Growing

You were a season in my year, the snow that sticks around until May, gray and annoying.
Soon I’ll be warm enough for my heart to defrost.
To be more than a frozen block in my chest, weighing me down, wearing me out.
But for now I need to clean up the blood and roses, rip the roots out of my throat.
Let the layers of my skin that have become so familiar with your touch melt away with the snow.
Allowing for new and better skin to bloom and blossom in its place.
I will let wildflowers stem from my words and bloom from my throat.
They aren’t as delicate but that cannot hurt me the way that your thorns did.
I do not need to worry about the blood
They may not be appealing to you but I’ve fell in love with their wild nature
The way that they thrive off of my decaying well being
Creating something better, something that’s me
Something that leaves no trace of you
These are roots that you’ll never be able to remove from me
For they are not just in my throat but run throughout the entirety of my nervous system
You will never be able to tear away the wildflowers that bloom from mouth
And you will never see your roses pass my lips ever again.

— Finn Clintsman

The Hall

Hugo Orrantia

The foyer was a maw. Camilla took a step forward. A breath. Then another step, pushing dust off the ground. The floors creaked, very old planks of wood wheezing, being awakened. No decoration, no excuses, just a hallway going straight into black. The dust floated in the air and caught the sunbeams from the cracks in the walls.
Through the cracks, she could still hear the sounds of the city - the rumble of vehicles, wind rustling the trees, people talking - but the silent darkness thrummed louder. There was a warmth to the silence. The near absence of sound was so welcoming. It was a vaccuum. It was frightening but friendly, like a loud stranger.

Camilla did not usually talk to strangers, although some of them talked to her quite a bit. When she'd told her mother about this, a quiet came over the room.
"They speak to you?"
"Yeah. Don't they speak to you?"
"What do they say, Camilla?" Her mother was making a strange expression. It almost looked like a smile, for once.
"Not a lot. Just hello, usually."
"Just hello?"
"Well, I don't speak to them."
"Yes, yes, that's very good," Mother nodded. She reached over and squeezed Camilla's hand. "You can't be doing any of that, you know."
"I know, I know..."
"I just don't want them... Influencing you," Mother said, her forehead wrinkling.
"Yes, I-"
"You’re just so lovely and kind. And you know how these city people are.”
Camilla hated this part of the lecture. She would nod, occasionally respond, but it wasn’t anything new. These city people her mother talked about seemed scary, how they’re full of greed and dishonesty, how their friendships are all for themselves, how they don’t care about the land they walk on. But very quickly she realized she simply couldn’t bear being alone, even if the city people were a bunch of terrible people, she can’t just stay alone the whole time…
That was all going to change, Camila thought, as she stared down the hall. I’ll make it to the very end, to see where it really goes, and then everyone’ll be so impressed. Because they’re all just a bunch of scaredy-cats. One thing about these city people, at least the ones from the street that she played with during weekends, is that they’re so scared of everything. She told them once about the chicken that she killed, how she twisted its neck at just the right speed so that it died instantly, and she watched the color drain from their faces. But they were never impressed, just scared, it seemed like. But this would be different. The exploration of the derelict, such a sign of sophistication. An expedition into darkness.

