A Cowgirl’s Simple Days

By Ingrid Anderson: Staff Writer

Up in the mountains, where the air is crisp, the rivers and lakes are numbing, and the horses are wild, I feel completely at peace. Where hard work is a way of life and play is earned, my quaint ranch nestled in the Beartooth Mountains is an escape, surrounded by breathtaking beauty. However, beauty is nothing if not earned. Nature can be relentless, and the unforgiving trials I go through when I spend my time in a saddle surely serve to test a cowgirl.

The clock ticks at 5:04 a.m. and I’m already awake. My day starts before the sun has even risen. I tuck my button-down striped shirt into my jeans, slip my boots on under my pants, let down my long, wavy hair, and throw on my battered, brown hat. The mountains do not care how I look, but cowgirls must have a certain amount of class.

“Ha, I’m first to the barn today,” I whisper under my breath; an accomplishment that keeps the ranchers on their toes. I soon saddle up my chosen horse: old Bess. She’s usually a dependable ole’ gal, but she’s awful pissy today. I’ll straighten her out on the trail. My hand runs along the smooth leather of my saddle’s latigo, and I appreciate the saddlemaker’s intricate tooling. I slide my fingers up to the velvety softness of Bess’ muzzle; we admire each other as my rough skin cradles her face. This moment is cut short however, and the rising sun reminds me that I have work to do. 

Before long, I find myself out on the trails. My job for the day entails guiding a chipper newlywed couple up into Pebble Creek. These city folk, with their tennis shoes and baseball caps, are always amazed by the Western experience, and I can’t blame them for it. I thank God every day that I get to be on the other end of it. 

As the trail winds along, and conversations of work, hobbies, and stories from the couple’s city life drift off into the breeze, I focus on how I can feel the motion of my horse move beneath me. I drink in the pure fresh air that makes my lungs feel cool and the nerves tingle in my nose. The rocks make a perfect clip-clop sound against Bess’s shoes. She’s still acting sensitive today; it's as if every stick on the ground perfectly resembles a snake to her. All is well for nearly twelve miles, as the three of us take in the breathtaking scenery. I now realize that I shouldn’t have jinxed myself.

This perfectly serene and beautiful adventure with my blissfully unaware clients by my side soon turns to chaos. While climbing up a section of steep and rocky terrain, perfectly coiled under a flat granite stone, is a wretched, damn rattlesnake. In a matter of seconds, by some sick twist of nature, old Bess falls back into her once young and wild instincts and takes off bucking. Unbeknownst to me, this old mare still has quite a kick in her. My body is forcibly jolted back and forth, then somehow back again. I squeeze my knees into the side of the stirrups, grip tight on my reins, and pray for the ground not to end up as my next place to lie. The sight in front of me shakes violently as my head whips to the same motion as the horse. I had broke horses before, but then I knew what I was getting myself into. Bess gets a few more bucks in, but soon realizes that her efforts are fruitless; I must not let the horse win. 

Shock, concern, but a quiet admiration lie on the faces of my once-chipper clients, whose horses’ hooves thankfully never left the ground.

“We sure got the true wild west experience right there,” the man says. 

“And you don’t even have to pay extra,” I respond, trying my best to play off the situation.

He chuckles, and the wife giggles in agreement.

As we head back to the ranch, my hands are dirty, my whole body radiates a sore pain, and the smell of manure lingers on my skin, yet all I can do is smile. My gaze shifts up from the tangled mane of my tired horse, and it’s like I’m seeing it all for the first time again, even though I’ve been up this mountain a million times. I truly believe that I am in the most beautiful place on Earth. The perfectly purple peaks effortlessly scrape the bottom of the clouds; the trees and fields scream their vivid green. Fish jump, birds call, and the water makes its best impression of a perfect mirror. It does not get much better than the sight that presents itself right in front of me.

The drudgery pales in comparison to the pure bliss I feel on this mountain, with a horse beneath me. The choices I make here are seldom easy, but I am always up for the challenge. Bliss does not come easily to a cowgirl, but when it does, oh, it simply does. This sweet, beautiful, but arduous life serves me in the only way I need. I know that I am doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing, for I am rewarded with this creation every single day.

Flower Language

By: MJ Whelan, Short Story Editor

No one watches the small details that hosts put into the decorations. As an experienced host, I'm well aware of this. So that's why the flowers my host this evening chose were quite striking. I paid them no mind though, until I saw that our host this evening also had a white chrysanthemum pinned to his chest.

Odd, for a man not in mourning. What use would he have for that pale flower? Life had smiled upon him for his whole existence, so why would he wear the flower of death?

The arrangements caught my gaze due to the striking colors of the main body, and the dark flower that was displayed on top, almost like a crown. People milled about, not even thinking about the deeper meanings behind the symbols around us. A pity really, a lot can be conveyed with "meaningless" symbols and flowers.

"Oh, Mr. Macabrewood!" a shrill voice called out with a hint of mirth. I turned to see who had called my attention away from the flower arrangements.

"Oh, Lady Pearltorch," I took my hat off and gave a small bow, "What use could I be of to you?"

Upon observation, the lady seemed to have enjoyed the champagne a bit too much, if the flush in her cheeks and the odd giggles were anything to go by.

She giggled again, "I was just curious about what all these symbols mean, and I know that you're quite the expert on the subject."

"That I am, my lady," I offered my arm to her which she gladly took as I led her out of the ballroom.

"Very few things have the same meaning across our great world," I droned as I led her into a nearby parlor.

"Oh, how fascinating!"

Lady Pearltorch sat down on a low couch and watched me as I crossed to the mantle and ran my gloved hand over the base of the silver cross displayed there.

"An interesting fact, my lady, while being holy symbols, crosses can also be seen as signs of danger. This is due to their history of being used as painful execution methods for criminals."

"Oh my!" Lady Pearltorch covered her mouth with her hand, "That is interesting, albeit a little dark. What about those flowers Lord Earldark used to decorate the ballroom?"

"They are quite the interesting choices," I held up a small foxglove that I had taken from a bouquet, "Foxglove for insincerity, rhododendron for beware, oleander for dangerous beauty, begonia for a warning, and black dahlia's for betrayal."

"How striking and dark-"

Lady Pearltorch stopped as the sound reached them.

"Seems my suspicions with the odd bouquet were correct," I mused as Lady Pearltorch turned pale.

The sound of screams had reached our little parlor.

Halloween Party

By: MJ Whelan, Short Story Editor

Julie pulled on her bright red sweater and made sure her headphones were secure before leaving the house. Her boots softly clopped against the sidewalk as she walked by brown lawns and trees with no leaves. Bare branches extended into the air like claws trying to pull the clouds down.

"Julie!"

She turned around to see Ian running up to her. He huffed as he caught up and stopped next to her. Julie watched him, sliding her headphones to rest around her neck.

"Hey, Ian," she greeted as she stuck her hands in the pockets of her jeans and waited for him to catch his breath.

"Hey," he straightened up, "Are you going to Sparrow's party tonight?"

"Why would I? I don't go to parties, they're loud and there are lots of people."

"That's the thing, Sparrow only invited the DnD group. So anyone there is one of us or knows the others."

"I'll consider it."

Ian walked next to her, idly chatting about school and a variety of other topics.

"Julie? Julie! Wake up!"

Julie started. Jupiter was staring at her worriedly, and his twin Juniper was shaking her and saying her name.

"Huh, were you saying something?"

"I was asking you if you're going to Sparrow's tonight and if you needed a ride," Jupiter informed her, concern etched into his voice.

"No, I can walk if I decide to go."

"No way in-," Juniper started to say, but was interrupted by the PE teacher's whistle to go back inside. The three of them stood up from where they had sheltered under a large maple tree, red leaves crunching under their shoes.

"Julie! You came!"

Julie was squashed in a hug by the enthusiastic Sparrow.

"Yeah, I did."

Sparrow held her hand and dragged her down the stairs into the basement.

"Guys, guess who came!" Sparrow cheered at the gathered group. There was a round of cheers, and Julie looked to see who all had come.

Ian was sitting next to the arm of the "drab" couch, Jupiter perched on the arm next to him. Juniper had curled up in an armchair and was actively sipping a cup of cider as she idly chatted with Cosmo, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor across from a loveseat.

"Sit, sit," Sparrow chirped as she sat Julie down on the loveseat and promptly sat next to her, "Adella, David, and Grey are on their way. And Grey said they were going to bring some other DnDers from the neighboring town."

"Adella said something about bringing the French exchange student who's staying with her family," Cosmo chimed in.

Julie faintly nodded, and conversation resumed among the people present. Sparrow started leaning against her, resting her head on her shoulder. Julie didn't say anything and let her.

"Let's get this party started!" David shouted as he descended the stairs, "Sparrow's mom had to let me in, no welcome for me?"

"The only people who got Sparrow's personal welcome were Ian because he was here first, and Julie because she's Sparrow's favorite," Cosmo chuckled as David sat next to them.

"I don't have favorites," Sparrow rebutted, but her head was still on Julie's shoulder. Cosmo rolled their eyes and smirked.

"Who's ready party!" Adella shouted as she descended the stairs, a newcomer following close behind.

There was a round of cheers, and Adella stood to the side to introduce the boy that she had brought, "This is Jacques, he's from France!"

"Hello," Jacques greeted the room. There was another round of greetings, and the two sat. Adella sat on the couch, on the side opposite Ian, and Jacques sat in a chair Sparrow had probably stolen from her kitchen.

"Grey should be here soon," Sparrow told Adella.

"They better be!"

"The best for last, as they say!"

Julie turned around to see a grinning Grey, followed by two other people.

"These are my new friends; they can introduce themselves." Grey waved their hand and flopped onto the couch next to Adella.

"Um, hi, I'm Max," the taller of the two told the assembled group with a nod of his head.

"And I'm Beron," the other person followed up with their introduction. The two ended up on the floor, with Max next to David, who kindly scooched over to make room, and Beron next to Juniper's armchair.

"Now, when do the scary stories begin? Or the trip to the graveyard?" David asked with a wide smirk.

"Let everyone get a drink and some snacks first, geez, David," Juniper remarked.

"Yes, help yourselves, there's more upstairs in the kitchen," Sparrow chirped. She had stopped leaning on Julie at some point and was curled up on the arm of the loveseat. Julie had leaned back and was messing with the sleeve of her sweater.

"The fact that you haven't managed to unravel that sweater is a miracle," Juniper remarked. Julie's hand stilled, and she stiffened.

"Leave her alone," Sparrow huffed, "She knows what it can take."

"I can't take this anymore!" David exclaimed before Juniper could retort. "We have to do something! It's a Halloween party, let's do something scary."

"We can't go to the graveyard, it's not dark yet," Cosmo retorted. Julie sighed as the two started debating about when was the appropriate time for going to the graveyard.

"I personally think night is better, what about you?" Sparrow whispered to Julie.

"Night definitely is spookier and more Halloween like," Julie whispered back.

Juniper had gotten up and started playing the Halloween music. That seemed to settle David down, he picked up one of the "ghost" pretzel rods and ate it while sideways glaring at Cosmo who smirked back and blew him a kiss.

"Ewwwww," Grey fake gagged at the two. Cosmo stuck their tongue out at them, and David, temporarily forgetting the prior argument, wrapped his arm around Cosmo's shoulders. Grey faked gagged even louder, spurning a round a laughs around the room.

"You shouldn't have said anything, they're going to be obnoxious just to annoy you now," Ian remarked. Jupiter nodded from where he was still sitting on the arm of the couch.

"Are they actually a thing?" Beron whispered to Juniper, who had flipped so her legs were over the back of the armchair and her head was dangling off the seat.

"I don't think so, Cosmo just responds to hostility with slight flirtatiousness to make people mad and David will play along sometimes, or they'll do that to annoy Grey," Juniper responded, catching a piece of popcorn that Julie threw at her in her mouth.

"It'll be dark in a bit, if we leave now, it'll be dark when we get to the graveyard," Adella chirped after a few hours of talking and bad Halloween karaoke.

"Yes!" David exclaimed. almost jumping but being held down by Cosmo.

"Is that what everyone wants to do?" Sparrow asked, looking around. Everyone either nodded or said that they didn't care.

"Let's go!" David managed to escape Cosmo and spring up. Everyone else followed slower, going upstairs. Sparrow stopped to tell her mom where they were going and everyone pulled on their packets before walking out into the ever darkening evening.

"Remember to be respectful while we're here," Jupiter said to the group as they reached the graveyard.

"Yes, we don't want to be disrespectful to the departed," Sparrow agreed from where she shivered next to Julie. Pressing closet for warmth, Julie wrapped an arm around her to help her warm up.

"Yep, let's go!" David cheered and pushed open the creaky gate. Everyone else filed inside and the wind blew through, causing them all to shiver.

