Nude

Fiction by Ashley Nicole Doerges

Honorable Mention for College Fiction - 2019 Met Awards

She picked the rosy red lipstick and then decided on the peachy nude instead. She grabbed the expensive lingerie from the pink striped bag and squeezed it on. She knew to wear this was truly only for the eyes before hitting the floor. It had only been a few hours since she had left his house covered in love when she had the idea. She spent the time she had to get ready perfecting her beauty for him. She wanted her hair to be nice even though she planned to be mostly in bed. She found a long thin cardigan that would wrap her surprise and completed her look with painful heels. She smiled at herself in the oval mirror before closing the door behind her as she went on her way.

Pulling into the driveway, the lights were all out and the grass was wet. Remembering she had perfume in her purse she searched for the purple bottle and then spritzed Love Spell on her neck and wrists before getting out of the car. She thought about how wild she was considering she never dared to do something like this before. Heading quietly into the house she left the jacket on the counter with her heels having decided the heels were too painful. She was already starting to turn slightly red in the face but excitedly walked through the dark of the home once hers. Suddenly, a woman’s bitter voice fired from the end of the dark hallway. Confusion rapidly pulsed through her mind and realization squeezed violently in her chest. She stood dripping in betrayal and then choked on her breath turning to leave. The sour woman was wearing closely as much as her in comparison to the sheer lingerie. The woman blared for an explanation as she darted through the darkness of the hallway. Without much thought, she decided it didn’t matter to expose the truth. Then he came down the hallway; she tried again to escape moving to leave. “Honey, she does stupid things like this trying to lure me; don’t be mad I would never do anything to hurt you,” he said to his sweet tarte.  She could feel her heartbreaking into jagged shaped middle fingers. Her body wanted to vomit profanities and lash out what he deserved. With a soft voice, “You don’t understand. You can’t come here dressed like that and throw yourself at me. Why do you have to be crazy!?” he said. With apology flickering in his eyes he looked to his sugary candy standing with triumph by the door and for a moment it was quiet.

Her mind circled with anger like sharks in this bloody situation, wanting to attack by telling him how stupid she felt for forgetting the past. She wanted to predict that he would always regret this moment. Her mind incinerated painfully through the things she wanted to say and do in that moment of silence. She decided it didn’t matter to anyone in that room. She smiled, shook her head and said, “Goodbye, you Fuckwit.”

About the Author

I am Ashley Douglas; I’ve trekked a long road at Cerro Coso taking only a few classes at a time being a full-time mom. I'm nearing my graduation and look forward to the next steppingstone. My piece is about a woman realizing she is betrayed by her significant other and coping with how to handle the situation.

To Sweetly Drown

Fiction by Crystal Schneider

Honorable Mention for College Fiction - 2019 Met Awards

Deeper and deeper he fell, yet it did not feel as though he was falling but instead drifting, drifting the way a golden leaf would glide on the fall winds. There is no control, no resistance he could muster. Like a leaf he was carried with no will of his own to stop this decent. Bubbles travel past him, up and up to the surface tickling and caressing his skin as they go, gathering like little moths to the light above that grew smaller and duller the longer he fell.

Was he dying?

Was this death?

He knows he should have been afraid; he knew as those precious bubbles escape between his lips that his time is dwindling. He had been a fighter at one point in his life, or so he would like to believe. He had been a man who survived twenty years in rat infested streets where a clever tongue and fast reflexes where more useful tools then pen and paper. He was a man who had survived seven years more on ships that rocked on tempest waves, with sails that bore black flags decorated with skulls and bones. He jumped onto decks burning with fire and fought men in red coats. He plundered riches meant for other men, men not capable or willing to fight to protect what was theirs.

He fought.

He survived.

Yet now when he should have fought his hardest, kicked and stretched out his arms to the surface that moved further and further way-- he could not. Not when, even in the distorted world that weakened his senses, he could hear the sweet humming melody that sunk its tune deep into his mind. He felt his body relax and betray him in its stupor.

