Untitled
By Clara Demke The slender form of the willow tree swayed in the warm spring breeze. It stood by a gentle gurgling river, whose waters were not used to the current, as they had thawed recently. Deep under the roots of the willow, still covered with snow, she stirred. She wished she could return to the dreamless nights, but it was too late, her mind was awake. The roots of the placid tree murmured to her as she brushed the leaves off her gown, and climbed up the roots that formed a sloping tunnel to the surface. She was excited for day after a winter of rest. It was too early, she thought, when she stumbled out on unsteady feet. Too early. There was still snow on the ground, and ice in the river. She shivered. Why had she woken so soon? Nearby, a figure appeared by the roots of a grand oak tree. She forgot the cold momentarily at the sight of her friend. “Acorn! So good to see you!” The figure turned, spotted her, and leapt over. “Willow! You’re up! I thought for sure I was way too early.” She frowned. “Why have the trees woken us? Nothing’s grown yet…” Willow looked around the clearing. Acorn was right. The snow still formed a heavy blanket over the ground, no birds sang, and they were the only nymphs around. She’d never been awake this early, she was used to waking to buzzing and crawling, to the first hints of grass peeking through the leaves. Not to the cold silence and frozen serenity of winter. It was a strange sight. She glanced over at Acorn. “I guess a mistake. But it’s strange, for sure,” She yawned. “I’m tired and hungry.” Acorn nodded. “Of course, the trees haven’t grown leaves yet. They’re still slumbering, just like everyone else.” |
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Untitled
By Clara Demke The slender form of the willow tree swayed in the warm spring breeze. It stood by a gentle gurgling river, whose waters were not used to the current, as they had thawed recently. Deep under the roots of the willow, still covered with snow, she stirred. She wished she could return to the dreamless nights, but it was too late, her mind was awake. The roots of the placid tree murmured to her as she brushed the leaves off her gown, and climbed up the roots that formed a sloping tunnel to the surface. She was excited for day after a winter of rest. It was too early, she thought, when she stumbled out on unsteady feet. Too early. There was still snow on the ground, and ice in the river. She shivered. Why had she woken so soon? Nearby, a figure appeared by the roots of a grand oak tree. She forgot the cold momentarily at the sight of her friend. “Acorn! So good to see you!” The figure turned, spotted her, and leapt over. “Willow! You’re up! I thought for sure I was way too early.” She frowned. “Why have the trees woken us? Nothing’s grown yet…” Willow looked around the clearing. Acorn was right. The snow still formed a heavy blanket over the ground, no birds sang, and they were the only nymphs around. She’d never been awake this early, she was used to waking to buzzing and crawling, to the first hints of grass peeking through the leaves. Not to the cold silence and frozen serenity of winter. It was a strange sight. She glanced over at Acorn. “I guess a mistake. But it’s strange, for sure,” She yawned. “I’m tired and hungry.” Acorn nodded. “Of course, the trees haven’t grown leaves yet. They’re still slumbering, just like everyone else.” “Can’t we just go back to rest?” “We’d sleep until fall. No, we have to prepare the forest. Usually the elders do it, but maybe they woke us by mistake.” “Spring will be early this year.” They got to work. Willow sang the waking song for the birds, slightly off-key, but all the same the birds woke with an angry chatter. A robin fluttered from its nest, a blue jay swooped to the acorn tree and a sparrow landed in the twigs of a bush. Willow smiled. The sun peeked over the treetops, and she relished the warmth on her skin. Meanwhile, Acorn crept to the nest of a squirrels and whispered them a good morning, she danced to the rabbits den and bid them to get up. The creatures stirred, unwillingly, but had no choice except to welcome the day. They murmured to the trees, to the bushes, and the ground, Spring is here, Spring is here, Spring is here. Soon, the sun was high in the sky, and the blades of grass anxiously peeked through the ground, as the last of the snow melted away. It was not long until the birch creaked and the ash groaned and the nymphs clambered out from their winter nests. Their barken skin, and leafy hair was brittle from the cold and the night. But their sharp elf-ears harkened to the birds. Spring is here. And later yet, the elders woke, the chestnut, and the maple, and the elm. As they stretched in the sun, they heard the chit chat of squirrels, the song of birds, they saw the sprouts on the branches, the young velvety grass and the gurgle of a nearby stream. Spring was early this year. |
The Dios
by Samantha Muhlig
I paced from one end of the room to the other, my hands tugged at the roots of my hair. The Dios’ words repeated over and over again. I reached for the pitch of water, pouring it down my face. The pounding in my mind never stopped. It felt like a curse, striking my mind with harmful force. I couldn’t breathe, the thought of letting her go sickened me.
