images magazine Fort Lewis College’s Journal of Literature and Art
SP19
Bryson Schritter
1
Closure
Donors
We are grateful for the incredible kindness our donors displayed. Your generosity made the Spring 2019 issue possible. Thank you for supporting Fort Lewis students! Maureen Alden Daoine Bachran Elizabeth Bussian Nancy Cardona Clarence Cooley Maddie Dolan Hillary Don Merritt Drake Christopher Ellmer Jack Ellmer Jennifer Gerhman Paige Gray Katie Hankinson Deanna Hutton Ben Keefe David McEachen Erin Magee Mark Mastalski Shannon Meckley Kim Morris Mark Morrison Donna Moss Aidan Multhauf Christopher Multhauf William Multhauf Jr. Ian Murphy Candace Nadon Judy Peters David Provost John Ryan Madeline Ryan Stefanie Ryan Michael Sawyer Gary Torgow Good Vibes 2
About Images Magazine is Fort Lewis College’s journal of writing and art for the students by the students. Please visit our website flcimages.fortlewis.edu for more.
3
STATIC 4
President Madeline Ryan
IM AG ES
Vice President Aidan Multhauf Treauser Ian Murphy Secretary Benjamin Meckley President & Editor-in-Chief Madeline Ryan Magazine Layout Clarence Cooley Eamon Aldridge Designers Clarence Cooley Gabby Miller Cassidy Brunson Eamon Aldridge Staff Meritt Drake Jack Ellmer Holly Fox Evelyn Lewis Robbie Morrison Brenner Parriott Web Designer Aidan Multhauf Advisor Candace Nadon
5
Printer Basin Printing
You’re holding a livewire. This publication contains a unique balance of vivacious, charged work and moving examples of stasis. There is an equilibrium in these pages. Both sides of the scale balance as you flip each page. Static takes shape in this space. In Owen Stroud’s photograph “Rise Like the Moon,” climbers fight their way up sandstone cracks, dragging a trail of light behind them. in “Static,” Peter Brown explores the ways our body can act as a conductor. The electricity is nearly tangible. Or maybe, in your hands, the magazine feels heavy, like the concrete pillars in Bryson Schritter’s “Closure.” Scenes of winter, frozen and unmoving, appear multiple times in this edition. Molly McMillen’s “The Color of Winter” and Rachel Lee’s “In Winter” immortalize the stillness of the season. Molly McMillen’s “The Littlest Captor,” a love poem written to a sleeping cat, preserves a moment of stillness. Our newest issue of Images is an exercise in vulnerability. Enjoy each step of this imminent expedition. Allow yourself to feel the emotion these artists offer. Madeline Ryan Editor-in-Chief
6
P
POETRY POETRY POETRY
7
Static Tabitha Anderson Grandfather Carl Schnitker The texture of skin Allie Wilder In Winter Rachel Lee i want to be worth making timeless Rachel Lee Trust Christina Stanton 27.XII.2018 Carl Schnitker Standing Mark Perkins Skipping Stones Eli Uszacki Bump in the Road Molly McMillen The Littlest Captor Molly McMillen Her Mind is a Room Molly McMillen The Color of Winter Molly McMillen A View from the Floor of a House Molly McMillen
8
Static Tabitha Anderson
a word that feels like it sounds a titular electric tone connecting consonants to a consistent clamor that tickles your ears until pop! it’s gone. the feeling from the tips of your ears to your toes disappears in an instant a feeling so familiar and yet forgetful touching the old tv after your parents turned it off for the night only to sit on top of the stairs and listen for when it’s on again careful to be so still you don’t think they know you’re there brushing fingers with your date while you walk to the theater for the first time your breath stops you tingle with the electricity you hope lasts a lifetime freshly dried clothes but oh! you forgot to put in the dryer sheets your parents bought for you again. pulling your shirt over your head too fast and your hair stands on end a plasma globe emitting from your glowing face and the laughter of your friends when you realize it too late you become the conductor once things come together under your soft fingertips setting in motion a world that lays static 9
Grandfather Carl Schnitker
Sitting at the kitchen table: five minutes now the water has been boiling Where did I put that teapot? My god, how you’ve grown. The sounds of life: water boiling wall clock ticking faucet dripping (still, after all these years) Fog-grey songbirds dance on bare branches thru sun set and moon rise. So let’s sit down place hands on age’d oak breathe deeply speak softly drink tea.