The melody echoed in its distortion within the water and yet lost none of its honeysuckle like sound. With the wordless song came with movement in the darkened water, colors of hair he had only seen from the fairest of ladies drew his eyes away from the fading surface. From chestnut browns to marrown reds hair floated alop the heads of the creatures that bore human faces, each convaid lovely and fresh youthful smiles.

They circled around him, two then three, then four. Like dancers their fish like tails moved their bodies through the water in graceful motions alluring and deceptively sweet. Had they been sharks perhaps the fear of being eaten would have shaken him from his state yet, despite the predator eyes that watched him, inching closer and closer every time they made a circle around the descending man he did not feel his heart race nor his mind stirr from its clouded state.

It was not until he felt the pain burn in his chest and the bubbles that slipped from his lips stop did the graceful round movements of the creatures change. Jagged and fast in their motion they launched themselves towards him, teeth sharp and bard with claw like fingers steached. The closest with her onyx hair and stretched out her arm tearing through the water with no resistance slowing down her attack.

Yet the attack never met its attended target, instead the song’s melody fell away and so with it some of the fog that had covered his mind. Bursts of bubbles exploded around the area, blocking his view, yet he knew enough, even without his eyes, a fight was happening. From the scratches and hisses that echoed in their unhuman distorment the color of red burst and mixed with the curtain of bubbles. None of this mattered. Awakened from the spell, the man was no longer paid mind to the memory of the  melody and the lovely faces of women and their underworldly tails. None of that mattered to him. His own hands as if on instinct alone reached too his throat gripping at the burning crushing feeling that pulsed through his body.

He kicked at the waters, pushed at the invisible force that pulled him down. He was not going to die, he would fight. Posiden could have his graveyard of ships and other sailors but the ill tempered god of waves would not have him.

Yet the underwater world was deep and he had sunk so far into its embrace the will to fight dwindled.

A tug came to his leg and downward, this time with measured force, he was pulled away from the surface. Golden curls drifted before his face while his eyes fell on the face of the blue eyed woman, with her shimmering scales of blue and green that lined her jaw and cheeks, deep cuts of fresh wounds still bright red and bleeding. For a moment, in the hypnotic sight of the creature, the pain in his chest seemed to dull yet with it his vision began to tunnel blocking out the world around the femanin creature in a dark haze. It was only when the softness of lips touched his own did he feel his lungs expand and fill with the precious air that he had thought only the surface above the water could offer.

Latching onto the creature, to the woman, he took in all the air she offered him. When their lips finally broke so too did the water from around his head. Fresh air and heat from the sun's light fell on his drenched head while he took in as much air as his burning lungs would allow.

“Man overboard!” the call of a stranger fell through his ears ringing out over the sound of the turning waves. In a dull haze the man thought not about those on the ship that pulled him from the ocean's embrace nor gave any care to the blanket that was set on his shoulder nor did he pay any attention to the questions that were hurled at him from the various old sea men. His attention and his mind was lost, however, lost in the dark ways of the ocean and its melody.

About the Author

I am a single mother going to school at Cerro Coso Community college in Lake Isabella. I thoroughly enjoy writing and the creative process that goes into it. Fantasy is one of my favorite genres.  

When I Tell You

Poetry by Abigail Voigt

Honorable Mention for College Poetry - 2019 Met Awards

When I tell you “I love you,” it won’t sound like “I love you.”

When I tell you “I love you,” it will be in a glance I give you to make sure you are okay, only to find that you’ve fallen asleep next to me and “I love you” will be the gentle smile on my face because honestly I’m just thankful you can sleep.

When I tell you “I love you,” it will sound very similar to “did you eat?” and it will annoy you continuously for the next hour until you have succeeded to eat something, anything.

When I tell you “I love you,” it will be in the footsteps that follow you out of the slammed door and in the hands that I place on your back as I make sure you know you are wanted.

