TheTrinityReview
Editors-in-Chief
Lily Brennan
Sandra Gurrola
Editorial
Azariah Anderson
Urie Barro
John Bieberich
Alexandra Boza
Catherine Carter
Samara Gerstle
Sophia Jowers
Avery Letendre
Keyla Limones
McCaden S. McClure
Anthony Rivas
Martin Rosales
El Stratton
Serena Wadehra
Kate Williams
FacultyAdvisors
Jenny Browne
Kelly Carlisle
Andrew Porter
OfficeManager
Sarai Santos-Valle
Since the 1980s, the Trinity Review, a journal of literature and arts, has been published in collaboration between students and the English Department of TrinityUniversity.
The editors would like to thank the Student Government Association, the Art and Art History Department, and EnglishDepartment.
Publishedbi-annually: OnlineinDecember
PrintinApril Cover:
DesignbyLilyBrennan
ArtbySamuelVader
https://trinityreview.org/
Poetry
MichaelArd
The Marvelous, Stupendous, Tremendous McGee
JohnBieberich
Ode to a Love Letter Written in Graffiti
OllieBowen
ArloCastilan
Heaven’s Brightest Star
PalomaDiaz-Minshew
Heart Shaped Hole
Los Aires me Ilevarán /The Winds would take me
Yes, i think
ArdenHaggard As
AveryLetendre avoiding bruises
In the Headlights
Permanence of a Moth
Worthwhile
KeylaLimones
Café con pan
No te pido mucho
CristianMartinez
A House of Moments
McCadenS.McClure
It’s Right There
Them_You_We Swamps
SeanMichaelMitchell
Barrio Salamanca, Summer 2022
I am always a visitor
Prayer Flags
HanielNeves Lost
AnthoniaOgbo
a prayer to ears that are unwilling to listen these days,
MaddyO’Neal
Poetry is Impossible
LilyPrice
Penelope, Raptured
Rotten Clementines
Sonnets on the Afterlife of the Dark Lady
AnthonyRivas
Machiavelli’s Mansion
Traveler at the Gates of Heaven
JorgeRomero The Traveling Florist SpencerSchyma
HeatherSmith
What is True About Decomposition
ParkerSnellgrove
baptized in leftover water
Daphne
Face Turn/Heel Turn
reflection in an image
Strawberry
AlexTherwhanger
Star-child
EverWhitlock
Crouching Venus Housed in the Palazzo Massimo
JuliaWilliams
However Eventually
Prose
JoseAyala
Canas
DaniellaCanseco
Lips or Slug?
GabbyCohen
Obsession
TuckerCraft
Tractor
SamaraGerstle
Settle Down
SandraGurrola
A Manic Pixie’s Manifesto
ArdenHaggard
Writer’s Block
MadelieneHartman
Eve
AdamMann
The Writing on the Stall
JadenMartens
I Wish I Could Cry
Unraveling
MyloMittman
Off-Balance
SophiaMunoz
A Hot Summer Night
MartinRosales
The Visitor
ParkerSnellgrove
The Body as a God
DeanZach
San Pedro Springs Park, Late January
Photography
GraceAlcocer
Busy Bees
Mirror Lake
Multnomah Falls
The Streets of Portland
LilyBrennan
Moving On
Painter’s Apprentice
JuliaCarter Untitled 6
Tucker
SpencerSchyma
Inflection Deflection
Late for Dinner
Wemby the next next
KatherineWilcockson
It’s only foggy when you’re not here
SamuelVader
After Work
Aztec
Embrace
VisualArt
CarolinaHerrera-Favela
Going through life
I want a happy house
It’s fun to glow
Let’s meet people
Naked colors
CamKenefick
i’m fine (i hope i bleed out)
KeylaLimones
Mood Core
FredricMarmolejo No.1
TáliaRangel Desired
SarahSyed
Poetry
TheMarvelous,Stupendous, TremendousMcGee
MichaelArd
Sailingthroughair,withafacefullofglee
Flewthemarvelous,stupendous,TremendousMcGee
“Woohoo!Whoopee!Threecheersforme!”
Yelledthemarvelous,stupendous,TremendousMcGee.
Butashefellcloser
Tohisol’townofDover
Herealizedhischute
Wasn’toverhisshoulder!
“ByGolly!ByGee!Whatapickleforme!”
Criedthemarvelous,stupendous,TremendousMcGee.
Yetdeepinhispocket,quitestuffedandunseen
Wasahumongousballoon,fromafairhe’dbeenseen!
Soheblewandhepuffed,tillhisfaceturnedtoblush, Andwithonelasthuff,theballooncametogush!
“WhyuseachutewithTHIStypeofscheme!”
Laughedthemarvelous,stupendous,TremendousMcGee.
Anddowndidhefloat,asswiftasaflea,
Overtreetopsandrooftopsandwide-openseas
“Lookatmenow!Howluckyisme!”
Claimedthemarvelous,stupendous,TremendousMcGee.
Asthesundippedbelow,paintingtheskieswithaglow, Hedriftedinpeace,plottinghisnextgreatsee.
“Abigger,abetter,agrandernewshow!”
Dreamtthemarvelous,stupendous,TremendousMcGee. Soremember,dearfriends,whenlifestartstospin
Andyou’releftstrandedorbeatenorwithoutakin, RememberthetaleofTremendousMcGee
Causenomatterwhathappens,justletyourselfbe Forwitheveryheartache,there’sachancetosoar Aballooninyourpocketwhenyouthoughtthere’snomore!
OdetoaLoveLetterWritteninGraffiti
JohnBieberich
On a bridge just outside of the city the graffitied words lie almost incoherent outside of the “I love you,” standing monolithic between Pac-Man and gang signs. This is what love is, it seems, scented of spray can, hundreds of feet above the water on a train bridge. A willingness to spend a lifetime together that transcends any county fine.
It’s the only art piece bearing no signature, and within a week, before I could capture it on canvas, it had already been taken down, a singular blank space, like love was far more profane than anything around it.Years later, this is still what I see when you ask me if I love you.
HereBeDragons
OllieBowen
Thoughhermastshung unevenwithalist forebodingruin, Ileftthedockanyway. Theazurecanvasthevoyageflaunted meantmorethantherotofherboards.
Spindlyfingersofliquidsalt cagedmyship,lickedherhull. Thedinghy,unused,stayedtieddown asIwatchedhergutsspillout.
Acaptain’sdeath,I’msure: “Chaseddragons‘tiltheend.”
InterviewinPantoum
LilyBrennan
“Whatdoyouwanttobewhenyougrowup?”
“Whatdoyouwanttodo”
Idon’trememberhowoldIwaswhenitchanged,but myanswerisstill“throwup.”
Not what they expected, surely, but it felt true.
“Whatdoyouwanttodo?”
“Aboutyourshirtcoveredinvomit?”
Not what they expected, surely, but it felt true.
Thenauseacoursesthroughmelikeacomet.
“Aboutmyshirtcoatedinvomit?”
Did I really say that!
Thenauseacoursesthroughmelikeacomet.
“Sorry,no!” Is this a trap?
DidIreallysaythat!
Everythingistoomuchalways
“Sorry,yes,thisisatrap.”
Nowyou'refallingthroughalltheopendoorways.
Everythingistoomuchalways
Nevertakeyourfirststeps,thenthey’llexpectyouto gallop
Nowyou'refallingthroughalltheopendoorways
“Whatdoyouwanttobewhenyougrowup?”
Thesilverside
JakeBruce
What’sitmeantocountdeadanimalsonthesideoftheroadas awaytopassthetime?
Youcouldcallitforfun, likeagameyouplayedgrowinguponroadtrips thiscemeteryofdeadtreessliced leadsthewaytoabackyard wheremyfriendandIburiedapigeonwhobrokeitsneck. Ihaveburiedmanyanimalsinmytime, instilledinmycornerasayouth. Thinkbacktoitreader—asoillengthofourchildhood backyard dedicatedtofinalrestingplacesformice thatourcatshadtoyedwith tothosesamecats,thosewhosharedourlastnameaboveearth foratime.
Formyfriend,theburialwasafirst avoodooritualofsorts,hesaid. Iguidedhimthrough.
Wedugupdirtwithaspecialpintsizedshovel wetwiththeinvisibleoilofhalfeffortprayers andbowedourheadsinmoonlight givingstagetothegreenandpurplehuesofitstuckedfeathers. Afterwardswefilledthedirtoverthestiff-lockedbody –theheadlimpbutcockedsidewaysallthetime–witheachhandfulofsoilsmotheringtheshameofourbodily guilt sourcedfromsomethingbeyondourprayerprojectedanywhere butin.
Wespentthenighthowlingquestionstothemoon andItoofeellikethatpigeonnightsbeforeitsdeath yellingoutsideawindowinthedeadofthenight
aballadtellingglimpsesofitsownfleshtakingonefinalbreath ofunearthedair
singularandsharp,callingoutintothelampshedtreesmasking hollowdecayedlight.
Withthatfinalbreathtoldhereonpage,letmesaythis: Whenwedriveandlookoutthewindowtoseethecyan-blue treelineforgingwrinklelinesintothehorizon.
Likethehandofaneldertoosweetforthisworld
Ahorsepeeksitswetsnoutoutofthewindwhippedmetalbars thickwithflayedrustandsilvertintedshame.
Thesnoutmakesitswayatseventyfivemilesperhour,dueeast toawellkeptranchwherepoultryandredmeatishauled offin18wheelerstobesoldinthenearestgrocerystore.
Uponthehorsesarrival,sharperspursgreetitshindlegsanda voicepatswiththewords “yournewhome.”
Whowouldhavethought justsevenweekslaterthecreatureslegwouldsnap andbecomeastatueexhalingitsbodyintoashes.
Theownersensesthedeathandfinisheshismealwithhis family,
whippinghismouthandexcusinghimselfbeforewalking outsidetotheredsunsettingoverthehills.
Hemakeshiswayovertothefadingwailsof thehorsesmiseryandscoopsfromtheashpilewithtwofingers, smearsitonhisfacelikewarpainttofeelpain andwalksbackinsidefordessert decidingoverapplepietosellofftheremnantslikeagood organdonor.
Holdthegaspjustyet—Iwillremindyouthatthecrosseswith prettyflowersontheroadsshoulder Arejustthesameasthedecayingcarcassesleavingbehind rag-dollfur
Foldedandshapeddelicatelyintoitscarpetselflikesomething you’dseeinamodernartmuseum.
Wespeakofshouldersinwidthandsizebut whenownerandIcriedinfrontofpeople,theyweresmalland neckknotted.
Andsometimeswefeelalltoostronglythatmiddleground betweenmeandsomefriendwehaven’tspokentoinyears. It'sawhippedupspace,thickwiththeweightofrecollection andshoulderedyouth. ThatmuchIknowandthistoo.
Theroadkillcarpetonthesideofthehighway
Thepigeonblessedinfeebleattempt
Thehorseturnedsandpaperscrap allthesethingsaremilesaheadofmeandyou whenitcomesdowntothelivesweleavebehind.
Wethinkoureyesaresomehowdifferentfromtheblackorbswe bury butwewon’talwayslivetoseetheashpilesleftintherearview mirror.
Fromyourtouch, Iwillsproutwithleaves
CutterCanada
fromyourtouch,Iwillsproutwithleaves
slidingfingersuptheside ofyourface,thestubble agardenwithsweetpeas Isnappedthemopen topullouttheseeds lovefrommydirtiedhands myribsacheastheypulltaut underthepalms,warm flesh,thatwaswhatyoufed thedeeronthebackporch anditate,andate untilthecurvesofaforearm caughtmyattention Irememberthewayyou burnedsobrightoutthere inrefrigeratorlight Iusedtosaythatlove waslikefalling butnowIcanonlyclose myeyesandknowthatlove growslikevines,likea garden.thereisnothing thatpriestheachefrom undermynails dirtybutIfoundit tobeeverything
Heaven’sBrightestStar
ArloCastilan
Everynight,Ifindmyneckcranedupwards. Withmytelescopeproppedupbeforemyfeet,myeyeslooked foryou
Scanningtheopenskywithadesperatebeatinginmychest.
Atlonglast,Ifoundyou.
Iwatchedhowyouglimmeredandflickeredthroughthelensof my glasses,
Thehorridprescriptionopeningthegatetoyourbeauty
AndIlaiddownonthebladesofgrassthatpiercedthroughmy shirt andcrumpledagainstmyback
AndIimaginedtheirsharpenedspineswereyourflares. Iyearnedtoholdandtouchyou,tofeelyouburnoffmy fingerprintsandblisterupmyskin,
ButIknewthatfromwhereIstood Icouldnotbehurtbyyourintimacy. AndIhatedit.
Sometimes,youwouldbetoohardtofindthroughmytelescope Ioftenfounditmucheasiertopickyououtfromafar. Iwouldlookforyouineveryconstellation, Notknowingwhereyouwereuntilmybreathwouldstop Andmysoulwouldreachtogreetyou.
SometimesIenvythefactthatmyheartfindsyoufirst.
Ileftmytelescopebehind.
Iappreciatedtheworkithaddoneforme
ThoughIfounditquiteuselessintheskillofsearchingforyou.
ButIfoundyouwerenolongerinmyskies
Thesmogofthecityburdeningmybreath
Andyournamenowauselesstasteinmymouth.
Icalledforyouandsearchedforyourradianceandprayedthat you
Wouldbesentfromabove
ButwhenIrealizedyoucouldnotdescendintomypalms
TheygrippedtherungsofHeaven’sladderinstead.
Oh,howIreached!Howmyfingerssearedandbled
Andmyfeetburnedfromyourfire
Theskinboilingandpeelingtogivewaytomyflesh
Sotheinnermostpartsofmecouldbeheldbyyoutoo
Brightenedstar,Ineednotelescope
ForIwillmeetyouinthesky.
HeartShapedHole
PalomaDiaz-Minshew
astranger'snamewritteninmyblood stranger'snamewritteninmyblood,a namewritteninmyblood,astranger's writteninmyblood,astranger'sname inmyblood,astranger'snamewritten myblood,astranger'snamewrittenin Blood,astranger'snamewritteninmine astranger'sname,writteninmyblood twostrangers-that'swhatwe’vebecome familyreunioninanoldcoffeeshop What'syourfavoritecolor?Iforgot— Iforgot.
Iusedtokeepyourfaceinalocket butthepicturefellout,Ididn’tusetherightglue packeddustundermynailstofindthatsliverofyou kneeledonrockygroundbutcouldnotgetitback allIhadwasaheart-shapedholeshapedliketú
LosAiresmeIlevarán
The
Windswouldtakeme
PalomaDiaz-Minshew
Itrynottostandstillinthewinds forIknowthatthey'dscattermeoutfromwithin Itrynottostandtoostillinthewind andresistthewarmairwrappingroundmysoftskin Callingmeoutfromwithin
Hairticklesmycheekbones
Pointingtothesky butIwanttostayhere, frozenintime
Stuckonamoment whereImighttakeflight
Butthewindcan’tstaystill. Itmustmove
Stillwindisthedeadairweconsume. Sothatwarmthsoonabandonsme rustlingthroughthetreesandtheleaves wheremourningdovessing
Ihearthewindwhisper
Follow me, Pullingmetobefree, ItknowsifIfollowed Imightnotsurvive
Follow me, (wouldtheworldnoticemewhispergoodbye?)