10
the texture of skin Allie Wilder
Soft. A stuffed rabbit I threw away as a child; their fibers catching in the folds of my hands that always more closely mimicked those of a grandmother. Smooth. The faces on the pages of teen vogue magazine. The faces on the tv. The faces of my peers. Rough hours chugging water, Rough hours spent glued to the toilet, Rough hours wanting to be soft. “My girlfriend is made of velvet� she says, running her hands along the grain of my skin. I wonder if bunnies know how soft we think they are.
11
In Winter Rachel Lee
I stand alone in a wanting field as autumn gives way to winter. Instead of crisp leaves, it is now the snow that falls in silence to the chilled earth.
I begin to mimic the softness of winter as she cloaks me in pale snow. I begin to match the earth and we are absorbed into the silence. It is myself and the earth and the leaves alone in this empty field.
And now I stand on this earth, in this barren field. My ears thump to make up for the silence, this deafening silence of winter. The quiet comes from drifting snow, and the rustling of determined leaves
We rest in winter’s silence. The snow guides the now detached leaves down to the frozen earth of the field.
that still cling to trees. Oh, these leaves, resistant to never to touch the earth. Yet they are still tempted by the snow to fall to the alluring field It coaxes the leaves to let winter come, to let the earth lull into silence. I want to break the silence. I want to whisper to the leaves, join me in this cold winter, and witness her powers to numb the earth, and put to sleep this field under a soft blanket of snow. I listen to the snow as it falls with perfect silence and breaks quietly against the now white field. Yet the branches still hold up the leaves, unwilling to part and let them meet the earth, unwilling to submit to winter.
12
i want to be worth making timeless Rachel Lee
hide my eyes, hide my mouth. take limbs, bend and extend me how you want. please, make me a piece of art. tell me to stay still. tell me to look to you through a camera’s eye. tell me i am a statue, a piece of art. lash, mechanical click. mimic me in ones and zeros. freeze me. make this moment of me live forever. stilled. youthful. beautiful. permanent, unlike me. Reflections
13
Elise Lilburn
Body at Rest
Taylor Hutchinson
Empyrean Annie David
14
Trust Christina Stanton
The wind rustles through the leaves, whistling its whispering voice to her ears. “Patience, dear child, patience.” She wants something more – a clearer answer, something set in stone. She wants to know what’s to come, so she can take control. The whispering wind continues, sending a chill rushing up her spine. She closes her eyes and breathes. In… Hold… Out. She releases her breath and with it the tension from the weight on her back. Inside her soul, a battle rages on As she clings to the control she longs to have. Knots tie, clenching in her stomach, and with each breath, each whisper they begin to come undone. A deer passes and the voice comes again. “Trust,” it says. “Just trust.” The words linger, the moment too until the last knot is undone and she takes a step. 15
27.XII.2018 Carl Schnitker
lichenstreaks green and orange by the dead tree (woodpecked) following deer tracks in the crunchy new snow watching small busy birds at the breast of the mountain
16
Standing Mark Perkins
It was evening and the sun Was pulling away from my stance The shadow of the Earth began To take over And I was just Standing There Just standing There And the darkness Inevitable Came and I was Just standing There The stars The stars they come out But they’ve always been there But I could see more If not for these Electric lights If not for these electric lights We could see We could see more.
17
Skipping Stones Eli Uszacki
Late at night in the hotel room, Just laying down, In the strange dark glow. There’s a skipping stone in my bag. And I’m thinking of home. A rock from lake Erie, The reason why I’m here. The memories of him gone, Skipping so close to the surface, Lost in the liquid flow. I’m listening to a song that makes me think of so many magical nights, All shrouded in glow. Moments that seem to stand on their own. And tomorrow, I’m going home. On a plane, and in my pocket, A skipping stone. I’m here with family, and somehow I’m alone. But tomorrow I’m going home. To what, once again, I don’t quite know. But I will have my skipping stone. And maybe I will once again find this strange dark glow.
