Writers' Block Literary Magazine 2019

A Cacophony of Smell

By Ally Guo

Tatum Grisune rolled over for the nth time that night, but his movements only seemed
to make the blankets more unbearable. He lifted his head and readjusted his pillow,
punching it a few times before dropping his head back down with a grunt. Squeezing
his eyes shut, he prayed for rest to finally grace him with its presence. However, despite
his best efforts, agitated shivers wracked his body and apprehension flooded his brain,
keeping it on high alert.

The glowing green of his clock indicated that it was
past midnight, a good two hours after his normal bedtime.
However, despite the darkness shrouding the room, a warm
light still filtered in from under his door, and clicking
sounds, accompanied by human murmuring, drifted in as
well. Meanwhile, an obnoxious pounding and screeching
racket pulsated from the other side of his left wall: his
neighbor’s apartment. It sounded like someone was blasting
heavy metal--or perhaps it was rock--on the world’s harshest
speakers.

Tatum had never particularly cared for rock, and now
he was certain he hated it.

When jamming his other pillow over his head failed
to block out the banging, Tatum threw it against the door,
temper ready to erupt within him.

“That’s it,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll tell Phoebe to
shut up already. Then maybe some of the noise will go
away. Can’t do much about the neighbors, though. They
never listen.”

He was just about to roll out of bed when the window
to his immediate left rattled. He froze, halfway in an upright
position. Hesitantly, he turned his head and glanced at the
polished glass. A shadowy outline was visible outside. It
bobbed and shifted its dark shape, shaking the window and
emitting low grunts, like a tortured soul struggling to escape
its eternal prison.

Tatum’s limbs were heavy and his heart palpitated
wildly. Should he leave the room? Pretend to be asleep?
Open the window and confront the stranger?

No, if it was a burglar, it would be best for him to act
like he was sleeping. Hopefully, he’d be able to catch a look
at the intruder’s face and report them to the police later.

Slowly, while plagued with goosebumps and panicked breaths he couldn’t quite
keep quiet, he lowered himself back into the blankets and cautiously pulled the heavy
covers nearer to his head.

The insect screen was removed from the window with some shuffling, and the
latch began to quiver. It shook with some small clangs, vibrating faster and faster as the
figure jostled it. Then, after a few nerve-wracking seconds, it unlocked with a click. The
window was pushed upward by the person, squeaking shrilly as it slid. Tatum, despite
his terror, made a mental note to fix the irritating noise if he survived.

His heart thundered faster and faster as the invader pulled a
long leg into the room, followed by the rest of its body. The
stranger was a very tall individual, dressed in what appeared to be
a thick sweatshirt and long pants. Unfortunately, its face was
obscured and indiscernible. Only the outline of a thin, pointy nose
and a shaved, round head was visible.

Perhaps, if the figure had been quick in its work, or
whatever it was it wanted to do, Tatum would’ve never
moved. However, the person lingered about, scanning the
room languidly, situated right next to his bed.

Tatum could feel the adrenaline building in his veins.
His heart felt like it was about to convulse and break, or at
least break out of the fragile hold of his ribs. His once heavy
limbs were filled with a crazed, impulsive lightness. His
right eye twitched involuntarily, despite being closed. As he
blinked the tic away, it fluttered open and he saw, out of the
corner of his eye, through a small opening in his shroud of
blankets, a small, indigo-purple vial on his nightstand.

It was a crude bottle of perfume: a handmade, one-of-
a-kind gift. Having heard of his love of hyacinths, a good
friend, the cheerful Paris Tetuanui, had decided benignantly,
though probably unwisely, to use her amateur skills to
develop a special fragrance. The scent, though fairly
accurate, was far too strong--and rather toxic.

Once, when Phoebe Grisune had accidentally sprayed
the concoction in her own face, tears had leaked out of her
stinging eyes for hours. And even after the pain had
subsided, her eyes had been swollen shut, bulging a
revolting red, and her sense of smell impaired for a long,
long time. Later, after the incident, she had demanded to
know why Tatum still kept that “crime against humanity”
around. He had replied he felt the intent behind the present
too charming to ignore.

Phoebe had replied with a very impassioned, “Since when do you care about
that?!”

To which Tatum had just shrugged. She was right; he didn’t really care. He just
wanted to annoy her a bit.