Perfect Christian Girl

Smile; go to church; talk to people; hug strangers; go to youth group; ignore your anxiety. Sit alone; don’t eat the flesh or drink the blood of Christ; you are not baptized. Whatever you do, don’t be like your mother. Don’t speak like your mother; sarcasm doesn’t fit you, don’t use it; don’t curse. Don’t dress like your mother; black isn’t your color; don’t wear just that shade; look presentable at all times; don’t show cleavage or too short shorts; you will get kidnapped, sold to Syria, raped with a child you don’t want; don’t abort. Don’t date; don’t talk about crushes; especially don’t date girls; in fact, don’t be gay; don’t be an abomination; when you get baptized your gay thoughts will go away. This is how you tolerate but don’t accept it. It is not ours to judge; you are shoving your foot in God’s mouth! Don’t talk about being gay, don’t talk about sex. Love everyone, respect everyone, you’re shoving your foot in God’s mouth! Respect us, respect God. God, God, God, God. Only God! Give up all your interests; don’t talk about them; don’t think about them; Harry Potter, Doctor Who, it’s all demonic; Santa Claus is a demon; God should be your only interest. Don’t write about demonic things; magic, myths, dragons; we won’t read them; don’t talk about your stories. Only pay attention to the biological gender; your uncle is a girl; he was born as a girl; he is a girl; being a man doesn’t make him happy; he isn’t truly happy. Don’t use they/them pronouns; this is how you look at someone and know their gender. This is how you tolerate but don’t accept it. Never lie; keep secrets from your mother; do whatever you have to do to avoid telling her what we tell you not to. Listen to Christian music; no, no, no, that’s not proper Christian music. Fine, just marry a man and have at least one biological child; God gave a man a penis and a woman a vagina for a reason; you are not gay; you do want your own children; don’t just adopt; you need to have children; don’t say you don’t want kids; don’t say you don’t want a husband; if you marry a woman I won’t come to the wedding; a wife for you is not how you live a proper life. If you do all this, you won’t end up as a disappointment you are so hell bent on becoming. Well?

Then I guess I am a disappointment.

— Gwenalyn Abrams

How Do You Roll?

Things I love about my new home: having a full spread on the bed if I want. Bright colors. Lighting candles. The whir of the transit busses passing. Keeping my life clean. Being organized. Being able just to find things. Eating meals at the table on a plate without having a dog jumping. Not always having the TV on. Being close to Wegmans. Cooking for myself. Doing my own laundry. Enjoying my art, my plants, my dogs. Long soaks in the bathtub, taking in my salts, lavender oils, lights down, with a lit candle and low music. Practicing self-care. Knowing where my clothes are. Being able to exercise whenever and in whatever ways I want. Drinking wine with dinner. My nice, big kitchen! Cooking vegan, cooking non-vegan, or not cooking at all. Making my own cheese plate. Not having to hear bad things about liberals. Being liberal. Writing at my desk. Reading. Being quiet. Feeling cleansed.

Asking my dogs: how do you roll? Walks to my favorite park, where I can fly a kite if I want. Being in awe of the enormous sky I can see clear out my window. The pandemonium it makes when a storm breaks. Making a lime into a kickball. Acting like a whimbril or a warbler or a goose. Being silly with myself. Playing imaginary golf while playing an imaginary trumpet, eating imaginary (or real) blueberry sherbet in my fluffy velvet robe. Oh, how scrumptious!

My place smells so delicious! Can you study my serology? Can you tell that I am free now?

