COPENHAGEN INTERNATIONAL SC

HOOL

VOLUME 33

LABYRINTH 2015

Labyrinth

DanielTypewritten Text

DanielTypewritten Text

Labyrinth

33nd Edition

2014-2015

Copenhagen International School

Journal of the Arts

All rights of reproduction and copyright are reserved and the sole property of the COPENHAGEN INTERNATIONAL SCHOOL, Copenhagen, Denmark. This book

may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying without expressed permission from CIS.

COPENHAGEN INTERNATIONAL SCHOOL MMXV

Labyrinth 2015

Dear Reader, WELCOME TO THE thirty-third edition of Labyrinth, the Arts Journal of Copenhagen International School. 33, of course, is the number of innings played in the longest baseball game in history (a 1981 minor league game between the Rochester Red Wings and the Pawtucket Red Sox in Pawtucket, Rhode Island). So 33 innings is a lot of baseball, but Labyrinth is as young and fresh as ever, as you are about to discover.

The baseball factoid is there mainly to please a certain Mr. C, so a quick word on the C, then.

The incredible talent of the Visual Artists featured in these pages, and on the walls of our school, is really all the evidence you need of how immense his contribution to Copenhagen International School has been over the years. Bob, we will miss you, but you will of course always be an integral part of this publication. But, dear reader, find a comfy chair and enjoy the amazing work of the talented CIS students. And dont forget to bring some form of device that will allow you to enjoy the Performing Arts sections on the website. We would like to thank the PTA for their generous support of the prizes, Without your support Labyrinth would not be Labyrinth. All the best, On behalf of the Labyrinth Staff, Rebecca Lindroos, Gora Lizaso & Daniel Sarstedt Labyrinth Advisors

Labyrinth Staff 2014-15:

Sophie Achiam Mats Brokvam Daria Drenker Sydney Evans

Sofie Ferris Luchen Tian

CONTENTS Black & White Art Visual Arts Intro Colour Art Digital Art Colour Photography 3D Art Graphic Art Doodles Fiction Poetry Black &White Photography Non-Fiction Awful

3 10 11 21 25 29 34 38 41 67 92 97 112

Cover Art by Sophie Achiam

MORE LITERATURE, VISUAL ARTWORK AND PERFORMING

ARTS ON WWW.CIS.DK/Labyrinth

BLACK & WHITE ART

First Prize Darkside, Kristhy Bartels

3

BLACK & WHITE ART

Second Prize Nude Study, Sophie Achiam 4

BLACK & WHITE ART

Third Prize Chic Night, Iris ten Have

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BLACK & WHITE ART

Honourable Mention

Audiris, Rebecca Chivers

Honourable Mention Look at me, Maria Jarlbk

6

BLACK & WHITE ART GALLERY

Alejandro Montoya, Rebecca Chivers, Iris ten Have, Lrke Andreasen, Julie Woldbye-Lyng, Karolina Zydelyte, Maria Jarlbk, Pratya Arora, Saga Sjstedt, Tanja Jensen

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BLACK & WHITE ART

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BLACK & WHITE ART

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10

COLOUR ART

First Prize Pippi Longstocking, Freya Lindroos

Second Prize Too many colours, Rebecca Chivers

Third Prize Moment of suspension, Iris ten Have

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COLOUR ART

Honourable Mention Katrine Blum

Honourable Mention

Stephanie Trinca

COLOUR ART GALLERY

Freya Lindroos, Lrke Andreasen, Alexa Forsyth, Chris Nielsen, Elise Copas, Iris ten Have, Jonatan Chen-Zion, Josephina Jrgensen, Julie Woldbye-Lyng, Kristhy Bartels, Maria Jarlbk, Mariam Hawath,

Oone Tiirakari, Pratya Arora, Rececca Chivers, Saga Sjstedt, Sophie Achiam, Tanja Jensen

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COLOUR ART

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COLOUR ART

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COLOUR ART

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COLOUR ART

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COLOUR ART

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COLOUR ART

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COLOUR ART

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COLOUR ART

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DIGITAL ART

First Prize Perplexity, Saga Sjstedt

Second Prize The Scene, Chris Nielsen

Third Prize Reflections, Lrke Andreasen

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DIGITAL ART

Honourable Mention Age Lines, Freya Lindroos

Honourable Mention Twins, Iris ten Have

DIGITAL ART GALLERY

Saga Sjstedt, Alex Benes, Chris Nielsen, Julie Woldbye-Lyng, Kristhy Bartels, Maria Jarlbk, Sophie Achiam

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DIGITAL ART

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DIGITAL ART

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COLOUR PHOTOGRAPHY

First Prize Je Ne Suis Pas Un Femme Maison!!, Sophie Achiam

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COLOUR PHOTOGRAPHY

Second Prize Artbikebolt, Freya Lindroos

Third Prize Broken Window, Chris Nielsen

Honourable Mention Icicle, Nikola

Honourable Mention

Stone&Water, Tanja Jensen

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COLOUR PHOTOGRAPHY

GALLERY

Chris Nilsen, Iris ten Have, Rebecca Chivers, Maria Jarlbk, Maya Hertz, Nikola, Prtaya Arora, Sophia Greenblat, Sophie Achiam, Teo Della Torre

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COLOUR PHOTOGRAPHY

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3D ART

First Prize Cell, Sophie Achiam

Second Prize Ancient Greco-Nuclear, Mariam Hawath

Third Prize Timeless, Julie Woldbye-Lyng

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3D ART

Honourable Mention Watching_U, Julie Woldbye-Lyng

Honourable Mention A Bottle of Beauty,

Freya Lindroos

3D ART GALLERY

Alexa Forsyth, Emma Jepsen, Freya Lindroos, Iris ten Have, Katrine Blum, Lrke Andreasen,

Mariam Hawath, Pratya Arora, Saga Sjstedt, Sophie Achiam, Sophie Grisdale, Stephanie Trinca, Tanja Jensen

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3D ART

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3D ART

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3D ART

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GRAPHIC ART

First Prize

Sophie Achiam 34

GRAPHIC ART

Second Prize African Rhyme, Tanja Jensen

Honourable Mention Helping Hands, Maria Jarlbk

Third Prize Touch My Face, Iris ten have

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GRAPHIC ART GRAPHIC ART GALLERY

Rebecca Chivers, Iris ten Have, Julie Woldbye-Lyng, Maria Jarlbk, Saga Sjstedt, Tanja Jensen, Lrke

Andreasen, Ralitsa Markova, Sophie Achiam, Sophie Grisdale

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GRAPHIC ART

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DOODLES

First Prize Amanda Wilson

Second Prize

Luisa Dickson 38

DOODLES

Third Prize

Pratya Arora

Honourable Mention

Iris ten Have

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DOODLES GALLERY

Amanda Wilson, Luisa Dickson, Pratya Arora

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Labyrinth

FICTION

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FICTION The fiction section was marvellous this year. All works received were brilliant concoctions of young minds, some with wild imaginations and others with inspiring voices. The chosen winners (despite the close ties) spun intricate and well-rounded stories, mind-grabbing and deep, showing mastery in their writing skills. As there were so many great pieces, we have given several Honorable Mentions. We thank everyone who submitted, and congratulate you on your hard work!" The Labyrinth Team

First Prize

The Girl Who Didnt Actually Fall Down a Hole but Somehow Still Couldnt Get Out of One THE GIRL SAT, staring at a tiny crack in the ground in front of her.

Oh, she thought, defeatedly, Ill never get over that. But as she stared at it, the crack began to widen. Panic overtook the girl, and a feeling of helplessness overwhelmed her. The wider the crack became, the more the panic rose inside of her. She wanted to stop the crack - which had now grown significantly in size - from widening, but she could not. The girl turned away in despair as her mind started to race. The thoughts flooded her mind, and she felt as though she were drowning. As she lay there, next to the crack, people passed by. Not many of them offered any help. Some sympathised with the girl, but were in far too much of a hurry to get somewhere very important to be able to help her (though where this was exactly, they were not quite sure). Some noticed her, but did not understand what the problem was, and were far too busy to allow themselves to try and find out (though what they were so busy with was not always quite clear to them). Still others passed by, but most of them did not even see her. They were far too wrapped up in their own, terribly important affairs to notice her (though what these happened to be was not quite apparent to the people themselves, either). However, a few people did take it upon themselves to talk to the girl. Whats the matter? asked one, matter-of-factly. Why cant you just do it? Its so simple, interjected another, all you have to do is jump over that little crack! The girl tried to explain, but there was no use, for the next person quickly interrupted her. If you really wanted to, they exclaimed, you would have been able to do it by now! The passers-by shook their heads in frustration, and threw their hands up in defeat. Well, we certainly cant help you, sighed all three, adding, youre beyond reach. The girl turned away and stared miserably at the gaping hole that now lay in front of her.

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There she sat, for quite some time, watching the hole widen, until she could no longer see the other side.

