Short Story
Deather | Simone Kulinski | Painting
First Place
The Priestess and The King, a Fairy Tale by Laurel Kane
Once upon a time, there was a young priestess gifted with magical powers by the god of knowledge. She lived in a small village of worshippers, who she led routinely in the daily sacrifices. No girl was more dedicated to her god than she.
One day, the king came to her village and wooed her with presents and kisses. Before she could realize it, she had fallen deeply in love with him. One day, he asked her to marry him and come with him to his castle to help him rule his kingdom.
"I love you, my king," the priestess said. "But I do not think I can. I have been charged by the god of knowledge to lead my village in the proper sacrifices, and I do not want to upset my god by doing what you ask."
"But my love!" The king cried. "If I do not have your hand, then my love may be as good as dead!"
The priestess thought for a moment. "I will have to think about it, my king."
The priestess then ran into the woods, and found a clearing where she then began to weep.
"Why do you weep so?" A voice called from above. The priestess looked up to see an owl perched on a branch speaking down to her.
"The king has asked me to marry him and come to his castle to help him rule, but I have been charged with leading my village by the god of knowledge!" the priestess explained.
"Well," the owl considered. "Do you really want to run away with him?"
The priestess thought for a long moment, considering her options, and then said that she did, in fact, want to run away with him.
"Well then," the owl clucked. "Then you may do so, but be sure not to use your divine magic to restore anyone, as surely any god would be upset by that!"
The priestess agreed and thanked the owl before returning to the king and accepting his marriage proposal, making the proper sacrifices before travelling with him to his castle.
Several months passed, and the priestess proved to be a loving and kind-hearted wife, and no two people loved each other more than her and the king.
One day, the king rushed to the priestess, hands covered in blood.
"What is the matter?" the priestess asked.
"My two brothers were out hunting when they were both attacked by a horrid monster! None of the doctors know what to do, and you must save them!"
"I love you, my king," the priestess said. "But I do not think I can. I have been charged by the god of knowledge not to unnaturally restore the lives of others, and I do not want to upset my god by doing what you ask."
"But my love!" the king cried. "If you do not save my two brothers, then they will be as good as dead!"
The priestess thought for a moment. "I will have to think about it, my king."
The priestess then ran into the woods and found a clearing where the old owl lay on a tree branch above her head.
"Now, now," the owl chided. "Why do you weep again?"
"The king has asked me to save his dying brothers, but I have been charged by you and the god of knowledge to not do such a thing!"
The owl considered her words and finally responded: "Well, do you really want to save them?"
The priestess thought for a long moment, considering her options, and then said that she did, in fact, want to save the lives of the king's brothers.
"Then I suppose," the owl conceded, "that you could heal his dying brothers, but be sure not to give away the secrets of your magic, as surely any god would be upset by that!"
The priestess agreed and thanked the owl before returning to the king and agreeing to save his brothers, making the proper sacrifices before healing the two young men, returning them to their former healthy state.
Several years passed, and the priestess proved to be a good and caring sister, and no two brothers loved their sister more than the two that she had saved.
One day, the king rushed to the priestess with news of a horrible disease ravaging the countryside and killing the crops and livestock across the entire land.
"The people have no food to eat!" the king exclaimed. "You must share with royal doctors and scientists the secrets of your divine magic so that they may find a way to save our country from starvation!"
"I love you, my king," the priestess said. "But I do not think I can. I have been charged by the god of knowledge not to share the secrets of my divine magic with anyone, and I do not want to upset my god by doing what you ask."
"But my love!" the king cried. "If you do not share your knowledge, the entire country is as good as dead!"
The priestess thought for a moment. "I will have to think about it, my king."
Again, the priestess ran into the familiar clearing, where the owl lay waiting for her.
"Once again you weep!" the owl explained, flying from his branch to meet her. "What for?"
"The king has asked me to divulge the secrets of my magic to save the kingdom from famine, but I have been charged by both you and the god of all knowledge to do no such thing!" The priestess wailed.
The owl cocked his head and thought about what she said. "Well, do you really want to save the kingdom?"
The priestess thought for a long moment, considering her options, and then said that she did, in fact, want to save the kingdom from starvation.
