Dear Aerie Staff,

Last year at this time the Aerie Staff was navigating crisis learning, learning how to work from home, and figuring out GoogleSites in order to publish Aerie 2020 on our brand new website. It was definitely an experience (not always good, not always bad). When the National Council of Teachers of English Recognizing Excellence in Art and Literary Magazines (NCTE REALM) committee honored that issue with a First-Class designation, I'm not sure the new staffers understood why we were so proud to have earned that award. After the past few (hectic) weeks, I'm sure you all have a better understanding of things. 

This year, you decided you wanted to publish both a book and a website. And (as with everything else), pandemic guidelines tried to thwart our efforts. The second semester started with all students remote, AND seniors graduate weeks sooner than the underclass year ends. You opted for twice the work with half the time! I always tell the Aerie staff that they can choose to take the magazine in whatever direction they want as long as they are willing to put in the work. And, work you did: You circled after school, published during lunch and mornings of off-days. You took editing and plagiarism checks home and you delegated web responsibilities to next year members. You created new ways of organizing submissions, you helped each other make layout decisions, and you advertised submissions, scheduling and sales. 

So now I say this without a hint of sarcasm: I hope you're proud of yourselves. You should be. Thank you for dealing with The Elephant in the Room. It wasn't easy but the good things usually aren't.

B

Mr. Jared Parker -- For being our art hero. You made sure our art was in its best form even during our crunch time (which meant giving you deadlines for volunteer work)!

Oliver Santos -- For designing and creating the cover for this year's Aerie

The Firebird English Department -- For promoting Aerie throughout the whole year

Joseph Broaddus, Chloe Burke, Anna Gustin, Arian Ineza, and Lillee Vest -- For a little help getting the website organized and published

Mrs. Jessica Stickel -- For giving us unlimited access to her room and InDesign insight

Clara awoke in a cold sweat, laying rigid against her bedframe and thin mattress, terrified to take a single breath. This was the third time this week that she had heard the sounds, and she had been jolted from her nightly sleep, heart racing furiously in her chest. She was paralyzed, unable to move in bed, despite trying desperately to lift even just her fingertips. She miraculously closed her eyes, bracing herself from the sounds that would come yet again.

At first it was a cool whispering, that seemed to emanate from within the wooden walls, slipping through the cracks and knots. Clara kept her eyes closed tightly, attempting to block out the sound, to little success. She felt the wind rushing over her eyelids and underneath her nose, despite both her bedroom windows being locked tightly. Clara involuntarily shivered underneath her thin blanket, but then returned to the futile motionlessness. The whispers grew more intense, but remained frustratingly unintelligible, appearing to form words for a moment, before dissolving into a sea of chatter. Clara strained against her bed, seemingly pinned in place by the sounds, until suddenly, the whispers evaporated, and Clara bolted up in her bed, throwing a panicked hand against her heaving chest. She fumbled in the darkness for her lantern and lit it with shaking hands, freezing tears streaming down the front of her face. 

The small lantern emanated a small dose of welcome light into the room. Clara could see her hand suspended in the mirror across from her, delicately holding the lantern, as well as a sliver of her face. She tentatively stepped out of bed, relieved to see her full body come into frame, clad in a striped nightgown. She glanced around the room anxiously, checking the windows and door, but all seemed to be in place. Approaching the mirror, Clara set the lantern on the wooden surface and observed her own face. She pulled at her lips, which had turned a diluted purple and were chapped from the incessant wind, and the whites of her eyes were dotted with broken blood vessels as the sleepless nights piled up. 

A sudden determination overtook Clara, as she reached for her thick cloak and put it on overtop of her nightgown. She had been avoiding addressing the issue head on for weeks, but unable to tell any of her neighbors out of pure fear, Clara realized she would have to take matters into her own hands. Pulling open one of the top drawers in her dresser, Clara dug underneath a pile of stockings and removed a thick stack of bills, tucking it into the inside pocket on her cloak. She swept her hair into the hood, and braced herself for the cold, stepping out of her small home and into the pitch black of the night. 

The air was tinged with moisture as the sky spit occasional raindrops from above, periodically surging into a strange deluge that caught Clara by surprise. The wind whipped around as she quickly traversed the dirt streets, abiding by the streetlights, but nonetheless she was reminded of the quiet whispers that haunted her each night. Imagining them was almost as bad as the event itself, and Clara forced herself to put them out of mind, and burst into a quick sprint towards her destination. 