Maria hrgaard

Second Prize

Parallax SHE CAN'T SLEEP, and she doesn't think she'll ever sleep again. She's falling, tumbling headfirst, worlds blurred in front of her eyes like streaks of watercolor on white canvas. She smiles. Lights of faded galaxies shine in her pupils and she takes the careful step into the middle of the wide stretch of road. They can go ahead and hit her, it's not like she knows who she is anyway. She hates it. The way things are. She subsists on a level of isolation and a cosmos of infinity, of forgotten memories and lost dreams. Omnipresent, she roams freely with her hands behind her back, never knowing where she is or how she got there but she blends like everyone else. Sometimes she's a little girl with rosy cheeks and undeniable curiosity, and other times a woman with a broken spirit and the pull of time in her chest. Shes a mirror and a shield, a ray of light and a loved one dead in your arms, a horrible monster and the holiest angel. She doesn't know why. It eats and scrapes at the back of her scrambled mind,

and though she hides it with forced smiles to blank faces she feels it like blood running down her neck. She wants to understand. She never will. The surreal stretch of forever under her feet and the reign of her own consciousness fighting to cage and shackle her, forcing her to wander the endlessness, confused and lost and trapped with the sluggish instincts of human nature. She's the wind in the rain and the sheepish giggle of a child, the song you hear but can never remember, the eyes that watch you from the shadows. Shes a piece and a link to something greater than her and beyond the understanding of all, the key to a place and a time that cannot be if she is not. Every star that ever was, and none of it would be real if she wasnt. She falls through black holes and feels herself ripped apart and then healed by the gravity of a gaseous giant, her screams resounding in every corner of every realm in every world, becoming the sound below the silence. She dies and lives and bleeds and cries, laughs and loves and dances and lies. The clocks tick in her head and she cant get them to stop, she cant slow herself down or satisfy her hunger, quench her thirst or close her mouth. No one knows her, and no one sees her - she hides in the dimension of the shattered, the payment for heartbreak and the risk to save valuable lives. The echo of what it means to lose everything and gain nothing, to feel true compassion and love in the depths of her being, to trust one she couldnt before. Everything about her is a contradiction. She should have been blasted into oblivion by the amount of data and power that was crammed into her mortal body, her mind blown to shards and her soul disintegrated. Sometimes she wishes that had happened, when she floats alone in the frayed and snapped threads that used to be her life. Alone in the place where different

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reasonings run together, a mess of smudged reality. Shes an inter-dimensional ghost, merged yet separate with the horizon of the material world.

But something keeps her holding on, something she cant place or name, the shimmer of a precious metal or the melody of a saintly chorus; she may never know. She has many names, in different tongues and telepathic waves. They blame destiny and fault upon her; they thank her and curse her and hate her and love her. She is there to shelter us all, and shes only a little bit of everything real and unreal, irrational and logical, of imagination. Shes just one of the infinite atoms that pull it all together, but she wasnt meant to be that way. She was never meant to hold so much supremacy and so much weakness, to crawl between breadths and plead for forgiveness, salvation, someone, anyone that would listen to her. She doesnt remember her name or who she used to be, or what valiant actions she took to move from her reasonable place in existence, the pieces of her history crushed by the weight of the universe. It wasnt just herself who so damned her: another, someone dear, took desperate measures and doomed her for all eternity. She thinks about this, and she grows weary, when instance slows and the ceaseless night surrounds her. She cant sleep, and she doesnt think shell ever sleep again.

Sydney Evans

Third Prize

Opening Night Twinkling lights illuminate the stage in a bright wash. Jack from grade 7 stands, center stage, in the midst of the lackadaisically painted set, as Peter Pan. His leotard is too tight, and its more turquoise than green, but as the head of the drama department exclaimed dejectedly only a few days before opening night itll have to do! Jack, who has seemingly forgotten his next line, fiddles gingerly with his shirt and searches the audience for a friendly face. There is a sluggishness in the air; only a select few parents arent aching to go home, and the entire production team, including the children, have been sick of Peter Pan for weeks. Nevertheless, the show must go on. Peter! Cries the young girl cast as Wendy, clad in a white nightgown and haphazardly curled hair, earnestly, as she enters stage right in order to save Jack who looks on the brink of tears. The young girl, who is trying to conceal her nerves, pales in comparison

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with the hues of the brightly colored set: violet and coral flowers shabbily smeared on by the primary school kids, a dazzling blue sky hand-painted by the Art department, and a gloomy pirate ship in which Captain Hook resides, assembled with the help of the woodshop teacher and plenty of YouTube tutorials. All you need is some fairy dust, then well never grow old! The level of animation in the hall grows discernibly as high-pitched whimsical notes are played over the loud-speakers to declare Tinkerbelles arrival. She enters in sequin dress clutching a wicker basket of fairy dust, high above the stage, balancing on a wooden beam. This part of the production caused quite a stir among the more reserved parents and a battle between the PTA and the drama department ensued: threats were made, compromises were proposed, tears were shed. Ultimately, it was permitted as long as specific safety guidelines were followed. Tinkerbelle glamorously showers the stage with glitter (as glamorously as a child can while strapped in a bulky harness), and the audience lets out a collective sigh of awe. Even Jack is able to stop himself sweating and forces a smile. It is almost magical. Almost, but not quite. Just as things are looking up, they begin to unravel completely. Tinkerbelle misteps, distracted by the reverence of her dazzling stunt. She plummets to the ground, but the harness keeps her from colliding with the ground, so she ricochets back up and hits a light fixture, dropping her fairy dust in the process. The light crashes to the ground, as glitter rains down on the stage. Several members of the audience are shrieking, and various kids are wailing. Tinkerbelle is flailing around uncontrollably, sobbing. One of the drama teachers rushes onto the stage and attempts in vain to lower the crying child in the harness onto the ground. In a last futile attempt to do something useful, he leaps up and grabs hold of her feet, but he hits the vast wooden pirate ship in the process and knocks it to the floor. It lands on Wendy

with a thud. Finally someone has the sense to attempt to lower the curtains (its about time for heavens sake). The last snapshot the audience is left with before they are engulfed in darkness is this: a stage light so big it has dented the floor, lying beside a wrecked pirate ship under which Wendy is flapping about, attempting to free herself. Above them, Tinkerbelle is soaring in all directions, her drama teacher dangling below her, barely holding on, whilst inexplicably, glitter continues to sprinkle down on them all. In the midst of this havoc stands Jack, so startled he has not moved an inch. A dark patch spreading quickly at the front of his crotch indicates he has wet himself with terror. The curtain is lowered, and the peculiar scene is enveloped in red velvet.

Mathilde Hjertholm Nielsen

Honourable Mention

At The Centre of The Desk Keith Dainard's chair had been patiently waiting for his return. The newspaper reporter's desk was neat as usual. Light came from a table lamp in the corner. There were grey files all in their respective places, just the way he'd left them when he went out for his Saturday walk with his wife. The cherry colour of the desk top made their deliberate positions strongly noticeable.

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In front of him was a cork board that showed him his busy schedule next week. Monday and Tuesday would be spent finishing up his reports on the high property prices. He had a meeting with two reporters from Florida on Wednesday and he was to spend the most part of Thursday finding out more about the proceedings at the State Bank. And who could tell what Friday would hold? There were always some unorganised reports to be filed or some photographs to be categorised. It was not normal for him to look at his schedule on a Saturday evening. He kept it until Sunday night so that it would not prevent him from enjoying his weekend. But today, there was something at the centre of the desk that was bothering him. It was a letter, concealed in a clean white envelope, that he had picked up from the mailbox before leaving for his walk. He had been reluctant to open it because he feared it might hold bad news. It was not two months ago that the Lehman Brothers had collapsed and the newspaper was already making losses. They had already discussed their inability to retain the large number of employees. There was no assurance that they could go on comfortably for even half a year without cutting down salaries. As he now sat down on his chair, it groaned softly. He picked up the envelope in his left hand and his knife in his right. He slowly sliced the the top as he always did when he opened envelopes. The paper was smooth and the letter slid out easily. Unfolding the paper, he began to read:

Dear Mr. Dainard, Keith was taken aback. There was nothing strange in the way that the letter was addressed. But he still felt uncomfortable reading his own name. He had secretly hoped that the letter was addressed to someone other than him. Nevertheless, he continued reading:

You are well aware of the tightening financial situation here at our workplace. The board of directors has decided that we take action to solve this problem immediately.

He knew it. He knew it had to be about the loss in business for the otherwise flourishing newspaper. These days, it was so important that the shareholders be made happy. Losses were never good for them even if they weren't sustained for long. But this time, it looked as if the board was right in making these observations. The economy did not look as if it was going to get any better soon.

As a result, we will be laying off around 40% of our employees over the next seven weeks.

