Beauty is in the Ear of the Beholder (Second Place - Fiction)

by Christian Chesterman

I was four years old when I decided to become a serial killer.  There’s even physical documentation of the event that cemented my decision.  I believe a picture of a young man flying through the air over a populous beach is circulating on the Internet.  I was building a sandcastle at the time.  Four turrets, a portcullis, and two flying buttresses were covered in blood and spinal fluid when he fell.

The young man landed with his neck bending the wrong way not two feet from where I was sitting in the sand.  The cracks and pops of his vertebrae shattering upon impact would reverberate within my head for years.  A beautiful symphony of the fragility of life.  I just wanted to hear it again and again.  What would a snapping femur sound like?  A fractured patella?  An impacted pelvis?  I wanted to know.

As I got older, I learned that what I was doing was morally reprehensible.  Not that it really mattered to me though; I loved it.  By age eight I had killed a toddler, two dogs, and an elderly Vietnamese man named Ming.  Ming had sounded beautiful.  Like the tinkling of antique bells housed in calcium church towers.  It was exhilarating.  Intoxicating.

Of course there were others I had broken, but they had not died.  Nor did they see me because I had worn my brother’s gorilla mask.  I cut out the ears though.  They muffled the sound that I needed to hear.  My ears peeked through the sides and tickled the wind while my face grew sweaty under the latex.   There were pieces about me in the news.  A midget masked killer. A simian psychopath on the rampage.  A sadistic child-sized butcher.  I didn’t like that last one though.  I never cut people up.  I only broke them.  People came apart in such musical ways.  Sockets dislocated with a scrumptious sucking sound.   Lungs collapsed with an airy sigh.  Cartilage crumbled with a susurrus of crackling.  I lived to find new ways to break bodies.  I was an aural explorer in the field of human destruction.  Dogs were good too though.

At age sixteen I was caught.  The police found me halfway through splitting open Ms. Jefferson’s skull with my trusty sledgehammer.  They made the mistake of sending me to juvie.  I found new subjects for my educational procedures on a weekly basis.  Two months later they tried to send me to jail.  I had heard of solitary confinement and knew that I needed to be on the outside in order to learn.  So I killed my guards during transport and left to pursue my studies elsewhere.

I ended up in Dunsmuir, California.  I love it here.  It’s so secluded and forested.  Nobody can catch me.  I work in the retirement home as a caretaker of the dying.  I offer a quicker demise to those who wish to further my aspirations.  I transport the bodies to the morgue and nobody suspects a thing.  Ever since Ming, I’ve had a certain propensity for elderly men. They break so purposefully.

Tonight I am going to try a new method of dismantling.  I have a date to the prom, and his name is Jack Panetti.  His dad owns the local lumber mill.  I heard from Jenna that sex makes everything better.  I can’t wait to see if she’s right.

Crash Test Dummies (Third Place - Poetry)

by Katherine Taylor

Wake up before you and hide the Golden books in the night stand,
wondering when exactly the Swiss extract themselves from bed to

turn the waterfalls back on.
Take me to the mountains in an elevator
and down a wooden slide requiring straddling, not sitting,
so we can lick the same salt as everyone else,
turned black with bacteria and dirty hand-oil;
why weren’t we afraid of diseases?
 
You’ll know where I am by my red bucket hat,
bobbing in the waves at a safe distance
between intermittent construction projects
requiring mainly sand and water,
with a splash of aesthetic spacing and height
and a touch of structural integrity know-how.
By the way, the Leaning Tower of Pisa is 1) not edible, and 2) did not have rails in the late 

     eighties.
 
                           Step on a giant stick and it won’t stay stationary; 

     most likely it will jump up and 

gouge my leg,

but no matter—there are a bazillion ladybugs to catch in
little handines that pudgily encase them until they’re
deposited in a flat-red Ford Escort with squared edges.
Learn not to smear nasal excretions on walls, or
Miss Audrey will yell, “You know bedderendat!”

I’m the only one she calls her daughter,
and for a few years I’m black by day.
 
The middle of the toast is best, all juicy with butter.
I’ll eat the crusts to make you happy and
feel like a good mother.
Just promise me we can get ice cream sandwiches from
the machine that only sells ice cream sandwiches
so they’re sure not to run out.
 

