Horizons Pandemic Digest

Volume 4

Sakura QiaoLing Wu

As Days Turn To DuskMajka Kiely-Miller

Wash away the sweet sorrows of the nightRise, and let us see the sunAnd all the glory that it bringsLet us wander through the fading darkness of the dawn

Watch little storms of wonder as they brewBringing with them clouds of days long passedFollow rock paths once carved, a depth long touchedBy memories that haunt us as days turn to dusk

Reach for the weakened soulsOf those who have let dreams fallBring hope for the end of tears long shedLet us wander through the fading darkness of the dawn

Oh the tender hearts that cry out!Watch them grow and bloomIn the long journey of childhood savored By memories that haunt us as days turn to dusk

As the years pass us slowly by,Let us wander through the fading darkness of the dawnWith memories that haunt us as days turns to dusk

I Aerin Franklin

I am become the bough 

swaying over my head. 

I am become the green 

bud, and the pink flower, 

bursting. I am become the 

branches, infinite, and I 

am become the trunk, one. 

I am become the roots, 

searching. I am become 

the earth, whole. I am 

become the bones in the 

earth, lonely. I am become

all the dead things, and 

I am become the world. 

But Enough About You Isabella Blanco

Thoughts of Purple

Danish Qureshi

I sit at the edge of a pier at twilight, the cool ocean water lapping at my toes. The

sky is purple, and in turn, so is the water. The violin-like strums of a cricket can be

heard in a bush off to my right, but other than that, the world is asleep. 

Not a single bird, car, footstep, or pin drop interrupts this silence.

As deep magenta clouds obscure the full moon’s dazzling light, leaving it dim

and hazy through lavender fog, I begin to see the faint outline of an aurora, gradually

becoming manifest. It’s an ethereal dance between violet and green, both colors

waving in sync like curtains on a stage. The green stands out amongst the royal night,

but the purple is ever-present, and catches my eye the most.

By this point, I’m aware of a growing chill in the air, and my breath begins to

form fog. I focus my gaze deeper into the lilac skies, as the stars brighten and make

themselves known. If only I were in the country, I quietly think to myself, as I notice

the hum of a street light a few yards behind me.

A piece of algae creeps onto my foot, and I quickly pull my legs out of the water,

believing it to be some sort of threat.

The tranquility is ruined.

As the moon escapes the cage of lavender fog, the aurora fades into

nonexistence, becoming just as hard to see as the nebulae beyond the stars.

The violin-like strums of the crickets and the hums of the streetlights are far

louder than I remember.

My feet are cold and damp.

I want to go home.

poem caught in a storm Anya Chu

1.

with march comes spring, but

april falls to rain, just like everything else,

just like this poem. the airplanes stop mid-flight

and we pause, letting the drops soak our hair

and clothes, just for that one moment:

only then can we rush for cover.

2.

yesterday i was on the precipice of something

of what i just couldn’t seem to remember:

i felt the jagged cliff rock under my feet

(it too was damp from the storm), and

the teetering of my body, back and forth,

back and forth, over the dark cavity

of what? i still can’t remember3.

finally we make it to the bus stop. in the

night the rain pours on the heads

of lovers leaning against a dank lamp post-

we read each other poems drenched in rain

in the feeling that nights indelibly coated in the

storm could go on forever. but by definition,

neither nights nor storms are indelible,

they are but figures of our imagination:

only recognized in the dripping pages

of a poem.Inspired by Jim Moore

Aurora Jing Gu

Brynn Leah Badawi

Onoki stared at the reflection of his hands through the sapphire sword. They were charted in a film of dirt and grime, scarlet oozing from his wounds. With a hasty grunt, he planted the hilt of his blade into the charcoal beneath, and with all the strength that remained, he shakily made his way to his feet. As he stared out at the battlefield, he could only make out a litter of bones paving way to a smoke-stained, never-ending horizon. He heard a faint chorus of distant cries, and pushed a strand of his raven black hair behind his ear as he swiveled around, about to make his way home. His eyes met those of a mysterious figure. They were draped in a long, red cloak that covered their eyes. All that Onoki could discern was a mess of pale-blonde curls and a small smirk that peeked out behind the figure’s stark ruby hood. As they trudged toward him, their cloak eerily danced in the wind, as if a flag waving in the breeze. Amidst the sun’s rise on the horizon, their skin was washed in a glistening orange. Onoki furrowed his brow, his hand resting upon his sapphire sword. He clenched his jaw.  With a resounding cry, Onoki bellowed, “What brings you here, spawn of Brynn? These territories are painted in the tears of your people, and nothing more. Make yourself scarce before the raiders appear so that they can take what remains of this wretched plane.” He spat, his words like the blade of his sapphire sword - sharp, cunning, and empty of regret, it seemed. The figure made no action in haste. They simply stopped in their tracks, lifting their hood from their face to reveal a pair of hazel, cat-like eyes that almost appeared to be crinkled in a sort of amusement.  “I need not reveal my business here, great crusader of Vaughn . . . And, I suppose, neither do you, for a soldier of such immaculate status would not be seen above the remnants of such a harrowing site. Yes - Indeed, one like you, dressed in honorable garments . . . They would be flogged right away, and to the most acute extent if discovered.” The figure murmured, her voice honeyed like that of a soothsayer. Onoki’s gaze shifted from contempt to surprise, his mouth agape and eyes wide as teacups as he watched her trudge through the charcoal and destruction without a worry in the world.  She merely smiled at the lifeless bodies beneath her as she knelt down, pupils soft and empty of emotion as she stroked the matted hair of a perished woman, face caked in blood and all. “Oh, my child.” She mused, her voice nearly as quiet as a feather. “Look at what they have done to you. Your face is wan, eyes devoid of all light . . . Oh, my children.” Her eyes trailed over the entire sight, smile never leaving her face. “Give me your power, you biddings and tidings. Give me every vein, organ, instrument of your being . . . It will live, live within me,” she exclaimed. Onoki winced as he watched the exchange; as he watched her reach into the dead woman’s body, her cat-like eyes widened in an eerie thirst - for what, he didn’t know - until she reeled away from the poor

woman, in her hands a pulsing, bloodied pulp of tissue. What was she doing? Onoki could only stare at such a scene, his hand clutching his own heart, in fear of reaching the same fate as the woman’s. His legs had given out and with his last ounce of strength, he cried, “You, of the needle-tongue. What is your name?” The figure turned around. Now, Onoki could see all of her features. He could see a head of silver-blonde curls pulled into two short pigtails amid a pair of empty, emotionless but cat-like hazel eyes that appeared a piercing golden in the light of dawn. And, particularly, he could spot the stark stain of scarlet that painted half her face amid a halo of charcoal at her feet. “I go by many,” She began, her tone seething. Onoki’s murky green eyes sparkled with recognition as he examined the figure further. Something dawned on him at once. His grip on his sword tightened as she continued. “You’ve probably heard them all. The woman of five faces . . . the Scorched Phantom of Easton . . . And, most prominently-”

“Brynn.” Onoki admitted, his expression starstruck. “Of the Changelings, of the Seventh Door. The mother of all . . .”

Brynn smiled a large, warm smile, that wouldn’t be so unsettling if her mouth weren’t slathered in blood. “Yes . . . Yes, my son. I suppose that I have become myth, or perhaps even legend, among these parts.” Her expression feigned sorrow as she once again stared out at the ruins of the battlefield. “No matter. I will tidy up the scarlet footprints brother Vaughn has reckoned on these lands, and let it start anew - free from all turmoil, hatred, and pain.”

“Such a notion is too far-fetched, Great Mother.” Onoki started, his voice wavering hesitantly. He scratched at his neck as he continued. “For months . . . No, for years, our forces have tried our best to defend Castilla from Pax’s barbarians, the raiders from Juno, and rebellions throughout the Sunlands. We are at our last straw, and these ruins . . . They are just a vision, a peek into the storm that is reeling over our heads everyday. Nearer . . . and nearer.” He faltered, staring down at the bloodied charcoal beneath him, terrified.

Brynn smirked, unsatisfied. “Brother used to say that one must dig their own grave before digging another’s, that the only sedative to chaos, disorder, was chaos itself. ‘To start anew, we must rebuild rather than repent.’ He once told me, in his eyes a spark so fierce it could light a fire beneath a Skylander’s sea.” She giggled, her gaze taking on a grin of youth so uncanny on a woman’s face. Though, there was a darkness behind that grin, a solemn beam was all that Onoki could surmise. “I was a fool to believe such promises. For he turned out to become nothing more than a coward, a measly admiral that hid behind his many talented soldiers, praying for deliverance, for divine intervention.” She scoffed, her grin shifting to a grimace. “Now he must reap the consequences of his ignorance. Now, he must experience true, rigorous bravery.”

Onoki was almost speechless. His face sheepishly turned away from Brynn’s, too astonished to face the fire of her gaze. “And how do you intend to do that?” He mumbled under his breath.

Brynn sounded cold, colder than Onoki’s sapphire sword as she replied, “I will do as he promised. I will wipe out this wretched world in a spell, an orchestra of fire and ice, until all that is left is its youth, tasked with rebuilding this solemn realm atop the foundation of the blood and tears of their predecessors.”

TO BE CONTINUED