Sketch: Literary Magazine (Volume 79.2) by Alyssa Gonzalez

ince 1934, Sketch has published the creative works of Iowa State University students, making it one of the longest-running campus literary magazines in the country. This publication is available free of charge to the Iowa State community through funding provided by the Government of the Student Body. We would like to thank GSB, the Sketch staff, the Sheridan Press, the Iowa State English Department, and all of our contributing writers and artists for making this publication possible.

SKETCH

206 Ross Hall Iowa State University Ames, IA 50011

Become a published author or artist

All Iowa State students, regardless of year or major, are welcome to submit to Sketch. FORMAT:

All work must be submitted electronically to sketcheditors@iastate.edu

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES SPECIFICATIONS: • Submitted

works must be previously unpublished. • Each submission must have a separate cover page, which must include: - contributor’s name - contributor’s mailing address - contributor’s e-mail address - contributor’s year and major - submission’s title - submission’s category (poetry, fiction, nonfiction, or visual arts) • Do not put your name on the work itself, only the cover page. All work is read blind.

Sketch has been a part of Iowa State for nearly 80 years now, providing stories and art to students and the Ames community. While it brings art for the reader’s consumption, it also provides an opportunity for students to experience what it is like to get creative work out into the world. And as anyone who has ever been published is likely to tell you, it comes as no easy task. Acclaimed director Guillermo Del Toro has said to aspiring filmmakers, “If I say ‘no’ [to your work] and you give up, then I’m sorry to tell you that this is the wrong job for you.” His message, which can apply to any creative endeavor, isn’t meant to discourage, but to help creators understand that rejection is a part of the creative process, and if you really feel like you’re on to something, then you must keep working at it. Creators aren’t people who create diamonds overnight, but people who face rejection and keep on going. Their craft comes as a product of hard work and critical thought driven by passion. In this issue, we at Sketch have found a variety of art that spoke to us, art that was created because artists kept going. If even just one piece of creative work in this issue speaks to just one person, then I can rest easy knowing that we have accomplished at least that. And in that regard, I want to thank anyone in the Ames community and Iowa State who has contributed to us, or anyone who has picked up an issue of Sketch and given their time to indulge in the works of these artists.

Joshua Oren | Undergraduate Editor 5

Editors Kelsey Cummings Joshua Oren Designer Alyssa Gonzalez Advisor Christiana Langenberg Fiction *Caroline Lynch Zachary Eldridge Maia Zewert Sarah Pillman

Nonfiction *Daniel Gill Brenda Tyrrell Maia Zewert Sarah Pillman Poetry *Brenda Tyrrell Kendal Gast Monika Sharma Sanika Sherry Brian Good Visual Arts *Kandyce McConico Kendal Gast Monika Sharma Caroline Lynch * section editor

Caroline Lynch graduated from Iowa State in the spring of 2015 with a bachelorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s degree in English and minors in

technical communication, journalism, and sociology. She now works in Des Moines at a small but fun web development company writing content for client websites. She is excited to stay close to the university she called home for the past four years and will enjoy looking back on the great meetings with Sketchâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;drinking coffee and hot chocolate at Stomping Grounds and sharing stories about writing, reading, and the wonderful study of literature.

Daniel Gill: Senior, English. Appreciates brevity. Brenda Tyrrell will be a graduate student at Iowa State this fall. She has enjoyed her time at Sketch immensely and will miss reading the wide variety of submissions from talented ISU students. When she is not doing her homework, she can be found reading H.G. Wells and creating new vegan recipes.

Kandyce J. McConico, who graduated from Iowa State this spring with a degree in English, has a strange love for disturbed characters. In her free time, she enjoys aromatic bubble baths, spicy guacamole, and rereading Wuthering Heights.

Josh Oren is a recently graduated senior in English with a minor in chemistry who hopes to one day create a

believable circumstance in which those two areas make sense in a professional setting. He is a huge fanatic of Doctor Who audio plays (particularly for the 6th Doctor) and hopes you all find a way to express yourself in delightful ways that make you smile and feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Kelsey Cummings graduated this spring with a bachelor of arts in English and a minor in technical communication. Though she has finally completed her adventure at Iowa State, she looks forward to choosing a new adventure and putting her Sketch skills to use at a company that will pay her to read books for a living.

35 Brown Jug | Dylan Cooley E

R Y

L _

48 Heartland Gold | Gabriella Kramer 49 Night on the Pier | Delanie Downey 50 Santa Monica Sunsets | Delanie Downey 8

A Note on the Ottoman By: Shawn Robinson

A message to every member of the Frederick family: It has come to my attention by way of Miss Helen, an individual who many of you children will be more comfortable and familiar with me referring to as “the cleaning lady,” more specifically as “the fat one,” that our family dog, Buster, often whimpers and displays, and I quote, “an unusual sadness in his eyes.” My initial thoughts, as yours surely are, are that Buster must be sick. I promptly replied to Miss Helen by inquiring if our pup has shown any physical manifestations of illness, whether they be vomiting, irregular eating, or other sorts of accidents within the house. As I awaited her answer, I began, as any great mind would, to determine the point at which euthanasia would transform from an act of cruelty to one of mercy, and the most certain path to Buster’s ultimate happiness at that. I figured the point to be four thousand dollars, give or take two hundred depending on the probability of success of any required procedure, but Miss Helen claims Buster’s dilemma is not rooted in a lack of health or physical ailment, but rather an emotional one. Miss Helen states Buster is feeling lonely and unloved and she proposes that only remedying these feelings will rid us of the pestilent whimpering and uneasy “sad eyes.” It should be noted and forever remembered by all current and future descendants of the Frederick line that it was not I, but my wife and your mother, Mrs. Abraham Frederick, strongly supported by the eldest Frederick children, Mary and Hue, who believed the acquisition of a dog to be a worthwhile endeavor. Aside from the obvious economic fallacy in the constant replenishing of supplies of food, water, and colored rubber in the shape of small creatures meant to trick the animal into believing they are true hunters like their much more honorable ancestors, I also knew a certain amount of personal finesse would be

needed to keep the beast tame, a finesse only developed through time and effort. This and a few other truths came to be known to me in my youth at university, and I acknowledge that you all have not yet been graced with such an opportunity—some probably never will be (William, Francis, Jane, and the honorable Mrs. Abraham Frederick surely will not). While I do not hold this lack of circumstance against any of you, as any civil gentleman should not, I must say that I too feel the measured mind of our lineage’s most educated member should be given more credence from this day hence. That does not, however, affect or solve the current Buster debacle. Because he is merely seven, an age by which current metrics find to be around the equivalence of a fortynine-year-old man in relation to wit and liveliness, we can expect Buster to be present in the house for the next several years. And, since nobody likes a damn downer moping about, canine or otherwise, I have taken it upon myself to ensure that Buster’s pessimism and loneliness soon subsides. Miss Helen is convinced that simply paying more attention to Buster will improve his emotional condition and make him much less of a buzzkill. With this in mind, I have developed a plan and scheduled each family member shifts during which paying attention to Buster is of the utmost importance. Because even the wisest men heed the advice of others, I entrusted the schematics of my proposed strategy to Gary at work today. He said, and I quote, “Yeah, whatever.” I suspect Gary’s lack of enthusiasm spawns from a poisonous mixture of inherent difficulty in comprehending the enlightened philosophies that brought forth such a solution and jealousy that I won the work raffle last week, granting me the tickets to the upcoming Beach Boys reunion concert and not him. Neither can be helped. This world is one of inequalities, and I learned long ago that kindness and professional

success cannot coexist. The following procedures unfortunately exclude Mary and Hue, since both are spending the season at Aunt Susan’s, a bothersome fact considering they have been so deeply intertwined in this foolish pursuit from the start. Each day shall begin at seven o’clock, when Buster commonly awakes to use the restroom. It will be the responsibility of Alphonse to let him out to do this and to also gather firewood for the day in the interim period between when Buster is let out and let in. From seven forty-five until the time they must leave for school, the twins Jane and Jenn will take care of him. Because you will be eating breakfast during your shift, try offering table scraps to Buster. I have often read cats and dogs are fond of this practice, the latter even more so. From nine o’clock until eleven, I entrust Buster to Mrs. Abraham Frederick. This is normally the time you would use for your sewing and knitting. I propose you tell Buster that the current piece you are working on is for him. That should lift his spirits some and make him feel more a part of the family. I would not, however, carry through and actually make him anything. I once read that dogs are poor judges of sincerity, so you should be able to save the resources without offending him. At eleven, as Mrs. Abraham Frederick begins to prepare dinner, William’s shift will begin. While there may be some protestation on the grounds that William is but an infant, I believe he is more than capable of handling the task, especially since the number of burdens that he must attend to daily are so fewer than every other family member. For this reason, he will be given the longest shift—from eleven until three o’clock. I depend on some other Frederick in the company of William to instruct him on this new responsibility, seeing as how he will be unable to read this message. If upon hearing the news he begins to cry as he is so infamously known for doing at the least appropriate times, I do hope young William finds solace in the fact that many texts and studies have

shown that infants and young children are consistently considered to be more pleasant and likable than adults, putting him at a natural advantage. When school is over at three, Francis, Catherine, Oliver, Charles, Gregor, and Edward will rotate shifts in the following order, and do pay attention because I will not write it again: Francis shall have a shift while Catherine and Gregor practice violin. Then Gregor will be with Buster through Francis and Edward’s afternoon jog, at which point Edward will take over until Catherine and Oliver have completed their daily sonnets. Catherine should then go change for dinner as Oliver takes a turn during Francis and Gregor’s vocal lessons, Charles having authority once those are over until Catherine is fully dressed, who shall then have her shift up until dinner as everyone else follows suit and dresses. After dinner I will spend the evening with Buster in my study until he or I becomes tired and goes to bed. Each shift with Buster shall include at the minimum: Five (5) head rubs. Four (4) back rubs. Four (4) ear scratches. Three (3) tosses of the colored rubber (or any other bouncy and unneeded projectile). Two (2) stomach rubs. And one (1) mention and questioning of whether or not he needs to be let outside to use the restroom. The last piece of advice I can give you all is to attempt to incorporate Buster into your conversations more often. Frequently he sits in a room of lively discussion without the slightest regard given to his presence. Keep in mind that his lack of response to your inquiries, much like with William, does not spawn from spite or rudeness, but rather a fundamental inability to speak. If talking directly to a mute creature offends your sensibilities, attempt instead to bring up topics Buster may enjoy listening about in your dialogue with others. Topics that may be

agreeable to him include walks and walking, squirrels and about in your dialogue with others. Topics that may be agreeable to him include walks and walking, squirrels and birds, bones and digging, as well as debate and discussion on who is or who is not a good boy. I am confident that these procedures will improve the health of our companion and will make our estate a much more enjoyable place. Sincerely, Mr. Abraham Frederick