Never had he suspected that the “perfume” could have another use.
As the peculiar memory resurfaced in Tatum’s frenzied mind, it unconsciously
developed into a plan. Not even completely aware of his actions, he reached a trembling
hand out of his blankets and grasped around the little bottle. Slowly, he pulled into
back toward him and slipped it under the covers.

The unidentified person continued standing by the foot of
his bed in silence, staring at the opposite wall with the door.
Suddenly, it turned around and began making its way back toward
the window--back toward Tatum’s head.

Perhaps, if the stranger had not paused, and instead
quickly left through the window, never to be seen again, no
conflict would have arisen, and Tatum would’ve been
content to forget about the whole incident. However, it did
not do so. Instead, it stopped walking right next to Tatum’s
pillow and stood there menacingly, staring at him as he
pretended to sleep.

Tatum’s hand quaked, his knuckles white as he
gripped the perfume. The ridges of the bottle dug into his
flesh, but he didn’t notice the pain. The violet liquid inside
sloshed around wildly. His eyes were squeezed so tightly
shut they began to hurt. His body was tense and rigid,
almost completely motionless, but his mind was racing at
speeds faster than that of a cheetah. Out of his control, his
brain panicked and, in a moment of sheer terror, flailed his
arm without his permission.

Tatum’s body shot upward into sitting position, left
arm outreached. The mysterious figure jumped backward
and let out a yelp but was still within distance. Levelling the
perfume bottle to the outline of the intruder’s face, Tatum
pressed the trigger with a quivering finger and a cloud of
noxious mist exploded from the nozzle.

Even from a distance away, and out of the burst’s
direct path, Tatum could still smell the sickeningly sweet
odor. It was as powerful as he remembered, like someone
had drenched a hyacinth in molten cotton candy, imbued it
with more sugared flowers, and waited for it to rot a bit
before finally grinding it into a concentrated liquid to drip
into a tiny vial.

His nostrils shuddered and his eyes watered and itched. He immediately raised
his free hand to cover his nose and mouth but didn’t make a sound.

The stranger, however, reacted far more violently.
It roared as the perfume erupted in its face, coating its eyes and nose with its
poisonous essence. It clawed at its eyes with its fingers and rubbed madly at its nose
with the back of its hands. A string of creative curses streamed out of its mouth, and it
stomped its feet in agitation.
“Phoebe!” Tatum screamed, his voice shrill. “Phoebe! Get in here right now!”

Pounding footsteps sounded beyond the door before Phoebe
burst into the room, her long, brown coat and pale hair both
trailing behind her. In her hand she was brandishing a lighter. Its
uncovered tip wasn’t yet lit, but her finger was on the trigger,
ready to push it at any moment. “What the heck happened?!”

She reached for the light switch and flicked it up,
illuminating the entire room with a warm golden glow. The
intruder’s identity was finally revealed.

A Cacophony of Smell by Ally Guo

Circumstantial
Written by Bron Acosta

No one knows what he is.

He shifts with the light and shadows--you could be looking straight at him, and you would be
none the wiser. Some say you see him when you die. Others say he is a myth. Those who
dare to search for him end up coming back… different. They do nothing but babble and sob.
They say those poor souls have gone insane.

But I’ve seen him before. I’ve seen him, only once, and you have to believe me. Your
future-a-ll of our futures--depend on it.

I was walking home after a Halloween party when I saw him. He was sitting, perched like a
cat on the top of a brick wall. I couldn’t see his face; it was shielded by the hood of his jacket;
but he appeared lonely. I’m not sure what he was doing, really. He stared up at the night sky
as if it were his lifeline. Even though I had no idea what his expression was, grief tore
through the way he held himself.

“Hello?” I asked. “Are you alright there?”

No answer. I leaned against the wall casually, tapping my foot. “That was a pretty cool solar
eclipse today, don’t you think?”

Silence. I glanced up again, starting to grow
nervous. He still looked at the stars with
sorrowful joy. I thought he didn’t hear me,
but after a few more minutes, he turned his
attention to me. His mouth didn’t
move--I don’t even know if hehad a mouth

in the first place--but somehow, I still heard
him.

They forced me out,he said. His voice--no,

it could not be described as a single voice, it
was a choir, an infinite amount of children,
women and men crying--resounded in my
Mind. They told me I cannot come back.