Keith was taken aback once again. He had expected there to be a reduction in salary but it gave him a shock to see that it was a major bulk of employees that were to be laid off. He began to wonder if his job was also in danger. He had seen the worry about two extra reporters that had been hired a few months back. Now that they were serious about removing some reporters, he began to doubt that his position was secure. He couldn't help but continue on to the next line. He was just about to begin when the door opened and his wife walked in. "I'm making some tea for myself, darling, shall I make a cup for you as well?" "Er, yes. That would be nice," replied Keith after some hesitation. "Why do you look worried? Is something wrong?" his wife asked as she sat down on the couch beside the window. Keith adjusted his chair to face her. "I was thinking about the delicate situation at work. You know, with the recession and stuff."

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"Have you been told anything yet?" inquired his wife. Keith stared out the window. The dark silhouette of the house looked a bit watery in the reflection on the car. It was as if the whole thing were about to crumble. And the car itself looked much less grand than when he had bought it. The dark green Cadillac was only a month old, and the mortgage would not be paid until the summer of 2010. He looked back at his wife. The loving face was waiting patiently for an answer. "Nothing" responded Keith. "Then I'm sure we'll be fine." And she kissed him and walked out of the room. Keith stared in her direction for a minute before his attention was brought back to the letter.

Having discussed with the Vice President the importance of your role, we have been forced to arrive at this conclusion.

Keith now felt little proud of himself. As far as he could remember, his boss never discussed the importance of his role with anyone. That the Vice President should be discussing him didn't mean well. But at least it meant that a rational decision would be taken; that his position would be carefully looked over; that there was a chance that they would decide to keep him. Keith's eyes were drawn to the wall opposite the window. He turned and looked at the beautifully framed newspaper snippets that hung from the wall. His most prized works were there, ranging from the report that had taken him a month to complete to the article about the new school that he had remained awake all night for so that he could complete and publish it in the morning newspaper. They brought back memories of the hardships he had endured during the start of his career. All the work had been done with much care and attention, as he usually did whenever he was given work.

He finally gathered up enough courage to read the last lines of the letter:

I would like to discuss the situation with you straight away. I suggest you meet me at 10 a.m. on Monday.

Yours sincerely, Aaron Smith

The fine print faded away as Keith's eyes lost focus. His mind became completely blank for a few seconds. He was still looking at the letter but he couldn't read what was on it. The table lamp's glow was now yellowish-white. The light reflected off the cork board and gave a brownish tint to whatever he saw. Keith let his thoughts wander away with him. There was so much he had accomplished in the last few years. It was hard to let go. He had expected to continue working for this company until the end of his career. He might even have become editor-in-chief if he worked hard. But all this was lost tonight. He would no longer be going to work at the same time every morning. He wouldn't be eating his lunch in his comfortable spot anymore. He felt like his whole life was about to change. And the change was certainly going to be for the worse. "Come on in, I've finished the tea," Keith heard his wife call. As his eyes regained focus, he saw the white sheet of paper lying sharp against the cherry wood of the desk. He slowly got up from his chair and walked cautiously out of the room.

Rachit Kumar

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Honourable Mention

Disposable Thank you for choosing Chatoyant Laboratories as your place of residence, rang out over the intercom for the third time that morning as we shuffled through the line in the dining hall to receive breakfast. Today the machine dispensed me Food Gel that was a lovely pastel pink, the color of the hair of our overseeing officers. Despite myself, I was pleased. Yesterdays training must have been exceptional for me to receive a Gel three ranks above me. As I sat down with Training Group 352 at one of the yellow tables; our automataides froze and turned to us. They extended their small robotic paws, stuck the USB claws out and inserted them into the slots into our legs. My vision filled with yellow, and the smooth voice of Pearl rang through my mind. Today you will be working on our new Defenestration plates to ensure that they are optimized for the World Outside. Thank you for choosing Chatoyant Laboratories. I DIDNT CHoose anything you piece of shit! My voice got softer and died out throughout the sentence as the automataide stuck me with the claws again and turned down my volume. Its cat-like little yellow eyes stared into me, ensuring I was calm. The little LEDs flashed green, and the claws retracted. Chartreuse glared at me from across the table. How many times are you gonna do that, Aureolin? she asked. I rolled my eyes in response. We scooped our Food Gels, and I

was miffed that mine wasnt the highest Citrine had somehow received purple. Howd you get that, you i7? Peridot stared suspiciously. Her Food Gel was an ordinary yellow shed clearly had trouble on the courses yesterday. We had been testing the Repulsiaffixement suits. They would stick to an object upon touching it, then hurtle you off it at an alarming speed if you moved in the opposite direction to the affixment. Yesterdays training involved traversing a course of airborne platforms above a base of Temporarily Confined Wasps. I figured out how to use the suit to walk across the ceiling. Got it on the first try and everything It required significant nimbleness, which heavy-framed Peridot severely lacked. We giggled guiltlessly at her, knowing full well that we would be the yellow-gelled ones tomorrow, while she would have at least red gel following todays defenestration. Social Interaction Time complete. Anti-Malnutrion Treatment complete. Thank you for choosing Chatoyant Laboratories. Your table will be Cleared in 5, 4, 3, 2 We leapt away from the table as it, along with all the plates on it, disintegrates in a cloud of white dust. Well. Time to help the World Outside then Peridot announced with a grin, ready to prance off and happily do her part for society. Oh, shut down Citrine told her gently. We walked out of dining hall and into the bright golden hallway towards our individual courses. Peridot just began to turn towards the door of her training room when an alarming rumbling sound rolled up from beneath the floor. We all paused, and the hallway began to shake. It started as a slow vibration, building up until the panels were wobbling on the walls. Our eyes glazed over as our automataides froze us in our spots. The shaking got worse until an entire golden floor tile dislodged and, still-motionless, Peridot plummeted into the dark void that opened up. Eventually the quake quieted down and the automataides retracted their claws. Immediately, the panels around us

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crept quietly to their previous positions, and the hole in the floor near Peridots training room closed over, as if it had never existed. Its a shame shes gone. She would have made a rather substantial contribution to the World Outside today. I remarked. Yeah. I wonder who theyll send to replace her. Citrine replied. We both continued the few steps to our doors and walked in. The moment the door shut behind me my face crinkled. We had started this week with 8 group members and now we were down to 3. Replenishments would not be in until next week. I suppose all of this destruction was rather beneficial to the world outside. Our planet was overloaded with us as it is, leaving many stuck in these facilities. Still, thinking of Peridot gave me an odd feeling way down in my gut. Every time someone was removed, something stirred in me; something made me feel as though this wasnt quite how things were meant to- Do you need assistance beginning the course? The World Outside needs your support, meowed the little robot at my feet. I uncrinkled my brow and walked towards the centre of the buttercup-colored chamber. Buttercup. The word made me get the odd feeling again. Was there someone I had known ca- Aureolin, you are being unresponsive. Shall I submit you for a health examination? the automataide asked again, its mechanic pupils widening in concern. No, Im fine I replied. What had I been thinking about? I decided to just go along and figure out what I was meant to do here before someone summoned an officer to examine me. The room I was in wasnt very large, but it was very tall. There were windows near the ceiling on each side, the glass too cloudy to see through. The walls around them were soft mesh. I walked further towards the centre, and any queries I may have had about this room were answered as the panel I stepped on sprung upwards, hurtling me towards one of the windows. I was

incredibly thankful the plate wasnt completely accurate, as the mesh was significantly nicer to be smashed against than the window would have been. I dropped the 15 m to the floor like a frozen military bot, saved from broken bones by a mesh landing pad. Thank you for your contribution to the World Outside. Our defenestration plate is now 0.00001% more accurate. Getting up, I was already dizzy. This was going to be a difficult session. I staggered towards the plate again, but as I was flung into the air again, the rumbling started in the ground. As I dropped, the facility was shaking so hard I missed the landing pad. My vision blacked out for a few seconds and I was being tossed about like an electric impulse in a complicated circuit board. I couldnt feel my left leg at all. My left wrist seemed oddly numb. All that existed was shaking shaking shaking shaking. Even without my automataides influence, I was frozen. It was impossible to think while I was bounced about by the chaotic moving plates. My vision slowly returned, the shaking subsided. This time, however, the facility didnt rearrange itself as usual. It just remained in its forlorn state. I looked for my little robot for assistance, getting the sinking feeling again when I caught sight of a small robotic paw sticking out from under a large yellow panel. The cold voice of Pearl rang out over the speakers. Thank you for your contributions to the World Outside. Remain where you are for Emergency Accelerated Apoptosis. The sinking feeling intensified, and I knew I had somehow to get away from this area. Trying to stand proved futile, as my left side was completely numb. The only sort of movement I could even attempt was a slow crawl, but the rapidly approaching sound of the Apoptosis machine informed me that this would not be nearly enough. In desperation, I dragged myself to the centre plate and hoped against hope that I would be successfully defenestrated. I was flung backwards to the window just as a small

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hovering machine buzzed into the room below, carrying a very large needle. The glass behind me cracked as I smashed through it, falling into another chamber. This chamber was a polar opposite to the first one. It was tiny, cramped, and dark black. I dragged myself the few feet to the wall, but found myself stuck. The whirring of the needle machine approached, and the sharp point descended towards my neck. Emergency Accelerated Apoptosis deploying. Thank you for your contribution to the World Outside.

