the bird on fire

3rd Place Short Story Winner

January 16, 2019 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By Harlow Berny

Hello! Here, finally, is the 3rd-place winner of the Halloween Short Horror Story Competition written by Erik Bearman! It was a tough choice, but ultimately the Masked Rabbit and his story “The Darkness” won 1st place, and Marianne Capetz came in 2nd place with her story “The Child.” Enjoy!

Cobwebs

By Erik Bearman

My grandmother always gave me one rule, “Don’t touch the cobwebs!” If she asked me to clean out garage, she’d say, “Don’t touch the cobwebs!” If she asked me to fetch something from the attic, she’d say, “Don’t touch the cobwebs!” Even if I was washing the dishes after dinner, she’d always say, “Don’t touch the cobwebs!” even though there was no chance of cobwebs being in the dishwasher, she’d still warn me. I never questioned my grandmother’s preoccupation with cobwebs because she was always there for me. Ever since my parents died, she was always there for me. When I was being bullied in middle school, she was there to scream at the principal until they were expelled. When I struggled in math class, she was there to make sure the teacher tutored me after school. I figured that since she was always there for me, being paranoid of a couple house spiders wasn’t a big deal.

Two months after my 15th birthday, my grandmother died in her sleep on the 31st of October. Once I had finished grieving (or at least summoned the ability to be able to walk through the front door without bursting into tears), I went to clean out her house. It was Christmas, and the snowfall was heavy. My girlfriend, Juniper, was kind enough to help me clean out my grandmother’s house. Funny thing is I never asked her to help; she just showed up and started helping. Without my grandmother to keep them at bay with her “holy duster” (a feather duster with a handle specially carved in the shape of a religious cross, as she called it), the cobwebs had spread all across the house. We started cleaning in the dining room. As I was stacking the chairs against the wall, Juniper walked straight into a cobweb! I laughed as she picked spider silk out of her mouth. It was the first time I felt joy in a while; and I figured that since my grandmother was gone, touching the cobwebs wouldn’t be a big deal. I was wrong.

That night me and Juniper were sitting on the sofa watching some of my grandmother’s old movies. Juniper sat on my lap as I braided her hair. Halfway through Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Juniper and I fell asleep on the couch. The last thing I remember hearing before I closed my eyes was the basement door creak open. I woke to the sound of Juniper whimpering as she held me tight. “Damien,” she said, “Damien, please wake up!”

“What? What is it?”
“Look at the floor!”

When I did look at the floor my skeleton nearly leapt out of my body. The floor was thickly covered in giant cobwebs as far as we could see.

“Wha-What happened?”
“I-I don’t know! I woke up and the floor was covered in the stuff!”
“Okay, let’s just remain calm and–”

I was interrupted by a loud squeaking noise. We looked at the top of the cable box and saw a raccoon had managed to break through one of the windows while we were sleeping. It sniffed around the room searching for a meal. It turned its head towards the hallway which led straight to the kitchen. As it descended the box, its large, bushy, tail got caught in the webbing. As soon as it tried to tug itself free, we heard the basement door slam open! And a large, black blur shot across the floor before puncturing the raccoon’s flesh with its sharp fangs. Strangely, there was no blood, there was no gore of any kind. The raccoon didn’t squeal or even flinch. It just went limp, with a minor twitch here and there. Paralysis, I thought. Whatever had paralyzed the rodent turned and dashed out of the room back into the basement, but not before I got a good look at it.

The moonlight that shone through the broken window had revealed a giant, black, spider the size of a Saint Bernard. Its spiny legs were as thin and sharp as a sewing needle, glistening fangs the size of butcher knives, and eight red eyes the size of baseballs. But the eyes were the strangest part; they were deformed and detached from the spider’s head. They dangled and swung like loose buttons on an old doll’s head.

