Charmed by Fury
by Cassandra Phan
The twinkling music washed over her skin in the darkened bar she frequented. Hues of pink and blue radiated from the neon lighting, kissing her. She reclined lazily into the velvet chair, one hand resting on the round, wooden table beside her, the other holding a cigarette. Her sleek black dress sparkled under the lighting, drawing attention away from her black thigh-high boots. She took a drag from her cigarette and lolled her head back, twilight hair skimming the floor.
“Miranda,” a gruff voice grunted from behind the bar. Miranda Faye’s tilted head snapped forward to meet Tom’s icy blue eyes, that just so happened to complement his olive skin and his powder-pink fae wings. Tom opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by a splash from the glistening pool next to the bar and a shrill little voice.
“Two Demon Tonics Tom,” a beach blonde mermaid shrilly demanded, “don’t hold back on the Apollo spell, it’s been a horrible day.” She dramatically sighed and flicked her iris-gemmed tail, as if the world didn’t deserve her. Miranda rolled her eyes. The world was burdened by mermaids. Drinks zipped around the room, madly dodging creatures and spells till they came to rest in a hand or claw.
Next to the mermaid, jagged noir rock jutted out to separate the pool from the stage where a magician with a citrus orange bow tie sang to the rhythm of instruments with no musicians. The singer’s voice was smooth and fruity as he sang.
Miranda closed her eyes once again and drifted towards the pain of 1907. Miranda’s line of vision fell a foot shorter, her lengthy, translucent emerald wings from 1925 had reverted to nimble wings of spring green. The smooth wooden boards under her feet gave way to a quaint kitchen, from which a fruity whistle could be heard. The Miranda of 1907 had only just begun to fly and her toes still skimmed the wood. The kitchen was, of course, dull. It was the four faes that filled it with color. The fruity whistle belonged to a fae out of touch with reality, his voice and citrus orange wings gave him the impression that he could be friends with everyone. The woman sitting across from the orange fae had wings the same color as the mulberry jam sitting on the wooden counter. She had an infectious smile that Miranda had not inherited. And finally two little faes that hadn’t yet learned to fly, but had learned to climb, were struggling over the wooden countertop.
Abruptly the kitchen of 1907 vanished, replaced by Tom and the somber bar. The fruity whistle was overtaken by hoarse howling from the corner across the pool. Two grotesquely twisted ogres were pounding their fists against the table, apparently the frost giant sitting between them had told a joke. One ogre downed his drink and tossed the glass towards the floor where it was caught by air and floated back towards the bar. The giant and ogres continued their conversation in hearty, rasping tones. In fact, Miranda had only now noticed that conversation and laughter was everywhere, even in the back of the bar where dices rolled and poker chips clinked. She had been too focused on the steel blue door laced with silver next to Tom’s bar that had a battered sign on the outside labeled Feathered Freaks Not Welcome. It was a solid indication of the current existence of a dark time claimed to be gone.
“Are you defending those feathered freaks,” demanded a fae behind Miranda, “why don’t I gouge that hideous eye out of your socket you bird lov—”
“I don’t need to take this from a dainty winged fairy,” bellowed a shapeshifting djinn currently in the form of a flapper with bared fangs.
Miranda lit another cigarette and turned to see the fae glow red with rage; faes hated being called fairies, despite there being no difference in the definition, because humans have associated fairies with being dainty and beautiful and kind. Well, most faes aren’t too kind and they most certainly are not dainty. After being hunted by humans for centuries, faes learned to dwell only within the realm of magic.
Despite limiting human contact, the fae population was dwindling quickly, all thanks to the War of Wings that supposedly ended in 1845. But everyone knew that things never settled the way they should have. It didn’t matter anymore that no one knew why faes and aviars (poorly named by humans as angels) grew an intense hatred for each other. No one cared if it was started because of star-crossed lovers or a murder or a grab for power. To faes and aviars, it only mattered that one species became superior. The only way to be superior was to exert dominance, and dominance revealed its nature in violence.
The raging fae and djinn began to cast spells at one another. Small spells at first that were easily blocked -- however, the spell casting had quickly progressed to spells of torture. The rest of the creatures became tense and all around arguments and hassles were breaking out. The riot only ended when the room grew dark and the air filled with electricity.
Tom’s voice boomed, “there will be no bloodshed in my bar! If you’re going to kill each other take it outside.” The fae and djinn growled and trudged to different corners where they each proceeded to get roaring drunk. Once the room had quieted down, the singer resumed his fruity song, yet his tone had turned grim.
