CAPPSSLOKK

GRAY’S POV The dream is like watching a fish swim beneath icy water. It is distorted at times, and hard to see what is going on, but I can definitely feel every chilled current that lingers on my skin. The first thing that comes to mind upon opening my eyes is white. Like those pictures I’d seen of Arctic landscapes in the books at the library. Silver and ivory and alabaster dust until all the eyes can see is white, and it is unclear where one particle begins and the other ends. My eyelids feel bulky with the weight of invisible lead, but not the normal kind. I’m a thirty-year-old woman who’s upheld the role of Spym

The Last Journals of ∆rshtan 41067 Quinten, Year A – 000091 “It’s only temporary,” they said. “Just stay indoors. The scientists will take care of it,” they said.   They tell us it’s nothing to worry about. That we should go on with our daily tasks. That all we must do to protect ourselves is to stay indoors. That we should just pretend we don’t notice the occasional corpse lying out on the road – left to rot or to be dined on by immense scavengers in a world where the Epidemic is just a thing to “not worry about” and that will be “taken care of by the scientists

I think something's wrong Here I can't get my hand out Of the cookie jar

Where should a good story begin? In a faraway castle? In a dark, enchanted forest? Or perhaps, in a most realistic dream? After all, what if life itself was a dream that we would all eventually wake up from? (I tend not to think about this subject too often, for my brain's sake.) My story, I suppose, isn't really mine. It begins in the crib of baby Moreen Elizabeth Croqet, (which just so happens to my birth name as well), though the first story is not about me. Please also note that all accounts retold here that are not from my perspective have been taken directly from the retelling of others or of Moreen herself. A woodcarved craddle, hand-

My dearest Brooklyn, How have you been as of late? It's been a long time since I last saw or heard from you. I'm fine, in case you wanted to know, although over these last few months I’ve been kept quite busy. This year has truly gone by with the flying colours of memories plagued with sorrow and interwoven with those of joyous laughter. I was hired as a gatekeeper for the Royal Palace just a few weeks ago. I know it's not as a noble occupation as some of those that you wished for me, but the work isn’t as heavy or dangerous as it was back at the mine, and the pay is more than enough for a single young man to get by on. This roy

It's a Sunday night And the bar's almost closed It's late and unexpected But the door chime goes There's none present but us Me and this man who sits and asks nonchalantly for an All-Irish Black and Tan "A bit strong, for such late a night?" I ask as I start the drink But the man, he stays silent Just appearing to think Finally he speaks up And says quietly "It's been a long week at home, I'm glad I got to leave. "My daughter, she's sick," he proceeds without break, He looks down, terrified, at the drink I just made. I give an apologetic look As I ask what he means "She hasn't quite been... herself lately, you see." His voice shrinks n

Highways are always so loud. Highways. Streams of pavement lined by an endless parade of motorized vehicles; cars, trucks, buses. Aggressive drivers, toughened by years of maneuvering both traffic and other incompetent drivers, blare their horns and complain exuberantly from their rolled-down windows. The screech of airplanes overhead and the idle chatter of the occasional pedestrian does nothing to improve the quiet either. Highways are always so loud. So why put a cemetery next to one? The view from the inside, over the tall arches and run-down fences wasn't idealistic for a tourist attraction. But then again, what tourist would volunte

        It is widely-known by most mademoiselles who reside in New York the primary principle of playing hostess; to keep entertained the guests without reverence to any personal little discomforts. If Wendy Sudwell held any insecurity over her own attendance at the Sudwell ball, none was evident. She glided across the parquet floor and past the mural window with slight deification in her ladylike gait and in a partially intimidating manner. Her sharp features beheld downwards as she musingly admired the dust-free frame of ecru cherrywood and the comb-crested lace curtains imported from Versailles. It was an essentiality of society for the

Dreamers and the Dead (Aradia) Forth, discord a’plenty Reasons not a many Fate has rhymed and reasoned too Anarchy and tyranny Crouching behind the scenes Suspended hesitancy I’m glad you’ll stay With me through throes of disarray Dreams in bubbles captured Held in oblivion Queens are weeping Heroes bleeding The sun is turning deep green Light is slowing Metamorphosizing Three years yearning It’s not for me It’s not for me