“We need a sacrifice. She will be reborn into the warrior this village needs. It is for the greater good, Castor. She will bloom into something beautiful.”
Tears pricked at my eyes, “Octavia is only a girl-”
“She is a woman of war, my son.” The Dios yelled, “Now leave.”
Octavia laid on our bed of fur, small strands of hair fell in front of her face. With each breath she drew the hazel strands lifted into the air, before they landed upon her rosy cheeks. I hiccuped, salty tears ran down my cheeks and hit the ground below me. Octavia stirred in her sleep. She turned onto her side to face me, one eye opened to reveal her dusty green eyes. She slowly woke, her hand reached for mine.
She cleared her throat, “Castor, what’s wrong?”
I choked on my words, tears streamed down my face.
“Castor, please. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I placed my lips upon her hands, kissing them passionately. She shook her hands out of my grasp and placed them on my face. I avoided her glance, sobbing into my hands. She continued to plead, brushing the long strands of black hair out of my face. Slowly, war drums began to play. Each thump grew louder, the drummers approaching the middle of our village.
The colour drained from Octavia’s face. Her lips began to quiver before she turned to me. Tears glossed over her eyes and ran down her cheeks, her hands trembling in fear.
“Octavia-” I started. Octavia pulled my face into her’s, her lips locking with mine. I kissed back, my hands wrapping around her torso. The need her body radiated gave me chills, her body shaking in fear. I let go, her eyes shimmering from the candle light.
Octavia rose from the ground, sprinting out of the tent. I screamed her name, but only got silence in return. The fire that grew outside blinded me when I left, Octavia’s figure being the only thing I could see. The Dios stood within Octavia and I, her cape dragged along the dirt and ash of the large campfire.
“Do you submit to the gods of our camp? Do you sacrifice your life for the well-being of others? Shall you kneel to the staff of the worthy and bloom into something beautiful, but destructive?” The Dios spoke, her staff digging into Octavia’s shoulder.
“I do.” Octavia choked, walking into the fire.
by Samantha Muhlig
I paced from one end of the room to the other, my hands tugged at the roots of my hair. The Dios’ words repeated over and over again. I reached for the pitch of water, pouring it down my face. The pounding in my mind never stopped. It felt like a curse, striking my mind with harmful force. I couldn’t breathe, the thought of letting her go sickened me.
“We need a sacrifice. She will be reborn into the warrior this village needs. It is for the greater good, Castor. She will bloom into something beautiful.”
Tears pricked at my eyes, “Octavia is only a girl-”
“She is a woman of war, my son.” The Dios yelled, “Now leave.”
Octavia laid on our bed of fur, small strands of hair fell in front of her face. With each breath she drew the hazel strands lifted into the air, before they landed upon her rosy cheeks. I hiccuped, salty tears ran down my cheeks and hit the ground below me. Octavia stirred in her sleep. She turned onto her side to face me, one eye opened to reveal her dusty green eyes. She slowly woke, her hand reached for mine.
She cleared her throat, “Castor, what’s wrong?”
I choked on my words, tears streamed down my face.
“Castor, please. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I placed my lips upon her hands, kissing them passionately. She shook her hands out of my grasp and placed them on my face. I avoided her glance, sobbing into my hands. She continued to plead, brushing the long strands of black hair out of my face. Slowly, war drums began to play. Each thump grew louder, the drummers approaching the middle of our village.
The colour drained from Octavia’s face. Her lips began to quiver before she turned to me. Tears glossed over her eyes and ran down her cheeks, her hands trembling in fear.
“Octavia-” I started. Octavia pulled my face into her’s, her lips locking with mine. I kissed back, my hands wrapping around her torso. The need her body radiated gave me chills, her body shaking in fear. I let go, her eyes shimmering from the candle light.
Octavia rose from the ground, sprinting out of the tent. I screamed her name, but only got silence in return. The fire that grew outside blinded me when I left, Octavia’s figure being the only thing I could see. The Dios stood within Octavia and I, her cape dragged along the dirt and ash of the large campfire.
“Do you submit to the gods of our camp? Do you sacrifice your life for the well-being of others? Shall you kneel to the staff of the worthy and bloom into something beautiful, but destructive?” The Dios spoke, her staff digging into Octavia’s shoulder.
