By: Oliver Miller

​...Turn to page 14. You have been eaten by a grue. Turn to page 38. No direction home. Turn to page 98. You are an international spy of leisure, about to embark on a new adventure. You wake up. Before you in the anonymous hotel room is a bomb. Try to defuse the bomb? If so, then turn to page 5. The bomb has exploded. Turn to page 76. GO NORTH. YOU CANNOT GO THAT WAY. GO NORTHWEST. YOU CANNOT GO THAT WAY. GO EAST. There is a rusty chest here which will no key will turn. Would you like to try using the blue sword to open the chest? The sword breaks. GO SOUTH. Turn to page 19. You are a young writer about to embark on a career, would you like to continue? Turn to page 122. You have died. Turn to page 51. You are now an alcoholic with low self-esteem, would you like to continue? Turn to page 59. YOU HAVE DIED OF DYSENTERY. GO SOUTHEAST. YOU CANNOT GO THAT WAY. Turn to page 94. A shadowy ninja tosses his shuriken into the cleft of your back, and you topple to the ground. Turn to page 18. You are an international race car driver at the exact moment that the world loses interest in international race car driving. Turn to page 36. ...You are in a muddy bog which seems to extend in all directions. There is a dragon here. GO WEST. YOU CANNOT GO WEST. Turn to page 96. You are the dragon, the dragon is you. The bog is you, you are the bog. Turn to page 101. Like a complete unknown. With no direction home, like a complete unknown. ...You have died of dysentery again, and are likely to be eaten by a grue. Would you like to proceed? Would you like to proceed? ...Would you like to proceed?
 

By: Rachel Dranoff

​I cautiously approached the door.
“Consequently,” said the caterpillar, “there’s nothing behind that door, either.”
            “Fuck you,” I said.
            “You’re not mad at me.”
            “Yes, I am.”
            “No, you’re mad at the situation, which is different. I just happen to be here. You’re inappropriately projecting, which is, as I understand, how emotional projection tends to be.”
            I glared at the stupid caterpillar. It smoked its pipe. I was not Alice, this was not Wonderland, and this copy-caterpillar – copy-caterpillar – had no idea what it was talking about, or who it was talking to. I was Rachel, for crying out loud, and this strange garden maze with 9 identical brown doors surrounding us – it was like a dream, or a nightmare, or an indoor mall.
            “You better tell me which door opens,” I said.
            The caterpillar laughed and choked on its pipe. It threw its little hands back.
            “Oh! Oh, boy. You’re right, I better! Or something bad will happen to me!”
            I clenched my jaw and stomped the ground.
            I shook my head. The riddle: 5 doors were locked, 5 doors were unlocked, there were only 9 doors, and 8 had nothing behind them. That was the riddle I had been given. What. The. Heck. The paradox hit me like a semi-truck.
            “So one of the locked doors has the exit?” I asked.
            “Of course,” responded the caterpillar. “Any of the doors could have the exit. Before you open them, all of them do. And none of them do. Nothing really matters until you try. Ha ha!”
            “I hate this!” I cried. “And I hate you!”
            “No you don’t,” it said.
            “Mother of God,” I said. I paced back and forth. These rules were moronic. I could only try one door, and if it was the wrong one, I would be stuck here forever.
            “Though if you try none, you will also be stuck here forever,” said the caterpillar, like an asshole.
Defiant, I went up to one of the doors. With a rush of energy I – panicked. I backed off. Shifted nervously.
“Nervous?”
“No!” I shouted.
I ran up to another door and I – freaked out again, spun around and punched my hand into my fist. Fuck!
“You’re taking this very seriously,” said the caterpillar.
“No, really? Maybe because my life depends on it,” I said.
“In that case, you should treat it like a game.”
I stared at the caterpillar. It was serious. I began to laugh.
“You’re right!” I shouted. “Well, aren’t you just right? The worst that could happen is I’m stuck here forever, with you!”
“And no one wants that,” said the caterpillar.
“Alright. Hell, I’m just going to open one.”
“Do it,” it said.
“I mean it. I’m not thinking. Who’s thinking? Not me.”
“Go ahead.”
“You’d like that wouldn’t you?”
“Please, be my guest.”
“I WILL!”
And with a gust of anger behind me, I walked right up to one of the identitcal brown doors and flung it open – I flung it open!
            “I – I did it! I picked the right one,” I cried, my eyes growing large. Where was the champagne! Calooh, Callay! Glory to us all! And here; black nothingness, a long hallway swallowed in darkness. But it was open. “I did it! I – what were the chances?”
            “What were the chances? I…you…knew?” I said, with a wide-eyed turn to the caterpillar.
            It gave a small, bemused smile and held its pipe delicately between its forefingers.
            “Whichever one you would’ve picked would’ve been the right one,” It said. It took a drag and winked at me. “Bye, now.”
            “Bye,” I said, and strangely, a feeling of loss swept over me as I stepped towards the doorway. Dark, uncertain…I swallowed. I glanced back. The caterpillar had begun re-packing tobacco into its pipe, and this wash of curiosity and sorrow pushed me forward into the black unknown.