A chill ran up my spine. For some reason, Milkweed with Sunset by Sneha Menon
I felt as though my heart had dropped
straight to my shoes. “Who did? Did you
get kicked out or something?”
He tilted his head, resting it on his fist.
You do not fear me. He seemed surprised by
this, as if I should be scared.
They always run away.

“Well, that sucks,” I said with uncertainty, digging the toe of my shoe into the cement. “I
mean, you could crash at my place for the night, if you want. Just for one night, though. My
mother would have a heart attack if I told her I let some random bum off the street room
with me.” I took a penny out of my pocket, flipping it in the air and catching it. “I at least gotta
know your name first, though. Who are you, exactly?”

He didn’t really have eyes, I noticed belatedly, but his focus zeroed onto me like a
diamond-tipped drill.
I am the star you seek. I am warmth, I am light. I provide the reflection unto the night, I keep
you happy when nothing seems to go your way. I am blinding, I am deadly. Your people hate
me when I am here, but wish for my return once I leave.

He took another wistful look up at the sky, sighing.

And now, I cannot return to my beautiful moon. They do not know what happened. They will
be worried.

I laughed nervously, scratching the back of my head. “You’re pretty good with words, you
know that?” I climbed up the wall, grunting as my shoes scrambled for a foothold.
Eventually, after a lot of blundering on my part, I collapsed on the top of the brick, taking a
deep breath. “Hm. Well, if you won’t tell me your real name, I’ll just make up a nickname.
How about… Orion? I mean, it’s unique, and has to do with stars, which you apparently love.
You’ll be a cool dude in no time.”

I am always hot.

“Wow, arrogant much?”

Orion chuckled, looking up at me. You are a strange one. Will you… will you help me see my
moon once more? A slight hint of warning entered his voice. The warmth of your race
depends on our being together--I must be in the sky, must be free.

I slumped down, rubbing my eyes and yawning. “You know what? I’m a college dropout with
no job, no girlfriend, and nothing better to do. What the heck. I’ll help you out, bud.”

Orion nodded. For a reason I cannot explain, I knew he was happy with my decision.

The sun thanks you.

“When the lights go out
Run” by Alexandra Lisa

Fallen 

Alexandra Lisa 

Shrill shrieking rang throughout the great dome, carrying such a force that Eve almost
wondered whether the soundwaves or the earthquake were making the cages rattle. Avoiding her
talons, Eve tossed Marci back into her cage and shut the door, careful to avoid the thrashing
wings, trying to figure out what to do next. Earthquakes lasted more than one rumble, didn’t
they?

Doorways. Duck under a doorway during an earthquake, she remembered someone
telling her. Eve bolted for the only door to the aviary and flung herself at its base. Her hands
instinctively moved to cover her head, her knees tucked up to her chin so she crouched in the
fetal position. The lights flickered out. Among the masses of panicking birds, she waited for the
next wave to hit.

A cage crashed beside her head, a different kind of deafening than she was prepared for.
She screamed, sending the birds into a renewed frenzie, especially the caged one at her side.
Lucy, the Indigo Macaw. She’d knocked herself off the countertop in her spazzing fight for
freedom.

“Stupid girl,” Eve chided, lifting the enclosure from the floor. “Bet that helped a lot,
didn’t it? Made your situation much better, hurling yourself onto the ground, you damned
bird-brain.”

She half-expected a groan from another volunteer at that God-awful pun. But it was late
at night, and she was the only one signed on to lock up. Other than the squawking, it was silent.