Ihearpeople,likepigeons,cooingnearby
Thewindsknow IfItooktotheirskies, theonlythingtotrulychasewouldbemymamí’scries
I’dbelikethosewomenwhoselegendstheytell Storiesyouknowbutdon’trememberwell
Myname'dbeforgotteneverywherebutthetrees
Whereamourningdove’scallingmightremindyouofme
APaloma’scucurrucarriedonthebreeze
ImovethroughthecallingbecauseIdon’twanttoleave
Yes,ithink PalomaDiaz-Minshew
I’dtakeyoutotheDMV
Justtokeepyoutalkingtome
Sowhentheclerkdidcallmyname
I’dsighandthinkitissuchashame
Thattheclockhandhadsoquicklyticked
Yes,Ithinkthatifyoucame
Alonglicenserenewalday
TheonlythingImightdislike
Areflickeringfluorescentlights
AsHeardinaDiscussionBasedClass
ArdenHaggard
yeahtogooffthat kindofgoingoffthatpoint speakingtothat toaddtothat toyourpoint tobounceoffthat tojumpoffthatpoint toconnectbacktothatpoint togooffthatpoint takingitinadifferentdirection kindofgoingbacktothat goingbacktothesexism yeahkindofoffthat justtokindofcommentonthat continuingtheconversation basedonwhatyoujustsaid onthatnote
Anodetothesecondchoice
C.K.Hawley
EverytimeIfindyouinthedustofthepagesofthestory
Theideaofwhoyouareislaidouttobeone-dimensional
It’sasuddenfeelingthatcomesintomyheartwhenIseeyou
Thatneverhappenswhenthemaincharactergetslove
Youareleftintheinkthatisn’tquitedry.
Butinmymind,yougetthelove.
Thetearsyouspentinprivatetothereader’seyeareinmyeyes.
Themoviesalwaysleaveyouinthebackgroundofeveryshot, Thatloveyouthinkyoudeservelineplaysoutwhenyoucry becauseofthevalue
Theblackandwhitepulltheredfromyourfacethattheviewer can’tsee,
ButIseenolessthanthetearsshedbythecharactersinthe foreground.
YouareleftinthescenerythatIwishIcouldholdwhenyou break.
Asthelastchapterandtheendcreditsroll,Iseemyselfina mirror
These tears aren’t yours or the feeling of you, it is me and my ownlife.
Maybethiswouldhave madeyoufeelbetter
BishopJesko
Andyoucometome
Onthatday
Youtellmewhathashappenedandhowthingsaregoingtobe
Youfinishyourphrase
Andlookatme
AndIseeinyoureyesthatyouareexpectingsomething
Youwanttometosaythatperfectthing
Thatwillmakethisallblowover
Thatwillhelpyousleepatnight
Thatwillmakethisdaybetter
ButIhadnothingtosay
Iamaconsumedman
WhatIfeelIfeelwithmyentireheart
Andmywholebeingisstillsearchingformynextword
DoesitmakeyoufeelbetterthatI’veneverstoppedsearching?
Eversincethatday
I’vetakenupreading
I’vewatchedsomemovies
I’vegottenintoballet
AndIevenwenttoseeanopera
IhopeineverypieceofartIconsume
ThatIwillfindwhatIshould’vesaid
Aperfectquotethatwouldhaveputyourfearstorest
maybeI’llneverstopsearching
Ormaybethiscanbesomesortofgoodbyebecause
AllthistimeandthisiswhatIhavelefttosaytoyou?
EverymorningIprayI’llwakeupinthatbedonthatday
Maybesaysomethingthatwould’vekeptyoujustoneday longer?
Godknowsyou’vekeptmeforyearsonend
PleasejustknowthatIwishIhadtheperfectthingtosaytoyou
Couldn’tthatjustbeenough?
AllthatIhavebeen sincethatday Isconsumed
Byendlessthoughts
Ofwhatcouldhavebeensaid Doesthatmakeyoufeelbetter?
AndIstilldon’tknowhowtoendthings
EvenwithanendasfinalasyoursIstillcan’tletitrest OfcourseIcan’twriteagoodendingforapoem! Icouldn’tgiveyouahappyonewhenitwasallthatmatteredto me.
WeddingHymntoaSnake
ChrisJunginger
Tellmedoyourteethevergetlonely
Withoutapieceofmeatortendonsweak?
Tellme,Doyoumourntheheavenlyfeel
Offeetinpurchaseonsandssoftandsleek?
WouldyoueverstopifsoIcalled?
Wouldyourvenomstill,naturenowappalled?
Oriscruelnessyourway,deathyourleisure?
Couldyouevercontainsuchapleasure?
Mybodyliesbrokenlikeabottle
OntheshoresofthelongriverLethe
AndIdiewhereIfall,sickandthoughtill
AndyetIcry“whycan’tyoubelieveme?”
AndtoHadesIshout:“noitwasme!”
“Pleasedon’ttakemydarlingEurydice!”
TheBoyWiththeBrokenSmile
MJKriechbaum
theboywiththebrokensmilewasthefirstpersonwhoasked questionsthesamewayIdid
wespokealanguagenooneelseunderstoodthatwasmadeup of what ifs and maybes
Wepaintedpicturesonsidewalksandsketchedpeopleintothe streetlights
Ourartwasunrecognizabletothepeoplewecamefrombutthat neverstoppedusfrommakingit
theboywiththebrokensmilehasnocluewhatlifewants andhissmileholdssomanyquestions buthiseyeshavealltheanswers
Theydanceovereveryface
analyzingeverymistake
Theycanseeyourfutureandyourpast
Andifyoueveraskedhewouldsay
Nothing
Theboywiththebrokensmileonlytalkedwhenhewantedto Hetriedtoteachmehowtoswallowmywordswhenpeople can’tbothertolisten buttheonlythingIlearnedwashowstronghetrulyis
Theboywiththebrokensmilehasbandaidsoneveryfinger becauseheranoutofpinkypromises
SoIgavehimmine
“Ipromiseyouwillbeok”
“Youarestrong,Ipromiseyou’llbefine”
“Ipromise,today,tomorrow,&tonight”
Theboywiththebrokensmileistoosoftforthisworld HeismalleableinwaythatIalwayswantedtobe
peopleneverstoptryingtobendhimtomaketheirperfectstar
Hecriesoutinprotestbutit’snouse
Andtheybendhimandmoldhim Intowhatevertheyneedhimtobe
Totheboywiththebrokensmile (Ifyou’relistening) whenyougetwhereyou’regoing IpromiseI’llsendyouapostcardofwhereyou’remeanttobe Soonedaywecanvisittogether
Ican'tfixyoursmile
ButIwouldneverwantto Becausewhoelsewillaskquestionswithme ifwemadeyourlipstheshapeofeverycorrectanswer
BlueEyes
DylanLee
Footprintsinthesand,your guitarinmy hand
You’relookingatmelikeyou wanttobemy Man
I’mconfused,it’soverdue, this conversation,thisclarification DoyouwantmelikeIwant you?
We’reinyourcarbeltingto yourhorrible Tunes
Youalwaysknowhowtosave mygood Mood
Wearefriendsbutinthisseat you’relookingatmelikeI meanmore DoyouwantmelikeIwant you
CausebabyI’mhangingon youreveryword justwishingtimecouldstopat thisturn
Iseethelightinyoureyesand itmatches
htttps://lnkfi.re/bittersweetdylanlee thosedarnbigblueskies Babyyou’readream Perfectateveryseem AndI’mwishingthiscouldbe Eternity
Yoursecreteyes,thosebig blueskies, you’realwaysteasingme Youstopthecar,youbreak realhard,and turnovertome
Causetimesbeenwastedmylovekeeps chasin,myheartisracing
Whatareyouabouttodo?
NowbabyI’mhangingonyoureveryword justwishingtimecouldstopatthisturn
Iseethelightinyoureyesanditmatches thosedarnbigblueskies
Babyyou’readream
Perfectateveryseem
AndI’mwishingthiscouldbe
Eternity
Eternity
Eternity
Yougrabmycheekandsuddenlyit’snota dream
NowbabyI’mhangingonyoureveryword justwishingtimecouldstopatthisturn
Iseethelightinyoureyesanditmatches thosedarnbigblueskies
Babyyou’readream
Perfectateveryseem
AndI’mwishingthiscouldbe
Eternity
andtheuniversecaughtme
WenLee
Slippingofftheedgeofcomfort
eyesclosed
Themoonandthestarscollapseintomychest
Andmyheadstartstospiral
Buttheuniversecatchesme mesmerized
Countingthetrailsofconstellationswithinitsgaze Igiveintothegravitationalpull
Andagain Iclosemyeyes
Andagain,theuniversecatchesme
Vega etchedherselfundermyskin
AndI’vecollected Lyra fromfallingsomuch thedesiretobridgetheMilkyWaybecomesindistinguishable Ofwhetherit’smineorhers
ButwhenIclosemyeyesthistime, theuniversehadmovedon.
avoidingbruises
AveryLetendre
it’sthekindofwind thatmakesmewanttodance ontheedgeoftheworld,arms flungoutand twirlingthroughthegrass asflocksofbirdstwirlroundthesky, V-shapedwingspansspanningthesun asthesunshinesunflowersbrushmythighs, facesturnedupinlaughingglee; thekindofwindthat givestheweightthatsitsonmyheart wings andwatchesitflyaway, wheelingthroughtheblue— letstheshadowsattheedgesofmymind dissipate initsshamelessgoldenglee, beamingthroughtheblack— asIspinback andforth forever.
IntheHeadlights
AveryLetendre
Itcomesatthreeo’clockinthemorning, predawndarkfoldedinontheedgesofthehourasI gripthecountersohardit leavesscarletlinesscrawledacrossthepaleandclammyskin, andIstareitdowninthemirror,straightdown, downthebarrelofyourshotgun, widebrowneyesthatpracticallyconjurefluffed-outfawnspots, fluffthatsticksouteverywhichwayfromclawed,red-lined fingersrakedthrough andagaping,stitched-upsmilethatpleads,pleads— ifyouwantedtoshootme, I’dripmyshreddedheart, stillbeating,outfromitsribcageprisonbars andholdituptoyourcoldsteelmuzzle, justtomakeiteasieronyou— butthestitchesarefallingoutfasterthantheycanbesewnback in, evenasIpickupthepiecesofitandclutchittomychest, sucheasilysnappablelegscrumblingbeneathitsweight, andtheautomaticlightandthesafetymakethesamesoundas theyclickoff— butI’malreadybleeding.
PermanenceofaMoth
AveryLetendre
TodayIstoppedtowatchabutterflylandonthesidewalk, BecauseIhadnowheretobe.
Anditsbrown-golddustedwingsweresomesmerizing, Soperfect,restingopenonthecobbled,pebblypath, Aspotofcolor,flashoflife, Againstitsgrayandcrackingbackdrop Itswingshadeyes,andtheywatchedmine,asIwatchedthem Flutterandflickerandfloatinthebreeze
Whileitrested,perching,settlingintoplace, Andsowestayed,myfeetfrozenonthewalk, Itssmallnessgrowingsoverylarge, Itsrestsogentle,sounperturbed,sosubtle, Wingsspreadwidetocatchthesun, Eyesmeetingmine, Untilatlast— Itflew.
Ismiledtowatchitgo.
Worthwhile AveryLetendre
Thelightasthesunsinkslowintoherpillow,yawninginthe gentlewarmth issoft,softasamother’skiss,asababy’sskin; Andthedistantringofabaseballbat,connectingwitha clink! connectingasthosefar-awayjerseysconnectwiththemselves; Andthelonelyearbud,strangelycobaltblue,glintingdullyfrom hisseat proppedonashortbrickwallinplainview,wherenoonewill seehim;
Andtheswishandflutterofmyskirt,flurryinginthehurrying windofmyfootfalls, one-twoone-twoascendingquickbrickstepsinaquickclicking step; Andtheclinkofmykeyinthelock,heldfirminmyfingersso asnottojostle thegearsturninginmyskull, clink-clink-clunk inahalting, cracklingsequence; AndthewaymyvoicebreaksoffandmytearsrundryandI standwithmyhandonthedoorknobandnothingtosay, nothingtothink,nothingatall— Theonlywaytowasteyouryouthistobelievethatyouhave wastedit.
Café con pan
KeylaLimones
I fall for you, El café de hoya con canela. Love that meets my lips, Llenando mi alma de sabor. Heritage and roots in bread, Conchas echas con puro amor. Satisfacción en dos mordidas, Y un trago de café. Burning my insides, Which alleviates the cold in My soul.
Notepidomucho
KeylaLimones
No te pido mucho,
Solo un diploma en la pared
Que dé validez al sacrificio.
En unos años,
Cuando tu seas alguien, Tal vez algo mas.
Ya verás que todo saldrá bien, Si puedes, tu sola veras.
Pero te fallare si decido dormir, Que si necesito ayuda.
Tu pelo canoso
Y tu figura ya chiquita a la vez
Sirven de recuerdo de mi responsabilidad
De tu vejez.
Perdon por no ser perfecta, Ni a la vez yo misma.
Yo sacrificio mi vida,
Por la tuya.
Pero mami, Yo nunca te lo pedí.
Me llena el corazón de dolor, Agradezco todo en la vida
Y tus ganas de vivir.
Pero que si yo prefiero dormir, Al no despertar encontrar paz.
Estoy haciendo esto y más
Por ustedes.
Algun dia llegare a complir nuestros sueños
Ya lo veras.
AHouseofMoments
CristianMartinez
Ourhomeoftwo,whatwillitbemadeof?
Whatmeasureofconcreteandtwo-by-fours?
Strongbeamsorsmoothseamsfortheceilingsabove?
Plaster,brick,tile,wood;then,whatofthedoors?
Ilovetoplanwithyoufortheaesthetic, Thekitchen,study,garden,andthebed, But,suchplansareuncertainwhimsmimetic, Andthereissomethingeagertobesaid:
Ahousemeanslittletothemomentswithyou, Tocoffee,breakfast,therainstorming, Uswatching,orusscratchingoffour“to-do”, Akissonmyshoulderthenextmorning.
Ahousewillchange,placeorstyle,likeweather, Andhomewillremainthesemomentstogether.
(TW:self-harm)
It’sRightThere
McCadenMcClure
It'sharderwhenit'syourhand.
Aknifecanbehidden,keptfromthosethatcare
Aknifecanbetakenaway,preventingfurtherharm
Butyourhand?
That'swithyou.Nomatterwhereyougo. Yourhandisboundtoyou.
Aconstantreminderthatyoustruckpeople
Youhurtpeople
Youhurtyourself
Aconstanttemptation
Becauseyoucanalwaysdoitagain.
Afterall,it'srightthere,isn'tit?
It'snotlikeyoucancutitoff
Thoughsometimesyouwantto.
Youwanttocutoffyourhand
Andrevealthebone,theblood,therottendecay seepingfromyourheart.
Butyourhandisthereinstead.
Thesamehandyouwritewith.
Thesamehandyoubuildwith.
Thesamehandyoufuckwith.
Thesamehandyouholdwith.
Andthatisthehandthatstrikesyou.
It'sdifferentwhenit'syourhand.
Afterall,it'srightthere,isn'tit?