Shawn Robinson is a freshman in English. 12

After You Left By: Anna Mullins

At the bar you’ll drink two too many Long Islands and take someone back to your room in the motel with a television still reliant upon antennas for cable. It’s just across the street from where you are. When the guy you picked up at the bar runs his hands up your thighs, and he has eyes that remind you of his eyes, don’t pay them any attention. Focus on the yellowing popcorn ceiling. In the morning leave before he wakes up, before you conceive of what you’ve done, before the street lamps turn off. Do not close your eyes, if you do his will be behind your closed lids. Don’t go straight back to the house. Drive to Casey’s to top off your tank. When you go to pay inside don’t make small talk with the nineteen-year-old cashier sporting the post baby chub, it will only make you feel heavy, like you need a hot shower to start your day over. From Casey’s drive five miles below the speed limit. He won’t be on the road yet for work, he’ll have just gotten one of his drivers loaded and heading south to Perry, Iowa so he’ll miss the call from Ben Novak telling him that he wanted to discuss the steam flaker again. When you come to 117th Court Street turn west and take the gravel road. This will lengthen your drive time by ten more minutes. When he does finally get on the road you’ll be only a mile away from the house. Don’t park in the driveway, but don’t pull into the smaller portion of the garage either. Park in what he’s designated as his spot, the larger side. Yes, his Chevy Silverado is bulkier than your Buick Enclave. His parking spot is closer to the door to the house. This will make it easier when you load your car with your belongings, even the basinet still in the packaging. Move quickly. Breathe, focus on your breathing, that’s what the nurse told you to do three Thursdays ago. When

Under the bed linens—one of the first items you purchased together just two months ago—you’ll pull on yourself between your legs in an attempt to comfort yourself, just like when you were a child. The hum of the CPAP mask strapped around your face will make your stomach acid rise as you remember her arms flailing, legs kicking trying to sit up, fighting the nurse. Sleep stonewalls you. When you had laid down for bed with her three Thursdays ago her skin broke out in goose bumps like Braille, and her thighs, the bed linen, it had all ended in a blushing red. Marcus will come early this Friday. He’ll load the steel gates, but you’ve just hired him and even with bags heavy under your eyes you’ll inspect the trailer before he leaves. In the quiet of the shop you’ll lean against the north wall, and scroll through emails on the iPhone 5 you bought to impress her, as if being president of Iowa Beef Systems wasn’t enough. At forty-eight you’re twenty-five years her senior. But goddamn that afternoon in May at Brick City, she was on her second deep orange margarita, red hair tossed over her shoulder, she was laughing at something the perpetually smiling bartender had said, and she looked at you longer than your wife ever had. That’s a safe memory: it’s before you confessed to being married, before the divorce from said marriage. It’s like when you and she went to Kohler’s American Club for her birthday, one of a few untouchable memories. You’ll smile and look up from your phone, before hearing it ring, the screen signaling its Ben Novak. Sighing deeply, you know it’s about the steam flaker. By noon you’ll be rounding the second S curve to Novak Farms, shafts of sun streaming into the window. You’ll lean your head just five or ten degrees to the left and stare down the clock. It’s a game you’ve been playing since you met her. Concentrate hard enough, turn back

the nurse was strangling the anesthesia mask around your face you kept your eyes on his. When you closed your eyes, his were there. You wished that the warmth in his hand resting on your temple was spread evenly across your body. Calm down, we’ll try again, he told you three nights ago. You’ll only get your suitcase half stuffed with cashmere sweaters and jeans before you hear the garage door opening. Don’t run down the stairs. You’ll only miss the last three and fall, the kitchen’s tile flooring is tough on the knees. Instead place your face in your hands and let your knees hit the carpeted floor of the bedroom. When he finds you with your shoulders jumping sporadically let him touch you. When he pulls you next to him breathe. Do not pull away from him.

time. Turn back to Sunday morning and pressing your face against her freckle-splattered shoulder. Hell, turn back to any Sunday when you brought her Starbucks in bed, back when she lived in the townhouse. Turn back to the first sonogram, the whooshing sound of Kennedy’s heartbeat. Turn back to Kohler, you’d said you’d always have Kohler. Turn back to Brick City, The Gateway, the sun streaming into the room that afternoon sticking to her shoulders, and back and she told you she wasn’t the kind of girl to have afternoon rendezvous at local hotels with before you lowered your head to suck at her breasts. Ben will talk, wring his hands, you’ll be a million miles away. You will already be pulling her to you.

Anna Mullins is a senior in English. 14

Big Sister By: Brenda Blackhawk

Get up before the sun; quietly wake up the other girls; whatever you do, don’t disturb the madam; start boiling water for the washing while the two little ones gather up the dirty linens from the day before; you’ll be in charge now; make sure everyone stays busy; avoid the sting of cords against your back; make sure everyone gets something to eat; prepare the madam’s meal; save the best scraps for her bitch because she’ll know if you don’t; keep the rest for you and your sisters to eat later; always make sure they eat every bite of their food; they’ll need their strength to get through the day;

pretend because she will know; listen to her soft voice tell you again your own story; listen to her remind you of the day you came here; listen when she reminds you how kind she is to feed you, clothe you, and provide shelter; listen to the way she won’t let you forget you have nowhere else to go because your own father sent you there; he sold you for $200 so he could feed your brothers and send them to school; he sold you; never forget she owns you; if you cry, don’t let your nose snot or your chest heave or your cries come free between your lips; if you cry don’t let her see; never let the other girls know that you cry;

when the madam enters the room, keep your head down; serve her and the bitch; be silent; remind the girls to be silent; avoid the slap of the leather belt on the back of your thighs; when the madam leaves, choose a girl; send her after the madam into the room with the red door; keep the girls busy at all times; sweep the floors with the broken straw brooms; bend low and use the ones without the handle because they get up more dirt; hang the laundry out to dry; slosh the soapy water from the washing onto the floor; don’t be afraid to get down on your hands and knees like a dog; you’re a mangy, scrawny thing that no one wants to love; don’t be afraid to break your back when you scrub; the madam likes this creaky wooden floor to be clean when the customers arrive; when the first girl comes out, send another one in; make sure every girl goes in for her meeting; save yourself for last;

listen to the madam’s wishes and do all you can to make sure they come true; take the pills she offers you and give them to the girls so they don’t feel so much; keep some for yourself if you can; sometimes there won’t be enough; you’re in charge now; you have to think about the girls; you want to know how to make it through without the pills?; learn to shut down; drink as much of the alcohol as you can; learn to shut down; you have to learn to shut down or you won’t survive;

what if I want to go first and get it over with?; never go first or she will hurt you; always go last or she will hurt one of them; you’re in charge of them now; you look out for them now; in your meeting kneel on the floor at the madam’s feet; do not look up at her; do not speak; avoid the purple bruises that will blossom along your ribcage each time she kicks you; listen to her words; don’t

when the men come in, help direct the younger ones toward the cleaner looking men; if there are no clean looking men, direct them toward the nicer looking men; if there are no nice looking men, direct them toward the older men because they have more money and they might be more generous; never forget that the madam wants money; you have to make money; this is how you smile to make a man come towards you; this is how you touch a man to make him want to pay for you; this is how you touch a man to make him want to pay more for you; this is how you look at a man to figure out what he wants from you; this is the best way to lay on your back without disturbing your tender flesh; this is the best way to lay on your stomach to hide whatever tears might escape; remember that some men want you to be terrified;

remember that some men want you to be helpless; remember that some men want you to stroke their ego and make them feel special or skilled; remember that some men want you to be lifeless, like a thing, so they feel less guilty; give the men what they want; avoid the knife that leaves pink, puckered patterns on your skin; watch the men leave; stop yourself from begging them not to leave you behind; always stay silent; try to stay numb as the day goes on; try to keep the younger ones from crying too much; never let them see you cry; when the madam offers more drugs, give them to the girls; keep them numb; when the men offer you alcohol, drink too much; eat the scraps the men give to you, but don’t eat too much or you’ll get sick; try to stay numb; after the madam closes the doors and goes to bed, make the tea; make sure each girl drinks their entire cup; don’t let them get pregnant; don’t let them have babies; if they get pregnant, remind them of Sahira; remind them that the men asked for her more when her belly started to bulge; remind them that Sahira’s baby was taken from her arms soon after she was born; remind them that Sahira’s baby was sold the day she turned six and no one has seen her since; you cannot get pregnant because the other sisters need you; if you get pregnant you drink more tea; if that doesn’t work, you will need to leave to protect your baby; if you get pregnant, run away if you think you can survive; if you get pregnant but cannot escape, consider death to protect you both; either way make sure you find a new girl to be the big sister; make sure it is one of the girls who have tough skin; make sure you tell them what I am telling you; always give the girls a story before they dream; this is how you tell a story to the girls—it can’t be too hopeful; never let them think one of these men will take them away; never let them think that their fathers will come back

for them; never let them think they can leave this place in any way other than the death that is coming for us all anyways; never give them hope because you never lie to your sisters; before you close your own eyes you must make sure they are sleeping; now, you can cry if you need to, but only when they sleep; make sure they get their rest; it is always best to sleep without dreams; you’re in charge now; this is how you take care of them; this is how you pretend you don’t see the split-open skin on their backs; this is how you pretend you don’t see their tear-stained faces; this is how you pretend that you don’t see their hollow, haunted eyes; don’t let these things get to you because if you do, the world will feel heavy like a man, pressing you deeper and deeper into a stained little mattress; you cannot let it get to you because they need you to teach them to survive; this is how you love them; this is how you forget you are just a girl too; each day you will feel the emptiness fill you up a little more; you might think that that emptiness will feel light but it will be heavy and it will weigh you down and make you feel like you cannot breathe; you must keep breathing for as long as you can because your sisters need you; but someday, you will not be able to go on and that is okay; remember what I’ve told you because someday you will have to explain all this to the next big sister; But, Big Sister where will you go?; you mean to tell me, after all this, you do not understand that the only way to leave this place is as a ghost?

