Black & Orange 2025
Editing & Formatting By:
Linda Saad, Rihanna Ivery, Alexandra Rodrigues, & Betsy Antedomenico
Forward
By Linda Saad
October, October. You arrive so swiftly, with a strong, cinnamon hug. Embrace us with your brisk air swirling through our hair and your ember leaves that crush beneath our feet. It's time for festivities, your sweets and spices, and it's time for our tales to crawl from your corners.
Let us take you by the hand, dear reader, as we traverse the thickets of line and verse, art and story. Let us unravel our mysteries and secrets, and show you Halloween in all its glory. We bring you...the Black & Orange, 2025.
Table of Contents
“Pulled From The Shadows” by Sophia Dallas [poetry]
“I Don’t Think My Bones Like Me Very Much” by Emily J. Hrostek [short story]
“Witchy” by Sherly Perez [visual art]
“Dead Spider” by Lauren Vogel [poetry]
“Terms of Employment” by Betsy Antedomenico [short story]
“Bone Carrion” by Julian Saucier [visual art]
“The Mirror Doesn’t Blink” by RJ Configna [poetry]
“Final Letter” by Ameja McCulley [short story]
“Halo of Meat” by Damien Pena [visual art]
“The Dark” by Becca Hensley [short story]
Pulled From The Shadows
Sophia Dallas
In a house I barely knew, silent walls and shadows grew.
Feelings I never had before, echos locked behind every door.
Where darkness stretches just out of sight, whispers lingered in the night.
Memories like haunted flames, burning through my bruised remains.
Feeling all alone, trapped in the cold, A black empty hole where no one holds.
Abandoned by everyone you loved, lost beneath a sky so rough.
The moon peeks through with silver eyes, A witness to how and why.
I tried to forget but wounds remained, Traumatized yet breathing pain.
The dark whispered “This is the end” No masks, no lies, no need to pretend.
Then you came along, my saving grace, A steady light in empty space.
You filled the cracks, and healed the soul, pulled me back from my dark hole.
You didn’t flinch or run, but stayed until the morning sun.
In that dawn, I saw the truth, love still lives beneath the ghosted roof.
I never knew how love could be, though it was just a fantasy.
November’s breath, both calm and sweet, my wounds still ache but I feel complete.
No longer just a haunted girl, but healing in a grateful world.
I Don’t Think My Bones Like Me Very Much
Emily J. Hrostek
The hands on the clock are little skeleton arms. The whole thing is a skeleton, really, with a head and legs sticking off the clock face torso. It’s ticking on the wall, behind the doctor’s head. The doctor hasn’t spoken to her yet, reading something on her computer. Felicity fidgets in her seat uncomfortably. She’s trying to avoid looking at the doctor because, if she looks, she’s going to stare, and if she stares, it’s going to become obvious that something isn’t right. The bandage on her arm suddenly becomes intriguing, and just as she’s beginning to pick at the edge going all soft, the doctor sighs and looks up from her computer.
The woman looks tired, in the way only grandmothers and principals can. Still, there sits a sort of bitterness behind her eyes, like she was hoping to go home early today, and Felicity’s presence is preventing that. Forget that it’s only ten o’clock in the morning, as declared by the skeleton grinning and ticking behind her head.
Felicity has been seeing Dr. Dorothy Wagner for a few months now. She knows the clock is just this month’s version of the seasonal decorations the woman is so fond of. Still, with her nervous disposition, it’s setting her on edge. She’s never liked Halloween, or any of the classical creatures associated with the holiday. Felicity squirms in her seat and makes eye contact.
“You look tired Felicity,” Dr Wagner’s tone is cool and factual. “Have you been cutting out television like we had discussed?”
“Um, well I tried,” Felicity says. She looks at the cartoon cat poster on the wall. “I try to read before going to sleep now.”
“Well, that’s certainly better than horror movies and violent action movies!” Dr. Wagner says smugly. Then she squints at Felicity. “You still aren’t sleeping though, are you?”
Felicity wants to be anywhere but here, answering questions about her sleeping patterns and being told what movies she’s allowed to watch like she’s a child. What kind of person goes to a psychiatrist just because they can’t sleep? Felicity thinks as if that’s her only issue worth addressing. She spends a moment trying to come up with an answer for the doctor that doesn’t make it sound as bad as it is.
“I can usually get a few hours a night in?” Felicity murmurs, picking at the bandage again. This is bad, because that draws the doctor’s eyes down to her hand.
“That’s new,” is all Dr. Wagner says. That’s all it takes. Felicity goes pale and lifts her right arm. She swallows and slides up her sweatshirt sleeve. The doctor’s eyes widen. Her wrist is wrapped in an intense swaddling of gauze, down to her thumb and up to her elbow. If this surprises Dr. Wagner, she doesn’t show it. “Well Felicity, what happened?”
Her arm aches, and the chronic twinge in her wrist sends a pang of pain through her nerves. She knows that Dr. Wagner isn’t going to give it up, and one way or another, Felicity is going to have to talk. Feigning forgetfulness has never worked on the doctor.
“There was an accident at work.” That’s simple enough. That explains it. Accidents happen all the time in coffee shops, even if it’s hard to believe the extent of the damage. It basically was an accident, all things considered. “I spilled coffee on myself. We had a new hire who let it get too hot. It was just unfortunate circumstances.”
