Black & Orange 2026

Black & Orange 2026

Editing & Formatting By:

Foreword

By Linda Saad

Get into the Halloween spirit with these tales of terror. 'Cause tonight, the person in your reflection might not be you. Tonight, you might have an uninvited guest hiding in one of your boxes. Tonight, steps may pick up behind you as you turn into a dark alley. Keep on running, don't look back, and land on your feet on the other side. When the clock strikes midnight, take a deep breath, and wait another year to do it all over again.

Cheers to the Black & Orange, 2026!

Table of Contents

“Halloween” by Victor Johnston

“Discovery” by MaryClare Maher

“The Glow” by Leah Andreasen

“This Body, My Prison” by Victor Johnston

“Don’t Worry, You Can Change Too!” by Emily J. Hrostek

“An Eye For An Eye” by Anonymous

“The Stillstone Slaughterman” by Bridget Volpe

“My Boxes” by Madelyn “Mad” Aaronsohn White

“The Lotus” by Paiton Oglesby

“I Can Make You Whole” by Anonymous

“Blood” by Victor Johnston

“My Heart is Up Here” by Lia Larsen

“Hallmark Promises” by Parker Nolan

“How Do You Like My New Head” by Anonymous

Halloween

Victor Johnston

The moon sings to us as
the night sky weeps in onyx hues.
Crystal dreams drop down, 
painting us all in our glory. 

We scream "tonight!"
And people who are not ourselves
walk out of our own front door.
So much blood, and not a drop spilt. 

Caught between two worlds colliding,
Standing at a crossroads, frozen in place.
My chest tightened as the floorboards shook
Under the weight of an endless fear.

Then a sudden rush surged through my veins,
And I took a leap into the open air,
Leaving the earth with my eyes closed tight,
Embracing the unknown, unsure where I'd land.

But I reached the other side,
And the land behind me collapsed.

No turning back to the stranger I was,
Leaving behind my past 
To seek a new path.

The Glow

Leah Andreasen

This Body, My Prison

Victor Johnston

Pure wind courses my veins. My legs
are splintered trees. We fall the same. 

Don’t Worry, You Can Change Too!

Emily J. Hrostek

          The video is going too fast. The beauty influencer has already up and moved on from skin care to her carefully constructed hair routine. Misha groans and slams the space bar, pausing the woman mid-sentence, her face twisted into an awful grimace. Misha makes the face back at her before tabbing back five minutes. The woman is back to poised perfection, though, at this point, her face is covered in an odd green goop. Misha dutifully replicates the motions as she details how to properly massage it into her skin.
          Misha adores Bare Blaire Beauty. She adores any kind of self-care channel, really, but something about the way Blaire speaks really resonates inside her. Maybe it’s her tone, soft and even, like an ASMR channel (even though Blair picks fun at their careful manner of speech on her socials from time to time). Maybe it’s the fact that she is also a white, Midwestern woman in her mid-twenties, but Misha thinks the answer for her infatuation lies in how driven Blaire is. 
          Blaire is committed to herself, unlike anyone else Misha knows in real life or from the internet. The second a new product hits the market to clear up your skin or shine up your hair, she’s on it with a review and an opinion. More than half of Misha’s collection comes from her, and, with how well everything has worked out, she’s more than pleased to keep it that way. 
          Blaire has never so much as offered a discount code for the products. Misha doesn’t mind the hawking of mobile ads or money-saving internet add-ons; everyone needs to put food on the table, and it’s more ethical than lots of the other options. Still, Misha respects that she’s avoided it—especially with the prevalence of shoddy or scary healthcare products across the web, and especially because Blaire’s whole thing is product review.
          This time, when the video gets going, Misha finishes the motions alongside Blaire. When the video cuts to her poised and perfect and ready for the next step, Misha once again hits pause and scurries off to the bathroom to rinse her face. 
          She winces at the skin-care cluttered space on the counter when she flicks on the light. To be clear, it’s a mess—her mess. Her boyfriend Nick is a lot tidier and uses much less counter space in their shared bathroom. Misha makes fun of his three-in-one body-hair-face wash from time to time. Nick just doesn’t care all that much, and Misha really, really does. He does dutifully allow her to treat him to spa day date nights once in a blue moon. It’s funny how his idea of indulgence is a light day for her. 
          It’s not serious, except when it is. Nick scoffs at her sometimes. She’s caught him talking to his friends over their headsets about how much time and money she puts into this—never mind how he also brags constantly about how beautiful and well put together she is. You can’t have both, Nick, she wants to say. You’d have to pick. Besides, Misha likes it—There’s routine. There's order. There's control. It’s not like it stops her from socializing or working. It’s her free time (even if it’s all her free time), and it’s all for her own benefit. 
          She hated how she looked in high school, and she hated how she looked for most of college. Mousey and chubby and plain with too much time to be doing nothing. She wasn’t ever ugly —she would never say something like that about herself. She just wasn’t pretty, and she wasn’t beautiful, or hot, or cool, or attractive either. It was so numbing. It was so stupid. So, one day, she changed.