Tom and the bar began to fade once more, replaced by the wooden kitchen table in the home of the Miranda of 1907. Her mother was voicing a disapproving cluck, accompanied by her father’s grim voice.
“They shouldn’t be teaching you such things in school Miranda,” her father had said, “you’re supposed to learn about addition and subtraction, not about perpetuating tensions from the War of Wings.”
“But papa,” Miranda argued, “isn’t it useful to know that silver kills aviars? What if they attack us? Our teacher said they’ve killed thousands in the past few years. What if we’re next?”
“If we do not want to live in terror,” her mother answered, “we must not create it.”
Miranda gave a huff before heading upstairs, glancing at her family a final time. When she reached her room, a shadow passed the window. Miranda peeked out but saw nothing. She tried to go back downstairs but found that her room had been locked with magic. Miranda didn’t understand why her parents were locking her in her room. Had she made them angry?
The next part Miranda of 1925 remembered more vividly than any other memory. Her father’s fruity whistling had stopped, replaced by sharp, infant cries that rang through the house, each cry more shrill than the last. A great number of crashes could be heard above the grievous screams of a mother losing her babe. Miranda heard her father uttering spells as fast as he could. She heard a cry of pain that came from a strange, gravelly voice. Frightened could not begin to describe what Miranda was feeling as she withdrew into her room, sobbing silently. Downstairs, the voices of her family were growing more and more frantic. Shrieks of pain, cries of terror, and a deep, grumbling chuckle. Miranda crawled to the window and propped herself up as she suffocated from the silence. She peeked out to see a tall, oafish aviar with pure white wings walk out onto the porch. She saw him turn towards the house. Remnants of citrus, mulberry jam, and dark blood splattered his arms. Miranda was able to catch a glimpse of the aviar’s face, the only distinguishable feature was a fresh gash that ran from his forehead to his cheek. Miranda sat numb for hours, until a patrol fae told her what she already knew.
Tears welled in the eyes of the Miranda of 1925 until she wiped them away and resumed a cold, penetrating stare. Drinks whizzed around the room and Miranda reached out in a controlled fashion and caught one. As she sipped it, Miranda became acutely aware of the frigid silver dagger sheathed in her black boots. This was the only way, Miranda thought, the only way for me. A chorus of uncertain pounding against the door caused the bar to fall silent.
“Who knocks at a bar?” a tiny gremlin whispered to a fae, “Do you think it’s the patrol?’
“If it’s an aviar I’ll kill it,” replied the fae with a snarl. The fae had turned just enough for Miranda to see lash marks that ran across his back.
The door squeaked open, revealing an aviar who didn’t dare venture any further. The silver that laced the door frame warned the aviar that he was unwelcome, that and the feathered freaks sign out front.
“You better leave ugly,” Tom spat, referring to the puckered scar that ran from the aviar's forehead to his cheek, “like the sign says, feathered freaks aren’t welcome.”
“Believe me weakling, I don’t wanna be near filth like you,” the aviar grunted, “but someone called me here for a job.”
Tom surveyed the room, “who’d one want to work with a piece of sh—”
“He’s here because of me,” Miranda called as she finished her drink, “we’ll conduct business outside.” The tension in the bar became deafening. Faes spluttered in disbelief, djinn and ogres and gremlins and giants waited with bated breath. Miranda slowly crossed the room, the silver in her boot was ice cold. She walked past the aviar, closing the door behind her and ascended a few steps.
“I don’t work for faes,” the aviar chuckled, “you can forget about it filth.”
“Oh but I can’t,” Miranda breathlessly replied, “Let’s begin.”
“Miranda,” a gruff voice grunted from behind the bar. Miranda Faye’s tilted head snapped forward to meet Tom’s icy blue eyes, that just so happened to complement his olive skin and his powder-pink fae wings. Tom opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by a splash from the glistening pool next to the bar and a shrill little voice.
“Two Demon Tonics Tom,” a beach blonde mermaid shrilly demanded, “don’t hold back on the Apollo spell, it’s been a horrible day.” She dramatically sighed and flicked her iris-gemmed tail, as if the world didn’t deserve her. Miranda rolled her eyes. The world was burdened by mermaids. Drinks zipped around the room, madly dodging creatures and spells till they came to rest in a hand or claw.