Out of fear, Juniper squeezed my arm tightly and whispered, “Damien, please tell me this is a nightmare! Please tell me this is just a figment of my imagination!”
“I wish I could; I really wish I could!”
“What is that thing!”
“It looked like a black widow spider! But they don’t usually get larger than 1.5 inches.”
“How-how do you kill one?”
“Normal ones? Step on them. This one? Use a machine gun!”
“Damien, we have to get out of this house! Let’s just drive as far away from here as we can!”
“How do we get out? The broken window is too small, and if we touch these webs … well you saw what happened to that raccoon!”

I looked for a way out of the room, but it looked like the spider had us in the perfect trap. The only objects not covered in webbing were the couch, T.V., and the various boxes we had stacked across the house.

The boxes!

I turned to Juniper, “I have an idea! You know the game, ‘The Floor is Lava’?” Juniper replied, “Yeah, what about it?”

—

Slowly we hopped from pieces of furniture to stacked boxes to-and-fro as we tried to exit the house. We could hear the scattering of giant spiders coming from the basement. “Keep calm, Juniper. We’re almost to the door.” Since black widows prefer warmer temperatures, we thought the odds were good that we’d make it to the car. I hopped onto the table by the door. I slowly turned the knob–

“Damien.”
“Yes, Juniper?”

When I turned around my heart nearly dropped! Juniper had slipped and her foot had gotten caught in the webs. I could hear one of the spiders getting closer. A dark blur turned the corner of the entryway and charged at Juniper. Within a split second the beast was on top of her, her body going limp with paralysis. The worst part was her eyes; her eyes stared blankly at me. She was trapped in her own body, and there was nothing either of us could do. The creature, almost as if it was taunting me, slowly dragged her body back to the basement. And while it could’ve just been my head playing tricks on me, I could swear its dangling eyes were staring right at me. I cried into the darkness. The only person left in my life who I loved had just been taken. First my parents, then my grandmother, and now Juniper; one by one they’d all been ripped out of my life. I gathered myself and slowly made my way to the kitchen. I wasn’t just going to let her die down there, not without a fight. If there was even a slight chance Juniper was still alive, I was going to save her. I grabbed a knife and headed towards the basement. I figured that anything stabbed in the face would likely die. I could hear the creatures skittering across the floor, their faint outlines barely visible in the darkness. I held my breath, determined to kill them all, if not to save Juniper, then at least to avenge her death. I bent down and touched the webbing on the floor and in an instant a spider lunged out of the basement and threw me down the stairs. Even in my daze I could hear the spiders swarm around me. They bared their fangs and–

—

“And what Dad? How did you save Mom? How’d you kill the spiders?” Damien’s son Devon asked. Damien sat in his chair trying to remember how he saved his wife–except he couldn’t. He couldn’t remember a thing. The last thing he remembered was being thrown down those steps as the spiders closed in on him. Had his memory blacked out the events? He had to find out. “Hold on.” He told his son as he headed towards the kitchen. His wife, Juniper, was making her famous Shepherd’s Pie. Damien approached her, “What were you and Devon talking about?” asked Juniper. “I was just telling him about the time I rescued you from my grandmother’s house all those Christmases ago.” Juniper replied, “Oh, my little knight in shining armor. You dashed right into that room and killed them all! I knew in that moment that you were the man I wanted to marry,” she said as she hugged him.

“It’s really weird, honey, but I can’t remember a thing!”
“Oh always such the jokester, Damien. C’mon, you remember!”
“Honey, I swear on my grandmother’s grave, I don’t remember anything after the spider threw me into the basement!”
“Oh sure you do, it’s in your brain somewhere. We simply need to pry it out!”

The scent of rot and decay hit Damien’s nose like a train. He looked over at Juniper’s pie, and it had been replaced by a mass of a grey, mucus-like substance. Protruding from this substance was a raccoon’s tail, a broken feather duster, and a large lock of Juniper’s hair. “Juniper, what’s going on? Why can’t I remember anything? Marrying you? Having a son? Any of it?” Damien asked frantically. The last thing Damien saw was Juniper’s sinister smile.