          Misha spent a lot of money junior year: a thousand dollars to be exact. Between haircuts and waxing and gym memberships and makeup, it all added up into a new life—one that she could be proud of. It paid off: by graduation, she had a boyfriend, a gaggle of hot girls just like her to hang out with, and endless ways to spend her once idle time. 
          Misha spent a lot of money junior year: a thousand dollars to be exact. Between haircuts and waxing and gym memberships and makeup, it all added up into a new life—one that she could be proud of. It paid off: by graduation, she had a boyfriend, a gaggle of hot girls just like her to hang out with, and endless ways to spend her once idle time. 
          Now, when Misha looks in the mirror, the girl looking back at her feels right—most of the time. If she looks too long, her brown, blown-out hair gets dull, her skin gets sunken-in and pale, and her dark eyes look too close together. The skin of her waist looks wrong, and don’t even get her started on the hair starting to dot her arms and legs. Then she’s on to the next video, the next appointment, the next product, and the next hour of her life skids by.
          She just has to keep changing. It’s what Blaire says every time she wraps up a video: “Don’t worry, you can change too!” Said with a smile, with confidence, like someone who knows what they’re talking about. Misha wants to change too. 
          There’s a ding from her phone; Blaire has a new video. Misha lets out a happy noise, jogging over to her computer to queue it up while she gets to work taming the shrew of hair on her head. 
          The title is weird. Instead of any sort of idea about the product or routine being focused on, it just reads, “I changed!” The video takes a long time to load, long enough that Misha reloads the page three separate times before the telltale chime of Blaire’s intro sounds off. Misha claps and scoots closer to the laptop, twisting her hair into a braid. It’s not her favorite way to get her hair out of her face—too much tension on the roots—but it is effective for the hair mask she’s planning to apply as she watches Blaire spread her wisdom.
          The intro is the same as always: a happy jingle with a three-photo montage of Blaire doing her skincare, hair, and makeup. Usually, this is followed by a seamless fade into Blaire sitting in her bedroom, ready to take the viewer under her wing. 
          Not this time.
          The intro fades to black before cutting to a bathroom. The sink looks like it’s made of marble, white and pristine. The camera is positioned on a bathtub facing the mirror, reflected back into itself. There’s a dull hum throughout the whole room, persistent and pulsing, subtle enough that Misha has to strain to hear it. It rises and lowers in pitch like the old dog Misha had as a child, wheezing like it took effort to stay alive. Misha blinks and shakes her head. What an odd thing to come to mind right now.
        The video drags on. Misha sits through two minutes of bizarre silence before she checks the time stamp. Two hours. She gapes. 
        This is weird. Misha likes Blaire enough to sit through two hours of her talking about whatever new routine she’s trying. Not enough to sit through two hours of what seems like an accidental upload of her video setup. Misha starts to tab through, just to be sure she’s not missing something. 
        At the hour and fourteen-minute mark, she hears it. A horrible retching groan. It’s like being next to a drunk girl in the bathroom, if that drunk girl was vomiting up her intestines instead of a vodka cranberry. It’s pained, like an animal hit by a car, and suddenly something that sounded like glass hit the ground. 
        She tabs ahead. More noises. They get worse, more animalistic. The harsh sounds go from glass, to metal, to something softer…something wet. There’s a new noise, like an egg cracking into a not-hot-enough pan. 
        In the last two minutes of the video, something moves in the mirror. The most beautiful woman Misha has ever seen walks into the screen. 
	It’s Blaire. It’s not Blaire; it’s Blaire if you put her through a funhouse mirror, or social media beauty filter— one of the good ones that’s not clearly fake. Her hair is shiny and healthy and voluminous. Her skin is clear and dewy. Her eyes are bright, and yet the darkest they’ve ever been.
	She doesn’t speak. She just stares and stares at the camera. Slowly, her face twists into something that should be a smile but doesn’t reach her eyes. She tries again. Again. By the third time, she’s smiling wide enough that her face could be considered split. She holds it. The video ticks on and on. Thirty seconds left. Blaire holds up a blue bottle. It’s glass and clearly empty, just stained with residue. Then she speaks.
	“Ephemera changed my life. It can change you too.” The video cuts. 
	Misha is stunned. She refreshes the video, but it’s nothing but blackness, like it was never real to begin with. The caption is just a link, the same hyperlink blue that the bottle was. 
	Misha clicks it without realizing what she’s doing. The website is the same blue with only a photo of Blaire against the background. Underneath reads: Buy Now — Limited Quantity. It doesn’t ask for her information: no credit card, no shipping address, or even billing address. The screen goes from blue to white, and the photo of Blaire is smiling that same unsettling, splitting grin from the video. The text has changed too, now simply reading: Congratulations.
	There’s a wiggling in the back of her head. There’s a smile on her face. Misha can’t wait.

