Category: Issue #02

Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #02, Poetry

Shattered Stained Glass Or, Living Amongst the Stars

Posted on by Post Script Magazine

By Sara Malott

She sits on the cushioned church pew
staring out the window.
She doesn’t quite know
what she’s looking for,
but she won’t find it here.

Help her,
hold her hand
and tell her change is coming.
She doesn’t need Jesus;
she needs something she can see.

We used to exchange baseball cards
and friendship bracelets.
Now, we are trading pictures
of worlds we wish we were a part of
and almost-real memories.

Someone told Church girl
her friend just bought a one-way ticket
out of this world.
If the big man couldn’t save her,
can he save anybody else?

I’m asking to go back to when
the only distance that mattered
was how far I could ride my bike.
I’m asking to go back to when
scars could only be accidental.

We try to open our ears
and let in everything we’ve tried so hard
to push away.
It’s hard to tell the difference between noise and advice
and the difference between advice and unanswered what-ifs.

They are praying for peace.
Praying for health, love, and prosperity.
But when it comes to our sons and daughters,
struggling to make it to morning,
everyone forgets how to fold their hands and speak.

When we close our eyes and close our minds,
nothing will ever change,
the stones stay unturned,
and the flower remains untouched
when the child doesn’t come out to play.

They ask how any young child
might know enough
to want to live amongst the stars.
“She was just a teenager,” They say,
“She hadn’t seen the world yet.”

They don’t understand, and it makes them angry.
But they should be thankful.
You see, it is a much simpler life
when you don’t understand
why anybody would want to give it up.

But Church girl, they need to understand
and you are going to be the teacher.
They’ll listen to you, honey.
You’re an insider.
And you’re the last chance we’ve got.

So now I say to you Church Girl,
shatter the stained glass panes.
You can have my hand to hold,
but you can’t change a thing
if they never hear your voice.

Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #02, Poetry

To Those Who Will Date My Little Sister

Posted on by Post Script Magazine

Inspired by Jesse Parent’s “To the Boys Who Will One Day Date My Daughter”

By Derek Frazier

To those who will date my little sister.
I am warning you now.
My little sister will not come
with a warning sign, or any label
of any kind for that matter.
But you will fall hopelessly
in love with her.

You sucker.

You will fall in love
with the sideways curve of her smile,
with the massive collection of pillows and
stuffed animals on her bed.

You will fall in love with the messes she will make
on her bedroom carpet. That massive pile
of random things from her numerous hidey holes
and shelves. And when you ask what she’s doing
with all of those things she will look you dead
in the eye and calmly say
“Go away. I’m trying to get my life together.”

You will fall in love with her incredibly
rusty Korean, her obsession with manatees,
her dreams of becoming a mermaid, and her
insistence that “everything tastes better with ketchup.”

Don’t freak out when she randomly decides
to make velociraptor sounds during quiet moments.
Don’t question when she suddenly declares
that she is a potato.

She will flip the world you live in upside down
and inside out. You will right yourself and
come back wanting more.
Losing yourself in the blue of her eyes,
the hiccups of her laughter as it echoes
throughout your bedroom.
She will take your heart and treat it
gently because your love wasn’t a gift,
it was a privilege.

Six billion people walk this earth.
Only one of them is my little sister.
Please, hold her close when she cries
and promise her that tomorrow will be better.
Be the reason I hear her giggle on the phone
when I’m away at college or far away living
my own life.

Comfort her, take care of her, love her,
promise her the world and mean it.
Be the saltwater to this little mermaid,
and it wouldn’t hurt if you took the time
to learn a little Korean.

 

Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #02, Non-Fiction

Dear My Itty-Bitty Self

Posted on by Post Script Magazine

 By Derek Frazier

Dear itty-bitty me,

Relax. Discover. Dream. And don’t doubt yourself.

Relax. Math will always be something that challenges and frustrates you, but it’s nothing you won’t be able to handle. Your anxieties will never go away. You will experience true and earth shaking anxieties. Anxieties about fitting in, and not making friends, whether or not you’ll ever fall in love. You’ll fit in just fine, you’ll apply to an art school where being goofy, tea addicted, and book obsessed is almost a requirement. You’ll make friends, lots of them. Friends who will always have your back and who you will always be there when you’re angry, sad, or lost in the world. You’ll never stop being a big softy, kind and polite, and there is nothing wrong with that. You’ll fall in love too, a lot. But that’s okay, because you’ll learn that to become the person writing this letter you’ll need to understand what it means to truly love someone more than life itself. And how much it hurts when you lose them.

