Trinity Review 2023

The Trinity Review 2022-3

Trinity University’s student-led literary & arts magazine

Metamorphosis

Jaeden Morgan

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for taking a few moments to spend with The Trinity Review. After nearly a year’s worth of compiling, editing, deliberating, designing, and distributing, we are thrilled to share this body of work with you. This collection of poetry, prose, artworks, and photographs is a small but powerful representation of Trinity University’s diverse and dedicated creative community. One of the many things we love about Trinity is that—despite its size—this campus is always bursting with ingenuity. Trinity students display unyielding passion and courage in their exploration of new, complex ideas. We feel honored to belong to such a group.

The works featured in this issue delve into a vast expanse of topics, ranging from hurt to hope, from romance to revenge, from space travel to self-discovery. These pieces are bold, energizing, and vulnerable. We hope they will resonate with you as much as they have with us.

What we do would not be possible without the contributions of many incredible people. First of all, thank you to our staff members for devoting their time and efforts to making this issue a reality. Thank you to the entire Creative Writing faculty—especially our faculty advisor Dr. Kelly Carlisle— for their generous guidance. We’d also like to thank the English department office manager, Stephanie Velasquez, for her assistance with event planning, budgeting, printing, and many other essential administrative tasks. Trinity’s Creative Writing interns, Dean Zach and Rachel Curtis, have been instrumental in fostering and nurturing the creative community that is celebrated within these pages. We are grateful to all of our contributors for trusting us to give their creations a home. And finally, these acknowledgements just wouldn’t be complete without expressing our gratitude for you—the reader. Your support for us and for the arts on campus is absolutely invaluable.

The two of us will be graduating in May 2023. Parting ways with the Review will of course be bittersweet, but this experience has been incredibly fulfilling for us both. We have full faith that the Review will be in highly capable hands with our predecessors, and we can’t wait to see what they come up with. Until then, we are brimming with love and gratitude. And without further ado, we hope you enjoy.

Warmly, Caroline Wolff & Macks Cook Co-Editors In Chief The Trinity Review

TABLE OF CONTENTS

VISUAL ART

Bright Bloom

Disconnected

Gentle Limelight

Message Transcends Time

Rotterdam at Dusk

Sunset Puddle

[Cowboy w Whiskey Glass]

In Another Life Go Away

Pause Right Now

“Olmos Park Dam, June 25, 2022.”

POETRY

The Annihilator of Dusk

A Brother to Death

Fade

Coffee

Beach Day

texas mountain laurels

Distracted

Manhattan Cocktail Ghosts

Bedtime Story

field of envy

Serial

Solitude

Not Even Happiness

Ode to the Fallen

The Gemini Complex

Vanilla

I Am Not A Robot

An Autumn Thought

Random Rules

Cold Hands that Sweat

Luna

Dean Zach, Faysal Al-Zand, Kasey Barrett, Jeremy Blackburn, Lily Brennan, Macks Cook, Macks Cook, Thao Dinh, Thao Dinh, Leah Dooling, Leah Dooling, Madeline Freeman, Kim Granados, Abby Jackson, Bailey Judis, Ryann Moos, Ryann Moos, Elizabeth Motes, Elizabeth Motes, Haniel Neves, Luna Peña Soto, Luna Peña Soto,

‘Tis

Cicada’s Song

Fairies in Lampposts

She Was Cold

Deja Vu

Day by Day

The Crow and the Ribbon

The Playwright

My Mom Doesn’t Use

Centralized Heating & Cooling

Maybe I Have Always Loved

Purple

They Tried to Turn me Into a Mouth

Grillmeister

Bright Bloom

Thao Dinh

The Annihilator of Dusk

Fayzal Al-Zand

I look up and see the annihilator of dusk Evaporating the ocean above To a knee-high turquoise And then to just sand And finally to just dust

Cotton ball whisps that frolicked In the open blue, moments before Now flee for their lives, From the all-consuming fiery blaze. Some learn to embrace what is coming, Allowing themselves to be consumed. Returned to oblivion. Others flee until their last dying breath. These Creatures Of vapor return In the ocean of another sky

On a later day, in different shapes

They come spilling out of the morning light So that when I look up, I see the revitalizer of dawn

A Brother to Death

Kasey Barrett

Oh, how he misguides me

A jubilee of lavender leaves

The sweet suffocation of my own will Don’t let yourself slip—not quite yet The celebration has just begun

Oh, how I despise him

Sniffles of dreadful drowsiness

Catastrophic confusions as time speeds by You won’t outrun—you never do

The sun has risen again

Oh, how he enfeebles me

The woeful wager of pride and greed

Succumb to the siren of a catatonic state

How pathetic of you—pick up your feet

The executioner has come for your head

Oh, how I desire him

Promises of paradise soon to be Twinkle along, aspirations of my ascendance

You mustn’t flee—trapped by your blood

The plague has lingered for far too long

Fragmentation

Kasey Barrett

The first time something felt wrong, he barely noticed—merely a brief glimpse into a muddy puddle. A routine Saturday night led him outside the club for a much-needed cigarette. His ears struggled to adjust to the sudden loss of sound as a brisk air began to cool the layer of perspiration found on his skin. The dawn that came before dusk was filled with drab thunderstorms who left their remnants throughout the city.

As his shaky hands lit his cigarette, shifty eyes found their way to a pool of rainwater. He was met with a look of rage, yet the countenance found in his reflection didn’t coincide with the feelings in his heart.

Was he really making that face?

He quickly averted his gaze in fear of witnessing himself disconnect again. The floaty feeling that filled his body and lungs, a blurred vision accompanied with the obnoxious glare of streetlights, the buzzing world and its refusal to slow down around him. They all gave him a reason to ignore the eerie feeling seeping into his mind.

Fade Jeremy Blackburn

Time is a simple concept hard to fathom There is time for joy and laughter And sadness that feels like a chasm But there’s always happiness after

One week alone feels like ages Or sometimes days to months instead

The fact is everything happens in stages And major events keep time in our head

Still, I cannot help but wonder Whether some things linger And if time could go asunder Into pieces more lifelong

The greatest takeaway to me Is that time cannot be halted But instead taken as a good cup of tea To be eventually exalted

Know simply that love is eternal And time holds no sway Over the feelings internal In time, time will fade away

Coffee

Lily Brennan

When I can remember being a kid, I remember hating coffee. What I can’t ever remember is a time when my dad didn’t love it and me.

Now, as we’ve all gotten older and drinking coffee, sports, and weather is all we can talk to him about My children won’t know a time when I didn’t love it too I have begun to wonder when I will start to put more cream and sugar in my cup?

I have noticed dad puts packet upon packet of sweetness into his. Want some coffee with that cream? No longer tolerant of a strong brew.

Has my father always hated the bitterness? Diluted hard-to-swallow things? Changed a flavor to fit his taste? Has he always hated coffee and me?

I Want to Be a Writer

Cutter Canada

When I was a kid, the teacher would often start the year with a small sheet—a simple sheet for most, asking for basic identity markers. “What is the name you like to go by?” “What is your favorite color?” “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I struggled to answer them all. My name, like most of my identity, is fluid between different groups and people. Touchstones of my personhood were fleeting, and I could not find them no matter how many times I tried. “Cutter.” “Green.” “Writer.”

“Writer?” That is what I had wanted. It’s what I still want. Me, the Filipino kid who had to sit in speech classes most of his life to sound more “proper.” Me, the one who moved so many times that he never properly learned English grammar. Me, the one who always got essays back with a sea of red markings. I am, at my core, probably not a great writer from a grammatical perspective. Who cares about the proper writing techniques? I say that now, ironically, as someone studying English and writing for competitions meant for the best undergrad students in the country. Convention, like me, has a fluid identity that shifts as you delve deeper.

When I speak of myself, I often speak of my mother. I like to imagine that “Writer” is an inherited trait. In many ways, I follow in her footsteps. Our passion for making and reading books fueled us both to go towards library science. But after she was disabled, I watched her ability to love writing and reading be stripped away from her. She is a burning sun in everything she does, and I ambitiously follow after her, wishing I could burn a fraction of her brightness. Watching my mother attempt to raise two children as a lower-class single mother fuels my desire to make “Writer” a reality.

So I write. I write like a child and I write like a scholar. I write like the sun reflects off the skyscrapers on the horizon, burning beacons of something like hope. Little me, the one who thought he would become a “Writer” so naively, refocused himself toward success rather than hope. “Writer” became “Inventor,” then “Biologist,” which became “Marine Biologist,” and finally “Marine Engineer.” I bounced between dreams. I told myself stories of robots I would make and mysterious creatures I would discover. I was at the top of my class in math and science. I was everything I and everyone else had wished for. I was fulfilling the character I wrote. But it never felt right to me.

“Writer” was the dormant monster living underneath the skin it wrote for itself. The world wanted “Engineers,” not authors or storytellers. The world did not care about my ideas about animals

and fantasy. It wanted to hear about my ideas for mechanical innovations. It wanted a different kind of story.

I hid behind my false identity because “Writer” wanted to be kept a secret. “Writer” was scared of everything, especially “Readers.” What happens when they see me? What will they say when they read my bad grammar and half-thought-out words? There is something about me that is scared of being examined too closely. I hate the spotlight in a way that reminds me of how cockroaches flee when the lights are turned on. What was I so scared of? I think I was scared of my hope being taken away from me. I was scared that I would keep peeling back the written pieces of myself until I found that there was nothing but the same pages inside. I was scared to find out that it was me the whole time.

I want to think back to that kid—the one with too many hopes— and I want to thank him. He was far braver than I was in many ways. I could pass it off as innocence, but that would be too simple. He is, no matter how much I doubt it, still alive and writing this right now. He is me, and I am him. We both love animals, and we both love telling stories. Even if “Writer” currently looks like “Librarian” or “Scholar,” I’m happy knowing that I have found myself still as a child. And I can’t wait to see how I grow.

Beach Day Macks Cook

Before we had picked our favorite colors and the tooth fairy had missed half our teeth and the stingray below the dock revealed itself to be a shredded plastic tarp. Before we released our hermit crabs or even caught them, on the first morning at Uncle Don’s condo in Pensacola, we posed for a picture on the dock as the water watched.

After my grandmother’s funeral, I inherited: her diplomas, her jewelry box (to split with my sister), her pink depression glass & a scrapbook full of childhood

photos. I am still standing on that gray dock over that gray water in my nubby pastel pajamas. I am still grasping for my sister’s moving hands.

Perhaps I will start the boat and go over the water.

texas mountain laurels

Macks Cook

I set out to mingle my breath with the breath of the Texas mountain laurels. there were long-necked mourning doves tossing kernels of pollen about like confetti; my neighbor mows a lawn in slow concentric circles—

she does half the lawns on the block, alternating weekly. swallowing syrupy grape Kool-aid air. pushing back her shock-white hair, she doesn’t need to stop for a drink.

oh Macks, why must my blossoms be so sickly-sweet?

a mockingbird has made its nest somewhere in the high branches of our old pecan tree. he has memorized the rapid beeping sound my car makes before I hastily turn back to lock it. despite my forgetting to do this less and less I am still greeted by that same sound now coming from somewhere above the house.

be patient, you smell like being alive.

be patient, you smell like being alive.

‘Tis Folly to be Wise Faith Choate

“It isn’t fair.”

Harlow took a long drag from the cigarette before releasing a steady sigh, letting tendrils of smoke escape her parted lips into the dusky yellow sky. She turned to her friend, who kicked with one boot at the loose gravel he was standing on as he repeated the sentiment.

“It isn’t fair.” As he spoke, his face twisted into the ghost of a snarl. The moonlight emphasized the small scars along his jawline, which might have intimidated Harlow if she didn’t know he’d given them to himself years ago while learning to shave. She let a grin flit across her face as she offered him her half-cigarette.

“You think this is funny,” he accused, snatching the burning end from her hand. He brought it to his lips and inhaled greedily, and Harlow remained silent as she watched him cloak himself in a veil of smoke. He turned his hooded eyes to Harlow for an answer but, seeing her shrug, repeated himself, his voice nettled with frustration. “You think this is funny?”

“Did you know you’re repeating yourself?” asked Harlow in a light tone. Under her foot, she rolled a pebble that had come loose from the asphalt during his visceral expression of rage. After a moment, she kicked it back to him as though they were playing a slow-moving game of soccer. She motioned for the cigarette in return. Her friend scoffed and shoved the glowing stub of the cigarette back into her hand.

“You do think this is funny.”

“I don’t think this is funny,” Harlow said reasonably. “I just think you need to relax, Danny-boy.”

“Relax?” Danny-boy let out a gravelly laugh laced with scorn. “Yeah! Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Right. Because that’s what they keep telling us: ‘Relax, it’s going to be okay, we’ll get through this together.’ Lies. Where are they now?”

“Hmm,” Harlow made a show of checking the beat-up off-brand Rolex that hung loosely around her wrist. “Probably at home watching TV with their families. Andy Griffith is on tonight.”

“You know what I mean. They don’t care about us.”

“I mean, if I could be looking at his chiseled jawline instead of you, I’d be there,” mused Harlow. Her friend collapsed to sit on the car she was leaning against and looked at her with hurt in his eyes. Harlow rolled her eyes and shoved his shoulder gently. “Come on, Daniel, you know I’m joking. Your chiseled jawline is enough for me.”

“I just don’t understand how you can be so blasé about this,” Daniel muttered. He ruffled his dark hair with one hand and gave Harlow a sideways glance through skeins of smoke. “About that–” His voice shook as he thrust a finger toward the ever-darkening sky. Harlow flicked the remains of the cigarette butt away and followed his gesture, turning her gaze to the hazy sky; empty save for the swirling smoke still emanating from the cigarette on the ground and the large, imposing mass that hung among the clouds like a puppet. Harlow gazed at the meteor thoughtfully before speaking again.

“I’m not being blasé, Danny-boy. I’m simply choosing to focus elsewhere. That cigarette was doing pretty well until you interrupted it with your–” She waved a hand vaguely in the air. “–sentiment.”

“Ah, well, yes, forgive me for being concerned about our lives,” Daniel said waspishly. “God knows there are more important things to think about, yeah? Like maybe death. Seeing as it’s our next stop.”

Harlow tugged at one of her bleached-blonde curls, shifting away from the anger that radiated off Daniel in almost palpable waves. “Go to church if you want to think about that. I want to live. I thought that’s why we came out here.”

“We came out here to discuss our fate in a way that’s not reductive or stupidly optimistic, Harlow. And if there was a God up there, he wouldn’t have sent that,” Daniel jabbed another finger at the sky.

“Or maybe he would, and you’re just too optimistic to believe otherwise,” Harlow boosted herself to sit next to Daniel on the cool hood of the car. “Like Noah’s Ark, but quicker.”

Daniel let out another sardonic laugh and shook his head. “Thanks. That helps a lot.”

“I think it would be a bit of a comfort, actually. It’s a more merciful death than a days-long drowning.”

“Yeah, I feel much better about being crushed by a rock—what did the newscaster say? A rock half the size of Dallas crushing us into oblivion.”

“We always said we’d go out with a bang, right?” Harlow raised one eyebrow as she dug into the pocket of her leather jacket for another cigarette. “At least, that’s what I told my parents I’d do. Never thought it’d actually come true.”

Her hand shook as she lit the end. Daniel’s abrasive demeanor softened ever-so slightly as she said this, and he shifted closer to her.

“Where do they think you are now?” he asked after a pause. Harlow lifted the cigarette to her lips and inhaled deeply before handing it to Daniel, who accepted it. She tilted her head to look at the mass in the

sky as she answered.

“My dad said he assumed I’d die by drinking myself into a stupor, or whoring myself out to the wrong guy, so I told him I’d prove him right,” Harlow smiled acridly. “Last day on Earth, and the man still wants to fight over petty grudges. At least I let him win one last time.”

“I’m sorry.” Daniel passed back the cigarette, letting their hands brush as he did so. Harlow paused before taking the stub, and both their hands lingered in the air for a moment before she stuck the cigarette in between her teeth and shrugged.

“It is what it is. At least now I get to hang out with you,” she glanced at Daniel before shifting her gaze back to the sky. “What about you? How’d you get away?”

“Oh, I think mine’s better.” Daniel gave Harlow a rakish grin, though his eyes betrayed an emptiness that bled into his words. “My family didn’t even set up a place for me at dinner. Said they assumed I’d rather spend my final hours with my hippie boyfriend.”

Harlow sat up a bit straighter, her eyes gleaming; for a moment, distracted. “You have a hippie boyfriend?” She nudged Daniel a bit and peered around as though he were hiding him in his pocket.

“You’re my hippie boyfriend,” Daniel corrected. Harlow let out a peal of giddy, infectious laughter.

“I am? I’m afraid I’m not doing a very good job then, am I?” She leaned closer to Daniel and put her chin on his shoulder to whisper into his ear. His skin was cool despite the humid night air. “Would you like me to read your chakras?”

Harlow felt Daniel’s chest rumble as he truly laughed for the first time in days. “Love it,” he said. Harlow scooted even closer to him and let her lips brush his ear as she put on a deep, wobbly baritone.

“Hmm… I’m sensing… many chakras. You seem… very accomplished, based off of the, um,” Harlow paused, swaying on the spot for a moment, before continuing with mirth in her voice. “Red aura of your twenty-third chakra. Your spirit’s alignment with Jupiter shows your gentle nature and upstanding personality.”

“I don’t think you’re very good at this,” Daniel murmured, and Harlow let out another peal of laughter. For a moment, everything felt normal again.

“No, wait, wait! It’s just getting good,” She used one hand to grab loosely at his hair, bringing his head to her eye level. She peered into his ear as though it were a telescope. “Your birth tree signifies to me your perpetuity. You have good things in your future,” Harlow’s voice wavered on the last word, and she couldn’t help but look towards the

sky. She released her hand from Daniel’s hair and sat back heavily. “Good things.” She stared at the mass in the sky and it stared back, uncaring. Daniel followed her gaze and leaned onto his elbows to get a better view.

“It’s definitely closer.” He shivered. Harlow felt the muscles in his arm tense up and she readied herself for another bout of helpless anger, but Daniel only sighed. “We’ve known this day was coming for almost a week. I’ve thought about this countless times. But it never felt real until–” His voice broke as he pointed shakily toward the sky. Harlow pressed her head against his shoulder. She knew what he meant. Around this time last week, she was stressing over a paper she’d now never get a grade on. Around this time last week, she had been busy convincing Daniel to make summer plans. Around this time last week, she could have sworn they’d be immortal – life was a path that stretched infinitely into the horizon. But now she stood staring over its edge.

“It’s not real,” Harlow whispered. Daniel opened his mouth to say something but she shook her head. “Weren’t we built to enjoy life? It’s not real. Let’s go run in a field or spin a merry-go-round or, hell, drink ourselves into a stupor. That thing isn’t real until it’s the only thing I can see.” Harlow drew her eyes away from the clouds and fixated her gaze on Daniel. “And right now, I see you.”

Daniel shook his head. “But it’s so close.” His voice was quiet, resigned. His anger had given way to a despondency that dulled his gaze as he looked away from Harlow back to the sky; the impending danger was almost intoxicating. Harlow reached out a hand, gently turning Daniel’s face away from the object of his obsession—of humanity’s obsession.

“Look around you. Look at what’s closer. Lou’s Records is down the street. Our favorite park is just a mile away. The best path to sneak out of school is right at the treeline,” Harlow gestured towards each landmark with the smoking remains of her cigarette as she spoke. The smoke created a swirling pattern in the sky, intertwining with the faint light of the stars, and Harlow watched as Daniel’s eyes followed the cloud of smog, straying back to their skyward writ of death. She caught his gaze, brought his eyes to hers again. Their foreheads touched as she leaned forward and said quietly, “And I’m right here.”

