First Love

Prickly kisses detonated revelations
anticipation decodes a frolicking urge
the gentle raptor of soaring devotion
subdues the hound of fear

 

--The club

It Can Happen

For me, it can happen anywhere, any time. It can happen at home, as I'm sitting at the lighted screen of my computer. It can happen as I walk down the streets, the sun warming my skin and music blaring in my ears. It is a trap that can snare me whenever it pleases, and I am left unable to disarm it. All I can do is sit and wait until it gets bored with me and ceases its vicious, cold-hearted attacks. It has even been known to take over in a classroom, of all places.

Innocent enough setting, no? Fluorescent lights overhead, tossing their beams to the floor. People talking, people laughing, people smiling, writing utensils scratching paper, it's busy and buzzing until the teacher stands at the front of the room, looking imposing. Then, all falls silent as the students pay attention. After a while, the teacher ends their lecture, and the air is filled with many voices once more. All the noise, all the chaotic sound...Sometimes I am comforted by it, other times it gives me a headache. I contribute little to the flow of conversation, preferring to watch, work, and wonder what it would be like to be able to let your mouth form words so easily and comfortably.

I do try sometimes, though, but it comes out awkwardly, not nearly as graceful as those sitting around me. Mockery follows my every word, dismantling any confidence in what I say. It all opens the black chest of my mind, one I wish I could lock and burn in the hottest flames of hell or throw in the deepest sea. Shadows burst forward from their home and proceed to invade my thoughts, whispering things no schoolyard bully would ever be creative enough to come up with.

Trying to appear as calm as possible, I look around the room as I attempt to calm myself. It doesn't work; rather, it becomes worse, giving me paranoia. It is too late by now, for I have already been caught in the trap. The people around me begin to laugh again, and I can''t help but wonder if it was about me. In a last-ditch effort to distract myself, I stop watching for a bit and put my nose in my work. No dice. Another ripple of laughter comes to my ears, and the darkness clawes at me even more fervently. I try to ignore it, try to move on, but the mirthful, seemingly derisive noise  rages on, and my thoughts grow more light less by the minute. I continue working and watching, determined not to let others see my fear. As I read the problems on the classwork, I bounce my pencil up and down with my thumb, wanting to keep my hands moving.  The shadows within begin to get even more malicious, going from simple insults to decimation of my character. It ends with me loathing myself; loathing the fact I couldn't seem to do anything to please anyone and loathing the fact that I did this to myself constantly.

Finally, the bell rings, a sweet song that sang that I had no more time to worry. I slowly stand, watching as someone a few seats away from me got their things together. Quietly, we walk into the outside together, squinting as the massive amounts of sunlight rush into our eyes. We part ways, and being the curious person that I am, I look back. 

As I do so, I see a hand raise and wave at me, and I can't help but smile and wave back. It makes me think that maybe I'm not a bad person after all, that maybe I knew how to do some things right.

It's then that the shadows receded, crawling back into their chest and waiting for the next moment of opportunity, but I have no reason to worry about that now. My mind is as clear as it will ever be.
 

-- Holly Callies

Picture Perfect

Cracked drywall sighed deeply, an Atlas beneath thousands of negatives and photos tacked onto the interior of a white-washed room. Disappointment drove into my throat like a damp rag soaked in formaldehyde as I slid my fingers across each glossy surface, each flaw flinching beneath my touch.

“You’re still locked in here,” my wife Clara whispered into my shoulder as she clasped her arms tightly around my waist. I sighed with guilt and frustration, my thoughts tumbling into reality, and I intertwined my fingers with her.

“It’s flawed. I can’t quite get it perfect…,” I muttered, allowing my words to die in the graveyard of every unspoken syllable. I turned and faced her, examined every perfect line on her face from her emerald eyes to her ski-slope nose and soft jawline.

Silently, I clasped her writs and swiftly drew my pen from my pocket and jammed the tool into her throat. Pen bit skin, entangled with an artery, then wedged deeply into the larynx with most gentle ease. I held her tightly against my chest, apologizing profusely as tears cascaded down her cheeks and her chest shuddered as her life began to gently drift away.

Blood prellifluously flowed from the hollow of her throat, creating a scarlet pool along her pale collarbone. Flowing red. A single black line, white background. I lifted my camera and took the perfect picture.

--Amber

 

Valley of Bones

The path weaved precariously, bordered by a jagged wall of human bones that jutted out into the red haze of a war torn evening. The dirty, clotted hooves of the encumbered stallion splashed through shallow puddles of muddy blood as the exhausted beast panted voraciously.

