Her White Rose Now Red
Aurora Mahoney
The thunder cracked in an alarming rhythm. The rain pounding against the window the remaining panes added to the static in my head. “Leave me be!” I screamed as I jumped from my chair. The portraits on the walls stared me down. I could feel their judgmental eyes trailing my flesh in a revolting pace. “Why? Why won’t you leave me alone? What do you want from me? What more can you possibly take from me!?” I gripped the frame of the portrait above where I was seated. The gleam in her eye mocking me the most out of all the faces in the room. The fire had mostly gone out and between flashes of lightning I could still see her dim smile. She was pleased to see me tortured by her face, to see me losing any amount of sanity I still possessed, if that was any at all. “Was my life not enough?” I called out. “Do you now hunger for my soul as well?” The sound of my own voice carried through the long empty halls, echoing off the walls. In the years I had been gone dust had collected over every object. The faintest precious memory isolated in the past to be forgotten. Just as I should have been forgotten in the past. The mud caked nearly every inch of my body just like the cobwebs clinged to every surface. I looked her in the eyes. “Is this what you wanted?! For me to be cold, tired and broken? A shell of the man I was when you knew me! You said you hated who I had become, so then is this better? Filthy and alone!” Every portrait in the room glared at me. My mother, my brother, my father, my sister, but none of them were as unforgiving as her. Her pale flesh gleaming in the light, the way the highlights in her hair were perfectly captured, even her blue dress the same. The portrait staring back at me was a perfect time capsule of her that day, that night even, down to almost the last minute. All the same except for one small detail. The rose she had held in her hand, the rose I had painted was white, but as the lighting struck and the thunder cracked I could see it clearly. That rose now red taunted me. “It was white!” I struck the walls with both of my fists. The frame of the portrait shook, crashing to the floor, but her eyes stayed fixed on me. The wind blew rain through the broken windows as the storm became angrier. The roar in my mind was deafening to the point where I could bear it no longer. “Why?” I screamed over the howling gusts. “Why do you torment me like this? What do you want from me, you demon?” Another window shattered behind me. “Do you want me gone? Dead with you? Damned to hell?” I walked across the freshly broken glass, the shards piercing my frostbitten feet. The rain beat against my face, and the thunder drowned out my screams as I stared to the ground far below. “If it’s my death,” I gasped for air as the wind blew against my face “my soul that you require you tyrant then take it, and rid me of your ridicule! I can no longer live with this suffering and anguish you cause me!” With a final scream I threw myself from the ledge.
•••
“So what happened here?” Asked the officer who had arrived a little after all the action had cleared. Caution tape, broken glass, and a little blood still littered the property which was enough to peak anyone’s curiosity, but if that wasn’t enough the young officer had just navigated the old grand halls to the room where it all happened.
“Well it seems that after escaping through the dirty laundry, and trekking through the muddy swamps, our man came here.” The detective looked out the window. “Then threw himself through the window.” The seasoned detective said with a slight wince as he glanced at the ground below.
“Why would he have come here?” Asked the officer as she glanced around the broken remains of the room. The once luxurious look of every object frozen in time was one of the most unsettling aspects of the entire estate.
“Well,” the detective sighed as he began to speak, “ I ran his records and he was pretty deranged. It seems that about 45 years ago his family members started turning up missing. It started with his mother, then his brother, followed by his father and his sister, and lastly his wife.” The detective’s gaze shifted to the large portrait of her sitting on the floor. The dust around it had been disturbed, and you could see the bare spot of the wall it had fallen from. “Was that her?” The officer said, approaching the large frame.
“Yeah, that was her.” Upon moving closure both the officer and the detective could see that scratched into the floorboards were the words THE ROSE WAS WHITE.
“What do you make of that?” The officer asked, looking at it a little uneasy.
“The casebook mentioned that he would paint his uh-” the detective paused for a moment looking at the painting in front of them, “victims directly before killing them.” He glanced at the woman in the portrait, her eyes staring back helplessly. “The last portrait he did was of his wife. He was arrested that night. Nobody is really certain why he turned himself in, but he was ranting about her white rose now red. In prison he had multiple psychological breakdowns where he would do nothing, but rave about how the rose that was in her hand that he had painted turned blood red before his eyes when she died.” The detective stared at the rose. “Was it actually white?” The officer said, kneeling down to get a better look at the portrait. “I’m not very superstitious,” the detective started, “but I will say in all of the evidence logs there was a single white rose. Maybe that isn’t proof of him being anything more than a crazy homicidal maniac, but something happened here that night to drive him mad with the guilt he didn’t possess beforehand.” The detective ran his hand down his chin. “And, I don’t know about you, but I don’t exactly feel like we’re alone in this room.”
•••
“So what happened here?” Asked the officer who had arrived a little after all the action had cleared. Caution tape, broken glass, and a little blood still littered the property which was enough to peak anyone’s curiosity, but if that wasn’t enough the young officer had just navigated the old grand halls to the room where it all happened.
“Well it seems that after escaping through the dirty laundry, and trekking through the muddy swamps, our man came here.” The detective looked out the window. “Then threw himself through the window.” The seasoned detective said with a slight wince as he glanced at the ground below.
“Why would he have come here?” Asked the officer as she glanced around the broken remains of the room. The once luxurious look of every object frozen in time was one of the most unsettling aspects of the entire estate.
“Well,” the detective sighed as he began to speak, “ I ran his records and he was pretty deranged. It seems that about 45 years ago his family members started turning up missing. It started with his mother, then his brother, followed by his father and his sister, and lastly his wife.” The detective’s gaze shifted to the large portrait of her sitting on the floor. The dust around it had been disturbed, and you could see the bare spot of the wall it had fallen from. “Was that her?” The officer said, approaching the large frame.
“Yeah, that was her.” Upon moving closure both the officer and the detective could see that scratched into the floorboards were the words THE ROSE WAS WHITE.
“What do you make of that?” The officer asked, looking at it a little uneasy.
