Elysium: April-June 2025 | The Glass Lotus Soci

INTRODUCTION

A Letter from the Editor in Chief

Dear All,

Having just completed freshman year, I walked through the city in July of 2024 when the beginning of an idea crossed my mind. I didn’t quite shake it off, but I didn’t quite act on it either. The thought ended up in the graveyard for such ideas—my notes app.

It’s true, The Glass Lotus Society began as a small notion. After some not-too-careful consideration, I wrote the idea down somewhere, as any good writer would do. “International publication.” It didn’t take long for me to return to the idea, however. Within a few days, I had long documents filled with platforms and plans for a publication that would outlast me. I drafted covers of potential issues, made logos, and even began working on a website. In less than a week, I had already contacted a few friends to gauge interest. But despite my vigorous planning, I still wasn’t sure. Could this actually work? I am proud to say that GLS really has come to life—and with such vitality! If only I knew then that just a few months later, twenty two members from all around the world would come together through zoom meetings and WhatsApp to create not only an impressive collection of writing but also a strong community. After making many phone calls, sending many text messages, and printing many posters, I was able to recruit friends and strangers alike, near and far. Some of these people I hadn’t talked to in months, others in years. Others I hadn’t talked to at all. Going into our first meeting, saying I felt “nervous” would be an understatement. But our members soon broke the ice. Students ranging from thirteen to eighteen years old formed connections regardless of their different schools, ages, countries, and continents. All of them were eager to share their writing with others—some submitted twice, if not three times, for our first issue alone. I thoroughly enjoyed reading through all of the different voices and writing styles our members had to offer, and I have no doubt that you will be similarly impressed.

Welcome to the first issue of The Glass Lotus Society. I would argue it is the best issue thus far, but seeing as it is our premier, what I will say instead is that it sets the bar very high. Sharing writing is paired with a measure of vulnerability, and therefore is one of the most effective, if not one of the best, ways to connect with others. Publishing your writing is both a question, an offer, and an invitation to the reader. Here, these are my thoughts. This is my story. Do you want to have a conversation? Meanwhile, reading is both an entirely individual and an entirely communal experience. The words are a means of introspection. You could be reading our publication on your couch with the sun rising or setting by your window, and a tea bag steeping in your nearby mug. Perhaps you know one of the writers, and are drafting a text message to tell them your thoughts on their poem. You read alone. But you read the same words alongside many others. The voice in your head is a vessel for the twenty two international voices that speak in their writing. You invite the speaker, the narrator, the characters, and the author to share their experiences with you, and so, our international web widens.

It isn’t enough for a variety of voices to be represented. These voices must also be heard by a variety of people. We aim to make our issues as accessible as possible to enable students from around the world to read the work of their peers. Each student has a unique identity, so every narrative is different. To capture them all is an impossible task. But with the publication of each new issue, our community grows stronger and larger, adding new sides to our narratives. Thus, we avoid the “Danger of a Single Story” that Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie warns against. In our first issue, we have narratives that span roughly 37,000 miles, from multiple states in America, then to Chile, Morocco, Scotland, India, and China, and all the way to Australia. This statistic doesn’t even take into account the origins and ancestry of our writers. The cultures mixed into our issues really does make our literary society a cliché—the “melting pot.” What better way to connect with our backgrounds than creative writing?

Once I successfully brought together the members for our 2024-2025 publishing year, I encountered my first riddle: the title of our issue. According to The Oxford English Dictionary, elysium means “a place or state of ideal or perfect happiness.” So why did I choose the word Elysium? I must admit, I have always been drawn to mythology and ancient histories. Could it have been because of the Elysian Fields that I had seen in my beloved Greek myths? Possibly. Was it because I was looking for words that contrasted the darkness and the cold that pervaded the winter of 2024? Or was it a response to something else? In a world that suffers, writing for a light-filled paradise—Elysium—serves as both a distraction and a rebellion of its own. I suppose Elysium is whatever the writers made of it, and whatever the reader makes of it. Elysium is not the theme of the issue, but rather, the byproduct of our mission. By joining global student voices through writing, we hope to get closer and closer to finding what the ideal world of the next generation is.

I am thrilled to publish our first issue, and I am so proud of all of our members for their dedication over the last few months. Thank you for reading our words and listening to our narratives. Allow yourself to be brought to different lands and time periods, allow yourself to feel familiar or foreign emotions that may not be comfortable, and most importantly, allow yourself to be inspired by every author. I hope you enjoy their hard work.

Sincerely,

Ella Taft

Editor in Chief

Founder of GLS

SHATTERED PETALS

Poetry

Equilibrium
BY ANONYMOUS

At the top of the tree were curly tufts that I was too short to reach.

He lifted me to sit on the sturdy branches to play with them for the time being. Long

ago he chopped off the legendary locks that I have never seen.

I tie my twists into a ponytail

by twisting them onto themselves,

he says he gave those to me. Another of his tall tales

overgrown to keep him company,

enclosing me in a forested maze.

In disbelief,

I sought the truth: how does his hair grow from my roots?

I gave him 15 minutes to shave his already shiny head.

Shoulder to shoulder, I creep behind him

to retrieve my silk bonnet from a bathroom bin.

The twists will be softened by a souffle, I try to imagine him doing the same.

I recall the long haired strongman story that stopped as a stump,

harder to believe, and incomplete because I fell asleep entranced by his verbosity.

You cheated on your chemistry exam,

no wonder you illustrate this principle’s answer key.

Barren branches and wilted willows line the forest, and though the raconteur is weary near

the end of the maze flowers bloom. I planted them how you taught me,

using my own seeds.

Let's play one more round of Scrabble

and I’ll show you, I’ll twist you into a trap with the vines of my triple word score.

My flowers germinate in open space, you wonder how you gave it to me. I visualize

your reaction to my poison ivy. Your skin itches in discomfort, it reddens both of our eyes.

At eye level, alas, your tall tales look so short; I look beyond that tree of life.

'tis autumn
BY CHASE AARON AGUDO

“my friend, you must not let this feeling last;

the world is never kind to those who weep,”

the wind would tell me as it tumbles past,

playing its flutes more softly as I sleep.

the rain tries, time and time and time again,

to remind me of the promise of sun,

showering droplets of hope before then,

kisses to cradle the many days to come.

but as leaves hum wistfully in my ear,

sweet autumn rests her head among the trees;

tonight, she strums the chords I seldom hear

and dances in patterns I have yet to see;

she whispers as I walk with falt’ring feet,

“carry on, the world hears your heartbeat."

Waiting at the Flag
BY ZOE COBB

We the People who stare at the flag

Who gaze at the star-spangled banner

We the people are no longer…

We the people are no longer

Justice is the end of government,

Justice is the end of us all

The end days of a time

The dawn of an era

We die

We suffocate

Wondering if patriotism was ever meant for us

This resilient beam of consistency

That gleams across every page

A flagrant ink splattered all across our country

Everywhere in our founding.

Patriotism.

Still, I wait by the Flag.

We the People of the United States

In order to form a more perfect union,

The goals of our constitution rotted

Stained with blood

Sitting here on the land we forged

What a union this is

Our country ‘tis of thee

The land of the free

From sea to sea

From the sea I see

The utter despondency.

Manifesting its destiny

The American Nightmare.

We wait at the flag

For something, anything.

As I stare at the thing I am meant to believe in,

As I stare at the flag and wait to see,

I wonder if the flag will ever truly be willing to see me.

A Fault of the Muses
BY LYRIA HUNTE

My grace is meant for those beloved;
is made of red and white and turpentine.
His kisses appear in hands stained, strained and calloused,
But his voice belongs to others as much as it does mine.
Things like this are shared but are not meant to fade,
And yet what I say fails to portray what I feel.
When I am in love with not subject but serenade,
Despite the letters, does that make me unreal?
When I stare at not yours, but cupid's bow,
Do I betray the creation I carefully cultivated?
It would seem wrong to make you and my art foe,
Yet in my search for muses I leave you deserted.
precious heart, in my hands, so delicate.
How cruel am I? Not to cherish

Vicious Coils
BY ANONYMOUS

Stolen glances.
Bounced curls.
Lingered smiles.
I painfully recall them all too well.
Deceiving me into thinking we had something.
Implying it when telling me you’ve been thinking about her all summer,

“but not this week though.”
And then it all stopped.
As if I were a one-week thing.
I had to get over it all like you were nothing
Like you meant nothing to me
Like you were not an experience
Like you were not a moment
Like you were not my temporary reason to not give up.
And now I have to trudge through life knowing that if I would have been more, for you, it would have never needed to end.
Now I’ll just have to revisit the pages of our books that would have been, should have been,

could have been written

coriander
BY ANONYMOUS

How can

You hate the sun

And love the light

At the same time

And how can your chest

Tighten with chains rattling against your ribs

Thrown into

A yellow sky

Of heat; then a tornado

That seizes your stomach

And pulls the tide in your blood like the moon and the sea

Where you drown

While it gives you breath

But you would give

Anything

To reach inside your cage

And carve out your own

And claw and scrape at the dark crevices

Where the light may hide

And you would cling

Gasping for air

Hanging to a vine above an abyss

Grasping– pressing– your thorns

Salt slipping down your palms

So you can rid yourself of yourself for yourself

And how can you not see

That the sun without light or

The veins pulsing, distraught in unseen darkness

Cannot exist

So would you give

Anything

And wrangle with your shadow

So it can die

And you can live

With the half hitch you are repelled by

As long as you do

Not repel others

To avoid one sickening convulsion

And be thrown

To the next

And how can that be

Both what boils

And the turmeric root

That entangles and keeps you close

Closer than ever before, to the warmth that fills the fragile hide

Your limbs twisting with a newfound skin

and foliage bouncing at your shoulders

As you

Try snipping the stem

That feeds your poison to your leaves

And wilting, you will be remembered

As well.

Photo credits: Ella Taft

Rome
BY CAROLINE POWERS

I didn't know that I loved God until the Basilica.

I loved lonely men for making a lonely God, and for building Him a house to sleep in.

I loved the modernity and the sterility of it all—it really was the house of God,

Not just something my mom says to make me take off my hat.

I loved the vastness of it, and the suffocating lack.

The emptiness,

The echo, and the perfect symmetry of each arch and dome.