"At least the sunset looks cool through all these dead trees," Juniper huffed.

"Definitely," Grey nodded. Jacques took a photo and Adella chuckled.

"Is that what you usually do, Grey?" Beron asked, Max had stolen his arm and was shivering a lot.

"Something like this, last year we did a horror campaign," Grey answered, strolling leisurely with their hands in their pockets.

"We should play tag or hide and seek," Cosmo suggested.

"We're not little kids, dear Cosmo," Adella said, kicking up leaves.

"Yeah, but those games, in the dark, on Halloween?" David grinned widely, "That would be awesome."

"It does sound fun," Ian commented, having stopped to inspect some flowers growing out of the ground.

"So, are we playing?" Cosmo asked, walking backwards to face the group.

"Sure," Julie answered.

Julie crouched behind a rather large tombstone, Sparrow huddled next to her. Julie had their flashlight, but had turned it off. It had gotten darker, the two of them could barely see a few feet ahead of them.

"This fun," Sparrow whispered, huddling close for warmth.

"Yeah."

They settled into a comfortable silence, waiting for the sound of footsteps crunching on leaves to come close and for them to run from their owner. Until they heard it.

There was a shrill shriek from the opposite side of the graveyard. They both stilled.

"That sounded like Adella," Sparrow whispered, shaking instead of shivering. Julie could only muster a nod as she kept listening.

There were a few flashes from flashlights in other areas, there was also the sound of shoes running on the asphalt path through the center. There was a cut off shriek and the silence.

"It's just David and Adella making a joke, right? He found her and they wanted to scare us," Sparrow whispered, a slight wobble to her voice.

"Yeah, that's it," Julie hollowly agreed, listening for more sounds. It was silent.

A few minutes later, there was the sound of footsteps running on the path again, but they could also hear the labored breathing of their owner. Julie grabbed Sparrow's hand and got ready to pull her away and run.

There was muffled mumbling in a language they didn't understand before a flashlight was shined in their faces. Their hands flew up to protect from going blind.

"Thank God, I found other people," Jacques said.

Julie's eyes adjusted and she looked at the exchange student. His chest was rising and falling heavily as he looked at them.

"Where's Adella?" Sparrow asked him.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out, that was her earlier, right?"

"Yeah," Julie stood up, and brushed leaves off of her, not letting go of Sparrow's hand.

The three of them creeped to the approximate area that the last shriek was heard. Careful not to be too loud and attract attention.

"It was around here," Sparrow whispered, her voice barely audible.

"It was-"

Julie cut herself off and hauled Sparrow behind a tombstone at the sound of crunching leaves, it was fast, like the person was running. Jacques wasn't as quick and got tackled by the person.

"Juniper?" Julie whisper shouted.

Juniper's head whipped around to see Julie's head poking around the tombstone.

"Oh thank everything!" Juniper breathed out and got off of Jacques.

"Why were you running?" Sparrow asked, watching Juniper help Jacques up.

"To get away from whatever psycho is here too!"

"Wait, what? Someone is here with us?" Julie asked, her grip on the flashlight changing slightly, more like she was ready to hit someone with it.

"Maybe two, someone's at the gate, so we can't get out. And someone dressed in like some sort of Scream outfit ripoff was chasing Adella earlier."

"It has to be someone playing a prank right? They saw us coming up here and thought it would be funny to scare us?" Sparrow was practically attached to Julie as she said this.

"Or it's real psycho," a new voice whispered. Everyone jumped and whipped around. Max and Beron were standing behind them.

"Max, why would you say that!" Beron scolded the other person. Max only shrugged.

Julie opened her mouth when a twig snapped and everyone's heads whipped around. It was dark, but there was a vague outline of someone in all black standing there. The group started sprinting in different directions. Julie didn't hear leaves crunching behind her and Sparrow as they ran to the other side of the graveyard.

"Found you two again," Beron whispered a few minutes later.

Sparrow waved and Julie nodded. They had found Ian and the twins.

"Okay, we have to do something about these psychos," Juniper whispered.

"What are the chances it's Cosmo and David and not some random psycho?" Ian asked, leaning against Jupiter.

"I'd say it's pretty high," Julie answered.

"Sp what are we going to do?" Beron asked.

"I have an idea," Ian answered.

Julie nodded at Juniper when she got behind the appropriate grave. The two waited for the signal before moving.

There were two flashes from a flashlight deeper in, and the two girls ran out and at the gate guard. There was running behind them before there was thud and a groan, probably as Jupiter tackled them like the plan.

"Hold up, wait!"

Julie didn't listen and tackled the person by the gate.

"Ow! What the -"

"Shut up, Cosmo!" Julie yelled as she hit Cosmo with her jacket, "What was that!"

Julie had taken their mask off and Cosmo huffed underneath her. Julie got up and walked back over to Sparrow who had run down the path to join them. David was huffing on the ground as Beron crouched next to him.

"Looks like you got them," Adella called as she walked over with Jacques.

"Why did you play along?" Sparrow asked.

Adella shrugged, "Sounded fun."

"Okay, can we go back to Sparrow's house and just watch some scary movies or something?" Juniper asked the gathered crew.

"Yeah, let's go," Sparrow agreed.

She grabbed Julie's hand and Ian pushed the gate open as the group walked out of the graveyard. Idle chatting engaging around them as they walked through the cool night air, ready for more Halloween.

Is Love Worth Catching

By: Molly Buckles, staff writer

The foggy morning sparked comfort in the woman as she blinked open her groggy eyes. She took a deep breath, put on her glasses, and reached for her phone. On her lockscreen was a text message from Theo, her love. That’s when her stomach sank. Her mood instantly changed, and her heart beat a little faster. She remembered events from the night before. Evidence that could destroy her boyfriend's life. She refuses to believe that Theo could be behind this whole heist. As a detective, it is Rose’s job to crack cases and capture con artists, and she is very good at what she does, but she does not want to solve this case. She is so good at her job that she already knows who stole the precious earrings from the Louvre. She just doesn’t want to admit it. 

As Rose walked to work that morning, her coffee felt a little warmer in her hands than usual. Or maybe she was just thinking about it too much because she was trying to distract herself from the real problem. She felt a vibration in her pocket. It was Theo, again. She hadn’t responded to the text before. Rose loves Theo, and Theo loves Rose. They have been together for a little over two years, and their relationship is unmatched, but there has always been something about Theo that Rose couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something mysterious that she would push away because his other qualities overpowered this feeling. Rose took a second to respond to his messages; he was acting normal. She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t him who stole these earrings, because why would he? Why did he need these earrings and go through such lengths to get them? 

When Rose got to the crime scene the night before, there were no alarms set off, no broken glass, just stolen earrings and a mystery to solve. As Rose collected evidence, she came across a hair tie. The other detectives around assumed that the thief was a girl because of the evidence, and Rose thought the same thing, until she looked at it. This hair tie was one of the thick ones lined with lace. Similar to the one rose had on that afternoon. No one knew it could be hers, but she did. Rose got sweaty and thought maybe this was used to set her up. She recollected her memories from lunch, realizing that she had taken her hair down and laid it on the table. Theo showed up late to lunch. Rose got excited when she saw him and jumped up to hug him, forgetting her hair tie was on the table. The next thing she remembers is parting ways with Theo and heading back to work, four hours before the heist. He has to be the one who took it because no one else would have. Right? Rose took it upon herself to smell the hair tie when she found it on the floor of the Louvre. It smelled of bacon grease and cleaning spray, similar to the smell of the diner they were at during lunch. She thought about Theo when she brushed the hair tie between her fingers. She loves Theo, and Theo loves her. He wouldn’t do this to her. Before Rose thought twice, she “accidentally” dropped the hair tie in a bucket of cleaning solution at the crime scene, destroying it as evidence. Now she and her boyfriend were safe, for now. She hopes that there is no more evidence of Theo. 

Theo is a very observant man. He notices the small things, like the amount of food left on random people's plates, the different colored salt and pepper shakers on various tables, and his girlfriend's outfit. After Theo hugged Rose goodbye, he walked back to his apartment, replaying his lunch date over and over in his head. He reached his apartment and turned on the TV. He had write-ups due for work, but he decided to take a nap instead. As he fell asleep, he remembered that Rose had her hair down as they left. He hoped that she had remembered her hair tie on the table because he saw she had pushed it closer to the window than it was before. He decided it wasn’t that big of a deal and fell asleep.

When Theo awoke, it was almost dark out. He walked to his bay window and looked above the city of Paris. He looked at the setting sun and took a picture to send to Rose. He realized his TV was still blaring, so he walked over to turn it off. As he grabbed the remote, breaking news popped up on the screen. The Louvre had been broken into, and the thieves got away. Theo’s first thought was to call Rose and see if she had heard, but then he realized that she was probably already there working on cracking the case. He decided to leave her be and let her do her work. He would check in with her in the morning.

Another morning woke as she rose from her bed. She was tired, sad, and unmotivated for work. Her only thought as she got ready was that she wished she could be rich and not have to work at the stupid diner. Cienna knows that if she had pursued college, she wouldn’t be where she is now; she just doesn’t want to admit it. Cienna is filled with so much anger that if she takes too much of a deep breath, her body will explode, and hot lava will spew out of her. When she showed up to work that morning, she decided she wanted to live her life on edge. She wanted to quit the diner, rob a bank, and move to a random island. This plan was a stretch, but she decided to go ahead anyway. She didn’t know how to place the blame on someone else until she was cleaning the table of a customer. There she found a hair tie. This could be it. This could be the evidence that sets her free. Cienna could plant it, accuse someone, and make a scene. It could all work out. 

Cienna hopped on a bus after work and headed for the bank, when she saw that the Louvre was under maintenance. She disregarded it at first, but as she drove past it, she noticed an open window, an opening to a new life. She hopped off the bus and went back towards the open window. Since it was a foggy day, you could barely see 5 feet in front of you. Cienna took this as an opportunity and climbed through the window. She wasn’t looking to steal anything big, just something worth enough for her to hop on the next plane out of Paris. She came across a pair of diamond earrings, worn by the Queen of England many years ago. It wasn’t hard for Cienna to steal the earrings; all she had to do was break the lock with a pen found in her purse and slide the glass upwards. After she grabbed the earrings, she dropped the hair tie in a less obvious place, and then she disappeared. She used the money she made from the diner to buy herself a ticket to Belize, where she is staying low profile, but living the life she desired.

Pumpkin Moon

By: Hannah Bertalot, Short Story Editor

Salem placed a newly carved pumpkin on the front porch of his house, joined alongside the other four his family had carved. Each had its own personality, reminiscent of the person who carved it. His mother’s was carved patiently, with delicate details. His younger brother’s had a monstrous face gouged into it with the sum of a five-year-old’s dexterity. His sister’s had similar quality, with the exception that she had taken the time to carve cat ears above the eyes. His father’s had a particularly rough look, as his choice of tool was a small saw from his workshop, rather than a kitchen knife.  

Salem’s seemed boring in comparison, as he had gone for a classic look, with sharp, triangle eyes and teeth. He looked them all over briefly, then smiled faintly at the collection of pumpkins. With his contribution to the family tradition complete, he stepped back inside the house to clean up and get on with his evening. 

The next morning, Salem stepped out of the house, keys jangling in his hands. Even in his rush to get out the door, he did notice the pumpkins were moved. Nothing too substantial; one was turned a little too far to the left, one leaned awkwardly against another in a manner that it hadn’t been last night. It didn’t immediately occur to him as strange— it could have easily been his siblings playing with them, he knew they wouldn't keep their hands off them. He didn’t devote too much thought to it, though, as he rushed across the lawn to get into his car- he needed to get to campus before he missed class. 

Amid the mornings that followed, his family noticed similar discrepancies in the pumpkin’s positions; though they were minor enough that it could have been dismissed as them settling against an uneven surface. The old wooden porch wasn’t exactly flat, nor was the bench, nor the table. The gusty October air could have been enough to shift them.

Two evenings before Halloween, however, Salem noticed a difference that was not so easily ascribed to chance- the stems had grown. He had to double-take, then knelt down in front of the bench to look closer. It wasn’t a trick of the eyes; they had grown thicker, longer. Small thorns had sprouted. 

After that, his siblings no longer played with the pumpkins. 

In the nights that followed, the plants grew thornier. Salem’s parents fussed over the matter and argued whether they should discard the pumpkins and do away with whatever befell them. Salem and his siblings protested throwing the pumpkins away over what could have been a fluke. Ultimately, the agreement was that they were to be thrown out the day after Halloween.

On Halloween night, Salem went out with friends. His parents were busy trick-or-treating with his little siblings, so he figured he could get away with staying out past curfew. It was long past midnight by the time he pulled up to the curb, so he wasn’t surprised when the house was dark. He figured everyone must have been tired after walking the neighborhood, since usually, his mother left the lights on and waited for him to be home before she went to bed.