By: Giano Cromley

Dear English Department Colleagues,
 
It has come to my attention that there is an ongoing pest control problem in the departmental office suite. Last week, one of our colleagues discovered an unidentified vermin rummaging through her file cabinet. Based on a cursory Google search, it is likely that the intruder was a “scout” in search of nesting habitat and not the sign of an active infestation. Either way, we must take immediate steps to prevent this from becoming a larger problem.
 
The office suite was treated by an exterminator over the weekend, but the gentleman noted that conditions in our offices make it likely for the intruders to return. Here are some common items that encourage pest infiltration:

1. Large piles of papers;
2. Unused stacks of books;
3. Food items of any kind;
4. Discarded dreams of teaching in a more prestigious university.

 
It’s time to get real, folks! The actions of one person have an impact on the rest of the department. A single messy office will eventually lead to all of us having this problem. As one lemming said to the other as they approached the cliff, “I don’t know where we’re going, but at least we’re all in this together.”
 
To be clear, lemmings are not one of the particular vermin with which we are currently having a problem. Lemurs, however, may be. We won’t know for sure until we get DNA results back from the biology department. As a side note, lemur mating noises, according to Wikipedia, are strikingly similar to the sound your soul makes the moment you realize that you’re working at the place where you are likely to die – unfulfilled, unloved, unmissed. If you should happen to hear a sound like that in your office, please notify the janitorial staff immediately due to the remarkably high birth rate of lemurs. And just to cover all bases, you may also want to call the Wellness Center to speak with one of the therapist interns.
 
In the meantime, I would implore you all to go through your offices with a jaundiced eye and strongly consider tossing out those old stacks of papers, selling off unneeded textbooks and incinerating the desiccated husks of your once-promising academic futures.
 
Have a great semester,
 
Your Chairman
 

By: Wyatt Fair

Every night we gather around the television, eager for the next installment of our evening program. My mother has prepared us a platter of fried cod and diet pop, which she insists on filling constantly throughout the hour of 8 to 9 Central. Last week, I drank about five liters of diet pop over the course of said hour, and my chest felt like it was going to die.

