The Vulture's Tale, by Stuart Evans

It was a hot day, not one of those hellish types of heats, but hot nonetheless.  Maybe you’ve heard of the desert?  Maybe not, but anyway no matter what way you look at it, the desert is a cruel place.  My mama told me that, and she wasn’t kidding around when she did too, I can’t imagine a more inhospitable place in the world.  But it’s my life.  Never left here and I doubt I ever will.  After everything I’ve learned in life there is one thing mama said that really stuck out in my mind: “The desert is sometimes forgiving.”

Not too long ago on a dusty trail near my home there were a group of people on their horses who had lost their way.  There were three of them in total and they all wore these ten gallon hats.  All of them were scruffy looking but had different facial hair styles.  The short one had a mustache, the tall one had a small beard, and the fat one had a full beard, though not very long.  The three of them had been traveling for hours along an old dusty trail out where there was little more than scrub.

Pretty soon there came a fork in the road that I knew very well.  I know which way is the right way and which way is just a dead end.  So I decided to place myself squarely on top of the right road they should go down.  I knew that they might be superstitious and that soon became true.  It became apparent that they didn’t take too kindly to my appearance once they saw me blocking the way on the road.

“Whoa there!” The tall one said to everyone around him as soon as he noticed me.  “Ain’t no way we’re going down that road.  Vultures seem to be waitin fer us.”

“What makes you say that Jeb?” the fat one asked as he shifted his eyes right and left, and then planted them squarely on me.

“You know dern well what it is.” Jeb said as he squinted at him in the noonday sun.  “Obviously we got to turn left, vultures are waitin fer us on the road right here.  Yer an idiot Abe.”

“Well let’s just go left then.”  Abe said staring off into the distance.  “Not much of a fuss over it at all.  What do you think Clem?”

“As long as we get to a town soon and I get away from you two that’s fine with me.” Clem said as he avoided everyone’s eyes.

“It’s settled then,” Abe smiled.  So they went down the left road which went the wrong way, which was exactly my plan to have them do so.  They turned away from me and I decided to fly up into the air to get a better view of them as they traveled along the wrong road.  After a mile or so of churning up dust and staring at the trail they came upon a dead end with no other roads in sight.  Nothing but a cliff face and a drop that made me feel wary at the sight.  After Jeb and Clem threw their hands up in the air they, including Abe, turned right around and went back to the fork in the road.  Then they took the path that I was conveniently standing on not too long ago.

“We’re gonna die for sure,” Jeb muttered as they started going down that road.  I had a giddy feeling of anticipation as I watched them go on to the right path.  Being a vulture can really help prod things along nicely at times.  I knew the path on the right would lead them in the right direction, but it was a long way to the next town.

After several hours of them traveling along in the hot desert sun I was able to pick out a few snippets of conversation that went back and forth among them.  These little conversations were mostly about how long the road was or how hot it was; either way they were complaining almost the entire time.  This led to them forming a small dilemma as they traveled along this road.  But for me I was just happy they weren’t complaining about if they took the right road or not, since there was only one way to go.  But soon enough they started to talk about me again, so I paid closer attention.

“Dern it that vulture keeps on hoverin round our heads, been doin it all day long!” Jeb said as he pointed at me in the air.

“Naw it’s just been up there since the fork in the road.” Abe replied.  “Besides it’s not like we’re dying or anything.”

“You twits, it’s been there ever since we got in this god-forsaken desert!” Clem retorted.
“How long’s that been huh Clem?” Abe snickered.

“Don’ you start that now.”

“Vulture’s still up dere.” Jeb decided to interrupt their little argument. 

“But this was the only way to go after that dead end.  Has to be something at the end of this desert.”  Abe said.

“Damn the vulture! And damn this desert!” Jeb said.  “There’s no end in sight!”

“Now don’t go talkin bout her this way Clem.  Makes her angry.” Abe said

“What you talkin about?” Jeb said.  “Make who angry?  Yer not makin sense.”

“He’s right ye know.  Can’t make her angry n such.” Clem said.  “I think the vulture’s on to something here.”

To this Jeb started to get really angry at both of them and said, “you too?  Know what? I’m naming that vulture after you Clem, yer just like it. Always hoverin around waiting for me to believe in yer superstitions!  Both of you are goin to hell for sure.”

“Fine, have it your way yeh old coot.” Clem retorted after looking up in the sky one last time.  It was from then on that I decided to keep my distance and perhaps leave them alone for a while.  Tomorrow would be a great day for me anyway because my marvelous plan would be brought into fruition.  If they only knew what was waiting for them on the other side of the hill.  

I got so excited that I was almost dancing with excitement over a fresh corpse that hasn’t been rotting away for the past week or so.  So I decided to perch myself on a tree and wait out the night for when they would receive their reward for traveling on this very long road that seemed to go nowhere.

So the morning finally came and these men saddled up their horses preparing for a long day’s journey ahead of them.  “How interesting,” I thought.  “Not a word spoken among them all day.”  They climbed up onto their horses and started going down the dusty road once more.  To their great surprise, and my delight, they came upon a small town with everything that they needed to make it out of the desert.