“The casebook mentioned that he would paint his uh-” the detective paused for a moment looking at the painting in front of them, “victims directly before killing them.” He glanced at the woman in the portrait, her eyes staring back helplessly. “The last portrait he did was of his wife. He was arrested that night. Nobody is really certain why he turned himself in, but he was ranting about her white rose now red. In prison he had multiple psychological breakdowns where he would do nothing, but rave about how the rose that was in her hand that he had painted turned blood red before his eyes when she died.” The detective stared at the rose. “Was it actually white?” The officer said, kneeling down to get a better look at the portrait. “I’m not very superstitious,” the detective started, “but I will say in all of the evidence logs there was a single white rose. Maybe that isn’t proof of him being anything more than a crazy homicidal maniac, but something happened here that night to drive him mad with the guilt he didn’t possess beforehand.” The detective ran his hand down his chin. “And, I don’t know about you, but I don’t exactly feel like we’re alone in this room.”
The Applewood Talks Life, Gender Politics, and Shel Silverstein
Sydney Sackett
It’s a blue-white autumn day in Tehachapi, CA, staticky with the sound of wind through brittle leaves, and The Applewood is wearing barely-there curls of pale moss and lichen. An amused hum in their branches, they tell me they’re still quite comfortable in the low-forties chill.
“I can’t offer you my stump to sit on, but I hope you’re all right on that picnic blanket,” they joke pleasantly.
As in The Giving Tree, of course. The Applewood plays Shel Silverstein’s titular tragic role in the movie adaptation, which can be seen in theatres up through the end of April. One frequent editorial topic has been The Applewood’s status as a nonbinary performer. Was that a change made to the Giving Tree of the book, who bears she and her pronouns?
“No, I was comfortable playing the Giving Tree as the female role Silverstein wrote for her. I feel that as marginalized actors, it’s fair to call on us for roles that might not have been open to us traditionally. It doesn’t change what we’re doing as performers—I’m still separate from the character. Like Elliot Page! I loved him in The Umbrella Academy. I just had to congratulate him on Twitter when he came out, I think near the end of 2020. It feels like so much longer ago, right?”
They gather their thoughts as the wind churns their leaves overhead. Their healthy, dappled bark catches strips of the sunlight. About every network has asked them about their routine already—soil preferences, vitamin-infused water, pesticides—but they’re not ready to let the topic of gendering in show business pass so easily. “There’s typecasting the industry doesn’t even talk about,” The Applewood adds fervently. “Gallows trees, their casting calls are always for men.”
That’s wild, I say. Wow. I hadn’t really thought about that.
“And the Whomping Willow, every willow I know would have killed for that kind of credit. An international blockbuster, and a really physical role, we don’t get a lot of those. But only male trees got the call. On the other hand, with fruiting or flowering trees, they’re always looking for the ‘motherly figures.’ Female trees. I was just talking about that with the hallowed grove tree from the Charmed reboot.”
‘Even though I’m the title character, I’m always the one feeling like I don’t really belong in this world.’
They creak as they acknowledge some of the physical traits that viewers are keen to lambast in film. “The CinemaSins guy, he points out my pollen in a few shots, like ‘if this is a female tree, she actually would’ve had to be cross-pollinated by another tree.’ I mean, is that the point here? We’re not going for complete realism. They didn’t actually get John to chop me down to a stump, because I wouldn’t be talking to you now. Working with Boyega was amazing, by the way. A complete sweetheart. I couldn’t stop gushing about him—huge Star Wars buff here. Getting to meet all of these A-list people in my field is crazy. I’m like, can you carve your initials in me? Even though I’m the title character, I’m always the one feeling like I don’t really belong in this world.”
Is there anything the media can do to temper this stigma against tree actors? “For starters, ‘stigma’ is a weird word with us, because in female flowers that’s the equivalent of a human vagina,” they remind me. “And the other female organ, I’m trying not to get too graphic, is a ‘style.’ But male flowers have ‘stamens.’ What human guy decided on stigma and style for women, right? What kind of point was he trying to make?”
I’ve heard that there’s a movement with millennial trees toward ‘stamyn’ as gender-neutral terminology, but The Applewood isn’t so sure about this. “It’s actually more of a term that humans started using and pushing first. I think it’s great that they’re trying to be inclusive, but most of us didn’t ask them to do that for us. Shouldn’t we get consulted? It just depends.” The infamous Guardians of the Galaxy controversy comes up, and The Applewood’s upper trunk sways grimly. “I know the character originated in 1960, and there were issues with all kinds of racial portrayals then. I do. I don’t even think it was malicious. Some folks disagree with me, and I get that too. But hiring a human for the motion capture and voice acting of what is essentially CGI treeface? You can’t do that today. It shouldn’t have gotten past screening. As tree actors, and I want to say especially as a nonbinary one, roles aren’t frequent enough for us. Misrepresenting us isn’t okay. We want to be heard and seen. I know the industry is always improving, and I’m here for that. Realistically, I’ll be in my prime for at least another twenty or thirty years, and The Giving Tree was one huge step forward for our community.” The wood of their knothole rolls down in a long, slow wink. “I’m just saying, the big roles like this don’t grow on every tree.”
“I can’t offer you my stump to sit on, but I hope you’re all right on that picnic blanket,” they joke pleasantly.
As in The Giving Tree, of course. The Applewood plays Shel Silverstein’s titular tragic role in the movie adaptation, which can be seen in theatres up through the end of April. One frequent editorial topic has been The Applewood’s status as a nonbinary performer. Was that a change made to the Giving Tree of the book, who bears she and her pronouns?
“No, I was comfortable playing the Giving Tree as the female role Silverstein wrote for her. I feel that as marginalized actors, it’s fair to call on us for roles that might not have been open to us traditionally. It doesn’t change what we’re doing as performers—I’m still separate from the character. Like Elliot Page! I loved him in The Umbrella Academy. I just had to congratulate him on Twitter when he came out, I think near the end of 2020. It feels like so much longer ago, right?”