“I do.” Octavia choked, walking into the fire.
Untitled
by Peep James
“Come in…”
The voice was muffled through the door, but it sounded dryer than ever. Drawing a deep breath, Roald pushed the oaken door open and stepped inside.
A single figure sat in the shadows, looking out the window in an ancient rocking chair. There was a lightning storm outside – and has been for a month now. The room had its usual chill about it, like the moisture was seeping off the walls and cutting to his bones.
Roald the butler laid a tray of food on the table beside the colourless bed and made for the door. The man in the chair stirred.
“…Stay.”
“Y-yes sir?”
“Please, stay.”
Roald turned. The man in the wheelchair still had his back to him.
“Bring me a glass of wine. Come and sit.”
He obeyed without hesitation, though a bead of sweat ran down his temple.
“I’m not sure how much longer I have, Roald.”
“The doctor found nothing wrong with –“
“The doctor means nothing, you know that.” He turned. His face was tired, his eyes sunken and near-empty. Roald tried to empty his face of emotion, to no avail.
“Master… Y-you’re not going to die, you’re just tired. You need sleep.”
His face twitched. “Enough.”
Roald fell silent. The old man pointed out the window. “See that?”
“Of course.”
“It’s getting closer.”
It was true. Roald had tried to avoid the possibility, daring not to look at the storms each night, hoping beyond hope it would just blow over. But the lightning loomed far closer than he remembered, the thunder booming louder each night.
The old man sighed. “I don’t know what’ll happen when it gets here.”
Roald has no response.
“But when it does… I don’t want to be alone up here.”
“Y-you want me to sit with you, master?”
“I want to apologise.”
“Whatever for?”
“Punishing you for my sins.”
The butler didn’t know whether he was relieved, or shocked. Was this some kind of trick? Surely the old coot knew what he had done; he knew everything else about him.
“Roald, we can’t leave. Not you, not I, nobody. I don’t think the others have figured it out yet; for god’s sake don’t let them. Open all the wine, give them lots of time off… Try to make them happy.”
“Sir...”
“Damnit Roald, you aren’t blind. They are coming for me and will go through everyone else to get at me.”
“S-sir… Do you want me to put the guards on higher alert?”
The old man sighed and turned back to the window. “You’re the only one I can rely on any more. Don’t fail me now.”
Roald swallowed his retort, falling silent once more.
“Wine, feasts, anything you can organize. Say I’m having a birthday and wanted it for them.”
“Yes sir.”
It was clear they were finished. Roald crept back towards the door, the room was deathly quiet once more, say for the occasional rumble of thunder from beyond the tattered windowpane. He snuck one last view of that looming storm, and left the room with a shudder.
by Peep James
“Come in…”
The voice was muffled through the door, but it sounded dryer than ever. Drawing a deep breath, Roald pushed the oaken door open and stepped inside.
A single figure sat in the shadows, looking out the window in an ancient rocking chair. There was a lightning storm outside – and has been for a month now. The room had its usual chill about it, like the moisture was seeping off the walls and cutting to his bones.
Roald the butler laid a tray of food on the table beside the colourless bed and made for the door. The man in the chair stirred.
“…Stay.”
“Y-yes sir?”
“Please, stay.”
Roald turned. The man in the wheelchair still had his back to him.
“Bring me a glass of wine. Come and sit.”
He obeyed without hesitation, though a bead of sweat ran down his temple.
“I’m not sure how much longer I have, Roald.”
“The doctor found nothing wrong with –“
“The doctor means nothing, you know that.” He turned. His face was tired, his eyes sunken and near-empty. Roald tried to empty his face of emotion, to no avail.
“Master… Y-you’re not going to die, you’re just tired. You need sleep.”
His face twitched. “Enough.”
Roald fell silent. The old man pointed out the window. “See that?”
“Of course.”
“It’s getting closer.”
It was true. Roald had tried to avoid the possibility, daring not to look at the storms each night, hoping beyond hope it would just blow over. But the lightning loomed far closer than he remembered, the thunder booming louder each night.
The old man sighed. “I don’t know what’ll happen when it gets here.”
Roald has no response.
“But when it does… I don’t want to be alone up here.”
“Y-you want me to sit with you, master?”
“I want to apologise.”
“Whatever for?”
“Punishing you for my sins.”
