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Short Story

Existential Angst (Act I) – Esteban Mayorga

Why me?

Of all places.

Of all possible places, in all possible planes of existence, did I really have to be here? It’s not like I chose to be here, or was born as part of some centuries old legacy foretelling the horrible doom of the human race, or anything actually interesting. In fact, I was just dumped here as a baby 15 years ago and no one bothered to tell me who brought me or if I even have a family.

And if it ever crossed my mind to leave, I would simply be shot. Thank the shady, nameless, government organization that collects superhumans and stuffs them in a floating city for that. They say its because superhumans are too dangerous to be released into the “normal” population. Doesn’t make them sound any less like comic book villains.

Today is the first day of my sophomore year of high school. This is where they train us to act as everything from assassins and bodyguards to intelligence operatives and soldiers, depending on your skill set. No seriously, they’re actually doing that. The government is pretty much just a comic book villain, i’ve mentioned this already.

So the idea is generally that we’re supposed to make friends here and be all happy for a few years; before we become the world’s cutest little murderers that could at the tender age of 18.

Yeah, it hasn’t exactly gone well so far.

Well, freshman year started off well enough. My abilities hadn’t kicked in yet, so I might as well have been in training for the CIA or S.H.I.E.L.D or something like that.  My grades were good, I did well in combat training, and I generally pleased the all seeing big brother style governing body.

But then, something unfortunate happened. I started Doing very well in combat training. my reaction times got quicker and quicker, and so did everything else about me.

I started processing everything in split seconds, my body started reacting and moving faster than anyone could see, I started hitting harder than anyone else could, and they started telling me I was the most naturally talented fighter they had ever seen. I bristled with pride. I made friends, friends that respected me and looked up to me.

And then about halfway through the year, something happened so fast time stopped. I had been sparring with Daniela, the only person in class that could still beat me. I lost focus and the next thing I knew, her knee was flying towards my face like lightning, I instinctively threw a punch at her face knowing it would never have time to connect, and then…

Nothing happened.

Everything in the whole world slowed to a crawl, her knee sluggishly dragging through the air like so much molasses. I had already drawn my fist back to my face, and I realized that my strike had connected and she was dripping backwards, her knee following a new path.

I had discovered my power.

They moved me into the true school, the school for superhumans. I was classified as a speedster, rank 6 out of 10; 1 being Usain Bolt on crack, 10 being so fast you could smash atoms by snapping your fingers.

It was at here I discovered something truly, gut wrenchingly, terrifying. Teenagers don’t have souls. They are far too cruel and hopped up on hormones to have souls.

Superhuman hormones are what you would get if you threw normal hormones, crack cocaine, and the blood of a virgin in a blender and then fed it to an entire frat house. Except the frat kids try and outdo each other by seeing who can throw cars furthest.

Long story short, being the weedy kid with glasses, and being an irritating smartass in a school full of those people doesn’t mix well. I immediately started making more enemies than friends, and tensions heated until they boiled over and exploded right in my stupid, stupid face.

I got into a fight with the resident alpha jock, and we ended up demolishing the gym by way of him being a pyromancer/maniac, and I may have accidentally drunkenly made out with someone’s boyfriend somewhere in there, and there might have been some other stuff I greatly regret now…

Needless to say, Big brother was not pleased.

I was sent off to do hard labour in the worst parts of Russia for summer vacation, which was in no way shape or form fun. Or painless. Or free of head trauma.

But enough of the troubles of last year, let’s talk about how this year is going. You might say, “what could possibly go wrong? It’s only the first day after all”.

And there was a time I would have agreed with you. That time was before today.

As it turns out, i’m one of the highest ranking powered individuals in the world, and that tends to draw attention from time to time.

Today, attention came in the form of Valentina Valentine during first period, who is dedicated to damaging the vital organs of those who might question and/or insult her name. My kidney still hurts.

She sought me out  because she wants me to join a little unofficial “club” she’s starting. The objective of this “club” is to overthrow the oppressive government by way of excessive force and bloody revolution.

I told her to bugger right off and leave me alone, which she wasn’t too happy about.