Discover. Branch out. Pull yourself out of the fantasy-obsessed trench you’ll dig yourself in sixth grade. You’ll learn that you are a pretty good poet, that creative nonfiction isn’t as bad as you thought because you love journaling. You’ll learn things like how to find the volume of a cylinder, that weight is actually the amount of force gravity has on an object, and that your second favorite color is grey. You’ll learn about other religions, realize you want to be a confirmed Christian, you’ll learn that even though you’re terrified of being an adult you love the idea of being a father.

Dream. Dream big. Dream about owning your own brewery. Daydream about how good the way “Professor Frazier” sounds. Make being a paleontologist a life long ambition. Buy every fossil you can find and spend days covered in dirt. Imagine smiles on your future children’s faces when you read them The Hobbit as a bedtime story. These dreams will allow you to do incredible things, to keep going. You’ll get into an art school and study to become a writer , you’ll climb a waterfall, and you will spend sleepless nights writing poetry.

Speaking of which, don’t doubt yourself. You are stronger than you know, both physically and emotionally. You can do this. Sure, going to school for almost a quarter of your life sounds intimidating but don’t spend your time worrying about that. Think of the family you’ll create, the friends you’ll make and all the things you’ll accomplish. Don’t doubt your abilities, and don’t worry about what tomorrow brings. Because as Mom will one day tell you, “you can only eat an elephant one bite at a time.”

Wishing you all the assurance in the world,
the much, much taller you

Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #02, Non-Fiction

He Proved I Wasn’t Bulletproof

Posted on by Post Script Magazine

By Sean Callahan

If I were able to say two words to him before I moved to Virginia, it would’ve been “thank you.” Not because he submitted to listening to my insane Transformer theories, dreams, and stuttering. Not because he played video games with me until eleven at night, and participated in plastic lightsaber duels with me on weekends. And it wasn’t because he was the only nerd who understood me for who I was. I’m thankful for all of those things, but they don’t compare to the truth.

I’m thankful for Joshua’s choice to break off our friendship. I’m thankful for the end of his visits, the declined PlayStation friend request on my TV screen. I’m most thankful for the day in sixth grade when he shattered my heart into glistening shards of frosty glass with his venomous parting words. Because it was the day I realized I had a heart all along.

I didn’t have one before that day. While we found joy in our video game nerd-outs and Lego wars, I didn’t know how much I’d been hurting him. His other friends slipped into the picture frame of our friendship, and I didn’t like it. For me, our picture frame could only hold only me and him, and no one else. I didn’t like how they’d tease me when I pronounced a word wrong, how they’d ridicule me for being too oblivious in a game of hide and seek. Joshua would join them, and I’d start crying. In the days that followed, Joshua would have silent talks with his father behind closed doors. Sometimes I heard him cry.

I wouldn’t find out until years later why Joshua had these talks with his father. He didn’t know how to react to my breakdowns properly without hurting my feelings, so he’d been consulting his father for advice. So he kept these feelings built up inside, until the day he decided to cut me out of the picture frame.

I’d been playing video games. My eyes were fixated on the TV screen, watching the PlayStation 3 brighten to life. I went to my friend list. Josh was not on it. I thought it was a small mistake, and restarted my PS3. The list loaded again, and my chest began to tighten. Josh still wasn’t on it.

After seeing my attempt at a friend request had been deleted, that’s when I wrote, “why did you delete me?” I wanted to be sure it actually happened. After all… Josh wouldn’t have dropped me without telling me why… right?

“We’re not friends,” was the message that proved me wrong the following morning. I tightened my grip on the controller and shivered where I sat. Already my fingers were slippery on the buttons as I responded. My anger increased as I got more and more negative responses. “Have you thought about the way you’ve treated me? Ever?” He finally messaged. I stopped messaging, turned off my PS3, and began to cry.

I then knew why he’d said what he said. Why he’d managed to penetrate my bulletproof ego with just a few digitized words on a TV screen. The times I cried when he or his friends would tease me, the times when I would break Joshua’s toys as a younger child when I got angry. The times I would embarrass him in front of his friends when I break down crying from the littlest joke. The time when he got me a book for my birthday, using the little amount of money his family had. And my ungrateful, venomous reply. “Uh… a book?”