“Onward, Syrium! The night approaches!” declared the hooded figure in the saddle. The figure turned and saw through the great field of bones the Black Battalion, crushing its way through the skeletal valley around them. Under him, the horse shuddered and writhed, but the figure continued kicking the steed. His legs were lethargic, weak from fear. The savage cries of the shadowed cannibals rang out with vicious hunger. Fast and faster, nearer and nearer the grotesque face became – driven by a hunger that should have weakened them months ago. Yet, the macabre myriad pushed on, searching with gooey black eyes, listening with deep, bulbous holes in the sides of dragon egg-shaped heads, sniffing with meaty nostrils, sloshy with watery mucous.

Not only did the hooded figure hear them, but he could smell them - like the slimy carcass of a rotting flesh, floating slowly a steamy fecal swamp infested with ringworm. The horrid, noxious beasts leaped high in the hazy air, landing invulnerably in the bore pit beneath them.

Syrium lurched, spit up a foul fluid, and shook his head before picking up his trot again. The hooded figure watched with despair the pestiferous bite mark in Syrium’s right, frontal calf. The venom was seeping from vein to vein, coursing its way to the steed’s skull – where it would envelop his meaty brain in a black madness. Violently, with agony, the faithful stallion jerked, its quickly moving legs folding underneath its muscled body. His knotty knees slammed into the blood-soaked earth, propelling the hooded figure several feet forward. White and red streamed past his vision in blurry stripes as he flew threw the air.

The hooded figure slammed into the ground and slid through the red slick coating the pathway. The figure felt his legs, his hips, his breast, his face. All was intact.

The letters were strewn about, near the figure’s carrier pouch, turning crimson in a large puddle of blood. Scrambling over to the ruined documents, the now panicked messenger attempted to salvage letters, signed by the king himself, but they were already disintegrating in the blood.

The letters gave orders to free 1000 peasant hostages from a war camp in Dantria, and now they were destroyed – fading miserably into a miniscule puddle in a valley of death.

Syrium growled hungrily, wriggling pestilentially where he lie. Black jaws sprung blades from the horse's mouth, and his eyes began to bleed. A carnivorous roar sprang from somewhere deep in the horse's infected, watery gut. The horse sprang for its ride, snapping its teeth.

As fast as lightning, the rider unsheathed his blade and swung it in a deadly arc, beheading the changed animal. The act was not murder, but mercy – as there was no other means of helping Syrium at that stage. The smell of rotting flesh began to surround the hooded figure and, knowing he had failed, rammed the handle of the sword into the mud, the blade facing the sky. With one last act of loyalty to the king, let his body fall forward onto the sword. His last image was of the forces of darkness surrounding him – hungry and savage – preparing to devour him and pull him from the valley of the bones.

--Zach

The Stars Burned

The stars burned points into the black night sky, glaring down from the heavens at us while we stared back at them from the hood of my car. “They are so beautiful. What do you think happens to them when they die,” said Molly.

“Are you talking about really or are you talking about the romantic version that every teenager in ‘love’ would think,” I replied as seriously as possible.

“Both.”

“When they die they glow as brightly as they can and are reborn into beautiful girls like you.”

“Okay silly, now how about the real version,” she requested.

I laughed quietly,” That was the real version. Lawl.” I waited for her okay-for-real-now look. “Just kidding. Some do burn as brightly as they ever have though and then once they run out of fuel they no longer have any energy preventing themselves from imploding, so they fall inwards and create a black hole- those are purely theory and have been proven but never seen by the way- and suck up all the matter around them creating a gravitational strong enough to prevent light from escaping. I wonder how that works since light technically has no mass…” I trailed off wondering if light really did have mass. Note to self: Google mass of light.

“Wow. One way gives the world an angel and the other eats the universe… That’s weird how it’s so different. No wonder people don’t talk like scientists all the time. Plus if we thought about it the way you explained it no one would ever love the stars again, because any one of them could mean impending doom upon all of man kind, and if light can’t escape, how could we have any hope?” There were endless tangents I could go off on if that had been Molly’s final though of that particular moment, but like she usually did, she gave me a clear direction she wanted to go in. “What happens to us when we die?”

“Aw shit. How do you want me to explain it; do you want what I think or what ninety-five percent of the world believes?”

“I want the truth.”

Why did she have to pick this tangent? “Double, aw shit.” Well my belief is correct according to definition of my religion. I am one of the 335,000,000 people who believe there is no high omnipotent being controlling the workings of this and every other universe; I am an atheist.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. Well what invented everything then Mr. Smarty pants,” she teased.

I rolled to face her cheek, and damn she was hot. “One question at a time, please. So when we die, I believe nothing happens to us.”