The butler didn’t know whether he was relieved, or shocked. Was this some kind of trick? Surely the old coot knew what he had done; he knew everything else about him.
“Roald, we can’t leave. Not you, not I, nobody. I don’t think the others have figured it out yet; for god’s sake don’t let them. Open all the wine, give them lots of time off… Try to make them happy.”
“Sir...”
“Damnit Roald, you aren’t blind. They are coming for me and will go through everyone else to get at me.”
“S-sir… Do you want me to put the guards on higher alert?”
The old man sighed and turned back to the window. “You’re the only one I can rely on any more. Don’t fail me now.”
Roald swallowed his retort, falling silent once more.
“Wine, feasts, anything you can organize. Say I’m having a birthday and wanted it for them.”
“Yes sir.”
It was clear they were finished. Roald crept back towards the door, the room was deathly quiet once more, say for the occasional rumble of thunder from beyond the tattered windowpane. He snuck one last view of that looming storm, and left the room with a shudder.
Spring? What Spring?
by Rebecca Kempe
Spring? What Spring?
You may have thought that in Ottawa, people wait excitedly for what you call “spring”. I am here to tell you it’s not the case. Most of us do not know what the spring you have told me about is. In the capital region of Canada, we simply wait for winter to be over, deal with the messy transition period that follows, and happily bask in the glow of summer.
We don’t have these bright suns or light greens that you were telling me about. We never see the sun before summer. Also, what is the meaning of green? I don’t really know what you were talking about, I mean, all I’ve ever seen is dull grey skies, mud, rain, more rain, mucky dirt, gravel, and slush. Unless you were talking about some variety of white, grey, or brown, I’ve never seen it. By the, it doesn’t really smell nice around here, since decomposing grass isn’t exactly something which would make your top ten list of good scents. Confused? You shouldn’t be. Dying plants just tend to emit this odour which makes worms want to eat them.
You act as if once the snow is gone, everything is beautiful, but you’re wrong on many counts. Do you know how much time it takes for all traces of snow to be gone? Snow doesn’t disappear overnight. It takes forever for it to even start to melt, and from there it sticks around, turns brown, sticks around some more, and degrades into slush that pools around your feet at every step. When the slushy mess of snow finally recedes enough for you to be able to see anything else, you are greeted by gravel, bare earth, and dead leaves. How’s that for a rebirth season?
When you told me about “spring”, I was very intrigued, but I assure you, it isn’t real. At least, not here in Ottawa.
by Rebecca Kempe
Spring? What Spring?
You may have thought that in Ottawa, people wait excitedly for what you call “spring”. I am here to tell you it’s not the case. Most of us do not know what the spring you have told me about is. In the capital region of Canada, we simply wait for winter to be over, deal with the messy transition period that follows, and happily bask in the glow of summer.
We don’t have these bright suns or light greens that you were telling me about. We never see the sun before summer. Also, what is the meaning of green? I don’t really know what you were talking about, I mean, all I’ve ever seen is dull grey skies, mud, rain, more rain, mucky dirt, gravel, and slush. Unless you were talking about some variety of white, grey, or brown, I’ve never seen it. By the, it doesn’t really smell nice around here, since decomposing grass isn’t exactly something which would make your top ten list of good scents. Confused? You shouldn’t be. Dying plants just tend to emit this odour which makes worms want to eat them.
You act as if once the snow is gone, everything is beautiful, but you’re wrong on many counts. Do you know how much time it takes for all traces of snow to be gone? Snow doesn’t disappear overnight. It takes forever for it to even start to melt, and from there it sticks around, turns brown, sticks around some more, and degrades into slush that pools around your feet at every step. When the slushy mess of snow finally recedes enough for you to be able to see anything else, you are greeted by gravel, bare earth, and dead leaves. How’s that for a rebirth season?
When you told me about “spring”, I was very intrigued, but I assure you, it isn’t real. At least, not here in Ottawa.
A Life Determining Life
by Dula Deb
The flower has been around longer than our ancestors have. It was different from the rest; for its seven petals would determine our existence. Each of its red, delicate petals would die every million years on new year's day. Once the seventh petal dies, the human race would die off with it. Some people feared their deaths, while others accepted it.
Some people believed that God planted the flower to tell us to live our life to the fullest and show love, kindness and hope. However, most people believed the flower represented death, misery and pain. Meaning we would be dead and forgotten; believing the flower would be reborn to kill off the next species. The researchers said the last petal would die next year, which caused a massive outburst worldwide. Since the outburst, the death rate skyrocketed, along with poverty rate, and crime rate. People needed to realize that none of this is going to help; hell, we would die sooner if we kept this up.
