Features
1. The Solo - Charles Shotwell
Photo Credit: Auge Martin
The breath rose up through his chest, leaping towards the air in a fitful burst. It simmered, it wheezed, and then he felt the sound get caught in his throat in a faint quivering yelp. Rather than emerging as one long, pure note, his voice sounded broken, the tone of shattered glass. He could feel the vocal cords strain as they tried doing something they could not do, and then he hung his head in shame. His solo was in five hours, and so far every time he tried to hit the high note, his body would not let him. He tried to convince himself it was just nerves but that was not true. He wasn’t committing, he wasn’t letting the air carry him on the path to beauty. A deep uneasiness churned in his chest, fluttering and twisting tighter and tighter. Every fitful, gasping breath he took, the worse his voice sounded. Tears beaded up in his eyes. If he kept up like this, his solo would be ruined, and he would be a disgrace to the whole school. Muttering a curse under his breath, he rose and decided to take a walk to clear his head.
It was a gray, rainy day, terrible for his voice. Faint drizzles pittered and pattered against the slate walls of his school. Looming in the foggy mist was the auditorium, as ominous and foreboding as an executioner’s chair. That was where his failure would take place. Hoping that the rain would distract him, he meandered through the residential streets that surrounded his school. Within time, suburbs surrounded him, a green and beige labyrinth where he could hide away from it all. He didn’t even try to sing, for he knew his voice would not allow it. He instead focused on the beauty around him, the haze of each raindrop crashing against the pavement, the crack of the sky up above.
Eventually, the residential road took a dead end, where the houses ended. Standing unmovable and unfortunate in front of him was a hillside. Some yards below bubbled the trickling brook of a storm drain, full and gushing in the autumn torrent. Shrugging, for he still had a few hours before he had to publicly embarrass himself, he took the path down towards the river. Like a huge gaping mouth, the storm drain led into a concrete tunnel. He could hear a faint echo of water in the tunnel, but saw nothing in the endless void. Suddenly, a shiver swept through him. He was not alone.
It's just your nerves, he told himself, and decided to try singing his solo again. Of course, it went horribly. The sound became caught in a net of despair and fear, strangled to nothing but a dry squeak. And then, suddenly, another voice cut through the silence of the street. It was pure and full, a beautiful, mournful note that hung delicate, like the gossamer thread of a spider’s web. He spun around. Who was singing such a wonderful tune? There was no one around him. The note changed once more, and he felt almost light headed confronted with such beauty. And then it hit him. The voice was coming from inside the storm drain. He couldn’t see what was inside, but he could hear the reverberation as every light, airy breath cascaded against the concrete tunnel. Somewhere in there was the perfect singer, a soprano with complete and utter confidence. There was no fear, no strangled breath, caught in the throat. He suddenly felt a deep sorrow, that he could not be more like this beautiful singer. Why couldn’t his voice sound like that? Why couldn’t he sing arias to the rain and the sky? Every time he tried, he got stuck on what other people would think about him. There was only one way he could learn, one way he could prepare for the performance in just a few hours. It couldn’t be a solo, it had to be a duet.
The voice was building now, reaching its crescendo, and as it did he felt his feet move with a will of their own. He could not resist himself. He needed more of that music, he needed to experience it, to be part of it. Tears streamed down his face. Suddenly elated, for he knew there was a solution to the looming evil that was his performance, he charged straight towards the storm drain. His feet splashed against the rushing concrete, and then he was lost in the darkness. The voice stopped as soon as he did. All became silent. He spun around, but he could not see in the void. Everything was black. There was a hiss, a glitter from the faint light just outside the storm drain. He could see the houses, the road leading back towards his school. So close and yet so far. Then he saw it. The horrible teeth, the feasting eyes, the gaping maw… This was no soprano.
It started in his chest, and then rose up, swift and powerful, through his diaphragm, up his throat, and then out his mouth. For the first time, his note was not broken or harsh. Nothing got stuck in the web of fear that choked his mind and body. The scream was as strong as the force of a great storm. This was a different song, a solo for none to hear. His own private aria. He had finally found his voice.
2. The Fable - Isaac Buntarja
Photo Credit: Auge Martin
All in all, the mouse thought, today was not a good day.
