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Anna Kvasnik is a sophomore Psychology major with an English minor. With less time on her hands every semester, she finds herself taking the small opportunities for fun assignments with as much eagerness as her sleep-deprived body can express. This piece was written as a Halloween Fanfiction assignment for one of her classes, but she found herself amusing herself by twisting the relationship in a new direction. In the middle of a corn field, no less. In the end, it wasn’t the cold that got to him, but instead, ‘twas the feeling that there was no one to see him, no one to hear him, and no one to know where he had gone.  ~~~ The leaves crinkled beneath his feet as he walked, an array of fiery wrath underfoot, silent but for the crackling sounds of their death. But it was not this that turned him off his path.  The walls around him were all but see-through, the gray in-between of seeing but not seeing halting his speed at getting through to the end. But he was not a stranger to obstacles in his path, and as he always would, the path continued and so did he.  The sunshine dwindled and soon enough, there was but the cast shadows of approaching twilight—the sky turning the colors of a bruise. But this was not what caused him to halt. But in the fading light, it was him, walled-in with cornstalks aplenty, waving with the cooling wind. It was him who stood stock-still when he heard a loud rustle, a shout, and a scream. And it was him, when the silence fell, who threw himself into the cornstalks, a kind of fear washing over him like never before.  He’d done all the things a man could do at that point. He had fought in wars, he had climbed his way up the corporate ladder and fought tooth-and-nail to get there, but in that moment, it did not matter what he had done and what he could do. All that was left was the nagging voice inside of him.  This is where it ends. And this is where your legacy will die. Forever. A nobody, alone, frozen in the corn, trapped until you have no more to scream.  ~~~ It wasn’t her that thought up the idea—not initially. It was a joke by friends, a trick to get her to overcome her own fears. Who can truly be afraid when you’re the one to be feared?  So, she held that play knife, folded up in her hand, blade pressed into the hilt. And when she pulled the play mask further down her face, the plastic scraping her wind-burnt cheeks, she realized: Perhaps it is not the voices in my head to be feared, but instead the ones that make it out loud.  And turning the corner in a corn field, she smiled at the dark figure she saw, her heart beating erratic in her chest but an odd-calm washing over her, and her voice—normally soft and high-toned, came out with a puff of warm air and a breathlessness that sent her words into a lower tone. “Hello, would you like to play a game?”  The screams could never scare her now. ~~~ He was running, cornstalks scraping his face as he tore through them, bending and crushing with his broad build. Let me go, let me live , the words in his head were hurried and tremulous. I’ve worked too hard to go like this. “Hello?” He heard a voice, but from what direction, he did not know. “Are we playing tag?” Rustling behind him sent him lurching forward, the cornstalks suddenly parting in front of him and depositing him onto the ground on a different maze-path. From cold or adrenaline, he did not feel the ache in his knees as he pulled himself up and went to keep going, but in front of him was only the field at the end of the maze: the final rays of a sunset cresting over the distant horizon.  “Oh, look, I made it.” But it was not his voice who said that, and he turned around, only to see the woman he so despised behind him, pulling off a mask and wiping her sweater sleeve across her face. As crushed bits of cornstalk pricked her face, she used her other hand to meticulously pick them off the sweater.  “You?” His voice was shaky in its demand.  She looked up, her surprise hard to distinguish in the fading light. “You?” she returned, significantly steadier in tone.  And as they stood there, in the dark, his chest heaving and hers barely moving as she observed the space around them, they heard a distant generator begin to whir and a floodlight turn on a distance away.  They could never be friends now.

