Corpsette
In the land of Strangewood, there was seldom spoken a tale
Of a woman named Copsette and her fault in small detail;
Copsette was once a child, a life so little and plain,
She went to the Strangewood Tree as the sky began its reign.
No more than the age of seven, she asked the Tree of death,
Of what it meant and how it would feel to lose one's last breath.
The Tree did not answer young Copsette, did not even wink,
And while Copsette did not realize, her life went in a blink:
Copsette soon grew up, in a life miserable and bland,
When asked about a marriage, she sooner cut o her hand. Then as a mistake, she fell in love with one we knew not,
Though the lover soon fell ill, not given another thought.
Copsette then wore all black, the color of death and mourning,
For obsession it became: the lover, death, the storming.
The lover then near death, misery’s pupil dressed in black,
Fearing and afraid, she asked the Tree to turn the clock back.
The Tree made no reply, not one that Copsette expected;
The sky began to cloud, she feared the request rejected.
The harsh storm still brewed, and on the wind, she then heard a voice,
Nothing but a whisper, a silence, a dressed-up lost choice.
Copsette still stood and waited, overcome by great fatigue,
And so she fell under a spell at the base of the Tree.
The wind then curled around her, and kissed her once on the cheek,
And as the spell of slumber broke, Copsette awoke deceased.
She was then left bereft, in a state of momentous grief,
As while her wish was answered, she would now rot as a thief;
The lover now saved, though lost and doomed to forever rot,
Copsette still like the warm-blooded living, perished quite not.
Her last hand chained to the Tree, spirits now punished her erce,
Yet Lover came to visit, though his appearance quite scarce.
The village renamed her Corpsette, the dead-living woman
With a skeleton still visiting her, a lost goodman.
The legend lives on today, of the lost Tree in Strangewood,
And though people tried to nd it, not one soul ever could.
It would be long years later, in a world stuck in betweens,
That another would nd Corpsette, dear Ee Augustine.
- Becca McAuliffe, ASMS Senior
Roses and Violets
Roses are not always red while violets are not blue,
Though I am no master of all things, I have a story to tell you.
My name is Wallace, a cat with a quizzical voice
And I am cursed by a spell that makes me lose every battle, regardless of my choice.
I live in a world much different from yours,
It is somewhere you do not know as we do not give tours.
It is the world of Halloween, where the moon never sleeps
As the clock ticks where time doesn’t exist the Time Meister creeps,
It is where the candytuft grows along with jelly-bean trees
And it is where the banshees scream with excitement as they steal people’s knees.
You may know this world from the Hermit who is said to be cruel
Though in that same story of the Magician and the Logician, I am the Fool.
Once there was a small mouse, who went by the name of Moose
Who lived in a house in the middle of the sea that hosted parties with jellies and roast goose.
Moose was a being who may have seemed small,
Though his anger and pain made him no less than ten feet tall
Which is why Moose had a plan to attack Halloween,
“How?” you may ask? It involved a growth potion and an interesting dream.
To be tall is what he wanted, not in pain and anger,
But in flesh and bone, to be simply bigger.
Tired of being walked on, he took his revenge,
He acted as though he was happy, though it was simply pretend,
And he took a potion that turned out to be in itself a curse
That made him large and terrifying, less for the better and more for the worse.
He was what brought horror to Halloween as he brought fear to all
And it was I that tried to stop him with my feline call,
Though I made it worse, unintended by me
I lost this battle, at least from what I see.
In the game of cat and mouse, this was not a war
Though the image of Halloween being sickly sweet was now at the bottom of the drawer.
It is a tale I tell today as Moose is still frightening
And though he is ten feet tall, he is still as fragile as lightning.
To simply restate on this tale of two
Some things are hidden like how roses are not always red while violets are never blue.
- Becca McAuliffe, ASMS Senior
Neverwhere
Her eyes are haunted. No no, haunted isn’t the right word, that implies that they still have some life left in them. They’re the eyes of a corpse, a living being that yet has no life. The syringe is filled with no more than a few drops of the red liquid, and yet I still can’t help that it reminds me of blood. When it comes down to it, is a bloody death the worst way to die? At least if you get lucky, it will be quick. Easy. But this? Watching the clock tick in the corner of the room, the walls that look like stone truly made of mirrors with the council, the entire world watching me watching every second go by before my death – my strategically planned death, that I had every warning in the entire world for? This is the worst way to die.