First it was his breakfast that he foraged for, which turned out to not sit well with his stomach. Then he barely survived an encounter with some bird that nearly swallowed him whole. And now here he was, stuck in a mousetrap just because he was hungry. Alright, maybe that cheese that was just lying there in the middle of the room could be seen as “suspicious”, but could he really be faulted for this audacity? Not to mention that the trap didn’t even work properly, such that it didn’t kill him, but instead left him pinned to the floor. He was certainly as good as dead, though, as when the people who set this trap came home from who knows where, that would be the end for him. The mouse did as much as his strength could muster, but it was hopeless. “Could this day get any worse?”, he grumbled.
As if on cue, the cat suddenly appeared at the nearby room and gamboled towards the mouse.
Of course, mice and felines were mortal enemies, that was an unspoken rule. As such, being the well disciplined mouse he was, he diligently adhered to these rules by keeping their distance from each other around their abode. Oh sure, the mice would occasionally run into the cat during his excursions, but it was simple enough to scamper away, and besides, the cat seemed never to chase after him, which was a little strange to the mouse, but was a development he never bothered to question.
“Hello there, mouse”, the cat said. The mouse realized it was the first time he ever heard the cat’s voice. It was slightly jarring for him. “I see you are in quite the predicament”.
“What gave you that idea?”, the still pinned down mouse replied sarcastically. “So, come here to finish me off before those humans do first?”
“Oh no, none of that”, the cat answered, “I just noticed your situation earlier, and I thought I could help you out. Maybe you could even help me”.
“Is that so? Well, I’m curious to see how I could possibly help someone such as yourself, especially given the fact that I’m trapped to the ground”, the mouse exclaimed those last words sarcastically.
“Let me explain, then”, the cat went on. “For the past few days now, I’ve been experiencing a sharp pain on my left side.” He turned around so the mouse could see. Sure enough, where the cat indicated was a thorn sticking out from his body. A small, almost imperceivable thorn, but certainly an effective one. “It must have happened when I fell into that rose bush. And for the record, cats do not always land on their feet”.
“Huh”, the mouse remarked.. “A literal thorn in your side”.
“I’m well aware of the metaphorical irony”, said the cat, “What’s being made more obvious to me is how much this hurts!” The cat tried in vain, probably for what was not the first time, to reach the thorn, but failed. “I need someone like you to get this thorn out. The humans don’t understand what I’m saying. All they do is film me with their phones, make these frankly offensive noises to how “cute” I am, and pet me in all the places that aren't on my left side. I’m at my wit’s end! So here’s what I’m offering: I’ll free you from this trap, and in return, you’ll get this thorn out of my side”.
The mouse stared at the cat for a moment, then burst into laughter. “Oh cat, thanks for giving me a laugh before you eat me. I really do appreciate it.”
“I don’t understand”, the cat questioned, “I’m offering you a chance to live and you’re laughing at me?”
“Are you just not aware of the basic laws of nature? Cats and mice are enemies. That’s the way it was. That’s the way it will be.”
“Oh surely we can make an exception here? We both have something to gain from this. Haven’t you heard those stories of different species being allies? I’m pretty sure there was one about a lion and mouse.”
“Listen, cat, this isn’t some jolly, hunky-dunky fable where animals of different species hold hands and sing kumbaya, and they all learn an unrealistic and inapplicable moral. This is the real world, where real morals apply. The simple truth is that cats are cats and mice are mice. Cats are the ones who eat mice . . .”
“Well actually, I’m not much of a mice eater. You taste surprisingly similar to mustard”.
“Cats are the ones who eat mice”, the mouse continued as if uninterrupted, “ and mice are the ones who run away from them. I don’t know what kind of backwards world you grew up in, but you’re not supposed to be helping me, and trust me, if you did help me, I would not help you”.
“So you’re willing to die here?”
“Of course not! But I have to accept it, don’t I? I know you’re going to eat me, or at least watch those quite frankly cold-hearted humans kill me. What’s the point?”
The cat considered what the mouse said for a moment, then said: “You’re wrong, mouse. Just because we’re different, it doesn’t mean we still can’t help each other. And I’ll prove it”. With that, the cat leaned forward and dismantled the poorly-constructed trap with his claws.