A chill ran down her spine. It was silent.
Not only was there no more ground-shaking, but the first round hadn’t done any damage.
The most impressive feat of disaster had been Lucy.
As if sensing her name in Eve’s head, again Lucy threw herself against the metal bars.
Eve seized both sides of the cage and brought her face close.
“Don’t,” she warned. Then raised her eyebrows. W​ e good?
Lucy hopped in a circle. In bird-speak, that meant yes.
“Don’t!” The voice startled Eve, but then she recognized it as their Nestor Parrot.
“Thanks, Adam!” She called.
She turned back to glance out the door. Black, as far as she could see into the night, the
pattering rain likely ​not ​helping the matter.
Part of her wanted to ignore the clearly-not-quite-rightness, but she’d finished in the
aviary and her car was out that way. What was she going to do, stay the night? Out of the
question; Mark would have her head for it. So . . . make a beeline to her car and hope nothing
jumped out at her, or investigate and make s​ ure ​nothing jumped out at her ?
“Don’t!”
“To which one?” Adam didn’t respond.
Suddenly very aware of her trembling fingers, she began to panic; she didn’t scare easily.
Part of her adventurous, curious, nature. Her staple personality.
“Screw it,” she muttered. Screw curiosity, screw adventure, she was going to her car.
Except, when she stepped into the rain her foot went deeper than she expected, and she
tumbled into some small crater with a very solid something at the bottom. She knew it was solid

because she collided with it, hitting her back against whatever it was so hard she thought it might
have fractured something.

And suddenly, she knew it was alive, too, because it groaned. She felt it breath, its skin
rising and falling under her.

Stumbling and entangling her limbs in ​whatever w​ as there, Eve scrambled up to the
aviary door and slammed it behind her. Instinctively, she wrenched open drawers and cabinets
until she found a flashlight, and ran back.

“Don’t!” Adam squawked, but she shone the light into the ditch. She had touched it. She
had heard it. She had felt it shake the ground when it fell. She had to, h​ ad ​to know what “it” was
because it had felt way too much like--had almost made her think--

The beam cut through the rain surprisingly well, and illuminated the guy sprawled at the
bottom. That was it. Just a guy. A human person who had somehow fallen from the sky and . . .

And.
She stretched out her arm, looked a bit closer. Slid back down the crater, far more
gracefully this time, and brushed them with her fingers. He had wings. Giant, soaking wings
wider than she was tall, and snapped back at gruesome angles. Not angles, however, that she
hadn’t seen before. Gingerly, Eve ran her fingers across the split feathers and shattered jesses,
thinking to herself I​ ’ve fixed this before. She’d repaired countless wings at the aviary. The tools
were inside; she knew exactly where.
The trek up the crater was faster this time;
she hit the rim on her feet and took off, charging to
the back of the building. Adam shouted “Don’t!”
as she passed, and she ignored him again.
How different can it be? They’re still wings,
just bigger. And attached to a human. It’ll be fine.
She returned with equipment heaped in her
arms. First, disinfectant soap, which worked well
since the rain rinsed the suds off. Then baking soda
on open wounds to control the bleeding. Veterinary
bandaging tape, which wouldn’t stick to the
feathers. Shaping it was beyond weird, normally
she’d tuck it over the bird’s torso curve. Maybe if
she stretched it out this direction--
Eve had an abrupt urge to look at his face.
She had been so preoccupied with the wings she
hadn’t thought to look at him as he was, and now
felt the magnificence of even them fade away.
Because she was struck with an epiphany just then,
that men with wings are most likely angels. And
with the initial fear she had felt when the birds had
shrieked and the lights had gone out, she should
have remembered. There was only ever one angel
that plummeted from heaven, that had ever fallen.
Now there were two. And looking at this
one’s black eyes, Eve realized she should have just
gone to her car.

I peered out and into the vast body of water. Waves crashed onto the sands before
retracting back into their home. A slight breeze flowed over and around my body,
cooling the sweat from the blazing sun above. My feet dug further and further into the
sand as the cold waves of water ran over them over and over again, stealing bits of the
earth under me each time. I closed my eyes and let the world take me. A salt stained
breeze flooded the air. Gritty sand coated my calves; I tried to dust them off, feeling the
moisture and the grains. It was like running a watery piece of sandpaper. The grains
would not come off; they only stuck to my hand. The water could help take out the sand
but then again if I tripped like before it’d only be worse. An arm slid across and around
my back, pulling me closer to the woman who the arm belong. She rested her head atop
my shoulder, brown hair with light blonde streaks flowed down. Her face was smooth
and young. High cheekbones worked along with near neon blue eyes. She looked to me
and spoke

“ERROR-ERROR-SYSTEM
FAILURE.”