Brenda Blackhawk is a senior with an English major

and three minors. She plans to pursue a career as a book editor and writer. She also plans to start a non-profit organization to help indigenous urban women in her hometown of Minneapolis.

KBBO Radio Dreams By: Will Musgrove

Joe Smiley spins in his black office chair, scooting toward the switchboard to appease the masses. He drops a needle on a vinyl, playing the latest Elvis Presley song “Hound Dog” for the thousands of loyal KBBO listeners. The station is quiet at this time of night, but he doesn't mind. The silence that encases the wood-patterned, wallpapered walls during the graveyard DJ shift soothes Joe. He is able to escape the whining of his wife, Beth, and the torment of his mundane life with her. Ever since their son, Josh, left for college three years ago, Joe feels that Beth wants so much from him. She complains about his lack of interest in her, about how distant he has become in their relationship. It isn't his fault that after thirty-two years of marriage he doesn’t have anything else to say. Not to mention, he is jealous of the life she has lived, a life full of parties, people, and adventures. When the song finishes, he straps on his headphones and rolls his chair over to the microphone in studio. “We will be right back after these local messages with the latest rock the fifties has to offer. This is KBBO, where the ears are always listening,” Joe says in his smooth radio voice that flows with the viscosity of maple syrup. He extends his long legs, rubbing his left hand across his wrinkled face. Joe glances down at his watch. In only an hour Pete, the morning DJ, will come and relieve him. Joe cannot believe how fast the days rush by now. The weeks seem to blur together. His life is just a series of motions, a routine that he is forced to act out. He thinks about leaving Beth, starting over somewhere else. But at the age of fifty-six, it’s too late for him to begin anew. He is being stalked, and time is the hunter. A phone resting on the corner of the switchboard begins ringing. Baarrinng, Baarrinng, Baarrinng. Joe rolls over to the phone and answers it, pressing the receiver to his

right ear. It feels heavy in his hand, so he puts the weight of his head on his left arm. “KBBO radio, this is Joe.” “What are you doing?” “I think you might have the wrong number.” “I’m worried about you.” “Who’s this?” Joe says, his voice displaying a tone of concern. Joe’s question is only met by a dial tone. Hanging up the phone, he is shaken. But at the same time, his body fills with a passing peace. He leans back in his chair and takes in a deep breath, his once flat stomach rounder than a bass drum. Joe sends his mind back to a happier state. He remembers when he and Beth first met. Sitting in the passenger's seat of his father’s brown Saxon Roadster, Joe's leg nervously thumped against the leather interior while he pressed a notebook to his chest. His father, Steve Smiley, gave him a glare of impatience. Around them students dressed in skirts and wool suits rushed into a large brick building that featured a granite sign hanging above the doorway: Alexander Hamilton High School. The school had two wings crafted from cement attached to its sides, and Joe thought it resembled a monster that was stitched together from different body parts. A sprawling field of grass was the perimeter of the building, with a fountain spraying water upwards in the center of the campus. “You can't stay in the car forever,” Steve said, his face scrunched together due to an immense grin spreading

across it. “What if they all hate me?” Joe said. “Hate you? Yeah probably,” Steve said, chuckling. With his eyes welling up, Joe adjusted the red tie dangling from his neck. His father reached over and tousled his short brown hair, and Joe knew he was joking. He wished he was back in San Antonio, where his friends and his old way of life resided. He resented his father for moving him to Los Angeles. “Of course they will like you, Joe. What’s not to like?” “I wish we never moved.” “I know, I know. But can you please give it a try?” After opening the car door that shielded him from change, Joe exited the vehicle. He stared at the entrance of the school, examining every detail of it, hoping he could spot some familiarities. The smell of freshly cut grass tickled his nose hairs. His father fired up the Roadster’s engine, startling Joe. “You be good. I got to get to work,” Steve said as he squeezed a fedora on his head. Joe nodded back at his father, and then watched as he drove away. He continued to inspect his surroundings. To his left, a group of burly boys were tossing a baseball. To his right, some girls were giggling and pointing at other people on the campus. He walked toward the entrance, pondering what the hell he was doing here. When Joe reached the front of the building, a tall, ginger-haired boy knocked his notebook out of his hand. His whole body felt flush as he scurried to retrieve his possession. The bully snatched Joe’s notebook off the ground and tossed it to his chubby colleague. Everyone

witnessing the act laughed thunderously, watching as Joe raced back and forth between the two boys, struggling to catch his belonging from the air. All he wanted to do was cry and run, run back to San Antonio. Joe’s senses began to shut down in an attempt to defend him from the embarrassment. His vision was going in and out of focus. But from the chaos that surrounded him, a voice in the crowd managed to seep out, a voice that coated his eardrums in sugar. “Hey, leave him alone,” Beth said, pushing her way to the front of the action. Joe could see more clearly than ever before, staring at his petite, blonde hero. His heart froze when she retrieved the notebook and placed it in his right hand. He peered into her green eyes, and the world that reflected off her irises resembled a classical painting. He was in love. On his way home from the station, Joe stops at a convenience store to purchase some beer. He has developed a taste for the spirits in the past few months, finding it eased the boredom. Most of the time he gets a six pack of Ballantine Ale, but this morning he decides to double the amount. Carrying the beer to the counter, Joe again ponders about leaving Beth. It would be easy, he thinks: get in his 1952 Ford pickup and drive, drive until he is free. Setting the beer down in front of the cashier, he knows he doesn't have the nerve. Where would he go? What would he do? He pays for the beer and dawdles back to his truck. Pulling into the driveway of his humble, cookie-cutter house, Joe removes the keys from the ignition. Looking at the dimly lit building, he wonders if Beth is asleep or if she stayed up to greet him when he got home. He hates it when she is awake when he gets back from work. She just wants to talk about his day, her day, their life, for the thousandth time. His stomach knots, and Joe believes he

is making himself sick. He opens the driver’s-side door of the truck and jumps out, plucking the beer from the bed before he strolls to his prison. Reaching the front door, Joe pushes it an inch at a time so not to awaken Beth. He peeks his head in the house when he has room and looks to see if he is alone. With no one in sight, he saunters in and pops a beer in celebration. The house smells of lilies, Beth’s favorite flower, and the stench engulfs Joe’s body, making him gag. Tiptoeing toward the kitchen in search for some food, a light grasps his attention. Turning, he spots Beth standing near the bedroom hallway. She is wearing a long, white nightgown. Her blond hair is now gray, and her youthful body and face are replaced with ones Joe tries to forget. “Can you please shut that light off?” Joe says. Beth flicks the light switch. He prefers it when it’s dark and hard to navigate; it makes him feel as if he is somewhere new, somewhere exciting. “Hey, Joe, how was work?”Her voice carves through his whole body. “Fine.”

An excitable woman in a red jacket escorted Joe and Beth around their soon-to-be home. She was showing them all that the house had to offer, pointing out every detail to sweeten the deal. Joe just shrugged his shoulders when the realtor gestured at the electric refrigerator and the other features that were supposed to make his life easier. He noticed how wide-eyed Beth was as she took the chance to explore every inch of the house. Moving from the black-and-white tiled floors of the kitchen, down the white textured walls of the hallway, to the fifteen-byfifteen-foot room that was to be their bedroom, Joe could tell Beth desired to spend the remainder of her life in this suburban home. “What do you think?” Beth said. “I don’t know. It’s a lot of money, and it’s a lot farther away from the station than our apartment is,” Joe said in rebuttal. “But we can afford it now that you are a disc jockey. Plus, we will need the room soon.” Beth rubbed her stomach, making Joe uneasy. Beads of sweat streamed from the pores on his forehead. Wiping the moisture from his brow, he saw Beth waiting in anticipation.

“I left some food in the oven for you.” “I’m not hungry. I think I’ll go to bed.” Cracking another beer, Joe spreads himself out on couch in the living room. He watches as Beth walks back into the bedroom. Joe remembers when he and Beth bought this house after they got married, how much happier they were. He reminisces about how they spent hours talking about the future. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Well, sir, the price of this house is actually cheaper than renting an apartment in the end,” the realtor said with a fake smile. He was out numbered. Joe wished to make Beth happy, but he was scared. What if something happened at the station and he couldn't afford the house? What if they didn't get along with the neighbors? He didn't understand why Beth wanted to move. Their apartment was small but broken in. And they could find room for the baby when it came, he thought.