Them_You_We
McCadenMcClure
Them
MycheekshurtwhenI’mwiththem
I’vebeensmilingforhoursonend
Theirembrace,softandwarmyettight, Keepstheengineofmyheartfromstalling
Eventhecoldestoffeelings,thedriestofsubjects
Seemseversopleasantintheirarms
You
Youmakemyheartsing
Andyoureleaseever-dammedfloodsofjoyintomysoul
Yourcompassion,asalvetopastpassionscombusted
Yourembrace,anurturingsoilformycoarserootstorest
MayIeverrejuvenateyou
Nevertaintyou
Andmaytheloamthatwedevelopfosterbountifulforests
We
TheirnosecrinkleswhenIcallthemhandsome
They’reflatteredbutsomethinginthemdoesn’tquitebelieveit
Wearethesame,asmuchasanytwocanbe
Whilewehavedifferentstrengths,complementary
Wealsosharestrugglesandpains
Neitherbelievesintheirownbeautyortalent
Andneitherbelievesintheirownworth
Butwebelieveeachotherworthwhile
Andthatmeanswecanputourdoubtsaside
Swamps
McCadenMcClure
Ilovetheterrainoftheirface, Thecanyonoftheirsmile, Andthewaytheirhillsturntovalleys. Ifrainfloodedtheirskinwoulditchange? Wouldtheirfacetransforminamudslide? Andwhataboutastorm? Wouldtheirfacebecomeaswamp?
Soakedintears, Softinallthestrangestplaces. AndIfearthatswamp, Ilovethatswamp, Iwanttosinkintothatswamp.
OnceIwaschasinglightsinabog.
AsIsplashedaroundinthewater
Awill-o-the-wispledmeintothefog.
Searchingforsomething,anything, AsignthattheflameIsawwasreal Andnotamirage. ButinsteadIcametosolidground. Ifoundthem, Thehillsoftheirface, AndIfeltsafeagain.
Ilovetheterrainoftheirface, Butifrainfloodedtheirskinwoulditchange?
BarrioSalamanca,Summer2022
SeanMichaelMitchell
Yourlifelooked very different. Somehow,despitemyself, Iwas stillsmotheringit.LikeIhaddreamed. LikeIhadsungtotheAtlantic. Therewerebitsofmeineverycorner. Itwasyouthroughmyeyes, taped tothedoorofyourbedroom. Asexygargoyleoutofoneofmy highschoolnotebooks, warning meofwhatlayinside.Thepainting Ihadmadeyoufromhopelesswanting thatDecember.Youandmeandthe dogintheredleavesunderthe parktree.Icouldn’thavedreamedit. Youcouldn’tlookmeintheeyes. Youcouldn’tlookatmeatall.Only atyourphone.Atthatfuckingapp. Icouldn’teat.Ifastedforthreedays atleast.Idon’tremember.Nothing wouldfillthevacuum anyway. ItwasasifIhadreachedforthefuture andithadpushedmystrainingfingers offthehangingledge.Iwaslefttofall intoanabysssolonelyitwasalmosteery. Itcouldn’tbereallife.Andyet,thereIwas, fillingeverycreviceofyourroom. Learningyourlanguageinsecretasyouran andranfromyourdesperate,deranged solitude.Noonewasallowedtoseeyou, butIhad.Itwastoolate.Ihadseenyou andI had loved you completely.
IAmAlwaysAVisitor
SeanMichaelMitchell
Redstoneisblueinthejust-after-sunsethue
Oftheeveningswimbeforestarlight.
Half-moondrizzleonthesurfacebelowme, Ileap,fall,andthelakeconsumesme.
AbreathofwarmairandIfloat.
Barelykickingtokeepmylegsup, Thefamiliarcelestialneighborhoodgreetsme. IaskwhereI’mgoing,butthecliffdoesn’trespond.
Thelakelapsagainstthemuddyshore.
Theturtleshell,awell-placedscarecrowofsorts, Commandsthelagoonindeadsilence.
Iamalwaysavisitor.
Prayerflags.
PrayerFlags
SeanMichaelMitchell
Peaksaredrenchedwithstrawberrysyrup somewhereinSouthernFrance. It’sthemostbeautifulplaceyou’veeverseen.
Twoemptythronesrule thevastfrozenbluekingdominthesky. Itisameltingseaofice. There usedtosittheIceKing. There usedtosittheIceQueen.
It’scold, butit’snotcoldenough. Drippingquicklyintostreamsthat flowtofillthetroughthatspillsoutontous. TheIceKingwandersthecity. Hedrinkshisweightandlistlesscallstous.
Wearedrivingoveremptyrivers: gravelatthebottomofthevalley.
Lost
HanielNeves
Icanseehimnow,sobeautifulandyetsofar. Sofaraway,andyethereformetosee. Formealone?Forwhatreason? WhymustIseehim?
Hislooksaresocharming,aglanceisallthat’sneeded. Anymore,andsurelyIwouldbelost. Butishereallyhere?
Ihaveforgottenmyselfanddreamtwhatisn’t. Oh,itisdisorienting!
Inolongerknowwhatis,andwhattothinkofwhatistrue. YetonlyhimIwant,andotherssuch. ButtonotbesatisfiedwithhimIseealone, Isitreallytrue?
IswhatIwantatallanygood? Inolongerknow,andyetIcan’tforgivemyself, Becausewhatisheremustnotbeforgotten. Itmustbesatisfied,orelseI’llbeempty. NomorewillIthinkorwantwhatisloving. Acravenwill,isallthatwillbeleft. Ifevenoneglancecansatisfybyhim, Itsaysallandcomforts. Ifmylipscansaynothing,thenletmebutlookon, Andbesatisfiedwithwhatis.
aprayertoearsthat areunwillingtolisten
AnthoniaOgbo
thismorningisteppedintotheshower andtriednottothinkaboutalltheways inwhichtheworldhasbeencruel
the body lay crumpled on the side of the road –a once-living creature reduced to a state of half-chewed meat spat back onto the dirty asphalt theautumnleavescomedownlikelost piecesofsunlightbutallicanthinkabout ishowguiltconsumesmefromtheinsideout
cars continue to drive by and i watch as a woman steps over the carcass, the once-living now seemingly invisible after its encounter with death
cruelhands,sharpteeththatsinkinto fleshandgnashagainstboneandpull andpulluntiltheachingconsumesme—
it must have been a squirrel. or a bird. or a cat. i couldn’t tell. our insides all look the same: red and spilling and squishy and spilling and spilling
hereismybody,crumpledatyourfeet bruisedbeyondrepair;lifeleaksoutofme slowly,likeitneverwantedtoleaveatall
i wonder if she felt it when the tires plowed over her back; i wonder if she heard the crack of brittle bone splintering apart under her skin
dearskies,dearmoon,deartwinklingstars–howoftenmustyouseemeontheground
beforeyouputmeoutofmymisery?
it must be a terrible thing, to die at the hands of a brutal machine — to be at the mercy of something that you can’t control
ican’tfeelmyhandsormyheartormylungs andyesitispainfulbutyesiwillgothroughitagain andagainandagain,becauseallieverdoisendure but oh, at least it’s over — she is free from her suffering and the hardships of life can no longer reach her
oh,ibegtobefreedfromthiscycleof torture—butmypleasfalluponearsthatare unwillingtolisten,sadisticeyesthatenjoywhattheysee free, she is free— whenwillibefree?
thesedays,
AnthoniaOgbo
allieverdoiscryand begtheearthtoswallowmewhole,orattheveryleast carrymeawaytoabodythatdoesn’treeksobadlyof desperation.desperationforwhat?youask,buticouldn’ttell you evenifiknewtheanswer.instead,ithinkabouthowthemoon feelslonelyevenwhensurroundedbystarsandhowthe grassgrowssobigandtallonlytobemoweddowneveryother week.ithinkabout howmyhearthasn’tflutteredinmonthsandhow i’veforgottenthewaymynamesoundsthroughthelipsof someonewholovesme. justyesterdayifellontomy kneesandpleadedforasignthati’mstillcapableof laughter,becauselatelyithasbecomesoforeignto me,thesoundsopainfullyhollowthatitmakesmybonesache. light nolongerspillsfromthespacesbetweenmyribs orthegapsbetweenmyteethandifearthati peakedfoursummersago,backwheniknewhowtobehappy. theworldburns quietlyaroundmeasirememberthati’mnolongerthirteen: girlin rapture,girladored,girlwhospuneverythingintogold.Where did shego?youask,iask,butagainihavenoanswer.iwishmy heartwouldbeat thewayitusedto.iwishmyskywasmorebluethangrey.i wishflowers understoodmewhenispoketothem.ifeariwanttoomuchand don’t
valuethingsenoughandsoi writegratitudelistsinmyjournal,butican’ttellifthey’re helpingornot.
xmarksthespotrightoverthisholeinmychest–theplace whereiholdallmy yearning,theplacewherestray zephyrsofmelancholysettleinandmakethemselvesrightat home.
PoetryisImpossible
MaddyO’Neal
Ican’twritepoetry.
Poetrymeansvulnerabilityandtellingthetruth;Iamafamous liar.
Butlyingisgood;it’ssafe.
Lyingisthefuzzyprotectiveblanket,keepingmewarminthe eyeofthestorm.
Lyingisacomfortablemaskthatfitseasilyaroundmyfeatures andmorphsperfectly.
Lyingissmilingwhenyouknowthemanspeakingatyou doesn’trespectyou.
Lyingiswearingyourschoolcolorscheerfullyafterbeing betrayedandtoldtherewasnothingtheschoolcoulddoafter beingcalledaracialslur.
Youwouldbeshockedathowmanyblackwomenarefamous liars.
Spreadinganintricatewebofliestoprotectourselvesonboth sides.
Beingawomanishard. Beingblackishard. Butbeingablackwomanis…exhausting.
Ican’twritepoetry.
Vulnerabilityisdangerous. Sheddingmyskinoutlikelayers.
Howmyvalvescarrymysecretsintomybeatingheart. Openingmywounds,bleedingmyexperiencesalloverthefloor foranyonetosee.
Beingvulnerablemeansmaskinganxiety.
Vulnerabilitymeansbeingabletobreathefreely. withoutfearthatmypresenceistooloudandtakesuptoomuch
withoutfearthatmypresenceistooloudandtakesuptoomuch spaceinaroom.
Sayingthewordsthatmyinnervoicekeepstrappedinsidemy mouth
Iwas… Hedid…tome… Ihatemy…
Whyisthesolutiontoourproblemsseemsoeasybutsimply settingyourselffreewithjustwordsisimpossible?
Ican’twritepoetry,butIcantrytotellmystory. CopewithwhoIam,hopingthathonestywillbecomeeasier. Sheddingmymaskawaylikesunburntskin
Choosingtowearvulnerabilitylikeashieldinsteadof symbolizingitasaswordconstantlyaimedatmythroat. Ihopethatsomeonecanrelatetomywordsandfindsolacethat wearenotalone.
Iamnotbraveenoughtobeapoetjustyet, Butgivemetime. Becausemaybe,justmaybeIcantryagaintomorrow.
Penelope,Raptured
LilyPrice I
Thereadyloomatherfingers
Atwhichshehastoiledfor Twentyyears,herworkalways Unfinished.Shebeginstoweave:
Loopingwoolaroundherfingers, Atapestryofherowndesign, Asceneforhertoknow, Nomanshalleverseeit.
Workingslowly,steadily,slenderfingers
FromthemostpreciseforgeofHephaestus; Weavingmelodiesoftyrianpurple, Deadmolluskswithroyalsacs.
Hermourningwillnotbeforhim,herfingers Laborforherowncause,awomanmoved.
II
Myhusband,hehasfoundanewlover. Hewillnevercomehometome: Hehassufferedthewrathofthegods, Acurseuponhishead,butheisafool.
Hiswifehasfoundanewlover, Andsheismorebeautifulthanhim. IlovehermorethanIcouldeverhaveloved Thatselfishmanwhousedmeandleftme.
Sheiskind.Adelicatethreadismylover, Wrappedaroundmyfingers,creatingtogether
Aworldofourowninhersighs.Aworld Devoidofwhatthereisnoneedfor,aworld
Madebymyhandsformeandmylover, Apeacefulhillsideonatapestry.
RottenClementines
LilyPrice
Icannotspeakthetruth. Ipresentmythoughtslikeaclementine: Diggingmyfingernailsintoitsflesh, Pullingbackitsskincarefully, Thepulpistenderandbloody. Pulledapartentirely,theinsideisrotten.
Whatdoyoudowhenyourcoreisrotten?
Doyoueventrytotellthetruth? Wheneverythoughtissomehowbloody, Wheneveryfingernail-gashedpeeledclementine Youmustcarefully Keepfarfromyourflesh.
Theyarerightwhentheysaytheflesh Isweak,butIthinkmyspiritisalsofartoorotten. It’sthetemptationthatIavoidsocarefully, ThetimesI’vehadtoignorethetruth, Thatmouthwateringurgewhenevenaclementine, Sweetandeasy,istoobloody.
WhenIadmitthatI’mbloody, ThatIdreamofsegmentingflesh, Notaperfectlittleclementine, TheythinkI’mrotten. Themselves,unblemishedpeacheswhotellthetruth. Theycontorttheircyanidepitsanddelicatefacescarefully.
Nomatterhowcalmlyandcarefully Theysaythatmybloody Naturewon’taffectanything,Iknowthetruth: Italreadyhas.Myflesh
CrawlswhenIseearotten Clementine.
Clementine, Howcarefully
Mustyouhidethatyou’rerotten? Whentheypushtheirthumbsintoyourbloody Flesh, They’llknowthetantalizingtruth.
SonnetsontheAfterlife oftheDarkLady
LilyPrice
IMypersonshallneitherfadenorbenamed. Arisquémemory,ablackmistress: ThatiswhatIamnow,Ihavenochoice. Tomost,IamtheDarkLadyherself. Ilayinthewetearth,Irotalone. Iamfetidandmaggoty,grotesque. Deathsteepsmeinmyself,unbeautiful, NotunlikehowIwasdescribedinlife.
Yet,fromyou,fromyourideasofme, Irise:Iamaghost,Ihauntyourwords. Letthem,whenIamcalledtheDarkLady, KnowIamtodaythatwhichyouhathwrought.
YoupromisedthatIwas,inyoureyes,fair. Swear!Now,palerthanever,amIstill
II
RoamingthestreetsofLondon,Iwonder: Whoelseisdead?Whoelse,resurrected, Byyourpenorbythoseofyourfellows, Wandersaloneinthisverycity?
Iassumethattheremustbeothersouls. Afterall,Iwasnotsingularly Yourobjectofaffection,ofcoursenot! Iknewthatmattergettingintoit.
Idowonderifheishere,thatboy. Youwrotemuchmorefavorablyofhim. Iwasdisgusting,asecret,asin. HewasthelightofdayIneverwas.
Iseetheatyou,hellishimprisoner. Tellmeifhisfateishalfassour.
III
Sometimes,apasserbywilllookatme. Theydonotstareatmeindisbelief, But,rather,withsomecuriosity. Formost,theysoonlookbackaway,passing.
Iseemyselfintheirfaces.Oldmen, Whostudymelikeapainting,judging. Thenyoungwomen,wholooklikemeinlife, Lookupfrommybodyandatmyeyes.
Whentheyleaveme,theydobringmewiththem: Acarved-offpieceofsoulwhichtheyimbue Withtheirownstrugglesandwiththeirownlove. Itiscomfortingtobeheldoncemore.