Now, don’t get me wrong, i’m all for revolution, but does it really have to be so bloody? I honestly have no interest in becoming a murderer, that’s why i’m all for revolution in the first place.

She says she can’t do it without me. As someone of my power ranking, I would be a figurehead in this revolution. I would be a general, someone to rally behind. I would be responsible for all of the death and suffering and liberation and freedom and happiness it might cause. I don’t know if I can handle that.

Another option was presented to me during lunch, just 10 minutes ago.

Here I was, eating lunch by my lonesome on the roof of the school. I love it up here. You can see down to the ground below the city; and the horizon seems to stretch forever.

Sometimes I try to figure out where we are by looking at the land or the ocean. Sometimes I just think about jumping off that roof and landing in what looks like kansas. Living on a farm, learning how to herd sheep and milk dogs or whatever they do.

Anyway, my little game got interrupted by a government official, all bald headed and fancily dressed and the like. Turns out Valentina isn’t the only one who wants to put my powers to use.

The school wants to put me through an accelerated program, and turn me into an undercover intelligence operative by next year. I could be the best. I could get anywhere in the world in the blink of an eye, snatch classified information out of someone’s hands and put it into different, very wealthy and very generous hands.

So here I am, wondering which side will involve the least death and destruction, trying to choose between the lesser of two evils hell bent on destroying each other. Of all places, I had to be here?

My head sinks into my hands, fingers tussling and combing through dirty blonde hair. One of those little ticks I get when i’m stressed. While the government option isn’t exactly a moral victory, at least I wouldn’t be hurting anyone. Not directly anyway. I wouldn’t be doing any murdering.

But everyone else would. Valentina says she can’t do it without me, but that doesn’t mean she won’t try. What if she tries without me and fails because i’m not there? What if I cause her and those that follow her to die meaningless deaths? What if she fails and we keep going through this system, committing the worst atrocities known by mankind because we’re better at it?

Can I really sit back and let that happen?

No, I really can’t.

Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?

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Essay, Flash Fiction

My Favorite Place to Be – Alex Esterline

As I walked up to the brick building in the sweltering heat of the summer, I stopped on the hill to take a look around. I was surrounded by busy French streets and the smell of a bakery torturing those who passed by. Looking at the building, I saw a sign that read “Auberge Internationale de Québec”. When I walked inside I was greeted by a building as warm as the heat outside and with a glossy wooden interior. The building, itself, was an adventure. With no signs, except those in foreign script, each room was a mystery. After checking in, there was a strenuous trek up three flights of narrow, wooden floors that creaked endlessly. I endured as my suitcase became heavier, heavier, heavier, and lighter, finally. That night, after having reached the end of the hallway and located my room, the walls became illuminated by only the city lights and the glow of the moon. The buildings seemed to breathe and come to life with their phosphorescence. And although I had to get up early the next morning, I saw on my bed that faced a tall window. Through that window, the city lights could see my legs curled up into me as I watched without blinking. A bridge cast its glare on the river below. As cars passed through the city, their noises were barely audible over the music that blared from a stadium nearby. The city spoke to the music, as it’s heartbeat became the pulsing bass that could only be heard by those who were truly listening. Warm summer air poured through the windows and my eyes couldn’t part from the current view. Hours passed and sleep still eluded me. But I did not care that I had to wake up at six in the morning, because I was with my best friends- the stars. I did not care that I had to wake up at six in the morning, because the city wanted to see me. I did not care that I had to wake up at six in the morning because I had found complete comfort in this youth hostel 945 miles away from my home. 

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Uncategorized

Sleeping with God: “Minnie” – Danielle East

I remained too much inside my head; I began to lose my mind. –Edgar Allen Poe

 

The Antebellum

 

I

“Would you marry me,” I begged him to say yes. I spoke the request I had been wanting for so long.

The more the world wanted us apart, the more we gravitated towards each other. The world hates what cannot be comprehended. Beasts and human? An abomination, a sin. The Lord clenched his chest and fell to his knees at the sight of such an un-Godly social experiment. Yet it was not our fault that we fell in love. Like Adam and Eve, we knew right from wrong, but it was temptation that brought us upon one another. It was always temptation that made the most bias and greatest fall and lose strength.