Daniel remained silent for a moment, leaning into her touch as though it were a shield from his fear. He extended one arm and grasped Harlow’s hand in his calloused palm. She curled her long fingers around his, letting a soft, slow smile ghost across her face. Daniel returned it, and as he did, Harlow could see the gap in his teeth from when he

knocked one out attempting to skateboard two summers ago.

“To hell with it,” Daniel squeezed Harlow’s hand and straightened his back to look at the trees surrounding them, his eyes illuminated with dusky moonlight. “We’re going to live forever.” He gave Harlow a sideways glance. “At least that’s what my hippie boyfriend told me.”

“You know what immortal people do?” Harlow flicked her cigarette away and slid off of the roof of the car. “They race each other to the burger joint. And I win. Obviously.”

Daniel gave her a rakish grin as he stood. “You’re on,” he challenged as he shoved her shoulder lightly before bolting down the street, almost invisible against the midnight backdrop of the trees.

Harlow let out a wild laugh as she sped in pursuit, her boots pounding heavily against the loose gravel road. Pebbles shot out from underneath her feet like stray stars as she ran, and as she steadily caught up with Daniel, he glanced over his shoulder and gave a shout of elated alarm. She reached out a hand and grasped at the end of the jacket that fluttered behind him, the fabric passing easily between her fingers as he whooped with glee and put on another burst of speed. The night was hot, and Harlow let her own jacket fly off her shoulders and onto the road, reveling in the dim flashes of light emanating from the old buildings they passed. The beige-bricked, dingy businesses usually lit up the street with a grimy neon glare, but now the only light in their path was the sporadically-placed security spotlights that alerted the dust to Harlow’s presence. Her lungs burned as she inhaled the hazy night air, and each step that stomped against the ground sent the universe a steady message: I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive. A red-bricked building with a faded blue-and-gold awning slowly grew in their field of vision, and Daniel stopped suddenly, staring at the drawn blinds and dimmed lights through the windows of the shop. Harlow skidded to a stop behind him, following his gaze.

“Oh, come on,” Daniel complained. “We still need to eat during the end of the world.”

Harlow paced up to the windows, cupping one hand around her eyes to peer inside. The tables were pushed neatly against the walls, the lurid neon chairs stacked on top. Just like always. Just like the opener always demanded they be set. Harlow tried the door, jiggling the doorknob as though it were a particularly difficult dog on a leash, but to no avail.

“Maybe I should’ve got down on my knees and begged for a spot at the table,” grumbled Daniel, moving forward to stand next to Harlow. “At least I wouldn’t starve to death before we all die.”

“Who says we’re going to die?” Harlow flicked him upside the chin,

one long fingernail catching on the stubble of his beard. “We just need a really good burger, that’s all.” She surveyed the area for a moment, eyeing the debris that littered the road critically. After a pause, she chose a large chunk of cement from the selection and stood in front of the door again.

“Harlow,” Daniel started.

“Daniel.” Harlow regarded his suspicious expression with one of barely concealed mischief. She glanced between him and the rock, daring him to stop her. He didn’t. Then, in one fluid motion, Harlow brought the rock back before striking it expertly near the doorknob, breaking a hole in the cheap glass. She grinned at Daniel, who looked at her appraisingly, and reached one arm through the cleft to deftly unlock the door. It swung open with a long, low whine. “Closer forgot to set the alarm,” noted Harlow with a faux disdain as she crossed the threshold.

“Shameful.” Daniel followed her into the abandoned structure, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

Harlow’s eyes flashed in the dim light as she took in their surroundings. “Where shall we partake our meal?” she asked, gesturing grandly to the identical tables in front of them.

Daniel made a contemplative noise in the back of his throat and paced in front of the furniture. He squatted on the dusty checkered tile and squinted at one for a few moments before shaking his head and moving to another. A distant rumble shook the rusting window panes, but Daniel’s focus on this momentous decision did not waver. Harlow was fairly confident this was the most thought he’d ever put into any decision he’d ever made. And why should he not? This was an incredibly important call.

“This is it,” Daniel proclaimed, his voice echoing throughout the desolate space. “The table of the gods.”

Harlow turned her attention back to him and found that he had dragged a gaudy green table into the center of the room that looked almost radioactive as it glowed in the moonlight. He flung one flimsy chair towards Harlow (which she dodged) and kicked another towards the table, where it fell on one side.

Harlow gave Daniel a sideways smile. “Beautiful,” she declared in a grandiose voice. With the air of a country club waitress, she used two fingers on each hand to carefully stand her chair upright, and Daniel snorted at her pretentious aura. She drew a spare cigarette from her back pocket and stuck it, unlit, between her teeth before jerking her head towards the stainless-steel kitchen doors. “Come on, you have a burger to make me.”

“I am what is known as the master chef around here,” Daniel brushed past Harlow and used one foot to kick open the doors, which collided with the nearby shelves as they swung open. Harlow followed as he strode into the kitchen and glanced around. “Meaning I have no idea how to use any of this.”

“No time like the present, right?” Harlow raised an eyebrow and inspected the small room. Each wall hosted a steel cabinet, and as she ran one hand across the surface, it came back coated with a thin layer of grime. Whoever had closed the night prior had clearly skipped a few steps. She ducked under the cabinet and groped around for something to wipe the dust off the countertop, emerging with a yellowed rag and an empty bleach bucket. The bucket made a muted clunk as she tossed it into the sink that rested on the other side of the room. As it did, Daniel gave a start and hit his head on the underside of one of the refrigerator’s shelves, which he had stooped over to look in.

“Damn it, Harlow,” he emerged from the fridge, red-cheeked from the cold, and Harlow forced herself to stifle a laugh as she took in his flustered expression beneath his cowlick of windswept hair.

“Find anything good?” asked Harlow. She fidgeted with the stubborn faucet of the sink as she spoke, and she turned her attention away from Daniel for a moment to focus on turning on the water.

“I’ve found us a feast,” Daniel’s voice echoed. He had evidently stuck his head back into the fridge. “Half a jar of pickles, a bottle of ketchup, three pieces of cheese, and…” there was a rustling noise as he pushed through the contents of the icebox. “A week-expired roll of beef. Would it kill them to keep fresh ingredients in here?”

Harlow glanced over her shoulder at him as he held out the item in question. “It’s not like it can make us sick tomorrow.”

She gave him a droll smile and half-heartedly twisted the handle of the faucet again. Without warning, the handle turned sharply and water burst violently from the faucet, reflecting off the awkward angle of the bucket and drenching Harlow in a shower of ice-cold water. She let out a shriek as her shirt stuck to her back like a sheet of ice, the cigarette dropping from her mouth, and Daniel withdrew his head from the fridge again to look at Harlow with alarm. When he saw her, with blonde curls now hanging limp around her face, he crowed with laughter, dropping the bottle he was holding as he clutched one hand to his chest in an expression of mirth.

“I think that’s your best look yet,” he wheezed, stooping down to retrieve the bottle he had dropped. “That’s actually exactly what I needed today. God bless this town’s crappy plumbing—ahh!” He let

out an equally high-pitched shriek as Harlow used the bleach bucket to douse him with water from the still-running faucet.

“And that’s yours,” Harlow used the back of her hand to wipe water from her eyes, trying to get the full picture: Daniel, looking like a wet rat in a leather jacket, still bewilderedly gripping the bottle of ketchup in one soaking-wet hand. Daniel, smiling. She smiled, too. Seeing her expression, Daniel lunged forward, reaching for the bucket, but he slipped in the puddles of water covering the floor and careened across the tile, flapping his arms like a baby bird to keep his balance. He grasped the edge of the sink to stand up straight and reached for Harlow, but she pushed herself away at the last moment and slid to the other side of the room where she doubled over with laughter. They continued like this for a while, both slipping and sliding across the nowmuddied floor in a sort of stilted, wild dance, the ingredients for their meal lay forgotten. Then, the weak panes of the building shook, and Harlow reached one hand out to steady herself and check her watch. They were running out of time – their curfew was approaching, after all.

“I bet I can spin the merry-go-round at the park faster than you can,” challenged Harlow, turning to face Daniel again.

“And I bet I can stay on it longer,” Daniel retorted. He took a few careful steps towards a cabinet and rooted through it for a moment before bringing out a half-sleeve of hamburger buns. “Dinner on the road?”

Harlow reached into the bag Daniel held out and stuck half a bun in her mouth. “It’ll only slow you down,” she said around the mouthful.

“You wish,” Daniel slid past her and through the swinging kitchen doors, visibly relaxing once his feet hit dry ground. He marched past his table of the gods and Harlow followed, devouring the stale bread as though it were ambrosia. The pair sauntered through the empty doorframe, careful not to step on the glass shards that now littered the floor, and into the balmy night air. Though Daniel’s legs were much longer than Harlow’s, they fell into stride almost immediately as Daniel held the bag of hamburger buns between them. The sky—now a deep, jet black—hovered above them, and Harlow determinedly kept her gaze fixed on the treeline, refusing to look up and acknowledge it. The forest bordering the road was just a wisp of a shadow against the backdrop of night, giving the faint lights that emanated from the buildings a lonely, ethereal feel.

“You know, the last time I saw it this dark was on my family’s camping trip in the third grade,” said Daniel after a while. “I was convinced the world was going to end when we turned off our

flashlights.”

“Did it?”

Harlow saw Daniel’s eyes flick up towards the sky before settling on her again.

“Almost,” his expression shifted into a childish moodiness as he groused, “My brother stole my flashlight and made me walk to my tent in the dark. Scared the hell out of me.”

“That sounds like a close call,” Harlow sympathized with a wry smile. “I’ll be sure to bring you a night light next time we go camping.” She dug her cigarette lighter out of her pocket, flicking it on in one smooth motion. The small flame danced in the darkness and accentuated their features with an Elysian glow. “Does this make you feel better?”

Daniel good-naturedly shoved her with his shoulder. “I’m no more scared of the dark than you are,” he said.

Harlow grinned at him but made no move to put the lighter away. They walked down the road with Harlow’s arm outstretched, holding the lighter in front of them as though the ember was a guide.

As they continued on, the indistinct shouts of revelers slowly became audible, and Harlow turned to Daniel with her eyebrows raised.

“Sounds like the kids are having a party.” she gestured to the orange glow radiating from the playground in the distance.

“Sounds like fun.” Daniel broke stride with Harlow to pick up his pace, rotating on his heels so he faced her as he walked backward. He put on a pensive expression and stroked his chin with one hand. “Should we though? Seems pretty hippie to me.”

“Then I say onward.” Harlow waved her lighter in an arc over her head towards the park as though she were leading a cavalry charge.

Daniel mirrored her as he swung the mostly-empty bag of bread above his head in response. He used his free hand to grab Harlow’s and broke into a sprint, pulling her along with him. Though her legs ached a dull, tired pain, she ran with him, joining in the spirit of the approaching revelers as she whooped and laughed and yelled empty, defiant words into the sky. She heard Daniel’s breathless baritone join her, saw him give the finger to the sky as he ran, and they steadily became engulfed in a crowd of people as they neared the park. Immense bonfires, so like their creators in their intransigence against the face of fate, illuminated the undulating throng of people as they swayed in time to a silent song. The flames cast sharp, shifting shadows against the playground equipment, painting their surroundings in a hazy carnelian light. Harlow plucked a half-full bottle of vodka from the grass and took

a swig, wincing as the bitter concoction hit her throat, and extended it to Daniel, who shouted something incomprehensible amongst the revelry as he accepted her offering. Harlow could feel bodies – real, alive bodies – all around her as they swayed and wobbled through a sort of Bacchanalian waltz, accompanied only by the indistinct clamor of the crowd as each person took up their grievances or blessings with the guest of the vivid ebony sky. She danced their recondite dance, threw both arms up in the air, and screamed a sentiment only she could hear, that only she would ever hear.

“I’m alive!” she turned to Daniel, caught hold of his hand, and raised it into the air. “I’m alive!” She yelled again, and Daniel’s response was lost amongst the babel of voices all around them.

Harlow pushed through the crowd, tugging Daniel alongside her, and continued to proffer her statement though no one, absorbed in their debauchery, heard her. They traversed towards the edge of the congregation, weaving between staggering drunks and intimate, quavering clusters of total strangers gathering together one last time, before finally breaking free of the throng. They made their way towards the coveted merry-go-round, collapsing onto the warm metal surface in a euphoric exhaustion. Harlow lay flat against the structure and Daniel joined her, neither having much energy to speak. Daniel passed the vodka bottle back to Harlow, and she took it gratefully. They did this, passing the quickly diminishing bottle back and forth between themselves in a comfortable silence, just as they had always done. As they did, silver slivers of stars began to emerge from the inky night sky, and Harlow raised one hand to point.

“We can see the stars again,” she whispered. Daniel shifted closer to her to get a better view, and she felt a smile ghost across his face. “I wonder if they know we’re immortal too.”

“They do,” said Daniel drowsily. “That’s why they’ve never come down before.”

“Cowards,” Harlow mumbled. She gestured a vaguely challenging motion at the sky as if to prove herself superior to it. As if in response, a roaring, earth-shaking crash interrupted her thoughts. She sat up in time for a tempestuous, explosive shockwave of wind to buffet their safe haven, sending the creaking merry-go-round into a rapid spin.

The joints of the structure let off a squealing whine in protest, but neither Harlow nor Daniel made a move to stop it. Daniel used a rusted handle to pull himself into a sitting position as the earth shuddered around them, using his other hand to grab Harlow’s again. She could see a wall of bright fire in the distance. It engulfed everything in its

path. Their sanctuary continued its path in a harried pirouette, blurring their surroundings until the stars and flames intertwined in a violent embrace. The failing earth fractured all around them, but Harlow fixated her gaze on Daniel. The air was getting hotter. She could hear the shrieks of animals betrayed by their homes.

She put her forehead against Daniel’s. “I see you.”

“I see you.”

Harlow closed her eyes.

Manhattan cocktail

Thao Dinh

His favorite is gin and tonic, not whiskey

But it’ll do

For tonight

After elongated days of wrestling with fifth graders

His limbs fall off

His mind melts away

Clocked out, he’s by himself

A lone kitchen, silence, and haze

I don’t drink often

My alcohol tolerance is less than that of a ten-year-old

I’m not scared of getting drunk

But getting drunk with the wrong people

Who prey on my vulnerability

Who are quick to take advantage

It almost seems illogical

For this battered heart to take a full leap of faith and trust

It almost never happens

For this insomniac to fall asleep soundly in the presence of anyone

It is almost impossible

For this purposeful planner to allocate many hours of uncertain waiting time

It is almost ridiculous

For this insecure chameleon to tear down walls and pour all her raw thoughts

Into his Manhattan cocktail, while he leans on the counter

Getting carried away in anthropologic anecdotes

Losing count of the hours, seeping smoothly like April showers

Bright brown eyes of honey as a calming overcoat

By the curly locks glazing his Greek face, she traces a trail

Wondering if she could reclaim her belief in fairytales

And hoping one late night she could taste his Manhattan cocktail.

D I S T R A C T E D

Thao Dinh

Clarity clank of crystals

We are ephemeral specks of dust

Catching a glimpse of the universe

Flashing through our earthy eyes

Standing in awe of vast valleys and scattered skies of sunset

Yet we get caught endlessly trivially on onomatopoeia.

Copenhagen Central Station

Thao Dinh

A parade of doves unfold their wings, simultaneously flying up the rainy sky arching over the ancient towers of the grand Københavns Hovedbanegård, typically known as the Copenhagen Central train station. It’s another afternoon of typical Denmark weather. Gushing gray fall winds howled at the sturdy ash-red bricks of the station’s entrance, inviting hundreds of hurried visitors to board their next adventure. Still, the facade gives off the feeling of a rusty building withstanding the flow of time. Given that it was built in the cold December of 1911, it knows things you don’t even think of. The repetitive columns of the station’s entrance are aligned so precisely, one could almost be hypnotized by its classical symmetry. If one day, this bustling station got abandoned, the massive exterior would still be as welcoming as it was intimidating, as if one can be transported to a different world once they stepped in.

In a sense, that is true. Most people who come here have somewhere to be and someone to meet. It’s a train station—you arrive to depart. Only a few pause and enjoy people-watching, which is rewarding if you can spare a bite of your luxurious time.

There is constant sensory stimulation from all directions. The current of walking people intertwine, each with their own pace and destination, but harmonize beautifully like ballroom dancers in this enormous hall of an art nouveau-styled station. Multi-lingual conversations, public train robotic announcements, and fast pitter-patters dragging luggage across the tiled floor blend into a mixture of exciting white noise, never dying down. It’s not rare to find a loving couple exchanging a warm kiss or friends hugging and laughing for a reunion in the middle of streamlined foot traffic. Light is abundant, pouring down from an opaque ceiling stretching the entire length of the station’s spine. Standing inside, I feel like a small shrimp engulfed by a blue whale, now gazing up at its bare wooden ribs. The humidity of the wet air only makes my imagination more convincing. Tracing down the arches, I lose count of the identical faux corridors holding up the triforium, partly reminding me of Romanesque churches. Two heavy chandeliers hang from the ceiling, dripping golden upside-down candle-like light to add a magical illumination in midair. Along the wall hang more giant oval light bulbs, two on each side of a metal arch bending down from the ceiling, sandwiching alternative flags of Denmark and Ukraine. It must be vital to boast diplomatic representation and support in public spaces.

Further down, bright, artificial light from busy 7-11s and Starbucks attracts travelers like how neon light attracts bugs. The sweet smell of creamy, toasted Danish pastry and steaming, roasted coffee penetrates through crowds, mesmerizing any passers-by after a long day at work or at school. Several guests pop in then out in a minute, swiping their cards and grabbing a French

hotdog as if programmed to do so. Some others circle around the store, studying the inflated prices on monotone umbrellas to fight the upcoming freezing thunderstorms. A black-and-white city dove boldly pecks at my black-and-white Nikes; I must have sat still for so long that it mistook me for a statue. The world of the train station moves rapidly around me, I cannot keep sight of a single person for too long before they speed away. On one of the big promotional banners high up, I read: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop to look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Rotterdam at Dusk Thao Dinh

Ghosts

Leah Dooling

Rough round scars trace my breasts

My hair falls washed and fresh

There are curvatures in my stomach

Where my left rib sticks out and the rest softens

I daydream of myself in vanity

In sleep and wakefulness

In bathroom mirrors and closed eyes

Where the light bounces

Traced back to the sky

Heavenly creation

I long to explore myself again In what is new and unknown

I dream that I will receive my appearance

Not as what I see in the mirror

But in the delivery of a photograph

What captures, what others see, The thought that most haunts me.

Bedtime Story

Leah Dooling

You are not in a garden, this is only a dream That I have about you And you have about me.

It starts with a perfect ending

Soil sticky and sweet like toffee At the foot of an altar

Dusted in summer snow

Are your eyes of glass You can

Finally See So clearly

At last!

In this world you love me When the fog of midnight Has finally set

And the flowers of the garden can be Untrenched

Though you And I And this Are fiction. After all, nothing can grow underneath The flower that is I.

Cicada’s Song Kim Granados

I’m sitting with my friend outside in the unpleasant sauna of humidity that is an August afternoon in San Antonio. It permeates the air with a thick tinge which makes it feel as if you’re swimming rather than breathing. A bead of sweat forms at my temple and begins its journey down the slope of my face, but I am too focused on typing on my laptop to flick it away. It feels like a tear sliding down my cheek. Or the way a raindrop will slide against the slick plane of a car window and be traced after by a roaming finger. Beyond us, the cicadas are screaming so loudly and incessantly that it creates a palpable hum in the air.

Cicadas. They’re interesting to look at. Bulbous eyes mounted atop a thick head with twitching antennae and a fat torso. Unlike an elegant butterfly or charming ladybug, they’re not known to be exceptionally beautiful. Their wings are something to behold, though. Thin and delicate, fine lines trace the edges of their transparent appendages. Much like stained glass with its ornate patterning, the wings are structured through a series of lines and sections that weave together to create a thin layer of film, which is miraculously strong enough to support flight. Depictions of winged fairies have been modeled after these intricate designs. I like the irony of these airy little mythical beings sharing a resemblance to these thick-bodied, clumsy insects.