When I tell you “I love you,” it will look like fidgety hands and shifty eyes as I tell you the honest, uncomfortable truth that you have tried to ignore for so long.

“I love you” will sound like jokes on a bad day and stupid laughter at 5am after a long night of keeping you away from your thoughts.

It will look like a messed-up schedule. “I love you” will make me an hour late just so that you can tell me your fears and I can tell them to go away.

“I love you” will mess me up. It will leave me with tired eyes, annoyed friends, hurt feelings, and a bad reputation with time.

But, friend, you are worth that. You are worth everything.

Please though,

I beg that you tell me “I love you” too.

Blue Nail Polish

Fiction by Amy Cosner

Honorable Mention for College Fiction - 2019 Met Awards

The sky is gray above me. The lake is a mirror, reflecting the trees and mountains all around. There is a chill in the air, so I pull the wool blanket more tightly around myself. The woods are silent, as if all it’s inhabitants are waiting for the day to begin. It amazes me. That the sun still rises in the east. That the earth still turns on its axis. That life goes on for everyone else. My chest burns. My head aches. My heart throbs. I stare down at my bare feet, at the chipping blue nail polish. The knot in my throat won’t let up; I want to cry, yell, sob, but I'm too tired. Too drained to even stand. I need to sleep, but I won't. I wouldn't last night and I won't now. My sleep is tormented with nightmares and her face. Dreams of her voice and when I reach out for her, she vanishes and I wake more worn out than ever. Everyone is so worried. Avery begs me to sleep, pleads for me to eat. She doesn't understand that I can't. But how could she?
 
She means well. This trip was her suggestion. The woods have always cheered me before. I would eagerly anticipate our camping trips. Long for the smell of the trees and the soft dirt beneath my feet. We spent hours on the lake just the two of us. Gossiping about boys and giggling over the stupidest little things. This was my happy place, where I felt safe and free. I wish I could feel that way again. But I won’t. There are too many memories here. Too many campfires and too many hikes. Too many deer sightings and far too many nights spent stargazing.

The funeral was a week ago. I sat in a pew, wearing a black dress and a pearl necklace that she left behind. My father sat beside me. Tall and ridged. His knuckles white from clutching the bible in his hands. The service ended and everyone offered their condolences. I didn't hear a word. We went to the cemetery and I watched as the woman who sang me lullabies and taught me to bake cookies was lowered six feet underground. I dropped dirt into her grave. I broke.

She was in a car accident. The other driver was on his cell phone. There was a collision. She was alive and then she just, wasn't.

Everything happens for a reason. That's what everyone keeps saying, but I don't I buy it. What reason could there be that my mom isn't here with me anymore? That she's going to miss my graduation? That she won't be at my wedding? That she'll never meet her grandchildren? The world is sick, and cruel. That's the only explanation that makes sense. It still doesn’t.

We sat on my floor that last night, on the green shag carpet that I was always begging to get rid of. She sat cross-legged, with her hair up in a bun on top of her head and a bottle of blue nail polish in her hands because “Everyone wears red nail polish” and I wasn’t everyone. She gushed about how grown up I looked in my dress and reminisced about changing my diapers. I rolled my eyes.

Avery’s mom picked me up in her SUV and I waved, calling a quick half-hearted, ‘I love you’ over my shoulder. If only I could go back. I would hug her so tight, the way I used to as a kid and never let go. She would have never gotten into the car.

If I had agreed to spend the night with Avery, she would have never had to pick me up. I wouldn’t have stood outside the school for an hour, furious that she wasn’t there yet. I would have never gotten the phone call that brought me to my knees, vomiting onto the asphalt. 
I never got to say goodbye.

Now I breathe in the scent of pine needles and the coming rain. I hear his footsteps behind me and his arm brushes mine as he settles onto the dirt next to me.