“QUIET! IT’S ON!”
This week on: “What a Heart Wants.” 22 singles have arrived in Bermuda, fighting for a shot at love and a million dollars. If they can all find their perfect match, they’ll win their chunk of the prize – if not, they’ll head home brokenhearted and empty in pocket.
We’re halfway through this season and nearly no progress has been made. There have been plenty of trips to “the Boom-Boom room,” but everyone appears dead in the eyes and can’t seem to perform at all. It’s a haunting sight, watching these faux humans interact with each other. They are all gorgeous, tanned, hulking with muscle and silicon breasts – but their brains are non-existent, incapable of even basic human communication.
“MOM! ARE WE OUT OF RANCH?” My sister Bernice loves ranch. She is practically addicted to ranch – condiments in general, she is an absolute condiment freak – but ranch is by far her favorite. I’ve watched her ruin elegant eggplant parmesans with the horrid white sauce, drowning even the most decadent dishes with it. She’s lucky that society doesn’t care about that sort of gluttony anymore, or else I seriously think she might be executed.
“NO HUNNY. WE HAVE PLENTY OF RANCH IN THE COOLER.”
I watch my sister hobble from the couch to the garage, the short trip taking about one commercial break. I should not shame her – I have at least two hundred pounds on her – but Bernice is absolutely useless. She makes no effort to question authority or read stimulating think-pieces, wasting away her days on her cell phone, taking photographs of mountains. She has accepted this sloth lifestyle like the rest of our society without thinking twice, and it’s turned her into a dull piece of bread.
She’s back at a pivotal moment: Dane and Taylor, a confirmed “no match” after Week One’s episode, have started to hook up - again. My mother nearly spills her carafe of pop on our cat, she’s so excited. This show thrives on this sort of drama – the singles are horny and illogical, pursuing “love” over their potentially significant cash prize. It’s preposterous, the idea of finding your soulmate like this. As if these contestants even have the capacity to feel. They’re all vile, and we’re even viler for engaging.
I look to see that sister has already devoured about five pieces of fried cod has proceeded to pour ranch directly into her mouth. My mother claps along, dragging the beat like a drunk conductor. I’m glad that my father isn’t here to see this; he is, thankfully, dead.
My mother begins to sing, one of her old favorites:
“IF IT HADN’T BEEN FOR COTTON-EYE JOE – I’D BEEN MARRIED ALONG TIME AGO! WHERE DID YOU COME FROM, WHERE DID YOU GO? WHERE DID YOU COME FROM, COTTON-EYE JOE?”
I don’t know why this song ever existed, but it has not aged well. Dane and Taylor are smashing their plastic faces together. I hope that the producers are happy with all this. They’ve forced these brainless people into a sex-crazed frenzy and have successfully dragged my family along with them. I look over to see that Bernice has started to pour ranch onto our cat’s head.
“RANCH HEAD, RANCH HEAD! COOPER IS A RANCH HEAD!”
My mother begins to cackle, a true witch’s cry, and I’ve had enough. I smack the pot of ranch out of Bernice’s hand, sending it crashing into our ottoman. Ranch everywhere, and suddenly everyone’s silent. My eyes are twitching.
“WE ARE BETTER THAN THIS COUNTRY!”
My mother’s mouth is hanging open, and my sister has started to cry.
“WE DON’T HAVE TO CRUMBLE TO THEIR STANDARDS. WE CAN EAT MORE VEGETABLES AND EXERCISE REGULARLY. WE CAN IMPROVE.”
My mother picks at one of her curlers.
“You sound like your father.”
“GOOD. HE WAS A GOOD MAN.”
“HE DIED ON A YACHT WITH HIS MISTRESS!” “I’M GLAD HE WAS GETTING SOME SUN!” Everyone is silent for about five minutes. The commercial break has ended, and we’re back on the island. The host is pouring mai tais for the twenty-two singles. Immediately, my family is transfixed again. I stare at a wall.
“You know that these people aren’t real, right? Like – this isn’t how –"
They’re not listening, so I give up and pour myself some more pop.
“AAAND – THAT’S A WRAP ON EPISODE FOUR!”
The production crew claps lightly and returns to the snack table. The host, a handsome dude with no charisma, lights two cigarettes at the same time and walks away. The producers approach the singles.
“Great work, everyone.” “So great.”
No responses. Their lifeless eyes do not blink, not even once.
“We’ll be shooting tomorrow’s episode, well – tomorrow.”
“Haha!”
“So we’ll be putting your back in your cases until then so you don’t get all washed out by the beautiful Bermuda sun!”
“Get some shut eye, ya hear!”
​The producers wave the crew over to collect the singles. The guys look long and hard at the dolls, unsure how to best maneuver them into their storage spaces. Their hollow bodies are shockingly heavy, and the crew is quickly drenched in sweat.

By: Renee James

 Back in 1970, I was a young male soldier, serving in Vietnam. I was a base camp troop, so my enemies were boredom and monotony.
 
Which is why, when a friend of mine came to me with a scheme for us to sneak off to Bangkok for a few days of partying in the sex capital of Asia, and sneak back without anyone knowing the difference, I did it.
 
This wasn't a smart decision. Going AWOL in a war zone is desertion. If we got caught, we could kiss the rest of our lives goodbye. But boredom is a powerful motivator.
 
So for three days and nights, my friend and I frolicked in the bars, cavorted with prostitutes, and drank and ate like kings. On the fourth day, I woke up with a young woman I didn't recognize, the tell-tale symptoms of gonorrhea which I did recognize, and the shocking news from my friend that he couldn't figure out how to get a ride back to Vietnam.
 
The other thing was, I was broke. I called home to get money wired to me—then tried to figure out where I'd sleep and eat until the money arrived.
 
Which is how I fell into the care of the young woman who spent the night with me. She called herself Suzy Wong, after the movie character. She took me to a U.S. medical clinic that was conveniently located near the bars. There was a door for women, and another one for men, and when you got inside, there were different colors of tape on the floor leading to different procedures. I followed the color for venereal disease and, 15 or 20 minutes later, emerged with a sore butt. Not a word had been spoken.
 
Suzy Wong took me home. She lived in a tidy, comfortable flat in a pleasant neighborhood. She introduced me to her roommate, another young woman, very pretty, and the mother of a toddler. I didn't know much about such things back then, but I could tell they were lovers. Nothing overt, just the way they looked at each other. Plus, even then, I could see how sex with men had to be dehumanizing for Suzy Wong, a different stranger every night, many of us unpleasant.
 