They gather their thoughts as the wind churns their leaves overhead. Their healthy, dappled bark catches strips of the sunlight. About every network has asked them about their routine already—soil preferences, vitamin-infused water, pesticides—but they’re not ready to let the topic of gendering in show business pass so easily. “There’s typecasting the industry doesn’t even talk about,” The Applewood adds fervently. “Gallows trees, their casting calls are always for men.”
That’s wild, I say. Wow. I hadn’t really thought about that.
“And the Whomping Willow, every willow I know would have killed for that kind of credit. An international blockbuster, and a really physical role, we don’t get a lot of those. But only male trees got the call. On the other hand, with fruiting or flowering trees, they’re always looking for the ‘motherly figures.’ Female trees. I was just talking about that with the hallowed grove tree from the Charmed reboot.”
‘Even though I’m the title character, I’m always the one feeling like I don’t really belong in this world.’
They creak as they acknowledge some of the physical traits that viewers are keen to lambast in film. “The CinemaSins guy, he points out my pollen in a few shots, like ‘if this is a female tree, she actually would’ve had to be cross-pollinated by another tree.’ I mean, is that the point here? We’re not going for complete realism. They didn’t actually get John to chop me down to a stump, because I wouldn’t be talking to you now. Working with Boyega was amazing, by the way. A complete sweetheart. I couldn’t stop gushing about him—huge Star Wars buff here. Getting to meet all of these A-list people in my field is crazy. I’m like, can you carve your initials in me? Even though I’m the title character, I’m always the one feeling like I don’t really belong in this world.”
Is there anything the media can do to temper this stigma against tree actors? “For starters, ‘stigma’ is a weird word with us, because in female flowers that’s the equivalent of a human vagina,” they remind me. “And the other female organ, I’m trying not to get too graphic, is a ‘style.’ But male flowers have ‘stamens.’ What human guy decided on stigma and style for women, right? What kind of point was he trying to make?”
I’ve heard that there’s a movement with millennial trees toward ‘stamyn’ as gender-neutral terminology, but The Applewood isn’t so sure about this. “It’s actually more of a term that humans started using and pushing first. I think it’s great that they’re trying to be inclusive, but most of us didn’t ask them to do that for us. Shouldn’t we get consulted? It just depends.” The infamous Guardians of the Galaxy controversy comes up, and The Applewood’s upper trunk sways grimly. “I know the character originated in 1960, and there were issues with all kinds of racial portrayals then. I do. I don’t even think it was malicious. Some folks disagree with me, and I get that too. But hiring a human for the motion capture and voice acting of what is essentially CGI treeface? You can’t do that today. It shouldn’t have gotten past screening. As tree actors, and I want to say especially as a nonbinary one, roles aren’t frequent enough for us. Misrepresenting us isn’t okay. We want to be heard and seen. I know the industry is always improving, and I’m here for that. Realistically, I’ll be in my prime for at least another twenty or thirty years, and The Giving Tree was one huge step forward for our community.” The wood of their knothole rolls down in a long, slow wink. “I’m just saying, the big roles like this don’t grow on every tree.”
Unnamed Grandma
Peyton Carroll
I’ve always been asked “are you mixed?” or “your hair isn’t like black girl hair” as a little girl. My standing as child was always as an isolationist, someone who was seen from afar. It wasn’t by choice; I was just put there by other people. I wasn’t like the black girls in school: extroverted, stylish, boisterous; I felt like I was a mule amongst donkeys; there was something separating me from them. I wasn’t like the white girls either, for obvious reason; though, they isolated me not by my skin color—no, but by my personality. I wasn’t popular, nor from an upper class family. My mom was a bus driver and my dad a truck driver. We were living comfortably but without the added extremities. I also wasn’t an attention-seeker. I’ve always seem the girls to things to attract the boy’s attention, and it made me uncomfortable to put myself in their shoes. We were always like that, but I hated the spotlight and still do.
But this separation between myself and my peers stood out.
I didn’t know what my separation was. What made me look mixed? What made my hair a different texture? Why was I singled out?
My mom would tell me “you’re perfect” or “you’re my social butterfly” whenever I voiced my opinions on matters at school. But as mother’s would know best, she’d say “it’s because you’re smart, special, and beautiful. They are just jealous”, but it was jealousy that radiated off me. I was the jealous little girl who wanted to fit in. I may not look the part, nor did I want to, but I wanted to be my own person amongst them, my own Peyton.
I took a DNA test one day. It was a gift from my mother.
We had heard about ancestry.com, and after fiddling with the website, we were both intrigued by our lineage.
My mom knew who she was, “We’re Black and Native America. My grandfather’s grandmother was Cherokee” I look back at the photo staring back at me in my mother’s room. The photo of her grandparents, Elisha and Josie Gibbs, posing together on a couch, both staring and smiling at the camera ahead. Josie had on a white dress and her hair curled; Elisha had on a black suit and his balding hair. Together, they had thirteen children; one of them, my granny Mabel, would later take the role of the matriarch of the family, as she was the oldest living daughter.
Though, I never found out who I was on my father’s side. My paternal grandmother always said “we’re Irish Catholics”; I was elated but heavily skeptical. My skin was light, but I thought it was from my lack of vitamin D (even til this day). But this DNA would be the answer to my doubts: am I really Irish Catholic? How much Native American am I?
After weeks of taking the test, we got confirmation that my results were in. I was nervous, like any child would, from getting their test result back. Did I do good? Did I pass? I anticipated the results to my DNA; the only thing that was stopping my answers was me. My mom sat down next to me to see my results. She, too, was curious as to what I was; this type of technology intrigued her baby-boomer mind.
I clicked the link and bam!
There were my results.
Staring right back at me.
72% African, 26% European.
European? 26%? Am I truly my dad’s child? Why am I 26% European? My mom was baffled like me. She couldn’t believe I had that much European in me. She also couldn’t believe I had less than 1% of Native American, though she quickly got over that.