*****
It was a rough six months. We had lost half of the world population, so the last of us clustered together in parts of Europe, North America and South America. I was placed in Canada, but I was separated from my family in the process. It was heartbreaking, but I tried my best to manage by myself. All will be well, and we’ll be born again… I thought to myself as I wrote in my journal.
“I will meet them again in a new life…When our time will be up, it will be a sign that some would be reborn as one of the beings of the next species, and the flower will be reborn once again. All will be well.”
I clutched onto my journal and took a deep breath.
*****
It was December thirty-first, and people were sobbing their hearts out. There was less than half of us left, but that was about to change. It had been nice living this life while it lasted, but I couldn’t do anything to change this… it was fate.
“We’ll all be born again millions of years from now… We will be reborn again in a new body. You can’t have life without death and you can’t have death without life…”
I wrote in my journal.
The clock struck midnight, and people held onto one another; some were screaming and others were sobbing. A massive ball of light headed our way. We screamed and then the ball of light hit, and the world fell silent…
*****
A million years passed, and a new species known as “The Frimmelese” arrived to earth. One of the Frimmelese looked around the earth, observed and came across an old, ripped up journal. It read:
“I will meet them again in a new life…When our time will be up, it will be a sign that some would be reborn as one of the beings of the next species, and the flower will be reborn once again. All will be well.”
They raised their eyebrow in confusion, and turned the journal to the next page.
“We’ll all be born again millions of years from now… We will be reborn again in a new body. You can’t have life without death and you can’t have death without life…”
They closed the journal, “Doesn’t this place seem quite familiar to you?”
The others nodded.
“Well, if we want to be safe and explore this new planet, I say we stay here.”
The others cheered.
And so the Frimmelese claimed earth, and the flower bloomed once again.
by Dula Deb
The flower has been around longer than our ancestors have. It was different from the rest; for its seven petals would determine our existence. Each of its red, delicate petals would die every million years on new year's day. Once the seventh petal dies, the human race would die off with it. Some people feared their deaths, while others accepted it.
Some people believed that God planted the flower to tell us to live our life to the fullest and show love, kindness and hope. However, most people believed the flower represented death, misery and pain. Meaning we would be dead and forgotten; believing the flower would be reborn to kill off the next species. The researchers said the last petal would die next year, which caused a massive outburst worldwide. Since the outburst, the death rate skyrocketed, along with poverty rate, and crime rate. People needed to realize that none of this is going to help; hell, we would die sooner if we kept this up.
*****
It was a rough six months. We had lost half of the world population, so the last of us clustered together in parts of Europe, North America and South America. I was placed in Canada, but I was separated from my family in the process. It was heartbreaking, but I tried my best to manage by myself. All will be well, and we’ll be born again… I thought to myself as I wrote in my journal.
“I will meet them again in a new life…When our time will be up, it will be a sign that some would be reborn as one of the beings of the next species, and the flower will be reborn once again. All will be well.”
I clutched onto my journal and took a deep breath.
*****
It was December thirty-first, and people were sobbing their hearts out. There was less than half of us left, but that was about to change. It had been nice living this life while it lasted, but I couldn’t do anything to change this… it was fate.
“We’ll all be born again millions of years from now… We will be reborn again in a new body. You can’t have life without death and you can’t have death without life…”
I wrote in my journal.
The clock struck midnight, and people held onto one another; some were screaming and others were sobbing. A massive ball of light headed our way. We screamed and then the ball of light hit, and the world fell silent…
*****
A million years passed, and a new species known as “The Frimmelese” arrived to earth. One of the Frimmelese looked around the earth, observed and came across an old, ripped up journal. It read:
“I will meet them again in a new life…When our time will be up, it will be a sign that some would be reborn as one of the beings of the next species, and the flower will be reborn once again. All will be well.”
They raised their eyebrow in confusion, and turned the journal to the next page.
“We’ll all be born again millions of years from now… We will be reborn again in a new body. You can’t have life without death and you can’t have death without life…”
They closed the journal, “Doesn’t this place seem quite familiar to you?”
The others nodded.
“Well, if we want to be safe and explore this new planet, I say we stay here.”
The others cheered.
And so the Frimmelese claimed earth, and the flower bloomed once again.