“I asked what happens, not what doesn’t happen.” She rolled to face me; her whole face was even hotter than her than just a cheek.

“Well that’s just it, nothing ‘happens’ to people. We don’t become something else, or fall into a permanent sleep, or anything; the electrical impulses in our brain just stop firing and we are dead.”

“So what does it feel like?”

“That’s another thing. It doesn’t feel at all. Okay, close your eyes and stare at you eyelids.” She followed the instructions and pursed her lips. I left her hanging. “What do you see?”

“Some random lights. Well not really. They are more like a whole ton of black an white pixels that shade to make different colors.” This was the general description I expected.

“Okay so there you go. That’s what some people think happens to you when you die. I would guess, maybe what a Christian would picture an atheist believes happens. That’s wrong. Imagine nothing at all. I don’t mean imagine nothingness, but imagine nothing. It’s hard I know but that’s basically what happens.

I person doesn’t leave a minuscule trace of existence or transcend their being. They die. They are nothing and there is no point to anything they ever did. Sure they may have saved lives or made a better life for so poor sap but it doesn’t matter because they will die too, leaving nothing behind but memories and influence. That though is too cheery because it gives the hope that there is a point to life and we matter. We don’t and when we die we don’t do anything.”

“Oh my GOD! That’s so sad. You just told me that I am a pointless sack of carbon-based material whose life doesn’t affect or matter. And plus what if you are wrong?” She was teary-eyed looking at me. I think that she pictured it far too well; I did once and I cried for an hour before talking myself out of reality.

“I hope like hell I’m wrong because then I get to burn in hell for the rest of time and beyond.” Puzzled, she looked at me. “I think that having molten rock poured in my ass forever is better than dying and stopping to exist. At least that way my life could have a purpose and then the whole of humanity wouldn’t be a pointless struggle to have meaning.”

She sat and pondered what I had said; as a dutiful boyfriend I gave her time to wonder and she never said anything. She just cried on me till we went home. Standing on her porch she looked at me and said,” It’s horrible you believe that can be true and it’s still as poetic as a fluffed up religious version. I hope you are wrong because I don’t want to die.”

-- Zach

I Remembered

I remembered walking between the seats, my head spinning, feeling nauseated by all the personalities dive-bombing me all at once. The girl who sat next to me the entire trip, on both planes. Her anorexia drove me insane, so I never once partook of a single bite of the food I had packed. I didn’t mind much until we switched planes. However, the guy behind me was girl crazy and searched the plane for any available woman he could find. At the same time, the man in front of me was a self-pronounced sexist and loathed females young and old. With both Shakespeare sonnets and "all men created equal", I eventually evacuated my seat to spend the rest of the time hiding in the restroom. Unfortunately, even the water closet failed as a sanctuary when a person who had verbal diarrhea stood next to the lavatory and we engaged in a lengthy conversation through the door until we were asked to return to our seats so that the plane could land without any injured passengers. Returning to my seat, I found Ms. Anorexic and the guy behind me caught in a passionate lip-locking-embrace, and the seat beside me was replaced by an eleven-year-old high school student Star Treck fan and had a mouth stuffed with braces. It wasn’t long before I realized that Monsieur sexist had moved to a different part of the plane and the lovers behind me both had very strong personalities. Fortunately, the plane landed quickly and I was quick to leave so that Lady Star Treck wouldn’t ask for my phone number.

"The plane trip—it was enjoyable," I lied in prely. "Think mom would drive up here and take me home? I’ve always wanted to go on a road trip."

He grunted and slurped from the thin soup.

"Mmm, this is good, have you tried any?" my father said, pointing at the bowl with his spoon.

I quickly spooned a portion of the soup into my mouth. The stew was slightly burnt and choking in pepper, but the seal meat gave it a sweet flavor.

"It’s good," I replied honestly. Silence hung thickly in the air, the fire crackled contentedly, snapping loudly.

"You date yet?" he asked, leaning back so that his chair teetered on its back two legs.

I looked downwards to hide my grimace. Being alone with one other personality for hours would kill me, or lead to trouble.

"School keeps me busy," I replied shortly.

"Haven’t you met any decent girls?"

"Really dad, I have several years before I have to get married."

"Well it isn’t too early to look-."

"Dad, I’m tired and it’s late."

My father yawned, stretching his arms upward so that his fingertips grazed the ceiling and swung them downwards.

"You’re right," he replied. "It’s late. Good night son."

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I take a walk in the morning?" I asked. "I don’t want to wake you, so I’ll probably go early."

"Fine with me."