            Maybe it was the good feeling I had about leading them down that path, or maybe it was me just feeling nice that day, I’m not sure.  At any rate I at least saved them the trouble of wondering if they took the right path or not.  Call it motherly love or something, but I really wanted them to succeed.  It may have been a long trip to the town, but I say they learned something along the way.  They may not realize it yet, but they will eventually.  Like my mama said, “The desert is sometimes forgiving.”

Velden by Whitney Justesen

The pure, crisp scent of rain hung in the air surrounding the resort town of Velden, Austria. Earlier in the day it had been warm and humid here, but clouds had gathered once the sun began to hang low in the sky. A group of my friends and I raced  down the slope to the base of the hill, where the grass met the shore of the natural lake. Outfitted with only a lycra swimsuit and shorts, I tore down the lawn with my bare feet until I reached the dock.

A crowd had already gathered, friends I had seen every day for the past two weeks, and professors with their cameras at the ready. Over dinner we had planned to jump into the lake as a group, and it had seemed like a good idea until now. As I stood on the hardwood jetty gathering my auburn hair into a loose bun atop my head, I stared into the iridescent water, realizing for the first time that I could not see to the bottom. Too much algae got in the way of that attempt.

The professors told us to line up, and one by one we took our place at the edge of the dock, as though we had done this several times before. My toes gripped the edge of the wooden landing stage and I took a deep breath, staring out across the lake to the hazy mountains in the distance. I felt a sudden tug on my hand and realized my friend Reece beside me had taken it in his grasp, and he smiled and nodded at me with encouragement. I calmed immediately; his easy smile had that effect on me. I gave him a nervous grin in return and squeezed his hand. I was ready—well, I told myself I was anyway. If I waited until I was really ready I would probably be standing here forever.

And then came the shout from our professor, counting down in German. Nobody spoke German in our group except him so I didn’t see the point of that, but he deemed it necessary, so I went along with it. Before I could catch my breath, the word Go! rang in the air, and we jumped.

All at once, the distant mountains left my view and I was submerged in the most raw, mind-numbing water I had ever felt in my entire life. It was as though I had plunged into a bucket of ice, and I was not prepared for the shock of it. Quickly, I shot up through the surface, breaking through the weight of the water with a loud splash. I coughed violently, choking out the water from my throat, and I gasped for air, with my legs kicking beneath me to keep me afloat. Desperately, I swam to the dock with the rest of my friends and we all grasped onto the sodden edge, trying to pull ourselves up with a useless effort.

Once I realized that this endeavor was not going to work, I began to swim in the direction of the ladder, shivering uncontrollably. Everyone was screaming, it seemed, but I couldn’t join with them; my throat burned and I could hardly breathe, let alone shriek into the sky. At last, my numb, trembling fingers gripped the ladder and I ascended the steps, until I was finally out of the glacial lake and on the dock once again. Everyone began to hug each other and jump up and down to get warm, and I joined them, hoping for anything that would take this ungodly cold away from my bones.

“Want to jump in again?” Reece suddenly asked, as though in the back of my mind. I realized my ears were clogged with lake water, so I shook my head and turned toward him. He was dancing anxiously on his toes, with a lightweight cobalt towel slung over his shoulder.

I could have laughed at him for the suggestion, but I thought the better of it. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, because he seemed genuinely thrilled about getting back into the subzero water. “I—I don’t th—think so,” I sputtered, bending down to gather my clothes. “M—maybe next time.”

I turned and took off up the hill. I was never getting in that water again, that was for absolutely certain.

* * *

It was a few hours later and I was finally warm enough to function again. I was perched on the bench outside of the hotel, wearing a baggy gray sweatshirt emblazoned with my university’s crest over skinny black jeans. My hair was towel-dried and fell in a tumble of unruly waves around my shoulders, and in my hands I clasped a mug of hot chocolate. Pressing the rim of the cup against my parched lips, I inhaled the rich, sweet scent of it and sighed, looking out over the dark grounds beyond.

In the endless expanse of sky above me, a storm was gathering. I could hear the low rumble of thunder in the distance, while subtle flashes of lightning lit up the sky from time to time. It had rained earlier, but the world seemed at rest for a moment, and I got lost in the peacefulness of this place. It had been a busy day—after my group and I arrived at our hotel, we had gone on a group bike ride around the lake, and following our jump in the lake we had worn ourselves out playing games in the indoor thermal pool.

A few of us were going to walk into town to get ice cream—as was our nightly custom—but the weather had caused many of the group to change their minds. I, however, was still determined to venture down to the bay, storm or not; I would even go by myself if I had to.

One of my friends suddenly came through the door, knocking on the hard wooden frame. “You ready to go?” she posed, as a flash of lightning lit up the night sky.

I put down my mug and nodding my head to her. “I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

Our group walked along the dimly lit streets of the resort town, talking quietly to each other about the day and anything else we could think of. It was nice to have these friends with me here, in one of the most beautiful cities I had ever visited in my life. Thunder echoed above us, reminding us of the impending downpour, but we didn’t mind it for the moment. The gentle thrum of the water dancing on the shore calmed us, while the lightning streaking across the sky was enough to make us jump every fifteen seconds.

We reached a little restaurant in the center of town, perched on the crescent of the bay. I wish I could remember the name of it now, but names don’t really mean much anyway, I’ve come to find. We ordered ice cream and hot cocoa, and we sat out on the open deck, talking comfortably in our tight-knit group as the café workers began to close up shop from inside. I looked around at the faces of the people I had come to love over the past few days, and I smiled to myself, trying to remember the last time I was this happy. There were not many moments in my life that could compare to this.