Nathaniel didn’t believe in ghosts. How could he? While his parents had passed years before, his religion made it clear that once someone died, they died. End of story. But who can I hear crying outside my room every night?   Every time he got out of the warm bed to check in the middle of the night, much to his wife’s annoyance, he would find the hallway cold and empty, not a soul in sight. Nathaniel had told himself it was just the neighbor’s cat across the street, begging for food. How the dratted thing got its yowls to be so loud, he did not know. He was an engineer, not a scientist. And still, someone cried. Quietly, at first, with little sniffles here and there. But they grew steadily louder with the passing days. Tonight, someone was sobbing right outside his door. Tearing their throat raw with anguished shouts. Throwing off the covers and ignoring his pounding headache, Nathaniel leapt to his feet and threw the door open. The bathroom light was the only thing that broke the darkness of the hall, but his wife had switched it off before going to bed. He was sure of it. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw that she was still fast asleep, chest rising and falling steadily. If there was a break-in happening, he should obviously wake her up. So why did he hesitate? He would just investigate, Nathaniel decided. Perhaps his wife simply forgot to switch the light off after brushing her teeth. A harmless mistake. Still, his sense of dread grew as he crept down the hall, his heart rate quickening alongside it. His bare feet made no noise as they pressed into the soft carpet he had carefully unrolled there when they had first moved into the house itself, and he shivered as the chill of the air conditioner on the floor nipped at his toes. When he peered into the threshold of the bathroom, he was glad that he fell asleep with his pants on. There was a woman sitting in the dry bathtub, although with the amount of tears that were falling from her eyes, it was soon to fill. Nathaniel took a step back, alarm surging through him. “Who—” “Nate,” the woman crowed, raising her tangled blonde head from her knees and meeting his gaze. “You’re in trouble.” “Mother?” Nathaniel gawked, leaning heavily on the door frame. He hadn’t seen that face, makeup smudged with sadness, since his mother had come home crying from work all those years ago. After locking herself in the bathroom and refusing to come out all night, Nathaniel was awakened with the numb shock that comes with a still and quiet house. Too quiet. Because he had found her in the bathtub the next morning. Drowned. Looking at her now, he felt sick. He had to have been dreaming; there was no other explanation. I don’t believe in ghosts, he told himself as the woman who resembled his mother stood, still staring him down with those same green eyes that greeted him in the mirror every morning. I don’t believe in ghosts. She was dressed in the same waitress uniform she had worn that fateful night. Her skin was gray and translucent, her lips the tinge of blue that had kissed death. Her eyes seemed to be the only living part of her. Nathaniel felt himself freeze, unable to step back to run away or forwards to see whether or not she was truly real. His mouth had gone dry, throat closing up and preventing any attempt at speech. “I was drawn here,” his mother said, tracing a painted nail across the ceramic tiles of the shower. “You know why, don’t you?” Nathaniel closed his jaw, which had fallen open in shock. “No,” he said, voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. “No.  You’re supposed to be dead. You died, years ago. Before I even graduated high school.” His mother gave him a sad smile, tilting her head to the side and regarding him like a curious dog would. “Exactly, Nathaniel. I’m dead. And you’re not supposed to be.” Nathaniel felt a chill that had nothing to do with the AC this time. If she was dead, if she was truly a ghost, then there was only one reasonable explanation for why he could see her. “Oh.” His mother nodded, regarding him with pity. “You’re dead, Nathaniel.”

Submissions The Fioretti accepts creative submissions from Marian University's students multiple times throughout the year. Check our submissions page for more information on how to submit your work. Arts & Media Showcase Apr 23, 2025, 5:00 PM – 8:00 PM Hackelmeier Memorial Library, 3200 Cold Spring Rd, Indianapolis, IN 46222, USA The Spring 2025 edition of The Fioretti will be introduced at the Arts & Media Showcase Carnival alongside our Arts & Media friends The Phoenix, The Siren, and The Marian Drama Club! Join us for the unveiling of this spring's publication and enjoy food, games, and raffle prizes! Submissions

Submitting to ~ The Fioretti ~ Welcome, all! Readers and creatives alike are welcome in this space, whether experienced or inexperienced in the ways of creating. Our goal is to support all in our efforts to widen the publishing horizons for those in the Marian community. We encourage you to submit to grow your platform and community of people that you reach with your creative works! We hope to give you a wider audience to view your piece(s) and help you to grow in whatever ways we can! Photo by Kadin Gaviola '27 Spring 2025 Submissions As we prepare for our upcoming Spring 2025 edition of The Fioretti , we're looking for interested authors/artists who would like to contribute to our growing collection of works! The form linked below has more information, but some easy guidelines are: Prose -> 3,000 words max. Poetry -> 50 lines max. Images/Other -> smaller files preferred, no specific guidelines set. ~~~ Submissions Closed! Thank you to all who submitted! If you missed the deadline, keep an eye out for our Fall 2025 call for submissions! Submit Here!

~ Spring 2025 ~ Edits in Process! Stay tuned for more details regarding our Spring 2025 publication! Welcome to ~ The Fioretti ~ Marian University's Student-Led Literary Journal Photo by Fioretti Students of '86 - '87 (Vol. 45 No. 1) Why Submit to The Fioretti? The Fioretti , with both our annual print publication and our ongoing online publication, provides a platform for Marian University's amazing writers and artists to showcase their creativity and talent. Our goal is to create a community for all creative individuals who appreciate many different forms of art. We're constantly looking for new voices in the creative world. If you have anything you have to offer, see our submissions page for our next open submissions date! Up Spring 2024 Fall 2023 Spring 2021 Up About The Fioretti The Fioretti is a literary journal created by and for Marian University's students. We believe that art is an important part of our culture, and we aim to provide a platform for student writers and artists to share their work and ideas. Learn More Photo by Kadin Gaviola '27 Contact