"Then it cannot be any real harm to give up the secrets of your divine magic, but be sure not to disrupt the natural order of life and giving someone the power to forever cheat death and become immortal, for surely any god would be upset by that!" the owl advised.
The priestess agreed and thanked the owl before returning to the king and agreeing to divulge the secrets of her divine magic to the royal doctors and scientists, making the proper sacrifices before infusing her magic with the land, healing it from the awful disease and saving the kingdom.
Many years passed, and the priestess proved to be a just and intelligent ruler, and no country loved their queen as much as the one she ruled over.
One day, the king heard news of a prophecy that he will die soon, and he became paralyzed by fear of his own mortality.
"My king," the priestess offered, trying to comfort him, "what is the matter?"
"I will die any day now! You must use your divine magic, gifted to you by the all mighty gods to give me immortality, so that I may be unable to ever die!" the king begged.
"I love you, my king," the priestess said. "But I do not think I can. To give a mortal infinite life is the highest crime a priestess could possibly do, trivializing the power of the gods! I do not want to upset my god by doing what you ask."
"But my love!" the king cried, falling to his knees. "If you do not make me immortal, I will be as good as dead!"
The priestess began to cry along with her husband, afraid for what the future might hold. "I will have to ask, my king."
The priestess ran into the woods and towards the cleaning, calling for the owl to come and advise her.
"My queen!" the owl exclaimed, swooping down to meet her. "Why do you scream and shout so? Is there something wrong?"
The priestess collapsed onto the ground in tears, begging."The king is about to die, it is fortold by the greatest seer in the land! He cannot die, he must not die, I have to save him, I have to use my divine magic to make him immortal! Of this, I am more sure of than anything!"
The owls face hardened. "Priestess, I have made enough excuses for you over the years, but no longer. To attempt immortality is to pervert life itself, an affront to the gods themselves! Nobody has dared attempt it before, for fear of being struck down by the heavenly powers. I cannot stop you, but no longer will I support this mockery of your own god."
The priestess began to weep harder. "Oh, owl, I am sorry. I am just afraid of my husband's death, but I do not want to upset my god!"
"Then go home," the owl chided. "And tell your husband that you are unable to do such a thing. Death is but a natural part of life, and the sooner we accept it, the closer we are to being happy."
The priestess wiped away her tears and agreed, thanking the owl before returning back to the castle to tell her husband that she will not go through with his wishes.
The two began to weep again as they kneeled down in front of the altar of the god of knowledge to pray for a painless death for her husband.
The priestess observed her husband, quietly whispering the words of prayer she had so often chanted before making ritual sacrifices.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. She smiled as he reached around to the back of her head, tears in his eyes, and planted a kiss to her forehead.
As soon as his lips touched her skin, paͣiͥn shͪoͦtͭ tͭhͪrͬoͦuͧghͪ hͪeͤrͬ neͤcͨk aͣs tͭhͪeͤ kiͥng slaͣshͪeͤdͩ aͣ kniͥfeͤ aͣcͨrͬoͦss hͪeͤrͬ paͣleͤ tͭhͪrͬoͦaͣtͭ, liͥftͭiͥng hͪeͤrͬ uͧp by hͪeͤrͬ hͪaͣiͥrͬ aͣs hͪeͤ leͤtͭ hͪeͤrͬ dͩaͣrͬk bloͦoͦdͩ dͩrͬiͥp aͣndͩ spuͧrͬtͭ oͦntͭoͦ tͭhͪeͤ aͣltͭaͣrͬ.
Shͪeͤ stͭrͬuͧggleͤdͩ aͣgaͣiͥnstͭ hͪiͥs grͬiͥp, buͧtͭ quͧiͥcͨkly foͦuͧndͩ hͪeͤrͬseͤlf loͦsiͥng eͤneͤrͬgy aͣs hͪeͤrͬ bloͦoͦdͩ waͣs rͬaͣpiͥdͩly beͤiͥng dͩrͬaͣiͥneͤdͩ frͬoͦmͫ hͪeͤrͬ boͦdͩy. Foͦrͬ tͭhͪeͤ fiͥrͬstͭ tͭiͥmͫeͤ iͥn hͪeͤrͬ liͥfeͤ, shͪeͤ waͣntͭeͤdͩ noͦtͭhͪiͥng mͫoͦrͬeͤ tͭhͪaͣn hͪeͤrͬ oͦwn suͧrͬvͮiͥvͮaͣl.
