2022 - The Rhapsodist by Asheville Buncombe Technical Community College

The Rhapsodist Spring 2022 Asheville-Buncombe Technical Community College Asheville, NC

Editors Barbie Byrd Ben Latter Erik Moellering

Readers Kenet Adamson Jennifer Browning Chelsea Patterson Maggie Poist Beverly Williamson Lisa York

Design/Layout The Rhapsodist Editors with assistance from Porscha Orndorf & Dave Kareken

rhapsodist, n. Pronunciation: Brit. /’rapsěd ist/ , U.S. /’ræpsědist/ Etymology: < rhapsody n. + -ist suffix. Compare French rhapsodiste ... 1. A collector of miscellaneous literary pieces. Now hist. and rare.

This issue made possible by the generous support of

A-B Tech’s Student Services Department

Editors' Note: “For our sake and yours forget your name in the street; tell us what the world has been to you in the dark places and in the light. Don’t tell us what to believe, what to fear. Show us belief's wide skirt and the stitch that unravels fear’s caul. You, old woman, blessed with blindness, can speak the language that tells us what only language can: how to see without pictures. Language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names. Language alone is meditation.” -Toni Morrison

_____________________________ Dear Reader, As A-B Tech’s primary venue for literature and fine art, The Rhapsodist showcases the best examples of creative expression from our college’s diverse population. We hope you enjoy this year's issue of writing and art that "tell[s] us what the world has been...in the dark places and the light." Thank you for your continued support of The Rhapsodist.

_____________________________

Morrison, Toni. Nobel Lecture. NobelPrize.org. Nobel Prize Out reach AB 2022. Tue. 22 Mar 2022. <https://www.nobel prize.org/prizes/literature/1993/morrison/lecture/>. 4

Contents Muse

poetry

Dravyn C. Geoff............................................................... 10

Nostalgia Leah Goodman................................................................ 31

Composition Laura Dame..................................................................... 42

Boxed Bones Georgina Provencio Martinez........................................ 45

Mighty Fine Faith Dravyn C. Geoff............................................................... 49

Integrals Ivan Melchor................................................................... 51

In This Dream Cannon Roxanne Crawford-Wilson............................... 63

Post-COVID Dr. Matthew E. Deibler................................................... 67

English Faculty "Where I'm From" Poem Project Brook Mayo..................................................................... 69 Jennifer L. Browning...................................................... 70 Heather K. Vaughn.......................................................... 72 Chelsey R. Patterson....................................................... 74 Michelle A. Payton.......................................................... 76

War Drums Zainab Sayed................................................................... 89

Laundry Day Laura Dame..................................................................... 97

Halite Eric T. Jorgensen............................................................. 100

Headlights in Winter Erin Mastandrea............................................................. 102

star couplets Mark Damon Puckett...................................................... 104

Hyperbole Dravyn C. Geoff............................................................... 108

Fiction

After

Elizabeth Shirley............................................................. 12

The Stout Nate Fleming................................................................... 32

Wretched Stephanie C..................................................................... 37

Grandmother's Story Andrew Gentry................................................................ 46

The Rose David Pereda.................................................................... 53

A Man and His Worth Grayson Molinari............................................................ 78

All Grown Up Leah G. Goodman............................................................ 85

creative non-fiction My Best Advisor Jon R. Wiener.................................................................. 92

art In a Dream Chloe M. Cooke............................................................... 11

Silent Scream April E. Morris................................................................. 30

Belief in Affirmation Cannon Roxanne Crawford-Wilson............................... 36

Who Are You When Nobody Is Watching? Gloria E. Melo-Estrada.................................................... 44

Periodic Madness Mark Damon Puckett...................................................... 48

Rebirth of the Sun Cannon Roxanne Crawford-Wilson............................... 50

Whirling April E. Morris................................................................. 52

Evanescencia Cannon Roxanne Crawford-Wilson............................... 62

The Untrained Mind Is a Raging Elephant Juan Pablo Roa................................................................ 66

Home Bronwen McCormick...................................................... 77

Find Me in a World Unnamed Cannon Roxanne Crawford-Wilson............................... 84

Circle of Life, Come Together Matteo James Tarantino................................................. 88

Crow Chloe M. Cooke............................................................... 91

And God Created Woman Jennah Sekaz................................................................... 96

Broken Christina Farrell Hendriks.............................................. 99

Morel Lamp Heidi Linnea Pastor......................................................... 101

Body Dysmorphia Rory Moon....................................................................... 103

Powder Room April E. Morris................................................................. 107

Contributors .................................................................................... 110

Call for 2023 Submissions ........................................................................................ 115

Muse Dravyn C. Geoff Her gaze is the Liberation of confession Cauterized by bouquets. She Crawls out of the spaces to surf Wavelengths, insisting on epiphany’s Dance of esoteric rhythms, embracing Scented grass stains while simultaneously Savoring Indian burns with molten veins that Frenzy galactic neurons lounging languidly upon Fission licks delighting electron fireworks floating Within limbo. Hiccupping content on rich intoxication Of sharing interconnection’s lessons while tracing Fractoid maps hinting the location of whispered Steps sultrily gasping through rouge streaks Of steam, dangling the kingdom’s keys Blindly before the mirrored mysteries Behind yet behind and then behind The spinning extremes revealing Giggling springs silhouetted By pristine clearings to tap Tendencies and shake the Lapels of sauntering Karma bags who Grease routine.

In a Dream Chloe M. Cooke

After Elizabeth Shirley

ecca closed her eyes and felt the rush of crisp air on her face, the coldness of it both exhilarating and anxiety inducing. She took her feet off the pedals and let them spin freely for a moment, though she was careful to mind the brake. The small trailer she was towing didn’t handle well at high speeds; she’d found this out the frustrating way early on. The trailer was one of the little tow behind types that parents stowed a toddler or two in when they took the family out for an afternoon ride, though there were certainly no toddlers in it now. She let her eyes drift open as she neared the bottom of the small hill and looked up towards the sky, a dense, matte gray today. She suppressed a sigh. “Hey Becs, slow up, I think the turn is coming!” called a voice from not far behind. Becca rolled her eyes but braked nonetheless and allowed Caleb to catch up with her. He peddled up beside her and gave her a quick smile, his superbly straight, white teeth, at odds with the dreary environment surrounding them. “You really flew down that hill!” he laughed. “Don’t forget what happened before, back in Connecticut.” He laughed again, but when she didn’t join in he let his smile fade and they peddled on in silence. The smooth black roadway arrived at an intersection. Becca and Caleb slowed to a halt, mindful of the rickety trailers they both towed. “Stowe Creek Trail,” Caleb read off the faded sign staked at the crossroads. “This has gotta be the byway that will take us to the coast. We’re not far now.” “Why don’t you pull out the map?” Becca suggested. “I don’t need to pull out the map. I looked at it this morning while we were breaking down camp, and what’s the use? It’s not like 12

the thing has any road names anyway.” Becca sighed and forgot to suppress it this time. “Can we please just take a quick peek? I know it’s mostly squiggly lines, but we can’t afford another wrong turn. I don’t want to end up lost or in another backwater town. Plus, it looks like snow.” She threw in a pleading look for good measure. With Caleb, you could usually get what you wanted with a little well-timed grovelling. “It’s too early in the year for snow, but fine, a quick look at the map. It’s time we took a break anyway," he replied dismissively. They both dismounted their bikes. Caleb's once-sparkling Trek had a kickstand that he employed, but Becca’s ancient Schwinn required a little more help. She walked it over to the road sign, the gentle click click click of the sticky back brake accompanying her, and rested it against the metal base. She turned to find him seated directly in the middle of the intersection. The world still revolved around Caleb Harding it seemed, minor apocalypses notwithstanding. Seeing him seated there, intently studying the much creased map, drinking from his Nalgene, gave her a queer feeling in her gut, one that came over her more and more often these days. The whole scene was, well, kind of normal. They could be two regular friends out for a weekend ride, taking in the late autumn New England scenery. But life wasn’t normal. And they weren’t really friends. Caleb Harding and Rebecca Haas had both been fulfilling their residency requirements at Mount Sinai West in Manhattan but might as well have worked on different planets. From the outside, Caleb seemed the standard American golden boy: uncomfortably handsome, unshakably convicted, and insufferably charismatic. He walked the halls boasting the brand of confidence that comes with the New England pedigree he so obviously possessed. Becca was glad they worked on separate floors, if only just to avoid the nurses, both male and female, who swooned over the new, young doctor. The one or two times she had been forced to commune with him at the hospital, they chatted uncomfortably about the only thing they shared: 13

an upbringing in Maine. It was that small, shred of a shared past that had brought him to her apartment door weeks after everything went dark. “Uh, Becca...?” Caleb called, forcing her out of the memory. “You want some water? There is enough to get us through today and into tomorrow if we conserve.” She sat down beside him on the chill pavement and accepted the water with a small nod of thanks. “You okay? You looked a little lost there. I know it’s been a hard two weeks, and maybe I’m pushing us too hard…” he started. “No, it’s not that,” she interrupted him mid sentence. “I was just...thinking of the hospital.” Becca saw the shadow fall over Caleb’s face before he turned away from her. “Sure, well, let’s pack up and keep riding north. The map seems to indicate this is the right turn, and if we ride quickly we’ll make the coastal road before evening and can find somewhere to camp earlier than usual.” When he looked at her again the shadow was gone, but the sparkle hadn’t returned to his eyes. They hadn’t spoken much about what happened back in Manhattan. His evasiveness was typical, and his mood seemed to darken when she tried to bring it up. She guessed Caleb was coping with it in his own, focused way, but she couldn’t just ignore the glaring evidence all around them. Naturally, they had shared an unspoken hope that the outage was confined to the city, but as they travelled further away, they had yet to encounter even a single home with access to the grid. In the first few days of their journey, they had chanced upon a few farms with a generator still up and running, but as the days rolled into weeks the world around them was growing dark. Becca could feel her hope dimming right along with electricity. She double checked the hitch connection on her travel trailer before mounting up and settling into the saddle for another long 14

peddle. Caleb was already moving away from their resting place and traveling down “Stowe Creek Trail” at a clipped pace. Watching him pedal away, Becca found herself fervently hoping they were headed in the right direction. So far, their journey was taking days longer than they expected, and with each passing day, the first snow of the season threatened. Anxiety bit into her. Snow in Maine didn’t stop once it started, and the idea of trekking the many miles to her dad’s cabin outside of Machias in knee deep, unplowed drifts was daunting, though not impossible. What really was tying her stomach in knots was the possibility of her dad stranded, alone, throughout the long, dark winter. He was a life-long outdoorsman and fiercely independent; he had raised her by himself after all, but at sixty-nine he was no spring chicken. Last year, he’d had a knee surgery that had left him sporting a limp, making it more difficult for him to answer the rigorous demands of life on a rural farm. She hadn’t been able to reach him once the cell towers stopped communicating, and all she could do was hope he’d know she was on her way home. She had grown up poor, but what they lacked in financial security they made up in love and loyalty. Abandoning her only family to the whims of fate was a non-option. The day Caleb had shown up at her apartment those weeks ago, she had already been planning on trying to leave the city and attempt the trip back to Maine. His brisk knock on the door had startled her but, after peering through the peephole, her fear transformed to confusion. He had stood at her door, a stuffed overnight pack slung over one shoulder and a hefty bike chain clamped around his waist. She had already gone as far as packing her apartment up and gathering supplies into a large overnight camping backpack she’d bought at REI on impulse a few years back. The backpack sat by the door for days daring her to take the first steps, but something kept her stuck behind the relative safety of the bolted door of her walk-up. Caleb’s unexpected appearance, and subsequent suggestion they make the journey back to Maine together by bike, felt like 15