Kneeling onto my knees, I sank into the snow and felt a prayer of thankfulness begin to swell up in my chest. I dipped my hands into the bitter cold snow and pressed it to my lips until the snow crunched quietly. White, white, white. Glorious, pure, untainted, alone, untouched. Precious adjectives filled my head, flowed down my throat, pumped through my veins, trembled at my fingertips.

"Hey you."

I jumped to my feet trying to find someplace to hide, but there wasn’t a tree or rock for miles, just acres of white, flat snow. Instead, I shoved my hands into my pockets and turned around. The young man sauntering across the field was thin, but still well built and could have easily towered above me had he stood beside me. His hair was honey blonde, hanging down to his shoulders and his facial features somewhat angular. The appearance of his twinkling eyes and upturned mouth was jesting, as if he had just finished placing a rather slimy frog into his sister’s shoe. Despite the freezing temperature, he had his parka slung over his shoulder and he only wore a thin black turtleneck sweater and a pair of jeans.

"What’s your name?" he asked as he continued to walk towards me, I took a few steps back as I felt his presence creep towards me. It choked the air and wrapped around my throat like skinny fingers.

"Jesse Ozias," I choked.

"You new here?"

"Yes."

Before I knew it, he had snatched my hand up into an eye-watering grip and shook it firmly.

"My name is James Ignaslevski. Do you go to the little school in the city, or are you home-schooled?" he asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"I’m home-schooled," I replied, thankful that that part was true.

"Sweet, maybe we could hang out sometime during the day. What do you like to do?"

My face flushed red as I tried without prevail to restrain myself, but words began to tumble off my lips

"I love shoplifting, stealing, wrestling, throwing stones at the elementary children, making out with girls, cheating on my girlfriends, playing baseball, and blaming everything that goes wrong on my twin sister just to see her get in trouble."

I groaned inwardly as my stomach twisted into a tight knot and James nodded his head in approval.

"Brutal honesty," he grinned. "I like that a lot, why don’t you come over to my house after your school hours are over?"

I didn’t want to go there at all, I willed myself to answer no, but he wanted me to, and therefore I wanted myself to. Instead, I simply nodded and cursed myself for not making a small effort.

He started to turn away, but stopped.

"I think it’s so cool that we are both twins, maybe we could swap sisters and go out for a double date?"

He waggled his eyebrows and winked in a way that made my stomach churn, but perhaps it was just the poorly constructed enchiladas my father had made. If I had a sister of any kind, I’d pay for her ticket to take a plane away from him. As James began to walk away, I reached forward and expertly snatched his phone out of his back pocket, tucking it deep into my own. When he was out of sight, I fished the razor phone back out and stared at it. The blue surface glimmered softly in the darkness and winked as I tilted it forward and moonlight bounced across it. Why had I stolen his phone? The action had felt so natural. Shrugging, I returned the item to my pocket and turned to find home, pausing to curse when I realized that my bag felt about three books lighter.

I exhaled a sigh of relief as James left the room, shrugging off his suffocating personality with a sharp snap of my wrists. I glanced at his sister for the second time so that I could see her without my tainted vision. Her body was slight, almost pixie-like, and her long pale brown hair swept up into a lose bun on the back of her head. Her skin was pale, but not unlike everyone else’s skin in this part of Alaska and her blue-green eyes sparkled electrically underneath long dark eyelashes.

"Are you James’ sister?" I asked. She nodded, remaining silent as she rolled the yarn into a nice, plump ball, refusing to meet my gaze despite how intently I stared at her.

"Do you go to town much? Maybe you could tell me what it’s like?" I pressed, hoping for an answer.

Shaking her head, she wove the yarn through the loom, working so rapidly that the shuttle became a brown blur in her fingers.

"I don’t mean to sound rude," I muttered, slightly embarrassed, "are you mute?"

She glared up at me from beneath her eyelashes and shook her head fervently. The annoyance of actually having someone to speak with through my words and having that person refuse to communicate kicked hard at my pride.

"You know," I sighed, leaning back into the plush sofa, "You probably have a really nice voice, but I can’t know that unless you talk-."

"Stop it," she snapped, gathering up her yarn and placing them into a small wicker basket.

Ah, she didn’t like compliments. I honestly didn’t want to be mean, but it would only be moments before James came back and I would have to start talking like him.

"You really are the prettiest girl I’ve met in Alaska so far-."

Her eyes flaming with anger, she snatched up her basket and stood sharply, glaring at me.

"You really are the rudest person I’ve ever met in Alaska," she hissed.