GOD IS MATH

↳ GOD IS ART

↳ MATH IS ART

—shot through my synapses in a micro-instant. By the law of transitivity, I saw math truly,

as a lateral path radiating from my feet like

sphagnum

like a flower.

Math that runs like wiring on a circuit board

behind and beneath the world, appearing as wires that breach the surface

—the vessels supporting all life.

I had this epiphany with my hat in my hands, looking through a hole in the ceiling of

Saint Peter's, and I forgot God entirely.

To simplify: I didn't know that I loved math.

Eternal Knight
BY ANA GOYLE

I sit back into the soft, comforting embrace of the pickle green

Armchair.

Dada holds me and holds me –

My heart against his chest,

Whispering softly.

His honey voice soothes me from the darkness.

Covers me with an untouchable blanket.

In a boat on the sea together.

The smell of salt and crashing waves

Back and forth.

We rock.

Suddenly, he reaches over and pulls you out

I stare, mesmerized at your black and white squares

At your wooden carved surface, gleaming in the dark

Like a spotlight on a star on the stage

Your knights, kings, bishops, and queens

Enthralled me, as Dada carefully taught me

The Art of the World –

Your black and white squares face me

As I sit pondering my next move in the very same pickle green armchair,

Thousands of times I have now played against him.

But I have never won

Well-worn pathways branch like trees

But each one will lead to the same place,

The place I always dread.

I reluctantly move your knight to A2 and wait, quivering slightly

Like the hesitation before the hand draws the arrow

Knowing what is to come.

You know knights are always the most useful at the center of the board rings through my head.

Dada moves his knight and suddenly it is check mate.

I surrender and he comes to hug me.

The minty smell of his cologne. His neatly pressed shirt. His perked ears.

He is shielding me from the darkness once again.

I am back in Dada’s house.

But this time, not to hug him on the rocking sea.

This time, to clear out his stuff.

I fall into teardrops.

Crumpled like candy wrappers.

I am alone on the floor

Alone to face the crashing darkness.

When suddenly, I see you

Shoved in the corner.

Dust covered and paint peeling on the edges.

The bright shine

Now gone.

I clutch you on the journey back.

You remain hidden in a secret spot in my room.

Too painful to think about

A bruise

Forever sore

And red.

Krishan comes over for dinner.

He is five years old and bright-eyed

He never met Dada.

And after we eat dinner and stuff our bellies,

I decide to bring you out of my room.

We sit in the same pickle green armchair

And I sit you down on the table.

He stares at your black and white squares

So intently. Keen.

And carefully I teach him

The Art of the Board.

the top of central park is yours.
BY CHASE AARON AGUDO

i say that with regret, of course;
you have the reservoir
and all the tennis courts
and the playground where we had our first kiss.

when i walk across the transverse
i’ll look at the faces
of people passing by—
hiding my head, should you be one of them.

but i’ll never say it, of course;
I’ll keep this tiny lake
and these few baseball fields
and that terrace where I will walk alone.

who knows?
maybe one day
courage will spur my feet
into walking that reservoir

'til the top of central park becomes mine.

Fool's Gold
BY ELLA TAFT

My own eyes cannot reach

Where I fumble

with the clasp.

And so, watching my frosted

Reflection in the vanity I

Battle to clip the fragile chain.

The metal, fool’s gold,

I’ve been told,

Is cold on my skin, rubbing red

Against my neck until it hurts.

Constantly slipping from my nails

Where the clasp digs underneath.

Closing my eyes, it clips,

Too tight, too tight. As if a

Chain to keep a wild jaguar

at bay.

Rolling the delicate pendant

Between my finger and my thumb.

Wearing the prize jewels of great queens,

I release the pendant

and cast a witch’s spell.

Someone gave this to me. Perhaps a friend,

Probably my mother. She may have gotten it

From her mother too.

The rusting chain rests heavy over my skin.

And the fog lifts from the glass and I brush away

my hair. And I cannot decide

if this chain

Brands me docile or strong.

Memories from the Bus Stop
BY ANA GOYLE

my fingers cling to your touch.

on the corner of hudson and north moore

tattered old newspapers line each block

the walk is eternal, a never ending symphony of sirens, coughs. pure polyphony

on the corner of hudson and north moore

we wait for the Bus

the walk is eternal, a never ending symphony of sirens, coughs. pure polyphony

the cold gnawing and tugging at every limb. a bloody fight

we wait for the Bus

to take us away. far away. another world hidden within.

the cold gnawing and tugging at every limb. a bloody fight.

familiar screeches and cries fill the air—the Bus is here

to take us away. far away. another world hidden within.

wearing the armor of tears and sorrow, i board and there is no turning back. only the endless road ahead…

familiar screeches and cries fill the air—the Bus is gone

and i am left with only shadows. the echoes of my own heartbeat to face the crashing darkness.

my fingers recoil from your touch.

Paper Houses
BY BELLA HOLT

“The grass is greener here,” is

What my dad used to say when we walked out

Of the airport. “Just smell that fresh air.”

He was right, too. The grass was

Always greener on the drive to 201 Beach Road than

It ever felt on the drive to Boston.

Always warm, too, even in the

dead of winter. Each breath I took was more precious

Than anything could be in New England.

“There you are,” the wind whispered on the

windy drive, “we were just waiting for you to come home.”

Each year of nomadic life came and went, of getting up and

Dusting off before any comfort could settle,

But this place stayed. The same walk to Beach Park. The same

television I’ve been watching since diapers. The same pink-

and-green quilts on the bed.

I held my baby cousin for the first time there;

Deep in his bug-brown eyes was a family– just close enough to brush

My fingertips along its tender glow. A stone bridge to the

Connection I never had.

I am tied to my post, so perhaps that is why

My mind is back home in Melbourne.

I don’t think I will ever make this place

Feel like more than a box to check off the list

Before moving on to the next task.

The grass is greener here.

Pretend Puppeteer
BY F. EL IDRISSI

Sly fox, they say
—but I know what you did.

Although my Strings are forever denatured,
Your calloused fingers remain as a shadow.
A place I never have to revisit,
but you just haven't wounded me enough

Yes, your claws have gutted out all
those imaginary butterflies
I used to feel with you around.

Yes, the sands are pouring out,
but at least I've got people and myself
to stitch me up.

Forever scarred I will be,
Forever lonely you'll go on...

Your other puppets;
Perhaps they have already fallen out of your grasp-
No maybes— I know so.

The facade you've created is no more...
A broken smile,
Pretend Puppeteer.

Memory Lapse
BY ANONYMOUS

My water broke with blood

And I, who typically grows

Nauseous at the sight of a wound,

Looked, watched, stared,

At the gaping gash beneath me.

I couldn’t stop the blood.

Mesmerized, yet clinically calm

As the insides of my organs scraped

Clean and bled from me.

I was baptised in this blood,

deemed sin by some.

I didn’t bleed as a slash or a tear would.

My back longed to cave in before

Realizing it was stone.

My insides knotted themselves and pulled tighter

Until my bones themselves moved

To let more blood out.

I heard I can cause

Memory Lapse

By bleeding this much.

But we all do anyway.

Because maybe,

Maybe we can account in blood what

We hold in tears.

what the comb said to the black girl
BY ZOE COBB

We got a tangled history the two of us

My child

It’s all in knots

When someone uses me it’s to

fix

neaten

Come baby, sit on the floor

Let me clean you up before you go out.

Let me knead through the kinks I

have tried to protect you

Pull your hair back

Into a precise

Powderpuff

That’s acceptable

When they look at you

But when the hair tie

breaks

it all unravels

And you come back to me

Prometheus
BY CAROLINE POWERS

May your hands be the mold,

Your stomach, the kiln.

'The Forethinker',

In equal parts Uranus and Gaea

Immortal deceiver,

A fable older than enterprise.

Vivisected by talons

Disgorging bile and viscera

Ichor and eleos.

How could you have known

What it means to suffer grief,

Or what it is to be mauled?

An eternity of godhood

Rears a soft, ambrosia mind.

In primitive stone torment,

Taunted by elysian rays

Look over the Aegean sea

To Athena and Hephaestus.

Barbarism

Down the jagged face,

Behold your creations

Who cower from the day

Their anthemic hymn,

Slave to their brains

In the damp and the dark,

Moving in place

Prometheus, son of lapetus,

Doesn't see the bronze and bright-eyed

Children of his design

Illuminate the night.

Firing their ability to wonder

-and to wander,

Their tendency to hope.

Last stanza references I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream

(1967) by Harlan Ellison

REFLECTIONS OF LIGHT

Personal Essays / Journalism

The literary device orange
BY EVELYN YANG

According to social media, the use of oranges as a metaphor, metonymy, imagery, a literary device, is overdone. That once a writer reuses and recreates what was already created before, it is useless and meaningless. The juices of an orange, the walls which separate the slices, the citrus scent which sticks underneath your fingernails– cannot be used uniquely again. I agree, because of course everyone already knows of an individual’s inherently poetic and beautiful connection to a mere fruit.

Of course, everyone will know that oranges, fruit, is an expression of love I can barely accept. Of the meticulously peeled and cut slices of apples, melons, and mangoes that my parents used to set on a plate in front of me when I was child. The fruits which were chewed and swallowed hesitantly, tumbling down my throat with jagged edges. My throat would itch, mouth would tingle, lips would swell, as soon as I choked down their apology. As if I could sense the insincerity, the belief of righteousness, the shame. It is common sense that instead of apologies and loving touches, I have orange slices offered in the small space of a car, amidst the lingering of my frustration.

Art credits: Evelyn Yang

And it’s only right that they’ll know the scent of my perfume– the dragon fruit layered with orange blossom. The memory of plucking it randomly from a shelf at the end of summer, asking my friend if it smelled good. Being convinced to buy it and wearing it for the remainder of the smoky summer. Spraying it on while in the trenches of winter and bleakness; having the same friend turn to me with a smile and ask if I’m wearing the perfume “from the summer?” Smiling in return, and sharing a brief respite with my friend, visualizing the return of shorts and the sharp scent of sunscreen.