The Way We Talked (Third Place - Fiction)

by Zeke Hudson

I try to invite God into my life every day, but I am never sure if he accepts, or if I would know or not if he did. I’m not religious, and I said some things about God when I was younger that I wouldn’t feel comfortable repeating now, even though I’m agnostic—even if he doesn’t exist. When I invite him in I feel embarrassed, like I’m waving back at someone who’s waving to their friend behind me, and my invitation feels unsure when it should feel confident. Some days I forget to invite him until the better half of the day is over, when I could have used his presence with me earlier. I hope one day God will say “Yes” and I will know.

Now this girl is talking to me as if what we’re saying matters. Her friends, travel, careers, health, it all matters and we remind ourselves and each other of it as often as possible in the way we talk. She is a master of it, and I get excited with her. Yes! Go to Indonesia. Yes! Everyone here will still love you, and your family will still love you. You can even get your dream job there, get married, and raise cultured little babies. And I will be very happy for you and I will think about you late in my life as the girl, now the woman, who succeeded and made her life good.

I saw a video once of a crackhead who knew what love was. He made a sign with his hands, like this, clasping them together, and then he said to the cameraman “I love you. Now isn’t that awful? To know someone loves you?” I remember the way he said awful, like it really was awful, but exquisite, and I said “Yes” to myself, quietly, like talking to God. The videographers were laughing, and then I laughed too, but I didn’t understand his hand sign, and neither did they.

I don’t remember what I said anymore, but she leaned her head against my shoulder, and we stayed like that for an hour. I wondered what I said, or if it was my words at all, or if she was just like me and the videographers, looking for something that comes so easily to others. That made me more scared than anything—that after everything we said that mattered, maybe we didn’t know. Sometimes I thought about picking little berries, and I wondered if I’d be too shy to show them to her and say, “Here, these remind me of you.”

I used to drive at night with music on when I was overwhelmed, because you can’t sing along to the sound of tires and engine. I would climb into the hills as far as I could, until roads ended, or gates barred my passage, and then I would find a side road, an alley, and drive until I didn’t know the words. Roads became damnably familiar. When I got older I started walking, and when I walked alone I was reminded that humans aren’t the only animal that lives in cities. Farther above town, where the stores wink and close, cats become raccoons, deer turn into cougars, and every shadow moves. It is so hard to get lost. But every step away from home felt freer.

Now she’s murmuring about things that could matter. She is sleepy. I think that I could matter, so I put my arm around her and she smiles. Before, when I thought about berries, I knew I only thought of them because I wanted to be considerate, but I didn’t know much else. Now I know what I want. I have my arm around her, and Indonesia is gone, because it’s just the two of us. But I know something’s not perfect, like she’s still thinking about going somewhere even though I’m right there. Or maybe she knows more about me than I want her to.

I visited my friend at college once and got sad. I didn’t know that I was sad until I realized I had been thinking about a girl whom I loved and who would never love me. As my friend and I walked through a park on campus, I looked at the field ahead, and the road, and the roads after it, and I wanted to go, to get lost, to have the strength or the courage to leave, or do anything. So I ran. When my friend caught up, I was lying in the grass, still far from the road. I looked at the stars and wished the sky would go black. “I want the world to end,” I said to my friend, and he helped me up. When people ask me when the last time I cried was, I tell them about that trip, and when I didn’t get past the field.

I still talk with her, sometimes. There’s something there that never left, even though we’re a world apart. It’s good that I see the humor in everything. Even writing this was, in a way, funny, and I know how some parts sound, but that is how life happens. I don’t know if I’ll ever get lost the right way, on purpose, but maybe God exists. I hope that if he does, he’ll tell me whatever he told the crackhead.

One-Line Story/Opening Line Contest Winners 2011

Marilynn Wilson

• "Every day," I tell myself, "I am one step closer to becoming the world's oldest child prodigy."

Rachel Knapp

• Early morning, bright and cheery, the shining planes crashed the bright buildings to the ground.

Alyx Johnson

• Despite what they said, the railroad wasn't such a bad place to live.