The cicadas continue to roar in my ears, surging louder than the lofi playlist I have going in the background in an attempt to focus. It’s nature’s symphony. Just as classes begin and we ease ourselves back into the routine of academics and work, it’s the echoes of a dying season giving way to cooler days and the crunch of leaves underfoot. As much as I don’t like summer and would rather trade in the sweat-drenched dog days for hot drinks and knit sweaters, there’s a certain melancholic chord that strikes within the song of these insects. Like they’re begging to be heard, to share the nostalgia of sunkissed memories.

Recollections of these days bring me back to stress-free days when my fingers tapped against a keyboard without the dreadful pressure of a deadline hovering over my shoulder. The sweet mangoflavored popsicles would inevitably drip down to my fingers and make a sticky mess. Children at play skinned their knees and drank out of gardening hoses. The ice cream truck’s timeless tune echoed in the distance. Charcoal and barbeque wafted out of neighbor’s backyards to tantalizingly hang in the air. Lawn mowers growled and boys that were paid to push them across green expanses. Easy

laughter during picnics with friends by the sparkling lake to view the most picturesque sunsets. (An aside: I have a theory that winter claims the most lovely sunrises while summer produces the most gorgeous sunsets). The creaks and pops of the rickety porch swing that has become a staple of my time spent back at home, curled up with a new book. In all these glimpses of summertime, the cicadas would be there. Ceaseless. Oh, these peculiar insects and their affiliations with this season. A season that has begun to extend into the domain of others as the planet heats up. The climate is changing and so are we. Dying in the heat. Wilting away. Maybe the cicadas can sense it. Is this why they’re so loud? Maybe they’re calling us, giving us a chance to fix things. Hopefully.

Plenty of people have told me that they find the thundering of cicadas to be annoying. I might have thought so too, before. But I remember watching a clip about the life of a cicada and now it’s different. Think about it. What if you had been hatched from an egg, only to spend the first seventeen years of your life burrowed underground, stolen from the sun? Once you are able to claw out of your imprisonment, you make a scuttling beeline toward the trees that tower above you under the pale eyes of the moon. Or in more darkness, if on an overcast night. Thousands of other freshly risen cicadas swarm around you, pressing in on all sides, sweeping you up in this grand frenzy. Now it’s time to shed the external skeleton, to be soft and vulnerable in this brand new world. Freshly molted wings glisten in the moonlight to dry before dawn. Then you’re given only six weeks to live. Wouldn’t you scream at the top of your lungs, vying for another soul to hear your call?

Let the cicadas sing.

We should be listening.

Sunset Puddle

Thao Dinh

Field of Envy

Madeline Freeman

indifference is a luxury that paints me a sad shade of green so different from the enchanting field where I watched you walk effortlessly

with glory resting on your shoulders and exquisite power lifting your chin like the grass had grown for you and the world was made for you

I long to be of that other shade intentional splendor over the morning dew as dreamy and distant as the heat I cannot reach but I imagine

keeps you warm and untroubled oh I imagine a lot of things all frightening except when I am out of the picture because someone

painted serenity at your side and I just hate that I love to think of the flowers smiling up at you and the peace you must feel.

serial Kim Granados

cw: graphic violence cut me

tear me apart, grind my bones; slice down to the pale bone marrow.

rupture the glistening tendons, muscle, sinew; a clean butcher’s cut should do.

slice through carve up what was once home; gory fragments, pieces, particles.

sensationalize me penetrate the carnage; i cannot recall a time when I was whole.

Fairies in Lampposts Arden Haggard

Every night before dinner, my partner and I go out onto our balcony to talk about our days and unwind. I’ve been on a pasta kick, so lately we’ve been making some combination of a pasta jam-packed with additions like tomatoes and feta cheese and basil and olives, and a vegetable like cauliflower, or sweet potato fries, or honey-roasted carrots with cracked pepper, or a salad of some sort. As we finish, we get dinner, prepped in such a way that it is ready for us to plate and eat as soon as we come back inside from our unwind-and-debrief sunset sesh on the balcony.

I keep the vegetables in the oven, which is still warm even after being turned off, and I put the lid on the pasta dish to keep the moisture inside. I set out two bowls next to the stove, and two forks and napkins on our table. I put two empty glasses next to the fridge to fill with water once we come back inside. I think it’s easier to grab water after we come back inside because the condensation from the ice water makes the glasses slippery and messy. I do set out coasters for our drinks on the table though.

The balcony chairs rock, and we have a little glass table to put our things on, most often a book that one of us is reading. We can still hear the music from the record player inside as we talk and watch the sunset. As the sun goes down completely and it gets dark, the lamppost on the road below us appears to have sparks—or something —dancing around it. The light in the lamppost is broken, so we don’t know what these little dancing sparks are, but we’ve started to call them our little lamppost fairies. Every time we see one of our fairies, no matter where we are in the conversation, we stop and point them out and watch them as they dance and sometimes fall, floating and spiraling, to the ground. We watch the sunset, and chat about our days as the little lamppost fairies dance and sing.

We have our routine that we follow, giving us a chance to slow down and catch up with each other after our busy days. Even though the steps are the same, the little moments that fall in between and during these steps are different every day. And that, I think, is what I love the most about people as we go about our days, and the ways that we communicate with each other. Our routines can keep us cozy rather than monotonous, as we slow down and find magic in everyday chores. We find fairies in lampposts, and turn the mundane into a dream.

Cowboy Abby Jackson

Not Even Happiness

Bailey Judis

A whisper of charcoal lace across a carpet of fallen leaves their wrinkled skin golden in the afterlife. Drip, drip, each droplet a diamond prism. But we don’t speak of the widow’s sadness in missing her lover.

She is only shadow of the sun, a letter never sent, lost in the waves.

We admire sadness, in temples, in tombs, but forbid it from ever entering our hallowed walls.

Never let sadness take root. If you never plant the seed, nothing can grow.

Not even happiness.

She Was Cold

William Hinson

She was cold. Colder than she had ever been before. It had been three days, four hours, and thirty-seven minutes since the ship lost power. No power meant no heat, no water, no food, and no air.

The institute trained her for situations just like this. She rationed her food and water. To conserve oxygen, she slept as much as she could and moved as little as possible. She turned off the heat to save what little backup power she had, just in case she needed to use the distress lights. She needed to hold onto her hope that she would be saved, that she would make it home. But when all that’s keeping you alive is a false hope, you’ll be dead soon enough.

The computer estimated she had two more days until she ran out of air.

Space is a lonely place. They say no one can hear you scream; she learned no one can hear you cry either. Crying was stupid. Tears are a waste of water, and air was limited enough without her hyperventilating. But she couldn’t help it. She cried because it was the only thing left to do.

She looked up out of the window, out into the infinite blackness. Out there, no one cared about whether she had food, whether she had water. No one cared whether she had the oxygen to breathe. No, there was no one out there to care. But what if? What if someone was out there? Maybe she could be saved. Maybe she wasn’t alone after all.

She saw something, something like nothing she had ever seen before. Flashes of metal, polished like a mirror and shaped like a sphere, filled her view. She didn’t believe her own eyes at first; it was so strange. There were no windows, no doors, no signs of life.

Could it be an asteroid? A block of solid iron eroded into a sphere by space dust, like a pebble polished in a river. Or maybe her eyes were just playing tricks on her. Could she have been dreaming? But no, the movements are too random to be a natural object, the shape too perfect. It felt too real to be a dream, too true to be a trick. Like a watch washed up onto the shore, she knew someone must have made it, and someone must be driving it.

She stood up too quickly, feeling dizzy after laying down for at least a day. The malnutrition didn’t help; her legs were weak and she fell to her knees. But she needed to reach the distress button. She needed the other ship to see her. All of this pain, the freezing temperatures, the hunger, they were all to conserve power for this very moment. Maybe her hope wasn’t so false after all. She couldn’t let it all go to waste. She crawled, slowly, towards the other end of the ship.

But what if there really isn’t anyone out there? What if the ship she saw wasn’t even real? Could she really trust her senses after spending so much time alone without food or water? Did she really want to use the last of her power to signal this unknown ship? The last of her strength to crawl towards

this false hope? She was smarter than that, wasn’t she?

Even if the ship was real, who’s to say that whoever’s inside would even want to help her? It couldn’t have been human, the shape too strange, the design too alien. Pictures of giant spiders and little green men filled her mind as she approached the distress switch. If she flipped it, it could be the end for her.

But it was also her last chance. Right outside of that window was the only possibility of her making it out alive. Not turning on the lights would be condemning herself to a cold, slow death. Something had to be done, and one way or another this had to end. She was cold, and little green men seemed better than freezing to death. She made up her mind, and she pulled the switch.

Her ship lit up with what seemed like the brightness of a thousand suns. For a brief second, she couldn’t see a thing.

Her eyes hadn’t seen artificial light in days and the bright distress signals blinded her. But as her eyes began to adjust, she looked out the window and began to weep.

There was no ship outside her window. She was once again looking out into the infinite blackness she now knew all too well. There was no one out there. There was never anyone out there. She scolded herself for being so stupid as to believe that she had any hope at all. She cursed herself, cursed the institute, cursed the God she didn’t believe in, cursed whatever Cartesian demon fooled her into believing she would be saved. She was cold, and now she was as good as dead.

Then she heard a knock. Her crying stopped. Had she imagined this noise, just as she had imagined the ship? She no longer trusted her own mind. Oxygen loss can play with your thoughts, and she was almost out of air.

She heard another knock. Her sorrow turned to anger. She hated her own mind for playing with her, for giving her false hope. She began to cry again. She just wanted it all to be over, she wanted it to end. This ship would be her end, and she wished she had never stepped aboard. Why had she agreed to travel so very far into the unknown?

Another knock. This time it broke her. She couldn’t take it anymore. She just wanted it to be over. She needed it to be over. She started heading back to the other side of the ship, to the airlock. Either she would open the door and be greeted by her saviors, or she would walk out alone into the dark blackness of space. Either way, this would all be over.

The knocking continued as she passed by her spacesuit. Right by her oxygen tank, her boots, and her lifeline. She didn’t even spare them a glance. Whatever happened when she opened that door, she did not want any of it. Any outcome that required those tools was not an outcome she wanted to live to see. Whatever happened, it would be over.

When she got to the airlock, she took one more look out the window.

Still, nothing, but she didn’t care. When that door opened, she would be saved. It would be over. No matter what, she would leave the place she had called her home for the past six months. That home had become her prison, and it was time to escape. She took a deep breath, and pressed the small red button.

She was cold. It had been three days, five hours, and fourteen minutes since the ship lost power. The airlocked opened up and she walked into the bleak darkness in front of her. White light blinded her vision.

It was over, and she was no longer cold.

Ode to the Fallen Ryann Moos

Clipped wings have no use in the sky so you hit the ground running flesh meets dry land and feet find purpose in lacerations how far will you make it?

No risk, no reward yet the rewards seem fleeting stifled by must-dos, know-hows, and secrets trip over your own blood; laugh at the absurdity how much can you take?

Lacerations mature into calluses even Achilles takes heed ‘coat your heel in ambition, boy, then it won’t bruise’ the clock’s hands will never still how long will you last?

‘Clip my wings; watch how I still fly’ restraint gives in to rejuvenation no longer a fool; finally a spectacle they applaud your resilience take a bow, then, the curtains are still drawn.

The Gemini Complex Ryann Moos

I may be a master of accidental deception who stumbles without consequence and screams without sound.

Or maybe a disguised vigilante who works alongside the shadows that accompany me, a notorious void, infamously shrouded in obscurity.

Or maybe even a muted monstrosity lurking, stalking, preparing to pounce and bearing my fangs to a faceless crowd, incapable of reaction.

But within myself, I recognize that my soul is far too large for my body to grasp onto. My being is a fusion of the stars, the planets, the galaxy; there is so much to know, too much to know. Why can’t anybody see it?

To be stripped of the vibrancy your mother once praised is a perplexing endeavor, because where does the pride run off to? Can it still remain within the mother, within the child?

It is a horrific affair to watch said pride take flight and realize its feeble wings cannot bear to hold its own weight, and they can only take it so far.

So, then, when it inevitably falls flat, almost perfectly between the space that your mother’s feet and your own have created, you cannot help but to look up, to finally see each other for the first time, and wonder who truly created this master of accidental deception, this disguised vigilante, this muted monstrosity.

Deja Vu Colin Houston

As Anders Koss took his first steps into a brand new world unseen by humanity, he was overcome with deja vu. Or at least, that’s the only way he could think to describe it, but this wasn’t just a simple moment of thinking he’d done or said something before despite it being the first time. This was completely overwhelming. A forest of trees stood tall above the light blue grass and warm-colored flowers of the field they’d landed in, navy blue leaves swaying in the wind and bathed in the sunset tones of the sky despite it being midday. It was all completely alien, but every fiber of Anders’ being was screaming that he had been here before.

He was broken out of his thoughts by a voice in his earpiece.

“Koss, do you copy? Any particular reason you’re just standing on the steps not saying anything?”

“Sorry! Sorry, Jason! Fuck, I just…” Anders said, unable to finish his sentence.

“Yeah, I get it man. It’s a lot to take in for me too, and I’m not even out there yet. Just making sure you didn’t have a heart attack or something.”

Anders didn’t know how to explain that it was more complicated than that, but he resolved to try later. Jason was his best friend, and his commander. He deserved to know. But not now. There were more important matters to attend to, like perhaps doing his job as the CoCommander of this crew. They were investigating a planet for intelligent life, for Christ’s sake.

Anders pulled an oxygen monitor out of the pocket of his suit. After a moment of pointing it out towards the forest, it returned the result which had already been roughly estimated by the ISEO; this planet, code-named 18 RM b, had roughly the same oxygen level as Earth. Additionally, judging by the readings on the touchscreen interface on the wrist of his suit, the current ambient temperature was 19.8 °C. Preliminary scans indicated that the current season here was roughly analogous to Earth’s spring season, so that seemed about right. The interface would take longer to read the gravity level, but by jumping once on the steps he deduced that the gravity was pretty close to that of Earth. The crew would not be taking off their suits anytime soon, as catching or spreading disease was still a threat, but this planet seemed completely livable for humans. It was also obviously livable for plants, along with some insects and bird-like animals Anders could see flying around, so the prospect of intelligent life existing here was good.

“Alright Jason, the coast is clear and initial readings are lining up

with ISEO projections. I think the rest of the crew is clear to exit the ship.”

“Copy that. Get down off the steps and we’ll start filing out.”

Anders walked down the steps and stepped foot onto the field, at which point the overwhelming deja vu intensified. The sight of the beautiful pinks and reds and maroons of the flowers surrounding him felt as familiar as the placemat in front of his flat in Oslo, so much so that he could very clearly picture exactly what it would smell like if he wasn’t wearing a suit. His view of the trees also was cause for inexplicable nostalgia, the dark brown trunks leading up to vibrant blue leaves feeling like something he’d looked up at a thousand times before. It couldn’t be from his life on Earth; the scenery here was nothing like the cities he knew so well. He’d been in nature, sure, but not so much that it would make him feel nostalgic over a forest that’s not even the same color as the ones he was familiar with. He was so caught up in these thoughts that he had to remind himself to step out of the way so that his fellow astronauts could also get off the ship.

After a couple of minutes, his three crewmates came down the steps. There were a dozen more still in orbit monitoring the mission who were mostly in communication with Jason, but these three plus Anders were the lucky few on the International Space Exploration Organization’s RM Mission who got to set foot on the planet first. First out of the ship was Commander Jason Albright, then mission specialist Madison Jennings, and finally payload specialist Imani Mikal. All three seemed just as awestruck as Anders was, though it was a bit hard to tell through their helmets, but there was no time to stand around.

“Alright y’all,” Jason said, “All of you know what to do but I’ll repeat it for the record. All of us will be entering the forest in front of us in a group, at which point we will split up into groups of two. Imani and I will go west, Madison and Anders will go east. Our cameras and mics should cover us when it comes to recording evidence of complex animal life for now, but all of us should be collecting samples of plant life or anything that looks artificial. It is currently 1200 hours UTC, everyone needs to be back at the ship by 1400 hours.”

With that spiel out of the way, Jason led the crew into the forest. Anders and Madison split east, switching their communication system to proximity mode so that the two groups would only overhear each other if they manually deemed it necessary.

As the two of them walked between the trees collecting samples of various plants and insects, Anders’ inexplicable deja vu only intensified, and he wondered if he should tell Madison about it. The two were on good terms, bonded by living in close quarters on this mission, but it wasn’t a

bond like he had with Jason forged by over a decade of training together at the ISEO. Still, he had come to know Madison as a deeply empathetic and trustworthy person despite her cold British delivery, but he also figured that now may not be the best time to talk about it.

However, before he got the chance to decide, they stumbled upon something that killed any chance of him broaching the subject.

“Holy shit,” Madison said.

They had walked through an opening in the trees and found a very large clearing, only this time it was not occupied by just flowers and grass. It was occupied by a town. It seemed to be abandoned, as there was nobody there and some of the surrounding nature had started to take over, but there was no mistaking it. Quaint houses and small buildings, made of varying combinations of stone, light-colored bricks, and the wood from the surrounding trees, were arranged in neat blocks not unlike a town in ancient Rome.

Anders was paralyzed in awe. Madison almost was too, but with a shaking hand she managed to press the button on her wrist interface to contact Jason and Imani. “Jason, Jason, oh my fucking God, Jason do you copy?”

“Uh, yeah I copy, what’s going on? Are you in trouble?”

“Code purple, Jason. Clear evidence of intelligent life. A town, Jason! A fucking abandoned town!”

“Holy shit, are you serious?”

Imani’s voice came in now. “Koss, are you with her too or did you split up? Are you both seeing this?”

Seeing this town was like seeing the home he lived in in Arendal when he was a teenager. Many good and bad feelings arose, but it was impossible to deny his connection to this place. What the fuck was going on?

Imani’s voice came in again. “Anders, are you there?”

He finally regained his composure enough to respond. “Yeah. I’m here. I see it.” Anders pressed a button on his wrist interface to share his helmet’s camera footage with the rest of the crew, prompting Madison to curse herself for not thinking of that.

“You lucky bastards,” Jason said. “Ok, keep sharing your camera Anders, we’ll keep searching west. Y’all look through that town immediately.”

At that, Jason stopped talking, allowing Madison and Anders to walk towards the cobblestone road of the town. The overgrown indigo bushes and young trees that had begun to sprout suggested that this town had been abandoned for maybe a few years, but botanical research on this

planet would need to be conducted to say for sure.

“This architecture is extraordinary,” Madison observed, correctly. The houses were simplistic but built in interesting ways. Some were built with glass domes for roofs, others had a triangular base with canopyshaped tops, some were cylindrical, and some looked like standard small Earth-like homes. Anders felt a warm connection to these odd designs, particularly the ones with glass domes. Madison wanted to search some of the houses, but Anders considered it an invasion of privacy and Madison shamefully agreed.

When they reached the intersection where the road connected with what appeared to be the main street, they found a building on the corner that was different from the houses. It seemed to be a corner store, judging by its structure and the large windows in front. Anders noticed a somewhat faded sign above the door that read, “Shop”, confirming his assumption. He motioned for Madison to come with him inside—

Wait a second.

Anders looked at the sign again. It said “Shop” in a language he’d never seen before, and that he should not have been able to read. And he couldn’t exactly read it. But it said “Shop”, he was absolutely sure of it.

If the deja vu was weird, this was insane. This was a topic for another time.

“Nothing. Let’s go in here.”