“So, Joe, can we please take it. I know you’re not a fan of change, but this is a necessity for us.” Beth rested her head on his shoulder, nuzzling her nose into this neck. His heart was thumping fast, seeking an escape. Finding it harder to breathe, Joe’s body became rigid, but his brain was burning hotter than crimson fire. There was nowhere to go, trapped. “Okay, I guess we will take it,” Joe said. “Great. I will bring over the paperwork for you to sign tomorrow afternoon,” the realtor said, fake smile removed. A week later, Joe and Beth lay compacted on a brown couch in their new living room, boxes stuffed full of their belongings surrounding them. Joe had his arm wrapped over Beth’s body, imagining he was in his old apartment.

“What do you think we will be like ten years from now?” Beth said. Unsure what to say back, Joe paused and readjusted himself to buy some time. He never planned that far in the future. For Joe, it was about staying comfortable and not making waves. “I think we will be similar to who we are now.” “I don’t want to be the same. I want to be able to say I conquered life. You know what I mean?” Beth said, turning to gaze into Joe’s eyes, her face illuminated from the moonlight pouring in from the windows that lined the walls. “Sure,” Joe said. Joe squints, trying to recall his dream while he awakens,

but it’s fleeting. His back is sore from sleeping on the couch, which is too small for his form. He stands, stretching and bending to alleviate the pain shooting down his spine. Surprised not to see Beth hovering above him, Joe is overcome with a sense of delight. Grabbing the last beer from the night before, he discovers a letter on the coffee table. I hope I didn't wake you this morning. Went to the grocery store. Joe sips the warm ale and shuffles to the restroom to urinate. He has a limited amount of time to get ready for work if he wants to miss Beth’s return. After relieving himself, a picture hanging on the wall causes him to pause. He observes the black-framed photo of him and Beth holding Josh on the day they brought him home from the hospital. She is holding their newborn under his armpits. Joe is smiling, hugging Beth at the waist. The people in the picture seem to have a joyous life in front of them. Joe lifts the photo off the wall and sets it on the bathroom sink. He semi-jogs into his bedroom and changes his clothes as quickly as he can. Pulling up his trousers, Joe hears the front door open. He is too late. For a split second he contemplates going out the window; however, he doesn't believe he can fit through it, so he passes the idea off as ridiculous. He must face his wife. “Joe, can you help me with the groceries,” Beth says from the other room. He buttons his pants and makes his way to Beth in the kitchen. She is unpacking canned food and produce and stacking it in the cupboards. When he enters the room, he helps put the food away with haste. “So, I was thinking we could get out of town this weekend, maybe go upstate,” Beth says.

“What is there to see upstate?” Joe knows what is upstate: having to explain to his wife why he resents her, having to tell her about his jealousy of the life she got to live.

the wheeled office chair. He taps him on the shoulder, and Dave jumps, causing the headphones on his head to fly off as he turns to face Joe. “Whoa, Joe. You scared me.”

“I thought we could go on an adventure. You know, explore.”

“I’m here to take over. You can go home,” Joe says, his voice raising a few octaves.

“I think I have to work.”

“You’re three hours early.”

“Can’t you get it off?”

“Just go, god dammit.”

“I have to work. That's all there is to it,” Joe says, a touch of hostility resonating in his voice.

“Okay. Fine.”

“What is your problem, Joe? Do you not love me anymore?” Joe is caught off guard by the series of questions. What should he say? Tears stream from Beth’s green eyes and plop on the kitchen floor. In a panic, Joe pivots and marches out of the room. Beth follows him, reaching for his limbs. “Please, Joe, don’t go.” Shaking loose of his wife’s grasp, Joe vacates the house and hops in his truck and leaves. Driving away, he looks in the rearview mirror and watches as Beth crumples to her knees in the middle of the street, weeping. Running into the station, Joe catches his breath, soaking in panic-stricken oxygen. Sparks of Beth crying in the street overtake his conscious. He sees himself as an old man, living alone and having no stories to tell his grandchildren. He sees a life wasted. Guilt punctures his heart. Fighting off the tragic images, Joe proceeds to the sound booth, where Dave, the evening DJ, is sitting on

Dave stands up, snatching the headphones off the ground and laying them on the switchboard; then he tromps out of the booth. Clenching his fists, Joe flops in the chair left vacant. He closes his eyes, picturing himself and Beth on a deserted island, happy. The phone on the corner of the switchboard rings, sending Joe back to reality. Baarrinng, Baarrring, Baarring. Joe scoots over to the phone and lifts the receiver, placing it next to his right ear. “You shouldn't treat your wife that way, Joe. She’s the best part of your miserable, pathetic life.” “Who’s this?” “You’re the one who chose to waste your life away. You can’t blame her for your mistakes. You let your fear of change shape you.” “Who’s this,” Joe says, his vocal cords igniting with anger. “You know who I am, Joe.” Joe slams the phone down. He pretends nothing happened and drops the slim needle on a record to play “Why Do Fools Fall in Love,” a song by The Diamonds.

Before he can put the headphones on his ears, the phone rings. Baarrinng, Baarrring, Baarring. Joe again picks it up and holds it to his right ear.

“I’m going to miss this room,” Josh said, resting his left arm on Joe’s shoulder. “Well, you always have a home here, son.”

“You know you can’t go back. Time is irreversible. This is what you decided, and this is the life you now must live.” “Leave me alone,” Joe says, tears forming in his eyes. “You sent her away. She doesn't belong to you anymore.” “I’m calling the police.” “I’m worried about you. I have been worried a long time. You are down a path that ends in darkness.” Joe drops the phone on the floor. He slowly pulls it back up by the cord until the receiver is in reach. He grabs it and places it back to his ear. “Please never call here again.” “Let go of your jealousy. Stop blaming her for something you did. Stop blaming her for the wrong things.” Joe hangs up the phone, his mind falling back. Today was the day that Josh left for college. He was accepted to Berkeley on a full-ride scholarship for engineering. Joe couldn't be any more proud of his son. The two finished packing Josh’s things, and Joe inspected the empty room. The past eighteen years of his and Beth's lives were dedicated to their slender, blond-haired child. Joe’s existence in that time was teaching Josh how to be a man—well, at the best of his ability. He taught him how to lob a baseball, how to shave, and how to survive on his own. Josh didn't need him anymore, other than for a quick buck to take a dame to the pictures.

The two picked up a few boxes and headed downstairs, where Beth was waiting for them with a couple glasses of sweet lemonade. Joe sat the boxes down at the front door and sipped on his drink. His life was changing again, and it shook his nerves. As much as he was proud of his son, there was a part him that was mad, more than he had been in a while. Now it was just him and Beth. He was afraid, because he no longer knew her. Beth changed throughout the years. She lived. She took on hobbies, went to parties with friends, and went to restaurants that served foreign foods that Joe couldn't pronounce. Beth invited Joe along the way but was always met with the same response. The day before Josh’s move, she told Joe she was ready to spend the rest of her life relaxing, enjoying her days and nights at home with him like he wanted the whole time, like when they didn't have any money coming in. Joe was too preoccupied with keeping things the same to grow with her and live his life. But he always had Josh as a buffer. That was the one connection he had left with Beth, and it was leaving. “Hurry up, Dad. I’m going to be late,” Josh said. Joe placed his glass back on the tray and retrieved the boxes. “You two have a safe trip,” Beth said, awkwardly hugging Josh while trying not to displace the boxes he carried in his hands. “We will,” Joe said, walking out the door. Two months ago Joe dropped Josh off at Berkeley, waving

goodbye to his safeguard of a son. Beth let go of her fresh lifestyle and was fitting into her new role as a pure housewife. Things were as Joe wanted ever since he was a scared teenager ripped from his home in San Antonio: unchanging, simple, and routine. When eleven p.m. struck, Joe left for work with one of three different meals packed by Beth. Then at six a.m., he drove home, and Beth would kiss him on the cheek, followed by a few hours of watching the local news and reruns of Gunsmoke prior to bed. This was his life. This was who he wanted to be, a creature of habit, void of spontaneity. Day after day the two played out their roles. Joe wanted to feel fulfilled, but his body slowly drained of its identity. He was empty. He lived for the sake of living. This was not what he expected to feel when his life shifted to a constant. Beth’s face disgusted him. He had ill intent toward his wife. Regret lined his bones. He despised how she lived her life when she had her chance and how content her smile was. Jealousy fueled his anger. He knew it was his fault that he was who he was, but she should have pushed him a bit harder. His body was too old to conquer life, too fragile to do much but to wait for death. On a cold February morning, Joe returned home from work. He got comfortable on the couch and turned on the television. Beth sat a plate of hot food on a TV tray in front of him without saying a word. She then planted herself in a rocking chair in the corner of the room, knitting a scarf. He analyzed Beth, from the wrinkles on her forehead, down to her aged body as she rocked in her chair, wondering: Do I still love her? The next morning Joe sits in his truck in the driveway of his house, rehearsing his apology to Beth. After he gathers enough courage, he departs the vehicle and meanders toward the front door. He opens it and is surprised to see Beth packing her belongings. Cardboard boxes and suitcases line the right wall of the living room. The sight of them reminds Joe of when he and Beth

first moved in, of when his son left for college. Beth is throwing some clothes into one of the boxes when she looks up and notices Joe standing at the door. “What are you doing, Beth?” “I’m leaving.” “Why?” “I will not live in a house with a man who can’t tell me he loves me.” Confusion catches Joe’s tongue and he is unable to speak. He has imagined leaving Beth, but watching her exit his life is less rewarding. Wiping his face with his left palm, Joe feels flashes of his time with Beth. All he wants to do is run, run into her warm arms. His whole body, down to the last organ, is guilty of a crime. “I’m going to stay with my mother in Sacramento.” His bewildered muscles free Joe’s mouth in an attempt to fix things, but there isn't anything he can say but the practical. “Fine. I understand.” Joe stares into Beth’s green eyes, and the image of a classical painting reflects off her irises. He turns out of the doorway and hurries toward his truck, returning to the only other place he calls home. Sadness lines the walls of Joe’s heart, pumping it throughout his body by the means of his bloodstream. He flings open the door to the station and dashes in. Petestands in the middle of the lobby of the building, trying to figure out what is happening. Joe runs around Pete, hitting him and thumping him to the floor with his

shoulder, and into the studio. He locks the room behind him. Pounding on the door, Pete yells through the walls. Joe lifts the phone that sits idle on the switchboard, putting the receiver to his right ear. “What are you doing, Joe?” “I’m scared. Beth is leaving me. I know I have been a bad husband, a bad person, in the past few years, but you have to tell me how to fix things. I can’t lose her. Please, help me,” Joe says, crying.