Christian Chesterman

• Across the road from the pear orchard, there is a purple house full of sheep, but there is no shepherd.

• This whole glue-addiction thing was getting way out of hand, and the Kindergarten drug test was right around the corner.

Thanks to everyone who submitted sentences! The winners will be immortalized in a small poster in Central Hall. Keep on writing, everybody!

Book suggestions from Cognito's bulletin board - Fall 2010

Margaret Atwood - The Handmaid's Tale
Italo Calvino - Cosmicomics
Italo Calvino - If On a Winter's Night a Traveller
Suzanne Collins - The Hunger Games (trilogy)
Yoram Kaniuk - Adam Resurrected
W.G. Siebold - The Rings of Saturn
Kristin Cashore - Graceling
Megan Whalen Turner - The King of Attolia
Nick Hornby - A Long Way Down
Stephen King - The Stand
Perry Moore - Hero
Steig Larsson - The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo
Isabel Allende - Zorro
Neil Gaiman - American Gods
Gregory David Roberts - Shantaram
Junot Diaz - The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao
Roberto Bolano - 2666
Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
Sherman Alexie - Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
Carlos Ruiz - Shadow of the Wind

Jibblies Winners 2010

The results are in, and here are the winners of the 2010 horror-themed Jibblies contest:

First Place
Poetry       "Red Cocoa” by Hannah I. Darling
Fiction       "The Quiet Life” by Jasmine Lane

Second Place
Poetry        “Students” by Angela Finneran

Fiction        “Release” by Patrick Duggan

Third Place
Poetry        “Make Sure the Light is On” by Riley Hamilton

Fiction        “Trip to Iao Valley” by JodiAnn Tomooka

Honorable Mention (unpublished)
Poetry    “Heavy Breathing” by Jonathan Ulrich

              “Once a Year on the Darkest Night” by Elizabeth P. Womack

Fiction    “Late Night Intruder” by Stephanie Neuerburg

              “Polka-Dots” by Carly Schoonhoven

First- and second-place winners in each category will receive a cash prize.

Thank you, as always, to everyone who submitted work. If you submitted an entry but did not win, be on the lookout for our future contests to try with a new piece! If you weren't pleased with the results or if it sounds like fun to read everyone's submissions and come up with writing contests and fliers, consider joining Cognito (details on the right).

 

News: For the first time ever, our “ezine” will become a “real 'zine” when we print small booklets of the winning entries to hand out around campus. Having your work published in this tangible format will be optional in this and future contests (but, hey, who wouldn't want greater circulation and readership, right?). Keep an eye out!

Note: If the large margin on either side of the screen bothers you, simply shrink your browser window to make reading the posts easier. You can also look on the right to find either fiction or poetry, or you can look under "Blog Archives" to read a specific post.

Red Cocoa - First Place Poetry

 by Hannah I. Darling

The sight makes her claws come out
and then melt back into their small, pilose coves.

Like the red buttons the neighbor boy
carefully lays on the stepping stones which
lead from his house to ours—
We too, like to be in between worlds.

Her shoulders rise and slink and we
realize we don’t know the fright of crawling
clandestinely and hush hush
in a stranger’s carpeted world.

The boy and his family
(whispering in their foreign accents)
draw hands with chalky dust on
the driveway.

She tracks red inside,
no noise, onto the white white carpet.

They weren’t red buttons.

Next day it snows on the foreign
neighbors’ chalk hands.
So they build snowmen
with reddish snow hearts.

The mother tells me, in her accent,
that the hands they drew
underneath the snow are now
like god’s.
And the snowmen are all the good people.

A cigarette shakes in her menthol lips.
And hot cocoa drips down
her well bitten fingernails.
She pours red into her steaming cup.

Just for “cheer” she says.