They searched the corner store before moving onto other downtown buildings, and it was mostly what would be expected of a normal town. The corner store had seemingly been ransacked, along with two libraries they found. There were banks, diners, a fitness center, and a religious site that was in particularly bad condition among other things. One thing that was notable was that the technology was fairly advanced, probably comparable to what Earth had in the Twenty-Third Century, meaning that large cities, if they existed, could be more advanced than Earth. One thing that never changed, though, was that Anders could read every single sign.

When they got to the edge of the town, they found an engraved stone sign next to the road which read, “Welcome to Kofnum”. He wasn’t exactly sure how the town name would translate to English, but he could enunciate it at least. They noticed that the clearing extended farther, and beyond the town there was something odd. There was a large metal fence with a locked gate surrounding a mostly empty field, about half a kilometer in perimeter, and a large stone statue in the center of it. He didn’t know why, but there was something deeply unnerving about this

“What’s the matter, Anders?”

field.

“Hey Madison, if you want to do some breaking and entering, this field is a good target,” Anders said. “It looks like there’s a statue. Maybe it depicts whatever the intelligent species is here.”

“On it.” Madison pulled a phaser out of her suit and fired at the lock on the gate, evaporating it instantly.

Anders led the way through the gate and to the statue in the center. As he walked through the overgrown grass and weeds, he felt again that something was wrong here. As they got close to the statue, its features became more identifiable. The person depicted was very similar to a human, but had very thin hair on its head, large round eyes, a slightly longer nose, and ears that were more flat on the sides of its head. It seemed to be someone on the more feminine side, but it was hard to be sure. They were wearing royal garb and stabbing a sword into the ground with one hand with the other on their hip, wearing an intimidating expression. The pedestal of the statue had a short and large engraved inscription which read, “Glory to Moridia.”

The name Moridia gave Anders a sinking feeling in his stomach. There was something very bad about this. Madison, on the other hand, was ecstatic. “Holy shit, Anders,” she said. “For thousands of years we’ve wondered what aliens might look like and it’s just… here! Right in front of us!”

Anders tried to quell his unease. “Yeah. It’s pretty unbelievable.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, but…” Anders paused to gather his thoughts. “We should mark this field for excavation.”

“Woah! Okay, Mr. Don’t Break Into the Houses, what got into you?”

“I don’t know,” Anders said. “But there’s something weird about this place.”

“I mean, alright, you’re the boss.”

Anders contacted Jason to inform him of the coordinates to mark for excavation before shutting off his camera. “We should probably get going. It’s only thirty minutes until we need to be back at the ship.”

As they walked back, collecting more samples as they went, Anders tried to process everything, but it was too much to process on his own. He didn’t care if Madison and Imani were present too, but he needed to talk to Jason.

Once the crew had re-boarded the ship, they gathered around the meeting table to discuss their findings. “Alright, me and Imani found a bunch of plants and bugs,” Jason said. “We also recorded an animal about

as large as a raccoon, so we can go over the footage later. I didn’t get a good look at it though.”

Imani chimed in, “The wildlife here seems rather elusive. I was able to find a lot of evidence of larger animals through footprints and droppings, but the creature Jason mentioned is the only one we actually saw.”

Jason took a sip of his coffee. “So, yeah, not that interesting, at least not compared to what y’all found. Please talk about the town now.”

Anders and Madison described the various buildings they found and the level of tech, as well as the statue. Most were things that Jason and Imani had already seen or heard about, so it was mostly just a review.

“So wait,” Jason said, “Anders, why did you mark that field for excavation? What if it’s a tomb or something?”

Anders decided that now would be as good a time as any to confess what was going on with him. He explained everything he could, from the feeling of familiarity he had from the moment he got here, to his ability to read the signs, to the pit in his stomach when he and Madison approached the statue. He particularly emphasized his discomfort related to the name Moridia, and that he had absolutely no idea what the reason was for any of this.

“Wow,” Jason said. “Just… wow. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Madison asked incredulously.

“You’re absolutely sure you knew what the signs said?” Imani asked.

“Completely,” Anders responded. “It makes no sense, but I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The room fell silent for a moment, as everyone tried to grasp the gravity of what Anders had just said.

Finally, Jason broke the silence. “Okay, I’m at a loss, but I trust you. If your bad feeling is right, and Moridia is a person or thing we need to worry about, we should be cautious.”

Imani spoke up, “I agree. Even if Anders isn’t sure, I feel it’s worth being careful.” She paused to consider her options. “I know that we’ve avoided this so far, but I think you should let me send out a survey drone.”

Madison winced at this, as she’d been the loudest objector to that idea in preliminary preparations, worrying that it could scare locals. “If locals are going to be a threat,” Imani continued, “better they take down a drone than us.”

Madison didn’t look happy, but ultimately she relented. “That makes sense, even though it sucks. Let’s do it.”

“And I’ll go call the excavation team,” Jason said. “I imagine they’ll be able to dig up that field tomorrow when we go out again. Until then,

let’s all try to calm down. We’ve all got boring maintenance stuff to do, so just get it out of the way and then get some rest.”

Anders woke up in a cold sweat. He didn’t know how late it was, nor did he care to check, but he quickly downed the glass of water at his bedside. He wasn’t prone to night terrors, but tonight he dreamed of horrific things. He figured it was probably induced by the stress of the day, though, so after a while he went to sleep again.

At 1200 hours the next day, the crew prepared to venture out again. Imani’s survey drone found no people, but it did find another abandoned town about fifteen kilometers north. This one was in significantly more disrepair, its buildings more shoddily constructed and overtaken by weeds. This time, Jason and Madison accompanied the excavation team to Kofnum while Anders and Imani made their way to the newly discovered town, hilariously, in a two-seater dune buggy.

The journey to the new town was quiet. Imani wasn’t the best conversationalist and was also trying to weave through trees, while Anders was consumed by his thoughts. Would this deja vu feeling be even greater in this new town? Would he still be able to read all the signs? Would there be locals waiting to ambush them? These questions and others ate at him for the thirty minutes it took to reach their destination, and nothing could have prepared them for what they found when they arrived. The drone Imani had sent out was limited in its view in order to maximize speed. Its camera only showed what was directly below it, so when Imani found a rather large town and saw no people they figured it was worth investigating on foot. Had she sent it out a few kilometers further, she would have found that this was not a town, but a slum on the outskirts of a massive abandoned city.

An utterly absurd amount of forest had been cleared out to make room for this city, as the perimeter of the clearing went on for tens of kilometers. The buildings on the outskirts were staggeringly smaller than the ones downtown which were skyscrapers, giving the whole city an appearance akin to a one-story panopticon. There was no activity anywhere, no evidence that anyone was here, but this place had plentiful and immensely dense enough housing to hold millions. Anders was stunned on multiple levels. The sight of this place was unbelievable, for one, and the sensation of deja vu was back in full force. There was no pleasant nostalgia here, though. This place evoked pain somewhere from deep within him. Whatever pleasantness may have existed here was long eradicated and replaced with specters from the darkest pit of Hell.

“Anders... Anders, what in God’s name have we found? A civilization that crumbled two days ago?”

Anders took a deep breath before answering. “I guess we’ll find out.”

After contacting Jason and Madison about their findings, they began to walk through the slums. The roads they walked on were not nearly as well built as the ones in Kofnum, made mostly from gravel rather than stone and significantly more overgrown. The houses were in disrepair as well, but they finally found one that seemed like it wouldn’t collapse if they touched it.

“Should we go in?” Imani asked.

Just yesterday Anders had refused to violate the privacy of the people on this planet, but now he said yes without thinking twice. They walked in and found a room that had been totally trashed, furniture strewn about everywhere and broken technology and glass all over the floor. They walked through the back hallway, hoping to find any documented evidence of what may have transpired, and entered what was seemingly the master bedroom.

A corpse. Seemingly shot in the skull and now laying on the bed. God only knew who was responsible, but they’d been dead for a long time.

“Good God…” Imani said.

Anders ran out of the house. Imani yelled and ran after him, but he was very fast even in a spacesuit. He ran into more houses along the way, and in each one he found one or more long dead civilians. Why had they been killed? Was it societal breakdown? Did the soldiers come? Did they attack people they thought deserved it? Why was this all so familiar?

Eventually Anders made it all the way downtown. It must have taken him a while, but he didn’t really notice any time had passed. He lost Imani, though, and that was going to be a big problem if he didn’t contact her, so he pressed the button on his wrist interface to contact the entire crew.

“Hey, so, I freaked out and ran and lost Imani because we saw some bad shit. I’m really sorry.”

“Christ, Koss!” Imani’s voice shouted through the receiver. “I can’t believe you!”

“We heard about it, Anders,” Jason said. “I’m not happy with you but I can’t exactly blame you either, because about twenty minutes ago I wanted to do the same thing.”

“What?” Anders said. “Why?”

“Anders…” Jason said, “The excavation team dug up the field. And, uh, to say the least, you were onto something.”

Anders went pale, and collapsed to a sitting position on the road.

“It’s a mass grave, Anders,” Jason said. “Thousands of bodies. Murdered, clearly part of a coordinated attack. I… really wish I could unsee what I saw today. Not puking in my helmet is the best I can do.”

Anders went numb. There was nothing to describe it. Neither his rage at the unbridled cruelty of whoever killed all the people in Kofnum and in the city, nor the grief he felt due to his inexplicable personal connection to it all. All of the emotions swirled inside of him until he just became numb.

“Imani,” Anders said. “I am going to walk around downtown and see what I can find. I will meet you back at the dune buggy at 1500 hours.”

“Anders…” Imani started to say, before Anders cut off communication with the crew. He may be fired for that, or maybe not. He didn’t really care. He let his feet carry him through the streets, since for some reason it felt like they knew where they were going. His steps echoed as their soundwaves reverberated through the hollow buildings, and his heart compelled him to turn on various streets without his mind understanding why. Until he read the sign for one particular building.

“Araednum Institute of Technology and Outer Space Endeavors.”

The deja vu he felt upon entering this building was greater than anything else from the past day combined, but this time he embraced it. This was a large building, much of which was ransacked and ruined, but he simply made his way to the stairs and climbed flight after flight until he felt that he should stop.

The fifteenth floor. There wasn’t much on this floor as he walked down the hallway, mostly bathrooms and raided storage closets. When he saw the sign on one specific door, though, he felt compelled to go inside.

“Trash Room.”

When he went inside, posted on the wall opposite the door in a protective frame for anybody to see, was a blank piece of paper. And upon seeing it, despite not knowing why he’d done any of what he’d done in the past twenty minutes, he decided to follow his compulsions one final time. He took the paper out of the frame and flipped it over. And, despite the small print, he understood every word on the page.

Last Resort Protocol - 34/1/5821 - 8347502.1822502

Classified Property of the Ervos Institute

For IMMEDIATE Review by Araednum Institute Classified Affairs Chair [REDACTED]

In the estimation of our organization, the end of all civilization on our planet could potentially happen in mere decades. The takeover of the government of Araednum by the dictator Moridia has emboldened actors of a similar ilk in other states across the globe to do the same. And now, we predict, Moridia’s

genocide of the civilians of Kofnum will have the same effect. These malevolent actors will slaughter anyone they view as undesirable until there is nobody left but each other. In Moridia’s case, first it was the Kofnumites for practicing a religion her government viewed as uncouth, and surely all of its remaining followers will be next. Then it will be the poor people in the outskirts and people with different skin colors. Then it will be homosexuals and anyone else her government views as somehow deviant. Then it will be us, the academics and scientists. Then it will be the disabled, the non-physically fit, people who write with the wrong hand, and people with whatever other arbitrary attributes they decide are unacceptable. And then it will be other governments just like hers, but that are not hers. Every actor like her will follow the same path until there is nobody left.

We, in this organization, have one recourse. We have, after many years of research, determined the cause and process of reincarnation. Normally it is a natural process which takes eons due to the fact that it requires a being’s life force (energy) to be absorbed into the atmosphere of a planet. Additionally, we have discovered that a reincarnated being will retain much of its previous ambition and general goals to an astounding degree, and that even old memories can be partially reactivated (which can result in inexplicable nostalgia or a sensation that you’ve been somewhere or done something before). This brings us to Planet LR.

Planet LR, a planet similar to ours which is the third planet from its yellow dwarf star, is one we’ve recently discovered that has significant light pollution and artificial spacecraft surrounding it that indicate an extremely advanced alien civilization. Potentially, they could be advanced enough to come here and get us out of this mess somehow, but we have no way to contact them as our resources have been slashed by Moridia’s government.

However, we have a scientist, Dr. [REDACTED], who is nearing the end of his life. His disdain for Moridia’s government and the massacre at Kofnum cannot be overstated, and he is of absolutely upstanding character. Through the combined efforts of our organization and the Araednum Institute, we believe we may be able to send Dr. [REDACTED]’s body to Planet LR, artificially inducing reincarnation in a matter of years. If we are very lucky, he will be reincarnated with similar interests, and may be able to lead an expedition to our planet and utilize its resources to overthrow the totalitarians. It may already be too late, but we must try. The only thing we can do is try.

Vanilla Elizabeth Motes

There used to be an ice cream shop by my house where my brother would walk in like visiting royalty. Some of the employees knew him, so he assumed they all must know him. He held his hands up to announce his arrival: Hello-o-o! We’re back! His stammer was still met with smiles. He learned that wedding cake meant vanilla, so he would carefully ask for wedding cake and point. I would check that he was pointing at wedding cake and not something that looked similar. Those days were always Fridays with a weekend’s anticipation ahead of us— sleeping in late & watching movies & going to football games. There’s a new ice cream shop by our house. I can drive my brother and point out wedding cake while I pull the cash from my wallet. The original little shop by our house closed during the pandemic, even after advertising that all you need is love and gelato during these unprecedented times. I miss the shop that knew my face as a child, where deciding between chocolate and red velvet was the most important decision in the world. But my brother still strolls in with a big smile as he asks for wedding cake even though it’s just called vanilla now.

I Am Not a Robot Elizabeth Motes

Describe your last sunset. Ready? Go.

Look up for fireworks. Roam neighborhoods for holiday lights. Invent histories using nothing but oddly-shaped clouds.

Give a name to any object with two eyes and the hint of a smile.

Take pictures of sunsets, even when you know you can’t capture it. Don’t be embarrassed by these rituals. Fill your phone with these blurs of memories.

When we look up, our first instinct is to photograph the moon.

Day by Day

Avery Longfield

cw: suicide

The backs of my thighs rubbed against the cheap velvet of the chair, something long ago spilled and dried scratching the delicate skin. I tried to pay attention to the conversation at hand, but all I could think of was what was on the chair. Maybe yogurt, or potentially coffee. Could’ve been the inky remnants of a burst pen. I realized I hadn’t even noticed a woman had appeared in front of me and was speaking.

“Sorry what?” I managed to say, the words awkwardly fumbling past my lips.

“Could you follow me into the intake room?” She responded while gesturing to a small room past the entrance.

The room was dimly lit, with light green and yellow furniture hugging the walls and a small desk in the corner. My new chair was smooth pleather, not yet worn, new enough to still be taut. I was left alone for a few moments in this room, the woman I was speaking to, the director of the program, grabbing a computer for me to fill out some forms on. I was being admitted to a partial hospitalization program at an anxiety and mood disorder center. Epic, I know.

A mere week before, I had been getting in my car to drive to work. I worked as a server at a popular restaurant near downtown, a job I had grown to loathe. August in southern Texas is oppressively hot, and my all-black uniform didn’t help. My shifts were spent speed walking between the kitchen and my tables, sweat dripping slowly down my back hidden behind my t-shirt, morose thoughts hidden behind a smile. It was as if a timer had been clicking second by second in my head for weeks and it finally ran out, leaving me gasping for air in traffic on the way to my shift.

That entire day, I had been dreading going to work. More than just dreading. I knew if I went, I would come home and do something I would regret, and if I didn’t go, I would never go back. I knew my timer had run out. I only had a few options. I decided to go to work.

When I turned onto the highway, I didn’t roll onto the merge lane but stopped completely. No cars were moving around me. Everything was at a standstill. My heart began to race. My body and mind melted into each other, panic setting in deep within me. I slapped at the steering wheel and glanced around, willing with my eyes for everyone else to be freaking out with me so I wouldn’t feel so crazy. But no one else was. I was alone. I screamed. I cried. I gasped for air. I grasped for anything to tether me to the earth while all my mind wanted to do

was leave, to end the suffering I felt. I did something I never thought I would. I called my mom. I knew the pain she would feel hearing what I was going through, but I knew that temporary pain was worth getting through for myself. Even in this moment of what felt like complete destruction, I was trying to save myself. I wanted to be here. I wanted to stay alive. I had been fighting for so long against every thought in my head, but instead of giving in, I reached out for help. My mom answered and went into savior mode immediately.

“Okay Avery where are you? Can you pull over at all?” She asked.

“No! No, I can’t pull over. I’m stuck on the road and there are so many cars and I can’t do this. I just can’t do this, Mom. Please help me.”

I was begging, willing my mother to appear next to me in the car, needing her more than I ever had before. I heard my Dad in the background trying to help me too, but they just felt too far away.

“Okay, well you’re going to stay on the phone with me until you get home, okay? I’m going to be here the whole time.”

“Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay,” I repeated, the only word I could muster.

She stayed on the phone with me through 15 minutes of traffic, listening to me cry and ask for relief. To be physically trapped in one spot during a panic attack only intensified the feelings of claustrophobia as my brain seemed to be lost in a rush of thoughts, my body betraying sense and giving in to fear. The steering wheel was my buoy as I navigated through an endless line of cars until I was finally home. Getting out of the car, my legs felt like Jello, my body unfamiliar to me. I didn’t know how to go back into the house. I knew everything had changed for me, but the bricks of the house stood the same, our living room sat still. Even my roommates hadn’t changed positions since I’d left. I unlocked the door, tears still running down my cheeks, following the same paths they had made in the car. My roommates rushed to me, moths to a flame burning out. They got me to a chair, and they waited until I could breathe again. I told them everything. I didn’t know what I wanted them to say, but they said everything I needed. They helped me call my mom again and tell her I needed more help. They told my mom about a center for mood and anxiety disorders I could go to. My roommates made me dinner and put on my favorite show. They brought me water and dessert. They saw me at my lowest and stayed there to help me out of it.

My parents handled everything with the center. I was just told to show up next Thursday at 8 a.m. The next 7 days were indescribable. I was filled with so much anxiety, yet relief. I was so scared, scared

beyond words of what treatment was going to look like. I felt crazy and sane. The days felt like they were never going to end, but eventually they did. And then I was there, sitting in the intake room.

As I went down the checklist of questions, the director took note of my answers: a “yes” to wanting to end my entire existence, followed by “Are you sexually active?” and “What medicines do you take?” Mustering the courage to admit I was suicidal came from a much deeper place than I realized. I had to drag my leaden fingers across the keyboard to type out “yes,” feeling a jab with each letter. I knew I had to say it. I even wanted to say it, deep down. But the want fought the need every step of the way, until I was exhausted from the effort of filling out one form. As I clicked to the next page, a few people entered the room.

“Hi, Avery! My name is Alexis and I will be your therapist here!” A chipper young woman sat down across from me.

“And I’m Heather, I’ll be your psychiatrist,” said her companion. Quieter, more reserved, I could tell.

“Hi, um, how are y’all?” I responded, polite to a fault.

“Good, good, we’re good,” Alexis said, “But how are you, Avery?”

Tears welled in my eyes instantaneously. I was bad. Truly, utterly, deeply bad.

“I’m okay,” I mumbled, eyes focused on a rogue thread coming out of my pants.

“It’s okay if you aren’t okay, Avery,” Alexis said reassuringly. “We’re here to help.”

I cleared my throat and dried my tears, recovering as quickly as I had broken down.

“I’m good, I’m okay.”

“Okay, well, we have a few questions for you to get started with before we introduce you to the group,” Alexis said. They proceeded to ask me questions about the last few weeks of my life. How I had been feeling, what my thoughts on an average day looked like, what had led me to reaching out to their program. I was brutally honest, a new bravery escaping from within me. Tears slipped down my cheeks silently as I spoke, but my voice remained steady, a skill I had honed over the years.