My arrogant ego blinded by my lack of emotion was not compatible with Joshua. It only caused me to fade out of the picture frame even more, away from Joshua’s friendship, until I couldn’t see him any longer. Until he couldn’t see me as anything but an irritating little dot in the distance.

I wish I could tell him that he helped me learn from my mistakes. I wish I could show him that I hold no grudge against him anymore. I wish I could tell him: Thank you.

Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #02, Non-Fiction

The Street Conquistador

Posted on by Post Script Magazine

By Sean Callahan

It’s September of 2015, and my cousin is determined to show me how to ride a longboard properly. I want to do it, but I can’t get my legs to come to an agreement with my body on how to balance before they send me falling to the pavement. I preferred staying on my bike, where I had the most control, and was least likely to become the next traffic collision. I’ve been practicing as much as I can lately. I’m trying to keep my balance on the longboard, but the little bruises on my elbows and knees reflect my repeated failures.

I fall again, and again, and again. But each failure let me see what I was doing wrong. As my mistakes go away, I’m finally able to get down our street without falling. My cousin decides I’m good enough for going down a hill. My nerves are tensing as we approach the dip of the hill. My brain is tingling with paranoia and my eyes are darting around in all directions. I can see straight down the path around the storm drain, the lines of pine trees, but I’m still worrying about running into an unsuspecting car. I grit my teeth together, hesitating, but forcing myself to trust my cousin. She’d gone down this hill plenty of times without accidents on her own longboard.

Sure enough, the ride isn’t as terrifying as I thought it would be. With the help of my cousin, we keep an eye out for cars, and I slowly glide down the hill. When I know no cars are coming, I close my eyes and feel the Fall wind embrace every inch of my face. It overwhelms the sun’s heat, making me forget that it was eighty degrees outside. The wind invades the inside of my T-shirt. As I slow to a stop at the intersection of streets, I sigh happily.

We do more streets, more hills around our neighborhood. Then, we came to a long hill leading straight down to a street on the right. In front of me, waiting at the bottom is the curb of the sidewalk and an enormous bush. Instead of making the turn my defective longboard decides to let me bounce off the sidewalk and hug the bush. My cousin laughs. I scowl, brush off the dirt and twigs, and go back up to do the hill again. Two more tries and I make the sharp turn. I feel childish, as if I am claiming every street as my own territory. I do the same thing with many other hills and streets, and I boast about it to myself. You can finally longboard without becoming roadkill! You can glide down hills and not die, yay!

When the sun is setting in the horizon, my cousin says she has one last hill she wants to show me. We stop in the middle of the intersection leading to my street, and I don’t see a street I don’t recognize.

“Here,” my cousin says, pointing up towards the line of houses.

But I know she’s not pointing at the houses. She’s pointing up a really steep driveway, leading to someone’s house. I cringe, and angle my neck up at the top of the driveway. I start to walk up the hill and my legs are only gaining inches as I reach the top, showing me how steep it really is.

“You’re not serious,” I say to my cousin.

She places her longboard down on the top of the hill. She demonstrates her going down, and I clench my teeth at how quickly she speeds into the grass of a neighbor’s backyard. She comes back to me. “It’s easy. See?”

I put down my board. My heart is beating faster. I’m certain I’m going to wipe out. I’m going to break my head, I’m going to do a complete backflip and splatter my brains all over the pavement.

“Just do it, it’ll be okay,” She says again.

“I’m not doing this,” I say, shaking my head.

After several frustrated attempts of trying to get me to do it, my outraged cousin takes back her longboard, and storms home. That night, I went to sleep upset, wishing I’d rode down that hill.

The next day, after school, I’m feeling the intense need to redeem myself. I go back to the hill alone. I pray and place my longboard down. I put my feet on both sides evenly, take a deep breath, and edge my way to the hills’ dip.

In seconds, I’ve landed successfully in the grass with both head and brains intact. And I laugh, thinking about how stupid I was to believe I couldn’t learn how to ride a longboard.

Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #02, Non-Fiction

To the Boy Who Didn’t Love Me Back

Posted on by Post Script Magazine

By Taylor Bassler

What happened to spending every weekend together? All of the dates we had planned: Ice skating because our best friends both work at the skating rink, a trip to Build-a-Bear and making each other stuffed animals, driving to a flower field and taking pictures because I could never have enough pictures of you or us. What happened to all of the movies we were going to see?