The downpour began, and within moments the restaurant was kicking us out. Together, we ran back to the hotel, laughing all the way as the torrent soaked through our clothing and flooded the lamp-lit streets. The scent of rain in Velden will always remain in my memory, and remembering the first shock of jumping into the lake will forever bring a smile to my face. 

A Name by Whitney Justesen

A Name

By: Whitney Justesen

She wasn’t the kind to leave without saying goodbye.

She had written a note with her cherry red lipstick across a napkin, which she tucked beneath a cookie jar adjacent to the powder blue telephone. I’m sorry, John, it said, in bold cursive letters. I’m sorry I couldn’t make you happy. Goodbye, Audra.

She slipped her trembling hands into her white lace gloves and stared around the kitchen one last time, breathing in the familiar scent of cleaning solution and rust. Tears rose in her eyes, but she swallowed them back again, for now was not the time for weakness. Weak: that was the word that had described the condition of her heart for months now, the word that had come to define her very being.

Everything was ready for her to be gone, but as she stood gaping at the hushed room, she did not know if she was truly ready to leave. This had been her home for the last six years, after all. This was the place where she had spent some of her happiest moments, before tragedy and sadness had come to inhabit these walls. Everything was still and quiet, perfect in its arrangement—not one item of furniture was out of place. It was almost a mockery of the broken, endlessly flawed life they lived those days.

She looked behind her again at the note, which fluttered with the breeze from the open window. She couldn’t have it blow away; that would ruin everything. She slowly tread across the creaky wooden floorboards and tucked the note under the cookie jar just a touch further. Now all that could be seen at first glance was her name. Goodbye, Audra.

 She was named after her mother. It was the same name she gave to her baby girl, who lived only six weeks before they buried her in a miniature casket in the backyard. The doctor called it whooping cough; it was the only name he could put to the hacking lung convulsions their daughter had suffered for days before her cries went silent and her skin went pale.

Audra Louise Galloway had been born a beautiful infant, with feather-soft blonde hair and warm, rosy cheeks. She was so vibrant and full of life, in spite of how small and fragile she was from the beginning. She had her mother’s eyes, of course, and the tiniest feet her proud parents had ever seen. She was enchanting in every way, a first child for both her mother and father, the product of a whirlwind romance and an ensuing compulsory marriage. Even the illegitimate nature of the child’s birth could not make her any less perfect in her parent’s eyes, and they loved her with reckless ardor.

But now, her cries haunted the rooms of the small home in Birmingham, Alabama. Her little coughs echoed through the walls, reminding them always of the short, cruel illness that ended her brief life. The child’s death was difficult for them both to bear, and John turned to the bottle to drown his heartache. She would hardly see him for days on end, and some mornings he would stumble in with a bruise on his cheek and gunpowder in his hair. He’d lay in bed, comatose for hours. She didn’t have the heart to tell him to just stop this, you’re acting like a child. There is nothing we can do to change what happened and we’ve got to move on. She didn’t even know if she wanted to listen to her own advice.

He blamed his wife when he wasn’t blaming God. He stopped going to church altogether, and that left her to explain to the pretty sympathetic faces of the crinoline-garbed ladies that my husband is simply feeling ill, and he will be returning soon. When? She didn’t know. She prayed for his soul more than her own these days.

It looked bad in their community for a young woman to have a drunken husband and no children, so she stopped going to tea with the other women to avoid the embarrassment. She couldn’t bear the feigned looks of compassion, the contrived words of comfort, while all the time those women looked down their noses at the sad, pretty girl from Santa Fe with a scandalous past. She wouldn’t have been a good mother anyway, was the judgment she read in their lash-lined, powder-dusted eyes.

Years passed and hardly anything had changed around their home. She grew quieter and he grew more sober, and they rarely spoke to each other across the long dining room table. Soon she wondered if he loved her anymore, and she began to think she never loved him at all, even from the beginning. After all, she was only seventeen when they met, and in a year they were married with a baby on the way. Maybe love had never been a part of it. Maybe they were both just young and stupid and didn’t want to take the time to really think things through. Maybe their daughter’s death was the only thing that could have made them realize it.

Soon she realized she could not be happy like this. He deserved someone who could make him smile and give him healthy babies, and she deserved someone who could protect and love her. They were just two starkly different people, and life wasn’t going to go easy on them. Not like this. Perhaps they were better off apart.

And so, she decided to go. Perhaps back to New Mexico, where she had once spent sultry Indian summers in the great organic desert of the south. She had lived on a ranch and her horses were everything to her. She had named them all after herself as a child, for they were one; they were free and so was she. They loved her and they needed her, and she cared for them with all the compassion in her heart. She would spend days riding bareback in the summer heat, conscious of the sweat on her tanned skin and the freedom in her spirit. It all changed when a sweet southern boy came to their town and wrote songs about her and told her she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. Before she knew it she had been whisked away to a far away place, a place she would never really learn to call home. A place where she would cut and curl her hair, squeeze into satin dresses, and spend enough time indoors for her skin to lose its warm brown tint.