“Felicity, you’ve agreed not to lie to me.” Dr. Wagner looks at her with eyes like coal. “What happened to your arm?”
It really wasn’t on purpose. Felicity hadn’t slept the night before, even with the teas, and the melatonin, and the no television before bed. Normally, this isn’t a problem. She can make most of the drinks on autopilot now, and the little tickets with who gets what are automatically printed by a machine operated by a coworker. On a typical day, Felicity can come in, make drinks for eight hours, and clock out.
That day, something had been different. The twitch in her hands was gone. Around noon, somewhere in between lattes and cold foam, her brain had just clicked off. It was like watching someone else live her life. Someone who smiled and chatted with her coworkers like a normal person. Someone who took time to look in the mirror and fix her hair, and who even bought a bag of chips from the vending machine to eat during a break that she actually took. All Felicity could do was sit back and watch this person, this other version of her go about her day like everything was normal.
This other Felicity was so good at everything. She didn’t need to practice how to smile in the mirror. She remembered to drink during her shift. She could probably even sleep if she wanted to. Felicity should feel jealous. Instead, she just feels relieved. Good, she remembers thinking. Someone else can take care of things for a little while.
She also remembers watching as this version of her walks over to the coffee press, cranks up the heat, and sticks her arm under the boiling stream of water. The pain is blinding and someone is screaming. That someone turns out to be her, and Felicity is back inside her body like nothing happened.
It’s hard to think about the pain. Felicity has had aches deep inside her for as long as she could remember, but this is like nothing she’s ever experienced. The burning is past her flesh, and it might be in her mind, but she thinks she sees a flash of white before she falls to her knees. The machine isn’t even supposed to get that hot, Felicity thinks, even though all that’s coming out of her mouth is whines and groans.
She’s conscious for the whole ride to the hospital, even though her memory gets fuzzy as nurses usher her from room to room. She’s in and out fairly quickly and is sent home with a bandaged arm, burn ointment, and a few days’ worth of painkillers. She’s all out of them by now, but her arm still hurts whenever she tries to sleep.
Dr. Wagner is still waiting for her answer.
“I hadn’t slept the night before, and it made me drop coffee all over myself, okay? And before you ask, yes, I drink what you told me, and yes, I didn’t watch television, and I just want to go to sleep so it doesn’t happen again!” Felicity is yelling by the end and buries her face in her hands so she doesn’t have to look at the doctor. She feels unhinged, like something in her mind is sliding out of place. To her credit, Dr. Wagner doesn’t so much as blink at her. She just sighs, looks back at her computer, types a few things in, and clicks her mouse a few times.
“Now, Felicity, you still have the rest of your hour, but with the stress of recent events, I can understand why you’d want to leave early. Additionally, with these recent events, it’s come to my attention that you’re in need of a more modern approach to deal with your insomnia.” Dr. Wagner’s voice is gentler this time. “There’s a prescription for a fairly decent sedative sent to your pharmacy, they’ll call you to pick it up.”
That’s the end of that. Dr. Wagner goes back to staring at her. The ball is effectively in Felicity’s court now, but the implication of “I want you to leave now” is loud and clear. Fifteen minutes have passed. Felicity is out of the office and in her car by ten-seventeen.
The pharmacy calls her before the end of the day, and Felicity is home with the bottle in her hand by dinner time. It’s serious stuff, the bottle listing out warnings and watch-out-fors all down the side. Take one pill with food and wait an hour. Do not operate heavy machinery. Et cetera.
Felicity is full of wild, nervous energy, the kind you only get in your veins when you’re running on nothing. Her phone dings with notifications from an old college group chat. It seems like the group is planning to go out for dinner and drinks. Felicity doesn’t respond. It’s a nice offer, but being out and surrounded by people has always made her feel worse. Her friends are successful and fun, and when they go out, nothing goes wrong. For Felicity, things only seem to go wrong.
The last time she tried, she’d gotten sick all over the shoes of a very nice girl who had invited her to the dance floor and twisted her ankle so badly she was out of work for a week. Things like that are fine when you’re young and dumb, but now it’s long past the point of forgiveness. She knows the invites are a courtesy more than anything else. It’s hard to imagine anyone possibly liking her very much when she’s just a sad little recluse with no ambition or prospects.
She leaves the messages on read and makes herself instant noodles for dinner. She throws in an egg to feel better about herself. Her wrist twinges. In between bites of egg and noodles, eaten on the couch in front of the TV, she swallows two pills. The faster this night is over, the better. After she gets some real sleep, she can deal with life. The dishes can be done tomorrow. She can pretend she never saw the texts and feign that she’ll totally make it next time, she promises! She can go to work, go for a walk, and become human again. After she gets some sleep, she’ll be human and likeable.
The empty foam container is abandoned on the old coffee table, next to books she’s been meaning to read. Screw it, Felicity thinks and turns on the television. Whatever channel she left it on is playing repeats of cooking competitions. That’s good enough, and for the first time in weeks, Felicity can feel her eyes closing against her will. As the chef yells about properly removing the bones from a fish before cooking, Felicity drifts off.
It’s the oddest dream. She’s looking into a mirror, but it’s not her looking back. It’s something wet, red, and dripping. Its eyes, deep in its face, are leaking more red all over itself. It blinks when she does. Felicity tries to speak, to ask what it is, but nothing comes out. The reflection opens its mouth in turn, but all that comes out is gurgling. A cruel imitation of a question. Felicity tries to scream next, and the reflection is perfectly capable of imitating that sound. The mirror between them shatters, and Felicity reaches through to grab the thing across from her. That’s her voice, it’s screaming with. That doesn’t belong to it. That’s supposed to be her.