“It’s beautiful.” He states simply, and it is. The sun has begun to peak over the crest of the mountains. The clouds begin to part, reveling the pink and orange flames illuminating the sky.

My father isn’t the sentimental type, but he isn’t the stony, distant type either. He’s gentle and kind, and while his I-love-you’s are few and far between, they are warm and meaningful, like the hot chocolate my mother made every Christmas Eve. I don’t expect an elaborate speech or words of comfort. That’s not Dad’s way and he knows that it wouldn’t help me. Instead, he wraps an arm around me and I curl into him, resting my head on his shoulder. Here we sit, silently, tears dripping down my cheek, until the light streams through the branches above us. I’m struck again by the stillness of it all. The quiet serenity of the morning.

“You know.” my father says, finally breaking the silence, “She wouldn’t want this.”

I stare straight ahead at the ripples in the river.

“Your mom.” he explained, his voice thick and eyes rimmed with red. “She would want us to keep living.”

I gulp back a sob.

The image won’t leave my mind. Her still white hands folded carefully on her stomach. Blue nail polish on her cold fingers.

My dad’s right. It would break her heart to see me this way, this broken. But I can’t let go. I never will. I don’t want to. Maybe it won’t hurt so badly someday, but do I even want relief? Do I want this excruciating pain to end? It wouldn’t be fair to her. So here I'll stay, tear streaked and shattered, craving the sound of her laughter.

About the Author

I'm currently in the process of getting my English degree. I've always loved to read and always wanted to write, but I haven't had the courage to share my personal thoughts and fears in my work until now. 

Stone Setter

Poem by Jessa Roberts

Honorable Mention for College Poetry - 2019 Met Awards

They glitter,
Like crushed up bits of diamonds,
Scattered across the black linen bedsheets of the sky,
You are the setter who placed each one,
Every glittering stone,
Is Yours

Gently fluttering leaves,
Mountainsides, valleys, lakeshores,
You are the painter who colors them with the seasons,
At Your touch the aspens blush,
Their snow twisted limbs they bow,

White topped waves,
Prostrate themselves upon the shore,
At Your feet,
Regal sea foamed crests,
They offer,
As a path for Your feet,

We see evidence of You everywhere,
You,
The stone setter who trimmed the night skies,
Above my head,
You,
Who spared some of Your stardust,
To leave in his eyes,
As they twinkle at me in the dark,
Enjoying Your work together

Seasons in Memories

Poem by Angela Rose

2nd Place for College Poetry - 2019 Met Awards

Summer
Warm sun kissed skin with bright smiles
Click after click of an instant camera

Fall
Leaves crunching against shoes 
Roasted Marshmallows and cosy jumpers

Winter
Freshly powdered rooftops and crisp air
Joyous smiles among crinkling wrapping paper

Spring
Twinkling city lights in the distance below
Laughter filled air and starry nights

About the Writer

Angela Rose is a Cerro Coso student.

Alone

Fiction by Preeti S.

2nd Place for College Fiction - 2019 Met Awards

She heaved a sigh of relief, and collapsed into the chair by the bed. After a six-hour long struggle, the young man was finally out of danger. He had been in a multi-vehicle collision on the freeway, and nobody who saw him as he was wheeled into the hospital thought he would survive. But a team of surgeons led by her had proven them wrong. Now, as she listened to his even breathing and the rhythmic beeping of the cardiac monitor in the sterile atmosphere of the Critical Care Unit, a sense of calm spread over her. She felt her muscles relax, and her heart, which had been pounding like a jack-hammer, slowed down.

Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed seven times. She opened her eyes — it was time to go home. No, not home. Only an empty apartment that greeted her with a graveyard-like silence every night. Pushing aside her thoughts, she got up and made her way towards the nurses’ station. After giving them instructions for the night, she walked to her room, picked up her belongings, and made her way towards the parking lot. She swiped her access card through the machine and smiled at one of her colleagues who was just arriving at work as she left the building.