For the orange experience is universal, everyone knows the thrumming fear of accidentally swallowing an orange seed, and the sudden love for oranges that causes you to eat two, then three, then four. The stupid—and likely useless—hack of rolling an orange before peeling, as if detaching skin from bone through consistent movement. Plunging your thumb into the bottom of the orange, and tearing uneven strips until the rind detaches from the meat of the fruit, curling into a flower. Hearing a rumor in fourth grade that your old crush once ate an entire orange peel. Gently splitting the pre-divided slices, the whole unwinding like a clock. Going through phases of eating oranges like a habit, to the loss of its taste on your tongue.

So the consensus is that it’s too everyday to be notable, an orange. How pointless it is to be one, torn apart and never put back together. Nothing of importance, not enough to apply to a writer’s deep and unexplainable life experiences. An orange is simply a fruit of disappointment, tossed from writer to writer. Everyone knows that, don’t they?

Aren't you glad?
BY SARAH DUNCAN

To the elderly couple who lives across from Prospect Park, just be glad your apartment is rent stabilized. You should be set to live there for as long as you like, and grow old alongside your refrigerator and stove. There’s no need for the superintendent to renovate, he’ll take care of it once you leave, which won’t be for some time, right? He knows that letting your appliances deteriorate keeps you in checkmate, for there will be too great of a cost for any move you two could make. This is when you two must resign the game and know your king has been defeated, and it will rest on the board without having been touched though knowing that there were risks in every direction. Not to worry, your vintage apartment is pretty cool to anyone who has newly moved into your building and comes over to visit, although you may feel stuck in time when you go over to visit theirs. But at least you may remain frozen in time instead of coping with the price of moving forward.

And to my cousin, who has lived in the Crown Heights and Flatbush area for the nearly 20 years she’s been in New York, was the cultural shift at your train station the first sign? Has the lively community which reminds you of your island home been what compelled you to stay, because the soursop ice cream tastes like the ticket away from this concrete jungle? Make sure to tone down the steel pans and fetes on Labor Day: what sounds to you like community sounds drives others to file a noise complaint. And if any young, new resident tries to bar you from entering a family member’s building, assuming you could not possibly live in what they believe to be their neighborhood, empathize. It was a valid mistake on behalf of someone ignorant to the predominantly Caribbean demographic of their neighborhood. For they’ve only known the high rise buildings, while you still smell the spice from the roti shop that stood there long before.

And to my father, who lived in our Harlem brownstone 25 years before we moved in, aren’t you glad to see your old neighborhood less impoverished? You’ve tasted Harlem in two different forms, and yet you find the rusty reputation to be the most flavorful. Sacrifices must often be made in the name of progress. Now I no longer have to travel to the Upper West Side to find Trader Joes or Sephora, though they line the historic street where natural hair supply stores and soul food used to be. What good is it holding onto the past when progression forces you forward? What good is holding onto the culture disregarded in order to invite others in, and force you out?

And to the long standing or previous residents of Nostrand Ave, aren’t you glad there’s a Starbucks in your neighborhood? You no longer have to rely on the quaint Haitian bakery for the warm, fresh bread rolls as a morning treat, now you may find green juice and franchised coffee on every corner. Why do you shake your head and sigh? When I was 8 years old, I so desperately wanted to try a Starbucks frappuccino. Not only was I too young to drink coffee, I also only found Starbucks in the neighborhoods I cannot afford. I quite like frappuccinos; they are the sweet, chilling taste of the teenage girl I wanted to be. But I’ve come to prefer black coffee and besides, everyone has moved onto strawberry acai. On every one of my infrequent returns to this unfamiliar street, and its unwelcoming stench of commonality, I will search for the aroma of beef patties. Only then will I know I am still welcome home.

Hot Take of the Issue: In Defense of Modern Art
BY BELLA HOLT

If you own a TikTok account, you may have seen a trend in which people stand next to modern or contemporary artworks with the text reading something along the lines of “standing next to art we could’ve made”. In recent years, this scorn of modern art is widely acknowledged on social media; “modern art is not real art”, some say, and others, “BRING BACK RENAISSANCE ART”. Although the fact that these opinions are being expressed is perfectly reasonable, I believe that many of these arguments lack depth by overlooking the basis on which it is made.

Modern art, according to visual arts teacher Emily Valenza, is art made “anywhere from the 1860s to the 1970s, [starting] with the proliferation of photography and the camera. When cameras and film photography were readily available for people to use… [art] went from recording to expressing.” Movements such as expressionism worked to convey the story and emotion of an art piece. Meanwhile, impressionism went against the tradition of invisible brushstrokes, and dadaism rejected the presumption that an art piece should have meaning at all. Minimalism, the art movement that is most often criticized in these tiktoks, uses basic geometric shapes and blocky colors applied seamlessly to explore color relationships, and often, human experiences.

Talia Ziblatt argues that minimalism “is lazy [because] you can give meaning to anything. It’s not interesting to look at, and it’s just the same materials over and over again.” The supposed easiness of making minimalism often makes minimalist art seem unworthy of being in museums, especially due to the assumption that museums are prestigious and only for those who have studied art for years. If you happen to agree with this belief, I ask you the following question: why should the value of artworks be measured by the standards of technical skill set by art that captures reality in a traditional way?

“Faraway Love” is a painting by minimalist artist Agnes Martin in 1999. On the screen of my computer, it appears to be almost entirely white; however, upon closer inspection, a very subtle distinction between the painting’s light blue background and ivory stripes can be made out. I know that one of my friends will look at it and admire the clean, exact lines of paint made by the stripes, whereas I look at it and feel pitiful that this “faraway love” has gotten so far that it is barely noticeable anymore, and yet another of my friends will glance at it without feeling much connection to the piece. However, one of the opportunities minimalism and other abstract artworks offers is the freedom of choosing the way you interpret it. You don’t have to like or “get” the colors and shapes you see on a canvas; art simply exists to be observed.

Examples:

Carol Walkers, A Subtlety

Mark Rothko, Orange and Yellow, Black on Maroon, No. 6

Felix Gonzalez-Torres, “Untitled (Portrait of Ross in LA)”

To all those writing history papers
BY LYRIA HUNTE

To all those writing history papers for school please keep academia in mind
I remember being in the car on my way home from school when my father mentioned that Barbados had finally fully separated from Britain and become a republic. At the time, he added “We’re from there, you know,” and I didn’t, because having more than a vague idea of where you come from is not part of the ‘African American experience.’ But I said “Oh, really?” or something like that because I was tired, and thinking about race when you’re tired only makes you bitter and not in any sort of productive or mournful or forward-thinking way just bitter. I always hated feeling bitter because I could never put it anywhere. 3 years pass and I am passively aware of my bajan-ness just like I’m passively aware of everything else my bloodline has to offer.

All of that is to say that if you are ever in school in the United States and are ever given the opportunity to write about the constitution of Barbados for a history unit that barely covered any of the Caribbean islands in the first place, don’t. You may be tempted to use it as an opportunity to learn about your heritage; that line of thinking is a trap. If you do it will most likely shorten your lifespan by at least 7 years, maybe more. You see, no one cares about Barbados. No one cares about Barbados the same way no one cares about The Bahamas or Hawaii or most of the other islands in the Caribbean for that matter, not even the internet somehow. Those places are simply too beautiful. They are places you are supposed to go to get a tan and not live and if you do live there you probably work at the resort or something. The only semblance of interest academia has in such places is how their economy, upheld almost entirely by tourism, is going.

So please, unless you happen to be a historian, for the love of god, don’t try to do a history research paper on Barbados. Do something important and intriguing like the Cold War or South Africa. It might be hard to abandon your country but realistically if you are not white and living in the U.S. you probably already have in some capacity. The most well-off of us are people pleasers who will maybe get to do some research in their own time.

The Sixth Grade Trial
BY CHASE AARON AGUDO

That afternoon has lodged itself firmly in my mind.

I was in sixth grade. A spirited and rambunctious kid whose middle school exploits were naughty but insignificant misdemeanors, I had never gotten into the kind of trouble that would go into my school record. But that day, I was in the principal’s office for a more serious reason: I had hurt one of my best friends. Clever, witty, and just as arrogant as I was, Winston was a willing accomplice to several of the school crimes I committed. That's why, when his face was covered with a mixture of blood and tears after I shoved him a little too hard against the fence during recess, I felt a sense of guilt that still lingers. But, I also detest how the situation was handled; today, that resentment is perhaps stronger than the guilt.

It was an oppressively hot day at I.S. 25. I leaned against a fence with a gang of other sweaty boys. Towards the end of recess, we exchanged verbal jabs rife with challenges to our then undeveloped manhoods. After one such insult from Winston, I found it necessary to reciprocate physically. I didn't intend to hurt him; this was simply a routine exercise when faced with such a remark. I extended both my hands towards him; he responded in kind. We interlocked our fingers and braced ourselves for Mercy, a game where both participants would try to force the opponent into yelling "mercy!" via crushing grip strength, balance, and spatial dominance. For the first few seconds, Winston was winning. However, after a quick maneuver, I pushed his arms behind his center of gravity and inched him closer and closer to the courtyard fence. I expected him to yell "mercy” at this point, but his eyes reflected no intention of capitulating. So, gaining speed as I forced him backwards, I shoved Winston against the wall of metal wire.

I turned around to revel in my victory, looking at my spectator friends with a smug grin as if expecting fanfare. It took only a short survey of their faces to realize that something had gone wrong. As I looked back at Winston, he was crouched against the wire fence, clutching his head. Trickles of blood ran down his forehead, and tears joined the drops of perspiration on his cheeks.

The next hour was a blur. I brought Winston to the recess supervisor to go to the nurse as soon as I saw blood. Feigning indifference, I joined the boys in the hallways on our walk to English class. I clung to the chance that Winston would be able to coherently explain that the whole ordeal was just one big accident, that I didn't mean to cause the bloody gash on his head, that all the adults involved would pass off the incident as a common occurrence among boys who play hard.

When the assistant principal walked into my classroom, my stomach dropped to the floor with piercing worry. She wore a washed-out gray cardigan over a wrinkled silk blue shirt, made somehow even more drab by the passively stern look she always had. Looking directly at me, she asks the history teacher:

"Can I talk to Chase, please?"

My teacher relinquished me to the she-devil. As I commanded my terrified feet to move, I felt the stares of my classmates burn into the back of my head as if to say uh-oh, he finally went too far this time, didn’t he?