The mouse emerged from the now defunct trap with astonishment, and the cat asked, “Now that I’ve freed you, would you please remove this thorn from my side?”
In reply, the mouse scampered away, laughing to himself. “What a dope”, the mouse thought, “believing in some spiel about helping others”. And then, for some reason, he stopped, and took a glance back at the cat. The cat was staring at him with an expression the mouse couldn’t describe, but it nevertheless made him feel something he didn’t quite enjoy. He remembered what the cat said, all that stuff that sounded like something from one of those fables the humans took stock in. It almost made his stomach turn to realize it, but as he contemplated the ordeal, he understood what the right thing to do was. Although he groaned for a bit, he begrudgingly returned to the cat.
Silently, the mouse climbed the cat’s body until he was able to grab the thorn, and then, with his teeth, he pulled it out.
“Not another word”, the mouse warned the cat’s thankful look. And as he scampered away again, the cat looked on, and smiled.
realized he was cold, but in this moment, he felt the warmth of kindness from the little girl, he took the hat and scarf that were too small for him and put them on. “What is your name?” He asked. “Elena”, she said softly, “what's yours?” The man had to stop and it took him a minute to think, it had been so long since he had talked to anyone. let alone anyone had spoken to him, that he had forgotten. “Matthew” he whispered. “Alright Matthew! Lets go play!”
3. Man and Machine - Christopher Hanna
Photo Credit: Noah Martinez
Darkness, what stretched before him. A dark corridor that only had one door at the end. He stared down at it, slowly accepting his fate as it occurred to him there was no way out. He stood up from his desk hesitantly trying to find the confidence to do what needed to be done. It had to be, It was the only way; “if not him who?” Is what he thought as his mind raced around the dark plain of his mind. Leaving his workstation he passed the other workers, mindlessly typing on keyboards, jobs taken out of necessity, not interest. It had come to this. The upper class reveled in their achievements, never needing to work as money flowed into them. The others, the lower classes, only had one job, to fuel and keep the machines running for them, to hold them up and push themselves further. He continued with his pace breaking into a slow jog. Now flying down the dark corridor to the one way out. Before him the answer. The way out. The electrical closet, in it the main breaker. By opening the door he sealed his faith, as it would free The Others and force him into the servitude of death. He stood at the end of the dark corridor, before the door, the workers behind him. He could still turn back and save himself but doom the others, no he had to. Taking a deep breath, he violently swung open the door as alarms violently blared, the large breaker was before him, lights blinking, beeps, and whirs as it ran the world. He violently began bashing it, with anything he could find, flicking switches and pushing buttons as sparks emitted from the large steel box. Behind him, The Others had erupted into commotion as the world slowly began to slip out of the darkness and as he slipped into it. The world was free with every swing he took and every spark that flew as the breaker grew ever brighter and ever hotter. His hands began to burn and he stumbled back, and the light at the end of the dark corridor grew brighter and brighter, beckoning him into it. He approached, chuckling, and the warmth slowly grabbed hold of him. With one final glance back through the dark corridor he saw where he had come from, now free as the machines fell in, a grand spectacle of metal and flame; he embraced his light as it pulled him into its warm embrace. All that was left was a crater, a dark hole, scorched from the flames. Was this freedom? The goal? Meaning? He would never know, they would though, it was up to them now. He had done everything he could.
4. 91 - Luke Metcalf
Photo Credit: Danial Jamshidi
One day approximately 395 days ago, a man stepped out of his house with a coffee in his hand. He took a breath of the cold, crisp air of a fresh December morning. For a second, it was almost as if his soul left his body. Ascending into the clear, blue sky. The man closed his eyes, trying to visualize his future; what he wanted to do; where he wanted to go.
A car honked. The tranquility was broken, and the man came back to his senses. He looked out into the street. A tear fell down his face.
…
A year later, the same man stepped out of his house again. Coffee in his hand, tears on his face. It was almost as if nothing had changed.
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Next year, the man will step out of his house again. The question is, will he make a change; take his future into his own hands. Or, will he let the tears fall down his face; let the car honk; let the same day play over again and again.
…