Her hands sink inside its flesh. In perfect likeness, the imitation reaches out to Felicity and grabs her back. It’s only now that Felicity looks down at herself, and if she could scream or cry, she would.
Instead of human skin, flesh, and hair, there are only bones. Where the reflection is trying to grab her, it only melts around her rib cage, sinking inside and dripping all over her. It’s laughing.
She doesn’t wake with a start, nor a scream or a gasp. Felicity makes no sound at all when she wakes up. She doesn’t so much as twitch. The pain in her wrist is blinding, and it only takes her a few seconds to realize that it’s because her bandages are off, and the bones—that should have been visible only if you looked under the sweatshirt, bandages, and flesh—are pushing up through her skin.
She can’t move. She can’t cry. She can’t even blink. She can only breathe, quick and deep, as her skeleton pushes out of her.
The hand is first, the burn serving as a gateway from inside Felicity out to the stale air of the apartment. It feels around on the couch next to her, grabs the remote, and changes the channel to a nature documentary. Then it reaches inside her other arm and pulls out her left hand.
It’s unbelievable. It must be a dream, but she was dreaming before, and it was nothing like this. Piece by piece, something that wasn’t Felicity, but should have been, comes out of her. Ribcage, pelvis, femur, phalanges, skull. She’s staring, because that’s all she can do, up at what was inside her.
The skeleton doesn’t return the favor and instead putters off into her bedroom. Felicity can’t move. She can breathe, just barely, and groan out wordless noises, but that’s about it. Something wet slides down her cheek. The skeleton is making a lot of noise in her bedroom, and on the television, a butterfly is pushing itself out of a chrysalis. There’s pressure on her abdomen, and wetness underneath her.
She can’t tell how much time passes, but the nature channel has switched from butterflies to shark attacks by the time the skeleton comes back from the bedroom. It’s dressed itself in a tiny black dress Felicity can’t remember buying, let alone ever wearing. There’s lipstick smeared where her lips should be, and blush on its cheekbones. The bones grab her purse and keys. It turns back toward her and crouches to her level.
Give it back, she wants to say. That’s mine. All that comes out is a low-pitched whine. The skeleton clicks its jaw at her and pats her head. Then it walks to the door and turns off the light. Felicity hears the door lock. The sun set a long time ago, and everything is dark, except for the television. A shark sinks its teeth into some stray seal unlucky enough to get caught.
Felicity can’t think. The only thoughts in her head involve visions of skeleton arms ticking away the minutes, and horrible thoughts about what will happen after the sun rises. Certainly, no one will come for her, there’s no coworker or parent who cares enough to notice she’s gone. The tears keep coming, and those pathetic animal noises don’t stop.
Eventually, her body slips from the couch to the floor. With no bones to hold her up, she’s as good as mush. Her organs crush against each other. Liver and kidneys intertwine. Her lungs push against her intestines, and her breathing accelerates. Her bladder empties again against her will. Time loses meaning.
It’s anyone’s guess what time it is when her phone rings. It rings, and rings, and rings before just accepting a voicemail. The voice that comes out of the speakers is tinny and chipper.
“Hey Felicity! We just wanted to call and make sure you got home okay after the bar! It was so nice to see you again! We missed you!” It’s one of her college friends. It doesn’t make sense. “You seem like you’ve really grown into yourself! I remember in college it seemed like you were kind of always uncomfortable in your own skin. Sometimes you just need a change! Oops, well, I think I’m running out of time for the voicemail. We have to hang out again soon! Love you! Bye!”
They liked the bones better. Of course they did.
The sun rises, and the skeleton still isn’t back. Felicity’s stomach, wherever it is inside her now, gurgles. Her tongue is heavy and dry inside her mouth. She’s supposed to be at work in an hour. She can’t move. The skeleton is gone, and the more she thinks about it, the more she wants to laugh. Even her bones don’t like her.
The sun is setting again. The day passed in a blur of hunger and thirst and tears. It’s not fair, she thinks. I was supposed to start over today. The cruel thing is, some part of her did. The other cruel thing is that all the best parts of her got up and got out of her. The best parts aren’t coming back. Today, when the sun sets, Felicity can feel her eyes closing. Sleep is coming, and this time she doesn’t dream.
Witchy
Sherly Perez
Dead Spider
Lauren Vogel
When I want to curl up into myself again like a dead spider
Laying on the small of my back on the vacuumed rug, warm with sunlight,
Hearing my mother on the landline saying, She said she doesn’t feel well again,
I drive to visit my friend Bridget in Massachusetts who taught me how to smoke cigarettes.
And let her tell me about the beautiful life she has built for herself, putting books on shelves
And watching movies; letting the little things roll off her like tears down a cheek.
I breathe in the sound of medications plunking into paper white cups
And remember the statistic about rehab someone told me under a granite sky,
How it takes five times and I count the tiny fingers of the boy I care for while he plays with
Legos: one, two, three, four, five.
I used to say I would die before I moved back home again;
I used to not believe in God.
When my Grandmother’s lungs were rotting
She told me over vanilla milkshakes that it’s your faith in something
That makes it real.