She decided that she was going back there, to New Mexico. She had planned for months and everything was going to go according to plan. She would find the ranch again and spend her days alone with her horses, and she would be happy. After all, she had never said goodbye to them, and she was sure they missed her. There she could be a mother to the majestic creatures she loved so dearly, for God wouldn’t take them away from her so cruelly; no, not this time. There she would stay until the end of her years, and oh, she would be happy.

Audra glanced up at the clock on the wall one last time before lifting her bags from the floor. It was 3 o’clock and John would not be home for two more hours. That would give her plenty of time to take a cab far past the outskirts of town, and she would be gone like a candle extinguished by a cool breeze. Certainly he would reconcile her departure in due time; to her mind, he probably would not miss her at all. But she would miss him. Sometimes in the quiet chill of the night, she would miss him.

She wasn’t the kind to leave without saying goodbye. But her cursive name written in cherry red lipstick was all the farewell anyone would ever need

Silence by Anna May

Silence

by Anna May

My eyes were squeezed shut against the blinding light of the overhead lamp, and my hands clenched, gripping at the  arms of the slick plastic dentist’s chair. Pain radiated down my body, each muscle taut, but I couldn’t cry out, my mouth wrenched open to admit the thin metal tools. I had hated the dentist’s office since I was a child, but never more than at that moment. A whimper escaped my throat; the whirring stopped. I think Dr. Yang asked if I was alright, but I don’t remember, because as soon as he stopped, I was shaking, squeaking, my small jaw still propped open by a hard square of rubber.

I remember soft words, then more pain, more whirring, then silence, broken by the radio. Strings, Puccini- O Mio Babbino Caro. Then Dad was there, talking in low tones with Dr. Yang, as I pulled my legs up to my chest, hunched over, rocking. I felt hollow inside, a great void stretching within me from my throbbing mouth down to the pit of my stomach. Words swirled with the room and violin, too soft, too harsh. “Temporary filling,” the dentist said. “ Too deep, too small. Trauma.”

Dad touched my shoulder, and I flinched. Time to go, I understood, still rocking. I slid to the side of the chair, reached out to the tile with one black shoe, then the other. My legs buckled as I stood, knees trembling. Someone helped me steady myself, and I walked slowly, palms cupping my elbows in a furtive hug, down the corridor.

Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up in front of my high school, wide glass doors open as students streamed in, hurrying to get to their first class- it was Monday, a late start day. I shook my head, but Dad wasn’t having any of it. 

“Go. We picked today so you wouldn’t miss school. You’re fine.” 

I nodded, then uncurled myself, stuffed my feet back into worn shoes and clutched my bookbag, heavy, to my chest. 

11th grade Math class, already a terrible, hellish, confusing nightmare, was worse than ever before. I sat, feet tucked beneath me on the chair, a blank paper and capped pen on the graffitied desk. Ceilidh, my desk partner and friend looked up from her ink spattered paper. I didn’t hear what she said, trapped in my own world of pain and numbness. She poked me once, and I fell from the chair, curled tightly into myself, rocking.

Ceilidh helped me to the heath center, and soon I was staring mutely at the phone. I opened my mouth to speak, to say, “Mom, Dad, help.” Bad move. I cried out, which only caused my poor abused jaw more agony. The nurse took the phone, spoke quickly, and made me lie on the cot. 

Mom rescued me from school, and I spent the rest of the day and evening tucked into the corner of my bed, a mug of broth on the window sill, the familiar voice of Tamora Pierce reading “Wild Magic” filling the room. I woke every time my jaw settled, a tooth scraping the raw gum or the fresh, temporary, filling in my back molar. It was the longest night of my 16 years.

I was groggy and absolutely starving when my alarm went off at quarter to six. I downed a mug of lukewarm hot chocolate- all I could manage, and watched my brother climb onto his old street bike. I didn’t want to leave the house at all, much less go to my early morning religion class, but I didn’t have a fever, wasn’t throwing up, and had already missed a day. By May family rules, I was going to school.

I managed religion, pointing at my face, shaking my head, and waiting for Thomas, my twin brother, to explain to classmates and teachers to explain that I couldn’t talk. He did so, and I scribbled my answers to questions on scraps of notecards in thin red pencil. The room, lit only by a chandelier, with dark wood walls and high backed chairs, was a comfort to me- small and enclosed, just what I needed. My high school classrooms were not.

Math class was another living nightmare. I was exposed, too exposed, the window that looked out on empty sky and a three story drop was too close, too wide, filing the room with a bold beam of golden light that was thick with dust motes. I wanted to ask to move, but I could not speak for the pain, and my shaking hands kept dropping my pen.

“If I can just get through this,” I thought, “ everything will be fine.” I had Drama next, in the best possible place- the blackbox theatre, a small room without windows save a pane of glass in the door. But Ceilidh, also in that class, took my arm.

“No, Anna. We’re outside today.”

I followed her, eyes darting from one side of the crowded hall to the other. I normally hated the mass of people, but it was better than being in the open.

We were some of the last to arrive at Freshman Hill, a mound of grass outside the English building where lower classmen often ate lunch. My drama classmates milled around, holding scripts, muttering.

I went up to our teacher, Mr. Winer, holding out the note my mother had written, at my request- hand signaled and written out, of course, since I was effectively mute.

