(Click on the covers to view the stories!)
Whistling Down the Sky
In the City on a Hill, a nothing boy and a fairy girl find each other under the starry skyline, before losing each other in the midst of a crowd. But this ain’t just another sappy love story. It’s about university protests and forgotten murder, about a boy’s vow for revenge and how that dream turned to nothing but dust. Mafia turf wars and the people staging them, the po-po gettin’ beatin’ up and girl scout cookies that people just can’t stop chuggin’. But see, this show’s not just about who says what – it’s about the paths that cross and the peeps who just can’t seem to die. And ya’ know what – that nothing boy really was something.
A gun shot fires at point blank range. A man rushes behind closed doors, his wife’s screams muffled by the warm wind. The second boy sprints to a neighbor’s house, face pale, feet running, running as if on its own, far from the up-down chest falling heart beating quickly. Vermillion’s pourin’ out of his lungs, see; scarlet ink’s bleedin’ through cotton white. Agony, agony was all that he knew before reaching for quick gasps for air, only to fall short and cut off in his chest, feeling the warmth of blood seep onto his raised hands and oh, the agony…
Crown of Thorns
While overworking herself in her bakery, Lavender is dragged into the fantastical Kingdom of Amanita, a land of royalty, magic, and swindlers. Due to sly trickery, she is then forced to participate in a mysterious game to find the man who stole the prized Crown of Thorns seven years ago. Together along with a silent prince, Lavender must find the Crown of Thorns before all other assassins vying for it get to it first – before she can return home.
My eyes were shut. Upon opening them, the faint smell of blood in the room washed away as the filter placed on the world shifted from white to black. I was falling again, through this familiar tunnel deprived of all senses – yes, this was the world which my mother drew on the back of my hand. Colored illuminations like those fireflies I saw last summer circled around my fragile arms and ankles, a spiraling kaleidoscope of millions of incandescent lights converging into a slide of stars downwards into an abyss of emptiness. Closing my eyes to brace for the fall, the lights became doves whose wings’ fluttering sounded through the tunnel, as echo upon echo acted as a rustling call.