But the smile did not reach her eyes. It had been a long time since she had really smiled. Those beautiful brown eyes that would well up with tears as she laughed had been replaced by still, muddy pools, no emotion ever disturbing their placidity. She walked towards her car, her gait that of a person who knew there was no one eagerly expecting her. She backed out of the parking lot and hit the road. The weather reflected her mood — melancholy and tired.

As she waited in one of the many traffic snarls on her way back, she stared out of the window at a flock of birds up in the sky. Suddenly, the alarm in her car clock beeped. She had set it to the time the flight left for her homeland. It had been a childish whim, but today it brought back memories of a native land thousands of miles away, and her real home.

HOME. The word hung in the air, and her thoughts flew back to a family she had left behind long ago. She was the oldest daughter of a rich, orthodox family that had never really learnt to respect women as individuals. But she had always been the rebel. When her wedding was called off at the last minute after the groom developed cold feet, she saw her chance to finally live her life the way she wanted to. After much coaxing, her parents allowed her to leave home for a distant land to study — a first in her family. Four years into college, she got married, leaving her parents dumbfounded. The last she had heard from them was when she had called to tell them that her marriage had ended in a divorce. Since then …

A sharp honking sound shattered her reverie and brought her back to the present. As she navigated through the city’s traffic, she reflected on the day’s events, like always. But today something was different. Maybe it was the day’s events, maybe it was the weather. She could not place her finger on it. But suddenly an unsettling feeling swept over her.

Out of the blue, a question popped up in her head. What is the purpose of my life? This question had arisen before. She had always pushed those thoughts away successfully. But today, everything had a startling clarity to it. Try as she might, she couldn’t get it out of her mind. It was like those toys with sand at the bottom, that came back harder the more you pushed them. It was as though someone were nagging her for an answer.

And then it dawned on her, that she did not have a purpose in life. 

She worked all day and spent long nights in her vast bedroom, battling the insomnia that had plagued her ever since she had started living alone. Even if she stopped working today, she had earned enough to live the rest of her life on her savings. But why she worked so hard and for whom she earned so much — she had no answer. Of death she was not afraid. As a trauma surgeon in one of the city’s leading hospitals, she saw someone die on her table every week. But the thought that scared her most was that she could not think of a single person who would even realize she was gone.

Lost in her thoughts, she did not realize she had reached her destination. She drove into her apartment complex, parked the car and walked towards the elevator. She unlocked her door, threw her belongings on the couch and sunk into it. Turning on the television, she raised the volume and allowed the noise to drown out the silence that filled the apartment. Not that she wanted to watch anything in particular, but she hated the way every little noise ricocheted off the walls and furniture, reiterating the fact that she was alone.

The news was on and anchor was talking about the stock market; then the weather report came on. But to her everything was a blur as she lay on the couch. Suddenly something that one of the news anchors said caught her attention. Her eyes flew open and she sat up with a start. Plastered across the screen was the picture of a three-year-old girl, her head a crop of disheveled hair, her face the epitome of innocence. But what attracted her the most was little girl’s eyes. For in them she saw the same gaze she saw in hers — relentlessly searching for someone to call her own.


A year later…

It was midnight as she lay in the tent under the stars, the little girl in her arms. It had been a special day for both of them. Exactly a year earlier the angel she now held in her arms had come home for the first time. She had decided then that she would celebrate that day as their birthday — for it was indeed the beginning of a new life for both of them. So today they had spent the day doing all their favorite things and had returned home exhausted. And they were going to spend the night camping out in the backyard, because it was something they both loved.

Her thoughts flew back to everything that had happened since the day she saw the news about foster children looking for forever homes; how she had contacted Social Services immediately and fought a legal battle to bring the girl home. And how much her life had changed since then. She was now happier than she had ever been.

As her eyes felt heavy with sleep, the insomnia no longer troubling her, she watched the little one sleep peacefully in her arms and promised herself that neither of them would ever be alone again.