— Kim Chinquee

The Enkindled Mind

Katie Oliver

The roof of Nico’s house was where she did her best thinking. Whether he was beside her or not, whether the sun or moon shined down on her, it was a happy place of hers. The shingles were old and scratchy and the slope brandished the threat of slipping off at her, but if she kept her feet flat and far from the gutters, she knew she would be safe.
This night the stars were out, and some of them seemed to wink at her. It was comforting, as was the wind in her hair and the distant cries of coyotes. The howls outside her head seemed to match the ones inside almost one-to-one. She blinked a tear from her eyes and took a deep breath. The oxygen did nothing to soothe the pain in her lungs. She sighed and shakily reached into her pocket, pulling out an Altoids tin that she used to stash the cigarettes that she lifted off her father. She grabbed one. She didn’t need to carry a lighter around anymore.
She brought it to her lips and her hands began to tremble harder. They were greasy with sweat, so it took a few tries before she could get a crisp snap. Like steel on flint, a small flame burst into life just above the skin of her thumb. Before she could think too much about it, she lit the cigarette and took a drag. As soon as she saw the tip glow, she violently shook her hand to put out the flame, and her lungs felt satiated. Another tear dripped down her cheek.
The sound of a window opening below her almost scared her off the roof. “I’m gonna start charging you rent,” a voice called up from below.
“Squatters’ rights,” she said back, and scooted closer to the center of the roof. A second later, a head peaked up over the side she had just been on. Nico had tried to tame his hair with a hat, but a few curly strands poked rebelliously out of the sides. His hands appeared next to his head, and he hoisted himself up. He was still in his pajamas.
“I am actively living in this house, I don’t think squatters’ rights applies,” he said, slightly out of breath.
“I say it does,” she said, and took another drag. She offered it to Nico, and he gladly accepted.
“I’m too tired to argue,” he said, after a pause that was long enough to be filled by a puff. “You’re aware that it’s two in the morning, right?”
“I’m aware,” she said. Another long pause. No puff this time.
“What’s up?” Nico asked, his tone far less playful. She looked over at him and worry was painted across his face.
“I… I just needed to think.”
“Talk to me, AJ,” he said, and shifted his hand closer to hers. The cigarette between his fingers was dimming, and she felt her eyes well up again.
“Promise me something,” she whispered.
“Okay.”
“Promise that you won’t freak out.” She looked over at him, and the worry was palpable now, dripping from his face like her tears were about to.
“What is it?”
“Nico, if you freak out I’m gonna freak out more than I already am, I need you to promise.”
One last pause. AJ felt like she could finish the whole cigarette in the time it took for him to speak again.
“I promise.”
She looked down. The cigarette had gone out. Her hands shook along with her whole body as she once again put it between her lips.
“Watch.” She snapped.
Just like it had the first time, and the hour before, fire burst from her fingertips. In the fresh yellow glow she caught a glimpse of shock, even fear, in Nico’s eyes, and he almost fell off the roof. With her cold, clammy, fireless hand, she grabbed his arm before he could slip too much, and even after he was safely planted again, she refused to let go. With a twist of her wrist, the fire danced into her palm, blissfully unaware of how tense the situation was. The two watched it for a while, until Nico whispered, “Can you put it out?” She nodded and turned her hand upside down, watching the flame lick the sides before it died down. Nico grabbed her hand and pulled her to the side of the roof, and slid through the open window into his bedroom, gesturing for her to follow.
She had been in his room several times. Every time she entered, be it climbing through from the window or walking through the front door, she was delighted at how unchanging it was. The deep mauve paint of the walls was stained and weathered at some points, and the eggshell white curtains blew away from the window, waving at her as if they’d missed her and were excited to see her again. His desk was as cluttered as always, to the point that she couldn’t even pick out where his laptop was, like it was a page out of one of the old iSpy books they’d read as children. The foot of his bed was similar, as his half folded laundry was piled at the edge. She had no idea how he could fit into that bed, as tall as he was, clothing piles or otherwise. He hastily threw the duvet on his floor over the clothes and his sheets and gestured for her to sit. She complied. Turning on the old soccer ball lamp on his bedside table, he gently took her hand in his and turned it over. He read her palm, a fortune teller, trying to ascertain what had happened to her. It was calloused, and, perhaps due to the almost inhumane levels of sweat being excreted by them, untouched by fire and bone cold. The tips of her fingernails were blackened, burnt, and the smell they gave off, however subtle, was rancid.
“How the hell are you not burnt?” he muttered.
“I’m not really sure,” she said.
He hesitated before letting go of her. “What even was that?”
“A new trick I’ve picked up,” she said. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I just… how did it happen? Like how did you know you could do that? How long have you known?”
“Where do I even start?”
“The beginning.”
“Okay.” AJ took a deep, shuddering breath in. Out. “Mom and I got into a fight a few days ago. She was upset about me not cleaning out the lint trap. She said I could’ve burned the house down. I said ‘but I didn’t’ and she got even more upset. I stormed out, I ran into the woods, and I… don’t laugh, but I punched a tree.” Nico didn’t laugh. Neither did she. “And…” she looked down at her fist. Her knuckles were still bruised, but the little lacerations had all been sealed. Cauterized. “And the tree caught on fire. I didn’t know what to do, I tried to pat it out, and fire just kept coming out of my hands.” An image burned in her mind, the sight of a bird’s nest engulfed in flame, and be it memory or her own imagination, she swore she could hear the birdsong equivalent of agonizing screams. She shuddered. “I guess I picked the right tree to take my anger out on, it was far enough away from anything else that nothing else burned down, but…” She met Nico’s gaze, tears in her eyes. “I burned it down. I burned down a tree with my own hands. I don’t know how and I don’t know why but I know that it happened and that I did it.”
Yet another pause. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Nico said, glancing at her hands.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Aurora…” his eyes were so profoundly sad that something within her broke. The dam holding back her tears shattered and she lurched forward, sobbing into his shoulder. His arms wrapped around her and held her, encasing her with his strong arms in an embrace that was somehow just as gentle as it was firm, almost as if he was afraid to squeeze her too tightly, to shatter her in a million pieces, but he was even more afraid to let her go. She wailed into his shirt, mumbling “I’m so sorry” and “I don’t know what’s happening to me” and “I don’t know what to do” and “What do I do?” and “Nico I’m scared” and his familiar arms pulled tighter and she continued to sob.


