The Shade of the Tree by Liam Gable (10)
When all arrive I am already resting in the shade of the tree, slightly obscured, barely out of view. I remain there for the duration of my time and when all else are gone, so am I not a moment before not a moment after. The others seek to fully perceive me so they can find my deficiencies and point them out to the world. So I remain in half twilight where there is only room for one, waiting to escape. There have been many attempts to drag me from the dark where I could be analyzed and decisively and completely deemed unworthy, but they all fail.
One day another arrives and sits in the warm light of the tree facing away from me but clearly aware of my presence this is an interesting strategy, association with me would surely bring social ruin to any afflicted by it. They must be a young buck trying to stake its claim by finally bringing the mysterious shadow into the light to be deemed guilty. I am verbally assaulted at an exceptional pace forced into action but expertly dispatching each attack with a pointed barb or sharpened thought. But the young buck endures, for a time until eventually exhausted it retreats back to what I thought would be the rest of the pack but was revealed to be the shade of a far off wall.
Each day the new person returns striking up conversation which I engage with to the extent of never allowing myself into the light from where my form could even be inferred. My arms stay to my side, I move carefully with the sun to keep myself in the shade. But they persist poking and nagging to seek a response that would reveal any shade of personality lasting longer than before. And so the cycle continues each day they stay a little longer with slightly more endurance and every day eventually they retreat to the shade of a faraway wall. More and more in our interactions I find myself getting lazy. Once I became so engaged that the tips of my fingers nearly became exposed to the sun.
One day the new acquaintance did not arrive for what reason I do not know and never have and I felt a profound aching somewhere in my chest. My first thought was a medical issue of some sort: a heart attack or acid reflux or perhaps some new form of cancer. But those were reasoned out quite quickly. I came to the determination after much thought and reasoning that I had made a friend. So the next day I set out to perform a good deed as I had heard that is what friends do. I arrived when I normally would but instead of the curated comfort of the tree I rested in the shade of that far off wall. Others arrived and marveled at my absence from the tree, as did my new friend who made his way to the wall only to recoil in shock from my presence, for I had decided if I must stay in the shadows there is no reason there can't be room for two.
One day another arrives and sits in the warm light of the tree facing away from me but clearly aware of my presence this is an interesting strategy, association with me would surely bring social ruin to any afflicted by it. They must be a young buck trying to stake its claim by finally bringing the mysterious shadow into the light to be deemed guilty. I am verbally assaulted at an exceptional pace forced into action but expertly dispatching each attack with a pointed barb or sharpened thought. But the young buck endures, for a time until eventually exhausted it retreats back to what I thought would be the rest of the pack but was revealed to be the shade of a far off wall.
Each day the new person returns striking up conversation which I engage with to the extent of never allowing myself into the light from where my form could even be inferred. My arms stay to my side, I move carefully with the sun to keep myself in the shade. But they persist poking and nagging to seek a response that would reveal any shade of personality lasting longer than before. And so the cycle continues each day they stay a little longer with slightly more endurance and every day eventually they retreat to the shade of a faraway wall. More and more in our interactions I find myself getting lazy. Once I became so engaged that the tips of my fingers nearly became exposed to the sun.
One day the new acquaintance did not arrive for what reason I do not know and never have and I felt a profound aching somewhere in my chest. My first thought was a medical issue of some sort: a heart attack or acid reflux or perhaps some new form of cancer. But those were reasoned out quite quickly. I came to the determination after much thought and reasoning that I had made a friend. So the next day I set out to perform a good deed as I had heard that is what friends do. I arrived when I normally would but instead of the curated comfort of the tree I rested in the shade of that far off wall. Others arrived and marveled at my absence from the tree, as did my new friend who made his way to the wall only to recoil in shock from my presence, for I had decided if I must stay in the shadows there is no reason there can't be room for two.
Boxing in the Shadows by Madeleine Gillis (10)
Lurid sounds of leather battering skin, rowdy whistles and battle cries pierced the air, ensuring that nobody could miss the main event taking place in the courtyard. Drawn to the window by the noise, Nancy peered outside. A gang of boys, all about 10-15 years old, had gathered to watch as two boys took furious swings at each other from inside a small chalk square. The moment was intense and electrified, and Nancy felt like she had to become part of it. The boys’ faces were twisted–clenched teeth and fists, squinting eyes, and full determination–something Nancy knew she too possessed.
The wiry, brown-haired boy in the striped shirt took one last swing at the short boy with a blond crew-cut, who quickly put his hands up to protect himself. Before she knew it, the match was over. She had been so lost in the excitement of the sport that she had forgotten about her dance class.
That didn’t matter now though, because a second round would be starting shortly. Nancy rushed outside and pushed her way into the crowd. Forgetting that she was wearing her leotard, tights and a ponytail, she was momentarily surprised when her presence was met by a pause in the action and silent, wide-eyed stares. She felt the urge to look down, but she was determined to play in the next round.
“Could I play with all of you?”
In response, some of the boys looked away, others laughed scornfully. “We’re not playin’” muttered a tall boy in grey shorts. She didn’t expect to get such an immediate and negative response. The boy, who appeared to be about fourteen continued, “Go play house or somethin’. Fightin’s for boys… Don’t you know girls don’t fight? You’d get clobbered.”
