Once a rose, stretching tall and bright in a mess of vines and thorns. Once filled with passion, love, and life. Once the pinical of beauty.

Then the decay. The agonizing shrivle and sense of claustrophobia, reaching in on oneself with no place to go. The split edges at each limb. The faded color of a lost life.

Once a rose, now, forever a thorn.

Wednesdays are what I like to call my “rot days.” After a week of gigs, trips, and constant hustle, I lock myself in my studio, make a coffee, and hunch over my computer for hours on end. There’s no human contact, very little physical activity, and much mental deterioration; hence, rotting. All of my photos from the past few days have successfully downloaded to my desktop. I sigh in relief. I start with my first shoot of the past week, a combination of photos from the Saguaro National Park in Arizona. Cacti clutter my screen. There are red stones, distant mountains, and clay cliffs all upon a dusty foreground. The landscape is drier than I’m used to, but just as beautiful. A close-up of a cactus catches my eye, so I click and start editing. The photo is simple, but detailed. I can trace each spine of the cactus with my curser. There’s a bee at the center of this photo—the main focus. I touch up the insect’s vibrancy and move to the next two photos. They’re almost identical to the first, but taken from a slightly different angle. I favorite the third one. The angle fits the image best. My next set of photos is made up of a lighter cactus with a few blossoming flowers. I enjoy the colors in these, especially the brightened sky and orange mountains in the background. In all, they take me around half an hour to complete. Next to me, my coffee sits barely touched. I take a swig before continuing to a landscape image. My breath hitches in my throat. The photo is beautiful, more beautiful than I remember. It takes me back to the day of the shoot. I can taste dry heat and the burning sensation on my cheeks. It wasn’t the most pleasent experience, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I can feel this image. I can…step into it. I gaze at a cluster of cacti, their arms reaching for the sunset at their backs. The sky dances in hues of pink, purple, orange, and blue. The cacti are shadowed, for they face away from the light. They mimic silhouettes, and for a moment, I think they are, with long, slender arms and thick bodies. When I blink, they’re still cacti. The next few photos are the same. I feel that the photos are almost…alive. The mental rot is already setting in. I shake my head and take another sip of coffee. Hours pass by. I grab some chips and fruit to snack on. I’ve moved onto my third shoot—the yellow-leafed birch expanse of the Chugach National Forest. I don’t notice anything odd until I get to my photos of the Copper River Delta. A line of white trees speckle the opposite bank. In the water, however, an image appears. I lean in and squint at my screen. It looks like… I kick back in my chair and stand up. It looks like a face—a human face, and… I blink, shake my head, and spin a circle, just for good measure. I look again, just to make sure. No, I’m not mistaken. The ripples of the water, the reflected coloration of orange leaves, and the lighting from the sun come together to create an optical illusion, a hidden image that appears to be…my face. Yes, there are my tilted eyes, high cheekbones, slightly off-centered nose, and stern mouth. The rapids paint my jawline and my eyebrows. The river’s edge is my hairline. I pop a chip into my mouth and roll my eyes. With a few clicks, I scroll away from the image. I’ll come back to it later. But the next photo presents the same dilemma. This time, my face is found in the top right corner of my screen. I see my bone structure in the lines of the clouds and sky. I take out my phone, snap a picture of the screen, and send it to a friend. “Do you see that?” I don’t want to be too direct. A response comes back in less than a minute. “Holy shit, is that you?” “Okay, so I’m not crazy.” I send a second picture of the river. “HOLY SHIIT?!!” I’m slightly relieved, because at least I’m not making it up, at least I’m not crazy. Still, I’m unnerved. I go back to some of the past photos I’ve already edited, and although it takes me a second to find it, my face is hidden in each one. There, in a tree trunk, in the dirt, in the canopy. The first image? I’m in the bee’s eye. At first, I’m convinced it’s just my reflection, but there’s no camera in my hand or infront of my face. Then, the silhouetted cacti—the image I could feel. For this one, I get out of my chair and walk across the room. My breathing has quickened and my heart is pounding in my ears. My face is etched into each of the catci, a dozen clones staring back at me. I don’t want to go back to the computer, but I do. In my pocket, my phone buzzes. It’s another text from my friend: “Did you edit that??” “No, man. I’m kinda freaking out.” But they bring up a good point. What if I had been subconsciously editing my face into these photos? It’d be creepy, but then again, a reasonable explination. I find a few photos that I haven’t touched. I clamp my hand over my mouth. “What the fuuuuuhh,” I whisper through my fingers, zooming into the pixels. Once again, I send a photo to my friend and attatch a message: “I haven’t even touched this one.” “That’s mad creepy,” they write back. “You sure you’re not playin w me?” “Yeah.” “Is it something wrong with your camera?” “No clue.” Whatever it is, it can wait for another day. I shut down my laptop, finish my bag of chips, and take my fruit for the road. The next day, my faces are gone from the photos.