A friend who pats you on your head despite your worst parts,
Now that is a God to believe and pray to.
Terms of Employment
Betsy Antedomenico
Jordan’s morning started off with a light dispute between herself and a new customer who’d decided to visit every day for the last week. Normal working hours indicated that the store opened at 5:00 AM sharp, but Mason the Explorer demanded they open at 4:30 AM that morning, because he had very important work to do that could not be delayed by the hours written in Jordan’s employee contract. He kept making quite the ruckus for the entire time that he was outside before the store opened, while Jordan tried to lose herself in restocking the cooking essentials section with a newly arrived shipment of toad tongues, frog fingers, bird beaks, and squirrel stomachs.
When Jordan finally deigned to let the headache of a man in, he was considerably calmer than when he’d first arrived. It seemed he’d thoroughly tired himself out, at least for the next hour. His awful attempt at casually swept back hair was not enough to distract from the food stains that marred his poorly ironed beige shirt. A simple rust-colored belt held up grass-stained jeans that were at least two sizes bigger than he was. Below were two hastily laced boots, which had managed to track an egregious amount of mud into the store.
“Is your manager here? I’d like to speak to them about your quality of service!” Mason said.
An amused smirk crossed Jordan’s face as she silently waved Mason over to the counter while tapping the charm that hung off her belt three times. Mason had just folded and placed his ink-stained hands on the counter when Tilly appeared in a poof of glittery smoke to his right. Jordan held her breath until the smoke sufficiently dissipated. Tilly’s head rested lazily on her curled-up right hand, the elbow of which leaned atop the glass counter. Tilly glanced briefly at Jordan before giving Mason a once-over. “You called?”
A brief conversation then ensued, where Mason was very adamant that Jordan’s behavior was unacceptable for someone employed to work directly with customers. Tilly pretended to agree with him to speed the conversation up, interjecting compliments where she could to redirect Mason’s attention until he finally forgot the reason he’d tried to make a complaint in the first place.
“Well, it was just wonderful to meet you! I do hope we get to chat again soon. Your work on the treasures hidden in the Forest of Perpetual Fire sounds absolutely riveting!” Tilly said.
“Oh, well, I, uh, I — thank you!” Mason said.
“My pleasure! Just as it will be my employee’s pleasure to provide any assistance you need in your exploration today! Jordy? Let’s provide this gentleman with an updated map of the estate!” Tilly held out her hand expectantly at Jordan, who promptly grabbed a folded map from the stand three inches to the right of her manager’s arm. Jordan placed the map in Tilly’s hand with exaggerated care. “Thank you, Jordy! Well, if that’s all.” Tilly disappeared in another poof of smoke. This one lacked any glitter. Jordan didn’t catch her breath in time and inhaled an unpleasant amount of smoke that her lungs proceeded to violently expel.
Mason the Explorer stared at the space Tilly had previously been occupying with a slight reverence, “Wow, she’s great.”
Jordan replied with a hum before making herself seem busy rearranging the countertop displays as she worked on catching her breath. She readjusted her amethyst pendant, which felt more constricting than usual.
“You’d probably improve your relationships with customers if you acted a bit more like your boss. She’s a great woman,” Mason said.
“She’s not a woman,” Jourdan said.
“Oh, my apologies, I thought…”
“That’s not — you know what? Never mind. You gonna be getting on your way?”
“Oh, um, yes! Best to get an early start!”
Jordan nodded and continued to make herself busy by fussing over the display on the wall behind the counter, she missed the glare Mason aimed at her on his way out. Jordan then began her morning routine as the workday started, and customers eventually began to pour in.
#
“My son said this would store sights.”
The woman’s piercing gaze seemed a bit too intense for the kind of conversation Jordan knew was about to take place. Jordan released a sigh in a relatively polite manner before directing a gentle smile at the woman who was getting far too comfortable on the glass counter between them and edging ever so slightly into Jordan’s personal space. The woman held a simple mage-box loosely in her hand.
“Like individual instants of a sight or a series of instants of a sight?” Jordan asked.
“Yes.”
“So, both?”
“Both of what?”
“Both individual and series?”
“He said it would store sights,” The woman repeated. She pushed her mage-box across the counter as if showing Jordan the device would prove something.
“Yes, I understand that, ma’am. I’m asking if your model is capable of capturing single sights, a series of sights, or both.”
The woman’s face contorted, her brow wrinkled, her lips pursed, and her hands gestured vaguely around where her mage-box sat inches from Jordan on the counter. “What’s a model?” she asked. “Don’t they all do the same thing?”
“No. Some are made to only capture a single image, some can only capture a series of images, some can do both, and some also have auditory capabilities,” Jordan said, her pleasant tone fading ever so slightly.
“Who would buy one of these if they can only capture one image. Do you just throw it away after that?” The woman asked. Her hand, decorated with gold rings on each finger, swiped the mage-box back and feigned throwing it over her own shoulder.
“What? No, no. I mean that some can capture one image and will continue to do this until you run out of paper for it to store images on, and others can capture a series of images so that when you activate the seeing glass, a series is stored on, you can see the image ‘move.’ The device would be able to capture moving images until you run out of glass to store them on,” Jordan said.
“But my son said this would store the sights, and this is metal.”