“It’s called training. We’re boxing. No girls allowed,” shouted a red-faced boy in jeans which despite being patched, were tattered at the knees. A chorus of “no girls” erupted all around her. They cheered when she left.
Humiliated, Nancy rushed back to her dance lesson, but it was already over. As usual, the instructor told her to play nicely with the other girls until her mother arrived to take her home. But she was tired of sitting quietly. The thrill of the boxing match and the smell of leather and sweat gnawed at her thoughts.
She ran off to a rarely used washroom so that she could replay the scene she had just witnessed in private. One swing… then duck… Already moving on its own, her right leg pulled back in unison with her right arm, then forward. With no opponent to fight against, her arm shot straight through the empty air, to stop just where she imagined her opponent would be. She retracted her arm quickly to protect her face like her left one was already doing. The power she could wield with her tiny, eight-year-old body thrilled her.
Instinctively, Nancy knew that she needed to keep this guilty pleasure a secret. Mother and Daddy wouldn’t understand. They’d just worry. Her teacher, Mrs. Jennings and the pastor at the church she attended with her family would tell her that nice girls don’t hit others. They help, they support and most importantly, they defer to the needs of others. No, this would have to remain a secret between Nancy and her shadow.
Lurid sounds of leather battering skin, rowdy whistles and battle cries pierced the air, ensuring that nobody could miss the main event taking place in the courtyard. Drawn to the window by the noise, Nancy peered outside. A gang of boys, all about 10-15 years old, had gathered to watch as two boys took furious swings at each other from inside a small chalk square. The moment was intense and electrified, and Nancy felt like she had to become part of it. The boys’ faces were twisted–clenched teeth and fists, squinting eyes, and full determination–something Nancy knew she too possessed.
The wiry, brown-haired boy in the striped shirt took one last swing at the short boy with a blond crew-cut, who quickly put his hands up to protect himself. Before she knew it, the match was over. She had been so lost in the excitement of the sport that she had forgotten about her dance class.
That didn’t matter now though, because a second round would be starting shortly. Nancy rushed outside and pushed her way into the crowd. Forgetting that she was wearing her leotard, tights and a ponytail, she was momentarily surprised when her presence was met by a pause in the action and silent, wide-eyed stares. She felt the urge to look down, but she was determined to play in the next round.
“Could I play with all of you?”
In response, some of the boys looked away, others laughed scornfully. “We’re not playin’” muttered a tall boy in grey shorts. She didn’t expect to get such an immediate and negative response. The boy, who appeared to be about fourteen continued, “Go play house or somethin’. Fightin’s for boys… Don’t you know girls don’t fight? You’d get clobbered.”
“It’s called training. We’re boxing. No girls allowed,” shouted a red-faced boy in jeans which despite being patched, were tattered at the knees. A chorus of “no girls” erupted all around her. They cheered when she left.
Humiliated, Nancy rushed back to her dance lesson, but it was already over. As usual, the instructor told her to play nicely with the other girls until her mother arrived to take her home. But she was tired of sitting quietly. The thrill of the boxing match and the smell of leather and sweat gnawed at her thoughts.
She ran off to a rarely used washroom so that she could replay the scene she had just witnessed in private. One swing… then duck… Already moving on its own, her right leg pulled back in unison with her right arm, then forward. With no opponent to fight against, her arm shot straight through the empty air, to stop just where she imagined her opponent would be. She retracted her arm quickly to protect her face like her left one was already doing. The power she could wield with her tiny, eight-year-old body thrilled her.
Instinctively, Nancy knew that she needed to keep this guilty pleasure a secret. Mother and Daddy wouldn’t understand. They’d just worry. Her teacher, Mrs. Jennings and the pastor at the church she attended with her family would tell her that nice girls don’t hit others. They help, they support and most importantly, they defer to the needs of others. No, this would have to remain a secret between Nancy and her shadow.
Assorted Topics from the Back of Your Mind by Dominic Ngo Horton (10)
4:15 PM. Sam shuffles out of the store with his new purchases. Cake ingredients, and a lightbulb to replace the one that keeps flickering in his kitchen. Winter drags on, with the days getting longer, but still short. He pulls his scarf closer to his face, praying he can get home before dark.
4:23 PM. The sun is already starting to set, casting shadows in the foliage outside the train. Scrolling through the news, he clicks something about a product recall, skims through it, and buries it in the back of his mind.
5:11 PM. It’s already pitch-black outside when he steps off the bus. Truly a testament to the speed of this city’s transit. With blizzard conditions outside, and between the snow and the lack of light, he can hardly see five feet in front of him. Not even a minute after he sets foot inside, the inside fills itself with the same darkness. Of course. Winter. Power outage.
It’s childish, maybe, but Sam is afraid of the dark. Maybe all those stories about monsters lurking in the shadows stuck with him as a child. Nonetheless, he doesn’t have much choice since his only other option is going outside. Feeling something powdery on his hands, he holds them up to the brightness of his phone flashlight, realizing that the bag of flour he bought was somehow punctured on the way home. Sighing, he brushes it off his hands and carries his groceries to the kitchen counter. Unbeknownst to him, he leaves a small trail behind him. He’d had some plans for work that seemed important... Maybe he would've worked on those. Maybe he would've called Martin, the guy he'd been seeing. Maybe he would've video-called his parents for the first time since he moved out.