As soon as he stepped onto the porch, however, a distinct chill ran down his spine. Something was wrong. 

Almost all the pumpkins were missing from their original spots on the porch. His was the only one that remained as it was this morning. A hollow creak sounded behind him, and Salem whipped around defensively, startled. He breathlessly gasped as, in the bright moonlight, he saw moving forms as they crawled toward him, wailing incoherently. He stumbled into the door as his keys uselessly fumbled against the deadbolt, then the porch’s motion sensor light flicked on. The shroud of darkness was ripped away, and revealed the overgrown forms of the pumpkins; vines that stretched and reached, twisted in a manner that could almost be humanoid. The four that were animated crept toward him slowly as they cried out to him. As the key finally fit into the keyhole, he threw the door open, then stumbled back into the dark house. By the time he had locked it again, they were almost at the threshold.

He recoiled as he felt the. . . whatever those were, because those weren’t pumpkins, threw themselves against the door. 

“Sss . . . Salem! Saaallleeeemm!” 

His heartbeat crescendoed in his chest with terror as they wailed his name. 

Why did they know his name?

Flashes of Gold

By: Tommy Sitz, Staff Writer

The morning fog is starting to lift as the sun slowly rises in the sky and creeps its way over the jungle canopy. Water flows over the rocks in the river, causing noisy rapids that mask any other small noises. A man stands on the raised riverbank holding a fly rod as he gazes at the crystal clear water. He studies the water, noting every small movement or change in the current. As he stands there, he sees a sudden flash of gold in the water. He follows the movement of the specimen in the river, which he can now only see the dark back of. He leans over to make himself a smaller outline and slowly makes his way left on the bank, creeping closer to the object in the water. He gets close enough and starts waving the rod, trying not to catch his fly in the thick jungle canopy behind him. The pile of feathers plops in the water on his final cast forward. They land on the surface of the water above the fish's back, and it suddenly goes zooming down the river, not to be seen again.

“Dang it,” the man mumbles to himself as he sits down on the bank.

“Another blown attempt.” The man walks down the bank to the river and crosses just above the rocky rapids. Once on the other side, he deliberately makes his way up the river, scanning the water as he goes. The next promising part of the river flows 200 yards above the man. He makes it to the section, being careful not to slip on the wet rocks that cover the side of the river. He stops and starts scanning the river again, looking for another golden flash in the water. Suddenly, an eruption breaks the surface of the once calm water. A fish. The biggest fish the man has seen so far. Not just any fish, but a monstrous beast that owns this stretch of the river. It came up to eat something that was innocently making its way across the water.

After the splash, the man focuses and sees every movement of the fish in the mid-depth water. He starts the wave of the rod as he lets go of the fly in his hand. Bright green line slowly comes out of the rod tip, and with every motion, the line goes farther and farther out. The man softly lays down his feathered hook ten feet above the fish. It sinks slightly below the surface and wiggles with the movement of the river. The current takes the fly right to the fish, and the fish looks up. The man strips his line. In a sudden, violent flash of gold, a giant fish’s tail breaks the surface of the water, attacking the fly. The man strips his line in an attempt to set the hook, but as he does, the line is ripped out of his hands, giving him a cut in the crease of his index finger. The fish accelerates down the river, ripping line out of the reel of the man's rod. He fights the beast, struggling to keep control of the situation. The reel is now in its backing with the fish fifty yards downstream and still moving. The man runs down the river's edge, trying to keep up with the giant. He reels in line as he moves, trying to keep the fish from getting too far. The man keeps running downstream, chasing the monster. Every time he starts to get close, the fish bursts away and takes off down the river. Now exhausted from running down the goliath, the man starts to get close. The fish is sitting there, in the middle of the river, also exhausted from the grueling fight. The man keeps reeling and walking closer to the fish. It makes an attempt to take off, but not successfully. It goes ten feet and then stops, out of energy. The man is now twenty yards from the mammoth and slowly gaining. With the rod in his left hand, he grabs his net out of his pack. He is now ten yards away and in the water. He slowly pulls the head of the fish out of the water and pulls it towards his net. The gargantuan gives up, slowly trying to move away, but too exhausted to do anything. The man puts his net in the water and scoops up the fish.

“Yes!” the man yells in the excitement of landing the fish. The fish he has been looking for for the last week is now in his hands. He walks to shore and grabs the fish out of the net. He raises it above his head and does not say a word because of the amazement he is in. He has landed the golden dorado of his dreams and cannot believe it.

Pinky

I delivered the winning ball over the net with expert slice, sliding across the acrylic until I stopped masterfully just short of the net. The ball skidded onto his court and was gone as fast as it came, leaving no opportunity for a return. A shot like that can not be reciprocated, only praised. Emilian stood, dumbfounded, whether from crushing defeat or the language barrier I could not discern. My words were usually fueled by raw schoolgirl emotion rather than any real intellectual reflection anyways. Then I shook his hand, and hopped off the court, bobbing my head like a wise turtle. 

Immediately upon exiting the gate, a sticky boy who reeked of pineapple snatched my hand in a reverent handshake. He rather reminded me of an eager dog. As soon as I could , I backed away slowly and started for the registration table to record the score.

The score: 6-1 7-5. I had won State Tennis. I wiped the pineapple off as best as I could with one of my many, many cooling towels, then scratched my signature down, sealing my victory. Only one missing piece remained.

When the award ceremony finally commenced, they announced the girls first. There was a lot of emotion; so many tears. Once they concluded the girls awards, I stopped crying. As soon as they called my name, I sprung up, and claimed my polyester prize. There was some difficulty fitting it over my obnoxiously green hat. According to my vanity mirror sunglasses (same size and concept), the hat did not seem too loud, but the heckling from the mass majority of the crowd made me second guess trusting my shades. It was a mere replacement for my original salmon ballcap, which I had lost tragically since last season. Yes, salmon. NOT pink. I will run from that nickname as fast as my custom insoles can carry me. Nobody could replace shayla truly, but limalicious would do for now. After I adorned my medal, they entrusted me with the trophy. This was but the beginning of my legacy, I could feel it in my freckles.

Following the ceremony, we boarded the bus. I leapt up the steps and plopped down in my seat. The parents had painted our names and varsity spots on the windows. I gazed up at my name and the spot I earned from my seat. It was backwards from my view, but I didn't need to read it to know what it meant. Starting in Sheridan, it was a beacon of hope and a tormentor all in one. One singles meant nothing on its own, but it held the power to be something great. The greatness was tangible, the weight of success heavy around my neck.

The bus roared, and we started for home, hearts light. The girls chattered happily at the front. Every single one of them was talking to a camel whose height difference they swore was not that bad. I wondered when they would realize that they were all at the mercy of the same 5’7 zesty munchkin.

I was absolutely vibing with my Unleash your Inner Imagine Dragon playlist when the world around me spun. I heard a loud crash and everything rotated around me, like I was watching the spin cycle on the washing machine. With another deafening crash, I was flung to the opposite side of the bus, from window to window. When I opened my eyes, smoke surrounded me, attacking my corneas. I shut them, and used my other senses to decipher what was happening. The leather was hot beside me. The window frame stabbed into my side. Shards decorated the rough surface beneath me: pavement. People so far away shouted things I couldn't interpret, couldn't hear over the resounding ringing. An acrid scent chalked with chemicals bombarded my nose. I coughed, disgusted.

I managed to open my eyes and fought to keep them open. As soon as I did, a dark form passed in front of me. The seats on either side acted as walls, and it became the third, blocking out any light that filtered through the thick atmosphere. The only thing that escaped me was a very manly squeak. Images of my childhood sped through my mind, but I experienced each one carefully. They were all blurred together, except one that seemed to play over all the others: an image of my father, suddenly obscured by the hat he had thrown on my oversized head. It was countless sizes too big. I lifted the brim, daylight pouring into my eyes. He swayed in front of the sun, allowing me to see his freckly face and his proud smile. He snatched the hat back playfully and said something in his resonant tone I couldn't hear. I could feel it though. Feel every word. One day it will fit. He swung me up on his shoulders like nothing. I gazed down at the pink hat.

There were sirens. My father was gone and suddenly replaced with a man I had never seen before. He, too, was carrying me, but his eyes were filled with purpose and determination, not joy. I coughed. He clambered through an opening, an emergency exit, I guessed. As soon as we stepped out, everything came into focus. 

Two yellow schoolbusses lay smoldering. Parts of them were still blazing. I could feel the heat as it radiated off the fire and the engines, and the man as he cradled me like a delicate baby. I could really use one of my cooling towels right about now. The pungent smell of rubber flooded my nostrils. My sense of hearing was the last to return. It slowly but gradually amplified. Sirens screeched and first responders called out procedures, but above all that, there was a chorus. A crowd encroached on the man and I, cheering lightheartedly. The refrain flooded my ears, ‘Pinky! Pinky! Pinky! pinky…”

Acceptance of Fate: Part 2 Purple Eyed Dream

By: Alex Sitz

In a bison hide teepee, a fire cracks and snaps as a stew in a pot, suspended by cooking sticks, boiling over it. Smoke rises from the fire and wafts out the hatch in the top of the structure, as a single beam of light shines down onto the animal hide floor. A man sitting cross-legged next to the fire, leans over to stir the pot suspended above it. His long black hair, tied into a braid with multiple painted feathers sticking out of it, runs down his brown colored bare back. Behind him, a shaggy blonde man lays under a buffalo hide blanket asleep. His bearded face is worn from a life of physical work, with a scar from a past battle placed under his left eye, and his left arm wrapped in a white cloth bandage stained with blotches of red blood. His torn and blood stained shirt hangs at his feet, with his rifle and antler-handled bowie knife, stained with blood, resting underneath it.

It was the trapper. Suddenly, his eyes shoot open, and he wildly looks all around the teepee. He did not know where he was or what had happened to him, with only one question entering his mind. 

“I’m alive, but how?”

Instantly, the events of the last time he was conscious rush back to him. The trap for the bear. Everything going horribly wrong. The shot of his rifle, leading to unimaginable pain. Drawing his knife. Deep cutting stabs to the bear's head, then its fall, and finally, its death. Propping himself up against a tree. The darkness taking him. But how he came to be here was a question he did not have the answer to.

Outside, he can see the outlines of two horses and a mule against the teepee wall. On the other side of the teepee, there is a large hide leaning up against the wall, tanning in the sun. Through the small entrance, he can see a small welcoming meadow, lined with tall pines that cover the ground in shadow at its edges. 

Now scanning the tent, he notices the man slowly, but deliberately stirring the clay ceramic pot with what seems to be a hand carved wooden spoon, seemingly not paying any attention to him. Under the man's braids, a scar that stretches sideways from his right shoulder to just under his left armpit is visible. Each mark expands and contracts with the native's breathing. 

Trying to sit up, the trapper is suddenly aware of a great pain in his abdomen. He grunts slightly as he gets to a full upright position and puts his hand down to his stomach feeling the white bandage around him, where the pain is originating from. The native obviously hears the grunt, but doesn’t react to it in any way except for the fact that the Indian starts to speak.

“You’ve been asleep for a long time.” He says, speaking his own language, but having lived long enough in this land, the trapper recognizing it to be Shoshone, and understood it well. “It has been five sun ups and five sundowns since I found you.”

The native’s voice gave the sense that he knows a great many things, as though he has lived a thousand lives while not being much older than the trapper himself. The trapper, upon hearing these words, looks down at the buffalo hide blanket covering him. Removing it to take full inventory of the damage, the trapper finds a third blood stained cloth around his upper right leg. As he did, the Indian, without looking, somehow knows what is happening behind him and speaks again.

“You were in a great fight with a beast that has killed men before, you were lucky to bring it down, and that I was close enough to find you in time.”

Finding his voice, he replies in Shoshone, “Where am I?”

“In the land of the Sheep Eaters, the tribe of which I belong to, days ride from where I found you.”

“We are in your village?”Asks the trapper as he tries to rub his tiredness out of is face.

“No, I am what they call a lone wolf, a man that lives outside the order of the tribe, but still follows their traditions and religion.”

“Who are you?”

“They call me Aagwayq Hoagande, meaning Bear Warrior, but some French trappers called me Seul. They told me it means "alone”, you can call me that if you wish.”

As he says this, Seul grabs a small wooden bowl off a grizzled brown fur rug, that must be from an old grizzly, and using the wooden spoon, methodically scoops some soup into the bowl. He then turns and hands it to the trapper, and for the first time, the trapper gets a good look at his face. It was just as he expected. Suel is past his youth, but not quite an old man yet. His dark brown eyes show years of knowledge and hard work, with a fiery speckle of Shoshone brave spirit within them. He is of average build, with lean arms and a full chest. As he hands the bowl to the man, their hands touch and the trapper discovers how rough they were, but with a gentle touch to them. 