Karolina Zydelyte

Honourable Mention

Ski Trip

We shuffled in our ski boots and dragged ourselves forward with our poles stuck in ice. I heard the chair swing around the turn and saw out of the corner of my eye how it caught air for a moment where it seemed unconnected from the rest of the chairlift, and I held my breath. We were swept off the ground in one mechanical pull and immediately our weighted down feet swayed back and forth in one uniform motion.

Michael was already striking up a conversation with the strangers next to us, asking them if they knew where there was a Taco Bell in Denver because we were going there later; and I kicked him with my boot because that was only the second most

embarrassing thing he had said today, and it was barely 10 in the morning.

The chair in front of us was rocking slightly back and forth in jagged motions, and I arched my neck to see what was going on as I was hearing proud bursts of laughter from that direction. I caught a glimpse of a six-pack of beer sticking out of a sleek backpack and I slumped back down into my seat, realizing that this was going to be a long day for me. I had been hesitant to agree to this trip at first. This was our first trip as a family since Mom and Dad split up, and it had been even more awkward than I had expected so far. I would almost rather have them accept that our whole family was divided now, rather than insist that we try to make this work. I felt guilty leaving Michael behind to deal with it all on his own, but it was my turn to get what I wanted for once. I chose Fordham on the east coast over Oregon State because I wanted to get farther away from my family, not because I wanted to live somewhere new. I didnt tell any of them this of course.

We had all gone out to dinner the night before, and I could tell Mom had put in an effort to look good. It wasnt any more or less than what she usually would do for a nice dinner, but it was a different kind of effort she had put in this time. She knew she looked good when she wore her hair that way. She knew exactly how it made certain wisps of hair frame her face and bring attention to her otherwise hidden cheekbones. She had done this a million times and she probably would another million times. An image of my mom forty years older entered my head. Her skin was sagging anywhere it possibly could, and her hand shook as she lifted it slowly, purposefully sweeping a small brush with pink powder across the side of her face. I imagined her looking in the mirror doing this everyday for the rest of her life and I felt sad for her.

Using his ski pole to drop snow off branches of trees we passed by, Michael hummed a song I didnt recognize. I was mad at him, and also at Mom and Dad. I

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wasnt sure why at first, but now I knew I was mad at them for acting like nothing was wrong when everything was so wrong. I yanked my earphones out and glared at Michael, because his loud singing was becoming unbearable to me, and most likely to the strangers next to us too. He looked at me for a second, but didnt seem to understand what my expression meant because he kept humming and whacking branches. He looked away from his ski pole to say something to me, immediately losing track of what his extended arm might cause his ski pole to hit. I heard a scraping sound and saw Michaels pole hit a large tree trunk. Michaels face sunk as his hand involuntarily let go of the pole. He turned his body and looked over the edge of his seat, watching the pole fall farther and farther away from him. He looked up at me again, his eyes asking me for a solution to what had just happened, but this time I just shook my head and put my earphones back in.

Maya Hertz

Honourable Mention

The Tavern The snow came down in sheets, the harsh winds sending a dull burn teeming across Viviennes skin, frost clinging to her tattered cloak that thrashed about wildly in the dark. Night had fallen quickly that day, a bitter wind blowing in as soon as the sun touched the northern peaks. A bad omen, Vivienne

thought, as she continued her trek. She focused intensely on the road ahead, the faint glow in the distance serving as her beacon. With it, she would survive the night. Her guiding light came in the form of an old tavern carved out of the mountainside, the carved scrawl above the door reading The Frostbitten Ogre. Viviennes weight collapsed against the gnarled oak as she swung it open, the warmth of a fire slowly washing over her. A faint sigh escaped past her lips as she welcomed the feeling. Contrary to popular belief, the cold was no friend of hers. Vivienne took her seat at an empty table near the door, eyes darting cautiously around the room before falling upon several of the different patrons. To her left sat an elf, her posture straight, with slender fingers entwined around the spine of a book. Her flushed, rosy skin glowed in the warm light of the hearth, wide emerald eyes flickering towards Viviennes direction with every flip of a page. A Mage, perhaps, Vivienne thought, her eyes trailing down the intricate tailoring that lined her crimson robes. If so, a Mage very far from home. A few tables down, a couple of Goblins bickered like hungry crows. Their feet dangled a few inches off the ground, legs swinging irritably as their squabble intensified over the plans spread out in front of them. Vivienne always harboured a bitter distaste for Goblins. Their conniving, greedy nature mixed with a good bout of recklessness made them far from trustworthy, not that their tacky appearance helped much either. Prints, piercings - this group had it all, not to mention the diamond tipped cane resting at the end of the table. Minorly irritated, Viviennes attention shifted towards the far side of the room where a lone Dwarf sat polishing his musket. He was draped in animal skins, no doubt the trophies of his own conquests on the tundra. His coppery beard was woven into three fine

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braids, the longest tip reaching past his navel. A scar marred his left eye, his brow slightly furrowed as his gaze landed upon Vivienne. The final patron was an Orc, his back turned towards Vivienne as he chatted with the human barkeeper. He was decked out in heavy plated armour, iron and various skulls mounted on his shoulderguards to serve as grisly trophies from battle. Several races were among the vanquished: elves, gnomes, humans. A warlord, Vivienne mused, eyes continuing to scan over the twisted metal. Suddenly the Orcs head perked up, his thick, muscled neck arching to the side to reveal his tusks, his ivy skin faded and hardened against his features. His nostrils flared as he snorted in a deep breath, lower lip curling in disgust as he threw his hands off the bar, startling the human. Vivienne tensed, leaning further in her seat in an attempt to shroud her face within her cloak. The Orc slowly turned to face her direction, a gauntleted hand reaching for something resting against the bar. The gleam of it caught Vivienne's eye, causing her breath to cling to her throat. An axe. The weapon was by far the most fiendish Viviennes eyes had ever seen. Twin blades stemmed out from its gnarled helve, each curved viciously into intricate wings, their edges sharp and gleaming. She could imagine the Orc meticulously filing the blades after each kill, hot sparks leaping from the metal and searing his unyielding flesh. An image of an Orcish skull was depicted in the center of the axe, adding to the taboo of the weapons nature. Vivienne snorted. A veteran of war, yes, but no hero. Slowly, the Orc trudged towards Vivienne. Each step rattled the tableware throughout the tavern, the thundering sound of iron meeting oak floors causing the Goblins conversation to cease. The elfs ears twitched with each footfall, the Dwarfs good eye now following the lumbering mass. Vivienne

could feel the air teeming with promises of spilled blood. Finally, the Orc paused. He stood mere inches from Viviennes table, the tavern rendered completely silent albeit the sound of the brutes heavy breathing. Without a word his hand snapped at Vivienne's hood, drawing back the cloth and revealing her face. I knew it, the Orc rumbled, his voice thick with loathing. A corpse. Vivienne glared back with equal detestation, her sucken, glassy eyes unmoving from the Orcs beady red ones. Her teeth were clenched, the flesh from the lower half of her jaw non existent, revealing a row of rotten ivories. Her thin, straw-colored hair remained tied in a messy bun on her head, a few strands sticking to her sickly flesh. Corpse, abomination, forsaken, all the titles meaning all the same. Vivienne was not one of the living and was cursed for it. A race solely created by dabbling in dark magics, the Undead were fOrced to live as outcasts or slaves to their necromancer masters. Free will meant nothing to the church, to the governments, once an Undead was unshackled from their master they were seen as no more than monsters, a plague amongst the living. The Orc sneered down at Vivienne, his lips twisting into a wicked grin. What's wrong, left your tongue back in the grave you crawled out of? Vivienne seethed at the familiar insult, yellowed nails digging into the wood of the table. Undead were cursed to speak in tongues, a language no creature but one another could understand. Vivienne hissed at the Orc, a slender, dark tongue darting out past her lip. The Orc threw back his head and let out a bellowing laugh that echoed throughout the tavern, causing Vivienne to tremble with rage. For so long had she endured the curses, the glares, the blows of the living. For so long had she ran from her own visage, cowering away from her reflection like a dog

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would a boot. For so long had she begged, prayed, pleaded, her will unwavering, her faith relentless, yet still, the Light would not have her, no. She had been thrown away, forgotten. She had been forsaken. An intense fire burned deep within her gut, a hand retreating to grip the dagger sheathed at her side. On instinct she scanned the room, the Dwarfs thick fingers now wrapped warily around the trigger of his gun, the elven Mages hands free from her book and twitching to cast a spell. The Goblins glanced nervously at one another before gathering their possessions close, no doubt eager to make a break for it if things turned ugly. Good thing Vivienne didnt count on a lengthy battle. With one mighty jerk fueled by her pure animosity, she struck, surging from her chair and thrusting her blade forward into the Orcs thick, exposed neck. The laughter ceased, replaced by the gurgling of hot blood filling the Orcs throat, crimson pooling around Vivennes blade and dripping down her closed fist. Mercilessly she jerked the blade back, blood splatter painting her ashen face with color as the Orc fell to the floor clinging his throat, battleaxe dropping with a thunderous clang. Vivienne paced coldy around the table, eager to watch the Orcs final moments as he sputtered and coughed in a pool of his own blood. Within minutes, he was dead. The tavern remained still, all eyes fixated on the bloodied scene before them. Wordlessly Vivienne brought the fabric of her cloak to her blade, cleaning the metal of the warm liquid that coated it. Once her weapon was tucked safely back in its sheath she glanced around once more, the wary eyes of the remaining patrons meeting her own. She grinned, tongue flicking out from behind her lip to graze her bloodied cheek, the taste euphoric.

