understood why the only person in the world who I could really consider a ‘friend’ was being so insistent. 

                Maybe…maybe I could go…just this once.

                She didn’t know that come tomorrow, I’d be gone. That once I had the egg of the last dragon, I’d disappear and it’d be almost like I’d never existed in the first place. 

                And, despite telling myself that I’d leave without forming any attachments whatsoever when I came here, I knew that I’d miss her once I was gone – even though she was probably one of the most incessantly annoying people I’d ever met in some regards.

                So, making a quick plan in my head, I made up my mind. Before I could talk myself out of it, I took a deep breath before finally muttering a resigned, “Fine,” and sealing my fate for the night.

                With an overly excited, high pitched squeal, my roommate launched towards me, her arms outstretched as she yanked me up from where I’d been seated cross-legged on the soft, plush rug on my floor. 

                But even as Maybel bustled around, helping me get ready for the night, there was only one thought going through my mind.What had I gotten myself into?

~*~

Those six words that had been on repeat in my mind earlier in the evening when Maybel had dressed me up like a barbie doll were now practically an echoing beat to my heart. Seriously: what the actual hell had I gotten myself into.

                It’d taken the other girl all of an hour to finish playing dress up with me. An hour for her to straighten my hair, do my makeup in what she called a “smokey eye” style, and to flick through my wardrobe and declare all of my clothes too inferior to wear to a party and shove an emerald green dress from her own collection into my hands before demanding I put it on. 

                Why did I agree to this again?

                Because I had a stupidly guilty conscience, that’s why.

                Ugh.

                And now, here I was, all dressed up in a skimpy green dress, with makeup on and my naturally loosely curled hair straightened, only to be standing as far removed from the party as physically possible while still being close enough to be considered in attendance. 

                This was so not my scene. I should’ve known it the second Maybel had gone through my wardrobe like a predator after its prey. Should’ve known it when I’d suggested wearing the only ‘nice’ outfit I had and she’d practically turned her nose up at it. 

                God. Since when was a girl wearing pants to a party considered inappropriate? This wasn’t the nineteenth century for crying out loud. It was twenty-twenty-five. A modern era where, yes, girls now wore skimpy as all hell dresses, but it was now actually considered appropriate to be wearing pants instead.

                Between the clothes, makeup, hair, loud music and swarming mass of people, I was just about ready to leave. I didn’t mind the black heels Maybel had insisted I’d wear, but everything else? They had me regretting every single life choice that’d led me here, to this moment.

                But even worse? I seemed to be the only one not flitting around like a social butterfly. Knowing anyone and everyone whilst fitting in everywhere. And the queen of it all had to be Maybel. If I hadn’t known that she really lived with me, I would’ve thought she owned the entire damn place. 

                And yet, something about it all just made me feel infinitely lonely. Like I didn’t belong.

                Which, truthfully, I didn’t. But for some reason, I found my heart aching with a hollow, pulsing emptiness that I hadn’t felt in years, yet one that I was all too familiar with. Loneliness.

                It’d only been me and my dad growing up. My mum had died before I could remember in a vicious car accident – at least according to my father. He hadn’t exactly liked talking about her. But that meant it’d just been me and him, the two of us against the world.

                Quite literally apparently considering his notes on Oxford, the dragon egg and the Lost World. You control the dragon egg, then you control the Lost World. You control the Lost World, then the humans will be a piece of cake. 

                Whilst they’d managed to drive out those with magic in their veins during the war, things were different now. Knowledge of the world that’d been hidden right under our feet had become extremely limited, with only a few people knowing because they’d been told. Which meant that those with magic had the advantage of surprise.

                But that wasn’t why I wanted the egg. Not even close.

                No. I wanted it to get away from here. To get away from this godforsaken plane of existence.

                According to my father’s notes, the dragons had been hunted into extinction because they had the unique ability to summon the Erebyss. I hadn’t found a reference of it anywhere in any human texts that I’d searched. But from what I understood, the Erebyss was like a tear between the space-time curriculum that very few beings could open. And dragons just happened to be the most accessible of those beings once upon a time.