I also stood, having been insulted, and found myself ever so surprised that I towered over her by at least a foot, yet she still set her chin and straightened her back. Two steps back and I was safe from mimicking her.

"I was just trying to talk to you!" I exclaimed exasperated.

"Then maybe you shouldn’t talk! You’d attract more girls that way!"

"You honestly think I was trying to flirt with you?!"

"Settle down children," said James as he entered the room, his eyes grew large as he observed my tightly clenched fists and he could probably see his sister’s imagination grow more and more violent by the second.

"I see you’ve met my sister Inge," he said gesturing towards her as she made an angry grunting sound and left the room.

I shrugged. "I was just trying to talk to her and she tried to bite my head off."

"Yeah, that’s Inge. I think I used to tease her too much when we were kids," replied James as he popped open a fizzing can of root beer.

"Do you know where the library is? I’m almost out of books," I asked.

"It’s actually in a little house," James replied, taking a swig of the foaming soda. "Down the road about two miles. You’ll pass a church on the way there."

"Thanks."

James Ignaslevski

A simple strand of rough wool was all that separated me from my integrity

"James, give me back my yarn."

"Your yarn?"

"Yes, my yarn!" she shouted. "The stuff I use everyday! Where is it?"

Shrugged. "How should I know?"

"Because you’ve taken my stuff all week!" she cried, sitting heavily on the couch. "On Monday it was a pair of scissors and a pair of socks, Tuesday it was my loom, Wednesday you snatched my hairdryer, Thursday you stole my hamster!"

"Whoa," I said, stopping her in mid-speech. "Stole is a pretty heavy word."

"It might be heavy, but it’s true!" she snapped. "What do you need with it anyway?"

Flinched. There was something about pocket-picking, that moment of pure thrill, wondering if you’ll get caught. It was so unexplainably addicting. I didn’t need, or want, any of that stuff; I just liked to take it. After that, I’d just toss it in the shed or tuck it underneath my bed and I’d forget about it. No biggie.

"Just go to heck, Inge, and leave me alone. Woe unto the liar-."

"Woe unto the thief, James! Someday you’re going to steal something big, a police car, a diamond, Leonardo’s painting of Mona Lisa, someone’s life, what are you going to do then?"

"That’s why we live in Alaska." Yawned. "No one important lives here except for a bunch of retired authors, and I wouldn’t get into trouble for stealing from a cop because this town is so small that we’re probably related to him. Persecute yer own family? The entire town will hear about it within a few hours and blame the great-somethin’-twice removed. They care more ‘bout pride than law."

She glared at me and stormed off hurling her empty wicker basket at me as she passed. Caught it in both hands. "Go milk the cows. It’s nearly seven."

"I can’t," she hollered back over her shoulder. "I think a blizzard is headed this way."

I jumped to my feet and pushed my arms through the sleeves of my parka. The poor kid. Five foot nothing and skinny as a rail. He’d get blown away before he found shelter.

"Inge, throw me my boots."

"What are you lazy? They’re right next to you."

Ignoring her comment, I shoved my feet into the knee length boots, lacing them up tightly.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Jesse’s going to the library."

"He’ll be alright."

"He’s from Arizona!" I exclaimed. "He doesn’t know the difference between an oncoming blizzard and shredded paper! He won’t know what to do."

As I opened the door, snow burst into the house in a white flurry and I suddenly felt arms clasp around my waist.

"I’m sorry James," Inge whispered. "I shouldn’t have yelled at you."

I grunted and pushed her away, immediately regretting that action when I closed the door in her face, realizing that I filled her eyes with anguish.

"Jesse!" I shouted, holding up my hand and squinted through the thick wall of white. Worry gnawed at me as I realized that the road was becoming less and less visible, so I began to scan the roadside, searching for some kind of shelter. "Jesse!"

"I’m here!" a voice shouted, but it was faint and sounded far away underneath the roar of the blizzard. I peered around, reaching out and grabbing the collar of a person shivering in the snow

"What are you doing out in a blizzard?"

"Thought this was normal weather."

"It is this time of year, but you shouldn’t be stupid about it!" I dragged him along as I ran a few feet up the road, relieved to see one of the church doors sitting open a jar. I flung him inside, praying that he wasn’t suffering from hypothermia or some warped cold, and slammed the heavy door behind me. I slid down, with my back still pressing against the door. Jesse, shivering uncontrollably, wrapped his arms around his legs and pressed his blue lips to his knees.

"You don’t look too good," I stated. "Hey. You got hypothermia?"

"I thought you had to have water for that to happen," he chattered. "I heard about these hikers who were out hiking Superstitions. It rained so they found shelter, but the girl had hypothermia, so she died."