Heͤ tͭhͪrͬeͤw hͪeͤrͬ oͦntͭoͦ tͭhͪeͤ aͣltͭaͣrͬ, hͪeͤrͬ skuͧll cͨoͦlliͥdͩiͥng wiͥtͭhͪ tͭhͪeͤ cͨoͦoͦl mͫaͣrͬbleͤ beͤloͦw hͪeͤrͬ. Shͪeͤ waͣtͭcͨhͪeͤdͩ, liͥstͭleͤss aͣndͩ uͧnaͣbleͤ tͭoͦ dͩeͤfeͤndͩ hͪeͤrͬseͤlf aͣs aͣ foͦrͬcͨeͤ, aͣ cͨrͬeͤaͣtͭuͧrͬeͤ, dͩeͤscͨeͤndͩeͤdͩ uͧpoͦn hͪeͤrͬ.
Evͮeͤn aͣs shͪeͤ waͣs beͤiͥng rͬiͥppeͤdͩ aͣpaͣrͬtͭ aͣndͩ eͤaͣtͭeͤn, shͪeͤ cͨoͦuͧldͩ noͦtͭ tͭeͤll yoͦuͧ whͪaͣtͭ iͥtͭ loͦoͦkeͤdͩ liͥkeͤ, buͧtͭ oͦnly hͪoͦw uͧnfaͣiͥrͬ iͥtͭ aͣll waͣs. Shͪeͤ hͪaͣdͩ dͩeͤdͩiͥcͨaͣtͭeͤdͩ hͪeͤrͬ liͥfeͤ tͭoͦ tͭhͪiͥs goͦdͩ, whͪoͦ hͪaͣdͩ neͤvͮeͤrͬ shͪoͦwn iͥtͭseͤlf tͭoͦ hͪeͤrͬ whͪeͤn shͪeͤ hͪaͣdͩ mͫaͣdͩeͤ saͣcͨrͬiͥfiͥcͨeͤs oͦf oͦtͭhͪeͤrͬ hͪuͧmͫaͣns tͭhͪoͦuͧsaͣndͩs oͦf tͭiͥmͫeͤs beͤfoͦrͬeͤ, aͣndͩ iͥtͭ oͦnly shͪoͦweͤdͩ iͥtͭseͤlf tͭoͦ hͪeͤrͬ aͣs iͥtͭ aͣtͭeͤ hͪeͤrͬ sloͦwly dͩyiͥng fleͤshͪ. Of cͨoͦuͧrͬseͤ, shͪeͤ rͬeͤaͣliͥzeͤdͩ wiͥtͭhͪ aͣ siͥcͨk iͥrͬoͦny tͭhͪaͣtͭ iͥtͭ waͣs tͭhͪeͤ vͮeͤrͬy mͫaͣgiͥcͨ giͥftͭeͤdͩ tͭoͦ hͪeͤrͬ by tͭhͪiͥs goͦdͩ tͭhͪaͣtͭ mͫaͣdͩeͤ hͪeͤrͬ tͭhͪeͤ mͫoͦstͭ dͩeͤliͥcͨiͥoͦuͧs snaͣcͨk. Andͩ shͪeͤ cͨoͦuͧldͩ dͩoͦ noͦtͭhͪiͥng, noͦtͭ eͤvͮeͤn scͨrͬeͤaͣmͫ.
"Teͤll mͫeͤ, oͦ goͦdͩ oͦf aͣll knoͦwleͤdͩgeͤ, tͭhͪeͤ seͤcͨrͬeͤtͭs tͭoͦ iͥmͫmͫoͦrͬtͭaͣl liͥfeͤ, tͭhͪeͤ uͧndͩyiͥng tͭrͬuͧtͭhͪs tͭhͪaͣtͭ wiͥll suͧstͭaͣiͥn mͫeͤ foͦrͬ aͣll eͤtͭeͤrͬniͥtͭy," tͭhͪeͤ kiͥng saͣiͥdͩ, tͭeͤaͣrͬs stͭrͬeͤaͣmͫiͥng dͩoͦwn hͪiͥs faͣcͨeͤ.