Nico had a lot of things going through his mind. The first thing, top priority, was a pledge of companionship. Loyalty. Be it a promise or a prayer, the thought echoed throughout his entire conscience. He needed his friend to know she would be okay. The distant second thought was a memory. A memory of hugging his mom. Although her eyes were bright, the moment he made contact with her, he felt a dark sludge of sadness seep into him like ooze. His stomach dropped. He looked up and swore her eyes were brighter. When he showered later, the ooze poured from his eyes in his tears, and with no more than a thought, they congealed into a glowing magenta mass that swirled down the shower drain. Another thought and it was pulled back up and sharpened into a blade that settled naturally in his fist. He quickly threw it back down the drain in shock.
The third thought was When do I tell her?

— Hugo Orrantia

My Crimes of Being Alive

Gwenalyn Abrams

I was seen as a criminal from the second I was born.

I was born to an elf and a human, although I could not tell you which was my mother, and which was my father. I was abandoned as soon as I was born, still covered in blood, amniotic fluid, and vernix. Sometimes I think about that day; my biological mother screaming in pain in the middle of nowhere outside of the town. I think it would be the most logical thinking that my mother was the human. Why would an elf abandon me outside of the town where she knew my father wouldn’t take me? Why not take me somewhere else if she didn’t want to raise me, drop me off in another town or city? If she wanted to kill me, she could have dropped me in the river I was laid next to. Maybe if she was the human, she believed my elven father was still around and he’d find me. I don’t know. I do know that’s not what happened. What happened was that I was found by a five-year-old little girl and two men; all three humans from the town I was left out of.

They were some of the few kind people in the town. Cristerie, the little girl, and her Pops and Papa. Her Pops was the blacksmith of the town, and her Papa was his husband who helped him in the forge. They had adopted her when she was a baby. If they weren’t some of the kind ones, they’d have left me at the river, or maybe they would have kicked me into it. But instead, they carried me back to their home, took me in, and gave me the name Amaleen.

Kindness was something given by very few people in the town when it came to me. They saw my pointed ears perking out from my long brown hair, and they recoiled. Especially once they realized that they were too short to be of a pure elf. You see, my town saw humans as superior in all ways. Dwarfs, elves, orcs, anything that wasn’t human was seen as a lower class. Travelers who were not human were treated as if they were indentured servants, and talked to as if they were loose in the head. They were seen as monsters, savages. But if you were like me, half of something and half human, you were worse than a monster, worse than a savage. You were an abomination, made tainted human blood. If you were traveling through my town as a half blood, you were treated as a slave. A stand for garbage to be thrown on. You could yell until your voice was hoarse, still no one would listen to you. No one, but a few kind people in town. Like my parents. That’s why they took me in, called me their daughter, and loved me unconditionally.