About the Author

Preeti S. is a Cerro Coso student.

Imaginary Enemies

Creative Non-Fiction by Cali Hugelen

1st Place for College Creative Non-Fiction - 2019 Met Awards

They say it is inherited. The public shame the individual for their vulnerabilities. Everyone believes it is an imaginary enemy. No one knows they have no idea; unless you are the one fighting it. I don’t even know. But he does, all too well.

He lies in a stark beige bed, with basic bedding, in a virtually empty room. I sit, staring at absolutely nothing. The monitors occasionally beep, playing the rhythm of his heartbeat. A ventilator positioned next to the bed breaths the life into him. His vulnerability is heartbreaking. He was my superman.
I stare out the only window in the room. I notice the burnished silver fountain in the middle of the courtyard as I watch the water cascade down the levels. My mind wanders back to the surprisingly sunny day on the Washington beach. The officiant was rambling on about what it meant to become husband and wife, how we were two becoming one. Still, to this day, I don’t remember all of what she said. I was too busy watching him and looking into his eyes.

This man that was about to become my husband was so strong and insanely intelligent. He had high self-esteem, great self-worth, and was popular among his co-workers and our friends. Everyone thought highly of him. Our future looked so bright together.

I find it ironic that on that day, for a predominantly cloudy and gloomy location, the sun was shining, and the rain had subsided. I was certain that it was a sign of our future. However, the cloudy gloominess was still there. It just wasn’t visible for anyone to see.

The once outgoing man started to withdraw, no one noticed. The once happy man no longer smiled, no one noticed. His self-esteem was gone, and the sciamachy was starting to take over. The bright future’s light started to dim. No one noticed. But me.

He became a patient to several doctors, but he was clever and knew just what to say. The uncanny ability to deceive people was startling. Did I fall for the same tricks? No one would listen. Maybe I was going crazy, maybe all that I noticed was just in my head. It couldn’t be, though. Could it? I swear, some days he would talk nonsense, mindless babble, and when I looked in his eyes, he was not there. The man’s eyes I looked into on my wedding day were different; they were gone. Then again, I could just be talking drivel.

It was almost like watching a play at a theater; every day, the stories were different. The ups and downs and mood swings were like riding a wickedly out-of-control roller coaster. No matter how much I screamed, no one would stop the ride. Maybe I didn’t scream loud enough.

The urgent beeping brought me back to the cold, bare hospital room. I noticed his eyes, the ones I remembered, were open with a look of confusion. I screamed for the nurse; this time it was loud enough. After seven days of lifelessness, he woke up. Like the superman, I knew he astonished the doctors. Just a few days before, his doctor had sat me down and told me I needed to start making end of life decisions.

My body went limp, and now I was the vulnerable one. A nurse I didn’t even know held me as I uncontrollably broke down. I repetitively asked her why and how. I was so unsure of what to do. She just held me and let me cry. My tears flowed like water in the fountain of the courtyard. I never made a final decision. I couldn’t.

His actions seven days prior were not made by a stable individual, he was not in his right state of mind. He was not thinking about anyone that day; he couldn’t; he was lost. The roller coaster had derailed without the help of anyone. One severe and hasty decision nearly cost him his life. The once strong and happy man is still fighting the ride on the roller coaster. He is still smart; nonetheless, his brain doesn’t quite function like it used to. He will never be the same man I married on a sunny day in Washington because of the enemies he battles that no one can see. No one but me.

About the Writer

Cali Hugelen is a Cerro Coso student.

Childhood Memories

Poem by Spencer Riley Shepard

1st Place for College Poetry - 2019 Met Awards

Faded red changed to rust,
An empty spot where a seat once sat,
Tires cracked and dried out, unable to hold a breath.
Chains and gear petrified.