I don’t know why you actually left. I don’t understand how all of a sudden you went from saying “I love you too,” to “love you too,” to “love you.” Each time, more letters got left out. You think we rushed things, but you were the first to say it. When you told me you knew the way you felt was different, and you didn’t think we rushed things, I believed you. You didn’t care what other people thought, and neither did I.

While we were watching a movie, you told me about past girls, you said none of them had a future with you. You said we had a future, so we planned it. Lots of dogs, a hairless cat, a hedgehog, a monkey, daisies in vases above the fireplace because they’re my favorite. Lots of pictures of us together, all over the walls and counter spaces, showing all the things we did and how much we loved each other. We planned all of the little things we would do when we had a place all to ourselves. Slow dancing in our pajamas in the middle of the night with no music. Me teaching you how to play bass or guitar. You teaching me how to play video games. It was everything I could have ever wanted, and more.

You told me I made you feel like the luckiest guy in the world. Your mom told you that she could tell you were actually happy, and she would know, she’s a psychiatrist, but you like to call her a “feelings doctor.” You told me when I met your grandparents, they remembered my name and who I was even though they’re both forgetful. We both had what we called “tunnel vision,” you told me I was the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen. So how is any of that supposed to tell me that you weren’t actually happy?

If you weren’t as happy as you told me you were, what else wasn’t true?

You told me you didn’t want to keep leading me on, that lying would only make it worse, saying, “It’s not you, it’s me.” I can’t believe you actually used that goddamned line on me. I didn’t think you were that type of person.

I may look like a bitch, with a nose piercing, dyed hair, and all of my black outfits and red lipstick, but I’m not. I still want you back. I still have all the notes, pictures, screenshots of texts, presents, your sweatshirt. I can’t bring myself to get rid of them.

But through all of this, I’ve discovered that I don’t need you as much as I thought I did. I’m not over you, but I’m getting there. Losing you made me realize that I don’t need a boy to make me feel beautiful.

So thank you, for helping me see how beautiful I was with you, and how I am even more beautiful without you.

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Posted in 2016-2017, Fiction, Issue #02

The Color of Kings

Posted on by Post Script Magazine

By Aevin Mayman

Two men stood on the heather-covered hilltop, gazing into the breaking dawn.

The battle chieftain rested with one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other hand fingering the silver band, a pendant, around his neck.

“What do you see, Tellu?” He asked, turning his head to look at the man to his right.

Tellu gazed out upon the valley below, dark hair waving lightly in the morning wind. “I see a kingdom, Ffindán. I see your kingdom.”

Ffindán scoffed lightly, crossing his arms over his chest. The spiraling crow tattooed on his arm seemed to soar as the muscles flexed, the blue inked wings a deep royal color in the dissipating darkness. “That is quite a bard-like thing to say, Tellu.” He said.

Tellu chuckled. “Well, I am a bard, so…”

Ffindán laughed along side him for a moment, then the two fell silent once again.

“I see the time between times,” Tellu began quietly. “I see the first dawn of the fair season of Moffar breaking upon the land.” He stopped and turned to Ffindán. “The land with you as its leader.”

Ffindán gave him a hard stare, but Tellu held his ground.

“As you said, Ffindán, I am a bard. It is my duty to know these things. As your closest friend it is my duty to show you the truth. And as chief bard of the clan of Gofaddain it is my duty to choose its new king.” Tellu put a hand on Ffindán’s shoulder. “And you are that king, brother.”

Ffindán shook his head slowly, the pendant glinting softly as the sun rose. “Tellu, I know you mean well, but I cannot be king.” Ffindán gestured to the settlement sprawling in the valley below. “These people have just lost their king. They need someone strong to lead them. I am afraid I am not that man. I can be a leader, but I cannot be a king.” He sighed as he finished, turning to walk down the hill. “I am going with the next hunting party, Tellu. I wish you well,” Ffindán said and made to leave.

“Ffindán, wait!” Tellu cried, running after the chieftain. He caught Ffindán by the arm and turned him around.