...But all those things are out of reach, he realizes, holding the phone at various different angles in an attempt to get his data to work. When he finally picks up a connection, the battery indicator dips from 1% to 0%. Like the electricity and Wi-Fi, his phone dies an abrupt death.
5:20 PM. The microwave is useless. Sam can’t open the fridge in a power outage. “Dinner” is a dry bowl of breakfast cereal. He fumbles through his kitchen drawers, almost cutting himself with a knife he placed in the wrong spot, before finding a match. Sam lights the candle. Romantic night in for one. As much as he hates the lack of light, it is relaxing to be able to sit back from everything for a moment. Thinking about his tedious job. About Martin, wondering if his house is having the same problems. About the winter. About realizing for the first time in a while that he's alone.
5:40 PM. Sam washes his bowl and spoon with no light but the dying glow of the candle that he brought to the sink with him. It casts harsh shadows until he brushes against it with his elbow, knocking it into the sink and putting it out.
5:50 PM. After finding a power bank, Sam charges his phone. His first instinct is to text Martin, who doesn't respond at first. He sits for a few minutes and keeps his eyeballs practically glued to the screen when it finally lights up, only to be disappointed when the only thing Martin texts back is that he's busy and can't talk now.
6 PM. Sam tries to read a book, but it's too dark, so he just sits on the couch in the dark for a while.
6:10 PM. He showers in the dark with cold water. After brushing his teeth, he goes back to his couch and lies down.
6:40 PM. The appliances beep as the light in Sam’s house comes back on.
6:48 PM. Retrieving a ladder from his closet, Sam turns off the light and unscrews the bulb in his kitchen that had been flickering for days. He makes a mental note to clean up the flour afterwards. As Sam screws in the new lightbulb, he has a feeling he’s forgetting something important from earlier today, but he can’t recall. Without realizing the lightbulb is faulty, he goes over to the switch to turn it on when he hears a knock at his door. His heart races as the thought that it could be Martin crosses his mind, but the voice that eventually comes through is a woman's— Nicole, his landlord.
“Come in”, he says. The lights are still off. The floor is messy, but he’ll clean it up later. As she comes in, he turns on the defective lightbulb, which immediately explodes onto the piles of flour on the ground.
6:49 PM. As Sam’s house and landlord erupt in flames in front of him, the dark doesn’t seem all that scary anymore.
4:15 PM. Sam shuffles out of the store with his new purchases. Cake ingredients, and a lightbulb to replace the one that keeps flickering in his kitchen. Winter drags on, with the days getting longer, but still short. He pulls his scarf closer to his face, praying he can get home before dark.
4:23 PM. The sun is already starting to set, casting shadows in the foliage outside the train. Scrolling through the news, he clicks something about a product recall, skims through it, and buries it in the back of his mind.
5:11 PM. It’s already pitch-black outside when he steps off the bus. Truly a testament to the speed of this city’s transit. With blizzard conditions outside, and between the snow and the lack of light, he can hardly see five feet in front of him. Not even a minute after he sets foot inside, the inside fills itself with the same darkness. Of course. Winter. Power outage.
It’s childish, maybe, but Sam is afraid of the dark. Maybe all those stories about monsters lurking in the shadows stuck with him as a child. Nonetheless, he doesn’t have much choice since his only other option is going outside. Feeling something powdery on his hands, he holds them up to the brightness of his phone flashlight, realizing that the bag of flour he bought was somehow punctured on the way home. Sighing, he brushes it off his hands and carries his groceries to the kitchen counter. Unbeknownst to him, he leaves a small trail behind him. He’d had some plans for work that seemed important... Maybe he would've worked on those. Maybe he would've called Martin, the guy he'd been seeing. Maybe he would've video-called his parents for the first time since he moved out.
...But all those things are out of reach, he realizes, holding the phone at various different angles in an attempt to get his data to work. When he finally picks up a connection, the battery indicator dips from 1% to 0%. Like the electricity and Wi-Fi, his phone dies an abrupt death.
5:20 PM. The microwave is useless. Sam can’t open the fridge in a power outage. “Dinner” is a dry bowl of breakfast cereal. He fumbles through his kitchen drawers, almost cutting himself with a knife he placed in the wrong spot, before finding a match. Sam lights the candle. Romantic night in for one. As much as he hates the lack of light, it is relaxing to be able to sit back from everything for a moment. Thinking about his tedious job. About Martin, wondering if his house is having the same problems. About the winter. About realizing for the first time in a while that he's alone.
5:40 PM. Sam washes his bowl and spoon with no light but the dying glow of the candle that he brought to the sink with him. It casts harsh shadows until he brushes against it with his elbow, knocking it into the sink and putting it out.
5:50 PM. After finding a power bank, Sam charges his phone. His first instinct is to text Martin, who doesn't respond at first. He sits for a few minutes and keeps his eyeballs practically glued to the screen when it finally lights up, only to be disappointed when the only thing Martin texts back is that he's busy and can't talk now.
6 PM. Sam tries to read a book, but it's too dark, so he just sits on the couch in the dark for a while.
6:10 PM. He showers in the dark with cold water. After brushing his teeth, he goes back to his couch and lies down.