"What if I met someone with hypothermia. What would I do?"

"You have to get them warm," he said through chattering teeth."

"In Alaska?"

"Well," he said, smiling, "You’re really supposed to strip the victim and yourself down to their underwear and climb in a sleeping bag or underneath a blanket, share your body heat."

Chuckled. "Dude, you better hope you don’t have hypothermia because I ain’t gonna strip for anything, it’s too cold in here."

Jesse laughed and pulled the parka up over his head, trapping his foggy exhales inside the hood.

"How long do blizzards last?" he asked.

"Not too long," I replied. "It should be over by morning at the very longest."

Hours dragged by as we listened to the shrieking wind rake the roof shingles and smack against the windows. Jesse, exhausted from his long hike, eventually found comfort on the stone floor and slumbered peacefully. I groaned and rolled my arms feeling more awake than I had been and slouched against the wall, waiting for the night to pass.

Jesse Ozias

"Hey, where’s my parka?" I stated, jumping up off of the icy floor.

"Your what?"

"My parka, it’s gone."

"You probably misplaced it."

"Misplaced it? In a church? How-."

I paused realizing that he was lying on top of it.

"Why’d you take it?" I asked, frustrated.

James shrugged, sliding it out from beneath him and offering it up towards me. "Dunno. You can have it back, though."

I snatched it away and tried to push the church doors open, but they wouldn’t budge. I banged on the door, pulling and shoving with all the strength inside of me.

"It’s no good," James muttered, "we’re blocked in."

"Can’t we break a window?" I asked hopefully.

Shaking his head, he pressed one fist against the door. "The windows are filled with white. If the building was covered in snow and we broke one of them, this room could be filled with snow, the room would be cold, and we could still be stuck in here. We have a better chance of staying here while we waited for someone to dig us out than to take our chances by breaking out ourselves."

Shuddering, I pressed my forehead and palm against the wall. His personality was clawing at the air around me, pressing in on me, screaming at me.

"Open up," I whispered to the door, begging for an answer.

"It’s no use Jesse," James sighed. "We’ll just have to wait until someone finds us."

I threw my parka on the ground and looked around me; the chapel was no larger than my living room. How was I going to stay away from his personality?

"Are there any other rooms?" I asked desperately.

"Uh, yeah. There is the Sunday school room and a kitchen."

"Where are they?" I asked, already beginning to choke on his presence.

"Right through those doors," he said, pointing to the right side of the room. I darted across the chapel and tugged on the doors, they didn’t budge.

"Locked tight," I muttered. I felt around, hoping for the hinges, but they were on the other side. My fingers finally swept over a smooth, freezing surface.

"Hey James," I said squinting through the darkness. "Is that stain glass? Is it a window to the outside or into the Sunday School room?"

He came up next to me and peered through the dim light. "It’s stain glass, and it looks like it is a window to the Sunday School room, probably so that the parents can check on their kids if they think they’re being bad."

"James?"

"What?"

"Give me my belt back."

Even in the dark, I could see his cheeks redden.

"Oh, sorry," he said, handing it back.

I stepped backwards and kicked my foot through the small window, jumping backwards as the glass shattered and rained down from the tall window.

"Breaking a window in a church?"

"Yep," I replied as I began to shimmy through the small opening. "There might be some food left in the kitchen. They probably had a dinner of some sort for Christmas. That was only a few days ago."

"Um… I still think breaking stained-glass could be counted as one of the eight deadly sins."

"There are only seven, genius," I snorted.

"When the minister comes back to this, I think they’ll be happy to add an eighth," he replied, following me through the window.

"You go check in the kitchen for food," I instructed. "I’ll look through the cupboards here; they might have animal crackers or goldfish stored away for the younger children.

"Right on it."

I wrenched open cupboard doors and pushed aside papers, catching a bible before it hit the ground. My family wasn’t exactly what most people called "religious". We were one of those who went to church only on Christmas and Easter, and even then we were always at least half and hour late, but it still felt wrong to drop something that was an important piece to this building, simply something that wasn’t done. Taboo. As James returned, I arranged the apple juice, paper cups, teddy grahams, animal crackers, and half empty baggie of gummy bears over a small table.

"Anything in there?" I asked James. He shook his head.

"Nope, unless you count the head of lettuce and the moldy block of cheese."

"If we fill the apple juice jug with a little more water, then we could have about half a gallon of apple juice until they find us," I suggested, taking the jug by the handle and sloshing around the juice inside.

"No use," James replied, snatching the jug from me and taking a swig. "The pipes are frozen, they must have forgotten to anit-freeze ‘em. But we’ll be alright. They’ll probably start digging the houses out today if it’s really that bad. They should be able to find us by tomorrow, no worries."