Ffindán grunted and tried to pull away, but Tellu held tight to him. “Honestly, Tellu,” Ffindán said. “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish with–“

“By Airmid’s hand, Ffindán,” Tellu cried, staring the stubborn battle chief straight in the eyes. “Listen to me! I am the Chief of Songs, the Teller of Stories. I am the bard of Gofaddain, your bard. I have been your friend since you entered this clan. Trust me and listen!” He tightened his grip on Ffindán’s shoulders.

Ffindán froze at the chief bard’s hold and gasped, eyes going unfocused. He stood that way for a couple heartbeats before going limp, stumbling slightly.

Tellu steadied him.

“What–” Ffindán swallowed thickly and began again. “What was that, Tellu?”

“That was the A Bheith,” Tellu answered, still holding Ffindán by the shoulders. “What is to be. I have given you a vision of what is to come,” Tellu explained. “Did you see it?”

Ffindán nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said. “I did. I saw the kingdom below this hill. I saw my kingdom.” He turned away from Tellu to face the open sky. His dusky red hair caught the rising sun and erupted in a fiery brilliance. “I saw the people smiling up at me, thanking me for leading them well.” He turned his head to the bard. “What does this mean, Tellu?” He asked quietly.

Tellu met his gaze. “You know exactly what this means, Ffindán.” Ffindán looked back to the valley. “It means you are meant to lead them.”

A flash of light caught Tellu’s attention and he looked down. “Ffindán,” he brought the chieftain’s attention to him softly. “Your pendant.”

Ffindán removed the band from his neck and held it in front of him.

The ornate metal was lit with the rising sun of dawn, transforming the silver it was fabricated from.

“It is gold.” Ffindán breathed.

Tellu smiled. “Yes, it is. A king’s color, is it not?”

Ffindán placed the pendant around his neck and gazed out upon the settlement below, the town just beginning to move as people woke. Dogs began to bark, roosters started their morning cries, children’s voices graced the morning wind.

“You certainly do fill your place as bard,” Ffindán said lightly.

Tellu snorted and turned to walk down the hill. “I certainly hope so, brother.”

Tellu disappeared into the treeline, leaving Ffindán standing on atop the hill’s crest, pendant glowing the color of kings.

Posted in 2016-2017, Fiction, Issue #02

Office Bakery

Posted on by Post Script Magazine

By Aevin Mayman

Monday mornings are the worst. It’s sad, it’s cliché, and it’s irrefutably true. Monday mornings with a throbbing hangover, however, are the worst of the worsts.

“Morning!” My coworker called, throwing up a hand in greeting before entering a staircase to his right.

I closed my eyes at his voice, making a disgruntled noise in the back of my throat. “Morning Jeff,” I groaned, waving in return. He was already gone, but it was the thought that counted. It was only a few moments later that I wondered what Jeff, from the press station, what doing at I.T. I then wondered why I even cared and continued walking.

I ducked my head, hiding from the overhead lights. The new manager was all ‘eco-friendly’, declaring all lights be replaced with some off-brand type of LEDs – the ‘tree hugger lights.’

In any case, they were bright. Brighter than the white yellow they were before the management change and definitely brighter than I was comfortable with.

I rubbed my forehead, trying to massage the persisting ache from it, and turned into my office.

Carol looked from the computer and froze for a few seconds, blinking more times than was probably normal.

I groaned and turned away. “Wrong room,” I grumbled. I counted two cubicle openings down and entered, throwing my bag down with more force than was safe with a computer inside.

I gave the laptop bag a withering look as I sat down, blaming it for the long and arduous process that would be Monday.

The fall had unsnapped most of the buttons holding the top-flap shut, so I just pulled at the offending piece of machinery until it came free.

I sat up from the wrestling match with a groan as blood rushed to my head and cursed the idiocy of myself in the evening before.

I put the laptop on my desk and stopped, staring at the object that rested there with an expression that was both confused and frustrated.

It was a cookie.

I looked around my office, pushing aside various objects in search of an explanation. I stopped and stared at the cookie again. I pushed back against my desk and I slid backwards in my rolling chair, looking outside the cubicle walls. No one. I looked at the cookie.

I slowly rolled back to my desk with a frown. I picked up the saran-wrap-covered sugar cookie and inspected it before slowly unwrapping the pastry and taking a bite. It wasn’t a bad cookie, not by any means, just a very unexpected one.

There was another cookie on my desk the next day. And the next. And the next.