After traveling a few streets over, Clara approached a small building labeled “Bane’s Apothecary.” She had heard rumors about those suffering from mysterious ailments finding solace in a potion or antidote from this small black building, yet it was shrouded in enough rumors and shame that Clara only felt comfortable approaching it at night. She prayed that whoever was inside would be able to do the same for her. A small wooden sign dangled from the overhang, reading Open All Hours. A delicate wind chime tinkled next to it, and Clara observed what looked like small animal bones hanging in between the metal chimes. A chill snuck down her spine, but Clara forced herself to remain calm, as she approached the large metal door knocker. 

Pulling at the thick metal ring and letting it fall onto the wooden door, Clara shivered in the midnight air. Alarmingly, with the fall of the ring, the black door slid open and a small crack of light appeared, that beckoned Clara to enter. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, enticed by the warm light. 

Stepping inside the doorway, Clara was greeted by a warm, glowing light that emanated from decadent black chandeliers hanging from the building’s high ceiling. The doormat was red and fluffy, reading "Welcome!" in an embroidered golden script. As far as Clara could see, tall black shelves covered the walls and spanned the floor in front of her, decked with enticing objects.

“Hello?” Clara called out into the empty room, surprised to see that in fact no one had opened the door for her. She removed her cloak and gently laid in on a coat hanger composed of a giant bird’s claw. Peering behind and through the rows of shelves, Clara spotted what looked like a lantern sitting on a desk, next to a brass cash register. She carefully stepped off the plush welcome mat, and walked through a maze of shelves, heading towards the light at the back of the shop. Jars of mysterious floating substances, dangling dried spices, and giant shining gems greeted her from all angles as Clara traversed the store. She felt an underlying compulsion to pause and observe each item, but pressed ahead. 

Approaching the table at the back of the store, Clara was disappointed to find no one waiting at the cash register. She observed the table carefully, again drawn to the array of delicate and ornate objects that lined the shelves behind the dark table. Suddenly, a strong glimmer in the corner of her eye caught her vision, and Clara turned to her right, away from the table. 

A giant floor mirror met her line of sight. Perched against the wall, the mirror’s golden border was inlaid with jewels of all kinds, rubies the size of eggs and sapphires smaller than a pea dazzled in the warm lighting from the chandeliers above. Clara smiled involuntarily at the mirror, its golden glow filling her with a joyous feeling. She approached it, carefully, and observed each precious stone that covered the mirror from floor to ceiling. She could see her arm, suspending her extinguished lantern in the mirror’s surface, and stepped inward, to view her gaunt face surrounded by the precious gems. Her thin cream-colored nightgown stood out awfully from her decadent surroundings, and Clara again peered in at her face, tugging at her lips and eyelids. Compelling by the mirror’s silvery smooth surface, Clara touched it, gently, the glass grazing against her pale fingertips.

Clara pulled away, but was caught by the mirror’s surface, unable to remove her hand that was now firmly pressed up against it. A sudden panic raced through her mind, and to her shock, her left hand was now firmly pressed up against the mirror’s surface as well. “Help!” Clara called out into the emptiness of the apothecary. Inexplicably pulled inwards, Clara’s cheek grazed the mirror’s cool surface, and in an instant, her whole body was pressed up against it, unable to be extricated from the shining grey. 

Clara closed her eyes gently, and felt the hard surface around her melt away, a faint trickling surrounding the shell of her ears. In a panic, her eyes were forced open again, only to find that the store around her had turned to a grey, matte background. Her hands and face were still locked firmly with the mirror surface, only looking inward, Clara no longer saw her face reflected back at her. She peered into her new surroundings, seemingly a small room, with a single bed and side table. Clara felt the blood in her run cold, as she recognized the bedsheets and lantern on her table to be her own. Pressed against the mirror surface, Clara was forced to watch as the door to the room was opened, and she watched herself step inside and undress, changing into a nightgown, and then slip into bed. Clara pressed herself hard against the surface she was bound to, desperate to break the glass and fall back into her own bedroom, but the effort was futile. Tears streamed helplessly down her face, but only melded with the glass surface of the mirror, keeping her more firmly pressed up against it. In a last effort, she screamed with all the force of her lungs and kicked her feet against the bottom of the mirror. A faint whisper echoed onto the other side, and a delicate wind picked up with each kick of Clara’s feet. 

On the other side of the mirror, Clara awoke in a cold sweat, laying rigid against her bedframe and thin mattress, terrified to take a single breath.