The assistant principal dragged me to the principal's office as if to take out the trash. Leaving me at the door, she sighed as her glare drilled a hole into my eyes. Her wretched pointer finger directed me to sit at the table of a dimly lit room.

"Wait until the principal gets here," she demanded, muttering "stupid kid," as she walked away from the room.

The longest five minutes of my life passed in painful silence before the principal entered the door. A blonde woman with jaded eyes and a straight posture, she sat directly across the table. She must have seen the scared look in my eyes as, for just a split second, she regarded me with concern.

But immediately, she bombarded me with questions:

"What did you do?"

"How come there's a kid with bloody hair in the nurse's office?"

"Huh? So? What is it?"

For a minute, I looked at her with a disconcerting mixture of loathing and guilt. I wanted to say that it was only a game and that I didn't want anyone to get hurt. I wanted to emphasize that all boys who participate in such activities know and acknowledge the danger that comes with physical play. I wanted to tell her that, although I hurt Winston, we were only playing, that these sorts of things happen all the time between friends, and I would take any punishment thrust upon me with dignity and forbearing. I wanted desperately to relate to this adult woman the inner workings of a 12-year-old boy's mind, to show her that situations like these must be handled delicately. I wanted her to see that I was not defined by one isolated act of unintended violence. Years of dealing with worse juvenile delinquents must not whittle away one's sense of compassion. I wanted to have a voice in my own trial.

Yet, my mouth refused to speak. Instead of articulating the sentiments that rang so clearly in my mind, my throat choked on the pathetic words "I didn't mean to do it!" and "I'm sorry!" In between my sobs, I juggled between trying to explain what the game of "mercy" was and emphasizing that I simply did not intend to hurt Winston. One eyebrow raised on the principal’s face as she almost gave up trying to understand me.

"Let me get this straight," she interjected, "you thought it was funny—a game, I think you said—to throw him against the sharp metal part of the fence, then walk away and forget it happened?"

Failing to find words, my vocal cords contracted even more under the anticipated influx of tears. The principal belied what had happened! I would never think injuring him was funny; I just called what we did a playful, innocent game. I didn’t necessarily "throw" him against the sharp part of the fence; the word "throw" has a malicious connotation that was not what I had intended. I definitely didn't know that there was a piece of sharp metal in that exact spot where I pushed him. Above all, I was not as ignorant of the situation as she thought.

I realized that it didn't matter much what I said. At the end of the day, the woman in front of me was the judge, jury, and executioner. Sitting in that office, I came to terms with the fact that my intention didn't matter at all. I was to blame; I would be punished with no mercy.

"Young man," she continued, "if you were a little older, you would be going to jail for this. You're getting an in-school suspension for two weeks. Nope, don't even speak. I don't want to hear it." She paused, then looked up at me one last time before declaring: "Also, this is going on your permanent record. You may see yourself out."

Feeling utterly sorry for myself, I left. I couldn't even bear to think about what had just happened, but I did wonder how Winston was feeling. I hoped he was okay. The bleeding must have stopped by now, right? They would have to send him home, of course. Oh no, they would have to tell his parents what happened. More people would hear a hostile story about me without my input. I would be seen as an unruly delinquent by anyone who listened to the event told by everyone else but me.

On the walk home, I could only imagine the principal writing about the incident in my record. I could see her slender, haggard hands producing a thin paper portfolio from a filing cabinet, writing an ignorantly oversimplified retelling of the events. That damned report didn't include me, I thought. I wrestled with the idea that, although that portfolio had my name on it, none of my own thoughts were being recorded.

When I relayed the story to my mom, she forced me to walk to Winston's house and apologize to his mother on the same night of the incident. Winston ended up getting two staples along his mid-scalp region and couldn't participate in any physical activities for weeks. We remained friends, of course; ironically, unlike the administrators who had no patience to comprehend my side of the story, Winston understood what I had tried to say to the principal without my having to speak it.

A part of me still cries foul at how the situation was handled. While I was undoubtedly in the wrong, I still felt belittled, othered, and unheard. That dusty office saw the battle between an uncaring authority and an inexperienced defendant who didn't have the tools or latitude to properly defend himself. To this day, I still hate that the principal refused to empathize with me. After all, she should know better than anyone else that nuance should be used with a child whose common sense has not yet outgrown his adolescence.

COROLLA'S LOOKING GLASS

Flash Fiction / Vignettes

Kore
BY ELLA TAFT

Flame. Just to the right of the bags, a painting hung from the wilting wall. She wasn’t quite sure what it was. They had made it together, all three sisters, sitting around the breakfast table. The rips of shuffling newspapers were louder than their arguments as they sat there, painting. Ari thought it should be a garden. Core thought it was a seascape. Rye thought it was a sky filled with hot-air balloons. Their parents thought it was Van Gogh. Rye remembered now that she got paint on Core, a young toddler at the time. How she shrieked– thinking, but not quite believing, that it was blood. The canvas, whatever it was, hung valiantly still, while all else chipped away and began to crumble. That wall had seen more of Rye’s childhood than she had.

Gold. A sudden crash shook her seat. The window pane rattled in defiance, revolting against the shutters. Rye got up to push it open again, to feel what she could convince herself was a breeze. The Hudson was a tidal estuary, and the talkative substitution for both of her sisters. The salt and freshwater stirred unwillingly, unsure which way to flow. Rye would crane her neck through this very window to try to glimpse the aircraft boneyard of stars that she knew were there, hoping the glass wouldn’t give up at that moment with her.

Chase. Rye picked up a postcard that had slipped under the AC unit— the script was messy and illegible, save for three words: “Much love, Ari.” An American Flag smudged its mark across the corner.

Flood. AC broke down again, AC broke down again. Ari, call the super. Ari? The whirring wouldn’t stop, and warm air would flame whoever dared to approach the dragon’s mouth. It was too hot for the first day of September, and the AC broke down again. Rye looked around for her parents. They were getting the car from the parking lot to drive Core, who was nowhere to be found. The whirring wouldn’t stop. Ari?

Bronze. Shadows enlivened themselves around the window where the sun glazed Rye’s iris with icing. The soft rattle of a snake sizzled through the room before dying out in the air. With the jazz band having returned to the sidewalk, the grieving graveyard awoke within her. An alto saxophone stepped forward to dance, and how it did! It danced in all shades of crimson, alongside the bass and trumpet. What an excellent partner it made. Rye hadn't tasted the music before. Core had, always, even being young as she was. Even Ari had intimacy with the sunrise.

Havoc. Core’s laugh was that of a small bird. One that wouldn’t sing often, yet would always talk. Rye couldn’t ever get her to laugh or cry. Core’s voice shifted from what it was. She used to chirp about the whole place. Especially as a small child, when she would run up and down the stairs of the apartment— hoping, but not wishing, that someone would tell her to stop. Rye watched her toddler sister laugh and felt envy-filled sadness strangle her. She would change, no doubt. Rye could do nothing to stop it. Core would be different after leaving. Would her face be painted pink after chasing a bee and wrecking the walls? Would her grin be smeared with the brine of caramel candy? Ari had almost drowned after she left last year. But she was older then, 18. What would a 14 year old know about swimming?

Chains. A metallic clang took Rye back to the window sill where she sat. Searching for the cause of the sound, she noticed that her ring slid off of her index finger as she was rolling it. Rye crouched into a fight stance while smoothing her palms across the dust of the wood. The band of iron pyrite left a green stain where it once had been. Air hit the vulnerable area that was newly exposed on her skin. Searching for the loop underneath the AC unit, she found a hair clip, a caramel wrapper, a blackened eraser, and a sewing needle that came near to piercing her vein. Eventually, she gave up. She would find something to replace it at a later time. The stain couldn’t last forever.

Leather. Ari left for college last year, on the first day of September. She grew out of her room. The apartment. The school. The city. She grew out of iced coffee in parks and washing the dishes. She grew out of viola lessons and metro cards. She left the Hudson River to move to Facetime calls and postcards (because their parents were still “old-fashioned”). Rye remembered moving her pillows to Ari’s old room on the second day of September. She wiped down the desk as if everything was forgotten. As if the deck of the desk wouldn’t remember every eraser smudge and exasperated tear that Ari has inscribed into it. As if Ari’s highschool never happened. Rye still hadn’t gotten used to the empty room. It was the most organized she had ever been. She stopped trying to clean up after Core’s mess when they shared. But all of a sudden, Ari left, and she was alone. What would happen now? Rye would begin 11th grade in a few days, with one room for her, one room for her parents, and one room completely empty, save for the ghosts of what used to be. Core’s new campus stole Rye’s sister. Core didn’t want to go to Rye’s highschool in the city. So she chose to drive far, far away from the Hudson. And now here she was, in her room, reluctant to break eye contact with the mirror as her sister paced the entryway.

Three. Rye sat on the suitcase. It took many breaths for a minute to pass. She glanced over to the shelf, where Core had set down her drink from earlier this morning. The ice had melted already. Rye pulled the shipwreck of a cardigan closer to her chest.

West. She watched their car park right by the sidewalk in front of their building. Gold reflected off the windshield. It was almost time for Core to leave for good. Their parents wouldn’t wait forever.

“I can’t find my phone,” an urgent voice announced from her room, “Can you call it?”

Ring.

Rye kept staring at the red text on her phone. 12 failed calls to Core.

Cerberus. Rye picked up the mirror again, but still, the only thing she could see were the bags. The mist was hot and sticky. The jazz had dissipated into the bricks.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

Rye’s stomach was sucked into a whirlpool and her mind stormed. She slowly lowered her mirror, and there, standing right in front of her, was her sister, wearing all her frills like armor for boarding school.

Rye moved aside, opening the front door and pushing the luggage into the hallway.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” Core’s eyes seared Rye’s lips.

“Sure I am.”

“Like what?” Core clutched the handle of her red suitcase in her left hand and swung the duffel bag around her shoulder.

“Goodbye?”

“Goodbye.”

Iron embraces her bone.

Twisted into a tornado, the marble protests.

Rye tilted her mirror so she could see her sister’s reflection. What she saw, instead, were two gray trunks, an oddly shaped duffel bag, and a red suitcase, all stacked on top of each other by the door.