My eyes widened and Evergreen by Twisha Anshu
brows sunk my mouth slightly
open. Her face contorted into
black and then into smooth and
yet wrinkled face. A male face
with older Korean features. He
wore a black uniform with an
American flag on his right arm.
Three white stars sat above
seven yellow stripes on his
rank patch. The scene around
me turned cold and dark. The
room was nearly made entirely
of metal. Oil stained the air
around us. I had snapped back
into reality. Bright crimson
lights flashed around the room.
The speakers repeated the
same four words.

“ERROR-ERROR-SYSTEM FAILURE.”

The grates below us shook in a violent vibration. It was as if we rode on a wooden
roller coaster. A new smell arose….Raspberries? Raspberries with what felt like a metal
after tone. A thought raced through my mind. I knew exactly what was going on. The
man shook me once more.

“Snap out of it! Wake up Forge!!” His was sounded like grinding metal. It was
coarse and hard. As if he smoked a pack a day and then yelled for every day of his life.

His eyes were wide, sweat rolled down his temples and nose. Even when he wasn’t
shaking me I could feel the tremble of his hands. I began to loosely stand; the constant
jolt of the construct forced me back down into the metal chair where I had been laying
in before. With more of a will now I had stood up with power, still at a constant
movement from the room. It was as if we were in the ocean, bobbing like a buoy. The
man rushed out the door to return to his post. I followed shortly after. The halls were
formed of the same metal as the room. Everywhere just felt cold. The bright red lights
flashed in contrast. More people were bolting down the long corridors; causing the
grated floor to shake more than it already was. I too began to sprint once I saw the
bright neon white sign and what it was broadcasting. -Code Black.-

ERROR-ERROR-SYSTEM FAILURE.

The roar of the sirens screamed louder. They were deafening, the voice of the
speakers matched the emergency crimson lights that made the shadows of people dance
the Dance of Death. The walls were painted with this dance. A horror show of bodies
trapped in the metal. Circular windows allowed the darkness from the outside in. The
outside was a peaceful as it always was. It was always the same. Black, littered with
specks of white dots. Stars. I always found it boring, peering into the void, the cold, the
empty. Yet now, it seems so peaceful and welcoming. After what seems like eternity I
crashed in through the command center gates. Computers and operators littered the
scene. The old Korean man from earlier was in the center of it all, handing out
commands. I could only register so much information before being blasted by the heat
wave. So many bodies in one tight room, all sweating and heating up under pressure. I
began to sweat through my uniform.

ERROR-ERROR-SYSTEM FAILURE

The screech of the sirens woke once again. Everybody in the room flinched under
its oppressive rule. The pressure proof glass screened an eerie image. An image we all
knew there was a possibility of happening but wished for it to never show. It was a gap
in the stars, in the shape of a circle. There was no light what so ever except for a ring
around the circle. That light was being dragged into the hell of existence. It was a hole
in reality. A gateway to true nothing. A black hole and the Nemesis were right on course
for it. It lashed out at our vessel, pulling it any everything inside towards itself. A never
ending hungry for everything. I sank to my knees, heart and soul sank further. Yet my
eyes were locked. Locked on that beast. We can fix all the “Error Errors” and “System
failures” all we want, but it’ll do nothing. Our fate is decided, the judgement is doom. A
tear spawned down my face, and then another, and another. I couldn’t move. One by one
everyone else had eyes locked onto the vacuum of reality. They all stopped trying to
work and trying to fix the destiny that was placed upon the ship.

ERROR-ERROR-SYSTEM FAILURE

No one moved. No one flinched. We just sat there, being bathed by the red lights.
For a moment it was quiet. The sound of the ship barreling towards the hole, the hull
distorting under its pull, the running and screaming. It all just frosted over into silence.
Soon all the light was devoured. Pitch darkness swallowed the ship shortly after. For the
first time on this voyage we were not able to see the stars out in the void. We were alone

and truly in the dark. A low moan turned high pitch as the ship shuddered like a
freezing child.

ERROR-ERROR-SYsTeeeemMm faaaaiiluuurrrrrrrrrrrreeeeee.

The programs voice sputtered out in a deep groan to silence. Like watching a

video as it slowly turned to slow motion. The lights stopped flashing. Computers, work

lights, doors- all grinded to a halt one by one. The hull was screaming now, screaming

out in agony. Its poor skin was being shredded off the muscles beneath extended into

shrapnel.