A woman sat in front of a small mirror brushing her medium-length dark hair with a boar bristle brush. She ran the brush through her hair slowly, smoothing out the large curls. Her hand trembled slightly as she set the brush down on the wooden dresser top. 

Across from her in the small room, a window was wide open, allowing a cool breeze to enter the room and mingle with the heat inside. The blazing Algerian sun baked the room’s interior and it battled ferociously with the breeze, before winning out and leaving the room hot and stuffy. On the bed across from the mirror lay the woman’s niqab, fluttering slightly in the wind. 

The woman leaned towards the mirror and applied a bright red lip stain, contrasting pleasantly with her light brown skin. She worked hard to steady her hand, attempting to match the line of her cupid’s bow. Suddenly, the door was thrown open and the woman dropped her tube of makeup, cursing quietly. 

“Nour!” shouted another woman who entered. She was dressed in an identical full skirt and blouse, with matching dark pin curls and makeup. This was the popular clothing and hairstyle worn by the most stylish French women in Algeria. Nour and Hana had abandoned their flowing white niqabs purely because today’s duty, and today’s success, depended upon it. 

“Hana, you made me mess up my makeup!” said Nour, exasperated, reaching down to grab what she had dropped on the floor. 

Hana crossed her arms nervously and tapped her toe. “Are you almost ready? We need to hurry, Ahmed’s already downstairs.”

“Already?” An evident panic tinged Nour’s voice, coupled with her already shaking hand as she attempted to finish applying her makeup, painting the picture of a good, “modern” Algerian woman, one who embraced French culture to its fullest and abandoned so-called “backwards” Islamic customs. “He’s so early, I thought we’d have at least another half hour.”

Hana sighed. “Well, he’s here now, so you’d better come downstairs.” She swept out of the room with a flourish, leaving Nour alone with her thoughts. 

Nour finished her look, stood up to smooth her skirt, and took a final glance at herself in the mirror. She met her own brown eyes, which were rimmed with thin crow’s feet, borne out of the years of stress and worry during the years of war. The lines that creased her brow intensified, as the weight of today’s actions settled on her. The Algerian independence movement depended on her bravery, but more importantly her ability to be quiet and blend in. Nour left the room, leaving it empty save for the white niqab fluttering near the open window.

Downstairs, Ahmed was waiting with two women’s purses in hand. They were the type you would see any fashionable French woman carrying in the European sector of the city of Algiers: small, bright and boxy. He handed one to Hana and one to Nour, which she took with a shameful hesitance. 

“I’ve set the timer for forty-five minutes. You’d best get going now. I’ve checked and the coast is clear. To the revolution,” Ahmed said in an almost somber tone, before patting Nour softly on the back. Nour took a final look at Hana while standing in the doorway, and she met the other woman’s piercing and determined gaze, before the two women split off in opposite directions, clutching their purses in hand.

Nour walked swiftly towards the European sector of Algiers, the hot sun radiating off her shining curls. Not too fast, not too slow, keep your head down, but not too low, don’t attract suspicion… was the mantra playing through her head on a constant loop, like a broken record unable to be extricated from the player. Her mary janes kept time on the brick road below her, click-clack, click-clack, counting down just like the contents of her purse.

Up ahead, Nour could see the long lines of people that waited at the barrier between the Muslim and French side of Algiers. French paratroopers coasted the small wire fence, swinging batons idly, but keeping a watchful eye. Nour approached cautiously, hoping that her look would do the work for her. Algerian women in long niqabs waited on all sides of her, mixed in among the Algerian men in their dark business suits and ties. At the fence, French soldiers patted down the men, checking aggressively for weapons of the revolution. The veiled women passed through, as the French troops had learned to avoid touching what wasn’t theirs. The line trickled slowly, and likewise a bead of sweat dripped down Nour’s neck as she clutched the time-sensitive bag under her arm. She waited patiently as the line slipped and slid, Algerians politely jostling each other in the stifling heat of daybreak.

Suddenly, a French soldier spoke in her direction, as she approached the middle of the line. Nour stood out like a sore thumb, a properly “cultured” Algerian hidden among the rest. “Miss, you can head on through,” the Frenchman gestured, making way for Nour to pass through the line. Nour gave him a glowing smile, parting her red lips fully and displaying her white chiclet teeth. 

“Thank you, sir, the gesture is much appreciated,” she said in perfect French, stepping through the border and clutching her purse tightly under her arm. The soldier winked at her as he leaned against the fence, and Nour inwardly recoiled with repulsion. However, the fiery secret she held within her propelled her forward, knowing that unbeknownst to him, he had just let the revolution’s most dangerous weapon pass unchecked through Algiers security. 