For the first time in decades, Vivienne remembered what it felt like to be alive.

Daria Drenker

Honourable Mention

Three Wishes John was walking home from work, looking up at the sky - as he always did on the way home. Though when he turned a corner something abnormal happened. He had walked this route for many years, yet he had never felt this sensation of pain in his stomach. He felt a hot liquid run down his legs from his stomach. Too afraid to look down he gently put his hand on the wound and felt something sharp stuck in his stomach. He tried to call for help but couldnt, because when he looked down from the sky, he saw a person smiling at him. This scared John even more than the fact that he was dying. Not because this madman was smiling, but because that madman looked exactly like him. The only word he could mutter came out as a whisper: Why?

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Not knowing, is the best part of being human John, just let it happen. The voice was his, yet it was more mature and, mad. He looked closer at that person. He saw that he, too, was bleeding from his stomach. Then everything went black. John was walking home from work, looking up at the sky as he always did on the way home, though when he turned a corner something different happened; he tripped and fell. He had walked this path thousands of times and there had never been a loose slab on this part of the sidewalk. He had scraped his knee and it was bleeding a little, but he was more interested in the loose slab. Yet, as he looked where he tripped, he didnt see a loose slab, he saw a lamp. It was a lamp like he had seen in the Disney movie Aladdin when he was a little boy. Thats peculiar, he muttered to himself. He took it up, wondering why anyone would leave it there. He was surprised at how heavy it was, as if it were real gold, which he never would have guessed since it was covered in dust, untouched by anything but of course his foot when he tripped over it. He held it up, and put it in his bag to take home, then turned around to walk down another street. The street he was on was the shortest route home. Sometimes there were gangs and he didnt want them to see the big bulge in his bag to give them a reason to mug him. As John finally got home he took out the dusted lamp and rubbed off the dust. As he did so the dust seemed to form a pattern that, if you looked closely, slightly resembled a man waking up. Beware mortal, you should not have taken what does not belong to you, you shall now pay, a deep voice inside his head spoke. As if in sync, the dust stilled and formed a full-grown man in his prime years. He rose over him and said now audibly in the room:

You have three wishes my master, wish for whatever you want to. But beware the grander the wish, the grander the punishment. The dust-cloud had spoken. Struck with fear and awe John had not listened properly. Afraid that if he looked away he would be killed he stared into two hollow dark holes where the eyes should have been and quickly came up with an answer to please the ominous, awe-inspiring dust cloud. I wish to know everything that has ever happened. You wish big but can you handle the consciences? We shall see. John entered a meditation-like condition and saw wonderful things: how the universe was created; saw galaxies take form; life on earth and other planets evolve; the beauty of life and creatures protecting their offspring; then how creatures ate each other; the gore of mature creatures killing and eating their own offspring; entire planets full of life, being wiped out by stars, or even intelligent species wiping out life on their own planet, even before earth was born. But what really scared John was what he had seen humans do. He had seen them be caring and just, but he had also seen too much careless torturing, slaving, and killing for fun. Yet he did not believe this to be true. He wanted proof for himself that it wasnt true. Lost in his thought-process he, by mistake, blurted out, I want to be able to read peoples minds. As you command master; it shall be done. The dust cloud was not frightening any more, neither was he awed, for John knew where it came from. Now he was only a little disgusted by being in this presence, but he now knew that he could command the genie around until his wishes were fulfilled. Leave me be for the rest of the day; this is not a wish but a command.

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As my master pleases. That very second the genie vanished and the dust that had been wiped off the lantern returned. Relieved by this, John hid the lantern. He changed from his work clothes to his casual clothes and walked out; he was so busy thinking about the day and about the future that he nearly forgot to lock his door. As soon as John got out of the apartment building he lived in, he instantaneously felt guilty in a flood of personal thoughts that he would have chosen to avoid if he had only known. He tried to sort out his thoughts to remember the way to Times Square. Normally he would have had no problem remembering directions, as he had walked there many times, but it was harder to remember with other peoples thoughts in his head. It was not a quiet walk from where he lived, since he lived on East 10th street which was always busy with all the restaurants. It was quite a challenge to remember where to go, and he kept whispering to himself when the next turn was. Turn left on to west 39th street John whispered to himself. He wanted to sit down and just absorb the thoughts of people walking by. John then sat down in front of the Levis store, 1501 Broadway by Times Square in New York Manhattan, which was typically very crowded. Sitting there he came to realize how many different cultures there were in New York. There were Muslims, Hindus, Catholics, Protestants and many more religions. There were also people from many different countries like Indians, Chinese, Japanese, Thai, British, German and even some countries he had not learned of in school. Now of course, thanks to the genie, he had also absorbed the thoughts of all the people. He saw the worries, hopes, dreams, distrust, and dissatisfaction of individuals and of the entire human race. John saw thing he never wanted to see; things that shocked him into realizing what it really means to be human

and what makes them so happy. He was no longer human, but software with feelings that were now shattered. He got home late and breathed heavily. He was finally secure, or rather people were finally safe from him, he realized bitterly as he was getting out the lamp, knowing his final wish. Getting it out and rubbing the dust off, he prepared for the disturbing aroma of the genie, but none came when the genie appeared. My master, what do you bid? Do you know why children are always so happy, and that when they become adults they lose their freedom? John said, with a sad expression on his face, looking at nothing in particular. I am sorry, I have not experienced this myself, as I was created and sealed by this lamp beside you, the genie said with a smoother voice than before, knowing Johns last answer from experience from others like John. It is their innocence they lose, you see. The less you know the happier with life you are. Not knowing this is the best part about being human, and I am now no longer a human. I cannot destroy you, but I can hide you. Grabbing a knife, John regretfully said: My final wish is to go back in time, an hour before I turned the corner to trip on your lamp. Take me back to that exact place, next to the sea As you wish my master, the genie said in his dark and rougher voice. As John suddenly felt the chill of a breeze outside he knew that he had reached his destination, then tossed the lamp out into the sea and waited, trying to control his thoughts. Then finally he collected the thoughts of his incoherent self, walking down the street, looking through his own eyes and enjoying life. John was walking home from work, looking up at the sky as he always did on the way home, though when he turned a corner

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something abnormal happened. He had walked this route for many years yet he had never felt this sensation of pain in his stomach. He felt a hot liquid run down his legs from his stomach. Too afraid to look down, he gently put his hand on the wound and felt something sharp stick in his stomach. He tried to call for help but couldnt, because when he looked down from the sky he saw a person smiling at him. This scared John even more than the fact that he was dying. Not because this madman was smiling, but because that madman looked exactly like him. The only word he could mutter came out as a whisper, Why? Not knowing is the best part of being human John, just let it happen. The voice was his, yet it was more mature and mad. He looked closer at the person; he saw that he, too, was bleeding from his stomach. Slowly he felt his limbs grow tired, his head began feeling tired. He sank to his knees ready to embrace death, slowly losing touch with the world, then hearing ambulance sirens and screams.