—

Damien awoke wrapped in a cocoon of spider silk, only his head was exposed. He could feel where the spider had bit him. While the wound had miraculously cauterized, the spider’s hallucinogenic venom was just starting to wear off. He turned his head as far as he could to the left where he saw one of the spiders crawl on top of a screaming Juniper. It almost seemed to be laughing as it prepared to feast. He felt another spider slowly crawl up his body. As their eyes locked and it opened its gaping maw, Damien heard one last thing. “Don’t touch the cobwebs!”

—

As the spiders feasted on their latest victims in the basement, one of the creatures had managed to squeeze through the raccoon-sized hole in the window. As it landed on the ground, the snow evaporated into thin air. The arachnid dashed off into the night as its kin followed suit. It was going to be a red Christmas this year!

For Fun: Discover the mystery behind these creatures. Translate the binary, and the answer will be revealed.

https://www.rapidtables.com/convert/number/ascii-to-binary.html

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Editor: Leo Milmet

The Weak

January 14, 2019 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By Translator and Blogger James Zheng

So, I was browsing on a Chinese video sharing website called Bilibili (which is similar to Youtube), and then I found this amazing poem among the comments while I was watching a well-made AMV (anime music video). Shockingly, this poem was written by a normal anime reviewer. The translation is by me.

By Scattered Sakura (Screen name)

Rain brings the flavor of the sky;

the ocean carries the atmosphere of the abyss;

cicadas of late summer deliver their taunts to human beings;

the intolerable pain of the spine oppresses the fragile nerves.

Those cowards who had never been to the battlefield roared presumptuously.

They were wishing to tear apart the prey,

while they remained endlessly hateful about the cloudy sky,

and the deadly calm of the Jordanian river in the deep winter.

Twisted with hundreds of emotions and sentiments, the battlefield led to the Crows’ bloodthirst.

The stinky wind came from the sea;

the heavy rain brought extremely frozen water,

And the furiously raging flame was extinguished.

No redemption, no destruction, only obedience can lead to survival.

Sweat flowed down the girl’s smooth body,

withered leaves sprinkled with blood and tears.

The swan cut across the sky,

full of loneliness and desolation–caged birds pray for a storm full of life.

However, in front of the higher herdsmen,

we can only be captive lambs, fearing death, while hoping that the glory of victory spreads over the earth before dawn.

Before I shoot off to tell you how extraordinary this poem is, I must tell you that there is a slight difference between Chinese and American figurative and literal meanings, as well as writing styles. Because of the translation, there might be some places in the poem that may slightly confuse you.

What is really fascinating about this entire poem is the way it depicts a vivid image to interpret the significant term, “the weak.” The word choice actually conveys to me an oppressive atmosphere where one force overcomes another.

Editor: Luke Langlois

Wanna make an elegant GIF or Video?

January 14, 2019 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By Videographer Blogger and Influencer Jeremy Cheng

This is a subtle video. Focus on the leaf. Instead of a leaf falling, it’s rising. Below, Jeremy will explain how you can achieve this effect.

First, download two apps, PicsArt and Plotaverse.

Take any picture that you want to edit.

Open Picsart, press “+” button, and choose the picture that you want to edit.

Press “Tools” and “Dispersion.”

Cover the shape that you want to disperse.

After covering the shape that you want to disperse, click the “Arrow” button on the right top side.

On the bottom of the page, there are five choices: “Stretch,” “Size,” “Direction,” “Fade,” and “Blend.”

Use them to adjust your image to a perfect shape.

After finishing this step, press “Apply” and “Next” on the right top side.

Save your picture on your device.

Open Plotaverse; press “+” and “CREATE PHOTOGRAPH” button.

Click “+” button.

Choose the picture that you just edited on the PicsArt and press “Animate.”

You can enlarge your picture and set the arrows as many times as you need on your picture. The arrows will continue in the same direction.

Then, press “Anchor” to block the area where you want it to spread.

Finally, press the “Play” button so that you can see how the image spreads. Then, press the “Share” button on the top right side and save it to your devices.

Now you have a video as elegant as mine. Go forth and edit.