6:40 PM. The appliances beep as the light in Sam’s house comes back on.
6:48 PM. Retrieving a ladder from his closet, Sam turns off the light and unscrews the bulb in his kitchen that had been flickering for days. He makes a mental note to clean up the flour afterwards. As Sam screws in the new lightbulb, he has a feeling he’s forgetting something important from earlier today, but he can’t recall. Without realizing the lightbulb is faulty, he goes over to the switch to turn it on when he hears a knock at his door. His heart races as the thought that it could be Martin crosses his mind, but the voice that eventually comes through is a woman's— Nicole, his landlord.
“Come in”, he says. The lights are still off. The floor is messy, but he’ll clean it up later. As she comes in, he turns on the defective lightbulb, which immediately explodes onto the piles of flour on the ground.
6:49 PM. As Sam’s house and landlord erupt in flames in front of him, the dark doesn’t seem all that scary anymore.
Beach Day by Emily Gentles (10)
The sun’s blazing, lighting up every grain of sand, every bit of the ocean’s surface. It sparkles white, blinding if you look at it for too long. It’s bright.
Way too bright.
Unlike the average person, I despise the sun. And no, I don’t mean dislike or even hate. I loathe that floating ball of fire. Sure, it keeps me alive, keeps the planet spinning. But no one likes to talk about the burns, UV rays, the eye damage, and so much more, I could go on and on.
The ocean’s not much better either. Freezing cold, inedible, dangerous waves, and millions of killer species lurking about. But at least it’s avoidable. The sun, however? Not so much.
When the sun’s out, I’m in. At least most days.
My friends somehow managed to bribe me with the promise of milkshakes, and brought me along for their beach day.
I sit in the shade of the nearest tree, glowering at a random spot on the sand below me. The wind rustles the tree above, and a couple of leaves fall in my hair, which I swat off roughly. The audacity of them to bring me here, knowing how much I hate the sun, and the ocean, and the outdoors! Damn my love for milkshakes and their ability to use it against me. I can hear them, laughing and squealing, way out in the water. It’s almost aggravating, in an odd sort of way I can’t quite put my finger on.
I look out at them for a while. I see my other friend approaching, a towel draped over his shoulder, that usual annoying smirk on his face.
“Hey, you comin’ or what?”
“No, I’m not planning on it.”
“Oh, come on. I knew you were a basement dweller, but I didn’t think it was this bad.” He grabs a water bottle from the cooler and takes a gulp.
“...You’ve got a burn. On your face.”
“Hm? Oh, yeah, that’s from this morning.”
I scowl. “And you didn’t think to put on sunscreen?”
“Psh, already did that, like, yesterday.”
“You-!”
“Kidding, kidding. I put some on earlier.” He cuts me off. I sigh and cross my arms, glaring at the sparkling ocean.
“So, you’re really just gonna stick here the whole time? You’re already in a swimsuit, aren’t ya? Might as well take a quick dive.” He says with a shrug, looking out in the same direction.
“Whatever.”
“I mean, you could use the vitamin D, with how grumpy you are. Not to mention a tan would-”
“Ok, ok, I got it.”
He tosses the bottle back in the cooler, and starts heading towards the shore.
“Suit yourself. You’re missing out, though.”
And he’s off. Back in the sun, back to the sea. And suddenly, I’m feeling a little unsure of things… He is right though, I could use the vitamin D. It’s the one vitamin I’ve been lacking as of late. Then again, is it really worth the risk?
I look out at my friends, playing some sort of volleyball-like game in the sea. And now, I can’t shake that sudden ache of serious fomo. And besides, if I have to reason with myself, they each likely spend hundreds of hours in the sun per summer, and they have yet to receive any permanent injuries or side effects.
10 minutes, I say to myself. 10 minutes in the sun shouldn’t hurt.
After an eternity of convincing, I hop up, cover myself from head to toe in that spray sunscreen, and walk down the sand. The sun feels warm, toasty. It would be quite nice, if I weren’t freaking out internally.
“Took ya long enough! We’ve been missing you!” One of them calls out, jumping up and waving.
I look back down, heading towards the water. I’m hesitant to even dip my toes in, let alone swim.
But then I look out at my friends, chatting amongst themselves, laughing and splashing, relaxing in the waves. They’re having the time of their lives.
And suddenly, I wonder how many of these memories I’ve missed out on.
Before I can stop myself, I’m jogging in, wading through the water that’s now waist-deep as my teeth chatter. I quickly sink my whole body into the water, and the temperature quickly goes from freezing to comfortable.
It’s not at all what I expected. The water’s nice, there in fact aren’t any sharks hunting me down or box jellyfish waiting for the right moment to sting. It’s quite peaceful. The sun’s bright, but it’s not cooking me alive, so that’s a start.
I head over to my friends and join in on their game of volleyball. I suck at it, of course, not even hitting a single serve higher than three feet. But there’s no danger, no impending doom, no expectation or need to do anything other than swim and laugh.
10 minutes turns into 2 hours. But even when I realize just how much time has passed, I can’t bring myself to leave the sun and crawl back to the shade. Not when the air here is so warm and lively. Turns out it wasn’t just vitamin D I’d been missing.