the sign she had been waiting for, or at least the nudge she needed to force her out the door. He had crashed on her floor for three days, telling her about his family’s estate on Mount Desert Island, a posh coastal retreat in central Maine home to Acadia National Park. Apparently meeting at the estate was part of his grandfather's “doomsday” plans. He’d been an eccentric, Caleb explained, and had forced the family to agree to all kinds of emergency scenario protocols before his passing. Becca had wondered if all aged, wealthy people had nothing better to do than fantasize about the potential of a dystopian future, though she kept that thought to herself. The second night, while drawing up a route north by the light of a vanilla scented candle, she had asked Caleb why he sought her out, why not just make the trip alone. “Do you remember that double bypass we assisted six months ago?” He’d asked. Of course she did, it was one of the two times they had been on the operating floor together. “Your calm and attention to detail was unparalleled. I was shaking through the entire procedure and you just stood there with nerves of steel. You asked all the same questions I would have if I could have focused on anything other than trying not to appear a wreck. I really admired you that day. When the blackout happened and I decided to head for Maine, I remembered you telling me you grew up in Machias, so I looked your most recent address up in the Sinai staff directory and took the chance, hoping you’d still be around.” His honesty had surprised her then; she assumed people like Caleb Harding wouldn’t admit their fears so freely. His admission had inspired her to tell him about her own concerns about her father. It was then he offered to accompany her to the property in Machias after checking in on his own family on Mount Desert. They could then try to convince her father to return with them to the estate and wait out the winter. She agreed, and they formulated a 16

rough, weather-dependent plan over the next day. The morning of October 22nd had dawned bright and bitter with a flawless cornflower sky that bid them to make their break. They had brewed the last of her good coffee, shrugged on their packs, aired up the bike tires, and locked the door behind them. Getting out of the city had been more trouble than they expected. They hadn’t assumed to ride directly out with ease, but the roads were clogged with recently abandoned cars, and they were frequently required to climb over a sedan or two to reach a clearer path. It had taken an entire day just to get out of Manhattan. As they made their way slowly through the normally bustling thoroughfares of New York City, Becca had been seriously freaked out by the number of people they didn’t see. She wasn’t exactly sure how much time had passed, but it couldn’t have been more than a month since the power went out, yet the city streets were eerily silent. The people they did see were mostly huddled together in groups or fleeing like them, but no one was talking or communing, and the atmosphere was weighed down by suspicion and fear. When they crossed the state line into Connecticut two days later, Becca had felt immensely relieved to be leaving the city and its population behind her. They had agreed then to avoid as many metropolitan areas as they possibly could for the remainder of the trip, which is what had led them all the way out to the middle-of-damn-nowhere New Hampshire. The sound of Caleb’s Trek skidding to a forced stop directly in front of her interrupted Becca’s thoughts and forced her attention forward. “Look! Ha! I knew we couldn’t be too far off!” He was unnecessarily shouting beside her. He gestured for her to look further down the road at a small, green road sign that was tucked unassumingly between some evergreens. PORTLAND, ME 21mi “Once we get to Portland, we can’t be more than a solid day’s ride from Mount Desert Island,” he continued. “I vote we push 17

20 or 30 miles past Portland today if we can, so we make it to the estate before it gets dark tomorrow. What say the lady?” He turned to Becca expectantly. “Let’s go for it; it’s just past noon now...I think...” Becca glanced up at the sun hoping to glean the secrets of time from it’s position. “Assuming we have enough daylight left, should we take time and try and make a supply run around Portland before we push for Mount Desert?” “Nah, once we get to the estate there should be more than enough for us to resupply. That is if my brothers haven’t pilfered every useful thing yet!” Caleb laughed. “Wait till you see this place. I loved summering here. It will have everything we need to get through this winter, at least!” Becca marveled at this brief glimpse of the glamorous childhood he must have had. Words like “estate” and “summered” didn’t exist in her normal vocabulary, though she allowed herself a fleeting glimmer of hope at the thought of a true, if temporary, safe haven. Two weeks of being exposed and alone in this new dark world was starting to take its toll. She turned back towards Caleb and nodded, “Sounds like a plan. Let’s get moving, Caleb, I don’t want to be out here biking after the sun goes down. New Hampshire kinda gives me the creeps.” Hours later, Becca unrolled her sleeping bag and flopped down on top of it, exhausted. They had ridden over eighty miles today, their longest haul yet, and every part of her body was protesting consciousness. She had foolishly assumed her limbs would acclimate to the ceaseless rides, but each evening her backside still bore the characteristic soreness of a too narrow bike seat, and her calves ached from the constant uphill, downhill topography. The saving grace of rural New England was the excellent layer of pine needles that covered the ground this time of year; neither her nor Caleb had sleeping pads, and the many nights of sleeping on concrete on the outskirts of cities had been merciless. She rolled around on her bag 18

and stretched out, listening for the tell tale signs of Caleb setting up for dinner. They switched off nights setting up “camp,” and it just so happened that their last night eating al fresco for a while would be his responsibility. She propped herself up on her elbow and turned toward him. “Hey, let’s heat up three cans of soup tonight. Just to celebrate a little you know?” Caleb raised one eyebrow in feigned suspicion. “Wasting resources in the name of a celebration? That doesn’t sound at all like the frugal Rebecca Hass I’ve been travelling with.” He gave her an inquiring look. She returned it with a flat, level stare. “Okay! Celebration it is, but if you keep being this jovial I’m going to start getting concerned. Let’s check the pantry.” He hopped up and strode to his trailer; it had been decided he would carry the canned goods because they weren’t sure Becca’s decrepit Schwinn was up to the weighty task. Rummaging through he announced, “Looks like we have two cans of Chicken n’ Stars and a few cans of Alphabet left.” “Just mix whatever together and hand me a spoon,” Becca replied. “I’m toast.” “Wish we had some toast.” “Yeah, me too.” For a few minutes, Becca laid there and listened to the now familiar sounds of Caleb setting up the camp stove, the hiss of the gas and subsequent whoosh of combustion. Her thoughts returned to the brief interaction they had earlier that day about New York. She sat up, the nylon bag crinkling beneath her, and positioned herself to face him. “I think we should talk about this, whatever ‘this’ is.” He stiffened but didn’t face her. “I know it’s been on your mind too. We can’t go on pretend19

ing like we are on some scouting trip and when we get to your place everything won’t be what it is. The world around us is changing, something horrible could be happening here...could have already happened. I can’t shake off this constant dread. We haven’t seen a single light on for nearly a week, there are hardly any cars left on the roads, and when we do run into another group of people we are more compelled to hide than ask for help. I know you don’t want to have this talk, but I need to.” She gave him a look she hoped was both patient and compelling. He sat in silence for a minute, before shrugging his shoulders. “Of course it’s been on my mind. I’m not blind but, look, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if it even matters. We just need to focus on getting to Mount Desert.” “It matters,” Becca pushed. “That last week at the hospital was chaotic at best but could more accurately be described as horrific. I know you were there when we lost power.” Becca shut her eyes in an attempt to ward off the memory, but the action was in vain as the night of the blackout came rushing back. It had been her third night shift in a row, around 4am, and the last before her period of days off. The overhead fluorescents barely flickered before the hospital was plunged into total darkness. She had been pouring a cup of coffee and spilled the scalding liquid directly on her hand before dropping the glass carafe onto the cold tile floor of the break room. When the emergency generators whirred to life and the lights blinked back on with a click, Becca had run to the third floor nurses station only to find it already deserted. Her first instinct was to check in on the life support patients, but she needed the third-floor nurse to tell her if the units were operational. She had picked up the intercom phone and checked for a dial tone. Silence greeted her on the line, but the sound of clipped footsteps on linoleum made her lift her head. A group of nurses rushed down the hall, gesturing frantically, concern etched on their faces. Becca 20

stepped out from behind the desk and rushed to catch up. “Excuse me! Can anyone tell me what just happened... please. And where is Nurse Ramone?” She gestured at the vacant nurses station. An older nurse with greying hair was the only one to reply. “No one’s quite sure, but it seems the entire hospital is running on the backups now. Maintenance has been called in, but it could be a few hours. I’m sure they’ll get it straightened, but what a mess! And right before shift change too!” She smiled at Becca before stepping through a pair of pale blue swinging doors and disappearing into the post-op ward. The back-up generators could power the entire facility for ninety-six hours in the event of an emergency, but Becca had been assured by the Chief Operating Officer they would never have need for that-this was New York after all, epicenter of prosperity and production. At forty-eight hours, they had gone down to emergency power levels, turning off the primary heating and cooling elements of the hospital and cutting half the lights. The details were a blur in her mind now, but she recalled the anxiousness that had set in once the heat had been shut down. The ever present chill of a hospital now becoming truly cold. At seventy-two hours, all the lights were shut off, and all non-life support machines were silenced. This had included the refrigeration in the morgue. Becca had felt the real panic settle in when this decision was made. Fear had gripped the remaining staff. By this time, it was clear that it wasn’t just Manhattan without power, but all of the city. The days and nights bled into each other. Her phone had died back on the second day, but her small wristwatch helped her maintain a loose grip on the quickly unraveling hospital rotations. By now, Mount Sinai was being kept afloat by a skeleton crew of nurses and doctors that hadn’t left yet. Most had returned to their families to ride out what was being called an “outage,” but Becca, being without even a cat to go home to, had stayed on. Caleb had stayed on too. She remembered glimpsing him 21

rushing through the corridors on several occasions, a blur of white coat and blonde hair. “Why did you stay?” “Why did I stay where?” Caleb asked. “At the hospital, in the days after things went dark I saw you. You could have left for Maine then, so why did you stay?” “Honestly, leaving crossed my mind every hour.” He replied. “But it was like watching a car accident. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t leave. Who would have taken responsibility for my patients?” For weeks, Becca had been avoiding thoughts of what became of the patients, the ones who’d never had a chance to be transferred to a larger hospital with longer-lasting generators. Not that it would have saved them now, she thought grimly. When the generators finally ran out of fuel, Becca had tried her best to get most of her charges to another facility, but in the end she’d run out of options. What more could she do if the power was well and truly gone from the world? She’d felt sick walking out of the emergency exit that final morning, a wave of anxiety-induced nausea washing over her. She’d been so caught up in her own head she didn’t notice the chaos swirling around her until someone grabbed the arm of her hospital coat. “A doctor!” the stranger shouted. “Oh my god, please-we’ve been waiting all week for admission. You have to help!” The woman was hysterical, pulling Becca’s arm by the sleeve, practically dragging her around the corner towards the front of the hospital building. “Ma’am, what, I’m sorry, who needs help? We can’t admit any more patients, the hospital…” Her words were cut off as they rounded the corner. Hundreds of people were camped outside of Mount Sinai. She abruptly stopped walking. “Let me go” 22

“A doctor!” The woman shouted again. Waving her free hand in the air. Several heads turned, and people started moving in their direction. Becca panicked. “I can’t help all these people. I’m sorry, I can’t possibly,” she stammered. The woman wasn’t listening; she just tugged harder on Becca’s coat sleeve. The crowd around her was growing and the desperation in their eyes filled her with trepidation. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated and tore her arm out of the woman’s grasp. Filled with shame, Becca turned and ran. The crowd’s alarm and anger was evident in their screams. Tears streamed down her face as she sprinted down the block. Somewhere between the hospital and her apartment, she had balled up her white coat and tossed it into an alley. When she made it home, she bolted the door and didn’t open it again until Caleb knocked. Humiliation colored her cheeks as she relived the horrifying moment, her eyes filled, and she was tempted to allow the emotion to spill over. Instead, she inhaled sharply and steeled herself. “What do you think happened? To the power, I mean.” Caleb shook his head. “It’s impossible to know. No news, no digital communication of any sort. The last person we spoke to was completely off his rocker, so I doubt his government conspiracy theory held much weight.” He stirred the soup. “But again, what does it matter?” Becca started. “Seriously, why waste our energy speculating? If this is our new reality, which it may very well be, let’s try to move on with it. The soup’s hot; let’s eat and try to get some sleep. We have another long ride tomorrow, but at least we can look forward to a decent meal with my family and a comfortable bed.” Becca leaned over and accepted the soup, but her heart remained heavy. She couldn’t understand his avoidant attitude, and 23

the hope he was fostering about his family worried her increasingly. What if something had already happened? What if his estate was abandoned? She hadn’t dared give life to these questions but felt sure Caleb was thinking them too. She blew on her steaming soup in silence. So much for celebrating. The day had dawned with a slate sky and thick cloud coverage; an icy wind blew through them as they pedaled feverishly up the coast. They had been following a rough oceanside path for most of the day, and the heavy silence of last night had accompanied them through the morning. They’d spoken only transactionally, but, as they crossed the bridge onto Mount Desert Island, Becca felt the mood lighten. She ventured a question. “How far are we now?” she called over the whipping wind. He slowed down to match her pace. “Once we cross onto the island, it’s only about fifteen miles to Seal Harbor where the estate is,” he shouted back. A smile lit up his face, a private memory perhaps. “I haven’t been back since college. Hard to believe I even remember how to get there. Hopefully the gate code hasn’t changed.” Becca snorted. “Well if it has I don’t think it would matter much what with the power being gone now. We’re going to have to go up and over regardless!” “Always keeping it light, Becs.” He laughed and rode ahead. Becca craned her neck. The gate was an excessive iron thing, ornamental in all the ways rich people preferred to make themselves feel important. “A family crest and everything huh? Subtle.” “My great-grandfather wanted everyone on the island to know a local boy had made it to the top, but the family doesn’t normally use this entrance. There’s a smaller, private gate around in the west side of property. Let’s go over there and check it out; I doubt we 24