Hide. Sitting down, she noticed the loose wool knots sprawled across the floor, entangling the feet of the stool. Core’s red cardigan. Core never liked red, but Ari did, so she inherited the color regardless. Rye was just in between them. By the time Ari stopped fitting into her clothes, they were just right for Core. It seems the cardigan has been outgrown once again, and left to rot on the wood flooring. Rye slipped her hands into one of the knots of the crochet pattern to hoist the web around her shoulders.

PSYCHE REVIVED BY CUPID'S KISS (1793 Canova)

Photo credits: Ella Taft

Ourselves Alone
BY CAROLINE POWERS

The sticks of western Ireland are heartsick, and Achill Island is the apotheosis of mourning. On Tripadvisor, it's best known for its quaintly rustic bars. The island's scattered ruins are sunk into the lush and verdant flora of its arcadian hills (they're hills with a kind of history you would expect, that is, enough to fit in a pamphlet, or a guided hike). A dormant history, one that's told by the sedentary dirt ridges; it's told by the porcelain shards sleeping shallow beneath our feet, but rarely by us. It's called the Deserted Village. It's hard to imagine, when beholding the coastal dawn in Slievemore, how such a place could ever be forsaken. Indifferent, dry stone homes stand eroded and unmoving, inviting in the rain. The sky wears his mourning colors and dampens the land with grief. A shadow is cast over the necropolis by its sole and steadfast resident. Like Vesuvius, it splits the earth and eclipses the sun where it stands. Like a father, unthinking. Like a mother, unrelenting. The foot of any mountain is a cold and damp place, but climbing it is a wetter endeavor. The grass is wild and whips at our shins in protest-but the land has not forgotten that once, there were people here, too. Our imprint is left in every dip of the path that guides our ascent. When the sheep bleat, it's an anguished plea that is drowned by the wind. When we summit the hill, a raw and icy gust puts tears in our eyes. From its crown, the entirety of the coast is visible-and beyond. Past the shoreline, we can barely see the twinkling of lights through the fog on the water. Privately owned property, maybe an Airbnb a town over. The briny vapor comes in waves that coat our skin and fill our lungs, a chill discomfort pervading our bodies. Under threat of windburn we turn our eyes inland, shutting out the sea.

NOTUS AND EURUS

Literary Analysis / Criticism

Madame Bovary Review
BY HANA CARLSON

Throughout the history of literature, fiction has been used for escapism. But, too often, we take pieces of the worlds and people we read about to the real world. As Gustave Flaubert put it,

“Never touch your idols: the gilding will stick to your fingers.”

And in some ways, that’s exactly what books do to us: stain our hands and everything we touch. This is, ironically, portrayed through the story of Emma Bovary, who wished nothing more than to be the heroine of a story—her story. She longed for balls and Paris and true love and knights in shining armor, and what she found herself with was a middle-class life with her unintelligent, unromantic husband Charles Bovary, a doctor. The book, at times, reflects the mundanity of her life by using language that, while beautiful, makes it almost excruciating for the reader to hear about her garden or her various ailments or her lamentations on escaping monotony. But when she’s alive—which only happens when she experiences some form of debauchery or novelty—the words seem to flutter with excitement and vibrancy.

The word novel is a tricky one indeed, because it not only refers to a book but also means new. And, for Emma, the two became the same. Because of her desire to live in a novel, she made her surroundings and company (as shown with her affairs, both of which she thought were true love but ended disappointingly) novel. This made her easy to be taken advantage of by a Monsieur Lheureux, who sold her luxuries (such as curtains, clothes, a cigar case, a riding crop, etc.) that let her believe she was closer to the novelty in novels. She took every step to make herself similar to these fictitious characters, Yet it is these expenditures that made her real life unbearable, because she found herself in 8,000 francs worth of debt. Perhaps the real reason all of this happened was her search for happiness, because book characters have happy endings (or they most often do). And so to be a character in a book, to be the subject of a novel, is the safest place to be. So, she tried to turn Charles into her knight in shining armor, and when she found that impossible, she found replacements to give her true love, because all of that made her closer to becoming a book character.

“She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.”

And she never felt scared. She felt sad, angry, bored, hurt, confined, passionate, and beautiful. She felt a million things and more, but never scared, because book characters get happy endings, and she truly believed that she was one of them.

And she was a fictional character, but life is not a love story. Madame Bovary is a commentary on realism. Emma had always wanted a book with her name as the title, and she achieved that. But she is dead, so what joy could she receive? That brings us to the true question of the story: how do we tell the line between reality and fiction, when human perception is incalculably flawed? Madame Bovary is a way for a reader to unintentionally see themself clearly, only achievable through the same medium that dirties our hands: books. And so Flaubert portrayed this idea through literature to make it palatable to unsuspecting readers with their guard down to outside influence, just like Emma.

Madame Bovary did not get a happy ending.

THE MIRROR'S BLOOM

Short Stories

The Freedom of a Dreamer
BY BERNIE E. INCE

Matilda

~*~

There was once a time where I thought that I had felt and experienced every comfort and ache that life had to offer—within reason of course.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared me for the terribly dreadful and dreary carriage ride that, for some reason, had been selected as the method of transportation to carry my companions and I from the social scene of Munich, Germany, to the elegant, aristocratic scene of Prague.

The darkly colored, dual windowed carriage beneath me rumbled over the packed, gravelly-dirt track that wound its way through the Bavarian Forests. The extraordinary forest of pine trees that spread throughout Germany and into the Kingdom of Bohemia were everything that I’d expected them to be. And…not.

The climate switched from dreadfully warm to absolutely freezing, as if it were deciding which way it wished to lean towards at the drop of a hat. And then there was the mud. The freezing, squelching mud.

I almost wanted to thank God for having us decide to take a carriage—were it not for the downright disagreeable conditions of it. The dark purple toned velvet benches beneath us were anything but comfortable. Good Lord, my limbs positively ached. It was honestly like nobody had ever heard of comfort here!

But I couldn’t let myself think of that, now, could I? Not with the devastatingly beautiful, wild pines that lined the path which flowed past my window in a steady, never ending, rolling stream. And certainly not with Mr Townsend openly staring at me from where he was seated directly opposite me on the bench facing mine. It was as if I was some unsolved puzzle lying on a table before him or something.

As if he has the right to do so! But I couldn’t say that, now, could I?

Good heavens, being a lady sucked.

I cleared my throat, sitting up straighter as I raised my chin a bit higher—just as my mama had taught me. I could practically hear her murmuring her critiques into my ear, “Do not slouch. Oh, and don’t forget to smile, my dear! We are ladies after all, you know. No, no, no! Not that much!”

A new, and yet somehow old ache settled in my chest at the memory of my mama’s soft reprimands.

I knew it was useless – and that my mother would have lectured me just for missing her—but…I couldn’t help it. Not when I’d left them so far away.

God, Matilda! Snap out of it!

I shook my head, focusing back into what my companions were talking about. Mr Elijah Bradford and his sister, Miss Amelie Bradford—my acquaintances from Paris—sat to my right, chatting, and laughing quietly at something the other had said. Amelie shared the same uncomfortable bench as me and Elijah sitting tall across from her. Then there was Mr Townsend—Oliver. Elijah’s friend from their time at Cambridge, there to accompany the siblings for the summer as they toured Europe.

And then, finally, there was Matilda. Me. I was the true outsider—the stranger peering in through the foggy glass window.

I’d met the Bradfords whilst on a holiday with my family. Lord and Lady Bradford had insisted I accompany them on the rest of their tour across the continent, continuing with them to Munich and now…Prague. If we ever made it out of these cursed forests.

Honestly, though? I was genuinely excited to see the historic landmark of a city that had so many young people craving to return. The art; the history… What wasn’t to love about it?

This forest, that’s what, I silently grumbled to myself.

“Miss Fischer?” Oliver prodded, his voice a deep timbre that had the Bradfords quieting.

I glanced up, meeting his hazel-brown eyes. Whoops, shouldn’t have done that. But instead of becoming indignant as I’d expected him to at my brash and careless action, he just smiled. A slow, cruel curve to his mouth.

My heart pounded. I really shouldn’t have done that.

Rule number one of being a lady in the social scene: Never look an acquaintance directly in the eye. Always look up, and then away, and then back again. Or, even better, don’t meet their gaze at all. It was rude and could be perceived as obnoxious or careless—or so my mama claimed. I honestly couldn’t care less. But, if it allowed me to travel and see the world, I’d do just about anything to get there. Even if it meant following society’s petty little rules of being a woman of marriageable age.

I cleared my throat again, glancing desperately to Amelie for help. Luckily, Elijah saved me the hassle.

“I do believe your dear mama mentioned to me that you are to begin tutoring your younger sister, Miss Evangeline, to play the piano come the new year. Is that not right, Miss Fischer?”

I nodded slightly, just barely a dip of my chin. “Yes, it is,” I said as airily as I could, desperate to keep the relief currently crashing through me from my voice. Oliver said nothing, but I could still feel the weight of his gaze on me like a brand. “Oh! That sounds wonderful! How long have you been playing the piano?” Amelie inquired, excitement sparking deep within her jade green eyes.

I sat back slightly, thinking. Lord! How long had I been playing the piano?

“For as long as I can remember, really.”

Indeed, it had been one of my only escapes from the social scenes that seemed to run rampant in my life. There was always a ball, or a party to be held. Or brunch to be had at Lord So-And-So’s house. There was always something, and piano had, somehow, somewhere along the way, become one of my ways to avoid it all, to distract myself from the smothering nature of the upper societal class—seeing as I wasn’t allowed outside to ride the horses with my brothers, that is.

I looked back out the window just as the carriage rode over a particularly rocky section of the road, almost sending me flying from my seat. Almost—had Oliver not wrapped a strong hand around my upper arm, keeping me seated.

I glanced to my right, watching as Elijah did the same thing for his sister. We all stared at each other. As if each of us were trying to decide whether to laugh hysterically, or yell. But the choice was snatched out of our hands, however, when the carriage slowed to a stop, the thunderous sound of the horses’ hooves halting with the movement.

I looked to my companions again, but they looked to be as confused as me. Even more so as Fredrick, the guide we had hired back in Munich, jumped down, coming to stand at the window to my left as we opened it from the inside.

Fredrick was on the taller side, standing at about half a head taller than me, and was only slightly older than Elijah and Oliver. His messy brown hair hung in waves, and his shining brown eyes seemed to jump all over the place as he surveyed them.