Countdown to Midnight by Henry MacWha (10)
7:00PM. The sun is lowering in the sky. It casts shadows over the world, shades of red and orange covering the earth. The world glows with warmth at its edges.
7:30PM. The sun is gone. The moon slowly rises, but the only light around is created by the streetlights. Around the streetlights, shadows blur. Everywhere else, there is only darkness.
8:00PM. The moon is out, and stars have appeared. The moon casts a silver glow over the world, and yet, some areas remain trapped in darkness. Trees cast rings of darkness all around them.
8:30PM. The neighborhood grows quieter. Porch lights flicker on, warm yellow pools spilling onto front steps. Windows glow amber against the darkening sky, and inside, lamps cast long shadows across empty rooms. The streetlights hold their ground against the dark, small and steady, as the night presses in a little closer.
9:00PM. Some houses have gone dark. Families are quiet. There is still a quiet hum of the city, but it is fading. A lone car drives down the road. Its headlights gleam over the earth, dispelling the shadows from everything the light touches.
9:30PM. The hum of the city has faded to almost nothing. A sole dog barks in the distance. The streetlights flicker once. The moon lays high in the sky, shadows growing short and sharp beneath it.
10:00PM. Almost all windows have fallen dark. The stars are clearer now, the sky darkening into a heavy black. Somewhere, a television glows blue behind a curtain. The night feels still.
10:30PM. The final lights blink out one by one. Leaves fall off trees, swaying in the wind. The shadows are dull, with little light to accompany them. The moon watches everything.
11:00PM. A fox jumps out from behind a bush, looks over the road, and quickly disappears into the dark between two houses. Its eyes catch the light for just a moment, two small green disks, then nothing.
11:30PM. The fox is long gone. A set of clouds drift across the moon. The silver light fades, and the shadows thicken. The streetlights seem lonely, small spots of light in a night full of darkness.
12:00. Midnight. The clouds pass. The moon returns, full, pale, showering the street with cold light. The shadows are long and motionless. The night has settled completely, calm, still, and quiet.
7:30PM. The sun is gone. The moon slowly rises, but the only light around is created by the streetlights. Around the streetlights, shadows blur. Everywhere else, there is only darkness.
8:00PM. The moon is out, and stars have appeared. The moon casts a silver glow over the world, and yet, some areas remain trapped in darkness. Trees cast rings of darkness all around them.
8:30PM. The neighborhood grows quieter. Porch lights flicker on, warm yellow pools spilling onto front steps. Windows glow amber against the darkening sky, and inside, lamps cast long shadows across empty rooms. The streetlights hold their ground against the dark, small and steady, as the night presses in a little closer.
9:00PM. Some houses have gone dark. Families are quiet. There is still a quiet hum of the city, but it is fading. A lone car drives down the road. Its headlights gleam over the earth, dispelling the shadows from everything the light touches.
9:30PM. The hum of the city has faded to almost nothing. A sole dog barks in the distance. The streetlights flicker once. The moon lays high in the sky, shadows growing short and sharp beneath it.
10:00PM. Almost all windows have fallen dark. The stars are clearer now, the sky darkening into a heavy black. Somewhere, a television glows blue behind a curtain. The night feels still.
10:30PM. The final lights blink out one by one. Leaves fall off trees, swaying in the wind. The shadows are dull, with little light to accompany them. The moon watches everything.
11:00PM. A fox jumps out from behind a bush, looks over the road, and quickly disappears into the dark between two houses. Its eyes catch the light for just a moment, two small green disks, then nothing.
11:30PM. The fox is long gone. A set of clouds drift across the moon. The silver light fades, and the shadows thicken. The streetlights seem lonely, small spots of light in a night full of darkness.
12:00. Midnight. The clouds pass. The moon returns, full, pale, showering the street with cold light. The shadows are long and motionless. The night has settled completely, calm, still, and quiet.
A Cat's Company by Emily Gentles (10)
I never liked cats all that much. At best, they were other mouths to feed. At worst, complete nuisances who do nothing but scratch up your couch and vomit on the floor. Cats, and pets in general, were never something I even considered as potential companions.
One random Tuesday, I got out of my car and headed through the usual alleyway to my apartment. Only this time, I was stopped by the sound of a little meow behind me. I turned around to find a tiny, scraggly cat. Its black fur was dirty and matted, likely flea-ridden, and its tail was bent awkwardly; not to mention the nip on its ear. It was clearly a troublemaker, one that I had no time for. So I continued on to my apartment.
The next day, I made the same trip, went the same way. And there it was again, staring up at me with its soft green eyes. I had to admit, its tiny form and the way it perked up were quite endearing. But then I reminded myself of the fleas and the puke and the dirt, and I was off. Every day, it seemed to always be there, watching.
Finally, one autumn evening, I gave in to its persistent meowing, and brought it a can of tuna. It seemed to appreciate the food. But of course, appeasement never works with a greedy enemy. The can of tuna became a daily ritual. I would bring it food, and it shut up for the night.
Then, winter came along. As reluctant as I was, I brought the furry nuisance into my apartment. It was either that or let the thing freeze, and I may be apathetic but I’m not a monster.
Living with him didn’t end up being so bad. Once I got him cleaned up and taken to the vet, he was surprisingly calm, aside from when he’d meow for food every couple hours. Before long, the beast had claimed the apartment as his own. It’s clear he much prefers his cozy bed inside to the cruddy dumpster a couple blocks down.
