Fiction

Fire streaked through the dusky horizons, swirling reds and golds amid wisps of spectral smoke. The sky was a collision— a clash of vibrancy and terror and ruin. It spoke of longing, the sort which holds no object, yet does not loosen its grip for want of one. It was a brutal, unforgiving sky, and yet, gazing at it from the aegis of a window, its viewers found it muted— docile, even. Two of the youngest found their eyes drooping as they sat huddled closely together in the backseat.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” murmured the woman behind the driver’s wheel.

The girl sitting next to her nodded, tapping her fingers against the glass. Outside, she could see her own reflection in the rearview mirror. She saw the way her hair drooped, clinging to her head at all the wrong angles. She saw the way her skin bickered quietly with the outside world, rising and stinging as though its bitter quarrel was with its own form. She saw herself, her own, expressionless eyes peering back at her. And she could not look away.

The woman glanced over. “It really is a stunning one,” she tried again. Her tone was enthused, although, admittedly, her actual impressions of the heavenly display were substantially more subdued.

“Yeah,” the girl said, her tone more of dismissal than agreement.

Fingers drummed against the steering wheel. From the backseat, a muffled grumble emerged from the younger of the two children when the older shifted in her seat. The engine made all the sounds that are eventually forgotten on a long trip, intricate hums and heartbeats which eventually fade into obscurity.

“Allison,” the woman in the front seat said softly. The girl, Allison, who had begun to reach for the radio, left her hand suspended in the air as she shifted her eyes towards her mother. There was something about her voice— something gentle, painfully intimate, which pulled her back into reality. Or, at least, whatever sort of reality could exist there, in this dreamscape of a moment, with fiery skies and dozing siblings and a world that sped past their windows like a memory sooner forgotten than it was conjured.

Allison glanced back at her sleeping sisters. “Sorry,” she muttered, withdrawing her hand. “I forgot.”

Her mother shook her head. She had not meant to extract an apology. What she wanted was her daughter’s voice. She wanted to know how her day had been. She wanted to know what she was thinking when she sat there and stared out the window like that. She wanted Allison to know that she loved her, and that she had her father’s eyes. Eyes that she had once thought she would never see again.

She knew the look of sadness in those eyes. And it terrified her.

“Allison,” her mother said again.

“Yeah?”

Mother looked to daughter. Then back to the road. “Sit up straight, okay?”

Allison nodded. And slowly, slowly, her eyes drifted back towards the window. Back towards the deep brown of her eyes which her mother so cherished. Against the canvas of towering gray buildings and skyscraping lights, she watched the ghost of her reflection fade, and fade, and fade into obscurity.

From another set of eyes, the same vision, of cityscapes and lights and phantasmic reflections, sat planted decidedly ahead of the dark and winding road. Another car, of similar size and similar speed, raced in the opposite direction. The backseat was empty— that is, empty of life, rather than of empty of substance. Old toys, broken car seats, and more fast food packaging that could have been from just one, or even a week’s worth of meals, littered every inch of the vehicle. The man in the front seat seemed to care very little, however. If the smell of old food and unwashed cloth bothered him, there would be no telling from his expression.

As something vibrated next to him, he reached over to turn down the radio. Without taking his eyes off the road, he traced the tiny tremors back to their source with one fumbling hand, then brought it to his ears.

“Laura,” he said, not missing a beat. His voice was more prayer than greeting.

He let his eyes rest gently on the horizon as he listened, caressing the city’s outline with his eyes as distant words fell like petals upon his ears. When he spoke again, his smile was just as much a note in his voice as a fixture on his face. “I’m on my way home now. Tell the boys I’m almost home.”

The phone fell gently back to the seat. And then, once again, it was just he and the road. The radio still hummed with a muffled chatter, a song so quiet that its words were nearly impossible to discern. The man did not reach over to restore the volume. In his head, he could only hear the echo of his own voice. I’m almost home.