We spent the afternoon together. First, me watching Suzy transform herself from the sultry sex goddess I'd met in the bar to a pretty young woman with a nice smile. There was a lot of hair to un-pin and some of it came off. There were false eyelashes big enough to squash mosquitoes. And there was padding and a lot of makeup.
 
Guys aren't supposed to be interested in such things, but I was rapt. I'd been aware for some time that deep down inside, I wanted to be a girl. I sometimes had dangerous dreams of having a sex change and wearing beautiful dresses like Suzy did, and having beautiful hair done up like Suzy's, and being admired for my beauty and grace.
 
I always erased these dreams as fast as I could. I didn’t understand them, but I knew they were dangerous.
 
Suzy Wong could see I was different. At one point she asked me if I'd like to have a man for the night. I blushed and said no.
 
In the morning, she asked if I'd like to go to the beauty salon with her. She smiled when she said it. She had read me. Of course I went.
 
The beauty salon was as transportive for me as the prostitute bars were for many of my fellow soldiers. I watched Suzy get made up, I watched them do her nails and makeup and hair, making her look like a Hollywood actress. As I watched I imagined it was me they were working on. Me who was 5-5 and pretty with perky round breasts and full lips and delicate hands.
 
I hid these thoughts from everyone and I even tried to hide them from myself, though as the years went on, it became impossible to deny them.
 
In the end, my money came from home. I got my hotel room back and Suzy stayed with me that last night. We got a ride back to the war zone the next day. I laid a huge tip on Suzy Wong, more than she'd make in many months and she was happy for it, though she proposed marriage to me yet again, as she had many times in our days together.
 
I pointed out that she didn't really enjoy intimacy with men. She denied it, but just enough to save face. The thing was, she would have traded anything for a future where she was safe and comfortable and could live in dignity. She wanted to escape from a place where her only career options were sewing in a sweat shop for $1 a day, or selling her body to strangers.
 
I've thought about her thousands of times over the years, especially as I began to accept who I was. I always wish I'd given her more money. I always wish that what I did give her helped her escape the prison she was in.
 
And when I start feeling sorry for myself for having such a large, unwomanly body, I think, what if I had the choice. I could be what I am—a woman in a man's body, but with a nice family and a good career—or I could be Suzy Wong, a beautiful young prostitute investing her youth in the lusts of men with no names, and facing a future of poverty and broken dreams.
 
I always accept my own reality, but I hope we can change the realities for people like Suzy Wong, and for my transgender brothers and sisters.

Written By: Steve Gerard

It’s the most important work cocktail party of the year. You are chatting with a small group of influential people when you accidentally pick up a decorative candle because you think it’s a drink. You don't realize the error until you've already put it up to your mouth to take a sip. Okay. Don't panic. Maybe no one noticed? Guess again. EVERYONE noticed. And they are all staring at you.

Your mind gropes feverishly for some kind of a solution. Then, like a single ray of saving light from grace, the answer dawns: You can cover your mistake by pretending it was a big joke that you intended all along!

“Yum yum I really can’t wait to enjoy my CANDLE DRINK!” You say. A few people laugh, which provides enough encouragement to spur you onward. You begin to approach small groups of people at the party with the candle still hoisted to your mouth, “This candle tastes Marvelous," you say in a funny voice, "would you like a sip?” Then a wink and a Groucho Marx move with the eyebrows.

Within an hour or so you come to be regarded at the party as the funny candle guy. Everyone likes you! The joke is a huge hit! Attractive single women inquire in surreptitious whispers to one another, "Hey who's the candle guy? What's HIS story?"

Success! You've turned what could have been the social blunder of the year into an extreme advantage! Your old man would be proud, God rest his soul.

The big boss comes over and claps you on the back heartily. "Tell me," he says, "where on earth did you discover that candle drink joke? The whole party's abuzz with the hilarity of it! Hahaha! To think! A candle as a drink? It's positively absurd. I love it!”

"Thank you, sir. Really it's just something I thought of spontaneously. But that’s how I like to view myself: as a spontaneous, outside of the box thinker. Or, in this case, a spontaneous, outside of the WAX thinker." You wink right as you say wax.

Your boss laughs uproariously. His laugh turns into a violent coughing spasm that lasts for several terrifying minutes. You make strange eye contact with the bloodshot eyes peeking over the fist he’s using to cover his barking mouth. When he finally recovers, he wipes his mouth with a handkerchief, looks at you solemnly and says, "Well it's that kind of fresh, outside of the box thinking that we need around here. You know what? Why don't you come and tell me about some of your other ideas in Monday morning's PARTNERS meeting.”