“And that’s why I’m here,” I finished, breathing like a fish ripped from water. They all stared back at me. A feeling of comfort and care seemed to make the air dense, surrounding me from all sides. They explained that I was going to join the group now, that the day had just started for everyone, so I would be able to jump right in. Jump right into life-saving care. Jump right into changing everything about the way

I thought.

The door opened and the feeling of comfort fled the room, leaving me cold, as if I’d never known warmth before. The walk down the hallway was long, eight steps that trudged along slowly. They opened the door and ushered me in.

“Hi everyone, this is Avery. She’s going to be joining the group!” Alexis said sweetly, a reassuring smile on her face directing me to the table.

“Hi,” I mumbled out. Glancing around the room, there were a few seats open but I went for the closest one, trying to get out of the limelight as quickly as possible. I took a seat, meeting the eyes of all 5 people in the room at once somehow, seeing them size me up. I wriggled in the chair, trying to get comfortable, trying to root myself down to something.

I was the youngest person in the room by ten or more years. The woman sitting next to me introduced herself as Monica and passed me some markers with a coloring page.

“The days are long,” she said. “We like to color to pass the time.”

“Oh, thank you,” I replied, reaching for a marker to have something to do with my clammy hands as our leading therapist continued her lesson.

“Today, we’re going to be talking about interpersonal relationships.”

I don’t remember anything else about that lesson. I barely remember that first day. I spent most of the time intently coloring, trying to disappear into my chair. At one point I volunteered an answer to a question and immediately after speaking, I wished I had never been given vocal cords. Wished I could have shriveled up into ash in that very moment. The therapist made a reassuring comment after I spoke, thanking me for my input. No one said anything after I spoke. No one made any faces at me. No one was judging me, yet I felt like I was naked in front of these strangers. There was an unspoken curiosity in the room—me wanting to know their stories and them wanting to know mine. How did we all end up here? How long had they been here? How long would I be here? Questions trickled through my mind as I colored, the soft felt tip of the marker digging into the page the deeper I got into thought.

“Avery? It’s time for your first session!” Alexis said from the doorway, pulling me an hour before lunch.

We walked down the hallway together silently, her with a slight lead. She pointed out a few doors to me on the way: where the nurse was, the psychiatrist, the bathrooms. Her office at the end of the hall was small

and warm, decorated with motivational quotes and artwork made by kids. She had a few stuffed animals lining the couches and chairs, and a blanket, too. I could tell she wanted people to feel comfortable in this room, both physically and, I was guessing, emotionally.

“So, I know we already asked you a lot today, but I just have to keep asking you more! Sorry!”

She let out with a laugh, knowing this was the last thing I wanted to keep doing after intake. She asked me about my childhood and how I would categorize the way in which I grew up. I told her I had the ideal childhood on paper: supportive parents, loving siblings, and a stable, happy home. And that’s all true. But I was not fine on paper, nor in person, as a kid. I was riddled with anxiety tothe point that it constantly interfered with my daily life. I wasn’t able to hang out with my friends or,sometimes, even leave the house.I didn’t have the ability to put the feelings into words. It was stomach pain and a racing heartbeat. It was shortness of breath and lightheadedness. But most of all, it was a knot in the center of my body that, no matter how much I tugged at it, would never loosen. As I grew taller, it only got tauter, pulling me from every direction, never releasing me from its grasp. I learned how to navigate around it, learned just how thin I could stretch myself. When depression reared its ugly head in my teenhood, things got a little more complicated. The knot now had a weight attached to it, dragging behind me everywhere I went.

“There’s this one ad for an antidepressant that captured depression perfectly for me. It’s a lady that has a big elephant that follows her around. Some days, it just follows, but other days, it sits on her chest and weighs her down. It even bends the couch in one scene when she’s lying down. That’s exactly what it feels like to me. Like a big blob that follows me around and sometimes encompasses me more than I can escape from it. If that makes sense,” I rambled to Alexis, keeping my promise to myself to be as honest as possible. I knew that was the only way this was going to work.

“Yes, that makes perfect sense, and is actually how a lot of people would describe their own depression. It’s a burden to carry it around all the time,” Alexis responded.

We continued our session for the full therapeutic hour, and then I was off to lunch. I was hoping everyone would open up a little during the meal, but we all sat silently sitting behind big plastic dividers; how things had to be done in the post-COVID age. I ate my turkey sandwich quietly, avoiding eye contact with the wandering eyes around the room. That first day passed in a blur. I was given so much information and

spoke to so many people. I had been cracked open like a book, spilling my guts for everyone to see. When I got in my car to go home, I finally broke down, once again sobbing into my steering wheel. Except this time there was some hope and relief in the sob. I was letting go of the fear I was holding onto and knew I had the ability to get rid of it now. I sat in that same chair for the next six weeks, listening to lesson after lesson about interpersonal relationships, mental health, coping mechanisms, and much more. I learned a lifetime’s worth of wisdom in that chair. One of the greatest revelations to come out of treatment was my diagnosis of OCD. Uncovering this side of myself answered a lot of questions and gave me a sense of relief, but also opened up a door of curiosity and fear within me. All of my ‘odd’ tendencies fell under a definition now, which was helpful, but then I began the daunting process of undoing all of the habits I had formed over my entire life. Putting it simply, it’s been incredibly challenging. At treatment, I learned more than I can say, and I’m still learning and practicing every day. I’m learning how to be myself again, the self that wants to be here, that wants to laugh, that wants to continue to fight everyday. I’m proud of that self, and I’m grateful for that chair on the very first day for carrying me through.

Random Rules

Luna Peña Soto

You taught me romantics And I showed you realistics

I asked you about touching yourself

You said it’s like watching thunderclouds

Quartz-tile with centered carpet

The words Victorian, Romantic, Nouveau

Circling like buzzards above

Are our middle names wrong and right?

Sunburned shadows disappearing

Not too soon to go back to that night

But that’s like a cigarette before 5 p.m

The working day is still humming

That carpet tune

You laid down, and now I rest

In a gown of midnight blues

Cold Hands That Sweat - John 2.4

Luna Peña Soto

How many places have been hidden in my mouth? Caught by the steam, thoughts boil until water marks cling to the roof gone red with swelling.

Escaping into God, art almighty, crucified with fret for our Fathers. Blessed is this day where we are sanctified by the bell. Roars of freedom lead to a test of our family’s faith.

Within 10 minutes of waiting, God becomes a loan shark. Sanctioning my mind, motifs of fire came alive through synapses. I figured, if God were real, he’d be learning systems of exploitation just like the rest of us. With each minute of lost faith, more and more of my mind’s money goes into theology. Desperate for peace, each thought falls victim to commodification, the only way to alleviate lock-jaw. 10 God Points was enough to see my parents escape a car-crash that never happened. 20 God Points meant whatever I was cashing in for was psychological warfare. Like all, this mind has become malleable and worn, too tired to emphasize myself in any place and any time. Defining my relationship with God is Matthew 1:19. Eager to shed the rigidity of righteousness, I look into my candle of Mary, a woman abandoned and planned for dismissal.

There are no male Saints on my altar. Joseph was interested in his own disgrace.

We’re looking for a family, Please report to customer services To collect your child.

San Antonio, Texas - 2010

In between racks of sheen and third-world sweat I look at Mom and say, “Can you believe this price!” I could burn money sooner than I could buy you any of these, is what I say now that we shop in separate climates and our house has been sold.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania - 2021

Thirteen steps grabbed on to my ankles for eighteen years, you sawed his door in half when he turned nine. Your trust for him is somehow less than mine. I learned the craft of coyness, pushing back any realness until it burst through my eyelids. Industrial blinds, our machines simulated snow so I’m not sure what the need for change was? I’m more than willing to die here.

The Crow and the Ribbon Elizabeth

Motes

The crow found the pink ribbon hanging on the branch of a tree, blowing against the wind. She might have missed it, but most of the leaves had already fallen, leaving the branch bare with only a few remaining reds and oranges scattered about. The ribbon stretched out in the wind, and only the sharp angle of the branch kept it from flying away.

The crow rested on a branch opposite the ribbon, tilting her head at the sight. She was familiar with that ribbon. It belonged to the girl who lived far away from this tree. The girl wore it every day. And when she didn’t, her father came rushing out with the ribbon in his big hands. Or sometimes, the girl would stop, put a hand to her head, then hurry back inside for it herself. Nowadays, only her father remembered to bring it out when she lost it.

So it was curious that it now hung so far away from her home. Though it wasn’t actually so curious to the crow. She understood seasons. With the quick and chilling arrival of autumn, the winds had picked up, and it was only natural that the ribbon completely flew off the girl’s head. Even her quick fingers would struggle for it when the wind took hold of it.

The crow didn’t understand the value of trinkets, but she did know that the girl and her father needed the ribbon. Maybe it protected her from the cold, or maybe it served some other purpose, but she did need it.

With a quick squawk, the crow hopped onto the branch and gripped the ribbon in her mouth. She might get curious glances for carrying such a trinket—or worried looks from humans that wondered if she intended to eat it. She would ignore it all.

She took off, and the wind was cold beneath her black wings. A few remaining red and orange leaves stuck to the sharp branches below her, but even they would be gone soon. It was going to be a difficult winter.

After a long flight, the crow found a small patch of grass and landed on it, keeping the ribbon in her mouth as she searched for food. She hopped around, nestled her face into the grass, and finally discovered a bit of dirt that was hiding a worm. She took it in her mouth and ate without dropping the ribbon.

Behind her, she heard the flapping of wings before she felt the rush of air that hit as another bird landed near her. As she turned to

face it, the other bird cocked its head at her, its small eyes peering at her curiously.

The crow stayed put, poking her head around for more food.

The other bird moved closer, so she hopped away, trying to maintain her own space. Then the bird let out a harsh noise and rushed toward her, its eyes glued to her face. The crow flapped its wings and moved back. She realized he was drawn to the ribbon, blowing against her face and sticking out with its bright color.

She made a noise at the bird as it moved closer, though it was difficult with the ribbon still in her mouth. The other bird bobbed its head toward her, briefly snapping at the ribbon.

With a dramatic spread of her wings, the crow took off flying again, making a final noise of threat as she flew. She would have to find food elsewhere. Hopefully, the bird would be distracted by the potential of food, keeping his attention until she was gone. After a few seconds, she didn’t hear anything following her but the wind, so she relaxed a bit.

She was lucky the bird had lost interest. Last night, the animal that took her babies hadn’t lost interest.

The growing cold made her shudder. The winter was never kind, but this season felt harsher than it ever had, even when she thought it could have never been worse than the last year. The image of a nest filled with baby birds all huddled together, bracing from the wind, appeared in her mind. She flew down to a branch to stop for a moment. It was getting darker, and the setting sun was taking any remaining warmth with it. She wanted to find some place warm for the night and rest.

But the little girl needed her ribbon. It was small, but if it somehow protected her from the cold, then she would need it as soon as possible.

The crow leapt off the branch and continued to the house.

The sun soon sank behind the sky, but the moon gave her just enough light to find her way. It wasn’t good for her to be alone now. But she continued.

Somehow, the house eventually came into view, its red roof giving away its location. She found a nearby tree and landed on it, leaning forward and squinting to find the girl in the dark. When she found her, she let out a happy squawk, then hopped off the branch to give away the ribbon.

The crow returned to the tree, finding a thick branch to settle in for the night, taking care to make sure the ribbon didn’t fly away again.

The girl’s father came outside the next morning, right after the sunrise. The crow perched up, keeping her eyes on him. Though she’d given the ribbon to the girl, she couldn’t secure it the way he could. Now she watched to make sure he tied it the right way.

The old man stretched his arms, then wandered over to the field. He stopped when he saw the pink ribbon flying against the girl’s stiff neck as she stood straight in the middle of the field. Her arms were stretched out beside her, and at some point throughout the years, she had lost some of her features. Her long, glossy brown hair turned to sharp straw, and her blue eyes turned to black. But to the crow, the differences weren’t significant.

She watched in satisfaction as he made his way to the girl. He reached up and took the ribbon from her neck—hanging loosely by the crow’s poor maneuvering—and held it in his hands. The crow cocked her head. Surely he was going to tie it around her head again to keep her warm.

Just as she wondered if he was going to return inside with the ribbon, he reached his arms up again and tied the ribbon around the girl’s head.

The crow watched to make sure he secured it tightly, and then flew away again.

Olmos Park Dam, June 25, 2022

Dean Zach

An Autumn Thought Haniel Neves

During my thoughts I see not what is, Comforting visions which swirl through thin sheets; Let love be so, but not for me, It cannot be, for one who does not know; Dreams and hope, all gone, for reasons not known. Comfort sustained in absence too long, have I become lost? All I want is him, comforting yet still vague. Back to a time where I once was, or rather might have been. Dim thoughts, colors muted—fulfilled yet still lost. Yet I still wish vainly, for I want only love; Others say it can not be, though I know I want only him.

namesake

Peyton Sterling

You tell me to stop Hoping but Hope is my middle name

as the petals fell slowly quietly onto the grass in front of your house i step over them and find myself at Your door

i couldn’t stop forget me not like the flower as i tell You “i don’t want to try” not anymore

i’ll forever remember what You said, what You left and how i thought You felt

as long as i live i am Hope the flowers will grow again forget me not when You return

The Playwright

Sarah Pita

cw: graphic violence

On Saturdays, Peter goes to coffee shops and writes. He orders a large black iced coffee, finds the empty table that sits at the center of the room, listens to obscure and loosely structured songs, and opens his notebook to begin writing what he is certain will be the next great American play. When he gets jittery, he bounces his long legs, making them hit the underside of the table which tends to knock off his pens. Oftentimes, he stares at a blank page. He holds the pen in his left hand, his right hand making a mess of his unbrushed brown hair. He’ll jot down the name of a potential character or the start of a sentence before he sets his pen down to look around for inspiration. On this day, where there is a patter of rain outside the coffee shop’s window and tracks of wet footprints on the tile, he settles his gaze and perks his ears in the direction of the pair seated directly next to him, thinking to himself they could make fine muses for his work.

The woman, blonde, sits with her legs crossed, her feet turned in Peter’s direction. She tugs on the backing of her small studded earring while staring at the puddle of liquid her emptied plastic coffee cup has left on the metal table. Her silver bracelets jingle against each other when she moves her hand. Her foot taps to some unknown beat. The man looks at her. His brown hair is gelled and long. His jeans are light blue, tight, and folded at the ankle. They’re so American, Peter thinks. He lets his headphones rest on his shoulder as he listens. He gathers fromtheir body language and dialogue that they once knew each other quite well. White, both of them. They’re older than Peter, but not so old that he finds them uninteresting. Early thirties, probably. Maybe they were lovers. Something like that.

“You look the exact same,” she says.

He doesn’t bother returning the lie. “You look even better.” She blushes.

Peter mentally confirms his suspicion that they are exes brought back together by curiosity. He continues to listen as they banter, their conversation progressing from a slow and clumsy tumble to a backand-forth banter in which they recount old stories (from college, it seems) and laugh at an attention-worthy volume that the background chatter of the coffee shop fights to drown out. Peter starts to write down as much as he can of their conversation, smearing blue ink across the flesh of his left hand as it drags across the page. He names them Molly and Brandon for now, noting that he’ll go back and give them more

exotic and meaningful names later or wait until they call each other something. Or maybe keeping it mundane will help showcase their universality. He circles the names for now to remind himself to come back later. Molly and Brandon stand up and push their chairs in.

“I really missed this,” says Molly. She has a subtle yet resounding smile that pulls at the corners of her mouth.

“Me too,” says Brandon. He sighs and puts his hands in his front pockets. “Friday at 7. The Jade Door, then?” says Brandon. Molly nods to confirm as Peter types it into his phone, seeing that it is a restaurant downtown with a three dollar sign rating. He circles back to his first page of notes and scribbles “The Jade Door” at the top, thinking it will be a lovely title for his play. He imagines it on a Playbill, on a marquee.

When Peter gets to The Jade Door, he waits in his car until he sees Molly pull her dented gray car into a spot near him. He watches as she reapplies her pink lipstick and adjusts her hair using her rearview mirror, scanning the entrance of the parking lot for Brandon to arrive and walk into the restaurant at exactly 7 o’clock. This time Brandon is wearing a suit without a tie,

and Molly sports a somewhat modest black dress. SheMolly waits a few minutes more and Peter tags along behind.

Inside the restaurant, which is covered in red LED lighting and somewhat resembles a movie set casino, Peter asks the hostess for a booth, seeing that the only available one is directly behind where Molly and Brandon are now seated, perusing the laminated menus. They each end up ordering a cocktail and decide to share some noodles and chicken. Peter covertly pulls out his thin silver recorder and sets it on the wooden table that has also been painted a bright red. When the waiter comes, Peter covers the recorder with his napkin. The waiter frowns the slightest bit when Peter orders a water and the cheapest thing on the menu.

“Did you ever end up backpacking through Europe?” asks Molly.

“A couple of years after graduation, actually.”

“I’d love to do that sort of thing someday,” Molly responds respectfully and braces herself for what she knows will be a longwinded response.

Peter listens as Brandon spends the next twenty minutes rambling about cathedrals and parliamentary politics with small interjections and questions from Molly at various intervals.

“What was that like?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“I hear the food is wonderful there.”

When he has finally run out of European cities and museums to mention, he asks Molly about her career in advertising and she responds with more work-related questions. Peter starts to get bored of their conversation and works his way through his bowl of fried rice while accidentally tuning them out. He imagines how Molly must be leaving a ring of pink lipstick around the black plastic straw in her glass of water in the booth behind him. Finally, Peter hears a shift in their conversation after a long lull.

“How’s Robert?” asks Brandon. His voice is lower, softer, more serious.

Peter waits for Molly’s response, curious about this new character introduction. The response comes at such a delayed rate that it forces him to be ushered back into their conversation. He is drawn to the disruption of their steady dialogue.

“Rob’s good.”

“And the kids?” Another stretch of silence passes. “Good.”

Peter fills in the image in his head, seeing Molly pick at her nails in her lap and awkwardly bite her lip.

She continues, “Cory just started kindergarten.”

Now it is Brandon who is forced to nod and elicit appropriate yet disinterested responses when it feels timely. Peter imagines a glossedover look spreading in Brandon’s eyes as he auto-pilots through the conversation.

Then Peter starts to think about the play, and how this surely thickens the plot into something more treacherous. He nearly chokes on a bite of rice. Of course—an affair, he thinks. He pulls out his notebook and begins sketching an idea for a set. He does several sketches, scratching each one out and leaving dents in each page before settling into the fourth one—a living room with a white couch, windows, and an oriental rug on a rotating stage. He ponders adding a small kitchen to emphasize the domesticity of the scene, which he imagines as a suburban home. Ultimately, he decides the kitchen set would be a bit too on the nose. He’s scratching out the refrigerator that he has begun to draw when he feels someone’s chiffon skirt brush his arm. He is bumbling an apology when he looks up and finds a familiar face in Kate.

“Oh my gosh. Peter? How are you?” Peter perks up, straightening his back and adjusting his hair.

She smiles at him with a genuine grin despite the fact that she has

not seen him since the day they graduated college, three years ago. Even then, it had been six months since he broke up with her. Peter thinks to himself that he preferred her with long hair, rather than the shoulder-length waves she is sporting now. She has put on a bit of weight, but he still finds her attractive. He answers her without returning the question. He worries about how they must be drowning out Molly and Brandon’s conversation on the recorder, yet he is stunned by the poetic justice of the moment. To him, it confirms the instinctive belief that this is the story he is meant to write, as if he was magnetically pulled to that coffee shop on that day, and to this booth now, with no will of his own, and how his pen will guide his hand across page after page as he strikes creative gold.