Maybe there was someone who answered those questions.
I told my grandmother about my results, and she quickly confirmed what she always said, “We’re Irish Catholics”. This time, she said more, “Mama’s grandmother was real light”. Just like me? Though afterwards, I found out she was lighter than me. But this information was like discovering a lost colony. I hit the jackpot!
My great uncle had filled in more information for me. In his house, he had a picture of his grandmother, whose name I didn’t know. She appeared white in the photo, though my great- uncle told me she was just very light skinned. It was her mother, so my great-great-great-great grandmother, who was white and possibly from Europe. My father made a comment saying that my great-great-great grandmother was built like a linebacker (and she did in that photo). My ancestry results said British and Irish, 23.6%, so she must have been Irish. Plus, Carroll is an Irish last name; it isn’t common but still an Irish last name.
So, then this woman, my unnamed great-great-great-great-grandmother, is the key to my physique. She’s the answer to my (and those) questions. Her unknown voice has somehow spoken through me, leaving behind little memories of herself. I don’t know what I have of hers, but I know I must have something, even if it’s the minute details. I carry the remnants of her, and in turn, she gave me a lighter skin tone and curly hair. She had given me the creativity to write a poem about her, which I think is one of my best poems I ever written.
When I look in the mirror, I not only see myself, but all the women who had given birth to the women in the family. Though her voice is silent, she told me that it’s okay to be different and to be yourself. I no longer have these thoughts of difference; I no longer have the doubts in my mind about my lineage. I now have the power and determination to search for her and discover more things about my lineage.
But this separation between myself and my peers stood out.
I didn’t know what my separation was. What made me look mixed? What made my hair a different texture? Why was I singled out?
My mom would tell me “you’re perfect” or “you’re my social butterfly” whenever I voiced my opinions on matters at school. But as mother’s would know best, she’d say “it’s because you’re smart, special, and beautiful. They are just jealous”, but it was jealousy that radiated off me. I was the jealous little girl who wanted to fit in. I may not look the part, nor did I want to, but I wanted to be my own person amongst them, my own Peyton.
I took a DNA test one day. It was a gift from my mother.
We had heard about ancestry.com, and after fiddling with the website, we were both intrigued by our lineage.
My mom knew who she was, “We’re Black and Native America. My grandfather’s grandmother was Cherokee” I look back at the photo staring back at me in my mother’s room. The photo of her grandparents, Elisha and Josie Gibbs, posing together on a couch, both staring and smiling at the camera ahead. Josie had on a white dress and her hair curled; Elisha had on a black suit and his balding hair. Together, they had thirteen children; one of them, my granny Mabel, would later take the role of the matriarch of the family, as she was the oldest living daughter.
Though, I never found out who I was on my father’s side. My paternal grandmother always said “we’re Irish Catholics”; I was elated but heavily skeptical. My skin was light, but I thought it was from my lack of vitamin D (even til this day). But this DNA would be the answer to my doubts: am I really Irish Catholic? How much Native American am I?
After weeks of taking the test, we got confirmation that my results were in. I was nervous, like any child would, from getting their test result back. Did I do good? Did I pass? I anticipated the results to my DNA; the only thing that was stopping my answers was me. My mom sat down next to me to see my results. She, too, was curious as to what I was; this type of technology intrigued her baby-boomer mind.
I clicked the link and bam!
There were my results.
Staring right back at me.
72% African, 26% European.
European? 26%? Am I truly my dad’s child? Why am I 26% European? My mom was baffled like me. She couldn’t believe I had that much European in me. She also couldn’t believe I had less than 1% of Native American, though she quickly got over that.
Maybe there was someone who answered those questions.
I told my grandmother about my results, and she quickly confirmed what she always said, “We’re Irish Catholics”. This time, she said more, “Mama’s grandmother was real light”. Just like me? Though afterwards, I found out she was lighter than me. But this information was like discovering a lost colony. I hit the jackpot!
My great uncle had filled in more information for me. In his house, he had a picture of his grandmother, whose name I didn’t know. She appeared white in the photo, though my great- uncle told me she was just very light skinned. It was her mother, so my great-great-great-great grandmother, who was white and possibly from Europe. My father made a comment saying that my great-great-great grandmother was built like a linebacker (and she did in that photo). My ancestry results said British and Irish, 23.6%, so she must have been Irish. Plus, Carroll is an Irish last name; it isn’t common but still an Irish last name.
So, then this woman, my unnamed great-great-great-great-grandmother, is the key to my physique. She’s the answer to my (and those) questions. Her unknown voice has somehow spoken through me, leaving behind little memories of herself. I don’t know what I have of hers, but I know I must have something, even if it’s the minute details. I carry the remnants of her, and in turn, she gave me a lighter skin tone and curly hair. She had given me the creativity to write a poem about her, which I think is one of my best poems I ever written.
When I look in the mirror, I not only see myself, but all the women who had given birth to the women in the family. Though her voice is silent, she told me that it’s okay to be different and to be yourself. I no longer have these thoughts of difference; I no longer have the doubts in my mind about my lineage. I now have the power and determination to search for her and discover more things about my lineage.
Temple of the Hare
Hunter Downey
The trio walked in single file through the narrow corridor, the walls close to them on either side. In the front walked Teeboro, who took long strides as his head hunched forward with each step, as if he were some kind of wild dog. He had his long sword raised to his chest, with both hands clasping the hilt tightly. Behind him walked Halgiero, his cape brushing to his sides as he pranced forward. His right hand held his rapier high in front of him while his left rested on his hip. Trailing at the rear came Alyce, whose boots stomped against the earth as she turned around every so often, as if she thought they were being followed. The way she held her bow with an arrow already fitted against the shaft only heightened her paranoia.