"Oh, yes sir! Yes sir I will."

"Good," he says. Well, I'll leave you to enjoy your drink. Or should I say...candle!"

He begins laughing again. In anticipatory fear of him lapsing into another fit of violent coughs, your entire face winces like you just sucked ten lemons. Luckily, you have the candle to hold in front of it. A moment or two later your boss wanders off. As he goes, a card slips from his pocket and floats to the ground. You pick it up and read:

1932 W. Wilshire Ave.
Discreet Massage
Ask for Carol after 8 p.m.

Hours later, the party is winding down. You slip into a coat closet. As the safe feeling of the darkness begins to take hold, your bone white hand releases the candle from its desperately clutching grasp. It hits the floor with a muffled thud and does a wonky roll for a foot before resting in silence.
 
Your mouth is parched from making candle drink jokes for the last four hours. You look down and notice your hand is shaking involuntarily. It looks like a deformed claw that belongs to some other creature entirely. Surely this is no human hand. You touch the strange claw hand to your face and feel the wetness there. How long have you been crying? You fall back into the hanging coats and sink slowly to the floor.

Your eyes close and you see yourself from long ago, a boy in the yard. A cold November afternoon and a game of kill the carrier with your brothers in the raw wind. Your mother comes to the porch and chides you for not wearing your coat, but she is smiling, wiping her hands on her apron. Oh, If only you could get back there…Back to the time before cocktail parties and partner meetings, and barking bosses. Back to that immemorial time of innocence, before the candle drink joke.
 
Maybe the thing that comes after death will just be the feeling of that ancient November day forever. Careless and free in the cold raw wind that pricked the blood in your face and colored your cheeks red with ruddy joy. There you will stay. In neither time nor place, but frozen in the feeling of that memory. Maybe after we die we just become the sweetest single note in the chorus of a beautiful song that never stops playing. Maybe…

“Honey I told you I think the fucking coat got put in the closet, OKAY?! Yes, this one! Oh I’m drunk?! How many wines did you have, darling??! Nine that I counted! When you and Barb get together it’s always like this. HANG ON! CAN YOU HANG ON SO I CAN CHECK IF THE COAT IS IN HERE! Jesus!”

“Oh shit, HONEY! There’s a guy in here. Honey, there’s, like, a crying guy in here.”
 
 

Written By: Melanie Jones

​Every day while driving home from work the same man is at the four-way stop at 50th and Coconut Avenue. He goes straight and I go left. He drives a silver Acura with nearly transparent windows. He knows he is beautiful. In the Florida heat you would have to be mad not to have tinted windows, or maybe you can’t afford them, but neither describes this man. He must want to disrupt the flow of traffic.
                  I, on the other hand, have windows so dark they are illegal. It’s nearly impossible to see me through them, and I like it that way. It’s not that I’m unattractive, but it provides anonymity. I don’t honk at people, bitch them out, and hide behind my tints, my horn doesn’t even work, but I like that no one can see me. It feels like I’m in my own little spaceship and the only way you can travel with me is if I let you in my craft.
                  This man is a stranger. I do not know where he is going, nor where he came from, but he’s managed to become part of my routine. Some slow days at work I daydream about interacting with him. Scenarios play out in my head of purposely cutting him off to turn left when I know full well it’s his turn to go straight. In some scenarios he is so enraged that he gets out of his car and screams at me. In others he barely even notices; he isn’t in a hurry because he has everything in the world.
                  My favorite scenario is the one where I grow a pair and follow him. He sees me in his rearview mirror, and despite my tints he knows it’s me. He drives straight to a hotel and gets a room. He knows I am waiting in my car for him to show me where to go. I wait there patiently, and in this scenario there is no fear. I am overcome by the pure carnal desire of wanting this man and don’t think about emotions or unshaved legs. He leaves the lobby and walks to our room. Sometimes I care about the room number and look for significance in it, and when that happens it’s the number eight because it represents infinity. Other times I am so concentrated on what he will look like naked that I don’t pause to think of a stupid room number.
                  I wait a few minutes to make him worry that I’m not coming. Two full songs play on the radio before I turn my car off and walk across the parking lot to the room. Sometimes I knock to build anticipation. Sometimes I open the door and walk in like I own the place. Regardless of my entrance he is never surprised. He either lets me in and turns away like I just returned from getting ice down the hall, or if I walk in he looks up at me while sitting on the bed and doesn’t even uncross his legs. In a word, he is comfortable. 
                  Why is he comfortable? Do I want him to be comfortable? Is picturing him as comfortable a bad thing? This is where I get stuck every time. The raunchy fun stuff never comes because I am worried about him being so comfortable. I can’t imagine such a collected man being anything other than calm.
                  I try to leave at the same time every day to see him at the four-way stop. He is either on such a tight schedule that he always leaves at the same time or he does it to see me.
He waves to me. A man that has never exchanged words with me waves, and that makes my day. The first time I thought it was a fluke, but he continues to do it. Maybe he thinks I’m someone from his office who drives the same car: a secretary, or an intern.
                  Does he wave at just any car or am I special?
 