I didn’t care if it was morally wrong to fall for whomever I loved. With all the wrong gone on in the world, how could true love fall in this category? It was only hypocrites, self-loathing hypocrites that defiled everything that was good in the world. Oh how I hate people like that. They go around living their lives with their heads held high, nose at an angle and spiting on everyone who they think is beneath them. It’s just child’s play for them to detest me. I know God hates ugly, but you don’t even have to dig deep in my heart to know I have no love for them.

“Don’t you love me?”

Anyone might think I just hate white folks, except my lover, because they are white and the world is hateful, but I don’t too much like black folks either. None of us will ever leave slavery if we don’t all band together. You don’t need to be self-educated to know right from wrong. Right and wrong ain’t something them book with them English words in it can teach you. Yet, some even know right and wrong, but can’t live by it.

Despite my hatred for the world, there was only one true person that held my heart. My Clarence dear. So loyal to me he is. Greater than any man in the South. I can hardly remember a time when I did not cling to my lover. He always gave me that feeling of hope. Something in him always told me, even though we were in the midst of a troubling time, there was still a beating heart in the world.

But don’t none of them Negroes like me since I have been with Clarence. To what I suspect, it may be jealousy at the least. I believe many of them desire to be with him or if they have to, be raped by him, just something to make them cry at night and wish even more they were dead. Even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to hold a nice conversation with one of them. My whole race card had expired. None of them merely talked to me. I am a black sheep, exiled by my own kind. No one to relate to, no one to braid my hair and discuss whatever the hell with.

“Would you marry me if I was white?”

I burst out with a different approach to make the question more suiting. Clarence I knew loved him. Although he was taller than average, blond-headed and blue-eyed, he had my heart. I know, slave masters kept wenches all the time, but our relationship was different. I was more than just a bed mate. He wasn’t a racist bigot. How unusual and unbelievable it was, it had been too long under his protection to know him in any other way.

To be a person born into the slave trade is as like being conceived at the gates of Hell. My burnt crisp skin that which was cooked by the devil’s roasting pan. The way he fiddled at my hair with his pitchfork to conduct a nappy mess on my head. And the way he placed me in the world at such an un-Godly time.

Being black in America when a system constantly works against you is a curse. My appearance was not a choice but; white folks treat us as though we willingly picked to jump into this lake of fire. Unfortunately, my outward appearance will not change in the years to come. Nor will the way I and all the other Negroes are treated because of it. It’s preposterous that at this time a white man can steal a horse and be hung because of it but kill a black person and live.

But there was no need for me to complain. Unlike my other equals that produced their only means of surviving in the field, I did not work. My master, he did not pay attention to if I got the work done or not. An unusual black woman I was, but I did help out in the kitchen. My hands had not touched a crop since I was eight years old. This is when I took to the kitchen like my mother and those mothers before her.

This is also when I took a liking the Master Clarence; who I only called Clarence. And when he would call, “Minnie, Minnie… You stay out that field. They don’t need you. Too pretty to crop, to pretty to pick.” So I say he took a liking to me too. Harmless or not, his heart was set on me. That’s why I’m set apart from the rest of the Negroes.

To say I was in love with Clarence was just an understatement. What would I do without him, and him without me as his companion? Being with my love Clarence was like sleeping with God.

“Answer me!”

His silence left me with the question of whether he loved me at a different level than he had before. Laying in the lush that be in his master quarters was where I stayed. The rest of the Negroes were outside in the slave quarters. This is where they stayed at night but, many of them did not remain in the homes. But none of them were stupid enough to run away and not come back. Just recently, many that choose to roam the land at night did not come back.

“I…,” he said.

Lying next to Clarence was like being closer God. His whole physique and personality is the opposite of me. The way his hair flows from his scalp to create the cows lick at the front of his forehead. I always wondered why the white man’s hair came out all straight like grass and got real oiled up. And the fact that my hair was dry like all the other Negroes. I prayed for hair like his.

His fair skin that contained little patches of freckles on his face and arms. His jaw was cut and structured like the no one other. His high cheek bones looked like they begged for me to rub my lips upon them. And I enjoyed them, even though sometimes all I could taste was sweat.