Valdemar Lauritsen

Honourable Mention

Trip to Triton The canopy of clouds steadily approaches as the exhaust clouds of burnt kerosene, water vapour and aluminium oxide are visible in the hot glow of the flames. The last parts of

the interplanetary spacecraft are finally on the move. Most of it is waiting for us in low earth orbit, docked to the Artemis space station. We would make the final preparations there. The incidence with the launch and release should not have any adverse effects. T= +16:15. Stage. Solid rocket boosters separation. Our trip would be the first manned mission to the moon of the most distant of gas giants. Triton had a wonderful launch window with five gravity assists. Our three man crew consisted of Richard, Davidson and me. I had first met Richard at college while we were learning about orbital mechanics. He was the funny guy who sat near the back of the room. I really got to know him well when we were going through our training together. I can work well with him because we have similar interests but very different personalities. As for Davidson, I have only gotten to properly talk to him a handful of times, but from what I have heard and know about him, he seems to be very responsible and respectable. T= +40:40. Stage. Liquid boosters separation 1 and 2. Launch Escape Tower jettison. The launch window had approached sooner than would have been nice for the team to prepare. We could not delay the launch date because waiting for the next window as good as this one would have taken centuries. Looking out of the small windows, the view of the earth does not seem as breathtakingly special as it did earlier, during my first missions. T= +1:25:35. Stage. Liquid booster separations 3 and 4. Circularise orbit. Our craft has reached the altitude for low earth orbit at more than one hundred and twenty kilometers. We should have had a launch site at the equator. The alignment process with the equatorial orbit of the space station would have cost thousands of kilolitres of fuel by now. Altering Orbit Angle 27.6 degrees. Main engine and booster cut-off. Land speed = 7.649 km/s. Docking with Artemis space station next. The enormous photovoltaic panels are

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blocking out the sun as we approach the space station through their shadows. They actually appear rather dull brown when the light passes through them instead of the deep blue when they are lit from the front. Approaching Artemis. We should be aligning the docking nodes next. Forwards slowly... Docked with Artemis. Our rendezvous with Artemis was successful. Davidson was already in Low Earth Orbit, on the Artemis. Richard and I would meet him and discuss our plan for rearranging the rocket and the remaining 2 liquid fuel boosters. We would then have to refuel from the space station. Davidson is talking to Mission Control. He thinks that the rough release fromt the launch tower might have caused a few issues. He seems concerned about the deployment of the landing gear. Undocked with Artemis. We have actually taken away a large part of what was berthed to the space station with our interplanetary spacecraft. preparing for the earth escape burn is taking a long time with . I still think that we should have gone to Titan instead because of its atmosphere which could have enabled flight and also use of parachutes. The habitation module is actually quite nice even though it is rather small. The exercise equipment is slightly limited. Initiate the earth escape procedure, Richard. Davidson had the right to be in charge; he had much more experience on space missions. Earth escape velocity reached We are still burning the main rockets. The boosters will burn up in Mars atmosphere, after we use the red planet for a gravity assist. We are having close encounter with the moon now. I think I see the Olympus space station at the moons Lagrange point 2. Mars closest encounter The last parts of the Omega VI heavy have left us now. The so-called red planet isnt as red as I had expected it to be. Mars is actually rather brown and the visibly white

permafrost at the poles actually looks rather dusty. Jupiter closest encounter Mission Control is taking longer to respond to our signals, probably due to the ever increasing distance between us and them. It takes more than an hour for them to reply. This is going to be a very long trip. I hope that the waste water recycling systems dont malfunction. Were all getting tired of having to exercise everyday. Why do we need to maintain muscle and bone density if we aren't really even going to use them for a couple of years? Uranus closest encounter These windows should have been slightly wider; the view we had was very limited. Richard and I have become much closer friends. Davidson is also much nicer than he first appears, if you take the effort to get to know him. Jupiter and Uranus gravity assists were relatively boring. Neptune should be known as the blue planet, not earth. The next major step would be aero-braking at Neptune to get into a Neptune capture orbit which would have a close encounter with Triton. Neptune closest encounter. Neptune Capture. We are burning retrograde at Triton to slow ourselves into a Triton capture trajectory. Richard and I are going to head down to the moon on the lander. Davidson will stay in the orbiter. I dont know why Davidson decided to stay in orbit. He is the captain of the mission and was advised to go down so that he would need less training. He has had to learn all about the capsule, more than we do, because he will always be in it. We are transferring fuel into the lander. I wonder why they hadnt done this earlier. We only need the specific impulse mentioned by Mission Control to complete this mission. Most of the lander will be left behind on Triton while Richard and I will come up to the Proteus capsule. The rest of the lander will then be sent down to collide with Triton as we perform the Triton escape burn. If we had done this 50 years ago, we

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would have lost connection with mission control every time earth was eclipsed by Triton, Neptune or the sun. We should have brought a rover as well as the lander. Triton Capture. Lander Undocked. Our perigee is below the surface of Triton and we are rapidly approaching our landing site. We will burn retrograde again just before we fly over the landing site. Burning... vertical. The 4 engine are keeping us stable as we land. Richard has deployed the landing legs. Touchdown. The Proteus has landed on Triton. We damaged the lander slightly on landing and are limited to using only one of two primary photovoltaic panels as a result. The auxiliary panels have been deployed and are able to manage with the slightly reduced amount of electricity. It is strange and exciting to be on a planet so far away from earth that it takes hours for family, friends or Mission Control to respond but it feels extremely lonely and dangerous even though there were 3 of us. It also feels amazing to look up into the sky and see an enormous blue planet instead of our small grey moon, through the frost covered glass of the window. Departure from Triton. After 2 months, all of the experimentation and investigation is finally over. Another rocket burn after 2 months seemed a bit strange. The lander and ground sped away from us as we experienced earth-like acceleration after 17 months. As we orbit the blue-brown moon, I see the Proteus capsule approaching. Our relative velocity is now 0.8 m/s. Aligning docking nodes. Relative velocity is now 0.05 m/s. Forwards slowly? Relative Velocity is now -0.03 m/s. Forwards slowly again bounce again. Docking node must be damaged. Docking Error 12: Docking node incompatibility. Depressurize Proteus Capsule and Lander. EVA into Proteus capsule We leave the capsule as Davidson gets into his spacesuit. He depressurises the Proteus and open the hatch for us. I enter the spacecraft, wondering if the Proteus docking node has also been damaged. Davidson is

not at all worried by our ominous docking problems. I am. I never liked the be careful what you wish for song. Triton escape velocity reached. Neptune escape velocity reached. We burn until our trajectory should take us into an earth encounter. We will have a large gravity assist (due to a close encounter) from Saturn and a weaker assist from Titan which should slingshot us towards earths predicted location. One of our thermal radiators has been damaged. We have been forced to retract a photovoltaic panel in an attempt to maintain temperature. Saturn closest encounter. Richard keeps cheating in whatever game we play. Davidson and I are getting on very well. We have had to retract another photovoltaic panel as a result of overheating as we get closer to the sun. The trip back is actually quite long. Even though we got a big assist from Saturn, we only have two assists instead of three like on the way to Triton. The assist from Titan isnt actually going to speed us up much. The purpose of this trip has started to seem a bit vague to the three of us. Davidson tries to sound like he knows why, but it is easy to tell what someone actually thinks if youre living in a capsule with them for months. We should be able to get to Triton and back, but perhaps the trip was prepared in too much of a rush. How are we going to benefit from these experiments? Was it really required to send humans there? Isnt this trip just a show of power? Titan closest encounter. We are finally almost back to earth. We are now burning retrograde again in an attempt to slow down from the ballistic interplanetary trajectory. We are going to perform a two-part re-entry so that we slow down to less than orbital velocity in the first re-entry but use the capsules heat shield, as a wing, to send us back up and out of the atmosphere. Our second re-entry should slow us down enough that our parachutes can help us land safely in those gorgeous blue oceans.

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We have moved from the habitation module to command module as we approach earth. The habitation module has been successfully jettisoned and is going to burn up in the atmosphere so that there is less load on the heat shield and parachute. Re-entry 1. Earth Capture. This re-entry approach worked. It feels a lot like aerobraking. I contemplate our accomplishments through the trip and realise that it has been all that I had hoped for. I should have higher expectations next time. Re-entry 2. Drogue Parachute deployment failure. Drogue Parachute jettison failure. Main Parachute deployment failure. Connection with Mission Control lost. * * * All of the endless years and months of planning, along with all last-minute preparations, were finally going to pay off... T= -5... T= -4, Main engine ignition, T= -2... T= -1... We have lift-off of the Proteus Mk4 capsule and lander atop the Omega VI Heavy Rocket. We have cleared the launch tower on the first manned trip to Triton. I wonder how this trip turns is going to turn out. I hope that it wont be uneventful; thats usually more exciting and interesting in the long run, but I am actually quite nervous.