This hole was a cruel mistress; poking it with a burning iron rod over and over

again. I glazed over the crowd of officials once again. Some were praying, some crying

and holding themselves. Battle hardening could only go so far, we all will have to resort

to giving up or to reach out to something far higher than us. The hull roared as if to

cry out for a call to help. The crowd covered their ears from the blood curdling screech.

Even the roar was silenced however when the snap came. Crack. With one swift

movement and out world cracked under its pressure. It sounded out like trumpets to

announce the rapture. As if you wore headphone of subwoofers on full blast.

White; all that was before me

was white. Then the sound of ocean

waves lapping against a damp shore

faded in. Birds singing the song of

love. Food sizzling on grills. Cheers

and cries of laughter and happiness.

Cold water rushing over my feet,

stealing the sand from beneath

them. The cool breeze of a summer

shore. Light of the sun beating down

on to my bare back. However the

heat did not burn, it did not hurt,

there was no pain. Salt began to

scent the breeze, seafood followed

shortly after. I could feel a hand and

arm come across my lower back,

soft and gentle. A head with soft

hair lay upon my shoulder. Finally I

could see as the white light receded

into a beautifully blazing star above.

Matched with the most perfect blue

and softest and fluffiest of clouds,

like massive cotton candy balls

floating in the sky. The never ending

Trees by Sophie Countryman expanse of water met the sky upon
the horizon. A deep tan shade of

sand sat under me. Crowds of happy

and carefree people. Busy enough to make me feel cozy and welcomed but empty

enough to allow personal space. A small series of shops, restaurants, and homes stood

behind us. It was Tampa, our home it all was so perfect.

Morning — Dennis Kruglov

‘Tis one good a morning, Art (below): look ma, no refs
A finer day can’t be. by Emma DeLong
For when I woke,
The sky hath conjured up a gray.
A slightly mystic setting,
And as such I like today!

Fools — Emily Murphy

“Here, here!” The fools dance and sing.
How ignorant they are.
For who do they sing to?
A false king?
Or a simpleton fool as they were?
The fellow fool has empathy for the fellow man,
but he himself has forged a throne of lies.

Priority Boarding - An Excerpt

By Tony Liu

Airports are God’s way of trying to get us to stop climbing up so close
to the heavens. I mean, even The Almighty himself doesn’t have enough spare
time on his hands to smite every single airplane that dares approach the
pearly gates, and therefore had to come up with some other, more subtle
course of deterrence. So he created the intricacies of the TSA, and the
baggage claim, and indefinite delays due to the thunder in Philly. Airports
are just God’s way of telling us, it’s cute that you want to fly and all,
but why don’t you just stay on the ground where you belong.

So with all that being said, I guess you could call me a heretic. I’ve
got three different frequent flyer passes, with about fifty-five hundred
thousand, two hundred and fifty… six? traveler points between them. I’ve
probably spent more time in my life in the sky than I have on the ground.
When I was just a kid, my parents would travel the world with me in tow,
when I went to college I spent most of my time traveling abroad in Southeast
Asia, and now as a grown man, I spend my days constantly on the move between
cities thanks to frequent business trips.

But even after all that flying, I can only think of one flight that
might’ve genuinely convinced me to never take to the skies again.

When flying anywhere, there are an infinite number of things can go
wrong. Most of which, are things that derive their inconvenience from the
stupidity of human beings. Of course there’ll always be something that
annoys you when you’re soaring through the friendly skies; the smelly seat
partner, the inconsiderate passenger who enjoys reclining their seat just a
little bit too much, and of course the expression of immense bodily self
control because you didn’t have the foresight to book yourself an aisle
seat.

But more likely than not, you’ll come across one to none of these
problems on your average plane-based commutes, or maybe you’ll be faced with
the misfortune of just one of those scenarios. But this time, oh this time,
things were not fine, and in a pretty major way.

I was on a return flight from a small business conference in New York,
and seeing as I had chosen to fly business class on my last few trips (and
with the flight being just an hour long), I decided to save the company a
few bucks by hanging back in economy.

That was my first mistake, my second mistake was booking myself the
window seat. Now I was stuck in both the back of the plane, and in a seat
far away from the aisle. Things could’ve been better.

Upon taking my seat in row 22, seat designation B, I opened up and
delved into the latest edition of the New York Times. Intently reading
through a story about mayoral elections, I quickly lost interest in my

surroundings. And surprisingly enough, by the time I had gotten to the

editorial page, we were already in the air and cruising at thirty thousand

feet.