are lifting the bikes over this bad boy,” Caleb replied. The smaller, private gate turned out to be fairly mammoth as well, but someone had already forced it open by looks of things. Caleb brightened at the sight. “I knew they would be here first.” Becca wanted to share his optimism, but apprehension crept down her spine. They squeezed bodies and bikes through the gap and set out down the gravel drive that she assumed led to the main house. As they walked, she took in the grounds of the Harding Estate. Evergreens lined the winding, gravel drive, and small, shapely bushes filled in the empty space between the massive trunks-it was obviously all well taken care of. Perhaps Caleb’s family was here after all. As they rounded another bend, a sweeping, albeit brown, lawn stretched before them and led the eye straight to the focal point of the main house. Becca nearly stopped in her tracks at the sight. The house was enormous, not even a house, but a mansion. A multi-winged brick ode to another time. She’d seen some large houses in the Hamptons but nothing like this. It was straight out of a Jane Austen novel. “This is where you grew up?” she asked in a breathy voice. Caleb at least had the grace to look a little embarrassed. “Well, no. I grew up mostly in the city, but we spent our summers here when I was a kid. No one in my family lives here full time but there is...” Whatever Caleb had been going to say was drowned out by a sudden shrieking coming from the front door, if you could even call such an entrance a “front door”. “Caaaaaaleb, oh my lord, Caleb, is that you dear? Thank goodness.” A portly, middle aged woman came rushing full speed down the steps leading to the entrance. An apron tied around her waist flapping wildly as she made haste. “Mrs. Holly!” Caleb called, catching her petite figure in his arms. “Oh hunny, I’m so glad to see you, so relieved. It’s been hor25

rible, I can’t even begin to tell you.” She sobbed with abandon, not bothering to wipe away her tears. Caleb patted her on the back and the entire scene struck Becca as profoundly heartwarming. He gently extracted himself from the older woman’s embrace and stepped aside and motioned for Becca to step forward. “Mrs. Holly this is Rebecca Haas. She’s also a doctor at the hospital where I work, uh worked, rather, I suppose.” He turned to Becca, “Holly Fletcher and her husband, Shep, have managed this estate since I was little. They live here year round and maintain the house and grounds. I consider her family.” He smiled warmly at Mrs. Holly. “Rebecca, dear, it’s so lovely to meet you. It’ll be wonderful to have company other than Shep. We’ve been so baffled by what’s gone on,” she replied warmly. “Wait, no one else is here?” Caleb asked, suddenly tense. “Not a soul love. Just Shep and I. Haven’t heard from anyone. You and Rebecca here are the first folk I’ve spoken to in weeks now.” The silence stretched a beat too long. “That can’t be. I was certain Matthew and Harmon would have beat us here; they’re only in Boston. They would be here by now.” A pleading note entered his voice. “I’m so sorry Caleb. I just haven’t heard anything,” Mrs. Holly repeated, genuine sympathy on her kind features. Becca reached out and touched his shoulder lightly. “They are probably just delayed, it took us much longer to get here from the city than we anticipated.” False hope wasn’t usually in her narrative but seeing him so desperate made her wish her words could be the truth. “We can wait a few days before leaving for Machais,” she suggested, even though every part of her wanted to turn and leave now. Her Dad could last a few more days alone; he had to. 26

Holly Fletcher perked up with renewed purpose. “That’s right dear, I’m sure they’ll arrive. Now. Let’s get in out of this frigid wind. Not that it’s much warmer in that drafty, old manse, but I’ve had Shep build fires in the main rooms, and we still have enough gas to light the stoves for now.” She looked up at the sky as they turned towards the house. “Snow soon, I’d bet anything.” Becca sighed and followed them inside. The days at Harding Estate passed slowly, almost languidly considering the circumstance that brought them there. They woke with the sunrise and spent most of the daylight hours scouring the house for anything that could be useful for the coming season. During these escapades, Caleb would regale her with stories of the summers he spent galavanting around the estate with his brothers, and she would tell him what it was like actually growing up in Maine. In the evenings, they would light the fireplaces in the main rooms and pass the time with card games or a chat over a glass of wine from the extensive cellar. All in all, it was a fairly enchanting way to begin the apocalypse. Despite the bucolic nature of their days, the nagging feeling of time being wasted crept back into Becca’s bones. Harding Estate was a place apart from the world, a place where one could lose themselves to the routines of coastal life. And that was a good life, but it wasn’t Becca’s life. One evening she was no longer able to ignore it. “Caleb, we need to leave soon. It’s been over a week, we had originally agreed five days, and I’m starting to feel like it can’t be put off any longer. Being here has been a welcome reprieve, and I’m grateful for it, but we can’t linger here and wait for the snow to fall. We’ll never get out to the cabin and back if it gets too deep.” Caleb set his wine glass down and considered. After a moment, he said, “I can’t go with you to Machias, Becca.” She stared at him. “You can’t go? Please. Explain.” “It’s not that I don’t want to, but I have to stay here. What if 27

my family comes, and I’m gone? I can’t abandon them...or Holly and Shep. This is the Harding Estate, and a Harding needs to be here.” Becca took a deep breath and tried to level her voice. “Do not pull that lame ass excuse out on me right now, Caleb. This estate has gotten on perfectly well without you, or any Harding, for years and you know it. When you came to my apartment and asked me to travel to Maine with you, I agreed upon the condition you would help me get to Machias and find my Dad and try to convince him to come back here. I fulfilled my half of this deal, and now you’re backing out? We both witnessed how dangerous it was starting to feel out there, and you’re asking me to go it alone... now?” “I just...I can’t leave, Becs. I’m sorry. I still want you to bring your Dad back if you can.” He lowered his eyes, not even trying to meet hers. Good, she thought, he should be ashamed. “Fine, stay, but know that I know it’s out of cowardice and fear, and I don’t blame you for that; just don’t feed me a lie about the estate ‘needing’ you. That’s weak and you know it.” She got up to leave. “I’m heading out in the morning; no need to get up and see me off. Also, don’t call me ‘Becs’; I honestly hate it.” She shut the door loudly behind her, leaving him to sit alone by the dying fire. Becca set out down the drive, the sky leaden overhead, her bike tires crunching dead leaves and small rocks beneath them. She had left the trailer behind this time, knowing she may have to finish the last half of her journey on foot. Instead she’d strapped her backpack to the small cargo area over her rear tire. It made her bike wobbly, but it beat the trailer slowing her down. She’d also helped herself to a nearly brand new pair of Sorels that had been sitting in one of the downstairs mud rooms. The Hardings could consider 28

it a reparation for their stupid son’s behavior. She was still feeling hurt and confused over last night’s argument, but she pushed the thought from her mind for now. She didn’t need emotional baggage weighing her down in addition to the literal baggage she was already hauling. As she approached the gate, a cold, wet flake landed on her forehead and disappeared on her skin. Becca looked sharply towards the sky as it finally gave way to winter. “Becca!!” Caleb’s voice sounded far away somewhere behind her. She turned to see him trotting along the drive with his Trek and a large, bulky object strapped to his back. She had half a mind to bolt, but being a fundamentally sensible person, she waited. When he reached the gate, he was out of breath, his cheeks bright red in the cold morning air. “Becca, I’m so sorry about last night... You’re right, I’m scared, terrified, I don’t know...how...to make...this okay I feel... like...I have no control...” She put her hand on his shoulder as he tried to catch his breath in the small spaces between his words. “Stop talking, Caleb. You can explain on the way, but for now, just stop talking.” He grinned. “One more thing?” “Sure, one more.” “It’s snowing.” Becca sighed. “So it is.”

Silent Scream April E. Morris

Nostalgia Leah Goodman At the store, trying to decide which brand of bread to get The blank paper inside me became splashed with ink for the first time in a long time When an old song came on My mind flashed back to young smiles making up for what they lacked in teeth, with true happiness I could feel the wind high fiving me as we drove through the city with the song ringing in our ears and taste lollipops and helium from party balloons when we danced our way through each birthday I could see kids watching colors shoot up among the stars in the sky on the Fourth of July and feel my mom’s hand rubbing my back when my head felt like it was going to explode And standing there looking at bread I was trying to figure out when the song began to represent the way our smiles lost their reality as our teeth grew back in to fill the gaps As we started to blast it to mask the sadness of growing up When lollipops, colorful stars, and back rubs were replaced by Ibuprofen and blank beige walls How the song had become a distant noise from the next isle over in a grocery store And how happiness had become distant memories Nostalgia is a funny thing because I left the store with color in my eyes, but an unbearable emptiness inside As my hands began reaching back for something impossible to grasp. 31

The Stout Nate Fleming

sat in the dark corner of the drab, empty little pub staring at the stout sitting on the grungy table. How long had I been sitting, staring? “You gonna drink it or not? We’re running out of time.” Considering that the irritable scowl on the bearded face of the dwarf sitting across from me had grown even more irritable, it must have been a while. He leaned over the table and half spat, half whispered. “I told you I’d get you here, and I did. Now you keep up your end of the bargain.” He’d been irritable since we’d first met-when he approached me at that other dingy pub in Belfast offering his assistance. “I know where the stout is, and I’ll take you there, but once we get there you’ll use it to help me.” I’d heard this before – in pubs in Ediburgh, Glasgow, Dublin-the same empty promises and the same wasted time, and lots of lost money. But this time had turned out to be different: the dwarf had actually done it-led me here to the isle of Inisturk of all placesand now the stout sat before me. I’d been searching for more than ten years, ever since first reading about it in some obscure Gaelic literature in that nearly abandoned section of the Taylor Library at Oxford. A stout made from the springs of the mythical isle of Brasil, an island that only appears from the mists once every seven years. The stuff of fairy tales, not academia or reality. But for some reason, the idea latched onto me like a leech, and I persisted. I continued to research, dig through ancient texts, 32

trying to find the truth. My professors laughed at me, as had my classmates. And when I ignored them all and published my research, Professor McDonald said that I had “committed academic suicide.” “Wasting my time,” I muttered, watching a single drop of condensation make its way down the side of the dirty glass. “What’s that?” the dwarf asked. “They all told me I was wasting my time, that I was mad to keep pretending it was more than legend.” “We don’t have time for this,” the dwarf said, grabbing the shot of whisky that sat before him and downing it in a swift gulp. “See? It’s not hard. Just drink the damned thing! That’s what you came here to do!” What I came here to do. Right. I turned my attention back to the stout. I lifted the pint glass, which was surprisingly cold, and held it up to the shaft of light coming from the dingy window over my shoulder. The onyx liquid seemed to absorb the light. But was that just my imagination? “The Ballad of Ailbe Ailbhe said that the one who drank the stout of the isle of Brasil would receive untold gifts from God, Beidh súile Dé ag titim air… The legend of Cu Chulainn says that the stout is what gave him his mighty powers, that he kept a cask nearby as he fought Queen Mebh of Connacht. But all the stories end the same way... there was always a cost…” A sudden pounding on the rough wooden pub door just to my right brought me out my revelry. With a curse in a language I didn’t recognize, my diminutive associate shot out of the seat and stood before the door, his hands raised and head bowed. Ciara. She’d been trailing us every step of the way, but the dwarf kept us out of her reach. But now, she’d found us, and she wanted the stout for herself.