Written By: Rachel Dranoff

In the middle of Torrent Town, a small town in the West, stood The Post.
The Post itself was an old, rotting wooden pole, sticking up from the ground. It was a birch pole slowly being eaten by termites. An owl had made a pecking spot of its eye, and it was known for its splintering core. The Torrent Townspeople found The Post half-sunk in a puddle that was shaped like the entire English alphabet – no kidding – so now The Post was holy.
One point for English!
Holy or not, Rayna “Renegade” Clarksby, famed outlaw and undercover chef, was standing by the thing, an outcast in her own town, being yelled at by an 8 year-old child.
“Now you wait here at The Post,” yelled little missy Clementine. “My Mama will be back for you, Ma’am, and she won’t forgive a single sin you’ve done!”
            At that, little missy Clementine skipped over to the steps of the Justice Building, took them like an elevator, and ran inside.
            Rayna Clarksby stayed there, across the street from the Justice building with The Post at her back, great shame and sweat trickling down her forehead. She was going over every single sin she’d done in her mind. Nothing but the shackling weight of her reverie tied her to the spot.
            She had stolen a sheep. A newborn baby sheep.
            She ate a bag of pinto beans. Dry.
            She denied selling a miner ore. That she owned.
            It was her ore, dammit! It was her ore and she’d played tug of war with it and won! What was her sin exactly? Withholding her own ore? Shit. Fucking property rights.
            Rayna Clarksby couldn’t imagine what her sin was. Gluttony? Yes, she was a secret chef, but she wasn’t a glutton! Suddenly this morning, as she was peeing in the forest and humming an old folk tune about a locust monster, along came little missy Clementine, the Justice’s daughter, calling for a citizen’s arrest.
            (Yes, it was a savage world, but did they ever comply to the citizen’s arrest.)
            The members of Torrent Town eyed Rayna standing by The Post. The renegade milling about their very camp like an average citizen was circumspect – she denied Stanley her ore, didn’t she? – but Rayna standing by The Post? The Torrent Townspeople loitered; something big was going on.
            See, Louie and Michelle got married by The Post. Doctor Marnie Brown cured the common cold by The Post. Vanus Irving circumcised himself by The Post and all 12 of Darren Gerling’s horses died – one a month, over the course of a year – by The Post. It was a place of ceremony and important events, and something big was about to happen. Rayna “Renegade” Clarksby was STANDING BY THE FUCKING POST. WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON.
            “Here she is, Mama!” cried little missy Clementine, with the force of a thousand megaphones. Everyone in Torrent Town crowded The Post like ants and gasped.
            “I didn’t do it!” said Rayna, thinking about the secret gumbo meal she would secretly make later as a secret chef.
            Justice Manners towered over Rayna. With the force of justice behind her, she pointed at Rayna Clarksby and said: “DO YOU ADMIT TO KILLING ALL 12 OF DARREN GERLING’S HORSES?”
            Oh. That’s what this was about?
            “Well, sure!” replied Rayna. “They were hanging out by this dang post all year, acting like they owned the place.”
            Shit – it had nothing to do with ore at all! Or dried beans. Or sheep. Or cheffery! What a relief!
            Rayna laughed and the townsfolk, equally perplexed, laughed too.
            “Ha! You’ve pleaded guilty!” said Justice Manners, and little missy Clementine snarled like a feral cat in agreement.
            “Well, fucking duh,” said Rayna. “It ain’t a crime to kill a horse. Nor is it a sin. If anything, it’s a gift.”
            And the entire vile town of Torrent laughed in agreement because horses were stupid, and Justice Manners and little missy Clementine were the only ones who cared about the horses because even Darren Gerling had gotten bored by this whole thing.
            As the sun set in Torrent Town, everyone went home. Rayna “Renegade” Clarksby left The Post untouched and went on to steal sheep and dried pinto beans and all of her own ore she could get her hands on and make secret gumbo for the rest of her life.
Darren Gerling went on to buy 12 snakes, which, also, mysteriously died – one a month for the course of a year.
            And Justice Manners was placed under citizen’s arrest by little missy Clementine, who soon learned how to use the laws to her favor, as she was growing up in a Justice’s home and wanted to push back an unfair curfew of 7 fucking 30. Justice Manners had no choice but to comply.
Because even the evil respond well to a citizen’s arrest.
And like everything in Torrent Town, Justice Manners was tried at The Post.
 