Are we born in sin? Each limb an extension Of anger, envy, and greed?

Our selfish nature, A constant distraction, Seeming though a need?

Do we learn to sin? When society corrupts, And we stumble deep in doubt?

A festering fear Of never knowing What goodness is about.

Do we push the line To anger him and Wonder what will cost her?

Forever asking And never knowing When man becomes a monster.

Colloquial Name: Magmaid

Scientific Name: Ignis Homo Subphylum

Introduction:

 The ignis homo subphylum, directly translated as “fire human fish” and more commonly known as a magmaid (magma-maid), is a humanoid fish creature.
 Side note: male magmaids are oftentimes referred to as “magmen,” but this is an incorrect reference and common misconception. Just as female humans are still human and not “huwoman,” male magmaids are still magmaids. “Magmen” is a made-up term.

Physique:

 As a halfbreed, the magmaid appears human from the waste up and fish from the waste down. Their scales and skin are black when exposed to oxygen and a bright orange or red while immersed in lava. This trait acts as a camouflage technique that assists a magmaid in hiding from predators and hunting prey.
 Resembling molten rock, patches of scales cover sensitive body parts, such as reproductive organs, glandular organs, eyelids, finger tips, and most of the tail. These scales act as a natural body armor, similar to how fur, quills, and shells act on other animals. 
 Fins line their tail, elbows, and spine. Although it is a recessive trait, some magmaids have webbed fingers.
 Most magmaids are female, seeing as X chromosomes are more common than Y chromosomes while breeding. Around 67% of the magmaid population is female, leaving the remaining 43% to be male.

Habitat:

 Closely related to yet in contrast with the mermaid, the magmaid lives in lava pools and can survive only in temperatures above 700 °C (1,300 °F).
 Although some perfer rivers, magmaids are typically drawn to larger bodies of lava such as lakes or seas. Volcanoes act as popular homes to larger colonies of magmaids.
 These creatures find or construct building-like structures beneath lava surfaces. They can also be found above the surface in sea-level caves or lying on molton rocks.

Diet:

 Seeing as plants are unable to survive in their habitual conditions, magmaids are carnivorous. Similar to other large lava species, magmaids feast on smaller creatures swimming throughout the seas.
 They also feast upon land creatures, as they are able to attract their kill with what is widely known as a “siren song,” an enchanting vocal tune that lures prey toward a hungry magmaid.
 Eating habits are often affected by age, as the youth and elderly consume smaller portions, while middle-aged and growing magmaids require more food. This is also due to the relationship between siren song and age, for younger and older magmaids have a weaker lure.

Behavior:

 Magmaids live, hunt, and travel in groups, as is a result of their complex hierarchy and strong familial values.
 Due to the female majority amongst the magmaid population, males breed with multiple women and never mate for life. Young magmaids are often raised by their biological mother and other females who act as maternal figures.
 When handlig their dead, magmaids perform what is considered to be a ceremonial act. Since their flesh is unable to burn, they bury their dead. Once in the ground long enough, the body decays.

Life Cycle:

 It has been a topic of confusion whether magmaids lay eggs like fish or give live birth like humans. Seeing as their reproductive organs are located in the phylum region, magmaids lay what look like large fish eggs. The embryo grows inside a sphere of maternal mRNAs, numerous organelles, yolk inclusions, proteins, as well as lipid droplets and pigments intermingled in the egg cytoplasm until hatching.
 Throughout the first 3 years of their lives, magmaids deeply depend on their maternal figures for guidance and survival. The next 7 years of their life, magmaids grow to become more self-reliant while still strongly bonded with family members. After reaching 11 years of age, a magmaid is considered an adolescent and socially accepted as ready for and expected to reproduce.
 The average age expectancy for a healthy magmaid is 58 years. Magmaids ages 15-30 are considered at their prime and healthiest.