The irony is, she’d been the only one who’d believed me. I’d opened up everything to her, given her my heart, confessed all my hopes and dreams. She’d listened and absorbed and learned and then betrayed me. First, Ciara went to the dean accusing me of plagiarism, and then after I’d confronted her about it, she went to the dean again accusing me of assault. All lies, of course. “Drink the damned drink!” the dwarf cried, his hands now pressed hard against the door. Were they glowing? “I can’t hold them!” I turned my attention back to the stout. God only knew what Ciara would do if she got her hands on something so powerful. It’s my fate, not hers. It’s my dream, and she-with all of her lies and masks and broken promises-she can go to hell. My hands shook as I lifted the pint to my lips, and as the glass grew closer, the sounds of the struggle at the door receded until they were nothing more than a buzzing fly or a neighbor playing his music a bit too loud. The glass was cold. So cold. Why would they serve it cold? Before I could drink, the door exploded in, flinging the dwarf across the room and slamming him against the wall beside my table. He slumped lifelessly to the floor, and then she was there, her da’s pistol pointed at my head, two ugly goons flanking her on either side. “Put it down, Liam,” she said breathlessly. “I can’t,” I whispered, the stout just an inch from my lips. “You know I can’t. This is the stout of Brasil! It’s real!” “It’s not real, Liam,” she whispered, desperation in her voice. “Please put it down and come with me.” “Or you’ll shoot me?” I asked, laughing at the irony. Just two weeks earlier, we were lying naked in bed playing Fortnite on our phones, and now she’s pointing an actual gun at my head? “You just can’t stand the idea of me getting the power.” 34

“I want you to get some help,” she said, shaking her head. “Please.” But I’d come too far. Maybe she would shoot me, maybe she wouldn’t. But if I could take a drink-even just a quick one-then none of it would matter. Her bullets, her rejection, all of the rejection-none of it would matter. I took a drink. She fired. Blackness.

Belief in Affirmation Cannon Roxanne Crawford-Wilson

Wretched Stephanie C.

he screams of people running the streets at 4:00 am should have felt more normal to me after working in a bar for the past two years. But tonight, it was more annoying than anything. It being New Year's didn’t make it any better. That only meant that there were twice as many people out and ninety-eight percent of them were drunk. The bar was supposed to close at two, but my manager had insisted on staying open for a few tourists and regulars that had begged him to keep the lights on. The amber glow coming from the old light fixtures was starting to give me a headache. The mix of the smell of the alcohol-soaked wooden tables and bleach cleaning water made it hard to stay cheery. The group’s laughs roar through the small pub and echo off the 1970s-style wall paneling. Finally, one of the older male tourists wobbles over to me and apologizes for making me stay so late. Alcohol drips off the white hairs of his beard, as he slides a final tip across the countertop. The rest of his friends rise to their feet, as he walks back and they exit out of the side door, letting a small gust of wind brush up against my arm hair. Quickly, I walk over to the now vacant table with a serving tray and begin cleaning up the rest of the bar. With a wad of cash in my pocket from tonight’s tips, I walk to my car and check my phone for text messages. Connor had texted me twelve times asking where I was, and when I would be getting home. His last message came through at 3:24 am and read, “If you’re not home by five, I’m drinking all the wine.” Before coming into work, I had told him to just go to sleep without me, but he pushed to just let him stay up and wait for me. I fumble for my car keys in my purse and unlock my SUV from across the parking lot, checking for drunk drivers before walking across 37

the ally. The heavy door closes loudly behind me as I climb into the car. A cold chill runs across my skin and down my back. The key in my hand approaches the ignition and a hand pushes against the side of my throat. His rough dry palm touches the side of my neck and the ice-cold steel of his knife pressed against my windpipe. Shallow and rough breathing comes from my backseat, terrifying me even more. I keep quiet, fearing that if I say anything, he will turn the blade and make a quick cut. Without a word, he moves his hand from my neck into my hair and pulls the knife away. In a deep voice I am commanded, “Turn the car on and drive around the block.” As I shakily turned the key, my car roars to life and the headlights flash against the brick building in front of the car. With no hesitation, I pull out of my parking spot like a million times before, and begin to drive. When we reach the first stoplight, I can feel his hand shaking against my skin, letting me know that he is just as scared as I am. People around us on the sidewalks continue to go about their night like nothing is going on. To them, everything is normal, and tonight is just another holiday for them to celebrate. I turn down an abandoned alley and put the car back in park. Both of my hands drop to my sides, and the atmosphere around me falls silent again. His long fingers leave my hair and touch my neck again. A callus on the inside of his ring finger swipes against my ear-almost as if he is trying to comfort me and make me no longer feel afraid, and in a strange way it is working. He shifts, making the leather seat squeak as it rubs up against his legs. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he claims in a raspy voice. My body goes cold as I try not to think about what he wants from me. The cash tips from the previous bar shift, the twelve-karat ring sitting on my left ring finger, or something much worse. The hand that is holding his knife is resting against my collarbone. A bus full of obnoxious tourists drive past our alley, the passengers drinking and laughing loudly and enjoying their time in New York, avoiding 38

thoughts of having to go home and back to their normal everyday lives. I, on the other hand, want more than anything to go home. I close my eyes and try to relax by thinking of all the things waiting for me once this night was over. The oversized king bed that is way too big for our studio apartment. The stone covered shower that would wash away everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Even the hole in the wall next to the bathroom door, that Connor had put there last week after a huge argument. Connor himself, everything about him from his short brown hair to the American Eagle hoodie he always wore. A heavy regret fills my body, as I remember that I never texted him back. He probably just thinks I am running late again or still at work; little does he know. The outside world is quiet around us, and the car feels as if it has been sitting in the same spot for weeks. My new friend sits back against the backseat, letting go of me completely and lets out a heavy breath. “You know, you’re not the person I was looking for. There’s this woman that works down at the gas station on 6th south. I’m supposed to be with her right now. She parks her car in the same spot every day and leaves every night at exactly midnight. Her name is Maddie, and she has the most beautiful curly burnt orange hair. For the past month, I’ve been buying a pack of cigarettes every few days from her. Funny thing is, I’ve never smoked a day in my life. But she was always there and sweet and flirting back. Then one day I ask her out and she laughs. Loudly. Then tells a coworker like it’s some old joke. It’s disgusting how cruel people can be in this world.” He stops speaking and makes a whimpering sound, as if he is crying. “Then today, I go to wait for her. To show her how funny it really is to make people feel like shit about themselves. And to my surprise, she isn’t working. What a twist in events, huh? Only problem is, I already had the knife in hand and a plan in motion. 39

Just needed someone else to fill her spot. I’m sorry you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I really am,” the hushed low voice disappears again. “It’s not too late to just go home. You can just get out of the car, and I won’t tell anyone what happened.” I manage to choke up the words and hear him sit up. His blade once again stops right in front of my windpipe, and he lets out a sarcastic sigh. “Unfortunately, that’s not true. I'm one of those people that keeps going once they set their mind to something. Although, I was going to hurt her the way she hurt me. I’m not going to hurt you. You served me a few hours ago, Gin and Tonic with a twist on ice. When I handed you your tip, I watched you put it away and saw the wad of money you pulled out of your pocket. I just want the money. So, if you could just hand it over slowly, I can go.” All at once I feel my body relax. Every bit of fear I am feeling fades away, and I can finally breathe normally again. I clear my dry throat, “The money is in my apron on the passenger seat. I’m just going to lean over and grab it and hand it to you.” I reach over and pull open the sweat-covered apron pocket and feel the cash against my fingertips. In the silence, a car about a block away backfires and he jumps. The cold metal knife glides against my throat in a quick motion and makes my body go numb. My breathing slows down as my neck and chest become warm and wet. Suddenly, I am in the middle of Central Park, dancing to a local band with Connor. The summer heat is cooling down as it gets later, and our friends surround us dancing as well. The band comes to a stop after their third song ends, and he lets go of my hand. Then, the band plays our song as he falls to his knee and asks me to be his wife. The crowd around us cheers as I said yes, and he wraps me in his arms, swings me around, and holds me tight. I feel his lips press against mine, kissing me like it is the first time all over again. That perfect image begins to fade away and reality takes over my vision. My body falls limp against the driver’s seat, and I feel colder 40

than I’ve ever felt before. The car’s back door flies open, and then the driver’s side door. For the first time tonight, I come face to face with my attacker. His black hair is long and unwashed, matching his overgrown facial hair. The pale skin on his face grows whiter when he sees what he has done. I begin blinking slower as the rest of my body slows down, and I slightly choke. He panics and looks around; whether he was looking for help or witnesses, I didn’t know. The large hand that had once been wrapped around my now-exposed neck touches my face for a split second, once again like he is comforting me. Then he disappears from my view and runs around to the other side of the car. He grabs my apron and runs off, getting exactly what he wanted. I am alone, sitting in a dark, abandoned alley with no one around and no one coming to look for me. My blood starts to stain my black and white shirt just like a horror film, making it look like I spilled a bottle of Bloody Mary juice down the front of me. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, my body starts to slip out of consciousness. Just as my mind starts to go blank, Connor’s ringtone goes off in the pocket of my jeans, and I drift off to the sound of an old slow song that we were supposed to dance to at our wedding.

Composition Laura Dame Demolished: the world and all its parts except for just two & just this: sizzling delight—all that’s left The air in pools, humid with soft conclusions The light swimming quietly across skin still reverberating with touch These spells, too: The smiles that fall like stained glassed windows painting a sinner’s face That strike like sandpaper against a waste-bin heart That memorize easy like a sweet sort of trauma Yes, yes— press the symphony in between the pages construct a legacy that wails with saturation points This is spring sunshine on winter skin morning dew shining straight through until dusk sugary sweat birthing itself with laughter no time for a stanza break cause it’s also desperate little bolts from the blue a private shattering of glass that whistles like happy clouds and the reckoning boil of a rising sun

and it’s the kiss and the kiss and the kiss and this co-created world blessing itself against strewn mundanities in a brand new edition of bliss

Who Are You When Nobody Is Watching? Gloria E. Melo-Estrada

Boxed Bones Georgina Provencio Martinez At the end of the hallway, boxed bones. They have been hidden at the museum for a week. To everyone but me, their existence is unknown. Missing posters at the door; someone taken from their homes. A blonde girl around my age they seek. At the end of the hallway, boxed bones. Some women taking pictures of an exhibit of Davy Jones. The museum’s prehistoric exhibition contains an air of mystique. To everyone but me, their existence is unknown. I walk towards my office to examine fossils and stones. Blonde girl? Don’t ask me. I don’t know, I won’t speak. At the end of the hallway, boxed bones. Bones? About them only I know. At the end of the hallway from their resting place they peek. To everyone but me, their existence is unknown. Human bones, white as snow. Oh, poor girl. My sweet Monique. At the end of the hallway, my boxed bones. To everyone but me, their existence is unknown.

Grandmother's Story Andrew Gentry

hen my grandmother was a young lady in the 1890s in the Low Country of South Carolina, the main social event of the year was the traveling tent revival. She and her favorite sister Laura, who was not afraid of man nor beast, were excited when they heard the news that the tent would soon be in their neck of the woods. They knew their father, who took no nevermind when it came to such holy-roly conflagration, would not be keen on their attending, but they pursued his permission nonetheless. They did not care for the preacher or the singing, but they knew there would be a number of young handsome lads in attendance hoping to meet young ladies of a virtuous reputation. How much more virtuous could you be than a pious soul listening to the "message"! So the day came, and Grandmother, whose name was Mary Jane, along with Laura, wearing their best Sunday-go-to-meeting attire, ardently petitioned their stern father not only to allow them to go, but to use the buggy with the fringe instead of the mule wagon as transport. Great grandfather Hezekiah relented and assigned his best mare to lead these two lassies to the font of salvation. They were overjoyed and left out early to go to the Big Tent. In due course they arrived, and to their great joy, the county's best-looking lads were there. People were milling about when the old pump organ the preacher brought with him began to wheeze and moan something that sounded like a hymn. The preacher, who was a tall and just plain mean-looking SOB, began to pray tirelessly. Grandmother and Laura bowed their heads but continued to engage in flirtatious glances when, suddenly, the self-anointed prophet of cotton and tobacco fields rose up from his knees and began to preach and shout. He was swaying and pert near foaming at 46

the mouth about "the spirit" and how it was one would manifest being given this gift of the Holy Ghost! About that time, a hard-shell bug fell down Laura's neck and into her dress. She begin to writhe and twist, and the old preacher took note of her manifestations. He shouted a jubilee and said "the sister has the spirit"! By this time, Laura was in considerable distress and grabbed Mary Jane's hand, and began to run from the tent. The preacher yelled "Don't leave sister-you have the spirit!" but to no avail. As she and Mary Jane ran out of the tent, my grandmother yelled back "NO she has the Bug!" They jumped into the buggy and spared neither whip or horse till they were home and safe from further embarrassment. Often what appears to be "spirt" is just the "bug"!