“To Anna’s teachers,” it read on floral stationery, “Yesterday, Anna had a filling done. However, the cavity was too deep to fill normally, and damaged some nerves. Speaking gives her considerable pain.

Patrice May.”

He looked up at me, my back curved and arms tucked into the sleeves of my brown, fuzzy coat despite the unseasonable warmth.

“You were talking fine Friday. Grab a script.”

I shook my head, pointing at my left cheek and gesturing frantically at the note.

“Look, if you don’t want to participate, you shouldn’t be in this class. You had your surgery two weeks ago.”

I frowned, then turned to Ceilidh, eyes pleading. I’d never been trapped like this, so unable to communicate. In this space, and without a flat surface to write on, I was utterly helpless.

She explained as best she could, looking over at me often for confirmation. I’d scribbled a little of what had happened on math worksheets before we’d been told to stop, to focus on the numbers.

“She’s only just recovered from the surgery, Mr. Winer. And yesterday she wasn’t here, ‘cause she had to go home after a dentist appointment- the drugs wore off partway through the drilling- right?” I nodded. “And the filling was really deep. So she can’t talk.”

Mr. Winer scowled, but let me sit out. I crouched on the grass, fingers knotted in the loose roots. My jaw ached fiercely, but I tried my best to ignore it. I suffered through the rest of the day, in silence, scribbling notes on scraps of paper, repeatedly pointing to  the note my mother’d written.  Most of my teachers were understanding, but I felt lost and left out. Sitting with my back to a wall in any class I could, still not quite free from my quaking, I followed conversations and longed to join in, but by the time I’d gotten my thoughts scribbled down and had the attention of a nearby classmate, the topic had changed. Again, I felt useless and trapped within my own head. I considered myself a wordsmith, a speaker, and now I was lost. Throughout my classes, students asked me what was wrong- hadn’t I been better last week? Was it a protest?-, and I’d hunt through my notes until I found my explanation.

School ended, and I made my way home, lapsing into another fit of rocking, unable to see or tell what was around me until the bus driver reminded me I was at my stop. Thanking him with a nodded head and clasped hands, I walked the half mile to my home, dug out my key, and, weak with hunger, promptly made myself a mug of beef broth.

That night, I dug out a small whiteboard and marker and tucked them into my bag. They would have to be my voice for the next day, and longer after that. I may have been unable to speak, I may have been silent, but at least I could say my piece.

Extinguish by Jason Field

Jason Field

ENG218

Richards, Jim                                               Extinguish 

(Warning: This one is a little Dark)




Pronunciations:
'


Sakran: Suh - crawn



Karlok: Car - lock

A new dawn had just begun. Light flooded over the valley far below as the first beams of morning peaked over the horizon. Around the edges of the sun, the light gave off a crimson hue; which only served as a reminder to Sakran of the blood he still carried on his hands and wrists. He quickly tore a small piece of his cloak and rubbed the incriminating evidence off of his skin. Crushing the permanently stained cloth into a ball, he tossed it as far as he could off the mountain. No doubt they would find the body before they found the cloth, but Sakran still grinned to himself with satisfaction as he watched it fall. He waited until the fabric fell beyond his field of vision, and then spun around to continue on his way through the halls of the Academy.

He paused in front of a large wooden door and pounded deliberately three times on the surface. A deep, resonating voice answered back from inside.

“Enter.”

Sakran pushed on the door and entered the darkened room. The glow of light from outside did little to illuminate his surroundings, but he was able to make out the glowing silhouette of a hooded man, kneeling with his back to the door. All other aspects of the room were covered in a thick shroud. Sakran began walking towards the man.

“Who is it that seeks me?” the figure asked.
“Good morning, Master Karlok.”

Five feet behind Sakran, the door swiftly swung shut on its own accord. The air was stilled between them, and there was a long pause. Finally, the man spoke.

“You're early, boy.”

The words were calm, but Sakran sensed the unspoken question.

“I couldn't sleep.” he lied.

“I see. Would you care to begin now?” Karlok asked.

“Yes, Master.”

The man stood and moved into the shadows, exposing the only source of light in the room. A single candle, placed in a silver mount, rested alone on the floor in front of him.
“Then approach, and sit.” Karlok commanded.

Sakran did as directed and sat, facing the solitary flame.

“Your first task today is a simple one: Extinguish the candle.”

One of his eyebrows twitched upwards slightly. Extinguish the candle? That was it? How typical... Without a second thought, he reached out with his mind and the fire was instantly snuffed out. Darkness consumed the area around him and the whole room became deprived of light.

Somewhere to his right, came the voice, “Now, re-light it.”

What?! This was child's play! Why was Karlok wasting his time with this? Nevertheless, Sakran obeyed, and the space around him was once again illuminated softly by the flickering light.

“Extinguish.”

He had to restrain himself from lashing out in protest.

“Re-light.”

Rolling his eyes, Sakran mentally reached out to the candle again...

But, nothing happened.

Perplexed, he tried again; still nothing. The room continued to remain enveloped in shadows. He frowned and glared into the darkness ahead of him, focusing all his power to light the flame.

“I said, re-light, boy.”

“I'm trying.”

Suddenly, a glow sprang into existence. But, not ahead of him. He turned in confusion to see the same candle, now to his immediate left.