The End 
            

Written By: Abby Lee Hood

She couldn’t be sure, but Beatrice was pretty confident there was a demon on the other side of the door. Her ear was pressed close, and she could feel the grain of the wood tickle its tiny hairs. She was focused, listening intently. On the other side were muffled noises, but nothing that offered definitive answers. Her eyes were squinted nearly shut, her brows were drawn together, and she waited silently.
Beatrice shifted the weight of the hot pizza box in her hand and prepared to knock. She had places to be - Mitzi was closing with her tonight and after she’d dropped the ball last close she wouldn’t let it happen again, no matter what waited on the other side of the door. Besides, there was no way they’d found her.
She made a fist and brought it to the door. She only rapped twice, then held her breath again.
Earlier, she’d been answering the phone, taking orders from customers while she waited for a delivery. She mostly delivered pizza, but everyone worked together, and Mitzi had needed her help answering the phone. Beatrice jumped right on. Toward the end of the night, a strange call had come in, and Beatrice had been terrified of the voice on the other line, deep and rumbling and raspy, like a grandfather who had smoked the last forty years of his life.
But it was her job to deliver, and she couldn’t be sure it was really a threat. After all, they could easily disguise their voices, so why would they have called using their real ones? They argued briefly over what kind of pizza to get - there seemed to be two of them, one who desperately wanted anchovies.
She waited with bated breath until she heard shuffling feet on the other side of the door. They got closer, and Beatrice could tell whatever it was, it was heavy. Her fears were confirmed when the door swung open and two gigantic, black horns curled out of the doorway and into the velvety night, blending in and blurring at the edges.
She took a step back and formed an upside-down “u” with her mouth. Then she flung the hot boxes of pizza as hard as she could at the demon in the doorway. He roared in anger and staggered backwards, giving Beatrice a second’s worth of time to slip into the living room on the other side.
She dodged a swinging first and then turned to pull the demon in after her, staggering, his eyes full of grease, cheese and smelly fish.

“I told you not to get anchovies!” he screamed into the room behind him, obviously in pain.
Beatrice realized they weren’t alone in the bright, clean room. She wondered how in the world they had found such a clandestine home, and what they’d done to empty it out. The thought made her sick. Where was the family?
“You have two seconds,” she spat, “before I end both of you. And you know it.”
The second demon, the one with a taste for anchovies, lumbered into the living room from the kitchen.
“You know what we want - he wants you to come home,” he said, spreading his thick, muscular arms wide in a gesture of helplessness.
“And who are you?” Beatrice asked as she turned to face him. He was smaller than his counterpart, and lighter skinned, so he must be younger. He was gray, more like the color of a sweater and less black, like Donald, who was still scraping pizza remnants from his face.
“I’m—”
“Don’t tell her your name!”
Donald growled from the corner behind the front door, where he stood next to a pristine white sofa. His dark skin stood in sharp contrast to the room and its furniture, which could’ve been pulled straight from an IKEA catalogue.
“So you’re new?” Beatrice asked the younger of the pair. “Did Antonin get fired?” She directed her second question to Donald.
“No, he wasn’t fired.”
“Then what?” she shot at him.
Donald rolled his eyes.
“He’ll be back next time, don’t worry.”
Beatrice deepened her scowl at “the next time.” “Give it up,” she said. “I’m never going back.”
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Donald shook his head slowly, looking down at the ground as if in defeat. But then he lunged forward without warning, grabbing for Beatrice. She danced backwards out of his grasp, only to step on the new demon’s toes, who was a bit behind Donald’s attempt to capture her. He squealed in pain, grabbing his foot, but continued to hobble toward her. Beatrice stumbled, but quickly caught her balance and threw a hook. Donald blocked, pushing her towards a bookshelf on the wall furthest from the door. The empty pizza boxes lay abandoned beside the door.
Beatrice took another swing at Donald as he came at her again. She connected with the side of his face. He screamed in pain and grabbed his cheek. He staggered backwards, bowling the smaller demon over, who had been trying to help.
“You are useless!” Donald screeched from the floor, where the two were a tangle of nasty- looking limbs.
“Don’t hurt yourselves,” Beatrice said, grinning at the heap on the floor. “Okay, you two, go on back home. Tell daddy I said hello.”
She stared hard as Donald, his scaly black skin so out of place in the suburban home, began to dissipate into thin air. It was as if someone were erasing him slowly, his skin and glowing angry eyes fading into nothingness. Soon, it was only the newcomer left, who began to fade too, and slowly disappeared.
“They said you could do that,” he said quietly just before he blinked out of view.
Beatrice stared back, not sure what to make of the fact that she had a new foe. With the immediate danger gone, she turned her to attention to room around her and took stock of the damage. 