He opened his mouth and started talking, harsh, rushed words. But I couldn't understand him, not when I only spoke English, Latin, and French. Indeed, even Elijah—who was the only one amongst them who spoke even an ounce of German—seemed to be having a considerable amount of trouble deciphering Fredrick’s words—if the scrunch of his face was anything to go by.

The endless, hurried stream of Fredrick’s words halted. He blinked, as if realizing we hadn’t understood a single word that he’d said. Clearly, he’d overestimated Elijah’s ability to understand him—by a lot.

Letting a heavy sigh, he said slowly, as if he were trying to search his minimal vocabulary for the words, “The…uh, carriage…is…er, broken?” The words were heavily laced with his German accent, but…at least we could understand him. Sort of.

Understanding indeed lit Elijah’s eyes when I glanced in his direction. Edging a bit closer to the open window, he said something slowly in German.

Fredrick, nodding emphatically, gestured around almost randomly as he continued to speak to Elijah.

I looked over to Amelie, meeting her bright gaze. Her green eyes were dancing with humor, as if to say I don’t know what is going on, but it certainly is funny. I shook my head slightly, a grin tugging at my lips.

That is, until Elijah finished talking with Fredrick and turned to the rest of us, his face uncharacteristically sombre. Fredick excused himself, going around to the front of the carriage—probably to tend to the horses.

“One of the wheels has become loose, but we don’t have the part we need to fix it…” Elijah said slowly, as if it pained him.

Any trace of the humour that had been in Amelie’s gaze only moments ago had completely vanished, having been replaced with trepidation and concern. “But where shall we find the part? We must be halfway through the forest by now!”

Indeed, tension coiled in my limbs. We were stuck.

“Fredrick said that there is a small town nearby—Waldkirchen, I believe. We shall find the part there,” Elijah replied, already shuffling towards the door. “We’ll be there and back before dawn.”

I looked back at Amelie, unable to dissipate the rising sense of dread.

Amelie just stared at her brother, long and hard. A muscle ticked in her jaw as she ground her teeth together. She didn’t know what else to do, either.

Darn it.

I glanced desperately at Oliver, but his impassive face revealed nothing. Good Lord. We were actually going to do this.

The carriage shifted as Elijah jumped out, then Oliver. Turning back, Elijah held out a hand, helping Amelie down, then me.

The second I landed on the muddy earth, I knew this was not going to end well. Not one bit. And certainly not as the hiss of leather being released echoed over to us. I glanced over just in time to watch as Fredrick unbuckled the last of the horses before the crack of a whip sounded, sending them bolting into the surrounding wildlife.

How were we going to get to Prague now?

I looked helplessly to Amelie, but she would not meet my gaze. Neither would Oliver or Elijah.

What was happening?

Fredrick came over, carefully saying something in German. Smiling grimly, Elijah nodded before gesturing for us to follow as both men led the way into the thick brush. With one last, desperate look towards the carriage, I followed them into the dark, dense foliage.

~*~

We travelled by foot through the eerie forest for three days, the canopy of leaves almost too dense to allow any sunlight through. We stopped only to see to our needs, getting all but a few hours of sleep for two nights straight as we fought our way through the thick foliage.

No one spoke, leaving the sound of leaves crunching underfoot and our labored breaths to fill the silence.

Finally, on the eve of the third day, after the sun had long since set, we came across a road. This one, however, was even more roughly hewn than the last, with branches straying onto the unkempt path.

Too fatigued to protest, I followed my companions without complaint as they changed course, continuing to follow the path to the right.

“If we keep going, we should reach Waldkirchen by sunup.”

I didn’t care, though. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other.

We all fell silent again. Only…this time I could have sworn something had changed. As if there was some sort of charge in the air that had not been present a moment before. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but whatever it was had the tiny hairs covering my body rising like static energy.

The minutes turned to hours, and before long, the light of the sun was staining the stretch of the eastern sky that had now become visible through the canopy. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other. Again, and again, and again, until it was all I breathed.

Amelie gasped from up ahead and I snapped my head towards the sound, looking at what laid before us.

The road had evened out once again, the trees becoming infinitely clearer. And right up ahead stood the clean little walls of a village.

My companions seemed to sigh with relief. I was tempted to, too. Only…that feeling of something being off seemed to coat the air, thicker than it had been only moments before. It’s fine, I reassured myself. We’ve finally made it.

So then why was my gut screaming at me to run? To protect my companions? Why was my heart beating so erratically that I could barely get a breath down?

It’s fine.

Only…it wasn’t, was it?

We had no horses to return to. We’d barely even managed to make the three-day trek in the first place. It seemed as if we’d put all our coins in one place and now found them to be missing instead of reaping the reward.

Amelie glanced back at me, as if she thought the same thing.

Uncertainty filled me to the brim, but I had no other choice but to follow as the men led us through the rusty metal gates, and into the silent street beyond.

The feeling of being watched followed me through the abandoned streets, the small settlement unnaturally quiet. I looked back at Amelie in warning, but the lady had disappeared along with the rest of our companions. Only Oliver remained.

He stared at me, his hazel gaze near glowing as he stopped in his tracks. “What is the meaning of this?” I breathed, taking a healthy step away.

He said nothing.

“Mr Townsend?” My breathing was coming in quick, rapid pants now. “Oliver.” At the sound of his name, Oliver slowly—ever so slowly—grinned, revealing all his white teeth. The sight was anything but pleasing.

He reached into his pocket, that unnatural smile still pasted onto his face. As he withdrew his hand again, though, something sleek and polished followed. His fingers were wrapped tightly around something wooden, a metallic barrel following in the mere heartbeats it took for him to grab and draw the object.

I didn’t so much as have the chance to even scream as he withdrew the pistol and fired.

~*~

“Matilda?”

I jerked up in bed, sweat coating my pale, freckled skin.

My breathing was ragged, my heart beating almost a hundred times its usual pace. A hand came to rest on my arm. I turned to meet my mother’s soft, kind blue eyes. My eyes.

I lurched forward, wrapping my arms around her.

“Oh, my. Matilda,” she said, her voice like a balm to my racing heart. She stroked my back, her hand gentle and warm.

“I missed you,” I murmured into her soft skin.

But Mrs Fischer merely laughed, as if I’d said something humorous. “Why, Matilda! I only saw you last night!”

I withdrew, confusion racing through me. “Last night? Mama! I’ve been gone for a month!”

“A month?” Mrs Fischer exclaimed. “Why, Matilda! You have such an imagination! Now get dressed, we have guests.”

I shook my head but did as my mother bid.

It wasn’t until I was nearly to the drawing room that I heard them, though. Their voices. The voices of my companions.

But it couldn’t be, could it? No, it had just been a dream…

That was what I’d convinced myself in my mother’s absence. And that was what it had to be. Because the alternative?

Oh, God.

Without even realizing it, I ran—practically sprinting to the slightly ajar sitting room doors.

Laughter floated into the hall. Bright and happy.

But it all ceased the second I burst into the room, breathing slightly sharply. And there, sitting on the plush, ornate sofas, talking to my dear mama and papa were Mr Elijah Bradford, Miss Amelie Bradford…and Mr Oliver Townsend.

Oliver looked me up and down and smiled slowly. “You must be Miss Matilda Fischer. Your mother has told me so much about you.”

I looked desperately to my mama, but Mrs Fischer smiled gently at me. “Matilda, allow me to introduce Mr Oliver Townsend, a friend of Mr Bradford’s from Cambridge.” Her usually small and gentle smile morphed into something almost gleeful as she finally finished her introduction for a man that I needed no such thing for. “And your betrothed.”

Time seemed to slow as Mrs Fischer said that last sentence. My heart pounded at what felt severely akin to a million miles per minute as my stomach dropped. Oh God no!

The Tales of Love and War with the Heart
BY BERNIE E. INCE

Leilani

~*~

There was a man in my tent.

Marco Suarez—or so my messenger had claimed.

The man wore a heavy cloak with the hood raised, hiding most of his features from sight.

“You are the Princess Vitalis? Commanding General of the Spanish armies?” he asked, his voice soft but deep.

Raising my brows, I nodded. After all, it was a sadly true fact. I was the Warrior Princess—the younger half-sister of the current King of Spain, Santiago Castilla the I. But I did not really care about that.

Not as the man before me shifted slightly to reveal a concealed pistol.

And aimed it straight at me.

Crap. Not again.

“President William McKinley of the United States of America sends his regards,” he drawled as if this was just another Tuesday for him. And fired.

I watched in horror as the bullet sped straight towards my unprotected heart. Good God. This was how I was going to die? Hidden in my tent and taken out by a goddamn infiltrator?

Oh, hell no.

But I knew that there was no time to dodge or maneuver around it. In fact, all I could really do was sigh a small breath of disappointment and maybe even a bit of relief as the bullet fired towards me.

Only…it didn’t hit me.

Instead, it just phased right through me. Like I wasn’t even there at all, defying all sense of logic and reason.

What the actual hell?

When I looked back at where the cloaked man had been mere moments before, he was…gone—as if he’d vanished into thin air.

Which was…impossible. Right?

Right. Except, my answer didn’t fill me with nearly enough confidence as it probably should have.

But the space wasn’t empty, for, standing there, exactly where Mr Suarez had been mere moments before, was the most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on. With wavy black hair and sinful dark eyes that almost, somehow, seemed…warm to me – which was absolutely preposterous.

And yet, it felt oddly…true. To me, at least.

I stared at the newcomer skeptically. Is he the one who tried to shoot me? Or is this somebody else?

I didn’t know how, or why, but somewhere deep down inside of me, I knew that I could trust him. That he wasn’t the one who had attempted to kill me.

Which was odd considering the fact that he was a stranger whom I’d never met before just standing in my tent. But still, my gut was rarely ever wrong.

God. Maybe there was something wrong with my head instead.

I mean, a freaking bullet had just phased right through me and then this new mysterious stranger had popped up from nowhere whilst my attempted murderer was now on the loose.

Yep. Something had definitely stuffed up somewhere along the way.

“You alright?” the newcomer asked, his voice a deep timbre. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

You don’t say.

But instead of saying something that I’d undoubtedly regret later, I merely said, “Yeah. I’m…fine.”