“Then, one day, the grandma forced the kid to eat the rhubarb. She told him that she wouldn’t make him anything but it. The kid went hungry most of the day, defiance working against him. But when his hunger grew, he gave in. When the child sank his teeth into the red stalk, he proclaimed it was the best thing he had ever eaten.

“Fear caught up with you, like it does to everyone.”

He wanted nothing but rhubarb. The grandma shook her head, holier than thou.”

“Please.”

The studio door launches open.

“You have fought me your whole life. Why should I help you now?”

“It was the best thing I had ever eaten.”

“Please, please, please. She is going to leave me. I can’t live without her. I just can’t.” Joe starts pacing, entangling the phone cord between his legs. His mouth is dry, his palms sweaty. An ocean of hope pours from the receiver. It’s the only thing remaining to comfort him. It’s the last solace to his regrets, his oldest friend. It too cannot turn its back on him. “I once knew this kid that hated rhubarb.” Pete stops banging on the door. “It’s just so hard. I swear I try.” Joe hears Pete rummaging through a desk in a corner of the station. “He hated it even though he never took a single bite, even when his grandma told him it was as tart as candy.” The doorknob in the studio turns to the left. Joe assumes Pete is unlocking the door with his spare key.

“I tell myself I have nothing to fear. I tell myself there’s nothing to fear.”

Pete rushes into the studio, smacking and spilling a trashcan of crumpled papers with his right leg. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Pete says, yanking Joe backward. “Who are you on the phone with?” “Oh, sorry about that. I was just trying to make dinner reservations for Beth and me tonight.” Joe hangs up the phone. With snot oozing from his nose and tears streaming from his eyes, he places a record on the player. After raising the never-changing needle, he drops it on the vinyl and plays “When My Dreamboat Comes Home,” a song by Fats Domino. He smiles and marches out of the studio.

Will Musgrove is a senior in journalism with a minor

in English. He enjoys staying up late and being angry at his past self in the morning. He also enjoys rooting for the Boston Red Sox, painting along with Bob Ross, and quoting classical literature. After graduation, he wants to travel the country like Jack Kerouac.

One Less Queen By: Sarah Hohnstrater

Waiting on a court order is like pulling teeth, and I’ve already put too much money into mine. You’d be amazed at how people view someone with a good smile. But a sheet of paper won’t make others see me as a woman. I’m doing the therapy. I’m sitting across from that portly bastard once a week, his steel wool mustache stained brown from too much coffee. His mean eyes examining my face like I’m a new sedan he’s had his eye on. I want to ask him why would he do this, why would he choose this job if he hated people like me? Us. Them. Those. These psych meetings are required for me to move forward. I have one week left until that M is an F and he’ll be rid of me for good. I spend more money on booze and makeup than food but goddamnit I look beautiful. Tonight’s performance will put me where I need to be for the first surgery, if I don’t collapse in the middle of it. One more week. Hoisting myself up from the shabby twin mattress, I peruse the glitter, sequins, gold tulle, black lace. Tonight is big. My wigs are bagged, dresses next, I’ll be on the rails in no time. New York winters are bitter and the hose is doing nothing but I’m not going far. The stairs are slick and if my reflexes weren’t about me, that wrong placement of a heel could break my neck. I already attract attention, I don’t need to be that girl falling down the subway stairs. And now it doesn’t matter that Tony scuffed my best leopards, because I just did. The train is nearly leaving but I squeeze my frame through the doors in enough time. I’m too late to pick my spot. Every fucking time. I either sit in piss or I sit across from the dude that’s gonna do it. He’s gonna open his mouth, tear me down. Is he gonna be the one to hit me? I see his black eyes, teeth like razors, he’s smiling now. He knows.

“Hey.” Look forward. Above him. Through him. The lights are flickering, I bet my hair looks yellow. Green maybe. I’m not giving him my eyes. He doesn’t deserve them. My stop is coming up. There are enough people on this route tonight, but it wouldn’t take but a second for him to leap across the aisle. I’m not passing. If I talk back I’m gonna get hit. I haven’t kept my mouth shut this tight since Dad. “Hey. Tranny. Hey.” I slip up and our eyes meet. His smile could tickle his ears now. His eyes are running across my cheeks. Shit. I didn’t shave. That was it. That’s what he’s looking at. How could I forget that? My routine. How could I forget one of the biggest things, shit. “Hey faggot. I’m talking to you.” It’s almost over. The screech of the rails begin and I can almost taste the dank, but fresher air of the tunnel dungeon. Sixty seconds on the clock, but don’t run. Stand up, shoulders back, walk out of this with pride. “Look at me faggot bitch. I’m talking to you.” It happened so fast. The glob of spit ejected from his mouth is warm and wet and I can’t help the sneer of disgust that wrinkles the corners of my mouth. The cuff of my pleather motorcycle jacket will do fine, and I’m already through the doors. He’s not following. Jesus Christ, some people. Pulling the bags back up over my shoulders, I speed off as fast as these four inchers can handle. If I beat Nicky to the bar I can have the better mirror, the last one on the line never has working bulbs.

Our door boy is as cute as can be and always calls me Miss. He’s the tiniest little blonde and has his eye on performing. I’ve caught him in the dressing rooms enough. He never screws around with our stuff, he just sits in front of the lights, wafting his hands over his cheeks as if he were clutching a contouring brush, always so embarrassed when he sees me watching. I remember being that young and hopeful, but never that pretty. He gets the door and I feel the wet kiss of a stamp being pushed into the back of my hand. I shuffle past the regulars, already drinking at the bar. Solid in their seats, they’ve probably been here since four. Two of the older guys give me a wink and a holler and I shake my ass a little before heading down the back hallway to the rooms. They’re sweet old men, wives and all, who come for the cheap beers and free flirting. Not a care in the world about what’s between my legs. My dad could take notes. Clapping myself on the back for finally refueling my bag of tricks, I throw open the cosmetic bag and commence beauty. Squirting a dollop of primer onto my fingertips, I begin on the sides of my nose and rub in circles. The first scratch of my stubble almost had me recoiling. Shit. I can’t believe I forgot, again. Washing my hands off at the trough sink along the wall, I grab my emergency razor from my bag and start foaming up my cheeks. At the initial contact of the blades against my skin, Nicky throws the door open. My arm jars to the right and the blood seeps up, flowing seamlessly against the soap. “Shit girl. I’m sorry. Fuck, that might be bad.” For once, her eyes aren’t reproachful. She rushes toward me with a paper towel and presses firmly against the hollow under my cheekbone. Maybe half a minute passes and she lifts up to examine the cut. “It’s bad, but not stitches bad. I’m so sorry. I’m gonna find the first aid kit. I’m sorry.”

My whole night. My performance. My fucking face. I know it wasn’t intentional, that girl always needs to make an entrance, but goddamnit it is not yet 7:15, no one is here to impress. I turn to the mirror and take in my disheveled appearance. I’m gaunt. When did that happen? My shoulders have always been broad, I was lucky I was thin-wristed. My nose doesn’t need any work, it was fixed the first time it broke. A little pale, and my face stings. I remove the paper towel to view the inch-and-a-half gash. If you squint, it kind of looks like a funky semicolon with the freckle under my eye. She was right, it’s not stitches bad, but my night is shot. There’s no way I’m doing Shania with a Band-Aid stuck to my face. I peer closer. I examine the way the scrape cuts right through pores. This is what they’ll be doing to my flesh. They’ll be cutting me open to make me new. Make me right. Carving a vulva, breasts, like scalpels through putty. “You’re lucky. It’s easier to make a hole than make a pole.” That’s what one of the other patients had said. An FTM. I’m lucky. I needed this night. I needed the money. This was it. I’m not scheduled for another three months, my healing months, and even after that it’s bar duties. This throws off my entire plan. My surgeries. My face. The subway ride. If I have to live another week like this, so obviously other, I might die. I might finally just stop. I was going to get tits. They were gonna shave down the bone that protrudes so sharp and evident in the middle of my throat. I’ve been practicing speech therapy. All of my tells were going to be eradicated and I was going to start passing. Every day. I was going to finally see the woman I am in the mirror. I am finally going to be the woman that is hiding just underneath the skin she’s wrapped in. But now it’s another week. Another week of those subway rides, sidewalk leering, heart racing panic every fucking day. The tears start pouring, mixing in with the red still slipping out of my cheek.