                                                                                    ...

	The box comes two weeks later. Blaire hasn’t uploaded since the Ephemera plug, and Misha has gotten antsy. She hasn’t mentioned it to Nick. There’s no point. He wouldn’t get it and poke holes in her thoughts and feelings, telling her that she’s fine as she is and that she doesn’t have to change. 
	He only likes her because she changed. 
	The box comes. Not from the white trucks that deliver her daily mail, or the black ones that deliver her online shopping. It’s a white van with tinted windows moving with the mechanical hum of all electric vehicles. 
	It pulls over, goes still by her mailbox for a few moments, and pulls off. She’s out of the door and at the mailbox as soon as the van is out of sight. She never sees the driver. 
	The box is rectangular, the deepest white she’s ever seen, and freezing to the touch. The top is stamped with a blue diamond. The only words present read out: Refrigerate Until Use. Misha’s face hurts with how hard she’s smiling. 
	Misha sat nude on her toilet lid, legs crossed, reading the instructions. The vial is pretty, like the hydrators she’s used before; a simple cylindrical glass vial with a dropper attached to the lid. The end of the dropper looks crystalline and sharp. The liquid inside is the same blue as the website. Misha’s stomach spirals in excitement. It feels—she feels—special. 
	The instructions are only three steps. Misha reads through it once, twice, three times to make sure. All she has to do is apply three drops to every joint, every pulse point, and inside her mouth. It’s odd for sure, but Misha once did a facemask that worked only if she held her face in front of the oven for fifteen minutes. So, it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing she’s done.
	Misha is eager. She looks at herself in the mirror once more. The same her looks back. Brown hair, brown eyes, charming smile. She’s breaking out and her shoulders are asymmetrical. Her hips look off. Misha looks away and uncorks the bottle. 
	She’s careful with the application. Only three drops to each part of her body, as instructed. As she applies to the backs of her knees she shivers. She works her way up, and by the time she’s at her poor shoulders, she’s trembling all over. She must’ve turned on the air conditioning before coming in. She’s almost violently shaking when she brings the dropper to her mouth and drip, drip, drips the last dose into her mouth. 
	The shaking stops. 
	Misha looks back at herself. It’s still her. A cold pang of disappointment chimes through her stomach. She shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing is ever instant. 
	Then a cold pang of something else shoots up her spine. Misha is quaking now. She looks down at her hands, and the three drops from her wrists are creeping across her skin. It’s like a root system, and it burns, like when she’d press her fingers into icicles as a kid and hold them there as long as she could. She’d pull back, giggling, and press her finger into her mouth and let the warmth of her body bring back feeling. This instinct kicks in, and Misha brings her shaking hand to her face, placing it to her mouth. But she stops. 
          She opens wide, and her tongue falls to the floor with a sick, wet slap. Misha would scream if she could, but she can’t get the right noises to come out.
	The creeping serum has covered her arms, her stomach, her hips. It’s carrying that same freezing burn, but it’s like there’s a million sharp, little fingers pushing into her. They push inside her, past her veins and spear her bones. They wiggle around, like worms in the dirt. Misha falls to the floor. 
	It’s not painful, not really. It probably is, probably should be, but Misha has gone so numb that she can’t recognize it. There’s a blanket over her senses. She’s not cold anymore. She’s still twitching, and her tongue is spasming next to her head. As her head jerks, her hair gets flung around. Nick jokes that she sheds like a dog. If only he could see her now. She’s so glad he can’t see her now. 
	She’s entirely blue when she stills. Her hip is glassy, like the geode coasters she gives guests when they come over. She taps it, and it clicks like nails on a window. 
	It’s getting harder to move. It’s getting harder to stay awake. Any amount of time could have passed by now—minutes, hours. Nick could come home at any time. Misha doesn’t want him to see this, but there’s nothing she can do to stop it. There’s a blueness at the edge of her vision. She doesn’t close her eyes, but everything goes dark. 