Soon the corridor grew lighter as the corridor ended in a large square chamber. The walls glowed in deep green around them, so much so that when they stepped close enough to them, they could see their own reflections. Large statues of hares stood in each corner of the chamber, positioned in a way as though they were holding aloft the high ceiling. The room was full of tables and chairs, with half of them holding plates and cups while the others had magical trinkets upon them. But they were not the strangest sight, for all around the room stone tunnels no more than a foot high or a foot wide broke off and ran in different directions towards doorless walls decorated in sculpted murals depicting hares dancing in flowers.
“Remember to be careful what you touch, we do not know what tricks the hare mages may have up their robes,” said Teeboro, turning his head as to take in the sights of the room.
“I say, this place is remarkable!” said Halgiero as he spun around to admire the architecture in the room, his majestic voice echoing as he spoke. “This would be an amazing base!”
“As incredible as this temple is, it is a sacred place,” said Teeboro, who was looking at a pile of turtle shells on one of the tables. “Even though we seek its treasures, it is important that everything here is treated with respect. Everything in here is a relic, a part of history, so a group like us who is attacked every three days could hardly be at home here without destroying everything.” He slowly walked over to study the carved murals in the closest wall.
“So, what was this room, some kind of feasting hall?” said Alyce kneeling to look at the opening of one of the small tunnels.
“I believe so,” said Teeboro turning towards her. “It seems to me they used one side for eating and the other for performing magical experiments.”
“I’m sure that made for some eventful meals,” said Halgiero. “Imagine sitting down to eat a delicious chicken only to witness a rabbit being dissected and skinned across the way!”
“I’d have lost my appetite.” said Alyce.
“Neither of you understand the archaic magic of wood mages,” said Teeboro. “Skinning rabbits and cutting them open is nothing.” Quickly, he changed the subject. “Alyce, what do you make of that tunnel?”
“It looks like some kind of passage that runs to dead ends on the walls to me. But I’d imagine there’s more rooms in this place, so maybe there’s hidden doors where the tunnels meet the walls,” said Alyce. “Why are you asking me? You are the wood mage here!”
“I wanted a second opinion,” said Teeboro as he crouched down next to her. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“So eager to hear her advice!” said Halgiero, placing his hands on his hips. “What am I, sliced boar?”
“As I was saying, my guess is that at the end of each tunnel is probably some kind of lever or keyhole that opens the hidden doors,” said Teeboro. “Also, judging by the carvings on the walls, the smaller ones probably lead to larger rooms like kitchens or bedding. But I’m thinking that small one on the other side of the chamber leads to where their valuables are kept.” He pointed at the largest mural ahead of them.
“An interesting theory, but I notice one flaw in it,” said Halgiero pointing his finger at the tunnel. “How could someone fit in that tunnel? Strange as you lot are, I doubt you have little gnomes running about to open doors for you. Honestly, who could get in there?”
“It’s not a question of who as to what, or rather a who as a what,” said Teeboro turning towards Halgiero. “The mages here likely shifted into their hare form to enter the tunnels and open the doors. I remember seeing a similar arrangement in a hawk mage temple I visited as a child.” He paused and stroked the small bit of hair on his chin. “Changing forms takes a toll on all mages, I am impressed they did it so often to open these doors. Even if they did take turns, it is very intriguing.”
“Well, that’s great for them maybe, but we on the other hand have a dilemma,” said Halgiero. “Surely none of us can fit in there. Even if you shifted into your wolf form, you would be too large. It’s not like we have a hare to do the job for us!”
Alyce, who had been sitting by the tunnel in deep thought, suddenly spoke. “Maybe we do.”
Before Halgiero could respond, Alyce took her bow and arrow and drew back. “Paint hare.” She commanded firing the arrow into the dirt. The arrow shook as suddenly a white ribbon emerged from the arrowhead. The ribbon branched into smaller ribbons that twisted around each other until they took the shape of a hare. The ribbons swirled around in circles are the painted creature scratched its head with its foot.
“There, that should suffice,” said Alyce.
“Your passion for artistic spell casting never ceases to amaze. Well done!” said Teeboro.
“Brilliant work! Although, white is a bit of a boring color,” said Halgiero.
“We’re looking for practicality, not a flashy display,” said Alyce. “If we wanted that we could have shoved you in there instead. Now, let my hare work its magic.”
Approaching the creature, who stared at her intently with its head to one side, she gave it another command. “Hare, venture into this tunnel and find the device which opens those large doors and open them.” She pointed towards the direction of the doors, the painted hare watching her every move. “Return to me once your task is done.”
The hare paused for a moment, then in an instant sprang to life. Its ears perked up as it tapped its foot five times. Suddenly it darted into the tunnel, and though they could not see it, the trio could hear the paint that it was made of swirl around as it ran. They followed the sound to the end of the tunnel in front of the large mural, where it suddenly halted. That sound was replaced by sniffing, and then a loud crank beneath the tunnel. The walls rumbled as two great doors appeared, swinging inwards so the mural was split in two. A moment later the painted hare returned to Alyce’s side, circling around her legs for a moment before stopping in front of her.
“Great work, thank you,” said Alyce. “Now wait here until we are finished, we still may need you.” The hare obeyed her order and spun around a few more times before curling up in a ball on the ground. Alyce turned to the others.
“There, see? Piece of cake!” said Alyce smirking.
“Well, that is one wall broken down anyway. Shall we find the next one?” said Halgiero.
“Indeed, on to the next one we go,” said Teeboro as he strode into the doorway, Halgiero and Alyce not far behind.
Soon the corridor grew lighter as the corridor ended in a large square chamber. The walls glowed in deep green around them, so much so that when they stepped close enough to them, they could see their own reflections. Large statues of hares stood in each corner of the chamber, positioned in a way as though they were holding aloft the high ceiling. The room was full of tables and chairs, with half of them holding plates and cups while the others had magical trinkets upon them. But they were not the strangest sight, for all around the room stone tunnels no more than a foot high or a foot wide broke off and ran in different directions towards doorless walls decorated in sculpted murals depicting hares dancing in flowers.