After a few moments of silence, Kate poses another question rather than returning to her own table.

“How’s your writing stuff going? Still at it?”

Peter is slightly offended at the wording of her well-intentioned question. His spoon makes a scraping noise on his mostly empty bowl as he fiddles with it in frustration. Running his hands through his hair, he tells her that his writing career is going well, that he is working on his next play as they speak. She nods sympathetically. He tries not to think about how “next play” is an interesting way of describing what would hypothetically be his first play. He doesn’t wait for a response. He continues to tell her that it will be about a couple of former lovers reigniting their relationship years later, when the woman is married with children and the man regrets his unwillingness to settle down when he was young. He offers a few more sentences than necessary about the man’s lamentation of his lost love.

Kate chuckles nervously, stopping when she sees that Peter has not joined her. “It’s going to be really good,” insists Peter. “I’ll let you know when I get it staged. I’ll get you tickets.”

“Oh, I’m sure. That’s you. Always the playwright.” She smiles convincingly as she says it, so convincing that Peter almost believes she means it. Peter wishes he could close his eyes at this moment. He is desperately trying to forget what Kate looked like naked in his old apartment that had more books than plates, how she always told him she thought he really was talented, how shrill her voice was when she was yelling with her high heels in her hands. He is also trying to forget the teary clumps of mascara in her eyelashes as they stood in the November chill outside the library, when he told her he needed to focus on writing and his career instead of their relationship.

“Well, it was nice seeing you. Good luck with the play.” says Kate.

She turns to head back to a dimly lit part of the restaurant free from most of the red tint, where a comic-book style painting littered with Chinese characters hangs on the wall.

“Yeah, you too,” says Peter as she shuffles the chiffon skirt away with only a brief over-the-shoulder smile back at him. She ends up at the opposite corner of the restaurant, where she sits down across from a man who must be quite a bit older than them. He is handsome, with flecks of gray at the corners of his hairline and a weatherman sort of smile. Peter notices a gold wedding band on his left hand, and double checks to confirm a large diamond on Kate’s. She nods as the man speaks, patting down the napkin in her lap. She occasionally lets out a contrived chuckle at the jokes he is telling.

Now, Peter has completely forgotten about Molly and Brandon. He hasn’t heard that their real names are Ella and Sam, that they are nothing more than old friends and that Ella is applying for a new job with Sam’s company. He doesn’t hear that Sam is planning to propose to his boyfriend, John, next month on their two-year anniversary trip to Costa Rica or that he and Ella’s husband never really got along in college, and that is the reason for their estrangement. He remembers their existence only once they stand from their booth and walk to the parking lot of the Jade Door together, picking up fortune cookies and mints at the hostess’s booth as they exit through the namesake door.

Peter throws down a twenty dollar bill on the table—just enough to cover his bill before tip—and follows them out. He sees them get in their separate cars, take a moment to route themselves home, and leave. Brandon trails behind Molly, and Peter suddenly realizes that he needs more information. He needs to see who his character is independently, outside of this warped relationship. He follows the couple out of the parking lot. At the first intersection they reach, he sees Molly’s car and Brandon’s blue SUV pull into opposite turn lanes. He remains in the center until the last minute, finally jerking his car to the right behind the SUV.

It’s a twenty-seven minute drive to Brandon’s house, mostly along a highway that leads out of the center of the city. Peter figures Brandon didn’t want to take a risk meeting Molly anywhere close to where either of them live. He is careful to let a car or two drive between his and Brandon’s, and to remain even farther behind him as they exit the highway and pull into a suburban neighborhood. ***

The neighborhood is not so different from the one that Peter was raised in. It is mundane with chunky curbs and wide lanes and signs to

be careful for children playing in the street. All of the houses look the same, with slightly different floor plans and differently colored brick patterns as the only indicators to distinguish one from the other. Up ahead on the street, Peter sees Brandon park in the garage of a red brick house with a large oak tree in the front yard. There is a wreath with pastel-colored flowers hanging on the front door, which has been painted a dark blue. Peter parks down the street and plans to walk to the red brick house. Just as he is about to open the driver seat door, Peter finds himself unable to move. He shuts his eyes, scrunching up his eyelids. He notices a throbbing pain come from his forehead.

As if his body is not his own, as if he has no say in what it does but is being contorted by an invisible giant’s hands, he bangs his head on the wheel, accidentally honking the horn once. His hands are clenched in fists and flailing, hitting the top of his car, and his face is soaking wet with salt-filled tears. His motions are random, with no rhythm or logic behind them. Like a toddler in a grocery store aisle, he flails about until his car is visibly teetering up and down. He is weeping, loudly and softly at the same time, his chest heaving at a quick pace, shoulders bumping up and down along with his breathing, snot running down the part of his face where he had once attempted to grow a mustache. He feels the tears fall into his lap until he can feel their warmth on his jeans. He screams at his windshield and thinks of Kate and the grayhaired man.

“Fucking disgusting. Whore,” Peter mutters to himself, spitting back the tears that have dripped to his mouth. I can’t believe I really loved her, he thinks to himself. He finally opens the car door and walks to the red brick house without wiping his face, continuing to blubber as his feet pound against the smooth sidewalk.

When he reaches the house, he does not know what he will do next. He no longer remembers what the goal of this endeavor was, but he knows that he just needs to see Brandon, to understand his ways. He knows that he does not want to drive back to his apartment, where there is an eviction notice on his door and no running water, wherecrumbs and bits of crackers tend to disappear from the pantry, where there are shelves of notebooks that have not produced a completed play.

He stands on the front doormat for a while. It says something about how all are welcome. He checks under the mat for a key, to no avail. He looks around and digs into the soil of a potted plant next to the door, finding a small silver key. Peter enters the home.

He doesn’t hear anything at first. Only now does he realize his recorder is missing. There is a long, narrow hallway to an enclosed kitchen. The living room is a bit further down the hallway. As slow as a bride down the aisle, Peter walks towards the kitchen.

He stands behind the countertops and watches as Brandon sits on a white sectional, sipping on a glass of water with his eyes closed. He looks peaceful, resting. It is silent, other than the white noise of the air conditioner humming in a dull tone in the background. But Peter reads Brandon as a man in turmoil, in quiet contemplation, confined in the trap of his own domesticity. The photos of Sam and John getting engaged, traveling in Europe, embracing, are completely invisible to Peter. He hears a nonexistent sound, as if a bee remains buzzing in his ear. The thought to leave the house, to pretend this intrusion never happened, occurs to him. But he can’t walk away now. He has come too far; he has come too close to Brandon now. Peter knows that he is the only one who can put an end to Brandon’s suffering.

Once Peter acts, if he acts, the swelling of regret that snakes through Brandon’s body will be quelled. The buzzing will become quiet. He alone wields a deity-like power over his character.

Suddenly, Peter sees the final scene of his play like a glistening image on a silver screen. The perfect metaphor for an all-consuming lifetime regret, the feeling of hopelessness and loss. Death.

He thinks himself Shakespearean as he walks to the other side of the kitchen, where a knife block sits on the granite countertop. He selects a black handle in the middle of the block, and carries the blade to the living room where Brandon is seated.The lights are off except for a small, dim lamp on the end table next to a loveseat.

Peter, knowing what he is about to do, takes a deep breath and pauses for several moments. He thinks very carefully without thinking at all. He imagines himself in a prison, sporting an orange jumpsuit in a courtroom, in the back of a police car, in handcuffs pressed against the hood. He’s never been in a fight before, he realizes. But this won’t be a fight—this is poetic justice, this is what Brandon would do for himself if he was strong enough.

Peter holds the knife near his navel with both of his shaking hands. He points it outward, the blade is trembling with the potential it holds. Peter can already see the white, domestic set covered in red splatterings. He tip-toes toward Sam, the man he has unwaveringly mistaken for his fictional tragic hero, Brandon. He has one last moment of doubt, a brief amount of time elapses where he considers leaving and

putting the key back in the potted plant. He imagines driving his car back home to his barely furnished apartment. But he doesn’t. He stands before Sam, breathing as quietly as he can. He looks at the man on the couch.

He suddenly registers that he must have made a mistake. The man’s eyes have been gently closed. He has dozed off in his seated position and breathes steadily. His chest rises and falls, not an ounce of awareness of Peter’s presence. Peter sees that the man seated before him is not anguished, but overcome with tranquility—the kind that Peter no longer remembers feeling. Now, his gut contorts with envy. Peter did not create this man; this is not his Brandon. He hates Brandon, he realizes, or whoever this man is. He sees him as an idiot, someone who has excluded himself from Peter’s artistic vision.

He plunges the knife into Sam’s chest.

Before Sam has time to open his eyes, to process the image before him, or reach into his back pocket to call 911, or yell out to John who is sleeping in the bedroom, it is Peter’s head of brown unbrushed hair tilting toward his face that is the last thing he sees before he blacks out. He doesn’t see the knife buried in his chest, the one he used to chop garlic for the pasta he made for John yesterday. He doesn’t see his dress shirt begin to soak with his own blood, or how it stains the new white couch. He doesn’t see Peter sob until the knife’s handle is wet with tears. He doesn’t see Peter’s hands shake as he calls 911. He doesn’t hear the curtain call of applause playing in Peter’s mind.

Bittersweet

Jordyn White

Sitting on the hard curb waiting with my brother outside the small apartment we called home for ten years The door was a bright baby blue and over time aged with us a weary and chipped protector who faithfully guarded our memories and has since tucked them away

It was always summer or spring when we saw him Mama would tell us he was on the way but to not get our hopes up Climbing on and over the fat velvet couch where we watched endless Redbox movies my brother would flip up the thin plastic blinds squint into the parking lot, and run outside Waiting for him

I think I lost that type of excitement much earlier than he did Some days he wouldn’t show up And we’d wait and wait and wait Those days were bitter

But whenever we saw that white van turn the corner in front of our home creaking and rattling we knew the day would be sweet He’d park in front and we’d see his thick boots jump out Sometimes he would bring along his green and gold military cap for us to wear or play with “Machine-gun kisses,” he called them As his rapid-fire smooches pressed into our chubby cheeks Our feet swung in the air along with loud giggles

Contrasting the scent of fresh fish lying lifeless in the cooler his breath always smelled like bubblegum Fishing rods lined the top of the van and brown buckets of bait could be found secured in the back Sitting, swinging my feet my brother to my right

I spied what I knew would be there on the dashboard

Three packs of Red Vines licorice Not Twizzlers. There’s a difference He’d pass them to the back and we’d all tear into our packs munching happily

Sweet, tough vines

I’d eat them two at a time Or bite off the ends and use it as a straw for my soda I would hit my brother with them We had mini swords orchestrating a duel each time Sometimes I’d take a huge handful and bite off the tops leaving my teeth tinted with red dye and sore gums for later

He would take us to his house and we’d stay such a short while Hated the feeling that bubbled when he began looking for the keys We would sit in the wide, soft bed coated in that dark blue velvet blanket He played gory war movies until Mama asked him to stop because of our stories of lost innocence But I didn’t mind, I always paid extra attention and tried to ask questions so he would want us longer He’d say he would see us again soon and I knew that meant months

But I had my red vines knowing the sweet taste lasted longer than memories with him

Painted in the dusty background of my childhood my dad’s face his tight hugs and hard kisses my favorite candy sits bright and fresh Memories come back to life when I bite into them now But they’re always sweet

Fleeting Bryant Uwaezuoke

From the days I remember you

Skips and laughs tie me to you

Visions of you tending to your livestock

Joyously lending a hand

Pictures of you falling in love

Rumors of you with a ring

A white gown surfaces

We were young and alive

Your soul so beautiful

But as the famous phrase goes

“All good things must come to an end.”

Distant we were But attached I was The pain of hearing Like no other.

I still hurt and think Or think then hurt

You lived a full life In just nineteen years.

What nineteen more Would have looked like I don’t know But for now

Your skips and laughs forever tie me to you.

My Mom Doesn’t Use Centralized Heating & Cooling Alex Therwhanger

The fan in my window, an impromptu AC unit, roars in the early hours of the night. With it comes the scent of dust from the uncleaned mesh screen and humidity, a commonality of living in southern Texas.

My dog rests near my calf, shoving himself beneath it in a primal way, trying to burrow into me as if I were in his pack of wolves sometime long ago when both of us were still the same species.

My nightstand is littered with cans. I’m trying to get a hold of my caffeine addiction but am seemingly failing. Naturally, I was a curious child, inspecting the liquid in the mug my grandmother drank from. Noticing my curiosity, she dipped her spoon into the warm liquid and brought it to my lips. It was warm, bitter, and made sweet by the love of hand-feeding and the care that she put in to make sure not a single drop spilled. My father scolded her for her actions, and now I figure my current addiction is a consequence of love and care.

Your jacket—or, well, my jacket that I gave to you and that now smells more of you than it does of me—sits bundled up on my left side, near my nightstand full of cans. I want to wear it but cannot bear to lose the small piece of you it contains, despite having two more hoodies from you that are actually yours, sitting in my room with me.

Every time I put on my jewelry, I put your bracelet on first— symbolism, or something like that.

The stuffed animal that my ex gifted me—or more accurately, bought for me after I picked it out—always sits in the same bed I’m in, never straying too far from me. I tuck her in and kiss her on her matted and graying pink fur every day before leaving, afraid of the consequences that await me if I don’t. She doesn’t remind me of him all the time, only sometimes, though she’s always been more mine than she has been his.

I’m crying, claiming that it’s hormones, that I’m on my period, that I just stopped taking my birth control for the first time in over a year to make the headaches stop, though I doubt I’m telling the truth. I’m emotionally repressed, or at least I like to say so, though that’s also definitely a lie. I’ve been home for far too long, and now I have to

address why I feel the way I do. The problems I’ve pushed out of the way in lieu of academic success and a social life are coming to a head. It’s never been too serious, though, and I know the answer to every question I ask, but I feel terrible regardless.

My report card in the first grade told my mother that I didn’t play well with others. I think I retain that sentiment to this day.

After talking to you in the car for hours, I finally headed home. The sun was rising, and dawn was rapidly approaching. I drove into a fog that got thicker and thicker until I couldn’t see more than five feet in front of me. There was no one until there was someone. It was just me in a one-ton death machine, slowly passing through areas I thought I knew best, areas that seemed to span for miles. It’s rather cliché to say that the places I know best were foreign to me when obscured by mist. I checked the weather later that day, “Visibility: less than one-quarter of a mile.” There was nothing, there was everything, and there was just me.

There is, maybe, only me. Maybe it’s just me. Everyone around me is just me. I am the sky, the moon, the sun, the earth, the wind, and the water. I sustain life; I take it away, kill it brutally. I am all the bad and negative thoughts you’ve ever had; I am the butterflies in your stomach; I am an orgasm; I am the animal seeking companionship, seeking safety, seeking comfort;. I am your lover; I am your friend; I am your enemy;. I am a car driving through the fog at five in the morning, alone, encompassing nothing and everything. I am the world, the galaxy, and all that it holds.

I am animalistic in my yearning. My dog scratches at my door, whining, begging for me to open it for him, to let him into my space, my comfort, and some nights, I do, allowing him to cuddle up with me. Other nights, I am angry with him and deposit him in my mother’s room, closing the door behind me as I leave. I am simultaneously the animal and the owner. I am begging at the door, whining, scratching, clawing, and crying for a moment of intimacy. I want you to open it, to let me in. Let me curl up at your feet and lay there for as long as I need. Did you know humans are one of Earth’s most dangerous predators, if not the most dangerous? Sometimes, I do not feel like it. I am just an animal, wanting to share your light, your bed, your warmth, craving your affection and attention, and I want you, more than anything else.

The saying, “Men are simple creatures,” comes to mind, but I despise men, and I would despise myself more, come to learn that I am more like them than I think.

My ex predicted his own ending, constantly saying that I would leave him for someone better. I have been labeled a pessimist and told that my own endings are consequences of negative manifestations; henceforth, I will not use the word manifestation to describe his ending, but I will say his foresight was twenty-twenty. I told my mother he called me selfish, that he told me I didn’t care about other people and their needs, wants, and desires. She was silent for a moment, and I wondered if she’d stopped listening, if she’d tuned me out. Looking over from my spot in the passenger seat, I noticed her thousand-yard stare. I could feel her seething, anger boiling beneath the surface of her skin. I tried to continue to speak, but she snapped. She exploded, her jaw clenched, and her teeth gritted, and she told me that serving others is the foundation of my entire being, and that I’d built my entire life around it. She stared into the blank space that is the Austin toll road, and yet, her speed never fluctuated and her eyes never left the road, but there was something primal and animalistic in the way her words came out of her mouth.

You told me, one day at lunch, that your mom had died. We were sitting at the dark wood tables in the library—the wood isn’t real, however; it’s plastic—and you didn’t choke on your words or tumble over in grief. Instead, you smiled while tears poured out of your eyes; you even laughed a little. A mutual friend of ours came up to the table and started talking to us; maybe one or neither or both of us asked him if it could wait, but regardless of the question or answer, he walked away. I didn’t know what to say, and at that moment, I yearned to find us a private space—a burrow, a den, a nest—something more comforting than the cold air of a poorly insulated high school. We’ve both always been good at hiding, but, whenever we needed to, neither of us could find the ability to do so.

“It’s more of a matter of pride at this point,” I say to you in my car at some point between one and five a.m. on the first day of the new year.

“I want them to know I’m cool and that they lost someone like me.” I don’t think I’m justifying this to you anymore; more so, I’m justifying this to myself.

“He told me he’d made a mistake and that he wished he had stayed with me, and now I crave that attention and that apology from anyone I feel I’ve been wronged by.” The explanation I give is selfish at best, immoral at worst, and sometimes I think maybe my ex was right.

My bed is too warm, my skin is too hot, my sense of smell is overwhelmed by the scent of sticky syrup and lavender, tainting every inch of the air I breathe, and yet, despite all of that, despite the overwhelming amount of senses flooding my brain, I still yearn for you. I tell you in every message how much I love you. I call you my angel, my baby, my lover, every pretty thing my brain can conjure up. You always return the favor in kind. I’ve cried over how sweet you are, written you dozens of love letters—some sent, some unsent, and some still sitting scattered in my notes app and various journals. I want to breathe you in, hold you next to me. I want to claim you as mine forever. Everything I feel for you is overwhelming. I want to make you cum, to prove that you are mine. I want to boast about you to anyone with open ears. You consume my every thought, my every desire. You have left a permanent mark on my soul, and I hope I have left one in return. Every part of me reaches out to you in the dark, even if I cannot see. Every part of me wants every part of you.

I am the car alone in the fog. I am the only person inhabiting its interior. I am the driver and the sole occupant. I am navigating places I’ve been before and will be again. We are one entity, moving at the same speed, watching for animals. It’s dawn now, and the sun is rapidly approaching, and soon we will be home, parked, sated, alive, and safe.

Dear little artist Caroline Wolf

Dear little artist, Watch with watercolor irises, inkblot pupils colonizing your cornea— Watch as they demonstrate the perfect arch of a paintbrush, how colors blend and birth others anew, watch as they tape your fingerpainted family portraits and hand turkeys to the overpopulated fridge until the pages rustle like discarded lottery tickets.

They will tell you that you are a visionary, a mastermind, and you will listen.

Dear little artist, Watch as the pigment-wrinkled pages come down one-by-one.

They will praise the Elizabethan poets and beg you to become an accountant in the same breath. And you will listen.

Dear former artist, Watch as spaghetti-stained overalls give way to black coat and tie, as princess gown shrinks into black pencil skirt. Watch as crayons and markers morph into the black ballpoint pens you use to write grocery lists and chore reminders on the backs of ads for perfumes you will never be able to afford. They will startle your heart into submission by telling you that it will stop beating, that you are destined to starve. What they will not tell you is that the only thing you will ever starve for is the freedom to feel again. You may never save a life with a vaccine or a verdict, but that does not mean that you will never save one.