The woman pushed the mage-box into Jordan’s hands. The woman looked at her expectantly as if she wanted confirmation that the device was, in fact, made of metal. Jordan gave the women an understanding nod. Turning the thin device over in her hands, Jordan pretended to study it for a few moments as she contemplated how to move the conversation forward.
It was a simple thing, really, mostly metal except for the embedded small circle of glass on the back, which was responsible for capturing the image of whatever it was pointed at. The front was comprised of a rectangular cut of black projection material thinly bordered on the top and sides by its metal casing, with a wide border along the bottom, about the width of Jordan’s thumbnail, on which there were five delicately carved symbols. The purpose of the device was to bring some of life’s more complex magic to the masses. With the press of a finger, the mage-box would draw the necessary sigils on its projection material to cast a spell, sparing the user the usual time and risk it would take for them to do so by hand.
“The sights, or rather images, are not stored on the device, ma’am. The metal device is simply a means to an end. It performs the proper sigil sequence for the spell to work, but the finished product is stored on the device’s corresponding paper or glass supply,” Jordan said slowly.
“I’m confused.”
“Okay, what are you confused about?”
And that was most of Jordan’s morning. While her job was to help customers navigate the gift shop and answer any questions they had about the estate, more often than not, she found herself playing tech support for anyone with the latest technology. In between these enlightening conversations, she spent most of her time restocking the shelves by hand. When Jordan had first started working at the store, the shelves had been charmed to restock themselves, but Jordan removed the charms after she found she had way too much time on her hands during the day and needed something to distract herself with. Anything to stave off the mind-numbing reality of being stuck here.
At half-past noon, Jordan heard from the explorer again. The mage-box stored in her back pocket vibrated three times before she answered.
“Jordan speaking, what’s the emergency?”
“Emergency? There’s no emergency. I just wanted to get your thoughts on something,” Mason said.
Jordan eased herself into a more comfortable position where she sat on the old metal stool, forearms resting on the glass counter. She hooked her feet on the stool’s rusted footrest and let out a deep breath. “This line is for emergencies only. If this is not an emergency, then I’m going to have to hang up.”
“Oh, um, actually, now that I—now that I think about it, yeah, I think—I kind of feel…” Mason trailed off.
“Is this feeling an emergency?” Jordan asked.
“Yes! It’s my back! My back, it’s—it’s not, it feels terrible. Like a terrible spell has been cast upon my back!” Mason replied.
“A spell? Cast by who? There’s no one out in the section you’re exploring today besides you.” Jordan started to flick through one of the catalogs they had on display, titled Everything They Don’t Tell You About Tourist Traps!
“Ah! But I must be close then! To the treasure! I’ve begun activating the defense mechanisms set long ago!” Mason said.
“And what manner of spell exactly do you think was cast on you?”
“Never mind all that, what’s important is I’m close! Closer than I’ve ever been. Closer than anyone’s ever been!”
“Right. So do you need me to do something about your back?”
“Oh, no, it’s fine. I can manage,” Mason said.
“Great.” Jordan slipped the phone back into her pocket and decided to check in on a customer who had been standing in front of the salamander shelf, looking no more certain about their choice in product than they did half an hour ago.
#
The next time the explorer called, he had the good fortune to do so when Jordan was looking for any excuse to end the conversation between herself and a customer in a top hat who she found a bit more annoying than Mason.
“Huh, that’s weird. When I asked them to do this over at the North Sea Park & Reserve, they got it just fine,” said the customer in the top hat.
“Well, we’re not North Sea Park and Research, sir,” Jordan replied with a smile. “We’re the Turtletree Estate & Grounds. It would appear that we have different technology available to us than they do.”
“Oh, well, I like the way they do it better.”
The mage-box in Jordan’s pocket rang for a second time that day, and Jordan found herself strangely relieved to go answer it. She stepped into the storage room behind the counter, signaling that she’d only be a moment to the man who was in love with the management over at North Sea Park & Reserve.
“Jordan speaking, what’s the emergency?”
“Exactly how poisonous are the trees on this estate?” Mason asked. To his credit, Mason sounded like he was genuinely panicking this time.
“They’re not poisonous at all,” Jordan said.
“Oh, dear. Well, is there any chance this might be the work of an invasive species?”
“This? Is there like a specific tree or something you’ve found?” Jordan asked. She pulled out a notebook in case she would have to fill out a report for an exterminator.
“Yes, well, I’ve come across a tree that seems to be getting attacked by a rather large blob of violet goo,” Mason said.
“Oh, that’s just a mourningberry. They’re very rare, so it makes sense you haven’t seen one before. The goo is just a part of its life cycle. It’s not poisonous, but I wouldn’t touch it. The goo is extremely adhesive and very tough to get off your hand or something without losing a lot of skin in the process.”
Jordan tucked her notebook away and began to fidget with the amethyst pendant around her neck.
“Who on the planet decided to name it after the morning?” Mason asked.
“No, it’s mourning, like when you mourn the dead. The tree only bears fruit soon after someone who lives nearby it dies,” Jordan said.
“Oh. So, this was not an emergency?”
“No. I mean, if you touched it, it could have been, but you didn’t, so it’s not.”
#
The explorer left Jordan alone for a handful of hours after that, which gave her the space to deal with the evening rush. For whatever reason, the salamanders were popular that day, leaving the empty shelf to mock its neighbor, which was still overflowing with just about every kind of frog. A couple of kids got a little rowdy and knocked over one of the potion displays, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. They’d just spend the rest of the week with glow-in-the-dark hands, which they seemed fine with. It was a much better outcome than losing all their fingers. However, the peace could not last, and Mason did try for a third call before the end of the day.