18
Rise Like The Moon
19
Owen Stroud
M
MOLLY MCMILLEN MOLLY MCMILLEN “I wanted to capture the slightly different meanings of the word ‘static’. To create these pieces, I took each definition and tried to use each one to exemplify a certain point of view. I intended to create strong images that embodied a particular meaning. Some of the poems are more personal, like ‘The Littlest Captor,’ which I wrote as my little calico cat slept on my lap. Others just represent or expand upon images that came to mind as I contemplated the word.”
20
The Littlest Captor Arrested. My neck begins to ache; if only I could adjust my pillow. But that would mean to wake the tiny angelic beast, ferocious and divine. Outstretched. Her fiery, mottled paws across my lap; with sweet and unsuspecting sharpness, her claws secure so easily, her human bed. Immobilized. I am easy prey, and willing too, to one so precious and so small. My muscles tense. For I dare not disturb, the littlest captor. Stirred. In slumber, even still, she is wild. Her tail flickers with desire for imagined pray; her eyelids flutter with the action of fierce dreams. Surrendered. I would cede an eternity of movement, and of comfort to my whiskered warden, my littlest love. 21
A View from the Floor of a House
A ceiling begins to decay and crumbles in on itself; flakes and fragments of dust and drywall tumble to the ground. The floorboards rot beneath, the house seems unmoving compared to the speed with which time moves around it. Vines grow through the broken windowpanes, through the static glass that’s easy prey to life, growing and dynamic. The walls sink in, recede into their framework, sagging still against the house’s bones. Insects crawl through the holes in the foundation that retreats into the mud below, through the holes in the wallpaper that reaches for the floor, through the holes in the front door that lulls on its hinges. Though at first glance it seems motionless, forgotten: the house moves. It moves back towards the stillness it longs for in the earth; it’s potential energy aching to be nothing again. And so it moves. Without knowing, and like us, it decays in its race for immobility. Dying to be transfixed.
22
The Color of Winter White A shade, unmoving, uncolored, unchanged Bare and unvarying but maybe something stirs beneath; could it be that all life is frozen, stilled by the cold of winter? White White that bleeds from the sky and kisses the ground, and breathes itself into the trees White All light reflected in this pale shade when the sun shines upon it. In its kindness, the white glows back upon the observer. White Painted in broad strokes a canvas carved of ice, art itself lives in the winter landscape.
23
White The color itself is alive though everything above is hushed and still white cradles life beneath with frozen hums.
Her mind is a room. White, windowless walls, a television on the wrong channel. Ant fights. That’s what her father had called it. Black and white static; the translucent hue of fuzzy electricity against the hairs on her arm. No concept of time, in this invariable room. Without glass to let in the sun or the moonlight. Without clocks to quantify the hours passed staring intently at whiteness until it bleeds into nothingness, unrelenting. A small room at the center of a brain. She knows these are two different things. The brain is where math problems and pictures of her childhood home lived; where words converge and diverge to greet, console, and converse. Her mind is a room where most thoughts scurried by around it. She could hear them just outside the walls, so deceptively thin. But yet, with her ear pressed against the plaster, she could not evade the overwhelming hiss of static, roaring to bring all that she is to a halt. Her mind is the room where her soul lives, fettered by a confused blankness.