Editor: Holden Hartle

Instagram Poetry

January 11, 2019 by szachik@pvs.org 1 Comment

A submission by Poet-Blogger Jeremy Cheng

Jeremy submitted the following poem to “Rattle’s” Instagram-Poet Competition.

Want to submit an Instagram Poem as well? Here are the specs:

Publication: Rattle magazine
Publication type: online, print
Editor: Timothy Green
Word count: Send up to four poems; no line limit provided
Payment: $100/poem
Rights the publisher asks for: First publication rights plus exclusive rights for one year after publication. Author retains copyright.
Deadline: January 15, 2019
Publication date: Summer 2019
Response time: Not specified.
Format: Not specified. Standard manuscript format is a good bet.
Will they take simultaneous submissions? Not specified.
Will they take multiple submissions? Yes, but include all in a single document. Read more about multiple and simultaneous submissions.
Will they take reprints? “…we won’t consider poems that have been published in books, magazines, or newspapers, in print or online. We will, however, consider poems that have only been self-published to blogs, message boards, or social media accounts.”.
Who to contact with questions: www.rattle.com/info/contact/

Should Sports Players be Paid Less?

January 10, 2019 by szachik@pvs.org 1 Comment

By Sports Enthusiast and Blogger Holden Hartle

In short, no. People like to say, “How can athletes get paid millions of dollars just to play a game? It’s unfair to the rest of the working class who actually has to work for their next paycheck.” I understand this hypothetical person’s argument. In its simplest, these athletes are getting paid ridiculous amounts of money to play a child’s game. But, I do have some problems with this hypothetical person’s argument.

Consider this. The NBA earns a total of $7.37 billion per year. How the NBA determines the salary cap (it’s actually very complicated so this is the “For Dummies” version) is they take the total NBA revenue, halve it, then divide it by thirty because there are thirty teams in the NBA. After the other math that goes into it, you get just over $100 million per team. The salary cap is how much money a team is allowed to spend on players’ contracts. So, as the NBA earns more revenue, the teams can spend more money on contracts. But imagine if teams were given less of a percentage of the NBA’s revenue. That means that players would get paid less but that money has to go somewhere. Instead, it would go to people like Adam Silver, who is currently commissioner of the NBA. It seems fairer that the players are getting 50% of the NBA’s revenue, rather than Adam Silver have all of it to himself.

Furthermore, consider the fact that each NBA player has some amount of influence. Sure someone like Antonio Blakeney will have less influence than LeBron James, but there are still people that will look to Blakeney as a role model. And though maybe this influence isn’t worth millions of dollars, it is at least worth something.

Personally, I don’t think that NBA players should be paid less. I think that they are paid a fair percentage of the NBA’s revenue and that it would be unfair if they were paid a lesser percentage. Though, yes, in its simplest, they are playing a child’s game, but consider the fact that they are playing it at the highest level in the entire world, and the fact that each NBA player has some influence over some group of people.

This has been Part 2 of Holden Rants About a Topic That Isn’t Really Relevant But is Still Kind of Interesting.

Editor: A.J. Patencio

2nd-Place Short-Story Winner

January 9, 2019 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By Harlow Berny

Hello! Here is the 2nd-place winner of the Halloween Short Horror Story Competition written by Marianne Capetz! It was a tough choice, but ultimately the Masked Rabbit and his story “The Darkness” won 1st place, and Erik Bearman came in 3rd place with his story “Cobwebs.” Enjoy!

The Child

By Marianne Capetz

Miss Alice Wittlebee was a very normal woman; in fact, she was possibly the most normal person in her apartment complex. Everyday she got up at 5:30 on the dot and had a cup of tea with one sugar. She would then sit by her window and read until it was too dark to see the pages. Everyday without fail she followed her routine, until one afternoon she heard a sharp knock on the door. Miss Alice slowly got up and walked to the door. When she opened it, a small face was peering up at her
“I don’t want to buy anything,” Miss Alice snapped at the wide eyed child. The child continued to silently stare at her. Something about this child perturbed her; perhaps it was the odd way the child’s eyes seemed to dilate. Miss Alice quickly dismissed this absurd idea. This child was nothing but a small disruption in her day. She turned to ask the child if it was lost, but before she could say anything the child began to speak.
“Hello Alice. Did you miss me?” the child’s head tilted slightly and its eyes seemed to widen.