Youleftmehere,adamnationbyquill, Butshebringsmeforthtoanotherlife.
Machiavelli’sMansion
AnthonyRivas
InMachiavelli’sMansion
We’veallsettleddown
Safeandsound
Theprinceslaughandsharetheircup
Adazzlingsymphonyofwine
FromthefinestvineyardinUmbria
WhereSaintFrancismadehissigns
Inatimewhenmiraclesflowedfrequently
Butnowseemtohideinsecrecy
SowewaitinMachiavelli’sMansion
Builtfromhandsofmen
Beggingtobeseenagain
Waitingforthatmysticalmemorytoreignite
TraveleratTheGatesofHeaven
AnthonyRivas
Simonsays:comeforward
Simonsays:stop
Simonsays:takethesekeys
Simonsays:openthegate
Simonsays:lookinside
Nowwalkonin
thetravelingflorist
JorgeRomero
Hewalksaroundtheworldwithabouquetinhand
Abouquetofflowersfromhisgarden.
Thoughtheyareacolornotknown
Andcarrysharpthornsandadroopingstem
Withjaggedpetalsandyellowingleaves
Hemakesadjustments
Straightensthestems,trimsthethorns
Anddyesthepetalstokeepthembright.
Butheoftenthinksabouthoweasyitwouldbe
Towalkuptoapersonandgivetothem
Aflowerinitstrueformfromthegarden
Withunevenpetalsandsharpthorns
Yellowingleavesandadroopingstem.
They’dadmireitsimperfectionsandobserveitsflaws
Concludethatit’stheirfavoriteofthemall!
Buthecan’tbringmyselftostop,nomatterhowmuchhe wishes;
Theflowerscan’tkeeptheirrawform.
They’renotdesirable,heconcludes
Sohecutsandsnips,
Dyesandstraightens,
Suitinghisflowerstowhoever’stastes.
HawksareHereWhyAren’tYou?
SpencerSchyma
Thehawksarehere,whyaren'tyou?
There'soleredeyeseatingsunshine andabrightbluecanvastohangourcloudsin Noneedtowalk,noneedtotalk wecanjustsitandlisten–fullofempathy forthesadcricketwithhislonelyrefrain
Thesnakesareintertwiningandbutterflies danceindappledsunlight themagnoliasarejealous stillmonthsawayfromwhitepetalexorbitance andtheadorationofhoneybees Whynotdrinkteaandlaughwithme tilthesuntakessiesta,then wecanmakesweet,sweet conversation,ofcourse
Thegracklesarehere,whyaren'tyou? hummingbirdsarepunchingtheirbillsintofatflowers, cypresskneesarethrustingoutofthewaters andyou'restill nothere
WhatIsTrueAboutDecomposition
HeatherSmith
imagineusdancingtotherecordplayer.imagineusbringing eachotherbacktolife,daily.
whenallthesoftpartsofus havedissolved, you’llstill reachthroughhardwood formyhand still climbthroughacoffin tohelpmeup, andtellmei’mbeautiful eventhoughican’tblushatyourwordsanymore, you’llsaythem.
datenightcomeswithalotofadvantages whenyou’redead, whenyoudon’thavemuscles, whenyou’renothingbutbone, whenyou’reaskeleton datenightcomeswithalotofadvantageslike wecangetin-to anyrestaurantwewant, awitchinghourreservationanda skeletonkeyopenthedoor,and afterdinner whentheghostofabandstrikesup, and theystartplayingoursong, youaskmetodance,so wewileawaywaltzing,so datenightcomeswithalotofadvantages
whenyou’redead, whenyoudon’thavemuscles, whenyoudon’tfeelpain datenightcomeswithalotofadvantageslike yourtwoleftfeetdon’tstopusfromdancing anymore.
whenwewalkhome you’llkissmycheekbone andi’llhugyourribs andwe’llwaitfortomorrowtostart.
whatistrueaboutdecompositionisthat iwakeandiholdyourhand isleepandikeepyouwarm iwakeupisleepiloveyouagain whatistrueaboutdecompositionisthat whenallthesoftpartofus havedissolved, myboneswillchoosetoloveyou.
imagineusdancingtotherecordplayer.imagineusbringing eachotherbacktolife,daily.
baptizedinleftoverwater
ParkerSnellgrove
thevampiriccurveofmyneckandshoulder itchesunderthescrutinyofraggedfingernails. someonesnickersbehindme, raspylaughgrowingintoacackle, andmyveinstightenasone.
theheavingbreathinandoutofmynose isthefaultyrecordofafirework,bursting andburstingandbursting.
malevoicesrumblelowinmyribcage whilefemalevoicespiercehighintomyscalp. eyesaroundmesingpsalmsoflament, andithinktheymaybegrievingforme, unspokenportraitofthedisobedientchild.
bloodsolidifiesacrosspaper-thinskin, apulsingbarrierbetweenme andtheroom’sfreezingatmosphere. arigidchairholdsmeinanalmost-fist asmyhandstraveltomythroat oftheirowncursedvolition— andthemirrornamesmeiscariot, showingmyexistenceisinherentbetrayal.
holyhandslayuponme,dragme tobepurified,andifindmyself floatinglightlyatoptumultuoustension. theracketofthecrowdquietsatlast, andiamlefttodissolvehere,sacrificed.
Daphne
ParkerSnellgrove
Iwantsomeonetogentlyslidemyheart frommychest,cradleitincautioushands, andplaceatenderkissuponthefleshofit, uncaringofmyblood.Iwantmylymph tocoatsomeone’slipswithaglossy, drippingsheen.Iwanttoleavestains.
Apolloalwayscatchesme,nomatterhowItry togetaway.Idon’twanttoclaimhim— buthealwaysleaveshismarkonme.Hesays look, now everyone can see you’re mine. Hiscarefullyshapednailsbiteintomyarms. Heonlyknowshowtoplaytoorough withwhathewants,thenlaughoff thepainofwhenitbreaks.
Whenhereachesoutandgraspsmyhand, IfindIwantsomethingnew:tobeleftalone. Hesmilesaroundwell-meaningteeth thatIseepuncturingmydry,crackingskin.
Itellhim stop, let go, please you’re hurting me andhecroons I love you, I love you, I love you.
Theriverroarsbehindus.Hescreams asifpiercedbyanarrow.Iwanttogasp butmythroatfeelsfossilized—myfather cursesthenameofhisfather. Itrytoshakehimoffbutmytrunk doesn’tbudge;ashriektearsfree fromdeepwithinme:
YOU’RE BREAKING MY BRANCHES YOU’RE BREAKING MY BRANCHES YOU’RE BREAKING MY BRANCHES
Hecriesasifhehaslostsomething, orhaditstolenfromhim,armslooped tightthroughboughs.Iknow hehasnorighttogrieve—Ihavenever beenhis.Thenewborntreerocks beneaththeriver’sstormygust, castinghimoffatlast.
FaceTurn/HeelTurn
ParkerSnellgrove
It'semptierherethanitshouldbe— Iknowthisisapunishment, mycrimesclingingtomyback, butthesolitudemakessense. Whyshouldn’thermitudebetheanswer toeverythingthattriestofollowme? Someonewailsnearby, outofsight,highandthinlikeacoyote orachild.Ican'tbringmyselftomove. Thenightskyhushesme, urgesmyheadtoturntothewall andfallawayfromthismoment. Echoesflasharound,colorsflipped andsoundsdistorted,behindmyeyes— slitheringmonstersofthepast thatIcouldn’tstop,nomatter howhardItried,butdidnotdeserve mydisplaysofretribution. Ihavenorighttojudgeorexecute, butthisiswhatacreaturelikemedoes. BlooddrainsfromeveryoneIknow, andmysoulsinksdeeper somychestcanstillrise, somyheartcanstillpump.
reflectioninanimage
ParkerSnellgrove
i want to look you / in the eye and say / no / no you’re wrong / you’re wrong because you’re not / me / but i know you’ll point out / up and out / towards the sky and say / that’s something you’ll never reach / and you’ll be right / but i’ll try / not to let that change me / i turn away from you / from the silver of your room / and talk to other people / who i think might love me / there’s someone like a woman / and i ask / am i something? / someone? / she says / miss park / you’re inconceivable / and i want / to believe her / but am i something / someone / that trusts?/ideliverhermilk/allthewayacrossthestreet/andher baby looks like someone / something / i’ll never have / but i know / i must be known / and there’s a man / familiar / in a way thatmeans/ineedtoaskhim/ sir / do you think i’m pretty? /he says / helene / you're the most beautiful girl / i've ever seen / i reply/ i’ll be using this / to further prove all people lie /andyou smile at me / like he smiles / like she smiles / like baby smiles / like i might smile / and my hands start to shake / and you point down / towards the ground and say / that’s where you’re going one day / you ready? /iwanttosay/ no / no / no you can’t catch me / not like this / but you smile again / and we both know / you’rearealhuntwoman
Strawberry ParkerSnellgrove
Yourteethsinkthroughskin, redanddrippingwithjuice, trimmedleavescastoff,greenandthin, bowlwobblingandhanddanglingloose. Yougrinwithaseed-stainedmouth andflickwateroutintotheair. Thesunbearsdownonthesouth andstemsgrowheavyunderitsglare, waitingforyoutocome runyourfingersthroughthem andpickthefruitstosuccumb toyourjaw,foryoutocondemn themtotheirpurpose,theirfate: toenduponyourplate.
Star-child
AlexTherwhanger
Star-childspeakswithoutprodding.
Hundredsofthousandsofwordsspillfromhermouth,tumble overthevalleysbetweenmissingteeth,unstoppable, immovable.
ShethinksofherselfasSisyphus.
Herday-to-daylifeastheboulder.
Rolling,shattering,crumblingtopieces.
Star-child'ssmall,chubbyfingersgraspthesurfaceofthesun, Becomestickywithloveandwarmth.
Shewipesherhandsonherjeans,thefibersclingingtoher, tingeherfingersasoft,woolyblue.
Sheflopsbackontothegrass,drinksnectarfromtheclouds.
Herskinglows,sickly,hot,feverish.
Sweatbeadsfromhertemple,travelsdownherspine.
Shetossesandturnsinthelushparadiseshecallsahome, paces,spinsincircles.
Shevomitsstardust,pukesupgalaxies.
Shivers,shakes,explodes.
Star-childisthecenteroftheuniverse.
Andforabriefmoment, Shethinksthatwillsaveher.
Star-childbecomesstar-girl.
Becomesstar-woman.
Becomesstar-person.
Andisnowfinallyjustanotherbeast, Anotherstar, Dottedalongthehorizon,
Inaplaceyoucannotsee, Inaplaceyoudonotpayattentionto.
Sheproducesherownlight.
Twinkles.
Orbitsherself. Shedoesnotneedtotouchthesun, Fortheloveandwarmtharealreadythere, Withinher, Residinginthesoulsofthosesplayedalongthegrass, Far,faraway, Watchingher.
CrouchingVenusHoused atthePalazzoMassimo
EverWhitlock
Onceyoudecoratedagrandvilla
perhapsacenterpiece perhapstuckedaway
Nowyougraceahallofstatues withyourpresence.Beauty emergingfromthebath.
YourpictureIfirstsaw
yearsago placedneatlyonline
IlovedyouthenasI loveyounow.Noamount ofpixelscancomparetoinperson.
Tearsdancedinmyeyes
Igazedinreverence youwerenowmereinchesaway
AndIhonoredyou.Blessed mybodywithyourdivine imagehoursafterwemet.
DidIblessyoutoo?
Igazeuponyounowand sensefamiliarity.Yourbody amirrorofmyown.
confinementofasingleroom totravelingalongwithme
Goddessofbeauty
Imustbegentlewith myself.Mybody amirrorofyourdivinity.
ancientstandards markthoserollsgodly
HoweverEventually
JuliaWilliams
She’sapoemthatkillswhenwritten, killsmewhenforgotten
AconfusingchoiceI’mgiven todrinkwhathasalways feltlikepoison
I’lltellherIloveher onceIbecomewhole, oncethecityandthecountry makeamendsinmysoul
I’mconsideringwhatcouldbe alifetime.Abranchofhope. Afootstepforwardinto thevastunknown
FortwentyyearsI’vedistortedmymanhood byaccusationstowardsfemininity Soforgiveme,mydarling forIwillnottellyouIloveyou
But,God,helookssopretty.
Howevereventually forthesoiltakesninemonthstoblossomarose andthenightsuffersalargeamounttobirthastar andhumanitywaitsthousandsofyearstoprovideaprophet
ThesilenceforwhichIsubstitutemywords, atleastpromisesanonymity tothis:letmyribbecomeyourprophecy.
I’llcoveryouwhenyoufallasleep withsheetsmadeofthefallenleaves, sowhydon’tyouwaitsometime foryoutobecomemine.
Prose
Canas
JoseAyala
Idon’trememberwhentheystartedgrowinginyourdarkbrown, wavy, combed-back hair. Maybe it was when I was in Pre-K 4, playingwithyouontheplaygroundatschool—jumpingoffyour knees as you held my hands and made me feel like I was flying. I was probably too young to notice. It could have been when I was in 6th grade and I started hitting puberty—the start of my rebelliousness—while also dealing with my little brother’s recent birth and my sisters’getting close to ending their time as teenagers, causing you to stress out. I noticed them more closely when I was in the 10th grade while we were getting our haircuts with our family friend at the hair salon down the street. I knew you were forty-five by this point, but who ever wants to believe their dad is aging? Who ever wants to see their dad age—skin sagging,hairturninggray,andmovingslower?
I grew to appreciate them by my second year of college, your gray hairs reflecting the wisdom and support I needed when I felt like I was failing in everything and losing myself and everyone.Youusedtoalwaystellmeasakidwhilescolding me, “Jose, las canas no son por gusto.” Well, duh, who would find pleasure in growing old and having their hair turn gray? But I get it now. Las canas, as you would refer to them, tell your stories without needing words. They tell of your journeys, immigrating to the U.S. at the young age of fifteen, moving around cities in the U.S. to find work, meeting my mom, and settling down in Houston. They are inscribed with the dreams you never got to accomplish—going to college or living in your oldvillagewithallthepeopleyougrewupwith.Thestressorsof your lifetime scream out from those hairs—losing your grandma, having to raise four kids that are all completely different,andtheworrythatyoucouldhaveraisedyourkids
differently than you did. Pa, I hope you know how much we loveyou—withorwithoutyour canas.
LipsorSlug?
DaniellaCanseco
WhenIwasyounger,Iromanticizedthethoughtofmyfirstkiss. I thought it would be the most extravagant thing I would experience with the most handsome boy ever. I wanted the whole shebang: a Zac Efron look-alike, roses, candles. When I did have my first kiss, was it like this? Nope. My first kiss was in a church parking lot after a musty dinner at the local food court. Just like everyone else, I remember the experience vividly,eventhoughItrytoforget.
The first red flag with this guy should’ve been the fact that when my mother Googled him, a picture of my last failed attempt at a relationship came up. They knew each other. Why didn’t I bail that very moment? Well, I was so desperate for even a hue of male validation that I put my blinders on for all red flags. I even ignored the fact that he had shirtless mirror picturesonhisInstagram.HowIcringe.