Cristerie followed their example. She was five years older than me, but we were each other’s best friends. When I walked through town and the others around our age would throw tomatoes at me, screaming horrific slurs, Cristerie would step in front of me and yell at them to let me be. She was my protector. She would buy me things, so I didn’t have to deal with the merchants stealing my money and not giving me what I paid for. She’d say the most vulgar things to any adult that dared to even look at me the wrong way. Our Pops and Papa, as proud of her as they were to not fall under the town’s racist spell, constantly told her she needed to at least pretend to be respectful to the adults unless they actually said something. Most of them were clients of Pops, and we needed their coin.

When I was five, I had interrupted my Papa’s homeschooling to ask why we still lived in that stupid town. He pulled me into his lap and said, “One day, we will leave. But even as talented as your Pops is with his forge, the town does not pay him enough for his work, and there are only so many travelers who can pay him well. We do not yet have enough coin to leave and start somewhere else.”
“Don’t worry, Amaleen,” Cristerie said as she unpacked her bag from her school. It was safe for her to go to the actual school since her ears weren’t pointed, “One day, I will be able to open my bakery and help the family earn more coin. Then we will all leave.”
Cristerie had been baking since before I had been abandoned. She could make the best pastries and bread. Many times, I was in the kitchen with my sister, watching her work her magic. There was almost always flour powdered throughout her red hair, always braided to the side. If I wasn’t watching her bake, I could usually be found at the forge with my Pops. He used to scold me all the time for getting too close to the flames and burning off my eyebrows. I never fully listened though, maybe that’s why he always called me Brat (it was always in an endearing way though; I do think I frustrated him quite a bit with my behavior). But I couldn’t help it. As much fun as it was to watch Cristerie bake, it was only because it was her. Yet with Pops and the forge, I was captivated. I knew from a young age, one of my first memories actually, I wanted to be a blacksmith. I think my parents thought it was a phase, just a little girl wanting to be like her father. However, I never stopped wanting to be a blacksmith. As I grew older, he would teach me all about the job. Though Pops said I could not actually work the forge with him as his apprentice until I turned sixteen. Until then, I could only watch and listen to his lessons.

Everything changed when I turned eight. I had snuck out of the house to avoid my homeschooling with Papa. I really rather would have run around and climbed trees and roofs than read books. My Papa always called it my elf side. I loved to climb things and I was very good at it. I had a place in the rafters in our house where I swung myself up and would spend my time. I had the agility most humans, especially in our town, could only dream of. Well, that day, I was walking the streets when the school let out. Cristerie had been home sick, so when I was suddenly surrounded by a bunch of kids, I had no one to protect me from the vile words or fruit aimed to bruise my skin.

That’s when she showed up. Irena. She and her parents had just moved to the town, and I didn’t know her too well. I overheard my parents talking one night about how her parents seemed to be just like everyone else in the town. I just assumed the eleven-year-old girl would be like them. But she screamed at the kids to stop, taking their fruit weapons from them and ricocheting it back at them. When they all scattered, she turned to me and extended a hand to help me up. I remember staring up at her, mouth agape. I still am not sure if I was more in shock of someone other than Cristerie standing up for me, or if it was her beauty that shook me. She had long blond hair and eyes that were as green as the spring leaves. And what was more, she didn’t seem bothered by my ears. I took her hand, and she pulled me up. We were best friends after that.

Cristerie hated her. I had always assumed it was just because I stopped spending so much time in the kitchen watching her, and instead was out in the town with Irena. I never had to worry about asking Cristerie to leave with me for safety at that point, because I always went to see Irena and she protected me. It was always more aggressive than Cristerie. Irena liked to get into fights which would always end up us in trouble. She was just protecting me though, even if it was extreme. But I was young and blind. Cristerie didn’t hate Irena because I spent so much time with her; she hated her because Irena was a bad influence.

I had my fair share of childish behavior. I had my habit of sneaking out of homeschooling, I would purposely break rules or go into the rafters when Pops was trying to lecture or punish me. But never had I pushed my luck as badly as I had when Irena came into the picture. I don’t think my parents liked her all that much either, but unlike Cristerie, they never said anything. I never had any friends outside of the family and Irena was protecting me in town. I don’t think they knew how to tell me I couldn’t see the one girl that didn’t bully me. Though I do think they got pretty close when Irena started convincing me to do things that put me in danger.