Written By: Susan Allen
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At Shakespeare Camp that summer, the big drama was that Lady Capulet was texting Mercutio behind Tybalt’s back and everybody knew but him. Also, Benvolio came out of the closet during Trust Circle the second week of rehearsal, which wasn’t really surprising, but still, we all hugged him and he cried. Then the girl playing Friar Laurence started crying and soon lots of people were crying. 

The other thing—and I pretended not to know, but I knew—is that everyone was talking about how I kept choking on Juliet’s last monologue, the death scene. In the bathroom one morning, I heard Tara Marshall say, “Well, she should never have gotten that part to begin with.” Tara never said my name, but I knew she was talking about me.
 
I’d never been a lead before, but I usually got okay parts, probably because of the memorizing thing. The directors always seemed so surprised and so happy when I showed up completely off-book at the second rehearsal. Word got around, I guess, because by my second year at camp I was already doing characters with long and complicated monologues.
 
The monologues were usually kind of weird, like the Queen Mab speech that Mercutio gives. I don’t think anybody really pays attention during that speech anyway, to be honest. When the directors start talking about figurative language, or how beautiful the writing is, it’s usually code for “this part of the play is boring.”
 
Nobody ever asked me how I learned my lines so fast, thank god. My mom says eidetic memory is interesting and nothing to be embarrassed about, which I think is what moms legally have to say when there’s something about you that’s weird. If I look at something for long enough—a book or a picture, or something—it just kind of sticks in my mind. It’s probably why I decided to do Shakespeare Camp, even though I know I’m sort of a sucky actress.
 
When they announced R and J for the summer, I just assumed Jessica Jacobsen would be Juliet, because she usually gets the best girl parts. She’s pretty and dramatic and she emotes on stage like you’re supposed to. Plus, her mom is apparently a real actress in San Francisco and she never shuts up about it. (Like, whatever, my mom is a research and grants administrator, cool, nobody cares.)
 
I remember her walking out of her audition saying “It was horrible,” but she always said that, so I didn’t really think about it when I went in after her. I still don’t remember exactly what I did that was so good, except that I had this funny idea in my head that instead of trying to be Juliet I should try to be Jessica Jacobsen trying to be Juliet. And I guess that worked, because when I finished Kristen, the director, said “That was really, really good” and she usually doesn’t say stuff like that, or at least not to me.
 
When you did something really well, but you only did it once and you don’t know how you did it, it’s hard to do it again. Every single day at rehearsal I tried to remember how I did it the first time when I pretended to be Jessica pretending to be Juliet, but it was never quite the same.
 
I could tell Kristen was annoyed at me, because during rehearsal she’d say things like, “I know you know all the lines, but try to forget the words and feel the feelings.” Do directors really think that helps? Also, personally, I think telling people to forget the words is terrible advice.
 
The worst part was that half my scenes were with Jessica Jacobsen, who played the nurse. Even though she’d been mad at first, she was actually really good, half funny and half sad.
 
The night before the performance I ate eight marshmallows and re-read the first Harry Potter book. It was the closest I felt all summer to understanding why someone would want to just die and get it over with.
 
The performance went as well as a performance of Romeo and Juliet with a crappy Juliet can go. Everyone cheered loudest for Jessica during curtain calls, and afterward I told my mom I wanted to skip the cast party and go home.
 
I think my mom could tell I was in a bad mood because she didn’t say anything when we got in the car and I turned the radio to 97.3 without asking.
 
“I wonder what play they’ll do next year,” she said.
 
I started pulling the bobby pins out of my hair. “Maybe I’ll do something else next summer,” I said.
 
She looked over. “How come?”
 
“I don’t know,” I said.
 
I sort of expected she’d say something mom-like, and tell me I was great in the play, and I should definitely come back next year. But she didn’t. She just said “Well, it’s up to you.” It made me feel better, in a funny way.
 
Jessica Jacobsen goes to a different school but I saw her at Long’s Drugs a few months ago. She told me she heard it was probably going to be As You Like It next summer. I’m sure she’ll play Rosalind. When I got home after that I thought about telling my mom I changed my mind about doing Shakespeare Camp again, but then I remembered how much this summer sucked, and also that I hate plays.