Periodic Madness Mark Damon Puckett

Mighty Fine Faith Dravyn C. Geoff It’s a mighty fine faith For Maker to make them all go away Those bad people and set everything straight In the end days No more confusion on who to hate People who can’t drive and Muslims far, far away People who disagree Drugs and drink, and those hobos Shaming success when Skin color really was becoming cliche Knowing Armageddon is on the horizon And that yours truly is saved Relieves the shoulders of Earth’s destruction And to think Just to bathe in bliss and Cleanse the day away

Rebirth of the Sun Cannon Roxanne Crawford-Wilson

Integrals Ivan Melchor In the interpreted world the sky has become weightless No longer able to feed us The clouds collapse at our feet in tears We are forced to climb tainted ladders The stars leaking onto our crowns As hierarchies become visible for the first time Dragging with us infinity to places it has not reached We lap in mouthfuls of words And our tongues poison the water Forming monuments of pleasure in our reflection The ripples of the water crawl to the moon’s edge But return to themselves only

Whirling April E. Morris

The Rose David Pereda

watched through the window the single rose perched on the bush, admiring the juxtaposition of colors as the light of the waning sun melted with the red of the rose. The velvet petals seemed to welcome the penetrating rays with a warm embrace, and I thought of Lorraine. My mind filled with a sudden avalanche of memories: quick kisses on the staircase, covert meetings in the park, passionate encounters in my car, and, often, when my parents went out to dinner, my room. I felt a tingling invade my body like a burning skin rash. My heartbeat quickened at the thrilling reminiscences I had been trying so hard to forget during the past six weeks. Then Luke spoke, and I knew the moment was gone, and I felt a deep sensation of loss, knowing it had been mine for a magical instant but was no longer. “Long time no see, buddy,” he growled in that bizarre accent of his, a combination of native New York and imitation Southern. “What’d you do with yourself-keep buried in here?” Luke Livingston came from South Florida and acted like the typical Floridiot, always asking the wrong questions and making stupid comments. He had just returned from spending the summer break with his parents in Miami. His pink face was peeling from sunburn, and his blue eyes had red stripes and looked watery. Judging by how Luke overflowed his chair, he had also added at least twenty pounds to his already beefy frame. He had stopped for a visit, unannounced. Lucky me. There was nothing to say, so I said nothing. Instead, I smiled, breathed in deeply, and looked at Luke’s round face. He raised both eyebrows, which made him look like an owl. 53

“Aren’t you going to offer me something to drink? Where are your parents, by the way?” “Out to dinner with friends.” I tried to peek out the window, but he blocked my view. “What would you like?” “Beer.” I went to the kitchen, extracted a Yuengling from the refrigerator, returned to my room, and handed the can to him. He made a surprised face. “You’re not joining me?” “I need to study for a math test on Monday.” “It’s Friday. Study tomorrow.” “I have other things to do tomorrow.” Luke shrugged and popped the can open with a hand as big as a dinner plate. He drank greedily. I watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall like an elevator as he guzzled half the beer. When he put the can down and breathed again, he said, “I had a lot of fun in Florida. Wait until I tell you some stories.” “I can’t wait,” I said, trying to put some enthusiasm in my voice. “Doing what?” “The usual things, you know what I mean?” He winked an eye at me. “No.” He gave me an annoyed look and patted his bulging belly. “Ate a lot, visited friends, partied, went to the beach, chased girls, you know, the usual.” He hesitated as his eyes flicked with the image of a new thought. “I picked up this woman at a bar in South Beach that was built like a brick statue and had curves like the Daytona 500.” He put the can between his legs and measured with both hands. “She was pretty wasted. I think she was on drugs or something. Anyway, we were exchanging saliva and groping each other under the table when her husband arrived.” 54

His body shook with laughter, and I was afraid the chair would collapse. “The woman was married.” “I got that. What happened?” “The man took a swing at me. Stupid bastard. Right there inside the bar. People are crazy in South Beach, man. They carry guns and shoot each other down there. It’s like the Wild West.” He paused to catch his breath. “The man was a skinny fellow about your size. I punched him once and put 'im under the table. Broke his nose and teeth, and they had to carry him out.” He laughed again, sounding like the foghorn of a big ship. “He should’ve known better than to pick a fight with me.” “And the woman?” “She left with him, but not before she gave me her phone number and asked me to call her. She was a hooker.” “Did you?” “Did I what?” “Did you call her?” “I sure did. Carla was her name, and she was a great piece of ass, a screamer. She yelled so loud while we were having sex at the motel that the manager thought I was beating up on her and sent security to check on us.” I remembered the graceful curve of Lorraine’s neck and the softness of her skin, velvety like the petal of a rose. I remembered her lips, plump and red like a juicy apple, and her eyes, large and luminous. I remembered her little ears hiding like jewels under her luxurious mane of hair. I remembered our sweet and unhurried lovemaking. And I remembered her unique scent, a combination of vanilla, cinnamon, and rose fragrance. Luke was silent, and I hoped he was running out of steambut no such luck. “Is that math?” He leaned forward and peered at the book on my desk. 55

“What’s that curlicue thing with an x and an apostrophe?” “Calculus.” I nodded. “That’s a derivative.” “What does it do?” “A derivative is like an alternate reality. It’s not the main character in the movie, but the supporting friend who can tell you where the main character is going and the expected outcome. In literature, that’s called pace, how quickly your text reads, and progression, what result you have achieved when you get to the end.” “Huh?” He scratched his nose so hard he left red marks all over it. “I never understand half of what you say. What the hell is all that? Can’t you speak English? Alternate reality, pace, progression, characters. What does a derivative do in math terms?” “A derivative calculates the slope of a tangent line to the graph of a function at that point. It calculates the instantaneous rate of change. For example, a derivative can calculate how fast Usain Bolt is running at any point during a race and estimate when he’s going to cross the finish line.” “I was never very good in math, and I don’t understand any of that. So, what do I need that mumbo-jumbo for?” “Don’t you play football?” “Sure,” he said proudly. “First-string tackle.” “You have to run 40-yard sprints for your position, don’t you? A derivative can tell you how fast you’re running at any point during your sprint. Isn’t that interesting to you? “I leave all that to my coaches,” he said after a moment’s hesitation, his eyes moving side to side as he tried to process the information. “Did I tell you I have a girlfriend now?” “I thought you had several.” “I mean a serious one. I guess I’m getting tired of this wild life. It’s time I settle down, but….” His voice trailed off. “But what?” 56

“I’m not sure I love this girl, though.” “What’s her name?” “Kathy.” He pulled out his cellphone and scrolled down to show me a series of texts. “Look at the love texts I send her.” He expectantly waited while I read some lame sayings probably copied from Chinese cookies. “What do you think? Kathy believes I’m a romantic, and she loves them.” “They sound…okay,” I said. “Why do you send your girlfriend love texts, anyway, if you’re not sure she’s the right person for you?” “I don’t know. I guess I like Kathy a little. And I think she’s right for me. A North Carolina family like mine, you know. Don’t you think these texts are good? I tell you, someday I’m going to write a novel. Can you write texts like these?” “Probably not. Anyway, I don’t send love texts.” “Not even to your girlfriend? What’s her name?” “Lorraine. And she’s not my girlfriend anymore.” “What happened?’ “She broke up with me.” “She’s stacked that girl, a real fox. Movie star looks. Did you ever get any of that?” “None of your business.” “Oh, come on, you can tell me.” “No.” “Wasn’t she a beauty queen or something?” “Yes, she was-the Tampa Latin Fiesta Queen when she was in high school.” “How did she end up in North Carolina?” “Her mother found a job here. She’s a divorced single mom.” “I always thought Lorraine was too much of a woman for you.” 57

“That’s what her mother thought too. She didn’t think I was the right suitor for Lorraine. She wanted a rich man for her daughter.” “Rich and white, right? "Right. And that leaves me out on both counts because my mom is white, but my dad is black.” “Yeah, you look like that basketball player Steph Curry, except you’re shorter and you’re not as good-looking-and you don’t play basketball.” “The story of my life.” “Maybe you should compete in chess. You’re good at it. You always beat me when we play.” “You don’t play very well.” Luke’s eyes flashed with a new thought. “Remember Al? The tall guy who plays the guitar downtown at Rezza’s? He got himself a brand-new Corvette. Black with red interior. Really nice. I dragged him with my Bimmer and beat him. It’s not the car you drive, but the way you drive it, I always say. It was a close race, though.” “Imagine so. How’s college coming along?” I asked, trying to change the subject. “Like a breeze, man. Coach gave me two tutors who write my papers for me and sometimes – don’t tell anyone – even do my homework and take online tests. As a result, I make straight A's, and I don’t lift a finger.” I thought of hardworking students like me who had to study during extended hours to learn and pass tests and felt anger simmer inside me. “I could make straight A's by myself if I wanted to and had the time. But why?” “To get an education, maybe?” “What do you mean by that? So, you don’t think I could make straight A's if I wanted to?” 58

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He looked intently into my eyes, trying to find traces of mockery or reproach in them. Then he laughed. “You know I’m training and can’t study much. Besides, I got a lot of extra-curricular activities, like girls and enjoying life. You should try getting out of this man cave and enjoy a little living with me.” The sun had gone down, and the little light left in the room was about to disappear. I got up, switched the overhead light on, and sat down behind my desk again. He didn’t speak for a few minutes. I thought of Lorraine and how her soft fingers felt when we held hands and the sweet taste of her saliva when we kissed. He broke the silence. “Do you have anything special planned for tonight?” “I already told you-to study math.” “Come with me to The Red Door. I’ll buy you a drink. It’s the hottest place in town. That’s where everybody will be tonight. You should see the girls that go there.” “Don’t you have a serious girlfriend now?” “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Besides, she hasn’t returned from summer break yet. She returns Sunday.” “You’re not twenty-one, are you? So how do you buy drinks?” “How do you think I buy drinks? A false ID, of course. I look older than my age, being so big and all. Everybody on the team got them.” “Well, excuse me. I didn’t know that.” “Come with me to The Red Door. Be my friend. Live a little. Enjoy life. Find a new girlfriend.” “No, I need to study.” “What’s the matter? You don’t like to hang out with me anymore? Did I do something to you?” “Don’t be sore. I don’t feel like going out tonight. That’s all. He stood up to leave, and I rose with him. I realized how big 59

he was standing next to him. Luke was taller and easily a hundred pounds heavier, perhaps more. “Maybe we can go to The Red Door another time, or do something else, go horseback riding or to the beach. What do you say?” “Okay.” “How about next weekend?” “All right.” “I’ll get in touch with you, and we’ll fix it up.” He started walking toward the door, and I followed him. At the door, he stopped and turned to face me. “Are you sure you don’t want to come to The Red Door with me tonight? I can fix you with some girl over there, you know. I know lots of girls, many of them cheerleaders.” “No. I’d rather stay home. Thanks anyway.” “Well, I’ll call you tomorrow, and we’ll fix it up for next weekend. We could go to Myrtle Beach. It’s not that far away.” “Maybe,” I said. “Have a good time tonight.” “You know I always have a good time. Goodbye, buddy. You’re still my buddy, aren’t you?” “I’m still your buddy.” I stayed at the door and watched him climb into his red BMW and peel away faster than he should, a cloud of pebbles scattered behind him on my driveway. It had started to drizzle tiny drops I could barely feel and refreshed me instead of getting me wet. I glanced at the sky and felt the drops like hundreds of little kisses on my face. I returned to my room, thinking of Lorraine. Did she miss me as I did her? Did she ever think of me and have that dead feeling inside her chest as I did when I thought of her? Did she still love me, or had she forgotten me? So, I sat at my desk for a long time staring, unseeing, at graphs of functions and derivative formulas, wondering if I was progressing in the right direction in life and at the right pace? Later, I 60

remembered the rose and looked out the window, but it was too dark to see anything outside.