The Quiet Life - First Place Fiction

by Jasmine Lane

     The tap in the kitchen was leaking again.  It did so once in a while, dripping relentlessly against a buildup of plates that had been surviving in the sink for the past week in spite of Martha’s constant nagging that it be kept dish-free.  Ezekiel had tried to comply with her wishes when they had first purchased the house, hoping to placate the woman and end her griping, but after spending his entire day building the houses that other people would find happiness in, he didn’t have the energy to concern himself with the cleanliness of his own dismal and dissatisfying home.
     He sat in the living room now, feet resting atop the coffee table, his comfortable old reclining chair tilted all the way back.  Martha disapproved of the posture; she said it made him look like a layabout, but Zeke was comfortable.  Why shouldn’t he be able to put his feet up while he watched the game?  He had bought himself a six-pack, too, and now held one of the cheap beers in his hand.  He wanted to be drunk tonight, and Martha, who sat scowling at him from her rocking chair, would not deter his determination.
     The kitchen sink was still drip drip dripping away, and Zeke reached for the remote so he could turn the TV volume up a few notches.  A contented smile crossed his face as the distracting noise was successfully drowned out by cable ads and previews for sitcoms that had lost their flavor and originality several seasons ago.  His eyes slid sideways to glance at Martha, and he grumbled, “Don’t glare at me like that.  I’m trying to watch TV, and I can’t hear it over that damned dripping.”  There was only silence.  “Not gonna argue?  ‘Bout damn time you saw it my way.”  Martha still didn’t respond.  Zeke took a sip of his beer.  She was right not to argue.  She had complained time and again about the faucet and how it was wasting water and ruining the sink and keeping her up at night and all manner of other minor irritations, so she had no right to be giving him dirty looks now.  At least they couldn’t hear the thing this way.
     Something about the faucet’s steady drip had always reminded Zeke of a clock, and clocks had never reminded him of anything but his age.  At 42, he felt like his life had passed him by.  Kids didn’t know how good they had it.  Not that they would have cared if they did.  Bobby had failed his math test on Friday, and when Zeke had questioned him about it, he had blamed his failure on his teacher, a Mr. Dodson who Zeke had met with on several occasions and who had assured him that Bobby was less interested in math than he was in Alyssa Hatfield.  Bobby had been grounded for the weekend, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying to sneak out tonight.  But no harm done; a new set of locks on the window had made certain that Bobby wouldn’t be leaving again any time soon.
     Come to think of it, maybe he should have put locks on Samantha’s windows, too.  She was generally well-behaved, but there had been mishaps and Zeke really saw no reason not to nip the whole issue in the bud.  He groaned and tilted himself upright, setting his beer on the coffee table without a coaster.  Once again, he glanced at Martha, daring her to comment.  Once again, she said nothing.  “No complaints?  I’m ruining your table.”  Silence.  “There’ll be a ring there in the morning.”  More silence.  Zeke raised an eyebrow, licked his lips, decided to see how much he could get away with.  “Your mother’s a bitch.”  Martha said nothing.  Zeke grunted, his eyes focused now on a commercial for shampoo, his reason for sitting up half forgotten.  Something to do with locks.  Was the front door broken?  He shoved himself upright and ambled toward the door to check, although he was pretty sure that wasn’t the problem.  Sure enough, everything was in its place.  Zeke grunted again, satisfied, and turned to head back to his chair, but his eyes fell on the partially open garage door.  Right.  The dog had been barking earlier, but it was silent now.  Everything was silent now.
     Zeke closed the door.  The edge of it scraped along the floor and left a streak of dull red-brown in its wake.
     It was dark on the way back to his chair, and Zeke bumped his hip against Martha’s seat.  When he looked at her to apologize, he saw that she had leaned forward, her hand tilted toward the beer can he had left on the coffee table.  Fury flashed through him, bright and hot, and he gripped the back of her chair with one calloused, powerful hand and yanked it back roughly.  Martha flew back into it, and Zeke snarled at her, “You leave my goddamn drink alone, you whore.”  A harsh laugh escaped him as Martha’s wide eyes gazed up at him, her mouth frozen in a startled little “o.”  “Mr. Dodson told me all about it this afternoon.  Tried to apologize, too, the jackass.  Guess it’s my fault; if I’d been home earlier, I would’ve been the one going to meetings about Bobby’s grades.  Too little, too late, I suppose.”  He glanced at Martha, whose head had fallen forward toward her chest.  Scowling, he gave the chair a little shake.  “Are you listening to me, woman?”  He shook again; her head popped back up.  “Better.  And while we’re here, I don’t give a shit about your stupid fucking flowers.  What the hell are primroses?  Sounds like fairy shit to me.”  Martha still wasn’t responding, and Zeke found himself losing steam.  “I guess it doesn’t matter.”
     He shuffled back to his chair.  It took a moment to get settled; his stomach had been growing these days, and his chair was made for a smaller man.  Still, he managed to get comfortable as the game came back on the screen.  The TV shone white against the carpet, the only light in the house, and it glared against Zeke’s pale face as he turned to Martha again; in the half-light, a series of thin red scratches glowed on Zeke’s cheek; neatly mirroring the three deep gashes on Martha’s chest and stomach, only just visible beneath her shredded dress.  It had been yellow before, but now it was red.
     “Yeah,” Zeke said, nodding.  “It doesn’t matter.  The kids are in bed; the dog’s finally quiet; and you don’t have anything to say to me anymore.”  He smiled.  “What do you think of that, Martha?”
     As usual, Martha said nothing.  There was only darkness, the TV, and silence.  Enough silence to drown in.  Zeke threw his feet back onto the table, scooting a kitchen knife to one side as he did.  “You wanna watch the game with me, dear?” he asked gently.  “Good.  I’m glad.  We can talk about all this in the morning, after our guys have won.”  There was a pause before Zeke said, “I love you, honey.”  On the TV, the crowd erupted into applause.