I shrugged and placed the jug back down, feeling a little dizzy when I realized how small of a room I was in.

"Hey! What was that for?"

I stared guiltily at his shoe, surprised that I could even steal it so quickly. Avoiding his glare, I stared at the wall as I returned it.

"Do you think it’s about lunch time yet?" he asked, shoving his foot back into his boot.

"Uh, I dunno. I’ll check," I replied, pulling off my parka and sliding my shirt sleeve upwards.

"You hypocrite!" I growled, staring at my bare wrist. "My watch is gone!"

If I were by myself I would have A) simply asked for the watch back B) not have had anyone to beat up anyway, but James would have beaten the snot out of anyone who had taken something from him. Angrily, I pounced on him and our fight became a flurry of fists, biting, hair-pulling, and cursing. Most unfortunately, I had also become evenly matched in strength, so in a matter of minutes, we collapsed on the floor, exhausted, and nibbled our animal crackers in silence.

James Ignaslevski

I brushed my matted hair away from my forehead and leaned against the wall, closing my eyes and trying to distract my focus away from my dizziness.

"Hey Jess," I croaked, swallowing to wet my throat. "Where you from?"

Jesse rolled onto one elbow, propping his head up with his hand. His composure and air around him was so strong, unwavering, and hopeful, as if he refused to give in until he saw daylight’s rays. I knew we were going to die. As far as I saw, there was simply no avoiding the fact that we had been stuck inside the church for almost seven days with four or five of those days without food or water. It was a miracle our hearts were still beating, pressing onward another day, as hopeful as Jesse pretended to be. But even he was showing signs of weariness. He only spoke when he had to, answering in cropped words and slurred slang. His eyes remained closed, even when speaking, and sometimes my breathing would stop and my veins would run cold when he would lay ever so still on the cold floor, breathing softly.

"Phoenix," he replied, holding his head in his hands and pressing his cheek against the tile.

"Oh, knew that," I apologized hoarsely. "Who’s yer family?"

"Dad, a hunter," he whispered, smiling. "Mom’s an artist. Rest of m’family is in France."

I grunted and slumped to the floor, pressing my delicate, chapped lips against the cold stone, wishing a fountain might sprout from where my mouth touched.

"What’d ‘bout you?" Jesse said in a gravelly voice. "What’s your family like?"

"Mom teaches us school," I replied groggily. "Dad goes to city and works at bank. Inge likes to sell her weaving. She’s the stubborn one."

"Really."

"Yeah. Doesn’t like people. Guess it’s ‘cuz of me. I drive her insane, taking all of her stuff, and she says I don’t have any standards, that I’ll stoop to anything. It makes her crazy, and afraid, it’s hard for her to trust people."

"What d’you think of her?" he asked, curiously.

"She’s completely unselfish and stays with me no matter what. I love her," I answered honestly, feeling my stomach drop uncomfortably when I remembered how I had slammed the door in her face, shrugged off her farewell.

"Do you think-."

I sat up suddenly, blinking my eyes when black swarmed into my vision from the sudden movement.

"I know where more food is," I stammered.

"We don’t need food, we need water."

"Food is food Jesse," I said excitedly, my voice cracking from dehydration. "And there’s always a little bit of water if the food is moist."

I jumped to my feet and slid into the kitchen, wrenching open the refrigerator door. I could feel saliva pool up inside my mouth as I snatched up the cheese and head of lettuce. Fighting against the urge to stuff it all down my throat, I returned to Jesse and laid the food next to him.

"Which one do you want?" I asked enthusiastically.

"I’ll take the blue stuff," he wheezed, pointing to the cheese.

As he began to reach for it, an itching feeling at the back of my head screamed at me, demanding that I not let him have it. To take it, to steal it. I pushed him aside and sank my teeth into the crispy lettuce, sucking the water from the leaflets. After a few bites, I threw it aside and shoved the fuzzy block of cheese into my mouth, ignoring the bitter taste.

"James! Give it back!"

"No it’s mine!" I snarled through a mouthful of cheese and taking another large bite. Searing pain sliced through my forehead as he snatched my hair and yanked backwards, trying to retrieve the cheese, but I pushed him aside and he slammed into the wall, knocked out cold.