“This is Jordan speaking—”
“Gordan!” Mason said.
“It’s Jordan.”
“Jordan! You’re never going to believe what I have found!”
“What have you found?” Jordan asked.
“The treasure!”
“Okay, well, what do you mean by that?”
“I mean the temple and everything! It’s all right where they said it would be! Who could have thought that it would be so simple!”
There were about five and a half temples on the estate. Jordan had no clue which temple Mason was at, and it was not of any interest to her to find out. “Okay, so, as I’ve told you before, this mode of contact is supposed to be for emergencies, so if there’s no emergency, then I’m going to break the connection.”
“Wait! It is an emergency! I need you to call the manager right away and tell her what I’ve found! And—and, well, to be honest, I just need someone to be with me, at this moment. It’s just so exciting, I have to share it,” Mason said.
“Don’t you have a wife and kids you could call?”
“No, I don’t. Alas, the family budget only allowed for me to receive a communication device among some other tools for my grand exploration!”
Jordan broke off the call.
At this point in the day, the rush had ended, and there was only an hour left before closing. Jordan had barely started on dusting the shelves when she felt a shift in the air that made her pause. She waited a little but eventually started dusting again. Two minutes passed, and then she felt a sweet chill across her chest before her amethyst pendant plunged in temperature. Jordan then spent a few moments awkwardly struggling to take the pendant off, the freezing temperature made it difficult to get a good grasp on it for any length of time. Jordan was finally able to throw it down onto the countertop, though it vanished before she could take a good look at it.
Normally, or at least during the last few times that the pendant ever got that cold, Jordan would wait it out, but this time she couldn’t. So, Jordan wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, but the necklace disappearing immediately was not something she considered. She walked out from behind the counter. Perhaps it had just fallen off the counter, and she hadn’t heard when it hit the floor?
She’d only been looking around at the floor for a minute when Mason came crashing into existence behind the counter. He’d got himself upright quickly enough, and there around his neck the pendant twinkled and shone. With her suspicions confirmed, Jordan decided she would just walk out the door and improvise from there on out.
“Wait! Where are you going? How—how did I get here? Behind the counter, I mean. Is this—does this have something to do with the treasure? Some sort of safety mechanism?” Mason asked.
“Nope. There’s actually no treasure, so no safety mechanism required,” Jordan said.
“What?! But I saw—I found…” Mason trailed off.
“You found yourself a new job! You should call the manager, she’ll fill you in on everything. I’ve got to get going.”
“No! That’s not how this works! I don’t want your job. I didn’t sign up for this!” Mason yelled.
Jordan removed the charm that had been attached to her belt for the last seven centuries and summoned its owner one last time. She then tossed the charm over to Mason. Tilly popped into existence, at least partially aware of the situation, given that in her rush to arrive, she forgot her usual smoke spell.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay, honey? I thought we’d grown to be such good friends after all this time!” Despite her words, Tilly had the decency to drop the act a little, at least in her appearance, when she looked at Jordan. Jordan stared at Tilly’s glaring amethyst eyes; a violet ooze was starting to drip down the façade of Tilly’s left human cheek.
“Friends don’t hold friends hostage, Tilly.”
And with that, Jordan walked out the door and down the road to the edge of the property line. Then she hopped over the line for the first time in so, so long. There was no guilt. Not after all this time. Only relief, fresh air, and new possibilities.
Bone Carrion
Julian Saucier
The Mirror Doesn’t Blink
RJ Consigna
We call it antique.
A relic.
A gift passed down like a warning wrapped in velvet.
The mirror with vines carved like vines,
Faces frozen mid whisper.
Some were smiling.
Some not.
Every morning, I brush my hair in front of it.
I watched myself blink.
Until one day
I blinked.
She didn’t
I leaned in.
My own eyes stared back,
But something behind them felt...
Off.
Like memories wearing my skin.
I raised my hand.
She followed
I smiled.
She paused,
That night, I covered it.
A sheet; like a burial.
Next morning
Folded neatly on the floor.
Like it had tucked itself in.
Then came the flickers.
Shadows passing behind me.
A glimpse of myself sleeping
Except I was standing.
Watching
I dragged it to the curb.
Heart pounding like a drum in a horror film.
Returned to my room
It was back.
Hanging.
Waiting.
I smashed it.
Glass like stars across the floor.
But in the shards
She stared.
Whole.
Smiling.
And now,
When I pass any mirror,
I wonder
Is it me?
Or the memory of who I used to be
Before the reflection learned to lie?
Final Letter
Ameja McCulley
To you, who has found this relic of my existence,
I write to leave a record of myself, a keepsake if I had kin. A letter to any soul who finds and takes the curiosity to read through my tale. I was a creation born from lunacy and pretentious overambition, a forbidden act turned into physical form. I was a corpse, reanimated and given new life, only to be despised and my dignity sullied. My creator, who conceived me through artificial and scientific pursuits with overflowing passion and devotion, was disgusted with my luridness and abandoned me when I gained awareness. I was riddled with rejection and isolation; it was as if I had been dropped to the depths of hell and left to be ravaged by crushing solitude. I had stricken people with fear and revulsion for my grotesque presence, and I had been assaulted despite my good deeds. I boiled with anger and indignation, and I rebounded, attacking and killing with vengeance. My creator, who gave feeble mortality back into my body, had inopportunely met his demise, and I, brimming with guilt and regret of my actions, ventured to finally put my spirit to sleep.