Students - Second Place Poetry

by Angela Finneran

Now, when I sleep at night
I’m awakened by their beady eyes.
Those eyes that question me
            Why, why.
And judge the core of my soul,
each time I walk—
           Through.
                      That.
                                   Door.

Those eyes that sigh and yawn
Excite, and fright.
Those eyes that hug me,
            and give me the finger.

Those eyes attached to that
            Short, Repulsive Figure.

They demand that I deliver
            My beating heart on a plate of
            Mac and Cheese

Those beady eyes.
That crave love and praise;
That may or may not succeed
            Because of me…

When I am desperate to rest,
I can’t.
And never will again.

—Those beady eyes
that possess my dreams,
Growing and defected by the
            spectrum of my sins.

Release - Second Place Fiction

by Patrick Duggan

     “Take a seat Mr. Martin.”
The doctor, Franklin Wright, smiled reassuringly as he gestured to the exam table. Martin shifted forward anxiously, gingerly taking his place on the sinking plastic. He started at the cold.
     “These things are never comfortable, are they doc?”
     Franklin smiled. “Afraid not, Mr. Martin. The cold help keeps down the risk of infection. It's for everyone's safety.”
     Martin gave the doctor a sardonic grin. “Well, let's get on with it. Get out the needles and knives.”
     Dr. Franklin gave him a scolding look. “You know we don't use anything so barbaric. Don't be dramatic. This is just a final exam, to make sure you’re healthy and disease-free.”
     Martin leaned back, lying down on the table with his hands laced behind his head. “Right. Don't want me infecting anybody with something nasty. I guess that means this'll be the last time I see you then, huh doc?”
     Dr. Franklin patted him on the shoulder. “I'm afraid so, Mr. Martin. Don't fret; I'm sure there are many more cold exam tables in your future.”
     Martin took a deep breath. “I guess so. I guess so.”
     Dr. Franklin rolled up Martin's sleeve. The starched orange fabric crumpled and compressed, leaving the man’s arm bare. He applied a tourniquet, quickly and efficiently.
     “What are you going to do first?” Dr. Franklin asked. He had learned it was best to keep their minds off the pain. They were supposed to be happy, after all.
     “I'm going to go home. Spend time with my wife, hug my kids. Just be with my family, you know? Do you have any family Dr. Franklin?”
     Dr. Franklin forced a smile as he withdrew the needle. He moved away from the table and inserted the blood into a testing chamber. “Nothing for it now but to wait.” He turned around to face Mr. Martin. “My wife is, unfortunately, no longer with me, but I have two sons. They mean the world to me.”
     Martin smiled and nodded. “There's no other feeling like it is there. Being a father?”
     Dr. Franklin pulled off his glasses and began cleaning them idly with his shirt while nodding. “Nothing like it in the world, Mr. Martin.”
     “And now I get to see them. Go home and see my kids. Marissa, my wife, she didn't believe, but I knew they'd make the right decision. I knew they'd find me innocent.”
      Dr. Martin finished cleaning his glasses and put them back on. “Nothing short of a miracle Mr. Martin. Nothing short of a miracle.”
     The testing machine finished its work. A slow, monotonous red light began blinking on and off. Dr. Franklin moved over to the machine.
     Martin was nervous. “What does that mean? Do I have something?”
     Dr. Franklin smiled. “Just a small cancer, Mr. Martin. Nothing serious. Let me see....” He began paging through a small binder of medicine tables on the counter. Eventually, he stopped. “REX23.” He opened a cupboard and pulled out a small, pink vial. “Here it is. You should be right as rain in a just a moment, Mr. Martin.” Dr. Franklin inserted the vial into a syringe, flicked the needle to make sure there were no bubbles. “Hold still Mr. Martin. In a few minutes, this will all be over. You'll be able to go see your family.” The tourniquet was still on. Dr. Franklin gave Mr. Martin his injection, and then solemnly put the needle away, still smiling.
     Jacob Martin was declared dead 30 seconds later.
     A voice came on over the intercom. “Dr. Franklin, is the procedure complete?”
     The Doctor moved over to the voice panel on the wall. “Jacob Martin has passed on. He didn't suspect a thing; he went peacefully.”
     “Good work, Doctor. We can at least show them a little kindness before their release.”
     “Of course.”
     A few seconds later the door slid open again, and a young woman in an orange jumpsuit looked in nervously. “Take a seat Mrs. West.”