“Hey, I found that—” She’s at my side before I can stand up and wipe my face off. She says nothing as she slowly cleans off my cheek and fixes a bandage under my eye. Her touches are gentle, surprisingly enough—her hands are massive and calloused. I think she might be a construction worker, a boxer, I don’t know, we don’t really talk. “Take my Saturday shift. I don’t need it. One Saturday off won’t kill me. I’m headlining and you’ll get three more songs. I kind of caused this. Just take the shift. Tonight, take bar. You might get sympathy tips lookin’ beat up.” “Why are you helping me?” “Because that’s what sisters do.” We are. We’re women. The other girls start pouring in, questioning looks on their faces. Nicky and I surely made quite the scene, sitting on a ratty ass dressing room floor, bloodstained paper towels surrounding us. We rose slowly, the muscles of our calves straining in our fishnets. Nicky busied herself with her own set up. I returned to the sink to finish what I had started, erasing the man growing unnaturally along my pale skin. From my stance at the mirror, I can see the other girls looking over at me. But I can’t read their eyes. Sympathy? It only takes me about an hour to put my face on and brace myself for tending bar. It’s different on the floor. On the stage you have power in performance, a minstrel show with bachelorette parties, gawking men, and your average queers as an audience. At the bar they’re closer. They lean in, searching for flaws. I look up at the speakers as Neil Diamond’s “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon” starts drifting eerily above our heads. We all laugh as I make my way through the door. One more night.

Sarah Hohnstrater is a senior in English and women's and gender studies.

That's Amore By: Beth Trafton

“Who the fuck ate the last slice of honey garlic?” “What are you talking about? Those were your slices, you probably ate them. Calm down.” “How can I calm down? I specifically ordered three slices of honey garlic, and there’s none in the damn box, Sam. I only ate one slice.”

“Figures. You don’t care about anything anymore. Just pretend that I’m too drunk to know the difference.” “Please don’t start this right now; I can’t deal with you and your pizza bullshit tonight, Jordan.” “My pizza bullshit? Please, do elaborate.” “I’m not doing this.”

“You’re drunk; you probably forgot that you ate them already. Those last couple of shots might have really messed you up. Grape bombs plus grape bombs plus you equals invisible pizza.” “Don’t be an ass; I’d remember that, at the very least. I don’t fuck around with honey garlic. You should know that. Where the fuck is my fucking pizza?”

“I’ve been busy at work.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. There are still a couple extra pieces of pizza in the box you can eat. You are being ridiculous right now.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about. Let’s just go to bed. We aren’t going to start this now.”

“That’s not the point. I ordered those slices for myself and now they are fucking gone. Do you even have any idea how upset this makes me?” “Oh boy, do I.” “Excuse me, do you? Do you even care? Like, seriously? Do you even care that the pizza that I ordered, my absolute favorite pizza, is no longer in that stupid little white box? Like, not at all?” “To be honest, not really. You are so wasted. Just shut the fuck up about the pizza. Nobody cares about pizza this much.”

“No, we are doing this right now. What bullshit? How about how you have been gone for the last three days, and I haven’t said shit?”

“No, it’s more than that.”

“How about the fact that this is the first time we’ve hung out in weeks. I didn’t want to say anything, but I can’t keep this to myself anymore.” “Talked in weeks? Don’t be dramatic. I’m here all the fucking time, and you are just looking for an excuse to fight because you are drunk and upset about pizza. Do you even hear yourself? Just stop, please.” “Are you even listening to me at all? Sam, you haven’t been here, that’s the thing. You haven’t been here. You don’t care anymore. You are never here. Just tell me the truth, tell me that you don’t care anymore.” “How in the hell did you just jump from disappearing pizza to this so quickly? I will never understand how your

brain works. But seriously, I refuse to be a part of this dumb conversation. There’s nothing wrong. Stop pushing.” “No. I’m pissed now. I know you ate my pizza, and I know you want to break up with me. Just admit it. I can’t take this anymore.” “I’m going to bed; you can either join me or sleep on the couch. This is done. You are off your fucking rocker.” “Don’t walk away from me you, Ass-face.” “Ass-face? What are you, five years old?” “Fuck you!” “Fine. You really want to do this?” “Yes. Lay it on me. I can take it.” “Ok, then. I can’t stand anything about you anymore. Your whiney voice, your beady eyes, the fact that you freak out about every goddamn thing. Even the thought of coming home to you makes me cringe.” “Oh yeah? Is that so?” “Yeah, it sure is. And you want to know something else?” “What?” “Fuck it, I don’t want to be with you anymore. I’m done. I’m moving out.” “Wait, is this for real, for real?” “You bet your sweet ass it is. And hey, to answer your initial question, I did eat your pizza. And it was fucking delicious.”

Beth Trafton is a senior in English. 29

The Girl from Galveston By: Aaron Kelly

In the backroom of a little music shop just off of 6th and El Lado Sur, he finds it—a pre-war, pre-Carol Ann, pre-cancer Martin D-28. It is a masterpiece of Brazilian rosewood, African mahogany, and Adirondack spruce with abalone shell inlays that refract the light in the room, echoing in concentric rings outward from the sound-hole, and glisten from the position markers that drip down the fretboard like drops of spilled gasoline. Memories step forward, soldiers returning from deployment to their native soil. Upon its head stock, the epitaph “C.F. Martin and Co.” is inscribed in elegant scrollwork. He’d owned one exactly like it, decades before, purchased for a hundred dollars the day he’d returned from Vietnam. On soggy nights and early mornings along the roadside or in the thick jungle sauna that drew perspiration from places he’d never known he could sweat, while his brothers gazed at black-and-whites sealed in plastic and dreamt of women, his hands imagined a guitar, its neck, hard and smooth as river stone, and the tense resonating strings beneath his fingers. McLaughlin used to give him hell, during stops as he leaned against the base of a tree or a jeep tire to practice his imagined fingering.

there in Austin. Willie Nelson, Townes Van Zandt, Albert King—he’d met and played with them all. He had a good ear—better than many—and long thin fingers to match his long thin arms and long thin legs covered in denim, fingers that could get at songs others couldn’t. He was a fair singer, a little raspy, but what he lacked in timbre he made up for in tone and conviction.

“Hey look, y’all, Skinny Jones is at it again,” McLaughlin’d say. “What you gonna play now, Skinny?”

“Sure it is,” he said. “I just didn’t know it at the time.”

McLaughlin had been from Atlanta. They don’t make them like that anymore, he thinks, standing before the oak and glass case where the relic hangs, and even if they did, it'd be a long time before the craftsmanship caught up to the life this one had seen, before it opened up and really learned to sing. He’d never concerned himself with “making it,” cutting records, or going on the road. There’d always been plenty of places and people who’d pay to hear him play right

Carol Ann used to come to Lefty’s with a group of friends less than a block from where he stood now on 6th, where for a time he’d play a couple sets on Thursday nights. “I like the one about the girl from Galveston,” she’d said once, during his break. He liked the way she said “Galveston,” emphasis on the Gal, and the way she smiled when he told her “that song’s about you.” It’d taken him half the night to work up the nerve. “Liar,” she said. “You couldn’t have written that about me. We’ve only just met tonight.”

When he finished at midnight, Carol Ann was waiting by the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked. “As long as it’s coffee.” She never would drink alcohol, but she’d drink coffee anytime—day or night. That night they departed Lefty’s, him carrying his old guitar and her the conversation, and made their way down the block to a little diner where you could sit and watch the night-owls and the drunks shuffle past outside.

“I love to watch people, don’t you?” she said, as a waitress brought them mugs full and steaming. “I suppose, I guess." He never really thought about it. “I don’t know.” “I like to imagine where they’re going—where they've been. Give them names, make up jobs, relationships, children—just everything, really.” “Okay,” he said. “How about that fellow over there, the skinny one with the denim and the hat. What’s his story?”

forward, their mugs almost touching, “but he’s looking. Might even be he’ll find her soon.” “Lucky guy,” he said. “Mhmm,” she nodded. “But he hasn’t always been. He was in the war,” she said, her eyes, bold, almost green, almost blue, holding his. “Lost some people over there, people important to him. He’s not the type, though, to sit around and feel sorry. So he just keeps moving on.” “You can see all that?” “Yup,” she said, sipping. “It ain’t so hard to see.”

“Well,” she said, “let me think…” She turned in the booth, regarded the man outside for a moment, as if, just by the shape of him, she could see what type of man he’d end up to be. She turned back. “He’s a bit of a loner,” she said, pausing, smiling, sipping coffee, continuing on. “I’d say he likes country music: Hank Williams, Bill Monroe that sort of thing. Probably even plays a little guitar, but not as well as you.”

The guitar is suspended inside the glass case, locked away, frozen in time. Hard telling when it’s last been held and let sing. He makes his way up front to the counter. “I’d like to play that old Martin you got in the back,” he says. “Which one?” asks the clerk, a young guy with hair to the middle of his back and tattoos peeking beneath his sleeves. He looks at the young man. “The old one.” “Oh…Well, we don't usually...”

“Well, thank you kindly,” he said, lifting his mug in salute, and stirring in another dollop of cream and a sprinkle of sugar. “What else do you see, Madame Kulagina?” “Don’t tease,” she scolded. “You asked, remember?”

He lays his thick leather checkbook on the counter. “That make a difference?” “Yes sir,” the clerk says, “I reckon it does,” and he grabs a set of keys from beneath the counter.

“My apologies,” he smiled. “Please, go on.” The man outside was far from view by then and it was just the two of them, him reclining with a long arm stretched across the top of the booth and her sitting straight as a sapling, natural as pine.

He’d sold his old Martin after Carol Ann told him about the baby, and he’d fetched a fair price. “What you going to play now?” Carol Ann asked him, standing in the doorway between the bedroom and the kitchen.

“He doesn’t have a sweetheart just now,” she said, leaning

“I don’t know—the lottery?”

the street who’d play into the morning.

Of course he’d have liked to have kept it.

He plays for almost a half an hour before he realizes he’s drawn a crowd, everyone quiet, listening. He puts a little flourish on his last tune, a little showmanship from his younger days. As he finishes the clerk starts to applaud. The others follow.

The young man leads the way through the shop, past electrics hanging on the walls, cheap foreign made numbers that had no right to call themselves guitars. He unlocks the case, pulls up a stool. The glass door swings open and the smell of ancient tone-wood fills the room. “This one once belonged to Townes Van Zandt,” the clerk says as he hands it over.