                                                                                    ...

	Nick has had a long day at work. Clients have the stupidest problems. He’s so thankful he gets to come home to Misha. He hopes it’s not one of those days where she gets particular about how he chooses to maintain his image. Nobody cares how their IT guy looks. She likes him just fine. He doesn’t need to change, and he wishes she would just drop the lotion and the conditioner and the spa days. 
	The lights are all out when he opens the door. It’s weird, but Misha is usually in the bedroom or bathroom, so it’s possible she just never came out and turned them on. It’s a little annoying, just like how there is nothing in the fridge for dinner, just this odd empty white box. Nick sighs and goes to look for his girlfriend. 
	She is in the bathroom. He knows her so well. She’s standing, perfectly still, positioned with her back to the door. Her hair looks great. He opens his mouth to compliment her, but as the first noise escapes him, she whips around. 
	This girl should be Misha. It is Misha. She looks like herself, but magnified, like something has coated her in a shimmering glamour. Nick’s stomach turns. She’s smiling like a predator. He backs away, and slips on something wet on the floor. He gets a moment to look down and gags. 
That’s muscle. That’s a piece of her. 
	Misha is crawling over him now, and she’s so strong. He can’t get away. She gets his wrists in her hand, and even though he should be able to break free without issue, he can’t. 
	There’s something in her hand. Some vial. Guess it’s a spa day after all.
	Misha seems to notice his struggle and shifts his wrists to one hand. She coos and brings a hand to his face. She’s freezing. She’s sharp.
	“I know I’m different.” Her voice sounds clean. “I know I’ve changed.” She smiles again, and it splits her face. Her next words send a chill up his stomach, and she holds that bright blue vial to the light.
	“Don’t worry, you can change too!”

An Eye For An Eye

Anonymous

The Stillstone Slaughterman

Bridget Volpe

          Daniel collects newspapers. Old ones, new ones, trashy tabloids and papers used to mop up soda spills casted away in the bins. It’s not like he has much else to do on the streets. A good stack of papers can serve as a pillow, blanket, and bed when he finds a nook in the city safe enough to tuck himself into when the stars hang high. He swipes one wrapped in plastic off the front porch of someone’s apartment, somehow untouched into the afternoon, and wonders if anyone actually lives there. Routine. A little calico cat with a missing eye trails behind him, meowing as he hums into the October cold. Daniel reads the headline through the yellow plastic and takes a pause.
          Another dead? Well, poor sap. Maybe he’ll check that out later. There’s enough space in Stillstone for him to find somewhere to read peacefully if he keeps his wits about him, and there’s always someone dying in the city to read about.
          Daniel crouches, puckers his lips, and makes kissy noises at the cat. “C’mere, baby. Are you hungry?” The little animal pads up to him, purring and rubbing her cheek against his outstretched hand. Then she chews on it. 
          “Yeah, I thought so.” 
          With wide eyes, the calico swats at one of Daniel’s long braids. He delicately pulls it out of the way and scoops up the cat. “Let’s get going, Beanie.”
          It takes some maneuvering over the course of the day to avoid getting caught, but after they gather lunch and dinner from behind the grocery stores, Daniel settles with Beanie on the flat roof of an old building, skinny fingers running down the purring creature’s back. Beanie slaps an orange-gloved paw down onto the newspaper from this morning when Daniel pries it open.
          Another Man Gutted in Stillstone Alleyway
          STILLSTONE— A twelfth victim in the current series of murders has been uncovered in an alleyway near Swan Street, across the road from the Mildred Leary Soup Kitchen.
          Locals walking by had reported a foul smell coming from the alley and an abundance of flies in the general area. The body was found buried under trash bags in the corner of a dead-end alley. Like other victims, the murderer sliced into either side of the victim’s mouth up to the ears with the tongue removed. The abdomen was found cut open and no remnants of the victim’s stomach remained inside.
          The approximate time of death of the individual has not been released by forensics. The bodies from prior murders are still yet to be claimed by anyone, and there have been no leads on either the perpetrator or the families of these victims. 
          “It may feel like he’s running circles ‘round us, but he’s not,” said Chief of Police Baron Reilly. “We’ve got a great force, and we won’t stop until we get this filth off our streets.” 
          “Hmph,” Daniel shifts in his seat, nauseous. Beanie is on his lap now, and her gem of an eye watches the sun sink like a ship below the horizon. The rich tanness of his face and darkness of his eyes are caught in the last golden beams of day. Meticulously, Daniel folds up the paper and slides it into his old, worn backpack. He ought to make sure his spot across town is secure before some other person takes refuge from the October cold in it. Beanie follows him as he delicately clambers down the branches of the tree near the building, he himself built like twigs, rough hand over rough hand on rougher bark. The dark is silent; it’s too cold for crickets to chirp.
          Twine Street. That’s it. Halfway there, now. Beanie is inside Daniel’s ratty red hoodie with her face sticking out. Daniel cradles her weight with an arm against his chest as she purrs, not unaware of the man’s stress because she’s living it too, but in solidarity between those damned by society. Daniel has learned to tread lightly in the Stillstone streets, innocent as a breeze, and he doesn’t blame his mother for dying in a world like this. A twig on the sidewalk snaps beneath his foot as he comes face to face with the alley he typically cuts through to get to home base. Daniel’s free hand migrates to his stomach. He thinks back to one of the other articles that followed the killings and remembers that everyone, thus far, has been killed in an alleyway. Bile crawls up his throat. He sucks it back down. 
          If he goes through, he risks becoming lucky number thirteen. 
          If he takes the long route, he risks not having a place to sleep. 
          If he sleeps anywhere at all…
          Daniel moves fast, nimble like a dancer, feet in a rhythm as he flies across the pavement, braids fluttering behind him. Beanie doesn’t mind that he jostles her as he runs because she knows he’d never drop her. The alleyway is miles long, maybe a hundred, maybe two. The length of the road perpendicular to it could wrap the girth of the Earth twice over. But Daniel’s life, much shorter than both, chooses to circle the Earth and hopes to not become his very own Amelia Earhart. 
          Daniel’s heart is a drum. His heart is a stone sent skipping across water but not given the chance to sink. His heart is Beanie tucked to his chest, purring. He squints his eyes against a gust of wind, and the cold air carries the cloud of his breath somewhere off behind him. Whirling the corner and whirling again, the buildings on the block seem to get taller as his feet hit the ground. Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. Is that his footsteps or his heart? 
          Like a lost fly, Daniel finally lands next to Fischer’s General Store on Front Street. Beanie wriggles in his grip to be let down from the sweatshirt and meows. Daniel would typically oblige, but something in his blood slinks like a leech as he approaches the side of the building, putting his hand on the sill of the busted window. “Not now, Beanie.” 
          The cat meows indignantly. This was where he had found her, and it’s always been safe before. So, what makes this time different? What time is it, anyway? Beanie turns around and digs her claws lightly into his chest. 
          “Ow! Beanie!” 
          Beanie leaps onto the windowsill and disappears into the building, slipping away from Daniel like an eel.   Daniel slithers in through the window after her.
          “Beanie!” he hisses, trying to keep his voice low, but crumbled pieces of ceiling and broken glass in the dark made it difficult for him to remain undetected. He’s never had a problem here before, but there’s something new in the air and he’s certain that it isn’t just the last green leaves of summer turning red. Daniel trips on a loose piece of ceiling or maybe part of a wall—he’s not really thinking of which—and falls forward, landing hard in something wet. Beanie is meowing up a storm as Daniel lifts his hand from the floor to investigate the substance, hoping it isn’t somebody’s pee. The fluid drips slowly from his hand, certainly thicker than piss and warm too, reeking with life and iron. Daniel sucks in a deep breath, tasting the metal on his tongue.
          Beanie meows again, straining and drawn out. The moonlight pours through another broken window as a cloud rolls out of the way. The whites of her fur are all dyed red from the puddle. Daniel, heart twisting, turns to come face to face with a corpse marked by a bloody false smile. In the body’s cavernous abdomen lies the empty stomach cavity, the outside surrounding this empty space marked by frenzied slashing, and intestines that lay inside the gut like slimy, cut ribbons. Daniel studies the body’s face, and he recognizes it as what was left of Angelo, an older man from up the block. Angelo had once shared with him a peanut butter sandwich, after lung cancer won against Daniel’s mother. Daniel feels the urge to vomit, but he can’t put a hand to his mouth because it was coated in Angelo’s blood. His breath picks up as it all sets in, and he can’t seem to pry himself from his knees, hiccuping and begging the dead that he will not join them. 
          Beanie headbutts his side and Daniel’s weeping eyes can see clearly. Would the killer return to the scene of the crime? No, what about cops?  Who knows. He can’t be found here. Scurrying to his feet, droplets of Angelo and the memory of his kindness plop unceremoniously back into the stinking puddle. Daniel wipes his hands on his already ruined pants and scoops up Beanie, climbing out the nearest window and swallowing his bile again. He needs to live for Beanie and now, for Angelo.
          The first thing Daniel sees is a cop across the street from him. 
          The cop raises his gun as Daniel raises his free hand above his head, the other one cradling bloody little Beanie who growls in irritation.
          The cop takes aim, fires, and in a split second—