“Remember to be careful what you touch, we do not know what tricks the hare mages may have up their robes,” said Teeboro, turning his head as to take in the sights of the room.
“I say, this place is remarkable!” said Halgiero as he spun around to admire the architecture in the room, his majestic voice echoing as he spoke. “This would be an amazing base!”
“As incredible as this temple is, it is a sacred place,” said Teeboro, who was looking at a pile of turtle shells on one of the tables. “Even though we seek its treasures, it is important that everything here is treated with respect. Everything in here is a relic, a part of history, so a group like us who is attacked every three days could hardly be at home here without destroying everything.” He slowly walked over to study the carved murals in the closest wall.
“So, what was this room, some kind of feasting hall?” said Alyce kneeling to look at the opening of one of the small tunnels.
“I believe so,” said Teeboro turning towards her. “It seems to me they used one side for eating and the other for performing magical experiments.”
“I’m sure that made for some eventful meals,” said Halgiero. “Imagine sitting down to eat a delicious chicken only to witness a rabbit being dissected and skinned across the way!”
“I’d have lost my appetite.” said Alyce.
“Neither of you understand the archaic magic of wood mages,” said Teeboro. “Skinning rabbits and cutting them open is nothing.” Quickly, he changed the subject. “Alyce, what do you make of that tunnel?”
“It looks like some kind of passage that runs to dead ends on the walls to me. But I’d imagine there’s more rooms in this place, so maybe there’s hidden doors where the tunnels meet the walls,” said Alyce. “Why are you asking me? You are the wood mage here!”
“I wanted a second opinion,” said Teeboro as he crouched down next to her. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“So eager to hear her advice!” said Halgiero, placing his hands on his hips. “What am I, sliced boar?”
“As I was saying, my guess is that at the end of each tunnel is probably some kind of lever or keyhole that opens the hidden doors,” said Teeboro. “Also, judging by the carvings on the walls, the smaller ones probably lead to larger rooms like kitchens or bedding. But I’m thinking that small one on the other side of the chamber leads to where their valuables are kept.” He pointed at the largest mural ahead of them.
“An interesting theory, but I notice one flaw in it,” said Halgiero pointing his finger at the tunnel. “How could someone fit in that tunnel? Strange as you lot are, I doubt you have little gnomes running about to open doors for you. Honestly, who could get in there?”
“It’s not a question of who as to what, or rather a who as a what,” said Teeboro turning towards Halgiero. “The mages here likely shifted into their hare form to enter the tunnels and open the doors. I remember seeing a similar arrangement in a hawk mage temple I visited as a child.” He paused and stroked the small bit of hair on his chin. “Changing forms takes a toll on all mages, I am impressed they did it so often to open these doors. Even if they did take turns, it is very intriguing.”
“Well, that’s great for them maybe, but we on the other hand have a dilemma,” said Halgiero. “Surely none of us can fit in there. Even if you shifted into your wolf form, you would be too large. It’s not like we have a hare to do the job for us!”
Alyce, who had been sitting by the tunnel in deep thought, suddenly spoke. “Maybe we do.”
Before Halgiero could respond, Alyce took her bow and arrow and drew back. “Paint hare.” She commanded firing the arrow into the dirt. The arrow shook as suddenly a white ribbon emerged from the arrowhead. The ribbon branched into smaller ribbons that twisted around each other until they took the shape of a hare. The ribbons swirled around in circles are the painted creature scratched its head with its foot.
“There, that should suffice,” said Alyce.
“Your passion for artistic spell casting never ceases to amaze. Well done!” said Teeboro.
“Brilliant work! Although, white is a bit of a boring color,” said Halgiero.
“We’re looking for practicality, not a flashy display,” said Alyce. “If we wanted that we could have shoved you in there instead. Now, let my hare work its magic.”
Approaching the creature, who stared at her intently with its head to one side, she gave it another command. “Hare, venture into this tunnel and find the device which opens those large doors and open them.” She pointed towards the direction of the doors, the painted hare watching her every move. “Return to me once your task is done.”
The hare paused for a moment, then in an instant sprang to life. Its ears perked up as it tapped its foot five times. Suddenly it darted into the tunnel, and though they could not see it, the trio could hear the paint that it was made of swirl around as it ran. They followed the sound to the end of the tunnel in front of the large mural, where it suddenly halted. That sound was replaced by sniffing, and then a loud crank beneath the tunnel. The walls rumbled as two great doors appeared, swinging inwards so the mural was split in two. A moment later the painted hare returned to Alyce’s side, circling around her legs for a moment before stopping in front of her.
“Great work, thank you,” said Alyce. “Now wait here until we are finished, we still may need you.” The hare obeyed her order and spun around a few more times before curling up in a ball on the ground. Alyce turned to the others.
“There, see? Piece of cake!” said Alyce smirking.
“Well, that is one wall broken down anyway. Shall we find the next one?” said Halgiero.
“Indeed, on to the next one we go,” said Teeboro as he strode into the doorway, Halgiero and Alyce not far behind.
Graphology
Joseph Lerner
In the mail yesterday I received a packet of letters and clippings, photos too. They’re more flattering than compromising, nonetheless I feel demeaned, violated. There’s no return address, but the front label’s handwriting looks distinctive, even familiar, so I visit an expert, who, after a cursory exam, says the handwriting resembles mine perfectly. “Absurd,” I reply, even after being shown the near-identical loops, slants, and lines. “And not a forgery either,” he continues, off-handedly adding, “though the packet’s contents probably are.” “Sir, you’re the fraud!” I reply, furious. “Perhaps,” he sighs, removing his eyepiece, “We both are.”
I remove mine, too. We glower at each other.
I remove mine, too. We glower at each other.
The Curious Case of Why Me
Gina Franciosi
Twenty minutes. Thomas has been off searching for this clue for twenty minutes. What could he possibly be doing?