                The night drifted on as I tried to stay as removed from the party as possible, all while thinking over my plan. 

                Perhaps it was actually kind of perfect that Maybel had dragged me here tonight of all nights. Tonight was a full moon – something that would make finding and securing the egg in the underground chamber beneath the library I’d found in the time I’d spent scouting out the gazillion libraries it could’ve possibly been. In the end, it’d been almost exactly where the journal had claimed. Still though, who knew that a single educational institute needed so many libraries? 

                Just when I was contemplating leaving, the semi-peace that I’d managed to maintain throughout most of this cursed outing came under threat. The queen of the party, Maybel, was headed my way. And with her came the giant group of people that’d flocked her the entire night. All of whom were now headed straight towards me. 

                Letting out a long suffering sigh, I glanced down at the drink clutched tightly in my hand. I did my best to relax – hopefully saving the plastic cup from feeling too much of my wrath. Shaking my head at my antics, I could only loosen my muscles so much as I felt my body locking up. 

                I’d known that escaping the social and the mingling aspects of a party was going to be possible. Especially if Maybel had anything to say about it. But did she really have to force me to mingle in what was genuinely starting to look like a giant swarm?

                Before I could even think about ducking away, though, the first of the mass reached me. The closest of whom just had to be the arrogant ass known as Tyler. 

                A shudder worked its way up my spine, but it was too late to hide from sight. Especially as what had to be the campus’s number one bully turned his beady dark brown eyes on me. 

                “Aurelia, right?” he asked, almost like he was trying to be…pleasant. But if anything, it just made my skin crawl.

                It wasn’t that he was necessarily unpleasant looking or that the small sneer of a smile he was directing my way truly meant anything to me. It was the fact that he was trying to act somewhat decent despite the fact that I’d already seen through his cobweb of a facade, straight to the bully inside. That, and the fact that I knew damn well that he already knew my name.

                Luckily, I was saved from having to scrounge up a polite response by Maybel cutting in. “Leave her alone, Tyler. She doesn’t need you hounding her all night.” 

                With a snort, someone else in the crowd called out, “No one does.”

                Turning uncomfortable yet gratitude filled eyes to my roommate, I finally summoned the courage to do the one thing that I’d been wanting to do since the moment we’d arrived. “I think I’m going to turn in early. Are you alright to get yourself back to the apartment?”

                I couldn’t help but cringe inwardly when my friend’s beautiful face fell slightly, all but preparing for her to argue for me to stay again. But instead, a second later, she merely nodded before offering a small, if slightly dejected, smile. “Sleep well,” was all she said.

                Letting out a sigh of relief, I reached out to clasp Maybel’s hand and squeezed gently while offering a small, thankful smile. “Thank you.”

                And with that, I discarded my drink before shoving my way out of this hellscape of an event. It was only once I was back on the street again that I was able to take my first full breath for the night. 

                Glancing down the street to my left – the way that’d take me back to the room I’d secretly stripped bare before I’d left earlier – I couldn’t help but whisper a quiet but surprisingly heartfelt goodbye to the slice of a normal life I’d actually managed to build for myself while here. With a silent, burning tear rolling down my cheek, I looked up at the full moon once more before turning in the other direction and walking away. 

                Walking away from Maybel and the friends that I could have had. Away from my degree and the life that could’ve come with it. Away from the mysterious Kayden and his friend, Jay. 

                Away from it all. 

                Instead, I walked towards the bag I’d stowed away with my minuscule personal belongings. Towards the new life that awaited me.

~*~

It’d been easy to find the bag I’d hidden away, to change into the black clothes and boots and finally rid myself of the dress that’d surely haunt my nightmares in the years to come. Though I did tuck the heels Maybel had lent me into my bag instead of discarding them as I perhaps should have, unable to part with them for some ridiculous reason. 