                                                                                    —

          Chief of Police Speaks About Commitment to Solving Stillstone Murders
          STILLSTONE— Chief of Police Baron O’Reilly spoke to the Stillstone Crier about his commitment to solving the Stillstone murders. The count of known victims so far is fifteen, and nobody has come to claim the bodies.
          “When it comes to dealing with things like this, it’s more than just fulfilling my duty as Chief of Police here,” said O’Reilly. 
          Baron explains that his journey towards policing came not only from a desire to serve the community, but something personal.
          “My mother was the victim of the Alabaster Murders in ‘83,” he said. “I watched the man stab her in the stomach maybe twenty-two times— or that’s what the autopsy said. Nobody ever caught him, and I just can’t let that happen to somebody else.” 
          O’Reilly does not think that this series of murders is targeted. “It just seems to be whoever’s out on the street at night,” he said. “Call 911 if you see anything suspicious.”  
          According to locals on Swan Street, at least some of the dead were members of Stillstone’s homeless population…

                                                                                    —

          Daniel spent that sleepless night washing up in a rich family’s manmade pond and raiding the church’s clothes donation bin, riding off of caffeine shots stolen from the gas station. He can’t sleep any time of day now, so he reads on top of the old building. His hair hangs loose, greasy but brushed, and Beanie naps at his side. It seems like every article in this issue is about— 
          Police Sketch Reveals Potential Culprit for Stillstone Slaughters. 
          Daniel pauses and the pounding in his chest starts again. That’s him and he’s he (maybe with a different nose) and that stupid cop just made his life three times as hard as it already was. That must have been Baron O’Reilly that shot at him. A brewing fury that Daniel isn’t used to joins forces with his pounding heart, but he is a murderer as much as a yellow canary eats bears. It’s just impossible. Everyone in Stillstone reads the paper. 
          Beanie stretches out beside him, having licked poor Angelo’s blood from her body overnight. She chirps at Daniel. Mrrr-a-ah. As he watches her, he thanks God that the cop missed.
          Stuffing his hair into a ratty blue hoodie, Daniel exhales and decides it’s time to get going. He pulls the hood over his head and Beanie follows him down the tree. 
          Nightfall. Some October rain graces Daniel with its presence as he hovers by a crosswalk, eyes darting, head jerking, mind shot. He can’t exactly blow town without a car. There’s no buses and too much forest around the area. Nevermind the fact that if he left, he would have no idea where he’s going. While there’s always been the danger of police as a homeless man, now one of those cops has it out for him specifically…not to mention the serial killer thing. Angelo. Daniel wants to hurl. Cradling Beanie, he crosses. There has to be somewhere with a roof around here, or an overhang, or something. Nobody’s out on the streets but him. That’s suspicious, isn’t it? Taking a walk in your own city? He almost kicks a loose piece of sidewalk in frustration. Instead, he keeps walking.
          Daniel gets the sudden sensation of eyes on his back, and the sinking dread pitting his stomach makes him do a double take over his shoulder. 
          A large lumbering man’s stare pierces Daniel’s chest and Beanie goes stiff, grumbling in discomfort. The man’s long blond hair is messy and disheveled in the rain, some sticking up with its sheer volume and other strands plastered to his face by the water. There’s a kind of hateful resentment lingering in his eyes that shoots fire into Daniel’s gut. 
          This is the Stillstone Slaughterman. 
          Daniel stares back as the fire sinks into his knees, and then finally into his feet, compelling him to run, because Daniel is fast and he hasn’t been killed by this world yet, so he runs, and he runs, and he runs, the pitter-patter of his feet matching the angry rain as he turns this way and that, not even sure if he’s being followed. Beanie is tucked close to his chest as he rushes towards an alleyway like living lightning.
          Well, Angelo wasn’t in an alleyway, wasn’t he? Daniel could die anywhere if God were willing enough. God has tried.
          Daniel bolts down the alleyway, but he doesn’t account for the slickness of rain, and his ratty sneakers are flat on the bottom. Beanie presses her back claws into his chest and springs off before Daniel eats pavement, lips kissing the concrete. As he tries and fails to catch himself, his hands and face begin to leak his own blood rather than be coated in Angelo’s. Beanie yowls at Daniel from the top of the wall at the back of the alleyway. Is this a dead end? Daniel pries himself from being flat on the ground to kneeling on his busted knees. In the direction he came from, a voice booms.
          “Feelin’ hungry, boy?” The Slaughterman mocks, blade in hand and lower face masked, bass tone gravely and threatening. The paleness of his face can barely be seen in the dark, but his sharp blue eyes capture what little light is around. “I can make sure you won’t be hungry no more, boy. Can take away the things that make you hungry, boy.” He plods one foot over the over, his feet heavy-leathered and weathered like a soldier from Hell. 
          Scrambling to right himself like a beetle flipped upside down, Daniel realizes that the stinging pain across his body and the lack of sleep has him sluggish, clumsy. Tongue-tied, he can only cry out as he slips again into the mud. “Aah!” 
          Daniel is not built for fighting. The Slaughterman kicks him backwards in the chest with a harsh jab of his boot. Daniel lands on his rear in another puddle and he thinks of Angelo’s blood. Beanie hisses from her place on the wall and the Slaughterman turns his head to face her.
          Daniel grabs a stray brick from the ground and flies into action. It’s pouring now, but this time he’s found his rhythm. Darting around the Slaughterman, Daniel begins to bludgeon him anywhere he can with the red little brick in his hand. He’s too short to reach the man’s nose, but he bashes the bend of his elbow as he circles around, before beating him on his back. The Slaughterman turns around and grabs his wrist, pulling him close. 
          “No! Let go of me! You won’t get me, too!”
          “Oh, don’t worry about it, hungry boy. Kitchen’s here to take care of you,” coos the Slaughterman. “Maybe a little less of our taxes can go to filth like you. So, let me take care of you, hungry boy…” 
          Daniel fails to jab his other elbow into the larger man’s ribs. 
          “...and nobody will have to miss you, because nobody can.”
          Beanie, claws flashing, flies from the wall. Hissing and yowling, she sinks her claws into the Slaughterman’s scalp, biting down wherever she can with needle-sharp fangs. The Slaughterman roars as one of her claws catches his eyelid as she hangs over his face, back feet kicking and ripping down his mask. When he releases his grip, Daniel is given a moment as he stumbles back and gains his footing to study the man through the blood. 
          Pig.
          Then, Slaughterman O’Reilly throws Beanie.
          The scrawny cat hits the wall with a scream, and Daniel yells like a father who watched someone kill his child. He beats Slaughterman O’Reilly over and over again with the brick anywhere he can, knocking the blade from his hand, before finally chucking the brick at his face. O’Reilly falls back in the mud, panting, then unconscious, and then Daniel beats him more to break bones. Daniel looks behind him and sees Beanie slowly standing up from where she landed. He wraps the sleeve of his hoodie around O’Reilly’s dropped blade and angles it towards the corner of O’Reilly’s mouth, ready to cut. 
          Beanie meows at him, banged up, but alive. 
          Daniel drops the blade. O’Reilly lays there bludgeoned and broken, and Daniel’s not sure if he’ll die here. 
          Daniel picks up his purring little cat, quietly and tenderly, then leaves with a shaky breath.

My Boxes

Madelyn “Mad” Aaronsohn White

The small room is humid and cramped with boxes and cobwebbed trash piled high in every corner. I feel a wriggle beneath my toes. I hear skittering from one of the piles. It must be another cockroach—the silly little things. A thin line of arid smoke rises from the dragon’s blood incense I have burning on a plastic plate. I don’t know exactly what I last used the plate for, but it’s kind of sticky which I don’t really like. It makes my hands dirty.

It’s quiet except for the sound my feet make as I pace back and forth on the carpet. I feel sort of nauseous, really. I can’t stop rubbing my nails over my lips. I alternate between my thumbnail and the other ones back and forth, up, down, over again. I still feel kinda sick.

My heart does flutter in my chest as I look at you again though, you’re so pretty. The fluttering turns into a floating sensation, if that makes sense. I pick you up and turn your head to look at me. It’s so heavy. So light. Your hair is still soft. I think that maybe I shouldn't have cut it, but I wasn’t sure if I would be able to digest all of it. I really don’t want to have to go to the hospital.

Your cheeks still squish when I play with them. That makes me smile. I’m really happy you decided to come over today. I thought you might have turned me down because other people usually do, but not you. I want you to know I tried really hard to plan things before you got here. Like, I tried really really hard. I actually meant to take a bit more time and I wanted to be a good host and make you tea or something, but then I realized I don’t have teacups and I didn’t want you to be sad that I don’t have teacups.

You’re kind of getting cold...I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, actually. You turned out to be a massive bitch. Like, I invited you in and everything and I even told all the bugs to stay away from the front door before you came in so that you wouldn’t just turn away at the door or something. I guess I just thought you would, I dunno, maybe appreciate the effort I put in? You even screamed after I told you not to. I tried to explain, but like a bitch, you wouldn’t let me.

I guess I’ll just have to find a box for you too now since you ended up like all the rest. You’re all so stupid. I do appreciate that you’re a bit smaller, though. I’ll have to take the rest of you to the quarry, but don’t worry. You’ll always be here in one of my boxes. If you behave from now on, I might even pet your soft hair from time to time.