Mohit Kumar

Beginning of Charolais: The Turning Point It was a warm and pleasant morning in early April. The sun was sending warm and friendly rays down to the Earth, which responded in its own way. Flowers and shrubs had begun to grow and larks were singing their gleeful song in the sky. Spring was like a paradise and a few months before, I would have enjoyed walking through this countryside with my beloved wife, Beatrice, but right now, I did not notice. I was intently studying a map of the land, supplied by the staff and so we had no time for this paradise; only for war. It was not a war without reason, oh no, for it was a war to rise to glory and get revenge. A war against the Austrians, for who else? In the last century, they had marched across all Europe, defeated all their enemies and grown to become the defender of the Empire, guardian of all catholics and usurper of freedom. Maybe that is not quite how the Austrians felt, but it was certainly the prevalent opinion among us French on that day. I saw a lark flying overhead and I thought of how it resembled France. The Austrian hunter had shot the bird and it had lost one of its feathers. That feather was Charolais, once a proud and prosperous part of France, but now an enslaved part of the Austrian Empire. It had been lost in 1621, a disastrous war, but it was now 1653 and a new war was to be fought. Not a war of defeat and loss, but of reconquest and revenge. I was ready to participate in that strike for revenge. I had left my beautiful wife behind and joined as a captain in the fourth Alenon infantry, known, less formally, as the Bible Shooters. The nickname was earned when, right before a battle, the regiment was not given any fuses, as there were not enough to go around. However, one of the officers suggested using pages from the Bible to light the guns instead of fuses. The musket balls that were fired from the guns that day were

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said to have struck the enemy with the force of God and drove them from the field. I looked around at the 100 men in my company. Many of them I knew, like Gerard, a tall brown-haired man with a face that had a scar stretching right across the chin where a British soldier had blown half if it off in St. Helena. That had been my first war, as well as Gerards. The British had attacked France and sent armies to the north in Brittany, as well as advancing in the colonies. I had enlisted early on in the war, but the British invasion had been crushed without my regiment and we were sent to St. Helena. The British fortresses in Brazil were holding out against our soldiers and they were supplied through St. Helena. Somehow, the British knew we were coming there and the battle had not been easy. I also saw Sergeant Picord, one of the oldest men in the regiment at 46, with hair that had almost turned completely grey and a moustache that was the envy of many men. He was not so tall, but still quite strong and had a voice that could be heard in Paris if he shouted from Moscow. He came closer to me, walking up from where the regiment was gathered and exercising his customary habit of running his hand through his greasy,grey hair. Nice morning, sir, he said in a voice so loud the birds in the trees nearby fled to the skies. It is, I replied. So, thats what were going for then? Picord asked pointing at a barn a few kilometres distant. It was called Hoguin and it was there the centre of the Austrian army had gathered. They had marched into France again, just like in 21, but this time they would be beaten. Indeed it is sergeant. We shall have a nice walk up these fields and then drive them from the hill, I said. The Austrians had prepared a position on the Vartommes ridge, which stretched all the way through Nevers and entered into Charolais. I knew it would be difficult to take. Well the plan is simple, at least. Command must be learning, Picord said

with a smile as he left me and headed back down to the men. I looked back towards the hill. It looked steep and with a matchlock musket to carry and ammunition it would take quite some time, all while we would be pounded by artillery and then finally by the enemy musket men themselves. It would be very difficult to take, but we would have to do it.

Nicolai Hkkerup

Glance This Way and That It was 946 AD and I was only thirteen years old. I was lying in my bed, staring at the coarse pine ceiling. It was normally a rather bleak sight, but today the cracks in the wood seemed to be smiling at me. Tomorrow was the great day, I thought. My sister was to be wed. I couldnt sleep: I was too excited. Tomorrow was the great day after all. My family had prepared for many months. There would be all-manner of food and drink, with many joys and festivities. This would go on for three days three fabulous days. As I lay there in my bed, all content and happy, a flower of doubt began blossoming

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in my mind. I stood up, vigilant and ready. There was a smell, growing increasingly stronger. It was the smell of smoke. I ran out of my room (which was being filled by smoke) and into the corridor. The smoke seeped across the walls. It crept into me, like a great dark tide, beginning to infest and contaminate me. It was thick; the whole house was burning. There was a great tumult, as the rest of my family attempted to escape. My tongue tasted of the acrid smoke. My breathing was hoarse and my eyes were stinging. This was no accident; someone was burning the house. I felt the rugged walls with my hands, looking for them to guide me away. My hand bumped into a hard piece of wood. I instantly realised what it was, and the thought reassured me. It was the haft of the axe my father used to chop wood. I opened my eyes. The axe was indeed there in front of me, hanging on the wall, beckoning me forward. I grabbed it, and with a few strokes I sliced off the hinges of the door that led outside the house. The rest of the escape came as a blur. I vaguely realised that I had pummelled my way through someone standing outside. All the better that I had the door in my hands. The sky was dim and forbidding, seemingly trying to force me to stop, but I was determined not to surrender. I gathered my senses as I came to the edge of the woods. A quick glance told me that I had to continue forward. An arrow sliced directly past me and dropped down into a pile of snow. It had been but a few centimetres from my head. The trees were dark, their branches appearing to be gripping out to catch me. I had to keep on running. A few moments later, I dropped down into the snow, collapsing in despair, unable to continue. It was gloomy and altogether quite dismal, this place from which I could go no further. No light was piercing the surrounding blackness, other than that of the moon. A fox darted past me. It probably recognised what was to come.

My thoughts rapidly flew by. One moment my mind was focusing on my family; all of them probably dead. Then it would be content on continuing escaping. I remained indecisive, falling deeper and deeper into the pit of dismay. I heard a faint stirring noise emanating from a bush near me. Is this the end? I muttered softly to myself. A man burst out of the trees, a great spear hefted in his hands. He came closer to me, taking one cautious step after the next. I saw his muscles tense in preparation for a lunge. Then, the man stared at me, an incredulous expression eminent on his face. He said one word: son? It was none other than my own father! I was now utterly confused; he was supposed to be dead. A multitude of thoughts greater than any I had ever had before raced across my mind. How had he survived? When I asked him this question he seemed deeply lost in the realms of confusion. He explained to me that someone had broken down the back door of the house and run into the woods. He thought it had been a thief, attempting to escape. But it had only been me sleepwalking. A dream (praise be to the gods), but a very shocking one nonetheless. I thought I had lost everything: my family, my house; but we had been lucky. We had prepared for the joyous feast, forgetting to be vigilant against the ever lurking foe. You must hold everything close in this life, or it will all slip away, just out of your grasp. I often recount a Viking Proverb: The man who stands at a strange threshold should be cautious before he cross it. Glance this way and that: who knows beforehand what foes may sit, awaiting him in the hall. Mark these words well.

Nicolai Hkkerup

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New Years Eve 3, 2, 1 On New Years Eve, I sat alone, up twenty-seven flights of stairs in a two-room apartment in New York City. Six blocks away I could hear screams and shouts in Times Square as happy couples and belligerent party animals waited for a brilliant display of lights and color, and to enter the new year. The Times Square phenomenon always attracted millions out of their homes in the frigid, biting air that New England pitted against them, and every year, millions stood outside to leap into the next chapter of their lives. And, six blocks away, here I am, at 10:57 on December 31st, foolishly hoping for a visitor. A man.

His name is Michael. We were together for a time; lovers, however not according to him. He had always put me second on his list of priorities when we were together, but even so, I would love him until my heart gave out. New Years Eve was our favorite holiday, as we would always buy a tall bottle of the nicest champagne we could find and enjoy each others company. We would always move, wherever his work took him. Thats what he told me, at least. But, behind his innocent smile I could always sense dishonesty. Never shame, never regret, but a bleak, cold sensation of distrust. He would filter his actions through a smile and the minimal reassurance of an I love you.

And I believed him.

Five years into our unhealthy

lifestyle I indeed found his other lover. On the day before 2013, he stumbled home one fine night in a clouding stench of gin and vermouth, with his other partner and walked up to me, stared into my eyes for a moment, and made his way to his chambers, leaving me on the couch we picked out together, with a tear on my face. I followed him in, left him with a stinging red mark on his face and packed my suitcase and left. I took $1200 cash from our emergency box and bought a ticket on the first plane back to New York; to start over again. To reclaim myself once more.

Life hasnt been easy since. He

always made the money, and we were never married. But I managed. But every year after that, I still fix myself a glass of champagne for myself, and for him, creating an ill-guided illusion that he might once again return to me and say Dakota as that would be all he needed to say. Of course, this could never work as I have never told a single soul my address. I dont invite people to my apartment, mainly because there is no elevator in my building and I dont think anybody other than myself would want to walk up twenty-seven flights of stairs to come over for coffee every now and again. And, temporary solitude has proven to be quite relaxing for me: escaping things at the end of the day with no one but me. It is bliss.

11:39. Twenty-one minutes until I

embrace another New Year, alone. Cameron invited me over to his place for beers and a pie, but I declined. New Years Eve is too hard for me to do with other people, I told him. Of course. Yeah, no problem.

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I pour myself my first glass of champagne of the night. The seven-dollar bottle from Costco doesnt really match up to standards with a Perignon imported from the Champagne region in northern France, but itll have to do. I down it.

11:52. Only 8 minutes left. I stand

outside on my apartments small balcony. Times Square is growing louder and louder.

I return to my book and envelop

myself in the art style that is Fitzgerald. Gatsby seems to be enjoying his New Years Eve, I think to myself.

At 11:57 I pour a glass of champagne

into my own glass, and one into the imaginary Michaels, at which point the units alarm goes off. I can hear it in the hall, all the way from the foyer, twenty seven storeys down. I dont think much of it. I mean, the last time this place got the electricity checked was in 1966. Things like this happen all the time. My only concern is if its still going off when I want to sleep. But it stops, and I return to my thoughts.

11:58.

11:59.

I step out onto my balcony, and listen as the crowd counts it down. 59 58 57 56

My apartment door swings open. Damn. I forgot to lock the door.

I grab one of the umbrellas off of my balcony. I mean, I think its possible to ward off an attacker with an umbrella.