“What-”

“Your mind is not open.” Karlok said, standing near the fire. “You must be prepared for any changes or abrupt shifts in your target. This you must do if you ever want to even attempt the highest level of Psymagic: Mind Control. A person's thoughts are never stationary for long periods of time.”

So, that was his game. He wasn't trying to waste his time after all.

Mind Control...

The most deadly and lethal work of magic ever devised. It was the very reason that Psychic Mages had been strictly forbidden from the Academy. The consequences were claimed to be too great and it was decided that no one should have that much power over another. If either of them were ever discovered to be practicing Psymagic, the punishment would be dire.

“Now, Re-light.”

Sakran pushed out with his mind to all parts of the room, feeling for the candle. Magic always left noticeable traces, and the burnt wick from the magic-induced fire was easy to pinpoint. However, he also sensed several other candles scattered throughout the room. Concentrating as hard as he could, he forced all of his will upon them:

Burn.

The darkness cowered and shrank back as a massive wave of heat and light suddenly filled the length of the entire room. Karlok released a sharp gasp that was clearly audible over the sounds of the flames suddenly crackling to life.

“How-?”

Sakran never heard the rest of his question, as, at that moment, the silence of the entire Academy was penetrated by a single high-pitched scream.

The pitch was higher than anything he could have ever imagined. It was the unmistakable sound of panic, terror, horror... The sound of death.
Someone had found the body.

Karlok's expression rapidly changed from shock, to one of panic. His face began to whiten, as if gradually getting covered in snow. The screams continued to claw at the air, and were soon joined by more voices. Sakran sat patiently, listening to the agonizing sounds rend at the sky. Surely they had found the evidence he had planted, by now...

Almost on cue, the door sailed completely open. It slammed against the wall as two Academy guards marched into the room, swords drawn.

“Master Karlok, you are under arrest. Come with us, now.”

Karlok face paled further to an almost perfect white, and he backed up against the wall. “Wha... what? I've done nothing!” He said, his pitch rising. “What has happened?”

“Surrender to us now, or we'll be forced to subdue you.”

Sakran clicked his tongue patronizingly against the roof of his mouth and shook his head.

“Now, now... this won't do. I was only expecting one guard, not two...”

“What are you-”

Without any sort of warning whatsoever, the second guard lunged forward and plunged his sword through the back of his comrade's heart. The man stared at his attacker in horror as he collapsed to his knees and then toppled over, lifeless, onto the ground. The other guard removed the sword, with an emotionless expression, and then seemed to realize what it was that he had just done.

“There. That's better.” said Sakran, “And now I have a puppet for me to pin my second and third kill of the morning on...”

Karlok cowered back into a corner and gaped up at his student. “You...You did this?!”

Sakran fixed him with a malevolent grin as the fires from around the room reflected from his eyes. He released a malevolent laugh, and his master dropped to his knees in terror.

“You see, Master, I appreciate the pathetic attempt at a Mind Control lesson.... but, as you can see, I already have it mastered.”

With that, the soldier started forward again, his mind once again no longer his own, pointing his sword at Karlok and grinning wickedly.

“Wait!” he protested. “I'm your Master! I taught you what you know! You can't do this to me!!”

“Actually,” Sakran laughed bitterly, “I can.”

“But why me?!”

“Because you're weak... pathetic. You have no idea how long I've waited for this. I didn't have the aptitude for Mind Control. And, I couldn't just kill you myself and then make a run for it; too many suspicions. No, I needed someone to pin the blame on. This guard will do nicely. And, after he's finished with you, he can take his own life with your dagger. It will be the perfect triple crime, and I have you to thank for it.”

Petrified with fear, Karlok could only watch in horror as the mindless soldier raised his sword to strike. Sakran closed his eyes and listened as the screams of those here and elsewhere blended together in unison. He reached out with his mind, and felt as the glowing consciousness of, first his master's, and then the guard's were snuffed out, never to be re-lit. Sakran paused only to extinguish all the candles in the room for one final time, and then turned to go. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving only his first of many victims to come, in perfect darkness.

A Listening Ear by Jason Field

Jason Field

ENG218

Richards, Jim                                              A Listening Ear

I blame pirates.

I am reminded of a caption I saw once on a picture of none other than the notorious Hollywood pirate: Captain Jack Sparrow. It read: “I blame Johnny Depp for piracy's popularity”. Well, to paraphrase that statement: I, Jason Field, blame pirates for finding myself, once again, trapped in a room that is roughly four closet spaces wide, selfishly deprived of light, and sitting as rigid as I can force myself to on this extremely uncomfortable wooden bench. ...I suppose that's not very fair of me to say, but at the moment I could use someone to point fingers at for my predicament.

I can hear the footsteps outside, no doubt looking for the source of the “noise”. The footsteps sound gentle but ominous, like a pack of wolves stepping lightly over the ground, tracking and sniffing out their prey. Not like they haven't hunted me before, but I'm holding my breath hoping that the darkened room will finally throw off their scent. I mean, what person in their right mind would be idiotic enough to attempt to play the piano in complete darkness?

I wasn't idiotic. I was desperate.

Stupid pirates...

In all honesty, I guess the man I should technically be blaming for my problems is Hans Zimmer, music director and composer of the Pirates of the Caribbean Soundtrack. After all, it is his music that started this whole mess in the first place. His music that I had been transferring from my ear to my fingers, mere moments ago. It was his music that became popularized enough that it was structured for a local marching band to perform...