Irena’s favorite thing to do was convince me to leave the town in the dead of night. At least once a week, often more times, she would convince me to sneak out after I was supposed to be asleep. We’d leave the town and play down at the river. As I mentioned, our town didn’t have that many travelers come through; it’s why we never had enough coin to leave. The reason was because my town was in the middle of nowhere. It was surrounded by mountains, us and the river in the mountain pass. Wild animals, such as wolves and bears, roamed the mountains and sometimes came to the river at night for a drink. When that happened, Irena and I would climb up one of the scattered trees, me the highest, and watch. The only time I didn’t stay in the tree was when I saw foxes; my favorite animal. They are sly, smart. They won’t fight a losing battle unless they deem it necessary. I’d always lose track of how long we were out, never getting back in time to get into bed before Cristerie came down to sleep, just to shout up to our parents I was missing again. Papa and Pops would come marching down to the river, where they learned they’d easily find us. Pops would drag me back home by the ear and Papa making sure Irena got back to her house safely. I was constantly being punished in various ways; the worst was when Pops said I could not be with him in the forge for a time. I knew I should have stopped, but Irena always rolled her eyes when I tried to refuse and that night, we were back out there.

It was four years after that night, I was fifteen. I was sitting in the rafters, watching Cristerie bake while our parents were out. They were going out to buy supplies for the road. A few months before, a few travelers had come into town, including a very successful baker who was traveling between shops. He was going back to his main bakery in a city that was only about a two weeks’ worth trip from our town. He had seen Cristerie’s talent, and they had talked for hours. We had just received a letter from him offering Cristerie an apprenticeship under him, along with news that he was offering us a home in the city. Connected to the house was a proper smithery, to ensure Cristerie would come since she refused to leave town without me and our parents. We were supposed to go and work to slowly pay off the loaned house. We were leaving the next day.

I wish I never said anything that day. I wish I had stayed in those rafters and never swung down. I wish I never told Cristerie what I did. Irena was eighteen, she was my only friend, she was beautiful. I told Cristerie that I was going to ask Irena to come with us and be with me. I said I wanted to tell her that I loved her. Cristerie and I had never yelled at each other before. But that day, we were in a screaming match. She tried to convince me not to go to Irena. She was a bad influence, she was constantly getting me in trouble to where our parents had to come get me out of the jail with the town’s guard, I was only fifteen, it wasn’t a good idea. I yelled that she always hated Irena, I said she wasn’t like the others in our town, and she should be able to get out just like us, and then I yelled that Cristerie was the most toxic sister. Before my sister could respond to my hatred words, I ran into the basement. I wish I had stayed upstairs.

I heard a commotion. In pure reaction, I threw myself out of my bed, over Cristerie’s and flew up the stairs. I came up, and Cristerie was on the ground; she was on the ground in a pool of her own blood. I slipped in it when I went to her, falling and covering myself in her crimson. There were so many stab wounds in her back, I couldn’t count how many. She was dead by the time I got to her. That’s when she showed herself. Irena. She had a few splatters of blood on her, and in her hand, a bloodied knife. She dropped it and kicked it to my knees. I don’t know how I looked in that moment, but I know I grabbed the knife and I screeched for her to tell me why. I don’t think I can ever forget that cold tone her voice took when she answered with her unsympathetic expression, “I ran out of time. You’re supposed to leave tomorrow. To a place where you are to be accepted for being the abomination that you are. I couldn’t let that happen. I was going to wait until you were eighteen to do something, make sure you were tried as an adult. I didn’t want to kill a human. Ever since I was eleven, I have been planning and she had to ruin it with that stupid apprenticeship. I was bullied for you for seven years and this is the pay I get. But it doesn’t matter now, even at fifteen, for murdering a human, you’ll be punished as if you were an adult.”