In my blue Mazda with the sticker “Let me see your kitties” on the back, I drove into the desolate Mission City Church parking lot, not knowing what fate awaited me. For about 30 minutes this guy showed me his entire music library, which consisted of subpar rap songs that his ex-girlfriend had introduced him to, and his entire camera roll, which was all pictures of him shirtless in front of a mirror, except for two, which were, surprisingly, shirtless pictures of him not in front ofamirror.Sounpredictable!
A heavy rain started and, with each drop of water smacking my car, a loud slap would reverberate inside and inhibit our ability to hear one another. This unfortunate turn of events resulted in a conversation where the question “WHAT?” was saideveryotherstatement.Wemadesmalltalkbyscreaming
(well, him just screaming about himself at me) for about 10 minutes until the atmosphere in the car thickened with anticipation. “Have you ever been kissed before?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“WHAT?!”
“HAVEYOU EVER BEEN KISSED BEFORE?!” he howled at me.
Takenabackbythisoverwhelmingquestion,Ifeltheatrush to my face as my body tinged with panic: Will he think I’m weird if I say no? Should I lie? I shouldn’t have eaten that Greeksaladwithonions.
“It’sOKifyouhaven’t.”
I pulled out my metaphorical white flag of surrender and admittedtomylackofachievementofthismilestone.Suddenly, I saw his body lean over the dashboard that separated us; his hand reached for my cheek and, just like that, he started kissing me. The fumes of hot onion breath were shared between us as his wet lips slid against mine like a slug. This went on for a good three seconds, which really felt like a good three years, until I pushed him away, overwhelmed by the discomfort I had just experienced. My hand lunged for my cup of water as I attempted to wash down the dissatisfaction of something I had yearnedforforyears.
“Oh, are you OK?” he questioned, as I violently gulped down mywater.
“WHAT?!”
“ARE!? YOU!? OK!?”
“OH!YEAH,I-IJUSTNEEDTOGETBACK.”
I drove him back to his house, the only sounds the ending of the once violent storm and his ex-girlfriend’s rap music playlist.Theawkwardend-of-dategoodbyeensued,andI
drove back home in silence rethinking what happened, my lofty expectations deflated. Most of life’s presumptions will notbeclosetoreality,butthat’sjusthowthingswork.
Obsession
GabbyCohen
Photograph-BasedWritingExercise:
The following monologue was inspired by a Victorian-era portraitofadepressedandbitterlookinggirl
NIAMH:
Each day, I rise from my bed and I scold myself for waking again. Waking into another hapless, hungry day during which I will do nothing but yearn to be asleep once more. Mother tells me I have no reason to be as melancholy as I seem to be, but the woman has no understanding of how I toil and rot each day on this bitter earth. Mother wakes every morning with a smile on her lips and a song in her heart. She has no cares to give her pause and no direction to take in her life. She cannot begin to know my suffering. Father never wakes. He lies in his corner of the storm cellar day after day, night after night.Always. Mother does not have a clue, as usual. Two months ago, Father told everyone he would be leaving on a voyage soon and that he wouldn’t be back for some time. Mother will not sense anything is amiss until harvest, at the very earliest. If there is ever a need forustooccupythestormcellar,Iwillvolunteertoreadyit.The rainy season shall not begin for a fortnight or two, so with any luck,Fatherwillbenaughtbutbonesatthattime.Bonesandgrit and dirty filth. I will merely need to sweep up his unseemly, rotten remains into an old potato sack and bury him in the woods. He will only rot further, with the help of the animals to banish his soul from this once-pure world. Perhaps I will first burn the sack, to ensure that the grotesque man is truly gone to the world before I disperse his ash into the dank mud. Then he will be wholly extinct. But until that time, I will rue each day thatheresidesonmyproperty,delightinginwhathehasdone.
ExcerptFromATenPagePlay:
Thefollowingscenewasinspiredbythemonologueabove.
Setting:CAOIMHE’sbedroom.Amonthhaspassed.Abedisin the upstage left corner. A wardrobe upstage left, one door hanging open to reveal a shelf of folded clothes, a few bonnets andhatshangingfrompegsontheinnerdoor,andapairofboots in a cubby at the bottom.Awriting desk with a wooden chair is down center. A large arched window with a window seat in the upstagecenterwall.
At Rise: CAOIMHE sits in the window seat, writing in her diary.Sheiswearinganightgownandisbarefoot.
CAOIMHE
(She reads aloud as she writes in her diary.)
Iwakeeachday,coldandalone.Ilongforyourkindsmile,your gentle voice, your delicate grace. The monster is gone now, but his horrid ways of seduction and treachery live on. I do not blame you, my dear Myrna.You were merely a mouse in a trap. He charmed you with his wiles to keep us apart. He knew that I would be too difficult to tame, so he went after you, sweet Myrna. He tore apart your virtue and made you promises he could not keep and you only listened because you had to. He washed your sensibilities from your precious mind and overwrotethemwithdesiresthatwerenotyourowntohave.
Of course I do not blame you. Of course. I could not blame you. For it was quite plain that he was manipulating you as he had done to many other beauties before. Alas! Why could he have not been satisfied with any of the others? (pause) I do know why. He was not only enchanted with your pretty face. He was also drawn to your exquisite knowledge. You behold the wonders of the world. But unlike my father, the bitter, soulless man,yousharedyourknowledge.(her writing gets faster and
more crazed, frantic.) You desired to educate those not privy to suchwonders.Butmyfather,hewasnotlikeyou,mywonderful Myrna. He saw something incredible and, instead of being content to share it with others, he staked a claim for himself. He regarded you like an animal. Some prized prey to be hunted and won. You deserved better. You deserved me. Someone to love and cherish every facet of your being. He wanted to have you and crush the wondrous out. I merely want to bathe in your glow.
(A long pause.)
(CAOIMHE rises from her seat. She throws down the notebook and speaks the next part of the monologue facing the window, her back to the audience.)
That last night. I did not sleep. I paced my room for hours, listening. Waiting. Watching. Until I heard his footsteps, loud andechoingandsoman-ish.Hideous.Itookmyironspadefrom beneathmybedandleftmyroom.Ifollowedhim.Tiptoeddown the steps and glided out to the garden. On tiny fairy feet. Dainty. Determined. I crept along a few paces behind him. Tiptoeing. Tiptoeing. Behind his hulking, bulging mass thundering all the way to the storm cellar. I hid, crouching behind the blackberry bushes, quiet as a snake, until he unlocked the door and clambered inside. He lowered himself in, dropping his massive feet one after the other down the creaking wooden ladder. I waited. I waited, patient as that clever serpent, with my iron spade in hand until his shiny bald head was the only part of him in sight. I crept to him, closing the gap between us. Quick and stealthy as that calculating, slithering snake. I gripped the splinteringhandleofmyweapon,poisedtostrikethatfatalblow. And…
(She whips around to face the audience, charging at them as if she is going to leap off the stage itself and kill the people in the first row.)
STRIKEIDID!OVERANDOVERUNTILIHEARDTHAT CRACK!THATSPLENDIDSPLITTINGSOUNDOFA SKULLFRACTURINGINTWO!
(A long pause. She schools her features, brushes her hair out of her face, etc.)
His body crumpled. It fell down the ladder and made a pretty crunching against the dirt floor. I followed it down. Delicate and beautiful as you, my love. I used my precious spade, all red with hisvulgarity,topushandpresshisbody.Rollingitandpokingit into the far corner of the space. I laid to rest my exquisite companion, my favorite spade, lovingly buried in dirt beside his exposed body. (beat) Soon, my love. My Myrna. We will be together once again. I will discover your whereabouts and seek you out, my dear, my pretty one. And we can finally, FINALLY…betogether.(She sighs.)
(CAOIMHE returns to her window seat and picks up her diary. She continues to write, reading aloud again as she writes the following lines.)
But before we can, my love, my precious Myrna, I must wait to properly dispose of our enemy. Soon, when he is naught but bones. Bones and grit and dirty filth. I will sweep his unseemly, rotten remains into an old potato sack and bury him in the woods. He will only rot further, with the help of the animals to banish his soul to the depths of hell where he belongs. Perhaps I will first burn the sack, to ensure that the grotesque man is truly gone to the world before I disperse his ash into the dank mud. Then he will be wholly extict. And we, my Myrna, my sweet one, my angel. We will be alive and well and happy because we willbe…Together.At.Last.
(CAOIMHE stands and brings her diary and pen to her writing desk down stage right. She gently opens a drawer in the desk and places the diary and pen neatly inside it. She closes the
drawer and walks to her bed. She kneels, says a silent prayer, rises, and gets into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She sighs lovingly and contentedly, as if she is perfectly and absolutely at peace.)
(Lights out.)
Tractor TuckerCraft
“Tractor,”Iutteredastheadultsaroundmespoke.
Ithadbeenmorethantwoyearssincemybirth,mymother(and my doctor) were beginning to worry. Big words, like diagnosis, spectrum disorder, and learning disability were tossed around. TheysaidifIdidn’tstarttospeaksoon,Ineverwould…
Iwould:
[grunt] [point] [wobble]
butIwouldneversaymy‘words’
Some mornings, “Could I have some cereal please,” still translatesto:
Ofcourse,myfirstworddidn’thappen when it was supposed to. No one had prompted my first word. No one had even said it. AllIdidwaspointatthetractorandnameit,rudelyinterrupting the adults gathered around, skippingoverbothmamaanddada
ThatwaswhenIlearnedthatwordscouldgetmeattention!
Once I started talking, I never stopped, is what my mother would say as a babbled on about some big recession. Language tomebecameamethodofcentering.Iconstantlyaddednew
-words
-PHRASES
-Concepts
ForwhenIspoke Ihadthepower. Above everything, thank you became my favorite word.When I uttered it, I had signaled that I was done and in that brief moment before I said it I could feel the power in my hands. RightbeforeIsaid:
Thankyou
SettleDown
SamaraGerstle
I walked lightly into the hospital room where my family was. Mymothersatnexttomybrotherinthecorner,hereyesglued to a laptop screen. My brother was bent forward on his phone, and hepeeredupatmebriefly.Myfatherwasinterrogatingthenurse with jargon-filled questions about my grandmother’s state, and mygrandmotherlaidonhersideinthebed.
The room looked lived in – slowly growing in personality since I’d left months ago. Cards were taped to the bedside monitor, practically shielding the screen. My mom had a basket of books beside her; my grandmother’s slippers were placed neatly beside the bed. An old picture of my grandmother – one I had never seen before – was framed and placed on her bedside table. It facedmygrandmother;shefacedit.
My grandmother began to groan, and the bedside monitor beeped.Sheheavedherselfontoherback,breathingheavily. The nurse escaped my father and calmly strolled over. My family’s eyes shot to my grandmother; no one moved. The nurse peeked atthemonitorandcrouchednexttomygrandmother.
“Canyoutellmewhat’swrong,”thenurseasked.
“Can’tquitebreathe,”mygrandmasaid.
The nurse nodded and walked toward an oxygen tank. She huffed as she lugged it over. She lifted and looped a mask around my grandmother’s head. A soft whir surrounded us. I turnedtomydad.
“She’sjustanxious,”hesaid.“Asalways.”
Istaredathim.Yes,asalways.
My feet carried me from the doorway to the bedside table. I focused on the photo: my sixteen-year-old grandmother beamed next to her childhood horse. I looked at my grandmother on the bed. She twisted her body toward me. Her eyes glanced at my face.Theysettledonthepicture.
AManicPixie’sManifesto
SandraGurrola
ManicPixieDreamGirl
/’manikpiksēdrēmgərl/
Noun
● that bubbly, shallow cinematic creature that exists solely in the fevered imaginations of sensitive writer-directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life anditsinfinitemysteriesandadventures.
Alternatively, a woman who, from the beginning, exists for others. Not superficially, though: at first glance she is free from society, from expectations, simply free. She doesn’t fit in, but she’snotanoutcast,notreally.Shechoosestobeanoutsider. So enigmatic. She has life completely figured out at 16, a feat that the great philosophers could never quite achieve. But most importantly,sheseessomethingspecialinwhatothersdon’t.
Isn’tthatherwholepurpose?
To see in the male protagonist what others don’t? She doesn’t need the rest of the world, but this male protagonist, often reserved and unremarkable, she decides is worth her time. Long enough to break him out of his shell, teach him that embarrassment is just in your head. Help turn him into who he was really “meant” to be, if only he could be more outgoing. She guides him there, simply by being. Being herself with him. Beingwhatsheisdesignedtobe.
This girl, often a teenager, often shown as beyond her years, often dreamed of by men in their thirties. It’s not weird, it’s art. Isn’tthatthelinetheyuse?
Theexcuse*
It’s about how the nerd isn’t just a nerd. Really, if he was just given a chance, they would see how cool he could be. At least she does. And after she helps him, the rest finally do. And if they don’t, he realizes he’s better off without them. He knows whatitistolive,atleastwhatofitsheshowshim.
But it’s not about the author, no. Can’t you separate the artist from the art? Just because he was awkward in high school and felt misunderstood doesn’t mean that his identical protagonist is a projection of the self. That the author really does love his femaleprotagonist.She’sacharacter.She’snotreal.
She doesn’t exist beyond that chapter of the male protagonist’s life. Why would she? It’s just a book. Maybe there are men like him that exist, but we know that women like her don’t. Not like inthestory.
Right?
Weknowhowtoseparatefictionfromreality,right?
We can see that others are more than characters in our own story,right?
You know that there is more to me than this stage of your life, right?
Writer’sBlock
ArdenHaggard
Thereisatinylittlemanlivinginsideofmybrain.Iimaginehim as a rotund, cartoon character, bustling around in the tin can that is my mind, flipping switches and pulling levers. Like the Doctor does in the TARDIS, in Doctor Who. That is what I’m picturing my mind to look like here. There is one switch that he very often refuses to pull, however, and that is my ability to write.You see, when I am writing, the concepts and the abstract shape of the sentences and paragraphs and words are floating around in the glass tank at the top of my mind in the form of colorful blobs and squiggles, and once the tiny man pulls the switch, all the blobs and squiggles go whooshing down into a tube that propels down my brainstem and down my arm and through my fingers and I am able to put words on a page. And they sound good. They all make sense. The words flow nicely from one to the next, and the sentences vary in length and structure and are intellectual and deep and make sense.And the words will keep flowing and keep going and I am able to write. As long as the tiny man keeps that switch pulled. As soon as I take a break, as soon as I look away, as soon as I blink, the tiny, vindictive,littlemangigglesandflipstheswitchbackup,andall the words and concepts and good sentences and my ability to write goes whooshing back up into the tube and back into the glass tank and dissipates back into taunting, horrible shapes and blobs. The tiny man rubs his hands together, pleased, and goes back to bustling around up there. And I’m staring at the computerscreen,orthepieceofpaper,andI’mstuck.Each word is like pulling teeth. And they don’t sound good together, and they don’t make sense, and I’m trying as hard as I can to FORCE and PULLthose horrible, horrible, colorful blobs down thetubeanddownmybrainstemandintomyhandsandtheyjust keepbouncingbackuptothetopoftheglasstankinmy
mind, those stupid little antigravitational pieces of shit.And my hands are shaking and I’m staring at the too bright computer screen and the words aren’t coming and the document says “Last edit was 23 minutes ago” and I keep having to move the mouse so my computer doesn’t turn off and those colorful blobs are just floating around up there like they don’t have anything else to do but exist in that abstract form and now the document says its been 52 minutes, and then 2 hours, and I give up. I shut the laptop screen. Those colorful blobs stay floating, taunting me with possibility, and the tiny man keeps bustling around, pulling those switches and pushing those buttons and flipping those levers, all except for the one that I need, the bright red glaringswitchthatismyabilitytoputmythoughtsintowords.