As I journeyed, I discovered myself in a desert. Desolate and devoid of anything, my feet were soiled by the dry and hot sand clinging to me like an unrelenting claw. So barren is the land that not a single being thrives in its domain, a wretched land for a horrid creature such as myself, deplorable in all hideous ways. Like myself, the land was undesirable and unwelcoming, and I felt my undead flesh rot under the rageful sun as if to scorn my continued breaths. My skin melted, revealing my gray insides reddening as it roasted in the heat. Yet still, I continue on my pilgrimage to my burial site, searching for my permanent abode. Even with my heinous and shameful being, I seek a site for death, for I believe the world can afford me such tranquility for my death. Perhaps the world, in gratitude for my passing, will think of me deserving of such a place.
I encountered a small child after an arduous trudge across the desert, his emaciated form spindly marching and his makeshift cane giving away his frailness. As I stepped closer to him, his disfigurement became apparent. One eye hanging loosely from the socket, the other yellow and corroding. A wound on the side of his face displayed some of his broken teeth. His left foot was bent uncomfortably, making it useless for walking. His posture folded over in humiliation. The sun illuminated his shaky and skeletal appearance as if to make a mockery of his misery. Shock wracked my expression. I had never met a human so hideous before. Hideous like me, and conceivably, loathed as me. He looked up to view my awfulness, and to my utter astonishment, I was met with a smile. Not terror nor contempt, but a grin. In this lonesome realm, I had felt decency for the first time. He looked upon me as I imagined a man would look at his long-lost friend. This unfamiliar familiarity touched my spirit so deeply that it struck me and paralyzed me from movement.
At my static stance, the child reached for me only to lose his grip on the crude cane and fell. As we were standing on the peak of a sand mountain, he rolled down the side, every toss and turn damaging his already brittle anatomy. I skidded down the mountain and reached for him despite my fragility, only to discover that the tumble had expended his remaining strength. Seeing his abrupt lifelessness, I felt a cold and empty feeling in my core. I had consumed the little vigor I had in me, and as I sit and write this letter, feeling my breath lessening, I am, regardless, tormented by my morbid self. I feel a strange melancholy at the tragedy of my reality. Next to this boy, I have designated my final death place.
To you who finds this letter, possibly next to my original carcass self, or likely our bones, I plead with you to never create a beast like me, whose only purpose was to be unloved and anguished. And if, for any reason, you should feel pity for my forsaken conception, know that in the closing moments of my subsistence, I felt fleeting companionship of mutually endured cruelty in this deformed and pitiful boy.
Signed,
Frankenstein’s Monster
Halo of Meat
Damien Pena
The Dark
Becca Hensley
Ashley left her job at Red’s Diner two hours after her shift was initially supposed to end. Denise, that stupid bastard, had shown up late and reeking of booze again, forcing Ashley to stay behind and play clean-up while they found someone to cover for Denise, who was promptly sent home practically as soon as she walked through the door. It was around two a.m when Ashley finally trudged across the parking lot to her old station wagon. The air was cold and dark, and as she slid into the driver’s seat, she looked drearily at the flickering sign on top of the diner. RED’S DINER blinked slowly, OPEN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS pasted below in large maroon letters. Ashley growled as she turned the key to the station wagon. There was no reason the diner needed to be open twenty-four seven.. It only meant that nothing inside got cleaned near often enough, and that old geezers and truck drivers alike would come in at half-past eleven p.m and hit on all the young girls working the diner. What an awful way to spend your formative years, Ashley thought. Wasting away at a minimum wage service job just so old men with poor dental hygiene could try and catch a glimpse down the front of your shirt as you bent over to refill their coffee.
As she pulled out of the parking lot, Ashley cursed Denise over and over again in her head. Denise was twenty-five years her senior, and paired with her massive drinking problem, she enjoyed having her various boyfriends meet her in the back lot behind the diner during her break so they could get it on in the backseat of her minivan. Ashley had gotten so fed up with her coming in late, disheveled and smelling of sex, that she snitched to the sheriff's deputy when he came into the diner about Denise’s tags being expired. The women hadn't gotten along since.
Ashley drove down the road, blinking slowly. She could smell the old coffee and bacon grease caked to her uniform. She had kicked her shoes off as soon as she entered the car, preferring to drive sock-footed versus in the thick brown loafers she had to don at work. They were half a size too small and itched something terrible, and besides, there was something freeing about feeling the gentle rumble of the car beneath her feet as she drove down the road.
She cracked the window and turned the radio up as she felt her eyes grow heavier. Anything to keep her awake. This wasn’t the first time that Denise had forced her to work late, but Ashley had no intention of pulling over to sleep for a few minutes tonight. She was in a rush tonight.