Liar, I could almost hear my internal monologue declare. Such a freaking liar. Hell. That wasn’t even the most important freaking question.

“Wait.” I blinked. “Who are you?”

A mere ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. And yet, my heart still skipped a beat. How can anyone look that good? It should be a sin.

“I’ve gone by many names over my lifetime, but you may call me Malachai.” I didn’t know what to make of that. Who even said that nowadays? I mean, who would even have ‘many names’ in their lifetime? Humans don’t even live that long—not in the grand scheme of things at least.

“And who, may I ask, are you?” the stranger questioned, the sound of his voice doing weird things to my stomach.

But I couldn’t let myself focus on that feeling. I was the general of an army. No man would ever see me at his feet.

Squashing down my initial reaction to tell him no, he may not, I stood a little straighter. Squaring my shoulders, I lifted my chin, doing my level best to look down my nose at Malachai – even though he had a good few inches on me. “I’m General Leilani Vitalis, half-sister to the current King of Spain, and the Commanding General of this army.”

Malachai blinked before the ghost of a smile from earlier turned into a full-blown grin. “Ah, just the woman I’m looking for.”

But the heart-stopping display didn’t last long before he was once again sombre and mysterious. God damn it. If only I could see such a thing last.

“And why would that be?”

“Because you’re in danger, your highness.”

I opened my mouth to argue—I mean, who’d be dumb enough to attack me in the middle of a bloody army for crying out loud? But then again…

“You and your army,” he added hastily, as if he knew exactly where my mind had immediately gone.

Damn. Had I really become that much of a cocky bastard? And was I that transparent about it, too?

Then Malachai’s words fully sunk in.

Your army is in danger.

Holy crap.

No.

“Now you really do look like you’re about to faint.” A smirk glinted on his face, but I couldn’t help but notice the genuine concern in his gaze as he held out a supportive hand, though.

Why does he care?

But I didn’t exactly have the luxury to dwell on the matters of my heart in that moment. Not when my army faced some unknown danger.

Instead, I shoved past Malachai to my tent’s flaps.

Poking my head out, I signalled to the nearest soldier on guard duty before demanding in a quick, hushed tone, “Gather Lieutenant Generals Martinez, Angelini and Lopez, as well as Major Generals Rivera and Garcia.” I paused for a second before reluctantly adding, “And get General Alfaro, too, whilst you’re at it. Please.”

I watched, my gaze full of sympathy, as the guard’s face paled at the mention of Joaquin Alfaro. But he merely nodded quickly, not saying a word before disappearing into the star covered camp where my army slept.

At least I wasn’t the only one who thought Joaquin was a real pain in the behind. God. This was shaping up to be a very interesting night.

~*~

For the love of God. Why did I ever think it was a good idea to invite Joaquin Alfaro to my impromptu little war council meeting?

I mean, what the actual hell was I thinking?

Three hours in, and we were getting absolutely nowhere.

Malachai had answered my questions without hesitation. But beyond that, we’d done nothing.

All we knew was that in two days’ time, twenty-thousand American soldiers would march on the Plain. At which time, my army would still be right in its path as ordered by my goddamn brother.

Which is what Joaquin kept pointing out over and over like a broken record. What had I gotten myself into?

I didn’t even know whether Malachai’s intel could be trusted. But, at the same time, this was the sort of information that I couldn’t just ignore.

Everyone’s lives were on the line, and it was up to me to decide whether to act on it or not.

That is, if Joaquin ever shut his big mouth for more than two freaking seconds. “But the King ordered us here whilst we wait for new information,” Joaquin argued, his chest puffing out slightly as if he was some animal in a fight for dominance. Or a puny little man whose ego was on the line.

“Yes. I get that, General. I really do,” one of my best friends in the entire world, Carmen Martinez, said. “But we are in danger. We are sitting ducks where we are and General Vitalis has the means to get us out of here as fast as possible. We should just go over the King’s head and deal with the goddamn consequences later.”

Carmen punctuated the last few words with a pound of her fist against my little desk. I couldn’t help but smile as Joaquin’s face went a bright shade of red.

Until everyone turned to me.

Clearing my throat, I leaned my hands against the surface of the table we were all crowded around. “Okay, look. It’ll be our decision whether we push forward or retreat. But know that we should not take this decision lightly.”

Looking into each of their eyes, I continued, “So, either we can push forward and catch them unawares – but we’ll have to go now if we’re to make it in time. Or we can retreat, and I will get a message to King Santiago as soon as humanly possible.” Taking a deep breath, I could feel my stomach tightening in preparation for a fight. “But, as per usual, nothing will be decided until a majority has been reached.”

With that, Carmen stepped forward, her face grim and her deep brown eyes cold in a way that I’d never seen before in all my years of knowing her. “All those who wish to retreat, raise your hand.”

I let out a small sigh of relief when Carmen, Angelini, and Garcia all held their hands up high.

“And all those who wish to remain here?” Carmen’s voice rose in pitch in obvious show of how ludicrous she thought the idea was—and she wasn’t alone. But I couldn’t say exactly that. Because there was, in fact, a reason as to why I established a democratic system similar to what they had in America – much to Santiago’s never-ending displeasure.

But that didn’t stop them as Rivera, Lopez and—of course—Joaquin all raised their hands.

Leaving me as the deciding vote.

Damn it.

At least it's not up to one of the idiots in the room…

Okay…

On one hand, Santiago would probably have my head if we abandoned camp. He’d said as much before I’d left on this campaign – which I couldn’t exactly blame him for doing so considering my…minor history of doing exactly that.

But on the other, thousands of soldiers were currently camped out around us. Thousands of sons and daughters; husbands and wives…

They couldn’t die. Not on my watch.

Not if I could help it.

Although, there was still the chance that Malachai was feeding us false information. But as I looked up to where Malachai was currently hiding in a shadowy corner of my tent, I knew, deep down, that every single word he’d told me was true.

We were in danger. And we would all die if we stayed put.

Before I could say anything, though, Garcia raised a slightly quivering hand. “I would like to change my vote to staying put.”

Rolling her eyes, Carmen sighed through her nose. Her voice was a reluctant grumble as she declared, “The stays have it.”

Her words barely pierced the ringing in my ears, though. My thoughts were moving so fast it was a wonder that I didn’t break down right then and there.

But no matter what I thought about or where I looked, there were always the same two thoughts that accompanied: holy crap. We were going to die.

~*~

The night air was warm if not slightly humid outside my tent.

And yet, it did nothing to ease the chill that was slowly creeping into my heart. No sooner had I left, though, did Malachai come up behind me, walking as silently as a bloody panther or something. But I didn’t have it within me to be scared or frightened or even freaked out.

“So, you’re going to retreat?” he asked, hope apparent in his tone.

But I merely sighed. “No, we’re staying.”

I could almost feel his horror—it was a living, breathing, palpable thing. “But…you’ll die. You have to leave.” He shook his head slowly before repeating softly, as if to himself, “You have to.”

“That’s not how a democracy works,” I muttered, shaking my head.

And God, there had never been a time where I’d hated it more than in that exact moment.

“Oh, come on, princess. These are your people, so why aren’t you doing more to protect them?” he snapped. Almost like he actually cared.

Which was so bloody ridiculous that I couldn’t help but snap, “Why do you care? It’s not like you are part of this goddamn army. So why are you here, Malachai?” He seemed to pause for a second – just one, but it was all I needed.

“Why are you really here?” I demanded. “To spy? To steal? What really brings you to San Juan Hill?”

“I-I don’t know.”

God, he was actually stuttering.

In the few hours I’d known him, Malachai had easily become one the last people that I’d ever thought I would hear stuttering. Even when I was questioning him, he had not stumbled once. And yet…here he was.

I shook my head and started off in a random direction. “Don’t follow me,” I ordered over a shoulder, hoping beyond common reasoning that he’d listen.

Shockingly, Malachai did no such thing. Much to my ever-growing annoyance and his undoubtable hubris. Instead, he latched onto my hand before bringing me to a stop. Only, instead of saying anything, he merely brought his lips to mine and kissed me. And, for some odd reason, I quickly found myself melting into his hold. It was almost as if I knew, on some deep and unconscious level, that I was safe with him. That I was wanted.

Which was a first, I had to admit.

I’d never felt wanted. Not by my mother, my brother, or…anyone, really. But, somehow, I did then. With Malachai’s strong, muscled arms sweeping around me, holding me close as if I were something precious.

It was strange. Exhilarating.

And I loved it.

As I took a deep breath through my nose, though, I couldn’t help but notice a strange scent wafting off him.

It was sweet—sickeningly so. And… familiar.

God. It was a I’d only smelt once before in my twenty-one years of existence on this plane of hell. Death.

Pulling my mouth from Malachai’s, I looked at him in horror.

“What?” he asked, his brows drawing close as he gazed at me with concern. “What’s wrong?”

I knew it went against every societal expectation, but I had to know. “Why do you smell like death?”

Either I was severely overreacting—which was entirely possible—or…he was dying. Just like my mother.

The question seemed to take him by surprise. He blinked. “How do you know what death smells like?”

Images of my mother as she’d slowly withered away at the hands of the plague flooded my mind. My tiny hand as it clutched hers whilst she’d coughed again and again; the stench that’d appeared in her final days.

The stench that clung to Malachai.

But his question struck a chord of peculiarity in me.

He didn’t seem to be remotely surprised that I’d picked up on or said something about it. No, instead, he’d asked how I knew.

Something was off.

And God. How hadn’t I seen it before?

“Just answer the question.” I sighed, already fed up with this conversation. But I…I needed to know.

“Because I am Death.”

Holy freaking crap.

No wonder he’d known the enemy’s movements; why he’d just seemed to appear from nowhere…

“How could you just withhold that sort of information?” I demanded. But then another thought took front of mind – a really bloody damn good question that seemed to override any sense of common reasoning that I had left. “And why the hell are you even trying to warn us, anyway? Especially if we’re destined to end up citizens in your twisted empire?”

Malachai—Death—shook his head. “I don’t know.” His brows furrowed as he frowned like that little fact perplexed him or something.

But I’d had enough.

Anger pounded through me, boiling my blood as my heart thundered. God, I was so freaking sick of this.

Screw him and the lies he’d told. Screw his entire cursed realm. Screw everything. “I swear that I will never darken your doorstep so long as you rule the Underworld,” I spat, tears clouding my vision. Each word was harsh, dark. But God. It was true. It was all so true.