Rather taken back by the child’s words Miss Alice responded, “Miss you? Child, I’ve never seen you in my life.” She watched the child’s mesmerizing eyes continue to expand.
“Did you miss me?” The child asked again. Miss Alice rubbed her eyes as the child’s eyes had grown even more.
“Please leave, I have much to do today and cannot be bothered.” Miss Alice said with a slight waver in her voice. She went to leave, but stopped. Her feet suddenly felt very heavy and sat like cinder blocks on the ground. She turned once more to glance at the strange child. She quickly found that she could not move her eyes away from the child. Miss Alice was trapped by the unwavering gaze of the peculiar child.
Miss Alice had never had such a bizarre experience. Nor did she expect to be caught by the stare of this child. As the child’s eyes grew, the room began to change. The walls became white and plush and the floor began to soften. Her arms were encased by something warm and secure. Miss Alice slowly sank to the cushioned floor. She looked around the room and saw that the child had disappeared. She tried to free her ams from the strange item pinning them to her body, but found she was stuck. Her escape efforts began to become more and more frantic. She was so focused on her attempt to free her arms that she didn’t notice the woman enter the room. She didn’t even feel the needle prick her skin, until she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
The nurse carefully removed the needle from Patient #48 and set it on the metal tray that she had rolled in earlier. She picked up the large folder sitting on the table and quickly jotted down some notes. She looked at Alice and sighed; Patient #48 seemed to be getting better. She was so close to being released back into society. The nurse shook her head and walked out. All the patients on her floor had been complaining about an encounter with a strange child before they would relapse into insanity again. She told the other nurses about these complaints, but no one had believed her. Lost in thought she turned down the hall and was shocked to see a small child standing by the door.
“Hello Jane. Did you miss me?”

Editor: Luke Langlois

The Lord’s Animals and The Devil’s–A Fairy Tale Re-Telling

January 9, 2019 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

Retold By Harlow Berny

Centuries ago, in a long forgotten kingdom, God created all animals and chose the wolf to be his dog. God had forgotten, however, to create the goat. The devil saw this and began to create his own animals, among which was the goat that God had forgotten. He gave the goats long, bushy tails, but when they grazed in the pastures they caught in hedges. The devil grew tired of untangling his goats, so he herded them together and bit their tails down, leaving them with the stubs we see today.

After He knew they wouldn’t get caught again, He let his goats roam the fields alone, but soon God saw how they gnawed at fruit trees, chomped through hardy vines, and devoured blooming wildflowers. God became distressed and sent his wolves to stop the goats, and in doing so the goats were torn to pieces. The devil heard the cries of his goats and returned to find nothing but blood-stained grass and wolves. He went to God and screamed, “Why have your creatures destroyed mine!?”

“Why have you created things that do harm?” God responded.

“Damn you! My creations ate nothing but plants; yours are the ones that commit murder!”

“The goats had eaten trees, vines, and flowers instead of fruits and vegetables. They were hardly innocent creatures.”

“My thoughts and being run on chaos and disorder, and as such my creations can have no other nature. You owe me heavily for the herd you’ve killed,” said the devil.

“I will pay you as soon as the oak leaves fall. Come then and your money will be ready.”

The devil waited for Autumn, and once he heard the final leaf drop to the ground and crunch beneath a human’s foot, he went forth to God and demanded his due. However, once he arrived he was shocked by what he saw.

“As you can see, not all the oak leaves have fallen, devil,” God said gesturing to the old church behind the woods, which was surrounded by tall hollyoaks.

“Evergreens?!” the devil shouted. “You’ve tricked me, old man!”

“Not quite. I said when all the oak leaves fall, not when Autumn comes. You will have to wait until those trees decide that they’ve lived long enough, and are ready to rest.”