“Thank you,” he says. “I didn’t know if I still had it in me.” “Well, I’d say you got it, man,” the clerk says. “What you gonna play now?

“You don’t say.” “Sure did.” He bends an ear toward the sound hole, checks the tuning. He can still hear it. “I met him a handful of times. Used to jam at a little place just up the street called Lefty’s.” The young man nods, crosses his arms. The neck feels familiar, and he tickles a couple lines, coaxing his muscle memory from its long dormant sleep. He tries to remember the last time he’s played, but can’t. He thinks of Carol Ann and their son Beckman over in Lake Charles, now with a wife and children of his own. It’d been a relief to have them the past few days, but they had jobs and lives to get back to. “Dad, I wish you’d think about coming to stay with us,” Beckman’d said. “I hate to think of you here, now… like this.” He’d welcomed the gesture but couldn’t bear the thought of being a burden, nor giving up the freedom to come and go. Sometimes he didn’t sleep so well and he liked to take a stroll down Musician’s Row and listen to the bands from

Aaron Kelly graduated from Iowa State in May of

2015 with a degree in English. He enjoys crime stories, detective fiction, westerns, and noir. In his next life, Aaron hopes to attend graduate school, write novels, and learn to fly fish.

Brown Jug By: Dylan Cooley

The state of Alaska, for whatever reason, has an unusually high rate of alcoholism. People are quick to cite the long and dark winters as the cause, as if the only solution to cold weather and boredom is drunkenness, but the exact reasons behind the struggle are likely much more complicated and hard to pin down. Regardless of its cause, the issue brings with it a concentration of other social problems that make the state an outlier. Homelessness, sexually transmitted diseases, and domestic violence all exist far beyond their fair share in the forty-ninth state. While some of these issues are more prevalent in the smaller villages of rural Alaska, there is a neighborhood in Anchorage called Mountain View, where poverty and social decay abound. Route 45 of the People Mover, the local bus system, cuts through the neighborhood after leaving downtown. At the other end of the line is the free medical clinic, and in between are a handful of liquor stores, the homeless shelter, and the place I called home for a year. For a few months when I was twenty-two I worked at a liquor store in Mountain View. Squeezed into a strip mall between a bingo parlor and the Red Apple grocery store, was the Brown Jug. The building was a rotten spot in a rotten neighborhood, but it was the only place around where you could get booze and food, so it thrived. It managed to retain, however, its inherently shitty aura, becoming collectively known to us as the Brown Apple. The Brown Jug was a Canadian-owned chain that capitalized on the woes of the Last Frontier. They made claims of social responsibility, and in fact refused to sell to intoxicated individuals, but that was the law in Alaska and was really just an effort to protect their liability. In reality, they knew their markets well. The midtown

location had a wine section bigger than the entire Mt. View store, while we sold only cheap malt liquor and plastic bottles of vodka and whiskey. The training process for employees of the Mt. View Brown Jug was unlike that for any other retail job. There was no concern for customer service or up-selling, and the patrons were generally made out to be enemies. “You have to profile people,” my manager told me after I had worked there for two weeks. “When those guys come in with their hoods up, acting like they’re shopping around, they’re here to steal.” She explicitly encouraged racial profiling, though it was never clear as to which race was supposed to be suspect; I just knew it wasn’t white people. The manager and I were two of a very small number of white people who lived in Mt. View, so I was under the impression I was supposed to profile every single person who walked through the door. I had a hard time assuming everyone was evil, which I suppose is why she was consistently reminding me that everyone was. The job, according to my manager, was to simply minimize theft and protect the liability of the company by not selling to people who weren’t allowed to drink. In Alaska, that doesn’t necessarily mean people under twenty-one. At some point in the state’s short history, legislators realized that alcohol abuse was a serious problem and introduced the infamous red stripe. If you are arrested more than once for alcohol-related incidents, you get a brand new ID with a bright red stripe on it. Written on the stripe are the ambiguous words, “Alcohol Restricted.” Carriers of these IDs are not allowed to possess alcohol, be intoxicated, or even enter an establishment that sells or serves alcohol. Thus, the job of every liquor store

employee, bartender, and server, includes checking the ID of every single person who wants to buy a drink, regardless of apparent age. Needless to say, some older residents of Mt. View were not excited about a young cheechako asking them for identification.

Since Sammy was such a regular, it wasn’t long after I’d identified him in the binder that he stopped in. It was a busy Friday night, and he walked all the way through the store, picked his poisons, and reached the line before I could summon the guts to say something to him.

Beyond checking IDs and turning away the snow- and puke-covered individuals who’d obviously just managed to crawl out of another snow bank, we were on the lookout for anyone on the long list of eighty-sixes. Every Brown Jug location had a bulletin board or a binder or some other way to compile the information they had gathered on those who weren’t allowed in the store due to theft or altercations within the store. At some point, between selling alcohol and fighting off the hordes of people trying to steal it, we were supposed to sift through the Polaroids from the nineties and blurry camera stills in an attempt to memorize the hundreds of faces. When I finally got the chance to survey our binder, I recognized more than a few of my nightly customers.

“You know you can’t be in here, man,” I said to him. He looked both offended and heartbroken, so I started to feel a little guilty. In reality though, it was probably the fact that there were eight or ten other people watching that made me feel the need to explain. “You’ve been eightysixed several times, Sammy.”

Among those regulars who bravely ignored the ban placed on them was a guy named Sammy. I counted four pictures of Sammy in our binder, spread out over fifteen years, yet he was there almost every night. The photos showed the physical toll that alcoholism takes on a body—a unique form of deterioration that I got a brief glimpse of during my short time at the Brown Jug. Even from the Polaroids I could see that Sammy, like so many others around there, wasn’t quite what he used to be. In the earlier photos his face looked fit, free of scars, and his eyes seemed to have a certain awareness about them. The Sammy I saw each night looked worn down, his eyes puffy and his teeth decaying. Sammy’s case was by no means an anomaly, and I had the sad realization that the more tattered and weary clientele of the Brown Jug were once young and healthy, and that before long the younger and healthier people I saw each night would take their place.

Using his first name had the desired effect, as Sammy could make no claims about a case of mistaken identity. He sulked to the nearest shelf to set down whatever he had planned on buying, and I realized that not only was he embarrassed, but I was too. The store was silent, likely for the first time in history, and my explanation had done little in the way of making me feel like I’d done the right thing. I felt like an asshole. Sammy left willingly, and as I got back to work I avoided the eyes of the surprised onlookers and thought to myself that I would never again kick somebody out if I didn’t have to. Sammy was probably not a terrible guy, and really he was just looking to catch a buzz, so who was I to get in his way? But then a guy in the line started talking at me excitedly and making gestures toward the door. He didn’t speak English, so it took me a minute, but eventually I figured out that Sammy had just stolen a bottle. So I guess, in the end, fuck Sammy, and I’d send him packing every time. In addition to refusing sales to banned or intoxicated individuals, Brown Jug also had the policy of allowing customers only two visits per day. Most knew this and had figured out that the shift change was at five o’clock. The rest, when I reminded them they had already been in several times that day, used my name and acted as if I was robbing them of their livelihood.

“Come on, Dylan,” they would say, reading my nametag. “How you gonna do me like that? I thought we were cool, man.”

a new pebble mine eventually threatened to change the way Alaskans fish and hunt, and their normal sense of priorities was restored.

The obvious answer to this dilemma would be to buy the evening’s supply of booze in one visit, but I suppose for some there was always the need for more. Since I lived in Mt. View, my interactions with the patrons of the Brown Jug were not necessarily limited to my nights at work. I didn’t have a car at the time, so I rode the bus when I went downtown and I bought my groceries at the Red Apple. On a daily basis I would encounter the people who used my first name and acted like friends when buying or attempting to buy alcohol from me. They would ask me for change outside the Red Apple or brush past me to get off the 45 at the shelter. Not once did anyone ever appear to recognize me as a guy they were cool with.

Eventually, fed up with handling piss-soaked dollar bills and counting handfuls of change dumped onto the counter by shaky hands, I left the Mt. View Brown Jug. In reality my departure was not a moral protest or a noble effort to escape the role of the enabler, but the simple result of my life no longer requiring me to work such a shitty job. I had registered for classes at the University of Alaska, and I wasn’t going to let the Brown Apple distract me from my future. I did, however, take comfort in the fact that I would no longer play a direct role in the decline of Alaskan society.