Outside, the passionate hues of the sky had gradually darkened, granting a stage upon which the first eager stars began to burn. A certain serenity glazed over the chaos of the fading day, and yet, the sun still peaked over the bustling earth. The day was not over quite yet.

A man, rather young, but rather more worn in appearance, did not seem to share this view, however. At least, his heavy eyelids most certainly did not. Against his will, he found them slowly shutting, more than once, before he forced them open with a jolt. He had already burned through three cups of coffee. He shouldn’t be tired. He couldn’t be tired. It was still an hour longer before he was home. Although he was far too close to warrant stopping, the distance seemed almost unbearable as he shifted in his seat. The car, which had been freezing only minutes ago, was now unbearable hot. Agitated, the man tried to find a more comfortable position, but to no avail.

The world around him was vast, or so the setting sun seemed to suggest. And yet, from a seat that was just a couple centimeters too narrow, a car that was just a few inches too small, and a road that was entirely too full of nameless and faceless people with so many places to be, everything just felt small. Too, too small.

When the cars in front of him stopped, the man slammed on the wheel. Once. Then again, then again. A tear escaped, then another. Everything began to spiral. He would be home later, and his mother would be angry, again, and he would have to listen to a month’s worth of scolding, again, and he wouldn’t have time to start any of the many tasks that he knew needed to be done by the end of the week. Time was running out, and time was taking away every hope he had of a night, just one night, of respite. And he had no choice but to sit, to sit and watch it flee.

He hated his job. And he hated his home. And he hated that he had to go to either.

He did not make the turn to drive back to his old neighborhood that night. He missed the turn, and he kept going. He kept going and going into the night, until his eyelids closed and he couldn’t find the strength to open them.

The sound of horn filled the darkening night, then the sound of a startled engine and a startled voice. Finally, a deafening crash. As the sun ended its journey across the sky, so too did the young man and his companion in the wreckage. Fire flooded the night sky.

Perhaps, the next day, a woman and her daughter would reconcile on a crowded road. Perhaps, a man would kiss his wife in the passenger seat as his kids protested from the back. Perhaps, a tired young man would return home to sleep. Perhaps everyone would go back to their jobs, to their families, and to their lives, unaffected by a distant collision.

No matter what, rest assured, the road would hold something new tomorrow.

Phoebe Houser was born and raised in Pennsylvania, and is currently a senior in high school. She has loved writing since she was in second grade, and doesn’t plan on stopping any time soon.

Note: Independent study, Last interview, hardest interview. Interviewees anonymous. Study: How discrimination affects minority twins.

Interviewer: I put you and your sister in separate rooms for a reason. I want to interview you both individually so I can hear your own authentic answers. What I’m going to do now is ask you a series of questions. Take them seriously and be as honest as possible. First question: what do you think of the phrase ‘let there be light?’

Sister 1: Honestly, it was a mistake that He left us alone. Light is always supposed to be pure. So, why create light when it would be tainted? I don’t understand. I mean if our creator formed another world would he create another human race or hope that we learn? With this world’s seemingly new and more demented version of morality, I’m starting to believe that darkness is becoming synonymous with light. Children in cages, refusing to prevent another school shooting, considering miscarriages a crime . . . how could I not believe otherwise? There was already Noah’s Ark, who says there won’t be another.

Sister 2: I think it’s beautiful. He trusts us to achieve the eternal. Not like we need to, though, because already light is eternal. Cruelty has repeatedly found ways to thicken out and swallow a majority of humanity. But specks of morality are always found. Look at history, reflect on your life, go through religious scriptures, and observe the progress we’ve made. I sound naïve, but really I’m speaking the language of common sense because if that isn’t true then why hasn’t the world shriveled yet?

Interviewer: There’s a stranger next to you. How would you interact with them?

Sister 1: Why do I have to interact? I’m not an idiot. In the classroom we’re taught to put ourselves first and yet society scorns us if we do. Women are no exception to this rule. Selflessness is important, but so is selfishness. What if I have a sore throat that’s so bad that if I speak I lose my voice forever? What if I’m in the middle of sending an extremely important text message? What if I’m having a really bad day? Perform anything but selflessness and you’re scorned for it. If that’s the case, then scorn me.