Evanescencia Cannon Roxanne Crawford-Wilson

In This Dream Cannon Roxanne Crawford-Wilson In this dream, I am under a lemon tree in the backyard, tracing fingers across small spines that wander my ground while the other hand idles, caressing sun-tickled grass Above me, mirrors hang by thin pink string, twirling gently, the weight of their white porcelain backings effortlessly swaying by a gust through the pines In this dream, the world loves me back and crocuses reach up to whisper into my hair, taking my face into their tiny hands, and everything is easy. Everything is easy like looking for the moon staring into the night cloudless Milky white fingers under bathwater calloused and ringless, scrubbing the little girl who is much too tiny to be seven Her back licked by thorns where she had met the forest in an embrace seduced by its soft touch 63

fleeing the white shutter house where birds come to land on decomposing back porch on doghouse strangled by ivy the birds sing “this home has left” In this dream, I thank my mama for the backyard a place to run and fall on all the days I shrugged off my boots kicked aside lost thimbles and doll limbs, retreating to the mint patch my father would rip up when I was in the fourth grade, or to sniff the lacy cuffs of foxglove that killed the neighbor's cat I live beside twilight and concrete walls, thick and viscous, The albatross bricked in a reminder of the weight yet trembling under an atom of touch Memories are only real if a ringing sounds in my ears bad habits in my blood twist and writhe falling apart becomes the only thing left When I look up, I see only dust a swirling scythe forming 64

slicing through the vision I had of trust I live under mirrors strung up by deceit and cracked porcelain and white shutters

The Untrained Mind Is a Raging Elephant Juan Pablo Roa

Post-COVID Dr. Matthew E. Deibler I miss the smell of wind in the trees, kale, pak choi, and cabbage at harvest, dog breath, cleaning products, freshly laundered towels and shirts, the arrival of winter, my wife's hair. What remains? The smell of burned Dust-Bowls and frustration, of minute, sheepish grief. Now I can smell the truth"and unto dust you shall return."

English Faculty "Where I'm From" Poem Project

he following five poems are from A-B Tech English Department faculty. These poems are inspired by a creative project related to the department’s equity training and course work. English Department faculty were asked to read George Ella Lyon’s poem, “Where I’m From,” and write their version by reflecting on Lyon’s poem and digging into their own histories, ancestors, cultures, and memories. By writing their “Where I’m From” poem, English faculty found the origin stories of their voices and their dreams. And, most importantly, they learned how we share our humanity and why such communication is so important.

Brook Mayo I am from steep hills and curvy roads dirt bike rides and the back of a pickup truck. From Sweetwater Road, Route 129, and West Buffalo Creek, an A-frame house, a woodstove, and a basketball hoop nailed to a telephone pole. I am from chestnut trees with prickly burrs that stick in your bare feet when you run down the hill to the handmade wooden swings. I am from a clothesline in the backyard and an old moonshine still up in the mountain behind the house. I am from if we don’t talk about it, it didn’t happen Wild Turkey behind the truck seat and Salem Light 100’s in the underwear drawer. I am from Friday night football and church on Sunday mornings basement potlucks, summertime VBS, and baptism in Lake Santeetlah. I am from vegetable canning with great aunts on the concrete patio and pulling tobacco leaves with my Pa in the field behind his house. Apples and potatoes stored in the cinderblock bomb shelter built into the hill, boiled chestnuts, salted watermelon, wilted lettuce, and Vienna sausage. I am from a dry county that lets restaurants sell booze if they build a tennis court and a school system that closes down for the beginning of hunting season. I am from a place that I love but worry about, a place I want to visit but no longer want to be my home. I am from a place that is sometimes forgotten.

Jennifer L. Browning I’m from the blue ridge ladies and the city in their valley and from tracing their arteries in the back of my daddy’s ancient Chrysler or Chevy or Hillman and from the house with expanding walls that sits in a lake bed that never had water except in the basement I’m from an old farm’s outhouse and the Plaza’s ornate lady’s lounge From impromptu midnight dancing in a big city hotel lobby Fred Astaire-style and foils, and kadas, and scales From Georgette Heyer and Louisa May Alcott, Andre’ Norton and Tolkein. From Star Wars and High Society Ella Fitzgerald, Doris Day, Frank Sinatra, the Beatles, and the Beach Boys I’m from the smells of a 1970s school cafeteria, fresh baked rolls and cinnamon buns, and The sight of 15 pies on the Thanksgiving sideboard because every man had to be served his favorite pie I’m from cotton mills and old-time garages, with three-legged stools, a pot-bellied stove, and glass jars holding mysteries both mechanical and confection I’m from the dreamer and the manager, From grandmothers

one a southern belle adored by her husband, who crossed her ankles and never wore jeans, the other a smoking, foul-mouthed survivor, mother at 13 and widow at 20 From the elegant and the practical, the handy and the efficient Handlebar mustaches and Santa suits I’m from the right and wrong side of the tracks the elephant and donkey living in domestic harmony Union and Confederate farmer and prince slave and charlatan indentured servant and grapefruit inventor hidden Cherokee and Scottish clansman I’m from being the baby and only girl, and holding my mother’s hand as she took her last breath giving my dad my breath while he laid on the floor in the terror and pain of the widow maker’s arms changing of my grandmother’s colostomy bag the unwanted advances of someone I was supposed to trust the cold disapproval for never measuring up to being a lady I am from the stories handed down and the pictures held sacred the connections across generations and the hope for what will come.

Heather K. Vaughn I’m from seventh generation Florida sand Embedded in my DNA, women ancestors That believed That went mad That birthed more daughters Until there was me I’m from two runaways whose story Became my story, my albatross, my phoenix I’m from be seen and not heard And grin and bear it And mind my tongue And sacrifice And abuse lived in silence, not everyday But enough I’m from Henry VIII’s made-up religion Practiced through the BCP A home of sorts, for me. I am from unexpected gifts From Charlie who became my grandfather From Nebraska who took me in From A-B Tech who believed in me From the writers whose words kept me company and taught me Everything I am from the night I met joy for the first time

When he decided to untie my shoes When he waited nine years for me to become me When I learned what unconditional love really means I am from a different night at 8:55PM When I refused my ancestors’ help and haunts and to spite them Gave birth to not ever one of their own Someone different, her own, whole, and dear I am from expectation, mostly With some hope With some patience Baked into my origin story

Chelsey R. Patterson I am from the Third Coast, from the in-between spaces of South Texas. I am from “Qué pasa y’all,” from taquerias and Whataburger, Tejano and Johhny Cash, lowriders and F150s; The borderland of contradictions and complexities. I am 50% West Virginia hillbilly, 50% Virgina Beach, 100% belonging nowhere and everywhere, Maybe somewhere West of here. I am of the middle-class white suburbanite, of Reagonomics, consumerism and New Wave, MTV and VCRs, class consciousness and loathing. I am from class president in 6th grade, to homemade tattoos in 9th grade. I am from funeral director to English major, From single young motherhood, From PTA meetings where they thought I was his older sister, From unpacked boxes and the rent is due, From making family where you’re lucky enough to find it. I am from the beach, Salty and sun-bleached, A product of many cultures,

Transforming and reforming, The tide shaping something new.

Michelle A. Payton I am North. I am South. I am pony kegs and victory gardens. I am the coal mines. I am from pans on floors when rainy and bed sheet curtains that move when windy. I am from the smell of Cutty Sark whiskey. I am from laughter that reveals broken, black stumps and missing teeth. I am from non-spaded, outdoor cats with endless litters of kittens and dogs rarely groomed. I am from fried bologna sandwiches on thin white bread. I am the smell of furniture refinish, aged wood, and finds from estate sales. I am flea markets on Sunday and a dollar in my pocket after the first sale to buy comic books. I am from celebrations that the lights and water remain on for the month. I am from where my children are not. For this, I am grateful.

Home Bronwen McCormick

A Man and His Worth Grayson Molinari

he painting was to be stolen tonight. It was only a matter of who took it, and who stood in its way. Spread throughout the room were people decorated in jewels, deprived of any responsibilities. The black-and-white checkered floors held rows of seats, all glazed over with the brown musk of cigars and suffocated with the sharp aroma of hazel spice whiskey. So sharp that Vince tasted it with each inhale of sickly-sweet smoke. There was something about this room that seemed so familiar to him. It was like the late-night bars back in the city of Rojoy. That heavy scent of cologne and the same song playing from one piano. The only difference being the way they held themselves, like they walked over clouds or something. Take the scrawny fella over by the couch. That slicked-back hair, wax skin, and striped suit. He reeked of new money, maybe a title of some rich family, but no income. They could pretend to have wealth, it just depended on how well they hid it. But tonight was different. Tonight was for those who needed to prove their wealth, to intimidate, to gain some sort of power other than an ego trip. And for the rest, who didn’t have enough money, who so desperately craved to keep what they haven’t earned, who feared reality in their own consistent daydreaming. Tonight was the night they became criminals. Vince picked up two drinks and headed toward his first suspect: a gentleman leaning against one of the pillars. The man’s hair was the same color as the white berry wine in Vince’s hands. He was sickly pale, contrasted to Vince’s deep olive skin and sharp nose. He was very much the opposite of Vince, appearance-wise at least: tall with a face that knew all too well what it was worth. When the man turned around, the back hairs of Vince’s neck stood straight. 78

“Thank you,” the man said with such ease, taking the glass that Vince offered. Perhaps a response would be nice, but Vince was never very good at such things as conversation. “And your name is?” “Vince Emerson, Sir.” “Please, don’t call me Sir. My father was a Sir, but not a very respectable one.” “Then what should I call you?” “Edwin Baker,” he paused to take a sip of his wine, narrowing his eyes at the glass, as if to spot a speck of poison. “Interesting,” Vince continued. “Baker is a fairly common name, yet out of all the extravagant company I’ve met here in Dimbridge, the name Baker has never come across.” “Well, now it has. Funny how I’ve never met anyone by the last name Emerson either. Say, which part of Dimbridge is your family from?” “Out of Dimbridge, across the Ivory Sea in Rojoy. And you?” “My address is in Dimbridge, but I barely visit here anymore. I travel a lot, I guess.” “A traveler. I see, I see, and what business does a traveler like yourself have at an auction?” Vince questioned. Edwin pondered about the room, his eyes leading in every sort of direction except for Vince. “To bid? Why else go to an auction if there’s nothing you plan to bid on,” Edwin huffed at the idea. “And yet that is where we disagree,” “You’re not bidding?” Vince shook his head. “I enjoy the rush of everything,” that direction was fully on Vince now-a bit intimidating with how the bruising under his eyes seemed to make it look like he had no eyes at all. “C’mon now, I think we both know the reason why you’re here, other than your so-called rush,” those purple bags sunk deeper and deeper as Edwin’s voice twisted into a raspy, unsettling tone. 79

“And what reason is that?” Vince said, taking a sip out of his own glass to avoid the stammer in his own voice. “Stop pretending.” Spit flew between Edwin’s porcelain teeth. “I know who you are, and I know enough not to trust you.” “Fine. You don’t have to trust me, but you must answer me this. About the painting I-” “I think you’ve said enough,” Edwin cut him off, taking a few steps back into a crowd of people. “Then explain how you plan on paying for it, and I’ll leave you be.” Edwin stopped, flipping back around on his polished shoes. “How I plan on paying for it?” Edwin said, or rather pushed out from his clenched jaw that was sure to break if Vince pressed onward. “Is that really any of your business?” “Yes, of course it’s my business! And how come every auction you’ve attended, one of the artifacts disappears? Don’t play me for a fool, Mr. Baker,” Vince blurted out before his brain could fully comprehend what he’d said. “You’re already a fool, need I say more?” “Just so you know, if you ever go near that painting, I’ll have your head under my foot. Do I make myself clear?” There was a silence between them. “Mr. Emerson, I’m only here for the same reason you are.” And with that, Edwin walked off until he reached his seat by the front row. Vince trailed behind a group of people dressed in golds and ruby pinned dragonflies, taking a seat in the row behind Edwin that was most certainly not his. Once everyone was settled, the lights began to dim, and the discussions withered off into whispers. A single spotlight led the attention to the podium up front. An elderly man with flushed cheeks and a mole right at the tip of his nose, cleared his throat next to the speaker’s horn. “Good evening, I’d like to offer a warm welcome to the Bellow Gallery for hosting us tonight, and an even greater welcome to 80

all of you for being here.” Vince couldn’t catch onto what the man said next; he was too distracted by the obvious grin spread across Edwin’s face-a nasty grin. Paddles started going up before the blink of an eye. An emerald embedded necklace was brought to the center, carried on a velvet pillow. “Twenty for number eleven, forty-five for number thirty-six, topped by sixty-seven for number eight!” Vince searched amongst the crowd of stern expressions and hesitant movements. “And sold! To the lady over by the left corner for sixty-seven thousand!” There was an eruption of applause, but that moment didn’t last very long. A draped canvas was carried out with the care of white gloves. Vince leaned on the edge of his chair, just like the rest did in his row. Edwin didn’t move a muscle. And when that drape withdrew, it revealed the still-life painting of a dead bird and a curious mouse on top of a red cloth table. “Butcher the Birds and Silence the mouse by Carry Finch, going for one hundred thousand tins. Your time starts now.” Arms shot into the air. “One hundred for number seventeen!” The number raised again, and again, and again, until it was at a million tins. Edwin hadn’t bid once. “Going a whole million, take your time ladies and gentlemen, but we don’t have all night.” Slowly, Edwin held up his paddle. “One million for number ten, going to a million and a half! Anyone want to top that?” “Give me that,” Vince said, snatching the paddle out of the struggling grip of the man next to him. He held it above his head, all while pushing away the man now grabbing for it. “Some competition! With number thirty-nine leading!” Ed81