Make Sure the Light is On - Third Place Poetry

by Riley Hamilton

As the stars are reviled
Some still hang behind
October clouds, Angels
Descend down, dancing, twinkling like
Headlights through costal fog.
Such Spirits that harp and strum in
The periphery with falling red leaves.
Their voices intermingle with
Children laughing, peeking out from
Behind masks and bushes, running.
Except for the
Child chubby on
Corn syrup and MSG’s,
Doped up on Ritalin or
Antidepressants.
All the help we have given him
Counseling sessions, food stamps
Culminating in a break even,
No change, same problems.
It’s Halloween, so smile boy,
Why should you care that
Mother’s eyes are black
Father’s eyes are slack, drunk.
It’s a glorious night to
Beg from neighbors, just
Make sure the light is on and
Keep an eye for
Hidden razor blades, and overly
Friendly old men.
A police officer sits under
Every single street light but
The dark spaces in between hold the memory of
Women raped, murdered,
Men stabbing at each other in
Frustration, the
Taint of
Twisted reality, thoughts and morals.

So, think hard.
Why do angels dance here,
Circling with the leaves?

They must be the fallen variety,
Harder to spot than devils.

Trip to Iao Valley - Third Place Fiction

by JodiAnn Tomooka

    “Are you ready?”
    “I don’t think we should be here,” I said.
    “Come on. It’s just one time,” replied David. “Just to say we did it.”
    He climbed over the yellow, rusted gate and waited for everyone to follow. I looked around. Next to me, Alice and Janie had their arms locked in fear; Tyler and Andrew looked wary; Nicole quietly muttered something to herself; Laura stood with one hand in her pocket, the other in her mouth, biting her nails.
    “Come on guys. It’s not like anything bad is going to happen,” said David. “We’re just going to take a look around.”
    “But it’s haunted,” whispered Janie, as she dug herself further into Alice’s side.
    “That’s the whole point. Lots of people come here at night and nothing ever happens to them. We’re just having fun.”
    Tyler and Laura hopped over the gate, knowing that David the Daredevil would never give up until we were all on the other side.
    “Just this once,” said Tyler.
    “Ok. Who’s next?” David asked.
    Slowly, Nicole climbed over the gate followed by Andrew. Alice, Janie, and I remained on the safe side. David stared at us.
    “Would you rather be alone, three girls in the middle of nowhere, or with the rest of us and three guys to protect you?”
    “I’d rather be with the group,” exclaimed Janie as she, too, made her way over the gate. Alice and I looked at each other with the same hopeless expression. Stay with the group or be left alone. We slowly climbed over the gate and joined the rest of them.
    “Ok. Everyone has flashlights? Good. Let’s go!”
    One by one, the glow of the flashlights illuminated the street in front of us. From here on, the beam from my hefty flashlight was my best friend. Once we were prepared both physically and mentally, we started to climb up the hill, depending solely on each other. It was a beautiful night. The sky was clear, and the stars shone brightly. The air was mildly cold but nothing unbearable.
   After about a minute of silence, Laura asked, “Do you know the stories about Iao Valley?”
   “Yes!” cried Janie. “The one about the big battle between the Hawaiians that happened here. Bodies clogged the river and turned the water red with blood!”
   “Oh, Janie, look the water’s red!” joked David as he shone the light over the railing to the river below.
   “Shut up, David! That’s not funny!”
   “Shhh. You’re being so loud. The spirits will hear you!” said Laura playfully.
   “Nooooooo,” moaned Janie as she buried her way between Alice and I. Janie was the superstitious, spiritual one in the group.
   “Well going back to what Laura was saying, isn’t there a story about the side of this mountain too?” asked Tyler.
   “Yeah,” I replied. “A plane crashed here many years ago. People say that late at night you can hear the passengers screaming and feel the heat from the flames.”