Next to the mermaid, jagged noir rock jutted out to separate the pool from the stage where a magician with a citrus orange bow tie sang to the rhythm of instruments with no musicians. The singer’s voice was smooth and fruity as he sang.
Miranda closed her eyes once again and drifted towards the pain of 1907. Miranda’s line of vision fell a foot shorter, her lengthy, translucent emerald wings from 1925 had reverted to nimble wings of spring green. The smooth wooden boards under her feet gave way to a quaint kitchen, from which a fruity whistle could be heard. The Miranda of 1907 had only just begun to fly and her toes still skimmed the wood. The kitchen was, of course, dull. It was the four faes that filled it with color. The fruity whistle belonged to a fae out of touch with reality, his voice and citrus orange wings gave him the impression that he could be friends with everyone. The woman sitting across from the orange fae had wings the same color as the mulberry jam sitting on the wooden counter. She had an infectious smile that Miranda had not inherited. And finally two little faes that hadn’t yet learned to fly, but had learned to climb, were struggling over the wooden countertop.
Abruptly the kitchen of 1907 vanished, replaced by Tom and the somber bar. The fruity whistle was overtaken by hoarse howling from the corner across the pool. Two grotesquely twisted ogres were pounding their fists against the table, apparently the frost giant sitting between them had told a joke. One ogre downed his drink and tossed the glass towards the floor where it was caught by air and floated back towards the bar. The giant and ogres continued their conversation in hearty, rasping tones. In fact, Miranda had only now noticed that conversation and laughter was everywhere, even in the back of the bar where dices rolled and poker chips clinked. She had been too focused on the steel blue door laced with silver next to Tom’s bar that had a battered sign on the outside labeled Feathered Freaks Not Welcome. It was a solid indication of the current existence of a dark time claimed to be gone.
“Are you defending those feathered freaks,” demanded a fae behind Miranda, “why don’t I gouge that hideous eye out of your socket you bird lov—”
“I don’t need to take this from a dainty winged fairy,” bellowed a shapeshifting djinn currently in the form of a flapper with bared fangs.
Miranda lit another cigarette and turned to see the fae glow red with rage; faes hated being called fairies, despite there being no difference in the definition, because humans have associated fairies with being dainty and beautiful and kind. Well, most faes aren’t too kind and they most certainly are not dainty. After being hunted by humans for centuries, faes learned to dwell only within the realm of magic.
Despite limiting human contact, the fae population was dwindling quickly, all thanks to the War of Wings that supposedly ended in 1845. But everyone knew that things never settled the way they should have. It didn’t matter anymore that no one knew why faes and aviars (poorly named by humans as angels) grew an intense hatred for each other. No one cared if it was started because of star-crossed lovers or a murder or a grab for power. To faes and aviars, it only mattered that one species became superior. The only way to be superior was to exert dominance, and dominance revealed its nature in violence.
The raging fae and djinn began to cast spells at one another. Small spells at first that were easily blocked -- however, the spell casting had quickly progressed to spells of torture. The rest of the creatures became tense and all around arguments and hassles were breaking out. The riot only ended when the room grew dark and the air filled with electricity.
Tom’s voice boomed, “there will be no bloodshed in my bar! If you’re going to kill each other take it outside.” The fae and djinn growled and trudged to different corners where they each proceeded to get roaring drunk. Once the room had quieted down, the singer resumed his fruity song, yet his tone had turned grim.
Tom and the bar began to fade once more, replaced by the wooden kitchen table in the home of the Miranda of 1907. Her mother was voicing a disapproving cluck, accompanied by her father’s grim voice.
“They shouldn’t be teaching you such things in school Miranda,” her father had said, “you’re supposed to learn about addition and subtraction, not about perpetuating tensions from the War of Wings.”
“But papa,” Miranda argued, “isn’t it useful to know that silver kills aviars? What if they attack us? Our teacher said they’ve killed thousands in the past few years. What if we’re next?”
“If we do not want to live in terror,” her mother answered, “we must not create it.”
Miranda gave a huff before heading upstairs, glancing at her family a final time. When she reached her room, a shadow passed the window. Miranda peeked out but saw nothing. She tried to go back downstairs but found that her room had been locked with magic. Miranda didn’t understand why her parents were locking her in her room. Had she made them angry?