Then I looked up.

In front of me sat the epitome

of airborne travel. He was a big

man, not that I would call him

overly big, but I would say that he

was just a Popeyes’ biscuit shy from

needing a weight watchers diet. He

also smelled of… what I would call…

cheddar cheese puffs? It was either

that or he was carrying around the

rotting corpse of an Atlantic Trout

around in his carry on. I chose to

believe it was cheese puffs. And

speaking of his carry on, over time

he must have been pushing it closer

and closer to my side of the seats,

seeing as now the side of my right

foot was pushed right up against his

trout bodybag, when it definitely Head In the Clouds By Julanna Zhang
wasn’t earlier.

This was atrocious. Now

thinking about it, my mental reaction (or should I say over-reaction) was a

bit… much. But hear me out, when you’ve spent the vast majority of your life

flying life sipping champagne in first class, you come to expect certain

things from your seat mates; one of those things being, for them not to

smell like a heap of fish guts. So for me, getting paired up with guy was

the equivalent of the airplane straight up flying into the side of a

mountain.

To put it mildly, I was not pleased, and I was about to express that

displeasure, when suddenly he turned to me and began, “Hey look who’s

finally come to their senses.” He paused and pointed towards the newspaper

in my hands, “I see you’ve got the latest edition of the Times. Personally,

I prefer a nice morning read of the Post, but the Times is obviously a

pretty good read as well, no doubt about it.”

Carefully folding up my newspaper, I slowly come to the realization

that I wasn’t only going to have to tolerate this guy, but I was actually

going to have to talk to him. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with talking to

this man in particular, it’s just that, flying on an airplane is an

experience akin using a public bathroom. Of course there’ll be other people

around you, but there’s just a sort of unspoken rule that says that you

should never make eye contact with, much less talk to, anyone around you.

Silence Black,
By Harlee Carr The eyes
Of eternity
Silence, White,
The knot
Broken animation. Of inner
Peace.
Loss, Tough,
Sand in
A thousand Our judgement.
Morning whispers. Silence,
The forever
New, Abyss

Unexplored regions Final Composition
Of the
Mind. By: Abhinav Ghosh

Torture,

Rhythms of
The tongue
Barr through
The soul.

Love,

Varying species
That bend
Us to
Their will.

Regret,

The darkest
Part of
Me.

These are 100 word “sagas” that are inspired by story starters provided by
the Young Writers organization.

It Got Out by Lily Geiser

I stumbled towards the fence in a panic. No. No, no, no, no. The hum of
electricity was gone, replaced with bone-chilling silence. The silver mesh
stood there, useless without its spark, a weak, desperate imitation of its
former self. I wanted to run, to scream for help, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t
because I was fixated by the ragged hole in the fence. I couldn’t because I
heard it run up behind me. I couldn’t because I felt its hot breath on my neck.

I couldn’t because it grabbed me, and then my vision turned to red.

A Noise in the Basement by Gabbi Godenzi

Crash! My heart skipped beats as I swore I heard a noise coming from
downstairs. My entire body had turned in the direction of the basement, eyes
locked on the door. The room was silent and the only thing alive — me.

Or so I thought.
I slowly rose up from the couch, avoiding any resonance coming from
my steps as I crept closer to the door. Before I could turn the knob, the horrid
realization hit me. They were here for me just like they were here for
everybody else...

Forgotten by Tony Liu

Suitcases. As far as the eye could see. Some rested next to
pitifully empty seats, others along the steps of now-dormant escalators.
Most just stood in disorganized masses along the sides hallways. None
were opened. Another few steps brought me into a Starbucks. Carefully
pushing aside empty chairs and unattended luggage, I noticed
something. The now-cold cups of coffee were unnamed, the vacant
laptops all showed blank, white screens. It was as if all these people had
not just disappeared but had been forgotten completely. Alarmingly I
heard the PA system crackles to life; Flight 195, prepare for onboarding.