“And what do they call you, where do you come from?” Aagwayq Hoagande asks curiously.

The trapper pauses for a brief moment. No one in a long time had been around or had reason to ask him that question, he had also forgotten. Finally finding the words he answers.

“Martin, my name's Martin Jean. I came here from a fort back in the Dakota territory.”

“Why did you come here, Martin Jean?” questions Suel in a concerned tone.

“I was looking for beaver and any other kind of fur I could sell,” Martin answers in between sips of soup,“but that bear put a damper on that.”

As he finishes his sentence, a sharp stabbing pain that feels almost as if he has been shot in the gut, enters his stomach right in the center of the bandage around his stomach. Martin doubles over in pain and lets out a groan, dropping the bowl of soup that spills across the buffalo hide. His vision blurs with pain, as Suel helps him lay back down. Suel says something, probably trying to soothe Martin, but the trapper can not make a syllable of it out. As his head hits the ground his vision goes from blurry to almost black, until the darkness consumes him with the last thing he sees is the face of the Shoshone Indian man hovering over him.

Woods. Thick, deep, pine tree woods. The giant lodge poles tower over the thick vegetation, made of mostly unflowered and fruitless huckleberry bushes covered in a thin layer of mist. The looming trees block out most of the sun, casting an eerie appearance across the forest seeming to silence the forest, for no sound can be heard within it. No sweet chirping of birds, nor caws of crows. No songs of elk or squealing of squirrels. No humming of buzzing bees or tricking of water. Not even the wind blows through to rustle the leaves. The silence of the forest gives any visitors a wary feeling.

A man. A tall, shaggy blonde headed man stands naked, except for a buck skin loin cloth that hangs down around his waist, amongst the foliage. The greenery of the forest floor covers him up to his hip so that only above his waist is visible. His white skin and blonde beard contrast against the darkness of the green woods makes him look completely out of place. From where the man stands, the woods have seemingly no end, but only disappear into darkness.

He stands staring out into the where the green disappears into dark blur. His gaze breaks and he looks around, taking in all that he sees. While looking around, his head jerks as something rusting in the undergrowth out toward the edge of the darkness. The rustling starts moving on a straight line closer to him. The man watches intently as it does, moving nothing but his eyes. The movement continues closer without stop or pause. Finally about 20 yards from the man, a brown fur back appears through the foliage, moving through like a beaver through the water. Its shoulders move up and down as it strides closer. Its round ears point out at an angle emerging  over the greenery, and then its head, both much darker brown compared to its body. Its black nose on its pointed snout sniffs the air curiously. Its ribs collapse and expand with every breath of its round body.

Now ten yards, the man still watching the animal, understands that this is a bear. But not just a bear, a brown phased black bear. Less than ten feet away, the bear stops and stares up at the man. The man can hear its every breath and see every hair on its body. Its hair is not just brown, but has a thin blonde streak going down along its spine.

“Probably female,” thinks the man, “Probably a young female.”

While being so close to an animal that is normally unpredictable, the man feels no fear towards the bear. For a moment, the man and young bear lock eyes. Looking into the bear's eyes, the man notices how her eyes were not as a normal bear’s eyes are. Her eyes are deep and caring, full of life and youth, yet knowledgeable and mystic, but more than that they look closer to the eyes of a person than a bear. They are not human colored though. They are purple. Purple like freshly boomed lavender in the spring. Gazing into those deep purple eyes, the man found himself getting lost within them. Mesmerized, the man looks into those purple eyes for a long time and they look back into his.

Then, without a sound or reason, the bear takes a step back into the undergrowth and begins to stand up on its hind legs. Just as her front paws raise from the ground, a haze falls upon her that clouds her from the view of the man. The man watches as the smoke and haze rises and grows to his eye level where it stops. The haze then begins to dissipate starting from the top, cascading down the length of the form that was the bear and mists off into the greenery it is standing in. As the smoke falls and mingles into the fog among the overgrown huckleberry bushes below, it slowly reveals what it was finding; a woman.

Not just any woman, a beautiful native woman dressed in her buck skin ceremonial dress. The dress in question was well made and complements her slender build with a simple design, fringed all around its edges, with the fringes on the arms flowing down the length of her body. Blue beads, the color of robin's eggs, lined with pearly black beads, are woven across her shoulder and all the way down the tops of her arms as they sit elegantly at her side. Her black hair, done up in a single braid, drifts down her neck and onto her back, stopping just below the line of beads. Though she seems to be clothed finely, she wears no shoes or moccasins, so her feet sit bare on the earth, yet are completely clean of all dirt or mud. Her face glowing with youth while showing no signs of blemishes. The only way the man could tell that this native woman was once the bear, is that her eyes are the same shade of purple, but they show even more brilliantly against the young woman's stunning face. Even though the forest is cast in shadow, the woman has a radiance about her.

Her lavender eyes gaze straight into the man's eyes and his back into hers just as the bear’s did. For a moment she does not move or sway, only looks at the man. Then out of nowhere, her lips move almost catching the man off guard.

“Martin,” she calls him by name eloquently, but continues with a tone of warning, “when the moon is full over the great river valley of the burning mountain, the Spirit of the Thunder Bird will touch the earth. There, he will scorch the earth as to renew it, but it will first have to destroy all upon it and all in its path.”

Martin puzzles over her words then pauses briefly before asking,

“Why are you telling me this?”

But she goes on, as if his question was irrelevant, “When the flames come down upon you, look for me to guide you out. Do not falter in following me otherwise you too will be destroyed.”

Again looking into those purple eyes he asks her, 

“Why do you tell this to me?”

“I tell you this to let you know that your journey will not end there, you are meant for more than you know, but you must trust me, do as I say, for if you do not, you too will be destroyed. I will guide you through the renewing flame as long as you follow me ”

“Meant for more than I know?” repeats Martin more to himself than to her. 

As the words pass his lips, the woman turns from Martin, back toward the darkness at the edge of the wood, and starts to walk away. Her walk must be the most graceful thing the man had ever seen; she seems to glide through the underbrush as she goes, cutting through the bushes like a knife. The man watches her every move as she goes, almost studying her. For a moment he feels as though he might recognize her from some distant past life, but the notion quickly passes as he watches in awe as the haze returns over her in midstride. The smoke, with its hidden form, lowers back into huckleberry bushes, where the vapor wears off to reveal once more the young brown coated black bear.

Martin tracks her with his eye, until she disappears back into the underbrush of which she came. As soon as the bear leaves the man's vision, an ear splitting screech breaks the silence amongst the pine, the kind of screech that could only be made by a great bird of prey. For the first time, Martin moves more than just his head, making a full circle with his body searching the canopy for the raptor responsible for the noise. Seeing nothing more than trees fading into black, the forest fades back into silence. But Martin continues to look harder and more frantically all across the woods, scouring the trees for anything that could have made that sound, yet all that is left is quiet. 

Still looking, another noise cut through the silence. Not sharp and high pitched as before, but deep, low, and rolling, starting out rather quietly then gaining in volume before fading away again, as if it was passing over the man. It reminded Martin of the sound made by a far off herd of raging buffalo trampling across the plain. He knew exactly what it was though and it was no animal. It was the unmaskable sound of rolling thunder.

As soon as the man recognizes the sound, a bright static flash of light hurls down through the trees, landing directly in front of Martin, met instantly by a much louder boom than the first. The force of the lightning bolt throws the man backwards into the woods past the darkness where everything turns to the blackest night.

A crashing roll of thunder joins a flash of white light across the night sky, springing a shaggy blonde headed, bearded man awake. As the thunder rolls over and fades away, the sound of falling rain on buffalo hide replaces it. The man’s bare chest expanding and contracting rapidly as though something was chasing him in his sleep. Two old bandages wrap tightly around his old wounds; one around his abdomen, another around this left forearm. From a glance, it is quite obvious that he had been in some great battle. His blue eyes on his scarred face scan the room, trying to figure out where he is. Recognizing the inside of the teepee with its small fire still burning, illuminating the clay pots sitting next to it and various animal skins laying about, he breathes a sigh of relief, calming him down.

Finally calming down, the man notices the native sitting near the entrance of the dwelling, staring at him with a look of concern on his face. His body, half shining in moving light with the other half being cast in moving shadow from the fire, is positioned in a way that suggests he had been watching the storm for some time. 

“Same dream, Martin?” Asks the Indian in a monotone voice, speaking the Shoshone language.

“Yep,” replies Martin bluntly.

“Same girl?” Questions the native again.

“With the purple eyes, yeah,” replies the man once more, slightly less blunt, seemingly a little more responsive.

The Indian nods then turns back towards the opening in the teepee to watch the rain. Another streak of lightning flashes across the sky, making Martin look up as it lights up the inside of the teepee, imprinting the shadows of the nearby pines upon it. A roaring boom of thunder accompanies it quickly revealing how close the strike was. The native, apparently unfazed by the light and noise, keeps his focus on the entrance. Martin looks back down towards the patient native. The Indian, noticing Martin is still looking at him, turns back towards him. He can tell something weighs heavy on Martin's mind.

“You did more today than you have in quite some time. Let me check your wounds.” Says the native trying to come off caring, but sounds more blunt than anything.

He crawls over toward the blonde man, as the blonde man takes off the buffalo hide blanket covering him, revealing the rest of his naked body except for an animal hide lounge cloth around his waist and a third bandage around his leg. Reaching Martin, the native leads down slightly to untie and unwrap the old bandage. Martin lifts his leg, bending it at the knee and propping it up so the native could get underneath it. The Indian unwinds the bandage, passing it back and forth between his hands fluently until it exposes the wound. Using the light of the fire, the native inspect the wound, while the blonde man looks down with a troubled look across his face. In the dim glowing of the fire, the once was gash looks almost completely healed over with only a small slit running down the middle of a forming scar.

“It is almost healed,” speaks the Indian, with the faint sound of joy and surprise in his voice, as he begins to rewrap the wound in the same manner he unwrapped it. Even with the good news about his leg, Martin's look of worry remains. Before the native finishes wrapping the bandage, Martin looks up just enough to see his care givers face.

“Suel, what is going on? What could this dream mean? I’ve had the same damn one five different times now,"asks Martin worryingly.

Suel takes a moment to sigh, then speaks, almost disappointed with his own words,“I don’t know. I wish I could tell you, but I am not a Medicine Man. Only time will be able to tell you. For now you need sleep.” 

Too tired to contest, Martin listens to Suel. Recovering himself with the blanket and laying back down, as Suel crawls back toward the opening of the dwelling to continue watching the storm in the same way he had been before. As his eyes begin to close, another streak of lightning lights up the teepee with only a brief pause met once more by a clash of thunder booming all across the mountains. The noise joliets the Martin awake, but he scare only lasts a moment, before the rhythmic drumming of the rain overtakes Martin, sending him back into his sleep.

Letting Go Of The Past

By: Mercy Buck, Staff Writer

All he ever wanted was to make his father happy. Anthony has never been the same since his dad left him, calling Anthony a failure and saying how embarrassed he was of him. That left Anthony's life in shambles and broke him in so many ways he could never be fully repaired. Chaos followed him wherever he went; he didn’t even mean for it to happen, it was just the result of his actions. Having grown up without a father figure, he has been chasing approval all his life, leading him to do things he normally would never do and leaving him more vulnerable than ever. He has been on the move since he turned sixteen, when he ran away from the boy's home. His mother tragically died when he was ten, which sent him through the foster system but his behavior was so bad they sent him to the boys home. 

But that was in the past. Now nineteen years old, he was currently working his day job at the grocery store and he could barely keep his eyes open. Stocking shelves and cleaning in the back was such a tiring job, and it bored him to death. This was the fourth job Anthony had in a year; he had been fired from all three of his previous ones. Once his shift was over, he clocked out and hopped on his bike to ride to his tent under a bridge. But before he could make it out of the parking lot a gray car pulled to a stop in front of him, cutting off his path. After just finishing a long shift, Anthony wasn’t really in the mood for some pranksters. 

He threw his hands over his head and said “Bro, move.” in an irritated voice. The window rolled down revealing a man who looked to be about forty years old with a scruffy beard and dark eyes. 

“Anthony?” the man asked. 

“Yes? How do you know my name?” Anthony replied. 

“It has been a long time since we’ve seen each other, I’ve been looking for you for a very long time; I made some mistakes in my past that I am not proud of.” 

Confused, Anthony asked, “Who are you?” 

The man looked at him and sighed. 