“Damn you! Damn you and all your creations!” The devil huffed out flames before leaving again with his goats. He pulled their eyes out and replaced them with his own, so that he may watch over them and alert them of danger. This is how goats got their short tails and devil eyes, and why the devil likes to assume their shape when walking upon the earth.

Editor: Makena Behnke

A Re-Telling of Grimm’s

MIDNIGHT

January 7, 2019 by szachik@pvs.org 2 Comments

By Leo Milmet

the clock struck midnight.

he was alone on the balcony.

all the people who had disturbed the peace

were long gone.

and there was peace.

quiet.

the contrasting lights of the moonlight and his cigarette

drew more of his attention than any care in the world.

it was midnight on a breezy summer night,

and he sat, contemplating his life.

to his surprise, he felt

joy.

Editor: Holden Hartle

FLASHLIGHT

December 20, 2018 by szachik@pvs.org 3 Comments

By Leo Milmet

in the dark

i see the light.

you.

you’re the light.

you’re my flashlight

in the constant power outage of life.

sometimes the light you shine is white and bright, and

almost appears to

restore the power.

other times it’s just a glimmer of light,

no larger than a rosebud,

a soft petal of light

with a narrow focus, and not much flood.

that’s okay.

i don’t trip and fall in the dark, and i know that’s

got something to do with you.

Editor: Luke Langlois

Holden Rants About a Topic That Isn’t Really Relevant But is Still Kind of Interesting: Part 1

December 20, 2018 by szachik@pvs.org 4 Comments

How Much Symbolism is Too Much?

By Holden Hartle

I have the pleasure of taking a class with Mr. Griffin. He introduced the idea of symbolism to me when I was a freshman, and now I am reintroduced to it as a senior. He has opened my eyes to a whole new way of reading a story. Currently in class we are discussing short stories. Some ideas are far fetched–like a card game representing the Irish economy. The discussions we have in class explore the story beneath the story, as Mr. Griffin likes to put it.

For example, we read the story A&P by John Updike, in which a teenager quits his job as a cashier to go chase some girls in bikinis. At least, this is the story on the surface level. If you go one level deeper, the story is kind of a coming-of-age story, as the cashier quits his job because it proves that he can be autonomous. You can even go one step deeper and look at the lighting of the story. The “fake” lighting inside the store conveys the illusion that the teenager can actually go out and get these girls, but when he steps into the sunlight, or the “real” lighting, he is met with “reality” and the fact that he can’t get those girls.

But when does symbolism go too far? How deep can you look into a story before your symbolic interpretation just becomes wrong? Well, as with most cases, there are two sides to the story. One side can argue that whatever the reader can extrapolate from the story as symbolism should be taken as such, but the other side may argue that sometimes the author may just want to write something for the sake of writing it. Not all pieces of literature have to have symbolism. The common example is when an author writes, “The curtains were painted blue.” Mr. Griffin and I may look at this sentence and say that the curtains convey the protagonist’s sadness, and possibly his loneliness, when in fact the author may have just written that the curtains were blue, with no intended symbolism whatsoever.

There is another side of the story that raises an interesting question. Sometimes, symbolism reveals secrets about the author, regardless of whether or not they put it in consciously. If we use the curtain example again, what if we were to say that the curtains are blue because the author was feeling depressed at that point in time. Is that fair to say? In my opinion, no. It is unfair to extrapolate symbolism and relate it to the author, because you could stretch an idea to the point that you could say the author is a sexist for using a color primarily associated with boys.

So, yes, Mr. Griffin and the AP Literature class have a grand ol’ time “over analyzing” passages, but there is a point where symbolic analysis becomes too much. Personally, I believe that the author and the piece should remain separate entities. You, as the reader, can take whatever you want out of the story, but what you take from the story shouldn’t fall back onto the author. This has been Holden Rants About a Topic That Isn’t Really Relevant But is Still Kind of Interesting: Part 1.

Editor: AJ Patencio