That next Monday morning I entered work with a strange determination that had managed to get me out of bed at 5:00 am. I wasn’t happy about it, not in the slightest, but I was curious. Very, very curious, and that somehow pushed me into the office early enough to catch the mystery baker.

The lights in my hallway were off. At this point, it was probably only the manager’s assistant that was at the office. It wouldn’t make any sense for any other lights to be on, so I didn’t spend much time on the thought.

I.T., where I worked, was on the third floor of my building, and my cubicle was the fifth down.

Even from the stairway entrance, I could see a faint shadow cast from the constant emergency lighting. It was in front of the fifth cubicle down.

The floors on any level above the second creaked with an infuriating persistence, so I kept to the walls.

I was creeping along the wall of the third cubicle when a figure emerged from the opening of mine. I stopped. “Jeff?”

Jeff turned, spinning on his heel and stumbling. He caught himself on the wall and offered a strained grin. “Hey,” he said. “Figured you’d show up eventually.”

“W-” I began, clearing my throat and starting again. “It was you?” I asked incredulously.

He shrugged and scratched his neck. “Yeah,” he stopped and smirked painfully. “Surprise!” He looked down and took a few steps forward. “I know this is, like, really awkward, but, I don’t know. You’ve seemed pretty down recently and I thought I’d do something nice.” He broke off at my expression and held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Don’t worry, it’s not romantic or anything, I just thought it might be nice.”

I still hadn’t said anything, but I dropped my confused expression. Jeff visibly relaxed. I looked at him for a while, trying to decide whether his kindness was genuine or an attempt at bribery. I didn’t really know him all too well, after all.

At last, when his embarrassment became nearly too much for me to handle, I sighed and looked away, convinced. “Well, thanks.” I ventured, casting a wary glance up at him. “That was, that was probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in a long time.”

Jeff’s awkward grin turned to a heartfelt smile and he straightened, shoving his hands in his pockets. He shrugged. “Any time.”

A smile worked its way onto my face and I looked down, shaking my head. The floor creaked as he made his way to the stairwell. “Jeff, wait,” I called. He turned to face me, one hand on the stairway door. “After work, drinks?” I asked. He returned my smile.

“Drinks.” He answered, then pushed his way into the stairwell.

I let out a long breath, walking into my office and swinging down my bag with more force than was safe with a computer inside. I looked up and smiled at the object on my desk.

It was a cookie.

Posted in 2016-2017, Fiction, Issue #02

Open Spaces

Posted on by Post Script Magazine

By Aevin Mayman

“Come on, Teya!” Amy yelled up through the tunnel. “We’ve bugged the boss for months about this project. Now we’re here and you’re just staring at rocks!”

Teya let out a puff of air and focused on the water-carved tunnel ahead of her, looking away from the glittering substance in the earthen walls. “You’ve bugged the boss for months about it. I was just the scapegoat.” She accused. Amy laughed from behind her and Teya rolled her eyes. “We still have a few hours before dark,” she called behind her. “Might as well make the best of them.”

They had been at the dig for five hours already today. Seismic readings had indicated a cavern somewhere ahead in the uncharted territory. In the end, those readings were what had made the boss’s decision.

“Not that it gets any darker in this place, anyway,” Amy grumbled under her breath. Teya grinned. “Hey, by the way,” Amy continued. “The map ends about…”

Teya heard the shuffling of paper and the click of a flashlight.

“Twenty meters. After that’s uncharted territory. We good?” She asked.

“Yeah,” Teya responded. Silence fell as they continued. There wasn’t much room for conversation, as the section of tunnel they had entered had narrowed to merely two feet in height. Army crawls would have to do, and both women were out of breath.

The difference in air brought Teya’s gaze up from the earth beneath her. She paused, lifting her head. Amy collided with Teya’s boots and let out a noise of indignation.

“Teya!” She exclaimed. “What are you-”

“Stop,” Teya said. “Do you smell that?”

Amy shook her head. “No,” she said, then, “The air.”

Teya nodded. “Does it smell fresher to you?” She asked.

“Yeah, it does.” Amy agreed. “Any air shafts would be highly unlikely. We’re more than nine-hundred meters below the surface.” Teya could hear her grinning through her words.

“The Krubera-Varonya cave’s still got us by thirteen-hundred. Come on.” Teya let out a heavy sigh and continued forward. “Let’s keep going.”