The woman is who I stare at. The woman is older, at least twice my age, with graying hair and those same, dead eyes. The woman’s mother died the same way as I’m going to die. The woman felt the same pain that my son is going to feel. The woman knows something I never will. The woman lowers the syringe to my arm. The woman puts the syringe in my skin, the needle piercing my flesh as the venom spreads through my veins – not so much like a venom, now that I think about it, but like a sense of warmth. The woman’s eyes stare into mine. The woman’s eyes are haunted. No no, wrong again - the woman’s eyes are dead, and as the blood that did not belong to me becomes my own, I realize that mine are, too.
- Becca McAuliffe, ASMS Senior
My ode to them
The sky is clouded with blue and grey
It drags on and on relentlessly, aggressively
Suffocating and quick, suddenly it’s the end of the day
Dark and fearful thoughts corrupt me
I can’t go to sleep like this
Then I remember you, shining so bright
You tell me your stories, and listen to mine
You make me laugh, me worries out of sight
I want to understand you, but I stay behind the line
I admire from afar
You inspire and grow, the whole world at your fingertips
Yet humble and kind, you preach peace
Time stops when I watch you and my mind slips
I begin to imagine, wishing my reality would cease
Hoping for one in which I’m like you
I will continue to learn and admire
I’ll reach my goals like you did
You are my idol, you inspire
The one that I needed when I was a kid
-Anonymous
Pay Attention
Wait, breathe within my mind I sit then stand
Sound the alarms – I can’t think, I can’t hear-
Can everything stop? I should raise my hand,
But the pain of doing so is too severe
I glance around for a comforting hand
Protruding eyes make it all disappear
Wait, breathe within my mind I sit then stand
Participation is still in demand
Senses going haywire, mind unclear
Can everything stop? I should raise my hand
What are their expectations? Something grand?
No, relax, just wait - one thought interferes
Wait, breathe within my mind I sit then stand
Can you stop it? You should just raise your hand!
-Anonymous
The Story
I tried to write a book
And began with an idea
It all went nowhere
And I soon lost hope
I tried to write one again
Cherished its plan
I soon began to write
But it went nowhere in the end
I tried a third time
Surely for charm
Yet no luck came about
My ideas met ill harm
I tried a fourth
And my writing met fruit
Yet as rough as it was
Its revision an ill pursuit
I tried my fifth time
Running out of hope
No plan, no paths
It met the end of the rope
My sixth and final time
I had no standards
I just wrote and wrote
It fell silent in my mind
I deny the inevitable
I believe my put downs
How can such a writer
Hear how success sounds
My words remain unspoken
My tales remain untold
My works remain unpublished
How does this story unfold?
Perhaps you're struggling
To find yourself
Look in a mirror
It tells a good lie
We know not ourself
We know not our path
We know not the truth
We know not our story
And only we can write it...
- D.J., ASMS Junior
An Audience
I speak of deaf ears
Wondering who hears
My tragic insane mind
Unfit for humankind
As chances may be
Perhaps you'll see
This is all that's left
Stripped by theft
Somewhere, somehow
Surely far from now
Someone will listen
As my tears glisten
It would be a first for sure
To be granted the grandeur
Of an audience of someone
To appreciate what I've done
All I ask is to be heard
My silent, sorrowed word
My asking price far too low
I just want someone to show
An ear, an eye
To hear, to cry
I just want a reaction
I desire an impaction
If only I could show you
You'd be among the few
To answer my pleading
To show I'm succeeding
But the stands remain empty
The stage spaced plenty
The audience I've sought
Has come to be nought
- D.J., ASMS Junior
A Few More Words From W.T. Cat
It had been a week since the dimensions collided. A week since everything I’d ever known, ever loved, had been taken over by another world: a world full of monsters, intelligent and cunning monsters. The moonlight showered the dark sea, a reflection of silver on the lapping waves as salty air wafted around us. I couldn’t help but think about what lurked down there before the incident, and what lurked down there after.
I shivered as I began to contemplate how I could ever survive in a world where such evil had taken over…
Crunch crunch crunch
I sighed as I looked over my shoulder, my thoughts rudely interrupted by my passenger. Look, I didn’t mean to take the raft that was occupied, and it was hours too late when I realized someone else was already on the raft, curled up in the corner. Wallace The Cat, W. T. Cat, if you’re more familiar with his pen name, was an obnoxious and arrogant black cat with spectacles fitted perfectly to his eyes, now surrounded by bags of chips, my chips, as he turned his head towards me.
“Do you mind?” he asked. “I’m a little busy here,” he snapped as he motioned to the corpses of the chip bags scattered around him.