I couldn’t respond before I heard the familiar voices from outside that belonged my parents. Irena hopped over the pool of blood before putting on the act of her life. She shrieked and started calling me a murderer. Next thing I knew, my parents, and other adults were in my home, staring at me soaked in Cristerie’s blood, knife in hand, and my dead sister below me. I dropped the weapon and tried to explain. My parents’ faces were blank, staring at my sister. I needed them to know it wasn’t me. I fought as the guards of the town grabbed me, forcing my hands behind my back. I begged them to listen, but I just ended up in a cell, sentenced to execution for the next morning without a trial. I was a half elf, no one listened to me, they only listened to Irena.

That night, my parents came in to where I was being held. I didn’t even try to convince them; I didn’t think I could. Pops asked if they could have a moment alone with me, the guards left. He started screaming so loudly. Screamed how I betrayed them, how they took me in, and I killed their daughter. I would have sobbed, if his face matched his voice. Papa knelt down and I will never forget what he said, “Don’t listen to him. He is just making sure no guards will hear us out there. We know that you didn’t hurt Cristerie. We believe you. You never forget that,” he looked up to a small hole in the roof never patched because who could make it up there and escape? “Now use that elf half of yours and you run. You never come back here, and you run, and you never let them catch you! We love you so much, Amaleen. More than you will ever be able to understand.” He kissed my forehead and Pops hugged me through the bars as he continued his fake lecture. They left the room, and, in the moments I had before the guards came back in, I climbed up and used my small body to squeeze through the hole. And then? I ran.

I haven’t returned since. My parents are still there. Without Cristerie and the apprenticeship she had they couldn’t leave. Though I think they also didn’t leave because they couldn’t swallow the idea of leaving where Cristerie was buried. It’s not like they could move to a different town where I was. I’m a criminal; I can never stay in one place for too long. To survive I had to become sly, smart. I learned never to attack if I could sneak away instead; pickpocketing was better than putting a dagger to someone’s throat and trying to force them to give me their money. I learned not to trust anyone blindly; I don’t trust anyone but my family anymore. I started wearing a cloak with the hood always up to hide my ears and shadow my face, along with a gaiter over my face so the only thing most people could see were my eyes. My hair, that used to always be down, is always in a side braid to keep it out of my face if a fight must happen and in honor of who I lost. Stealing and sneaking around is the only way I can survive now. There are wanted posters for the murderer Amaleen, and separate ones for the thief Ama throughout various towns. If I ever stay in one place, I’ll get caught, possibly executed. So, I continue to run…

But I am not a murderer.

Untitled (excerpt)

Finn Clintsman

“Don’t leave me, please,” Sorin said, desperate. “I'm thinking for myself, as you taught me, and I need you, I need you not as a lover, as a friend.
A teacher.
A protector.
You've shown me patience in a way that no one else ever has, you've shown me parts of myself I didn't even know existed. You've shown me that independence and dependency can thrive together, that they’re able to create something extraordinarily beautiful.” Jayce was stunned by the words spewing from the man in front of them. They had been through so much together, he hadn't even been able to notice how much his love changed. They had come out the other side, one more changed than the other. “I want you. I want you to show me all that you hide. I want to search all of the crevices of your being, be able to memorize every curve of your bones, every color that your skin can produce, every scar. I want you to tell me the story of every scar that’s blessed to be a part of you.”
Jayce was speechless, he had never heard himself be described in such a poetic way. He couldn't even deny any of it. His insecurities were lost in this man’s words. His insecurities danced in the sweet sound of his voice, that sounded so matter of fact. Sorin grabbed Jayce’s hand.
“Stay with me.” He said calmly, looking into his eyes. Jayce looked back and felt his shoulders relax, his face getting warm.
“How could I ever stray too far from my home?”
He stated in a soft, loving tone. Sorin now fell silent and stared at Jayce, he felt his eyes sting. He put his free hand to his mouth as he teared up. He then hugged Jayce tightly and cried.
“Thank you for loving me,” he responded softly. Jayce hugged him back just as tightly and kissed the top of his head gently.
“Thank you for doing it first,” he responded gently. They then just stood there in each other's embrace, everything falling into place.