His height is what set him apart from the other white men I Knew in Forees County. His height, counted from the scratches marked beside the barn in the field were higher than any man on the plantation. I had never actually measured him but by the height of other men I had seen, I guessed her was seven feet. His bulky body and the awkward way he walked was much different than those of the Negroes. The cotton picker men smelled of hard work and hard days gone by. I preferred Clarence’s aroma to theirs.

He completes me. Whether be a good or a bad thing. His love matters much more.

“How would they react, “Clarence asked as he pushed his hand into my grasp. His eyes my caught my glance and I could see the sparkle in his light brown eyes. “When the time comes and we can. Don’t over think things. Good things come to those who wait Minnie.”

The sound of his voice alone was comforting…But his answer did not relive the empty hole in my heart. I rolled over in bed. Facing away from Clarence. Screeching voices, horrible moans, scratching at the roof of the home and my beating heart were the sounds that filled my desperate soul. I couldn’t stand the sounds, especially that out my heart, but I had too. I starred at the blurry wall. I could not let him see me cry myself to sleep.

 

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Poetry

One On My Mind – Brooke Safferman

 

Dancing into the twilight,

Stars ablaze, much like your wide-open heart

Twirling into oblivion, you are the only

One on my mind

 

Gold and red and silver and bronze

Fistfuls of thick hair that I’m always so honored to

Touch

In the morning light, By the fireside, with the hot chocolate and the blueberry pancakes

We’re all slightly overcooked but without a flaw, all the same, you are the only

One on my mind

 

Curled up in Paradise on a couch,

books are the only sand and sun we need

we pay no matter to the clocks on the wall

the only ticking is the sound of our heart beating

one heart, we are two of the same and you are the only

One on my mind

 

And the bliss is never-ending.

You respect me on the days when I don’t even want to look at myself, and

You know about things I never would have dreamed of:

Palindromes and the perfect angel food cake; crossword puzzles and blanket forts

But even with all of this newfound knowledge, well, you are the only

One on my mind.

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Prosetry, Short Story

The Time You Set Your House on Fire – Samantha Forsyth 

Put off by the smell of gasoline. It was hard to ask yourself to abhor your senses. To walk out of the front door without saying goodbye and disregard the dizziness when you smelt the petrol. It’s the feeling of breaking your own nose with movements quick and uncontrolled when you were running through the hallways, and now you’re pouring a trail that starts and ends out the front door. You’re unsatisfied just being happy. 

It’s not enough until it’s burnt. Until you can see a fire consume itself in real time. Your mother makes you breakfast everyday in that house and your father shares the paper with you. You won’t ever have to worry about losing them again because you know you’ll be able to keep the ashes if you decide you want to. Now you can run your fingers through every memory of early childhood and bathe in the question of permanence. Stand before the destruction you’ve created. 

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Prose

Don’t Look at That Boy From Across The Room – Alex Esterline

Don’t look at that boy from across the room. I don’t care how many times you tell yourself that you’re just curious, or that you just want to take a glance, because a glance will always ruin you.

Don’t stare at that boy from across the room. Because that boy’s eyes might be a little too different from anything you’ve seen before, and you might look for too long. You’ll start to notice the color of his eyes, and the shape of his lips. And if you look for too long, you might see more than his eyes.

Don’t smile back at that boy from across the room. He’s going to flash you that smile. The one you don’t quite know yet, but still the one that will cause you to throw your head back and laugh alongside him. It’ll be the one that makes everything around him seem dull. Because that smile is when you ride the biggest roller coaster first, and then everything else becomes tame.

Don’t talk to that boy from across the room. Because that boy is going to talk to you. And his voice is going to be that feeling you get when you hear a great song on the radio, but you never can quite figure out what it is. His voice is going to be a constant chorus stuck in your head in the middle of class. And you’ll be begging for more.

Don’t let that boy from across the room get close to you. He’s going to sit next to you one day, and move his leg so it just barely touches yours. He’s going to ask you for high fives after he makes his stupid jokes that are going to make you smile. You’ll high five him and feel the warmth of his hand for just a little longer than what would seem normal. You’ll then both pull away slowly out of fear. This time, you won’t be able to forget about the way his hand felt and the feelings that lead up to it. And you’re going to start noticing his smile, and when he’s laughing at something that’s so stupid and doesn’t make any sense, you’ll notice his smile. And when you notice his smile, you’re just going to give in and start cracking up alongside him. You’ll both look like complete idiots but you will not care. 