Thͪeͤ goͦdͩ fiͥnaͣlly loͦoͦkeͤdͩ uͧp frͬoͦmͫ iͥtͭs mͫeͤaͣl, saͣvͮiͥng hͪiͥs hͪiͥghͪ prͬiͥeͤstͭeͤss's hͪeͤaͣrͬtͭ, hͪeͤrͬ cͨoͦrͬeͤ oͦf liͥvͮiͥng, foͦrͬ laͣstͭ.
Thͪeͤ goͦdͩ, dͩiͥstͭrͬaͣcͨtͭeͤdͩ iͥn iͥtͭs gluͧtͭtͭoͦny, tͭhͪoͦuͧghͪtͭ foͦrͬ aͣ mͫoͦmͫeͤntͭ beͤfoͦrͬeͤ dͩeͤcͨiͥdͩiͥng tͭoͦ rͬeͤwaͣrͬdͩ tͭhͪeͤ kiͥng foͦrͬ hͪiͥs woͦndͩeͤrͬfuͧl saͣcͨrͬiͥfiͥcͨeͤ. If tͭhͪeͤ goͦdͩ kneͤw whͪoͦ shͪeͤ waͣs, iͥtͭ dͩiͥdͩ noͦtͭ aͣcͨtͭ liͥkeͤ iͥtͭ dͩiͥdͩ. Thͪeͤ prͬiͥeͤstͭeͤss laͣy tͭhͪeͤrͬeͤ iͥn paͣiͥn aͣs tͭhͪeͤ goͦdͩ mͫoͦvͮeͤdͩ tͭoͦwaͣrͬdͩs tͭhͪeͤ kiͥng, whͪiͥspeͤrͬiͥng iͥn hͪiͥs eͤaͣrͬ, fiͥlleͤdͩ beͤlly prͬoͦtͭrͬuͧdͩiͥng, neͤaͣrͬly buͧrͬstͭiͥng wiͥtͭhͪ tͭhͪeͤ aͣmͫoͦuͧntͭ oͦf fleͤshͪ iͥtͭ hͪaͣdͩ dͩeͤvͮoͦuͧrͬeͤdͩ. Thͪeͤ kiͥng's faͣcͨeͤ tͭwiͥstͭeͤdͩ iͥn shͪoͦcͨk aͣs iͥtͭ hͪeͤaͣrͬdͩ woͦrͬdͩs noͦ mͫoͦrͬtͭaͣl shͪoͦuͧldͩ eͤvͮeͤrͬ hͪeͤaͣrͬ.
Thͪeͤ kiͥng's faͣcͨeͤ, weͤtͭ wiͥtͭhͪ tͭeͤaͣrͬs, beͤgaͣn tͭoͦ tͭeͤaͣrͬ iͥntͭoͦ aͣ wiͥdͩeͤ grͬiͥn, aͣ grͬiͥn oͦf uͧnknoͦwaͣbleͤ poͦweͤrͬ aͣndͩ dͩaͣrͬkneͤss.
Soͦmͫeͤtͭhͪiͥng dͩaͣrͬk iͥs beͤgiͥnniͥng. Soͦmͫeͤtͭhͪiͥng cͨoͦldͩ aͣndͩ cͨoͦrͬrͬuͧptͭ aͣndͩ bloͦoͦdͩy. Andͩ I aͣmͫ soͦ aͣfrͬaͣiͥdͩ, tͭhͪeͤ prͬiͥeͤstͭeͤss tͭhͪoͦuͧghͪtͭ aͣs hͪeͤrͬ vͮiͥsiͥoͦn beͤgaͣn tͭoͦ faͣdͩeͤ. I aͣmͫ soͦ, soͦ aͣfrͬaͣiͥdͩ.
Second Place
Seasons by Juliette Leeth
Stages of heartbreak were simple, said his therapist. Shock. Pain. Anger. Depression. Upward change. Reconstruction. And finally acceptance.