“My name is Irving and I am your father”

Irving took him to his house, it was in the nicer part of town where rich people lived and where crime wasn’t a thing. Anthony looked around in wonder at all the fancy houses; he had never seen anything like it. They pulled up to a white brick house with modern designs all over the place, the lawn was green and freshly cut. They hopped out of the car and walked up the marble steps to the door and walked inside. 

“Welcome to the casa.” Irving said. Anthony looked at all the nice furniture and the fancy lights. 

“Wow, this is super nice.” he said. “Too bad you never shared any of this with us.” 

Irving looked pained. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that, like I said, I made some mistakes. I’m trying to make that up as best I can.” 

An awkward pause followed. 

“How did you find me anyways?” Anthony asked. 

“It’s a long story, but we have a lot of time, unless you are planning on going somewhere.” Irving said with a small grin. “That night when I left you in a, uh, rude manner; I was in a drunken stupor, I wasn’t in my right mind. I drove off and didn’t stop until I ran out of gas. The next day I realized what I had done, all the things I had said to you and your mother; I was too scared and embarrassed to come back and apologize. So I started over. I began to work all kinds of odd jobs until I saved enough money to afford a place to stay other than my car and got a full time job. My boss saw how much I needed this job and gave me a chance with two conditions. One, I quit drinking and go to rehab. Two, I reconcile with my family. We became good friends and he gave me great advice and often helped me when I needed it. Sadly he got sick and passed away. What I didn’t know is that he had made me his predecessor for the company before he died. I was so shocked by what he had done for me, I became even more motivated to keep my promises to him. I worked hard and went to rehab every day until I quit for good. Now I had to reconcile with you and your mom. Firstly I went to search for your mother; I asked everyone back where we lived if they knew what had happened. I was heartbroken to find out that she overdosed about a year ago.” 

Anthony’s throat became dry.  His relationship with his mom had declined when his dad left. He still loved her and she loved him, but times got hard and it was difficult for them to express their feelings. When he got moved to the boys home, that was the last time they saw each other. It had been 3 years since he had heard of her. Irving broke the silence. 

“I’m sorry, Anthony, I know I am responsible for this.” 

Anthony just bowed his head, holding back tears. 

Irving went on, “It took me like three weeks to find you. You would not believe how much courage I needed to come up to you. I guess the hard  part is now.”

He took a deep breath. “Will you forgive me? You can stay at my place or you can go back to where you’re staying now, but you will always be welcome here. I realize you might be angry or hurting or both, and I understand if you can’t forgive me right now or ever.” 

Anthony hated his father for what he had done. He might never fully heal from the wounds he had caused and he was deeply saddened that he had lost his mother. He could never forgive his father. But the man standing in front of him was not his father; he was different, he had changed. This man was legitimately sorry and was trying to fix his mistakes. Everyone deserved a second chance, including him. 

“Yes. I forgive you.” Anthony said. The words came out shakily, but they were said. Letting go of the past was easier said than done, but it was necessary.

The Life of Being Worn

By: Molly Buckles

My biggest dream as a piece of clothing is to be the owner's favorite. Every time the closet’s light is turned on, or the drawer is slid open, I make sure I am on my best behavior and sit up straight. After many days in the closet, I soon realized that there are only certain moods in which I am picked. On Sundays and Mondays, the bottom shelf of the closet is used the most. The bottom shelf is primarily oversized t-shirts, bulky sweatpants, and crew necks. My friends on the top shelf are always appalled by the decisions made by the owner. The jeans gain a wrinkle, the blouses add a crease, and the sweaters, like me, shed a tear, causing the fabric to pill. Those are not the worst days, though. The worst days are when I am picked, and I am paired with a pair of pants I know won’t complement my appearance. I close my eyes tightly and hope that I won’t be blamed for this stupid mistake. I blink my eyes open as my owner looks in the mirror. It was horrendous as I knew it would be. This next part is the worst. I am ripped off the warm body and thrown aside. Right on the carpet, collecting dirt and dog hair. In a rushed attempt, I am tossed back in the closet. Unfolded, unwashed, and unappreciated. As the closet door closes, I look at the sweatshirt that was worn last week sitting on the body that I should be sitting on. It looks no different, and in fact, it looks worse. 

I am green. A green that many think of when they think of the rolling hills of Vermont. A green symbolizing the moss painted all over the trees. A green that makes people want to curl up with a cup of tea by the fire. I know I would be worn more if I lived in a place that was constantly cold. I know I would be worn more if I were slightly bigger and fit better. But here I lay, thrown over the basket of socks and directly under the dresses. I will not be noticed for another couple of weeks. 

a green foggy morning on the east coast

A thing that keeps me entertained during these long, dark days in the closet is the memories of when I was once worn. I remember the day I was put on the hanger, the only thing differentiating me from the others was my size. I readjusted my stance, making sure I was the best looking out of the others on the rack. I remember being put on the warm skin for the first time. I remember the way I fit the body of my human and the excitement she felt when wearing me. The first day I was worn, I went to a campfire. I had never felt heat the way I did that night. It was hot, and it singed the small fuzz on my sleeves. I did not care, as long as I was keeping my owner warm and happy, I felt happy too. That night I sat on the back of a chair. As the night started to quiet, I relaxed my fabric and smelled the remnant of the smoke in my thoughts and on my stitches. 

I am rudely awakened from my memories when I hear the sound of metal on metal. Above me, a dress is being moved around in the closet. The screech of the hanger against the metal rack is deafening. My owner is back, looking for yet another outfit that doesn’t include me. 

At last, I am picked up. She raises me to her chest, and I smell her perfume. The smell that I am familiar with, the smell that comforts me. She places me in the hamper, and even though I am next to the stinky socks and wet underarm shirts, I am happy. I am living off of our last confrontation and enjoying the fact that I am about to be washed. As I am taken down the stairs and placed in the wash, I am at peace. The water fills, and I start to spin. All of my bad memories are washed away, and I ponder how I can be better for my owner. I long for the moments that once were, but I am happy with the moments I have now.

The King of the Mountain

By: Tommy Sitz, Staff Writer

The sun is a warm yellow that slowly heats my face as it climbs higher in the endless blue sky. The bushes are starting to green as spring slowly ascends its way up the mountain. The tops of the far, ridged peaks are still snow-capped from a long, cold winter. As I look around through my binoculars, I see a chocolate boar grizzly walking up the mountain two miles away across the massive drainage. He climbs up the mountain above the animals below, as if to let them know he is the ruler of this vast domain. There in the highest meadow on the mountain, he beds under a large pine in the middle of the opening. He lies there with a kind of swagger because he knows how much authority he has. He sits there, munching on the newly chartreuse grass to fatten up as the warming of the spring year starts. He likely emerged from his winter den about two weeks ago. Now he roams the mountain as though he owns it.

I return my focus to what I am up here to do. Get bear meat. The amazing flavor of bear meat that I want so badly. It is the twenty-third of April, and I am armed with my recurve, a beautiful wooden masterpiece that was passed down to me by my father. It is my go-to weapon, and I have had a great number of successes with it in my hand. Hopefully, it will be my lucky charm today as I try to find a black bear. 

The black bear is an animal now known for having bad meat and diseases. But the bears are highly misunderstood. During the mid-1800s, black bear was a staple meat and preferred across the American frontier. Their meat is excellent as long as you find the right bear. If you shoot a bear that was feeding on fish or a dead carcass, it will taste bad. But here in the high mountains, where the bears are feeding on fresh, green grass, they taste excellent. These bears are scarce and hard to find due to their sneaky nature and scattered populations. You can find herds of 500 elk, but when you see a black bear, there is usually only one, or possibly two. They are mystical creatures, sometimes seemingly impossible to find, but if you are successful, it is one of the most satisfying feelings I have ever felt. 

I pick up my binoculars again and keep looking. I have seen nothing other than the giant grizzly. I can still see him in his meadow, and he is now walking around, still feeding on the grass. As I glass the many meadows on the mountainside, I see a black dot in the middle of the green. I throw my spotting scope onto my tripod and quickly get my eyes on the dot. It is probably a mile away, but very approachable. I am mapping how I am going to get to him. A stump. A burnt stump. Of course, it was just a stump. I do that to myself about every time I come out. I guess it’s probably time to move after sitting in this spot for three hours. 

I pack up my gear into my bag and head down a finger ridge to the other side of the drainage. I want to get up on the other side to see what I can see, but I also want to be careful to stay away from the big boar grizzly. I get to the bottom of the drainage and walk across a downed log to get on the other side of the creek. Now the climb up begins. I start heading up a ridge that should take me to a meadow that I had seen from the other side of the drainage. The ridge is rocky and bare, and should not be too difficult to navigate. The meadow is about a mile away from the big griz, which is plenty of room. I start the slow ascent up the steep ridge. It has been thirty minutes, and I am totally out of breath and about halfway there. I think. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, but do not want to turn around now. It is the first really big climb of the year, and I can tell. After about another 45 minutes, I am at the meadow and immediately lie down. I sit there for five minutes, not moving a muscle.

  I decide it is time to start glassing again, so I sit in the comfortable, freshly green grass and grab my binos. Instantly, I pick up a black bear about two ridges over up the drainage from me. I've got to get moving. I practically throw everything in my bag and start hiking. I estimate that the black bear is about half a mile away, so it shouldn’t take too long to get over there. I do not even care about the pain in my legs right now. I basically run over to the meadow and get there in fifteen minutes. I start to slow down. I can see the opening where the bear was 100 yards in front of me. I slowly inch my way to the meadow and check the wind. My wind is perfect. Blowing in my face. Black bears have one of the best senses of smell in the animal kingdom. If something is going to blow a stalk on a bear, it will probably be your scent. I have my bow in my hand, and I nock an arrow. Fifty yards from the opening. When I saw the bear, he was at the far side of the opening, which is perfect because the opening is about thirty yards wide. That would put me at about a thirty to forty-yard shot. Twenty-five yards from the opening. I can taste the bear meat, it's so close. Ten yards from the opening. CRASH.

In a flurry of brown hair, I am suddenly on my belly, being crushed by an immense amount of weight. The grizzly bear. In the excitement of seeing the black bear, I forgot that I was headed right in the grizzly’s direction. He must have been headed my way, too. I put my hands behind my neck to protect him from ripping it open. My nostrils are filled with his terrible musky scent. I can hear him breathing like a madman, as if he is about to do something horrible. But he just stands there on top of me, breathing hard. I can now smell the scent of death on his breath. My face lies on the ground against the dirt and branches, and I feel them sticking to my face. I can see his hind legs on my right side. I want to groan in the pain of being crushed, but do not make a sound. His front paws are on my pack, and his hind legs are to the side of me. I can feel the moisture on my face from his heavy breathing. I lie there waiting for what seems to be an eternity, but he just stands there on top of me. His long, soft fur brushes against the back of my pants as he starts to move. Finally, he gets off and walks away. I lie there as he slowly walks into the darkness of the thick, spiky pine trees. I just got jumped on by a bear, but I do not have a single scratch.

Why? Why did he just leave me be and not do a thing? Normally, when people get attacked by a bear, they do not come away unharmed. But I did. Obviously, he did not like me in his territory, but for some odd reason, he did not harm me. 

“I think it is time to get out of here,” I mumble to myself. I get up and start the long hike back to the truck, pondering what just happened to me. I am not sure if it was real or not. It is only about midday, but I figure I’ve had enough excitement for the day. I work my way back across the rocky ridges and thick creek bottom. I get back to the last ridge before the trailhead and look back through my binoculars. There he is, sitting in the same meadow I first saw him.

“Thank you God,” I say as I walk over the ridge.

Flower Field

By: MJ Whelan

The fluff fell off the dandelions and danced in the wind with the girls' laughter. The edges of their white dresses dancing around their ankles and brushing against all the flowers of the field.

Green, red, blue, pink, purple, seemingly every color as far as one can see. A rolling field or meadow, whatever one prefers to use to describe the vast space. With laughter dancing through the air, smiles carried on the winds.

Grass stains on their bodies after running and dancing all day. Green stands out on the white of the cloth. A mark of the day's happiness and joy. Stains on their knees, hands, and even feet. From running barefoot and falling. Petals in their hair, from rolling or from the other. Does it matter? It's beautiful all the same.

Clouds soft as goose down drift past, over their heads. Sometimes they stop and watch, other times letting them pass as they move. The sky was the perfect blue overhead, not a hint of rain either. Blue and white over the entirety of its vast expanse. The perfect day.

The one tall oak in the field provides the perfect place to rest. They sleep in its shade sometime after lunch. White dresses make the perfect blankets for their legs; they sleep in the peace of the shade. The oak towering above them like a gentle guardian. One wakes earlier than the other and pushes her companion's hair behind her ear.

More dancing and running, putting new stains on them. Soft music plays, real or imaginary? It doesn't matter to them; it's still playing as they dance through the flowers again. It's not a fancy dance, but it's theirs and that's all they care about.