“Do you mind?” I snapped back.
This is the most we have spoken to each other in three days. I once asked him what he did for a living in his old world, and he told me he had been a professor. “One of the best professors to ever live,” he had boasted. When I asked what subject he taught, he simply replied, “A poet never tells.” From that, I guessed English and took it to be true when he scowled, to which he simply ignored me, until now.
Now that we were on talking terms again, though, I was determined to get more information out of him. After all, we were going to be stuck in a new world together.
“Why English?” I asked.
He huffed. “English literature, and I don’t talk to human girls who don’t appreciate my work.”
A mischievous smile formed on my lips. “That’s not true. You’re the biggest piece of work I’ve ever met, and I appreciate not being completely alone.”
Finally, he sighed and walked over to where I was sitting on the raft, gracefully sitting down next to me. I tried not to let shock color my features, keeping my lips in a straight line as the two of us turned and watched the moon’s wondrous figure illuminate the night sky, the stars dancing around it.
“You can learn many things from a story,” he began. “You can learn to defeat a monster or fight a dragon and be the hero everyone wants you to be. Or, if you’re a real hero, you can befriend a monster as well. Sometimes they’re the exact same thing. You know, defeating and befriending. You can’t do that in the real world. At least,” he mumbled, “not in the other real world.”
An awful mixture of pity and guilt burned my stomach. “It’s a good thing the world is hardly real anymore.”
He laughed. “Indeed, it is true. Another thing about books, though, and poems or really any story made pretty and painted with words, is that there is almost always something about the world that is a disaster. You see, if people just simply paid attention to the disasters, then we would be able to defeat all of the monsters.”
“And befriend them,” I said.
“And befriend them,” he echoed.
I stood up. “In our new world then, we’ll defeat and befriend all of the monsters that cross our path. And, build a world from every story that we’ve ever read.” I picked up another bag of chips and placed it beside Wallace, sitting back down next to him as we continued to look at the moon, dreaming of a world where monsters became friends, and stories became truth.
- Becca McAuliffe, ASMS Senior
HOMEWORK OFFICIALLY BANNED FOR VIOLATING HUMAN RIGHTS
Prose Satire
Gone are the days we toil and weep, fellow prisoners! Though they keep us imprisoned behind the metallic cages we call fences, though they force us to endure the mental torture known as Calculus, and though they expect us to work for 2 full hours of our 'free' time, we can rest easy knowing they can, however, no longer force us to engage in the horrific activity of homework. A recent study by a few sociologists wishing to remain unnamed came to a conclusion last week that the enforcement of homework was in direct contrast with several rights protected under the Constitution. Unfortunately I didn't pay attention in history class, so I can't tell you what they are but we just have to take their word for it. Rejoice my comrades! To Progress! To Freedom! To Liberty!
- D.J., ASMS Junior
Freakshow
Prose
Series: Villain of the Week
Episode One: The Order Quarter
The man walked through the hallway of the building, his footsteps echoing throughout the long corridor in slow, long strides. Some say he wore all black because he was in a constant state of mourning. Who says this, though, is unclear as this being is only seen in a dream, or perhaps more in the wisps of our nightmares. His name is one that is carried on the winds of whispers of those too afraid of sounding insane, or perhaps those too embarrassed of being scared of such a silly thing.
His true appearance is a mystery, no one ever recalling anything about this man’s face except for his eyes, or eye. Where his right eye should be is a smooth, gold pocket-watch with hands unmoving. Many claim that this is all they have ever seen of his face, calling him an eccentric phantom, a dream that is a result of one too many parents telling their children scary stories to get them to eat their vegetables.
One thing is known by all about this man: he only comes the night after one has a nightmare. Why this is, no one has ever been able to figure out, that is until now.
The hallway was dark, dimly illuminated by indoor-street lamps who tried their best to stand still as the man slowly walked past them. Sighing in relief, each one turned off their lights as he went, a trail of darkness forever following in his footsteps.
The hallway became pitch-black, nothing but an end to a beginning the world has never been able to figure out as the man reached a door at the very end of the corridor. Reaching into his trench coat, he pulled out a ring of twenty-eight keys and flipped through each one with a drawled Clink, Clink, Clink, finally holding one up to the last stream of light from the nearest lamp.
Turning the key in the lock, the door that was nothing more than a shadow opened as the man beheld what was in front of him. Twenty-six cages built into the walls stood opposite of each other, black cloth covering the beings inside.