Only happy memories from this memorial of rust,
of a generation that played from sunrise to sunset,
of jumping off curbs in the neighborhood,
and the hum of streetlights flickering on.

Weeds knitting into spokes,
webs mingling with the frame,
dust clinging to all.
Rust fading red.

About the Writer

Spencer Riley Shepard is a Cerro Coso English major and Kern River Valley poet.

Morning News

Fiction by Jessa Roberts

1st Place for College Fiction - 2019 Met Awards

It began in a coffee shop
        On the corner of hope and despair
Where steam twisted up
        From mugs filled with leftover dreams
Set on tables carved out of nightmares

 “Hey Grey!” Joe yelled, sliding into the chair next to Greylynne, who frantically flipped the napkin she had been writing on over, “I wrote your number on someone’s cup!”

Grey gaped at her friend, “What?”

Joe beamed smugly, the day’s last rays of sunlight peeping through the shop's window running its fingers through her apricot colored hair sadly, “I wrote your number on his cup!” she repeated, flicking glowing strands out of her face.

“Who’s cup?” Grey tried again suspiciously.

Joe cradled her chin in her hands, “He gets a mocha, you get a mocha,” she giggled, hiding her face in her hands.

Obviously to Joe that meant they were soulmates. Or reincarnated lovers destined to find each other and fall in love. Grey rolled her eyes.

“Isn’t that abusing your power as a barista?” she asked wearily.

“Giving rude people decaf shots is abusing my power,” she smiled sweetly.

Grey sighed, “Good to know.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” her friend demanded, “look over there, in the corner.”

Grey let her gaze drift in the direction Joe had flicked her eyes conspiratorially.

A young man had tucked himself away in the darkest corner of the coffee shop. The hood of his crisp black hoodie pulled down over his eyes.

“His name’s Casper,” Joe twittered, “he comes in now and then. He is so cute!”

Grey watched him for a moment.

"Why didn’t you give him your number?”

Joe smirked, “He’s out of my league.”

The figure lifted his head, and Grey saw the flash of a large silver crucifix peaking out from his collar before she met his eyes. They were large and intense, deep set into his skull. Mournfully they watched her. He looked at once at home and lost. Grey dropped her eyes, needing to escape his look, and started folding her napkin nervously.

Joe, oblivious, pulled her phone out of her pocket and checked the time, “Kay, love you, my breaks over!”

She stood up, “Be careful going home. Text me when you get in!”

After Joe left Grey only stayed around for a couple more minutes before Casper’s sorrowful eyes chased her out. On her way to the door she passed the shop’s newspaper stands. Headlines screamed murder and flaunted barely censored pictures of local girls who had their throats slashed open. The gruesome killings had shocked Grey’s sleepy little town. Now fear hung in the cold air like a mist, clinging to your clothes and biting your exposed skin.

For the next week Joe became an overenthusiastic matchmaker, trying every sly and back handed way to get Casper and Grey to talk to each other.

Grey desperately avoided it. A fact that only inflamed Joe’s devilish scheming.

Wednesday the papers bled the story of another victim. A young girl found dead in a public restroom. Consistent with the previous tragedies, her throat had been mangled. Cause of death was blood loss.
Joe and Grey huddled together on Grey’s couch, trying to drown in re-runs of I Love Lucy. After a couple episodes Joe lifted her head from where it had been resting on her knees.

“I think Casper hates me.”

Grey snorted, trying to fight back a smile at her comically heartbroken tone.

“Why?”

Joe laid her head back down.

“I told him he looks like the actor that played Pennywise the Clown.”

Grey choked, “What?”

“The actor! He’s handsome in real life!”

Grey threw back her head and laughed.

Joe scowled at her, “I was trying to compliment him!”

“Oh Lord,” Grey gasped between laughs, “He must hate you now!” She smothered her face in her hands, giggling into her palms.

Joe pouted, obviously brokenhearted that all her matchmaking had gone to waste.

“He’s weird anyway.”