The red and white checkered blanket stirs faintly with the wind. The wicker basket keeps it weighed down as they dance in the distance. The great oak keeps shade on the remains of their picnic.

Night is falling, blue skies fading to yellow and orange as they finally wind down dancing. The sky is red and pink when they finish packing their picnic and radio, and walk back to the edge of the field.

It's purple and blue when they finally get in the truck, headlights flickering to life. Stars start appearing in the sky as they drive the dirt road home. To their little place off the beaten path, the flower field fading behind them. There, waiting for them to come back.

Forgotten Strengths

By: Danielle Foote

I breathe in the fresh mountain air as I step out of my cabin. It’s my second day at one of my favorite ski mountains. Grand Targhee Resort, Wyoming. It is mid-February, and over the past week, the mountain has gotten a good three feet of fluffy powder. I step out onto my icy porch, careful not to slip, and grab my skis from the rack. The cabin is a few hundred feet from the slopes, so I carefully make my way towards the trail winding through the other cabins. I clip on my skis one at a time. I specifically brought my powder skis because today is not a normal ski day. Today I’m going all the way to the top of the mountain, the ungroomed runs, where the untouched snow lies. 

“Charlie, wait up!” My friend Jonny calls after me.

Oh, right, Jonny. Jonny has been my best friend since we were toddlers. I invited him on this trip to get him out of the house and to bring him outside in general. He tramps over to where I am, clips into his skis, and gives me his iconic grin.

“Ready?” he asks.

“So ready,” I reply.

We push off with our poles and head to the double-seat chairlift that will bring us to the highest ski run on the mountain. We load onto the lift, pulling down the overhead bar to rest our legs. I look out over the hill. The rising sun adds a peaceful glow to the snow-covered trees. We are some of the first skiers on the mountain, and everything was still coming alive. Moving over a patch of frosted willows, an Ermine was nestled into its den, keeping warm from the chilly air. We crest a ridge, coming closer to the summit of the mountain. We lift the tips of our skis and slide off the chairlift. There are no trees around for miles, and a slight breeze blows snow dust into our eyes. 

We head towards a sign labeled 'The Gulch.' My stomach churns as I look down the ravine. This morning, I was excited and had no nerves, but now, standing here in person, the experts-only cliff started looking more intimidating by the second. I take a deep breath and scoot my way closer to the edge. Jonny comes up beside me, a smile crossing his face. Then, without a word, he drops down the edge into the ravine. With no time for hesitation, I follow close behind, watching his every turn to mirror. After a few minutes of being surrounded by jagged cliff walls, the ravine opened into a steep, open mountainside. The nerves I was feeling this morning are starting to wear off, making way for the excitement I felt a few days ago. I let out a hoot of excitement, and Jonny does the same. I take a left, in search of untouched powder. It feels like I’m skiing over clouds, nothing slowing me down.

I can see the bottom of the mountain, a bittersweet feeling. I’m about to shout at Jonny, but I get cut off. It sounds like a herd of cows is running behind me. I look back, confused, then I see it: a giant wall of snow and debris is flying down the mountain fast, coming right towards Jonny and me. There is no time to think about what to do next. The avalanche envelopes both of us. The force is too much to handle, and I get knocked off my feet, my skis unclipped as I get pummeled into the ground. It’s hard to breathe, and my mouth is being filled with snow. I tumble down the mountain for a good two minutes before I slowly come to a stop. Everything is dark, and it’s hard to move my arms out from under me. I’ve heard stories of this happening to people, but I’ve never thought it would ever happen to me. There is a small pocket of air between my mouth and my balaclava, giving my shocked brain some oxygen. Suddenly, I feel dazed. My head hurts and my ears are ringing. I know that the adrenaline is wearing off, and my eyes close, giving in to the shock.

“Charlie, Charlie!” I hear a voice shouting from somewhere distant. 

I remember that I’m lying under a good three feet of snow, bringing my survival instincts back. I try shouting, but there’s no room for my mouth to move. All I can do is lie there and hope someone rescues me. I can hear shouting all around me, Jonny, and the local search and rescue team. 

After what seems like hours, I hear a voice shout, “I think I found something!”

I hear footsteps vibrating overhead, followed by the sounds of shovels digging into the snow. The sounds slowly start getting louder, and all of a sudden, I’m blinded by the sun. I feel a firm pair of hands grab onto my shoulder and slowly hoist me out of the snow. The pressure of the heavy snow has been lifted off my limbs. As soon as I am all the way out, I immediately feel dizzy and tumble into whoever is carrying me. 

“Dang, Charlie, you scared us all real bad,” Jonny says sarcastically.

I take a look around and see where the avalanche came down. Trees are down, the lifts aren’t moving, but one thing stayed the same. The beauty of the mountains. The peacefulness that the snow brings. When I started doing activities in the outdoors, I knew this was what could happen, and I accepted it. Though I might’ve had the scariest encounter with nature ever, I still feel that it was necessary. I can now fully appreciate the power and strength nature has.

The Acceptance Of Fate

By Alex Sitz

At the head of the drainage that seems to run on forever before it twists and turns down to the south where it twists and turns again to the north out of sight. On the north side of the river,  hills roll up steeper and steeper towards the sky where they finally pick into mountain tops, brown grass swaying slightly in the wind, scattered with the humps of dusty green sagebrush, all the way to the top of rocky hills. The south is mostly the same except for a few patches of emerald green pines rising up with the mountain and running all the way down to the river’s edge. In between the river and the mountains on the north side, there is a dead zone, where nothing makes its home there except the sage and the rattlesnake that crawls on his belly only to frighten anyone who passes through. And that is all anything ever does in that mid-section of the mountain; pass through.

The river’s edge is different though, not dead as the mountainsides, but full of life and greenery. On the banks of the river, thick willow patches grow only divided up with animal trains, along with the great pines separating the sagebrush from the river. Rocky sandbars emerging from the river itself where tracks of every animal, from the great grizzly bear to small river hopping birds, can be found. In the far distance, snow-capped mountains soar up, there the lone goat or occasional sheep are seen there at the highest top of the mountain.

Right where the mighty pines come reaching down from a north-facing slope to the river's edge only stopped by a sandbar, where a long curve cuts through the bottom of the drainage by the constant water flow. A small rapids rumbles through, just loud enough that it drowns out any other sound once on the river's edge. The speckled golden head of a small cutthroat trout comes up to sip a gray mayfly off the top of the water. On the other side of the river, there is a thick patch of willows only broken up by an animal trail and a single dead pine with a bald eagle sitting in it scanning over the river, as if expecting someone to come onto the open river bank. At the head of the rapid, a frightened cow moose comes high stepping across the water, only stopping for a moment to make sure her calf was following, then continuing on under the eagle and into the willows. 

Right downstream of where the moose was, a man dressed in buckskin clothes comes riding out of the trees into the open on his brown and white painted mare with a mule, heave buried with animal skins from this year's trappings and other supplies the man needs, being led behind her. The man's shaggy blond hair moving in the wind and his breaded face worn from many winters with a scar on his left cheek below his eye from a run-in with a Shoshone warrior some years ago. Across his lap, a flintlock rifle lay with a large antler-handled bowie knife in his belt. His broad shoulders moving up and down with the movements of his horse. His eyes looking warily across the river.

With a jerk of the rains, he stops the mare and starts scanning the open area of the river bank. Climbing off his horse with his rifle now in hand, he leads both her and the mule out onto the riverside, going between watching the ground and the thick willow line. Looking up for a moment to notice the eagle watching his every move as he walks along the river. The roar of the river now in his ears as he looks down again to scan the sandy bank. 

Walking up along the rocks of the river looking for a place to cross, something seemingly catches his eye in a small patch of sand with a singular large track in it. Moving closer to it, he starts seeing more and more detail in the sand. Finally standing right over the track, the trapper kneels down to put his hand next to the track, that is almost twice the size of his hand, only to utter a single word with his gravelly voice.

“Bear.”

As he said this, the eagle let out a startling screech and flew off upstream out of sight of the man. The trapper then looked back at his horse, talking to her.

“It’s the same one that got into the food and been stealn’ the fur out of our traps. He’s been circling us for weeks.”

Looking back down at the track and standing up, he went on.

“I’m tired of this. Damn thing won’t show his ugly face, but he always knows right where we at. Tonight this its gonna end. Tonight we kill this beast.”

The mare lifted her head and snorted as if in disapprovement of the decision. The man then remounted his white mare and rode off across the river, above the rapid into the willow and under the dead pine.

Up the river a couple miles or so, in the shade of a circle of pines maybe a hundred yards off the riverbank, the trapper sits on an old downed log. The horse and the mule were tied to a pair of trees off to his left and a small fire going in front of him with a pot of coffee boiling over it. His rifle leaned up against the log within arms reach and an ax next to that. On his lap, a young pine shaved of all its limbs sits as the trapper takes his knife making a fine point at the end. Then inspecting his work, throws the newly made spear into a pile of ten or eleven others. 

Looking around and seeing that the pot of coffee was done boiling, he steps over to it, takes it off the fire, and pours it into a cup sitting next to him. Grabbing the cup, the man takes a sip and looks back at his horse who is already intently watching him.

“You know how we gonna do it?” He asks his horse,” I'm going kill a deer. I saw some fresh tracks and a pair of does as we came in here, so finding one shouldn’t be a proble. After I kill it, we’ll bring it back here before I start cutten into it. I'm gonna put that deer in the middle of a ring of spikes with one opening to walk into and build up a bunch of little fires around to make sure the bear goes for the deer the way I want him to. Then, I’ll take you and the mule to go hide somewhere safe. I’ll come back and hide out of sight, maybe in that tree or something so the bear can’t get to me. When the big buffoon comes for the deer I have a clear shot and if he comes runnin’ at me he’ll have to go through the spike to get me, given’ me enough time to reload.”

Looking around he could see exactly what would happen tonight and how it would play out. The bear would come right for the deer, he would take his shot if that one did not kill it, then before the bear could reach him, he would reload, take another shot and kill the beast. It seems simple as any trap could be, but yet it seems as if it was too easy. With the sun high in the sky, there was plenty of work to do before he could set his trap perfectly.

With the sun now going down over the mountain, the river drainage entered a deathly quiet, as if knowing and awaiting for the up roar that will surely come. The horse and the mule now gone, hobbled in a safe meadow to graze, the trapper walks back into the place where his trap will be sprung. The deer hanging up enclosed be spiked almost all the way around it. Eight small fire pits placed around that, sit ready to be ignited with a touch of flint. The man, walking up to the deer, leans his rifle against one of the spikes, cuts a slab of meat off of it for himself. He then grabs his rifle and walks over the largest of the fire pits. Setting the rifle and the meat down on his right, he takes out a piece of flint and steel from his pocket. 

Grabbing the ball of grass he had felt for this purpose, the trapper starts clicking the flint and steel together making sparks fly into the dry grass. Finally landing one big spark in the middle of the grass clump, he raises it to his face and begins to blow vigorously on it. As smoke rises into his face, clouding his entire vision except the grass clump, a small glow springs out of the grass as a newly born flame begins. The man adds more grass to keep the flame going then takes it and puts under a premade teepee of small sticks. After a moment the sticks ignite too and the man starts gradually adding larger and larger sticks till the fire is going enough that he can lean back for a moment to take a look at his work.

As he does, a small movement catches his eyes. Looking up to find the motion out infront of him where the trees begin again in the circle, he finds it standing there, right out of the pines staring right back at him with his white teeth snarling, was the beast he was waiting for. The bear that has been stalking him, stealing out of his traps, and rummaging through his food on nights passed, has finally shown its ugly face. This bear was no normal grizzlie, this griz was bigger and stronger than any other bear the trapper had ever seen before in his life. Kneeling on the grow, the bear seems to tower over the man while being on all fours. It’s grizzled fur marred with scars of past fights. Its breath coming rapidly in and out with its obvious musculature tensed ready for the fight to come. But the man was not ready yet, had not repaired the trap or started the fires or anything. It was too late for any of this now.

The man took in all this information at once, while he and the beast were staring right at each other. To the trapper, the stare down in the dead silence of the mountain seemed to take forever, but in reality it was not more than a few seconds.

  Breaking the silence, the griz let out a huff and with the huff the man darted for his gun, landing on his side and cocking the hammer back all in one fluid motion, as the bear barreled down on him. Without aiming he fired a shot, pointed in the direction of the bear, ending in a cloud of white smoke. For a moment there was a pause, but then charging out of the veil of the smoke came the beast.