   Andrew tilted his head upwards and leaned closer to the mountain. “I don’t hear or feel anything.”
   “It’s just a story,” said Tyler.
   Janie retaliated, “You don’t mess around with ancient Hawaiian stories. They’re real, you know, so can we please get out of here before the night marchers come?”
   “There’s no night marchers here,” said Andrew.
   “Yeah, there are,” said Laura. “These restless souls of ancient warriors carry torches and march in mostly sacred places. You can hear them beating their drums and chanting, ready to go to war. Iao Valley is a sacred Hawaiian site.”
   “You can’t look them in the eye, right?” asked Alice.
   “Yeah. If you do, they’ll take you and make you one of them forever.”
   Nicole laughed. “So what do you do if you see them?”
   “You’re supposed to lie on the ground face down, put your hands on your head, breathe slowly, and try not to make noise.”
   Nicole started laughing again. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”
   Janie, Alice, Laura and I stared at her with wide eyes. “Don’t disrespect the ancient stories,” I said. “Especially here. The Hawaiians truly believed this stuff.”
   “Ok, sorry,” apologized Nicole. “It’s just kind of funny.”
   “We’re almost there guys,” David said, averting our attentions back to the walk.
   We continued to walk up the winding road. With each turn in the road, my heart leapt out of my chest. My eyes continued to dart around, ready to spot any sign of danger. I believed deeply in the stories, which is why I didn’t want to be here. We made it halfway up the hill when suddenly David’s flashlight went out.
   “What the heck?” he said. He hit the flashlight against his hand, hoping it would turn on again. Then, Nicole’s light went out too.
   “I told you not to disrespect them!” I whispered fiercely.
   “Relax,” said David. “It’s just the batteries. I forgot to put new ones in before we came.” He took Nicole’s flashlight and checked the batteries. Dead too.
   “It’s ok. We still have six flashlights left,” said Nicole. She moved her way to stand by Janie and Alice, and David walked over to share lights with Tyler. We continued to walk further up the hill when a gust of cold wind blew past us. Suddenly, a high piercing scream filled the air. I whipped my head around to see Alice grasping her shirt where her heart lay underneath and Janie clutching Alice’s arm for dear life, both of them staring wide eyed at Nicole who was standing on the side laughing out loud. Apparently, Nicole had grabbed Janie from behind and pulled her back. Realizing it was Nicole who had done it, Janie slapped her arm and began yelling profanities at her.
   “Shut up before someone hears us,” warned Laura strictly. Then, another scream filled the air. Everyone looked towards Janie, but her widened eyes and mid-sentence stance assured us that she was not the one who had shouted. We began looking around the group, attempting to find the culprit, when several other lower pitched screams reverberated off the sides of the mountain. This time, we were certain they did not come from any of us. At this realization, the eight of us sprinted down the hill, back where we came from. Then, each of the flashlights extinguished one by one. I pressed the on and off switch multiple times but to no avail. Complete darkness surrounded us.
   I swung my arm to the side in hopes of grabbing hold of someone I knew, but instead felt something grab my legs and pull me down face first. I tilted my head back to find Laura with her right arm firmly grasping my right leg. She had tripped and fallen, pulling me down with her.
   “Are you ok?” I asked.
   “Yeah,” she replied. “Sorry about taking you down too. I just grabbed whatever was in front of me.”
   “It’s alright. Where’s everyone else?” I desperately scanned the road, scrunching my eyes in the darkness trying to find my friends. I tried to listen for footsteps, but all I found was silence.