She could still feel the enthusiasm of the scientist behind and felt a smile creep onto her face. The air only got clearer as they went on, the musty smell of untouched earth slowly being replaced with fresh air.

Teya pulled up sharply when her arm’s next foray hit open air instead of earth.

“What?” Amy called up. “What is it?”

Teya shuffled sideways so she could pull herself up without moving further over the edge. She reached her free hand back to pull the flashlight out of her belt and clicked it on, shining it forward. “Amy,” She whispered. “We found it.”

Amy’s breath caught in her throat in the darkness behind Teya. Teya moved the light downwards and illuminated the solid ground a yard below her. She slid herself forwards and rolled off the ledge, hitting the ground beneath on all fours.

“Teya!” Amy called.

“I’m fine!” She yelled back. “I’m fine.” She moved the light around the cavern. Amy fell with a thud and a rather obnoxious expression of pain behind her.

Amy scrambled to her feet and came to stand beside Teya. “Whoa.” She breathed.

The light of their flashlights only reached about five meters ahead of them, but the cave was lit all the same. A red-gold light filtered from far above.

“The sun.” Teya said quietly. “It’s the goddamn sun.” She felt herself break into a grin. “Amy, we found it!” She turned and grabbed Amy by the arms. Amy laughed, the sound echoing through the cave. Teya jumped away and looked around.

It was as though the surface above had creeped into the cavern. Long tendrils of vine hung down from the crater. A waterfall cascaded over the easternmost lip to gather in a deep pool at the bottom of the cave. The pool ran into what could only be described as a small river coursing through the center of the cave. The river curved into a hidden vent under the cave’s wall and disappeared. The further into the sun’s light the cave went, the more vegetation covered the cave floor. Green growth clung onto the earth around the mouth of the cave’s roof entrance for nearly ten yards before giving away to water-slick stone. Lush undergrowth hugged the rocky surface beneath their feet, occasionally giving way to pointed rocks that seemed to mold out from the cave’s floor. Tropical trees grew up from the center of the cave, spreading their thick leafy branches into canopies.

As the sun set, so did the brilliance of the cave. The jewel-green leaves and grasses dimmed with the dying light, changing their hue from red to blue. The section of river under the spot of sun slowly lost its glimmer, fading into a deep blue-black.

“Teya.” Amy’s quiet voice broke the silence of the evening. “We did it.”

Teya closed her eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of stone and running water. “Yeah,” she said, opening her eyes. “We did.”

Posted in 2016-2017, Fiction, Issue #02

Painted Red

Posted on by Post Script Magazine

By Claire Dever

Beep. Beep. Beep.

There was noise in my ears. I wanted it to stop. How do I make it stop? I need it to stop. Find it, find it, find it.
No, don’t move. That hurts too much. Where am I? It smells like disinfectant. It smells like stale lemons. I think there’s someone next to me. They’re not talking and their breathing is inaudible, but I feel it. It’s in my gut, right where the stabbing pain is. Why am I in pain?

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Things are coming back to me. I remember her, but only a little bit. Strawberry-blonde hair, green skin. No, not green skin. Pale skin. Green background. Grass? Grass with yellow. Flowers. A field of flowers. Who is she?
The pain is getting worse. I can’t breathe without it hurting. I should go to the hospital. I would, but I can’t open my eyes. They’re glued shut. The smell is getting unbearable and the beeping is breaking open my ears. Any more of this and I might go crazy.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Could someone stop the beeping? Please. I can’t think with it in my head.I remember her smell. She smells like trees and stubbornness. Amber. Her name is Amber. She has small, white teeth and a black dress. She’s holding flowers to her nose. I know she’s smiling because her eyes are crinkled. Why is she smiling? Me– she’s smiling because of me. I can feel it.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I’m bleeding. My blood smells like pennies. The noise is getting louder, the beeping faster. People are running. I can hear the slap of their shoes on the ground. The person next to me isn’t moving. They’re still. They don’t care. Who are they? Who am I?
Slow down. Thinking too much hurts. It hurts a lot. Start from the beginning.
I think I’m seventeen. My mother calls me Jack. I hate that name. It reminds me of my father. My father. He always called me Jack when he unbuckled his belt.
This is for your own good, Jack. He would say. Take it like a man.
I call myself Theodore, I think. Maybe Ted. I like the name Ted, I don’t remember why.
I woke up early that morning. Amber and I drove separate cars to the field. She brought a friend, but they weren’t there the whole time. Maybe they left early.
I can hear someone’s voices. I think I’m underwater. I can only make out a few, bubbly words.