Don’t go to the movies with that boy from across the room. Soon, you’ll both sit down, almost late to the movie, because he was so confident he could win that stuffed animal- if he could “just have one more shot at it”. You’re going to sit down with him and laugh and make jokes at the previews for movies to come. You’re going to realize that this movie is a little scarier than he led you to believe. Soon, you’ll find out that this was his plan all along. You’ll probably find out when he takes your hand, or when he gently places his hand on your leg, rubbing his thumb back and forth. When you realize that he didn’t put anything on the cup holder in between you two, he’ll pull you close to him. 

Don’t go to that boy’s house after the movie. He’ll take your hand and lead you through the house. You’ll pass his mom, who’s going to love you like your own mother. But he’ll leave no time for introductions, he tells her that you two are tired. You’ll walk into his room, looking around. You’ll have no time to sightsee, however, because he’ll turn off the lights quickly, and the room will be just slightly brighter than the movie theater. He’ll tell you to sit on your bed and he’ll get you some clothes to sleep in, he says. He gets you the clothes which you put on. You’ll notice they’re baggy, but they feel comfortable. He’s going to sit you down on the bed and hold your hands. You’ll look at each other and see the pattern of the moonlight from the blinds dividing his pale skin into glowing lines.

Don’t let that boy kiss you. Because he will kiss you. You’re going to notice his face coming closer. He’s going to use his hand to push back your hair. And he’s going to lean in fast, and kiss you softly. And then you’ll both get that feeling in your back, sending alarms throughout your entire body. He’s going to keep kissing you, his lips growing stronger and more secure as every second passes. Eventually, he’ll lay you down without taking his lips off of you. The kissing will die down as you both try and suppress your laughter. He’s going to lust after you and keep leaning in, but you’ll be smiling so widely he’s going to have no option but to laugh at you. And you’ll think to yourself “thank god I looked at this boy from across the room.”

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Short Story

You’re Looking Younger Each Day – Brooke Safferman

“If there’s anything I hate, it’s the sound of children laughing. Especially in the summertime,” he said. The couple rocked back and forth, slowly, on their front porch. She was 26, he was 32.

“My! However could you say such a thing, Denton!?” she exclaimed. Her steady rocking never ceased.

​“I mean it, Maggie. I shiver at the thought of us growing. Growing and growing and growing.” Each morning, they would go outside to their porch. The chairs never changed, but their owners grew every day.

​“Well, Denny, I’m rather excited about growing! Just think – we will have the Law to take care of us, then! No responsibilities whatsoever. When we lose our teeth and the sharpness of our thoughts and the ability to walk without assistance, it won’t ever be our fault, Denny! No, I’m excited for life to take its natural course with us.”

​“Youth… who needs it…” he grumbled.

​“Now, Denny, I’m serious! Stop that talk!” She swiftly rose from her chair. It continued to rock, even without her presence.

​“Oh, Maggie… you’re looking younger each day. Younger and freer, without a care in the world. With your long, long legs pale and delicate. Your eyelashes have so much fringe! My word, what fringe you have! And those lips…” With a smirk, she took his hand and led him into the house. His heart sunk in his chest at the sight of how beautiful her body was, each curve highlighted by the sun trickling in through the windowpane. Gossamer curtains tickled the screens pushed open. She was so young. Almost a child, even. One day, he’d be without her.

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Poetry

Search for Equilibrium – Haley Ingram

Keep calm.