Dear artist,

There is nothing more terrifying than being without a blueprint, but that’s why you have the stencils and the paper and the will to draw your own. There is nothing more liberating than

spending your days and nights searching for the forgotten wonders of the world. Be wary of the blurry boundary between creativity and commodity, where typewriter ribbons start to look like nooses instead of life ropes but only if you let them. Dear artist, Didn’t they ever tell you that the first rule of art is to never listen?

the poet and the painter

Caroline Wolff

i am in a staring contest with sunflowers; a welcome departure from wilted saplings, their leaves crispened and veiny like sidecast cicada husks.

you are in a staring contest with me; twirling in blistered blades of grass, white dress fanning out around crackling ankles like milkweed as the ubiquitous crease between your eyebrows softens and melts, pencil-calloused hands feathering across my forehead, glistening gold baby hairs between the pads of your fingers, before you settle back into your cobblestone nest and gaze with one large, black eye; the shutter click harmonizes with distant sparrow trills, a lo-fi lullaby.

the elm branches are in a staring contest with the mercurial september skies, sunlight in sepia, crusted over with cloudy amber like half-blended oil paint; it warms my flesh like your hand reading the morse code on my stomach. i could run my tongue over the horizon and taste maple syrup, feel the contour of your collarbone, dissolve into the sweet pulsing sound of you being alive.

the sky is in a staring contest with God, His gale-like breath raking at red-brick backbones, wailing the names of dead poets and painters, who probably French-kissed on the lip of this fountain where i wash off my bare feet, plucking polyps of soil from under my toenails. thank you, you mouth to me. you needed me barefoot for the shot but you know how much i hate to get my feet dirty— you’ve seen the reddened rough patches left behind by too much soap after a day at the beach— but i’d walk through miles of mud just for that gentle firefly glow behind your smile

when your vision materializes in front of you.

God is in a staring contest with us, the curvature of our bodies tapestried against the world He wove, the muse and the observer, the poet and the painter. syllables slip over treetop tongues, the easy cadence of your name and mine together.

i am in a staring contest with your eyes when you least expect me to be looking; downcast, drenched in intention, patiently carving the shapes of your mind into a sketchpad—we have been here before with napkins and newspapers and the hillsides of my knuckles but it doesn’t get any less mesmerizing.

i want those honeyed eyes to swallow me whole; i want to traverse the tightropes under your temples, wander through penumbras of purplish smoke curling in patient ringlets around my thighs and wrists; dance on dendrites deckled with sawdust and sparks, woolen blankets and biblichore and bird bones; i want to skate on your synapses, find every last thing behind that gentle firefly glow, that angular softness, the gossamer tracks of your tears and everything in between.

i will lather it on, from heel to toe, and never wash it off.

Maybe I Have Always Loved Purple Caroline

Wolff

1. Purple as second choice. My sister claimed blue. She claimed it before I even had the chance to consider the complex spectrum of color, the overwhelming array of potential answers to the most important question facing any five-year-old. Being the oldest, she always got first pickings. I quite liked the sky and the sea, the bluebells our mother tended to in the alcoves outside her bedroom window, the dusty coat of paint on her minivan. But I couldn’t have blue. I tried green out for a while—not forest green, not lime; a softer hue, something akin to a pale emerald. I was by far the more feminine child, drawn to dolls and frilly curtains instead of toy trucks and superhero posters. And as such, I only ever mused over pastels, the placidness of them. Green didn’t stick. Yellow was next (even shorter lived), then—reluctantly—pink. But pink felt like the easy choice, too obnoxiously feminine, the color that pretentiously painted every department store’s girls’ toy aisle. So I opted for pink’s close cousin, purple. At the time, it was a surrender. A refusal to slip into a comfortable caricature. But now, purple is as integral to me as the arteries that wind around my heart and dance with its rhythm.

2. Purple as qualifier. I should make it clear—if it wasn’t already— that I only care deeply for light purples: lavender, lilac, wisteria, heather, amethyst, all the shades that resemble the names of women. Those shades seem to cradle me, whisper the way in my ear when I’m disoriented, lace their lithe fingers through mine, in a way no other color has ever come close to. Royal purple, russian violet, magenta, grape: too harsh. Mulberry, sangria, wine, eggplant: too passive. Lavender knows when to step up and when to stand down. She is perceptive and soft and resilient.

3. Purple as pen pal. I was quick to make my affinity for purple known, but no one ever honored it—and shared in it—quite like my Aunt Beth. It soon became a tradition for her to mail me gifts, not cash or hand-knitted sweaters like most of the adults in my family, but knick-knacks, small and seemingly inconsequential things found in the crannies and crevices of her cluttered apartment in West Texas. Fabric squares and Pantone paint swatches and bottle caps and beads and stones from the communal patio. There wasn’t a regularity to the gifts either; they never came on birthdays or Christmases or graduations,

but rather on Tuesday afternoons between school and ballet practice, or on Saturday mornings spent on my tree swing. They were always accompanied with a handwritten note in the same purple ink. “Trying to clean up again. Didn’t get far before I found this and thought of you.”

4. Purple as regality. For millennia, the color purple has been thought of as a royal hue, one of the utmost dignity and divinity. The Persian Emperor Cyprus was the first ruler on record to insist on a wardrobe of only purple velvet tunics. A lineage of Ancient Roman Emperors made wearing purple as a civilian punishable by death. It was—still is—a privilege to drape yourself in a luscious mauve. I can’t help but imagine Aunt Beth dancing in her kitchen to Dolly Parton, purple nightgown hanging at her heels, spatula as scepter, a crown of curlers in her pearl blonde hair. She has always been royalty.

5. Purple as time capsule. I was ten years old when I decided to replace the dollhouse in my room with a bookshelf. I stopped counting the discount furniture stores after fifteen, but eventually I found it: a modest but ample five-shelfer in an inoffensive light wood for only $150. On the car ride home, I asked my dad if we could paint it purple and, without protest, we took a detour to Home Depot’s paint aisle where I perused for two hours until I found the perfect shade of lilac. For the next five days, the muffled vocals of “Walk Like An Egyptian” and “Summer Of ‘69” wafted in from the garage alongside the sounds of the sander and the pungent paint fumes. It was a labor of love. Pure love, which manifested in a space all my own to fill with artifacts. Ten years worth of books, some pristine and glossy and some with cracked spines and bent covers. Figurines of characters from TV shows now canceled. An owl-shaped piggy bank with coins stuck in its feet. A mason jar stuffed full of small purple objects.

6. Purple as rite of passage. The bookshelf is the centerpiece, the altar, of my bedroom. But purple lives in every corner, always and irrevocably tethered to a memory. In this corner, blankets and sweaters I can no longer use but keep in clear view, because they smell like my grandmother’s cinnamon body scrub and were made with her deft hand. In this corner, the lavender case of my first pair of glasses, which forever altered not only the strength of my sight but the map of my face. In this corner, my first smartphone, still going strong but screen slicked with the residue of bulbous tears, a dent in the side— concealed by my lavender case —from when I dropped it out of excitement after my dad

surprised me with concert tickets. And in this corner, the rainbow flag I waved at my very first Pride parade. The purple stripe matched the beaded bracelet I wore that day, as I swallowed bits of confetti, unable to contain my euphoria to a closed-mouth grin.

7. Purple as forgone fortune. On the eve of my sixteenth birthday, Aunt Beth mailed me a stuffed bear wearing a periwinkle bonnet, a Beanie Baby, in like-new condition with tag intact, one of the few surviving stuffed animals from her daughter’s old collection. The folded note in the bottom of the box said, “Sell her online before you go to college. It’ll make a dent in your tuition.” I had always listened to Aunt Beth but, just this once, I lowered the tiny teddy gently onto my purple shelf, where she stayed, smiling at me, for the next five years. I named her Birdie, despite what the heart-shaped tag said. I knew Aunt Beth would appreciate the cross-species irony.

8. Purple as affliction. Aunt Beth and I communicated almost exclusively through exchanging letters. I saw her on a few holidays scattered across my upbringing but mostly remembered her as the woman who rushed through her dinner so she could read me a story while the other adults sat around the table and chattered. She never wanted me to feel left out, not having a placemat and a dish to my name like everyone else. But I knew her better as strings of sentences than as the flow of blood or the stretch of sinew. So naturally, at seventeen, I was not prepared to see her face flushed in pallid plum undertones, eyes sunken, deep purple rimming her milky cuticles and the all-too-prominent knobs of her bones, legs peppered with bruises, her typically manicured hair frizzy and fraying. My own body entered that discolored and emaciated state once every three to five years like clockwork, but here I was alive and standing at her bedside, so I willed myself to believe, as I thumbed her walnut-wrinkled hand, that she would bounce back, too. She has to, I thought. She’s Aunt Beth.

9. Purple as comparison. Once, Aunt Beth wrote to me, “You and the color purple are one in my heart.” And how, in that moment, could I not suture my self-inflicted wounds with the spool of purple thread in the bottom of that cardboard box? What a beautiful thing it is to be synonymous with the color of orchids and stardust and passionfruit and pinky promises. Maybe I was wrong before. Maybe—in some barely perceptible enclave of my mind—I have always loved purple.

10. Purple as remnants. The first purple paint was called Tyrian Purple, a mid-purple with notes of fuschia, made from the mucous membranes of Bolinus brandaris sea snails. Once they were heated, the pigments resembled powdery sediment, like the ashes scattered in the lake by Aunt Beth’s home—the lake where our family reunions had taken place for the past four generations, where my dad went to Boy Scout camp, where I learned to fish and use hand signals on a jet-ski. I wonder—when her ashes were overtaken by the current, pulled down beneath the blanket of blue—did the gray morph into purple, even just for a second?

11. Purple as pilgrimage. The memorial service was held a week later. At least half the car ride passed with nothing in sight except for honeyed corn fields, rust-red tractors, and sleek silver wind turbines. That was until we approached a bricklaid city limits sign framed with funnels of lavender, the pinions of purple climbing their fluted stems, cresting at the top like a crown.

12. Purple as return. Aunt Beth’s dying wish was a purple funeral. No black in sight. I happily obliged, sporting a lacy hibiscus dress and a matching overcoat that was meant to extend to the knee but landed at my ankles instead. Afterwards, my dad and uncle and grandparents all gathered in her apartment to begin sifting through her things, and I disappeared into her bedroom in the back corner. I unclasped her jewelry box, yanked one of the buttons from my coat, stray thread still attached, and swathed it in Birdie’s removable bonnet, tucking them both inside among the hoop earrings and charm bracelets, finally ready—after the full length of a childhood—to return the gift of purple.

i am trying to love the body you put me in Caroline Wolff

cw: body dysmorphia I.

Chewing a hole in the cotton candy Cupid’s bow from the photo album lying open on your nightstand, I am trying to love the body you put me in. How were you to know what they would do to me, how were you to envision my flesh folded in on itself like the oil-stained, dog-eared pages of the books I used to read? Mosaic of my own handprints, places I’ve pinched and poked and pulled and pierced, I lick the blood from my lip to feed my taste buds, dehydrated tongue rough like a matchbox, burning

like the silken baby skin

I’ve rubbed raw.

II.

Caressed by a moonbeam, lying on a wrinkled blanket draped across the hardwood floor of my childhood bedroom, I am enveloped in an intimacy I never thought possible for a body this misshapen and mishandled. So at 21, I take my first nude photograph, not for anyone but myself, just to marvel at the synchronic

fullness and hollowness of my vessel, the symphonic swells of breast, the crests and caves of my clavicle, my scars like daybreak through milkweed clouds or tire tracks on a rainy road.

I have tried to love the body you put me in. I am starting to love her shadow.

They tried to turn me into a mouth

Dean Zach

Have I ever told you the story of how they tried to turn me into a mouth? Well, they did. They tried to turn me into a mouth. Yes, really. No, I’m not joking, I’m serious—a mouth. Well, I remember it well enough. It was a crisp November day some years ago, quite possibly the year your grandmother died. You must’ve been only five or six. Great weather that day—a brilliant blue sky, no wind—well, a slight breeze, maybe—and mid-sixties temperature-wise, the type of morning we often don’t get till Christmas nowadays. Not that I get to go outside anymore. Why don’t you take me outside more? Oh, alright, you and your little excuses.

Anyway, it was the weekend, so I arose quite late, perhaps around nine o’clock, then went to the toilet again, then made breakfast, which of course I had to make by myself—Did I tell you Milo in Room 36 has throat cancer? I hear him moaning about it day and night. Walls are too thin here. They don’t make ‘em like they used to—oh, sorry.

Well, I remember the breakfast pretty clearly. It was a toast with strawberry jam, and then a scrambled egg, and some cereal… the, uh, whatchamacallits, the one with the, uh, sportsters on the box—Wheaties, yes, Wheaties—with two percent milk. I had a few tasks around the house to complete, but I didn’t really take them all that seriously; I suppose I watched television. Jeopardy is on at four-thirty now: can you believe it? Right around suppertime—such an inconvenience. I much preferred it when it came on at the top of the seven hour, right after the local news. God, did you happen to see that segment on—what? Three years ago? Well, I don’t know about that.

Anyway—and then, I think sometime in the afternoon, I was sitting on my bed, staring out the window, when they came into the room and took me away, and that was the beginning of it. I didn’t struggle or resist; there were four of them, all bald Indian men in suits. Now, I don’t remember if it was the American Indian or the South Asian Indian, so you’ll have to fill in the blanks here. But anyway, they took me away; they bound my hands with twine, walked me out of my room, into the foyer, and out of the house, into the driveway, where they had parked a gray Ford Transit. There were no neighbors or cars outside, no other people in sight; everything was still, except for maybe trees swaying in the slight breeze. There was a brief lull, a slight hesitation among the men, but then they stuffed me in the back of the van; they piled into the front rows, and soon we were off. And they didn’t even allow me my cane. Can you believe it?

Well, after we left the neighborhood, we took a left on Gainsbourg and waited for a while, on account of the fact that this was just after they installed the light, and the light operators still didn’t have the timing down— what? How did I know? Well, the men left me with my glasses, fortunately,

and my vision back then was still good enough to see—oh. The van had windows, you see. I believe they were tinted—Sam Glass on Jeopardy, now there was a great champion. And he was always respectful; he never bounced around the board.

Well, we turned onto Burnham, which turned into Sycamore, then left on Shillingsburg Drive, another left on Mortenson, then right on Shillingsburg Avenue before it turns into Shaker Avenue, and from there, I can’t seem to remember; it’s all so blurry. Eventually, we reached a highway which I didn’t recognize; we took that into the city. We passed downtown and the arts district and some industrial parks in the heights; there was no traffic. It was almost sunset. I believe it went on like this for a while, but the rest was pretty blurry, and so, eventually, my thoughts wandered, and then I drifted off to sleep. Are you still playing soccer? Oh, why not? Ah, I see.

Well, anyway, I remember waking up when the van was stopped, I think, or maybe they roused me, but I remember it was night, we were in a parking lot, with a bunch of harsh fluorescent street lights shining down. The men got out and opened the back of the van; I was still pretty groggy— What? Means still sleepy or … eh, not completely awake yet. I was under the impression it was a fairly common word? Oh well, times change, I guess. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.

What was I saying? Oh, they motioned for me to get out; I didn’t resist, and they led me across the parking lot, which was flat and endless and deserted; not a car in sight. What? Well, fine, maybe a few. I’m not really sure. As I hobbled across the parking lot, and they helped me hobble across the parking lot, there was total silence—come to think of it, I didn’t say a word during the drive; I definitely think I had questions or concerns, but I didn’t think of voicing them—what? I suppose the guys spoke at least a few times at various points. I think in the driveway, maybe during the commute, but not in the parking lot, I don’t believe. Stop pestering me with your little questions; just let me tell you.

Well, anyway, soon we were at a business park, the kind that rents out spaces to different businesses, the type we passed on the highway—buildings with white, blank walls lined with mid-size hedges, no windows, flat roofs, and dark and gloomy and imposing. One of the men stepped up, swiped a little card, and held the door for us on the way in. The interior was dark and cooler than it had been outside—I suppose the AC was on, even though it was autumn. It was quiet and still, no sign of anything. Then, I suppose one of the men found the light switch, since the lights turned on.

Do you remember what deuh meel sez in French means? I believe I’m pronouncing it right; I’m not especially sure. Oh alright, thanks anyway. And so, the lights turned on, and we were in a lobby, there was a reception desk in the back, and behind the desk there was an office chair and a green fern, which was in the corner, and on the right side, near the door, there were a couple chairs, I suppose placed there as a sort of waiting area, and

beyond that, here was a hallway that came into the lobby from the left and came out of the lobby to the right. Yes, a fairly normal lobby, I suppose. And, so they waited for a bit—I don’t remember how long, maybe five minutes, ten minutes—and then they led me down the hallway to the right. To the left, or maybe behind me, there was darkness shaded red, probably by the glow of one of those neon red EXIT signs somewhere further along. What? Yes, we had those back then. How old do you think I am? Oh.

To the right, or perhaps in front of me, there lay a white door. One of the men opened it, held it open for me, and I hobbled through it and then they followed me inside. How’s your dad doing? Good, that’s good. I have so much to tell him, I just wish he would call someday. No one calls anymore? Well, that’s a shame. I used to work for one of those companies out in the Bay Area—one of those calling companies—and they had a very nice calling center, quite large but also inviting. Unfortunately, I wasn’t involved in the design process for it, but I knew a fellow who was on the design team, and he would always wear the same bowtie, and they also had a very nice logo that won a bunch of awards. I forget what color it was, but it was very … trendy, no … buzzy, no … electric, yes, that’s the word, electric, and their slogan—what? Oh, fine.

Inside, there was another room. I believe this one was also white; it’s pretty fuzzy though. Yes, I’m quite sure it was white, but what’s it to you? So, we’re in this room. This one is smaller than the lobby to some extent, and with a high ceiling of fluorescent light fixtures, plaster tiles, smooth walls, shiny, white linoleum floors, and then the one wall which was just a curtain. And so, in the middle of the room there was a white, plastic fold-out table surrounded by four chairs, and at three of the chairs sat more men, all of whom had hair whiter than I, lab coats, drab neutral color sweaters, khakis, loafers. Two of the men were bespectacled; the other was raw-eyed. The other chair was empty, and so the four bald men led me to the empty chair, directed me to sit, helped me into the chair, and then filed out of the room, one by one, closing the door behind them. Soon, the raw-eyed man began to speak.

“We will now proceed to turn you into a mouth.”

Obviously, I started to laugh, which, at the time, I thought was completely understandable given what the man had just said. But the expression on his face was completely serious, and so were the expressions on the faces of all the others. I remember it vi … vivi … vivicaciously, like it was yesterday.

Then he said, “Sir, we are at the forefront of integrated neurotechnology, and we have deemed it necessary that you become a mouth,” and he pulled back the curtain to reveal, on a large white pedestal, a mouth—like a set of dentures, but the size of a human-sized rabbit, and they had slightly redder gums, which appeared to have highly advanced circuitry buried deep within them.

And then he continued, “For some time, we have been exploring the possibility of integrating a human consciousness with a digital interface, and you have been selected as the first test subject. We will upload the contents of your brain on this drive”—He held up a small flash drive, no bigger than a few inches—“and we will install the drive in the mouth by inserting it into the mouth’s uvula port. It should take no more than a few days for this transaction to occur, and, before long, you shall be a mouth. We would like you to sign these waivers, please. It’s okay, you can take some time to read and decide; they’re long, multifaceted documents. Take all the time you need.”

I took some time, reviewed each waiver’s contents; there were a few confusing clauses, but I came out of it well enough. I think I took around fifteen minutes to decide; ultimately, I reviewed the pros and cons, and decided to become a mouth.