The Lotus

Paiton Oglesby

          Sayge watched the last customer leave her cozy corner apothecary shop, Petals and Potions. It was the night of the Fairy Moon, an event that happened once every 100 years. It was a time when magic and spiritual energy were at their strongest, and the supernatural community threw a large festival to celebrate it. Supernaturals were forced to hide their true identities during the day from humans who didn’t know of their existence or of magic. But at night, their illusion charms came off and they were free. 
          The Fairy Moon was one of a few festivals where every supernatural race came together and celebrated, where they shared pieces of their cultures and embraced their differences. Sayge could already hear the melodic sound of the harps being played by some elves as the smell of honey cakes baked by the delicate hands of fae wafted through the air. The goblins were putting on a comedy act somewhere; she could hear a mix of boos and laughs, while the pixies were leading a group in a beautiful dance under trees decorated in fairy lights.
          Before she had the chance to flip over the sign hanging on her door to Closed, the small bell rang and a familiar elf with golden eyes and white hair that rested on his shoulder in a loose braid walked in.
          “Long time no see, little witch.” 
          Zakir leaned against one of the bookshelves that held ancient spellbooks, historical tomes, and recipe books, wearing a grin he had worn since childhood.
          “Well, well, well… isn’t it the notorious elf who disappears for a living.”
          Zakir put his hand over his heart in mock offense. “Oof, dagger to the heart already?”
          Sayge shrugged playfully before hugging him. “It’s good to see you, Z. How has life been treating you?”
Zakir returned the warm, yet brief, embrace before Sayge released him to flip the sign over for the evening.
          Zakir returned the warm, yet brief, embrace before Sayge released him to flip the sign over for the evening.
          “I’ve been well. I recently joined an archery club with other elves to get back to my roots. But you know, most of the time I’m being threatened that I’ll be the next target because I’m the ‘new guy,’ so it’s going… pretty great considering.”
          They shared a chuckle before a comfortable silence fell over the shop. It was only interrupted by the soft sound of purring when Nyx, Sayge’s familiar, hopped onto the counter for pets, which Sayge immediately obliged to. The cat’s fur was sleek and black, and his eyes were mismatched; one was yellow and the other was blue. However, he was blind; the only guide he had was his spiritual connection to Sayge.
          “This guy's still around, huh?” Zakir gently stroked the space between Nyx’s ears—his favorite spot. “Still looking after you?”
          Sayge nodded. “Like always. It’s his job after all.”
          “And your shop? How has business been since…?” Zakir trailed off, hating to bring up a sore subject, but he knew they couldn’t ignore the elephant in the room. A lot had changed since they last saw each other.
          Sayge stopped petting Nyx, but put on a brave face and nodded. “I closed it for a couple months after her funeral. I just… I couldn’t step inside here after what happened, you know?”
          Her mind flashed with fragmented memories of the night it happened. It had been a busy day helping customers and catching up with regulars. Sayge remembered how Iris let out a sigh of relief when the last customer left, and she was able to flip the sign on the door.
          “Finally… it felt like the day would never end.”
          Sayge had chuckled at her sister’s dramatics. “You do realize customers are what keep our business alive, right?”
          Iris playfully glared at Sayge. “You didn’t have to explain what an aphrodisiac is to an elderly elf. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look Mrs. Bloom in the eyes again.”
          Sayge’s laughter filled the shop, and Iris’ joined soon after. But as their laughter died down, a soft knock echoed through the shop.
          “Hopefully it's not Mrs. Bloom with more questions…” Sayge teased, chuckling when Iris rolled her eyes as she opened the door.
          Sayge remembered how Iris had smiled kindly at the stranger who stood on the other side of the door. She had unknowingly smiled at the man who would kill her.
          Another fragmented memory from that night hit her like a shard of glass piercing her chest. She could feel the cold tendrils of dark magic as they held her beaten, bleeding form against the walls of Petals and Potions, a place that used to be her haven.
          “Let her go!”
          Sayge struggled against the tendrils. She had clenched her fists so hard that tiny crescents were left on her palms and blood started to stream from the wounds. Her eyes were locked on her sister’s too-still form, blood pooling underneath her from the wound caused by the dark mage’s blade meant to steal a witch’s magic.
          “Stop! Please… just stop…” Sayge cried, hot tears streaming down her face, teeth clenched tightly to hold back sobs that stung the back of her throat. “IRIS!”
          The dark mage’s lips curled in a malevolent smirk. “She’s already gone, pretty witch. Now… it’s your turn.”
          Sayge’s entire body shook with physical and emotional agony; she felt her soul split in half as her sister took her last breath. But she also felt a rush of strength.
          “Why… would you kill her?” Her voice was controlled but laced with so much pain that breathing hurt.
          The dark mage approached Sayge slowly, teasing her with the same blade that still dripped with her sister’s blood.
          “Don’t you know, pretty witch? Twin witches are a rare artifact. Your blood, your magic… all useful to someone like me.”
          Sayge’s eyes blazed with fury. “You killed my sister… because we’re artifacts to you? To use us for dark magic that turned you into a monster?”
          Sayge’s fists unclenched and a burst of fierce, fiery magic burned through the dark tendrils that vanished in smoke. She collapsed to her knees on the cold wooden floor. The mage didn’t take another step or say another word. He wasn’t able to. Sayge’s grief and agony fueled what strength she had left… and it exploded outward with a magic wave that shattered the windows and destroyed the plague of darkness that was once the mage. Only two figures remained on the wooden floors of the apothecary shop that night. Twin sisters… one dead and one left to survive without her other half.
          Zakir, who had noticed that Sayge had disappeared into her head, gently put a hand on her shoulder and smiled softly, trying to put her at ease. “The festival will start picking up soon. Were you planning on going?”
          Sayge shook her head. She hadn’t planned on going to the festival; she had something she could only do tonight.
          “I was going to stay in tonight. But you should go. The Fairy Moon only appears once a century, and I heard the honey cakes are so good that the orcs are fighting over them.”
          Zakir laughed at that. Orcs had a reputation as warriors and brutes who brawled over anything. Apparently, that included palm-sized cakes made of honey-soaked bread, with sweet strawberry cream in the middle that looked like miniature suns.
          “Sounds promising. What are you going to do then?”
          “Finish closing up the shop before heading upstairs for the night.”
          “Upstairs?”
          Sayge nodded. “I ended up turning upstairs into my own little haven instead of using it as a storage space. That way, I’m just right above the shop.”
          Zakir could tell by the way Sayge avoided his gaze that she wasn’t just closing the shop for the night. He recognized that look she got every time she was planning on doing something she knew he wouldn't agree with. He had known her long enough by now to know she was lying, but instead of confronting her, he nodded. His grin reappeared, but he made a mental note to check on her later.
          “Well, I’ll leave you alone to finish closing up then. I’ll save you a honey cake, yeah?”
          Sayge nodded with a soft smile. “Yeah. Thanks, Z.” 
          She watched him leave the shop and disappear from her line of sight before she headed up the stairs. “Come on, Nyx. We only have a few more hours.”