The next part Miranda of 1925 remembered more vividly than any other memory. Her father’s fruity whistling had stopped, replaced by sharp, infant cries that rang through the house, each cry more shrill than the last. A great number of crashes could be heard above the grievous screams of a mother losing her babe. Miranda heard her father uttering spells as fast as he could. She heard a cry of pain that came from a strange, gravelly voice. Frightened could not begin to describe what Miranda was feeling as she withdrew into her room, sobbing silently. Downstairs, the voices of her family were growing more and more frantic. Shrieks of pain, cries of terror, and a deep, grumbling chuckle. Miranda crawled to the window and propped herself up as she suffocated from the silence. She peeked out to see a tall, oafish aviar with pure white wings walk out onto the porch. She saw him turn towards the house. Remnants of citrus, mulberry jam, and dark blood splattered his arms. Miranda was able to catch a glimpse of the aviar’s face, the only distinguishable feature was a fresh gash that ran from his forehead to his cheek. Miranda sat numb for hours, until a patrol fae told her what she already knew.
Tears welled in the eyes of the Miranda of 1925 until she wiped them away and resumed a cold, penetrating stare. Drinks whizzed around the room and Miranda reached out in a controlled fashion and caught one. As she sipped it, Miranda became acutely aware of the frigid silver dagger sheathed in her black boots. This was the only way, Miranda thought, the only way for me. A chorus of uncertain pounding against the door caused the bar to fall silent.
“Who knocks at a bar?” a tiny gremlin whispered to a fae, “Do you think it’s the patrol?’
“If it’s an aviar I’ll kill it,” replied the fae with a snarl. The fae had turned just enough for Miranda to see lash marks that ran across his back.
The door squeaked open, revealing an aviar who didn’t dare venture any further. The silver that laced the door frame warned the aviar that he was unwelcome, that and the feathered freaks sign out front.
“You better leave ugly,” Tom spat, referring to the puckered scar that ran from the aviar's forehead to his cheek, “like the sign says, feathered freaks aren’t welcome.”
“Believe me weakling, I don’t wanna be near filth like you,” the aviar grunted, “but someone called me here for a job.”
Tom surveyed the room, “who’d one want to work with a piece of sh—”
“He’s here because of me,” Miranda called as she finished her drink, “we’ll conduct business outside.” The tension in the bar became deafening. Faes spluttered in disbelief, djinn and ogres and gremlins and giants waited with bated breath. Miranda slowly crossed the room, the silver in her boot was ice cold. She walked past the aviar, closing the door behind her and ascended a few steps.
“I don’t work for faes,” the aviar chuckled, “you can forget about it filth.”
“Oh but I can’t,” Miranda breathlessly replied, “Let’s begin.”
The 10th Life
by Winston
The year is 1984.
“Fresh fish! Get your fresh fish!”
Boy, I’m craving for fish.
The smell of fish evokes a wave of nostalgia.
“The past is not delicious,” my manager at the grocery store said.
Meow, I’m a salamander.
“Fresh fish! Get your fresh fish!”
Boy, I’m craving for fish.
The smell of fish evokes a wave of nostalgia.
“The past is not delicious,” my manager at the grocery store said.
Meow, I’m a salamander.
The Magic of My Mother
by Jasmine Liu
When I was younger,
the magic of my mother was a
wonderful thing.
Her love and her care
and her hands and her words
were all that I needed.
That was many years ago,
and my mother is gone now.
But her magic is still here
and as strong as ever.
The magic of my mother
is with me now.
And I hope
to do it good,
just as my mother did
all those years ago.
To my wonderful children,
I love you.
the magic of my mother was a
wonderful thing.
Her love and her care
and her hands and her words
were all that I needed.
That was many years ago,
and my mother is gone now.
But her magic is still here
and as strong as ever.
The magic of my mother
is with me now.
And I hope
to do it good,
just as my mother did
all those years ago.
To my wonderful children,
I love you.
Soup of the Day: Beef and Bison Chili
by Luka Maeda
I wake up at 4 a.m. because that’s what CEOs do. Bill Gates exercises for an hour in the morning and Obama eats breakfast with his family, so I dabble on exercise and whip up some lousy cereal. Maybe the next time you hear from me, I’ll be the president of the United States.
I have work on weekends. They usually assign me to morning or mid-afternoon shifts for both Saturdays and Sundays — which I don’t mind so much, but it gets tiring after awhile. I used to always be seven minutes late to my shifts and that really got on my manager’s nerves. At some point I figured I gotta get there early before they fire me off of my position. I’ve been getting there ten minutes earlier now.