Sister 2: Did you ask this question to my sister? I bet she overreacted. We’re pretty different did you notice? Selflessness can get overrated sometimes. No, that’s not the right word for it . . . overpraised? I’d forget that, though, if I acknowledged said stranger. How different would we be in comparison to each other? Would we have a lot in common? They have a story; at least in that aspect we’re similar. They could be a potential friend or lover. You never really know with strangers. So, I guess I’d talk to them.

Interviewer: The news is on.

Sister 1: I listen with my eyes and with my ears because that’s all I can do—reflect on the twisted evil consuming this world. Bickering over policy making. Grown men controlling bodies through bills. I’m confused but I get it. I scream, — but more at myself. I’m a kid, incapable of understanding. So I can’t do anything, right? Change the world? They say we can’t; yet they rely on us. I say bullshit. Stop relying on us. Stop pushing the problems you’ve created onto us. Sometimes silence can be change. Let them, those past generations, suffer with what they started.

Sister 2: I turn it off. Every flicker of the screen depicts corruption, which dims the hope that I know is still lingering in this world. I don’t bother questioning. Questioning creates frustration and frustration leads to anger. But sometimes I do break. I scream at the news not me. I throw the remote once the screen blinks into blackness. It’s just not worth watching. It’s never worth watching.

Interviewer: Why do you view the world the way you do?

Sister 1: My teachers never liked me in pre-school because my skin was darker than a Hershey’s chocolate bar. At least, that’s what one of my classmates told me. You remember that? The funny thing is, I still question how to react to that. Sometimes I imagine flipping him off. But other times I imagine thanking him. If not for his harsh comment then I never would’ve woken up. I walk into an ice cream parlor with Mom and people would stare at us as if they’d never seen a fucking human being before. Back then I thought it was because we had stains on our shirts or something. But since that classmate of mine told me what he thought, I understood that the only stain that we had was not looking like them.

Eventually, I started asking why because I was stupid enough to hope that the explanations would debunk what he’d told me. To some I look like a monkey. Our president says we belong in our shithole countries. But it’s not like I can go back to my country because European exploitation drove it into fucking war. Like I fucking want to stay here. I wear my natural hair to work and I risk being fired. I was even unfortunate enough to get a brother. I yell at him when he puts his hood up, snap at him when he plays with a toy gun. Some say I sound harsh but I only do it because I love him. Sorry, I sound like an angry black woman don’t I? Look . . . I’ve tried to view the world otherwise. I’ve tried to view the world like my sister, beautiful, happy and whatnot. I still wake up trying. But then I step outside my door and the world gives me reasons why I should stop.

Sister 2: My friend once told me that I could push the night sky into retirement. I assume it’s because of how dark I am. I was . . . what in elementary school? Because I loved nighttime I took my friend’s comment lightly. But my sister didn’t. Instead she just stormed off. I thought she was overreacting. She always does. I remember I’d always ask her to play dolls with me but she never did because she thought it was too childish. Yeah, I know. And we were kids. Of course, you already know that. But I look back now and I understand. I wasn’t like her. Whenever my teacher told my class that we could pick partners, I was always alone. I became so desperate at one point that I started asking the guys to be my partner. How do you think that went . . .?

I’m no different than anybody else. As kids, most of us are naïve and innocent before seeing the world for what it is. It’s just a matter of how we react to it. I’m shopping with my friends and I notice that a security guard is watching not us but me. Strangers would pull at my curls. I look at mothers holding their children with this affection in their eyes. Sometimes I see myself through them. I’m a mother holding my own kid. But I’m not just looking at them with affection. I’m scared. They’d be a newborn but already I’d be imagining what I should say if they started wishing that they were white or how I should react if I got a call telling me that they were arrested or killed. I mean . . . I try not to fuss over that, though. The world sucks but it’s not going to change if I keep hating the people in it. It just . . . won’t.