win looked over his shoulder, glaring at Vince, but still, he raised his paddle again. “And sold! For the highest price of two million tins!” Edwin stood up, giving a bow to the cheering crowd before walking off. Vince followed after him, as Edwin quickened his pace. “You can’t possibly-” Before Vince could get a full sentence out, the exit door slammed in his face. He opened it to reveal a room that led to a staircase with three guards surrounding both Vince and Edwin. One of the guards pressed his finger to his temple, where a symbol was placed. The guard then stepped out of the way for the door near the back of the room. “Right this way, Mr. Baker,” “Thank you,” Edwin replied. “Please! You can’t let him in there!” Vince begged the second guard, who remained stone cold. “You need to let me through!” He fumbled about his blazer pockets, pulling out an I.D. “I'm an investigator for the National Museum of Hemlock! Our land! I have permission to view the painting whenever I so please!” “I don’t care who you are, you must wait here, or else I’ll have you removed.” Before Vince could get another plea out, there was a very faint smell slipping from under the door-nothing burning, but a mixture of grass, swamp water, and kelp. The guard’s shoes soon became covered with the coppery fog. “Henry, watch this guy for me alright?” He twisted the knob to an alarm bell screaming and flashes of white blinding light. Vince practically threw himself into the other room when the guard opened the door. He smothered his mouth with his sleeve, which didn’t do much for blocking out the blanket of smoke. “Edwin!” he yelled, but no one answered. The countless 82

footsteps were everywhere, running about, chasing after who knows who. “Edwin, show yourself now!” Vince said, and with that, he was knocked to the ground with a punch to his stomach. Suddenly aware of his own breathing, he curled up in pain, struggling to stand up again. The trim plates went off, sprinkling water over the smoke and eventually clearing it up to reveal the figures in the room. To Vince’s surprise, Edwin was on the floor too, hair drenched along with his black suit. And yet Edwin didn’t have the painting. He had another painting instead. It was the painting of a man walking down a snowy road, surrounded by buildings, and under an abundance of stars. Stolen straight off the wall and into Edwin’s arms.

Find Me in a World Unnamed Cannon Roxanne Crawford-Wilson

All Grown Up Leah G. Goodman

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How is college going,” asks the nice middle-age, blonde lady at Walmart whom my mom knows but who hasn’t seen me since I was “this big.” It’s not much different than high school. Setting alarms too late in the night, waking up to them too early in the morning. Keeping my eyes on the floor in the hallways to avoid having to speak. Bending down to tie my shoe and coming back up to see the laughter on everyone else’s faces as they walk with their friends while I walk…alone. With my earbuds wedged in tightly so that even if someone does speak to me, I won’t hear it. And wanting so badly to raise my hand and join the conversation, but being stopped by all of the ways in which I imagine it could go wrong. “It’s going great so far.” I give her a weak smile and, slowly try to slip away, my hands tangled together beneath my hoodie pocket. But she manages to get another question in before I can shuffle too far away. I already know what it is. “What’s your major?” Should I lie? No, she’ll talk to my mom later. But who cares? Well, I do. But, I should embrace it. “Uhm, it’s uh.…it’s Art.” “Oh…” She doesn’t look surprised, as her eyes travel down from my ocean blue hair to my pre-ripped black skinny jeans and my blackout converse sneakers. She does, however, look like she’s at a loss for words; replaying her childhood mantra about what to do when you don’t have anything nice to say. So, I pretend to see my mother across the way in the produce section, as if I hadn’t been 85

headed for checkout, and get away as quickly as possible. I figure I’d rather waste another ten minutes roaming around than spending another second making agonizing small talk with this woman. As I wave to an imaginary person, I shove my buggy forward hastily, the wheels squeaking against the slick white tile. “Well, it was good to see you!” I hear her yell behind me. All the while, I’m wishing I could say the same as I throw my hand up to say goodbye. And once I am sure she’s gone, I circle back around to the self check-out lane before practically teleporting back to my Honda Civic where it’s safe. By the time I get back to my apartment complex, it’s dark outside. I try not to pay attention to the check engine and low tire lights shining through the dash and continue quickly past the mailbox, which is bound to be bursting at its seems. And finally, when I enter the apartment it’s just about as dark inside as it is out. My roommate and I have lived here for months, but I’m not sure that it’ll ever really feel like home. We used to hang out and fantasize about what living together would be like. She wouldn’t have to worry about her drunken father busting into her bedroom door in a fit of rage in the middle of the night. I wouldn’t have to worry about my father convincing me that I’d never amount to anything. We would go grocery shopping together and have movie nights and eat ice cream out of the container and cover the other up with a blanket if they were to fall asleep on the couch. Little did we know, six months into what was supposed to be the best thing to ever happen to us, we still wouldn’t have a couch. Or a coffee table. Or anything. We’d barely be on texting terms, let alone speaking ones. Bills would be the only thing discussed besides who’s taking out the trash or doing the dishes next. It would be forbidden to eat ice cream that you didn’t buy, and you wouldn’t dare eat out of the container. Little did we know. Although things would be different, 86

there would still be misery. When I walk into the apartment, I pray that she’s gone to her room, so that I can go into mine without having to crank out what little social energy I have left, struggling to speak to someone who has become a stranger. Everyone in my family tells me that they’re proud of me. For going to college, for having a car of my own, for moving out on my own. I don’t know if I could ever describe to them the deafening silence within the place where I live or the way that I’m afraid to check the mailbox. I don’t know if I could ever tell them how I learned to drive and went into debt for a car just to bury my face in the steering wheel and cry about the life that I’ve made. Sometimes when I’m driving at night, I’ll look around at the lights, turn up the radio, and pretend I’ve gone back in time to when my roommate wasn’t my roommate yet. Just my friend who wanted more out of life than what she was given. And we’re singing along to one of our favorite songs at the top of our lungs. I pretend to go back to when things were a mess, but in a different way. Back to when we weren’t all grown up. But a hell of a lot less lonely.

Circle of Life, Come Together Matteo James Tarantino

War Drums Zainab Sayed Silent battlefield, the strike of the witching hour painted wretched red. Half a dozen thistle-ridden breaths sound; three across from three, each firm in their right to victory, steel against steel, friction sparking half a dozen hearts to fury. Each beat a curse; A Fury lands by each drummer, wings drawn back to strike. Here be oath-breakers, makers of friction and discord, takers of lies to the red of sunset—to when they will lose the right to their dissonance, their colliding sound. Without drums, deafening sound: lead feet, heavy bullets, soldiers’ fury in less words. But the clap of the drums right as they advance makes music, makes each strike a dance. They dance! The drummers watch as red covers red. They fight their war in friction. Vengeance’s soundtrack, friction of skin on wood on skin, falling to sound intent. Marching on autumn leaves, the red of rebirth to come. Hell hath no fury like a life left to rot, no storm a strike like the rise and drop of left, right, left, right.

At first, there was wrong to right. Hesitation, fated static friction. Then, that catalyst of rage that can strike any soul. Nothing to mend, just the sound of blood in the ears, heart-flame of fury, all color lost except that razing red. In this scene of vivid red, characters of tragedy: to the right, a man, a flower, a pool, a Fury in wait. To the left, chaos and friction, a bird, kerosene with no match, the sound of the space right after a lightning-strike. But when the red fury fades at springtime’s strike, there will be no right, no wrong, no friction. The drums will fall still, and silence will sound.

Crow Chloe M. Cooke

My Best Advisor Jon R. Wiener

n 1977, my father Lou was 70 years old. I was 24. Most of my life I remembered him having to be on crutches to walk anywhere. He had bilateral hip osteoarthritis, and by that time had already had two total hip replacements (and was going to have another in his future). A combination of very intense athletic activity and injuries in his youth and a World War II explosion injury had damaged his hips, and he would spend the rest of his life on those crutches. To take this magnificent physical specimen of a man and reduce him to being on crutches took a terrible emotional toll on him. Photographs of him in the 1930s, when he was the Chief Lifeguard of the New York beaches, portray his physique as the nearest thing to Superman I've ever seen. He held the world record for 72 lives saved as a lifeguard for the year 1933, as recorded by the International Red Cross, a record that stood for many years. He was a multi-time winner of the 18 mile St. Lawrence River swim. He was a boxing instructor, played semipro football, was my first martial arts instructor-teaching me what he had taught Army Commandos in hand-to-hand combat-and, despite his muscularity, was a frequent finalist or winner of the New York City handball tournament, no mean feat where agility and quickness were paramount. With an 8th grade education, he rose to be a Colonel in the OSS during World War II….so, he wasn't used to failure, and he wasn't used to being looked at as "injured," or disabled. And then he was on crutches for the last 45 years of his life. At 24 I was halfway through my Masters program in Microbiology. The University of Maryland required I have a minor, so 92

I chose the biology of the aging. In it, through coursework, we were taught that men, much more so than women, and especially if very athletic, faced a big issue dealing with the loss of their physicality. Former football players, wrestlers, and participants in other aggressive sports had difficult times adjusting to giving up those sports, especially when they had nothing to replace it with. A man who had learned golf at a young age as a hobby, along with being a college football player, for example, could more easily transition to golf from football, and maintain their competitive spirit, than a man who simply dropped football, didn't know a gentler second sport, and went home to sit on the couch, or tried to learn the second sport when in his later years. The latter could very easily get frustrated trying to learn a new sport in their 40s or beyond and develop depression and issues of self-worth, especially if they linked who they were with their physicality. My Dad had not learned any of the gentler sports one could do when older. So, I thought I was prepared to work with my Dad as he got progressively older, but I still had much to learn. One day he pulled the family aside and said that he had decided that he would just swim as far out in the ocean as he could, and then, being too tired to swim back, accept that he would drown as a way of ending his, and our perceived, misery. He thought he had nothing left to give to us, and he thought he was only a shell of his former self. My mother was beside herself. A woman who, in my mind, could handle anything was suddenly lost as to how to deal with this development of her husband. She pulled me aside and said, "Please talk with him. I don't know what to say." I thought, "Why pick me, the youngest, when there are three older siblings?" but since she asked me, I said I would try. Knowing this man's monumental stubbornness, I thought I could and would easily fail. 93

So, a few days after his announcement, I sat alone with him in our apartment and gently raised the subject again. "Do you really think your life has no value, and that you have nothing left to teach me?" I asked. "Name one thing I'm useful for," he responded. “All the children are grown up now, so what do they need from me?" So I said that I don't know how to buy a house, I don't know how to get the best deal when buying a car, I don't know how to be a great Dad, other than watching him, and I still needed his guidance for the many life issues that would arise that I knew nothing about. Who could I trust to give me the best advice in hard times if my best advisor was not around, if my best advisor had committed suicide as a way to handle his hard times? What example does that set? I still needed his mind, his spirit, and his will, even if his body was failing him. And there was nothing wrong with his mind. His expression changed. This very strong, very tough rock of a man, with steel blue-grey eyes that had sent disapproving daggers into many a soldier's heart, looked at me and those eyes watered. Forty-four years later, I will never forget his face at that moment. It was an odd combination of sadness, vulnerability, appreciation, and the confusion that comes from a man who had to be incredibly tough, but had a soft heart… He lived another 18 years and was as instrumental in giving me the best advice as anyone in my lifetime. I have never known a finer man. He was the perfect combination of kindness, humor, integrity, toughness, and real-life wisdom. If given the choice between being a great man or a good man, I'll always, if I can't be both, take the latter. My Dad, even if not a great man by the world's definition, was a very good man. Fifteen years later, in 1992, I was newly married, and Julie and I had bought our first house. Humorously, but not entirely so, it seemed I had no say in anything that happened to, in, or around the 94

new house. So, in a phone conversation with my Dad one day, I said that, partially in humor, and he responded, "Jon, I've been married to your mother for 51 years. You may entirely pay for the house and its contents, but it is a privilege for you to live there." We both laughed until tears filled my eyes. He had given me the perfect advice.