Windows to the Unknown by Rachael Molnar

Running my hands along the threadbare-edges of the portrait in
front of me, my family’s almost-spine-chillingly-perfect grins
chauvinistically slice through the cloak of dust. The void-like spot where
the picture once hung, glistened an incomprehensible honey-beam. A
mirror? My mother’s words mentally echoed- “We keep them away for
your own safety.” In the place where my faultless-Neptune eyes were
supposed to lay, were buttons. A devil-like energy exuded from behind
me. “Clara, you know you’re not supposed to play with mirrors,” my
mother shrilled. The unexplored ground trembled outside. My mother
froze knowingly, horror-struck.

“Mommy!” the giant shrieked. “They moved!”

The Wicked

By Calista Busch

Wind.
The one feeling in the world that Lyra never tired of. She closed her eyes and let the cold air funnel
around her face, the wind harsh enough to freeze her lips and nose. To her, it felt like being alive. The cold air
invigorated her, waking up her soul like a splash of water.
A sense of awe at the beauty of the unforgiving landscape filled Lyra as she opened her eyes, peering at
the sandy dunes and scrub grass covering the ground as far as the eye can see. The deserted, bone dry planes
unfolded for miles and miles before her from her vantage point thousands of feet in the air.
She tilted her wings slightly, angling them to better catch the updrafts of warm air rising from the desert
below bringing with them the rich smell of sage and dry earth. Behind her, twelve other figures did the same,
rising higher than the few wispy clouds that dared make an appearance here. Their shadows fell on the ground
below, so small they appeared to be a group of birds heading south for winter. Even as high as they were, the
soft arid wind could not muffle the cacophony of their wings propelling them across the sky, thundering in Lyra’s
chest like a second heartbeat.
Ba-boom. Ba-boom.
“We are approaching Itralo. Be prepared. While small they possess advanced weaponry designed specifically
against our kind,” Lyra barked back to her unit. “No looting this time. The Matron wants those weapons.”
Fierce, Impassive faces looked back at her. Warrior’s faces.
“And ladies,” she said, “make them bleed.”
Wicked smiles grew on everyone’s faces and Lyra faced forward again, watching intently for any sign of
the city lying blissfully unaware of the fate that approached. They had no warning besides whispers of what
happened to cities that defied Aixea rule; whispers they had foolishly chosen to ignore.
An Aixean messenger had reached their city several months ago bringing treaties of peace and trade. A
better bargain than any other city had received, only offered out of courtesy and desire for Itralo’s advanced
technology.
The messenger’s body had at last been returned a week ago, dumped on the edge of human and Aixea
lands. Accompanying it was a note:
We don’t make deals with savages.
The Matron didn’t take well to insults or to arrogant humans who thought to challenge her. Lyra’s coven
had been chosen to teach the city a lesson, remind them of their place in this world.

Grand Teton Mountains by Aadrija Biswas
“Put fear in their hearts that will last until their great grandchildren have passed,” The Matron had
ordered, “Do not, however, destroy the city. There is too much value, too much knowledge encased in that city to
be destroyed by blood-thirsty fools.”
Lyra knew she was referring to the rumors surrounding her unit. Rumors of viciousness and violence
unparalleled in the entirety of the coven’s legion. Rumors they were, but Lyra ensured they reached the ears of the
other warriors and leaders. Rumors did as much to weaken an enemy’s resolve as fighting and killing did.
And in those cavernous halls tucked into the Sa’taag Mountains where her people lived, it did well for
others to fear you. If only it meant the knife that killed you was less likely to come from one of your own.
“We will not fail,” Lyra promised, as if they had any choice but to succeed; it was no secret what
happened to units that failed. Oftentimes they were better off fleeing, for at least it gave them a head start
against the Aixean that were sure to hunt them and bring them home to be punished for their failure.
The memory melted from Lyra’s mind as the spires of Itralo’s famed temples punched into the horizon,
still hazy from swirling dust and mirages. Even from this distance, she could see the grandeur - and size. Thirteen
of the best Aixean warriors against one city armed with weaponry specifically built against their kind.
Though her face remained impassive, the thrill of battle began to settle in her bones, jolts of electricity
charging through her limbs, her sights sharpening, the wind’s soft whispers filling her ears. She brushed her hand
over the cool metal hilt of the sword strapped across her back. Not in reassurance, but in certainty. A small, cruel
smile slipped onto her face.
Dead men, they were all dead men, and their city, glorious to behold, famed for its advancements and
architectural feats, was doomed.