          The familiar followed his witch up the creaky wooden stairs that led to the space Sayge made her own. Bookshelves lined the walls holding old family albums, wooden figurines carved in the shape of small forest animals she and her sister worked on one summer as kids, and a variety of enchanted plants that wouldn’t fall victim to her lack of free time while running the shop. She grabbed a piece of white chalk from her desk and began drawing intricate designs that symbolized life, death, and rebirth, in the middle of her wooden floor.
          The feline hopped onto her desk, knocking open the grimoire to the spell she was going to use and meowed. The spell was one that could only be used under the Fairy Moon, when magic and spiritual energy were at their strongest. It was a summoning spell: one that would summon Iris’ spirit to the living plain. Magic, however, always had a price to pay. Any magic that concerned death or summoning a spirit from the afterlife used dark magic. Wielding dark magic was the biggest crime a magic-user could commit, because it slowly cracked the wielder's soul and ate away everything that made them who they were; it risked their memories, their magic, and their humanity.
          Sayge was willing to pay the cost.
          When the symbols were done being drawn, she unclipped Iris’s necklace, one with a charm in the shape of a lotus flower, from around her neck and placed it in front of her. She sat cross-legged in the middle of all the chalk runes and closed her eyes. She focused all her magic energy on the necklace, which started to rise above the runes, but as she opened her mouth to start reciting the spell, the door opened. 
          “Sayge?” It was Zakir, who had come back with a honey cake, but paused when he took in the scene before him. Without asking, he walked over to her desk where her grimoire was still open, and his eyes widened when he saw the spell. “Sayge… you can’t actually be trying to…” 
          “Tonight is the only chance, Z. Please, leave-” 
          “The only chance to what, Sayge? Summon your sister’s spirit back from the afterlife? That’s dark magic!”
          Sayge stood up from her place on the floor. “You don’t think I know that? I’m not doing this lightly.” 
          “It’s your soul, Sayge! Do you think Iris would want you to do this? For what? To bring her back and try to fix things?” 
          “No. I know that’s not how this works, Zakir. You don’t understand!” 
          Zakir’s eyes softened at the look in Sayge’s eyes, but he stood strong. He knew she was lying to him earlier, but this? He didn’t want to see another one of his best friends die. 
          “Then explain it to me. You know Iris would never want you to use dark magic. Especially for her.” 
          Sayge’s eyes welled up with tears. She knew he was right. Iris would never want her to risk her soul for her. “I just… I want to know she’s okay. I didn’t get to say goodbye. But I had to see her die.” She turned back to the chalk runes and began to focus on connecting her magic to Iris’ soul across realms. “I’m sorry, Z. But this is something I must do.”
          “No!”
          The cry fell on deaf ears as the dark magic overwhelmed Sayge’s senses. Darkness was flooding into the light of her soul, and Zakir’s voice became a distant echo as the room filled with her incantation.
          “Sayge! Stop!”
          Zakir could see the shadows that weaved themselves into her magic. The once light ethereal spirals were now tainted with a darkness that was slowly eating away at her already fractured soul.
          “I didn’t get to say goodbye. Why wasn’t I strong enough to save her?”
          Zakir knew she wasn’t asking him. She was blaming herself. He knew something broke in Sayge the day Iris died; she had barely made it out of the attack herself. When she woke up, the other half of her soul was missing, and she was left with fragmented memories that left scars he wasn’t sure could ever heal. He approached Sayge slowly, not wanting to trigger a burst of dark magic.
          “Sometimes… not being able to say goodbye is easier,” Zakir said, his voice steady as he watched the shadowy magic surround her. “I know it hurts like hell, and it will for a while, but as more time passes, that pain will slowly fade.” 
          “It will never fade!” Sayge cried, turning back to look at Zakir.
          Zakir’s eyes widened in fear. Her eyes were glowing with an unnatural light, and black veins crawled up her arms, making its way up towards her heart. He knew that if the darkness reached her heart, it would be too late to save her.
          “Iris wouldn’t want this. She wouldn’t want this!” Zakir cried again, his breaths shallow as his eyes widened in fear. Not for himself, but for her, and he made a decision. “I’m not losing you too.”
          With a wave of his hands, vines popped up from the floorboards and trapped Sayge. Elves had a magical connection to nature, something even the strongest enchantments or dark magic couldn’t block. He put his hands on either side of her head as she struggled against the vines.
          “Remember, Sayge. Remember our promise.” 
          Zakir closed his eyes and Sayge felt a warmth flood throughout her entire body. He was sharing a memory with her, to pull her away from the darkness that fed on her grief and pain. It was blurry at first, until three small figures came into view. Sayge recognized them instantly. One of the small figures had short, messy white hair and an all too familiar grin. There were two girls with him, sisters that looked similar and different all at once. The slightly taller one had wavy light blonde hair that was neatly braided, and she had sparkling blue-green eyes that changed color depending on what she wore. The other had long, wavy light brown hair that reached well past her shoulders, but her eyes were different from her sister’s: one was light green, and the other was hazel. 
          It was the summer during her tenth year when Zakir and Iris dragged her out of the house to go stargazing. The sky was so clear that when she looked up, it looked like millions of tiny diamonds shining down on her. Zakir laid beside her on the right, and Iris was on the left.
          “There's so many…” Sayge had whispered, as if talking any louder would disrupt the peaceful scene and the fireflies that made the grass glow.
          Iris grinned. “I told you! It’s the perfect night to go stargazing.”
Zakir nodded in agreement. “My mother always says that when you die, you become a star. See that one?” He pointed to one of the brightest.
          Sayge nodded.
          “She said that’s my father looking over me from the Spirit Realm.”
          “Do you think we’ll become stars too?” Sayge asked curiously.
          Iris nodded eagerly. “I know we will! Plus, that means we all get to be together even after we die.”
          Sayge considered this for a moment before she sat up on the grass.
          “Let's make a promise, then.”
          Zakir and Iris sat up, creating a triangle in the middle of the grassy hill.
          “What kind of promise?” Zakir asked, his brow furrowed.
          “Promise… that we watch over each other until we’re all reunited.” Sayge offered a pinky to Iris and the other to Zakir.
          “We promise.”
          They all interlocked their pinkies on the grass hill that night, and the echoes of their promise slowly faded until the memory disappeared. Zakir freed Sayge from the vines, pulling her into his arms. Tears streamed down her freckled cheeks as the dark magic left her body. The black veins faded, receding only inches from her heart, and her eyes went back to normal.
	“I just wanted to know if she’s okay.”
	Tears streamed down Zakir’s cheek, holding Sayge even closer, as if trying to take the pain away from her. “Iris wouldn’t want you to risk your soul for her, Sayge. She would want you to live on, even if it’s without her. I have no doubt she’s okay, because no matter what, she’ll always be with you. On your good days, your bad days, and all the days in between.” 
	Deep down, Sayge knew he was right. Iris would always be there, watching over her. The pain was still fresh, but every day it would get better even if it didn’t fade completely. She needed to live, not just for her sister’s memory, but for herself, and the first step was accepting Iris’s death and not causing her own.