Another word for “bustling” is scrambling. And maybe that’s a better word for what the little man is doing up inside my tin can of a mind. Maybe he’s not scuttling around like a little beetle, rubbing his little hands together gleefully as his plots to make me miserable succeed. Maybe the reason why the big red switch that controls my ability to write and put my thoughts into words is so scarcely flipped isn’t out of malice. Maybe the tiny man is scrambling around, sweating as he tries to fix the overheated, scrap metal, pieced together spaceship that is my brain, steam gushing from broken pipes and alarm bells ringing constantly. Maybe the tiny man is so busy trying to keep me alive that the switch that I so desperately want him to flip just doesn’t have enough pressing concern for him to flip it. He’s too busy trying to keep me breathing, and eating, and talking, that he just doesn’thaveenoughtimetoflipthewritingswitch.
Tiny man just flipped the switch back. I just reread what I wrote up above and got down to the last word, “switch,” and now I’m stuck. My hands have been frozen on my keyboard for five minutes and I feel like I haven’t blinked. The thoughts go whoosh back up my fingers and whoosh back up my arm and whoosh back up my brainstem and whoosh up the tube and bouncebackintotheglasstank.
EveThroughtheWindow
MadelieneHartman
Itfeltsafethere,pressedagainstherdaddy’ssoftbelly.Evenher tears, which pooled in the small space between her eyelashes and the work shirt, warmed her daddy up and comforted her. It was silent, all but for her sniffles and the quiet rustle of his callousedhandsstrokingherhair.
“It’s okay, pumpkin.” His strong voice vibrated through the round belly, protecting her from the blood that made her leg all tingly and wet. She didn’t cry until she saw it, when her eyes looked down and saw the deep gash and crimson insides, then her leg hurt. Her eyes made her leg hurt, until she saw the glass, then she wailed and wailed until her daddy’s belly caught her sobsandshewassafe.
“It’s okay, pumpkin. I know you didn’t mean to break the window.”
The window? Is that what she fell through? Did she break it as she fell through it? She didn’t even realize that she was sitting on the itchy, green grass.And she broke it? Was that bad? This funny feeling stirred in her stomach, like something mean was pulling hard on her insides and stuffing them in her throat, strangling her, killing her. She felt sorry that she broke the window.Shefeltembarrassedfornotknowingshebrokeit.
Suddenly, she didn’t want to be pressed up against her daddy and his belly. They were too soft and they were smothering her. She pulled away and turned towards the broken window. It was very hot, and flies were lazily invading the living room. She remembered once how she left a glass of juice out on the coffee table and how a fly drowned in it, but she didn’t know that, so when she took a sip it touched her lips. That was a very gross feeling,howthatblackfurrybodyandthosepointywings
touched her lips. And now they were lazily invading the windowtodrowninwhateverwasleftout,itwasallherfault.
The feeling in her throat tightened, as if a great big snake wrapped around it, like in The Jungle Book when that silly snake with the swirly eyes tightly slithers around Mowgli and makeshiseyesswirlytoo.Didshereallybreakthebigwindow? She wanted to cry more but her throat was too tight. It was an awfulfeelingtobeashamed.
“How did you get that scar, Eve?” Jason asked, laying on his sidesothatthedesklamphighlightedeachdivotofhismuscles. He was incredibly beautiful; the kind of handsome that made her nervous. Eve felt lucky to be there with him, but of course, she would always be intimidated. Even as she laid beside him, basking in his warm naked body. It intimidated her that he lookedsofirmandsculptedandshesoroundandsoft.
“You can really see it? I thought that scar faded.” Eve answered with a forced giggle. She hated how she tried so hard to be cutesy around him, but for some reason she couldn’t help herself. Maybe it was something primal. If it was, then maybe it would arouse some caveman side of Jason’s man brain and make him like her more. She quickly forgave herself for the giggle.
“20/20vision,baby.”Herepliedwithasmirk.Helightlyranhis finger over the scar. Even his fingertips radiated heat. Eve felt herself melt away into ooey gooey ecstasy. “Do you remember?”heasked.
Pulling her mind, which felt partially melted, back into focus, Eve tried to remember through the haze of the moment. “I fell through a window. Okay, wait, that sounds extreme. It wasn’t off a thirty foot building or something, just like through a windowinthelivingroom.”
Jason threw his head back and laughed so hard that he turned pink.Helookedsocutelikethat.Thepinkranallthewaytohis scalp, making his blonde hair look almost white. Eve imagined how he must have looked as a baby, all pink and blonde every timehecried.Evefeltproudthatshemadehimlaughsohard.
“What?” He said breathlessly between his laughing fits. “How thehelldidyoudothat?Whathappened?”
“I actually don’t remember very well, but I think that I was playing…Ohmygod,thisissoembarrassing,Jason-”
“Ohcomeon,you’renotallowedtobeshyaroundme”
“Okay, well. I was playing Barbies and I made Ken kiss Barbie, andthenItooktheirclothesoff.”
“Noway,howoldwereyou?”
“I don’t know, like five? Anyways, I got too nervous to do anything so I set them down and started hopping up and down, likeIwastryingtogetridofalltheexcitementthatIgotfromit orsomething.”
Jasonhadanunreadableexpressiononhisface.Hesmiledbutit made Eve nervous. Should she be sharing this? She always struggled with these things because she could easily overwhelm people with her vulnerability, and she didn’t want to weird Jasonout.Shelaughednervously,cutely,andcontinued.
“I’m not really very coordinated, and obviously I wasn’t thinkingaboutmysurroundings-”
“WithKen’sbulgeonyourmind?”Jasonaddedcoyly.
Eve’s throat began to tighten “Haha, yeah, with Ken bulge on my mind. I think I sorta just tripped over myself while hopping and fell through the window. I don’t know. Kids are dumb” She said,chokingonherwords.ShehopedthatJasondidn’thear
the cracks. Her melted brain pulsed nervously, everything lookedsoakedingreen.
“Damn, that’s crazy.” Jason concluded, and then he just stared attheceiling.
Eve felt utterly horrified. He definitely didn’t want to look at her because she exposed herself too much and exposure didn’t look attractive on anybody. People look much better tightly woundupinlayersofskin,notredandpulsing.
She heard buzzing and saw a swarm of flies pressed against the window. Hovering over the black mass of their bodies, they carried, like a crown, a serpent dripping with blood.
“Sodoyougotasnap?You’redefinitelyafreak.”
The flies hummed and buzzed and blackened and shrieked. Then the snake smiled and Eve knew that he had the same soul as the devil somehow. Her throat felt so tight. This feeling would kill her. It was an awful feeling to be ashamed.
TheOutlaw
JorgeLarach
As a child, Jack wanted to be a sheriff, like his father, and like his father before him. He was obsessed with the idea of preserving law and order and the peace within Tombstone, Arizona. Starting at the age of nine, his father would take him shooting in a field by his family’s ranch, and eventually he developed an affinity for the art of the firearm. His mother would disagree with his father about the amount of exposure Jack was getting to the world of crime and guns for his age, but his father insisted it was crucial for Jack to develop an understandingforthesesubjectsatayoungage,sowhenhewas older, he’d know how the dynamics of how crime and justice work, and what side of the law he should be on. Jack’s parents would tell stories about outlaws and gunslinging cowboys, and how the fight to preserve justice used to be more intense than what it was presently. Nearly every day, Jack would be remindedbyhisparentsaboutthehorrorsofcrimeandinjustice, and how all lawbreakers were vermin. Upon first hearing of cowboys, Jack was repulsed and disgusted by them. He, and his family, were of the opinion that they were scum, and each and every last one of them should be hunted and brought to justice, despite there being so few in the year of 1881. But as he approached adolescence, the attraction he found for the gun began to be more tightly wound to outlaws than to sheriffs. He would find himself imagining the thrill of executing a stagecoachrobbery,robbingabank,andevenescapingfromthe lawinanepicshootout-chase.
One day, at the age of 12, when scouring through his father’s study for his model revolver that he so dearly loved, Jack came across a small, wooden box tucked snugly between two similar looking cigar boxes, seeming as though it was meant to be hidden.Reluctanttostealbutoverwhelmedwithcuriosity,Jack
took the box to his cramped quarters only a few steps from his parent’s. Surprised to find the box had no lock, he opened it to reveal a collection of yellowing letters. Dedicating several hours to read the letters (he had only learned to read in consecutive sentences half a year before), he discovered that they were written by his grandfather, who had passed away in a shootout against outlaws before he was born. To his horror and surprise, Jack read about how, in reality, his grandfather Morrison was in fact a member of a now extinct gang of outlaws. The letters detailed how the botchery of a bank heist led to the fleeing from the law, and how they were being ruthlessly hunted daily for months.Eachletterwaswrittenweeksapart,andwereaddressed specifically to Jack’s father, who at the time must have been around Jack’s age. Dizzy and disoriented from the revelation, Jackreturnedtheboxtowherehefoundit.
The confusion and feeling of betrayal passed quickly, though. As time passed, Jack began to idolize this cowboy, gunslinging version of his grandfather and his fraternal gang of outlaws. When his father, who was oblivious to Jack’s slow mental shift from the law to crime, took Jack shooting, Jack no longer imagined he was killing cowboys; rather, he envisioned killing the sheriffs of Tombstone. Being too frightened to discuss this with his father, Jack told his mother about his attraction to the worldofcrimeandoutlaws,leavingoutthelettershefound.His mother reminded Jack that outlaws were a dying breed, and insisted that any attraction he found to that life should be severedimmediately.Jackknewshewasright,buthisdreamsof fightingauthorityonlyaugmented.
When Jack turned 16, he became a courier. With his horse, he woulddelivermailtowhoeverrequiredhisservices.Oneday,as he was returning home from delivering a rather large parcel in a wooded area, he was witness to a stagecoach robbery. Having only heard about them in his parent’s stories, he watched in wild-eyedbewildermentfromadistanceasasmall
group of men, maybe five or six of them, dragged out the driver and passenger of a horse-driven stagecoach and threw them on the threw them on the ground, then tossed out bags and boxes containing things Jack could only guess were riches, or resources to obtain riches, from the back of the stagecoach. After the robbery, the thieves leaped on their horses and rode away, some of them cackling wildly, firing into the air and twirlingtheirgunsontheirfingers.
Jack, knowing this would likely be his last time seeing outlaws, furtivelyfollowedthemonhishorse,makingsuretokeepasafe distance.After some time, the outlaws turned off the main road into a smaller gravel path which led to a clearing in the forest. Tying his horse to a nearby tree, Jack followed the gang to their camp in the clearing.As he crouched in the bushes, he watched as the gang celebrated their successful stick-up by dancing, drinking, and singing. Jack noticed that the members were mostly older, with most of them having long white beards and walking with a slouch. Jack watched in amazement at this slice of history, this fading culture of chases, shootouts, and unbreakable fraternal connections fighting and escaping authority. Knowing he would never have this opportunity again, Jack arose from the bushes and confronted his heroes. Upon seeing him, the gang all drew their weapons on him and fired, killinghiminstantly.
One of the gang members drunkenly slogged forward towards Jack’s body, and searched his pockets for any loot. Upon finding none, the gang happily returned to their merry dancing, drinking, and singing, oblivious to anything and everything that doesn’tconcernthemortheirnewlyobtainedtreasure.
TheWritingontheStall
AdamMann
On the door, in black sharpie, are the words Beware the last stall.
I would know. It’s in my favorite stall: first from the door, second floor of the Clarence Darrow Middle School. It’s absolutely filthy, of course, but it’s not like sixth graders can be picky. I spend lots of time there, when people annoy me or I want some quiet. I put my jacket over the nasty toilet lid and close my eyes. Sometimes I read the scribbles around me and wonderaboutthekidswhowrotethem.
I remember the first time I read those words, Beware the last stall. They were so different from the rest of the junk written on the walls. Not curse words, not lewd drawings, but a warning. That day, I thought I heard a groan coming from the furthest stall from the door. I walked over to it, banged on the stall, jiggledthelock.Noresponse.
Since then, I’ve heard faint screams, humming, phantom flushes. I’ve tried the lock a hundred times. Nothing. Many times I’ve considered crawling under the stall door, which sounds like a good idea until I’m actually in the second floor bathroom and my resolve crumbles like a Chips Ahoy cookie. There’s a reason no one uses it, except for weirdos like me. I shouldforgetit.
I’mprobablyimaginingthings.
Butsomeonewrotethosewordsforareason.
Ican’tletitgo.
I have three whole friends. At least, I think I still do. Avery counts at least. I’ve known him since kindergarten when his mom and my mom organized a playdate. The only thing I remember from that day was that I thought he was weird. I still think that, but he’s also my best friend. My other friends, Jake and Michael, I never really see anymore. We used to hang out all the time together in elementary school, but not so muchnow.SometimesIworrythatitismyfault.
I may be too hard on myself. Jake joined the soccer team, and now his mornings, lunches, and afternoons are taken up by a sport I know nothing about. Michael is in mostly honors classes on the other side of the building, with a whole new set ofsmarterfriends.TheclosestI’vecometoanewfriendisthe kid in my English class that asks me for a pencil every day. I forgot his name, and I’m too embarrassed to ask. EvenAvery isdoingbetterthanme.Hetalkstosomanypeopleit’salmost like he’s everyone’s friend. So sometimes I feel like I’m alone, even if it isn’t true. That’s why today, one of the few days all three of my friends are sitting with me at lunch, I try topiquetheirinterest.
“Ithinkoneofthesecondfloorbathroomstallsishaunted.”
ForasecondIthinktheydidn’thearme,butthenAverypoints his spoon at me. “I think you’ve had too much Sunny D.” He hiccups.“Oh,wait.That’sme.”
Avery’s wearing a T- shirt, vest, and cargo pants, all in army camo.Camoisactuallyagainsttheschooldresscodeforsome reason,butthatdoesn’tstopAvery.Theschooltriedenforcing it earlier in the year, but they grew weary before too long. It doesn'thurtthatAvery’smomisontheschoolboard,either.
I look at Jake and Michael, who like me, wear normal clothes andaren’tabovetherules.“Haunted?”Jakesays.Michaelalso
looksconfused.“Whatdoyoumean?”
Before I can say anything, Avery jumps in, much to my surprise. “I believe what Orion here is referring to is the famous bathroom prophecy, which goes like this: Beware the Last Stall.”
Michaelfrowns.“It’sfamous?”
“Well,no.Butitsoundsbetterthatway.”
“Avery’s right,” I say. “I’ve tried to open the last stall many timesandit’salwayslocked.Anditmakesweirdnoises.”
“Ithinkthat’scalledafart,”Jakesays,andAverygiggles.
“No!” I say, rolling my eyes. “Like groans. Or whines. Or whispers.”
I wait for them to react, to brush me off. But Jake just shrugs his shoulders, andAvery leans his head on an elbow, and they both turn to Michael, who’s messing with his hair. He puts his pickdown.
“Well, there’s an easy way to get to the bottom of this dilemma. If it’s always locked, then someone should crawl underthestallandunlockit.”
Helooksatme.Crap.
I have them meet me outside the second floor bathroom after the end of the last period. I can’t help thinking that this is the first time we’ve met up after school this year. I wish I could savorit,butIstillhaveabustocatch.