“Weirder than you?” Grey giggled under her breath, earning an evil look from her friend.

“He got into a fight or something the other day.”

Grey thought of those haunted eyes of his, “Really?”

Joe nodded forlornly, “His hands were all beat up, like he’d punched something. And his lip,” she paused, “it looked like he’d bit it. It was creepy.”

Grey patted her friend’s shoulder, “Well that’s what happens with bad boys, love,” she said consolingly.

“Greylynne?”

“Hmm?”

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” Joe looked up at her sadly, “you know, with all the girls being found"

“I promise, mom,” Grey leaned in and hugged her tightly.

No new headlines popped up for a while. But Grey noticed things were getting weirder and weirder around Joe’s work. Other young baristas started asking their male coworkers to walk them to their cars at night. Joe herself started to avoid later shifts.

“Whatever happened to Casper?” she once asked.

Joe clammed up, only commenting that he was “weird” when Grey pressed her.

The sun had finally stopped struggling against the turning seasons. After weakly shining during the day it succumbed helplessly to the ravenous dark. The dark drove everyone inside. The fear kept them there.

While waiting for Joe to go on break one day, Greylynne mindlessly began sketching a cross across the back of a napkin. It reminded her of Casper’s crucifix. For days afterward that crucifix had popped up in her poetry. She hadn’t thought about it in a while.

His displaced eyes, however, still haunted her dreams. Despite the hushed relief that had crept in after the absence of new murders, Grey could almost feel her poetic sensibility stretching taught, anticipating something big and evil was just beyond the quiet.

One night later her phone began buzzing frantically. Having nearly fallen asleep, Grey ignored it. It buzzed again. And again.

She sat up amidst the nest of blankets and grabbed her phone.

“Greylynne!” Joe’s mom yelled, “You tell her to come home this instant!”

“Who?” Grey drowsed.

“Josephine! Tell her to come home right now!”

Grey scrunched her nose, an inexplicably cold feeling was creeping up her limbs, “I haven’t seen her all day, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Silence on the other end.

“What’s going on?”

Nothing. Grey repeated herself, desperation creeping into her voice.

“No one knows where she is,” Joe’s mom whispered, “We can’t find her.”

Grey fell out of her bed, grabbing her car keys, offering hollow sounding reassurances as she started her car.

First she went to the café, which was closed. The parking lot was empty, aside from the swirling masses of dead leaves. The cold forced itself down her throat, making a nest in her lungs.

Little roads spidered out around the edges of Grey’s little town. Sometimes her and Joe would cruise down one of them, enjoying the mysterious twists and turns that lead them into gentle hollows or meadowlike clearings. Grey desperately grasped at the idea that Joe had decided to take one of them home. For the sake of being Joe. Adventurous. Stupid.

Grey drove frantically down the little paths of asphalt that happened to lead away from the café. Maybe Joe’s phone had died. Maybe she was just star gazing. Hopeless. She was hopeless.

The headlights of Grey’s car raced over the gravelly road like hounds on the hunt. They ran for miles. Silence. A tear ran down Grey’s cheek and a sinking pit formed in her gut. Wrong. Something was wrong.

The headlights bounded onto an indistinct lump in the middle of the road a ways ahead of her. Grey’s foot slipped from the gas pedal unconsciously, and her car slowed. The hounds of her headlights surrounded the lump of quivering flesh.

Casper lifted his head. Lost. Lost eyes blankly staring into the headlights. Blood slid loosely from his lips, dripping onto the asphalt. Dripping onto the delicate white skin gripped in his hands.

The next morning, she was a headline. They both were.

About the Author 

Jessa Roberts is a Cerro Coso student. Being a barista is one of Roberts' passions; for the last two years she has had the opportunity to share what she loves with others. This profession is also a great source of inspiration for her. "I have heard somewhere that coffee shops are not supposed to have clocks," Roberts says, "because they are a place where time does not exist."