After a bit, he became a constant presence in my apartment, following me every step I take. Sitting on the counter and pawing his bowl for food, sitting in my lap as I work at home, sleeping next to me in my bed. Every time I come home, I’m greeted with the jingling of his collar as he approaches, meowing for food and pets. I named him Raven, after the colour of his fur, and since he’s as noisy as one.
Months pass. Soon years. And that scrawny little kit has grown into a fluffy, well-fed cat. He’s been there every day, every moment. Since I graduated college, got a boyfriend, moved apartments. Every step of the way, he’s by my side, following me around.
Until he’s not.
It’s sudden, but one day, I find him curled up in his favourite spot: the inside of my closet, on a cozy pile of blankets. I pet him. Call out his name. He’s unmoving. Not purring, or snoring, or meowing for food, not even breathing. Just nothing.
The next few days are filled with an odd sort of emptiness. Like I’m missing something integral. There’s no more bell jingling, no more strands of fur clinging to my favourite sweater. The couch he loved to scratch up remains untouched. His litter remains empty. I still fill his food bowl up. Not a single bite is taken.
He may have scratched up my couches, may have puked on my carpets from time to time. But he also stuck by my side through thick and thin. Gave me the company I’d been lacking for so long. Stayed close when I was sick or struggling. So what if he was a nuisance? He was family.
Maybe cats aren’t so bad after all.
Love of My Light by Devin Caguioa (10)
Ily was already running behind schedule. Being late always surged a sense of irrational panic through him, but this time it was hitting him stronger than ever. Today, he was going to go out on a first date. Romance never piqued his interest beforehand, being too busy with working his coworker as a floral assistant. However, he recently got a job promotion as a florist, which not only gave him more money, but also a 20% discount on flowers. He slipped his shoes onto his heels, took his keys and the bouquet of carnations and booked it out the door. Ily dashed to his car, resting the flowers on the passenger seat and began to drive off. Adrenaline rushed through his mind while keeping his eyes on the road. The soft hum of a slow, soothing song playing on his speaker, as well as the cool air and soft pitter-patter of the rainy evening kept himself focused on the wheel.
As Ily approached on Main Street, he found himself stuck on a congested road. A groan escaped Ily’s lips, his eyebrows scrunching up with distaste. He hadn’t anticipated the traffic. Ily bit his lip, staring at the congested road for a moment before slipping his phone out of his pocket, his fingers tapping the screen.
“I’m gonna be late, sorry,” Ily messaged his date. “There’s traffic.”
“It’s okay :),” He answered. A sigh of relief escaped Ily’s lips, his guilt decreasing.
The traffic eventually passed, an accident causing the traffic. Ily had ditched his values out the window and dashed to his destination: a bowling alley. He didn’t bother to check out himself, leaving the car with the flowers as soon as he parked. He walked up to the bowling alley and took in a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the evening. He wasn’t sure of what to expect, but he was confident things would pan out well. But it also couldn’t. There’s a million things that could happen if this date didn’t go well. Maybe they don’t like carnations – he should’ve asked them their favourite flower – or maybe they arrived early and they're upset that Ily arrived late, or maybe they’re better off friends and the date will go awkwardly. The soft hum of the automatic doors brought Ily back to reality. “Focus Ily,” He thought, “You got this.”
The bowling alley was a bit overstimulating. Bright lights in the empty arcade section flashed, begging for attention, there were a group of teenagers chatting noisily, and the air smells faintly of pizza that was being delivered to a birthday party. Ily meandered through the crowd, searching for his date, his body locking up once his eyes landed on him.
“Lucius… You’re stunning.” Ily slowly spoke, the bouquet slightly lowering as his hand relaxed. Love had panged into Ily’s heart so hard, yet so gently at the same time. The two have been friends for years now, but now that Ily could see Lucius in a romantic light, it was like his shadow disappeared. Ily felt like all of Lucius’ flaws faded into the background, being blinded from his glow. He felt like he was looking into Lucius’ soul, his soul casting a warm, bright yellow light. Throughout the years of growing up with each other, Ily was blind to his love for Lucius, calling it admiration, but standing in front of him now, he had realized his love for him always lingered.
Love doesn’t hide away in the shadows, it’s a visible bright, burning passion.
Ily was already running behind schedule. Being late always surged a sense of irrational panic through him, but this time it was hitting him stronger than ever. Today, he was going to go out on a first date. Romance never piqued his interest beforehand, being too busy with working his coworker as a floral assistant. However, he recently got a job promotion as a florist, which not only gave him more money, but also a 20% discount on flowers. He slipped his shoes onto his heels, took his keys and the bouquet of carnations and booked it out the door. Ily dashed to his car, resting the flowers on the passenger seat and began to drive off. Adrenaline rushed through his mind while keeping his eyes on the road. The soft hum of a slow, soothing song playing on his speaker, as well as the cool air and soft pitter-patter of the rainy evening kept himself focused on the wheel.
As Ily approached on Main Street, he found himself stuck on a congested road. A groan escaped Ily’s lips, his eyebrows scrunching up with distaste. He hadn’t anticipated the traffic. Ily bit his lip, staring at the congested road for a moment before slipping his phone out of his pocket, his fingers tapping the screen.