Her Mind is a Room
24
Bump in the Road A lone and jagged rock lies in the road. If this rock could think, perhaps it may ask itself: Do I exist only to be kicked mindlessly through dirt and dust? Do I possess no beauty to merit a second, or even a first glance? No purpose but to be a tiny obstacle in others’ paths? But then, imagine, this rock one day tumbles into the perfect position. One where it may witness the kinds of stones that make up mountains, and monuments, and cracks that tell a river where to flow. Perhaps if it could feel, it may feel jealousy, or perhaps, instead, it may feel joy and think: What a lucky thing I am. I could sit atop a mountain, peeking through the heavens, shining as the sun imbues me with its warmth. I could be built into a castle, and be permeated with the joy and awe of onlookers, whose breaths I steal with beauty. I could be nestled amongst those stones of the river, feeling the cool water swirl across my edges as it’s surface mirrors the sky. And if I never am; if I am always just a small rock that lies in the road, at least, in my stationary isolation, I have a wonderful view.
25
MOLLY MOLLY MCMILLEN MOLLY MCMILLEN MOLLY MCMILLEN MCMILLEN MCMILLEN MOLLY MOLLY MOLLY MOLLY MCMILLEN MCMILLEN MCMILLEN MCMILLEN MOLLY MOLLY MCMILLEN MCMILLEN MCMILLEN MOLLY MOLLY MCMILLEN 26
Christina Lopez
27
Neon
‘Taman Shud’ Emily Perea
28
IMAGES
29
MAG. 30
P
PROSE PROSE PROSE
31
A Boulder Leaves Its Perch Joshua Mendrala It Rolls Back Down Joshua Mendrala Doc’s Burger Combo Douglas DuPont Coming to you Live Allie Wilder I Always Know Merkin Karr Leave a Message Katie Hankinson
32
A Boulder Leaves Its Perch Joshua Mendrala
33
When people say that you have IT, they are talking about me. I most certainly had IT. That very IT awaited its release as I stood backstage, neck craned to see the glowing read ‘E’ at my feet turning slowly green. I could have tuned by ear, but the sound of one-hundred-and-fifty half-drunk teens, tweens, and everything-in-betweens made it impossible for me to hear myself. “Sam,” Stacey’s head peaked through the black curtain, clad in black eyeliner that I myself had applied moments earlier. “Yeah?” I looked up, kicking off the tuner below me and ripping the cable out of my guitar. “We’re on in two, you’re up.” I flashed her a thumbs-up paired with a flat smile. The first time I had walked through that black curtain had been terrifying… This time had been nothing like it. I squatted to the floor of the black stage, grabbing my cable and wrapping it around my strap before plugging it firmly into the teal Telecaster which hung from my shoulder. I caught a hefty whiff of beer, sweat, and whatever it was rock’n’roll smelled like as I double-checked the plethora of nobs at my feet. I then began to flawlessly pick an intro lick I’d played a hundred times. The rest of the band joined me and the lights came on. My fingers moved prodigiously over the maple fretboard. My lips parted and paired lazily to the sound of harmonics. I couldn’t have been more departed. I had IT. This wasn’t difficult for me. As the rest of the band sweated and strained, I soared with the grace of a hawk. Perhaps if I hadn’t been the proud owner of IT, the next few months would have been significantly easier. Unfortunately for me, my bored eyes wandered the audience, until my roaming iris’ were laid to rest.
It Rolls Back Down
Joshua Mendrala
She never showed up. I waited two hours before I left the bar, and I never saw her again. I spent my time trying to get her out of my head, devoted to writing Stacey, that stupid melody until my fingers bled. With every note I wrote, I wondered: “Why didn’t Sisyphus just get out of the way?”
34
Doc’s Burger Combo Douglas DuPont
Doc was an alchemist—able to create something extraordinary out of the mundane. The former were Sysco ingredients, and the latter were cheap burgers & the feeling of home. The burger was the most popular menu item. The alchemist’s office seemed to have more room than it actually did. Because it was larger on the inside than it was on the out, it was intimate, but never cramped. I was honored to be a regular there for a short time. Doc’s disposition seemed to occupy that 2nd-story nook perfectly. I have cherished memories sitting downstairs as well. I put a personalized coaster on the wall. The walls were covered with them. I’m lucky & unfortunate to have gotten my brother in there on Doc’s last day. I hurt after introducing them & then finding out that he was closing for good the next day. Doc’s was a watering hole where people who were fresh off their morning shifts could roll spliffs on the counter overlooking Main Street. There were late-morning philosophical discussions between familiar strangers who recognized each other from the day before, same meal & everything. Doc’s was my first legal beer. I was on first-name basis with the alchemist himself. It was my sacrament. I would have paid more for it.