Itakeabreath.“Let’sdoit.”
Likecountlesstimesbefore,IgetsecondthoughtsonceIget eyesontheoddlystainedbathroomfloor,theharsh
fluorescent lighting revealing every spot of gunk and grime. Whoknowshowmanydiseasesareresidingthere?Ihesitate, andalmostjumpwhenIhearastrangecreakingintheroom.
The others seem unaffected. Jake gives me a pitying look. “I’ll do it with you.” He drops to his knees and I’m forced to follow him, grimacing as my hand lands on an unusually stickypatchoffloor.Wemoveforward.
Something makes me pause, and Jake stops to give me a frown. The room has fallen silent. Then a gurgle reaches my ears. And a deluge of rotten yellow sewage pours out fromunderthestalldoor.
“Whatthehell!?”Jakeyells.
I scrabble backwards as the tidal wave approaches, Jake moving beside me. My nose burns from the noxious smell. My eyes water. It reaches my shoe and I think I hear a sizzle.And then I’m screaming and someone is grabbing me and my right leg is shaking uncontrollably and then after an eternity the fluid stops. I look up at Michael, who pulled me back. Avery is clutchingJake’sshoulder.
Thesewageoscillatesmenacingly.
“It’shaunted,”wesay.
IWishICouldCry
JadenMartens
Ibelievecryingisthemostpotentexpressionofemotion.Allthe feelings stored inside can be released—washed away, if you’re a romantic. It is a way in which you can prove to the world that your emotions exist. That they aren’t just a figment of your imagination.IwishIcouldcry.
Anger, joy, sorrow, all bring forth tears. People cry at weddings and at divorce hearings. Life starts in tears; it ends in tears. Something pure is the water which flows from the eyes. Everything, it makes anew. A symbol of rebirth, restoration. Jesusweptforus.IwishIcouldcry.
Crying can be weak—a few gentle tears sliding down the cheek. Sometimes it is raw, powerful. Terrible screams and clouded vision. Gasping for breath—your body forgets how to operate—everything is falling apart. Sobs are muffled by your pillow—you can’t be a disturbance. Shaking—uncontrollable shaking—there will be no coming back. No. Focus, focus on the breath. In. The stream of tears begin to slow. Out. Your mind returns to your body. In. Everything starts to go numb. Out.You lie there, system flushed, ready to move forward. Or so it should be.IwishIcouldcry.
Whycan’tIcry?
Unraveling
JadenMartens
Breathless, I am, as a thousand screams are caught on the edge of my tongue held back by clenched teeth. Words spoken more times than time can tell are trapped in a mind too scared to mind its own business. Breathe less, I do, as the call of dreams pulls me in to hide me from the dreams breaking, breaking in the waking world where nightmares haunt my every day, and as day turns to night the screaming returns. Return to a world, I wish I could, that is not dead—accompanied by the song of silence and the dance of stillness. But. Sand cannot help but fall and so help me as the Fall falls behind, smothered by the ice, I cannot help butwishthat
Time
were not real. And I am back to thinking words I’ve thought of over—over again. There is no use for such words in a world so unrelentingly sick of words; there are too many words to ever justify speaking—over again and again—why should I even try?
Painiswhatitmeanstoloosemytonguefromitsprisonbecause I know that I will lose what I have worked so hard to find.What is it that I have found? For so long I have been looking, looking around and around—over and over—but what is it I actually want? Words can’t describe it, so is it real? Can you lose somethingthatisn’treal?OrisrealitywhatIchooseittobe?
Overandoveragain.
Untileverything
Unravels
AndIfallasleep.
Off-Balance
MyloMittman
After almost twenty years on Earth -or, depending on how you look at it, in Earth - I've grown familiar with the ground. I may not understand physics, but I do understand why things get pulled to the center of the planet. Down is the easiest direction. The strongest pull on the weakest forces. Despite claims from well-meaning strangers and misguided teachers, I can’t defy gravity. Apparently, I can’t defy the call of the ground either. I want to lift myself up and out of it. I want to see if it knows me thesamewayI’vecometoknowit.
This relationship is preventable. The key word is grit. It’s a young kid. It’s pulling and pain. It’s grit his teeth and he’ll turn himself off when he gets home. Back then, nobody could really tell him. They couldn’t speak his language. It’s not their fault. He heard it with the deafness of a child’s ears. See the kid. See a planet. See that magnetism. See a crash. A meteorite falling through the atmosphere doesn't know it will crack open on impact. I don’t think it even sees the ground. You can’t differentiatebetweenthemeteoriteandthedirt,atleast,notafter so many years and too many inescapable crashes. The meteorite becomes the dirt. I think that kid would’ve turned out different, turned out better. He wouldn't’ve collapsed in on himself like an old coal mine or a hemorrhaged brain. He would’ve seen his own cracking if he hadn’t resisted the pulling. I love and hate to think some alternate universe knows if that’s true. I know the dirt in that universe has never consumed a blind chunk of space. I know that universe has never watched the pull of something called“up”crashintothepushofthatplaceknownas“down.”
If gravity only exists in space, as science says, we must discover the force that pulls us when we do not take up space. We all disembody ourselves at some point. In those moments, it is reasonable for us to think we fill the places between atoms, stars, and dust. Places that don’t really have space to fill. I do not know if I can ask the universe to evaluate the merit of this reasoning. However, I do know that my knees have come to Earth enough for the action to count as kneeling, even though I can’t kneel. I can beg the unknown for this unknown answer. I can pray for the meteorite I see coming. I can pray for a physics-defying bounce. Maybe meteorites can learn to see as I have learned to live in that space between self, ground, and Earth.
AHotSummerNight
SophiaMunoz
I found myself in your arms on a hot summer night. It was hot then, too hot to bear. The type of heat that makes the grass brown and life shrink back into the earth. Even in your flat, I couldn't escape it. That stifling heat pursued me at every corner, but you were insistent upon draping a quilt over our bodies, promising the fan would keep us cool. Sweat beaded on my lip and was lapped up by your tongue before it could escape down my chin and fall onto the bedspread. There were fireworks that night; I could hear them far away.As I lay there with you on my breast, I became aware of how heavy I felt on your mattress and howhotitwasunderthatblanket.
I could hear every blood vessel in my veins, every beat of my heart, every thought in my head. For once, there was silence, undisturbedstillnesssafefrommyusualconstantchatter.Icould feel her there, but could not see her; we both hid in the darkness that draped across the room. Her fingers snaked through mine, grippingthemtight.Moresweatfellfrommybrow.
"I don't think my body was made to feel how it should," I said. I feltherheadraiseslightly.
"Whatdoyoumean?"Itookashakybreath.
"Nomatterwhat,Ifeelnothing."
"Thereisnothingthere,nothingthereforme."
"I guess I'm just fated to live without experiencing that sort of connection." She said nothing this time. Her fingers grew limp and retreated beneath her pillow. Their heat was gone, and her absence left my hand cold. It wasn't her, it never was. I don't knowwhathappenedthatnightoreverytimebefore.Ijustknow
that it will always be like this no matter the time of day, no matter the occasion, no matter whose arms I lay beneath. The dark grew glassy behind hot tears that spilled from my eyes, mixing with sweat as they careened down my cheeks, soaking into her pillowcase. It was too warm that night, too hot to sleep against one another, too hot to fall asleep holding you, my head against your heart, listening to your thoughts fade away and yourbreathstill.
I wanted to say how sorry I was then and how sorry I am now. I can't remember If I loved you that night, or If I ever loved you tobeginwith.
TheVisitor
MartinRosales
Heawokewithagasp.Somethingwaswrong.
Heart palpitating wildly, Pierce tried to roll over and found that he could not. Something had glued him to the bed — fixating him in place. He couldn’t so much as wiggle a finger; theadhesionbindinghimwassostrong.
He was still under the covers. Feeling sticky and damp with sweat, Pierce opened his mouth to call for help and found that hecouldnotopenhisjaw.Puzzled,hetriedtoswirlhistongue around in his mouth and found it suddenly turned traitorous. Like a useless slab of meat, his tongue lay dead. He was utterly and inexplicably immobile save for his eyes. His frantic,rapidlyshiftingeyes.
Fear, icy and cold, suddenly began to work its harsh way into hisbody.Itstartedfromtheextremities—thefingersandtoes — and slowly worked up his limbs. He all but felt his heart freezebeneaththestrain.
He looked around him wildly, thinking desperately as to how he could get anyone’s attention. Of course, he lived alone nowadays,andhedidn’tsharearoomwithanyonesaveforhis faithfuldog,Pepito.
Pepito! He thought to himself loudly. It was his only way out of this situation. If he could alert his dog as to his current paralysis, then Pepito could go get someone to come … do something. He didn’t quite know what they would do. He didn’tevenknowwhatwashappeningtohim.
Pepito! Heshoutedinhismind. Pepito wake up!
Pepito sat at the foot of his bed, curled up into a peaceful ball. He was a miniature schnauzer, and his curly gray fur gently rose and fell with the even tidings of someone resting deeply. Unperturbed and unruffled, Pepito lay unaware of Pierce’s precariousplight.
Pepito! Pierce groaned internally. Please, you’ve got to get someone to come! You’ve got to get help!
Pepitoremainedsnoozing.Oneofhisearswasflippedoutwards. Pierce sighed, resigned to the idea that he wouldn’t be able to gethisdog’sattention.Theuselessfreeloader.
Pierce’s eyes darted around the room. The early morning sun gently peeked through his tan curtains, casting a thin sliver of light that fell diagonally across the bed. His eyes followed the beam of light as it crossed over the bed and fell to the intersection where the corner of his room was. It was there that hespottedit.
A figure, shadowy and mysterious, stood just to the side of the light. Half concealed in shadow, Pierce’s eyes widened as he beheld the demon before him. It wore a dark trench coat and matching wide-brimmed hat, and though he couldn’t see it, Pierceknewthattheskinbeneaththeclotheswasred.Redlikea freshly bloomed poppy. Or the same color as anger on a tranquil day.
Piercebrokeintoatremendoussweat—worsethanhowhewas alreadyfaring.Itseemedlikeallthewaterintheworldwouldn’t be enough to match how much sweat was pooling from his pores. Suddenly drenching the bed and worried that he would meltintothecovers,Piercestaredintentlyatthedemon.
It wasn’t moving — its eyes locked onto Pierce’s. It did not smile nor wave. It did not grimace nor snarl. It simply waited andwatched.Atouristinaforeignplace.A dangerous tourist.
Pierce wanted to scream at it. Wanted it to go away and leave him alone. He continued to sweat wildly, and the run-off from his brow seeped into his eyes. He blinked angrily at the salty sting,desperatelyworkingtoregainhisvision.
It took a few painful moments, but he soon regained his sight — clearing enough of the sweat from his eyes to see the blurry world. With a start, he saw that the demon had stepped closer while his eyes had been closed. He wanted to jolt from the bed and run far, far away from the fearsome presence before him. It was standing just a few feet away from where Pierce lay. Somehow, Pepito remained sleeping, blissfully unaware of the intruderloomingrightoverhim.
Pierce wanted to cry. He was lying supine amongst a pool of perspiration, and a demon stood just a few feet from him. More sweat got into his eyes, but he desisted from blinking. He continued to stare, red-eyed and fearful, at the demon before him.
One second passed. Then two. Two turned to three and still Pierce did not blink. The demon did not move. It hurt to a tremendous degree — his eyes seemingly melted into twin orbs of pain. Two tiny embers scorched his eye sockets, but he did notblinkatthemonster.
Until he did. The pain grew unbearable, and this time, Pierce shut his eyes and did not open them again. He might’ve thought he was dreaming if it weren’t for the mass panic flooding his mind and the undying certainty that a demon was standing next to him. A minute passed. Pierce knew that the demon was still outthere,waitingforhim.Staringathim.
Unable to take it any longer, Pierce opened his eyes and looked at the demon defiantly. The demon had moved and was now looming just above Pierce. Looking straight down, the demon matchedPierce’sgazeandraisedanintelligent,bushyeyebrow
in surprise. Pierce suddenly paused, taken aback by the demon’s …appearance.
Harboring a dignified red nose and chiseled cheekbones, the demon had the most attractive face he had ever seen. With a jawline sharp enough to cut through steel and eyes clever enough to unravel the secrets of the universe, the demon had the look of a marble statue. A real Adonis. The look of someone who Pierce would want. The look of someone who anyone wouldwant.
Though the demon wore a dark trench coat that covered his body, Pierce still knew of the imposing musculature that rested below. Big, bulging muscles that rippled and stretched with every movement of that domineering body. The mere sight of himwasfiery—meltingawayPierce’sicyfear.Hisheartbegan pounding in his chest frantically, wild like the war drums of old. The chemistry between them was electric. Eclectic. It was like every romantic trope possible had rolled into one grand experience.Itwasfascinating.Itwasloveatfirstsight.
The demon blinked its deep, onyx eyes at Pierce, surprised to seesucharadicalshiftinemotion.Suddenly,itlookedunsureof itself. Uncertain of what to do next. What to do with the sudden influxofheavy,lustfultension.
It took a half-step backward, and Pierce suddenly found himself desperate for a touch of the demon. He began to thrash against his paralyzed limbs, first commanding, then begging his body to obey his orders. Pierce wanted nothing more than to be able to stand up and caress the beefy demon standing before him. No, hedidn’twantit—he needed it.
Suddenly frightened, the demon turned and bolted for the corner of the room where the sun’s light did not reach. The darkness unreachable to Pierce’s watchful eyes. It blended into the darkness and disappeared, leaving not a trace of its existence behind.
Now alone in his room, it was as if a spell had been lifted. Pierce sat upright in his bed and glanced to the corner of his room where the demon had run off. Pepito opened a single eye at his owner’s movements, but then promptly closed it upon noting the lack of danger. There was nothing there. No hair nor hide of the beautiful beast that had visited him. Disappointment, heavy and burdensome like a chain, settled itself atop Pierce’s shoulders.Hisloverhadlefthiminthenight.
Unsure of what else to do, Pierce crawled out of bed and exited hisroom,gettinganearlystarttohisday.Hismindfelthazyand difficult to think through.There wasn’t any chance in this world that he would be able to get any sleep after that. His best chance was to wait until sundown and hope to see it again tomorrow morning.
TheBodyasaGod
ParkerSnellgrove
I am half-dead on the ground, impregnating myself, lungs quivering on the brink of collapse with every thunderous inhale and lightning-strike exhale. My screams add some sort of urgency to the scene, but I can’t rush my hands. I am well-versed in the ways these things have to work: every cell is a drop of divine ichor, and they have to move one by one. Stardust leaves my body and collects into something also sort of like my body. I must continue my line. My skin is soft and malleable, white and shaded gray like the cratered surface of a moon. Thighs tremble under self-exerted pressure and throat gags around itself. My tear ducts are overflowing reservoirs; my pores are environmentally-friendly receptacles. Beams of light smile down upon me with burning brightness, and the wind pushes my near-corpse where it needs to go—my fingers are bloody and raw when they reach out, stinging in the bite of the sun. The hours have cycled and recycled by more times than I can count. Time doesn’t count in this moment, when I reach out and gather this piece of life or soul or space close to my chest. I’ve reinvented what every mother has made anew in every moment of birth—this is me, in a way I’ve never existed before, in a way no one has. I hold the baby under baptismal waters, flowing freely from womb to font to sky, only to be drunk down again, easing the tight pain of my desiccated esophagus. I kiss the baby’s soft, malleable forehead; the baby blesses me with a smack of hand against cheek. The galaxy spins, milky and dripping—theuniversecontinuestoexpand.