Jesse Ozias

I massaged the bump on the back of my head and popped the two left over lettuce leaves into my mouth, but it only increased my ravenous hunger. I glanced sideways at James who had his arms wrapped tightly around his aching stomach and was groaning loudly. What had I been reading only a few days ago? I tried to remember, and finally recalled that it was a biography about someone serving in WWII. During the Holocaust, a little towards the end of the war, American soldiers would pass by the camps that the Jews were kept in and the prisoners would beg for food and water. The soldiers would feel badly for the victims and hand them whatever they could, canned milk, chocolate, and other various items. What they didn’t know was that giving someone who was starving a piece of food that was very rich could easily kill them. We weren’t exactly starving, but we didn’t have anything to replace James’ fluids if he vomited or had a bad case of diarrhea, which was very likely after eating a moldy piece of cheese.

I sat by his side for hours and I could only watch as his fever grew hotter. The next morning, he crawled a few feet away, vomited, collapsed, and didn’t move again. My heart hammered against my chest as people began to fill the room. They spoke to each other, laughing merrily, complimenting each other. My mother was dressed in lace and she glided about the room with an illuminating look on her face, curtsying to an older gentleman who asked for a dance.

"Mother," I whispered, but she didn’t even look at me.

James wandered across the room, winking at pretty girls and touching a cup of apple cider to his lips. I glanced at the corpse lying on my left and back at James, shaking my head and rubbing my wet eyes.

"Don’t," I choked. Pressing my hands against my eyes, I begged for my fate to take me.

Inge

"I-I found it!" I whispered. I waved with one hand to catch attention and scraped away the snow with my other before I shouted, "I found the church! It’s here!"

Frantically, I pushed aside the snow until my nails screeched against frozen glass. Without pausing to wait for anyone else, I kicked my foot through the window and fell to my knees as the glass shattered and snow tumbled into the chapel. Lightly, I rolled off the small avalanche and sprinted around the room, searching for a living being. Clamping my hands around the handles that led to the other rooms, I jerked backward, trying with all my might to open the door, but it was locked tight. I locked my fingers in my hair, trying to steady my heart as my hope gradually disintegrated. As my eyes scanned the room, they fell upon shards of colored glass that lay strewn over the floor in front of a gaping hole. The space opened up to only a little over six inches, but I managed to squeeze through into a small room. The smell felt humid in the air. I gagged and pressed my arm to my nose as coughs wracked my body. Squinting into the darkness, I finally found a small, wasted person lying sprawled in the middle of the floor. Biting my lip I wrapped one arm around his thin shoulders and held his fair head in my hand as his dark eyes opened weakly.

"Are you Jesse?" I said, barely recognizing him.

"No," he replied, the word cracking in his parched throat before it barely escaped his chapped lips.

I inhaled deeply. I knew James and Jesse had to be here somewhere, but how had someone else gotten mixed up into this terrible mess.

"Who are you?" I whispered as his eyes began to flutter closed.

"Inge."

How long had it been since he had water? It made me nervous to be so close to someone delusional, but I clung tighter to Jesse’s shoulders as if it would keep him from leaving.

"Jesse, the paramedics should be here at any moment, just –."

"My name is Inge," he croaked in reply, but this time with a little more confidence in his voice. "I am a hero, I am the best weaver in town, and everyone loves me because I am a sweet and wonderful person."

"Jesse, stop it," I snapped, trying to hide the fear that coated my voice.

"My brother loved me so much, but I never thought he did because he was so cocky and took his anger out on me. I think I’m terrible, strange, but I’m actually talented and loving and beautiful and –."

"Stop!" I screeched turning my head away as a warm tear trickled down my cheek. "Please, just stop!"

I shrugged and wiped the tear away with my shoulder before I turned back. He stared at me with his beetle black eyes and ran his dehydrated tongue over his dry lips. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, slightly deeper, and steady.

"My name is Jesse Ozias. I love the color white, crab dipped in melted butter, and The Famine Song makes my heart sing…"

He inhaled deeply as a smile twitched at his lips, before he closed his eyes and fell asleep. I held him, pondering over all the things he had spoken until the paramedics burst through the room, tossing aside the ax, and began setting up their equipment. A man quickly ushered me out from the room, despite my protests.

"I need to find my brother," I shouted bracing myself and pulling away, but a second man hook an arm around my waist and dragged me easily from the room.

"We already found his body," said one man. "He’s been dead for about two days."

"Jesse, he needs me." Or did I need him? I needed reassurance from someone who wasn’t here for a job, someone to be my friend for just a moment while I warded off the chaos around me.

"The paramedics are trying to save him, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to make it. He has a small brain tumor as well as a personality disorder. He mimics the person closest to him. Apparently the circumstance he is in could seriously lower the chance of him living. He’s only been in the town for two weeks. Did you know him?"

I shook my head slowly. "No."

-- Amber