35
Coming to You Live Allie Wilder
There is a distinct difference, I thought to myself as I slid the key into the office door, between giving up and hiding. Although really, it didn’t matter because I wasn’t doing either, I was just living. I re-locked the door and went into my bosses office where Kiki liked to nap, I stood still for a moment, petting the soft grey cat in the dark room before checking the time on my phone. I had five minutes. I was the only one working but there’s something about a radio station at night that feels sacred, and I kept my movements and voice quiet. Soft music crackled through the front studio as I went through the kitchen and into the back one, setting my lunch box on the back desk before getting started. Being a live operator was all about routine, and that’s really all I wanted right now. Routine and peace, to be alone with my head, to think without having to think about being important. First I switched the satellite channel to demo, enjoying the tinny static through the satellite while sports men discussed baseball statistics and grill rubs and the perfect and correct way to eat a hotdog. Once it was ready and I was waiting for my cue in, I set up the CD with images and legal IDs, got the log in front of me, and waited, holding the switches between my fingers that would switch the station from oldies to the game. I reviewed the log. Like radio itself, baseball had a rhythm that was easy, cleansing and let me breathe. It was frustrating sure, when someone missed a pitch or struck out, but it didn’t make them a failure, they’d get to try again another day, and that hope was something that I needed. I watched the clock and readied my stopwatch, trading the positions of the switches and changing the programing as the intro music to the game played. When the announcer, who’d been announcing for this team since the 40s and now only did half games, came on, I could imagine his voice reaching back and forth through time, bringing us all the game. And sitting here, in the control studio, I got to be a part of that big, unchanging, unifying thing. I didn’t have to be myself, a single entity with confusing thoughts and emotions who made questionable life decisions and tended to hide in the familiar, I was just another anonymous part of the radio machine.
36
I Always Know Merkin Karr
37
He looked at me and then to her, “Do you want her here?” And in that moment, I knew. I always know. The stage manager for the Holt County Pageant hovered over her head, the other contestant. The manager picked a bobby pin out of the girl’s blonde curls and said to her, “When they announce…if...you win, they’ll need to crown your head, let’s make sure… if it happens…it doesn’t ruin anything.” They fiddled with her hair for a moment. The crown reflecting off her gold hair. They caught me as I stared at them. They smiled. I looked away. I wasn’t going to win. The doctor hadn’t asked my mother if she wanted me in the room before, but now with the results in his hands, he asked her. “Yes. That’s fine.” My mother smiled at me and then the doctor. Her purse on her lap, arms wrapping it close to her body. It annoyed me, and I didn’t know why. I wanted to tell her to put it down, to listen. She smiled at the doctor and then to me, the purse sitting between the paper in his hands and my hope that maybe I was wrong. “Crystal, the samples came back…and…and there were cancerous cells….” I could not hear him anymore. I had imagined this moment in my head, or had I wished it? Was it possible I had thought about it so many times that it came true? Did I give my mother cancer? I had pictured this moment over and over again. My mother having cancer. My mother has cancer. What if we lost her to this? I sat and imagined my father without her. He was not strong enough, he would not be strong enough. Losing the love of his life would be too much. My hands would hold my sisters’ hands. One girl by each of my hips. Our fingers