  The force of the charge knocked the rifle right out of the hands of the trapper and flung it ten yards off into the trees. With the bear now on top of him, the man started punching at the head of the beast, trying to wrestle it off of himself while its massive paws tore at his flesh. As he took a hard left swing, the bear, catching his forearm in its mouth, bit down sinking its teeth to the bone causing the man to let out a cry of anguish. 

Being face to face with his arm in the beast jaws, the man looked into the bear's eyes. In them he saw one thing. He saw that the bear was going to kill him and the only thing he could do was kill it before it finished him.

Accepting his fate, he pulls out his bowie knife with his other arm still trapped in the bear's mouth which had begun to thrash him around. As he goes to sink the first jab, the bear stands up on his hind legs, lifting the man five feet off the ground. Being thrashed around in the air, the trapper stabs the bear over and over again all around the shoulder and neck area, each time sinking the blade all the way to the hilt.

As the bear thashed the man around like a rag doll, he swatten his massive paw leaving a gaping gash on the man's upper right thigh. Immediately, blood started running out and down his leg, dripping all across the ground. With this newfound pain, a fury started to burn inside of the trapper. Tapping into this fury, he raised his blood washed knife and drove it deep through the griz’s skull.

Without delay, the bear let out a wounded roar with its eyes rolled back in its head as it released the man's arm from his muzzle, sending him crashing to the ground. Holding his damaged arm close to his body, the man, using his good leg, scooted quickly away from under the beast as it came stumbling down, only to take a couple wobbly steps then slump over dead. 

With blood still running out of his leg, and all his other wounds he had not noticed till now mainly the gashes on his chest and rips, the man crawled back against the base of a tall pine to brace himself. Having his back probed against the tree, the trapper took what was surely going to be his last look around before he bled out.

  The sky was now dark and the first stars had started to show through the black mat. The small fire that he had built, that had been kicked around by the bear's charge, was scattered, but still glowing in the darkness enough to illuminate the silhouettes of the ring of trees. The skinned deer and the stakes around it stud as if nothing had happened. A map drawn with blood and scuff marks lay across the dirt and pine needles that make up the forest floor. An enormous heep of scarred grizzled fur and blood, which used to be the beast that had stocked him for weeks, lay silent with an antler handled knife still sticking out of its massive head.

Though he seemed to be meeting a violent end, the man was content having gone out in a blaze of glory in this wild and beautiful place. Taking a deep breath, sucking in the chilled night air and letting it out darkness seemed to enclose around the man as he passed out from the loss of blood in his leg.

The quiet of the night surrounded the ring of trees. From some distant hill side a lone wolf sounded off for a moment then all went quiet again. Coming opposite the man's slumped body, a shadowy figure appears through the trees right outside the glow from the broken up fire. The figure stops and stands still as can be, taken in the entire scene from the battle that ended a few moments ago.

In a bison hide teepee, a fire cracks and snaps as a stew in a pot, suspended by cooking sticks, boiled above it. Smoke rising from the fire and wafting out the hatch in the top of the structure as a single beam of light shone down onto the grass floor. A man sitting cross legged next to the fire, leans over to stir the pot. His long black hair tied into a braid with multiple painted feathers sticking out of it, runs down his drown colored bareback. Behind him, a shaggy blonde headed man lay under a buffalo pelt blanket asleep. His breaded face worn from a life of physical work with a scar from a past battle sits under his left eye. His left arm wrapped in a white cloth bandage stained with blotches of red blood. Under the blanket, there is a second bandage wrapped around his upper right leg with a third larger one wrapped across his back and chest, each spotted with blood. His torn and blood stained shirt hangs at his feet, with his rifle with an antler handled bowie knife, also stained with blood, resting underneath it.

It was the trapper. All of the sudden, his eyes shoot open, wildly looking all around the teepee. Not knowing where he was or what had happened to him one question entered his mind. 

“I’m alive, but how?”

What a Snake Thinks

Inspired by An excerpt from Mink River by Brian Doyle “What the River Thinks”

By Nico Fuhriman

The dirt above me startsssss warming as I lie beneath it. The morning sunrise always feelssss pleasant, but it’ssss when I know it’ssss time to hunt, as the hunger stirs within. Unburrowing from the red, ionized soil, I flick my tongue, tasting the air for any hint of food. The scentssss are faint, coming from unseen creatures moving slowly across the earth. Passing by the blue bunchgrass, I pick up tracesssss of fringe sage, feeling every shiver in the grass beneath my scales as I search. Then, a scent, life hidden below. I burrow my snout into the soil, attempting to stir something up. I lunge, my jawssss snapping shut, biting down with force. fangssssss sinking deeper as venom flowssssss, slowing my preyssss movements until it ceases altogether. Adjusting my mouth, I swallow, feeling the lump slide slowly down my body. The sun grows warmer against my scalesssss as I slither through the clumps of Indian ricegrass, needle and thread wheat grass, the mule deers trotting near me coming close to squashing me. Suddenly, I prick myself on something and instinctively shift into a defensive position, flattening my head, ready to strike. But the threat is nothing more than a prickly pear cactus, and I ease back. As I stray there are other snakes though made of dirt from something below, that the prairie dogs make to escape and hide from the black footed ferret. Finding a limestone rock, I coil up to bask in the warmth, letting the heat seep into my skin. Then, a screech pierces the air above, a cry of danger. I tense, slithering quickly,  head flattened to appear larger, more dangeroussss. The screech comessss again, unmistakable. A red-tailed hawk circlesssss overhead, its shadow cutting across the ground.  Body  movessss faster now, every sense alert, ready to evade the predator that watchesssss from the sky. Hiding, waiting, listening for the danger of the sky to pass. The day is slowing. so am I. The warmth of the sun, once sharp and bright against my scalessss, begins to soften as shadows stretch across the ground. movement is slower now, more deliberate. The hunt is over. I’ve had my fill, and my musclessss, once taut with purpose, relax. I taste the air, faint, familiar scents drift lazily by, no longer carrying the urgency of danger or prey.. Instinct pullsssss me towards the soft, loamy ground. A patch of earth, cool and welcoming, beckons me to burrow down, to nestle into the dark where I will be safe and hidden. There is no fear in the coming night, only trust in the earth that holds me, that cradlesssss me as I slow my breathing, coiling gently into myself. I feel the cool dirt press against my body, closing me off from the vastness of the open world. Here, beneath the surface, I am no longer part of the day. the movements of the night’s a mystery. I am simply a part of the earth. wrapped in its quiet embrace. As the last light fadessss. surrendered to the comfort of stillness. knowing that with the dawn, soon to rise again to feel the sun, to move, to hunt, and to live. But for now, I let the darkness take me, content in the slow rhythm of rest.

Salted Cereal

By Julian Denney

The cereal is salty and sour when I bite down. My gaze lingers on the jar of sugar in front of me, then moves to the salt shaker by my hand—it’s the second time I’ve done this now. It’s the third time that the milk I’ve used has been expired.

I can feel my face scrunched in appall as the rest of the bowl is poured into the trash, the taste still lingering in my mouth despite having rinsed it several times with water. It’s hard to place when I began to get such wide gaps in my memory—it’s difficult to recall something you forgot. Nonetheless, I find myself trying, scrolling through my camera roll in a mindless attempt to call back what glimpses of my days I’d lost. It’s fruitless, even as I stare at the documentary laid out before me; every photo, despite showing the moment in real-time, does nothing more than that. I can only feel the moment the picture was taken, with a graceful few seconds tacked on to either end; I took that photo at a restaurant after nearly choking on my drink, and I dropped the glass the moment the shutter closed, but the rest of the day stays hazy. I can’t even remember what the name of the place was, or who was there to laugh with me at my mishaps. It’s all obscured.

Most of my days go by in blur. I get glimpses of them sometimes, small memories that stick for no apparent reason: a ripped-up note I found under my dresser, the odd looks cast to me at a store, staring at the blinding window where the night’s snow reflected the morning sun. I keep my window shut to keep in the air of days past, in hopes that the scent may trigger a remembrance.

Even sitting here writing this, I can no longer recall what my end goal was—sitting with a carton of curdled milk and a box of cereal, I don’t know why I sat at this table, nor why I picked up the pen.

Lost and Found: Chapter 5

By: Savanna Proffit

Chapter 4 Recap:

Waylen looked into her eyes and found sadness and hurt; in the eyes of his only sweetheart, ever. She still looked the same as she stood in the moonlight. The silver light lit her blond braids up and made her eyes sparkle with the tears that still lingered. She was beautiful; the most precious, dainty, thing he had ever set his eyes on.

Chapter 5:

“Why don’t we find a place to start a fire and eat something,” Waylen said, as he mentally told himself to make sure she was not hurt.

“Ok…” Kayla nodded and clung to his arm as they turned around a tree and started searching for a small clearing.

Waylen kept one hand resting on hers as she clung to his arm while they walked. He could barely see a little clearing up ahead with the help of the moonlight. He could feel her shivering and sometimes he could have sworn he heard her teeth chattering. 

To him, this felt nice, this walking through the woods holding “his girls’” hand, and her clinging to his arm was more than nice; it was pretty much all that he wanted since high school. And now it was happening! A soft and hopeful smile curved its way across his mouth. 

“This looks good… there are some nice trees here to hang hammocks and it's a good place to set up a tent too if you want…” Waylen turned to look at her and see what she thought but his breath and words caught in his throat; she was so sweet-looking, so innocent. 

“Sure, that sounds fine. I'll go get some wood for a fire,” Kayla whispered, slowly walked away, and turned her headlamp on.

She seemed so gloomy. Waylen also turned his headlight on, bent down, and started to dig a shallow hole in the ground to build a fire. He made sure he had his matches ready then went to check his satellite phone to see where they were since he had gotten all twisted around in the dark. He pressed the on button and nothing happened. He pressed it again, and again still nothing. No, no, no, no!! He inwardly raged as his head went back, dragged his hand over his face, and turned around in a full circle. Wait, wait….I had a solar portable charger…where…is…it? Waylen Asher scrambled through his pack for what seemed like forever before he found what he was looking for. 

“Yes! Thank You, Jesus!” He whispered the words of gratitude up to Heaven. He opened it up and went to turn it on so he could charge his satellite phone, but the light wouldn’t come on. 

“No! Not again. He shoved the charger and phone in his pack and sat with his arms resting on his knees, staring at the ground trying to figure out what to do.

“What’s wrong?” Kayla asked.

“My satellite phone is dead and so is the charger. I don’t know exactly where we are, or how we are going to get out of here. And your satellite phone is dead…wait, do you have a charger?” Waylen said with the faintest flicker of hope.

“I do. let me see if I can find it,” She bent down by her pack, rummaged through it, and pulled out her solar charger. She pressed the “On” button but nothing happened.

Waylen stared at the blank, empty bars on the charger for a few seconds then stood up, looked at the sky, and sent a silent prayer to God. When he turned back to Kayla, she was sitting criss-cross in the dirt, her head in her hands, crying, saying the word, “Why? Why?... Why?” over and over again. His heart melted when he saw her. He wanted to go to her, to hug her, to tell her that whatever God’s reason was for allowing them to go through this situation, was a good one and that He would work it out for their good in the end. Suddenly, he did not question if he should do what he was thinking or not, he went to sit beside her, put his arm around her shoulder, and said, “I’m sorry that this is happening… I’ve never been in this situation before…and I’m not quite sure what to do. But, I do know, that God loves us very much and whatever this,” he gestured to their surroundings, “is, He will work it out. There is a reason for us being here…together…completely lost…and I know He will bring good out of our circumstances. We just need to have faith that He will keep us safe… and we need to keep praying.”  Kayla had turned to him with a few glistening tears lining her cheeks, listening, grasping onto every word he said. Waylen looked back at her and, when he had finished talking, it was like time stood still. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment.

Kayla realized that what he said was completely true, they needed to trust and have faith in the God who loved and cared for them more than anyone else ever could.

“So…”

“So what?” Waylen asked looking a little puzzled.

“So, are we going to pray? Isn’t that what you just said we should do, silly?” Kayla giggled as she wiped away her tears.

“Oh, yeah…” he chuckled. “Let’s pray. Do you want to or do you want me to?”

“Why don’t we both say one?”

“That’s fine with me, I’ll start.” Waylen closed his eyes and was about to start when he felt Kayla lean her head on his shoulder. He paused and smiled to himself. Then started, “Dear Lord, we know that Your ways are the highest, Your plans are the best, and during whatever…trials You bring our way, You have our best interests at heart. Please help us to trust you and your plan. Amen.”