I go back inside to see whats

happening. I hear a rustling in the kitchen area. Its pretty dark. I turn on the lights and there he is. Michael. He looks at me. I look at him. Times Square continues to count it down with gusto, 37 36 35 34. But

all I hear is silence. Well, thats not entirely true, I can hear my heart. I turn to walk towards my balcony, with my glass of champagne in my hand, and he looks over my shoulder and sees a second glass, and he knows who its for. I nearly died of embarrassment. But he just smiles. Genuinely, this time. I can tell. 22 21 20 19 I walk outside, in the cold air. He is still inside. 12 11 10 9 I take hold of the railing, and he walks outside. I grab my glass, he grabs my hand. 6 5 4 We turn to face each other, he leans in towards me, and I to him.

3 2 1

Andrew Shinn

The Bounty of Butchery I rode down along the road and inspected the town in front of me. It was the town of Snderborg. It was where I was born, where I had lived all my life, and now the place I was returning to, victorious in every

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manner. Once all I had been was an ambitious boy, who had wanted to become rich and be a hero. I had never been anything. I had been a useless, unimportant little boy, dreaming of becoming somebody one day. Now I was someone; the war had made me someone. People always ask me if it had been horrible. The answer was of course yes. But at the same time it had been beautiful gorgeous. I had started at the lowest rank; a foot soldier. I had signed up early in the war (as I had no job and wanted some excitement) and quickly rose through the ranks. I was an incredible commander, with an insatiable appetite for the adrenaline rush one feels when in a battle. I had fought in a number of engagements: Slesvig, Dybbl, Kolding, Fredericia, Isted, and Frederiksstad. In the end I emerged as a hero. I had lost friends in the war; that much is true. I had seen men die, very many men die. Among those men were: Mikkel, my first officer, Georg, my only friend in the beginning of the war, and Sren Hestegrd, another comrade. All these men were close to me, (especially Mikkel) but that did not deter me one second from what I had to do. I have massacred enemy civilians and butchered their soldiers, but what does it matter? Some were innocent and some were not. I did what I had to do, both for me and my country. You could say I was brave, recognizing my duty and fighting on to the end, but I see it in a different way. War is like a wheel. It can stop, and you will have been cut down in the slaughter, or it can keep spinning, faster and faster. The latter is what happened to me. War gave me gifts: glory, the strength to prevail, recognition. War was kind and generous to me, while it was sinister and wretched to others. Many are envious of me now, because of what I did back then. I reaped the rewards when they couldnt. As I approached that town I was a hero. If I retired I would receive a large pension, and if I didnt I could become the mayor of Snderborg as quickly as I wanted. Before I was unemployed, useless to society, but now

I am an important man, worthy of the gifts that have been bestowed upon me. The change was incremental, and it was the best change that had happened to me in my life. As I entered the town the people cheered. I was a hero. It was momentous; it was fantastic. I was the true winner of this war. My country may have succeeded in defeating the rebels, but I had defeated the unfairness of society. War had been my tutor, my guide. Now it had left the rest to me. I had to pick up on my victories and push them through. Nothing could stop me, and I had war to thank for that.

Nicolai Hkkerup

The Nightmare Once in the aftermath of a forgotten war in a forgotten age there were three young men who were survivors, all of them from three countries that had participated in the war. Two of them had met earlier and celebrated as victors for days on end, when one night they almost stumbled across the third young man. The third man was sleeping in a foxhole, really no more than a crater from an artillery shell. One of the two said, Hey look there! Drunk maybe? Without saying a word the second man quickly walked over to the sleeping man. He nudged the sleeping man with his boot and took a step back. There was no response, nothing. Then the second man responded with a heavy sigh. No, just a former enemy. Now, another body to bury. Suddenly the third man started to move, and he sat upright looking around himself. The first man readied his weapon, aiming at this mysterious person that was now sitting in the foxhole. James? S-s-hould I kill the bastard? shouted the first man. No! Enough killing has happened the last few days, James shouted back. What if hes undead or something? The first man swallowed.

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No, no, hes just unarmed, nothin more, answered James. They heard him mutter. Bloody nightmares. What was that? the first man shouted while lowering his weapon. Leave him Joe, said James as he took off his small army backpack containing nothing more than a blanket and some letters sticking out from one of the side pockets. The third person shouted back, NIGHTMARES! So youre not undead? answered Joe and turned towards James. Cut that out Joe, lets settle here. Keep him company, at least for tonight, James told Joe. Joe looked at the unknown man and then at James who sat down reading his letters. You sure about this? Joe said. James didnt respond, he just sat there reading his letters over and over again switching in between them. Joe sighed heavily and sat down a few feet a away, with weapon at his side. James and Joe both started to look around in their backpacks. The third man however just sat there watched as he had no backpack, no weapons, and no food; he had absolutely nothing. He was just the remains of a defeated enemy. All three of them were silent for a long while until James broke it. Joe, have you got any food left? Joe didnt reply. Instead he took out a can with no labels. It was open and half empty. Its the only thing I got left Joe said. The third man just stared out in the open air. Well were not eating that! James said strictly. Joe put it back into the backpack while James made a small campfire out of a few sticks and a lighter he had. It was cold this night, colder than usual. James and Joe looked at each other then looked at the man. He was still staring out in the open air. James looked around himself. There were only some bushes and a tree, the rest was grey, darkish, and a mist had appeared, but nothing more. James grabbed his letters once more and started reading them one by one.

Joe however looked nervous. He took his weapon, checked it and started looking around himself. He looked at the third man a few times who was just sitting there. He wondered whether or not to put a bullet straight through this mans chest, just as he had done earlier NIGHTMARES!! the third man shouted once more. James quickly turned his head towards him, and slowly started to move away from the campfire. Joe aimed at the third man. He had pulled the trigger the moment he heard the third man shout. The safety catch was on though and the gun never fired. The third man came closer to the campfire. Stay back! Joe said. All of a sudden the third man said, Let me tell you fellas a story. Nightmares occur when you are trying to forget things, he said with a heavy accent. Try to forget a memory and it will first slowly fade into a mist of forgetfulness, the man told them. In a desperate attempt to be remembered the memory will appear in dreams and later nightmares, he spat out as he started breathing more intensely. Well good thing you forgot em, right? James interrupted. The third man looked grimly at him and James figured that he shouldnt interrupt anymore. However, what is frightening is that these nightmares can come from a harmless memory, the third man continued, staring at the other two. You see a nightmare consists of three parts: a harmless memory, a more frightening memory and a dream. He ended with a long pause. Lets say that this harmless memory is that I saved a group of people I knew well, he stopped again. And that the frightening memory is people being hanged by extremists. He raised his voice in anger. Now combine these two and add a dream where everything is possible, he lowered his voice. Change the extremists for red-skinned demons in armor with swords and shields from ancient times. There was yet again a pause. The demons are hanging the group of people that you knew and tried to save but

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who got caught instead. There was another pause. The demons are hanging them one by one and you are last, the third man said with a heavy sigh. When its your turn to hang from the tree, they lift you up and as you breathe your last breath you wake up! the man told the other two. You open your eyes and look at the bedroom door which you cant remember if you left open or not he proceeded quickly. You see the shadow of a figure much like the demons in the nightmare. You quickly close your eyes and open them again. This time you stare at the shadow a bit longer and it seems to be moving towards you, the man said quietly. Then you close your eyes a final time but curiosity makes you open them again, he said as he forced a pause. When you open them theres no shadow, theres nothing but an empty dark room so you decide to sleep. However seconds become minutes and minutes become hours as you cant sleep he said as the intensity came back. Then all of a sudden you wake up the next morning and wonder if it all was a dream, a nightmare? his final words were spoken. James said nodded and looked at Joe who was still aiming at the third man. Lower your weapon Joe. James said.

Why? What if hes gonna kill- Joe answered. He doesnt have anything and hes not gonna kill us. Hes just another defeated enemy James interrupted. Can I ask you two a question? the third man asked the two others. He moved towards them before any of them answered. I cant help but wonder, with this war and all, have you ever wondered if this war is just a dream? he said slowly, as he moved around the campfire, coming towards them. Ye- James tried to say before he and Joe heard a scream in the dark night. The next morning two soldiers were found by a patrol passing by looking for survivors. The soldiers were each from their victorious country. One was hanging from a tree, with only his upper body still attached to the head. The other man was lying in the foxhole, with the campfire burning inside what used be his chest. Also a set of footprints from an inhuman creature. A demon, perhaps--or was it all just a dream? A nightmare? The End

rjan Tingvik

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Labyrinth

POETRY

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POETRY When looking on the internet for the definition of poetry we were inundated by a deluge of interpretations that ultimately left us feeling as though we had more questions than answers. The makers of poems are brave souls who venture forth into an indefinable and yet absolutely necessary aspect of humanity and our own consciousness of self. Unshackled and

unfettered by dogma, poets give us opportunities to think and feel about ourselves and our lives in new and unforeseen ways. Each and every poet ought to be congratulated for daring to present parts of themselves for public consumption. May all poets continue to make us think and fe