filled with the ashed remains of my mother. Of her hands holding her purse on her lap. I would quit school. No, I couldn’t. She wouldn’t want that. My father would be able to take care of them. They were old enough now. 15 and 18 were old enough. Weren’t they? How old is old enough to lose your mother? My mother’s eyes filled, and she refused to look at me. She took one hand off her purse to wipe her eyes, the other still holding it in her lap. Silently. She did not shake when she cried. She never shook when she cried. I stopped myself from tearing up. Not now. Not now. Not here. The doctor began going over options. I was out of the little room. The room which still held my mother, my cancer filled mother. I sucked my teeth as quietly as I could. I flipped over the pamphlets on support groups. “What to Do When Your Loved One Has Cancer” and “Overcoming The Caregiving Fatigue” stared at me, daring me to cry. These pages had seen worse, heard harder stories. Cancer was just another word in the halls here. Another life lived, another life lost. We were the lucky ones. Right? He was going over options. She still had options. The doors to the little room opened and my mother came out. I hovered to put a pamphlet into my purse and refused. We did not talk but walked towards the elevator. Each step furthering the silence. I learned the pattern of the hospital floor. The three purple tiles and a teal square completed the box. One box every five white tiles apart. Horizontally and vertically. The quilted floor felt hard against my sneakers. My mother’s purse swinging into my view of the floor as we walked. Only a partial corner of the teal square lead into the floor where the elevator began. I wondered which came first. The floor tiles with its patterns and dedication to details or the brass metal frame of the elevator doors? Ding. They opened. We walked inside. “I’m sorry. I thought everything would be fine. I should’ve never had you be in there with me….” “And now our running up for the 48th Annual Holt County Pageant, Merkin Karr!” everyone clapped, and I smiled as they hung the sash around my body. I stepped back as they moved her curls the way they had practiced and crowned her Queen. I knew this moment was coming. I had prepared myself for the worst. But it still stung, seeing that crown on her head and not mine. Hearing the roaring applause for her blonde curls and not for my brown wisps. The elevator doors closed. I looked at my mother and she at me. We sobbed.
38
Suspension Bryson Schritter
39
Wish You Were Here Katie Hankinson
Bryson Schritter
Excerpt
40
Leave a Message Katie Hankinson
41
“Married families are weird.” This is what my thirteen year old, Bea, decides to declare—to the kitchen, to me, to who the hell ever—while she’s sitting at the counter, doing her homework in what was complete silence. There is no preface for this statement. No context. None whatsoever. “What?” I bleat, vegetable peeler and carrot dangling in my hands which are covered by pink rubber gloves. “Married families are weird,” Bea says again. She sets her pencil down and crosses her arms on the counter top to engage me in more of this “casual” conversation. “You were a part of a married family way longer than you’ve been part of…a separated one,” I say shrugging, turning back to the sink to peel more carrots. The peeler keeps getting stuck on this one spot of skin and it’s starting to hurt my wrist. I grit my teeth, refusing to give up. Cooking used to be Mickey’s thing. “Yeah, but at least now I know they’re weird,” she says like she’s stating an obvious fact. Like a few weeks of this is all the proof she needs. “So maybe I don’t want to be part of a married family.” I freeze.
“Are you trying to tell me you don’t want to get married?” I say, gently as I can, even though if she listens closely she can hear my heart tinkling? apart. “No,” she says too quickly, too easily. “I mean maybe you and Dad should get a divorce.” I spin around, feeling awful and guilty and nauseous and— The phone rings. I stand there, not answering it, holding the stupid goddamn carrot. Bea stares between me and the phone. Me, the phone. Me, the phone. Me, the— Click. “You’ve reached Cassandra Abernathy-Wilder with Goliath Print and Press. I can’t make it to the phone right now, but please leave your name, a brief message, and your number, and I’ll be sure to get back to you.” Beep. “Case, it’s Peg. You know. The sister you forgot to call today—” Ah, dammit. “You’re not answering your cell. You need to do something about that awful voicemail on the house phone, though. Could you sound any more depressed and divorced? Oh, hmm. Girls may be around. Not depressed. Sorry. Hi Elle! Hi Bea!” Bea looks at me with eye-rolling teenager eyes and gets up to pick up the phone. I want to whip the carrot at her to stop her, but— “Hi Aunt Peg,” Bea says, in a very melancholic moody teen voice. Why is she acting like a walking stereotype? My heart beat pounds too loud in my ears, giving me a headache. Bea bumps the phone up against the side of my head so I have to take it. I shoot her a look she doesn’t see. “Hi Peg,” I sigh. “You okay?” I laugh in jigsaw puzzle pieces. “Yeah, I kind of figured,” Peg says. “Case, I—” “I’m not divorced by the way,” I cut in. “What?” “In your message. ‘Depressed and divorced.’ I’m not divorced.” Peg pauses. “No. You’re not divorced…” Yet. “Sorry for not calling you back,” I push through, turning my back on Bea. “I won’t take it personally,” Peg says. “How are the girls? Bea said seventh grade sucks. It’s only been a week, how can it suck already?” I peek at Bea out of the corner of my eye. She’s on her brand
42
43
new cell phone, the one Mickey got her so she could keep in touch during the weeks she was with me and not him. I sigh again. “Couldn’t tell you.” “Can’t tell me how the girls are or—” I hear the front door suddenly explode open and the unmistakable sound of Elle, my seventeen year old, bolting up the stairs. I freeze. “Oh shit,” I breathe. “Curse word,” Bea blurts out. “What? What?” Peg yelps. “I forgot to pick Elle up from volleyball,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose with the pink gloves still on. “Case?” Mickey’s voice calls out from the foyer. “Cassandra?” he says, angrier the second time. “Is that Mickey?” Peg yells. “Tell that asshole to shove it up his—!” “Peg, I’ll call you back,” I mutter, hanging up on her. I turn the corner to meet Mickey. He meets me in the doorway and the shock of seeing him causes me to stumble backwards. “What the hell, Case?” he scolds. “Elle tried calling you a thousand times. I did, too!” He doesn’t say hi or anything. I don’t deserve it anyway. “Mickey, I’m sorry. My phone’s upstairs on my bed charging,” I grit. “Case, if you need help I can still help. We’re divorced, I’m not dead. I was the one doing all this before anyway since you had to work all the time. I—” “We’re not divorced!” I shriek. “Jesus Christ!” Elle screams from the top of the stairs. Mickey and I both whip around to watch her practically throw herself against the banister. “Just get a divorce already! Do it! I’m literally begging you to get this over with!” She turns around, sprinting down the hall to see how loud she can slam her door shut. Mickey and I stare at each other, uncomfortable all of a sudden. I look down and see I’m still wearing the pink gloves. “Case,” Mickey breathes. “We need to talk about it at some point.” “No,” I spit. He rolls his eyes. “So we’re not going to get divorced, but we’re not going to be married? Just keep doing…this?” I don’t say anything.
“Case?” “We can…we can fix this,” I murmur. “It’s us.” Mickey doesn’t say anything for a moment, before blurting out, “If you say so.” He turns and walks out of the house. I sigh. But I don’t run after him. I don’t go back into the kitchen. I don’t get a divorce. I don’t stop working less. I don’t do anything.
44
Marlboro Stories Peter Behm
Thunderheads march towards the shoreline snacking away at the stars. A woman, Anna, twirls the only Marlboro cigarette in her hand disturbing the magical ocean view. The salt water cements the sand. One last cigarette, that’s what Anna has said for the last three years. Three years of long nights, sticky bar floors, empty relationships, and one too many forgotten nights. The ocean licks at Anna’s legs. She’s only 18. The water beckons for something different. What could be different? the thunderstorms will always march in and take away the stars. As if opportunities vanish as the cynicism of growing old crackles and booms across the sky. But then reappear, as if failure is to not believe that opportunities don’t come back, bigger, and brighter than planned. What opportunity is there? bad grades, bad habits, but so much potential. If I just stick to something, believe, for once maybe this world is meant for me, Anna thought. As if the ocean was the only teacher that cares. The Marlboro cigarette burns like coal. Producing light, nicotine addictions don’t often smell like hope. Anna kneels to face the ocean, like a unfaithful student. Melting for new lessons. The waves speak, softly, as the stars come into view.
45
Into the Black Kobi Gyetvan
Swamp Bubbles Kobi Gyetvan
46
Thank you for reading.
flcimages.fortlewis.edu