Interviewer: How do you view your sister?

Sister 1: I pity her. I like to think that it’s people like her that are too good for this world. But I’ve noticed how she chooses to stay in the ignorance marinating her. Her head isn’t even above water. This world will eventually swallow her and it won’t spit out her bones. Her mouth will turn on her, her emotions will betray her. She can care but on judgment day her costs and losses will be extortionate. She’s seventeen now. This is no longer childhood innocence. It’s not cute anymore. She’s not cute anymore. God, I just don’t understand her. She needs to stop forcing her eyes closed.

Sister 2: Honestly . . . she confuses me. She’s always pushing herself to see things she doesn’t have to see. Anger literally fleshes out her heart and boils her blood. It’s like a cloud that surrounds her. I mean, the water that clumps in her eyes isn’t even prompted by sadness anymore. It’s all anger. I’m scared for her. She wants change but . . .
with her quick maturity came an inevitable cynicism. She needs to take a break for once or else she’ll suffocate herself before the world does.

Interviewer: Do you have any hope for the world?

Sister 1: Solutions you mean or punishment? Hope is too infuriatingly overused. It can be good but sometimes it makes people unbearably naïve. What is hope gonna do for us? Is it going to stop global warming? Of course not. Fuck hope.

Sister 2: My sister or the world? It’s on and off. But I’d like to say yes. Without it comes a loss of motivation and inspiration and world changers. People would become apathetic and with that “fuck everything” mentality nothing would get solved anymore.

Interviewer: Is there any additional information you’d like to mention?

Sister 1: Yes actually. I want you to remember something, especially after this interview. Don’t ever compare me to her.

Sister 2: Even before this interview I’m sure you already knew this but . . . I’m not and I won’t ever be like my sister and I’d appreciate it if you remembered that, Fiona.

Interviewer: Thank you for your time.

Interviewer Signature: Fiona Ngu Interviewer Status: Older Sister

Lum Chi is a high school senior who’s been awarded a Gold Key and American Voices Nomination for her fiction pieces in the Scholastic writing awards. Her work has also been published by the Minnesota Writing Project and by the K’in literary journal. Currently, she is busy traditionally publishing a three-part young adult novel. When she’s not busy writing, she’s either locked in her bedroom curled up with a good book or binge-watching anime.

He decided to celebrate. There had been a new addition to the family. It sat at the kitchen table, lapping up spilled milk with a tongue like long, twisted licorice, which shone darkly under the kitchen lights. He had welcomed it into his life only a few short days ago, and already it had eaten dead patches into the air in his home.
Sometimes, he wondered if the dead patches had something to do with Lily. She was the one who had stood in those places, painting her poems onto the walls like protection spells. Now, when he came too close, his lungs collapsed in on themselves. There was no more oxygen left to breathe.
He didn’t mind the empty air that much. At least now he wasn’t so lonely. The creature was not him, or the friendly neighbor who brought over frozen casseroles, or his worried cousin, or Lily. And yet, it deserved a feast. He shuffled through the chest in what was once their room for something he could give it. It would eat anything, but he wanted it to be full. Soon, dying plants and dog-eared books stacked up on the table, and it wrapped its mouth around them all, gurgling. Sharp book corners pressed against the thin skin of its mouth. The crunch of their spines was deafening, and by the time its jaw could close, he was once again standing in empty air. The ground wobbled beneath him, and there was a short knock at the door. It was too late. The celebration could no longer be stopped. He had piled on letters and bedsheets, paintbrushes and tubes of lipstick, all one final, graceful meal. The knocking was only getting louder. Then, he heard the handle turn.

“Please shut the door,” he called. The beast finished off the last drops of ink, and footsteps creaked through the floor.

“Shut the door,” he called more desperately, barely able to breathe. No one was supposed to be there. “Shut the door!”
No one should have been there but the creature. He set a palm flat on the table, then an arm. There was only one way to finish the feast.

Kate Mollinedo is a sophomore currently studying creative writing in the Pacific Northwest. She is the founder of New Lore Magazine, and enjoys translating Wikipedia articles and making films in her spare time.