The Cavalcade of Bands: A wide collection of high schools that came together once a year to compete against one another in a great battle of the bands. As such, there was always a diverse assortment of music genres and styles, depending solely on the director's choice. So many different songs, each demanding the attention of the audience members, each trying to leave their unforgettable mark on everyone's memory, especially the judges'.

It wasn't the first time I'd experienced such a display. Yet, for some reason, the only time one of the music selections had stuck with me was a few years back; a band that chose the Pirates of the Caribbean theme. The melody attached itself like a leech to my brain and would not let go for anything, not even the other bands. It sucked all the interest and attention I may have been reserving for the rest of the show, and even more so on the car ride home. Perhaps it had had enough of my brain, because next it tried escaping through my vocal chords. I hummed the melody all the way home, letting each note and each variation of sound engrave themselves on my memory.

Walking through the door, I impulsively strode to one of my most favorite places in the entire world, our upright grand piano, and sat down. It wasn't much to look at; brown, with yellow patterns that were broken and fading, slightly discolored keys that were violently chipped at the edges thanks to an accidental incident involving a hammer years and years ago. However, it more than made up for these qualities with its sharp, deep tone. I poised my hands over the keys and dragged the rehearsed pirate melody to the top of my brain.
Some say that being able to play what you hear is instinct. I've heard others say that anyone can learn how it is done. Most of the time, people just refer to it as a unique gift or talent.

As for myself, I do not know how I was able to accomplish it. All I can say is that I was absolutely ecstatic when I heard our most treasured instrument bellow back the music that had been occupying my mind for the last two hours.

Ecstatic.... until I tried to share it with others.

Very few people were impressed by my ability. Fewer still expressed jealousy towards my playing. I didn't think it was much of a coincidence that the majority of those people had never heard me play before. Most people that did, exclaimed quite frequently their disapproval of my methods of copying the songs they enjoyed. I was constantly criticized for “ruining good music” and was kindly advised on multiple occasions to “stop playing”...

So, here I am: cornered in a room with absolutely no visible light, containing only a handful of decrepit music stands, three chairs, a small wooden bench, and the piano that is responsible for bringing the wolves to my door. I suppose there are worse things then having them pinpoint my location and growling at me to shut up. Most don't bare their fangs, and, as of yet, none of them have been angry enough to maul me with their teeth or claws. Still, I prefer to keep to myself. I'd rather not hear one more insult or condemnation I’ve heard a million times over in a hundred different ways, if I can help it.

The footsteps become louder, and I hear the unmistakable creaky brass sound of a doorknob handle being turned. Let me tell you... after so many experiences with what has come through that door, you really start to hate that sound. Nevertheless, I turn to face it and mentally prepare myself once more for the inevitable onslaught of criticism that will come as a result.

The handle clicks and the door is opened, but only a little. A head pops in to survey the scene. It is encircled about and glowing with light from the hallway, making him appear like an angel with a halo. He squints and glares into the shadows, very un-angel like. I stiffen as if someone has just pressed a threateningly cold blade against my skin. If I can avoid movement, perhaps he will think I am nothing more than a music stand silhouette... albeit, a very tall, fat, and oddly shaped music stand silhouette.

He glances around one last time, and then retracts his head back through the door. It closes with a soft click, and I am once again left alone in the darkness. I can hear the wolves howling disappointment with one another at not being able to find me. The sound of footsteps against the tiled floor melts away into the distance.

I breathe and relax back into my usual playing position, of which any self-respecting piano teacher would probably cringe at. I've never really understood the “proper way” of it all. For me, it's not about notes on a page, or position of the hands, or practicing the same boring five-word song out of a beginner's book to improve your ability to play that which you will most likely never play again. Playing music is all about feeling, emotion, and achievement! It's about expression, and freedom! Perhaps that's why I've always been better at that which somehow eludes others.

Besides, posture of my hands and back are always the least of my concerns. The wolves would undoubtedly be back. They always came back. For now, however, they are gone, and I once again have a world of music to dive and immerse myself in. I tap the play button on my music, place my hands over the keys, and pick up where I left off. Closing my eyes I let all my worries and fears evaporate, and allow myself to fall backwards into the mystery that is music.

Brandice

By: Summer Crockett

My heart pounded in my ears as it tried to drum out the words I'd just heard.

"She ran away?" I asked, echoing my mother’s words as if they had barely reached me at the end of a long tunnel.

It was a bright September day. Brandice and I were working in my family’s garden getting excited for our work to be over and our play to begin. Brandice was from Texas, but we knew each other so well that she was less of a friend and more like the sister I never had. My brother, Caleb, tired from his labors, looked over at us and smiled wickedly. He knew how to spice up the hated chores. He picked up a rotten tomato, tested the softness of the outside with his finger, eyed the molded side with glee and threw it hard at Brandice. My mouth dropped. He did not just do that! Brandice looked at him an excited gleam coming into her eyes. She picked up her own tomato, wound her arm back as far as it could go, and then launched it toward him with as much force as she could muster. It splattered on the side of his face ejecting red juice and tomato seeds all over his glasses.