And God Created Woman Jennah Sekaz

Laundry Day Laura Dame Are you sure it didn’t taste of daylight? That you never heard your favorite song popping like glee in the clamor of my wishful thinking? Put me in court and I’d swear that’s what you whispered to me in those shiny megaphone lines Frankly, I’m not sure you should believe all that you hear yourself say It’s a funny feeling when the blinders are off and the tunnel vision becomes a kaleidoscope Did a few too many cartwheels maybe but no matter I’ve got my conclusion now and it suits me just the same: You like to brush your fingertips against flower petals but say you hate the sweet smell I think that’s a little ludicrous but ok swell I asked for almost zilch which is all you bothered to bring As it turns out, you’ve never made a habit out of any thing

Sloppy cross-stitch curses Slander in sly circles like standard Just exorcising a few shades of you from my ante-up brain It’s going swimmingly! I thought it was supposed to hurt when a splinter is removed But anyway, did you know? Other people also have pretty names

Broken Christina Farrell Hendriks

Halite Eric T. Jorgensen A night without common symmetry Tracing lines in pillows they lay comfortably in self-made valleys Each arm and ankle separate. A night without spilled salt Reflecting heaven’s geometry they walked swiftly in the street’s haloed light All toes and tissue combined A night without controlled breathing Echos lining the sheets they listen softly to thunder’s trumpet Every finger and rib alive A morning without a difference of angles Lives caught in cotton they stare silently, framed Both shoulder and shin uneven

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Morel Lamp Heidi Linnea Pastor

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Headlights in Winter Erin Mastandrea For K. I saw the snow breathe in this otherworld of silence where ghosts travel in animal cloaks, light-footed and careful. I was afraid to step further, afraid the snow would cry out or the sparrows would rise furiously from their secret places. Tired farmhouses, their lights dimming, and memory like weathered bone can crack to pieces like ornaments in wind.

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Body Dysmorphia Rory Moon

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star couplets Mark Damon Puckett famous people are never in poems i wonder why in a barn at bread loaf i stood by seamus heaney his pink face, nobel white hair we talked about the ginger man for a few seconds poems are short, so are times with the famous in los angeles at book soup around midnight i sold robert downey jr. a very tall dictionary we spoke in scottish accents, mine sounded better not much time with that guy either i worked the cash register-whoopi goldberg: a play, meg ryan: children’s books, donald sutherland: penguin classics it just gets more famous in this poem allen ginsberg bought his own photography books johnny depp got oversized ones with kate moss in them he asked me, are all credit cards pretty much the same? oh, i also rescued val kilmer’s amex he dropped

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winona ryder: stack of mags (with her in each) and a smirk elisabeth shue: interview magazine with her in it for an oscar nom fabio wanted a magazine called video toaster i said we didn’t have it but later realized we did sorry about that, fabio jim jarmusch, seal, tom waits, regulars. seal bought poetry. let’s go to manhattan now moving out of the 90s val kilmer again, variety party remember that time i rescued your amex at book soup? hung out with candace bushnell on the upper east side we sang queen songs (all night) at a new yorker party in gramercy park bret easton ellis introduced me to “salman” as stephen king walked by on a cane don delillo skulked in a corner, david hockney asked, had i seen gladiator? zadie smith, jeanette winterson, julian barnes tall tobias wolff and richard ford (his eyes blue as light) doesn’t add up to much time, meeting them i feel bad the famous aren’t in more poems: that’s why i wrote this one.

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subtract the queen songfest with candace and i met the famous for three minutes yes, around thirty of them for, say, six seconds each. my time with them, i confess, was brief life spreads out in your empty sky when your past becomes bigger than your now there were a few hours tho with celebrity photographer patrick mcmullan (andy warhol gave him his first camera) we rode around manhattan in a limo to take pix of kyra sedgwick, matthew modine, a pregnant ione skye then, at the plaza hotel patrick said to me, all this, mark . . . means everything. this is my star poem it will never be a book

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Powder Room April E. Morris

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Hyperbole Dravyn C. Geoff I will ask you the most terrifying question of your life! I will make you confront the void and the limitations of existence. I will kill you dead with the existential potential. And the suspense of the answer is you. I will slap you with the horror of meaning, And all the wrongness. I will steal the thunder and leech conviction. I will make you question the frigid pleading for approval, The dread of separation. I will make you gnaw on the bone of failure. I will savage the flavor at fingertips and make it turn to dust. I can’t offer recognition, just the respect for the knife in the back. I will spin you in hysterics before you pick your bags back up. I offer you, you. You can fall through the music and say this is all. You can look through the almond eyes of the unconditional, And share insanity with a breath. I offer the throne of imagination’s laurel. You are the best, you are the worst! I will stop your heart and flutter your eyes. I offer a feast upon the beast in the shadows. I offer the unshackling of infinite doors, A game of Hide and Seek. Contained within this question is the freedom From its antithesis, Without leaving the comfort of your niche. I offer every answer dancing upon the pinhead of madness.

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I offer the anticlimactic crest-fall that saturates with time’s fulfillment. This question is the intangible mission, The motivation of motion. It’s circles upon circles that underlies everything yet is never confronted in its simple glory. We never have time To stop and ponder the magnitude and the miserable truth. This question will leave you a smoldering husk of deflated rearrangement. This question metamorphizes with alignment and adapts with expectations, Tearing into the wellspring of you and whose answer wells tears. This question deserves a holiday and every day. This question is the humanity we share. It is the staggering punchline that leaves you nowhere. It is an avalanche, and you are the snowball. It is the majesty and fear and liberation and suckling. It’s really disregarded as foolery yet is the artery feeding all other questions, The nerve of vulnerability, the buffooned face of, OH that pummels us at separate times. Its avoidance is our undoing, The exact opposite of common sense! Its suppression is zillions of excuses for death. Now, to get it, you’ll have to work for it. You must follow the trail to the end To get it. You have to put in to get out. But the question is begging for you! If you’re ready, I’ll finally divulge this key to your kingdom. The hype is really overrated, But what do you really want? 109

Contributors Stephanie C. Stephanie is finishing her last couple semesters at A-B Tech before transferring and obtaining a bachelor's degree in child development psychology. Chloe M. Cooke Chloe Cooke is a multimedia artist who primarily works in mixed media paintings. She plans to receive her Associate in Fine Arts in the spring of 2022. She then plans to attend Appalachian State for her Bachelors Degree in Graphic Design. In her free time, she likes to create and sell her own products like stickers and prints (@chloemcooke.art). Cannon Roxanne Crawford-Wilson Within the changing shifts of her life, Cannon's encounter with art has become radically reformed and diversified. A 19-year-old contemporary artist, she is consistently looking to explore concepts and creations that make her feel autonomous and free. She is passionate about art and design, art history, subversive fashion, and connection to the natural world. Laura Dame Laura Dame is a former A-B Tech student currently pursuing an undergraduate degree in English at Furman University in South Carolina. Her work is also featured in the 2020 and 2021 editions of The Rhapsodist. Dr. Matthew E. Deibler Dr. Deibler is an adjunct instructor in the T-Step program through TEACCH at UNC and in ACA-122, 115. He enjoys writing poetry, short fiction, drama, and journalism.

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Nate Fleming Nate Fleming is a writer and international educator, having taught in a variety of international schools in Central Asia and China over the last twenty years. He's currently on sabbatical this year and is enjoying being in Asheville and teaching ELA at A-B Tech. Andrew R. Gentry Andrew is 74, a life long social justice activist, a sometimes-poet, storyteller, essayist, and cancer patient. Dravyn C. Geoff Diagnosed Schizoaffective Bipolar 1 type, Dravyn has tasted true psychosis and, with modern medicine, returned. Leah G. Goodman Leah is a 20-year-old student at A-B Tech who is working toward an Associate's Degree in Art with an English Pathway and plans to transfer to UNCA as an English major. Christina Farrell Hendriks Christina is originally from Columbia, SC. She graduated from Irmo in 2000 and was accepted to SCAD but wasn't able to attend, unfortunately. She ended up studying history and sociology but still takes pictures occasionally for fun. She has also interned at George Fulton Studios and done gallery work. Eric T. Jorgensen Eric is a chef. He writes at points in his life. His cats think he has potential and a need for an editor. Erin Mastandrea Erin Mastandrea studied creative writing at West Chester University in Pennsylvania. She made her home in Asheville 16 years ago and is currently studying Human Services. She can often be found wandering in the woods.

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Bronwen G. McCormick Bronwen works in the Culinary department as an Instructor and Lab Manager. She spends her free time in the amazing WNC outdoors and attempts to do them justice in watercolor. Ivan Melchor Ivan Melchor is a part-time student at A-B Tech and writes poetry and short fiction. Gloria E. Melo-Estrada Gloria Estrada is a visual artist who works in multiple media. She is pursuing an Associate's Degree in Fine Arts. Grayson W. Molinari Grayson Molinari is taking a creative writing course at A-B Tech and has written a dialogue story for one of her works. Rory Moon Rory Moon is a full-time student at A-B Tech who is aspiring to become a freelance artist. He works in a variety of mediums including traditional illustration, digital animation, photography, collage, and jewelry. April E. Morris April Morris is a full-time student, retired veteran, and mother pursuing a degree in fine arts. Heidi Linnea Pastor Heidi is an Administrative Assistant at A-B Tech Madison. She enjoys creating art as a hobby, and working with clay is her favorite medium.

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David Pereda David Pereda is the award-winning author of twelve novels, short stories, articles, and poems. He is an Adjunct Instructor of Math and ELA. Copies of his latest novel, The Wall -a book inspired by the poignant stories about coming to America shared by his undocumented students-are available at the A-B Tech bookstore and the library. Georgina Provencio Martinez Georgina Provencio Martinez is a fourth-year Early College student. She has been writing poetry, short stories, and her thoughts and ideas from a young age. Her future goals include graduating, publishing her own book, and flying. She is inspired by the world around her, her past experiences, and most importantly her family. Mark Damon Puckett Mark Damon Puckett is an Asheville writer, artist and musician with three books of fiction. Fun facts: he has been to all 50 states, attended a boarding school in England, studied Joyce and Orwell at Oxford, run a film festival in Connecticut, and worked on Fifth Avenue as a Travel Editor. Read more about his writing and art at markdamonpuckett.com. Juan Pablo Roa Juan Pablo Roa is a pilgrim of sorts. Zainab Sayed Zainab Sayed is a full-time student who previously did not write poetry, but apparently does all the time now. Jennah Sekaz Jennah Sekaz is a fine arts student at A-B Tech with a full time barista job. She aspires to become a visual artist with a concentration in portrait drawings and paintings. When she is not creating art or serving lattes, she is rollerblading, reading, or spending time with her cat.

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Elizabeth Shirley Elizabeth Shirley is an English major and new to creative writing; this is her first short story. Matteo James Tarantino Matteo Tarantino is a full-time A-B Tech student who has passions for painting, photography, and filmmaking. Jon R. Wiener Jon is currently the Dean of Allied Health, and has been a scientist and musician his whole adult life, but has a long-buried dream in the back of his mind to write stories and books.

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Call for 2023 Submissions ENG 125: Creative Writing Interested in learning the craft of poetry, prose, and dramatic dialogue? Enroll in A-B Tech’s Creative Writing course!

The Rhapsodist will begin accepting submissions for our next issue

in May 2022. Deadline: January 31, 2023.

Please visit our webpage: abtech.edu/content/the-rhapsodist-literature-and-arts-journal

Send all other queries to rhapsodistjournal@gmail.com

Check out our Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter pages for details (The Rhapsodist Literary Arts Journal).

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2022 - The Rhapsodist

Articles inside

Dravyn C. Geoff

Mark Damon Puckett

Erin Mastandrea

Eric T. Jorgensen

Jon R. Wiener

Laura Dame

Zainab Sayed

Leah G. Goodman

Grayson Molinari

Michelle A. Payton

Chelsey R. Patterson

Heather K. Vaughn

Jennifer L. Browning

Brook Mayo

Cannon Roxanne Crawford-Wilson

Dr. Matthew E. Deibler

David Pereda

Ivan Melchor

Dravyn C. Geoff

Elizabeth Shirley

Andrew Gentry

Stephanie C

Nate Fleming

Leah Goodman

Laura Dame

Georgina Provencio Martinez

Dravyn C. Geoff