I puff out a sigh, the white cloud of my breath dissipating before my eyes. My bottom is numb from sitting on the frosty coach stop bench, my legs feel like two dead tree branches stretched out in front of me. When I try to tap my fingers against my thigh, they ache and crack as if the bones have been coated in a thick layer of ice.
Bloody hell, I’m not going to sit here for another twenty minutes. By the time he finds the clue and gets back to me I’ll be an ice sculpture.
I slip my phone from my trench coat pocket, pull up Thomas’s and my last messaged conversation, and type, Good lord bruv. Have you found the next clue about finding Penelope’s missing jade ring in the ‘place’ of god? - Anthony, 08:59 a.m.
My phone vibrates as Thomas sends a response.
Yes! I found the ring in the hollowed out chest of Sister Lydia Marie’s statue. You should’ve been here to listen to the congregation squeal as I cracked the statue with a hammer! -Thomas, 09:00 a.m.
Excellent! You’re at Sister Lydia Marie’s church? Stay where you are, I’ll be there in five minutes or less. I’ll see if I can figure out the next clue now. – Anthony.
The message changes from delivered to read.
I swipe out of messages and open The Curious Case, clicking on the inbox, and typing completed into clue 35, unlocking clue 36. At the top, in bold ruby red letters, the page reads 111 viewing players, 15 disqualified players.
Clue 36: Jade has been found, but her sister’s still gone. Azul hides from the crowds where the river runs. Buried within her neck is the faceless mistake of god.
Look at that. The first clue that actually takes some thought. Better not tell Thomas, he’ll think the game creators are listening through our devices.
River Thames is the largest body of water running through England. Anatomy terms related to rivers include branches, bodies, necks, and run-offs. Azul, or whatever Azul is supposed to symbolize, is somewhere near the River Thames.
Another message vibrates my phone.
Faceless mistake of god? - Thomas 09:06 a.m.
There’s only three Amish communities located in Britain and two of them are in London. The Amish believe that dolls should not be made with facial features because only god can produce faces. Azul must be a doll buried somewhere near the river. Wait there at the church, we can head to the River Thames together. – Anthony.
Hold on, Anthony. A man is waving me down. – Thomas.
What the hell does the bloke want? -Anthony.
He wants to know if I’m a player too. -Thomas, 09:08 a.m.
My heart sinks and an icy slush clogs in my veins. A scream of frustration, confusion, and fear swells in my chest, but all that huffs out of my lips is a pained sigh. Thomas barely got away from the freak on Rye Lane, who knows what tricks this one is carrying up their sleeve.
A vibration in my hand brings me back from my thoughts.
He said he’s also a player and that the clue they just sent was incorrect. He wishes to take me to the next clue himself. - Thomas, 09:12 a.m.
Are you a prat! Don’t bloody go with him. Wait for me and we will figure out what to do from there. - Anthony.
Anthony. He said Jade and Azul are the names of Penelope’s daughters. He said Azul drowned herself in the river and was buried near an Amish community in West Sussex. - Thomas.
Thomas, don’t tell me you’re seriously considering going with that man? – Anthony.
…
Thomas! This isn’t a joke. Answer me at this moment or so help me god I will make your life a living hell when I get to this church! – Anthony.
…
Thomas? - Anthony, 09:15 a.m.
…
I don’t wait another second for a vibration I know isn’t going to come. I leap up from the coach bench, bumping into a man and knocking the stack of papers out from under his arm, ignoring his muffled screams as I scarper down the street.
Thomas. His name swirls in my stomach like a storm of mayflies. Please Thomas, please be okay.
The cold wind slaps me with sharp knuckles and sand paper skin, finding a way to whip up my jacket and slice into my skin. I shudder and goosebumps crawl up my trembling limbs. I grab my phone, struggling to type with frozen fingers.
Thomas, where are you? I’m here in front of the church! Thomas? - Anthony, 09:20 a.m.
Sister Lydia Marie’s Church has glossy purple stained windows, three copper metal steeples reaching up to the heavens, and worn-red bricks that make up its massive walls. A statue of the crucifixion of Jesus sits in its yellowing lawn. His thorn crown spotted with ruby paint, his ribs and limbs carved thinner than twigs—his suffering forever on display to London’s people.
Thomas? Are you around back? - Anthony, 09:22 a.m.
I don’t wait for answer. I can’t wait. I shuffle around the building. My sore eyes scanning every crevice and hide-away in the church’s back alley, but no one is here—Thomas isn’t here.
Thomas? – Anthony.
A vibration rattles from within the rubbish skip tucked beside the church’s fire exit.
My lungs deflate with the release of a forced huff, but it doesn’t soothe the tension in my chest. My stiff limbs won’t stop trembling. My muscles are tight, quivering like fire ants are burrowing under my flesh.
“Thomas?” I say, but my voice is weak and pathetic. I clear my throat, pulling the rubber band from my hair and letting my dreadlocks fall free from their knot. “Thomas?”
No one responds.
I pull up Thomas’s number, swallowing down the pain that strikes through my chest at the contact picture of him and I for his eighteenth birthday last week. I press call and wait.
The skip rattles and clicks as Thomas’s phone rings from within. I approach the dumpster slowly. One wobbly, weak step at a time.
One…
Two…
Three…
Four…
“Thomas?” I choke, curling my shaking fingers around the lid of the skip. “Little brother?”
I lift the lid, thudding it against the church’s back wall.
I gasp at the sight before me, slapping a hand over my mouth to stop the vomit from curdling out of my throat. My legs buckle beneath me and I drop to my knees, a cluster of pebbles stabbing into my trousers and burying into my flesh.
My body trembles and I—I can’t stop it. I can’t stop my heavy breathing. I can’t stop the tears forming in my eyes. I can’t swallow the fat, slimy gobs of saliva clumping in my mouth. “Th-” I suck in a breath, coughing on what feels like sand scratching down my throat. “Thomas!”