Because, somehow, this betrayal hurt. I’d only known the man for a handful of hours, so it made absolutely no sense. Especially after I’d been betrayed over and over again by so many people that I’d lost count. Which then begged the question: why? Why did it hurt so damn much?

But I didn’t ask that.

I couldn’t.

Otherwise, I would break down, right there and then. And if there was one thing that I couldn’t allow, it was that.

So, without saying another word, I turned on my heel and walked away. Never looking back – even as I felt my heart breaking into a million itty, bitty, tiny little pieces.

Malachai

~*~

I couldn’t bear to watch as Leilani led her army straight onto the Plain despite everything that I’d told her. Everything I’d confessed.

I couldn’t barely stand to watch as her soldiers slowly fell as the enemy advanced until there was no one left.

Until not even Leilani herself remained.

But I did.

I made myself watch as they died, falling like stalks of wheat. I watched as the princess took her last pained and final breath. The way her once-bright hazel eyes closed as her healthy, golden skin had dulled to a grey pallor, her long brown hair losing its luster. And then I broke.

I begged and screamed as I cursed Life for taking such a wonderful, bright person away from such a wretched earth. For ending her life so young, after everything she’d survived.

Because even though I’d never admit it to her, I had watched her as she’d grown, always drawn to her presence no matter where she went, who she went with, or what she became. I was transfixed; always had been, and possibly always would be, even with her in the afterlife with me.

There had been a spark to her—which was probably why I’d damned everything to hell that night two days ago when I’d warned her. When I, for some stupid, illogical reason, kissed her.

The day that everything inside of me shriveled up and died as she walked away from me, never looking back.

But when I finally pulled myself together and went to Death’s Doorstep later that very same day, there was no sign of her in the swarming mass of her army.

The space was dark, with the only colour in sight being the eight marble-like bone pillars that surrounded Leilani’s army in a complete circle. The outskirts – to the untrained eye – seemed to move, though I knew that it was actually because the wall-like sides were made up of the midnight hued black cloud that I liked to call the Veil – as it kept the newly dead in and veiled the rest out.

Which was something that definitely had something to do with some of the new arrivals shivering—or puking—with fear upon first sight. Not that I was complaining since the magic cleaned itself up after the perpetrator was gone—it simply just provided me with entertainment.

The Veil not only shielded the rest of the necropolis out, but also stretched out across the bone white floor I knew lay beneath, too; seeming for all the world like a perpetual fog that just…existed. It skated harmlessly over the muddy and bloody boots of the soldiers around me, though I did note that a few of those around me looked queasy at the sight.

Yet, despite the Veil, there was no need for extra light sources, the space lighting itself. It was something that had always perplexed me since its creation, like the place itself had a sentience of its own that my magic had inadvertently given it.

“Princess?” I couldn’t help but call, my voice laced with power as I fuelled a miniscule fraction of my magic behind the words. Because one of the greatest things about being Death was that I could summon anyone who had passed from the living. It was definitely a useful ability – one I’d used a time…or a thousand.

Only…no one answered.

Huh. That should have worked…

Maybe something just went wrong. I was in quite a heightened emotional state after all; I wasn’t too ashamed to admit that. It was just a fact.

“Leilani?” I tried again, using her given name this time.

Again, no reply. It was almost as if she truly weren’t here.

As if the words she’d spat at me mere nights ago had come straight from the heart. As if she’d truly and irrevocably meant every single one of them.

But that is impossible.

She shouldn’t have been able to do that. No one could.

Unless…

No. It wasn’t possible. Not for a human, at least. Not for Leilani.

I’d know.

“Leila?” I heard someone with a distinctly feminine voice call. A familiar feminine voice. “Leila? Where are you?”

“Leilani Vitalis?” I tried again, funneling even more power behind each word, but to no avail.

What the hell?

“Leilani Daniella Evelyn Maria Alejandra Vitalis, where the hell are you?” that voice called out.

But something was different this time. Now that voice was raw with desperation as the unknown, unseen woman called out over and over again, pain coating her tone more and more with each shout. As if her heart was breaking; shattering into a trillion tiny pieces just as mine was, despite not even knowing why.

It was like some wretched beast had taken what was playing through my own mind on a loop and made it into a living, breathing reality for someone else.

Oh God no. She couldn’t have…

“Leilani?” the stranger’s voice cried. “Leilani, where are you?”

I could feel my heart slowly sinking with defeat as the realization dawned on me. Or maybe just as I finally accepted it.

By Vita’s powers, she’d actually done it. She’d actually managed to evade the hell hole that I called home—the afterlife.

But that means…

No. No, no, no, no, no!

She’ll be lost forever. No. I couldn’t let that happen.

And yet, there was nothing I could really do. I may have been Death but…there was no bringing a soul back from the Abyss. Not even a willing one—something I doubted Leilani Vitalis ever would be.

Holy shit.

I collapsed to the floor, not caring that those of Leilani’s army within eyesight were staring at me like I was some kind of anomaly in the world. Then again, I kind of was. I always had been, and that wasn’t about to change just because my life had.

I was Death himself, and yet, I couldn’t even save one princess from the Abyss because of her own stupidity. What the actual hell?

How stuffed up was that?

It was useless. I was useless. Despite everything.

“Leilani!” that voice from before cried, cutting through my massive wealth of self loathing.

The crowd of soldiers shuffled around me until a half-wild Carmen Martinez broke free. Her head swung from side to side erratically, clearly searching for something—or someone.

The Lieutenant General tipped her head back slightly, her eyes squeezing shut before she screamed louder than before, “Leilani!”

Ah. The other voice.

But then Martinez whipped around until she faced me, a look of pure death covering her features – how ironic.

“You,” she snapped as she pointed to where I now cowered on the floor. Good god. What had become of me? I was Death himself for hell’s sake. And yet, I still couldn’t find it within me to pick myself up and face her head on.

“You did this,” Martinez growled as she stalked towards me.

Wait: me? She was blaming me for this colossal stuff up?

“Where is Leilani?” Martinez demanded, her amber eyes seeming to heat with some fierce inner fire. “Where. Is. She. Mortem?”

I couldn’t do anything but shake my head slowly, sadly, not daring to note the Latin use of my name. “I do not know,” I breathed. “I am sorry Lieutenant General Martinez.” My words were genuine, but none of that seemed to affect the raging woman before me.

There was definitely a reason as to why she, along with Leilani, had risen in rank so damn fast. And it wasn’t just because of an accident of birth.

They were both fierce and competitive. Strong. And not just physically. It was something I’d always admired as I’d watched them train together. Something I’d only truly seen a handful of times before, despite living for so that I honestly wasn’t sure how old I was anymore.

Something genuine, real and infinitely rare enough that it could bring about the only true power humans could possess—hope.

The rest of Leilani’s army seemed to shift uncomfortably, as if this outburst from Martinez was completely irregular. As if they didn’t know how to handle a situation such as this—and, to be honest, I didn’t either, but I wasn’t exactly being given a choice in the matter. Unlike them.

Martinez stalked towards me, an accusatory look in her eyes. “Leilani told me everything,” she growled. “Who you really are, how she figured you out…” She was close enough now that I could smell her breath as she said, “She even told me what she said to you before walking away forever.”

I swear that I will never darken your doorstep so long as you rule the Underworld. I could still see the way Leilani had turned away, pretending she wasn’t crying as she ran. Leaving me lost for all eternity.

God, why had I been so stupid? Why had she been so stupid? It didn’t make sense. Surely, she knew what the consequences of doing such a thing would be. Or at least had a goddamn inkling.

Wait…

I swear that I will never darken your doorstep so long as you rule the Underworld.

My God.

“She did it.” I couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that burst from my lips, seemingly of its own accord. “She actually did it.”

Martinez seemed to pause, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Did what?” she snarled. “What did you do?”

I could already feel the tears pressing into the backs of my eyes, stinging and burning, begging to be let free once more.

But I couldn’t.

Not here, in front of people who were now my brand-new subjects. And definitely not in front of Martinez who seemingly blamed me for the actions of her best friend. “I didn’t do anything,” I bit out. “This was all Leilani’s doing.”

The words left me empty, hollow. It was as if finally voicing my suspicions had just made the entire situation a reality.

A reality where the woman I’d watched and slowly, irrevocably fallen for over the past twenty-four years had chosen an endless suffering of a death sentence rather than visit my kingdom with me still in it.

Oh, princess.

I could feel my throat closing up as my tears threatened to spill over. But I managed to externally remain as cool, calm and collected as possible as I turned on my heel and left Carmen Martinez curled up where she now lay on the floor of Death’s Doorstep. But it didn’t last long.

I’d barely just made it back to what I liked to call the Observation Auditorium when I fell to the floor and finally let my tears fall.

A tormented sob worked its way up my throat before slipping free.

God. She’d actually managed to do what no other had even come close to in all the many years I’d existed on this plane of torment and misery.

She’d defied me, the God of the Underworld. Death himself.

So long as I sat on Death’s throne, she would stay in the Abyss.

I should be proud, really. After all, there had to have been a reason my attention had always snagged on her.

So then…why did it hurt so goddamn much?

I guess I’ll never know…

But, somehow, that answer wasn’t enough. And I knew it never would be. Because, for as long as I ruled, Leilani would be gone. And if I didn’t rule, I would be gone.

What had I done?

Issue 1

Elysium

June '25

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

A Letter from the Editor in Chief

SHATTERED PETALS

Poetry

Equilibrium BY ANONYMOUS

'tis autumn BY CHASE AARON AGUDO

Waiting at the Flag BY ZOE COBB

A Fault of the Muses BY LYRIA HUNTE

Vicious Coils BY ANONYMOUS

coriander BY ANONYMOUS

Rome BY CAROLINE POWERS

Eternal Knight BY ANA GOYLE

the top of central park is yours. BY CHASE AARON AGUDO

Fool's Gold BY ELLA TAFT

Memories from the Bus Stop BY ANA GOYLE

Paper Houses BY BELLA HOLT

Pretend Puppeteer BY F. EL IDRISSI

Memory Lapse BY ANONYMOUS

what the comb said to the black girl BY ZOE COBB

Prometheus BY CAROLINE POWERS