Alive. Beep. Fall. Beep. Terrible. Beep. Who? Beep. Stab. Beep. Blood.

My head hurts. I want to rub it, maybe feel if it’s bleeding. I can’t move my hand much, maybe only an inch or so. Why?
No. Go back. Keep thinking.
My car is red. I chose that color for a reason. I can’t remember why. It’s on the tip of my tongue.
My mother is dead. That I know for sure, as sure as the pain. Her funeral was on a sunny day. There were birds around. I was the only one that didn’t cry. My eyes were as dry as my mouth. My palms were sweaty.
Father died right after Mother. A month. No–two. They said it was soon, weirdly soon. Who is ‘they?’ Aunt. Aunt Ruby.
Aunt Ruby wanted me to live with her. She lived in Idaho. Over a thousand miles away. I refused. There was a fight, a big one. She died four days after Father. How? They died so close together. Something must have happened. Someone must have been after them.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Cough.

The person next to me coughed: a hacking, evil sound. He sounded and smelled like a smoker. His breath stunk of nicotine and mint. He was silent.
Amber. The word blinked through my mind like morse code- Amberamberamberamberamber. What happened to her? Where is she?
She was already at the field when I got there. I remember police sirens, red on yellow, screaming. I fell.
Her friend was a man. His face is fuzzy. I only remember a splatter of red and a swirl of blonde hair. He had white teeth. I saw them on the ground. Three molars. Two canines. One incisor. Three, two, one, a countdown to something. But what? My mind remained blank.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I’m growing wary of the man beside me. He could be dangerous. When he moves, I can hear the soft clang of his belt. He could kill me, that I know. He could strangle me and I wouldn’t be able to stop him.
I hate the man next to me. I hate him. He watches, not moving. I don’t know how long I’ve been awake but it’s enough for me to know that he’s been here longer. I want to kill him– I want to bash his skull in with a hammer. I want to see his brains painted on the walls. I want him to stop breathing and coughing and watching.
Hammer.
Hammer.
Hammer.
There was a hammer with me. I could feel the sticky sweat growing on the sides where my hand was. I wasn’t nervous. I was calm, excited, maybe. The heat pressed on the back of my neck. Why did I wear all black?
Amber saw me with a smile but her body language said that she was scared. I returned the smile, said something about a lost dog. She relaxed. Her friend, boyfriend maybe, didn’t. He was angry. He saw the hammer.

Beep. Beep. Beepbeepbeepbeep.

The noise got faster, louder. I want it to stop. I need it to stop.

Beephurrybeepbloodbeepshockbeepcomabeepwakeupbeepbeepbeep.

Her boyfriend dropped. Amber was screaming. He was moaning. His blood sprayed the flowers like paint, beautiful paint. A dull rage burned through me, becoming bigger and bigger as the hammer rained down, down, down. It was my arm.
My eyes could open. I tried to move my arm. It was sore. A clanging sound echoed throughout the bright white room. It was a hospital room. I was on a bed, a thin sheet covering from my abdomen. I went to uncover my chest, but my arm couldn’t move. Handcuffs. I was handcuffed to the bed. The man next to me was big, beefy with a blue uniform, a police officer. I stared at his gun. I craved to shoot him but my hand was strapped down.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound went back to normal. It was a heart monitor.
Focus. Remember Amber. Amber, sweet smelling Amber. Her blood didn’t smell like pennies. It smelled like dirt and rain and a butterfly knife rammed into my side.
A struggle, a terrible struggle. I saw red when she stabbed me. Her shrill voice made me want to claw out her throat, see her die.
The pressure of the knife in my side staggered me. I fell to the ground. Something sharp. A rock? Hit on the back of the head.
Nurse at my side. Needle in my arm. I don’t want it. Arms are heavy.
Police sirens becoming louder. Need to get out. Need to get out now.
World turning black. Turn the lights back on.
Amber ran to the car.
What car? Where am I?
Blood on my truck. Red blood, red truck.
Beeping slowing down. Thank God.
Sunflowers painted red. Blood red. I always hated the color yellow.
My eyelids are glued together. My arms are heavy.

Beep. Beep. Beep.