Remain vigilant.
The throbbing in your lungs means nothing
To the gasping breath
Of your heart.
Each cracked burn on your
undead fingertips
Kiss the surface of heated glass
Inflaming your throat
Neck bent at exactly 45 degrees
You cringe and smile.
Your teeth eroded from the love I thought you carried in every undefined
Empty space in your body.
The acid creeping up the outside of your veins.
Vexation and tribulation scratching, crying, screaming, kicking.
Providing you with enough fluidity to drown,
But they are just holding hands.
Just as we used to when we were content with confinement.
When we were young. Foolish. We grew like the grass we whispered our dreams into and the dandelions I caressed against my cheeks to show you how gentle life can be.
And the kisses we’d exchanged like a currency of requited endearment meant nothing by the time I was meant to be maintained while you,
You just never grew.
You haven’t grown anything since the day I gave you the seed
I planted it in your heart,
See, its just for you please let my
Blooms nip at the disease you clog
Their stems with.
You hopeless tyrant.
You water them with the distaste of alcohol.
Keep calm.
Remain vigilant.
Our hands may have branched off
But my lungs never stopped beating for you
And every exhale my heart takes
Prepares me for an inhale of you captivation.
Petals may shatter like the shards of glass
You insist on gardening with
But you’ve never had the greenest thumbs
In fact you’re irately purple
Go outside
Take a moment
Breathe.
Lift your hands to the clouds reach for the time escaping us at every given second-
I can’t comprehend never being there on time
To hold you.
Pill popping may be just as sweet as the innocence you once had or the sanity I protected but that was stolen from us
And you’ve never felt more violated
From me grabbing your hips,
Or Tasting your body.
Because I don’t even have a tongue to say the words I’ve never thought.
Mouth sewn shut
Remain vexed
Calm keepings
You molested my smile and gave it a new name
You called it beauty.
You dismantled the arbitrary seclusion
Of my sanity
Your cold lifeless hands
Choking me
Oxygen is a privilege
To my skin
And you try to hold my hand
But I just can’t give this trepidation
A fair shot.
I kiss my own hands better than anyone
Who has ever held them
I’m rotting at your touch
The abyss of your fingerprints
You burn my flesh
You stunt my growth
I drown in ignorance
So blissful
I tend to my flowers with broken glass
Cut the stems
Force the alcohol into their system
The bitter taste on my lips are not the words I’ve never said
Rather than the words I regret to have ever spoken
Pills sprout a new flower they help me
I am slitting my airways and drowning my veins.
Keep calm.
Remain vigilant.
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Poetry

Never Be Completed – Brooke Safferman

Somewhere between

The spaces of my fingers

And the regions of my heart that

You and I like to pretend do not exist

Are filled up by the emotions that

I never knew a person could possibly

Feel.

 

Give me a smile,

A nod of approval,

And I will give you

Anything you want.

 

A touch, a glance, a sign of encouragement

You are the unattainable dieting goal;

So insatiable, yet I know I must cut back.

 

Back away,

Somewhere off into the distant land of

Pretend

We used to know the things about each other

That most people would deny but

Let’s be honest – cutting the crap was always your style.

 

Without you,

I am a piece to a puzzle that will

Never be completed.

And without you,

I am always left

wanting more.

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Short Story

An End to a Moose – Esteban Mayorga

“Damn Mooses. Wait. Meese? No, but it’s definitely not Mooses. Moosen? Oh, what the hell am I doing? This is not a time for grammatically correct Meese.”

 

My increasingly nonsensical internal dialogue comes to an end as the moose thing glares at me. “Never again”, the words echo through my head as I assess my current situation. My torso, my arms, my thighs, they all ache with the gathered efforts required to climb my way up this damnable mountain, I can’t feel what raw skin hasn’t been scrapped off hands, my lungs burn, and my body is on it’s last legs. The thing continues it’s glare, it’s gaze that of a predator, hungry for a quick meal. I only have one way out.

 

My hand slowly reaches for my weapon, a desperate attempt not to startle the moose thing. It doesn’t work.

 

Caution is thrown to the wind as the moose charges, fangs bared, all seven nostrils flaring. I dive out of the way, and the moose plows straight through one of the walls of the already rickety wooden shack we’re fighting in, bringing new meaning to “architecturally questionable”.  I unload 3 shots from my oversized revolver which all miss their mark due to the massive inaccuracy of a weapon this size.