So, I signed the documents, and that was that. So, the next day they put me under, apparently for about three days; unfortunately I don’t remember anything from then. And then I woke up, and I was here… Oh, grandson, leaving already? Oh, dentist’s appointment. I understand. Oh, right, you already told me that on your way in here. Well, can you at least brush my teeth? The nurses here are so rough—wait, if not, can you at least tell them to send over Lucia, the one with the pretty voice—okay, can you please at least just tell your father—well, okay, alright, at least shut the door on your way out.

It was written Anthony Rivas

It was written that the streets would turn from cement to gold, and that ice cream shops would stop running out of chocolate chocolate chip, and that all the potholes would be filled with Play-Doh, and that they’d somehow be able to genetically clone Plato, and that the daring dancers would no longer have to leap to pay rent,

and that we’d stop waging war over cheddar cheese, and that all the stop signs would stop taking away our freedom, and that our silly stuffed animals would breathe the breath of life, and that our cars would finally switch from natural to unnatural gas, and that we’d no longer fear a daily diet of mushroom cloud soup, and that the veil in the middle of the shopping mall would be torn in two,

and that all the violas and violins would learn to tune themselves, and that the poor children would teach the missionaries how to build a soul, and that the Star of Bethlehem would return to hover over El Paso, and that friends with their birthdays in the same week would resort to the one-party system, and that the men on Wall Street would get a good night’s sleep in their public stocks, and that the first class seats on American Airlines would be unseated by Lenin’s ghost, and that a new Mozart would compose a requiem in K-flat minor, and that you should never believe what’s written. Not even that.

the entomologist and the insect go extinct

Parker Snellgrove

they die in tandem, hands on legs, mismatched bodies interlocked.

the bug holds his man as much as anyone has ever been held.

the man knows his bug as much as anyone has ever been known.

and i know that to be known is to be loved, and i know that i know nothing.

time is the only singular dimension; the man and the bug both unable to wrap

their heads around its unceasing movement forward. they have both changed,

they age in tandem, like all truly connected things do. the cycles of their lives match.

i know that to be connected, to be the same, is to be loved. the man and his bug

peer at each other, life in their eyes. the bug and his man regard

one another as they die. i know that to be studied is to be loved,

and i have spent my years studying nothing, floating untethered, loving nothing.

Grillmeister

Dean Zach

On a certain June afternoon in 2020, Giles opened his living room windows to watch his exhibitionist neighbors having sex. They—the Simpaticos, a young couple about a decade older than him—usually began the foreplay at around four, but the curtains usually opened at around five before, and Giles wanted to make sure he had a good seat. He sat himself down on his couch, straightened his back, and craned his neck, staring due west over the backyard fence at the Simpaticos’ bedroom’s windows’ closed curtains. For a pair of exhibitionists, they weren’t especially good at exhibiting—he wished they would invest in a better lighting situation, since the glare of the afternoon often made it look dark inside and thus hard to make out the details of their genitalia and whatnot. Looking on the bright side, though, the blurriness of it all allowed him to foster a more active imagination, which was one of his goals on the to-do list he had taped to his fridge when the whole lockdown business started. He hadn’t left his house in weeks.

Soon it was five before, but their curtains stayed closed. After ten further minutes of closed curtains, it became apparent that they were taking an off-day. Oh well. These happened every once in a while— often, rudely, without prior notice for audience members. Vaguely disappointed and unwilling to move from his present position, Giles searched for something else in his backyard that would keep his attention. Every once in a while, brilliant orange butterflies would flit from one tall milkweed stalk to the next, occasionally landing to rest. No, that wouldn’t do. The crepe myrtles at the back of the yard swayed in the slight breeze, their leaves illuminated bright translucent green by the sunlight overhead. Eh, no. A lone cloud wandered into the left edge of his vision, a fluffy, feathery white pillow in the vast blue sea. No.

Giles kept looking. Soon, he saw smoke. White smoke, like the smoke that comes out of the Vatican chimney when the College of Cardinals finishes burning the body of the old pope. A hazy plume wafted through the open window, accompanied by the smell of meat. Someone was grillin’, Giles concluded. But who?

Giles sniffed. The smell seemed to be wafting in from the southwest; from the house catty-cornered from his back fence. Giles left the couch, grabbed a chair from the kitchen, placed it by the opening, then stepped up.

Perched up on the chair, Giles saw his yard, the fence, and, beyond the fence, in the yard of the house to the back left, a grill, smoking. The top was open, paper plates and plastic forks were set out on a table at the grill’s side, a propane tank was squatting on the patio, attached to the grill’s umbilical cord, but there was no person, no griller, in sight. Giles craned his neck to observe the grill’s surface. There were two shelves: a lower shelf, right above the burners, and an upper shelf. On the lower shelf: two round bright-red meat patties, two black-striped hot dogs, and a pile of shiny chopped red-yellow-green bell peppers. On the higher shelf: two oily pineapple rings, four half-hamburger buns, and four butter-braised corn cobs, slowly turning. Turning? Yes, Giles realized, the black bars of the upper grate were rotating slightly, as if

they were nursing gas station hot dogs. And then he saw spatulas— attached near the handle to the lid of the grill, like antennae. And then he saw the spatulantennae move, and Giles came to the realization that the grill was alive.

First, he heard the aHOOGa-aHOOGa of a klaxon horn, and the spatulas telescoped out from the lid, doubled in length, reached down, and scooped off the blackened pineapple rings onto one of the paper plates. Then, “Your Food Is Ready” played in a posh, deeply English voice, and two more pineapple rings were dropped onto the grill from a shelf that appeared and disappeared above the grates in a flash. Then the grill was silent, like a dead player piano.

From behind the window, Giles took all this in. He thought about what he thought he knew about the neighbor to the back left. This did not take long as he had seen the neighbor in the flesh exactly twice: first, a number of years ago, while Giles was driving by on the way to bury his trash in the landfill, and second, a number of months ago, while Giles was getting the mail. The first time, while driving by, he had glanced at the flash of movement on the driveway to his left, and, to the best of his recollection, he had seen the neighbor, a cream-colored middle-aged man in scrubs walking towards a parked car, a car which might have been idling and may have been a truck. The second time, while getting the mail, Giles was walking on the sidewalk when he looked to his left and saw the neighbor. The neighbor, wearing a white tank and jeans this time, was sitting in a white wooden Adirondack chair on his porch, reading a book. The neighbor made eye contact with Giles. Giles waved, and smiled. The neighbor waved, but did not smile back, and his eyes returned to the book.

The aHOOGa-aHOOGa sounded again, and the spatulas extended again, swooped down to the lower grate, picked up the meat patties, and flipped them with a swift 180-degree turn. The neighbor must have been some sort of inventor, Giles realized. What book was he reading? After all, the second encounter wasn’t that long ago; he should be able to recall something about it: at least the color of the cover, or whether the cover had words or not, and what script the words on the cover, if said words existed, were written in.

Eventually, Giles came to the conclusion that the script in which the man’s book cover was written was Cyrillic, and the language was Greek. Based on this information, he concluded the man was an émigré, and, thus, the man had to be an inventor. It would make sense, then, that he would invent a self-operating grill, because of the Greeks’ known proclivity for grilled meats.

“Your Food Is Ready”, the English voice proclaimed again, doling the hot dogs onto another plate. Giles realized that, if he just waited, he would see the Greek man (or the man who was reading a Greek book, or the man who was reading a book with a Greek cover, or the person who did not know how to read and was staring at an object that looked like a book and appeared to have Greek letters on it) come out and eat the food.

Seconds passed, and he did not come out. Then, minutes, and the man was still not out. Eventually, hours, and Giles saw nobody come out of the house. The grill still smoked and flamed; occasionally it would spit out corn cobs or bell peppers or a steak or a filet o’ fish onto a paper

plate, but mostly it squatted there, hulking, smoking. Soon it was early evening; the sun cast long shadows on the empty backyards, the grill was enveloped in shadow, its smoke invisible. Soon, the grill’s side-table ran out of room for plates, so the spatula-arms deposited another layer of plates on top of the first layer of food, and deposited another layer of food on top of the second layer of plates.

Soon it was sunset. Giles kept staring. Plates were stacked four layers deep now, but still, no inventor. Giles wondered why the grill wasn’t out of propane yet, and where the grill was getting all of this raw food, but soon dismissed these questions as ridiculous. The sun had dipped beneath the horizon now; feathery clouds were streaked with bright oranges and reds like tangerine-flavored cotton candy. About half an hour before sunset, the klaxon sounded again, and the leftmost spatulantennae scooped up a hamburger bun and placed it on the edge of a plate. This time, though, the plate slipped off a greasy corn cob, throwing the corn cob off-balance, and then the corn cob rolled off its plate, taking the plate and the plate of hamburger patties underneath with it, and the whole intricate structure of plates stacked on plates came toppling down, leaving grilled foods strewn across the patio.

Twilight. Giles heard a car screech to a stop on the street to the back, and then stomping through the house, and then, suddenly, the neighbor was in the backyard. He was dressed in blue scrubs and a face shield; an ID badge in a plastic sleeve dangled from the lanyard around his neck. He looked upon the scattered plates and forks and knives and buns and patties and hot dogs and cobs and veggies and filets, distraught. He got down on his knees, started picking through the wreckage. He picked up a corn cob, but it slipped through his fingers, and the man started sobbing, bawling, tears streaming down his face, getting into his mouth, dripping on the patio, seasoning the fallen foods with saltwater. He dropped back, sat there for a while, until his tears ran out and all that was left was a constant sniffling and a dripping of mucus. Then, his face contorted with rage, and he got up and stomped towards the grill, and he shouted “FUCK YOU GRILLMEISTER” and began kicking it. Giles watched him kick and kick and kick and yell unrepeatable absurdities till his voice got hoarse and his breath short. Then he paused, and pushed the grill over with a final flourish. The grill tipped and landed on the concrete with a dull clang, and it laid there, still smoking, still tethered to the propane, its spatula arms frozen for good. The man stopped, stood there, panting, looking down at the fallen machine. Seconds passed, then minutes, as dusk fell over the suburbs; Giles stood frozen atop his chair; the man was frozen, like a statue, on his patio. And then the man looked over at Giles. Giles jumped off the chair and slammed closed the window and yanked closed his curtains, and that was the end of it.

Contributors

Faysal Al-Zand is a junior English major who enjoys music, creative writing, and lifting heavy objects to potentially earn medals in the sport of powerlifting. On any given day, you can catch Faysal eating, writing, hanging out with friends, or watching slow-motion YouTube videos of geckos eating unsuspecting flies. “The Annihilator of Dusk” is the first work Faysal has published for The Trinity Review and also one of the first poems he has ever written!

Kasey Barrett is a sophomore pursuing an Anthropology major and a minor in Creative Writing. A firm believer in the power of stringing words together, Kasey loves to write short stories. Her short story “Fragmentation” was previously published in The Trinity Review’s 2023 Winter Mini-Issue, and she hopes to have more works published. Kasey hopes to make readers feel something with her writing and her most recent publication, “A Brother to Death,” is no exception.

Jeremy Blackburn is a senior Biology major and Creative Writing minor. He has been worldbuilding since he was a child and writing for several years with dreams of one day writing a series of novels. This is Jeremy’s first publication, and he is thrilled to continue his publishing journey postgraduation.

Lily Brennan is a sophomore who intends to major in Communication and minor in Creative Writing. She has loved writing for as long as she can remember, and hopes to make it a part of her life always.

Cutter Canada ‘24 is an English and Communication double-major with a love for writing and research. He especially enjoys writing about animals and artificial intelligence. He is currently a researcher focused on critical animal studies, the ethics of artificial intelligence, and children’s media analysis.

Faith Choate is a first-year Political Science major working toward a minor in Creative Writing. She’s been writing fiction and fantasy for fun ever since she completed a fourth-grade novel that will (thankfully) never see the light of day. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading, cartography, and beating people at Mario Kart.

Macks Cook (they/them) is a senior English major and poet. They also serve as one of the 2022-23 co-Editors-In-Chief for The Trinity Review. Their most recent work can be found in underblong, The Trinity Review, High Noon and The Luna Collective. They adore their cat, Boo, and large cups of watereddown McDonald’s Coke. You can find Macks on Instagram: @mothmacks.

Thao Đinh (she/her/hers) is a senior International Studies Major (International Development concentration) and Creative Writing Minor from Hà Noi, Viet Nam. She is the founder and president of Trinity’s Bullet Journal Club (est. 2019), among many other campus leadership positions. After returning from studying abroad in Copenhagen, Denmark in Fall 2022, Thao is enjoying her final semester. She recently received the International Education award for Most Outstanding International Student. Her writing, art, and photography have been published in previous editions of The Trinity Review and other literary magazines like the Windward Review. Her first zero-budget short film, ORCHILD, was chosen and screened at three film festivals, including Trinity’s first-ever student film festival. Through her artwork, Thao is always proud to share her beautiful Vietnamese culture. Thao appreciates the beauty in everything and loves helping others see the beauty within themselves.

Leah Dooling is a first-year pursuing a major in Earth Systems Science with a minor in Creative Writing. She enjoys writing poetry in her free time and has previously been published in Scholastic Art and Writing. Her hobbies include bouldering, thrifting, and going to concerts.

Madeline Freeman is a senior English and Latin double-major with a minor in Communication. In 2022, she published a short story for The Trinity Review titled “Raining Red.” Along with fiction, Madeline enjoys writing screenplays and poetry as well as drawing, crafting, and organizing, which she does as the vice president of Trinity’s Bullet Journal Club.

Kim Granados is a junior English major and Creative Writing minor. She writes in her free time and experiments with poetry and short-form narratives. You can find her with her nose in a book, petting cats, or spending time outside.

Arden Haggard is a junior majoring in English, with a passion for reading, writing, the environment, and scoping out funky coffee shops. She has an asshole of a cat named Soccer Ball who she loves, and revels in the delight of reading a good book. She’s always accepting recommendations for new music, and loves to go thrifting on the weekends. She enjoys writing about her everyday adventures and topics in eco-feminism, LGBTQ+ rights, and mental health advocacy.

William Hinson is a senior Economics and Philosophy major. He enjoys making music, cooking, and occasionally writing sci-fi.

Colin Houston is a sophomore Political Science major with an interest in fiction writing. They also write columns for the Trinitonian, enjoy making

music (but never showing it to anyone), and have two dogs.

Abby Jackson is a first-year planning to become an English major. She enjoys dance, reading, drawing, painting, and photography.

Bailey Judis is a junior at Trinity University, double-majoring in Communication and Disability Studies with a minor in Creative Writing. She is a self-published author of nonfiction and was a Scholastic Arts and Writing Awards Gold Key recipient in 2020. Bailey is from Austin, Texas and is a competitive swimmer and triathlete. She enjoys big family gatherings, surfing, and writing poetry in her spare time.

Avery Longfield is a senior Sociology major here at Trinity University. She has been writing since she was a child and finds the most joy translating her thoughts onto a page. She hopes to continue her writing journey in grad school and beyond.

Ryann Moos is a sophomore pursuing a double-major in Sociology and English. From a young age, Ryann has been drawn to poetry and has written it in her free time for as long as she can remember. Her poem “The Gemini Complex” was published in the Trinity Review 2023 Winter Mini-Issue, and she is very excited to be sharing another! Ryann truly believes that words have the power to not only harm, but to heal. She hopes that people can find solace in the work that she publishes.

Jaeden Morgan is a junior Art major who has a lifestyle brand called INSIF. He mainly enjoys drawing and painting, but wants to keep expanding outside of those mediums. He is also involved with Trinity Art Collective.

Elizabeth Motes (she/her) is a senior English major. Her work has previously appeared in The Trinity Review and Outrageous Fortune magazine. She’s been published in two anthologies, “Venus Rising” and “Querencia: Winter 2023,” for her stories “When a Door Closes” and “Perfect Memory.” This is her last year submitting for the Review and she is sad to go, but excited to see how it develops after she graduates. Elizabeth runs a writing account on Instagram (@emotes.writes) where she shares updates on her projects, as well as writing tips.

Phoebe Murphy is a senior Communication major with specialties in visual art, filmmaking, and creative writing.

Haniel Neves is a sophomore Organ Performance major who also studies the piano and harpsichord here at Trinity. He is an avid collector of 78rpm records, pre-1940s sheet music, old photographs, and antique newspapers,

and very much enjoys immersing himself in historical perspectives. He also has a good-sized wardrobe of vintage attire, with suits and shirts from the 1940s-1980s, and too many ‘50s bowties and ties to count. Every one of his interests seems to go wonderfully hand-in-hand. More of a slow and old soul himself, he seems to go about life from a different perspective than most people.

Sarah Pita is a senior at Trinity University majoring in Political Science and English. She recently fell in love with writing and short stories, though she has loved literature and storytelling her whole life. “The Playwright” is her debut publication. Sarah loves iced coffee, movies, and art museums.

Anthony Rivas is a first-year from San Antonio. He is planning on majoring in Chemistry or Biology, and is on the pre-med track. Anthony enjoys reading philosophy and poetry in his spare time. He likes to work out and go on runs on trails along the River Walk. Anthony plays the guitar and drums, and is currently collaborating with a lifelong friend on their debut album.

Luna Peña Soto (they/she) is a sophomore majoring in Art and Spanish. Luna works with a wide range of media, from linoleum prints to animation. They started working with art in high school organizing spaces and like to center community in all of their work!

Parker Snellgrove (he/they) is a sophomore English major, attempting to minor in both French and Film Studies. He is a graduate from the Creative Writing department at the Alabama School of Fine Arts, where he attended high school. He is a longtime lover of poetry, both reading and writing it. He also enjoys painting, playing tennis (badly), old movies of all genres, and spending time with his two cats, Freya and Persephone.

Peyton Sterling is a first-year English major from Dallas, Texas. She is new to creative writing and has barely made it out of the notes app.

Alex Therwanger is a junior Computer Science major with a vested interest in ethics, moral questions, and creative writing. Mostly, they tend to journal, but sometimes they write more serious and publishable works. In their free time, Alex enjoys creating a ruckus with their friends and existing in places around campus.

Bryant Uwaezuoke is a junior Accounting major. He loves to play basketball and spend time with his family. “Fleeting” is his first published poem.

Jordyn White is a senior History major from St. Louis, Missouri. She is a member of BSU and an All-American athlete who holds the long jump record on the Trinity

Women’s track and field team. In her free time, she enjoys reading, journaling, meditating, and exercising. She also enjoys talking to new people and traveling. Jordyn has been to both China and Iceland, she has a twin brother here at Trinity, and she enjoys writing poetry and short stories. She loves being a team player, and her goal is to make sure everyone is able to laugh and be comfortable around her. She strives to inspire others to live their best lives and to take mental health seriously.

Caroline Wolff (she/they) is a senior Communication major triple-minoring in Creative Writing, Linguistics, and English. Her work, which consists of both poetry and prose, centers around themes of coming of age, self-empowerment, queerness, womanhood, chronic illness, mental health, and the many forms that love can take. Passionate about creating safe and uplifting creative communities, Caroline has served three years on the Trinity Review staff, including one year as co-Editor-In-Chief. When they aren’t writing, you can find Caroline reading entirely too many romance novels, dancing to the same three songs on repeat, and spending time with her cat, Hayes. If you’d like to read more of Caroline’s work and stay up to date with their current projects, check them out on Instagram: @carolinemariewrites!

Dean Zach is a junior English major and Creative Writing minor from Pearland, a suburb just south of Houston. While he’s on campus, 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 reading and watching movies, but he also enjoys running, hiking, and going on road trips, especially in the Mountain West.

CO-EDITORS IN CHIEF

Macks Cook

Caroline Wolff

STAFF

Kevin Barro

Ivanna Bass Caldera

Lily Brennan

Leah Dooling

Sandra Gurrola

Abby Jackson

Adison Miser

Elizabeth Motes

Luna Peña Soto

Pipp Phichairatanaphong

Samira Turino

SPECIAL THANKS

Kelly Carlisle

Andrew Porter

Jenny Browne

Stephanie Velasquez