“I’m gonna be late, sorry,” Ily messaged his date. “There’s traffic.”
“It’s okay :),” He answered. A sigh of relief escaped Ily’s lips, his guilt decreasing.
The traffic eventually passed, an accident causing the traffic. Ily had ditched his values out the window and dashed to his destination: a bowling alley. He didn’t bother to check out himself, leaving the car with the flowers as soon as he parked. He walked up to the bowling alley and took in a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the evening. He wasn’t sure of what to expect, but he was confident things would pan out well. But it also couldn’t. There’s a million things that could happen if this date didn’t go well. Maybe they don’t like carnations – he should’ve asked them their favourite flower – or maybe they arrived early and they're upset that Ily arrived late, or maybe they’re better off friends and the date will go awkwardly. The soft hum of the automatic doors brought Ily back to reality. “Focus Ily,” He thought, “You got this.”
The bowling alley was a bit overstimulating. Bright lights in the empty arcade section flashed, begging for attention, there were a group of teenagers chatting noisily, and the air smells faintly of pizza that was being delivered to a birthday party. Ily meandered through the crowd, searching for his date, his body locking up once his eyes landed on him.
“Lucius… You’re stunning.” Ily slowly spoke, the bouquet slightly lowering as his hand relaxed. Love had panged into Ily’s heart so hard, yet so gently at the same time. The two have been friends for years now, but now that Ily could see Lucius in a romantic light, it was like his shadow disappeared. Ily felt like all of Lucius’ flaws faded into the background, being blinded from his glow. He felt like he was looking into Lucius’ soul, his soul casting a warm, bright yellow light. Throughout the years of growing up with each other, Ily was blind to his love for Lucius, calling it admiration, but standing in front of him now, he had realized his love for him always lingered.
Love doesn’t hide away in the shadows, it’s a visible bright, burning passion.
Indebted to your Shadow by Madeleine Gillis (10)
6 May, 2026
I picked up the cardboard box full of stuff that felt too light considering the gravity of the situation. Another set of hands caught mine as they intercepted the box, slipping it away from my grasp. My brother’s eyes flickered towards mine, then looked away just as quickly. With unspoken words, he wrapped my unremarkable box of things into a protective cage with his two arms, hugging it briefly before turning to place it down with the rest of the boxes scattered around the front door. I stood in the middle of the room, tracing the outlines of the boxes like it would prevent them from leaving.
As the younger sister, I’ve always existed in the shadow of my older brother. This was not really a bad thing to me, most of the time. My brother’s shadow provided me protection and safety, like a cozy blanket shielding me from reality and allowing me to be a child for as long as I could. The knowledge that he’d been through it all before me and survived somehow helped me to keep going. But now, contrary to everyone’s expectations, I’m the one who’s leaving, he’s staying home, and I’ll be all alone to find my way without him.
After our mother died, our father withdrew into a life of TV, sports and beer, rinse and repeat on a daily basis. But, my brother was always there for me. If I didn’t understand something at school, he explained it. If I had trouble with friends and teachers, he helped me sort it out. When I was bored, he introduced me to a world of music and stories that I struggled to understand at the time, but now I realize that it made up the framework of my life. My brother didn’t talk to me like I was a child, even though he is five years older than I am. The conversations we had shaped my beliefs and how I understand the world.
I pity my brother. That’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s true. I have the opportunity to start a new life while my brother stays home with dad because someone needs to care for him now. In the morning, I’ll be moving to Japan. I have a job teaching English for the next few years. I don’t know what it’ll be like without my brother to protect me.
6 May, 2026
I picked up the cardboard box full of stuff that felt too light considering the gravity of the situation. Another set of hands caught mine as they intercepted the box, slipping it away from my grasp. My brother’s eyes flickered towards mine, then looked away just as quickly. With unspoken words, he wrapped my unremarkable box of things into a protective cage with his two arms, hugging it briefly before turning to place it down with the rest of the boxes scattered around the front door. I stood in the middle of the room, tracing the outlines of the boxes like it would prevent them from leaving.
As the younger sister, I’ve always existed in the shadow of my older brother. This was not really a bad thing to me, most of the time. My brother’s shadow provided me protection and safety, like a cozy blanket shielding me from reality and allowing me to be a child for as long as I could. The knowledge that he’d been through it all before me and survived somehow helped me to keep going. But now, contrary to everyone’s expectations, I’m the one who’s leaving, he’s staying home, and I’ll be all alone to find my way without him.
After our mother died, our father withdrew into a life of TV, sports and beer, rinse and repeat on a daily basis. But, my brother was always there for me. If I didn’t understand something at school, he explained it. If I had trouble with friends and teachers, he helped me sort it out. When I was bored, he introduced me to a world of music and stories that I struggled to understand at the time, but now I realize that it made up the framework of my life. My brother didn’t talk to me like I was a child, even though he is five years older than I am. The conversations we had shaped my beliefs and how I understand the world.
I pity my brother. That’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s true. I have the opportunity to start a new life while my brother stays home with dad because someone needs to care for him now. In the morning, I’ll be moving to Japan. I have a job teaching English for the next few years. I don’t know what it’ll be like without my brother to protect me.