 

The sound angers the moose further, adding to my already growing list of problems as it turns and charges again. My sword leaves its sheath and embeds itself in the Moose thing’s antlers with a dull thunk, just in time for the thing to toss its head, snapping the sword in two at the hilt. The Moose thing rears back before charging with renewed vigor and an new cutting edge embedded between its aggressively pointy antlers. I am going to ruin whoever designed my gear for this assignment.

 

Trapped between a Moose and a not so hard wooden shack wall, I opt to go through the wall rather than the moose. I drive what’s left of my sword through a brittle plank, then tug and yank with my entire upper body to try and get the damnable thing back out. I look over my shoulder, my vision shaky and blurred, my arms and shoulders burning from my continuous attempts to retrieve the shitty sword, and I see that my time’s up. The moose thing is practically on top of me, it’s 7 eyes now up to 14 as far as my vision is concerned.

 

I can either try and go through the wall with just my own weight, or I could use the moose’s force to help me through, If I can manage that without being impaled or otherwise maimed.

 

I hop and curl into a ball, twisting in the air so my feet meet the moose’s head. Time slows down as I kick with every ounce of energy left in my body, my heels shuddering with the impact, the force traveling through my body, jostling my bones violently, vibrating my jaw, the sounds reverberating throughout my head.

 

I feel something break as I get launched straight through the annoyingly sturdy shack wall, time still crawling past at a fraction of what it should be. A glorious sunrise hits me like a brick thrown at 60 miles an hour, my eyes unaccustomed to the dancing rays and deep purple-orange sky after such a long night. My body hits the ground, rolls, and is thrown into the air again, snow cascading in waves around me, shards and planks of what used to be the shed cutting through the waves like unassuming sharks thrown into the sky by some sadistic force. I bounce twice more, each time bringing less snow up with me and allowing for more light to refract brilliantly off the partially melted waves, if only for a fraction of a moment.

 

After a painfully long time, the world returns to normal. Well. As normal as a world with mutated predatory moosen is want to be. I start feeling the impact from the wall, from the ground, from the moose. It hurts. Bad. My ankle is broken, no doubt, I have at least three cracked ribs, a punctured lung if i’m unlucky, and a spine that’s seen better days, like that time Jill pushed me off the roof of her house and I landed on my neck. Good memories.

 

I slowly, very slowly, pick myself up off the ground, applying as little pressure as possible to my left arm and right ankle. It’s then that I see the blood.

 

A trail of it, little drizzles upon the snow, punctuated by craters and pools of the stuff, leading all the way to my right foot.

 

A river of blood is running from where I stand, the snow steaming and diluting the blood with clear, clean water. The coppery stench of it reaches my nostrils, nauseating and warm.

 

I double over, my body feeling the sharp, stinging pain of a wound that went straight through military grade combat boots, feeling the life drain out of it and into the snow. I don’t know how long I lie there, shaking, shuddering, before I realize what i’m doing. I realize i’m giving up. I’m letting my life flow away into the snow, to be used by some woodland creature. Maybe a moose.

 

Well screw meese.

 

I look around me, and assess my situation again. I’m lying on the cold, hard, snow covered rock of a mountaintop, ribs broken, ankle shattered, god knows what the hell happened to my arm, and i’m bleeding out while wondering why I haven’t been maimed to death by a demon moose.

 

I smile when I see why.

 

My right foot, while having been shattered and flayed a fair bit, broke the shitty sword a second time, and drove the fragments straight into the moose’s stupid shitty brain.

 

I cannot emphasise the passion with which I detest the very existence of meese at this moment. No, really. Fuck meese.

 

With a sense of relief, I reach into my coat, and pull out the school mandated emergency beacon, a bulky rectangular device, just big enough to be uncomfortable in a pocket. I will kiss whichever brilliant moron made me take it with me when I get back.

 

My arm burning with the effort, I weekly flip open the reinforced steel-plate cover on the front of the device, and with all the force I can draw from my aching body, I slam my fist into the big red button underneath. It’s the most satisfying thing i’ve ever felt.

 

I tear off my boot and gingerly wrap my mangled foot in a tourniquet, before crawling over to the moose and propping my head up on its warm belly.

 

I start drifting into a comfortable sleep, my body slowly waning itself off adrenaline as a last thought passes through my head before I pass into peaceful blackness.

 

Fuck Meese.

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