I'm not one who loves to roll in the mud, but this was going to be way too much fun to miss out on. I picked up a few tomatoes and threw them at Brandice and my brother. It now became an all-out feud. I ran to the plum tree and picked up the squishy plums off the ground. They stained my already tomato colored hands purple. I hit my brother in the chest, painting his work shirt with rotten plums. He wouldn't let me out do him; neither would Brandice. They ran to join me at the plum and crab apple trees. The fight was about to take on new realms. Brandice threw the first crab apple and it stung my back, leaving a deep purple welt to be later discovered. I ran to the tomato plants and grabbed as many mold covered bombs as possible.

I lunged into my attack. I was hit with plums from my brother and crab apples from Brandice. They hit me hard, causing me to take in sharp deep breaths to compensate for the stinging welts that were beginning to form. It was time to make an alliance.

“Caleb!” I called to my brother. I gestured my head to where Brandice was holding the top of a small hill with the crab apples surrounding her. Caleb smiled and nodded. He ran to the garden and picked up the more tomatoes. We started to attack at the same moment, splitting her attention until she was forced to run into the house, laughing, and perhaps crying a little. 

“Teaming up isn’t fair!” she yelled slamming the door. My brother and I laughed. She’d held the upper hand until we had joined forces, and it felt nice to be the winners.

“I suppose we should switch up the teams,” I said.

“I have a better idea,” Caleb said smiling. “Water fight!” He dashed and grabbed the hose. I laughed, but it was soon turned into a scream as my brother drenched me. Brandice came out and grabbed the hose from my distracted brother and attacked him. In the end I think we let Brandice win, I mean technically she was the guest. 

“How long has she been gone?” I asked. My throat felt like it was a draw string bag being closed. My heart refused to continue beating at a steady pace; it felt like it was skipping beats, trying to post-pone time.

“Almost three weeks,” my mom answered. “They haven’t heard anything from her.”

“I can’t sleep!” I declared as I laid in the top bunk, Brandice on the bottom one.

She chuckled. She put her hand to her mouth and blew hard against it. The room echoed with the garish sound of someone breaking wind. I let out a strangled laugh.

                “That’s disgusting,” I said when I had gained control of myself.

She did it again laughing harder this time. “You have to try it,” she declared pulling herself into a sitting position and looking up. “I bet I can make the best sounding one.”

I leaned over the side of my bed to meet her challenging gaze. I put my hand to my mouth, it tasted of soap, and I breathed in deep and exhaled hard against my hand. The sound was interrupted by my uncontrollable laughter. I tried again and got a small one out, it sounded squeaky and pathetic. Any further attempts were stopped by the laugh and my aching side. A few tears rolled out the side of my eyes and I whipped them away.

Brandice let one more large one go. The room was silent for a moment before it was ripped with our laughter.

“Why?”

“She had a boy-friend.”

My brothers, Brandice and I all sat at the table. My fingers felt like cubes of ice. Brandice shivered next to me.

“Our jump is the best that I’ve ever made,” Caleb declared. “Tomorrow we should try to build one twice the size.”

“I vote we have a huge snowball fight,” Brandice said.

“Let’s not and say we did,” I said.

“Hot chocolate is ready,” my mom said as she set mugs around the table for all of us. We all muttered thanks and sipped deeply the piping hot, chocolate goodness.

“How do you drown a dumb blonde?” Caleb asked.

“I don’t know,” I said while Brandice and my younger brother drank their hot chocolate.

“You put a scratch and sniff sticker on the bottom of a pool.”

Hot chocolate sprayed out from where Brandice sat. She jumped up and ran to the bathroom.

“I think that just came out of her nose,” my younger brother said.

“Really?” I said, glancing the short distance to the bathroom, just around the corner.

My brothers busted up laughing, clutching their sides. I chuckled slightly. Brandice came back in a few minutes later and grimaced at first as my brothers told her how awesome that was. She ended up joining us in our laughter.

“She and her boyfriend wanted to get married. Her parents asked them to wait a year. They didn’t want to. The next morning she was gone. ”

We’d just finished watching the movie Signs. I was expecting a long, green fingered hand to grasp my shoulder any moment. I laid in bed trembling slightly.

“Are you scared?” Brandice asked me.

“Yes,” I admitted. “Are you?”

“A little,” she said, her voice shaking.

“Do you want to sleep in my bed with me?” I asked, more for my sake than hers. She nodded and gracefully crawled up to my bed.

“Why haven’t they been able to get ahold of her?” I asked my voice void of emotion.

“They think her phone must have died,” my mom said.

Brandice smiled at me. Her blue-gray eyes twinkled like a pixie. Her curly dark brown hair bounced as she ran. She had a birth mark, a kiss from angels, the size of a dime, next to her right eye. She stood tall and laughed often.

“What makes you so happy all the time?”

Brandice shrugged. “I don’t know. I just am, I suppose.”

My hands started shaking. My stomach clung to my spine as if dreading a coming dose of medicine. I hate crying, and I wouldn’t. My voice box tried to close its lid before the dark monster could escape. He managed to get through the boxes lock. He clawed his way up my throat and ripped through my mouth exposing him-self as a horrible sob. I collapsed on a chair and hid my face in my hands.

“Oh Brandice! Why would you do this?” I asked in breaks, as I kept sucking in more air, unable to stop crying. “This hurts too much!”

My mom took me in her arms while I continued to cry.