SanPedroSpringsPark,lateJanuary
DeanZach
I have parked myself at a concrete picnic table from whose hard seat I have a good view of the center of the universe. The picnic table is covered with scrawled graffiti tags which bring to mind petroglyphs on a cliff face above a spring, but I do not investigate these further because I am looking at the center of theuniverse.
The center of a universe is a skate park, a rectangular slab of concrete embedded into the earth in such a way that it looks like the empty bed of a shallow pond. Drilled into the concrete are three features whose proper names I didn’t bother to research: a two-step concrete staircase and two iron rails, outcroppings in a sea of slab. Divorced from the landscape around it and the people within it, the skate park comes off as austere and blank, like the tornado-swept foundation of a house. Married to its surroundinglandscapeandpeople,itseemslikeaconcreteoasis, a grayscale refuge from the sea of green provided by the larger park surrounding it—the grove of live oak trees to to the left, the meadow of soft grass to the right. And yet the park—San Pedro Springs Park, with its long storied history and its limestone ruins and mangrove-lined swimming pool and tiled bathhouse and tennis courts and playgrounds and other public amenities too numerous to fit in this clause—is itself an oasis, a green chip in the middle of San Antonio’s concrete sprawl, whichcoatstheparkinthequietroarofambientfreewaynoise.
From the picnic table I watch the park go about its business in the dying light of a too-springlike winter evening. The skateboarders go around and around, whooshing their wheels, clattering their boards, chatting off to the side, connecting their speakers to Bluetooth, playing a rap song with a percussive tick-tick-tick-boombeat.
Park visitors, or maybe residents, enter and exit the bathhouse-adjacent bright-red Port-a-Potty, inconveniently conspicuous in my field of vision.The blades of grass vibrate in the soft sunset breeze, blissfully ignorant of the Arctic air mass soon to punish them for their tendency to live. In the canopy of the live oaks, scattered across the park, the line between shadow and alpenglow rises like a sea level. The lamps which line the sidewalk flicker to life.Acity bus, plastered on its side with an ad for the “Law Guns”Villarreal & Begum (Lesionado?), stops at a green bus shelter a couple hundred yards to my immediate west. The accordion door opens, then folds closed, no one enteringthebusorexiting,anditswheelscarryitnorthboundon Flores.Iconsidergettingonthebusbutdonot.
Buses, skateboards, streetlamps, speakers, people, blades of grass—to the untrained eye all of these things have come alive only at sunset, setting themselves or being set in motion, whethertheyknowitornot.Andthroughitalltheskateboarders at the center of the universe go around and around, occasionally taking a turn to venture into the center of the slab and conquer one of the strange structures which jut out of it. As the streetlights reack peak luminosity and the sunlight slips away the skateboarders come to seem like men in an arena—people in an arena, though all except one are masc-presenting, and though many have ponytails or long curly hair reaching the shoulders. All, without exception, are wearing tops in grayscale—white hoodies,blacktees,lightgraybeanies.Abaldmaninablack top stands in the corner of the slab, bottom cut off from my view, arms akimbo, staring at a rail as if it’s a bouldering problem. Suddenly he starts rolling, then emerges into the center of the slab and jumps front-board first onto the rail. He gets halfway across the iron before his board ejects from his feet, like a bucking bronco, and clatters to the ground while he lands on his feet.Hepickshisboardupandretreatstothecorner.
Someskateboardersfleethearenawhileothersjoinit;somestay on the side and chat while others remain consistently flying. I never got any of their names; I never get a good look at any of their faces, all I was able to absorb from being in their presence wasthefactoftheirwarmmotion.Twodayslater,theArcticair massblewinfromthenorth,andeverythingfroze.
Photography
BusyBees
GraceAlcocer
MirrorLake
GraceAlcocer
MultnomahFalls
GraceAlcocer
TheStreetsofPortland GraceAlcocer
MovingOn LilyBrennan
Painter’sApprentice
LilyBrennan
Untitled6
JuliaCarter
GothicSkies
TuckerCraft
LongDay TuckerCraft
IlluminatedMossofPunchBowlFalls
HaleyHamel
TailEnd
HaleyHamel
HaleyHamel
InflectionDeflection
SpencerSchyma
LateforDinner SpencerSchyma
Wembythenextnext SpencerSchyma
KatherineWillcockson
AfterWork
SamVader
Embrace
SamVader
Goingthroughlife
CarolinaHerrera-Favela
CarolinaHerrera-Favela
It’sfuntoglow
CarolinaHerrera-Favela
Let’smeetpeople
CarolinaHerrera-Favela
Nakedcolors
CarolinaHerrera-Favela
CamKenefick
MoodCore
KeylaLimones
No.1
FredericMarmalejo
Desired TáliaRangel
EvenDeathDoesn’tDoUsApart
SarahSyed
AbouttheContributors
Grace Alcocer is a sophomore Biochemistry and Molecular Biology major with a passion for photography. She loves capturing memories of new adventuresandnature.Whenshe'snotatTrinity,she'sinhersmallhometown in South Texas driving past the fields and stopping to take pictures of any livestockshecomesacross.
Michael Ard has never written poetry before but decided to try it after rereadingmanyofShelSilverstein'sworks.
Jose Ayala is a third-year computer science student minoring in creative writingfromHouston,TX.Duringhisfreetime,helovestousehiscreativity to write stories or poems based on his own experiences or fictional concepts like superpowers and AI-sentience. His love for writing derives from a simple desire—the desire to maintain his imagination even as he gets closer totherealworld.
John Bieberich is a freshman English major from Austin, TX. He is a lyricist, musician, and short story writer who has been studying poetry and tryingtowriteit.
OllieBowen istheauthorof“HerebeDragons”.
Lily Brennan is a junior Communications major and Creative Writing minor at Trinity University. She has loved writing for as long as she can rememberandhasrecentlystarteddoingphotography.
Jake Bruce is a senior majoring in English with a Religion minor. He plans on writing his way into the Appalachian mountains after graduation. Jake would like to thank those who have pushed him to grow creatively, academically,andpersonallyduringhistimeatTrinity.
Cutter Canada is a Senior English and Communication double major who loves animals and searching for the right words but never finding them. Onecanoftenfindhimdiscoveringhopeinhard-to-reachplaces.
Daniella Canseco is a second year English Major History minor from San Antonio Texas and her passions include writing and art. Daniella often intertwines common themes of life within her pieces, exemplifying the beauty, humor, and raw truth that life brings. Daniella believes in finding a meaningineverythingandthisisembodiedinherworks.
JuliaCarter isadigitalandfilmphotographerfromAustin,Texas.
Arlo Castilan is a first year Neuroscience Major and Art/Art History + Astronomy double minor. They express myself through many creative outlets, such as writing, painting, film, and animation! Castilan gathers lots of inspiration from the mystifying elements of space and nature, but also lovestoreadandwilloftenpullideasfromtheliteraturetheyconsume.
Gabby Cohen is a first year at Trinity University. She is currently undecided on her major, but they know they want to minor in creative writing. They will probably also end up having a theater minor because of how many classes they’re taking. Gabby is excited to have her first fiction storypublished.
Tucker Craft is a senior double majoring in Global Latinx Studies and Spanish. This is his first recorded photograph. You can find him cleaning at the fraternity house of Iota Chi Rho, of which he is a proud member.
Paloma Diaz-Minshew is a Senior double major in English and Global Latinx Studies. She is an intern with TU Press, a member of TULA, and has conducted research on borderlands Shakespeare appropriations with Dr. Vomero-Santos. She has been writing poetry for about a decade and is a long-timeloverofJohnKeatsandblackcats.
SamaraGerstle isasophomoreEnglishmajor.AtTrinity,sheisaneditor for the Trinity Review and the news section editor for the Trinitonian. She spendsmostofhertimewritingfiction,prose,andpoetry.
SandraGurrola isajuniorEnglishandComputingmajorfromLubbock, Tx. She has conducted research on the negative representation of disability in fairy tales. She writes in her free time focusing primarily on prose.
Arden Haggard is a senior English major who enjoys writing both prose and poetry. When she's not writing, she's probably reading. Or playing Stardew Valley. She has a cat named Soccer Ball, and loves to spend time outside and go thrifting on the weekends (iced coffee in hand).
Haley Hamel is a junior majoring in Environmental Geoscience and minoring in Biology She takes photos to share the special things she finds beautifulwithotherpeople.
C.K.Hawley istheauthorof“AnOdetotheSecondChoice”.
MadelieneHartman istheauthorof“Evethroughthewindow”.
CarolinaHerrera-Favela isaSeniorbiologystudentthatlikestodraw.
Bishop Jesko is the author of “Maybe this would have made you feel better”.
ChrisJunginger istheauthorof“WeddingHymntoaSnake”.
Cam Kenefick is a sophomore mathematics and theatre double major. They are involved in TUPS, TUMS, FTO, IXP, and work as a peer tutor in theQRS.
MJKriechbaum istheauthorof“TheBoyWiththeBrokenSmile”.
Jorge Larach is a Spanish-American computer science junior minoring in creativewriting.
Dylan Lee is a sophomore Marketing and Communications double major with a minor in Theatre. Outside of school she is also a musician and a singer/songwriter. She’s been writing songs since she was seven years old and has utterly fallen in love with music, songwriting, and performing. She is based in FortWorth,Texas and performs frequently on the weekends at local venues in her area. She prioritizes authenticity over all else and has made it a highprioritytofollowherdreamsinallthings.
Wen Lee is a senior majoring in Computer Science and minoring in PoliticalScience.SheisthepresidentofACM.
Avery Letendre is an undeclared first-year, and this is her first year working with the Trinity Review. She primarily writes poetry and short stories.
Keyla Limones is a first-year who intends to triple major in International Studies, Political Science, and English. She is part of the Trinity Review, Treasurer for TU Progressives, and ITSAssistant Worker on Campus. Some additionalfactsaboutherarethatshelovesprose&poetry,reading,admiring art,cafeconpan,andtryingnewthings.
Fredric Marmolejo is a sophomore double majoring in Art and CommunicationswithaminorinSociology.Helovestakingphotosofpeople andnature.Findmoreofhisartoninstagram:@realgromitmug.
Adam Mann is an Environmental Studies senior graduating in May 2024. He works with the University’s Tiger Network, broadcasting Trinity sports and events. He enjoys reading fiction books, especially fantasy and science fiction.HewrotethisstoryforacreativewritingclassintheFallof2023.
Jaden Martens is an aspiring author and full time worrier. Writing is a wayforhimtounderstandtheworldandhimself,andheowessomuchtothe craft.
Cristian Martinez is a sophomore chicano poet, writer, and homecook. He loves poetry as a mode for processing his internal and external world.
McCaden S. McClure is a sophomore English major with a Linguistics minor. They may be a fool, but they like to think they're a lovable one. They like to go through life with a shit-eating grin on their face, hoping everyone around will have enough patience with them to maybe possibly see how muchtheycareabouteveryoneelse.
Sean Michael Mitchell is a singer-songwriter, poet, and visual artist from Kenosha, Wisconsin. He's released one full length, self-produced and published album, as well as an EPand a number of singles that are available on streaming services. He's graduating this year, in May of 2024, with a Degree in Environmental Studies and Spanish. His work is often focussed on theenvironmentandtendstoblendenvironmentalandpersonalsubjects.
MyloMittman isasophomoremajoringinCommunicationandminoring inEnglish.
Sophia Munoz is a freshman from Austin, Texas who loves to run and paintinherfreetime.
Haniel Neves is a junior organ performance major also pursuing harpsichord and piano accompanying studies. He is also a member of the Trinity Chamber Singers and the Handbell Ensemble, is the organist at the historicSt.JosephCatholicChurchontheRiverwalk,andrecentlyjoinedthe St. Mark's Episcopal Church choir. His many musical and artistic interests have been lucky enough to converge more often than he expected when he first got to Trinity, and he would love to get to know even more people here atTrinityinhisfield.
Anthonia Ogbo is just a girl in the world. Besides visual art, writing — specifically poetry — is one of the many things that she is passionate about, and she loves reading others’ works just as much as writing her own. Her other hobbies include borrowing grief from the future, finding heart-shaped objectsinnatureandstaringatthemoon.
MaddyO’Neal istheauthorof“PoetryisImpossible”.
Lily Price is a senior English Major and Creative Writing Minor from Austin, Texas. Her literary interests include Shakespeare, myth retellings, and speculating wildly about John Donne. She is also Vice President of TriniD&Dandanavidteadrinker.
Tália Rangel is from South Central Los Angeles.Tália loves painting, specificallywithwatercolorsandgouache.Mostofherartiscenteredaround her own body and directly reflects her headspace. She uses painting to processandchannelheremotions,especiallywhenshefindsthemdifficultto talkabout.
Anthony Rivas is a sophomore philosophy major from SanAntonio. He enjoys reading poetry and philosophy in his spare time. Anthony likes to work out, play tennis, and go on runs along the River Walk. He plays the guitar, drums, and keyboard and collaborates in songwriting with a lifelong friend.
Jorge Romero is a first-year student intending to major in Global Latinx Studies and Spanish with a minor in Linguistics. When he’s not busy working on assignments in the library, Jorge enjoys communicating his thoughts and feelings through music and the occasional poem and spending timeoutsideoncampus.
Martin Rosales is a first-year English and Psych major who also hopes to minor in Creative Writing. Martin loves stories in all forms and aspires to beaproficientstorytelleroneday.
Spencer Schyma is from Houston if he is from anywhere. He is a graduatingseniorandanEnvironmentalStudiesmajor.
HeatherSmith istheauthorof“WhatisTrueAboutDecomposition”.
Parker Snellgrove is a junior English major from Birmingham, Alabama. He is also minoring in French and Film Studies. He is a Creative Writing graduate from the Alabama School of Fine Arts, and a longtime reader, writer, and lover of poetry.All his work is dedicated to his two cats, FreyaandPersephone.
SarahSyed istheartistbehind“EvenDeathDoesn’tDoUsApart”.
AlexTherwhanger istheauthorof“Star-child”.
SamuelVader isasophomoreComputerSciencemajorandEthicsminor from Denton, Texas. He's also a hobbyist photographer, experimenting in both analog and digital mediums (sometimes overlapping). When he's not knee-deep in code, he enjoys reading, watching pretentious movies, and picking up new hobbies for a week before dropping them for something new a week later. If you're interested in more of his work, he posts occasionally onhisInstagram,@flickdbysam.
Katherine Wilcockson is the photographer of “It’s only foggy when you’renothere”.
EverWhitlock is the author of “CrouchingVenus Housed in the Palazzo Massimo”.
JuliaWilliams istheauthorof“HoweverEventually”.
Dean Zach is a senior English major and creative writing minor. He is fromPearland,Tx,asuburbjustsouthofHouston.Whilehe’soncampus,he copy edits articles for the Trinitonian and serves as treasurer of the Trinity University Film Club. While he’s off campus, he spends most of his time insidewatchingmoviesandstufflikethat,buthealsoenjoysrunning,hiking, andgoingonroadtrips,especiallyintheMountainWest.