Occasionally, usually later in the night, there was a need to call the Anchorage Safety Patrol. Despite sounding like a band of middle school kids in reflective vests, ASP had a very serious job. Officially the ASP van apprehended people who were deemed so incapacitated by alcohol that they posed a threat to either themselves or the public, and it took them to the mythical “sleep-off.” In reality, the ASP scooped up people who were passed out in public places, and took them either to the hospital if they needed it, or to the portion of the Anchorage jail where they could sleep off the alcohol without freezing to death. There was generally a public outcry when someone froze to death in the city. It had become rare by the time I moved to Anchorage, due mostly to things like the ASP and the sleep-off, but it did happen once that year. Citizens wanted to know why their city couldn’t appropriately handle the homeless situation and demanded action to prevent it from happening again. It didn’t last long, though, and a piece of legislation or

Excited about leaving, I told some of my more talkative customers that I was quitting to focus on school. On my last day some of the guys who saw us as “cool” told me we should get together for a drink sometime. They were all amazed and proud at my pursuit of education, and in our thirty-second-long conversations they said things like, “see you around, kid,” and, ironically, “take care of yourself.” I continued to see them throughout the spring, they continued to ask for spare dollars, and more than ever I went apparently unrecognized. Toward the end of my last night of work I had one final moment of excitement. Two men came into the store, separately, and I recognized them both, but not necessarily for bad reasons. The first guy was on his phone looking for a specific kind of champagne, so I showed him where it was and started back toward the counter. “It’s too expensive here,” I heard him say into the phone as I walked away, “I’ll get it somewhere else.” Before I got back to the counter the second guy whistled

for my attention and started pointing at the first guy, making a motion like he was tucking something into his coat. Going past the counter, I got in front of guy number one and asked for his ID. He tried to step around me of course, acting like he was too busy with his phone conversation to even notice me, but I saw the top of the bottle in his coat. When I grabbed the bottle, he did too, pushing me backwards through the door and into the harsh February night. After a second of tug of war over the bottle, I realized that a third set of hands had come into the mix, and then I noticed Sammy’s swollen eyes looking into mine. He had been waiting right outside the door, but he was obviously surprised to see me tumble out with his accomplice. When I grabbed Sammy by the front of his coat and used his name his friend was ready to give up the bottle. He let go, apparently ready to get out of there quickly, probably to try for another bottle at another store. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to Sammy. “Get your hands off me,” Sammy said to me. “Fuck you, Sammy,” I said. “Let go of the bottle and get the fuck out of here.” Although I got the bottle back, I was angry that people made me go through things like that. I had to be both mean and scared, all for 750 ml of cheap champagne. I was attempting to feel nostalgic, trying to convince myself that I would miss the clientele of the Brown Jug, but at that moment I really just hated every one of them. I stayed mad for the rest of the night, and when I closed up I didn’t mop the floors, stock the coolers, or inventory the bottles. I refused to be friendly with the people who walked in the door, and I wouldn’t work for the people who immediately assumed they were thieves—I couldn’t find a reason to take either side in the

meaningless struggle. A few days ago, while wandering around on the internet, I came across an interesting piece of photojournalism. A photographer had spent a weekend with the Anchorage Safety Patrol, taking faceless photos of the service’s users and recording the amazingly high numbers they registered on the breathalyzer. The photos showed Safety Patrollers performing their various tasks: talking with the callers while the “customer” lies unconscious in the grass or on the sidewalk; stepping over empty bottles and used syringes to rescue inebriates from tent communities in the woods; loading urine-soaked, seemingly lifeless bodies into the back of the van. In the backdrop is my old neighborhood: the Brown Apple, the shelter, and bus stop where I waited for the 45 to take me to campus. Alongside the photos there were statistics breaking down the sleep-off’s client base by race, age, gender, and frequency of use. The data shows little more than the photos; the mere existence of the ASP proves there is a continuing problem in Mt. View and throughout Anchorage. That night in February, Sammy and his friend probably got a bottle of something from the liquor store around the corner, and they’re probably still at it today; Brown Jug employees are probably still profiling customers and adding photos to the binder; someone will probably die of exposure in the near future. Having left Alaska, I see now that I never really fit in; I was never actually one of them. I always had a way out of that place and that life, a lifeline that could keep me from falling into the same habits as Sammy and his friends. College was always an option for me, and my worstcase scenario was moving back to the Midwest, where addicts and their substances wouldn’t be breathing down my neck. Unlike most of the neighborhood’s residents, Mt. View was just a temporary home that I chose. My customers might have recognized me outside of work as

I sat next to them on the bus, but I had nothing to offer them when I wasn’t selling alcohol, so they had no need to talk to me. I couldn’t understand what those people put themselves through or the perpetual search for more alcohol because it was a new and foreign thing to me. In my refusal to profile I ended up only making judgments about their lives and what I thought were the choices they had made. To them, the people of Mt. View, the lives they have lived must seem both inevitable and necessary.

Dylan Cooley graduated from Iowa State in May of 2015, then suddenly disappeared from the Ames area. Rumor has it that he has since been seen lurking around the University of Iowa’s Nonfiction Writing Program in Iowa City. A source says he is biding his time there until he can convince his wife and son to move to Iceland. 38

And to Snow He Shall Return By: Rachel Reyes

A single flake first flutters to the barren floor, Gracing the shivering grass with a gentle whisper, Followed by a fleet that soon blankets the earth In a cold, hushed, sighing embrace. Morning: sunlight pours over the snowscape like melted butter. Size-four bootprints crisscross the yard And clumsy mittened fingers Scoop, roll, pack, smooth, stack, shape This frozen clay of winter, Wedging pebbles into the tip-top sphere And stepping back: A stony gaze, a jagged grin, a frozen face, Yet warm, cheerful, and beaming, Created in the image of his maker. Two crooked branches are mounted, One on each side, Then short arms strain To crown the masterpiece with a red woolen cap And wind a checkered scarf round his neck As if, perhaps, to keep the snowman warm. Far above, swollen clouds Shake more feathery snowdust upon the Earth, Mother Nature sifting flour.

The months shuffle by; time strolls along, Whistling a slow, melancholy tune, In no hurry at all. But Spring, brash and bright, Paints over the gray skies, Tames howling gales into delicate breezes, And coaxes timid roots Out of the stagnant soil. Sleeves roll up. A diamond kite stretches skyward To grab the sun, intertwining with rising laughter And the pattering of sneakers on asphalt. Meanwhile, quiet in the background, The snowman sweats droplets; His pebbled face crumbles and sags As he puddles to the Earth, Melting, disappearing, and ceasing to exist In the season of new life.

Rachel Reyes is a sophomore majoring in mathematics and English. She enjoys reading novels, baking cookies, performing stand-up comedy, and spending time with her cat.

Mama's Brown Thumb By: Mallory Gunther

Mama’s never been a green thumb kind of gal, spent two weeks nurturing a tulip bud already gone brown, in case the tiny sprout took a second chance at blooming. Daddy never admired Mama’s killer nature, so we never had a garden, or a big tree, or a bush in the front yard, to hide from the neighbors during hide-and-goseek. Daddy was the best at that game, he sought younger Lilies, prettier Heathers, skinnier Gingers, smarter Roses. Your mama— that woman could kill a cactus and wouldn't know for three years. And he was right, Mama kept watering that brown prickly marriage until the soil dried out, and Daddy packed up, not even leaving dust. So Mama bought new soil, and watered her new seeds with salt water. Mama’s never been a green thumb kind of gal, ‘cause her hands don't leave the garden long enough to tell. Like the stains in the knees of her jeans, Mama wears her brown thumb proud. My first kill was a watermelon. Crying, I showed Mama, asking her what I did Wrong. Baby, she said, Sometimes, you just need better soil.

Manet*

By: Mallory Gunther

Un. Olympia lounges, nakedly, heels caked in dirt, her porcelain figure framed by her black nurse. She stares into you. You try to focus instead on the pink petals in her hair or the ribbon tied loosely around her neck. She invites you in. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t forget to pay. Deux. At A Luncheon on the Grass, her slip is shed shamelessly and corset ribbons ripped in misplaced modesty. Stark she sits, casually gazing past her fully-clothed companions, and back at you. She is no Venus. What she lacks in costume, she makes up for in notoriety. Your eyes search for a detailed tree, a stronger gaze a guiltless focus. There is none. Her eyes find you again.

*Edward Manet, in reference to his paintings, Olympia and A Luncheon on the Grass 43

To Be Young and in Friends with Benefits By: Mallory Gunther

To be young and in friends with benefits, dancing in the dark of the back hall. We live behind closed doors, sleeping on springy couches and questionable floors. But in a crowded kitchen party, making eyes across the room— Shot! Shot! Shot! Shit! Next I’m shoved up against a closet wall, with liquor lingering on our lips.

3 AM, railing lines off laminate, the drip is awful but we endure. 4 AM, losing our words, or are we losing our minds? 5 AM, on the verge of passing out, Are you headed home soon? Your place or mine? Subtle.

A circle of friends sit, legs sprawled across the living room. Girls are giving boys stick-and-poke tattoos, I can see the needle dipped in ink, and I can see the needle breaking skin, creating permanent black pictures where nothing will grow again. Boys grimace after each poke, reminded that heartbreak isn’t the only pain girls invoke. New Year’s came and went, everyone promised they would quit. This is the year. I’m too old for this shit. But come a call for a smoke break, and the troops file out the back door, onto the balcony, stepping over the remains of cheap shot-gunned beers, and the maintenance of masculinity. With smoke in my eyes and a cigarette swinging from my lips, my lungs fill with tar, and the party recedes for one golden minute.

Mallory Gunther is a junior in English and would like to apologize to her mother. 44

Echo of the Howls By: Dakota Owens

Howls echo through the dense forest Calling the pack to converge as one To team up and prepare for the hunt The storm lurks in Like a pack of wolves stalking their prey While the sun sets The clouds roll on Gusts of wind weave in and out between the coniferous trees Wobbling the branches like a newborn fawn trying to stand on its own four feet As the thunder starts to crack The fireball of light disappears behind the snow-capped mountains No moon, no stars, absolute darkness The lightning flashes with intense bolts of voltaic energy Like a flare being shot to the heavens It lights up the dark forest, just for a moment Long enough that the last thing the fresh fawn sees Are the canine jaws of the snarling beasts

Dakota Owens is a senior in animal ecology with minors in philosophy and English. He loves reading, writing,

spending time in nature, and working with animals. He also enjoys doing extracurricular activities with his friends to take breaks from all of the expectations set forth by the "American Dream" and what is depicted as being a "successful citizen." He intends to pursue a career in zoology or wildlife rehabilitation. 45

Heartland Gold By: Gabriella Kramer

Gabriella Kramer is a sophomore majoring in English and minoring in French and technical communication. She loves Jesus, her family, books, photography, and cupcakes.

Night on the Pier By: Delanie Downey

Santa Monica Sunsets By: Delanie Downey

Delanie Downey is a senior majoring in English with a minor in women's studies. After she graduates in December, she plans to invest herself in her writing and photography toÂ create some amazing things.