When the prayer was done, they stayed in that position for a good while. Waylen did not want the moment to end. I missed this. I’ve wanted to get back in touch with her for a long time. Why didn’t I? I’ve loved her for years, why did I think I could live without her? I’ve got to tell her…now is the perfect time…

Kayla did not want the moment to end either. She felt safe with his arm on her shoulder and God watching over them. She felt secure like nothing bad could happen as long as they were together. She remembered that this feeling welling up inside of her was the same one she had back in high school when they had professed that they loved each other. Kayla was puzzled now. If things did not work out in high school, why would they work out now? What if they worked for a little bit but then we hurt each other again? I don’t think I could handle another break-up…with him…

“I’m going to start a fire and cook some baked beans with bacon bits, then we should probably get some rest,” Waylen said as he stood up and walked to the hole he started to dig earlier.

Kayla started going to her hammock to grab an extra jacket and get everything situated for the night. Then, she walked towards a rock Waylen had set next to the fire for her to sit on. The two sat in silence, engulfed in their thoughts, waiting for the beans to bubble so they could go to bed. When the beans were done, Kayla carefully placed a scolding spoonful on her tongue and let the warmth spread through her.

“Thank God for beans,” she said closing her eyes and savoring the flavor.

Waylen looked at her, laughed, then agreed.

The Car

written by Josie Schultz

The bright sunlight seemingly caresses Conrad's features, emphasizing his masculine beauty. He watched from the bleachers as his friends played some intense game he wasn't interested in, feeling the cool breeze as he did so. Mornings like these were his favorite. He felt like he could actually breathe; it didn't feel like the air around him was suffocating. It was one of the few times he genuinely felt free. He felt truly like himself without the pressure of everyone else beating down on him. 

“HEY CONRAD!! WATCH OUT!” 

He was suddenly snapped out of his moment of bliss by his best friend, Josh, yelling at him, warning him of the ball flying at his face. Instinctively, he put his hand up, catching it. “Thanks, Josh,” he said as he tossed the ball back towards them. 

“I'm going to head to class, see ya guys,”  Conrad said, picking up his backpack and starting towards the school. There was a chorus of different goodbyes from his friends as Josh ran up next to him. It was still early, seeing as it was 7:30 and school didn't start until 8:15, but Conrad liked being early, and Josh was wherever Conrad was. 

Conrad and Josh were inseparable. You could tell they were best friends just by looking at them, but their friendship didn’t start like that. Throughout middle school and freshman year, Conrad was considered a loner. He had a few friends, but they were embarrassed to be seen around him, and many of his other classmates were flat-out scared of him. His parents had a lot of influence in the town, so everyone wanted to be his friend. He formed a large group of people whom he considered all to be his best friends and would do anything he could for them. 

One day, he found out his childhood best friend, Luke, was being severely bullied. He stumbled upon a group of older kids harassing Luke and stepped in. He defended both himself and Luke to the best of his ability until a teacher found out and split them up. The other kids were fairly beaten up by the end, especially compared to Conrad. He had been interested in kickboxing and lacrosse, taking lessons for both, which allowed him to stand his ground in a fight. After hearing about how he acted, many of his friends distanced themselves, eventually avoiding him altogether. The only one who stuck by him the whole time was Zach. They were inseparable, but the keyword there is ‘were’. Zach's bullying didn’t stop, it got worse. 

He went through years of consistent bullying and couldn’t handle it anymore, even with Conrad’s help and support. He had thought the best option was to leave, so he took his own life. At such a young age, 14 to be exact, this had a horrible impact on Conrad and many others around Zach. Conrad, having fallen into depression shortly after, would lash out when people brought up his change in mood or Zach’s death. That was until halfway through his freshman year when Josh first transferred. 

Josh was dead set on being Conrad’s friend, despite all the nasty rumors that had formed. In the beginning, he would consistently try to talk with Conrad but to no avail. Nearing the end of freshman year, Josh was able to break down his walls, becoming Conrad’s (only) friend. They became fairly close throughout the summer because Josh constantly bugged Conrad to hang out or at least do something with him. Slowly, Conrad opened up to Josh and improved a lot through their friendship, the pair quickly becoming inseparable. 

As the next school year started, more people became friendlier with Conrad. They’d ask him about his day and make small talk in the hallways. At first, he was a little taken aback by it, skeptical even. He thought they had alternative motives since they had ignored him just the year before. Gradually he became used to it and gained a lot of popularity, being sucked into a group quickly. 

Though this group did everything to make him feel welcome and like he was a part of it (per Josh’s request), Conrad always noticed a weird air when they hung out. Like they weren’t happy he was there. Like they were pretending and stepping on pins and needles around him, he felt awful about this, so he made up excuses not to be too close to them. 

Conrad blinked, realizing he had made it to class. Thinking back, he had probably been there for about 15 minutes. Josh was next to him, continuing on the random stories he tends to tell. Josh knew that Conrad didn’t often listen to them, but having the silence filled them both comfort and allowed them a time of peace. They still had about 20 minutes until class started, but people were starting to trickle in. 

Josh and Conrad had the same classes, the teachers thought it would be best this way. Many students, and teachers too, were afraid that Conrad would explode in anger at something. The solution they came up with was Josh. They noticed how Josh was able to keep Conrad from getting angry and could handle him when he was. So they were always partnered together. 

Classes flew by as Conrad continuously got lost in thought, reminiscing about the past and how he was able to get where he was. 

“Hey, Josh, Conrad, you guys should come to my party tonight!

 It was one of Josh’s friends. Conrad didn’t know him very well, but felt almost happy he was invited. He had never gone to any parties before, but was feeling different about this one. Josh looked towards Conrad, his eyes pleading with him to say yes to the party.
“Sounds fun. What's the address?” Conrad sounded almost bubbly when he spoke, the complete opposite of only two years ago. 

“I’ll text you guys it. can't wait to see ya there.” 

Though the interaction was only a few seconds, it would dramatically change the rest of the year for everyone at the party.

T.B.C

Food Service

By Julian Denney

If life is a prison, restaurant work is Guantanamo Bay. Picture it: you woke up with a fever of 101, but you’re still on your way to work because it’s short-staffed and someone else already asked for a shift cover with no luck. It’s a Friday night, so you can’t even dream that it won’t be busy, because it undoubtedly will be—especially with tourist season creeping up. You’ll have to be coordinated enough to balance a tray of thirteen dirty cups and plates precariously stacked atop one another, even though you nearly swerved onto the wrong side of the road while driving there. The moment you step foot into the restaurant, the smell of stale fries is already making you nauseous, and finally, you get the warm, warm welcome of:

“The regular that *#$% herself called ahead, she’ll be coming in again.”
“She’s still not banned? She’s gotta be a health hazard at this point?”
“She and her husband spend too much money here to ban them.”
And that’s how my shift started. I was a busser for two years because I was too scared to ask for a raise and only got upgraded to host in the third year because I was more tired of getting $11 an hour than I was scared of my manager. Even with that, I still got the privilege of continuing to buss, having to touch everybody’s plates even when I saw them cough all over it. Despite that, I finally felt grateful to miss out on hosting (after three weeks of being put with too many hosts to make my own host money) solely because I thought I might get a migraine if I had to talk to anybody. 

However, my luck stopped there, because even if you’re not arguing with an old lady about a wait list or telling the fourth person to ask if you have filet that you don’t, you get a coworker twenty years your senior chewing you out for anything they can gripe about. Not even an hour into a shift, and I’d heard enough about booths two, three, and four needing plates grabbed and water refilled to last a lifetime. Nothing can quite recreate the feeling of rage ignited when asked, “Can you go _______” while you are visibly mid-task and trying not to vomit. By hour four, I’d sent off several texts, including but not limited to:

“Everyone’s catching [kind] attitudes with me. I could throw up on this [beautiful] floor right now and make ALL of your guys’ shifts a lot less fun don’t play with me,” and “So help me god if [my favorite coworker ever] says one more thing I’ll [give her a hug] swear on HER life.”

While I’d forgotten water in someone’s water glass (presenting them with only ice), shattered several wine glasses in a full restaurant, and otherwise humiliated myself plenty, the final straw to make me consider quitting was when the restaurant was void of customers. I was made to clean the bathrooms, apparently not having played the sick card hard enough, and was not informed that the floor was freshly mopped. Everyone else was cleaning and celebrating the final table leaving, and I was so out of it that I mistook their laughter for the color green.

With my coworkers preoccupied, the only people to see it were me and god. I hit the floor like a brick, watching the basket of towelettes drop beside me. I could immediately feel the bruises forming along my entire side, my work of rolling up towels was completely undone, and my pride was more bruised than my body. The mop water was quick to seep into my cheap uniform, and clung to me as I made myself finish cleaning. 

After it all, I still (unfortunately) didn’t quit—jobs for highschoolers are finite, and so is my checking balance. 

I still have yet to quit.

The Coin For Charon

By Nico Furhiman

I wasn’t supposed to be in the museum after hours, even worse I had to steal the key from my dad to even get in here. Unfortunately, there's something about a dare, especially one that was given to you by the entire friend group that you just can’t say no to. It was a stupid dare anyways, I just had to grab a pamphlet to prove I broke in. 

I unlocked the back door and slid through hoping it wouldn’t creak as I closed it behind myself. All the exhibits were dimmed as I walked past. I had been in this museum many times but something about it being so quiet and dark gave me the creeps. I had seen everything a million times, the old pottery, dusty scrolls, ancient languages, and the cracked statues. Nothing was new until I saw the boat. It was in the middle of an exhibit, it seemed to be almost out of place. The ship was small, probably no bigger than a bathtub. There was a glass case in the middle of it. Inside was a black stone, smooth like a river rock. It was carved with Greek symbols that I didn’t recognize. Underneath was a sign that read:

“Obol for the ferryman— offerings once placed here were believed to guide the dead safely to the underworld”

I reached into my pocket, reaching for a quarter. The glass case had a coin hole that I dropped it into. It landed in the case, on top of the rock with a soft clink. Visitors have dropped coins in here before as there were plenty of quarters. Nothing seemed to happen so I stepped away from the boat and suddenly–the lights flickered and then it went dark. It felt like the floor was shifting underneath me as the light started to fade back on. The light was dimmed and it was a foggy atmosphere. I was no longer in the museum.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

I looked around, there was an eerie feeling about this new environment. There was a river, and that same boat from the museum. Except this time there was a cloaked figure standing there. 

As I approached the figure he said “ You’ve paid your fare.” He gestured for me to board the boat "Are you ready to cross the river Styx?”. I stopped and asked “What fare and who are you?” The figure looked at me as if he was pondering how to respond, then after a suspenseful wait he replied “ I am the ferryman of the underworld, Charon. I am responsible for transporting the souls of the dead across the Styx and the Acheron Rivers.” Now I’ve heard the stories and myths, but again these are stories. I thought this must all be some kind of weird fever dream, so I pinched myself hard and I was very much awake. “I’m not dead so this doesn’t make any sense” I replied thinking this must at least be some kind of prank. “But you have paid your fare, no? If you are not dead then you wouldn’t be here”. 

I was confused on this whole matter and I didn’t want to stay here longer than I had to. The ferryman was still gesturing for me to get on the boat. 

Charon spoke “If you do not wish to board you may stay here with the lost souls to roam the riverbank”.

I looked around at the miserable souls and decided I would try my luck with the ferryman so I hopped on the boat with him. 

“If I wasn’t dead, how can I get back to the museum?” I asked nervously as the boat was pushed off the bank.

Charon didn’t answer. We floated down the river Styx. He simply kept his grip on the oar, pushing through the water. The water was thick as if it was made out of these souls. It didn’t have the form of what a natural river would, with no waves or ripples, just hands ripping through the surface. 

After what felt like an eternity, Charon responded “Few return, fewer return unchanged. Hades will judge you when we arrive” 

Not exactly the most comforting thing to hear when you’re trapped in a mysterious place floating down a river full of lost souls. I looked over my shoulder to where we had left, mist had already covered the bank. There was no turning back. You could hear faint wails from the lost souls who just wanted to get off the bank and out of the river.

“I didn’t mean to pay my fare” I  said quickly “It was just a quarter! there were already tons in there and I was just curious!”

Charon looked at me, The hood he wore shadowed his face. “Intent does not change the currency of the dead. A coin placed on the Obol stone binds the offering” 

“Binds the—” I stopped. My mind raced. Was this happening? A dare turned into a one-way trip to the underworld? I never believed in any of that mythology stuff. At least… not until now.

I turned to Charon looking at his hooded face. “There has to be a way back to the living. I’m not supposed to be here.” 

Charon gave a slight nod “There is a path but it is dangerous. It’s been taken by very few but even fewer have actually made it back to the living. I cannot grant you passage, you will have to talk to the queen. She is much more empathetic than Hades. When we reach the other side you must seek out Persephone.”  

As he spoke the names it clicked that these were the Greek gods I’ve learned about back in middle school. I, a dumb teenage boy who worries his mother, had to go seek out a goddess. As Charon was speaking all I could hope was that I’d wake up and this was just a dream.