Antonio drinks cheap coffee. He’s been looking at used cars on Craigslist for awhile now and he checks his phone every few minutes at a weird angle so that the surveillance camera won’t catch him. He doesn’t have to though. No manager’s up at this time.
I greet some guests, smile, type, greet the bellman of the day, check-out the guests. Checking them out is easier than checking them in, because you don’t have to talk so fast and so much if there’s a big line behind the guest you’re working on. You just tell them Google has covered their five-night stay and that they don’t have to worry about a receipt.
I take my lunch at 11. Antonio likes to take his later, but we have to take it before 12. I don’t think it really matters, but it’s a good excuse for me to eat lunch early. I walk alongside this alley and it smells like barbecue. The last time I had barbecue was six years ago when I watched the fireworks light up on the Fourth of July. They were like drums and they pounded on my fragile heart.
I return back and Antonio leaves midway. Gil comes in instead. We greet, smile, check-in. The bellman’s gone for his lunch (dinner) but a guest from the highest floor asked for a spare toothbrush, so I had to deliver that. I ask housekeeping for a set, por favor. They hand me one and say something in Spanish. Muchas gracias. De nada.
It’s near 6 p.m. and the sky’s winded down to a warm blue. The clouds were tinted in a hazy coral and the breeze was nice. I gave the guest a warm regard and his toothbrush.
It’s my third to last day at work so I tell Gil “good luck” and that maybe we’ll “cross paths in twenty-seven or so years.” He’s twenty-five and wants to finish college. He tells me to “live long and prosper.” And before the door shuts behind me, he slips his witty mantra; “work smart, not hard.”
Even though it doesn’t feel like it now, today could ultimately be what I thought the epitome of high school was and tomorrow could be another day of nostalgia to look back in ten years. I don’t know. Maybe in forty years, I’ll forget all about this. Maybe I’ll even forget that now was actually not as good as I described. But I’d like to think that I won’t and that in sixty, eighty years, I’ll remember the string of days that mark my existence on Earth that built Luka, Luka.
I have work on weekends. They usually assign me to morning or mid-afternoon shifts for both Saturdays and Sundays — which I don’t mind so much, but it gets tiring after awhile. I used to always be seven minutes late to my shifts and that really got on my manager’s nerves. At some point I figured I gotta get there early before they fire me off of my position. I’ve been getting there ten minutes earlier now.
Antonio drinks cheap coffee. He’s been looking at used cars on Craigslist for awhile now and he checks his phone every few minutes at a weird angle so that the surveillance camera won’t catch him. He doesn’t have to though. No manager’s up at this time.
I greet some guests, smile, type, greet the bellman of the day, check-out the guests. Checking them out is easier than checking them in, because you don’t have to talk so fast and so much if there’s a big line behind the guest you’re working on. You just tell them Google has covered their five-night stay and that they don’t have to worry about a receipt.
I take my lunch at 11. Antonio likes to take his later, but we have to take it before 12. I don’t think it really matters, but it’s a good excuse for me to eat lunch early. I walk alongside this alley and it smells like barbecue. The last time I had barbecue was six years ago when I watched the fireworks light up on the Fourth of July. They were like drums and they pounded on my fragile heart.
I return back and Antonio leaves midway. Gil comes in instead. We greet, smile, check-in. The bellman’s gone for his lunch (dinner) but a guest from the highest floor asked for a spare toothbrush, so I had to deliver that. I ask housekeeping for a set, por favor. They hand me one and say something in Spanish. Muchas gracias. De nada.
It’s near 6 p.m. and the sky’s winded down to a warm blue. The clouds were tinted in a hazy coral and the breeze was nice. I gave the guest a warm regard and his toothbrush.
It’s my third to last day at work so I tell Gil “good luck” and that maybe we’ll “cross paths in twenty-seven or so years.” He’s twenty-five and wants to finish college. He tells me to “live long and prosper.” And before the door shuts behind me, he slips his witty mantra; “work smart, not hard.”
Even though it doesn’t feel like it now, today could ultimately be what I thought the epitome of high school was and tomorrow could be another day of nostalgia to look back in ten years. I don’t know. Maybe in forty years, I’ll forget all about this. Maybe I’ll even forget that now was actually not as good as I described. But I’d like to think that I won’t and that in sixty, eighty years, I’ll remember the string of days that mark my existence on Earth that built Luka, Luka.