Cecilia is your average teenager: broke, exhausted, and melancholic. She’s venting to herself until she reaches a revelation.
Cecilia by Devin Caguioa (10)
(whispers) I can’t escape it… No matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to escape that damn memory.
(pause) No matter what I try to do, the words I try to say, it will always link back to that memory. I can’t even look at my own silhouette without gagging. It doesn’t matter what I wear, how short I chop my hair, or how much makeup I cake on my face, I still feel like the same monster I was years ago. (voice cracking) It haunts me. It was so long ago and yet, I can’t bring myself to forgive myself for what I did.
(pause) The real thing that haunts me though is my own actions. I couldn’t contain myself that day. I know better now, but I also knew better back then, better than to say what I said about them. I let resentment against them build up what I should’ve just talked about with them. I mean, seriously, when your friend steals the spotlight from you every chance they get, if they continue to spew little white lies to your face, it’s hard to not get upset. Actually, I believe it’s reasonable to do so. But when you’ve spent too long in the background, when you get fed up with their treatment but you can’t bring yourself to say anything to them, then there’s only so much you can do before you crack. So, you tell others about them and your disdain against them. That they’re not a good friend. Within such a small premise that is the school, it doesn’t take long for the truth to spill.
I don’t get it. (Long pause) When they found out what I did, the words I exchanged in hushed conversations, they were kind enough to forgive. That doesn’t make sense to me. (scoff) I mean, how can someone forgive a person so cruel, who’s spilled out more venom than one should have in their body? (Beat) God, I’m relieved they forgave me. But every night, when I lay in bed that incident crosses my mind, reminding me of my past and letting it take control over me. It still makes me feel like a bad person, like a dog that bites at the hand that feeds. I couldn’t handle seeing them around, couldn’t stand their face because it always brought me back to that incident that happened years ago, so I stopped. I stopped seeing them. I moved and thought the memory wouldn’t ever cross my mind again, which clearly didn’t work.
I made more attempts at change. I cut and dyed my hair, started to workout more, hell, I even changed my name. Yet still, everytime I look into the mirror, I’m reminded of what I was. You know what they say, “the eyes are the window to the soul.” (Beat) I really don’t think it’s worth it. Not anymore. I mean, if they saw me today, they probably wouldn’t recognize me. Dwelling on it will only bring more pain which I can’t take. I think I’m okay now, I’m a bit more open with communication now. (rapid speed) Well, not entirely, y’know, I’m still human after all and I’m still growing. (Beat) But, I think I can finally put this to rest. I won’t let it haunt me, trail behind me like my silhouette. It doesn’t matter how much I change physically, but if I let these memories haunt me, I’ll never be happy – but I know I deserve happiness, just like any other human.
Cecilia by Devin Caguioa (10)
(whispers) I can’t escape it… No matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to escape that damn memory.
(pause) No matter what I try to do, the words I try to say, it will always link back to that memory. I can’t even look at my own silhouette without gagging. It doesn’t matter what I wear, how short I chop my hair, or how much makeup I cake on my face, I still feel like the same monster I was years ago. (voice cracking) It haunts me. It was so long ago and yet, I can’t bring myself to forgive myself for what I did.
(pause) The real thing that haunts me though is my own actions. I couldn’t contain myself that day. I know better now, but I also knew better back then, better than to say what I said about them. I let resentment against them build up what I should’ve just talked about with them. I mean, seriously, when your friend steals the spotlight from you every chance they get, if they continue to spew little white lies to your face, it’s hard to not get upset. Actually, I believe it’s reasonable to do so. But when you’ve spent too long in the background, when you get fed up with their treatment but you can’t bring yourself to say anything to them, then there’s only so much you can do before you crack. So, you tell others about them and your disdain against them. That they’re not a good friend. Within such a small premise that is the school, it doesn’t take long for the truth to spill.
I don’t get it. (Long pause) When they found out what I did, the words I exchanged in hushed conversations, they were kind enough to forgive. That doesn’t make sense to me. (scoff) I mean, how can someone forgive a person so cruel, who’s spilled out more venom than one should have in their body? (Beat) God, I’m relieved they forgave me. But every night, when I lay in bed that incident crosses my mind, reminding me of my past and letting it take control over me. It still makes me feel like a bad person, like a dog that bites at the hand that feeds. I couldn’t handle seeing them around, couldn’t stand their face because it always brought me back to that incident that happened years ago, so I stopped. I stopped seeing them. I moved and thought the memory wouldn’t ever cross my mind again, which clearly didn’t work.
I made more attempts at change. I cut and dyed my hair, started to workout more, hell, I even changed my name. Yet still, everytime I look into the mirror, I’m reminded of what I was. You know what they say, “the eyes are the window to the soul.” (Beat) I really don’t think it’s worth it. Not anymore. I mean, if they saw me today, they probably wouldn’t recognize me. Dwelling on it will only bring more pain which I can’t take. I think I’m okay now, I’m a bit more open with communication now. (rapid speed) Well, not entirely, y’know, I’m still human after all and I’m still growing. (Beat) But, I think I can finally put this to rest. I won’t let it haunt me, trail behind me like my silhouette. It doesn’t matter how much I change physically, but if I let these memories haunt me, I’ll never be happy – but I know I deserve happiness, just like any other human.