I puff out a sigh, the white cloud of my breath dissipating before my eyes. My bottom is numb from sitting on the frosty coach stop bench, my legs feel like two dead tree branches stretched out in front of me. When I try to tap my fingers against my thigh, they ache and crack as if the bones have been coated in a thick layer of ice.
Bloody hell, I’m not going to sit here for another twenty minutes. By the time he finds the clue and gets back to me I’ll be an ice sculpture.
I slip my phone from my trench coat pocket, pull up Thomas’s and my last messaged conversation, and type, Good lord bruv. Have you found the next clue about finding Penelope’s missing jade ring in the ‘place’ of god? - Anthony, 08:59 a.m.
My phone vibrates as Thomas sends a response.
Yes! I found the ring in the hollowed out chest of Sister Lydia Marie’s statue. You should’ve been here to listen to the congregation squeal as I cracked the statue with a hammer! -Thomas, 09:00 a.m.
Excellent! You’re at Sister Lydia Marie’s church? Stay where you are, I’ll be there in five minutes or less. I’ll see if I can figure out the next clue now. – Anthony.
The message changes from delivered to read.
I swipe out of messages and open The Curious Case, clicking on the inbox, and typing completed into clue 35, unlocking clue 36. At the top, in bold ruby red letters, the page reads 111 viewing players, 15 disqualified players.
Clue 36: Jade has been found, but her sister’s still gone. Azul hides from the crowds where the river runs. Buried within her neck is the faceless mistake of god.
Look at that. The first clue that actually takes some thought. Better not tell Thomas, he’ll think the game creators are listening through our devices.
River Thames is the largest body of water running through England. Anatomy terms related to rivers include branches, bodies, necks, and run-offs. Azul, or whatever Azul is supposed to symbolize, is somewhere near the River Thames.
Another message vibrates my phone.
Faceless mistake of god? - Thomas 09:06 a.m.
There’s only three Amish communities located in Britain and two of them are in London. The Amish believe that dolls should not be made with facial features because only god can produce faces. Azul must be a doll buried somewhere near the river. Wait there at the church, we can head to the River Thames together. – Anthony.
Hold on, Anthony. A man is waving me down. – Thomas.
What the hell does the bloke want? -Anthony.
He wants to know if I’m a player too. -Thomas, 09:08 a.m.
My heart sinks and an icy slush clogs in my veins. A scream of frustration, confusion, and fear swells in my chest, but all that huffs out of my lips is a pained sigh. Thomas barely got away from the freak on Rye Lane, who knows what tricks this one is carrying up their sleeve.
A vibration in my hand brings me back from my thoughts.
He said he’s also a player and that the clue they just sent was incorrect. He wishes to take me to the next clue himself. - Thomas, 09:12 a.m.
Are you a prat! Don’t bloody go with him. Wait for me and we will figure out what to do from there. - Anthony.
Anthony. He said Jade and Azul are the names of Penelope’s daughters. He said Azul drowned herself in the river and was buried near an Amish community in West Sussex. - Thomas.
Thomas, don’t tell me you’re seriously considering going with that man? – Anthony.
…
Thomas! This isn’t a joke. Answer me at this moment or so help me god I will make your life a living hell when I get to this church! – Anthony.
…
Thomas? - Anthony, 09:15 a.m.
…
I don’t wait another second for a vibration I know isn’t going to come. I leap up from the coach bench, bumping into a man and knocking the stack of papers out from under his arm, ignoring his muffled screams as I scarper down the street.
Thomas. His name swirls in my stomach like a storm of mayflies. Please Thomas, please be okay.
The cold wind slaps me with sharp knuckles and sand paper skin, finding a way to whip up my jacket and slice into my skin. I shudder and goosebumps crawl up my trembling limbs. I grab my phone, struggling to type with frozen fingers.
Thomas, where are you? I’m here in front of the church! Thomas? - Anthony, 09:20 a.m.
Sister Lydia Marie’s Church has glossy purple stained windows, three copper metal steeples reaching up to the heavens, and worn-red bricks that make up its massive walls. A statue of the crucifixion of Jesus sits in its yellowing lawn. His thorn crown spotted with ruby paint, his ribs and limbs carved thinner than twigs—his suffering forever on display to London’s people.
Thomas? Are you around back? - Anthony, 09:22 a.m.
I don’t wait for answer. I can’t wait. I shuffle around the building. My sore eyes scanning every crevice and hide-away in the church’s back alley, but no one is here—Thomas isn’t here.
Thomas? – Anthony.
A vibration rattles from within the rubbish skip tucked beside the church’s fire exit.
My lungs deflate with the release of a forced huff, but it doesn’t soothe the tension in my chest. My stiff limbs won’t stop trembling. My muscles are tight, quivering like fire ants are burrowing under my flesh.
“Thomas?” I say, but my voice is weak and pathetic. I clear my throat, pulling the rubber band from my hair and letting my dreadlocks fall free from their knot. “Thomas?”
No one responds.
I pull up Thomas’s number, swallowing down the pain that strikes through my chest at the contact picture of him and I for his eighteenth birthday last week. I press call and wait.
The skip rattles and clicks as Thomas’s phone rings from within. I approach the dumpster slowly. One wobbly, weak step at a time.
One…
Two…
Three…
Four…
“Thomas?” I choke, curling my shaking fingers around the lid of the skip. “Little brother?”
I lift the lid, thudding it against the church’s back wall.
I gasp at the sight before me, slapping a hand over my mouth to stop the vomit from curdling out of my throat. My legs buckle beneath me and I drop to my knees, a cluster of pebbles stabbing into my trousers and burying into my flesh.
My body trembles and I—I can’t stop it. I can’t stop my heavy breathing. I can’t stop the tears forming in my eyes. I can’t swallow the fat, slimy gobs of saliva clumping in my mouth. “Th-” I suck in a breath, coughing on what feels like sand scratching down my throat. “Thomas!”
Location |
|
Icons made by Daniel Bruce, Bogdan Rosu, and Pedro Nieto Villamandos from www.flaticon.com