                It had been barely any trouble to slip past the security guard and find the hidden entrance that would lead me into the system of underground chambers that existed beneath the school. Just as it took almost no effort to find the chamber I needed and grabbed the egg. 

                God. I was so ready for this night to be over.

                It was only when I’d just stepped out of the earthen, underground chamber, the large, warm black dragon egg in hand, that I stopped dead in my tracks.

                “Well, this is certainly an…interesting surprise,” drawled a deep, painfully familiar, masculine voice from the shadows. 

                Shit. Jay. But why the hell was he down here? And if he was here, then where was Kayden? 

                As if on cue, a low, threatening growl rang out in the strained silence, causing my heart to jump into my throat. The sound was anything but human. 

                Pursing my lips in a vain attempt to disguise the reaction, I levelled a glare on the man leaning against the wall across from me. Jay’s dark clothing and black boots blended well in the shadows, though I could still see him – barely. In the thin shafts of moonlight filtering in through the ceiling, I could clearly make out the anger that was plainly written on every line of his features – the set of his mouth, the way his brows furrowed as he glared at me from between narrowed eyes… It all practically screamed rage. 

                Then I glanced down at where Jay had his feet crossed, one over the other. But that’s not what took my attention. No. It was the giant wolf with pitch black fur and dark, flat, almost dead eyes. 

                A pair of eyes that I’d know anywhere. And yet, there was still no fathoming what I was seeing before my very eyes despite logically knowing it could be true. Kayden. 

                A shiver tiptoed down my spine as those strange eyes met and held mine. Retreating step by step, I slowly backed away, tightening my grip on the egg as I went. Perhaps if I just kept slowly backing away then maybe I could put enough distance between the guys and myself for me to escape… 

                As if they’ll ever let me get that far before stopping me. 

                Taking another step back, I jolted as my back met something unexpectedly warm and hard. Not like the stone wall type hard, more like…flesh covering packed muscles. It wasn’t until a pair of rough, calloused hands landed on my arms that I truly comprehend what was happening. 

                Oh shit. 

                Face draining of colour, Jay practically leapt off the wall as he scrambled to stand at attention with his feet braced shoulder width apart, shoulders back and hands tucked behind them. But it was the wolf’s wide eyes and slightly agape maw that truly had my heart leaping into my throat. 

                Never before had I seen those dark depths so alight with anything – so…alive. Especially not with the concern, and perhaps even a dash of fear, that I saw churning there. Goddamnit. I was about to die, wasn’t I? 

                “Well, this is certainly…interesting.” I could practically hear the disdain dripping from the melodic, feminine that came from somewhere behind me as she repeated a slightly different version of Jay’s earlier words. The distinct sound of heels clacking against stone echoed around the enclosed chamber before the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on stepped into view. 

                She had curled, luxurious blonde hair that looked for all the world like it could be spun gold. Even from this awkward angle, I could see the woman’s eyes were dark and flat – and familiar, even though I could’ve sworn I’d never seen her before in my life. Her olive skin seemed to glow with health, even in the musty stone chamber we were in. She could’ve only been a few years older than me at most. Everything about her screamed youth – all except for the inexplicably ancient light that seemed to dance in those strangely dark, ominous depths. 

                I could’ve stared at her for hours. She was breathtaking in an endlessly composed and dignified way. 

                Or I would have, had she not turned and fixed her attention solely on the wolf who was now standing as still as a statue – so still that I could hardly tell if he still breathed or not. “Nikolai Leonardo Jasiah Kayden Christopher Valentino, start talking. Now.” 

                Slumping slightly in what I could only describe as resignation, a blinding flash of light filled the chamber, right where the wolf had been standing. Stumbling a step back, I bumped into that rock hard chest again as I attempted to shield my eyes from the sudden bright light. 

                Blinking stars out of my vision, by the time I managed to look again, the wolf was gone. And in its place, Kayden crouched, staring at the floor like it held the answers to life before finally saying in a mumbled yet oh-so-clear voice, “What are you doing here, mother?”

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