Walking through the European side of Algiers, Nour blended in perfectly with the French women around her, and surprisingly, other Algerian women who had willingly embraced French culture, delicately clutching the arms of white Frenchmen. Nour followed the path mapped in her mind towards the Milk Bar, one of the most popular cafes for French youth in Algiers. She spotted its blue and white sign up ahead, the letters “MILK BAR” plastered across the glass front. Nour hopped up the steps in her mary janes, and smiled politely as a Frenchman in front of her opened the door. 

Inside the Milk Bar, a swing tune played from a jukebox, and white teenagers danced on the floor away from the bar and booth seats. The café was one of the most popular in all of Algiers, especially among French teenagers, who frequented it after school and on weekends. Nour quietly approached the bar, picking a lone tall seat among chatting French men and women, and set her purse quietly on the ground. Spinning around from the back of the bar, an employee greeted her, asking loudly over the music if she wanted anything to drink. Nour contemplated, and then asked for a soda, the employee pulling a shining glass from behind him and filling it to the brim with fizz. Nour placed some coins from her pocket on the tabletop, and quietly sipped the drink.

With her foot, Nour discreetly scooted her purse further underneath the bar table. She looked out across the dance floor, where a dozen teens danced to the jukebox’s radiant noise. "What a party!" she mused, sipping at her drink numbly. The large clock on the wall ticked down relentlessly, and although the second hand was silent, Nour could hear it chiming in her head louder than any music playing at the bar. She looked around the room to see a French mother, holding a small toddler being spoon-fed ice cream, covered in vanilla mess. Nour looked down, suddenly, choking back guilt that threatened to manifest itself as tears. Leaving her drink half full on the countertop, she quickly exited the Milk Bar, leaving her square little purse behind, tucked snugly underneath the bar table. She walked away in silence, head down, to return to the Muslim side of Algiers. 

Twenty minutes later, massive explosions were heard all across Algiers. The ground shook for miles as both the Milk Bar and another French café were blown to pieces, buildings crumbling to the ground with dozens of customers inside. Tucked away in their homes on the other side of Algiers, Nour and Hana cried softly into each other's arms. French police shouted as they ran through the city streets, banging on the doors of unsuspecting Muslims. Nour slowly closed the dark window shutters, blocking out the Algerian sunlight except for a single, shining ray. 

Want to learn more about the Milk Bar Café bombing? Click here!

I sat lonely in Mother’s chair, staring out at the rain. The raindrops looked like panicked fish as they ran down the window, with little tails helping them to scurry as quickly as they could until they reached the windowsill. I traced my finger along the cold pane, and felt a presence enter the room. 

“Is there anything you want for breakfast, dear?” Grandmother’s voice, crackly like dried leaves in autumn, cut out across the silence. 

I sat still, avoiding turning to look her in the eye. 

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Alright, Violet, just let me know if you need anything. I’m always here for you.”

“I know,” I said, sadness creeping into the edge of my voice. I focused harder on my window, tracing patterns around the watery paths each drop left on the glass.

Today was the day that Mother had passed away, ten years ago. I could remember the moment as clear as day, as we trekked together in the woods for one of her adventures in botany. It was Mother and I, alone together in the towering pines of Northern Oregon. The air was crisp and cool, the sky a muted cornflower blue. There wasn’t a single cloud, and this forced your attention to the wildlife in front of you; greens of every color beckoning for your attention, from the bright chartreuse of the grass to the deep evergreen needles. 

I remember turning in circles, distracted by the beauty of the nature around me, and like that, she was gone. I found Mother face down in the dirt, lacerations burning bright red on her neck, wrists and ankles. I had run to the police station in a panicked blur, and couldn’t much remember what happened after that. Grandmother had told me years later that the report had deduced that she’d suffocated to death, although the source was unclear. A mysterious attacker that threatened me with barbed wire plagued my dreams for years, and even visited me still, ten years later, during late hours of the night.

I glanced around Mother’s room. After Grandmother had moved into our small house, we had unspokenly decided to keep Mother’s room the same as it always was. Neither of us could let go, still ten years later. Her clean wooden hairbrush lay on the wooden side table; dog-eared and damaged books sat precariously on the faded shelf. It felt inappropriate to see her belongings so full of life still in the room. 