   “They must’ve run ahead,” I said, trying to keep myself calm. “We better go before they leave us here.” I pushed myself up and pulled Laura off of the ground. Together, we darted straight to the cars. We were almost there when I made out a dark figure standing on the side of the road in front of us. I slowed to a jog and put my arm out to stop Laura. “Do you see that over there?”
   Laura’s body stiffened next to mine. I couldn’t make out the figure, but my feet refused to move any closer. My heart beat against my ribs as though it wanted to escape its bone cell. Laura moved her head forward slightly and suddenly grasped my arm. I half jumped at the surprise.
   “It’s Janie!” Laura said as she began to run ahead to meet her. As I moved closer to the figure, I made out a small girl with a ponytail and a bulky purse hanging from her shoulder. That’s Janie, I thought. I ran up to them and watched as Laura peaked around at Janie’s face. She was standing with her face towards the river, her eyes as wide as the full moon above us. Laura and I followed her gaze and found what looked to be a dam, with logs sticking out, in the middle of the river several feet from where we were standing. The water was unusually dark. I turned back to face Janie. “What’s wrong?”
   Janie merely raised her arm and pointed at the dam. I followed her finger to the black mass hindering the river from flowing, when suddenly I realized what it was. My hand instinctively covered my mouth as I gasped in both disgust and horror. The objects sticking out weren’t logs, but arms, and the dam was no regular dam but a collection of bodies. The faint smell of rust filled my nose as I realized why the water was so dark. I pulled away from them, trying to recompose myself.
   Laura, finally understanding what happened, began pulling the frozen Janie away from the river, back towards the cars. “We need to get out of here now.”
   Without another word, the three of us made our way to the bottom of the hill and found our cars right where we had left them. However, something was different. David’s driver door was wide open and the hood was propped up. Next to his, Tyler’s car was the same as usual, except it displayed four large scratches running from the front bumper to the back tire. Both vehicles were empty. I frantically scanned the area, looking for some sort of movement. Laura, who had made her way to David’s truck, cried out, “They were here!”
I ran up to meet her but refused to look inside. “His keys are in the ignition,” she said. “Alice and Nicole’s bags are in here too…”
   “We need to leave, now!” Janie shouted, her voice shaking.
   “I’m not leaving until we find everyone else!” I yelled.
   “Just get in the car,” said Laura. She climbed in the driver’s seat and turned the key, but the truck wouldn’t start.
   Suddenly, a rhythmic beating sounded through the trees and off the side of the mountain. Three of our heads whipped in the direction of the beating. A line of glowing torches bobbing up and down made its way in our direction. The drumming grew louder and the faint sound of chanting could be heard.
   “Get down!” whispered Laura. The three of us quickly fell to the ground, our faces pressed firmly into the gravel, our fingers locked on top of our heads. I tried to slow my breathing, but my heart’s frenzied palpitations made it hard to think. The drumming and chanting grew louder until the sound was directly in front of us. I closed my eyes tightly and prayed that they would leave us alone.
   For a moment, I thought we were in the clear as the sounds died away. Then, I heard Janie’s high-pitched scream fill the night air. My eyelids flew open, and I tried to glance to the side of me, but I couldn’t see anything. A couple of seconds later, Laura yelled out in fear. My heart beat faster and faster as I knew I was next. I shut my eyes again and pressed myself closer to the ground. A hard jab to my side indicated they were over me. I heard a low grunt a few inches from my head.
   This is only a dream, this is only a dream, I thought to myself. It was only a dream.