The man smiled as he beheld the cages -- each thing inside coming from only the most horrible nightmares he searched. And with this, he walked into the room as whispers rose from the cages, the last light slowly dying out. It was as if nothing had even existed behind him anymore, the sound of the mysterious door closing and the faint rhythm of a clock ticking as the word freakshow was carried on hushed voices, the last light fading away into the oblivious nothingness we call the end.
- Becca McAuliffe, ASMS Senior
Freakshow
Prose
Series: Villain of the Week
Episode Two: Eville Noteworthy
Lightning flashed across the viridian sky, the green atmosphere thick with fog and fear. The man walked through a copse of barren trees, Spanish moss hanging down their limbs like corpsified hair. He stopped to observe his surroundings, tapping the golden pocket-watch where his right eye should be three times until the faint ticking of the hands sounded.
The fog began to curl around the base of the dead trees as the man proceeded to walk, pulling out the large ring of keys from his trench coat.
“You could make this easier on both of us if you just come out,” he said as he flipped through the keys, holding one up to the misty, green light.
A sour wind whistled through the woods in response, a hollow echo of an answer. The man sighed as he paced back and forth. “Ah, I see,” he began as a scratchy laugh rasped from his throat. “Death itself has a fear. How shocking!”
He was met with nothing once again.
“And what are you afraid of?” a small voice asked from behind the man.
He turned around in a whisk to be met with a young girl who had snow-white hair pinned up in three neat curls and two black eyes. Her skin was pale, toned with a slight blue hue. She wore black-and-white- striped leggings with a dark-red coat, her face grave and curious.
The man smiled. “Nothing,” he said with a curve of his lips. “What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t know anymore. Who were you talking to?”
“An old friend.”
Sadness crept into her eyes. “You said their name is Death?”
He gave a small smile. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”
“Why would I be afraid of something that I’ve already faced?”
He shrugged. “It gives you all the more reason to be afraid of it, in my opinion.”
For the first time, the girl gave a small smile.
“What’s your name?” The man asked.
She thought for a moment, studying the dead sky. “Eville Noteworthy. What’s yours?”
“Junebug.”
Her smile grew wider before a branch from one of the trees reached out and grabbed the man, the moss hanging down in its face to reveal a petrified figure. The girl screamed as Junebug held the key up to the sky, lightning flashing once again like a wicked claw. He held out his other hand toward her as more trees began to move.
Eville looked at him tentatively. “What if he’s there?”
Junebug didn’t have to ask who she was talking about as the tree began to pull him farther back. “Trust me,” he sighed, “he’s not here and he’s not there.”
Eville looked into Junebug’s eye, tears welling up in her own as she took his hand. He pulled his other hand free of the tree as it screamed, holding Eville’s hand in his other as he threw the key on the ground, the sky turning into a bright beam of light as the two disappeared.
-Becca McAuliffe, ASMS Senior
Freakshow
Prose
Series: Villain of the Week
Episode Three: Wallace T. Cat
The tavern was crowded, filled to the brim with only the cruelest, most malicious creatures of all the land. The pirate sat at the round table, twisting his knife into the dark wood while gazing at his hand of cards, mischief in his black eyes as he peeked through his greasy blonde hair at his opponent.
The black cat was ordinary, perhaps even described as forgettable. It was his eyes that set him apart, the swirling thunderstorm striking with each look, along with his red bowtie that elevated him from the rest of the dirty vermin in the tavern.
“Two elves, and a vampire,” the pirate said in a rough voice.
The cat looked down at the cards and back up to the pirate, a small sigh escaping him . He placed down a single card, gasps sounding throughout the room. “The Master of all Things,” the cat said in a smooth, elegant voice.
A man standing behind the pirate gasped. “My god,” he began, “he’s British!”
Suddenly, the pirate flipped the table, glass shattering on the floor, ultimately prepared to see the cat crushed under the weight of the wood. A harsh laugh escaped him as he shoved the table aside, only to be met with a stack of wet cards. He bent down to pick them up, realizing that each and every one read Master of all Things.
The man turned towards the tavern window to be met with the cat silhouetted against the moonlight.
“You liar!” he yelled across the room.
The cat contemplated the insult for a moment. “My good sir, you have a finite amount of breaths left in this world, so believe me when I say that I am honored you’ve wasted so many on me.”
As the cat turned away from the gaping faces, he lifted a singular back paw and knocked a small vial of liquid off the ledge, jumping into the moonlight as screams erupted from behind him.
He smugly walked into the woods, the screams echoing in the distance as he curled up against the base of a particularly gnarled tree, closing his eyes as thoughts overtook his consciousness. That is, until the faint sound of a twig snapping echoed from the trees.