Her closet door was cracked open slightly, and the green of the chipping paint held my vision. It was the spark of color in the room, bright and nearly neon compared to the faded neutrals that spread across her bedsheet and furniture. In the ten years since she had left and the ten times that I had sat devastated in this room on the anniversary of her death, I had never opened that door. I missed her more deeply than I ever had before in that moment.

I pried myself from the old rocking chair and walked over to the green door. With care, I placed my hand on the cold brass knob, and pulled slowly, not wanting to disturb the already damaged paint on the old surface. 

Suddenly, I spotted a burst of life emerging out from the crack. It was a flower bud, just waiting to bloom in the spring air. I furrowed my brow, pausing from opening the door any further. Mother loved her plants, as a botanist, of course, but surely none of them would have survived this long, in a dark, damp closet. 

I knelt down on the wood floor, and gently grasped the bud in my hands. It promptly burst into full bloom, bright purple emerging from the green casing. I nearly fell over, but caught myself by thrusting a hand out against the doorframe. 

This was impossible. No flowers could bloom that fast, in the span of mere milliseconds. With courage, I pried open the rest of the door, and was met with a barrage of green so intense I could hardly continue to look at the vibrant colors.

It was like a greenhouse, or a forest. Bright green moss carpeted the wooden floor, in a moist and supple coating. Nearly every inch of the closet that wasn’t covered in moss was shrouded in greenery, with eager ferns springing up from the ground and thick vines hanging down from the ceiling. I spotted Mother’s favorite flowers, some tiny violets huddled in the corner. There was no light source, but it was as if light emanated from each individual plant, illuminating the closet and all its greenery. 

I finally caught my breath, and reached out to touch one of the ferns. It was incredible that these plants could have survived all this time in the absence of light and soil. I grazed the fern with the tips of my fingers, and the tendrils curls inward, spiraling around my index. I yelped, and tugged away quickly, but the plant held on with strength. 

Steadying my breath, I turned to look for some scissors, but the plant then released my finger, spreading open its leaves once more. I could hardly believe what was before my eyes.

I placed my hand into the brush once more, and each species of plant careened forwards, tickling my forearm. I laughed uncontrollably, and willed the plants to stop. Suddenly, they did, and my arm was left vacant, an empty pocket of air surrounding it as each plant pulled away as far as it could go.

Was I… controlling them? I found the idea impossible, and suddenly I was grasped at every appendage and thrust into the closet. I called out in a panic, but a large oak leaf curled around my mouth, stifling my cries.

Vines wound around my ankles and I was pulled into the air suspended above the moss below. I looked up to the ceiling of the closet, but was shocked to find only a thick layer of plants that traveled up as far as the eye could go. How long had this been here? 

I began to struggle for breath, as the oak pushed further, stifling my lungs from pulling in what I needed. I scratched at the vines around me, but I was suddenly pulled taught, and I could no longer move my arms to reach across my body. It felt like a dream, where the mysterious attacker was wrapping the barbed wire tighter and tighter around my neck. 

It hit me like a ton of bricks falling from the sky— this must have been how Mother died in the forest. She was a botanist and always loved plants, and I wondered stupidly, could a love for plants kill you? The green began to cloud my vision, as tendrils sneaked closer and closer together around my eyes, forming a lattice before me. 

I wailed louder, but the leaves only snaked down my throat, and I nearly choked instead. I could control them before— what had happened now? I was so curious to see the bud bloom, that it had burst open at my mere instructions. I had hoped so fully that it would bloom, that it did. I couldn’t lose hope now. 

Suddenly, I felt the tight hold go slightly slack, as popping sounds echoed around me. The lattice of vines around my eyes unwound, and as my eyes adjusted to the green once more I twisted my head violently to look at my surroundings. Other colors were blossoming into view, as the vines erupted into bloom, and let go of my arms and legs. 

I hoped more and more that I would be able to escape, and fell softly onto the moss floor as more flowers burst into bloom. The green was now overshadowed by fuchsias, buttercup yellows, and dazzling blues, as each flower bloomed more fully than the last. I fed them with my hope— my hope that I would be free, that I could understand my Mother, and how she had left this world. 

I watched gloriously as the plants in the closet receded into small, delicate blooms on the floor, swaying gently from some unidentifiable wind source. I beamed at them, and knew that it was my hope keeping them alive. If all hope was lost, surely I would be pulled back into the closet again. 

I closed the door firmly, and exited the room, where I could feel that the storm had lifted. I smiled, as the warm smell of Grandmother making pancakes drifted up from the kitchen below. 

Here, I could always keep hope alive.