That wasn’t true. There was a simpler way to track the stages. Just look at the seasons. There’s only four stages. Starting with autumn, winter, spring and summer. The story is simple, the emotions and feelings are a lot more complex. So here are the four stages.
Autumn.
He was born in autumn, the leaves turning a vibrant and rich color that every artist strived to convey in their work. It was never the same. Something about the way the light caught through the cracks of the leaves on the tree. He had a beautiful tree. It stood regally tall and strong in the backyard he grew up in. He would never believe that autumn was truly here. How had the cold come so quickly? How did he miss that moment in his life where the trees started to sag and their children they grew on their strong branches started to fall to the floor only to wither away. He wasn’t ready to put on the same scarf he had since the fifth grade, just so his neck wouldn’t turn a ghastly white from the cold. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the warmth just yet. Not yet.
Winter.
It was here. The cold and hollowing emptiness he felt inside himself and outside. Her presence in the house was light. She was the embodiment of warmth. Her humming and food cooking on the porcelain white gas stove top was a blessing he’d wake up to everyday. But now that she was gone, he had nothing. He would stare at the tree in the backyard after she left, his breath all foggy and hot against the window sill. It was bare and empty. No animals scurrying along its roots. No leaves and flowers blooming along the branches. Just existing. Not living. Not being. Just existing in an empty shell. Where was that warmth he craved? Why did she leave him with nothing but the memories of what he no longer had?
Spring.
When he peeked outside from his bare and dull room he saw a bird humming and flitting along around the tree. That same tree that mere months ago was slowly dying. The sunlight shone on its branches. The grass looked greener, the roots looked stronger and the tree was no longer hunched over. His tired limbs began to wiggle and shake and rejoice. Spring was here. That warmth he so dearly missed. The sunlight on his pale face, giving it more color. He let a small smile crack onto his face and he eagerly ran outside. That warmth he had been craving, the feeling of being touched and looked upon by the sun made his smile even bigger. That warmth could exist. He could be happy. Not with her warmth, but he could find another to fulliful him.
Summer.
The hot sand on the soles of his feet made him give out a contented sigh. He wriggled his feet into the sand, loving the way it moved against his foot. The frigid water lapped at his feet, tickling the edge of his toes. He stepped further into the water, letting the coolness of it bring his body back in a cool temperature. He looked out into the never-ending vastiness of the ocean. That line where the sky seemed to kiss the water even though it was miles above it. The sun beat down on his black hair, turning it into a dark brown if he looked hard enough. She would always point it out and say, “Your hair is a different shade in the sun.” He smiled wistfully at the old memory. The sun shining on him was not something that could ever replace her. She generated her warmth from within and seemed to just spread her warmth by placing some in his heart.
Two months later.
It had taken him too long to come here, but he needed to come, he needed to try and remember her face that he would never see again one last time. He walked down the cobble road, his steps echoing all around him that made loud sounds. He saw some other families and single people standing by their loved one’s resting spot. Withered and new flowers alike decorated the graveyard. Thousands of old tombstones lined up perfectly made it feel practiced and organized. It made it seem like perfection. There was nothing organized, nothing practiced and nothing perfect about the resting spots of persons.
Hers was by a sapling barely even taller than he was. He crouched down by the tombstone. It was flat on the earth. It was all they could afford, but now looking at it, the words seemed closer to here, in a sense. He rubbed the old stone and traced the engraved words with his finger.
Here lies Madeline-Maddy-Perkins.
Mother of one, Mom of all.
1977-2011.
“Bye, mom.” Two long years without her. He stood up and walked away from her. From her warmth. From now on, he would make his warmth. He would spread that warmth. He would be strong. And so the stages of heartbreak goes on until you reach the final stage. Accepting, warmth. Feeling the love you’ve missed return. And that, are the four seasons.
Third Place
Me and Dadi by August Van Der Werf
Simon turned the key in his doorknob lock and slowly opened the front door to his dark house. He put his right foot in the door jam and tried not to make a sound. It didn't matter. Tiny hands reached for his thighs. Sighing, he managed a weak smile as the child embraced him. Simon grunted slightly as he extended his arm to put his briefcase down. He put a hand on the child’s shoulder, and gently nudged him away so he could remove his lab coat.