We used to wonder if there was something out there, in the night. 

We were all fairly certain of the existence of something beyond the walls of our crashed ship, but past that small confirmation, agreements were scarce. The instruments installed never seemed to pick up on the enigma’s traces during their staunch overnight vigil, but the sound of claws against the bulkhead and body dragging past the walls are all the scientific proof we need. Mandy’s the only one who claims to have seen it, but even her description of the alleged monster left much to the imagination. We can’t blame her, a tiny porthole only lends so much to the eye, especially on nights as dark as the ones we’re forced to endure here. For months, it was the fear of the unknown that kept us from pursuing this figment of the Martian night, and perhaps that was better than foolishly seeking the answers we thought we wanted.

First, it was caffeine and curiosity fueled all-nighters. We had to sit in the dark, ever so carefully preserving the power reserves of our downed ship whilst we awaited aid from the blue marble some fifty million miles away. We pressed our eyes to the portholes, each determined to be the first to lay eyes on whatever life lay beyond, but our hubris was no match for the sly shape of shadow. Every night as we watched, we heard its nails, sharp as daggers, scraping against the thick hull, seemingly always just out of eyeshot. We heard its body, sliding across the pale red sand like a massive snake, perhaps driven by curiosity or hunger towards our craft. We prayed for the former.

Our tactics grew sharper as the weeks wore on. None of us were foolish enough to risk venturing out, keen to remain within our thick spacefaring armor. ‘Foolish is the snail that abandons his shell,’  Yuri loved to remind us. We had grown a certain affection towards whatever creature came to visit us. Each night it came, like clockwork, sometimes pacing around our craft, sometimes crawling atop it, rarely even striking at the parts it seemed to think were soft. Did it think us prey? The presence of such stimulation kept us all sane, I like to think. Veronica filled a book with sketches of what she imagined the nocturnal visitor looked like, from its talons to its tail. Some were long like snakes, others stocky like bears. Some had beaks, some had fangs, some had no face at all. The details made for topics of many a scholarly (and many more an un-scholarly) debate between the five of us, and the constant through-line was that it was larger than an elephant and would make us all famous when we returned to Earth.

Eventually, we were sleeping through the day and sitting awake all night, just to document the daily passing of the monster. Sometimes, we’d catch a fleeting glimpse of a tail (or tentacle, some protested) as it passed by a window, more fuel for our theories that quickly grew more and more wild by the day. Was it the same animal coming to visit us each night? Was there more than one of whatever stalked the surface of Mars? 

As diligently as we strived to uncover the truth behind all these questions, the answers cared not for our resolve. The answers elected to arrive when and where they chose.

Mandy was the first to get those answers, just as the sun was rising over the red horizon and the lot of us were preparing to go to sleep. No monster had come that night, no claws rattled our craft and no body dragged across the sand. We were all left disappointed, figuring that perhaps whatever spectre of the night was visiting us had simply grown bored of our silent, unmoving shell. Mandy was sole among us in choosing to stay awake just an hour more and finish a report, her excuse to hold out for the arrival of the mystery beast. As the sun rose over the rocky desert, though, she was met with the reality that our visitor had been just outside the window the whole time.

We were, naturally, ecstatic at first. We saw its rock-red body lying not even a ball field’s length away, long legs rested against the sand and head partially obscured by the awkward position it had taken up. It was only as the sun continued to rise that we realized we were looking at a corpse rather than a living specimen. It was the length of a bus, and easily the height, unchallengeable by even the greatest of Earth’s fauna. Its claws were long and sharp, body powerful, tail thick, and yet it lay in the sand, neck snapped and flesh feasted upon by something much larger. 

We used to wonder if there was something out there. We don’t wonder anymore.

Ricky Martin is a senior with a side passion for creative writing, especially flash stories and poetry. Fascinated by fantasy and science fiction alike, he does his best to find inspiration in every aspect of life, and aims to one day go on to be a professional author.