The thirty minute drive home had never felt longer. Twice, Ashley nodded off behind the wheel, and twice the rumble strips in the middle of the road saved her from veering off into the opposite lane. Each time she shook her head and turned the radio up. God, she was exhausted. As her blinks got heavier, her foot pressed harder on the gas. Better to hurry home, she thought tiredly. At the rate she was going, she needed to get home quickly. She wasn’t sure if she could make it much longer—
BAM. Ashley was jolted forward and back again with a great force. Her neck snapped back, and she slammed her head on her headrest. She clawed at the seat belt and managed to click it off, not fully registering what was happening. Ashley coughed through the smoke, fighting back the airbag as she struggled to find the door handle. Her vision trembled as she raked her hand on the door. It wouldn’t seem to open. God, this couldn’t be happening.
Finally, Ashley slammed her shoulder against the car door and was flung into the wet grass. She looked up, shaking. The station wagon was smashed into the side of a tree, the windshield shattered, and the entire front end crushed into itself. Ashley shook glass out of her ponytail and looked around in horror. How the hell did she end up on the side of the road, let alone the wrong side of the road? She wandered into the road in confusion. She didn’t remember drifting over to the left at all. How had she not heard the rumble strips? She shuddered, finally noticing how bitter and cold the air was. She tried to focus on the warm asphalt beneath her feet as she scanned the area around her, finally noticing the scene in front of her. Well, absence of scene.
The road in front of her was, for lack of better words, not there. It was as if a large black veil was covering the road, melting into the starless sky and blanketing farther than she could see across. It wasn’t the kind of darkness you could make out the occasional silhouette of a tree or something, but vast and thick, like a pool of endless tar. Something about the cool black scene in front of her scared Ashley. She crouched down and placed her hand on the warm road for comfort. Something warm and real. There was no way this was happening.
Ashley turned slowly, still crouching. Behind her a large tree lay broken on the road, covering it all the way across. How the hell had that gotten there? There was no way it had been there before she crashed, it was far larger than her car. But yet again, if it had fallen since she wrecked, she was certain she would’ve heard something of that size fall.
It was at this moment that Ashley realized something unnerving. There was no noise. Not even ambient noise. Everything around her was completely silent. No wind, no animals, and no insects. She coughed out loud, and to her alarm, no noise came out. She tried saying hello, and could feel herself doing it, but no sound emerged from her lips. She raked her nails against the stiff Red’s Diner apron she still donned, and it didn’t make a scratch. Did the crash knock her deaf? Was that even possible?
Vision swaying, Ashley tried to rationalize what was happening. Why couldn’t she hear anything? Thinking back, she hadn't remembered hearing the radio before she crashed, either. Did she somehow lose her hearing on the ride home? Is that why she didn’t hear the tree come down?
Ashley really didn’t want to step into the dark, but she couldn’t turn around, and frankly, she was too scared that no one would come for her if she waited at the station wagon. Her house was only about three miles down the road, so she figured if she stayed on the street, someone would find her. She stood up and walked slowly into the shadow, heart racing. The dark seemed to swallow her, wrapping around her coldly and keeping her hostage. Blood pounded in her ears as she stuck her hands out. It was impossible to see. Ashley tried taking her hands and bringing them as close as possible to her eyes, hoping to see an outline of some sort, but she ended up hitting herself in the face. The dark was large and vastand Ashley suddenly felt very alone.
Frustrated and scared, she spun on her heel with intentions of trekking back to the car. What faced her was only more black. She cried out silently, running wildly with her arms outstretched. She had only taken a few steps into the blackness, but was somehow lost. She ran around, completely losing her direction in the deep, dark void. Hot tears streaked down her face, but she couldn’t hear herself cry. She sank to her knees once more, hoping to find comfort in the heat of the asphalt again. Instead, the ground was icy and flat, feeling nothing but what she was just standing on. She crawled around, desperate to find a ridge or a line in the road or something, but was instead met with a continuous, flat surface. It felt like being in a giant glass box. She whimpered soundlessly and placed her hands firmly on the ground. Her only sense of direction was down, and Ashley was desperate not to lose it. Around her, the darkness lay unmoving and violent. She couldn’t tell anywhere from anything. Thick, foreign, and heavy, the black was deeper than any cave or cavern she could compare it to. It felt like it was closing in on her slowly, waiting, creeping around her crouched form like a hungry animal.
Suddenly, Ashley was grabbed by the ponytail and flung violently into the air. She could feel herself screaming, but was still unable to hear anything. Her limbs flashed around harshly, and she was unable to tell right from left or up from down. She spun fast, hard, like a ragdoll, until her body slammed onto the ground and rolled. Something in her lower back snapped and she felt herself land hard, crushing her wrist. She was met with a searing pain all over, and she tried to gasp out to no avail. Before she could even register what was happening, something grabbed her ankle and ripped her backwards. Ashley tried desperately to grab onto something, anything, and felt the palms of her fingers scrape against the ground, trying to catch traction. Something deep gurgled in her throat, soundless, and she tasted blood.
Ashley was once again grabbed roughly by something, this time by the belt. She felt herself begin to be lifted into the air, higher and higher. Five feet, fifteen, or thirty? More? She couldn’t tell. She tried to scream again, but was unable to inhale deep enough to get in a good, solid breath. She swung her hands, choking, as she rose further and further into the dark. Her eyes rolled harshly around her head, trying to find a glimpse of anything to tell her what in the world was happening. She jerked with a start and realized in horror that she was falling again. Her limbs thrashing as she tried sucking in air once more. She fell blindly, faster and faster, until she landed headfirst heavily, spilling her brains across the ground.
This is the end of the Black & Orange 2025. Thank you for reading!