The cat looked up, disdain painted on his features. “My god, the paparazzi,” he muttered to himself. He sighed and placed his head back down, determined to ignore the interruption.
His breathing became even as he let the thoughts run through his mind once again, heaving a deep sigh as two hands suddenly grabbed him. The cat looked up, his features calm, as if he knew this was coming.
“Hello Junebug,” he said, “how unexpected.” The cat looked behind Junebug to where the young Eville was standing. “Actually, that’s new.”
Junebug smiled, the hand in the watch ticking quietly. “Hello, Wallace.”
-Becca McAuliffe, ASMS Senior
Freakshow
Prose
Series: Villain of the Week
Episode Four: Most Horrid Color
Wallace the cat had several unfortunalities occur in his life. As perhaps the greatest villain in all of the land, he was and would always be subject to them one another, more so now, though, with the presence of Junebug. The scheming, conniving-
“Dear Wallace, do you think so lowly of me yet still?”
“Perhaps,” the cat said as the three sat in another tavern, one in which Wallace had not committed grave homicide in. Eville sat next to Junebug and stared at a map on the table in which he had lent her as the odd man sat and stared at the cat across the table from them.
Wallace began to drink some of the milk set in a small glass on the table as Junebug watched him. The cat took notice and awkwardly looked up. “Be honest, does this bowtie make me look fat?”
Junebug could only stare at him, partly in confusion, and partly in awe of his lack of self-awareness.
“Excuse me?”
“Well, you know, I just didn’t know if it was my color or not. You know, red is a bold color.”
“Let us not discuss such trivial matters, dear fiend, and let us get down to the point. You know why I’m here-”
“Because you know, red may be a loud statement, but cliché? Now that’s a horrid color...” He trailed off as he noticed Junebug’s ring of keys on his wrist. “All right with it, take me to my cage, now will you.”
Junebug put his hands together and rested his head on them, still looking Wallace in the eyes.
“Well,” Wallace began when he got no apparent answer, “aren’t you taking me to your odd little hobby of collecting the dirt you scrape off of people’s nightmares before they’re born into the world, or something like that? Sorry, I never actually read your job description.”
Shouts and curses sounded from the far end of the tavern, drawing their attention momentarily until Junebug looked back at Wallace. “They’ve all escaped.”
Wallace choked on his milk, managing to get an “All of them?” out between coughs.
“All of them,” Junebug confirmed. A wicked smile formed on the edge of his lips as he held up a singular piece of paper, Wallace frowning once again.
“So we’re blackmailing now?”
“So we’re blackmailing now. And you’re going to help me get them back,” Junebug said as he slid the paper across the table which read:
Wanted
Dead or Alive
Wallace The Cat
-Becca McAuliffe, ASMS Senior
Freakshow
Prose
Series: Villain of the Week
Episode Five: Taffeta Truepenny
That insolent boob thinks that he can get best me at my own game-
“Powerful words from such a small being,” Junebug said, a slight smile threatening his features.
“I will have you know,” Wallace began, “that I do not appreciate having my own thoughts stolen from me. Nor do I have the intention to help you. I would only be a nuisance to your highness. I mean, I believe your exact words were something along the lines of ‘such a small being.’”
Junebug reached for the paper and slid it back towards him, rolling his eyes. “Now don’t be so coy, cat. You know good and well what we need to do.”
Wallace jumped down from the booth and started to walk away, tail swishing behind him as he said, “Well it’s been fun, buggy boy, but I’ve things to attend to…”
His voice trailed off as the tavern went quiet, an unnatural stillness settling in the air.
For the first time that evening, Eville spoke. “Down with the pleasantries and burn the frost, for your mind shall soon be mine and sooner enough lost.”
Wallace whirled around and hissed at Junebug. “You used me as bait? For the Child-Witch?”
Junebug shrugged.
“Oh, well if that’s so, then you’re not an insolent boob, you’re a stupid, moronic, dumb, and insolent boob.”
A shattering cry sounded from the other side of the tavern as the other beings in the room suddenly disappeared, leaving Wallace in a new oblivious darkness.
“Junebug, this is not funny even to your dry humor. I’ll give you to the count of three before I shove-”
“Such powerful words from such a small being,” a voice sounded.
Wallace rolled his eyes. “How original. Well, if he thinks I’m a fiend then just wait until he gets a look at you.”
“And why, dear villain, do you say this?” the voice asked.