When he had hung it up, he turned around and for a moment the child was gone. Simon took a deep breath. Gone for good? But then he heard the young, eager footsteps. Simon squeezed his eyes shut. This couldn’t keep happening. Not like this. When he opened his eyes, the child was holding a drawing for him to see: two choppy stick figures with smiley faces, holding hands on a sunny day. ME AND DADI, it read at the top in big messy handwriting.
“What do you think, Daddy?” he asked.
Simon looked down from the drawing to see a pair of wide brown eyes, and body language that could only be expecting a compliment. Simon’s lip trembled a bit before he spoke.
“It’s wonderful, Anthony.”
A single tear rolled down Simon’s cheek. This is the beginning, he thought. It always is.
“Daddy?” Anthony asked, his smile suddenly gone.
“Yes?” Simon offered painfully.
By now the tears were falling freely. He wasn’t even sobbing with each one; they just fell from his eyes like rain.
“Why does your breath kinda smell, Daddy.”
“Just a drink, buddy,” Simon replied. “For grown-ups.”
“When can I come back, Daddy?”
“What are you talking about?”
“From the hospital. It’s scary.”
“It--”
He stopped himself. It scares me too, he thought. He swallowed, then collapsed onto the floor. Anthony dropped his drawing, and followed his father.
Sprawled out on the floor, Simon opened his briefcase, and took a test tube from its holder, which held many more. He found his footing, stumbled forward, and lost his balance again. He seemed to be falling right on top of Anthony, but he hit the ground instead.
“Daddy, why are you on the floor?” asked Anthony, suddenly standing above him in a place he wasn’t before.
Using a coffee table for leverage, Simon swiped for the door knob. When he found it, he pulled himself up again. He was just able to get to the other side of the door: the stairs to the basement, and down to his lab. He closed the door behind him, muffling Anthony’s voice on the other side. Simon let himself fall down the stairs. Anthony was waiting for him at the bottom.
Simon could see the beakers on the table just a few yards away. That was all he needed to will himself up. He walked past the bulletin board on the wall, crowded with papers filled with formulas, equations, and calculations. None of them had worked. It was time to try something new. So Simon uncorked the test tube, and poured its contents into a larger flask with a darker liquid already inside. The concoction reacted with a steamy hiss, turning brighter as the new liquid bloomed inside.
Simon’s hands stopped shaking. He had remarkable control now.
“Watcha working on, Daddy?”
“It’s a potion. To make me stronger.”
“Whoa… will you be able to pick up cars and punch through walls?” Anthony asked excitedly, playfully extending his arms and flexing his biceps.
“Better than that,” said Simon. For the first time that night, he didn’t look at his son when he was speaking to him. He took the flask, and drank its contents in a single gulp. “It’ll give me the strength to move on.”
Simon unlocked the front door and let himself stumble inside. He absentmindedly dropped his briefcase and let his lab coat fall off of him. Dinner, then bed, he thought. He couldn’t be bothered to do much more. That would take too much energy. He opened the fridge. There was still some leftover soup. By now it had turned a bit pasty, but Simon was too tired to care.
He was alone at the table until the cat, Doctor, decided to join him. He liked the cat, he had decided. He would keep it. It was nice having the company.
When he was finished eating, he left the bowl on the table and retired to the basement. He poured the concoction into the tube, up to the black line he’d drawn with a Sharpie. Ten milligrams. It didn’t need to be precise, though.
He went back upstairs, fed Doctor, and went to sleep. The dreams were finally starting to get good again.
For a while, Simon didn’t venture down to the lab. The table that once was filled with science experiments was now cleared, and the spot where Anthony once stood was now empty. Simon looked past both of these things. He looked at the bulletin board, where he kept Anthony’s drawing next to all of his equations.
Almost three months had gone by now, and the potion seemed to be working steadily, as long as he remembered to take it every day. Slowly but surely it would work its magic. It would be a while until the next phase in Simon’s life, but now it was easier to recognize that. Pretty soon, Anthony lived only in the drawing, holding hands with his father on one final, everlasting day of sun.
For the time being, that would be enough.