I Can Make You Whole

Anonymous

Blood

Victor Johnston

The blood is inside me, but it doesn't stay where it should. It swirls around my stomach and forces its way out. It shoots up my chest, my throat, and comes pouring out of my mouth and my nose. The blood leaves scars.  

The same blood still swims in my veins. It tells a story. It tells me of my mother and my father. If I look close enough into the puddles the blood makes, I can almost read the chapters. 

My Heart is Up Here

Lia Larsen

I don't know what I expected from Michael Bauer,
my boyfriend of three years who still can't tell apart to, too, and two.
I asked him to do a couples costume with me, but only if I picked the idea this time
because last year, he picked our costumes
and I refuse to wear the maid uniform he bought me again,
because wearing it once made me want to grab his throat and not let go.

I should have broken up with him then.

This year, I asked him for something simple:
be Perseus.
I had everything sorted out for my own Medusa,
green EVA foam and red fabric and custom Etsy ordered eyes I glued to make snakes and a scaly patterned dress that kept pinching me at my hips, but it came a week late and was all I had to work with
And despite it all, I think it was the proudest I had ever been in my whole life.
I don't think giving birth would have been nearly as monumental as me being Medusa at the Halloween party hosted by my boyfriend's shitty fraternity.

Then he ruined it.

He walked into my apartment with stupid blow up muscles and a fake lion hood that shed more than my 12 year old geriatric dog back at home
and I knew right then that he was not making it out of tonight a taken man.
I know Greek heroes are a dime a dozen, but this was like asking someone what their favorite dessert is and they answer waffles,
which is a great answer, but it's not on the board.
He had a smile on too, a big grin that showed off his crooked, yellowing teeth
and he definitely ate some garlic knots before coming over
because I could smell him in the doorway halfway across my apartment in the bathroom.

My heart stopped.

Of course, he didn't think anything was wrong, all smiles and
“Babe, you're making a big deal about nothing,”
Except I told him to stop calling me babe a year into dating and he couldn't remember that
and he couldn't remember that the man who killed Medusa was a completely different man than the one that killed the Nemean lion
and he couldn't remember that Halloween was more than just an excuse to make out with someone in a sexy nurse costume
because his last girlfriend always wore a sexy nurse costume, and I almost tore the maid costume to pieces the minute he showed it to me.

My heart stopped.

I told him that I had a surprise for him, but he had to wait until that night at the party.
He smiled, all teeth, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of me.
He held my waist too tight with his meaty paws, and an hour after we arrived, he gave me that look
so I walked us into a bedroom in the frat house, and he had finally taken off his stupid shedding lion hood
and I had my hand at the top of my dress, and he thought I was going to pull it down and show him everything, but instead I
tugged down the dress a little and reached for my heart, and pulled

My heart started up again.

He saw my chest open up like a vault door,
the ripping and shredding deafening, blood dripping on the floor
and reveal the organ that was supposed to beat for him
except he couldn't even remember that Medusa was a gorgon without making a joke about Gorgonzola
and his smile dropped real quick when he saw it pulsing there,
beating,
blood racing through every vein,
red organs pulsing in that window into my body
a live subject half dissected for his eyes only.

He ran out of the room without a word,
huge mouth shut for once in his damn life.
I closed the door on my chest again, wiped up the blood from the floor and my dress,
rearranged the skin so it looked like one whole piece,
and walked out of the room
having turned Michael Bauer to stone.

Sugar hearts and candied words
Syrup saccharine and red dye 14
Sickly sweet and too sticky to swallow  
Plastic perfection and teddy bear filler fluff words:  
All this and more I give to you.  
I’d give everything to you.  

I love the brownish, bluish, greenish, grayish color of your eyes.  
I love the flawless skin stretched over your hollow organs, aching insides. I love your bones, your skeleton, your heart,  
Anatomically printed and perfect.  
I love your teeth,  
straight and sharp and pearly white.  
Lips curling over and tongue curling under.  
I want your empty, wordless mouth. 

Cupid shot me 
My organs are spilling out,  
Blood tainted, flesh stripped,  
And bones broken, teeth stained.  
Poison arrowhead lodged firmly between my ribs. 
Belladonna’s kiss killing me oh so sweetly  
I’ll open my veins for you.  
Is that what you want?  
Is that what you want?  
If you want it it’s yours. 
 
I’d cut you one million red roses,  
Colored by Aphrodite’s blood.  
You are my Mona Lisa, my Galatea, my perfect painted wonder. 
I’d put you on a pedestal if I could.

Promise to be mine?  
Promise to be mine?  

Mine,
Mine, 
Mine?  
Forever and ever and afterwards,  
And after these words?  
I’m so sweet on you,  
I’m so sweet on you.  
Your chest is my chest and I want to own every breath.  I promise you are 
mine, 
mine, 
mine.  
Your heart, and ribs, and lungs, and dreams,  Your blood, and tears, and all your wretched sins.  
Mine, 
mine, 
mine.  
Forever and ever and  
                                                After  
                                                                  Words. 

How Do You Like My New Head

Anonymous