“Well you see, whatever pretty poems you’re making me spout out to the poor fool won’t work on him, witch.”
“And what if I say it already has?”
Wallace sat down, his tail curling around himself as sighed. “Taffeta Truepenny, what a most unpleasant pleasure. Please, please, spout another poem if you will.”
A single match was struck as it illuminated the skeleton hand holding it.
“Oh dear, I forgot that you were a theater major in Hell. Enough with the drama, Child-Witch, I’m still waiting for my poem.”
“Down with the pleasantries and burn the frost, for your mind shall soon be mine and sooner enough lost. Ode of my words, long drawn out and gory – for this will not be a poem, this will be an entire story.”
Wallace, nearing his peaceful slumber, yawned before giving a slight smile as he lay down. “Excellent.”
- Becca McAuliffe, ASMS Senior
Freakshow
Prose
Series: Villain of the Week
Final Episode: Forevermore
Eville stared at the bony hand, each tip of every finger filed down to the point of a needle. The flame licked the small match, the wood shrinking with every passing second until the flame reached the hand, blinking out of existence. In her life, Eville Noteworthy knew little of the living, though she knew enough to know that the enemy she had encountered was of no such condition. Just like her.
The hellscape she was in must have been because of the Child-Witch – or so she thought.
“This is most anti-climactic, Taffeta. Does your degree absolutely no good,” the familiar voice of Wallace said.
A skittering sound echoed throughout the dark followed by a hollow laugh. Taffeta Truepenny’s voice was the equivalent of a thousand knives all sharpening at once, and the equal of all of the knives claiming their victim. “On the contrary my dear,” the knives screamed, “the real show hasn’t even begun.”
Suddenly, a flash of lightning illuminated the area around them to reveal the Child-Witch’s true figure. Her arms were a thin mixture of bone and rotting flesh, her hair nothing more than a few vines growing on her present skull. Her face was hidden behind a white masquerade mask, the eye sockets outlined in red to bring out the stunning green which the villain’s eyes held. It was her body, though, that was perhaps the most terrifying part of her. Eight legs grew out of her, her torso covered by a black cloak covered in holes. Each step was a crawl, the sharpened bones of her toes click-clacking against the cobbled street near a patch of forest in which they stood.
Wallace laughed as he turned his head, his amusement dying as he noticed the hidden figure of Eville. The cat turned his head towards the monster, who lit another match. “Tell me, Taffeta – have you ever been to Paris?”
Lighting flashed again, revealing her figure approaching the cat. Closer and closer she got until she was less than a foot away from Wallace, who was still lounging against the base of the tree. She held up a single needle of a finger and raised it in the air, prepared to strike the cat.
“I hear it’s awfully nice this time of year,” Wallace sighed.
“Indeed,” Junebug said from behind Taffeta as he clicked through his ring of keys, holding up one particular key made of rusted iron intertwined with gold vines. “So terribly sorry you won’t be able to see it, dear Taffeta.” Junebug threw the key on the ground, the earth obeying his command as the ground shook, swallowing up the entirety of the Child-Witch, leaving nothing behind except a sharp scream.
“I think you’re stupid,” Wallace said to Junebug.
Junebug pocketed his keys. “I might actually agree with you.”
Eville walked up to the two as Wallace groaned. “Such a small being,” he scoffed. “You only ever wanted me for my body.”
“Such small beings make excellent bait, especially the ones that are the most wanted,” Junebug laughed.
Wallace rolled his eyes as he stood. “Well?”
“'Well' what?” Eville asked.
“Well, what next?”
Eville and Wallace both looked at Junebug with the cat’s question dancing in the air. The odd man said nothing as he pulled out his ring of keys, flipping through each and every one, a wicked smile invading his face. The three exchanged glances before Wallace simply stood and sighed, off to the next villain, forevermore.
Thank you for reading “Freakshow”! “Reaper” short story coming soon.
– much love, Becca McAuliffe, ASMS Senior
A Word From Anonymous
Poetry
I walked a mile, but in whose shoes?
I prepare to walk my way back
Am I now in my own, or have they been replaced
The only way is forward regardless
Nature listens,
Hears my cries
It doesn't talk back
It only embraces
I hear the chirping, the rustling
I hear the music in the distance
I see the towering trees
I see the power lines
The road is seldom traveled
And yet it is paved
I get lost in nature
And yet the miles are marked
I can only go halfway in
Before I make my way out
Though I found a part of myself there
So too, one I left without
Do I miss it?
Does it miss me?
I shall soon return
Though life passes me by
-Anonymous